Havelock crosses the smoky taproom, threading her way between the boozy stumbles and carelessly outstretched boots of the Fifth Airborne Mounted Brigade, and almost makes it back to her seat before she catches an incautiously loud comment and a rush of laughter. She pretends not to notice, sets her fresh tankard down on the table, and only then allows her eyes to slide across to a table of dragon-hussars.

Sergeant Dogwood’s bright eyes look back over her own uptilted drink, checking how the barb landed. Havelock allows no change in her amiable expression; if others attribute some slowness of wit to the personable reputation of the Husbandry Corps, so be it. Their motto is Time Will Bide for a reason; you can command a fighting dragon in good shape into the air at little notice, any time it need be, but the Husbanders deal in the implacable schedules of mating season, laying season, hatching. Patience, care, expertise.

Grezayla's role is thankfully much less intense from there; she's relegated to sitting in Lilith's lap and being doted on while people come to pay their respects to the Queen of Lust and her newest consort.

Azzy honestly might have undersold it when she said this party was the big one. It's huge, it's like an open air festival for lust cultists; and the two of them are the headliners, reclining comfortably in a pavilion awaiting worship.

"W-We pledge ourselves to you, our lady of utmost licentiousness," a pair of skittish, naked girls swear; kneeling before them. Grezayla can feel how excited they are to be meeting mistress for the first time, it's so fucking adorable. "We offer you our bodies as proof of our pact, to use as you desire; in the hopes that one day we may join you as unholy concubines."

"Lady of utmost licentiousness?" Lilith echoes back, displeased; side-eyeing the witch at her right hand. "What an awful title. Is this how your students address their patron, Raine?"

Prompt from A Miserable Pile of Words: That awkward, steadily growing certainty that the Ruler of Darkness you and your friends have been trying to stop the prophecied ascendancy of isn't the mysterious shadowy figure with their buffoonish underlings you've been battling for the last few months, but someone much, much closer to home...

"It doesn't make sense, is all I'm saying."

"But the prophecy states-"

"Don't you quote that thing at me, Breeze. I've been studying it back and forth. Sure, Mr. Tall Dark And Goofy fits all the parts of the Ruler of Darkness. Born on the exact year, month, day, and hour we expected him to be. Carries the right artifacts. Has been following the steps of ascension in the exact order found in the prophecy-"

"So of course it's him! Look, I know you're paranoid-"

This work is explicit

Shanty was standing over the anvil, hammering away, when a figure cast a shadow over her workpiece. Looking up and seeing a familiar figure, she gave a playful little smile and asked, "How's my favourite wizard doing?"

"Doing good—! ish...", said Lilith.

"Good-ish? Go take a seat in the back, I'll be there in a couple minutes." said Shanty, giving a head tilt in the direction of the door, then resuming her work.

Once done, she took off her apron and grabbed a towel. She was wiping off her arms as she entered the room, to see Lilith holding a book with a bookmark in it.

"New book?" asked Shanty as she pulled her drenched shirt off, so she could continue towelling off.

The wizard had seen her glistening muscle plenty of times before, but she still blushed as she answered, "Yeah. It's probably by the author of 100 Summers at Empire, but not everyone is convinced."

The blacksmith looked at the book in her hand, which was barely a novella.

(cw: grooming, incest, corrective rape)

“So that’s why my ma told me to stay away from elves,” Cathy joked, once she’d caught her breath enough to speak.

“Oh, did she now?” Nectar-of-Roses (“please, just ‘Rose’ will do”) flashed a mischievous smile as she unfastened the leather harness from her hips and set aside the phallus.

“Yeah—all the time.” Cathy tried to sit up a little, only to sink bonelessly back into the mattress, still riding the afterglow. “She wouldn’t even let me go outside when elvish traders were in town.”

Sorry for the HTML crimes, hope The Vision still comes through.
Content Warning: mass death, loss of agency, of thought, of self

"And now, ladies and gentlemen..." The gaunt runner-up of last year's televised Who Could Predict You Had This Talent? competition has a slightly manic look in his eyes as he gazes out over the human sea, hundreds of hungry, expectant faces staring at him. No, at the stage he's currently occupying, an elaborate, patriotic centrepiece ensconsed in scaffolding erected by the Ministry of Plenty just for this occasion.

He chokes.
The giant speakers squeal.
Collective tinnitus, mercifully brief.

He's eternally grateful for this opportunity to be a needless — useless — warm-up act, for he knows he is nothing. Nobody.

Ever since... the incident, Crusher had been avoiding her. Sure, it hadn't been the most professional of encounters, but that was not typically a word that went with the squad anyway. She'd need more hands to count the number of times one of them had caught Princess with her pants around her ankles and several inches of mech pilot inside her, and if Gutters had done even a fraction of the things she'd talked about, it was a miracle she could walk, talk, or think on any given day. And that wasn't even getting started on Ket—

Diamond scrunched her eyes for a moment to clear the images bombarding the inside of her skull.

The important thing was to sort this out and get back to, well, normal levels of interpersonal drama. She wasn't getting shot next mission just because her squadmate refused to look in her direction.