Tris and Four take a detour.

“Has no one done this for you?” Jin Guangyao asked, eyeing Xue Yang in the mirror.

"Step into my fucking office."

"Whatever you want," Nathan finds himself saying when his shirt comes off over his head and his glasses hit the nightstand — like he's talking to himself, which he might as well be. "Don't think about it like should, or shouldn't. Don't think. Don't fucking try and figure it out. Come on. You can keep your shirt on."

Near misses in the Greek tutorial.

The prince has an admirer, and Horatio has a problem.

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.)

Peter loses, and Ego patches him up afterward. Okay, this is only going to suck a lot.

In Egypt, the emperor sleeps poorly.

But thou dost in thy passages of life
Make me believe that thou art only marked
For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven
To punish my mistreadings.