More importantly, and to the point: it turns out that there’s no seamless way to go about asking for what you want. There’s really not. Especially and definitely if you're trying for sexy. And Kuan-hung has tried for sexy, he has tried very hard, and very determinedly, for sexy, in all the dress rehearsals he’s run through in his head. But no dice. He's not living in a webnovel.

Goodsir and Hickey play at necrophilia.

Fitzjames and Crozier take comfort in each other, despite everything.

Wherever he goes, Rodrigues is lost.

Jonathan was much the happier, being mourned by one king and loved by two, and do not the loves and griefs of kings exceed those of other men?

Or, capture and death.

They were nearly at the end of this bout of fucking, when Sergei gave that damned scarf still looping over his shoulders a playful jerk and whispered in his ear if he would mind if he choked him a little?

He is not in his body. He is not of his body at all.

How can he want for something he does not have when its lack leaves no absence?

"If you have a choice in not having a choice about coming,” Fu Meng-po says, eyebrows cocked out from behind the frame of his sunglasses, “then it's not a kidnapping."

“You’re not fun,” Kuan-hung complains. “At all.”

Kendall might be in their father's pocket, but that's not always such a bad thing.