Tom and Peter, partners in disguise.
There in that white-gilt bedroom like a tomb, where I believe none of Gatsby's guests had ever before set foot except by mistake — none until Daisy, and I was only her adjunct and proxy, an accessory to her presence there in the house. He had forgotten about me then. He had forgotten about me now. I was his only witness.
Caesar and Brutus pursue a little light Jupiter-and-Ganymede roleplay in these trying times.
“Oh,” Qingming breathes out, his shoulders sinking deep with it, “how fortunate.”
Yes, Boya thinks, foolish and giddy and wrecked with affirmation, how fortunate.
Ammit consecrates her avatar to herself.
Jesse finds Bob in the night. It doesn't go the way Bob might hope for.
"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".)
Aumerle doesn't seek absolution.