Work Text:
You’d been part of a traveling dance group for a few years when they’d come across the small, devout village. At first, you had all thought it was abandoned - the overgrown fields and destroyed houses. It had come as a surprise when a pair of women had walked out to meet your caravan - and an even bigger surprise to find the villagers to be welcoming. Ultimately, you’d decided to stay and put on a short week of performances for the village in exchange for some food and housing in one of the abandoned lots.
On the third day, your group had been invited up to the castle to perform for the mysterious family that lived there - a regal woman and her three daughters, all more otherworldly than the last. To the group’s pleasant surprise, you’d been invited to stay a few days and make use of the castle. It had been a welcome change to the wagons and stalls you’d all become accustomed to. So, despite the hesitation and reluctance from some of the more cautious of the group, you’d all agreed.
The first night had gone wonderfully and you’d been paid with a healthy dinner at a large banquet table. The food and happy atmosphere going miles to soothe any worries some held. The worries came back as throughout the next few days, people in the group started to randomly go missing until slowly it was just a few of you remaining - alive, at least.
By this point you’d all realized what was going on, had seen the cages and cells in the basement. The bodies hanging from the rafters. You’d found them while looking for a means of escape - all the main exits had been closed off. During your attempted escape your last few companions had all met with their own terrible fates until you’d been the only one remaining - cornered in a large library. Lucky for you, the ladies of the house had taken a liking to you and thusly offered you a choice: Work for them or face the same fate as your fellow dancers. You had always been a survivor at heart, and so found the choice to be surprisingly easy.
The next few days found you staying with the other servants, learning to adjust to your new normal. You didn't stay there for long though - Lady Dimitrescu would frequently call you up to one of her rooms to dance for her. At first, you’d been foolishly hopeful - that the favor bestowed on you meant you’d be left alive that much longer. You were well aware of the life span most servants in the house had - if they weren’t devoured than they were experimented on. You weren’t sure which was worse.
You’d learned quickly, however; what being favored actually entailed. Standing on a tiny stage in the corner of a room and dancing for hours to whatever music had caught her fancy that evening. Some of the songs you knew - already had a dance for, others you were forced to improvise. She’s have you go for hours and hours, glancing over every so often and throwing out a comment - sometimes pleasant others terrifying.
You’d dance until you'd finally collapse down onto the hardwood, legs completely useless. Then, she'd look over and laugh, stepping up to walk over and pick you up with one arm, holding you up to look you over, "Oh, mica dansatoare, is that all I can get from you today, hm?" Her tone was always deceptively sweet and caring.
The first few times, you'd foolishly agreed with the sentiment, hoping she'd send you back to your own quarters to rest, and then eventually you'd just apologize. But now, you'd learned the appropriate - the only - answer to give, "No, I can do whatever you need of me."
Her answering smile, pleased and poised, never failed to stir a reaction out of you - equal mix of fear and anticipation - as she carries you into the next room. Her private bedroom. She walked you past the oversized dress form and vanity, over to her large four-poster bed. The sheets were familiar to you - you'd changed them out just that morning. The previous ones had gone to the castle incinerator, the blood impossible to remove.
She tosses you onto the bed carelessly, most of your body laid across it while you legs fell towards the floor. She pulled the vanity chair over and sat down in front of you. Her large hands found their way between your legs, pulling one to the side to pin down against the bed. She leans forwards and her ever-present hat obscures your view for a moment but you know well what she's doing - what's about to occur.
It was always the thighs - those belonged to her, she would said. Your femoral artery her favorite to drink from. The rest of you, her daughters could play with as they pleased, but the thighs were left for her.
First, you feel her hand trace along a deep, familiar scar. The first one she’s given to you - back when you’d attempted to escape her grasp. That had been the first and last night you’d begged her to stop. You’d favor her sharp teeth over her long claws any day.
Next, her familiar tongue gave a long swipe across your inner thigh, hitting against the multitude of little scars and scabs that spread across. Even when she wasn’t aiming to mark you skin with a reminder she still left her mark. Eventually, she settles against a spot a little further down, one free of any bruise or bite. The deep breath you hear her take in is your only warning as she bites down hard against your thigh, deceptively sharp teeth breaking your skin. Your own breath hitches, the sting of pain familiar to you by now; though, your legs are still so weary and tired from your earlier dance you couldn't pull away even if you wanted to.
And you didn't want to, not anymore. Your body had long since betrayed you to pleasure. Sometimes - on the rare nights where she or her daughters chose to ignore you in favor of some other play thing - you found your body aching with the absence of teeth and pain. Those were the nights you hated the world the most.
You lay there, eyes tracing across the patterns on the ceiling, as you feel her take her fill of you. Time beginning to blend as the familiar lightheadedness fills you - blood loss resulting in all of your senses turning fuzzy until the only thing you can focus on is the feel of her lips against your thigh.
Finally minutes (hours? days?) later, she pulls back, lips a smeared, bright red, "As delicious as always." You don't respond to the compliment - knowing its not so much for you as it is for your blood. You doubt she even knows your name - just the taste of your blood and sway of your hips. You were nothing more to her then a living, breathing wine glass.
You feel her lean over you, reaching out to cup you behind your head and sit you back up. Her wet thumb presses against your lips and you tilt your head back to make it easier for her to spread the red against your own lips, the metallic taste familiar by now.
Her thumb was quickly replaced by her own lips and now the blood is all you taste. You let her kiss you, spreading your lips at the appropriate time to allow her to slide her tongue between. It swipes against your teeth and now the taste of wine is there, too. Just as you come back to yourself and manage to build the energy to finally move and reciprocate she pulls back, nails scratching against you as she gathers your hair and tilts your head to the side. Her mouth finds its way to your neck, right above where you know your artery to be. She's never bitten you there before; but you know it was only a matter of time - it was something she liked to tease you with every so often. The threat (promise) of ripping into your neck and consuming you whole.
This time, just like all the last, she refrains. Only sits her teeth against your skin for a few moments before pulling back with a groan. Looking down at you, disgust swimming in the depths of her eyes, she spits out a, "I'm not done playing with you quite yet. Maybe tomorrow." It's something she says every time. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’
Using the leverage she has on you already, she moves you both further onto the bed, laying you against the line of pillows there. She sits up then, dwarfing you embarassingly easily, and brings a hand back down between your legs, this time resting on the opposite, but still just as bitten, thigh. She reaches a finger up, and you can feel the sharp tip of her nail sliding against your sex as she says, "For tonight though, I have quite the plans for you."