Chapter Text
But when Javert had finished his speech and his apology he did not leave as Madeleine would have wished he did, instead he approached the desk and laid himself over it. Madeleine’s quiet noise of surprise broke the silence. Indeed, it had been obvious from the moment that Javert had entered the room that he had been in heat, the musk was unmistakable but Madeleine had paid it no mind. He had been around, and approached by, many Omegas in heat before and had not expected it of Javert. Why should he? He who lived in the knowledge that this man sought his demise. Only Javert had sought instead his forgiveness, and now Jean’s mind was in turmoil: cast into the waters by the turnabout of an apology and now too by the arched back and the long legs and the swell of a small, firm, round behind. Javert’s eyes were on him and they were dark and hot, like liquid obsidian, and there was a redness to his cheeks that belied the heat beneath his skin. He was speaking but the mad rush of blood in Jean’s ears slowed his comprehension. It was something akin to, “I don’t offer only an apology but myself,” and “I have no doubt you have had preferable matches in mind” or something of the like. It went on and on and Jean found he deafened to it completely.
Soon he stood at the man’s side and found to his surprise his own hand splayed out over one round, pert cheek. His hand looked good against it, big enough to get a good grasp, strong enough to leave an imprint. It pressed up against his palm and he became aware of Javert’s breath rough and short with need. But this was not Javert, if this had been Javert as Jean Valjean had known him- the man who had tormented and haunted him- surely he would not have touched him so. No, this must be some other man, some bestial, hungry creature that proffered itself to him. In all his years, which had been many, no scent had ever drawn Jean into such depths of madness as this one did.
His eyes watched, as if in a dream as the waistband on the navy trousers slid over the curve of that behind revealing sensually the tanned skin beneath, dark and soft with almost black hair. He stroked it and felt a fondness almost as if he were stroking a friendly dog. It pressed up against him, warm and affectionate. His cock twitched in his trousers and he realised with embarrassment and surprise that he was hard, straining. Javert moaned approvingly as his trousers sank around his ankles, and his leg muscles tensed as he arched his back further. Jean’s hands roamed the lean muscle of his thighs, feeling the rigid strain of tendon and muscle and the soft touch of hair. His breath sounded deadly loud in his ears as those alien hands, which so resembled his own, spread the firm cheeks to glimpse inside the dark crack. There was the dusky, pink clench of muscle and he swallowed thickly at the sight. His thumb found its way to press against it and it gave way willingly, soft and loose but not so much that it did not grip around him as he pressed into the first knuckle.
The inside of this man was warm, so very warm it was hot, and soft, and silky, and wet with the excitement of his hormones. The noise Javert emitted as that thumb pushed inside was heady and intoxicating like the strongest alcohol and Jean heard himself grunt. Javert was not talking now, or perhaps he was, but whatever noises he made they bled together, soft sighs, low moans, short husky breaths as Jean watched, hypnotised, as his thumb pressed in and slid out of that sweet wet grip over and over, tugging on the ring of dark muscle. Those long legs trembled and Javert shifted and Jean saw Javert’s cock and balls appear, drawn out from under him and allowed to hang down, heavy and leaking with desire. He heard himself grunt again and it seemed as if in the haze only his hands knew what to do, for they unbuttoned his trousers easily and drew out his cock. It was leaking in his hand and he looked at in horror as if it were a weapon he had drawn out with the intention of ending this vulnerable man’s life. ‘What a terrible thing!’ He thought, ‘What a terrible thing it would be to breed this man!’ This nightmare, this responsibility, this innocent victim who did not know the truth of Jean Valjean’s identity and would never offer himself if he did.
Jean groaned as his head pressed inside that welcoming grip and it pressed back on him, drawing him in deeper. Javert arched against the desk, throwing his head back in relief and ecstasy. Jean’s hands were clenched on his narrow hips and he found that soon there was no room for thought. Only the rigid pumping of his cock, throbbing and thick and veiny with desire, in and out of that silky hole. That there was only the heady sound of Javert’s moans, which Jean never could have envisioned to sound so sweet and imploring, and his own grunts of pleasure. There was no space for doubt as that long lean, powerful body thrust itself back on his cock, gripping and squeezing and stroking. As that strong man raised himself up on his arms to throw his head back again in ecstasy, his mouth in a dreadful toothy animal smile of victory as the sound of his behind slapping against Jean’s hips and vice-versa filled the room. Jean’s hand found itself grasping that long throat, feeling the Adam’s apple bob against his palm, and he arched that man back further pulling him until he was impaled fully, until his moaning face, his fluttering eyes were visible. Until the look of mindless ecstasy was what filled Jean’s vision. Until the taste of the tears and sweat on his cheeks filled Jean’s mouth and covered his tongue. Until the sweet rippling squeezing of his hole consumed everything, accompanied only by that equally sweet cry of delight that escaped the man who once had seemed to so terrifying and now seemed so awe inspiring in his terror brought low. Jean heard himself grunt and felt the powerful punch of his orgasm as he snapped his hips, the legs of the desk banging against the floor. He grunted as his cock pulsed, emptying his sack of every last drop of poor, ignored seed that had longed for freedom for so long. Javert moaned and wriggled against him, squeezing and stroking him, biting his bottom lip, almost puffing out laughs of delight as he took it deep inside.
When it was done Jean stood on shaky legs, hand clenched around Javert’s throat, other hand leaving bruises on his hips. He puffed ragged breaths, Javert’s filling the silence between his own. Then he took him again. Took him again hard and forceful, driving the desk across the room until it trapped the chair between the wall, hand on the back of Javert’s neck, pinning him against the wood. That powerful body, with its shirt and jacket trapped up around his shoulders, tears in his eyes, his horrible mouth open it loud desperate moans of pleasure, writhing beneath him. And when that was done and Jean finally found the strength to release him that horrible mouth dropped itself on trembling knees to Jean’s cock and it engulfed him, swallowing and lathing him voraciously until he spent a third time, this time over a hungry tongue. Even this was not enough and he found he knotted his hands in that dark coarse hair on that beast’s head and fucked its face until it choked and gagged around him. The fourth time he spent over that ugly face, striping that lax satisfied expression with heavy spurts of seed. How beautiful it was, red and wet with tears and spit, turned up towards him as if in worship, eyes closed, long dark lashes resting against rugged cheeks.
Jean staggered back, unclenching his hands from Javert’s hair. Something of sense had returned to him and he wiped his brow, terrified by what he had done and what he now looked upon: Javert, clothes almost ripped from him, tangled on the floor with a look of ecstatic satisfaction deforming his usually craggy and unforgiving face. Jean pressed himself up against the opposite wall as that long man unknotted his limbs to sit, legs spread and hole leaking on the wooden floor, supported by the ill-abused desk. His broad flat chest, speckled with dark hair, rose and fell with deep breaths, his face turned upwards, his eyes closed, his smile wide and toothy creasing his face like the hungry snarl of a tiger. Jean swallowed. His hand found the front of his shirt and he was relieved to find that he had kept it on and not divested himself of his clothing.
“Well,” Javert half-croaked half-purred, voice rough from his cries of pleasure.
“I- I’m sorry,” Jean panted.
“Sorry?” Javert laughed. He wriggled himself down to lie on his back and hoisted his long legs up and over his shoulders., pretty leaking hole exposed to the cool air and Jean’s untrustworthy eyes, “God, if you consider that to be sorry for- when you’re ready, let me have it again.”
And Jean, God help him, crawled across the room and mounted him.