paris traffic

anonymous asked:

Bromos for number two pleaaaase

“You’re family.”

Feuilly had stopped biting his nails when he was thirteen, but the habit had crept up on him lately, ever since the idea of meeting Bahorel’s parents had been put out there, actually.

Maybe it was too soon. Bahorel talked about his parents like they were the best people in the world, and whenever Feuilly pictured them in his head, he always saw one of those commercials with happy farmers surrounded by happy chickens praising the virtues of their happy, though less alive chickens.

And yet here he was, biting his nails in Bahorel’s car while miles and miles of wheat fields unfolded before them. It was a nice change from Paris, he had to say. Feuilly had never been to the country much, except during harvest season, to hunt some seasonal jobs in the vineyards and apple orchards. It had never been about tourism.

Feuilly had seen pictures of Bahorel’s family home, but seeing it in person was a completely different thing. It sat on a little hill surrounded by sunflower fields, a barn and chickens that seemed to roam free around the propriety. Some cackled as the car braked to a stop. The air smelled like pollen and happy childhood memories.

Bahorel’s mom was waiting on the porch, a wide smile on her face. She embraced her son first, looking humourously small in his arms, and pulled Feuilly in her arms like she’d always known him.

“Welcome home, boys! Did you have a good trip? I hear traffic in Paris in absolutely dreadful! Feuilly, dear, do come in! I made a cinnamon apple pie, Baz told me it was your favourite!”

“I-You didn’t have to it’s really nice of-”

She dismissed the rest of his sentence with a wave of her hand.

“Nonsense, dear, you’re family!”

Feuilly stopped dead in his tracks to take her words in. He was family. Bahorel took his hand with a smile.

“You heard her, you’re family. Now get your ginger butt in that kitchen or she may take offence.”

Those Few Moments - Mirandy fic. Part 1. about 2k.


Andy wondered, sometimes, about what became of the cellphone in the fountain. Feared she tossed it into the water in the same casual way that you would throw in a dime—now make a wish. She couldn’t recall making a wish of any kind at the time, but she doubted it would have been anything to be proud of. Her heart had been beating so fast, her face reddening from the audacity of her own behavior.
Perhaps she had slipped up, made the wrong sort of wish in the end. But then, she got what she wanted, didn’t she?

The first time it happened, it had been an accident. She had been in bed, exhausted from pushing herself to meet a late deadline at The Mirror. She had no reason to think of Miranda that night. But she still did. It went back to those last few moments in Paris; it always did. Feeling the regret down to her fingertips, she closed her eyes and let out a deep breath,

She opened them.

And God, the light was sudden. She squinted. Then she flinched, because she was moving. She held her hands out to balance herself and realized she was in a moving car. That car.


But here she was, sitting in the backseat on the way to the last event of the day. Miranda was staring at her. Andy blinked a few times and realized Miranda was expecting her to answer. That there had been a question. Here they were, in that car in Paris. This was a dream; it had to be. Or perhaps everything that had come after was the dream.

“Andréa ,” Miranda’s voice wavered a little. “Are you quite alright?”

Andy opened her mouth, closed it.

“Am I…?”

Miranda was close, closer than she had been that first time in the car. She looked concerned.

“You just went completely white,” she sniffed, like Andy’s condition was some kind of affront. “Please don’t drop on me now, I couldn’t bear dealing with an onslaught of French doctors this late in the week.”

“No…” Andy found it hard to speak. Her voice wouldn’t come. It was almost like pushing through a heavy fog. Miranda didn’t look convinced.

“You didn’t hear a word of what I said before, did you?”

Andy blinked again. She struggled desperately to remember back that far, but it was a blur.

“Miranda…” she managed. And then everything went dark.

She woke up in bed, alone.

It was a little pathetic that she spent her nights lying in the dark thinking of Miranda Priestly. She was fairly certain Miranda didn’t waste any time thinking about her. Andy had crossed paths with her enough times in the last few years; launches, benefits and once at a party. Miranda stared right through her as if she wasn’t there. On some occasions she’d even receive that familiar, insincere smile. Predators are known to show their teeth when they are preparing you for an oncoming attack.

She hadn’t been attacked, though. It had been six months since Paris. She had received a recommendation, albeit delivered with an insult. But it had gotten her a job. The job. She’d survived the Devil’s wrath. And much like the Boy Who Lived, the gossip about her dramatic exit was legendary. Though no one could verify the details. She even heard whispers around The Mirror that Andy had, in fact, slapped Miranda in the face before fleeing into the Paris traffic. A slap wasn’t much worse than what she had really done. Perhaps that was why it still kept her up at night. She played the last few moments of that car trip over and over in her mind. How she had been shaken by the events at the luncheon. How she’d listened as Miranda quietly talked to her as they rode together in the backseat. The way Miranda’s face was flushed with victory, how she hadn’t sounded the least bit remorseful. She remembered the sudden feeling of fury, the indignation. But she still willed herself not to do it, like a child yelling at a movie screen. Don’t leave. Don’t. Stay in the car. You are better than this.
Of course, she didn’t truly regret quitting. Didn’t regret being free of the couture-clad world of Runway. But still—in the middle of Paris, Andy? Just like that. The busiest, most stressful week of the year. No assistant to support her, while she was suffering the blow of another divorce? Alone. Nobody deserved that.

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sunday six.

from my upcoming “colin takes taron to italy” fic, as of yet unnamed :)

It’s hard for Taron not to notice the rather impressive bouquet of red and white roses sitting on his hotel desk when he stumbles in late–or early, depending on how he looks at it–more than ready to collapse on his bed. He blinks at them, a bit bewildered, before shrugging off his jacket, stepping forward to pluck the card from the plastic holder sticking out above the petals.

He reads it, turning it over in his fingers, as he toes off his shoes and digs his cigarettes out of his duffel bag. He keeps the card between his fore and middle finger as he lights the smoke, opening the balcony doors to be met with the night sounds of Paris–distant traffic and a siren passing by and the rising voices and table clatter of people sitting outside the bistros–and the now familiar scorched smell of rubber from the electric rail and the musty-hot limestone. He takes out his phone and scrolls down until he finds the number, though he knows it by heart, card turning over in his hand as he smokes.

“That’s a lot of flowers,” Taron says before Colin can say anything first. “And the card–Pablo Neruda?”

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,” Colin recites, the smile audible in his voice, the way his voice dips lower. He laughs. “Do you like them? If you don’t, Livia picked them. If you do… well, Livia still picked them.”


professional - adrinette au

Adrien and Marinette where…

“I’m interviewing you for the newspaper so will you please stop flirting and we can get coffee after? AU”

Marinette was rushing to get to the venue, and she had been impatiently tapping her feet since the minute she boarded the metro. Her stop was up next.

“Come on…,” she muttered, pursing her lips and playing around with her fingers. “Ugh… Alya? Are you sure you can’t ask anyone else to cover for you at the office? Asking for me as your proxy for this interview was a bad idea. You know me and my dumb luck. What if I mess it up for you? Do you think you can reschedule that interview?”

“No can do, Marinette!” Even though all Marinette could hear was a voice from her Bluetooth, she still heard the plea in the journalist’s voice. Alya Césaire, her best friend since collège days, had made quite a name for herself in the information industry, establishing herself as one of the best journalists in the entire country. She was so great that she even managed to snag an interview with the world famous model, Adrien Agreste, the face of the Gabriel fashion line. That was quite a hard feat to do, but Alya had somehow managed. “You cannot ruin this for me! I mean sure it was helpful that we went to collège with the guy, but,” Alya continued, sounding frantic, “do you know the kind of people I had to call and the deals I had to make to get this interview with an Agreste?”

Marinette sighed. “I’m assuming a lot.”

“Yes, a lot!” Alya groaned. “Just please do this for me, Mari. I’m begging you! I’m stuck in traffic and haven’t moved an inch from the flow in front of my building.” She cursed under her breath. “Shouldn’t have brought the car to work today. Paris traffic is horrible.” She heaved another sigh before continuing. “Listen, Mari: You’re a lot closer so you just have to make that meeting for me. Please.”

“And I am. Don’t worry,” Marinette reassured, bounding up the steps and rushing to the Agreste home right across the street. “I’m here right now. Right on time, right?”

“Have I ever told you how much I love you, Marinette? Because I love you, Marinette!” Alya let out a breath of relief. “You are a lifesaver! I owe you one! Remember that!”

“Oh, I don’t plan on letting you forget.” Marinette laughed at her best friend. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? Looks like I gotta buzz in.”

“Love you, Mari! Thanks for doing this for me!”

Marinette smiled and shook her head. “Love you too, Alya.” She clicked her Bluetooth off and stood in front of the doorbell of the Agreste mansion. “Okay, Marinette,” she began to prep herself, clenching her fists together. “You got this. You will not mess this up for your best friend. You got this, girl.” Then, after taking a deep breath, Marinette pressed on the button for the intercom.

A camera popped out of the wall and examined her face. “Yes?” a disembodied voice called from a speaker. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes, I do.” Marinette scrambled for her phone to make sure she got every detail right. “I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng, and I’m here as Alya Césaire’s representative for an interview with Adrien Agreste at ten thirty today?”

There was a moment of silence, probably the owner of the voice checking for confirmation.

“Ah, yes. Ms. Dupain-Cheng,” the voice affirmed. “Ms. Césaire called to inform of your arrival earlier as well. You may proceed to enter the compound. Adrien will receive you shortly.”

Marinette smiled graciously; she was glad that she hadn’t messed things up from the get go. “Thank you,” she said gratefully before entering through the gates.

The Agreste manor was even bigger up close. It was a looming, lonely structure that stood over four stories high with tall double oak doors and simple but classy engravings on the stone that decorated its façade. It truly was a magnificent home.

Standing atop the stone steps was a tall woman wearing a purple pantsuit and a stern expression. “Right this way, Ms. Dupain-Cheng,” she greeted as she pushed open one of the doors. “You will be conducting the interview in the parlor, if you don’t mind.”

Regardless of whether she minded or not, Marinette doubted she had much of a choice, judging from the woman’s tone of voice.

Nodding in response, the stand-in interviewer merely followed after the woman she guessed was probably Gabriel or Adrien Agreste’s assistant. They had walked into the sitting room when she gestured to take a seat.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” she told Marinette. “Adrien will be here shortly.”

And with that, she walked away briskly, leaving Marinette alone in the parlor with nothing but the fading sound of her heels clicking at the marble floors as she walked away.

Marinette took this time to grab at her phone again, furiously flipping through the notes she had saved from Alya’s email. She read and reread every question carefully and dared to mutter them to herself just to get it right—the last thing she should be doing is letting her best friend down on an interview that she had already emphasized was of utmost importance.

Her eyes widened at one of the questions Alya had listed.

“‘Are you seeing anyone right now?’” Marinette echoed aloud, looking bewildered. “Why is Alya always trying to start up drama with his fans…? And just when most of the questions seemed serious…”

“Why, no! I am not seeing anyone at the moment, but I gotta admit: I’m pretty interested.”

When Marinette looked up, she saw Adrien Agreste smiling down at her. The famous model stood tall at about six feet or so, with bright green eyes, a wide toothy grin, and a mop of blond hair styled into an undercut.

Marinette felt her breath hitch and tried her best to be subtle while eyeing him.

(Hey! He was a model! And he looked… Well, he looked really good. You know. Since that’s his job and all. Too look good.)

(Not that he wouldn’t look good if modeling wasn’t his job, but… Oh, for heaven’s sake, Marinette! Get your thoughts together!)

“Um. Hi!” she managed to say, standing up and meeting his gaze evenly. After all, she was here for very professional reasons only. “I’m sure your assistant’s already told you, but I’ll be taking Alya’s place in your interview today. I’m—”

“Marinette, right?” Adrien finished, his smile growing wider. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng? I mean, Natalie sort of told me, but I remember you from collège. You were the pretty girl who sat behind me and Nino back then.”

“Always nice to be remembered that way,” she said, unable to stop the smirk from forming on her lips. “Shall we get started with the interview then?”

Adrien frowned. “I thought we’ve already started,” he said with a pout. “I did answer your question, right? I’m not seeing anyone right now.”

Marinette huffed. “I think that’s been very well established by now,” she told him dryly.

“Just emphasizing. In case you didn’t hear.” Adrien winked, and Marinette rolled her eyes. “Totally available. Like, completely free. Not dating anyone, but very interested, if asked.”

This was going to be a long interview, Marinette decided, shaking her head at him. There was a smile tugging up at the corners of her lips.

Adrien,” Marinette complained for the umpteenth time in the interview. They had sat in the parlor for nearly two hours now, and Marinette had only made it through a little more than half the questions Alya had sent her. Adrien kept sidetracking the interview, reminiscing about the old days back in collège, telling Marinette about how, for the longest time, he had this massive crush on her. Oh sure, Marinette definitely had a crush on him too, but she wasn’t about to turn an important interview her best friend needed into a way to get a date. “Will you please stop flirting with me and answer the question?”

“What’s wrong with answering the question and flirting?”

“I’m supposed to be writing this down for Alya. Your answers are going on an actual article, Adrien.”

The model paused. “All right, point taken,” he admitted. “I’ll stop now.”

Thank you.”


“Why is there a ‘but’? There’s always gotta be a ‘but’.”

“Can I ask you out after this? How does coffee sound?”

Marinette sighed. I would love to, she wanted to say, but it came out sounding like:

Adrien,” she drawled slowly, “be serious here.”

“I am! My affections are anything but false!” In his seat across from her, Adrien leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and resting his head on his hands. “Just grab a coffee with me, and maybe we can chat a little. Catch up some more. Are you interested?”

“This interview is supposed to be professional—”

“And it is,” Adrien interrupted. “I promise I’ll take it seriously, okay, Marinette? Can you just… take my request seriously? I meant what I said, you know. Will you go out with me?”

Marinette bit her lip. “I don’t know…,” she replied hesitantly. “I-I don’t want to turn this into some ploy to get a date. Alya’s counting on me to get this interview done.”

“And you will. Promise.” With a solemn look on his face, Adrien drew a cross over his heart with a finger. “I’m just… Do you mind if… Um, do you have an answer for me, then?”

Fine,” Marinette said at last. But there was that little smile again, tugging at the corners of her lips. She just couldn’t help it. “But after the interview, okay? Get through this with me first.”

Adrien’s face immediately brightened up when he heard her response. “But of course, ma chère!” he replied. “Now where were we again?”

A/N: Titles? What are titles? Anyways, I’m always a sucker for Adrinette, so here we are with my first written AU for these losers. Reblog if you liked it!

a silly assassins!au i’ll never have the time to write...

Words: 1365

“So I was thinking we could skip dinner and order in from that Vietnamese place I found instead.”

Ladybug rolled her eyes and squinted into the scope. “I told you, I hate Vietnamese food.”

“You’ve never had Vietnamese. You just wanna to go back to the same Italian place.”

“Because I like that Italian place. I’m a woman of habit.” Her index finger was laying gently on the trigger as she watched Chat Noir zip quickly from behind a parked car and into an open window from a neighboring building. She moved the scope quickly to her right and saw two men leaning against a car parked in the opening of an alley approximately two blocks away. Ladybug couldn’t make out the fine details of their faces from this far away, but the builds matched the description they were given. “When you get a visual, let me know.”

“Roger, my Lady. Keep your eyes on them and let me know if they’re moving.”

“Roger.” She stared down at her phone leaning against the air conditioning unit. 11:32pm. Ladybug clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I already bought a dress for the evening, anyway. I want to wear it.”

“You can literally wear it during any other occasion, you’re not talking me out of this. You’re eating Vietnamese food tonight.” He was already scaling the side of a building only half a block down from where their targets were loitering. “Besides, nothing’s stopping you from wearing it if we stay in. It’s a delectable number if I do say so myself.”

Ladybug chuckled. “Down, kitty cat. You have to earn that dress.”

“And haven’t I?”

She snorted into her earpiece. “Make quick work of these jerks and maybe I’ll reward you.” 11:34pm. “Now come on. Get me a visual.”

“Hold on, hold on.” He must have been getting close because he was whispering into his headset, and the wind was suddenly louder than she was. It was windier than they thought it would be tonight. She kept her scope pointed at the man whose back was towards the street and twisted one of the dials on her scope, trying to account for the windy conditions. Chat Noir was completely out of sight, which meant that he was closing in on the scene. 11:35pm. “What’ve you got?”

“It’s them. Your target’s got a scar across his face, about 180 pounds, black hair, blue eyes, and a tattoo on his wrist. Mine’s about 160 pounds, blond hair, brown eyes, crooked nose, and a mangled ear from a gunshot wound. Both in their mid-30s give or take.”

Ladybug looked away from her scope for a moment to pull out the small netbook she had sitting on the floor of the empty apartment she was camped out in. She pulled up the stats and profiles of the two men that Chat described. Both fit the descriptions of their targets Duris and Blier. “Confirmed.” 11:38pm. “Signal when you’re in position.”

Chat chuckled into his mic. “Don’t miss.”

“I never do. If you impress me, I might give you a show after dinner.”

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