You try to dress nice. How do you dress nice for a sex club? You have no fucking idea. But you've got the greaser cool guy look down pretty good, and you think it works for you. You wear your tightest t-shirt. You spend like fifteen minutes in front of the bedroom mirror trying to decide which pair of jeans is the most flattering for your glutes. This is your chance.

Iron Bull is almost certainly playing games with him. Dorian is particularly sure of this when he's been drinking.

Xanxus figures it's probably better not to ask too many questions, just in case he doesn't like the answers.

“What’s the internet say about all this sexual tension?” Kuroo asks, and Kenma’s attention snaps back to the screen. “Nothing I didn’t see earlier. It should lessen over time, but it’s meant to cement the new bond between mated individuals. Through sex, I guess.” (( or: kenma must navigate his new and unwanted werewolf marriage with kuroo, and honestly, it would be a lot easier if they didn't get boners every time they made eye contact ))

Ryan wants to experiment. Shane is more than happy to comply.

All Might – Toshinori – fakes it. All the time, every time, because he has to. Aizawa thinks lying and liars are the most exhausting things in life, so of course he didn't expect to fall in love, but here they are.

Alistair has spent his whole life hating himself for the things he wants. Zevran is just looking for a fun way to pass the time. What could possibly go wrong when someone who has no experience with sex gets into a D/s relationship with someone who has no experience with healthy relationships? Or: Alistair and Zevran serve as a case study on how to do (almost) everything wrong but still end up in the right place (eventually).

Jin Guangyao lifts his head and smiles. "I'm considering a problem." "Can I be of any assistance with it?" He drops a kiss on Lan Xichen's chest. With the nail of one finger he lightly traces the characters for irony on Lan Xichen's side. "Not this one, er-ge."

Sid’s gotten pretty used to total strangers asking him what he’s trying to prove, or telling him he wasn’t raised right, and they always expect it to bother him. He doesn’t tell them he hears much, much worse on the ice. When shit gets even worse than usual—when a ref calls him a brat when he’s arguing a call, when another team’s goon tries to put him on his knees five times a game—he sits on the bench and presses down on his chest protector, feeling the shape of the captain’s ring on its chain around his neck, until he doesn’t feel like throwing up anymore. Sid’s never had a dom, not even for a night, but he has his team, and that’s enough. That’s more than enough.