#je suis très désolé

[whiteshipnightjar]

when joanna newsom speaks french and it sounds like the most soothing lullaby to your ears. how do you make everything SO BEAUTIFUL, JOANNA?!!

[moonchild-in-blue]

I want to have a piece of iv's plaid pants cake.

Not in a sexual way like. I just want to cut a triangular slice and eat it with a tiny fork.

[pustoyy]

Moi l'été dernier : je vais m'inscrire à des cours d'escalade comme ça je rencontrerai des gens et en plus je ferai du sport

Moi maintenant avec environ 8468 crush et à deux doigts de m'acheter une barre de traction : success i guess

[kaedeakeshisworld]

La vie dernièrement quoi

Ce tel est tellement villain, à l'aise blaise m'sieur m'appelle de célibataire avec l'appli pour les régles

J'ai que ça à foutre "connaissez-vous couci couça pour partager avec votre mec"

Madame, soyons clair et net je sors avec Mister Nobody

La moindre des choses c'est rester hyper discret

[prdskat]

[Image ID: Traduction française à la fin!

A Instagram graphic advertising a rally in Montreal for Palestine by the account: montreal4palestine. It will be held on Saturday, October 28 at 2PM at the George-Étienne Cartier monument. The post reads: Montreal! As the number of martyrs continue to rise, it's important that we continue to take to the streets to demand for a ceasefire and for the entry of humanitarian aid into Gaza.

So far there are:

7,326 Martyrs

3,038 Children

3,129 Women

3,899 Men

Shame on the government of Canada for allowing this genocide to go on any further - Join us this Saturday to demand an end in their complicity!!

Traduction française:

Une image d'Instagram à propos d'une manifestation au Montreal pour Palestine sur l'account: montreal4palestine. La manifestation a lieu samedi le 28 octobre à 14:00 au monument George-Étienne Cartier. La publication dit:

Alors que le nombre de martyrs continue d'augmenter, il est important que nous continuons à descendre dans les rue afin de revendiquer un cessez-le-feu, l'entrée de l'aide humaintaire à Gaza et la fin du siège illégal. Jusqu'à présent, il y a:

7082 martyrs

2913 enfants

3129 femmes

3899 hommes

Honte au gouvernement du Canada de permettre à ce génocide de continuer! Rejoignez-nous ce Samedia pour demander une fin à leur complicité!! /.End ID]

Another protest in Montreal tomorrow. Monument Sir George Étienne Cartier will be the starting point. 2PM, October 28th.

[shapelytimber]

Calypso and the Pink Unicorn's pirate drag show !!!!!

[PRINT] - [COMMISSIONS]

Wee john served so hard it should be illegal 16 dead countless injured, I am dead Calypso was so hot

Process (and my french rant on why I hate the choice of la vie en rose) below vvv

Final without the text

Rough colors

Sketch !

Sorry english people, but what follows is too french an opinion to voice in english (I'll sum it up for u in the end <3)

Ok alors je suis désolé, Con o'Neill chante vraiment très bien ca n'a rien avoir avec sa performance, mais vraiment la vie en rose c pas possible. Le man est sur les champs Elysées a me vendre des tours Eiffel en plastique jpp- Franchement pipe et jambe de bois ca serai mieux passer. Ou les demons de minuit !!!!pourquoi pas les demon de minuit ?????? Chanson hyper connu française. Ok c moins cucu que la vie en rose, mais bonus point plus kinky (je pensais jamais decrire les demons de minuit comme etant kinky mais here we are-)

Ou juste n'importe quoi d'autre-

(And words of wisdom from my evil advisor @quijicroix : légende vivante (de Lorenzo) ça va avec tout. Ou une chanson triste de jul (pas bande organisée, tu peux pas ken dessus). Après tout le monde déteste la police ou nik le front national c les chansons les plus romantiques que je connaisse. Y a santiago aussi, avec le gros mat la. Les trois mâts, pour le steddyhands.)

Tout sauf la fucking vie en rose pitier (meme si, encore une fois, Con o'Neill la chante vraiment bien)

Welcome back english people ! To sum it up : la vie en rose is a french song for tourists that set up a fight or flight reaction in every native speaker. I'm glad people enjoyed this, but I cannot describe the cringe and disappointment I felt when they decided to have him sing this song- (even tho he sings it beautifully (which is part of the disappointment))

They are SO MUCH love songs in french, why this one.

PS : at this point (ep7) I don't know why Stede is still bothering with Ed "I'm hitting the banks didn't tell him which one" teach, when Izzy hands is right there ????? Sir please open your eyes

[formulaforza]

—if walls could talk

some things are meant to be secret (we'd fall from grace) pairing: charles leclerc x female reader warnings: 18+ minors dni. loadsss of google translated french. language, friends talking about sex, nsfw warnings under the cut :) love, mackie... 6.3k words! sometimes the only person who can help you out is a good friend. happy almost thanksgiving to all my american followers :) thankful for each and every one of you. mwah mwah mwah.

18+ because: fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, aftercare, mentions of hookups/faking it

You’re the last one to walk through the door of Charles’ apartment. Everyone else has been long comfortable, leaving imprints on the comfortable couch, footprints in the freshly-vacuumed rug, empty wine bottles and half-empty glasses on the coffee table. 

There���s always something so cold about his apartment—always empty, always dusty, filled with the remnants of his boyhood and the promise of his adult life. It has all the makings of a home, but it still feels like a house—like a museum instead of a secondhand shop. Always, except on days like tonight, when it’s filled with warm laughter and the smell of half a dozen different meals and the quiet hum of his favorite playlist. On days like today, it feels like a home. 

Nobody in the living room hears you open the door or slip off your shoes—they’re too preoccupied in their busy, lively conversation about a road closure on the way to the airport in Nice that adds twenty minutes on to the drive. You move in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen, to set your crowd offering—blue cheese stuffed shrimp—on the counter and get a wine glass from the cabinet to fill. He’s in the kitchen when you turn the corner, carefully examining the platter of Italian meatballs he’s got cooking in the oven. 

Charles looks up as soon as you set the heavy plate down on the counter. “Hé!” Hey, he greets, closing the oven door and pulling off his blue mittens to properly kiss both of your cheeks, a single arm wrapping around your middle to pull you into a quick hug. “Quand es-tu arrivé?” When did you get here?

“Tout à l'heure,” Just now, you reply, roll up the sleeves of your shirt because his kitchen is so small, and heats up so quickly when the oven is on. “Désolé, je suis en tard,” Sorry I’m late.

“T'es pas en tard,” You’re not late, he interjects, dragging a tortilla chip through someone’s dip and popping it into his mouth. With his other hand, he’s reaching into the cabinet above his head, pulling down a wine glass and handing it to you. 

“Je suis très en tard,” I am so late, you smile, take the empty wine glass with a thank you and follow suit with your own chip in the fame dip. “Je reviens directement du travail. Les crevettes sont restées dans le réfrigérateur du bureau tout l'après-midi,” I came straight from work. The shrimp sat in the office fridge all afternoon, you explain, and he scowls, raises his brows at you and at the shrimp. You chuckle, nod.  “N'en mangez pas,” Don’t eat it. 

His eyes are stuck on your cheek, which forces your hand to investigate what he might be staring at. “Quoi?” What? You ask, fingers coming up with nothing but an embarrassed heat. 

“Rien, juste... tu as un cil,” Nothing, just… you have an eyelash, he lets a sharp exhale leave through his nose, “je l'enlèverai,” I’ll get it, and then he does. Carefully, with the pad of his middle finger, he picks the eyelash from your cheek. You don’t look at him while he does it, but you are watching when he transfers it to his thumb and drops it onto the platter of shrimp with a quick flick. “Oh, non,” he feigns concern, grabs the platter from the counter, “Allons juste…” Let’s just… he laughs and holds the plate over the trash can and drops the shrimp into the plastic bag with a thump. 

“Bon appel,” good call, you laugh. 

He drags you into the living room, towards the rest of the evening festivities, with his arm tossed over your shoulder. Between that, and the whole let me get your eyelash thing minutes earlier, you’re as close to certain a person can get that he and his girlfriend are still broken up.

They go through phases, the two of them. She doesn’t like your friend group very much, and Charles doesn’t seem like he likes her all that much, but they come and go like seasons. Together one month, broken up the next week. He usually tells you, but even when he doesn’t, you usually know. He’s always touchier with you when she’s out of the picture. Not that you mind it, but. He is. 

It’s all a little more comfortable, like you’re both a little less aware of the fact that you’re the only girl in the group who isn’t spoken for, or that you’re both atrociously the other’s type.

“Regarde qui j'ai trouvé,” Look who I found, Charles announces, and you’re met with a spattering of greetings, plopping down onto the couch, slotting between Marta and an empty space that is quickly occupied by Charles. 

You both fight over the corner seat, who gets to take up more of it. He loves to sprawl out and you love to curl up. When it’s all settled, he’s spread out like he likes, and you’re curled up into the space he leaves, half leant against him with your knees pulled to your chest, sleeves pulled over your hands because it’s hot in the kitchen, but only in the kitchen. 

“J'ai entendu dire que vous avez tous les deux eu un week-end assez mouvementé,” I heard you both had quite the eventful weekend, Marta teases. She’s the only other person besides the man next to you—as far as you know—that knows about what went down last Friday night. It takes even you a moment to remember, having already relegated the mortifying details to the bottom of your soul. When you do recall, your cheeks burn with the sudden blow flow and you giggle, curl into Charles a little further than you probably should.

“Quoi?” What, Joris asks, “ce qui s'est passé?” What happened?

“Rien ne s'est passé,” Nothing happened, Charles tries to protect you from re-living the evening, but it’s no use. Now that your friends have a sniff of a story, they won’t stop until it’s told in complete, painstaking detail. So, you begin:

“J'étais en train de garder un chat le week-end dernier pour mon collègue, n'est-ce pas?” I was cat sitting for my coworker last weekend, right?

— —

You were indeed cat-sitting for a coworker last weekend. It was an orange cat whose name you never really learned, much less remembered, and you were on day three of five of cat-sitting. It’s important for the rest of the story, for later. It is. 

Anyway, you were cat-sitting on a Friday night, but that wasn’t going to stop you from going out. Your sister had invited you, something about a club and her boyfriend’s friends visiting from London. Only if I can claim a brit, you’d joked. You’d joked, right up until coming face-to-face with the twenty-something, five-foot something-but-still-taller-than-you, perfect brown hair and perfect green eyed British man that had come along for the visit. You weren’t joking after meeting him. 

Once the two of you were finally drunk enough to lose any sense of what’s good for you, you were squeezing into the back of a taxi and stumbling up the stairs of your apartment complex, the cute boy and his little kisses and touchy hands slowing the whole process down. 

We all know what a drunken Friday night hookup looks like, so. There’s no need to explore the logistics of it with someone who’s name you’ve since forgotten, who you hope is back home in London never to return. Because where the story really gets good, is after the uneventful hookup, when Mr. Brit really needed to get back to his fiends and had you walking him to your apartment door in just a towel because he didn’t have the patience to wait for you to put on some fucking clothes. 

— —

“Bon sang,” damn, Hugo laughs from the other end of the sofa, “tu es vraiment si mauvais en sexe?” Are you really that bad at sex? 

“Va te faire foutre!” Fuck you, you scoff. “Je suis incroyable en matière de sexe,” I’m amazing at sex.

“Je peux trouver quelqu'un pour vous donner des cours, si besoin,” I can find someone to give you lessons, if you need. 

You pause, blink twice, and then continue your story. “De toute façon,” Anyways.

— —

As you open the door to let him out, the cat you’ve been cat-sitting—see. It did come back to be important—darts out of the door. 

“Grab him!” You’d yelled, and the guy actually looked back at you before replying. 

“I’m allergic.”

You scoffed, hurrying past him and down the stairs after the cat. You manage to corral it in the corner of the stairwell, pick it up and return to your apartment, just in time to watch the door shut behind you. You look at the door, at the guy you’d just fucked, at the cat in your hands, and then back at the door. “That is not good,” you say.

The guy laughs. “Just open it.”

Oh, brilliant. Why hadn’t you thought of that? “It’s locked.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

By the grace of God and all things good in this world, the guy had a fully-charged phone. Unfortunately for you, of the three people with a spare key to your apartment, there was only one number you had memorized: Charles. 

You text him before you call him. It’s me, please don’t send me to voicemail, and then he did send you to voicemail twice before calling the number back. 

“Bonjour?”

“‘Bonjour?’ Mon cul!” ‘Hello?’ My ass! You greeted, the cat snarling and wiggling against your grip. You were so far beyond being in the mood for pleasantries. You just really, really wanted some fucking pants. “J'ai besoin que tu viennes ouvrir ma porte. Genre, il y a dix minutes,” I need you to come unlock my door. Like, ten minutes ago. 

“Et avec qui ai-je le plaisir de discuter?” And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with? You swear if you could, you’d punch him through the phone. You can’t, so you settle for hanging up. 

It’s at this time that Mr. Brit properly excuses himself from the evening of fun, because now that he knows you won’t stand outside your apartment in nothing but a towel for the rest of time, his conscience is clean. 

You and Charles live a sixteen minute walk from each other, and he definitely chose to walk rather than literally any other form of faster transportation. Maybe you should have disclosed your current state over the phone, but that probably would have made him walk slower. 

When he finally does trudge up the stairs, he stops three steps short of your landing at the sight of you, towel and cat and literally nothing more. “Qu'est-ce qui t'est arrivé, putain?” What the fuck happened to you? He laughs, and then finishes his walk up the stairs, holding your key out to you tauntingly. 

“Connard,” Asshole, you mutter, snatching the key away from him with your free hand and forcing it into the lock. “J'avais un gars chez moi,” I had a guy over, you add, forcing the door open with your hip. 

“Où à?” Where? He asks, following you into the apartment.

“Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire, où?” What do you mean, where? You laugh, gesture around the apartment. “Ici,” here. 

Charles frowns, scowls even. “Et il t'a laissé dehors?” And he left you out there?

You nod, gather up your clothes from the floor before they can exist there long enough to be perceived. “Tu n'es pas obligé de rester, je vais bien,” You don’t have to stay, I’m fine, you tell him, half-usher him back out the door he came through. “Je sais que ta copine va probablement me tuer,” I know your girlfriend is probably going to kill me next time she sees me.

— —

“Je ne peux pas croire qu'elle ne t'a pas tué,” I can’t believe she didn’t kill you, Ricky chuckles, looking to Charles. 

You find solace in the bottom of your wine glass, an excuse to fill the silence that follows Ricky’s comment. “En fait, nous avons rompu,” we actually broke up, Charles says, and the room falls into the same silence it always does everytime they break up. It’s not that you guys don’t like her, so much as… well. Yeah, it is that you don’t like her. But she didn’t like you guys first, so it really shouldn’t matter much that none of you like her. 

“Je suis désolé, mec,” I’m sorry, mate, Joris offers, and then everyone follows suit with half-hearted apologies they don’t mean. 

“C'est bien, vraiment,” It’s fine, really, he offers to the group. “Elle était gentille, mais elle ne l'était tout simplement pas…” she was nice, but she wasn’t… he hesitates. You take another sip of your wine. Your friends listen to him intently.  “Je ne veux pas être méchante,” I don’t want to be mean.

“Soyez méchant,” Be mean, Marta giggles. 

He laughs nervously, fidgets with his fingers, watches his rings spin. “Elle n'était pas très bonne. Elle ne pouvait pas... Je ne l'ai jamais fait, tu sais,” She wasn’t very good. She couldn’t… I didn’t ever, you know, he trails off, gesturing wildly into the space around him, anything to avoid having to say the words the entire room has picked up on. 

You roll up your sleeves, hot again. Burning. 

The teasing that follows from the guys is relentless, gets to a point where you and Marta step in, begging them to stop kicking a dead horse while Charles is in the bathroom. They do ease up, and the night continues far, far away from horrible hookup stories and mortifying relationship admissions. 

You were the last to arrive, which means you’ll be the last to leave, make sure that the whole place has been cleaned up, returned to its stiff and dusty places in the apartment before you head home for the night. 

“Juste pour que tu le saches,” just so you know, you comment, scraping the last of the left behind chip-dip into a tupperware container while he gathers up the now-stale crackers from the charcuterie board. “Je ne te crois absolument pas,” I totally don’t believe you.

He meets your eyes, confused. “Tu ne me crois pas à propos de quoi?” Don’t believe me about what?

“A propos de ne pas…” about not… you look away, direct your attention to the lid of the container. Anything but looking him in the eyes while talking about each other’s sex lives. “Tu sais. Il est impossible que vous n’ayez pas joui depuis cinq mois.” You know. There’s no way you haven’t gotten off in five months. 

You see him shake his head in your peripheral, distract himself with the task at hand the same way you had. This isn’t something the two of you talk about, and you talk about pretty much everything. Sex, though. It’s always been off-limits, especially in a situation like this, just the two of you together. “Non,” nope, he mutters. “Je souhaite,” I wish.

You roll your eyes. “Charles, regarde tes mains,” look at your hands, you say, and he does, all full of crumbs and salt and grease. “Voilà, voici la solution à ton problème. Tu peux le résoudre dès que je partirai,” there’s the solution to your problem. You can fix the issue as soon as I leave tonight.

He rolls his eyes right back, “idiote,” idiot, he says, shoves your shoulder with one of his hands and you laugh. “Je ne peux pas. C’est… je ne sais pas, c’est irrespectueux,” I can’t. It feels… I don’t know, it feels disrespectful.

You laugh, curl in on yourself at his comment because it feels so completely ridiculous. He’s a good guy, you know. You know, or you wouldn't be such good friends in the first place. You know, but that's a crazy concept even for a good guy. “Manque de respect envers ton ex-petite-amie si tu te branles après un séparer?” Disrespectful to your EX-girlfriend if you jerk off after you’ve broken up?

“Bien. Quand tu le dis comme ça,” well. When you say it like that.

“Ouis,” yeah, you chuckle, hoisting yourself up onto the counter you’d just cleared. The granite is cool even through the denim of your jeans. “Quand je dis ça comme ça, tu es un imbécile,” when I say it like that, you dumbass. 

“Pourtant,” Still though, he sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. He always looks particularly boyish when he gets even the tiniest bit frustrated with you. “Tu ne comprendrais pas. Ça n'est pas pareil.” You wouldn’t get it. It’s not the same. 

Wouldn’t I? You pick at your cuticles, don’t know how to skate around the admission that you’re finishing about as often as he is—that Mr. Brit, who he’d missed by no more than ten minutes last weekend, was not exactly giving you a very eventful evening when he decided he was done for the night. 

"Je ne vois pas comment tu pourrais,” I don’t see how you could.

You nod, wish you lived in his little naive world where you always finish. “La moitié des gars de ce putain de pays ne savent pas comment faire jouir une fille. Et apparemment, les gars de Londres non plus.” Half the guys in this fucking country don’t know how to get a girl off. And apparently, neither do the guys in London.

“Vraiment?” Really?

You nod. “Je ne peux pas te dire combien de fois j'ai simulé parce que j'en avais marre que quelqu'un attaque ma lèvre gauche avec sa langue,” I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve faked it because I was tired of someone assaulting my left lip with their tongue. 

“Fuck,” He laughs. “​​Ce n'est tout simplement pas bien,” that’s just not right.

��Non, ça ne l'est pas,” no it is not.

“Tu devrais vraiment obtenir de l'aide pour ça,” you should really get some help with that.

“Et toi aussie. Je mourrais avant de laisser tes conneries arriver.” So should you, you offer. I’d die before I let that shit happen. And you would, you really would. You can’t think of something worse than dating someone for months and knowing you’ve never gotten them off once. And she knows, she has to know, because there’s no way for him to fake it. She has to know. 

There’s a pause, and you realize that somewhere on the other side of the apartment the music has stopped playing. The speaker must have died—or the phone playing through it. You realize that Charles is close, now. Really close. Has he been this close the entire time you’ve been cleaning up, close. “Le feriez?” you would?

“Cent pour cent. Une bonne petite amie le ferait—en fait,” a hundred percent. A good girlfriend would—actually, you stop yourself, scowl a bit at the idea of it all. “Une bonne petite amie n’aurait jamais ce problème en premier lieu, mais ce n’est pas la question,” a good girlfriend would never have that problem in the first place but, that’s besides the point. He smiles, the threat of a laugh, and takes a step closer, firmly between your legs, now. You put your hands on either of his shoulders, give them a firm, friendly squeeze. “Une bonne petite amie t'aurait aidé,” a good girlfriend would have helped you, you assure him, but it doesn’t sound as friendly as your gesture was. 

His hand falls to your knee, thumb moving over the fabric of your jeans there ever so softly. It sends a chill up your spine, makes you shiver. “Un bon ami pourrait m'aider,” a good friend could help me, he says, hardly above a whisper—like he thinks saying it quieter is going to make it have any less suggestion. 

You nod, gulp, your fingers intertwining behind his neck. “Un bon ami pourrait vous aider,” a good friend could help you.

“Ouis,” yeah. You’re so close now that you can feel his breath on your face, that your noses might as well slot against each other. That you might as well be kissing, even if you aren’t. You’re sure your eyes cross when they meet his. 

“Dommage que tu n'en ai pas,” shame you don’t have any of those, you tease, smile pulling on your lips, hands falling from over his shoulders to move down his chest, to feel every reaction of his muscles as you trail over his abs softly, toy with the hem of his t-shirt. 

“C'est vrai, n'est-ce pas?” It is, isn’t it? His hand moves up your leg, and you instinctively move towards the touch, move yourself closer to the edge of the counter. He moves up, up your thigh, to your hip, threatening to go further. He doesn’t, though. He stalls there, searching your eyes for the permission to be there in the first place. 

And then, just like that, he kisses you. 

It starts soft, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but you don’t. It’s a gentle collision, tender and hesitant and exploring whatever new waters you’d just sat yourselves in. His lips are so soft against yours, so careful, so sweet, and then his tongue is slipping through your lips, settling into the kiss now that he knows you’re going to kiss back. And you do, you kiss back, until it’s all hurried and messy, noses bumping against each other, teeth scraping each other’s lips. Until you’re hazy and dizzy and have to pull apart for air. 

“Peut être,” maybe, you chuckle into his mouth, kiss him again quickly. “Peut-être que tu devrais accepter l'offre de Hugo de trouver un tuteur,” maybe you should take Hugo up on his offer to find a tutor, you joke, and his smile is sweet against your lips. 

“Peut être,” maybe…  he says, fiddles with the buttons of your jeans hurriedly, like they’re going to seal shut if he doesn’t undo the button that very moment, and then he unzips the zipper, “ou peut-être,” or maybe… 

You kiss him again. Your core aches, the knot in the pit of your stomach pulling itself tighter and tiger with each millimeter further he moves. “Tu pourrais juste,” you could just. 

“Je pourrais juste,” I could just, and he dips a hand into your pants. 

You sigh, react instantly to his touch and his lips are on your again. Your hips move against his hand like it’s the first time you’ve ever been touched—which, this whole thing feels so charged that it might as well be. Charles’ hand moves in flat circles over your clit, pushing farther, deeper, slipping a single finger inside of you. 

You hiss at the movement, kiss him harder when your breath is back, pull him hard against your lips by the back of his neck. “Putain, tu es tellement mouillé,” Fuck, you’re so wet, he says. 

You nod, talk into his mouth, “Je sais, je sais,” I know, I know.

You reach between your bodies to palm him, find him already hard in his jeans, taking in a sharp breath when you touch him there. His other hand grabs at your tits, pushing and pulling and squeezing over your shirt before finally slipping under, haphazardly pushing your bra out of the way and palming them, kissing mumbled profanities into the skin on your neck. 

He pinches your nipple between two fingers and you whine—he ruts against the counter when you do, smirks against your lips and hums whatever noise he’s attempting to swallow. 

You sigh when he pulls his hand out from your jeans, but he’s quick to get them off of you, pulling them and your underwear off as soon as you raise yourself up off the counter. It’s cold, so cold, but his hands are equally warm, burn against your body as he explores every inch of available skin. 

You work away at his jeans, pushing down his pants and underwear as far as the angle allows you to. His cock springs out of the elastic waistband and the only thing you can think is how pretty it looks, all swollen and twitching and wet with precum. It looks painful, almost, how hard he is. But so, so pretty. “C'est tellement chaud,” this is so hot, you say. 

“Tu es tellement belle,” you’re so hot, he replies. 

You’re expecting for it to all boil over, then, for him to sink into you, fill you up with his perfect pretty dick, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers himself to your cunt and looks at you with nauseating eye contact. “Dis moi quoi faire,” tell me what to do, he says. 

“Quoi que ce soit. Faire n'importe quoi,” Anything. Do anything, you beg. 

He does, he does—licks a long stripe through your folds, forces your head to the sky and a sweet moan from your lips. He holds your legs apart with a hand on the inside of each thigh—strong, warm, big—and fucks you with his tongue. It’s messy and natural, but every move is intentional, working towards the goal of getting you off before he even fucks you. And he will, he will, because he listens so well. 

Every direction, even the jumbled, incoherent moans that leave your mouth, even the little twitches of your legs or the way your hips move against his mouth—it's all an instruction for him. What to do. What to continue doing exactly like he’s doing. “Juste comme ça. N'arrêtez pas,” just like that. Don’t stop, you chant, and he doesn’t stop. He holds his pace, and then you’re coming in his mouth, fingers slipping on the countertop in search of some kind of grip, some kind of stability as you writhe against him.

 When you’ve come down, come back to reality and the cold countertop and his warm hands, he’s kissing you again, cock hard and twitching between your bodies. You take him in your hand and he winces, groans when you start to stroke him, to spread the precum around his tip with your thumb. “Ça fait du bien,” feels good, he mutters. 

“Laisse-moi t'aider,” Let me help you, you insist. He doesn’t need much convincing. None at all, really. 

“Est-tu toujours... sur le?” Are you still… on the, he asks, tapping your arm. 

“Mon implant? Ouais, ouais,”My implant? Yeah. yeah. 

He kisses you again, licks into your mouth in a way that feels half-illegal, like all the rules of the universe have been broken. “Tu veux que j'utilise un préservatif?” Do you want me to use a condom?

You shake your head against his lips, shrug somewhere in the distance, far away from where your mouth is on his. “Je m'en fiche, je suis propre,” I don’t care, I’m clean.

“Moi aussi,” Me too. 

"D'accord, d'accord. Putain," Okay, okay. Fuck, and then he's slapping the head of his cock against your pussy, making you quiver with every touch. He drags it over your clit, through your folds, and then he’s sinking into you. His fingers bruise into your hips as he ruts into you, you reaching down to circle you clit while he fucks you full of him. "Putain, Dieu," Fuck, God, he moans. 

“Oui c'est bien?” Yeah, it's good? You ask. 

“C'est tellement bon, putain, c'est tellement bon, tu es si sexy,” It’s so good, fuck—it’s so good, you’re so hot. You don’t know if its his words, or that the seal’s properly broken now, but right as his dick slips out of a particularly measured thrust, you’re coming around the air, shoving a finger back inside to ease the ache of emptiness, pulling it back out and guiding his cock back in. He fucks you so good. So hard. So deep, just the sounds of each others groans, of heavy sighs and skin slapping filling the room, bouncing off the walls. “Je suis près,” I’m close, he tells you. “Je suis si proche, putain. Je vais,” I’m so close, fuck. I’m gonna, he repeats, fucking into you hard. Hard, burying himself in your cunt longer and longer each time. 

“Fais-le,” Do it, you say, “laisse-moi l'avoir, je le veux,” let me have it, I want it. And then he’s coming. Hard. Bottomed out in you, groaning against your neck, and filling you up with him. Fuck, he breathes. You can’t make a distinction between a sigh versus a laugh. “Ça va?”Are you okay? He asks. 

Your breath is heavy, heart thumping in your chest, in your ears, in your toes. “Je suis,”  I’m, you laugh. “Ouais, je suis plus que… je vais bien,” Yeah, I’m more than… I’m okay, you finally sputter out into his patient eyes. You think that’s the reason you stutter—the eye contact. “Es-tu?” Are you?

“Ouais,” Yeah, he says, running a hand through his hair, nodding.  “Oui. Très bien.” Yes. Very okay.

“Bien,” Good, you nod, and then, with all the vulnerability in the world: “Étais-je bien?” Was I alright?

He smiles, moves his hand to brush your flyaways from your forehead, to stop them before they can get in your face. “Tu étais…” You were… he laughs, and there’s no mistaking it now. When he does it, you’re reminded just how full of him you still are, of the ache you’ll feel when he finally pulls out. “Je ne pense pas que quiconque puisse avoir un problème avec toi,” I don’t think anyone could have any issue with you. 

“Oh,”, you chuckle, eyes locking onto the clock hung on the kitchen wall. You can hear the second hand clicking around the same way you can hear your own pulse. “Bon alors,” Good then.

“Et moi?” And me? He asks, and pulls out slowly before you can begin to answer. There’s a silence in the room, just the clock and your heart and your breathing, his eyes glued to your cunt like he’s admiring his handy work. “C'étaient…” Those were…

“Tous deux très réels,” Both very real, you nod, biting the inside of your cheek, catching his eyes when he leans over the sink, wetting a paper towel and ringing it out. “Je ne suis pas doué pour faire semblant,” I’m not that good at faking it. 

“Bon,” Nice.

“Je ne pense pas que nous soyons le problème, alors,” I don’t think we’re the problem, then, you chuckle, eyes snapping back to the clock, mind to the feel of the counter under your fingertips. You can’t think about anything more, of any other feeling or sense of taste or smell you’re experiencing or it will be too much. 

“Non je ne pense pas,” No, I don’t think so, he continues, and starts to clean you up, warm hands on your legs again while he runs the cool paper towel through your folds. You recoil at the cold, a shiver running up your entire body and his eyes jump to yours—”Désolé,” Sorry, he mumbles. 

“C'est bon,” It’s okay, you squeak, and it sounds like you’re about an inch tall. Utter mortification will do that to you, something this fucking awkward making you incredibly aware of everything happening in the room around you, of every touch of his warm hands on your skin. A lot of things are different now. Everything is different. 

“Je, euh. Putain,” I, uh. Fuck, you resort back to what you know best, to the only thing you can think about that doesn’t spiral back to the feeling of him finishing inside you. “Je n'arrive pas à croire que je doive nettoyer à nouveau ce comptoir,” I can't believe I have to clean this counter off again. 

He laughs again, tossing the paper towel into the trash can. It sits on top of everything else like a billboard, screaming about what it had been used for. The lid on the trash can doesn’t close like it’s supposed to. “C'est à ça que tu penses en ce moment?” That’s what you’re thinking about right now?

“Ouais,” Yeah.

“Tu es tellement bizarre, putain,” You’re so fucking weird, he says, adjusting himself, tucking back into his boxers, pulling them and his jeans up to make himself proper again. You have to hop off the counter to do the same, collecting and correcting your things as fast as you can because you can feel his eyes on your figure while you dress, and it feels too intimate. 

“Je ne suis pas bizarre,” I am not weird, you quip, buttoning your jeans and pulling up the zipper, carefully fixing your shirt, your bra, smoothing all of your clothes out over your skin. 

“Tu es. Tu es tellement bizarre.” You are. You’re so weird. 

“Peu importe,” Whatever, you mumble, quickly closing the lid to the trash can. 

The night has run its course by now, and then some. You spend fifteen minutes silently moving around each other in the kitchen, the whole room quiet enough to hear a pin drop in the downstairs lobby. You spend at least ten of them cleaning off the counter, which doesn’t feel so cold anymore, at least not where you were sitting. 

“Tu peux rester, tu sais…” You can stay, y’know… he finally breaks the silence. “Si tu veux.”  If you want.

“D’accord,” Okay, you nod. “Je ne… je ne sais pas si c’est une bonne idée.” I don’t… I don’t know if that’s a good idea.

“C'est vrai, ouais,” Right, yeah, he says, and the place threatens to fall back into negative decibel levels. “Je t'entends, tout ce que tu veux.” I hear you, whatever you want. 

“Désolée,” Sorry, you choke.

“Ne le soit pas, vraiment,” Don’t be, really, he assures, but you still are, still feel like you're stepping on a little baby bug that’s on its way home to its family. It’s not that you don’t want to stay, it’s more that you… you don’t trust yourself to stay, and you don’t trust him not to turn this into a messy rebound thing. If you slept in his bed tonight and got a text next weekend that he’d gotten back together with his girlfriend, you’d feel like a piece of shit. It’s bad enough that when they do inevitably reconnect, you’re already never going to be able to look her in the eyes again. 

“Tu m'enverras un texto quand tu rentreras à la maison?” You’ll text me when you get home? He asks, standing opposite you in his doorway. 

“Bien sûr,” Of course, you nod, fidgeting with the keys on your lanyard. “Nous n’avons pas simplement ruiné notre amitié, n’est-ce pas?” We didn’t just ruin our friendship, did we?

“Non,” he answers, without leaving space for a hesitation, to really wonder about your question. 

You smile at your keys, bite back a chuckle at just how quick he’d responded to you, about how sure he seemed. “Parce que tu es une de mes personnes préférées, tu sais,” Because you’re one of my favorite people, y’know.

“Tu es ma personne préférée,” You’re my favorite person.

You swallow, and when you look up from your keys, he’s staring right back at you. The comfort in the silence is palpable, and it makes you shy, pushes a nervous laugh from your lips. Charles just nods, certain in his choice of words. It makes you even more sheepish. 

You’re completely aware that he doesn’t look at everyone like this, that he never looked at her like this. “Que s'est-il passé entre toi et elle cette fois, d'ailleurs?” What happened with you and her this time, anyway?

He sighs. “Tu veux vraiment savoir?” You really want to know?

“Ouais,” Yeah, you nod. “Je fais,” I do.

“Je euh,” I uh, his fingers fidget with each other, pulling on the joints and twisting his rings. He doesn’t look at you when he tells you, watches the metal spin around his finger. “Je suis rentré de chez toi le week-end dernier et elle attendait dehors que je la laisse entrer. J'ai complètement oublié qu'elle venait après le travail.” I came home from your place last weekend and she was waiting outside for me to let her in. I totally forgot she was coming over after work. You regret asking as soon as he starts explaining. It’s not your business, and you could have gone your whole life without knowing that you were the catalyst for it. “On s'est disputé, elle m'a dit de choisir qui était le plus important,” We got into a fight, she told me to choose who was more important, he shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he was being asked to flip a coin, asked what color the sky was. “Je te choisi,” I chose you.

“Charles,” your head falls to the side defeatedly. You wish he never told you this, even though you asked. You wish he knew better, that you knew better.

“Je sais,” I know, he nods, and it sounds like he feels genuinely bad about the truth.  “Je suis désolé,” I’m sorry. 

“Je devrais y aller,” I should go.

“Ouais…” Yeah… he hesitates, his hand lingering around his front door, refusing to close it on you. “Ouais,” yeah.

“Juste... ne le fais pas,” Just… don’t. You stop yourself—or you try to stop yourself—from speaking. It’s unsuccessful, how could it not be when he’s staring at you intently with those big green eyes, clinging to every word that leaves your lips. “Ne te remets pas avec elle S'il te plaît,”  Don’t get back with her. Please.

“Je ne vais pas,” I won’t.

You nod, even though you know he will. He always does. They always get back together. It’s nice to pretend, though, for a few days. To pretend that anything is ever going to come of what’s happened this evening. 

“Bonne nuit, Charles,” Goodnight..

“Bonne nuit.” Goodnight.

[stevenrogered]

ONE DAY ↳book > screen

“I told him I had tonsillitis.” “What is that? Tonsillitis. In French?” Her fingers went to her throat. “Je suis très désolé, mais mes glandes sont gonflées, she croaked feebly. “Je pense que je peux avoir l’amygdalite.” 

“L’amy…?” “L’amygdalite.” “You have an amazing vocab.” “Well, you know.” She shrugged modestly. “Had to look it up.”

They smiled at each other. Then, as if an idea had suddenly occurred to her, she quickly crossed the room in three long strides, took his face between her hands, and kissed him. 

[somebluemelodies]

c’est qsmp language day !!

je vais essayer parler français (et peut-être portugais), mais je ne peux pas promettre que ce sera bien… ça fait longtemps… :’D

fais de ton mieux et s’amuser aujourd’hui <3

bonjour :3

[hedgehog-moss]

Salut madame hedgehog moss!

Maintenant je me prépare à déménager à une toute petite ville au nord-est des États Unis près de la frontière avec Nouveau Brunswick (donc une ville peu peuplée et très rurale). Maintenant j'habite dans une grande ville alors je suis certaine qu'il y aura un peu de décalage au début. Je sais que t'as déménager de Paris vers une très petite village donc peut être tu as des conseils pour comment je peux m'intégrer dans une telle communauté?

Désolé pour des fautes de grammaire. Le français n'est pas ma langue maternelle.

Hi! Your French is really good! :)

I'm not sure I'm the best person to ask for advice on how to fit in with a small rural community, as I chose to live in the woods a few km away from the nearest village because I moved to the countryside in search of solitude. I only leave my lair for groceries once every ten days or so—I'm on a solid "easy friendly small talk" basis with most locals, but I'm only better acquainted with a handful of them, the ones I interact with regularly by force of circumstance (the librarian because I'm a devoted library-goer, the postwoman, the farmer who owns the pasture next to mine...) and that's a level of integration in the community I'm happy with.

I suppose the main thing is to show curiosity and appreciation for the local way of life, rather than expect to live exactly the way you did in the city, but the specifics of what this entails vary a lot depending on locality. Participating in the local small economy, if there is one, is good—I try to attend the yearly events and fairs at the village, like the potter's market; I bought a jumper from the wool shop in town rather than ordering something online, and I buy fruit at the summer market and seedlings for my garden, and some cheeses, from the local farms that sell them, rather than getting stuff from the supermarket even though it would often be more convenient. But I'm glad there are still family farms and local artisans so it's important to support them. There's also a thriving informal gift economy in my village, I offer eggs from my chickens and homemade jams or syrups and later down the line neighbours reciprocate with seedlings or firewood, etc, the more you'll participate in this sort of thing (if it exists) the more connections you'll make.

Another thing re: being appreciative of the local way of life—I know the city people who are disliked around here are the ones who buy land and use it like they would a suburban plot, e.g. build a swimming-pool, mow the grass, remove all 'weeds' indiscriminately (I know brambles are annoying but birds nest in there and eat the berries, you've got to leave some...), or cover their dirt road with asphalt instead of just shovelling some gravel when it gets muddy, etc. Again the specifics vary depending on locality, but people are attached to their local landscapes and way of doing things and as someone who owns some land and has seen the way locals reacted to other people who bought land around here, you're clearly perceived differently if you have a spirit of maintaining and repairing and appreciating the place for what it is, rather than remodelling and innovating and adapting it to what you want it to be.

Also you've got to accept that it can take a very long time to become part of a close-knit community, and try not to take things personally—I remember someone commenting on one of my posts a few years ago that she felt rejected by the people in her village because she was still seen as an outsider, and not allowed to take part in the organisation of some local events, several years after moving there. I wouldn't see not getting to help organise an event as a hostile behaviour towards me, I don't really expect to be included on every level, if locals feel like some things are for people who've lived here their whole lives, okay. I know rural communities are not the most diverse places and I'm not saying to accept discrimination due to bigotry of any kind, but in terms of "being kept out of some things or treated differently because you're not from this specific place", I do see it as something to be accepted. If I'm still seen as a city person and an outsider twenty years from now, so be it, as long as people aren't outright rude about it. I don't think of not being welcome to everything as rude, there are just boundaries that exist and so be it. I'm not saying someone would be wrong for being hurt by this type of exclusion, just that it helps to have this "don't take it personally" attitude when moving to a rural village.

Having a llama also really helps! The only reason I got acquainted with lots of local people in my first year here was because Pampe kept running away and I kept having to knock on people's doors with like a photo of her and go hi, have you seen this criminal. And then people would stop me at the grocery shop or something two weeks later like, did you end up finding your criminal? And I'd complain about her and they'd sympathise and tell me about their own annoying animals. I can't recommend animal misdemeanours enough as a source of friendly mutual understanding with rural neighbours.

Oh and speaking of complaining—another obvious way to integrate in a small community is to fight together against a common enemy. This is anecdotal but last year a state-owned company started to build a metallic structure (I'm trying not to be too specific) outside the village and it spoilt the landscape a bit, and I hesitated to grumble about it when making small talk because I was half-expecting to come across as an annoying city person, complaining about aesthetics while local people's livelihoods would be improved by this thing—but not at all, people also hated the look of it and were like "they hardly even consulted local authorities on this, they think we don't get to have an opinion on what our land looks like" and we went to the town hall to complain and the mayor agreed with us and eventually we complained enough that the company replaced the metal parts with wooden ones, so it at least looks more natural and more discreet in the landscape. It was very satisfying to come together and have this happen, and I never felt more integrated in the local community than when I was in the town hall complaining with everybody else.

[neephyra-rottmnt]

I'm sorry for this lack of activity but I didn't feel very well. Now I'm better but I didn't come without anything. Here is a small collection of ninja turtles drawings + my oc / Je suis désolé pour ce manque d'activité mais je ne me sentais pas très bien. Maintenant jevais mieux mais je ne suit pas venu sans rien. Voila une petite collection de dessin tortues ninja + mon oc

[mrsines]

Petite fête

à la demande de @babythere j’espère que ça plaira 😇

6« Wow, vous avez l'air... incroyable. »

Lilia X reader

Tout le monde s’en était sorti vivant de la route, et c’était une très bonne chose. L’atmosphère était remplie de soulagement et de joie. Billy, débordant d’énergie, avait envie de fêter cet événement. Avec un sourire charmeur, il avait supplié Agatha, insistant sur l’importance de célébrer leur chance.

"Allez, Agatha, ce serait tellement bien de le faire chez toi !" avait-il dit, ses yeux pétillants d’excitation.

Après de très longues heures de supplication, Agatha, finalement convaincue par l’enthousiasme de Billy, avait accepté. La nouvelle avait rapidement circulé, et tous s’étaient mis en tête de s’habiller pour l’occasion. Les préparatifs allaient bon train : les lumières scintillantes étaient accrochées, et la musique douce flottait dans l'air, créant une ambiance festive.

Les invités étaient tous présents, parés de leurs plus beaux atours, riant et discutant joyeusement. Chacun avait fait un effort, des robes élégantes aux costumes bien taillés, tous semblaient ravis d’être là. Pourtant, une ombre planait sur cette fête : Reader n’était pas encore arrivée.

Lilia était assise sur le canapé, les coussins moelleux l'entourant comme une étreinte réconfortante. Ses pensées vagabondaient, se heurtant à l'inquiétude qui s'était installée dans son esprit. "Où est donc passée Reader ?" se demandait-elle, le regard fixé sur la porte, espérant la voir entrer à tout moment. Le bruit des rires et des conversations joyeuses des autres invités résonnait autour d'elle, mais elle se sentait déconnectée, perdue dans ses réflexions.

C'est alors que Billy s'approcha et s'assit à côté d'elle, son sourire habituel illuminant son visage. Il remarqua immédiatement l'air préoccupé de Lilia.

"Hé, Lilia," commença-t-il, sa voix douce et rassurante, "ne t'inquiète pas. Reader va bientôt arriver, j'en suis sûr."

Lilia tourna lentement la tête vers lui, ses yeux se posant sur son ami. Elle lui offrit un sourire, bien que légèrement hésitant.

"Je sais, Billy," répondit-elle, sa voix trahissant une pointe d'anxiété. "C'est juste que… je me demande ce qui lui prend tant de temps."

Billy observa Lilia, son regard plein de compréhension. "Peut-être qu'elle a eu un contretemps," suggéra-t-il, tentant de la rassurer.

Lilia se laissa aller à un léger rire, appréciant le soutien de son ami. "Tu as raison, comme toujours," répondit-elle, un peu plus à l'aise.

Elle se redressa et observa la pièce, se laissant emporter par l'énergie de la fête, tout en gardant un œil sur la porte, espérant apercevoir Reader.

Reader était enfin arrivée, et elle avait l'air éblouissante dans son pantalon rouge qui épousait parfaitement ses formes, mettant en valeur son allure dynamique. Son haut noir, simple mais élégant, ajoutait une touche de sophistication à sa tenue.

En la voyant entrer dans la pièce, Billy ne put s'empêcher de sourire, ses yeux s'illuminant de joie et d'admiration. Reader, réalisant qu'elle avait attiré l'attention de tous, s'approcha avec une petite moue d'excuse.

"Désolée pour le retard," dit-elle, sa voix douce mais pleine d'énergie, presque comme une mélodie qui résonnait dans l'air.

Lilia, qui observait Reader avec admiration, ne pouvait s'empêcher de la trouver tout simplement magique. Elle se sentit submergée par l'émotion, ses mots peinant à sortir. Après un moment de silence, elle réussit à articuler, le cœur battant :

"Wow, tu as l'air… incroyable." Ses mots, chargés de sincérité, firent briller les yeux de Reader, qui ne pouvait cacher son bonheur.

Reader rougit délicatement, un sourire timide se dessinant sur son visage. "Merci, Lilia," répondit-elle en s'asseyant à côté de son amie, leurs épaules se frôlant. "Je peux dire la même chose pour toi, cette couleur te va vraiment bien."

Lilia se sentit flattée, un léger sourire se dessinant sur ses lèvres. Elle jeta un coup d'œil à son propre haut, un doux rose qui contrastait avec le rouge flamboyant de Reader.

"C'est gentil de ta part," dit-elle, le cœur léger.

Les deux amies échangèrent un regard complice, conscientes que leur complicité ne faisait que grandir au fil des instants partagés, créant un moment inoubliable rempli de rires et de complicité.

[empiredesimparte]

⚜ Le Cabinet Noir | Episode III, N°10 | Francesim, Paris, 26 Thermidor An 230

On the eve of the coronation festivities, Charlotte tried to gently reason with her husband, to no avail. Napoleon V was obsessed with proving himself at the Naval Academy, but he promised his wife that he would spend as much time with her as possible. Charlotte tries to stay strong, but the exchange upsets her.

Beginning ▬ Previous ▬ Next

⚜ Traduction française

La veille des festivités pour le couronnement, Charlotte tente de raisonner avec douceur son époux, en vain. Napoléon V est obnubilé par son envie de faire ses preuves à l'Ecole Navale, mais il promet à sa femme d'être présent pour elle malgré tout. Charlotte essaie de rester forte, mais l'échange la chagrine.

(Napoléon) J'ai du mal à croire que tout soit enfin prêt

(Charlotte) Et toi, te sens-tu prêt ?

(Napoléon) Bien sûr, j'ai hâte (Charlotte) Tu seras resplandissant

(Napoléon) J'ai parlé avec le Conseil d'Etat et... (Charlotte) Oui ?

(Napoléon) Je formerai la régence, pendant 15 mois, tu seras la régente (Charlotte) Papa m'a prévenu

(Napoléon) Oh, super, j'ai cru que tu allais me faire une scène (Charlotte) J'y ai songé oui, mais je ne veux pas que nous nous disputions la veille des festivités

(Napoléon) Oncle Henri et Philippe seront là pour toi

(Charlotte) Ce n'est pas la régence qui m'inquiète (Napoléon) C'est le bébé ?

(Charlotte) Je veux que tu sois à mes côtés. Dans 15 moins, le bébé sera déjà là, est-ce que tu réalises ça ?

(Napoléon) Je suis désolé, chérie. Je serai là aussi souvent que je le puisse (Charlotte) Ne peux-tu pas attendre que le bébé arrive ?

(Napoléon) J'appartiens à une race de soldats. C'est mon destin (Charlotte) Très bien. Je réessaierai demain

[clhook]

Ces derniers temps je pense beaucoup à ma meilleure amie d'enfance et d'adolescence avec qui j'ai plus trop de contact parce qu'elle sera pas à mon mariage et ça me travaille beaucoup, pas parce que j'aurais aimé l'inviter mais plutôt par nostalgie de la relation qu'on avait petites, quand on pensait à l'avenir on était persuadées qu'on vivrait dans la même ville je serais bibliothécaire et elle fleuriste (ça ça s'est bien réalisé pour le coup mdr) et on serait témoin au mariage l'une de l'autre et on serait marraine des enfants de l'autre mais ça s'est pas passé comme ça je suis partie et elle est restée là où on a grandi, on voulait plus les mêmes choses de la vie et surtout j'ai commencé à assumer de vouloir des trucs qu'elle ne voulait pas alors qu'avant je m'écrasais pour faire comme elle. Je pense pas que la relation était spécialement toxique mais en tout cas très déséquilibrée elle était la meneuse extravertie jolie etc et moi la suiveuse réservée un peu cheum lol je pense que ça la flattait d'avoir toujours quelqu'un avec elle qui la rendait encore mieux par comparaison. Moi je disais rien parce que j'avais trop peur d'être seule mais maintenant j'ai ma vie ma maison mon keum mon travail et je suis loin donc on s'est pas quittées en mauvais termes mais juste on s'est éloignées et maintenant se suivre sur instagram c'est le seul aperçu de la vie de l'autre qu'on a. Bref tout ça pour dire que je rumine beaucoup sur le fait de vivre mon mariage sans elle tout en étant sûre que j'ai pas envie qu'elle soit là non plus c'est difficile à appréhender mais j'étais trkl dans mon coin avec mes pensées sauf que ma mère m'a dit hier qu'elle avait laissé une lettre pour moi chez mes parents et ça m'a mis dans un état d'angoisse pas possible parce que j'ai peur de lire cette lettre et d'être assaillie de sentiments pas sains pour moi ou être obligée de reprendre contact (parce que j'ai clairement pas envie, je suis très bien maintenant avec seulement la nostalgie de ce qu'on avait) et en même temps ne pas la lire me rendrait foldingue parce que je suis la meuf la plus curieuse de la terre bref je sais pas quoi penser de cette histoire 🤪🤪🤪 oui vous avez lu jusque là pour cette conclusion je suis bien désolée pour vous

[lorienn-art]

FR [Words we say — Palabras, Kotoba] Heyy Je suis très heureuse de vous présenter ma dernière illustration ! J'avais fait le croquis il y a un moment maintenant et n'ai seulement trouvé le temps de le peindre que cette semaine jsjs Je me suis beaucoup amusée avec ! Je ne recherchais pas vraiment des couleurs réalistes mais plutôt quelque chose qui ressorte bien et qui donnerai une impression de chaleur — j'ai aussi utilisé des médiums différents tels que l'aquarelle, la gouache et les crayons de couleurs (pour une variété de textures funky 😌✨️) Ah et comme vous pouvez le voir, mon art Jotawife est devenu une excuse pour mettre à profit mes quelques notions d'espagnol et de japonais (d'ailleurs désolée pour ma mauvaise calligraphy japonaise, en particulier sur 愛 🫣) Bref, j'espère que vous aimez cette illu autant que moi parce que j'en suis très contente et fière 😌💖 _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

EN [Words we say — Palabras, Kotoba] Heyy I'm very happy to present you my last illustration! I had made the sketch quite some time ago now and only found the time to paint it just this week jsjs I had a lot of fun with it! I didn't really seek realistic colours but rather something to pop and to feel warm — I also used different media such as watercolour paint, gouache paint and coloured pencils (for a variety of funky textures 😌✨️) Oh and as you can see, my Jotawife art has become an excuse to use my little notions in Spanish and Japanese lmao (btw sorry for my bad Japanese calligraphy, especially on 愛 🫣) Anyway I hope you like this piece as much as I do because I'm very happy and proud about it 😌💖

[spyld]

Bonjour! Je voulais juste vous demander (et aussi demander vos abonnés) comment dire iel (où they) en allemand et en russe. Je suis en train d’apprendre les deux et comme j’utilise iel/they en français/anglais, je voulais vraiment savoir comment faire la même en allemand et en russe. Désolé si vous n’êtes pas qui je devais demander, je sais que c’est parfois très compliqué et parfois il y a beaucoup de réponses. Merci tellement!

Что такой “they” (местоимение) по русский? Я изучаю русский язык и я хочу знать. Это «они» или что-то другое? Спасибо!!

Ich möchte gern wissen wie sagt man „they“ auf Deutsch. Vielen Dank!

(ask from spyld 2023)

Nice question!! So I'm throwing it open to other languages too!

How to be gender neutral in x language??