Little Miss Instant Loss Bait is on her back, priestly robes hiked to the waist, undergarments shoved to the side. You have her wrists in a bruising grip, shoved to her chest, right between her heaving tits.

Maybe she thought you were a nest of simple bandits, starving discards of one of the Wars Against Evil. Ruffians who could be placated with the promise of a hot meal and a bath, brought back into civilisation’s fold. Why else send a cleric — ha! She’s of the Honey-Eaters, cleric of the whore-cult! — and now she’s just one of the rewards of pledging to wickedness, tight and sweet and whimpering. If you weren’t just a sword arm, you might know some profane prayer to snarl over her, a defiling catechism to spit in her slut face as you make her into pillaged spoils.

Maybe sullying a priest is your ticket to better things in the service of your new dark master. How’s that for a better deal than civilisation ever gave you? Ram this holy quim, and get rewarded for it!

I mean, it’s not that I dislike guys. Not guys as a whole, anyway—I’ve met some real assholes on the job, lemme tell you. I’m just not into guys per se, y’know? But I’m super into sex—kind of comes with the territory—and I’m happy to fuck guys for work. Plus I’ve got an absolutely massive rape kink, so anything I’m not into, I’m at least a little bit into because I’m not into it, if you get what I’m saying. Like, a guy’s got me summoned and bound—okay, can I just say, handcuffs and rope are fun, sure, but why’s nobody learning how to do advanced bindings anymore? Circles on the floor are 101 stuff—imagine snapping your fingers, and bam, my hands are cuffed just like that. There was this one guy back in, mm, the 70s I think? He’d worked out how to do a whole ton of super small bindings and control them all at once to straight-up puppet my entire body. Even work my mouth to make me say whatever he wanted—total trapped-inside shit until the clock ran out. That was hot as fuck. And he’d obviously spent forever just shut up in his room with his grimoires working it all out. That’s dedication, right there. I’ve always gotta respect a sicko, and that guy had a vision. I was proud to help make it happen, genuinely. My point is, I have plenty of fun with guys, nothing against most of them, but I do wish I got more girls.

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.

Calliope, pilot of the starship Lysandra, turned to a console and pressed the voice activation button. "Computer, turn off monitoring in this room until we exit it."

The ship's computer beeped its compliance, and Iridia turned to face Calliope. "Okay, Calli, what's this all about?"

Calliope scratched her cheek, nervously. "Well... okay. So. I've been... kind of dating the ship's computer."

Iridia rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I know. I hear you screaming her name every time one of the ship's remotes enters your room. You're not exactly subtle."

Calliope blushed. "D-don't give me that! Remember the incident with the ambassador?"

"I thought we had agreed not to bring that up again." Iridia glared, averting her gaze and crossing her arms.

"Well, now we're even, I guess," mumbled Calliope. "Anyway! I need your help."

Iridia looked warily at her. "With what, exactly?"

"Brainstorming." Calliope clapped her hands together. "So. It turns out that Lysandra's kind of a sub-"

It's hot as balls outside, and hotter in the cockpit.

Jester sweeps the horizon, checks her radar, and then repeats both twice to be absolutely certain she isn't about to get shot; then pops the hatch and clambers down the side of her mech. They're posted in defensive positions, nothing's coming anywhere near them without advanced warning, she can leave the sweltering robot for a minute.

She positions herself in the shade of one of the legs and twists open a water bottle as she hears Medusa opening up her own cockpit above her. She expects the sounds of climbing to follow, and instead sees Medusa effortlessly land from a two-story jump.

Showoff.

"Hot today," the cyborg says, and Jester grunts in agreement as she drinks. She watches as Medusa strips out of the top half of her pilot suit.

"Or is it just you?" she says, waggling her eyebrows.

"It's not. External temperature is thirty-six degrees Celsius."

"Ugh, fuck this planet," Jester curses, popping open the top button of her own suit.

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.

This work is explicit

Claire had been nervous on the bus, but now that she was walking up to Liv's door, her heart felt like it was going to beat right out of her chest.

She'd met Liv a couple of months ago, and since then they'd been on four dates, which had caused Claire to fall madly in love with her. Liv was big, strong, smart, funny, beautiful, and doting. Everything Claire had ever wanted in a girlfriend, and she was trying her best to be normal about it. "Trying" being the operative word.

Liv could also be a little forgetful at times, but whomst among us? Claire could put up with forgetful for all the rest.

The door sprung open moments after she knocked, and Liv greeted her with a big nervous smile. She looked even more on edge than Claire, which she'd just assumed was because a home date had some implications, and Liv always wanted everything to be perfect for Claire.