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rotworld · 3 months ago

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2: Spare Parts

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

it seems like you end up stuck next to the same unsettling doll maker every year you attend the sheralothian festival of the arts. if you didn't know any better—if you didn't know him so well—you might assume it was just coincidence.

original work. suggestive but not explicit; contains extremely ambiguous consent, implied/briefly mentioned gore, dollification, fantasy plague.

It’s no easy feat to reach Laurel Grove from the capital. The road is rough and pitted, hateful to wagon wheels. It twists through the mountains and descends into the treacherous fog of the Mistwalk Valley. Bandits, emboldened by newly thawed trade negotiations and a glut of incautious, overencumbered merchants, stalk the spaces between the trees. From caravan to campsite, a flock of apprentices have zealously guarded your crates of precious cargo. You’re tired, all of you, eager for beds, blankets and a proper meal, but also restless with anticipation. At the Sheralothian Festival of the Arts, you’ll make more money for your workshop in a few days than you will for the rest of the year, attracting new patrons and securing new contracts.

The first of your apprentices to spot the sparkle of magic hollers in unabashed delight. The tapestry is a seamless weave of physical and metaphysical components, a shimmery material that blooms with sweet-smelling flowers in the daylight and sparkles luminescent beneath the moon. These adornments wrap around the trunks of trees and dangle from the canopy in thin ribbons, forming a path that guides you across bridges formed of mossy, gargantuan tree trunks and through leaf-canopy shaded streets. Laurel Grove, the Evergreen City, gradually unfolds all around you, not carved into the forest but melding with it.

One of your apprentices rushes off to secure a room at Fiora Falls, an inn tucked behind a waterfall. Another finds boarding for the horses. The rest follow you to the meadow fairgrounds where a ring of tents, stalls and tables has sprung up in a wide circle. You are late arrivals, having traveled further than most. Your fellow artists and craftsmen are happy to see you, exchanging embraces and well-wishes. A space has been saved for you not far from the meadow’s entrance. The apprentices get the crates open, setting up shelves, tables and a canopy. The display on your left belongs to Veta, a woodcarver from the south. She has amber eyes and thickly muscled arms littered with old scars. She waves when she sees you. On your right—

“There, there, darling. Don’t be nervous.”

You freeze. All of your joy and excitement withers and dies because on your right is Medraut.

You consider leaving. You shouldn’t. Can’t, really. But the thought occurs to you. Packing up, turning around, and making the long journey home without a single sale. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. No. He won’t ruin this for you. You focus on helping the apprentices, unpacking fresh flowers, minerals and round jars packed full of colorful dust. Your pigments are the finest in Sheralothia. They’re on temple ceilings and canvases hung in palace halls, staining the palettes of the world’s most renowned painters.

Greta, one of the newer apprentices, glances around in awe at the works of leatherworkers, glassblowers and luthiers from distant lands. Inevitably, her gaze is drawn to Medraut and his eclectic display: heavy tomes. Bows and ribbons. Syringes. Small bowls of cosmetic pigments. Cloudy vials of condensed magic in both smooth liquid and thick ichor. Sewing kits. Everything is arranged around a life-size doll at the front and center, sitting stiffly upright with stocking-clad legs dangling off the edge of the table. It’s undeniably beautiful. Dressed in an asymmetric frilly ensemble, its dainty hands are folded one over the other in its lap, nails neatly trimmed and painted. It has a listless expression, lips pursed and painted orchid purple, neither smiling nor frowning. Glassy lavender eyes are accentuated by long lashes and dabs of glittering blush on the cheeks, half-lidded gaze staring at nothing in particular.

“Hush now,” Medraut murmurs. He tucks a stray lock of hair back into place, looping it behind the shell of the doll’s ear. He caresses its face with the back of his hand in slow, soft strokes, the way one touches a lover. “Yes, I know. You dislike the spotlight. But you’re perfect.”

“Greta,” you say sternly. She flinches, scurrying back to your side with a sheepish expression. “Guests will be arriving at any moment and we’re not finished setting up. Let’s not get distracted just yet.”

“Of course!” she stammers. You offer a smile to reassure her when she rejoins the other apprentices, sifting through pigments and materials to find the most eye-catching objects worthy of display. She’s soon drawn into a gossip huddle with the others, voices lowered, nervous glances thrown around. You don’t stop them. Better she hears it now, however twisted by hearsay and urban legend, than later. You try to focus on preparing for the start of the festival but you keep stealing glimpses at the neighboring tables.

Medraut is deceptively delicate-looking, willowy with bony fingers and slender wrists. He’s cut his hair since the last time you saw him. Shoulder-length now, no longer spilling halfway down his back. He still favors the lavish fashions of the nobility; white silk, billowing sleeves, an obsidian brooch affixed to a lace jabot. Everything he does is graceful and deliberate, from the simple act of movement to the precise way he handles the goods arranged in front of him. He keeps returning to the doll, fussing over it, smoothing out creases in its clothing and refluffing drooping bows. Each time, his hand lingers. A squeeze of the shoulder. A stroke of the hair. A slow slide of the palm against the hollow of the throat, unabashed lust in his eyes.

Not unlike the doll, there is an uncanny, ageless quality to his features, a lack of anything that could easily identify him as young or old. That’s just how it is with mages. He could be thirty or three hundred. There’s no way to tell just by looking. You hear the apprentices discussing it. Trading rumors and throwing out guesses. His portrait hangs in the Hall of Gratitude in Twillisp Castle, his smile forever enshrined along with the other advisors King Kirgar maintained during his reign several centuries ago.

“You’re pulling my leg!” Greta hisses. “He can’t be that old!”

The others insist, “He might be even older.”

“He’s from Ithyr, you know. Some of the oldest mages in the world live there.”

“Lived, anyway.”

“Oh,” Greta says, her eyes wide. “Ithyr? To the west? Isn’t that where…”

“Yes. I think that’s why he’s…like that.”

You share a table. Tall, long and draped with black cloth, this flimsy barrier is all that stands between the two of you. Medraut has already placed a few odds and ends on the side closest to him. Combs and hairbrushes. Perfume bottles. An assortment of scalpels in different sizes, spread out on a velvet cloth. You gather a few of the larger, more inelegant minerals you haven’t had the chance to cut and grind into fine powder, lining them up down the center of the table. You try to do this quietly but Medraut turns the moment you place the first stone. He approaches the table, his smile widening.

“Medraut,” you greet him curtly.

“My dear friend,” he says, the same sensual murmur he spoke into the doll’s ear rolling off his tongue. The slow, undisguised wandering of his gaze up and down your body makes you uneasy. His eyes are stark silver in pools of black sclera like twin moons, the pupils somewhat misshapen; common in survivors of arcanapox. “It seems I have the pleasure of your company again this year.”

You hum in acknowledgement. “I wonder how that keeps happening.”

He tilts his head, glancing at something behind you. You step to the side to block his line of sight and he chuckles softly. “Hm. Bloodshot eyes. Unsteady gait. Shaky hands. You work your poor apprentices hard but you work yourself hardest of all. Would you like to sit down? I brought a chair.”

You place the last stone more heavily than you need to, slamming it down at the end of the table. “You don’t cross this line,” you tell him. “You stay on your side and I stay on mine.”

“Now, now. There’s no need for all that. But if it will put your mind at ease…” He shrugs, leaning against his half of the table with his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Really, do you think so poorly of me? Your apprentices are precious, but I’d never steal one away. No matter how lovely they’d look in something other than those dreary robes and aprons you’re all so fond of.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” you say, utterly unconvinced.

The slow trickle of the festival’s first guests thankfully diverts his attention. Medraut’s display draws in many curious onlookers and he’s all too happy to explain the history of Ithyrian dollmaking. He comes out from behind the table to stand beside the doll, demonstrating its posable limbs with gentle, coaxing touches. You shouldn’t watch. You have plenty to do. But you keep looking. Keep glancing over and finding him increasingly shameless. Running his hands through the doll’s hair. Stroking its arm. Kneeling once to tighten the laces of its boots and sliding his palm up and down the curve of one long, ball-jointed leg. Up and down. Up and down. Slipping beneath the fluttering edge of its skirt…

You get a few potential customers, too, excitedly chattering patrons of the arts looking for fresh new pigments to supply their preferred painters. A few recognize you from previous years. One particularly discerning man asks if a particular jar of dark dust is used in the creation of “mourning blue,” a rich color becoming increasingly popular in the frescoes of the capital. You’re still not accustomed to being recognized like this, approached with awe and praise. Your whole world is the workshop, turning rocks and plants into colors worthy of royal portraits.

One of your apprentices demonstrates a technique with mortar and pestle, dropping a fistful of flower petals into the bowl. The others stand towards the back and whisper amongst themselves, furtive glances aimed at Medraut.

“How bad was it?”

“Oh, it was dreadful. Haven’t you seen The Death of the Deathless?”

“Gods, that awful thing? I couldn’t bear to look at it!”

“Shhh!”

Silence. You can feel them staring at your back for a moment before the whispers start again, even quieter now.

“It’s true. Our teacher was there when it happened. They apprenticed in Ithyr.”

“They were there? How did they survive?”

“Arcanapox only kills mages. Still, it makes us pretty sick, too. That’s why they have that tremor in their hands."

“Of all things, they painted that?”

“When you see something so awful, you make sense of it however you can.”

“Eyes like hot wax. Eugh.”

“But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

“Mages don’t handle death well. It’s too strange to them.”

“So that’s why…?”

“Yes, to help them grieve.”

“No, that’s just how it started. What they do now, it’s…well, it’s certainly not the same.”

A finely dressed man in a striped, high-collared doublet approaches Medraut’s table with a broad smile. They know each other. Medraut’s face lights up and they greet each other with half-bows, left hands flicking to the side as though to cast a minor spell; a mage greeting. They speak in hushed but excited tones and you should not be eavesdropping, should not care what they have to say to each other. You rearrange the pigments, sorting them alphabetically. You can’t help yourself. You glance over at them again.

The doll is staring at you.

You nearly drop the jar you’re holding, fumbling with the lid. It hasn’t moved at all except for its head, turned towards you. You swallow nervously, bending to pick up the lid of the jar. The doll’s eyes lower, then follow you back up when you stand. You look away, heart pounding.

“How long did it take?” you hear the man ask, sounding awed.

Medraut laughs softly. “Quite some time, but I enjoy the process. This one especially.”

You look at the dirt beneath your feet. The dangling tablecloth. The line of stones. Medraut’s beautiful hand sliding beneath the doll’s arm. Cupping its elbow. Stroking its wrist with his thumb. Sliding their palms together, lacing his fingers with its stiff ones. His face is flushed and his smile is the sort born of fevered delirium, a man dreaming of something impossibly sweet.

“He’s stunning. Simply breathtaking. And the eyes…”

“A fresh set,” Medraut assures him. “I used the portrait you left with me for reference. A perfect match, isn’t it?”

“Yes. This is everything we wanted and more, Medraut. I can’t thank you enough.” The other man grasps the doll’s hand and brings it to his lips, kissing each finger reverently. “Everything is as it always should have been.”

“As it will forever be,” Medraut says, quiet and solemn. For a moment, neither of them speak. They bow their heads, eyes shut tightly as though willing away an unpleasant memory. Medraut snaps out of it first. He clears his throat, his smile returning. “Let me bring you the case.”

‘The case’ is a large, wheeled box with a handle at the top. The exterior is polished leather, while the inside is ruched white velvet. Like a display case, you think. Like a bed. Like a coffin. Medraut picks up the doll like it weighs nothing and carefully sets it inside, arranging it on its side in a fetal curl. Stray ribbons and folds of fabric are tucked in. One last kiss is pressed to its forehead. The case closes, zipped and latched and locked shut with a key Medraut passes to the man. You can’t look away as he leaves, watching the case rattle through the dirt and grass and far away, vanishing beyond the meadow. You think about it all day. You’ll probably have nightmares about it.

Sunset signals the end of the festival’s first day. You’re exhausted, eager to get off your feet. When did you eat last? You dismissed the apprentices for lunch in turns and they offered to bring you something. Offered, but you said no. Too frazzled by all the people to eat, all the talking you had to do. A sudden wave of dizziness sends you stumbling, careening right into your own display.

Strong, beautiful hands catch you. You are held against silk ruffles. A warm chest. A quickening heartbeat. Medraut lowers you gently to the ground, cradling your head in his lap. The world is blurry but you can tell he isn’t smiling anymore. He wipes the sweat from your brow.

“Teacher!” You hear Greta and the others, your apprentices frantic and wailing. Medraut keeps them at a distance, barks at them not to crowd around you. You rarely hear him so sharp-tongued and terse. He tells them where to find a healer, sends them off for food and water. You breathe shakily, feeling worse than you realized. Medraut shushes you, his thumb catching a tear at the corner of your eye.

“My dear friend,” he whispers.

“Put me down.” You try to squirm away from him but you don’t get far. Medraut turns you over, burying your face against his shirt. “Medraut, I’m serious.”

“You need me,” he says. His voice quivers slightly. “You need me, and you long to be cared for. Treated like a precious, delicate thing. Here I am, my dearest one. Let me take care of you for just a moment.” He rubs your back, pressing his fingertips into muscles you didn’t realize were sore. You don’t mean to relax against him. You want to fight, to push him away, but he hums an old song you haven’t heard in decades and you remember damp summer evenings in Ithyr. The hiss of the ocean and the caw of seabirds. The chalky scent of magic pigment, the way it fizzled on your fingers. Stargazing on your back in a field, your hand joined with another. How you looked at the sky but he only looked at you, spellbound.

“Do they still hurt?” you ask him.

“My eyes?” he says. You nod weakly. “No, dear. Not for a long time.” He strokes your head, gentle, sliding pets that make you feel like young and impulsive again. “I wish you would come to Ithyr again. Stay this time. Do you remember that seat in the bay window? You would sit there for hours with your canvas, watching the tide come and go. You would sit there, so very still.” You shake your head and it’s a lie. Denial and avoidance. Of course you remember. “I want to see you there again,” Medraut whispers, stroking along your spine. “In the sunrise. In the moonlight. As you always should have been, forever.”

That’s how they find you when the apprentices return, still in Medraut’s embrace. Curled up like a sick child crying for relief, wrinkling his shirt with your grasping hands. Only when the healer comes do you manage to pull yourself away. Medraut lets go of you slowly, one finger at a time. You assure him repeatedly you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. You see him helping your apprentices pack up the pigments, their looks of wary acceptance, leaving his own section abandoned. There is a large box underneath one of his tables. A leather case, shut tight but unlatched. Empty, then. No doll inside. His personal mage seal is stamped on the side.

It’s the same one he brings every time, year after year. Empty, save for desperate dreams and wishes that this time will be different than all the others. That you will finally say yes.

#rotpeach writes #goretober #original #i got a ton of asks today!! will try to get to a few tonight and the rest as soon as im able. thank you for your patience! ;v;#still gotta go back and look at growing shadows now that i actually slept and hopefully make this the year i also post everything to ao3

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ghosttotheparty · 1 year ago

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a mess of holy things (preview) cw: (soft) dom/sub; mentions of god & church; nsfw

“You’ve ruined my spirit,” Steve giggles, dodging Eddie’s hand as it whips out to tap his cheek. “Defiled my soul!”

“Don’t say it like that,” Eddie laughs, snatching a pillow up and hitting Steve with it as Steve laughs, trying to catch it. “Like I’ve corrupted you.”

The word does something to Steve, who falters as he grabs the pillow from Eddie and hits him back. Eddie hides his face, laughing in that way he does, his nose scrunched, eyes squeezed shut. Steve looks at him, hesitating.

“...What if I’m… Like. Into that?”

Eddie looks at him, flicking his hair back and raising his eyebrows. Steve’s face flushes with embarrassment, but it fades after a moment when Eddie reaches for the pillow and tosses it aside, pushing Steve back against the armrest of the sofa gently, leaning over him.

“Well, in that case,” he says slyly, smoothly, leaning down to kiss Steve’s lips chastely. Steve’s chin tilts up, and his eyes flutter for a brief moment. He looks up to find Eddie gazing down at him, eyes shining, lips curved into a small, soft smile, and after another moment Eddie kisses him again, his hand lifting to hold the side of Steve’s face as their lips part. Steve reaches to hold his waist, fingers tightening on the fabric of his shirt.

They’re both panting when they part, lips wet, and Steve opens his eyes to look at him.

“You like that I fucked you up?” Eddie asks softly, and Steve squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, nodding.

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly. “Yes.”

Eddie smiles at him, caressing his face.

“I want…” Steve trails off, eyes trained on Eddie’s lips, his heart pounding. Eddie nudges their noses together, still smiling.

“What do you want, baby boy?” he whispers. “Tell me.”

“I…” Steve shifts, and Eddie lets him sit up, leaning back to sit across from him. Steve looks at the sofa between them, his fingers tangling anxiously. “I want…” He takes a short breath, closing his eyes as he exhales, finding his words.

“I wanna belong to you,” he says slowly, still looking down, “the way… the— the Church thinks I belong to them.” He pauses, biting his lip, cheeks hot. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he mutters almost to himself, but Eddie interrupts before he can apologize.

“That makes sense,” he says, his voice light, gentle and quiet. “...Look at me.”

Steve is helpless to obey, lifting his gaze to meet Eddie’s, throat suddenly tight, and Eddie’s expression is soft, head tilted. He reaches out to touch Steve’s cheek, running his fingertips down to his chin to lift it as he leans in to kiss him softly. Steve melts into it, shoulders slumping.

“You know you don’t have to be ashamed of what you want from me,” Eddie says gently, still holding Steve’s chin. “Right?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve says weakly. Eddie’s smile widens a little.

“Good boy,” he murmurs. “Now look at me,” he says more firmly. “And tell me what you want.”

His hand falls.

Steve’s eyes flick back and forth between Eddie’s, and he takes a deep, slow breath, pausing for a moment. His fingers are still tangled in his lap, and he wants to reach out and hold Eddie’s hand, but he can’t make himself reach out to him.

“I w—” His voice cuts off, and he looks away as he swallows nervously before he meets Eddie’s eyes again. He sees the brief shine of approval in Eddie’s expression, a slight smile and a nod. “I want you to… to remind me that I’m yours.”

He takes another breath, and Eddie waits.

“And no one else’s,” Steve adds, his voice soft and weak. “…Not even God’s.”

Eddie blinks at him, quiet.

Steve’s heart is beating so fast it might jump out of his chest, and he can’t really catch his breath, even when he inhales slowly and deeply, it’s like his lungs don’t quite fill all the way. After a moment he realizes Eddie’s eyes are shining like he might start crying, and Steve’s chest tightens even more, aching as he leans a little bit closer, longing to reach out and touch him.

Eddie beats him to it, hands raising to Steve’s face, holding his cheeks as he leans in and kisses him hard, their mouth crashing together as Steve gasps. It’s a lingering kiss, softening after a moment, and Steve finally touches him, lifting a hand to hold his wrist.

Eddie presses their foreheads together when they part, breathing hard, and then he lifts his head, looking at Steve. His eyes are still shiny.

“I want you to go to my room,” he says quietly, firmly, “and get naked. And I want you to wait for me. I’ll be there in a minute, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve breathes, eyes falling to Eddie’s lips as his brain fuzzes. Eddie smiles softly, kissing him again before he lets his hands fall.

“Go on,” Eddie says, lifting his chin in the direction of the door, and Steve exhales, leaning in to kiss him one more time before he stands shakily and leaves the room.

His hands shake as he lifts his shirt over his head and folds it before setting it on Eddie’s desk chair. His chest still feels tight, but he can still feel Eddie’s lips on his, Eddie’s hands on his face, Eddie’s whispers ghosting over his skin. And it all makes him feel better. Makes him feel like God isn’t glaring down at him. Makes him feel right.

He shivers when he’s bare, making sure his clothes stay on the chair before he looks around the room, pausing, unsure of where he should wait. He eyes the bed for a moment; it’s made neatly, the blankets smooth, pillows organized, but after a second his gaze falls to the floor next to it.

He kneels.

The wood makes his knees ache, but he sighs in relief, closing his eyes, hands folding over his lap as he waits for Eddie. The skin of his thighs is warmer than his fingertips.

He opens his eyes when he hears the floor creak outside the bedroom door, a slight shift in weight, and Eddie is coming in, eyes trained on Steve. His hair is tied up now, and his sleeves are pushed up to reveal his inked forearms, and Steve feels his blood rush. Eddie closes the door behind himself like they need privacy from the rest of the apartment, and something about the way he does it makes Steve’s head feel too light for his neck. He exhales slowly, lifting his chin to look up at Eddie as he approaches him.

Eddie touches his face, holding his chin, sighing softly.

“Did so well waiting for me,” he murmurs.

“I like being good for you,” Steve says without thinking, his voice slow and sleepy. Eddie smiles down at him, and then he’s moving down to the floor, kneeling in front of Steve, their knees touching.

“I know,” he whispers. “‘S why you’re my good boy, right?” Steve is nodding before the last word is even out of Eddie’s mouth, and Eddie’s smile widens, his eyes sparkling. “Always so perfect,” he adds, murmuring, his hands touching Steve’s face. Steve’s eyes close.

They open when Eddie’s hands disappear from his face, desperately looking for him even though he’s right in front of him. Eddie is pulling off his flannel, eyes downcast, and his shirt rides up his stomach a little bit as he reaches up to set the flannel on the bed. Steve’s eyes get stuck there, gazing at the strip of pale skin, at the whisper of dark hair and the tiny bit of visible ink, and then Eddie’s shirt falls again, hiding it. Steve’s eyes fall to Eddie’s lap, to the bulge under his jeans. His face flushes with heat, with want and something he can’t name.

He swallows when he finally lifts his gaze to meet Eddie’s. Eddie is looking at him, half-smiling, and Steve feels even more bare than he is. He can’t hide the way Eddie is affecting him, not when he’s naked like this. And Eddie’s eyes keep scanning his body, sliding over his spotted skin like he wants to eat it. (Steve would let him probably. Eddie tends to make him feel a little crazy.) His eyes linger on Steve’s lap, and Steve’s cheeks burn with shame.

Eddie’s smile grows and he moves close. Reaches to touch Steve’s face with a feather-light touch that makes Steve close his eyes, makes him turn his face into Eddie’s hand. But Eddie’s hand doesn’t linger, slipping over his throat teasingly, over his neck, to the back of his head, where it buries itself in Steve’s hair and tightens. Steve’s breath catches in his throat as Eddie pulls gently. Steve’s vision blurs when he opens his eyes, looking at Eddie’s face longingly as Eddie leans closer.

His voice is quiet, dangerous, tender, when he whispers, his breath on Steve’s face.

“Do I tempt you, Steve Harrington?”

And Steve nods dumbly, eyes stuck on Eddie’s mouth, lips parted.

“Yes. I…” He shivers when Eddie traces a line over his jaw with his other hand, then a line on his cheek, connecting two moles that Steve knows are there, that he knows Eddie looks at a lot. “I want you.”

Eddie leans closer, and their lips brush, and Steve keens, closing his eyes as he aches with it, with the desire. It’s in his bones, hot and molten, making him melt against Eddie’s body, falling against his chest, and Steve knows his own heart is pounding, but now he knows Eddie’s is too, and he suppresses a smile when their lips brush again. Eddie’s fingers tighten in his hair. It hurts. But Steve just sighs, lifting his head into Eddie’s hand, and the next words that come from his throat are weak and breathy and fucking desperate.

“I need you.”

-----

Steve is from a small town; less than 3,000 people, and he's been lonely all his life. When he leaves for college, his parents warn him against the heathens of the rest of the world, but his eyes find someone interesting, someone his parents would hate, hide from, pray for. And Steve finds that he can't really bring himself to care what they'd think. As his faith fades, so does his loneliness, and something else takes their place.

permanent taglist: @estrellami-1 @theplantscientist <3 (comment to be added to permanent taglist or taglist for this specific fic when i start posting it)

#ta da #hopefully ill be able to work on this lots even tho im going back to uni soon #im so so so excited ab this fic yall #may take a while #also this may be slightly heavy so there will be content warnings etc but lmk if i need to add any :)#steddie #steddie fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington fanfic #eddie munson fanfic #a mess of holy things

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