#ive had a couple anons mention theyre reading or rereading ritsukas pictures lately

[rotworld]

7: Metamorphosis

(previous)

the girl goes home. you visit an old friend.

->sexually suggestive. contains mild gore, ear penetration, terato, mentions of drugging, mentions of child trafficking and child abuse.

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The last leg of the journey is always a thing of wonder. You unfold your crumpled, egg-stained map and marvel at the neatness of the reality, the momentary certainty of things. This is the understanding you carved out in a corner of the world. This is how far you’ve come. The Drift is mercurial. It won’t last. These cities will have scattered again, these roads you thought you knew winding in strange, new ways. But for now, for just a moment, you bask in a sense of wearied accomplishment. You are still here, despite everything. 

There were tears this morning. Albie drew a map of his own depicting his family’s corner of Verlinda, landmarks painstakingly rendered in colored pencils scribbles and labeled with shaky letters. A little cottage in the forest, surrounded by trees, bordered by a stream and many smiling animals, is labeled “MY HOUSE.” He wanted to make sure the girl would be able to find her way back someday. She has it on her lap, neatly folded, clutched in her small hands. 

“It’s close,” you tell her. 

She watches the scenery with rapt attention, memorizing every detail. “Close,” she agrees, glancing at you in surprise. “How know?” 

“See the dirt? It’s kind of a reddish color. And that spicy-sweet smell is from the mulberry gardens.” The sign is just over the hill, exactly as you remember it; a metal slab suspended between old wooden posts, bearing elegant lettering and a curling ribbon design. “Welcome to Compass Hill,” it says, and your heart beats faster in recognition, anticipation and dread. “I grew up here,” you add softly. 

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: HOW YOU REMEMBER BY AZURE RAY]

Roads into Compass Hill are long, decorated promenades of flattened cobblestone and stately scenery. Here is the visitor’s center, glass-paneled and flower-filled like a Victorian greenhouse. There is a lakeside sculpture garden with abstract figures and lanterns dotting the winding footpath. In the distance, the city’s crown jewel, a sprawling campus of red brick cathedrals—the head office and processing factory of Compass Hill Textiles.

“This used to be an awful place,” you say. “Someone might tell you the story later. Not to scare you, but because you should know. People would bring children of the road here because the company would pay them for it.”

You slow as you drive past the textiles building. They’ve kept it maintained, you notice, maybe to avoid suspicion. The lawn is trimmed, the hedges bordering the path up to the front steps neatly manicured. There’s a water fountain with an angel perched on top. The plaque set into the stone commemorates an ancient patriarch of the Dewitt family, a name emblazoned all over town. It was the Dewitts who built the mill, after all, a dynasty of textile magnates made wealthy by the harvest and refinement of exquisite silks. 

You point to the factory. “I used to live there. It looks nice from outside, but most of the space is for machinery. Rows and rows of rattling, whirring things that took up whole rooms. The kids who couldn’t weave slept in the cramped, overheated basement, right under all the noise. Eventually, we’d get our license and start delivering silk.” The girl studies the building with a small frown. “It’s different now,” you assure her. “The factory’s closed. Nobody has to sleep on a concrete floor anymore.”

There’s a gate just beyond the factory. Curling wrought iron arches form symmetrical shapes where they meet, an insectoid body with large, sweeping wings. You can hear something just faintly; a buzzing hum. A faraway melody. The gates pull apart with a loud metallic clattering, welcoming you inside. In your rearview mirror, you see a large shape on the roof of the old textile factory. It crouches, spreads its wings, and flits away. The girl sits up sharply, startled and curious. 

“Probably went to tell everyone we’re here,” you say.

“Everyone?” she asks. Something catches her eye and she turns back towards the window, her eyes widening.

“Everyone. You’re home.” 

Beyond the gate is the true, new Compass Hill, built on the bones of the old. Structures are soft and rounded rather than angular, wispy, cloud-like material woven across the city skyline. Gossamer threads sparkle in dazzling neon shades and subdued earth tones alike. The schoolhouse is a powdery blue dome with rocks and flowers woven around the entrance, while the open air marketplace is adorned with rippling canopy shades and decorative arches. Everything is silk as only Compass Hill knows it, exquisite color and unbelievably versatile texture. 

But the girl isn’t looking at the buildings. She’s looking at the people. Peering through honeycomb windows and ambling into the street, a crowd gathers, curiously chittering, all around your car. You stop in the middle of the road to let them see her, and for her to see them. Scaled skin and shimmering carapaces, wings and claws and softly clicking mandibles, bristle-thin hairs and thick, curly manes. The people of Compass Hill are as varied as the silk they spin. A child with slender vespid wings and gangly, striped arms comes right up to the window and the girl stares back at her with tears filling her four eyes. 

“Home!” she wails. “Home! Home!” You unlock the door and she tumbles into the waiting arms of family she has only dreamed of. A woman, pale pink and violet with a mantis’ tapered abdomen and sharp, hooked fingers, gently works the knots from the girl’s hair. The hum rises, louder now, a gentle, rolling melody of a thousand voices harmonizing. It’s the Song, welcoming you both. When you step out of the car, you’re swarmed with gentle touches and fond nuzzling. 

“You’re back.”  There’s a pleased purring beside your ear as four soft, lightly furred arms encircle you from behind. You recognize her quiet, higher-pitched notes before you see her. Chiffon is one of the oldest weavers in Compass Hill, her great wings as thick and heavy as a blanket. She slips in front of you, taking each of your hands in hers, the other two free to cup your face. Her four eyes arch in worry. “Where have you been? And where are you going?” 

“I’ll have to show you my map. It’s been a long trip,” you say. Chiffon chitters with laughter, a sound echoed all the way down the street as she passes the joke through the Song. “And I don’t know where I’m going yet. I was in a hurry to get here before the next shift.” 

“Your hand…” She’s gentle with it, fingers worrying the skin all around your bandages. “I’ll have a look at this later. You’ll stay the night. Rest. He’ll be so happy to see you.” Your smile wanes. Chiffon squeezes your hands, reassuring but also pleading. “Please,” she sings softer. “Please go see him.”

You hear a delighted warble, the melody rising. The girl looks startled, clutching a wad of fresh, glistening silk in her hand, small string still connected to her mouth. The color is like a sunrise, a blue ombre glinting with strands of gold. One of the old weavers bends down and shows her how to braid it, tying off the ends so it doesn’t fray. “That’s hopesilk,” he says, pausing his singing so she can understand him. “Very strong, and very pretty. Someone believes in you very much.” 

You wipe at your eyes and nod at Chiffon. The crowd parts for the two of you as a slow, undulating note enters the Song, a bittersweet melody. They’ve missed you. They wish you’d stay. 

The Dewitt estate is at the very edge of town. Similar grand manors and luxurious homes dot the hills but the others are old, fallen into disrepair. The fences have crumbled, the stately brickwork has eroded, and mulberry branches snake out of the broken windows. They are Verlinda’s by right but remain, dilapidated and unoccupied, out of respect for the children of Compass Hill and everything they have endured.

It is only the Dewitt estate, all the way at the top of the hill, that is still maintained. Someone cuts the grass and trims the hedges. Someone fixes the roof when it leaks. Someone leaves food at the door. As you get closer, you hear a piercing scream from somewhere inside. “How is he?” you ask. 

Chiffon feels your worry. She chirps a Song of one, fluttering and bird-like. “He’s…better, I think. He spends less and less time here.” She stops when you reach the front porch of the manor. Her wings are drooping, the larger ones folded around her like a shawl. “But he’s still…well. It’s rather shocking inside.” 

You march up the steps before you can lose your nerve. There’s another scream—fearful, but also furious. You thought it was just mindless shrieking before but now you can make out words, “wretched” and “ungrateful” and “horrible, abominable thing.” The door is cracked open. The foyer is a mess of broken glass and overturned furniture, old blood stains crusted into the carpet and stuck to the wallpaper. A silver platter has been flung against the wall, shattering a plate and splattering mashed potatoes and a chunk of cooked meat. 

There is a man standing in the middle of the foyer, chest heaving and red in the face, screaming at something in the corner. You recognize Mr. Dewitt. He looks more sickly than you recall, sweat shining on his gaunt face. You’ve caught him in the middle of a tirade not unlike the ones you remember from childhood. He was always short-tempered, liable to fly into a rage at the slightest inconvenience. “I want to see my son! You can’t keep him from me! Just you wait, just you wait until they hear about this down at the factory!”

He whirls around at the sound of your footsteps and his wide, bloodshot eyes brighten. “Oh! Oh, it’s you!” he calls, grinning deliriously. His eyes are hazy and he’s not quite looking at you. He wobbles forward, looking inebriated. “You’ve come at the perfect time! I need to get a message down to the factory. Good practice for a courier, hm? Some incompetent let one of the weavers cocoon itself and now we’re stuck with this.” He gestures to the corner, the thing looming there silently. “It’s making demands. Can you tell them to send someone?” 

You hesitate just a second too long and he’s screaming again, berating you, calling you a stupid, useless road-mongrel. The thing in the corner lunges forward then, faster than you can see it move. There’s a rush of air and a flash of movement. It lands heavily on top of the man, slamming his head into the floor. It’s your friend, the boy who grew up in this awful place with you. Older now, much bigger, casting a wide shadow with his wings outstretched. You see him tangle his claws in the man’s thinning hair, yanking his head higher. You see him lean in, proboscis unfurling. 

“Hello,” he sings. Four eyes peer at you beneath stark white fringe. In adulthood, the silver ones have also turned deep, inky black. “Hello again. I was just thinking of you.”

His proboscis plunges forward like a needle and there’s a sickening crunch and a spurt of blood as it pierces Dewitt’s ear. He shakes and flails uncontrollably, mouth stretched open in a horrified, silent scream, but your friend holds him still; one hand on his head, one on his shoulder, the others easily keeping him pinned beneath the weight of his enormous body. Your friend, the Singer of Compass Hill, vibrates with a welcoming melody, his wings flapping in contentment. His proboscis goes taut and there’s a sick, slurping sound, another gush of blood dribbling down Dewitt’s face and neck.

“Why…is he…?” You swallow your revulsion. The Singer tilts his head slightly, the change in angle churning and squishing wetly against something in Dewitt’s head. The vibration of the song drones just louder than the gurgling screams Dewitt makes.

“He’s drugged. Not certain where or when he is. It’s the same thing he used to give me and all the others.” The Singer’s primary eyes are focused on feeding, but the smaller secondary ones rotate, fixed on you. “You don’t feel bad for him, do you?”

“I’m worried about you.” 

The Singer drops Dewitt, proboscis yanking loose with a wet, ripping sound and slithering back into his mouth. He came out of his cocoon differently than all the others. No one else has emerged quite so large. His frilled antenna scrape the high ceiling, his legs bend strangely, and he has six long arms. A ring of thick, white fur circles his neck and drapes over his shoulders. There’s similar patches of fuzz all the way down his body, thinning out across his belly and limbs. His fingers are long and dexterous, warm when they reach out and graze your cheek. 

His eyes have changed the least. There are mandibles on either side of his jaw, pearl-white and flexible, a proboscis curled up inside his mouth, but you’ll always recognize his eyes, no matter the color. 

“Is he dead?” you say quietly, staring at the body lying limp and face-down on the carpet. 

“No. I won’t let him die yet.” The Singer takes your hand in three of his. He turns it over, letting out a low hum in concern at the sight of bandages, the missing finger. “I’ll keep him here, just like I was kept. Except he has the luxury of a house when all I had was that cramped cell in the mountage wing of the factory, a bedroom shaped like a coffin. I’ll use him as he used me, without remorse. He can die when I have nothing to gain from him anymore.” 

You tug on his arm, pulling him down to kneel in front of you, and embrace him. The Singer rests his chin and mandibles on your shoulders. His hands all knead the front of your shirt, just like when he was a boy. “I came here to complete a delivery,” you admit. “It’s a child. This is her home.” 

The Singer hums appreciatively, nuzzling against your neck. “Yes. Good. I heard the Song. She’ll be safe here. She’ll decide what to do with her own silk. No one will keep her from cocooning and growing up.” His proboscis darts out, tasting the sweat on your throat. “Hope…savory. She grazed on this. You fed her well. There’s more hope here, as much as she could ever want.”

You rub his mandibles and he purrs. “You can have some, if you want. Hope, and whatever else I have.” You feel the vibration of the Song gone slow and deep with interest. He flicks one of his mandibles against your lips, tempted. “You have to eat something other than grudges,” you say gently. 

“I can’t stomach much else. But…” He crouches further, pulling you into his lap. You’re settled on one of his thighs, half-turned away from him. He brushes your hair out of the way and caresses the shell of your ear, stroking the lobe with his thumb. “I’ll go very slow. Very gentle. It’s been a long time.” 

Now that you’re actually here, clutching the fur on his upper chest, your stomach is flipping nervously. He’s right, it has been a long time. You haven’t fed him since you were both younger, shortly after the change came—he, young and clumsy and still figuring out his new, enormous body, and you, just old enough to drive the Drift. One more time, you’d agreed, before you left town. He couldn’t make silk anymore but it didn’t matter. He just needed to remember how you tasted.

“Hold onto me,” he sings gently. “It’s alright. Hold on tight. You won’t hurt me.” You don’t want to pull on his fur but he pushes your hands more firmly against his chest, encouraging you to dig your fingers in. He clutches your shoulders, your waist, your hips—his grip firm but not bruising. He tries to relax you. He nuzzles against you, splays his mandibles and leaves little kisses along your chin and cheek. His proboscis darts out and flicks against your lips, teasing. He trails higher, following the curve of your jaw. 

Your breath hitches when he reaches your ear. He kisses it. His proboscis traces the shell, explores its shallow dips and grooves. Slowly, he lick his way closer to the hole and you let out an involuntary shiver. His hands squeeze all at once in reassurance and hold you still.

“Will you give me something sweet? Something light and airy?” One of the hands on your hip moves inward. Long, graceful fingers slip into your pants and settle on your heated sex. He traces one fingertip slowly up and down, faint and featherlight. Your hips chase the friction. That’s the moment he’s waiting for. You feel his proboscis, cold and smooth, slip easily into your ear canal. 

True to his word, he’s slow and gentle. The penetration is a gradual slide, navigating impossibly small spaces to lap at something not entirely physical, nestled at the intersection of thought, feeling and memory. You feel it like the wet slide of a tongue against some place sensitive and you stiffen, eyes rolling back in your head. It’s too much—too much something. Not quite pain or pleasure, not quite anything you can name. But it’s too much. Explosive heat and sandpaper on your nerves, an avalanche of overstimulation. 

The hand between your legs barely moves. It’s just two fingers, slender and nimble, rubbing so, so slowly. Up and down. Up and down. Your underwear is damp with your own want and he collects it on his fingertips, uses it to lubricate his steady rhythm. He strokes you right to the edge of madness, crooning softly. You feel the Song behind your eyes, in your brain. You feel all the love it carries.

Your hips jolt and your flinch violently in his grasp. You gasp, or maybe you scream. Your throat is raw when you drift back down into awareness, feeling his proboscis snaking back out and exit with a faint, wet pop. Soothing liquid dribbles out of your ear in his wake, something to numb soreness. You sag against him and catch your breath. He trills, smoothing his palms up and down your body. The hand between your legs comes out of your clothes glistening and sticky.

“What was it?” you asked. Your words are slurred, your tongue still clumsy. “Wh—what’d you taste?” 

He wipes the excess fluid from your chin, pressing one last kiss to your ear. It’s starting to tingle. “Nostalgia. Exhaustion. Hope. And…” He pauses, turning your face towards him. “You’ve been having nightmares.”

He lets you avoid the subject and bury your face in his fur. He Sings, swaying gently. You shut your eyes and left your mind drift. Tomorrow, you’ll be leaving. Maybe you can deliver silk, just like the old days—but this silk will be better than Dewitt’s ever was. Made by children who are happy, woven by adults who care about them. Tomorrow, you and the girl will have to say your goodbyes, and you know she’ll ask you about home because she’s kind. And you will smile and lie or maybe say nothing at all, happy for her but stinging with agonizing envy. 

“You could stay,” goes the Song, every time you hear it. “Make this home.”

You don’t answer. You never do. The Singer holds you while he still has the chance.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift #ive had a couple anons mention theyre reading or rereading ritsukas pictures lately #im so glad youre enjoying it!! ;v; that story has a special place in my heart