You can find some interesting things in those old, abandoned thaigs... ******* As a general warning: it's all 100% consensual, but there isn't a whole lot of negotiation on specific acts ahead of time, and there are a few (quickly corrected) mis-steps. Nobody gets hurt, or even actually upset, but I know that's a sensitive issue for some.

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).

Alec doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows that Magnus knows he doesn’t know, which kind of makes it better — there’s no expectations, just the smile on Magnus’s lips when Alec surges forwards to kiss him — but somehow it makes it worse as well, because he’s following his instincts and his instincts, apparently, involve letting Magnus do anything to him. And, okay, that idea is unfairly hot (there is nothing Alec wouldn’t give to have Magnus pin him down and just take, but his boyfriend is far too nice and too conscious of Alec’s apparently soon-to-be-gone virgin status to even try to) and unfairly unattainable, but Alec’s first response to being pushed onto Magnus’s bed is still to get his wrists up.

“Inigo.” The young man took a measured breath. “Yes.” “You do realize what it will entail.” Another breath. “Yes.” “Nevertheless, let me remind you. Unless I release you to fulfill your civic duties and filial obligations, then—from the first evening bells till well after the sun rises in the morning—you’ll be mine and mine alone. I will own you. Your mouth, your groin, your delicate hole, your pleasure and your pain—all will be mine to indulge, to do with as I please. So I will ask again. Are you sure?” Inigo’s muscles flexed. “Yes.” He shivered again. “Master.”

As Theon grows, he begins to question his place in the Stark family. Especially in regards to the heir of Winterfell.

“No one told me what prayers to recite,” Johnny forces out, trying to summon the well of anger that usually burns within him when he enters the church. “‘Spose they’re not used to trussin’ up somethin’ that can talk back.” Father Simon says nothing, his footsteps echoing out on the stone; growing louder as he approaches. “I can baa for ya if that’d make it more familiar,” he spits, some remnant of himself flaring and he strains his arms, struggling in vain against the ropes binding his wrists. He follows the hem of his robe as he circles him; his keen eyes heavy as they study the sigils on his skin until he finally comes to a stop behind him. He’s not even to see his death. Johnny curses himself as only now does grief come at being denied a final look into his eyes. Even now, you can’t help but chase sin.