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lewis-winters · 2 years

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Day 7: Routine

So far into October and this is the first spoopy entry into my OC-tober challenge? Gasp, a disgrace! Even more so than me cheating and repurposing an old drabble for my own nefarious schemes.

tw: implied child sexual abuse, prostitution, and rape-- only a line or two for all that, but it's there; vampires and all that (bloody) entails

Every night, upon her waking, Talbert dresses her.

They haven't truly talked about it, not in depth. Not after Natalie had given him the rundown of his duties as her familiar, from finding and luring her unsuspecting prey, to serving as her mirror, doing half the work of making her presentable in order to entice and ensnare all those who were unfortunate enough to fall under her spell. In the beginning, a part of her wondered if perhaps a male familiar would find ladies' fashion to be quite difficult to grasp; he, after all, was a proper man’s man, not even a dandy to inspire confidence in any of his skills past all his gentlemanly training. Shooting, hand to hand combat, and boot shining. But Talbert had proven her wrong. Perhaps adept at the dressing of women due to his time spent undressing many to begin with, Natalie had found that, like everything about him, his eye for color and style was near impeccable, and after a few weeks he'd learned all her preferences and felt brave enough to expand beyond her set horizons.

With him, her corsets were never too tight or too loose. Her skirts, always full. And her hair, having been the one thing she'd struggled so long with due to her sorry lack of a reflection, now had a shine to it that, in the gentle moonlight, made it look like spun gold— an observation that she bases entirely on what she's heard poor, clueless men tell her. Talbert, on the other hand, never says anything. He prefers, instead, to step close just to smell it, touch it, care for it, both within their home and when they are out and about, hunting or fabricating closeness for the sake of their marriage ruse. Though he never boasts about it—no doubt in respect for the absolutely dismal state in which he’d found her in—his inability to stay away betrays all of his pride for his handiwork. Natalie allows him some of that vanity, for he is a quick study, and Natalie herself is pleased with his service.

After the initial briefing, no further clarification was needed, and the subject of nudity and the casual intimacy that comes with his duties was never brought up again, any awkwardness immediately melting into nightly routine. Natalie wakes upon the setting of the sun, Talbert fetches her from coffin, and then quietly, efficiently, dresses her for the hunt.

Or, so she tells herself.

His hands shake, sometimes—not with fear. Or with barely concealed disgust. Her keen nose picks up neither of those scents when he not-so accidentally brushes her bare skin, skimming the line of her arm, the smooth planes of her torso as he helps shroud her in the white linen of her chemise. Instead, he reeks of a sort of excitement; arousal and reverence all balled into one. In awe, perhaps, of a creature as powerful as this, making herself pliable and agreeable enough to be his doll in this endeavor. His fingers linger too often—his eyes do, too. Gaze substituting for touch, or vice versa, the weight of both so equal, often times she can barely tell the difference. Buttons on the back of her blouses seem to take eternity to finish, his deft fingers easily distracted by the sweet smell of her hair, whose scent seems to put him in a trance every time, he can barely find the right holes, inching discreetly forward until his chest is pressed to her back, lips inches away from the sensitive skin of her nape, or the tender skin behind the shell of her ear. Sometimes, when he feels bold, he'll leave her stockings and boots for last, kneeling as she sits upon the great red velvet seat he so loves to pamper her in, letting the pads of his fingers stroke the curve of her calf as he pulls her stocking up, up, up, searing a warm line across her skin until it ends with a purposeful caress on the sensitive inside of her thigh. Then, carefully and with great concentration, he’d take his time doing up all her ribbons, from her garters to her boots, into impeccable bows. Once finished, he'd smile at her, dark blue eyes alight.

"Mistress," he'll say, like the word itself is another name for God. Like he should be whispering it into her ear while he takes her, fucks her into the bed with his hands cradling her throat. "My Lady Morse."

Leave it to her familiar to make the act of dressing as seductive as undressing.

Not that Natalie is flustered. Not at all. Though effective on human women, these tactics don't particularly faze her. Not when she knows that it certainly isn't of his own volition, and that if it is, then it's simply a very sloppy means to an end. Talbert isn't the first familiar to look at her like that. Being a creature of the night brings about its own kind of seduction, a particular hypnosis made quite useful in the ensnaring of prey. Humans gravitate toward Natalie like moths to an open flame, and familiars are the foolhardiest of them all, with ambitions to become something bigger and more powerful than their paper wings can carry.

But a familiar is to be rewarded, after all, if their time in the service does not kill them first. Talbert is to become a vampire yet, if Natalie were to find him worthy; and though she has always been a creature of her word, turning many of her familiars upon the tenth winter of their time with her, that has not stopped a great number of them from batting their eyelashes and attempting to seduce her into giving them what they want early.

They always leave once they get it.

Of all of her kind here in New York City, Natalie has learned to deal with the melancholy of goodbye the most. ---

At the end of each night, Talbert undresses her.

This part should be easy—Natalie has always been a messy eater, and every night the blood on her clothes is certainly enough of a reminder to her familiars that she is more than just a pretty thing, a means to an end. Those days are long gone. She's a monster, now. Stronger, faster, infinitely more dangerous than any of them can fathom. No matter how long they've been in her service, watching their wide eyes unable to meet her gaze has always given her some level of satisfaction.

Other times, the foolish ones will look upon her with a hunger of their own, craving the power that runs through her veins and the strength that makes her stand as tall as she does. To them, she is predator, but predator open and vulnerable enough for the taking, if they somehow managed to force her into submission. Those familiars, she never deems worth keeping around, too similar to those from a dozen or so lifetimes ago, with their rough hands, chapped lips, and sharp blade on parts of her she would have never offered to them willingly. Those familiars' blood tastes the most bitter; she never swallows more after the initial bite.

It was much more satisfying watching them slowly bleed out by her feet.

In the beginning, Talbert had fallen in the first camp. Averting his gaze as his shaking hands carefully rid her of the evidence of her meal, mournfully bringing ruined garments to the fire if unsalvageable, and setting aside those that could still be saved. But like his initial clumsiness, that too faded away quickly, and in its place grew a new sort of gaze that she has never quite experienced before—a sort of respectful aversion, like a gentleman might have for a lady. Or a husband for his new bride. The distinction makes her laugh, sometimes. What they are to each other has far transcended that, surely?

Now, he takes her clothes off with less care for the garments themselves, and more for the body that lay beneath. Again, his fingers retrace their earlier steps, the certainty of their caress as reassuring as the gentleness of his gaze, the simple murmurs of observation he makes, about loose buttons and mused muslin. Crushed silk and stained velvet. The blood barely fazes him, now, which Natalie garners some great disappointment from, but she does not let her confusion on the matter stop him from disrobing her until she, once again, stands before him. Naked, devoid of any armor. Any shield. Vulnerable as she had started, once again pliable and agreeable in his hands.

Some nights, quite like tonight, he bathes her.

This part, she likes. Though large bodies of water make her uncomfortable, stirring within her a primal kind of fear that is deeper and older than any of her centuries’ worth of understanding of her existence; still, warm water in elegant, porcelain tubs, smelling faintly of lavender and eucalyptus salts and soaps, has quickly become one of her most favorite things. And to think, she'd lived in a time when baths were only taken once a month for hygiene's sake. A preposterous idea—thank God for modern science. The idea of her past filth makes her want to bathe every day.

She says as much to him, earning her a laugh. "I know you can take the form of a great grim—but can a vampire become a fish?" he asks her in return. Natalie gives him a flick of water in lieu of a reply. Talbert laughs some more.

He handles the sponge expertly; delicately, as to not rub at her skin, but hard enough to thoroughly scrub the dirt off her, leaving her feeling soft and sweet smelling. His fingers, neither rough nor limp, dig into the parts of her that ache with stiffness—her shoulder blades, the lower parts of her back—and she allows herself to melt into his hold. At times, when really called for, he massages oils into her scalp, running those talented fingers through the locks of her hair until finally, he rinses her off. Holds the back of her head with one hand, carefully lowering her into the water, while the other lays, innocuously, upon her chest. A baptism, of sorts. Natalie closes her eyes.

No other familiar has seen her with her eyes closed before.

But then again, no other familiar has ever left her feeling so thoroughly cleansed like Talbert.

Often, when Natalie rises to the surface and opens her eyes, she catches him staring at her. A softness in his gaze that both confuses and scares her in equal measure. At first, she'd wondered if maybe she should punish him for such insolence, but later on found it to be harmless. For whatever softness he must have for her will no doubt be forgotten the second he'd earned his own fangs. Let the boy look, let Natalie revel in his warmth. At least one day, when the beating of his pulse will be replaced with silence, the memory of his heat will remain with her until the ravages of time chose to take that, too.

Talbert wipes her down once she steps out of the tub, helps her again into her simple nightgown, hands warm against the chill of her newly washed skin, and holds her hand until she is safe in her coffin, looking up at his silhouette haloed by the gentle candlelight.

"Sleep well, mistress," he says, reaching down to run a finger over the gentle curve of Natalie's cheek. She closes her eyes to the sensation. "I will be here when you wake."

He lowers the lid. And Natalie sleeps.

#stella's oc-tober 2022 #natalie morse #floyd talbert #people like us #gilded age vampire au #this is an old drabble that fit the prompt so i fixed it up some and posted it ehehe #happy spoopy season #estrella_marie

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