For the ask game --
39. Share a snippet from a WIP (requesting Loup Garou, pretty pretty please with sugar on top 🫶)
63. Something you hate to see in smut.
64. Something you love to see in smut.
39.
There are loves which spit: proud crudity, slime upon the face of society, a trail which catches a holy light. Marius Pontmercy would have carved Cosette’s name into his own living flesh, were he told this was the greatest sign of love; by marrying her, he’d undergone a mortification through publicity, far worse pain to him than any shed blood. Only the test he had made of her virtue, witnessed by God and the holed walls of the Gorbeau house, caused him more suffering. Yes, he spat; and he would have rather bled. It was a bad season, in 1833, to be a bourgeois lawyer with a convict’s-daughter wife, so that whatever kept him to his study for so many hours—we cannot account for it; he could not; clients did not. Of an evening that emptiness drove him out into the central courtyard, desperate for what breath of Spring could reach it, unconscious of the hour. It irritated him to find Javert lain out by his favorite bench, posed in such thorough embodiment of the guard-dog’s alertness that a passing artist, seeing him through the gate, fixed his image in charcoal, a sketch which later became a bronze statue first consigned to the back of the artist’s gallery, then faced to the wall, and ultimately melted down to craft a figure which less inflamed his fear of surveillance by the state.
Marius asked, “Do you earn the wages I pay you by watching the street?”
[ Good evening, monsieur. I understood it to be M. Valjean’s money. ]
“Cosette inherited it, and I am Cosette’s husband.” Marius gestured, meaning: therefore.
Javert grunted aloud.
Marius stepped over his tail and sat, then rested the book he had brought with him upon his knee, unopened.
Javert glanced back at him, the white showing in his eye. The animal intuition which keeps the rabbit still in the brush had served him well in his dealings with Marius: cognizant of his own lunacy, the loup-garou mimicked stability by silence. For the sake of dignity, he might have died as poor men did, from those fevers held in common on the street, or exposure when the winter came again; only, to be paid a decent wage as the servant of the revolutionary whose life he preserved by misjudgement seemed a proper excoriation of the soul.
63. I ain't gonna yuck someone's yum but also: disappearing wet spots. Where did the sweat and cum and """oil""" go? Where did all the slick get to, for that matter? Bewildering, distracting, and a missed opportunity.
64. Novelty! Gimme something I haven't thought about before.
. . .
Yeah ok also: wet spots.
