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Three-sentence ficlets

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This is what he looks like now, the fearsome Inspector Javert: flushed and dishevelled, hair mussed and hips arching off the bed -- "Please," he gasps, "please, please, Jean," and he sees his own reflection in Valjean's dark gaze, wild and heedless. This is the new Javert, this is the Javert who has opened his arms and his body and his heart to a man condemned by the law, and who does not regret it; this is the Javert whose life belongs to Valjean now, the Javert who chose a power greater than the Seine, the Javert who longs for Valjean's touch and receives it, who asks for Valjean's kisses and has his wishes met.

And though moral thought is vexing and the world a place of misery, he gets what he wants, which is sometimes all he needs: to be consumed by his own desire, to let it burn so bright there is nothing left of him but his own naked need, to let it speak its unmistakeable language, to let it write its own law: I'm yours if you want me, I'm yours no matter what.