#SS index

[falseandrealultravival]

The convenience of each language (single stroke index: SS index)

When it comes to conveying information quickly, the convenience of the language speaks for itself. It's not a case of being glamorous, it's about speed rather than perfection. Even if it's just a slightly strange expression, it's fine. English seems to be quite fast, but I made the following considerations. It analyzes whether or not each character can be written in one stroke for languages that use phonograms.

1-(P/L)::*

, and * is called the unicursal exponent. In English, a single stroke is called a single stroke, so it is also called the SS index. Below, for each language

1) English: The only letters that cannot be written in one stroke are i, j, t, and x, which is 26 letters.

1 - (4/26) = 0.84

2) Russian: It seems difficult, but the cursive handwriting is surprisingly simple, and there are 6 letters that cannot be written in a single stroke, so there are 32 letters in total.

1 - (6/32) = 0.81

3) Japanese (Hiragana)

　　There are 32 characters that cannot be written with a single stroke, and a total of 47 characters, so

1 - (32/47) = 0.32

Japanese (katakana) can only be written with 7 characters

1 - (40/47) = 0.15

　　　The katakana seems to be very inefficient.

4) Arabic: There are 17 characters that cannot be written in a single stroke, so a total of 30 characters

1 - (17/30) = 0.43

5) German has three symbols called Umlaut.

1 - (7/30) = 0.77

6) French There are many additional symbols such as　Axantegu. (By the way, there is also a bonus that the unread character string continues at the end of the word)

1 - (18/40) = 0.55

7) Consider Greek lowercase letters only

1 - (8/24) = 0.67

　

Regardless of today's situation, in the old days on the battlefield, transmitting information as simply as possible was a major factor in determining the outcome of a war. In that sense, English was the closest thing to a "world language," and in fact, it has become a "world language."

**Please note that this SS Index consideration is based on the assumption that all phonetic characters have equal frequency of use. **

[tvckerwash]

reddit is overcompensating. simple as. not saying they secretly hate it.

yeah that's true, I feel like in the last year or so people have gotten a lot more overly optimistic about the series and sometimes I feel like they're super hyper vigilant of any sort of criticism—which I understand where said hyper vigilance comes from, but there is point where it's just too much lol.

[atzaurora]

╰┈➤ ᴅᴏʟʟ

[˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗] ძᥱssᥱr𝗍

❥ 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓: Seonghwa

➤ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: fem!reader x seonghwa

➤ ��𝒚𝒑𝒆: imagine (smut)

➤ 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑: dating

.ᐟ.ᐟ𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔.ᐟ.ᐟ: 18+/smut/suggestive content, MDNI!!!, oral & manual sex

➤ 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: inspiration || Just Seonghwa eating Y/N out...

➤ 𝒘/𝒄:

➤ 𝒂/𝒏: I need to get eaten out by Seonghwa so badly. I said what I said. Anyways it's a little short :'( originally I wanted to include some face riding too but didn't do it in the end...let me know if you want a fic with that tho! please leave a request if you want to, idk what to write next yet >.<

if you have any ideas or wishes let me know, requests are open

here's my [𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕]!

[𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕] here!

about me, my writings, request rules [𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆]!

"Ah~," you stifled a moan, feeling Seonghwa's fingers grazing your thigh, dangerously close to your heat. "Mhm, my precious baby. You look so gorgeous." His voice was raspy and low and you could feel yourself leaking, only at the sound of it.

Your body was flat against the couch, half of your clothes discarded and tossed somewhere on the floor, while Seonghwa laid on top of you. His hands roamed your body and his lips left marks on your neck.

"Ugh~ I need to taste you," he groaned, running his tongue up your neck. You hummed in agreement, the amount of arousal that was already dripping out of your hole was a big amount, considering Seonghwa hadn't even touched you yet.

"Please— mhm~ I'm so wet already, baby." The words came out more desperate than intended, but seeing Seonghwa's eyes darken, signaled you that he was only getting more turned on.

He lowered himself so his face was hovering above your pussy, his breath hot against your skin. He ran his fingers down your stomach and along your thigh. Seonghwa tugged on the fabric of your lace panties, pulling them aside so your glistening folds were visible.

He let out a low huff, satisfaction written across his face once he saw your pussy. "God, all of this is for me, huh?" He looked up at you, waiting for a reaction. You nodded your head, biting down on your lower lip. "Say it, love. Come on, speak," he demanded, clearly not happy with getting just a nod from you.

"Yes, Seonghwa, all— fuck— all for you. I'm all yours." Your eyes rolled back as you felt his index finger part your lips and trace the fingertip in between them.

He hummed satisfied at your reply, kissing your lower belly and trailing his mouth further down. "Your mine. Only mine." He mumbled, his lips now reaching your cunt. He continued to kiss your abdomen more before sticking out his tongue and running it across your entrance.

You threw your head back, getting lost in his touch and the building pleasure. You grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling on it a little. "That's it, baby. Gonna let your boyfriend eat you out nicely, mhm?," he whispered, loud enough for you to hear though.

"Yes, fuck— please, Hwa, d-don't stop. I— ah~" You failed to finish your sentence, the sensation of Seonghwa's tongue now inside you was overwhelming. He pushed it in all the way, his saliva drooling onto your skin. You felt his tongue swirling around, making your legs clench around him.

"Keep these open for me, doll." He pulled away for a second to speak and part your thighs again. You nod, watching desperately as he moved his head back between your legs, getting back to his dessert.

You gasped once he didn't only push his tongue inside you, but also two of his slim fingers, adding more to the pleasure. Seonghwa pumped his fingers in and out of you as he sucked on your cunt hungrily.

"Mhm~ r-right there, yes— AH~" your moans grew louder and you couldn't help but let out a scream once he started hitting your good spot. His fingers were knuckles deep inside your hole, making you see stars already.

He chuckled against your skin, sending vibrations through your whole body. Your fingernails were digging into his shoulders and scratching along his back, making sure to leave a trail. You felt a familiar knot building up in your stomach, your walls clenching around Seonghwa's fingers.

"Is my good little slut close?," Seonghwa asked, though he already knew the answer. "Yes, I-I'm so c-close." You managed to get the words out through the haze of the pleasure his tongue and hands were giving to you.

You could feel him getting rougher, occasionally biting down on your flesh. His free hand caressed your core, rubbing circles on it, making you whimper. You felt his fingers deeper inside of you, curling up before pumping out and inside again.

Your breath became heavier with each passing second and your hands gripped the sheets next to you. After Seonghwa's tongue went inside you once again, you couldn't hold it anymore.

Together with a groan, you came onto his tongue and fingers, your cum dripping onto his chin as well. Seonghwa pulled his face away and his fingers out of your fucked out cunt. He smirked up at you, liking his fingers clean and climbing up to your face. "You did so good, babe," he praised you, kissing you passionately.

Getting lost in the kiss, you closed your eyes, your hands sneaking up behind his neck to pull him closer. You could taste yourself on his tongue still, making you chuckle into the kiss, reminding what just happened in the past 30 minutes.

And you knew, with Seonghwa, you weren't even halfway done yet.

[chicgeekgirl89]

A/N: @lemonlyman-dotcom. My darling. I HAVE CONNED YOU!! This is like in the Hallmark movies when you find out he/she was really a prince(ss)/secret millionaire/the owner of the evil corporation all along. YOUR SECRET SANTA IS MEEEEEEEEE!!! The Christmas tree fic is a FAKE!! I pretended to moan and groan about how I couldn't get this fic written BUT REALLY I WAS DELIGHTEDLY CRAFTING IT FOR YOU THE WHOLE TIME!!! Oh the evil joy it brought me every time I posted a little snippet of complete malarky and you reblogged it MWAHAHAHA!! 😈 How did I do? Were you fooled by my outstanding acting? Hehe, I hope you were and that this is a complete surprise! I took your @tarlos-santa prompt idea about Owen and Carlos teaming up to get T.K. the perfect gift and ran with it. It's full of holiday shenanigans and little easter eggs for you, good luck finding them all! (Also I hope you like this badly photoshopped header, I am delighted by the low quality badness of it lol!)

Read on AO3

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Carlos freezes, his lips pressed against the soft skin that lies just below T.K.’s bellybutton. His left index finger is hooked into the elastic waistband of T.K.’s boxers and  he’s already pulled them down low enough to see the sharp jut of his husband’s hipbone. He lifts his head, slightly alarmed. “Am I sure I want to give my husband a pre-work blowjob? Well I was, but now I’m not.”

“No, not that. Please keep doing that,” T.K. says, shifting a little bit, his hands going up behind his head. “I meant are you sure you want to go Christmas shopping with my dad today?”

“Oh, that.” Carlos presses another kiss into him. “Why wouldn’t I want to go?”

“Because my dad is…a lot,” T.K. says, then sucks in a breath when Carlos scrapes his teeth over that sexy hipbone. “And he’s terrible at Christmas shopping.”

“I know,” Carlos mumbles against T.K.’s skin. “That’s why I’m going.”

A week ago Owen had given him a call and invited him out for lunch and Christmas shopping. Surprised, but also pleased, he’d readily agreed and they’d made plans to meet at a restaurant in The Domain and hit up some of the stores afterward. Owen had texted Carlos last night to remind him to wear comfortable, practical footwear and bring reusable bags. 

“Maybe,” he says, nipping at the sensitive skin in the crux of T.K.’s thigh so that he squirms, “if I go, you’ll actually get something you like this year.”

“You really think that you can convince my dad to buy something normal for Christmas?” T.K. scoffs. “Good luck.”

Carlos looks up at him again. “You underestimate the cow eyes?”

“You’re going to use the cow eyes on my dad?”

“If I have to.”

“You’re going to use the cow eyes on my dad to stop him from buying me a fifteen pound block of imported cheese from Italy because the salesman tells him it’s a good deal? Or a decorative, three foot tall, hand carved horse statue that he thinks matches the aesthetics of the loft? Or—“

“I will take care of it,” Carlos assures him.

“What if he—“

“T.K.!”

“What?”

“How about we stop talking about your dad while I’m trying to blow you?”

He tugs T.K.’s boxers down, freeing his morning wood and T.K. lets out a hiss as the cool air of the loft touches his skin along with Carlos’ fingers. “Okay, yeah,” he says, his voice tight with the beginnings of pleasure. “We can do that.”

Two hours later Carlos is showered and dressed and pulling into the parking lot on the north side of the Domain. He checks the mall map and heads toward Flower Child, a restaurant with great vegan options and fresh ingredients.

Owen is sitting at a table outside, a Yankees hat on his head, and he stands when Carlos gets close, excitement on his face. “Carlos, good to see you,” he says, pulling him in for a brief hug.

“Thank you for the invitation.” 

Owen looks at him sympathetically as they sit. “I know this year is going to be hard,” he says. “And I know Christmas shopping with me isn’t the same as doing it with your dad, but I want to help where I can.”

Carlos bites back a snort of laughter. He and his dad never once Christmas shopped together. His dad hated shopping. It’s very sweet that Owen—who loves shopping and would consider an afternoon at the mall with his son a highlight of his week—thinks Gabriel and Carlos would have enjoyed doing the same, but honestly the idea of trying to drag his dad around for hours buying presents is hilarious.

“That’s very thoughtful Owen, thank you,” Carlos says, hoping with all his might that his dad is watching down from somewhere and laughing too.

“I took the liberty of ordering us both their seasonal rose petal lemonade,” Owen says. “Have you had the Glow Bowl here? The shiitake combined with the sunflower sauce is di-vine.”

“That sounds good,” Carlos says, flipping the menu over to take a look.

“The last time I brought T.K. here he had the roasted beet and organic apple salad.”

“I think I remember that,” Carlos says with a smile. His father-in-law has a penchant for taking menu items very seriously, a fun quirk that has carried over to T.K. His husband gets very excited anytime they try a new restaurant. Although he usually ends up liking Carlos’ meal better than his own, stealing bites until Carlos offers to switch. 

He ends up ordering the Glow Bowl and Owen decides to go wild and try the Brussels sprouts and organic kale salad after some banter with their server. “So,” Owen says, taking a sip of his lemonade. “How’s the new job?”

“Not so new anymore,” Carlos says. It’s been almost eight months at this point, but he and Owen really haven’t spent any significant time together since he started with the Rangers outside of professional reasons. He’s barely had time for his husband let alone anyone else. “I feel like I’m starting to find my place though. It’s different from beat work.”

“I’d imagine so. The hat and the belts alone are quite the change,” Owen comments.

Carlos chuckles. “Yeah it’s definitely a look.”

“Well, it’s one you wear quite well. How’s your mom?”

His smile dims. “She’s okay. The holidays are hard. She and my dad had a lot of traditions. But my tías and my sisters have been around a lot, so that helps.”

“And she has a son who is carrying on his father’s legacy,” Owen says. “I’m sure that helps too.”

Carlos shrugs, letting his fingers hug the glass in front of him, the condensation making them slick. “I guess.”

“You are humble to a fault Carlos,” Owen says. “I’m sure both of your parents are proud of you. I know I am. The way you’ve handled things this last year is impressive.”

“It doesn’t feel impressive.” Vulnerability slips into his tone. It’s not something he allows often, but his father-in-law pulled him back from the edge of making one of the biggest, most irreparable mistakes of his life. He’s already seen Carlos at his worst; admitting that he’s been struggling won’t do any damage. “It feels like I’m barely keeping my head above water most days,” he admits.

“The first year of marriage is always challenging,” Owen tells him factually. “I would know, I’ve done it several times. You and T.K. have faced some unique circumstances that have made it even more difficult. But you’re still together, working on yourselves, your relationship, your careers. That is impressive. Don’t forget to let yourself celebrate it.”

“Thanks,” Carlos says, dropping his eyes as his cheeks flush. “That means a lot.”

“Good.” Owen taps the table, his face serious. “Now, let’s talk about T.K.’s birthday. I have some ideas.”

They eat and talk with companionable ease. Carlos steers Owen away from the idea of hiring a mariachi band and circus performers for the party, but does concede to hiring a DJ. They also decide to have it catered by Carlos and T.K.’s favorite taco truck; the one that makes homemade churros that are to die for.

When they finish eating they throw away their garbage and Owen looks at him with renewed vigor. “So,” he says, “where should we start?”

“Well I have a few ideas—” 

“So do I! Come on, let me show you!”

Carlos follows his father-in-law down the line of stores. Even though it’s seventy-five degrees outside the place feels festive. There are windows decked out with wreaths and snowmen and Christmas trees, and Mariah Carey is blasting over the speakers. Families walk by, some smiling, others arguing. There are little kids dressed in their holiday best, ready for family photos, and a few melting down over toys that Santa won’t be bringing for several more weeks.

They walk into a store selling fitness equipment and Owen gestures grandly to a large black tub. “An ice bath!”

Carlos tries to school his face into something neutral. “An ice bath?”

“They are all the rage in the health and fitness industry right now. They boost your metabolism, provide stress relief, reduce inflammation, and improve your mood.”

“Mhm,” Carlos says, fully aware of the ice bath craze, but seeing for the first time just how difficult it might be to sway his father-in-law away from some of his more zany gift ideas.

Owen’s face falls in a way that is so reminiscent of T.K.’s disappointed face that Carlos feels a pang of guilt. “You don’t like it.”

“No, I—it’s a great idea,” Carlos says. “I’m just…I’m not sure where we’d put it in the loft.” He tries to emphasize how small and unsuited the loft is to this kind of gift without saying it aloud.

“Ah!” Owen says. “That’s the thing! This one is completely collapsible. Store it in the closet until you want it and then inflate it with one of these pumps in less than twenty minutes.” He grabs one off the shelf and holds it up to show Carlos. “It’s a cinch!”

“It…yeah. Seems…easy,” Carlos says, wondering how the hell he’s going to steer this ship to something more appropriate for T.K.

“And,” Owen says, “it’s really two for the price of one. Because you both can use it. Not at the same time obviously, it’s a very small tub.”

“Right,” Carlos says.

Owen eyes him critically. “Hm…you don’t seem to love the idea.”

“Oh no, I mean, if you think T.K.—“

“No, no, I can see it in your eyes. This isn’t the one. Not to worry, I have other options.”

He marches down a few aisles, but before they can find whatever it is he’s got his mind on, a smiling employee blocks their path. “Hello gentlemen. Finding everything you need?” she asks.

“Ah, not quite yet,” Owen tells her. “We are shopping for my son. This is his husband, Carlos.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says and something in her eyes hooks onto them. “You know, I’m not sure what exactly you’re in the market for, but we are having a sale on our elite face shape massagers.”

“Face shape massager?” Carlos asks in confusion.

She whips out a white box with a circular shaped device on the inside. “Yes! This little piece of technology can help reduce the appearance of double chins and improve skin quality! Would you like to give it a try?”

“Um, no, that’s okay,” Carlos says. “You know I really think we need to be moving on, right Owen?”

“No, no!” Owen says. “Give it a try. It can’t hurt. We Strand men have strong jawlines and I’m sure T.K. would like to keep his intact as the years go by. Let’s see how it works.”

Before Carlos can protest further the woman is looping the device over his head, his jaw clamping shut at the pressure. She pushes a button and red light illuminates his skin while the entire thing begins to vibrate. “Can you feel how the photons lift and firm the skin?” she asks.

“Mhmm,” Carlos says, the sound vibrating along with the massager.

“That is incredible,” Owen says, taking a step closer so he can get a better look. “It has red and blue infra lights?”

“It does! And it works even better when combined with our Cleopatra LED Light Mask,” she says, showing them a plastic mask that would make even Hannibal Lecter flee in terror. Carlos can only imagine how T.K. would use that to torture him, leaning over him in the middle of the night, his face lit by the red glow of the lights…

Carlos rips the massager off his face and hands it back to the woman. “Thank you so much for your time, but I think we’re going to go a different direction.”

"I don’t know Carlos, these both seem very reasonably priced,” Owen says, checking out the tag.

“You know what, I actually think T.K. already has both of these,” Carlos says in desperation. He mentally casts around for a believable lie. “…Marjan got them for his birthday… last year.”

“Oh, well, in that case—“

“What about for you, sir?” the woman asks Owen, her skills at capturing her prey honed to perfection after years of retail work. “I can see you take excellent care of your skin. Your pores are nearly non-existent.”

Owen beams and fifteen minutes later they walk out the door with two bags of “me-gifts” for him to put under his own Christmas tree. “Are you sure you don’t want some of these under eye de-puffers?” Owen asks, “They come in a two-pack.”

“I’m good,” Carlos says. “Thank you though.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Will do.”

“Okay,” Owen claps his hands. “So we’ve struck out on T.K. so far, but I have another idea.”

“Great!” Carlos says.

Owen looks at him with great confidence. “A hat.”

“A hat?”

“A hat.”

Forty-five minutes later Carlos loses the hat battle and they leave a Western wear shop with a brown leather cowboy hat for T.K. that he is going to love, but will have no practical use for outside of their bedroom. Owen is thrilled that his son can now match with Carlos, and Carlos is just glad they got the brown one and not the shiny blue one with silver stars.

He offers to take their bags to the car since they’re starting to get in the way and he’s on his way back, trying to figure out how he’s going to convince his father-in-law to go to Dick’s Sporting Goods and buy some batting gloves that are actually on T.K.’s wish list. Owen will probably dislike this idea because it is both practical and reasonably priced.

Carlos is plotting his plan of attack when a hand reaches out and grabs him, jerking him behind a sign with a map of the mall on it. “Whoa, hey!” he says, before realizing it’s Owen who has latched onto his arm. “What’s going on?”

“Look. Over there.”

Carlos follows the line of his finger to a kiosk selling cellphone cases and accessories. “Owen, what am I looking at?”

“That guy.”

“The one that looks like Santa?” The jolly, bearded fellow is talking to the seller at the kiosk, smiling and laughing.

“And the other guy.”

A shifty looking man, younger than the bearded grandfatherly type who is talking to the salesperson, is lurking near the stand too. “Okay…” Carlos says.

“I’ve been following them since you left. I’m pretty sure they just shoplifted from Bath and Body Works. And it looks like they’re about to do it again. We need to stop them.”

“Owen, that’s a pretty serious accusation. Are you sure that’s really what you saw?”

“The jolly one was distracting the workers with his holiday charm and I’m pretty sure the shifty one put several hand sanitizers in his pockets.”

Carlos barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. “Pretty sure?”

“There was a stand of candles in the way, but I know I’m very sure he was shoving them in by the handfuls.”

“Then let’s go tell a mall security guard.”

“All they’re going to do is call APD. You can arrest them now and prevent more crime from happening before APD can even get here.”

“I can’t arrest them because you think you saw them do something,” Carlos says.

Owen sighs. “Just watch. You’ll see.”

As they watch the shifty guy moves away from the stand and slinks toward another store a little further down. Carlos relaxes his shoulders. “See? Nothing happening here. Let’s check out—“

He’s interrupted by a huge crash as an entire shelf of the cellphone kiosk hits the floor, sending things flying everywhere. Everyone in the area stops and stares as the kiosk worker reels backward and falls to the floor.

Owen and Carlos move simultaneously. “Whoa, easy there,” Owen says as the kiosk worker tries to sit up. “That was a nasty fall. Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m okay,” he says, wincing as he pushes himself upright. “I don’t know what happened.”

“It looks like someone removed the pins from this shelf,” Carlos says, examining it. 

“Removed the pins? Why would someone do that?”

“Could have been a prank of some kind,” Carlos says.

“Or it could have been someone trying to create a distraction,” Owen says, giving Carlos a meaningful look.

“A distraction?” The guy looks confused. “What?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Carlos tells him. “Here, we’ll help you clean this up.”

They spend a few minutes picking up cellphone bits and bobs and helping the guy get the shelf back into place. “Is that everything?” Owen asks.

The guy looks around. “Yeah. I think so. Thank you guys for your help, I’m sure you have other things to get back to.”

As soon as they’re out of earshot Owen shakes his head. “Told you. Shoplifters.”

“Owen…”

“I know, you think I’m crazy. But where are that Santa guy and his shifty elf helper now, huh? Did they stick around to help? No. I bet you that shifty guy loosened that shelf on purpose and then he and Santa grabbed things from one of these nearby stores while we were distracted.”

“Or,” Carlos says pragmatically, “the shelf was never installed correctly and fell on its own.” He smiles and nods toward the sporting goods store. “How do we feel about some batting gloves?”

Owen does buy the batting gloves, but Carlos suspects it’s only because he’s preoccupied with his fictional shoplifter case. He keeps looking around, trying to be casual about it, but failing miserably. Strand men are great at a lot of things; subtlety is not one of them.

“You’re still thinking about those guys, huh?” Carlos asks as they walk out of Dick’s Sporting Goods.

“I know in my gut that they’re up to no good, Carlos,” Owen says. “You see a lot of shady people in my line of work.”

“More than in mine?” Carlos asks skeptically.

“Okay, fair point. But are you really telling me you don’t think they looked a little suspicious?”

Carlos mentally reviews what he saw earlier. “They definitely looked like they could be trouble. But we have no proof. Unless we see something else, there’s nothing we can do.”

“I’m so glad you agree,” Owen says. “I think it’s time for further investigation.”

Carlos stops walking, his brow furrowing in surprise. “Further investigation?”

“Come on. We’re making a little detour. I hope you know what you want for Christmas.”

Carlos follows him toward the center of the mall where a giant Christmas display has been set up and fake snow flurries from the sky. There’s a large gingerbread cottage, fake reindeer, a candy-cane lined path, mounds of cotton acting as the only snowfall Texas will see this year, and the centerpiece of it all is a gigantic throne upon which sits a jolly Santa who is holding two screaming toddlers while an elf attempts to get a picture worthy of a Christmas card. 

“Owen, what are we doing here?” Carlos asks. Two men hanging around a kid-friendly area sans children is not a good look.

“I heard that Santa guy talking earlier. He doesn’t just look like Santa, he is one of the mall Santas. The scrawny guy is an elf. And I know where their green room is.” He takes a look around and then ducks under one of the candy cane striped ribbons that line the area to keep pedestrians out. “Follow my lead,” he says and then drops out of sight into a mound of cotton snow.

“Owen!” Carlos hisses, dropping to his own knees instinctually so that both of them are now hidden in the piles of fluff. “Owen what are you doing?”

“Investigating. This way,” Owen whispers over his shoulder, beckoning Carlos forward. 

He really has no choice. Owen is going to do this whether Carlos follows him or not. So Carlos crawls on his hands and knees after his father-in-law, past reindeer legs and lollipop stems, until they reach the base of the gingerbread house. 

Owen points silently toward a cutout window and, like something out of a cheesy, 90’s Christmas film, they both rise up underneath it, trying to listen and peek over the sill without being seen. 

Sure enough the Santa look alike and his scrawny elf partner are both inside. “Ugh. Only like fifteen hand sanitizers and a couple hand lotions,” the scrawny guy says, shoving merchandise into a large blue duffle bag. “Got some decent jewelry from Kendra Scott while everyone was distracted with that cell phone kiosk though.”

“I told you. We have to keep it small. Otherwise people will get suspicious. Besides, we got that laptop last week and all those clothes from Anthropologie. Those are worth a lot on resale.” Santa takes a sip from his coffee cup. “I made almost ten grand off a mall in El Paso last year. Trust me. This’ll be worth it if we can make it a couple more weeks.”

“It had better be. This elf costume itches,” the scrawny guy retorts, reaching for a red and green costume hanging from a hook on the wall.

Owen motions to Carlos and they crawl back out toward the regular part of the mall. “There you have it,” Owens says as they stand. “Proof. Let’s bust in there and arrest them.”

“You aren’t authorized to arrest anyone. And I’m off duty,” Carlos says. “There are lots of bystanders around. This isn’t a violent crime. We need to call it in first.”

“Okay, so call away.”

“I will,” Carlos says. “Keep an eye on them, let me know if they go anywhere.”

“You got it,” Owen says.

Carlos sends a mental apology to his dad. He’d been really annoyed all those times Gabriel had gotten caught up in one of Owen Strand’s schemes. But now he can see that it’s a very slippery slope and once you start sliding you can’t stop.

He places a call, explains the situation and confirms that officers will be arriving shortly. Relieved that this is almost over, he turns back to tell Owen they need to stick around until APD arrives, but Owen has vanished

Frantically Carlos scans the area, his eyes landing in horror on the line of children and parents waiting eagerly to meet Santa. Sometime in the last ten minutes their suspects have taken center stage, Santa on his throne and Scrawny taking photos. Owen is up next in line, the woman behind him eyeing him suspiciously as she holds tightly to the hand of an eager little boy in a sweater with a T-Rex wearing reindeer antlers on its head. 

Before Carlos can even move, Scrawny, now dressed in full red and green elf regalia, calls Owen forward and he marches up toward Santa’s throne. “Oh no,” Carlos whispers under his breath as he jogs over to the line. “Excuse me,” he says, trying to push toward the front.

“Hey! No cutting! Get in the back!” an irate father yells.

Another elf with a headset puts both hands out to stop Carlos from moving further. “Sir! Sir! You have to wait at the end of the line!” 

“This is official Texas Ranger business,” Carlos tells her, his heart pounding as he watches Owen step right up to their suspects.

“Right, sure it is,” she scoffs.”

“Buddy, what do you want?” Santa asks, suspicion in his voice, despite the smile on his face.

“Owen, stop!” Carlos calls desperately, pushing past the headset elf who immediately begins calling for security.

Either Owen doesn’t hear or he doesn’t care, his voice carrying over the din of the crowd. “What I want to know is, why you think it’s acceptable to use the good name of Santa Claus for criminal activity,” he says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Santa tells him. “Ho, ho, ho, is this some kind of joke?”

“It most certainly is not a joke,” Owen says. “Santa is supposed to give gifts away, not steal them for himself.”

“Okay, get out of here,” Scrawny the elf says, marching toward him.

“I will not get out of here,” Owen says hotly. “The two of you are robbing the stores of this mall and I won’t stand for it. Not at Christmas.”

“Buddy, you knock it off right now,” Santa says, his twinkly persona dropping away as he gets to his feet.

“You don’t deserve to wear this suit,” Owen tells him, poking a finger at his chest. “We have evidence of what you’ve done. Let’s not make a scene in front of all these families. The respectable thing to do here is to calmly turn yourselves over to the authorities.”

Owen is right. That would be the respectable thing to do. But this is not a respectable Santa. 

Instead, he runs. And Owen goes after him.

“Owen! Wait!” Carlos yells, vaulting a gumdrop fence to try and get closer.

It’s too late. Owen takes a flying leap and tackles Santa into a snowbank, knocking a fake reindeer’s head off in the process as the crowd around the display gasps in shock and Run, Run Rudolph begins to blast over the speakers.

“Stop! Texas Ranger!” Carlos yells, and then ducks as Scrawny grabs a giant candy cane and swings it at his head. 

Carlos catches the candy cane in both hands and grabs on tightly. “Drop it!” he orders. 

Scrawny refuses to let go and they wrestle over it for a minute until Carlos manages to rip it out of his hands, chucking it to the side. “Get on your knees,” he says, but Scrawny is scrappy. He lunges forward and catches Carlos around the middle, sending both of them sprawling onto the floor.

Carlos grunts as he lands flat on his back, the air immediately knocked from his lungs. Scrawny takes advantage of that to deliver a devastating blow to his jaw that sends pain exploding through Carlos’ face. 

On instinct more than skill he manages to hook a leg around Scrawny and roll them both over, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to the floor. “Stop moving,” he orders between gritted teeth. “Turn over.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Scrawny yells.

“Yeah well, you can tell the officers all about that when they get here,” Carlos huffs out, shoving the man onto his front and pinning his hands behind his back. 

His assailant subdued, he looks up and find that Owen has Santa in a headlock. “Get off of me!” Santa yells.

“You, are a very bad Santa,” Owen says breathlessly as blood pools in a cut on his lip and a black eye begins blooming around his eye socket.

“He’s hurting Santa!” The yell of a small child catches Carlos’ attention and his face heats as he realizes how many onlookers are gaping at them, cellphones taking video that is likely going to break the internet at some point later today.

“Owen let him go!” Carlos calls as mall security appears in the distance, one of them cruising in on a Segway that has been decorated in red and green tinsel garland.

Owen releases Santa, both of them doubling over in pain as Carlos pulls Scrawny to his feet. The Segway security guard skids to a stop and approaches him warily. “I’m Carlos Reyes, a Major with the Texas Rangers,” Carlos tells him. “These two have been stealing from stores in the mall all day. I have APD on the way.”

“We’ve been getting reports of items missing,” the officer says. “Didn’t ever think it would be Santa and his elf though.”

“Do you have somewhere to hold these two until they get here?” Carlos asks.

“Yes, sir.”

Carlos hands off Scrawny as another two guards grab Santa and plop him down into the back of a golf cart, securing his hands with zip ties.

“Are you okay?” Carlos asks Owen. It’s hard to get the words out, his jaw aching more and more with each syllable as it begins to swell.

“He got a couple good shots in,” Owen says, swiping at the blood on his lip. “I’ve had worse though.”

“You should have let me handle it,” Carlos says.

“Sorry Carlos, I know you’re good. But you’re not good enough to take on Santa and his elf,” Owen tells him. 

Someone from mall security gets them ice and then APD finally shows up. Carlos has just finished giving his statement to an officer when EMS arrives. He groans when he sees who it is. “We’re in trouble.”

Owen follows his gaze and winces. “Oh yeah. We are.”

Tommy, Nancy, and T.K. are moving toward them and Carlos can spot the exact moment they get close enough to realize who they’re going to be helping today because all three of them freeze on the spot. T.K.’s eyes go wide and then a mixture of worry and fury crosses his face as he picks up the pace and beats his partner and his boss to their sides.

“What happened?” he demands, kneeling down and putting a hand on Carlos’ thigh.

“There was a situation that needed to be dealt with and we handled it,” Owen says and T.K. shoots him a look of fury. 

“What does that mean?” 

“It means Santa was up to no good and we stopped it,” Carlos says, suddenly feeling very tired. 

T.K. opens his mouth, but Tommy and Nancy reach them at that point and they have their own questions. “Well this is a bit of a surprise,” Tommy says, reaching for the ice that Owen is holding on his eye. “What on earth have you two been up to today?”

“Yeah Captain Strand, I thought you had worked through the anger issues,” Nancy says, attaching a pulse oximeter to Carlos’ index finger.

“This wasn’t anger. This was holiday related justice,” Owen says primly.

“More like holiday related shenanigans,” T.K. mutters under his breath, but the concerned eyes he shoots at Carlos and the steady rubbing of his hand up and down Carlos’ thigh for comfort bely that his anger is really just worry.

“Okay, both of you, tell us what hurts,” Tommy commands.

In the end they get taken to the hospital for x-rays. Owen is pronounced fine, no damage done to his eye socket, although he’ll have one hell of a black eye, and Carlos’ jaw isn’t broken, but it is badly bruised. Scrawny really packed a punch. He’s relieved when he’s finally back home in bed, T.K. fussing over the comforter and the ice pack he’s holding to his face.

“Is the ice too cold?” T.K. asks. “Are you hungry? Of course you’re hungry, it’s like eight o’clock. I’m going to make you some soup.”

Carlos has a feeling he won’t be eating solids for several days, and soup does sound good; lunch with Owen feels like weeks ago at this point. But he catches T.K.’s hand and tugs him down onto the bed instead. “In a minute,” Carlos says. “Sit with me for a bit first.”

T.K. perches on the edge a frown on his face as he brushes a hand through Carlos’ curls. “I shouldn’t have let you go with my dad today. I knew something like this would happen.”

“How could you possibly have known something like this would happen?” Carlos asks, cracking an incredulous smile and then wincing when it sends throbs of pain through his face.

“Because that’s how it always is with my dad. If there’s trouble, he’s going to find it. He’s almost gotten us killed twice. He went undercover with a white nationalist group. He bought a horse and kept it at the firehouse for weeks. It’s like he literally can’t help himself.”

“He did the right thing today though,” Carlos says. “Those guys had stolen thousands of dollars worth of stuff from the shops in the mall.”

“I know, but I wish you hadn’t been in the middle of it,” T.K. grumbles, his hand coming up to gently cup Carlos’ bruised jaw. “Did you get any shopping done? Or did you spend the entire time playing detective?”

“Oh we got some shopping done,” Carlos says. “And I tried. I really tried babe. But your dad is…”

“Stubborn? Difficult? Unpredictable?”

Carlos nods. “All of those things.”

“So? What should I look forward to getting for Christmas this year?”

“How do you feel about hats…?”

[alis0vvs]

I'm literally flying away from this shot, bye everyone

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Common Knowledge 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, power imbalance, bullying, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Geralt of Rivia, Harald Halfdansson, tall & plus-size reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You unfurl the strip of legal pad, marked with Professor Halfdansson's messy and pointed writing. The usual scribble that has you squinting at your returned papers. He must be the only instructor in the college that still handmarks his assignment.

Like much of his style, his slanted cursive is chaotic. Often, his lectures or spiraling tangents about his trips to Norway or some mythos unrelated to the topic at hand. He is a well of knowledge, but one which is often overflowing and bottomless.

The subject is far from your first choice. You prefer history with a human subject. Your intrigue is those events which truly occurred, people who once walked the same earth as yourself. Mythos and belief is a human creation but it hardly captures your imagination.

Along your search for title jotted onto the scrap, you find several other books to sate your personal preferences. A book on the Beothuk and their demise and another illustrated index of Renaissance art. Finally, you find the rear corner of the store, the mythology shelves nestled behind Spirituality and New Age.

You hover your finger before the rows and lean in, squinting through your lenses as you search out the rather Nordic-sounding name. You sense a shadow at the end of the aisle but do not look over. You'll just be on your way once you-- there it is.

You pinch the spine of the deep blue tome and slide it out. The cover is stamped with gold runes and lettering, a viking helm the central image. You double-check that it matches the professor's scrawl, however you can never be sure as his Fs look like Ss.

You set it flat on your armful of book, balancing the weight with the rest as you crumple the scrap and tuck it into your pocket. It's a bit more than you want to spend but it will be useful in maintaining your average through Halfdansson's course.

The shadow comes closer and you shift out of the way for the approaching customer. You sidle away as they huff, a breath that fans around them. He leans into the shelf and you sense his head shift and his gaze follow your slow retreat.

"Ah, you are a fan of vikings?" He asks, stopping you in your tracks. "You must've watched the show, hm? Cute series but not very accurate, you know?"

You blink, taken aback but his tone and his assumption. It isn't the first time you've met the attitude in your chosen discipline. When it comes to military history or the lives of vaunted men, there is often an intonation towards female scholars. You have been dismissed more than once.

"Never seen it," you lie, "you seem the type though."

You note his snow white hair, a peculiar shade, drawn back into a half pony, and his blindingly pale eyes. He wears a tunic better housed in the closet of a LARPing club and looms with an air of indignation. He puts a thick hand on the shelf and leans, no doubt used to towering over others.

"Funny, that is the very book I came for," he intones.

"Oh, what a coincidence."

HIs jaw ticks and he snorts, "seems you've found quite the lot--"

"I have. A whole trove."

You go to turn away and hear his sole clomp down behind you, "surely you can grab another encyclopedia. I really need that one."

"Uh, no, this is what I need."

He follows you down the aisle as you keep a quick step, uneasy at how he trails you so fervently.

"Maybe you should grab another one."

"I have all the others. I've been waiting months for that to come into stock," he insists.

"Well, you can find a kiosk and order one in--"

"On a three month backorder," he interjects and grabs your arm. "I'll pay you--"

You spin back to face him and hit his chest with your books, "don't touch me."

"Well, just..." he retracts his hand, "hold up. I'm trying to talk to you. To barter--"

"I'm sorry, but I need this book for class," you hug the books and back up, overly aware of the tingliness from where he grabbed you. You don't like being touched. At all. You can feel your heart pumping.

"Does the school not have a library, little girl?"

Your mouth falls open. Little girl? This guy just can't help himself. You haven't been rude, maybe matter-of-fact, but he's been downright mean.

"Not for sale," you push your shoulders up and back away.

You twist on your heel and speed away. You weave between the shelves and discount tables and join the winding queue at the counter. You don't look back and sway in your boots, waiting your turn.

"I could give you several recommendations for an alternate text," the man appears at your side, crowding you inside the black cords that rein in the queuing customers.

You ignore him and turn your head away. You wish he'd just take a hint. If you heard a single please or any sort of respect, you might consider it. He's only been a jackass and judging at first glance, he's too old for that.

"You don't need it–"

You move with the line and he growls, shifting with you.

"Look, girl–"

You snap your head back and give him a glare. He sucks in one cheek and exhales heavily, "miss, I am asking you nicely–"

The associate at the counter calls for next and you take your cue. You quickly cross the space and put your haul onto the wooden ledge. You hear the pushy stranger snarl something under his breath. You refuse to look back as you hand over your membership card.

Men like that are the very reason you despise the general public. Hard to fathom how you can be so intrigued by the human condition when you can hardly bear to be around other people.

[cellarspider]

Qunlat 12/12: Summary

⭅ Previous =⦾ Index ⦾=

This is a reference post that provides links and information previously detailed in my breakdown of canon Qunlat. In the name of brevity, there will be some technical jargon in here, which all gets explained in the linked posts.

Phonaesthetics, Phonotactics, and Phonology

Qunlat’s phonological inventory and orthography are variable from source to source and actor to actor. Please consult the dictionary, orthographic/phonotactic inventory, and IPA charts I’ve put together to catalog these.

Qunlat syllables are (CC)V(CC), with a limited number of consonant clusters permitted.

“ST” can act as a word onset or coda cluster, while “BR” can only act as an onset, and “SS” can appear as a coda. All of these plus “DD” can appear in intervocalic contexts and form clusters with other consonants.

Consonantal and vowel digraphs exist, including SH, TH, AA, EE, AY, AH, EH, and OH.

A canon pronunciation respelling guide exists, but it is not fully consistent with the observed realization of the actual language.

Hyphens can be used in compound words, situations where syllable boundaries might be ambiguous, and for aesthetic considerations.

Nouns and Pronouns

Nouns have no plural forms in Qunlat.

There are no definite or indefinite articles in Qunlat.

“Maraas” can act as a negative article.

Personal pronouns distinguish between number and person, but do not have a gender distinction.

Ala - I, me Ara - you Asit - she, he, him, it, they (singular) Assam - we, us Ost - you (plural), y’all  Adim - they, them (plural)

Subject pronouns can be suffixed to verbs. -ara and -asaam maybe realized as -ra and -saam.

-Asit may have been originally intended to be analyzed as -it, or -it acts as a foreshortened version of -asit.

Verbs

The suffix -toh marks future tense on verbs.

There is no distinct form for present or past.

There is no distinct form for imperatives, beyond English phrasal order.

A possible optative or obligative mood is demonstrated in meravas, but there is not enough information to analyze whether this is the result of verb affixation or the verb itself is a marker of the mood.

Serial verb construction may be possible, but has not been authoritatively documented.

Questions

Questions feature English-like subject-object inversion.

The subject of a question is suffixed with its matching personal pronoun.

The question word “where?” is ben-dar, possibly implying that ben- can serve an added function in these contexts. 

Possession, Benefactives, Instrumental-Comitatives

Possessed nouns come before their possessor. They can be prefixed with ben-, may potentially take a suffix -e, or be unmarked.

Recipients of a benefactive action are preceded by nehraa. Inversion of this word order has been noted at least once, and may alter sentence focus.

An instrumental or comitative is preceded by say. 

Compound Words

Compounding is usually noun-noun, and is head final, unless the compound is an unmarked possessed-possessor relationship. Dvandvas may also be possible.

Verb-noun compounds are documented, as are (tentatively) adjective-nouns.

Profession Names and Nicknames

Common derivational suffixes for professions are -ari and -(a)ad. The former means “person/people (of)”, while the other is presently untranslated, possibly an agentive.

Noun-noun, adjective-noun, and verb-noun compounds may all act as profession names without derivational suffixes. Verb-noun compounds are analyzed as “[Verb]s Object”, not “[Subject] does [Verb]”.

Nicknames function similar to courtesy names. They are descriptive of the individual, and may be another profession name, even if they do not actually do that profession.

Vashoth and Tal-Vashoth names

Tal-Vashoth names have been noted to contain elements of protest or self-description. Some do not change their names at all.

Vashoth names are a mix of potential protest names, profession, descriptive, or reflect optative qualities.

⭅ Previous =⦾ Index ⦾=

[britts-galaxy-brain]

TW - Ablest, Infantilism, Co-Dependency, Cussing

Lily created new ocs and already I don't like it. It focuses on the dynamic between Iris Morgan, a 16-year-old girl who is selectively mute, and her sister Kiera Morgan, a 15-year-old girl who is the only one that can understand Iris. When I said Kiera understands her, I am literally the only one that understands her also like she can read her mind. And Iris, despite being a year older than Kiera, is kind of written to be childlike and heavily depends on Iris.

In Iris and Keira - Sandcastle, Iris and Keira are at the beach making a perfect sandcastle. Iris simply looks at Keira and immediately, Keira knew she is asking for a camera. Like, there weren't any hints or indication that Iris wanted a camera and somehow Keira manages to read her mind. (Iris could have taken a stick and written CAMERA on the sand, signed the word camera, mouth the word camera, or even point at the camera). Then, their father Nathan Morgan stopped Keira from getting the camera. Keira told her father that Iris wanted to camera, but Nathan said, "She can't talk, and you just put words in her mouth to get what you want." (WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE CAN'T TALK, MOUTHING/SIGNING/WRITING WORDS COUNTS AS TALKING?!!). So, Nathan went up to Iris and asked to her if she wanted to camera. Iris nodded in respond. Nathan then asked her, "what's the magic word?", expecting a verbal respond. (The first introduction to a male character and he's already ablest from the get-go) Iris just tilts her head and Keira goes, "See, she said it". And somehow, it worked. Thanks to Keira's mind reading powers and her +7 persuasion.

In Iris and Keira - Stare, Iris is described to be "unresponsive, uncommunicative, you could have been forgiven for thinking she was dead most of the time." And how Iris, "...Barely responded or reacted to anyone and stonewalled anyone who tried to talk to her". (Is this Lily's attempt at coding Iris as an autistic individual? Like, she could have written Iris as being distant, uninterested in any topic brought about by any other people, or a quiet person who keep to themselves. Instead, Lily writes Iris like she is disturbed teen.) Iris is only like this towards anybody, except with Kiera who truly understands her. So much so, that "whenever Kiera sat down with them, it was like someone had flipped a switch and Iris and expressive and gestured emphatically".

Alicia Bailey, sister of Larisa Bailey, enters the scene and proceeds to call Iris a creep while Keira defends her. (Larisa Bailey is Kiera Morgan's girlfriend). Alicia told Keira, "Have you ever considered that maybe your sister is a little-", then proceeds to mine "a guitar motion with her hands" while saying "Ring-a-ning-ning-ning-ning-ning-ning-ning". (WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?! WHAT. DOES. THIS. MEAN?! IS LILY MAKING UP NEW SLURS). So, like the bad*ss Keira is, she proceeds to crack a glass soda bottle over the side of Alicia's head, then called her a bitch. (Remember, she physically assaulted her girlfriend's sister in public. There's no detail where this takes place, but I'm going to assume it's a school setting. Also, why is no one reacting to a teen girl physically assaulting another teen girl. Where is the school's security in all of this?)

Keira casually walked towards Iris's table and asked if Alicia was giving her trouble. Iris responded by shrugging, then "wiggled her hand". (WIGGLED HER HAND. Lily, the ASL sign language for NO is opening index finger, middle finger, and thumb and tap them together with your thumb. YOU CAN LITERALLY GOOGLE IT). Kiera then explained to Iris that Alicia had said some terrible things about her. Iris tilts her head in response, and like the mind reader Kiera replied back to her, "Not sure, it could have gone either way". (COULD HAVE GONE EITHER WAY - WHAT SPECIFIC QUESTION DID IRIS ASKED TO GAIN THAT REPONSE?! AND ALL FROM IRIS SIMPLING TILTED HER HEAD?!). As they continued their "conversation", Iris furrowed her brows. This caused "Kiera's eyes to widened at that and she placed a finger against Iris' lips." "Hey! None of that talk! It's not our fault Alicia's being weird," kiera said. (Jesus, Kiera. That's very ablest of you to tell a selective mute not to verbally speak in a very supportive sister way. Also, it's weird how Iris's younger sister just protects her, is the only one who understands her, literally speaks for her, and is willing to kill for her. Truly, a normal healthy sister relationship. Definitely not an unhealthy co-dependent relationship, where a disabled person is being infantized by her younger sister.)

No commentary, the direct quote speaks volumes.

"Iris smiled. Through her entire life, she'd been haul in and out of doctors and counsellors by her fathers, trying to find the root cause of her lack of speech. Everyone from her parents, to her teachers to her peers tried to get her to talk, or sign, or write on a board. Anything other than simply be quiet and be by herself. She didn't understand it. It's not like she was bothering anyone. It had only made her less willing to interact with others".

"Kiera was the lone exception. Kiera could always infer what Iris was thinking, never asked her to do anything she wasn't comfortable with, and actively intruded on people trying to force words out of Iris' mouth. Everyone else wanted Iris to make herself easier to understand. Kiera was the only one who tried to understand her as she was. "

The fanfic ends with Iris reaching towards her sister and placing a hand on her shoulder. As she smiles at her, Kiera smiles back and said, "Love you too".

Overall score 2/10.

One point for creating a disabled character. One point in having a "supportive" sister.

Minus eight points for: infantizing disable character, poorly researched selectively mute characters, created a co-dependency between sisters, having a character handling the situation with unnecessary violence, not giving indication that the sisters are bi-racial despite outside source say they are bi-racial, having a bi-racial character physically assaulting the only black character introduced in the fanfic, failing to indicate that Alicia is black despite outside source say she is black, and failing to make the communication between the sisters clear enough for readers to understand.

There is...so much to unpack here...and I do not have the mental energy to do it..

[allgirlsareprincesses]

Do you think that Rey's story (excluding episode 9 'cause that was a shitshow) could be interpreted as a Cinderella/Ash girl story?

I hope you realize asking me this is like throwing chum to a shark 😈. But the short answer is yes, to a point.

The long answer is more complicated, so to begin with, let's consult the Cinderella bible:

According to the Aarne Thompson Uther Index, there are five primary motifs to a Cinderella tale:

Persecuted heroine, usually by family

Help or helper, usually magic

Meeting the prince, usually with true identity disguised

Identification or penetration of disguise, usually by means of an object

Marriage to the prince

Rey is abandoned by her family, which is a form of persecution, and harassed by the inhabitants of Jakku like Unkar Plutt. Thus she clearly fulfills the first item.

As for meeting a helper, there are several for her, including Han Solo, Maz, Luke, and Leia. Any or all of these may be considered fairy godparents in the way that they offer her wisdom and material help. Further, except for Maz, they all die in the course of the story, which is consistent with many Cinderella tales in which the helper dies and their bones continue to offer wisdom and comfort to the heroine.

Next, meeting the prince. I mean

To the extent that Rey is "in disguise' here, it would be the extent of her force powers, her destiny as Ben Solo's dyad mate, and her role as the heir apparent to the Jedi (chosen by the Force to wield the legacy saber), all of which are obscured from Kylo Ren when he discovers her in the forest. Further, she is grimy and covered in desert sand, similar to how Cinderella is smeared with ashes that hide her true beauty.

So now an object penetrates the disguise. This is obviously the Skywalker lightsaber, which reveals Rey to be everything listed above, especially when she calls it to her on Starkiller Base, and again when she wields it on Ahch-to.

And lastly, marriage to the prince. As many others have pointed out over the years, Rey and Ben have almost too many symbolic marriages to count in the course of the sequel trilogy. They're extremely married, the Force said so.

BUT WAIT! Go back and look at that list again. Who ELSE fits all those criteria?

It's our boy! Consider:

He is indeed persecuted by family, most notably when Luke momentarily considers killing him.

Ben's helpers are both dark and light, as Snoke/Palpatine guide him in the dark while Luke guides him in the light (poorly). But note again what I said above about the bones of the mentor continuing to offer guidance and comfort after their death. Who should appear at Ben's lowest hour but his departed father, Han Solo? With a message of love, acceptance, and encouragement, Han's memory (because in fairy tales, bones contain memory) encourages Ben to at last cast off his beastly skin and become who he always was.

Next, meeting the prince/ss in disguise. He's wearing a literal mask when he meets Rey, so yeah.

An object penetrates the disguise? Rey slashed his face with the legacy saber, thus symbolically peeling away his mask. And I've argued before that the stabbing in TROS (which I still HATE, btw) is another cutting or burning away of the beastly skin.

And lastly, marriage to the prince/ss. As previously stated, that happened. Many times.

So yes, the Sequel Trilogy can definitely be considered a Cinderella story, with but one glaring issue: Cinderella's husband usually doesn't die at the end. But that's another topic that's been done to death, so let's all just read some more fanfic and forget about it. 👑 Thank you for the ask, this was fun!

[earhartsease]

hindsight is a bitch - we had this friend that we finally had to jettison in the mid 2010s when he suddenly got well creepy about our upcycled genitalia - but back in the 80s we should have seen the massive red flag, consider:

be us, age 22 got a summer job cataloguing the huge book collection (over 4,000 books) of an octogenarian history of fashion expert who got knocked over by a cyclist during one of his daily 10 mile walks (he died halfway through our job and we never got to meet him, but we felt we knew him quite well after wading through his book collection and reading his often acerbic little notes on the flyleaves)

anyway at the end of the job, at the suggestion of his nephew, the lawyers said we could choose one book to keep - so we chose Rudyard Kipling's Just So Stories illustrated by Arthur Rackham (because really beautiful)

now here comes the massive red flag - our friend (whose mother got us the gig after we'd done some proofreading and book indexing for her) decided it would be edgy and cool to instead get them to give us a copy of Mein Kampf, knowing we grew up jewish

we had an awful lot going on already (so did he, his younger sister died horribly a few months before, and both of us loved her) so we were way too scrambled to think of saying "fuck no, give us the Kipling you arsehole" so we took the awful book to a bookseller and gave the resulting money to charity

oh, bizarre addendum to this is that we had to type up over 4,000 index cards for the books (this took over two months) and the typewriter we were lent was a german wartime one and we kid you not, it had a key that did the ss logo *huge shudder*

anyway we stuck it out with him as a friend because we felt sorry for his loss of his sister but he was a shitbag and we're sad but glad to have let him go and we advise you not to hold on to harmful people out of sentimentality

[argyrocratie]

"100 years of Interpol: Why there’s no reason to celebrate"

(...)

"Following several inconclusive conferences like the “International Conference of Rome for the Social Defense Against Anarchists” in 1898, the follow-up in 1904 in St. Petersburg, as well as the “First International Criminal Police Congress” in Monaco 1914, another conference took place in September 1923 following the initiative of Viennese chief of police Johann Schober. The conference was concluded with the founding of the International Criminal Police Commission (ICPC), direct predecessor of today’s Interpol, with Johann Schober as its president. As Viennese police president he forced reforms towards a “modernization” of investigation methods and information exchange systems, making the Austrian police internationally renowned. He established an intelligence service that compiled a register of persons as well as indexes through surveillance and informants. The focus was not only set on general criminality but with regards to the politicaly active, like anarchists, communists and social revolutionaries. Regarding the personnel, he worked towards removing social democrats from the agency and employed antimarxists and later nazis.

In 1938 the ICPCs leadership was taken over by the National Socialists and its headquarter was moved to Berlin-Wannsee, where it shared its rooms and lead with the Gestapo. The ICPCs records, that were transferred to Berlin, like the so called “Internationales Zigeunerregistratur (international gypsy registry)”, as well as the records concerning counterfeiting of money and passports, helped the National Socialists prosecuting certain groups and in their mass production of counterfeit money and fake passports in the KZ Sachsenhausen.

The ICPC was dissolved in 1945 but newly formed as the International Criminal Police Organization, Interpol – probably also to distance itself from the ICPC of the inter- and poastwar period. However, certain continuities are observable in its 100 year history, even though it was probably only a coincidence that in 1968 Paul Dickopf, a sworn SS-policeman, was elected president and the prosecution of nazi criminals did not start before the 1980s…

_

Interpol, as it exists today, is, contrary to the popular medial representations, not a supra-national police agency with the authority to arrest, but more an association that functions as network of law enforcement agencies of its member states. As an organization, it offers administrative support in the fields of communication and data banks/information exchange, as well as support in investigations, expertise, and trainings for the various law enforcement agencies.

(...)

Besides its headquarters in Lyon, France, and seven regional bureaus, the organization has bureaus in each of the 195 member states with more than 1000 employees, making her the largest police organization. The budget of 140 million euros is comprised of the member states’ contributions and, additionally, separate contributions from EU, several repression agencies of the member states (FBI) and the Interpol Foundation. But Interpol also receives donations from NGOs, the private sector (Philipp Morris, FIFA, IOC, Quatar 2022, etc.) and other international organizations (UNICEF, FRONTEX, etc.). One of the organizations central tasks is the maintenance of 19 data banks, that contain entries on missing and wanted persons, fingerprints, DNA samples, and stolen (travel) documents. According to its own accounts, the data banks contain 125 million police files that are queried 187 times per second. In 2022 alone this results in 5.9 billion queries with 1.4 million hits. In Austria 32 million wanted person searches were queried through, or for, Interpol in 2020, additionally there were 900.000 car inquiries, as well as 7.4 million inquiries on stolen documents.

(...)

Transnational repression

Arguably the most important instrument for repression by Interpol is the sending out of so-called “Notices”. These are calls for support requested for by Interpol member states and subsequently being sent out to law enforcement agencies globally. These Notices are divided into colours depending on their respective purpose. A Black Notice is a call for support in finding or identifying a body, while a Blue Notice is a request for information regarding the whereabouts of an individual. The by far most frequent Notices are Red Notices, i.e. the request for information of whereabout and the arrest with subsequent extradition of a person.

These Red Notices are very popular in autocracies like Turkey, China, Russia and some of the Arab states as tool for the international persecution and repression of dissidents or other politically persecuted individuals. The perfidious thing here is that affected are not informed about their international labeling, or can only lose them after long-lasting and expensive juridical processes. The president of the Uighur World Congress, now living in Germany, was searched for, by these means, for 21 years after China issued such a warrant.

When labeled with a Red Notice, people do not only have to live in fear of repression by the original persecuting state but also in fear of the cops of the other 194 member states. Apart from the ever present danger of being arbitrarily arrested and extradited, it can impossible for affected individuals to open bank accounts, move across borders or find a job. Red Notices are thus not only issued as means of political persecution and extradition, for some states it is enough to simply make the life of dissidents abroad as hard as possible.

According to the Interpol statutes, Red Notices cannot be issued out of political or religious reasons but it is only since very recently that requests – though, of course, by Interpol itself and only lapidary – are being controlled; though, rather, such a control can be easily circumvented by issuing the Notice on a wrong warrant. This happened to the nephew of the former opposition leader Fethullah Gülen. He was arrested and extradited from Kenya to Turkey on basis of a fake warrant for child abuse, in Turkey, however, he was wrongly convicted for being part of a terrorist organization for which he is still serving time in Turkish prison.

The Bahraini dissident and human rights activist Ahmed Jafaar Muhammad Ali was, on his flight from Bahraini authorities, extradited from his Serbian exile on base of a Red Notice from Interpol, deported to Bahrains capital Manama where he was directly turned over to the local repression agencies. This happened despite intervention by the European Court of Justice and its demand towards the Serbian state to annul the undertaking, since Muhammad was facing possible torture and execution in Bahrain for his political work. He actually was even held captive and tortured prior to his flight for taking part in anti-government protests. In his absence he was sentenced for life. In 2017 two of his co-convicts were, after two years of inhumane captivity, executed by the Bahraini state. All this was known to Interpol and the Serbian authorities, yet neither were the extradition cancelled nor the Red Notice at Interpol annulled.

Interpol thus becomes a tool of repression by autocracies and dictatorships, and the supposedly “democratic” states their henchmen. This transnational contempt for mankind puts a spotlight on the fact that no single state, may it be ever so “democratically legitimized” or appeal ever so much to respecting human rights, can be trusted. As long as this world is trashed with an internationally connected body of pigs, the politically or religiously persecuted or individuals persecuted for their race, have nowhere to be safe."

...

[sgiandubh]

Jottings: Season 7, Episode 4. Well then, best not die

As Tom Christie would say, "the Lord does answer prayer, you know": this week has been indeed bigger, better, brighter and more. Tissues might or might not be needed - it's up to you to decide (fun fact, I almost did), but ice cream is a must (steamy moments ahead, ahem).

Back at Lallybroch the pixies broke the alarm clock-cum-radio, while someone is wiping his nauseous mouth with the Declaration of Independence in Wilmington. And there can be no greater contrast when it comes to casting, than the one between SS and Vandervaart. She is trying, bless her heart she does, and it shows a lot. Yet no matter how hard she does it, she will never overcome, I am afraid, that stilted delivery and that genuine uneasiness that make you feel alternatively dismissive and sorry for her. In the economy of Outlander, SS is more than a waste: she is a casualty, because she managed to unwillingly kill Bree, a character with a difficult, often unsympathetic design to start with.

For his first substantial on-screen appearance, Vandervaart passed my scrutiny with flying colors. Now I might be biased, because I am a documented victim of this particular Boston Brahmin charm, that screams old money and boat shoes and Ivy League and effortless sophistication. But it's more than this, of course, and I suspect solid brains and a great deal of preparatory work. This kid has managed to impress me, with his subtle nods to the mannerisms of JAMMF and LJG. The scene with Young Ian and Rollo is flawless. The diction is perfect. He cares for William enough to become William and this is something to behold and applaud.

Both Hunters are quintessential. There is a sort of steel butterfly quality to Rachel and Denzell Hunter's kindness could melt my B&J's Chocolatey Love A-Fair bucket on the spot. Their likeability index will probably increase with time, and not only in this fandom, but also in the silent majority of casuals.

Which brings me to Tom Christie brilliantly showing us that, as my beloved Wilde once said with perfect clarity, "every saint has a past and every sinner has a future". This is the moment when I almost reached for the tissues, because I once was Tom Christie, and I know how damn hard is to keep your dignity in a hope against hope situation. And I could have done without that burlesque kiss altogether: but that is just me.

We've been waiting for this one since the trailer was released or even since I Am Not Alone. At last some bedroom maneuvers that are not: a) scampered; b) implied; c) muted and faded to cheesiness. I didn't even ask for much, did I?

Spoiler: "The thing about Tom is he wants you. Badly." That golden light. That serene grace. That perfect dialogue of bodies and souls. That cheeky raspiness. Not about Tom and not exactly JAMMF. I almost shivered, it was just like the good old times. And then, BAM!

A PLAGUE ON YOUR HOUSE, INTIMACY COORDINATOR VANESSA WOMAN, WHOSE NAME I DO NOT EVEN BOTHER TO GOOGLE AT 03:55 AM LOCAL TIME.

YOU SET OUR HOPES HIGH, PUSHED US TO THE EDGE AND THEN HAD THEM FADE TO THAT TOTALLY CLICHE MIRROR TRANSITION. HELLO? YOU FEEL OK WHEN YOU LOOK AT YOURSELF IN THE MIRROR, WHILE YOU BRUSH YOUR TEETH?

Enough said. And the next lost soul who darts out of Mordor with rumors of body doubles can go directly to jail, not pass GO (heh), not collect $200.

Is next week the Singapore (Sling) one? Lucky I am still in town, then. That is a mystery in the waiting. Onwards.

(Gif taken from @divineandmajesticinone, credits given accordingly - great work!)

[arale2126]

Cherik fics - That ONE line - 101

「I feel like I should keep an index of the one line in each Cherik fics that impresses me to no end, making want to bookmark it immediately.」

Hier steh ich an den Marken meiner Tage by MonstrousRegiment

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr is a spy in the SS, and his British liaison is strategist Charles Xavier. Their relationship from the moment they meet to a year after the end of the war.

“You’re the only person in the world who knows what I am.”

The quote:

James Howlett was, to put it kindly, an animal.

[silhouettehistory]

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Silhouettes of my favorite Jaguar silhouette, including SS Jaguar 100, XKSS, E-Type, Mark X, XJ13, XJ Coupe, XJ X308, F-Type Project 7, XJ X351 and XE SV Project 8 Touring.

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[iniziare]

"hmm," she'd draw out a longer sigh, single finger stretching across the smaller gap between them on the table, gloveless and bare, with nail polish done to match the gold found on her company for the evening. a subtle touch would soon enough follow, but not the hand that seemed to await her company, no, the golden watch and the edge where metal and skin met; "... do you always dress this elegant?"

Loud, perhaps would've been a better word, index slowly following the round shape of the watch there Robin remained seated, other hand propped up under her chin. "Gold, teal, black ; there seems to not be a single color that you can't wear, I'm almost a little envious. During my personal dark and gloomy era, everyone said I came of a little too pale." Then, a lower of her voice, the charmony dove's chin parting with her hand so she could lean across the table a little better, emerald fluttering between his watch and gaze.

"Imagine me with a spray tan," she'd laugh quietly, warmly as hand would soon enough settle onto his, the one that had been waiting beneath the watch. "I think the tan lines would drive me mad, and so, my question still stands ; does the infamous Aventurine always dress this elegantly, or does he have other charming outfits in his wardrobe? Is your night wear also in gold?"

Were enchantment to ever be a person, none other than this little songbird opposite him (much to his chagrin, for not a muscle in him didn't crave for her to be at his side instead, but perhaps that future lay only barely out of his grasp) could claim its existence. So easily would she find herself triumphant, like none other could ever hope to rival, at least not to him. And so he sat, enraptured— oh, he knew that he was little less than that, and she would see proof of such a reality in the way the creases of his eyes deepened at her fiddling by his watch. Will you always be so agonizing with me, little bird?

His black tie hung loose, its knot forgotten and trailing low on his chest, as if evidencing the reality that there was no pretense here. No, it had been foregone some time ago. The collar of his shirt lay undone, its edges parted enough to frame the pale line of his throat as it lay exposed, and unguarded. The sight oh him was a canvas that framed a man who was found perfectly at ease: caught in something akin to disheveled elegance. And so, in that, came a response that abandoned him in a confidence much the same: "What if I dressed just to impress you tonight, Miss Robin?" Last time, this time, and every time? Ss he leaned forward to meet her somewhat in stride, a necklace — a thin, golden chain — gleamed faintly against his skin, catching the dim light around them like a whisper of defiance, before its pendant dipped back in the shadows beneath the undone fabric. Perhaps it was a tease, one unintended, but one nonetheless to rival her own that seemed all but incredibly intended. She always stayed just out of reach of him, even though he ached to grasp at those sly fingers of hers, for it should be his that commit such deeds, such gestures that would allow him to steal a strayed brush of that bare hand, and its softest palm. But he was patient, he was always patient with her, even though the anticipation proved to be a cruel mistress time, and time again. "I'm humbled that you think I would look good in a lavender and orange suit." It came spoken in certain amusement, with every syllable laced, and dripping with a teased gaiety. "Maybe I'll try that for our next date. If you, everyone's favorite dove, promise that you will wear black the next time we meet. I think I'd like to judge for myself, I've never been much for the opinion of the masses." Could she blame him for the shameless confidence? Perhaps he would blame her if she tried to— and then the punishment for such a mortal sin? Mm, he'd see about that one.

And just when he thought that she couldn't possibly be much more agonizing for his eyes, or mind: Imagine me with a spray tan. I think the tan lines would drive me mad. As if he needed any more distraction than the tantalizing close to bare shoulders that had taunted him for an evening in its entirety right before him. Truly, his only restraint, and redemption, could be found in the touch of a hand to his own, one that was promptly rewarded with the briefest caress to her palm with one singular finger. "Maybe, and maybe it isn't." His turn to tease her: "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours, little bird."

Prompt: Unprompted, how dare you kill us like this. // @avaere

[shit-solkat]

COMPLETE HOMESTUCK SHIP LIST

Yup, complete. There are some characters missing, but there are:

Beta kids + Guardians

Alpha kids + Guardians

Beta trolls

Dancestors

Ancestors

Sprites (not all-all of them)

Cherubins

Some extra character as well! (DD and SS, Doc Scratch, Bec Noir)

Some poly ships :3

Some meme ships too (spoiler: Dirk x Rainbowdash), but not many

I will turn this into a tier list when I can, but for now you can copy-paste this google document and make your own version! :D

EVERY POSSIBLE SHIP IN HOMESTUCK (link)

MY PERSONAL OPINIONS (link)

Please read the notes that are after the index :) Outside of that: have fun!

Oh, and obviously:

Da/ve/k/at shippers do not interact pls