When the word gets out regarding Luke and Leia's parentage, a number of things become exponentially more complicated.

Dreams and desires share a common origin; both take root in Columbus too readily.

Or, some meta in which many words are spent on Early Victorian bathing, shaving, skincare, and lube.

Fletcher hates playing piano at weddings. Neiman hates this specific wedding, and he's the best man. So they've got that going for them.

Ten years in and Fletcher is dead. Neiman isn't far behind him.

(Written for Comorbidities' prompt on Tumblr and Stars' "Take Me To The Riot": saturday nights in neon lights, sunday in the cell.)

Plot? What plot? We're all just spooning here, officer.

Alfonso is not well, and his bride already knows it.

Under the boardwalk.

Faustus has a number of persistent questions, chiefly concerning sex in Heaven.