The rain had fallen unceasingly for the entirety of the preceding week. Today, there had been a mudslide, and one of the guards – young, stern-faced, and as forgettable as each of the nameless, faceless men that existed only to bark orders if he had not stood that bit taller, that bit straighter – had slid into one of the mud-filled trenches that gaped up unexpectedly in the road they were working on.
Even so, Valjean would have ignored it with the same dull callousness that had grown in his mind like the mold on the walls of the cells, if that guard had not been sent to a small, moderately clean brook not too far from the part of the road Valjean was working on. He stared with idle disinterest, maybe even a touch of hostility. Guards were guards, even naked, and it would not have surprised him had that man found a reason to blame his misfortune on one of them. His shoulders had borne the blow of the cudgel for less valid reasons before, after all.
But the guard did not look up to meet his gaze, did not reprimand him, did not even curse at his slide into the mud. Instead, he stripped with careful, sparse movements, holding himself straight with a tenseness Valjean could not quite understand. Certainly hands that held the cudgel had nothing to fear even from unguarded glances. Valjean kept watching, disinterested but still suspicious, all thought leeched from his mind by the back-breaking work, and then the guard turned to step into the shallow water with mud-smeared limbs, and Valjean could not help but stare, for a moment forgetting about the beating that would fall onto his back should his gaze be observed.
The guard's prick curved generously against his thigh, soft and vulnerable, but even so Valjean could not tear his eyes away. All of a sudden it was impossible to breathe, his mouth dry in a way that had nothing to do with the hours of work that had parched his throat and matted his hair with sweat. The guard's prick seemed immense – he had not expected it, had never even thought about what might be hidden beneath a guard's uniform before, apart from the crude jokes that were sometimes bandied about by some of the men. Not this one. He was no man for banter, not even with the other guards. Valjean knew that much, with the instinct of the caged animal who learns to know the tread of its captors.
No, this one did not jest or threaten, which made him a strange, rare thing in Toulon, and where it might have set a less experienced man at ease, Valjean knew that everything unusual was a danger.
Valjean was still staring, eyes drawn irresistibly towards the heavy cock between the guard's legs – even soft it was obscene in its size, and Valjean watched, horrified and strangely breathless and unable to look away even when the guard turned and raised his head, their eyes meeting for one moment. He had been caught. He should have been afraid, by all rights – what guard would not gladly have him beaten for staring in such a way – but the guard just tensed even further, eyes shying away from his with something he might have once called discomfort, before the galleys had ripped all dignity from him. He might have wondered about it, that a guard would clench his jaw and choose to bear the discomfort of a convict’s assessing eyes, but instead he could not stop watching the straight back, tense shoulders, the mud-caked legs now sinking into the water, giving him one last glimpse of that too-large prick, heavy and thick as it swayed between his thighs. Valjean kept staring until the water hid the guard's prick from his view, and if beneath the mulish stubbornness of the convict he had started to ponder with a certain, sick fascination the thought of what that prick would look like swollen and hard, he did not admit even to himself that the image lingered, even though thereafter, his eyes would sometimes stray to glace at the fit of uniform trousers.
Valjean recognized him immediately when he arrived. Not by his uniform, not even by the letter he held in his hand – but by the way the trousers of his uniform strained to hold a bulge that seemed to him obscene in size, and his mouth grew dry in a way that was all too familiar.
He stood motionless for a long moment as the man dismounted, unable to breathe with what he told himself was the shock of seeing that face from the past appear as if in a nightmare. And yet, despite the way his heartbeat echoed loudly in his ears and his hands were so clammy with sweat that he wiped them on his coat before the man approached, his eyes invariably searched out that shadow again where the dark wool was drawn a little too tightly over a shape too large and too familiar in form to be displayed so publicly.
Valjean forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly as he greeted the man – Javert, he thought, Javert , and then he thought again of how that prick had looked freed from the confines of these ill-fitting clothes, heavy and large, and he barely made it through the Inspector's curt introduction before he had to excuse himself.
He did not expect to see that sight again. He told himself that he was grateful for that certitude, for it was not a sight any man should wish for – but there were nights when he took himself in hand, or when he woke still hard and hot and his skin damp with sweat and imagining his hand on another man's skin, wondering with breathless horror at himself what that large shape would feel like pressed against his palm, what it would feel like to cover that obscene bulge with his entire hand and stroke through the worn wool of the inspector's uniform until the soft prick had hardened completely to strain against the tight fit of those trousers...
Still, even though he knew that those thoughts damned him, they were little more than fever dreams, or so he told himself. He did not see Javert often, for the Inspector seemed as little fond of his company as he was of the former guard's presence, and in the light of day the indiscretions of his dreams seemed little more than harmless tricks of the mind. He feared the man; as strangely curious as he found himself about the fit of his trousers, he nevertheless had sense enough to stay away from him, unless official business asked for a meeting.
He thought that in time, this unnatural obsession would slowly dwindle like a fire dying over night, for certainly, sooner or later he would become used to the way the fabric stretched too tightly over a bulge too large not to draw the eye. It was unusual, and fascinating in a sick way, certainly, and everyone who beheld that display would have reacted with the same amount of shock and apprehension, he told himself.
Nevertheless, as chance had it – for God could not be blamed for the timing of such an event that once more tempted his lewd imagination, and he was half-tempted to suspect Satan behind the way his eyes kept being drawn to the stretch of the Inspector's trousers, for he could think of no other reason – there came a day when a man, deep in his cups and senseless with rage over an imagined slight, destroyed three chairs, a mirror, and a table in an inn, knocked the innkeeper unconscious, broke three fingers of a guest trying to apprehend him, and at last harmed a member of the police force before he could be locked into cuffs and transported to the station.
That member of the police force, as Valjean found out when he hurried to the hospital to make certain that both the inn-keep and the harmed officer were in no danger, was Javert.
Javert, who had been attacked by the madman with a broken wine bottle, as the Inspector explained in terse words, his mouth drawn into a pale line while the doctor slowly and carefully extricated several small splinters from a gash in his thigh.
Lightheaded, Valjean wondered for a moment if that man had indeed aimed for the bulge that had to be impossible to ignore even for a drunkard – maybe Javert should have been warned not to show off nature's gifts in such a way. Then he sobered at the unkindness of his thoughts.
"Inspector, I trust that the wound is not dangerous?" he said, feeling a vague sense of triumph that his voice did not waver. The doctor looked up to acknowledge his presence with a nod, then focused once more on grasping a shard with a pair of pincers. Valjean felt weak when the man pushed the Inspector's shirttails out of the way, baring Javert completely to his gaze.
There was blood on the sheet beneath the Inspector's thigh, and so Valjean supposed he could not blame the doctor for his disregard of his patient's propriety. Even so, his breath escaped with a trembling sound of dismay when for one heartbeat, his eyes skittered along the so brazenly displayed length of the Inspector's prick, noting the girth of it, the way it curved against his thigh, half hidden by shadow yet impossible to ignore in the way it was solid and obscene in its hugeness, even limp, even with the Inspector bleeding onto the bed. He felt his throat tighten as he watched the doctor's blood-stained fingers work impossibly close to the Inspector's prick – certainly the doctor did not need to work quite so close, certainly he did not need to angle his hand quite like that, certainly–
“It is nothing, Monsieur,” Javert said. There was a strain in his voice Valjean was not used to, and when he looked up, he found that the Inspector's face was flushed and gleaming with perspiration, all of which could be blamed on the doctor's painful work – only Javert could not quite hold Valjean's gaze, and his fingers clenched in his shirt as if he were fighting the urge to cover himself somehow, but could not make himself act against the doctor's command.
Valjean looked at him for a moment, searching for something else to say, struggling to keep his eyes safely raised past Javert's waist who in turn could not meet his eyes, but kept them fixed on the wall.
"See to it that our Inspector receives the very best care," Valjean said at last, his mouth still dry as he turned away from Javert to address the doctor. "Do not release him until he is well enough for his duty – no, don't argue now, Javert." He raised his hand to stop Javert's protest that was weaker than usual, then lost his train of thought for a moment as his eyes trailed along the unbelievable, indecent column of flesh. No, there was nothing that wasn't innocent about Javert's posture – and he was bleeding, hurting, wounded, Valjean chastised himself again – except for the size of that prick that displayed itself so blatantly, as if by its sheer physicality it were calling out for Valjean's touch, in order to assure himself of its reality.
A soft groan escaped Valjean at the thought, masked by the sounds of the inn-keep who had been asleep in another bed waking at last, and Valjean took a step back, then gave Javert an abrupt nod. "I will see how that man is doing. You are in good hands here, Inspector."
He closed his eyes for a moment as he turned away and strode towards the other bed, feeling sweat bead on his forehead. He feared that tonight, the dreams might return again to haunt him.
Valjean's fingers clenched tightly around the coarse rope that held Javert bound. Although he was not overly rough with his prisoner, he was not merciful either – yet it was neither anger nor the need for revenge that made him pull Javert with him past the small barricade into Mondetour lane with seeming disregard for his prisoner's comfort.
To see Javert again had been a shock. Javert had been tied to a table, bound with ropes pulled taut between his legs, stretching the already sparse fabric of the well-worn disguise even further until Valjean was certain that all the students so ready to throw their lives away must be staring with the same sick fascination he was feeling – and yet, when he looked around, their eyes were on their leader, not on the way Javert's recumbent prick seemed to have swelled even further against the bonds that framed the lewd display.
Valjean licked his lips, studying the gloom, studiously avoiding to look at Javert as he pushed him against a wall with more than a hint of frustration.
Javert's head rolled back to rest against the stone, and he smiled slightly. For one single, unkind moment, Valjean felt pleased to see that smile falter when he pulled out his knife – although a moment later, he faltered as well when he reached out to cut the martingale that held Javert bound. In order to cut through the rope, he had to hold it taut with one hand, and as he slowly sawed through it with his knife, his eyes strayed guiltily once more to where that rope pulled Javert's trousers tightly across the bulge of flesh to reveal the shape and size of him even to the most disinterested observer – and Valjean, sickened, knew that he was hardly disinterested.
He forced himself to breathe deeply, to clutch the knife tightly so that it would not tremble, but then, by accident, the back of his hand brushed against the bulge in the lightest of touches. Valjean started, his breath caught in his throat as for one heartbeat, he imagined that he could feel the heat of Javert's prick that was still pushing so blatantly against the worn fabric. He pulled back and almost let go of the knife in his shock before he remembered that there was more rope to cut. He fell to his knees; he flushed hotly; he did not dare to raise his face, imagining that it had to be obvious how he was affected, what had affected him so, and as he cut through the rope at Javert's feet with trembling fingers, not a moment passed where he was not uncomfortably aware of how close he was to the taunting, tantalizing shape that stretched far too large beneath the tight cut of Javert's trousers. He would only have to turn his head a very little to feel it against his cheek, and his breath escaped with sudden force as for a moment, he considered the way it would feel to learn the shape of it with his lips, to test the firmness with his mouth, to see how it would stretch the fabric even more as it hardened.
But Javert must have taken the sound he made for a sigh of relief to have this business done with, for he rubbed warily at his hands now where the rope had left marks. Valjean imagined tasting the rope burns as well – and then Javert leaned away, uncomfortable, no longer cornered prey but the foxhound held back from the chase by his master, high-strung with nerves and confused at a world that did not move in the way nature told him it was supposed to move.
Valjean stood. Too late he remembered the musket he had brought, which now rested against the wall; they looked at each other, and then they reached out at the same time. A shudder ran like a current through Valjean when they gripped the barrel, their hands so close that they touched. Javert's skin was warm. When Javert's gaze turned to rest on their hands, he visibly started; for one moment, the musket, the barricade, even the fact that now, here they had arrived at the end of the long chase seemed to have vanished from the Inspector's thoughts. He did not speak, and Valjean, who looked at Javert's hand with a strange breathlessness, had no words to explain the feeling that had settled in his stomach. It was not unlike the earlier breathlessness at kneeling face to face with the Inspector's prick, and he took another deep breath when he looked at the barrel of the musket, where Javert was still staring at their hands in silent contemplation.
Javert's hands were enormous, and Valjean, whose built had always ensured that he was met with either fear or respect, according to the manner of his dress, lingered on the way Javert's hands were large enough to easily cover his own. He, who had run for so long, now imagined them closed around his wrists – not in threat, or with the intention to hurt, but simply to hold – to hold him close, maybe, to hold him in place, and then he imagined that large palm flat over his chest, feeling his heartbeat, imagined his own hand placed atop it to hold it in place. He thought of kneeling as he had before once more and imagined those large hands grasping his shoulders, fingertips just lightly digging into his skin, and he had to tear his gaze away from their hands, saw that Javert had looked up as well to watch him with a queer expression, then lowered his gaze to their hands once more, as if he could not believe that his hands should be so much larger than Valjean's. At last Javert turned his face away, flushed, and Valjean exhaled shakily, the thought of feeling those large hands on his knees lingering even as he took a step back, bidding this man, who had haunted his thoughts for so long, to go and live. Perhaps it was because he did not think that they would meet again that he took hold of Javert's hand to squeeze it once – only incomprehension met him at the gesture, as he had thought – but the image of that large hand engulfing his lingered in his mind as he returned to stand by the side of the boy Marius.
They had shared a bottle of wine, and Javert, still exhausted from the long walks through the streets of Paris to which he was prone, had sunk against the backrest of the sofa. His eyes had fallen shut , and Valjean put his own wine glass down, then watched him for a long moment. Javert still looked exhausted, as if every day was a new trial with every decision he faced, every person that crossed his way. He had not fallen back into the same despair that had once made him seek out escape in the Seine; in turn, Valjean found that his visits had become frequent enough to have turned into an unacknowledged habit, and one he had come to feel a reluctant gladness for. Cosette was gone to live her own life, and he had often thought with aching weariness of a final, peaceful rest – but now, he wondered what would become of this man, who also was left with no light to lighten his world save that which he struggled for with bitter determination every day anew.
Maybe the wine had made him bold. He raised his hand to brush a finger against the streaks of gray that now lined Javert's sideburns. The hair was coarse, but pleasantly so, and it seemed perfectly natural to reach out for Javert's hand next. He clasped it in his own, exhaling softly at the warmth of Javert's skin. How strange to hold and press these fingers with affection, when once these hands had been bent on his capture – but now, it seemed to him that they were both lost after the changes that had uprooted them, like two wanderers lost in the mist. To look at his own hands clasping the hand of Javert was to marvel once more at the size of it, and he aligned their fingers, feeling a strange breathlessness return at the way Javert's hand dwarfed his own. There had never been a reason to doubt the strength of his body – and even now, after the time that had passed and allowed them to slowly, warily learn to navigate each other's company, he found that there was still old instinct prevailing at the back of his mind with the awareness that if this hand were to reach out for him, he would be the stronger.
But it was not strength that made him feel flushed with a sudden, restless heat. Something about the way Javert's hand dwarfed his own was pleasing to behold, and once more there rose a thought unbidden of that large hand griping his shoulder – gripping a thigh.
He swallowed, looked at his glass of wine, wondered if maybe, he should stand to see if there was another bottle left, but what he did instead was to raise that unresisting hand to his face, to press a tentative kiss to those fingers, and when a soft, in-drawn breath revealed that Javert had woken at the touch, he was not even surprised, just weary as he waited for what was to come.
Yet when he looked at Javert, there was no condemnation. His eyes were wide, and he did not move, but there was no fear in him, nor disgust. Instead, Javert met his eyes wordlessly, and the look in his eyes was as vulnerable and unguarded as Valjean had only seen once before. But today, it was not Javert who had confessed; Valjean had made his own confession with that touch, and as the moment grew longer and longer, and Javert still did not pull away his hand although his cheeks seemed flushed by a strange fever, Valjean dared to lower his gaze at last. He found his answer in the shape that had grown more noticeable beneath Javert's trousers, hidden from sight only by the fabric that stretched to keep it covered, though it was of such enormous girth and length that Valjean thought that nothing further could be revealed about the shape of Javert's prick than what was already made visible by how it strained against the fabric with such eagerness.
"Javert," he said, and it was a question as much as an admission of his need. There was no answer but a slight softening of the frown that even now creased Javert's brow, a shaky inhaling of air , and it seemed to him that Javert, whose prick appeared to be just as eager to be revealed as Valjean was to touch at last, might also feel the same apprehension and timidity at the prospect as Valjean did.
Valjean took a deep breath , then released Javert's hand to open his trousers with fingers that had suddenly lost their nimbleness. The heat that colored his cheeks intensified as he imagined Javert watch his ineptitude, but Javert did not speak, and his breath came a little faster as well so that Valjean hoped that he would forgive his fumbling.
A sound caught in his throat when his fingers encountered hot flesh, a shape that felt somewhat familiar – the thick firmness and rigidity of it, the softness of the skin – and yet, when he reverently drew it free, it was so unlike touching himself that he gasped at the same time as Javert when his fingers curled around it, stroking it with slow disbelief, to feel for himself the reality of what he had for so long only looked at from afar.
"Valjean..." There was a helplessness in Javert's eyes, and with it a heat, still banked – Javert sat very still, staring down at where Valjean's fingers had revealed him, watching with almost shock as Valjean's fingers slid over him, encouraged him to harden even more with their uncertain exploration until Javert closed his eyes and shuddered. "Valjean," he said again, his voice very soft and breathless, and Valjean, pleased at the reaction, nevertheless wanted more than the warmth that curled within him at Javert's sounds of pleasure.
He had been haunted by this for too long; during so many fevered nights, he had imagined the heat of this large shape pressed into his palm, so that now, he found himself unwilling to end this. Despite the sounds Javert made – that hitch in his breath, the involuntary gasp when he drew the pad of a finger through the moisture that beaded at the tip, growing breathless himself at the absurdity of what he was doing and the sudden need to suck that slickness from his finger and assure himself of the reality of what he was doing by the taste of Javert's arousal – Javert did not move; Javert sat still, breathless and tense, fingers curled by his thighs as he allowed Valjean to measure him with his hands, to take his fill of touch and admiring glances.
Valjean swallowed back a helpless sound at the sight and pressed his thumb to the small slit at the tip again, smoothing the wetness that had beaded up all over the crown until he could feel the muscles of Javert's thighs tremble. Still Javert did not move, did not speak, and when at last, one of Javert's hands uncurled, hesitant, to inch towards where his own prick pressed with neglected ache against his trousers, he shook his head and pushed Javert's hand away.
"Don't move," he said, breathless, desperate, "don't move, Javert, let me just – let me just have this–" and Javert made a sound deep in his throat, his hands tightening to fists, his thighs tensing even more, and Valjean started stroking him in earnest now, still too overcome by the need to explore to concentrate on Javert's pleasure when all he wanted was to wrap his fingers around the heavy length, burn the feel of that aching prick pushing against his palm into his memory, slide his grip up and down again and again. He shivered at that sweet, long slide, tightening his fingers to feel the girth of that prick, so massive and real and obscenely huge that he flushed just from the way it looked when he stroked it. He thought of Javert's hands wrapped around his own prick, imagined him, large and hesitant, wondered if Javert could bear to look him in the face while he held himself, wondered if Javert would stroke himself for him if he asked him to – and then Javert came with a choked sound of mortification, his face red and gleaming with sweat, spending himself with spurts of his come that clung to Valjean's fingers and made his hand hot and sticky and wet as he kept stroking Javert through it while Javert trembled and still did not move, even as further streaks of his spend stained his shirt.
At last, Valjean ceased. Javert was softening a little, but still hot and slick with his own come, and he could not stop pressing his palm to him, feeling him. Javert did not meet his eyes, although his breathing was labored and he was still flushed. Valjean looked at the stained shirt and found he could not feel regret for that either.
He leaned forward then, hesitant now despite what he had already done, and brushed his lips against Javert's mouth. Javert's lips felt rough, but very warm, and parted beneath his with desperation, and then Javert's hands curled into his hair, and he stroked his own fingers along his sideburns, feeling the roughness of the hair, breathing clumsily into the kiss, and then there was the shock of Javert's tongue, slick and strange, and he remembered his own need at last when Javert's large hands began to work on his trousers with unusual, trembling impatience.
They had avoided talk of it, using glances, apologetic kisses or touches meant to distract rather than words, but it had always been obvious that the idea made Javert uncomfortable, and Valjean could not press the subject.
Now, though, both flushed with need and the luxury of a bright spring morning that had woken them with sunshine and the song of birds, Valjean detected a slight give in the hesitancy that usually made Javert freeze with uncertainty when the chance had arisen before. Javert had always been eager, as eager as Valjean himself was after all these years without touch, without the comforting warmth and the breathing of another person next to him at night. It had been all too easy to grow used to this. And there was little fault to be found in Javert. For all the many, heavy years of memories they shared, Javert had succumbed to this need for mutual touch with the same earnestness that he had once devoted to his work. Javert might hesitate at first when their hands or their mouths or their bodies took a path they had not traveled together before, but once he had made up his mind, he gave himself over to the pursuit of Valjean's pleasure with the single-minded devotion he had before given to the chase.
There was that same earnest eagerness in the way he offered himself, his body yielding to Valjean's touch until they both trembled – both vulnerable, both choosing to trust. Always, Javert's thighs would spread to give of himself without question, although his eyes would remain open, worried, ever watchful until Valjean made a sound as he slid inside him, or until Valjean staved off his own release, thrusting harder, deeper, again and again, until all tenseness melted away from Javert and his eyes fell shut as he shuddered and arched and moved against Valjean as nature bid them.
He was as earnest and hesitant with self-consciousness when Valjean asked him to stroke himself, keeping his gaze on Valjean's chest instead of his face as he wrapped his large hand around his prick to pull with rough, embarrassed quickness. At last Valjean took hold of his hand, guided him with slow, leisurely strokes , and then Javert kept his eyes open and on Valjean's face throughout, biting his lip as if in torment even when Valjean pulled away at last, and he finished himself off with that same determined slowness, his eyes uncertain, even though in this as well he would not give in to fear.
There was still a hesitancy in his touch now as he pressed closer, slickened by the lamp oil Valjean had smoothed over him. Valjean was on his side, taking a deep breath when he felt Javert's hand on his thigh, so large and yet so careful, and he wondered if Javert was still uncertain whether he deserved to touch him after all these weeks. He could feel it in Javert's body too, the tautness that was more than just their bodies' need, the way Javert's breath ghosted along his neck several times with shuddering exhalations, as if Javert wanted to talk but could not find words. At last, Valjean reached back, buried his hands in that long hair that was already messy and had come half undone from the queue, and pulled Javert close for a kiss despite the strain on his neck. Javert relaxed a little then, and after a moment, he gave Valjean a reluctant smile. "Are you certain..."
"Yes." Valjean laughed softly against Javert's lips, filled with nothing but affection at the thought that Javert still felt the need to ask.
Javert hesitated again. "I do not want to hurt you, I haven't, I've never–"
Valjean reached up to stroke his cheek, the gesture made clumsy by their position, although the contact was reassuring; he could feel more of the tension leave Javert.
"I know," Valjean said. "I know. Javert, just, please, I promise you won't–"
" Christ !" Javert breathed the word through clenched teeth, embarrassed, still hard and slick against his thigh. "You don't need to plead, never that, never you, just don't.... Just don't let me hurt you–"
" Javert ," Valjean said, and then he was silent, twisting the sheet with his fingers, listening to the roar of blood in his ears, the frantic pulse of his heartbeat as Javert pushed against him, into him. He could not help it, the sensation was too– he was overwhelmed, had to reach down, place his fingers lightly against Javert's prick to feel him push inside , and then he turned his head again, panting against Javert's cheek at the incredible stretch, that sweet, slow slide that made him ache and filled him. Overwhelmed, Javert trembled against him as well, tightly controlled still, betraying the strength it took to restrain himself with every shuddering breath he took.
It was good. Valjean exhaled, the sound little more than a moan, undignified and full of need, but it was so good, too good, that he had to keep his fingers there, touch Javert's prick where it still kept pushing inside him. Feeling Javert's tightly coiled control as he forced himself to hold back made him gasp with need again – but Valjean could not feel selfish now, though he knew that asking for this had been selfish when Javert was always so ready to give, even when he was embarrassed, even when he was uncertain.
He squeezed his eyes shut, then turned his head further, straining to reach for that mouth, too uncoordinated for a kiss now but it was enough to breathe against those lips. He licked at them, wet and messy and undignified as Javert stretched him beyond belief, filled him with nothing but heat and pleasure that kept mounting and mounting until he cried out, helpless, overwhelmed, trembling all around him as he found his release, and he kept shuddering with hot currents of pleasure even after he had spent himself at how big Javert still felt inside him.
Javert hesitated for a moment, and although languidness was slowly creeping up on him now, Valjean rested a hand on Javert's hip, encouraging him wordlessly. After a moment, Javert began to move again, the burn of that sweet slide forcing another broken sound from his throat, although the sounds Javert made were even better. Javert's moans were choked, breathed into his hair, as though Javert were embarrassed by his own pleasure. He could feel Javert's muscles still trembling with the strain of holding back, and then that control finally slipped, his thrusts jerky, uncontrolled, speeding up a little, and his mouth found Valjean's shoulder to muffle his cries while Valjean shuddered as well at the sensation of that huge prick throbbing within him as Javert spent himself.
Javert bit back another groan when he raised himself onto his arms and pulled out of Valjean with care. Again Valjean reached down to press his fingers to that slick, large prick, feeling it slide out of him, feeling the pleasant ache of his sore body. Javert did not talk, but there was a remnant of that tension still within him – when wasn't there tension, Valjean thought, and slowly turned over, affection drawing a smile from him as he found Javert wild-eyed, disheveled and overwhelmed, and yet still able to flush when Valjean curled his fingers around his prick once more, pressed their lips together to swallow the gasps at this stimulation of overly sensitive skin. He circled the crown with his fingers, felt Javert's little flinch, felt Javert press closer instinctively instead of drawing away, and though it was reluctance that made him let go of Javert at last, there was no reluctance in the way that mouth opened beneath his. He kissed him until all tension had finally left Javert's body, and there were fingers carefully smoothing over his brow, learning the lines of his face all over, those large hands cupping his face with quiet reverence. He knew the wordless question answered by their touch, that silent Are you well? Are you content? , and he wound his hand into Javert's hair, closed his eyes, breathed the air Javert breathed and knew that it had never been as easy to smile.