#tristwrites

[dinwarden]

༺♡༻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.

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."

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.

[dinwarden]

ESCHER FIC UPDATE HERE

[dinwarden]

cannot wait to write all the wives getting put in The Crypt bc someone (Volenta) had the smart idea to have lesbian sex with Ireena. Was it worth it? Yuh huh

[dinwarden]

gang what if, right.

Series of fics specifically for the wives. I'm already doing an escher centric fic, I need to show the ladies love

[dinwarden]

Hopefully. chapter 3 of escher fic up tomorrow :')

I'm currently writing two seperate fics and feeling like

[dinwarden]

swapping between writing two fics for two very different fandoms is all fun and games til theyre both about vampires and i hyperfocus on one at a time

[dinwarden]

full disclosure next chapter of escher fic is just him being shown into a very empty entryway of castle ravenloft, him looking to Rahadin like "okay so. where is Strahd" in which Rahadin says "occupied elsewhere" before just

[dinwarden]

Okay might continue the funger fic now I’m on a writing spree

[dinwarden]

Tatyana oneshot will be up on ao3 tonight and tumblr tomorrow and strahds a wee fucking freak again sigh

[dinwarden]

On my way to write the Escher fic

[dinwarden]

༺♡༻ Where Souls Disappear ༺♡༻

Baldurs Gate 3 fanfiction, multiple chapters soon, focuses on Karlach/Wyll/Astarion ⁺ Chapter 1: I'm Hanging on Your Words ⁺F/M/M content, 1 chapter up, more to come. Explicit, minors do not interact. ⁺Characters: Wyll, Astarion, Karlach, Mizora. ⁺ Words: 2.2k ⁺Read on AO3.

“Start making her stay here just as hellish as she has made your life in the years you’ve been bound to her,” he mused, “she cornered you, but you still have teeth.” --- Wyll has been pulled into another pact with Mizora to save his father's life, and he feels he can never escape her. Karlach and Astarion have an idea on how to make Mizora's stay in camp as awkward as possible.

Sweet, honey coated bread.

A stew of beef and a deep red wine.

Roasted vegetables dusted in herbs.

Wyll had spent all evening helping Karlach with cooking the party a fresh, home cooked meal, making sure to make substitutions for those of the party who did not partake in meat. Baked portobello for Halsin, roasted sweet potato for Shadowheart.

“You should sit and eat, darling.”

Astarion picked at the meal. Karlach’s tent provided cover from the growing rainfall, nestled into the space between Karach’s open thighs, the two cuddling in the shelter. Wyll, however, let his food sit at the side.

Repurposing Lae’zel’s training dummy and dragging it to the clearing of the tent, much to the githyanki’s disapproval, he struck at the dummy with the hilt of his rapier, red eye glinting in the low light of the campfire.

Karlach knew when something was about Mizora. She had grumbled through her own frustrations and the constant manipulation for a decade, and she could easily spot the anger.

“Come on, Soldier,” Karlach prompted, an arm draped over Astarion, “come an’ eat.”

Karlach proved to be a radiator for the vampire, who moved closer to her. When Wyll turned back, Karlach was pulling off the shirt stretched over her muscles to let her tits touch the cool night air, and Wyll averted his gaze before realising that he had in fact seen Karlach’s tits before.

Practically everyone in camp had seen Karlach’s tits before.

The edge of the rapier's blade struck across the dummy’s chest, slicing through the burlap and forcing the stuffing through the canvas flesh like innards pouring from a wound. Wyll turned his head back to the two, rain streaking down his face and dripping from his lashes, “Of course, loves.”

Sitting opposite the two, Wyll ate exactly two bites of stew before he placed his spoon back into the bowl as he started to speak, “Gods damned Mizora,” he scoffed to himself, frustration colouring his features, crinkling the fine creases below his eyes, “my father’s life, or the breaking of our pact. What choice did I have?”

Karlach held herself up by her elbows, leaning back on them while she looked between her two men, “I know, love,” she nodded. She understood anger, all consuming and hot, “I know it doesn’t help, but try to focus on the good - you got your dad back! The Duke Ravenguard!”

Wyll knew she was right. A lifetime of being tied to Mizora was already on the cards, and he would have done anything for his father to be okay. Still, he ducked his head to his knees, food forgotten for the moment, frustration forcing the very bones to ache, “You’re right, but gods damn her.”

Astarion, putting down his empty bowl, nudged at Wyll’s shoulder with his heel. He was still getting used to talking of such things as feelings and grief and the past; normally, he would try to dismiss the statement with a joke or a thinly veiled insult to drown out the awkwardness with exasperation instead, “Well, don’t bother waiting for the gods to damn her,” he offered lazily, stretching against Karlach with feline ease, “if you’re to be stuck with her, then she is stuck with you too. Hells, she’s in this very camp for good now.”

“Yeah?” Karlach hummed in response, watching Astarion. She knew the elf was trying, but she knew he still found it difficult to respond to such vulnerable conversation.

“Start making her stay here just as hellish as she has made your life in the years you’ve been bound to her,” he mused, “she cornered you, but you still have teeth.”

Raising his head, Wyll only offered a nod, “Perhaps you are right,” he huffed. He had considered such things before, but Mizora had always crept into his thoughts to deter such blatant misbehaviour from her favourite pet, “but I’ve no idea where to start. She’s a devil - what could possibly piss her off?”

Karlach draped an arm across Astarion’s shoulder, and her amber eyes flitted up as she thought, before she looked to the warlock, “Come here a second.”

Forgetting his food, Wyll’s brows furrowed, and he moved onto his knees to shift closer to the two, and when Karlach placed her hand out, palm up, he took it. First it was a kiss to the knuckles, then the inside of his elbow, full lips pecking small kisses upwards til they reached his own lips, chaste and soft. Then hungry.

“Alright.” Wyll laughed, a coy smile tugging at his lips.

Astarion took a swig of his wine, a slight roll of his eyes at the two of them, so very chaste. Cool lips brushed Wyll’s collarbone before trailing up, the point of his fangs tracing where the jugular pounded below the thin layers of flesh, blood pooling with mere millimetres separating it from teeth.

Astarion pushed back the urge to lock his jaw.

Wyll laughed again, silenced briefly by Karlach leaning closer, warm hands cradling the nape of his neck, fingers brushing at the hair she had helped him style, then to the gold bands that Astarion weaved into the locs, “You’ve both decided to jump me.” he grinned into the kisses.

“Yes,” Karlach agreed with a silly grin, her lips hot in a near eerie contrast with the deathly cold of Astarion’s lips, “if she’s going to sit in our camp and contribute nothing but being a dickhead, then she can have to look away when we go to bed together.”

Karlach took a hold of his hand, gentle and allowing him to pull back if he wished, and she led him to her tit, pressing a hand over the top of his, giving him permission to grope at her, and Wyll jumped at the opportunity, his kisses quick to grow hotter, burning bright. The idea of making a devil blush was not an unfriendly one.

“The others-” the blade breathed heavily, feeling the sharp sting of Astarion’s bite.

“Are asleep.” Astarion murmured, gazing through his pale lashes towards the others, all fast asleep after eating so well.

Gods damn it, that was good enough for Wyll.

Karlach was quickly upon him, strong hands pressing the Blade onto his back, hunching over to kiss him. Her heart pounded in her chest, and gods, she was so fucking glad she could touch again; Wyll tracing his nails up her thighs clad in leather to rest his hands on her hips. Blood was rushing to his head, the coolness of the vampire’s hand soothing the flush to his face, and he huffed through the kiss. His cock stirred in his trousers, suddenly so much more tight than they had been before being trapped under Karlach.

“That didn’t take long,” Karlach laughed, parting from the kiss, throwing her hair back behind her shoulders, “Astarion. You want to join in?”

Astarion looked between them both, alabaster skin highlighted in the light of the moon. He had been getting more comfortable with sex, not yet with participating physically, but he had allowed himself to watch Karlach and Wyll many times without the expectation that he would join. Oftentimes, he simply watched, other times, he worked Wyll over with Karlach, tag-teaming with the tiefling to wind him up.

He pressed a small kiss to Wyll’s temple before he spoke, “Not tonight, darlings,” he mused lazily, smiling against the man’s skin, “I don’t want to join, not in that way. But I’ll watch.”

Soon, Wyll was trapped on his back, Karlach working on unlacing his trousers after she shoved the remains of her clothing off, his cock twitching in the cold night air, though he did not have to worry about that for long. A groan mingled between the Blade and the Hells Champion when Karlach sunk down on his cock, her cunt squeezing around him til he was seeing stars, hips rocking against her own. Sat behind Wyll’s head, Astarion allowed Wyll to lean back against his chest. He had to try incredibly hard not to blurt out the joke brewing in his head of a blade and sheath.

Wyll forgot himself, and supposedly forgot the party sleeping a few yards off, a ragged breath escaping his parted lips. Astarion, his hand pressed to Wyll’s chest, pinched one of his nipples, which forced the groan to flutter to a surprised yelp. “Hush yourself,” Astarion whispered the playful chiding, moving his hand to return the palm to the human’s chest, “you’re going to wake the others.”

Wyll gritted his teeth between the two sources of teasing, huffing as he tilted his head to Astarion, “Bastard-” he said, though it turned to a soft hiss when Karlach pressed her own hands to Wyll’s chest, fucking herself back onto his cock, faster than she had been a moment before. Laughing when she saw Wyll throw his head back against the vampire’s shoulder.

“You’re both terrible.” Wyll’s laugh was strained, playful still, but each small touch felt like his skin was alight with the fires of Avernus. He too felt a burning grip his chest, the ghostly, eerie gaze of Mizora upon him, burning amber irises searing into the side of his head.

Wyll did not stare back.

When Wyll made an attempt to lift his hands from clutching at the bedroll beneath him to brush the pad of his thumb against her clit, she shook her head, “Hey, hold on–” she laughed softly, clicking her fingers at the vampire. When Astarion drew his gaze from Wyll’s heaving chest, he quickly snatched Wyll’s hands away, pinning them to his pale chest, “tonight is about you.”

“Seriously?” he let out a laughing, huffing breath, smiling wide while he looked up at her. Karlach only nodded at him, her smile just as wide, her sharp canines hitting the lantern light, sharp sighs forced from her lungs with each slap of skin against his, taking every inch of his cock.

Sweet noises were muffled between lips meeting, Karlach leaning down to kiss the human below her, while Astarion peppered kisses to both of their necks, leaning in finally to join the kiss, shared between the two while Karlach rode Wyll’s cock. When Karlach came, she bit down hard into Wyll’s shoulder, forcing a startled gasp from his parted lips, quickly following suit, hands gripping Astarion’s own with a breathless grunt.

A beat of silence, then Karlach was laughing, beaming as she pushed hair back from her face. Then Wyll was laughing, each breath a struggle with how his chest heaved, and Astarion soon followed, pressing his forehead to the nape of Wyll’s neck. He bit softly at him, not enough to break flesh, though his undead heart swelled at the notion of puncturing skin.

“Gods damn it. You’re both awful,” Wyll eventually spoke through his laughter. He could still feel Mizora’s gaze on him, but he still did not look; instead, soft gaze landed upon Karlach, watching her as she pulled off of his cock, letting him slip out of her, moving to sit back on the bedroll, “but gods, I’ll sleep good tonight.”

Soon, Karlach laid between Wyll and Astarion, strong arms dragging the vampire to lay down, hooking her arm around his neck playfully, holding the two close to her naked chest. Despite spending a decade in the Hells as a footsoldier, riding cock hurt her hips like the Hells themself.

“Good show, loves,” Astarion huffed out a teasing laugh when Karlach ruffled his moon-pale hair, playfully pushing her hand away, “you’re both very pretty- Karlach!”

Another fit of giggles, the three laughing until a quiet peace drifted over them. Sleep came to them quickly, curled up together, Astarion curling up beside Karlach for warmth in the cold, rainy air. Sleep did not come to Wyll quite so quickly, however.

The rain was mist, cool and cold and nearly immediately drenching Wyll when he stepped out to the camps clearing, wearing only his breeches when he got up as quietly as he could as not to disturb his partners. Standing over the campfire to quietly place one of the tarps over the dead campfire, even just to spare the firewood for the next night. Small, distant footsteps trailed behind him, and he turned to see the Devil before him.

“Mizora.” He greeted bluntly, looking her in the eyes, orange and angry.

“Pup,” Mizora cooed softly, mockingly, while she wrung her hands, “how brave the Blade has gotten. Cheeky thing.”

Wyll hated her. He did not answer for a moment, before he offered a shrug, “No one else was awake. Seems to me that you were the only one watching.”

A twitch in Mizora’s lip, quirking into a displeased smirk, she crossed her arms over her chest, “Ugly things, you have collected,” she gritted her teeth, practically hissing, “Karlach’s behaviour is rubbing off on you.”

“Maybe it is.”

Mizora was silent for another moment, eyes glancing down to the ground below her feet, before she scoffed, waving a dismissive hand at him, “Shouldn’t you be going back to bed, Pup?” she rolled her eyes, “go back to your friends.”

Wyll held her gaze for a moment. He had no energy to be angry with her anymore, but the fact that she was displeased with him, without fear of their pact being broken? It was the most happy Wyll had felt when dealing with Mizora in many years.

[dinwarden]

mans writing horny bg3 shit yippee

[dinwarden]

The day after taking diazepam for my anxiety has me feeling disgusting today 🫠 but. Fic writing time

[dinwarden]

༺♡༻ Emotional Torture From the Head of Your High Table ༺♡༻

Curse of Strahd oneshot, Tatyana character study one night before the wedding. ⁺ TW for death, injury, grief, some slight misogyny, uncomfortable situation between Strahd and Tatyana (only in sudden, awkward confession and him looking at her when in her nightclothes.) ⁺ Characters: Tatyana/Sergei, Tatyana & Strahd ⁺ 1,897 words. ⁺ Read on AO3.

Moonlight filtered into one of Ravenlofts’ many spare bedrooms, and Tatyana scanned the room around her, having tossed and turned through the night. When she and Sergei agreed to sleep early for the night before their wedding, she thought she would have succumbed to sleep quicker, but it seemed that between nerves and the way rain pattered outside her window kept her awake for much longer than intended.

Moonlight filtered into one of Ravenlofts’ many spare bedrooms, and Tatyana scanned the room around her, having tossed and turned through the night. When she and Sergei agreed to sleep early for the night before their wedding, she thought she would have succumbed to sleep quicker, but it seemed that between nerves and the way rain pattered outside her window kept her awake for much longer than intended. 

Tatyana pressed herself to sit up, catching herself in one of the tall standing mirrors, auburn hair pinned up into a bun, the moonlight caught her dark, freckled skin and she smiled at her reflection. Lady Von Zarovich, by the next evening. In the morning, ladies would help her to do her hair and makeup, and retrieve the dress she was to wear while others prepared the ballroom. Still, she and Sergei had decided to spend the night apart, and she found herself missing the presence beside her in bed.

She stood, leaning over to light one of the tall black candles in a small stand, the match burning her fingers before she finally stood, the lace of her nightgown trailing past her knees. The castle settled in the cold wind, and Tatyana pushed on towards the door, feeling the way her hair began to spiral, coming undone from the intricate pins. An attempt was made to push open the heavy wood of her door, and she grimaced with the creak that resounded through the corridor. 

Peering past the wood of her door, she spotted a tall figure at the end of the corridor. She tried to recall each turn of Ravenloft, and where exactly Sergei’s chamber was. She stepped out into the wide hall, feet making contact with the woven rose pattern of the floor runner, and made her way up the hallway. At the end, stood Strahd, tall with his dark hair falling past his face while he read over a small book.

“Good evening, Strahd,” Tatyana stopped before him, offering a smile, “I thought you would have retired to bed too.” 

Strahd seemed to startle when she spoke, quick to close the book and allow his hand to drop to his side, “Oh, Tatyana,” he nodded, offering a tight smile, “I could not sleep. It appears you are the same.” 

She nodded, attempting to pin her hair up once again, “I don’t like sleeping alone, really,” she breathed out a small laugh, “I’m going to see Sergei.”

"Isn't that bad luck?" He queried, the smile dropping and his eyes darting towards his brothers’ room with an unsure look.

She only offered a small shrug, and stepped forward, “Well, Sergei and I have shared a bed before out of wedlock, so I think we can be an exception to the rules?” she laughed softly, her eyes dropping to the book he held, “I won’t keep you. I’m sure you have a best man's speech to prepare, yes?”

“I… yes, I do,” he nodded, and when she aimed to step past him, he spoke again, “I’m sorry, my lady. I must say something.” 

She blinked back at him and tilted her head to the side, "Yes? What is on your mind?" 

Strahd seemed to compose himself, and took in a sharp breath, before speaking, "I have found myself… growing fond of you as you have been courted by my brother." 

"I'd say I was more courting him, yes?" She half-joked, laughing, "I have grown fond of you too, Strahd." 

"Perhaps," He remarked, the slightest of smiles on his face softening his stern features by a margin, "however, my lady, I believe I may be harbouring more than fondness for you." 

Where Tatyana offered a quizzical look, the prince saw only disgust.

But Tatyana was not disgusted. Her expression warped into a confused look, before the lingering, polite smile moved across her face like a spectre, “More than fondness?” 

Tatyana was not stupid; she knew what he meant. Maybe it was the hour, or maybe it was the desire not to spurn her future brother-in-law too harshly before the wedding even happened. She had many potential suitors before, men who came asking for her hand; she knew how to let them down with the most polite tone she could. 

Maybe, she thought, she should not bother being so polite. Strahd Von Zarovich, celebrated tactician and general, suddenly confessing feelings for his brother’s betrothed. It was foolish. Selfish.

“Strahd,” She started, watching as his gaze dropped to the runner beneath his feet and back to her, clinging to the lapel of his dark night jacket, “I do not know what to say.” 

“Say you understand,” Strahd spoke over her quicker than he meant to, gloved hands rushing out before him, not to accost, but to reach for her, “say that you have grown fond of me as I have for you.” 

“Strahd.” She recoiled from the reach, seeing something akin to shame flash over his gaze, 

There was a beat of silence, and Tatyana tried to think of anything she could possibly say. She did not want there to be trouble the day of the wedding because of the man who would be her brother-in-law, and yet she wished she could truly reprimand him like she would any other man who approached her. Speaking to her in private while others were awake would have been fine, would have been respectable; approaching her alone, the only two awake in the entire castle? She knew Strahd was a good man, but it meant little when in a narrow hallway facing a man much more tall than her. 

“I do understand,” she reassured, quiet for a moment when she finally reached out to place a friendly hand on his upper arm, “but… I do not feel anything more than the fondness I already feel for you. I know that is not what you wish to hear.”

Strahd was silent for a moment, dark eyes dropping to the floor. It wasn’t always clear what the prince thought most of the time, but now, it was even worse, his expression like stone, stoic and yet his gaze rippled with that simmering emotion; embarrassment? Shame? Disappointment? 

“Apologies, my lady,” He said after another beat of silence, bowing his head in a perfectly practised polite gesture, though the apology did not reach his eyes, “it is late. I do not mean to keep you from Sergei. Please, let us forget I spoke of such foolish things.” 

He took a few steps back, toeing the rug below his feet, holding his arm behind his back. Tatyana felt a slight relief that he was no longer within arms reach of her, though she offered a soft nod, “There is no need to apologise, Strahd,” she whispered, “goodnight.” 

She passed him by, and she felt a pit form in her stomach, catching the way his dark eyes flitted to look at her as she passed by. It was already improper to speak to a man alone in her chemise, and she did not wish to know if he was staring at her in the way she feared he was. She did not turn her back on him. 

“Goodnight, my lady.” He nodded in respect, but she watched his gaze linger on her for longer than was appropriate. Dark eyes lingering on her neckline, before he finally broke her gaze and turned to walk in the opposite direction.

– 

“Sergei.” 

Tatyana crawled into bed beside her husband-to-be after she placed the candleholder down on his bedside table. The room looked much like the spare rooms, but filled with small things that made it Sergei’s; his old training sword, his lucky amulet of gold and ruby, and his what would be his wedding clothes draped over the chair by his writing desk. 

She laid beside him, curling up as her hands gripped his own nightclothes. After a moment of being nudged, his long lashes fluttered open, blinking away sleep as he looked upon his beautiful wife-to-be.

“My love,” he hummed tiredly, wrapping his arms around her, “I thought we were to be sleeping apart for the night.”

Her hair was highlighted in orange by the guttering candle on the bedside table, dark skin covered in freckles, “I could not sleep,” she whispered, “Strahd was in the hallway.”

“Oh?” he offered a soft, sleepy smile, kissing the top of her head, “he shouldn’t be up so late. He always works himself up for big events.” 

“Sergei…”

Sergei laughed quietly, eyes closed, “When mother wanted him to present our father’s birthday gift to him at a ball, he fretted over it for days leading up.”

“Sergei,” she whispered again, waiting until he opened his eyes to speak, “I think Strahd was trying to profess that he has feelings for me.”

Sergei was wide awake now, eyes darting to his betrothed, “What?” he blinked, “he said that?” 

“That he has started to feel more than a simple fondness towards me,” she shook her head, laying flat on her back, “he wanted to know if I understood him, if I felt the same.”

Sergei looked at her, then away for a moment, a look of unsure contemplation on his face. Strahd had said nothing of this to him, infact, he had been happy for Sergei, congratulating his brother whenever he came across him, happy to have more people in the castle. He believed her however, squeezing her hand softly. 

“I’m sorry, my love,” he kissed her forehead again, “I will go and speak to him.”

Tatyana pressed her hand to his chest when he attempted to sit up, “What? Please, Sergei, I don’t want to speak of it anymore,” she frowned, “after the wedding, we can speak to him, yes?”

Of course Tatyana wanted him to speak to Strahd, she even wanted to go to him and talk it out, but the idea of starting on something so intense the very night before their wedding was one that made her heart drop, nausea grip her stomach. All Sergei wanted to do was to go speak to his brother, to ask him to explain himself, but the way Tatyana looked at him with such worry, he relented to wait til after the wedding.

“Yes, love, okay-” he whispered, kissing her gently, “try to push it from your mind. We will resolve it tomorrow.” 

She touched his face, cupping his cheek and rubbing her thumb over the space below his eye, tracing his light freckles, “I love you.” 

“And I love you, darling.” 

༺♡༻

A mere twenty hours passed. 

Tatyana held his cheek, and he felt so very cold. Sharp, groaning breaths escaped his blue lips, eyes half-lidded and glassy with tears. The beautiful, white gown she had picked, wrapped in lace and silks, was dyed near black, her gloves drowned in her love’s blood. 

Stemming the blood was impossible, the blade struck too deep, and she wept as she realised there was no one else to help her. She was too busy looking at the wound to see him die, and when she lifted her gaze to his face, she saw his mouth agape, eyes glazed over in death and blood pooling in his mouth. 

She did not realise she could scream so loudly, so animalistic, wailing as she touched his face, smearing his own blood over his cheek. 

A cold hand touched her shoulder, searing through the fabric. 

[dinwarden]

writing tatyana fings

[dinwarden]

༺♡༻ Cause I Will Darn You Back Together ༺♡༻

Fear and Hunger fanfiction - Currently on hiatus. Ship fic between Marcoh and Daan. ⁺ M/M, explicit sexual and violent content. Three chapters currently. MDNI 18+. ⁺ TW for violence, blood, death and implied homophobia. Also has miscommunication trope. (Updating as I go.) Characters: Marcoh/Daan ⁺ 14.7k words. ⁺ Read on AO3.

“No, I’m okay. It was a good trick.” Daan said, voice coming out softer than he had initially intended.

Gazes locked together, and silence filled the train carriage. Hearts thudded inside ribs and heads swum with the gentle quiet of the train, like they were miles, countries, continents away from the death game. Marcohs’ gaze dipped for a moment to the floor, and he started to pull his hands from under the other.

༺♡༻ Chapter One ༺♡༻

The unmistakable scent of death lingered on Daan's clothing. He had washed his hands in dirty sinks, the river surrounding the old town, and now he was desperately washing palms beneath the weak stream of water in the trains only cramped water closet.

Blood gave way rather quickly, though he had to scrub it from beneath his fingernails, and for a moment all he could smell was the strong scent of manufactured orange from the soap dispenser. The rest of the contestants, at least those he could count as any kind of peers, were in the main city, chatting and indulging in drinks in a club and trying to forget what things they had seen in the past day.

The woman he saw could not have been Elise, and yet the expression she had when she died, the one scarred behind his eyes, had been forever scrubbed over and replaced with the visage of some twisted creature, tearing stitches from its lips in order for a croaked, ragged rendition of his own name to leave her lips. Tobacco offered the familiar burn in his throat, and for a moment, his mind was pulled from the tunnel.

“All good?”

The entrance of the train squeaked open and the floorboards creaked under Marcoh's weight. Daan dipped his head from the bathroom door, and a bemused exhale left him when he realised that the boxer was not going to let him be alone, even for a moment.

Marcoh shifted his weight from side to side, stuffing hands into his pockets, fishing for something to say. He nodded towards the lit cigarette, tilting his head to the side, “Been there,” he remarked shortly, “though, it’s not like there is a conductor you have to hide from, you know?”

“Hah…” Daan offered an acknowledging smile, and he almost had to force himself to step out of the wash closet, “why are you here?” he asked, trying to regulate the suspicious tone in his voice. Though, it seemed the attempt did not manage to trick the boxer.

He shrugged, and leaned back against the interior of the carriage. There was only quiet for a moment, before he responded, “I got nervous that you’d get hurt out here,” he nodded again, “I thought we were done with running around on our own?”

“I apologise. I will make sure to bring someone along with me next time.” he held his hands up in a form of surrender, and watched as Marcoh retrieved what little tobacco could be found in the city and rolling papers.

When the cigarette was done, Daan got the hint that Marcoh's stepping toward him, cigarette pressed between his lips, and bending at the waist slightly to lean in closer was a silent request to light it for him. Of course, the doctor had wasted all his matches on frivolous exploits like seeing in the dark, and all he could do was allow the embers of his own cigarette to burn bright on an inhale, and press the end against the boxers’.

"Thanks." Marcoh hummed, breathing the stale tobacco in, the taste horrid on his tongue, but he pushed back the urge to stamp it out. A moment of peace was a moment of peace, no matter how grim the vice tasted, "I didn't want to smoke inside that club, not with folk eating and drinking."

"How gracious of you." He said, eye fixated on the way the grey wisps of smoke curled in the heavy air, collecting around the windows and rendering the air a light haze.

Silence fell over them as they smoked. Marcoh kept looking at the doctor and then away again, curly brown hair shielding his gaze somewhat. It was clear he wanted to say something to fill the void, but Daan was happy with the momentary peace, the allowance of quiet without the need to break it.

After what felt like an age, Daan was the one to break the silence, "The tunnel we were in yesterday… I suppose it has simply shaken me up." He stated, dropping the butt of the cigarette to the wood floor and stamping it out under his neat laced shoes, he looked

"Yeah?" Marcoh tilted his head, "the lady?"

He wasn't able to mask his grimace, leaning into the interior, "Yes. She reminded me of someone."

Marcoh seemed to shift with an uncomfortable pause that followed. Their little motley crew had seen and heard things they couldn't explain for nearly a whole day, but he had not seen anyone he recognized, beyond from Caligula, but despite his nickname, he was not actually a monster.

Words of comfort struggled on the tip of Marcoh's tongue, "I mean…" He began, "it probably wasn't who you thought. They might've looked like them, doesn't mean it was them, yeah?"

No illusion could mimic the curve of Elise's’ lips when she smiled at him, the freckles over the bridge of her nose that only showed in the summer and the dark eyes that had first captivated him all those years ago. However, he did not wish to express that to a man he had barely known for a day. He took another draw of his cigarette, his mind racing, the woman with a stitched smile, the festival and the sigil he found in the apartment as he tried to cover his nose and mouth from the mould.

A thought crept to the forefront of his mind, and he instinctively reached for the scalpel that pressed against the lining of his waistcoat. Staying cool and calm shifted in his list of priorities, and he snuffed out his cigarette, advancing to move past the boxer.

"You leaving?" Marcoh asked, making Daan stop by his side, and the gaze he was met with was that of desperation, and instinct kicked in before Marcoh’s mind did. Quick hands blocked the scalpel that Daan thrust towards his chest.

Daan was smart, he knew where to hit and where not to hit. In the warzone, one wrong slice of a scalpel could make the difference between an inconveniently injured soldier and a dead one, and so when he lunged towards the larger man, he aimed directly for his ribs. He knew how to curve his aim to only graze the ribs rather than puncturing the organs encased in them. However, the caution was for nothing, Marcoh grabbing his wrist in a frightened, vice-like grip. It was not like he actually wanted to hurt Marcoh, but panic drove through him when his body was contorted, arm pinned behind his back and Marcoh pressed him face first into the chill window of the train carriage, pinning the doctor with the bulk of his body.

“What the fuck! We were just talking. What happened?” Marcoh grunted, a bewildered look in his eyes, “drop the scalpel.”

Daan groaned against the window, fogging up the glass. After a moment, he dropped the scalpel, hearing the sharp clatter to the floor, “Well, fuck…” he exhaled sharply. He knew there was no point in fighting back, nor did he really want to. He was well aware that he was never going to catch the boxer by surprise.

"You itching to get knocked out?" Marcoh asked, breathless as his heart hammered inside his head, "because I really don't want to do that."

Daan pressed his palm to the pane, an attempt at surrender, and he huffed out a short exhale, “I’m sorry, yes? It’s that stupid dream, and the bunker, I can’t get it out of my head.”

The carriage was silent for a moment, before Marcoh made an unsure sound, “Try it again, and we’ll have problems, okay?” He mumbled, and when Daan didn’t respond, he repeated, “okay?”

The doctor nodded in response, stewing in the real possibility that he was so close to making an enemy. It seemed fitting for the death game they had found themselves in. When his wrist was free and he was able to turn back around, he watched Marcoh shuffle to step back.

“Right.” Marcoh hummed, and Daan saw a flash of hesitation in the gaze that dropped to the scalpel on the floor, but he slowly lowered himself and picked it up. Without reluctance, he held the blunt end out to the doctor. Daan took it and made a point of clearly slipping it into his waistcoat. When silence struggled on for longer than was comfortable, his eyes flitted to the taller man.

“So… if I had tried again, what would you have done?” he asked, flicking hair from his eyes.

“Probably punch fuck out of you,” Marcoh shrugged, as if that question was foolish, which it was in some ways. Daan figured he likely would not be able to deal with the boxer in close-quarters, hand-to-hand combat. Marcoh cleared his throat and shook his head, admitting, “but I really wouldn’t like to.”

It almost brought a smile to the doctors’ face. The tension was slowly lifting, and Daan nearly laughed, “Well, I’m grateful for that, at least,” he nodded, “I doubt I would be able to react in time.”

Marcoh shifted his body weight, feet spaced apart to balance himself, "You'd do better if you knew how to take and throw a punch. It's easy to fight back if you know how to examine the way I move."

"Will you show me?" Daan asked, flexing his fingers.

Marcoh lifted his eyes to the ceiling, humming in thought, "Nah."

"What? Why?" Daan blinked, curling his fingers back into fists.

"Because this-" He started, taking Daan's wrists to position them more to his liking, "is the correct way to guard. Still, I know a few tricks myself. Mainly punching below the head to wind someone."

His hands were still on the doctors', and Daan felt a familiar fluttering in his stomach, one he had not felt for what felt like decades. Heart hammered in his chest, and he forced a laugh. "So, you fight dirty?" He observed.

"Well, there's no one to say I can't, is there? No ring or coach to slap my wrist." He shrugged. His hands were rough, the right more calloused than the left, but his touch was gentle, his thumb tracing the inside of Daan's wrist.

The doctor didn't often find himself distracted so easily, but the way Marcoh held him sent almost painful shocks through his skin. How long had it been with touch? The last time his skin had made contact with someone else's was when he held Elise in his arms that night. Before that, the only touches were that of injured and dying soldiers grabbing at him, whimpering and crying through anything from a gunshot wound in the shoulder to Daan driving a bonesaw through a gangrenous arm or leg. So, Daan concluded that this brief moment was healing, in some way.

He scoffed out an attempt of laughter, and stepped back, readjusting his guard away from the boxer. "How about it? Fight me fairly, we shall see how good of a teacher you are."

"Hah. Silly man, like this." Marcoh chuckled, and stepped forward, gently taking Daan’s right wrist and adjusting it to guard more than just his face, "I think that lesson is for another day, maybe."

His finger trailed down the back of Daan's palm, and Daan was almost giddy with the opportunity for a sneak attack. He cautiously twisted to interlock cool, thin fingers with Marcoh's. Their eyes locked, and silence lingered as Daan witnessed the boxers’ gaze grow softer, almost surprised, and Daan was sure he was close enough to smell the remnants of aftershave on the man before him.

Daan's fist rushed before him, and he barely had time to reconsider this little trick, and with his free hand, he threw a punch into the boxers’ jaw. The giddy excitement left him quickly, replaced by something akin to dread. He had suspected that Marcoh would be two steps ahead, and smugly block the punch, not that it would actually make contact.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

As expected, Marcoh reeled and raised his hand to his mouth, grunting through gritted teeth and eventually lowering himself down against one of the wooden seats, “Gods, what the fuck?” he groaned.

His lithe frame almost instantly dropped down before Marcoh, and those thoughts became external, “Shit, sorry!” he reached out to touch the quickly reddening mark left on the boxers’ jaw, which the other recoiled from, “I don’t know, I thought you would have blocked me!” It was slowly dawning on him that his punch hurt himself way more than it must have hit the expert boxer. He tried to breathe through the sharp pain rushing through his knuckles, and if he didn’t know better, he would have assumed he broke his hand for such a stupid move.

Painful laughter escaped Marcoh's face, clearly he had given up on trying to look angered and serious, and an impressed grin cracked through his expression, “Well, you learned something from me, at least. How to fight dirty,” he laughed, slouched against the edge of the seat, “you certainly got me to let my guard down.”

His laughter rang through him, and forced a smile onto his pale face. This must have been the most he had smiled in days. “Sorry again, let me see–” he allowed himself to laugh, “my hand hurts.”

“Serves you right,” Marcoh stated smugly, allowing the doctor to touch carefully at his jaw, clearly checking for breakages, which thankfully there was none of, “you throw a good punch. Fine, I’ll play the game.”

“What?” Daan blinked.

Raising his hands up to his head, Marcoh was clearly well-versed in how to guard himself properly, which Daan summed up to the reason why he kept adjusting the way he was holding himself. Finally, Marcoh continued, “Try it again, I’ll show you how I would block it.”

The two still didn’t rise from where they were knelt on the floor, and Daans’ gaze flickered from Marcoh and to the red mark raising on his own hand. Any kind of unnecessary injury would have put Daan off any other time, but this strange bout of Marcoh teaching him something new was almost fun, leaving the two to laugh. He raised his fists and, after a moment, drove his other fist towards Marcoh’s face, the other side of his jaw, but suddenly the room seemed to spin, Marcoh lunging forward under reach of his throw, grabbing around his hips and barreling them both to the ground, and Daan onto his back with a laugh.

Of course Daan was caught by surprise, within seconds he was flat on his back and Marcoh was leaning over him. He felt his heart race further when he made note of how calloused hands had shifted to protect his head from being knocked down. The only thing hurting was his pride, and his back. “Shit. You sure got me,” he smiled, clearly breathless, “I suppose that serves me right.”

Marcoh smiled back, hands still protecting the back of his head and neck, “You’re not hurt, yeah?”

“No, I’m okay. It was a good trick.” Daan said, voice coming out softer than he had initially intended.

Gazes locked together, and silence filled the train carriage. Hearts thudded inside ribs and heads swum with the gentle quiet of the train, like they were miles, countries, continents away from the death game. Marcohs’ gaze dipped for a moment to the floor, and he started to pull his hands from under the other.

Daan was quick, a gentle hand resting on the curve of his bicep which got Marcoh to lock eyes with him again. There were no words exchanged, but when Daan’ pushed himself up to let his lips linger near Marcoh’s, the desired kiss was fulfilled. Slightly scarred lips pressed to the doctors’ pale lips in a quick, experimental peck.

“Is that okay?” Marcoh asked, voice lowered into a little above a whisper, face slowly flushing. He left one hand under Daan, but pulled one hand away to support himself over him.

“That’s… Yes, that’s okay.” Daan responded, a flush rising from his collar. He begged his body to let go of its tension, at least for a moment. He reached a hand up, smoothing his fingers into the curls of chocolate brown hair, and pulled him closer, lips pressing together once again.

The silence of the train carriage was broken within minutes. The kissing was gentle and careful at first, Marcoh’s hand dropped to trace against Daan’s side, but soon the kiss rushed into one of desperation, Daan’s body screaming out for the touch, his nerves on fire as their bodies pressed together. When Marcoh trailed his fingers beneath the doctor’s lightweight shirt, he pulled back and spoke again.

“And… is this okay?” he whispered. Daan answered with an enthusiastic nod of his head, and helped to throw off his dark silk waistcoat, and then aided him in unbuttoning his shirt, hands returning to grasp at the lapels of Marcoh’s deep green combat jacket.

It took longer than Marcoh cared to admit for him to notice the binding that concealed the doctor’s chest, only noticing it when he started to trail kisses from his jaw and down to his collarbone. Daan did not look back at him when he lifted his gaze, picking a particularly interesting dead lightbulb above them to stare at instead.

Marcoh didn’t know what to say for a second, he had never been great at reading someone unless it was reading hostility or bullshit, and he could only imagine what Daan was thinking. Gently, he dropped his head, to kiss the patches of exposed torso above and below the binding. Daan had been okay with his anatomy for many years, binding made him feel good, and his pussy didn’t bring him much in the way of misery anymore, and the years of courting with his late wife didn’t trigger dysphoria, though he assumed that was due to the fact that he was the one to touch her, not the other way around.

However, this new person, stranger, acquaintance was different. Daan could not put his finger on it. Not dysphoria, but… maybe embarrassment, to be beneath someone and feel he was not meeting their expectations. When Marcoh made a point to kiss above and below his chest, a relief overtook him, fingers tangling again into his hair and tension beginning to escape him, “You’re okay with that? I would appreciate it if it is not what you were expecting.”

“Of course not,” Marcoh responded, gentle with continued kisses to his neck and collarbone, relishing in the way Daan’s breath hitched, “anywhere off limits, in that regard?”

“Nowhere in particular,” Daan shook his head, pulling the boxer in again to kiss him, harder than before, some newfound confidence trembling through him, “as long as you would like to.”

Marcoh’s tongue slipped into his mouth, the taste of tobacco lingering on him, and Daan cupped his cheeks, their kissing forging into something hungry and desperate. Marcoh’s thigh pressed into the crotch of his chequered trousers, and the contact caused a small gasp to escape Daan, breathing hard into the kiss. His hands dropped, and he was frantic, undoing the binding from his chest, before tossing it aside, allowing cool air to hit his tits for the first time in days. A manicured hand escorted Marcoh’s own, guiding it over his chest, and wordlessly stating that he was okay with being touched.

There was less kissing now, Marcoh kissing sharp bruises into his neck and jaw, leaving Daan grasping at his hair with quiet exhales. Marcoh’s breath was hot against his skin. Marcoh’s hand travelled down, his nails tracing past his abdomen until he skillfully unbuttoned his trousers, and moved to brush his hand down, tugging at the waistband of his boxers, “Excited, are we?” He whispered, lips brushing delicately over the cartilage of the doctor’s ear.

Daan worked quickly to kick off his trousers, stifling gasps escaped him as he was finally able to part his thighs comfortably. Marcoh palmed at him through his boxers, and it was nearly pathetic just how wet he had become from simple kissing and heavy petting, “Shut up,” He laughed, “I’m practically naked and you’re still in that huge jacket. What? Feeling shy?” He asked, the teasing tone dripping off his lips.

“Course not,” Marcoh retorted playfully, and he shifted on his knees to remove the jacket, then pull up the shirt he wore beneath it, revealing his abs, pecs and biceps, decorated with old scars; stab and gunshot wounds decorating his sides, and pale stretch marks that raced up from below the belt, “I’m not rushing.”

Daan had spent so long without touch from nothing but the dying or dead, and his body reacted to every little touch, every strand of curly hair that fell across his shoulder and each light brush against his clit, hips rushing to follow the boxers’ thumb. When Marcoh returned to kiss him, Daan was suddenly aware of Marcoh’s erection pressing against his inner thigh, and the dim blush morphed over his cheeks, finally asking, “Would you like some help?”

Marcoh’s cock twitched when the cold air finally hit it. It matched him fine, Daan thought, fairly average in length, at least in his half-erect state, but thick, and the doctor couldn’t stop himself from staring, analysing. Marcoh started to help him from his boxers, and the carriage was silent except for quiet, heavy breathes as the two took in each other's forms, “I’d love some help, doctor.” he whispered.

Soon enough, pale hands tangled into Marcoh’s hair and Daan was aided in draping his legs over broad shoulders while Marcoh pressed his face between the doctor’s legs. He was gentle, more so than Daan would have assumed at their first meeting, and there was no rush of carnal desire, no need for Marcoh to rush simply because he had to have him now. Still, Daan had never been more sure about anything, it was clear in the boxers’ gaze that he wanted him, catching the way he would look up at him with flushed cheeks and an almost enamoured gaze.

“Good.” Daan breathed out, head spinning, and his words seemed to spur him on. His hold on Daan’s thighs became tighter and his attention was paid solely to his clit, like a man possessed, trailing his tongue flat over his pussy. Daan considered them lucky, with the rest of the contestants far away in the city, and could only hope no one needed to come back for their luggage, as he twisted against the boxer, grinding down against his lips with a flurry of strangled gasps and whispered encouragement.

Tight tangled thread sat in the doctors’ core. Each messy, tender kiss between his legs threatened to unravel it all, each millisecond of eye contact and the way Marcoh traced his thumb over his inner thigh aided in tugging hard at the loose end of ribbon. Gasps got louder, windows of the train carriage fogged and Marcoh’s gaze locked on the doctor’s face. Then he stopped. Bastard.

Marcoh leaned back over him, pressing his lips against Daan’s own through laboured breaths, cupping his cheek. The thread tangled further, and his grip on his curled hair was quickly tightening, “Fuck me.” Dann barely whispered, soft lips lingering by Marcoh’s, and he was met with a stunned look.

“You sure?” Marcoh asked, hazel eyes locking on the man beneath him, “I’d like to, but I’m also okay with just… mouth and hand stuff if you’d prefer.” He offered, but was cut off with a small laugh from the doctor.

“Don’t ask such silly questions,” he stated with amusement, kissing him again, “please. Fuck me.”

Marcoh hummed against his ear, kissing at his earlobe, “Gladly.”

Moments rushed by quickly, eager, desperate lips crashed together and Daan found himself swiftly lifted onto one of the train’s seats. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but it had room for them both and was surely better than a sore back for the next few days. Marcoh drove Daan’s legs apart with his own, rough hands gripping at the soft skin of his inner thighs. After a moment, he leaned down to grab at his trousers, looting a single wrapped condom from the front pocket as well as a small vial of what Daan assumed was lubricant.

“Almost forgot.” Marcoh huffed softly, laughing to himself as he started to roll it on himself and coat his length in the contents of the vial.

Daan was only disappointed for a second, but he knew that maybe at some other point they could go for it raw. Just not after only knowing each other a day and definitely not after having to wade through the sewers to get into the stupid town. “How sensible.”

“Hah… It’s not like I came here to use them,” he scoffed, almost embarrassed, “I left Vatican City in a hurry.”

The two shifted together with desperation. Marcoh rubbed the tip of his cock against his clit, letting out a soft sigh, looking up for the go-ahead that he was ready. Daan’s legs were pressed apart, and he couldn’t get them much further due to the seating, but he did not mind this exposure. “I’m ready.” He nodded, face flushed a pale red.

The boxer slipped inside of him with ease, though waited with each movement to wait for approval to continue until he had filled Daan up with the entirety of his cock. Daan breathed through each easy push, and when Marcoh kissed at his neck, he stopped feeling so shy about anyone hearing them.

“Gods, you’re pretty.” Daan remarked, walls tightening around his cock when he started to thrust against him, rolling his hips. Marcoh did not seem sure of what to do with this soft statement, looking staggered for a moment.

The staggered look was swiftly replaced with a laugh, the boxer keeping his pace slow and steady, “Yeah?” he whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth, “you’re pretty, yourself. Thought so when I first saw you down the carriage.”

Daan smiled to himself, relishing in the knowledge that he had captured Marcoh’s attention so easily. Each kiss at his neck, each thrust of the boxer’s hips and each brush of his fingers on his clit dutifully started to untangle the thread, tight with longing. The act stayed tender, despite Marcoh’s size and rough outer shell, his embrace was careful and delicate and Daan couldn’t help but feel wanted over and over again.

It wasn’t clear how much time had passed. Their eyes locked together like they were the only people in the whole forsaken forest, Daan’s legs twitched with each thrust of his cock, his clit pulsing at the constant attention from the man above him. Gasps merged into sharp whines, the spool coming undone, “Fuck, please, I’m going to come.” the words tumbled from his lips, sweat dotting his face.

Marcoh didn’t respond in words, instead kissing him softer than Daan could remember being kissed, his hips rolling faster and Daan could barely hear the gentle encouragement being mumbled against his ear. His thighs clamped against Marcoh’s hips, inadvertently pulling him closer, and Daan felt himself relax for the first time in days, body trembling when orgasm finally captured him. A cry of pleasure, of relief, left him, louder than intended.

Marcoh brushed his fingers through Daan’s hair, soothing him through the aftershocks, which he wasn’t exactly helping with, rolling his hips with an increasingly desperate pace. Marcoh’s orgasm seemed to catch him off guard, a grunt catching in his throat and his abdomen tensing. The twitching of his cock was almost enough to have Daan considering asking for another round, but he knew it was no use, the moment ending with the two clinging to each other. Tired bodies shifted against each other's weight, waiting for the heat to die down.

Their minds cleared, and Daan looked up, hair dishevelled, and offered a small smile, which was chased by another kiss. Marcoh hummed, and glanced up and around the train carriage, spotting the steadily dimming sky.

“Maybe… we should get back to the city,” he stated carefully. The others had to be concerned about where they were, and if they had met their fate to some terrible creature, “it’s getting dark.”

Daan traced his fingers across the muscles beneath Marcoh’s shoulder. The concept of having to get up and walk on his legs with the condition they were in filled him with more dread than all the shit he had seen combined, and he found himself basking in the warmth of the embrace and enjoying it immensely, “We have cleared most of these woods,” he offered, “and we can get going at first light.”

“Thank fuck,” Marcoh laughed, leaning back to embrace him, “I didn’t really want to traverse through the sewers.”

Marcoh did the gentlemanly thing of standing when Daan refused to, shutting the door leading into the train and setting up a makeshift defence to hold the door shut. A dramatic sigh left him, and he collapsed back into the seat by Daan. No other words were spoken through the night, only soft kisses were exchanged before they drifted into sleep, the moon rising above them.

Daan was comforted by the presence, nestled into the crook of Marcoh’s neck. His dreams were less warm, hearing the soft laughter that echoed through the tunnel and the way the thing that stole Elise’s face shambled from the shadows to call for him.

He slept, trying to recall each and every mole on Marcoh’s body to distract from the hideous stitched thing, and when he couldn’t remember, he woke again and started to count.

༺♡༻ Chapter Two ༺♡༻

Marina downed the bottle of Vodka faster than was likely safe, the burning sensation in her tongue scorching her oesophagus. Her right arm was gone, and the pain dealt to each nerve ending was only being held back by the numbing sting of the vodka and the bright white shock rushing through her.

Despite her insistence that she was fine, Levi and Abella carted her back to PRHVL Bop without giving her time to rattle out an excuse, and Daan’s cushy, self-appointed bar job was disrupted by the door slamming open to drag the young woman inside.

The second day had dwindled into the early morning, and Daan and Marcoh had opted to act as though the experience in the train carriage had not happened, at least in front of the others. Marcoh was always on edge inside the nightclub, and his fear of relaxing drew him to look to the doctor, small, quiet gazes that kept each other recalling the night prior; tender kissing and the dim light of the moon outside.

Promptly, the vibe was ruined.

Abella stormed up, pushing the bottles of vodka and beer to the floor, leaving them to smash at the doctor’s feet. “Marcoh, help me!” she cried, rushing back to grab Marina from Levi, who was having trouble holding her up.

With Abella’s help, Marcoh was able to pick the occultist up, placing her flat on the bar. Marcoh was careful, Abella was less so, trying to rush getting her seen to, blood spilling down onto the dusty checkered flooring.

“I told them, I’m fine.” Marina scolded, a glare shot up from where she could see Daan upside down, “the bandages are fine.”

Blood leaked from the loosely applied pieces of cloth, hastily wrapped around what remained of her arm and Marina was quickly sporting a sickly pallor, and every attempt Daan made to look properly at the wound was met with her pushing his hand away, “That hurts, stupid.”

“I promise it will hurt more if it gets infected or if you bleed out.” He stated.

The occultist calmed somewhat, only when Levi stood by her to hold her hand. There, she allowed the doctor to wrap up her wound, although she certainly made her complaints known, her curses echoing through the small club. Marina, Levi, Daan and Abella stuck to the bar, keeping an eye on the girl while Daan wiped the sweat from her forehead.

Marcoh stood further off by the stairs leading up onto the street, with Olivia settled in front of one of the small tables, while O’saa and Karin spoke to each other in a corner, Karin was mainly concerned about if Marina’s magical abilities would be hindered after all this.

“Is something on your mind, Marcoh?” When Marcoh glanced back from the spot on the wall he had been staring at, he saw Olivia looking back, her eyes seeming to scan his expression, “are you worried about Marina?”

“Nah. She’ll be alright.” He responded, looking across the club. He glanced at Marina first, noting the way the colour in her cheeks was beginning to return, but his gaze flickered quickly to Daan. The way he chewed anxiously at the filter of his cigarette, an attempt of keeping focus, and how he spoke silently to Marna, trying to keep her calm. He found himself staring longer than he meant to, and when Daan lifted his gaze to look back, Marcoh rushed to throw his glance to the floor.

Olivia seemed to scan the room before she looked back to Marcoh, “Can you help me up onto the street? All the blood…” she asked quietly, looking towards the bar. “Sure.” he smiled. Carefully, he crouched and locked his arm under her knees and another around her shoulders, lifting her out of her wheelchair. He invited her to hold onto him, folding up the wheelchair and bringing it upstairs. The streets' lamplight flickered when they were not burning out, barely illuminating the two in the late early morning light. Olivia settled herself in her wheelchair and rolled the wheels experimentally across the cobbled street.

Marcoh leaned against the railing leading down into the club with his arms crossed over his chest. It felt too familiar, Marcoh standing before the entrance to a club with arms crossed and sporting a particularly mean look on his face.

All he was to the clubs of Vatican City was a thug who could scare away potential troublemakers or kick the shit out of people trying to peddle pills and powder in The Family’s territory, recalling the cracking of noses beneath his fists and how through all of it, he worried for his sister back at home.

Funnily enough, Marcoh also often found himself secretly fucking a barman or member of the mafia and having to bounce the club with the same scary look on his face while silently longing for the person inside.

“What did you need, Olivia?” He asked, looking cautiously around the street, “Did you want to go somewhere?”

She shook her head after a moment, "No, I just wanted to get some fresh air, I think," she hummed, "and I think the fewer people around Marina right now, the better. You looked like you were getting stressed out, too.”

“Was I?” Marcoh hummed, feeling the gentle spit of rainfall on his jacket. He wished he had anything to protect his head, a chill wind rushing through the narrow street. Eventually, he opted to stand underneath a shop’s awning, Olivia joining him.

“A little bit maybe,” she explained, looking up to the raindrops steadily falling from above her, “are you?”

Marcoh thought about it. Truly, the answer was yes, the killing game was dawning on each day, and he had no idea who else was alive beyond those in the club. It occurred to him nightly that if he was still alive, Caligura was the kind of man to slit a loose end’s throat, and it was surprisingly hard to sleep with those thoughts racing around him.

“Nah. I’m alright, Olivia.” He nodded at her, holding his hand out to feel the raindrops, “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“You say that, Marcoh, but…” she started, clearly thinking on her words, “no one expects you to be okay considering the circumstances, you don’t have to put on a brave face.”

He did not know how to respond at first, opting to simply shrug and let an unsure laugh leave his lips, "Nah, I know that," He hummed, "You don't have to worry about me."

It seemed like Olivia wished to argue the point, but after a soft hum, she nodded and sat watching the rain. When Marcoh rolled a cigarette and lit it, the two spent what felt like hours taking drags from it, stale tobacco burning their lungs. Olivia coughed with the tearing pain in her throat, and eventually, she shook her head and handed back the cigarette.

“It’s funny,” Marcoh started, taking another drag, “I was doing better at not reaching for a cigarette whenever I could, and now… each and every situation warrants a cigarette break.”

She watched him finish the cigarette, then immediately reach to roll another, “I think most of us are picking up bad habits. I think Daan was one of the only smokers when we arrived.”

A glimmer of Daan’s body rushed into his mind, and he nearly forgot to acknowledge her statement. The way cool hands grabbed at his hair, nails digging into his scalp and the way his clit pulsed frantically against Marcoh’s tongue. In that brief moment, it felt as if the death game was far from them, and the time limit held no importance to the two embraced inside the train carriage. It was a simple hookup, nothing more, Marcoh justified it. Nothing had changed, beyond the fact that the two now had seen each other at their most vulnerable. It did not help that the two had not found themselves alone, always surrounded by the rest of the contestants.

___

Marina grimaced through the pain. The bleeding had stopped, but there was the oddest sensation that followed like the limb was still there as she attempted to lift her hand or flex her muscles. With her other hand, she waved in front of her face as Daan lifted cigarette after cigarette to his lips.

“Apologies.” He remarked, opting to blow his smoke to the side, chewing at the filter.

“I can feel the second-hand smoke,” she scoffed, staring frantically down at where her arm used to be, “fuck… it itches, my arm, but… is that normal?”

The doctor snuffed out the remainder of the cigarette, intaking a breath and trying to wipe the blood from his hands with a bar towel. “Perfectly normal,” he shrugged, “it’s called phantom limb syndrome. It happens to a lot of amputees.”

“That’s stupid.” she scowled at the end of her limb, watching as blood started to coat the bandages. She made another attempt to lift her arm, and she scoffed out a frustrated noise, “Gods… I was dumb. If I had just been watching where I was going.”

“I know.” He offered a solemn look, helping her to sit up, “try not to think about what you could have done differently, yes?”

“Sure thing,” she shrugged, stretching out her legs, “thanks, doc.”

A moment passed, and Marina instinctively reached up to what remained of her arm, touching lightly at the bandages, “and stop smoking down here,” she made an attempt to joke, her pained expression cracking into a grin, “you and Marcoh both smoke the place out constantly.”

Daan laughed, putting away his makeshift medical tools, “We will try to be more considerate,” he hummed. Despite his previous rules of not letting the girl drink in the bar, he fetched a bottle of alcohol and shoved it into her hand, “maybe one of the horrors outside will join in on our smoke break.”

“I mean… Marcoh stepped outside just there,” she shrugged, eyebrows raised. She was helped down from the bar by Abella and Levi, “Go take a second to yourself. If that’s even possible for you.”

After practically being shoved from behind the bar by Abella, stopping him from clearing up the blood, he finally allowed himself to go up for air. Another cigarette immediately found his lips, and he quickly spotted both Marcoh and Olivia. He rushed to get out of the rain, the cobblestones slippery under his fine leather shoes.

“Evening.” Marcoh nodded at the doctor, offering him a smile.

“How is Marina?” Olivia frowned, a concerned look on her face.

Daan nodded, and spoke through the filter, “She’s alright, still in pain, understandably. We’ve made sure she is comfortable,” he scowled, patting at each pocket on his person, “shit. My lighter…”

“Here.” Marcoh mumbled, inhaling deeply, and leaning in to press the lit end to the doctor’s. It was not lost on him that this mirrored the night prior, but he made an attempt to push it away from his mind.

After the three had a brief moment together and Olivia soon asked to be taken back into the club, Daan and Marcoh found themselves alone together once more. The rain poured down, rushing through the cracks in each cobblestone and the cold air tore through them within seconds, leaving them both shivering and rushing for the warmth of each inhale.

“Fuck, it’s cold.” Daan scoffed. He had gotten closer to the boxer, whether he had meant to or not.

Marcoh stifled his sudden need to point out how close he was to him, knowing Daan would likely take it as an uncomfortable complaint and move away, “We can go back inside. Just give me a second to finish this.”

A shuddering breath tumbled from cold lips, and he shook his head, “It’s alright. Marina is resting in the bunker, so… I don’t need to rush to get back.”

Daan held his cigarette between his teeth, rubbing his arms in an attempt to warm himself, his cheeks flushing a bright pink. When Marcoh stepped closer, a strong arm around the doctor, the two smiled for the first time in hours. Marcoh was warm despite the chill in the air, and Daan could not help but press himself to stand closer to him. “You’re like a radiator.” He laughed through the smoke.

Marcoh hummed and nodded, “Yeah. It’s nice until the warmer months roll ‘round,” he shrugged, fingers tracing small shapes over Daan’s thin linen shirt, “old boyfriends always hated it.”

Daan stood closer, relishing in the way the smoke burned all the way down his lungs, a comforting and familiar warmth. Eventually, he hummed and looked back at him, “Old boyfriends, hm?”

“Yeah,” He chuckled, “what? Were you under the impression that you were first?” he asked, tone playful.

Daan shook his head, laughing to himself while the cigarette, and his excuse for staying outside with Marcoh, began to disappear with each sharp inhale, cheeks still flushed with the chill, “Of course not,” he offered, before he finally dropped the cigarette and snuffed it out with the sole of his shoe, “I like how warm you are.”

He felt his cheeks heat up, the notion of comparing Daan to one of Marcoh’s old boyfriends. Those relationships started off coated in flame, brought on by craving looks across bars or long days carrying out odd jobs together, but they fizzled out quickly. Most of the men did not seem to like it when Marcoh spoke, rather liking the knowledge that they could show off the glowering boxer on their arm, and were quick to shut down conversations about Marcoh’s home life.

“Cheers,” he hummed, snuffing out his cigarette too, looking up to the clouded sky that threw down rain, “I think you’ll take that back by the time Summer begins.”

If we live that long.

Daan pushed the thought from his mind or tried to at least. He stood there, head leaning slightly against Marcoh’s shoulder, and allowed himself to rest his eyes for at least a brief moment. Marcoh knew that moment was coming to a close when Daan started to push off of the wall and away from him.

“I’m going to head back inside,” Daan smiled at him, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder, “finish your cigarette.”

Marcoh smiled to himself, he couldn’t help it, watching Daan go. When he was gone, the rain seemed colder, the wind sharper and the wind whistling morphing into anguished moans. He put out his cigarette finally and glanced up one of the many alleyways, a constant eye out for the mobster as if he were to appear in a cloud of mist and stalk through the streets just to find him.

__

Karin, Daan and Levi soon left to further scout the area, O’saa tagging along with them, leaving Marina to rest further in the small speakeasy. Olivia sat above at the bar with Marcoh. Marcoh wasn’t exactly amazing at making cocktails, but he was able to mix up at least something akin to a cosmopolitan, a tiny guide taped to the underside of the bar helped too. The cranberry juice looked a bit too grim for him to attempt to mix it in, a fine layer of a discoloured blanket laid over the top of the liquid, but he was able to find an unopened can of cranberries in syrup, which worked as a fine replacement, if not rendering it a little sour.

She sipped silently at the drink, listening as the rain poured down heavier, hitting the pavement above them. “Thanks, Marcoh.” she smiled gratefully, face grimacing at the tart flavour, which made the boxer laugh until he got to try the drink himself and had to push it across the bar for her to take again.

“I might go downstairs and make sure someone is there, in case Marina wakes up and needs anything,” she hummed, shifting her wheelchair away from the bar, “though I’ll probably end up napping. Do you want to come with me?”

Marcoh glanced from the trap door, and then to the stairs leading back up onto the street, before he shrugged, “Nah, I’m okay,” he settled himself onto a stool behind the bar, “Go rest, and I’ll wait for the others.”

Marina was out of it, in a deep sleep that even Marcoh’s heavy footsteps into the bunker could not shift, and he carried Olivia down the ladder and unfolded her wheelchair next to a spare bunk, sitting her down. It was clear she wasn’t interested in sleeping yet, and seemed to wait simply for Marina to awaken.

When Marcoh went back up to the bar, it dawned on him that he was away to be bored for a while. It normally wasn’t so bad and he was able to entertain himself fairly well, but no amount of napping or scribbling his thoughts down on the underside of the bar seemed to aid his boredom. He didn’t know when the others would return, or if they would even return at all. He knew the others could handle themselves, but he found himself worried about the group, namely the doctor. He had been okay for all of his excursions in the city, and yet Marcoh could not help himself from fearing for him. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if the group returned without him.

He thought on this for a moment longer, but found himself rudely torn away from his musings, glass and bitter wine raining from one of the shelves above his head, forcing him up off of the stool with a start, “Fuck!”

A lead pipe narrowly missed his head, glass laced through his hair, and he turned to the looming figure before him, Caligura's glowering, pale expression eyeing each of Marcoh's movements.

"Right," Caligura started, scowling back at Marcoh, using the end of the heavy pipe to push Marcoh back down onto the stool, "we're gonna have a chat, finally. You didn't see me on the train, huh?" He asked, allowing the pipe to dangle at his side.

Marcoh stared back up at him, noting the specks of blood at the collar and lapels of his fine, white suit, "Nah. I saw you, Caligura."

The wall crackled behind his head, the pipe swung again. There was no intent to actually hit him, if he wished to hit him, he would be dead, but Marcoh couldn't help but flinch. Caligura dropped himself to be at eye level with Marcoh, his free hand grasping at Marcoh's hair to get him to look into his eyes.

"Come on, big man," Caligura goaded him, brushing the end of the pipe under his chin, "what are you doing here?"

Marcoh gritted his teeth, groaning as he was forced to look into the older man's eyes, "What do you mean?" He muttered, trying to shift his gaze, "I'm here for the same reason as you. The train stopped outside of town and now we're here."

"Don't act smart, prick," He scowled, pushing the pipe further beneath his chin, barely blocking his windpipe, "who sent you, hm?"

The boxer shook his head, fists clenched at his side. The urge to punch the old fuck's lights out was incredibly strong, but he knew that if Caligura noted any slight movements, he would be quick to bring the pipe down on his skull.

"No one sent me," He mumbled, tiny shards of glass raining down on his face, "you’ve got me wrong. I'm not here on business. I'm not even working for the family anymore."

Caligura mumbled something under his breath, pressing the pipe further into his chin, “Yeah?” he scoffed, “stupid bastard.”

He let go of his grip on the boxer’s hair, snatching away his fist. He froze somewhat, eyes catching the trapdoor in the floor, and he instantly snapped his head back to Marcoh, “You’re here alone, ugly?” he asked after a moment of silence.

He was quick to nod, praying the mob boss would not call his bluff, rampaging down into the bunker and slaughtering the two down there; red dripping off the end of the pipe, the girls’ skulls smashed into the pillows beneath them without a second thought, “I’m alone,” he whispered, beginning to stand up from the stool, “come on, Dragul, let’s just talk this out, huh?”

Tearing his eyes away, Caligura seemed to nod and step back towards the bar, “You’re Marcoh, yeah?” he hummed, looking at him, “your face… I remember it from outside of the club, fucking around with the men in my employ.”

“Yeah, guilty,” he grumbled, his eyes trained on the mobster, “to be fair, I didn’t always know they were in your employ.”

Plaster crumbled over his shoulders, another deft, heavy swing barely missing his head, “Stupid bastard,” he spat, digging the pipe out of the wall, “you think you’re funny, huh? Don’t worry too much, I’ll sort you right out.”

Before Marcoh had a chance to respond to the man towering above him, a sharp pain rushed through his temple. He had no time to attempt to block the swing, and back spots flickered into his vision with a sudden, shattering pain like that of a gunshot knocked into the side of his head, a dull, thudding ache that ran its course behind his eyes. For a single, peaceful moment, there was no pain, only a bright white shock that rushed to mask the agony that crackled through his skull.

Nausea rolled discriminantly down his spine, and whatever curse or shout Marcoh had planned on spilling from his mouth, was replaced by an anguished groan, which tumbled unceremoniously into a sharp, frustrated cry. He was on the floor in a second, trembling hands catching the weight of his body, the checkered tiles distorting in front of his eyes.

“Fuck…” he managed to utter, feeling the room begin to spin. He could hear the vague, buried sound of Caligura saying something, the smug tone dripping from his tongue, but Marcoh didn’t hear anything through the ringing in his ears.

Caligura shifted to stand over him, the end of the pipe splattered with red, and it trailed the light when he lifted it, allowing it to rest on his shoulder. He observed him for a moment before he lifted the pipe once more, and Marcoh nearly relished in the momentary awareness he had, as the black spots rendered into darkness that filled his vision, that he was going to be unconscious, unaware of the grisly death he was to face at Caligura’s hands.

The mob boss was undeterred by the unconscious man before him, though he wouldn’t lie about being disappointed that he could not watch the brute rattle out his final breaths with a clear mind. No matter, he thought, reeling the weapon back for one last blow, aiming for his face. He could only imagine the crunch of bone as his nose punctured its way into the soft, wet tissue of the brain, though he had heard such sounds before. He determined that caving in his pretty face would make this game all worthwhile.

Pain rippled through Caligura’s upper arm, red freckling the woven fabric of his suit, a bullet tearing through his arm and forcing the pipe to the ground with a clatter, “What the fuck!” he snarled, tossing his head back to the source of the shot.

Aiming with two arms was difficult, but aiming with just one was damn near impossible. Marina’s hand shook, trying to steady her aim. She had meant to hit his neck, his chest, anywhere fucking useful, but instead, it grazed his arm and he was staring back at her with dark eyes. She steadied her aim again, and tilted the barrel of the gun to the stairs up to the street, “Get out.” she commanded, squinting her eyes as she stared down the barrel.

His free hand instantly grabbed at the wound, rendering his palm an oozing red. She had seen scarier than some ugly fuck glowering at her, but now that Marcoh was on the floor, unmoving, she could not help but tremble. The man gritted his teeth and whispered out a growled warning, “Drop the gun, sweetheart, before you hurt yourself, huh?” he stated, taking a step towards her and extending his hand, “hand it over.”

The occultist knew better, watching each movement, “People are gonna be back any second. A bullet in your arm will be the least of your worries, old man,” she stated, tilting the gun again in a silent command for him to leave, “I said out!”

She pressed the trigger, aiming for the fine leather of his shoes, but all that came was an unfair click of the chamber, empty of any sort of ammunition. Caligura laughed, tone dripping with condescension when she tried to fire once more, “Come on, now,” he stated as if talking to a small child, “let’s not get carried away.”

Within an instant, she dropped the pistol, noting the tilt in his broad form as he bent to collect the pipe with his noninjured arm. Dark energy collected at her fingertips, channelling it towards the man in the fancy suit, “I told you to get out!” panic raised in her tone.

Caligura did not notice at first, not until he held the weapon in his hand. The flesh, within a matter of mere seconds, was beginning to split, the flesh tone giving way to that of deep reds and near black, rotting beneath the surface of translucent skin like boiling tar, trapping anything that happened to delve into it.

He threw his gaze back to her, a ragged groan trapped in his throat as he managed to mumble out a curse, “Fuck… what the fuck–” he scowled, watching the skin continue to peel away, exposing the flesh beneath.

Before Marina could give a witty remark, and explain the blessing of the God of Fear and Hunger, he was gone, holding his hand to his stomach with a pale expression. She was disappointed for but a second. She really wanted to tell him what was going to be his hand’s experience for the next day, but she was pulled from it when she saw the slightest twitch of Marcoh’s fingers, and she was by his side in an instant. At least he wasn’t dead, that was all she could think about as she dropped her ear to his chest, trying to keep track of his heartbeat.

__

Instant panic filled the nightclub when the others returned, Marina instantly pushing herself to pull Daan down to the floor with her. He had barely been down the stairs into the club for a second, and now he was face to face with the paling body of Marcoh, and the blood puddling beneath his head.

Shit, he thought. It looked bad, it was bad, the towel Marina had clearly pressed to the wound had not done much to stop the blood flow, and as soon as Daan saw the weapon, coated in the boxer’s blood, all thoughts seemed to pause as they rushed through his head. A mumble left him, and he lifted his gaze back to Marina.

“There was some scary old fuck up here,” she stammered, continuing to hold the towel to the side of his head, “Olivia and I were downstairs, and… I didn’t hear anything until he hit the floor!”

Karin knelt by Daan’s side, a firm hand on his shoulder in an attempt to steady the doctor, “Hey, this isn’t the time for spacing out, yeah?” she stated, almost chiding, as she noted the way he started to stare at the boxer. This was her own way of helping, and it did seem to draw Daan from the void of his thoughts, “Come on now, you’re a doctor, yeah? You probably deal with this shit all the time. How long has he been out, Marina?”

She shook her head, and Daan caught the way her gaze cast from the boxer to the others, “I… two hours, maybe more. I lost count. He just wouldn’t stop bleeding–”

“I…Okay.” He stated. The way she seemed to scold him was comforting, only because he knew it was her own way of attempting to ground him. Carefully, he applied pressure to the towel over his wound, allowing Marina to let go of it finally, her palm coated in drying crimson, “give me some space for a while, and I’ll see what I can do–”

The rest of the group filtered downstairs, closing the trap door behind them, leaving the two on the nightclub floor, now smeared with blood. All medical knowledge was scattered in his brain, and he struggled to recall just what to do in this situation. The fact that he had been unconscious for two or three hours was not comforting, with minor head injuries, the patient normally awoke from half an hour to an hour at most.

He was painfully aware of the fact that the longer he stayed unconscious, the more likely it was that Marcoh had sustained a major amount of damage to the brain, twisting around the stem as the impact hit.

“Shit, Marcoh…” Daan whispered to himself. He slowly removed the towel and was met with a small trickle of blood leaving the wound. He had seen such injuries before, young soldiers with their heads cracked open, dead and cold on the operating table, but this felt different, less detached. It was clear just from looking at him that his skull was fractured, forcing Daan to consider the worst, a brain bleed or severe brain damage.

His breathing was irregular, and his pupils dilated when Daan found a light to shine into his eyes. He was gentle to look at the wound open laceration, and as he expected, he found evidence of the fracture, tiny pieces of the broken skull, and he felt a panicked nausea rise in his stomach, “I can’t fix this.” he mumbled to himself.

Marcoh’s skin was cold, smeared with the blood that stained Daan’s hands. Thoughts raced through his head; how he swore to himself to only heal with his skills as a doctor, and never with the magic of the god that took his parents from him. Despite this anger directed at Sylvian, Daan was quickly finding that his options were dwindling; unconsciousness to coma to a vegetative state or death was the mantra that repeated in his head until he came to the frantic decision.

Gently, he kneeled down on the floor by Marcoh, cautious hands pressing at his chest, and, with a small, soft look, he leaned in close to his ear. A voice unlike his own tumbled from his lips in a whisper. He did not know what he was cooing against his ear, simply allowing the whispers to escape him, lips barely touching the cool skin and Daan watched his small breaths through his lashes.

The whispers came to a halt without much warning, rescinding in his throat, and when he lifted his gaze, only the remains of the blood remained, the gaping, torn hole in his head was suddenly closed. There was almost no evidence that harm had been put upon him, that no pain had been inflicted upon his handsome face. Despite all this, a pang of strange guilt rushed through his chest, was it selfish of him to stop what was to be?

Hours passed, and the others did not venture upstairs, which Daan appreciated, watching over Marcoh with a careful eye. He kept on with his checks, noting the subtle differences in the dilation of pupils, the slow appearance of colour in his cheeks and the way his eyelids shifted, unconsciousness merging into a deep sleep.

Dark, thick eyelashes fluttered, and Daan nearly jumped, relief drowning the fear and guilt that had been overwhelming him. He pressed a cool hand to Marcoh’s forehead and offered him a small smile when his eyes finally opened.

“Daan…” Marcoh whispered, hoarse voice catching in his chest. He reached his hand up, grasping Daan’s arm.

Daan pressed a small kiss to his hand, locking their fingers together, “How are you feeling?”

His dark eyes were wide, and he glanced around the club from the floor, gaze scanning over the pipe, inches from him, “I… my head hurts, a little, I guess,” he whispered, looking back to Daan, “why didn’t Caligura kill me?”

Daan shook his head, “Is that the man who attacked you?” he asked softly, touching gently at his hair, “I believe Marina scared him off, she may have mentioned something about his hand rotting.”

“Gross.” Marcoh let out a strained chuckle, “if she didn’t get him to leave, you probably would have returned to this face, all caved in and hollow.” he sounded like he was joking, but Daan grimaced at the thought.

Daan only nodded, kissing his hand again, lips cool against the feverish flesh, “I’m sorry, that I was not here.”

Marcoh immediately started to shake his head, frowning, “Don’t be sorry, silly man,” he playfully rolled his eyes, “I’m a big boy, I can handle myself. Y’know… when it’s not Caligura, and not a pipe.”

He allowed a small laugh, but his expression soon became solemn, “Normal medical practices were not helping. You could have ended up in a coma, or… dying,” he whispered, the grip on his hand tightening, “I picked up some healing magic, so… that is to credit for your healing. I hope that is okay.”

Marcoh let out a soft hum, and traced small shapes over the back of his hand, “Of course it’s okay,” he smiled, “it’s all you, whether it was medical or magic.”

The two sat together for a moment longer before Marcoh began to push himself to sit, with Daan’s help and insistence that he go slowly. The pain was dull, but still there despite the healing, and he grumbled softly to himself, holding onto the doctor for support. “Shit. Is this like… when you’re concussed and no one lets you have a nap.”

“Not exactly. It is safe to sleep, but I will need to wake you up every few hours to ask you questions.” He chuckled, trying to keep the mood light, especially after a scary morning for the both of them.

He scoffed and shook his head, “I’m shit at trivia, Daan.”

“Not those kinds of questions,” He grinned wide, shaking his head, “It’ll mainly be me asking for your name, age, things you know.”

“C’mon, you know my name. You said it enough on the train,” he snorted, but quickly the cheeky grin dropped into a sheepish look, “sorry, that was weird.”

Daan shook his head, grinning, “Not weird at all. However, the point is that you recall your name, yes?”

“Right.” Marcoh scoffed, touching carefully at where he had been hit, “Thanks. For… healing me.” he nodded, a sudden unsure look like he did not know how to express his gratitude, “I would offer some kind of reward, but I’m tired.” he laughed softly.

“Don’t even think about such a thing until you are absolutely better, understand?” Daan raised an eyebrow, slowly standing up, and moving to help the boxer to his feet, “especially not when you look like you have something specific in mind.”

Marcoh ached, it was dull but still present, and he tried quickly to hide his stupid grin, “You got me,” he admitted, “is going down on you not on the list of acceptable rewards for not letting me die?”

“Well, I didn’t say that, did I?” he escorted him to the trapdoor, laughing softly, “Go ahead and sleep. I’ll be down in an hour to quiz you on your name.”

Marcoh got to the bottom of the ladder, giving him a mock salute, “I’ll try my best to remember. Goodnight, doctor.”

Nobody bothered the boxer beyond gentle check-ins, making sure he was comfortable, Olivia sat by his side and held his hand as he slept, keeping an eye on him when the others started to doze off, guilt spreading through her like a fever.

Upstairs, Daan got to work, mopping up the blood to the best of his ability with the only mop he could find, which happened to be dirty and laced with cobwebs. He carefully hooked the end of the pipe with his foot, blood smearing on his shoe, and flipped it for him to catch the end of it. He could barely imagine what it must have felt like at the moment of impact.

A figure was lingering in the doorway, illuminated by the dim light outside and the rain that pelted down on the street. Daan froze, only just catching the presence out of the corner of his eye, and it occurred to him that the mobster may have returned to finish what he started.

He grasped the pipe with a trembling grasp, and turned quickly, hoping to catch him by surprise, but there was no one standing in the doorway anymore, leaving the empty staircase before him. He managed to catch a glimpse of whoever it had been, tall and rushing away from the club, what looked like a rubber mask clinging to their head, leaving the doctor watching the top of the stairs with some sort of ancient anxiety.

༺♡༻ Chapter Three ༺♡༻

Threads of clothing caught on the splintering interiors of the train, the remains of Marina’s chalk prayer circle were scuffed and ruined. Marcoh had sustained an incredible recovery from brain damage, it seemed, the healing magic of Sylvian having kissed away each and every symptom and every wound.

“I hate trekking back through the woods to get back to this train, you know.” Marcoh murmured.

Daan clipped the last of the boxer’s complaint with a quick kiss, arm looping around his neck. His back was up against the same splintered wall with the other’s thigh between his legs. It was true, deciding to fuck and then having to walk ten minutes to get to the train did happen to kill the passion.

Daan let out a short laugh, “You’ve maybe mentioned it, yes.”

Marcoh shifted closer to Daan, thigh pressing further between his thighs with the hint of a sigh, “I’m being serious,” he stated, though he laughed softly, “We can wait for the others to leave, and there are four beds we can use. You can even choose which bunk.”

“Other people do have to sleep in those beds, Marcoh.” A short laugh escaped him, pulling his face closer for another kiss.

Marcoh snorted out a laugh, “Other people have been shagging in them already. Levi and Marina think they’re sneaky, but my ears would beg to differ,” he scoffed, returning gentle kisses while Daan tried to silence his complaints, “but if you’re shy about the beds, I would settle for somewhere other than this fucking train. The floor would be grand.”

Daan scoffed as he shifted, looking up at the boxer, “Well… I’m happy to walk back.” he stated, trying to stifle his laugh when Marcoh’s face portrayed utter despair at the concept.

“Fuck that.” He laughed, and ruined Daan’s chuckle, pressing their lips together.

Strong hands gripped at the fine bones of his hips, Marcoh escorting him to turn, chest pressed up against the doctor’s back. Kisses were peppered to his jaw and neck, but Daan could not help but let out a gentle sigh. Within an instant, anxiety blossomed in his chest, growing worry over Marcoh’s recent condition, a brush with either death or a life-altering brain injury if it had not been for the Doctor tapping into the healing magic he swore never to use. Before Daan could think over his words, he spoke up.

“I don’t want you to feel like you must reward me for healing you,” he whispered, turning his head to look at the Boxer, “You’ve only been up for a few hours if that.”

Marcoh rippled with tension, swift feet taking a step back from the doctor. He was quiet, Daan recognised the look on his face was that of thoughtful, the cogs turning in the boxer’s brain. Daan awaited a response with bated breath.

"I don't know…" Marcoh mumbled, touching lightly at the wound that ran across his right temple, an ugly, nasty breakage in his flesh that trickled down to his ear from where the pipe smashed into his skull, leaving it shattered, "I just thought it would be nice to fool about."

Daan nodded, "Well, we can, I'm just saying–" he started, taking a step forward in response to Marcoh’s step away, "I don't want you to feel that you need to reward me like you said."

"No, I don't. I was kidding–" Marcoh defended himself, quicker, sharper than he meant to. Questions upon questions in past interrogations prepared the need for Marcoh to thwart Daan’s words, no matter how right he was.

Daan shifted, the quick, passionate air ebbing into a vague disquiet, the same awkward silence of the day the train stopped in the woods, the strangers all glancing around each other with apprehension.

"Okay," Daan stated, trying his best to keep his expression still, but he could not help but allow the twitches of uncertainty break his lips and eye, pale iris darting around the train, mouth dry, "I didn't mean for it to come off as accusatory. I know it is likely a coincidence that we are here right now, a few hours later. I just… wished to make sure."

There was a part of Marcoh that knew it was not true. Always a stranger to kindness he did not have to repay, the constant looming threat of the Family keeping tally of their owed favours; bouncer, bodyguard, thug.

Maybe he counted his being saved from the brink of death as something that would too bring favours upon favours wracked upon his head, and maybe there was part of him that viewed sex as a form of payment for those who deserved it. Sex had not been used as currency for Marcoh, usually opting for simple grunt work where he had to, but there were certainly times when he had considered it, but he had promised himself only to do so if he really wished to.

"Nah, it's good," Marcoh shrugged, taking a step back, "it's better to ask… my head is still fuzzy. Sorry."

Daan shifted with the sudden strange air of discomfort. It wasn't exactly the best plan the two had that day, a rush of kisses laced with passion and the way the intent of going back to the train with him brushed from Marcoh’s scarred lips, and now, Daan had no idea how to dispel the tension that followed.

"It's okay," Daan nodded, moving to sit in one of the empty seats, "when we get back to the club, you can keep resting. You don’t need to apologise.”

Marcoh shifted to sit down in the seat opposite, an odd pain rattling back through his skull, “Nah, I’m the one who suggested it. I shouldn’t have gotten pissy about you making sure, Daan,” he offered, dropping his gaze to the dusty floor, “Caligura could still be out there, and the concept that tomorrow could be our last day in this game, it’s all getting to me.”

“It’s perfectly normal to seek out touch when situations get beyond stressful. Like a brief moment of something normal in the midst of all this terror,” Daan started, “and I can appreciate the need to justify your actions, but you need to know that you aren’t expected to repay me, not at all. That’s all I wished to say.”

It appeared as if Marcoh shrunk into the uncomfortable train booth, eyes drifting out the window, staring at the still forest around them, “Yeah. Thanks…” he muttered, finally lifting his gaze to the man opposite him, “Maybe when I’ve rested up more, we can go again. If I feel better.”

Daan was quiet for a moment, a rush of anxiety travelling through Marcoh, the worry he had said the wrong thing to this new man. However, the kiss that pecked gently at Marcoh’s lips made his mind fog, his heart fluttered with the tender kiss. When the doctor pulled back, Marcoh couldn’t help but stare up at him with a dumb look on his face, the first pounding of something akin to love reverberating in his chest.

__

The walk back to the city was miserable, rain pelting down on the two as they rushed through winding alleyways. Daan had considered that the contestants of the festival would have started to know Prehevil like the backs of their hands, but over and over, the two walked into deadends, forcing them to double back on themselves.

“All these streets look the same,” Marcoh groaned, spinning on the spot to look back on where they came from, “even Vatican City doesn’t twist and turn this much.”

Glancing over the map briefly, Daan let out an unsure hum in response, “The map being confusing as all hell doesn’t aid us either,” he huffed, pushing the map into the pocket of his checkered trousers, “Come on, let’s try going the other way. We’re bound to spot a landmark that will direct us to the club.”

Marcoh spun again, his eyes landing on the tower, “I mean… Let’s just try and use the tower as a guide, maybe, and… Shops, if we see shops, we’re near the club.”

With that, they moved through the winding, cobblestone streets, careful not to slip on the cobbles, slick with rainwater. With every few seconds, one of the two glanced up to the tower, or kept their eyes out for the shopping district. Daan soon joined the grumbled complaints from Marcoh, just as eager to get out of the rain.

“What’s that?” Marcoh stopped in his tracks, head snapping to look down the alleyway.

“What’s what?” Daan shook his head. Truly, he didn’t hear anything, but there was always the possibility of a local or some sort of creature shuffling around each corner, “What did you hear?”

The Boxer’s nose crinkled as he strained to hear. It was faint, and he couldn’t pinpoint any sort of direction or source of the sound.

Far-off laughter echoed through the streets. Marcoh and Daan paused in wait, eyes darting in all directions, trying to find the source, or at least ascertain a direction.

“Let’s get moving, keep the fuck out of the way of whatever giggly fuck is running around.” Marcoh scoffed suddenly, taking a firm, nervous hold of the doctor’s arm. He rushed off with Daan, panic filling his chest. The laughter only continued, leisurely and casual, as if someone were out for a nice stroll in the middle of a death game.

The laughter evolved into sharp, delighted cackling, rising up through the alleyways like an orchestra, and the quick escalation of the laughter only seemed to send the two scrambling to make some distance between them and whoever was finding something awfully funny. The source was clear now, somewhere down the alleyways, close behind.

Another dead-end faced them and it dawned on the pair that whoever was following behind would soon catch them infront of moss-coated, crumbling brick. “Fuck.” Marcoh muttered, an instinctual stance overtaking him as he stood before Daan.

The first thing Daan took note of as the stranger stood before them was the way the ends of dirty needles scraped along the cobblestones, a sharp, scratching drag that bounced off the brick walls. Then he saw his - its - face.

A grin distorted the thing's face, a ragged-looking, lanky man with painted-on happy brows that decorated his pale face. Disgusted confusion twisted like a blade in Daan’s stomach. The bloodied smile echoed and mocked the face of his late father-in-law, the same creased smile lines and dark eyes.

No, Daan thought. Those same dark eyes had been glazed over, faded of all life before Daan could have ever hoped to help Eihner or Elise. Now, something wore his face, laughed his laugh and dragged a flail of dirty syringes across the ground as he closed in on the dead-end.

Daan wanted to speak, but the rise of bile in his throat hindered his voice, and he only managed to breathe out a strained, “What? Why are you here?”

“Do not tell me you know this clown, Daan.” Marcoh scolded him, an unsure laugh brimming from his words. When Daan only looked back with a look of unsure terror, he turned his head to the man, “We don’t want trouble. Let us pass.”

Tapping a gloved hand to his chin, the man seemed to mime a dramatic, thoughtful expression. With his free hand, it started to swing the flail, a playful action that made Daan’s skin crawl. Within an instant, the man seemed to come to a conclusion, a sharp drop of his arm to let the needles clatter against the stone.

Then the stranger locked eyes with Daan. The doctor could barely think past the nausea that twisted in his stomach, but the stranger’s sombre gaze solidified the fear that this could have been Eihner, that the man whose corpse Daan desperately scanned for any sign of life was now standing before them, his face forever grinning and laughing. Daan wanted to look away, to drop to the cobblestone and wait for the thing wearing his father-in-law’s face to leave them alone, pray to whatever gods he could.

The doctor felt like a child, lifting his hands to cover his eyes, tears collecting in his palms, “How can you be here, Eihner?”

Marcoh had no clue what the fuck to do, or what was going on. All he knew was that the person before them was blocking their path, armed with a flail of used needles, with little intention to let the two pass. All rational thinking dropped from the forefront of his mind.

The creature shrieked with laughter when Marcoh’s fist made contact with his face, then the other into his stomach, even when he reeled back and dropped to the ground, his nose cracking under the force of the punch. It seemed like he couldn’t catch his breath, rolling on the floor with shrill, roaring giggles.

“Gods, who the fuck is this, Daan?” Marcoh grimaced, the laughter cutting through him. He took the opportunity to kick the flail out of the man’s reach.

Daan watched the pale man as he cackled on the floor, blood pooling from his broken nose, and spilling into his mouth. Daan begged his head to pull himself together. This was not Eihner. Eihner was dead. Turning his attention back to Marcoh, he shook his head with a dismissing scoff, “No, I… thought I recognised him, but it can’t be. It’s this town, toying with me.”

Marcoh took hold of his hand, the lightest squeeze to remind Daan that he was alright. He cast a glance at the still-laughing creature and swallowed all instinct to keep away, knowing there was no way past him beyond stepping around or over him, “Fuck that. Let’s just go.”

A sharp pinch, into Daan’s calf with expert precision, the pinch reforming quickly into jagged, relentless carving into his flesh. He scolded himself briefly, that he shouldn’t have turned his back on the thing, even Marcoh kept his eyes on him as the two stepped over him.

The needle carved through his flesh before the dark contents of the needle rushed through his system, and Daan felt it nearly instantly. Something pulsed through his calf, a shooting pain that forced Daan to reel back, doubling over with nausea.

Head swimming, heart beating, stomach lurching. His vision filled with flittering black spots. Whatever had been in the syringe coursed through Daan in mere seconds, his legs tingling with numbness. He barely had time to feel anxious, considering the worst-case scenario for himself. Scenario number one; The needle was dirty, an infection now coursing through his legs before making its way to his heart. Best-case scenario; the syringe was simply filled with a sedative, some sort of paralyzing agent so the creature above him could kill easier, with less struggling and kicking.

Before he could attempt to list the pros and cons of each death, one slow and one quick, his head dropped to the cobbles as unconsciousness took him.

The same needle struck Marcoh in quick succession, the clown throwing himself to his feet and finding purchase wherever he could. Pain shot through Marcoh's shoulder, the sharp point dragging over the tough fabric of his jacket and finally sticking into the muscle beneath.

Marcoh acted first, unable to think. Whatever Daan had been drugged with had been depleted, and he prayed that the syringe was simply being wielded as a sharp weapon. The boxer had heard enough stories after fraternizing with Riccardo, tales of men strapped to tables, air injected into their veins, until their body succumbed to heart failure or stroke.

The clown’s eyes watered, nose spilling with blood, as Marcoh threw another punch, the thin cartilage cracking beneath the force of the strike. With a shove, the creature was once more down on the ground, racked with pained laughter, slamming his hand onto the cobbles. Marcoh wanted to grab Daan and leave, but something called to him to finish the thing off. Maybe it was the thought of the others, Levi and Marina, getting trapped by him. Maybe it was the thought that it would follow them back to the club, striking while the party slept, killing them with whatever poison he kept equipped.

The mocking face of the laughing creature crumpled easily, skull cracking and blood spilling from the way Marcoh’s heavy, steel-toed boot stomped at his head, caving in the flesh that pooled with blood within an instant. The clown barely had time to laugh, scream, beg, before another stomp came, chunks of flesh ricocheting across the cobbles.

Deep red clung to the toe of Marcoh’s boot as he pulled back, sinews refusing to go, until he stepped all the way back, in time to hear the thing’s death rattle.

“Daniȅl… give him back.” The creature breathed out. His eyes, filling with blotches of red, stayed firmly on Marcoh, his expression a merge of anger, pity and… desperation. He mouthed something he could only just make out.

Sulfur.

He was finally silent, another strong stomp of Marcoh’s boot carving into the exposed flesh of his skull, and Marcoh waited for what felt like hours, eyes scanning for any slight movement, which never came.

__

Daan was not waking up. Marcoh did everything right, with his limited knowledge; placing the doctor into the recovery position. It was easier in nightclubs back home, if he was staying with someone who had passed out, either from drink or drugs, he was able to position them so they wouldn’t choke and simply wait for an ambulance. It seemed Prehevil were not entirely concerned with having paramedics on standby for the festival of Termina.

“Come on, wake up,” Marcoh nearly begged, watching the colour drain further from Daan’s skin, “you’re going to make me cart your body back to the others, like this?”

He tried to laugh, but the realisation soon sunk in that those shallow breaths, the lethargic heartbeat, would not last forever.

Marcoh gritted his teeth, shooting a glance around his surroundings, but found nothing in the way of anything that could help him. Marina had lent a skin bible to him, trying to stifle a giggle when Marcoh started through the rough parchment before he finally landed on the symbol of Sylvian. She roared with laughter as Marcoh’s gaze landed on what looked like a vagina within the prayer circle. He didn’t exactly find it funny, since his humour was not akin to that of a twelve-year-old, but between her laughter, he had heard her breathe out something about ancient healing magic.

“Fuck, Daan. I hate all this magic shit.” He groaned.

Daan was light enough to hoist over the boxer’s broad shoulder. Each second felt like an eternity, he knew all the time he was taking to locate a prayer circle meant the grave was calling Daan with a firm grip.

__

Daan was laid out on the carved circle, hands folded over his abdomen. He looked peaceful, with soft breaths tumbling from pale lips. Panic surged through the Boxer, finding the remaining stub of chalk, a trembling hand copying the diagram as carefully as it could, while Marcoh mumbled to himself.

“You’ll be fine,” He whispered, and he wondered how much the statement was directed to Daan, and how much he was whispering the reassurance to himself, “we’ll get you up. Then back to the club.”

The chalk lines finally connected, and a pulse of energy washed over the Boxer, a pleasant burst of air as the circle lit up for the briefest moment, then faded.

“Thank fuck–” Marcoh finally allowed himself to breathe, rushing to kneel by Daan’s side.

It was slow, colour slowly returning to the doctor’s sickly skin. Marcoh waited with bated breath, only exhaling when his pale lashes fluttered open, his eyelids heavy as he looked up at the brunette.

“Hey…” Marcoh touched the man’s forehead, wiping at the sweat that lingered there, “I got us out of there. Here, sit up.”

Daan was not sure if he liked the stumbling, fussing Boxer. His reaction felt like that of fear, as if Daan was still in danger. He felt fine as if he had not been injected with a mystery needle. However, he leaned into Marcoh’s touch, allowing him to help him to sit up.

“So… what? The injection just knocked me out?” He asked, lifting his hand to fix the tousled hair.

Marcoh only shrugged, hands motioning to the skin bible laid out to his side, then the chalk, “I don’t know, just… you weren’t waking up.”

Pale gaze cast downwards, and Daan felt the familiar coiling of disgust in his stomach. Once again, Sylvian dug her claws into his flesh, cooing and crying for her missing son, for the son who she felt abandoned her. Now, inadvertently, she had a hold once more, claws carving deeper, drawing blood and gnashing teeth.

Disgust, then anger, then… the boiling, resentful pit in his stomach, only able to point in one direction, to the Boxer who had brought him back from the brink of death, throwing him back into the crushing embrace of the goddess.

Her hold on me has never once faltered. I am hers, no matter how far I run, no matter how much I hide.