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Pickpocket

Monsieur Thenardier x Reader - SFW

"What've you got up that skirt, love?"

You feel the master of the house's gaze wandering, but his hands stay put. At least he's that much of a gentleman.

"Nothing for you," you mutter back softly with a hint of your usual humor with him, and he pretends to clutch at the open wound that is his heart.

"Mademoiselle, your words poison me," he says in an exaggerated posh accent. "No love for the maitre de maison tonight, eh?" He wiggles his eyebrows, clutching between his legs.

"Not tonight and not for a week, you dog!" the Madame's shrill voice sounds off behind him. "Just think, you're off with your pants undone while I cook and clean--!"

"You don't bloody cook, woman!" Thenardier moans, wincing as he's pulled by the ear, "And we make the girl Cofrette clean, don't we?"

"It's Cosette, you drunk bastard!"

You watch the tall ginger get dragged off by his wife, a salacious look on his face as he winks back at you, and wonder why the man has never made a real move on you. He talks a big game, always flirting with you, always making lewd comments and bragging about how he could make you scream. Yet he never does anything about it. You'd expect a man like Thenardier to feel you up any chance he got. Instead, he always kept a curiously respectful distance. Which brings you to why you were staying at the Thenardier's Royal Inn, of all places.

Due to unfortunate circumstances, you had fallen on hard times. Not much different than anyone else on this side of town, but at least you were still living, mostly hygienic and not chronically ill. You like to thank god for that every night, if god hasn't abandoned you for women with more coins in their purse. Needless to say, you had ended up dining at the local inn every night with what little money you had left. Their prices suited your poverty, so it was a good arrangement.

Ignoring the boorish man's comments, you sit down at your regular table at the back and order a slice of the regular shepherd's pie.

After finishing, you look out the grimy window into the night. Unfortunately, all the inn's rooms are filled with inebriates and hard working whores tonight, so you would have to sleep elsewhere. Gathering what little things you have, you give a small smile to the Monsieur, who is watching you leave with a funny sort of look on his face. Strangely sober.

Shrugging it off, you head outside to find yourself a place to sleep.

You feel hands on your back. As you turn around quickly, the hands slide downward, to grab at your ass. You try to scream, but threadbare gloves that smell of the sewer stifle your open mouth. You manage to muster up the willpower to bite through the disgusting garments, and get a quick shout of, "Help!" out before you feel a kick to the back of your knee.

You stumble to the cobble street, the slime of the day's dirt and rain staining the last of your pride. The hands are on you again, searching. They finally reach your coin purse, and stand up to make off with it. You try to grab him, and there's a struggle. It all ends with the sound of cracking, and the thief is on the ground.

You look up from your knees to see Thenardier himself, shaking his fist and swearing under his breath at the pain. He finally remembers what he's there to do, and offers you his hand. You look up into earnest brown eyes-- nothing like the ones he had shown you before while flirting with you. You take his hand, expecting him to lay the charm on thick now. Something for something; everything has got a little price. As you envision all the sticky kisses he would be sucking your knuckles with in a moment, you almost wish he hadn't saved you from being robbed.

Suddenly, your hand is free. Thenardier has turned around, head down. "You're alright then, yeah?" he mutters. You frown. Is he bashful about all this?

"Yes," you whisper.

"Right," he nods, shuffling off back inside.

"Wait!" you run after him, and he tenses when you put a hand on his arm. You slowly realize that him helping you up from your undignified position on the ground was the first time he had touched you. All the times he had acted like a pig, propositioned you, been overtly unfaithful in intentions toward you... what did it mean? He turns back around, a gentle, almost melancholy smile on his lips.

"Sometimes the song and dance is better than the man, yeah?" he mutters, fixing his hat back atop his head. "Everybody loves the landlord."

"And what about the man?" you ask. He straightens his ratty coat out and flashes a sleazy smile.

"The man don't get the bread, love." He pauses. "Wait a tick." He walks over to the unconscious thief's body, and plucks something from his coat. It's your coin purse. He pockets it, and you clear your throat.

"Monsieur?"

"Wha?" he asks, turning on his heel. You open the palm of your hand.

"You're forgetting something. That belongs to me." He gives a dopey smile, apology in his eyes.

"Right, right. Sorry, love. Sorry." He plops it in your hand, and takes your hand between his, shaking the purse. "Sounds to me like you have enough to stay the night with us."

"But you don't have any r--"

He gestures to the man on the ground. "Shush shush. One just opened." A smile grows on your lips, and the so called scum of Paris takes your hand, leading you back inside.