Garrupe and Rodrigues, returning.

"Step into my fucking office."

Gibson surveys the evidence of his recreational activities as he readies himself to serve.

Tris and Four take a detour.

"Don't," he says, thin and strangled — no, not strangled, really. Smothered. The word hardly left his throat at all, and if John hadn't been so close, just about on top of him in an enclosed space, he might never have heard.

(For the Tumblr prompt "things you said while you were driving".)

Near misses in the Greek tutorial.

Or, sailor boys in bondage.

When he is Lord of the Dreadfort he'll have ruby rings on his fingers.

"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."

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