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rotworld · 26 days ago

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19: Fairy Tale

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

you've forgotten your wild night at a fae festival a week ago, but it remembers you.

->original work. explicit; contains non-con, (magical) drugging/date rape, graphic descriptions of violence, terato, feral behavior, hard vore.

Your day has been going suspiciously well.

Despite being a ball of nerves the night before, you wake early and well-rested. Your morning commute is a comfortable train ride and leisurely walk through perfect autumn crispness, the air cool and the leaves colorful. Even the communal breakroom snacks are shockingly delicious today, an assortment of artful chocolate-drizzled, fruit-topped and sugar-powdered pastries almost too pretty to eat, although your coworkers have already decimated the macarons by the time you get there.

Then again, maybe there’s nothing suspicious about it. You’ve been overly cautious ever since the Equinox Faire for reasons that are far too embarrassing to explain to anyone else. You’d have to admit you went to the Faire in the first place—which is fine, by the way, there's nothing wrong with going to a Faire, it’s just not the kind of thing you feel like casually mentioning to your coworkers—and then you’d have to mention that you don’t even remember half of it. Drank so much you got violently ill and then stumbled home by some miracle, waking up in a daze on your living room floor.

You think something bad happened there, or almost did. Hard to say for sure. Everything’s a blur after sunset. There was live music and handicrafts and some of the most incredible food you’ve ever tasted, sweet, savory, still sizzling fresh off the grill. You met people, danced, partied hard, lost a shoe. Kind of a shame, those were your most comfortable pair of sandals. You have the distinct impression that you hooked up with someone, or tried to. Getting sick in the grass might’ve cut things short. But you woke up with the worst hangover of your life and twenty browser tabs open on your phone with searches like “howf to kno if you rhome for real not a trick/?” and “magic itw ont come off what do u do whenkmlj that happen” and most ominously, “get uncursed.”

You have no idea what happened or with who, but you do remember that unpleasant tugging sensation the morning after like you were wearing an extra, ill-fitted layer of skin. The internet says that particular blend of bleary exhaustion, lightheadedness and the tactile static of invisible cobwebs is a pretty common sign of residual magic. Someone tried casting a clingy spell, something meant to linger on a person for a while, but it sloughed off for some reason. You’ve been braced every day since for something catastrophic to happen. So far, nothing has. Maybe it was the hangover after all, or maybe it was something you drank. Some people have bad reactions to enchanted wine. You certainly weren’t going slow enough to notice.

So despite a persistent sense of unease, malaise and waiting for the other shoe to drop so palpable you can barely sit still, you tell you coworkers you’re doing “Great!” and join the pastry huddle by the breakroom counter.

“Is it somebody’s birthday? Who brought these?” James asks, staring contemplatively into the cream filling of his second chocolate eclair. “They’re so good. Like, too good. Are they supposed to be here?”

Francine shrugs. “Too late now. If DeVries comes out of his office looking for these, he’s gonna have to fight me to death for this tiramisu.”

Harper picks up the half-empty box of cannoli and turns it around a few times before she finds a logo in one of the corners. Her eyes widen. “Seelie Confectionaries. Holy shit, this is expensive.”

“It’s fae food?” James stops chewing abruptly, holding the eclair away from his face like it might bite. “Is it safe? What if it’s enchanted?”

“It’s for sure enchanted. Not like that, though. It’s just for taste.” Harper shrugs and grabs a cannoli. “I took a fae studies class forever ago. ‘Enchanted’ just means there’s magic in it. All the stuff they ship across the Veil is super strictly regulated—”

“Holy shit. Who is that?” Francine asks. She’s staring past all of you, looking at the breakroom TV on the back wall where the news has been playing at an inaudible murmur. It’s midday and there’s no bright red “BREAKING NEWS” label at the bottom so you’re expecting something inconsequential; local sports, small business puff pieces, cats being cute. You’re not prepared to see the most beautiful man alive smiling serenely into the camera. He’s standing in a park beside a starstruck reporter who can’t stop sneaking glances out of the corner of her eye. He sticks out against a backdrop of college students and dog-walkers in a double-breasted vest made of shimmering brocade, dark green with silver buttons and intricate floral patterns. The long-sleeved dress shirt underneath is shiny black silk with lace at the ends of the sleeves. His hair is midnight blue and long enough to pull back into a neat bun at the base of his neck, the silver pin holding it in place shaped like a wilting rose.

Long lashes, smokey blue eyeshadow, bright amber eyes—you’re getting the itch of deja vu in the back of your brain. Haven’t you seen this guy before?

“Goth or demon fresh out of conservatory?” James wonders. “Take your bets.”

Harper squints at the TV. “Neither. He’s fae. See the brooch? That’s a guise stabilizer.”

She’s right. It’s pinned to his left lapel, a silver circle of delicate metalwork and tiny pearls. You can barely see the green flecks pressed and preserved inside the rounded glass in the middle, but they’re definitely tiny leaves.

Then he’s gone and there’s a slow panning shot of an open field instead. A field that looks eerily familiar, you think. Francine searches frantically for the remote because the caption at the bottom hasn’t changed: “SOCIALITE’S SEARCH FOR LOVE SPARKS NATIONAL SHOE-SHOPPING FRENZY.”

“What do you suppose that means?” Harper muses.

“Not a fucking clue,” James says. “Isn’t that the fairgrounds?”

“Ohhh, I think you’re right! Wasn’t that big festival thing going on out there last weekend?” Francine asks.

Harper snorts. “You mean the orgy?” You choke on a bite of bread.

“No way,” James says.

“Okay, it’s not literally an orgy but there’s a lot of sex. That’s like half the reason people go.”

“Isn’t it dangerous? Like, super dangerous? With all the enchanted food and stuff.”

“James, listen, enchantment like the way you’re thinking isn’t something you just sprinkle in real quick. It’s a whole process. They have to know who you are and want to fuck with you specifically—”

Francine nudges you in the side. “You ever heard of anything like this?”

“Absolutely never in my whole life,” you say, coughing.

The camera cuts again and the beautiful man is back again, speaking into the microphone. Francine finds the remote just in time and starts cranking up the volume until you can actually hear what he’s saying. “…don’t often attend events of this nature very often, as you might imagine. But something was different this year. I felt uniquely compelled, as though something was waiting for me…”

Harper makes a joke about him being uniquely compelled by his dick but you’re no longer paying attention to the breakroom conversation. It’s like a dam breaks in your mind. Glimpses and snapshots suddenly come rushing back just from hearing his voice. The night was warm and flickering. Your eyes met across a bonfire. He wore nothing but full-bloom flowers and colorful, rumpled lichen, the forest wrapped around him in winding stripes like a lover’s grasping fingers. His hair was down, waist-length, a woven cord of flowering, leafy vines crowning his head. His hips swayed and his fingers curled under your chin, drawing your gaze up to meet his.

“My name is Imraude,” he said in a low, seductive purr. “And you are going to be mine.”

On TV, the camera zooms out slightly to get both him and the reporter in frame when she tilts the microphone back to ask a question. Your attention is drawn immediately to his hands, not resting at his sides but holding something the tender, gentle way a person holds a priceless glass sculpture or a kitten.

That’s a sandal. That’s your sandal. Uh oh, you think.

“And this is all you have to work with?” the reporter asks.

Imraude chuckles. “Yes, this is it. It’s common practice to use aliases or nicknames at a Faire and I don’t begrudge them for being cautious. It does make this much more difficult, though. I know how absurd these public appeals must seem, but I truly am desperate. I would do anything to see them again. We had something special, and I think they know it, too.”

It was lust at first sight. He was gorgeous, and he must’ve thought you were, too. You drifted back to the refreshments table together to chat and make sure you were both on the same page and his hand settled on your thigh. He was insistent—relentless—that you eat something. “I intend to keep you as long as I can,” he murmured. “You’ll need your strength.” It should’ve been fine. Faire food gets inspected. But did those buttery pieces of bread he pressed against your lips come from the feast on the table or somewhere else? What about those fresh, juicy berries, sweet and tart as he fed them into your mouth with his tongue? You were already tipsy at least and he told you the arcadian wine was the finest vintage you’d ever taste. You were in his lap, you think. You were eating out of his hand and he was purring praise in your ear when everything started to blur.

“In some ways,” the reporter says, snapping you out of a daze, “your strategy has backfired, hasn’t it? Saying you’re looking for the owner of the other shoe has a lot of eager bachelors and bachelorettes snapping up the exact same design. Stores across the country have completely exhausted their stock.” Unbelievable images of local shoe stores with empty spaces in the sandal section fade in one after the other, followed by online listings going for tens of thousands of dollars. You can’t believe what you’re saying. They’re not some designer brand. They’re just what you had lying around for a night out when you wanted to be comfortable and blend in with the easygoing atmosphere.

“I’m not worried about it,” Imraude assures her. He looks directly into the camera and you stop breathing. “They were unforgettable. When I see their face, I’ll know.”

You remember now. The meadow—not the fairgrounds. He brought you somewhere else. You’d looked up at the sky and even inebriated, even giggling and stumbling and feeling a little sick to your stomach, you’d noticed it wasn’t right. You could barely see it, could barely see straight at all, but you remember how your skin crawled when you looked up and couldn’t recognize the thing you saw every night. Imraude kissed you. He licked into your mouth and clutched your hips against his, and you moaned into his mouth. You tried to touch him—to pull him closer? To push him away? You remember wanting him so badly it scared you.

But you couldn’t move. Why couldn’t you move? Your arms were stuck in the air above your head and your legs wouldn’t budge. Imraude stroked your shoulders and caressed your sides and dug his fingers into your ass—all at the same time. That doesn’t make sense. You were drunk and it was dark. Is that it? It feels like you’re still forgetting something.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. You remember that. Such a gentle whisper right against your ear, but he was rough with you. He grasped you too hard with fingers that were too sharp and too many. He wanted to leave marks. “Ones only we can see,” he promised, smiling against the nervous flutter of your pulse. “So the hungry ones know who you belong to.” He bit you, over and over and over again. Sunk his fangs in—his fangs? Too sharp to be teeth, too thin and precise. It felt sharp and horrible, and then it faded to prickling pins and needles. Tactile static. Tingling, then numb, then good.

No one has ever fucked you as hard as him. If you’re lucky, no one ever will again. The more you think about it, the more you wonder how you managed to walk away. He was right up against you, fucking you standing. You couldn’t make your body do anything but he was in complete control. He curled his fingers and your legs wrapped around his waist, and then he was thrusting fast enough to knock the breath out of your lungs. His hands cupped your ass and he panted in your ear about how he would fill you every morning, day and night for the rest of time.

“I will have you,” he murmured. “Your body first. Then your mind. Then your heart.”

He made you ride him. He watched you bounce on his cock while his long, spindly fingers explored the expanse of your chest, groping, caressing, teasing your nipples. He lingered whenever he found something that made you gasp and clench around him, mercilessly exploiting every weakness. You were barely conscious. Your eyelids fluttered and struggled to stay upright. He didn’t care. He tugged your wrist to his mouth and sank his fangs in.

Or did he bite down, and tear a whole chunk of flesh from your body? He couldn’t have. You don’t have a scar there, not even a puncture. But you remember pain, searing, radiating, the rhythmic sting every time your heart pumped and more blood gushed out, and the redness of his lips as he drank everything that poured out with a groan.

He fucked you on the forest floor. Had he always been so much bigger than you? You were face-down, your back arched and your hips raised while he pounded into you, a hand on the nape of your neck and a hand on your shoulder and a hand on your hip and a hand stroking your side and more still that are just ghosts of memory. You were bleeding. You were raw and aching everywhere. He was devouring you and you were on the verge of climax with every crunching, flesh-tearing bite. Your stomach churns thinking about it. Was that real, or a nightmare? It’s so vivid in your mind.

Imraude, with your ankles hooked over his shoulders. He bent you in half so he could kiss you while he rutted slow and deep.

Imraude, with your neck between his teeth. You trembled and you wept and your head lolled back against his shoulder when his tongue dipped into the wound.

Imraude, with hands uncountable. He handled you like a doll, a plaything meant for nothing more than his amusement and pleasure.

Imraude, with—you can’t remember. It hurts to try. You think you saw something you weren’t supposed to. He didn’t make sense. When you saw the haunting, animalistic gleam of reflected moonlight, was that in just two eyes or in four? In six? In more?

He liked to finish inside you. Clutching you by the thighs and hips and stomach and shoulders, he impaled you on a long, thick cock with bumps and ridges and a slender tip that reached uncomfortably deep, and he came for such a long time that you thought you’d never be empty again. Thick, white seed squelched around his length and dripped down your inner thighs as he kept humping and grinding into your trembling body.

His voice didn’t sound human. It hadn’t since he lured you away from the fairgrounds. It was warped and echoing in your head, unnaturally deep and lightly melodic. “Does it feel good to belong to me?” he purred. “If it doesn’t yet…it will. I promise.”

You should be dead. You’re sure of it. You were more wounds than flesh when he filled you one last time. You shivered and you oozed. Imraude’s tongue filled your mouth as he pulled out one horrible, stinging inch at a time, slipping free from your abused entrance with a sickening squelch and a trickle of cum. He smoothed his palms over all the places you hurt and stole the pain. You felt distinctly that it wasn’t right. It wasn’t real healing. You had gaping holes inside of you, places where he’d stolen something. And then—he left you. Said he’d “prepare the way,” or something like that. The air quivered like a heat haze and then he was gone.

You rolled onto your side, heaving and retching, clutching your stomach. You tasted bile and acid. Everything you’d eaten at the refreshment table came back up in a stinging watercolor slurry. You felt awful. You wanted to curl up and rot. Fear drove you, hand over hand, one bruised knee and then the other. You crawled out of the meadow. You don’t know where you went or how long it took you to get there, but you knew you had to keep moving. There’s a chasm of time missing; of horrible, furious noises that made the forest shake and the scrape of your fingers through dirt, on and on until they found concrete. You’ll probably never remember everything he did trying to chase you down, but it didn’t matter. With all the food out of your system, the enchantment didn’t stick. He could purr and plead and growl all he wanted, but you were going home.

“No fucking way,” Francine says. “This can’t be real. His one night stand was gone when he woke up, so now he’s on the news? Make a Craigslist post like a normal person.”

“He’s rich,” Harper reasons. “Probably paid them to air it. A lot of the fae who end up at the Faire are rich kids from old money. Kind of crazy his family runs that Seelie snack company, though. You think he’s sending out gift boxes everywhere, or does he think his Cinderella works here?”

James tosses his eclair into the trash. “Nope. Too fucking weird. Not eating any more of these.”

You stop chewing. With a sick feeling churning in your stomach, you take another look at the pastry boxes. They’re not in pristine condition anymore, but you see the fanciful wrapping paper crumpled in the trash and the ribbons that had been tied around them. There’s a card in there, too, thoughtlessly discarded. Your name is not on that card.

But your nickname—the one you used at the Faire—is, along with a black heart.

“You okay?” Harper asks. She’s looking at you. They’re all looking, with worry and confusion.

You don’t even make an excuse. You just run. Out of the breakroom, through the hall, flinging yourself down the stairs two at a time until you hit the bottom, trying to figure out what comes next. You go home, right? Then what? Pack a bag and go on the run? It’s a coincidence. It’s a wild guess. He can’t know. You emerge in the company lobby where a small circle of people from another department are clustered around the receptionist’s desk chattering excitedly. You see a figure taller than the others. Dark blue hair. Bright yellow eyes. A smile that snags at your heart like a fish hook.

He turns towards you and you catch the briefest glimpse of that wild, possessive hunger you saw the Faire.

“Darling,” he purrs, your missing sandal clutched in one hand. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

#rotpeach writes #original #goretober #luxuria triplicate

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popupsat · 1 month ago

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THREE (so hard to do things in order on tumblr)

We haven’t put Halloween stuff out yet really. Just a few random bits. I have that to look forward to which is nice! Li popped this fucker in the stairs and me nerves. His name is Harold/Gregory or whatever name I think of when I get a fright. Every time. Every fuckin time I pass him. 🤪👻😱

Anyways this is all I’m posting here I’ll get rid of the tumblr tomorrow I just wanted to say -

I feel yuk and the hallway has changed!

But also I have hope and I am making moves to soothe my self.

Fatigued but still thriving messily 13:15 Saturday 12/10/24 xxx

Edit: I bought a back to the future poster this one time and brought it rhome and hung it and then realised it was a back to the future two poster. Obviously one is my favourite. Great poster still.

Boring fact. But also you love me so much that any aule shite I find important to share you think is fantastic? Yes? No!!! Rude. Love Anna 💋

Edit:17:48

youtube

Felt crap. Decided to watch this tarot reader. I love the decks she has and she makes fun spreads/boards. Her knowledge is awesome on meanings of obscure decks.

Went to her channel and scanned the most recent uploads. Saw a Penguin and clicked!! It’s pile number one, no need to watch the intro. Reem is the name of this card reader and she is a gentle soul, I like how she interprets cards. I don’t always agree but that is because we have lived different lives. However this reading I feel is pretty spot on for me vs u2/Dad/and co

So inacse you want a shared experience I sat with coffee and watched this. I love her voice she talks fuckin slow which is a vibe for today.

I just love her decks. I had stopped watching cos she was using a Winnie the Pooh deck too often and I was just not vibing.

Anyways that’s that. I had fun. ❤️

youtube

One minute long explanation of the 7 of swords.

I love the seven of swords I have studied it a lot. Many people see it as a basic betray card I see it as using your mind to disarm a bigger baddie. which comes up in the Penguin YouTube link.

The image of the news story about the man with the dino grabber made me think of the seven of swords too. So I shared it cos it’s funny. Cos I have a dino grabber.

Okay so x ♥️

Edit:

I was saying about Li earlier and it’s just that she is a forceful person and I was raised a doormat.

When I bought the couch we have I chose this green. I love green. Wanted a dark academia type room. This isn’t the couch cos it doesn’t have the extra leg bit but it’s the first one of the one we got that came up so you get the jist. Anyways I show li that I have order this couch (huge deal cos I got it on finance over three years.) she hates the green. I call and change it to cinnamon- the one we have now. She also hates this. But it’s less bad than the green and also a colour I do like.

It’s not her fault. But she was raised in a home till she was 8 seeing me he destroyed with every interaction.

Séamus would interrupt every single sentence and say I was wrong. Even if it was my own experience or a fact from the news.

Even if he agreed with me.

I was Dobby the elf to him.

I made myself small. Around the couch buying time the last of my friendships ended.

And it was a gift, I had a similar dynamic with one of them as I had with Séamus. I became a helpful friendly ghost who existed enough to keep up appearances of interacting but truly I was steamrolled every second.

I am so blessed to now have answers.

To understand Séamus was not kind because I am a bastard.

Then everything changed, knowledge truly is power.

Anyways I think the couch example is a good one.

I learned to adapt to please.

I don’t want to do that anymore Colin.

I want to choose.

And follow through.

So that is partly why it is so important for me to follow my heart and listen to it with regards to you. Mine. I feel that in my gut.

I’m not changing course for anyone.

❤️

#Youtube

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