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#city of lover paris
katielovestay13 · 1 year
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who's taking me to paris to fall in love with me in paris so I can scream paris in paris?
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breelynnxoxoxo · 1 month
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THE CITY OF LIGHTS; THE PLACE FOR LOVERS! 🇫🇷🇫🇷🇫🇷
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leilakisakabiri · 8 months
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Just For You (Neymar Jr)
Summary: You’re a reporter for Man City and Neymar dedicates a goal to you, starting a bunch of rumors and a long-lived rivalry.
Warning(s): None.
A/N: I miss the world cup era. Working on TPWK 2, it’s taking so long though.
Word Count: 2.9k+
Masterlist
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The first time Neymar had dedicated a goal for you, the two of you hadn’t even been dating yet.
You had met each other during the PSG vs Man City game for the UEFA Champions League.
You were a freshly hired reporter for Man City preparing to interview players for your first game.
You and your co-worker were busy setting up the equipment prior to the game starting when you noticed that one of the players from the opposing team had come out and was giving an interview.
You waited until he was done before shouting for him, beckoning him over.
You made eye contact as he came over.
You launched right into your well-rehearsed speech, “Hello, thank you so much for joining us today, can you please state your name?”
He gave you a weird look but spoke nonetheless, “Neymar?”
Oh shit. This was Neymar. You had heard about him once you started to become more involved in the football world, however, you hadn’t done any research on him since he wasn’t a Man City player.
“Alright. Thanks for that.” You spoke.
“So Neymar how do you feel about tonight’s game?”
Neymar smirked at you, “Aren’t you a Man City reporter?”
You felt your face warm with the question, flustered you responded, “Yes. Why does that matter?”
Neymar shrugged, maintaining eye contact, “Just like to get to know my competition.”
Now your cheeks were definitely turning red, but you were quick to refocus on the original question, “So about the game, how are you feeling?”
Neymar kept his gaze on you the whole time instead of looking at the camera.
He had a sort of unnerving stare as he grinned at you, looking like he knew something you didn’t.
“Pretty good, think we’ll destroy your little team, show them how it’s done.”
You let out a loud laugh, “Please, we both know that Man City has been doing very well this season, and PSG has been barely able to hold their position in the league.”
Neymar’s smile faded at your words as he began to argue back, “Actually our defensive line has been the best it’s been in years, same with our attack. However, after the last game that Man City played it’s clear that their best days are behind them.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, clearly not pleased as he had just dissed your team, but you remained professional,
“I guess we’ll see tonight. How are you feeling about your chances of winning the league?”
“Confident. I’ll be even more so when we beat you.”
You raised your eyebrows at his confidence. “Well, may the best team win.”
He gave you a smile that was anything but nice before he nodded at your statement.
You decided to close out the interview, seeing as the game was beginning soon, “Ok well thank you for your time.”
He nodded once again before you cut the cameras, about to make your way back over to your co-worker before he interrupted,
“What’s your name?”
You turned to look back at him puzzled, “Y/n. Why?”
He looked back at you, his signature smirk back on his face, “I’ll remember that.”
That night Man City had lost 2-0. With the final goal being scored by none other than Neymar himself.
You felt yourself getting irritated as the game began to turn in his favor rather than yours. Your first game as an official team reporter and you would have to announce it as a loss instead of a win.
You only grew more agitated once Neymar scored the final goal in the 84th minute, sealing Man City’s fate. That agitation quickly turned into shock and then anger once you realized just how exactly the PSG player was celebrating.
Firstly, he had run towards the media stands instead of the fans like players normally would. he had then proceeded to give the cameras a kiss, making a heart shape with his fingers and signing an initial, but not just any initial, yours.
To make matters worse he had pointed straight up at you, sending a quick wink before he got tackled by his teammates, leaving you with no doubts about who that goal was for.
You felt your face flush despite yourself as you silently screamed at yourself as you battled between wanting to bash his brains in or simply giving him the finger.
In the end, you couldn’t do either, one because you valued your job, and two because you didn’t want to end up in jail for the rest of your life.
You felt yourself seething as you looked at him.
What a dick. Dedicating a goal to you that he had scored on your team? Major asshole move.
You felt your co-worker shift to look at you, “Did he just point at you?”
You didn’t even know what to say as you glared at the boy on the field wishing more than ever that looks could kill.
“He doesn’t know what he just started.”
And he didn’t. However, neither did you.
That day had started the short-lived rivalry between the two of you, however, it had also brought you into each other’s lives which ultimately ended up being the best gift of all.
Your little squabble that night had turned into a strained relationship filled with little jabs and annoyed glances.
Things had finally reached a tipping point at the annual Ballon d’Or award show nearly six months later.
Everyone knew about the tense relationship you had with the player, including fans, who seemed to love the disdain you had for each other, coming up with crazy theories that the both of you were in a secret relationship and hiding it.
The rumors had been difficult for you, they had just been annoying at first, but soon they started to hinder your actual work after your manager caught wind of the situation. You had worked hard for everything you got, and it made you irrationally angry that people were beginning to believe that you had been handed everything on a silver platter because of the rumors, and your manager not wanting to play into those accusations had removed you from certain cases, that she knew would give you the breakthrough you needed for your career, informing you that she “just didn’t want to add fuel to the fire”.
You scoffed at the thought.  
This evolving issue is why you were so surprised when you were chosen as the main host for the award ceremony – the same one Neymar had been announced as one of the nominees for. It was an absolute honor to be selected for hosting the ceremony, and many well-acclaimed reporters and journalists competed for the top spot, which is why you were extremely confused when you had been picked. You had only been a professional reporter for less than a year and didn’t have any high-up connections to get you the position, although that’s what many people believed.
Your manager had come to your desk one random Wednesday afternoon and dropped the envelope onto your desk.
You looked up at her with confusion, “What’s this?”
She raised her eyebrow, one pristine hand going to fix the invisible crease in her custom blazer, “It’s a letter from France Football – FIFA division.”
Your eyes widened at her statement, and you felt your body stiffen, “What? How do they even know who I am?”
Her lips were in a thin line, “It seems they have seen your work and would like to get in contact. Perhaps someone recommended you.”
You shook your head in disbelief, “There’s no way, I don’t know anyone who would do that.”
Her eyes narrowed, “Well it seems you’ve been selected. They often tend to go for more established journalists, but it seems they picked different this year.”
You gulped under her scrutinizing stare, not knowing what to say.
“Well let me know what they want.” She said, finally walking away.
You stared at the envelope in disbelief. You knew what today was. Today reporters across the world were sitting anxiously at their desks, fingers clammy and spirits hopeful as they waited for the mail, praying that they would be one of the few chosen to receive a letter from the FIFA Board of Directors.
Your boss herself, who was head of Man City’s PR and Journalism team, had been locked away in her office all day, coming out periodically every twenty minutes to check if anything came for her.
Your hand shook as you reached for the envelope, fingers lightly tracing the logo imprinted onto the paper, heard pounding at the possibilities.
You opened the letter, eyes scanning the words. Your hand flew over your mouth as you stared at the words in front of you dumbfounded.
You had been selected.
You were going to be presenting at the Ballon d’Or ceremony.
The letter congratulated you for being selected, listing your numerous accolades, refreshing commentary, and unique journalistic approach as reasons you had been selected. The letter also stated that you had been recommended by someone close to the association, enabling them to discover your work.
You frowned at that, so your manager had been right.
But who would have done that?
That question had been left answered till the night of the ceremony.
You had been practicing your speech tirelessly, repeating it like a mantra as you stood behind the red curtains, mic in hand, waiting for your queue to walk onto the stage.
You saw the stage director give you a thumbs up and you took a deep breath, a large smile falling across your face as the curtains opened.
The ceremony had gone without a hitch, you said all your lines perfectly, interacting with the audience, and making a few jokes throughout the evening that had everyone laughing.
You waited patiently as the winners were announced, taking a seat at your spot at the first table, you glanced around the room, accidentally making eye contact with the man of the hour himself.
He sat laid back in his chair, an almost unbothered expression on his face as he locked eyes with you. If you didn’t know any better, you would say he almost looked a little bored – you found it a little ironic considering the Ballon d’Or was being presented next. But you did know better, reading people is what you did for a living, and you could tell by the way he kept unconsciously tugging at the sleeves of his tux he was nervous, even if his eyes remained passive.
You narrowed your eyes at him, but he only gave you a smug smile before being pulled into a conversation with his father. You turned back around, seeing him give you one last glance from your peripheral vision.
You felt your body grow hot under his gaze and you chastised yourself for it. You couldn’t let him get under your skin, the night was almost over, and then you could say that you hosted the ceremony perfectly.
The award was presented, with the nominees being announced one last time, and you caught yourself holding your breath, unsure what you were hoping for.
“And the award goes to Lionel Messi!” The announcer spoke.
Your eyes immediately drifted to Neymar once again, seeing him clapping along with everyone else. You couldn’t help but feel bad for him, although he seemed ecstatic for his friend, you knew how it felt to want something so badly and have it in the palm of your hands, only for it to slip through your fingers, while you could do nothing but watch helplessly.
You shook yourself from your thoughts, walking back onto the stage and closing the ceremony. You finished, a dazzling smile on your face as you gave a bow, letting the curtains close.
Your hands shook as someone took the microphone from your hands congratulating you.
You had done it! You had hosted the ceremony to the best of your ability, and nothing had gone wrong!
You hugged everyone who came to congratulate you before making your way back to your table, ready to celebrate your success with the gala food.
You walked past Neymar’s table distracted, only hearing the tail end of the conversation, but it was enough for your steps to falter.
Messi sat next to him, a surprised look on his face, “She was great! I still can’t believe you recommended her.”
Neymar shrugged, turning back to his food.
You felt your breath catch in your throat, they couldn’t possibly be talking about you, could they?
You greeted everyone as you sat down at your table, accepting their congratulations, but your mind was still swirling trying to piece together the snippets of conversation you had heard. Your manager had said that someone had probably recommended you for the position and you had been trying to figure out who it was, but you had never considered the player sitting not even 100 feet away from you.
You ate your meal slowly as you debated what to do. Should you confront him? Or just let it go?
The answer came a moment later when you saw Neymar get up from his table, walking towards the restrooms.
It was now or never.
Without a second thought, you excused yourself, trailing behind him, the thudding of your heart, and the warm feeling in your stomach outweighing all other emotions.
You saw him walk towards the single-stall restroom and mentally thanked whatever higher power was looking out for you.
You slipped inside before the door could shut all the way, seeing his hands grip the sink, head lowered.
“It was you.” You spoke.
His head shot up, and he whipped around, body relaxing when he saw you, “Shit. Reporta you can’t just walk into the bathroom, you scared me.”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” You questioned, watching him raise a brow.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You took a step closer to him, refusing to break eye contact. “You,” your finger jabbed his chest, “You recommended me.”
You saw his breath hitch and you knew he had been caught,
“Why?” Your voice was soft.
He remained silent, and you closed the distance between the two of you until you were standing only inches apart, neither of you daring to breathe.
He continued to look at you, eyes exploring every inch of your face, and you almost melted under his gaze. His eyes looked so pretty, like two pots of honey pulling you in, coating you in their sweetness.
“Because you deserved it.”
A look of disbelief washed over your features, “Why would you do that? We’re not friends.”
“We may not be friends, but even I can admit that you have talent. You’d have to be blind not to notice that.” He shook his head, gently moving your hand that was still pointed at his chest.
He continued, “I heard them talking about who to pick, and I knew it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t give your name. You work twice as hard as everyone else, but people always discredit you because of the rumors, rumors that involve me, and I didn’t want to be the reason you didn’t get a chance.”
You held your breath, unsure what to say, tummy doing somersaults at his words.
“You don’t have any problems with any players – just me. But that’s all they see, and then deem you as a liability, and I just couldn’t sit back and let them believe that.” He admitted.
His hand cupped your jaw gently, tilting your chin to face him, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear as he gazed at you, “Y/n you deserve it.”
Your heart began to pound rapidly, it felt like it was going to explode, “That’s the first time you’ve ever said my name.” Your voice was barely above a whisper.
He gave you a soft smile, not saying anything.
“Stop saying things that are making me like you.” You said the first thing that came to your mind, mentally cursing yourself for admitting you liked him first.
He grinned at you, “Y/n? Liking little ole me? How can that be?”
You hit his shoulder in annoyance, peering up at him, “I’m sorry you didn’t win. If it’s worth anything, I think you deserved to win – you’re an incredible player.”
You broke eye contact with him, hiding your face in his shoulder, so he wouldn’t see your facial expression, “I’m sorry I just couldn’t say that with a straight face, but I mean it.”
He rolled his eyes at you, pulling you back by your shoulders, forcing you to look at him, “It’s worth a lot. Thank you.”
You saw his eyes flicker to your lips as he spoke, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to stop what you were planning to do next. Your fate had been decided the moment you followed him into the bathroom.
“Neymar, your gonna hate me for this.”
He looked at you confused, about to speak, but you cut him off, fingers locking in his hair and pulling him down to you, kissing him with everything you had.
He was frozen in shock for a second, and then he pulling you impossibly closer, eyes fluttering shut.
“Definitely don’t hate you.” He murmured in between kisses, hands grasping the back of your dress as he spun the both of you, pressing your body against the sink.
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dumblr · 2 years
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taylorswiftaylor · 1 year
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Can I go where you go? Can we always be this close forever and ever?
@taylorswift @taylornation
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boobilater · 2 months
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mondsex · 2 years
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I don't wanna look at anything else now that I saw you 💕💗💕
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sognatricedistelle · 2 years
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Took this cute photo in Paris, the city of love.
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snowpetaly · 1 year
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Feel free to use 🤍 credits are welcome!
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marieandersoneq · 7 months
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«Je ne suis rien, je le sais,
mais je compose mon rien
avec un petit morceau de tout.»
Victor Hugo, Le Rhin.
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littlesugarwords · 8 months
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➺ 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬:   𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴, 𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯. 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘫𝘰𝘣, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦.
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folkwhorespodcast · 11 months
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This week, your favorite Folkwhores report live from Paris for the next Midnights 3am edition deep dive!
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persephonediary · 2 years
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Weekend plans xx
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sampagneprobs · 1 year
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How can I watch City of Lover tonight 😫 pls @taylorswift put it back on Hulu! Or a special edition DVD oh my goodness !!!!! 😍🤍
Anyway, happy Lover album appreciation day 💕 however you celebrate 😘
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12:25 pm : La fontaine de Saint-Sulpice - Paris, Avril MMXVII. 
(© Sous Ecstasy)
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