Title: À La Mode
Fandom: Les Misérables
Pairing: Montparnasse x Éponine
Genre: Romance, fluff
Rating: M
Warnings: Sexual implications
Notes: Prompt for Éponine wearing Parnasse's clothes!
It is usually tiresome to shed all his finery.
There is something to be said for copulating when dressed to the nines - if done swiftly, he can then plaster each hair back into place and continue with his business, even if such business is hunting down a second conquest.
So moments like these are few and far between, when he awakens from a post-coital fog, caked in dry sweat and practically matted to thin, grubby sheets. Montparnasse blinks the stardust and sunshine from glazed green eyes, and she is wearing his shirt.
It is starched, shell-coloured linen, lace cuffs spilling like so much cream over her small hands. Her waist dips in where his does not, leaving an awkward gape, and while her chest is not ample, it still swells against the buttons. The violet cravat is looped carelessly around her neck, and she is fiddling with the tiny glass brooch he was wearing earlier. He knows she will steal it when she believes he isn't looking.
"What are you doing…?" The girl should be glad that she has not caught him in the midst of a foul mood, and that his tone is non-threatening.
"Just playing at what it might be like to be the 'dread Montparnasse'." Éponine's words are drenched with sarcasm despite the ugly truth they hold. She basks in this space of shallow impunity she has carved for herself amongst such a villain and his victims. Reaching for his hat, blocked out in black felt, she squashes it proudly over her tangled waste of brunette and tips two fingers to the brim. Pouts her lips, like those of a cold fish, and affects a voice that he can only assume is an exaggerated mockery of his own. "Bonsoirrrrrrr, mesdemoiselles."
Self-deprecation is not in his nature - he swipes the hat away, and she is much more becoming without this utensil of weak comedy. He wants to scold her as she deserves to be scolded, but the shirt so pleasingly captures the plumpness of her breasts. The hem is long enough to preserve her modesty, though its flavour is still on his tongue. And he always has room for more satiation.
"You needn't make such a face, I don't mean to keep wearing it." She removes the cravat and tosses it aside. "As if I really care for frills!"
Montparnasse thinks about the crook of her neck and how it is smudged with dirt, how it will stain, yet he can smell the ripeness of sex through the linen, mingling with the residue of his own cologne and whetting his appetite anew. Her hand has moved to the collar, but he whips his fingers around her wrist - his mouth quirking, cruelly, in that middle ground between distaste and delight before he coaxes her horizontal.
"…You may wear it a little while longer."