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.
Eve has always been older and wiser.
Vindice makes ready for an assignation.
(Written for forthegothicheroine's prompt: "Vindici if the Duke and his family were vampires.")
A little bit of contextless silliness, written for Elise. Mild Jehan-related naughtiness and an impatient Grantaire.
"It's Karen," she says hopelessly in the middle of his doorway like he wouldn't know her a thousand other ways. The whiff of perfume on her, Viktor & Rolf Flowerbomb trapped underneath a thick smear of booze, or the sound of her shoes on the hard tile floor. She's drunk already; her breathing is faint and thready. Her face is too hot.
It is the heart of the jungle that makes roots that spread below the ground.
Raleigh likes being handcuffed, Mako likes Raleigh. Porn.
Kisse he me with the cos of his mouth.
For thi tetis ben betere than wyn, and yyuen odour with beste oynementis.
Richard and Anne make out in the bath.
Young Feyd is accustomed to being wanted. Piter is profoundly uninterested.