#jeparnasse

[jol-llly]

*ahem*

jeparnasse

[the-march-hair]

I had several colour meme requests for Jehan/Montparnasse and didn’t have the time to do it properly so have a sketch!! Not my usual ship but I will admit they are an adorable one.

[mostgeckcellent]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Jehan is a poet, selling herbs and mushrooms they find in the woods to help meet ends meet. When they meet someone strange in the woods, will they make it out again without losing themself?

[mostgeckcellent]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Bright Futures Time Travel Agency is a longstanding establishment with a shining reputation. Its agents are skilled and efficient, and the missions it undertakes are dangerous, daring, and world-saving.

This isn't about that.

Bright Futures would be nothing without its hardworking office staff, after all. And they might not be jumping through time and saving the day, but they get up to adventures all their own. Bright Futures is having a nondenominational festive holiday office party. Jehan Prouvaire is determined to get sullen time agent Montparnasse to participate. They might get more than they’ve bargained for. 

[blomsterpunk]

[ursulas-handkerchief-blog]

Working through some prompts from my old blog!  So, @kujaku-myoo , it’s been ages, but I hope you like it!

There were many ways to describe Montparnasse — a dandy, a murderer; elegant, unscrupulous, beautiful, completely and utterly morally bankrupt.  Superstitious, however, was not a word one could count among that number — usually, at least.  

But desperation, as he’d seen that day and tried so hard to forget, could change a man.  

It was that desperation that lead him to the dim, dirty parlor he was seated in now.  The Montparnasse of two weeks ago would never have sat down on the tattered old armchair — the soot stains weren’t worth it, not with a new jacket.  

But the Montparnasse of today had already swallowed his pride in coming here and asking this woman for help, and so he sank into the battered seat with the look of a martyr headed to the stake on his face.  

Jehan would have found that hilarious, he thought.  Another obstacle for the lovers to endure on their quest.  

His grip tightened on the arm rest until his nails dug into the fabric.  

A moment later, the old woman emerged from the back room and sank, rather inelegantly, into the seat across from him.  In an almost superhuman effort, Montparnasse suppressed the sneer that threatened to spread across his face.

She fixed him with a shrewd look.  

“Claquesous set you?”

Montparnasse gave a curt nod.

“And you’re here about the poet.”

More of a jerk than a nod this time.

“His name?”

“Jean Prou—”  His voice cracked in the middle of the name.  Montparnasse scowled, angry at himself, and tried again.

“Jean Prouvaire.”

The old woman inclined her head.  “Prouvaire.”

Montparnasse watched her as she lit the candle on the table in front of her.  The flame flickered bright yellow, and Montparnasse stared into it like a moth drawn to a lamp.  

He made a half-hearted attempt to listen as she began to speak, but his heartbeat and the blood roaring in his ears seemed to drown all else out.

And then:

A sharp knock that seemed to reverberate across the room, through Montparnasse’s very bones.

Montparnasse flinched, and a satisfied smirk tugged at the old woman’s lips.  

More words, soft and singsong, though not for Montparnasse’s benefit — he could not hear them, and he did not care.

There was only one thing, after all, that mattered anymore.  

Just as abruptly as the sound, the candle flame blew out, and the lamp along with it, leaving Montparnasse and the crone in the dark.  

If everything had been noise before, it was silence now.  It pressed in on his eardrums, suffocating and heavy, as he strained to hear something — anything.  Just footstep, or a word. Just a sign, any sign.

From behind him came a soft creak, a foot on the floorboards.  He started, about to shoot to his feet, when a hand landed on his shoulder.

Even in the dark, he knew it, elegant and slender.  Montparnasse reached up to take it in his own, clutching it, desperate to believe.  

“Are you there?”  He sounded breathless.  How could Montparnasse be breathless?

There was no answer, but the hand that clasped his tightened its grip, and Montparnasse rose, slowly, carefully, to his feet.

“Jehan,” he whispered.  “It’s you, isn’t it?  Jehan...”

The answer was not spoken, but felt: in the dark, he felt a mouth brush against his own, a kiss obscured by gloom and candle-smoke, and he pulled the almost-familiar figure closer.  This unseen other was insubstantial, somehow, only half-person, and the other half smoke, but when Montparnasse kissed him, he could fill in red hair and freckles and that catlike little half-smile from memory, and just for a moment, it didn’t hurt to remember.  

And so he stood in the dimness of the medium’s parlor, and kissed the creature that was not quite Prouvaire but Prouvaire enough, and tried not to think about losing him all over again when he stepped back out into the brightly lit street.

[jehanparnasse]

I'm still the worst at giving prompts but you want one so the first time Montparnasse wakes up in Jehan's bed? Whether canon era or modern au, your pick :3

sorry it’s so short!!

Montparnasse snapped awake in an unfamiliar bed. This was nothing new- he fell asleep in unfamiliar beds most nights. People would let him stay the night or, better yet, buy him for the night. He was still dressed, though, in silk pajama bottoms and a soft shirt. That was new. There was a body next to his, smaller than him, with red hair that spread onto his pillow. That was new, too. Jehan. That was his name. He’d met the boy the night before, a sweet thing already drunk out of his mind and waxing poetic about the fall of Montparnasse’s curls. Jehan was wrapped around him, nose pressed into Montparnasse’s shoulder. They were nearly spooning, pressed together all the way down their backs. The sun was streaming in from a window behind him, warm on his hair and lighting the room in soft gold. From what he could see of the room, it was small, full of houseplants and a veritable explosion of every color he could name and then some. It was silent, too. Montparnasse knew distantly that the boy’s apartment had been on the fifth floor, offering a gorgeous view of the city below. In the distance, a siren started to wail, but it felt far removed from the hazy morning here. It felt, for once, like he wasn’t in danger- a far cry from his own shithole apartment, where there seemed to be potential that someone would be lurking in every dark room and shadow. None of that felt possible here. Not here, where it was silken gold and soft green, not in the early morning silence. He turned, slow enough not to wake the boy in bed with him, and- fuck, he was cute. His hair caught in the light, shining copper across the pastel-pink sheets. His eyelashes brushed across his freckled cheeks, and he looked at peace. Montparnasse felt at peace, too, somehow. Behind the boy, there were several shelves stuffed to the brim with books. He squinted into the light trying to read the titles, but could only make out gold lettering on a particularly thick volume. He glanced back down at the boy, still fast asleep next to him, and closed his eyes. He was safe here. That much he knew.

[jehanparnasse]

consider: canon era au where Jehan isn’t shot. 

Montparnasse finds them shaken, hurt, crying, but alive. He’s a mess, because all his other friends are dead and he was sure Jehan would be too (and he’s not sure how that would’ve ended). but Jehan is there. they don’t know what’s happened, but they’re terrified and hurting. They see Montparnasse come in with tearstains on his cheeks and they know something bad has happened. But Montparnasse sees them and runs to them and he’s crying again and hugging them so tight it hurts but he’s /there/, and if he’s alive that might mean the others are too.

 For some weird reason that’s all Jehan can make themselves care about. Jehan’s body heals but they don’t speak at all for days. when they do afterwards, it’s to ask about the others. Montparnasse’s face says it all- he goes silent and looks away before shaking his head. they stop talking a lot more after that. 

they don’t exactly make more friends after les amis- they’re not ready and they just. they can’t bring themselves to do anything about Montparnasse. he’s a constant presence and it feels nice to be worried over but they just. don’t care about relationships anymore. 

they were so sure the world could be beautiful and with their friends by their side they could feel that it would be. and when the rebellion failed and they lost almost everyone (and the person they’re left with is practically crazed with his own badly handled grief (he lost all his friends as well don't forget, but he was so sure he had to be happy because Jehan is there that he wouldn’t let himself process through it and just channels it all into making Jehan happy which he can’t do and their healthy relationship spirals into this awful mess)) they retreat into their room and stop writing and stop caring because without them the world cant really be worth all that much. it’s all parnasse can do to get them to eat and bathe themselves (and they used to love baths together Jehan has a huge claw foot iron tub big enough for two but now they don’t want to be touched) 

And they end up retreating into themselves and they’re stuck with a clingy Montparnasse who’s absolutely terrified of losing them because he’d have no one left (and really they’re both alone at this point the difference is Jehan is aware and wants to just give up and be alone) and anyways. 

Jehan who survives the barricades physically but it kills their spirit and soul.