#monster brothel

[bunnis-monsters]

Next post should be the monster brothel! I’m working on it. Trying to not let nasty comments or asks affect me when I have a big community that is kind and supportive ^^

[kingofthe-egirls]

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MONSTER TRIO x Y/N (part 2)

brothel au

(part 1)

Requested by @partyanimal167

(a/n: sw, foursome, fingering, vaginal sex, anal sex, cunnilingus, blowjob, gay sex, marijuana)

Summary: A continuation of Y/N’s first time at the esteemed pirate-brothel, named Lavender Gardens.

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You're sandwiched in bed between three hot, muscular men. One is at your ear, licking playfully (Sanji), another is molding your tits in his hands in front of you (Zoro), and the other is sliding his thick fingers along your clit (Luffy).

You gasp.

Your pussy clenches around nothing as Luffy fingers you, his grinning face inches from your own. He rests his chin on your shoulder, and whines. "Can I put it inside you?" He asks breathily, and you nod. Slowly, he pushes in two digits at the same time. You stiffen at the feeling, tensing under the other two's ministrations. Sanji nips at your ear.

"Easy, Luff. She's not warmed up yet."

"She's plenty wet," Luffy huskily replies. He starts pumping his fingers in and out of you, and you hitch a breath. Sanji grabs your ass, squeezing the flesh hard.

"Is that so?" He murmurs, letting his own hand explore your folds. His fingertips move gracefully around where Luffy is fingerfucking you, contorting his wrist to nip at your clit. Zoro sits up in front of you, and gently takes your face in his hands. He kisses you, hard.

"D'ya like that?" He asks, his teeth around your bottom lip. You whine, nodding softly as Luffy and Sanji pleasure you. Sanji's fingers dance around your puckered hole, behind where Luffy's still playing with your pussy.

"Is that alright, darling?" He asks, "Would you like your holes filled?"

Your pussy clamps down hard around Luffy's fingers--now three inside you at once--and he gasps. "Yeahhh," he giggles, voice raspy, "I think she likes that."

"Let's not deny her, then," Sanji growls, and gets up to open the dresser for lube. Luffy grins in your ear.

"I like you," he whispers, and speedily goes back to rubbing your clit. You moan, arching your back in pleasure.

"Can I lay down?" You ask, naked and hot beneath their movements. Sanji comes back to kneel on the bed, bottle of oil in hand. He puffs up some pillows for you to lie back on. Zoro scoots over, and opens his arms for you to rest against his chest. His body is warm, achingly so, and his arms are buff where they rest around you. He lazily plucks on your sensitive nipples.

"Excited?" He asks you, mouth pressed against your temple. Sheepish, you nod. Your face feels hot, and your legs are trembling.

"Nervous, too," you admit, as Luffy positions his face between your legs. You squeak, twitching a little as his breath ghosts over your inner thigh. It's squishy, with cellulite, and he places love bites along it on the way to your pussy. You squirm, held tight in Zoro's arms. "I-it's been a while since I've gotten laid."

"Well, perfect timing," he replies, and gently removes the sparkling kanzashi from your hair, letting it tumble down to your waist. He runs his fingers through it gently. "Pretty," he murmurs, and you flush. Luffy's face is at your core, lips positioned just above your aching heat. You need him, now.

"Please?" You ask, voice breathy, as heat churns in your gut. You've never felt this way before, this...this aching. Butterflies cry in your stomach, fluttering around fiercely. You imagine them red, and blue, and emerald green. You turn to press a kiss to Zoro's cheek.

Luffy's tongue flicks against your entrance.

"Tastes good," he mutters, before diving in facefirst. He laps at your clit, running his tongue over and over it in figure eights. His fingers come up to reclaim their rightful place inside you, pumping furiously as he licks at you like a dying man. You groan, arching into Zoro's chest where his hands grip your tits, keeping you in place. His own hard cock twitches against his abdomen, and you reach down to take it in one hand.

"Fuck," you say, surprised at his girth. Zoro's cock is heavy, thick as dynamite, with a light brown tip. Your fingers can't wrap all the way around it. He groans into your touch, and you turn your head to see his eye flutter shut. His cheeks are dusted amber-pink. Like a sunset, you think.

Luffy mutters something under his breath, nose still pressed against your pubic bone. His lips are latched around your clit, sucking hard. He crooks his fingers up a notch.

You cum.

Unbidden and unburdened, you spasm around Luffy's efforts. A loud moan escapes you, as you arch off Zoro's chest, his arms letting you go. You bury your hands in Luffy's raven hair, keeping him close to you. He grunts in approval, not stopping his efforts as he steers you through the waves. Like a pilot, steering a ship homeward.

Homeward, with them.

"I love it here," you breathe out, your shudders coming down in waves. Eventually, Luffy pulls out. You moan at the loss of touch.

He grins, "Don't worry," he turns to Sanji to grab the lube. "We won't leave you empty for long." He pours the crystal-clear oil onto his fingers, and you smell coconut. He flashes his eyes back up to you, wicked. He smears the lube across his cock. "Want me yet?"

"Of course!" You exclaim, sitting up to spread your legs. Zoro sits up too, repositioning on the bed. He bends forward, crawling on all fours to take Sanji's hard cock in his mouth. The blond moans, head falling back in pleasure. He runs both hands through Zoro's mossy hair.

Luffy kneels in front of you, pumping his own dick in his hand. It shines from the lube, bronze cockhead disappearing in and out of his fist. "Ready for me?" He cocks an eyebrow. You nod.

"Ready."

Slowly, he pushes in. You're already wet and stretched out from his fingers, so the press of his cock only ever feels like heaven. His eyes roll back in his head. "Fuuuuuck," he drawls out. His hips stutter, and his hands come shaky to rest on your tits. He plays with them, trembling. "C-can I--," he swallows, sweat forming on his brow, "Can I start moving?"

You hook your ankles around his waist, pulling him in. "Please," you whisper, "I need it."

***

The bed creaks as he thrusts into you, pants heavy and hot on your shoulder as he ruts into you. The lamplight flickers from the bedside tables, casting orange shadows on his face. He turns to plant a messy kiss to your cheek. "Feels good, right baby?" He asks. "Wanna hear you cum," he moans, burying his face in your neck. You wrap your arms around his neck, eyes squeezed shut as you grip his silken hair in both hands.

"Y-Yes," you moan, voice pitchy, "Please keep going--!"

He ruts into you faster, propping up on his elbows so he can get better leverage. He angles his hips up, pistoning in and out of you and right up against your g-spot. Fireworks dance behind your eyelids. "Fuck!" You scream, pitching forward with your spine seizing up. Luffy giggles, and redoubles his efforts.

No one's ever fucked you this fast, before.

"H-holy shit, Luffy--," you pant, "I'm cumming--!"

"That's my girl," he roughly pounds into you, voice proud and dominant, "That's my good girl."

His dirty words send another jolt through you, and you shudder on his cock. You pant through your orgasm, sweat pouring down your temples. Your tits are hot, nipples tingling. Your legs shake around Luffy's thick torso.

He slows his pace.

"S'alright?" He asks, slowly pumping in and out of you as you come down. You nod, sitting up so he can pull out of you. You swallow, throat dry.

"Water?" You croak.

Luffy nods, reaching off the bed to pour water from a pitcher into a glass. There's a small silver tray with a crystal decanter, along with a porcelain dish adorned with a half-smoked blunt. You giggle.

"Smoke much?" You ask, eyeing Luffy as he hands you the glass. He grins, sheepish, and scratches the back of his head.

"Shishishi," he laughs, eyes crinkling shut. Holy shit, you think, that's the best laugh you've ever seen. The boy oozes charm, and comfortability. You can't help but feel at ease with him.

Luffy plops down next to you, his own glass in hand. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close into his chest. "Let's cuddle," he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek, "I like you."

"I like you too," you respond quietly, cheeks warm. You don't want to overstep your boundaries, though you hope his sentiments are truthful. "Did you have fun?" You ask, meeting his gaze with doe eyes. Your whole body has gone soft, pliable, and you sink into the warmth of his chest. You sip your water thoughtfully.

"Mhmm," he nods happily, tightening his arm around your shoulders. His hand idly goes to stroke his own cock, still half-hard. Sanji and Zoro are at the foot of the bed, pleasuring each other. You blush, and see Luffy's grin turn wicked as he side-eyes you. "Wanna watch?"

Blankly, you nod.

Both you and Luffy sip from your crystalline glasses, slowly cooling down from your intense session. Luffy strokes his cock with a loose fist, more just enjoying the sensation than trying to get off. He probably has a lot of sex (and orgasms) throughout his day, so you don't really mind. You're too overstimulated to keep going, anyway. You curl your legs up to your chest, setting your empty water glass back down on the tray. A diamond droplet falls from the side and onto your fingers, plinking onto the porcelain dish with Luffy's discarded weed.

He leans over you to pluck the joint off the tray, along with a heavy brass lighter with a skull and crossbones emblazoned on the front. He flicks it on, and takes a long pull with his eyes closed. Zoro moans softly, and you turn back to look at where he's half-buried inside Sanji's hole.

Your eyes widen, having never been this close to two men fucking before. Their bodies are light, athletic, and shining with sweat. Sanji is bent over on all fours, his fist between his legs to slowly jerk himself off. Zoro's thrusts are lazy but powerful, keeping a steady rhythm. Both their faces are flushed.

Sanji's voice is raspy as he repeats his coworker's name, over and over again. With a grunt, Zoro cums.

"Fuck--," Sanji moans out, following behind him with swift, thick ropes of white hot cum shooting out onto the bed. Luffy groans.

"Guys, I just washed that!!!"

You burst out a laugh. You can't help it. The tension having been released from the room, your shoulders relax completely, and you squeal in delight against Luffy's chest.

"This is so fun!" You gasp, turning your face into Luffy's pectoral muscle. He has a bright scar along his chest, marking an X over his solar plexus. You land a kiss on it, fiercely. "I have to come back."

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Epilogue:

Luffy leans over the counter in front of Lavender-sama, where she's peering through her reading glasses at a stack of papers. Her hair is pinned back on one side, revealing an ear and the diamond teardrop that dangles from it, sparkling at the side of her face. Her gold finger guards are placed carefully on her desk, next to a feather pen. She flicks sharp eyes up at him.

"No."

Luffy groans, slumping forward over the counter of her office. "Ya didn't even hear what I hafta say yet!" He melts like rubber into the marble surface. She snorts.

"Don't have to," she says, regarding him over the top of her crystalline glasses. She ticks an eyebrow. "You have a crush on her, don't you?"

Luffy stiffens. He stares at the madame, eyes blown. "How'd ya know, Laven-sama??"

She clicks her tongue, and sets down the paper she'd been holding. Her hands spread delicately across it, small fingers spread wide. She shakes her head, then smiles. Her lips are painted like coral.

"You only ever dance for clients, Luffy. Let alone fuck them."

He blushes, face beet red. "But--um...," he stutters, at a loss for words. He hadn't meant to fuck her, truly. She'd just been so...hot.

He'd spotted her across the bar, from where he'd been giving an older gentleman a lap dance. As soon as the song ended, and he'd collected his tip, he dashed over to get to her as soon as possible. There was no way he was gonna let Zoro take her first.

The threesome had been new for him, too, but he'd liked it. He'd done shows with both Zoro and Sanji before, so it's not like he'd been uncomfortable. He's usually pretty open about sex, anyway. But Laven-sama was right: Luffy only ever danced for the clients in his room. He sucks in his cheeks, chewing on his thoughts.

"Think she'll come back?" He asks quietly.

Lavender-sama's eyes soften. They twinkle violet in the rainbow lamplight. She sighs, and turns back to her paperwork.

"I hope so...for both our sakes."

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[twstfanblog]

You can’t convince me that Riddle is not currently pregnant when he marries Floyd. Was he planning on it? Yes only down the line and when his mother was six feet in the ground and after a year for good measure but someone can’t keep his hands to himself (as though he’s innocent in the endeavor either)

Depending on the Au, YES, Riddle gets pregnant before the wedding.

Future 'Canon' of my rewrite, Riddle is strict on his birth control and it takes like nearly 20 years for Floyd to get his 'Oops' baby out of Riddle.

Manhwa Au, Riddle finds out AT THE WEDDING he's pregnant. Trey and Jade kept taking his drinks and not telling him why. Riddle nearly breaks the wedding broom over Floyd's skull.

Monster Au, it took Riddle helping Floyd through two mating seasons to get knocked up. He barely survived either time.

[Trigger Warning for Birth complications]

Brothel Au has tragedy attached to it. Riddle and Floyd get married when it's confirmed Riddle is pregnant. But about 7 months in, a rival mafia family attacks and due to the stress, Riddle loses the baby.

[fascinationstreetmp3]

putting this all under a readmore and not tagging i just wanted to put my thoughts down somewhere .. talking about marius and his fans & tw for mentioning csa / sa

personally. i understand that the marius/armand relationship has been a popular part of the book series for decades and it's fictional and yes i get it. but. i dont understand those fans who encounter people who find it purely horrifying or upsetting and then get mad at them for it. just because of how it's framed in the books as a beautiful gothic love story (filtered through both the author's intention & the skewed perspectives of the two characters involved in it) doesn't mean EVERYONE has to romanticise it and it's only babies or idiots or show only fans who "can't handle gothic fiction".

and then the people who try to convince everyone marius is armand's saviour who only ever treated him with love and kindness really confuse me. like, is it a wholesome relationship built on mutual love? or is it abusive and awful AND loving and caring at the same time? aren't the people who deny marius did anything wrong to armand really the ones who can't stomach enjoying gothic romances and have to twist it into something else?

it's a story of a fully grown man, a millenia old vampire, rescuing a teenager from sex slavery by purchasing him for himself, renaming him, showering him with affection, sexually abusing him, genuinely loving him, treating him like a child and an adult and student and son and lover all at the same time, making his entire world revolve around his master, punishing him emotionally and eventually physically whenever he gets too clingy or aggressive. and it's all done, not under just the 'guise' of love, but from a place of genuine love, and that's how both characters see it. it's entirely damaging and fucked up and the aftereffects of it on armand's mind and sense of self are present for centuries, compounded by everything else he went through. he still draws both comfort and pain from thinking about his past now and even tries to partially recreate the dynamic with someone else both in the book (with daniel, armand taking the role of the master; and keeping young 'mortal slaves' for a time) and in the show (with louis, armand taking the role of the slave)

it is a super fucked up relationship & i'm not one of those people who thinks you shouldn't be allowed to enjoy those in fiction. there's a lot of them that appeal to me obviously, and of course everyone has their own boundaries when it comes to that too. AND i know it's not all marius fans or even all marius/armand fans. i literally don't care what people like in fiction and i think we should all just mind our own business honestly

but it's the people who act like they're the only ones who get that it's just a tragic beautiful romance, that nobody else can read apparently, that 'marius haters' are just looking for things to be mad at that make me go ???????

[riwooga]

Part 2 of DOL npcs! Criminals edition ✨

The day any of them become love interests I’ll die happy (ESPECIALLY WREN)

Anyway here’s the close up’s too, excuse the mess 😌

[armandcock]

& btw my kid armand pov feelings will be further explored in the hypothetical third chapter of paterfamilias

[alienkitty259]

[monster-disaster]

I have a request for you!

A female reader that is happy-go-lucky and carefree. She frequents a monster brothel very much to the annoyance of the owner, a large gruff skull headed male demon. All the workers outright refuse to accept any payment from her because she's that good of a fuck and they also slack off during work hours to chat with her. She's very amusing and has an infectiously positive attitude, becoming a pseudo therapy dog for them. He considers her a menace to his establishment.

The next time she comes in he gives her an itemized bill and tells her she is barred from entering until she pays up. The workers start making a fuss and his hubris kicks in and makes a bargain. He'll see if she is that good of a fuck, and if he runs out of stamina before her he'll pay for everything.

He's thinking that she's going to end up under him out of energy and breathlessly moaning his name. If only he knew the opposite is going to happen..…

Dear Anon, I love your brain.

demon!Ezek x human!Reader Good to know: smut

The demon stands outside, framed by the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. His arms are crossed over his chest, muscles straining the fabric of his shirt as he watches you round the corner. His dark, angular face twists into a scowl at the sight of you walking towards him with a spring in your step, light and easy as if you are simply meeting an old friend rather than the very creature who sent you away with a hefty bill only weeks ago. His sharp eyes narrow with suspicion, and annoyance rolls off his spine in waves. Yet, when your gaze meets his, you flash him a grin, bright and carefree. Your lipstick glints under the light of the setting sun still peaking out between the tall buildings. The glow gives you an orange blush that makes the deep color of your eyes shine with something that makes him grumble.

"Little pest," he greets you with a grunt. "I thought you wouldn't come."

The curve of your lips turns sly as you peek at him through your eyelashes. "You thought wrong," you tell him. "I missed my boys too much not to come, anyway."

Your words hit their mark. The tight frown etched into his bony features deepens at the use of your words. He almost scoffs. His annoyance lingers in the air, but he says nothing, only stares at you with that simmering, barely contained displeasure.

Your boys...

And he can't even argue with that. Ever since he sent you away with that bill, his men have treated him like the enemy rather than their boss. They grumble under their breath, shooting him looks like he is a storm cloud hanging over their heads. They have become a flock of offended hens, huffing and puffing whenever they catch sight of him. Their loyalty to you has been a thorn in his side ever since.

You have been the thorn in his side ever since you first set foot in his brothel years ago, slipping through the front door like a breeze that none of them saw coming. You charmed your way into his men's good graces, winning over their hearts with a flick of your little finger. It got to the point where his men wouldn't even accept your money, brushing off your attempts to pay with dismissive waves and toothy grins. It was a rare sight, seeing the lot of them, usually gruff and hardened, melting under your influence like snow under a warm sun. They'd offer you drinks on the house, pull up chairs beside you for conversations, and treat you like one of their own, much to his growing frustration. He’d seen how their eyes would light up when you arrived, and the playful banter that used to fill the rooms whenever you were around. To them, you were a welcome break from the usual grind, but to him, you were nothing but a nuisance, one he couldn’t quite seem to rid himself of no matter how many times he tried to draw boundaries.

"Come, then," the demon rumbles, jerking his head toward the entrance before opening it in front of you with a rough motion. The hinges creak in protest, blending into the noises of the traffic around.

"Where are the others?" you ask immediately, your gaze sweeping over the empty, dimly lit hall as you step through the doorway.

"I sent them home."

The deal he made with you spread through the brothel within a few hours. The whispers and knowing glances bounced from one monster to another like wildfire, and before the demon knew it, the place was unbearable with the sneaky exchanges. He felt like the butt of a joke, and he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Oh," you reply. The disappointment in your voice only adds fuel to his growing annoyance. "I wanted to ask Blake how his family gathering went."

Ezek scowls down at you. His features, all bones, seem haunting. The deep crimson of his skin darkens as he glares. "What?" he asks, irritated. Then, he shakes his head dismissively. "Don't answer. I don't care."

You huff in answer. "Rude."

He rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply as he gestures for you to follow him. The impatience buzzes beneath his taut skin, making his movements rigid while he leads you down the corridor. Each step he takes is purposeful as if he is trying to outrun his annoyance simmering just below the surface.

After he’d had enough of his men’s antics, he finally made the decision to call you. He swore he felt Hell freezing over when you answered the line, all chirpy and upbeat as usual. It was infuriating how effortlessly you managed to sound cheerful when he was at his wit's end at the brothel.

"What can I do for you?"

Ezek snarled before he forced the words out of his mouth. "I have a deal for you."

His idea was simple: you could come and go as you pleased for free, as long as you showed him why the monsters who were supposed to work for him and generate profit acted like you were the one who owned the place. It was a way for him to regain some semblance of control while getting rid of you for good.

"I will be there," you agreed.

The room he chose is simple, with low lights that cast a warm, inviting glow all over. Neatly arranged sheets lie atop the bed, their sweet scent filling the air and mingling with the subtle hints of something floral and fresh.

"I need the bathroom first," you say, already putting down your purse and making your way to the other door.

"Sure," the male grunts in reply with a hint of disinterest in his voice as he loosens a few buttons of his shirt. The fabric parts, revealing a glimpse of his skin.

He settles down on the bed, leaning back against the plush headboard while waiting for you. He can hear you moving around, and without realizing it, he steals glances toward the bathroom, his mind racing with thoughts he can't quite pin down. You are a lively little thing, radiating so much brightness that he has no choice but to feel both frustrated and intrigued at the same time. It doesn’t matter, though. After this night, he will show you that you have no place here, and everyone can move on without making his life impossible. The thought solidifies in his mind. He’s determined to reclaim his authority, to restore order among the chaos you've brought. This night will serve as a reminder to both you and his men that while your presence may be captivating, it’s also fleeting, a temporary distraction that he intends to put an end to.

When you appear at the doorway a few minutes later, he can’t help but be surprised at the sight of you. He expected you to go all out to impress him, but instead, you are clad in nothing but simple white underwear that fits snugly over your curves. Ezek feels a mix of admiration and irritation stir within him as he lets his gaze rake over your soft body. It’s disarming, and he can’t shake the feeling that you are effortlessly turning the tables on him, challenging his resolve in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

"What do you think?" you ask him with a big smile on your face. You twirl around to show him more, though there isn’t much to reveal when it comes to your underwear. It looks soft and comfortable, but his attention is quickly drawn to the plush curve of your ass before you turn back to face him. "I bought it just yesterday."

For a long second, Ezek is silent, taking in the sight of you. Did you really buy this for tonight? But he doesn’t voice any of this, though. While you’re nothing but an annoying little pest in his life, he has no desire to hurt your feelings or damage your self-esteem. Besides, he knows his men would burn him alive if they sensed he’d crossed that line. Instead, he clenches his jaw, torn between frustration and a reluctant admiration for your naiveness.

"You look stunning."

And he isn’t lying. Your natural confidence shines brighter than any lingerie ever could. The soft glow of your skin under the dim lights enhances your allure, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the thin fabric of your bra, clinging to you and showing off your hard nipples. It’s a sight that pulls his focus, stirring something deep within him that he’s too annoyed to confront. Even in something so simple, you manage to captivate him in a way he didn’t expect, and it leaves him grappling with a newfound awareness of just how potent your presence can be.

Moving on the bed, Ezek lets his legs fall onto the plush carpet as he leans slightly onto his knees.

"Come here," he commands, locking his gaze onto yours the whole time.

Maybe he is struggling to find his footing in this situation, but he sure won’t let you lead this dance between the two of you.

_

His long fingers grip your hips with bruising force, digging into the soft skin as he struggles to find control. It’s as if he can’t decide whether to stop you or urge you to move faster, making you bounce harder on his lap. It feels like his brain shut down the moment you climbed onto his lap an hour ago, and now all he can focus on is the heat of your body. Your warmth presses into him in a way that makes it impossible to think straight. Every shift of your body and every roll of your hips sends a fresh jolt through him, and he’s not sure if it’s pleasure or frustration that makes his grip tighten even more. Probably both. His breath comes out ragged, catching in his chest as he tries to steady himself, but it's a losing battle. Every time he thinks he is regaining control, you shift or press closer, and the edges of his thoughts blur again.

You are on his lap, riding him with a relentless rhythm. Your warm, slick heat envelopes him with every bounce. The sound of your bodies colliding, skin slapping against skin, fills the otherwise quiet room, blending with the soft creak of the bed beneath you. If Ezek could muster even a shred of sanity, he’d be irritated by the rhythmic noise. He sure will change every bed in this damn brothel the moment he can think again. But right now, every coherent thought slips through his grasp like sand. His fingers press deeper into your soft flesh, trying to steady you, or perhaps himself, as each movement sends a fresh surge of pleasure through him. It’s maddening, the way you ride him, guiding the pace with a confidence that both frustrates and excites him.

"Ezek," you moan above him. The high, desperate sound wraps around him like a vice, pulling tight, and he feels his erection jerk inside your wet, clenching heat.

A low growl rumbles from his chest. His teeth grind together at the way you moan his name, and then your hands slip from the headboard to wrap around his horns. The sudden, sharp tug on his skull makes his vision go white-hot at the edges as a shudder of raw sensation courses down his spine. His hips buck upward in a frantic, uncontrolled thrust that has him driving deeper inside you. The pressure of your grip on his horns leaves him reeling, forcing out another growl from deep in his throat as his body responds to you in ways he can’t quite rein in. He holds you down, forcing you to stay tight and snug around his cock as he grinds his hips up into you. He can feel the slick warmth of his previous release as it seeps out of your used hole, dripping around the base of his cock with every thrust. The sensation is filthy, spurring him on further to push into you with a rough determination that leaves your pussy clenching around him.

"Fuck," the demon snarls, his voice rough and guttural as he pushes himself up on the bed.

He moves with a sudden, feral urgency, crowding you beneath his larger frame. With a swift motion, he flips you onto your stomach, forcing your chest down into the rumpled sheets while your surprised squeal echoes in the room. His palm presses down firmly on the small of your back, pinning you in place as he shifts one of your legs to the side, spreading you open. The position leaves your pussy swollen and easily accessible.

"Ezek!" His name falls from your lips like a breathless plea as he drives into you again. Your body arches instinctively, responding to the overwhelming pleasure. His hips snap forward with an animalistic force. Each stroke is deep and unrelenting as if he’s determined to imprint himself into every part of you. You can feel him everywhere, the heat of his body against yours, the way his presence fills the space around you, making it feel both electric and consuming.

The male leans over you, his breath is hot against your ear as he growls. "Cum around me, Y/N." The weight of his body presses down. Your ass is soft and plush against his pelvis. Each thrust drives him deeper, pushing you closer to the edge.

The demon's muscles are taut as he holds himself above you. He can feel the familiar tingle at the base of his spine, a sign that he is nearing his own release. His balls pull tight, the need to fill you up almost primal, urging him on with a ferocity that makes his heart race. He digs his fingers into the sheets, anchoring himself as he quickens his pace.

“Y/N,” he growls, his voice low and raw. "Let go for me."

The tight, urging command is the final push you need. He swears he could break his own teeth by the force he closes his mouth as your warm pussy clutches and pulses around him. The feeling of you milking his already sensitive cock snaps the molten heat pooling low in his stomach. It’s as if every nerve ending in his body ignites at once, stealing his breath away for several long seconds. The tight grip of your warmth around him pushes him to the brink, and he can't help but growl as he feels his release barreling toward him, unstoppable.

With a final, deep thrust, he lets go, filling you completely as he shudders in ecstasy. Thick spurts of his cum paint your tightening walls. The warmth of him floods you in waves that send shockwaves of pleasure coursing through both of you. He can feel the pearly white liquid drip down, smearing over your joined skin.

As he finally catches his breath, he collapses onto the bed next to you, chest heaving and the world still spinning. For a long while, both of you lie sprawled out on the bed, the air warm and thick with the mingled scent of your arousal. He turns his head to glance at you, and a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. The dim light casts a soft glow across your features, highlighting the contentment etched on your face. It’s a sight that sends a wave of satisfaction through him.

He takes a moment to soak it all in.

Until you break the silence.

“Do you think if I give you some time, you’ll be ready for another round?” you ask, propping yourself up on your elbows. Your voice is hoarse, yet as cheerful and bright as ever.

The question catches the demon off guard, leaving him momentarily breathless as he stares at you in disbelief. “Wha'?”

You shrug with a playful glint in your eyes. “You are better than I thought.”

The praise ignites a fire within him, causing his blood to boil. His usual scowl returns, hardening the sharp lines of his features as he processes your words.

For a few silent seconds, you hold his gaze, tilting your head slightly as if trying to decipher his reaction. “That’s a no?”

The demon groans, frustration creeping into his voice as he glances up at the ceiling. “Go and find your boys.”

“And what if I do that thing with my tongue again?” you ask. The sultry tilt in your voice sends a jolt of arousal and pain through his already spent cock, making it twitch in response.

Well, call him a machoist... "Give me ten minutes."

He will hear about this from the others anyway when you saunter into the brothel, so why shouldn't he enjoy it while he can?

[bunnis-monsters]

Notes:

-third person would have the reader using she/her

pronouns

-third person would be easier for me to write for a long term story, but it's still possible for me to refer to reader as "you".

-reader will still be described as a woman regardless of what l use

[minotaurlover]

Okay, but like. Sexworker!reader who has a booth/small room in a sex club/brothel where they spend more and more time because they love being fucked by monsters. Nobody knows their identity, (the light is low, makeup heavy etc.), but they always work in the same room, and the word spreads about how... good they are at their job. Takes wolfmen down to the knot, gags on minotaur cock, lets tentacles use all holes at the same time. Will take on as many monsters as fits in the room at the same time. Rarely taps out, has very few rules and loves being used and degraded. In this story I will-

[monstersflashlight]

Ma'am please i beg, something about a war hero virgin monster of any kind letting loose all his pent up desire on brothel madame reader... maybe stealing her away (or inviting all his comrades to join in hehe)

Hi anon! It turned a lot more sweet than expected, but I think it's pretty great. Hope you like it! <3

Orc x fem!reader

You tried to fuck him so many times before, he always came into the brothel and talked with you, but was never interested in your advances. Until one day, when he was drunk, he confessed he was a virgin and didn’t want to disappoint you being mediocre at it. You chuckled and he never talked about it again. That’s why it surprised you so much when before going to war, he promised you he’d be back for you. He would win and bring a victory to the clan, and then you’d be his price.

You knew you wanted him, you knew his promise would be what would make you pain and anguish until he came back, anticipation and dread filling you every day that passed and he didn’t appear. It was an insufferable torture to wait for him, to be there and direct everything, one eye always on the door to see if he crossed. One of your girls always at the door in case news arrived from the fort and he was dead. You pained, and waited…

And then a loud crash sounded in the main bar as you were doing some paperwork. You heard your nae being called so loud the walls vibrated with the force of it. It was all it took for you to know.

He was home. He won and he was there to conquer his price. He was there to conquer… you.

You exited your office at the same time he came barreling to get you. When he approached and threw you over his shoulder you barely made a sound, already prepared to give your everything to him. He carried you away between the whistles and excited rumble of all your girls and patrons. You wanted to chuckle, but the anticipation and pent up sexual desire was driving you insane, stopping you mustering any kind of sound.

He took you to his cabin at the edge of the town, not too far away from your brothel. He kicked the door open and walked right to his bedroom, he threw you over it and ordered you to strip. You did it without arguing, you were as ready for it as he was. He ripped off his clothes, his eyes never leaving your body. The moment his erection sprung free you had to swallow a moan. He was so big. Way too big. You didn’t even know if he could fit inside, but you were nothing but an overachiever.

He looked at you for a long moment, but before you could say anything, he was over you, too eager and inexperienced, but his excitement covered for it. He kissed your breasts, your abdomen, and when he arrived to your pussy, you grabbed his hair hard and he stopped. You told him softly that you knew, and watched how his green face got darker because of his embarrassment. You smiled at him and told him to go slow, to enjoy it as he would of a nice dessert. And good goddess he did. He ate you out with abandon, not fine caress, not really any technique behind it, but he was so good, his tusks around your labia and your clit being sucked and licked. It was a low burn that turned you into a mess of babbling groans and moans.

He didn’t last long, though. Soon after, way before you were ready, he was covering your body and trying to fit inside. You shushed him and pushed him onto his back, attacking his mouth as you rubbed your dripping pussy over his huge green dick. He moaned, and you felt more of his precum making a mess out of both of you. It was exhilarating to have such a big monster under you, so desperate to get inside of you. It was like anything you’ve ever felt before.

You got his tip inside and felt how he shoot inside your pussy, way too soon, getting embarrassed by his eagerness. You chucked and assured him it was normal for a virgin to spill in the first moments. But he was still hard, so you continued even though he kept begging and saying it was too much. But he didn’t stop you. You lowered your hips until they were flushed against his pelvis, rolling them and crying out because of how good it felt. He came again, but didn’t go soft. You rode him like a savage, but it was still not enough, and soon after he was turning you and pushing you onto the mattress, fucking you like a piston as you moaned his name. You came three times, and he flooded you with his cum, kissing you at the same time, claiming you completely.

He claimed you. He claimed his prize.

[twstfanblog]

Crewel married Crowley specifically to avoid being forced into an engagement with Robert im fucking calling it. With Crowley he can be his worst self and maintain independence, with Robert, the poor lad would try to fix Crewel when there’s nothing to be fixed.

Surprisingly, not in this AU! Crewel 'gave up' Robert because he'd have a bigger pay out marrying Crowley. Robert would have been an easy husband to have and direct around.

But like...the spouse of a grand duke is much more impressive.

The brothel AU however...Crewel ran away from home to avoid marrying Robert.

Monster AU, Crewel is married to Robert and he hates it. Which is why when Crowley reappears to send Yuu on her 'quest' Crewel just slaps Robert with a divorce and leaves.

[fayesia]

Could you do more house of the dragon p links??😭🙏

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON 18+ TWITTER LINKS (PT2)

*make sure to be logged in for the links to work*

── ⋆⋅☁️⋅⋆ ──

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩Daemon

modern!daemon banging the babysitter

His perfect niece

Serving him at Harrenhal

Using his niece's other hole to not "taint" her purity

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩Cregan

Eating his wife out before fucking her

Returning after spending many nights away from you

Men of the North have absolute monsters confirmed

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩Aegon

Playing with his betrothed

secret nights at the brothel with his niece

Catching a spy among his servants

Learning to share with his brother

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩Aemond

Using you as his stress reliever

Learning to share with his brother

His angry return from the dragons stone awakes you

Remembering to give and not just take

Visiting you at the brothel

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩Jacaerys

Bonding time with his sister

Ensuring his sister can't be sent to marry any lord

A sensual wedding night to try everything

[partyanimal167]

Aaaah!!! I love the set up, and I'm so excited for more!!!! Thank you so much~

Omg just read your brothel au and kept thinking about first time y/n. What about reader's first time at the brothel but can't chose between the monster trio so the madam suggest a special offer of all three bc she knows you'll become a repeat client then

Thanks if you like it ~ 💚

Thank you SO much for this ask, I’m so excited to keep writing about this scenario!!! I hope you like it too :)

**********************************************************************

MONSTER TRIO x Y/N

brothel au

(part 2 coming soon!!!)

(a/n: kissing, brothel, sw, fingering, stripping, lots of foreplay and heartfelt conversations)

Summary: Y/N’s first time at the esteemed pirate-brothel, named Lavender Gardens.

**********************************************************************

“First time?”

You stiffen, and turn to see a green-haired, muscular man sidle up beside you at the bar. He’s wearing a green silk kimono, with white and blue waves decorating the hem. He has three gold earrings twinkling at his jaw, and a scar across one eye.

He’s gorgeous.

“Um,” you squeak, shifting over a little to make room. “How can you tell?”

“Because you’re about to break that glass,” he gestures to the wine glass clutched in your fist, a bubbly rosé that tastes too sweet. Nervously, you take a sip. Hopefully the liquid courage will help you calm down.

You were here for a treat, remember?

You’ve been working hard for the past few weeks, barely giving any time to yourself. You need a relaxation session, and soon. You decide to swallow your nervousness, and clear your throat.

“So, um…what’s your name?” You do your best to meet his fierce, dark eye. He smiles, not unkindly, and settles down into his seat. He waves the bartender over, and orders a cup of sake. The bartender brings over a white porcelain bottle and a small, matching cup.

“Zoro,” he says, lightly tapping the R in his name, so it was slightly rolled. You repeat it back to him, and he nods. You smile.

“Nice name.” You take another sip of your drink, as Zoro pours himself one. Steam curls wispy and warm from the cup, and you tip your head. “You like hot saké?” You ask, wondering how it tastes.

“Mm,” he nods, and hands you the cup. “Try it.”

Nervously, you reach out and take it. Your fingers brush against Zoro’s hand, and electricity bolts through you. You hope he can’t see your blush.

The room around you is dark, for the most part, lit by soft, stained glass lanterns that hang from the ceiling and cast rainbow-filtered colors around the velvet lounge. The bar is off to the side, relatively secluded from the dance area and the VIP booths. Velvet curtains hang in front of them, with silver and gold chains twinkling down the deep red fabric. You wonder what’s behind those curtains.

You wonder what it would be like on the other side.

Suddenly, a red flash of movement slams into your vision, and careens into your side.

“Pretty!” The red blur says, and your vision clears enough to make out a wide, grinning smile and a boy’s handsome face. He has raven hair.

“Luffy!” Zoro warns, reaching over your chest to swat the red blur away. He’d been latched onto your arm, strong and solid, but he pulls away with a moan. Zoro snorts.

“Meanie…” Luffy mutters, and slides into the seat next to you. You clutch your glass of rosé like it’s a lifeboat. The boy smells like weed.

“Hi…,” you say nervously, “Nice to meet you.” The boy grins.

“Hiya!” He leans into you again, so not conscious of your personal space. You can’t say you mind, however. The pure charisma radiating off this dark-haired, red-kimono clad man was electric. Magnetizing. You feel yourself leaning closer to him. He pecks a kiss on your cheek.

“Wanna do a show with me?” He asks, grinning. He traces his fingertips along the back of your hand, and fire blooms beneath his touch. You wonder if it’s possible to self-destruct.

Zoro growls, “I saw her first.”

Luffy pouts. “But she’s so pretty! I wanna go first!” He bumps his shoulder into you, and you stiffen. You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

“Be nice to the lady, Luffy, she’s scared of you,” the bartender intervenes, polishing a whiskey glass with a rag. He has long, slender hands. You meet his blue-sapphire eyes and rake your own eyes through his blond hair. He winks at you. “Don’t mind him, mademoiselle. He’s always like this.”

“Am not!” Luffy interjects, “She’s too pretty to pass up!”

“I’m sure you say that to all the ladies,” you interject, not wanting to be left behind. Having two men fight over you was a…new experience for you. You shyly meet the raven-haired, energetic man’s eyes. “But I don’t mind,” you say with a little too much air in your voice. The boy’s grin turns wicked.

“Hah? Hear that Sanji? She’s not scared! Are ya, y/n?” He must have overheard you tell Zoro your name earlier. He leans in, pressing his nose gently against your face. “And no, I don’t say that to all the ladies. Just you.”

You look away, bashful. “Liar,” you tease. Luffy whines, tugging on the sleeve of your flowy top. It’s magenta: a bright, flattering color against your skin. Your hair is coiled atop your head, secured with a rhinestone kanzashi. Your makeup is dark yet simple, and your fingers are adorned with silver, jeweled rings. Your leather, navy blue skirt hugs your thighs tightly as you squeeze them together.

Suddenly, a breeze of lavender and vanilla wafts through the air. You turn over your shoulder, and meet the gaze of the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen in your life. She smiles gracefully at you, and places her hand on Zoro’s shoulder.

“Are these men giving you trouble?”

You shake your head.

Far from it.

Trouble is exactly what you want to get yourself into, right now. You tell the lady as much, and she laughs heartily. It sounds like bells.

“Well, you’re welcome to take them both to a show, if you’re interested. Luffy’s room? It’s quite spacious,” she gazes at you with glittering, amethyst eyes. “My name is Lavender, by the way.” She extends her hand, and you shake it. Her lilac silk kimono drapes gracefully around her shoulders, revealing milky white collarbones. She holds her kimono’s long sleeve out of the way as she reaches towards you. You see two beaten gold guards on her fourth and fifth fingers, and a row of shimmering diamond bracelets on her slender wrist. Her fingernails are painted pink. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” you shyly say, shaking her delicate hand. “Nice to meet you too.” You fiddle with your hair, not wanting to appear disheveled in front of this beautiful lady.

She tosses a lock of her own glossy, chestnut hair over her shoulder. It tumbles down her back in waves. “Now, we offer another solution as well,” she grins wicked at you, her eyes flicking to the bartender. “Why not have all three?”

You blanch. You’ve never had three men at once, before. You’ve never even had a threesome before. You’ve had sex, sure, some bad and some good. Your past partners have all been sweet, for the most part, but kind of simple. Vanilla. Bland.

You want an adventure.

“Sure,” you say, surprised at your confidence, “How much?”

***

Now, you stand in the entranceway of a velvet boudoir. It’s nautical themed, with a black pirate flag strung proudly across one wall. The windows are shaped like portholes, and there’s a big blue shell playing soft sea shanties on the dresser.

There’s a few hammocks stretched across the opposite wall, and a low, king-sized bed with a quilted cover in the center. A few dressers and mirrors decorate the room, with two bedside tables each with lowly lit oil lamps.

You slowly step in.

“Welcome to my Sunny boudoir!” Luffy says proudly, spreading his hands out in welcome. “Make yourself at home!”

Oh, you think, I will.

You also notice some robot action figures on the far dresser, and you smile. Luffy obviously had full control over his room’s decoration. He plops down onto the bed, bouncing a little. There’s pillows and blankets strewn about the room, and the closet in the corner is messily stuffed full of red and blue clothes. You giggle softly to yourself: he obviously had full control over cleaning, too.

Zoro is behind you, stepping into the room with Sanji behind him. You’d learned the bartender’s name as you’d shyly made small talk on the way upstairs. The hallway had been lined with paper lanterns, glowing violet. Now, you turn in a circle, unsure of what to do.

“Um—,” you squeak, twisting your hands together, “What comes first?”

“How boutta kiss??” Luffy bounds up to you, springing off the large mattress to hop up in front of you. He grins, “I like kissing girls.”

You flush, and give a small nod. Slowly, your hands come up to cup his face. You press a kiss to his soft, plush lips. He hums, deepening the kiss almost immediately, his hands coming to grip your waist. He has a strong, firm grip around you and his hands are warm. Zoro comes up behind you. He places a delicate kiss against the side of your neck, right at your pulse point. He pulls your hair out of the way.

“Don’t hog her,” Sanji huffs, and comes up to shove Luffy out of the way. The boy in red whines, but lets himself get pushed away. He moves over to Zoro, and starts placing delicate kisses along his jaw, instead. His earrings glitter in the light. Sanji stands in front of you, smiling. He leans forward, and you meet him halfway to kiss him hotly, and passionately. He “mmphs!” in surprise.

You make out with the three boys, each in turns. Eventually, they lead you to the bed. Sanji is dressed in a striped, lemon-yellow kimono, that he soon shrugs off his shoulders. Zoro and Luffy follow suit. You flush, taking in their toned, tanned bodies. Each of them have a six pack. Oh my god.

“Your turn,” Luffy stage-whispers to you, brushing his lips against your ear. He delicately tugs at the bottom of your shirt. “Can I take this off?”

You crinkle your nose. “I feel self-conscious,” you admit, fiddling with the hem. You’re nowhere near as athletically built as these three men, and you clutch at your soft tummy in regret. “What if—,” you stop, and swallow. You meet the three men’s eyes. “What if you don’t like it?”

All three of them visibly soften.

“I like it,” Luffy whispers, and Sanji reaches out to squeeze the arch of your foot. You’re sitting with your legs crossed, surrounded by the three prostitutes. You’d paid the lady in full already, but you felt sick thinking they wouldn’t enjoy themselves while playing.

The three of them make eye contact. Zoro clears his throat. “We…like sex,” he eventually says, “Why else would we be here?”

“We can also refuse any client,” Sanji murmurs, running his thumb along your foot. It tickles, but you don’t pull away. His touch feels like satin against your skin. You wonder how he keeps his hands so soft.

“Oh,” you say, your shoulders relaxing a bit. You hadn’t noticed how tight they’d been. You’ve been holding your breath apparently, too, you realize as you draw in a ragged lungful of air. You gaze sheepishly down at the knotted magenta fabric in your hands. “That’s good.”

“Besides,” Zoro runs his hand along your shoulder blade, sitting a bit behind you. His back is straight against the curved, wooden headboard. The quilt crinkles under his weight. “You’re really beautiful, too.”

You blush, and immediately start to pull your shirt over your head. Enough waiting. “So are you!” You admit, the glee catching up to you. “I’m so glad I’m here,” you turn to Luffy to grin at his smile, and he presses a kiss to your sensitive lips.

“Me too,” he whispers, and deepens the kiss. His tongue slides across your bottom lip, and you let him in. His tongue is warm and wide as it slowly explores the inside of your mouth. A chill runs through you, and you shiver excitedly. “I like kissing you,” he murmurs against your lips, and you nod.

“Me too,” you echo, and lean forward to kiss him again.

Sanji comes up behind you, kneeling on the bed. He softly undoes your bra, and drops it gently on the floor. “Don’t forget this later,” he murmurs against your neck, his hands coming up to cup your breasts. He molds them in his hands. “Things can get lost in this mess.” He glares over at Luffy, who’s pulled away to tug off his boxers. Zoro is slowly palming himself through his underwear. You want to see them off.

“Can I see you?” You ask the green-haired man, arousal starting to drip between your legs. Luffy reaches under your skirt, and you moan. His touch is graceful and wild, already slipping past your panties to finger your aching clit. His movements are speedy yet practiced, his breath hot against your ear. Sanji thumbs over your hardened nipples. His cock presses hard into your back.

“Take this off for us, lovely,” he says, tugging at the waistband of your skirt. You nod, sitting up so Luffy has better access to your clit, and Sanji can undo your skirt’s back zipper. He slides it over your legs, and you clumsily shimmy out of it. You take your panties off, too. So now you’re naked in front of three men, for the first time in your life.

You grin.

**********************************************************************

[greeniegaes]

Screaming crying sobbing

Over a courtesan Shen Yuan.

Maybe he knew YQY and SJ when they were kids, maybe not. Either way SY ends up working at the warm red pavilion and ends up interacting with SJ

First it’s just small things, delivering tea for his jiejies, putting instruments back when they are done, dropping off various things.

Then he starts actually talking to SJ and SJ surprisingly doesn’t hate him just for being a guy (I’ve been thinking trans yuan here but also like cos yuan works, I this trans is funnier cause SJ is like ‘damn you CHOSE to be a man? L move bro’)

They start getting along more and more, working together on music SJ has to turn in for his peak, actually chatting comfortably, stuff like that. SJ realizes SY is an absolute monster freak and always tells him about the stuff he’s seen, long chats lounging on the same bed into the night.

Until one day YQY and LQG burst in.

SJ is instantly in protect mode, hissing and spitting at his sect siblings as SY groggily wakes up, watching them bicker. Eventually LQG says something along the lines of ‘well if you weren’t messing around we’d already be tracking down such and such beast’ to which SY perks up out of bed, quickly throwing on his clothes before anyone can so much as blink and is just

“Well let’s get going then.”

SJ quickly tries to stop the man, annoyed that his di would even entertain the thought of talking with LQG. SY though, does not give a fuck, throwing SJ a zither to use for musical cultivation, telling the jiejies bye and making them go out on their little adventure.

LQG and YQY are so confused, looking at this freaky little twink drooling over various things about monsters all the while SJ is giving them death glares and huffing.

YQY is extremely jealous watching SJ and this dude too, like bro! That’s his emotionally unavailable Shen! Get your own! He’s upset at how easily they get along, how SJ doesn’t care if his hand is pulled along or if SY tugs on him to whisper something. Anytime YQY had ever attempted such a thing SJ would pull or flinch away, making him stop

LQG meanwhile is just… confused. On one hand his moral code states that any courtesan isn’t a good person to be around. On the other hand this cute guy is getting excited over monster guts in a way he’s never seen before and it’s quiet fascinating to hear him do enough talking for the rest of the group.

I feel like eventually LQG and SJ are totally in love with SY and YQY is in love with SJ so they end up awkwardly paired together, all vying for another’s attention and stuff.

(If SY ever met airplane here he’d be so pissed by the way, chasing him around like a rhino and yelling about how he had to deal away with his pride (SY made the choice of going to the brothel, he doesn’t even do sex work though.) and the others just watch him like ‘wow, look at him acting so feral, kinda hot tbh)

[humanpurposes]

Nightblooms

It was a single night, such a trivial moment, two children sharing lemon cakes in a brothel, but she has not forgotten it. He will not recognise her, surely? // Main Masterlist

Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, angst, sex work, unresolved childhood trauma, implied underage and non-con (not explicitly depicted), mentions of war, violence and death

Words: 9.7k (she's a bit of a monster)

A/n: my humble offering of another Aemond brothel fic. I hope you like :) You can also read this on AO3 if you feel so inclined.

He remembers the bed, the thin curtain draped around it, the slight breeze that drifted in on the night air and made it flutter. The throw was richly decorated, red, black and brown, and he picked at the thin threads of embroidery with his fingertips until his skin was red and white. 

The heat in the room was unbearable, the stench of wine, incense, his own sweat clinging to his bare skin. He was weary to breathe the air in, to tarnish himself any further than had already been done. 

He flinched as the door opened. The madam was back, now wearing a gown and all her gold jewellery. A silhouette stood behind her, he couldn’t see them properly, concealed in shadows. 

“You are shivering, my Prince,” she said. 

He could feel it, his knees brought up to his chest and his arms clinging around his legs. His clothes were neatly folded in a corner, his eyepatch atop the pile, he just hadn’t managed to reach for them yet.

“Have some wine if you like,” the madam said. 

The silhouette stepped into the flickering candlelight. In years to come her face would fade from his memory, but she was young, perhaps as young as him. She was dressed like the other whores, in a loose gown of blue silk that exposed glimpses of her skin, her shoulder, her thigh through a slit in the skirt. She held a pitcher of wine and a cup in her hands.

“She is undertaking her own education,” the madam said, noting how long Aemond’s eye had lingered on the girl. “She’ll help you bathe and dress.”

He made no sound of protest. The madam took the pitcher. He could smell the sour scent of the wine as she poured it. Already a few cups deep, the numbness of alcohol was starting to wear off and a pulsing pain was blooming in the back of his head. The madam placed the cup on a table and then she left.

The girl took a single step towards the bed. She lifted her arm, holding out her hand to him, as if he were some street dog to be tamed.

He scowled. His left eyelids were sewn shut back then, his wound mostly healed after three years, but still hideous enough that people would stare in shock at the sight of him, the ailing King’s maimed son. The Lords and Ladies of the Red Keep averted their eyes when they saw him. His mother looked at him with tears in her eyes. His father… the last time his father must have looked him in the eye was on Driftmark.

But this girl looked at him unabashedly.

If he had his wits about him he might have scorned her. Smallfolk like her should know their place, they should revere their Princes. He shouldn’t inspire pity, he should inspire fear and awe.

His stomach was turning. Anger coursed through his blood. His eyes were hot and stinging but he would not allow any tears to fall. And he was restless. It was all familiar to him, the frustration, the humiliation. He couldn’t bear to sit on the bed anymore, cowering like a child.

“I have a bath drawn,” the girl said. 

He had heard her, but he could not find the will to move, not for a few moments at least, moments which felt like hours.

“I have some cake as well. I find it helps me regain my strength… afterwards.”

He felt his head nod.

“It’s lemon, do you like lemon cake?”

“Yes,” he muttered into his knees.

He watched her fetch a robe from the back of a settee by the fireplace, draping it over her arm. “We only have to go to the next room, not far at all.”

He blinked as he looked at her. He felt the dampness on his cheeks, the stinging cold left in the trail of his tears as another breeze swept into the room. 

All the faces around him this night were unnerving. Aegon had been far too delighted with his so-called “gift”. He’d entered Aemond’s chambers with a snarling smile before he’d gripped him by his shoulders and dragged him through the stairways used by servants to stay out of sight. “You are a man now, Aemond. Time to get it wet.”

The madam had a calm gaze, soft lips and small eyes which considered him intently once she had taken the purse of coins from Aegon. The scent of her perfume was sharp and he could still smell it in his nostrils. His stomach lurched again. 

“Come,” the girl said.

Hers was the only face he found any ease in, and he could not explain why that was.

She held out the robe for him and asked before she secured the tie at his waist. She went to a small door in the corner of the room which he had not even noticed until then. It led into another chamber where the air was hot and humid but not as suffocating.

A basin stood in the middle of the room. She took out two small brown bottles and let a few drops of oil fall into the water, filling the room with a gentle, fresh scent. “Lavender,” she explained, “and rosemary. They are meant to be calming.”

He stepped into the water, glad to find it just below scolding. 

The girl kneeled by the basin, gently pouring cups of water over his hair, running it through with a sweeter smelling oil. She took his hand and allowed him to settle, scrubbing his skin with sugar, cleansing it with an amber soap.

When it was done she rested her chin in her hands at the edge. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

He’d stopped crying now, his limbs felt steadier, more his own. He nodded.

“I don’t feel myself until I’ve washed it all off. It makes me feel as though my skin is truly mine again,” she said.

He felt his hands over his arms, the sweat and the fluids rinsed away, the dead skin scrubbed smooth.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was thick, unnatural in his own throat.

“Do not thank me yet,” she said with a small smile, and suddenly jumped up to her feet. She walked out of his sight, past his blind spot, but she soon returned with a small wooden box. She kneeled beside the basin and opened the lid to reveal three small cakes, dusted with sugar and topped with thin slices of candied lemons. “Take one then,” she said.

He bit down on the inside of his lip to hide his amusement at her impertinence. He did as she told him and ate half of one cake in a single bite. A pleasant sourness burst on his tongue, not like the wine, sweeter, zestier. She was right, his mind was starting to feel a little less numb, the life flooding back into him with every breath he took, lavender, rosemary and lemon.

“You have one too,” he said.

“I’m not meant to,” she said, “they’re for the patrons.”

Aemond lowered his chin to look at her. “Take one.” Now it was his turn to deliver the orders.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes darting between him and the cakes.

“If anyone reprimands you I’ll feed them to my dragon.”

Her expression ignited. “Alright,” she said with a sly smile.

They devoured the rest of their cakes and shared the remaining one. She insisted that he should have the other candied lemon.

“Do you really feed people to your dragon?” she asked, wiping the crumbs from her mouth.

Aemond licked the sugar from his fingers. “I’ve not done it yet.”

She seemed stunned at his answer, then she giggled. “Yours is the big one, isn’t it?”

“Vhagar. She was Queen Visenya’s mount during the Conquest.”

“I see her sometimes, flying over the city.”

“She is too large for the Dragon Pit,” Aemond explained, “she nests along the shore of the bay.”

“And roams where she pleases?”

“Never too far from me.”

“No,” she said, her voice wilting, “of course.”

He suddenly wondered what this sad, sweet girl kneeling beside him would do if she had a dragon. He could picture her on Dreamfyre, the mount of his sister. Helaena adored flying and would often guide her dragon to glide above the waters of Blackwater Bay and the hills surrounding King’s Landing. This girl would take her dragon further, he thought, she would soar up above the clouds. Perhaps she would take her dragon over the seas, to Essos, to the Summer Isles, to the far corners of the world.

He did not flinch from her when she offered him a towel and patted his skin dry. She fetched his clothes from the other room, the awful room where he could not breathe, buttoning his shirt with swift fingers, doing up the buckles on his jerkin.

She was not much shorter than he was. She stood close enough that he could smell the lemon cake on her fingers, and there was something sweeter and richer underneath. It made him think of fresh fruit and vanilla, rose petals and nightblooms.

Her eyes drew slowly up from his collar to his face, to the wound slicing through the space where his eye once was.

“Does that hurt?” she asked.

He was no stranger to pain. It had persisted since the incident itself, stinging and shooting through his skull. It once made him cower like a child, but of late it had lulled into more of a passing irritation. Had the extent of the pain subsided, or was he simply used to it now? “Sometimes,” he said. 

“How did it happen?”

The years had passed quickly since then. He remembered the joy he felt flying before the moon and the stars over Driftmark on Vhagar, the faces of his nephews and cousins in the dark. He spat cruelties at them. They shoved him, punched him, kicked him. He remembers the taste of his own blood, the crack of Lucerys’ nose under his knuckles, the dust in his eye and then a pain like fire piercing through to his brain.

Three years and he still felt clumsy in his movements. He would often lose his balance or misjudge his steps. He would miss objects as he went to reach for them, and he was still not quite used to turning his head so that he could see past his blind side.

He’d never had to say it out loud before, not all of it. It had been enough for Lord Commander Westerling to find his face covered in blood and the remains of his eye. He had told his father he had been attacked, but it went unheard to the pleas of innocence by the bastards and their mother. The maesters studied his wound. Cole told him he could regain his strength if he worked for it. Everyone else tended to avert their eyes altogether.

She was looking at it, trailing her fingertips over the edges of his scar and the twisted flesh of his eyelids. 

“It was the night I claimed Vhagar. I was returning to Hightide and they came at me, Jace, Luke, Laena’s daughters–” he suddenly realised these names meant nothing to her, but she did not seem discouraged.

“Go on,”

“Rhaena, well, Vhagar was her mother’s dragon. She wanted her, but I claimed her first. I was not afraid of them. Baela struck me first. Then Jace and Luke came at me, and Jace had a knife.”

She breathed a small gasp.

“Luke took up the knife. It all happened very quickly.”

“They did that to you, over a dragon?” She said, trailing her touch lower, over his cheek. 

He remembered the cool surface of the rock in his hand, hovered over Jace’s head. One of the girls shook her head, begging him to stop. And he did—  or he was going to stop…

That’s when Luke had slashed the blade at him.

“I was weak,” he said, brushing her hand away from his face. “It’ll never happen again.”

She tilted her head at him. Her eyes were glassy, like she might cry. Guilt tugged in his chest. He had not wished to upset her.

Then she took a quick breath and went to take up his cloak and his eyepatch. He placed them both on, covering his silver hair with his hood.

She beckoned him to follow with her fingers. They weaved through the close corridors and the few women and men they passed, some fully dressed, some wearing nothing at all. It felt ridiculous and somewhat unbelievable to see how unashamed they all were, women with their breasts out, men with their cocks hanging between their legs. 

His stomach turned again.

He reached for the girl’s hand. Her head whipped around and she held onto him, firmly. He didn’t want to lose sight of her, he couldn’t bear the thought of being alone in this place.

Neither of them let go when they reached the doors. People were passing though so they kept close to the wall, face-to-face. 

“Can you find your way back to the Keep from here?” she said, only having to whisper.

Aegon had long since disappeared. Aemond had rarely been out into the city, save to accompany his mother to the Sept, or his siblings to the Dragon Pit. He was alone now, no guards, no wheelhouse, but the Red Keep with its turrets, battlements and flickering lights in the windows would not be difficult to locate. He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What for?” 

“For what happened to you.”

His stomach turned again, less nauseating, more unsettling, uncertain. He supposed this would be the last time he saw her.

“Will you be alright, here?” he said.

She took in a sharp breath and she frowned as though she were in pain. “Yes. The madam is good to me. She keeps me fed and clean.”

But the things they must make her do…

“Go, return to your royal castle and your servants,” she said with a grin. “Far better that I am here and not starving in some gutter.”

So he did. He slipped through the door, his last memory of her being obscured by shadows, perhaps that’s why he could not recall the details of her face. 

Walking through the streets of King’s Landing, he had never felt so aware of his body, his skin under his clothes, shifting over his bones. His limbs felt slightly numb, his feet moving of their own will while his mind… was clouded. His head felt heavy and the noises around him were distant. No one paid any mind to the boy trudging over the dirt and cobbles, but he felt the eyes of the gods on him and it made him shiver. They had seen his sins. What if his mother knew where he had been, the things he had done? He imagined her brown eyes, filled with disgust rather than grief.

He could not look at Aegon for weeks afterwards. He shied away from his mother’s touch, especially on his legs, his knees. In the Sept he begged the gods to forgive him. He begged to forget it.

Years went by. Some nights when he felt a certain tension in his stomach and a stirring in his breeches, he’d think of it, the heat and sweat and incense. And after there was no relief, just an emptiness in his chest.

He could wash it all away, with drops of lavender and rosemary oil in his bath, with sugar scrubbed into his skin.

If there was one thing he wished to remember of that night, it was her. He still thought of that girl, a face obscured in shadow, when the servants brought out lemon cakes after supper, when Helaena insisted on walking through the gardens at sunset and the air was sweet with nightblooms. She pointed them out to him, the silvery white flowers growing in the leafy green bushes lining the path, their petals like little moons in the foliage. 

“How curious are these,” Helaena had said one evening, “they retract in sunlight, but in darkness they flourish.”

Daylight dies with a golden sunset and night blooms with a sky of red and indigo clouds. 

The King’s body is now ash. Sunfyre had the honour of being the dragon to do it. It was a hasty affair, in the hours after Aegon’s coronation, when the chaos at the Dragon Pit still had their family and the Small Council stunned to silence. Aegon wore the steel crown as they stood on a cliff over the bay, waiting for him to give the order. The heads of his mother and his sister hung heavy, but Aemond did not avert his gaze from the flames. He felt the heat on his face, seeping through his skin. 

At long last, his father is gone. Aemond has not wept for him, nor does he feel a desire to. His father was once a young man, well loved, so he is told, but to Aemond he was always a frail old man. Save for the few times he ever proved his strength, and even then his strength was only ever resolved for his dearest child. 

Rhaenys will have made it to Dragonstone within a matter of hours, and Aegon’s ascension will not come without consequence. 

On the morrow he will fly for Storm’s End and secure the allegiance of Lord Borros Baratheon. His mother has assured him this will be a simple enough feat, swords for a marriage pact with one of the Baratheon girls, but a crucial one. His brother will not hold the throne long without Lords to uphold his claim and men to fight for it. 

He wonders if the Stormlands will live up to their name; how dull the entire affair will be if it only amounts to flying Vhagar through a downpour of rain. This is the war his mother and grandsire wish to fight, with letters and diplomacy. He is sure the dragons will become restless soon enough. Rhaenyra has been steadfastly sure of her own importance her entire life, and with Daemon at her side, she will not bend the knee without a challenge.

And what of Aegon, is he ready to fight for his crown?

When Viserys breathed his last and the pieces were all finally in play, Aegon had not been where he needed to be. Not in his rooms, not within the walls of the castle. He was squandering his duties, evading the position he was born to, as he always has done. Aemond himself was the one to drag him from the streets of King’s Landing to the Red Keep. Cole had spent hours with him, convincing him to take up the crown rather than fleeing on a ship across the Narrow Sea, to Pentos, to Yi Ti, some far corner of the world where the burden of being their father’s son would not weigh so heavily on his shoulders. 

The first place Aemond had thought to look for his brother proved to be a fruitless endeavour. The establishment was a familiar one, and with every step he took along the Street of Silk his memories phased into reality. The knocker on the door was the same. The madam was the same, the same long, auburn hair, the same gold jewellery, the same knowing smile on her lips and a gleam in her eyes. 

“The Prince is not here,” she had said. “His tastes are known to be less discriminating.” Of course. Aegon could pay for the most expensive, sweetly perfumed whores in all of King’s Landing, but instead he sullies himself with the scum of Fleabottom, rolling around in the dirt like a pig.

The madam’s gaze then turned to Aemond. She remarked how he had grown. It felt an obvious thing to say. He was no longer the child he was when Aegon first brought him there.

While he and Cole wandered the city in search of his wastrel of a brother, a thought passed through his mind. He thought of a face in the shadows of the brothel, steam rising, gentle hands, the scent of lavender, rosemary, rose, nightblooms…

She could have been there, on the other side of the door, within the walls of the establishment. She would be a woman just as he was now a man. Or she might have left years ago, to a better life, or perhaps a worser fate. Are the lives of the smallfolk not meant to be brutish and short? 

A hollowness settles in his chest, restless and hungry, like it’s writhing under his skin. He paces his chambers, reads until the hearth has died and the sky beyond the windows is black, but sleep will not come to him.

In the hour of the wolf, he dons a cloak and retraces his steps.

Men are all the same. They strut into the establishment like peacocks, with an ego that outweighs their purse. They flash a few coins and ask for wine rather than ale, a symptom of refined taste. They run their hands over her body, her waist, her hips and her rear as though she should be grateful for their attention. They tell her uninteresting stories while they drink themselves into a stupor. They convince themselves that it is their charm and decent looks that have her leading them to a bed in a quiet corner of the pleasure house, or falling to her knees and undoing the laces on their breeches. The truth is that she will do what is asked of her, so long as they have gold. It is only motions of the body, and afterwards she can wash it all away. 

Until the next night… and then the next… and then the next…

Madam Sylvi has promised her to a Lannister tonight, a man of Lord Tyland’s household, no doubt paid well by the family he serves. He is supposed to be waiting for her but first she must pretty herself for him. She wears a gown of blood red that bares her back and her arms, that will easily fall away with the undoing of a clasp at her neck. She lets her hair fall freely and tints her lips and cheeks with rosewater. Finally she dabs her perfume into her wrists, her neck, on the insides of her ankles, a scent she has worn for years, sweet, rich and floral.

She descends the stairs by the door. At the darkest time of night the pleasure house is alive. Music hums over the laughter, the moans, the cries. The air is thick with the sourness of alcohol and the smell of sweat and sex.

A man with silver hair stands in the entrance hall, Sylvi beside him. They speak with their heads close together, as familiars? As lovers? Sylvi strokes his arm affectionately, with a look glinting in her eye that means she intends to bleed this Targaryen of all the gold he has.

It does not sink in until he looks up, his single eye meetings hers. He wears an eyepatch over his left eye, dark leather obstructing his hair and pale skin.

The eyepatch… it cannot be…

Sylvi had always said men come here to take their pleasure on their own terms. This had not seemed to be the case when last she laid eyes upon Prince Aemond. She had seen them enter, the young Princes, one taller, merrier, with purple wine stains in the corners of his mouth. The other was solemn faced and unsure, ushered into the arms of the madam before she led him upstairs. Sylvi had other patrons to attend to once the deed was done, leaving the burden of caring for the young Prince on her equally young shoulders.

She still remembers him hunched over himself and shivering, the distant look in his eye, frozen in a single moment of time. The most she had been offered after her first time was a cup of moon tea and an order to change the sheets for the next patron.

It was a single night, such a trivial moment, two children sharing lemon cakes in a brothel, but she has not forgotten it. He will not recognise her, surely?

“Her,” the Prince says, “I will have her.”

Her heart drops. She has reached the end of the steps and freezes, looking to Sylvi for instruction. Anticipation stirs in her gut, somewhere between terror and curiosity.

“I’m afraid she has been spoken for tonight, but I would be glad to–”

“I will pay double what any other man has promised,” Aemond says with an air of finality. This is an offer that cannot be refused. Perhaps the minor Lord will be disgruntled, but he will be compensated generously. Defying a Prince is treason. 

While Sylvi has gone to deal with the outbidded Lord, her legs carry her down the last few steps until she is face to face with Prince Aemond.

He is taller for a start, at least a head above her. His hair is longer, his face is slimmer and sharper, his lips are settled into a slight pout. He carries himself differently, proudly. Her eyes move over his leathers under his cloak. She is not meant to admire the men who seek her services. She is meant to take their coin and fulfil their desires.

“Some wine, my Prince?” she asks, nodding towards the inner chamber, the heart of the pleasure house where the musicians play and bodies mingle out in the open or behind drawn curtains. 

He offers her a cryptic “hmm,” and follows her inside.

One of the other girls stands in a corner, carrying a tray of full cups. She passes one to Aemond, his fingertips brushing over her skin as he takes it. 

The Prince studies his surroundings like a hunter looking for quarry, lips quirked, jaw tight, somewhat amused but silent. Something tells her he has not returned to the pleasure house in the years since his first visit. This is all unfamiliar to him. He sips his wine and takes a slow breath. No doubt he will prefer somewhere a little more secluded.

She takes his hand and weaves through the room, to one of the adjacent chambers lit by candlelight, large enough to fit a bed and little else.

With the curtains drawn the other sounds fade into nothing. She takes Aemond’s wine and sets it aside, coming to stand before him.

She keeps waiting for him to lean into her, to grab greedily at some part of her flesh, to claim her lips with his. Instead he stands stoically, his chest rising and falling from underneath the thick leather of his tunic.

“Are you not awfully warm, my Prince?” she says in a honeyed voice, one she has practised for years that usually feeds the lie she actually wants what’s about to happen. She trails her fingertips over the shiny silver buckles that conceal him from her, his body stiffening under her touch.

She takes a breath to steady the erratic beat of her heart and the wanting stirring in her belly. It is not often that her own forwardness seems out of place. 

She remembers the boy with silver hair. She remembers the scowl on his face, how it melted into confusion and fear. He had needed patience then and she was happy to give it. Because she was ordered to. Because she pitied him. Perhaps because she recognised something in his expression and the way he seemed unsure in his own skin.

She places a hand on his shoulder, testing the waters of how close she can get to him. He does not protest. His nose twitches as he inhales deeply and exhales slowly. “Perhaps we should make ourselves more comfortable?” she says.

He places his hand over hers, guiding it to the top buckle at his collar. His expression is stern, his face bathed in golden candlelight and the shadows caught in the angles of his face. His eye is somehow soft but intent.

Undressing him is not to be rushed. She takes her time with every buckle on his jerkin and pushes it slowly from his shoulders. She untucks his undershirt from his breeches and he pulls it over his head. His skin is smooth, mostly unmarred, save for a small scar in the crook of his elbow that had not been there the last time they met. He is all muscle, lean and lithe. She places her palms at his chest and lets them drag down his abdomen, to the waist of his breeches.

He holds her wrists to stop her.

She looks to his eye, terrified that she might have overstepped.

Instead he kisses her. It’s gentle and chaste, his hand against the bare skin of her back, pulling her against his body. When she teases his tongue with hers he chases it, only for the kiss to become messy and clumsy. She cannot bring herself to dislike his inexperience.

“Wait,” she says, pulling away, putting her hands on either side of his jaw. “Follow my lead,” she whispers, leaning in to capture his lower lip between hers. They find a rhythm then. She shows him to move slowly, to be firmer. As their kiss deepens she allows herself to melt into his arms. Her hips are rocking against his, his hand trailing over her skin until he finds the clasp of her dress. The material falls away as simply as it should, leaving her bare before him.

He studies her the same way he studied the room. How many men have laid eyes on her since she came to this place? Too many to count, insignificant men, who have no names or faces in her memory. She has no shame in her nakedness, but there has never been any doubt in her mind that those men found her desirable. Being under Aemond’s scrutiny makes her tremble. She wonders if the sight of her pleases him. He has enough gold and enough pride to be selective. 

He had asked for her though. Why?

He’s staring at her. “They crowned my brother today,” he says.

It is not what she was expecting to hear. “I saw.”

“You were there?”

“No.” The gold cloaks did not empty the whorehouses when they were ordered to fill the Dragonpit with witnesses for the King’s coronation.

Aemond’s attention is on her body now. He reaches for her arm, tracing circles over her skin with his thumb.

She had not seen the King himself but she had seen the crowds flocking. She had heard the tremendous noise of crumbling stone, people screaming, a dragon’s screech. “I saw the dragon. People say it is an omen.”

Aemond’s face darkens but his attention is still on his own hand, now at her waist. With the other he pulls the eyepatch from his head and tosses it towards his discarded shirt. She does not get much of a chance to refresh her memory of his maimed eye before he leans into her again. His lips are at her shoulder, then her neck and it leaves her utterly weightless. 

“Your perfume is the same,” he mutters into her skin.

He remembers.

Aemond seems content enough following her lead. He lets her slip his breeches past his hips and take him into her mouth. He lets her sit atop him and grind her core against his hardened cock until her peak washes over her, blissful and warm.

When he starts to buck his hips and dig his fingertips into her hips she decides to give him respite. She sinks herself onto him with a soft sigh. It is a rare opportunity to chase a feeling rather than letting herself go through a rehearsed set of motions. 

His eye moves between her face and the space where their bodies meet, as if he cannot decide which is more fascinating. She is pleasantly surprised when he places his thumb at her pearl and circles over her sensitive flesh.

She loses herself in it, how deep he reaches, pleasure rising and tightening until it releases suddenly, violently. She falls forwards on her hands to steady herself. 

Before long Aemond lifts her off his cock, finishing himself with a stuttering groan and his seed dripping through the folds of her cunt.

He holds her close, caging her in his arms and bringing her into his chest. There’s a numbness that follows pleasure and she cannot bring herself to care that he is crushing her ribs. It doesn’t matter. She basks in the heat of his skin and the smell of him. 

He makes good on his promise of payment. The purse of coins he leaves on the bed before he leaves is worth ten nights with any other patron. 

There is less pretence the next time he visits her.

It is only a day later. He comes in the middle of the night, his hair, coat and leather gloves soaked, but there is no rain in King’s Landing. They tear at each other’s clothes and kiss like starved dogs devouring scraps. Aemond holds her by her jaw and her neck. When she draws his teeth over his lip he grins.

Once he is bare she realises his skin is cold and he is shivering.

“You should sit before a fire and warm up properly–”

“No,” he insists, “I just want you.”

She chases her pleasure once more, Aemond’s hands bruising into her hips as he thrusts up to meet her, the coldness of his palms seeping through her skin. This newfound urgency is thrilling and she finds herself curling over her body as her peaks tears through her.

Aemond is not finished with her yet. He positions her beneath him, spreading her legs apart with two wide palms before fucks her with a brutal precision, and he does not stop until he has reached his own end, painting her belly and the tops of her thighs.

After, he takes her into his arms, positioning them both so that he lies under her arm with his head nestled on her chest, between her breasts. She strokes her fingertips through his damp hair, over his skin, all the places where lovers touch each other, his cheek, his neck, underneath his ear, his shoulder. With his arm draped over her stomach he clings to her like he may never know such intimacy again. His skin is still cold and yet she holds him close, determined that she will draw some warmth from him.

Hours pass. Days could pass and she’d be content to lie with him.

“The dragon was an omen, you said,” he mutters.

It takes her a moment to rouse herself. Her eyes had closed, her mind half asleep. “That’s what people are saying. A coronation marred by death must surely only lead to more death.”

She feels his arm tighten over her stomach.

“You’re cold,” she says.

“I was instructed to fly to the Stormlands.”

“Why?”

“To secure the support of Lord Baratheon. He has pledged his banners to my brother’s cause and in return I am to wed his daughter.”

His state suggests to her that he has not yet returned to the Red Keep.

“Is there to be a war?” she says. 

He remains frozen for a few moments.

“I believe war may now be inevitable,” he says. She feels his lips brushing over her skin.

“How so?” she says on a quiet breath.

“A boy is dead because of me.”

The coldness of Aemond’s body has decidedly taken root within her, like a fist closing over her heart and throat.

“Lucerys was there, at Storm’s End. Lord Borros shunned him from the hall but I… it wasn’t enough. I pursued him on Vhagar. His dragon is nothing to her, they didn’t stand a chance.”

She is not sure she wishes to hear of this, but a new kind of stillness has settled over her. She is too afraid to move, to disturb him. 

“He is the one who took your eye,” she says.

Aemond hums. “He never paid for what he did to me. My father was more concerned with the slanders against my sister than he was with me, with my blood spilled by my own kin.”

She closes her eyes, imagining the little boy from all those years ago is curled up in her arms. She runs her fingers through his hair, undoing the knots and tangles. She cradles his head in her arms so he knows he is not alone.

“His debt is paid now, I suppose,” Aemond says.

It is in the early hours of the morning when he finally leaves, the first glimpses of sunrise chasing night from the sky. She helps him dress and fastens his eyepatch over his head. He leaves another purse in her palm, a more than generous amount. 

He comes to her nightly. He is an unhurried lover and fucks her slowly, hovering his lips above hers so that they share the same air, keeping their bodies pressed tightly together as if he wishes to smother her, or else crawl under her skin. She’d let him do it.

It is not simply her body he wants. When they are done he wants to be held, and then his thoughts slip from between his lips. 

He had not expected to return to the Red Keep a hero for slaying his nephew, but now he says his mother can hardly look at him. His grandsire, the Hand of the King scorns him for his recklessness, for his impulse for violence that now means the false Queen may strike at any moment. Vhagar circles the city during the day, she sees the dragon when she goes to the market. Aemond insists that his dragon could make short work of destroying any other who would seek to oppose her, but Rhaenyra has dragons to spare. He sits in meetings of the Small Council and watches in despair as the Hand and the Dowager Queen advocate for patience and diplomacy. 

“We should be marching,” he says one night, tracing his fingertips over her stomach. “We should secure the support of the Crownlands, adding their numbers to our host. Rhaenyra is isolated enough on Dragonstone, but we could cut her off from her allies completely.”

“And none would stand against you and Vhagar,” she says. Assuring him has become a learned skill these last few weeks.

“Alicent wishes for me to remain here, to deter an attack on the city.”

“That is sound logic,” she says. “The people of King’s Landing will be grateful for your protection.”

Aemond hums irritatedly.

“I for one would despair at the loss of our Prince,” she adds, ghosting her lips over his cheek, where his scar cuts through his skin.

For a little while he entertains her, turning his head to kiss her properly. She slips her hand between their bodies, taking hold of his hardening cock. He melts into her, chasing his pleasure as she strokes him.

“I am ready for more,” he says breathlessly. “I’m ready to fight.”

“As you have proved,” she says, coming to kiss his throat. 

In a single breath he is above her, pinning her hands by her head. He positions himself against her, rocking his hips so his leaking tip pushes against her pearl. He knows this about her now, how to draw her pleasure from her body. “Storm’s End was no battle,” he hisses into her ear. “Luke was a child. I want fire and blood.”

“Your time will come,” she says, her voice catching in her throat as he quickens his pace.

“The war must be inevitable,” he pants, “the realm will realise it soon enough. Aegon is the King and yet he is hostage to those with weaker wills.”

“You are his brother,” she sighs as Aemond slips lower to her entrance. “You can convince him to act–”

“Not now,” Aemond says, pushing into her with one sudden thrust. “Just take it, that’s it…”

He fucks her slowly, deeply, with his face buried into her neck. His desperation fuels her own desire, his hot breath against her ear, his pants and his groans. When he is finished he does not leave her wanting, trailing his lips and tongue down her body, her chest, her stomach, driving her towards her own peak with his lips and tongue.

“My grandfather takes my aspirations as insolence,” Aemond mutters to himself as he dresses. “He thinks me weak. He thinks I am still a child.”

“Then he is a fool,” she says, still buried beneath the throw on the bed.

“My mother and grandfather seized the throne, now they will not do what needs to be done to hold it.”

“Perhaps they fear what a war might bring.”

Aemond tuts. “The first blood has been drawn.”

“Do you not…” she pauses when he looks at her, his eye wide, anticipating something he will not wish to hear. “What if Rhaenyra comes for you? What if she seeks vengeance for her son?”

Aemond smiles like he has a secret and stalks slowly towards the bed, her stomach tightening in anticipation. 

In some ways, Aemond terrifies her. He has a presence of danger and bloodlust which fades away when she peels away the layers of his leathers. Without his eyepatch, in the warmth of the candlelight, he is the picture of Valyrian beauty, a man who belongs in histories and legends, not the living, breathing realm she exists in. 

He leans into her, taking her chin between his fingers to kiss her. She relishes it for as long as she can, knowing it won’t be enough to charm him back into the bed.

He pulls away, reaching into his pocket for a purse of coins. “Let her try,” he says as he places it beside her, “but I will not be easily ended.”

The girls all share chambers, bedrooms and a washroom with basins and baths. She rises early in the morning to bathe, to drop her lavender and rosemary oils into the tub and scrub away the remnants of last night. Before, she would not allow herself to fall asleep until she was clean. Lately she finds an odd sense of comfort in the reminders of her royal patron. Her skin is littered with love bites and bruises, her neck, her collar, her breasts. It shouldn’t be like this. Usually she does what she can to forget the men she has been with.

They share their duties. This morning she is to help wash the bed linens, and find cheap grain and cuts of meat from the markets.   

The clothes she wears are modest, covering her arms and her neck, unflattering to her figure. Some people still eye her with disgust, with hatred. You can always spot a whore. What can strangers know of her? Can they see through her skin and see her sins as the gods judge them all from the seven heavens? It was not as if she had chosen this path for herself out of an endless number of possibilities. 

Sometimes she remembers the life she had before, a woman’s laugh, a particular taste on her tongue, a tune humming in the back of her mind she can’t quite piece together. She used to think the gods had forsaken her, but now she thinks they do not concern themselves with the lives of people like her. So she finds little point in looking to the past, of imagining a future for herself. She survives and that is enough.

Summer is nearing its end. There is no warmth to be found in sunlight obscured by clouds. People walk quickly, keeping their belongings in deathly grips. A woman with a babe in her arms begs the baker to accept one copper instead of five for a loaf of bread. A man despairs that the apothecaries cannot offer him a medicinal herb from Lys for his sickly daughter. The shipping lanes are blocked by the Velaryon Fleet holding the Gullet, and no ship can get in or out of King’s Landing. A woman cries for her son, a rat catcher, his body hanging from the walls of the Red Keep. 

She gets what she needs to, grain she will bring back to the kitchens for the cook to turn into plain tasting flatbread. A butcher sells her tough cuts of beef for a reasonable price to go into a stew. He worries that there have been no imports of salt or sugar. How is the city meant to preserve food for the fast approaching winter? 

“It’s the fucking war,” he grumbles, “why can’t the King just burn the ships so the rest of us can eat?”

In the distance she hears drums, the clatter of horse hooves against the cobbles. She keeps her basket tightly on her arm, not stopping to make eye contact with the people she passes, past the stalls, mules, the buckets of sewage and dirty water falling from windows above her head.

As she emerges from one of the side streets her way is suddenly blocked by masses of people. She had guessed some sort of procession was afoot. This is no celebration, it is lamentation. People weep and wail around her, a mass mourning that she does not understand, and yet she feels it in her chest and behind her eyes, an urge to cry.

Over the sea of bodies before her she sees two women in an open carriage, richly dressed with black veils over their faces. Petals fall from windows and footbridges. People cry the name of Queen Helaena and Dowager Queen Alicent. 

She finds a small ledge to lift herself onto at the base of a statue. What she sees could stop her heart. This is a funeral procession. Queen Helaena’s carriage follows the body of her son, wrapped in a green and gold shroud, with flowers woven into his white hair. For a moment she tells herself the boy is an effigy, that he could be made from wax or porcelain. 

“Behold the work of Rhaenyra Targaryen!”

The whispers follow her as she scurries back to the pleasure house. The Prince was slain in his sleep. Two assassins cut his head from his body. They made his mother and twin sister watch. 

Bile rises in her throat as she hands cook the cuts of meat, blood seeping through the wrappings. She swallows it down.

When Aemond comes to her that night he is more subdued than usual. He pulls her into his arms and she strokes her hand over his hair.

“My nephew is dead,” he utters. He sheds no tears, he seems confused more than anything.

Rhaenyra’s retribution had come then, swift and brutal, a son for a son. 

She undresses him but he leans away when she tries to kiss him. They lie back on the bed and Aemond settles his head on her shoulder.

“My brother is in a rage and wants Rhaenyra dead. My sister has not left her rooms; I tried to go to her but she would not speak to me,” he says.

“How did it happen?”

“There were two. One was a gold cloak. They found him at the gate of the gods with Jaehaerys’ head in a sack. He confessed the other was a rat catcher.” 

Now the bodies of a hundred men hang by their necks, though only one of them is guilty.

“Daemon sent them to kill me,” Aemond says, “but I was out.”

She rests her fingers at the pulsepoint on his wrist to remind herself his heart is still beating. “You were with me,” she says. She feels the guilt weighing in her chest. While she and Aemond had kissed and fucked and held each other, a boy had a lost his life, the very body she had seen paraded through the streets.

“In truth I am proud that he considers me such a foe, that he would seek to murder me in my bed.”

She cannot tell if she admires him for it or not, to gamble with life as though it means nothing.

Aemond is watching her, his hair loose and framing his face. “Do you think he fears me?”

She has never seen Aemond wield a blade. She’s never seen him ride his dragon, not up close. She’s never seen him fight with his fists. She’s never seen him slur his words and throw away threats in a drunken argument. He is always composed. He is always softly spoken, and in a way that terrifies her more than it should. They say the blood of the dragon runs hot. Aemond’s blood does not seem to burn, rather it simmers under the surface of his skin. 

“Perhaps he fears what else you might be capable of.”

Aemond is the closest she has ever seen him to tears. His eyelashes are damp and heavy, his seeing eye vibrantly blue and glassy. “You think me a monster,” he utters.

She could never say it, could she? But this is a man who took the life of his own kin as a reparation for his eye. Violence is carved into his face, beautiful, set with a gemstone, but it is there nonetheless. 

She brushes her fingertips over his cheek and plants a delicate kiss to his lips. After only a few moments he shrugs her off and repositions himself, curling into her lap like a child, clinging to her limbs and the fabric of her gown. 

“I lost my temper that day,” he says. “I should have known Vhagar would not relent. I am sorry for it.”

Her blood runs cold. Should she be glad to hear he is remorseful? He may not be a cold hearted killer, but destruction lives at his fingertips. 

She reaches for his hand and he takes it. His touch is gentle and hesitant. “There was no justice in what happened to you,” she says, “blood has paid for blood…” but where does it end? With Lucerys? With Jaehaerys? With the next?

Aemond says nothing. She feels his tears slip onto her legs, his fingernails forming crescents in her skin.

Remorse will not return Rhaenyra’s son to her, it will not bring back the little Prince paraded through the streets of King’s Landing.

She clings to him, hoping she can ease whatever torment plagues him, and banish what darkness consumes him.

She never tires of the sight of him. His body bare, his hair tied away from his face, the uneven edges of his sapphire glinting in the lowlight, laid out beneath her. She runs her hands over his chest, tracing the lines that are familiar to her now. “I want to taste you,” she says sweetly, knowing he’ll already be desperate for her. 

He hums quietly to himself. By the slight smile threatening to break in the corners of his mouth, she knows he is content.

“On your knees then,” he says, and positions himself to sit at the end of the bed.

She runs her tongue over his length first, finishing with a teasing lick at the tip where he’s already weeping. She takes him into her mouth gradually, pushing a little deeper with every bob of her head. He is her Prince, he takes his pleasure from her and holds her hair from her face but it is she who sets the pace, who revels in his moans as his mind lulls. 

But he pulls her head away by her hair before he finishes. Suddenly she’s on her back and he’s kneeling over her with his fist moving furiously over his cock. He reaches for her breast and squeezes. In the morning when she bathes, she’ll look at the bruises and remember how he touches her. Her own had slips between her legs, tracing circles over her pearl at the thought.

This pleases Aemond. His brow hardens and his jaw falls. “Fuck, are you going to finish with me?” he whispers.

She nods in reply, her breath catching as a whimper in her throat. 

His grip on her breast tightens. She winces at the pain and it only fuels her own pleasure. She succumbs to her senses, chasing the feeling in her gut that only wants for release. Her fingers work frantically over her wet and wanting cunt.

“Make yourself come for me, that’s it,”

She obeys him with a cry, her body reduced to a shaking, dazed mess as Aemond reaches his own end. She watches his seed spurt from his cock, warm as it paints her skin.

He has habits, she’s noticed. He does not spill inside her. Of course, with the nature of the establishment there is no shortage of moontea, but she never questions him when he removes himself. He prefers to see it on her skin. 

Targaryen bastards are not uncommon in King’s Landing, commoners with silver hair. It is said Prince Aegon himself has sired many on the women of Fleabottom. Perhaps the idea is distasteful to Prince Aemond. He is discreet. He does not bring drinking companions with him to the pleasure house and he keeps his hood up as he enters and exits. 

He takes a cloth and wipes his seed from her skin. She bites back another jolt of anticipation in her spine. She would take more from him, but instead he lies beside her, curling into her embrace, tucking his head into her chest. 

He could fuck her quickly and be done with it, it would be more efficient. He could take a different girl each time. He could have one brought up to the castle. Yet since the day of the King’s Coronation he has found his way into her arms to her each night. In these quiet moments she lets herself think there is a reason for it.

They trace their fingertips over each other’s skin and he tells her things she shouldn’t know, that the King has named a new Hand in Ser Criston Cole, that while Queen Alicent seeks to avoid open war, Aegon wants to fly headfirst into it.

“It’s not his place. He’ll not stand a chance against Meleys or Caraxes.”

The names are strange to her. Sometimes it feels like a cruel joke, a reminder that some Silk Street whore is not meant to understand the realm he exists in. Other times it feels like an honour, like he’s gifted her a part of himself, a glimpse into his mind.

“He is no warrior, but he wishes to live up to his namesake. He wants for glory alone; it is a reckless pursuit but he would risk his life for it.”

“He is the King, is it not his war to fight?” she says. 

“He is not capable of it,” Aemond says, “but I…”

It is not a thought he dares to finish.

King Aegon wears the crown of the Conqueror, or so people say. She’s never seen a real crown. She’s seen paper ones worn by the mummers in the square, and she’s seen girls wearing wreaths of flowers on their heads for the festival of spring. They are only delicate things. Real crowns are made of gold, silver and steel. As Aemond’s eye flutters shut he looks divinely peaceful, but unsettled where his sapphire continues to stare at her. She pictures a crown of spring flowers fashioned from steel and imagines it upon her Prince’s brow.

Footsteps thud upon the stone floor, too close to the curtain, closer than anyone should dare to come near. She lifts her head as it’s drawn back.

It takes a moment for them all to realise what’s happening. Several faces stare at her– at Aemond. One of the men has silver hair, shorter and choppier than Aemond’s. He bares his teeth as he grins.

She sees a flash of fury in Aemond’s face as he turns to face them.

The silver haired man starts to laugh, the sound shrill and unpleasant. His friends do not join him. “Aemond the fierce!” he cries, pointing, staring.

Ameond parts himself from her instantly. He retreats as far as the edge of the bed, hunched over himself, his knees in the crooks of his elbows. He keeps his head hung, not looking at the men and the leader of their pack. He does not look at her, he does not look at anything. 

She sees the child he once was, frightened and confused. 

The man staggers towards the bed, clearly half out of his mind by the smell of wine drifting from him when he perches on the bed. On instinct she covers her breasts, devastated to realise her robe is out of reach.

“And here I thought you were as chaste as a fucking septon! You know,” he says to his companions, “I brought him here for his first too. And how far you’ve come, curled in the arms of a whore like a greenboy!”

There’s a bite to his– the King’s words, a cruelty that only makes Aemond shrink further into himself. Her heart aches for him, that she cannot help him. 

“Are you tired, brother? Did you fuck her like a hound?” An idea he emphasises with an impersonation of a hunting dog.

Aemond doesn’t move or speak.

Still in hysterics, Aegon turns his gaze to her, unashamedly lingering on her chest and her legs. “Hard luck for your squire, Ser Martyn,” he says, drawing his tongue over his lips, “as pretty as this one is, she is very much occupied.”

His laughter is the only sound in the chamber and it pierces her skull. 

Aemond starts to shift. Helplessly she reaches out her hand, unsure of what it is she intends to do. He doesn’t take it. He doesn’t even look at her.

He stands before the King and his companions. His humiliation has melted away. In the place of the boy is a man who speaks calmly and clearly. “Your squire is welcome to her. One whore is as good as another.”

He strides from the chamber and she is entirely forgotten.

Or so she wishes that were true. There are still four men in her midst. And she is still, for all the hours she has spent in Aemond’s company, a whore in a pleasure house. 

I've kinda given up on taglists, sorry <3

A/n: I'm quite happy with this! I've been playing with the idea in my head for a few weeks, then I saw episodes 2 and 3 and it just had to happen. Would be very cool if you wanted to let me know what you think :)