#farsi earrings

[beansprean]

no bats were harmed in the making of this art (it was consensual dkjhsk)

[sticker + prints!]

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(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: Full body of Guillermo, topless and wearing green chinos tucked into brown boots, a stake in each hand, high-kicking a large bat out of the air. Guillermo's hair is overgrown, he has a cuff and fang pierced in his ear, double bar piercings in both nipples so it looks like a cross, an actual silver cross around his neck, multiple gnarled scars on his hands, stomach, chest, and face, and tattoos covering his body. The tattoos include, on his right arm: a saguaro cactus, a stylized Nahua gila monster, an evil eye, a bote joghe, and 'familia' written in cursive. On his left arm: an ankh filled with celtic knots, a circular maze, a sacred heart, some chain, and 'nandor' written in farsi. Both hands have an arrow on the back, a cross lain over his fingers like knuckle dusters, and 'de la cruz' written across each knuckle letter by letter. Also visible is a line of red crosses around his throat, crossed arrows and a star of david over his chest, a thunderbird on his stomach, a calli house on his right side, and a celtic knot on his left side. /end ID

#wwdits #guillermo de la cruz #tatmemo #slayer guillermo #slayer tattoos #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fx #my art #fanart #image described

[bullet-prooflove]

Is she alive? prompt with crockett marcel

(i hope ive submitted this right it’s in prompt list 6)

Tagging: @Cosmic-psychickitty @anime-weeb-4-life @upsteadlogic @mortal--soul @Thebewingedjewelcat

Reference to One Day

Crockett’s world is crashing in on itself, there’s a loud ringing in his ears and his hands are shaking as he sits outside operating theatre trying to pull together the threads of the past two hours of his life.

You’d been working late tonight when he’d dropped by to pick you up from your office. It’s something he’s been doing since the photographs started arriving, the ones with the notes attached that said ‘die bitch’. He knew something was wrong when you hadn’t picked up the phone and everything after that it comes in fragments.

The shattered glass, the last of blood on his tongue, you lying there amongst the yellow rose petals, your blouse soaked with crimson. He’s tried his best to stop the bleeding but you’d lost so much blood.

“Two gunshot wounds to the chest.” He’d told the paramedics when they’d arrived. “She’s been unresponsive since I got here.”

It’s Mitch’s wife that pries him away from you, that draws him to one side so that Gabby and her can do their jobs. He loses track of everything after that, he rides ambo with you clutching your hand in his, whispering to you in Farsi, his voice thick with emotion. He tells you that he loves you, that he can’t imagine his life without you. When you’re rushed into surgery, it’s with Dean Archer, a man whose spent his entire career patching up war wounds. He refuses to let Crockett in the observation room, Hannah has to intervene, forcing him into the doctor’s lounge to wait for the police to arrive.

It’s after he’s given his statement and they’ve taken the clothes he was wearing that he’s allowed back to the waiting area. Hannah sits with him, her hand clasping his as he stares at the wall re-reading the sign on cleanliness over and over and over again because he doesn’t re-live the image of you bleeding out all over that carpet.

His head snaps up when Dean steps through the double doors, he can’t read the expression on the other man’s features as he raises to his feet. His heart pounds in his chest as he steps towards him.

“Is she alive?” He asks, his voice breaking.

“Yea.” Dean says, his hand coming to rest on Crockett’s shoulder. “Your girl, she’s gonna make it.”  

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#crockett marcel #crockett marcel x reader #chicago med #one chicago

[doodoocumfart]

It’s my belief that Stewy’s parents referred to Kendall as moosh, farsi for mouse, as a child because he was small and had big ears.

#succession hc #And I think it be a funny mirror to Logan calling stewy stewart

[meirimerens]

farkhad more like fart god ha ha

not particularly funny to mock persian name فرهاد because you think it sounds weird. where would you even find the "t-" or the "g-" sounds? or even the "o" for that matter. what is romanized from russian фархад as "kh" is an open + somewhat guttural "HH" sound. it actually as a "scratchier", more guttural sound to it in russian as х than as in farsi/persian, from what i've heard. the second "a", which you've taken upon making an "o", is actually a very bright, clear, stressed "aa" sound, unmistakeable, and the amount of vocal gymnastics involved to make it into a "o" sound make the "joke" closer to trying to fit a square peg 3cm wide at the blunt tip in your ear canal. i won't stop you from doing that but i'll mock you for it, especially if you do it publicly. council statement: unfunny + juvenile weird xenophobic vibes + linguistically unsound. you get nothing but a pointed finger and being laughed at, and not with. goodbybye.

#put your fingers together so i can smack them with a ruler and go in the corner balancing on your knees on a piece of wood. #you be a lesson for the rest. if you're gonna try to make ''joke'' about how a foreign name sound ridiculous at least make it count. #smh. you don't even know about the latin vowel shifts do you #ring ring (answers)

[hala-macaron]

I know it is not that deep, but every single time I see or hear someone say “translation is a betrayal of the original source” or “translation means I can never truly grasp what was meant” and mean it, I die a little inside. Do you know how much time, effort, countless nights spent agonising over context, meaning, intention, historical context, research etc. goes into a translation? Do you know about the concept of translation loyalty, how we are taught that it is one of the golden rules? Our loyalty to readers and author alike? How much understanding of a topic does not only go into translation but into interpreting as well? How much determination, frustration and love it all takes? How informed you have to be about hot words, cultural peculiarities, language-specific concepts and the like?

Do you know how much adoration goes into providing another human’s words - one whom you may have never met but by all that is holy and damned, their voice exists and it is worth being heard by all, no matter if they have access to the original language or not -, their thoughts and dreams and hopes and whatever else there is, for all eyes and ears and fingers?

It is demanding work. It makes you doubt and doubt and want to pull your own teeth out sometimes. I have spent minutes analysing a sentence simply to find the correct translation for the word “as”. I have checked sources, researched novels and plays long forgotten, hours before I would actually get to translate. I have spent nights researching, swallowing tears and cries of anger older than me, for interpreting jobs. I have felt unbridled joy upon delivering a valuable translation, could have jumped in exhilaration when elderly people came to me, smiling and thanking me profusely because they are interested in working for a good cause but they would not have been able to understand this conference without my friend and I because the conference was held in English, not German.

My state exams are coming up. I am this close to being a state certified and court-sworn translator and interpreter. Something I’ve been training for for 3 years. I would have never discovered Neil Gaiman as an author without the translation of “Norse Gods”, which I needed as reference material back in school. I would not be able to teach my mum English if not for my Scottish teacher during my time becoming a commercial correspondent and then starting to train as a translator. Without translation, nobody would ever be able to learn another language, or even get to know a different culture.

Translation is an act of love.

It’s in the smile of the Ukrainian kid whom I’ve interpreted for at a gaming conference, who did not speak a lick of German. It’s in the eyes of the Canadian Paralympics delegation stopping in Munich, whom we’re interpreting a sports event, a state dinner and a welcome speech for. It’s in the laughter of refugees who have been here for months to years, shunned by the government and left to be unheard until the multiple conferences, projects, organisation meetings held to help them, to make sure they are not forgotten. Who joke around with us in bits of English and Farsi - through another interpreter -, forge connections with others attending the meeting, quipping and teasing in broken German and my mother tongue rings as sweet as bells. It’s in the hands of elderly people attending a talk about the banning of uranium weapons, shaking but full of strength, as they thank us for our help. It’s my mother’s smile as I translate medical articles for her, as she never learned English, growing up in the GDR.

Translation is an act of loyalty and love. Of adoration for those who were, who are and who will be, and all the echoes of ourselves.

#translation #languages #pls I am so serious when I say all of this #stop saying translation is an act of betrayal #If all I needed was to betray the author and the meaning to be good at my job #I would not stay up and spend a fortune on dictionaries of all kinds to check my translation time and time again #interpreting #writing #me #I know it’s not that deep #I just felt desperate for some reason #writers of tumblr #books #literature #authors #neil gaiman #love

[siennadraws]

amazing art I commissioned from @forystr !!! (thank you so much again!)

General

Name: Keshet Naomi Abreu Langford

Alternate Forms: Keshet bat Mordecai v’Rivka

Nickname: Naomi

Titles: Miss, Reporter

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Bisexual

Birthday: 2nd of October

Age: 31

Clothing Style: Retro

Apartment Style: Cozy

Theme song: Good Luck, Kid, by JOSEPH

Physical Characteristics

Hair Color: Dark Brown (Painted Dark Green)

Hair Length: Short, Curly

Eye Color: Hazel

Eye Shape: Almond shaped

Skin Color: Warm Beige

Height: 1,63m / 5’4

Build: Lean

Right/Left-handed: Right-handed

Scent: Woody and Aquatic, Fresh

Most Prominent Facial Feature: Constellations of beauty marks on her cheeks

Most Prominent Body Feature: Wide shoulders

Tattoos: Sleeves of branches with almond blossoms on both arms

Piercings: Both Ears: Lobe, Helix; Right Ear: Conch; Left Ear: Tragus

Personality

Personality type: 9w8, ESFP

Temperament: Sanguine

Charming | Intimidating

Impulsive | Cautious

Sarcastic | Genuine

Friendly | Stoic

Easygoing | Stubborn

Heart | Mind

Optimist | Pessimist

Team Player | Independent

By the Book | Bend the Rules

Skills

Main Skill: Deduction

Second Skill: People

Known languages: English, Portuguese, Hebrew, Spanish, Ladino, Arabic, Yiddish, Latin, French (currently learning Greek and Farsi)

Intelligence type: Interpersonal

Hobbies: Music, reading, learning languages

Misc

Favourite colour: Green

Favourite animal: Toads

Favourite flower: Bellflower

Most treasured possession: Her father's old guitar and jacket, and her jade bracelet

#keshet langford #notmyblobs #the wayhaven chronicles #twc #detective twc #twc detective

[wellgoslowly]

EDIT: in the original post I wrote george as speaking hindi. while I'm sure he prob knows hindi I forgot that he's iranian so I edited to be more accurate :)

i love coming up w silly ass little lockwood and co headcannons either by myself or with my roommate bc they're always hilarious. here are some of my faves that we've come up with.

george hides barf bags around the house in case he sees anything slightly coupley or flirtatious between lockwood and lucy so he can pretend to gag and be dramatic.

george would fall for the "i triple dog dare you to lick this frozen pole" thing in a chistmas story.

he has fallen for the "your hand is bigger than your face" thing bc lockwood pulled it on him. he has never forgotten. he will never forget.

george loves lucy so much but he genuinely doesn't understand why lockwood is attracted to her. not in an "ew she's gross" way (well he was a little like that when they first met) but in a "she's such a person to me that i don't understand how you could be attracted to her she just kind of exists to me" way. he tries to figure out the appeal and it ends in a bunch of undecipherable equations on the thinking cloth.

lucy draws the three of them together in random areas of the thinking cloth but always covers them up so the boys don't see them until she leaves.

lucy is polish. I can't explain it in any way other than that I am a lucy kinnie and I look at her and I hear "pollock" screamed in my ear.

lucy loves making traditional polish food, like sausage and pierogis, golabki, lazy golumpki, kruschiki, paska bread, etc. etc.

lucy is 100% fluent in polish and the first time that lockwood hears her speak polish (she's on the phone talking to one of her sisters), he's entranced.

lockwood cannot say the word "pierogi" correctly to save his life. he refers to them as pergs, pergies, rogues, ogis, anything other than pierogi. he knows how to say it in theory, but every time he tries to it ends up sounding like shit, so he just gives up eventually. lucy thinks it's hilarious and george tries to explain to him where he went wrong to no avail.

lockwood tries to learn polish from lucy but fails terribly (after he found out she knew polish and asked her about it, she started speaking in polish more often around the house). it's not that she's a bad teacher- it's that he doesn't ask her to teach him. he thinks he could teach himself the entirety of the polish language by simply observing lucy when she speaks polish and repeating random words that he thinks sound like what lucy says (they aren't even words, just syllables commonly found in Slavic tongues)

lockwood would definitely be the guy that when he meets lucy's sisters for the first time, he tries to talk to them in polish and he fucks up the sentence TERRIBLY!! he means to say "Miło w końcu cię poznać" (it's nice to finally meet you) but he accidentally says something like "you remind me of my left shoe" or smth like that. lucy's sisters find it funny and appreciate the effort.

lockwood is fluent in French and lucy finds that EXTREMELY attractive.

i think they all slip into different languages when they're mad, but I think george (karim) specifically speaks in insanely aggressive farsi when he gets angry.

after a couple of years, the trio learn the languages that they each know so when they get into arguments, they fight in different languages. Like Lucy is raging in polish: "POWIEDZIAŁEŚ, ŻE WYSTARCZAJĄCO LEKKOMYŚLNY" (YOU SAID JUST RECKLESS ENOUGH!), lockwood is countering in french: TU ALLAIS MOURIR (YOU WERE GOING TO DIE) and George has to run furious interference in farsi : من از هر دوی شما متنفرم خفه شو )I HATE BOTH OF YOU SHUT UP)

#renew lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #lockwood and co #anthony bloody lockwood #george cubbins #george karim #lucy carlyle headcannons #lucy carlyle #lockwood and lucy #lockwood headcannons #george karim headcannons #headcannons

[ser0tonins]

is  that  golshifteh  farahani?  oh,  no,  that’s  nasrin  shirazi,  a  forty  two  year  old  doctor  at  valparaíso  centro  médico  who  uses  she/her  pronouns. they  currently  live  in  valparaíso,  and  the  character  they  identify  with  most  is  sloan  sabbith  from  the  newsroom. hopefully  they  find  their  own  little  paradise  here  in  el  país  de  los  poetas!

IN SHORT.

name  :  nasrin  shirazi. nickname/s  :  nas/naz,  sahar  (“dawn”  in  persian),  rinni.  pronouns  &  gender  :  she/hers,  cis  woman.  sexuality  :  biromantic/sexual.  date  of  birth :  november  2,  1982  (  42  ).  place  of  birth  :  california,  united  states.  current  residence  :  valparaíso,  chile.  ethnicity  :  iranian/american.  religion  :  non  practicing  muslim. language/s  :  english,  farsi,  spanish.  occupation  :  doctor  @  valparaíso  centro  médico,  the  all  knowing  meme  mom, mo  salah’s  #1  fan. 

PERSONALITY.

mbti  :  intj.  temperament  :  choleric.  (  +  )  :  determined,  humble,  mischievous,  loyal,  observant.  (  -  )  :  stubborn,  hypocritical,  argumentative,  private,  distant. likes  :  long  drives,  fresh  fruit,  cute  stationery,  tres  leches  cake,  day  trips,  reading,  discounts,  slow  mornings. dislikes  :  the  smell  of  disinfectant,  traffic,  arrogance,  meetings  that  could’ve  been  an  email,  stairs,  late  shifts,  sirabi.

PHYSICAL.

height  :  5'6".  eye  colour  :  brown.  hair  colour  :  dark  brown,  mostly  worn  in  a  ponytail/bun  while  at  work,  and  worn  down  during  her  days  off.  piercings  :  ears  only. she  did  consider  a  septum  piercing  in  medical  school,  but  knew  her  mother  wouldn't  hesitate  to  fly  over  to  kick  her  ass  (just  like  she  did  to  her  younger  brother  when  he  actually  went through  with  his  👀  #dumbass). wardrobe  :  low  maintenance  is  the  key. if  it  takes  more  than  five  minutes  to  put  together,  she’s  not  interested!  jeans,  plain  shirts,  simple  dresses  —  a  neutral  colour  palette  is  preferred,  but  she’s  also a  sucker  for  cute, bright  prints/colours.

RELATIONS.

father  :  amir  shirazi. mother  :  jamileh  shirazi  ( née  kasebi ). partner  :  aksel  hėroux  (  the  most  adorable  grump  around  town  ). children  :  aleksei  (  the  light  of  her  life  ). siblings  :  nozar  shirazi  ( older  brother—ate  her  last  chicken  nugget  when  she  was  six. she  cried  for  two  hours  straight ),  nasim  shirazi-li  ( older  sister—nags  just  as  much  as  mom ),  navid  shirazi  ( younger  brother — dresses  similarly  to  dad,  which  is  horrifying ). other  :  mina  shirazi-li,  alice  shirazi-li,  rachel  shirazi  ( nieces, an absolute hoot in the family group chat );  jonathan  shirazi,  nathaniel  shirazi  ( nephews, ate the last baklava at the last party. she's still bitter ). various  cousins,  aunts  and  uncles  scattered  all  over  the  globe.

BIOGRAPHY.

the  expectation  is  there,  left  unspoken  yet  certainly not overlooked. her  parents  have  done  too  much,  sacrificed  too  much,  to  be  rewarded  with  absolutely  nothing. it’s  only  fair,  then,  that  the  second  youngest  seek  to  make  use  of  the  opportunities  handed  to  her  in  a  country  they've  considered  ideal  for  her  and  her  siblings  to  flourish. to  be  good,  to  be  great,  to  be  somebody. 

her  youth  is  often  spent  following  in  the  footsteps  of  her  older  siblings,  listening  in  on  their  conversations  as  they  discuss  grades  and  classes  and  other  topics  that  she  can't  quite  wrap  her  head  around. it's  a  feeling  that  doesn't  sit  well  with  her,  of  not  having  a  clear  idea  of  what  she  plans  to  do,  though  they  reassure  her  that  she'll  figure  it  out  soon  enough. 

they  may  not  have  much,  but  her  father  tries  his  best  to  fill  the  emptiness  with  what  he  can offer. friday  nights  are  spent  crowded  around  their  tiny  dining  table,  fruit  juices  and  milk  boxes  in  hand,  as  he  leads  discussion  on  school  and  friends  and  whatever  plagues  the  mind  of  his  children. it's  a  tradition  that  is  maintained  throughout  the  years  (  and  one  she  chooses  to  adopt  for  her  own  family  ),  and  keeps  everyone  close,  despite  the  various  paths  they  take.

she's  regarded  as  filial  yet  mischievous,  bright  yet  blessed  with  a  sharp  tongue  that  never  fails  to  leave  her  mother  shaking  her  head  in  disapproval. her  reputation  in  school  is  quickly  established  as  the  go  getter  :  the  sports  captain,  the  vice  president,  the  reliable  debating  team  member. nothing  remains  out  of  reach  for  long,  not  with  her  desire  to  succeed  in  whatever  she  gets  her  hands  on.

as  her  older  siblings  venture  further  along  with  their  chosen  pathway,  she  decides  to  carve  her  own. an  avid  interest  in  science  leads  to  a  desire  to  pursue  medicine ;  a  journey  that  prompts  her  to  pack  up  her  belongings  and  relocate  away  from  everything  she's  known,  everyone  she's  known. (  it  takes  an  entire  year  for  the  loneliness  to  wear  off  ).

it  becomes  a  running  joke  in  the  family  that  her  whereabouts  can't  often  be  pinpointed. whether  she's  working  at  a  part  time  job  or  backpacking  in a country  halfway  around  the  globe  or  merely  lingering  off  the  grid  somewhere,  no  one's  not  too  sure. what  they  are  sure  about,  however,  is  that  she'll  always  turn  up  with  something. new stories, new gifts, new dreams.

routine  is  comfortable,  but  it  quickly  bores  her. residency  is  partially  spent  wondering  if  she  can  achieve  more  or  if  this  is  the  price  to  pay  for  being  a  pain  in  the  ass  during  her  teens. at  the  suggestion  of  a  colleague,  she  tries  her  luck  to  look  elsewhere  to  regain  some  sense  of  belonging  and  finds  herself  relocating,  permanently,  to  a  place that  feels  right and  with  a  family  she  adores  wholeheartedly.

HEADCANONS.

while  close  with  all  her  siblings,  her  younger  brother,  navid, holds a special place in her heart.  mostly  due  to  the  fact  that  they  were  both  born  in  the  states  compared  to  her  older  siblings,  and  there  was  a  different  set  of  expectations  that  were  bestowed  upon  them. and  because  he  entertains  her  with  funny family pictures  when  she's  working  late.

keeps  up  with  the  latest  lingo,  thanks  in  part  to  her  nieces/nephews  who  explain  it  in  detail  whenever  she's  confused,  and  also  because  there's  no  way  she  wants  to  be  out  of  the  loop  when  lex  runs  through  his  day.  

an  early  bird  who  enjoys  waking  up  at  5  am  to  make  a  tea  and  prepare  herself  to  be  a  productive  human  being  (  can't  relate  ). 

despite  her  busy  schedule  at  times,  nasrin  will  always  insist  on  attending  all  the  school  events,  remembering  all  the  teachers  and  committing  to  memory  classroom  gossip  for  future  reference.  it's  important! 

has  travelled  extensively,  counting  kenya,  laos,  finland  and  chile,  of  course,  as  some  of  her  favourite  places.

incredibly  sentimental.  she'll  keep  whatever,  receipts  to  clothing  tags  to  candy  wrappers  as  long  as  it  has  a  happy  memory.

listen,  she  doesn't  lose  her  cool  often,  but  on  the  days  when  lex  rocks  up  with  homework  that  doesn't  make  sense  and  she's  tried  to  decipher  it  from  8438498  different  angles,  she  has  to  stick  her  head  out  of  the  window  because  "why  can't  they  write  shit  normally????" 

can  cook  pretty  well,  ranging  from  your  typical  spaghetti  bolognese  to  bozbash  that  her  mother  used  to  make.  she's  big  on  adding  spices  to  things  for  a  lil  "extra  feeling". 

once,  mo  salah  waved  at  her.  she  cried.    

PLOTS.

a  friendship  group  who  meet  up  often  for  dinner  and  drinks  because  she  doesn't  have  much  of  a  life  outside  work  +  family,  haha.  

the  bff  who  sees  through  her  cool  doctor  facade  to  the  idiot  underneath  (  don't  be  fooled,  it's  there  ).  

youths  who  need  a  responsible  parental  figure  to  keep  them  on  the  right  path  and  pack  them  cute  mini  lunch  boxes.  

frenemies/rivals  because  while  she  tries  to  be  the  better  person  on  most  occasions,  she  can  be  preeeeetty  petty.  

former  friends  who  maybe  had  a  fallout  or  aren't  as  close  due  to  their  different  paths?  idk  i  just  love pain.  

patients  she  sees  around  the  hospital  more  than  usual,  like  "you're  back?  again?  seriously."

totally  won't  object  to  any  cousins  wandering  around  (  happy  to  discuss  potential  fcs  btw!  ).  

i  like  brainstorming,  so  i'm  always  interested  in  popping  across  ideas  that  could  work  for  both  of  us!!!  

#valpohqintro #i sacrificed my firstborn to put this together #i'll edit/add more at some point but like !!!

[lunamagicablu]

'Tuatha na Sidhe' significa Popolo del Mondo di Luce. La voce degli Spiriti di Luce torna a farsi sentire, avvicinandosi discreta al nostro orecchio, per risvegliare la nostra sensibilità, per farci tornare a credere nelle percezioni, per sviluppare il nostro intuito. I doni che il Popolo Fatato porta fino a noi, vogliono essere un motivo di riflessione lungo il viaggio della vita, portando gioia, entusiasmo, armonia e bellezza in una visione di spiritualità globale, in cui si può percepire il respiro della Terra che reclama il nostro Amore. I doni del Popolo Fatato - Tuatha na Sidhe di Tiziana Mattera ******************** 'Tuatha na Sidhe' means People of the World of Light. The voice of the Spirits of Light returns to be heard, approaching our ears discreetly, to reawaken our sensitivity, to make us believe in perceptions again, to develop our intuition. The gifts that the Fairy People bring to us are intended to be a reason for reflection along the journey of life, bringing joy, enthusiasm, harmony and beauty in a vision of global spirituality, in which one can perceive the breath of the Earth that claims the our love. The gifts of the Fairy People - Tuatha na Sidhe by Tiziana Mattera 

[parttimeprophet]

🦷🧸❄️ pretty please <3

🧸 ⇢ what's the fastest way to become your mutual?

Frankly, just texting me will do the trick.

I happen to be terribly introverted and kind of awkward so reaching out to people is rather hard to me, but once I feel comfortable enough around someone, I will act though we've been friends for five years. Given they're a devcent person, of course.

🦷 ⇢ share some personal wisdom or a life hack you swear on

As for wisdom:

The clothes you buy are for the body you have, not the one you had, not the one you wish you would have, not the one you are trying to achieve.

Life does not need to be aesthetic to be enjoyable.

Some places were not meant to keep you warm.

I think it is inevitable to at one point or another begrudgingly discover regret to be incredibly convenient. I also think it is crucial to learn from that.

Forgiveness is hard to find when you are not looking for it. Which is not to say you have to grant forgiveness to everyone looking for it.

When someone tells you you've hurt them, you don't get to decide that you didn't. Which is a quote I read ages ago and it has stuck with me forever.

In terms of life hacks:

Magnesium supplements (magnesium glycinate specifically) and peppermint tea before bed might help you sleep better. Also aids stomach issues!

If you suffer from tinnitus often, cover your ears with your palms in a way so that your fingers are at the back of your head, they should be roughly above the base of your skull. Make sure your ears are fully covered, then place the index finger of your right hand on top of the middle finger (do the same for the left hand) and kind of move them in the same way you would when snapping your fingers. The result should be your index fingers creating a thumping sensation on the back of your skull. Repeat a couple times, it might help!

Carrot and tomato juice are high in vitamin a and if mixed with a bit of oil can help acne and other skin issues. The oil is necessary for the body to actually process beta-carotines.

If you apply oil to your hair, make sure it is at least damp, otherwise the oil will cause your hair to dry out even more

If your eyeliner smudges easily try setting it with an eyeshadow of the same colour. If it still smudges, do eyeshadow, a thn layer of setting spray applied with a brush (very important) and then eyeshadown again

For genetically awfully greasy hair; cornstarch as dry shampoo works even better than baby powder. I have bleached hair personally, but I think mixing in some kakao powder should do the trick for dark hair.

Sorry, this was a lot.

❄️ ⇢ what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best?

Quite frankly, I will forever be in awe of @kastlequill 's skill. that human, that demon is easily one of the best fanfictions I have ever read, the paragraph about Farsi and Djinn's course of working on that specific mission was divine and I eat up anything regarding the intricacies of language and laguage learning!

In old Kez fashion, I am also a sucker for character studies, and would love to see you and @50cal-fullauto do a Ghost character study. The way in which the two of you portray him is very distinct and organic and given how the emphasis of different characteristica of him shines through in your guys' writing, I'd be entirely too curious to see similarities and differences in them.

#thank you for asking ^^ #ask game #asks #answered #dotcie

[copperbadge]

Answers About Italian Idioms

Continuing my responses to Musicians And Italians, fascinating to see how baffled Italians were about the thumbs-up being rude. I have no idea where I picked it up but clearly I was misinformed. I’m going to have to find some other humorous but mildly embarrassing thing for Buck to do deliberately as a Clueless Foreigner. Maybe the Horns? That means cuckolding in some places...

“Sit still and try not to cringe," Havard said in his ear, and then stood up. Caleb watched as he put on a huge, theatrically visible grin and threw the rock horns -- both arms went up, palms facing the audience. He spread his thumb, forefinger, and pinky wide, tucking his middle and ring fingers into his palm, and jerked his hands forward. 

In Galia it was an appallingly offensive gesture, and Caleb wasn't sure if Havard knew some Italians might take it amiss as well...and then he realized of course he did. That was why he was doing it -- being ambiguous on purpose, offering what everyone knew really meant that things were fine, simultaneously gesturing obscenely like a clueless tourist. The emcee said in Italian “It appears Havard is up to his usual tricks...”

Havard turned to the emcee and gave him the horns specifically, which made the crowd laugh.

In any case Italians and Italian-adjacents are united in this, so onward to “un culo della Madonna” which I asked about because (sorry apparently this is just my home now) Roma played Juventus to a tie this past weekend in football, despite being pretty outmatched, and in the post-game, Mourinho said they had un culo della Madonna, and I just couldn’t quite parse it. 

puntointerrogativo

Culo della madonna can mean having a lot of luck (avere un culo…) but also working really hard (farsi un culo..). Like somebody else pointed out adding della Madonna is kinda like adding huge, or better yet “hell” ex: fai casino= you’re making a mess/ruckus - fai un casino della madonna=you’re making a hell of a mess/ruckus

Oh so it’s intensely appropriate! Because they did fight their asses off but also got super lucky. Roma was struggling, but Juve also missed some pretty key goals. Mourinho specifically talked about how lucky they were to keep Juve to one point, let alone equalize. Particularly impressive that it’s an idiom Mourinho knew, since he’s Portuguese -- I think his Italian is somewhat better than his English just from watching him speak, and that’s understandable given Italian and Portuguese are closer to each other than either to English, but impressive nonetheless. 

disaster-vampire

yeah "un culo della madonna" is a common saying, it's kinda like saying someone's ass is out of this world in english. just means "a great ass".  culo also means good luck, so in this case it would be having insane luck, or it can mean working really hard, so same thing in this case it would be working even harder. it can also mean having the shit beat out of you literally or figuratively (like being physically beat vs being beat in a game). anyway good culo to y'all.

AND A VERY FINE ASS TO YOU AS WELL. :D I enjoyed watching the discussion you had in notes of soccer players and their asses. (And they did a little bit get their asses beat even if they tied. Juve had better control and speed the whole-ass game and Roma knew it.) 

Certainly making up for it today though. Dybala’s having a very good night.

#puntointerrogativo #disaster-vampire #shivadhverse

[aftaabmagazine]

They buried Qahar Asi with his poems

They buried Asi with his poems

By Rahmatullah Begana 

Translated from the Farsi by Farhad Azad 

Kabul's weather offered a mild respite on a somber autumn day, the city holding an unusual calm. No fighting erupted, and not a single rocket pierced the sky, a stark contrast to the usual barrage. It was September 28, 1994.

People tentatively emerged from their homes, children resuming their playful pursuits. We longed for a break, a departure from the usual war-ridden bedlam. The people huddled in their corners. As the sun dipped low, Qahar Asi approached us.

Due to the intense conflict in Kabul's Microrayon sectors, Asi, freshly returning from Iran, had left his home and now lived with his in-laws in Karte Parwan. We also lived in Karte Parwan. On September 28, Asi appeared on our doorstep, inviting us for a stroll.

We invited Asi inside, but he declined. With some reluctance, my brother Azizullah Ima and I finally ventured out with Asi.

The people of Kabul had quarantined themselves due to the rocket strikes and fighting. Aside from a few desperate souls, no one dared venture beyond their doorways.

Asi's insistence on an outing filled me with dread. Intuition warned of impending unease that day, yet I remained blind to the unfolding events. Asi led us away. Before long, he began reciting poetic verses from his earlier days.

We immersed ourselves in the warmth of prose and poetry alongside Qahar Asi. He recited his verses, each carrying a wealth of tales and portrayals. It was as if he sensed that these were the concluding hours of his life, eager to share his newly composed verses with his audience and friends.

Asi turned the pages where he had penned his poems, his enthusiasm radiating as he retrieved one poem after another from his shirt pocket, reading them gracefully and eloquently.

"Kabul, O Kabul,

the gushing blood from your throat,

how does the earth hold it without pain?

Who will lift your shredded coffin towards the sun?"

Asi carefreely recited his verses as the distant echoes of rockets reached our ears. For the first time, genuine fear gripped me. Though we had grown accustomed to the explosions, the rockets seemed to be heading straight for us.

We walked a considerable distance, returning from the Bagh Bala area as the explosions grew louder. Undeterred by the danger, Asi continued to recite in his woeful yet magnetic voice.

"These words aren't for the harsh autumn wind

these words aren't for the boulders

these words aren't for the eroded, lofty slopes.

the mountain has its sorrow,

the river has its sorrow,

the grove has its sorrow,

sorrows that destroy them"

Asi continued his passionate storytelling, and the explosions were ongoing. I suggested we veer from the main road close to the Kart-e Parwan intersection, away from danger, towards the narrow lanes nestled against the high hill.

In those days, the narrow lanes were lined with single-story mud homes, and only a few people moved about.

Kabul's ongoing war had ravaged the electricity and water systems. We had access to running water one day out of the week and electricity on just a handful of days.

Our journey continued alongside Asi's recitations. At a communal fountain, men gathered water, kids played marbles in the middle of the alleyway, and some children sought refuge, playing with dolls by the wall.

Asi recited verses with fervor. Due to my worry, I couldn't fully comprehend my friend's words. My brother and I trailed by his side.

The autumn wind carried Asi's voice, rising and falling with his recitation. I was nearing our home and eager to arrive quickly, yet time stood still. Our legs felt heavy, defying our attempts to move faster.

Seconds stretched, heavy with danger, as time ticked towards a catastrophic event. Three friends walked unknowingly towards it.

Yet we pressed on, but time remained stagnant. And then, from behind, the calamity that followed trapped us in the alleyway, forever altering our lives. No longer were we whole individuals. We were labeled the wounded and martyred.

Everything fused, and Asi fell silent. We, along with the little boys and girls of the alley, crashed to the ground, enveloped in dust and blood. Asi's recitation seemed to mingle with the cries of the wounded children as their voices choked the alley.

After a few seconds, as the dust and debris rose from the ground, I realized the absolute silence that had settled over Asi and Ima. Only my voice remained—a voice of sorrow, pain, separation, lament, despair, and hopelessness.

I couldn't understand what had happened, what catastrophe had befallen us, why we lay on the ground, covered in dust and blood. I was utterly bewildered and stunned!

The situation in this alley stood deeply sorrowful and heartbreaking. Yet, no one realized that a talented poet of verses had fallen, covered with soot and blood.

Liberty itself had fallen, lifeless and without support. No one reached out to help, for it no longer needed a hand. The dead and wounded littered the alleyway, and Asi— the voice of unwavering freedom— had also been silenced, deprived of life. Young men from the alley rushed to help, taking us to the hospital. The relatives cried and wailed loudly.

Asi and Ima lay still beside the blue-tinted gutter— people supposed they were martyrs. I begged the young men to help my brothers! They explained another vehicle would transport them and urged me to hurry due to my severe bleeding. Ima and Asi rested a short distance from me, motionless and silent.

The young men in the alley lifted me and took me to Abu Zaid, the nearest and the only private clinic in Kabul, in the Kart-e-Parwan neighborhood. When Ima and Asi arrived at the general hospital, the clinic staff mistook them for dead and placed them in the morgue.

I was in better condition than they were. A large piece of debris had struck my right leg, breaking the shin bone. A doctor at the clinic wrapped my leg with a bandage to slow the bleeding.

He said, "We can't do anything more here. You must transfer yourself to a government hospital."

The sky darkened, yet the sound of piercing rockets continued. An ambulance transported me to the government hospital. Memories of my mother's illness and death filled me in this familiar hospital, where I first saw Ahmad Zahir, the famous singer—days of hoping for my mother's recovery had been spent in its rooms and corridors.

But this time, a different tragedy had brought me here. Even as my condition remained poor as I entered the large hall and corridor, countless stretchers overflowed, leaving no standing room and crowding the space with the wounded and dead.

The young doctor looked familiar. He addressed the people who had brought me, "There is no space for beds here. Take your patient to the Wazir Akbar Khan hospital."

I recognized him and asked, "Are Asi and my brother among the wounded?"

He recognized me, too, and gently removed the white cover from my brother's bare body. "Don't worry, he is receiving treatment now," he reassured me.

Seeing my brother's face, I relaxed momentarily but remained deeply worried. My eyes searched for Asi. Once again, I joined the wounded on an ambulance ride to the Wazir Akbar Khan hospital.

On the way, a girl with eyes closed died silently as other children moaned in pain. One of these teenagers repeated: "O God, what sin have we committed that we are torn into pieces like this?"

The streets were empty. We quickly reached the hospital. As they removed me from the vehicle and placed me on a stretcher, many worries filled my mind. What had happened? Would Asi and Ima receive treatment?

The pain in my leg intensified. They carefully lifted my broken leg with both hands and took me to the hospital's surgical operations department. At 9:00 pm, I entered the operating room without my family present or a blood supply.

Before I passed out, a doctor who was busy operating on a patient asked his colleague, "What was the news at 8 o'clock?"

The second doctor replied, "Is there anything else in this country besides stories of pain and sorrow? Did you hear that the young poet—I'm talking about Qahar Asi— was martyred in today's rocket attack!"

"With God, we belong, and to him, we shall return," I thought to myself. Hearing this news, despair and hopelessness washed over me so vigorously that I could only remain silent and suppress my grief.

Asi's stories, laughter, passion, vitality, life, and poetry flashed through my mind. I said goodbye to everyone in my imagination. I didn't think I could survive this struggle alongside him. Seconds later, I passed out.

After the surgery, which took about two hours, according to Dr. Mozef, I struggled to regain consciousness due to extreme anemia. Death lingered close by. I felt as though I was hanging upside down from my feet.

My fight between life and death raged for more than seven hours. Finally, my condition began to improve slightly. I opened my eyes in the morning to a dark room with only the faintest dawn light filtering through the curtains. I couldn't remember anything.

Confused, I tried to understand why I was in this situation to no avail. I felt no pain, only the effects of severe anemia and the intense side effects of anesthesia, which slurred my words.

I felt people hovering over me, but my eyes wouldn't focus properly. I couldn't understand where I was! The silence puzzled me. Then, I recognized the dimmed hospital lights and the faint glow from outside.

I surveyed my surroundings; everything seemed strange, black and white. Seeing the IV stand confirmed my location. But none of my companions from the ambulance or the neighborhood kids, Ima and Asi, shared this space. 

I remained in the hospital for days. Once I recovered somewhat, I went to visit Asi's mother. Upon my arrival, her distress intensified. She is a wise and kind woman who sees me as a reminder of her lost child, her young son who died too soon – a reminder of her son's untimely passing and the enduring pain she bears. Even though 26 years have passed since Asi's martyrdom, she still mourns and weeps as she did in the early days of Asi's death.

Asi's mother lost her composure at seeing me and began to cry. Everyone relived the great sorrow of the poet's death for a few moments.

I said, "Mother, I wish I had died instead of Asi."

She replied, "My child, you are the reminder of my son, and I sense Asi in you. May God grant you longevity and virtue."

I asked, "What happened to the poems from the day of Asi's incident?"

Mubin, Asi's brother, who was sitting with his mother, answered, "We buried Asi with his clothes and poems."

May the memory of my dear and beloved friend and companion, Abdul Qahar Asi, be cherished!

- - - 

On September 26, 2020, the digest "8 AM" published Rahmatullah Begana's lamentable words, marking 26 years since Qahar Asi's voice fell silent. Begana's memory paints a dour portrait of Kabul in the autumn of 1994, a city choked by smoke and despair, where the relentless rhythm of rockets tore through the fragile silence. It was amidst this symphony of destruction that lives shattered, and so too, a poet's pen.

Begana's words weave an intimate tapestry of his friend and poet, Qahar Asi. He paints Asi's final moments with heartbreaking clarity, showing how even as the world crumbled around him, Asi clung to the lifeline of his poetry, his lyrics a defiant chorus against the descending darkness.

Though Asi was cruelly taken, his legacy blazes a defiant trail against oblivion. His poems are not merely words but searing echoes of a people's wounds, dreams, and resilience—beacons that will continue to light the path for generations to come.

—Farhad Azad 

April 13, 2024

#kabulistan #kabul #qahar asi #poetry #prose #history #poet

[cerosin-bis]

Got any Charly (MW19) HCs?

YES oh I miss Charly 🥺 I'm happy we can hear her on some killstreaks in MWII I hope she's having fun being a pilot. Have some Charly headcanons!!

Ok so like I said in my Nova hcs well I imagine Charly to get along well with Nova (MWII). And since we can hear Charly on killstreaks I like to imagine they started talking because they are both big aircraft nerds... they start talking and 30 seconds later they're exchanging facts about insanely specific technical details (Charly is more of a heli girl. nova is a plane girl)

Really dislikes anyone calling her by her actual first name. She only likes "Charly" whether you're close or not. "Charlotte" is for formal settings. Thorne, her long-time friend, calls her Charlotte specifically for her to be annoyed and retort with a stupid surname and a couple swears.

She only really knew the military due to her upbringing but she saw a lot of cultures very early on since she travelled a lot. She's very open minded, and a good but quite stern leader figure (and she likes being the leader)

She has a good ear for music and perfect pitch. Would LOVE to learn to play so many instruments but she has no time which really frustrates her... She did learn transverse flute as a child and still knows how to play but she wants to learn so many other things. Particularly violin, piano and harp...

Her dossier states that she speaks Russian, Swahili and Arabic, but she also understands farsi p much fluently, she just doesn't like higher-ups being aware of it so she never mentions it.

#charly #headcanons #charlotte johnstone #mw19 #ask #cod charly

[persimminwrites]

Could you tell me about Rawl Squadron 😍?

UL!!!!! i would LOVE to talk about rawl!!!!! THANK YOU FOR ASKING MWUAH MWUAH MWUAH

rawl squadron is my squad of clone ocs!! i posted quite a bit about them when i was last on tumblr but they've undergone heavy revisions in the past month or so after not touching them for like a year sdkfjnskdfj right now i am reworking all of their physical designs so i dont have any new art but i hope to in the future!! and im also completely reworking their story right now!

rawl is in the 77th Attack Battalion or the "Serpent" Battalion (all of the squads are named after different serpent species!! and here's some info on what a rawl is) and is the personal squad of the battalion's jedi (think wolfpack for the 104th) previously they had a different jedi general, another oc of mine, but now cyrus is their jedi general!!

here are some pinterest boards for them if you're interested in how they would dress in modern clothing. there's also lots of tattoo inspo for all of them bc they all are heavily tattooed lmao.

NOW here are some intros for them (this was so hard to condense LMAO):

Lt. Barun (CT-3527) - first in command of the squad. batchmates with shir. his name means rain in farsi. he has a mech-arm from the same explosion that almost killed poke on their first mission as a squad. he does not like that he was put in charge and does not want to be in charge. he hates rules and loves thinking on the fly and improvising. he's impatient and reckless and has boundless amounts of energy. he's incredibly charismatic and very good at motivating people. he gets promoted to commander later in the war. pronouns are he/him. name is pronounced like bah-rune.

Sgt. Viper (CT-4091) - second in command of the squad. is the only member of the squad that only has one tattoo (a tattoo of a rawl - all members have some version of a rawl tattooed on them). is very quiet and reserved. he has compulsive tendencies and is a very by the book person. he is tense around the squad and doesn't know how to loosen up or be vulnerable which leads to him often feeling ostracized. he is incredibly level headed and who everyone looks to in a crisis situation even though he is the second in command. he is the best sharpshooter in the squad. pronouns are he/him.

ARC Trooper Clint (CT-9330) - clint is an ARC trooper and to quote my notes "basically a cowboy but make it nonbinary and gay as hell" skdjfnskdjfn he has a buzzed, shaved head that he likes to dye bright colors occasionally. they have one cybernetic eye from a mission gone wrong. very laid back and they speak with a drawl. loud! opinionated! extroverted! and adopted nitro as his introverted friend. best described as the life of the party. joined rawl later in the war and often takes other missions since they are an ARC. pronouns are he/they.

Cpl. Nitro (CT-8119) - nitro is a munitions and demolitions expert. he has dark hair that is greying at his temples. he has hearing aides due to repeated, close exposure of loud explosions and noises that have damaged his ears. he's incredibly quick witted and smart but also very blunt. he often comes off as cold and harsh. he is very introverted and Clint is his very best friend in the whole wide world. pronouns are he/him. (nitro was also the first one of the squad that i created <3)

Cpl. Carrot (CT-7149) - carrot has orange air (dyed) and has lots and lots of piercings. he is a Big Boy and he uses a Big Gun. carrot is that weird art kid. he's a hopeless romantic. very smart about specific topics but has no common sense. he is an incredibly genuine and caring person. gets hit on the most out of the entire squad but doesn't know why (its bc he's hot AND genuine). he painted the design on rawl's transport ship and he paints all of the squad's armor. pronouns are he/him.

Cpl. Shir (CT-3279) - batchmate of barun. he has long hair that goes down to his waist, but he keeps it in a braid most of the time. his name means lion in farsi. he is the Mom of the squad and also a pilot. very aggressive with his love and very protective. would fight a Sith with his bare hands if they threatened anyone in his squad. he is a very angry boy and often get in trouble for mouthing off to superiors. a cynic, a nihilist, and person who is deeply hurting!! pronouns are he/him. name is pronounced like shear.

Cpl. Robin (CT-4409) - his hair began to grey early due to a genetic mutation. he has freckles and an x shaped scar on one of his temples from a training accident. he is the scout of the squad and has the best reflexes. he is the definition of a puppy in human form. happy! excitable! friendly! and incredibly devoted to his friends. he hides his insecurities behind a bright smile and a laugh. he is best friends with jasper. pronouns are he/him.

Pt. Jasper (CT-5036) - jasper has vitiligo, something that he is very insecure about but that he grows to hate less and accept more after joining rawl. he is the best in the squad at hand to hand combat and is the squad's strategist. he is incredibly anxious, nervous and is not confident in himself. he is incredibly INCREDIBLY intelligent (like a genius) and very literal. humor often goes over his head. best friends with robin. pronouns are he/him.

Pt. Poke (CT-9651) - poke is bald and his head and upper body is crisscrossed with heavy scarring because of an explosion he was caught in during the first official mission rawl had together. he made a joke right after it happened. he has a spine implant that runs down his back, another result of the explosion that almost killed him. he is the jokester. the definition of a clown and will be cracking jokes in the middle of a mission. he gets dumb tattoos and on the surface it fits his personality but really he got them so that people would laugh at his tattoos and not his scars (he's very insecure about them). he is the jack of all trades of the squad. the glue that holds them together <3 pronouns are he/him.

oKAY AND DONE i did try to condense about 15 pages of notes but this is still very long whoops!!! THANK YOU AGAIN FOR ASKING ABOUT MY BELOVEDS!!!!

#they are so precious to me! #made them 2 years ago can you believe #also if youre curious the reason the battalion is the 77th is because 7 is a lucky number in persian culture <3 #clone ocs #sw ocs #rawl squadron #lime green danger boys #jedi master cyrus #my ocs #min answers

[mahanistan]

Speaking Farsi to myself at Domino Park

What does it look like to arise?

To pray?

To end worry about the meanings of words?

To make sense of all the sounds?

To remember being a child and looking at the horizon and arguing with a sibling, very seriously?

To listen to the leaves?

To hear Persian in the ends of words, in the "s" sounds?

To wonder if that music is disco?

To feel the back of the Back?

Not the back my spine holds; the back of this all. The beings behind me. The unseen and unfelt.

What about the pretending of blindness?

The downward sloped jeans?

The slight upturn a ? makes in my mind-voice? Vs. the . of a .

-

I saw a rat. It squeaked and scurried. I heard a "sk." It paused and looked me. It had a rounded spine, pink paws, pink tail, dark eyes, and small ears.

Ratatouille got something right.

-

Reading my poetry is crazy-making گیج making.

کاش می تونستم الا به فارسی گوش بدم

کاش می تونستم تندتر بنویسم

خدا را شکر که هنوز می تونم فارسی را تایپ کنم

هیچ وقت بتونم خط ایرونیای مسن را بخوانم؟

خط خودم را می تونم بخوانم؟

-

*walks around talking to himself in Farsi*

#poems #farsi

[wrencatte]

Okay so in regards to that reblog thing about fanfic, it made me think of something

So I absolutely adore your fic “Empty”, it is so good and heartbreaking. And I loved your end notes on it too! It was nice to know how you see things turn out.

I was wondering, though, would you ever consider writing those end notes as a fic? Totally get it if you wouldn’t, I’m just curious :)

okay! So, this is actually saved as a doc titled "bat scrapped empty ending" in a subfolder called "questionable." It was never going to see the light of day -- it's very rough, not that great, and I still didn't have Damian's characterization down, to be honest. This was the second fic i'd ever attempted to write for Jason & Co, sooo. But, because you asked and you're so amazing. I can at least offer this up!

Dick pauses at the door jamb when he hears Damian’s calm Farsi as he reads out loud. He leans against it, arms crossed, watching with a small, sad smile.

His littlest brother looks small curled up in the high-backed chair, Alfred the Cat curled on his lap, a book held loose on his knees. He’s the most disheveled he’s ever allowed himself to be, it’s mostly in the way his hair sticks up like he’s been running his hand through it. A tic he picked up from Dick most likely. His voice is even and calm as he reads an unfamiliar book, eyes flickering up from the words periodically.

Jason’s eyes are closed, his head tilted towards Damian as if he’d been listening intently to his words. He’s propped up against the headboard, pillows keeping him in place and comfortable. Dick traces the scars on his face with his eyes, fire burning in his chest. The ones on his jaw are the worst, thick, white lines along the hinge of his jaw and under his chin.

“Richard.” Damian’s change in tone snaps him from the anger staring to boil. “What are you doing?”

He smiles tightly. “Just checking in. Alfred’s making lasagna. Steph offered to hang out up here if you wanted to eat in the dining room.”

Damian levels him with an unimpressed stare. “It’s my turn.”

“I know. I just thought I’d offer.” Damian huffs. Dick ruffles his hair, he takes it with a scowl, then sits on the edge of the bed, resting a hand on Jason’s ankle. “Hey there, Jaybird,” he says softly. The easy, slow rise of his chest says he’s asleep, but no one in the family can help talking to him.

It’s been days and sometimes they can maybe, maybe grab his attention for half a second but then it always slides away, making that flicker of almost awareness a trick of the light. Dick wishes – he just wishes he wasn’t so helpless. That he could do something, anything, to convince him he’s home, he’s safe.

Damian stays quiet for a minute longer before he picks up where he left off. Dick lets his voice wash over him, not understanding the words, just appreciating how calm he sounds. Instead, he watches Jason. For all that he is asleep, there’s a comfort in watching, in knowing that yes Jason is here and alive. Even if he never wakes up fully, he’s home and they’re never going to leave him.

After who knows how long, Damian bookmarks his page and closes it, sips slowly from a water bottle he’d tucked next to him. He absently pets Alfred between the ears once, twice, then leans up to dump the cat on Jason’s lap, settling back to draw his knees to his chest. The cat kneads then curls up in the divot of Jason’s legs, purring quietly.

“He’s gonna be okay, Dames,” Dick says. His brother tuts.

It’s only because they’re both quiet that they hear it – a whimper. So soft, so broken, it could pass for their imagination. Dick’s head swings in Jason’s direction, heart in his throat. Damian is two seconds from unsheathing his sword against an unperceived threat.

There’s no threat, only Jason. Jason with his brows pinched together, his mouth pulled down in a frown. The fingers of his bad hand tangle in the sheets, the other curl over Alfred’s back. The cat makes a noise but doesn’t move. Dick leans forward before he thinks better of it, gently covering the hand curling into the sheets.

“Richard,” Damian hisses.

Dick ignores him. Ignores him because this the first sound, first expression Jason’s made since the rage left him.

“You’re safe,” Dick says, low and soothing. “Jaybird, you’re safe now. You’re at the Manor. It’s Dick and Damian and Alfred the Cat. Everyone else is downstairs. Alfred’s making that lasagna dish you like. Tim’s only had one cup of coffee today. I think we’re finally teaching him self-preservation.” Damian snorts exaggerated and obnoxious. “Or maybe Steph did something to his stash. I’ll have to give her something as thanks. Bruce – Bruce has been in here every day. We just got him out of here so he can shower. You’re home. You’re – You’re safe now, Little Wing. I promise.”

His eyebrows twitch, eyes flickering under his lids. Dick rubs a thumb over his knuckles, keeps up the soft, constant chatter. Damian’s migrated off his chair to kneel on the floor, elbows on the bed, eyes boring holes into Jason’s head like that’s going to wake him up any time sooner. He’d smile fondly if the situation wasn’t so tense.

Jason shifts, head lolling. His lips part for another whimper. There aren’t any more drugs in his system at all. Dick cradles his hand, keeps up the soothing brush of his thumb as Jason’s eyelashes flutter and then, and then his eyes open, bleary, unfocused. Dick holds his breath.

“Hey, Jay,” he croaks out. Jason meets his eyes and the tears Dick’s been holding back drip down his cheeks. “Good morning.”

Somehow, Jason’s frown gets deeper. “’ick?” he rasps out. It sounds like he’s gargled a street of gravel, but it’s still the most fan-fucking-tastic thing he’s ever heard. His gaze flits around like a hummingbird, Dick to Damian to the cat to the bookshelf to the window then back all over again. “D?” is all he can get out for Damian’s name.

Damian makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a sob though he’d never admit it. “Took you long enough, Todd,” he says, voice thick with his own tears.

Jason tilts his head, confusion slowly crawling across his face. He doesn’t seem to be all there – but it’s so much better than the rage, than the emptiness in his eyes – and he’s having a hard time keeping up with all the stimulus even for how few there are. Dick smiles, brighter and happier he’s been in months, and Jason stares at him – stares at him – like he’s never seen something better.

“Welcome back,” Dick says. Jason gives him a shaky smile in return. There’s still something off, something a little wild and desperate, about him. Dick squeezes his hand. “Go back to sleep. I’ll get Bruce.”

Even as he says it, Jason’s eyes are sliding close again. He fights it this time, lashes fluttering, head dipping. “Dad,” he mumbles, words slurring. “I want – you, you.” His expression scrunches in frustration. He rolls his chin to keep Dick in his line of sight, gaze intense. “Thanks,” he says. “For – for…”

For coming for me, he doesn’t get to say. He doesn’t need to. Dick shuffles up to wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him against his side. Jason goes with a long, deep sigh. There’s a weight to his movements, a stability that wasn’t there before.

“Always,” Dick says fiercely. “Always, Jaybird.”

It's not much! but I wrote this, didn't like it, scrapped it, and then just summarized it at the end notes. I now realize it's not nearly as bad as I originally thought it was, but boy it's still a bit rough. XD <3 <3

#asked #asked and answered #hurt jason todd #jason todd #my writing