A goblin and a girl

(Note: Sue’s dress is from Xmen Annual #5...also I promise shorter chapters from here)

The land of Zandor...

Sue Storm had learned, over the years, to recognize when she was being lied to.

Not the obvious kind—the bluster of drunken mercenaries or the bravado of petty nobles—but the quieter kind. The kind that lived in the eyes. The hesitation before an answer. The subtle shift in posture when truth brushed too close to the surface.

The blacksmith had known more.

She sat in the dim common room of the inn, one hand wrapped loosely around a mug she hadn’t bothered to drink from, her gaze distant as she replayed the conversation in her mind. Every word. Every pause. Every glance he’d tried to hide behind soot and steel.

“He held back,” she said finally.

Across from her, Skeeve tilted his head, one large ear twitching as he watched her. “You sure?” he asked, his voice light, but curious.

Sue nodded once, slow and certain. “I’ve seen that look before. He knows something about Maeven. Or at least where to start.” She exhaled softly, leaning back in her chair. “Next time, I push harder.”

Her fingers tapped once against the mug, then stilled.

“…Maybe I show a little more skin.”

The words slipped out almost absently, but the moment they did, she felt the weight of them. A strange, bitter irony settled in her chest.

Years ago, that thought would have disgusted her.

Now?

Now it was just another tool.

Skeeve’s reaction was immediate. His grin stretched wide, sharp teeth catching the flickering light. “Now that,” he said, leaning forward with renewed interest, “is a plan I like.”

Sue rolled her eyes, but there was less irritation in it than there should have been. That, more than anything, unsettled her.

It hadn’t always been like this.

There had been a time when she measured problems in equations, not instincts. When answers came from logic, not leverage. When she could rely on powers that made her untouchable, unseen, safe.

Now she was none of those things.

Now she survived by adapting.

And sometimes that meant becoming something she barely recognized.

Skeeve tapped the table with one clawed finger, pulling her from her thoughts. “I got a cousin,” he said. “Muurkwood goblin. Lives here. Knows things. Knows people.”

Sue’s gaze sharpened instantly. “Useful?”

Skeeve shrugged, unapologetic. “Drunk. Ugly. Smells worse than me.”

A beat.

“Perfect,” she said, rising to her feet.

The city changed as they walked.

It wasn’t immediate—not a clear boundary—but Sue felt it the way one feels a storm coming. The streets narrowed. The stone underfoot gave way to packed dirt and uneven cobble. Lanterns burned dimmer, their light swallowed by encroaching shadows. The air thickened with rot, smoke, and the lingering scent of things long dead and poorly buried.

By the time they reached the lower quarter, Zardon had shed any pretense of civility.

Buildings leaned inward as if conspiring, their upper stories sagging dangerously over alleyways choked with refuse and stagnant water. Voices echoed in strange ways here—laughter that didn’t sound quite human, arguments that turned violent without warning, whispers that carried just far enough to make you uneasy.

Sue’s hand rested loosely near the hilt of her sword.

Not gripping.

Not tense.

Just… ready.

The tavern Skeeve led her to looked like it had given up years ago.

The sign above the door was warped and half-rotted, its lettering barely legible. The wood of the building itself was stained black with age and smoke, the windows clouded with grime. Even from outside, Sue could smell it—ale gone sour, sweat, damp wood, and something faintly metallic beneath it all.

Inside was worse.

The ceiling was low, forcing larger patrons to hunch. Smoke clung to the air in thick layers, turning torchlight into a dull, greasy glow. The floor stuck slightly with each step, and the tables bore the scars of countless fights—deep gouges, burn marks, dark stains that no one had bothered to clean.

And the people.

If they could be called that.

Orcs with broad shoulders and tusked grins hunched over mugs the size of Sue’s head. Lizardmen blinked slowly from shadowed corners, their eyes uncomfortably still. Dog-faced creatures growled softly as they tore into slabs of meat. Goblins clustered in groups, sharp-eyed and twitchy, their attention snapping toward any movement.

And humans—though fewer—watched with the same hunger.

The room shifted when Sue entered.

Not silence.

Not quite.

But something changed.

Conversations dipped. Eyes followed. A ripple of awareness moved through the crowd like a living thing.

A human woman.

Armed.

Confident.

With a goblin at her side.

It didn’t fit.

And that made it dangerous.

Skeeve didn’t hesitate. He led her toward a table near the back, claiming it with the casual arrogance of someone who knew just enough not to show fear.

Sue sat beside him rather than across.

Close.

Intentional.

She understood the message it sent.

Claimed.

That mattered here.

A server passed, and Skeeve snapped his fingers. “Two Hogsmeade. Strong.”

Sue glanced at him. “You ordering for me now?”

He grinned. “You said you needed it.”

She considered arguing.

Didn’t.

“…Fine.”

The drink arrived in thick, dented mugs, sloshing dark liquid that smelled like smoke and earth and something far stronger beneath.

Sue took a cautious sip.

The burn hit immediately—sharp, deep, settling into her chest like a slow fire.

“…God,” she muttered under her breath.

Skeeve laughed. “Good, yeah?”

She took another sip, slower this time.

“…It’ll do.”

Two drinks in, the edge of the day began to dull.

Not gone.

Never gone.

But softened.

Skeeve leaned back, studying her with something almost like curiosity. “Your world,” he said. “No magic like this?”

Sue shook her head. “Not like this. We had… science. Structure. Rules.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Sounds boring.”

She let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.

“You have no idea.”

“And no goblins?”

“…Not like you.”

That seemed to please him more than it should have.

The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the walls.

A goblin stumbled in, smaller than Skeeve but somehow more disheveled—his skin a darker, muddier green, his posture hunched, one eye half-lidded with drink.

He stopped.

Squinted.

Then barked a laugh.

“Skeeve.”

Skeeve groaned immediately. “Not tonight…”

The newcomer staggered closer, grinning wide. “Worthless cousin.”

Then his gaze shifted.

Landed on Sue.

And stayed there.

“Lucky cousin…” he muttered, circling slightly, his attention dragging over her in a way she’d grown far too used to. “She goblinbride?”

Skeeve leaned back, utterly unbothered.

“In time.”

Sue couldn’t help it.

She laughed.

A real laugh—low, genuine, surprising even herself.

“Keep trying, little guy,” she said, shaking her head.

Business followed quickly.

Sue placed a small pouch of gold on the table, the weight of it enough to sharpen even the drunk goblin’s focus.

“I’m looking for Maeven the Horrid,” she said, her voice calm, controlled. “You help me find her, this is yours.”

Geef’s expression shifted. His eyes flicked around the room, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“There is a game tonight,” he said. “Scaarabad. Western Hall. Secret.”

Sue leaned forward slightly. “And?”

“A servant,” he continued. “Used to serve Maeven. He goes there.”

That was enough.

“We’re going,” Sue said.

Geef laughed.

So did Skeeve.

Sue frowned. “What?”

Geef wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No one lets a human in. Not there. Not alone.”

His eyes dragged over her again, slower this time.

“Especially not one like you.”

Sue’s expression didn’t change.

“So how do I get in?”

Geef’s grin widened.

“Goblinbride.”

Sue closed her eyes for a brief moment.

Of course.

Of course it would be this.

She exhaled slowly, then nodded.

“Fine.”

She stood, already calculating what she would need.

Dye.

Clothing.

Marks.

A disguise that would hold under scrutiny.

As she turned to leave, Skeeve called after her, smug and pleased.

“Told you, Geef…”

Sue glanced back, one brow raised.

“Lucky you, I guess.”

The magic shop was quiet.

Too quiet.

It hummed with something beneath the surface—energy that prickled along Sue’s skin as she stepped inside. Shelves were packed with glass vials, powders, charms, and objects she couldn’t immediately name but understood instinctively.

That was the strange part.

Magic had become… familiar.

Not comfortable.

Never that.

But usable.

Reed would be fascinated, she thought briefly. He’d try to map it. Measure it. Break it down into something predictable.

Sue had learned better.

Magic wasn’t predictable.

It was negotiated.

She selected what she needed quickly—dyes that would hold, salves that resisted influence, small charms to reinforce her will.

Then she moved on.

The dress shop. An outfit for effect not function. A dwarf leered.

Sue stepped out of the dress shop and into the crooked street, the door creaking shut behind her like something sealing a decision she hadn’t fully admitted to making.

The fabric bundle in her arms felt heavier than it should have.

Not physically.

Symbolically.

She paused beneath the weak glow of a lantern, letting the dim light spill across her face as she exhaled slowly. Around her, the lower quarter churned with its usual filth and life—voices raised in drunken argument, something breaking in the distance, the low murmur of creatures who lived in shadows and preferred it that way.

And yet, for a moment, she wasn’t thinking about any of that.

She was thinking about what she had just bought.

What she was about to do.

“…This is ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath.

But there was no real resistance behind it anymore.

Not like there should have been.

The walk back to the inn felt different.

Not safer.

Not lighter.

Just… sharper.

Sue’s senses stayed alert, as always—eyes scanning reflections in dirty glass, ears catching footsteps behind her, hands ready to move if needed. Years in Zardon had carved that vigilance into her bones.

But beneath it… something else stirred.

A quiet awareness.

A strange anticipation.

It unsettled her more than any ambush ever could.

The inn greeted her the same way it always did—with stale heat, low voices, and eyes that lingered too long.

The attendant at the front glanced up as she entered, his gaze dragging over her in a way that was almost routine now. Sue didn’t react. She had long ago learned the difference between a look that meant trouble and one that was just… human.

Or close enough.

Skeeve was exactly where she expected him to be—perched at the bar, halfway through another drink, his posture relaxed in that way goblins had when they felt just secure enough to be reckless.

He looked over as she approached.

Paused.

Not at the dress—she hadn’t changed yet.

But something in her expression must have shifted.

“Clean yourself up,” she told him, her tone even, controlled.

He blinked, thrown off.

“I’ll be down in an hour.”

And before he could respond, she turned and made her way upstairs.

The room felt smaller when she entered it.

More intimate.

The single bed sat exactly where she’d left it, rough blankets folded loosely across it, the faint impression of use still visible in the fabric. The candle on the table flickered as she closed the door behind her, sealing herself into a space that suddenly felt… private in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to notice before.

Sue set the bundle down carefully.

Then stood still for a moment.

Breathing.

Thinking.

She moved methodically at first.

That was how she kept control.

The dyes came out first—small vials filled with thick, shimmering liquids that caught the candlelight in unnatural ways. She uncorked one, the scent rising immediately—sharp, herbal, laced with something faintly metallic.

Magic.

Not wild.

Not chaotic.

Refined.

Usable.

She worked it through her hair slowly, watching in the warped mirror as blonde faded into something darker, richer, unfamiliar. Each stroke of her fingers carried intent, the enchantment binding to her with quiet obedience.

Next came her skin.

Subtle adjustments.

Nothing dramatic—just enough to blur the identity people might recognize. The dye tingled as she applied it, not unpleasant, just… present. Like the faint brush of static beneath her fingertips.

She studied the result carefully.

Not Sue Storm.

Not anymore.

Not tonight.

Then came the sigils.

She hesitated.

Only for a moment.

Then she reached for the brush.

Magic in Zardon was not like science.

It didn’t care about logic.

It cared about meaning.

Symbols.

Intent.

Belief.

A sigil wasn’t just a mark—it was a statement. A declaration that something was, and therefore would be treated as such by the world around it.

Sue knew that.

She had learned it the hard way.

Which was exactly why she was careful.

The first mark went at her neck.

Skeeve’s family sigil.

The brush moved slowly, deliberately, each line drawn with precision. She felt it the moment it settled into place—a faint pull, like a thread tying her to something just out of sight.

Ownership.

Association.

Claim.

Her jaw tightened slightly.

Expected.

The second sigil followed along her arm—the mark of the Muurkwood goblins.

This one felt different.

Broader.

Less personal.

A sense of belonging… or at least the illusion of it. The magic didn’t care whether it was true. It only cared that it was declared convincingly enough.

Sue exhaled softly as it settled.

Two marks.

Two layers.

Two influences.

The third…

She paused again.

Looked at the space.

Then, slowly, continued.

Skeeve’s name, written in the curling, jagged script of goblin language.

Placed where it would be seen.

Where it would matter.

Where it would be understood.

The effect was immediate.

Subtle.

But undeniable.

A warmth—not physical, but mental—spread outward from the mark, threading through her thoughts in a way that made her pause. Not overwhelming. Not controlling.

But suggestive.

A nudge.

A shift.

Sue closed her eyes briefly.

“Yeah… I knew you’d do that,” she murmured.

She reached immediately for the countermeasures—fine lines of protective sigils layered carefully between and around the others. These weren’t meant to negate the effect entirely. That would defeat the purpose.

They were meant to balance it.

To ensure that whatever influence the marks carried… she still remained herself.

In control.

Mostly.

When she opened her eyes again, something had changed.

Not dramatically.

But enough.

She poured herself a glass of Sandoran wine.

Took a slow sip.

Watched herself in the mirror.

For the first time in… she couldn’t remember how long…

Sue didn’t see a survivor.

Or a warrior.

Or a hunted thing moving through a hostile world.

She saw a woman.

Dressed.

Adorned.

Intentional.

The dress came next.

She slipped into it slowly, adjusting the fabric as it settled against her body. It fit the way it was designed to—close, deliberate, leaving little to chance. Every movement she made shifted it slightly, catching the light, drawing the eye.

She turned once in front of the mirror.

Studied the effect.

“…Okay,” she admitted quietly.

It looked good.

Better than good.

And she felt it.

That was the dangerous part.

The sigils pulsed faintly beneath the surface of her awareness, their influence weaving subtly into her thoughts.

Not forcing.

Guiding.

Suggesting.

He deserves this.

The thought came easily.

Too easily.

Sue tilted her head slightly, considering it.

Skeeve had been a nuisance.

A constant irritation.

But he had also been useful.

Loyal, in his own way.

Persistent.

And tonight… necessary.

“A little thrill won’t kill me,” she said softly, almost amused.

Another sip of wine.

Her thoughts drifted.

Not to the mission.

Not to Maeven.

But to after.

Dinner.

Drinks.

A moment where she didn’t have to be calculating every move.

Didn’t have to watch every shadow.

“A date,” she said, testing the word.

It felt strange.

But not unwelcome.

Her eyes shifted to the bed.

The single bed.

Rough.

Small.

Shared.

Sue laughed under her breath, shaking her head.

“Not that much fun.”

And yet…

The thought lingered.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to feel the edges of it.

Then she let it go.

She adjusted her hair one final time.

Touched the sigil at her neck lightly.

Felt the faint hum of magic beneath her skin.

Then straightened.

Confidence settled over her like armor.

Different from what she wore in battle.

But no less real.

When she stepped out of the room and descended the stairs, the air shifted again.

Just like it had in the lower tavern.

Just like it always did.

Skeeve turned at the sound of her approach.

And froze.

Completely.

His drink tilted dangerously in his hand, nearly spilling as his eyes widened, taking her in all at once—the dress, the marks, the posture, the presence.

Sue stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

Turned slightly.

Let the moment land.

Then she looked at him.

A faint, knowing smile touching her lips.

“Face it, goblin,” she said calmly.

A small pause.

Just enough.

“You just hit the jackpot.”

The deeper they moved into the hall, the more the atmosphere seemed to close around Sue—not suffocating, but enveloping. The noise returned in layers: the clatter of carved stones against wood, bursts of harsh laughter, the low murmur of deals made and broken in the same breath. It was alive in a way that felt raw and unfiltered, stripped of the pretense she remembered from her own world.

Skeeve guided her easily toward the bar, his hand never quite leaving her waist. At some point, she realized she had stopped noticing it as something foreign. It had become… expected. Grounding, even. The sigil bearing his name warmed faintly beneath her dress, responding each time her awareness drifted toward him, as though reinforcing the connection with quiet insistence.

She slid onto the stool beside him, the wood worn smooth from years of use. The bartender—a broad-shouldered hobgoblin with a scar splitting his lip—gave her a long, measuring look before his gaze flicked to the markings on her skin. Whatever suspicion lingered there dissolved into something more knowing, almost amused, as he set two heavy glasses down in front of them.

The drink inside glowed faintly, thick bubbles rising and bursting like something alive.

“Dragon downer,” Skeeve said, watching her reaction with open anticipation.

Sue studied it for a moment, then lifted the glass. “If this kills me,” she murmured, “I’m haunting you.”

He grinned. “Worth it.”

She took a slow drink.

The effect was immediate and far deeper than before. Heat spread through her chest and outward, curling into her limbs, loosening tension she hadn’t even realized she was holding. The room seemed to soften at the edges—not blurred, but less hostile. Less sharp.

And the sigils…

They responded eagerly.

The warmth beneath her skin deepened, threads of influence weaving more freely now that her resistance had thinned. Her thoughts didn’t feel overridden—nothing so crude—but gently redirected, like a current nudging her toward a shore she hadn’t intended to reach.

She exhaled slowly, setting the glass down.

“…That’s dangerous.”

Skeeve chuckled. “That’s the point.”

She found herself leaning closer to him without thinking.

Not out of necessity.

Not for the act.

Because she wanted to hear him better.

Because she wanted to be near him.

“Tell me about Muurkwood,” she said, her voice softer now, threaded with genuine curiosity.

The name lingered on her tongue in a way that surprised her. It felt… familiar. Not in memory, but in sensation. As though the sigil along her arm—bearing the mark of his people—recognized it, resonated with it, and in doing so, passed that resonance into her.

Skeeve blinked, caught off guard. “Muurkwood?”

She nodded, resting her elbow lightly on the bar, her body angled toward him. “Your home. You talk about it like it matters.”

“It does,” he said, slower now, studying her.

And then he told her.

He spoke of dense forests where the canopy swallowed sunlight, where the air was thick with life and the ground soft beneath clawed feet. Of hidden paths and tree-hollow dwellings, of hunting under moonlight and feasts that lasted for days. Of family—loud, chaotic, loyal in ways that were not always kind, but always real.

Sue listened.

Really listened.

Each word seemed to settle into her differently than it should have. Not just information, but something deeper—an emotional echo carried through the sigils. The mark on her arm pulsed faintly, and with it came a strange sense of belonging that wasn’t hers… but didn’t feel entirely чужд anymore either.

“That sounds…” she trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Wild?” Skeeve offered.

She shook her head slightly.

“…Alive.”

He smiled at that.

And something in her chest tightened—pleasant, unfamiliar, dangerous.

The call to the Scaarabad table broke the moment.

Skeeve straightened, pride flickering across his face as one of the players waved him over. Sue followed, her hand brushing his arm briefly as they moved—a small gesture, almost ****, but one that didn’t go unnoticed.

The table itself was carved from dark stone, its surface etched with faint, worn markings that hinted at rules older than the building itself. The “cards” were smooth, flat stones, each inscribed with symbols that seemed to shift subtly depending on how the light struck them.

Sue didn’t understand the game immediately.

But she understood the

[players.

An](http://players.An) orc with scarred knuckles watched everything with predatory patience. A pair of dark-skinned elves exchanged glances that spoke of silent communication. A ghoul hunched low over the table, its fingers twitching as though it could feel the outcome before it happened.

And then there was the hooded figure.

It didn’t move like the others.

Didn’t breathe like the others.

Sue’s gaze lingered there for a moment before she pulled it away.

Not important.

Not tonight.

Skeeve took his place, and the game began.

Sue stayed close—closer than she needed to be. At some point, she shifted beside him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, her body angled in toward his. It felt natural. Comfortable.

The sigil bearing his name pulsed again.

And her thoughts shifted with it.

She found herself watching him instead of the game.

The way his hands moved over the stones—quick, confident. The subtle tells in his posture, the way he leaned back when he was strong, forward when he wanted others to think he wasn’t.

He was good.

Better than she’d given him credit for.

He’s… impressive.

The thought came uninvited.

She didn’t push it away.

A laugh escaped her at something he said—sharp, genuine, unguarded. It surprised her enough that she blinked, then laughed again, softer this time.

When had she last done that?

Really laughed?

Beezel noticed.

Of course he did.

The goblin from the Dunedane Caverns watched the interaction with growing interest, his earlier wariness fading as he took in the dynamic. Sue saw the moment it clicked for him—not just the sigils, but the behavior.

The closeness.

The ease.

The way she leaned into Skeeve, the way her fingers brushed his arm, the way she smiled at him like it wasn’t an act.

Because increasingly…

It wasn’t.

She fetched drinks at one point, weaving through the crowd with a confidence that would have been unthinkable days ago. When she returned, she didn’t hesitate—sliding onto Skeeve’s lap as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

The room noticed.

Beezel noticed.

And more importantly…

Skeeve noticed.

Sue leaned in close, pressing the drink into his hand, her voice low near his ear. “Don’t lose,” she murmured.

He swallowed hard. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

She smiled.

And stayed right where she was.

The sigils burned warmer now, no longer subtle in their influence. Her body responded to proximity, to scent, to the steady presence of him beneath her. Each reaction fed back into the magic, strengthening it, reinforcing the bond in a quiet loop she was no longer trying to break.

She knew what was happening.

She understood it completely.

And she let it happen

By the time the game wound down, Beezel was leaning closer, his suspicion gone entirely.

Conversation came easily then—low voices, shared drinks, the comfortable rhythm of people who had decided, if only for a moment, to trust one another.

When Skeeve finally asked about Maeven, the shift was immediate.

Beezel stilled.

Eyes flicked around.

Then narrowed.

“Don’t know that name,” he muttered.

Sue said nothing.

Just watched.

It wasn’t until later—after winnings were gathered, after another round of drinks softened the edges—that Beezel spoke again, quieter now.

“Mountains,” he said. “West of the city. Spired place. She went there. Months back.”

Sue felt the words settle into place.

A lead.

Finally.

But even as the mission snapped back into focus…

It didn’t take hold the way it should have.

“I’m hungry,” she said instead.

The words surprised both of them.

Skeeve blinked. “We just—”

“Not that kind,” she cut in, smiling faintly.

“…Dinner.”

The meat house was loud and warm, filled with the scent of roasting meat and spilled drink. Sue sat across from him, one leg crossed over the other, her posture relaxed in a way that felt foreign and entirely welcome.

When the food came, she hesitated.

Garva meat.

By all logic, she should have rejected it.

Instead, she took a bite.

The sigil flared.

And everything changed.

The texture, the flavor—what should have been strange, even unpleasant—shifted in her perception. It became rich, savory, deeply satisfying in a way she hadn’t expected.

Sue blinked.

Then took another bite.

“…Okay,” she admitted, almost amused. “That’s… actually good.”

Skeeve stared at her like he’d just witnessed something impossible.

She laughed.

And kept eating.

By the time they left, the world had softened even further.

Sue’s steps weren’t as steady, and when her hand found his, she didn’t question it.

Didn’t pull away.

The waterfall shimmered in the distance, lit by soft lanterns that turned the falling water into silver threads. Couples lingered nearby, lost in quiet moments of their own.

Sue was talking—something about her world, about a place with massive falls of water, her words drifting slightly as the drink and the magic and the night blurred together.

She turned.

And he was there.

Closer than expected.

His hand lifted, hesitant for only a moment before it brushed her cheek, guiding her gently toward him.

The kiss came naturally.

Unplanned.

And far deeper than before.

Sue didn’t hesitate this time.

She leaned into it fully, her body responding in a way that startled her even as she let it happen. His lips were different—thinner, unfamiliar—but not unpleasant. His breath carried the lingering sweetness of the drinks, the warmth of the night.

Her hand found his shoulder.

Held there.

And for a moment…

She forgot everything else.

When they finally pulled apart, she was smiling.

Softly.

Honestly.

The walk back felt shorter.

Closer.

Quieter.

At the inn, Skeeve started toward the bar.

Sue caught his wrist.

“Come on,” she said, her voice low, steady despite the haze in her thoughts.

She glanced back over her shoulder as she moved toward the stairs, her expression playful, inviting in a way she didn’t overthink.

“Let’s see if that bed fits two.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His arm found her waist again as they climbed, and this time, she leaned into it without hesitation.

The door closed behind them.

And the night…

Belonged to them.

The wooden stairs groaned softly under their weight as they climbed, a familiar, creaking rhythm that Sue’s body now moved with unconsciously. Her hand was in his, fingers interlaced, his palm warm and slightly rough against hers. She didn’t think about it. She just held on. The sigils on her skin—the one bearing his name, the others whispering of Muurkwood and belonging—felt like gentle, pulsing warmth, a soft current guiding her toward him. It wasn’t ****. It was… invitation. And tonight, she had accepted.

The door to their room was a simple, weathered slab of oak. Sue pushed it open, the hinges sighing. The space inside was unchanged: two narrow beds, the rough table, the single candle flickering on the sill. It felt smaller now. More intimate. The city’s distant hum was muffled here, replaced by the close, quiet air between them.

Skeeve stepped in behind her, his presence filling the doorway. She turned, letting the door swing shut, and looked at him.

His eyes were wide, dark pools in the low light, fixed on her with a intensity that made her breath catch. The playful confidence from the waterfall was gone, replaced by a raw, hopeful hunger. She saw the bulge in his coarse trousers, prominent even on his lean frame, and her gaze lingered there. A flush of heat—not from the sigils, but from her own core—spread through her belly.

“Skeeve,” she said, her voice softer than she’d intended.

He just watched her, waiting.

She reached out, not for his hand this time, but for the leather tie at the neck of his simple shirt. Her fingers worked slowly, pulling the knot loose. The fabric fell open, revealing the mottled green skin of his chest, the lean muscles of his torso. He was wiry, strong in a way that was different from human men—compact, efficient. Beautiful in its alien form.

Her own dress—the goblinbride disguise—felt suddenly cumbersome. She reached behind, finding the ties herself. The fabric loosened, pooling at her shoulders, then slipping down her body. It fell to the floor with a whisper, leaving her standing in nothing but the soft, linen underclothes she’d worn beneath. The cool air touched her skin, and she shivered.

But she didn’t stop.

Her hands went to the waistband of his trousers. The coarse fabric was stiff. She unfastened the simple belt, then tugged. The trousers slid down his hips, over his thighs, and pooled around his ankles.

And there it was.

His cock.

It was, as she had noted before, large. Proportionally massive for his three-foot-seven frame, a thick, green shaft already fully erect, rising from a thatch of darker hair. The head was flushed a deeper green, almost purple, and it glistened faintly in the candlelight. Her eyes traced its length, its sheer presence, and a jolt of pure, carnal anticipation tightened low in her abdomen. She hadn’t had sex in years. Hadn’t allowed herself to want it. The mechanics of it, the fit—it suddenly seemed like a delightful puzzle rather than a barrier.

She stepped closer, her bare feet on the cool floorboards. Her hand lifted, hovered, then gently wrapped around his shaft. It was warm. Firm. The skin was surprisingly smooth, and she could feel the blood pulsing within it. She stroked once, slowly, from base to tip, watching his reaction.

Skeeve gasped, a sharp, ragged intake of breath. His claws twitched at his sides. “Sue…”

“I want to see if it fits,” she murmured, almost to herself. Her other hand came up, cupping his cheek, guiding his face toward hers. She kissed him again, deeper than at the waterfall, her tongue sliding against his, tasting the sweet ale and the unique, earthy scent of him. His hands came up to her shoulders, then slid down her back, tracing the curve of her spine to her waist. He was trembling.

She led him toward the nearer bed. The frame was simple, the mattress thin, but it would hold them. She sat on the edge, then lay back, the worn linen sheets cool against her skin. She kept her underclothes on for a moment, watching him as he stood beside the bed, his cock standing proud, his eyes devouring her.

“Come here,” she said, spreading her legs slightly.

He climbed onto the bed, moving with a goblin’s agile grace. He knelt between her thighs, his gaze locked on the triangle of linen covering her core. His hands came to her hips, fingers digging into the fabric, and he tugged. The underclothes slid down, over her thighs, and she helped him, kicking them off entirely.

Now she was bare.

Open to him.

The candlelight cast soft shadows across her body: the pale curves of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the join of her thighs. Her own sex was flushed, pink, and already glistening with a moisture that had nothing to do with magic. Need was a low, throbbing ache inside her.

Skeeve’s breath hitched. He leaned down, not to enter her immediately, but to explore. His nose nudged against her inner thigh, then he inhaled deeply, a groan rattling from his chest. “You smell… perfect.”

His tongue found her then, not at her core, but along the sensitive skin of her inner leg. It was a slow, deliberate lick, hot and wet. She shuddered, a gasp escaping her lips. Her hands found his head, fingers tangling in the coarse hair there, and she urged him upward.

He obeyed, his mouth moving to her center. His tongue was clever, pointed. It teased along her outer folds first, painting slow, wet circles, before dipping shallowly into her entrance. The sensation was electric, foreign, and intensely pleasurable. She arched off the mattress, a moan tearing from her throat. Years of solitude, of hardened control, shattered under that single, skilled touch.

“There,” she breathed, her voice ragged. “More.”

He gave her more. His tongue plunged deeper, flicking against her inner walls, then found the tight bundle of nerves at her peak. He circled it, pressed it, lavished it with a focus that was utterly consuming. Sue’s world narrowed to that point of contact. Heat pooled, tightened, coiled. Her hips began to move, rocking against his face, seeking more pressure, more friction. She was panting, her breasts heaving, her fingers clutching his hair almost painfully.

The orgasm built quickly, a tidal wave she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t a gentle crest. It was a rupture. Pleasure detonated through her, radiating from her core to her toes, to her fingertips. She cried out, a loud, unfettered sound that echoed in the small room. Her body convulsed, thighs clamping around his head, her back bowing off the bed. The release was so intense, so complete, that tears sprang to her eyes.

Skeeve didn’t stop. As the waves subsided, his tongue continued its ministrations, softer now, coaxing her back toward the edge. She was slick, soaked, her body pulsing with aftershocks. She was already ready for him. More than ready.

He pulled back, his face glistening with her moisture. His eyes were wild, ****. “Can I…?”

She nodded, words beyond her now. She reached for him, guiding his hips toward hers. His cock, that impressive, daunting length, pressed against her entrance. The head nudged, stretched her outer lips. She was open, wet, but he was big. The first pressure was intense, a stretching fullness that made her gasp again, this time with a mix of pleasure and sharp adjustment.

“Slow,” she managed, her hands on his hips, pushing him back slightly.

He obeyed, entering her with a torturous, inch-by-inch slide. The stretch was profound, a filling ache that transformed quickly into a deep, satisfying fullness. She felt every ridge, every contour of him as he pressed inward. Her body accepted him, adjusting, welcoming. When he was fully seated, she could feel him everywhere inside her, a solid, heated presence that touched depths she hadn’t known existed.

He paused, buried completely, his body trembling above her. “Sue…”

“Move,” she whispered.

He moved.

His thrusts started slow, shallow, allowing her to acclimatize. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each return a slow, deep re-penetration. The friction was exquisite, a slick, hot glide that sent sparks up her spine. Her own hips began to match his rhythm, rising to meet him, deepening the connection.

Then he sped up.

His pace became urgent, powerful. His small frame was deceptive—he was strong, his hips pistoning with a driven ****. The bed creaked under them. Sue’s moans became continuous, a stream of sound that poured from her lips. Her hands scrambled, gripping his shoulders, then his back, clawing at his skin as if to pull him deeper.

The sensation was overwhelming. Each thrust battered a new peak of pleasure inside her. Her nerves were alive, singing, every inch of her inner walls sensitized to his passage. Another orgasm began to build, quicker than the first, fueled by the relentless, perfect friction.

It hit her as he drove particularly deep.

A second, crashing wave of release. Her vision blurred. She screamed, her body locking around him, her inner muscles clutching his shaft in a violent, rhythmic spasm. She felt her own slickness flood around him, making his movements even slicker, even more frenzied.

Skeeve groaned, a raw, guttural sound. He was lost in her, his own pleasure mounting. He fucked her through that orgasm, then kept going, driving her toward a third.

It was unsustainable. It was glorious.

Her body became a vessel for nothing but pleasure. Each thrust pushed her higher. Her pussy, soaked and swollen, began to pull on him. A literal, suction-like grip that happened with each withdrawal, as her tightened, sensitized walls clung to his shaft, **** to let him leave. He felt it, his groans becoming sharper, more ****.

“You’re… holding me…” he gasped.

She could only nod, her head thrashing back on the mattress.

He changed his angle, tilting her hips upward, and the new position sent his cock grinding against a particularly sensitive spot inside her. The third orgasm approached, not a wave this time, but a continuation, a plateau of sheer, unending ecstasy. She was crying out constantly now, sounds that had no meaning, just pure release.

Skeeve’s control broke.

His thrusts became erratic, pounding, final. He buried himself to the root and held there, his body shuddering. “I’m… I can’t…”

She understood. She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking him in, and pulled his face down to hers. Their lips met in a messy, breathless kiss as he finally came.

His climax was a violent, internal flood. She felt the hot rush inside her, filling the spaces his cock had carved. It pulsed from him, jet after jet, and the sensation of being filled so completely, so hotly, triggered her own fourth, devastating peak. Her body convulsed around him, milking him, pulling every drop from him as her own pleasure shattered her into fragments.

They collapsed together, a tangled, sweating, breathless heap. He stayed inside her, softening slowly, as their kissed ended and they simply breathed, foreheads touching.

The room was silent except for their ragged panting. The candle flickered, casting dancing shadows over their joined bodies.

Sue’s mind was blank, wiped clean by sensation. The sigils on her skin were quiet now, just a faint, warm hum. She didn’t think about Maeven, about the mission, about Zardon. She thought about the weight of him on her, the feel of him still within her, the smell of sex and sweat and him in the air.

She finally spoke, her voice hoarse. “…It fit.”

Skeeve, still catching his breath, managed a weak chuckle. “Yeah.”

He shifted, rolling slightly to lie beside her, his arm curling around her waist. She turned into him, her face nuzzling against his neck. The world outside was forgotten. For now, there was only this bed, this warmth, this utterly spent, satisfied peace.