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.)
The prince has an admirer, and Horatio has a problem.
Don Draper has a bad habit of throwing money at his problem. His latest problem is Michael Ginsberg.
"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".)
Back then, all the boys his age had hero-worshipped costumed vigilantes. Jack supposes they still do.
Michael and David and Star, forever.
Edward receives an education in the inutility of virtue. The Earl abducts him for a session of discipline.
When they arrive in the Yiling Supervisory Office, Jiang Yanli freshly recovered from fever, Jiang Cheng in a coma, and Wei Wuxian nearly at the end of his rope, Jiang Yanli does what she does best—acts as the warm, nurturing support for her brothers. But she's tired, too.
Richie finds himself in an undesirable situation. Or: bloodsucking Geckos in bondage.
Krennic contemplates the dizzying array of interplanetary sexual diversity. Galen is mortified.