Chapter Text
November was a slow month for being a seamstress in Castle Dimistrescu.
Lady Dimitrescu’s daughters, Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela in sibling hierarchy order were your most lucrative clients, always bringing you something to fix or extra bits to add, such as pockets and belt loops. However, it was now very, very cold in Romania, barring the three from leaving the castle due to their significant weakness to sub-zero temperatures and since they could no longer wreak havoc in the surrounding forestry of the castle, it meant there were almost 50% less rips and tears for you to sew up. You couldn’t possibly count, even if you had infinite fingers and toes (which would be quite useful) how many ‘rogue branch rips’ or RBR’s as you had now dubbed them, you had sewn up since the start of the year alone. So now that your favourite little murder trio were stuck indoors, it meant you had much more time on your hands.
Not that you minded being busy. You understood now what was meant by the phrase ‘idle hands make the devil’s work’. You weren’t particularly a god-fearing person, any of them for that matter, not even the Black God and Mother Miranda that the denizens of your small hometown worshipped – especially with your sapphic tastes that had kind of earnt you your position in the castle. More on that later though. You had more time on your hands than you knew what to do with, which meant more daydreaming and wandering thoughts. That spelled disaster with your employer, the infamous wine maker and matriarch of Castle Dimitrescu, being the sex on 4.8 feet high legs that she was. You would have said - as a sensible answer - that you worked as Castle Dimitrescu’s seamstress for the money, but you did nothing with it. You were an only child and your parents had suddenly died when you were young, from some illness that was prone that winter. After that, you had been taken in by the town’s seamstress business – run by a grisly old woman who taught you everything you knew but forbade you from curating new pieces. You were less than a tailor in that squalid little shop, Yes Ma’am and Thank you Ma’am being the only words you ever spoke, otherwise the horrid bat would bar you from eating that night, as punishment. So, apart from buying a couple new tools from the Duke and ordering fabrics you never spent most of your wages.
The realistic answer would have been…The women.
You knew from an early age that your favoured company was the fairer sex. This was something that you were oft punished for, either being starved or pricked by pins whenever your dastardly adoptive mother passed by. You could’ve sworn she almost killed you after finding out you had made a dress from scratch and forgotten fabrics for the baker’s daughter. So, with all the rumours that made the rounds from ‘the pale dragon’s lair’ about girls being taken and never returning to your village and the ‘pale dragon’ herself stalking fair maidens at night – it sounded like pure heaven compared to the hell you woke every day to.
And then suddenly, it was real.
One day a fear-stricken maiden tumbled down the steep hill from Castle Dimitrescu and barrelled into your little shop. You were ordered upstairs the moment she passed the threshold – baring the infamous Dimitrescu crest upon her bosom. You couldn’t help but stare at it as you walked up the rickety staircase, beautiful and tempting admist the grey concrete walls you called “home”. You waited patiently, growing more nervous as more time passed until the jingle of coin and the hag who fed you screeching your name startled you to your feet.
You had been bought and sold. Like commerce. And you couldn’t have been happier.
You should have been ashamed, but the three daughters as you had come to love were shameless in their pursuit of women – especially Daniela. You had once gone to deliver a new dress directly to her room, leaving it on her bed when you came face to face with bookshelves, floor to ceiling with salacious femslash novels. “Her dripping wetness” this and “She threw her head back” that; you simply couldn’t stop yourself from flipping through a few pages. Which is, of course, when the owner of this downright pornographic collection walked in, discovering you as a blushing lump on her bed and henceforth knowing your similar tastes. That little mishap had incidentally made your integration to the castle all the easier, though you would never dare thank Daniela for it. The three sisters now knew how easily it was to embarrass you and whenever they were in need of dire entertainment, it was you they came to find.
Pushing the memory aside, you settled into your cushioned chair by your desk, a crackling fireplace providing a decent atmosphere for a cushty daydream, which you were just about to settle into when-
-Knock, knock knock!
“Come in Bela.” You hummed, curled up in your chair. You knew it was her, because the girl was a carbon copy of her mother – in terms of values and mannerisms. Hence, her knocking. Daniela and Cassandra didn’t give you that courtesy, barging in unannounced. You stayed relaxed – out of the three she was the least likely to use your thin resolve for sport.
You were just sewing up the finishing touches to the newest horse saddle that Cassandra had requested. ‘Loads of pockets and loops for my weapons and extra straps for carrying back prey!’ She had ordered, in a messily scribbled note left on your desk, when Bela entered.
She glided into the room with grace, as to be expected of the eldest daughter. The door closed behind the blonde quietly and upon seeing your hunched up frame, she tutted.
“Your posture is going to cause you back problems before you reach 50.”
Bela hovered around to you, using her still surprising strength to mold you into a proper, upright position. You groaned at this, earning a restrained sigh from the heiress. Then, to give the daughter your full attention, you tied off the thread and bit it clean, placing the saddle on the clear part of your desk and popping the needle back in its pot, with its 4 other siblings. Slowly turning in your chair, you faced Bela.
“What do you need Lady Bela?” You asked in a put on sickly-sweet ‘maiden’ voice. You did so with a knowing smirk and watched as Bela’s primrose-coloured eyes did a full 180 into her skull.
“Ugh, you know not to call me that. Otherwise, I’ll start calling you Head Seamstress.” Bela huffed, giving you a pointed look.
The thought of the girls using your official title made your body go cold. You had made such progress with them since starting in the castle, from ice to a warm flame. The irony of that was not lost on you. Considering you had none of your own, they had become family and you treated them as such – fixed their clothes even in the early dawn, made them new pieces as a gift, fixed cloth furniture that Cassandra had torn with her sickle before her mother noticed. So, you were on first name basis strictly with them now, with no take backs.
“Okay! Okay, no Lady Bela, I apologise. But truly, what dress does Dani need fixing now?”
Bela pulled a face, one that seemed a little sheepish. Oh, it had to be bad, maybe only a few scraps left for you to piece together? It was winter – how on earth could something be so bad that the neutral faced Bela turned sheepish? Clearly your lack of a poker face, fuelled by your flurrying thoughts betrayed you, and Bela sprung into diffusing your worries.
“No! No no, it isn’t like that, I assure you. It is more um… for Mother.”
Oh.
“She has a bit of a uh…hoarding…problem.”
Oh?
From the inside pocket of her cloak, a design feature you had installed yourself after numerous complaints from the girls, Bela produced an alarming amount of brown but completely shredded leather gloves. The Lady’s leather gloves.
Ohh…this was going to be interesting.
The first time you saw the Lady’s claws, as bitingly sharp and as grippingly dark as obsidian, you had understood why she chose to wear gloves all live long day. There had been an intruder inside the castle, a man-thing (the term had grown on you and even in your limited experience of the male species, it had become unsurprisingly accurate). You had been on your way to the kitchens to gather your lunch when you heard gunshots in the foyer, causing you to rush over, brandishing a steel food tray you had nabbed from a discarded maids’ cart. Arriving just in time, you saw the powerful matriarch skewer the bastard with her claws, holding him in the air as blood rained on the tile. Your skilled seamstress eye noticed there were burnt bullet holes in the Lady’s dress, something you’d have to fix up later, but the bullets were crushed up at her feet, not a single mark on the woman’s alabaster skin. You let out a relieved sigh that the commotion was over and that no one had been harmed, not even bothered by the violence in front of you. This incident had happened a few months after your initial arrival, and you had soon grown accustomed to their eating habits. You simply didn’t think of it as your business. The women were clearly higher up on the food chain than humans like yourself and if that was their diet, so be it. They were good to you and other staff around you and as long as the ‘food’ was acquired as peacefully as possible – you didn’t find it in you to care. That, and they had treated you much better than most people. So, you were apathetic towards it. Not my circus, not my monkeys.
Suffice to say, your almost positive reaction to the scene had definitely cemented your good rapport with the girls. Daniela had even cooed at your ‘sweet little human’ attempt at protecting the castle with a tray, causing you to blush deeply. With a sick thud, the man-thing’s body dropped to the floor as the Lady sheathed her claws. Thinking back on it, you could see peeks of ashen pearly skin peeking through the slits in the leather. You had thought nothing of it back then, but now your heart sank a little. The poor woman was holding onto destroyed gloves. You wondered why? You had worked at the castle for a long while now and had never been brought gloves till now. Why now?
You tilted your head, rising from your desk to meet Bela. Although the girls were at least 6”, you didn’t do too badly genetics wise yourself – from Bela, your head came up to roughly her chin. Not too bad. Height politics aside, you reached out, taking the gloves gently in your hands. You analysed them: Most were ripped to shreds from the fingertips, and a few were especially old, the leather almost disintegrating in your hands.
“There must be around 30 pairs here Bela, and I’m guessing this isn’t all of them. I am definitely not judging your mother but…any explanation you can give me here?” You asked the blonde.
“To be completely honest, I don’t know. All I do know is that she holds onto the gloves until she runs out. Which is what has happened,” Bela explained to you, her voice quiet but still matter of fact. “So, Mother needs you to make an order of new gloves. At least 30 pairs, if that is alright?” Bela smiled at you, again a little sheepishly. You chuckled, taking the gloves back to your desk and placing them in a particular drawer. You smiled back, a full and pleased smile at being able to aid your surrogate family.
“I’d be more than happy to, Bela. Though, the gloves I have aren’t a good example to base my pattern from. Do you have measurements from the last seamstress?” You ask.
Truly, you daren’t say it out loud but the gloves given to you by Bela were in such a state that it would be a totally inaccurate nightmare to try and piece together Lady Dimitrescu’s hand size. And it put your brain into a tiny, flustered mess even thinking about doing the measurements yourself. Trying to measure your Lady’s hand size while she stared at you with those molten gold eyes of hers? Devouring you whole? It simply couldn’t happen.
“We do…not.”
“Oh, great gods Bela.”
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Your hands danced nervously by your sides as you waited outside of Lady Dimitrescu’s office door. You weren't stalling per se - just working out what exactly you were going to say in order to not make a flaming embarrassment of yourself. Easy. Collecting yourself, you raised a fist to the mahogany door and knocked thrice.
“Enter.” The rich, full bodied voice of Lady Dimitrescu permeated the air, and you gently cursed beneath your breath. The room you walked into was definitely a reflection of the woman's expensive tastes. Maximalist designs, ornate coverings, and wall decorations everywhere - gold and dark wood combining deliciously. It made you happy to be surrounded by such beauty.
And beauty she was.
There was the woman of almost all your thoughts, sat at her work desk in her feminine glory. She placed down her half-moon reading glasses along with the papers she had been reading to turn to look at you. Just like they always did, her gaze almost brought you to your knees. Lady Dimitrescu was undeniably gorgeous and from the way she dressed to even the way she walked; she definitely knew it. Managing to peel your eyes from her wine dark lips, you could see the papers had numbers and calculations on them - probably an audit on her company for the last quarter. You were glad you found yourself in a more hands on career, money and managing made your head spin. Or maybe that was just Lady Dimitrescu’s heady perfume.
“Ah, my favourite little seamstress. What brings you to my office? Don't tell me that clumsy daughter of mine has torn another dress to shreds?” The Lady asked, a slightly tired smile on her face, her smile lines making your knees weak. Get a grip woman.
“Not yet, thankfully,” You let out an airy laugh, straightening out your uniform in an attempt to calm your nerves.
“I actually came to ask about you, my Lady.”
The matriarch raised a brow, a slight smirk upon her lips. Okay, now you were in trouble.
“Oh? I do hope I'm not in trouble, pet. What do you need?” Her voice did that thing again, the deep and raspy lilt again and your composure started to slip from you. Now was the hard part.
“Uh- I need your uh…your…hand measurements…?”
Your voice escaped from you, lips becoming increasingly tight and your words losing volume which earnt you another eyebrow raise from the Lady. She breathed out a sigh and fixed you a look, beckoning you over with a slow curl of her index finger – laden in that signature leather that had landed you in this room. You willed your legs to start working again and crossed the distance to the Lady. Even seated, she still dwarfed you.
“You will have to speak up dear, my hearing wasn't what it once was.” The Lady chuckled, and the sweet melody swam in your head like smoke, curling around you and enveloping you. Suddenly, a large hand found itself against your waist, pulling you in closer as the Lady lowered her ear to your lips. Her curls, as dark as midnight, tickled your nose.
“I need your hand measurements. For your glove order, my Lady.” You finally found your voice, still barely above a whisper, and spoke into her ear. Her hand on your waist, her smell just her was becoming all too much. Your heart was drumming, you were becoming breathless – this woman was going to kill you without even moving from her seat! Then, to your dismay - Lady Dimistrescu pulled back, both her head and her hand. Oh.
“Ah yes, I remember I asked Bela to inform you. That worthless seamstress we hired before you seemed to take all her papers with her, I'm afraid. Never the matter though.” She waved her hand in the air flippantly, the downright sexual lilt in her voice replaced by professional tenor.
“I shall come see you at 6pm in your office for the measuring. Is that alright pet?” The Lady asked, fixing you with a half-lidded stare as she raised her reading glasses back to her nose, pen raised to make a note of the appointment.
“Of course! Um, I shall see you at 6?”
“On the dot, draga. Please do be ready for me.”