What is love, listeners? What is it about the nature of love that makes the threat of harm so integral to its existence? If we were to pry open the human heart from its delicate cage and carefully carve into it with a scalpel, we would find no evidence of love.
Andrew makes for a bad date, even when he's not the one paying. Fletcher is determined to drag him all over New York or die trying.
More superheroes prequel. Pete and Patrick meet and it's a little bit of a disaster, if one with a future. About 3,800 words.
Justin lies to Alex every day.
None of this makes any sense, really. Jim's barely laid a hand on her, if he doesn't count the occasional hand-up over difficult terrain, or accidental (mostly accidental) groping when an explosion throws his bridge crew around, and Jim doesn't count that, because if he counted that he'd be at third base with Keenser by now.
Luke's intentions toward his nephew have been misinterpreted, and maybe this is a mercy.
Eve has always been older and wiser.
Diarmuid and the mute make a bed in the wilderness.
No inch of his bared skin is a revelation to Tang Fan, but stripping before him still feels like an unveiling, marital. A deification of the profane.