#demon4dilfs

“Oh, let me get that, my dear.”

One of Valjean’s large hands reaches forward to cover Javert’s own, still pinching a bit of ribbon between his fingertips.

Javert huffs soundlessly as he passes the ribbon to Valjean without complaint, lowering his arms and settling more comfortably onto the small upholstered stool they keep next to the little desk in their bedroom.

He is already dressed for a brisk, wintry day, despite the few scant rays of dawn just now peeking past their curtains—still nervous, even now, whenever he accompanies Valjean to visit Cosette and her husband and their children. He cuts a handsome figure to Valjean’s eyes, wrapped in warm trousers and pleated woolen shirtsleeves, layered with the embroidered waistcoat that Valjean had gifted him the previous Christmas, its back panel a deep navy satin that hugs Javert’s waist with a delicately knotted bow.

Valjean forces his eyes away from the cinched fabric to note where the folded heap of Javert’s cravat yet lies on top of the desk, and beside it the simple, battered wooden hairbrush that was one of the few items Javert had brought with him to the Rue de l’Homme Armé all those years ago. His long waterfall of hair has been neatly brushed, and now needs only to be tied back into its customary queue; of late it is more grey than black, fanning out from his temples to fall in interlocking layers of iron and silver and gunmetal down nearly to Javert’s mid-back.

Valjean gently gathers the silky cascade of loose hair into his hand, stomach fluttering at the simple pleasure of his callused skin snagging on the thin strands—impossibly soft to the touch, and smelling faintly of the lavender and rosemary of their little bottle of hair oil.

He cannot resist sinking his fingers into where the hair grows thick at the other man’s nape, nails lightly scraping over Javert’s skull as he tugs a little more firmly at the hair clutched in his palm, the better to keep it straight and tidy for Javert’s queue—but a smile tugs at his lips at the quiet gasp Javert makes in response; the way Javert’s head tips back to follow the movement of Valjean’s hands in his hair.

“Do you have a second riband?” Valjean asks, enjoying the luxurious weight of Javert’s hair within his hand. His other rests at the juncture of Javert’s neck and shoulder, the heat of Javert’s skin seeping slowly through the material of his collar, Javert’s pulse strong and steady against Valjean’s palm. The impressive bristle of his whiskers brushes Valjean’s fingertips, and he looses a shuddering, indulgent exhale as Valjean’s thumb begins to rub in tiny, aimless circles; catching on the wisps of hair there, relaxing muscles that are always too tense, even so early in the morning.

“Another one?” Javert replies, bemused; even as he tilts his head into the tempting caress of Valjean’s fingertips, heedless of the way the angle pulls a lock of hair free of Valjean’s hold to tumble down his back, and Valjean ducks his head to press a kiss to the crown of Javert’s head.

“Perfect,” he says, withdrawing his hand from Javert’s throat to pull at the escaped hair. “I needed to separate it anyway; it’s been too long since I got to braid your hair for you.”

“It’s only been a few days, you old con,” Javert says, voice rasping faintly at the edges, shivering at each new touch of Valjean’s hand along his neck, the hinge of his jaw.

“Exactly,” Valjean agrees, “Nearly an eternity.”

He parts the thick layers of hair into sections, still running his hands through the glinting tangle shaded as mercury and coal and stardust. If Valjean could put a color to the glimmering constellations the other man will speak so fondly of—in that spare, gruff way of his whenever it is a matter of any importance to him—surely it would be here, in Valjean’s hands, coiled sleek and gleaming between each stout finger.

He carefully pulls and twists the familiar river of Javert’s hair into an orderly, uniform plait; resisting the urge to dither too long with the soft strands between his fingers, knowing it will only result in lopsided loops and frayed, frizzing ends. And while Valjean would hardly mind starting right back over from the beginning, Javert would likely insist on doing it himself the second time, for the sake of efficiency.

And so Valjean applies himself to the task as scrupulously as he knows the other man would do himself, the well-known rhythm soothing and intimate and over entirely too quickly by Valjean’s reckoning; the finished braid slipping easily from his hold to thump softly against Javert’s back.

“I don’t suppose you could grow your hair out longer still,” Valjean says, not entirely sure himself if he means it in jest. “I do so love to brush and braid it for you.”

The other man turns his head to look up at Valjean over one broad shoulder, his thin lips pulled down into a considering moue, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “I would have no strong objections,” Javert says, his voice now steadied to its usual deep and resonant baritone. “Though it seems impractical. But you already know you may brush or braid it as often as you wish, whatever the length of my hair.”

“If I were to do this as often as I wished, I would need to be the one brushing out your hair morning and night,” Valjean replies, grinning in earnest now. He allows himself to tug gently at the tail of Javert’s plait, thinking ahead to the evening, when they prepare themselves for bed:

Javert changed from this more formal attire into his long, ruffed nightshirt, stockings yet in place in deference to the cold night; loosing the ribbons in his hair and fastidiously unwinding the individual strands until they fall in snaking waves down his back, enticing Valjean’s fingertips.

Valjean would want to trail his hands through the curls left by the braid; clasping messy handfuls in his work-roughened palms as he hauls Javert around to meet the other man’s mouth with his own, fingers buried in hair the color of quicksilver and glimmering to match the starlight falling through their bedroom window.

He would want to lace his fingers through the jumbled tresses falling around Javert’s shoulders and pull the other man closer to him, pressed chest to hip to thigh before walking Javert to their bed, slowly lowering the other man to lie beneath him on the plush duvet, Valjean’s hands still pulling at Javert’s hair as it spilled across the bedding, and—

“—jean,” Javert says. He sounds very much like this is not the first time in the past few minutes that he has called Valjean’s name. “Jean.”

Valjean blinks. The sunlight peeping through their curtains looks, perhaps, brighter than he last recalls. It is still early in the morning, with a long day yet ahead of them; and Javert’s expression has drifted somewhere between fondness and an amused exasperation as he says, “Are you still tired? It’s early yet, you could nap for a while longer…”

“No, no,” Valjean waves the suggestion away, cheeks heating as he determinedly sets aside his wandering thoughts and their decidedly inopportune nature; it will do him no good to keep thinking that way, with a trip to the Pontmercy-Gillenormand househould and a half-dozen errands ahead of them before nightfall—and any potential reenactment of his imaginings. “I’m not tired at all; I simply was a bit lost in thought, planning out our day.”

He pauses, and adds, with an attempt at nonchalance he knows will not fool Javert for even a moment: “But I may take you up on your earlier suggestion, if you will permit me to brush your hair out tonight.”

An eyebrow creeps up Javert’s forehead, deepening the creases cut across it by time and age and experience, and the ghost of a smirk plays around the corners of his mouth as he replies with a knowing, “Indeed?”

He tosses his head, braid swinging over his shoulder as he faces forward once more, picking up the cravat lying on the desk before him to loop it around his neck. The cravat had been a gift from Valjean as well, to match the waistcoat—and Javert slips it beneath the rope of his braid and edges of his collar, to fasten it expertly at the hollow of his throat. Once complete, his hands pull away from his neck, and he swallows; the elegant knot of the cravat bobbing in time with the motion.

“Jean,” Javert panted heavily against Valjean’s open mouth, the other man voracious and eager as his hands dragged up Javert’s hips to wrap around the divot of his waist, to haul Javert closer still. “Jean, let’s—”

He broke off as Valjean’s lips closed over his own again, plush and full and chapped from the wintry air. The intimacy of another’s mouth pressed to Javert’s own was still a curious sensation—there was a strange, enticing sweetness in the way Valjean’s teeth bit down gently on Javert’s lower lip, and in the sleek heat of Valjean’s tongue as it licked its way inside, demanding entrance; Valjean already aware, from just these few brief weeks together, of how readily Javert would yield to that wet, searching warmth.

Javert’s skin prickled and his nerves buzzed from the simple feeling of Valjean’s hands rough and heavy and restless over the thin fabric of Javert’s shirt, Valjean’s breath gasping and mingling with his own. A shiver ran down Javert’s spine as the other man tugged Javert more closely to the solid, implacable bulk of his chest; Javert hurriedly throwing his arms around Valjean’s shoulders for balance.

Valjean never seemed to mind the height Javert had on him, nor the bony angles and flat planes of Javert’s body where he was either too lean or too big, never to be mistaken for any soft and delicate grisette beneath Valjean’s caress. Where age sagged and creased his skin in strange places, and nature had seen fit to bestow upon him a mat of thick, dark hair to trail down arms and legs and back and chest; now gone progressively more silver in recent years. The other man only held Javert’s tall, broad body tightly to him, tugging at the edges of Javert’s shirt to free it of his trousers, Valjean’s fingers working beneath the rucked-up hem to trail through the smattering of hair across Javert’s stomach.

Valjean tilted his neck back to press his mouth more firmly against Javert’s, sinking deeper into the kiss as his hands roamed freely over bony hip and soft abdomen, directionless and wandering and mystifying to Javert; Valjean seeming only to want to touch as much of Javert’s skin as he could reach. Javert shivered again, attempting to wind all his lanky limbs and broad body around Valjean, cursing the layers of clothing that yet remained between them as his blood heated and his face flushed and his length stirred between his legs.

He forced himself to tear his mouth away from Valjean’s long enough to moan, “Jean—upstairs—the bedroom—”

But Valjean’s lips were already claiming his again, Valjean’s hands grasping and greedy where they slid from Javert’s back to his buttocks, his thighs, and Javert squirmed against the other man, his body thrumming with impatience and a mounting hunger. He growled low in the back of his throat before mumbling against the slick, swollen heat of Valjean’s mouth, “Do you intend—to carry on here—” even as he hooked one leg over Valjean’s calf, the new angle allowing Javert to rut his hips against Valjean’s leg; his erection swelling with each slow rock against the corded muscle of Valjean’s thigh.

“Oh, have mercy,” Valjean groaned in response, the words vibrating against Javert’s lips, pulling back far enough to shake his head, sweat-dampened curls forming a flyaway halo around his head as he murmured, “Quickly; hold onto me.”

And Javert’s arms clenched reflexively around Valjean’s neck, even as his brows drew together in puzzlement, his cock pulsing within the confines of his drawers at the undercurrent of command threading Valjean’s words; the expectation that Javert would heed his bidding—Javert’s heart pounding with the realization that his body had obeyed without hesitation—

Javert had only the time between one blink of an eye and the next to consider his ready compliance and the peculiarity of Valjean’s request, his arms locking around the other man. Valjean’s grasp was firm where it seized Javert’s thighs, fingertips sinking into flesh made soft and supple from the long months of his recovery abed, and the more frequent meals as he dined at Valjean’s table thereafter. Javert savored the insistent pressure where it dug into his skin, before that pressure clamped down hard and tight and bruising, and the world around him shifted—

There was a dizzying moment where Javert’s long, heavy body was lifted—hefted and tilted and repositioned, Javert’s hands scrabbling at Valjean’s shoulders as he bit back a startled yelp—while Valjean’s grip slid from Javert’s thighs, to one arm scooped beneath both of Javert’s legs instead; Valjean resting Javert’s weight against him for the scant seconds required for Valjean to wind his other arm behind Javert’s back, settling all of Javert’s lean limbs and broad shoulders within the circle of two powerful arms.

Javert was stunned breathless by the abrupt shift in gravity—from needing to duck down in order to meet Valjean’s lips, to now meeting Valjean’s gaze as he stared at the other man in startled wonder. Valjean, in turn, appeared unfazed; his arms an iron band under Javert’s legs and beneath his shoulderblades, Javert experiencing a bizarre sort of weightlessness, and a curious vulnerability to be so contained and conveyed by another person. He could not recall ever being in a position such as this—had no idea if he had ever been held before at all, at any other point in his life—and suspected this might be the first.

He fastened his arms more securely around Valjean’s neck, attempting to acclimate to the sensation of being held thus: his feet lifted from the ground, Valjean’s immense strength fully supporting Javert’s weight. Javert twisted and curled toward the other man, outrageously too tall and ungainly to be so—held, like this, gently and lovingly against Valjean’s body. Valjean’s cheeks were colored red more with satisfaction than exertion as he bore Javert easily, effortlessly, his dark eyes twinkling; clearly pleased with the success of his endeavor, and on his first attempt besides.

Later, Javert would share in that amusement, that Valjean had picked him up with little more effort than he might have exerted to lift a child—Valjean’s strength as impressive and indomitable and undiminished now as it had ever been in the decades prior. But in that moment, Javert could only feel himself pulled securely against the other man’s chest, the few seconds of disorientation already fading into distant memory as his body thrummed with the knowledge of how deftly Valjean lifted all of Javert’s tall, heavy frame; trembling with the heightened awareness of Valjean warm and sturdy against him. Javert’s senses were subsumed by the hirsute chest pressed along his side, the stout arms that carried him, the familiar scent of lavender bath oils and garden herbs mixed with the salty pang of perspiration as Valjean hauled him impossibly closer.

His indomitable strength seized Javert to him, crushing Javert against him in a fervid embrace, Javert ensconced entirely within Valjean’s arms. And he found the tense knots in his neck and back unwinding, his body grown relaxed and pliant as he was cradled by the other man, at a queer counterpoint to the persistent ache in his cock. Javert dragged in another deep, gusty inhale—lavender and rosemary and thyme and salt—as he tipped his head forward to nose into the crook of Valjean’s collar, stomach fluttering with a curious combination of contentment and exhilaration.

He had not known Valjean could carry him with such ease; would not have guessed it would be pleasurable to be held this way: completely captured in Valjean’s grasp, separate of any congress in their bed chambers. Javert would not have presumed that it would be so affecting that Valjean’s strength could be applied even here, with the entirety of Javert’s body folded against Valjean’s own; Javert held fast, almost—smaller, or lighter, or; no, more like—his body shared with Valjean, to be possessed by Valjean, given unto Valjean—Javert held peaceful and complacent as the other man sought to press Javert more firmly to him, as though even a few centimeters was too much, too far—Valjean’s mouth finding his again, fevered and fervent with a desire Javert felt simmering in his own veins, a perfect mirror to Valjean’s—

Javert whined into Valjean’s mouth as the other man grabbed for him, clutching Javert to his chest; Javert’s body locked against Valjean’s, his synapses yet firing with the rising tide of his arousal, the desperate longing to be closer still—closer even than this, with all of Valjean’s skin bare against his, Javert’s own touch ravenous, insensate; aching to feel the rippling muscle of Valjean’s body wrapped in scarred and wrinkled skin, to twine his fingers in snow-white curls and haul the other man down against him.

He wanted to feel Valjean’s heat and weight blanketing him, pressing him down into their bed as Valjean’s cock pressed inside him, Javert’s legs wound around Valjean’s back as Javert arched his spine and pulled Valjean closer—until Valjean was flush against him, his shaft entirely sheathed inside Javert, and there was no space left between them at all, no distance yet remaining, limbs and bodies tangled with no discernible beginning or end—

Javert’s length throbbed, trapped behind the placket of his trousers. His long nails dug into the fine linen of Valjean’s shirt as he said, voice hoarse, “Take me to bed, please, Jean.”