“Has no one done this for you?” Jin Guangyao asked, eyeing Xue Yang in the mirror.
On the road, after the walls come down. Tris looks for answers; Peter looks for an ending.
"Step into my fucking office."
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.
The first time, though of course he doesn't know it's the first time, everything went exactly according to plan. Crowley got the baby, right on time. He took it to the nunnery, and didn't stop to talk to the man waiting outside. He observed the whole thing, and made sure no funny business happened. At the end of the night, the Antichrist went home with the Dowlings.
It takes 600 more tries to get it going exactly according to the right plan.
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.)
Near misses in the Greek tutorial.
Peter loses, and Ego patches him up afterward. Okay, this is only going to suck a lot.
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thefourthvine wrote, "I want the story whe…
thefourthvine wrote, "I want the story where someone sits down and thinks that, and lists every single person in the canon (probably in some kind of database, with numerical codes and assigned weights for each category and stuff) and weighs all the pros and cons and finally, after a lot of careful deliberation, selects a candidate for the position of Significant Other."
This is the first step in that process.