#Satellite end users

[clairegregoryau]

I've been tracking this down for a while now and I've finally found confirmation of what I suspected: Google Maps imagery for Piha Beach in Aotearoa New Zealand captured the setup for filming of Our Flag Means Death's Season 2, Episode 8!

[EDIT 25 June: the north end current imagery is sadly no longer this version, but I've captured it for posterity here, and it's still visible in the free Google Maps Pro app- read on for more info].

On the left is the north end of Piha Beach with the inn set. On the right is the south end carpark with the film crew base.

Why is that cool to me? Because it truly was a fleeting moment in time, no more than a handful of days of possibility, and yet it was captured as the image on the map, at least for a period of time. As an archaeologist I love a moment preserved in time, and in this one you can even see the OFMD production crew on the beach and on the path. It's places and people caught in the flashbulb of this aerial image.

The specifics of how I pinned down the imagery and the date are in this Twitter thread, but the short version is, I was hunting for a better visual on the area immediately surrounding the inn while writing Full Fathom Five, and noticed that the carpark in particular seemed to line up exactly with images from the final day of filming.

The final day of filming overall was 13 December 2022, filming at Piha was on 12 December 2022, and this aerial image was taken on 11 December 2022.

I had already been through the first image to make a comparison to the aerial map and it looked like a match, but Google Maps had 2024 in their attribution. [Noting that I'd put 13 Dec on my image notes, but I'd got that tangled with the last day of filming in the Kumeū studio the next day, and it was 12 Dec on location].

Thankfully Google Earth came through with the actual date.

And I just took a further dig into Google Earth Pro, which allows you to switch between previous satellite images, and it confirms a date of 11 December 2022 for the north end image as well.

[EDIT 9 September 2024- thinking about this again and suddenly realised... you know what, very often things will put the date it was in the US when a picture was taken, even when that picture was taken on the other side of the world, in a different timezone. Which made me realise that actually, if this was taken on the 11th of December in the US, that was on the 12th of December in AoNZ. A quick search shows that Google Maps confirms the date can be one day out, so- odds increasing that we're seeing the actual filming of Ep8 here!]

You can also compare this to a few months earlier in March 2022, right around the premiere of OFMD S1 (everything moved so fast in hindsight!) when there was no inn in that spot.

Which means we now know that for now, if you hop onto Google Maps (not Google Earth, because they have a different image for the north end that does come from 2024) and zing on down to Piha Beach, you can take a look at a preserved moment in time from the filming of S2Ep8.

[EDIT 25 June: the north end image has now been updated to the 2024 version across all of Google Maps and Google Earth, but the south end is for now still from the filming day. You can find the previous version for the north end on Google Earth Pro].

You can hop straight to the inn here.

And straight to the parking lot here.

And remember to put the layers into Satellite mode to view the aerial imagery.

Everything that was/is shown at the north end lines up with what we've seen both in the show and in behind the scenes content, all of which I delved into in this Twitter thread last month. That goes into a lot more detail about specifics, but the evidence is solid across the board.

The sandy path that runs beside the inn is a distinct feature seen in the show.

The peak that sits behind it, likewise (from Google Maps user uploads here and here).

The inn itself, and the way the path gives way to an unseen carpark, from Simone Nathan's TikTok video.

Based on all of that, it's easy to see that we've got our inn right here circled in red, preserved in that moment in time, even though it was no doubt taken down as soon as filming was done.

Prep looks like it took a couple of days before filming; filming was pretty much done in a day, according to an article at the time.

So, there you have it- it's a minor little thing and it won't be up forever, but for now you can hop into Google Maps and see an aerial view adjacent to the filming of S2Ep8 at Piha. The other beach scenes from Eps 1, 3 and 8 were filmed at Te Henga/ Bethells Beach.

[theerurishipper]

Superbat Week Day 3: Alien Biology

For @superbatweek2024

“I’ve been meaning to ask, how exactly is it that you fly?”

Clark looks at Bruce, eyebrow raised quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Bruce starts, gesturing at Clark’s form as the man in question happily eats Chocos out of the box, “how exactly does it work? J’onn, for instance, levitates with the help of his telekinetic abilities. It would be useful to understand how it works for you.”

Clark then gives him a huge grin, eyes twinkling with either amusement or the option Bruce hates most: mischief. “It’s because I actually have invisible wings!”

“Clark.”

“No, it’s true,” Clark insists, eyes wide. “Kryptonian biology is very different from most species, you know.”

“Clark.”

“Fine, fine,” Clark huffs. “It’s no fun trying to pull the wool over your eyes, you know? You could throw me a bone every now and then.”

“Of course,” Bruce admits. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Clark throws his Chocos at him, grinning.

--

“Hey, Spooky!”

Bruce turns begrudgingly at the grating sound of Hal Jordan’s voice. He supresses the part of him that is curious. After all, Hal usually— and thankfully— avoids him for the most part. It gives Bruce a lot more peace in his day, but also has the unintended and unwelcome side effect of making him interested whenever the man swallows his pride to approach him.

“Did you know about this? Did you know and just decide to keep this from everyone?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Hal rolls his eyes. “I’m talking about Supes, man.” He looks around the empty corridor, and leans in closer to Bruce, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Did you know that he has invisible wings?”

It must be an effect of all the idiocy in the air around him, but it’s almost like Bruce can feel his thoughts coming to a screeching halt in his head.

“I… he what?”

The first thing that occurs to him when his brain begins to function again is that Clark is probably way prouder of this idea than he has any right to be. And apparently, for good reason, because Hal seems completely taken in.

Bruce hates being wrong. Especially about this.

“Yeah! He sorta mentioned it in passing… but damn, you think you know a guy, huh?”

Bruce says nothing. He simply watches Hal stand before him, rubbing his head in consternation. And in his fugue state, Bruce makes one of the most questionable decisions of his life.

“I knew.”

“What?” Hal shrieks. “You knew? And didn’t mention this to anyone?”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

Hal frowns. “I guess…” Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair, frustration visible on his face. “I guess you’d know that, huh? And I can safely say that it’s the truth, cause you’re allergic to pranks and fun.”

“Goodbye, Jordan.”

--

By the end of the day, the whole Watchtower knows of Superman’s magical invisible wings. Bruce can hear the poorly hushed conversations flooding through the entire satellite.

“Batman said he had them, so it must be true!”

“Yeah, he hates fun, he’d never go along with it if it was a prank!”

If only they knew.

--

“—And now people keep asking if they can feel them!” Clark huffs, head resting on Bruce’s lap.

“Mm.”

“It was funny at first, and it still is… but now, I think it’s falling apart.”

Bruce pats his forehead. “All pranks come to an end. It’s an immutable fact of life.”

“It’s just too good to be over so soon!”

Bruce wisely keeps his thoughts about the quality of Clark’s pranks to himself. Instead, he looks up from his laptop to observe the silent pout on his face, and makes a few calculated decisions. Then he picks up one of Alfred’s cookies and tosses it at Clark’s face.

“What’s this for?” asks Clark, confusedly.

“I’m throwing this at you, in lieu of a bone.”

--

Bruce has faced many dangers throughout his career as a superhero. Dangerous criminals, the best martial artists in the world, magic users, and even literal demons. But this might be the hardest thing he’s ever done.

“You want me to make Clark a pair of…” Zatanna trails off, and looks back down at the piece of paper he’d handed her. “…invisible attachable magic wings?”

“Yes.”

Zatanna looks up at him, looking absolutely miserable.

“What did you do this time?”

Bruce bristles and glares. “Nothing.”

“If you’re in the doghouse, it’s best you fix whatever you’ve done on your own—”

“It’s not an apology present. I’m helping him with a project.” Zatanna looks mildly curious for a split second, and realization dawns on her face.

“So his invisible wings aren’t real?” she whispers, looking stricken.

Self-control. Bruce is a master of self-control. He will not raise his palm to slap it against his forehead. He will not give into that ever-present urge.

“Of course not.”

“Damn,” she murmurs, looking away as though revaluating her entire existence. Luckily for her, so is Bruce.

But she bounces back fairly quickly, which is only a credit to her character. “All right, I’m down.”

“Thank you.”

--

“You know,” Zatanna insists as she rolls up her sleeves theatrically, wand already held in her hand, “I’ve never seen you go the extra mile for a prank before. You really love him, don’t you?”

“…Just do the spell.”

--

Clark’s wings are a big hit. The Hawks are especially thrilled. Bruce loses just a little more faith in everyone’s competency per second.

But seeing Clark’s excited face as he beats his invisible wings and bamboozles everybody within arm’s reach makes it all worth it. Not that he would ever admit as much to the man himself.

But unfortunately (or fortunately, if Alfred is to be believed), Clark knows him too well for all that.

“How hard was it to ask Zatanna to make these for me?” When Bruce doesn’t reply, Clark just grins, his arms coming to wrap around Bruce from the back. “I bet it was hard. I know how much you hate asking for favours.”

“They aren’t permanent, so enjoy them while they last.”

“Sure, sure.” Clark stops speaking, and the Batcave is left in its natural state of silence.

“Thank you, Bruce.”

Bruce doesn’t turn to look at him. “It’s just a pair of wings. Zatanna made them in five seconds.”

“That’s not what I mean. I just—” Clark leans in closer, pressing himself against Bruce’s back, and Bruce can feel his warmth flooding through him.

“This was the silliest thing ever, but you went along with it anyway.”

“Clark.” Bruce turns himself around in Clark’s arms, and lays a hand on his face. “It’s not silly. If you found it amusing, who am I to get in your way?”

“I was so sure you found it… what’s the word you used? Juvenile?”

Bruce gives him one of his lesser, weaker glares. “And now you’ve decided that I’m an expert in comedy? After all the time I’ve spent projecting the opposite?” Clark just laughs, quietly, subdued in a way that leaves Bruce feeling profoundly uneasy.

“I guess…”

Bruce pats his head, ruffling through his hair. “Since when have you cared so much about what I think?”

Clark just looks at him, and then sighs, dropping his head down onto Bruce’s shoulder. “I always care about what you think,” he mutters. “Your opinion means the world to me.”

Bruce’s first thought is to tell Clark that his faith is misplaced. That Bruce isn’t as worthy of admiration or respect as Clark seems to think. That Clark is giving him far too much credit.

But there’s something in the way Clark says those words, quiet and heavy, that renders him speechless, unable to say anything; something that leaves him wishing that it could be true. And so, he just stands there, in Clark’s embrace, trying to convey all the things he can’t say.

It’s Clark who breaks the silence, obviously. “You know… if I told you I had invisible wings right now, that wouldn’t be a lie…”

“I suppose so.”

“I guess I am different from you today. Biologically. Even on the outside.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

 “So…” Clark lifts his head up to look at him, expression positively sultry. “There’s a lot of fun we could have with these. Don’t you think so?”

Bruce just looks into his eyes, and raises a hand to run his finger along the soft surface of Zatanna’s magical wings. He drags his hand back, and rests both his arms around Clark’s neck.

“Let it never be said that I don’t know how to have a good time.”

Clark laughs, and kisses him.

--

“You know,” Clark says, conversationally, idly messing with Bruce’s hair. “I might not have actually had magic wings, but you know what I do have?”

“A penchant for silly pranks?”

Bruce looks up to find Clark waggling his eyebrows, mayhem already gathering in his eyes. “Well, yes,” Clark says, “but I was thinking more along the lines of horns that can detect lies. What do you think?”

Bruce just sighs, and buries his face in Clark’s shoulder. “I can’t lie to your horns. That’s a terrible idea.”

“So…”

“Fine. Let’s do it.”

---

Read on AO3

[ghostbeam]

swore i could feel you through the walls | Dabi/Touya Todoroki

Dabi knows that he can’t leave you now. You belong to him, and he belongs to you, and the stars knew before either of you did. And Dabi can’t argue with fate, or destiny, or pure dumb luck, not that he wants to. He pulls your comforter up over his body. He’ll be here when you come home to him. In a place made for staying, Dabi thinks he will.

Notes: hiiiiii so this is an idea that has been bouncing around my head for like. Literal years ajsjsjsjs It’s always kind of been more of a horror idea and then I fanficified it and now it’s this! This was kind of a process and I rewrote and replanned and went over this over and over again but I think it is at a place that I am mildly happy with. It’s a completely ridiculous idea and I’m honestly a little insecure about it but fuck it!! Thanks for reading hope u enjoy<3 (title from Chinese satellite by Phoebe bridgers) listen to the playlist here!

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, f!reader, explicit content, yandere!dabi, stalking, Dabi hides in readers house without her knowledge, some paranoia, psychological abuse, slight yandere!reader, mentions of somnophillia but no actual instances of it, violence, non-consensual voyeurism (Dabi watches reader masturbate), unprotected sex, oral f!receiving, marking, biting (shoulder, neck), painplay, one mention of carving names into skin with no instance of it, mentions of blood (reader bites dabi’s neck and draws blood), use of good girl, mutual obsession

Words: 9.3k

He can’t breathe. 

Dabi runs from the low-ranked hero, surprisingly fast on his tail as the distance between the two becomes smaller and smaller. With his lungs burning, his skin irritated from quirk use, and the lack of help from his peers, Dabi realizes that he needs to find a way to lose the ice quirk user that is quickly gaining on him. 

Turning down a narrow alleyway, he’s disappointed to find that it’s a dead end. He pauses to catch his breath, keeping himself tucked tightly against the shadowy wall. Dabi surveys his surroundings, finding nothing but garbage before he looks up. He’s against an apartment building, he realizes, looking at the lights in the windows above him. 

All windows are lit except one.

Dabi doesn’t have the time to wonder about the owner, shaking his head and forcing himself up the fire escape, preparing himself to use his quirk if it comes down to it. He breaks the lock on the darkened window and shuffles inside. He falls over a stack of books that sits underneath the window, freezing on the floor as he listens for any movement throughout the walls. When he hears nothing, he stands from the floor and closes the window, creeping down the hall in search of the other rooms. There’s one bathroom and a bedroom with no one inside, and relief rushes over Dabi as he feels his shoulders relax.

Assuming you won’t be home for a while, Dabi makes his way back to the main room, turns the light on, and heads for the kitchen. He looks through your fridge for something to eat, pulling out a Tupperware of leftovers that he heats in the microwave. As he waits for the seconds to pass, he looks around the apartment. 

It sets in, then, how lived in the place is, shelves full of books, records and DVDs, art and photos against the walls, leaving almost no space for the blankness underneath. The kitchen is pink, he realizes, looking around and eyeing the various knickknacks shaped like mushrooms or kittens, unique magnets hang a mess of papers on the fridge beside post-it notes of reminders. 

He wants to hate it. It’s a complete mess, chaotic even, but he can’t bring himself to. He’s intrigued now. He ignores the beeping of the microwave and steps away from the kitchen, observing the various pictures on the walls. It’s not difficult to find the owner of the apartment, the face showing up in a multitude of snapshots. Your face.

As he looks at the walls, he finds himself stuck on you, the curve of your jaw, your lips, your eyes. You make his heart beat in his chest, excitement bubbling at the realization that he is standing in your home, in your space, right in the middle of your entire life. 

You’re beautiful. He feels his stomach drop.

The more he explores, the more he seems to like you. The Sargent print on your wall, the Rilke in your bookshelf, the numerous albums in your collection that he knows nothing about. He flips through the pages of your books, smiling at your annotations, the ink between the pages, and the tiny star you draw next to your favorite passages. He runs his fingers across the words over and over again, committing them to memory, the need to love the things you love burning in his chest. 

It’s not enough, he realizes, looking through just this room. He stalks down the hallway and turns the light to your bedroom on. And oh, how content he feels in here, a room clearly much more personal than the one out there. It’s a bit of a mess, with clothes on the floor and the bed like you’d changed out of many different outfits before leaving. The full-length mirror against your wall is peppered with postcards and pictures from magazines and those same post-it notes: call mom, pay the phone bill, need more cotton pads. So, you’re forgetful. Dabi smiles at the knowledge. 

There are string lights of stars hanging on your ceiling and lamps in the shape of flowers on your bedside table. Your bed is unmade and you have sheets with scatters of constellations on them. Your affinity for stars makes him smile, one more thing he’s found in common with you. 

It shocks him how interested he is in you, in all of the things that make up your little life. But the more he explores, the more he’s sure you’re made for him.

He looks through your closet, through your dresser, stuck rummaging through your underwear drawer. Every set of lingerie you have is some variation of blue, and Dabi can’t help but feel as though it’s for him. It’s all for him, your things, you. Fate, or the universe, or luck itself is on his side. He pockets a pair of panties that closely resembles his eyes before turning to your desk. More post-it notes are stuck to the surface, and there’s a notebook that he reaches for before your wall catches his eye. There are more photos, haphazardly taped up and not at all as organized as your living room, but he can tell they’re important to you: family photos, people he recognizes from films, rock singers, and—him. 

Dabi is on your wall.

The photo is one that went viral a couple of months back when he got into an altercation with one of the top ten heroes. He remembers the fight well because of how large his flames grew, and the damage that he did to the surrounding area, to the people, to the hero he was up against. He’s stood with his arms out in front of him, neon flames emanating from his palms as the moment in battle is frozen in time forever on your wall. You printed it out on photo paper and everything. He plucks it from its spot and turns it over. Your handwriting with his name and a heart is scrawled on the blank space. He runs a thumb over the heart, feeling his face warm up.

This isn't a mistake. You know who he is, and you’re a fan, not just of the photo itself, but of him. He wonders if you’re one of those weirdos he’s seen online with accounts dedicated to him, one of the anonymous boxes that engage in discussions about his quirk and identity, losers grasping at any detail they can that might bring them closer to the truth, or just to him in general.

But the more he thinks about it, the more excited he gets, thinking about you saving blurry pictures of his fights to your phone, watching youtube videos of him with shitty quality, and tweeting about him with stupid little emojis. He wonders if you dream of him, if you think of him while touching yourself, or if you fantasize about silly things like being a villain’s girlfriend. He likes thinking of you like this, just as obsessed with him as he’s becoming with you. 

Dabi doesn’t care what it’s called: divine intervention, cosmic love, soulmates. All are true; none capture how this feels. 

Your laptop is password protected and his name doesn’t work when he tries, so he moves on from your bedroom. Entering your bathroom, he looks through your medicine cabinet, analyzing your meds and products as he searches for every bit of information he can. He looks at the lipstick that sits on the counter and debates putting it on in the form of an indirect kiss but decides to pocket it instead. He sprays each and every one of your perfumes, deciding which is his favorite, and throwing the one he dislikes out the window he came through, watching it shatter against the cement.

He pulls back the shower curtain and begins to strip, turning the water on and letting the heat hit his worn-out body. He hasn’t felt water pressure this good in years. He uses your shampoo, your conditioner, your rose-scented soap, even though it’s sure to irritate his scars. He uses everything he can to be close to you, to smell like you, to have any piece of you even though you’re not here. 

When he’s done, he lays in your bed, against the sheets that you occupy every night except tonight, and stares up at the string lights above him. He picks up the stuffed bear with angel wings that sits against one of your pillows, caressing the ears between two fingers. He thinks about you, about the things he doesn’t know, details you don’t have plastered to your walls or hidden between pages of poetry books. He wants to know what makes you laugh, what makes you cry, how you’d look undone beneath him.

Dabi knows that he can’t leave you now. You belong to him, and he belongs to you, and the stars knew before either of you did. And Dabi can’t argue with fate, or destiny, or pure dumb luck, not that he wants to. He pulls your comforter up over his body. He’ll be here when you come home to him. In a place made for staying, Dabi thinks he will. 

He can finally breathe. 

…

The keys to your apartment chime against your door as you move to unlock it, hoards of keychains rattling against each other as you push the heavy door open. It slams shut behind you and you toss your keys onto the kitchen counter, hauling your suitcase behind you. The familiar pang of loneliness hits you immediately as you look out over your crowded apartment. 

“I’m home.” You mutter softly, running your fingers over the plush fabric of your couch. 

No matter how much you try to distract yourself with books and posters and comfortable shag carpets, you still feel the same each time you come home to emptiness.

You roll your suitcase to your bedroom, deciding that unpacking is a job for the you of the future while the you of the present deserves to sink into the couch and watch tv. Your unmade bed catches your eye and you wonder if you’d forgotten to tidy up before you left to visit your mother. You don’t dwell on it, dragging your tired body to your couch and turning on your television. You flip through multiple channels before a name on the news catches your attention: Dabi.

Your obsession with the cremation villain seemingly happened overnight. The League of Villains had intrigued you due to their mission to dismantle hero society, a cause that resonated with you as a quirkless citizen. When Dabi joined the group, you were immediately interested in the aloof and mysterious fire quirk-user. You never stood a chance. You spent hours on message boards, gathering any and all information on the group as you could in order to feel closer to him. Your adoration never made much sense to those you talked to online with the lack of information available about the man. But as the League grew in popularity, details about Dabi became far more accessible to the general public. His true identity remained a mystery but two things you were certain of: his quirk came with a drawback in the form of his own body and fire got him excited. 

And now, the news anchor on your television was relaying the news that he had been seen around your neighborhood and still hadn’t been found. You feel your heart beat rapidly in your chest, excitement bubbling up as you think about the prospect of catching a glimpse of him in real life. Realistically, you know there’s no way that Dabi stuck around here, understanding the risks of staying in one place for too long as a wanted criminal, but the thought makes your stomach flip. You lean back against your couch, clutching the remote in one hand and letting out an excited giggle. For a moment, you’re grateful for the emptiness of your apartment, your embarrassing display of excitement only witnessed by you and you alone. 

You spend a few hours on LOV fan accounts and forums, hoping to find out any more details about the news, but most people online say it’s not worth looking into. Much like you thought, Dabi was most likely far away from your place by now.

Finding nothing, you stand up from your couch, stretching your arms above your head as you make your way to your bathroom. You turn on the shower and allow it to heat up as you find something to sleep in. When you return, you strip and step into the shower. Your mind wanders toward thoughts of Dabi as you stand underneath the water. You’re disappointed. The one weekend you leave town, the love of your life visits your building. The endless push and pull is frustrating. 

It’s something that’s happened to you time and time again, coming across the aftermath of an attack, or arriving somewhere that Dabi was rumored to have been seen. You keep missing him by mere seconds, and this is no different, though you aren’t exactly sure what you would do if you ever got a chance. 

After finishing up, you step out of the shower, take a towel from the hook on the wall and dry yourself off. You change into your clothes and reach towards your medicine cabinet before pausing. Drawn in the steam on the mirror is a heart. You stare at it, examining it closely. Had you drawn on the mirror the last time you showered? When was the last time you cleaned the mirror? You’re pulled from your thoughts by the sound of a loud bang coming from your living room. 

Without thinking, you rush towards the sound, spotting the door to your hallway closet slamming shut. You freeze where you stand at the end of the hallway, weighing your options before deciding you don’t have much time to think about it. Bolting to your kitchen, you pick up a large knife from its block, before carefully making your way back to your closet. With the knife in one hand, you turn the knob to the door, pulling it open in a hurry and holding the blade in front of you. You’re met with nothing but your own things, coats, and dresses that you never wear, a closet full of items left unused. Even when you push through the racks of clothes, you find nothing. 

Relief washes over you at the knowledge that you are in fact here alone. You lower the knife, allowing yourself to breathe as you calm down. You stare down at the weapon in your hand, scoffing. 

“What was I going to do with this?” You speak out loud. Even if somebody was in your home, could you really defend yourself? You’re quirkless, you aren’t trained in any sort of self-defense, and you’re not even sure you’d have the guts to actually stab someone. You shake your head, walking to your kitchen to put it back. 

You retreat to your bedroom, pulling back the covers of your unmade bed, clutching your bear in one arm, and staring up at the ceiling. 

Inside of your hallway closet, up against the wall, Dabi’s shoulders relax. He imagines you with your knife outside of the door, the scared expression on your face, one he could only see from in between your coat and the wall. Your eyebrows pinched up and your eyes wide, your bottom lip quivering ever so slightly. He takes pride in being the reason for that look. He pulls away from the wall, carefully sliding out of the closet and shutting the door behind him. He looks down the hallway, toward the door that you’ve left ajar. He wants to sneak in, watch your chest rise and fall, caress your cheek, and feel you lean into his touch, but he knows you're more than likely awake, still shaken up from his antics. 

He’ll be back tomorrow, anyway.

…

The encounters continue into the rest of the week. Doors creak open and things fall from shelves. You hear noises late into the night and find more hearts left on reflective surfaces, your mirrors, your television, your windows. 

With no sign of another living thing inside of your home with you, the only explanation you have left to give yourself is something paranormal, even if you aren’t sure of it yourself. 

And besides, you kind of like the idea of living with a ghost. This one seems to be in love with you. 

On top of all of the hearts, your ghost has knocked off books of love poems from your bookshelves, blasted Linger by The Cranberries from your speakers, and flipped through television channels to land on one playing In the Mood for Love. And when you fall asleep at night, just as you can feel yourself crossing the boundary between sleep and awake, you swear you can feel your bed dip beside you. 

You don’t hate it, and you aren’t scared, and sometimes it is comforting to know that you aren’t as alone as you always believed you would be. 

Dabi watches you most days. He watches you nap on your couch and laugh at your cell phone. He watches you parade around your home in nothing but your underwear and a t-shirt. He watches you concentrate on the novels you like to read, where a crease forms between your eyebrows as your eyes fly across the page. He watches you talk to yourself about anything and everything, about work, about television shows you enjoy, about him. 

He likes that you’re a complete mess in the morning, that you can barely keep yourself upright, let alone keep your eyes open while you brush your teeth. He likes that you spray the perfume he decided was his favorite all that time ago before you leave for the day. He likes that you sometimes switch between multiple different albums before settling on the one you like. He likes to watch you dance to them. He likes that he’s never heard of them before. He likes you. 

You’re a natural result of loneliness, much like he is. But where you filled your void with material things, stuff, Dabi left his empty and allowed it to grow. He would have thought it was foolish, the idea of filling that hole in him with anything other than anger and hurt, thoughts of revenge. Had he not fallen for you, maybe he would have hated you. The two had always felt so similar. 

You’re happy with him here, he notices, much happier than you had been that first night. You talk to him, your ghost. You ask him about the shows you watch, his opinion on your favorite albums, what shoes to wear to work. He’s a part of your life through knocks on the walls and highlighted lines in between the pages of your books and soft touches in the middle of the night. 

Dabi holds it all close to his Molotov heart and hopes that the ruin is worth it. 

…

You fall asleep almost immediately, exhausted from your busy day, one spent without your ghost. Dabi sneaks in late, caught up with league business for the past couple of days, and he misses you. 

He stares at your sleeping form against the night sky that is your sheets. He feels himself relax at the sight of you, realizing just how much it affects him to be away from you for too long. He takes his boots off at your bedroom door and walks in long strides toward you. He cups your cheek in one hand, running his thumb along your cheekbone, smiling at how you subconsciously lean into his touch.

Dabi moves to the other side of your bed, sliding in beside you. He does nothing but stare at the back of your head for a few minutes, gathering the courage to reach out and touch. He wants to hold you. He wants to do more than just lay beside you and listen to you breathe. 

He runs a hand up your arm, dragging his fingers against your skin. He wraps an arm around your midsection and pulls flush against his chest, feeling your body relax in his hold. He sneaks a hand up your sleep shirt and thumbs over the soft flesh of your stomach. Your hair smells like lavender shampoo, and it makes him nostalgic for that first night. 

A sudden sinking feeling settles in his stomach as he breathes you in, the guilt of barging into your life and bothering you to the point of delusion makes Dabi feel ill. You’re important to him now in a much deeper way than you were at the beginning. He doesn’t want to hurt you, at least not like this. 

“Dabi…” Your voice is soft, starry with sleep. He freezes against you. Your voice comes again, “Dabi.”

“It’s me, baby.” He whispers against your ear, unsure of just how awake you are.

“You’re so warm…Dabi…” You trail off, dragging the last syllable of his name. Your voice is so soft, breathy as you talk through sleep. He can feel his pants tighten at the sound from your lips. Fuck. He can’t stay here, not when you sound so sweet.

He could fuck you. He wants to. He’s not even sure you’d wake up. He’d pull pretty little moans from your throat, slotting himself between your thighs and sliding into you. You’d already be wet for him, and he’d watch your hands ball into little fists in your sleep. You’d chant his name like a prayer. He’d come deep inside of you and leave you to wake up the next morning with the evidence between your legs.

But he does not fuck you. He places a kiss to the side of your neck and pulls away from you despite the whine you let out as he detaches his body from yours. He leaves with every intention of never coming back. His ruin might be worth it, but yours isn’t. 

…

The lack of paranormal activity in your home is alarming, which is something you never thought you’d ever think about. Your ghost has been gone for weeks, and you’re afraid that you may have made it all up in your head. 

This possibility is one you dread, mainly because it has everything to do with your own sanity. If you had been imagining each event, drawing hearts in your mirrors, underlining passages in your books, and forgetting about it, you know that something has gone completely wrong. And you can’t blame it on anything outside of yourself. 

The idea that you’ve been pushed this far, that your own loneliness has you creating imaginary instances of a haunting, terrifies you. What terrifies you more is that you miss him and that you’re alone again. 

But you can’t think about it, or you know you’ll go insane, more so than you possibly already are. So you bury yourself in fuzzy blankets, and you play sad albums on your speaker, and you scroll through the same forums that comfort you in times like these. 

You know it’s pathetic, pining for someone who doesn’t know you exist, someone completely and wholly evil for all you know. A man you aren’t even sure has a heart. 

You think yours may be enough for the both of you, though.

Darkness falls over your living room in what feels like a matter of minutes, though you know it’s been hours since you first picked up your phone. Your record player has been playing the same scratchy hum that signifies the end of one side of an album. You lift your eyes from your phone screen to one of your living room windows, the one with the drawn heart in the bottom corner that you can’t bring yourself to clean off. You let your phone fall to your chest as you stare up at your ceiling and sigh. 

Your heart is a greedy, hungry thing and your mind is a tool to feed it. Through daydreams and delusion, through want, want, want. You can hide from the isolation for a while, but the pain always catches up. And tonight it hurts.

You fall onto your bed with a thud, and your phone drops beside you. There’s a dull ache underneath your skin, one all too familiar and unwanted by you. Why had he left you? His absence haunts you more than his presence ever did. 

Your phone buzzes against your sheets, a notification from one of the discussion sites you frequent lights up the screen, the subject being Dabi and the recent sightings in the city. The ache subsides. 

It’s a video of him, maybe the clearest one you’ve ever seen. He’s alone, and he’s talking to someone, or a bunch of someones, other villains. You can’t make out the words, but you can tell they’re not pretty by the way the men start to close in on him. The smile that crosses Dabi’s face is razor sharp, deadly, reaching up to his crazed eyes. You gasp when he knocks his head against one of the men’s noses. Another one punches him square in the jaw for it, and he stumbles back, touching a finger to the seam in his face. Dabi isn’t a fighter, not with his fists at least, and you’re wondering why he’s letting them get away with this. He goes to punch one of them but misses, and while he’s distracted by his own move, one of the men sends a kick to his stomach. You hear him groan before laughing, his head hanging low as he clutches the place he was hit. 

You feel hot suddenly, touching your face with your palm. You watch Dabi raise his head slowly, his laugh low and maniacal and unbelievably sexy. He licks the corner of his mouth before his hands spark with blue flames. He hurls his fire toward the men without a second thought, and that’s when the video ends. You let out a shaky breath, your heart pounding against your chest. You squeeze your thighs together as you restart the video. 

It’s embarrassing how much it turns you on, watching him grin at these men, holding their life in his hands. You like watching him do more than just wield his quirk, watching his head crack against the man’s nose, watching his fist fly through the air. Something has to be wrong with you, you’re sure of it, but you can’t focus on anything but Dabi and his hands. The way that they’d feel against your skin, how they’d feel in your mouth, how they’d feel pressing your hips into your mattress. You slide your hand down your body and underneath the band of your sleep shorts. You’re already wet.

Dabi climbs through your window, the one branded with his fingerprinted heart, the window that allowed him into your life all those weeks ago. Your lights are off, and he can’t see your figure asleep on the couch in the darkness, so you must be asleep. 

He promised himself he wouldn’t come back, promised you he wouldn’t. But it hurts without you, and the ache grows, the wanting. The fucking wanting.

He tried to bury it like he does everything else, tried to burn it to ash, drink it to death, beat it out of him. He’d let those guys get in a couple of good punches tonight just to feel something. Nothing works.

But you do. 

He takes careful steps down the hallway when he hears your voice. He freezes. You’re moaning. He feels his breath catch in his chest. Of all of the days spent watching you, Dabi has never seen you like this. Desperate, aching, calling his name.

He watches you through your cracked door, spread out on your bed with your phone clutched tightly in one hand. You’re no longer watching whatever was on your screen, but you’ve left it playing as you arch against your bed. 

“Dabi…” You mewl. He has to grab the door frame to keep himself steady at the sound. “W-want it.”

Fuck. How could he possibly leave you now? He palms himself through his jeans, watching you bring yourself closer and closer to the edge. He’s so hard that he might pass out. The puffs of air that fall from your lips as your legs shake have him holding back a groan. It isn’t until your noises become quiet that he realizes just what you’re watching. 

The sound of his own laugh echoes through the speaker on your phone, and he’s surprised by the pained moan that falls from your lips at the sound. 

It’s him. You’re watching him. Dabi holds back a groan. He’s careful to free himself from his pants without a sound, not that you would notice. You’re far too gone to acknowledge him right now. He could probably let out the noises that beg to be free of his throat, but he doesn’t risk it. He can’t do anything that could stop him from watching you come for him. 

Your hand is obstructed by your sleep shorts, and the same can be said for the hand that has now discarded your phone onto the pillow beside your head and reached underneath your shirt to pinch one of your pert nipples. You’re close now, and so is he, barely able to keep his breathing steady as he strokes his hand against his cock. 

He’d give anything to barge in now, pull you toward the edge of the bed, and sink into you without a care in the world. He wants to feel you tight around him, wants to kiss your neck and bite your skin and leave traces of himself everywhere. He wants to show you that you’re his, confirm what you’ve always known. 

But instead he watches you writhe against your bed with his name falling from your lips. “Dabi–fuck! Gonna–”

You come with a loud cry, hips twitching a way that has Dabi cursing under his breath. He spills into his hand immediately after, reaching for your wall to hold himself up as he tries to keep quiet. But when his hand meets the hard surface of the wall, it collapses out from underneath, realization dawning on him that he’s pushed your bedroom door shut with a harsh slam. 

At the sound of your door, you jolt up from your bed, the ecstasy of your orgasm quickly wearing off as you freeze. You listen for any other noises, and when you hear nothing, you slowly creep from your bed. Looking around your bedroom for some kind of weapon to protect yourself, you feel yourself growing panicked when you realize you have nothing. You tiptoe to your bedroom door, pushing your ear against the surface to listen to any sign of life on the other side. You hear nothing. 

With your heart beating out of your chest, you slowly pull the door open, sticking your head out and looking down your dark hallway. There’s nobody there, and you wonder if this was yet another paranormal encounter after weeks of nothing. 

A sinking feeling in your gut tells you that there’s nothing paranormal at all about your experiences. 

You walk back to your bed in a daze, tucking yourself back under the covers and staring out your bedroom window. The video of Dabi continues to play on your phone, and you make no move to shut it off. You fall asleep to the sound, his crazed laughter somehow comforting to you in this moment. 

The sinking feeling doesn’t leave you the next morning, and there’s no sign of another human in your apartment as you check all of your windows and doors. It all makes you feel uneasy, the creeping suspicion that it’s all in your head. You’re completely alone. You have no one to confide in, and even if you did, you’re sure they’d think you're insane or an idiot for allowing any of it to go on for so long without question. 

You have no clue what to do or where to start, but you want whatever it is, ghost or not, gone. 

…

The idea is ridiculous. You know that. 

You know, standing in your living room with the ouija board you’ve just purchased sitting on your coffee table, that you are being completely ridiculous. 

“If this works, then great. Then ghosts are real.” You speak aloud to nothing. “Then I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.”

Your eyes flitter to the bottle of raspberry wine you bought on your way home, something you know is sweet and easy to drink quickly. You’ll finish the bottle in no time. You reach for it, pouring a good amount into your glass and taking a large gulp. You hold the glass to your chest, breathing in and shivering at the cool sensation against your skin. The board sits on the table, and you let out a chuckle of disbelief. 

Dabi stares at you from the darkness of your hallway. He’s been in your home since before you arrived with your children’s game and your sugary wine. You’ve been on edge for days, and Dabi knows he has everything to do with it. Still, he watches you quietly, taking in the last moments of invisibility before he has to tell you. 

You’re still staring at the board. You take another gulp of your wine and look out of the window that he climbed through. The strap of your spaghetti strap tank top is falling down. He thinks of the painting that hangs on your wall. You’re Sargent’s Madame X. He’s going to ruin your life.

“They sell those things in toy stores, you know.” He finally speaks. It all happens in slow motion: the quick jolt of your shoulders in surprise at the sound, your glass falling to the floor and shattering against your carpet, the scream that falls from your lips. 

Then suddenly, you’re looking at him, and he is looking at you, and your hand is frozen in mid-air like the glass is still in your hand. He looks down at the mess, “Shame. That ugly carpet was kind of growing on me.”

“Dabi…” Realization dawns on your face as you say his name. He looks up at you again, before turning his attention back to the mess on your carpet. He holds an arm out and beckons you toward him. 

“C’mere. You’ll cut yourself.” He tells you. You don’t move. He watches your chest rise and fall, frozen where you stand, unable to think about anything other than getting away. He watches your eyes flicker to your front door. 

It happens quickly, nothing like before, climbing over your couch and rushing as fast as you can toward your escape. He almost loses you, tripping over his feet as he reaches for you. You barely touch the handle before his arm wraps around your waist in a tight grip. You’re both panting, his breath hot against your ear. 

“What? You aren’t excited to see me?” He questions. It’s not like he expected you to accept him with open arms, but he didn’t think you’d run from him. 

“It was you?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. How are you meant to feel about any of this? It’s what you wanted, right? All the times you missed each other, all those days spent disappointed that you weren’t just a little earlier or a little later. And here he is, in your home, with you, with his arms wrapped around you, no less. And you want to run? What bothers you the most is that you aren’t as scared as you should be.

“Your ghost?” He questions with humor in his words. You feel his grip tighten around you before he speaks again. “Are you disappointed?”

His voice is much softer than he intended it to be, nervousness finding its way through the mask of carelessness he so carefully hides behind. It calms your nerves, the idea that he’s just as unsure of this as you are. 

“I’m scared.” You admit. 

“Of me?” 

“I don’t know yet.” You say. He loosens his grip, arms falling to his sides as he lets you go. You step away quickly, turning to look at him while keeping a good amount of distance between the two of you. 

“I’m not–I won’t hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.” He speaks, holding his hands up. “I would never–”

“Why?” Looking at him, standing in your kitchen, his hands up in surrender, his eyes pleading, Dabi is just a man. You know this, you’ve always known this. It’s why your obsession with him is as strong as it is because, underneath all of the flames, he’s alone just like you are. 

“Because you’re mine.” He sighs because he knows he must sound insane, and his answer doesn’t seem to soothe the worried look on your face. “And you know it. You do, because I’m on your fucking walls, and you stalk me like a little weirdo on your phone. You–you’re made for me.”

“Made for you?” You ask incredulously as if this isn’t the exact moment you’ve been fantasizing about since the first time you ever laid eyes on the flame user. 

“Look, I didn’t think any of it was real, none of that soulmate shit people make up so that they have something to hold onto. But, fuck, I had never felt the way I did when I climbed through your window that night.” He speaks frantically like he’s trying to convince you, prove to you that what he’s saying is the truth. “You saved me, and you don’t even know it.”

You soften, “I saved you?”

“None of this would've happened if things had gone a little differently that night. I wouldn’t know you, and you could go back to your normal life with your pictures and your books and your forums, but it didn’t so I’m here. And isn’t that something?”

“I’m just…confused.” You explain. “You’re you, and I’m sure you’ve gathered by now how embarrassingly obsessed with you I am–”

“I think it’s cute.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“Why?” He questions, leaning forward. “Does it get you all hot and bothered like that night with the video of me getting my ass kicked? That was cause of you, by the way.”

“You have to understand how fucked this is. You get that, right?” You aren’t afraid anymore. You’re angry, a little hurt, but most of all excited. Made for him. He’s probably right. 

“Yeah?” He questions, taking another step. You do back away, but he continues to follow you. “I think you like it. I think your life was so goddamn boring before me, so lonely. My little tricks made you so happy, baby.”

“Fuck you.” You spit, because he’s right, and you hate it. His hand comes up to hold your jaw with one hand, his fingers pressing into your skin ever so slightly. 

“C’mon…” He tuts, leaning down to your height, “You used to be so sweet for me, snuggling up to me while you slept. You can’t hide from me. I know everything about you. And those feelings that you have for me don’t change in a matter of minutes just because I did something fucked up. I’m a villain, sweetheart, and you know it.”

“So what?” You ask. “You’re in love with me or something?” 

You want to hear him say it. You want him to tell you it’s more than obsession, more than the excitement of scaring you. 

“It’s not obvious?” He asks, releasing your jaw from his tight grip and running his thumb against your cheek to soothe you. “You ruin me.”

You shake your head, “Say it.”

“I love you.” He grins. “Kiss me.”

You do. 

It shouldn’t feel as romantic as it does. With him pushing your hips into your kitchen counter, his lips so soft against yours, you forget all of it. None of it matters to you, anyways. Maybe it’s the worst way for any of this to happen. Maybe it’s the only way.

He pulls away, watching your eyes flutter open, your lips swollen from his kiss. You’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, and you’re touching his face without a hint of disgust. You’ve always been his. He surges forward, catching you off guard and pulling you into another kiss, this one much more hurried and desperate. You gasp when he presses into you, the growing bulge in his jeans hard against your thigh. He takes the opportunity to lick into your mouth, earning a choked whine from your lips. You struggle to keep up with him, with his hands everywhere. You’re overwhelmed. 

“Dabi, wait.” You speak for the split second that he pulls away. He shakes his head, kissing down your jaw as you try to catch your breath.

“Can’t.” He speaks in between kisses. “You’re–I need you. Please, please, I’m–”

You bring your hands to the sides of his face, pulling him away from your neck to look at you. “Dabi. Hey.”

“Hi.” He speaks, unable to resist the urge to press his lips to yours in a quick peck before pulling away again. It makes you smile, though, so he does it one more time. “This is what you wanted, right? You wanted me?”

“I think there is something very, very wrong with me.” You say because you have to acknowledge it, at the very least. You want him so bad it burns. 

“Yeah, me too.” He kisses you again. “Made for me, remember?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, “maybe I am.”

“You are.” He says against your lips. “You are, you are, you are.”

You’re in your bedroom before you have any time to think about it, your back against your sheets as Dabi hovers over you. He pauses, his frantic movements from moments ago now at a standstill as he stares down at you. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.” You speak without hesitance. 

“Yeah?” He slots his hips in between yours, running a hand up the side of one of your thighs as you make room for him. “All mine, huh? Gonna let me keep you?”

“Uh huh.” You nod. “You can keep me.”

“Good.” He drags his lips down the column of your neck. “My girl’s so good for me, yeah?”

You’re unable to answer, though you don’t know if you’re supposed to. His hands move from your hips to your backside, grinding you against his length. You gasp, grasping his shoulders for stability as he sucks on your neck.

“Gotta mark you up, baby.” He speaks against your skin. He sucks your skin harshly, biting and nipping different areas of your neck. It’s a sensation you’ve never experienced, all your senses heightened at the knowledge that it’s him who’s touching you. “Show them who you belong to, show them you’re mine.”

“Please!” You whine, arching your back into him as he bites down, hard, on the juncture of your neck. You feel him smile against your skin, kissing over the bite. He begins to lower himself down your body, kissing down the valley of your breasts over your top. He pushes your shirt up as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your stomach. 

“Maybe I’ll carve my name right here, yeah?” He questions, lips against your hip. “You can do the same to me.”

When his eyes flicker up to yours, you feel your breath catch in your throat. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, every silly little fantasy you’ve ever had come true. “You’d want that? My name?”

“Fuck, of course, I would.” He groans, pushing himself back up to eye level with you. His hands rest on the mattress on each side of your head, his eyes searching your face. “Want you all over me. I want you forever.”

You wrap your hands around the back of his neck and pull him down to you in a bruising kiss. Pushing at his chest, you hook your leg around his waist to switch positions, straddling his lap as your tongue swirls in his mouth. You pull away to look at him, his eyes blown wide with need. He’s so fucking beautiful. You want him forever, too.

You rise to a sitting position, Dabi’s hands kneading the flesh of your thighs as you stare down at him. You push his shirt up and he pulls it over his head in seconds. You run your hands over his chest and abdomen, feeling his scars and the staples that hold him together under your fingertips. 

“I think I wanna mark you too.” You speak, leaning down to kiss him again. “Want you to be mine.”

“I am yours.” He speaks without hesitation. He sucks in a harsh breath when your lips meet the unscarred skin of the left side of his chest. You place soft kisses there before biting down. He cries out, bucking his hips up into yours. “I’ll give you–fuck–everything.”

You continue to leave marks over his skin, satisfied with the noises you're pulling from Dabi. You run your fingers over his hips lightly. You think you would like your name there. Dabi takes the hem of your shirt between his fingers, urging you to pull the fabric from your body. He rises from his position on the bed, running a hand up the length of your spine as he pulls you close. He kisses you once more, moving his hands to your hips to help you grind down on him. 

Pulling away, he trails his lips down your neck, burying his face in your chest. He wraps his lips around your nipple, tweaking the other between his fingers as he looks up at you. You cry out, rapidly grinding against him. He continues to play with your chest, kissing you with fervor and groaning into your mouth. 

“C’mere.” He speaks against your lips, wrapping an arm around your waist and moving to lay you down on the bed. He hovers over you, slowly pushing his hips against yours in a way that makes you cry out. “Gonna take care of you, okay?”

He slowly makes his way down your body, slipping his fingers underneath the band of your pants and pulling them down along with your underwear. You push your knees together, staring up at him as shakes his head. 

“Don’t hide.” He commands softly, pulling your thighs apart. His tongue peaks through his lips for a moment before he speaks again. “Been thinking about this since that night. M’sorry I scared you. I didn’t mean to slam the door.”

He runs his hands up your thighs, eyeing your sex as he lowers himself back down. You let out a breathy laugh, “you didn’t?”

“No.” He chuckles against the inside of your thigh, kissing your skin. “It was an accident.”

“Oh, my god.” You giggle, cut off by the feeling of his teeth sinking into your thigh. You gasp, trying to pull away, but his grip on you is tight. He kisses over the mark, eyes finding yours with a warning. 

He licks a strip from your entrance to your clit, and you throw your head back, resting your hand on top of his head before he pulls back. 

“Look at me.” He speaks, bringing one hand up to run a finger through your folds. You’re already a complete mess, and he feels pride in knowing he’s the reason. He’s always the reason. “Keep your eyes on me, or I’ll stop.”

You nod, wiggling your hips to urge him to continue. He chuckles softly at your desperation before burying his face between your legs again. His tongue runs along your folds in long slow strokes, your hips jolting at the stimulation. No research, or video, or fantasy you had about the man between your legs could have ever prepared you for what this feels like. 

Your moans spur him on as he tastes you, the knowledge that he’s the reason for your pleasure more rewarding than anything else. He wraps his lips around your clit and you cry his name. You feel your orgasm building as he continues to lap up your juices, his grip on your thighs tight as he holds you open for him. 

“Dabi! Dabi! I’m–” you let out a strangled moan as you grind your hips against his tongue, “fuck–coming! I’m coming.”

Your hips jolt at the pleasure, the feeling of his mouth still on your sex guiding you through your orgasm. He slows his strokes, running the flat of his tongue against you as you calm yourself. The movement of your hips slow as you watch Dabi still buried between your legs. You catch your breath as he tongues your cunt, cerulean eyes staring up at you as you twitch from the overstimulation. He pulls away from your sex with a wet smack, rising to capture your lips with his. 

He pulls away, “call me Touya.”

“Huh?” You ask, chasing his lips again. He kisses you slow and deep, his tongue swirling against yours as he pushes his hips against yours. You groan against his mouth.

“Touya. It’s my name.” He says, placing soft kisses against your jaw. “My real name.”

Touya. His name is Touya. You know Dabi’s real name. You get to say his real name, keep that knowledge locked inside of your heart, a secret between the two of you. The reveal makes you feel closer to him, an equal exchange for all of the time he spent inside of your home without your knowledge, though you know it’s really not. You’ll take it, anyways.

“Where’d you go, baby?” He whispers against your lips. “Did the obsessed little freak inside you get excited?”

“Says you.” You scoff. 

“Made for each other, right?” He speaks before kissing you again. The kiss is hungry, frantic as his lips consume yours. He fumbles with the studded belt around his waist, pulling away from you only to rid himself of his jeans. 

His cock is hard against your entrance, the warmth of him overwhelming as he shifts his hips over yours. He runs his hands up the outside of your thighs, rough hands smoothing over your flesh while he kisses you again. You whimper against his lips, a silent plea for him to do more than grind against you. 

“Shhh, let me–wanna remember this.” He wraps a hand around the base of his cock, running the head through your folds as you try to keep your breathing steady. “Gonna take my time with you.”

Touya leans down to kiss your neck, sucking over the already tender marks he left before, hoping to keep them there for longer, the evidence of him on your skin in the ache he leaves behind. You pant as he continues to grind his hips against yours, arching your back and pushing yourself closer to him as he continues his assault on your neck. Pulling away, he lines himself up with your entrance, staring down at you just inches away from your face. 

“Kiss me.” He speaks. “Kiss me, please.”

When you kiss him, he sinks into you, swallowing your moans with his lips and slipping his tongue into your mouth as he stretches you. You catch your breath as he pulls away, adjusting to the size of him as he slowly pumps in and out of you. 

“Touya.” You breathe, your hands running through his hair as he pushes into you deeper. A contented smile falls across his face as he feels you move your hips against his. “Feels–mm–good.”

“Yeah? Good. S’all I want. Just want you to feel good.” He says as his hips slowly begin to change pace. Maybe it’s the fact he spent weeks scaring you into delusion, or the fact that he can’t get the way you look when you come out of his head, but your pleasure has become his ultimate goal. He wants to watch you come undone again and again on his cock, disregarding his own needs as you're pushed over the edge over and over. He thinks he’d like you to use him, but for now, Touya wants to take care of you. 

He speeds his pace up, gripping your hips in his rough hands as he pounds into you. He’s getting carried away, you realize, as his hold becomes bruising, his kiss, starved. It all feels so good with his hands all over you and his lips so desperate. He needs you and he doesn’t hide it, and with every action, Touya shows you just how much.

“It’s so much! Too much!” Not enough, you think. You cry out as he presses into you deep, pushing in and out of you with long slow strokes, his cock hitting just the spot that has you seeing stars. He groans, feeling you clench around him as he moves. 

“Take it.” He commands, thrusting into you. “I know you can. You’re so–fuck–good for me.”

You whine, arching into him and pulling him down for another sloppy kiss. He can’t get enough of you, and you’re completely his. He’ll keep you. He’ll take you with him, make a little villain out of you, keep you nice and fucked out on his cock forever. All of his plans, his goals, the one thing he’s worked toward since becoming Dabi, now include you. You have a real role in his life, one that’s meant to stay, one that means forever. 

You’re close. He can tell, and he feels himself being brought to the edge just as quickly as you are. His pace quickens as he thrusts in and out of you, bringing one hand to your lips, feeling you suck two fingers into your mouth before he reaches down between your bodies to play with your clit. You gasp, burying your face in his neck and biting down. You’ve drawn blood, Touya thinks, feeling the pain spread from the wound. He groans, thrusting harder and faster.

“Fuck, s-sorry!” You cry, though your words are hurried and jumbled.

“Don’t apologize, baby.” He tells you, panting above you. He runs his thumb against your bottom lip, a faint trace of blood smeared across the inside. He smiles, kissing you and reveling in the faint taste of copper. “You wanted to mark me.”

“Touya, I’m–hah–gonna come!” You cry, moving your hips against his frantically. 

“I know, I know.” He coos, swiping his fingers over your puffy clit. “Come for me. Wanna see it.”

Your voice comes out loud and chokes, the end of his name dying on your lips as your hips jolt from the pleasure and your back arches against your sheets. Touya doesn’t stop thrusting, chasing his own orgasm as he watches your face contort in the same way it had before.

“Need to fill you up. Need to make you mine.” He groans, thrusting quickly. 

“I’m yours, I’m yours. Please! I wanna feel it!” You whine. You feel him spill inside of you, warmth flooding your insides as he slows his pace. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him against you. He kisses you again, tongues swirling against each other as he stills on top of you. 

“Stay.” You breathe, pulling away from his lips and feeling his head fall against you. 

“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.” He whispers through labored breath. “So don’t try.”

“Never. You said you’d keep me.” You remind him, feeling him smile against your skin. He rises from where he lays, staring down at you with nothing but adoration. You really are made for him. Cosmic love, divine intervention, soulmates. Touya should have known.

“Always.” He kisses your lips, your nose, both of your cheeks. 

“Say it.” You command softly. 

“I love you.” He grins. “Kiss me.”

You do. 

[teapartypenguin]

Team 5Ds reading headcanons

So started thinking about what type of books certain characters would read, and this ended up extending to the rest of the cast. So here are what I've thought of:

Yusei:

Mostly reads nonfiction, such as engineering textbooks and user manuals

Martha's orphanage had a lot of old children's books that she used to teach the kids how to read, but Yusei outgrew them pretty quickly

Was hard to find good textbooks in the Satellite, so growing up, most of them were long out of date. But they helped him learn how to repair scrapped electronics

Often gravitated towards books written by "Dr. Fudo"

Sometimes reads Duel Runner magazines to stay up to date

Akiza has convinced him to try some mystery novels, but he is stupid good at figuring out the mystery halfway through

Favorite fairy tale is The Tale of Princess Kaguya

Jack:

Reads newspapers and dueling magazines, usually with his morning coffee

Looks for articles about himself or written by Carly first

Is very up to date on politics

Growing up, he was the designated storyteller whenever Martha was busy. Yusei was a better reader, but Jack was better at setting the mood and doing the voices

Favorite fairy tale is Jack and the Beanstalk

Akiza:

Was a lonely kid, so read a lot

Reads a bit of everything, but her favorites are mystery novels, poetry, and fashion magazines -Prefers romance as a side plot rather than the main genre

Convinced the group to watch a movie adaptation of a murder mystery she'd read, then Yusei points out an inaccuracy in the train design and Akiza nearly combusts because he was very close to spoiling the twist that exposes the murderer

Sometimes writes poetry, but always burns the notebook when it's filled

Favorite fairy tale is Beauty and the Beast

Crow:

Canonically learned to read from Duel Monsters cards, Martha made sure he caught up when she adopted him

Reads more to his kids than for himself

Has a library card and uses it purely to get requested books for his kids

Sometimes reads comics and graphic novels, but more for the art than story

If he went to school, he'd be the type of kid that watched the movie to write a book report

Favorite fairy tale is The Ugly Duckling

Luna:

Is a big reader, spent a lot of time in hospitals or on bed rest so picked it up

Main genres are fantasy, fairy tales, and folk tales -Likes anything that involves dragons, fae, or witches the most

Also sometimes reads ecology books; knows a lot of obscure insect facts

Her and Leo have library cards and go once a week

Has gotten in trouble for reading in class

Favorite fairy tale is between Rapunzel and Hansel and Gretel

Leo:

Reads almost exclusively comic books and manga (but would be a Percy Jackson kid if it existed) -Favorites are the Elemental Heroes and Neo Spacian comics

Exchanges comics with Crow a lot

His dad would always give him the comic and puzzle pages in the newspaper

Is really good at solving the crosswords and sudoku puzzles

Has also gotten in trouble for reading during class

Collects cutouts from dueling magazines that he likes best, most are of Jack but has a mini collection of Yusei too

Favorite fairy tale is between Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Hansel and Gretel

Carly:

Used to read a lot as a kid, but has less time for it than she'd like as an adult

Mostly reads news articles and magazines, especially dueling magazines, but that's 50% for work -Looks for anything featuring Jack first

Main genre of choice is romance of any kind

Jack once read one of her romance novels while he was hiding out at her place...he regrets it

Used to write a blog for dueling news in college, but stopped when she started working

Is into bullet journaling

Favorite fairy tale is The Little Mermaid

Misty:

Actually doesn't read much fashion magazines, but studied Fashion History in college and often reads books on that

Her main genre of choice is horror, prefers psychological and gothic horror -Listens to audiobooks on long plane rides

Also reads a lot of cooking and baking books, likes trying out new recipes

Used to be an avid follower of Carly's blog

Very sporadic taste

Favorite fairy tale is Swan Lake, her family used to watch the ballet every Christmas

Kalin:

Is not picky, reads out of boredom so will read literally anything that comes his way -Likes educational books the most

Books in Satellite often got burned for warmth, so not a lot of options available

He would dig through the dump for things to sell as a kid, but books weren't worth much so he'd just keep the intact ones

Read a french language textbook once and now can read in fluent french, but his pronunciation is terrible because he's rarely heard it spoken

Would eventually start a library in Crash Town

Doesn't have a favorite fairy tale (it's Cinderella)

Greiger:

Reads a lot of mythology and folk tales

Started with telling the tales to his younger siblings and younger kids in his village, eventually got interested in the mythology of other cultures as well

Got really interested in Egyptian mythology and Duel Monsters' origins in it

Likes Inca mythology the most (because it's what he grew up on), but couldn't pick a favorite tale if he tried

[usafphantom2]

How the SR 71 program died. This picture is of the retirement ceremony at March Air Force Base 1990.

You cannot see the faces of the Warriors in this photograph that are possibly holding back their tears when the SR 71 program was canceled prematurely. The men The Pilots and RSO’s (reconnaissance systems officer) that flew in an airplane without any armament at 85-90,000 feet above the Earth. Theirs was the fight for justice and freedom from 1964 to 1990 of a War that never ended. We are still fighting a Cold War against communists. They put their life on the line for the freedom of the United States. These SR-71 Warriors were going to battle as they dressed slowly and precisely in their pressure suits. These brave men preparing for battle they knew they may never come home again to their family. Their families shared in the glory, and in the tension that surrounded them, I noticed that some of my fellow Habubrats have anxiety disorders. That is understandable.

SR-71 was not designed for airshows or any glory it was designed by the Skunk Works to stealthily find out what our enemies were planning.

THE SR-71 PREVENTED WAR.

Satellites could never replace the SR-71. Satellites don’t orbit east to west. Satellites can’t collect 100,000 miles of data per hour and it is easy to predict the path of a satellite. There was new money for projects in the Air Force if they went with satellites so they did. The Air Force Chief put Lockheed out of the SR 71 business. The Chief said that Lockheed trying to keep the SR 71 alive was going to hurt their chances of winning the F-22 contract! Contractors like Lockheed only have one customer the Department of Defense.

Open POM in 1985 Generals found out the cost for the first time of the SR 71. Open POM was to take classified programs such as the B2, the F1 17, and the SR 71 and reveal their cost to the air staff board so they could see what the Air Force was funding. It sounded like a good idea and probably was. The Air Force at that time had some of the new programs classified and hidden from view, but it was the kiss of death for the SR 71.

The SR 71 funding was in trouble because first off the Air Force did not use the data collected by the SR. The users were the Navy, Army, DIA, and a little bit (ELINT) for NSA.

NSA never liked the SR-71 Why? Communications intelligence SR went too fast for COMINT they thought communications intelligence was the only kind of intelligence that was useful. When the Air Force Generals saw how much the SR was costing them they revolted they said more than $200 million for operating only 10 airplanes which is ridiculous.

U-2 funding was in the General Defense Intelligence Program DIP controlled by the DIA. The Air Staff could not get at that money or they would have.

The SR money was in Program One called Strategic Forces. The reason it was in that budget was that when it came over to the Air Force from the NRO and the SRG the budget for the SR was too big for the GPIP and would have revealed how much was being spent. To cover up the cost they put it in with Strategic Bombers and Missiles, which had a very big budget

About the time of open POM in 1984. The Air Force became a Haven for fighter pilots with the death of General O’Malley the four stars were all from Tactical Air Command (TAC) they even put a TAC General in charge of SAC! SAC got the highest fastest flying aircraft and the TAC was always trying to catch up. One might ask how did this affect the SR -71? The reason once this very large amount of money was being spent on satellites they no longer wanted to fund the SR-71 The SR went from a national collection platform to Tactical intelligence asset.

The SR 71 would be flying today like the U-2 if the Air Force had not received the funding data. ( The U2 is supposed to be retiring again. I’ll believe it when I never see a U2 in the air again.)

Linda Sheffield

“The Very First” written by Colonel Richard “Butch” Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

[rainbow-glittersprinkes]

We have the original Blueprints for the Chairman!

We've had this information since the 26th ARG, but I haven't seen anyone talk about this. Ramblings and pictures under the cut

I was reading through the MMO Central Forums when the ARG was running, and came across a thread by user Sir Kids Nickelton

In the thread, they were sharing theories, clues, and solved cyphers for the ARG, and pointed this out:

Now i was viewing on mobile, which meant the picture didn't load for me, so i found the picture myself and

Holy. vveh.

Now if anyone knows anything about me, I am obsessed with any loree surrounding the Chairman. So I rounded up the six Blueprints, constructed them like the Pieces of Exodia, and recreated the sketch to the best of my ability. Here are the Blueprints and my thoughts:

The glove-like hands from the installer cutscene are still there, and he was originally built with a smile. Almost confirming he was built with some level of Tooniness. Given how he acts now, its implied that The Chairman either repressed this, or removed the Silliness from himself entirely

Also carrying over from the installer video is the Chairman's sheer height. He takes up SIX SHEETS of paper for goofiness's sake. Scrooge came up to the bottom of The Chairman's knee, and thanks to the Carl Banks comic For Old Dime's Sake, we know Scrooge is about three feet/One meter tall. If this sketch is to be believed, the Chairman stands at approximately twelve feet/four meters tall.

Deviating from the video, This Chairman appears to only have a singular antenna, with what looks like a satellite dish at the end. Considering the video depicts The Chairman apparently "talking" through his antennae, maybe this is implying that he talks to the rest of the Cogs through this dish.

Most interestingly, there appears to be a massive cavity in The Chairman's chest where a heart should be. This is the only Major design detail unique to Toontown Rewritten, and is very likely intrinsic to the story the team wants to tell.

All in All, this is a fascinating find that I'm surprised more people haven't been talking about. Ive included the Raw blueprints without my restoration attempt to see if anyone else notices something that I didn't. In the meantime, I'm tempted to go back to the forums to see if there's anything else we've missed or forgot...

[kimiko24-art]

🌙☀️⭐🌱🌿🍀

🌱INTRODUCTION

🌙☀️⭐🌱🌿🍀

This is my self insert. This wiki entry is specifically for my JJBA AU. Art, some general info, and tidbits will be posted here. Not sure if I wanna continue the full story. I think this is enough info for now lol

🌱GENERAL INFO

Name: Kimiko Daiyuki (this is actually an allies)

Age: 23

Gender: Female (Any pronouns)

Zodiac: Gemini

Occupation: Model, singer-songwriter (changes to match AUs)

Sexually Orientation: Bisexual

Species: Human

General Appearance:

Kimiko is a thin woman with a medium bust and a few curves here or there. She stands around 5'7, has a dark golden skin tone, and medium shoulder length black hair. Kimi’s body has a lot of scars on it..mainly around her limbs; arms and legs. She likes to wear clothing that shows off her physique.

🌱AU INFO

(Mainly backstory and relationship stuff is provided)

🔱JOJO's Bizarre Adventures🔱

AGE: 23

F/O: Bruno Buccellati☕🍵

「STORY (short ver.)」

Kimiko was never fond of her family, she always felt so distant from them and wasn't treated lovingly. After failing time and time again to gain their approval. Kimiko decided to move on and came to Italy in pursue of a job opportunity, perhaps this would be her chance? A new start with a happy life, but unfortunately this wasn't what it seemed. She was tricked and nearly smuggled once reaching her "job" but luckily escaped in time. However since she used every last penny to pursue this false career, she was stuck. Lost and alone, in a foreign country. She lived on the streets for several months. Starving and trying to survive, she joined a small unknown gang out of desperation. But was once again ended up in danger when one of the members try to have their way with her in an alley. Luckily a passersby rescued her from the situation, he revealed himself to be Bruno. After talking with the stranger for a while, he offered her a position in Passione. Even though she was hesitant and still shaken up she agreed to join. Some time passes and after a few encounters with stand users she gained her own. That's when she decided her new life started then and there. Passione and Bruno had filled her empty heart with a burning passion for life and she wanted to spend it with them, her new family. (These events happen a little before Giorno arrives.)

Tidbit(s)

🌿 Kimiko needs glasses but they got messed up during her time on the streets, so she couldn't really see for a little bit in the series. She eventually gets a new pair and cries when she can see everyone's faces clearly for the first time. (Happens after Giorno and Trish join)

🌿 Her stands name is Boom Boom Satellites~ named after one of my fav J-rock bands!

🌿 Kimiko likes to feed the abundance of stray cats that are around the area on her downtime. She also enjoys writing poetry, listening to music, and drinking tea with Bruno.

🌿 Here's a playlist of songs that are dedicated to/remind me of Kimiko.

🌱RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS

🔱JJBA Relationship's Headcanons🔱

🐦🌊🐦 Kimiko deeply admires and respects Bruno as person. She finds his goals extremely admirable and knows that he's a person that cares deeply for those around him, she wouldn't hesitate to follow him to the ends of the earth. Kimiko can let her guard down around him. Bruno and her tend to spend a lot of time at different cafes together, taking walks to view the scenery, and trying out different restaurants. Bruno enjoys his time with Kimiko and likes how supportive and innocent she is. They often chat about a lot of different things together~

⭐⭐🔫 Other than Bruno, Kimiko is really close to both Trish and Mista. With Mista around Kimiko feels at ease and laughs a lot with him. They often hang out and go to cinemas, or find other fun or mischievous things to do around town, it's really a breathe of fresh air with him! And she really enjoys their friendship! Fugo and Narancia tag along too~ After getting use to her, Mista began treating her like one of the gang.

🌺🌹🌸 With Trish Kimiko finds it easy to talk with her, they're actually more similar than what they realize. They often spend hours talking, just nice having a break for themselves to be girls for a while honestly. Kimiko often goes out with Trish shopping, or to go get sweets from pastry shops. She has a protective instinct towards Trish because she sees herself within her. Kimiko treasures the bond between them a lot. Trish seems to appreciate the company and enjoys herself when they hangout.

⏪▶⏩ Kimiko sees Abbacchio as an authority figure, and someone she can trust undoubtedly. She often goes to him or Bruno for advice. Abbacchio sometimes does offer her advice, but usually he ends up telling her that she should use her own head and gut. She usually finds herself wanting Abbacchio's approval. Even though she finds him intimidating, Kimiko knows that she can trust him with her life. She sometimes tags along with him when he runs small earns. Abbacchio wonders about Kimiko sometimes, she's a bit naive in his eyes. And honestly he thinks she's too soft for this sort of life. But he knows how much Bruno cares about her. So he watches over her from a distance for him.

🔱⭐🔱 Kimiko respects Giorno a lot. She respects his intelligences and ability as a person and stand user. Giorno has a lot of Kimiko's trust even though she does not display it with words. She always asks Giorno what his views are on certain matters and she likes having conversations with him. They take strolls around town, or Giorno stops by sometimes to help her with the strays. Giorno likes chatting with Kimiko. They find each other interesting.

🍊🍊✈ For Narancia, Kimiko often finds herself wanting to take care of him like an older sister, or mother. Though she realize that he's his own person and tries her best not to smother or pester him. Usually internalizing the urges. Her and Narancia often read books, play games, and listen to music together. She also tries to help him study sometimes along with Fugo. But she really sucks at math as well, so Fugo ends up schooling both her and Narancia. Other times Narancia eagerly tries to get Kimiko to join in when him, Mista, and Fugo dance~ but she's too shy to.

🍓🍓💉 When it comes to Fugo, Kimiko sorta views him as a younger brother, he doesn't seem to mind though. Fugo often helps her out if she asks and Kimiko really appreciates that when he does. She tries to help him out a lot in return! They don't hangout much outside of Passione's activities! But they sometimes spend time together if someone else is along with them (mista, narancia, trish)

🌱CONCLUSION

That's it for now~ I'll probably end up changing some things at some point.

[beth0ftime]

Some thoughts about cpunk and mobility aids

I recently saw this post by @satellites-halo:

I think OP brings up a very good point here: if your mobility aid is obviously dangerous you can’t bring it places you’ll need to go. That said this isn’t the end of the story.

As a practitioner of HEMA (Historical European Martial Arts; using historical weapons from Europe) there are actually a lot of writings on using things like canes and chairs for self defense/offense. For example there was a several year streak in London where walking staffs were the most deadly weapon. When these books and treatises were written they weren’t adding spikes or barbed wire to these things.

I am pretty much a full time cane user due to my hEDS and POTS. I will not use it for a little bit but I end up unstable and in pain afterwards, I mainly do this for exercise/practice. So I have been very interested in learning how to use a cane in this way, as well as seeing how other, similar, aids have been used throughout history.

While not all of these forms of fighting are useful for all mobility aid users, such as full time wheelchair users or some forearm crutch users, there’s a surprising amount of people it will work for. For example, I’m currently reading a treatise by a man who is partially blind, that is his term with modern vocabulary we would call him legally blind, and he is good enough at fighting to be considered one of the most amazing swordsman and cane fighter. (It should be noted that he did not have access to glasses and mainly navigated the world tactually)

The only real requirement is that the aid should be built from a single piece (not any of the foldable kinds) and be of sturdy materials: metal, solid wood, etc. While I recognize that this does exclude a fair few mobility aids there’s still a fair few this works for: canes, rollators (though lifting them into position for fighting might be untenable for some people), forearm crutches (if used like a Roman forearm blade, again some may not be able to do this), and even some leashes for service dogs (used as a rope dart) to name a few. There are probably more in forgetting but it’s a lot.

The key thing about all of this is that you don’t have to add scary spikes that might make the TSA balk at you, you can just use a normal looking mobility aid to do the same thing. It should also be noted that most courts consider mobility aids to be part of the person using them for the purposes of assault charges; if someone touches your mobility aid in a way you don’t like, that’s assault and you can respond in kind. That isn’t legal advice and there’s still ‘appropriate force’ president to consider but twapping someone who is grabbing at your cane, especially maliciously, isn’t out of question for a normal reaction, and being good at doing so is preferable.

Ok, cool Beth, but what do I do with this info?

There’s a little part of this post that’s me trying to get more disabled people like me into a sport I love but I can’t do so without some caveats. Not all HEMA clubs are built the same and some can be downright nasty, please look up any club you consider joining and maybe ask a physical/occupational therapist before launching into a contact sport. If it’s not in your interest then that’s also fine, there are several forums that post book recommendations for learning cane fighting or uses of a chair in WWII fighting (what rollators are great for).

If you’re a cane user, there are actually custom canes that you can order that are especially made for fighting (that aren’t objectionable enough to be confiscated by anyone who does security) but also just getting a cane made from a hardwood works. The website https://canemasters.com has a great selection and a really nice custom ordering system.

I wish I had more for other forms of mobility aids but my research is limited, if you have more sources for this stuff please comment/repost with them. If that’s not your style my dms are always open for cool fighting stuff!

Be safe and stay punk!

[totheidiot]

so me and @a-dumbass-jester was doing some discussings about oliver banks and we both headcanon that he is a cane user because 1. satellite impact and 2. as a side effect of being an avatar of the end, he is slowly decaying and his bones are aching. here's a picture of the cane i imagine him to be using:

[sweetpeauserboxes]

[id: a black userbox with a pastel blue border and pastel blue text that reads “this user is protected by the Satellite of Love crew.” on the left is an image of Mike Nelson, GPC, Crow T. Robot and Tom Servo from mystery science 3000. /end id]

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The urinary tract infection business-model

There were two competing visions at the dawn of the modern digital era: in one camp, you had people who saw computers as a way to empower people to push back against corporate and state control; in the other camp, there were the people who wanted to use computers to transfer power from the public to corporations or governments.

I’ve always been baffled by the technologists who pursued control over liberation: surely their own formative experiences were of the liberatory power of technology. After experiencing that power, how could these Vichy nerds lend their skills to the project of forging digital shackles?

https://pluralistic.net/2020/10/12/redeeming-hackers/#origin-stories

And yet, there they were, from the earliest days. Back in 2017, Redditor /u/vadermeer was browsing a Seattle thrift-shop and unearthed a trove of early internal documents from Apple’s SSAFE project, an early, doomed DRM project from 1979:

https://www.reddit.com/r/VintageApple/comments/5vjsow/found_internal_apple_memos_about_copy_protection/

The files (now hosted at the Internet Archive) are a chronicle of the battle between technologists pursuing user liberation and technologists who want to use computers to control their users. There are some great cameos from Woz:

https://archive.org/details/AppleSSAFEProject

SSAFE bombed, but the fight raged on for decades and rages on still. I’ve been in the thick of it for more than 20 years — literally. My first day on the job for EFF, back in 2002, was spent attending the inaugural meeting of the Broadcast Protection Discussion Group (BPDG), an inter-industry conspiracy to put all computers in chains, forever:

https://onezero.medium.com/the-internet-heist-part-i-3395769891b0

The BPDG’s mission was to create a standard for a Broadcast Flag a single bit that would be included in the headers for video files. If the flag was present, any device that encountered the video would have to restrict its playback, checking to see whether and under what circumstances that playback could occur.

In order to make this work, the group — an alliance of giant corporations from consumer electronics, IT, broadcast/cable/satellite and movies — would get a friendly lawmaker (Billy Tauzin, one of the dirtiest Congressmen who ever held office) to pass a law that required anyone building a video-capable device to seek out and respond to the flag.

As part of this proposal, all video-capable devices would also need to be “resistant to end-user modification” — that is, they’d have to have enough Digital Rights Management (DRM) technology to trigger Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA), which banned removing copyright locks on penalty of a 5-year prison sentence and a $500k fine.

Strip away all the acronyms and obfuscation and here’s what that meant: if this group got their way, every computer would only run proprietary software (no free software/open source allowed) and if you tried to reverse-engineer it to change it to do your bidding in any way, you could be sent to prison for five years.

Under this system, whatever restrictions the manufacturer imposed on the use of their computer-enabled products would be the final word. It would be a felony for a rival to make a tool that plugged into their system and let you do stuff the manufacturers blocked, even if that stuff was perfectly legal.

For example, under this system, distributing ad-blockers would be a felony. If the manufacturer designed a computer — any computer, whether or not it was used to watch video, because the standard was video-capable not video-intended — so that the browser used the operating-system’s DRM to prevent ad-blocking, bypassing it would be a crime.

At the time, we warned that giving manufacturers the power to restrict how you configured your own digital products would lead them to abuse that power — not to prevent copyright infringement, but to shift value from you to them. The temptation would be too great to resist, especially if the companies knew they could use the law to destroy any company that fixed the anti-features in their products.

Sometimes, this was dismissed as fearmongering, with company insiders insisting that they knew their colleagues to be good and honorable people who wouldn’t ever abuse this power. I expected that: no one is the villain of their own story, and we are all prone to inflated assessments of our power to resist moral hazard.

But there was another response to our activism, one that was far more telling: “Yes, we are going to take away all the features you get with your digital media and sell them back to you one click at a time. So what?”

These people were in thrall to a specific ideology: the neoliberal doctrine that markets are the most efficient way to allocate resources, and anything that isn’t a market can be improved by turning it into one.

That’s the brain-worms that leads “entrepreneurs” to flood the entire IRS switchboard with thousands of auto-dialers and then auction off the right to be bridged into a call when someone picks up:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/07/markets-in-everything/#no-th-enq

It’s the same species of brain-worms that causes “entrepreneurs” to make apps that let people vacating a public parking spot to sell off the right to park there next:

https://www.theverge.com/2014/6/23/5836232/san-francisco-is-going-after-apps-that-let-people-sell-their-public-parking-spots

It’s the same species of brain-worms that causes “entrepreneurs” to make fake bookings for every hot table at every restaurant in town and then auction off the right to dine:

https://brianmayer.com/2014/07/how-i-became-the-most-hated-person-in-san-francisco-for-a-day/

In the case of digital media, these brain-worms manifested as the certainty that we get too many rights when we buy or subscribe to digital media. The argument goes:

When you buy a book or movie or song or game, you may not want the right to sell it on the used market, or give it away, or re-read or re-watch or re-listen to it;

Because the only way to get media is to buy it outright, you might be paying more than you need to for that media;

Perhaps the seller would offer you a discount on a book you could only read once, or Christmas movie you could only watch in July;

The blunt instrument of sale means that there are lots of discount offers that never get made, so there are lots of people with less money to spend who are excluded from the market.

Put that way, it sounds reasonable, and indeed, in the margins, there have been some successes from the ability to transform an unconditional sale to a conditional license. You can “buy” a streaming movie on Youtube for $10, or “rent” it for $3; and you can pay $10/month for ad-free Spotify, $5/month for Spotify with some ads, or $0/month for ad-heavy Spotify.

But these are exceptions. Most of the pre-digital offers aren’t available at any price: you could buy a DVD and keep it forever, even if you never went back to the store again. If you “buy” a video on Prime or YouTube and then cancel your subscription and delete your account, you lose your “purchase.”

If you buy a print book, you can lend it out or give it away to a friend or a library or a school. Ebooks come with contractual prohibitions on resale, and whether an ebook can be loaned is at the mercy of publishers, and not a feature you can give up in exchange for a discount.

For brain-wormed market trufans, the digital media dream was our nightmare. It was something I called “the urinary tract infection business model.” With non-DRM media, all the value flowed in a healthy gush: you could buy a CD, rip it to your computer, use it as a ringtone or as an alarmtone, play it in any country on any day forever.

With DRM, all that value would dwindle from a steady stream to a burning, painful dribble: every feature would have a price-tag, and every time you pressed a button on your remote, a few cents would be deducted from your bank-account (“Mute feature: $0.01/minute”).

Of course, there was no market for the right to buy a book but not the right to loan that book to someone else. Instead, giving sellers the power to unilaterally confiscate the value that we would otherwise get with our purchases led them to do so, selling us less for more.

The Broadcast Flag was actually adopted by then-FCC chairman Michal Powell, so we sued him, along with our allies at Public Knowledge and the American Library Association, and kicked his ass, and the Broadcast Flag died in 2005:

https://www.eff.org/cases/ala-v-fcc

But the dream of the Broadcast Flag never died. All the streaming apps on your phone come with the same restrictions that the Broadcast Flag would have imposed on over-the-air videos.

It’s much worse on your big screen. Your cable receiver is a gigantic, energy-sucking, wallet-draining piece of shit; the average US household spends $200 on these clunky, insecure devices, and every attempt to “unlock the box” has been thwarted by Hollywood and the Copyright Office:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2016/10/newly-released-documents-show-hollywood-influenced-copyright-offices-comments-set

The UTI business-model didn’t take hold in most markets, but it’s alive and well in your cable box. That box is mandatory, and modifying it runs afoul of DMCA 1201, meaning you can go to prison for five years for helping someone unfuck their cable box.

Back when PVRs like Tivo entered the market, viewers were as excited about being able to skip ads as broadcasters and cable operators were furious about it. The industry has treated ignoring or skipping ads as a form of theft since the invention of the first TV remote control, which was condemned as a tool of piracy, since it enabled viewers to easily change the channel when ads came on.

The advent of digital TV meant that cable boxes could implement DRM, ban ad-skipping, and criminalize the act of making a cable box that restored the feature. But early cable boxes didn’t ban ad-skipping, because the cable industry knew that people would be slow to switch to digital TV if they lost this beloved feature.

Instead, the power to block ads was a sleeper agent, a Manchurian Candidate that lurked in your cable box until the cable operators decided you were sufficiently invested in their products that they could take away this feature.

This week, Sky UK started warning people who pressed the skip-ad button on their cable remotes that they would be billed an extra £5/month if they fast-forwarded past an ad. The UTI business model is back, baby — feel the burn!

https://www.examinerlive.co.uk/news/sky-warns-customers-charged-5-25644831

This was the utterly foreseeable consequence of giving vendors the power to change how their devices worked after they sold it to you, under conditions that criminalized rivals who made products to change them back.

Back in 2004, Wired published a special edition featuring reviews of new digital AV technology, almost all of which was encumbered with DRM. I had worked as a Wired reviewer on and off for years at that point, and I published a blog post taking the magazine to task for failing to note that all the features that it was praising in these devices could be taken away by the manufacturer at any time:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/12/28/bittorrent-write-up-in-wired/

Then editor-in-chief Chris Anderson defended the move, saying that DRM would encourage rightsholders to make their media available, and this was a net benefit:

https://longtail.typepad.com/the_long_tail/2004/12/is_drm_evil.html

I replied, saying this wasn’t the point: if you’re a trusted reviewer and you’re telling readers, “Buy this device because it has these three excellent features,” you have a duty to warn them that any of these features could be taken away due to factors beyond your control, leaving you without any recourse:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/12/29/cory-responds-to-wired-editor-on-drm/

This is a case I’ve made to other reviewers since, but no one’s taken me up on my suggestion that every review of every DRM-enabled device come with a bold warning that whatever you’re buying this for might be taken away at any time. In my opinion, this is a major omission on the part of otherwise excellent, trusted reviewers like Consumer Reports and Wirecutter.

Everywhere we find DRM, we find fuckery. Even if your cable box could be redesigned to stop spying on you, you’d still have to root out spyware on your TV. Companies like Vizio have crammed so much spyware into your “smart” TV that they now make more money spying on you than they do selling you the set.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/14/still-the-product/#vizio

Remember that the next time someone spouts the lazy maxim that “If you’re not paying for the product, you’re the product.” The problem with Vizio’s TVs isn’t that they’re “smart.” The problem isn’t that you’re not paying enough for them.

The problem is that it’s illegal to unfuck them, because Vizio includes the mandatory DRM that rightsholders insist on, and then hide surveillance behind its legal minefield.

The risks of DRM aren’t limited to having your bank-account drained or having your privacy invaded. DRM also lets companies decide who can fix their devices: a manufacturer that embeds processors in its replacement parts can require an unlock code before the device recognizes a new part. They can (and do) restrict the ability of independent service depots to generate these codes, meaning that manufacturers get a monopoly over who can fix your ventilator, your tractor, your phone, your wheelchair or your car.

https://doctorow.medium.com/about-those-kill-switched-ukrainian-tractors-bc93f471b9c8

The technical term for these unlock codes is “VIN-locking,” and the “VIN” stands for “vehicle identification number,” the unique code etched into the chassis of every new car and, these days, burned into into its central computerized controller. Big Car invented VIN-locking.

VIN-locking is the major impediment to securing the Right to Repair. Manufacturers of all kinds bootstrap the DMCA — a Clinton-era copyright law — into a new doctrine that Jay Freeman calls “felony contempt of business model.” Removing DRM is illegal, so any business model that hides behind DRM is illegal to thwart:

https://doctorow.medium.com/how-to-fix-cars-by-breaking-felony-contempt-of-business-model-1464231071e

With Felony Contempt of Business Model, repair is just the tip of the iceberg. When security experts conduct security audits of DRM-locked devices, they typically have to bypass the DRM to test the device.

Since bypassing this DRM exposes them to legal risks, many security experts simply avoid DRM-locked gadgets. Even if they are brave enough to delve into DRM’s dirty secrets, their general counsels often prohibit them from going public with their results.

This means that every DRM-restricted device is a potential reservoir of long-lived digital vulnerabilities that bad guys can discover and exploit over long timescales, while honest security researchers are scared off of discovering and reporting these bugs.

That’s why, when a researcher goes public with a really bad security defect that has been present for a very long time, the system in question often has DRM — and it’s why media devices are so insecure, because they all have DRM.

But these days, “media device” has ceased to be a meaningful category. As we warned Chairman Powell in 2003, soon every device would have a general purpose computer inside it, and any rule regulating “media devices” would regulate everything.

Cars are media devices. Many new cars sell with Sirius XM players built into their media centers (mine did, and I was bombarded with calls and letters from Sirius begging me to subscribe to it). These players have DRM. They also have incredibly grave security defects.

Security researcher Sam Curry and his colleagues discovered that they could hijack Sirius XM-enabled cars, armed only with the VIN number that was printed on its windscreen. Sirius’s authentication sucks and once you authenticate to an in-car Sirius-enabled app, you’re in:

https://gizmodo.com/sirius-xm-bug-honda-nissan-acura-hack-1849836987

Curry and pals were able to plunder personal information from connected cars, lock and unlock them, and execute other commands available through the cars’ telematics systems. A similar hack of Jeep cars in 2017 let attackers seize control over steering, brakes and accelleration:

https://www.wired.com/2015/07/hackers-remotely-kill-jeep-highway/

The auto industry itself admits that its products gather so much information on you — the contents of your phone, the places you go — that any breach could endanger your very life. Indeed, they made this claim to try to scare Massachusetts voters away from passing Right to Repair legislation in 2020:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/03/rip-david-graeber/#rolling-surveillance-platforms

The same structural factors that make cars dumpster-fires of slapdash security are also present in your phone, and, thanks to the 2017 decision to standardize DRM in browsers, in your browser:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2017/09/open-letter-w3c-director-ceo-team-and-membership

This all starts with the idea that the problem with “content” is that Congress gave us, the public, too many rights under copyright, and that nickel-and-diming us to buy those rights a la carte would fix this problem. 20 years later, the benefits of this system are thin gruel indeed, and the costs keep mounting.

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[Image ID: A wood-paneled living room with a large flat screen TV on a stand. Before the TV sit two small boys with their arms around each others' shoulders, sitting crosslegged on the carpet in front of the set. The screen of the set displays a giant arcade machine '25¢ Push to Reject' coin-slot. Above the set, the glaring red eye of HAL9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey oversees the scene, ringed with a burned circle.]

[sgiandubh]

Sunday sounds: Communist Sultans of Swing

1946. The same year Winston Churchill gave his historically prescient Iron Curtain speech, somewhere in Missouri, a humble jazz trio was formed in Bucharest, by the Greek-Romanian Grigoriu brothers.

Both events were promised to have an enduring impact, in two very different and dramatically separated hemispheres. Churchill's self-fulfilling prophecy was the starting point of a very long (and perhaps never ending) Cold War. In the meanwhile, Trio Grigoriu made millions cheekily laugh, behind that same Iron Curtain, with their almost too #silly to be true, 'socialist realism' infused jazzy summer hits. They were the real Communist Sultans of Swing, and you can look at their body of work both as user-friendly Stalinist propaganda or lethally subversive parodies of that same Stalinist propaganda. Their breakthrough hit was Cântecul Satelitului (The Satellite's Song), a light and airy bebop close harmony released on October 4th 1957, on the very day the Sputnik 1 Soviet satellite was launched into orbit, to shrieks of commandeered joy from Budapest to Vladivostok:

But their platinum record (assuming platinum record success is relevant for the local context) was the immortal Macarale (Cranes - as in 'lifting gears', not the birds), released right in the middle of the Camelot Era, in 1961. We all know the lyrics by heart, of course. And its opening line, 'Zeci de blocuri râd în soare argintii' ('Tens of buildings are smiling in the sun'), has become an ironic idiom for 'I can't be arsed to do this job, but I have to, last minute' (usually spoken with an exhausted eyeroll):

Glenn Miller's influence seems very present, here, and it was an instant hit. It's easy to remember and has the earworm quality ensuring it never dies. Gen Z hipsters are still swaying on it, in Bucharest's clubs, as we speak, but they would be unable to tell you the story. They simply like the music and, as everything Commie, find it 'cool'.

The story line is simple: the storyteller is working on a non descript construction site. They are building a new neighborhood, like the cookie-cut ones you see in the above clip (in stark contrast with the older, French inspired, Bucharest staples). They have to work hard and fast, and you can immediately understand there is a socialist competition going on (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Socialist_emulation). But hey, our guy is in love and the object of his desire is singing 'a new song' (everything was 'a new song' back then, as you can imagine: in with The New, out and death to The Old), as 'her little hand is slowly lifting the heaviest crane's arm'. The Socialist woman is, as I already explained, many things at once: the perfect Daughter, Sister, Mother, Scientist, Teacher, Doctor, Cosmonaut (never an Astronaut, that was The Other Bloc). Was she also a Lover? Apparently yes, because the 'heaviest crane's' arm is delicately lowered next to the storyteller's palm and delivers him a short note: 'have a productive workday, I love you'.

No, I shit you not, this is exactly what the song says and this is exactly why we roll our eyes smirking every time we remember that first line, in casual conversations.

In an alternate universe, those guys would have probably hit it big on Broadway. But because we are not living in that alternate universe, they fondly made it on this page.

[incarnateirony]

What an overview.

So let's see what we have with scripthunt now

Wiki leaking but helping lie about the pilot script to incite harassment she could have stopped at any time.

Wigglebox satellite stalking jensen and whatever the fuck that finale script stunt was and being mad 2po and wiki ever released the script that proved I was right and they were lying, which she implied she would have chosen to hide.

2po lying about--well, everything. First the M&G he tried to retaliate when he was busted lying, then just. You know. Lie after lie after lie easily disproven with receipts. Honestly just like. My whole blog vs his whole blog. My receipts vs his unsubstantiated claims. The 5K he conned people out of and then him and wigglebox lied, is a good start. It's been out for days and he still pretends no one responded.

2po's sources are violent antis that actually were threatening to cut hellers at a con for asking heller questions in a Cockles M&G. This is why his retaliation failed. Because his own sources were drunk, rabid and yelling. So his lies got outted.

working with what's basically a 4chan troll using pepe memes as his "source" against me that is actively doxxing people in a revenge quest to find my sources and not even doxxing "the right people." but sure as shit spamming their contact info into people's inboxes and making public allegations. Openly spent their time trying to get a server to hate on Misha. UPDATE: THEY RESPONDED TO LET US KNOW THEY'RE ACTUALLY A REDDIT TROLL.

An ocean of trolls that feel entitled to break historic LGBTQ DONT OUT PEOPLE rules and trying to blame everyone but themselves, including Misha, after using it to drill in more attacks on Misha. (gestures at the last few days of my inbox, and that's just the like 1/4 i replied to.) This, for the record, is the exact talking point Snot Rag kept trying to re-spin in our server (well, one of them.) So yay. You guys got used by a reddit incel to attack a guy.

Grifting tens of thousands of dollars out of fandom "for charity" which actually just lets them cruise gold panel cons, get something signed, and then return equivalent pocket change for the actual investment to the charity. (scripthunt's whole schtick.)

A good deal of that server is banned and on a revenge quest. Sins include harassing users across multiple channels, obsessive sea lioning and trolling for months on end, and trying to hijack server permissions to delete it.

Sneaking socks into multiple servers, not just mine, just general ongoing violation of privacy and trust. Doesn't end at Misha. All reporting back to 2po.

Oh yeah. Just. Excellent folks.

Update:

@louisianefille

That snotrag person messaged me back in March. Not sure when they got banned from the server, but they sent me a link to a blind item that was supposedly about J*red. IDK what they were up to/where they were going with their messages.

[usafphantom2]

Today is the SR -71's 59th birthday as a birthday present I would like to share a part of Paul Crickmore’s (a humble yet highly, intelligent English gentleman) summary of the SR 71 from his new book Lockheed Blackbird: behind the Secret Missions the Missing Chapters (it can be found on page 498.)

The SR 71 with cameras in the chine bay and SLAR sideways-looking airborne radar our SR 71 boasted the ability to provide simultaneous optic coverage of the target area.PHOTINT and RADINT ( photograph, and radar intelligence) which the A-12 could not do.

It was the SLAR system was continuously upgraded throughout the life of the program accumulating in an operational development of Loral Advance synthetic aperture radar system a SARS. This advance, digitalized radar system with a resolution of less than 1 foot at NADAR enabled, imagery to be transmitted and real time /near real time direct to the end user.

This capability was demonstrated at Det 2, and could have been deployed operationally much earlier if the program hadn’t been starved funds by the so-called “fighter mafia” that held the balance of power in the Pentagon during the late 1980s early 1990s and that ultimately allocated Air Force funding accordingly the same generals as well as senior officials of other US intelligence agencies were the ones who argued that the aircraft was far more expensive to operate than any other aircraft in the inventory.

🌟OF COURSE IT WAS. THAT’S BECAUSE NO OTHER AIRCRAFT IN THE INVENTORY COULD DO ANYTHING LIKE WHAT THE SR 71 AND ITS SENSORS COULD DO. AS HABU PILOT, MAC McKENDREE OBSERVED “IT’S NOT AN AIRPLANE. IT’S AN AIR-BREATHING MAN SUBORBITAL SATELLITE. EVERYTHING ABOUT IT WAS UNIQUE: FUEL, HYDRAULIC FUEL, TIRES SCREWS, FASTENERS, TITANIUM CONSTRUCTION IS UNIQUE IF YOU WANT TO COMPARE THE SR TO SOMETHING THEN COMPARE IT TO THE SPACE SHUTTLE “

Air Crews selection, for the SR-71 program was always hotly contested as they were all unquestionably at the top of their game. They had to be….The demanding mission, the complexity of the aircraft and its systems…

Consequently, crewmembers entering the SR-71 program with the rank of major were usually promoted to Lt.Col among completing their tour. However, all of this changed with the arrival of General Larry Welch, as Air Force chief of staff, and his cohort as a result, the last six crews that entered the program as Majors, were all passed for promotion, the rumor was that their personal folders were never passed the promotion board and NOT surprisingly. This had the demoralizing effect on their pride, and a detrimoralizing impact on their salary and pension. There is no doubt that those involved with the Blackbirds were of the highest caliber and real team players… totally focused on ensuring that the mission whatever it may have been was a success. as Pratt and Whitney‘s Arnie Gunderson recalled” Everyone I encountered on the program was proud of the role. From the commander of the wing to the airman who mopping up the JP seven from under the wings everyone demonstrate the highest degree of respect for their teammates “

And it’s final analysis it can be argued that the SR-71 program was terminated at least five years earlier than necessary. Indeed, it had received the technology packages that already existed and were demonstrated during the period which it was briefly reactivated during Det 2 at Edwards from 1995 to October 10, 1997

Kelly Johnson would have been bang on the money when he predicted in 1964 that his platform could perform its duty to the intelligence community and national leadership until 2001 and beyond.

If history teaches us anything it is that we should never take democracy for granite and that dictators should never be appeased.

Thank you, Paul Crickmore a honorary member of the Habu family. We all appreciate what you have done to tell the story of the unique SR 71 program Linda Sheffield a proud Habubrat.

@Habubrats71 via X

[frogblast-the-ventcore]

Good day, it's me again!

Got some questions for your Astralverse universe.

I tried scouring your blog for astralverse-tagged posts but didn't find sufficient answers so I figured I should present these questions.

It's mentioned in the doc that FTL travel is commonplace but FTL comms is only in experimental stage, by the looks of it. Which is weird in my mind because I thought it should be easier to solve FTL comms first. What's the in-universe lore/explanation for this?

Still on the topic of FTL technology, who's the primary user? Everyone in the Confed, just the founders, a handful of trusted races? And who was the first to kickstart the development for FTL? Is it before or after the Confed was formed?

How is currency handled between races? Is there a unified currency that everyone uses (a la present day European Union with EUR), or is currency exchange/conversion still required?

The flag for The Plex appears to be a flat grey rectangle. I thought it was a bug on my end but it's also displayed like that on desktop. Is that actually what their flag looks like? Or just a placeholder for now maybe?

This one isn't really a question but the Lamian Assembly is described as "society of semi-humanoid serpents" which I glossed over at first, but then clicked with something that I know of: the Lamia people in Elder Scrolls, who also resemble humanoid serpents. I don't know if that's where you took the name from or simply a mere coincidence, but I felt I wanted to bring that up.

Heya! Always happy to answer questions!

1. The specific method of FTL travel in the setting requires some manner of actual mass to work - sending information which has no mass was long thought impractically difficult. The Va'ruun's creators could do it, and consulting with the few of them that are left is how the experimental systems have come to be.

But until recently the method of "FTL" communication was just loading up a communication nano-satellite with messages, having it be carried by an FTL capable vessel into orbit of a given planet, and released, whereupon it transmits it messages to the surface. Not quite instantaneous communication, but decent enough. And importantly, it's fairly cost effective.

2. Everyone in the Confederation has FTL technology. FTL travel (like a lot of the more advanced technology in the setting, was originally a product of the same race that also created the Va'ruun.

The Va'ruun, after inheriting the creators' empire, and being a generous people, gave FTL to any species they befriended - which, when you are the Va'ruun, is extremely easy - any civilization is very likely to respond positively to them for any number of reasons.

3. There is indeed a common currency - the Confederation Unified Exchange note - the CUEnote. It exists both as physical currency (largely for governments, banking, and the like) and digital currency (for most average civilians). They are backed by the Confederation Central Reverse Bank, and derive value from both the largest reverse of physical precious metals in the known galaxy, and a significant reverse of physical member state currency.

Physical CUEnote designs are flat, plasticised sheets roughly 150 x 60 mm in size (roughly equivalent to a modern day US dollar). They exist in 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, 50, 100, 200, 500, 1000, 2000, 5000, and 10000 note varieties - though only notes up to 500 are in widespread circulation.

Regardless, individual member state currencies still exist, and are fully legal tender - conversion rates are calculated by the CCRB and change on a yearly basis. Currencies used by sub-states of member states are also accepted, especially when a member state is not an entirely unified government (to quote a famous Confederation economist: "The oft-cited 'most member states have 4.5 currencies' factoid is actually statistical error. Most member states have a single currency. The Terran Alliance, who lives in the Sol system and has over 180 currencies on one planet, is an outlier and should not have been counted. Please stop counting them, they're giving me nightmares.")

4. That is, in fact, their official flag! The Plex government insists, and has always maintained, that there is a "very beautiful design" adorning it.

Most people are convinced this is the Plex playing a species wide joke.

5. I took the name from more mythological sources there, but so did Elder Scrolls, so convergent evolution.

Ironically enough, the Lamia would actually be better described as "nagas", at least in a modern (furry) sense of the term.

They are, after all, essentially just the Vipers from XCOM:

[a-lesson-you-never-asked-for]

Basic Codes

In this 3rd instalment, we shall discuss some basic codes and cyphers that encode information. We won't go too much in depth into this, but some of these will be familiar and some won't. At the end of the day, they're just short examples showing how messages can be simplified into a bunch of symbols that make things easier to communicate.

Enigma Machine and a Morse Code transmitter

Morse Code

Morse Code is a fun example that was originally designed for long distance communication using electromagnetic telegraphy (the process of sending written messages across long distances using changes in electromagnetic fields).

The way this works is somewhat similar to binary, you have dots and dashes that are organised in a way to represent letters, and spaces that represent the pauses between letters.

The dit duration is the length of time taken to represent 1 dot, that is, just press the button. So it would take 1 dit unit (or 1 dit) to represent the letter 'E' as you can see in the above picture. For a dash, you have to hold down the button a little longer, having a length of 3 dits. So if you go to the letter 'A', the length of the word is 4 dits!

There are 3 types of pauses:

Symbol space - Pausing between dots and dashes to represent a character. For the sake of convenience, I'll represent this with an s. This has length 1 dit.

Letter space - Pausing between characters. I'll use p to represent this. This has length 3 dits.

Word space - Pausing between words. For the sake of convenience, I'll represent this with w. This has length 6 dits.

Let's say you want to represent the letter B, given by "_s." and would have length 5 dits.

If you want to represent BE, it would look like "_s.p." and would have length 9 dits.

And finally BE U, which would look like "_s.p.w.s.s.s_" and would have length 25 dits.

The length of times for the dit durations is up to the users, they're the ones operating, but these are typical ways of defining lengths of words in a standardized way. The actual length of a dit can be anything, anywhere from 10 milliseconds to 100 milliseconds, but as long as one is consistent and efficient.

One thing to notice is that the length of the coded characters are different for each letter of the English alphabet. This is due to entropy, where the length of the encrypted character is inversely related to the frequency of the letter itself. 'E' is the most common letter, so it has the shortest representation, and 'Q' is the least frequent, so it is the longest.

ISBN

The ISBN is an international naming standard that identifies books uniquely (for those published before 2007). It is a 10 digit number that comes of the form

The check digit is an important feature in codes. It enables one to check if the code/message is a valid message or not. This is found in error-correcting codes, and we'll go into this later. It's like saying, "Oh how do I trust this tumblr dude?" and then using certain indicators you can use to make sure that they're legit.

The first 3 parts of the ISBN number are usually easily determined, because they are very deterministic. The check digit is determined using a formula that says

Take the above example and let's make a table

The formula asks us to calculate the sum of the n x digit column, and check if that's divisible by 11. In the case of 7, we notice that the sum of that column is 297 (which is divisible by 11). In the case of 8, the sum of the column is 307, which is not divisible by 11. So if you're given the ISBN 0-387-97812-8, you know that it is not a valid ISBN number.

The above code is called ISBN-10, and there are variations, one example is ISBN-13 which relies on a 13 digit code with the exact same principle so that you can accommodate for a lot more books.

There are several examples of error-correcting codes and play important roles in codes employed on satellites where there is a large amount of corruption of machine code going on.

Coming up next...

We won't do much on error-detecting and error-correcting codes because they are not really useful to explain at the moment. But what we can do it show how to actually design an encryption-decryption algorithm going from the alphabet to a set of symbols, like what we saw in Morse code.