Paris - Blog Posts
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reader serenades Emily on a restaurant rooftop in paris it's bought out for the night 
there's a piano
reader decides to go and play a song for Em
maybe even sings
Emily is so in love actually start tearing up(her version of sobbing)
Reader propose to Emily on a secluded rooftop in Paris!!!!
Enjoy Sunflower 🌻
The Proposal 💍
The sky over Paris had just started to soften into dusky lavender when Emily stepped into the candlelight glow of the restaurant's terrace, her black dress hugging her silhouette perfectly with a shawl to match.
Y/N stood waiting in a perfectly tailored midnight-blue suit, open collar just enough to be casual, but polished with her signature edge. She didn't take her eyes off Emily until she reached the table.
Y/N pulled Emily's chair out, brushed a kiss to her knuckles and sat opposite with a look that said she still couldn't believe her luck.
The place was exquisite, crystal chandeliers, gold accents, a view of the Eiffel Tower from the windows, and the sound of clinking glasses blending with the soft jazz coming from the small quartet.
In the middle of them sat an unattended glossy black baby grand piano. They shared champagne and soft laughter through dinner, filet mignon for Emily, duck à l’orange for Y/N.
Dessert was nearly finished when Y/N stood up suddenly, “Where are you going?” Emily asked, brows lifted in amused suspicion. Y/N just smirked, “Trust me, sweetheart.”
They walked across the restaurant to the piano, catching the attention of the musicians as she gently gestured toward the keys. After a quiet exchange in French, they nodded and adjusted their tempo.
Y/N unbuttoned her jacket and sat at the piano, rolling her sleeves just a touch as she placed her fingers on the keys. The first few bars of “La Vie en Rose” drifted out from beneath her hands.
Soft, elegant, perfectly paced. Emily froze, eyes wide, hand gently fluttering to her lips. Then Y/N sang. In flawless French, her rich, low voice rolled through the restaurant like velvet.
" Quand il me prend dans ses bras Il me parle tout bas Je vois la vie en rose… "
Emily’s heart clenched.
" Il me dit des mots d’amour Des mots de tous les jours Et ça me fait quelque chose… "
The band joined in one by one, violin, upright bass, saxophone, like the city itself had conspired with Y/N. Every guest turned toward her, but Y/N only had eyes for love.
When the final note echoed out, the restaurant burst into gentle applause, but Emily didn’t clap. She stood, breathless, teary, and walked straight to Y/N, grabbing her cheeks with both hands to kiss her.
“You are unbelievable,” she whispered against her lips. Y/N gave her a secretive grin. “You haven’t seen anything yet.” They laced their fingers together and led her upstairs, past waitstaff who opened the doors with knowing smiles.
The rooftop was magic.
Hundreds of tiny candles flickered in hurricane jars arranged in winding paths across the stone floor. A scattering of petals curved around a table with two glasses of champagne already waiting.
In the far corner, the Eiffel Tower glittered just above the city skyline. Y/N turned to face Emily, hands slightly trembling now.
“I set this up… weeks ago,” they admitted softly. “I knew I wanted to do it here. In the city of lights, in the city of love. Because you... you make everything brighter. Everything warmer. You make me feel like I’m seeing life in color for the first time.”
Emily’s eyes brimmed with tears. Y/N dropped to one knee and opened the velvet box. “Emily Prentiss... will you marry me?” Emily let out a breathless laugh, crying now, nodding frantically.
“Yes,” she whispered, then louder. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Y/N slid the ring onto her finger, stood, and Emily kissed her so hard they nearly knocked over the closest candle. Paris glowed beneath them, and above them, and all around them.
The brightest part of the city right in front of Y/N's eyes, Emily.
"What would Jesus do?"
No, what would Sabrina do?
‘11, Paris, La Défense White and Blue
Gustave Caillebotte, Vue de toits, Effet de Neige (View of Rooftops, effects of snow), 1878, Musée d’Orsay, Paris.
I want to be fluent in french so bad.
When you pretend to be in love you run the risk of feeling it, he who parodies without proper precautions ends up the victim of his own cunning. And even if he takes them, he ends up a victim just the same. As Pascal said: “It is almost impossible to feign love without turning into a lover.” […] That said, I must also warn you that when you hear me say, for example, that there was never any end to Paris, I will most likely be saying it ironically. But, anyway, I hope not to overwhelm you with too much irony. The kind that I practice has nothing to do with that which arises from desperation — I was stupidly desperate enough when I was young. I like a kind of irony I call benevolent, compassionate, like what we find, for example, in the best of Cervantes. I don’t like ferocious irony but rather the kind that vacillates between disappointment and hope. Okay?
— Enrique Vila-Matas, Never Any End to Paris.
The thing was all the kissing and the holding that was going on in Paris. And it was so romantic, just to be there and see them, even though I was twenty-one and sort of not romantic. But I really loved it, the way the people would just stand under a tree kissing; and they weren’t mauling at each other, they were just kissing.
— John Lennon, interview w/ David Sheff for Playboy. (September, 1980)
J’aime the kisses the Parisians give one another, touching their cheeks, and allowing men to do the same, though they never lock their arms in embrace.
— Henri Cole, Orphic Paris.
After a late lunch, Linda launched into a long paean to the joys of living in England. When she was finished, she turned to John and said, “Don’t you miss England?”
“Frankly,” John replied, “I miss Paris.”
— May Pang, Loving John. (1983)
If so, how I must be striving to not be annihilated by Paris, which I find so overwhelming. My face looks solitary and calm. […] What perplexing messages memories can yield. As I write this, their odors, their shadows, and their sweet music are almost too much to bear.
— Henri Cole, Orphic Paris.
“I don’t have any friends!” John reminded me. “Friendship is a romantic illusion!” He said that he had learned this the hard way after the breakup of his relationship with Paul McCartney, whom he had once regarded as his close friend.
— Fred Seaman, The Last Days of John Lennon. (1991)
To the most romantic corner in Paris where I left my heart and my illusion.
— Octavio Paz. (trans. Henri Cole)
I think, in one way, all of us were under a slight illusion that we might… Maybe it wasn’t an illusion, and maybe had we pushed harder, we would’ve gotten what we wanted, but I’m not sure we – anybody really knew what we wanted. We knew we didn’t like what was happening, but nobody knew quite what – what it was that we wanted. ’Cause we’d never had it.
— John Lennon, interview w/ Jim Ladd. (October 10th, 1974)
Everything ends, I thought.
Everything except Paris, I say now. Everything ends except Paris, for there is never any end to Paris, it is always with me, it chases me, it is my youth. Wherever I go, it travels with me, it’s a feast that follows me. There can be an end to this summer, it will end. The world can go to ruin, it will be ruined. But to my youth, to Paris, there is never any end. How terrible.
— Enrique Vila-Matas, Never Any End to Paris.
Aww, THANK YOU!
La Pascua Ortodoxa (a nainia-s-stories)
CITIxFamily PARIS is part of a family friendly travel guides series by Viction:ary , including an illustrated map, a memory game and several postcards to send back home. Buy it online here.
Seria of graphic works for second issue of collective zine “Bumajno” about different cities. These three devoted to Paris and Naples.