Tavern Games

Molly downed the last gulp of his ale like it might flee if he didn’t trap it in his throat, then set the mug down with a theatrical sigh and a clink.

“Well. You’re all entirely too charming for this early in the day,” he said, rising in a spill of jangling jewelry and bright patchwork. “If I stay any longer, I’ll end up telling you all my secrets instead of reading yours. We’d better be getting on.”

Beside him, Yasha still had half a mug left. She tipped it back in one go, throat working, then thunked the empty down hard enough that a little foam leapt back out.

“Nice to meet you,” she rumbled. “You’re all… wonderful.”

Beau grinned. “Hot.”

She nodded once, then turned and shouldered through the common-room traffic toward the door.

Molly scattered a handful of flyers onto neighboring tables as he followed, each little rectangle of color and ink fluttering down like leaves. “Charm!” he called over his shoulder. “Pure charm! Do try not to die before tonight, gorgeous people.”

The heavy oak door swung shut, cutting off the silhouette of the tiefling and the barbarian, but the static charge of their presence lingered in the tavern air.

At the table, the energy shifted from spectacle back to assessment. Beau watched the door for a beat too long, then leaned back, expression loose and satisfied.

"She was awesome," Beau said.

Fjord looked down at his ale, swirling it. "She didn't say much."

"That's why I liked her.”

Jester clasped her hands under her chin, tail swishing behind her in a lazy, hypnotic rhythm. "She was really, really cool. Did you see the cool thing she had going on with her chin? That's interesting. I wish I would have thought of something like that."

"Yeah," Beau drawled. "I mean, you could maybe do something like that in time. Just wait until maybe…"

"So she doesn't know I copied," Jester finished, nodding seriously.

Nott sat hunched in her cloak, hands gripping her knees under the table. The leather bindings around her hips felt tighter now, the strap biting into her skin with every pulse of her blood. Interesting. Jester wanted interesting. Nott felt like a tightly wound coil of shame and wet heat, terrified that she might be interesting to the curious tiefling.

"Was he using magic?" Fjord asked, breaking the silence as he stared at the empty chair Molly had vacated. "With the cards?"

"I don't know," Jester said, eyes wide and delighted.

Beau leaned back, looking at Jester with a half-smirk, studying the way the tiefling’s tail curled with excitement. "You're superstitious. Yeah?"

Jester blinked, innocent as a viper. "No."

"Okay," Beau said, clearly not buying it.

"No, I'm not superstitious at all," Jester insisted, waving a hand airily, in a tone that said the opposite.

Caleb cleared his throat.

"For the record," he murmured, his voice low and raspy, "there was nothing magic about that. Maybe he is good at reading people, cold reading, but that was not magic."

"Caleb knows everything about magic," Nott blurted out, her voice a little too loud, **** to shift the focus to her wizard. "He's been even teaching me some. He's real good. You should see him-"

"Nott," Caleb warned softly.

"He can make a cat appear and disappear whenever he wants!" Nott insisted.

Jester gasped. "Really? A cat?"

Caleb sighed, the weight of the world on his shoulders. He snapped his fingers under the table.

An orange patchy tabby leapt up onto the empty chair, blinking with heavy, magical boredom.

"Oh, shit!" Beau exclaimed, leaning in. "What's his name?"

"Frumpkin," Caleb said, adjusting his cuffs.

"Aw!" Jester cooed, reaching out. "Can I call him Lumpy?"

"You can call him Frumpkin," Caleb corrected, though there was no heat in it.

"Look at this Lumpy!" Jester beamed.

Beau reached out to scratch the cat’s ears, her tough exterior cracking. "Hey, buddy. I think he likes me."

Nott watched the cat purr under Beau’s hand and felt a spike of jealousy so sharp it made her stomach turn. It was easier to be loved when you were small and harmless and exactly what you looked like.

"I can do things, too," Jester announced, clapping her hands.

"With magic?" Nott asked warily, shrinking back.

"Yeah. Like… oh, gosh. Okay. Watch this!"

"Wait-" Fjord started.

BOOM.

Jester shouted a word, and four nearby windows slammed open with a sudden burst of wind. The torches flickered and died. The music stopped.

Nott squeaked, diving half under the table.

"Jester," Fjord hissed. "Don't you remember us talking about keeping a low profile?"

"You're right. I'm sorry," said Jester with a small voice. She snapped her fingers and cried out that word again.

The windows slammed shut.

"Ta-da!" Jester beamed.

Caleb exhaled a long breath. "You see why we are careful."

"Careful is boring," Beau muttered, though she looked impressed.

"So," Fjord said, trying to steer the ship back to calm waters. "The Soltryce Academy. You know it?"

Caleb stiffened. "It is a very fancy place. I have heard of it."

"We're trying to make our way up there," Fjord said. "Get a little bit more learning done."

"I studied when I was younger," Caleb said, his hand drifting to the book holsters under his coat. "It’s all book-learned. But good luck. That’s rough, I hear. Hard to get into."

"We know it's rich people that go there," Jester said as she turned to Fjord, "We have to find a way to get you in. We had more money, but then we lost it, but then we got some back."

Fjord sighed. "Somebody has a gambling problem."

"Oh," Nott piped up. "Which one?"

"What's the name of it again?" Jester asked the air. "The Crick-Queen's Call. Have you played it?"

Nott shook her head.

“I’ll teach you someday. It’s so much fun,” Jester promised, already rummaging in her bag like she kept a whole second life in there.

“It’s a game?” Nott asked, ears perking before she could stop them. “Cards? Like, actual cards? Not… drinking and screaming?”

“Both can happen,” Beau offered, helpful as ever.

“I can teach you,” Jester said, eyes bright. “If you want. We can do a quick one right now.”

Nott hesitated and glanced at Caleb.

He looked tired in that quiet, bone-deep way, but there was a softness in his eyes too, the kind he only let show when he thought no one would use it against him. He sighed, reached into his pouch, and pinched out two silvers as if he were plucking a tooth.

“Because you saved my life yesterday,” he said, “you may have two more.”

“Two silver,” Nott whispered, taking them like they might vanish if she blinked. “Okay.”

Jester set the little deck down between them with a magician’s flourish as she explained the rules. Pairs were good, runs were better, three of a kind were the best. The cards weren’t fancy like noble playing cards, more like something you’d find in a roadside tavern: thick, slightly greasy at the corners, painted with simple symbols and little folk-art creatures. The queen on the top card had a crooked smile like she knew a secret.

“Ante first,” Jester said, and dropped a coin into the center.

Nott swallowed and slid Caleb’s first silver in after it.

Jester dealt three cards to Nott and three to herself, quick and tidy. “Don’t show me,” she added immediately, leaning back with a grin. “Half the fun is lying to each other.”

Nott peeled her cards up one at a time.

Garbage.

Not worthless, not completely doomed, but bad enough that her stomach dipped. Worse, she could feel the weight of Caleb’s silver sitting in the pot like an accusation. Her fingers tightened on the cards until the edges bit into her skin.

“Now we bet,” Jester said, cheerful as a festival barker. “You can call what I put in, you can raise, or you can fold and keep your dignity.”

“I have never met my dignity,” Nott muttered.

She tried to read Jester’s face, the twitch of her smile, the way her tail looped and unlooped around a chair rung. Jester looked like she was having the time of her life, which told Nott nothing at all. It was like trying to bluff the sun.

Nott’s eyes flicked to the pot again. She could fold. She should fold. She could take the loss of one coin and save herself the humiliation of losing more.

But she could also raise, get another card, swap it in for one of these useless little betrayals, and maybe salvage something.

Her groin ached under the harness, the constant tug of her own hidden weight turning every heartbeat into a pulse of irritation and heat. The distraction made her bold in the worst way. She slid the other coin in, raising with a tiny, stubborn jerk of her chin.

Jester clapped softly. “Oooh. Brave.”

Caleb made a small noise that was halfway between a cough and a prayer.

They matched the bet, bringing the pot even, and Jester held the deck out. “Okay. Because you raised, you get a new card. You’ll choose one of yours to give back, and the new one replaces it.”

Nott’s hands moved on their own, thief instincts trying to wake up. She picked the worst card between her claws, lifted it, and for a heartbeat her mind tried to do what it always did when money was on the line: palm it, slip something better from somewhere, make the world bend a fraction.

Except her hands were shaking too much. The earlier adrenaline still buzzed in her blood, and the ache between her legs made her posture tight and awkward. The card stuck to her claw. The corner snagged. The motion was not smooth, not invisible, not clever.

Jester’s eyes sharpened for the first time, catching the hitch.

Nott **** herself to complete the swap cleanly, as if she hadn’t been trying anything at all. She took the new card from the top of the deck and slid it into her hand.

It didn’t help.

Of course it didn’t.

“Okay,” Jester chirped, leaning forward with wicked delight. “Showdown. Reveal.”

Nott laid her cards down first, jaw clenched. “Pair,” she said flatly, hating how small her voice sounded.

Jester spread her hand with a grin that could have been painted on a festival mask. “Three of a kind.”

For a second, Nott just stared. Not at the cards, but at the little pile of silver in the center, and the fact that Caleb’s silver was now on the wrong side of the table.

The loss hit her like a shove to the chest, sharp and physical. Shame followed right behind it, hot and familiar: shame at being a bad thief, shame at needing the coin, shame at wanting to be good at anything when her own body felt like a cruel joke strapped to her hips. And threaded through it all was the overwhelming closeness of Jester across the table, the sugar-and-incense scent of her, the warmth of her smile, the way she looked so bright and alive that it made Nott feel like a smear of soot in comparison.

Nott lunged forward, grabbing the edge of the table.

"I don't have more silver!" Nott blurted out, her voice cracking, high and frantic. "But- double or nothing! I can pay! I can.. I can go under the table! Right now!"

The table went dead silent.

Fjord froze. Beau choked on her ale.

"I have a mouth!" Nott rushed on, **** and flushed. "I can use it! On you! I'm good at it… I mean, I'm a goblin, I'm trash, but I can make you feel good! Just- don't take the silver, let me pay with.. with service!"

Fjord stared. "Did she just…?"

Jester’s violet eyes went round. "Oh my gosh!" Jester squealed. "You want to eat my pussy? Right here?"

Nott flinched, face burning under the porcelain. "I… yes? If it settles the debt?"

Jester laughed, a bright, peeling sound. She leaned across the table. "You are a dirty little thing, aren't you? Offering barters like that! My mama says you should always get dinner first, but I like your style."

Nott blinked, stunned. “You… you like it?”

“It’s a very generous offer!” Jester beamed. She reached out and booped Nott’s nose, right on the mask.

She winked.

Caleb’s hand landed on Nott’s shoulder then, firm and grounding. He didn't pull her back, but the weight of his grip said: Enough.

“She is… impulsive,” Caleb said to the table, his voice strained. “We have been in the woods a long time. Social graces are… rusty.”

“Clearly,” Beau drawled, leaning back. Her eyes tracked Nott with a new, sharp interest. “The woods must be very lonely.”

Nott sank back into her seat, pulling her hood down tight. Her heart was hammering so hard she thought it might explode. Her cock gave a violent, confused, ecstatic throb against the bindings.

She hadn’t been stabbed. She hadn’t been thrown out.

“I need a drink,” Nott mumbled into her knees.

“We all do,” Fjord agreed, signaling the barmaid.

The fresh round hit the table like a small truce, and with the first swallow the tension loosened just enough for conversation to stop circling the embarrassment and land on something practical.

“Do you guys want company?” Jester chirped, oblivious to the heavy air or perhaps slicing right through it on purpose. “Do you want us to come and hang out with you today?” Nott’s instinct was to bolt: she was a thief, a monster, and a liability who had just offered oral sex as currency to a stranger. “I don't know,” she muttered, pulling nervously at her collar. “That sounds risky.” But Caleb surprised her. “I, shockingly, think that's not a bad idea,” he murmured, eyeing the motley crew with a calculator’s gaze. “Yesterday was… bad. If we surround ourselves with weirdos, maybe it takes the heat off of you.” He pinned Jester with a serious look. “Bottom line: can you hang with the goblin?”

Jester didn’t answer with words; she reached out. Her hand landed on Nott’s shoulder. Nott flinched, expecting a slap, but instead, a rush of cool, shadowy magic washed over her skin.

She hissed like a cat, half rising from her chair, claws scraping the tabletop. “NOPE. NO. What did you do? What is that? Caleb!” Her head snapped toward him, panic pitching her voice up. “She cast instant goblin kill! She touched me! That’s how it works, right? Magic touch, goblin dies, poof, tragic!” She slapped at her shoulder as if she could knock the spell off like spilled ale. “What does it do?”

Jester giggled, completely unbothered, and gave Nott’s shoulder a tiny affectionate squeeze like she’d just calmed a skittish puppy. “I blessed you,” she said brightly, eyes sparkling. “The Traveler’s going to make you harder to notice now. Pretty sweet, huh?”

Nott froze, breathing hard, then slowly sank back down, still glaring. “Harder to notice,” she repeated, suspicious like she was tasting the words for poison. Her heart was still pounding, but a little thread of relief slipped through anyway, because if there was one kind of magic she could tolerate, it was the kind that helped her disappear.

So they agreed to a brewery tour, a daylight crawl through the town’s liquid history to kill time before the carnival at dusk. It was a tactical choice for Caleb, who wanted to listen for rumors, but for Nott, it was medicinal. The **** would dull the sharp edges of her anxiety, and hopefully, numb the relentless, throbbing demand of the curse between her legs.

The day blurred into a montage of hops, grain, and social friction. They bypassed the Baumbauch brewery, too much risk of recognition after an apparent Crate Incident the others had gotten into the other day,and made their way to the Husseldorf estate. It was a sprawling, stone-walled operation run by two matriarchs, Voss and June, who bustled about with the efficient warmth of women who loved their craft.

The air inside the Husseldorf fermentation hall was thick and cool, smelling of damp yeast and germinating life. It was a heavy, fertile scent that made her skin tighten, her senses dialing up until every laugh and brush of fabric felt electric.

While Caleb and Fjord politely critiqued the notes of the amber ale, and Jester loudly tried to convince June that "blueberry-flavored beer" was the inevitable future of the Trost brand, a suggestion met with polite, baffled smiles, Nott retreated to the shadows of a massive oak cask. She clutched her cloak tight, feeling exposed even in the dim light. The bindings were chafing, the leather strap damp with sweat and the slow, traitorous leakage that never seemed to stop.

"So," a voice cut through the gloom.

Beau leaned against the wood beside her, ankles crossed, smelling of sweat and the ale she’d been knocking back with impressive speed. The monk wasn't looking at Nott; her blue-gray eyes were tracked on Jester across the room.

"You like to eat pussy?" Beau asked, casual as asking about the weather.

Nott nearly choked on her own spit. She jerked her head around, porcelain mask clacking against her collar. "Uh… what?"

"You heard me," Beau said, finally turning. Her gaze was blunt, clinical, stripping away the pretense. "Back at the inn. You made the offer. Double or nothing."

Nott’s ears burned a dark, bruised green under her hood. "I… that was… Nott was just panicking. It was a joke. A very funny goblin joke."

"Didn't sound like a joke," Beau countered, voice dropping to a low, husky register. She stepped closer, invading Nott’s personal space until her presence drowned out the hops. "No, it's cool. I like pussy too."

Nott stared up, trapped between the cask and Beau, staring at her sexy abs. "You… you do?"

"Yeah," Beau shrugged, a smirk tugging at her mouth. "Most of the time. Better than the alternative." She jerked her chin toward Jester, who was currently laughing at something Fjord said, her hand resting lightly on the half-orc’s arm. "Jester’s fine. Tits and ass for days. But uh, pretty sure she's on the other team. Likes the dick. Probably has a thing for Fjord… they came from Nicodranus together, they’ve got that 'childhood friend' vibe."

Nott’s pulse spiked. The jealousy she’d felt earlier flared up, hot and acrid. The idea of the blue tiefling, so lush, so soft, so ready, belonging to the half-orc made Nott’s jaw ache.

Nott leaned forward, her voice dropping into her scratchy, predatory rasp.. The shame was still there, but it was being pushed aside by a sudden, arrogant surge of pride.

"Oh?" Nott whispered, looking up at Beau with slitted eyes. "Well. Does she like biiig dick?"

Beau snorted, shaking her head with a look that was half-amused. "Probably," Beau muttered, taking a swig of her flask. "Jester seems to like everything."

They moved on to the von Brandt brewery as the afternoon wore on, the sun dipping lower and the shadows lengthening. The dynamic of the group began to fray and reform under the influence of the ****. The brewers were militant about their branding, every time Fjord or Beau mentioned "Trost" ale, they were swiftly corrected with the specific family name, a petty local politics that Nott found exhausting.

She stopped caring about the names after the third flagon.

While Caleb nursed his drinks, keeping a careful, sober watch, and Jester sipped daintily at whatever was sweet, the rest of them got properly sauced. Beau drank with a destructive efficiency, Fjord kept pace with a grim determination, and Nott drank to drown the sensation of her own body.

But the **** made her sloppy, and it made her pliable.

For the rest of the afternoon, Jester latched onto Nott like a limpet. The tiefling, buzzing on sugar and a little wine, decided that Nott was the perfect height to be an armrest, a pet, or a wayward child. She walked with her arm draped over Nott’s shoulders, pulling the goblin into her side with every step.

"You're so wobbly, Nott!" Jester would giggle, squeezing her tight. "I've got you. Mama Jester has got you."

It was ****. It was ecstasy.

Nott stumbled along, face pressed periodically into the soft, yielding curve of Jester’s hip or the side of her fat tit. The scent of the tiefling was everywhere, lilac, pastry, and the underlying warmth of a woman. Every time Jester laughed, her body vibrated against Nott’s, and every vibration sent a shockwave straight to the massive, bound erection that refused to soften.

Nott hated it. She felt filthy, a monster masquerading as a mascot, deceiving this sweet, oblivious girl.

Nott loved it. Her filthy goblin mind turning Jester’s maternal cooing into a different kind of promise. When Jester swished her tail, the spade tip flicking near Nott’s thighs, Nott’s drunk, horny brain didn't see a friend. She saw a mate. She saw wide hips that needed gripping. She saw that bouncing blue ass and had intrusive, violent flashes of jumping her, of tearing the dress, of clapping those cheeks until the tiefling forgot Fjord’s name.

"You're so warm," Jester murmured at one point, leaning her cheek on top of Nott’s hood as they stumbled toward the carnival grounds. "Like a little furnace."

"It's the whiskey," Nott lied, her voice tight.

It wasn't the whiskey. It was the oven of her own curse, burning hot enough to melt the snow, waiting for the moment the door would finally be opened.

By the time the sun set and the colorful lights of the Fletching and Moondrop Carnival flickered to life ahead of them, Nott was drunk, furious, and so aroused she could barely walk straight. The night was just beginning, and the tent was waiting.