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.