#Address Coding Patterns

[neucheck]

Mastering Address Coding Patterns: A Comprehensive Guide

In the rapidly evolving world of technology, coding patterns are essential for developing efficient, maintainable, and scalable software. Among these, address coding patterns play a crucial role in organizing data structures and enhancing application performance. This article delves into the concept of address coding patterns, their significance, and best practices for implementation.

What Are Address Coding Patterns?

Address coding patterns refer to specific strategies and techniques used to manage and manipulate addresses within data structures. These patterns ensure that data is stored, retrieved, and processed efficiently, ultimately impacting the overall performance of applications. By leveraging these patterns, developers can optimize memory usage, reduce latency, and enhance data integrity.

Why Are Address Coding Patterns Important?

Efficiency: Effective address coding patterns reduce the time complexity of data retrieval, making applications faster and more responsive.

Scalability: As applications grow, managing data effectively becomes crucial. Address coding patterns provide a roadmap for scaling data structures seamlessly.

Maintainability: Well-structured code is easier to read and maintain. Address coding patterns promote best practices that facilitate teamwork and future updates.

Error Reduction: Utilizing established patterns can help minimize bugs and errors related to data management, improving overall application stability.

Common Address Coding Patterns

Direct Addressing: This pattern uses a direct mapping of keys to addresses, allowing for constant-time retrieval. It's most effective for small, fixed ranges of keys.

Hashing: Hashing maps data to fixed-size addresses, enabling quick access while reducing collisions. Commonly used in hash tables, this pattern balances efficiency with flexibility.

Binary Search Trees (BST): BSTs store data in a hierarchical manner, allowing for efficient searching, inserting, and deleting operations. Variants like AVL and Red-Black trees further enhance performance.

Skip Lists: This probabilistic data structure allows for fast search, insertion, and deletion by maintaining multiple levels of linked lists.

Segment Trees: Useful in applications requiring dynamic array updates, segment trees allow efficient querying and modification of array segments.

Best Practices for Implementing Address Coding Patterns

Understand Your Data: Before choosing a coding pattern, analyze the data types and access patterns to ensure the selected method aligns with your needs.

Optimize for Use Case: Select patterns based on the specific requirements of your application. Consider trade-offs between speed, memory usage, and complexity.

Keep It Simple: While it can be tempting to use complex patterns, simpler solutions are often more effective and easier to maintain.

Test and Profile: Regularly test the performance of your chosen patterns. Use profiling tools to identify bottlenecks and make necessary adjustments.

Conclusion

Address Functional Issues are vital for any developer aiming to build efficient and scalable applications. By mastering these patterns, you can optimize data management strategies, reduce errors, and enhance overall performance. Whether you’re a seasoned programmer or just starting, incorporating these patterns into your coding practices will undoubtedly pay dividends in the long run.

[booksandberries]

if you tell yourself it's not that late and you'll get stuff done when you get home, that is the devil talking

[playingplayer2]

Something I love (sarcasm) having to remind myself is that I am smart. That despite everything I heard from teachers and peers growing up, I am smart. I don't have to be a genius, I don't have to be spectacular or brilliant- but I am fucking smart. and fucking hell it took so, so, so long for me to be able to understand just because my interests and abilities didn't, and still don't, line up with that of family members doesn't make me stupid.

[sugurusladyknightt]

➺ husband!sukuna x gn!reader (2/2).

• pt. 1

it's been quiet - the two days since your bloody midnight discovery in the bathroom. you'd taken him to the hospital the next morning to get checked and have his wound treated properly. you've been in the same car, you live in the same house, and yet sukuna feels like he hasn't heard your voice in years. only in passing have you addressed him and while he understands you're position, he will not allow himself to stand by idly as this goes on.

sukuna needs to speak to you, to hear you. to tease you and have you tease him back. he needs things to fall back into their rightful place, into the patterns yo both created, the the routine he's made himself so comfortable with.

but how can be complain? this is all of his own doing. his pride and ego have no place to interfere in this relationship, but that isn't even the problem anymore. he nervous and he's scared. what if he messes things up? what if he can't fix this? what if you finally decided he's too much?? what if he's really lost you now?? pushed you too far?

you hadn't let him do much, insisting he rests so the wound could heal properly and not risk it reopening. what if that's code for saying you don't want him around anymore?? that you don't need him? are you finally sick of him?

realistically, he should know that would never be the case, though he's so far into his own world of worries to think about the situation reasonably. his thoughts now only plagued with the possibility of his greatest fear being realized.

so when he hears your keys jingle and the front door open he panics. you hadn't said anything about leaving, so at the end of everything he isn't even afforded a goodbye??

without much thought given to the consequences his actions may have on his body, he's darting off your bed and down the stairs. sukuna catches your wrist right as you're going to open the car's door. when you turn to face him, confusion and annoyance evident in your expression, "sukuna, what the hell, you're gonna end up-"

he's looking at you so intensely when your eyes meet his. the towering pyjama clad form of your husband is accompanied by brows furrowed and bare feet on the gravel of your driveway in the middle of the quiet morning of your neighborhood street.

what a sight to behold.

he doesn't say anything for a long moment, still, you offer him time. always so damn patient with him it makes him feel like the only person in the world. there are butterflies fluttering around uninvited in his stomach when he thinks about it too much.

"where are you going." it comes off more like a statement than a question. in his mind he's already decided that he knows exactly what's going on, only waiting to hear you affirm it.

he feels a dull pain in his side but it's not difficult to ignore it with the ringing in his ears and loud thumping of his heart. he's scared, hiding behind his expression through a toughened exterior.

what a foolish man you've married.

"sukuna," your being your hand up to rest on the upper part of his tattooed armed, tracing the lines gently with the tips of your fingers. "i'm going grocery shopping. we need food, and gauze, some cleaning supplies, and... oh right! and laundry detergent. just sit tight for me, i'll be back soon."

the way his expression shifts to one of relief brings a smile to your face. he was so worried, too worried to even be embarrassed by the out of place reaction. his hand covered yours as it rests on his arm.

"i'll come with you?" this one he meant as a question. when you don't refuse, he takes your hand in his squeezing ever so gently; reassuring himself mostly "wait for me. i'll be quick."

sukuna's back inside your home, darting back up the stairs with different intentions this time around. as quickly as he can, he's dressing himself and making his way back down. now with a clear enough mind to actually slip on a pair of socks and shoes.

he's rushing, like there's an underlying fear you'll have already pulled out of the drive way when he gets there. a cruel joke you'll play as a final parting gift. you're not gone, he finds you there, leaning against the door to the drivers seat. waiting for him.

oh, the morning breeze has never felt so refreshing, the sun never so warm, and the world never so good.

this is you. he doesn't have to worry about cruel jokes, you're far to kind for that. he doesn't need his toughened exterior or towering posture when it's you. you won't play those torturous games with cruel intentions, won't leave without a goodbye. fear has no place between the two of you.

the drive starts of rather quiet, an air of awkward and nervous still lingers. you don't seem to feel it though, leading him to wonder if it's only one sided.

while he's debating on what's the right thing to say, your voice cuts through all the possible options, a familiar reminder you share with him every so often. this is a safe space. his words don't have to be perfect. they can come out choppy and incomplete so long as they're while in their honesty. so long as that's what he needs to say; what you need ti hear.

"i'm sorry."

a simple start, nothing spectacular, but it's a start nonetheless. your hands remain on the wheel as your eyes find his looking out the window. he's fidgeting with his hands like he doesn't know what they're for again; returning your focus on the road and let him continue.

"i-, i was reckless. again. and i'm sorry, i really didn't mean for it to happen it just — did. i'm sorry baby, i now i should avoid getting myself in situations like that. i honestly don't even know what really happened. i know it must be annoying and frustrating for you to always have to end up dealing with the aftermath of it. i understand that you're probably sick of it all by now, i'll do better. i'll be better. i promise."

he looks over to you from the passenger seat, expectant. almost inaudibly he adds, "don't leave."

you've made it to the grocery store by now, putting the car in park before you begin speaking.

"ryo, i appreciate your apology and i'll accept it, but baby, that's hardly what this is about. my anger, which really wasn't anger at all, came from a place of worry. of concern. not annoyance or frustration. much less directed at you! i love you. i love caring for you. i hate to see you hurt, but i'll never complain about treating you when you are. it means everything to me that your okay, healthy, safe. i was — i still am upset with how passive you are about those things when it comes to yourself. trying to treat such a serious wound like that?? be serious. i need you to prioritize these things more."

"you're my priority."

"to prioritize yourself is to prioritize me. we're married, dumbass. marr-ied. married. we're a team; that means that if one of us is compromised, so's the other. that how this works."

well, that's not at all what he was expecting. his mind had strayed so far in an entirely different direction. one where you finally tire of him. where you realize you could leave and go elsewhere — somewhere less bothersome. and he couldn't be any more wrong. sukuna has never considered that his actions won't raise feelings of annoyance but instead; worry for his wellbeing. worry because you care. because you love.

"i'll be better." he says.

"i believe you." you respond, so easily. as if trusting him is the easiest thing in the world to you. even when it was difficult for him to trust himself.

but why? he wants to ask. how are you so sure?

you only smile at him. just so damn patient, and the butterflies are back to spawning in his stomach again.

"okay cute, very nice. but we really have to go now. there's a sale and i know the lines are gonna be crazy."

god, those butterflies won't be stopping anytime soon.

~~

bonus(!!)

he's pushing the cart and leaning his still aching body over it to rest.

"you know, when you said that we're a team, the first thing to come to mind is those three-legged races"

"mhm, and we'd be falling all over the place thanks to you darling"

"please, we'd do great. in a worst case scenario, baby, i'll just drag you along. you're stuck with me"

"what-"

"not much you could do to stop me", a cheeky wolffish grin playing at his lips.

umm, alright then. psychopath.

[are-we-art-yet]

Is AWAY using it's own program or is this just a voluntary list of guidelines for people using programs like DALL-E? How does AWAY address the environmental concerns of how the companies making those AI programs conduct themselves (energy consumption, exploiting impoverished areas for cheap electricity, destruction of the environment to rapidly build and get the components for data centers etc.)? Are members of AWAY encouraged to contact their gov representatives about IP theft by AI apps?

What is AWAY and how does it work?

AWAY does not "use its own program" in the software sense—rather, we're a diverse collective of ~1000 members that each have their own varying workflows and approaches to art. While some members do use AI as one tool among many, most of the people in the server are actually traditional artists who don't use AI at all, yet are still interested in ethical approaches to new technologies.

Our code of ethics is a set of voluntary guidelines that members agree to follow upon joining. These emphasize ethical AI approaches, (preferably open-source models that can run locally), respecting artists who oppose AI by not training styles on their art, and refusing to use AI to undercut other artists or work for corporations that similarly exploit creative labor.

Environmental Impact in Context

It's important to place environmental concerns about AI in the context of our broader extractive, industrialized society, where there are virtually no "clean" solutions:

The water usage figures for AI data centers (200-740 million liters annually) represent roughly 0.00013% of total U.S. water usage. This is a small fraction compared to industrial agriculture or manufacturing—for example, golf course irrigation alone in the U.S. consumes approximately 2.08 billion gallons of water per day, or about 7.87 trillion liters annually. This makes AI's water usage about 0.01% of just golf course irrigation.

Looking into individual usage, the average American consumes about 26.8 kg of beef annually, which takes around 1,608 megajoules (MJ) of energy to produce. Making 10 ChatGPT queries daily for an entire year (3,650 queries) consumes just 38.1 MJ—about 42 times less energy than eating beef. In fact, a single quarter-pound beef patty takes 651 times more energy to produce than a single AI query.

Overall, power usage specific to AI represents just 4% of total data center power consumption, which itself is a small fraction of global energy usage. Current annual energy usage for data centers is roughly 9-15 TWh globally—comparable to producing a relatively small number of vehicles.

The consumer environmentalism narrative around technology often ignores how imperial exploitation pushes environmental costs onto the Global South. The rare earth minerals needed for computing hardware, the cheap labor for manufacturing, and the toxic waste from electronics disposal disproportionately burden developing nations, while the benefits flow largely to wealthy countries.

While this pattern isn't unique to AI, it is fundamental to our global economic structure. The focus on individual consumer choices (like whether or not one should use AI, for art or otherwise,) distracts from the much larger systemic issues of imperialism, extractive capitalism, and global inequality that drive environmental degradation at a massive scale.

They are not going to stop building the data centers, and they weren't going to even if AI never got invented.

Creative Tools and Environmental Impact

In actuality, all creative practices have some sort of environmental impact in an industrialized society:

Digital art software (such as Photoshop, Blender, etc) generally uses 60-300 watts per hour depending on your computer's specifications. This is typically more energy than dozens, if not hundreds, of AI image generations (maybe even thousands if you are using a particularly low-quality one).

Traditional art supplies rely on similar if not worse scales of resource extraction, chemical processing, and global supply chains, all of which come with their own environmental impact.

Paint production requires roughly thirteen gallons of water to manufacture one gallon of paint.

Many oil paints contain toxic heavy metals and solvents, which have the potential to contaminate ground water.

Synthetic brushes are made from petroleum-based plastics that take centuries to decompose.

That being said, the point of this section isn't to deflect criticism of AI by criticizing other art forms. Rather, it's important to recognize that we live in a society where virtually all artistic avenues have environmental costs. Focusing exclusively on the newest technologies while ignoring the environmental costs of pre-existing tools and practices doesn't help to solve any of the issues with our current or future waste.

The largest environmental problems come not from individual creative choices, but rather from industrial-scale systems, such as:

Industrial manufacturing (responsible for roughly 22% of global emissions)

Industrial agriculture (responsible for roughly 24% of global emissions)

Transportation and logistics networks (responsible for roughly 14% of global emissions)

Making changes on an individual scale, while meaningful on a personal level, can't address systemic issues without broader policy changes and overall restructuring of global economic systems.

Intellectual Property Considerations

AWAY doesn't encourage members to contact government representatives about "IP theft" for multiple reasons:

We acknowledge that copyright law overwhelmingly serves corporate interests rather than individual creators

Creating new "learning rights" or "style rights" would further empower large corporations while harming individual artists and fan creators

Many AWAY members live outside the United States, many of which having been directly damaged by the US, and thus understand that intellectual property regimes are often tools of imperial control that benefit wealthy nations

Instead, we emphasize respect for artists who are protective of their work and style. Our guidelines explicitly prohibit imitating the style of artists who have voiced their distaste for AI, working on an opt-in model that encourages traditional artists to give and subsequently revoke permissions if they see fit. This approach is about respect, not legal enforcement. We are not a pro-copyright group.

In Conclusion

AWAY aims to cultivate thoughtful, ethical engagement with new technologies, while also holding respect for creative communities outside of itself. As a collective, we recognize that real environmental solutions require addressing concepts such as imperial exploitation, extractive capitalism, and corporate power—not just focusing on individual consumer choices, which do little to change the current state of the world we live in.

When discussing environmental impacts, it's important to keep perspective on a relative scale, and to avoid ignoring major issues in favor of smaller ones. We promote balanced discussions based in concrete fact, with the belief that they can lead to meaningful solutions, rather than misplaced outrage that ultimately serves to maintain the status quo.

If this resonates with you, please feel free to join our discord. :)

Works Cited:

USGS Water Use Data: https://www.usgs.gov/mission-areas/water-resources/science/water-use-united-states

Golf Course Superintendents Association of America water usage report: https://www.gcsaa.org/resources/research/golf-course-environmental-profile

Equinix data center water sustainability report: https://www.equinix.com/resources/infopapers/corporate-sustainability-report

Environmental Working Group's Meat Eater's Guide (beef energy calculations): https://www.ewg.org/meateatersguide/

Hugging Face AI energy consumption study: https://huggingface.co/blog/carbon-footprint

International Energy Agency report on data centers: https://www.iea.org/reports/data-centres-and-data-transmission-networks

Goldman Sachs "Generational Growth" report on AI power demand: https://www.goldmansachs.com/intelligence/pages/gs-research/generational-growth-ai-data-centers-and-the-coming-us-power-surge/report.pdf

Artists Network's guide to eco-friendly art practices: https://www.artistsnetwork.com/art-business/how-to-be-an-eco-friendly-artist/

The Earth Chronicles' analysis of art materials: https://earthchronicles.org/artists-ironically-paint-nature-with-harmful-materials/

Natural Earth Paint's environmental impact report: https://naturalearthpaint.com/pages/environmental-impact

Our World in Data's global emissions by sector: https://ourworldindata.org/emissions-by-sector

"The High Cost of High Tech" report on electronics manufacturing: https://goodelectronics.org/the-high-cost-of-high-tech/

"Unearthing the Dirty Secrets of the Clean Energy Transition" (on rare earth mineral mining): https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2023/apr/18/clean-energy-dirty-mining-indigenous-communities-climate-crisis

Electronic Frontier Foundation's position paper on AI and copyright: https://www.eff.org/wp/ai-and-copyright

Creative Commons research on enabling better sharing: https://creativecommons.org/2023/04/24/ai-and-creativity/

[eunandonly]

BOYNEXTDOOR AS KILLERS

in the end, no matter how you run or hide, you're already theirs

( 対 ) boynextdoor + gn. reader 1087WC · thriller? tbh idk what this is contains! language, death, homicide, substances / archive

은 : this idea came into my head during calculus and i had to write it. please keep in mind that this does not reflect the true personality of the idols!! enjoy ~

myung jaehyun 

you’d like myung jaehyun. everyone does. he walks into a room and fits in seamlessly, his presence neither too bold nor too forgettable. people gravitate towards him, drawn to his warm voice, the way he listens just enough to make you feel important. he’s friendly–a little too friendly. he’s the kind of person you’d trust without realising why, and that’s exactly what he wants.

his work is quiet, meticulous. he infiltrates, observes, gathers information piece by piece during seemingly innocent conversations until you’ve handed him everything he needs without ever suspecting a thing. by the time you feel like something’s off, by the time you feel the shift–when his eyes turn cold, when his presence settles in a way that makes your stomach sink–it’s already over.

his kills aren’t messy. there’s no need for amateur dramatics. a swift movement, a blade between the ribs, a whispered apology that means nothing no matter how much you try to pretend it is. 

if it makes you feel better, myung jaehyun doesn’t enjoy killing you.

it’s just that that’s his role, and he’s really damn good at it.

“it’s not personal. but if it makes you feel better, you can pretend it is.”

park sungho

park sungho doesn’t get close. why would he when he doesn’t need to? his work is done from rooftops, from miles away, from places where no one even thinks to look.

clearly, you didn't think to look either.

everything in his world is measured in distances, in calculations, the exact weight of the trigger against his finger. wind speed, bullet drop, breathing patterns–he keeps all those factors in mind without hesitation. killing isn’t personal to him. it’s not some cliche act of vengeance or cruelty or whatever shit you've seen in movies. it’s just science, and he’s perfected it.

you would never never see it coming. one moment, you’re alive and breathing, caught up in whatever meaningless thing you’re doing. the next? your world turns black. no struggle, no warning. just the soft whisper of a bullet finding its mark. and sungho never misses

people talk about luck. they call his skill unnatural, but there’s nothing unnatural about inevitability. a bullet for you will always find its way.

“if you heard the shot, it wasn’t meant for you.”

lee sanghyuk

you don't even realise he's there. but he's watching. always watching.

lee riwoo doesn’t need a weapon. doesn’t need to be in the same room. doesn’t even need to exist.

his world isn’t flesh and blood–he doesn’t like getting his hands dirty like that, no. it’s code, data, systems meant to be impenetrable until he decides otherwise. cctv footage glitches at just the right moment. bank accounts drain in seconds. entire case files vanish from police databases, as if they were never there to begin with.

he exists everywhere and nowhere at the same time. a name whispered in law enforcement circles with no face attached, no records, no proof. they search for him, try to pin him down, but how do you catch something that isn’t real?

he sees more than he speaks. listens more than he moves. he knows everything about you before you even realise he’s watching. passwords, addresses, the embarrassing text you deleted five years ago. he keeps it all tucked away, waiting. and if you become a problem? he erases you from existence, just like he does with those cctv footages and case files.

“funny. you really thought you were off the grid?”

han dongmin

you hear the stories. the ones about a killer too smart to be caught.

you tell yourself it’s just a rumor. that he’s not real. that people like him don’t exist.

but then you meet han taesan. and suddenly, you’re not so sure.

he watches you, studies you, make a game out of it. his kills aren't random–he doesn't just blindly pick a random person on the street as his next victim–and they're never sloppy. han taesan doesn't kill because he has to. he kills because he enjoys it. because it's fun. and he's really fucking good at it.

his murders are carefully orchestrated, a masterpiece. he leaves just enough clues to make you think you're close, just enough hope to make you believe you'll figure it out, only to rip it away at the last second. he's loves watching you scramble, loves knowing you'll never catch him.

han taesan always wins at the game.

“they always think they’re smarter than me. it’s kind of cute, actually.”

kim donghyun 

you don’t even feel it at first. that’s the beauty of it.

it’s not a gunshot, not a stab wound, not something dramatic. no, kim leehan doesn’t do theatrics. his kills are quiet, elegant. a tasteless drop in a glass of wine, a slow-acting toxin hidden in perfume, a lethal dose disguised as medicine. by the time you realize what’s happening, it’s already inside you.

he specialises in making deaths look natural. a heart attack, an allergic reaction, an unfortunate accident. even the most skilled doctors find nothing suspicious.

kim leehan enjoys watching. he watches as you sip your poisoned tea whilst you laugh, unaware that it’ll be your last. he watches as panic sets in, as your body betray you. and then, when you finally realise what’s happening, he simply smiles before giving you a little finger gun at your last gasp of breath.

“i wonder how long it’ll take before you figure it out.”

kim woonhak

you think you’re strong. that you won’t break.

you’re wrong.

kim woonhak enjoys the process. he’s patient. he takes his time. it’s not just about the pain–it’s about control. the way people break at different speeds, how fear changes the way they breathe, how the ones that claim to be the strong and tough are always the ones who beg the loudest in the end.

those type of people pisses woonhak off.

he doesn’t ask questions right away. that’s too easy. instead, he talks. he jokes. he makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’ll make it out of this. he leans in close, tilts his head, smiles like he’s curious about you. and for a second, you think he’s not so bad.

but then the real work begins.

he knows exactly how much to wait before pushing just a little further. it’s not about the information. it’s about watching the moment you break, knowing he's the one who did it.

"you’re shaking. are you scared? or are you finally realising how much fun i’m having?"

[duxarcana]

The Japanese translation of Chapter 3 gave us some new information on the Man behind the tree, so let's talk about it! (JP transcriptions and translations in Alt Text!)

Lots of people have noted that Kris is in their Light World form in this scene, but the Japanese version also has the Aces and the Man himself speak in the hiragana-heavy style of the Light World rather than the kanji-heavy style of the Dark World.

There is another mysterious character who speaks in the Light World style, however.

--The sender of this Valentine from the 2024 Winter Newsletter. Even if you can't read Japanese, you can probably notice how the bottom two paragraphs (where the letter begins) don't contain characters of the same complexity as those above (the narration).

The Man and the letter writer also both speak in a masculine tone, ending sentences like these in -ka na and referring to themselves as watashi and the listener as kimi.

Both the Man and the letter writer also address the listener with commands ending in -nasai, which is a firm yet gentle kind of command that has a quite parental or caregiving tone to it.

Overall, the Man and the letter writer (who, based on these lines, could very likely be the same person) come across as warm and friendly toward the listener, whom they address as a child.

There is actually one more speaker whose speech patterns also resemble those of the Man behind the tree.

These unused lines can be found in the code for Chapter 1:

Is that a cut on your face, or part of your eye? The gash weaves down as if you cry. The pain itself is reason why.

These lines do not actually appear together in the code, but they have long been theorized to go together based on the fact that they rhyme. The Japanese version of the code seems to back this up, as these lines have actually been translated so that they rhyme there as well!

キミの顔…　それは傷かい？　 それとも　目なのかい？ パックリ割れた　切り傷が　 まるで　涙のあとみたい。 理由は　その　痛み自体。 kimi no kao... sore wa kizu kai? sore to mo me na no kai? pakkuri wareta kirikizu ga maru de namida no ato mitai. riyuu wa sono itami jitai. Translated to English: "Your face... is that a wound? Or is it your eye?" "The cut, split wide open, looks almost like a tear streak." "The reason is that pain itself."

These lines use the Dark World style of speech, but the speaker addresses the listener as kimi and ends their questions with the friendly and highly masculine particle -kai, which is something the Man also does throughout his speech in Ch 3:

There is of course always the possibility that a future chapter will disprove this, but for now, there is good evidence that these three speakers may be one and the same!

[creatingblackcharacters]

hi! this might be a complicated ask. i'm writing a Black-coded (nonhuman) ex-soldier with PTSD and was wondering if there is anything else i should consider with this character's relationship to violence. since im white, i dont have a nuanced perspective on how growing up Black(coded) might affect his behavior in this area.

my character is Black-coded in his character design, but more importantly, in-universe, he is part of a phenotype of his species that is treated like they are less intelligent and more violent than the other phenotypes. in canon material for this universe, other characters who are subject to these stereotypes have been interpreted as Black, so there is precedent for this analogy. a huge part of the source material is the struggle for equality, freedom, and liberation for all phenotypes. (not that its always done well)

the way im writing him now, he's a very calm and avoidant pacifist when possible, wanting to distance himself from the battlefield. but when he feels his new friends are in danger, he will fight again to protect them and himself. thing is, he has PTSD, and what he registers as a life-or-death threat might not register as a threat to his friends. as a result, they might find his actions overly aggressive… they don't understand what the war was like & how not being proactive enough cost him a friend. he's terrified to lose someone again, and this is the root of his behavior. that fear drives him more than the fear of returning to the battlefield. i dont want him to be an "angry aggressive Black man" or anything, i want it to be clear that he's acting from a place of fear, trauma, and protectiveness. i also want to note that he is not the only Black-coded character. one of the three never-seen-battle, carefree characters is also Black-coded. hopefully i've written him with enough nuance to avoid falling into stereotypes about aggression, but if not, i'd want to hear where i can improve.

now, the part where i really need advice is on how growing up as a part of this stereotyped phenotype might affect how he does (or does not) express things like anger, hostility, or fear. might he try to keep his emotions under wraps to avoid appearing angry or aggressive? or uncritically embrace it as a part of his identity? might he be afraid that expressing his emotions honestly will invite discrimination from his friends who do not have this phenotype? im afraid i just dont know where to begin with this one, but i feel it must be addressed as an important part of his character. oppression is a big topic in the source material and i feel i'd be remiss to avoid it in my OCs.

i know this is a long ask, but if you do choose to answer, thank you very much! if you'd like elaboration on anything, just ask. he's my favorite OC in this story and the most well-developed, and i want to do him justice

Hi, sorry for taking so long to get back to you, but I've been thinking about how to answer this question daily. In my honest opinion, I think you should pause on this character and do some further research. You have an incredibly intriguing concept that would be really cool to explore... But I don't think that, right now, you as an author necessarily understand what you need to in order to depict the complexity of this character's experience.

My suggestion would be finding and reading books written by Black men about their experiences as Black men. They will include their stories of how they had to deal with their emotions, their traumas, and their relationships. I'm sure there are even stories of Black vets, if you really want to get that specific, but just in general life experience will hold patterns worth understanding for characterization. Ta-Nehisi Coates' Between the World and Me, or Monster by Walter Dean Myers, stuff like that.

[houseofanticipation]

It's impossible to count the number of times you've imagined this moment. Late at night, under the covers; in the bathtub, and the shower; on slow days at the bookstore, the summer before senior year; during Mr. Madrigal's long, droning lectures. You fantasized so vividly you could see each scene on the back of your eyelids, hear each sound between breaths. Many a time your hand migrated southward, almost of its own volition. If you were in public, you'd hold it against your crotch, pressing it into yourself with the force of your clenched thighs. In private, you'd be far less subtle.

In all those fantasies, you never imagined it would look quite like this.

The hallway smells like cigarettes and industrial cleaner. The haphazardly patterned carpet is coming up at the edges. The yellow tube light overhead might be attempting morse code, the way it flickers. Paint peels from the door in front of you, and one of the metal digits in the room number has been replaced with one that doesn't quite match: room 233. You raise your hand, your knuckles inches from the door, and then you pause. You're not sure if you can go through with this.

Before you can decide, the door opens anyway.

You started posting pictures in your first year of college. It was just your tits at first. You'd been quietly following those subreddits and tumblr blogs for a while, and you thought it would be a bit of fun, a little thrill. You didn't expect the response you got: dozens of people telling you how much they'd enjoyed it, asking for more. So you posted more, and the people asked for different things. Post your ass. Post your cunt. Post your fingers in your cunt. Post audio of you moaning as you came. The more you revealed of yourself, the more attention you got, and the more attention you got, the more you wanted to show. People wanted to send you tips, so you set up a Cash App address. You never got much, a few dollars here and there, but it was nice to get a free coffee now and then.

And somewhere along the way, apparently, you let slip that you were a virgin.

The message came late last semester, from a Cash App user whose name was just a string of numbers. It read, "I will buy your virginity for $100,000. So you know I'm serious, here is $7000 for you to keep, deal or no deal. Let me know if interested."

It was like one of those hypotheticals you talk about with your friends at the dinner table. Would you work nonstop for a year if it meant you never had to work again? Would you cut off your hand if it meant you never had to die? Would you let a stranger from the internet take your virginity for a hundred thousand dollars? You thought about it for weeks. The 7 thousand in itself was a windfall you never could have imagined. It was the new laptop you needed, four times over. It was a large iced coffee ever day for three and a half years. After graduation, if you were smart, it could be your living expenses for the better part of a year. But a hundred thousand might be a house, or a car, or a few years of freedom to pursue your goals. And when you asked how you could trust him to pay when he'd gotten what he wanted, he told you he'd be happy to pay up front.

So here you are, in a dingy hotel, face to face with the broad-shouldered, potbellied older man in front of you. "I saw you through the peephole," he says. There's something impish about him. Maybe it's the toothy grin, or the way his ears stick out from his head, or the obvious glee in his voice as he looks you up and down. "My, you're much better in person. Come in! You got the money then?"

You nod. You didn't leave the Lyft until it was there in your account.

"Good," he says, throwing the dead bolt. "Let's get to it then, shall we?"

"What should...I mean, how do you want to..." you feel yourself talking strangely. Breathing in the wrong places, words tumbling over each other. "Maybe we should...talk first? Get to know each other?"

"No need for that," says the man matter-of-factly, unbuttoning his shirt. His chest is smooth, his skin a mottled pink. He waves a hand at your body. "Go ahead and get those off."

Back in high school, one of your recurring fantasies involved Jason Meier having his way with you in the back of that beat up convertible he used to drive. That old thing used to get you so wet. It was a piece of junk, but something about the exposure of it...In the fantasy, he's driven you out to some secluded spot outside of town. Cicadas drone all around. The night sky shines bright with stars. He cups your face with one hand, strokes your cheek with his thumb, asks you if this is your first time. He kisses the side of your mouth, then your jaw, then below your ear, then down your neck. As his hands undo the top button of your blouse, he tells you he'll be gentle.

The man is watching you expectantly. With his shirt on, he looked like a portly old man. Without it you can see that every inch of that stocky build is hard muscle. That pink skin strains against his mass, muscle rippling beneath it as he moves. "What are you waiting for?"

Your legs tremble. Your knees feel like they're about to buckle. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears. Your body has never done this before. You didn't know you could feel this kind of fear, and yet there's nothing to fight, nowhere to flee. You agreed to this. You decided this was what you wanted. Slowly, you pull your shirt over head.

He groans in the back of his throat, a long, growly sound. His face is a mask of focus, the impish joviality gone, his eyes fixated on your breasts. "And the rest."

You kick off your shoes, pull off your socks. An inch at a time, you slide your shorts and panties over your ass, down your legs, past your trembling knees. You step out of them, and now you're completely exposed. You cross your arms over your chest, then lower them when he grunts disapproval. Almost urgently, he unbuttons his pants, pulls out a long, rigid cock, and begins to stroke himself.

You didn't discover internet porn until your senior year, and before then the only penises you'd seen were a few drawings in your health textbook. In the fantasy, you unbutton Jason Meier's pants and fig. 7.5, "The penis becomes engorged when in state of arousal," pops out of his underwear. You take it in your hands, feeling the weight of it, the girth, and look up into those beautiful brown eyes of his.

This cock is much...realer. It has bounce, texture, even a sound as his hand slides up and down its length. It's longer than the one in that old fantasy, too, and it leans slightly to the left. For years you've wondered what it would be like to see a cock in person, and now that you're here it terrifies you.

"Come here," says the man, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Get on your knees."

You falter. "You didn't...I mean, we didn't agree to that."

"I bought your virginity," says the man. "You ever suck cock before?"

You shake your head.

"Then your mouth is just as much a virgin as your cunt. Get down here."

It's almost a relief to get off your legs, the way they've been threatening to give out. Close up, you can see the purples and blues of the veins under his skin. The head of his cock pulses with anticipation as your lips part, your tongue extends...

You don't think you can do this.

Then his hand is on the back of your head.

You always imagined Jason Meier whimpering as you took him into your mouth. You were never quite able to picture what he would feel like between your lips, on your tongue; the movie camera of your imagination always panned up at that point, to focus on his face. He would let his head fall back in pleasure, eyebrows knit with sensation, lips slightly parted. Now, though, there's no camera to pan. You are here. This is real. And his powerful hand is pushing your mouth onto his cock.

A sound you can't control comes out of you. Your back arches, your hands flail, and then by pure instinct they're on his belly, pushing against him, away from him. Spit runs down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. "I'm sorry," you say, looking anywhere but at his face. "I'm sorry, I can't, I thought I could do this but I can't."

There's a horrible darkness in his voice. "I already gave you the money."

"I know, I'll give it back, I'm sorry." The words trip over each other on the way out of your mouth. "I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have, I just, I thought I could..."

His hand is on the back of your head again, and this time his fingers are curled tight into your hair. He jerks your head back, forcing you to look at him, and his eyes are cold and predatory. "I'm not interested in returning what's already bought and paid for." He jams himself back into your mouth.

You always imagined yourself savoring it, taking your time to explore every inch of Jason's length with your tongue, but there's no time for that now. The veiny, throbbing thing in your mouth bypasses your tongue entirely, forcing past your uvula. You gag, then gag again. Your stomach churns and you convulse as your body tries to remove the foreign object, but the man just pushes harder. Your eyes water as he slides deeper, deeper, making your throat bulge, your limbs spasm. As his balls touch your chin, you close your eyes and try to relax your throat.

He holds you like that. You gag for a third time, and thick saliva explodes through the gaps around his cock, dripping down your chin and collecting in a long, dangling rope. Tears roll down your cheeks as you try to acclimatize to the feeling, try to convince your body that nothing is wrong. You think you've got it, and then he moves slightly, and you're gagging again. He groans, grips your head tighter, and in the back of your throat you feel his cock swell slightly. He likes it when you gag for him, says a voice in the back of your mind. The motion is pleasurable for him.

You've got another problem rearing its head. You can't breathe. It was fine at first, but the man shows no interest in freeing up your airways, and in all the gagging and crying, you haven't exactly been conserving your oxygen. You pat his leg, trying to signal to him, but all he does is clap you on the side of the head. Your ear rings, you gag again, and his cock throbs. Black walls are closing in on your vision. The effort of struggling against him becomes too much, and your arms fall to your sides. Your eyelids flutter. You're going to pass out. You're going to pass out, and then what will he do to you?

But just before the world fades to black, he pulls your head back again. You feel every inch of his cock as it slides out of your throat. He lifts your face, and your eyes struggle to focus on his as you take lungful after lungful of glorious air. Drool spills across your lips, but you don't care. You're alive.

The man slaps you hard, leaving a stinging impression of his palm on your cheek. You whimper. Two of his fingers are in your mouth, pushing on the back of your tongue. Not knowing exactly why, you close your lips around them and shut your eyes.

"That's better," he says.

The first time you saw a male sex toy in use was in an ad before a porn video you were watching. You were taken aback by the way the performer had pounded it over his cock, barely more than an extension of his hand. You're reminded of that image as he parts your lips again, and the rape of your throat begins in earnest.

You haven't thought about Jason Meier in years, but at this moment he's the only thing keeping you sane. As your face rams up and down, up and down, you retreat to that beat up convertible, and Jason's soft, thoughtful face. As the man tightens his grip, Jason runs his fingers through your hair. As the man grunts and growls with pleasure, Jason coos your name. With each stroke of his cock down your throat, each spasm of your body, you focus on a different part of Jason's body: his large hands, his long fingers, his shoulders, his jawline, his liquid brown eyes. By the time the man finally releases your hair, you can barely feel your body any more. The convertible is far more real than the squeaky motel bed. The hands on your body are Jason's, soft and tender.

He climbs over the center console straddling you. You lock lips, feel your tongues in each other's mouths, kiss so deeply that it feels as though you share the same breath. He pulls the lever to lay your seat back, and then he's over you, on top of you, lifting your skirt, pulling your panties to the side.

This is the part where, in the old days, you would have slipped a finger or two inside yourself. But this time you don't have to. This time you can feel him inside you, really feel him, and he fills you up like your fingers never could. There's some pain—they told you there'd be pain, didn't they, your first time—but it falls away to the thrill, the lust, the pleasure. Jason whimpers as he slides into you, deeper, deeper, and you moan into each other's mouths as his pelvis meets yours. You take a moment to savor it, breathing each other in, and then he begins to thrust.

You feel drunk. It's exactly like you always imagined it, and somehow better than you could ever have expected. Each movement of his hips brings another sensation: a spasm in the arches of your feet, a hitch in your breath, a churning, swirling need in the depths of your abdomen. Deeper you tell him, harder, and he obliges, pulling you into him, and him into you.

You can feel the orgasm building, but it isn't like any you've had before. Every time you've ever cum, you've been in control. This time, Jason is in control. Jason decides when you cum, how you cum. One hand supports his weight as he leans over you, and the other slides up your belly. You used to watch those hands obsessively. The way he held a pencil, the way he bit his knuckles when he was thinking. Now that hand slides up, caresses your breast. Now that thumb brushes your hair out of your face. Now those fingers close around your throat.

You know you're safe with Jason, but the pressure on your throat triggers some animal fear response in you. You try to squirm away, but his arm is strong, and his hand his firm. Your hands go to his wrist. "I don't like that, stop." He just smiles. It isn't his usual sweet smile, either. This one is cruel. Predatory.

Your face feels tight. Your eyes bulge. You're beginning to panic for real now. "Jason, seriously, stop!" You beat at his arm with your fists, but he easily takes both your wrists in one hand and pins them over your head. You try to kick at him, but he's already past your defenses, between your legs, pushing them uselessly apart. His grip tightens, his rhythm increases, his cock swells inside you. He's getting off on this.

All at once you're back in the hotel room. The man's sweaty red face is inches away from your own, and the lust in his eyes is obvious. His cock seems to push deeper with every thrust, and the horrible thing is that the orgasm is still coming. It's close now, you can feel it, and it's like he knows exactly how to bring it out. You feel floaty, tingly, and that awful pleasure is welling up inside you, a pot about to boil over...

"That's right," he says, his eyes locked on yours. "That's what I was waiting for. That perfect mix of...pleasure...and...fear." He punctuates each of these last three words with a long, deep thrust, and it's these that send the orgasm spilling over. A choked moan pushes itself out of you as your back arches, your toes curl, your legs wrap involuntarily around his waist, tears roll down your cheeks. That floaty feeling has combined with the orgasm to create something like how you imagine heroin must feel; a wave of mind numbing, soul deadening ecstasy. Your insides feel hot, and at first you think that must just be what it feels like when you cum from sex, but then you see the look on his face and realize that he's cumming too. His grip relaxes and he pounds away a few more times at your now-limp body. You stare at the ceiling as he moans, buries his face between your tits, pumps round after round of his warm, thick cum into your cunt, your womb. After one final push he collapses onto you, his cock still inside you, his bulk crushing you into the bed. You don't move.

He strokes your cheek. Fondles your nipple. Kisses your neck. Then he kisses your mouth, his tongue pushing your lips open, his breath like damp earth. You barely see him.

It must be almost ten minutes before he finally gets up, his limp cock sliding out of you at last. You can feel his cum dripping from your cunt as he puts on his underwear, then pants, then shirt, then shoes. "The room is paid for the night," he says with his hand on the door handle. "Thank you for struggling. Taking someone's virtue is so much better when you actually get to take it.

You don't respond.

You don't know how long you lie there, motionless, dripping cum. Oddly, the man who just raped you isn't the one burned onto your mind's eye. Try as you might to return to that sweet teenage fantasy, all you can see is Jason Meier as he held his hand to your throat, and that cruel, predatory smile on his face.

[ltash]

"Wicked" Pt-3

SimonGhostRileyxf!"Rose"reader

From her highschool bully to her wicked bodyguard, from Simon to Ghost.

Palm Jumeirah, Dubai - Midnight.

The lights inside the mansion flickered, once-just a glitch, a flutter of voltage-but Rose's pulse skipped all the same. It always did now. The walls felt too close. The air, too quiet. No house this beautiful should feel like a cage, but hers did. Behind its manicured gardens and imported marble, the mansion wasn't a home. It was a gilded prison.

Massimo had made sure of that.

She hadn't been allowed to leave in weeks. Her phone was replaced. Her laptop filtered. The staff now wore polite smiles that never met their eyes. Rose had grown used to surveillance: the cameras hidden in chandeliers, the microphones embedded in vent grilles, the locks that clicked shut when they weren't supposed to.

But she still had one ghost left in the machine.

She padded barefoot into the darkened study, the only room she was never searched in. Inside the antique desk drawer was a tiny circuit board connected to a hidden port-one she'd built herself back when she still had freedom. It looked like a piece of the HVAC system, but under the hood was a different story.

She was about to use her only remaining ally: an old AI security system she had personally installed before her staff were replaced. It's disguised under the house's climate control and lighting apps-Massimo's men never even noticed it.

Late at night, she writes a command.

A hidden SOS, encrypted and buried under code.

She can't name herself, can't give details.

Just:

Her fingers trembled as she typed into the dim screen.

>High-value civilian. Palm Jumeirah. Hostile containment. Request immediate covert extraction.

She uploads it to an old abandoned GitHub repo registered under a pseudonym she once shared with a boy who used to sit at the back of her chemistry class.

Simon Riley.

The message was anonymous. There was no name, no coordinates. Just metadata buried in lines of an old GitHub repository registered under a long-forgotten pseudonym.

A joke. A nickname from school. One she had once shared with a boy who never smiled.

She didn't even know if he was still alive.

She hit send.

And hoped the wind still remembered her name.

Location: Undisclosed SAS Safehouse, Northern England

Simon was SAS now. Special Forces.

Callsign: Ghost.

The alert came through on a cold Thursday night.

He monitors that GitHub repo out of habit. It's nothing but sentiment, a scar he keeps reopening.

He hasn't checked it in years.

Until he does.

Simon Riley sat in the quiet glow of his monitor, the rain painting war patterns against the window behind him. He barely touched the internet. Except for this.

He hadn't checked the repo in years. It was a dead habit, something he did every few months. Nostalgia with no reward.

Until he saw it.

> Last push: 2 hours ago.

Encrypted within the code wasn't just a distress call.

It was her.

Rose.

He didn't breathe for nearly a full minute.

Ghost stood slowly, fingers curling into fists as a cold burn lit up in his chest. He hadn't heard her name since he'd buried it. Since the night he left without a goodbye.

His blood runs cold.

Encrypted in the code is a name he hasn't heard in half a decade:

"Rose."

He goes to his superiors.

The request is unofficial. Shadow ops.

But the words hostile containment and high-value civilian raise flags.

It gets buried under a private bodyguard detail ordered by a powerful British defense ally with silent interest in Massimo's dealings.

No name. No address. Just Palm Jumeirah, high-value civilian, hostile containment.

Enough for an unofficial op.

And the name that gets assigned?

Lieutenant Simon Riley.

His name was the first one on the assignment.

48 Hours Later a black SUV rolled past the iron gates like it belonged there.

Rose stood in her hallway, arms wrapped around herself, watching from behind the curtains.

One man stepped out. Alone.

Massimo's guards stood straighter.

Tall. Broad. Black tactical gear that looked too sharp for Dubai's heat. A skull mask covering his face, balaclava beneath it. His eyes were cold, unreadable. Like winter.

He didn't speak as he passed the guards. Just handed a sealed letter.

Authorization for close protection detail.

One of Massimo's men, it said.

Rose didn't buy it. But she didn't argue.

She stood at the top of the stairs as he entered, heart hammering.

He looked up at her.

And she, she froze.

There was something about him.

Something terrifying and familiar.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

He stopped just a few steps from her, the skull mask gleaming under the crystal chandelier.

"Ghost," he said. Just that.

The name tasted like ash.

Her voice trembled. "You're one of Massimo's men?"

"Something like that," he answered. Low. Controlled. British accent like frostbite.

She swallowed. The fear in her blood was real. She'd seen hitmen. Thugs. Brutes.

But this one was different.

An Alpha among the wolves.

Massive, silent, lethal.

The black cargo pants hugged his powerful thighs like a sculptor's sketch in motion. Every inch of him said: do not cross.

She stepped back as he approached. He didn't follow.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," Ghost said quietly, almost too softly for a man like him.

But she was.

Terrified.

Because deep inside her, something screamed that she knew him.

And that scared her more than anything else.

The mansion was quiet. Too quiet. Not the peace of luxury, but the silence of surveillance, the kind of silence that watches you breathe.

Ghost stood by the edge of the marble balcony, framed by the dim amber of Dubai’s dying sun. The call had come. The assignment given. No backup, no fanfare, just a flight, a briefing, a skull mask, and a destination: Palm Jumeirah.

He hadn’t expected it to be real. The message hidden in the GitHub code had been too poetic to believe. Too her.

But it was real.

Rose was here.

And she was in trouble.

48 Hours Earlier, She had stared at the blinking cursor for what felt like hours.

> "High-value civilian. Palm Jumeirah. Hostile containment. Request immediate covert extraction."

No names. No cry for help. No traceable language.

Just enough to mean something, to the right person.

Rose encrypted the text in base-64, nested it into an update in an abandoned GitHub repository linked to a fake climate control API, something she and Simon had once joked about building back in school. Back when he was still just Simon. Before he disappeared like mist.

She hit commit.

And prayed.

Now...

The skull mask stepped through the threshold like a shadow that had grown legs. Black tactical gear. Gloves. Thick black cargo pants that stretched over thighs built like war machines. Combat boots that echoed like the ticking of an ending.

The guards nodded, not questioning his clearance. Massimo trusted him now. The cover had been placed well.

She was in the living room. Pale as bone, curled up in a silk robe on the ivory settee.

She looked up, and froze.

The skull.

The mask.

The height.

The weight of him was a presence.

“Who are you?” she asked, voice small, breaking.

He stood still.

"Name's Ghost," he said finally, voice deep and northern, cracked like winter pavement. "Massimo brought me in for security. I’m here to watch you."

Her brows creased, fear threading through the delicate angles of her face. “I don’t need another one of his men watching me.”

He tilted his head, slowly.

“No offense, but I’m not one of his men.”

Her throat worked. She stood, slowly. The robe fell just enough to show a bruise. Faint. But there.

His jaw ticked under the mask.

“I don’t trust anyone,” she whispered.

“Good,” he said. “That means you’re not stupid.”

A beat passed. The chandelier hummed above them.

She turned away, but not before he saw the tremble in her hands.

He had to earn her trust. Carefully. Quietly. Not with the truth, because the truth was dangerous. To both of them.

Not yet.

So he watched. And waited. And followed. Like a loyal shadow.

Simon Riley was gone.

There was only Ghost now.

And she didn’t know him.

Not yet.

But soon, she would.

The sun bled orange into the Gulf, casting golden ripples across the water as the massive white yacht sliced through the marina like a predator in silk. Palm Jumeirah, glittering like a crown in the ocean, had seen its fair share of luxury, but even here, the arrival of Don Massimo Toricelli turned heads.

Ghost watched from the top floor of the mansion through a sliver in the blackout curtain. He recognized the yacht, custom-built, three decks, helipad, and a private lounge with imported marble flooring. He’d studied it in the brief.

His yacht, a gleaming, multi-million dollar Leviathan, rocked gently in the turquoise water, tethered just off the private dock of her Palm Jumeirah estate. It gleamed like his ego, always visible, always looming.

Massimo was coming.

And that meant trouble.

The Italian stepped off the yacht with the confidence of a man who owned the world and everything in it. Black suit sharp enough to cut, sunglasses shielding eyes that never missed a detail.

The black Maserati had barely stopped outside the mansion before Massimo Toricelli stepped out, flanked by his two most loyal bodyguards. He wore his usual armour of a designer three-piece suit, sunglasses despite the low golden sun, and that chilling smirk that made Rose’s stomach turn. The man smelled of cologne and control.

He carried a box in his hand. Velvet black. The kind of box that didn’t contain anything simple.

Rose was summoned to the lobby. Always summoned, never invited.

Inside the mansion, Rose was being prepped. She didn’t want to go downstairs, Ghost could see it in her face. Her robe was replaced by a floor-length designer dress, her makeup immaculate. A doll on display.

She descended the marble staircase slowly, her every step echoing in the grand, hollow luxury of the mansion she couldn't escape. The lobby was vast, double height ceilings, Italian chandeliers, crystal vases she didn’t pick, all curated to reflect a life she no longer had control over.

He stood in the corner of the marble lobby, arms crossed, skull mask reflecting the light from the chandelier above. Every nerve in his body burned.

Then the door opened.

Massimo entered like a storm in human skin.

Massimo sat in one of the velvet armchairs like he owned the place. Because he did. Or at least, he owned the cage around her.

"Bellissima," he purred, his voice smooth and poisonous. “Dubai suits you.”

Rose managed a smile, tight, hollow. “Massimo.”

Ghost stood in the corner, near the mirrored console table. He was motionless, silent, a black sentinel in full tactical gear. Skull mask on. Hands behind his back. The perfect blend of menace and restraint.

Massimo glanced at him once, indifferent. "You can leave us."

Ghost didn’t move.

Rose lifted her chin. "He stays."

Massimo gave a faint chuckle and gestured dismissively. "As you wish, tesoro."

He reached into a bag one of his men handed him and pulled out a velvet box.

"Cartier," he said simply, like it was an apology. "For your good behavior."

She took it with stiff fingers, murmured a thank you that made her mouth taste like ash. The necklace inside was encrusted with diamonds. Cold. Lifeless. Like a chain pretending to be a gift.

Ghost’s hands curled into fists in the shadow of his sleeves.

Massimo’s eyes flicked toward him.

“And you must be the new shadow. What do they call you? Phantom? Skull?”

Ghost didn’t move.

“Ghost.”

Massimo chuckled. “Fitting. Let’s hope you’re as loyal as the last one.”

Rose shifted, her discomfort palpable. Ghost could feel it in her silence.

Massimo turned his attention back to her. “I’ve missed you. We’ll have dinner this weekend. I’ll have the chef flown in from Florence. You’ll wear the necklace.”

He leaned in closer, voice a whisper of threat and lust. “Say yes.”

She didn’t answer. Just nodded.

Massimo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You look tired. Are they feeding you well? Are you sleeping?"

Rose said nothing.

He smiled wider. "Still so stubborn. That’s what I like about you. We’ll talk again soon."

Massimo straightened, pleased with himself.

“Until then, cara mia.”

And then he stood. Kissed the air beside her cheek.

Left as quickly as he arrived.

He left the box in her hands and turned, his coat swaying as he walked out. The doors shut behind him.

Only then did Rose exhale.

Ghost stayed still. Watching. Planning. Rage crawling up his spine like wildfire.

He couldn’t move. Not yet.

He hadn’t called Task Force 141.

Because this wasn’t the moment.

But it was coming.

And when it did, Massimo wouldn’t walk away.

The moment the double doors shut and his footsteps faded, she turned and ascended the stairs quickly, almost running.

Ghost followed, his boots quiet behind her.

She reached her bedroom, the velvet box still clutched in her hand like it had burned her.

Once inside, she hurled it across the room. The lid snapped open. The necklace hit the floor with a sharp, cold clatter, scattering light across the marble.

She sat down beside it. On the floor. In her silk gown. Head bowed, fists clenched, tears pooling in her eyes like they had nowhere else to go.

Ghost stood by the door. Watching. Silent.

She didn’t notice when he stepped closer.

Until he knelt down beside her.

"You don't have to do what he says," he said softly.

She looked up, startled.

He reached forward, hesitantly, almost reverently, and wiped the tear trailing down her cheek with a gloved thumb.

Her breath hitched.

And then...

He extended his hand.

Palm up.

The same way she had, years ago, trembling in a glittering gymnasium, her heart in her throat as she offered her hand to a boy who never took it.

"You don't have to deal with this alone," he said gently.

Her eyes widened.

She stared at the hand. At the shape of it. The calloused palm. The curve of his fingers. So familiar.

Her voice was barely a whisper. "Simon...?"

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just nodded.

The silence cracked around them like thunder.

Her lips parted, her chest rising with a thousand emotions she couldn’t name.

He slowly removed the mask.

And there he was.

Simon Riley.

Older. Harder. Scarred. But still him.

His eyes locked onto hers.

"I came back for you, Rose."

And this time, when she took his hand, he didn’t let go.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

A 7-Part Worldbuilding Template

PART 1: The Basics

What is your world called?

Estimate its population:

In one sentence, describe your world:

Is it set on: Earth; Alternate Earth; Not Earth / Another planet

PART 2: Geography

THE NATURAL WORLD Flora & Fauna; Creatures; Landscape; Diseases

How was the world created? How long ago was it created?

How do the laws of physics work?

How does the solar system move? What celestial beings exist (suns, stars, moons, etc.) and how do they relate to the world?

Flora & Fauna

How does the flora differ from region to region?

Do any plants have special or magical properties? Are any dangerous?

Creatures

What kind of wildlife roams which parts of your world? Where are they most commonly found?

How did the wildlife evolve?

Do mythical creatures such as dragons exist? How do they fit into the ecosystem?

Landscape

Where are the mountain ranges? Rivers? Forests? Deserts? Seas?

How does the terrain interact with its inhabitants?

Are there any “natural wonders” in your world? How were they formed?

Diseases

What natural diseases have evolved over time?

How are they transmitted?

How has this affected population growth?

LOCATIONS OF SIGNIFICANCE Capital City; Flags & Symbols

What are the major cities in your world? Ports? Most populated metropolises?

Is your world split geographically? (e.g. rural and urban, north and south, etc.) If so, how?

Capital City

What is the capital city of the world?

Why is it the capital?

Flags & Symbols

How does each city choose to represent itself (crest, flags, signature colors)?

WEATHER

What are the processes of your world that drive weather and ocean patterns?

Are certain regions more vulnerable to certain weather conditions?

Climate

How does the climate differ in each region?

What are the seasons like in your world? How many seasons are there?

PART 3: People

RACES & SPECIES Physical Build; Mannerisms & Etiquette; Customs & Rituals; Festivals

What intelligent species or races populate your world? Dwarves? Elves? Xenomorphs? Other? How did they come to exist?

How does each race or species perceive each other? How do they co-exist?

Physical Build

What do the inhabitants of your world look like? Do they have any distinguishing features?

What is the societal standard for beauty? How might this differ in each region of the world?

Mannerisms & Etiquette

What is the code of conduct between people of different ranks or classes? People of different cities or regions? Elders?

How do people in your world convey non-verbal boredom? Disbelief? Happiness? Respect?

What would be a gesture that is universally insulting in your world?

What etiquette exists in different parts of your world?

Customs & Rituals

Are there any rites of passages in your world? “Coming of age” celebrations? If so, what age marks the transition from child to adult?

What traditions surround death and burial? What about engagements and proposals of marriage?

Festivals

What are the important festivals of your world?

Why are they celebrated?

LANGUAGES Sayings; Accents; Greetings

How many languages exist in your world? How did they originate?

Which language is spoken most? Is there a universal language?

How do naming conventions differ in each region?

Sayings

What are common sayings? Idioms? Insults? “Untranslatable” words that only a certain group of people would understand?

Accents

If different languages exist, how does this affect the accents in your world? What do the accents say about the person (place of origin, social class, level of education, etc.)?

Greetings

How do people of the same race greet each other? How do people of different races greet one another?

Is there an informal and formal way to greet others depending on the level of familiarity (i.e. friends, acquaintances, elders, superiors, etc.)? What are the proper forms of address?

SOCIAL FRAMEWORKS Class or Caste Systems; Family Structure; Marriage

What social frameworks underlie the communities in your world?

What are the social taboos? What would one need to do in order to be kicked out of society?

Class or Caste Systems

Is there a class system? If so, how much emphasis does society place on it?

What are the tell-tale signs that a person belongs to a certain class?

How does class affect professions and trades in your world? Can anyone become a priest or a wizard, for example — or is it a privilege restricted to certain members of the hierarchy?

Family Structure

What is the normal family unit?

What is the social system within a family unit in your world? Patriarchal? Matriarchal?

What constitutes a good father? A good mother? A good child?

Marriage

How is marriage defined in your world? Is marriage a civil or religious institution?

Do people marry for love? If not, why do they marry?

PART 4: Civilization

HISTORY

How did civilization begin?

When was the earliest known record of history?

What were the significant wars that have taken place on your world’s soil? How have they shaped the present?

Can your world’s history be divided into significant eras (e.g. Georgian, Victorian, Edwardian, etc.)?

Myths

What myths exist in your world to explain the cosmos? How might this have in turn shaped religion?

How were stories passed through generations?

CULTURE Literature, Art & Music; Clothing; Cuisine

Is national culture and history a source of pride or shame in your world? How is it preserved?

What are some things that define each culture? What would a person from a certain city, region, or country be proudest of?

Literature, Art & Music

What is the role of the arts in your world’s culture? How is it perceived by society and how has it evolved?

Who are some celebrated or noted artists in history? What they known for?

How might the arts have changed as a result of outside influences (from other regions, cities, races, etc.)?

Are any of the arts taboo? If so, why?

Clothing

What is the customary dress? Is it gendered? If so, how?

What is considered fashionable and how does this differ from region to region?

How does the clothing one wears reflect status?

What is the dress code for each profession? How strictly followed must it be?

Cuisine

What are the regional dishes? How might this differ depending on the climate and environment?

Is there a difference between what the poor and the rich eat? What is considered a luxurious food? What is considered a staple food?

How are mealtimes approached? Is there a set hour to be at the table? Are there traditions that precede or follow a meal?

RELIGION Gods & Deities; Holy Texts; Significant Prophets

How do people worship in your world?

When and where do people worship?

Gods & Deities

Who are the major and minor gods that people worship?

What function do the gods serve in society?

Holy Texts

What (if any) holy texts exist?

How well-known are the scriptures? Would people of all ages be able to recite them on the spot if asked ?

Significant Prophets

Who are the important religious figures in the world?

For what reason are they significant?

EDUCATION

Does formal education exist? If so, who can access it? The rich? The clergy? Everyone in the general population?

If magic exists in your world, how is it studied? Do schools exist to train it?

What are literacy rates among the general population? How does this affect communication and the distribution of information?

LEISURE

How do people spend their leisure time in your world? What forms of entertainment are most common?

Are there any organized sports in your world? How might its rules and regulations differ from the ordinary?

PART 5: Technology, Magic & Weapons

MAGIC SYSTEMS Rules of Magic; Practitioning Magicians

For what purpose is magic used in your world? Who can use it?

What limits are there to its power? What are the consequences of using it?

What is the history of magic and magicians in your world?

How does society view magic? Positively? Negatively? As the Other?

Rules of Magic

How does magic work in your world? Where does it come from?

Is there a language that’s needed in order to call forth magic? If so, what are its roots?

Is magic regulated in any way? What is the governing body?

Practitioning Magicians

What are magicians’ status in society? Are they trusted advisors of kings or charlatans on the road?

How many magicians exist in your world? How do they perceive one another?

TECHNOLOGY

How advanced is the technology in your world? How does it work?

How does technology impact the different parts of society? Transportation? Communication? Medicine?

How does magic and technology interact and co-exist? Is it a rivalry? A co-op? Are there rules and regulations?

WEAPONRY Signature Weapons; Common Weapons

What weapons are predominant in your world (ranged, combat, anti-gravity, etc.) and why?

Who makes the weapons? How do they work? Is it easy to obtain them?

Signature Weapons

Are there special weapons (e.g. Thor’s Hammer)?

How are they made? How many of them exist in the world?

Common Weapons

Are there professions that necessitate the bearing of weapons?

What about religions?

PART 6: Economy

ECONOMICS

On which economic system does your world operate? A market economy? Feudalism? Socialism?

Is there a central bank?

How does the government regulate businesses?

TRADE & COMMERCE Currency; Major Imports & Exports; Natural Resources

How is trade facilitated? Is it carried out by traveling merchants? By a guild? Are there auctions?

What cities, countries, or regions are allies? Trade partners? How has this changed throughout history?

How is the soft power of a region, city, or country determined?

Currency

Is there a universal currency? If not, what are the regional currencies? What is the valuation?

How is the currency circulated and what are the denominations?

Can the currency be broken down into units (dollars, cents, dimes, quarters)?

Major Imports & Exports

What are the major exports of the region or city? Imports? How might this have evolved throughout history?

Does a particular region specialize in particular trade (i.e. livestock, weaponry, etc.)? Why?

Natural Resources

What resources are natural in each part of your world?

How does this affect trade and trade relationships?

TRANSPORTATION

How easy it is to travel within a city and outside of a city? What modes of transportation exist (horse, anti-gravity car, etc.)?

How is information disseminated all over your world (ink and paper, owl, newspaper, messenger)?

BUSINESS

What crafts or trades are highly valued in your world?

Are some professions considered more elite or respectable than others? How so?

How do people advance in their fields? Are there apprenticeships? How easy is social mobility?

What is the normal work schedule for the average person? What is the average income?

PART 7: Politics

GOVERNMENT

What is the form of government? Is it a monarchy? Republic? Empire? Theocracy?

What are the responsibilities of the government? How far does the government’s sphere of influence spread (magic, religion, etc.)?

How is the government perceived? Is it trusted by the people or is there tension?

LAW Justice Systems; War Systems

What is the rule of law in your world? How is law enforced? What are the most important laws?

What are the punishments for breaking the law?

Justice Systems

What is the legal process in your world? How are people tried?

How does magic fit into the legal system? Is it above the law?

War Systems

How is war declared? Is there a formal process that a country must go through in order to engage in war?

What is the command structure of the army?

How big is the army? Is it composed of humans? Non-humans? Both?

Source ⚜ More: Writing Worksheets & Templates Writing References: Plot ⚜ Character ⚜ Worldbuilding

[sebastianswallows]

The Little Death — 5. Patterned behaviour

— PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Bene Gesserit!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: A Bene Gesserit gets left behind in the Arrakeen palace. When Feyd becomes the Planetary Governor, he finds her there in hiding. The Harkonnens don't traditionally keep them as truthsayers or concubines like other Houses do, but Feyd might have a use for her. After all, he's never had a Bene Gesserit of his own before.

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 2.1k

— TAGLIST: @elf-punk @lowlyloved @pomtherine @slytherins-heir @babyofneptune @localravenclaw

Give me the judgment of balanced minds in preference to laws every time. Codes and manuals create patterned behaviour. All patterned behaviour tends to go unquestioned, gathering destructive momentum. — Darwi Odrade

It was easy to fall to the bed afterwards, as if she belonged there. Because she did now. Feyd was still catching his breath when she curled up beside him, her knees brushing against his hip, their sweat soaking into the bedsheets. A Fremen would’ve been outraged at the sight.

“Cruel witch,” he rasped.

“What was so cruel?” she asked, trailing a finger through the inky mess on his stomach. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

He slapped her hand out of the way — but there was not so much aggression in the move as there was a certain vulnerability, like an animal slapping at his master’s hand. Feyd heaved himself upward to get out of the bed, but she placed her hand on his chest and pushed him down again.

“Where are you going?”

“To wash myself.”

“Why?” she said, her touch softening into a gentle caress across the muscles on his chest. “I like you this way…”

“Filthy woman,” he laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners.

She couldn’t help herself and smiled. Even with his frightful black teeth — which in Harkonnen culture, she had read, was supposed to be quite attractive — his boyish nature came through to show something sweet and vulnerable. What a brilliant plan it had been to give him governorship over Arrakis… After Rabban, Feyd must have appeared to the natives like a heavenly angel. She reached up and caressed his soft cheek, his hard jawline, tracing the edge of his generous lips.

“Sleep, my na-Baron,” she said, laying down beside him, holding his gaze. “You will dream of pleasant things tonight.”

“Is that a promise?” he grinned.

She knew he was making light of his nightmares, and in a way dismissing them entirely. There might come a time when they would have to address them directly — if he was serious about wanting her to serve him as his Bene Gesserit, and if she didn’t escape first — but clearly it was not tonight.

Under her soft caresses, Feyd fell asleep quite fast. She followed, slipping first into a meditation, and then into the land of dreams. And even in her sleep, the only thing she felt, and saw, and tasted, was his body.

When she woke up the next morning, she noticed she’d been moved. She was higher on the bed now, laying against the multitude of pillows, and all covered up. Feyd was sitting on the edge, getting ready.

“You were cold,” he said without even turning. His hearing was better than she thought… “And, for that matter, so was I.”

“You tucked me in?” she smiled. “How sweet of you…”

“None of that,” he said roughly, turning to level a cold stare at her. “You did a very naughty thing last night. We’re going to have to… discuss it. But not right now.”

She swallowed the knot in her throat and nodded, but deep down she was already preparing for how to turn things to her favour next. He loves pain, she told herself. That is his lever. Use it.

As he continued to get dressed, she watched him. He wasn’t very good at it — probably was used to servants helping him, and they weren’t here right now — but he knew well enough how to put his armour on. She was almost tempted to help him, but then she remembered that she was supposed to have a different purpose.

“I suppose I should get dressed as well,” she said as she slinked off the bed.

“Why is that?”

“I serve you now. I should be there with you. To advise you.”

“Advise me?” he chuckled. “What do you know of military strategy?”

More than you, she thought, but she wasn’t even sure that was completely true. It was a mystery to her, what Harkonnens taught their young.

“I know Arrakis,” she said, coming to sit beside him. They cut a striking picture, him in his black armour and her in her naked skin, both looking equally confident. “And perhaps, my lord na-Baron, you can learn more about what a Bene Gesserit can do.”

“Or what she can’t do,” he muttered. But there was already a surrender in his gaze. He had decided to bring her along, now he only had to decide how to admit it. “No talking about me,” he pointed out. “To anyone.”

“Of course.”

“And no bragging about… about —”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

He chuckled. “I’ve heard that one before. I didn’t believe it back then, either.”

She didn’t miss the strange glances the other servants gave as she passed by, close behind Feyd-Rautha. They had breakfast together in a lavish dining hall, one with a long, black table and lights suspended high above. She’d never seen this room before…

His brother, Rabban, wasn’t there, and neither was the Baron.

“Do you always eat alone, my lord?” she asked him, sitting somewhere in the centre of the table, a respectable number of seats away, while Feyd sat at the head.

“Depends on what I’m eating,” he answered with a grin. “Besides, I’m not alone today, am I?”

“No,” she smiled. “You are not.”

He didn’t speak for the rest of the meal. He ate, in fact, in a hurry, eyeing her critically every now and then, judging her for how slowly she was chewing. And when he finished, he got up without even considering her presence. He paused in the doorway as he heard her scrambling to get up and follow, and bowed his head — he was suddenly regretful. Another habit of eating alone was, perhaps, his lack of consideration for others. He’d completely forgotten her by the time he finished breakfast…

She joined at his side without complaint, happy to already be doing her service: teaching him healthy new habits. Feyd looked at her quietly for a moment, and then they left together.

The day was spent in a strategy meeting, which he started without giving the time to any of his generals to question why she was there. The sight of a Bene Gesserit among the Harkonnen must’ve been rare indeed — or even that of a woman who wasn’t a slave or a serving girl.

They spoke their jagged language, and in phrases that were blissfully short. It was easy enough for her to understand even without a full vocabulary.

“Push them to the edge,” said Feyd as he stood above the map, fiddling with a neat little blade in his hands, a shiny thing of white silver. “The worms will finish what the storms do not.”

“Yes, sir, na-Baron.”

“Search scouting parties up ahead before you send in more harvesters. And I want a map of the richest spice fields by tomorrow morning.”

“Er, yes, yes sir.”

She eyed all the proceedings in silence, and in the mist of fear and anxiety, the other men completely forgot her. Their minds were so easy to read, their emotions so clear on their faces, on their hands, in the way they held themselves… And in their centre, Feyd, speaking to them as if they were Ixian automatons without any thought or feeling.

She waited for the meeting to be over before she finally joined his side and spoke.

“That was productive.”

“Was it?” he sighed, bracing his arms against the table. The door closed with finality behind his frightened generals. “I didn’t know you spoke our language,” he noted with a cocked brow.

“I am learning,” she smiled.

“Rabban left me a complete mess. It will take months to undo it.”

“Years. And you don’t have as much time as you think.”

“Really? Well, speak plainly, now.”

She turned, leaning lightly against the table so that she could better look at him. He was less sure of himself now than he had been around his men…

“If you push the Fremen too hard, they could go south. It is out of reach for us, out of control.”

“Nothing survives out there.”

“How do you know, if nobody’s ever been there but Fremen?”

He bit his lip and frowned, but didn’t disagree. “And you would do, what?”

“Relax the attacks. Give them a false sense of security. Bait them into —”

“Into exposing themselves…”

“Exactly.”

“But these savages won’t do that. They know we’ve got superior firepower. Their strength lies in their secret tactics.”

She shrugged. “You have a point…”

“But if… if we had to approach this like a fight between a stronger man and a weaker man…” he said, thinking out loud as he began to pace.

She looked at him and said nothing, letting the ideas germinate in his head.

“It’s late, it’s hot,” he sighed. “I’ll think about it more tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lord na-Baron. You still haven’t even had lunch.”

“I’ll have dinner. We’ll have dinner.”

“Another thing though… That map you requested.”

“What about it?”

“The spice fields on Arrakis are highly changeable and depend on many variables. It can take days for someone to calculate their frequency. Less if you had a Mentat. Or a thinking machine…”

Feyd chuckled. “Worried? Since when do you care about the fate of my men?”

“I don’t care about his fate. I care about whether he provides you with false information just to save his neck.”

“Hm… I’ll see what he brings me tomorrow,” he smirked, looking pointedly at her, “and maybe have you look at it.”

She paused, already unhappy with the charge she was given. Mathematical calculations were not her strong suit, but she understood she needed to submit to Feyd’s testing if she expected to be kept around.

“Yes, my lord,” she said with a light bow.

“Now, then. Let’s eat.”

She could already tell that his habits were changing. He watched her more closely and was clearly thinking about her, considering her from every angle. Although Feyd-Rautha made no effort to hide what he was feeling, she found it hard to pinpoint just what was going through his head that evening.

She met his gaze with more confidence than she felt but allowed him to watch her openly too, letting him enjoy the moments of peace between them. He seemed to only like speaking to her when the servants left the room.

“You like to watch, don’t you?” he asked, leaning back against his tall, elegant seat.

“I believe you’ve been doing the watching, my na-Baron,” she smirked.

“No, no, you know what I mean… I mean throughout the day. Us. All of us. You’re learning our language now? You’re studying our strategies. You think, you don’t speak…” he listed, his cold eyes set on her as their meals waited untouched before them. “Until my generals have gone…”

“Of course. I would not have them think your orders can be questioned.”

“Even though you question them.”

“That’s only for you to know,” she smiled.

Feyd smiled back. He suspected her of many things — both past and future betrayals — but in that moment, he appreciated her.

“Are you trying to learn more about me, my na-Baron?”

“Why not? You’re learning about us.”

“I think you’ll find me less inscrutable. If you wish to know something, simply ask.”

Feyd nodded and turned his attention to his plate at last. He cut into the meat, he moved the garnishings around, but before he could bring it to his lips he set the fork down loudly and looked up at her again.

“Why did you do that to me last night?” he quickly asked.

“Because you liked it.”

“Don’t play dumb with me. You’re not as good at it as you think. How did you know I would like it?”

She set her knife and fork down too, and let her wrists rest upon the table. He was pulling her into something she wasn’t sure she wanted to confess, and she knew she couldn’t get him to forget it without using those Bene Gesserit tricks he hated so much. Perhaps there was a way to still turn this around in her favour…

“I merely recognised what I knew so well,” she answered quietly, her voice floating through the penumbra toward him.

“And where did you recognise it from?”

“From myself.”

Feyd leaned back again, his lips pulled into a grin. There was doubt in his eyes, but the rest of him seemed so intrigued, so glad about this new development, that she could almost guess what he was going to say next.

He’ll want to see it, she thought. He’ll want to see me like that. Exposed. Vulnerable before him.

“Show me,” he said, confirming everything.

[sugar-grigri]

Fujimoto answers you directly in this chapter (yes)

How about reading CSM differently? Or at least cut it up differently? Because the more the chapters progress, the more a certain pattern seems to repeat itself: Part 1 sounds as if Fujimoto is unveiling CSM in its purest form, then Part 2 sounds as if CSM is responding to its own reception by its fans. 

I've already said many times that Fujimoto likes contrast in form and in writing, and this chapter, though brain-numbing, simply follows Fujimoto's own rules, only in an even more accentuated way. 

To prove my point, I recommend you reread chapter 133 "Protest", which for me speaks directly to the divisive image represented by Fujimoto and his work Chainsaw Man. 

I've already done an exhaustive analysis of it, but let's get one thing out of the way: Fujimoto answers his fans in part 2. 

Whether it's by posing a heroine who seems incompatible with Denji, hating the figure of CSM which is nonetheless the work in which she's included, whether it's through the themes addressed by part 2, the question of dual identity, creating antagonists like Fake!CSM, setting up a church (us) around CSM 

We're in a work that speaks for itself, as chapter 137 confirms, and for this very rule, we refer to the previous chapters (an eternal restart).

Chapter 136, entitled "Normal Life", refers to a more-than-CENTRAL theme in Chainsaw Man, the nerve that irrigated the whole of Part 1 Denji's disillusionment, a bargaining chip for the former antagonist, Fujimoto takes his fans by the hand and puts them back into the game they know. 

We see what we'd all expected to see, a Denji who doesn't know how to fit into normal life, who's not cut out for 

In my previous analysis, I explained how not only is Denji incapable of having a normal life, not only because of himself but also because of Yoshida, who offers him this life, and above all because of Fujimoto, who abruptly breaks the rhythm of his own chapter with this aggression, frustrating (I'm sure on purpose) his own fans. 

What Fujimoto does is make you think you were reading in the right direction, showing you a Denji depressed by his normal life, and like a child amused by not wanting to be predictable, he breaks what would otherwise have been a logical thing to see. I mean… Who could have foreseen such a title?

Chapter 137 simply follows the same logic: Fujimoto has foreseen your frustrated reactions and knows full well that you've become attached to Denji, hoping that he'll break out of the cycle of manipulation. 

He plays you in this chapter by setting up a confident, emotionally well-adjusted Denji who pushes this stranger away, reminding her of the rules of respect and consent. 

It's not just Denji's thoughts, the way he would have liked to act, it's also the way YOU would have liked him to act. 

Now I can explain why these chapters, which break with the previous ones in their absurdity, are surely the most important in CSM. 

Many had pointed to the famous cinema reference in chapter 136, others had even noted that chapter 136 constituted chapter 39 of part 2, responding to Makima's date with Denji in part 1 in the same chapter. 

But chapter 39 of part 1 wasn't just interesting for the cinema scene, it was the one that set the rules for understanding CSM. 

In fact, it was this chapter to which chapter 93 responded, with Denji's ideology (in favor of bad movies) confronting Makima (against bad movies).

In the same way, the second chapter 39 (the 136th) also seeks to lay down rules

Chapters 136 and 137 have never been more responsive to CSM fans, stubbornly denying them what they want. 

What Fujimoto does is to return to cinema in its purest form in the second half, using the codes of the middle-aged male slasher. 

That's why the two high-school students go to Fujimoto's karaoke bar, because you're going to find yourself in its purest essence: having fun with the utmost absurdity. 

It's no longer a question of representing cinema, as in the two chapters 39, but of making cinema.

But why a slasher? Think of the mythical slashers that traumatized a generation… Yes… The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a work that has achieved cult status for having opened the door to a new trend in American horror cinema: the slasher movie. Nothing represents a slasher movie more than a chainsaw-headed hero?

Inspired by the Italian "giallos", slasher movies feature a masked killer, a gang of youngsters and the killings of the serial killer in question. Fujimoto takes up this theme in his own way: Denji doesn't kill with his iconic chainsaw, he's not masked, and it's the young couple who hold the beats and the shady men who get killed.

If we go back to the depression we all expected to see, it's actually more complicated to understand: Denji's depression at being trapped in a type of writing that's too serious for him. 

Here Denji follows the rules of the game, enjoying himself by killing all those old people, saying ironically: "not bad this normal life". 

Because this scene is perfectly normal in Fujimoto's karaoke.  

In itself, Yoshida was right. Indeed, no, Denji is not the hero of the normal film that was unfolding before them. Because they're not in normal life, it's projected onto the screen. CSM's reality is an absurd slasher. It is in this slasher, in this false normal life, that the protagonist, Denji, is.

Denji is the protagonist of another film. And maybe in this one, the world needs Chaisaw Man.

[differenteagletragedy]

In Naked Toaster’s route you can see how you’re able to get past the server’s restrictions on sharing personal info, but in xyx’s route, I think it would be sweet if you both learned Morse code to share phone numbers or email addresses.

Like you’re talking with him on a call and he starts tapping his desk and looking at you pointedly (still with that smirk obviously) and you’re like “???”, he wouldn’t be super obvious about it in case the censors clocked that too, but every now and then he’d tap out one number. You’d catch on that he’s doing the same pattern each time and you’d have a little secret smile them write down the rhythm and look it up later.

Then it just sort of sticks, even after you’ve gotten his number, even after you finally moved in together. You’re not pros or anything, but it’s a fun little trick to pull out every now and then.

[liaisun]

things my boss has said/done that are very wymack coded

(when recommending a doctor to someone) "she's very obsessive compulsive but that's perfect for you"

told me "you're fired" as a joke after i apologized for being a minute late on my first day

(when seeing a patient after a while) "is your address still the same, is your phone number the same... is your birthday the same?"

sprayed endo ice on my arm after being asked what it does

spritzed water at me after being asked what a button on a machine does

broke an ammonia packet from the first aid kit under my nose after being asked what it does

you may sense a pattern here

takes things im handing him like the girl snatching the ticket meme

always greets me with "how bad is your hangover?" after the weekend

(when my shift is over) "get lost"

has a giant pile of rubber bands in his desk drawer

always makes a photocopy of something when he's trying to scan it

(answering a scam call) "can we speak to the owner of this business?" "sorry, he couldn't take it anymore and killed himself after getting so many annoying calls asking for him"

[callahanisms]

lovin' me

part 01

a continuation of my previous set of headcanons. i wanted to write something more romantic. less pining. maybe a bit more...steamy. i got inspired after showing my friend the movie.

yes i am continuing the fifty fifty vincent renzi interpretation. he's sooooo fifty fifty coded. he's just like me fr

character: vincent renzi

for vibes: "lovin' me" by fifty fifty

"you have not changed. not a bit."

"stop." you can't help but laugh. you know it's...predictable of you. to get the same order you got every time you guys came to this cafe. but familiarity called to you.

habits were hard to break.

vincent leans back, placing a cigarette between his lips. he pulls his lighter out and tries to light it. it fails after a minute of trying. he must be out of fuel.

"you got a lighter?"

"always." you pull it out and place it in his hand.

his hand is soft and slightly cool. your fingers linger, trying to warm his hand with your own. he pulls away too quickly. you wanted your fingers to linger against each other just a bit longer.

he looks at the lighter. it was decorated. he recognizes the little line of pearls, going up and down with roses at the points the arches meet. he did it himself. and then he had given you the lighter as a gift. you laughed, brushing off the blush dusting his cheeks. you thought it was the wine.

the lighter you decorated at the time was a little more crude. less pattern like. it was chaotic, with a variety of charms that you thought represented him. he remembers how you cursed when the cross charm moved. it was crooked and you were too frustrated to try to fix it.

all while your friends' laughter filled the room and more wine was being poured into your glasses.

"you still kept this?" vincent lights his cigarette with the lighter. he takes a drag and blows the smoke away from you. it comes out as a steady stream.

his jawline. the way his hair framed his face. his turtleneck. his laxed posture. he was charming, your vincent.

charming and attractive.

"why wouldn't i?" you take your lighter back to light your own cigarette.

"i just...i would have expected all the pearls and roses to have fallen off by now."

"you were...generous with the modge podge."

he laughs. "i was, yes."

"what about you? just decided to throw the one i made for you away or...?"

vincent shakes his head. "no. i've...in truth, i've never used it. it's locked up in my desk drawer."

part of you felt a little offended. you place a hand over your heart, feigning offense. "vincent! how could you!"

"it's not like that! i swear! you put so much stuff on it that it...is kind of unusable!"

"it is not!"

"well...it isn't. i've used it. once." he puts up his index finger. "one of the moon charms came off. and i didn't want to spoil the art piece you had made for me. so it sits in my drawer. because i don't want it to be destroyed."

you watch him take another drag and blow away from you. your heart beats faster and you feel your cheeks warm.

he was sure he had the right address.

was this too much?

bringing flowers to you? properly prepared, put in a vase already. a balance between the vibrant colors of the flowers and the greens.

you seem to sense that he's there, because he raises his hand to knock and the door opens.

you're holding a wine glass and dressed casually in some loungewear.

"you're early! and with flowers!"

he looks down at them. "think of them as...a homecoming gift?"

you smile widely. "just come in!"

you had made dinner. a simple steak and frites. nothing special. vincent reminisces about how often you made this for him while you guys were in university. while on a budget, of course.

the meal is delicious. and then you introduce the big thing you invited him over for: baking and cake decorating.

"we always joked that we could do better than the people on cooking shows."

"can we?" he rolls his sleeves up. "do we even know how to...start?" he had a vague idea. baking wasn't exactly his specialty. he preferred to cook.

the last time he baked was in university. and you were there to help him clean his oven, which took over three hours to do.

"if we follow a recipe, we should be fine."

except it wasn't that simple.

there was flour and cocoa powder everywhere. you were pretty sure you had gotten some in vincent's hair, making it look whiter than it was.

he looks so cute though with flour on his nose.

the wine kept coming as you guys pushed the cake pans into the oven. in your drunken stupor, you both forget a timer. he's paying more attention to you, following you into the living room. he sets his wine glass down, half full with red.

you pull a record out of its sleeve and set it down on the player. it rotates as you drop the needle and music begins to play.

he raises his eyebrows. "you still listen to this song?"

"hey. it's great. and totally american." you giggle, taking another sip of your red.

you move towards him. drunken but effortless. there was a purpose in your movements as you walk towards him. you put your hand out.

vincent smiles and takes your invitation. he puts his hand in yours, feeling its warmth. your warmth. you pull him over and dance.

i think we're alone now. there doesn't seem to be anyone around. i think we're alone now. the beating of our hearts is the only sound.

somehow, you don't spill your wine. you finish it and set the glass down. you spin in his arms. they wrap around you, like a warm blanket.

he smells good too. coffee, pear, and white florals.

his sweater is soft. his touch is gentle. he looks at you with those big, puppy dog eyes of his.

and then you fall.

you bring him down with you.

the plush carpet holds your head. you look up at him. he looks into your eyes and you see your face reflected in his pupils. your cheeks are flushed red.

there's something unspoken between you two and you pick your head up, trying to meet him.

vincent meets you halfway, his lips soft. he tastes sweet, like honey.

his hands cup your face as you move in sync. he's in tune with your rhythm, letting you take the lead and guide him on what to do.

your fingers play with the ends of his hair, wrapping it around one of them. you press your hand against the middle of his back, pulling his body closer.

a small moan escapes you when he moves his hips. he grinds softly, your crotches rubbing against each other through your clothes.

you kiss him harder, deeper, sliding your tongue past his lips to caress his own. vincent moans into your mouth, one of his hands resting on the carpet and digging his fingers into it. he could feel himself beginning to slip and lose control.

and then, the smell of something burning reaches your nose.

you pull away, face flushed. his face was completely red. and not from the wine either.

"fuck the cake!"

vincent's brief feeling of happiness dissipates as he smells the cake burning. his lips curl upwards into a smirk. "leave it." he goes back in, pressing a small kiss against your lips. "we'll try again."

you kiss him back, giving into the bliss. "i think we fucked up the measurements anyways."

he laughs.

it feels like home.