Work Text:
Monsieur Madeleine is not by nature a rough man, but tonight there is nothing gentle in the way he pins his struggling Inspector against the factory wall, hands planted firmly on his shoulders. And too – Javert is not by nature a man caught off his guard, so it is with great delight that Madeleine spies the shock in Javert’s eyes and hears the startled grunt that escapes his swollen lips; his hands curl into the uniform as he dips his head and presses his lips to the taut cords of the man’s neck.
“M’sieur,” Javert gasps as Madeleine sets to mouthing wetly at his skin. “M’sieur!”
Yes, there is shock in the voice, twisted with a sort of unwilling hunger, a stark neediness that drives the mayor to continue. Javert, no matter his protestations, wants this as much as Madeleine –as much as Valjean – does. His fingers tug at the uniform’s high collar and the cravat beneath pulls away easily to expose skin that is already high with colour. A shaking hand closes around his elbow.
“Please, Monsieur,” Javert mutters, though his grip is loose. His dark eyes are darting; Madeleine feels the weight of their gaze rest on his still-parted lips, his rumpled shirt and, finally, fleetingly, his own eyes. “We should not, not here—”
Madeleine simply chuckles as he ducks his head again and lets his tongue run a wet trail along Javert’s neck and whatever objection Javert might have thought to voice fades into a low growl as his head falls back immediately and his hand clenches into Madeleine’s arm.
“I was pleased with your report today, Inspector,” Madeleine mumbles into the man’s skin. He receives a low groan in return. “Let me give my thanks.”
The inspector’s delivery of evening reports has long since passed the bounds of mere duty, though Javert persists in a perfunctory briefing of each point before Madeleine is allowed to spot kisses to his jaw and trace the deep furrows of his brow with a finger. It is endearing, to a point, and Monsieur le maire is a patient man who expects nothing less of his inspector.
It is Jean Valjean, however, that expects much more.
Whatever it is that has grown between them – between Javert and Madeleine, between Valjean and Javert – it is more than desired from both sides no matter the necessary falsehood that Madeleine embodies. There is no lie in the fervid movements of their hands, in the burning heat of skin against skin. He feels rather than hears Javert’s spluttering laugh.
“You were not listening,” Javert chastises him, though there is humour in his tone now that the shock has melted into need. “I had not even finished,” he adds before nudging his head upwards into a kiss.
Madeleine opens his mouth immediately, pressing closer. Javert is warmth and want and – and dear God, positively writhing against him now. Feeling himself stiffening, Madeleine pulls his lips from Javert’s and holds the inspector at arm’s length.
It is Valjean, not Madeleine, that hesitates now.
But then, is it really so strange if each kiss Madeleine gives is heavy with the guilt of Jean Valjean? Is it really so odd that Monsieur le maire should feel every inch of the thief that he once was at the mere sound of the inspector’s hard-won respect?
His eyes drift to the reddened skin of Javert’s neck.
Perhaps it is not so strange at all.
Madeleine glances down at the tented fork of Javert’s trousers and presses closer, avoiding the question in his eyes. “Then let me apologise,” he mutters and it is Valjean’s calloused fingers that fumble at the uniform's belt.
He hears Javert’s breath hitch as his hands alight on the buttons of his trousers and the heel of his hand brushes over the inspector's arousal; he glances up to see lips that are pressed into a tight line and when Javert meets Madeleine’s eyes he does so almost guiltily.
“M’sieur?” The question is both breathless and wary.
Gently, Madeleine places a kiss on the inspector’s lips, then parts them to introduce his tongue while he runs a calming hand over a clothed thigh. This is new, he knows. Javert trembles as Madeleine’s finger traces over the thin material of his underclothes.
“Let me apologise,” Madeleine murmurs again, and if whatever playfulness the plea was first uttered with is gone now, then Javert does not notice as the mayor’s hand wraps around his cock. The inspector moans at the sudden touch and grabs at Madeleine’s shoulders, turning his head away.
The mere heat of Javert against his palm makes him grow harder. He hears Javert’s breath catch as he begins to move his hand, stroking the pad of his thumb over the head as he brings his lips back to Javert’s exposed neck. He experiments with a gentle bite – Javert bucks into his hand, his hips pressing closer to find contact – and then Madeleine drops to his knees and Javert’s hands release his shoulders, his head snapping back. His breath stutters loudly.
“Mons—Madeleine.” Javert’s eyes are wide and his hands move as if to cover himself. “You should not—I have not—”
Madeleine, ignoring him, kisses the sharp cut of Javert’s hip. He keeps one hand at Javert’s cock, his thumb tracing along the hardness, while the other hand splays out along the man’s shaking thigh.
“I have not either,” Madeleine returns, but the tone is distant, distracted. The tip of the cock is already wet and Madeleine dips his head to taste. Javert whines at the contact and his fingers lock in Madeleine’s hair. He lets go almost immediately, his face flushed, but Madeleine merely chuckles.
He tightens his hand around the base of the cock and begins a slow rhythm, trailing his lips along the shaft. Javert makes a low sound in his throat, a half-uttered grunt maybe, and Madeleine returns his attention to the head, his tongue slipping across the smooth skin and then swiping under.
“M—M'sieur!” Javert’s breathing is hard and his hands flutter awkwardly at his sides as if he is unsure where to place them.
And then Madeleine catches him in both hands and takes him as far into his mouth as he can and the only place Javert can steady his own hands is back in the soft curls of Madeleine’s hair, letting out a tight moan that sits of the edge of a sob. The man’s hips press forward and Madeleine moves with them, hollowing his cheeks around Javert’s cock and bobbing his head to take him deeper. He can hear Javert panting now, his fingers clenched in the mayor’s hair, his legs trembling under Madeleine’s braced hands.
Madeleine hears a strangled groan from above him and looks up.
Javert’s lips are pulled thin, his eyes scrunched shut. He breathes through his nose in short puffs and Madeleine’s tongue falters.
The inspector’s eyes snap open as if caught in some act of wrong-doing and Madeleine meets his gaze. There is apology written all over his face and Madeleine hates it. He pulls his mouth from Javert’s cock and sighs, resting his forehead against the man’s hip.
“Javert?” He presses a sticky kiss to flushed skin. “You do not have to… if you wish to stop…”
Madeleine’s own erection presses insistently against the material of his trousers but he will not take himself in hand, not yet. Javert is shaking his head wildly as he tries to find his voice.
“I—no. Do not…” He swallows audibly, reaching for the mayor’s face and pressing a shaking thumb to his wet lips. Madeleine bites for the digit, gently, and Javert’s cock twitches in his hand. “You should not…I am—You should...”
Javert makes a small noise that could mean anything. To Madeleine, it means continue.
“Please!” Javert whimpers as Madeleine’s lips return to the sensitive head. He thrusts forward helplessly, his face stricken. “I am, that is to say, I do not wish…” The breathless babbling comes in earnest as Madeleine’s mouth closes around Javert’s cock and resumes its steady movements. “Only, a man of your standing, Monsieur le maire—to be—to be—”
—kneeling before Javert, taking the inspector’s cock in his mouth and his hands in his hair and all the while in the guise of Madeleine the mayor, Madeleine the saint, as Javert sees him; but all the while it is Jean Valjean the thief, Jean Valjean the sinner that kneels in penitence before his guard and takes all that he is given, all that he does not wish to steal but perhaps in some way cannot help to—
Madeleine fumbles at his own trousers and finally, finally, wraps a hand around his own hard shaft. He is close himself, he knows; dear God, his knees on the cold floor ache less than his cock. He strokes himself awkwardly in time with Javert’s desperate thrusts and faltering words.
“Ah—you should not—please—indeed I should be—M'sieur—let me—let me—”
Madeleine cannot help the growl that escapes him; he feels the vibration of the sound on his lips as Javert’s hand clenches in his hair and his hips jump forward.
“M'sieur!”
And Javert comes with a harsh groan, a sobbing pant, spilling himself into the mouth of Monsieur le maire. Madeleine’s own cock jerks in his hand as he reaches his own completion, the taste of Javert hot and sticky and too much, too much, far too much.
He swallows and rests his cheek against the still-shaking thigh of the inspector as his breathing steadies. He can hear Javert gasping above him but does not look. Finally – when his body regains the ability to move, when his brain remembers how to process anything more than bliss and calm and Javert, Javert undone by the touch of Jean Valjean – finally his fingers fumble with buttons and shifting material as he rights Javert’s uniform and tucks himself back into his soiled trousers and only then does he dare look up.
Javert is leaning back against the wall, his head hung and his whole body trembling still. Madeleine pulls himself to his feet and leans into the man, though he does not touch him.
“Javert?”
The inspector looks at him from beneath his eyelashes and there is something intensely vulnerable about the nervous manner in which he does so. Monsieur le maire reaches out a hand to Javert’s cheek, raising his head as his thumb traces a gentle caress over the bristly skin, and Javert chokes back a sob as their eyes meet fully.
“Monsieur,” he mutters in a broken voice, quickly looking away. “Monsieur, I would not have asked for—”
Madeleine makes a hushing noise and sets a finger across Javert’s lips. There is a sharp intake of breath and the inspector closes his eyes as Madeleine’s mouth finds his neck once more.
“You need not ask,” Madeleine whispers against the heated skin. He can feel Javert’s loosening grip on his arms as he kisses his way along the line of Javert’s jaw. “You need never ask, Javert, for what I give freely.”
Javert’s shoulders lose their tense hunch as his breathing steadies, and Madeleine is gratified when Javert responds gently to the lips pressing at his own. The pace is unhurried, relaxing. It almost feels like something that could last.
“Charity,” Javert mumbles eventually, and Madeleine is pleased to hear the familiar tone of exasperation in his inspector’s voice, though there is something darker beneath it - the man’s tightly-clenched hands do not escape his notice. So he reaches for them and slips his fingers between Javert’s, urging him to relax.
“I would not call it that,” Madeleine counters. “Charity is an entirely selfless act. This…”
He pulls at their entwined hands and brings them to the crotch of his trousers, sticky with his own release. Javert’s small gasp is lovely.
“This was not.”
A wolfish grin spreads across Javert’s face, sharp and nearing smug, and Madeleine cannot help but to kiss it.
“See then, inspector,” he smiles. “Perhaps I am not the man you think I am.”
He is not sure what makes him say it.
The grin is gone immediately and Javert pulls back with a frown but neither Madeleine nor Jean Valjean can read his face. The silence is very loud, the hold on his hands almost too tight. His heart thumps in his chest as Javert opens his mouth to speak before closing it again, shaking his head as if to dismiss a troublesome thought.
“Perhaps that is for the best,” is all he says.
When he kisses him again, the pace is slow and sad and feels like an apology. It no longer feels like something that will last.