#pop tards | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

formulaforza · 1 year ago

Text

—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.

1K notes · View notes

holllandtrash · 2 years ago

Text

secret admin | max verstappen social media au

pairing: max verstappen x reader

max doesn't share much about his personal life on social media, so when a girl starts popping up, the fans try to put 2 and 2 together...but sometimes math is hard

redbullracing added to their story

maxverstappen1 added to their story

maxverstappen1

liked by redbullracing, alphatauri and 723,102 others

tagged: alphatauri

maxverstappen1 at.23 collection

view all comments

redbullracing thats👏our👏driver

sunshinemick rbr admin has a favourite driver is that allowed hamileclerc can you blame her i mean look at him

f1 full time driver, part time model

redbullracing added to their story

yourusername

liked by yoursister, heidiberger_ and 2,187 others

yourusername le vin entre et la raison sort

view all 23 comments

heidiberger_ girl what does this mean

yourusername when the wine is in the wit is out heidiberger_ oh no

yoursister please don't get red

yourusername c'est trop tard it's too late

heidiberger_

liked by yourusername, maxverstappen1 and 19,281 others

tagged: yourusername

heidiberger_ ma cherie

view all 105 comments

yourusername spends 2 days in montreal and she thinks shes french

heidiberger_ oui

danielricciardo who let you two hang out together

yourusername we had adult suprevision don't worry danielricciardo i don't think max counts as an adult

redbullracing added to their story

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, heidiberger_ and 13,102 others

yourusername in front of the camera for a change

view all 43 comments

maxverstappen1 newest alpha tauri model?

yourusername where do i sign?

inthepitlane MAX FOLLOWED MAX FOLLOWED

unholystroll he followed..he liked...he FLIRTED? who is this man

maxverstappen1 added to their story

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, danielricciardo and 17,611 others

yourusername good company, good food, good night🌙

view all 43 comments

heidiberger_ wait that first picture of us is so cute

yourusername ily

danielricciardo i'm not in any of these pictures

yourusername next time danny, promise

f1wagupdates is that...max in the last picture?

yeshamilton she's sneakyyy

redbullracing

liked by f1, maxverstappen1 and 268,023 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

redbullracing Red Bull Ring next 🔴🐂💍 will we see another win from our reigning world champ? let us know your predictions

view all 612 comments

danielricciardo yessir

mcclovin it's the way that checo's fight for the championship is barely acknowledged 💀💀💀

hanna.norris.jpg admin loves max

yourusername

liked by danielricciardo, maxverstappen1 and 12,104 others

yourusername mood

view all 31 comments

danielricciardo 😧😧😧

maxverstappen1 this feels like a breach of contract

yourusername you're not my boss

heidiberger_ noooo💀😂

yourusername has deleted their post

yourusername added to their story

redbullracing

liked by yourusername, maxverstappen1 and 512,211 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

redbullracing HE DOES IT AGAIN🏁🏁 Max Verstappen takes home a victory AT HOME❤️💙 red bull gives you wiiiings

view all 4,103 comments

danielricciardo YAAA BOY

yourusername 🥹🥹🥹

liked by maxverstappen1

maxverstappen 👊👊 way to go team

f1 ❤️💙❤️💙❤️💙

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, f1 and 24,106 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

yourusername i know we agreed to wait until the end of the season but i can't help it that i love you and im proud of you

view all 1,692 comments

danielricciardo mom and dad

heidiberger_ cuties 🥹

maxverstappen1 thank you for being my biggest supporter💙 i love you

yourusername 💙💙💙

christianhorner hang on

christianhorner what

yourusername please let me keep my job danielricciardo please let her keep her job

masterlist here i think this has been my most requested social media au

#max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #f1 #formula 1 #f1 requests #f1 social media au #f1 one shot #f1 instagram au #max verstappen social media au #holllandtrash #max verstappen instagram au

3K notes · View notes

dallasgallant · 2 months ago

Text

Country/southern slang and vernacular-

This is what I’m going with for the title as honestly I’m not sure what else you would call it, but it is also linked to class a little bit? It’s complicated. Anyways, surprised I haven’t done one like this sooner as I’ve done:

JD slang. 60s slang. Rodeo terms

However, it can’t include everything! As usual take this as a jumping off point, it’s funny as Oklahoma is technically southern, culturally and such. Some are sourced from general knowledge, others from southern or “Oklahoma slang” which heavily overlaps but is more accented.

A lot of this ended up actually being more writing accented speech with some slang thrown in, a lot of it is about contractions! Also word usage! They’ll be a more “general grammar” and accent section at the bottom.

—

All get out- sentence enhancer (ex. Funny as all get out)

Air up - Pump air into something (Tires, mattress)

Ain’t - am not; are not; is not. has not; have not.

An’ all - and all

Awfulest - Most awful *air guitar* , very bad [Appalachian?]

Belted- beaten

‘Bout - about

Billfold- Wallet (Oklahoman, used in place of wallet)

Caint- Can’t

‘Cos - cause/because

Coke- soda (any kind) (ex. You wanna get a Coke? What kind?)

Crick- creek

Do up - prepare : clean/repair (Ex. Y’all do up the dishes)

Do wut - say again

D’yall - Do y’all or did y’all

don’tcha - Don’t you

Drop trou- pull down one’s pants , especially as a stunt in public

dyeet - did you eat?

Figure- Calculate, consider, decide

Fixin’ - on the verge of something : getting ready to

fronta - in front of

Fo’ sure- for sure

Fussin’- overexagerated concern, fidgeting

Gettin’ round - getting ready to go somewhere or do something (ex. Gettin’ round to it)

Gonna- going to

Good-for-nothin’ - Worthless/useless person or object (usually said while worked up)

Gussied up - dressed nicer than everyday (ex. Church clothes)

hafta- have to

Hankering- desire, yearning, craving

Heap - a large quantity (ex. Heap of trouble)

Highfalutin- pompous/pretentious/fancy

Holler- loud cry or shout

Honky tonk - bar where people dance (typically to county, line dance )

Hootin’ and Hollerin’- wild shouting, making a bunch of noise

Howdy- Greeting or used to express surprise

howta - how to

Hush- quiet, shut up

Ice box - fridge (Oklahoman or rural)

I’mma - I’m gonna or I am

Imma geddin sig n tard" - I’m getting sick and tired

ja'eet yet?- did you eat yet?

Keep your shirt on- stay calm (also see : Be cool)

Kin- family (not always by blood. Could be someone you’re close to)

Laying out - staying the night (doing something illicit) or

Let alone - leave alone or to indicate somethings less likely

Like to - Almost (rare)

Lick [Noun] - any amount (Ex. Didn’t get a lick of sleep last night)

Lick [Verb] - beat (ex. Steve Licked that soc good)

Musta- must have

Mom’ n’ em - Mom and them (literal), asking how one’s family is doing

Might could - might be able to

Muddin’ (Oklahoman) - off-roading, going down muddy trails

‘N - then/than or and

‘N em’ - And them

Naw- no

Neither- not one or other (sometimes used in place of either)

Nuss - To nurse

Okie- native resent of Oklahoma (formerly derogatory during dust bowl)

Ornery- combative, mean

Ought- indicate something correct or probable

Oughta- ought to

Ope- oops

Outta- out or

Preddy sure - pretty sure

Prolly- probably

Pop- soda

Purdy- pretty

Pitch a fit- throw a fit, be really upset

Reckon- think: suppose

Rise- upset someone (ex. He sure got a rise out of her)

Rile- upset someone (ex. Don’t rile up the dog)

Ruther - rather

Shouldn’t’ve- shouldnt have (double negative)

Shoot- polite way to say shit : go ahead and speak

Sho’ nuff - sure enough

‘Sides - besides

s’not - it’s not/is not

s’okay - it’s okay

Sorta- sort of

Sprinklin’ - light rain

stocking feet - wearing just socks

Sumbitch - son of a bitch

Tailing- follow without being noticed

The city - Oklahoma City (even if you live in Tulsa. ‘The city’ is Oklahoma City)

Tore up - upset

Tryan- Heavily accented Tryin’

Twister- Tornado (used to be more regional)

Upitty- conceited, fancy, snobby

Welp - well or expression (ex. Welp, I better head out)

Whup/whoop- hit

Whipped- beaten

won’tcha = won’t you

Y’all - you all

Yall’re- y’all are

Y’ain’t - you ain’t

Yer - your

Grammar-

The more I added to the list the more I realized writing for the gang is just as much learning to write accent than it is slang, it’s the way they talk and that includes grammar etc. Im going to try and explain some points that I’ve noticed in an understandable way, but it’s also important to note that these rules don’t apply every time necessarily.

Using the wrong word

less words in certain sentences (ex. Don’t mean nothin’)

With above, fewer words to describe things.

Drop the G occasionally (ex. Nothin’ )

Adding ‘d instead of saying ‘would (ex. Soda’d)

Real> really (descriptive)

Anybody > anyone

Weren’t typically goes with a double negative ( ex. weren’t nothing we could do)

Use of ‘you’ (used instead of a name or ‘your’)

Use of ‘was’ instead of ‘were’ ( ex. I knew you was)

Both Aren’t and isn’t become ain’t (sometimes even more)

A LOT OF CONTRACTIONS

Combing words - either a new contraction or new spelling to emphasize accent, especially around questions (ex. ja'eet yet?)

Use of expressions/idioms (ex. That dog won’t hunt)

#the outsiders #outsiders #lemme know what I missed and I’ll add!#outsiders novel #outsiders book #slang #vernacular #accent #outsiders meta #writing help #fandom dictionary #southern/country slang dictionary #time period post #time period post : accent and vernacular

120 notes · View notes

dilfl0v3rss · 2 years ago

Text

dad!connie making his kids speak spanish (it just popped up in my head idk😭)

“pop can i get five dollars f’lunch?” the back of your eight year old son, carlos’, head was instantly tapped (lightly) with a roll of newspaper as connie stood next to you in the kitchen while you cooked. “en español, hijo, o no obtienes nada.” your son wasted no time , rolling his eyes as he rubbed the all over his head. he definitely got his attitude from you. “owww papá. ¿puedo tener 5 dólares?” you giggled as you watched your husband dig through both of his sweatpants pockets for the cash, looking at the ceiling with his tongue poking his cheek while he searched. when he finally pulled out the bill he held it to his chest, keeping it from your sons reach. “dónde están tus modales?” carlos sighed, rolling his eyes once again before saying what his father wanted to hear. “ay dios mío…por favor”. he mumbled.

“que?”

“por favor, papá, tengo que irme.”

“aight good enough” connie says before tossing his son a twenty dollar bill. “desayuna en el camino, ya que te despertaste tarde. te quiero. que tengas un buen día, chico.” you weren’t fluent in spanish, but you understood a little of what your husband said, signaling you to join in. “i love you baby stay outta trouble.” the two of you watched your son walk to the door. “love you both. see ya.” you listened to carlos’ friends call for him to hurry up so they can walk to the bus stop together before he closed the door. connie’s arms wrapped around your waist as you flipped the heart shaped pancakes in the pan. “mi amor-” before he could even finish his sentence, you put the spatula up in his face. “go wake your daughter up. she has preschool to be at in an hour and a half.”

now it was time for connie to have an attitude. “mi corazón whyyyy. i hate when she’s all fussy in the morning. let’s give her another thirty minutes, yea?” your daughter, amayah, may only be four but she slept like an old man. you believed she can sleep through a hurricane, but god forbid she’s woken up when she doesn’t want to be. she’ll be crying all around the house for hours, and that is something your husband hated to see. he never wanted his baby crying. “she needs to be up now papi we talked about this. it already take too long to do her hair since she’s so tender headed, and i can’t afford you bringing her there late.” connie knew you were right, so without another word he made his way upstairs to his daughters room.

he cracked the door open and was delighted to see her already up, bonnet on the floor as she scratched at her head while sitting upright in the bed. “g’morning daddy. is mommy making pancakes?” connie adored her. she was the spitting image of you. same nose, same eyes, same everything. she was his little princess. “good morning mi vida. yea mommy’s making your favorites.” amayah slides out of bed, little nightgown swaying at her knees as she put her bunny slippers on. by the time you finished up breakfast the two of them were sat at the table, ready to devour the food you made. if there was one thing your kids got from their father, it was their big appetites. the three of them ate any and everything in site.

connie and amayah, of course, finished their breakfast first. going back up to her room to get her dressed while you watched your show on the couch. “you want the pink or the green one princesa?” connie asked as he held the different color dresses in his hand. “i wanna wear the greeeen daddy. and i want mommy to put a white bow in my hair.” amayah grabbed for the green dress, but was met with nothing but air as she watched connie pull it out of her reach. here he goes again. “español, por favor, princesa.” your daughter didn’t mind though. she actually loved conversing in spanish since it was something her father’s side of the family did often. she smiled as she replied to her father. “p-puedo ponerme el v-vestido verde hoy, papá, por favor? y, puedes ponerme un lazo blanco en el pelo?”

connie smiled as he handed his daughter her desired choice. “buen trabajo. papá está impresionado.” amayah smiled, giving connie a small thank you before letting him help her get dressed. when the two of them finally came downstairs, you seen that not only did connie dress her, but he made sure to comb and style her hair as well. it was in a nice bun with a white bow pinned at the front of it. “myah you look beautiful baby. give momma a kiss before you go.” you watched your daughter let go of connie’s fingers before skipping her way over to you before giving you a tight hug and kissing you on the cheek. “bye mommy. see you laterrr.” she said. connie, being the big baby he is, couldn’t resist feeling a little jealous.

“papa want a kiss too mommy” he says with a fake sad voice as he made his way in front of the couch. you rolled your eyes before giving your husband a small peck on the lips. which he clearly wasn’t satisfied with since he decided it’d be okay to grab your face and start kissing you as he would when y’all would be in the bedroom. as the two of you pulled away from each other you looked towards amayah who had a disgusted look on her face. “ewwww!!”

the both of you laughed as you lightly pushed connie off of you. “see what you did. get outta here ‘for you traumatize our daughter further.” connie sucked his teeth, getting up from where he was leaning to join hands with his daughter again. “let’s go princess. daddy don’t want you to be late.” and with that he and your daughter went to the front door. you watch him mouth a, “this isn’t over”, to you with squinted eyes before leaving the house. you rolled your eyes as you turned back towards the tv to finish watching your show. “i bet it isn’t” you sighed as you made your self comfortable on your spacious couch.

#connie springer #aot #aot connie #connie #connie x black!reader #connie x y/n #connie x black reader #connie springer x black!reader

2K notes · View notes

dreamwithlost · 3 months ago

Text

DIABOLICAMENTE ANGELICAL

❝Seu colega de trabalho era odiavel, ao menos era o que achava, até o dia que ele apareceu com o famoso cabelo platinado de protagonista 2D❞

Jaehyun x Fem!Reader

Gênero: Enemies to lovers, fluffy

W.C: 1K

ᏪNotas: Assim como a prota tenho um fraco por personagem padrão de cabelo branco, então depois do meu surto com o Jaehyun, precisei escrever essa. Boa leitura meus amores ♡

Jaehyun era uma das pessoas mais bonitas que você já havia visto. Odiava admitir isso sobre seu colega de trabalho folgado e irritante, mas era a verdade. Seus lábios estavam sempre ocupados, falando alguma besteira e atazanando seus ouvidos na loja de discos antigos, como um diabinho no seu ombro. A beleza diabolicamente angelical dele era algo que você poderia suportar, se não fosse por aquele fatídico dia.

— Está atrasado — Você reclamou, enquanto reorganizava algumas fileiras de discos, quando a porta se destrancou e o sino anunciou a chegada do pior funcionário do mês. — Saiba que...

Puta merda.

Olhar para Jaehyun travou todo o seu sistema nervoso. A luz da manhã refletia em seus ombros largos, e suas madeixas recém-descoloridas contrastavam com o sobretudo preto, que era a única proteção contra o clima gélido. Agora, ele parecia angelicamente diabólico.

— Eu sei, eu sei, vou ficar até mais tarde — Ele retrucou, revirando os olhos e jogando sua bolsa na velha cadeira perto da porta. Normalmente, você faria uma piada sobre alguém acabar roubando aquele item, mas não conseguia pensar em nada naquele momento.

Jaehyun passou por você, indo em direção ao caixa, e suas bochechas ruborizaram como se você tivesse quinze anos novamente. Era como voltar às suas paixonites por personagens de madeixas platinadas, amor que ainda permanecia extremamente forte, especialmente porque hoje você vestia uma camiseta do Gojo de Jujutsu Kaisen.

— Se atrasou por causa desse ninho de passarinho? — Surpreendentemente, sua boca ainda conseguiu fazer uma brincadeira enquanto seus sentidos tentavam se normalizar.

— Hm? — Jaehyun murmurou, passando uma das mãos no cabelo com um sorriso travesso. — Eu sei que você gostou.

— Não vi grande diferença.

Você deu de ombros, fingindo voltar a organizar os discos, mesmo já tendo terminado. Mesmo assim ainda sentiu os passos dele se aproximando e a feição travessa queimando suas costas.

— Pelo menos meu cabelo não tá manchado — Ele sussurrou cantarolando, passando por você novamente e deixando alguns fones sobre as mesas de teste.

Você instintivamente alisou seu cabelo, lembrando do último resquício de tinta vermelha que ainda permanecia, uma prova das suas experiências capilares às três da manhã. Nunca gostou de ir ao cabeleireiro; preferia cuidar das madeixas em casa, algo que às vezes dava certo, e outras, era um arsenal para Jaehyun.

— Pelo menos ele é bem hidratado, o seu deve estar só a palha — Você tentou revidar.

— Osh, filha, você tá com inveja! — O mais alto disse, virando-se para você com uma indignação exagerada, balançando o cabelo tal qual uma diva pop.

Foi impossível para você não rir com a cena.

— Ala! Quase não mexe! — Você zombou, apontando para o Jeong como uma criança.

Não esperava que ele levasse a crítica tão a sério, agarrando seu pulso e fazendo sua mão acariciar o topo de sua cabeça. Você ficou sem palavras por alguns segundos, sentindo os dedos deslizando pelos fios sedosos, sedentos para fazer um cafuné naquela pequena amostra de neve.

— Viu? Sedozinho — Jaehyun se vangloriou.

— Pior que tá mesmo — Jaehyun não segurava mais seu pulso, mas seus pensamentos intrusivos dominavam sua mente, e sua mão continuou ali, agora, acariciando algumas vezes o cabelo do rapaz que estava levemente inclinado para baixo.

E, assim como aquela ação repentina veio, foi embora. Você se afastou rapidamente, corando intensamente. Pigarreou algumas vezes, torcendo para que ele não achasse a cena tão estranha quanto havia sido, e principalmente para que seu cérebro deletasse aquele momento. O que estava pensando? Era... só o Jaehyun, o odiavelmente belo Jaehyun.

— Acho que não ficou tão ruim assim, você até tá vermelha — Jaehyun não deixou passar em branco, sorrindo provocadoramente enquanto se aproximava novamente.

Você, nervosa, bateu em uma das estantes de disco, assustando-se com o barulho e corando ainda mais de vergonha.

— Deixa de ser besta, Jaehyun — tentou manter a postura, olhando descontroladamente ao redor. — Vai trabalhar.

Surpreendentemente, ele realmente se afastou, indo até o caixa pegar alguns itens que estavam guardados no balcão. O silêncio entre vocês se tornou quase palpável, interrompido apenas pelo tilintar dos discos.

— Eu pintei por sua causa — Jaehyun disse após alguns minutos, com a calma mais absurda do mundo, enquanto organizava coisas que claramente não precisavam de arrumação.

Você, por outro lado, finalmente tomou coragem para encara-lo, surpresa com a confissão.

— Você disse uma vez que era gamadinho por personagens de cabelo branco.

— Talvez — Você repetiu, tentando manter o tom leve, mas seu coração acelerava.

Jaehyun parou de organizar o grande vazio e levantou os olhos, o sorriso ladino se ampliando.

— Então, se eu sou um personagem agora, você precisa ser a protagonista da minha história.

— É, mas você é o vilão — Você respondeu, forçando um tom desdenhoso, mas a provocação deixou uma ponta de desejo no ar.

— Vilão ou herói, quem se importa? O importante é que estou aqui, e você também — Ele deu a volta pelo balcão, se aproximando de você mais uma vez, seus olhos pareciam um imã fixados nos seus.

— Ah, não venha com essa! — Você desviou o olhar, tentando disfarçar a crescente atração, talvez fosse acabar infartando ali mesmo. — Isso não faz sentido.

— Faz sim — Ele disse, inclinando-se um pouco, provocando uma onda de calor no seu rosto. — No fundo, você adora minha companhia, mesmo me odiando.

— Odiar é uma palavra forte — Acabou confessando, sem conseguir evitar o sorriso que surgia.

— Então, que tal a gente testar? Um encontro, só para ver quem realmente odeia quem? — A proposta saiu de seus lábios como uma provocação, mas você sentiu que havia um toque de sinceridade.

— Um encontro? E se eu não voltar? — Você brincou, cruzando os braços.

— Aí eu vou ter certeza de que sou irresistível. — Ele piscou, e você riu, odiava quando ele a fazia rir, era tão bom.

Você hesitou, sabendo que havia algo entre vocês que ia além de todas essas desavenças fingidas.

— Tudo bem, eu aceito. Mas não espere que eu vá facilitar as coisas.

— Eu gosto de desafios. — Ele sorriu, mais confiante. — E pode apostar que não vou deixar você escapar tão fácil, literalmente pintei o cabelo pra isso.

Empurrou o rapaz para longe, em um tom de brincadeira, e fingiu voltar ao seu trabalho. Você precisou se controlar naquele momento para não elevar ainda mais o ego do platinado ao dizer que: teria aceitado sair com ele não importava a cor de seu cabelo.

Ele já era, no fim, um personagem: o bonitinho sarcástico.

115 notes · View notes

harrrystyles-writing · 3 months ago

Note

Oii depois de muito tempo kkkk eu gostaria de pedir um concept com os número 1, 11 e 18.

Sdd disso tudo

Frases:Bem, me desculpe por ter me apaixonado por você, ok? Mas aconteceu e eu não posso fazer nada sobre isso./ Por que você tem que fazer com que manter distância de você seja tão difícil?/Você diz que sabe tudo sobre mim, mas nunca percebeu que eu tenho sentimentos por você, nem uma vez?

NotaAutora: Para você meu amor eu fiz é logo um imagine só pela saudade que estava de você aqui💗

Sinopse: S/n é assistente de Harry e depois de longos dois anos ela ainda se recusa a aceitar que tem uma queda por seu chefe.

The Assistent

NotaAutora: Aproveitem e não se esqueçam de deixar um comentário se gostar 💗

S/N sempre acreditou que conhecia Harry melhor do que qualquer pessoa. Como assistente pessoal dele nos últimos dois anos, ela estava envolvida em cada detalhe de sua vida. Desde os horários de shows até as preferências alimentares durante as longas turnês, ela estava ali para organizar e antecipar cada uma de suas necessidades. No entanto, havia algo que ela nunca soube como gerenciar: a forma como ele a fazia se sentir.

Ele não era mais apenas Harry Styles, o pop star mundialmente famoso. Para ela, ele era Harry, a pessoa que a desarmava com um sorriso e a fazia questionar sua própria racionalidade. A proximidade constante, seja nos camarins ou nas viagens para shows, tornava o controle sobre suas emoções uma tarefa impossível.

Naquela manhã, S/N tentou, como sempre, manter a compostura. A rotina era sua armadura. Preparou o café exatamente como ele gostava — forte, sem açúcar, e com uma pitada de canela. Quando ele entrou no estúdio de gravação, ela já estava esperando com a xícara em mãos.

— Bom dia, Sr. Styles — disse, oferecendo o café tentando esconder a ansiedade que surgia toda vez que ele estava por perto.

Harry pegou a xícara, seus dedos roçando os dela por um breve segundo, sentando- se, ela permaneceu imóvel parada a sua frente tentando controlar as batidas rápidas de seu coração.

— Obrigado, S/N — Agradeceu com sua voz suave e familiar.

Ela forçou um sorriso profissional, era sua forma de criar uma distância segura, de se proteger de qualquer possível vulnerabilidade.

— Precisa de mais alguma coisa?

— Sim, na verdade. — Ele inclinou-se um pouco, os olhos fixos nos dela. — Pode parar de me chamar de "Sr. Styles"?

Ela congelou, sentindo um nó no estômago.

— Desculpe, estou acostumada a manter as formalidades — respondeu, quase instintivamente.

— E eu não estou acostumado com isso. — O sorriso travesso que ela conhecia tão bem surgiu em seus lábios. — Me chame de Harry, somos próximos o suficiente, não acha?

Ela sentiu o gosto amargo da ansiedade enquanto seus dentes capturavam o lábio inferior, ela tentou não vacilar diante do olhar dele.

— Tudo bem, Harry.

Ele riu, algo nele parecia relaxado, mas ao mesmo tempo provocador.

— Muito melhor. — Seus olhos não deixavam os lábios dela. — E também pode não fazer isso — Harry tinha seu tom de voz mais baixo agora, quase como um apelo.

— Parar de fazer o quê? — Ela o olhou confusa.

— Morder o lábio assim — Harry inclinou-se para frente, os olhos caindo para sua boca novamente antes de subir de volta aos olhos dela. — É uma distração... E eu realmente preciso me concentrar hoje.

O calor subiu ao rosto dela, ela se afastou instintivamente, tentando se recompor, mas era tarde demais, seu corpo parecia estar em chamas.

— Desculpe... Harry. — O nome soou novamente, mais familiar agora. — Eu não farei.

— Obrigado. — Ele sorriu de lado, como se soubesse exatamente o que acabou de causar nela.

...

Era sexta-feira e o clima da equipe de Harry estava mais leve do que o habitual, não haveria shows nesse fim de semana então todos estavam de bom humor, principalmente depois de uma semana produtiva e bem-sucedida.

Quando Jeff sugeriu um happy hour para comemorar, S/n tentou se esquivar, mas foi convencida pela insistência de Sarah.

— Vai ser bom para relaxar, S/N! — disse Sarah, praticamente arrastando-a para fora do estúdio. — Você precisa se divertir um pouco, sempre vejo você tão séria, precisa se divertir.

— Eu realmente não sou muito de sair… — S/n murmurou, mas foi em vão.

O grupo já estava animado, e ela acabou cedendo. Harry também estava lá, normalmente ele não participava desses eventos mais casuais com a equipe, mas naquela noite ele parecia mais à vontade, interagindo com os colegas. Mesmo de longe, S/n sentia a presença dele. No bar, as conversas fluíam e o som de risadas preenchia o ambiente, mas S/n se mantinha um pouco afastada, evitando álcool e focando em manter sua postura profissional. Conforme a noite avançava, as pessoas começaram a ir embora aos poucos. S/n aproveitou para ir também, ela já estava se preparando para chamar um táxi quando Harry apareceu atrás dela.

— Está indo embora? — perguntou ele, sua voz suave.

— Sim, já está tarde…

— Eu também estou indo, podemos dividir, se quiser. — A sugestão de Harry parecia inocente e ela acabou aceitando.

O homem acenou e em menos de dois minutos já estavam embarcando. Dentro do táxi, o silêncio entre eles era denso, a cidade passava pelas janelas, as luzes refletindo em seus rostos, mas o foco de S/n estava virada para a janela, mas ela podia sentir o quão próximo Harry estava, o calor de sua presença fazia seu coração bater rápido. Harry tinha seus olhos fixos nela, observando-a como se estivesse pesando cada palavra antes de falar.

— Você realmente leva seu trabalho a sério, não é? — Ele quebrou o silêncio a fazendo virar para ele.

— Oi? O que disse? — Ela virou lentamente encontrando seus vidrados nela.

— Eu disse que você leva seu trabalho muito a sério.

— Bem, eu tento… — respondeu ela, um pouco confusa com a pergunta.

— Você nunca relaxa. — Ele olhou pela janela, antes de voltar os olhos para ela. — Você está sempre tão distante, nunca se permite com o grupo, eu sempre me pergunto se é por minha causa.

Ela franziu o cenho, sem entender bem onde ele queria chegar.

— Não sei do que você está falando. — Respondeu, sentindo-se um pouco defensiva. — Eu me divirto sim, eu gosto da equipe, eu gosto de trabalhar para você, se é o que realmente está perguntando.

— Se você gosta de trabalhar para mim, então por que parece que você esta sempre tentando ficar longe de mim?

S/n, sem perceber, mordeu o lábio inferior nervosamente, antes que pudesse responder, Harry inclinou-se levemente para ela, chegando tão perto de seu ouvido que podia sentir o calor de sua respiração.

— Já não te disse para não morder os lábios? — Murmurou com sua voz rouca. — Você não faz ideia do efeito que isso tem sobre mim.

S/n congelou por um momento, sentindo o corpo inteiro ficar tenso.

S/n sentiu seu coração acelerar ainda mais.

O que ele estava dizendo?

Por que ele estava dizendo aquilo agora?

— Desculpe... — tentou responder, mas sua voz saiu mais como um sussurro, as palavras estavam presas na garganta.

Harry apenas a olhou por mais um momento, antes de se inclinar lentamente em sua direção. Seus lábios macios foram de encontro aos dela a beijando, apenas com alguns selinhos até finalmente a beijá-la. S/n congelou por alguns segundos, seu corpo resistia, mas inevitavelmente, ela acabou cedendo, se entregando totalmente aos lábios de Harry.

Assim que precisaram de fôlego, ela olhou para ele, os lábios ainda formigando pelo contato, o coração batendo forte demais.

— Harry… — começou a falar, mas o táxi parou em frente ao prédio dela, interrompendo-a.

Ele a encarou, os olhos verdes e indecifráveis.

— É melhor eu ir, boa noite, Harry.

— Boa noite, S/n.

S/n saiu do carro com as pernas trêmulas, sem saber o que pensar.

Aquilo não podia ser real.

Ela estava imaginando coisas.

Harry não podia estar interessado nela, não daquela maneira, ele sempre foi alguém tão distante e inatingível.

O que tinha acabado de acontecer?

...

A manhã seguinte ao beijo foi um turbilhão de emoções para S/n. Ela não conseguiu dormir direito, revirando-se na cama e tentando entender o que havia acontecido. O toque de Harry, o calor de seus lábios ainda estavam frescos em sua mente, fazendo-a sentir-se confusa e inquieta.

Como aquilo tinha acontecido?

Como eles tinham cruzado aquela linha?

Ele estava bêbado! Essa era a única explicação que ela conseguia encontrar.

Era seu dia de folga, mas Harry havia enviado uma mensagem pedindo ajuda para organizar algumas coisas no estúdio. Ele mencionou que a recompensaria depois, mas isso só aumentou sua ansiedade.

Será que ele nem se lembrava do que havia acontecido entre eles?

Quando entrou no estúdio, com o coração na garganta, S/n sabia que precisava agir, precisava colocar um fim naquela situação antes que tudo ficasse fora de controle.

Manter a distância, manter o profissionalismo… Era o certo, certo?

Harry estava na sala de gravação, sentado em um banquinho e usando fones de ouvido, concentrado em uma nova música, ao vê-la entrar ele tirou um dos fones e a saudou com um sorriso que a deixou ainda mais confusa.

— Bom dia.

Ele ergueu os olhos por um breve momento, S/n sentiu o peso do olhar dele sobre ela, desviando o olhar rapidamente.

— Bom dia — respondeu ele, com um tom amigável.

— Harry... — sabia que não poderia adiar mais, porque se não dissesse agora ela não teria mais coragem de dizer, então respirou fundo mais uma vez e se aproximou dele. — Você se lembra de ontem?

— Sim, por que? — Arqueou as sobrancelhas.

— Tudo?

— Tudo.

— Então você se lembra...

— Do beijo. — Ele sorriu mas não trouxe conforto a ela. — Sim, eu me lembro.

— Sobre ontem… — começou, evitando o olhar dele. — Eu sinto muito pelo que aconteceu, foi… foi um erro, eu não devia ter... eu não deveria ter me aproveitado do seu estado de embriaguez. — Ela hesitou, nervosa, confusa sobre de quem era realmente a culpa, mas sentia que precisava assumir a responsabilidade. — Eu não devia ter deixado isso acontecer.

— Você não tem nada do que se desculpar — Harry não parecia tão preocupado como ela. — Eu fui o responsável, mas eu não deveria ter feito aquilo se te deixou desconfortável.

Ele estava arrependido, mas o que isso significava? Ele realmente bebeu? O álcool nublou seu julgamento, mas ele também fez a escolha de beijá-la? Mordeu o lábio, segurando a onda de emoções que ameaçava transbordar.

— Eu sei que você provavelmente não estava em plena consciência ontem... — começou, sem deixar que ele falasse. — E eu não deveria ter deixado isso acontecer, prometo que vou manter distância a partir de agora. — Ela hesitou, as palavras saindo de forma forçada, porque parte de si não queria dizer aquilo. — Isso não vai acontecer de novo, eu vou me afastar para que isso nunca mais aconteça.

Harry se inclinou para trás no banquinho, cruzando os braços, claramente ponderando as palavras dela.

— Então é isso que você quer? Quer a gente mantenha a distância?

Era isso que ela deveria querer, era o que fazia sentido.

Eles trabalhavam juntos, era único caminho possível, certo?

— Sim. — Respondeu finalmente, embora a voz tenha saído fraca. — Isso é o melhor.

Harry respirou fundo, assentindo lentamente.

— Se é isso que você quer, então eu vou respeitar, vamos manter distância, S/n.

A maneira como ele disse seu nome a fez sentir um nó na garganta, parecia tão formal, tão distante, mas foi ela quem pediu por aquilo, e agora precisaria lidar com as consequências.

...

Nos dias que se seguiram após o beijo que compartilhavam, tanto S/n quanto Harry fizeram o possível para manter a promessa que haviam feito. Eles se esforçavam para evitar qualquer contato pessoal, limitando-se a interações estritamente profissionais — relatórios rápidos, discussões objetivas sobre o show, sem nunca prolongar as conversas, mas o que parecia uma solução, só intensificava a tensão.

Cada encontro acidental ou casual tornava a situação mais insuportável, era como se o ar ao redor deles estivesse carregado de uma energia incontrolável, que os puxava um para o outro mesmo quando tentavam se afastar, para S/n, cada interação com Harry se tornava um desafio, como se cada segundo perto dele ela estivesse à beira de perder o controle. Ela ainda tentava se convencer de que o beijo foi apenas um erro, talvez algo motivado pelo cansaço ou uma noite de excessos.

Harry, por outro lado, estava sendo consumido por seu desejo, cada vez que a via, ficava mais difícil manter a fachada de chefe, ele estava completamente ciente do que havia feito e sabia que aquele beijo não tinha sido impulsivo, foi algo que ele desejava há muito tempo, mas como poderia explicar isso a S/n, se ela parecia se esforçar tanto para negar o que havia entre eles?

Está manhã, depois de mais uma tentativa frustrada de se afastar, S/n caminhava em direção ao elevador do hotel para ir ao local do show resolver algumas pendências para a noite, ela precisava de ar, de distância, de qualquer coisa que a fizesse parar de pensar em Harry, mas assim que as portas do elevador se abriram, ele estava lá, já esperando.

Eles entraram juntos sem dizer uma palavra, o espaço parecia diminuir à medida que o elevador subia lentamente. S/n sentia a tensão crescer, e tentou de todas as maneiras evitar olhá-lo. O silêncio no elevador era opressor, quase sufocante, S/n tentava manter a calma, concentrando-se no painel à sua frente, mas a presença de Harry ao seu lado fazia seu coração disparar, foi no segundo que ela mordeu os lábios distraidamente que Harry soltou um suspiro pesado, como se estivesse se segurando há muito tempo.

— Por que você tem que fazer com que manter distância de você seja tão difícil? — ele Indagou de repente, sua voz soando quase como um desabafo, quebrando o silêncio.

S/n se virou lentamente para encará-lo, surpresa com a intensidade em seus olhos.

— Eu não estou fazendo nada. — Sua voz saiu hesitante.

Ele deu um passo à frente quase a prensando contra parede fria do elevador.

— Eu estou cansado disso — Sussurrou, segurou a cintura dela. — S/n, eu não beijei você porque eu estava bêbado, eu beijei porque eu queria, como eu quero agora. — Ele sorriu antes de ir ao encontro dos lábios dela.

Dessa vez, não houve hesitação, não havia dúvidas. O beijo era urgente, carregado de toda a frustração e desejo que ambos vinham segurando por tanto tempo. S/n, sem conseguir resistir, cedeu completamente, ela sentiu o gosto dele, a urgência do momento, tudo o que vinha tentando controlar explodiu ali, naquela pequena caixa de metal.

Quando o elevador finalmente parou no andar, eles se afastaram, ambos ofegantes, ela ainda sentia o calor dos lábios dele nos seus, mas a realidade rapidamente se impôs. Eles estavam em um hotel, prestes a descer para o show, cercados de pessoas, onde cada movimento seria observado, então apenas se separaram e seguiram seu caminho.

...

Depois de resolver tudo o que precisava, S/n sentiu se no sofá do camarim vazio de Harry para descansar um pouco, aquele beijo ainda latejava em sua mente.

— S/n? — Harry apareceu na porta. — Podemos conversar?

Ela virou lentamente, o coração disparado.

— Claro, precisa de alguma coisa para o show? — perguntou, tentando adotar um tom formal.

— É sério? Nós acabamos de nos beijar no elevador e você ainda age assim? Você realmente acha que eu posso simplesmente fingir que isso não aconteceu?

— O que você quer que eu faça? Por que eu realmente estou tentando entender o que aconteceu.

— Eu quero que a gente pare de fingir — Admitiu em voz baixa. — Pare de tentar manter distância, não dá mais, não pra mim.

S/n sentiu um calafrio, tudo o que ela mais temia estava acontecendo.

— Harry... foi um erro — Ela começou, tentando manter o controle. — Nós trabalhamos juntos, não podemos deixar isso atrapalhar.

Ele deu mais um passo à frente se sentando ao lado dela, os olhos fervendo de frustração.

— Eu tentei, tentei manter as coisas profissionais... — Ele parou por um momento, como se escolhesse as palavras certas. — Mas eu não consigo, não consigo fingir que não sinto nada por você.

— Então eu vou pedir demissão — Ela sussurrou, baixando os olhos. — Não quero fazer você se sentir assim.

Harry balançou a cabeça, frustrado.

— Você diz que sabe tudo sobre mim, mas nunca percebeu que eu tenho sentimentos por você, nem uma vez?— Ele deu aproximou-se ainda mais dela. — Durante dois anos, você foi minha assistente, como nunca percebeu que eu sempre senti algo por você?

Ela ficou sem palavras, porque em dois anos ela se convenceu de que era apenas trabalho, de que o que eles tinham era estritamente profissional. Agora, tudo estava sendo jogado diante dela e ela não sabia o que fazer com isso.

— Você não pode estar falando sério, Harry — Ela murmurou, tentando desesperadamente manter a razão. — Você não pode sentir isso.

— Bem, me desculpe por ter me apaixonado por você, ok? Mas aconteceu e eu não posso fazer nada sobre isso.

Tudo o que ela acreditava estar controlando desmoronou diante dela.

— Harry, eu... — Ela começou, mas parou, as palavras falhando.

— Me diz que você não sente nada. — Ele protestou.— Me diz que isso é só coisa da minha cabeça e eu vou embora agora, mas você tem que ser honesta comigo, honesta consigo mesma.

Ela fechou os olhos, tentando organizar os pensamentos, fugir não era mais uma opção, ela sabia que havia algo ali, algo que ela tinha negado por muito tempo.

— Isso é muito complicado, nós trabalhamos juntos, você é famoso, há tantas coisas que me dão medo, eu sou sua assistente, isso pode... pode acabar muito mal.

— Eu sei que pode, mas não posso continuar fingindo.

Ela abriu os olhos e o encontrou com um olhar sincero, quase vulnerável, o que a desarmou completamente. Harry não era o tipo de pessoa que mostrava fraquezas, mas ali estava ele, se expondo de uma forma que ela nunca imaginou.

— Eu também não consigo mais fingir — confessou ela, finalmente. — Mas... e o trabalho? E nós? Como vamos lidar com isso?

Ele suspirou, aliviado ao ouvir suas palavras, mas ainda ciente dos obstáculos que viriam pela frente.

— Nós encontramos um jeito — começou, determinado. — Podemos estabelecer limites no trabalho, mas fora daqui, S/n, eu não quero mais me segurar, eu quero estar com você, quero poder te abraçar, sentir você, te beijar quando eu quiser.

Pela primeira vez, ela permitiu-se considerar a ideia de estar com ele.

— Eu também quero — disse ela, surpresa até consigo mesma. — Mas vai ser difícil com o trabalho, você tem certeza disso?

— Eu passei dois anos te querendo, eu não vou fugir agora.

Ela abriu a boca para responder, mas as palavras se perderam quando ele a puxou para si, colando seus lábios aos dela em um beijo carregado de todos os sentimentos que guardaram por tanto tempo.

— Eu nunca mais vou te soltar — Confessou, com uma intensidade que fez o coração dela acelerar ainda mais. — Não importa o quão complicado isso se torne, eu não consigo e não quero me afastar de você.

S/n sabia que os desafios ainda estavam por vir, que equilibrar o trabalho e seus sentimentos seria mais difícil do que imaginavam, mas naquele momento, com o gosto dos lábios de Harry nos seus, ela teve a certeza de que apesar de todas as complicações nenhum dos dois estava disposto a desistir.

Obrigado por ler até aqui 💗 O feedback através de um comentário é muito apreciado!

31 notes · View notes

yayariley · 6 months ago

Text

ִֶָ࣪☾. 𝗦𝗘 𝗟𝗘𝗠𝗕𝗥𝗘 𝗗𝗘 𝗠𝗜𝗠 - Enzo Vogrincic

𝟏𝟖𝟖𝟎

Há muitos anos atrás, na terra prometida dos amantes, dois jovens de realidades completamente diferente são unidos pelo destino.

Victoria era da nobreza, filha de médicos renomados e descendente da elite de Vilaria.

Já Edward, um simples professor de violino, filho de uma costureira e de um sapateiro.

Seus caminhos são cruzados no momento em que a mãe de Victoria decidiu que sua primogênita aprenderia a tocar violino. Assim que ficou sabendo de um rapaz extremamente talentoso, porém humilde, o contratou imediatamente.

A conexão entre os dois jovens foi instantânea, o que começou com apenas uma amizade foi se tornando algo a mais, porém, os pais de Victoria nunca permitiriam que a filha se casasse com alguém que não tivesse sangue nobre.

Então Victoria e Edward passaram a se encontrar secretamente após as aulas. Os dois apaixonados detestavam viver em segredo, queriam mostrar seu amor um pelo outro a todos que pudessem, sair de mãos dadas nas ruas... mas infelizmente aquilo não era possível.

O casal se encontrou escondido por alguns meses até que a mãe de Victoria achasse seu diário em que a garota relatava todos seus encontros com Edward.

E assim os amantes foram separados e proibidos de se encontrarem novamente.

Os dois prometeram não se esquecerem do que aconteceu entre eles e se lembrarem um do outro caso se encontrassem em outra vida.

Porém o fim do casal foi trágico. Edward se suicidou e Victoria morreu de tristeza, tendo assim toda a paixão que existia entre os dois apagada.

Até que 143 anos depois ela foi acesa novamente de maneira inesperada.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑

O clima em Montevidéu estava agradável para aquela noite. Os jovens locais estavam ansiosos para mais uma peça que teria no teatro da cidade.

Enzo era um ator uruguaio apaixonado pela arte e se apresentaria ali mais tarde, ele interpretaria "Romeu" da famosa obra "Romeu e Julieta".

A expectativa era de que o teatro estivesse cheio, os ingressos foram vendidos rapidamente e esgotou em questão de segundos.

A peça ocorreu bem, porém, Enzo não deixou de perceber a presença de alguém na plateia. Uma moça morena dos cabelos castanhos com mechas loiras e olhos verdes extremamente penetrantes.

Tanto o ator quanto a espectadora tiveram um sentimento estranho, como se os dois já tivessem se encontrado antes.

Após a apresentação, Enzo fugiu de todos para que pudesse encontrar a morena de seus sonhos.

O ator tinha sonhos com a mesma mulher desde criança. E agora estava a vendo bem ali na sua frente, prestes a deixar o teatro.

⸺ Victoria. ⸺ ele disse alto e a moça da plateia virou automaticamente, indo em direção a ele.

⸺ Edward. ⸺ sussurrou analisando o rosto do ator e o envolvendo num abraço apertado e cheio de saudade. ⸺ Eu sabia que te encontraria de novo.

⸺ Eu não me esqueci da promessa. ⸺ segurou o rosto da mulher com delicadeza. ⸺ Prometo te encontrar, não importa onde você esteja, em qualquer vida que estivermos destinados a ficar juntos. ⸺ os dois disseram.

E assim a promessa feita há 143 anos atrás foi cumprida.

Edward e Victoria, agora como Enzo e Camila, se amam intensamente, podendo fazendo tudo o que não podiam fazer na época que esse amor era proibido.

sumo e volto com essa pedrada 😝😝😝😝 gente to chorando muito

#enzo vogrincic #lsdln imagine #enzo x reader #la sociedad de la nieve #enzo vogrincic imagine

42 notes · View notes

swlyf-24 · 1 month ago

Text

Utopian Disillusionment

OR; Charles' perfectly curated life falls when a man crashes into his door and he has to find a way back to before everything went wrong

Charles had a fantastic day.

In fact, he had a fantastic life. His small shop was going well; the streets were flooded, and the bells on his door were chiming softly in the wind.

He knew the streets like the back of his hand ever since he was young; knowing every corner and hideout he used to take advantage of against his brothers. Charles's job was important—having passed down from the beginning of time. He couldn't screw up; it would be dishonour to his family if he did.

So, what is Charles' job? He sells memories—this swirly liquid in a pill capsule that is stored in the compartment behind your ears. One click and the pill capsules would all come spilling out.

The memories in his shop were donated by the deceased's loved ones or just appeared in his shop one day. Which is weird but who is he to complain?

"Si vous avez besoin d'aide, appelez vos frères et moi. À plus tard, Charles."If you need help, call your brothers and me. See you later, Charles. His maman would always say before leaving the shop to him.

"Au revoir, maman."

The sun rose in the heart of the city centre, where Charles' shop was located—beating down onto everything, relentlessly.

"Argh..."

An arm was slung around Charles' shoulder, effectively trapping him in a headlock. "I've missed you so much!" Lando drawls out, sulking. He presses his arms tighter around Charles' neck so much so, that he was sure his head would pop off his body like champagne. The day had barely just begun and the load of trouble had to come running into him—headfirst.

"We've talked on Monday," Charles looks at his watch. "It's barely 3 days! And you two, why are you just standing there, help me! Cowards!" He points a finger towards the Alex and George; standing in a corner, observing everything unfold.

"Point one finger and four are pointing back at you, Charlie." Alex shrugged—arms crossed and all—trying to act nonchalant despite his face sporting a big smirk.

The nerve of him!

"How could you choose work over us?" Lando loses his death grip around Charles—allowing him to slip away. He shakes his unruly mop of hair; swiping palm after palm into it, trying to tame his hair once more. Even if Alex, George, and Lando only brought him chaos, Charles has never felt as free as he has since he was young.

Scrambling next to Alex, Charles watched as George stepped onto Lando's shoe; resulting in yet another argument.

"Oh, sugar!"

"Hey! I took a long time keeping these shoes white!"

The familiar sight brought a faint smile to his face, eyes crinkling and dimples showing. As much as he wanted to see how the short brit would go against the tall one, Charles would rather not spend his time cleaning the floorboards of skidding shoeprints.

"Let's not break the shop..." An exasperated Alex tried to separate the two, to no current avail.

They never fail to remind Charles of the times where he and Arthur would fight over the smallest thing, and Lorenzo had to stop them before they threw forks and spoons at each other at the dinner table. Oh, how time has passed.

"Vous l'avez volé, soyez honnête!" You stole it, be honest! Arthur yells out, his face turning red with anger with each increasing decibel in his voice.

Arthur had misplaced his dearest hedgehog plush and, of course, he had come running straight into blaming Charles—accusing him of a crime he did not commit! Wanting to preserve what's left of his dignity, Charles defended himself; all the best that he could.

"Non! Je ne toucherais jamais un jouet infecté par des poux ! En plus, ça pue—je ne m'en approcherais jamais!" No! I would never touch a toy infected with lice! Plus, it stinks - I'd never go near it! Charles argued back. He'd taken such a long time to grow his hair this long—why would he risk cutting it all off just to touch his brother's hedgehog?

Arthur grabs his spoon, dipping it into his bowl, filling the empty insides of the once shiny spoon with red tomato soup. Charles scoffs; rolling his eyes before grabbing his fork.

"Woah, arrêtez là, barbares. Maman s'en occupe, ton hérisson est dans la machine à laver. Dînons tranquillement, d'accord ?" woah, stop there, barbarians. Mom's got it, your hedgehog's in the washing machine. Let's have a quiet dinner, shall we? The saint, the only person Charles would acknowledge as a brother—not the demon Arthur— Lorenzo, stopped them. The two huffed but complied willingly, setting their cutleries back where they belonged.

Bang! The sudden noise shocked Charles back to reality—where Alex was standing in between Lando, who was lunging, and George.

That was definitely not from the two fighting, leaving Charles to gawk at where the sound came from. The glass door to Charles' shop had came crashing into the wall when a particular individual burst through it, shoulder first; a frantic expression written all over the door-attacker's face. All four of them stared at the intruder in shock; their movements momentarily paused.

"Dit is een slecht idee..." This is a bad idea... the stranger muttered out under his breath angrily, clamping a hand over his right shoulder. Which, mind you, crashed into Charles' door. His cap was slightly tilting off his head, showing unruly and unkempt hair underneath.

"You!" Charles yowled, rushing towards the door. The bells on the door swung in uncoordinated movements as the stranger stood in silence, eyes scanning around the area.

"Do you not know how expensive glass are nowadays?" Charles scowled. Never mind the intruder robbing him; the glass would cost him a fortune—a fortune that Charles did not have!

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" George stepped towards the intruder, looking at him in the eyes. Sure, he wasn't any defence if the intruder really did bring a weapon, but his tall and lanky build shielded the rest for the time being.

Charles broke his eye contact at the door to give his unlikely new customer a scolding. Yet when he looked up, the words flew out of his mouth, and it was as if sand took its place. Charles' mouth went crashing into the ground as his eyes nearly dropped out of their sockets. To be blunt, Charles was gawking at the appearance of the man.

The man's golden-brown locks were tugged on before being shoved back into his cap. The man's eyes began to shine brighter—like jewels—under the sun, showing a pair of sapphire. His face was the epitome of beauty itself!

Maybe the glass wasn't even worth scolding for.

"Er..." The man's hand began rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't mean any harm. I just... was running from The Officials?" The lisp in the man's voice made every word enticing to Charles; a siren's song to a sailor's ears. The faint accent in his voice and his strong build—is this heaven?

Charles was trapped in the eye of the storm, and there is nothing he can do to stop the hurricane from whisking him in.

"Uh huh, yeah, of course! That's normal, a day-to-day activity, yeah!" Charles stuttered out, slowly flushing a light pink by the second. Lando elbowed him in his ribs, but Charles could not care less. "What do you need? Something specific? You seem to like thrillers, non?" Charles enquired further, flashing his smile: showing gums and all.

The man only looked amused—fond—if Charles was overthinking it. The man's eyebrows rose as a faint smile ghosted his lips.

"Hey, are you hypnotized? This man is a criminal for all we know!" Lando cried out, slapping his palm against Charles' smiling mouth.

"Connard." asshole came a muffled response from Charles.

Suddenly, the man dashed towards the counter, hand brushing against Charles'. To everyone's surprise, the man didn't take the money in the cash register, instead he hid behind the counter!

As if they heard the man, a flurry of officers decked out in armour rushed past, shouting and signalling.

"This way!" a soldier, a general most likely, shouted out; running past Charles' shop. As soon as the words left the soldier's mouth, he skidded to a stop at Charles' only closed glass door—staring right at him. However, none of the other men running past seemed to notice.

"Guys...Do you see that?" Shakily, Charles brought a finger, pointing towards the glass door.

"The many Officials running past? Of course we do!" Alex hushed out, staying deathly still.

What? Do they seriously not see the general staring at him in the eye? Or are they pretending not to see it?

"No. The man—the general standing there. He's staring at me. Seriously, ça me fait peur!" it scares me He stutters out. whipping his head left and right only to see confused faces.

"I think your parents told you too many horror bedtime stories; there's no one there." George mutters out, furrowing his eyebrows as he looks back at the door. Following his line of sight, Charles realised that George was right—there was no one there. The platoon of soldiers had disappeared, only leaving behind a trail of footprints.

"Forget what I said." he huffs.

"I did not mean for that to happen," the man flushed, standing up from his hiding spot. "I'm Max, Max Verstappen. I swear I'm not a criminal. Wrong place wrong time, you know? They were just chasing this woman, and said woman passed me a bag of what I guess is capsules before fading, and-"

Max looked around before stopping his ramble. The four were staring at him, standing further than they first were to him. One looked dangerously near to passing out, one looked feral, one looked terrified, and one looked incredibly British.

His heart still pounding in his skull, Max raised both of his hands after dropping his cap to the ground with a clatter.

"See, no weapons. I'm safe."

"Oh mon Dieu." Oh my God. Charles huffed out, his heart thumping against his ribcage, threatening to escape. His hand was swirling as the prints of Max's hands burnt through his skin and branded his blood. The radiating heat was still there even if it was for a split second.

"Oh, blimey, now I am curious of those capsules you have." George scrubbed his face with his hands, breaking the tension in the small shop they were all cramped in.

A grin broke out onto Max's face, his hands slowly digging into the pockets of his jeans. When his hands do come out from the maze his pockets are, there were indeed numerous—undeniably swirly liquid in pill capsules. Some went clattering to the floor; the pockets of Max's jeans flipped inside out. Max held out his palm forward, stepping closer to the bunch.

"Stay right there!" Lando spoke out, holding a stick in his hands—waving it around in front of him. "We have some introduction to get through before this," The stick then pointed in roughly the direction of Max's open palms. "Thing..."

Wait. A stick?

"Lando, where did you get that from!" Charles cried out, trying to pry the stick away from his grip. It had put quite the distance between Max and them, stopping him in his tracks.

What is up with his friends?

"It's alright. I'll stay here, and you'll stay there. Then, we'll get to know each other, deal?" Max upended the capsules onto the counter he was near—jumping onto the counter and sitting on it. His shoes were nearly touching the ground, planting his hands onto the counter—strikingly similar to something Lando would've done.

#lestappen #id like to thank my friend on this app for her vocabulary that inspired me #this post is a joke #max verstappen #charles leclerc #The Officials are just like police #Charles' perfectly curated life falls when a man crashes through his dearest door #removing tomorrow

20 notes · View notes