20[F4M] From Rags to Bodies

“Chica!” Rosa dropped her hairbrush at the call, clattering down the rickety staircase and squeezing past the coatrack into the kitchen. Rosa Senior was bustling about amidst the iridescent smoke rising from innumerable cauldrons, murmuring incantations from the spellbook that followed her obediently.

“Put this on and on and get pretty, mi amor.”

“What on earth-” the former fumbled a catch, holding up a garment to the light. It was a black dress with rose embroidery, much like those worn by the rich girls from the vampire quarters. A petticoat fell from it, settling on the floor with a whisper of silk and tulle, while the matriarch laid out matching jewellery and a glittering hairpin on the tiny square of table that occupied most of their kitchen. Rosa felt a twinge of dread that intensified until her vision grew dark and an eldritch scream filled her ears.

“Madre de dios,” the tanned woman yelped, flinging the dress away and stumbling backward, hands clutched to her temples. An intense sensation of desperation and suffering had been etched into the very material of it; whoever had last worn that thing had died. Painfully. “Maman, what the fuck are you thinking?” she shook her hands, still feeling the oily ooze of despair creeping into her very being.

“I can feel the bad juju off that from a mile away, and if I can then you can too!” The woman in question looked uneasy, gripping one arm with the other and refusing to meet her daughter’s gaze.

“Chica…you know how hard things have been recently. It’s back-breaking work trying to make an honest living in this city, and I-I” Rosa Senior began to sob, deep, heart wrenching sobs that wracked her stout frame.

“Oh no,” alarmed by the emotional turn of events, Rosa the younger hastened to her mother, comforting her as best as she could. The two stayed like that for what felt like hours, till the generally hardy lady calmed down, her shoulders no longer shaking like leaves in a storm. “I know you try cara,” she sniffed, the enchanted spoons behind her slowly slowing down from their frantic stirring, “but with chain apothecaries like Kazaam! and Le Menage setting up around the city, business is drying up. Even your dancing can no longer keep the wolves at bay,” she murmured dismally, blowing her nose. The girl nodded tersely, her trepidation only increasing in leaps and bounds. This sounded far too much like what was happening to the smaller family-held businesses in the human quarter. This was how Maria’s family had been forced to sell out and became another outpost for Green Goblin’s On-The-Go Enchantments. “But this morning I got a letter from Van Maarten. You know the old journalist?” Another nod. “He’s gone blind and a little bleary over the centuries, and he needs someone to edit and write up his articles nowadays. You remember Marta? She recommended me to him, and he’s agreed to try out my services. But…” her lip trembled. “He’s hosting his nephew for a decade, and if he writes, the boy needs a companion. So he asked me to bring you. Please?” Her wrinkled, potion-stained hands crumpled the handkerchief with anguish. “Say you’ll do it, cara.”

Before she had finished speaking, the other had collected the offending garments, brushing them off and collecting the accessories from the table. Something about this didn’t sit quite right with her; it was far too convenient a save. After her father’s death, the dark haired mage-to-be had quit the academy, taking to the streets with her knowledge of performance cantrips and dancing to supplement their little stall’s income. She knew enough that jobs were a rarity, controlled and doled out crime lords of this forsaken hell hole. But Van Maarten was a respectable unaffiliated vampire, staunch Black Ribboner and prompt with payments. So if it meant that much to her mother, she could not refuse.


“Any silver, crucifixes or holy water?” a bored looking guard inquired, peering at them from under a wide brimmed hat. His fangs flashed menacingly, but Rosa simply examined her painted fingernails, unfazed by the display. If you want actual trouser-soiling menacing, try the Mended Drum, she thought with distaste. Passing the security check led them through a lounge and living room of surprising normalcy. In the study lay their future employer, his milky-eyed visage snapping toward the door as it opened.

“Ah, Madame Rosa, and Madame Rosa,” he greeted them graciously, his slender hands spreading in welcome. “So kind of you to make it. Please be seated. I’m afraid my nephew is running slightly late, but if Madame would not mind, I shall begin once you are ready.” Minutes ticked by, filled with the rustle of parchment and the soothing drone of the old man’s musings about Amarath’s cabal politics. Rosa stared at the clock, shifting now and again as the dress literally screamed at her. Her black hair was twisted into a traditional bun, rubies glinting like blood at her ears and throat. Her eyelids began to droop comfortably, when a sudden chill pervaded the room. She turned, staring at the foreign male listlessly. A few years ago, she would have been arrested by the sheer glamour of his appearance. Now, her attention lay on the cold, thin line of his lips and the dead eyes. She glanced at her mother nervously as Maarten gestured at her to go.

She followed reluctantly, her clothing screaming at her with increasing urgency. By the time she got to the staircase, the man had disappeared. The sound of a slamming door a few doors up filtered down to her. “Oh that’s it,” she muttered, her ire well and truly roused. A wind spell had her floating up to the floor and she slammed the offending portal back open. “Alright, who the fuck do you-” The sentence was cut short as her head slammed into the wall, while a vice closed around her throat. Through the pain and asphyxiation, she dimly registered the vampire’s face swimming in and out of view. “Get over yourself bitch. Either you obey, or that shriveled up mother of yours will get it.”


Hallo! I’m looking for someone to carry it on from here. Can be short term, but I’d like to continue this into something where my character is initiated into one of the crime families, slowly slipping from an honest dancer to a tattooed, ruthless underworld tycoon, either under your character or in league with him. His motivations I’ve left open, so feel free to do as you wish.

Kinks: mild blackmail, coercion, non/dubcon, rough, bloodplay, eventual violence, vampirification, faction tensions

Hell, I'll go for snuff if you're so inclined.

Looking forward to your responses,

-Llama

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