Sz. IstvĂĄn gyĆri lakosnak ismĂ©t nagyobb volt a szĂĄja mint amennyi esze van đ
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from TĂŒrkiye
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from Saudi Arabia

seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from China
seen from South Korea
seen from China

seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from China

seen from Germany
seen from Mexico

seen from France

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Yemen
Sz. IstvĂĄn gyĆri lakosnak ismĂ©t nagyobb volt a szĂĄja mint amennyi esze van đ

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there's a softness , a sweetness even , in those hard dark brown eyes . â i'll stay , then . he whispered gently and , even quieter he muttered â i'm sorry .  for what ? he doesn't say , but it is implied in those shoulders that seem to carry the bourden of the whole world ; i'm sorry that i don't know when i'm wanted , it's not my fault that no one ever did want me .
bullying visenya for being intimidated by a baby like itâs my job
closed: @savaticr. date: 19th of diodore, 935. location: the lionâs mane.
What is it they say? DegarĂ© Lambert never forgets a thing. Still, heâd be hard pressed to recall his first meeting with every lost soul who, through some misfortune or other, comes to pass through his establishment. Heâs good, but heâs not that good. He does, however, remember Savatier. Remembers what night of the week it was when they first met, recalls the way the rain struck hard against the glass-pane, violent as a blacksmithâs hammer. Their first meeting had been... odd. DegarĂ© supposes that, in the Mane, they often are: what man finds himself entering its belly in search of a drink, in search of something else entirely, because his life has turned out for the better? Itâs been two, three years, perhaps, since Savatier had first wandered into the Mane, looking haggard as old bones that have just been exhumed from the earth. Heâd held nothing but his own sentence in his hands, and you donât bother asking questions of a man like that.Â
Of course, Degaré had tried anyway.
Savatier doesnât quite fit, but DegarĂ© has come to know him better than he knows most men. Has come to like him better than he likes most men. Hardly a difficult feat, heâll admit, but itâs true. At times heâs almost fond. In the time since their first meeting, DegarĂ© has managed well enough to loot away slices of Savatier, the same way a carver shaves gristle from the bone. Incrementally. What remains is only a half-image, a simulacrum. Blurred, indistinct, not quite real. Indeed, DegarĂ© is far better at reading the man than knowing him, finds more fortune in anticipating his movements than seizing anything definite. Come to think of it, he knows decidedly little about the man who sits opposite him now, swinging back ales like heâll never see another. He saved his life once. Perhaps thatâs all a man needs to know.Â
Heâs grown rather attached to his curious turns of phrase, his strange idioms, furnished with antecedents he fails to place. Heâs heard them so many times over by now, he sometimes even knows what the fellow is talking about. But thenâah, sometimes not. Savatier sticks out to him, all conspicuous, like an anachronism which betrays itself. Beneath every skin, there is another skin. Heâs an eye for such things.
Tonight, the Mane feels much the same as it had nearly three years ago. Itâs cold, and the rain refuses to relent against the window. None of his employees have lit the fireâthe heat of bodies and ale is warmth enough. The two of them have been at it for a few hours by now, throwing back glass measures, washing down liquor with more liquor. DegarĂ© is off the clock tonight, relatively speaking. As he sits opposite Savatier, he feels his blood run hot from the ale. He feels his breath thicken with warm intoxication. But still, he watches. He listens.Â
âSteady on, old man,â he interrupts, reaching his hand out to steady Savatierâs wrist. âIf youâve plans to drink yourself to the grave,â DegarĂ© chuckles, viscous with booze, âBest to dig one first.â He releases the manâs wrist, leans slackly back in his seat. A beat passes before he abruptly leans in, pushing his own flagon away. âThat one, there,â he whispers in a whisper that isnât quite a whisper, canting his head toward a patron by the bar. âDrunk himself to deathââ he tuts, as if in admonishment. As if in thought. âAh, must be a hundred times over by now.âÂ
DegarĂ© crosses his arms behind his head, leans back against the wall. His voice is noticeably louder when he speaks again. âRowdy. Night never ends well for him.â A beat passes. DegarĂ© smiles, crooked, its sincerity aslant. âEnds with a polite invitation outside, more often than not, while somebody else offers to hold the other manâs coat.â If the wounds he wears when he faithfully wanders back into the tavern the following night are anything to go by, the man takes quite a beating.Â
âNo fights, all right?â

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( w. @peternotparkerâ ) - FLASHBACK
Melisandre estava empolgada para aquele dia, tinha acordado mais cedo que o costume e estava com seu uniforme impecĂĄvel. Tinha comprado um presente para Peter, talvez ele fosse uma das melhores coisas que tinha acontecido na sua vida naquele momento. Tinham o namoro perfeito, como todos diziam, mas aquilo estava longe de ser uma realidade. Estava com o carro de seu pai e buzinou assim que chegou na casa dele para buscĂĄ-lo e irem juntos para o colĂ©gio. Soriru ao vĂȘ-lo de longe, ela realmente gostava dele, porĂ©m nĂŁo sentia tanta reciprocidade asism. - good morning my love. - falou sorrindo e dando um beijo nele. - comprei uma coisa para vocĂȘ, estĂĄ no porta luvas, Ă© pela vitĂłria no jogo de ontem.Â
                           â đŻđŹđčđ¶ââ & đđđ đđđđ.  preocupação define o sentimento que tem para com outrem. hero Ă© incapaz de permanecer em silĂȘncio diante a uma situação daquela. por que aparenta ser o Ășnico enojado com aqueles comentĂĄrios? respira uma, duas e trĂȘs vezes atĂ© que se acalme e recupere a postura. quer respondĂȘ-lo, dizer que estĂĄ errado sobre o que diz a respeito da namorada. porĂ©m o homem simplesmente vira as costas, ignorando-os como se fosse nada. â ele nĂŁo tem o direito de falar assim com vocĂȘ. â praticamente rosna tamanho asco que nutre para com o sogro, expele o ar dos pulmĂ”es ao observĂĄ-la cuidadosamente. â vocĂȘ estĂĄ bem? â o indicador e o polegar seguram o queixo feminino com cuidado, hero aproxima o rosto ao dela para beijar a testa com ternura. a mĂŁo livre envolve a cintura delgada ao trazĂȘ-la para perto, o abraço Ă© de uma essĂȘncia protetora; carinhosa. â nĂłs deverĂamos sair daqui uh? â @annahwlton