A Tough Night

The common room was subdued. The fire in the hearth snapped, throwing low light across the handful of patrons still remaining.

They reached the bottom of the stairs just in time to see Jester, Beauregard, Molly, and Fjord looking across the tavern, making their way in their direction.

Nott instantly threw her arms wide, pitching her raspy voice into a bright, theatrical whine. “Oh, thank Gods you're here and safe! We missed you! Somehow we got separated! Friends.”

Jester gasped, her tail whipping back and forth in a frantic, joyful blur. "Oh my gosh, I know! I was so worried you got squished by the crowd!" She lunged forward, wrapping Nott in a sudden, breathless hug. "But you're okay, friend!"

The force of the tiefling's exuberant affection physically lifted Nott right off the floorboards, burying her porcelain mask directly into the plush, lilac-scented canyon of Jester’s cleavage. Nott went rigidly still, her feral goblin brain taking one glorious, suffocating second to deeply appreciate the yielding softness before the dangerous friction against her bound, aching groin reminded her to panic. But she was thankfully (and sadly) set back down.

Beau stopped, crossing her muscular arms over her bare midriff. The monk’s sharp, blue-gray eyes narrowed, instantly seeing straight to the bottom of the goblin’s panicked bullshit. She let out a dry, knowing snort. “You guys peaced out pretty quickly.”

“We did,” Caleb admitted without an ounce of shame, adjusting the cuffs of his filthy coat. “We did not come to Trostenwald to go to jail.”

Fjord tilted his head, studying the wizard. “What did you come to Trostenwald for?”

“We were tired,” Caleb replied smoothly, his tone flat and heavily Zemnian. “We've been traveling a long time. We've been saving. Wanted to take it easy for a few days.”

“Sure,” Fjord murmured, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I'm not trying to pry. I was just curious where you were going.”

“If I'm going to be listening to somebody's life story, I'm going to need a drink,” Mollymauk interrupted with a dramatic sigh. He turned as the blonde proprietress stepped out from behind the bar, making the rounds with a damp rag to collect abandoned mugs. “You, gorgeous, what's your name?”

The woman wiped her hands on her apron, entirely unimpressed by the charm. “Yorda.”

“Yorda, I would like a round for all these terrible people and one for myself.” The purple tiefling leaned over the wood to inspect the taps across the room. “What's the difference between these three beers? I've honestly got to admit, they all taste the same to me.”

Yorda paused, her rag freezing on the polished wood as she shot him a deeply offended glare. For a proprietress in a town whose entire lifeblood was brewing, the comment was practically blasphemy. "If they all taste the same to you, tiefling, your tongue's as numb as your manners. The Husseldorf is a bright wheat with a citrus bite, the Baumbauch is a dark malt stout thick enough to chew, and the von Brandt is a crisp, clean amber." She slapped a coaster onto the bar. "If your palate's dead, save your coin and go with the von Brandt."

“Let's get a round of von Brandt for everybody,” Molly decided with a flourish, entirely unfazed by the scolding.

Fjord grimaced slightly. “Actually, if it's all the same, I'm not really an ale fan. Do you have any fire whiskey?”

“We can get you some liquor, aye,” Yorda nodded.

Jester leaned over the table, her violet eyes wide. “Can I have some milk?”

Before she answered, Yorda stepped around Fjord's chair, moving directly into the space next to where Nott was perched. The blonde woman bent at the waist to aggressively scrub a sticky patch off the oak. Because Nott was small and hunched on her stool, Yorda’s positioning placed the woman's wide, sturdy hips and ample backside almost directly at Nott’s eye level.

Yorda’s stance was wide, the fabric of her skirt pulling taut over the lush, child-bearing curve of her rear. With every rhythmic push of the rag, her hips rocked in a slow, grinding motion that was unconsciously, obscenely provocative. A sudden, musky wave of feminine heat wafted right across Nott's face, thick and wet and terribly available.
Nott, vibrating with anxiety and trapped, agonizing horniness, immediately raised a trembling green finger. “Two milks, please.” Milk to chase the whiskey. Or whiskey to chase the milk. Anything to numb the groin.

Yorda paused her scrubbing. She glanced over her shoulder, her expression softening drastically as her eyes found Nott's masked face. The harsh annoyance she’d aimed at Molly vanished entirely, replaced by a flushed,lidded warmth.

“Two milks,” Yorda purred, her voice dropping a register. She leaned back just a fraction, intentionally letting the soft curve of her thigh brush against Nott’s knee. “Of course. Coming right up. You just let me know if you need... anything else.”

“All right,” Nott squeaked, her vocal cords completely locking up.

Yorda gave her a slow, lingering smile before finally standing and turning back toward the bar.

As she walked away, her gait had completely changed. It was a slow, rolling, fleshy parade, her wide hips swaying heavily side to side, practically begging to clap back against a driving green pelvis.

Nott swallowed a strained whimper as the massive log strapped to her belly gave a violent, involuntary throb, straining dangerously against its leather bindings. Bad Nott! Filthy, bad goblin! she screamed internally, digging her claws into her own thigh to tear her lecherous gaze away from the bounce of the woman's backside.

Jester pouted, looking at Fjord. “You think she heard that I wanted one of those milks?”

“I don't know,” Molly said brightly. “But I'm going to ask for one of each of these beers. We are going to get to the bottom of these supposed brands as a group.”

Caleb, having successfully avoided answering any more of Fjord and Beau’s questions, wordlessly wandered away from the interrogation and slouched into a chair next to Molly.

Soon enough they were all gathered around one table with drinks before them.
“So,” Fjord murmured, leaning forward and keeping his voice pitched low. “Here’s where we stand. The guards are posted right outside those doors. The Watchmaster made it clear: we’re suspects. We’re essentially on house arrest in this inn until they figure out what happened in that tent.”

“Which is completely unfair,” Jester pouted, her tail flicking in agitated little loops that brushed against the legs of her chair. “We killed the monsters! We saved people! If anything, they should be bringing us pastries and a medal, or at least a really nice ribbon.”

“Yeah, well, crowns and guards don’t usually hand out medals to heavily armed weirdos standing over fresh, inside-out corpses,” Beau said dryly, taking a long pull from her ale. She wiped the foam from her mouth, her eyes darting around the table. “We’re stuck. If we run, we look guilty. If we stay, we’re sitting ducks waiting for some small-town Lawmaster to decide if we’re a coven of witches.”

“We need to clear our names,” Caleb said, his Zemnian accent thick with fatigue as he stared into the dark depths of his drink. “We need to figure out what actually caused those people to turn. Tomorrow, we must investigate.”

As the others continued to softly discuss their plans, a certain pair of lovely jiggly blue tits leaned into Nott’s space.

“Nott,” Jester chirped, bouncing bouncing. “You want to see something cool?”

Nott grasped at the distraction like a drowning sailor. “I would love to see something cool.”

Jester grinned, lifting her tits and pointing proudly at the table where she'd been resting them.

“Look! I etched a dick in the table a couple nights ago!”

Nott stared.

It was, undeniably, a cock. A shockingly well-rendered, aggressively veiny phallus gouged directly into the top.

“Um....oh!” Nott choked out, her eyes crossing slightly. “That's... pretty good.”

The sheer, absurd irony of it felt like a cruel cosmic joke. Here sat Jester, sweet, bubbly, and proudly showing off a wooden dick, while Nott was currently sweating through her wool cloak, desperately trying to strap down a monstrous, leaking green breeder-cock that was thick enough to split a log.

I could show you a real one, you sweet little fuck-slut, the feral, rutting instinct buried deep in her goblin marrow purred, hot and vicious. I could pull this monster out right now and let you sink your pretty little teeth into it.

Nott squeezed her eyes shut, shuddering as a fresh throb of arousal strained against the leather belt across her stomach.

Molly leaned over the table, squinting at the scratches. “How'd you etch a deck in the table?”

“It's a dick,” Jester corrected cheerfully.

Molly blinked. “Oh.”

Caleb peered over the top of the book he’d just opened. “Have you always been an artist?”

“I have actually,” Jester beamed, her tail swishing happily behind her. “I've been an artist since I was little.”

Molly tilted his head, studying the aggressive, angry veins Jester had carved into the wood. “You think that's what they look like?”

Jester crossed her arms, entirely unbothered. “I've seen a lot of dicks. That is what most of them look like.”

Beau paused with her drink halfway to her mouth. “You’ve seen a lot?”

“Mm-hmm.” Jester nodded, proud rather than embarrassed. “My mama is the Ruby of the Sea.”

Molly’s eyebrows lifted. “The Ruby of the Sea?”

“Yes,” Jester said, pleased that someone recognized it. “In Nicodranas. We live at the Lavish Chateau, and people come from all over to see her and hear her sing and be with her, and she is very beautiful. So, yes, I have seen a lot of things. Dicks, mostly. And pussies! Also butts. Some very strange nipples.”

Fjord rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly finding the floorboards intensely interesting and his cheeks burning a darker shade of green. Mollymauk just let out a delighted, ringing cackle, slapping the table.

Nott, however, barely registered the revelation about Jester's childhood. Her attention was brutally hijacked by a completely different dynamic playing out right next to her.

“You don’t seem like a dick girl.”

The voice was low, husky, and directly beside Nott’s ear.

Nott jumped, turning to find Beauregard leaning against the edge of the table. The monk’s sleeveless top hung open, the firelight catching the sheen of sweat on her incredibly toned abs. Beau’s posture was arrogant and loose, leaning right into Nott's personal space.

Those sharp blue-gray eyes were locked on her, glinting with something entirely too focused. Nott’s stomach dropped. She saw me choke. She knows. A cold sweat broke over Nott's green skin as she braced for the accusation, for the human to demand what exactly was writhing under the goblin's cloak.

But the accusation didn't come. Instead, Beau just tilted her head, a slow, lazy smirk pulling at her mouth. She was staring at Nott's flustered, shivering frame with an interest that made absolutely no sense

Nott’s pulse spiked. Yes, she liked women, very much. No, she absolutely did not want to explain why "dick" was a complicated subject for her right now, especially when her own heavy, veined shaft was giving an involuntary, eager throb right against her stomach muscles at the sound of the monk’s raspy voice.

“I- uh,” Nott stammered, her ears burning a dark, bruised green under her hood. She dodged hard. “I’m more of a coin girl. Shiny things. Flasks. I don't really focus on... anatomy.”

Beau smirked, “Right. Shiny things. Good to know.”

The monk took a slow sip of her ale, her eyes never leaving Nott’s masked face. The feral goblin heat in Nott’s blood recognized the look immediately. Beau wasn't backing off; she was circling.
Beau glanced casually toward the front door where there were Crownsguard on the other side.

“You look suspicious as hell sitting there like a twitchy little masked weirdo,” Beau murmured, setting her drink down.

Before Nott could even squeak out a question, Beau reached over.

With a sudden, effortless pull, the monk grabbed Nott by the waist and dragged her right out of her seat.

“Whoa… hey!” Nott yelped, her arms flailing.

Beau dropped Nott squarely onto her lap.

“Just my little kid sister,” Beau said smoothly, wrapping one strong, muscular arm securely around Nott’s waist and pulling the goblin's back flush against her own bare, toned stomach. “Much better cover. We look adorable.”

“Hey! I’m her Mama! If she’s playing a kid, she should sit on my lap!” complained Jester but she didn’t seem all that concerned as she watched them with a smile.

Nott sat completely paralyzed, her heart stopping dead in her chest. She was straddling Beauregard’s athletic thighs. The physical contact was an absolute, unmitigated disaster. The solid muscle of Beau’s legs pressed perfectly, agonizingly tight against the swollen, aching mass of Nott’s balls hidden beneath her cloak.

But worse, far worse, was the angle. Her bound erection was suddenly squished between the tight leather of her own belt and the rock-hard planes of Beau's exposed abdominal muscles.

Every time Beau breathed, the monk’s bare stomach flexed directly against the side of Nott's massive, throbbing shaft.

“You’re a tense little thing, aren’t you?” Beau murmured, her breath hot against Nott’s pointed ear. Beau didn’t let go; instead, her hand slid lower on Nott’s hip, the fingers warm and calloused, keeping the goblin firmly pinned.

Beau smelled like stale ale, old leather, and the sharp, intoxicating tang of fresh sweat. The monk was practically radiating heat. Beau’s thumb stroked a slow, unconscious circle against Nott’s hip bone.

Fuck me, Nott thought, her golden eyes crossing slightly behind her mask.

The friction of the monk’s pants rubbing against the sensitive underside of Nott’s heavy sack was way too distracting. The sheer gravity of her overfull balls settled heavily into the V of Beau's legs. Nott’s cock surged violently against its bindings. The leather strap creaked audibly, biting deep into her skin as the thick head of her dick swelled to absolute, furious maximum capacity, pressing a hot, wet spot of pre-cum right through her linen wrappings.

If she stayed in this woman’s lap for thirty more seconds, the strap was going to snap, she was going to ruin her pants, and she was going to forcefully bend this cocky human over the tavern table to teach her exactly why you don't treat a feral goblin like a lapdog.

“Tomorrow,” Fjord was saying, completely oblivious to the sexual meltdown happening a few feet away, “we need to figure out what really happened in that tent. We could get back onto the carnival grounds. Poke around, find out what they know. But with the guards watching the doors, we need someone who can slip out, get into restricted areas, and pick a few locks without raising an alarm.”

Get out. Run. Now.

“I can do it!” Nott blurted out, her voice a frantic, scratchy screech. She seized on the conversation like a lifeline. “I steal things!”

The whole table blinked.

“What?” Fjord asked.

“I’m a thief! A compulsive thief!” Nott babbled, desperately using the theatrics as an excuse to squirm. “I steal all the time! I can’t stop myself! I’m terrible! I’m a master criminal!”

Fjord frowned, his sensible, methodical brain catching on the practical application of her panic.

He leaned back, sizing her up. “Are you good at it, though? Do you get caught very often?”

Thank the gods for this reasonable half-orc.

“Am I good? Am I good?!” Nott squawked, using the theatrical outrage to scramble forward.

She planted her boots on the edge of the bench and threw herself completely out of Beau's lap, putting a desperately needed three feet of space between her throbbing groin and the monk’s incredibly sexy thighs. “I’m amazing! I’m a ghost! You wouldn't even know my hands were on you!”

Beau looked genuinely disappointed for a fraction of a second, her hands falling empty to her sides, before she masked it with a lazy smirk. “Sure you are, weirdo.”

“Ooooh! Prove it!” Jester gasped, immediately bouncing up from her chair. The blue tiefling threw her arms out wide, offering herself up like a glittering, voluptuous prize. “Steal from me! I have lots of pockets and pouches and things! Do it, Nott! Show us how sneaky you are!”

Nott stood there, her chest heaving, the friction-burn in her groin still pulsing a hot, liquid beat. She looked at Jester, at the wide, inviting stance, the lush curve of her hips, the way her corset pushed her breasts up into a perfect, soft shelf.

She’s begging for it, the feral, filthy instinct in her marrow whispered, Show her what a real thief takes.

“Um….Okay,” Nott rasped, forcing her shaking hands to steady. “Stand still.”

She stepped squarely into Jester’s personal space.

Up close, the tiefling smelled so good.. It was intoxicating. Nott’s hands slid forward. She kept her touch light, intending to hover just above the fabric of Jester’s dress to snatch something from her waist pouch.

But her feral goblin awfulness had a mind of its own.

The intimacy of the act, the slow, sensual proximity of exploring the beautiful woman’s body, completely short-circuited Nott's brain. Her eyes dropped from the pouch, snagging helplessly on the plush, jiggling curve of Jester's hips.

Instead of a deft, two-fingered pinch to the pouch, Nott's hand dropped lower. Her fingers curled inward, and with zero subtlety, she grabbed a full, unapologetic, handful of Jester's soft blue ass cheek.

She gave it a firm, lingering squeeze.

Jester gasped, her tail shooting straight up into the air. “Nott!” she squealed, half-shocked, half-giggling. “That is my butt!”

Nott froze, the plush softness of the tiefling's rear end still fully gripped in her green palm.

Mortification hit her like a runaway cart. She snatched her hand back as if she’d been burned, her ears flattening entirely against her skull.

“I slipped!” Nott shrieked, her voice cracking in pure, unadulterated panic. “The fabric! It’s spun silk from a deceptive fey spider! A rogue muscle spasm!”

Beau burst into a loud, barking laugh, nearly spilling her ale across the table. “Oh, she’s a master criminal all right. Real subtle.”

Molly chuckled, his crimson eyes dancing with delight. “Well, I certainly didn't see that coming. A flawless execution of the 'distract and grope' maneuver.”

Caleb buried his face in both of his hands, a long, muffled groan escaping his fingers. Fjord just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if he could already feel a headache coming on.

“I didn't mean to!” Nott babbled, backing away until she bumped into Caleb's chair. “Nott is a professional! It’s just all this ale! Too much cheap tavern swill makes a girl's hands heavy and stupid! I aimed for the pouch and the whole room just tilted over on me!”

Jester was still giggling, patting her skirt down, completely unoffended. “It's okay, Nott! You just need a little more practice! Next time, aim for the pockets, not the cheeks, okay?”

After the Great Ass-Grab Incident, the remaining tension finally broke, bleeding out into a messy, alcohol-soaked camaraderie.

For the next few hours, the tavern blurred into a haze of cheap ale and shared stories. Nott stayed firmly glued to her stool, keeping a safe distance from Beau's lap and Jester's hips, letting the steady burn of the liquor do its job. She listened with half an ear as Fjord continued to ask questions about the group and figure out what they needed to do tomorrow while Molly derailed him constantly with flamboyant, most likely false anecdotes about his life on the road. Beau slouched low in her chair, kicking her boots up and tossing out dry, cynical barbs and Jester kept giggling and trying to tell Nott about this Traveler god of hers that Nott had never even heard of before.. Through it all, Caleb sat quietly beside Nott, nursing his single drink and watching the group with his usual weary, calculating gaze.

Eventually, Nott made it back to her room with Caleb having grandly resisted her unseemly urges for one more day and night…