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inzenial · 4 months

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marriage - regulus black

TW: I do not condone or promote forced marriage or any form of abuse or mistreatment in relationships.

This text may contain triggering content for some readers, including references to emotional abuse and coercion.

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I woke up and glanced at Regulus sleeping next to me. I had always known that I would marry a pureblood wizard. My mother had drilled it into me from a young age that marrying well was the most important thing I could do. So when I was told that I would be marrying Regulus Black, I was not surprised. In fact, I was almost relieved that I would not have to go through the process of finding a suitable husband myself.

However, I was not blind to the fact that Regulus did not want to marry me. I could see the disdain in his eyes every time we were forced to be in each other's company. It hurt me that he could not even try to get to know me, but I understood that he had been forced into this marriage just as I had.

But it seemed that nothing I did could change his opinion of me. I tried to be kind to him, but he rebuffed me at every turn. It was clear that he did not want to be married to me, and I could not help but feel hurt by his rejection.

Despite my disappointment, I knew that I had to make the best of the situation. I was determined to be a good wife to Regulus, even if he did not want me. I hoped that one day he would see that I was not the enemy and that we could find some common ground. But for now, I would have to be content with being the wife of a man who hated me.

Regulus was on the other side of the bed just staring at the ceiling as if he hadn't a care in the world. He was silent for a moment before he spoke. "You know this marriage was completely unnecessary, right?"

"But what was the point in them arranging this? You know I hate you, right?" He kept staring at the ceiling.

"Yes, I do. For what reason, the world may never know," you respond, mumbling the last part as you go up to go to the shared bathroom in your bedroom.

"Probably to spite me." He said before slowly getting up and heading into the bathroom as well. He leaned against the wall as he looked at you in the mirror. He stared right through your eyes but it was clear by his expression that there was nothing but hatred towards you.

"What do you want?"

"For you to go away." His voice was a soft but cold as his eyes narrowed at you. You'd never seen him like this before.

"Well, I'm not going away, not for a long time, so maybe stop being so tiresome and just get used to this marriage because, whether you like it or not, you're married to me," you say, on the verge of yelling as you had about enough of him.

Regulus seemed to grow even taller as he stared down at you.

"I'm the Head of House Black, my family's reputation is everything." Regulus paused before he took another step closer.

"You're telling me to get used to this?"

"Exactly. Good job of getting the point into your thick skull." You responded, still mad at him for complaining and blaming everything on you.

Regulus stared at you before rolling his eyes. "You know why we're married?" He asked.

"To ensure that I continue the Black family line." He was still staring at you. Your breath hitched just slightly as a cold wave washed over you.

"So?"

"Do you know how children are made?" Regulus' tone changed as he looked down at you. He said as he took a step closer.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm only doing my duty." Regulus answered as he took another step towards you.

"No"

Regulus was silent for a moment. He seemed confused at your answer. "No?" He looked deep into your eyes.

"You understand this is our duty, right?"

"Yes, I realise that, but I'm not doing it just to please our parents or for me to get pregnant. I'm also not going to do it with someone who hates me." You say this as you place both hands on his chest and push him back slightly.

Regulus took a step back, then let out a sigh. He ran his hand through his hair before looking back at you. He said nothing for a moment, but his eyes seemed to burn you.

"Our family needs a child, do you know what happens if they don't get one?"

"We'll just tell them that we're trying and that it's taking longer than expected, but until you get over your hatred for me, I'm not doing anything with you." You say this as you move downstairs to make a cup of tea.

"And how do you think they'll respond to that when the time passes and you're still not pregnant." Regulus followed you into the kitchen. It was clear he was angry with you now which almost caught you by surprise.

"Well then, get over your hatred faster," you say with your back to him as you watch the kettle.

Regulus leaned against the wall once again and took a breath before talking. "Have you ever thought of why I hate you?" His tone shifted again.

"Yes, I have, and I cannot come up with a single reason why you do." You turn to face him.

Regulus seemed to struggle to find the words to say. "I hate you because.. you remind me of my parents." Regulus said after a moment as he looked away from you.

His tone seemed softer now; he seemed sad—not angry, not cold, just sad. When he looked back at you, he almost looked ashamed.

"Our parents forced me into this marriage I did not want, just like how they forced me into everything else." Regulus was silent for a moment.

"Regulus, I am not your parents; in fact, I'd like to think I'm the complete opposite, and I know you don't like that we're married, but we have to make it work." You say, softly.

He just stood there for a moment before he took a step forward and wrapped you in a hug.

"I'm sorry." He said as he tightened his grip on you. Regulus seemed more like a scared little boy than the man you had previously known.

You sighed and pulled away from him as you heard the screeching noise from the kettle.

"Let me make us some tea." Regulus said as he slowly went to the cupboard and took out two matching tea cups.

"You just sit down." He kept his back facing you while he prepared the tea.

"Thank you," you replied as you took the steaming mug from him.

Regulus took his own mug and sat down across from you.

He looked down at the table in silence for a moment before looking up at you. He took a sip of his drink and waited for you to do the same.

You start to take a sip from your mug, but it's too hot, and you burn your tongue slightly.

"Fuck," you hiss.

Regulus smiled when you cursed and he couldn't help but chuckle slightly.

"Always wait for the tea to cool first." He warned you.

"Yeah, a bit too late for that." You smiled.

"You know, this is one of the first times I've seen you smile" Regulus took another sip of his tea before his eyes met yours once again.

He stayed silent for a moment before he said, "Do you think we could ever get along?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Can I ask you something?" Regulus' tone was serious as he looked at you.

"Yes?"

"Why did you accept our parent's proposition to marry me?" Regulus' tone was soft once more.

"Because you seemed nicer than the other options my mother presented me."

Regulus was silent for a moment before he sighed. He placed his tea cup down on the table and looked at you properly for the first time.

"Did you know I was going to be so... cold to you?" Regulus seemed to want to ask more questions. He looked almost nervous now.

"No, I didn't, but I got used to it, I guess."

"Why would you get used to it?" Regulus seemed confused. "I've been awful to you this entire time and you're okay with that?"

"Well, I wasn't okay with it, but nothing I said or did would change your mind, so I grew to sort of ignore the words that came out of your mouth."

"I'm sorry that I acted that way towards you, I'm a complete and utter arse." He spoke quickly. Regulus seemed to know full well that he was in the wrong. He had always blamed everyone but himself.

"No one is deserving of the treatment I've given you." Regulus didn't look away from you as he spoke.

"I'm not sure if I could forgive you right away, but this is good progress."

"I don't expect forgiveness. After how I treated you, you owe me nothing." Regulus took another sip of his tea.

In this moment, he didn't seem like a Head of House, he just seemed like a tired and overworked young man.

"I'm getting a bit tired; I think I might go take a nap."

Regulus looked tired as well. His expression seemed almost sad as he looked at you.

"You probably should." He stood up from his seat and picked up his mug.

"I'll get the dishes and then I think I should sleep as well." Regulus said in a more tired tone than you'd ever heard from him.

"Leave the dishes; we'll do them in the morning. You need to sleep too."

Regulus paused for a moment before he slowly nodded.

"Okay, thank you." He placed his mug into the sink then left the kitchen to head upstairs. You could hear him start walking up the steps.

You followed him upstairs to your bedroom. You went to the bathroom to quickly do your skincare routine and found him lying in bed under the covers.

When you walked into the bedroom you realised something. Regulus was in bed, half-covered by the sheets but he didn't appear to be tired, in fact, he was wide awake.

Regulus turned over to look at you and his eyes seemed to sparkle slightly in the dim glow. He stared at you for a moment before asking, "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah?" You replied as you laid down next to him.

"Would you hold my hand?" Regulus asked. You could hear the tiredness in his voice.

He wanted you to hold his hand. It was a simple request, but it made something inside your heart flutter just a little.

"Yes, Regulus" You responded, taking in his hand as you laid down and tried to sleep.

His hand was warm and you were glad to be able to hold it. It made you feel safe in a way you hadn't felt in a long time.

Regulus was silent for a moment before he spoke once again. "Thank you." He turned over towards you so he was facing you while still laying in bed.

Regulus' eyes seemed to close when you took his hand and began to lay down beside him. In only moments, he was fast asleep. It wasn't long before he fell into a dreamless sleep. His grip was slightly tight on your hand.

You lay in bed awake for a few minutes before you slowly fell asleep as well. Regulus was still holding your hand.

A/N : This isn't what I usually write but I went along with it. If you have any requests, send me a message.

-zoe ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

#regulus black x reader #regulus black #harry potter #mauraders #couple #fanfiction #imagine #fanfiction author #fanfiction ideas #regulus x reader #regulus x fem!reader

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rippersz · 3 months

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𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐨𝐠𝐬

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Fem!Named!Reader x Larissa Weems; (Fluffy, romantic, ships in the night, angst) (8K word count)

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Why are you here?

Why are you here if you’re so tired? So exhausted? So bored?

Why are you looking for meaning in a foreign country? And why can’t you find it? Don’t you know passion isn’t found in the street? Don’t you know it doesn’t just exist beneath the light rain and cold wind? Your shaking body won’t get you anywhere but across the cobblestone bridge - and even then, you must trudge. Wade through the distinct desire to fall asleep.

Why are you trying so hard to stay awake?

You have come here for a reason - for an escape - and yet, you are plagued with the same thing that haunted you back home. It is inescapable, this distinct feeling of emotional helplessness. You feel too much or you feel too little. You explode with desire, with sadness, with anger, or you are cool and detached. You cannot find an in between. You cannot find a warm, soothing balance. You walk the line of extremes and get upset when the grey areas cease to exist.

So you run away to France and think that you can find yourself in what? Hm? In the Eiffel? In the lights? In the love? Please. You have not felt love. You have not felt real love. You have not felt anything beyond passion and lust, and even then those feelings were artificial. Forced, almost. You have looked at men and you have seen their shoulders and you have witnessed the bobbing of their throats and the easy fluff of their hair and you have been thoroughly unimpressed. For what exists for you there? What is in their strong arms? What is in their DNA? What lies in them that cannot be discovered elsewhere? Why are you expected to view them and want them?

Why are you expected to love?

So many questions, not many answers. They swirl around inside like the milkiness of an oatmeal bath, opaque and bottomless. They swirl and you watch. Utterly mesmerized. Hypnotized until you feel the distinct desire to fall asleep. Constantly tired, you are. Always so exhausted, dragging your feet along the pavement. Blindly clutching the collar of the black coat that covers your arms and back. Its hood leaves your face bare for the elements. Wind sweeps and rain smacks and you are certain you’ll get sick from walking out so late at night in the cold.

What on Earth came over you? Who could ever be so stupid?

Shivers run the length of your body. You feel like a wet dog thrown out in the street, proving far too difficult for the family to continue dealing with. Too loud and too needy and too caked with mud everytime you walked into the house, so they had no choice but to discard you. It is better, after all, than having a defective animal. No one wants a dog who cannot love. No one wants a dog who cannot be understood. No one wants a stray. And no one-no one-wants a shivering pup walking slowly on unsteady legs. No one wants that. No one wants you.

Except for the sign in the distance, blurry and far away - past the stoplight and across the street. A golden light flickers brightly above an evergreen background, and you can just barely make out, through squinted eyes, the bold gold lettering. ‘Madame: A 1920’s Brasserie’. You can’t help but think that it’s a rather silly name. Madame. Can’t get more French than that. And, it appears, can’t get more authentic. The restaurant stands out in a way that borders on tacky. It is all dark mahogany, golden accents, and small details of matte red and green. The sconces on the walls glow like mini-fires, and you find yourself… drawn. Intrigued. It is inviting and it is late. The windows are dark; the world inside is its own. And you need an escape. A proper one. None of this wandering shit that leads you to nowhere but a random spot with aching feet and the distinct feeling of dissatisfaction. None of this waiting around emptiness.

You are cold and it looks warm and you are just an abandoned dog. How can they expect you to deny yourself some peace?

–

The very moment your boot slides over the threshold, tapping down lightly on a dark wooden floor, your body is changed. A veil of something different flows over your shoulders, draping behind you, and suddenly you feel as though you’ve stepped into another world.

Have you? Or were you just hit by a car in the middle of the road and slipped into the Afterlife?

If that had happened, and you were indeed dead, then the Afterlife was an absolute treat. It seems like a small speakeasy, with a stage at the very back of the restaurant - lit up by a few spotlights and otherwise empty aside from a single microphone stand and a piano. In the dark corner beside it, there’s a cello, a trumpet case, and a deconstructed set of drums. The lights are dimmed so intensely that only the flickers of tabletop candlelight and a few burning wicks by the bar help you squint through hazy darkness. It feels like a dream as smoky hands curl into the air and caress your lungs as you breathe, creating something intoxicating when paired with the heady scent of mixed perfumes. Mixed perfumes that all seem to belong to women. Only women. It’s not crowded but a few souls linger. Couples leaning into each other at their booths, their pupils melting into hearts. Friends sitting lazily at one of the center tables, toasting to something you can’t hear. A group of flirts. A lonely soul or two nursing martinis by the stage. A woman at the bar. The bartender. One server drawing in a notebook, tucked away from the rest of the world. All women. All… dated. Old fashioned. It feels like you’ve stepped into the 1950’s - or something like that. You’ve never been very good with time. But they are different. Wearing dresses with pulled in waists, collars, square necklines, bateau necklines, coats and hats and heels and gloves. Not a phone in sight. Some are in suits, too. Marlene Dietrich type suits. Tipping The Velvet type suits. Very dapper. Very clean. You’re overwhelmed.

Distantly, somewhere, the gentle keys of piano jazz fill the buzzing room - and you feel lightheaded. Dizzy with warmth. The rain purrs against the windows, blowing with the wind trying to get to you. But you have reached safety. Nirvana. And you find yourself itching to shrug out of your coat and disappear into a glass of something tangy and sweet.

“Amaretto sour,” you murmur to the lady behind the bar, sluggishly pushing back the hood from your head.

“Choose somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

The response is immediate. And annoying. You pause, halfway out of your coat, and look from the polished mahogany of the bar’s surface to the amused glint in the bartender’s eyes. There’s a cloth thrown over her shoulder and a dark loose vest sitting tight against her button up. White. Sleeves scrunched by the elbows. A smirk on her lips. Your gaze melts into a glare.

Stop looking at me like that. I’m just a dog. I don’t want whatever smiles you have to offer.

“I don’t know,” you growl, tugging the coat from your body so harshly it nearly tears your arms off.

But she doesn’t seem to mind your irritation, and better yet, she doesn’t really seem to care. Her eyes only track the way you throw your coat over the back of your chair and push yourself onto the high-top stool. You reason your anger is probably out of place in such a dreamy world, just like your choice of alcohol, but you’re too tired and cold to bother giving her a smile. And being kind has proven to be more and more exhausting as the days go by. It’s not like she deserves it anyway, being so casual with you. Standing so tall, with such confidence, not even the slightest bit weary or weathered from the long day. You don’t even know what time it is - only that it’s late. Past the twinkling stars kind of late. Way past sunset kind of late. So late that you think the restaurant may be closing but you’re not even sure. No one has left. The women are still happy, buzzed and delighted by the concoctions in their glasses. Still all lonely by the stage. Still knee-deep in the quiet place of Madame.

Still a silly fucking name.

“Bailey’s Colada then,” you drawl, running a hand through your messy curls. “And an extra shot of pineapple juice. I dunno.” You shrug, leaning into your hands as your elbows press into the wood of the bar. They’re cold, covering your eyes. Damp. Tense with the chill from the rain you just escaped. And eager to feel something grounding.

Too bad the bartender is still a bitch.

“I’ll give you one more try.” She thinks she’s so clever, smiling at you like that. She thinks she’s so charming.

You want to rip her happy eyes out.

You want to sleep.

“Just. Get. Me. A. Fucking. Drink.” Your gaze shoots daggers, piercing her right through the heart between the gaps of your fingers.

If you were any more aware of your surroundings, instead of just appreciative, then you’d notice that the only liquor they serve is the kind produced during the 1950’s. The popular drinks back in the day. True to the time. Devoted to the piece. Overall very good with details. But details are not something you have the energy to notice. And there’s not a damn thing on Earth that can tear you away from the drugged feeling of your eyes slowly drooping. Growing hazy with fatigue. Vision blurring. Body shivering, still dripping small beads of water from your coattails onto the floor. Distantly, you hear the bartender speak.

“Hey- are you okay?”

No, you want to say. No, fucker. Can’t you see I’m not okay? Just get me a damn drink and-

“If you don’t mind my interrupting,” a voice - deep, English, breaks through your haze. “I suggest a Tom Collins.”

Great. And I suggest you shut the Hell up.

“That work for you, princess?”

You want to reach across the bar and strangle her so bad that your cold fingers twitch, but something stops you. No- someone stops you.

“She’s exhausted, Leslie. Leave her be.”

Yeah. Finally a person who has a fucking clue.

You want to speak, and perhaps tell the person to go away, or throw your hands up in the air and yell ‘Halle-fucking-lujah!’, but before you can open your mouth, the seat next to you squeaks. It spins around, dragged lightly by a white-gloved hand, before it moves to accompany a figure. A figure with a lot of misplaced confidence and a lot of audacity. A lot of self importance and a lot of gall. A lot of… oh.

You swallow.

A lot of height, as well. A lot of height and a lot of elegance. She slips into the chair with practiced ease, placing her hands in the right places and her heels on the right rungs, tugging the chair to spin around and face- you. You. Of course you. You, who are the odd one out. You, who waltzed in from 2024. You, who are not one of them. You, an abandoned dog and you, who are cosplaying as a content human. Of course the stranger turns to face you. And of course she is beautiful. All pale skin and shining blue eyes and snowy curls pinned extravagantly atop her head. A jawline that is softer than fresh downy pillows and could cut glass if it grows tense. Long arms. Long legs. Red lips. A scar-so faint you have to squint-but a scar nonetheless. You wonder where she got it from. You wonder why you wonder.

“It’s palatable,” the stranger speaks. The tip of her nose moves with her words. It’s cute. She has a very distinct face. Sharp features. Eyes not too hooded but not too wide. They don’t look at you directly, and instead focus on a spot near your hand. On the mahogany, where it’s (thank god) clean.

The bartender turns her back to make the drink and you take that moment, away from her bastard prying eyes, to speak.

“I hope so.” It’s ruder than intended, but doesn’t seem to offend. Those red lips quirk into a smile, and she looks at you- finally- from beneath dark lashes. Her makeup is fresh. Her skin looks warm.

“The Amaretto Sour and Bailey’s Irish Cream only rose to fame in the 1970’s,” her covered fingers run along the smooth wood, “The Mai Tai, Tom Collins, and Sloe Gin Fiz, on the other hand…” She tilts her head, shrugs one shoulder, and flicks her eyes from you to the bar. It’s endearing, annoyingly enough. And you’re sure that for a second, the blush on her cheekbones is a figment of your imagination.

For some reason, you shoot her a wry smile.

“Lemme guess… popular in the 50’s?”

An auburn eyebrow ticks up, splashing feigned surprise across that pretty face.

“How did you know?” Her tone is pitched a bit too high as she gasps. A bit too hysterical. It makes you roll your eyes and look away, taking a moment to glance at the dark floor beneath your feet. You shake your head.

Maybe it’s her beauty. Maybe it’s her humor. Maybe it’s the fact that she understands you’re so tired you could fall asleep right there where you sit.

“Tom Collins,” the bartender steals your attention. The glass is full, sliding across the bar at top speed, and you can barely hope to reach out and catch it before the stranger’s white glove is stopping it from tipping right over the edge. Only a splash of the sweet drink spills onto clean leather. You watch. You get the distinct urge to lean over and lick it clean.

Just like any other mutt. Eager to lap up the scraps. Even when they’re not yours.

“Shouldn’t you be finishing up, Leslie? I thought the bar was closed.” Leathered fingers curl around the tall glass, squeaking lightly beneath the strength of her pressure.

“And why would you think that, Larissa?”

Larissa. Name fit for a dream.

The bartender doesn’t look too happy. There’s something acrid in her expression, something that pulls at her lips in a way most unpleasant. She looks sour. Jealous. Of her? No. No, not of her.

Of you?

Yes. Absolutely of you. You can see it in the way her green eyes shift- running from your face to Larissa’s and back again. Upset. Betrayed. Let down. It makes you want to smile. Larissa seems kind. The bitch behind the bar isn’t, you’ve decided. Not fucking kind at all. And you’re happy when Larissa’s pretty red lips stretch into a bright smile. The very lingerings of derision hide in the sweet lines beside her mouth.

“It’s a quarter after midnight, Leslie. And you close at-”

“11:30, yeah I know. Whatever.” And with that shit attitude, Leslie tugs the cloth from her shoulder and walks away; leaving you to your precious company.

Your precious company who takes the glass from the bar and holds it out to you, completely unphased by the cold condensation wetting her glove. It’s later than you thought it was, but you don’t have anywhere to be, do you? No. No, you don’t. So you hide your surprise and stare into Larissa’s eyes instead.

“A peace offering?”

Her smile, this time, is genuine. Wide and perfect, showing off those white teeth and the delightful little scrunch of her nose.

“Yes,” and the warmest chuckle rumbles up from her pale throat, “a peace offering.”

You nod and take the glass. It’s very cold, but you don’t feel it. Not when she’s looking at you like that. Watching you raise it in a silent toast and a quiet thanks. Her eyes follow you when you bring it to your lips, when you drink, and when you allow your expression to scrunch up only the tiniest bit. She lets out a loud laugh at the sight of that, and brings a large palm up to cover her open mouth, probably finding her exquisite joy to be too unladylike. You almost tell her to take it away, to allow herself to cackle freely, but it’s not your place. You’re just a dog. And you’re too busy swigging down more ‘zesty lemonade’ to pause and perhaps mention that her bright laugh is something to be marveled at. To be joined in.

You’ve never felt this way.

This way… what is this way? Amusement? No. You’ve felt that before. Happiness? No, because it’s not that. You’ve felt that - a long time ago. Contentment? No. You don’t feel safe. You don’t feel like you want to stay forever. In fact, you kind of want to leave. It suddenly feels too stifling. Too… romantic. Ah. That’s it. Romantic. Looking into those twinkling blue eyes and finding genuine intrigue there. Interest. She is beautiful and you want more. More conversation. More of her voice. Because there she sits, waltzing over to your spot, making your eyes widen, and giving you a drink. One that isn’t too bad either - after getting over the initial tartness that sort of stings your tongue. And she just sort of expects you to be okay with it? To not want more? And more? And more? You are a dog and you want to tell her that.

I am a dog, Larissa. I have learned to be desperate. I have known what it is to want for more. Can you give me more? Just another smile for a sweet stranger?

“I don’t mean to laugh,” her voice is gentle, becoming clearer once she takes her hand away from her mouth, “but your face was- it was…”

“What?” You lick your lips, tilting your head. “What was it like?” And you can’t help but pull another face, exaggerating it, crossing your eyes and frowning, smoldering, and sneering all at the same time. Thank goodness it seems to do the trick as in the next moment, you hear a surprised stuttering laugh fill the air. It makes for the most beautiful harmony with Madame’s soft piano music; lilting and light and gorgeous. A silver lining. A golden undertone. You follow in her beautiful steps and join her in laughing.

“Was it like that?” You grin, taking another sip. “Just like that?”

“Yes,” Larissa gasps and nods, pressing a hand to her chest, “Precisely.”

Your combined chuckles eventually fade and silence falls like the rain outside. Softer, now. A light brush against the windows - like the storm decided to calm as soon as Larissa sat down beside you. But that’s a silly thought. Storms don’t bend to the actions of women.

Except, you ponder, watching Larissa pick invisible fuzzies off of her beige coat, they may make exceptions.

“Where are you from?” You say it so quickly you don’t even realize it comes from your own mouth. Just your luck that your inner thoughts betray you.

But Larissa only looks charmed, and possibly grateful for a conversation starter. She straightens up in her spot, giving you her full attention. It is excruciating. It kills the shivering you’ve been indulging in since your outside excursion - and fills you with something just short of… giddy.

“The United Kingdom originally, but Vermont is where I stay now,” she responds, resting her palms along the bar’s edge.

Vermont? Odd.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Long way from Vermont, aren’t you?”

Those red lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. True, you think she says in her head. Very true.

“Indeed,” blue eyes sparkle, “I figured I needed a holiday.” She tilts her head and you know the question is coming. “Are you a long way from home as well?” It’s a wonderful question. A good question. A perfect question, truly. You want to tell her yes but you’re not sure if that’s the truth.

“I-” Well. Abandoned dogs don’t have homes, Larissa. Can’t you see that in me? Can’t you recognize it? Don’t you know?

Apparently not. Her beautiful face is still open and inviting, unshaded by judgment. Unperturbed by your unfamiliarity. You don’t know how to react to that. How to respond to her kindness. Her patience. She is unknowingly opening a can of worms and you are knowingly staring at her, mouth flapping open and closed, trying to conjure up words that don’t sound like I have no home.

“Please don’t feel obligated to answer,” Larissa waves her hand in the air, “I understand it’s quite personal.”

Oh. How sweet you are to a stray.

“No, I just… I’m a little lost right now,” you admit with a sigh, tipping the glass back until you can swallow the rest of the liquor in one smooth gulp. Something shifts in Larissa’s expression while you lose yourself in the feeling of alcohol sitting in your throat. It’s a miniscule difference when you look at her again, but you spot it anyway. Sadness. Melancholy. Understanding. Pity. All scuttling around in the depths of her eyes and the furrow of her brows and the downturn of her lips.

Normally you hate pity. Normally you despise it. Normally you figure it isn’t for you. You don’t deserve it. You’re just a person with no wind and no destination and no path. You’re just a dog overdue. So why do you need pity? Why do you have it? Why do you get so angry at anyone who wants to give it to you? And why is Larissa any different? She’s still a stranger. Just one with a pretty face. And beautiful hair. And the most gorgeous voice…

“Doing a bit of soul searching then?” Her tone is intentionally light.

“Yeah,” the glass makes a small ‘clink’ against the bartop, “I guess so.”

Kind of. Sort of. Yes? And no. Whose soul are you searching for? Which life do you want? Why are you so lost, when they say that everyone has a place on Earth? Where is your place?

Do you have one?

“Why France?”

“Good question,” you shrug, not really knowing the answer yourself. “City of lights, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” Larissa nods, drumming her fingers against the wood. “City of love, as well. In case you haven’t heard.”

Yes. She’s right. Very right. You lick your lips and nod along. City of love, indeed. City of love with the way that dress looks on her, for sure. City of love with the way she looks at you, too. City of love with the way she smells. Like vanilla and jasmine. Strong, intense, a cologne that probably costs a million dollars - for a woman that looks like a million dollars. City of love. It’s written in the piano that fills your silences. In the air that breathes between your bodies. In the bubble of privacy that lives on when Leslie disappears from behind the bar with a heavy clang of its trapped door. She throws the cloth onto the wood, shoots one last glare at the two of you from over her shoulder, and fucks off into the dark of the stage area. Probably to pick up some other sad woman that’s just as lost as you.

On any other night, I may be the person she takes home. But right now I’m with Larissa. And that’s where I’m gonna stay.

“Not for her,” you snark, watching Leslie retreat before turning back to your company.

Larissa hums, but her eyes don’t follow the bartender like yours did. Instead, they stay on you. Glued to the side of your face, then to the full of your features when you give her a small disgusted expression. You’re rewarded with a light chuckle. “Yes, except for her,” she clears her throat. “Unfortunately, Leslie has always been…”

“Rude?” You start, putting an elbow on the bar and leaning on your palm, “Annoying? Flirty? Shitty? To name a few,” you roll your eyes, flipping your hand in the air.

Larissa only closes her eyes and snorts. “She has always been… eager? I guess that’s the right word. Eager.”

You don’t like the sound of that. Eager people are desperate people. Desperate people are loose cannons. They’d do anything for- well- anything. And Larissa is not an ‘anything’. Larissa is not a reward. And you are not a desperate, eager person. You are not a loose cannon. You’re just a lost one. A rusted lost contraption that was thrown off of the side of a pirate ship. Silly loose cannon, searching for land. No reward.

“For you?” The disapproval that colors your tone does not seem to surprise Larissa. In fact, it only makes her nod.

“Yes, I’m afraid. Though I can’t imagine why,” those broad shoulders of hers shrug, “I’m not nearly as fascinating as half of the women that grace this bar.”

That’s what you think.

“I beg to differ.” It comes out so confidently you kind of want to punch yourself in the mouth. What the fuck do you mean you beg to differ? What would you like to follow that up with? What would you like to say? Oh no, Larissa. You are WAY more fascinating than the people that ‘grace this bar’. You are WAY more intriguing. Leslie has good taste, sure, but a shit attitude about it. I can imagine why she fancies you. I can imagine why anyone would. Yeah right. You can’t say that. But you’re still curious, so instead of giving her a moment to register and respond, you ask the burning question. “How long have you been on holiday if you’re so sure?” But really the question is: How often do you come here?

The pink in porcelain cheeks has deepened. You’re sure it’s from your comment, but you refuse to allow the buzzing of your heart get any worse. It’s already filling your ears, drowning out the piano, and you yearn for the safety of contentment. The same contentment you didn’t feel before. Is this still romance? Or was this never romance at all?

“About three weeks. An extended stay. Though I must admit, I’m nervous about returning to work. I fear I’ve left it too long,” she frowns, twisting her lips in a way that says ‘But what can you do?’.

“Three weeks! What do you do for work?” If there were some more drink in your mouth, you probably would’ve spat it out by accident. Three weeks? Sort of a long time. A long time to be away from work and a long time to be alone.

Unless she isn’t alone… to which you’d actually like to leave right now if that’s the case.

There's hesitance in her eyes. "I'm... a school principal," she says slowly, looking away. “But I needed it. Prolonged stress isn’t good for me. Or for anyone, really.” Her voice softens, carried away by the music as she glances down at her hands. You get the strange desire to hold them. It pops up first as a soft urge in your mind before barrelling forward and pressing hard against the front wall of your thoughts. Reach out and hold them. Hold them. They are soft. They are the kind of hands that reach out and pet the strays. Feed the strays.

But you’re too scared you’ll bite.

“Preach,” you murmur, unsure of how to continue. What are the duties of a school principal? “But- ya know. Good for you I guess. Are you returning to Vermont soon?”

“My flight leaves at seven tomorrow. I’ll get back at approximately half past five in the morning if I’m lucky.”

“Hm. And if you’re unlucky?”

Another small smile.

“Then I’ll never get back.”

You find that to be quite interesting. She’s not worried about her job in a way that speaks to severe anxiety, but in a way that speaks to nervousness regarding her passion. Regarding the children she has to look after. The parents she has to (no doubt) reassure. The world that she is important in. The oil that runs through the machine. She keeps them going - and she has been gone for three weeks. You’re rather curious about the aftermath, and about the scene she will return to upon arrival, but it’s hopeless and misplaced. You will not see what happens. You will not spot the relief on her face. You will not know how life continues for her. Because she is leaving, this beautiful stranger, and she has a home. And you are a stray dog. Abandoned. Hungry. More, more, more. She does not want. She is satiated. Larissa has lived out her dream here, her relaxation, and now it is time to turn around and face the music. Return home. And be part of the family again.

How does that feel? Family?

“How long do you plan on staying?” She asks, looking just as curious as you feel.

A sigh rattles your bones as you lean your head back and push out your chest, relishing in the pops that run down your spine. Exhaustion is creeping again. You didn’t even notice it was gone.

“Probably… forever?” It’s not the truth.

“That can’t be true.”

“No,” you groan, “it’s not. So I don’t know. Maybe forever. Maybe I’ll leave tomorrow, too. We’ll see, I guess.”

That pretty gaze burns into the side of your face. It is full of questions, even when you’re not meeting it, and you’re suddenly sort of scared to look at her again. Scared that she’ll know everything. Scared that she’ll realize what you really are. Not just lost, but hopeless. No way of being found. Because what will you do and where will you go? Nothing and nothing. That seems to be the answer these days. Nothing.

“Do you have any family you’re traveling with?”

Her voice is soft again. Colored with feeling. What is she feeling? Is it still pity? You glance at her, out of the corner of your eye, just to check. No. Yes? No. Maybe. Could be. Or it could be something else. Could be hope. Could be sadness. Could be something better. You can’t clock it, so you return with a question of your own. It stings you to say it- embarrasses you to wonder- but you can’t help yourself. You’re just a dog. You need more.

“Do you have anyone that will be waiting for you at 5 in the morning?”

Her eyebrows twitch for the smallest shade of a second. It’s barely there, but you see it anyway. You see how she frowns and recovers. Maybe that was too far. Maybe that was too blunt. Maybe you should just hold your fucking tongue and stop digging into other people’s business-

“Honestly? No. I’ll probably have to grab a taxi from the airport.”

Oh.

For some reason that’s worse. Worse than if she said yes. Worse than if she started to go on a tirade about a lover waiting for her. Worse than if she mentioned a gaggle of friends or even a coworker. How can she just have- that? That? A taxi? You can’t hide the way your face falls. You just can’t. And you can’t contain the way your heart breaks a little. Crackling like a burning fire, pounding away behind the frailness of your chest. Dropping pieces all over the floor of your innards as you see Larissa get lost staring into space. Probably looking over the different types of liquor bottles as she figures out how best to get a cab from the airport with the least amount of trouble. You kind of want to reach over and shake her shoulders. Take her out of her own head. Insist that it’ll be okay. But of course it’ll be okay - she never said it wouldn’t. She never made any indication that being alone was something she didn’t like.

However, she did walk over to you, didn’t she? And she did sit down next to you. And she was alone at the bar. So maybe the isolation is getting to her. Maybe she needs to go back home. Maybe you need to go with her.

Maybe you need to shut the fuck up.

“I don’t have any family,” you respond, figuring it’s only fair. “So it’s just me.”

Larissa gives you a distracted hum before she takes her eyes away from a place over your shoulder and moves them to your face. To your eyelashes and your eyebrows and your cheeks and your nose. You don’t know what she sees. Hopefully not a dog.

“And no prior commitments? No one waiting for you either?” She seems hesitant to ask, but you know it’s just because she doesn’t want to be impolite.

Oh, Larissa. You can’t offend dogs, Larissa. Others can but not you.

“No. No roots, if that’s what you mean.”

She nods. “I see.”

“Do you?”

A long leg goes sliding up to cross over the other and for a second, you’re lost in the smooth length of them. Her calves and thighs are gorgeous. The hem of her dress falls below the knee. A little restricting but classy. She is very beautiful. And slowly, as the night progresses, you’re beginning to fear what will happen when she leaves. Which is silly, because she’s still a stranger. She doesn’t even know your name. And she has a home to return to and you’re doomed for the rest of your life.

“I believe I do, yes.” And that’s enough of an answer for you.

From that sweet point on, you fall into silence.

The ambience of Madame hasn’t shifted in the slightest. The earlier smoke only renewed itself once certain cigarettes ran out - and the piano looped into another song. Probably playing over a speaker system you couldn’t see or a record player somewhere in the dark. No one takes center stage. No one leaves. It’s still empty drinks, empty hearts, empty heads, and full laughter. Easy chatter. Women getting closer. Women holding hands. Women with their palms on each other’s thighs. Women with lipstick marks on their cheeks. Women with perfectly pinned hair, like Larissa’s, are left with loose curls and messy ends - easily destroyed by a wandering hand or a particularly heavy kiss. You refuse to blush at the sight of that when you turn around and make eye contact with a woman at a booth, but your body doesn’t listen. Your body finds it scandalous. Your body finds it exciting.

There are no threats. There are no men. No shouts, no loud drinking, no busy football games, no beer-stained tables and hugs that hit a bit too hard. There’s no gag-worthy cologne and no clumsy feet stepping on the toes of ladies and no drunken asks for a number or company home. There’s only peace. Sweet and fragile, not even broken by the wind and rain that beats and floats against the windows. You wonder when the place closes if it’s already so late.

You wonder why there’s so many women.

“There was no um-” your throat grows hoarse before you clear it, putting a hand up to your mouth while you look at Larissa. She’s waiting patiently for you to continue. “There was no… advertisement? I guess? That said this place was- is it like… a lesbian… bar? Or something?” You sound more and more childish the higher your voice goes but Larissa’s smile is gentle.

“There’s no advertisement needed. Everyone knows Madame in Paris is a place of community acceptance. However, it’s apparently more popular in the Spring. Tourist season and all that.”

“Oh.” Oh.

Larissa’s brows furrow. “Something wrong?”

Well, yes. Sort of. Kind of. Uh…

“No I just- it’s not Spring now?” You frown, lifting your elbow from the bartop and putting your arm in your lap. What does she mean?

“No,” Larissa shakes her head slowly, stopping the light drum of her fingers. “It’s Autumn. November, actually.”

November? But…

“Huh,” you blink, “must be more lost than I thought. Weird.”

The very beginnings of a frown pull at those red lips, giving away her worry; and for some reason, you’re hasty to reassure her.

“But it’s probably just the exhaustion or something,” you huff out a self-deprecating smile, “No biggie. Maybe I’m like- too buzzed to comprehend. Or too hungry. I don’t know,” you gesture to your head, waving off the concern that she was going to show you.

But it doesn’t work.

“Perhaps you need dinner then,” Larissa tilts her head, looking at you from beneath her eyelashes.

In that moment, she’s perhaps the most glorious thing you’ve ever seen. Lit by low candle light. Shadowed by her own form of mystery. You kind of want to lean over and kiss her - which is weird, because her lips are just like any other person’s lips, and you’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly before. But dogs change sometimes, don’t they? Just like any other creature. Dogs change. And instead of wanting for more, they want for something different.

“Yeah. Perhaps I do.”

Your company takes a moment to look behind you, running her gaze over the interior of the restaurant. You see her blue eyes flit from couple to couple and group to group and crying woman to the next crying woman. You see her nose wrinkle when she spots all of the cigarettes and you see the twitch in her kitten-heeled foot before she’s uncrossing her legs and moving to stand. Every nerve in your body jumps to stand with her. To follow her lead and let her whisk you away. But you don’t know if that’s what she wants - and you don’t want to assume just to be let down. You don’t want her to look at you like ‘What the fuck are you standing up for?’ so you stay in your seat and watch her fix up her coat, straighten her gloves, and grasp the purse on the back of her chair. Everything about her is so elegant. Smooth. Maybe you’re hallucinating and she’s only a dream.

“I know a place nearby. Do you want to join me?”

You look from her hands to her face, caught frozen by the timber of her voice. Do you want to join me?

“Is- are you sure?” Your heart is screaming.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?” Larissa gives you a small confused smile.

You lick your lips. “You don’t even know my name.”

“Alright. Do you want to tell me on the way?”

No one ever asks. Everyone stopped a long time ago. There’s no need to wonder, to know, when everyone understands that you’ll just disappear sooner or later. Abandoned dog with an abandoned mind. But here she is asking - and it would be rude to ignore her.

“Sure.”

—

The weather is still brisk when you step outside. The rain is not as harsh and the wind not as bad, but the chill is just as strong. It seeps through your coat rather quickly and you have to shove your hands in your pockets to hide the way they shake. Larissa seems to be faring much better, walking along at a steady pace and adding to the clicks your boots leave behind on the pavement. Despite the dreary weather and the dark sky, threatening to break with another downpour at any moment, the streetlamps are beautiful. Guiding you both through the midnight haze and the swiftly settling fog. You feel like a ghost, floating along there by your company’s side, trying to keep yourself from staring up at her. The bar’s seating apparently did her no favors as when she stood up and led the way outside, you nearly tripped over yourself upon noticing the height difference. She is… she is something extraordinary. You wonder why you’re the one there beside her. Maybe Leslie had a better chance. Maybe you’re just a placeholder until she leaves.

“Are you going to make me guess?” She says eventually, pausing mid-stride to look down at you.

There’s only a few inches difference. Maybe a near foot. You’re not sure. You haven’t asked. But you want to. Curious dog.

“Sure,” you shrug, amused by the way she sighs and continues forward. “It’s not that hard.”

“Elizabeth,” she starts.

Cute.

“No.”

“Emily.”

“No.”

“…Erin?”

“No. What’s with all the ‘E’ names?”

“Would you prefer I start at ‘A’?”

“Might make it easier.”

“Nothing will make this easier.”

The walk feels like it goes on for ages the more she speaks. One name after the other after the other. You smile at the ones that are close and snort at the ones that could never suit you. Larissa only rolls her eyes and tries again. It’s silly and fun and lighthearted and you feel something inside you lighten. Though maybe it’s the Tom Collins, finally kicking in after a day of no food and one boozy drink. Larissa doesn’t seem to mind your occasional giggles and huffs - she even joins you, especially when you almost trip over your feet walking along the curb and she has to reach out and tug you back from the street and the ground. Her coat is cold but her body feels warm. There’s a small droplet of rain that hangs off of a strand of white hair behind her ear and you’re desperate to brush it away, but you don’t. You can’t. Can’t gather the energy to reach out. Can’t gather the energy to get your hopes up. So you move away and the game continues.

Down the street, along this turn and that, through rights and lefts and around lamp posts and street lights and intersections and parks. Far far away and all over the place. You walk for so long your legs begin to twinge - and then she says it.

“Jasmine?”

“Nope.”

“Lilith.”

“No.”

You’re waiting for a stoplight to turn red, but Larissa breezes past you. Head held high. Strides long. Back straight. The world does bend for her. And so do you.

As soon as you reach her side, she takes a steadying breath.

“Iris.”

Why your heart decides to take that moment and skip multiple beats is something you’ll never understand. Maybe it’s just the way she says it. The way it tumbles off of her tongue and slides from between her teeth and disappears into the ether. Maybe it’s the look she gives you and the way she stops when you’re a bit too quiet for too long and the corners of your mouth can’t help but quirk up. You’re not proud of her - that would be silly - but she certainly looks proud of herself. If that slowly spreading grin is anything to go by.

“Iris. Is that it?”

You nod and watch as her nose scrunches up with joy and her gloved hands make little muted claps in excitement. You think you can get used to the way she says it. Like it’s something to be cherished - something delicate and soft. Iris. Eye-riss. Iris. Slow and measured. Careful. She wants to take as much caution as she can when she says it. And when she finally goes to resume your walk, she lets out a little hum and glances down at you from the corners of her eyes.

“It’s a lovely name.”

Oh, Larissa. You’re killing me here.

“Larissa is nice, too. Very… elegant,” you respond, trying desperately to take the attention off of you. It’s been so long since you last heard a compliment like that, you’re unsure how to react. How to be normal about it. How to stop yourself from circling her body and pulling her close and pushing your head against her chest to listen to her heart. To see if she’s real. Because only fake people pay attention to strays - and she’s too wonderful to be anything aside from a figment of your dear imagination.

“That’s very kind of you, Iris.” Oh say it again. Please god, say it again.

But she doesn’t. And you don’t push it. And you don’t look at her for fear of bursting into flames. And you continue your walk until you come across a park bench and you sit down - drawing her attention and luring her back over to stand while you rest your legs.

“Feels like we’ve been walking forever! Where are you taking me?” You glare at her, all playful looks and pouts.

“To my lair. Are you scared yet?” She shifts on her white heels and you can’t help but give her a small chuckle.

“Me? Scared of you? Yeah, right. In your dreams, blondie.”

“Oh you haven’t seen anything yet. I can be quite terrifying when I want to be,” Larissa defends, crossing her arms and cocking out a hip.

“Yeah. To school children maybe,” you grin, spreading your arms out over the back of the bench to sit comfortably. “But not to me.”

“Hm. Not yet, anyway,” her tone is airy, making you blow air out of your nose with amusement.

“Uh huh.” You pause, close your eyes to bask in the chill that bites at your skin, and then open one to look at her. “How tall are you, anyway?”

She towers over you there - standing beside the wrought-iron arm of the bench while you sit and crane your head back. Outlined in the soft glow of the park lamps, you begin to wonder if Larissa is not an imaginary friend or a ghost but instead an angel. She certainly looks the part. You really wouldn’t be that surprised if huge ivory wings sprout from the defined lines of her shoulder blades.

“How long have you been wanting to ask that?” Oh, she’s teasing me now. You roll your eyes.

“Since you first stood up.” The truth is always best. And it makes her smile softly.

“Six foot, three.”

Your lips part, falling open before you catch yourself. Six feet and three inches?! Jesus, woman. You swallow around your delighted shock and push yourself off of the bench - bringing yourself to your full height on the backs of your heeled boots.

“There’s no way,” you snark, crossing your arms.

“Oh really?” Those red lips grow into a smirk and never in your life have you wanted to feel something more. Never.

“Yeah. Really.”

And of course that’s how you sign your heart away - for a split second later, there she stands. So close you can smell the old wine on her breath and see the individual lines in her face. It’s only half lit by golden light, but that doesn’t matter. You’re beginning to think your eyes were made for seeing her. And you’re beginning to think your body was made for standing so close. She smells like the rain now. Like the rain and the stars, which twinkle brightly behind her head as you resist the urge to step back and look at her. There is no backing down from this. There is only matching her height head-on, even though that’s impossible. But that’s the joke. So you move to stand on the tips of your toes and get into her personal space and only when you do, do you realize your mistake. She’s even closer. And her blue eyes have gone wide. You see a deep black abyss take over the oceans of her irises and suddenly, you think your name is very inadequate in comparison to the gorgeous cerulean of her gaze. To the way it envelopes you and electrifies you and warms you all at once. She is a vision. She is everything you want to look upon. And her eyes dart between your own, carrying shock and admiration with them. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what’s happening. This doesn’t feel like romance anymore. This isn’t contentment. You don’t know what this is. You don’t know why you want to lean into her and fall.

And you don’t know why she decides to pull away.

“I’m sorry,” she says so quickly, so quietly, you think it’s just a whisper of the wind. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Her eyes are still wide, but they’ve been captured by something terrible. Something sad. You open your mouth - to say what? - you don’t know. But she’s taking a few steps back and you close it. Her hair is still perfect, but there’s one strand loose. It flits wildly in front of her ear. A sign of her loss of control, perhaps. A sign that someone got through. She’s not a guarded woman and yet she is. She’s not private and yet she is. You didn’t have the deepest talk of all time and yet you did. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to say to get her to stay. So you just say her name.

“Larissa-”

“It’s been very nice to meet you, Iris,” she murmurs, interrupts, clears her throat, and adjusts the purse on her shoulder. Those blue eyes glance around madly, like she’s scared of being caught. “But I’m afraid I have to go now. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Your flight leaves at seven.” You don’t know why that’s the thing you say. You don’t know what that’s going to do - but before you can even hope to say anything else, she nods and looks at you again. With unwavering strength. With a hint of an apology.

“Yes. It does.” Her lips press together firmly. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

And with that whisper, softer than the distant break of your heart, she’s turning around and walking off into the rain.

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Lazily waves my hand around before walking away. - Rip x

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