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rotworld · 2 months 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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verdantlyviolet · 2 years ago

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Some Pet Dog Names from Ancient Greece

When the hound has caught the hare, or been otherwise victorious in the course, you should […] pat him with your hand and praise him, kissing his head, and stroking his ears, and speaking to him by name […] for, like men of generous spirit, they love to be praised; and the dog, if not quite tired out [from the hunt] will come up with joy to caress you. (Arrian, On Coursing, XVIII Pg 116 trans. William Dansey)

As many dogs were hunting hounds or guard dogs in Ancient Greece, it followed that the naming convention was dependant on psychology; to name the dog something strong or skilful was to boast of the animals’ superiority to others of its breed, just as it reflected on the owner. There are some well known dogs in Ancient Greek history that many are aware of, namely Cerberus, Odysseus’ faithful dog Argos, and Alexander the Great named a city after his dog Peritas. We are lucky to have two lists of excellent dog names from authors Xenophon and Ovid.

From Xenophon (~ 430 - 355 BC), in his treaties on Hunting, we have the below list:

Give the hounds short names, so as to be able to call to them easily. The following are the right sort: Psyche, Thymus, Porpax, Styrax, Lonchê (Lance), Lochus, Phrura, Phylax (Sentinel/Guardian), Taxis, Xiphon, Phonax, Phlegon, Alcê (Stout), Teuchon, Hyleus, Medas (Crafty), Porthon, Sperchon (Bustler/Hasty), Orgê, Bremon, Hybris, Thallon (Vigorous), Rhomê, Antheus (Blossom), Hebe, Getheus, Chara (Jolly/Ecstasy), Leusson, Augo (Bright), Polys, Bia, Stichon, Spudê, Bryas, Oenas (Blueskin), Sterrus, Craugê, Caenon, Tyrbas, Sthenon, Aether, Actis, Aechmê, Noes (Counsellor), Gnomê, Stibon, Hormê (Impetus). (Xenophon Kynegetikos On Hunting 7.5)

A kind person on Reddit suggested these names could also translate as:

Psyche = Psyche / Spirit

Thymus = Pluck

Porpax = Buckler

Styrax = Spigot

Lonche = Lance

Lochus = Lurcher

Phrura = Watch

Phylax = Keeper

Taxis = Brigade

Xiphon = Fencer

Phonax = Butcher

Phlegon = Blazer

Alce = Prowess

Teuchon = Craftsman

Hyleus = Foster

Medas = Counsellor

Porthon = Spoiler

Sperchon = Hurry

Orge = Fury

Bremon = Growler

Hybris = Riot / Insolence

Thallon = Bloomer

Rhome = Rome / Mighty

Antheus = Blossom

Hebe = Hebe / Youth (Young’n)

Getheus = Hilary / Happy

Chara = Jollity

Leusson = Glazer

Augo = Eyesbright

Polys = Much

Bia = Force

Stichon = Trooper

Spude = Bustle

Bryas = Bubbler

Oenas = Rockdove

Sterrus = Stubborn

Crauge = Yelp

Caenon = Killer

Tyrbas = Strongboy / Riot

Sthenon = Sky

Aether = Sunbeam

Actis = Bodkin

Aechme = Wistful

Noes = Gnome

And from Ovid (~ 43 BC - 17 AD), in his Metamorphosis, of the dogs that attacked their master Actaeon, we have:

First ‘Black-foot’, Melampus, and keen-scented Ichnobates, ‘Tracker’, signal him with baying, Ichnobates out of Crete, Melampus, Sparta. Then others rush at him swift as the wind, ‘Greedy’, Pamphagus, Dorceus, ‘Gazelle’, Oribasos, ‘Mountaineer’, all out of Arcadia: powerful ‘Deerslayer’, Nebrophonos, savage Theron, ‘Whirlwind’, and Laelape, ‘Hunter’. Then swift-footed Pterelas, ‘Wings’, and trail-scenting Agre, ‘Chaser’, fierce Hylaeus, ‘Woody’, lately gored by a boar, the wolf-born Nape, ‘Valley’, Poemenis, the trusty ‘Shepherd’, and Harpyia, ‘Snatcher’, with her two pups. There is thin-flanked Sicyonian Ladon, ‘Catcher’, Dromas, ‘Runner’, ‘Grinder’, Canache, Sticte ‘Spot’, Tigris ‘Tigress’, Alce, ‘Strong’, and white-haired Leucon, ‘Whitey’, and black-haired Asbolus, ‘Soot’. Lacon, ‘Spartan’, follows them, a dog well known for his strength, and strong-running Aëllo, ‘Storm’. Then Thoos, ‘Swift’, and speedy Lycisce, ‘Wolf’, with her brother Cyprius ‘Cyprian’. Next ‘Grasper’, Harpalos, with a distinguishing mark of white, in the centre of his black forehead, ‘Black’, Melaneus, and Lachne, ‘Shaggy’, with hairy pelt, Labros, ‘Fury’, and Argiodus, ‘White-tooth’, born of a Cretan sire and Spartan dam, keen-voiced Hylactor, ‘Barker’ […] First ‘Black-hair’, Melanchaetes, wounds his back, then ‘Killer’, Theridamas, and Oresitrophos, the ‘Climber’, clings to his shoulder. (Ovid Metamorphoses III 206-233 trans. A S Kline)

Theoi has Brookes More’s translation which offers a few English variations on the names.

A few fun ideas to keep in mind if looking to name a new pet in Ancient Greek style.

For I have myself bred up a hound whose eyes are the greyest of grey; a swift, hard-working, courageous, sound-footed dog[…]. He is most gentle, and kindly-affectioned […] as soon as he catches sight of me, showing symptoms of joy, and again trotting on before me. […] He is the constant companion of whichever may be sick; and if he has not seen either of us for only a short time, he jumps up repeatedly by way of salutation, and barks with joy as a greeting. (Arrian, On Coursing, V Pg 78-80 trans. William Dansey)

🐶 Sources

Xenophon Kynegetikos

Arrian On Coursing

Ovid Metamorphoses III

Dog shaped Rhyton by the Brygos Painter in Aleria

#Xenophon #Ovid #Arrian #pet names #Theophoric names

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