AN: Another kink meme prompt. Warnings for established relationships I was too lazy to properly flesh out, D/s themes, and old gay men having sex. Don't read this. My sincerest apologies to Victor Hugo.

Javert doesn't know how it happens, but it does, and he still finds himself at times thinking he imagined everything. When he wakes, in the moments between dreams and clarity, the last six months appear to him only in flashes.

The barricade. The sewer. The boy. The parapet. The Seine.


Valjean dragging him out of the water, Valjean infuriatingly doting over him for days, Valjean and his God-forsaken sincerity.

It was anything but easy for Javert. He barely spoke a word to Valjean for the first week he was stuck at Valjean's residence. He tried to put it from his mind that this was the very address Valjean had given him at the barricade. Worse yet, he realized there was nothing for him outside of this apartment; he had handed in his resignation and there was certainly nobody who would notice him missing. It was anything but easy for Javert to abandon those feelings of hatred he had toward Valjean, and yes, he thought, that's what it was - hatred. Javert hated Jean Valjean. He hated the criminal who had cheated his way through life; he hated the sinner who could not even admit his crime and instead tried to flee from justice; he hated the fraud who bested an entire town for eight years.

The man who seemed to have dedicated his life to running from justice.

The thief. He had stolen bread, he had stolen time, he had stolen Javert's right to death.

No, it wasn't easy for Javert to come to love Valjean, but what in Javert's life had been easy?


After a few months, Javert felt almost uncomfortably comfortable; he had slipped into domestic life at last. He found himself enjoying the company of Valjean, enjoying the comfort of the older man, enjoying their life together. He was still first and foremost Javert, but he worried he was perhaps losing a defining part of himself.

He found himself longing for that action once more, for the intensity, for the struggle. Yes, it had been hard for Javert to get used to Valjean, but now it was too easy.

Javert found himself wondering if Valjean had felt the same way. Valjean seemed to constantly be giving off an air of someone who lives on the brink; someone who appears cool and collected, but harbours rage and hatred just below the surface. Still stuck in his thought that people were incapable of change, he saw the battle between who Valjean was and who Valjean wanted to be.

Unfortunately for Javert, Valjean spent the vast majority of his time being the man he wanted to be.

He realized he could not, even if he desired it, take their lives back to the way they used to be. There will never be another altercation in the hospital; never another mayor manipulating his chief inspector; never another night at the barricade. Javert let himself recall that night. Valjean's grasp on him had been rough, controlling, unrelenting. His self-control had eventually won over when he let Javert go, but that lingering anger was there in the way he pulled Javert from the tavern, in the way it was all too easy to intimidate Javert with the pistol and with the knife.

Javert wondered, though, if there still might be a way to see that side of Valjean, if only temporarily.

When it happens, it is not so much a plan as a spur-of-the-moment decision, almost unconscious; a reflex of a desire left too long unchecked.

They were making love - yes, that's what it was, Javert thinks, not something carnal and animalistic but something all together too gentle, too holy - and before Javert can think better of himself, he moans softly, "24601."

The number hangs heavy in the air for a moment, and in that second Javert felt that sinking feeling; that apprehensiveness, that unrelenting anxiety he had almost forgotten he could feel.

"What did you call me?" He hears Valjean ask softly, restraint again winning out.

Unsure how to respond, how to make his desires known to this man, Javert says nothing.

"Is that your desire?" Valjean demands. His voice is more of concern than condemnation. It is stern, yet not judging, and Javert wonders if he has offended him. "To be had by that man?"

The words catch in Javert's throat, and a nod is all he can manage.

Had Javert been watching Valjean's face at that moment - had his eyes not been closed, half-pressed into the bedclothes in embarrassment - he would have seen a devilish smile grace Valjean's otherwise unperturbed face. He would have known, in an instant, that yes, that part of Valjean was still there, and still only barely beneath the surface.

Valjean pushes himself up off the mattress and stands up. "The ex-convict would not have had you in a bed," he decides. He grabs Javert's arm roughly, but Javert can feel the hesitation, the restraint still present in the older man's grasp. Javert is brought to his feet next to Valjean, partly his own effort and partly Valjean's pull. But this is not what he needs; he needs the realism, he needs to surrender control, or it is meaningless.

Valjean leans close to Javert's ear, not letting go of his arm. "Are you certain this is what you want? If you allow me to do this, I will not relent," he warns.

"Yes," Javert chokes.

Valjean pauses, then seems to come to some conclusion. His grasp on Javert's arm tightens, and Javert winces in pain. "On your knees," he commands, coldly. The voice is not one Javert recognizes.

He is too dazed to respond or even fully understand what Valjean has said.

"I said," Valjean almost spits, "On your knees." His free hand finds the top of Javert's shoulder and pushes him down, and Javert catches himself just in time to kneel somewhat of his own volition. His knees hit the wooden floor hard regardless, and Javert feels the pain throughout his body, filling him with something he has needed for so long.

Valjean lets go of him and commands him to close his eyes. Javert hears him rustling throughout the room. He impatiently waits on his knees, becoming all too aware of the hard floor beneath him, and gets the distinct impression Valjean is taking his time.

Javert hears Valjean's footsteps coming toward him, then feels his face in Valjean's calloused hands. He realises they are not the hands of his lover, but of the man he hunted for nearly twenty years. They fasten something around Javert's eyes as a makeshift blindfold - an ascot, perhaps? - and then move down to tie Javert's wrists together behind his back.

"Helplessness," Javert hears Valjean say from above him. The words are harsh and unfamiliar; they are everything Javert needs. "Nineteen years of it. Nineteen years of absolute helplessness. You knew one night of mercy at another's hands, Inspector. Perhaps nineteen hours."

Javert feels Valjean's hand find his jaw and tighten, forcing his mouth open.

"You have a lot to make up for, Inspector," Valjean's voice is raw and unforgiving. The audible venom goes straight to Javert's groin. Valjean's grasp stays firm, but Javert feels a thumb slide tenderly against Javert's cheek, as if to reassure him that he is not in any real danger. The gesture serves as some sort of unspoken agreement between the two, Valjean imploring Javert to understand that regardless of what is said, he does not harbour any resentment for the former inspector. The tenderness is only fleeting, however; if anything, Valjean's grip tightens.

"Valjean," Javert breathes. It is all he can manage, and the words stumble almost desperately out of his mouth.

"I have not permitted you to speak," Valjean replies harshly. His hand lets go of Javert's jaw, and instead grabs a fistful of the inspector's short hair. "Now open your mouth and be quiet."

No sooner had Javert obeyed than he felt the head of Valjean's cock push past his lips. Valjean had not broken his promise to be unrelenting, and uses the hand in Javert's hair to push his head along his member. Javert sputters, almost choking, and he feels Valjean harden inside his mouth.

"Your mouth serves you far better like this, Inspector," Valjean snarls. No, Javert thinks. Not Valjean. It is that ex-convict. Javert does not know the voice ringing in his ears, does not know the rough hands gripping the back of his head, does not know the greedy cock forcing itself down Javert's throat. He finds himself testing his bonds, attempting to pull his wrists apart, and realizing it is in vain.

Helplessness, he thinks, and Javert can feel the blood rush to his own cock.

Valjean speeds up, thrusting into Javert's mouth and pushing Javert onto him at the same time.

"Is this what you enjoy?" Valjean mocks. "Pleasuring a convict? Being forced to your knees? At least a whore is paid," Javert feels his cheeks flush, and he is grateful Valjean cannot see his eyes. "Helpless, another man inside your mouth, lower than a whore."

Javert can feel Valjean's orgasm building within him as he anxiously awaits the man's spend, but suddenly Valjean pulls himself out. He does not give Javert time even to catch his breath before he gives his next command.

"Turn around," It is that same stranger's voice, barely above a whisper.

Javert does as he is told.

With some difficulty, Javert is able to turn around. His cheeks burn with shame, his knees ache from the wooden floor, his jaw is tender where Valjean had squeezed it. His cock throbs shamelessly. Bliss is the only world Javert can think of.

"Spread your legs," Valjean commands harshly, and Javert struggles to obey. He finds his balance compromised due to still having his wrists tied behind his back, but he slowly spreads his knees apart as he feels a stern hand on the back of his neck bending him forward, pushing his face to meet the wooden floor.

Valjean inserts a warm, wet finger inside Javert. It is rough and lacks Valjean's usual grace and delicacy; if Javert had thought Valjean's earlier movements foreign, it was nothing compared to this. Over the last few months, Valjean had been almost two delicate with the inspector, as if one miscalculation, one toe past what Javert was ready for, physically or emotionally, would send him back to the parapet. No, it is not his lover's touch; it is the touch of a man he oversaw in prison for one of those nineteen long years, of a man filled with the rage of a world that had dealt him a bad hand at every opportunity. Too soon, the finger is followed by a second.

Javert lets the fantasy encompass him. He imagines he is back at Toulon, the good officer being finally brought down a notch by one of the inmates. He imagines what they might have thought of him then. Rigid, ruthless Javert with his face pressed to the ground and face flushed with humiliation; unwavering, unfaltering Javert with his eyes blinded and his wrists bound; that unrelentless, almost feral symbol of authority with the taste of a convict's cock in his mouth and two rough fingers in his ass. The man who had caused all that suffering finally having some of it brought back upon himself.

It was all he could do to stop from audibly moaning, but he did not think he could take the derision Valjean was sure to inflict upon him if he did.

A third finger finds its way inside Javert and Valjean is holding him roughly, sternly, relentlessly. The fear that washes over Javert is real as it dawns on him that he had never felt the full of Valjean's strength being used against him. Those arms that pulled him out of the Seine and carried him through the streets had been known to Javert only as protection, as a barrier between Javert and whatever personal demons he may still have been battling. In this moment, Javert is powerless; he is broken.

Finally, he can take no more, and Javert opens his mouth.

"Please," he begs. "Valjean, please."

Valjean removes the hand that was roughly holding Javert's hip and again grabs a fistful of his hair. "I asked you not to speak," he says, coldly.

He removes his fingers from Javert and presses the tip of his cock against his entrance. With one hand still on the back of his head, one roughly grabbing at his hip, Valjean thrusts foreward.

Javert cannot supress a moan, and Valjean is unrelenting. There is none of the slow buildup he had come to expect of his nights with Valjean; there is only need, want, power. Valjean is once again a thief, taking from Javert without a second thought, fueled only by his own desire.

Valjean's hand moves from Javert's hip and finds his aching cock, his calloused hands unforgiving as he moves along his shaft.

"Well?" Valjean demands. "I want to hear you beg for it."

"Please, Valjean," Javert chokes. "Please, I need this, I need you."

Valjean continues to pound into Javert almost carelessly, his hand firm as he jerks Javert's cock. Javert feels Valjean spead up, desperately and selfishly slamming into Javert, and just when Javert thinks he can withstand no more, he feels his lover's orgasm pass from his body to his own. Valjean's spend covers his ass and a second later, Javert himself is coming, covering Valjean's hand.

Valjean all but collapses, trying to regain his breath, as he pulls himself from Javert. Valjean stands and retrieves a hankerchief, which he uses to clean off both himself and Javert. He unbinds the ascots restraining him and helps Javert to his feet.

"Thank you," Javert says quietly, filled with a more overwhelming love for his partner than he had felt in months.