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dinwarden · 5 months ago

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༺♡༻Velvet touch your mouth on mine༺♡༻

Curse of Strahd fanfiction, specifically a character study/backstory for Escher. ⁺ M/M content, explicit content. Two chapters, work in progress. MDNI, 18+ only. ⁺ TW for gaslighting, manipulation, graphic violence, abduction, stalking. (Updating as I go.) ⁺ Characters: Escher/Strahd Von Zarovich ⁺ 7.8k words. ⁺ Read on AO3

A small folded piece of parchment caught his eye, placed between the neck and the strings, and he was cautious to take it between two fingers and onto his lap. The perfume filled his senses, along with the faintest scent of smoke and wine, and he placed the instrument down to read it. "Your songs bring such light to my lonely castle. A gift for you. Keep playing, pretty. Count Strahd Von Zarovich"

༺♡༻ Chapter One ༺♡༻

With bleeding hands and aching feet, Escher trudged through the snow. He could barely see before him, even with the lantern in his hand and the faint hint of a candle being lit in his family home, the smell of smoke from the furnace filling his senses. Snow collected at his ankles, offering momentary relief from the burning pain, as well as an urge to rush into the warmth of the homestead.

He jostled the handle, and its creaking thrust through him, the headache edging behind his eyes. He pushed open the door, having to shove against piles of discarded letters behind the door, letters from Vallaki and fine handwriting mapping out the debt that the family had been put in. Golden blonde hair was tied low, and his senses were bombarded with the delighted shrieking that welcomed him.

His sister, Elisabeta, ran with such speed to catch hold of his arm on the way into the doorway. Her blonde hair was tied into two long braids, decorated with ribbons. She had only just celebrated her seventh birthday the day prior, and all the excitement was still there, as he noted how she was still wearing her new dress, baby blue and white with frills, which set him and their mother back far too much gold.

Her dress was stained with flour, likely from helping bake pască or some other sweet, and it transferred to Escher nearly instantly, and he only allowed his sister to hang off of his arm, leaving her laughing with delight, pale freckles showing with the cold weather of Krezk.

"Please, Elisabeta, I'm weary," He complained, voice hoarse, and he tried desperately to ignore the sting of the marks from lashings to the back of his legs, "it's late. You should be asleep." He scolded, tired eyes taking over his expression.

She laughed again, and allowed him to place her on the floor, "You weren't back!" She giggled, "I asked Mama if I could wait up for you!"

"Oh? How nice of you." He huffed, setting down his bag and shrugging off the dusty brown overcoat, “It is past midnight. Don’t feel like you must stay awake for my return.”

His sister must have been tired, for as soon as she got the chance, she dropped from her brother's arm and sprinted upstairs, the aged wood creaking all the way, “Goodnight!” she beamed happily from the landing.

Blood trickled down his calf, and he composed himself for a moment before stepping through into the front room. A smouldering fireplace sat in the centre of the far wall, mounted with the small symbol of the Morninglord. Two dusty grey, threadbare armchairs sat before the fire, and in one of them was a frail form of an older woman, blonde hair merging into the ageing grey, a dark shawl thrown over her shoulders as her cold eyes darted to the doorway to scan her son.

“You’re late,” she stated quietly, holding the shawl around her body, “you went to the tavern with your friends?” Faded eyes scanned him, her gaze sharp and nearly angry.

“No,” He shrugged, leaning back against the wall, decaying beyond repair and crumbling, “I had to finish collecting firewood. I didn't get invited to the tavern.”

She lifted her head to look at him and blinked like he had said something stupid. Her gaze flitted down to his calves, which he awkwardly shuffled to hide. Blood collected at the hem of his trousers, and he could still feel the sting, the way the foreman wound his wrist back, clearly aiming to draw blood while the others tried to get on with their work through Escher’s cries.

“What’d you do?” she furrowed her brow and sat back in her chair, shifting closer to the fire as she shivered, the strong winds breaking in through gaps in the window panes.

A huff escaped him, and he shrugged again, “Nothing…” he murmured, before he shook his head, “I caught sight of the castle in the distance, and didn’t stop looking at it. The foreman lost his temper.”

She scanned him for a moment and seemed to bite her tongue before she nodded, “Good. You shouldn’t be looking anywhere near Ravenloft.” she glared at her son, throwing her gaze back to the fire.

Escher shook his head, opening his palms in an exasperated shrug, “I didn’t mean to look. And there is no harm in looking, is there?”

“Not unless you catch the Devil’s eye,” she stated, her voice steely. Only stories, and rumours, had been spoken through each town, of men and women catching Strahd’s fancy and how quickly they were gone from their home, resigned to life with the cruel lord.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes, “Be serious, Mother,” he pleaded, untying his hair, “what about me would catch his eye? I promise I won’t look again.”

She stood up so quickly he nearly recoiled away, and yet in an unusual moment of tenderness, she approached her son and put her calloused hands to his cheeks, rubbing at his temples. A tight smile towards him pulled at her lips, drawing the wrinkle lines into her cheeks.

“My silly boy,” she stated endearingly, tucking hair behind his ear, “off to bed with you, now.”

He leaned into the touch, even if he wished not to. This was too rare, too special to let go now, and he stayed there for a moment before looking down at her, “Did you manage to find someone to fix the violin?” he whispered.

The smile dropped, but promptly reappeared with some reluctance, “No, Escher. No one here can,” she dropped her hands from his face, and started to escort him from the front room, “Perhaps someone in Vallaki can repair it.”

His mother seemed to forget often just how long it took to get from one town to the next. He knew she would not approve of him hitching a ride from a Vistani wagon. Still, beyond waiting desperately for a carriage to pass by, there was little choice unless he wished to be running from wolves and bats for days on end, before finally reaching Vallaki and having to spend two months' worth of wages.

She continued to usher him to the bottom of the stairs until she left him to climb to the next floor and finally up the ladder into the attic, his legs aching all the way. Cobwebs littered the rafters, small spiders crawled along the splintering wood, and Escher let out a quiet sigh.

He pressed himself down into the small bed, blood smearing the off-white sheets. The violin was cracked down its centre and stood watching him and he imagined it would be laughing if it could. Only he could manage to break such a fragile instrument, too heavy-handed and crushing its tiny frame. He shifted his overshirt off, leaving the thin white vest beneath, tore the stained trousers off himself, and allowed blonde hair to tumble from his band.

The violin was one of the few possessions he could call his own, the only thing that made him feel like he was more than some lowly peasant rotting in Krezk, that he was fit and noble enough to wield such a beautiful instrument. Honestly, the violin was cheap, and a gift for Escher’s birthday a year prior, but it lifted a warm, happy feeling when he looked at it, and that was worth it all.

He contemplated staying awake, getting some of his fathers' old woodworking tools and making an attempt to fix the instrument himself. However, his father didn't exactly teach him the craft, and he feared he would make it worse. He laid back in his bed, looking up towards the skylight. He could still hear his sister moving around, down by the ladder. He heard her step up and down from the first step, and he let out a tired sigh.

"What are you doing, Elisabeta?" He asked softly, trying to make sure his voice was not too tense, "Go to bed, child."

She laughed softly down by the ladder, stepped up again and climbed up the ladder, and peered past the top to look at her brother, "The mist is back!" She grinned, climbing up. His sister kept a positive outlook on the horrors outside, only shared by the other children of the village, she had never been hurt in all her years, nor had she been witness to just how horrid the aftermath of such attacks could be; never paying attention to the scratching in the foundation, the shattering of windows or the bodies filling the streets.

As was routine, Escher scooped his sister up, holding her to his chest protectively, and he was quick to blow the dim flame in the oil lantern out before he dropped to the floor with her in the corner of the room.

"Quiet now," He whispered against her hair, watching as the slightest slither of mist crept in through the crack of the skylight, spiralling like cigarette smoke in the cold air, "did you tell Mother?"

She nodded softly, watching the mist quietly, with an almost captivated gaze as it continued to filter into the room, "What if the window breaks, like last time?”

"I’m not sure," He shook his head, holding her closer, hand raising almost to shield her eyes from the window, "it will be okay, I will fix it if it does."

There was silence for but a moment, the thin slivers of mist nearly dissipating into the stale air of the attic, before screams were all he could hear, his sister shrieking as a large creature, sporting leathery, tattered wings, smashed against the glass of the window, and her scream was joined by Escher’s own, though he did not realise he had started at first. The creature slammed itself into the glass and shrieked with a near-frantic ferocity, and continued until the glass splintered, inch by inch before finally shattering.

It did not breach the threshold into the room, leaving the glass to rain down on the siblings. His heart slammed in his chest, an awful nauseous feeling gripping at his stomach as he finally got the momentary courage to lift his eyes and look at the creature. It was too big to be a normal bat, even if it wished to enter the room, it was too large to manoeuvre itself through the skylight, red eyes piercing through him and matching the necklace of droplets of blood decorating its fur.

However, as quickly as the creature arrived, it was gone. something heavy dropped in through the broken window, and Escher heard the flap of leathery wings leave. Elisabeta still cried but slowly threw her gaze to the window, her ragged breathing and grip on her brother’s shoulders weakening as she started to calm.

Escher saw that what had been dropped was a box, wrapped intricately in metres of dark fabric and lace. Carefully, he moved Elisabeta out of his arms, and shifted on his knees, fingers barely touching the beautiful fabric, but as he heard the familiar footsteps of his mother on the landing, he shoved the box beneath his bed, the wood hitting against the wall on the other side, before he looked to his sister, "Say nothing about it, not yet."

. . .

“What happened?” Shouted his mother as she breached the top of the ladder, practically launching herself into the attic, noting the smashed glass. She quickly rushed to Elisabeta, dusting splinters of glass from her hair with her shawl with some panic, “Where is the creature?”

The glass lacing Escher’s hair was bigger and cut into his hand as he tried to brush it out of his loose blonde curls, palm slashed and blood spilling like thin ribbons from the cuts. His mother rushed towards him, quick to wrap her shawl around his hand, her voice gentle as she tried to shush her children.

Escher shook his head slightly, and looked from Elisabeta to his mother, “The creature… it broke the window, but… that is all it did. We are both fine, mama.”

The shawl was tied around his palm, and she leaned in to press a small kiss on his forehead, “Good…” she whispered, holding his hand in her own trembling one. It was one of the few times Escher had seen his mother so shaken, but she soon pulled her hand away,.

The glass was swept up, the window patched up quickly and his sister put back to bed, and Escher was once again left up in the attic, watching as the spiders darted along the rafters. He considered going to bed, making sure he got up early as to not be late and face the foreman’s wrath once more, but the beautiful black lace, silk and velvet called to him, making him kneel down by his bed and pull the large box out.

The lace was so fine, Escher could only imagine how expensive it was, and he slowly began to unwrap it, revelling in the hint of rose perfume that lingered on the object the creature dropped. Finally, he revealed a dark, polished wooden box. With shaking hands, he leaned closer and unclasped the lid. Inside the box was a beautiful violin, carved out of the same dark wood, it shone in the low light of the lantern, and was somewhat heavy as he lifted it out of its box, leaving behind the soft fabric that was left to cushion the instrument, presumably so it would not be damaged when it hit the floor. It came with a carved bow with soft roses and thorns etched into the wood, and when he lifted it to his chin, he couldn't help but smile to himself.

"Your songs bring such light to my lonely castle. A gift for you. Keep playing, pretty.

Count Strahd Von Zarovich."

There was a sense of terror that gripped his chest, and he pressed the note back into the box and seemed to recoil from the instrument, placing it quickly back into its home. It was as if the instrument itself was just as deadly as the halls of Castle Ravenloft itself. He could normally see Ravenloft from his window, so many years of longing for the beauty of the old castle, and now a part of it was within his bedroom, with a personal note from the Devil, Strahd, the insignia on the bottom of the parchment made his heart race and hands sweat. He had never seen the lord in person, and now he was getting gifts. Terror, strangely, mingled into a sense of flattery, but Escher begged for his common sense to take over, closing up the box and pushing it back under his bed.

The mattress was thin, his back pressing straight into the wooden slats beneath him, and he watched the spiders go to their own beds, nestling in the rafters in their webs, and the way the ceiling vaulted into the darkness above him. He pulled the threadbare blanket to his chest, doing nothing for the cold air let in by gaps in plywood, and tried his best to sleep.

Dreams of the large bat took him, the darkness above him swirling into the thick, grey mist. In his dreams, he swore he could still see into his room, as if he was still awake, eyes wide as they stared up into the vaulted ceiling. He swore he could see the outline of a figure, clinging to the rafters, reflected eyes staring down at him.

The next morning took him as it normally did, an early morning start of being taken through the woods outside the abbey, collecting firewood and marching for hours into nightfall. Escher did not have the strength for chopping into the timber, felling the large pine trees into the dead earth, and often had to be paired up with one of the other people to aid him.

That day, it happened to be a young, dark-haired man with a scarred, round face, a deep gash having healed through his lips to the side of his nose. He was strong, chopping through the dead wood with little trouble. For once, Escher did not feel like his partner was begrudgingly helping him just so the foreman would not take out his anger on them.

The young man smiled Escher’s way, pushing his hair out of his eyes and taking another strong swing at the tree, “Your legs… are they okay?” He asked, nodding towards the straight gashes decorating Escher’s calves.

Escher hummed, lifting his leg to look over the marks. They were certainly ugly and angry, the remains of red from where blood had trickled down his legs, “Well… they don’t feel great,” he let out a strained laugh. He forced himself to swing the axe, barely making a dent in the wood beyond from splintering, “It feels worse today. Bathing hurt like Hell.”

“I imagine so,” he frowned, before he cast his gaze to the distant, misty visage of the castle in the distance, “I don’t see what is so wrong about looking at the castle. It’s almost pretty.” He stated in a hushed tone.

He shrugged and nodded, looking between the man and back to the foreman, cigarette tight between his lips as he surveyed his workers, “I do not see why we have to pretend it doesn’t exist. We’re all stuck here, but… I do not know,” he let out a sigh, taking a new swing at the tree, “there are so many stories about it. I just want to know what it is actually like.”

The hours dwindled away, Escher and his partner speaking of Castle Ravenloft in hushed whispers, about the lord who lived there and what he may be like, charming, noble, dangerous? As the others began to leave, the foreman excusing everyone with a stern look to the blonde, Escher found himself staying with the man, the two chatting and laughing into the early hours of the morning. They sat beneath the tree they had barely made a scratch to, his partner producing a bottle of wine from his bag.

“I have not seen you before,” Escher remarked, light eyes scanning the other man, “what is your name?”

He smiled at him, uncorking the bottle and taking a sip, the rich scent hitting him within seconds, “It’s Vasili,” he grinned, offering him the bottle, “I’m from Vallaki. The work has dried up there, and so my father has decided to cart me off each morning to get here.”

He sipped at the bottle, the comforting warmth spreading through him, “Is it true that there are more jobs, and they pay better, in Vallaki?”

“Depends. How much money do you make, chopping up firewood?” Vasili asked, taking the bottle back with a swig, “Please, drink as much as you’d like.”

Escher considered it for a moment, relishing in the wine and the warmth it radiated through him while the snow began to fall, “Each day, I make a copper piece. And.. the firewood is free, but only if we ask the foreman after our day is done.”

“I will not lie, the pay is better, at least somewhat,” Vasili looked somewhat guilty, resting his head back against the tree, “the wage in Vallaki is at least a silver a day. Maybe… you should relocate. Take a job there. There were still some odd jobs left. Mainly that of housekeeping for the Baron.”

Another quick swig was taken by Escher, a smile on his face, “Hah. I’m not exactly one for housekeeping, you understand,” he shrugged again, taking his hair out of the ribbon, “Maybe when I save up more money… I may.”

Vasili nodded slowly, taking a last drink, before handing the bottle back, “Have the rest. I will need to take a ride back with the Vistani.”

“Thank you,” Escher hummed softly, settling the bottle beside him, “I was enjoying the talk. I’m sorry you’re being subjected to such a shit town just for some coin.”

He laughed again, looking over him. Dark eyes scanned Escher’s face, and it made his heart race, this handsome stranger stared into his eyes, “It’s fine. We can talk more.”

His tone was as if he had to go, almost disappointed, and yet he lingered there for a moment, the two bathed in the light of the moon. Maybe it was the buzz of the wine or the fact that this was one of the few souls in Krezk who was not as cold as the weather, but Escher shifted, starting to lean closer. He was not an idiot. He was not going to kiss this man, instead, he moved closer and waited to see if he would respond or recoil.

Vasili stared back for a moment, eyes almost black in the low light. His lips were cold, and gentle as the two kissed. It was sweet and slow, Escher tracing a hand through his black hair, pecking another kiss to his cold lips before he finally pulled back.

Vasili smiled, kissing slightly at his lips again before he shifted away and sighed. “I really must be off. I’m sorry, Escher.”

“It’s okay,” he said, though could not hide his frown, “I ought to go home too. My mother will be waiting for me.”

The two shared another quick kiss, before Vasili rushed off down the road, coat hanging off his shoulders as his form disappeared into the woods, the mist surrounding him until Escher could no longer see his form.

Escher drank the rest of the wine on the way home, notes of cherry hitting his tongue with great appreciation, and soon he was back at his home, shoving the door open as carefully as he could.

“You’re drunk?”

His mother, arms crossed with a disgruntled look on her face, stood in the doorway of the front room, eyes trailing the empty wine bottle.

He shifted for a moment, before he shook his head, “No, mama, promise,” he offered a small smile, “I… shared it, with a friend. It’s just made me tired, is all.”

“Well… good,” she observed, taking the bottle from him and leaving it on the kitchen counter, leaving it for the morning, “I’m glad you are making friends.”

He slipped his coat off, throwing it over the rack with a lazy gesture, tiredness rushing over him moment by moment, “I may… go to Vallaki, tomorrow night, mama,” he spoke, words careful as he considered them, “there are good jobs in Vallaki, and I would at least like to see what is being offered.”

She nodded, though her gaze flitted to that of caution, “I see… Well, that is okay,” she stated. Escher was not going to double-check how happy she was with that concept, “maybe you can take your violin to be repaired, too?”

He departed upstairs with a gentle kiss to his mother’s cheek, in which she instantly recoiled at the alcohol on his breath, and climbed sluggishly up into the attic. He paid extra careful attention to the new webs created in the light of the lantern, smiling to himself as the spider rested in the centre, spinning new threads in its home.

Sleep took him rather quickly, only just managing to blow out the flame. Dreams seemed to be more regular for him in those days, and once again, he was met by the familiar scenario. Laying on his back, eyes fluttering open to the vaulted ceiling. The thing clinging to the rafters was still there, though was a much clearer visage of a person, nails scratching at the beams above Escher, those same eyes reflecting back at the blonde man, dark hair tumbling down. He wanted to scream, and yet his jaw, his mouth, and his lips would not cooperate, and instead, he simply stared up at the dreaded creature.

He was so sure he could hear soft whispers from above before sleep seemed to pull him back from the edge of the nightmare, and instead, any dreams he did have seemed to be of Vasili, his cold lips on his and the way they embraced for that brief moment.

༺♡༻ Chapter Two ༺♡༻

The smell of tobacco and spiced wine wafted over his senses, thick woven material of oranges and purples cushioned his rocky journey through the forest. Most people did not trust the Vistani, but transport was few and far between unless you wished to be chased by rabid wolves and bats through the pitch-black woods, finger-like branches grasping at hair and clothing.

Escher did not mind the Vistani however, mainly because they did not spend much near Krezk, and when he did see them, they were passing through. Vasili seemed to have a friendly relationship with them, able to flag down a passing vardo, smiling and laughing with them. The language he spoke to them in wasn’t common, and the older woman, skin tanned and scarred, laughed with him and offered Escher a bottle of spiced cider for the long journey.

"You seem to know them well." Escher started, holding the cider between his ankles, shifting into the soft pillows and blankets, trying to grasp some warmth from the cold, snowy town they rolled over.

Vasili gave a nod, shifting his blanket over his shoulders, sitting across from Escher, "Yes. I've traded with them before, travelled with them sometimes."

The journey was quiet, the lingering thoughts of the small kiss as well as the gift from Ravenloft dropped into his window. Every so often, Vistani men and women would get into the vardo, only to depart later on the road.

They laughed and joked with Vasili, conversations that Escher could not understand, though they made sure to speak in common when speaking directly to the elf.

"It's cold here, yeah?" One of the men stated, holding his leaf green coat closer around his shoulders. He looked to Escher with a look of playful exasperation, "How do you handle Krezk? I dare not linger there too long, lest I awaken buried in the snow."

Escher laughed, "I think we are used to it," he shrugged before he offered the man the spiced cider, which he took with a swift movement, "Plus… this whole land is cold. It just so happens that Krezk has snow."

"Ravenloft is not much better," He replied, dark hair tied up in a tight bun, dark eyes trailing Escher’s movement, "It's as if you could push your hand into the open flames of the fireplace, that it would not burn you."

Anxiety swarmed in the elf's chest, the mere mention of Ravenloft forced something below his skin to crawl, "You've been to the Castle?"

He took a sip of the cider, only nodding in response before he returned to speaking with Vasili, the conversation quickly warping into laughter and smiles that Escher felt he was trapped out of. His mind lingered on the quiet thought that the Devil was all around him.

The conversation dwindled and Escher was handed the bottle. The worrisome ache in his chest only grew, and it burned up his throat like acid, words tumbling from his lips before he could even consider them.

“A couple of nights ago,” He started, watching as the eyes of those in the vardo turned on him, “the hordes of creatures from the castle… one of them dropped something through my window.”

“Oh?” one of the Vistana tilted their head to the side, “What was it?”

“A violin,” Escher shrugged, “wrapped up in fabric, and pretty…” He explained. The creatures that plagued the land in the dead of night did not seem to know how to do anything but claw their way into people’s homes, mindlessly tearing whatever or whoever they found apart. How did some bat know to drop something into his window?

“Lovely gift,” One of the Vistana stated, taking a sip from the cider before speaking once more, “I would not worry too much.”

—

Vallaki’s tavern was certainly warmer than anywhere else Escher could be dragged to, and it was a welcome change from Krezk. Rain drizzled down the dusty windows, and Escher was escorted back to his room by Vasili, who insisted on carrying his bags for him.

Jobs were as hard to come by in the city as it was in Krezk, and the two men found themselves rejected over and over, doors slammed in their faces as there seemed to be no need for fishing or logging, driving the two back to their rooms with an air of frustration.

“We’ll try again come morning,” Vasili murmured, placing Escher bag and violin case down by the door, “I’m sorry, usually there is more work here.”

Escher felt himself tap the case as it was placed down, pressing it under the bed, “It was worth asking. Maybe I’ll ask at the Burgomasters manor.”

“He burns through staff like he burns through his gold,” Vasili cracked a smile, lighting thin, melted candles, “If all else fails, play your violin in the square.”

The light was dwindling outside, the mists clawing at the edge of the treeline where all was dark. Ravenloft was just a faint blot on the horizon, and the creatures would soon come. Escher imagined the flickering candles in the castles’ windows, something beyond the stained glass compelling him to do as Vasili suggested.

“I’ll leave you to rest,” Vasili spoke finally, tearing open the silence like wrapping parchment, “do sleep well.”

It was a quick kiss they shared, akin to the pecks a pair of longtime lovers preparing for bed, and Escher could barely think of what to say before Vasili was gone. It was not as if Escher had never experienced such affection before, but he had met no one like Vasili. A tipsy kiss in the dead of night, followed by days of keeping him at arm's length, tiptoeing around the most basic of conversations to a sudden kiss.

Something chill brushed his cheek in the night.

The springs in the mattress were loose, the blankets itched and the wind rattled the window frame. Escher had managed to stay asleep through discomfort, until something cold blessed his face.

Used to leaky roofs from the heavy rainfall of the valley, Escher closed his eyes tight, but he did not feel the sensation leave. Someone stood before him, backlit by the moonlight that seeped through the sheer curtains, hand outstretched and recoiling. Escher’s eyes barely had time to adjust to the dark, frozen on his back as his mind unfortunately picked up the figure.

Light reflected off the figures’ eyes, more predator than man, like the wild wolves that stalked the forests outside of Kresk, blood pooling from their mouths as they bared their teeth. Such nightmares would be gone after Escher closed his eyes, but when his lashes fluttered open for light eyes to meet the ceiling, those glassy eyes looked at him still. There was something ancient in the smile it flashed him, the glint of teeth, and finally, it spoke.

“Such beauty,” The voice spoke, and it made Escher’s skin prickle with a sudden chill, infiltrating the thin warmth of the blankets, “wasted on this squalor.”

Escher opened his mouth to speak, but he could not force the words to tumble from his lips, nor did he know what to say. Those piercing eyes made a pit in his stomach, tightening his chest. Escher figured he must have looked a fool, staring up at the standing figure, mouth agape with terror and awe. His eyes grew used to the dark, and he saw more of the figure; long hair, broad shoulders, and dull skin which reflected the slivers of moonlight that hit it.

“You need not speak,” the thing said, moving in the dark. Pale fingers with nails like a beast's claws reached towards the unmoving Escher, an envelope between two fingers, “Grace the castle with your presence soon, and bring the violin with you, yes?”

“I… what?” Escher finally asked, his voice barely carrying in the darkness of the room. When the creature did not respond, Escher quickly moved to sit up. Within the smallest blink, the presence of the room was gone. The Dread Lord had visited Escher, and all he could do was stare in stupified silence while he spoke, his hair a mess of tired tangles and frizz.

Vasili welcomed him into his room, half asleep himself and it was clear he had not heard exactly what Escher had said, the panicked whispers he spoke into the silent tavern. Quietly, Vasili pulled Escher into his arms, pulling him back into the bed, the scent of roses, of sage and bergamot filled his senses.

“Did you just hear me?” Escher asked, exasperated as Vasili readied himself to go to sleep once more, “Vasili, you are not listening– someone was in the room with me, and spoke to me.” he huffed, softly nudging the young man in the side.

Vasili only let out a hum, pulling him closer, “Sleep, darling,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, “you dream.”

Escher frowned, watching in the darkness as Vasili’s lashes fluttered closed once more, “I was awake, Vasili,” he shook his head, “it was him, he spoke to me.”

A hint of an amused smile flashed over his face, and Vasilli allowed Escher to pull back from the cuddle, “Stay here tonight, I will keep you safe,” he said, eyes closed peacefully, “if the dread lord comes again, I will protect you.”

“Shush,” Escher tried not to laugh, “you are going to get yourself killed, maybe both of us.”

However, the mere notion of having to return to his room made his chest ache, and eventually, he returned to Vasili, breathing in the scent of bergamot while strong arms wrapped around him. Sleep kissed Escher soft and slow, taking him until morning broke, and he awoke to find himself still wrapped up in Vasili’s hold.

___

Blonde lashes fluttered open into the dark morning to find Vasili awake, dark eyes darting to meet Escher’s own. A handsome smile, Escher thought, pretty eyes locked on him. Vasili squeezed his shoulder. “You can sleep here tonight,” Vasili murmured, “no more worrying.”

Vasili’s kisses were sweet, and tender, and Escher could not help but lean into them. Cold lips pressed to his temple, and he smiled to himself, a small moment of warmth before they had to get up. The anxiety welled, and all caution was waning as Escher’s mind begged to find the truth; Vasili altered his demeanour when talking to Escher as often as the wind changed, sometimes cold and distant, occasionally sweet and desperate to be near him.

“I have it on good authority that the Devil cannot come here, something about the church. Hallowed ground, maybe?” Vasili began again after a stretch of silence, “I’m sure you dreamed it.”

“I did not,” Frowning, Escher sat up, “he told me to come to the castle.”

For all of Vasili’s looks, he did not listen very well, quick to dismiss Escher’s words with that quick smile of his, “He cannot come here, darling,” he repeated, “do you wish to go to the castle?”

Escher stared at him for a moment, their eyes meeting as Vasili shrugged, awaiting the answer. Escher had tried to simply rid his mind of the castle, he knew the Devil engaged in trickery to seduce people to the castle. Maybe he did wish to go if only to meet the only person who seemed to appreciate his music.

“I… of course I don’t want to go!” Escher scoffed, feeling Vasili’s hand on his back.

“Then do not go, darling,” he shrugged again, “what would he want with you anyhow? It isn’t like you are anyone special.”

Escher struggled to see if that was supposed to comfort him or not, or if it was simply a veiled backhanded compliment. It made his chest feel tight, a sting of rejection perhaps, or just the notion that out of the entirety of Barovia, Escher would never be anything but a young man barely making ends meet by chopping down Krezk trees, who would eventually die to the wolves, the mists, gods, even the cold. There was no way out, no escape from Barovia and no escape from the dreary people who filled the land.

“Come now, I did not mean it in such a way,” Vasili instantly placated, noting the drop in Escher’s expression, “darling, the Devil does not target just anyone.”

___

Finding work proved as difficult in the large city as in his hometown. The burgomaster was no more interested in having a new staff member than he was in having a new person wandering the town. Fishermen did not need a new worker, the Vistani on the edge of the city had no jobs in need of completing and the townspeople had no interest in the sound of the violin.

Two copper, and three silver. He made more each day at home, chopping down trees and collecting firewood. Calloused hands, aching back.

“I know not what to do.” Escher murmured, pale hands rubbing his temples while he looked up at Vasili. Night had fallen again, and he had little to show for it, meagre coins and dirty looks from the townsfolk.

“They did not like your songs?” Vasili asked, a couple of copper in his palm, “they are foolish, yes?”

Escher exhaled a soft breath, his foot nudging the violin case down by his heels. Still wrapped in expensive satins and lace, the note penned by the devil tucked between the silk. Escher had found himself reading and rereading the few words, the elaborate script, the crest dripped with red wax.

Some nights, he clutched the envelope to his chest, the rose perfume clinging to the note filling his senses. He wondered briefly if the dread lord had picked the scent specifically for him, if he knew that Escher loved the scent of roses when they could grow in the dead lands, or if that sickly perfume belonged to the count himself.

“Maybe I will return to Krezk.” Escher murmured quietly, tapping the heel against the case again.

Vasili was quiet for a moment, dark eyes drifting to the floorboards beneath their feet, “I am sorry that you found nothing here for you,” he offered, “I can take you back home. I will see if the Vistani are travelling that way.”

Vasili was quiet through the darkness of night, the fire of the oil lantern flickering in the dim light. For the few nights prior, Escher had no visions, no visitors in the night, and Escher had found himself growing closer. Vasili pressed small touches to his waist, the small kisses they shared before sleep took them.

Now, the kisses were more akin to the tipsy kiss the two shared back in Krezk, Vasili biting down on Escher’s bottom lip before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue. Cold hands held Escher’s hips, and Escher found himself smiling into the kiss, heavy breathing mingling and hands grasping for purchase.

“Escher–” Vasili murmured into the kiss.

Escher could barely hear him over the sound of his heartbeat racing in his ears. Breathless, desperate for Vasili’s hands on him, for the way he gripped his thighs. When he started to unbutton the collar of Vasili’s linen shirt, he felt those cold hands lead his hands away, and his brain finally tore back to the present.

“I– oh–” Escher gasped out into the kiss.

“Escher.” Vasili repeated quietly, dark eyes reflected in the dim light.

The tension that moved feverishly around them dimmed just as the light, and Escher dropped his hands from his shoulders. “Apologies,” Escher said quietly, “I just thought–”

Vasili shook his head, “There is no need for apologies,” he quickly replied, “perhaps– another time, yes? Not tonight. Not yet, hm?”

An optimistic statement, when it would possibly be the last time they saw each other, Escher thought, but he settled for those soft kisses. However, he found himself teased, Vasili pressing his lips against his neck, whispering about how he wished to fuck Escher into the mattress.

“You’re confusing me.” Escher laughed amidst the kissing.

“Sweet thing,” Vasili responded, “I would love nothing more. But, not tonight.”

___

The air near the lake was cold, biting chill into their flesh. With no Vistani caravan for them to hitch a journey on and with the rain pounding onto the dead land, near tearing their flesh, Vasili borrowed one of the docile horses from the Vistana, promising to return it within the week. The horse was dark, almost black as midnight, nudging its face against Escher whenever it got a chance.

Escher could barely see before him, clutching Vasili’s overcoat as the horse galloped on. The heavy rain felt like it burned his flesh, and no amount of hiding his face in the rough fabric shielded him, the mists thick before their eyes. Escher had anticipated difficulty navigating the terrain on horseback, stumbling movements to guide the horse down another path, but Vasili seemed to know just where to go, focus wrinkling his features, the rain and mist barely hindering him.

“Perhaps we should turn back.” Escher tried, but his suggestion drowned out in his ears, the slamming of his pulse, the sound of the rain. If Vasili heard, he did not respond.

Hours passed, and the rain did not let up. Soaked to the bone, Escher tried many times to suggest they stop, but the man seemed intent on getting through the mist, ignoring Escher’s feeble words. Then, the horse came to a sudden halt.

Sharp branches of the trees twisted overhead, the forest swallowing all light, and Escher could barely pinpoint where exactly they were, he could see nothing past the forest. Turning his head, he spotted Vasili pacing before tugging on the reins as gently as he could, trying to encourage the horse. However, it planted its hooves, reeling back.

Escher frowned, tossing a glass over his shoulder in the direction of the path, where the horse did not wish to go, “Maybe it saw something,” he mused, “there are wolves in the forests. Do you know where we are?”

“We won’t reach Krezk like this,” Vasili flushed red, either frustration or embarrassment, “we are on the right track, but… the woods. No, I don’t know.”

Torch in hand, Escher took a few steps down the path, the dark barely parting under the light, flames flickering, oil burning in his nostrils. Down the path, he could still see Vasili trying to compromise with the horse, seeming to get nowhere. It took only a moment of Escher looking away for all to go awry.

There was a man in the woods. Escher would not have spotted the figure standing far off if not for the slightest snap of a twig, the reflection of his eyes glinting in the dark. When Escher turned, Vasili was no longer there, only the grazing horse. Panic tore through Escher, who knew what lived in the forests? Hunters? The man wore furs from what he could see, but when he glanced back, he could not see the figure. On top of all that, breaths leaving raggedly from his throat, the horse was still stubborn, refusing even to turn.

Whoever it was moved silently, and when Escher felt a hand touch his shoulder, it took all he had not to swing the dying torch into the side of his face. A tall man, his shoulders broad beneath finery and furs, dark hair slick with rain, parted to make space for elven ears. It was distinctly not the thing that had been in Escher’s room in the night, this man’s skin was a muted brown, and his dark eyes darted over Escher’s face as if evaluating art.

“Holy fuck,” Escher gasped out the last of his breath, crouching down beside the horse, “are you going to kill me?”

The tall elf was silent, and for a moment Escher thought he was considering it, before he stated, “No.”

“No?” Escher parroted. The scimitars at the elf’s sides were heavy, of steel or silver. He wondered how much force the elf would have to exert to force the blade through his throat, easily carving through flesh and bone.

“No,” the man repeated slowly, “come. You are already late.”

Stumbling to stand, Escher watched the man draw close, taking hold of the reins where the horse started to move, walking on in the direction they were going in. “Late for what?”

The horse had been so scared before, but now it sat patiently for the man to get into the saddle as if it had been expecting him to come. His lips straightened for a moment, jaw tense, before he spoke, “It is customary, that when one is invited somewhere, to accept or decline, yes?”

The elf did not even look Escher’s way, eyes downcast as if he did not wish to look at him. A sinking feeling grew in Escher’s stomach, and suddenly he understood that this man surely came from the castle, “Yes,” he nodded, feeling awfully stupid, “I did not know how to decline.”

“So you are declining?” Dark eyes darted down at Escher. There was something about him that made his skin crawl, a cold chill rushing over him.

“No, I just had no way to decline, or to accept,” He nodded quick, and when he was prompted, he took the elf’s hand to sit upon the back of the dark horse, “so… you know him? The Devil?”

He simply nodded, guiding the horse to trot through the silent forest, all sound leaving, only interrupted when the man spoke once more, “I believe the Master will enjoy that you call him such a thing,” he mused, “indeed. Rahadin.”

“Escher,” he replied, though the face he saw Rahadin make only made him realise that the man likely already knew, “but… my friend, he disappeared.”

Rahadin was silent for another long stretch, before he murmured into the air, “Did he?” he asked, but Escher felt more like a child being pacified than anything else, “you shall find him soon, I should think.”

Tall spires rose against the sky as the forest broke for mountain terrain, thunder shaking the very earth, lightning casting a brief glow across the sky beyond Ravenloft. Escher had never seen the castle up close, and he almost wished he could run, as if Rahadin would not find him, as if the Devil would not find him.

Ravenloft’s jaws were open for something new, something fun.

༺♡༻ Chapter Three ༺♡༻

Ravenloft’s maw stood open, hungry, it’s teeth stirring in tall spires high against the dark sky, flashing bright when lightning split the sky, shadowing the ancient brick walls traced with dying ivy.

Terror gripped Escher’s chest as he stared up at the tall towers to the south of the castle, candles flickering in the windows. It looked like any other home, and when he turned his head, he could see the dying lights in the homes below in Barovia, the only sound being Rahadin’s quiet spurring of the horse.

Escher considered, stupidly perhaps, bolting when they stopped within the courtyard, but the idea of the consequences of running dealt out by the elf was not one he wished to think on. Scimitars glinting at his hilt, starving for blood.

When they finally stopped, Rahadin climbed off the horse first. Turning his head to Escher, his eyes looked black in the shadow of the castle, and he offered him a hand down, and when Escher took it, he felt the cold flesh sear his skin.

The vaulted ceilings hung high above his head, paintings of long faded scenes barely recognisable from so high up; windmills and wolves and the sprawling forests of the land around the castle. Not that he had a lot of time to look, since Rahadin was already walking ahead and into the castle beyond, forcing Escher to rush to catch up.

In the next room was a dining table, hearth lit and candelabras full of burning candles, Escher had only imagined what such a noble homes looked like, and this was certainly holding up to what had been in his head when he read his stories smuggled through the mists; fine marble flooring, portraits taller than any man, velvet curtains trailing the floors and crystal candelabras high up on the ceiling between vaulted spaces.

By the time Escher had taken it all in, Rahadin was already another room away, and he stumbled over his own feet, as well as one of the heavy dining room chairs, to follow behind him.

“I… I’m sorry,” he started, watching the elf turn his head to acknowledge him, but not once did he slow down, eventually ascending a set of stairs, “where are we going?”

Rahadin only stopped at the landing, turning to face the blonde man. His stern gaze was unreadable, and it nearly hurt Escher to look upon him, “The lounge. The Master is away from the castle on business,” he stated, dark eyes seeming to gaze straight through him, “he will return shortly. Come.”

Shadows seemed to swallow the space beyond them, only cut through by the light of guttering torches pinned to wall sconces, casting light that sliced into the dark before them. For every stride Rahadin took, Escher had to take many just to keep up, not to lose the tall elf in the gloom.

The lounge was situated by one of the towers, the view from up high meaning one could see the tall spires of Ravenloft just past eye-level, lightning flashes lighting up the room in bright white, burning light. To the right of a velvet, red chaise lounge with round cushions laid a tall bookshelf, and to the left was a small, round table of mahogany, bottles of wine tucked below it on a tray, a single crystal wine glass in the centre. All around the room was those tall bookshelves, full of so many tomes, more books than Escher had ever seen, and he was nearly stunned with the sheer amount.

Stepping closer, Escher traced his hands over the row of books level with his palm, tracing the embossed spines, the gold and silver trims, of all variants of genre, fiction and nonfiction.

When Escher turned his head to look back at Rahadin, the elf was gone, not even footsteps announcing his departure. Escher was alone, and it all suddenly reminded him of being in a home that did not belong to you, afraid to touch anything, afraid to even sit down lest one destroy anything priceless, which was most of the room. The books alone, Escher thought, likely cost more than his tiny home, his clothes, even himself.

Perching himself upon the very edge of the chaise lounge, hands folded in his lap, Escher glanced around, glancing to ceilings painted with cherubs, then to the books in his eyeline opposite the chaise lounge, then out the window. Minutes alone felt like hours, and Escher heard nothing, beyond from the rumbling of thunder and the far off crackle of thunder.

“Hello, lover.”

Escher jumped at the edge of the seat, throwing his hand out to catch himself.

Standing in the doorway was a woman. A fine, noble dress in silks and lace of a rich scarlet, sweetheart neckline carved in intricate lace, neck adorned with gold inlaid with rubies. Her skirts were overlaid with deeper, richer, red silks pooling from her waistline.

Her face was pretty, tan, olive-toned skin accentuated with a hint of rouge, ever-smiling lips painted with red. Her hair was a deep auburn, a scarlet veil covering most of her except for her fringe.

Escher blinked, quietly stupefied. He had not heard anyone on the landing, nor footsteps on the stairs leading to the lounge, and he stared up at her from the chaise lounge. His mouth was dry, all words vanishing from his head.

“I jest,” the woman waved a gloved hand, laughter pouring from her scarlet lips, “you look out of place, sweetness.”

He shifted where he sat, an attempt to seem less anxious than he was, his heart pounding as the woman’s silhouette leaned against the doorframe, her skirts swallowing up the entryway, “Is it obvious?” he breathed after a moment of watching her stifled smile creeping onto her expression.

“Oh, yes,” her ruby smile broadened, though she offered a pitying spread of her hands, “but it is only natural, to be starstruck - the castle, it’s beautiful.”

Escher felt as if he had barely seen the castle, trailing on Rahadin’s coattails as to not be stuck in the corridors shrouded in pure blackness. Still, though, in the midst of such darkness, the lounge was pretty; enough books to last a lifetime, comfortable seating and sprawling views of the lands beyond the castle, mist clinging to the foundations like grasping hands.

He glanced at the woman, eyes tracing the shape of her skirts, the fine silks he had never once seen, “I’m Escher.”

She pressed a hand against the doorframe, her eyes unfocused, the pupils dilated while she glanced upon him, “Anatrasya.”

“I’m… I was told by Rahadin that I have to wait here,” he started, anxiety twisting in his gut while he dusted his shirt off, “that the Count is not here.”

Finally, she stepped past the doorway, that same smile on her face. Escher watched her, something cold dropping in the pit of his stomach with each step she took, til she was sitting down beside him, “He has been away from the castle often, these days,” she pouted in feigned disappointment, “lots to do. Not that he ever confides in us.”

“Oh, of course–” he nodded politely. The woman was beautiful, and yet every time he looked upon her, every time she shifted to sit closer, apprehension gripped him tighter and tighter.

“One would think such a powerful man would confide in his wives from time to time, no?” she huffed again, less playful than before, “but no. He’s been shutting himself away most nights - oh!”

Her gaze flitted to the floor, an eerie excitement morphing her features, dilated eyes focused on the violin case by his feet. Before he could respond, she spoke again, “You have the violin!” she clasped her hands together, delighted, “Strahd will be so happy- it’s all he has been talking about for months.”

“You’re one of the Count’s wives?” he asked quietly, stupefied looking, “and… yes, I like it, the violin-”

She did not seem interested in his question, nor his statement. Smiling still, she gently reached her hand out, taking Escher’s chin between her thumb and index finger, turning him to face her. Even through the gloves, her hand was cold, and Escher could not help but battle with his body’s initial need to recoil, and he allowed her to turn his face from side to side, dark eyes looking over his face.

Her free hand brushed through his blonde hair, tied back.

“May I?” Her grin widened, baring teeth. When he nodded, she reached behind him to let the ribbon loose, letting the blonde hair fall down his back, then she worked to frame his face with pale hair.

“Strahd will be home tonight,” she continued after a moment of fussing over his hair, swiping away dust from his jaw, “I do hope he does not keep you waiting for long, sweetness- maybe tomorrow, you can meet Ludmilla.”

Escher had not considered there would be a tomorrow in the castle, and he wasn’t quite sure if that uncertainty was from the notion of not staying the night, or from the idea that he could die that night.

Soon, Anastrasya seemed intent to be elsewhere in the castle, wishing him goodbye with a sharp smile before she was off the spiral staircase, holding her skirts.

Escher did not know how long he was waiting. Between reading through books and watching the landscape from the window, hours waxing and waning, and the slightest slumber took him.

For the first time in months, what sleep he had was dreamless, devoid of creatures or the figure that had been watching him.

A chill brushed his cheek, almost tender. Hands cold as death, colder than Krezk nights, than stumbling through the snow, clambering to force himself back to his feet, palms reddened with searing snow.

Blonde lashes fluttered, blinking open, and found himself laid back against the backrest, reclining on the chaise lounge. Pale eyes flitted from where he laid, where a shadow laid across him, a silhouette blocking out the light of the candles.

“Drăguță,” murmured the Count, “I am glad you are here.”

The same anxiety that gripped Escher’s chest when he looked upon Anastraysa returned, but this time it accompanied a cold chill rattling up his spine, settling upon the nape of his neck.

Strahd, down on a knee, still managed to loom over him. Those eyes that had reflected in those dark nights, up in the rafters of Escher’s bedroom, were upon him now, his gaze now refined, less wild.

Escher’s very body wished to recoil, a prickling of his very nerves that attempted to drive him out of the Count’s grip, and yet he stayed. Escher found himself leaning into that chill touch, and words left his mouth, sleep-addled and soft, before he could think of what to say, “It’s you.”

Strahd was silent, a brief moment of bemusement, maybe surprise, that this pretty thing did not instantly recoil from his grasp. Then a soft laugh rattled from his lips, sharp despite the way he stifled himself, “Come. We dine.”

Escher did not feel prepared for dinner. Still dressed in road-dusted, peasant clothing; he fussed, fidgeted, with the fraying edge of his linen tunic, but when Strahd pressed a hand against the small of his back, the fretting was forgotten with a cold chill upon his back. He wanted to say he had nothing nice to wear, that he could not have dressed for dinner even if he wished to, but the words died upon his tongue with each searing contact of Strahd’s hand on him.

“Sweet thing,” Strahd mused, “you are beautiful.”

Dinner with Strahd was just like the stories he had read; a dark castle full of guttering torches and crystal chandeliers, more wine than one could ever drink alone and delicious food. The dining room was warm despite the castle’s chill, and Escher sat across from Strahd, a gold chandelier marking the point between them, and they were alone, completely alone. Even when Strahd dropped his gaze to focus on eating his food, their plates full of roasted pheasant and soft vegetables, a delicacy in the land where crops did not grow easily, Escher could still feel his gaze breaching his very flesh. A rich, heady red wine filled their glasses, and through bites of food, the wine was already getting to Escher’s head.

Wine in the village of Barovia, in Krezk, even in Vallaki was practically swill, more rotten fruit than any alcohol could cover the taste of, the village of Barovia particularly fond of serving vinegar in place of wine. The warm buzz rushed to his head, and he quickly reminded himself to slow down, but Strahd did not seem worried in himself, lazily swirling the wine in the glass, and gods, the Count was funny, and Escher found himself laughing easier than he had in days.

Every so often, Rahadin would enter the dining room, politely pardoning himself before he would murmur something to Strahd, sometimes lifting his hand to obscure his lips - like Escher could see what he said from the length of the table.

Upon Rahadin’s next departure from the dining room, Strahd continued with a languid lean into his chair, “Oh, and Rahadin amuses we in the castle,” he huffed with exasperated amusement, “just last month, my Anastraysa accosted him, hounded him until he agreed to speak to the Vistani about ordering new silks for her gowns.”

Before Escher could respond, before he could even chuckle, he was continuing, “Poor Rahadin thinks me dimwitted, that I do not know him like a brother,” he halfway smirked, halfway grimaced, rolling his eyes with a dramatic flourish, “that when he complains of certain denizens of this castle, I know he either means to complain about myself or my loves.”

Escher was not sure if he was truly joking. There seemed to be an underhanded tension, until it was swiftly squashed when Strahd laughed again, teeth bared in a playful grin, “Rahadin has been in this castle for so long,” he started, “we are practically brothers, though we do not fight like them - often.”

Thoughts of Elisabeta flickered into the forefront of his fuzzy head, and Escher felt his chest tighten. He had been away from home for so long, he hadn’t seen his sister or his mother in so long, and he felt his brow furrow with the sudden, painful homesickness, though he tried to quickly plaster a smile over the discomfort.

Nothing got past the Devil.

“What troubles you, iubit?” Strahd’s own smile dropped, a moment's silence as he took a sip of his wine.

Escher pursed his lips, placing the wine glass down before he allowed himself to drink more than he needed to, “My sister,” he admitted with a solemn smile, “I’ve been so busy trying to find a way to keep food on the table, that I have not been home in over a month.”

The Devil was silent. Such lavish food upon the table, while the people in his lands starved.

“I’m sure she will be happy to see you, when you return,” he mused, then another sip, “smile, love. It pains me to see you so melancholic.”

No matter how Escher felt, no matter how his heart ached to be back home, he could not help but smile at Strahd’s many anecdotes, laughing with him. Tales of the mediocrities of the castle, of Anastrasya and Ludmilla, of battles won against silver armies in his time as a general. Escher told him of his sister, his mother, of Krezk and the horrible, gruelling, job search within Vallaki.

“I even tried to play my violin, in the town square,” Escher huffed with a begrudging, bitter laugh at the sheer force of the struggle, the sheer slog through the life outside of Ravenloft, how things felt so easy in the castle. Escher knew that when he returned to Krezk, life would return to just as difficult as it had always been, even though dinner with the Count would be a sweet memory, “I earned a few coppers, but most folk in Vallaki were not interested.”

“They are foolish,” Strahd said seriously, the smile he had through the entirety of their talking dropping from his pale face, “I enjoyed hearing you play.”

Escher felt something tighten in his chest, but not the worry that had plagued him all night. A soft, quiet thing that made his heart race, like the feeling he had upon the awkward, drunken kiss he had with Vasili. “You heard me play?”

Strahd laughed again, benign, his smile less arrogant and replaced with a tender, appreciative expression, “Sweet thing. I hear everything,” he grinned wide, dropping his gaze to the violin case, “I take it that you like the gift?”

Escher nearly forgot himself, found himself gazing into the Devil’s eyes. That soft, swelling ache in his chest growing heavier with each second that their eyes were locked. After a beat, he caught himself and dropped his eyes to the floor, to the violin, and back, “Oh, yes!” he nodded, “I… yes. It’s a beautiful instrument.”

After more talking and certainly more wine, Strahd had escorted Escher to the same lounge the young man had been left in hours prior. Wine had gone straight to Escher’s head, despite how he tried to pace himself; the privilege of having wine that did not taste like vinegar, and he could not help but swallow down sip after sip, and it seemed like Strahd was allowing himself to imbibe more than perhaps he normally would.

Soon, they were sharing a bottle after their glasses ran dry.

Strahd, after another mouthful of the sweet, cherry wine, let out a short laugh. Sitting side by side, the two passed the bottle back and forth, and finally handed the bottle back, watching the young man drink another sip, “It has been a long time since I allowed myself to relax like this. It has been even longer since I sat up here, drinking from a bottle,” he grinned, baring his teeth playfully, “how ungentlemanly you have made me tonight.”

All that heartache had been forgotten. All the grandstanding and the overt politeness, gone. Strahd had taken to loosening his cravat and unbuttoning the first button of his fine, embroidered shirt, one leg over the other as he lounged against the backrest.

Even Escher had relaxed; maybe it was the wine, or the easy conversation, or the dispersion of the claustrophobic pretense of dining with the Devil, but he leaned back against the tall window behind the chaise lounge, the far-off lightning flashes casting shadows across the dimly lit lounge.

Escher laughed at the playful scolding, and shook his head, “How uncouth of me, Count Von Zarovich,” he smiled so wide his face ached, “my apologies.”

Strahd paused briefly, then bared his teeth in a sharp grin, the canines longer than any person’s should be, “What dreadful manners,” he teased, his voice coming out in a purring, rumbling sound, “cheeky thing.”

Gods, Escher was drunk. The wine was too sweet to worry over such trivial things, such as pacing oneself. Holding his head, blonde hair falling past his eyes, Escher laughed again, lifting his gaze to Strahd, eyes locking on the hint of the vampire’s collarbone, then to his neck, then his lips.

Scolding would come tomorrow, Escher reminded himself in the drunken haze, where he had managed to draw close to Strahd. When Strahd’s lip quirked into an amused smirk, Escher laughed again.

Strahd lounged lazily into the seat, a hearty laugh matching Escher’s own, “Poor thing,” he teased, not missing the direction of the man’s gaze, “you will grow to tolerate fine wine in time.”

“How?” Escher blinked through the dizziness.

“When you return to me.” He said simply, hands spread in a playful gesture.

Smiling wide, Escher thought Strahd arrogant, sure of himself. However, he couldn’t say that the notion was wrong, that Strahd was being presumptuous; he would come back, if not for the wine, then for the company.

Closer, ever closer, and Strahd did not recoil from the advancing young man.

“Silly, sweet thing.” The Count murmured, gazing through his lashes at Escher.

The kiss was similar to the one Escher had shared with Vasili that night they met; soft and slow, where Escher had run his fingers through the dark hair, ending as quickly as it started. Then Strahd drew closer again.

The chaste kiss was replaced with something hungrier, wine on brushing tongues, the sting of teeth upon soft lips.

The Devil’s kiss was chill, starkly contrasting against the warmth of Escher’s own, his cheeks flushing with the drink and the sudden, rough kiss. He went to run his hand through Strahd’s hair, but his wrist was quickly seized in a gentle grip, Strahd guiding him to place the hand on his shoulder, ever controlling the kiss like he did his people.

Claw-like hands cradled the sides of Escher’s head, the kiss growing heavier, more so than Escher thought possible.

Just when Escher was about to fumble to grab the Count’s lapels and pull him down atop of him, Strahd pulled back.

Spit connected their lips briefly, and Strahd offered a smug, frustrating smirk, “You’re drunk, dragă,” he whispered, tilting his head in a playful pout, “next time.” he promised.

Escher was dumbstruck, brain struggling in the sudden atmosphere shift. After a moment, though, he nodded. Strahd was correct that he was drunk, not even a simple tipsy drunk, but the kind of drunk where he would likely awaken the next morning feeling like death. “I… yes, of course- I beg your pardon-”

“There is nothing to pardon,” The Devil shrugged, suddenly reclining back into the seat again, fingers moving to button his shirt back up, “I will tell Rahadin to collect your things, and my carriage can deliver you back to Krezk.”

He could only stare stupidly while Strahd stood up, seeming to swiftly push the last minute behind him, while Escher was still swooning dizzily. He wasn’t expecting much, but he hadn’t expected that Strahd would send him packing after their kiss, “I… well, I do not have to leave so soon-”

He cursed himself. How needy he sounded, how desperate the words that left his mouth were. Hot embarrassment stirred in his gut when Strahd looked back at him, an amused smirk on his face.

“Nonsense, love,” he pouted again, “Elisabeta will be happy to see you, won’t she? I know how much you have missed her.”

Then he was gone, down the stairway to speak to Rahadin, and Escher felt that hot embarrassment grow larger. When he eventually found his way down the stairs, stumbling and dizzy, reaching the foyer, he found Strahd standing and speaking to the chamberlain, who nodded and darted off, furs and cloak hit by the chill wind outside.

Strahd turned back, a fond smile replacing the mean smirk he had upstairs; the twisting in his gut lessened in response to the simple expression. A cold hand reached up to touch Escher’s face, “Rahadin is taking your things to the carriage,” his free hand took Escher’s hand, lifting it to press a kiss to the knuckles, “it will be a few days journey, so I have asked Rahadin to keep an eye on the carriage.”

“Thank you, I…” Escher started, cursing himself for being so quick to assume Strahd did not care, even after the evening they spent together, “I have not done anything wrong?”

Another pout, and Escher couldn’t tell if it was mocking. Still, Strahd shook his head, the mocking never reaching his eyes, “No, love. You will come back.”

“So sure of yourself.” Escher smiled, laughing to himself.

“Indeed,” the Devil stepped closer, dropping Escher’s hand, “such sweet moments, they should not be rushed, should they?”

The Devil stood by the grand entrance to Castle Ravenloft when the carriage withdrew from the courtyard, through the high, ivy-scaled gates. The carriage was black, carved with fine, floral engravings into the glossy finish, and the inside was just as dark, velvet, comfortable seating, his violin and his bags sitting opposite the young man. The horses were just as dark as the carriage, snorting and snickering while Rahadin had settled himself atop, taking the reins with a quiet relenting of having to ferry Strahd’s new fancy to and from the castle.

Escher watched as the jaws of Ravenloft got further away, the trees obscuring it, and he felt that strange, twisting anxiety in his gut grow more and more painful with more space between Strahd and Escher.

My love. Return soon.

There was no source to the voice he heard, just that it was so clearly Strahd’s voice. Escher spun, looking around the carriage, seeing no one of course. Strahd’s voice, and yet something laid beneath the purring tone, something whispering.

#tristwrites #curse of strahd #dnd #strahd von zarovich #curse of strahd escher #fanfic #dungeons and dragons art #writing #dnd writing #ao3 writer

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dinwarden · 2 months ago

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༺♡༻ Unlife to my Life ༺♡༻

ATEEZ fanfiction, specifically taking heavy inspiration from Dracula/Carmilla/Nosferatu ⁺ M/M content, explicit content. One chapter, work in progress. MDNI, 18+ only. Multiship

⁺ Main ships mentioned tho atm are Jongho/Yeosang , San/Yeosang , Seonghwa/Hongjoong ⁺ TW for gaslighting, manipulation, graphic violence, abduction, stalking. (Updating as I go.) ⁺ Characters: Literally all of ATEEZ lmao ⁺ 3.4k words. ⁺ Read on AO3

“I’m perfectly fine,” Seonghwa smiled again, turning his head to press blue lips against Hongjoong’s, chill against heat, then leaned forward to kiss Yeosang’s forehead, “I was having such a strange dream, though, and…”

His words trailed off, before he attempted to start again, eyelids drooping with sleep, and just when Hongjoong went to help him lay down, Seonghwa’s breath caught in his throat, a sharp inhale.

Then a whimper bubbled up from his throat, lips quivering as if he were close to tears. Eyes locked on the window, his favourite view from the estate. Yeosang reached to touch his face, to wipe his tears, but the whimper pounded into a scream, so loud that the three in the room flinched, Mingi fumbling with the vial of blood that was crushed in his grip, spiderwebs of pain splintering through his palm struck with shards of glass. --- When Choi San has to travel miles to seal a business transaction with a strange nobleman, will he ever get home to Yeosang?

༺♡༻ Chapter one ༺♡༻

Song Mingi seriously left Vienna for this?

The stately home was a far cry from the twisting, peeling wallpapered corridors of his own apartment; layers of cigarette smoke stained wallpaper finally giving up on forcing the home to be pretty enough to accept visitors. He did not have to worry about visitors anymore.

Until a week prior, where a man had come rushing to his door, knocking and knocking until he dragged Mingi to peek through the latched door.

An emergency, Kim Hongjoong said.

Mingi felt severely out of place. Laying, faint, upon a chaise lounge was a young man, near platinum hair falling in loose curls around his face and shoulders. His skin was devoid of colour, his under eyes as purple as bruises, and his face gaunt, expression twisted into a frown.

“His name is Seonghwa,” Hongjoong started, dark hair pushed back from his face as he brushed it from his eyes, those stern eyes softening upon looking at the man on the lounge, “I’m his husband- can you help him?”

Mingi stirred where he stood, shifting with unease. Under his arm was a bundle of notebooks he took with him, each page full, and he stumbled to look through each one, trying to find a blank page. Alchemy symbols and sprawling notes rushed past his eyes as he looked, dropping the other books to the floor in a heap when he found a page unburdened with drawings and notes.

Mingi looked up, frowning with undisguised worry as the way the man’s closed eyes shifted with sleep, expression twitching to fear and back again, “I will try to help him,” he nodded stiffly, pulling a pen from his pocket, scribbling the his name down, “please, my bag, if you would-”

Park Seonghwa

Twenty-six years of age

Breath shallow, laboured. Skin mottled - blood flow lacking.

Eyes move like in REM sleep.

Responds to name - confused upon awakening.

When Mingi went to step closer, to kneel down by the chaise lounge, he was swiftly stopped in his tracks by another man, throwing himself to kneel by Seonghwa instead. A heart-shaped birthmark beside his eye on his left side, he turned a worried look towards the man who had become Mingi’s patient, before he tossed his gaze to Mingi.

Hongjoong seemed to bristle at the way he threw himself down, huffing with impatience, “Yeosang, let the professor help,” he tried to keep his tone as light as he could, but he could not hide the worried frustration boiling under his very skin, “Doctor, this is Yeosang. He owns this home.”

Yeosang did not look at him when Mingi spoke, “It is nice to meet you,” he started, learning his way through small talk and politeness for the sake of politeness once more, “I promise I will be quick, Yeosang.”

The young man’s black eyes flitted back to the professor, anxiety colouring each tiny feature. His dark hair was long, tied back into a braid, and he brushed a gentle hand across Seonghwa’s white nightshirt, almost reverent in the way he touched him, like he was afraid he would break.

“Is Seonghwa going to die, Doctor?” he finally asked, casting his gaze to his friend once more, fretting as he fixed the blonde curls.

Hongjoong was quiet. He was bracing himself to hear that outcome too, heart hammering and skin prickling. He could not fathom the sheer idea of his husband being in so much pain, so scared by whatever he dreamed of, too confused to say goodbye when - if - his time came.

Mingi shook his head, though reprimanded himself internally. Stupid, to make such statements before properly seeing him, but he continued, “Not if I can help it. Please, step aside, and I will see what I can do to help him.”

Assisted to stand by Hongjoong, Yeosang moved out of the way. His sleep jacket was thick, and he held it around himself, some comfort in the moments where the doctor drew closer, starting to pull tools from a small bag to his right.

San’s night jacket. San had been gone… nearly two months now, and Yeosang had heard nothing from his husband. He had no time for tears, not with the situation as it was, breathing in as steadily as he could. San would be okay. He had to be.

Vials of laudanum, syringes, leeches (real and artificial) and his scalpels.

Mingi had not used these tools in a long time, the tremor in his hands forcing him to stop and start over and over. As expected, the onlookers squirmed at the sight of the leeches, how Mingi manipulated the squirming things til they latched onto the flesh of Seonghwa’s bare chest, his shirt pushed up by Hongjoong, and arms.

Blood trickled from tiny, parasitic mouths, caught by small vials Mingi collected.

“They help with blood flow,” Mingi breathed out, pulling one of the leeches off, collecting the flowing blood from the fresh wound, “their saliva has anticoagulant. That should help.”

Hongjoong did not seem to understand, nor care, about what the doctor was saying, though he quickly nodded his head. Yeosang watched with a cringing look upon his face, each leech pulled away and placed back in the jar brought forth more blood, staining the sheets where Mingi could not collect it.

Arterial. A bright, brilliant red that Mingi looked over, holding the vial up to the light. He brought it closer to his face, hands trembling with exertion, and a commotion stirred behind him.

“Seonghwa!” Hongjoong cried out. Delighted, yet anxious, surprise on his face. Seonghwa’s pale lashes fluttered open, dilated eyes meeting Hongjoong’s, “shit, you worry me so. We found a doctor.”

Yeosang was next, grabbing a hold of Seonghwa’s hand, silently squeezing it, pressing his nose against the cool flesh, “Don’t sit up too fast,” he whispered, kissing his palm, “how are you feeling?”

Offering an awkward nod when Seonghwa’s eyes laid upon him, Mingi offered a quick nod, “I’m Song Mingi. Your friend is right, please try not to overexert yourself.”

Seonghwa smiled at Hongjoong, then at Yeosang. Hongjoong had practically clambered into the bed, wrapping his arms around his husband from behind, face nestled into his shoulder. Seonghwa’s voice was still faint, just as it had been when he initially collapsed. The bleeding was at bay for now, bandaged up by the doctor.

His words trailed off, before he attempted to start again, eyelids drooping with sleep, and just when Hongjoong went to help him lay down, Seonghwa’s breath caught in his throat, a sharp inhale.

Yeosang jumped back, his own whimper forced from him at the sight.

Hongjoong held him tighter, arms tight around him. The window was open, but empty of anything that could have caused such upset, “What– what is it? You’re alright!” he shouted with barely concealed panic.

That was when he started to thrash, practically seizing as he fought back against the hold on him, then against Mingi when he drew close to try and restrain him, to try and stop him from hurting himself, nails striking at any in his radius.

Wide, dilated eyes were locked on the window still.

“Stop it!” Hongjoong shouted, more a cry than an angry demand, his own eyes filling with tears. A strangled wince when Seonghwa’s nails dug into his forearm and dragged til skin split, “Seonghwa, stop!”

“Run!” Seongwha’s voice suddenly ripped through the scream, trying to tear himself off of the bed in a flurry of nails and fists, pushing Yeosang aside when he tried to stand before him, concealing his view of the window, “it wants us to run!”

Two months ago.

San loved these kinds of places. Small villages, snowfall heavy and laying thick on the ground, his fine suit wet with drops of falling snow, glasses misting with each heavy breath. The people were friendly, and offered him small gifts as a tourist visiting.

All he wanted was to provide for Yeosang, he wanted to give him the life he deserved, the things Hongjoong could provide for himself and Seonghwa, the finer things. Fine dinners and jewels and all they both could ever want.

He knew Yeosang loved him all the same, but God, he wished to give him everything and so much more. That is why he was doing this after all, why he had travelled so very far by train, through so many countries, just to aid some young nobleman in selling his ancestral home, to move elsewhere.

The language barrier was somewhat difficult. Trying to explain where he was going, how to get to a far off castle in the forests led him nowhere; villagers shook their head in… almost disappointment.

Over and over, things went wrong for Choi San.

The chain of his locket, the one engraved with their wedding date, broke away, forcing him to push it into his inner pocket, hoping he could find time to fix it later. Then, a storm picked up on the road to the castle. Then, a final nail in the coffin, the carriage broke down, shrugging at the notion of fixing it, until San had to simply walk on foot.

He was already a couple of hours late, and he did not wish to be any later.

San wondered which would be the quickest; him trudging through the woods with some old map and finally finding the castle, or freezing to death.

It was freezing, much colder than he had ever felt back home, and he would have given anything to be back home, in his bed with Yeosang, cuddling close and warm and happy in their bed. A howling forced him to flinch, and he turned on the spot - he knew wolves could be an issue, but he saw nothing of the light bouncing off of eyes in the dark, and he trudged on, cautious of his steps.

Within what felt like a few steps, branches snapping below his fine shoes, the castle was upon him. Dark brick standing in the pitch black night, towers spiraling up towards the starless sky, ivy climbing up the walls like thin fingers grasping at stone bricks. The castle’s portcullis was drawn up, edged by high stone walls, the windows flickering with lantern light, the heavy front door already open and leading into the foyer.

A fine layer of dust laid over the stairwell, over the half-moon shaped tables pressed up against damask decorated walls, chandeliers hanging above him and swaying in the breeze from the open door.

Strange, San thought; such noblemen usually had servants, surely? No one met him at the door, no doorman, no guards at the gates, no cleaning staff scurrying around.

“Hello?” San called out, sharp features turning as he looked up and down the walls, up the stairs and through to the next room. He fumbled with his briefcase, adjusting his glasses while he wandered through the door before him.

The dining room was just as empty as the foyer, though behind the head of the table was a lit hearth, a painting of a young man above it, red hair merging into a black, soft features contrasted with a sharp gaze and his his dark suit, fur draped over his shoulders.

The table was set with placemats, plates decorated in dark, curving roses over the edge, glasses placed, one at the head of the table, another at the end, a bottle of chill wine in the centre.

San placed his briefcase down by the end of the table, touching briefly at the pretty lace placemats, and he once more adjusted his glasses from the end of his nose, gaze lifting to the vaulted ceilings, the paintings above him long eroded with age. Wolves, perhaps; bright, feral eyes glinting down at him through the eroded haze.

San nearly hit the ceiling when a cold hand seared through his overcoat.

When San swung around, a man stood before him. His height, and the splitting image of the man in the portrait, dark eyes followed San’s each little movement, and after a moment of San laughing with his heart hammering out of his chest, the young man smiled. He wore a similar outfit to the one in the portrait, without the fur hanging over his shoulders, but a warm cloak was wrapped around his shoulders.

“Choi San?” The man said, offering out a hand for him to shake, “I’m Choi Jongho. Did I frighten you?”

San laughed somewhat, swiping away the nervous sweat that collected on his forehead, “Only a little bit,” he smiled warmly, shaking the nobleman’s hand. “But it’s alright. I had to trek here, so I’m a tad flustered. It is nice to meet you.”

Jongho offered the same tight smile, nodding at him with a polite laugh, “Ah, yes, the weather here is… volatile,” he gestured to the chair at the end of the table, “please. I had the kitchen make a meal for your arrival.”

“Oh– yes, I apologise for being late-”

“Not at all, Choi San,” he smiled again, tighter now, “excuse me.”

Fidgeting and drumming his fingers over the arm of the chair, San waited, listening as Jongho walked off, cloak trailing behind him. Had it always been so cold there?

When Jongho returned, it was with a plate, a metal dome covering the food, and San thought it strange again; no staff to bring him the meal. Jongho even poured him a glass of wine, that eerie, tight smile on his face still.

When the cover was lifted, it revealed a plate full of vegetables, roasted pheasant and a red wine jus, and when San lifted his gaze to meet Jongho’s, the nobleman offered a different smile, a soft grin, bowing his head as he backed up to the head of the table.

San was starving after walking for so long, and he forgot his manners, taking large bites of the pheasant and soon, he glanced up towards the head of the table. Jongho had no food before him, simply swirling a glass of wine in his hand, sipping every so often.

“I have already eaten, Choi San,” Jongho murmured lazily, as if reading the other man’s mind, “worry not about me. Please, eat, and we can discuss our business tomorrow.”

San did not have to be told twice, quickly finishing the food and nursing his wine, taking his drink much slower than he had the food. Nearly awkward, embarrassed, San smiled at the nobleman, “So, Choi Jongho,” he started quietly, “I could not help but notice the, well, lack of staff. The gates, the kitchens-”

“Gone. At least for the time being - I intend to sell this castle, hm? My staff have been given time off until I can settle elsewhere-” he said, too casual, too confident, “but they did cook for us both before they left. So, for now, it is simply us both in the castle.”

Conversation with Jongho was easy. The wine made it even more easy, and San found himself caught on staring into the other man’s eyes, his mouth moving with words his mind wasn’t connecting. He felt Yeosang’s name leave his mouth, and he could not hear what Jongho said in response, but San soon recoiled from the conversation, blinking away the tipsy haze.

“Hah- I think it may be time for me to retire,” San laughed softly, rubbing his eye as a flush travelled up his cheeks, “I apologise, I do not usually drink so much-”

Jongho had that grin plastered on his face, nodding slowly, “Of course. Please, allow me to show you to one of the guest chambers,” he stood up, pushing his chair back in before he picked up the gold candelabra, shadows guttering in the light. San had to wait a moment as he killed the flames in the hearth, “please, follow me.”

Three flights of stairs, dragging into one of the towers til they reached the floor, the south wing presumably for guests, and San followed behind him, trying to keep up with the light of the candles, lest he be left in the terrible dark of the castle.

The guest bedroom was opulent, more money in one room that San had ever made in his life. Fine tapestries of silk hung through the room, velvet curtains blocking all light from when the sun would rise, the bed a full four-poster, heavy curtains around the posters in red velvet.

The whole time, Jongho had been speaking, and San was hardly paying attention, hands tracing the velvet curtains. Then, he locked in on a specific statement.

“Remember to fix that locket, yes?”

San blinked rapidly, turning to Jongho, “Locket? Did I… I don’t think I mentioned the locket, did I?” he asked, holding his face where the flush remained.

“You did,” Jongho smiled again, too tight, too strained, “just that the chain had snapped. I do hope you get to fix it, Choi San.”

San did not respond, blinking faster. He did not recall having mentioned anything about the locket, nor of Yeosang. He could not even excuse himself before Jongho had left the room, offering a smile as he closed the door over.

Undressing from his suit, San felt a strange shudder of nervousness stagger over him. The castle was huge, he was so far away from another person, from any sort of help from Jongho if he needed help. In his underclothes, he threw himself into bed, taking his glasses off and onto the bedside table, then to his journal. He scribbled notes down, writing letters for his love until the candles’ flame died down, the room coated in darkness.

He felt sleep drape over him like a blanket, a sudden wave of tiredness rumbling through his very being, and just as his eyes started to droop, lashes started to flutter closed, he was so sure he saw the curtains around him shift. Something called to him to glance over, to check, but before he could, sleep took him.

1,500 miles away.

The sanitarium was clean. Constantly, disgustingly, clean; the stink of bleach covering up piss permeated the very air, but since Jung Wooyoung arrived, the stink of the place was the desperate attempt to cover up the smell of blood and offal.

Other patients shuffled through the common room, eating their lunches and speaking with the many orderlies, pacing the room for their daily exercise. Wooyoung had no interest in such trivial things.

“Please. Please, please, please,” Wooyoung spoke to himself, his grin cracking his face, wide eyes staring up into the corner of the ceiling. His black hair splintered with white strands of hair, “Master. Please.” his voice bubbled into an impatient whine.

In the corner of the ceiling was a web, a spider sitting in the centre, weaving its web before it started to mummify its victims, moths and flies and butterflies.

“Off of the floor, Jung,” one of the orderlies called into the room; standing in the doorway, “don’t make me call the doctor.”

Wooyoung’s wild eyes flickered to the orderly, then back to the web, “Call her,” he murmured, voice dreamy, “he’s going to come for me.”

The orderly rolled his eyes, storming from the doorway to leave Wooyoung to his musings.

Wooyoung stared up at the web once more, blinking slow, and he murmured another desperate plea to himself, and a sudden gasp of excitement escaping his cracked lips when the spider finally started to crawl down from the web, spinning from silk til it crawled over the floor and onto the man’s trouser leg.

“Thank you- thank you, thank you, thank you-” Wooyoung grinned madly, feeling a strange warmth in his chest, one he would see as a confirmation that he loved him. That his master loved him. The spider scuttered in his palm, and Wooyoung held it in his hand, watching each leg shift, waiting patiently for Wooyoung to take his Master’s gift.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #choi jongho #choi san #park seonghwa #kang yeosang #kim hongjoong #song mingi #jeong yunho #jung wooyoung #fanfic #fanfiction #tristwrites

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