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Title: Off the Record
Pairing: Javert/His Homolust
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine
Word Count: 438
Summary: It is his first month on the job, and Javert is not prepared for the sorts of things in which incarcerated men engage.
Warnings: Internalized Homophobia
Notes: Written for the kink meme prompt: Javert hates convicts so much because he associates them with homosexuality and he's super repressed

It is not spoken of overtly because officially it does not exist, but for all his faults Javert is not blind. He is a guard for only so long before things start to creep into his awareness; the tactile, physical violence is something he expected, but this other, this perverse physicality—

It does not surprise him. Unexpected, but explainable. The prison is a world unto itself, a Garden with no Eve; with no lawful feminine outlet, vile and terrible urges will surface like muck in a pond. Out of all the new recruits he is the first to see it.

He is also the first to correct it.

Black night, no stars. It is his first month on the job. Javert is woken by an older guard—disturbance in an adjacent cell block, his presence is required. Javert dresses quickly and moves with a precise step, and in an instant he is in the heart of it. There is a great uproar of noise, directed at one particular cell housing a notoriously unpopular pair of inmates. The sound of dozens of inmates screaming in at the pair, whooping and hollering and carrying on like animals, clouds the air. The commotion suggests a brawl and Javert is quick to act, reaching the offending cell in moments. The sight, the reality of it, shocks him. Javert’s swift stride to the offending cell slams still; he is frozen, rigor sets in, he had never expected—he didn’t know men could—

Two prisoners—petty theft, swindling, 10 years for both—locked in a deformed mockery of a matrimonial embrace. Strained, aching flesh and the sound of a steady rhythmic pounding assault his senses. The sight of it infuriates him, like someone lit a fire in the pit of his chest. One of the men, the man allowing himself to be—to be used like a woman, he has the audacity, the nerve to turn his head and look at Javert. The young guard’s eyes meet the convict’s gaze and something in him snaps, white-hot and terrible.

He tears the men apart so forcefully the inmates in the surrounding cells are rendered mute.

When he goes back to the barracks he shares with the other young guards, the noise is still ringing in his ears. And if any of them notices Javert’s stiff gait, his flushed face, they do not acknowledge it.

He tucks himself back into his bed awkwardly, mindful not to brush against his straining erection. Adrenaline, he thinks, is a damnable thing. When he finally wills it away and falls into a fretful sleep, his mind is carefully, perfectly blank.


November 2013

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