#someone walking their dog on the street shouted at me and said they liked my cosplay

[meownotgood]

aurora

[cressidagrey]

A Pawfect Coincidence

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Margot Bonheur (Original Character)

Summary:

When Arthur Leclerc loses his brother’s emotionally codependent dachshund, he doesn’t just misplace a dog—he accidentally jumpstarts a full-blown Leclerc family crisis. Luckily, Leo is found by Margot Bonheur: local vet, egg chef extraordinaire, and the girl Charles Leclerc was once devastatingly in love with (and never quite got over).

Warnings and Notes: 

I am feeling so bad about bashing Charles in White Horse that I figured I needed a palate cleanser, so I pulled this out of the purgatory that are my Google Docs.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Arthur Leclerc was not in the habit of losing things.

Not his phone, not his keys, and definitely not his older brother’s ridiculously spoiled dachshund, who was currently - oh, merde—nowhere to be seen.

“Leo?” he called, spinning in a slow circle in the middle of the park, panic tightening his chest.

Ten seconds ago, everything had been fine. The sun was sinking, he’d taken a casual detour through Parc Princesse Antoinette, texting a friend back while Leo sniffed a patch of grass for the fifth time. Arthur had only looked away for a moment. A moment.

And now? No leash. No golden tail. No floppy ears. No dog.

Arthur cursed under his breath, scanning every path and hedge. He jogged toward the playground. Nothing. He doubled back to the fountain, heart rate climbing like he was doing qualifying laps in the rain. Still nothing.

“Leo!” he shouted again, louder this time, drawing a few curious glances from an elderly couple and a kid eating ice cream. “Leo, come on! This isn’t funny!”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Charles. Of course.

Charles: All good with Leo?

Arthur stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he shoved the phone back into his pocket, muttering, “I am never going to hear the end of this.”

Because he could already imagine it. Charles’ blank face when Arthur admitted he’d lost the dog. The slow, silent stare of older-sibling disappointment. The inevitable “I asked you for one thing.”

And worst of all—Leo. Leo, who adored Charles more than anyone else in the world, probably off charming some stranger into giving him treats or belly rubs while Arthur had a full-blown anxiety attack in the middle of a public park.

He jogged toward the exit, breath catching. “I swear to God, if I find you eating someone’s sandwich again—”

Nothing.

Just the rustle of leaves. The empty sidewalk. And the slowly dawning realization that Charles’ dog might actually be gone.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, frustration mixing with guilt in his chest.

He was so dead.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: I need you to swear on your life you won’t tell Charles.

Lorenzo: ...what did you do.

Arthur: Hypothetically If someone was walking Leo And he maybe slipped his harness And then vanished into thin air How bad would that be?

Lorenzo: Arthur. Where is Leo.

Arthur: THAT’S THE PROBLEM. I DON’T KNOW.

Lorenzo: You LOST Charles’ dog???

Arthur: No!!! I temporarily misplaced him. There’s a difference. (He’s very small and very fast and honestly too independent for his own good.)

Lorenzo: Do you want to die. Is that it. Is this a cry for help.

Arthur: Please. Help me. I can’t tell Charles. He trusted me. He said “don’t let him eat anything off the street.” He didn’t even think to say “don’t lose him” because he believed in me. And now Leo is GONE.

Lorenzo: Where are you?

Arthur: Parc Princesse Antoinette. I’ve done three laps. I checked the bushes. I even bribed a child with gelato to help me look.

Lorenzo: You bribed a child.

Arthur: WITH GELATO. I’M NOT A MONSTER.

Lorenzo: Okay. Breathe. Dogs like routine. Try retracing the walk. Call shelters. And vets. Someone might bring him in to check the chip.

Arthur: Do you think I should fake an injury so Charles pities me before I break the news?

Lorenzo: Try finding the dog first.

Arthur: Right. Right. Operation Find The Sausage is underway.

***

Arthur retraced his steps.

Twice.

He checked every corner of the park, the shaded paths, the trash bins—because Leo had zero shame when it came to half-eaten food. Nothing. No flash of caramel-colored fur, no jingling of a collar, no yappy bark announcing his tiny reign of chaos.

He even tried bribery. Again.

“Leo,” he called, crouching low with the last bite of a croissant he’d bought from the boulangerie around the corner. “If you come back now, I’ll give you the whole thing. No questions asked. No leash. No walk of shame.”

Silence. A pigeon stared at him, unimpressed.

Arthur groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “You’re not even my dog,” he muttered.

But that wasn’t true, not really. Leo wasn’t his dog, but Charles’ ridiculous little dachshund had somehow made himself part of the entire family. He’d wormed his way into Arthur’s life with stubby legs, sad eyes, and an inexplicable talent for finding the most expensive thing in the apartment to pee on.

Arthur pulled out his phone again, hovering over Charles’ name. His thumb wavered.

Don’t you dare tell him you lost Leo, his brain screamed. He’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll never let you walk him again.

And he really liked walking Leo. The little guy made strangers smile. Old ladies waved. Children asked to pet him. Once, a girl gave Arthur her number entirely because Leo was wearing a raincoat.

Now he was just a guy pacing a park, sweating through his T-shirt, muttering to himself like he’d lost his mind. Which, fair. He kind of had.

He circled back to the park gate for the third time when a flash of hope struck—a woman with a small dog!—but it wasn’t Leo. Just a fluffy Pomeranian in a pink harness who barked at Arthur like he’d insulted her personally.

“Not helping,” he muttered, stepping aside.

Maybe someone had found Leo. Maybe he was already somewhere safe. Maybe—please, please, please—someone would scan his chip and call Charles.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: It’s getting dark. I’ve checked the entire park. Twice. Then the neighborhood. Then the park again. Still no Leo.

Lorenzo: You haven’t found him at all?

Arthur: Unless he’s developed the ability to turn invisible—NO. I even asked a guy walking a chihuahua if he’d seen a dachshund. He asked if I was okay. I said no.

Lorenzo: You need to call Charles.

Arthur: No. Absolutely not. I will fake my own death before I tell Charles I lost his dog.

Lorenzo: Arthur. It’s LEO. You lost the love of his life. You think this isn’t going to end up in a group chat?

Arthur: I CAN FIX THIS. I just need a little more time. And maybe a tranquillizer dart.

Lorenzo: For Leo??

Arthur: For me. So I can stop panicking for five seconds.

Lorenzo: Okay. Deep breath. Have you called every vet in a 2km radius?

Arthur: Yes. One of them asked if I was crying.

Lorenzo: You're two hours in, and it’s getting late. If someone found him, they’ve probably taken him somewhere. You need to start thinking damage control.

Arthur: You mean like… buy Charles a new dog?

Lorenzo: Arthur. I will block you.

Arthur: Okay okay okay. I’ll call more vets.

Lorenzo: Good. And maybe prepare a will, just in case.

Arthur: Tell Maman I loved her. Tell Charles it was Arthur Jr.’s fault. That’s what I would’ve named the new dog.

***

Margot didn’t notice him at first.

Her hands were full—reusable bags weighed down with vegetables, pasta, a bottle of wine, and the fancy sheep’s cheese she only bought when she was having a day. The sun had long since disappeared behind the hills, the sky settling into a navy velvet dusk as she trudged home through the winding streets above the port.

She was thinking about the silence of her apartment. The way her keys still felt unfamiliar in the lock. The way everything in her life was still slightly off, like a puzzle someone had forced together with the wrong pieces.

And then she heard it.

A tiny, pitiful sneeze.

Margot turned instinctively, eyes scanning the dim sidewalk—and there, right at the edge of a crumbling stone wall, sat a dachshund. Small. Muddied. Trembling slightly.

“Mon dieu,” she whispered, kneeling immediately and setting her bags down. “What are you doing here?”

The dog blinked at her with glossy brown eyes, ears drooping dramatically, like a tragic Victorian heroine.

“No collar,” she murmured, reaching slowly. “No leash. You’ve clearly been on an adventure.”

The dog didn’t flinch when she touched him. He wagged his tail once. Then sneezed again.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s get you inside.”

She looked around—quiet street, no one calling out a name, no footsteps approaching. Whoever he belonged to, they weren’t nearby.

So Margot scooped him up, balancing him against her chest with one arm while gathering her groceries with the other, and started the climb to her apartment.

Her building wasn’t far. Second floor, no elevator, uneven tile floors that made the dachshund snort when she carried him inside. He shook himself out as soon as she set him down, spraying mud across her hallway rug like he was blessing the space.

“Charming,” she muttered, flicking on the bathroom light. “Alright, monsieur, bath time.”

He did not resist. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the warm water, letting her rinse the grime from his fur, soap away the stickiness from his paws. Margot caught herself smiling as she towel-dried him, wrapping him up like a burrito and murmuring nonsense in a voice she hadn’t used in… well, a long time.

It had been almost three months since she’d moved back to Monaco.

Not a dramatic return—no big announcement, no confetti, just a one-way train ticket from Toulouse and a job offer she hadn’t expected to say yes to.

She hadn’t planned on leaving. She loved Toulouse. The city had been hers in a way Monaco never had—full of light and bustle and purpose. She’d built something there. Friends. A job. A future.

A fiancé.

Her smile faded slightly as she rubbed the dog dry.

It still stung, the way it had ended. The too-calm conversation. The finality of the phrase “I think we want different things.” The way he’d packed up and moved out like they’d been roommates all along, not five years of love and shared groceries and weekend hikes.

Margot hadn’t told anyone the full story—not even her mother. Just said she needed a change. A new pace. A return to familiar streets, even if they no longer felt like home.

The dachshund gave a content sigh, now wrapped in a fresh towel, head resting on her thigh like he’d always belonged there.

Margot looked down at him and exhaled.

“Well,” she murmured. “You’re a good distraction.”

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: He’s still not back. It’s been hours. HOURS. What if someone took him? What if he joined a biker gang?

Lorenzo: Arthur. It’s past midnight.

Arthur: YES I KNOW. THE CLOCK IS MOCKING ME. Do you think I could set up one of those “MISSING DOG” posters?? Like old-school. With tabs and everything. “Answers to: Leo. Probably judging you.”

Lorenzo: I’m going to bed. Unless you are calling emergency services, do not text me again.

Arthur: What if he never comes back. What if I have to look Charles in the eye and say, “Sorry, your dog is now one with the Monaco shadows.”

Lorenzo: Did you eat dinner?

Arthur: I shared half a croissant with a pigeon earlier, does that count?

Lorenzo: No. You’re spiraling.

Arthur: I’m spiraling because Charles is going to MURDER me and use my body as a cautionary tale for Pierre or something.

Lorenzo: Arthur.

Arthur: WHAT IF HE THINKS I DID IT ON PURPOSE. What if he thinks I took Leo to emotionally sabotage him before a race weekend???

Lorenzo: What race weekend?

Arthur: I DON’T KNOW I PANICKED

Lorenzo: Eat something. Drink water. And stop pacing the same square kilometer like a cartoon.

Arthur: ...how did you know I was pacing?

Lorenzo: Because I know you. And because the last time you panicked this hard was when you lost your passport and it was in your pocket.

Arthur: Okay, that was ONE TIME and the pocket was weirdly deep.

Lorenzo: Look. If someone found him, they probably took him home. It’s late. Vets are closed. You’ll get a call in the morning.

Arthur: What if they don’t call? What if Leo decides he likes his new life better? What if he finds someone who gives him bacon without rules?

Lorenzo: Then you’ll be replaced. Which is fair.

Arthur: ...harsh. But valid.

Lorenzo: Go home, Arthur. Sleep. Or at least lie down and stare into the abyss like the rest of us.

Arthur: Fine. But if I die of guilt in the night, tell Charles I tried my best.

Lorenzo: I’ll tell him you wept nobly into a pile of posters with your own phone number misspelled.

Arthur: Okay that’s accurate.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Joris: Morning. Charles just asked me if you still have Leo. Can I tell him yes and get back to my already overbooked morning?

Arthur: So… funny story.

Joris: No. Absolutely not. I do not have time for a funny story. You either have the dog or you don’t.

Arthur: I don’t. I lost Leo.

Joris: WHAT. You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. Tell me this is a Leclerc brother prank. I knew I should’ve never let you all have a group chat.

Arthur: I’m not joking. He slipped out of his harness yesterday afternoon in the park. I’ve been searching all night. I didn’t even go home. I’ve walked more than I did during preseason training.

Joris: ARTHUR.

Arthur: I KNOW.

Joris: DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU’VE DONE??? You lost Leo. LEO.

Arthur: I am aware!!!

Joris: Leo is not just a dog. Leo is Charles’ everything right now. You lost the one source of unconditional love he has left since the breakup. The love of his life. The only thing he’s cared about since the breakup. THE DOG WHO HAS HIS OWN MONOGRAMMED TOWEL.

Arthur: Okay in my defense that towel thing is not normal.

Joris: YOU DON’T GET TO JUDGE THE TOWEL WHEN YOU LOST THE DOG.

Joris: He cried watching a dog food commercial three weeks ago. THREE. Leo is the only thing he trusts. Leo is the only one he lets spoon him when he's sad. You lost the love of his life.

Arthur: I didn’t mean to!! I was texting back and he—he just disappeared. It’s like he melted into the pavement!

Joris: Oh my god. Oh my god.

He trusted you.

He handed over his entire emotional support system and said, “don’t let him eat anything off the street.”

And you said, “Great, I’ll just lose him completely.”

Arthur:

I bribed a child with gelato to help search. I tried. Can we not tell him yet? Maybe someone scanned the chip. Maybe he’s safe somewhere!

Joris: I swear, if we find out someone found him and called the chip number and you just didn’t answer, I am personally putting your name on a “Do Not Trust with Pets” list.

Arthur: That’s fair.

Joris: And if someone does call and Leo is fine, I’m still going to be angry. Just less angry.

Arthur: Okay. Please tell me if he’s okay. And, like. Tell Charles gently?

Joris: Gently?? GENTLY??

Arthur: He likes you.

Joris: So did Leo. AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM.

***

Joris had delivered a lot of difficult news in his tenure as Charles Leclerc’s personal assistant.

Travel mishaps. Press obligations. The time a well-meaning sponsor wanted him to pose with a falcon for reasons no one could adequately explain.

But this?

This was worse.

He found Charles outside the simulator room, still in his race suit from that morning’s promo shoot, looking relaxed in that suspiciously unbothered way that only made Joris more tense.

“Hey,” Charles said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Everything okay?”

Joris took a breath. Then another. He held up a hand before Charles could get a word in.

“I need you to remember that you love your brother.”

Charles froze. “What?”

“Just—just hold that thought in your heart for a second,” Joris continued, voice strained, hands gesturing like he was conducting a symphony of impending doom. “Because the thing is, Arthur was walking Leo. And then… he wasn’t.”

Charles blinked. “What do you mean, wasn’t?”

“Leo ran off,” Joris said, with the grave tone of someone delivering a eulogy. “Arthur looked away for maybe thirty seconds. Boom. Gone. No leash. No collar. Just vibes.”

Charles straightened. “You’re telling me Arthur lost my dog?”

Joris winced. “Arthur was walking him yesterday. In the park. And, uh… Leo slipped his harness.”

Silence.

“He what,” Charles said, very quietly.

“He… bolted. Arthur says it happened fast. He’s been searching all night, didn’t even go home. He’s calling shelters and—”

Charles dropped the knife. “He lost my dog?”

Joris took a careful step back. “Temporarily misplaced.”

“Joris.”

“He ran off yesterday evening,” Joris said, hands up in surrender. “Slipped his harness while Arthur was texting in the park. He’s been searching all night. I got the full unhinged confession this morning.”

Charles looked like someone had just unplugged him. All the light behind his eyes dimmed. “Leo has been gone since yesterday?”

“I didn’t know either,” Joris rushed to say. “Arthur didn’t tell me until an hour ago because he was apparently too busy bribing children and interrogating chihuahuas—don’t ask.”

“He lost Leo,” Charles repeated, voice rising. “He lost the only thing in my life that hasn’t let me down in the last six months.”

And there it was.

Joris had been waiting for the breakup to surface again, quietly lurking under every tired sigh, every too-long pause in conversation. Charles hadn’t spoken about her in weeks, but he also hadn’t not spoken about her. He’d just… poured all of it into Leo. Every bit of softness, every ounce of trust.

And now Leo was gone.

“He’s okay,” Joris said quickly. “Probably. He has a chip. He’s smart. And Arthur’s already filed a report and left his number everywhere.”

Charles sat down heavily on the kitchen stool, one hand running over his face.

“I knew it,” he said hoarsely. “I knew Arthur wasn’t ready. He doesn’t even like mornings. Leo’s entire personality is built around 6:45 a.m.”

“I think he genuinely thought he was doing a good job,” Joris offered. “Like… mostly.”

Charles didn’t respond. Just stared at the floor like it had personally betrayed him.

“He has a monogrammed towel,” he said suddenly, like remembering a lost heirloom. “He sleeps in my bed. He knows how to open the fridge.”

Joris nodded solemnly. “I know. You trained him well.”

“And now he’s alone somewhere. Scared. Probably judging someone else’s cooking.”

There was a long beat. Then Charles’s voice cracked—just a little, just enough.

“I can’t lose him too.”

Joris’s heart ached. He stepped forward, softer this time.

“We’re going to find him. I promise.”

Charles gave a slow nod, silent. His eyes were glassy, and he looked young—too young for the heartbreak in his voice.

***

Group Chat: Leclerc Brothers

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo) 

Charles: So. I just spoke to Joris.

Arthur: 🥲

Charles: Tell me that this is some elaborate, deeply stupid prank and Leo is curled up in your apartment right now, wearing his stupid hoodie and judging your coffee table choices.

Arthur: I wish it was. I really, really do. Charles I swear, it happened so fast. I looked away for one second and he was gone. I’ve been searching all night. I didn’t sleep. I filed reports. I called every vet and shelter.

Charles: You lost him yesterday. And didn’t say anything until this morning.

Arthur: I panicked. I thought I could find him before you noticed. Lorenzo told me not to fake a leg injury to get your sympathy, if that helps?

Lorenzo: To be clear, I said that was a bad idea.

Charles: Leo is not just a dog. He’s not a weekend errand or a plant you forget to water. He’s mine. He’s family. He’s the only thing I’ve had that didn’t leave when things got hard.

Arthur: I know. And I’m sorry. Really, truly sorry.

Charles: I trusted you.

Arthur: I didn’t mean to break that. Please believe me.

Lorenzo: He does. He’s just scared right now. We all are.

Charles: If anything happens to him— I don’t know what I’ll do. He’s been the only thing keeping me grounded since everything fell apart.

Arthur: We’re going to find him. I swear it. Even if I have to knock on every door in Monaco and personally interview every dog.

Charles: He knows how to open the fridge, Arthur. You lost a genius.

Lorenzo: Let’s focus. No blame right now. Only action.

Charles: Joris is handling it. Of course. Because Joris always handles what we break.

Arthur: …do I send him flowers?

Charles: Send him a new spine. He probably needs one after carrying our chaos for five years.

Lorenzo: Okay, but seriously—Charles. We will get him back. And when we do, I’m buying that dog a GPS tracker, a backup GPS tracker, and probably a bodyguard.

Arthur: I already picked out a name. Sir Barkalot.

Charles: If I wasn't so emotionally ruined I’d block you.

Arthur: Fair.

Charles: I just want him home.

***

Sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains, catching on the dust motes in the air and casting soft gold across the hardwood floor. Somewhere outside, a gull screamed at an unreasonable hour, and a scooter rattled down the street, but Margot barely stirred.

She rolled over, blinking sleep from her eyes, the quiet weight of morning settling gently over her shoulders. For a moment, she forgot about everything—about Monaco, about the clinic, about the fact that her life had recently undergone a full-scale emotional implosion.

And then she registered the sound. Not her alarm. Not traffic.

Snuffling.

She squinted down toward the end of the bed.

There, curled up like a smug croissant in the exact center of her duvet, was a caramel coloured dachshund.

Sprawled out on his back, paws in the air, snoring softly, utterly shameless.

Margot groaned, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “You did not start the night there.”

The dog gave a lazy tail thump in response but made no move to vacate the space.

“Oh, I see. You’ve claimed the bed. This is your apartment now,” she muttered, sitting up and stretching.

She padded barefoot into the kitchen,and flicked the switch on the coffee machine. As the familiar hum filled the space, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

The dog trotted in a moment later, completely at ease, and went straight to the spot in front of the window where the morning sun hit just right. He flopped down with a grunt of satisfaction.

Margot stared at him.

“You’ve been here eight hours,” she said. “Eight. You’ve already decided on a sunbathing spot?”

He blinked at her. Yawned. Rolled onto his side and looked deeply unconcerned about the fact that he’d technically been lost less than a day ago.

She crouched beside him. “You know, if you were a person, this would be deeply invasive. Just showing up in someone’s life, taking a bath, stealing the blanket, and claiming the best corner of the apartment.”

The dog offered her a single, slow blink. Margot sighed.

“…but you’re not a person,” she added, rubbing behind his ears. “You’re a spoiled little drama queen with big eyes and too much charm. No wonder someone’s probably out there crying over you.”

Margot watched him for a moment, her heart doing that soft little squeeze it hadn’t done in a while.

He didn’t seem stressed. Or scared. He wasn’t pacing or barking or trying to claw at the door. He was just… here. Cozy. Safe. Like this was temporary housing on his luxury tour of Monaco.

“Okay,” she murmured, “Let’s see if I have anything fit for a prince.”

She dug through the fridge—cheese, eggs, leftover roast chicken—and eventually settled on plain scrambled eggs. Just a little. No salt. Vet-approved. She plated them onto a saucer.

The dachshund sniffed the offering when she set it down on the kitchen floor, tilted his head like he was evaluating her taste level, then devoured it.

“Right,” Margot said. “A culinary success.”

He licked the plate clean and then followed her back into the living room, where he jumped up onto the couch like he paid rent. He curled into the throw blanket she’d left bunched in the corner, eyes half-lidded, already preparing for nap number three.

Margot leaned against the kitchen counter and watched him with a strange tightness in her chest.

He looked like he belonged there. Too easily. Too naturally. Like he’d decided she passed whatever secret dachshund test he’d run last night and now this was his summer home.

And Margot—who hadn’t expected to feel anything but detached competence and maybe a vague professional curiosity—felt something else entirely.

She felt… lighter.

Not fixed. Not whole. But not quite as adrift.

“I can’t keep you,” she said quietly, to no one and only him. “You definitely have someone. And they’re probably losing their mind.”

The dog, naturally, said nothing.

He simply sighed and closed his eyes, like he had all the time in the world.

Margot stared at him for a long moment.

She hesitated. Then added, “But if not… you can stay a little longer.”

***

The clinic smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant, the way it always did first thing in the morning—clean, calm, full of potential chaos that hadn’t yet arrived.

Margot pushed through the door with a reusable tote slung over one shoulder, and the dachshund’s head poking around like that was a completely normal mode of transportation for him. 

“Uh-oh,” Céline called from reception, raising an eyebrow as she spotted them. “You’ve brought in backup.”

“Temporary guest,” Margot said, lifting her hand in greeting. “Found him last night. No collar. Took him home so he wouldn’t end up in traffic or under a Vespa.”

“He’s adorable,” Céline said, already standing up to lean over the counter. “What breed is he? Besides ‘absolute heartthrob.’”

“Dachshund,” Margot replied dryly. “Clearly spoiled. Possibly royalty.”

“I mean, look at him,” Céline whispered as Margot lifted the dog onto the floor. He strutted across the waiting room and flopped into a sunbeam like he was taking a press photo.

Within ten minutes, he’d made the rounds of the break room, had a staff member attempt to make him a tiny paper crown from post-it notes, and somehow convinced the vet tech intern to feed him a single piece of chicken from her sandwich.

Margot watched it all happen with an expression of pure disbelief. “He’s been here twenty minutes.”

“He’s got it,” one of the techs whispered. “Like… star power.”

“I think he winked at me,” another muttered.

Margot rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

She finally herded the dachshund into an exam room, gently lifting him onto the table. “Okay, rockstar. Let’s figure out who you are.”

He wagged his tail, smug as ever.

She grabbed the scanner from the wall, swept it slowly over his neck, and waited for the beep.

Beep.

“Good boy,” she said absently, turning to the screen.

The name appeared.

She froze.

LEO — Owner: Charles Leclerc. Contact: +33 —

Margot’s breath caught.

Her fingers hovered above the screen.

No.

No. There was no way.

She read it again.

Charles Leclerc.

She stared at the name, the familiar rhythm of it.

The Charles Leclerc.

As in, Formula One driver. Ferrari. International star.

Of course this was his dog.

Of course this smug, emotionally manipulative, blanket-stealing loaf belonged to him.

To Charles.

As in, the boy she’d kissed under the bleachers behind the tennis courts when she was sixteen. The boy who’d held her hand at the Monaco Grand Prix and whispered that one day, he’d be the one on the podium. The boy she’d cried over for at least three months after they broke up because “life was getting too busy.”

The boy who—apparently—now owned a dachshund named Leo.

“Oh,” she said faintly.

Leo looked up at her and thumped his tail, as if he knew.

Of course he knew.

Because the universe had a twisted sense of humor.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

***

The phone rang just as Joris was mid-scroll through yet another email chain titled “RE: RE: RE: URGENT: Helmet Sponsor Placement Issue.”

He didn’t recognize the number. Monaco area code. That wasn’t unusual—his number was attached to everything from Leo’s microchip registry to Charles’ old tennis club membership.

Still, he hesitated. Then answered, already bracing himself for some kind of insurance call or dog-related ransom demand.

“Bonjour, Joris Trouche speaking.”

There was a pause.

Then: “Hi, um—Joris? It’s Margot. Margot Bonheur.”

Joris blinked.

Margot Bonheur?

He sat up straighter, every neuron in his brain suddenly pinging like a crash at turn one.

“Wait. Margot Margot?”

She gave a slightly breathless laugh. “I… think so? We went to lycée together.”

“Oh my god,” Joris said, stunned. 

There was a short pause. Then a soft voice, low and slightly tentative: “You don’t happen to be missing a dachshund named Leo, do you?”

Joris sat up straight. “You found Leo?”

“Uh, yes. Last night. He sort of… found me, really. He was wandering near Rue Bel Respiro, no collar. I took him home for the night.”

Joris covered the phone’s mouthpiece and mouthed holy shit to the empty office. Then he cleared his throat. “Is he okay?”

“Perfectly fine. He had a bath, has been sleeping, eating scrambled eggs, sunbathing, and judging me silently ever since he woke up.”

Joris huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s him.”

There was a beat of quiet on the line. The kind of silence that stretched just long enough to mean something.

Then Margot said softly, “He’s yours, then?”

Joris’s mouth twitched. “No. He’s Charles’.”

Another pause.

“Ah,” she said. Barely a whisper. “Of course he is.”

Joris leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking toward the ceiling like he might spot the ghost of Monaco high school past hovering above him.

Charles and Margot.

God. He hadn’t thought about that in years. The school hallway hand-holding. The shy smiles.

Margot Bonheur. Margot with the laugh that made Charles forget how to speak in full sentences. Margot who wore oversized cardigans, tied her hair with ribbons, and absolutely ruined Charles for other teenage girls.

Sixteen-year-old Charles, gangly and earnest and completely gone for a girl with curly hair and a laugh that cracked through his walls like sunlight.

Sixteen-year-old Charles, biking all the way across town with a melted chocolate bar in July because he’d heard Margot had a bad day.

Charles, heart-eyed and hopeless, telling Joris at least three times a week, “I think she’s the one, you know?”

And then the silence. The breakup.

Racing had come calling, and Charles—still a boy, really—had chosen speed over stability, pressure over presence. Not because he didn’t love her. Because he did, too much, and thought she deserved better than goodbyes over phone calls and promises he couldn’t keep.

It was the only time Joris had seen Charles cry in a hotel hallway. No cameras. Just him and a cracked iPhone screen with her name still at the top of his pinned messages.

And now?

Now she’d found his dog.

In Monaco.

At a time when Charles was still nursing emotional wounds, pretending he wasn’t sad, and sleeping curled around that ridiculous dachshund like Leo was a weighted blanket for his soul.

Joris stared at the desk.

The universe didn’t send you things like this for no reason.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “He’ll be relieved. He’s been—look, let’s just say the household emotional stability has been tied directly to that dog’s continued existence.”

Margot made a small sound, part sympathetic and part amused. “I figured. He looked very loved.”

“He is. But also? High maintenance. Like his owner.”

Another pause. He could practically hear her raised eyebrow through the line.

“I’ll text you the address,” she said eventually, voice quieter. “I’ll be at the clinic most of the day. You or Charles can come by whenever.”

“Thank you, really,” Joris said. “This means a lot.”

When the call ended, Joris didn’t move for a moment.

Then he stood, walked to Charles’ door, and knocked.

This was going to be interesting.

And if—if—it led to something more?

Well.

He wouldn’t meddle.

Not directly.

But he also wasn’t above “accidentally” scheduling Charles to pick up Leo himself.

***

Charles was halfway through pacing the length of his hotel room for the fourth time when the knock came.

He turned sharply, the pent-up worry already pushing at his chest like pressure before a storm.

“Oui?”

Joris opened the door, face unreadable. “Good news,” he said.

Charles blinked. “You found him?”

“We didn’t,” Joris said. “But someone did.”

The world tilted slightly. His breath caught. “Wait—he’s okay?”

“He’s more than okay,” Joris said. “He was found last night. Someone took him in. He’s safe, healthy, probably being pampered as we speak.”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, barely processing the words. His knees actually went a little weak, and he leaned against the doorframe. “You’re sure?”

Joris nodded. “I spoke to the person directly. They found him near Rue Bel Respiro. No injuries. Fed him scrambled eggs.”

Charles let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “He loves scrambled eggs.”

“I know,” Joris said, softer now. “He’s okay. You can breathe again.”

Charles pressed his hand to his chest like he needed to check that his heart was still there. “I thought—I thought maybe he got out of the city. Or worse. I didn’t know what to do, Joris.”

He nodded, too many thoughts tumbling around in his head. Leo. Safe. Leo, who he’d been picturing lying under a car or lost in some alley. Leo, who had become more than just a dog—his anchor, his post-breakup coping mechanism, the one living being who never asked for anything but a lap and a few treats.

His eyes stung. He scrubbed a hand over them.

“I know,” Joris repeated. “It’s handled. You can pick him up when we’re back in Monaco this evening.”

Charles closed his eyes for a second, letting it sink in. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “He’s really okay?”

“Completely,” Joris confirmed. “He’s just waiting for you.”

Charles looked away, blinking hard. “I thought—I kept thinking about the road. Or if someone tried to take him. Or if he was scared and cold—”

“He wasn’t,” Joris said gently. “Apparently, he made himself at home. Shocker.”

Charles let out a weak laugh, finally sitting down. “God. I feel like an idiot. I should have never let Arthur take him out.”

“No argument there,” Joris muttered.

A pause.

Then Joris added, voice casual: “Oh, and maybe don’t wear that hoodie when you go to pick him up.”

Charles frowned. “Why?”

Joris sipped his espresso. “Just a feeling.”

***

Group Chat: Disaster Mitigation Team

 Members: Joris, Lorenzo, Arthur

Joris: Update: Leo is SAFE. Found last night. Someone took him home, gave him a bath, scrambled eggs, and emotionally supported him through what I assume was a dramatic 12 hours. He’s completely fine. A little smug, but fine.

Arthur: OH THANK GOD. I’m not going to be disowned??? I can come out of hiding???

Lorenzo: Where was he?

Joris: Wandering near Rue Bel Respiro. A vet found him. Took him home for the night.

Lorenzo: This is the best news I’ve heard all week. Tell me who found him so I can send them a fruit basket and/or a handwritten apology.

Joris: …you’re going to want to sit down for this.

Arthur: Bro if you say it was someone from Ferrari PR I will actually combust

Joris: It was Margot.

Arthur: ...

Lorenzo: ...

Arthur: As in Margot Bonheur??

Joris: That would be the one.

Lorenzo: As in “Charles’ teenage girlfriend” Margot?

Arthur: As in “the only girl Charles ever wrote poetry for and then immediately denied it” Margot??

Joris: Yes. THAT Margot.

Arthur: NO WAY. Margot who used to make Charles forget how to speak?? Margot who literally ended all his teen crushes after 2012??

Lorenzo: Margot who knew how to shut him up with one look? That Margot?

Arthur: This is cinematic.

Lorenzo: This is fate.

Joris: I’m not saying I’m thinking about matchmaking but …I’m thinking about matchmaking.

Arthur: YES. FINALLY. She was the best of all of them. And she liked us. Remember when she brought cookies to family lunch and Maman asked if we could keep her?

Joris: The very same. Vet now. Back in Monaco. And apparently, Leo has chosen her as his new emotional support human.

Arthur: She was always my favorite. Honestly, best of all his exes. No contest. 10/10. Would support a redemption arc.

Lorenzo: Same.

Joris: I’m not saying I’m plotting anything. But I may have strategically left out her name when I told him he could pick Leo up tonight. Just… letting fate cook a little.

Arthur: Oh my GOD you’re playing the long game. I’m so proud.

Lorenzo: We support this. You have our blessing. 

Arthur: If they get back together, I’m taking credit. Even though I lost Leo in the first place. Especially because of that.

Joris: Focus, gentlemen. Tonight, Charles picks up Leo. From Margot. Let’s just see what happens.

Lorenzo: You want us on standby?

Joris: No interference. No chaos. Let them talk. Let the dog do his work.

 We may be watching the start of something ridiculous.

Arthur: Or something really, really good.

***

The clinic looked ordinary from the outside—white stone, blue shutters, a potted plant wilting just slightly in the sun. The kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice unless you had a limping retriever or a cat with dietary issues.

Charles had passed it before. Years ago. He hadn’t remembered until he stood outside the door, hand hovering over the handle, heart thudding with the kind of nervous energy he usually reserved for a final lap in the wet.

He wasn’t sure why he felt so anxious. Leo was safe. That’s what mattered.

And yet—he couldn’t shake it.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen Leo in two days. Maybe it was because this whole week had felt like a slow unraveling. Maybe it was because he’d been forced to confront the terrifying truth that he’d built his emotional stability on a dachshund with judgmental eyebrows.

He pushed open the door.

The bell above chimed.

Inside, it smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender. Soft music played overhead. The waiting room was empty, save for a sleepy golden retriever stretched out across the floor tiles and an older man flipping through a dog breed calendar like it contained state secrets.

He wasn’t sure why he was nervous.

It was a veterinary clinic, not a press conference. He wasn’t here to face a grid of rivals or answer uncomfortable questions about tyre strategy or heartbreak.

He was just here for Leo.

That should’ve been it.

But his palms were sweating, and there was something tight in his chest he hadn’t been able to shake since the moment Joris said, “She found him last night.”

She.

He hadn’t asked questions. He’d been too focused on the relief of knowing Leo was safe. Alive. Fed. Unbothered.

But now?

Now, something about the quiet warmth of the waiting room made his heart stutter.

“Bonjour,” a receptionist called from behind the desk. “Can I help you?”

Charles pulled off his sunglasses. “I’m here for Leo. Someone brought him in this morning?”

“Oh! Yes, he’s in the back. Quite the charmer you have there, Mr. Leclerc. Margo found him yesterday. He’s still with Dr. Bonheur. She said to send you through.”

Dr. Bonheur.

Charles blinked.

The name hit like a gear shift slamming into place.

No.

He didn’t move right away—just stood there, rooted to the tile floor, as if his body hadn’t caught up with the memory. The receptionist gestured politely to the hallway, but her voice felt distant, muffled.

Margot Bonheur.

The girl who used to tuck daisy stems behind her ears. The girl who gave him her library card because he kept forgetting his. The girl he’d tried so hard not to look up after the breakup, because he knew he wouldn’t like the feeling if he saw her happy without him.

The girl he hadn’t seen in years.

And she’d found Leo?

Of course she had.

Of course it was her.

Because fate didn’t tap you on the shoulder. It threw your dog into the arms of your teenage heartbreak and waited to see what you’d do next.

Charles swallowed hard and walked toward the back hallway, feet moving before his brain could catch up.

The door to the exam room was ajar.

He pushed it open gently.

And there she was.

Margot stood with her back to him, crouched beside a small exam table where Leo sat like an unbothered loaf. She was tying a bandana around his neck—a soft green one that made him look outrageously smug. The same springy curls. The same soft concentration in her movements. She hadn’t changed.

And then she turned.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment, the world tilted.

Margot blinked. “Oh.”

Charles opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She gave a slow, cautious smile. “Hi, Charles.”

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

Memories rushed in uninvited—bike rides and beach afternoons, shared earphones on the school bus, her handwriting on the corner of his notes. And that goodbye. That stupid, quiet, I don’t want to make you choose kind of goodbye.

Charles couldn’t speak.

He was sixteen again, sunburned and awkward and head over heels. He was seventeen and heartbroken. He was eighteen and too busy pretending he didn’t still think about her. And now he was… what, exactly?

Margot didn’t look away.

She stood, slow and steady, wiping her hands on the hem of her white coat, as if grounding herself in the motion. She looked older, yes—but not in a bad way. She looked like someone who’d lived through things and come out steadier for it.

Leo gave a grunt, apparently offended by being forgotten in the middle of his reunion fanfare, and thumped his tail once against the exam table.

That was what broke the silence.

Charles finally let out a shaky laugh, stepping fully into the room. “He looks like he owns the place.”

Margot smiled softly, folding her arms. “He acted like it. Claimed my couch, my blanket, and the best sunspot in the apartment before I’d even finished putting my groceries away.”

“I believe it,” Charles said, crouching beside Leo. The moment he touched the dachshund’s fur, something in him cracked wide open. “I thought I lost him. I thought—”

“I know,” Margot said gently. “I figured someone would be looking. He’s… unforgettable.”

Charles let his hand rest on Leo’s back. “He’s been everything. These last few months… it’s been hard.”

She didn’t press. She never had.

“I’m glad he found you,” he said finally, lifting his eyes to hers. “I mean—really. Thank you.”

Margot looked at him for a long, quiet beat. “I wasn’t expecting you to walk through that door.”

“Me neither.” He stood slowly. “When Joris said someone found him… I didn’t ask who. I should’ve.”

“Would you have come if you had?” she asked, not accusing, just curious.

Charles met her gaze. “Yeah. I would’ve.”

Her lips curved, a little surprised. A little knowing.

There was a silence, comfortable and awkward all at once. The kind of silence that could only exist between two people who used to know each other completely and now didn’t know how to begin again.

“I heard you were back,” he said eventually. “From my mum, I think. Or someone in town.”

Margot nodded. “Three months ago. I’m working here full time.”

“That’s… that’s good.” Charles shifted his weight. “Toulouse wasn’t forever?”

“No,” she said, quiet. “It was good. Until it wasn’t.”

He understood that far too well.

“Well,” she said, patting Leo’s head, “your prince is in one piece. Clean, fed, slightly spoiled.”

“Always has been.” Charles hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out Leo’s leash. “Can I… take him?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “Though he might pout for a while. I think he liked my eggs.”

Charles bent down, clipping the leash onto Leo’s harness as the dachshund made a snuffling noise of vague disapproval. “I can’t believe you cooked for him.”

“I was trying to win him over,” Margot said. “Turns out he’s an easy bribe.”

Charles glanced up, and for the first time, he smiled. Not the tired, strained smile he’d been wearing lately—but something warmer. Real.

“Can I walk you out?” he asked. “Just… for old time’s sake?”

Margot paused.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

***

Outside, the sunlight hit the street in soft amber as they stepped out together, Leo strutting ahead of them like a celebrity returning from a five-star vacation.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, their footsteps slow and in sync.

“You look well,” she said finally.

“You too,” he answered, and meant it.

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said. “For back then. For how I ended things.”

Margot looked over, surprised. “That was a long time ago.”

“Still,” he said. “I never said it. And I should have.”

She looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then: “Thank you.”

They reached the corner. Leo stopped, sniffed a bush like it owed him money, and flopped down dramatically on the warm pavement.

Margot laughed. “You may need to carry him. He’s decided he’s done.”

Charles crouched again, scooping Leo up effortlessly. “You really took care of him.”

“I was glad to,” she said.

Their eyes met again.

“Margot,” he said, quietly. “Would you—maybe sometime—want to catch up properly?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Like dinner?”

“Or coffee,” he said quickly. “Or a walk. Or, I don’t know. Something.”

She tilted her head, considering him. “Are you asking for you, or for Leo?”

Charles gave a sheepish smile. “Both.”

Margot bit back a grin. “Then maybe.”

Charles smiled back, a little stunned. A little hopeful.

And Leo—smug, full, and freshly bathed—closed his eyes in Charles’ arms, perfectly content.

***

Group Chat: Leclercs & Logistics

 Members: Lorenzo, Arthur, Joris, Charles

Arthur:DID YOU GET HIM???? IS HE OKAY?? IS HE MAD AT ME??

Lorenzo: Photos. Now. I need visual confirmation of the sausage prince’s wellbeing.

Joris: Are you still breathing or do we need to send a second emotional support animal to your location?

Charles: Yes, Leo is back. No, I didn’t cry. Yes, I nearly did.

Arthur: Tell him I love him. Also tell him I’m sorry and that I accept any form of punishment he deems fit.

Lorenzo: Start with a restraining order and work from there.

Joris: And how was Margot?

Charles:Yeah—about that. You could’ve warned me, Joris.

Joris: Warned you about what?

Charles: THAT MARGOT FOUND LEO. You let me walk in there unprepared, like it was any other Tuesday! I could’ve had a heart attack! Or worse—said something weird!

Joris: I believe I said, “someone found him.” That is technically true. I just didn’t say who the someone was.

Charles: YOU LEFT OUT CRUCIAL INFORMATION Like the fact that my teenage heartbreak was about to hand me back my dog.

Arthur: Did a breeze catch in her hair at just the right moment? Was Leo smug about it??

Charles: Yes to both. He refused to leave until she said goodbye. And she tied a stupid little green bandana around his neck that somehow makes him look even more entitled. It was… weird. Familiar. Like nothing changed, but everything had.

Lorenzo: So basically: cinematic.

Joris: So… how did it feel seeing her again?

Charles: Like getting the wind knocked out of me and then immediately wrapped in a warm blanket. She was Margot. Still Margot.

Arthur: CHARLES. ARE YOU IN LOVE AGAIN??

Charles: I never really stopped.

Lorenzo: Oh.

Arthur: OH.

Arthur:Did you ask her out?!?!

Joris:Are we preparing for a slow-burn second-chance narrative?!

Charles: I asked if she wanted to catch up sometime. She said maybe.

Arthur: A MAYBE IS A YES IN DENIAL

Lorenzo: A maybe is the foundation of hope. I approve.

Joris: I’m scheduling you both for a casual Leo-themed coffee run in two days. Nothing obvious. We’re letting the tension simmer.

Arthur: You’re terrifying.

Joris: I’m efficient.

Charles: You’re all insane.

Lorenzo: And yet here you are. Smiling at your phone like a lovesick teenager again.

Joris: We’re not rushing this. No chaos. We give them space. Let Leo work his magic.

Arthur: Can I at least put together a playlist??

Charles: You’re all insane.

Joris: Yes. And we love you. Now take that dog home, feed him something outrageously expensive, and start planning your next casual run-in with Monaco’s most emotionally significant veterinarian.

Lorenzo: I’m so proud. 🥹

Arthur: Tell Leo he’s getting a new raincoat. Embroidered. “Wingman of the Year.”

Charles: He deserves it.

***

Margot had no idea why she was nervous.

It was just coffee.

With her ex-boyfriend.

Her first boyfriend. The one who used to blush when their hands brushed and left flowers in her locker with absolutely illegible notes. The one who broke her heart the way only someone young and kind and convinced he was doing the right thing could

 And now… he was sitting at a tiny café table across from her, stirring sugar into his cappuccino like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like it hadn’t been years.

Like he hadn’t shown up at the clinic two days ago looking like he’d lost his entire world—until Leo launched himself into Charles’ arms, and then everything shifted. Warmth. Relief. Something deeper that still hummed under her skin if she thought about it too long.

“So…” Charles said, glancing up with a shy sort of smile. “I feel like we should start with something safe. Like weather. Or Leo’s digestive schedule.”

Margot snorted into her mug. “It’s Monaco. The weather is always smug. And Leo’s digestive schedule appears to involve manipulating humans into feeding him eggs.”

“I knew that smug face meant he was being spoiled,” Charles muttered, mock-affronted.

She leaned her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. “He was a perfect gentleman. Demanding, slightly judgy, but charming.”

“So basically me at seventeen.”

That made her laugh. “You were never demanding.”

He shrugged, a little sheepish. “Maybe not out loud. But I was kind of... all-in. With you.”

That stilled something in her chest.

She didn’t look away.

“I was too,” she said quietly.

There was a pause—gentle and heavy in equal measure. The little café noise hummed around them: clinking glasses, a scooter rattling by, someone’s dog barking at a pigeon.

Charles cleared his throat, voice softer now. “I’ve thought about reaching out. Before.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He gave her a small, honest smile. “Because I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me. And… I didn’t know if I was someone you’d be glad to hear from.”

She sat with that for a moment. The honesty of it. The way it didn’t sting, because it wasn’t said to wound.

“I was angry,” she admitted. “Back then. Not because you left. I got it. But because I kept waiting for you to stop choosing everything else first.”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “From the chaos. From me, honestly.”

“I never needed protecting,” she said. “I just wanted honesty.”

Their eyes met. This time, there was something calmer there. Grounded.

“I’m not seventeen anymore,” he said. “I can’t promise I’ll be less chaotic. But I know how to show up now.”

Margot’s lips curved slowly. “Even if I burn the eggs next time?”

He grinned. “Especially then. I feel like Leo would riot otherwise.”

She laughed again, warmth blooming in her chest. “Well. In that case…”

“In that case,” Charles echoed, brushing his fingers against the edge of her mug, just barely, “maybe this doesn’t have to be just coffee.”

Margot looked at him, really looked. And saw not just the boy he was—but the man sitting in front of her now. Tired, maybe. Bruised by life a little. But open. Trying.

And hers, maybe, if she wanted him to be again.

“Maybe it doesn’t,” she said.

And across the city,  snoring on Charles’ couch, Leo Leclerc dreamed smug little dreams of eggs, sunbeams, and the chaos he’d orchestrated to make this happen.

[rin-may-1103]

Just a Bite.

Master Post | Next

Danny stared out at the busy street from behind his dumpster.

or well, not his dumpster, but it might as well be his considering how many nights he's spent sitting behind it like some rabid raccoon.

Two months ago, he would have been sleeping in his own bed. His glow-in-the-dark stars vaguely lighting up his room in soft luminescent colors. The sound of Jazz snoring in her sleep just a room over, his parents still milling around in the basement.

he would have just finished fighting the box ghost and collapsed onto his bed, the sound of his home lulling him to sleep.

Oh, how things can change in a blink of an eye.

No, instead of sleeping on his bed with his cartoon ghost sheets and NASA poster covered room, he's out here in some random dirty city, sleeping behind dumpsters.

dirty, grimy, rusty dumpsters.

"did you hear?" some lady dressed in a light blue summer dress asked, turning to look at her friend as they started to walk past. "Mr. Wayne donated another lump sum to that charity." she huffed, shaking her head like she had just said the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard.

her friend stopped in the middle of the alley opening, her graying hair splaying in an ark as she twisted to face the other women. "my word! again? what the hell is that man thinking?"

the woman huffed, then smirked in amusement. "it's like he's shouting for the world to hear how desperate he is for attention. he thinks if he donates enough money to those scoudrails they'll love him or something. With how he's acting lately, it's like he wants all the street rats to barge into his home asking for money, food, and clothes."

her friend clicked her tongue in disgust, "I'd believe it. he has so many kids now, it's like he's running an orphanage. someone, anyone really, with black hair and some tragic story could walk right in and not even be noticed. they'd blend right in with the others."

"I heard it's genetic, his father was the same way before he met Martha. Bruce's blood son, Damian I believe, acts just like his father. the boy's been spotted taking stray cats and dogs inside. It wouldn't surprise me if the paper posted about him convincing his father for another sibling at some point."

the women then turned and started to walk away, their conversation slowly bleeding into the surrounding city ruckus.

Danny leaned back, resting his head against the crumbling brick behind him.

walk right in and not be noticed? wouldn't that be grand. He had heard of Mr. wayne and his gaggle of black-haired children. What were their names again? he could have sworn Sam told him before, in one of her rants about rich society.

Richard Grayson was the first, Danny remembered because Tucker had been making none stop dick jokes for a few hours. Danny didn't understand why the man would willingly go by Dick, but then again, who was he to question someone's name when he fights ghosts like Skulker and Technis on a daily basis?

Next was... Jason? Sam had mentioned there was a whole conspiracy theory of how his death was a cover-up. how all the unsolved crime community swore it was Bruce who killed the kid, that or the kid had some terminal illness that Bruce didn't want the media to know about.

thennnnnn-

Danny glanced around, trying to dig through his memories of Sam's rant. Dick: the orphaned circus act taken in the night his parents died. he's romanie? maybe, Danny wasn't too sure on that one. Jason: taken off the streets, one of his parents was out of the picture and the other one died of a drug overdose.

and then there was..... Tim! Right, Tim, the one who was Mr. Wayne's neighbor before his mother died and his dad went into a coma, then died later on. right, right. he was the known tech genius, the one who took over the company while Mr. Wayne stepped back for a while.

there were others? like, four others? Damian, the lady said he was the blood son sooo, that would imply he was the only bio kid.

who else was there? hmmmm.

well, either way, Danny's tired brain agreed with the women. someone, anyone, who looked vaguely like the other kids could walk right into the house and no one would notice.

it was a bad idea. a terrible one really. but. Danny was hungry.

he's been sleeping behind dumpsters for a few weeks now, he hadn't had anything good to eat in forever, and he was tired. (not as exhausted as he was back home, but still tired. who would have guessed he'd sleep more while homeless?)

he wasn't going to steal from people, his core wouldn't allow him to. and well, he's pretty sure Dan would have stolen already, so there was no way Danny was going to. not unless his life was at risk, and well? it wasn't right now, so no stealing.

but this? walking right into a house and blatantly taking food? right in front of them?

it wouldn't be stealing if he just flat-out didn't try to hide it. they'd be able to stop him and send him away. heck, he doubted he'd even make it past the front gate before they turned him away.

...

was he really going to do this?

...

yes, yes he was.

standing up, Danny started making his way out of the alleyway and over to the tall building with Wayne's name on it. It was a good place to start, maybe he could even find one of the kids and walk with them. or, even better, he could find Mr. Wayne and walk with him. he liked that better than following some kid around.

suddenly, a car honked right next to him, the window rolling down to reveal a tired and disheveled man behind the wheel. glancing up, Danny made eye contact with the taxi driver.

the man yawned and gestured for him to get in, already speaking before Danny could decline. "Mr. Wayne! Your father," yawn, "Father already paid for me to take you home. just hop in."

Danny blinked then glanced around, looking to see if the Wayne the man was talking about was around. nope. turning back, Danny spotted a green sticky note on the back seat.

well, alright then. guess he was getting into the taxi and doing this after all. Clockwork obviously approved if he messed with the timing of things.

Next

[jtargaryen18]

The Arrangement

Series Masterlist

Words: 8k

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: Drugging, age gap, coercion, loss of innocence, dub-con, explicit sex, oral (f rec), breeding kink (inferred), HEA

Your stepfather made an ill-advised wager with Arthur Shelby and when he lost the coin toss, you were are to be given to Arthur for the night. And you will be taken tonight. Just not by Arthur...

A/N: I don't know if any of you are fans of Peaky Blinders. The DH started watching it recently and I've watched it with him. My muse grabbed me and this was the result. But I find if I keep her happy, she'll let me work on my other projects so... Let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

You shivered in the chilly air, wearing your best dress and wrapped in your heaviest shawl, as you walked along the cobbled street, slick with rain and coal dust. You felt numb, struggling to accept the situation you found yourself in through no fault of your own. 

One one side of you John Shelby walked with his usual restless energy, a lit cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers. Though younger than the others, he had a sharpness in his eyes, a tension in his jaw that betrayed the weight of the world he’d been forced to carry. His hair was slightly disheveled, his cap pulled low over his forehead, casting a shadow that makes him look harder than his years. The dim gas light flickered across his face, highlighting a faint bruise on his cheekbone—evidence of a recent scrap, though nothing too serious by Shelby standards.

On the other side, Liam Murphy, one of the Peaky Blinders’ trusted men, walked along. Taller and broader than John, he carried himself with the calm confidence of someone who knows he can handle whatever comes next. His dark eyes scan the area as they reach the destination, ever-watchful. His fingers tapping idly against the handle of the revolver holstered beneath his coat. Dressed in the same razor-brimmed flat cap and three-piece suit as the rest of the gang, Liam looked every bit the part of a man who’s bled for the Shelbys and would do so again without hesitation. The faint trace of whiskey lingers on his breath, but his movements are steady, his focus razor-sharp.

Around them, the air hums with unspoken tension. John’s energy crackles like a struck match, eager, impatient. His gaze landed on you and he cracked a smile. "Look at you. You look like a fuckin' lamb going to slaughter."

Yes, were scared to death. But you lifted your chin, holding his gaze. "Wouldn't you?"

Both of them burst into laughter at that as they stopped in front of the apartment, the agreed meeting place. 

"Yeah," John said. "Can't say I'd want to fuck Arthur either."

The reminder of why you were here was too pointed, too impersonal. You glanced around Small Heath, the neighborhood the Shelbys dominated here in Birmingham. It was a rough area, a working-class district, thick with the grime of industry and the weight of hardship. The narrow, soot-stained brick houses huddled together as if bracing against the cold, damp air rolling in from the factories. The sharp scent of iron and smoke from nearby foundries clung to the wind like an ever-present warning.

Gas lamps cast flickering pools of light, their glow struggling against the heavy smog that lingered in the alleyways. The sounds of the city never truly died—somewhere in the distance, a train whistle howls through the night, blending with the rattle of carts, the distant shouts of drunken men spilling from the back doors of a pub, and the occasional bark of a stray dog scavenging for scraps.

When the door opened, your heart lurched in your chest to see Arthur Shelby standing there in the dim light, a shadow of the man he once was—wild-eyed, disheveled, and teetering on the edge of something dangerous. His waistcoat is unbuttoned, his once-crisp white shirt now rumpled and stained with whiskey and the sweat of a man who'd been drinking too long and thinking too hard. His tie hung loose around his neck, the knot twisted and undone, as if he tried and failed to make himself presentable before giving up entirely.

His hair, usually slicked back with care, was in disarray, tufts sticking up where he’d raked his fingers through it in frustration. His face was a map of old scars and fresh exhaustion, his beard uneven, the shadow of stubble catching the flickering light. His knuckles were raw, split from a recent fight—maybe a brawl at The Garrison, maybe something worse.

His eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, burned with the remnants of rage and sorrow, that familiar fire barely held at bay. His breath reeked of whiskey and smoke, and when he exhaled, it was slow, heavy, as if the weight of the world pressed down on his chest. When he saw you, his eyes lit up in surprise as if his mind just pushed the memory of why you were there through the haze of his enebriation. 

"Come in," he said after studying you for a moment.

What else could you do? 

Dropping your head, trying to keep your desperation and fury at bay, you walked quickly by him and into the apartment. 

When John and Liam tried to push their way in, Arthur smashed a fist into Liam's face. The crunching sound made you think Arthur broke his nose. "What the fuck?" Liam yelled. "Aren't we supposed to be witnesses?"

The question sent a spike of fear through your heart.

"The hell you are!" Arthur raged at them. "Now get out before I knock some teeth out, you fuckin' bastards."

With that, he slammed the door hard and locked it for good measure. 

Inside the small apartment, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood, old tobacco, and the faint traces of stew long gone cold. The walls were thin, covered in peeling wallpaper that was once floral but now curls at the edges, stained by years of cigarette smoke and candlelight. The floorboards creaked under the weight of every movement, betraying any attempt at stealth. Outside, heavy boots scuff against the cobblestones, stopping and starting, keeping you on edge.

The only light inside came from a low-burning candle near the window, its feeble glow barely touching the dark corners of the room. A single iron-framed bed sits against one wall, its mattress lumpy and worn. A wooden table stands near the hearth, cluttered with an empty bottle, a playing card bent at the edges, and a knife someone left behind—perhaps a warning, perhaps a promise.

The Peaky Blinders owned these streets, and yet, danger lurks in the shadows, even for them. Every knock at the door could be salvation—or the end. This is where you were born.

You stood in the small space and waited. You had no intention to make this easy for anyone. Particularly when it wasn't fair at all how you came to be here.

Arthur swayed slightly, adjusting his stance, his grip tightening on the half-empty bottle he lifted from the small table by the window. At least the curtains there were closed. There was an eerie stillness in him, the kind that only comes before a storm. He wiped a hand down his face, inhaling sharply, trying to steady himself, but the chaos inside him is still bubbling, waiting for the right moment to spill over.

"Look," Arthur said, "I'm truly sorry for this situation. It's nothing personal towards you, you know. It was your father and the coin toss. He--"

"Stepfather," you corrected him. Your father had been a decent man who didn't make it back from the war. Your mother had married Sean O'Grady out of necessity, to keep you and your younger brother fed. Your stepfather was as bad as your father had apparently been good.

"Whatever," Arthur said. "He lost the coin toss and the coin is sacred to us. He promised me a turn with you if he lost."

Something like shame flashed in his eyes as he looked you over. It wasn't hard to guess what he was thinking. You were inexperienced with men. Your brother had started working at the factory at a young age but you stayed home and helped with the garden, with the sewing. Your mother took in work as a seamstress here and there and that's how the Shelbys came into your life to begin with. Arthur started it, coming by to have a couple of shirts repaired, stains removed. He'd been intimidating enough but he wasn't the one who scared you the most.

Tommy Shelby.

His name alone carried weight, pressing down on your chest like an iron shackle. He was the kind of man stories are whispered about in dark corners, the kind of man who steps into a room and bends the air around him. He never needed to raise his voice to command obedience, nor did he need to lift a hand to make someone afraid. His power was in the silence, in the way his glacier-blue eyes stripped a person down to their bones, exposing every weakness, every lie, every desperate plea before it ever leaves their lips.

You'd seen men stronger than you shrink beneath his gaze, their bravado crumbling under the quiet calculation that lurks behind those cold, unreadable eyes. There was no excess in his movements, no wasted gestures. He was precise, measured, a man who played chess while everyone else is swinging fists. And yet, beneath the tailored suit and composed expression, there lurked something even more dangerous—something hollow and broken, something that made him unpredictable.

He didn't look like a man who enjoyed violence. That would make him easier to understand. No, Tommy Shelby wore it like a necessary burden, a tool in his arsenal, wielding it with the same detached efficiency as he did his words. That detachment terrified you the most. Because men who enjoy hurting others can be manipulated, can be fed their own hunger until they slip. But a man like Tommy—one who kills without joy, without hesitation, without remorse—he was a different kind of monster entirely.

Arthur drank straight from the bottle, the amber liquid splashing inside it. His eyes never left you and now you were shaking. You knew your stepfather wanted you married off and gone from his house, but he felt like this was the way to do it? Or was this punishment because you hadn't made that happen?

"What are you waiting for?" he asked, slurring his words. "Come over here."

"And do what?" you had to ask. "I don't know... how..."

His eyebrows shot up at that. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?"

You shook your head. Waves of shame and anger rushed through you to be in this situation. You were untried and terrified. He was drunk and seemed at a loss as to how to handle this situation. After a moment, he set the bottle back on the table and marched towards you, wrapping his strong arms around you and holding you in place for his kiss. Just like that.

Instinct had you fighting him. His kiss was sloppy and wet, the liquor on his breath heavy, making you feel a little sick. He was easily twice your size and it was nothing for him to drag you in the direction of the bed. When your back met the mattress, you closed your eyes in acquiescence. You just wanted it over with so you could go back home, soiled goods thanks to your stepfather's poor judgment. But you'd live to fight another day. At least you hoped you would.

Arthur's weight dropped onto you on the bed, but after a moment, you realized he wasn't moving. When he snored by your ear, it was all you could do not to burst into tears. Did this mean you'd have to wait for him to sober up? Would this torment be rescheduled? You didn't think you could take that.

You didn't know what to do. Carefully, you managed to roll him off you and onto his side. He didn't wake or even move as you managed to get off the bed. Hope had your heart swelling in your chest. Could you make it out of this apartment then? You could claim that the deed was done and he passed out after. You could declare it done, right?

Rushing to the window, you moved the curtain just enough to see the street and it didn't look like anyone was outside the door now. Could you make it out? If you moved fast enough? 

With your heart flying in your chest, you unlocked the door and pulled it open, dashing out onto the street and sending up every prayer that you'd ever said that you could just make it home. 

You collided with someone hard. You were shaking as his hands came up to steady you, keep you from falling. An apology was on your tonque as you glanced up to see who blocked you.

It was him.

Tommy Shelby was the one who had you, his figure a sharp silhouette against the darkness. A beat after he released you, a match flares to life, momentarily illuminating the angular planes of his face—the high cheekbones, the cut of his jaw, the cigarette resting between his fingers. The glow flickers out as he exhales, smoke curling around him like a specter, and in that brief moment, his icy blue eyes locked onto yours.

He didn’t look surprised.

No anger. No raised voice. Just that cold, assessing gaze—as if he had already predicted this, as if he knew you would run before even you did. A slow inhale. A subtle shift of his stance. The barest tilt of his head, like a wolf considering a cornered rabbit.

You expect fury, maybe even threats, but what terrifies you most is the patience in his expression. Calculated. Absolute. Unshaken.

“Going somewhere?” His voice is soft, measured, all the more dangerous for its calmness.

You want to run, but your legs refuse to move. The street around you seemed empty, swallowed in shadow. But you know—he's never truly alone. Somewhere, in the darkened alleys, his men are watching. Waiting.

Tommy takes one step forward, slow and deliberate.

“You should know,” he murmured, flicking his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of his polished boot, “I don’t like having to come after people.” The weight of his words coiled around you, squeezing the air from your lungs.

Hooking your thumb in the direction of the apartment, and it was trembling, you said, "He's d-done."

That cool gaze moved over you, up and down, and his gaze returned to yours. "Not with you. Arthur loves the ladies but I've never seen him move that fast."

You hadn't thought of that. 

"Did he pass out?" he asked quietly.

Tears stung the backs of your eyes and you nodded. It wouldn't do any good to lie to him. "What happens now?" you asked, cringing under that cold gaze. 

"There's still an arrangement," Tommy reminded you. "And it has to be honored."

You glanced back over your shoulder at the door wondering what he meant by that. Would you wait for Arthur to wake up? Come back another day when he was sober?

Rough fingers at your chin turned your face back to him, and you shrank away from that unfamiliar touch. When your attention was returned to him, he grabbed your upper arm and started walking, almost dragging you up the street at first. What was he going to do? Where was he taking you?

Men were walking not too far behind you now, his men. They stayed behind the two of you until Tommy abruptly turned a corner, heading up a short flight of steps. Leading you into another apartment.

The new apartment was different—cleaner, quiet and cold. A stark contrast to the cramped, smoke-choked rooms you just fled from. The walls are smooth, freshly painted in an off-white shade that seems almost too pristine for a place in Small Heath. There’s no peeling wallpaper, no damp smell clinging to the wooden floorboards. Instead, there’s the faint scent of tobacco and whiskey, mingling with the lingering traces of fresh linen and polish—evidence that someone actually cares for this space.

The furniture is sparse but elegant in a way that doesn’t fit the rough streets outside. A solid oak table sits near the window, a glass decanter of amber liquid resting on top, two crystal tumblers beside it. A plush armchair, its deep leather cracked at the seams, faces the fireplace where faint embers glow, casting flickering shadows against the walls. A bottle of Scotch, half-empty, stands on the mantel as if waiting for its owner’s return.

Against one wall, a proper bed. Not a cot, not a lumpy mattress stuffed into the corner, but a well-made bed with crisp white sheets and a thick wool blanket folded at the foot. A luxury in this part of Birmingham. A reminder that this isn’t a prison. But it’s still his space. His territory. And now, you're trapped inside it.

The gas lamps flickered, their glow reflecting off the dark glass of the window. Outside, Small Heath moved on—voices drifting through the night, a horse’s hooves clattering in the distance, the faint murmur of a pub emptying out. But in here, the world feels still, heavy with unspoken rules and the weight of Tommy Shelby’s presence.

His men have left by now, their boots retreating down the hallway, leaving you alone with him. The door clicks shut.

A moment of silence.

“You’ll be more comfortable here,” he says, his voice as controlled as ever, but there’s no mistaking the finality in his words. This isn’t a courtesy. It’s an arrangement.

You didn't understand why you were here. Was he going to keep an eye on you until his brother slept it off? Or would he expect you to stay here until the deed could be done?

With practiced ease, he hung up his cap and shrugged out his dusty black coat, hanging it up. Then, the soft sound of a match striking as Tommy lights another cigarette, his gaze unreadable as he exhales a slow stream of smoke. Grabbing the Scotch and tumblers from his mantel, he moving to the table at the window, filling the crystal glasses and motioning you over. 

"Have one," he said. 

He wanted you to drink? You'd never drank spirits in your life. You must have stared at the glass like a snake about to bite you.

Tommy took a drag from his cigarette. "Since my brother is unable to do the honors," he said, "we'll finish the arrangement here and now. Drink it. It will make it easier."

Panic threatened to overtake you. What? Arthur Shelby passed out drunk so now you were expected to fuck Tommy Shelby?

Not doing as he said seemed terrifying, so you reached for the tumbler meant for you with a shaking hand. Bringing it to your lips for a sip, you almost coughed. The drink was smooth but potent. It burned like fire all the way down to your stomach. 

"Sit down," he said, using his foot to push one of the two chairs at the table back for you. You did as he wanted, taking another drink of whiskey. You felt the weight of those ice-blue eyes on you as you stiffly took a seat. "You ever been with a man?"

The man could just talk about something so personal like it was nothing more than business. It was a lot more than that to you. It took a moment for you to work up the courage to meet his gaze now, but you made yourself do it. You may have been trapped in this situation but you had to remember that you personally had done nothing wrong. 

“No,” was all you said. “Never drank either. Until now.”

Tommy tilted his head slightly, still studying you, the faint glow of his cigarette illuminating the sharp angles of his face. “Your stepfather isn’t a smart man.”

“Or a kind one,” you murmured, the words bitter on your tongue.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, effortless yet edged with something unreadable. “That why he offered you up?” His voice was calm, almost casual, but his gaze never wavered. “Strict with you, was he? That why you haven’t got any experience?”

You shook your head, fingers tightening around the tumbler in your hands. “No. He just wants me gone.”

Tommy hummed in answer. The room feels smaller with him in it. The air is thick with the smoky bite of liquor and tobacco, the soft glow of the gas lamp casting shadows across his sharp features. Tommy took the chair across from you, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, the other resting on his thigh, fingers curled loosely around a half-filled tumbler. He hasn’t spoken for a couple of moments, and yet his silence is as oppressive as a threat.

He studies you, slow and deliberate, his ice-blue gaze dragging over you like a weight you can’t shake off. Not leering. Not curious. Calculating. Like he’s unraveling you in his mind, peeling back the layers of fear, of defiance, of whatever fragile armor you've built to protect yourself. He sees through you. And he enjoys it.

The cigarette smolders between his fingers, the red ember glowing each time he takes a slow, unhurried drag. He exhales through his nose, the smoke curling like ghostly fingers in the space between them, thick, intimate, suffocating. He’s not trying to scare you. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone is enough.

And yet… he is devastating.

The angles of his face, chiseled and unyielding, should make him look harsh, unappealing, but they don’t. His dark lashes, too long for a man, cast shadows over his cheekbones as he watches you, the corner of his mouth curling around the cigarette in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but is. The controlled power in the way he moves, the effortless confidence—it draws you in even as you will yourself to stay afraid.

He lifts his glass, taking a slow sip of Scotch, the tendons in his forearm flexing beneath the crisp sleeve of his shirt. When he sets it down, the clink of crystal against wood echoes too loud in the quiet.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low, even, dangerous.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, tapping ash from his cigarette, “and I’ll start thinking you’ve forgotten why you’re here.”

It’s a warning, a challenge.

And God help you, it’s both terrifying and intoxicating. You take another sip of from your glass, welcoming the burn and the warmth. You'd been unable to really eat today given what was going to happen. Your entire life would change after tonight. The alcohol went straight to your head, taking the edge off of your fear. Not enough but it was better than nothing.

"If the... arrangement is settled, here and now, then I'm done?" you had to ask. "Arthur..."

Tommy takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a ribbon of smoke that curls lazily between you. His blue eyes stay locked on yours, sharp and unreadable, the weight of his gaze making it impossible to look away. He lifts his glass, takes a sip, then sets it down with an almost deliberate slowness.

Then, in that same calm, cutting voice, he asks, “Would you prefer Arthur?”

The question lands like a blow.

Your fingers tightened around the tumbler, the burn of alcohol lingering in your throat, but you can’t find your voice. Prefer Arthur? Tommy says it so easily, like the answer doesn’t matter to him either way, like it’s nothing more than an idle curiosity. But the way he watches you now—eyes half-lidded, cigarette balanced between his fingers—you know it’s not.

Your pulse quickens. Arthur is rougher. Louder. More reckless. But Tommy… Tommy is something else entirely. Colder. Calculating. Inevitable.

You swallow hard, shaking your head. “No.”

Tommy doesn’t react, not right away. He just studies you for another long, unbearable moment before flicking the ash from his cigarette and smashing out in a small tray. “Good.”

You don’t ask why. Something tells you you don’t want to know.

Your heart pounds as he drains his tumbler in one slow pull, then rises from the chair with a grace that feels almost too controlled. His movements are smooth, deliberate—never hurried, never uncertain. Without a word, he reaches for your glass. Carefully, but firmly, he takes it from your hands and sets it on the table. Then, he offers his hand.

Your pulse spikes. A silent command. A choice that isn’t really a choice. Despite the tension tightening in your chest, you take it. His fingers closed around yours—not rough, not gentle, just steady. He pulls you effortlessly to your feet, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin, grounding you even as your nerves coil tighter.

It’s only a few steps to the bed, but the space between felt heavily charged. Tommy sits at the edge, his grip still firm around your hand. Then, he glances up at you, those piercing blue eyes pinning you in place. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words, the weight of the moment pressing down on your skin. And still—he doesn't let go.

Tommy’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand, almost absentmindedly, as he studied you with that same quiet intensity that makes your breath catch. His gaze flickers over your face, slow and deliberate, taking in every detail—the way your lips part slightly, the way your pulse jumped at your throat.

Then, in that smooth, low voice that sends a shiver down your spine, he murmurs, “Pretty thing, aren’t you?”

It isn’t a question. It’s an observation. A fact.

Your stomach tightens. There’s no warmth in his tone, no flirtation, just a simple acknowledgment, spoken like he’s already decided exactly what to do with you. Like he owns the moment, owns you. His fingers tighten, just for a beat, before his grip loosens again. And for the first time, you realize—it’s not just fear that’s making your heart race.

You weren’t prepared for the way his other hand slips behind your neck, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to send a shiver down your spine. No hesitation. No uncertainty. He pulls you toward him with quiet intent, as if he’s already decided how this will go—as if there was never a question.

The only time a man had ever kissed you was Arthur’s sloppy, whiskey-soaked attempt in the other apartment. But this—this is something else entirely.

There’s no drunken sway, no careless fumbling. Tommy moves with purpose, with the same measured control he applies to everything he does. And that’s what makes it dangerous. When his lips touched yours, it was a whisper of a kiss at first. There was no overpowering smell of spirits, just the faint scent of tobacco, of him. As his lips moved against yours, firmer and seeking, you tried to mimic him, afraid not to do something. You must have done something right. He increased the pressure at the back of your neck to pull you closer, and your hands landed on his shoulders, crisp linen covering tight muscle under your palms. When he deepened the kiss, you let him, and the slide of his tongue against yours gave him a deep taste of you. His deep moan surprised you, and you felt that subtle sound all through your body as he continued to kiss you breathless.

It was easy for him to pull you onto the bed and roll you under him, breathless as you were. When his mouth claimed yours again, his kiss was more demanding, and his hands were everywhere. Tommy managed to pull the shawl free of you without breaking the kiss, his hands then sliding down to work the worn leather Mary Janes you wore off your feet, tossing them off the side of the bed. One hand grabbed your ankle before sliding up your leg, up to cover the globe of your ass and panic had you jerking in his hold. 

Tommy pulled back to look you in the eye, his face flushed in his excitement and quiet intent. There was a wildness in his eyes—untamed, dangerous, something raw and unchecked. You doubted many had ever seen it, and for good reason. It wasn’t meant to be witnessed. His gaze searched yours, piercing, relentless, and you trembled in his arms, not from the cold, but from the sheer intensity of it.

"I'm going to have you," he said breathlessly, his weight pinning your body to the bed. Grinding himself into your tummy, the hard, heated length of him was unmistakable, even with both of you clothed. His eyes darkened in sheer determination and his hold on you tightened. "You understand?"

You nodded quickly. "I'm sorry," you whispered.

Sliding his hand roughly up your body, he smoothed his hand over you cheek, his gaze never leaving you. Tommy kept watching you as that hand moved back down to pluck at the buttons of your blouse and his nimble fingers made quick work of it. Impatiently, his hands pulled the garment free of your skirt before undoing the buttons of your camisole beneath. You couldn't stop trembling as he undid the last barrier and peeled it back to reveal your upper body to him.

His gaze was sharp, moving over your breasts with growing impatience, hunger. With a delicacy you wouldn't have believed him capable of, his fingers traced over your collar bone, over the tiny gold cross pendant of your necklace. He trailed a finger over your skin, across to one breast, using that digit to tease your nipple to a tight peak with a gentle circular touch. When his heated gaze returned to yours, he filled his hand with your breast, squeezing firmly but not enough to hurt. Tommy began kissing you again, heated and greedy now, with his hand teasing your breast before sliding down your body and beneath your skirt. As if he knew you were about to start fighting him again, he broke the kiss to cover your breast, teasing it with his lips and tongue as his hand slid under your skirt, into your underwear. Sensation overwhelmed you, need battling fear, and your hands clutched in the bedding beneath you as his fingers teased your private flesh, the light pressure drawing sensations from your body that you'd never experienced. 

"You can touch me," he muttered around your nipple. It felt like a command. Your hands shook as they slid up to him, instinctively moving to his head. The glossy black locks of his short hair slid between your fingers as he continued to tease you relentlessly, burning you down with his mouth and hands. 

Chills and pulses of unexpected pleasure had you writhing feverishly beneath him as his tongue smoothed over your aching nipple and his fingers danced in the wet folds between your legs. Your breath sucked in when he touched your pearl, and he lifted his head to savor your reaction. Whatever he was doing with his fingers, all you knew was that it would soon drive you insane, continued, but he didn't give you the speed or pressure you wanted. The touch was fleeting, maddening. Your fingers clutched in his hair as he continued to delicately torture you, your legs clamped around his hand because you couldn't help it in your need. And it didn't slow his efforts at all. 

When his touch stopped, you whined, an unfamiliar sound to you. In a frenzy of movement, Tommy unzipped your skirt and roughly yanked it off along with your underwear, your stockings. He wasn't satisfied until you were stripped bare beneath him, all of you trembling under the intensity of his stare. As he sat there next to you, taking every inch of you in, his fingers went to work with haste, undoing his tie, stripping off his waistcoat. His fingers flew at undoing the buttons of his own shirt which he pulled free of his trousers but didn't remove it. 

Tommy shifted down the bed and moved to throw one of your legs over his shoulder so fast, you didn't have time to react. And by the time you did, he'd buried his face between your thighs. The flames of humiliation only burned you for a few seconds. The man's mouth covered your sex, his tongue a wicked torment that was unfamiliar and almost too much to bear. One of his hands worked to keep your folds open, your curls out of his way, as he kissed your pussy as he had your mouth. The other slid up over your tummy with pressure, holding you in place for his assault on your senses.

You accepted it but your entire body was shaking, shivering and it was impossible to stay still. Your back arched and you would have been horrified to realize that you were pushing yourself towards him, towards his mouth, wanting more, if you hadn't been so lost in the storm of sensation. What he was doing didn't make the fever better, it made it worse. It felt like fire running through your veins with raw need pooling low in your belly. When he slid a finger back to your pearl as he continued to work you with his mouth, you gasped. When his movements sped up, when his tongued traced your opening, you screamed long and loud. A wave of pure pleasure swept over you and he didn't stop what he was doing the entire time, dragging it out until you violently shook beneath him, crying and moaning as your body shivered and eased. 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he moved up the bed toward you, his hands working the fine leather belt at the front of his trousers. He wore nothing beneath and the sight of his cock, angry red and larger than you expected, filled your vision as you watched him take himself in hand, working himself as his gaze roamed over you. Tommy shifted, one of his knees pushing yours apart. You let him, watching him drape himself over you. There was something obscene about the way he stripped you naked but was still mostly clothed himself. 

He surprised you by stopping then, a hand smoothing over your hair and face with care. You sensed he was holding back, respecting your inexperience. You knew it meant nothing to him but he realized it meant something for you, and your heart squeezed in your chest at the gesture. 

"It's going to hurt," he said, whispering against your lips. "Not for long. Hang onto me."

You did what he said, but slid your hands beneath his shirt, running your hands over the muscular plane of his damp back. Your fingers found scars, a lot of them, but it gave you a distraction from the way he lined himself up with your entrance, the smooth head of him pressing into you insistently. It felt better to bring your legs up, your knees hovering around his hips. You held your breath as the pressure built, and the intrusion of him pushed further into your body. When he met that fleshy barrier inside you that proved your claim, Tommy surged through it, and the pain was searing. It took your breath away, had tears stinging your eyes as he completely filled you. Your tender walls quivered around him, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar length of him.

With the pad of his thumb, he caught a tear, brushing it away with a touch that was almost too careful for a man like him. Then, without a word, he lowered his head, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was soft, deliberate—unexpectedly tender. No force. No urgency. Just a slow, measured touch, as if, for once, Tommy Shelby was in no hurry to take what he wanted. He held still inside you, allowing you to adjust. Lost in the dizzying mix of pain and pleasure from his kisses, you found yourself clinging to the unexpected gentleness in his touch. A contradiction. A quiet mercy. Something you never would have expected from a man like him.

But the arrangement wasn’t over. Not until he decided it was. Not until he was finished.

Slowly, he started moving inside you and it stung like fire as he thrust in and out of you. You knew you were wincing, but you'd be damned if you'd complain now. You wanted to be brave, feeling like you'd earn his respect if you were. And as he pushed in and out of you, the pain lessened and dulled, easing to be replaced with more of the sensations from before. The good ones. Before long your thighs were clamped around his hips as he plunged into you again and again. Hot, reckless kisses dropped over your face and breasts as he fucked you. Your arms and legs were wrapped around him but it was more than that. You weren't just lying there and thinking of England as you'd been advised by your mother and aunts. You were riding waves of unexpected pleasure, soaring to those heights again. Your hands became claws at his back, your nails carving into his skin. Your thighs tightened around his hips as you moved with him, wanting more, craving more.

His lips blazed a path to the sensitive skin of your throat, peppering your skin with kisses and swipes of his tongue as he rode you harder. The drive of him inside of you, his hands on your breasts, fingers teasing your pearl, drove you mad. You started begging him, pleading for release from the intense experience he was drowning you in.

"Please," you chanted.

His actions pushed you higher until, with your heart racing in your chest, until he sent you flying again. Your cries and screams filled the room as the man literally destroyed you. 

Tommy drove on above you and you knew he was now chasing his own end and you still held him. But it also occured to you in that moment that there was no birth control being used here, no condom or anything. You tried to steady your breathing, pushing down the rising panic. Surely, a man like Tommy Shelby wouldn’t want a bastard running around—wouldn’t leave something like that to chance. Tommy was many things—ruthless, dangerous, unreadable. But somehow, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had more honor than that.

 As his movements sped up, his thrusts just shy of painful, you tensed, hoping he was going to pull out of you when his time came so there'd be no worry about a baby. Above you his eyes were closed, his mouth slack. The beauty of him in that moment made you pause as he came. When you jerked beneath him, his hands collared your wrists and pushed them into the bed on either side of your head. Holding you there, he pumped himself into you growling as he did, thrust after thrust. Truthfully, you didn't have it in you to try and stop him. As if you even could.

Maybe it wouldn't take. You tried to shove that worry to the back of your mind, not even wanting to think about that right now.

He'd collapsed onto you, but his weight wasn't too much as his breathing rushed with yours. Running your fingers through his hair, you tried to stay calm. Your mind couldn't help jumping ahead.

Now that the deed was done, you'd be sent back home. Everyone in Small Heath knew you'd been won in an ill-advised bet. Would other men consider you an easy mark? You couldn't count on your stepfather to protect you. 

Tommy pulled himself free from you and it stung. He stretched out next to you on the bed, his finger tracing the curve of your breast. He watched you in that way of his—sharp and knowing. His gaze settled on you, unreadable yet unrelenting. Then, in that low, measured voice, he asks, “What are you thinking so hard about?”

It’s not just a question. It’s a test. Like he can already see the storm rising behind your eyes, the panic tightening in your chest as you grapple with the future he’s tangled you in.

You open your mouth, then close it. Because what do you even say to him? But he doesn’t look away. He waits. And somehow, that’s even worse. At the end of the day, only the arrangement mattered. His family’s honor was intact, the deal upheld—that was all that concerned him. Whatever you felt, whatever came next for you, wouldn’t change a thing. Tommy wasn’t the kind of man to concern himself with your plight. You knew that. It was better not to mention it at all.

So instead, you took the coward’s way out.

“Can I go home now?” The words left your lips, but somehow, they didn’t sound like a plea. More like a quiet resignation.

Was that reluctance you saw in his face? Just for a flicker of a moment—something unreadable, something hesitant beneath the mask of indifference.

Tommy considers your question, his expression giving nothing away. But he studies you, weighing something. You can’t tell what. And that’s the most unsettling part.

With a deep sigh, he finally says, "You can."

As you start to sit up, you watch him search through your clothing on the bed, finding your simple underwear. You watch in stunned silenced as he carefully takes them and dips them between your legs, staining the white garment with your blood. When you instinctively reach for them—alarmed by the sight of your own blood, mortified by what he’s just done—Tommy’s eyes snap to yours, sharp and unyielding. Before you can touch them, he moves them out of reach, his grip firm, his expression leaving no room for argument.

“I’m keeping these.” The finality in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. Like a claim. Like a promise.

Why?

You were shaking as you watched him dress, dressing yourself as quickly as you could with shaking limbs. It was over now, right? Was your underwear stained with your blood proof that the arrangement was met? You were bleeding and he was keeping your undergarment. It was distressing. He must have noticed. Without a word, he stepped to a cabinet drawer and pulled out a clean, white towel, tossing it onto your lap.

"Clean yourself up," he said, already pulling on his coat and adjusting his cap with practiced ease. Then, just as effortlessly, "I'll be back to take you home."

And with that, he was gone.

You sat there, staring at the door he’d just disappeared through, the towel limp in your hands.

Tommy Shelby was taking you home.

A short, breathless laugh escaped before you could stop it. That would scare the shit out of your stepfather. Maybe then, he wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss you.

Or maybe—it wouldn’t matter at all. You didn't know what the future held for you or what impact this night would have on it.

***

Tommy’s grip tightened on the wheel, his jaw set in that familiar, unreadable line. The road stretched dark and empty ahead of him, the hum of the engine the only sound between them. He didn’t glance her way—didn’t need to. He could feel the weight of her presence beside him, could hear the way she shifted slightly in her seat, the tension rolling off her in waves.

This was necessary. That’s what he told himself. A loose end tied up, an arrangement upheld.

When he pulled up to Watery Lane, the headlights cut through the mist curling over the cobbled drive, illuminating the towering structure of Arrow House. The place had never really felt like home, but it served its purpose—just like everything in his world.

He killed the engine and stepped out first, running as he rounded the car and opened the door for her. She hesitated, just for a moment, then followed without a word. He could almost see the question in her mind. Why am I here?

Because he wanted her here. He wanted her. Tonight merely sealed her fate.

Inside, the house was dimly lit, the scent of wood smoke and aged whiskey lingering in the air. Tommy didn’t break stride, already pulling off his gloves as he spotted Polly standing at the bottom of the staircase, arms crossed, dark eyes sharp as they flicked between him and her.

“Take her up,” he said simply, voice low and clipped. “My room. Find her something to sleep in.”

Polly didn’t move right away. Instead, she gave him a look—one of those looks. The kind that didn’t need words, the kind only Polly could give.

It was half question, half judgment. What’s this, then?

Tommy exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose before muttering, “Not now, Pol.”

With a slow shake of her head, she turned to his girl, her expression softening slightly as she gestured for her to follow.

Tommy watched for a second longer, then turned on his heel, heading straight for the whiskey decanter. He'd knock back a couple then he'd join her in sleep.

***

The house was quiet early the next morning, but Polly was already up. Tommy found her in the sitting room, a cigarette between her fingers, an untouched cup of tea going cold on the table beside her. The morning light filtered weakly through the windows, casting a dull glow over the room.

She didn’t look at him right away, just took a slow drag, exhaling through her nose before finally speaking. “That the girl Arthur won in the coin toss?”

Tommy poured himself a drink, even though it was too early for one. He took his time before answering. “It is.”

Polly’s gaze flicked up, sharp and knowing. “So why is she upstairs, in your room, and not with him? Or home with her family?”

Tommy didn’t answer immediately. Just swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the light caught in it. He didn't feel the need to explain himself.

But Polly wasn’t stupid. Her eyes narrowed slightly, putting the pieces together faster than most ever could. She leaned back in her chair, cigarette poised between her fingers, a slow smirk curving her lips. “You wanted her.” It wasn’t a question.

Tommy took a sip of his whiskey. Didn’t confirm. Didn’t deny. But Polly was already seeing through him, like she always did.

“You let Arthur think it was his idea.” Her voice was quieter now. “Tricked her stepfather into wagering her. Then drugged Arthur when the time came to claim her. You waited, knowing she’d panic, knowing she’d run. And who was there, ready to catch her?” She let the silence hang for a beat before answering her own question. “You.”

Tommy tilted his head, nonchalant, unreadable. He took another slow sip of whiskey before finally meeting Polly’s gaze.

She sighed, shaking her head as if tired of playing this game with him. “What are your intentions, Thomas?”

Another pause. He could lie. He could deflect. But Polly wouldn’t believe him, and they both knew it.

So instead, he took another drag of his cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and simply said—“She’s mine.”

Polly let out a breath, long and slow, before muttering, “Jesus Christ, Tommy.”

Tommy had already made his decision.

Arthur would know soon enough. There’d be no shouting, no drunken outburst—just the facts, laid out cleanly, irrefutably. Tommy would hand over proof that the arrangement had been upheld, that the wager had been honored in the way that mattered. It would be enough to keep Arthur from questioning him, enough to silence any complaints before they started.

As for the girl’s stepfather? He would be a cautionary tale. A reminder of what happened when someone gambled with the Shelbys and lost. When a debt was called, when something was taken and then never seen again. Her sudden disappearance—her absence—would be enough to send a whisper of fear through Small Heath, a warning to any fool who might ever think to challenge them again.

And in time, when the dust settled, when the moment was right—he would marry her. Not because of obligation. Not because of the arrangement.

Because she was now his.

[pankowcrumbs]

Park Dating X Lewis Hamilton (Requested)

Request: Lewis Hamilton x Reader The Reader finds a lost Roscoe and Lewis instantly likes her.

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

I had just settled onto the bench with my iced coffee and paperback when a blur of fur barrelled into my legs.

“Oh hello there!” I laughed, nearly spilling my drink as the most adorable bulldog flopped down at my feet, panting happily like we were lifelong mates.

He looked up at me with wide, soulful eyes and that charming, squashed face. His little tongue lolled out the side of his mouth, and I was instantly in love.

“You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you?” I cooed, reaching down to give his head a scratch. He leaned into it like he’d been waiting for me his whole life. There was a tag on his collar: Roscoe.

I glanced around the park, but no one seemed to be in a panic, shouting his name until suddenly, I heard it.

“Roscoe! ROSCOE!”

I looked up just in time to see someone sprinting around the bend, chest heaving, eyes darting wildly until they landed on us. On me. Or, more accurately, on the dog I was now lowkey cuddling on the grass.

The man jogged over and dropped into a crouch beside us, clearly out of breath.

“Oh, thank God,” he gasped, reaching to ruffle Roscoe’s ears. “I turned away for five seconds and he just legged it sorry, so sorry if he jumped on you or anything.”

I blinked. “Wait... you’re Lewis Hamilton.”

He smiled, sheepish but still somehow radiant. “Yeah... and this little traitor is Roscoe.”

I laughed, brushing grass from my leggings. “Well, I’ve got to say, I’m grateful the cutest dog in the park also happens to have the cutest owner.”

His eyebrows shot up, and a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Really?”

I shrugged, pretending to be casual even as my cheeks burned. “I mean... it’s just an observation.”

Lewis rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down before meeting my eyes again. “Would you maybe want to get a coffee sometime? Or we could walk Roscoe together I’ll make sure he doesn’t bolt next time.”

My heart did a little somersault. “Yeah, I’d like that. As long as Roscoe gets cuddles.”

“He’s clearly made his choice already,” Lewis said, chuckling as Roscoe curled up next to me like he was home.

As we swapped numbers, I couldn’t help thinking that the universe worked in funny little ways. I came out for coffee and a quiet read and ended up meeting a world champion and his runaway dog.

It had been three days since the Great Roscoe Encounter, and to my surprise or maybe not, because he had seemed genuinely into it Lewis actually texted.

Lewis H: So... Roscoe says it’s time for that walk. You in?

I said yes. Obviously.

Now here I was, walking through Hyde Park, nerves buzzing as I spotted him standing under a tree with Roscoe beside him in a tiny jumper. A jumper. Honestly, I’d fall for the dog if I hadn’t already clocked the way Lewis smiled when he saw me approaching.

“You made it,” he said, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head. His smile was all warm and genuine and... okay, a little disarming.

“Would’ve been rude to leave Roscoe hanging,” I joked.

He grinned, then offered me one of the two takeaway cups he was holding. “Oat milk latte. I remembered.”

“You remembered?” I blinked, pleasantly surprised.

“Course. Not every day you meet someone who calls you the cutest in the park.”

I laughed, feeling the blush already creeping up my neck. “Still stand by it.”

We walked for a while, chatting about everything and nothing; food, travel, embarrassing stories. I told him about the time I tripped over my own shoelace in front of a street performer. He confessed he once called Beyoncé the wrong name mid-conversation because he panicked.

It was easy. Stupidly easy.

At one point, Roscoe sat down in the middle of the path and refused to move until Lewis picked him up. He cradled the dog like a baby, looking at me with this shy little smile.

“You’re ridiculous,” I laughed.

“I’m soft. What can I say?”

“Don’t let the internet hear you say that. They think you’re cool and mysterious.”

He shrugged. “Let them. I’d rather be soft with the right person.”

I looked away for a second because wow that landed right in the chest.

Later, we found a quiet bench, and he set Roscoe down between us like a chaperone. His knee brushed mine. Just lightly. But it stayed there.

“I’ve been on a lot of first dates,” Lewis said suddenly, fingers absently scratching behind Roscoe’s ear. “But this... I dunno, this feels like the first one I’ve wanted to slow down.”

I turned to face him. “That’s either really cheesy or really sweet.”

“Can’t it be both?” he asked, eyes hopeful.

I smiled. “I guess it can.”

He paused, a little breath catching in his throat. “Can I see you again? Like, properly. A date that doesn’t involve my dog being the main character?”

“You mean a second date ditching him?” I asked with fake shock

Lewis laughed. “We’ll play it by ear. But either way... I’d really like another chance to impress you.”

“You already did,” I said softly. “Turns out you’re even better than your dog.”

He looked at me like I’d just handed him a trophy.

And somehow, I had a feeling this was just the beginning.

[broken-spirit101]

twelfth, again? PM!Dazai X Reader : the first meet — series

A/N: yes. i'm back to writing. not back to my requests, but i promise we'll get there. someday. but this sudden 12:14 AM rush hit me and i had to write this down.

perhaps a continuation might follow? :3 warnings: dazai is being dazai. chuuya is being chuuya.

it was the twelfth time you dreamt of that early evening again.

that day, twilight had just set. blue tones of the sky were setting into a pale yellow, nearly orange near the horizon. like a sunscape painting.

it was quiet. you were in your muted white dress. the casual type. the type that subtly flows down.

not attracting attention, but existing within its own quiet swish when the wind blows.

distant shouting—

ripping your attention from the book you were reading. instinctively raising your head, you spot a flash of orange. just nearby.

"oi! shitty dazai, those mushrooms aren't gonna help you die."

"isn't it worth trying?" came from an amused tone.

"we've got work to do, you asshole—"

"and we've got two hours. calm down, chew-ya."

"and eight people to ki—" the voice dropped, all of a sudden. quiet again, replaced by the low chirp of crickets once more.

suspicious. ki—? kick? kiss? kill?

seemed to be the last one from the silence...

"aaand?" the voices walked ahead, their figures coming into view fully. two boys, seeming to be teens, around your age. one tall, dark brown hair, in a white shirt, and the shorter one, a ginger, in a dark green hoodie. a bandage covered the former's right eye.

successfully ruining the silent solitude of the park. the susurrus of leaves no longer audible.

"where even is that fancy-ass hotel we're supposed to go to?"

"hmm... perhaps in neverland?"

a kick was swung at the brunette's knee, almost hitting him, had he not stepped left last minute.

"you've gotta polish your attacks, chuuya-kun—"

a fist swung at the skull this time. successfully connecting.

"hey! that's against the rules!" the brunette shouted, massaging his head with his right hand. "a dog doesn't attack its own master!"

"oh? want me to test that again?"

"anyways, the hotel!"

the ginger almost seemed murderous. typical of someone with his hair color. "reply to me, mackerel—"

"there's nobody nearby who can help us with the directions..." the brunette—named dazai/asshole/mackerel, judging by the conversation—looked around, shielding his eyes with his hand on his forehead, despite the absence of sunlight.

but you were in plain sight.

"...may i help you?" you got up from the bench, setting aside your book for the time being.

"oh, my, a pretty girl—" the brunette named dazai/asshole/mackerel gasped. "may you help me by giving me your name?"

you looked at him, unimpressed. "[name]."

"such a pretty name," his mouth twisted into a half-smirk, half-smile.

"you'll make me gag, you fucker." chuuya.

he ignored him.

"well... may i have yours?" you asked dazai/asshole/mackerel/you fucker.

"why, it's dazai osamu."

"dazai. the hotel's the second building on the first turn by the main street."

"ooh, were you listening in to our conversation?" he gave a sly smile.

"i couldn't help not to with your loud voices."

"his," said the ginger, rolling his eyes. "his. voice."

"i think yours was louder, honestly," you responded.

dazai clicked his tongue. "that's chuuya. don't mind him. he doesn't know how to talk to pretty girls."

"i'm charmed, dazai, but i think i should—"

"is that crime and punishment you're reading?" his eyes drifted to the book on the bench you'd set aside, taking it in his hand. "that's quite advanced for your age, isn't it?"

"it's... for a school project," you lied.

"is that so? i suppose you're done with reading it. i'd love to borrow it!"

the ginger cringed. "what the actual he—"

"we'll get going, then!" he said before you could react, grabbing the ginger's wrist, starting to walk away.

"but when will you—" you tried to speak, but were cut off.

"soon!"

he didn't look back as he walked away.

you didn't know if you were ever getting it back.

he met you outside the school gates a week later.

"y'know, the annotations gave away your lie by the first page."

"thought so, but i never thought i'd see this book again," you mumbled, inspecting the book. it was partially soaked in orange juice.

that was not the last time you saw him, unlike what you thought.

you woke up again.

Next: entangled—how? PM!Dazai X Reader

[rubywithecat]

Tokyo revengers men reacting to your attitude

Ran Haitani

“Hey pretty girl” he yelled at u when u were minding ur own business and walking on street. “Can I have ur number” he asked. “What a womanizer he is to casually wanna flirt with me”u thought. “Sorry I don’t have phone” U said as u rolled ur eyes and tried to continue walking but he blocked u with his body to walk further. “Damn that attitude” he laughed and before u even knew, he already grabbed ur phone from ur pocket and dialed his number and made a call to his. “Easy huh? Remember this is my number, love” he said. U reached his hand to grab ur phone back and shout “Hey! Are u a pickpocket? It’s is illegal to steal my phone” His head bent down to ur height and gave u ur phone back. “Ur blocked, asshole” u said angrily and walked away. “Hard to handle huh? U won’t get away with that” he smirked.

Rindou Haitani

He was hanging out with his friend when he was suddenly slapped by u. His eyes widened as he was surprised and has absolutely no idea about it. Then u said to him intensely “This is for breaking my friend’s heart, asshole”. “What—? What the heck r u talking about, lady?” He asked, narrowing his eyes. “Oh well. Now u wanna play victim?” U stepped forward daringly. He was just staring at us in confusion when ur fri ran quickly to u and grabbed ur arm. “Y/n!! What r u doing?? It’s not him!” She yelled in worry. “I know u wanna defend him but he doesn’t deserve-“ before u could finish, ur fri quickly said “he’s not my ex!” It shocked u and u felt embarrassed and guilty for doing that to the innocent guy. U slowly look at him in guilt “Sir… I am sooo sorry. Plz forgive me!” U bowed and quickly about to leave. “Hey, miss” he called. “Do u think u can just leave like that?” he made u look up and smirked. “Such a pretty girl. It doesn’t suit ur rude attitude tho. I will decide what u have to do in order to get my forgiveness”

Chifuyu

U were walking with ur pet dog in the evening in ur neighborhood when u suddenly became thirsty so u went into the shop to buy some water and left ur dog outside the shop, tied it’s leash on someone bike. When u walk out, he saw a guy trying to unleash ur dog and ur dog bit him. He screamed aloud. U quickly rushed there and yelled at him. “Hey! R u trying to steal my precious dog?” He was being accused and just looking at u speechless. “R u out of ur mind, miss? Ur dog here bite him and u r accusing me?” He stood up. U backed a step. “That’s— U were trying to steal so he bite?” He let out a sigh in disbelief “this is my bike, miss. I need to ride this bike to get back to home” He explained impatiently. “Whatever… here’s the money if u have to go to clinic for the wound” u felt guilty saying that but u still wanna deny it was ur fault. He grabbed ur hand and gave u back ur money. “I don’t need this. It’s fine” he stepped into his bike. “Wait— Umm… I know it’s my fault…I’m sorry” u finally said despite ur ego. He smiled and nodded. “Can I get ur number?Ah— don’t think other way—I just wanna— ah—“ u felt so embarrassed asking him and he laughed softly. “It’s ok, I know right?” He took a note from his pocket and write numbers and gave u. “Here” he smirked and u just lowered ur hand, starring at ground cuz u felt so shy to even look at him now u can’t believe instantly fall in love with him.

Izana

U were drinking so much alone cuz of stress. He had his eyes on u just because he doesn’t want a girl who is alone to be assaulted by perverts, not in front of him. U paid the bills and stood up to walk but u were nearly to fall cuz of u drank more than ur limit and u could barely see the ground clearly. U felt someone grabbed ur arms and said smth but u couldn’t hear clearly. He then repeated in louder voice this time. “Miss, can u even walk??” He asked. U pushed him with ur strength. “I can walk by myself. I dont need any help from perverts so get lost” u said, thinking he’s just like those creepy guys from bars. U took another step and now he didn’t grab u, so u fell on ur knees. “Ouch it hurts” u mumbled. “That serves u right, miss high ego” he commented as he wrapped his arms. U were angry so u tried ur best to stood up again and grabbed his shirt collar. U could smell alcohol and smoke from him as well but u realized u were staring at his pretty icy eyes for long and blushed. U quickly let go of his collar out of embarrassment “I will let u go this one time cuz ur pretty boy” u said awkwardly, and u could hear him laugh about it. U walked again and this time he caught u when u were about to fall again. “I don’t know how the hell u think u can even walk to the exist with this condition” he sarcastically said. He sighed “Let me help u” and carried u “hey! What the hell u think u doing??” U yelled but he ignored and walked to his car and put u on seat belt. “So miss, where is ur home?” He asked as he started engine. “No— I can’t go home like this my parent gonna fcking kill me” u said, worried. He laughed softly “wait so u still living with ur parent?” He asked. “Yeah? Is there anything wrong with that?” U side-eyed him. “I’m just kidding. Don’t be mad” he replied in giving up gesture. U looked at him for a sec and laughed cuz he seems cute. “My mum probably gonna like u” u said and u could feel him getting excited. “Do u wanna join for dinner?” U invited him. His eyes lighted up. “Can I?” U smiled “ofc but only if u want to and don’t get any other idea!” U said, embarrassed.

—

Hey loves! I hope u like this as well <3

I’m writing a few random characters that are in my mind so there might be less chance to see ur desire character. That’s why if u have any character in ur mind u can comment down below or ask me in request <33

Thanks a lot!! Any kind of support are very much appreciated ><

—

[vinnieswife]

could you do gf reader giving pete the silent treatment after a fight ending is up to you

The Silent Treatment

Pete dunham x reader

word count: 1.4k

author’s note: omg yes, i feel like this would happen after pete got into a fight with guys from another firm after you told him not to. English is not my first language sorry if there are some errors. :)

You told Pete not to go looking for trouble. He promised he wouldn’t. “Scout’s honor,” he’d said, with that cheeky grin, the one he always uses when he’s trying to dodge an argument before it starts. But you know Pete. Promises like that mean nothing when there’s pride and reputation on the line, and with Pete, there’s always pride on the line.

So when you heard about the fight outside the pub last night, you weren’t surprised. Disappointed? Yes. Furious? Definitely. But surprised? Not in the slightest.

You didn’t see him get home, but when you woke up this morning, he was sprawled on the sofa, one eye already bruised and swollen, lip split, knuckles raw and red. He looked almost proud of himself, like a kid showing off a trophy.

You didn’t say a word.

“Morning,” he said, voice hoarse but upbeat, like nothing was wrong. “You alright?” Nothing. Not a glance, not a word. You walked past him, grabbed a cup of tea, and sat at the table without so much as looking his way.

He clocked it immediately. “Oi, what’s this then?” he called, half-laughing, half-confused. When you didn’t respond, he pushed himself up from the sofa with a groan and shuffled over to you. “What’s your problem?”

That did it. You slammed your mug down, spilling tea across the table. “My problem, Pete, is that I told you not to go out looking for a fight, and what do you do? You get into it with another firm! Do you know how stupid that was? How dangerous?”

Pete winced, more at your tone than your words. “They started it—”

“Oh, don’t give me that shit!” you snapped, cutting him off. “You’re not a bloody child, Pete! You don’t have to rise to everything, every time someone calls you out. You promised me!”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, like he was trying to figure out whether it was worth arguing back. But Pete being Pete, he couldn’t help himself. “What was I supposed to do, eh? Let them take the piss? Let them walk all over us?”

“Yes, Pete! You were supposed to let it go, for once!” you shouted. “But no, you had to go prove you’re the big man. And now look at you! Battered, bruised, and who knows what kind of heat you’ve brought down on yourself—on us!”

His jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms, but he didn’t say anything. That was the thing about Pete. He was quick to fight, quick to defend his pride, but when it came to you, he struggled.

“I’m done with this, Pete,” you said, standing up and brushing past him. “I’m done trying to talk sense into you when you don’t listen. You want to get yourself killed? Fine. But don’t expect me to stick around and watch.” Tears streamed down your face.

You didn’t slam the door on your way out. You didn’t have to. The silence you left behind was louder than anything you could have said.

Pete didn’t follow you. Not right away. But you know him. He will. He always does. Because as much as he loves the fight, as much as he loves the firm, there’s one thing Pete Dunham can’t stand, and that is losing you.

The streets outside were cold, the December air biting against your face as you walked aimlessly, trying to cool down. Pete’s face—his smug, infuriating, battered face—was burned into your mind. You couldn’t understand how someone could be so careless, so reckless with their life. With yours.

You headed toward the park, the one place where you could think clearly. The trees were bare, their branches tangled against the pale sky, and the paths were quiet save for the occasional jogger or dog walker. You sat down on a bench and ran your hands through your hair, trying to push the anger aside, but it wouldn’t go. Not completely.

You weren’t just angry; you were scared. Pete acted like he was untouchable, like he could take on the whole world if he had to. But he wasn’t untouchable, and you’d seen too many fights end with someone in a hospital bed—or worse. Pete might think he was invincible, but you knew better. And the thought of losing him…

No. You wouldn’t let your mind go there.

You heard footsteps before you saw him, heavy and deliberate. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. “Figured you’d be here,” Pete said, his voice quieter now. He didn’t sit down right away, just stood there awkwardly, hands stuffed in his pockets like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome. “You always come here when you’re hacked off.” You didn’t answer. He let out a heavy sigh, then finally sat down beside you. Not too close, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the tension in his body.

“Look,” he started, his voice low, “I know I messed up. I know I shouldn’t have gone looking for trouble. I just… I don’t know how to let it go, alright? When someone’s in my face, calling me out, calling us out… It’s like this switch flips, and I can’t stop myself.”

You turned to him then, meeting his gaze for the first time all day. His face was a mess—his swollen eye looked worse in the daylight, and there was a cut on his cheek he hadn’t even bothered to clean properly. But it wasn’t the injuries that got to you; it was the way he was looking at you, like he wanted to say something more but didn’t know how.

“You think that’s good enough, Pete?” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “An apology after yo did it? What happens next time? What happens when you’re not so lucky?”

He flinched at your words but didn’t look away. “I don’t know…,” he admitted. “But I don’t want to lose you. I mean it. If this is gonna be a problem—if I’m gonna keep screwing things up—tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix it.”

You shook your head, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. “I can’t tell you how to fix it, Pete. You’ve got to figure that out for yourself. But I can’t keep doing this—worrying every time you walk out the door, wondering if tonight’s the night something goes wrong. I can’t live like that.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working as he tried to find the right words. Finally, he said, “You’re right. I don’t know if I can change overnight, but… I’ll try. For you, I’ll try, I don’t wanna lose you.” It wasn’t much, but it was something. And coming from Pete, it was everything.

You nodded, not ready to forgive him completely but willing to give him a chance. “Alright. But if you ever pull something like this again, I’m done, and I mean it, Pete.”

He nodded, his expression serious. “I get it. No more fights. Scout’s honor.” This time, his grin didn’t annoy you. Not entirely.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Are my parents and I the assholes for insinuating that my aunt and uncle's dog should be put down?

I (21F) hate one of my aunt and uncle's current dogs. They rescue old racing dogs and have done for like 15 years now. Their first two dogs I loved. First one was a bitch in both senses of the word, but she was funny and well behaved when it was important. Second one was a true gentle giant and a lovely boy. The second pair they've adopted though are a nightmare.

Alice, the current bitch they have, has suffered some form of trauma in her past. There are three years missing from her medical history and she's got some scars, so we'll never know exactly what happened but something did. She's a very nervous dog. She can be a sweetie, and they were making progress with her until they got the new one. Alice, however, does what more dominant dogs around her do, which has become a problem.

Enter Blue. Blue is genuinely dangerous. Blue snaps with no previous warning and tries to kill things. My family all know about dogs, this isn't us misreading his body language, he is giving no warning then going for the throat. He's taken a particular dislike to mum (who is usually a bit of a dog whisperer) and has got her in the hand a few times. Blue also tries to kill any dog who doesn't share his breed. We were in a restaurant, sitting outside, Blue saw a Beagle and before any of us could do anything he'd pulled my uncle backwards off of his chair and dragged him towards this poor dog. My uncle is a big man, 6" and not thin, so you can imagine the strength it took for Blue to drag him like a doll (the Beagle and owner got away DW).

I've disliked Blue for a while, but what made me actually hate him was that, when my aunt and uncle came to see us just after our own elderly dog had passed, Blue walked into our sitting room and pissed on the carpet. He's house trained and has never done this before. I think he was doing it territorially because he could smell that our dog was dead. I've never wanted to kick an animal before, but I did then and had to excuse myself before I caused a scene.

Cut to yesterday. We were in the pub having a family meal. Blue is muzzled now in public after the last restaurant incident. There was a family sitting across the room from us with a very little girl, 3 or 4 years old I'd say. She was looking at Alice and trying to get her attention from across the room. As her mum got up to take her to the toilet, the girl pointed at our table and asked to see the dogs. Her mum asked us if it was okay. My aunt agreed. The little girl came over. Alice immediately hid under the table.

My aunt was like "ooh sorry, she's shy, why don't you say hello to Blue".

Blues head pops up. The mum sees he's wearing a muzzle and tries to pull her daughter away from him but the kid was too quick and went to pat him on the head. He was super chill with it, pressed into her palm like he wanted harder pets, then with no warning growl, no tensed up body language, nothing, just lunges for the kid.

Obviously she's terrified. The mum is terrified and pulls her away. My uncle grabs hold of Blue's leash and my aunt is ineffectually going "oh no blue bad boy" over and over. My parents jumped up to help the mum and the little girl. I grabbed Alice so she couldn't start copying Blue. We all got kicked out of the pub.

We were standing on the street outside when my parents and I started laying into my aunt about how irresponsible that was. She is like "he'll never become accustomed to humans if he's locked away". Dad shouted that he doesn't get to maul someone to learn that lesson. She scoffed and said he had the muzzle. I said it takes one piece of brittle plastic before he gets put down. My aunt told us all to fuck off and stormed off in the opposite direction. My uncle took Alice from me and followed her.

My aunt made a passive aggressive series of Facebook posts about how all dogs deserve care, and how everyone lashes out when exposed to trauma, then blocked mum (only Facebook user in our house).

I don't think we're the assholes, but I know I'm very biased, because I genuinely hate that dog and would be quite happy to hear it had moved on, whether that be to a different home or the afterlife, I'm not picky.

So awta?

What are these acronyms?

[nickyrothfan]

What if everyone got super powers?(part 10)

Nicky was walking to school... his head hurt, and he had barely slept because...

"She's just using you, you fool!" — Fleetway was still shouting in his head.

"Think about it... would she hurt you if she loved you?" — Dark wouldn't back down.

"Her goals are deeper than you realize... if you keep staying with her, the hole you're digging... will be too deep, and in the end, you'll be buried in it." — Shadow!Nicky tormented him.

"Enough! You guys have been nagging me with this all night!" — he shouted back at them, but to everyone else, it seemed like he was just shouting at the air.

Though there was another reason he hadn't slept... besides them and the tapes.

"That's the boy who..."

"Yeah, that's definitely him..."

"I can't let my daughter live on the same street and go to the same school as that psycho."

"They say he was friends with that Peterson guy..."

"Psychos get along with psychos... nothing surprising there."

"Hmph..." — he gritted his teeth, his thoughts far from pleasant.

"You know... landing a few punches on them wouldn't be such a bad idea..." — Dark provoked him.

Someone touched his shoulder... he turned around, tense and furious, and just great—it was her...

"Hey, Nicky!" — without waiting for a response, she pulled him into a hug.

"Hey, Trin..." — he blushed at the closeness but didn't resist.

"Heading to school?"

"Yeah..."

"Great! You know, we could go somewhere after class..."

"Good idea... but let's get through school first."

"I heard about yesterday... a wave of electric energy swept through the city. They say the government is sending investigators soon."

"Yeah... crazy... listen, Trin... can we talk about this later...?"

At School:

"... I'm gonna die..." — he looked at his schedule... First period with Finch, second with Delroy, third with Enzo and Ivan, fourth with the whole club, fifth with Enzo, and sixth with Trinity and Delroy.

"First, English... second, social studies, third, math, fourth, natural sciences, fifth, history, sixth, PE..."

"What a wonderful schedule," — he muttered.

Time to head to class, and again, people were whispering about him.

"I heard he threatened Finch yesterday..."

"Guess he's just like his ex-best friend..."

He ignored them, quickly entering the classroom and sitting at the nearest desk.

"Ugh..." — as if the lesson wasn't bad enough, now he had to endure the gossip again.

"Not my fault the letters keep running around the page..." — he thought. Reading had always been a struggle for him.

He kept feeling their stares...

"Ahem... if you have something to say, go ahead!" — he snapped, and everyone instinctively turned away.

"Annoying..." — Nicky buried his face in the textbook.

Finch just watched him... she didn't know what to think.

After Class:

Nicky hated every second of it... not only was it English, but literature as well. What was even the point of literature? It was basically history, just boring!

As soon as the bell rang, he shoved his books into his backpack and bolted out of the classroom.

Entering another room, he saw Delroy... looking downcast.

"The dog..." — he thought. He understood how much his rival cared, so he had spent a good part of last night working on something—even before watching the tapes.

"Delroy..." — he sat beside him.

"Hey, Rot..."

"Listen, I know we don't get along... but, ugh... I understand what it's like... to lose someone you care about... and..." — he opened his bag and pulled out... a robot? More like a model in the shape of a dog.

"I know it's... not alive. But... you know, when Aaron disappeared, the nameplate and googles he gave me kept me going, reminding me that, no matter what... he was still with me." — he turned away as he said it.

"Uh... thanks..." — Delroy took the robot... doll? Whatever it was... for a second, it felt like he was back when his dog was still alive.

"Dude..." — Nicky turned to the sound.

"That's... really thoughtful, you know... you're not such a weirdo... Okay, no, you are a weirdo, but a good one." — a small smile appeared on the backpack-wearer's face.

"Ah..." — Nicky looked flustered.

"You're a good guy... you know... I never thought I'd say this... but you're cool."

"... What?"

"... In short... let's start fresh?" — Delroy extended his hand.

Nicky stared at it for a few seconds... and thought... seriously? They were just at each other's throats recently... and now he was offering this? Well... he was definitely less annoying than before...

"Pfft... I don't mind, buddy." — a small smile appeared on his face as he shook the hand... of his former enemy.

"But that doesn't mean we're not rivals anymore..."

"I agree, competing with you is fun."

The lesson started—pretty normal... the history of the town, which actually interested Nicky. He always wanted to know more about the places he lived in, which made people in old towns think he was a nerd or a freak, but he didn't care.

Big Break:

"Alright, if my next class is with Enzo and Ivan... I'll sit with them!" — he smiled a little... those were his friends...

"Nicky! Hey!" — Ivan ran up to him.

"Hey, buddy... how's it going?"

"Well, I've recovered from... the beating. What about you? You look exhausted..."

"Uh... let's just say I was busy last night... and the voices in my head wouldn't let me sleep. And now I can't even sleep properly anymore..."

"Voices in your head?"

"I'll explain everything later... in fourth period."

"Alright... should I... um, tell Enzo?"

"... I'll do it myself..."

"Okay, just... don't overdo it... you're just starting to get better, I don't want you to—"

"I appreciate your concern... but I can handle it, we can handle it." — placing a hand on his surprised friend's shoulder, Nicky headed to class.

Math was probably one of his best subjects... not on Ivan and Trinity's level, but about the same as Enzo.

The lesson passed without surprises—a simple class... he kept talking with Enzo and Ivan, discussing the problems, and honestly, it reminded him of how things used to be before the incident.

The lesson ended pretty quickly... natural sciences.

"Okay... everyone here?" — Nicky looked around. Enzo, Ivan, and Trinity were all in the classroom, meaning the whole group was together.

"Mr. Murtaugh isn't coming... he's sick." — Ivan said. He had actually learned about it yesterday when he went to complain about the B+ he got.

"Alright... so, what do we do?"

"While you guys were in math, I sneaked behind the school... and yeah... Peterson's not in prison." — Trinity lowered her head.

"Seriously? Damn..." — Nicky started shaking. That... monster was free again? He struggled to breathe.

"Nicky. Calm down..." — seeing the warning signs—his heavy breathing—Trinity approached him.

"He'll come back... for me, I know it! He... he... he'll break into my house again, I know it!" — Nicky started rambling.

"Break into your house? What?"

"He... stole the phone book I took from him so I could call—"

Trinity placed a hand over his mouth.

"Calm down... it's okay, we're with you, I'm with you."

"... What the hell did Peterson do to him in that month...?" — Enzo shook his head.

"Nothing good, that's for sure..." — Ivan felt fear creeping in.

"Okay... we're still fine! We just need to come up with something... but what?" The girl put her hand to her chin in thought.

"We have to go against both Peterson and the cult at the same time? That's a bit much..." Ivan lowered his gaze.

"I've seen things on the tapes... I know things I wasn't supposed to know..."

"Tapes? What tapes?" Enzo became interested in his words.

"Trinity... do you remember the grave behind his house?"

"You... you dug it up?"

"Yes, I found a bag with broken tapes there. I sneaked into the Golden Apple Amusement Park, got some spare parts... and then, I fixed everything... There... there..."

"What was there?" Ivan both did and didn't want to know.

"Mya... she..."

"Who is Mya?" Trinity looked at the worried faces around her.

"Aaron, he... he..."

"Aaron? Who is that?" Trinity was already confused.

"Aaron... killed her." Nicky finally said, shocking everyone around him.

"Are you serious right now?" Enzo stepped closer to him.

"Yes... I saw the footage on the tape. Aaron pushed her off the roof... and... and..."

"Aaron? Mya? Who are these people?" Trinity helped the trembling boy sit down.

"Aaron... was Nicky's best friend, until he disappeared." Enzo began.

"And Mya... was his younger sister. Nicky used to talk to them a lot..." Ivan shook his head.

"Wait... two kids, they're—"

"Theodore's children." Nicky finally said, then sighed.

"I... I don't know why Aaron did it, whether it was an accident or not... but I'm sure I'll get answers from him. When I find him..."

"He's alive?"

"He was in the basement... I think—no, I'm sure—it was him who distracted Peterson when we were outside."

"So... your best friend killed his sister... and was locked in the basement by his father?" Trinity stepped back.

"Aaron... isn't my best friend. Not now, not after what he did to me in the basement... though I'm not sure."

"Wait, he hurt you?"

"I... we tried to escape together about twenty times, but after another failed attempt, he gave up. He wanted me to stay with him because he needed a friend."

"And I take it he stopped you by force?"

"A crowbar to the head would stop anyone." Nicky clutched his head for effect.

"He did what?! That bastard!" Trinity snapped. That was too much.

"So... now he's..." Enzo began.

"Who knows where." Ivan shook his head.

"If Peterson is free, then he's probably looking for Aaron..." Nicky said.

"And that 'Nicky' is with him..." Trinity shook her head.

"So what do we do?"

"For now, we lay low. No one should know about our... peculiarities. Considering yesterday's power surge that shut down all electronics in the entire center of the country... the government is definitely going to investigate."

"I heard that some company called Planeta-PRO wants to demolish the Golden Apple Amusement Park to build a new shopping center." Ivan said.

"They also collaborate with Fazbear Entertainment." Enzo added.

"Do you think... Crowface will make a move with everything that's going on?" Nicky asked.

"I don't know... but even so, people have started disappearing in the forest. Search teams have found bodies of mutilated animals there... some predator must have started hunting." Trinity said.

"So, we've got..."

"A psycho killer with 'Nicky,' who wants to find his son and probably get revenge on us; an unknown corporation that may have shady intentions, considering the company they collaborate with has a bad reputation; and someone—possibly or not possibly Crowface—tearing up animals in the woods." Trinity summed it up.

"I'm amazed this town still exists..." Nicky muttered.

"But still... who caused that power surge?" Ivan wondered, while Nicky just started sweating.

"Well... that was me..."

"What?! But why?!" Trinity stepped up to him.

"I was overwhelmed! I found out that my friend is dead because of my best friend, who turned out to be her brother... I already lost Lucy before this, then Diana, and now..." Nicky turned away, his eyes slowly filling with tears, anger at his own weakness rising alongside them.

"Nicky... it's not your fault that Aaro—"

"You don't get to say that!" Nicky cut him off. That dark aura surrounded him again, his eyes spiraling once more.

"What's happening to him?" Enzo pressed against the wall, scared.

"Nicky... calm down... he's just trying to comfort you..." Trinity placed a hand on his shoulder.

"A... Agh..." He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to calm himself... the aura slowly faded, and his eyes returned to normal.

"I... I'm sorry... Sorry, Enzo." He shook his head. He'd definitely become more aggressive lately...

"Ugh... I'd say we should lay low for now. I don't think going against Crowface right now is a good idea." Ivan said.

"But they literally blew up Trinity's house recently... that's already a threat." Enzo was a little scared.

"So, who are the suspects? I'm kinda out of the loop..." Nicky asked.

"Abanante, Cornwell, the Mayor, the Taxidermist, and possibly Murtaugh..." Trinity answered.

"It's definitely Murtaugh. Only a villain could give me a B+." Ivan muttered angrily.

"Ivan, that's not a reason..." Nicky shook his head.

"I think it's Cornwell. He stole those coins, after all." Enzo suggested.

"Abanante is a likely option... Although..." Trinity thought back... her second day in this town...

"What?"

"It has to be her! I remember now! On my second day here, she came out of a stall in the restroom with some bags, and a crow's feather fell from her."

"...Maybe that's why Peterson wanted to blow her up... he's against them." Nicky stared at the floor.

"So what now? Even if we know it's her... we have no proof. And besides, what would Cornwell want with those coins?" Enzo pointed out.

"The book has dozens of suspects..."

"What if... Crowface isn't one of them?" Nicky proposed.

"What? How does that even—"

"Think about it! He can teleport, create smoke around himself, control crows... and apparently the wind, if not the weather itself." Nicky recalled all their encounters with the feathered menace.

"And?"

"I think Crowface is a demon. No ordinary person could do that... he has to be either a demon from hell, an alien, or some other kind of supernatural being." Nicky waved his hands dramatically, adding to the eerie atmosphere.

"Nicky... we know you believe in aliens... but still..." Ivan tried to talk him down.

"No. I know he's not just a human."

"Maybe he got a stone too, like us..." Enzo suggested.

"Or maybe these stones didn't come to us by accident. Maybe we were chosen." Trinity said.

"But why us? We're just kids!" Ivan started to panic a little.

"Maybe because we exposed Peterson?"

"...Ugh... I don't know... but I think—no, I know—that we're getting involved in something way bigger than we realized..." Trinity looked out the window.

[lindyloosims]

Non Sims Issue:

This is something that has bothered me for a few years and it's really taking a toll on my mental health!

So...(warning, very long rant under the cut)

Question: Am I an asshole?

I live in a semi-detached bungalow with my own private garden. I used to live in a block of four flats (they used to be one big house) and we shared a communal garden area (with a washing line) and we each had our own private garden too, a small square surrounded by hedge. This will become relevant later. The house attached to where I live now has a little boy living there and here is where my story begins.

When I first moved in, said boy would have been around 5 years old. I didn't really get out into the garden much as at the time I was nursing my terminally ill mother and was in her room with her practically 24/7. After she died, the pandemic hit the following year and I was in limbo mode wandering around like a zombie, I was grieving. During the pandemic, a huge trampoline was put up right against the wall that divides our properties, and directly outside my bedroom window. At first it didn't bother me, but this was the year that I was writing my book and I was lying on top of my bed with the sun shining in on a lovely warm summer day typing on my laptop, when I am aware of a little head bobbing up and down outside, in the trampoline, waving and saying hello. I thought, oh well he's a kid, nevermind, but then I was doing the same thing another summer's day when I heard a scream and thought someone may have hurt themselves, so I move my head over to look out the window and I'm met with his mother's eyes as she's jumping on the trampoline with him (so she knows exactly what is what, she knows that is my bedroom). Now, after that I have kept my curtains permanently closed and I have my light on permanently too as they are blackout curtains. So you could say it's a tad inconvenient, have I said anything? No, because I have had my fair share of neighbourly disputes and I have decided to live and let live, even though they have no regard for my privacy.

Fast forward to last year when I got Bonnie, she is 14 weeks old and completely untrained (toilet and everything) so I'm trying to acclimatise her into living in a house as she had lived in a kennel all of her life beforehand. The little boy is in his trampoline, his mother opens the upstairs window to shout something down to him, notices puppy Bonnie and yells "OH HAVE YOU GOT A NEW DOG???" and I feel it's only polite to engage in discourse with her, tell her all about the puppy and her name etc. So that's fine, right? Well a couple of days later she steps on something in her garden that allows her to look over the 6ft+ wall and declares "Can we meet Bonnie, sometime in the week as we have a gift for her and (little boy) would love to pet her?" So I say why not, no harm in that. Except every day after that he's constantly interrogating me from his trampoline "When can I meet Bonnie? When can I meet Bonnie?" until one day I give up and tell him to meet me in the front street as I'm taking her for a walk. So he and his mother come out and meet her, present her with a gift, I say thank you that is very kind and we go our separate ways. Every time I take Bonnie out into the garden (bearing in mind she is not fully toilet trained and is still having the odd accident in the house) he's on his trampoline yelling "HI BONNIE!" so there's no chance of her paying any attention to me or my training, she's too busy (at 3 months old) trying to scale a 6ft+ wall to get to the little boy. This happened regularly and it has caused a lasting impact on how she behaves as an adolescent dog. He even would tell his friends "That's Bonnie!" and every time I was outside walking her, he and his mother would introduce her to their friends, it was like she was something to share and not my pet. But still I kept my mouth shut, trying to keep the peace. I met little boy and a friend outside his house one day and he was petting Bonnie, then he yelled "Ow, she bit me!" with no mark on his finger, no blood, so that was when I decided to avoid him and never allow Bonnie within 5ft of him. Puppies nip, and that was all she did, she did not bite!!! She has NEVER bitten ANYONE!!!

So now little boy is 10 years old, he has a blond friend who comes over on a regular basis and little boy now has the biggest goal post you've ever seen to go along with the biggest trampoline. He and his friend play football and scream a lot, which kids do and I accept that. I must mention also that at the bottom of the garden there is a grandchild of the residents who plays football down there, there are two children on the right hand side (little boy is on my left) who play football also. Now the reason I am telling you this is because I rarely get footballs coming over the wall from either of them, when I do the boy next door on the right comes to the door, apologises and asks for his ball back, I get a huge thank you over the wall when I send it back too. Little boy and blond friend, despite having the hugest goal post known to man, kick over not one...not two...not three...but FOUR FUCKING BALLS in succession into my garden every time they're out there! They also jump around on the trampoline and throw balls around which land over on my side and sometimes hit my bedroom window. One day I opened my back door to screaming "EXCUSE ME-EXCUSE ME!!!" now I have social anxiety, so I shut the door and hid in my kitchen for a moment as it frightened me. You do not expect that in a private garden! So I composed myself, opened the door and noticed a ball, so I threw it over at them, not even a thank you! Three more balls came over that day!

Fast forward to today, I hear them outside playing and I anticipate going outside later to put out my bin and find at least four balls out there as usual. But I hear a bang on my window, so with pure adrenaline and rage, I march outside and say "Excuse me, that hit my window!" to which little boy says sorry. I tell them I am going to get shoes and they can have the ball back, so as I throw it over I say "Please be more careful!" and go inside, no thank you AGAIN! No sorry from the little blond shit that my dad is convinced is a bad influence and is throwing the balls over on purpose. When they are on the trampoline they can see right over into my garden and into my kitchen, so my blind is now permanently down like my bedroom curtains. Here's a photo of the layout for reference from said kitchen window, please excuse my iPad in the photo and the kitchen blind, I had to sneak as they are outside right now! I've marked where the trampoline is and where my bedroom is, also little stars to indicate where their heads usually are...STARING AT ME!!!

I have to say, I had more privacy living in a communal building than I do in my own private home, hence the reason I explained my previous living situation! It's really upsetting me and I dread stepping into my own garden!

So if you had the strength and the patience to read all that, I just want to know, am I an unreasonable asshole? Or are my feelings valid?

[pierrotguru]

Prompt: Do Your Worst

Summary: Then, Dabi felt an arm lock around his throat.

Behind him. Hawks was behind him.

---

It was the night before Halloween and there jack o'lanterns and glowing skeletons everywhere.

Currently, Hawks was glaring at him from his prone position while making muffled growling sounds in his throat. In a sense, he was a bit like a dog rather than his namesake bird.

"Do your worst," Hawks growled.

Dabi laughed. Oh, he would.

Hawks was fast, but tonight Dabi was simply faster. Which was the concise story of how he had chained the winged pro hero to the bed.

"I will," Dabi promised.

"What are you going to do, Dabi? Get kinky?"

Dabi smirked. Well, that was an idea. But, he had already decided not to play tonight. He was all about business.

"Actually, I think that I'm going to take a walk. Maybe clear my head. Don't go anywhere," he teased.

He could just imagine how the hero felt right now.

Dabi already knew that Hawks wouldn't beg. Hawks wouldn't and couldn't humiliate himself. Hero training ran deep. As deep as his father's prejudices.

So, Dabi was going to leave Hawks and for how long he didn't know. He already knew that he was going to come back. However, what was he going to do with a properly pissed off pro hero?

Oh, yes it would be a rotten Halloween for Hawks. But, at least had gotten into the role of antagonist, and Hawks was the bound victim. It was a bit like a Halloween movie.

But, Dabi was just screwing around him with him. It was nothing major. Of course, Hawks couldn't know that.

He might even come back tomorrow night. And, Dabi was sure that Hawks would still be in one piece. He was a tough little bastard. Dabi liked that about him.

He already knew that Hawks loved attention. All heroes did. But wouldn't be getting much attention tonight. And, Hawks also loved chocolate, but he might have to miss it this year. Halloween or not.

Dabi continued to walk under the rays of the full moon a bunch of kids ran past him. It was full-on mayhem.

As Dabi wandered the streets, he collected himself some chocolate bars. He got one for himself and even some for Hawks.

He looked down at his watch. 2:52 A.M. Minutes had turned into hours...

Dabi decided that it was time to go home. It was late enough. He supposed that Hawks had suffered enough.

But, one could imagine his surprise, when he entered the bedroom and found the bed empty.

Dabi stared in confusion. Where was Dabi? Where the hell had he gone?

Then, he felt an arm lock around his throat.

Behind him. Hawks was behind him.

"I'm back," Dabi stated uselessly.

"I see, "Hawks replied darkly.

"I brought you chocolate," Dabi said.

Then, Hawks lost it.

"I don't care, damn it!" Hawks shouted.

His arm tightened around Dabi's throat.

"I thought you liked it," Dabi grumbled.

Dabi could tell that Hawks was absolutely livid.

"So, what are you going to kill me?" Dabi asked idly.

"Get on the bed," Hawks commanded.

He abruptly let go of Dabi so that he could follow his order.

"So assertive," Dabi purred.

Dabi supposed that he had to obey. He could burn Hawks away if he desired, but he didn't feel like it.

And so, the villain allowed the hero to chain him to the bed. Even though he didn't have to. Fair was fair, right?

"Not so tight," Dabi pleaded.

Hawks glared at him. "Shut up."

Dabi groaned in stifled anger as he watched Hawks walk around the room.

"Now, I want to have a look at stars before the sun comes up," Hawks said. "Don't go anywhere."

And, true to his word, Hawks left. It didn't take him long.

But, sadly, Dabi wasn't so lucky and couldn't break his bonds. Now, it was Halloween morning and sunlight was streaming into the bedroom. Dabi cursed himself for his incompetence.

Then, he heard a key turn in the lock.

Dabi froze and stiffened. Who had the key? Hawks didn't. Someone had it, and Dabi didn't know who?

Himiko then walked into the room. Well, the League of Villians had discovered him at least.

When saw saw him chained to the bed, her eyes widened.

"Dabi? What's happened?"

"Don't ask," Dabi sighed.

Himiko released him without much trouble.

Then, she noticed the candy bars that had fallen on the floor.

"Ooh, chocolate. May I have one?"

"Go ahead. I'm not much of a sugar fan."

Happily, she unwrapped one with Dabi's mind elsewhere.

Oh, yes. Dabi was going to make Hawks pay for this at some point in the future.

Somehow.

[mybeautifulwifegojo]

huehuehue chp 23 snippet of Choso being badass <3

~

Choso only hesitated in killing the Zenin man because he felt Yuji die, and then come to life again, which was so baffling that he paused and turned away, shocked. Since the man was currently struggling in the grip of Crimson Binding, this seemed safe enough.

“What the hell?” Choso murmured, frowning.

“Hey!” the Zenin man shouted, his charming mask long since dissolved, “How dare you look away from me when I’m talking to you!”

It seemed Zenin was only frightened of Yuji. How appropriate, Choso thought bitterly, that his little brother would be so powerful as to frighten grown men at his young age. Truly, they shared a father.

As much horror and pain as that fucker had caused… Choso was glad that Yuji was here.

“HEY!”

“Shut up,” Choso snapped, twitching his fingers, and the loops of blood around Zenin’s legs constricted sharply, pulverizing bone. Zenin screwed up his face and bit his own lip so hard he bled, just to hold in a scream of pain. “We’re done here. Don’t come near my brother. Don’t touch his friends or family.” Choso walked closer and bent down to grab this spoiled brat’s chin, forcing him to meet Choso’s eyes. Seven Sentinels and two Guides spoke through Choso’s single mouth, nine older brothers who lived only for each other and their half-sibling: “Or we will put you down in the street like a dog.”

Zenin’s eyes widened, as he seemed to finally realize that his opponent, though less experienced, was several hundred magnitudes stronger than him. It didn’t matter his technique, not really. Once Choso’s blood touched him, the match was decided.

Choso didn’t like the fear on Zenin’s face. It looked too much like the fear on the faces of those people trapped in the train station.

So he sighed, and let go, and undid the Binding, drawing his blood back into himself. “I won’t bother asking if you understand,” he said. “I suspect you have no idea what it’s like, to love someone, but you probably understand fear. That’ll suffice. Good bye, Zenin.”

[innytoes]

25 and Willex (bonus points if the child/dog/friend is Reggie?) (If you're still taking prompts for this 😁)

Every year for Halloween, Willie went back to the group home where he'd stayed to volunteer to take the kids trick or treating. Not only was it a way of giving back - of assuaging the guilt he sometimes felt, wondering why Caleb had picked a chaotic, messy fourteen year old over any of the sweeter, smaller kids - but it was amazing fun too.

He got to dress up, run around with a bunch of kids, and also maybe keep a list of houses to come back and egg later, if they were weird or stuck up about 'those group home kids begging for candy'.

Besides, being 18 at the Hollywood Ghost Club on Halloween sucked. It wasn't even like he could use his fake ID, the bartenders all knew him. And Caleb was super strict about stuff like that during business hours. So he helped out at the group home, and then went to the staff party at the Club the day after, when they were closed and nobody cared too much about whether or not a certain son of the owner swiped a Bloodtini. Or skated off the railing. Or tried to dunk the green grilled cheeses in the chocolate fountain.

And okay, so maybe this year his costume was a little obscure, but he'd procrastinated getting anything, so he ended up raiding Caleb's old costumes from his 'I did other stuff on Broadway too you know' closet, and some of his own, and a trip to the dollar store, and he was pretty pleased with himself.

Except clearly someone recognised him.

"OH MY GOD, ZEKE ZILLIONS SPACE COWBOY?" someone across the street screamed, before dragging someone by the arm over to them.

"See, I told you he was a real character," Willie told the four nine year olds he was chaperoning. They rolled their eyes at him.

"Oh my god oh my god," A boy about his age said. He was dressed up as a zombie, though for some reason he was also carrying a wok. His friend was also a zombie, but had on a long pink wig, giant fake pearls, and a pink dress. He had great legs. "Zeke Zillions Space Cowboy was my absolute favourite cartoon as a kid. Can I please get a picture? Pretty please?"

"Sure can, Pard'ner," he said in his best Zeke Zillions impression, and the guy straight up went 'EEEEeee' like he was an early twothousands internet fangirl. After his friend took a bunch of pictures, he thanked the kids for their patience.

"By the way, number 42 is handing out full-sized candy bars," ZomBarbie said.

Throughout the night, every time they crossed paths (ZomBarbie and the Wokking Dead were accompanied by a witch, Kurt Cobain, and a tiny ghost buster), they'd wave at each other, as his fan shouted out a 'HI ZEKE!'. Eventually they ended up at the same house, waiting for the kids to get back.

"Sorry about Reggie," ZomBarbie said. "He's um, kind of a fanboy for that show. Like, writes-fanfiction-and-goes-to-obscure-fan-meet-ups kind of fan. I think you just made his year."

"That's okay, I'm glad someone remembers good old Zeke," Willie said. He was definitely going sleuthing on AO3 later. He wondered what the ships were. "The show meant a lot to me as a kid, what with the obvious queer-coding." Hopefully, a cute boy in a dress would understand that.

"Yeah," ZomBarbie said. "My parents didn't allow me to watch it. Too worried I'd turn out 'fruity'." He motioned to himself. "Clearly they succeeded," he said sarcastically.

"You do really pull off that dress, though," Willie said, waggling his eyebrows. His zombie friend went adorably flustered, from what he could tell under the zombie makeup.

Before he could flirt any more, the kids came back, complaining about how this house was handing out toothbrushes and toothpaste. "Can you put them on the list, Willie?" one of them, the girl dressed as Coraline, asked.

"Handing out toothbrushes is kind of dorky, but not an egg-able offense," Willie told her. "We reserve that for bigots and assholes."

"You have a list?" ZomBarbie asked, as they walked to the next house. His kids and the little Ghost Buster were comparing notes, it seemed, pointing at different houses.

"Yeah, lot of people in this fancy-pants neighbourhood don't take kindly to poor foster kids showing up," Willie said darkly.

"Carlos said something about that white house with the American Flag outside complaining about him going back to his own neighbourhood," the witch said darkly. "We live two blocks from here."

Willie glared, and made a note of it. "You wanna join me?" he asked, mostly to ZomBarbie, but quickly looking away at the rest of the group.

"My tía would kill me," the witch said, before smiling slyly. "But I'm sure Alex wouldn't mind going."

ZomBarbie spluttered a little, but managed to squeak out a little 'okay!'

Jackpot.

Behind him, he heard the guy's friend sigh happily. "And once again, Zeke Zillions saves the day, dispenses justice to evil doers, and captures hearts."

[expired-applejuice]

I don't think I ever posted this, I've had it writte for Like ever but never touched it again. It's the second part to this so.... if I ever feel like it (get motivated) and someone request for so I may do part three but if not eh. I'm actually working on a different story inspired by another headcanon I had so first I'll finish that. (If I continue)

Part Two of I Will Lead You Into the Dark

Enjolras stood up, about to start the meeting when Courfeyrac came over, with a man close behind him.

"Enjolras, this is Marius," He introduced.

"Welcome, Marius. I've heard a lot about you. I'm sorry about your father."

"Thank you for having me. I've heard about everyone here too. A bit too much I'm afraid. Um, which one ripped their pants on a chair," Marius asked, causing Enjolras to let out a laugh.

"Courfeyrac, that was supposed to say between us!" Bossuet shouted from where he sat. Joly almost spat out his drink.

"That would be Bossuet over there. You can have a seat anywhere you like. If you happen to have any ideas, tell Combeferre. He writes all suggestions down, and we go over them," Enjolras had his hand on Marius's shoulder, before patting it and heading over to the main table where Combeferre was standing on a chair.

Enjolras looked up at him, "Why in the world are you up there?"

"There was a spider," he stated. Enjolras quickly jumped up, making Combeferre laugh.

"No, I was playing. I'm counting. Who was the guy you were talking to?

"That friend of Courfeyrac's, Marius." Enjolras sat, passing a glance at Grantaire, who chuckled while looking down. Enjolras allowed his brain to wonder what the man was laughing about.

"The Bonapartist?"

"Yep, that one. He seems alright at the moment."

"Don't let your guard down."

"Combeferre, behave now. How many this time?"

"Well I almost had them counted then you come over and started running your mouth," Combeferre laughed.

"You do know I can pull that chair out from under you, right?" The two stared at each other for a moment. They dared the other to make a move.

Enjolras laughed, "Alright, I'll leave you be. We don't need broken bones here yet."

The rest of the meeting flew by. Enjolras talked about ways to get the word out about their revolution. Then while there was a debate, he sat down with Marius and got to know him. He was pretty shaken up. Combeferre did not behave and ran his mouth. Marius did want to help, so that was one upside to it.

He talked a great deal about his father. He mention his grandfather once, maybe twice, but he would quickly move on. He mentions a cousin and an aunt of some sort. The guy had passion. That was just what Enjolras needs. People with a passion. Something a certain someone did not have.

After many have left, Enjolras stayed behind. He looked over papers, but then started reading. He measured time by his candle and would watch someone walk by every once in a while. When he had enough, he joined Musichetta and Bossuet in cleaning.

He said goodbye and walked outside, across the street he saw him again. Grantaire had his head tilted back as he gulped down his drink. He threw it in a bin before stumbling on a path. Enjolras wondered if it would be creepy to follow him. He decided it wouldn't, he would just say he was making sure that the man made it home safely.

Grantaire tripped over a stray dog, making him stop in his tracks and look back at the dog. Enjolras hid slightly, as the drunk man crouched down and petted the dog.

He heard a sigh, "I know you're there. Come out."

Enjolras obeyed walking towards him. He was met with annoyed eyes that did not let up when Enjolras began to speak, "I'm sorry, I saw you stumbled on your way back, I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm used to this. You don't know me. Leave me alone and don't pretend that you care. Go home Enjolras," Grantaire snarled making Enjolras flinch. He didn't like his name coming from the drunken man's lips. He likes the name Apollo more.

"I'm just trying to be nice. After all my attempts to be kind, you're still a jerk!"

"I'm the jerk? You don't know your own followers' names. You speak out about indifference just to put it off. You believe in something so impossible, I dare say you're stupid. Those poor people will die by your hands!"

"Why can't you see that I'm trying to help people? These people know what they are getting into, and so do I. I know very well that I could die, I could be shot while getting the word out. Did that ever cross your mind? I'm not trying to be above them, I am one of them. Just because I don't know their names, doesn't mean they don't mean any less than those who I do know the names of."

"You talked about yourself, that shows me more than you know. If they mean that much to you, why don't you ask them who they are? Why they are there? Tell me!"

"That's the thing they are willing to talk to me, and if I had all the time in the world, I would listen to every word they say."

"Then why waste time on me? Spend it on them."

"Is so hard to believe, that I care about them? Hell, I care about you."

"No, you don't. "

"Yes I do, why else would I be worried about you getting home safely?!"

"You care about yourself, and how I think about you. You think I'm mocking you, in which you're not wrong. You want me to like you, and follow you into the dark blindly as those poor people do. Newsflash, I won't," Grantaire was now in Enjolras's face, staring angrily at him.

Enjolras heard his heartbeat quicken, "I just wanted to understand you."

Grantaire backed away, though the tense feeling around the two never left. Enjolras still felt like he was in danger, but at the same time, he felt that Grantaire wouldn't hurt him.

"I think I shouldn't return to your meetings for a while. And when Bahorel asks about me, you can tell you you kept running your mouth. Don't follow me ever again, and don't ever think about telling me lies again. Good night Apollo," He nodded at Enjolras, signaling he was leaving.

Enjolras sighed, "Good night. I'm truly sorry." Enjolras felt at a loss for words. A feeling he hated. The more the two clashed heads, the more Enjolras wanted to understand him. If he believed all the stuff he said about Enjolras was true, then why promise to return? Though the thought of seeing him again, made him feel better, not to mention the flutter in his chest at the nickname. He watched him leave, feeling down again.

"I said listen not argue," Bossuet said behind him, making him jump.

"Jesus, cough next time. I almost punched you," Enjolras laughed, forcing down the feeling Grantaire caused him to have.

"Sorry mate, anyway, I came to run your paper back. You left it there. Well, I got to head back before Musichetta and Joly leave me again." Bossuet handed him a folded paper and ran off.

Enjolras moved to the street light and looked to see what paper he forgot. Usually, they all were gathered and put neatly in his bag. He unfolded it to see a very good drawing of the meeting they just had. The beautiful piece of art was showing the perspective of the creator. It was a window to the persons eyes. Enjolras looked over everyone in it. They all wore black, and other dark colors.

He noticed Combeferre, who sat and wrote down what a neighboring volunteer was proposing. Courfeyrac was smiling ear to ear next to Prouvaire, who was laughing. Bossuet had ice pressed against his head by Musichetta, while Joly held his hand. Feuilly, who was close to the artist apparently, was taken a drink, while Bahorel, who was barely in frame, was arm wrestling with another volunteer. Marius who sat down beside Enjolras was looking down at a book.

Enjolras looked at himself, he was the only one not is gloomy clothing. He was in white, and light shades of gray. He noticed that he was the most detailed, though he was sitting down. Enjolras looked at the amazing creation, noticing that Grantaire's name was written beautifully at the bottom. His fingers went over the name. He didn't understand why he did it, but he did.

Enjolras sighed and walked to Bahorel's flat. When he knocked ge was greeted by Bahorel, "Enjolras? Is everything alright? Need to come in?"

A smile form across his face at his worried friend, "No, I'm just here to," he froze. Enjolras couldn't decide whether he should give the drawing to Grantaire himself, or let Bahorel do it for him. "Grantaire left this drawing, so I thought you could return it."

"Oh I would, but I'm busy right now. Why don't you do it?"

"If you can't tell, he doesn't like me. Just do it another time, here take it."

"He doesn't hate you. I can tell when he hates people, trust me. I'll get you his address," Bahorel went to go get a paper to write it down for him.

"I'll find someone else to do it."

"And get him robbed? Just take it to him."

"Bahorel this isn't a good idea. We argue. He already said he was taking a break from the meetings because of me."

"La personne même avec qui vous vous disputez vous montre plus d'amour qu'à ceux qui sont d'accord avec vous."

"That made no sense," though at the word love made Enjolras's face flushed.

"Whatever. Just take it to his flat, say I sent you. Here I'll sign this paper just in case he gets to mad." Enjolras didn't understand what was his friends obsession with him speaking to the drunk. It always ends horribly.

Enjolras stood there at his door. He had rehearsed what was was to say, countless time now. Part of him wanted him to throw it away and run, but he didn't. He finally know, which wasn't exactly a conscious decision. He waited for what seem like minutes, listening to foot steps come closer. He closed his eyes, concentrating on not retreating away. He was Enjolras, he doesn't retreat. Though now he wishes he would do just that.

Grantaire opened the door to see Enjolras once more. He sighed, "Yes?" His voice was rough and sharp. Enjolras loved it dearly.

"You for got this at the Cafe. I'm sorry, I tried to get Bahorel to return it. He refused to do so," Enjolras heard his voice shake.

The latter unfolded the paper seeing the drawing. He scaned it before looked back at Enjolras. He eyes were glue to the ground, with guilt. He had a small blush, that could have been caused by the cold air. Grantaire wet his lips and swallowed before speaking, "Thank you."

"It was nothing. I'll let you be now."

"Apollo, I wanted to apologize. I was out of line tonight. Can we agree that we don't know each other well enough to make assumptions?" Grantaire said before Enjolras could ever turn to walk away.

"Yeah, that would be best. I should apologize too. I shouldn't have called you a jerk."

R laughed looking down than back up. It was a sound Enjolras never knew he needed. R shifted his weight to his other leg, "You were being honest. How about this, I don't cause any arguments again, as long as you-"

"We both caused them. I shouldn't have intrude in your life," Enjolras mentioned.

"Truse?"

"Truse. So I hope to see you there at the next meeting. I won't try to bug you, I promise."

"I will be there. I promise not to be a cynic."

They fell in a conformable silence before Enjolras forced himself to say goodbye, "I better get home. Good bye Captial R."

Another gorgeous laugh from the man, "Good night Apollo."

The door didn't immediately close either, a small part of Enjolras was hoping that Grantaire was looking out for him. He hoped he was makeing sure he made it safely til the point he was out of sight.

[exclusivecolette]

LOVE AGAINST ALL ODDS

PT.1

(Sorry if the title doesn’t really match the story. I struggled figuring one out. first story so please bare with me.)

(if you aren’t blonde or don’t apply to the features, you can just put your own features in. i just put my features because i didn’t really know what else.)

summary: a girl starts to fall in love with a boy in class. But, her abusive parents are extremely strict (ignoring the fact she’s even old enough to drive.) And what is she gonna do when she realizes, he isn’t just some crush.

TW in the chapter: abusive parents, family drama, cussing

“i’m so sick of this shit” i yell turning around walking into the door frame. “language!” satan yelled following after me. I turn around making eye contact with her. “mom im not a kid anymore” i say going to shut the door. “im not treated you like one by saying you can’t date.” my mom yelled back.

“how old am i?” i ask looking her straight in the face as she looked back with confusion. “16! you can’t tell me who i can and cannot date. you saw me hugging one boy. great now i’m pregnant!” i roll my eyes shutting the door. “i’m telling your father!” fuck. “i don’t care” i shouted back sitting on my bed. fuck.

-

I heard the front door shut. About 5 minutes passed before i heard footsteps toward my door. I had my tv on. “turn that off” my dad said clenching his jaw. I obliged almost shaking in fear. “when your mom tells you something, you listen you understand me?” he got closer until he was in front of my bed.

“dad she said-“ a sharp pain spread across the side of my face. My hand reached up to my cheek then was quickly jerked away. “do not talk back to me. you nod and listen that’s it.” he yelled still holding a tight grip on my wrist. I nod as a tear went down my face. He let go and before walking out said “and clean up your room” there’s a single shirt on the floor.

-

I woke up feeling like shit. I stumble over to the bathroom, use it. I sit at my vanity. great. There was a bruise almost shaped like a hand on my cheek. A bruise concealer couldn’t cover. And the mark around my wrist. Small towns usually seem to keep quiet.

-

Fourth period is so fucking borin- “if you could be any animal what would it be?” a brunette asked next to me. god. “i don’t know matt” i put my face in my hands. “i would be a dog preferably a-“ he paused. I looked up confused on the silence. “what happened to your wrist?” he asked sitting up from his lounging position.

I quickly put my hand over it. Nosy bitch. “nothing mind your business” i say looking away. He just silently sat back. i’m such dick.“i-id be shark.” i sigh looking at him. He just nodded, he looked kinda bummed out. did i make him upset? “why do you have an owl tattoo?” i ask turning my body more to face him. “i just wanted it” he said.

“i like owls, they’re so pretty.” i say turning completely towards him. I saw his eye twitch and he cleared his throat. he’s looking at my cheek. I undo the piece of hair tucked behind my ear. “you have a lot of tattoos. we’re only in highschool” i let out a small laugh and turn back in my seat so he couldn’t see it.

“i like them” he shrugged. “i like them too” i shrug and turn back in my seat.

-

I had just put my bag on my shoulder when someone bumped into me while running down the hallway with their friends. I fell towards someone. “you alright?” i look up to the boy id talk to earlier. “god.” i scoff looking back to the people that shoved me. Matt let out a chuckle.

“fucking prick” i mumble and realize matt’s hands were still on me. “sorry” i say taking a step back and he took his hands off me. his hands were soft. “hey are you going to the game tonight?” he asked. “the hockey game?” i ask. yes the only fucking game tonight. why am i so stupid? “yeah” he insured.

“yeah i go to all of them” i say shrugging. “yeah i remember seeing you at our last one. When we won you looked like you hadn’t gotten in trouble for something.” he smiled “oh you play?” i asked “um yeah you didn’t know?” he asked confused . “no i go because i um have to, my brother plays. Charlie. i just read” i look away in embarrassment.

“yeah i remember seeing you holding one” he laughed. “well i’ll see you tonight” i smile. “if you look up from your book” god am i blushing? i feel like i’m blushing. fuck. “yeah whatever i’ll look for you” i smile about to walk away. His cheeks got red. matt sturniolo blushing?