“I don’t care for that honorifics crap. Well, I guess Ygritte hasn’t told you, did she?” “Told me what?” “What I thought. Just call me Robb. I don’t get off on people calling me titles.” “And what do you get off to then? If I may ask.” “Sure you can. I get off on people trusting me to do right by them. Which means that unless everyone is happy, it doesn’t work for me.” Or: where Theon Greyjoy and Robb Stark walk into Ygritte's BDSM club one evening. Calling it good karma is probably an understatement.

“I-” He stuttered, trying to gather enough brainpower to talk. “M’sorry, I-I can’t-” And he really couldn’t, just couldn’t help himself from dropping back down on the dildo, couldn’t stop the filthy moan from leaving his mouth. He was so fucking turned on, and despite the fact that he might be in the process of ruining his friendship with the most important person in his life, he just couldn’t stop. Kiri’s eyes felt like fire on his skin and it was just dragging him higher, higher, higher. Bakugou likes to dress up. Kirishima catches him.

Most days, Sanji considers himself a bundle of neuroses at best. He smokes a reasonable amount to distract himself from the anxious urge to play with his hair or bite at his nails or chew his lips, he wears layers and suits to avoid direct skin-to-skin contact he isn’t prepared for, and most importantly, he never ever looks at his back in the mirror. Usually these things work to keep him intact, to keep him here and sane and passably whole. But some days, they don’t. And that’s when Sanji needs it. Namely—the sex.