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Javert has a problem. The realisation of it does not come to him suddenly. It is a creeping dawn, a gradual knowledge that builds itself to the point, here, today, wherein he sees it, and then cannot unsee it.
He has always been a man of patience, so he does not grasp at a reaction. Instead, he waits. He thinks about it. He watches Valjean through a full week of their normal routines at home, and comes to the conclusion that, yes, indeed, it is a problem. And yes, he must do something about it. But how? That is the question. It is a matter of some delicacy, and – two years into this relationship, which still feels new – he knows that he would not hurt Valjean for anything in the world. To do so would be worse than cruel, it would be evil.
What is the problem? It is in two parts, the latter more serious than the former. Firstly, that Valjean would like to try a reversal in their normal roles in the bedroom. It is evident in his hands when they wander to places they have not before, and a slight hesitation when Javert assumes his usual place without thought. And secondly, that he will never ask for it. Moreover, he will never ask for anything. Has never asked for anything, and quite likely does not think he has the right to. It is no secret between them that Valjean has difficulties in this area; he almost died when he could not ask for his daughter’s trust and understanding, and such matters were spoken about to the point of exhaustion in those first few months. Still, he had thought that this partnership between the two of them was made of different stuff – not in the least bit pure, to begin with, and tainted dark with years of trouble between them. But beautiful nonetheless, in its own way. Because they have made it so, through working at it. Work is something they both understand. When difficulties arose – and there have been many – they have each applied themselves to finding a remedy.
That is what he must do now, he decides. The first problem is nothing at all; he will have Valjean in any way he wants to be had, and still with private wonder that he is allowed to touch him at all. The second…it is something else. There is no use in simply telling Valjean ‘you must feel free to ask of me what you will’ because he will smile, and demur, and nothing will change. He must be made to understand. He must be shown the importance of it. Of himself.
*
‘Are you coming to bed, Javert?’
It is ten o clock, the usual hour of retirement. Javert allows himself to briefly muse – with a somewhat mournful air – on how things often progress from here. On some nights, it is quite simple; rising from chairs, replacing books on the shelf, blowing out candles. Teeth-cleaning, and changing into nightclothes. A last kiss, and then sleep. More often – and he does marvel at this, given their ages – it is all of the first things, and then no nightclothes, because they are unnecessary when need takes over and hours are lost to passion. Really, he thinks, they should not be so hungry for each other. It is undignified at their ages. On the other hand, they both have many years of chastity to make up for, and if both are willing, why should they not enjoy each other?
He turns a page of his book. ‘Not just yet, I think.’
‘Oh. Well, goodnight, then.’
A light kiss is offered, received, reciprocated, and that is that. Valjean takes himself to bed, and Javert stares blankly at his unread page. He would think nothing of it also, if he did not know what is to come.
*
The next night, he has a headache and retires to bed early. It is a genuine headache, but he would not usually let it affect him. The night after that, it is very hot. Summer in Paris is often a serious affair. He does not bother to avoid a mutual retirement to bed, because it is simply too sticky for any activity. They sleep side by side, sheets pushed away, not touching. This state continues for a week until a storm comes, and breaks the humidity settled over the city. It is still fearfully warm, but there is a breeze. Javert stands by the open window next to the pantry one evening, drinking a glass of water and watching the last rays of the setting sun cast a glow over Valjean’s garden. The curtains move a little, and crickets buzz quietly in the dusk. He is not the least surprised when an arm slides around his waist, and he can relax into the solid mass of Valjean behind him. He even smiles when lips touch his neck, though he wishes they would not affect him so.
They stand in peace. He offers his glass over his shoulder; Valjean takes it, and finishes the water. He sets it down quietly, and brings his other arm around to join with the first. Javert closes his eyes, and reminds himself why he must not allow himself to speak. He reminds himself of how this will be good for Valjean. Of how important it is. Still, he does wish he could simply turn, and kiss him, and then offer himself up. He would not be refused, because he never is.
‘I think I will go for a walk,’ he murmurs quietly, and hates that Valjean goes still behind him. Just for a second, before he feels a nod of the head resting lightly against his.
‘As you wish. I will go to bed.’
He nods too, and holds all the curse words inside as Valjean’s hands slip away, and the warmth of his body is removed. He turns to watch him leave, and then screws his hand into a fist. Yes, a walk will do him good. Exercise may help calm the need for other activity. He can hope for it, at least.
*
The end of the second week comes and goes, and they slip halfway into the third. They have never gone so long without intimacy, and Javert feels as though it may burn him up alive. Worse still is the fact that Valjean has clearly noticed something is amiss, and now looks at him with an air which is both faintly quizzical, and faintly hurt. He can understand the former; he can hardly bear the latter. He knows it does not show in his own demeanour, but enduring the thought that Valjean might believe he has done something wrong…well, he knew it was a possibility, but it is still a terrible thing. Luckily, he has always been a strategist. He has a contingency plan. He just hoped he would not have to use it. Not because it will not be delicious – the thought of it makes him quite weak – but because he fervently hoped Valjean would have broken down by now.
It is raining one morning, towards the end of this third week. Javert wakes to the sound of it on the window. It is humid again, and the water causes the air to be thick and muggy. He pushes the sheets off him in exasperation, and turns to find a more comfortable view.
He finds Valjean instead. It is not a surprise, of course; he finds him there every morning. It is just that he rarely has to resist the urge to press against him, to touch and taste, to bring those sounds from him which are always the end of his own resistance. And also, he rarely wakes to find Valjean so…there is no other word for it; eager. He tries to suppress the need to swallow, but there is no need. Valjean sleeps on, unaware that the lines of his muscles are tensed, and his cock is flushed quite that red. That it stands proudly, jutting up to his stomach, and – Javert does swallow now, he cannot help it, his insides have turned to liquid – leaving clear, sticky lines on his taut skin. ‘Oh good God,’ he mutters, between his teeth; his fingers twitch on the sheet, ready to move and grasp, and hold the thing steady while he closes his mouth over that straining tip…but no, he will not. He must not.
He rolls to his back, trying to steady his breath. His own cock is solid. Nearly three weeks. He will go mad.
*
Valjean is never a man to say much, but now he is saying nothing at all. Javert knows he has to end this. But he must be careful. He must not ruin the groundwork he has laid so far.
The sun is hot in the garden today. By mutual agreement, he is not allowed to touch the flowers. They tend to wilt under his fingers, no matter how carefully he follows Valjean’s instructions. He does not see the point of them in any case, beyond the way they always afford him an agreeable sight – Valjean tending to them, coaxing life from nothing, happy and calm in his work. He could watch that for hours.
Today, he watches for a different reason. Valjean is chopping an old tree up for winter firewood. Javert has tried to drag his eyes back to his newspaper more times than he cares to admit, but there is no hope for it. His blood has been on fire for a week or more, and Valjean is there, his collar open, his back rippling under the weight of the axe, his skin glistening over his collarbones and on his exposed forearms. It is a far better view than of any flowers, and he cannot bring himself to look away. Even when Valjean looks over and catches him, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat; it is one thing to admire, and another to be excited from it. His newspaper will cover the evidence, but he is all too aware of the push of his erection against his trousers.
Valjean seems to hesitate. Then he sets the axe down. He walks over. Javert cannot avert his gaze, and does not want to. Valjean is the most present of men, it is the only way he can describe it to himself. When he stands as he does now, square in front of him, he is always drawn to the sheer solid mass of him; the wide shoulders and heavy arms, the broad chest that shines with sweat, the thickness of his thighs barely held under the close-fitting fabric of his trousers. Javert realises his mouth has gone dry. He looks up to the man’s face, and finds himself caught in a gaze both hopeful and pained. He cannot move. The newspaper crinkles in his fist; there is no mistaking the hunger in those hazel eyes. His own breathing is shallow, and Valjean’s is becoming so; he glances down, and sees his own arousal beginning to be mirrored back at him. Say something, man, he urges in his mind. Anything. His cock aches for attention, but he will not allow it until he is asked. He must not. He says nothing. And Valjean, unfortunately, says nothing.
The moment passes. Javert clears his throat, looks down and smooths the pages in his hand. Valjean stands a moment longer, but he does not glance up to him. Eventually, he is left alone. His heart sinks as the man walks away; his body screams, and with some exasperation, he knows he cannot leave this be. If he is to maintain control, he must let loose the pressure. The disappointment can wait to be dealt with later.
Valjean is stacking his firewood. Javert folds his paper carefully, and sets it aside. He forces himself to walk calmly as he returns to the house. The air is cooler in here, but does not seem it; his cheeks feel flushed, and his fingers are tacky against his palm. He touches the tips together, trying to ease himself through other extremities, but it is no use. He wants, and he cannot have, so there is only one thing for it.
The bedroom is warm, always peaceful. He places his back against the wall, and tries to take a deep breath. He tells himself to find some control. There is none to be had, and the attempt lasts all of thirty seconds; when it is done, and he is defeated, he slides his back down the wall, closes his eyes, and flicks open the buttons of his trousers. His hand is damp, and the touch – oh Lord, the touch is Heaven and Hell, both. His hips push into it without care for anything but the first grip of pleasure, while his mind is stern and tells him he should not abase himself like some stupid boy. He is a man. He takes his partner to bed, he gives himself over and feels the weight of the other on his back, or under his gripping thighs; he holds, and thrusts, and pushes, and takes everything he is allowed to have with a hunger only men can feel. And when Valjean gives in and lets his obstinacy go, he will show him what it is like. He will bring him that new pleasure and drown himself in the man’s body; he will show him what it is to be taken, and…
He lets out a low moan at the image that arrives, of Valjean underneath him; lightning crackles up the insides of his thighs and his head drops back, his eyes flicker open, and –
Valjean is standing over him, a glass of water forgotten in his hand. Javert freezes. In part, anyway; his chest will not stop heaving, and there is nothing that will stem the leaking from the tip of his cock. He swallows hard, and tries to think through the haze of embarrassment and lust. Valjean says nothing, but his eyes are trained firmly on the sight between his legs; Javert attempts to be still, but can barely contain himself. He does not want to think of how he looks, with his knees drawn up and his cock on the point of explosion.
Valjean wets his lips. Javert cannot help another moan. Ask, he thinks; practically pleads. All he can think to do is encourage; he pulls his hand down his length, and then back up. Down, and then up, and then squeezes around the head, which causes him to choke out a breath. His legs are trembling, his whole body taut and ready to release. But Valjean says nothing. He cannot stand it any longer. ‘Please,’ he says, unashamed of how much it sounds like begging. That is not what any of this is supposed to be. He means please ask, and it has not come out that way at all. But Valjean looks up, catches his eye, and blinks. And nods once. It is all Javert needs, he strokes and squeezes once more, and grunts quietly as his cock empties all over his shirt as though he was some dirty schoolboy.
Afterwards, his breath is hard and rasps in his throat. Shame follows on the calming of it. But that is not as bad as the hopeful look in Valjean’s eye, as obvious as the swelling in his trousers. Javert stands up carefully, leaving himself exposed, his cock not yet softened. Valjean watches, clearly expecting him to advance. Seconds tick by; he counts them from the hallway clock. Ten, twenty. And then…then Valjean’s expression turns, hope to something more withdrawn, a clear wondering of what he may have done wrong. Javert wants to shout, you have done nothing. Just ask for what you want. But he does not. He turns and leaves the room, and nothing more is said.
Now it is evening. Then it is bedtime. Then it is dark, and Javert rests on his back, aware of nothing but Valjean lying on his side, facing away from him. He muses that he would have expected the need in him to have lessened after the earlier release, but it has not. It is not release he needs, it is Valjean’s body against his. He wants it so strongly it is a physical taste in his mouth. He is perspiring from the effort of not simply turning, and wrapping himself around the man next to him. He would give all he owns to just press his lips to that skin, and hear a satisfied sigh in return. Good God, this is torture.
He rolls away, and squeezes his eyes shut. He is doing this for Valjean’s own good. Damn the man and his stoicism. He would starve himself to death before speaking of hunger, and he will clearly deprive himself to the end of time before simply saying touch me. Damn him, damn him, damn him.
*
He wakes in the night, but not because it is raining. Valjean is not moving, so it is not that which roused him. But his breathing can be heard in the darkness, and there is no mistaking why it is so loud.
Javert raises himself to one elbow, and blinks sleep from his eyes. Moonlight falls in through the window, and lights the bed. His eyes travel over the head of white curls, the smooth line of the well-formed shoulder, onto the curve of his upper arm. He can see Valjean’s chest rising and falling rapidly, and his stomach goes weak at the thought of what must surely be standing between his half-splayed legs.
Enough of this. He would not hurt Valjean for anything, and it has come to the point of damage. He must explain himself by making an example, and hope it will be a lesson learned. Excitement begins to stir at the prospect; he had hoped this plan would not be necessary, but it will be no hardship to enact it.
He brings a hand up, and lays it on Valjean’s warm and muscled arm. The man’s breathing halts for a second, and then resumes a little faster. For a moment, Javert simply enjoys the feel of it under his palm, a crumb held out to a man dying of hunger. Then he smiles drowsily, and leans down to kiss Valjean’s shoulder. The breath hitches again. Javert applies the lightest pressure with his hand, and Valjean responds by rolling slowly on to his back. Their eyes meet, and everything is still for a long, quiet moment.
‘Do you remember,’ Javert says, eventually, ‘around three months ago? You took me to bed, and I thought I had done something to earn your displeasure.’
‘I remember.’ Valjean’s tone is quiet, perplexed, wanting. Javert lowers his head, and presses a kiss to his chest. Then another, because he has been dreaming about this taste and this heat, and he thinks perhaps he will never take his mouth off him again.
‘You played with me for hours, for no other reason than you thought I would enjoy it.’ His lips move up through soft hair, find the ridge of a collarbone, and suck lightly. He runs his palm down Valjean’s side, fingering gently over the soft bump of ribs and then lower, to the thin skin stretched at the base of his abdomen. It causes a sharp intake of breath, and a twitch of a leg. Valjean has always been a little ticklish.
‘Was I wrong? If so, I apologise.’
‘You were not wrong.’
‘Javert.’ Valjean’s fingers find his jaw, and usher his head upwards so they may be face to face. He allows it, because he was about to kiss him anyway. ‘I do not understand any of this.’
‘I know. I thought – well, I will show you what I thought.’ He does kiss him, and not to halt any more questions. He does it because he has to; he has missed these lips more than he can say. He has avoided them in case they led to places he did not trust himself to resist. No need for that now; he draws his tongue across Valjean’s lower lip and then lets it deepen, sinking into it with a quiet noise of pleasure; relief and satisfaction, like slipping into a hot bath on an icy winter’s night. Valjean’s fingers slide into his hair, the tips flexing against his scalp. Javert lets go all thoughts of distance and draws his leg over Valjean’s thigh, moves to press against him, melting into the firm warmth of his skin. It contracts under him in relief, soft as it melds against his own body, a stark contrast to the rigid flesh he feels pressed into the hollow of his hip. When he breaks the kiss, Valjean’s mouth reaches to continue it, a hand curled at Javert’s waist, the other sliding lower to grasp his backside. Javert smiles in the darkness, and lets anticipation sink to his groin and pool there, just enjoying the feel of Valjean’s lips sucking at his throat and his fingers searching into his cleft.
‘No,’ he says, at the first touch on his hole. ‘Not yet.’ Valjean’s hand stills at once; he feels rather than sees his confusion, but does not give him time to dwell on it. He starts kissing down Valjean’s chest instead, his teeth grazing a nipple and causing a low sound of surprise to sound out. It does not stop him. It only encourages him to tease for a moment, licking the nub to a stiff peak and then letting it feel the edge of his teeth again. There is the slightest squirm under him; he chuckles softly and resumes his exploration south. He does not tarry. He knows what he wants as well as Valjean does.
The man’s cock has always been impressive. Javert does not touch it, except when his whiskers brush it by accident as he moves his lips along the base of Valjean’s abdomen. There is a gasp, and the band of muscle he is licking twitches under his tongue. Javert fails to stifle a small laugh, and Valjean’s impatience can be heard in the small moan he makes, the pressure – so gentle it is hardly there – of the hand currently resting in his hair. Javert resists as long as he can, concentrating on pressing his lips to every centimetre of skin pulled over the man’s hipbone, where it is white and sensitive and rarely pleasured. He touches his fingernails to the other side, drawing them along in a bare touch until there is no mistaking the way Valjean writhes for more.
He takes his time working his way back, surprised by how much he enjoys teasing. Valjean is panting quietly; when Javert glances up, the view of his face is obscured by the rise and fall of his chest. He smiles again, and lips gently at the base of his cock. ‘Do you want me to suck this, Valjean?’
A gasp of breath is his answer. He ghosts his lips up the length of it; fat and swollen and leaving trails that shine in the moon’s white light. ‘Do you?’
Fingers tighten on his scalp. It is not the request he is hoping for, but there is time yet and it is better than nothing. Still not quite good enough. Javert stretches up, and contemplates the rigid staff before him, and then looks up to Valjean’s face again. His head is straining back, waiting in agonised anticipation. Javert draws his gaze back and wets his lips, a thoughtful, deliberate movement. Then he tilts his head, leans forward and plants a soft kiss to the stretched underside of Valjean’s cock, right on the most sensitive spot under the head. He does not leave it long, but makes sure to suck his lips away, a clear indication that he would like to let them rest there longer. Valjean cries out quietly; his hips twist; Javert touches the pad of a finger to the tip and draws a small thread of pre-come away.
‘I think,’ he says, quietly. ‘I should not do that again.’
‘No. Please-‘
Hmm. The closest they have come yet. Javert contemplates again, and moves so that his wet lips are so close to the tip, they will touch if Valjean would move to make them. But he is not looking, lost in his private world of need. It is, truly, a beautiful sight.
‘You are very attractive like this, you know,’ he says, and as he forms words his lips touch Valjean’s cock again. Another small cry, another frantic squirm, and Javert is treated to the sight of white sheets being grasped up tight in the man’s large fist. He swallows hard, and retreats before he cannot help but end it. He breathes back down his length, settles between his legs and without preamble, sucks one of Valjean’s balls into his mouth. He has to shut his eyes against the sound that breaks out, and contents his need to touch by drawing his fingernails up the taut skin at the inside of Valjean’s muscled thigh. His own arousal is fighting for attention, but he is not desperate with it; no, not yet, it can wait until he is ready. Until Valjean is ready, and he does not intend that to be yet. Better to play with him, ease him into this, make him see how worthy he is of such attention.
He takes his time, making sure not to touch his cock even once. He sucks gently over Valjean’s tight sac, licks it wet, flicks his tongue on the underside as if he were playing with his prick. Valjean allows it all without asking for anything further; without asking him to move the pace along. But Javert has an idea what will change that. His hand is flat at the top of Valjean’s thigh; he shifts it now, palming down his leg, following the curve of muscle all the way to his knee. Then he presses underneath it, lifting just a little. He frees his mouth long enough to say, ‘up’; Valjean complies without thought, first one leg then the other, until they are both drawn up close to his body. Javert puts his teeth on the soft skin of his inner thigh, a brief pressure before licking the nip away, revelling in Valjean’s hiss of breath. ‘Relax,’ he adds, and dips his head once more, pushing his knees carefully apart as he does.
He has never done this before, though Valjean has to him, once. It was so good he has never dared ask for it again, and Valjean, of course, asks for nothing. Well, he does not have a choice tonight; Javert kisses his sac once more, then sinks lower and lets his tongue wander until it licks over the puckered mark of his asshole. Valjean tenses immediately; Javert can tell he is looking down, but does not let that stop him. He shows it was not an accident by letting his tongue linger; he pulls the flat of it over the spot, then circles with the tip. First around the hole, and then fully on it. A choked noise comes from somewhere above; a rustling of sheets being released, a surprised movement of his legs. Javert wraps his large hands around the top of his thighs, takes a breath and pushes his tongue forward.
‘Javert-!’
It is a broken, desperate, sound. Javert holds fast as Valjean’s hips jerk upwards, and uses the fraction of extra space to push his tongue deeper. He does not think much about what he is doing; there is no taste, nothing off-putting, nothing but the heady knowledge of Valjean’s pleasure. He pulls out only to push back in again; Valjean groans and writhes in earnest now, causing the sheets to pull loose from the mattress. Javert does not stop, but begins a slow tongue-fucking, an inexorable rhythm that he could not stop for anything. It is not simply about this pleasure, it is about the pleasure that is to come, and he is determined it will be the best he can make it.
Valjean is gasping, tense all over. Javert runs a palm from his leg up to his stomach, feeling the muscles of his abdomen contract and retreat on each push of his tongue. He pulls back lazily; licks and kisses his hole, making it wet and easy on the next press forward. ‘Relax,’ he murmurs again, and gets a whimper in return. He strongly suspects Valjean is biting his fist, and the mental picture of it causes his own cock to jerk against his thigh. He does not stop. He will not. He turns his head to get as close as he can, moaning into the deepest place of him, his chin wet with his own spit, his whiskers damp from the sweat rubbing off Valjean’s legs. He is dimly aware there is a hand on his head now, pushing a little at each thrust forward. He does not stop. He grips and thrusts and moans, ignoring the ache in his jaw and neck, aware only of the way Valjean is becoming loose and free. When he is slick enough that his tongue works with no resistance, he glances up. Valjean is no longer tensed. He is sprawled, his free arm flung carelessly out to one side, one of his knees wavering side to side in the air as though he cannot control his leg. His head is back, his body arched helplessly into Javert’s questing touch. But it is not the relaxation of being sated; he is boneless with desire, unable to marshal his body into any shape but that which Javert chooses. A ball of warm wax, that he can pleasure at will. Yes, he thinks. Now.
He pulls himself up carefully, a white sensation running between his shoulder blades as blood is allowed to move freely once more. Valjean’s head turns dazedly towards him, his eyes following as Javert stretches for the bedside cabinet, and the bottle of oil they use. There is no sign of protest at the sight of it. Valjean seems to have enough to do remembering how to breathe; Javert notes with some satisfaction, and a jolt of fire in his groin, that the man’s stomach is liberally smeared from the wetness dripping from his cock. He pauses with the oil in his hand, puts out a finger and draws it through the mess. Without taking his eyes from Valjean, he licks it slowly clean, watching as the man’s mouth falls further open and his eyes stretch wide. Javert smiles. He gives his finger another pass across his stomach, and this time offers it up to Valjean’s own mouth. There is no resistance. He draws it across his lower lip, and then bites his own as Valjean’s tongue comes out to meet it, his face surprised at his own daring but helpless to refuse. It is suddenly hard to breathe, and Javert feels his skin flush hot at his neck and up on to his face.
He pours oil on his fingers. The moon is still shining through the window. He does not break eye contact with Valjean as he puts his hand between them, and slips a finger inside him. Valjean’s mouth opens wider, a noise caught in his throat. His chest pulls in, then pushes out hard. Javert is careful but he has prepared the way well; Valjean’s body takes it with ease; first one finger, then another, and then a third, and Javert starts to pant as they find a rhythm and Valjean starts to strain under him once more. He dare not touch his cock, though he wants to. It is practically begging for a stroke or a kiss, shining wet between them. But it will be over if he does, and Javert does not want it to end that way.
‘Ask me,’ he says, softly. But Valjean cannot hear past his own harsh breathing, and his head is turned away again now, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. ‘Ask me,’ he says again, thrusting harder, and gets nothing but a broken cry in response. He is taking it so well, and all of a sudden Javert realises that it will be his cock doing this in a moment, he will be taking Valjean for the first time, and the thought makes his heart judder and his balls draw up tight to his body. He pushes hard; Valjean cries out openly and his fingers scrabble towards Javert’s moving wrist, up his arm, trying to find something to hold on to. He fails to grip, falls away, grabs the sheets again instead. It is hard to keep the rhythm because Valjean is pumping his hips up now, meeting him and demanding more with his body, trying to make him speed up. He slows instead, crooks his fingers upwards and pushes, and then it is his turn to cry out as Valjean’s thighs clamp to him and grip him like a vice; his hips writhing out of control as he bucks them towards the touch.
Javert pulls out. Valjean collapses to the bed, almost broken. Javert pushes his legs apart to free himself, his hands grasping now, pulling at his side. ‘Turn. Turn.’ Easier that way; kinder. Valjean moans and does as he is bid, but Javert is careful to put his hands on his hips and keep them canted up, not allowing him to press his cock to the sheets. ‘Like this,’ he says, and Valjean drags his elbows underneath him to obey, his head hanging uselessly down to the mattress.
Javert takes a moment to simply breathe, rubbing small circles with his fingers. He must control himself, though his cock is aching to the point of pain; Lord knows how Valjean’s must be feeling. He cannot think of it. He just upends the bottle of oil onto his prick, and then bows his head to press a kiss to the hollow of Valjean’s lower back. It is slick with sweat, the salt taste shocking in his dry mouth. He licks it slowly away, kisses up his spine, locks his teeth with quiet desperation onto the stark ridge of a shoulder blade. ‘Ask me,’ he says once more.
Valjean’s head rises, just a little. It turns. There is a moan, and then Valjean whispers, ‘please.’
It is still not what he wanted, but he can hold off no longer. His head nods silent agreement; he straightens, takes his cock in hand and guides it carefully to Valjean’s slick and shining hole. A slow push, that is all. The ring of muscle opens, and clasps him gently. He gasps and pulls back, and Valjean’s fist yanks again at the sheet under him. Javert holds his breath, and tries again. It is dangerous, all the tension in his body rushes to the point where they join, and it would be so easy to just lose himself here. The image of spending over Valjean’s hole makes him shudder, and he edges forward so it will not become reality. He watches himself enveloped for the first inch, before the tightness and heat causes him to close his eyes. Valjean is calling out, a moan that forgets to stop, and lingers on like the plaintive cry of a soaring bird; Javert pulls out, pushes forward, taking him inch by inch as slowly and inevitably as a rolling wave moves towards shore.
He stops when he can go no further. They breathe as one. They are still, but with the restive energy of lightning about to strike; he can feel Valjean’s hammering heart through the centre of him, and his own in the tips of the fingers pressed into the slickness of Valjean’s skin. He is too far away, though he can get no closer. Javert fills his lungs once more, prays to God for the control to last a little longer, though the tendrils of pleasure in his nerves are coiling together to make a rope up the inside of his trembling thighs; he will push and it will pull and there is only one place for the pressure to go.
‘Please. Javert. Please.’
Surprise causes him to move. He grips, and pistons his hips. Valjean cries out, and Javert has to stop again. His chest hurts. His fingers move tentatively of their own accord, reaching down between Valjean’s legs and running over his heavy balls. He pulls them up his cock, barely touching, just enough to wet the tips; he is not sure what he is doing, but Valjean is moaning without pause, so it must be working. He leans forward so his fingers can touch Valjean’s jaw, then his lips. He starts to rock his hips into him as the man sucks them into his mouth, the muffled noise of his groans vibrating up Javert’s hand and arm as he fucks him slowly, deeply, and Valjean matches the rhythm with his tongue pulsing against his fingers, his lips wet and dripping.
‘I wanted you to ask for it,’ Javert says, panting every word into the heavy air of the room. ‘So you know you can.’
His hips have no choice but to speed when Valjean starts to thrust back at him. Javert frees his hand from his mouth to keep steady; he needs to get closer; he folds, and presses his lips once more to the wet, uneven skin on Valjean’s back. A kiss, another, a thrust, and he moans and cannot lift his forehead from between the slick and restless shoulders. Valjean’s hands search forward in desperation, and curl around the iron struts of the bedframe. His knees spread wider, and Javert starts to move properly, trying to control it when all he wants to do is take him until he screams. He stretches his neck and fastens his lips under the short, soaked hairs at the back of Valjean’s neck. His arms fold around the man’s thick chest, his thighs stuck to the back of Valjean’s legs, only the movement of his hips giving any space between them at all, and that only for the time it takes to push back in. ‘You must know; you must-‘ Javert nestles his head against the side of Valjean’s, his mouth wet against his ear as he moans every word into it; ‘I will never say no.’
Valjean lets out another desperate cry. ‘Please,’ he says again; this time, the word sinks under Javert’s skin and turns to flame there, spreading its heat along every nerve and burning him from the inside out. He thrusts harder, faster; the end is a brick wall on the horizon, and approaching fast. Javert flings them towards it; his hand pushes down suddenly and folds around the inside of Valjean’s leg. The man writhes for the final touch; Javert buries his face in his neck, and moves his hand; runs it loosely up Valjean’s cock. The lightest grip, the gentlest stroke of his foreskin drawn up the head, and the man under him is still as stone, shaking all over, his head thrown back as his climax erupts from him in a torrent of blazing heat. Javert chokes at the wetness dripping on his fingers; his hips stutter, his nerves fizz to the boil and that is an end of it, he is complete, he can do no more. He knows no more except pleasure strong enough to blind, holding him in its grip until it is finished with him, tossing him carelessly down onto the unyielding table of Valjean’s heaving back.
He is content to stay there a while. Valjean seems content to let him. When he opens his eyes, his head is rising and falling with the uneasy motion of Valjean attempting to recover himself. He waits while his own heartbeat calms, and he can persuade his body that it really should move at some point. But it is well enough. Valjean’s back is broad and warm, soft enough to sleep on. He has done that before.
Eventually, without knowing when, they have lowered themselves to lie flat. A while longer, and Javert slides free, and a little to the side. Valjean has his face towards him, watching, his eyes hazed over with fatigue and satiation.
‘You were waiting for me to ask?’
‘I want you to know that you can. That you have every right. And not be afraid I will refuse.’
Valjean drags the sheet up. It is almost unbearable on his flushed skin, but Javert cannot move. To do so would mean not touching him. There is a long moment of silence. Valjean is probably thinking, and he lets him in peace.
‘You will not?’
‘I will not.’
Lips touch his. He feels them curl into a smile against his mouth. ‘You made me wait a long time.’
If there is a note of chastisement, he will accept it. It is worth it. He slides an arm tighter over Valjean’s back, and settles in against him for sleep. ‘Never again,’ he murmurs, drowsily. ‘Never again.’