Aber wenn ich könnte wie ich wollte würde ich gar nichts wollen

FIC: Authority Enchained 2/3 [Les Misérables]

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Esteliel
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Loes Valthen

FIC: Authority Enchained 2/3 [Les Misérables]

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GoT is finally back and I am so, so hyped about their portrayal of Oberyn and Ellaria so far. And OMG explicit mention of the Dalts of Lemonwood! I swear if we get Oberyn Martell for RingCon next year I will do "noble Dornish lady of Lemonwood" cosplay and get my picture taken with him. <3 Which reminds me that I should start working on this year's cosplay outfit before it gets too warm on the weekends to spend my time sewing pink wool cloaks. But it will be worth it for a hug from Charles Dance! Just thinking about last year makes me all happy. I can't wait to get the con dvd, though it seems it will be autumn until will be out.


And there was more writing this week, so at last another chapter. One left now, and then there is my remix fic to worry about, and that folder of ideas for other stories... /o\

Authority Enchained (8767 words) by Esteliel
Chapters: 2/3
Fandom: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Characters: Javert (Les Misérables), Jean Valjean, Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Additional Tags: Bondage, Martingale, Captivity, drunk!Javert, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Javert's Confused Boner, Hand Jobs
Summary:

Grantaire decides to share some brandy with the spy. Valjean, when he comes to free the spy, is faced with a drunk Javert. Also, Javert finds the martingale quite distracting and infuriating.




What had Valjean expected when he dragged Javert out into Mondetour lane by the martingale? He had expected words of derision, even threats – he knew Javert would never be swayed, and he knew that if he released him now, the shadow that had hunted him all of his life would continue to follow his every step. And still he could not act any different. He would do what he had come prepared to do: free the man, send him off, save this life as well as that of the boy, if God granted it.

He had not been prepared to see the inspector slump against the wall, eyes dark and wide as he looked at him and yet did not see, reeking of spirits. What had possessed these boys to ply their prisoner with brandy? Had Javert asked for it? He could not imagine that. A mercy then, granted a man on the cusp of death? He doubted it. The commander of these men had fondness for neither mercy nor foolishness, and it seemed to Valjean to be the latter as he looked at Javert who stared into the darkness, eyes heavy-lidded and the usually so fearsome features slack from drink.

He had never seen Javert like this, he realized suddenly. Even in Montreuil, when Javert had been forced to bow to his superior authority, Javert had never been drunk. Javert had – and that thought made him start – never been relaxed around him, and this was what he looked like with the fierce attention of the watch dog asleep for once, or at least becalmed by the brandy

He had not planned to end the man's life. He could do it even less now, when for the first time, it seemed to him that he beheld a part of Javert that seemed almost human. Only once had he seen him so unsettled, and that had been the day when Javert had entered his office to admit what he thought of as his wrong-doing, his leather stock askew in his great agitation.

No, Javert was drunk, there was no other explanation, despite his denial. And so, that was no great surprise. Even a man like the inspector might fear death, even the vigilant watch dog might accept the mercy of forgetfulness in the hours that remained to his execution.

He raised the knife to the martingale, intending to end this quickly. Javert could still walk; he would be able to make his way from here to where the streets were still safe. Without a doubt, they would see each other again, if they lived, but Valjean felt the time approach when the chase would end. If the boy lived, Cosette would be taken from him. He would be able to rest at last; without the sunshine of her love, what did it matter if he remained a prisoner in their apartment or in Toulon.

Javert was flushed with drink, and strangely pliant. His words slurred slightly when he spoke, he gestured a little too grandly, but even so Valjean was surprised by the man's insistence. It was shock as much as Javert's sudden protest that made him lower the knife, and for a moment he wondered if even now, Javert believed him capable of murder.

Then Javert groaned. It was a sound of torment, and suddenly the weight of the man was against him. The touch was a shock, the press of his body heavy and warm and unwanted. But Javert was trembling, he realized after a moment, not attacking, shaking against him with sudden emotion when he had never seen the man tremble before. Could this be fear of death? He put the knife away, then rested a hand hesitantly on Javert's shoulder, a strange unease spreading in him to see this stoic man brought low by emotion. The drink, he thought, and indeed there was still the scent of brandy on his breath, but certainly that alone could not be reason enough to see the inspector show weakness in his arms.

Javert's face was hidden against his shoulder. All of a sudden, the sight of his bent head conjured a vision of Cosette in his arms that was of such melancholic sweetness that only a long moment later, he realized that Javert was not only drunk, but also – Valjean flushed. There was no mistaking the heat and the hardness that pressed eagerly against his body.

He hesitated. Javert was very drunk. Drunk enough to slur his words, to look at him from overly bright eyes – drunk enough to lean against him though Valjean held a knife in his hand, and he was bound. Valjean understood little both of drunkenness and the urges of a man's body. To have Javert against him like this was a shock, and the man he had been in Montreuil might have thrust him back against the wall in indignation, if not meanwhile the man who had carried Cosette so tirelessly in his arms from Montfermeil so long ago had grown used to give love and reassurance to a child starved of affection for so long.

Javert was no child. Javert was a threat, a shadow that had clung to his heels as doggedly as the shadow of death clung to every man from his birth – and yet, there was no threat in Javert now, despite his words. Maybe this was simply the brandy that filled his stomach, but even so it was strange and unsettling to feel the inspector's weight against his body, and though Valjean called himself a fool, for this could not be trust, of all things, not between them, there was no denying that Javert had need of him.

He looked at him, there in the darkness of the alley. Javert's face was hidden against his shoulder, the queue of hair in disarray. What he could see of his neck was flushed, and his breathing was loud and laboured in the silence that weighed heavily between them. He should cut the rope and send him away, he told himself as his eyes followed a strand of grey from Javert's brow to where it was gathered up by the ribbon. There was more grey lining his dark hair. It felt sometimes as if Javert had hunted him for all of his life, as if those mystical years before Toulon had never truly existed, but were just the tale of another man, told to him by a stranger, already half-forgotten. Had Javert a life before Toulon he remembered?

Javert had grown old over the hunt, as had he. He wondered suddenly if Javert felt as tired as he did. If he was as much in need of rest. But maybe they would both rest soon, once the boy was returned to Cosette. Let Javert return him to the galleys then. He was old, and life without Cosette seemed impossible. He did not think he would make it to Toulon again. And what was waiting for Javert, once the convict he had hunted for so long was in chains once more? The man he had known in Montreuil had known nothing but his post.

Javert still did not look at him, although the truth of his desire was heavy and hot between them. With his head bowed, his hair untidy, his body taut and trembling, Valjean suddenly felt pity rise in him, for he thought that to Javert, this loss of control had to be as alien and frightening as the prospect of losing his uniform had been back in Montreuil.

He swallowed. His hand hesitated uselessly in the air. He wanted – he thought he should touch Javert's face, try to give comfort however awkward it might feel, cut the rope and then set the man free, pretending that he had never felt what even now seemed to swell to further hardness between them. He bent his head a little, watched his breath stir one of the strands of grey. For one moment, he wondered what Javert's hair would feel like in his hand, against his cheek. He had nothing to compare it to but Cosette's, who would rest her head against him just like this when she was tired.

He should let Javert go. For the sake of Cosette. For the sake of this man, who would not even remember any of this after he had slept.

He reached out, intending to grasp the rope and pull it taut so that he could cut it – but instead, he pressed his hand to where Javert's cock pressed indecently against his trousers, large and warm through the fabric. Dampness had already seeped through where the head of his prick was squeezed between the fabric and the rope, and Valjean pressed the heel of his hand against it, hard, and Javert shuddered and released a rough, despairing moan into his shoulder.

The sound woke something in him. He had never heard Javert make such a sound before. He knew even now that he should step away, that Javert was drunk, that even now there was a way out and by tomorrow they could pretend that nothing had come to pass, that tomorrow he would give himself to Javert and Javert would give him to justice and this would never be spoken of again.

That was one choice. There was another; he saw it clear now. He could give in to that sudden, strange need in him to keep his hand where it was, to press it against Javert's prick and feel his heat, the throbbing pulse of him. He could watch his face as that proud, upright man came apart and broke at his touch and rubbed himself against his hand in despair, tied and hurting and drunk. Maybe Javert would even forgive him by the morning. He much thought he would, for Javert would never think to blame him for what had come to pass. Javert, who had judged himself so harshly in Montreuil, would judge himself just as harshly for this, and would blame himself for allowing that boy to ply him with drink until he swayed where he stood.

Valjean breathed deeply, watching the way the dark, sweat-damp hairs at Javert's nape trembled with every breath. Javert's life was in his hand. He had already decided not to use the pistol he had been given. Could he decide any different now, when by his touch he might save or damn this man just as well as by bullet or blade?

“Damn you.” Javert's voice was a whine against his neck, soft and slurred. Valjean looked at him for a moment, but still Javert did not move, and he could not see his face, only marvel at the way Javert had reverted to respectfully address him as vous. Again he thought that he should remove his hand before he damned them both. Javert was drunk. And no matter what was between them, he had no right to take advantage of the man's state to–

Javert's mouth was on him all of a sudden. It was – a kiss, he thought awkwardly, overwhelmed, and then Javert's tongue was in his mouth, and he tasted brandy and heat, and then he did not think at all for a long moment. When they drew apart, he licked at his lips, tasting brandy and Javert's spit and thinking, dimly, that this should be disgusting – but he felt Javert against his hand, still so hard, so hot, the helpless little motions Javert made to rub against him, involuntary jerks of his hips in the same rhythm as his panting breath against Valjean's neck.

Valjean swallowed. “Let me free you,” he said, watching Javert carefully for a reaction. “You are hurting. Let me just cut the rope, Javert...”

“No.” Javert's answer was immediate, and Valjean would have disregarded it had he not, at that moment, his fingers pressed to where Javert's cock pressed obscenely against his trousers. He looked at Javert again, the tangle of his hair, the damp, flushed skin of his neck. He pulled his hand away, intending to disregard the man's protests. Clearly Javert was too drunk to realize what he was doing. And perhaps, by the time Javert was sober enough to remember the indignity of what had come to pass, he would already be dead.

Javert groaned. “Just kill me! That is what you have desired for so long.”

Valjean shook his head, gazing at Javert with pity although he could not see it. “You are drunk. It is not your fault, I know. Of all the many things I might have chosen to complain of, inspector, drink was never one of your faults.”

Javert looked up at last, colour high on his cheeks, his brows drawn together in puzzled offence. “Faults? I never gave reason for complaint, surely, except for when I renounced you– no, no, even that was warranted, that was right, I was right there, I've always been right about you...” His sentence with slurred mumblings too low for Valjean to make sense of, and he could not help but smile.

“You were right.” That admission was not hard to make. “But you were also wrong. And you are still wrong, if you believe I would harm you.”

Javert shook his head, then groaned again when the motion pulled on the taut rope. “I was never wrong. You would be a fool not to use your chance. You tricked me in Montreuil, you will not do it again.”

"Javert, I do not seek to trick you." Valjean exhaled slowly. Patience came easily now, and yet, with Javert, it still seemed as hard-won as it had been when he first put away his name to become another man. His breath stirred a strand of grey, and again he reminded himself of the many years that had passed. Certainly even Javert must be weary of the chase now.

"I will be yours, I promise. If I survive, I will consider myself your prisoner, and you may do as you see fit. Now please, allow me to cut–"

"No!" Javert's exclamation was a furious denial, and his head reared up so that he could stare at Valjean with eyes wide with a sudden, inexplicable rage. "No, you will not – I do not want your mercy, do you hear me? You have no right, no right at all, to – to go and release me as if you weren't that convict, that fugitive from the law, as if you were – Put me to death! I demand it! It is my right, and you shall not deny me now!"

All that was delivered in a voice softened by drink so that consonants slurred together, given harshness by a night spent awake and bound. Valjean could not help but smile again, his expression growing infinitely gentler at that ludicrous demand.

"You ask me for death, Javert? Death is no man's right. What good would your death do? You have me now, you see? I am bound by my word, as securely as you are bound by that rope, I promise. If I live, I shall not run. You will never have to doubt–"

"But I do doubt!" Javert snarled into his face, strands of his hair sticking to his cheeks, his eyes dark and lit by a feverish gleam. "I doubt! You make me doubt! Devilish man! Cursed saint! Who are you that you dare – that you dare to release me, show me mercy, like – you have no right, do you hear me? You will end this here! You will do what you promised that ninny of an insurgent! It is only right; you are a criminal, I am of the police; I am your prisoner, and you will take your revenge! Do it now!"

Valjean sighed. There was a certain emotion in his eyes – not pity, though Javert would have taken it for that, who took mercy to be cruelty, and kindness to be an insult. Instead, it was its gentler sister, compassion – empathy for a struggling man, for Valjean understood the pain at least that spoke from Javert's words. Not once had he desired to do harm to this man, although he had been unable to resist the temptation when fate gave him the chance to drag him out by his bonds, to allow this man who had so relentlessly hunted him a few moments of fear, of knowing the pain of a man bound and led like an animal to slaughter.

“You are cruel! I cannot even say, you will not even let me– You do not know anything!“ Javert bit back a sound of frustration, in agony at the mercy he was granted. “What do you want! Just kill me! Have it done with!”

Valjean found himself laughing again, almost against his will, at how Javert delivered that complaint with utter earnestness although he was swaying against him. Javert still slurred his words, and he was very warm and physical against him. It did not feel as strange anymore as it had at first, and drunk as he was, the mere thought of doing him harm was inconceivable. Javert frowned at him after a moment, his lips parting, as if it had taken him that long to realize that Valjean was laughing at him in answer to his demand, and before he could utter another word of nonsense, Valjean leaned forward and brushed their lips together again.

He could not even say why he did it. To kiss the man who had asked him for death, the same man who would sooner see him in chains and return to a prison, that should have been just as ludicrous as Javert's ridiculous, drunk demands.

Instead, it felt – Valjean had no word for it. It made Javert stop complaining, and that was good. It melted some of the harshness out of the man, and that was unexpected, and did something to him. A strange warmth gathered inside him when Javert's lips softened beneath his, when Javert's tongue slid against his own, slick and wet and hot, and it should have been disgusting, to taste him like this when he had never indulged such things before, and it was, but also, it made him feel warm, and strangely unsettled, as if the press of Javert's body against his own was something he had missed without ever knowing it.

Javert's prick pressed against his thigh, still hot and hard even through the layers of cloth, and he pressed his hand against him again without breaking the kiss, feeling Javert jerk and gasp at the contact. His fingers played over the length of him, mapping the shape of his head squeezed between the coarse rope, drinking in the pained, pleased gasp this produced, and when he looked at Javert he found that his eyes had rolled back, unfocused and dark as he trembled against him, this rigid man who had never trembled before.

"Javert," he said against his lips, then fell silent. He did not know what to say. He had no words for the tension in him. He knew he should not touch him like this – to kiss this man, to kiss him like this, here – there was no sense to it, no reason, and yet the heat that spread in his body seemed reason enough to one who had never known the feeling before.

Javert breathed heavily. He was silent now, and that was good, at least. His lips that had been harsh so often, that were used to forming words sharp and angular and abrasive, had felt soft and yielding beneath his, and that had been pleasing for all the strangeness of the experience. He still thought faintly that it should be disgusting, but Javert's lips were glistening with saliva, and the thought of the taste of his own spit filling Javert's mouth did something to him, his stomach twisting with a sudden apprehension even while his fingers traced the line of Javert's prick once more.

“I deserve it. It is only right. Even you cannot deny that.” Javert's voice was low and intense, and Valjean could not stand it anymore all of a sudden, that pain, and worse, that torment of knowing that Javert thought him capable of ending a life. Would they never escape from the paths Javert had decreed they must follow?

He did not attempt to cut the rope again, knowing deep inside that such a blatant disregard of what roles Javert had assigned them would make the man baulk, and he could not bear that thought, for all that what had come to pass frightened him. Instead, his hand worked frantically at the fabric that was already damp from the fluids that had seeped through it, and when at last he managed to open Javert's trousers enough to free the cock that was even now straining against his hand, he found him slick and hot, and he licked his lips, strangely breathless as he pressed the pad of his thumb to the fluid, circled the head.

He trailed his fingers down the straining shaft, felt the roughness of the taut ropes that made him wince at the way they must pinch sensitive skin – that was cruelty, he thought, and made himself pull back, the look he gave Javert almost imploring. “Just – Javert, please! You are in pain, just, let me cut that rope–”

Javert panted against his shoulder, then tried to press himself against his hip in search of friction, a broken sound escaping him that was in equal parts frustration and anger. “Damn you – just touch me already, Valjean!”

The drink had only made him more obstinate, Valjean thought, his mouth dry. He knew he should not. But almost without thought, his fingers were in his mouth, he licked them – tasted that slickness on them, almost choked on the sudden thought of Javert on his tongue, heavy and big, that bitterness seeping down his throat – and he could not stop now, not when Javert was wanting this touch, was begging for it even. He touched him with what kindness he could muster in his despairing need, smoothing the slickness of his saliva over the patches of rough, hot skin where the rope had chafed against Javert's prick, trying to ease that pain the man had to be feeling until Javert rocked against his hand and his breath came in little sobs. Javert's lips were slack as he brushed his mouth against them, tasted the sharpness of the brandy as their tongues slid together. He imagined that he could taste himself in Javert's mouth, and Javert – Javert shuddered and ground against him and breathed desperate little sounds into his mouth as he gripped his prick. He stroked him more roughly than he had intended, for the angle was awkward and Javert's body flush against his and there was the rope that bound him. And yet it did not seem to matter to Javert who made sounds of pleasure and despair when he smoothed his thumb over the head of that straining prick again, smoothing more of the slick fluid over him, and he thought of waking tomorrow with that taste, that scent on his fingers, if he would even wake, and suddenly that seemed worth even imprisonment to him.

Javert made a sound that was half a whine, panting open-mouthed against his lips, and Valjean swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, cleaning up a string of saliva, then closed his teeth around it, sucking it into his mouth until Javert arched forward, his whine turning into a sob, the noose tightening around his throat as he shuddered, his spend seeping wetly through Valjean's fingers.

Valjean raised his hand to his mouth, breathless, unthinking, touched the glistening fluid with the tip of his tongue for a taste, and Javert, who had watched from wide, wild eyes, crumpled against him at last. Valjean felt a wetness against his neck, and felt suddenly stricken with regret. Were those tears? Had he–

“Javert, you must let me now–” He reached for the rope urgently, and Javert did not protest this time, silent and strangely yielding as he cut his bonds at last. Javert did not pull away, and that was frightening. He brushed a thumb in a gentling motion against the patch of chafed, red skin at his neck, and at last Javert looked up again, despondent and lost, as if something had been taken from him.

“You were supposed to take my life. It was my right.” His voice was soft, but even. Valjean could still hear the drink in him, but he seemed less like a spooked animal now, simply tired, as if yielding at last to a burden he had carried too long. Valjean kept a hand on him as he stepped beside him, then cut through the remains of the rope that kept his hands bound.

“Javert, I do not want you dead.”

There was soft laughter then, and Javert's voice was still so rough it could just as well have been a sob. “But you are not supposed to–” He fell silent and lowered his head. Valjean hesitated before he touched his shoulder.

“Leave. Wait for me, if you want. If I live, I will deliver myself to you, as I said.”

“No.” Javert shook his head, and Valjean sighed.

“Go!”

Javert had the temerity to stare into his eyes, strangely triumphant, his face flushed from drink and–

Valjean's eyes slid away after resting on his swollen, glistening lips for a moment. “Go,” he repeated, and now it was no command but a helpless plea. “If you stay, you will die. If they still find you here, after I promised to deal with you...”

Javert's mouth twisted into something that resembled a smile, and Valjean felt a sudden chill, even before he turned to face the man who had just scaled the small barricade.

Entry originally posted to DW: http://esteliel.dreamwidth.org/427191.html (comment count unavailablecomments). Comments are welcome in either place.
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