A/N: Tybalt&Mercutio, in blurbs of 100 words or less. It's slash… though it's not really possible to get *too* graphic in 100 words…

Dominance

They often played little games of dominance with each other; the only problem was, Tybalt wasn't always sure who was winning these games. One morning, for example, Mercutio showed up in full Capulet livery and spent an hour waiting on him hand and foot – helping him wash, combing out his hair, kneeling to lace his boots up slowly. He accepted a cuff to the face gracefully and without protest whenever his service was slow or clumsy. And then, at the end, out of nowhere he produced a glittering razor. "Now if milord would please tilt his head back…"

Skirt

Tybalt frowned at the man perched on his desk. "I thought I told you…"

"To stay away, because you wanted to chase skirt tonight. I know." Mercutio hopped to the floor and unfolded himself smoothly, standing straight and tall and solemn in a plain white nightdress. It was a girl's nightdress, a long silk sheathe that made him look fragile, almost ghostly. But not unappealing by any means. "That's your prerogative, of course…"

Tybalt supposed that the girls downtown could wait til another night. Or another lifetime.

Punishment

"TybaltyesGod ah-!"

Tybalt realized Mercutio was breaking the rule, even before the bitter slime coated his tongue.

But he didn't pull away mid-climax. Instead, once it was over he rose from his knees, gripped Mercutio's chin hard to wrench his jaw open, and spat the entire mess into his mouth.

Mercutio tried to just look contrite and take his punishment quietly. Since Tybalt was holding his face to prevent spitting he swallowed, fighting with his body as it gagged up on him. He finally got the terrible mouthful down and winced. "I'm sorry."

"I'll bet you are."

"Never again."

"Good."

Words

Because Mercutio generally allowed himself to be manhandled, it was sometimes hard to remember that he was quite strong when he wanted to be.

Every once and awhile, though, he would fight back, wrestling Tybalt down despite his most heartfelt resistance. He would hold him still, touch him until he lost his head, and then refuse to continue until Tybalt begged using words that made his cheeks burn.

Tybalt thought he hated this, the helplessness and the humiliation, and was unable to explain why the orgasms that resulted were some of the best of his life.

Kissing

They kissed a lot. Sometimes Tybalt initiated it, as a way to stop Mercutio from talking. Sometimes Mercutio did, as a way of teasing, of drawing out the tension between them.

Sometimes it was a way to fight for control, and then a way for the winner to demonstrate ownership. Other times it was because they didn't have enough time or privacy to risk anything more satisfying.

And sometimes when they kissed it was for none of these reasons. They never discussed it.

Giving

Mercutio was hesitant at first, knowing that Tybalt didn't really want this. But a few insistent kisses soon changed his mind.

It wasn't a welcomed union like when he was on bottom… rather, for Tybalt it seemed to be an exercise in self-discipline and fortitude to submit this way.

And Mercutio found he loved it – to see Tybalt forcing himself, for him, was even better than enthusiastic enjoyment would have been. This was not mutual pleasure-seeking; it was a gift. Overwhelmed at being offered something of such value, Mercutio came hard, soon, breathing his partner's name over and over.

Sleeping

Tybalt was dead to the world the moment head met pillow, and come morning only the brightest sunlight or most insistent banging could rouse him.

Except when he shared a bed with Mercutio.

Then, he would only drop off once Mercutio was snoring solidly, and woke up whenever Mercutio stirred.

Mercutio assumed that Tybalt simply didn't trust him not to mistreat a sleeping bedmate. He didn't realize that as long as he was awake he couldn't keep his hands off – stroking Tybalt's chest, kissing his shoulder, whispering filth into his ear – and perhaps Tybalt didn't want to miss a second.

Damage (Part I).

"Engaged?" Tybalt choked on it. "You… agreed?"

Mercutio shrugged. "I'll live." He was thinking of the wedding night, which of course would be distasteful, but…

Tybalt stared. Hit him. Left, and didn't look back.

It was only much later that he realized Tybalt had been thinking not about the wedding night, but about all the nights and days that would come after. Nights and days he would be spending with his wife, not with his… The thought of that was not just distasteful, it was unacceptable.

Mercutio broke off the engagement at once. But the damage was already done.

Jealousy

"Come on – you know I can't go this long without. I ache." Mercutio whispered it brazenly, at a big dinner, just like old times.

He expected a blush, a scandalized hiss – something – but instead Tybalt merely sneered: "So proposition one of your friends."

"I did," he lied. "But Benvolio said he could still smell Capulet all over me."

Tybalt seethed visibly, and Mercutio was delighted. Ha! Jealous!

Or perhaps not. "Tell him that if he prefers the smell of Montague blood, I'd be happy to bathe both of you in it!"

He rose, pleaded a stomachache, and left the hall.

Optimism

Tybalt finally cracked under the heartache one night, and scaled Mercutio's wall. He meant to break in and kneel by the bed, kiss his neck and hold him for just a moment. And then leave.

He thought that even after all the cruelties between them Mercutio would allow it, when he needed it this badly.

But the window was unlocked… Mercutio must be expecting someone. Else.

Tybalt was armed and knew he could not control himself, so he fled.

It was another month before Mercutio's optimism wore out, and he finally gave up on Tybalt and started locking his window.

Forgiveness

Mercutio regretted it at once. "Kitty?" He knelt, reached out. "I didn't mean to-…"

The cat bristled when his fingers made contact. It swiped at him, then jumped up awkwardly and skittered away on three legs. From a safe place under a low table, it turned to hiss.

Its eyes were dark, and painfully familiar. When ten minutes had passed and Mercutio had failed to stare it down, and repeated offers of a gentle hand only ended in set after set of teeth marks, he just left it a saucer of milk and went away. Again.

Damage (Part II).

Tybalt prided himself on never needing a lesson twice, so after he'd gotten his feelings hurt he answered all attempts at reconciliation with silence and steel. This plan worked brilliantly for months, right up until the sunny afternoon he actually caught Mercutio with a lucky (or unlucky) thrust to the abdomen.

A gasp. "Tybalt, God, what've you-"

Apparently Mercutio hadn't lost all his power after all, because that hurt, more than Tybalt could handle. His chest tightened until he could hardly breathe.

He dropped the sword at once and backed away. But the damage was already done.

The End. Ok, ok, I cheated – all the musical R&Js seem to use a knife rather than a sword. But too bad – I like swords.

Let me know what you think!