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helpxpatkuwait · 11 months ago

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Know These 15 Factors Before Relocating to Kuwait

Are you planning to relocate to Kuwait? If so, HelpXpat stands out as one of the premier international moving companies in Kuwait, offering comprehensive assistance with all necessary formalities.

Currency Kuwait boasts the highest-valued currency globally, the Kuwaiti dinar, serving as the national currency. As of March 13, 2017, one dinar is approximately $3.27 US or £2.68 GBP. Kuwaiti currency includes dinars and fils, with 1,000 fils making up a dinar. Various coin and note denominations are available.

History Kuwait's history saw turbulence until the arrival of the Aniza tribe in 1716, transforming the region into a known settlement named Kuwait. The area earned its name from "kut," meaning "fort." Pirates plagued the region before British intervention in the 19th century, impacting the economy. Kuwait gained independence on June 19, 1961, with National Day observed on February 25.

The Heat Similar to other Gulf countries, Kuwait experiences extreme summer heat, with temperatures reaching up to 50 °C. However, widespread air conditioning in interior spaces helps mitigate the heat, ensuring comfort even when outdoors during midday.

People Over 2.9 million foreigners reside in Kuwait, attracted by improved trade and employment opportunities. Post-oil discovery, the majority settled along the coast, constituting 70% of the total population in 2016.

Business Kuwait relies on petroleum as its primary income source, with fertilizer and oil being major exports. Over 60% of Kuwait's oil exports go to Asian countries, holding 10% of global oil reserves. Kuwait boasts the world's lowest oil production cost due to its proximity to the surface.

Document Legalization Legalizing documents for Kuwait follows a general process, requiring approval from the foreign affairs department in one's country before submission to the Kuwait Embassy. HelpXpat, as a top international moving company in Kuwait, assists in coordinating these processes.

Driving Licenses Kuwait does not recognize international driving licenses in their current form, necessitating legalization for driving in the country.

Food and Water Kuwait relies on food imports due to challenging climatic conditions, leading to relatively high food costs. Limited freshwater sources result in dependence on wells and seawater desalination for drinking and sewage.

Housing The construction boom in the past decade provides expats with diverse housing options. Rental buildings often offer services like trash pickup and car washing, albeit with limited amenities and parking spaces.

Life Kuwait's unhurried pace may result in slower task completion, particularly involving paperwork or bureaucracy. Planning tasks well in advance is advisable to avoid time constraints.

Evolution Kuwait prioritizes city and infrastructure development, marked by continuous construction, including the Burj Mubarak al-Kabir, expected to be the world's tallest building by 2030.

The Flag Introduced in 1961, the Kuwaiti flag consists of horizontal green, white, and red stripes with a black triangle. These colors correspond to a thirteenth-century poem by af ad-Din al-illi, symbolizing fields, conflicts, deeds of purity, and blood.

Sport Kuwait embraces sports, notably camel racing with robot jockeys since 2005 to prevent injuries.

Safety Kuwait boasts the third-lowest death rate globally, attributed to excellent healthcare, making it a secure place to live.

Travel Driving is the primary mode of transportation in Kuwait, given the absence of a railway system, metro, or trams. HelpXpat, a top relocation company in Kuwait, provides comprehensive assistance, from police clearance certificates to visa processing and orientation classes. Contact us for a free consultation at the International Call center Number – 00971528102947 or the Toll-free Number inside Kuwait – 00971525026611.

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the-teddy-bear-butch · 2 years ago

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ok totally fair about the war correspondent x translator specialization being a big ask, sorry! but thank u for posting it anyway!

how about

monster au, halloween party, first meeting?

robin and nancy go as each other's (race? being?) and one or both of them are offended at the stereotyping

(like a vamp in classic cape, garish fangs, white foundation or a witch with the hat and a broom, u know)

Thanks for the ask, anon! I used some monster hunter au for this, so I hope that’s cool! I don’t know what happened here, this ended up a little more flirty than intended but I like the way it went—

Nancy wasn’t much for parties, after the incident with Steve at Tina’s Halloween bash, but when she was handed a flyer for a party at Steve’s, something in her gut told her to go.

Maybe it was because it was Halloween. Nancy was a skilled monster slayer, after all, and many a beast and creature would emerge from their dens for a night of safety and fun. A party would be an easy target to find a few of the monsters.

This was how she found herself in Steve’s house, already tipsy and nursing a cup of punch strong enough to burn her nostrils. She was clad in a red and black flannel and her makeup was a delicately drawn wolf face. The costume was complete with a set of claw press on nails, gold contacts, and a tail and ears. The typical werewolf.

Nancy was watching the other guests intently, keeping an eye for the tells of any real monsters hidden among the cheap Halloween costumes.

Her gaze fell upon a familiar pair, the tattoo artists from downtown. The shorter, who she recognized as Chrissy, wore a cheaply made vampire costume. Her partner, whose name Nancy couldn’t remember, wore a full suit of armor—plastic, but convincing.

A third member joined the group, and Nancy’s gaze hardened immediately.

“Eddie! Chris! How’s the party?” Robin Buckley, local outcast, known werewolf, and bane of Nancy’s existence called, slinging her arms around the artists’ shoulders. They both laughed, though Eddie shoved her away, muttering about dog smell. She watched as Robin stuck her tongue out at the man, and they began to bicker.

If she was a little more sober, Nancy’s first thought would have been to try to get any of the three alone. They were all monsters, and all on her list. But right now, she had eyes only for Robin.

The girl was draped in a simple black dress, cinched in the middle with a green belt. Green and orange striped stockings went up to her knees, complete with a buckles set of boots and a pointed hat. She even a broom at her side.

Nancy was offended. Robin knew of her identity as a witch—this costume felt a little targeted.

And it didn’t help that Robin looked actually gorgeous in it. The girl seemed to notice Nancy’s stare, so she turned and raised a brow. She batted long eyelashes, accented by slightly sparkling green eyeshadow that made Nancy’s heart do a few flips against her better wishes.

Only, Robin’s gaze darkened and she stormed over, a finger pointed accusingly.

Nancy stepped back when Robin stopped in front of her, fuming.

“Really, Nancy?” the girl growled—honest to god growled—gesturing to Nancy’s costume. The shorter girl smirked, feeling smug.

“What do you mean, mutt?” she replied, keeping her voice casual and cool. Robin glared.

“This is such a stereotype!” Robin exclaimed, gesturing wildly and nearly spilling the drink in her hand. She pointed at the plaid shirt in particular, wrinkling her nose. “I mean, come on, Nance. The lumberjack flannel? The bloody fangs? Not all werewolves are buff, hairy men who eat other men!”

Nancy leaned against the wall, taking a long sip of her punch and feeling the warmth from it burn in her throat and chest. She flashed a Cheshire grin, revealing said bloody fangs—cheap plastic and makeup, of course.

“You mean,” she began slyly, letting her drunkenness lead the way. The din of the party faded to background noise. The only thing Nancy cared to focus on was the girl in front of her. “Some werewolves are buff, hairy women who eat other women?”

Robin reddened, spluttering and averting her gaze. “I mean, I guess!” she stammered, pulling her hat over her face.

Nancy smirked, stepping way too close.

“You’re one to talk, you know,” she murmured, her breath hot against Robin’s ear. “Your costume is just as offensive to us witches.”

She tilted her head, blinking half lidded doe eyes up at Robin and reveling in the way the girl gulped and licked her lips. She looked hungry. Ravenous, actually. It was a feeling matched in Nancy.

“What’s even worse is how unfairly hot you look in it,” she whispered, pressing a hand to Robin’s chest and getting even more into the girl’s space. Robin’s eyes were blazing now, something unreadable but fiery in the stormy, gold ringed depths.

“I’m going to eat you alive, Wheeler,” she growled low, her voice pleasantly husky.

“Is that a threat, or a promise?” Nancy breathed, heart pounding as she met Robin’s gaze. She knew she shouldn’t be doing this—but well, who said she couldn’t have a little fun with her prey?

“Both,” Robin replied, shoving Nancy toward the nearest room with a lock.

#I’m sorry #but I’m not sorry #I hope this is okay #ronance #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #stranger things #werewolf robin buckley #witch Nancy Wheeler #monster hunter Nancy Wheeler #sapphic senate monster hunter au #Lo drabbles

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entrapdaknation · 3 years ago

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Conquerors Should Use the Metro

I couldn’t help myself. After participating in this Twitter thread, I threw together a drabble about what would happen if the Horde tried to conquer Earth, starting with Washington D.C.

I need to be stopped.

=========================

TRANSCRIPT. AIR DATE 8/26/20XX.

ANNOUNCER: This is an ABC News special report.

ANCHOR: Good afternoon. I'm Lance D'Abcesse, reporting from ABC News headquarters. A situation is developing in central Washington D.C., where a man and a troop of autonomous military robots are wreaking havoc on a Georgetown neighborhood.

[Scene: Arial drone footage of a Georgetown residential neighborhood, where police are crouching behind their vehicles, pointing weapons at a dozen Horde battle bots. The bots proceed to ignite empty cars and recycling bins with laser fire.]

ANCHOR: According to law enforcement, around 12:45 p.m. Eastern, a belligerent man arrived in this quiet Georgetown neighborhood, accompanied by a dozen military robots. Eyewitnesses report that the man kicked in the doors of several white houses and demanded an audience with "Earth leaders" to negotiate "the planet's surrender". The man was described as roughly seven feet tall with blue hair and red eyes, wearing armor and a skull mask. His skin appears to be dyed blue, leading police to speculate that he may be a disgrunted Dallas Cowboys fan. The man is also armed with what appears to be an arm-mounted T-shirt canon.

[Scene: Hordak stands at the threshold of a white residential home. After vaporizing the door with a shot from his laser canon, he saunters into the house. Several seconds later, Hordak runs out of the house, shielding his head with his free arm as an old woman smacks him with a broom.]

ANCHOR: FBI intelligence officials intercepted the following electronic communication between the man and an accomplice.

"Any luck finding the leaders, Hordak?"

"No. I've stormed ten white houses searching for Earth's sovereigns, but all I've uncovered are elders, housewives, and children. These Earth commoners have battered me with brooms, thrown appliances at my head, and berated me for interrupting their video games."

"The planet's rulers have to be around here somewhere!"

"Clearly, this "Bai-Din" and his courtiers are too cowardly to face me on the battlefield!"

"Hordak, honey, let's regroup. Just take the Blue Line or the Orange Line to the Smithsonian Metro Station."

"I am NOT navigating that subterranean labyrinth again. The city's underground tunnels are more confusing than Crypto Castle. I will go on foot."

"Okay, but the Metro's quicker. Listen, I've secured all the Smithsonian museums with EKS bots. The visitors thought they were some kind of science exhibit! They loved them! I'll be waiting for you at the National Air and Space Museum. There's so much science here! They have a space suit testing android! We need to build a science museum in the Fright Zone when we get--Emily, don't knock over that display!"

ANCHOR: Another developing story is taking place in Washington D.C. at the National Air and Space Museum. An unidentified woman entered the building with five military robots and began climbing on exhibits. Visitors were evacuated by museum staff, and security guards were chased by robots when they attempted to remove the woman. ABC News correspondent Anita Beere was granted access to the museum.

[Scene: Entrapta sits on top the Lunar Module LM-2 as a journalist points a microphone at her.]

ENTRAPTA: So after Hordak conquered Etheria and we figured out how to get Etheria out of Despondos, he thought that conquering the nearest neighbor would make an even better impression on Horde Prime. We were supposed to meet up with the rest of our troops, but they insisted on driving here in tanks and skiffs. I told them to use the Metro! Lonnie, Kyle, and Rogelio got lost somewhere near Logan Circle. Last I heard, Catra and Scorpia wound up in Baltimore, somehow.

BEERE: Once the Horde conquers Earth, what does Hordak plan to do with the planet?

ENTRAPTA: That's the thing. The Horde doesn't really do anything with the places it conquers. He'll probably slap some bat-symbols on everything and call it a day.

BEERE: Witnesses claim that you brought a toddler inside with you. Is it wise to bring a small child along for a war campaign?

ENTRAPTA: Imp? Oh, he won't cause too much mayhem.

[Imp flies through the air and lands on the module next to Entrapta. Imp opens his mouth, and a recording of a woman flows from his lips: "Mr. President, the situation in Georgetown has devolved into--OH GOD A DEMON BABY!"]

BEERE: How does the Horde plan to conquer a planet of almost 8 billion people with a handful of troops and robots?

ENTRATPA: Ei...eight...billion...people?

BEERE: That's right. Earth's population is 7.8 billion people.

[Entrapta's hair twitches. Her eye twitches. She stares blankly at the journalist, then extracts a recorder from her overalls pocket.]

ENTRAPTA: Log entry 1094. Earth has almost 8 billion people. Our earlier intelligence reports were...in error. I'm going to need to build more robots.

ANCHOR: ABC News will closely monitor both situations in Washington. In other news, thirteen people were injured in the Inner Harbor district of Baltimore, Maryland. Witnesses at Phillips Seafood claim that a woman in a cat costume became argumentative when the restaurant ran out of blue crabs. A brawl ensued with other patrons after the woman reportedly asked, "Why do you [EXPLETIVE] people put Old Bay on everything?" and "Why are you idiots obsessed with ravens?" The woman was last seen fleeing toward Harborplace in a hovercraft with a woman dressed as a steamed crab.

#hordak #entrapta #imp #spop #shera #fan fiction #Old Bay is the best seasoning on Earth #entrapdak

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secretkeeper13 · 4 years ago

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Flirt

I decided to try my hand at an outside perspective Hinny OC. Just a bit of fluff, some humor (hopefully), and a bit of cringe. I hope you enjoy poor, sweet Craig! Also on Ao3.

The sun shone through the windows of the Three Broomsticks, casting rays of light across the dark wooden booths and tables. The pub was crowded- it was a Saturday, after all, and from the looks of it, plenty of Magpies fans had decided to apparate directly from the match, their black and white jerseys giving the room the appearance of a wonky chessboard. It was still late afternoon, so families with small children were mixed in among the regulars, contributing to the noisy din.

The table his mates chose was near the entrance, and he sat facing the door as he talked and laughed with them. It was strange, being here, all together, the six of them, now that they were out of school. They were still close- it was hard to live with people for seven years and not become friends. Though, he’d heard stories from others who couldn’t stand the people in their dormitories, so they were lucky in that regard, he supposed.

They’d been at the pub for less than an hour, after walking down from Dan’s flat on High Street once the match ended. He’d missed being around his mates every day, and they’d quickly made up for lost time, talking, joking, and laughing as if they were back in the dorm at Hogwarts and no time had passed since they’d all been together last.

“Let’s hear it Craig, got yourself any birds recently?”

Dan’s teasing tone jolted him out of his thoughts. His cheeks colored a bit at being called out.

“Nah, mate, Craigey-boy’s still hung up on Cressida,” Will chimed in, and Craig shot an annoyed look at his flat mate.

“I’m not hung up on her. And I have been out with other girls, you’ve been there. Stop taking the mick.”

Will grinned at him and raised his eyebrow. “Haven’t brought any home though, have you?”

Craig sighed. When he and Cressida split up this summer after seventh year, it hadn’t been on bad terms. She was off to Egypt to be a curse breaker for Gringotts, and he had no desire to leave England, so they’d gone their separate ways. He’d been happy living as a bachelor in London with Will, but he did miss her. Well, he missed the companionship of having a girlfriend, he supposed, trying not to think about her piercing blue eyes, the casual way she would ruffle his hair, or the way she kissed. He’d supposed that being with someone for so long- nearly two years- made it harder to move on. He couldn’t really picture being with anyone other than her.

“It isn’t like I haven’t been trying. You saw me get off with that girl outside the Leaky last month. Wouldn’t shut up about it for days, in fact.”

Will laughed. “Didn’t bring her home though.”

He hadn’t brought her home. She was good looking, but not as pretty as Cressida. And to be honest, she hadn’t been a very good snog either, so really, what was the point?

“Mate, you need to get a leg over. It’s been what, six months now?” Ben asked.

Craig glared at him. They all knew full well how long it had been since he and Cressida split. Ben grinned back at him.

“Well, maybe today’ll be the day,” he shot back.

“To Craigey getting laid!” Will called, and they all raised their glasses to toast him in jest as he flipped them off with two fingers.

Not a quarter hour later, he happened to look up just as a gorgeous girl walked in the door of the pub. She was petite, and wearing a tight turtleneck sweater in dark green, with red hair cascading past her shoulders down to her tits, which were full for her small frame. She glanced around, as if looking for someone, then headed over to the bar. Craig’s stomach fluttered in anticipation. This could be exactly what he’d been waiting for.

“Next rounds on me,” he said to the table, gesturing over to the bar, where the girl stood. Her position at the bar meant that her back was to their table, so they couldn’t see her face, only her long, shiny red hair. She was wearing tight, tan trousers tucked into brown boots that came up to below her knees, and she had a fantastic arse, he noted.

Will made a low whistle and nodded in appreciation.

“Go get her Clarke,” Dan said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Craig stood up and walked over to the bar. He ran a hand through his sandy brown hair. He was nervous, and a bit tipsy, as they’d cracked open the firewhisky as soon as they’d arrived at Dan’s place. He took a breath to steady himself, then he sidled up next to her at the bar.

“Packed today, isn’t it?” he said, trying to sound casual, as if he chatted up fit girls all the time.

“Yes, by the looks of it we’re in for a bit of a wait,” she said, looking at the lone barmaid and the patrons stacked two deep up and down the long bar.

“Well, in that case... I’m Craig. Craig Clarke,” he said, extending his hand and giving her a boyish grin.

She looked surprised for a second, but then she took his hand and shook it, her hand small and warm in his.

“Pleasure to meet you, Craig,” she said, smiling. She exuded confidence. Her eyes were a lovely shade of warm brown and seemed to shine in the afternoon light.

He was so captivated by her that it was only later that he realized she’d never told him her name.

“Do you come here often?” he asked, and as soon as he said it, he inwardly cringed at the obvious line.

Her lips turned up into a small smile, almost like a smirk, he thought.

“Not since I was in school.”

“Oh, I went to Hogwarts as well. Just finished last year. Hufflepuff. What house were you in?”

“I was a Gryffindor,” she replied, and her smile got broader and more impish, making his heart beat faster.

She wasn’t in his year, or he obviously would’ve known her. There was something oddly familiar about her, though- like he knew her, but couldn’t place her. She must’ve been a year or two ahead of him. Maybe he’d seen her in the corridors. He wouldn’t have forgotten a face like hers if he’d met her properly, of that he was certain.

“I didn’t know many Gryffindors outside of my year. Dated a Ravenclaw though. Spent far too much time in their common room, unfortunately.” He was rambling like an idiot, he thought, but unable to stop himself. And, why, why was he mentioning his ex? Her smile was dazzling and it was too much, almost like looking directly into the sun.

“You and me both.”

“Swotty lot aren’t they?”

She laughed, a silvery tinkling sound, and her nose crinkled up a bit, which was adorable. He was smitten.

“I don’t normally come up to Hogsmeade either anymore, but one of my mates in my year works for Dervish and Banges, and we all came to his today to listen to the Montrose game.”

“Over quick, wasn’t it? Their new seeker had quite the debut.”

“You follow Quidditch?” he asked, delighted, though it was clear she did. She really was perfect, this girl.

“In a manner of speaking,” she said, almost coyly, and that smirk had returned.

“Which team do you support? I’m a Puddlemere man myself. Muggle born, so I got into it late. Brilliant sport though.”

“Harpies, through and through.” She bit her bottom lip, as if to keep from smiling wider. Her coy looks were driving him mad.

He wanted to keep the conversation going. Hopefully, he could work up the courage to ask her out.

“I live in London now. I work for the Magical Menagerie, caring for all the animals there. What do you do?” he asked. Perhaps she lived in London too. Maybe they’d know some of the same people, and he could invite her out with a group of his friends.

“Well, I’ve just had a bit of a career change. I’m a correspondent for the Prophet now.”

“Do you like it?”

“I just started, but yes, so far I do.”

“Well good luck with the change. My mate Will,” he gestured over to the booth where his friends sat, “just went through the whole career change bit. He took a job at the Ministry in the Department of Transportation right out of Hogwarts. His Deputy Head was a real stickler- impossible to work for, everything had to be just so- you know the type. He only lasted four months before he managed to get a transfer over to International Magical Cooperation. He likes it much better there, thankfully.”

“Yes, I definitely know the type,” she said, and her right hand covered her mouth as she seemed to suppress a giggle. He wasn’t sure what was funny about his comment, but he didn’t much care so long as he was making her laugh.

“Oi, Clarke, what’s taking so long? You getting our round or what!” his friends heckled him from the table.

“Come off it, it’s packed,” he called back, but they were all clearly engrossed in some drinking game they were playing and just ribbing him.

He turned back to her. “Sorry about my mates. Bunch of blokes together, you know how it is.”

“I’m very familiar, trust me.” There was that smile again, so coy.

“What’ll it be love?” the haggard barmaid asked as she finally reached them.

He turned to her and smiled. “What would you like? It’s on me.”

“Oh,” she said, looking apologetic, “I couldn’t possibly, it’s really alright.”

“No, I insist, you’ve been such good company, let me buy you a drink.”

“No really, I-“

“Oh come on love, let him buy you the drink. I don’t have all day. Bars two deep right now,” said the barmaid, looking extremely exasperated.

“Just a butterbeer for me please,” she said to the barmaid, and then he placed the order for their round.

“Craig,” she said as the barmaid walked away. God, he loved the way his name sounded when she said it. “Listen, you’re very kind, but...”

“Mum-Mum! Mum-Mum!”

A baby, maybe a year old, babbling nonsense, appeared on her other side in the arms of a tall man wearing a baseball cap. The baby grasped her long hair, the smooth copper strands peeking through his tiny fist. He had thick, dark hair that stuck up in the back, and big brown eyes. Eyes that were exactly the same shade as hers, Craig noticed.

“Oh, Jim-Jams,” she cooed, taking the baby from the arms of the tall man holding him.

He was confused. Surely, she didn’t have a baby? She was probably only a year or two older than he was. Maybe a nephew, he thought.

The man who handed the baby to her was holding a knapsack over his shoulder and looked a bit frazzled. “I’m sorry we’re late to meet you, Gin. Didn’t expect the game to end so quickly. And then, on the way out, I turned my back for a half-second to grab more floo powder to refill the tin on the mantle, and he crawled into the loo, pulled himself up, and was splashing his hand around in the toilet. Had to give him a bath, didn’t want to chance a charm with that.”

She winced, then chuckled. “I told you he’s getting fast! And it’s alright, don’t worry. Neville’s not here yet either. He sent me a patronus that he’d got tied up with something. He should be on his way down now.”

Craig’s confusion grew. Who was this Neville? He hoped it wasn’t a boyfriend she was meeting.

“Mum-Mum!” the baby said again, as he settled on her hip, breaking into a wide, four-toothed smile.

She beamed down at the baby. “Hello, James. Mummy missed you, cheeky little monkey.” She reached her left hand up to stroke his cheek, and he noticed, for the first time, her wedding ring.

At this, the wheels, which had been turning far too slowly in his head, finally clicked into place.

He felt his face flush with complete embarrassment. He’d just been trying to chat up a married woman- the mother of a baby, for fuck’s sake. Well done, Craig . She probably thought he was a complete cad.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said to her, his words rushed and incredibly apologetic. “I didn’t realize, I had no idea...”

She held up her hand and smiled at him. “It’s alright, you were very kind, really.”

“Gin, I think I see Neville on his way,” the man said. The man (her husband, Craig corrected himself, groaning inwardly at his absolute stupidity in failing to realize this sooner) was looking out the front window, onto High Street. Craig hoped he’d missed their exchange.

The man turned back to face their direction, his round glasses catching the light. He looked at Craig with a bemused expression. Dark stubble lined the man’s jaw, and black hair was visible under the cap. He looked a bit like Harry Potter, Craig thought, thinking of the Witch Weekly poster Cressida had of him for ages. Quite a lot, actually.

Then, realization, followed immediately by absolute horror, washed over him as he looked back at the red-haired woman.

Ginny Potter. He’d been trying to chat up Ginny Potter. The star chaser for the Harpies, whose poster had hung above Ben’s bed in the dormitory since fourth year, for fuck’s sake. How had he not realized it? Ginny Potter, who’d been on the cover of every newspaper for months when she’d decided to retire because she was having a baby. Harry Potter’s baby. He’d been hitting on Harry Potter’s bloody wife for the last five minutes.

His jaw was agape as he stared at her and tried to form words. He probably looked like a giant goldfish, he thought.

“You’re...” he gulped, still looking at her, his cheeks on fire. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize you. I’m a bit drunk, you see. And I thought you were maybe a year or two older than me, not...” he trailed off, feeling like a complete idiot and wanting nothing more than to disappear.

She laughed, but it was genuine and not unkind. “Don’t apologize, it was refreshing, actually. Gives me hope for an anonymous future,” she said, and she winked at him. He felt his face flush even more.

He turned to the man, to Harry Potter, he corrected himself. “Mr. Potter, sir, thank you. I’m Muggleborn and started at Hogwarts a year after the battle. Wouldn’t have been able to go without all you did.”

God, he was babbling like an idiot. The baby was more coherent.

Harry Potter shifted a bit and looked uncomfortable at his praise. “That’s very kind of you to say. But I had loads of help, it wasn’t just me.”

“Daaaa,” gurgled the baby, who now had his hand on Ginny Potter’s breast, patting it happily. Craig immediately tried to look anywhere else. His face was even redder, he was certain. He stared at the bar top as if it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

Just when he thought his humiliation was complete, he heard a familiar voice.

“Hullo Harry, Ginny. And James! Merlin, he’s grown! Getting to be a big boy now, aren’t you?”

Craig looked up into the round, smiling face of his favorite professor, who was pretending to shake the baby’s hand as the baby gurgled and laughed. Oh, how he wished the day would end.

“Hello, Professor Longbottom.”

“Clarke! How’s the Menagerie going? I’ve missed your N.E.W.T. class this year more than I can say.”

“It’s going well, sir. I’m actually in charge of preparing all the food for the creatures- we’ve got a small greenhouse off the back, so I’ve been doing some growing myself.”

Professor Longbottom looked pleased, but then he asked the question Craig was dreading. “Craig, have you met Harry and Ginny Potter?”

“Oh, erm, yes actually...” he stammered, unable to think of how to politely phrase that he’d just tried to chat up Mrs. Potter because he thought she was fit and didn’t recognize her.

“Craig was kind enough to keep me company while I waited for Harry to arrive,” Mrs. Potter interjected. He shot her a grateful look.

“Drinks, loves.” The barmaid returned with a butterbeer and six glasses of firewhiskey.

Craig paid her and turned to Mrs. Potter to hand her the butterbeer.

“Thank you,” she smiled at him, as Harry Potter put his arm around her waist.

“Rosmerta’s saved us the back corner booth,” Professor Longbottom said, glancing to the empty booth tucked away in the far corner, away from the bar and the tables, “We’d best be off before these two are recognized by anyone else.”

“Goodbye, Professor, Mr. and Mrs. Potter,” he said, nodding to them. “Enjoy the afternoon.”

“Goodbye Craig,” Mrs. Potter said, smiling at him, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “And if you wouldn’t mind not mentioning it to anyone else that Harry is here, we’d appreciate it.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding, just wanting the whole thing to be over.

“Bye-bye,” said the baby, waving unprompted at him. Great, even the baby was having a go at him, Craig thought. Mrs. Potter laughed delightedly, and Mr. Potter exclaimed, “Clever boy, James!” They turned and walked off towards the back corner booth.

When they were gone, he finally exhaled, and slumped against the bar. He motioned over Will to help him carry the drinks back to the table.

As soon as he sat down, he began to gulp his firewhisky in earnest, wanting to forget that the horribly embarrassing incident had ever occurred.

“So what happened, mate?” Dan asked.

“Oh, erm, turned out she was married. Talked to her for a few minutes before I saw the ring.”

“Tough luck,” said Will. “Didn’t get a good look at her face, but she was fit.”

Craig nodded, still drinking. “What are you playing?” he asked, eager to change the subject, and then he threw himself into their game of 21, wishing for all the world that he and Cressida had never broken up. Not just because he missed her, which he did (he finally admitted to himself)- but because if they hadn’t, this never would have happened.

An hour and a half and more firewhisky later, Craig was feeling pleasantly numb. Some of the mortification had subsided, at least. And then suddenly, he looked up, and she was there, alone, standing next to his chair.

“Craig, we’re heading out, but thank you for being so kind earlier. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered.”

“Oh, erm, it was nothing, really,” he said, feeling himself blush and wishing he could sink into the stone floor and disappear.

“Rosmerta will be over in a mo’. The next rounds on me, boys, enjoy yourselves,” she said to the table, before giving Craig a wink and a wave. Then, she turned, walked out the door, and disappeared with a pop before the door swung shut. His friends immediately turned to him.

“Was that?!”

“She’s bloody fit she is. Even better than in photos.”

“Damn, Harry Potter is a lucky sod.”

“Wait, you tried to chat up Ginny Potter?!”

“I didn’t recognize her!” he moaned, putting his head in his hands as his mates erupted into laughter. God, he would never, ever hear the end of this.

As his friends began to tease him in earnest (and really, he couldn’t blame them), Craig swore to himself that he would never try to flirt with some random girl at a bar again. He’d be single forever over ever reliving the humiliation of what happened today. Or maybe, he would write to Cressida tonight. Yes, he would write to her as soon as he got home.

#hinny fanfic #fluff #cringe #sweet himbo #poor craig #ginny weasley is hot

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algerbecher · 3 years ago

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eamesandbellamyaremyheaven · 5 years ago

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Somewhere, Now and Then Ch1 || Arthur x Sansa (Kalots/GoT Outlander AU)

King Arthur: Legend of the Sword x Game of Thrones Outlander AU (there’s no such thing as canon)

Warnings: None for now, later smut and violence.

Summary: England, 1945. After serving in the war as a nurse, Sansa Bolton (former Stark) seizes the opportunity of going on vacation with her husband Ramsay to rekindle their relationship. But what happens when Sansa finds herself travelling back in time, to the 6th century, where she meets the King Arthur and his Knights?

A.N.//- Needless to say, this is loosely based on the Outlander premise. The story is told through Guy Ritchie’s interpretation of the Arthurian legend, and for that locations and traditions - and the time itself - had to be adapted to work accordingly. Any questions you have, feel free to ask!

A.N.//- This chapter will centered in Sansa and her life in the present time, so our King and his Knights will not be making an appearance yet. Fear not, I’ll be updating the next chapter sometime today!

Chapter One - The Stranger

England, 1945

How Sansa got bamboozled into vacationing through England, she would never know. One day, she was visiting her aunt Lysa and her husband Petyr after being three years apart, the next, she was walking through grass and mud, her eyes overlooking the ruins of stone, the last remainder of what must have been a majestic castle centuries ago.

Petyr Baelish had always bragged himself of being descendant of noble heritage, a direct progeny of one of King Arthur’s Knights, an information the Baelishes passed from one generation to the next without any concrete proof. As the Second Great War devastated the world , he used the time provided by his lack of involvement to study his ancestry.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Petyr asked, his gaze following the same path as hers “These ruins were most likely the house of King Arthur and his Knights, including my ancestor Sir William”

Sansa turned to him, arching an eyebrow as her curiosity peaked “Most likely?”

Petyr’s lips curled into a smirk, clearly proud for capturing the young woman's attention “Yes, well, there are no factual evidence of the man himself, only tales.”

“Folk tales of magical swords, and stones, and wizards, my dearest” Ramsay’s voice echoed from behind her, in its natural arrogant tone “I highly doubt of the veracity of any of it”

Petyr had arranged the union between Sansa and Ramsay at the early years of the war, but as both enlisted the army, as a nurse and MI6 officer respectively, their marriage consisted in a few months together followed by years of correspondence. They had little in common, she had medicine and botany, he had secrets and a general disdain for life. But they were still married, and Lysa insisted that the young couple would benefit from a countryside vacation, even if it’s one to accompany Petyr and Lysa through their historical quest. After all, it was due to Ramsay’s stationing in London that they had discovered long lost records that placed Petyr’s ancestor in that castle during the 6th century.

“You don’t believe in the Arthurian legend?” Sansa asked, as she entwined her arm in her husband’s, following Petyr and Lysa inside the ruins

Ramsay scoffed “A man that pulled a magic sword from a stone and was crowned King? How can anyone actually believe that happened?”

“Now that you put it that way, it does seem far fetched” Sansa agreed, with a frown

“He was just a man, Sansa. All those extraordinary stories were made just to impress dreamers like you and your uncle”

Ramsay had spoken bluntly, as they walked past an archway, his words clearly meant as an offense. Sansa jolted her arm free from his, a little too harshly than she had wanted.

“Do you think of me as just some easily-impressed girl?”

Ramsay looked around the stone walls, making sure they were alone before speaking

“That was not what I meant, but even you have to admit... Coming all this way to England just to search for a man that lived 1500 years ago, just because your uncle might be his descendant? That’s insane.”

Sansa took a few steps back, creating physical distance between them. She shook her head, her anger and disappointment flushing through her cheeks, her vision blurred by stubborn tears that came through, unwelcomed.

“I didn’t came to England for Petyr. I came here to save our marriage”

He tried to reach out to her, but she refused to let him touch her. He was never the loving, caring kind of husband, but Sansa was coming to realize that not only Ramsay was not the romantic partner she had hoped for, he was also cold and bitter and had not an ounce of empathy in his entire body, not even towards the woman he had promised to love for the rest of his life.

Had he ever loved her, at all?

※※※※※

Sansa and Ramsay had barely spoken for the rest of the day, after their previous argument. She was hurt, he felt insulted. Even at that moment, as the four of them were dinning with Mr. Manderly, their host and a fellow local historian, they briefly partake in the conversation, but never address each other.

“So, what did you think of the castle, Mr. Baelish?” Mr. Manderly asked, although his eyes came down to his plate, focusing on the stake instead

“It’s quite a sight. I wonder what it must’ve look like in its prime”

The man nodded “Majestic, I can only imagine. Do you truly believe it to be the seat of King Arthur’s throne?”

“The records clearly state that Sir William lived there. Since he was a Knight of the Round Table, one can only assume that it was, indeed, the court of King Arthur.”

“It’s such a shame we can’t find actual proof to support any of those claims” Ramsay spoke, then taking a sip of his wine, his eyes focusing on Sansa’s, obviously trying to get any kind of reaction from her

“Maybe it’s for the best” Sansa retorted, her voice vicious “The truth could destroy the myth. I’d rather hear tales of incredible heroes than accurate stories of flawed man.”

The table felt into a discomfort silence. Ramsay watched her, his icy blue eyes piercing her like daggers, to which Sansa replied in kind. After a few moments of awkwardness, Mr. Manderly cleared his throat, and tried to change the mood of the table.

“Mrs Bolton, your uncle told me you’d taken quite the interest in botany”

Sansa looked from her husband towards her host, softening her features “Yes, for medicinal purposes”

“Then tomorrow you should visit the Stonehenge. There’s plenty of variety, you’ll find something useful, I’m sure of it.”

“I read that it used to be the ground for pagan rituals, because people believed that the stones had a very powerful, ancient magic energy” Petyr boasted, never missing the opportunity to show off his knowledge

Mr. Manderly paused, seemingly considering what to say next “Actually, the rituals still continue to this day. Tomorrow, at dawn, the local women will be celebrating the Samhain, but I advise you not to be lurking around during the act, they do not take kindly the presence of strangers.”

※※※※※

Although Sansa had read about pagan traditions, she never found the matter interesting enough to pursue. But now, being able to see one of their rituals being performed in front of her, that had peaked her interest. That, and knowing she definitely shouldn’t be there.

And that was the reason why she was up an hour before sunrise, had borrowed her uncle’s car, and had wondered deep in the forest into the clearing only in her dress, shoes and wool mantle. She had been afraid of waking Ramsay, so she’d put on the first items she managed to found in the dark. At that moment, she was starting to regret that decision.

That was until she heard voices approaching.

Sansa hid behind a rock, watching the group of women walk towards the stones. They were all dressed in white, and each one of them held a torch in one hand.

Then, they started to dance. Well, it was not actually dancing, more like swaying around, spinning and swinging their arms and torso, as if they were being guided by the wind. Their dresses flowed in unison, the light fabric coming up and down in waves. The torches emitted an yellowish glow, tracing momentarily the air with each of the girls movements. They sang harmoniously, in an ancient dialect, creating rhythm and energy to their bodies to follow.

Sansa stood watching, in awe. Her skin had turned into goosebumps, and although there was a voice inside telling her to leave, she dare not to move. The voice, more like a soft whisper at the ear, disappeared as soon as the women stopped.

They dispersed quickly and quietly, a sense of peace was all they left behind.

Sansa waited a little while longer, making sure none of them had been aware of her presence. She finally rose to her feet, and walked towards the stones, her eyes set on the taller one, that stood right at the centre.

The wind was stronger now, rushing through her with all of its fury, merciless against her skin and hair.

Her steps were firm, unknowingly determined, as if she was being commanded by an unseen entity.

Sansa stopped in front of the rock, her heart drumming wildly, and she felt the urge to touch it. She held her hand up, five fingers spread wide, and finally she allowed the trembling palm to come in contact with the cold stone.

One moment she felt it all, the next there was only dark.

Taglist is OPEN!

#sansa x arthur #sansa stark #arthur pendragon #king arthur legend of the sword #game of thrones #outlander au #time travel au #crossover #sansa stark fanfiction #sansa stark imagine #arthur pendragon imagine #arthur pendragon fanfiction #eabamh masterlist

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thepilgrimofwar · 5 years ago

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Counter-Attack - Edited Roll20 Log

[Backdated to after Lady Swiftquiver & before Burdened]

[Event Start]

It had now been a week since the start of the Civil War. Between the changes in allegiance of House Wintergale, Shalemarch coming under the new banner of House Swiftquiver, and a vicious guerilla war being waged by an unknown number of infiltrators in the west led by a ferocious Tauren with a reputation. Illithia was growing increasingly desperate. In a last ditch effort to win the war before the chaos in Shalemarch could sort itself out, General Serisera, leader of the Illithian troops, has bet everything in a counter-attack.

Smashing through the frontline along the coast, she races to encircle Emberheart forces which are engaged all along the line, hoping to pin them against the mountain and encircling them all. With Judereth Swiftquiver still at the manor, The Coalition, under the nominal command of Relriah Illithia, rushes to stop the spearhead and put an end to the General’s well laid plans.

[At the Encampment]

Relriah “Militiamen to me!” She calls, as the reports come in and the sounds battle a heard in the distance. The counter-offensive had already begun. “Our army is engaged all the way from the mountain to the sea, and General Serisera intends to surround us. We are going to ensure that this does not happen! We move immediately!”

Renalays quickly assumes command of the archers present - something to little surprise with her Farstrider ancestry. What does come to more attention amongst the forces is the power she harvests from the ancestral battlefields that rest under their feet; ancient blood wafting like mist where she walks until she is held aloft by it by the time they reach sight of the enemy.

Vissehn leads his soldiers from deep in the ranks, and from them rises the song made popular by the Crows-- the defeat of Goodember. When they reach the final lines. Stenden Emberheart's name is roared into the sea breezes, a rife-shot salute echoing.

Ethalarian brings his cavalry up to the rear of the Emberheart formation, the Order's banners conspicuously absent this day from the more heavily armored riders. A deep frown is etched into the knight's scarred face as he takes stock of everything. He turns over his shoulder and calls out to the militia at his flanks. "We stay to the rear and reinforce as necessary."

Vissehn uses Vanguard to hide until turn .

Esheyn orders her troops to advance forward, but to hold once they've taken their places.

Isilos picked up his scythe and signalled to the nearest target. Sitting back would not grant them victory. "Focus on the nearest targets"

Iriina is not about to let her uncle steal all the glory. No thanks.

[Combat Starts, Coalition forces are fielded on the beach while the Militia under Relriah fight in the ruins of Golden Strand Village]

Serisera "Through the gaps men! For Illithia!" She screams a battlecry as she charges forth with her Honor Guards.

Ethalarian heaves a sigh. "Let's put an end to this farce quickly." He drives his heels into the flanks of his charger and leads his formation forward, intending to drive a massive wedge through the Honor Guard and shatter them.

[A Pale Sihouette appears on the Horizon of the Sea]

Westheath Honor Guard watches as a figure on the horizon gets closer, in the “What in the blazes is that?”

Renalays ll The waters underneath Renalays’ maintained bloodmist churns all the while as the two armies move to finally clash together - the purposes unknown and unspoken to the rest of the Emberheart forces. Then, eventually, the dead long-ago thrashed by the waters or pushed out into sea from battles previous erupt; a swirling whirlpool formed in which shades spill forth and travel across the shoreline to crash into the Illithian line. In the meantime, the archers march up with a strange orderliness in spite of their commander’s lacking correspondence before letting loose volleys. Overhead, the Inquisitor soars.

Westheath Honor Guard screams "It's the White Lady!"

Relriah seeing that the field and lines were all held in place, she sends her troops into the ruined village

Renalays:"'The White Lady,'" she mulls over as she settles over the earth and sky. "Somehow I feel like this has different context from which I am usually called."

[Vissehn shoots Serisera from the rooftops]

Vissehn |Despite the chanting and song before the battle, when the first volleys were flung the riflemen are missing from the field. Their ranks broken, they moved quiet and careful through the streets-- they take the bullets from their guns, moving undercover-- moving as one. In cloaks of mottled brown and gray, they sweep between alleys and then rise, hand over hand up windows and across brick walls, clasping arms to their fellows to pull them high as they move quiet as wind. One by one they slide up onto the roofs, and load their rifles with careful hands. Vissehn’s own troops know their purpose, and stage themselves in brackets throughout the militia. Then-- the youth stands, dropping the heavy and dark cloak to show a blazon of crimson. His men spill onto the roofs edges, their guns all pointed at the General. “FIRE!” Vissehn roared, and the soldiers let loose their bullets with [Rotating Fire] from his men and the militia firing into the flank, a flurry of sniper fire raining on the woman from above.

Serisera, bogged down engaging with a blood-beast receives a hail of bullets cuts both her and her command unit down. Thirty rifles tearing all of the well armored Honor Guards down and bringing all of them low.

Vissehn roars from the rooftops. "FOR THE TRUE LORD OF THE EMBERGLADES! FOR STENDEN EMBERHEART!"

Esheyn very calmly steps over what remains of Serisera's corpse to bring her weapon down upon the fallen General's guards, and her troops follow suit.

Westheath Honor Guard yells, "Keep pushing! Keep pushing!" Attempting to keep the momentum of the counter-attack going- Despite the loss of the general.

[Battle Continues on the Beach]

Isilos pulled his troops back before moving north on the field. "We need to protect our allies" With that he sent his magic and that of his magisters to the orc Oosaarn.

The strigoi poised where the General's troops once stood writhes in something -like- satisfaction as more dead feed the earth. Faces of the Emberglades' past revolving through its form.

Ethalarian grimaces as his heavily armored cavalry fend off yet another blow from a concentrated force of the enemy's Honor Guard. "Punch a hole for Flamethorn's troops!" he calls out to his Militia. "We'll hold them here! Sergeant, Adept, keep the men in fighting shape!"

Oosaarn and the unit of orcs eventually pushed through the merciless onslaught and charged the nearby infantry. Letting out that blood curdling warcry their clan was so well known for all the way. Arbalests took that opportunity to then set up behind them and unleash a volley.

Renalays flies to the center of the field. And as she advances, the fresh blood spilled from the current corpses and stains upon the earth -move-, trickling and flowing and following in the manner of mercury than blood. Snaking through hooves and boots before what starts as an ultimately minute streaming pool twists upward into the sky into the birth of a construct. The anima shrieking as its arms begin to reave through the enemy vanguard. All the while, the ancient dead pour from the sea.

[A hail of bolts are fired at Renalays]

Where the bolts pierce the blood mantle that carries Renalays, mist and feather lose their magic. The crimson falling lifelessly like rain. Curiously however, where the majority of it collapses, there is no 'White Lady' or Renalays to be found. Only a still-vitalised stream moving away from the battlefield.

Westheath Honor Guard shouts to the reminder of his men. "See! Just an illusion! Keep going! We're almost through!"

Isilos pivoted to other allies and foes on the field. Another front line bombardment in order!

Iriina calls out a cheery "Thanks uncle!" before the air around her troops shimmers and they disappear.

Isilos:"Careful Iriina lest you get your friends killed down there!"

[Unable to break through the village, with the rumors of the White Lady come to aid the Emberhearts, the militia begins to break. As close as they were to breaking through and fulfilling Serisera's dying wish.]

Ethalarian weathers yet another storm of steel and blood, holding firm until the path is cleared and his cavalry are free of obstruction. "Finally." He turns again to the sergeant at his shoulder. "Do it." In an instant, a horn booms over the din of the battlefield followed by the deafening thunder of horses hooves as the heavy cavalry are finally unleashed. "Run them down!" bellows their leader, Light radiating from the entire formation and coalescing around their lances. "Break these spineless wretches and trample them into the dirt!"

Oosaarn sank his axe into the ground. Suddenly, ice sprung forth from the sand, coating him and ever orc under his command in a thick, frozen armor. All the while, arnalests continued their volleys.

Oosaarn released a booming, ethereal laugh as the cavalry's charge quite literally bounced right off the dreadnaughts. Their lances barely scratching that icy shield and orc not budging so much as an inch. "Looks like we have our first volunteers to die!"

Esheyn launches herself at the nearby Arbalest, and her troops follow suit just behind.

Ethalarian bristles as the enemy cavalry slam into his flank. For a moment his cavalry waver- but then, as one, repel the charge. Another burst of Light ripples out from the formation- a solar flare of unbridled rage- as they turn upon their attackers without mercy. "You should have surrendered when you had the chance!"

[Meanwhile in the Village]

As the battle raged on the sands of the beach, Relriah she tramples down a unit with her cavalry and cuts them down as the begin to flee. Moving to cut off the lines of retreat, she traps them between the narrow streets between tall stone-brick buildings,

Vissehn climbs down from the rooftops leveling his rifle at the fleeing militia... but them lifts it, and instead moves to assist Relriah in cutting off their escape.

Relriah, seeing this, flicks the blood off her blade. "Throw down your arms, and you might live of the Emberhearts will it." A smile curls on her lips. Instead of being surrounded and have her army pressed against the mountains to the south, she managed to do the encircling instead. Blood Magic or no, Coalition or no, this was a resounding victory for the Emberhearts. Even if they had gotten close to breaking through in the South at the height of the battle.

[Event End]

Vissehn popped his collar. "Rode up on the dark of night, thru again til morning..." He hummed the song, eyes sliding over the captured.

#Epilogue #Battle

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a-cai-jpg · 5 years ago

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you exist as a memo on my phone

I've been having fitful sleeps.

These days, I start--or plan to start--things, but I leave them unfinished or untouched. See: the Amazon package I have yet to open, the books I place either by my laptop or my bedside with the intention of re-reading, the abandoned watercolor set and scattered pieces of wood I collected to use as palettes, the scribbled notes in my notebook begging to be written into coherent thoughts.

(though, since first writing this, i have re-read about 80 pages of Norwegian Wood)

(i fell asleep 20 pages in)

(but i finally felt like i could breathe)

There's something difficult about releasing my mind from my body. I balk when I think of having to plunge back into the life of a college student in the 80s, or a love story across country borders, or anything that might jeopardize my routine of mindlessly waiting for 10 PM to roll around so that I can head to bed and scroll through Instagram.

It's terrible, asinine work, but I can't pull myself from it.

Everything leaves a bland, sawdust taste in my mouth, and I run away from committing myself to a Task.

It's like I'm even doing that with sleep.

Yesterday, I was roused around 2 AM by my neighbors' loud arguing. I pounded my fist against the wall dividing our houses a few times out of frustration, and by the time they responded with pounding of their own, I was already drifting back off into a distressingly mediocre slumber.

My neighbors quieted, but I woke up every few hours or so anyways, struggling to free myself from my blankets. Between the bouts of exasperated wake, I had a dream about an old friend.

I was back in my high school, angrily yelling at two students for blocking the walkway, when he appeared. He was wearing the same jacket he did back then, white with black stripes, and he was laughing at something sheepishly. Maybe we were both back in high school again, but it was like time and distance had somehow made its way into the dreamscape anyways, and I panicked and ran.

Which is definitely something I would do irl.

I haven't seen him in...4 years? In the beginning, we kept making plans to hang out, but school and life always managed to pull us away. Then, our correspondence distilled from a message per season to me sending him sporadic texts telling him something reminded me of him or happy birthday.

This year, his birthday came and went, and I didn't even notice.

The date isn't one I can forget, but it's lost its association with him, now simply a string of numbers that I frequently repeat in my mind.

(granted, recently, time has become ever more fluid, and i'm not even sure what day of the week it is sometimes. last saturday, i woke up in a panic thinking i was late to a team meeting.)

In my dream, I sent him a message afterwards, apologizing for fleeing. I said I was caught off guard and was actually really glad to see him after so long. Best wishes, and hope we meet again. Next time, I won't run.

Which is also something I'm likely to do irl.

The thing is, I think--very often--about when and where we would meet again. Would it be by our design? Or the world's? I think about it as I drive down the street where he used to live, trying to remember which house was his; or pass by the couches at the mall where we'd argued about dreams and the people who appeared in them; or, on the very rare occasions, walk towards the lockers in the A building by the culinary wing.

Sometimes, the scene is set in the mall. Sometimes, it's set in a restaurant I've never stepped foot in. Sometimes, it never comes.

See, I can plan these reunions all I want, but if and when they really rolls around, I know they'll probably look like how it did in my dream--vaguely unfulfilling and regretful, like we had missed something very important but didn’t notice until it was too late.

I know I'd never be able to express everything of everything. When you get to know someone and they entangle themselves into every vein of your existence, how do you even begin to tell them what you want to say?

I cycle between reaching out and just letting fate take its course.

In this day and age, there's really no excuse for missing someone so much you cover two pages with text about them and not messaging them with the phone literally sitting by your side..

But.

But there's always so much reckoning when you schedule an appointment with the past.

You have to be strong enough to hold onto the present and let go of the past, and be okay with that. And, sometimes, someone is too, too important to you during a certain period of your life, and you just want to leave them there--a vanguard protecting this memory of you and them.

There are so many memories I have of you, but they're slipping away. My breath catches in my lungs when I try to draw them out, and I'm afraid I’m not strong enough for the task. But, this is one I refuse to forget--

a long hallway, dim, yellowing lights, socked feet padding across carpet, the din of people bickering, you walking in front of me, and me--

Murakami writes, "The sad truth is that what I could recall in five seconds all too soon needed ten, then thirty, then a full minute--like shadows lengthening at dusk. Someday, I suppose, the shadows will be swallowed up in darkness. There is no way around it: my memory is growing ever more distant from the spot where Naoko used to stand--ever more distant from the spot where my old self used to stand."

So, I wrote this two(?) days ago? (again, i have lost all track of time, sos)

Since then, I have watched a movie that has somehow pushed a bit of Feeling back into my body.

Dear Ex on Netflix is pretty incredible, and although I didn't cry, I sat soullessly with my head on the table for a ridiculous amount of time after it ended.

It's been a very long time since I've felt that ache in my heart as I think back upon a piece of work.

daily song rec: 萨顶顶 - 当遇见你

(this is one of the best electro-pop arrangements i've heard in chinese music)

#and me #suddenly feeling like i had to catch up to you #and the relief i felt when i finally did

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smallscreengifs · 7 years ago

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#television #News #Awesome #TV. The Daily Show's Michelle Wolf To Host White House Correspondents Din

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jackyjango · 6 years ago

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Daddy dearest...

A Modern-day Powered AU!

Tags: Dadneto, enemies to friends to lovers, fickle author, author doesn't know what they're writing, or why for that matter

Charles massages his forehead again. What had started as a dull ache at the back of his head had spread over the last two hours. At this rate, it's going to turn into a full-blown migraine by the end of the day.

The first two weeks of school are always difficult. With the kids still high on energy from the summer holidays it'll take another week or so in the least for them to wind down to a schedule.

There are five new students this year-- all mutants. It should be a good thing, really-- Charles is always thrilled to have new students admitted into the school. But just not in this situation. The basketball court and the gym are under renovations, and they're short of two teachers; which means that Charles has to juggle between supervising the renovations and substituting for the said teachers. It doesn't help the fact that three of the five new students are extremely mischievous.

The naughtiest of them all is Peter Maximoff, who simply won't sit still for even for a millisecond. To make matters worse, his mutation is Superhuman Speed. At just 6, he can run three laps of the classroom in the blink of an eye. Luckily, his twin sister, Wanda is docile. She doesn't speak much with anyone who isn't her brother, but she has a bright mind when it comes to imbibing her lessons or observing her surroundings attentively. It'll take some time for her to mingle with the others, Charles understands. He'll help her if in that aspect if necessary.

Then there's Alex Summers, who's hell bent on destruction. They've already had to replace a bulletin board and a chair; and they're still in the first week of school.

Ororo gets a certain joy by scaring others with the white sparks that trickle out of her fingertips. It had been tough making her understand that such behaviour wouldn't be accepted, which only encourage her further into doubling her antics.

It's not that little Kitty is troublesome, but she needs more attention than the rest. Recently manifested, she often finds her leg getting stuck in a chair or an aimlessly batted hand caught inside a table. Calming a crying Kitty and rescuing her without injuries has, by far, not been easy.

'Please listen,’ Charles emphasises when the class collapses into a din of chatter. Peter runs to his sister and back to his chair before Charles can finish. Mort is sticking his tongue out and gazing intently at something on the table. Bright sparks of light are bursting in front of Illyana, coaxing giggles out of her.

'Class, listen!’ Charles says out forcefully, again, and picks up the bowl on the table. The new object in Charles’ hands becomes the centre of his students’ attention as they turn towards him.

‘We're going to do an activity,’ he says when the class goes quiet, ‘Each one of you will come here and pick up a chit from this bowl.’ He shakes the bowl in his hands, shuffling the chits inside. 'Once you've gone back to your place, you'll have to draw and colour whatever you think the chit says.’

To demonstrate, he picks up a chit from the bowl. 'Favourite food’, the rectangular strip of paper reads. Charles does love a good Mac and Cheese any day, but he can't draw a bowl of Mac and Cheese without making it look like abstract geometry. He settles for drawing a pizza on the board. It's what he ends up ordering nowadays, anyway. Plus, it's simpler to draw.

It earns him enthusiastic nods and energetic claps from his students.

'It’s simple, see...’ Charles says as he turns to face them. The kids are gleaming at him, eager to start. Peter is already fidgeting in his seat, struggling to sit still.

Charles sighs. 'Peter, why don't we start with you?’

Peter has grabbed a chit and has gone back to his seat even before Charles has finished the sentence.

Following Peter's example, the others jump from their seats and make a beeline for the bowl. 'In a line… Please come in a line. One by one,’ Charles shouts over their excited chanting of 'me me me’ as he lifts the bowl higher to keep it out of the reach of their outstretched hands.

Once everyone has picked a chit and settled down in their seats around the oval table, Charles walks behind their chairs slowly.

Charles isn't aware of the contents of the chits; Theresa had been kind and had offered to make them.

Alex is sticking out his tongue and scrubbing his crayon over the paper. Ah, of course, his ‘Favourite Toy’ is a red toy gun. Darwin-- bless his creativity-- is drawing a blue house with yellow windows accompanied by an orange tree for 'My Home’. Ororo is trying and failing to draw the scales on a fish for 'My Pet’.

Just when the satisfaction of bringing out the children's creativity has begun to settle inside, Chairs spots Peter at the very end of the table.

The boy is sitting so still that for a moment Charles wonders if he's imagining things. His silver brows are pulled inwards and his thin lips seem even thinner where they're pressed together. His vision is fixed on the blank paper, his chit forgotten on the side.

Charles has never seen Peter like this. There's always a face splitting grin on his face, even when he falls down by tripping on table legs in his haste.

Charles walks towards the boy and sits down on the low stool next to him.

'Peter,’ he calls out softly and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder.

The boy lifts his head up. His brows release revealing the blue of his eyes.

As a rule, Charles doesn't read the minds of children. The brain structure isn't completely formed, it's way more chaotic than adults’, and more prone to damage from telepathic contacts. Charles’ shields are always up during school hours. But even his shields are not effective in blocking out the waves of wariness radiating from Peter.

‘Are you having trouble drawing, darling?’ he asks softly, leaning in towards the boy.

Peter nods his head slowly.

'That's no problem, I can help you with it,’ Charles reassures him with his best smile. ‘Let's see what you've got.’ He picks up the chit from the table. 'My Mother’ it reads.

Charles doesn't understand what to make of it. Is the boy simply not able to put his thoughts into a drawing? Does he come from a broken family? Does he have an estranged mother, or God forbid, an emotionally distant one?

Peter's bottom lip is trembling when Charles turns to face him. Not wanting to presume, he says, 'Peter, why don't you tell me about your mother, and we'll see what we can draw.’

Peter is quiet for a long time, only looking up at Charles with wide eyes. Dealing with children is simultaneously simple and complicated. So Charles waits patiently running a soothing hand up and down Peter's back.

Just when Charles begins to wonder if the boy will answer at all, Peter says, 'My Vati says that my Mama is a star in the sky, and that she watches over us when we sleep.’

Of all the things Charles had expected, Peter's answer wasn't one of them. A swell of sympathy bubbles up from the bottom of his stomach. He knows all too well of what it's like to lose a parent. The kids are still so young. It's brutally unfair.

‘What else does your father tell you about her?’ (Vati is German for Father, if Charles remembers correctly)

‘He says that she loves us very much. Much more than we love her.’

Charles smiles. It's perhaps a mild relief in this unfortunate situation that the twins have a father who’s there for them. ‘I'm sure your mother loves you a lot, darling. And the two of you are very lucky to have a wonderful father.’

The listlessness on Peter's face abates and a small smile takes its place at the mention of his father. Peter nods his head quickly in answer and adds: ‘Vati is the best! He sings to us before bed. He makes us cake on our birthday. But not as good as Nana though. He can never cook asgoodasNana-’ that's the last of Peter's words Charles catches before it quickens to cover a mile per second. Though, Charles doesn't need to listen to the rest of it to have his assumption confirmed that Mr. Maximoff, is in fact, is a loving father.

An idea strikes. ‘In that case, Peter,’ Charles says when Peter finally finishes speaking. Pulling out his pen from his breast pocket, he scratches the 'Mo’ from the chit and writes a 'Fa’ on top of it. ‘Why don't we draw your father instead?’ Charles leans in conspiratorially and whispers, ‘Now now, this is a secret between you and me, alright? So don't tell anyone.’

'Not even to Wanda?’

'Not even Wanda.’

A quick smile blooms on Peter's face. 'I can do that!’ he says and delves into sorting out his crayons.

Charles sits there for a few more minutes watching as Peter draws and erases out the frame of a stick figure. Generally, Charles makes it a point to keep a steady correspondence with the parents of all his students and meet them personally. He had missed meeting the Maximoffs on the first day of school. Mr. Maximoff had dropped in just as he had left towards the gym to meet with the contractor.

Charles makes a mental note to meet Mr. Maximoff when the latter comes to pick up the kids that day.

Charles smiles fondly at Peter's drawing as the boy drops it on the table in a blur of silver.

It's innocent in a way only a child's can be. Wanda, on the right, is dressed in a red frock while Peter on the left is dressed in black trousers and what Charles infers in reference to his silver hair is a silver jacket. The man in the middle-- Mr. Maximoff-- with short hair and a beard, clad in what looks like a plaid shirt and jeans is holding both their hands. All three are smiling, Mr. Maximoff excessively so, baring all his sharp teeth in a wide grin.

Charles knows that Peter is exaggerating, but strangely, that smile reminds Charles of his adversary from high school.

Charles isn't one to use that term loosely, nor he is the one to have adversaries to begin with. But if anyone had come close to meaning half of it, it was Erik Magnus Lehnsherr.

Even after all these years… Charles cuts his thoughts short.

He looks down at the sheet again. Mr. Maximoff, he reminds himself. He should meet with Mr. Maximoff after school.

#cherik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #peter maximoff #wanda maximoff #cherik fic #cherik au #charles has a phd in adorable #dadneto #ok i started this #but i really don't know if or how i should continue #so don't be surprised if this ends here #also it was so much fun drawing this piece #jjcherik

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crazyworldhuh · 2 years ago

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President Biden complete remarks at 2023 White House Correspondents' Din...

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automatismoateo · 3 years ago

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What the Ginni Thomas text furor warns about an outsize role of faith in politics - Michael Gerson in the Washington Post via /r/atheism

What the Ginni Thomas text furor warns about an outsize role of faith in politics - Michael Gerson in the Washington Post

Among the many disturbing revelations in the post-2020-election text-message correspondence between Virginia “Ginni” Thomas, wife of Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas, and then-White House Chief of Staff Mark Meadows is their tone of religious certainty.

“This is a fight of good versus evil,” wrote Meadows. “Evil always looks like the victor until the King of Kings triumphs. Do not grow weary in well doing.” In another, Thomas threatens: "You guys fold, the evil just moves fast down underneath you all.”

There is an air of absurdity in attributing a win to God only when Donald Trump is victorious. But Thomas and Meadows were deadly earnest. It is not enough to exercise power in their attempt to overthrow the results of the 2020 presidential election. Their efforts must be covered in a thick goo of spirituality. The conspirators believed they were doing God’s work. But really, they were attempting to make the Creator of the universe into a partisan hack who favored their (half-baked) political ambitions. In the process, they demonstrated the manifold dangers of the religious impulse in the public realm.

Some of the problem is simple hypocrisy. In the aftermath of Jan. 6, Thomas wrote an apology of sorts to her husband’s former clerks. “I have likely imposed on you my lifetime passions,” she explained in an email. This month, she said in an interview with the Washington Free Beacon that “a democratic system like ours needs to be able to discuss and debate rationally in the political square. I fear we are losing that ability.”

In her texts with Meadows, however, we see a significantly different attitude toward democratic dissent. Thomas passed along a report that had circulated on right-wing websites that the “Biden crime family” and “ballot fraud co-conspirators” were being arrested and sent to barges floating off Guantánamo Bay for eventual judgment by military tribunals. “I hope this is true,” she added.

It might be difficult to conduct rational debate above the din of waves near Gitmo. But given another sentiment Thomas passed along, it is probably not necessary. “The most important thing you can realize right now,” the text read, “is that there are no rules in war.” This was Thomas’s Christian contribution near the center of a political crisis fraught with threats of violence: “There are no rules.”

If not rules here, there might be some lessons to be taken from the Thomas-Meadows exchanges. They illustrate many of the reasons that people — including religious people — get disturbed by an outsize role of faith in politics.

· The Christianization of politics makes people in a democracy less persuadable. It is more difficult to question your cause if you regard it as a holy cause. And it becomes harder to see any glimmer of truth in your opponents’ views.

· A religious certainty on uncertain matters can blind people to difficult and complex debates. Look how conservative religion has encouraged, of all things, skepticism about vaccines. It is the deification of ignorance.

· Religious passion in politics can easily become tribal, as opponents are transformed into infidels. And this can provide an opening for racism and antisemitism.

· Religious passion can lower the standards to which we hold leaders, since the only real political choice is between a favorable strongman and the social abyss. This can reveal and encourage a dangerous authoritarian streak.

· Religious passion in politics can encourage an apocalyptic tone that drives out real deliberation. (To Thomas, we were seeing “the end of America… the end of Liberty.”)

I say all this as a religious person. I say all this because I am a religious person. I believe that religion can raise the moral sights of politics (see the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.) and root our belief in human dignity. But it is the very power of religious conviction that can make people co-opt it with their own passions and beliefs. Instead of being judged and challenged by the best of their faith, they use their faith to judge others. And they move closer and closer toward blasphemy.

The Christian writer and lay theologian C.S. Lewis wrote: “I am a democrat because I believe that no man or group of men is good enough to be trusted with uncontrolled power over others. And the higher the pretensions of such power, the more dangerous I think it both to rulers and to the subjects. Hence Theocracy is the worst of all governments. … The inquisitor who mistakes his own cruelty and lust for power and fear for the voice of Heaven will torment us infinitely more because he torments us with the approval of his own conscience and his better impulses appear to him as temptations.”

The rest of the essay is available at:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2022/03/28/ginni-thomas-text-messages-religion-dangerous-role-public-life/

Submitted March 29, 2022 at 06:50PM by the_y_of_the_tiger (From Reddit https://ift.tt/sI2ZtEd)

#reddit

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