By the time the sun slid behind the sprawl of slate roofs and crooked towers, Desire's Dock was wide awake and hungry. The Wet Deck's lights flared, lanterns glowing red and gold, music curling through the air—a pulse that turned the whole brothel into a living, breathing beast. The scent of liquor, sweat, and rising lust mixed with the ocean breeze slipping in from the docks below.
Damon felt it in his bones before he saw it. He stepped out of his cramped room, tugging on a shirt with buttons he left open halfway, and found the halls already echoing with laughter and anticipation. By the time he made it down the grand stairs, the main lounge and bar were packed.
Men—mostly demons, a handful of beastfolk, some battered human mercenaries—filled every seat, every booth, every stretch of polished wood. Glasses clinked. Dice rattled across scarred tables. Shouts of victory, curses, laughter—every sound carried the promise of gold, or sex, or violence. Girls in little more than chains and grins darted between tables, trading filthy jokes for tips, while boys flashed abs and flexed tails, already picking their marks.
Fizz stood behind the long, marble-topped bar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a crisp vest and open collar making him look more like a young lord than the Wet Deck's handler. His silver-rimmed glasses glinted in the lamplight as he worked: hands flying from bottle to shaker to glass with inhuman speed, all while keeping an eye on the room's every twitch.
He didn't look up as Damon approached. "About time you showed. Put that pretty face to work and try not to drop anything."
Damon grinned, slipping behind the bar. "You say that like I've never poured a drink."
Fizz snorted. "Just remember—these people don't pay for the booze. They pay for a story, a flirt, a bit of hope before they crawl into bed with something that'll either fuck them raw or eat their soul. Same rules for the staff, too."
Damon snatched a bottle and started pouring, getting his bearings as he watched the room. Fizz handed him a tray. "First lesson: don't serve anything to the tables in the back unless you want to get groped, cursed, or asked to join. Especially table nine. They think every new boy's a test run."
As he moved through the press of bodies, Damon listened. The Wet Deck's main draw wasn't just sex—it was spectacle. On one side, a trio of beastfolk played dice with a hulking demon whose tusks scraped the tabletop every time he grinned. At the far end, a group of humans—dockhands, rough and loud—cheered on a fight between two girls in spiked collars, betting on who'd tap out first.
At a central table, Jinny presided over a raucous game of cards. The fox-eared joker was all smiles, spinning jokes and stories even as he palmed extra cards and slipped chips from one pile to another. Damon caught the flash of a smirk as Jinny winked at a watching customer—everyone knew he was cheating, but no one cared enough to call him out. Here, as long as you weren't caught, it wasn't cheating at all.
Marek was holding court near the door, arm draped over the back of his chair, surrounded by three giggling beast-women. He whispered into the ear of the boldest one, hand tracing up her thigh, and she squirmed with delight. Marek looked up, caught Damon's eye, and flashed a wolfish grin. Already working his angle—money first, then flesh.
Fizz was everywhere at once. He filled a glass and nudged Damon. "Watch and learn. The Wet Deck caters to all the gutter's best: demons, beastfolk, outlander humans. Nobles have their own joints—high walls, soft beds, wine that costs more than most men's freedom. Our crowd wants a show, a fuck, and the illusion they're above it all. Don't ever let them see you care, and don't ever let them think you're the same as them."
Damon poured, served, flirted, letting his aura leak just enough to draw hungry stares but not enough to make promises he didn't want to keep. The bar thumped under the weight of bodies, conversation, want. Laughter got rougher as the drinks flowed, dice rolled faster, bets got bigger, girls and boys drifted closer, hands wandering.
And then the room changed. The doors swung wide, and everything stopped.
A hush—brief, sharp, predatory. Every face turned as a new party strode in: a pack of humans, cleaner and better dressed than any worker or mercenary here. Velvet coats, gold chains, boots polished bright enough to catch every flicker of candlelight. Their leader was impossible to miss: young, slim, wrapped in a peacock-blue jacket with gold trim, hair slicked and rings on every finger.
Count Lucien, lord of Desire's Dock. Damon didn't need Fizz to tell him; the man radiated arrogance like a perfume.
Lucien paused in the doorway, letting the hush stretch, then sauntered in as if the whole room belonged to him. His entourage—five men, two women, all smug—fanned out behind him, eyes darting, hands already snapping for service. The Wet Deck's regulars shuffled aside, a careful dance of resentment and fear.
Fizz leaned over, voice low, slicing through the noise. "That's Lucien. Thinks he owns this city. Likes to remind everyone by throwing coin and ordering anyone not human to lick his boots. Brags about fucking the best girls, but—" Fizz's mouth twisted in a smirk. "—they all say the only thing big about him is his ego."
As Lucien's party settled at the VIP alcove, a string of girls swept in to greet them. Xinyi led the charge, tail swishing, ears up, flanked by two other stunners—one with curling ram horns, another with skin like polished onyx. They poured wine, pressed close, flashed fangs and giggles. Lucien lapped up the attention, waving them closer, hand already sliding too low on Xinyi's back.
Fizz started mixing something fancy, sliding the bottle down the bar for Damon to catch. "His lordship always wants the 'special'—crystal vodka, silverleaf, and a dash of demon sweat. Waste of good liquor. But he pays in gold, so we pretend to care." He paused, eyes tracking the crowd. "Just don't let him think you're mocking him. Or worse—don't let him think you're better."
Damon glanced back at the VIP booth. Lucien's voice carried—loud, performative, dripping with self-satisfaction. "You know, my family used to own this whole district. Now I have to pay for the privilege of decent company. Tragic, isn't it?" The girls purred, leaning closer. Xinyi's eyes flicked past Lucien, found Damon, and she winked—just for him.
Fizz caught it too. "Careful, pretty boy. The fox likes games. Don't get caught in the crossfire."
The night grew wilder. The bar was packed elbow to elbow. The card tables grew rowdier, coin and jewels stacking high. A beastwoman howled as she won a hand, raking in chips and grabbing her lover for a deep, dirty kiss. Jinny pulled another trick, flipping a card and making it appear from behind a stunned guest's ear—everyone roared, even as the guest realized he'd been cleaned out.
Upstairs, doors banged and thudded—rooms filling, emptied, refilled as staff paired off with guests, trading moans and laughter for coin and favors. Damon watched it all, hands working drinks, eyes scanning faces. He learned more in an hour than he had in days: who wanted to be noticed, who wanted to hide, who was here for pleasure and who for punishment.
Lucien held court, ordering bottles, laughing too loud, slapping coins into every outstretched hand. His entourage did the same, trying to match him in bravado. They drank, bet, bragged, and the girls milked every moment—pouring slower, pressing breasts closer, daring him to spend more. Fizz murmured, "They'll have him out a week's pay in an hour. Nobles always want to prove something, especially to us. Especially when their dicks can't."
Damon grinned, topping off a glass. "And here I thought everyone came here to forget their problems."
Fizz's smile was thin. "Some come to forget, some to make new ones. Lucien? He comes to pretend. Watch—he'll start a scene before midnight, just to remind himself he's the biggest fish in a barrel full of sharks."
As the evening rolled on, the Wet Deck blurred into a riot of color and sound. The bar throbbed with life. Marek had disappeared with two girls, leaving his coins for Fizz and a promise to pay double if he was disturbed. Jinny was cleaning up at the card table, every trick earning cheers and curses in equal measure. Damon slipped drinks, slid smiles, let his aura do half the work.
He watched Xinyi maneuver Lucien and his court with a predator's patience. She let him touch, let him brag, all while guiding the conversation to pricier bottles, longer appointments, and promises of "exclusive" time. Lucien glowed with pride, never noticing the sly glances between the girls, or the way the regulars rolled their eyes.
Fizz leaned in, whispering as he poured another round. "Don't ever think the house loses. Lucien thinks he's king, but tonight he'll pay for every inch of illusion. Girls will leave him broke, ego bruised, and he'll still tip double just so no one talks about his shortcomings."
The room grew rowdier, the music louder, the air heavier. Flirtation gave way to bold offers: a beastwoman pulled a merchant to his feet, dragging him upstairs by the collar, her tail flicking with promise. Two demon boys kissed in a corner booth, hands already under the table, daring anyone to look. Upstairs, the doors boomed—bodies moving, beds creaking, the Wet Deck's hunger never sated.
Lucien's entourage whooped as one of their number lost a bet, stripping down to his silk undershirt and bowing to the room's laughter. Lucien roared, his voice booming, "See? My friends know how to party. Not like these dullards—" he waved at the regulars, "—who don't know a good time if it fucked them in the ass."
Damon caught Fizz's eye, raising an eyebrow. Fizz just shrugged. "Let him have his moment. The higher he climbs, the harder the fall. Besides, the girls will make sure he spends enough to cover a month's rent for the Dock's orphans. Call it charity."
Another group of guests swept in—new faces, old debts, the promise of more chaos. Damon kept pouring, kept moving, learning the rhythm of the place, the subtle signals that said when a guest was ready for more than drink. He watched the staff—the way they sized up clients, the way they shifted roles: courtesan, temptress, confidant, predator.
He felt the system buzz under his skin, a gentle electric itch that meant the Dock's game was about to change again. He watched Lucien preen, watched the girls milk every coin from his pride, watched the crowd swell with hunger.
Fizz leaned close, voice barely a whisper. "This is just the start, pretty boy. The real fun starts when the drinks run dry and everyone's mask slips. Watch your back. And never forget—here, everyone's a player. Even you."
Damon grinned, hands steady, eyes sharp. The Wet Deck was alive, the city outside hungry, and the night had only just begun. Upstairs, laughter and moans tangled together, while down below, the bar roared on—every drink, every touch, every secret traded for another taste of what the Dock had to offer. Damon poured, watched, and waited. He was learning. He was hungry. And the game was only just getting started.