Work Text:
IN WHICH THE DOG-SON-OF-WOLF IS DOMESTICATED
Six days ago, Valjean chose to spare Javert's life, and through the dusty barricade air the inspector could smell Valjean's cologne. That scent, that unbearable cologne which had evaded him all these years, flooded his senses with emotions he did not and could not understand.
He had first smelled that cologne as an inspector under the benevolent mayor Monsieur Madeleine. That kind giant who always hid his face but had the sweetest voice and the most infuriating empathy.
Of course, he had known Valjean since he was a young man working in Toulon. Valjean at the galleys awakened something horrifying in Javert that he preferred to repress as best he could. Valjean, the beast, was something unthinkable to him, something he could only properly process through his work. So he worked himself into the ground in his pursuit.
Well, he had found him at last, bound and in his possession.
No matter how much his opinion of this man had changed over these damned years, the feeling he experienced smelling that cologne stayed the same.
That was six days ago. Valjean should have killed him there at the barricade that day. Javert should have gotten to bleed out in those impossibly strong arms. He felt that his life could not go on, that the only possible course of action was to complete that disdainful, masturbatory act of self-destruction. There he stood atop the ledge of the bridge, smelling the freezing Seine through violent sobs. He was angry and desperately afraid. The stars, his faithful guides, were absent completely. He wished he had the strength to jump without being pushed.
But he eventually calmed down and went home.
He stayed home for five days, dreadfully depressed. But essentials were running low, and he needed to re-enter the world. On the sixth day he felt well enough to bathe and dress and step outside with a mustard seed of dignity.
He waited at the carriage-stop, on his way to the marketplace for some groceries, when a wave of adrenaline shot through his body. He smelled it again: that terrifying cologne.
Valjean all at once stood beside him.
What the two men talked about as they waited for the carriage was unknown even to Javert. All he could perceive was his heart pounding.
The carriage arrived, and the driver beckoned the two men inside. Javert gestured for Jean Valjean to enter the carriage. Valjean did the same.
The two men sat across from each other in silence, and the driver set the horses on their way. The journey would not be long. In silence Javert examined every inch of the larger man's body, chastising himself for doing so.
Against his most terrified effort he could not prevent himself from imagining things of a baser nature. Vile things, wicked things. This man who sat beside him was far stronger than he. If he chose, he could easily command Javert to the ground.
Javert closed his eyes and imagined.
In his mind's eye he saw Valjean point to the ground before them both. He heard the singular command: "Kneel."
In his fantasy Javert knelt between Valjean's legs. The incessant jostle of the carriage hid his trembling well.
Valjean silently unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his pants, and pulled his cock out from his undergarments.
This nonchalant man, after his years of squalor in the galleys, had come to appreciate the necessity of keeping one's hygiene impeccable. Valjean was trimmed and perfumed.
Electrified with the courage of fantasy, Javert extended a trembling hand towards Valjean's cock. It was already half hard and growing harder and larger with each gentle touch. Javert stroked it in disbelief, daring not to breathe too loudly, as if alerting Valjean to his presence would end this impossible daydream.
Valjean did not command any further. Javert strained his mind's ear, listening for this damnable instruction. He needed to be told. This thought he was indulging couldn't be his fault, couldn't be of his own origin. Could it?
Valjean's cock grew hot and hard in Javert's hand.
He knew if he proceeded with this daydream, he would discover something about himself that he did not want to know.
In his mind's eye he saw Valjean's dusky blue eyes staring down at him, as passive as the Lord, unmoving and uncaring. This choice belonged to Javert alone.
Something in him compelled him to proceed, to jump without being pushed.
He continued stroking the shaft as he gently licked the head, swirling his tongue around it. He slowly gained courage. He had no technique, barely any plan. All he knew from his limited experience with self-pleasure and intimacy was what not to do. Instinct alone guided him. He slowly took the head of Valjean's cock into his mouth, stroking the underside with his tongue.
Javert listened to these instincts as they grew bolder. Some haze overcame him, he found himself longing to let this man use him, body and soul. He took Valjean in farther, careful not to swallow saliva, which coated more and more of Valjean's cock.
Javert himself was harder than he'd ever been in his life. He bobbed his head up and down on this massive cock, finally finding a rhythm. He pumped and sucked Valjean's cock in a lustful stupor, but only about halfway down the shaft.
If Valjean wanted to hold Javert's head down and bottom out in his throat, he easily could do so. Javert was aware of this. He was utterly helpless under the impossibly strong, frightfully merciful hands of this convict, this thief whom he had once addressed as Monsieur le Maire. This massive man, deserving of damnation, his savior. Javert belonged to him entirely, breathless, in his debt for eternity, greedily sucking his cock. In his distracted mind he begged for expiation through punishment.
Yet Valjean kept his hands resting calmly on his thighs.
Javert resolved to work harder. Desperation for acknowledgement shot through him. Was that deserved? Was there anything he could do to make it so?
As if by some curse of the mind, Javert's thoughts seemed to manifest immediately. Valjean's hand caressed Javert's hair and rested gently atop it. Javert felt himself on the verge of cardiac arrest.
But this gentle hand, as strong as it was, felt feather-light.
This wretched dog, this diminutive son of wolf, begged. He begged for atonement, for force, to be broken in, to be used. Glancing up towards God he saw a man appear full of serenity, gazing in silence out the carriage window as it bounced along a streetpath. He paused for a moment in reverie.
The pause was all he needed to engage Valjean. The older man dug his fingers into Javert's hair and pushed him urgently back down onto his cock. Javert obeyed dutifully. Breath was unimportant. He found his gag reflex to be almost useful: he approached the line of discomfort without crossing it, taking Valjean just deep enough to trigger the copious production of saliva.
Javert suddenly felt himself helplessly, hopelessly, breathlessly in love. There was nothing he could do. There would never again be a time where he would not belong to this man. He was as infatuated as a heart can be, and this revelation electrified him entirely. Some veil had been torn in him.
Where before he had worked with the diligence of atonement, now he worked with the urgency of love. With adoration in his heart he worshipped this older man, taking him in further than he thought he could and at a faster pace. He pumped Valjean's head with the entrance of his throat, greedy and debased with desire. Saliva frothed and dripped carelessly onto his uniform.
Valjean's cool exterior appeared to be chipping away. Javert heard strain and effort in those perfectly even breaths, and felt the telltale twitching in his thighs. He noticed a ripple of fearsome strength flash across Valjean's abs.
But this distraction again must have been unacceptable to Valjean, who grasped Javert's hair once more and began pumping his cock with Javert's mouth at a pace of his own desire. These long, hard strokes gagged Javert, but this newfound force he could only identify as love pulled him through. He loved being used. He loved being owned by this man. Valjean slipped a second hand down onto Javert's head, holding him tight and fucking his throat like a toy.
Suddenly Valjean pushed Javert's head down hard, forcing his cock past the barrier into his throat. He held Javert there as he finished inside his throat. Javert's throat clenched, milking cum out of Valjean's pulsing cock.
And then the carriage slowed to a halt.
Javert was brought back to this reality. Jean Valjean the convict sat across from him, staring with an unreadable expression.
"Are you alright, Inspector Javert?"
Javert, breathlessly hard, did not respond.
"Inspector Javert? Are you well?" Valjean cocked his head slightly to the side.
Javert mumbled something unintelligible even to himself and stumbled out of the carriage.
Valjean frowned, resigning himself to think no more of it, just another of Javert's strange behaviors since being spared at the barricade.