Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room is small and dark, but it’s all she knows. The windows are shuttered tightly, partially insulating her from the clamor of the cramped street outside, but keeping the air inside rather stale. She doesn’t mind, though. She sits at her small desk, wrapped in a shawl to combat the chill, devouring the latest penny dreadful that came out this Sunday. They’re new and more affordable than books, which is what she devotes most of her scant free time to.

Artanis has been here for six years, sold to the mistress, called Turmë, when she was thirteen years old by her uncle Fëanor after her entire family died of fever. She couldn’t even fathom what was happening, still reeling from the sight of her dead mother and brothers when her contemptible uncle dragged her into the first brothel he came across and then suddenly she belonged to Madame Turmë and Uncle Fëanor walked out with a small pouch of coin to go drink it all away and die in the gutter less than a month later.

Her first john was the very next night, four times her age and three times her size and indifferent to the fact she had never lay with a man. In fact, he’d paid extra when he was told there was a new little dove come fresh to Madame Turmë’s bawdy house—not from the streets, either, so she was clean and yet unspoiled. Artanis remembered crying childish tears as he huffed and puffed above her, crushing her with his weight, and stabbing her between the legs over and over until she bled, sweating and drooling on her until he was done.

It hadn’t gotten easier after that for a long time, but everything considered, Artanis counts herself lucky. She has a bed to sleep in and warm food every morning and night. Most whores make their beds on the street, often going hungry and sleeping with the rats and eventually dying of disease. Yes, Artanis is accustomed to it now. She no longer cries herself to sleep. That tapered off after the first year.

She’s one of the most popular girls, so she has one of the nicer rooms. Madame Turmë treats her girls well—they’re the ones making her money, after all. Artanis has thought about leaving, she has some money squirreled away, but she’s too afraid to make the leap. She’s seen a couple of the other girls leave only to come crawling back weeks later. She doesn’t think she’d do well on her own. So she stays.

It’s just past midnight in her shadowy little room, illuminated by a single, low-burning taper. Artanis can hear footsteps outside, knows they’re coming to her door. She started her course two days ago—not that it gets her out of work. She looks up and lowers her little booklet just as the door opens, spilling candlelight from the hall inside.

“You’ve got a trick,” Madame Turmë says.

Artanis stands up to put her things away, when Madame clears her throat and arches a thick black eyebrow.

“He specifically requested a girl who didn’t smoke and was bleeding. So… don’t try to hide it.”

Artanis nods without a word and Madame leaves to go fetch the man. Years ago Artanis might have been disgusted, but nothing surprises her anymore. The brothel gets plenty of customers with odd requests—there was the young aristocrat who liked it when the girls put their fingers up his arse; the gentleman who liked suckling on their breasts like a babe; an elderly fellow who came at least twice a week and specifically requested two of the girls perform on each other while he watched and didn’t even touch himself, or the young dandy who liked to insert things into the girls’ cunts but not fuck them.

Artanis finishes putting her things away and has barely fixed herself up before the door opens again and her john is standing in the doorway, tall and slim; black boots and a worn white shirt tucked into black trousers, with a dark, plain brown jacket that’s missing two buttons. His wavy brown hair is cropped close to his shoulders and not entirely unclean. Not a gentleman, perhaps, but also no lowly laborer or sailor. Artanis watches as he shuts the door behind him, then surveys the little room.

“Good evening, sir,” Artanis says, inclining her head. “Madame says you knew I—”

“Yes,” he interrupts.

“I hope you don’t mind if I lay down a towel?”

He shakes his head no, then studies her with a cocked head as she drapes a folded terrycloth across the bed. Though her bed is not particularly clean, at least it will keep the blood from staining the sheets beneath. As Artanis smooths out the creases—as if that matters—she suddenly feels his presence behind her even though he made no sound, and jumps when she turns around to find him inches from her face.

“Do you take opium?” he asks pointedly, hazel eyes fixed on hers. They’re so vibrant in the dimness of the room she wonders if he can see right through her. “Cocaine? Morphine?”

“No,” she answers truthfully, attempting to mask her confusion. “Did the Madame not tell you?”

“They lie,” he grunts, making a sound like he’s sniffing the air, then glances away.

Artanis stares at him for a long moment, wondering if she should even respond, before reaching up to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He says nothing, which is slightly unnerving, but she’s been with men before who made her significantly more uncomfortable. Once his shirt is open, exposing his tanned chest smattered with hair, she trails her fingers down over his muscled abdomen to the top of his trousers, untucking the shirt. Before she can unbutton them, he grabs her wrists and she looks up, brows knitted in confusion.

“Sir?”

When he doesn’t reply, Artanis lifts up on her toes and tentatively kisses him. Though she’s by no means green, for some reason she feels uneasy, with the faintest prickle of warning in her gut. He responds to the kiss, much to her relief, and his large hands relax on her wrists and slowly wind their way up her bare arms and pulling her against his hard body. She purposefully hasn’t got much on after hanging her shawl up before his arrival—a chemise with stays over top, a petticoat and wool stockings. Too many layers might be discouraging to the men, sometimes they’re a bit simple.

This one doesn’t seem simple, though.

He breaks the kiss, leaving her breathless and an odd taste upon her tingling lips. Artanis slowly exhales when he turns his head to kiss her neck, shifting her mass of pale gold hair out of the way. She tilts her head back, looking up at the ceiling, biting her bottom lip in concentration as she fumbles to unbutton his pants between them as his embrace gradually tightens, crushing what little breasts she possesses against his hard chest. He doesn’t even seem to notice she’s having a hard time breathing now; instead, he’s planting sloppy, openmouthed kisses below her jaw, down lower to her shoulder.

When his trousers are finally open, Artanis slips her hand into the front to feel for his cock. He flinches, groans into her neck and she gasps when his teeth graze her a little too sharply. She wraps her hand around his cock and begins slowly pumping, bringing him to arousal.

“Would you prefer the bed, sir?” she whispers, turning her head so her lips brush against the stubble on his cheek, and giving him a gentle squeeze. He grunts in response and goes to move away, but Artanis grabs his jacket and pulls him toward her, until her legs hit the edge of the bed and she falls backwards and he follows. She pushes his jacket off his shoulders, then discards it over the side of the bed. She pulls herself up, adjusting so her hips are over the terrycloth she laid down earlier, breaths coming a little heavier as he’s pushing her skirts up and moving to kneel between her legs.

He reaches up and hooks his fingers in the thin cloth belt around her hips that holds the pad between her thighs for her bleeding, pulling it down over her legs until she’s bared to him and she can feel the cool air on her heated skin. She stares up at the ceiling as he parts her legs. She would say something or touch him or encourage him, but he didn’t seem particularly interested in it earlier so she’ll leave him to his own devices. Some johns don’t care much for the girls getting them ready—some like to just go for it.

She expects him to push his trousers down and fuck her then, but he doesn’t. When he makes no move, Artanis glances down between her legs. He’s just staring at her cunt, doesn’t even notice she’s looking at him. He looks like he’s drunk. She looks back up at the ceiling, surreptitiously scratches at her chest which is itching now with the heat blooming uncomfortably on her skin. Finally he moves, but he doesn’t get on top of her like she expects. Instead, the bed shifts and she can feel his breath on her cunt, then his long fingers curling on her upper legs.

In that moment, Artanis can feel a little trickle of blood between her legs. Embarrassment surges through her because he’s right there and she twists on the bed, but his grip tightens on her. He immediately leans forward and presses his open mouth to her, licking a long, indolent line up her cunt, and she gasps loudly and bolts upright. She shouts something—she’s not even sure what comes out of her mouth—but he doesn’t acknowledge that she’s said anything.

Artanis puts one hand on the top of his head and the other on his fingers around her leg, pushing frantically at him. What the fuck is he doing? He peers up at her from between her legs, breaths coming heavily now. There’s dark blood on his lips and his eyes aren’t that percipient greenish-brown anymore, now there’s an intense, frightening gold hue to them. Warning in his face, telling her to stop. She does, heart pounding wildly in her chest. Her mouth falls open, watching in repulsed shock as he lowers his head again. She closes her eyes, breath caught in her throat at the sensation of his tongue on her again.

Not many of the men put their heads between her legs. Some like it, but most only want to fuck her until they collapse on top of her in a rank, sweaty mess. But him—he’s licking her, devouring her, delving his tongue deep inside. She’s nauseated, she can’t believe what he’s doing, but she also can’t deny the perfidious little thrill growing in her belly with each hungry swipe of his tongue. His stubble scrapes deliciously against her tender skin as he presses harder into her, like he’s never tasted anything so sweet in his life.

Artanis rolls her head back and lets her mouth fall open with a quiet moan, tentatively allowing the last of her unease to melt away because obviously he likes it so much. She’s still supporting herself with one arm behind her and reaches down with the other to comb her fingers through his soft brown waves. Not pushing him away anymore, letting herself sink deeper into this repugnant, but deliciously mounting pleasure.

Suddenly, he slides his hands up to the backs of her knees and pushes her legs back toward her, spreading her even more and knocking her indelicately onto her back. Artanis arches up off the bed when he starts sucking on the little bud at the top of her sex, biting back a wanton moan. She can feel a release simmering in her lower half, and at first it seems so far away and she’s not convinced she’ll even come—she never does. But he doesn’t stop. He just keeps on and on and he’s so greedy and he’s not getting tired, won’t even pause for breath, and she’s thrashing her head and squirming under his tongue and whimpering because it’s almost too much and she’s not used to this.

Artanis makes a sound like a sob when she comes.

She arches hard off the bed again, grips his hair with both hands, squeezes her legs on his head and writhes frantically beneath him—and still he’s licking, sucking, practically gorging himself on her, and she’s riding high on waves of pleasure, blanking her mind and tearing her body apart, and she wants to cry out for absolution because it feels too good and Eru forgive her for whatever the fuck is going on.

He stays down there, even minutes after the last waves have subsided. His mouth is still on her, beard still scraping and tongue still wandering and dipping inside her, but it’s not as frenzied now. His movements are slow, almost lazy. None of this is for her, she knows, because there’s still more of her blood to be had and he wants it. But Artanis doesn’t care. She just lays there, melted into the bed. She’ll let him do whatever he wants to her because it still feels so good.

When he finally drags himself away with a groan, Artanis seeks his face out in the dimness of the room. He looks even more drunk now, she thinks. His eyes are half-lidded, the entire lower half of his face covered in her blood. It looks horrifying, but her body’s still warm, her mind still muddled, and she can barely comprehend what just happened. He slowly lowers himself onto her, resting the side of his face on the bottom half of her stomach. She places a shaky hand on the back of his head. It’s been a while since a trick made her come. Despite the fact most don’t care if she orgasms and she has to generally fake it, when she’s given one she takes it.

They lay there for a few minutes—or perhaps it’s more, Artanis doesn’t know and can’t be bothered to care—before he gathers himself and rouses from between her spread legs. He’s kneeling again, reaching between them to fumble with his already open trousers. She hears him push them down over his hips. Artanis almost forgot about this part. Maybe some part of her thought a man who would go down on a woman while she was bleeding wasn’t the type to care about regular fucking.

Technically they’re still both fully clothed; she’s sweating and hot, sure she could smell better, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Artanis relaxes as he crawls over her, turns her head because she’s afraid he’s going to kiss her with his mouth still covered in that foul blood. He pauses, seeing the aversion in her eyes, and slowly wipes at his mouth with his white sleeve, obviously not caring to stain it. Him wiping his face doesn’t do much—there’s still blood crusted in his stubble and dried on his skin.

He shifts above her and now she can feel his cock against her slick cunt. Despite just seconds earlier worrying if he might kiss her, she mindlessly lifts her hips toward him. She can’t be sure, but she thinks she hears him emit a low, soundless chuckle. He doesn’t waste any time. Artanis bites back a moan when he sinks into her, reaching up under his shirt to dig her nails into his back. He rolls his hips against her, burying himself to the hilt. She’s so full that it’s uncomfortable. He knows this, so at first he’s gentle. He moves slowly against her, supporting himself on his arms. His eyes are closed, head hanging down so his hair tickles her face, but soon she wants more. Artanis bucks her hips against his thrusts, prompting him to open his eyes. She’s sure he can see the desperation on her face. She opens her legs wider, wanting it deeper, wanting it harder, and her body is straining upwards against him.

The corner of his lips twitch upwards in a smirk.

“Tell me what you want,” he says hotly, almost teasingly, and coming close to her with those blood-crusted lips. She can smell herself on his breath, but in that moment she doesn’t care. She just wants him to fuck her. That’s what he’s paying for, isn’t it? She says so in those exact words, and perhaps with too strong a hint of impertinence, and she watches his expression transform into something a little more dangerous.

“You want me to fuck you?” he breathes, and brimming underneath is something dark and indescribably primal, something that makes her skin dot in gooseflesh.

“Yes,” she answers breathlessly, sliding her hands down to his hips, feeling his muscles taut beneath the skin. “I want you to fuck me.”

He does. He fucks her so hard she wonders why Madame Turmë doesn’t burst through the door to see if she’s getting beaten, because it certainly sounds like it. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. The bed is slamming against the thin wall and she’s gasping and crying, making the most debauched noises, and she’s not even faking it. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and sex and blood and she can barely breathe, because every snap of his hips against her jolts the breath from her lungs. He reaches up with one hand and grabs the low headboard for leverage, grunting every time he buries himself into her body, fucking into her so hard that she’s crying because it hurts but it feels so good, too. He’s staring at her the entire time, but she doesn’t know it; she doesn’t see the way his pupils expand until there’s no green or brown or gold left, or the way his lips are pulled back over his gritted teeth which are stained red.

Artanis claws at his back, feels his skin under her nails and this heat boiling and ready to explode inside her. She comes before him, which in itself is amazing, she thinks. She moans, long and loud and pathetic, clutching his body to hers. Her body shakes, breaths having all but ceased as she crests. The man slows, groaning when he feels her body pulsing around his cock. He rides her pleasure into his own culmination, hips stuttering against her until he’s coming inside her.

He moves languorously in and out of her, relishing the fading waves of her body’s orgasm around him. He gingerly lowers himself, supporting himself above her with one arm, letting his head drop next to hers. Artanis rests her cheek against the side of his head. He can feel her heartbeat everywhere—around his cock, against his chest, in his ears pounding like a drum because he’s so close to her neck. Without thinking he turns his head, grazing his bared teeth over her heated skin, then flicking his tongue out to taste the salt of her sweat. Her pulse flutters against his parted lips, like a frantic little invitation. He knows he shouldn’t, but he lingers there until he goes soft and pulls out of her. He’s already had what he came for, no need to complicate everything.

Artanis settles her hands on her flushed chest and tilts her head to watch as the man slips off the bed and braces himself with one arm out on the wall. He stands there in silence for a long moment before turning to clean himself off with the edge of the terrycloth she had laid down earlier. He rebuttons his trousers, rather haphazardly tucks his shirt back in, then smooths his mussed hair back. There’s still a little red crusted by the corner of his mouth, but she doesn’t say anything.

Artanis lifts up on her arms as he picks his jacket off the floor and quickly dons it. Tossing clients’ jackets on the floor isn’t something she typically does. She has pegs on the wall for that purpose, but he didn’t care at the time and doesn’t seem to care now, either. He doesn’t speak to her, doesn’t even look at her, before he turns around and leaves. Artanis looks down and squeezes her legs together, discerning the sticky remnants of him between her thighs. She wonders what his name is.

Downstairs, on his way out, he quickly pays Madame Turmë more than what was initially agreed upon before disappearing into the cool Gondolin night.

Chapter Text

Artanis has only just finished with a trick when Madame Turmë opens her door and pokes her head in. She’s squatting over her chamber pot, cleaning herself off with a damp rag in preparation for the next one.

“Artanis, he’s back.”

Artanis doesn’t even have to ask who she means—the thrill in her stomach answers for her. She told Madame about him last time when asked, though leaving out the fact how much she’d ended up liking it; she had been teased by a few of the other girls later on, however, because they all heard her carrying on so dramatically through the thin walls.

“You’re bleeding, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Do what you did last time, he paid quite well. I’ll give you a few minutes, then bring him up.”

Artanis nods, standing up and tossing the rag into the nearby wash basin. She squeezes her legs together, grimacing to herself as she recenters and retightens her stays, which had been twisted out of place by the last john. While Artanis bathes most days, and cleans herself in between each lay, she never feels clean. There’s always a perpetual layer of grime in the creases of her pale skin, dirt under her nails even though she uses her nail pick every morning, and Eru knows what else set into her hair and clothes. The men she sleeps with, however, aren’t too particular about where they deposit their filth.

After she gives her long blonde hair a quick brush, Artanis grabs a clean terrycloth to drape over the bed. She wonders if he’ll go down on her again, but then chides herself. Of course he will. He waited a month to come back and see her, that’s clearly what he’s after. As she adjusts the towel, she speculates as to why he didn’t pick a different girl this time, or even return sooner. There’s always at least a couple of the girls having their courses at any one time.

Artanis has to stifle a laugh. She’s so nonchalant about it all. She knows she should be more repulsed. Fucking a girl while she’s bleeding is one thing, but eating it? She thought she’d seen it all. It isn’t her place to judge, though, so she instead tries to focus on the anticipation churning in her stomach. She perches on the edge of the bed, waiting, until he arrives a few minutes later. Artanis watches as he shuts the door quietly behind him. He looks the exact same as a month ago, and dressed the same, too. She stands up.

“Good evening, sir.”

He gives her the most dispassionate of nods. She doesn’t know what to say, really. She’s never at a loss for words with her regulars—not that she would consider him a regular. What makes them laugh, what they like to hear to stoke their ego. Some of them like to pretend she’s ladylike, all prim and proper, while others relish her sharp tongue and unconventional sense of humor. The man standing in front of her, however, is one of few words and thus a quandary to her. Mysterious and intimidating with eyes that reflect the candlelight oddly, and which seem to bore a hole right through her.

Artanis is not one to be bested, though. She’ll figure him out. She approaches him and he tracks her with his eyes, unmoving. She reaches up and plays with the edge of his jacket, peering up at him from beneath her lashes.

“So you’ve come back to visit me?”

“It does appear that way,” he replies flatly, though no humor lights in his eyes. Artanis only smiles and pushes his jacket off his shoulders. She hangs it on the wall, so this time it’s not on her dirty floor, then faces him again.

“I was glad to hear it,” she murmurs, not entirely untruthfully, considering how often she’s forced those words to grace the ears of the most vile of men. “How then shall I best please you tonight, sir?”

When he only silently regards her, Artanis supposes she will decide for him. She unbuttons the top of his white shirt and untucks it from his trousers. She hooks one finger into the band, then drifts her other hand down to feel his half-hard cock through the rough fabric. The only indication her touch incites anything in him other than apathy is a slight head tilt. She’s surprised—and a little flustered—that he doesn’t show more interest. It doesn’t even feel like he’s here, like he’s observing her through a window with some air of curiosity or even stoic amusement.

Artanis thinks back to last time, when he had his face buried between her thighs. Perhaps for himself tonight he might appreciate something similar. Artanis begins to fall to knees, but before she can reach the floor, he suddenly grabs her wrist, stopping her. She stares up at him, confounded.

“No.”

She blinks. How many times has a john stopped her from going down on them?

“Do you doubt my skills?” she wonders, somewhat cheekily.

“On the contrary, I am assured of them,” he retorts, cocking an eyebrow, and tightening his grip on her wrist. “Considering the price I pay for you, I would expect nothing less than perfection.”

Artanis is caught off guard only momentarily. She regroups. She’s adaptable.

“Very well,” she acquiesces.

He knows she knows what he’s here for. She smiles without showing her teeth, unperturbed, just as the object of his fixation makes itself known to her between her legs under her skirts. She feels it on her inner thigh, about to drip down her leg.

“I assume, then, that you’ve come back for another taste?” Artanis asks alluringly, reaching up to curl a lock of his brown hair around her finger. That affects him even more than when she palmed him through his trousers—his pupils expand and his nostrils flare slightly, and it almost feels like something in the air changes between them, something she’s not entirely aware of.

Artanis allows her fingers brush against his cheek as she moves away. She walks over to the bed, turns and sinks down onto the edge in one graceful movement. He’s still standing there, just staring at her. There’s nothing in his expression, though his eyes appear darker now. Hungrier.

Artanis slowly spreads her legs, supporting herself with one arm straight out behind her. She angles her head to the side to rest on her shoulder, holding his gaze, and grabs a handful of fabric hanging between her legs. She pulls her skirts up, noticing the way his eyes drop down as her bare legs are gradually revealed, then up to her knees. She pauses, just inches away from uncovering herself to him. He swallows hard, his lips part slightly. There’s a smear of blood on her left inner thigh, and a tiny trail of it halfway down to her knee. She opens her legs a little wider. His eyes snap up to hers.

“Would you indulge of me again, sir?” she inquires softly, voice laced with entreaty. She’s teasing him. Beseeching him. Maybe too beseeching, because her stomach practically leaps into her throat when abruptly he moves. For a split second, it is not that veneer of control that Artanis feels, but fear. The way he moves is quick and lithe, and the image of a sinewy cat leaping for an unsuspecting mouse flashes through her mind. He is in front of her before she can even blink, on his knees.

He wraps his hands around her upper calves, not having once torn his eyes from hers—waiting. She gently exhales and raises her skirts the remaining few inches to finally reveal herself to his ravenous scrutiny. Artanis can tell he’s holding back. He releases her leg with one hand and draws one finger along her inner thigh, methodically collecting the blood that had dripped down. She watches in a sort of horrified captivation as he brings it to his mouth and licks it off his finger. The heat flares in her lower belly and she considers how utterly debauched she must be if him savoring her monthly blood kindles anything in her other than revulsion—which it does. He lowers his hand and Artanis flinches when she feels him at her cunt.

He only lightly touches her at first, the merest whisper of contact tickling her blonde curls. Artanis waits with bated breath, until finally he brushes his thumb purposefully against that little bud at the top, and she gasps. Artanis imagines she sees the barest hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips. Her eyes rove over his face as he lazily explores her. She does consider him rather handsome; it’s always the handsome ones with the most fucked up tastes. His stubbled face is framed by those soft brown waves, with big green eyes ringed in brown with amber flecks, set under strong brows and above a strong nose. His lips look like a woman’s, she thinks, but they were pleasant enough to kiss. His teeth are white behind his parted lips, whiter than hers. She’s curious as to what kind of tooth powder he uses. Maybe she’ll ask him after he’s done fucking her.

Soon, though, all thoughts of tooth powder are gone from her head when he slides an arm under one leg and props it up so her foot rests on the edge of the bed, opening her up as wide as her hips will permit. He draws closer to her, watches her eyes flutter closed when without warning he slips his two middle fingers inside her. Their intrusion is eased by the slippery mixture of her blood and arousal and he doesn’t stop until they’re buried to the knuckle.

He languidly slides his fingers in and out, still teasing her bud with his thumb. The desperate little noises coming out of her pleases him, though his face would not betray this. When Artanis leans her head back, exposing her pale throat, his eyes narrow. She whimpers when he kisses the side of her neck, sluggishly tracing the vein visible beneath her pale skin with the tip of his tongue. Down lower, tugging at the top of her chemise until one of her breasts is exposed to the cool air. He takes her nipple into his mouth, causing the soft, rosy flesh to pucker, and she gasps when he bites her. It hurts, but she’s too beside herself with pleasure to investigate. He sucks at the little wound, just enough to coat his tongue with her salty warmth.

Artanis whines in protest when he abruptly withdraws his fingers, but then is transfixed as he sticks them into his mouth one by one, scraping them clean of her blood and slickness with his teeth and lips. She wants to be disgusted at how wet she is, but cannot bring herself to be. The ache between her legs is too strong, beating for release.

The man’s subsequent, small red smile is not necessarily pleasant. He hears her heartbeat quicken and suspects she’s frightened. He asks her as such, voice low, and leaning in so close that his bloody breath ruffles the hair hanging loosely around her face.

“Are you afraid, princess?”

He does not wait for an answer, even as she thinks sardonically she is the furthest thing from a princess. His grin widens as he descends down her body, until his head is between her legs. Before Artanis can speak, he drags the flat of his tongue up her inner thigh, collecting any leftover blood from before, and then presses his open mouth to her cunt.

Artanis jerks on the edge of the bed, cannot help the undignified moan that is torn from her lips. This time, however, she doesn’t fight it. She rolls her head back, curling her toes as she sinks enthusiastically down into the feeling of his mouth on her.

He is thorough, she thinks, reaching down with her free hand to run her fingers through his hair, urging him closer. His tongue explores every crease and fold of her cunt, dipping and circling and seeking. It feels heavenly. He’s noisy, too. Beneath the wet sucking sounds, every so often he lets slip his own broken groan, or what sounds like a growl of satisfaction. Artanis, for her part, is equally as vocal. She wonders if he enjoys her pathetic keening and warbling cries of pleasure. She wants to moan his name, but she doesn’t know it. She’ll ask afterwards, she must remember to ask afterwards, because she should know the name of a man who does such unspeakable things to her.

He pushes his face harder into her, like he can’t get close enough, and she squirms on the edge of the bed because she’s getting close and at times it feels too much. Artanis isn’t used to this and she must be moving too much for him, because he wraps his hands around her upper thighs to hold her steady against him.

Artanis comes faster than she thought possible, but then again he’d just fingered her. Nonetheless, it surprises her. She pitches forward, clutching his head between her legs as her orgasm tears through her; her body shakes, and what comes out of her mouth is pure nonsense. He coerces her into another high moments later, which is even stronger than the first one and overwhelms her. He’s not done with her, though. By the time Artanis’ third orgasm has faded into a warm thrum between her thighs, she’s delirious. She’s on her back now, legs hanging limply like a corpse off the edge of the bed. He’s still at it, taking his time. No urgency. It feels good, even if she’s a bit sensitive.

When he’s finally done, Artanis doesn’t even bother to glance down at him. She stares up at the darkened ceiling, still floating on a cloud, not quite having settled back into herself just yet. Down her body, his breathing is ragged. She knows he’s got that hazy look in his eyes, like he’s just come from a pub.

After a few minutes of silence, the man finally rises to his feet. His nose and lips and chin are saturated in red, pupils blown so wide his eyes appear black. He licks his lips, lets out a satisfied exhale. She observes, almost detachedly, as he wipes both sides of his face with his hand, collecting some of her blood that’s caught in his stubble, then licks his palm and fingers with the flat of his tongue.

“Did I taste good?” she inquires headily, even though she knows the answer.

He does not reply, though his small, toothless smile as he kicks his boots and trousers off causes something to flare within her, and she grins like a halfwit. He yanks his shirt off over his head and tosses it to the side. The candlelight, however meager, flickers over his bare body, accentuating the dips and creases of his lissome muscles as he moves. She can’t quite see his cock, but doesn’t bother to even lift her head because it feels so heavy.

Artanis makes a small sound in the back of her throat when she feels his cool touch on her hips, but then yelps when abruptly he flips her over onto her stomach. He indelicately hauls her bottom up so her knees are right at the edge of the bed and she has no time to even realize what’s happening before he enters her swiftly from behind, burying himself completely with a low, strained groan. Artanis’ cry devolves into a wavering moan when he rolls his hips against her backside, churning deeply within her. She grips two fistfuls of the terrycloth below her, pressing her face into the fabric as he begins a short but languorous rhythm.

For the most part, he stays sheathed inside her. He’ll draw out some, then push in as hard as he can go, pinning her bottom to his hips and fingers digging so deeply into her thighs she knows there’ll be bruises there in the morning. She’s deliciously, painfully full, but it feels so good she doesn’t care. When he stills inside her, she squirms to get him moving again, and when he hesitates after pulling out, she pushes backwards onto him. He chuckles darkly a few times, but she doesn’t care what she looks or sounds like, all she knows is that every slow bounce on his cock is stoking the still smoldering embers deep in her belly to an unbearable high.

Artanis must be rather obvious with her pleasure, because any time her release is close, he’ll pause. Her frantic little movements do nothing, only amuse him. Once it has faded, he’ll resume. He does this three times before he finally allows her come, and when she does she sees stars. She’s so lost in the pleasure tearing through her body that she barely feels him come inside her moments later. He rocks into her a few more times before gently pulling out—like he didn’t just guarantee she’d be profoundly sore there for the next two days—and turning to collapse backwards onto the bed next to her.

Artanis’ body softens and she falls onto her side like a limp doll, panting loudly as she attempts to catch her breath. She studies him from the side. The candle on her desk is nearly out now and it casts a weak, flickering glow over him, illuminating only half of his face. His eyes are unfocused, drifted off to the side away from her, though he isn’t breathing quite as heavily as her.

“What’s your name?”

He angles his head slightly to examine her. Suddenly she feels odd, like she made a mistake asking him. Usually the johns tell her their name, even if they only end up fucking her once.

“Halbrand.”

Artanis silently echoes his name, tasting it on her tongue. When he says nothing else, she asks, “Do you want mine?”

“I know yours.”

“Oh.”

“Your mistress told me,” he clarifies, when she still seems confused. She presses her lips together, feeling ignorant. Of course Madame Turmë would have told him her name when he first came.

“Are you wed?”

He glances at her out of the corner of his eyes again and she wonders if she’s crossed a line. She can’t see why, as most of the men who frequent the brothel are married and just too afraid to act out their sordid desires on their wives. Most of them don’t care if she knows.

“No,” he answers, standing up and bending down to grab his clothes off the floor.

“What do you do?”

He tugs his shirt back on, not bothering to button it. “Are you a harlot or a constable, Artanis?”

Artanis laughs, somewhat nervously, because she is asking him a lot of questions. She sits up and adjusts her chemise to cover herself, unaware it’s stained with blood.

“I’m not the only one, surely?”

He doesn’t look at her, but he knows what she means. He comes to stand in front of her and inclines her head up with his fingers beneath her chin.

“No. You taste the best, though.”

“My cunt?”

“Your blood.”

Artanis swallows hard, then shivers when he leans down to plant a soft kiss on the side of her neck.

“Your cunt, too.”

She stares at him as he straightens, finally buttons his shirt, and retrieves his jacket off the wall. Once he’s dressed, he departs as last time without a backwards glance. Artanis settles back onto the bed and gazes up at the ceiling, cognizant of the sweet ache between her thighs. A few minutes later, she slides off the bed to clean herself up for the next trick, wondering if she will see Halbrand again. She hopes so.

Chapter Text

It’s not a good month for Artanis.

Four days before her course is supposed to start, she’s attacked by a john. He’s too drunk to fuck her and he doesn’t like that so he starts beating her, until her screams draw a few of the other girls and the mistress, but not before he’s hit her a dozen times, kicked her twice in the stomach, and given her a bloody nose and black eye. He’s promptly ejected from the house and told never to return.

Madame Turmë gives Artanis the next couple of nights off because she’s hurting and still so shaken. One of the other girls, Marildis, sits with her that first night because she can’t stop crying. She doesn’t know why she lets it get to her, it isn’t the first time it’s happened. She was newly fifteen for that, and it was much worse than this time. That doesn’t stop her from spiraling, however.

It’s been a couple of years since she seriously last thought of leaving the house. Being insulted doesn’t bother her. Being humiliated either, really. But this kind of helplessness she can’t stand. She has just enough money to leave, but it wouldn’t stretch far after that. Besides, she doesn’t know where she’d go. She tries not to think about it too much, because she knows in a couple of weeks it will have faded into the rest of the uncomfortable memories she keeps locked away inside her.

A couple of Artanis’ regulars express concern when they see her. She doesn’t dwell on it, just tells them it was a drunkard. They spend a minute or two coddling her, because she’s a delicate woman and they’re manly men who would have shown that bastard a thing or two. But that’s not what they came for, so once they’ve puffed themselves up, they fold her over the bed and fuck her until they come inside her or go soft because they’re too old and she has to finish them by hand.

The swelling around her eye is better by the time she begins bleeding, but the bruising is still fairly prominent. Three days after she starts, the man called Halbrand returns. Artanis feels nothing when Madame Turmë comes upstairs to tell her. In fact, after everything, she’d not had him much on her mind.

Artanis prepares her bed, laying down the cloth, moving a little more slowly than usual. She’s just removed her belt with the cloth pad and laid it next to her wash basin when he comes in. She settles onto the edge of the bed, watching as he slides his jacket off and hangs it up on the wall. She wonders if he owns any clothes other than the outfit he’s wearing. She can even still discern the faint bloodstain on the cuff of his shirt from where he wiped his mouth two months ago. She’s not one to judge, though—she only owns two shifts and two petticoats herself.

“Good evening,” she says. Normally she’d have a cheekier greeting. After last visit, she feels he’s the type to respond well enough to it, but it’s not in her heart currently. “More of the same tonight?”

“That’s a bit presumptuous.”

“Pardon?”

“Is it not customary to allow your patron to decide on the night’s course of events?”

Artanis stares at him, bites her tongue, then lowers her eyes submissively. Her voice is tighter than she’d like. “My apologies. What then do you wish tonight, sir?”

Halbrand can easily sense the change in her, even if she’s trying to hide it. She’s upset. Not that he really minds, he appreciates a challenge every now and then.

“I think…”

But he does not finish. There’s a long silence before Artanis glances up and has to bite back a shriek. Halbrand is standing directly in front of her, eyes fixed intensely on her face. She leaps off the bed, almost colliding with him. She didn’t even hear him cross the room.

“What is this?” he demands, and she flinches when he raises a hand to her cheek. She moves away before he can touch her, turning so he can no longer discern the bruising and remaining swelling.

“It’s nothing.”

His eyes narrow. “Is that so?”

Artanis can’t explain the chill that winds its way down her spine.

“It was—it was just a drunkard.”

“Tell me his name.”

Artanis blinks, then glances at him, confused.

“Whose?”

“The man who did this to you,” he insists. “Surely you know who it was? The filth that generally frequent places such as this are well known to you, I’m sure.”

Artanis does know, actually, because the man who beat her is a regular of one of the other girls who happened to be busy when he came in, but she thinks Halbrand should be lumped into his own description, as well. His concern is as empty as the rest of them who feigned shock on her behalf. She knows how things are. Besides, none of this has anything to do with the fact he needs to go ahead and get his money’s worth tonight and leave so she can move onto the next trick who will also speciously exclaim their sympathy over her injured state. She’d rather them be honest about it than pretending to care about her. It makes her feel even lower than she usually does, and while she’s developed patience for it, after this past week she can’t be bothered to pretend.

“Why does it matter?” she asks, a little more sharply than she intends. “You’re here to fuck me just the same, aren’t you?”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Artanis chides herself. She’s overstepped. They’re not supposed to talk to clients that way. Before she can even fathom what’s happened, though, her back is suddenly against the wall, breath knocked from her lungs, and he’s standing against her, hand wrapped around her neck and angling her head back so she has no choice but to stare wide-eyed up at him. He’s taller, has to peer down his nose at her. His eyes aren’t that greenish-brown anymore, but she’s too startled to wonder why they’re so dark. He glares at her for a long moment, until his eyes drift down, lingering on her parted lips. He shifts his hand from around her neck to trace the delicate blue threads beneath her pale skin, imperceptible to her own eyes but vibrant to his, and which are now flushing with her discomfort. He feels the gradual heat of it under his fingers, the pounding of her increasing heart rate because he’s frightening her. It arouses him.

“Pull up your skirts.”

When Artanis only looks up at him, he tilts his head and cocks an eyebrow.

“That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” he mocks, voice low—ominous, almost. “I would have what I paid for.”

Anger flares in her chest. She boldly holds his gaze, lips set into a hard line. Any positive thoughts she may have had about him after his last visit are obviously gone. Artanis bunches two fistfuls of her skirts and slowly lifts them, exposing her stockinged legs to the cool air. She stiffens when he lowers his head to press his lips to the side of her neck, then lets out a breath when he slides his free hand between her legs. Despite the intimidation in his voice just moments before, Halbrand is gentle with her, stroking that little bundle of nerves, then dipping down to tease her entrance with his fingers.

“Have I offended you, Artanis?” he asks, no longer sounding so menacing, and nudging his face into the side of her neck. She isn’t sure, but suspects an undercurrent of amusement in his voice. “Pray tell how I may be forgiven.”

Artanis is unable to suppress a lilting moan when he abruptly slips two fingers inside her. She lifts up on her toes, eyelids fluttering closed when he curls them inside her to hit that sweet spot that, just for a moment, makes her legs go weak. He’s pressing wet, openmouthed kisses up and down her neck and over the top of her bare shoulder, raking lightly at her skin with the points of his teeth. Still those soft, unbearably languid circles around her bud with his thumb. Amused that despite her forced obstinance, she’s soaking wet for him.

“Shall I bring you the man’s head? Would that sate you?” Halbrand wonders. He withdraws his hand from between her legs, eliciting a pathetic whine from Artanis, trailing his slick fingers along her inner thigh, discerning with his fingertips the rushing heat of blood beneath her skin. Artanis flinches when he nips at the top of her shoulder with his teeth, just enough to sting—just enough to draw blood. He quickly soothes the spot with his tongue.

Artanis doesn’t know he is isn’t joking about the man’s head, but she can assume nothing else, of course. She forces a scoff, earning her an amused glance from Halbrand as he slides down her body, dragging his bared teeth across her warm skin, down between her breasts, down, down, until he’s on his knees in front of her and wrapping his hand around her upper thigh. He roughly hitches her leg up over his shoulder, opening her up. She can feel his breath on her skin, his nose skimming through the delicate curls on her mound, down until his lips brush against her. Artanis does her best to ignore the sensation of his tongue on her cunt, though admittedly it’s difficult. She makes no sound, just squeezes her skirts in her hands to quell the subtle trembling.

She doesn’t like how he spoke down to her, like they all do. Though she must admit she enjoyed their previous meetings, an ignoble personality sours everything else. But he paid for her body to indulge in this obscene fixation of his, so she can’t stand there and be so obvious about her repugnance. She can only imagine the tongue lashing from Madame Turmë if he leaves and expresses his displeasure with her petulance.

“Not good enough for you this time, princess?” he asks, glancing up at her in the dimness of the room, because she’s not being as vocal as usual. His lips are dripping red, eyes black. Indignation, not fear or discomfort, blooms inside her. She doesn’t enjoy being patronized.

“Don’t call me that,” she huffs, looking away.

He snorts. “I consider it to be a rather fitting term for bratty little girls such as yourself.”

Artanis wants to roll her eyes. Halbrand probably calls all the whores he visits that. Probably assumes they like it, thinks himself clever. He leans back in, but he doesn’t put his mouth on her. At least, not on her cunt. Artanis loudly gasps when there’s pain at her inner thigh, so sharp it’s like she’s touched a hot pan and wasn’t able to pull back quickly enough. She jerks against the wall, hands flying to his shoulders to dig her fingers in.

“Halb—oh!”

It hurts. A lot. She attempts to force him off of her, but he’s like stone between her legs, pinning her against the wall. She’s unable to even comprehend that he’s bit her before the burning melts into a soft, thrumming pleasure. Her shaky breath of surprise quickly cedes into quiet little pants. Halbrand tightens his grip on her leg over his shoulder, then wraps his other arm around her other leg and pulls her close, until only her upper back and head are in contact with the wall. Without thinking, her fingers drift up to curl in his hair.

The hammering of her heart is growing louder and louder in her ears, pounding everywhere in her body and especially between her legs. She can’t feel him licking or touching her, but he has to be, doesn’t he? She can feel something, he’s doing something—is it his tongue? She doesn’t know. Doesn’t really care, though, because the heat is spreading deliciously through her body, burning away all previous irritation and settling heavily into her arms and legs, making her weak, making her feel good. Tingling in her fingertips and toes, pulsing colors behind her closed eyelids as she moans quietly, punctuated by his own distant, breathless groan from between her thighs.

Artanis unthinkingly pushes her hips forward, hands moving to the back of his head because he’s not close enough. She wants more—of what, she doesn’t know, because it’s unlike anything she’s ever felt before, but she doesn’t know how to say it. Doesn’t even know if she can speak because her tongue is like lead in her mouth.

Her panting is getting louder and more desperate. Halbrand hasn’t even moved between her legs. He’s latched onto her, but the pleasure is so intense she still can’t tell what he’s doing. Is he licking her? Got his tongue inside her? He hasn’t made a sound in minutes. Has it been minutes, though? Maybe it’s just been a few seconds. Or an hour. Artanis doesn’t know. Can’t be bothered to care now. All she knows is that whatever he’s doing is fast urging her closer toward that precipice.

The muscles in her lower abdomen tightening and trembling, she’s arching her back and wanting to squirm against his mouth but his grip is so strong she’s locked in place. Those colors swimming behind her lids are vibrant now—blues and reds and greens, flashing and pulsing in time to her heartbeat, which is beating so hard that it’s almost painful.

When she comes seconds later, everything goes white. Artanis practically shrieks, shuddering hard and muscles going so taut they’re on the verge of cramping. This orgasm’s different. It’s not between her legs—it’s in her belly, deep in her core, clawing its way up into her chest which is heaving with each frantic breath. Deeper and deeper and it won’t let up and it’s almost agonizing now, but it’s the most exquisite agony and she never wants it to end—and then suddenly it can’t end soon enough. Halbrand is pushing harder into her, practically straining, digging his fingers so deep into her skin that his nails pierce her and it shatters the illusion.

Artanis cries out. She wants it to stop, need it to stop because it’s too much, but she thinks she’ll die if it does. She starts to cry, tears rolling down her face, whimpering his name. Suddenly there’s another sharp pain, like a knife cutting through the lights and the pleasure. Her legs go weak. She can’t hold herself up for another second, she’s going to fall—she jerks again, she’s on fire and she’s sobbing his name louder—then suddenly it’s gone.

Halbrand wrenches away from her and her dress falls back down to her ankles. Artanis is gasping for air, knees about to buckle, but by some miracle she manages to stay limply standing against the wall. Halbrand’s harsh breathing finally draws her unsteady gaze. He’s on the floor, propped up against the side of her bed, head tilted back over the edge; legs sticking out, hands resting limply between them. His mouth is hanging open and there’s blood running down his chin through his stubble, in rivulets over the front of his throat and staining his white shirt.

Warm blood trickles down the inside of her leg, but it doesn’t even cross Artanis’ mind that it’s not her monthly blood. Her knees finally give out and she slides down the wall. She’s cold, wonders why she’s sweating so much. Her clothes are suffocating despite the chill on her skin. She fumbles with the laces of her stays, fingers shaking so hard it takes her longer than it should to undo them. Once they’re thrown to the side she’s frantically tugging at the laces of her petticoat and then wrestling to get her chemise and stockings off until finally she’s kneeling naked on the floor.

Artanis.

Artanis furrows her brows, staring down at the grimy floorboards.

Come here.

She looks up without moving her head. He’s studying her now with a little more lucidity in his eyes, which are practically glowing. Did he say something? He sluggishly drags his hand over his leg to rest on the floor next to him. Taps his fingers on the wood, silently entreating her.

Come.

Artanis is too muddled to even wonder at how he’s talking to her without moving his blood-stained lips. All she knows is she feels him in her body, voice sliding smoothly over her mind; she wants to go to him. She leans forward and slowly crawls toward him, eyes fixed on his. When she reaches him, he lifts his arm and wraps it around her slim body, tugging her close to kiss her neck. She exhales softly, sinking wearily into his embrace. She doesn’t even remember her moodiness, or being annoyed at him. She’s nuzzling against him, loves the feel of his lips on her skin. She wants him.

Artanis drags her hand down his front, over his blood-stained shirt, down to the tops of his trousers. He’s hard beneath the fabric. She pulls away from him and gropes for his buttons; he watches on, lightly stroking her bare arm with the backs of his fingers until she frees his cock and yanks his trousers down enough so they don’t get in the way. She mounts him and straddles his lap, bracing her hands on his shoulders. Their faces are so close she can smell her blood on his breath, but it doesn’t repulse her. It only enflames her. She reaches down between them with one hand, grabbing his cock and positioning it at her entrance. She’s so wet that Halbrand slides in easily as she lowers herself onto him. She closes her eyes and allows her head to fall back, feels his body stiffen beneath hers and his breath deepen.

Halbrand splays his large hands on her hips, guiding her movements as she rides him. He leans forward, lazily kissing her chest and leaving faint blood smears because it still hasn’t dried on his lips yet. He takes her nipple into his warm mouth, sucks and nibbles on her as she rolls her hips, wanting him deeper. Hearing his harsh breaths against her skin, mingling with her pathetic, drawn-out moans, and the wet sucking sound of their joined bodies with each thrust of her hips.

It’s building inside her again already, she’s barely recovered from what he did to her up against the wall, winding tighter and tighter with each movement. She puts her hands on either side of his neck and pulls him off of her, looks at him and his half-lidded eyes in the dimness of the room. She doesn’t even think—she kisses him on the mouth.

Halbrand groans and immediately deepens the kiss, thrusting his tongue past her lips. Artanis thought her blood would taste worse. It’s not bad—just tangy. A little coppery. But the thought of it—of her own blood in her mouth, in his mouth, slathered all over his face and between her legs where his cock is now—it ignites something within her. She increases the cadence of her hips, taking him in even deeper and ignoring the way her knees ache from digging into the hard floor. She tears her mouth from his, breathless, and braces her arms behind her on his thighs.

She comes soon after. Artanis throws her head back, arching against him as her release consumes her. She whines loudly when he pulls her hips harder against him, filling her so completely that she winces. It’s not as good as the orgasm he gave her against the wall, but she’s not complaining. Halbrand watches her as she comes on his cock, eyes drifting down to her exposed throat daubed in blood, long sweaty tendrils of her pretty, silvery gold hair sticking to her flushed pink skin. He runs his hands reverently over her body, feeling it contracting around him, and he moves her hips because she’s stopped moving and he was close, too. Artanis is gasping for air, eyes squeezed shut as she rides out the last waves, and Halbrand thrusts his hips upward into her, when he spills himself deep inside her with a groan. Artanis whimpers; she can feel his cock twitching inside her, filling her, so much that it’s already seeping out of her and back onto him.

She sags against him, attempting to catch her breath. Though she’s lightheaded, at the same time everything seems a bit sharper, like she’s just emerged from a sort of fog. Halbrand caresses her back, fingers lazily running up and down the ridges of her spine. At last she sits back on his lap, looks down at him, all the dried blood around his mouth and neck and staining his shirt. He’s never been so messy before. Why is there so much blood? Surely all of that didn’t come out of her?

“Am I forgiven?” he asks.

Artanis suppresses a small smile. She takes his face gently between her hands and tenderly kisses him, pressing her forehead to his when she finally withdraws.

“I’ll take your silence as a yes,” he concludes, earning him another little grin. Artanis lifts her leg and moves off of him, settling against the bed similarly. She rests her head on the edge, can feel him leaking out of her onto the floor, but she’s too tired to go clean up right now. When she sighs, he cocks an eyebrow and studies her in the dimness of the room.

“What do you do?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“How do you make your living?”

“I was a smith.”

“Was?”

“Yes, it means in the past.”

Artanis presses her lips together, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

“So what do you do now?”

“It varies from moment to moment.”

“Not a talkative one, are you?” she observes, watching as he stands up. She stiffens when he leans down and hooks his arms under her knees and around her waist, then easily lifts her into the air and deposits her on the bed. He divests himself of the rest of his clothing and slips naked into the bed next to her. This is new. Typically after he fucks her he’ll get dressed and leave. Does he intend to fuck her again? Why else would he stay?

“Enough about me,” Halbrand dismisses, turning on his side and propping his head up with one hand. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“How did a fine young woman such as yourself come to grace such an illustrious establishment?”

Artanis bites back a sardonic laugh. “My uncle sold me to the mistress when I was ten and three years.”

He says nothing, so she continues, even though she thinks he probably doesn’t actually care. None of them ever have and none of them ever will.

“My entire family died from fever. All that was left was Uncle Fëanor. He didn’t want a daughter, though. The responsibility. So he put me here. Drank himself to death not long after.”

“A fitting end.”

Artanis gives a little shrug. She picks at a loose thread on the sheet.

“And this,” Halbrand says, reaching out to ghost a finger over her bruised cheek. “How often does this happen?”

“Not often.”

“How often is ‘not often?’”

“Just a handful of times since I’ve been here.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Ten and nine years.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

Halbrand doesn’t say anything immediately, just rolls onto his back.

“What of the world have you seen?” he finally asks, changing the subject yet again.

“None. I’ve never set foot outside Gondolin.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes, well it’s a bit difficult to travel for pleasure when you’ve got no money.”

“Do you desire to leave?”

“Leave the house or leave Gondolin?”

“Either.”

Artanis is quiet for a long moment. She’s thought about leaving the house, certainly, but has never really thought about leaving the city. It’s never even been remotely plausible, so what’s the point?

“The house,” she admits. She feels odd saying it to a client, that she’d rather be out there doing anything else than fucking men like him. He did ask, though. Luckily he doesn’t seem to be offended. He probably expected that answer.

“What would you do if you left?”

She shrugs again, eyes lingering on the blood crusted in his close-cropped beard. “I don’t know. There’s not many opportunities for girls like me, you know.”

They do not speak again for a while. He seems to be comfortable with silence, but so is she, so they lay there until Artanis becomes concerned that Madame Turmë is going to bust through the door and demand when he’s going to leave because surely it’s been a couple of hours by now and she’s got johns with money waiting.

Artanis hesitantly voices her concern in a way that doesn’t seem pushy.

“You’ve not stayed this long before.”

“I’ll stay as long as I like,” Halbrand responds dryly, not looking at her. “I pay enough to keep you all day and all night for a full week.”

Artanis’ mouth falls open. He pays that much for her? “Why don’t you, then?”

She’s known arrangements like that, but never for a full week. She had a man pay for her for three days once and she lived in his house on the other side of the city and let him fuck her at all hours of the day, do with her whatever he wanted.

“I don’t think there would be anything left of you at the end of it,” Halbrand replies. Artanis looks down. His voice has lost its edge of humor.

“But why?” she wonders, confounded.

Halbrand raises up and moves to hover over her, supporting himself with his arms on either side of her body. His soft brown hair frames his face, where a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. He cocks his head and trails a fingertip contemplatively down her cheek, then across her bottom lip.

“Have you ever tasted yourself?”

She’s indeed tasted her own juices before, when a man fingered her or fucked her and then made her suck it afterwards.

“Yes.”

“Not that. Your blood.”

Artanis did taste it earlier when she kissed him, but she’s not sure if he’d count that. Her stomach tightens when his hand drifts down her body, causing her skin to dot in gooseflesh, until he slips his fingers between her legs. He doesn’t touch her, really, just slides his fingers through her slick folds to collect that wet mixture of her arousal and blood and his seed.

“I wish you could taste yourself as I do, Artanis,” he murmurs. “You cannot truly appreciate it.”

Artanis has no words. Her eyes are fixed on his, that intense golden green stare. Where did her reticence go? He lifts his hand back up. His first three fingers are slicked red; the first finger he lightly traces over her bottom lip, before sticking them into his mouth to suck clean just inches from her face. When his fingers are devoid of blood or arousal, he lowers his head and kisses her, slow and gentle. She responds eagerly, tasting herself on his tongue, and can feel his cock hardening against her leg. Her blood isn’t disgusting, but she didn’t think it disgusting before when she kissed him, either. That doesn’t mean she understands why he acts drunk after he goes down on her, though. It can’t be that good.

Artanis’ breath hitches when he parts her legs with his and slides into her. He doesn’t quite fuck her—just moves indolently above her, running his hands over her body, kissing her sweat-damp skin, breathing heavily against her. She lays there, lets him touch her and move inside her. She’s warm all over, building to that peak. When she’s about to come, he grabs her by the throat and forces her to look up at him, growls at her that he wants to see her face when he makes her come—and see it he does. Watches her eyes roll back in her head so she can’t see that animalistic gleam in his eye, her mouth fall open to reveal red-tinged teeth and tongue, and to hear the tantalizing moan that spills from her lips as her cunt clenches around him. Halbrand is almost immediately urged into his own release.

He hovers above her for some time, grazing his nose along the side of her face, brushing his lips over her flushed cheeks, and only pulling out when he goes soft inside her. She mewls, stretches languidly on the bed beneath him. Halbrand’s eyes skim down her naked body, lingering on the plentiful blood smears crusted all over her pale skin that she’s so blissfully unaware of—on her neck and chest, on her lower belly and hips and practically coating her inner thighs. He was messy tonight, but she didn’t notice. Does she even know he bit her? By the silly smile on her face, he suspects not.

His gaze flickers back up to her face. Her blue eyes, the color of a diamond sky he can’t even pretend to visualize anymore because it’s been so long since he’s seen one, are fixed on him. Her long, pale blonde hair is bunched under her head like a pillow, fanned out over the sheets. Her breathing quiets, grows deeper as he drags his fingers down her body until they delve between her legs again. She makes a tiny sound in the back of her throat, slightly lifts her hips as he touches her.

What’s one more taste, he thinks, and Artanis raises up on her elbows to watch him descend once more, softly kissing all the way down. She lets her head fall back, combs one hand through his hair as he settles once more between her legs, which she’s opened unquestioningly. Winces when there’s that sharp pain again, but only for a moment, and her eyelids are so heavy now she can’t be bothered to open them. Halbrand laps at her weeping inner thigh, then latches on, settling his descended fangs into her soft flesh, into the indents he made earlier. Raw pleasure courses through her veins, settling heavily inside once again, pressing her into the bed, pulsing colors and red stars filling her with warmth until it all goes blissfully dim.

__

Artanis wakes slowly. She cracks her eyes open and licks her dry lips, wincing when immediately her mouth is filled with the taste of iron. She lays there for a while, wondering why her body aches all over. She finally rolls out of bed, completely naked, and unsteadily pads over to her desk. The light of day is peeking through the slats in the shutters. It must be noon or so. Surely Madame Turmë didn’t leave her alone after Halbrand left? Was he her last john? It hadn’t even been halfway through the night when he came.

She throws open her shutters, letting in the chilly air, then grabs her mirror and studies her tiny, cracked reflection. Her heart falls. There’s blood crusted thickly on her swollen lips, a dried trickle down her chin and the front of her throat. Is it her own? It must be. But then she notices something else. The bruise that had just last night colored half her cheek and around her eye, was completely gone. It’s then when she feels the crusting between her legs. Artanis hikes a leg up onto her stool and looks down. Her stomach drops. There’s a clear imprint of teeth at her inner thigh, nestled in the midst of a very large and nasty-looking bruise, and below all the way down to her calf is a gruesome smear of dark blood. She lightly touches the wound, running her fingertip over her tender, torn skin. Artanis’ thoughts are so muddled, she can’t fathom it. He bit her?

She falls back onto her bed. The sweet ache lingering between her legs isn’t so sweet anymore. Now she can perceive the sting of his teeth upon her skin again, heart beating more loudly in her ears with the realization. He didn’t go down on her. He drank from her. And she fucked him afterwards and then he fucked her again and drank from her again.

Artanis feels sick. She doesn’t know why the thought of him feeding from her body makes her want to vomit when the thought of him feeding on her monthly blood doesn’t. That’s just a fetish. Lots of men have them. She’s heard of this one before, where a man likes to fuck women when they’re bleeding. Less commonly to go down on them. He doesn’t have to hurt her to do that, though. Doesn’t have to use his teeth to rip her skin open until her blood comes out.

She begins to shake. She fetches her chemise from the floor, yanks it on, and then wraps herself tightly in her shawl, but it doesn’t help. She can picture his eyes in her mind now. Green and brown and gold, so gold sometimes it’s unnatural. So dark sometimes he resembles an animal.

Artanis wonders if he’ll return next month and keep with his clear schedule. She hopes not. What will she do if he comes back? What will she say? What does one say to a creature that looks like a man but drinks blood and has admitted that of all the blood he’s tasted, she’s his favorite? Artanis can’t help it. She lurches forward and vomits the meager contents of her stomach onto the floorboards. Of course he’ll come back. Knows he’ll want another taste because he said it himself—she tastes the best.