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Bangado d Afrique 90
Bangado d Afrique 90
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Wednesday 09 July 2025 02:20:37 GMT
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Unique design, you can also decompress when you are bored, don't miss this kind of phone case! #phonecase #iphonecase #iphone #design #unzip #fyp #goussve
Unique design, you can also decompress when you are bored, don't miss this kind of phone case! #phonecase #iphonecase #iphone #design #unzip #fyp #goussve
Rain tapped against the windowpanes like impatient fingers. The old estate slept under storm clouds, but inside the study, a fire crackled low, casting gold across the spines of forbidden books and glinting off steel. She should have screamed. Instead, she froze as the silver-masked thief stepped from the shadows. His silhouette was sharp as a cut gem, tall, lean, his black shirt soaked from the rain. “You’re braver than your father,” he said, voice rough with midnight. “He would’ve raised the alarm by now.” Her heart pounded like hooves on stone. “You’re trespassing.” “And you’re alone,” he said, stepping closer. He peeled off his leather gloves, revealing hands surprisingly clean for a criminal. She backed into the desk, fingers brushing the edge of a panic button. He noticed. “You won’t press it.” “How do you know that?” His voice dropped lower. “Because you’ve been waiting for this. For me.” She hated how the words slid into her like warm wine, dangerous, unwelcome, but intoxicating. He stepped into the light. The silver mask covered most of his face, but his mouth was visible, lips curved in something not quite a smirk, not quite a threat. “Your father stole something from me,” he said. “Something more valuable than diamonds.” “And you think I’m going to help you steal it back?” “I don’t need your help,” he said. “I need your silence.” They were a breath apart now, and she could smell the rain on him, the faint scent of smoke and wild air. His eyes, dark behind the slits, searched hers. “I should turn you in,” she whispered. “Then why haven’t you?” A beat passed. Her fingers relaxed away from the panic button. He raised a hand, slowly, as if asking permission, and brushed his hand through her curls. His touch was soft. Too soft for a thief. Too tender for an enemy. “I came for the emerald,” he said. “But now I’m not so sure.” “Don’t flatter me,” she snapped but her voice wavered. “I’m not,” he murmured. “I’ve broken into dozens of vaults, outrun hounds, scaled towers. But standing here with you?” He paused. “This is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.” And then he leaned in. Not to kiss her, not yet. But close enough to feel the heat of his breath, to know that if she moved even slightly, their lips would meet. A key turned in the door down the hall. He stepped back. The moment shattered like glass. But before disappearing into the shadows, he pressed something into her hand: not a gem, not a threat. A single silver feather. “I’ll be back,” he whispered. “Tell your father…nothing.” And then he was gone. But her pulse was still racing because he was right. She wouldn’t say a word. #maskedmen #romance #enemiestolovers #thiefinthenight #fanfic
Rain tapped against the windowpanes like impatient fingers. The old estate slept under storm clouds, but inside the study, a fire crackled low, casting gold across the spines of forbidden books and glinting off steel. She should have screamed. Instead, she froze as the silver-masked thief stepped from the shadows. His silhouette was sharp as a cut gem, tall, lean, his black shirt soaked from the rain. “You’re braver than your father,” he said, voice rough with midnight. “He would’ve raised the alarm by now.” Her heart pounded like hooves on stone. “You’re trespassing.” “And you’re alone,” he said, stepping closer. He peeled off his leather gloves, revealing hands surprisingly clean for a criminal. She backed into the desk, fingers brushing the edge of a panic button. He noticed. “You won’t press it.” “How do you know that?” His voice dropped lower. “Because you’ve been waiting for this. For me.” She hated how the words slid into her like warm wine, dangerous, unwelcome, but intoxicating. He stepped into the light. The silver mask covered most of his face, but his mouth was visible, lips curved in something not quite a smirk, not quite a threat. “Your father stole something from me,” he said. “Something more valuable than diamonds.” “And you think I’m going to help you steal it back?” “I don’t need your help,” he said. “I need your silence.” They were a breath apart now, and she could smell the rain on him, the faint scent of smoke and wild air. His eyes, dark behind the slits, searched hers. “I should turn you in,” she whispered. “Then why haven’t you?” A beat passed. Her fingers relaxed away from the panic button. He raised a hand, slowly, as if asking permission, and brushed his hand through her curls. His touch was soft. Too soft for a thief. Too tender for an enemy. “I came for the emerald,” he said. “But now I’m not so sure.” “Don’t flatter me,” she snapped but her voice wavered. “I’m not,” he murmured. “I’ve broken into dozens of vaults, outrun hounds, scaled towers. But standing here with you?” He paused. “This is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.” And then he leaned in. Not to kiss her, not yet. But close enough to feel the heat of his breath, to know that if she moved even slightly, their lips would meet. A key turned in the door down the hall. He stepped back. The moment shattered like glass. But before disappearing into the shadows, he pressed something into her hand: not a gem, not a threat. A single silver feather. “I’ll be back,” he whispered. “Tell your father…nothing.” And then he was gone. But her pulse was still racing because he was right. She wouldn’t say a word. #maskedmen #romance #enemiestolovers #thiefinthenight #fanfic
Fantástica fotografía con cambio de inclinación#foryou #knowledge #usa #amazing
Fantástica fotografía con cambio de inclinación#foryou #knowledge #usa #amazing
100% dark chocolate 🤮 #chocolate #darkchocolate #lindt #tastetest
100% dark chocolate 🤮 #chocolate #darkchocolate #lindt #tastetest
The Medic: The world burned in shades of gray and red. Shells cracked the sky open like thunder, and somewhere in the chaos of a shattered French village, Army medic Jack Turner dropped to his knees beside a crumpled figure in the rubble. Blood soaked the hem of her skirt. Her face was streaked with ash, curls matted with dust. But her eyes, her eyes were open, blinking at him through the smoke. “I’ve got you,” he breathed, sliding his arms beneath her. “You’re going to be alright.” She didn’t speak, couldn’t, but her hand clutched his sleeve as if to say don’t leave me. The field hospital smelled of iodine and fear. Jack checked her pulse every hour, ignoring the chaos outside, the shouts, the groans, the endless line of wounded. By morning, she stirred. “You’re American,” she rasped, her French accent thick. He smiled, weary. “Last I checked.” She tried to sit up and winced. “Don’t,” he said gently, steadying her with hands that had treated a hundred soldiers but trembled now for the first time. “I’m Éloise,” she whispered. “Jack. She healed slowly, stubbornly, her voice returning before her strength. She asked about his home. He told her about the Tennessee hills, about his mama’s peach pie, about how he’d wanted to be a teacher. “And instead you’re here,” she said one night, watching the shadows of planes slice across the canvas of the medical tent. He nodded. “I save who I can.” She reached for his hand. “You saved me.” He looked down at their fingers, her skin still cool, his warm and calloused. “That’s one thing I don’t regret.” The war pressed on. Orders came. Jack was to move with the 101st in the morning. He came to her in the dark, helmet in his hands, heart in his throat. “I don’t know if I’ll come back,” he said. Éloise stood on unsteady legs, lifted her chin. “Then take this.” She pressed a small bougainvillea blossom into his hand, somehow still blooming through the war. “For luck, and to remember me” He didn’t kiss her. He almost did. But instead, he held her hand against his heart, his hand on her beautiful face. “I’ll find you,” he said. She smiled, tears in her lashes. “Then I’ll wait.” Years later, long after the world stopped burning, she opened her little bookshop in Marseille to find a familiar man standing at the door, older and tired, but holding a brittle, sun-dried blossom between his fingers. She didn’t cry. Not until he said, softly, “I told you I’d find you.” #shortstory #wartimeromance #ai #veo3
The Medic: The world burned in shades of gray and red. Shells cracked the sky open like thunder, and somewhere in the chaos of a shattered French village, Army medic Jack Turner dropped to his knees beside a crumpled figure in the rubble. Blood soaked the hem of her skirt. Her face was streaked with ash, curls matted with dust. But her eyes, her eyes were open, blinking at him through the smoke. “I’ve got you,” he breathed, sliding his arms beneath her. “You’re going to be alright.” She didn’t speak, couldn’t, but her hand clutched his sleeve as if to say don’t leave me. The field hospital smelled of iodine and fear. Jack checked her pulse every hour, ignoring the chaos outside, the shouts, the groans, the endless line of wounded. By morning, she stirred. “You’re American,” she rasped, her French accent thick. He smiled, weary. “Last I checked.” She tried to sit up and winced. “Don’t,” he said gently, steadying her with hands that had treated a hundred soldiers but trembled now for the first time. “I’m Éloise,” she whispered. “Jack. She healed slowly, stubbornly, her voice returning before her strength. She asked about his home. He told her about the Tennessee hills, about his mama’s peach pie, about how he’d wanted to be a teacher. “And instead you’re here,” she said one night, watching the shadows of planes slice across the canvas of the medical tent. He nodded. “I save who I can.” She reached for his hand. “You saved me.” He looked down at their fingers, her skin still cool, his warm and calloused. “That’s one thing I don’t regret.” The war pressed on. Orders came. Jack was to move with the 101st in the morning. He came to her in the dark, helmet in his hands, heart in his throat. “I don’t know if I’ll come back,” he said. Éloise stood on unsteady legs, lifted her chin. “Then take this.” She pressed a small bougainvillea blossom into his hand, somehow still blooming through the war. “For luck, and to remember me” He didn’t kiss her. He almost did. But instead, he held her hand against his heart, his hand on her beautiful face. “I’ll find you,” he said. She smiled, tears in her lashes. “Then I’ll wait.” Years later, long after the world stopped burning, she opened her little bookshop in Marseille to find a familiar man standing at the door, older and tired, but holding a brittle, sun-dried blossom between his fingers. She didn’t cry. Not until he said, softly, “I told you I’d find you.” #shortstory #wartimeromance #ai #veo3
Don’t fall for him…he’s literally a walking red flag 🚩 😵‍💫 #maskedman #youredone #povhewantsyou #delulu #ai #veo3
Don’t fall for him…he’s literally a walking red flag 🚩 😵‍💫 #maskedman #youredone #povhewantsyou #delulu #ai #veo3

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