#moroccan accent

[departmentofinteriors]

morocco

[jesterlaughingstock]

Just started watching the algerian version of my favourite show Les Switchers and so far the accent is throwing me off but im gonna be honest it does have its moments lmfaoo

[clayne-stanbridge-2002]

How awesome is this electric boho hippie room? It’s stuffed with varied, bohemian pizazz like shaggy pads over a bed, hanging wall unit, and Moroccan-propelled accents. The multi-color dancing tapestry at the wall, crocheted plant wall painting, and bright tapestry over a bed, are all the highlights of this plan.

[leathergallery]

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[despite-everything]

i think i can confidently say my architectural style is the intersection of hacienda, morroccan, and mid-century.

[eagleflieswiththedove]

Eclectic Living Room New York Large eclectic formal and loft-style living room design example with white walls, a standard fireplace, a stone fireplace, and no television.

[fostersgifs]

Mediterranean Bedroom - Master Inspiration for a massive Mediterranean master bedroom remodel with white walls and a dark wood floor

[volatile-vertex]

Boston Eclectic Bedroom Bedroom - medium-sized eclectic guest bedroom idea with brown floors and purple walls but no fireplace

[denismilovanovworkshop]

Los Angeles Bedroom

[rafesgurl]

Thieves and Fabrics

Summary: In which a random girl helps Rafe out of trouble with the police in Morocco after the pogues left him to fend for himself.

Warnings: none

A/N: hey guys!l This is my first fic i hope i did okay. Don't mind the writing like I said it's my first one i hope to get better at it. Also English is not my first language!!! And ignore any spelling mistakes. Enjoy!

The moroccan sun was shining bright and sweat beads were dripping down all of their faces. The pogues and Rafe had just arrived in the city of Essaouira with different intentions. While the pogues were looking for the blue crown Rafe had no interest in it and was just looking to find Groff, or so he said.

And in usual 'pogue fashion' they haven't even been in the city for 10 minutes and already caused problems with the police. They were running away from the cart owner and the police, as they, or JJ, had stolen some apples for Sarah to eat.

And when the police finally caught up to them, they instantly attacked Rafe who was innocently standing in the corner watching this unfold. The cart owner described the thief as 'american' so the police just grabbed the first person that looked 'american' to them. Rafe's tall frame obviously attracting unwanted attention.

The Pogues watched from afar and hesitantly decided to leave Rafe deal either this on his own. He would be fine, they thought. And while he was trying to fight off the cops, them not hearing him out for obvious reasons, Rafe felt a pair of eyes on him.

And before he could even try and figure out whose intense eyes were watching him he heard a voice. A female voice. "Hey! 5iliou lwild 3la 7alo. Ra houa m3aya." (Hey! Leave the boy alone. He's with me.)

A woman with a voice of honey, maybe even the prettiest voice he has ever heard. He watched as she talked to the police officers in the foreign language and took a good look at her. She was wearing a long garment he had seen lots of women, and even men, wear and a matching headscarf. She was beautiful.

Her hazel colored eyes shined in the sun which made them seem honey colored. Her plump pink lips moved so beautifully while she was talking him out of the situation. And her skin was flawless. And before he could even notice the police pushed him away and left, not without giving the girl and him a last glance.

Rafe turned to the unknown girl. "T-thank you so much for helping me out. What'd you even say to them?" He asked and she just waved her hand "Don't worry about it. Come." She said with a thick accent and mentioned for him to follow to the stall on the side where she apparently worked. She and an older man sold fabrics in all different colors which made the stall look vibrant.

The older man looked Rafe up and down and then to the girl "Malo hada?" (What's wrong with him?)

She just shrugged and mentioned for Rafe to sit and the man doing whatever he was doing before. "So why did you help me?" Rafe asked her and she just smiled at him "I saw you with your little friends. Causing trouble. Or not friends since they just left you with the police." There was a teasing glint in her eyes.

"Not my friends" Rafe just mumbled and looked around the shop. She nodded and kept her eyes on him. "So what brings you guys here? All the way from America."

Now Rafe knew he had to tell her something. I mean she just saved him from getting arrested. But the question is, what would he tell her. Explaining everything would be way too difficult, and he couldn't trust a random girl anyway.

"A man. He screwed me over. And now I'm looking for him." he said voice full of anger as only the mention of Groff made him angry. "Screwed..." he heard her mutter. Her English sounded pretty good and advanced so he wondered if she didn't understand the word or if she was just registering what he said.

"And the others? Your not-friends?" She asked curiously. "I don't know what they're up to. And I honestly don't care." The girl, which was still nameless to him, just raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows at him and nodded.

"This man you're looking for. Do you know where to find him?"

Why was she asking so many questions? Rafe narrowed his eyes at her and slowly answered "No..." He wanted to see where she was getting with this.

"Well I could help you."

He stops moving for a second and just stares at her "Help me with what?" And before she can respond the man in the shop yells out for her "Y/N, nodi t5idmi!" (Y/N get to work) "Eh baba bilati." She answers and he just shakes his head and keeps on working. (Yes dad, wait.)

Y/N. So that was her name. A name he hasn't heard before since there weren't any moroccans on the island or as far as he knew. It fit her.

"Help you find him. I mean you don't know you don't know your way around the city, do you?" She knew what his answer would be so, obviously. There was a smirk on her face, which Rafe thought made her look even cuter.

He just kept staring at her and eventually a smirk started to form on his lips too.

Part 2?

Let me know how yall liked this one. I would really be happy about some comments and feedback even if it's negative! Thank you 💋💋

[ghostsprobably]

Winx Rewrite Character Nationalities!

Here's my winx redesigns and the earth equivalent nationalities/ethnicities I envision them as!

(featuring lots of random people from google images)

Bloom: Self Insert lol (white person from long island, earth)

-----

Stella: Moroccan! She is very tan because she spends so much time soaking up the sun, but if she went a long time indoors her skin would lighten a bit.

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Flora: Mexican Indigenous! She also spends quite a lot of time outside tending to the Garden

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Tecna: Irish, and she does not get any sun lol (i like the idea that she has an accent bc Faragonda has one and she's spent so much time with her)

-----

Musa: Chinese of course

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Aisha: Barbadian! She's from an island nation, so I always imagined her being from somewhere in the Caribbean. rn I have her voice claim as Ayo Edebiri so Barbados felt right!

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Icy: Russian, it's cold there

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Darcy: Her family moved around a lot to get away from their connection to Liliss so her ancestry is quite diverse, but I think she would identify as Pakistani, as that is where her more recent family is from.

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Stormy: South African, Zulu! Her family has a very strong appreciation for their ancestry and wikipedia says "Zulu" means heaven or weather, which I think is fun.

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I'll be back later with the guys!

[sobbingscripter]

DAY 2: Two Turtle Doves

☃️A Holly Jolly Wayne Gala☃️

Tags: [aged up!][semi-public][mommy kink][subby Tim Drake][m4f][handjob][fem!reader][whiny][twink][he's 19][mdni?]

❄️☃️❄️

Tinsel strung along each wall of the ridiculously lavish venue.

But that's exactly what to expect from a Wayne gala. Extravagance and luxurious.

A plethora of waiters carry different trays, with festive treats and holiday-themed cocktails. You remain near the bar, nursing a Shirley Santa, which is just a regular, rosy Shirley Temple, with salt around the rim to represent the fluff on Santa Clause's hat.

The live band continues to play music, low and festive that seems to drown out in the presence of the chatter between social elites, various red dresses, tailored suits and expensive scents seem to blend together.

At least when compared to that smell of strong, Moroccan coffee that seems to cling to one of Bruce Wayne's wards, particularly the twink one.

Inky hair in an undercut, unsually shaky hands and the ghosts of eyebags below cerulean pools. An almost girlishly pretty face, as he grabs what looks like his third mug of coffee for the evening.

"You know, coffee's not good for a growing boy."

Tim glances at you, maybe an inch or two taller, not by much, and from this distance, you can see glimpses of his lean physique.

Top. Tier. Twink.

"I'm 19." Tim speaks softly, his voice a refreshing, boyish timbre in the cacophony of nasally, and the occasional faux British accent tossed in to imitate class and decorum.

"Men stop growing at like... 21." You chide him gently, before taking the mug from his hand and setting it down beside him, on the table he's leaning against.

He simply stares up at you, big blue eyes locked on your face.

He's not entirely unfamiliar to you, especially since he has a penchant of staring at you whenever he's in the same room as you. Which, seeing as you're interning at Wayne Enterprises, is surprisingly a lot.

In the cafeteria, in the elevator. Almost everywhere. Except the women's bathroom.

Which... now, is kind of crossed out.

"Oh.... shit, please...please... please.... mommy.."

Tim's whines are muffled by your palm, your other hand wrapped around his pretty cock, leaky pink tip occasionally peeking out from your fisted hand with each tentative stroke you give him.

His eyes are half-lidded, hands fisting the fabric of your dress as you press and feather numerous kisses to the curve of his neck, the collar of his shirt untidy and unbuttoned.

"Faster...—please, go faster."

Tim begs, lashes fluttering as your palm glides against the sensitive skin of his shaft, his muscular hips rocking into your hand in a poor attempt to gain more friction, more feeling.

Desperate for that release, that pace you've been denying him.

"You're asking me to go faster but your knees are buckling." You tease him, teeth nipping at his pierced lobe before you pull away, looking down at his slumped form, back pressed against the door of the bathroom stall.

"So pretty." You croon quietly, before capturing his lips in a deep, somewhat sloppy kiss which he immediately returns. Messy, uncoordinated and his hands grasp at your waist,

One of Tim's hands shakily grip the back of your thigh, raising your leg to bracket his hip and he ruts against your hand, eyes fluttered shut as he imagines himself fucking you, rather than your hand.

Your dress rides up, a generous sliver of thigh and a glimpse of your panties visible, a sight that has him moaning into the kiss.

God, he's so pretty.

Fluttering lashes, tears brimming in his pretty blue eyes, a messy undercut and biting his bottm lip each time you pull away to kiss along his jaw.

"Please..." Tim whines softly, the crown of his head falling back against the stall door and he feels his pretty cock twitch needily, beads of precum running down his shaft and dropping down from his tightly drawn balls. "Oh... fuck.."

Your hand clamps tighter over his mouth when the bathroom door opens, and two sets of heels collide with the marble tiles and Tim stares at you, wide-eyed and nervous.

And you can't help it, as your fist slowly continues to move, pumping him and watching the way his face gets warmer and his eyes roll back in his head.

A muffled whimper slips out from behind your hand, stifled by the sound of a tap being opened and Tim jets onto the soft, cottony fabric of your panties, hot cum soaking through the already sodden material and he whines.

"That's it, baby..." You croon sweetly, pressing soft kisses to the side of his face and his neck, his tie a limp ghost of his decency, his knees buckling and his body limp, and lax against the door.

You can feel the way your cum drips from your inner thighs, and Tim's eyes lower to the sight, running his pink tongue along his bottom lip.

"You...— can I clean you up..?" He breathes out. "Please mommy?"

His voice is hoarse, and before you can even answer, he drops to his knees, his hands bracketing your thighs and his nose brushes against your clothed clit, before his tongue darts tentatively.

Licking and smearing his tongue in the cum that coats your panties, dragging his tongue along your soaked folds, cleaning it up and sucking on your folds through the panties.

With each pass of his tongue, dragging up your plush thighs, a shaky breath leaves him.

"You taste so good..." Looking up at you through bleary eyes, his soft cock still twitching, dribbles of cum staining his already inky suit pants and you card your fingers through his silky strands.

And he shudders at the sensation, eyes nearly rolling back in his head when he feels your thigh rest on one of his lean shoulders, watching with wide eyes as you slowly peel your panties to the side, slippery folds just in front of him.

And God, does it feel like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey.

"I think you missed a spot, honey."

[give-me-a-minute-to-think]

In a poetry club I attend a friend of mine wrote this poem in light of the current situation, and I wanted to share it on her behalf (translated to english with the original hebrew).

A POEM IN HEBREW / Efrat M. And the Lord shall scatter you among the nations He who shut the heavens that there be no rain And you were left forever dead and forever alone to eat by the sweat of your brow The fruit of knowledge has been bitten and you can never go back home My grandmother was born in Iraq. My family was expelled from Iran. My mother was nine months old when they fled Baghdad. My father is from Libya, his uncle was murdered in the streets. My grandfather had to leave everything he knew behind. My grandfather is from Morocco. My grandfather is from Italy. My grandfather is from Romania. My father is from France, his parents are from Morocco. Both my parents are from Syria. Both my parents are from Russia. My family is Moroccan. My family is from Egypt. My family had to live in a tent for two years. My grandmother is from Austria and Czechoslovakia. My grandparents are from Uruguay and Chile. My grandfather was born in Israel. My grandfather is from France. My great grandmother is from Poland. My great grandfather is from Yemen. My grandmother was born in Israel, but the family is originally from Libya. My grandfather is from Iraq, but the family is originally from Iran. Both my parents are Greek. Both my grandparents are Romanian. My grandfather was in a Libyan prison for five years after attempting to flee. My father is from Iraq, my mother is from Tunisia. My grandmother is from Tel Aviv, but before that from Galicia. My grandfather is from Poland. My grandmother is from Libya. My grandmother is from France. Grandfather from Tunisia. My grandfather is from Tel Aviv, but originally from Poland and Lithuania. My grandmother is from the United States, but before that from Hungary. My great grandfather is from Poland. My great grandmother is from Russia. My mother was born in Israel, her mother was born in Israel, and her parents are from Romania. My grandmother was born in Mexico, her father is from Lithuania, her mother is from Hungary. My father’s parents are from Poland. My mother's parents are from Germany and Ukraine. My mother's mother is from Hungary, my mother's father is from Romania. My father's parents are from Argentina. My great grandfather is from France, or maybe from Germany. My grandfather and his seven children fled Morocco. My father was attacked, and they decided they could not stay. My family was forced to start a life elsewhere. My grandmother fled Yemen. The date of her birth is lost to time. They arrived in Israel with nothing, everything was taken and looted and left behind. My mother tells me of Moldova When the youth movement was still called the Young Communist With her homeland spoken russian half understandable to my ears or With fluent hebrew marked by an indelible accent Even after all those years Her distasteful tone graying with age, she told me of a childhood grudge that no longer mattered No more than words, simple quiet violence Simply a teacher before a room of young students and my mother simply a child Return from whence you came Where Iscariot first betrayed with a yellow kiss To the Jewish country that was made so that We need not carry the burden of abominable life Our parents, brothers, and sisters were torn from us before our eyes Cast from yourself all delusion The rage you feel now will be with you for the rest of your life The sorrow you feel now will not fade once the rest of the world marches on This grief must be spoken We are no longer weak and defenseless And they told us go like lamb to slaughter And we didn't go Return from whence you came To your mansions in New York or New Jersey Where we can comfortably break your glass windows And spray marks of Cain onto your front doors My people Who came from nowhere and belong to no one

'שיר בעברית / אפרת מ והפיץ אלוהים אותך בעמים הוא אשר עצר את השמיים ואת המטר ונשארת לעולם מת ולעולם יחיד לאכול בזיעת אפך פרי הדעת ננגס ולעולם לא תוכל לשוב הביתה סבתי נולדה בעיראק. המשפחה שלי גורשה מאיראן. אימא שלי הייתה בת תשעה חודשים כאשר ברחו מבגדד. אבא שלי מלוב, דודו נרצח ברחובות העיר. סבי נאלץ לעזוב את כל שהוא מכיר. סבא שלי מרוקאי. סבא שלי מאיטליה. סבא שלי מרומניה. אבא שלי מצרפת, הוריו ממרוקו. שני הורי מסוריה. שני הורי מרוסיה. המשפחה שלי מרוקאית. המשפחה שלי ממצרים. המשפחה שלי חיה באוהל במשך שנתיים. סבתי מאוסטריה וצ'כיה. סבא וסבתא מאורוגוואי וצ'ילה. סבא נולד בארץ. סבא מצרפת. סבתא רבא מפולין. סבא רבא מתימן. סבתא נולדה בארץ, המשפחה במקור מלוב. סבא שלי מעיראק, המשפחה במקור מאיראן. שני הורי יוונים. סבא וסבתא רומנים. סבי היה בכלא לוב חמש שנים. אבי מעיראק, אמי מתוניסיה. סבתא מתל אביב, אך לפני זה מגליציה. סבא מפולין. סבתא מלוביה. סבתא מצרפת. סבא מתוניסיה. סבא מתל אביב, אך במקור פולין וליטא. סבתא מארצות הברית, אך לפני זה הונגריה. סבא רבא מפולין. סבתא רבא מרוסיה. אמי נולדה בארץ, אימא שלה נולדה בארץ, וההורים שלה מרומניה. סבתא שלי נולדה במקסיקו, אביה מליטא, אמה מהונגריה. ההורים של אבא מפולין. ההורים של אמא מגרמניה ואוקראינה. אמה של אמי מהונגריה, אביה של אמי מרומניה. הוריו של אבי מארגנטינה. סבא רבא מצרפת, או אולי מגרמניה. סבי ושבע ילדיו ברחו ממרוקו. אבי הותקף, והם החליטו שהם אינם יכולים להישאר. משפחתי הוכרחה להתחיל חיים במקום אחר. סבתי ברחה מתימן. תאריך יום הולדתה נאבד לזמן. הם הגיעו לישראל עם כלום, הכל נלקח ונשדד והושאר מאחור. ההקרבות והקורבנות רבים מספור. אמי מספרת לי על מולדובה כאשר תנועת הנוער עוד נקראה הקומוניסט הצעיר ברוסית מולדת החצי מובנת לאוזניי או בעברית שוטפת אך עם מבטא בלתי נמחק אפילו אחרי כל השנים בטון סלידה מזוקן משיבה היא דיברה על טינה מהילדות שכבר לא משנה לא יותר ממילים, רק אלימות שקטה רק מורה מול קהל הילדים ואמי רק תלמידה. חזרו למקום ממנו הגעתם היכן איש קריות בראשית בגד בנשיקה צהובה למדינת היהודים שנוצרה בכדי שלא נצטרך לשאת בנטל חיי תועבה לעינינו קרעו מאיתנו את הורינו, אחינו, ואחיותינו. השליכו מעליכם כל אשליה. הזעם שאתם מרגישים כעת יהיה אתכם לכל חייכם היגון שאתכם כעת לא יתפוגג אחרי ששארית העולם יצעד הלאה. התוגה הזאת אינה אילמת. כבר איננו חלשים ואיננו חסרי מגן. ויאמרו לנו לכו כצאן לטבח ולא הלכנו. חזרו למקום ממנו הגעתם לביתי התפארת בניו יורק או ניו ג'רזי שם נוכל בנוחיות לנפץ זכוכיותכם לרסס אותות קין על פתח ביתכם העם שלי הבאו מאין מקום ושייכים לאין אדם

[shehriyana]

Oh to be a little gay detective who speaks in a preposterous accent and occasionally slips out of it to hint at how ridiculously funny he is as a character within the literary imagination.

Oh to be able to stand up for women who have been belittled by the unkind and the privileged, to be a cerebral force that unfailingly outwits the malevolent and the ignorant.

Oh to have Hugh Grant as my dreamboat partner, who stress bakes every now and then, who I had proposed to with some exceedingly goofy pun (like “only you can fill the Blanc in my life”), who answers the door all messy and covered in flour as I am attending a zoom call in my bathtub in my eccentric little Moroccan hat.

Oh to be Benoit Blanc.

[olderthannetfic]

Just as different Spanish dialects vary wildly, often to the point of being different enough to warrant a dub, so too does Arabic. Anything made and produced in Morocco will have another non-Moroccan, usually Egyptian Standard Arabic dub. Why? Because Moroccan Arabic has borrowed so many words from indigenous Amazight languages and keeps shortening all their words and they speak SO DAMN FAST no one outside Morocco can understand what they're saying. The "fuck vowels, all my homies hat vowels, get that vowel out of there" alone is enough to make for a really thick accent even when they're trying their damnedest to speak Egyptian Standard Arabic.

The Moroccan government was hoping more access to the internet and standard Arabic media might make the dialect more "normal". Instead, I can happily attest that my classroom of beloved Moroccan gremlins have begun grabbing English slang from online. You have not lived until you hear a teenage boy in a knockoff "Ike" hoodie with half the Nike logo say he's "sadge" to his friends and look at you like, 'Eh? That's a cool word, right, Mr. Foreign Teacher? This is what cool English speakers say?'

It's not. But I will never tell him otherwise, because he looked so satisfied with himself and so accomplished. I adore these language-butchering babies with my entire heart.

--