Pairing: Javert/Jean Valjean
Disclaimer: Not mine
Word Count: 1221
Summary: Javert is plagued by the terrible desire to be thoroughly ravaged by Monsieur Madeleine (and perhaps a certain convict, as well).
Warnings: Internalized Homophobia, D/s themes, Autoerotic Asphyxiation
Notes: From the kink meme prompt: Before it was revealed that the Mayor was 24601, Javert had guilty fantasies about being collared and kept under his desk for a whole work day, having to service his superior in every way. These fantasies did not stop afterwards, but he hated himself more for having them.
Monsieur Madeleine was a good man. He met Javert’s eye when they passed on the street, and it was a warm and friendly hand that grasped Javert’s shoulder whenever they spoke. Monsieur Madeleine was kind to his workers—perhaps too kind, but then Javert had never been one for soft feelings—and under his firm hand the town had prospered.
Javert thought of that firm hand at night, lying awake in his uncomfortable bed. He thought of Monsieur Madeleine’s large, strong hands and he flushed. An infatuation, nothing more—he’d experienced a similar problem at the prison Toulon. Javert would simply need to will it away.
A month of this passed, nights full of visions of large hands and what they are capable of, before Javert took himself in his own hand and realized that maybe his infatuation would not be so easily tamed.
Javert was right, as he so often was, but the severity of the problem escaped his notice.
It was during one of his visits to Monsieur Madeleine’s factory; Javert had stopped by to inform the mayor of a few suspicious youths that he suspected of pick-pocketing factory employees. Monsieur Madeleine was seated behind his desk, hands folded atop the dark wood as he listened politely to the Inspector. Javert stood rigid and straight-backed, hands clasped behind him. As he paused for breath (his speech on the dangers posed by young men traveling in groups of three or more having gone on rather longer than expected), a noise from the factory downstairs called his attention. Monsieur Madeleine unclasped his hands and pushed himself to his feet; Javert’s jaw snapped shut.
“It seems to me,” Monsieur Madeleine offered, “that you have a firm grip on the situation, Inspector. Unfortunately I have my own duties to attend to.” He smiled warmly. “Alas, I have no assistant hidden under this desk, so you will have to excuse me.”
Javert nodded stiffly and turned on his heel, striding out of the man’s office with a quick step, grateful to leave before his face betrayed him. The images that had arisen at Monsieur Madeleine’s perfectly innocent comment had him flushing like a harlot. In a heart’s beat he had seen it in his mind, as clear as a starry sky: himself, crouched beneath the desk, head buried between Monsieur Madeleine’s strong thighs, faced pressed against—
Javert swallowed audibly. It was indecent, this. To wish to be degraded in such a fashion, and by a man no less.
Soon after, the dreams started to become far more graphic. Dimly, in the most carnal part of his brain, tucked away in his subconscious, Javert knew the strong, calloused hands that had plagued his nights could not belong to any woman and in fact belonged to a certain mayor. He knew this, but the dreams had lacked the sharp edge of reality and it was too easy to just ignore, to pretend.
The desk complicated matters. Now Javert was dreaming of terrible, humiliating things; he dreamt of being kept beneath the desk, crammed under it by the man he knew to be so capable of physically restraining him (Monsieur Madeleine did not draw attention to it but it was noticeable, so noticeable, how very fit he was). Javert pictured it nightly—wood digging into his shoulders as a large hand bent his head forward, pushing him against the considerable hardness of the man sitting before him.
To service another man with his mouth—Javert recoiled from the idea even as he felt himself stiffen beneath his nightclothes. He stroked himself off succinctly, wishing to end his torment even as the idea of it wrapped itself around him completely, pervading him like a noxious miasma. He had never had a man’s cock down his throat but at the thought of the weight against his tongue he came wish a spasm.
Nights came and went, and one day Monsieur Madeleine lifted a cart off of a dying man and Javert felt the click of the wheels in his head. The strength, the all-encompassing might of this beast of a man—he was blind, to not have seen it earlier. His lust clouded his judgment. Javert watched as Jean Valjean saved the crushed man, heaving the great weight of the cart onto his broad shoulders. Breathing heavily, the convict’s gaze matched his own, and something like recognition passed between them. Furious at his own stupidity, Javert left abruptly.
The man was a convict who skipped out on parole and spent years lying to this town; he deserved to be brought to justice, and Javert was all too happy to oblige. He would send his suspicions to his superiors immediately, and with more than a little luck the criminal would be back where he belonged, tucked away behind bars.
Javert went to bed pleased, that night. To bring about justice was to do God’s work, and nothing brought him greater satisfaction. Moreover, the awareness that Monsieur Madeleine was not a kind and innocent mayor was bound to convince his traitorous body to give up its bizarre infatuation.
In this, he was wrong.
No sooner had Javert closed his eyes than the familiar vision sprung forth, unbidden: himself, hard and aching in his uniform, head against Valjean’s thigh and again beneath that damnable desk. A rope tightened around his neck as Valjean’s gaze bore into his own. The convict smiled at him and pulled him forward, dragging Javert’s head up against the cloth of the trousers that covered his large, muscular thighs. The noose tightened—Javert’s vision went black and he saw stars.
Javert’s eyes snapped open and he grimaced; he was hard as a bone beneath his nightclothes. This was a sickness, there could be no other explanation. Frustrated at his own perversion, he stubbornly refused to answer his body’s call for mercy. Javert folded his arms and turned on his side; through sheer force of will he was able to fall back into an uneasy slumber.
As he wished, Javert did not dream of an encounter beneath the desk. He was, however, cursed with another vision of depravity, wherein his person was soundly and thoroughly ravaged against the accursed desk by a very domineering, very angry, very naked Jean Valjean. The thought of being bent over a desk with a hand wrapped around his throat and a cock buried inside him should not have aroused him so. He did not even have to touch himself, this time; Javert woke from the dream with his sheets stuck to his thighs as if he were an adolescent.
In the daylight Javert pursued the man who haunted his nights like an incubus, and if his enthusiasm was a little too intense, it was not commented upon. At night he lived with visions of brute strength and strong hands, and he went through an embarrassing amount of sheets.
Then there were barricades, and Javert found himself with his knees on the floor of a tavern and a noose wrapped around his pale neck. A man entered, and he found himself staring up at the smiling face of Jean Valjean. The noose was tugged hard, and Javert was pulled to his feet; as he stumbled forward, Javert had the sudden thought that for once in his life, he would very much welcome this dream.