#prima rosa

[dragoneyes618]

You know, I've seen Coco AUs where Imelda gets cursed, and AUs where Coco gets cursed. I've seen AUs where Elena, with or without Victoria, gets cursed. I've seen AUs where Rosa gets cursed, with or instead of Miguel.

That covers every generation of the Rivera family...except one.

Where are the AUs where someone from Miguel's parents' generation, one of Héctor's great-grandchildren, gets cursed?

What would happen if, say, Miguel's father Enrique had been cursed instead of him?

[opera-ghosts]

The One, The Only, The Great Caruso By Rosa Ponselle, The New York Times; Feb. 25, 1973

Today is the 100th anniversary of the birth of Enrico Caruso, widely regarded as the greatest tenor in operatic history. Here, a celebrated soprano recalls Caruso and the years in which she sang with him.

HE stepped into the room jauntily, looking every bit as dapper as he did in all his photographs. He was wearing a light‐colored fedora, tipped to one side and creased in the middle. He had one of those high, stiff collars, gloves, and a long cigaret holder, and he carried a cane, always a cane. He was such a lovely, cleanlooking, beautifully groomed man. He was of good, medium height, with a broad chest, very wide shoulders, and was narrow in the hips. His bone structure was very square — square jaw, wide, strong chin, and a prominent, noble nose.

It was the first time I had ever met Enrico Caruso. The place was a studio in the West Seventies, the time was April, 1918. I was then a young vaudeville singer of 21; he was then 45, at the very height of his career with the Metropolitan Opera. The occasion of our meeting? He had heard, via the grapevine, that my older sister, Carmela, and I had potential operatic voices, and he had come with several other Metropolitan singers to hear us.

I had already heard him sing twice at the Met, with the sublime Geraldine Farrar in “Madama Butterfly,” and the divine, beautiful Claudia Muzio in “The Love of Three Kings.” The first time I heard him, in “Butterfly,” I was 17, and it was my first trip to New York. My sister and I sat up in the gallery, and we were the last ones to leave that night. I can honestly say there wasn't a dry eye in the house. I myself was numb, and couldn't stop weeping. I had never heard such sounds, and it took me a long time to control myself.

How can I describe his voice? “Molten gold” probably comes closest to anything I could say. It's something that is predestined, I guess. Before he was even put on this earth, he was going to be the great Caruso. It's something that remains unexplainable, why someone has a beautiful voice and someone else not so beautiful. Perhaps there have been voices as big, or bigger, but his was unique. It could caress you and soothe you. It loved you, and it excited you; every emotion you could possibly feel he gave you, he was so imbued with feeling. He wasn't the most romantic figure on the stage, but when he sang you saw a handsome man up there. His soul was so handsome, the sound was so handsome, that he became beautiful. And you could see, by his face that he was loving it, enjoying it, and he it to everybody.

When he came into the studio that day in April, 1918, he crossed the room looking my sister and me over. Then he said to me in his Neapolitan dialect, “Hey, urchin! You know you look like me?” (He must have known that I was of Neapolitan descent, though American‐born.) I think I was more excited than nervous at the time, and perhaps I thought I was pretty smart. For I answered, “I wouldn't mind looking like you if I could only sing like you.” His eyes narrowed and he nodded a few times. All he said was, “We'll see, we'll see,” but I'm sure he was thinking, “What nerve! What ambition! She must have what it takes.”

My sister and I ran through our repertoire, mostly Verdi, singing all the big, technically difficult arias from “Trovatore,” “Gioconda,” “Aida,” and others. It was a very ambitious program considering that I had never had any voice training, and my sister very little. I remember that, as I sang, he studied me carefully, his eyes squinting shrewdly as he sized me up. I didn't know it then, of course, but he was already thinking of me as Leonora, his leading lady for “La Forza del Destino.” Because of the war, there was a shortage of sopranos suitable for this dramatic role, and Caruso had been wanting to do the opera for a long time.

When my sister and I had finished, Caruso and his friends — Rosa Raisa, Giacomo Rimini, Adamo Didur and the others — applauded. Then Caruso congratulated us, and we got all sorts of words of encouragement from these great artists. As we were getting ready to leave, Caruso walked over to me and said, “You're going to sing with me yet. I don't know when, maybe a year, maybe two, but you will.”

Of course, I was absolutely paralyzed when I heard that. I had never had any serious aspirations as an opera singer, and here was Caruso telling me that I would soon be singing with him!

Then he put his hand on his throat and said, “You've got it here,” meaning the voice. He moved his hand to his heart and said, “You've got it here,” meaning the emotions. Then he pointed to his head and said, “The rest depends on what you've got up here” — the brains, the ability to memorize — “but I think you've got it.”

The very next day, or two at the most, our representative, William Thorner, got a call from Gatti‐Casazza, the general manager of the Metropolitan Opera. “I hear you have two very fine voices,” Gatti said “How soon can I hear them?” Shortly afterward, we both auditioned for Gatti, Otto Kahn and all the other directors at the Met. Word had gotten around like wildfire —they all wanted to hear Caruso's “find.”

Later I sang for Gatti again, and this time I almost fainted with excitement. My sister had to give me smelling salts to revive me. When it was over, Gatti asked me to come into his office. “Here, sign this,” he said. “Sign what?” I asked. “Your contract to make your debut with Caruso in ‘La Forza del Destino.’ Do you think you could be ready by November?” And that's how it all started.

I remember the rehearsals very well. Gatti was walking around beaming, he was so proud and happy with his cast. Caruso would sit there and listen to me singing, always assuring me and reassuring me, and suggesting ways of improving my performance. He was al‐. ways like this at rehearsals, not at all temperamental. I never saw him have a tantrum, or become angry with anyone. He was just as humble and helpful to a singer as he could be. He would say to a singer who was having a problem, “Try it this way, or that way.” He was very solicitous; all can see is kindness in that face. And he was generous to a fault. He couldn't say “No” to anyone who needed money. He'd indulge them in everything. Once he said to me, “I never knew I had so many relatives until I became a celebrity!”

I made my debut with Caruso on the night of Nov. 15, 1918, just a few days after the armistice ending the war. We were all overjoyed, and for me it was like having two occasions to celebrate. That night, I was struck by the fact that Caruso did not come to my dressing room to wish his protegee good luck. I was so numb from nervousness that I couldn't even put my make‐up on. It was only later that learned that he himself was always so nervous, almost petrified, before a performance that no one dared go near him. He used to say to me, “You must suffer to be a great artist!” And God knows he really suffered.

During the performance itself, I was so frightened, I was dying in my tracks. I sang a few bars bidding my “father” good night and then a few recitatives with the maid. I sang this very difficult aria alone on the stage. Then comes Don Alvaro — Caruso — through the casement window and he catches me in his arms. I whispered to him between bars, “I am dying, I am dying,” several times. Caruso, seeing how terrified was, whispered to me, also between the bars, “Courage! Courage! I will sustain you.” And he did. From then on, I was all right.

After the performance, I did not see him either. Then he always had his entourage with him in his dressing room. He never made a move without them, or they would follow him anyway. It was a ritual with them to plan a big meal in some restaurant. Caruso loved Italian food. I won't say I blame him.

In the next two years, I sang with him 33 times in “La Forza del Destino” and “La Juive.” His voice had then reached full maturity, darkness and size. It was not as lyric a voice as had been when he started, I was told, but he could lighten it whenever he had to, as when he sang in “Martha” or “The Elixir of Love.” This remarkable agility was one of the things that made him such a great singer. His voice was actually at its very peak in those years. The saddest thing to me is that I never made a recording with Caruso. Unfortunately, I was under contract to Columbia at the time and he was with Victor Red Seal.

*

As for his acting, he did naturally and instinctively just the amount of acting that the piece required. He could act because he loved his roles, no matter what he did. No one can tell me he couldn't act. My God, that pantomime he did when he finished his aria, “Ridi, Pagliaccio,” was terrific! He would run up those stairs as he made his exit in a convulsion of rage and jealousy bordering on insanity. It was magnificent acting.

Strangely, the one time that I did not sing “La Juive” with him in this period was the evening of his very last performance, December 24, 1920. I had to rehearse at the time for an opera the next night, and my role was sung instead by Florence Easton, whose beautiful voice was ever ready. Twelve nights before, he had suffered a throat hemorrhage while singing “The Elixir of Love” at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. He hemorrhaged again on the 24th, and this time he was hospitalized. He was found to be suffering from empyema, I was told, an accumulation of pus on the lungs. The abscesses had to be drained or cut away.

In a few months, he was seemingly cured, I heard, but he was advised not to leave the country so he could remain under observation. The doctors here wanted to make sure he was cured once and for all. But he was fed up with it. He was quoted as saying, “I'm fine, I'm going home. If I'm go ing to die, then I want to die in my Naples.” He returned to Italy with his wife, Dorothy, and baby Gloria, in May, 1921, and in July, I understand, wrote to Gatti, “Feeling fine. Expect to be over the top soon. I have a voice that will last 20 years. Whatever I want to do, I do with great vigor.” The next day, according to the accounts, he collapsed in pain. By August 2, he was dead. I was at a party in New York when I heard the news. It was devastating. He was so young, and had given so much to the world. I remembered some thing he had told me when his wife was expecting. “You know,” he said, “I hope it's a girl. I'd like a girl so that when I retire, I'll have my little girl to be my companion and consort. I'm just looking forward to living for my wife and daughter.” And I said, “Well, I hope it's a girl, too.” And he got a girl, and he said, “Wonderful!” and he named her Gloria.

That poor dear man, that poor dear man. If ever anyone deserved a long life, it was he. To me, his untimely death will always be one of the greatest tragedies of all time.

[ancilla-hawkins]

il presidente della repubblica per la prima volta a sanremo perché matta ha visto la situazione in italia e ha pensato che si merita un po' di svago

[primepaginequotidiani]

PRIMA PAGINA Il Tempo di Oggi venerdì, 09 agosto 2024

[mewmewchann]

"I'm not a devil", but isn't that what a devil would say?

Okay I'm posting this attack separately from my other ones this week because I'm genuinely so happy with how it turned out AAAAHHHHH

Featuring characters from @cross-armageddon's PRSK OC unit

[marcogiovenale]

essere (stati) giovani scrittori oggi / fabrizio venerandi. 2023

found gif @ tumblr Da ragazzo credevo esistesse una generazione di scrittori, critici, poeti e intellettuali precedente alla mia, dei fratelli maggiori diciamo, alla quale mi sarei dovuto rapportare, cosa che ho fatto, credendo che questa generazione avrebbe traghettato la mia e i migliori della mia, quelli che pubblicavano, verso un nuovo ambiente culturale. A quel tempo, tra la fine degli anni…

[bat-the-misfit]

meu sonho é viajar pra Itália e ficar olhando os monumentos e estátuas e as coiseiras tudo que nem o Jeremias Berdinazzi e enquanto isso meu cérebro vai ficar tocando aquela música da gioconda kkkkkkkkkkkk

[algumaideia]

Além do aqui, acho que uns uai e uns né também estavam faltando nos diálogos

[wally-b-feed]

Anthony Fineran (B 1981), Pine Nut Prima Rosa, 2023

[dragoneyes618]

Rosa knew it was wrong, silly, futile.

Her family'd managed generations without music. No one else needed it, or even wanted it. Why should she be different?

Yet she found herself hovering by the music class, detouring through the plaza, hesitating wherever the sweet tune was heard.

She wished she'd the excuse of shining shoes in the plaza, like Miguel. She wished to listen freely for just a few moments. She wished she felt no desire for music at all.

But she couldn't help herself. Why, oh, why did she have to be attracted to the sound of the violin?

[opera-ghosts]

Photograph of Luciano Pavarotti at Villa Pace with Rosa Ponselle at the piano, used in 1982 in an issue of The Baltimore Sun Magazine.

N.B. - Luciano Pavarotti remembers his encounter with Rosa Ponselle: As a boy in Italy, growing up in my hometown, Modena, I can hardly remember a time when the name Rosa Ponselle was unfamiliar to me. (…) One can imagine how I felt, having grown up admiring an artist whom I had known only from a series of prized phonograph records, meeting her in person—and not only meeting her, but actually "singing" with her! (…) It was at Villa Pace, her magnificent home in the Greenspring Valley near Baltimore, that I met and sang with her. My visit to her villa was the culmination of a telephone-and-letter friendship that had begun a few years earlier. (…) After much animated conversation and a splendid meal, we made our way into her expansive music room, where, before she sat down at the piano, she said to me apologetically, "Luciano, I'm not in form today. Every day when I get up in the morning I try out my 'pianissimo'. If it's there, I'm in top form, and I can do anything. Today, it isn't there, but we'll sing together anyway, in full voice." And sing we did! From fragments of arias and snippets of duets to the beloved Tosti songs so dear to us both, we let our voices mate in one long shimmering line of harmony. My only wish was that we could have been transported magically into a modern recording studio, so that the whole world could have shared this once-in-a-lifetime experience.

(Rosa Ponselle & James A. Drake - "Ponselle, A singer's Life", foreword by Luciano Pavarotti - Doubleday & Company, Inc. - Garden City, New York, 1982)

[marcocalvi]

"LA FILLETTE RÉVOLUTIONNAIRE"

🌹Prima Illustrazione del Capitolo Il

"Chu Chu"

🌹Decorazione del Capitolo Il

"Per chi sorride la rosa"

🌹Capolettera del Capitolo

______________________________

🌹First illustration of chapter 2

"Chu Chu"

🌹Chapter 2 decoration

"For Whom the Rose Smiles"

Drop cap of chapter 2

My version of an illustrated novel about Utena's story by Chicho Saitō and Be-papas

[groupieaesthetic]

Tentadoramente bom.

Sinopse: Onde Enzo não consegue acreditar que havia caido na sua lábia. Havia se apaixonado por alguém tão jovem...

Warnings: +18, palavrões, menção a sexo, nudez, e agegap.

Ele olhava pra você andando pelo apartamento dele. Analisava tudo, tocava algumas coisas timidamente e de vez em quando olhava pra ele. Fazia tudo aquilo usando apenas uma calcinha rosa rendada e um saltinho branco que ele havia comprado pra você naquele mesmo dia.

Na visão dele aquilo chegava a ser pecaminoso. Você era como o fruto proibido. Era prima de uma amiga próxima dele... era apenas um recém mulher (?)

Enquanto ele voltava com o lanche que haviam pedido, e que foi a causa de estarem semi nus, já que antes do motoqueiro chegar estavam a um passo de transar no sofá dele, ele parou quando te viu se sentar no sofá dele e encara-lo fixamente.

''Você tem que parar de me olhar assim nena'' Disse deixando a comida na bancada da mesa e voltando para a sala.

Se ajoelhou de frente pro sofá, bem no meio das suas pernas. ''Senhor me ajuda a resistir vai'' pensou consigo mesmo.

''Por que? A primeira vez que me elogiou foi falando dos meus olhos'' Seu sorriso era o ponto fraco dele. E quando falava com aquela voz suave, encarando ele piscando os olhinhos apenas para deixa-lo mais timido, era ali que ele sentia vontade de se bater, de tão louco que ficava.

''Você é um fruto proibido garota... eu não posso fazer isso'' Disse se levantando devagar ''Eu vou fazer 31 daqui alguns meses. Não dá pra nesse ponto da minha vida me apaixonar por alguém 10 anos mais jovem que eu! Porra eu amo você'' Antes que pudesse se tocar já havia revelado os sentimentos que ele nutria e se culpava pelo mesmo''Eu te amo, mas você... você é uma garota ainda, ta virando mulher nesse momento da vida, sua faculdade ainda... meu Deus você ta no segundo ano da faculdade...''

Tudo que você fazia era rir dele. Passava as mãos pelo cabelo, andava de um lado pro outro, depois te encarava, depois encarava seus seios e descia para sua calcinha.

''Você só tem 19 anos. Só 19'' Mesmo que ele tivesse falado em voz alta, parecia muito mais que aquela frase era uma maneira dele relembrar porque não devia investir naquele sentimento. Era algo pra ele mesmo.

''Na verdade eu tenho 18'' Você disse o tirando do transe. Se levantou e começou a tirar sua calcinha lentamente ''Eu pulei um ano na escola sabe'' Terminou a frase jogando a calcinha nele e sorriu percebendo como ele estava perdido em tudo que estava acontecendo.

''Deus me perdoe'' Enzo disse jogando a calcinha no chão e te sentando no sofá, ficando no meio das suas pernas e caindo na tentação.

[solosepensi]

"Ti vuoi mettere con me?"

Era un biglietto piccolo e ripiegato almeno tre volte su se stesso. Lo avevo dato direttamente in mano a "Lucia" un attimo prima che suonasse la campanella di entrata. Intorno alle 8.15. Eravamo in quarta elementare. Grembiule blu io e rosa lei. Con i piccoli bottoni in madreperla e il colletto bianco. Profumo di bucato. Io frangetta, lei occhi grandi. Ricordo quel giorno come se fosse oggi. Nello zaino l’astuccio, il diario, i libri e i pennarelli. E la pizzetta rossa. E i sogni. Dopo pochi minuti, lei mi fa recapitare, tramite passamano dei compagni di classe, banco dopo banco, mano dopo mano, lo stesso foglietto con sotto la risposta, intanto la maestra spiegava geografia, i mari che bagnano l’Italia. I fiumi e confini. C’era una crocetta sul sì: significava che eravamo ufficialmente fidanzati. E sentii la prima fitta allo stomaco della mia vita.

Da bambini sappiamo quello che vogliamo perché sappiamo ascoltare il nostro cuore, e abbiamo il coraggio di manifestarlo senza tanti filtri o giri di parole. Da grandi, invece, non sappiamo più quello che vogliamo, e quando lo sappiamo c’incasiniamo la vita senza motivo. Basterebbe essere semplici, basterebbe dire “ti penso”, “mi manchi”, “ti amo”.

(Roberto Emanuelli)

[primepaginequotidiani]

PRIMA PAGINA Gazzetta Dello Sport di Oggi mercoledì, 07 agosto 2024

[sunshyni]

oioioi, como vc tá linda??

devo dizer q o anton e o wonbin não saí da minha cabeça 🗣️😵

vc pode escrever algo bem gostosinho com algum deles, vc escolhe :)

obrigada!

shower – Anton Lee

contém: Anton Lee × fem!reader, friends to lovers, fluffy

notinhas da sun: oioi, anon!! Tô bem e você?? Espero que esteja bem!! 🙏 Seu pedido é uma ordem, amor!! 🫡

Então, sinceramente?? Eu não gostei disso KKKKKKK Eu não tinha um plot muito bem construído na cabeça, então eu só fui escrevendo baseado em como eu enxergo este homem. Com ajuda de música, obviamente KKKKKKK

Enfim, pode ter ficado péssimo?? Certamente, mas eu juro que me esforcei anon 😭 Espero que você goste!!

w.c: 1k

boa leitura, docinhos!! 💜

Você subiu as escadas da sua casa em passos apressados, como a corrida que sustentou pelo quarteirão nos últimos quarenta minutos. Era domingo, e sua família enorme começava a se reunir no extenso quintal localizado nos fundos da residência. No entanto, você ainda não cumprimentara ninguém, apenas a prima intrometida que mexia distraidamente no celular quando você atravessou a sala de estar em direção à escadaria.

Podia ouvir os zumbis se aproximarem pelos seus fones sem fio. Não literalmente, é claro. Tinha baixado o aplicativo de corrida que simulava um apocalipse zumbi exatamente para te incentivar na prática do exercício. No momento, estava no ritmo dos zumbis boomers de “Zumbilândia”, mas já estava começando a melhorar na coisa toda. Estranhou quando adentrou o seu quarto cheio de frufrus, cortinas rosas com babados, roupa de cama no mesmo tom. Pôsteres de artistas e bandas que nem existiam mais enfeitavam suas paredes revestidas por um papel de bolinhas também rosas. Era uma poluição visual sem fim, mas fazia parte da sua identidade e personalidade moldadas por seriados do Disney Channel e da Nickelodeon.

Estranhou porque existia uma fragrância nova no ambiente que você não sabia identificar. Ao mesmo tempo que parecia familiar, havia um toque recente e fresco que você não sabia nomear.

Foi direto para o banheiro; precisava urgentemente de uma ducha para se livrar daquela sensação grudenta, mesmo que exalasse o cheiro do body splash de ameixa que adquirira recentemente porque costumava ser completamente obcecada por produtos de frutinhas. Mas se esquecera de retirar os fones, e os mortos-vivos quase devoravam o seu cérebro naquela altura do campeonato.

— Isso aqui é daquela época que inventei de ser quarterback? — Se assustou com a voz masculina e melodiosa. Em contrapartida, seu coração iniciou um batimento acalorado como se ainda não tivesse cessado o exercício físico quando identificou aquele intruso, que de intruso nada tinha, pelo menos na sua casa não; agora, no seu coração e na sua mente já era outra história.

Provavelmente amava Anton Lee mais do que o seu próprio pai. Se conheceram e estudaram todo o ensino médio juntos. Ambos se consideravam amantes da música, da arte no geral. No entanto, você sempre achou que ele levava mais jeito para o mundo artístico, considerando a família repleta de estrelas, incluindo ele mesmo. Acabaram seguindo carreiras opostas: ele como produtor musical e você na advocacia. Trabalhava num escritório minúsculo, seu chefe era louco da cabeça, mas dava pro gasto.

Enquanto isso, Anton vivia num estrelato sem fim na cidade grande, encantando a todos com aquele olhar sonhador, voz doce que era a própria glicose e o jeitinho inocente, gentil e cavalheiresco que somente ele tinha. Qualquer um que pudesse ler a sua mente ou somente prestar atenção na sua linguagem corporal, nas pupilas que dobravam de tamanho feito um gatinho, perceberia que você estava caidinha, bobinha por ele desde... Desde sempre?

Você correu para onde ele estava ajoelhado bem ao lado da sua cama. Tinha se escondido ali para te fazer uma surpresa. Retirou o capacete pesado que escondia grande parte do rosto bonito e o abraçou, o abraçou o mais forte que pôde. Afinal, faziam exatamente 365 dias que não se viam pessoalmente, e você pensou que poderia facilmente morrer de saudades dele.

— 'Cê quer que eu morra asfixiado? — Ele questionou brincalhão, a voz levemente esganiçada, mas era só ele fingindo muito bem. Você se afastou depois de longos segundos envolvendo-o com os braços, contemplou o sorrisinho bonito dele, o cabelo diferente do habitual, o cheiro do shampoo invadindo suas narinas, fazendo com que você pensasse devagar. Por isso, demorou para perguntar como ele havia conseguido entrar no seu quarto sem que a sua família não fizesse balbúrdia. No entanto, Anton leu a sua mente antes mesmo que você pudesse começar a montar a frase.

— Entrei pela janela como nos velhos tempos. Sua abuela não me deixaria te esperar no seu quarto, e eu queria te fazer uma surpresinha.

E realmente, tinha um motivo para a sua avó querida não permitir que aquele garoto na sua frente permanecesse no seu quarto. Anton tinha mudado desde o último ano do ensino médio. Seu rosto ainda era o mesmo, mas seu corpo... Suas mãos agora descansavam puramente no peitoral dele. As coisas passaram para outra atmosfera, outra tensão quando você sentiu a firmeza do local. Talvez fosse o seu coração acelerado, talvez fosse aquela vontade avassaladora de tocá-lo. Você desceu uma das mãos para o abdômen dele, que contraiu em resposta quando você invadiu a camiseta cinza, como ele havia feito invadindo a sua casa. Seus olhos se encontraram; nem ele nem você sabiam mais como respirar, e os lábios se encontrando foi inevitável.

Anton tocou timidamente na sua cintura, te trazendo para perto, abobalhado, sem saber ao certo em que parte do seu corpo tocava. Você sorriu entre o beijo, olhou-o nos olhos e fechou os olhos porque estava verdadeiramente envergonhada. Meu Deus, estava finalmente beijando o seu melhor amigo, aquilo parecia coisa de outro mundo.

— Eu acabei de voltar de uma corrida, não quero ficar de pegação com você malcheirosa. — Aquele foi o melhor sinônimo que encontrou para fedida. Anton sorriu e se levantou, buscando a sua mão. Segurou apenas o seu indicador, como se fosse um bebezinho e, em silêncio, como ele costumava ser, quietinho, te levou até o banheiro, até o box. Ligou o chuveiro e te colocou embaixo dele, de roupa e tudo. Você soltou uma risadinha, mas seu corpo se sobressaltou quando ele partiu para mais um beijo, molhando parte da camiseta e pouco se importando com isso. Suas mãos molhavam o rosto dele, os cabelos, o corpo. O que diriam quando enfim se reunissem com o restante da família? Vocês nem pensavam nisso, só conseguiam raciocinar em beijar um ao outro, os braços de Anton te envolvendo, sorrindo constantemente cada vez que se afastavam um pouquinho para respirar. Ele era deslumbrante.

— Prima, 'cê não acha que tá demorando demais nesse banho? — Anton virou a cabeça levemente para a voz atrás da porta do seu quarto. Você até abriu a boca para responder, mas foi só uma deixa pra ele te beijar de novo, tomar suas mãos e colocá-las atrás do seu corpo. Realmente, Anton era tímido, não santo.

Você elevou a cabeça, procurando seus olhos castanhos e brilhantes. Anton sorriu feito um garotinho travesso e te deu um selinho, sussurrando sem descolar o olhar do seu.

— Shh... Deixa a gente ficar de pegação um pouquinho.

@ sunshyni. Todos os direitos reservados.