When Rust and Maggie have sex, Rust is sober, and Maggie is taking a calculated risk.
Tybalt and Mercutio collide, for once more or less harmlessly, while Romeo's busy losing it in the men's room.
Nathan is a different kind of mad scientist.
They have established a relationship expedited by cheap abundant crank and long poorly-defined winter nights.
Caleb lives. Nathan lives. Not for very long, though.
"Don't," he says, thin and strangled — no, not strangled, really. Smothered. The word hardly left his throat at all, and if John hadn't been so close, just about on top of him in an enclosed space, he might never have heard.
(For the Tumblr prompt "things you said while you were driving".)
They were old stones, the stones that buried Leporino, the boundary markers of a rustic edifice or a low wall. They might have tumbled down the ravine under the weight of last winter’s snow, or at an unlucky push.
(Written for cygnes and the prompt: the secret history au where it's a jacobean revenge tragedy.)
Two bodies touch and come away marked.
"Whatever you want," Nathan finds himself saying when his shirt comes off over his head and his glasses hit the nightstand — like he's talking to himself, which he might as well be. "Don't think about it like should, or shouldn't. Don't think. Don't fucking try and figure it out. Come on. You can keep your shirt on."