Rainy Nights in Paris | Matthew Fairchild x Reader

Part 1

Paris was a beautiful city.

The famous city of love was the home of curving streets and green parks, where you would usually spend your time on a blanket with a book or sketchbook.

Even though this city was known for love; the rainy night, the blonde man hunched in a tavern over a glass of cognac, they showed you that the city you loved, was not for everyone. There were still miserable people walking down its streets.

Your long coat was not helping with the chill of the March night, but the bar was warm when you entered, crowded with men of different ages. You should not have been there, a lady of your age, not linked to any man besides their father, was not allowed to walk the streets alone, without a companion, a man to 'protect' them. But they couldn't see you anyway. Your attire was just as out of the ordinary as your attitude.

You wore a bright coat that was wet from the rain. And from its hood, drops were falling on your face. The skirt of your dress was not even reaching your ankle and your brown boots rose to your knees. The right part of the skirt had been cut from the middle of your thigh during a fight with a mean werewolf, who was too friendly, and around your waist hung a belt of weapons freshly cleaned, hid under the warm material.

You got word that the Consul's youngest son was needed back in London and that he was somewhere sulking in the city of love. So, you were sent to find him.

Paris was a big city and it was full of places perfect for a young man to find someone to spend the night with. Some of these locations were luxurious and some literal dumps. And you were now standing in a pub on the other side of the Seine, of the Louvre.

The place was warm, the walls were painted in deep colours, very similar to the inside of pubs you remembered hearing about from your older friends when they described England to you. The daily rain, the fashion and the way they talked were the very common aspects they told you about. But Louis, a great friend of yours, described every necessary and unnecessary thing he could think of: the taverns, the walls of the Institute and the small designs symbolizing some of the big Shadowhunter families and the colours the people wore.

He would've loved to see the inside of this place. A part of England in the heart of France.

Perfect for a British missing home.

You saw how the coloured eyes of Downworlders turned your way when you entered the room. The glamour on you made it easier to make your way to the mass of blonde hair that was crunched over a glass at the bar.

You waited a minute, took his still impeccable attire in, no drop of alcohol spilt, no speck of dust. An antithesis to the emotion his whole stance suggested to you. He was sad, that was a known fact.

"You could at least unglamour yourself, you are going to stay here a long while here if you are looking for me," he said in English, his voice broke you from your moment of assessing. He didn't even turn your way, he just started playing to his now empty glass. You saw how he looked at you out of his corner's eye. You took a place at the bar, the stool next to him previously empty, while still wearing the magic.

Matthew was a beautiful young man, younger than you by at least a year. His dark green eyes were clouded and even from just admiring his profile you could easily see a forest during the storm in his irises. His lips were very pink, almost red and wet from the possible dozens of times he had licked them with his tongue. His hair was parted in the middle, but there was a rogue strand that didn't like to be away from his gaze, so it chose to sway before his left eye. His fingers were long, adorned with silver and golden rings and on the back of his right hand, behind healed thin scars, his Voyance rune-covered his skin.