#booking a taxi in Paris

[taxiservicedisneyland]

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[deeparistransfer]

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[johns-prince]

if you don’t mind, what are some of your favorite soft mclennon moments?

JOHN: I used to try to get George to rebel with me. I’d say to him, “Look, we don’t need these fuckin’ suits. Let’s chuck them out of the window.” My little rebellion was to have my tie loose with the top button of my shirt undone. Paul’d always come up to me and put it straight. [x]

PAUL: There’s a story that I used to straighten John’s tie before we went on stage. That seems to have become a symbol of what my attitude was supposed to have been. I’ve never straightened anyone’s tie in my life, except perhaps affectionately.

The Times Profile of Paul McCartney - 1982 [x]

“And John and Paul thought back to the time they’d been in Paris before. Flat-broke, unable to afford a taxi, without funds for a decent meal. ‘Maybe we’ll buy the Eiffel Tower this time’, said John with a grin.”

“The Beatles in Paris.” Beatles Book Monthly Magazine No. 8 (March 1964). [x]

““Okay, okay,” I said, “don’t go on, John.” I felt a surge of embarrassment because my instrument was the cause of such hilarity. “Look guys, that’s enough. What have you two been doing while we’ve been struggling to get here? I hope you’ve done some practising and got the song list sorted out?” I was getting more and more annoyed as this episode was dragging on. “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry Len. Paul and I have got it all sorted out. Haven’t we Paul? Paul! Paul! I said haven’t we Paul?” Paul McCartney looked up with a wry smile and paused. “Tonight will run just like clockwork. I am going to give the audience the best rendition of ‘Guitar Boogie’ they have ever heard this side of Garston.” “Hey, this is a new twist,” I said. “Paul just cracked a joke. He must have a sense of humour after all, John, shall we have him in the group?” John was enjoying the banter as ever. “Yeah, we’ll give him another try and if you don’t get it right this time, Jimmy,” Jimmy (James) was Paul’s first name, “then…” John waited to see the expression on Paul’s face. “Then we’ll,” again a pause, and by this time we were hanging on John’s next words, “then we’ll have to send him for some more guitar lessons!” Paul joined in the laughter and at that we were all back to normal.”

— Len Garry, John, Paul and Me: Before The Beatles. (1997) [x]

“One of my great memories of John is from when we were having some argument. I was disagreeing and we were calling each other names. We let it settle for a second and then he lowered his glasses and he said: “It’s only me.” And then he put his glasses back on again. To me, that was John. Those were the moments when I actually saw him without the facade, the armour, which I loved as well, like anyone else. It was a beautiful suit of armour. But it was wonderful when he let the visor down and you’d just see the John Lennon that he was frightened to reveal to the world.” [x]

“Whatever bad things John said about me, he would also slip his glasses down to the end of his nose and say, ’I love you’. That’s really what I hold on to. That’s what I believe. The rest is showing off.” [x]

“I remember being shocked one day when John started worrying about how people would remember him when he was gone. It was an incredibly vulnerable thing for him to come out with. I said to him then, ‘They’ll remember you as a fucking genius, because that’s what you are. But, you won’t give a shit because you’ll be up there, flying across the universe.’” [x]

“If John Lennon could come back for a day, how would you spend it with him?”  “In bed.” — Paul McCartney answers questions for Q magazine, 1998. [x]

“John and I grew up like twins although he was a year and a half older than me. We grew up literally in the same bed because when we were on holiday, hitchhiking or whatever, we would share a bed. Or when we were writing songs as kids he’d be in my bedroom or I’d be in his. Or he’d be in my front parlour or I’d be in his, although his Aunt Mimi sometimes kicked us out into the vestibule!”

— September 26, 1997, “Paul McCartney - Meet The Beatle” by Steve Richards [x]

“We were recording the other night, and I just wasn’t there. Neither was Paul. We were like two robots going through the motions. We do need each other alot. When we used to get together after a month off, we used to be embarrassed about touching each other. We’d do an elaborate handshake just to hide the embarrassment… or we did mad dances. Then we got to hugging each other.”

— John Lennon, The Beatles by Hunter Davies [x]

Q: “What musician and composer do you respect most?” Paul: “No, I don’t know, really... John Lennon!” John: *mock-shy* “...Paul McCartney.” [x]

conversations with mccartney, paul du noyer [x]

“It was 8:30. I could hear people talking about the likelihood of a storm later on that evening. I can remember hoping that it would clear up before my cycle ride back to Wavertree. Up to now it had been an eventful day but very tiring and as a group, although committed to playing, we all wished that we could pack up and go home. All of us apart from John Lennon. I think that meeting Paul had whetted his appetite and by the time we went on stage for our session at 8:45 he looked refreshed and seemed to have a new sparkle, as though he had had an injection of renewed optimism and enthusiasm as he played and sang through our usual repertoire that evening. […] I went outside for some air and a smoke; John and Pete decided to come with me. We stood outside pulling on our cigarettes, enjoying the breeze that had risen with the oncoming storm. “Do you know, John,” remarked Pete as we stood outside, “I’ve never heard you sound as good as you did just then. I know you’re going to say that I’m not very musical but I could hear the difference. I can see that something’s happened to you. Even the skiffle numbers which I know you’re not that keen on sounded good. You seem to have put more effort into them.” “Pete’s right, John. I couldn’t help noticing it as well,” I said. John was silent for a few minutes, just enjoying his smoke. “I guess someone took the trouble to share what he knew with me and it’s just given me a little encouragement for the future, that’s all.” “Oh I see, you’re getting a little sentimental in your old age, aren’t you,” joked Pete, who had never seen his life-long friend in that light before. “Don’t be thick, Pete,” replied John, who seemed almost back to his normal abrupt self. “Come on, I need a drink.”” — Len Garry, John, Paul and Me: Before The Beatles. (1997) [x]

[x]

Paul's persistence and endless patience for John while he was dealing with the death of his mother Julia:

But Paul seemed to have limitless patience for John, sneaking away from his classes to drink coffee at the Jacaranda coffeehouse, or else spend the afternoon nursing pints and punching rock ‘n’ roll songs on the jukebox at Ye Cracke pub. Certainly, Paul preferred hanging out with his friend to grinding through lectures and assignments at his schoolboy’s desk at the Liverpool Institute. But the hours they spent together held an emotional significance, too. For even if they rarely spoke about the pain of losing their mothers, the mutual feelings of loss—and the rawness of John’s wound—gave them a connection that was as vital as it was unspoken. It was, Paul said later, a “special bond for us, something of ours, a special thing.” … “We could look at each other,” Paul said, “and know.”” 

…

John, however, had other things on his mind. Though the fall of 1958 and well into 1959, John was far too busy engaging in art-school life—if not exactly his studies—to think much about playing in a rock ‘n’ roll band. He had started dating another student, a quiet blonde from the relatively posh Hoylake district on the Wirral, named Cynthia Powell. She proved a warm, stabilizing influence, which helped mitigate John’s ongoing grief and rage.

He had also grown particularly close to one of the school’s most promising students, a blazingly talented painter named Stuart Sutcliffe, whose emotional portraits and densely wrought abstracts had already caught the eye of the university’s instructors, along with the gallery owners, artists and critics who orbited the bohemian section that bordered the campus. John had been drawn to Stu’s talent, too, and when his classmate invited John to move into his large, if downtrodden, flat around the corner from the college in a row of once-elegant homes on Gambier Terrace, the two art students became even closer. The flat became a hub for their college friends, a reliable address for drinking bouts and all-night parties.

 Nevertheless, Paul made certain not to be a stranger. He was a regular around Gambier Terrace, often toting his guitar to spur a little playing and singing, and if circumstance permitted, a bit of songwriting. John remained an eager music fan, and generally enthusiastic partner for playing and singing. But his disinterest in the band, prompted at least in part by his deepening friendship with Stu, frustrated Paul. 

…

John was moving on, and not in a promising direction. George, for his part, had grown sick of waiting and joined the jazz-and-skiffle centered Les Stewart Quartet, though he made it clear to Paul he’d be back with the Quarrymen whenever they resumed playing. Paul, on the other hand, wasn’t interested in playing with anyone else. For whatever combination of emotional or visceral reasons, he couldn’t seem to imagine a musical life that didn’t include John Lennon as his primary partner.

So he persisted, dragging his guitar to Gambier Terrace, making himself a fixture amid the empty beer bottles, overflowing ashtrays, shattered Vicks inhalers, and paint-splattered clothes.

If John didn’t evince any interest in being in a band, Paul would simply wait, guitar at the ready, until he did.

— Peter Ames Carlin, Paul McCartney: A Life [x]

[sgiandubh]

Season 7B confirmed on Netflix

Just in:

Season 7B will thankfully be available in Romania and other EU countries, starting November 23rd (November 22nd, in the US - different time zone).

I suppose we'll have the same drip/drop system, with one episode per week, on Friday nights, at midnight. The #Jottings series will, then, resume on this page accordingly.

I can only hope by the time Season 8 airs, I will be done with the books. But I wouldn't bet the farm on it, to be honest.

We are ready, Shipper Mom and I. This would be an interesting experiment (I am still embarrassed to watch The Wedding with this very nice and very open-minded lady - and not saying it just because it's well... Mom...).

On a completely different level, I am paging all those who confirmed they are willing and ready to meet & greet (and hug, and cheer) in Paris to contact me in DM. Let's get organized a bit, but no pressure either: we've still got time, still it would be nice to be/keep in touch, for a start. Thanks to @pamalissou, we now know taxi is another good option, for the Versailles trip.

I cannot wait!

[parasolyaa]

give me rtc character hcs for being in the subway for the first time

i love how this implies that they’ve never been in the subway before. well, since most of them almost never left uranium, this checks.

ocean — she always advocated for public transportation (and for some reason believed it wasn’t widely used, probably because she assumed everyone could use a car and subway was for noble people who cared for the environment), but if she ever went to a big city, she never stayed there for long, and usually walked by foot. when she actually used the subway for the first time, she decided to hand out flyers that said something like “thank you for choosing public transit! here are some other ways you can help the planet (…)”. ended up absolutely overwhelmed and in a taxi, wiping tears with the flyers no-one seemed to like. wonder why.

noel — romanticized the shit out of paris metropolitan, said he researched all about it and prided himself on being more knowledgeable of it than a local. when he got to go to france (probs a family/school trip when he was a teen) he bought an overpriced graphic t-shirt with the metropolitan map and confidently entered the underground. immediately got disappointed it wasn’t all gothic catacombs, and accidentally sat on a wrong train. had to take off his t-shirt and figure out where he was, and after two hours of being chest naked in the french underground and hopping from one wrong train to another even wronger train a kind passer-by pointed out that the print on his tee was of marseille, not paris. he spent an extra hour figuring out the correct map and asking for directions in broken french (the locals despised him). he entirely missed the drag show he waited for, and ever since then grew to hate the french underground.

mischa — is in on a ukrainian inside joke about metro in odesa. successfuly convinced all choir that there’s metro in odesa. there is no metro in odesa.

there’s also a ukrainian book called toreadors from vasyukivka, where two boys want to build a metro in their village, so they dig a big hole in their yard and a cow accidentally falls into it. safe to say their idea doesn’t stick. at some point these boys get to kyiv and immediately get lost in metro there. that’s 100% mischa. he did this i was the cow.

also he always finds ways not to pay for his ride: jumps over the tourniquet’s, crawls under them, squeezes in with a person in front of him etc. sometimes gets extremely bored and hides in a train wagon when it reaches the final stop, and stays in it when it goes to depo.

ricky — his parents drove him everywhere by car, and told the tales about toronto subway being inaccessible, dangerous and full of freaks. he never believed them. at some point (maybe in a trip with the choir) he got to travel by subway himslef. it was, in fact, a bit of an unpleasant experience, but he found out that it sucks on his own terms and was lowkey proud.

also he was listening to some cringefail furry music (i do not know if furry music is a thing but it will be now) and realised his earphones disconnected and he was blasting it to everyone only after he got home.

penny — had a secret hiding spot in toronto subway where she could keep her things and return to see them intact. she and ezra hid there often and spied on people, sometimes picking up what fell out of their purses — like pieces of candy or pennies (get it? penny? pennies? penis?). they never stayed there for long tho cause it was too overwhelmingly loud.

one time she went to that place and realised some construction workers occupied it. she was emotionally devastated.

constance — always saves the seat for the elderly, disabled and other people who might need it, and people always thank her plenty when she does so. actually never ever sat on a train seat unless the wagon was mostly empty. however, one time she had a horribly tiring + devastating + bad day and decided to sit down for once. got called 10 slurs by an old guy who didn’t see there was another free seat and ocean then told her she should have thought about others first. when she got home she wrote an angry vent in her musical diary (yk, the ones that open with a password and then play a one direction song or smth) with a fluffy pen.

+ talia — she is a subway rat. has a love/hate relationship with obolon station. has beef with pochayna station. she herself is from solomyanka region of kyiv where there is no subway. considers it her curse.

thank you folks for reading this, feel free to send me asks for headcanons!

[formulaforza]

miss americana & the heartbreak prince

—03. i think i fell in love today —word count: 7.5k —warnings: despicable tooth rotting clawing my eyes out eating the stuffing in my pillows fluff. truly its horrendous. lets talk about it. —love, mackie... i'm sleeping hopefully. right now I am hammocking. the ice cream truck just drove past. I love June.

After Paris, Chris was a bit apprehensive when it came to her ability to navigate the airport in Abu Dhabi with any sort of efficiency. Especially not now, where she needs to go through customs and register for a visitor’s visa and find her luggage and get her money exchanged. Pleasantly, though, she’s surprised at the ease she works through her notes app checklist. It’s within the hour that she’s climbing into the backseat of a taxi and heading to the hotel. 

She spends the entirety of the twenty-something minute drive doing a deep dive on Joris’ Instagram. He’s going to be waiting for you, Charles had told her the night they’d worked it all out. How he knew his friend would be free is beyond Chris, but that's not even the bigger issue at hand. The issue is, of course, that she’s had no more than a momentary interaction with Joris in the background of a FaceTime call two weeks ago. The thought of breezing past him in the hotel lobby is a mortifying one. 

It’s quarter after seven by the time she gets there, and when she catches a glance of herself in a mirror on the wall and almost bursts into laughter. Someone could tell her that she fell down the stairs in Austin and hit her head and is in a coma and it would feel more believable than her life right now. This just… this doesn’t happen to her; five star hotels in foreign countries and heavy accents and guys who call her beautiful from the other side of the globe. 

She spots Joris in an armchair on his phone at the other end of the lobby. She approaches nervously, and he stirs from his phone at her sudden proximity. “Hi,” Chris greets, sounds almost apologetic for interrupting him. “Joris, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” he nods, dragging out the vowel sounds when he glances back down at his screen. Chris wonders if he knows he’s waiting for her. 

She smiles. “I’m Chris.”

“Right!” He snaps his fingers, shoves his phone into his pocket. “Chris.” He stands and opens his arms to hug her like they’re old friends. It’s a move straight from her book, one that she’s pulled on dozens of people before. It’s not one that she’s met with often. Chris thinks they’ll get on well, her and Joris. That’s a good thing, right? Friendly friends. 

Chris’ mom had told her more than once that the quickest way to know someone’s character is through their friends. Only a maniac is rude to animals and elderly and children, she’d said a million times over, it’s the character of the people they choose to spend time with that matters. Joris has no idea Chris is silently observing his every action, picking them apart on a human level.

On the elevator ride up, Joris fills Chris in on everything that’s happened during the free practices that day, tells her that it’s been a relatively clean couple of sessions. You do know of the risk this weekend, yes? P2 or P3, he asks and answers his own question. Chris nods. If she didn’t know, she does now. The room is on the fifth floor, she notes, staring at the glowing five button as she picks at her cuticles. It hits her like a ton of bricks, her anxiety skyrocketing as the elevator ascends, her stomach left behind on the ground level. 

This whole thing is crazy, and not the quirky, silly story you tell your friends about over a vodka cran crazy. Just plain crazy. Insane. Off the wall absurd. Why, why are they sharing a room? Why is she even here? What is it about her that can’t be found somewhere, anywhere, else? And the most prudent question, the one ringing in her ears louder with each passing moment; what is it about him? 

Chris has never considered herself to be logical, not in the slightest, but she does like to maintain the idea that she’s well grounded. She might not always act in a way that makes the most sense, but she always makes those choices within the bounds of her reality. 

And, because her nerves permeate off her like a thirteen-year-old’s B.O, Joris takes a stab at cooling her down. “How was your planes?”

“Good. Smooth.” she nods, forces a smile. Her weight shifts from heel to heel, thumbs looped through her backpack straps. The floor is a shiny black marble with white and gold veins, one that commands your attention. Chris pulls her eyes from it to look at him anyway. Nervous and insane or not, she wants to make a good impression. “I could do without navigating the airport in Paris ever again, though.”

“Oh,” he laughs. “It never gets easier.”

“Does any of it?” She offers up a laugh, but it’s as genuine as the smile her face held before. 

He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off with the ding of the doors opening. There, in the hallway with more marble floors and a wallpaper that walks the line between elegant and gaudy, a couple stands on a white carpet runner. The man has on a Mercedes cap. Chris wonders if they know a Formula One driver is staying on their floor. 

The four of them sidestep awkwardly around each other with polite smiles to the floor, and before she knows it Joris is holding a keycard over the lock on a heavy door and handing the piece of plastic to her. 

It’s not a room. It’s a suite. There’s a living room and a kitchenette and a whole separate bedroom to this place. It’s expensive, wildly so, she’s sure. 

She wheels her suitcase into the bedroom, leaves it in the corner by an armchair with her backpack. At the bottom of the bag is her purse, which she digs out while Joris is using the bathroom, moving things around from one bag to the other. 

The drive to the circuit is twenty minutes, at least, and Joris talks the whole time, mostly about how nervous he is and how hard he’s trying to make sure Charles doesn’t notice. Chris doesn’t tell him that Charles is also beyond nervous about the whole thing–or that he knows good and well everyone around him is losing their minds. It doesn’t seem like the type of thing that would make Joris feel any better. 

“Pascale and Enzo, you know them, yes? Charles’ Mum and brother?” Joris questions.

“Nope,” Chris shakes her head. “Not yet.”

Oh, he doesn’t say. “You’ll like them if you like Charles,” he laughs. “You do like Charles?”

Chris bites down on a smile, a laugh leaving her nose in an exhale. “I do.”

“Good, good.” He nods. “Anyway, they are not here tonight, they already have gone back to the hotel. Arthur is there, still. Do you know him?”

“I think it’s going to be easier for both of us if you just assume I don’t know anyone.”

“Ah, okay. Will do.”

Chris wonders what Charles has said about her to Joris, to Arthur, to anyone. All of the stories he has or hasn’t told them about. She has almost exclusively not talked about him back home. Not because she doesn’t want to, she just can’t figure out how to say anything without sounding like a reality television star. Maybe he’s the same way. There’s a real chance that nobody in his family even knows that she’s coming, and maybe that’s the way she’d like it to be. 

Her reunion with Charles couldn’t be more different than their first meeting. The paddock is empty with exception of team crews and straggling media members. There isn’t a Bud Light in sight and the pass hanging around her neck has a picture of her on the back. He must’ve pulled it from her Instagram, the one that he keeps talking about wanting to follow back. A picture of her and CHRISTYN ELLIOTT - FULL WEEKEND written in bold letters. 

“He’s probably at the briefing,” Joris explains, checking his watch and walking one stride for every two of Chris’. She tries her hardest to keep up with him as he expertly navigates the paddock, all while trying to memorize his moves so she doesn’t end up stranded sometime this weekend. 

A whistle gets their attention, cutting sharply through the hot desert air. Her and Joris both snap their heads around to find the perpetrator of the summons. Charles pats Pierre’s shoulder and jogs ahead of the group of drivers, all already engaged in their own conversations and heading off into different directions. 

He has such a carefree smile on his face, jogging over with happy eyes and wiggling brows and a stupid little wink that puts a smile on her face. “Hello, Christyn,” he quips, greets her with open arms. And then, once his arms are pulling her to him so tight she can’t take a full breath, when he has so much energy to give her he can’t help but rock on the sides of his feet, he whispers just for her, “Hi,” a soft kiss on the crown of her head, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

All she can think about is how warm he is. Warm, and smells so nice. She doesn’t know how she’s going to ever go home. Not when he’s so warm. 

“How was the planes?” He asks, an arm comfortable slotting around her as they resume their walk to wherever it is she’s being led. 

“Uh, I’m tired, but.” She smiles. At him. Right there where she can touch him. Where he is touching her. “I’m here, so. I’m happy.”

On the walk back to hospitality, she asks him how his day’s gone. He’s sure she already knows, that Joris talked her ear off the entire drive over or that she’d checked the media reports of the practice sessions, but it’s nice to pretend she doesn’t know. He tries to summarize everything as concise as he can, because even though he loves talking to her, he’d much rather listen. He can listen to her talk until the sun burns out.

He’s not surprised to notice that Joris has peeled off from them, especially not because he didn’t even realize he wasn’t trailing behind him and Chris until he held open the door to his driver’s room and Joris was nowhere to be found.

He can’t count the amount of texts he’s had to have sent Chris from his driver’s room. How badly he wanted to just be talking with her, and now she’s here. She’s here, she’s here, she’s here with him. 

He moves around the room, cleaning and reorganizing his things for a fresh start in the morning. Casually, he mentions that he has a sponsorship obligation tonight, last race and all, and that Arthur and Joris are coming along. He doesn’t speak it so offhandedly because he’d forgotten, but because he didn’t want her to get freaked out by the idea of it. He explains that she’s welcome to tag along, or, if she’d feel more comfortable, she can stay here while Andrea packs up his things. 

She’s leaning against the wall just next to the doorway, watching him. Without hesitation, she replies, “I’ll come with you.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, looking to her. “You don’t have to.”

She nods, looks at the ground or the couch or something that isn’t him, folds her hand to look at her nails and lets out an almost silent laugh. His stomach drops. “You sound like you don’t want me to go.”

“No, no.” He corrects, and she still doesn’t look at him. He waves for her attention, cocks his head to the side when he gets it, “No. That’s not. I just want you to do what you want to do.”

“I want to go.”

“Okay,” he smiles.

She crosses her arms over her chest, looks like she’s trying so hard not to smile at him. “You’re being weird, you know?”

He shrugs, because she’s right. “I told you I would be.”

“Well,” Chris sighs, moves across the room to the small couch in the corner, “why are you being weird?”

“Because.” I want to kiss you, he stops himself from saying. I’ve wanted to kiss you since I saw you twenty minutes ago, since you decided to come, since I met you, maybe. 

“Because, why?” She laughs, and he’s suddenly struck with the thought of what her laughter might taste like. Sweet, surely, just like it sounds. Like a popsicle on a summer day. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he tries his absolute hardest to wipe that thought from his brain before texting his brother back. “Je veux t'embrasser tout le temps,” I want to kiss you all the time, he mumbles, isn’t even sure it actually leaves his lips or if he keeps it locked in the vault. He continues to send his reply to Arthur. 

“You know I don’t understand what you just said,” Chris reminds him. That’s why it came out in French, he thinks. Not everything is meant to be said. 

“I said,” he pauses, sends the text, looks back at her. God. “I said I want to kiss you.”

She crosses one leg over the other, looks down at her pants like there is something in her lap to fix. He can see the blush on the tips of her ears, even though she’s trying to hide her cheeks. When she does look up, face still flushed, she tucks her bangs behind her ears and replies softly, “you’re allowed to kiss me, Charles.”

He can’t believe he hasn’t yet. That he’d hugged the life out of her, kissed her hair and told her how happy he is she’s there, that he’d thought about kissing her for weeks, that he didn’t fucking kiss the girl yet. They’re sharing a bedroom tonight, and he still hasn’t kissed her. He thought about it, he did. But they’d promised to keep things as quiet as they could. Now, he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t have stopped him from throwing all those conversations out the window. 

If there wasn’t something weird in the air before, there certainly is now. A new weird. A good weird. An implication of something in the air, weird. It’s out there now, ust hanging above them. I want to kiss you. You can kiss me. Now all that’s left is for one of them to make the move. 

It’s the least he can do–make the first move. She flew across the globe, he can fucking kiss her. He wants to fucking kiss her. He feels like a little kid, the giddy smile that pulls on the corners of his lips when he walks over to her. He does little to conceal his intent.

“What?” She asks with a smile on her face. A tease, she has to know. 

He holds out his hands, palms forward to her and she follows his lead, reaches up to lace their fingers together. “I like you, you know?” He asks, leans his weight against her hands. Some hands are just meant to be held. 

She giggles like a child, pure and innocent and like nothing bad has ever happened to her. Like the childhood dog and all four grandparents are still kicking. “I can’t hold you up.”

“What?” He quirks a brow, leans more weight onto her hands and she laughs harder, her arms shaking below him. 

“Charles!”

“I said I like you, Chris!”

Through weak arms and uncontrollable belly laughs, she manages to choke out in gulps for air, “I like you, too.” In a swift movement, he recenters his weight on his own feet, pulling Chris up from the couch. The force of his pull almost knocks her from her feet, both of them still laughing, fingers dancing with the others on either side of their frames. The laughter is light and airy and barely there, but it’s laughter nonetheless. When their hands do fall apart, their pinkies stay looped together without force, without any pull at all, just comfortably slotted against the other. “I really like you,” she adds, and her voice sounds like smiles look. 

She blushes under her own words, over the entirety of their private moment, eyes darting from eyes to lips and back to eyes. “Yeah?” He asks quietly, like he’s scared asking might change her answer. She nods, biting down on the smile that paints her bottom lip, and it’s more than enough for him. She’s so good. She’s too good not to kiss. 

He moves a hand to her jaw, thumbs her cheek with fingers slotted behind her ear, dancing along her hairline like a whisper of what’s to come. Like a promise. In the absence of his hand, hers finds his chest, just his thin Ferrari shirt separating her palm from the butterflies stirring wildly in his chest. “Me, too,” he says softly. Softer than she did, more to her lips—soft and pretty and his favorite shade of pink—than to her eyes. And then, either so softly only the atoms hear it, or maybe in his head entirely, “very much.”

And then he kisses her. 

She tastes like mint chapstick and biscoff cookies and coffee. Her lips are soft, softer than they looked, softer than her voice. It’s like a boost of energy, kissing her. Like an immediate and complete charge. 

She tightens her grip on his other pinky. Tightens it, loosens it, re-intertwines the whole hand somewhere off in the distance, far, far away from where he wishes to stay forever. This alone is worth a flight anywhere. Altitude sickness and limbs falling asleep and jet lag and headaches from screaming babies are all poor inhibitors when this would be waiting for him on the other side. 

He pulls his hand from hers because it's just not close enough. Nothing is going to be close enough, but he’ll try his damndest to cup her jaw and pull her deeper into the kiss. Their noses bump awkwardly and they pull apart in a breathless laugh. Nothing more than a quick, shared smile and he’s kissing it off her face, tugging on her bottom lip with his teeth and letting her hum mumbles into his mouth. Teeth clacking and more laughing, so breathless it’s practically silent. 

“Chris Elliott,” he says all sing-songy, just because he knows it’ll make her laugh. A quick peck, because he can. “You are something.”

“Charles Leclerc,” she mimics, wide eyes and raised brows and a beaming smile. A quick peck, because he’s never going to stop her. “Something good?”

He hums. “Something great.”

“You’re silly,” she says, and he laughs. 

“Silly?” She nods. “You’re cute.” Chris rolls her eyes, but still has that child’s smile on her face and a pink flush to her cheeks. He kisses her again, quick, because he has a month to make up for. 

“I know,” she retorts, deadpan. He laughs louder than any sane man should. 

Joris, Arthur, and Andrea file into the room a few minutes later. Chris is leaning against the wall again, scrolling through her phone. She clicks it off when they walk in, shoves it deep into her purse pocket. 

Andrea’s eyes bounce from Chris to Charles, and then back to Chris, holding out a hand for her to shake. “Andrea,” he greets, formal and cool. 

“Chris,” she smiles, shakes the outstretched hand. 

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” she nods. “You too.”

First bad impression. She doesn’t know what it is she did, but with the simple half-minute observation of his interactions with her versus the rest of the people in the room, it’s obvious he’s already soured on her. 

Arthur, though, Arthur is almost off putting in his resemblance to Charles. Same voice, same face, certainly same bloodline. She thinks she could recognize him anywhere, probably. He, however, on his phone, doesn’t even notice Chris’ presence in the room until Joris elbows him on the sofa. 

“Quoi?!” He exclaims in a defensive tone that transcends language barriers. The kind that only brothers know how to use. 

“Hi,” Chris says, and Arthur’s head shoots from Joris to her in the doorway. He almost laughs, he’s so surprised by her presence. “I’m Chris,” she adds, holding out a hand only because he's sitting and she’s standing and a hug doesn’t feel logistically sound. 

“Ah, Chris,” Arthur nods, shakes her hand. “Charles does not answer my phone calls because of you.”

“Oh,” she offers a weak smile. “I’m sorry about that.”

“No, no. I do not want to hear from him.”

Chris laughs. From the other side of the room, Charles chimes in, “then why are you calling me?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Maman say, ‘do you call Charles’ and I say ‘yes he does not answer me.’”

- - -

They run into Carlos and co. on the way to the sponsorship event. Chris tries to hang back towards the end of the group, back with Joris and Arthur and away from Charles, purely out of self preservation. They’d agreed in passing that everything would be much easier, hundreds of times simpler, if nobody knew Chris was there this weekend, if everything was kept under the radar. Charles, however, seems to have forgotten that agreement because, no matter how engaged he gets into a conversation, he is constantly looking for her in the group, reaching his hand out to her if she’s within distance to do so, keeping her as close to him as he can. 

She keeps falling back though, falling into ranks. She doesn’t want to look like a girlfriend, because she isn’t. 

Chris has no idea how to be a public… girl? A fling or a girlfriend or anything in between. She’s at home at a race track, yes, and during Chase’s championship winning season, she got stopped three times to take pictures with fans, but, really. Nobody has ever cared about what she’s doing or who she’s doing it with. 

Walking in behind Carlos and Charles is like walking in behind celebrities. Everyone wants to shake their hands, to pat them on the shoulders and tell them this thing or another. There’s lots of languages being thrown around that she doesn’t recognize, accents she struggles to understand. 

“This is crazy,” she says quietly, just to herself. 

Arthur nudges her with his elbow to steal her attention, furrows his brows for a moment and holds up a quizzical thumbs up. Chris nods, smiles gratefully. 

Charles promised that it was going to be nothing more than a quick stop at the event, and he meant it. They aren’t even there long enough to sit down. Instead they hang out in the back of the tent near the bar, watching Charles and Carlos talk on stage with several different people about how important this brand is for us.  

They decide to go out to dinner after, despite Chris’ burning desire to go to sleep for a couple years. They get sat at a booth that’s probably made to hold no more than four people; Andrea and Joris on one side, Charles sandwiched between Chris and Arthur on either side. He finds her hand under the table, his thumb tracing along the lines of her fingers. Chris, against all urges to rest her head on his shoulder, rests it instead on the wooden divider between their booth and the neighboring one. 

Arthur is the only one who struggles to speak English rather than his mother tongue, and while Charles corrects him each time, Chris doesn’t dare. She’d rather die than imply someone speaking in a second language needs to improve the way they speak it. 

“Are you going to be with us all weekend?” Arthur asks around Charles’ frame. 

“I’m actually going to be in the grandstands,” she smiles. Charles rolls his eyes. 

“Oh?” Arthur asks, looks to his brother, but Joris beats him to the punch. 

“You couldn’t get her a pass for the whole weekend?” Joris chirps. Andrea laughs and Charles reaches for the pass hung around her neck. She didn’t even realize she was the only person still wearing it until now. Charles flips the pass over, points out the FULL WEEKEND on the back. 

“Her choice, not mine.”

She reaches to take the pass out of his hand, to pull it off over her head and put it into her purse. “I’m hoping for a drama-free weekend,” she says, and the boys laugh. Charles’ hand finds her thigh, gives it a little pat and a comfortable squeeze. 

Her hands are meant to be held, they really are. He could hold her hand until the moment she leaves, fingers locked together as they walk through the hotel corridor, empty and echoey with their voices and the sound of their feet on the carpet runner. 

Once in the room, face to face together with the single bed, they both burst into laughter. He’s glad he cleaned things up before she got here, because the room was starting to look a little like his driver’s room–clothes strewn about messily, plastic water bottles on the end table, a television remote he lost the night he got here and hadn’t found until this morning. In the corner, Chris’ luggage sits beside the armchair, backpack neatly stacked with a single suitcase. 

“Did you bring your whole wardrobe?” He jokes, and maybe it’s because he’s never been great at conveying jokes in English, or maybe it’s that they’re both absolutely exhausted, but the joke doesn't land. She’s immediately apologizing, spewing out a jumbled apology about I didn’t know what I was supposed to wear, and then– “I’m messing with you,” he says, and hates that she thinks he’d be that worked up over a suitcase, especially when he’d brought at least double what she had. She could have shown up with twenty suitcases and he still wouldn’t have thought it was too much because, well, she’s here. Right in front of him. 

“Oh,” she pouts, and he kisses the look off her face. He’s wanted to do that since he saw it for the first time. “Oh. I like when you do that.” Good, he thinks. Get used to it. 

They both make plans to shower; her before him. He’s on the couch in the living area of the suite when she re-emerges from the bathroom, the TV rolling and absentmindedly scrolling through his phone. When the sliding door to the bathroom opens, he looks up to watch her. 

Her hair long down her back, carefully combed out so that the soaking ends turn the fabric of her sun-worn blue t-shirt a darker shade. It’s big on her–the shirt–hangs almost long enough that you wouldn’t be able to spot the flannel shorts underneath. He can still hear the sink running in the bathroom and she’s got a toothbrush in her mouth. 

He whistles when she walks back from the bedroom towards the bathroom again, and she stops in the doorway, laughs around the toothbrush and does a sweet spin. “Bellissimo,” he says, gestures a chef’s kiss and she bows dramatically. 

After his shower, he finds her in the bedroom, comfortably perched against the headboard, tucked under the crisp white duvet. The only light in the place is coming from her end table lamp, casting a soft shadow on her face, her knees pulled up close while she turns the pages of a book. He hovers around his suitcase watching her, completely in her own world, the only hint of her presence on this plane being the subtle lean into the light to better illuminate the pages she turns. 

It’s not the first time he’s found himself looking at her like this. She’s easy to get lost in and almost never notices him staring. She just gets so focused on the task at hand–grading papers, cooking a meal, painting her nails, watching a television show, or like tonight, reading her current library rental. 

“Do you want a water?” He asks. Her eyes don’t leave the page, a subtle shake of the head before she finally mumbles a no, thank you. He navigates the dark suite to the kitchenette, finds himself a plastic water bottle in the mini-fridge, and then he’s pulling back the comforter to climb into bed with her. “So, I was thinking tomorrow–” he starts, but she cuts him off with a singular finger held in the air. He can’t help but laugh, stupid smile on his face while he watches her eyes hurriedly finish the page, dog ear the tiniest fold onto the corner. 

“Sorry,” she unapologetically offers, setting the book down on the end table. “What were you saying?”

“Uh, I don’t remember,” he says, because he lost it while he tried to guess what she was reading based on the little microexpressions that crossed her face. His eyes fall to the gold chain around her neck, to the small cross that lays over the blue fabric of her shirt. He’s noticed it dozens of times, it’s constant presence in every picture, every video, every call and outfit and event. He doesn’t even think when he reaches for it, examines it with gentle fingers. “Is this a, uh…” he struggles to find the word, “how do you say, family tradition?”

“Heirloom?”

He nods, drops the piece of jewelry back to its rightful spot. “Heirloom.”

“No, it was a birthday gift,” she explains, fingers the chain of it, “from my brother when I turned eighteen.”

He nods, points out the other necklace she’s wearing, a flower with a pearl in the center. “And this?”

She laughs, “it’s silly,” she says. “It goes with these earrings I have, they’re from my parents when I graduated college.” He learns the flower is a chrysanthemum, that her dad has always called her Mum, that her mom has a particular affinity for pearls that she’s passed onto Chris, that all of these things have combined into this piece of jewelry hanging around her neck and that she cried and cried when they gifted it to her. 

Because the sun is still burning, he doesn’t stop asking about the different pieces she wears until he’s run out of ones to point to. He learns the story of a ruby ring–her birthstone–that she found in a thrift store for seventy-five cents when she was fifteen, how it used to fit on her pointer finger but now it fits her ring finger, how sometimes she makes up elaborate stories of how it ended up in the bargain bin of a Goodwill in North Georgia. 

She tells him about three friendship bracelets. The first and second are made by students, her favorite gifts. The third, blue and yellow–NAPA colors, her brother’s racing colors–made by her nephew. “He’s four, and he is everything annoying about my brother and everything good about my best friend, and I think I would kill someone for him.” Charles is sure that tomorrow he’ll be telling someone they wouldn’t believe the way she lights up when she talks about this kid. 

When he’s run out of things to question, she’s examining the red string tied around his wrist. “What about you?” She asks, “what’s up with this guy?”

“My mate, Pierre. He learns about it from our other friend Yuki,” He explains. “They always know the strangest things, Pierre and Yuki,” he chuckles, continues to explain the traditional symbol of good luck. “I don’t know how well it works, though,” he laughs, and she kisses him. It surprises him, but he’s in no place to complain. Perhaps the bracelet works quite well, he thinks when she moves closer, snuggles under his arm while he continues. 

Three metal bracelets. One red, one silver, one stainless steel. Morse code: Amour, Bonheur, Smile. A ring that matches the bracelet. Two hex rings that track his heart rate and his sleep and a million other things.

He spins the rings while he talks, pulls them off and hands one to her without missing a beat in his sentence. She toys with it while she listens, hands it back to him with a quiet yawn. When he kisses her hair, it’s still damp and smells like the shampoo she used, something he can’t place, something he hopes eventually to memorize. “You’re cute when you’re sleepy.”

“You told me that last week.”

“I know,” another kiss against the unfamiliar scent. “I meant it.”

Charles wants to order room service for breakfast. Chris shuts that idea down the minute it comes out of his mouth, furrowing her brows and making him attempt to rationalize waiting half an hour for food that’s five minutes away. He can’t, so they head to the lobby. 

Chris is wearing the same shirt, pulls a pair of sweatpants over her flannel shorts and ties her hair into a messy, tangled ponytail. She’d keep it down, but her hair dried while she slept and it’s pointing in directions that defy gravity. A ponytail was the only option. Charles doesn’t change, keeps the t-shirt and shorts he slept in on. 

They find Andrea in the lobby, eating at a table for two by himself. Charles pulls a chair over from a nearby table and they sit down with him. By the time Joris appears, the table is officially too full of food to comfortably function. 

She hears his phone vibrate against the hard plastic of his chair, and he casually mentions that the rest of his family is on their way down. 

Chris doesn’t react, not externally, anyways. She finishes what’s left in her mug, bee-lines it over to the coffee bar to make another. Absent-mindedly, she tears the foil from the creamer cups, rips open the sugar packets and stirs it all together. His mom. His mom. His mom. It’s all she can think about. His mother. The woman who gave him life. Chris knew she’d be meeting his mom this weekend, but she figured she’d have more preparation than a couple minutes warning, assumed she’d be dressed, hair styled, makeup done. That she’d be presenting herself as someone you’d be happy to have your son spend time with, not like a  7/11 customer in Dahlonega at one in the morning. Maybe Charles was right and room service was a good idea. 

Even once she’s back at the table, every elevator ding makes her jump, shoots her head in the direction of the opening doors just terrified the people walking out are going to be his family. 

“Are you good?” Charles asks after she flinches at the third elevator bell. 

“Yup,” she lies, slaps a big, phony smile on her face and takes a sip of her coffee. His hand finds her leg, gives it a little you’ll be fine squeeze. 

The next elevator is carrying his family. She instinctively straightens in her seat, moves things around the crowded table so her food looks neat and managed. Joris looks at her with concern, Charles laughs when she refolds a napkin. “Don’t laugh at me,” she whispers. 

Out of earshot, Arthur says something through a stretch and a yawn. His mom rolls her eyes, pushes him in the direction of the coffee bar, mutters something to his other brother that makes him chuckle. When his mom spots Chris, she makes a bee-line for her with open arms. Chris practically trips over the leg of her chair trying to stand up before the hug reaches her. 

“Come here, chérie,” she smiles. It’s warm, just like her boy’s. “I have heard so much about you.” Oh? Chris smiles, suddenly aware that she’s apparently horribly unprepared for this entire introduction. He’s telling his mother about her? 

She hugs Pascale back and looks over her shoulder to Charles with wide eyes. She’s met with a matching expression, Charles shrugging and shaking his head as if to adamantly tell her he has no idea what his mom is talking about. “And what have you heard, Maman?” He asks with a laugh. 

“Don’t start with me,” she says, wagging a finger at her boy, and then to Chris, “Ignore him.” She holds her at arm's length, hands on either shoulder and looks her up and down. Chris laughs, nervous but still noticeably genuine. “You are just beautiful, aren’t you?”

Well. Beautiful isn’t a word Chris would use to describe herself at this moment. Ratty, perhaps. Disheveled. Off-putting. But sure, beautiful is a word she might sometimes describe herself as. “Me?” She shakes her head, “ma’am, look at yourself.”

“Oh, please,” his mom scoffs. “Pascale.”

“Pascale.” Chris smiles, goes in for another hug.

Whether it’s because he’s a brother and not a mother, or because meeting said mother is done and over with, Chris is significantly less anxious when it comes to her introduction with Lorenzo. 

Chris attempts to insist Pascale take her seat, but is out-insisted to finish her breakfast. Charles finds her hand under the table, winks at her when she interlocks her fingers with his. 

– – – 

Outside of their shared breakfast, Saturday is a long day apart for Chris and Charles. A quick kiss goodbye in their hotel room when Charles finishes getting ready, a quicker “good luck,” from Chris called after him on his way out the door, and a thumbs up over his head as a response summarizes their interactions for the rest of the day. 

Chris works on next week’s lesson plans for a few hours, nothing better to do while she waits to leave for the track. 

She watches the third practice session and quali from the grandstand across from the pitlane, and while neither are his greatest showing, Chris can feel it in her bones that everything is going to fall into place for him tomorrow. A third place start is more than good enough to beat out Perez at Red Bull. She knows it like she knows her own name, and nobody is going to tell her otherwise. 

She goes back to the hotel after quali, doesn’t bother to attempt sneaking into the paddock to try and find him. It just doesn’t feel worth it–navigating a place she doesn’t know, avoiding the cameras and the reporters and the chaos–not when he’ll be coming back to the hotel, back to her. 

She falls asleep moments after sitting down on the couch, and isn’t woken up until she doesn’t even know when. It’s the middle of the night, Charles tells her, guides her to bed and tucks her in like a child, complete with a kiss on the forehead. 

- - -

The first words out of her mouth on Sunday morning are an apology. 

When Charles tries to cut her off with a laugh and a kiss, she stops him just short of her lips, claiming morning breath. “Wow,” he feigns shock. “First you fall asleep on me, now you will not kiss me?”

She rolls her eyes, grabs the back of his neck and pulls him down to kiss her. “Happy?”

He nods and kisses her again. He keeps waiting for it to not feel so exciting, so much like a stupid movie, so young, and it’s yet to reach that point. It’s not even coming close. “Yes, thank you.”

From the other side of the bathroom wall she dares to ask him if he’s nervous, if the pressure is finally manifesting itself into stress. He’s quiet for a while. 

“No,” he eventually calls back.

“No?”

He peels around the doorway, messing with the collar on his team shirt. “Yes,” he admits with a scale-breaking sigh. She wishes he was as sure as himself as she is, that he could feel in his bones it is all going to work out perfectly. 

“Well, I’ll be here when you’re done, and we can either celebrate Charles Leclerc, Vice World Champion,” he turns away at the title, the side profile of a smile turning the corner back into the bathroom. “Or, we can celebrate the end of an exhausting season. Either way, we’re celebrating.” He stays quiet. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he finally speaks, tone lackluster, unconfident. It’s hard to hear him like this, to hear the distinct shards of doubt that rattle in his chest. “We’re celebrating.”

We’re celebrating. Tonight is a celebration. The positives with the negatives, the good always outweighs the bad. She reminds herself like it’s a mantra. Tonight is a celebration. 

- - -

Alone in the grandstands with an air of certainty about her, Chris’ bar for friendship has never been lower. She finds a group of girlfriends who appear to be sort-of, almost, kind-of, maybe in the same age demographic as she is. They speak English and don’t ignore her when she talks, and that’s enough for her to latch onto for the evening. 

We like McLaren, they tell her, But those Ferrari boys–they’re cute. You can’t help but feel for them. Chris just smiles and nods, offers up a laugh and pretends she won’t be falling asleep next to one of those cute boys later tonight. 

The girls–flew in from London on Friday just for this-fill her in on everything she already knows. They tell her about Charles and his fight for P2, about the strategic pitfalls of Ferrari and the fact that on paper, it was Charles’ year to win it all. 

They’re more nervous during the race than Chris is, not to say that her leg isn’t bouncing watching the times constantly changing, that she isn’t whispering mumbles prayers into the air between here and there, just that she knows. She knows. 

If it was possible to stare through a helmet, Chris would’ve done it during his pitstop, burning the confidence right into his frontal lobe. Her eyes are glued to his car, his helmet, distant and small and buzzing with energy. He’s got it under control, like a perfectly wrapped gift sat in his lap, like a row of monkey bars and hands hardened by months of blisters, like a first kiss and a second kiss and a third kiss. He’s got it under control.

He does, because after what feels simultaneously like the longest and shortest fifty-eight laps of her life, Chris practically has a front row seat to Charles doing donuts. She’s so happy that she thinks she might cry, not that it takes much of anything to pull a tear from her when she’s this exhausted. The girls she’d befriended jump and celebrate and cheer louder than the fireworks. 

Chris tries to live the moment. To feel it all, the energy and the roar and the joy, which only makes it that much harder not to cry. 

Suddenly, momentarily, irrationally emotionally, while she watches him celebrate with his family and his team in front of the whole world she wishes she was down there with him. Screw the world watching, she wants to hug him until her arms are numb and kiss him until she passes out.

There’s no telling when–or even if–she’s going to ever live through a moment like this again. It’s not one she wants to forget. In the chaos of it all, her hand finds her chest, the hard metal of her cross necklace through the fabric of her top, the pulsing of her heartbeat, loud and racing. 

It’s hours before he’s back to the hotel, but it doesn’t feel late at all. He’s still running on adrenaline, just as ready to celebrate as he was when he jumped into his team’s arms. Over the mechanical shifting of the door lock, he can hear Chris’ feet echoing on the floor just on the other side and before he can even make it through the doorway she’s crashing into him. The pure energy that she is knocks him back a few steps, but then he’s hugging her back just as hard, maybe harder. 

He can feel her tears soak through his shirt, and with a laugh asks if she’s crying. 

“Shut up,” she says, and it only makes him laugh harder, hug tighter. God, the show he would have put on if he could’ve found her right after the race. The trouble he would make. “Oh, my god!” She sniffles, pulls her head off his chest and wipes away her tears. “Kiss me, already!”

And so he does. He kisses the shit out of her. 

She pulls away with a smile, arms slinked around his neck like it belongs to her. “So, how does it feel?” She asks, “Vice World Champion, Charles Leclerc.”

He gives her a quick kiss, nothing more than a peck, shrugs, and repeats the action. “Too busy kissing the girl.”

“You’re such an idiot,” she laughs, drops her head so it’s against his chest and vibrates his entire being. It’s a laugh that lights stars, dances around the room like a windchime in the warm August air. The kind so distinct you could hear it across a room ten years later and still know it was her. “A walking cheeseball.”

“A cheeseball?” He humors. 

“I said what I said.”

His satisfied hum says more than words ever could, fingers comfortable dancing along the bone of her hip. “We gotta get ready,” he says. 

“For what?”

“The celebration.”

last chapter masterlist next chapter

[httpsdana]

𝐔𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬~𝐀 𝐅𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐢 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐭 𝟏𝟖

summary: Barça players and talented footballers. Souls meet and sparks fly. But there's always a twist when it comes to love isn't there?

pairing: Ferran Torres x Gonzalez!Reader

warnings: cursing, slight age gap, angst

previous part -> next part

"I tried convincing Xavi to have you sleep in my room but he said I shouldn't be distracted before tomorrow" Ferran whined, and y/n almost heard the pout in his voice

She laughed slightly before speaking.

"it's not a problem amor me and the girls have already booked our rooms" she said, dropping one last dress in her suitcase.

"when is your flight?" Ferran asked, making y/n look at the clock that was in her room. Her eyes widened when she saw the time

"shit. Sara is coming over any moment now. flight is in 2 hours almost" y/n said, quickly closing her bag/

"you're going with her to the airport yeah?" he asked. y/n hummed fixing her hair in the mirror quickly

"well I have to go now. I'll see if I can see you tonight yeah?" she said, grabbing her small bag that she will keep with her.

"okay love. have a safe flight, text me when you land okay?" he said

"okay. I love you bye" y/n hung up, before realizing what she had said to Ferran. They neve said i love you to each other, and she just said in over call without even hearing his response

She let out a sigh before she received a text message

Fer <3

i love you more darling

y/n smiled, blushing deeply before sending him a couple of red hearts. She grabbed all her bags before she saw a text from Sara saying that she arrived

y/n locked up her apartment, and walked to Sara's car.

"helloo" she said, putting her bag in the back and giving Sara a kiss on her cheek.

"hey gorgeous. ready?" Sara said. y/n smiled and nodded, before turning to the baby in his car seat in the back

"hello there Kais. ready to go to Paris?" y/n tickled him, making him giggle

"are the girls already at the airport?" Y/n asked Sara. She nodded with a hum

"Mikkey said they went early" she said. y/n nodded, while they continued their drive in silence

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Sara and y/n were the last to reach the airport. Katrine (Christensen's wife), Mikkey (Frenkie's wife), Natalia (Raphinha's wife), Daniela(Ter Stegen's wife), Dayana(Vitor's wife) and Sira were all there.

y/n greeted everyone, while they waited to start boarding.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

The plane finally landed and the girls took 3 taxis to their hotel. They all met in the lobby to take their rooms. It seemed like the hotel already distributed their rooms.

Sara took the list before looking at y/n with an awkward look.

"'what is it?" she asked, walking up to see the paper in her hand.

"you and Sira are sharing a room" she whispered. y/n exhaled, seeing how Sara felt bad about it.

Sara knew y/n wasn't a fan of Sira so she wanted to share a room with her instead. But apparently the hotel has another plan.

"I can tell them to switch with her if you want?" Sara suggested. y/n smiled at her, before shaking her head.

"it's fine don't worry" y/n assured her.

"okay so Natalia and Dayana in room 45. Dani and Katrine in room 47. Me and Mikkey in room 48. y/n and Sira in room 46" Sara said, handing out the keys to each pair.

y/n took hers while Sira had already took hers and started her walk to the room. Sara look at y/n with sympathetic look, making y/n shake her head to reassure her.

"don't worry Sara. it's not your fault. I'll see you guys tonight yeah?" y/n said to the girls, giving each one of them a hug

She walked behind Sira to the elevator, that took them to the second floor where there room was. Sira seemed to be annoyed that she shared a room with y/n. Not that y/n is enjoying it either but she chose to ignore her.

They entered their room, each one of them taking a bed and starting to unpack some of their important stuff.

As y/n started to put some of her clothes in the closet, Sira chose to speak.

"so how did you and Ferran start talking" she asked, making y/n raise her eyebrows, confused at her sudden start of conversation

"excuse me?" y/n replied

"I mean honestly I didn't expect Ferran to find someone that quickly after me especially not someone like you" she shrugged, making y/n even more confused

someone like her? what's that supposed to mean

"what do you mean?" y/n asked, swallowing the lump that was forming in her throat

"I mean he said he's always more into feminine girls so it was a surprise to see him dating a football players" Sira said, while she was also unpacking her stuff

was she not 'feminine' enough for Ferran?

"you do now that me and Ferran dated do you?" Sira asked, turning to look at y/n with a small smirk

y/n nodded, turning to the closet again so Sira doesn't see the look on her face.

"did he tell you or did you see it on social media?" she asked again. she was asking a lot of stuff that have nothing to do with her.

"why does that concern you? you seem more interested in my relationship than your own one" y/n snapped, making Sira chuckle

"oh please we both now that me and Pedri are nothing serious. he just needed some company since you decided to take his best friend away from him" Sira said, making y/n's anger rise. But she wasn't gonna speak back to her. She was only trying to make her angry.

Sira laughed slightly, before taking a small bag and walking to the bathroom, probably to unpack her make up products. y/n was closing her suitcase, when something caught her eye between Sira's clothes.

It was wrong but she walked to the bag to check it out. It was a jersey, barça one but what caught her eye was the number and name on the back

7 Ferran

why does she have a shirt with y/n's boyfriend's name?

y/n heard some shuffling from the bathroom, which she dropped the jersey back and made her way back to her bed.

She texted Sara, telling her that she wants to meet her because she can't stand Sira anymore

She left her room to Sara's which was only 2 doors away

"I can't fucking stand her anymore" Y/n said as soon as Mikkey opened the door for her.

She dropped on one of the beds, landing next to baby Miles.

"what did she do this time?" Sara asked. y/n let out a sigh before talking

"she started asking about me and Ferran and how she didn't think he would date someone like me because I'm not 'feminine' enough like other girls he had been with, basically girls like her" she quoted the word feminine with her fingers

Sara looked at y/n, shock evident on her face, while Mikkey was just confused, thinking that Sira was a nice girl. obviously not.

"she said that?" Mikkey asked. y/n nodded before speaking up again

"oh and to make things worse, she has a jersey with Ferran's name on the back. my fucking boyfriend" y/n said in an angry tone

"hey watch it with the words there are two kids here" Sara said with a warning finge.

y/n looked at Miles, who was asleep, and then Kais who was just looking at her with no movement. She let out a sigh, looking up at the two mothers with a sorry look

"sorry guys, she just made me so angry. what am I supposed to do now?" she asked

"speak to Ferran about it. he should know that his ex is trying to get between you two" Sara said, while Mikkey nodded in agreement

"but he still doesn't know that I know they dated" y/n replied, making Mikkey's jaw drop

"he wasn't the one that told you?" she asked

"nope I found out from some random tiktok edit that they were together" y/n chuckled dryly

"oh that's fucked up" Mikkey mumbled, making Sara glare at her

"language" she scolded again, making y/n laugh slightly

Sara being the second oldest, she was like the mother of the group. Always planning everything and trying to include everyone.

"but for real now, you really have t speak to Ferran about all of this" Mikkey said, while Sara nodded. y/n let out a sigh before nodding and getting up

"I'm gonna see if we can meet tonight and I'll tell him" she said.

She gave the two ladies a hug before returning to her room. She opened the door to see Sira still unpacking all her stuff.

"your phone rang twice so I answered it for you because it was getting annoying" Sira shrugged, making y/n furrow her eyebrows.

Please don't say it was Ferran

"who was it?" she asked reaching over to grab her phone

"obviously Ferran, I wouldn't have answered it otherwise" she chuckled, making y/n whisper a 'what'

She opened her phone, going to Ferran's contact to call him again.

He answered after one ring.

"Sira I told you stop calling me" his voice said, making y/n raise her eyebrows

"it's me" she said, hearing a low 'oh' from him

"sorry um how are you doing love?" he said in a nervous tone

y/n left her room to the hallway so she can speak to him without Sira overhearing her

"was she the one calling you?" y/n asked, ignoring his question

"who?" he asked, trying to change the topic

"not now Ferran just answer my question" she said

"well I called once when she answered I just hung up" he said

"did she or did she not call you again?" y/n said impatiently

He let out a sigh before answering

"yeah she called twice again" Ferran said, making y/n sigh deeply

"how did she even open your phone?" he asked again

"I have your number as my emergency contact, she doesn't need the passcode to call you" y/n said, running her hand through her head anxiously

"oh...anyways, when did your plane land?" he asked

"we need to have a talk tonight" she said before hanging up.

She knew she shouldn't distract him before his match tomorrow but she couldn't handle the situation anymore.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

"darling is everything okay? you had me worried on the phone" Ferran said, giving y/n a hug before they sat down.

They decided to meet at a restaurant while the other group were sitting away from them in the same place.

"we really need to talk about Sira"

[pennylanewrites]

sur le fil [levi ackerman x f!reader]

chapter 1: la vie en rose

moving to paris, you get to meet a set of interesting neighbours; one talkative, bubbly, exciting and kind. one reserved, serious and tortured. the first will be your guide through life in paris; the latter, you soon find out is your colleague.

a/n: reader, hange, moblit and petra are 24-25 years old. erwin and levi are both 28 in this fic. erwin gets introduced soon so dw heheh

masterpost | next

packing up your whole life and moving to paris was sort of on a whim. you really only realized it when you were on the plane, and you could spot the eiffel tower, the arc de triomphe, the notre dame. oh, you were going to have so much fun.

it wasn't hard to find your new home -after taking a taxi and two buses from the airport. you had booked a room from an old lady living in a haussmannian building. three rooms were already occupied, and a kitchen, common room, library and terrace were included in the low price of 250€ per month. you assumed that the old lady simply wanted company; it wasn't easy to find something that cheap, right in the heart of paris.

"madame dubois, so nice to meet you!" you greeted the lady rushing out of the building with a handshake, but she opted for a hug and a kiss on each cheek instead. how european.

"call me paulette, darling, please." paulette was pushing 70, tall, slim and stylish. she held a slim cigarette between fingers decorated with gold rings; she wore a long linen shirt over matching pants and ballerina shoes. very french, you thought, as you followed her inside.

as you stepped inside, you were greeted by high ceilings, ornate moldings, and large windows that allow an abundance of natural light to fill the rooms. the kitchen, located at the heart of the house, had marble countertops, state-of-the-art appliances, and custom-made sage-coloured cabinets. you could tell you would have a lot of fun in this kitchen. as you left the room, you noticed a wide selection of teas, a whole countertop in fact, dedicated to them. adjacent to the kitchen was the common room, knick-knacks and books filling every surface and empty corner. The baby-blue coloured room was adorned with plush beige and off-white furniture, intricate chandeliers, and a majestic fireplace, creating a cozy and sophisticated atmosphere. the library, opposite to the living room, housed an extensive collection of books, with floor-to-ceiling shelves that exuded an air of intellectual refinement. a cozy reading nook by the window invited you to spend many afternoons with a cup of coffee and your nose in a book.

"your room is on the first floor, along with two more. then there’s mine and one more on the third, and of course the terrace, that you’re free to use whenever.” you were admiring the paintings on the walls as paulette guided you to the first floor and to the second door on the left. you wondered who the other two rooms were occupied from, but you guessed you would find out soon.

paulette unlocked the white door and handed you the key. you entered into a mainly beige and lavender-coloured room, small but efficient; the boxes you had packed were sitting in front of the bed, arriving just before you. a double bed with two nightstands stood in the middle, a large wooden dresser on the side, with intricate golden details. two wicker sitting chairs by the window and an empty desk and small bookcase. paulette was showing you the bathroom, but you were too busy admiring the notre dame from your dusty window. despite it being half-burnt, it remained beautiful.

“my room is on the top floor to the right. anything you want, i’m just a knock away.”

“thank you. you said something about other people leaving here?”

“oh, yes! moblit lives on the third floor, he’s a nice and quiet guy. zoe lives right across from you, she’s a little feisty, i guess.”

“and next door?”

you swore paulette’s face dropped when you asked.

“oh, that would be levi, my nephew. he’s a bit…reserved.” was all paulette said about your mysterious neighbour before leaving you to unpack.

you fell on the bouncy mattress and let out a content sigh. the ceiling above you had a cracked lavender and lilac tapestry with golden swirls. the walls matched it perfectly, and the curtains, though faded, were a beige to match the wood of the furniture.

why unpack now? the sun was setting and a deep purple hue played on your stretched legs. you grabbed your purse and headed for the terrace, but your journey was cut short by a loud screech.

“levi, give me my key!”

“i don’t have your key, you lost it, you idiot.” the manly voice came from next door, you noticed. you decided to step out carefully.

a tall woman turned to look at you through round glasses.

“bonsoir! we didn’t know you were coming tonight!”

“hi! zoe, right? i’m y/n.” you took a few steps back when the brunette attacked you with a warm, tight hug.

“pleasure! are you heading for the terrace? that’s the first thing i did when i came here too.”

“seems like a cozy place for a cigarette.”

“you read my mind.” she turned to your other neighbour’s door again. “levi, sors de ta chambre!” come out of your room, your high school french classes came to your rescue.

as you waited for the mysterious neighbour, you inspected zoe. her rich, chocolate-brown hair cascading down her shoulders, framed her face and round golden glasses. she wore a flowing, forest green and brown maxi dress with intricate patterns that catch the eye. completing her ensemble, she adorned herself with eclectic accessories. a collection of beaded bracelets adorned her wrists, each one telling a story of its own. around her neck hung two pendants, a round blue evil eye, and a wooden symbol of piece. her ears were filled with gold studs and the picture ended with pink delicate feather-shaped earrings, whispering a hint of whimsy.

“hange, i just came home. what could you possibly-”

“we have a new neighbour, levi. remember?” zoe motioned at you with her head and a smile, obviously not caring that she was interrupting the man’s personal time.

“okay?”

wow. rude.

“so, you should come to the terrace for a smoke. maintenant.” now.

you expected the man to slam the door in her face, but he stepped back in to grab his jacket, and came back out.

levi stood at average height, with sleek black hair reaching his nape, a fresh undercut showing underneath and a few strands shaping his face and accentuating his piercing gray eyes. he was wearing a fitted maroon t-shirt and dark gray jeans, the look finishing with all black vans and the black leather jacket in his hand. you noticed a tattoo hiding under the sleeve of his shirt. interesting.

“hi, i’m y/n. it's so nice to-”

“levi. pleasure.”

“for fuck’s sake.”

“what? i said pleasure.”

"okay,sure. go make us some tea. y/n, how do you drink yours?" you looked between the pair. why did it feel like they were about to judge whatever you said next?

"oh, i don't really like..." you trailed off because levi had only rolled his eyes at you before storming down the stairs, mumbling in french. you followed zoe to the top floor. a pair of white french doors opened to a spacious terrace, with a set of wicker couches, cozy floor pillows and a tarp-covered bar. all kinds of flowers filled the corners and a vegetable garden took up most of the space on the left.

"you'll have to forgive levi. he's a bit..."

"uptight?" zoe snorted at your comment, and you had a feeling she agreed.

"passionate about tea. he's going to bring you a cup anyway. levi has a recipe for every kind of person, and he's certain he can make everyone like it."

you took out a pack of marlboro golds and offered one to zoe. she politely declined, opening a leather pocket of tobacco to roll her own cigarette.

"so, what brings you to paris?"

i had to run away from everything and everyone in my life.

"oh, it was just time for a change. i had enough money saved up, so i thought why not?" zoe lied down on the couch opposite you and nodded in acknowledgement. "what about you? have you lived here long?"

"levi and i were born and raised in lyon. we moved here around seven years ago, for college."

"what did you study?"

architecture.

"the plan was liberal arts, but i changed to architecture my second year."

bingo.

"i never finished college. i was a history and archaeology major, but it never really...spoke to me, you know?" you put the cigarette out on the clay ashtray on the table, "so, i attended a few barista and bartending seminars, and i actually fell in love with it."

"you don't say...have you got a job yet? i'm pretty sure the café down the street is looking for someone." you could faintly see the shop zoe was talking about in the distance.

"oh, i already found something nearby. i'm starting tomorrow."

"thats brilliant, i'll have to-oh, levi, you're here!" levi stepped out to the terrace, skillfully holding up a tray with three cups. he placed an intricate one in front of you; it was a midnight purple, square mug with engraved golden stars and constellations all over. you held the steaming mug and smiled gratefully at levi. you could smell raspberry, apple and-

"tell her what it is!" zoe jumped up and down excitedly, spilling some of the hot liquid on her dress and phone. "putain." she exclaimed and wiped her phone screen on the couch pillow.

"it's black tea with raspberry syrup, apple, lemon and rhubarb."

"excellent choice of a cup too." zoe poked his side with her elbow. "what's mine, shortie?"

"it's piss." you snorted into your cup, blowing some of the liquid on your lap. you hissed and wiped it away quickly, looking up at the bickering pair.

you brought the cup to your lips, tasting it carefully. you almost winced; it was the sourest tea imaginable, and if not for the syrup, it would be bitter too. you had to admit, you got used to it after a couple of sips, and you liked it enough to keep drinking.

"did levi magically change your opinion on tea?"

"this is really nice," you looked up at levi. his gray eyes didn't leave yours as he took a sip of his own tea, "but i'm a coffee person. sorry." you smiled softly.

"if you like bean water, sure." he scoffed.

"as opposed to leaf water?" you retorted.

why the fuck is he holding the cup like that? show-off.

zoe looked between the two of you, grinning. the comfortable silence was cut short by two message notifications. you and levi took your phones out at the same time.

-you have been added to Le Café Belle Époque’s group chat

-unknown number has been added to Le Café Belle Époque’s group chat

you and levi slowly looked up at each other.

“you’re the new barista?” he scoffed.

“you…work there too?” you looked at the members of the group chat. indeed, a picture of levi sat by an unsaved number on your phone. zoe peeked over levi’s shoulder to look at his texts.

"aha! this is very exciting, n'est-ce pas?"

you had seven different words in mind to describe this, and exciting was not one of them.

waking up in your new bed, in your little room in the heart of paris, felt like waking up in a disney movie. birds were chirping outside of your window, and a few stray sunrays hit the wooden floor. with a stretch of your arms and a yawn, you looked around at the sea of boxes and suitcases. you really needed to unpack.

after searching for your summer clothes, you finally opted for a pair of white jean shorts, a flowy muted-olive shirt with thin straps and your favorite brown sandals, that strapped around your feet and ankles. you brushed your teeth and hair, and placed mascara on your eyelashes carefully. a warm-toned lipstick finished your look, and you started your voyage to the kitchen with a box in your hands.

damn you paris, with your steep staircases, you tried looking over the box to watch your step, but it was impossible.

"woah, let me help with that." you were met with a pair of dark brown eyes behind rectange glasses.

"thanks." you accepted the offer and walked behind the strange man.

"where are we heading?"

"kitchen."

the man finally set the box down on the round kitchen table, slapping the top of it.

"moblit berner. it's nice to meet you, y/n."

"how did you...?" you shook his hand with furrowed brows. moblit was wearing a well-pressed, tailored navy blue suit, a light blue dress shirt underneath and leather oxfords.

"zoe told me all about you last night. i apologize for the late introduction, but i came home after midnight." he watched as you took a polished red, vintage looking espresso machine out, placing it on the counter right by the outlet. "retro. does, uh, does levi know about the new addition to the kitchen?" moblit laughed awkwardly. you unrolled the cups you had wrapped in paper in your box and gave them a quick rinse, before setting them on top of the machine.

"i couldn't care less. paulette told me i can keep this here." you shrugged and filled the water tank. "want some coffee?"

"yes, please. the only drinks in this house all these years have been tea and alcohol." you pressed ground-up espresso in the group, and waited for the machine to warm up.

"what kind of coffee?"

"surprise me. i like it sweet, with a lot of milk. there's some almond milk in the fridge, so please use that." moblit sat down and lit a cigarette. you inspected levi's selection of syrups, powders and leaves.

"you don't think he'll mind, do you?" you held up a bottle of lavender syrup.

"it will be our little secret. better safe than sorry." you nodded and poured the syrup in the milk, frothing it while the espresso poured into a cup.

"so, where do you work, moblit?"

"i'm a reporter for libération, a news-"

"left-leaning newspaper, i know. i loved that piece on macron, the one comparing the marches to the french revolution?" you placed the cup in front of moblit, who accepted with a grateful smile.

"i wrote that one."

"of course! i thought your name sounded familiar." you chuckled and turned to make your own iced coffee.

"will we be seeing you at the café tonight?"

“i don’t know if i’m working a full shift yet. i’m only going to meet the managers and get an idea of the bar.”

“well, you’ve met one of them already.”

“levi’s a manager?” you rolled your eyes and sipped on your coffee.

“assistant. but he basically runs the place, he’s in charge of the menu, prices, schedule…” moblit grinned. “except for the new hires.”

“guess that’s why he was so surprised yesterday.”

“surprised is an understatement.”

“huh? wait, what did he say?” your eyebrow perked up. moblit just shook his head and got up to leave.

“thanks for the coffee, y/n. see you tonight!” defeated, you sat back on your chair. you slid it closer to the window and opened it wide. a warm breeze hit your face, and you smiled contently.

the rest of your day was spent unpacking, finding a space for every one of your knick-knacks and clutter. you managed to fit all of your books on the three shelves, finishing the image with some fairy lights hanging over them. most of your clothes fit in the dresser, but the rest were left in the suitcase. you really needed to buy some storage boxes soon.

it was now 2:30 in the afternoon, and after taking a warm shower, you desperately needed to eat. you sat on your bed, a towel wrapped around your hair, and pulled your phone out to search for a place to eat.

knock knock.

“come in.” you yelled out and looked behind your phone. zoe came in, looking around your room. she looked different; a tight bun sat at the bottom of her head and a classy white pantsuit hugged her body, before flaring down her calves.

“wow, nicely done. it took me two years to unpack when i got here��hey, what time do you leave for work?”

“i have to be there at six.”

“great! want to grab a bite with me? i’ll even throw in a little tour of our neighbourhood if you make me some coffee later.”

“deal.”

zoe brought you to a small, family owned restaurant cornering a main street. you watched as people walked, playing a guessing game of who was coming back from work, who was late for lunch, who had just had a fight with their partner. people-watching was a favourite of yours. it made you remember you weren’t alone in the world, that other people too had issues and feelings.

“do you eat meat, y/n? they make killer steaks here.”

“oh, i love a good steak.”

“excellent! how about i order for you?”

“yes, please.”

the waiter came to the table soon after, leaving a complimentary basket of warm bread and a butter spread.

“we’ll have two of your bavette à l’échalote, a portion of fries for the table and…two glasses of malbec please.” zoe handed the menu to the waiter and quickly attacked the bread.

“this is my favourite restaurant. it has been in the renard family for almost a century, and their recipes are practically unchanged. now, if you kindly look up, you will see my office on the top floor. i have a kicking view of the notre dame, which is…five minutes from here.” she pointed down the main road. you listened as she explained the secrets of the neighbourhood, the quirky owner of the office building, the drama between the two restaurants opposite each other.

you were so hungry when the dishes finally arrived in front of you, but you let hange do a demonstration of the dish.

“so, skirt steak. they cut it up in pieces so you can pour the sauce between them,” she spooned the golden, buttery sauce over your steak, “and i like to add it to the roasted vegetables too.” she poured the rest of it over the vegetables on the side. “and the rest you use to dip your fries!” she said excitedly, leaving the dip bowl next to the warm salted fries.

“bon appétit.” you raised the glass of red wine, clinking it with zoe’s.

after the delightful lunch, you leaned back on your chair, full and ready to go. you and zoe smoked two cigarettes each over one more glass of wine, before leaving for the café.

“are you nervous?”

“not really, i’ve done this too many times.”

“i would be. levi hates training new people.”

“good thing i don’t need training then.” you giggled and entered the café. a warm smell of cinnamon hit you, and the jazz music created a warm atmosphere around vintage furniture, a sleek dark blue bar with a marble top and the alcohol selection of your dreams.

“you’re late.” levi appeared behind the counter, startling you. you checked the clock on your phone.

“i’m 15 minutes early.”

“that’s still 5 minutes late.” he crossed his arms over his chest and stared back at you. “are you coming in here or what?”

you sighed and walked around the counter. the first thing you did was wash your hands thoroughly. levi appreciated that, but only gave a nod of approval as he walked you through the bar.

“you will be on evening shift for the time being, so here’s the old drinks menu. you’re free to change everything, except for the classic cocktails.”

“great! the last bar i was working, i experimented with tea-based cocktails, so i would like to add that. am i okay to stay after closing and use the bar for practice?”

“tea-based!” zoe exclaimed. you had almost forgotten she was there.

“tea-based.” levi repeated and you had a feeling he would explode then and there.

“ha! his eye is twitching! good one, y/n.”

“anyway, i’m adding that. i also want to make some additions to the coffee menu.” you looked over to the tea corner. “can i use the powders and syrups?”

“you’re going to add flowers and fruit in coffee?”

“is there a problem?” you didn’t even turn around to look at levi. instead, you took a pen and paper and noted down changes for the coffee menu.

“anyway. you can check the prices here, since it’s still the start. the waitresses will help you with anything else, so…”

“so?”

“show me what you got, rookie.” levi leaned back on the counter, with a challenging grin. rookie my ass, who does this guy think he is?

“ooh, ooh! make me an iced coffee, and use like, all the syrups you can.” zoe slammed her hand on the counter.

“you got it.” you prepared two shots of espresso. while that was pouring, you took a shaker, pouring coconut milk, a tablespoon of elderflower syrup and one of vanilla syrup over ice. you shook it around masterfully, making a show for zoe and levi. when the espresso was done, you mixed in a teaspoon of sugar. taking a tall glass, you filled it to the middle with ice and added the milk mixture. you poured the espresso over it, mixing it with a tall spoon carefully.

“whipped cream?” you asked and levi pointed at the fridge under the sink. you spotted a bowl of edible flowers and grabbed it as well. you placed a coaster in front of hange and the glass, spooning some of the handmade cream on top. you took the pinching tool and added three small flowers over the cream.

“et voilà!”

zoe clapped excitedly, accepting the long straw you handed her. she took a big sip, closing her eyes in delight.

“y/n, this is the best thing that has ever been in my mouth.” she wiggled around on the stool.

“i feel offended.” moblit appeared out of nowhere, wrapping his arms around zoe and leaving a kiss on her temple.

huh, i guess they’re dating, you thought.

the café wasn’t really busy, so you spent the next hour making different coffees and teas, for levi to ensure you know what you’re doing. zoe had insisted to drink all of them, so you wouldn’t have to throw them away.

“hange, you’ll spend a week in the toilet if you drink all of those.” levi tried taking the cups away, but zoe guarded them in front of her.

“the toilet happens to be my happy place. maybe i want to stay there for a week.” she made sure to drink a sip from all of them, just to spite levi.

“if you cleaned once in a while, it would be a safe place too.” you chuckled at levi’s remark.

a wave of customers rushed in, and the waiters sent order after order. it was a hectic hour and a half, but by nine o’clock, you had time to clean up the machine and your counter.

“okay, welcome to the team, i guess.” levi shoved a golden name tag and a black half-apron in your arms.

“wow, warm welcome.”

“watch it.” levi grabbed his stuff and walked around the bar. he turned to zoe. “i have to pick petra up from work, do you guys want to do something later?”

“just come back here! we can all try the new cocktail menu.” hange pushed him to the door before he could decline and came back to the bar.

“can i take these away now?” you pointed at the sea of cups and glasses in front of her.

“please do. i feel like i’m going to explode.”

“you really like to get on his nerves, don’t you?” you laughed as she nodded furiously.

“zoe has to make levi have a nervous breakdown at least once a week.” moblit commented. after everything was cleaned, you could finally calm down and work on the cocktail menu. you spotted a small blackboard sitting behind the fridge. you grabbed it and the packet of chalks and handed it to moblit.

“you look like you have nice handwriting. please write these names down for me.”

“what’s in it for me?”

“pick one and i’ll make it for you. on the house.” you grinned as moblit wrote the menu down. zoe made sure to include a few doodles of flowers and a smiley face before setting it on top of the bar, where everyone could spot it.

it was midnight when you had to cut zoe off alcohol and levi walked in, hand in hand with a petite brunette. the girl had a sleek bob with short bangs, and wore a silk pink dress that hugged her waist and thighs. an oversized brown leather jacket, a pink leather crossbody bag and brown combat boots finished the look. her makeup was the perfect mix of edgy and sweet, with a smoky eye, red cheeks and a nude lipstick. the girl greeted zoe with a hug, wincing when the strong smell of gin hit her.

“control your woman, moblit.” she joked and kissed both his cheeks before sitting down. levi took her jacket along with his and handed them to you to place behind the counter. “so, you’re y/n. a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. i’m petra.”

“pleasure.” you smiled as you served two drinks on the sidebar.

“see, she looks just fine.” levi rolled his eyes at the girl. “levi was under the impression that you would crack under the pressure and run off.”

“levi should know that i have been doing this for four years. i’m not that easy to crack.” you placed two coasters and two glasses of water in front of them.

“what are you having?”

“i want…to try one of those famous cocktails.” she pointed at the blackboard.

“famous?” you furrowed your brows.

“oh, levi talked my ear off for hours about them. you’ll have to forgive him. his old age won’t let him accept change and evolution.” she kissed his cheek after the comment, but he only sighed. “anyway, i’ll have the earl grey martini. amour?” she turned to levi, who barely looked at her.

“whiskey sour.”

“one chamomile whiskey sour coming up!”

“i said, whiskey sour.” zoe, moblit and petra were stuck looking between the two of you. you guessed levi wasn’t known for his temper. but, oh, you wanted to crack him so bad. it was so satisfying seeing his neck and ears turn red with annoyance.

“i heard you.” you hummed as you made the brunette’s cocktail in a dainty martini glass.

“so, make that.”

“but i already steeped the chamomile. it would be a waste of perfect tea.” you pouted as you poured the tea over ice. you flipped a short glass over and placed it on the bartop. a strainer on top, you poured the contents in, sliding it to the ravenette.

“just try it, cheri.”

levi brought the glass to his lips in the same stupid way he held onto that cup of tea yesterday. his gray piercing eyes never left yours, and you grinned when his expression fell. he liked it. the fucker liked it, because he took another, full sip, before sliding the glass back to you.

"i asked for a whiskey sour.” this was revenge because you didn’t like his stupid tea. you mumbled something he couldn’t hear over the music, as you made a new cocktail for him.

despite levi's eyes burning holes in you for what felt like hours, the night was going well. you got to know petra and moblit better, work was flowing nicely and a full jar of tips sat on the counter. guess people liked the new, not grumpy, bartender.

taglist: @belovedackerman @bibemiiu @thisisketchy @ch-4-s-3 @kingfleury

[sunraies]

can we get a part 2 for “goodbye” pleasee?!

I wasn't planning a part 2 but I had some thoughts on how the relationship would go once Rafe arrived in Paris. I have made bullet points in sections. All fluff, no angst.

Love in Paris

Rafe Cameron × Kook!Reader

Warnings - Fluff. Bullet points, not full detailed fic

Moments of when Rafe comes to Paris

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

• You met Rafe at the airport a week later. You held a cute little sign with his name on. Desperately trying to catch a glimpse of him as people crowded the arrivals area.

• Once you spotted each other, you were stocked as he'd buzzed his hair. But damn did he look fine!

• He dropped his bag to the floor as he caught you in his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist as he supported you, hands on your ass under your little flower sundress.

"Hey, baby," He whispered before kissing you

• That first kiss was so full of longing, passion and love.

○●○●

• Rafe held your hand the whole taxi ride back to your dorms, his thumb caressing over your knuckles. You felt your cheeks warm as he's shade covered eyes watched you more than the sites you tried to point out as the taxi passed by.

"There's the Eiffel Tower," you pointed out the window, leaning over him "Rafe are you even interested?"

"I'm looking at best sight." He smiled down at you.

• As you showed him around campus that was all still so new to you, he had his arm over your shoulders. You showed him the best coffee spot and study area, which resulted in making out in quiet space. Up against the bookshelves holding a hundred year old books.

The dust off the books fluttered around you from the force, Rafe pushed you against the wooden shelves. You whimpered against Rafe’s lips. Your hands ran over his buzzed hair while his hands roamed your body, lifting your leg over his hip.

• At your dorm room he met your two roommates. Bonnie and Samantha (Sammy). As Rafe used your bathroom, they gushed over him, which you were 100% sure he heard when he returned with a smirk on his face.

"That man is fine with a capital F" Bonnie swooned

"F for Fuck Me!" Sammy winked at you.

• Seeing Rafe Cameron lounging on your small dorm bed was an image you would never forget. He looked so sleepy as he relaxed against your pillows. The sunset making him look golden as it shone on him through your window

○●○●

• The few days Rafe stayed as a whirl wind of sight seeing from the Eiffel Tower and walking along the Seine. You had lunch dates and fantasy dinners. He spoiled you as much as you aloud him too. If you let him, he would find a way to give you the moon.

• One of your best nights was in his hotel room. He brought everything off the room service menu and as you eat, you watched a French movie with subtitles but he made you translate. You ended up sat between his legs, his arms wrapped around you as he nuzzled and kissed your neck. He laughed richly as you made up what the characters were saying. It was the perfect night of best friends and lovers

"That is not what he said, baby" Rafe laughed against your neck

"It was, you don't speak French that well, babe"

"I can read the subtitles"

"Maybe they are wrong"

• That night ended in the most intimate, love making you ever experience.

○●○●

• The morning of his flight, neither wanted to say goodbye. Curled up in each other, spending as much time as possible to together, knowing the next time would be Christmas break.

"I love you" You sighed, holding onto him as you hugged

"I love you too, baby" He kissed your head before lifting your chin and kissing you softly.

• Seeing him get on his plane was heartbreaking

• As soon as he landed he phoned you, exicted to tell you that Ward had given him a chance to work in the family busines.

• A few months later, he was back in Paris to meet important clients. He was spending until Christmas there, it was the best gift Ward had ever given you.

[taxiservicedisneyland]

Effortless Paris Airport Transfers

Discover the convenience of our airport service shuttle for smooth transfers from Paris airport. Easily navigate booking a taxi in Paris through our user-friendly platform, ensuring a stress-free journey. Choose a private transfer from CDG to the airport for personalized and comfortable travel. Learn the simple steps on how to book an airport taxi, making transportation worry-free. Experience top-notch transfers from Paris airport, guaranteeing prompt and reliable service for your travel needs.

[deeparistransfer]

Paris Taxi Booking Tips: Your Guide to Hassle-Free Rides in 2025

Navigating Paris in 2025 can be a breeze if you know the right steps to take. Whether you’re heading to a romantic dinner or exploring the city’s iconic landmarks, having reliable transportation is essential. These Paris Taxi Booking Tips will ensure your rides are smooth and stress-free all year round.

Plan Your Taxi Rides in Advance

One of the best Paris Taxi Booking Tips is to always plan ahead. Booking a private taxi in Paris early ensures that you avoid last-minute rushes, especially during peak hours or special events.

Choose Professional Services Like DEE Paris Transfer

For a seamless experience, opt for professional services such as DEE Paris Transfer. Whether you need a Paris airport taxi for a timely transfer or a luxurious cab in Paris for a city tour, choosing a reputable service guarantees reliability.

Avoid Peak Times When Possible

Paris is bustling with activity, particularly during holidays and weekends. Scheduling your rides during non-peak hours can save time and reduce stress. A private taxi in Paris offers the flexibility to travel at your convenience.

Double-Check Your Booking Details

Always verify your booking details to ensure a smooth experience. Whether it’s a Paris airport taxi or a cab in Paris, accurate information about pickup and drop-off points helps avoid unnecessary delays.

Communicate Special Requests Clearly

Services like DEE Paris Transfer excel in personalized customer care. If you have specific requirements or preferences, be sure to communicate them clearly when booking your ride.

Allow Extra Time for Traffic

Paris traffic can be unpredictable. When scheduling your trips, factor in additional time, especially if you’re catching a flight or attending an important event. Using a private taxi in Paris ensures you’ll have a dedicated driver who knows the best routes.

Opt for Door-to-Door Services

A professional cab in Paris service provides the convenience of door-to-door transportation. This is particularly useful when traveling with luggage or during inclement weather.

Stay Updated on Local Conditions

Keep an eye on local traffic and weather conditions to avoid surprises. Services like DEE Paris Transfer are well-versed in navigating Paris’s dynamic environment, ensuring timely and efficient rides.

Prioritize Safety and Comfort

Licensed taxi services not only prioritize your safety but also provide a comfortable travel experience. Whether it’s a Paris airport taxi or a casual ride across the city, professional drivers ensure peace of mind.

Enjoy the Journey

By following these Paris Taxi Booking Tips, you can focus on enjoying the beauty and charm of Paris. From booking a private taxi in Paris for personalized service to relying on trusted providers like DEE Paris Transfer, careful planning guarantees a hassle-free ride.

[moonbeamwritings]

a parisian date with tendou

pairing: timeskip!satori tendou x gn!reader

wc: 1.4k

warnings: none

the poem referenced at the end is “Les Amoureux” By Madeleine De Scudéry

← prev. date | next date →

“My babbbyyyy,” Satori sing-songs, arms spread wide to greet you at the airport. “My baby’s here!”

You all but slam into his chest and within seconds he’s lifting your feet from the floor, twirling you around as he presses dozens of little kisses wherever he can reach. Satori lets out a pleased sigh as he squeezes you closer, crushing you into a hug. 

“I missed you so much.”

You capture his cheeks in your palms and plant a sweet kiss on his lips. “I missed you more.”

He returns you to your feet, but doesn’t let you slip away so easily. As you start to walk towards the exit, Satori loops his arm around your shoulders, tugging you close until no space remains between you. “Nuh-uh. Not possible. I almost withered away and died without your kisses!”

“You sound like Tinker Bell,” you tease, pinching his cheek.

Satori puffs his chest out a bit as you stop to wait for your cab to pull up. “We’re the same, her and I. We understand each other.”

The two of you make idle chit-chat as you push your weight into his side, his arm curled tightly around your waist, occasionally exchanging kisses to keep Satori alive.

When the cab finally pulls up, Satori is quick to pull your suitcase from your palm and the backpack from your shoulders, carefully packing them into the back of the car. Snapping the trunk of the taxi shut, Satori grins at you eagerly. “Are you ready for a Valentine’s Day in Paris, baby?”

The Valentine’s Day festivities start with a trip to the bakery down the road. On the walk there, Satori tells you he comes nearly once a day for a coffee and to gossip with the sweet older woman who owns the place. Apparently, he started watching her cat in exchange for French lessons and now they’re a dynamic duo. 

She gushes when the bell over the door signals Satori’s arrival, reaching across the counter to smooch both his cheeks. And when she locks eyes with you, she gives you much the same treatment, excitedly rambling in French.

Unfamiliar with the language, all you can do is smile and nod as Satori responds in stride. It flows from his tongue with practiced ease, hands moving animatedly as he gestures to you and then to the display case. You catch a thank you and a chocolate croissant order somewhere in there, but that’s where your French knowledge starts and ends.

When she turns to pull the treats he ordered from the glass display case, Satori worms his arm around your waist, brimming with pride. “She said you’re very beautiful, and she’s mad that I haven’t brought you around before.”

“You talk about me?”

His grin only grows. “Of course I do! Nicolette knows everything.” He pinches your side. “Even about all the times you’ve drooled all over my pillows.”

Scandalized, you reel back. “You didn’t.”

A kiss lands on the crown of your head in an attempt to soothe you. You can feel Satori’s smile against your hair. “I’m kidding. She thinks you’re un ange — an angel.”

Your cheeks burn as he pulls away and takes the box of treats from Nicolette. You both give your thanks, and she tells Satori to bring you back in before you leave. With a promise that he will, you set off to eat your pastries in the park.

Bellies full to bursting with fresh pastries and with sunshine warming your cheeks, Satori brings you to what he calls hidden gems. The streets bustle with life as he brings you first to a bookstore with old wooden floors and a creaky staircase that leads to shelves of vintage books that stretch far above your heads. 

Satori plucks a thin book with a red spine and gold lettering from the shelf and smiles. Long, lithe fingers flick through the different pages, his eyes scanning over the letters. In the silence, you crowd his space, peering over the top of the book to catch a peek at the yellowing pages. 

When his eyes meet yours, he taps the tip of your nose. “They’re love poems.”

“Since when are you a poetry kinda guy?”

He tucks the book under his arm and takes your hand. “Mm,” Satori fixes you with a gaze you can only describe as sweet before he leans in to kiss you. “I’m feeling inspired.”

The next “hidden gem” is a tacky, over-the-top souvenir shop close to the heart of the city. It’s jam-packed with tourists, all standing shoulder to shoulder as they peruse the Eiffel Tower-shaped hat options and the gaudy shirts with Paris plastered across the front with an Eiffel Tower as the “A”.

“This is a hidden gem?” You ask, cringing at the neon pink lettering of the shirt in front of you.

“Maybe not hidden,” Satori corrects, plopping one of the hats on your head, “but definitely a gem.”

The moment you’re able to, he crams you into the photo booth in the far corner, taking a little photo with a poorly designed Parisian border, one decorated with baguettes and berets and bright red hearts. In it, he’s squishing your cheeks in his palm to give you a fish face and pushing his nose into your cheek, lips puckered.

You leave that store with a keychain that proudly displays the new photo and a design that reads, “the city of love” plastered in sparkly black font below it.

Satori’s tour of Paris continues with a brief stop at his work for chocolate. There, a photo of the two of you together is pinned on the family cork board behind the counter. And as Satori puts his order in, his co-workers threaten to steal you away from him, friendly affection for your boyfriend glimmering in their smiles and hidden in their jokes.

Next, he brings you to a quiet rose garden tucked away from the hustle and bustle; a spot where you spend a quiet moment, munching on delicious chocolates and taking a break from the onslaught of tourists.

“Act natural.”

“What?”

With the dull snap of a stem, Satori tucks a soft pink, and thankfully thornless, garden rose behind your ear. Once it’s perched in its new spot, he presses a kiss to the shell of your ear before whispering, “You’re really not supposed to pick the flowers.” He pushes a stray hair away from your face, jostling the rose a bit as he does. “But I think they can make a Valentine’s exception, don’tcha think?”

After a long day filled with food and little shops and the warmth of Satori’s hand in your own, the whirlwind tour of his new home city comes to an end at the base of the Eiffel Tower at ten o’clock at night. Tourists and locals alike still meander about, sharing kisses beneath the twinkling landmark, but the cool night air has quieted the sidewalks, giving you a moment of peace. 

The moon sits high and bright in the sky, as you curl up between Satori’s legs, his chin hooked over your shoulder as he reads from the love poems book resting in your lap. Love settles and blooms between your ribs as beams of moonlight decorate the pages and kiss Satori’s fingers where they curl around the book. Your hand moves on its own, coming up to circle his wrist, rubbing a soothing thumb into his skin.

Satori’s voice travels on the breeze, the French rolling from his tongue in soft lilts — a poetry reading just for you. “... Les indifférents n'ont qu'une âme; Mais lorsqu'on aime, on en a deux.”

The concluding line is punctuated with a beat of silence and a kiss to the plush of your cheek.

“What does it mean?” You ask quietly, as if speaking any louder will shatter the moment.

He rereads the poem, kissing your temple every few lines. “... The indifferent have but one soul,” he translates, “but when you love, you have two.”

You nuzzle your cheek into his before turning in his arms, capturing his jaw in your palm and leaning in for a kiss. It feels like a promise, a press of your lips with a sense of finality. At that moment, you decide you never want to do this with anyone else.

“I love you,” you tell him the moment you part.

He regards you with honeyed affection, snuggling close to peck your nose and then your cheek before finally meeting your lips again. As the light of the Eiffel Tower casts his face in pretty, amber shadows, he assures you, “I love you more.”

[fromtraveldiaries]

Notes from the land of the rising sun

If you think the Paris subway is a marvel, wait until you step into Tokyo's intricate underground labyrinth. The Japanese subway system is an experience that best reflects the essence of Japanese culture and efficiency.

The first thing you notice when you step into a Tokyo subway station are the orderly queues - on the escalators, at ticket counters, at entry and exit gates, and while boarding trains. The Japanese have transformed queuing into a well-organized and methodical art form, much unlike the Indians for who queueing is a rather abstract and a largely inscrutable exercise. This queue discipline extends beyond transportation to restaurants, take-away counters, and billing counters, where you find patrons patiently waiting their turn for service.

Another striking feature of Tokyo's subways is the pervasive silence. Compared to the prattle on the Paris metro or the pandemonium on the Indian metros, the Japanese subway is a quiet sanctuary. The Japanese are a quiet people who keep to themselves during public transit, their animated conversations are reserved for meal times. Food, often accompanied by drinks, is a more communal experience that's filled with lively discussions and noisy chatter. On buses, trains, and the subway, one finds commuters reading novels, manga, news, diaries, or watching anime or otherwise engaged on their phones. This quietude carries onto the roads, streets, and other public places. There's no honking and people talk in whispers in most places, except of course in eateries. Most Japanese folks like to go out with their friends and colleagues or have social gatherings in eateries. They love to take their time during such meals, which are almost always accompanied by drinks. The conversations are loud, full of banter and laughter.

At every station, you also have a helpdesk that actually works. We used these at many stations and were very impressed by the service we got. While returning from Kanazawa to Tokyo, our Shinkansen (bullet train) developed a snag. We were informed on board about this by the railway staff. They dropped us off at Nagano, where more railway staff were waiting to assist us. They put us on a train to Matsumoto, where more staff were waiting to help. We were put on a train to Shiojiri, where another set of helpful staff put us on a slow Azusa train to Shinjuku. During the whole time, everyone was apologetic and insisted that we collect our refund for the Shinkansen from the Shinjuku station. We had booked our tickets through Klook, so weren't really sure if we were eligible for a refund and how and when (if at all), we would get any refund. To our surprise, the lady at the helpdesk counter gave us an almost complete refund in cash, no questions asked. She said that they had been informed of the Shinkansen glitch and were expecting passengers such as us to alight at Shinjuku. She also profusely apologized for the inconvenience. At how many Indian stations can you expect this service?

In contrast to India's metro stations, where photography is 'strictly prohibited', one is free to click away in Japanese subways. We didn't find a single place where photography wasn't allowed or one had to pay extra charges just to click.

Respect for individuals is on display everywhere and in everyone. Courteous gestures greet one at every turn and we were quite surprised to find people bowing to us even for trivial interactions. We also learnt to bow in return with gratitude. Starting from clearly designated 'foreign friendly taxis' to courteous strangers going out of their way to assist you, you feel truly welcomed in Japan. You also feel as if you are a celebrity when you step into an eatery, for as you step in, the staff, including the chefs and the kitchen staff, boisterously greet you with a loud shout. Google what this means and you'll see what I mean.

At restaurants, you are invariably served ice cold water with ice cubes in long tumblers. This is the way of life even in cold winters. You can, however, also order warm/hot sake that really fires you up on wintry nights. While Tokyo offers a plethora of culinary delights, vegetarians might feel the need to seek out specific eateries. The cuisine draws heavily on raw food, mostly seafood, with minimal oil and spices. This is where the super helpful convenience stores like 7-11 and Family Mart offer a variety of options, including liquor. Japanese convenience stores have more variety of liquor than one finds in the regular wine shops back home.

That the Japanese are punctual is well known, but their service levels are at a different level altogether. At Kanazawa, we requested for a taxi at the hotel reception which was on the first floor. The receptionist made a call to a local cab company and informed that a taxi would arrive in three minutes. True to their word, by the time we descended the stairs and reached the ground floor, the taxi was already waiting for us. In both Kyoto and Tokyo, we noticed many shops displaying merchandise outside their doors and well out of their sight. In several grocers' vegetables were left unattended with price boards. People leave their umbrellas outside when entering shops. We also observed most households leaving their stuff outside at night.

Despite the absence of dustbins, Tokyo remains remarkably clean. Littering is a rare sight, thanks to the civic sense instilled in its residents. Further, there's no expectation of a tip for any service that you hire. Taxis and restaurants return you the exact change and you are expected to pocket your change before leaving. In fact, tipping might be considered offensive in many places. Should you run out of coins, there are machines installed in most public places that take your notes and provide you with coins. To help you tender exact change, these machines are also installed in all buses. By the way, the Japanese bus drivers are smartly dressed, polite, and greet you when you pay and get off. Compare that with the Indian buses and our drivers.

An ubiquitous presence throughout Japan are the vending machines. The offer everything, from beverages to snacks, and refreshments to souvenirs. Game arcades are also quite popular, lined up in most tourist locations. We spent a fortune on the vending machines, collecting souvenirs that are quite cheap but of exquisite quality. Tokyo, Kyoto, and Kanazawa are filled with rows and rows of these vending machines stretching on for blocks altogether.

Tokyo is unbelievably busy at all times of the day and night. The trains are always filled and the stations are always crowded. Folks are either going to work or returning from work at all hours. Whether the well-groomed crowd of Ginza, the diverse crowd of Shibuya, the aloof funky of Shinjuku or the dignified crowd of Monzennakacho, the residents of each district have their own way to go about their lives. School kids, even when returning late, show impeccable discipline, immersed in their phones, reading manga, playing games, or watching anime. There were many places in the US and in France where we felt unsafe during our travels. The less said about India, the better. In comparison, we never felt unsafe throughout our visit in Japan, not even for a moment.

This trip to Japan has been a revealation to say the least. From the land of the rising sun, arigato gozaimas.

[sgiandubh]

For a very quick, but effective fix: Pasha's improv rustic pizza

Meet Pasha IV, Shipper Mom's British Shorthair spirit animal and soulmate:

This is the most lazy & gourmet being ever to grace this planet, so it's only normal to dedicate the following quick fix recipe to him (pets are never 'it' in this house, nor should they ever be - damn grammar!).

This is a freestyle recipe I invented for myself back in my first days of desperate cooking apprenticeship, in Paris. Leaving home at 18, with virtually zero food skills, I quickly realized it was not reasonable to eat every single day in town. My path to cooking began with books, fantasizing scrumptious recipes and a lengthy, persevering trial and error process. I always was a difficult, horrendously fastidious client, but now I was slowly turning into a monster, keeping my eyes peeled on cooking gestures and mannerisms, wherever I could find them.

This pizza experiment was an instant success and the moment the coin dropped: I actually could do things to and with food, that would be something more than survival. The rest is reading ahead, combining ahead and never being shy to ask around for that recipe. From taxi drivers to friends, they were all more than happy to generously indulge, all around the world.

You need whatever you have loitering around in your fridge and you aren't really sure how to recycle. I even happily, barbarically put mac & cheese or cold satay noodles (want my recipe? I poached it in Phnom Penh) on it. Tuna/corn/red onion is a sure combo and so are deli bits and bobs/corn/Vidalia onion. Cold roast beef, too. Diced ham, onion and even roasted potatoes leftovers, plus heavy cream - only in winter. Sardines (tinned), lemon/orange zest, ground pepper and perhaps a dash of coriander leaves (add herbs at the end, otherwise, they will go bitter). Fresh goat cheese, pistachio, figs (even fig jam will do) and balsamic vinegar. Sky is the limit. I also never use Mozzarella, and yes, please curse me - I always use Irish red cheddar, because this is what you are likely to find in my fridge until the end of time. And whenever you can or see fit, break an egg on top of it three to five minutes before you take it off the oven: it's called Pizza Radio and it is a local Corsican secret.

Preheat the oven at the usual temperature: 350 Fahrenheit/180 Celsius.

Unroll a store-bought pizza pastry sheet in a parchment paper lined 13x8 baking pan. Let rest while you prepare the easiest sauce in the world.

Mix Heinz ketchup, Sriracha and sweet Thai chili sauce. Should yield about a cup - proportions vary according to your own resistance to heat: one of the reasons you should taste your own concoctions and do it often. If you went overboard with the sacred Sriracha, immediately add honey or some brown sugar, until rectified. Add two Tablespoons (30 ml) of EVOO and mix well. Spread on the pizza pastry sheet with your usual brush.

I always try to use this one, but any brand will do:

4. Add the grated Cheddar, with spiral, clockwise movements (this is something I stole from a pizzaiolo in Florence, it is the only way to make sure all the surface gets evenly covered).

5. Thinly cut the onions (you know: halve them, then go ahead exactly like you would do for onion rings or quarter them and go ahead for more caramelized crunchiness, curse TPTB and cry your arse out). Add them on top. I had red onion - it is stellar with cold cuts.

6. Add whatever it is you want to garnish the pizza with. In my pic, we had thinly cut (recycled) debreceni kolbász (Debreziner) sausages and diced Prague/cooked ham (you need something more neutral to counterbalance all that heat).

7. Finish off with 150 grams/5 ounces (drained) canned sweet corn. No particular brand, but make sure it's dry before you add it on top of this.

8. Bake in a very hot oven for about 20 to 25 minutes. Take out, let breathe (5 minutes tops), cut and devour. I guarantee no leftovers.

You're welcome! We'll get to more serious things this evening, though.

[archivist-crow]

On this day:

CONNECTED

On September 14, 1966, two British sisters visiting New York City for the first time queued up at the airport for over an hour to get a taxi. Amazingly, as they got in the cab, their driver, a complete stranger, asked them about their actor cousin, Guy Middleton, who had performed in New York thirty years earlier. The cabbie used to take him to and from the theater nightly. The girls had spoken to Middleton two days earlier as they were leaving London, and he had asked them to say hello to New York for him; he had many good friends there.

In September, 1891, Dr. Amie Guinard, a surgeon in Paris, France, awoke with a stabbing toothache and decided to get up to finish a paper he was writing on the surgical treatment of stomach cancer. In the morning he went to the dentist down the street, whom he had met once, six months earlier. When Guinard entered the clinic, the surprised dentist told Guinard that he had spent all the previous night dreaming of him. Guinard hoped they were pleasant dreams, but no; the dentist had dreamed that he had cancer of the stomach and that Guinard was going to operate.

In 1967, Constable Peter Moscardi of Essex, U.K., gave his phone number to a friend. But he had accidentally got a number wrong and was unable to get in touch with the friend to change it. Nights later, Moscardi was in the industrial park and noticed a factory door open and a light on inside. As he entered, the telephone rang, and Moscardi answered it. It was his friend calling the wrong number to speak with Moscardi.

In 1992, in Dover, England, a woman, looking at a staff list, mistakenly called her coworker by dialing his payroll identification number instead of his home phone number. He answered, shocked that she had found him; he had been shopping, and the number she had mistakenly dialed turned out to be the number of the payphone he happened to be standing by at that moment.

Text from: Almanac of the Infamous, the Incredible, and the Ignored by Juanita Rose Violins, published by Weiser Books, 2009