da in the past

7

MERRY FOUR DAYS PAST CHRISTMAS :’D

A while ago people asked if I’d maybe make a drawing about Death mistaking Fatal for Geno because I like the AfterDeath ship so here we are :)

The mug slap frame is gonna be my Christmas card next year I swear

A big thanks to all the lovely folks who provided me with fun and dirty pickup lines for this, but an especially big thanks to @a3s0p, @winglessmoonstone, @daydreamingtomatos, and @ignatttt, since I used a mix of theirs :D

Reaper!Sans belongs to @renrink, Geno!Sans and CPAU belong to @loverofpiggies, and Goth belongs to @nekophy!

EDIT: I got so jazzed about posting this I forgot to include Geno’s cut mark and mouth lines! Thanks @lucky-leafeon for pointing it out to me :3 It’s been updated!

Telling the Time in Dutch and German

Originally posted by howbehindwow

de tijd - die Zeit - time

het uur - die Stunde - hour
de minuut - die Minute - minute
de seconde - die Sekunde - second

de klok - die Uhr - clock

uur - Uhr - o’clock
het kwart
- das Viertel - quarter
half - halb - half
over - nach - past
voor - vor - to

Hoe laat is het? - Wie spät ist es? - What’s the time?

Het is - Es ist … - It’s …

tien uur - zehn Uhr - ten o’clock (10:00)
vijf (minuten) over tien - fünf (Minuten) nach zehn - 10:05
kwart over tien - Viertel nach zehn - 10:15
tien (minuten) voor half elf - zehn (Minuten) vor halb elf - 10:20
half elf - halb elf - 10:30
vijf (minuten) over half elf - fünf (Minuten) nach halb elf - 10:35
kwart voor elf - Viertel vor elf - 10:45
vijf (minuten) voor elf - fünf (Minuten) vor elf - 10:55
precies elf uur - genau elf Uhr - eleven o’clock sharp (11:00)

a.m. / p.m.

In both Dutch and German the 24-hour clock (i.e. 4pm → 16:00) is used,
(veertien uur achtendertig - vierzehn Uhr achtunddreißig - 14:38)

but especially in spoken language the 12-hour clock is more common. If context alone is not enough, the following words are used to distinguish between a.m. and p.m.:

uur ‘s morgens / ochtends - Uhr morgens - a.m. (morning to noon)
uur ‘s middags - Uhr nachmittags - p.m. (afternoon)
uur ‘s avonds - Uhr abends - p.m. (evening)
uur ’s nachts - Uhr nachts - p.m. / a.m. (night)

Hoe laat? - Um wie viel Uhr? - At what time?

om - um - at

De film begint om half acht.
Der Film beginnt um halb acht.
The movie is starting at half past seven.

Hoe lang? - Wie lange? - How long?

Het duurt drie uur*.
Es dauert drei Stunden.
It takes three hours.

van … tot - von … bis - from … until

De winkel is open van zeven tot twaalf uur.
Das Geschäft hat von sieben bis zwölf Uhr geöffnet.
The shop is open from seven until twelve o’clock.


* unlike in German and English uur stays in this case in the singular form

If you spot any typos or mistakes please let me know :)

A couple of muggles somehow manage to produce not one but four wizard children. No one knows why they wanted literally no gap between their kids, most people wait two years between kids, but hey close pregnancies are just what happened. Baby-baby-baby-baby, soon as possible. And as one by one ends up in their first year of Hogwarts, each one is in a different house.

SF9 as Iconic Song Lyrics

Youngbin: you’re the one that I want woo hoo hoo chanie honey

Inseong: RA RA AH AH AH ROMA ROMA MA GA GA OOH LA LA

Jae Yoon: I like big butts and I cannot lie.

Da Won: makin’ my way downtown walking fast faces pass and I’m home bound *piano rift*

Zu Ho: do you ever feel like a plastic bag

RoWoon: HIT IT FERGIE allthetimeiturnaroundbrothersgatherroundalwayslookingatmeupanddownlooking atmyUHHHH

Taeyang: hey lil mama lemme whisper in ya ear

HwiYoung: JAAAASON DERULOOO

Chan: CANT TOUCH THIS dun nuh nuh nuh

In honor of this new Cassandra vs. Neda stan war it’s time to look back at the other iconic stan wars of big brother past.
Da'vonne stans vs Audrey stans
Jackie stans vs Steve Stans
Vanessa stans vs the tag
Loveita stans vs Cassandra stans
Bridgette stans vs the tag
Da'vonne stans vs Tiffany stans Lnj vs Ballsmashers stans

Hyde Park, London. 1968
Claire.

“You can’t catch me, Da!” shouted Davie as he ran past me. Jamie snatched him up and tossed him over his shoulder with a playful growl, making our five-year-old son shriek with delight.

The afternoon was warm, almost unbearably so, but there was a slight breeze here in the shade. I shifted in my seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. The pressure of the hard, wooden slats of the park bench combined my perspiration adhered the fabric of my sundress to my skin. I peeled the damp cotton away from my lower back, looking out at the idyllic scene in front of me. I smiled to myself, perfectly content. It was a splendid afternoon for a romp in Hyde Park.

Not only was the weather fine, but I also had all twelve of my children together at the same time. The eldest three Frasers, having begun their adventure as independent adults, had come home to celebrate their father’s birthday.

The birthday boy had one son over his shoulder, another with his arms wrapped around his waist, and a daughter clinging to his left leg. He was in his element. Feigning injury, he carefully collapsed to the ground with a dramatic groan. A cheer went up from all of the children, making Jamie laugh.

Out on the pond, the boys were in one boat, the girls in another. Julia and Brianna sat at the oars, younger sisters in the bow, guiding the craft along the peaceful shoreline. Their brothers, on the other hand, were far more interested in the family of frogs living among the reeds and had managed to get themselves stuck for a third time. A loud splash told me Gavin had decided to get out and push the boat free.

I looked down just in time to see two-year-old Neil try to feed a leaf to his sister.

“Babies don’t eat leaves, darling,” I bent, and moved his hand away from Abigail’s face. Trading him the leaf for a toy, I continued, “And neither should you.”

Becoming bored with the shaded tranquility and his infant sister, the towheaded toddler waddled towards the wrestling match on the grass. I picked Abigail up and, draping a cloth over my shoulder, began to feed her.

It was a wonderful experiment in genetics and heredity, I thought: six of our twelve children had Jamie’s red hair and ten inherited his blue eyes. They ranged from average height to tall, unsurprisingly. Alexander, at eighteen, was a solid inch taller than Jamie, and Robert, at fourteen, was showing signs of outgrowing them both. Julia and Maisie had been cursed with my unruly curls, although neither seemed to mind. All twelve managed to simultaneously resemble each other and look completely different.

Jamie had given me a set of Apostles’ spoons when we found out we were expecting Julia. We had joked then about having a child for each spoon, never dreaming that we would someday. My minds eye saw the spoons, nestled safely in blue velvet, and I mentally paired each child with an Apostle as I listened to them the brood chatter and giggle.

St Andrew.

Julia: my first born, child of my heart. At nearly twenty-four, she showed no outward signs of her childhood illnesses. Her auburn curls were vibrant, her skin healthy and lively. She was the same height as me, with rich brown eyes that held great depths of emotion. She preferred to let her sister Brianna take charge when the situation warranted, but was fiercely protective of her eleven younger siblings.

St Peter.

Brianna: the rock on which I stand. So like her father in both looks and temperament, she was the leader of the pack. She was my right hand man, so to speak, in many ways. I missed her terribly while she was away at University and always looked forward to her detailed, weekly letters.

St Matthias.

Alexander Brian: our philosopher and eldest son. Ever the brilliant mind, Alex was following in my medical footsteps. His dark brown hair and clear, blue eyes made him a favorite with the girls at University, but I had it on good authority that he had no time for that sort of thing. Yet.

St Jude.

Janet Helene: our peacemaker and comforter. Jenny, seventeen, was the glue that held our unruly brood together. In her own pragmatic way, she was able to discern what was at the heart of her siblings’ many quarrels and often had the conflict resolved before it came to a head. I’m sure I would have gone insane without her.

St James, the greater.

Robert Ian: my comedienne. Four years younger than knight-in-shining-armor Alex and only twenty months older than troublemaker Gavin, Rabbie was often stuck in the middle. He chose to find the humor in life and could always find a way to make me smile.

St James, the lesser.

Gavin Murtagh: my headstrong instigator. Born right on the heels of his brother Rabbie, he was a sweethearted scalawag from the start. He had good intentions but somehow his plans always went awry.  For example, just last week he got Maisie to help him smuggle home a squirrel in his coat pocket. The poor thing had injured its tail, but before they could carefully confine it, it escaped and spent the next six hours loose in the house.

St John.

Anne Elizabeth: our old soul. Annie was ten going on sixty-nine. She loved nothing more than a good book and a quiet room, something that was hard to find in the Fraser household. Annie loved her siblings with abandon and somehow always knew exactly what was needed in a moment of emotional crisis. She was also my resident baby whisperer.

St Mathew.

Stephen James: our champion. Loyal to a fault, Stephen was a best friend to everyone. He was the encourager of the flock and the only one who could convince Maisie to do something she didn’t want to do, which was often.

St Bartholomew.

Margaret Clara: my spitfire. At six years old, Maisie was something of a character. She could sell ice to the Eskimos and walk away with them thinking it was their idea. Oh, that girl could talk. She had an abundance of auburn ringlets that could never be tamed and a personality to match. Heaven help anyone who stood in her way.

St Simon.

David Michael: our engineer. Everything was new and exciting to Davie. He was constantly taking things apart to see how they worked and seldom managed to get them back together again. He’d learned the hard way not to experiment on any of Maisie’s toys.

St Thomas.

Neil Thomas: the toddler. Almost two and a half years old, we were still discovering new things about Neil’s personality. He still had the chubby cheeks and fine hair of babyhood, but liked to remind us he could do things himself, thank you very much.

St Philip.

Abigail Marie: the baby. It had taken her only a week to have each and every one of us wrapped around her little fingers. She was now six months old and completely spoiled. She had a fake cry down pat, making her siblings run to her in hopes of cheering her up. It was always comical to me to watch her older brothers carry her. Having no hips to speak of, they awkwardly carried her in various positions against their chest or shoulders.

As if she knew I as thinking about her, Abigail stirred against me. I peeked under the cloth to find her smiling up at me, milk spilling from the corner of her mouth.

A perfect dozen of my very own, I thought.

“Are you done, baby girl?” I asked in a sing-song voice. She kicked her arms and legs, cooing, in response.

Suddenly, a sharp, piercing pain shot down my arm. I cried out, making Abigail cry with me. Jamie stopped playing with the boys and was instantly by my side.

“What is it, Sassenach?” He asked, looking worried.

“I don’t know,” I answered and tried to brush at my shoulder. “I think I’ve been stung by something.

I pulled my hand away and saw that it was covered in blood. A warm, tickling sensation told me I was bleeding but I had no idea why or how. I stared at my hand, trying to process what on earth was going on.

When I looked up from my hand, I found that we were no longer sitting in a park but standing in the middle of a battlefield.

Jamie pulled me by my good arm and we ran for our very lives. The sounds of mortar shells exploding above us made me go deaf, leaving me with an eerie ringing in my ears. The sun went behind a cloud and I started to shiver with cold.

We were hiding in some sort of bunker now, crouched low against cold bricks. Jamie wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. He said something to me, but I couldn’t understand him.

“What?” I cried out to be heard above the ringing.

His voice was garbled and muddy as he repeated himself.

“I can’t hear you!” I tried again.

A torrential downpour came out of nowhere, leaving us soaked to the skin. I could hear distant thunder rumble over the constant ringing and lightning danced around us. Jamie’s hand was as cold and clammy as I was and I squeezed it, desperately needing his reassurance.

He brushed the wet hair out of my eyes and said, “Are ye awake, Sassenach?”

I blinked at him stupidly. His voice was quiet and yet I could hear him above the roar of the storm and ringing of my ears.

Awake? Of course I was awake, how could someone sleep thru this?

He slowly started to move away from me and I panicked. I tried to grab hold of him, but he kept slipping out of my hands. The water was pushing us apart and I wasn’t strong enough to fight against it.

“Jamie!” I screamed, trying to keep my head above the water.

Something, or someone, was holding me down. I closed my eyes and thrashed and kicked. Shockwaves of pain reverberated with each movement, but I fought against it.

“Claire!” came Jamie’s voice, closer this time. “Wake up!”

I opened my eyes to see the anxious face of my husband two inches from mine, his hand gripping my good shoulder.

In a sudden bolt of clarity, I realized it had all been a dream. Every bit of it.

My body felt hot and heavy as I lay in Jamie’s arms, sobbing and unable to speak.

I wept for what might have been, but could never be. The children we might have created, the love I knew we could give.

I wept for Julia and Brianna, the daughters I had carried within me but would never see again. Never to tell them just once more how much I loved them, never again to hold them in my arms.

I wept for Jamie, who I had lost but to whom I had now returned. The man I had so deeply loved was once again mine until death do us part.

Somehow, in the depths of my heart, I knew he was enough.

Now that I had him by my side, I could begin to live again.

when your friends leave you at a party and you want to have fun but miss their presence so you try to shimmy but fail miserably