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My Skin is Rough (It Can Be Cleansed)

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Javert follows Valjean through the apartment, stunned into silence by this turn of events, his skin singing with recent climax. The lassitude that normally follows orgasm hasn’t arrived, probably because he’s pretty sure they’re not done. His fingers itch to reach out to Valjean, just to touch him and know this is real, but the memory of what he’s just said stops him. He was never going to tell him that. He’d told himself time and again that Valjean could never know that one painful fantasy, that he had to keep it locked away to spare the man any kind of nerves. But he hadn’t been able to stop it, because Valjean deserves to know what sort of man he’s getting involved with, if he didn’t already. That even after everything that’s been revealed between them, and the consequences of those words, there are still depths of depravity in him that he can’t resist. He knows he’ll never ask permission to act on it, and now that it’s out in the open, isn’t sure he really wants to anyway. Maybe it was so enticing because it had to stay hidden. Or maybe it just doesn’t compare to the reality of this moment right here, walking with Valjean to go and take a shower. And then, he fervently hopes, share a bed. Dear God, let that be what’s about to happen.

Valjean stops in the kitchen to take water out of the fridge. He drinks deeply, and Javert is left to stare all over again when he tilts it too high, and water spills down his chin, drips off his jaw and onto his chest. He almost moves to lick it away, a reflex action borne of pure want, but stifles the urge at the last second. Valjean just wipes it away with a jerk of his hand like such an action is nothing, like the shining trail in its wake isn’t an invitation for a mouth to lick him clean.

He offers the bottle over and Javert takes it, almost choking as he drinks because Valjean puts his hands on his hips and draws his shorts down an inch or two.

‘You can put these in the washer,’ he says, and Javert nods, and doesn’t move, and lets himself be undressed right there in the kitchen. His shorts and briefs are sodden, his T-shirt glued to his chest and back, but Valjean doesn’t seem to care. He just eases them off him and then kisses him again, so gently it hurts. A tendril of renewed desire curls in his gut, and maybe it’s that which gives him the courage to stop Valjean moving away.

‘Are you going to take yours off?’

He’s sure he’s said the wrong thing at once, because Valjean probably wants to undress at his own speed. But before he can say sorry, the guy’s toeing off his sneakers, stripping socks, easing his own shorts down over his still-hard cock. Javert’s mouth goes dry again, and he drinks to stop himself looking. How long has he spent dreaming of that inside him? Now it might actually happen and most of him wants to turn around and bend over where he is, while a small part sits nervously in his stomach and wonders how much it’s going to hurt. He’s not afraid of pain and will never shy away from it, but that doesn’t mean he welcomes it with open arms. Not all the time, anyway. It has happened a few times.

'You don't need to be nervous. It's just a shower.’

Their eyes meet. Valjean has the grace to look like he's knows he's been caught in a lie. He's about to say something, and Javert wills him to shut up because words are only going to ruin it. Maybe it shows because Valjean closes his mouth, and smiles again, and leads on towards the bathroom. Javert watches his ass as he follows, traces the lines of muscle on his back that are visible even when relaxed. The man's torso is shaped like an inverted triangle these days, and not for the first time, he wonders where it's going to end. How much stronger can a man get? Sometimes his better side wins out and he almost tells the man to stop, that making his body a fortress isn't going to help him with the things locked inside it. But most times he just looks, and dreams about what it'll taste like under his tongue.

‘Javert?’

‘What?’

‘You’re staring.’

‘Sorry.’

Valjean sighs a little, but it sounds amused.

‘You don’t have to be sorry. But just…relax, I guess. I know that sounds stupid coming from me, but-‘ he turns suddenly; Javert comes to a halt when hands land on his chest, and stands dumb while he’s kissed.

‘OK? You don’t have to watch me all the time. You can touch, if you just wait a few seconds.’

He nods, probably a bit too quickly because Valjean laughs a little, and his fingertips curl against his chest. Anticipation rears through him, and he almost asks if they can just have the sex and then shower afterwards. But Valjean is gone, taking his touch with him, and maybe it’s good he didn’t say it. He may be used to making a fool of himself around the man, but he doesn’t have to invite opportunities.

The shower in Valjean's bathroom is a huge walk-in, with a bench along one wall, a shower head the size of a dinner plate hanging from the ceiling, and jets that shoot out from all sides with spray or full-force water, depending on what you want. Javert's only ever used it once, and he had made a remark about its opulence that made Valjean go red. He'd muttered something about it being there when he bought the place, and Javert had felt like a cunt for the rest of the week. He makes sure not to say anything now and eyes the bath instead, a likewise enormous thing that would fit both of them if they lay together. And they would, wouldn't they? He's about to suggest it when Valjean pulls open the shower door and the chance is lost. He files it away in his mind, though. If they can manage to go a week without pulling this thing to pieces, he'll bring it up. Much as he dreams about being pinned underneath the guy, he spends just as much time jerking it to the idea of simply having his hands on his body. It would be another thing that makes the guy nervous, but he's hung on to the memory of how all this started - Valjean kissing him one day and then sitting in his bed the next, letting Javert stroke his abs. Maybe it doesn’t make him nervous enough to say no. And he did just say he could touch him, so-

‘You coming?’

Again, the urge to speak out of turn, and say will be soon. Again, he stops himself and steps through the door. Valjean closes it behind them, and then…there they are. The two of them, not far enough in to be under the water, just looking at each other. Javert can’t tell what Valjean’s thinking, he’s always been useless at it. But he knows he has no idea how to move this along, for all that he’s been the one to grab first, ask questions later in the past.

‘I’ve only got one sponge,’ Valjean says, but then seems to seize on something. ‘No, wait! I’ve got spares, I’ll just go and-‘

He’s got the door half open before Javert puts his hand on his waist.

‘Don’t.’

Valjean quiets under his touch. Javert has time to marvel at it, the way this muscle bulges before falling away to his hip bone, and then goes still simply because he asked it to. It must be what calming a horse or something is like – all this pent-up energy and power, and the thrill of it responding to commands. Not that that was a command. He is firm with himself on this. He will never command Valjean. He takes a small step instead, and then another, and then slides his hand onto the man’s abdomen as he moves into his side. Valjean’s cock isn’t rigid but it’s not soft either, and Javert watches it twitch and then start to rise as he puts his lips to his shoulder.

‘You didn’t let me get you off.’

‘I – well, there’s time.’

‘Like now.’

‘Yeah, but-‘

Valjean turns, but Javert keeps his hand on him so it slides around to his hip. They’re face to face, and there’s a cock brushing his thigh, and if this takes much longer he’s going to drop his knees and beg, he knows it.

‘I smell. So do you. Lets just clean up, and then-‘

Valjean shrugs a shoulder, and something clicks in Javert’s mind.

‘Forget it, Valjean.’

‘What?’

‘Not…this. But what you’re thinking. Forget it. This isn’t going to be you giving me what I want, and not enjoying it yourself. If you don’t want it as well, I’m leaving right now.’

That’s not really the issue, but he wants to know what the guy’s going to try next.

‘You can see I want it. And I said you could touch me. What’s going on, Javert?’

‘What you say and what you actually let happen are different things when it suits you. So listen to me, OK?’

He doesn’t give himself time to think, he just takes gentle hold of Valjean’s prick and runs his fingers down the shaft.‘If I’m getting off, so are you. You deserve it just as much. More, even, much more. So just…fuck’s sake Valjean, just let me show you, OK?’

‘Show me?’

‘Yeah, just…’

He doesn’t know how to finish that, but if the words aren’t there then the emotion is. He’s been living with it for so long, it’s part of him. He presses his lips to Valjean’s, trying to be soft but not quite making it; he rubs his cock, and walks them backwards under the spray. He’s never been good at talking about anything like this, and never had the opportunity to try actions before. But he’s pretty damn sure that if he’s allowed, he can prove how much he wants this man.

‘-I want to make you enjoy it.’

He murmurs it against his lips, and again Valjean goes still under his touch.

‘Not make. You know what I mean. We can do whatever you want, I don’t mind, but it’s not going to be you doing all the work.’

Valjean doesn’t say anything, and his face is carefully blank. Javert watches from a few inches distance, and when there’s no response, does the only thing he can think of. He picks up the sponge and wets it, pours some gel on, squeezes until it’s dripping with foam. And without asking permission, presses it to Valjean’s sternum in the valley between his pecs, holds it there until soap is sliding down his chest and over the ripples of abs. They both just look at it, for long enough that Javert starts to feel a bit stupid. But he swallows that down because he has wanted to touch so badly, and here it is. And Valjean’s not stopping him. He just looks a bit puzzled. A bit lost.

‘Let me.’

Valjean raises his head. The moment drags on, but then he nods. He seems to be shrinking a touch, pulling into himself, so Javert kisses him as lightly as he was kissed out there by the weights, and pushes the sponge up to his neck, rubs it in small, soft circles along the line of one buffed shoulder.

‘That day in your bedroom. I should’ve-‘

‘Don’t.’

He stops, mouth and hand both. But this time it's Valjean that kisses. It tastes of the water cascading onto their heads; warm, close, slightly unreal.

‘If you had, it would’ve made everything worse. I wanted you to, but I’m glad you didn’t. Let’s just make this be something new.’

It’s a good idea. But it’s hard to think, because Valjean’s hands are on his hips and everything’s warm, and he’s getting hard again. The spray misting his back is cool, and the twist in his gut is a re-lit firework, its wick flaring back to life. Valjean is solid under his fingers, but the soap makes him slippery, hard to grip. Javert tosses the sponge onto the bench and gives in to indulgence; for the first time since this started, he runs his hands freely over Valjean’s body, pushing foam in great circles all over his chest, under his arms, over his ribs. But it’s not quite right, because the water washes it away too quickly.

‘What’s wrong?’

Valjean looks amused, like an indulgent parent watching a child making a mess. Also a bit red around the ears, but the embarrassment seems to be in a good way. And through the foam that made it low enough, it’s clear he’s not turned off by being played with.

‘Water.’

He turns it off. Valjean raises his eyebrows, but Javert’s determined now. He soaps up the sponge until it’s full, then sits down and starts on his abs. It only takes seconds to get them covered and he takes over with his hands again, running one finger in tiny circles across each line of muscle as though he plans to clean all of him like that, as thorough and conscientious as Javert ever is. But it’s purely for his own gratification; he slicks the foam away with the hand that follows, and his dick stands up harder with each pass of his hand over that perfect form, until by the time he reaches the lowest two he’s panting quietly, and kissing his stomach, and moaning when one of Valjean’s hands come to touch his hair.

‘I guess you like muscles, huh?’

‘I like yours.’

He wants to touch himself. He wants to just sit here and gaze on him, and then jerk off with one hand and stroke Valjean with the other. He looks up instead, Valjean’s fingers curling gently around one of his ears. He watches his face as he runs soapy fingers up his cock, eases the foreskin up so he can wash underneath it, gives the lightest of light massages to the ridge running to the underside. Valjean’s jaw sets, and he lets out a breath when Javert strips the bubbles off the crown and puts his lips to it, never breaking eye contact.

‘I want you to fuck me.’

The fingers in his hair stop playing. Valjean’s expression turns rueful and he touches his jaw instead, draws a finger along the lips about to suck his cock.

‘Not in a shower. Not the first time.’

‘But sometime. Soon. Tonight.’

‘Soon. OK? But in bed. The first time.’

Good enough. Javert opens his lips just enough that they form a small O on the tip of his cock, and sucks a little. Lets his tongue flick against it, and watches to see if Valjean likes it. Judging by the look that’s almost painful, he’d guess yes.

‘Then I want you to come in my mouth.’

Come, and erase the last time. Let this be new. Valjean hesitates, so Javert sucks a bit more, pressing his tongue to the slit and drawing it off fast.

‘Let me.’

‘…OK. But-‘

‘No but.’

He sits straight and drips more soap onto Valjean’s legs. If he puts his hand flat at the top of his thigh and draws it along the muscle, it takes to the count of six to reach the twin bumps just above his kneecap. It’s a perfect plain of smooth tension, in glorious contrast to the softness of his inner thigh. The inside is still muscled, but not so hard. Javert puts his mouth on it. He sucks a pink mark into the skin just because he can, not hard enough to hurt. He puts Valjean’s balls in his palm and plays until they’re swollen and fat, making foam icicles off the bottom of them just for the hell of it, making Valjean stand there with his legs apart and take the pleasure he’s given. He kisses his cock when he feels like it, silently crowing with triumph at the first taste of salt on his tongue. Every time he looks up, Valjean is watching everything, a strange mix of trepidation and desire on his face like he can’t decide which to go with. It’s only when Javert’s slippery fingers venture a little too far back does he take his wrist, and say, ‘not there. I’ll wash there.’

Javert nods at once, drops away, rakes his fingernails lightly down the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. His hands move down to massage thick calves as he puts Valjean’s cock on his tongue and starts to suck properly. There’s the tiniest of grips in his hair as he does; he knows the man won’t make a sound but it’s good to know he’s OK with it. He tries not to dream of both hands holding fistfuls of the stuff, forcing him to take it deeper, fucking his mouth. Another time; a dream for a different place.

‘Javert, hold on….wait, Javert.’

He stops, but doesn’t release his prize. Just looks up, and makes Valjean look at his dick getting sucked. The man looks surprised, but then smiles and runs a thumb along his cheekbone.

‘I don’t want to come yet.’

Javert makes a noise, and frowns, and starts to suck again. Valjean huffs a laugh that almost, almost, turns into a gasp, and puts both his hands on Javert’s jaw, holding his face still.

‘No,’ he says, in a mock-stern voice, only it’s really easy to imagine it’s real. Something inside rears up and snaps sharp teeth of desire, and he has to suck again to hide the moan that would give him away.

‘Not yet. Don’t I get to get you clean?’

He still doesn’t let go. Yeah, he wants Valjean to touch him, but being touched isn’t as good as getting to do it. The touch he wants is less hands, more full body-to-body.

‘Come on.’ Valjean keeps one hand on his jaw, and the other pulls back through his hair. ‘I promise I’m not avoiding it. You can finish me however you want, just let me return the favour.’

Javert, reluctantly, lets him go. He sits back, his chest rising fast, his arousal on plain display. Valjean smiles, and kisses his lips, and flicks the water back on so the soap runs off him, revealing his own perfection like a statue that’s been wrapped for years and only now getting brought into the light. A few seconds and he’s there in shining glory, and Javert makes a small noise and, helpless, starts touching himself. Just a slow tug, a tease at the head. Valjean turns under the deluge, shaking his hair out, and Javert has to hold his balls tight to halt the urge to finish himself. He can taste salt on his tongue, feel the satisfying girth on the inside of his lips. He wants to make the man lie flat, and pleasure him with his tongue until he’s out of his mind. He wants to make him make a noise, any noise at all.

Valjean turns, sees what’s happening, and shakes his head. He bends to kiss him again, but also takes his hands away. Javert wants to pout like a petulant child, but then Valjean pushes his legs apart a way further and, lips still close to his, says, ‘have you ever had a blowjob, Javert?’ and then it’s hard to breathe. His feels his eyes go wide, and another stab of arousal slices through his gut.

‘You know I haven’t.’

‘Never? Not even when you were mad at me?’

‘No.’

Full disclosure seems important.

‘I tried, but it didn’t…no, never.’

No questions from Valjean. He kisses him once more, and sinks to his knees on the shower floor. Javert needs to stop him, but his cock is so clearly straining he can’t pretend he doesn’t want it. It’s only at the last second, when Valjean’s got his mouth open and his tongue about to lick, does Javert put his hand on his shoulder.

‘Don’t. You can’t.’

‘I bet you anything I can.’

‘But-‘

‘But nothing. Hush now.’

Javert closes his mouth. Valjean opens his and starts to play, and there are no thoughts for quite a while after that.

 

*

 

It’s always touching when Javert gets thoughtful. It makes him deserve this and, Valjean thinks drily, as he draws a moan with a few practiced flicks of his tongue, he’s under no illusions about his skill at sucking cock. He was taught well. Forced to learn well. Whichever.

He’s surprised the guy caught him out on avoiding orgasm too. He hadn’t been fully aware he was doing that, he just knew it felt weird to think all this abstinence might actually be coming to an end. He’ll probably feel less guilty about all this in the morning if he doesn’t get off tonight, but it’s clear that’s going to cause an issue with Javert. And he doesn’t want that. He wants to take him to bed and thoroughly deflower him, and then make pancakes in the morning and read a newspaper like normal people…wait no, people probably don’t read newspapers together anymore. Read the iPad app, or something. Whatever. Normal things.

He twists his lips and pushes his tongue down the shaft instead of up; Javert cries out and grips his shoulder, leaking precome into his mouth already. He’s so eager, like a teenager who can’t control it, and it shouldn’t be attractive but it really, really is. Because it’s normal, isn’t it? When you like someone, and just want them all over you. Javert’s like that. He’s like that, just with some pretty big qualifications. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t wanted to sleep with Javert.

He pulls off with a smack, swipes a milky bead from the tip, sucks kisses down the shaft. Javert sags in the respite but still makes noise, almost whimpers at every new pressure. He’s going to be out of control when they actually have sex. The neighbours will probably complain. But Valjean can’t lie, the idea of having Javert under him, yelling in pleasure like he’s obviously going to…yeah, that gets him hot. Yeah, he wants to make him lose it like that.

‘More.’

Javert’s hand taps his shoulder, light but greedy. Valjean feels a pathetic rush of warmth, places half an inch of wet, soft tongue on the underside, cradles his fat, dripping, fuck-me dick, and lets the sensation do the work. Javert moves, impatient; then his eyes goes wide and he groans, canting his hips to make tiny rocking motions, his hand gripping the edge of the bench. Valjean lets him enjoy it for a moment, then takes it away.

‘Where’s the sponge?’

A feeble motion to his left. Valjean laughs quietly, takes it and starts from the bottom; feet, shins, knees, thighs, every inch he can reach thoroughly soaped and washed clean. Javert sits without moving or helping, watching him, waiting, only moving when a foamy hand grips his shaft and starts to pump it clean. Then he holds Valjean’s wrist to guide the pace, crunches up in pleasure, lets him wash his shoulders and back with his free hand. Valjean realises he was at least partly wrong, back at Christmas. He’d thought it was dangerous then, because the guy was so impressionable. But it looks like he might always be that way, at least when he’s shown some affection. The image of a deferential Javert springs to mind, and he wants to laugh again. No, that’ll never happen.

‘Valjean, more. Please. C’mon, I’m-‘

He kisses him to shut him up. Not the sweet, barely-there touches of earlier, but a proper, deep, full-of-want kiss, with tongues tangling and Javert pushed back against the wall. Yeah, he wants him, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for the guy to lose his virginity in the shower. But then he soaps his stomach and ribs, and feels the bumps along his side that are far too obvious, and the way Javert wraps his arms around his neck to keep him close. No, it wouldn’t be fair. Javert wants too much. He’ll let literally anything happen to him right now.

‘Stand up so I can do your back properly.’

’Valjean-‘

‘Nearly done, I promise. C’mon.’

A reluctant slouch to standing. And Valjean wasn’t expecting him to brace his arms on the wall, and stand like a man about to arrested. He is, he realises through a dull roar in his ears, offering himself. He probably doesn’t even realise it. But with legs spread like that…

He swallows, and rubs him clean along the shoulders, down his back, around each protruding shoulder blade. He stops over the scar around one, tracing it first with his sponge, then with his finger, and when the water has done its work, his tongue. He kisses along the length of it, teases the jagged bottom, slides a soapy hand over his hip to jerk him off gently.

‘How’d you get this, Javert?’

Javert turns his head, vacant, barely aware of the question. ‘Fuck me,’ he says, and Valjean moves mouth-first this time, kissing down his spine and licking the curve of his buttocks, making him cry out and thump his fist on the wall. ‘Valjean, come on.’

He’s not going to fuck him. He does, very carefully, slide the sponge between his cheeks and draw it over his asshole; he does drop it right after, and repeat it with his fingers. Javert keens and pushes back, presenting himself on reflex, and Valjean is left to marvel again at just how desperate he is. Whether he’d be this way with any guy, or just any guy who took care with him. Or if it’s truly just him.

‘Do it. Valjean. Please.’

His finger is pressed lightly to his hole. Valjean bites his lip and strokes over it, making Javert twist and writhe, trying to get more. It doesn’t feel wrong. He wants to make him happy. Still, this is not what he had in mind for a first penetration the man. If that’s what it is. Maybe he fucks himself all the time. The sudden visual that thought brings makes his head swim, and he has to back off before he does something they might regret.

‘Soon.’

Valjean stands up and presses along his back, wraps both arms around him from behind. Javert sags in his grip, his skin warm and tacky, bubbles clinging to the hair at his nape. Valjean kisses him under the ear, because he can. ‘Later. I promise. In bed, where I can make it good. For now…’

He circles a fingertip around the head of Javert’s leaking prick, and sucks in a breath when he moans like an animal in pain. In bare seconds the guy is jerking into his fist, practically fucking it but trying to keep as much of his back against Valjean’s chest as he can. It comes to him like a lightbulb going off; of course the guy’s desperate. He’s twenty-three, and wants a body against him. All the times they’ve messed with this before has had one or both of them in a compromised state. But not this time, and at least this is easy to fix.

‘Wait, wait. Calm down. You trust me?’

Javert’s head bobs up and down like it’s on a spring. Valjean stifles a chuckle, and leans up close to his ear.

‘Put your palms on the wall. No, I’m not fucking you, but…just bend a bit…’

He bends a bit too much, but Valjean guides him up. His own cock ends up tucked tight at the crux of Javert’s thighs, something he tries hard not to focus on. He thinks about folding all up Javert’s back instead, using his weight to hold him steady, keep him up, give him something to push against. And the guy is dropping moans from that alone, his head down, water dripping off his hair and lips. As an afterthought, Valjean squeezes the sponge out between them and then everything is slippery, warm, and he makes sure his palm and fingers are firm around Javert’s cock.

‘You ready?’ He murmurs it into his neck, feeling his own cock prodding at Javert’s balls.

‘I want you to come like this. OK? Don’t hold back.’

An inhuman noise comes out of the man, and he turns his head as best he can.

‘Just put it in. It’s right there.’

‘No. Like this. C’mon.’

He slides his fingers down the thick shaft, and feels it surge a little in his hand. It’s so ready to go, and Valjean can’t believe how good it feels, to just have this be OK. Javert bucks up against him, slides up and down his chest, pushes his butt back to his groin. Valjean remembers what it feels like to be inside someone, and grips harder, too hard because Javert cries out, but when he says ‘sorry,’ he’s answered with a shaking head and a thrust that can only be asking for more. He takes his balls in one hand and holds them firm, jerks him off like he means it, feels him straining underneath him as they buck and write in the water, too slippery to get any decent friction but letting skin sing together until Javert’s bent almost in half and Valjean’s curled over him, working him hard, swearing inside as his cock rubs against the inside of Javert’s thigh and threatens to soak behind his balls if this keeps up. But it doesn’t, because as soon as Valjean lets go of his balls and plays with the tip instead, all the muscles of Javert’s back spring together, arch up; he cries out and shoots over the wall, his whole body coming together to get it out of him. Valjean watches the perfect arch of his back with something like awe, so tempted to just slip inside him, so aware how easy it would be. But still not fair, so he waits, panting silently, until Javert slips out of his arms and down to the bench. For the longest time he just sits there, water streaming down his face, his chest, cleaning the evidence away. He looks, as always, so young. Valjean smiles to himself, takes advantage of his helplessness to pick up the shampoo, and squeeze some into his palm.

‘Stay still,’ he says quietly and Javert nods, spent, the evidence of his pleasure slipping off the wall and down the drain.

 

 

*

 

Javert’s spent a lot of time wondering what it would feel like to have Valjean straining against his back. The answer is ‘sublime’, or some equally over the top word. Whatever it is, it’s something that has to happen again really fucking quickly, and it has to be the real deal next time. He can’t do without it anymore. He needs him. He would, at this minute, happily spend the rest of his life underneath Jean Valjean.

He opens his eyes only when Valjean lifts his head off the wall, and massages shampoo into his crown with all the care of a parent with its kid. It’s too soft really, too weird, but too nice to put an end to. The nerve endings in his scalp stand up and then ease away, melting into the general wash of pleasure making up his body right now.

Valjean says nothing. Javert makes the effort to lean forward so the man can stroke up from his nape, giving the delicious thrill of hair going the wrong way only to be smoothed back a second later. Strong fingers press gently, making tiny circles, easing him down from his high. He rests his forehead against Valjean’s hip, and curls his hands loosely behind his knees. For long, long minutes, this is what they are; just touch, and care, and together.

It won’t last. In this shower, or in life. Javert’s already planning to get his mouth filled as soon as he can move, and as for the other, something will come up in a day or two to ruin it. But this is what it is right now, and it’s perfect. He lets it run a minute more, until the cloying treacle of affection has soothed down to a manageable level, under his skin and not radiating out of him like a lightbulb. He sits on it, draws his hand up Valjean’s thigh and, almost dreamlike, eases his prick sideways and into his mouth.

He doesn’t bother looking up, or opening his eyes, or taking his forehead far away from his body. He just pops his jaw to take the girth of him, flattens his tongue to get it as deep as he can. There’s nothing clever about this, nothing practised or skilled. He just closes his mouth around it and pushes until he can barely breathe, and then sucks, and sucks, and sucks. He doesn’t move up and down, or play; his tongue makes a bed for the length to move on, and he arches it up to pleasure the head as best he can. He holds Valjean’s ass, would take him deeper if he could, would get him to pump and fuck his throat if he could. But Valjean just stands still, rigid, his fingers carding desperately through Javert’s hair. Time doesn’t matter, but it still seems forever that they’re locked in place, Javert squeezing him with his whole mouth like his life depends on it; Valjean never makes a sound but his thigh muscles are trembling, a hand coming to rest on his head, the other on his nape. And it’s good like that, it’s secure, Javert knows he’s not going anywhere until this is finished.

He moans, and the vibration causes a tiny push of hips. He does it again, and blunt nails push into his skin; he grips Valjean’s ass harder, pulls him in, moans and chokes a bit, pulls back, then takes him deep again. And at some point he realises that Valjean is tilting, leaning a hand onto the wall to keep himself upright and steady, and finally, finally thrusting his hips just a little. Javert tastes shampoo and salt, and keeps having to swallow the shower water running into his mouth, but every time he does he feels Valjean’s body quake. And eventually, he hears,

‘Gotta sit. Sorry, gotta-‘

He wants him to come. But he pulls off, and slides to his knees, looking up with eyes that brook no argument. Valjean’s face falls into something helpless and he sits heavily – Javert realises, as he swivels around and pushes the man’s legs apart – that he’s never see Valjean so unguarded. Never so unburdened.

‘Javert-‘

‘Shush.’

He takes him again, working up and down for a few minutes this time, until he feels Valjean’s ass start to rise off the seat. Then he takes one of the man’s hands and puts it firmly on the top of his head. There’s a hesitation, but it grips eventually, and Javert moans, and sucks on him until he’s writhing and bucking; until all he can see in his mind’s eye is Jean Valjean sitting with his legs spread, getting his prick serviced and loving it. It’ll keep him jerking off for months, if he still has to do that himself any more.

‘Javert.’

He taps the bench in lieu of saying shut up, and draws back to lick heavily at the tip. Valjean has a fist in his mouth, his eyes screwed up. Javert can’t help a grin, and a wiggle of his tongue in the slit.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he says, and opens just quick enough to catch the first stream over his lips and tongue; groans deeply as Valjean arches and fills his mouth, rubbing his hair with both hands, twisting under his grip and obviously fighting the urge to moan. Javert swallows him down, everything inside crowing with triumph, his mind starting to fill with all the ways he’s going to make this man come. Every day, for as long as he’ll let him.

When he sags, Javert still holds him firm between his lips. He licks gently now, cleaning him like a cat but unwilling to let him out of his mouth. Only when Valjean eases him away does he let go, but still nuzzles at him, squeezing foam into his hand to stroke him back to cleanliness. He’s gentle, a single fingertip running over the swollen ridges, the loosening foreskin, the head slowly shrinking back. Only when he’s soft does he put it down and sit back on his heels, and take in the state of Valjean.

He sits dishevelled, like a boxer after a fight. Broad shoulders limp, pecs overhanging folded abs, still defined in their slouch. Thick thighs spread open, his cock now sleeping a little curled to the left. He really is beautiful. Javert smiles, and kisses the fingers that rise wearily to his lips.

‘We’re prunes.’

‘Don’t care.’

He reaches up to turn the water off, and kisses Valjean on the way back. If the man minds his own taste, he doesn’t say anything. He just holds Javert’s head with one hand, and lets it linger.

‘Bed, please.’

Valjean smiles, and taps him on the cheek with a loose finger.

‘Tonight. We’ll recharge properly.’

‘But you promise?’

‘…yeah. OK, Javert. Tonight.’

Good enough. He’ll take a promise from Jean Valjean any day of the week.

 

*

 

Valjean watches him go to fetch towels, sated and…happy, he thinks. Close to it, anyway. Because yeah, it can be tonight. And it’ll be good. And maybe in the morning he’ll make pancakes, and they can do whatever it is normal people do.

It won’t last. He knows that, and hopes to God Javert does too. But for the time being, they can pretend, and in the meantime…well, it is what it is. And it’s pretty good so far.