Prompt: PORN PORN PORN
This is what he looks like now, the fearsome Inspector Javert: flushed and dishevelled, hair mussed and hips arching off the bed -- "Please," he gasps, "please, please, Jean," and he sees his own reflection in Valjean's dark gaze, wild and heedless. This is the new Javert, this is the Javert who has opened his arms and his body and his heart to a man condemned by the law, and who does not regret it; this is the Javert whose life belongs to Valjean now, the Javert who chose a power greater than the Seine, the Javert who longs for Valjean's touch and receives it, who asks for Valjean's kisses and has his wishes met.
And though moral thought is vexing and the world a place of misery, he gets what he wants, which is sometimes all he needs: to be consumed by his own desire, to let it burn so bright there is nothing left of him but his own naked need, to let it speak its unmistakeable language, to let it write its own law: I'm yours if you want me, I'm yours no matter what.
"You do know," Valjean said, "that I am the stronger man by far" -- fondly gazing up into Javert's eyes, still flushed with laughter, he had nothing of the refugee about him; and after all, Javert thought, lying on one's back in one's own bed was quite different from being tackled to the ground while on the run, even with an erstwhile prison guard straddling you.
Bracing his hands on Valjean's shoulders, he brought their faces together: "So that's what you think," he growled, careful not to chase away the laughter from his own voice -- their silly game was just that; a mockery of fighting -- "Well, indeed you may be strong, but I have the upper hand, and I dare you to upset the natural order, if you think you can get away with it!"
The gleam in Valjean's eyes, the spark of humour life had not beaten out of him, was its own reward; finding himself on his back in turn, their roles flipped with a speed and an ease which did not really surprise him, had no negative impact on Javert's mood; he laughed again, tilting his head back in surrender, and Valjean laughed with him, and bent down for a kiss, and Javert knew that if this was indeed a game it was one where losing was no loss.
"Bouillabaisse," Javert explained, gesturing towards the ingredients on the counter; "my mother used to make it like this," he added, somewhat reluctantly, and Valjean was less surprised by the exactitude of Javert's memory than by his willingness to share it, though he only rolled up his sleeves in response, and said, "Teach me."
The ritual of chopping up the vegetables, of opening the clams and gutting the fish, reminded him of the convent, of dinners made and shared with Fauchelevent; with a pang of sadness he remembered his friend and the walls that had subsisted between them -- the walls of semi-truths, false names, and a dangerous past -- the walls that could not be torn down by the rhythm of everyday life.
But if he had lost a friend, he had gained another, an even more unlikely one; they worked, side by side, occasionally handing each other a utensil or a bowl or a towel to wipe their hands, and Javert would sometimes give instructions which somehow did not sound like orders, gruff though his voice could be at times -- into the pot went the herbs, and the fish, one after the other; soon the scent rose of salt and sea, and Javert was smiling at him tentatively, and Valjean thought of the walls which remained between them and wondered if they could be scaled.
Javert's hands somehow look even larger in the black leather gloves, a gift for their second Christmas together; though he grumbled at first about how much they must have cost, he has taken to wearing them during his walks with Valjean through the Luxembourg, a subtle concession repaid by the new scarf around Valjean's neck.
Javert's right hand is holding his walking stick but his left one is free, and suddenly Valjean is tempted to take it in his own, to lace their fingers together –- but it would not be appropriate, not here -– and even if it were, he might want to run his thumb over Javert's palm, to caress it through the leather, a reminder of all the ways in which they have already touched each other, no layers between them –-
He links their arms instead; Javert glances at him in surprise, then smiles, a quick turn upwards of his mouth, and Valjean brushes his hand gently over Javert's sleeve, stopping before he reaches the wrist: he will deny himself for now, but not forever.
Prompt: Valjean eating cake
The sensuality of it caught him off guard: to see Valjean, who was so always so careful, so guarded, so hesitant in giving himself over to pleasure -– who would hardly touch Javert without vocal encouragement -– to see his eyes closed, eyelids quivering, his face at once tense and relaxed as he swallowed the first bit of the strawberry tart...
"It's delicious, Javert," he said, "you should have some."
Javert took the offered fork as in a daze, then put it down; he placed both hands on the table and rose to his feet, catching Valjean's surprised expression as he leaned in to kiss his mouth, where the taste of strawberries lingered -- "I will," he said, and kissed him again.
Prompt: huddling for warmth
Once, he had looked at the Mayor's hands, a sharp day in winter when they ran into each other on the street, and he had noticed the red skin, clearly aggravated by the cold, the way a poor labourer's would be when old frost bites were renewed by a change of season -- not the hands of a respectable member of society, he had thought, and carefully stored the observation away.
Then, years later, his life shattered and not yet rebuilt, he had looked at Valjean's hands and considered them anew -- the callouses, the scars around his wrists -- and again he had remembered those frost bites, the marks left by years of cold and suffering, and he had found himself caught by the sudden desire to soothe, to heal and to warm, though he did not yet know why or how.
Now, as the first snow fell around them where they stood in the garden, he gently took Valjean's hands between his own, held them for a moment, then brought them to his lips -- Valjean said, "Javert," very softly -- and there they stood for a long moment, saying nothing, as warmth flowed through them and between them and filled them both.
Prompt: Javert gets Valjean through a cold
"Drink," Javert said, holding the cup of hot tea to his lips -- "All of it," he continued, relentless, and Valjean closed his eyes in fatigue and obeyed, for Javert's voice, which had once hunted his nightmares, was brittle with worry, his commands terse with care; and his large hand supporting the back of Valjean's neck was warm and gentle.
"Sleep," he ordered when Valjean, coughing, woke in the middle of the night to find him hovering by the bedside; "I shall not be comfortable unless you do," and although Valjean did not think he would be comfortable regardless, he allowed himself to sink back into dreamless rest, safe in the awareness of Javert's presence, of Javert's fingers brushing over his brow.
"Don't get up," was the firm injunction the next morning, when Valjean woke to find most of the cough gone, though the chamber was chilly: "You need to stay warm," and without hesitation he stripped off his waistcoat and trousers, and climbed into bed next to Valjean, wrapping his arms around him, chest to his back -- and Valjean, who had once feared his grasp, relaxed into his embrace, and sighed, and felt himself grow warmer: not hurting but healing, not hunted but home.
Prompt: waistcoat/chest hair appreciation
Valjean doesn't look at him as he stands in front of the mirror, absently removing his collar and cravat; it's late now, they have only just returned from the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, and in his eyes there is the peculiar melancholy that always follows these visits; his gaze is distant where it meets itself in the mirror, and he's twisting his cravat between his hands, as if he's not even aware that Javert is in the same room, only a few feet away, following his every movement, the way his shirt is gaping open, revealing the powerful chest underneath, warm skin that Javert has pressed his lips to so many times by now, white hair through which he has trailed his fingers --
"Let me," he says, stepping behind him, as much for the tiny hope of reclaiming Valjean from whatever sorrow is haunting him as for the chance to stand there close, breathing in the scent of his hair as he takes the cravat and puts it away, before reaching around him to undo the buttons of his waistcoat.
It takes a moment for Valjean to react; then, with a sigh, he relaxes, leans back against Javert and lets himself be undressed, bared to Javert's gaze and his hands and his inept but stubborn devotion, and Javert presses a kiss to his temple as he slips the waistcoat off -- he's enough of a hunter still, he thinks as he folds his arms around Valjean's waist, to follow him into sorrow and beyond; never again will he let Valjean slip away.
Prompt: Valjean/Montparnasse, spermpires
Montparnasse's mouth fell open, a pink tongue emerging between rosy lips, and Valjean shuddered again, unable to take his eyes from the sight -- by God, it must be true after all; he recognised hunger when he saw it, but to think such a thing could be, and to think the youth had come to him, asking, no, demanding, and was now kneeling before him...
"Stay still," Montparnasse muttered, gripping Valjean's hips as forcefully as Valjean was clutching the armrests, and he meant to protest, for surely there must be a better solution -- but if what Montparnasse said was indeed true, then there was really no other way for him to sustain himself, and how could Valjean turn down a soul in need?
His thoughts dispersed in the blink of an eye as warm lips enfolded him, eagerly teasing at his hardening flesh, and Valjean bit back a groan, for this was a torment sweeter and more terrible than anything he had ever known; his hips jerked forward against his will, and Montparnasse groaned in turn, and swallowed him with the eagerness of a man dying from thirst, and Valjean closed his eyes helplessly, giving himself over to what he could only pray would prove the lesser sin.
Prompt: Valjean/Javert, gunkink
"Kill me now," he had said, gripping the rifle with both hands and pointing it towards himself, pressing it into his chest, this one thought in his mind: that this was what it had come to, this year-long hunt; here was the man at last, no longer a shadow from his memories or an incubus from his nightmares; Jean Valjean was standing before him in flesh and blood, having Javert in his power, and it would all end here.
Then: the river, the death that had not come after all, the new life, the questions without clear answers, nothing as final as the shot of a rifle or the cut of a knife into skin; but Valjean's presence remained in this new life, frustrating, mesmerising, unknowingly powerful, and Javert clung to the offer of friendship like a drowning man to a lifeline, and still he could not forget.
When one day he found Valjean clearing out the old shack in the Rue Plumet, standing there with a rifle, seemingly lost in thoughts, Javert's hands moved of their own accord, as they had done back at the barricade; he grasped the barrel, pressed his cheek to it, then his mouth; Valjean stared at him, eyes wide and shocked, and Javert let go of the barrel, said, "Forgive me," suddenly weary, wondering if this was how it would end after all -- but then Valjean took a step closer, raised a trembling hand to Javert's mouth, and Javert's heart stopped, then beat again, harder than ever, as if to say, this is how it begins.
Prompt: JVJ and/in a church
Several times Jean Valjean had prayed to the Lord for guidance and for mercy; he had not dared to ask for joy, and now, kneeling in the house of God with Javert next to him, he kept his eyes on the altar, silently wondering if there would be a sign to let him know if this, indeed, was wrong.
But though he kept his gaze forward, he could feel the warmth next to him from their shoulders touching; he knew without looking that Javert would be darting sideways glances his way, dividing his attention between Valjean and the priest, and although the thought should be discomforting -- for who was he but another sinner repenting in the face of God? -- there was warmth in that too, in knowing himself watched but not hunted, in knowing Javert was there to love and be loved.
And as they rose, and their hands brushed, he risked a glance at Javert in turn, saw the smile in his eyes; light was falling on them through glass-stained windows, around them voices were lifting in gladsome gratitude, and the warmth within him ached and swelled until he knew himself to be smiling in turn, in his heart if nowhere else, at the light and the joy and the love that mingled and was one.
Based on the idea of "wouldn't it be funny if Javert tried to write poetry and accidentally gave Valjean one of his more inappropriate drawerfic ones?" Which I think probably is an idea that ought to be developed into a real story, but meanwhile this will have to do. (I'm also not sure it's a three-sentence ficlet in any sense, oh well.)
"Roussin" is argot for policeman; apparently there was a certain type of 18th century spy who wore red uniforms while undercover (!).
"Ah," Valjean said, staring at the piece of paper in his hand, his ears growing a rather endearing shade of pink; "Javert, this is very -- I cannot say that I'm not flattered, but..."
Javert cleared his throat, feeling himself flush in turn -- but it had taken him quite an amount of courage to slip his poem into Valjean's pocket, let alone to wait for him to find it, and he was not going to back down now: "It is a token of my esteem for you," he said, without adding, I refrained from telling you more than that, but you should have seen my first attempts, when I first learned how to make use of rhyme and rhythm, before I learned how to hold back all the things I so dearly wanted to say -- "Would you like me to read it aloud?"
Valjean, blushing even harder, handed him the note; Javert took a deep breath, glanced at the note, then, horrified, realised his error -- he'd thought he had been so careful in throwing all those private scribblings away! -- but it was too late to save the situation, any attempt at retreat would only make it worse, and while wishing for the ground to swallow him whole, he summoned the last reserve of his courage and read aloud in a voice that mysteriously did not tremble:
"Roussins are red
National Guards are blue
In my dreams I am naked
And so are you
Montparnasse is a crook
Claquesous is a spy
The Law is very hard
But not as hard as I
The Préfecture is very large
The Seine is very cold
I want to touch your cock
Although we are both old
Injustice is bad
But mercy is not luck
I dream of being a better man
That you might want to --"
"I thought you wouldn't come tonight," Valjean said softly, closing the door; he was half-undressed, his shirt gaping open at his throat, grey curls gleaming in the candlelight.
Javert, who had been furiously debating with himself which would be more offensive -- arriving late at night, or not arriving at all -- now noticed the quiet joy in Valjean's eyes, and his doubts all turned to dust; instead he reached out and hooked a finger behind the strap of Valjean's suspenders, brushing the back of his hand against his chest.
"I was prevented from coming sooner," he said, "but believe me, I would have," and he lightly tugged at the strap, and Valjean followed, into his arms and an embrace that was just as much a sigh of shared relief.
Warning for tentacle-induced consent issues in this one.
Prompt: jvj and ... sentient tentacle plants in valjean's garden
In retrospect, the man at the flower stalls had been a suspicious character; Javert would doubtless have noticed as much, if he had not been so preoccupied with his errand - finding a gift for his new friend, who insisted on forgoing all manners of luxury, was a difficult matter, but even Jean Valjean would welcome seeds for his garden, and so Javert had leapt at the solution to his quandary with a gratitude that now seemed all too ironic.
The plants had thrived, green and luscious; eventually, when it became clear not even Valjean could tell their kind, Javert's misgivings arose and he took to patrolling the garden for fear of mischief -- which was how, tonight, he came to find himself in a sudden death grip, caught by thick arms snaking around his torso, a smaller tendril winding itself into his trousers.
He cried out in shock and outrage; Valjean came running, stopped dead in his tracks at the sight -- only for a second, but it was enough -- another tentacle trapped him, roped him in, brought him close to Javert, face to face and body to body; Valjean's terrified eyes stared into his own, and Javert knew not what to do but to offer what comfort he could, although to Valjean it might be no comfort at all -- the tentacles relaxing for a moment, he leaned in and caught Valjean's mouth; and despite his fear, despite his own predicament, despite the tendril sliding around his prick and against his hole, a spark of shameful triumph lit up his heart: I have him at last.
Prompt: Valvert and tentacles [again]
Javert’s curse had placed him outside the realm of human companionship, the same way his birth had placed him outside the realm of society; he had never thought to rebel against this plight, nor against anything else, but these days, everything was different – in this new life, illuminated by a new moral sun, he found himself in love, and miraculously, loved in return.
On their first night together, he bared himself to Valjean’s gaze, more terrified than he had ever been, and said, “This is what I am – ever since my youth in Toulon – I won’t ask you to touch it, but now you know of my shame; if you like, we will never speak of this again.”
But Valjean looked at him – at the long, sinuous tendril which jutted out where normal flesh should have been, the tendril which even now twitched and strained under Valjean’s eyes – and then Valjean met Javert’s gaze, and held it, and bared himself in turn – and Javert stared, open-mouthed, at the proof of what he should have known all along: that Toulon had marked them both, and, in so doing, had given them each other.
Imagine Dallas 'verse for this one.
“If only,” Javert muttered, voice dripping with lust as he ran a hand down Valjean’s bare stomach, “if only you could see yourself…”
Valjean squirmed at the sensation, yet he could not resist pointing out, “You were the one who wanted me to wear a blindfold, which makes it hard to see anything.”
“Luckily, there is a solution,” Javert said, sounding disturbingly smug -– there was a clicking noise, which, Valjean realised to his horror, came from a camera; he made a sound of indignation, but then Javert’s mouth was on his own, big hands warm on his chest, and he forgot all thoughts of protest.