SUMMARY: Javert's wolfsister falls for M. Madeleine's wolfbrother, and Javert almost goes along for the ride. [Soulbonded psychic wolves AU.]

CANON: 2012 movie musical

PAIRING: M. Madeleine (Jean Valjean)/Javert

RATING: M for sexuality and consent issues

NOTES: Written for the 2013 Psychic Wolves for Lupercalia fest, this story takes place in an alternate universe where some people have a psychic soulbond with telepathic wolves. When the wolves are feeling randy, their human companions get some spillover from that. Consequently, there are some consent issues here.

Based on the 2012 movie musical; I can't really see any other version of Javert quite like this.

Thanks to Gehayi for the wolf names and Ellen Fremedon for the beta.


Justice and Mercy

Heat blooms in Javert's body: sudden, familiar, and unwelcome.

Outside, his wolfsister Justine mouths at the muzzle of Monsieur Madeleine's Clément, and he lays a foreleg over her neck. A moment earlier they had been loping through the gardens together, innocent as puppies; now her interest ripples up the bond and through Javert's mind like a flash flood, unstoppable and overwhelming.

In Madeleine's drawing-room, Javert forgets the port he has been politely pretending to drink; forgets whatever Madeleine had been saying a moment before; forgets everything but that he has a body.

His uniform collar feels too tight, and without thinking he reaches up and unbuttons it. The skin of his throat feels tender, as if he scraped too hard when he shaved that morning, and the cool air against it makes him shiver.

It is a mistake. The flame kindling in Madeleine's eyes will burn him to ash if he allows it.

The last time this had happened, there had been some warning, and Javert had locked himself in his room while Justine sought out the wolf she'd been eyeing for months. It had been humiliating and unpleasant, but it was a private humiliation, something Javert could box away afterwards and ignore; he had never even spoken of it with the other wolf's brother. It was not a part of himself, but something that came of having a wolfsister: Justine's needs, not his own.

This is not private. Madeleine is sitting too close, and there is something too hungry about the look in his eyes. Javert does not like that look, not at all like the so-kind M. Madeleine; there is no gentleness in the way those big, square hands grip the arms of his chair. He does not look like the man who named his wolfbrother Clément.

(But Javert does not want gentleness, does not deserve mercy. He has made a false report against a good man and he should do penance for it.)

Javert knows in the back of his mind that Clément leaps on Justine and pins her with his weight: he is more than half again her size, a big wolf for a big man, and when he bites at the scruff of Justine's neck she wriggles happily, her joy and need echoing through her bond with Javert until he feels like the teeth—Clément's, Madeleine's—are in his own flesh. Javert's next breath comes out as a moan, faint but damning.

Madeleine stands, looming over Javert, still with that strange light in his eyes. Javert cannot move, and dares not lift his eyes; he closes them when Madeleine's fingers touch under his chin, lifting his head. Madeleine's self-control is enviable; another man would have been on him minutes ago. (Javert would have resisted another man. He would have.) Surely Madeleine will not—

His mouth is on Javert's throat, under his jaw—no, of course he would not seek a kiss, this is not about that—and he is between Javert's thighs, caging him into the chair, his weight heavy and warm. Madeleine's mouth is a brand, hot and seeking, and Javert cannot stop himself from tilting his head back further.

It hurts when Madeleine bites him, his breathing harsh and panting against Javert's skin. It hurts and Javert jerks up against him and clutches at Madeleine's shoulders. He does not know if he means to push him away or draw him closer, but Madeleine draws back at once, his eyes wild. He looks almost guilty—but what does Monsieur le Maire have to feel ashamed of? And there is contempt there, too, in the twist of his mouth. Javert cannot say which of them it is for, but it tears at something in his chest. He is aching, burning, and he wants to arch up, he wants to pull Madeleine down, he wants to allow him—

"We cannot," Madeleine says, but he is still leaning against Javert, his hands flexing as though he wants to grab and hold. "We cannot."

Of course Madeleine, upright, honorable M. Madeleine, does not want this. Neither of them wants this. (The man is pressed against Javert's thigh and Javert can feel him, hard as iron. He wants this as much as Javert does.) It is intolerable, and the heat still burns through him, Justine's anticipation simmering in his mind and flickering through his veins like fire.

"I have to leave," Javert finally manages to grind out. It has taken all of his will not to rut against Madeleine's thigh, not to tilt his head back and spread his legs in invitation. "I have to—"

"Javert—" Madeleine grabs his wrist as he stands, preventing him from fleeing. His grip is the grip of a working man, strong and callused, entirely at odds with his station, and for a moment Javert feels that unsettling familiarity again—but it is impossible, he knows that now, already knows what the letter will say when it finally arrives. He resists, pulling back; he cannot even contemplate what he must look like, his clothing disarrayed, his trousers straining, the marks of Madeleine's teeth on his neck. He is not sure which is more arousing, the prospect of capitulation or the thought of resisting until Madeleine uses that formidable strength and forces him back to the chair; and he is not sure which thought is more shameful, when all is shame.

It is only because of Justine, he tells himself. Tomorrow it will be over, and he will bow his head and beg Monsieur le Maire's forgiveness.

"It's not safe out there," Madeleine says. His face is something terrible that Javert does not know how to describe, but he loosens his painfully tight grip on Javert's wrist as he fumbles in his pocket. "I will not send you out into the streets alone, not now. Here." He presses something into Javert's hand: a key. "The bedroom down the hall locks from inside. There is no other key, I swear it. You are safe from me. But—go, please. Quickly."

Javert goes, although he is unsteady on his feet, as if he had drunk the offered port after all. He locks the door. He sits on the edge of the bed, sweating and shaking, as Justine leads Clément a merry chase around Madeleine's garden. He is not sure he wants to be safe. He clenches his fist around the key until it digs into his palm, then sets it by the bed, carefully, although he wants to fling it from him. (He wants to unlock the door.)

The bed is disarrayed, as if it has been slept in, and when Javert finally lets himself lie down, it smells like Madeleine, like earth and sweat. An honest smell, that should not make Javert want the things he wants.

Justine comes to a halt at last, legs braced, everything in her joyous and excited, waiting for Clément to cover her.

Javert burns. He fumbles with his trouser buttons and takes himself in hand, roughly. He tries not to imagine a different hand, not to imagine that broad, strong hand on the back of his neck, pressing him into the mattress. He tries not to imagine a thigh thrust between his legs to spread them, teeth in the back of his neck, Madeleine's lips against his skin.

He does not let himself wonder what Madeleine is doing.


Javert is sore and aching the next morning, as if he truly had been taken in all ways the night before. The thought brings an uncomfortable flush to his face. Justine's contentment drifts to him through the bond-she has found a comfortable spot under a bush and is curled up with Clément, her head resting on her paws—and for a bitter moment he envies her that contentment.

How do you bear it? Javert thinks, before he can stop himself.

Confusion from her. How do I bear what?

The—submission. All of it, Javert thinks, but of course for Justine it is different: she is an animal, a brilliant animal but an animal all the same, and she does not know shame. No one has ever thought less of her for her bond with Javert. But she is a proud creature, his wolfsister; he has never seen her submit except in this.

But I do not submit, Justine says, and her mental voice is colored with incomprehension. Beside her, Clément stirs, and she thrusts her muzzle into his ruff, affectionately. I choose my mate, and I welcome him. It is easy. There is silence for a moment, and a tangle of worried confusion like colors that do not go together. Brother, are you all right? Have I done something wrong?

No! You could never— But even to her who is closest to him, the other half of his soul, Javert cannot explain his fear or his shame. Everything is fine.

Everything is fine, he tells himself as he dresses in his rumpled uniform, trying to smooth out the wrinkles with shaking fingers—he had not been in any state to fold it, the night before. It takes him nearly a minute to button his collar, and in the mirror he can still see a red bruise under his jaw, where Madeleine's mouth had been. He has to close his eyes for a moment to compose himself, willing away the prickling wash of heat the memory brings.

Everything is fine, he tells himself, as he declines Madeleine's awkward offer of breakfast and they avoid each other's eyes. They will not speak of this again, and he does not know whether he is glad of it.

He bends down to sink his hand into the soft black fur of Justine's neck as they step out into the street, and she leans against his leg for a moment, her affection bright as starlight in his mind, uncomplicated and straightforward, unwavering.

Javert has his wolfsister and he has his duty, and he does not need—does not want—anything else.