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Golden Autumn

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Waking by Javert’s side in the morning was a gift.

How strange to feel like this after the many years he had run from him. But now, to wake up close to him, pressed to his side, Javert’s bare skin against his own, Valjean was filled by the warm glow of contentment.

They had not even bothered to pull on their nightshirts again after Javert had hungrily pressed him into the mattress and laid claim to him with a vigor that belied his age. And in turn, Valjean’s body had roused with the response of a younger man, their lovemaking leaving them in an exhausted, sweaty tangle at last.

Through the open window, a gentle breeze came in, carrying the scents of their new garden: the wet, green smell of dew on leaves, the floral notes of roses and lilacs.

When Valjean stirred, Javert’s arms tightened around him, possessive even in his sleep. Javert’s rough whiskers were pressed to his shoulder, a long, hard leg thrust between his thighs. Javert muttered something Valjean could not make out, but Valjean relented and allowed himself to remain in Javert’s embrace while slowly, the world began to wake around them.

He had not thought it was possible to be so content, with Cosette taken from him. But little by little, with the routine of daily visit following visit, with Cosette tenderly calling him father as they walked through her garden or sat by the fireplace, something inside him that had been eternally poised for flight had relaxed.

She was still his. A part of her heart, which even Pontmercy’s greedy fingers could not reach, still belonged to him. His might only be an hour out of her day—but that part was his, and his alone.

Meanwhile, Javert had proven more than capable of filling the hours of Valjean’s evenings, and though he was often little inclined to the conversations or books that had whiled away the hours for Valjean and Cosette, his hunger for Valjean proved boundless—and that was a diversion Valjean gladly gave himself up to.

Now, as Valjean gazed at the shadows that the curtains cast on Javert’s skin, Javert began to stir once more. His mouth moved against Valjean’s shoulder, and his long, muscled legs, still between Valjean’s own thighs, shifted. Against his back, Valjean could feel that a different part of Javert had stirred as well. Javert’s body was hot and ardent, straining towards him with the youthful rigor of a buck in spring, and by the time Javert’s eyes were open, his shaft had nestled into the crease between Valjean’s buttocks.

“You’re awake.” Javert’s voice was rough with sleep.

Valjean found himself smiling helplessly, even as his own body flushed with his response to such fervent desires.

Once, he had thought himself arrived in the winter of his life. Yet now, with week after week of sharing his nights with Javert, breathing in the warm scent of his skin and knowing himself safely held when he slept, that fearful vision of frozen wastelands had given way to the sun. God had granted him an autumn of golden wheat and red leaves, the warm sun driving away any knowledge that winter would come, blessing them with long days of contentment, of companionship—and the desires of younger men, which now, at last, could be surrendered to without fear.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Javert moved against him, his hard shaft sliding against Valjean. “It is not that early.”

“No,” Valjean agreed breathlessly when Javert’s arm curved around him, a large hand drawing through the white curls that covered his chest until they found the patch of pale, scarred skin over his heart.

There, Javert’s fingers spread, his palm pressed to Valjean’s chest while Javert lazily moved against him instead.

Valjean’s own prick was hard, resting against his stomach. He could feel his pulse thrumming there between his legs, an ache that demanded to be quenched by his touch.

Instead, he kept his hands to himself even as his breath came faster, hoping that perhaps, despite last night’s exertion, Javert would want to slake his own desires by possessing him in the way they both enjoyed best.

Instead, with a hoarse chuckle, Javert brushed his mouth against his shoulder, his coarse hair rough enough to send pinpricks of heat through Valjean. His arm slid around to Valjean’s leg—and then, instead of pushing him to his stomach or pulling him up to his knees, Javert shifted until his shaft slid between Valjean’s thighs, disregarding his buttocks.

Slowly, lazily, Javert’s fingers stroked Valjean’s thigh. Embarrassed, Valjean realized that a soft gasp had broken free of his throat— but Javert laughed again in return, although he, too, had grown breathless.

“Still so strong,” Javert murmured. “Despite your age. Once, these thighs bent to lift trees. I well remember the sight...”

Valjean made another embarrassed sound when his own prick strained hopefully, flushed and hard despite the utter lack of stimulation. Instead, lubricated by nothing but the thin sheen of sweat on Valjean’s skin, Javert began to thrust between his thighs, making use of him like one bagnard might use another when there was no time or opportunity for penetration.

The thought forced another moan from Valjean. Was that what Javert was thinking of at this moment?

Javert’s fingers dug lightly into his muscles, then relaxed to massage his thigh. With every thrust, Valjean could feel the coarse, dark curls that surrounded the root of Javert’s shaft in copious amount brush against the backside of his buttocks. The sensation—Javert’s thrusts, the slide of his skin against Valjean’s, the scent of his sweat and desire and the sound of his labored breathing—was familiar, just as it had been during the uncounted nights when Javert had taken possession of his body before.

Yet this time, despite his own arousal, Valjean was oddly conscious of all the sensations of Javert’s rough, masculine body straining against him without the distraction of his own pleasure. Javert was hard and hot between his thighs. With every thrust, Valjean could feel him nudge his testicles, which were drawn up tight, full and unsatisfied.

Again Javert’s fingers dug into his skin. Valjean tensed around him in response, tightening the grip of his thighs until Javert groaned against his shoulder, the rhythm of his movements turning into staccato thrusts as his release spurted in white ribbons across Valjean’s thighs and stomach.

Breathing heavily, Valjean ignored the ache of his own arousal. He was embarrassed to find that there had been a moment of sudden disappointment—for even though the touch of Javert’s hand was pleasant enough, it did not compare to the almost unbearable pleasure of feeling Javert inside him.

Finally, Javert pulled back and rolled to his side. With a low, satisfied sound, he trailed his fingers through the mess he had left on Valjean’s thighs.

“Look at you,” he said, still sounding drowsy.

Instinctively, Valjean flushed, even as he rolled around as well to face Javert. Javert’s smile widened when his gaze dropped to where Valjean’s prick was still aching, hard with blood.

A moment later, his mouth was on Valjean’s, Valjean gasping softly as he surrendered to the kiss. Between his legs, his forgotten arousal throbbed fiercely—and then Javert’s hand wrapped around it.

“Did you think I’d forgotten you?” Javert murmured sleepily. “We both know what you like best.” He stroked him once, twice, Valjean panting into the kiss.

Then Javert released him. His fingers, still wet with his own release, trailed up Valjean’s crease. Slowly, unhurriedly, knowing fully well that their target would offer an easy surrender, they rubbed over the tight muscle, circling him teasingly without penetration until Valjean’s heart was racing and he was making a helpless sound of need.

Then, at last, Javert’s fingers slid inside. Two of the long, demanding digits stretched him open easily, moving in and out in a rhythm much slower than their usual coupling.

With a groan, Valjean arched, his eyes clenched shut as fierce pleasure rushed through him. Every thrust of Javert’s fingers within him drew forth an ecstasy that had him writhing, mindless and overwhelmed, one hand dropping down to clench around his own arousal.

Javert’s lips brushed his cheek, then his forehead, his rough whiskers scratchy against Valjean’s skin. Inside Valjean, his fingers crooked, increasing their pressure as they rubbed back and forth.

“Look at you,” Javert said again, low and satisfied.

Valjean’s hand sought out his shoulder, helplessly clutching at him. He tried to draw in a breath, but it was impossible. There was nothing but the slow, relentless rub of Javert’s fingers, the burning need inside him building higher and higher until at last, with the sound of Javert’s heavy breathing in his ear, he spilled himself. For long moments, he stroked himself through the onslaught of pleasure, Javert’s fingers still stroking him within. Finally, out of breath and nearly insensible, he came to rest against Javert.

Javert’s fingers were still inside him, he realized after long minutes. Now that Valjean’s breathing had calmed, his prick softened, they nudged him again. He made an embarrassed, overwhelmed sound. Even now there was still pleasure in the stimulation and his softened shaft jerked instinctively, his exhausted body arching against Javert.

Javert’s mouth sought out his once more. Then, at last, Javert’s fingers slipped from him, the large hand appreciatively clutching a buttock once more.

“You needn’t prove it,” Valjean murmured, half embarrassed by how eager his body’s response was, despite his age, half still reeling with the force of the pleasure he had never grown used to.

Javert’s thumb trailed over his buttock, dipping into the crease again.

“Who says I am trying to prove it? Must I have a reason to see you come undone?” Javert’s lips bared his teeth in the smile of the tiger, though his eyes were warm and sated. “It’s a sight I enjoy.”

The pad of his thumb brushed the rim of Valjean’s hole again, who felt a shiver running through him, remembering the pleasant stretch of Javert pressing in deeper.

This time, though, Javert merely stroked him slowly until Valjean pressed his cheek to Javert’s, his eyes drawn towards the window that stood half open, admitting the light of the morning sun and the song of birds outside.

The day promised to be beautiful—and certainly, so would the coming night.

He breathed in, the air heavy with the scent of lilacs and roses, then turned his head, his lips catching the corner of Javert’s mouth. Against his hole, Javert’s finger still played, the touch idle, more comforting than arousing.

“It is good when you have me,” Valjean said clumsily, embarrassed even now by putting these things into words. “Unbearably good. There’s nothing I want more.”

Javert drew in a sudden breath, his thumb stopping its caress for a moment. Then, after a heartbeat of hesitation, it resumed the gentle, intimate touch, and Javert’s mouth quirked against Valjean’s lips.

“I know,” he murmured, a hint of roughness in it, and a great deal of affection. “I know.”