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inkedtae · 30 days ago

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the underground ⇾ bgc. [M] | PART II

⎡ In a city fuelled by greed and ambition, secrets are a currency. Yet here you are, gambling yours away on a captivating smile.⎤

⬅︎ PART I

⌁ pairing; boxer!chan x curvy!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; boxing au, s2l, angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 14.6k

⌁ summary; You’re just a runner. So why the hell are you straddling the lap of an undefeated boxer, massaging his chest and whispering secrets you have no right knowing? Oh, yeah— ‘cause he’s hot.

⌁ warnings; dark themes: mentions and depictions of graphic gang activity, abduction, possession and distribution of drugs, addictions, use of deadly weapons, violence, blood, gore, and death threats, explicit sex: dom!chan, sub!reader, daddy kink, size kink, multiple orgasms, ruined orgasm, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, overstimulation, degradation, dirty talk, handjob, thigh riding, spanking, face slapping (m. receiving), rimming, fingering, edging, manhandling, gun play, anal play, cum play, spit play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

❥ prefer ao3? keep reading here

❥ i want to give special thanks to jen ( @anobodyslove ) for being so patient with me and reading this monster of a fic over! 💕 and @awrkives for the most amazing banner! 💗

❥ this is a continuation of the original post as the overall word count exceeds the character limit on tumblr posts. this is not an official part 2, but rather the second half of the one shot.

!! the following story contains mature themes, including mentions and graphic depictions of racketeering, gang activity, weapons, drugs, violence, blood, gore, and death threats. please do not read nor interact if these themes cause you discomfort !!

Your vision blurs, head spins. Movements slow, you sit yourself up. The zip-ties, previously binding your wrists and ankles, have been removed. So have your platform ankle boots, fish-netted feet brushing against the fur of your coat. Willing your sight back, you screw your eyes tight, blinking until your vision finally clears to take in the room.

A masterpiece of modern elegance, the room is a blend of minimalist design that indulges comfort. It is expansive, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows to offer a panoramic view of the Crimson Heights skyline below. You shuffle yourself off the comfortable bed, eager to get a closer look. The red lights of the city twinkle back at you and cast a soft, ambient glow throughout the space. You’ve never seen the city from such a height, swallowing thickly.

In the reflection of the glass, beyond your haphazard image of dried tears and ruined lipstick, the bed you have only just climbed out of summons your attention.

Draped in the finest linens with a dark charcoal-grey duvet and plush pillows arranged neatly, it must be king-sized in order to fit the extensive space of the room. The headboard is a stunning work of art in itself—made of dark walnut wood, with soft leather inlays that give the room a sleek, masculine impression. The bed sits on a low, streamlined platform, reinforcing the room's minimal yet luxurious aesthetic. And, on either side of the bed, are matching nightstands, both topped with geometric lamps that are made of brushed steel and frosted glass.

Your eyes fall to the polished, dark hardwood floors. A rich, handwoven wool rug in deep, muted tones lays over it, warming the room and offering texture underfoot. You catch the gleam of the recessed lighting overhead, installed in the high, coffered ceilings. You lift your gaze and take in each panel. An awed sigh leaves you at the sight of the meticulously crafted slots, indirect LED lighting embedded into the coves to cast a sophisticated, layered illumination.

Against one wall stands a sprawling built-in wardrobe. The seamless doors are made from smoked glass and brushed steel accents. And, to the left of the bed, a small seating area invites relaxation, consisting of a sleek leather armchair and a low-profile marble coffee table. A few books rest upon it, alongside a single crystal whiskey tumbler, hinting at quiet, contemplative moments probably spent here.

You wander further around the room, spotting a door that leads to the master ensuite bathroom in the corner. It’s visible through frosted glass sliding doors. You debate on going in, curious to see what breathtaking architecture it will offer.

But then the walls captivate your attention, or rather the art that hangs from them. Large intricate pieces, each one probably chosen for its muted palette and contemporary feel, enhance the understated luxury that defines the room. The only splash of colour comes from a vase of white orchids resting on a sleek dresser, their delicate petals standing out against the otherwise neutral tones.

You resist reaching a hand out and tracing rigid lines of dried paint.

“I don’t give a shit,” you hear Chris growl on the other side of the black door.

You stiffen.

This is his room, you realise. The heart-wrenching events of the night return to you in a fast wave, flooding you with the same shame and anger that plagued you in the van.

As quietly as you can, you rush back to the bed for your coat and dig through the pockets for your switchblade. However, both are empty of your belongings, not even your lipstick remains. If you really are left without a weapon, you know what you must do.

Scooping up your coat and boots, you make your way to the door. It was one thing to be caught tangled in a bright dressing room with witnesses. It’s another to be cornered alone in his room. If he has a view of the city this marvellous, he must be tightly connected to within Stray Kids. You cannot, will not, subject yet another gang to your reckless behaviour. It will be best for everyone if you just leave. Besides, Vinny is probably worried sick about you, having witnessed you kidnapped.

“Call him,” Chris orders, his loud voice a bit clearer as you open the door. “Tell him she’s safe.”

You look up and down the long corridor. It is just as exquisite as the bedroom. Grey walls, remarkable artwork that looks to be of Korean origins. The hardwood floors extend beyond the room too, covered by a narrow carpet of lavish Persian design.

The left side leads to a number of rooms, one of which has the door wide open. Warm light seeps into the hallway with the natural grace of the sun, momentarily disrupted by shifting shadows. You don’t need to hear his voice again to know Chris is in there, the oversized silhouette of his frame confirmation enough.

You feel a grin involuntarily spreading on your lips.

“Good, you’re up,” a familiar voice says behind you.

Turning, you meet an unfamiliar face. Features nearly feline, the indigo haired man stands on the other end of the hall, compromising your path to the exit. He crosses his arms over his chest, dragging his gaze over your frame, attention lingering on the coat and boots clutched to your chest.

“And we were worried you’d try to run,” he jokes, though his face is void of friendly notions.

That stern dryness of his tone, sharpness of his voice triggers a memory.

“Shut up,” he had hissed before informing you that Vinny was alive.

“That’s what you do, right?” he asks. “You’re a runner.”

You narrow your gaze. “You say that like it’s some secret.”

He flashes a knowing smirk, as if well aware of your secrets. What is more astonishing, however, is the way that suggestive grin resembles Chris’s. It lacks his charisma and cynicism, and that flicker of darkness, dimming whatever light might have snuck through with indications of loss and trauma. So while the one before you is a good copy, it is not perfect. Those onyx eyes gleam of playful interest, twinkling with subtle notions of hostility instead.

You wonder if he learned it from—

Chris says your name.

The speed in which you turn to answer his call is downright disgraceful. Shame heats your chest, spreading up to your cheeks. Your instincts scream at you to avoid his gaze, to focus on anything other than that teasing smile he’s trying to bite back, but you find yourself helpless, unable to tear yourself away.

He must have showered, the smears of lipstick and splattered blood gone. His hair is pushed back, displaying his forehead. And his handsome face is on the way to recovery. Though his bruises still look tender, the cut on his brow is all clean and bandaged. Leaning against the doorframe, he wears a black shirt, that still emphasises the large muscles of his biceps, and a pair of matching sweats. You didn’t think it was possible for someone to look just as good clothed as they do half-naked.

“Come’ere,” he beckons before tonguing his cheek. The twinkle in his gaze is enough indication that he knows you’ve been checking him out.

I need to go, you know you should say.

Your body has a mind of its own though, diminishing your voice, shackling your sanity and nudging you towards him. Completely compelled by the pull of his charm, you obey, only stopping once you’re pressed against his buff chest again and cranking your neck back to maintain his enamoured gaze.

“Let me get these out of your way,” he smiles, voice a mere notch above a whisper.

No, thank you. I have to go.

His fingers brush yours, prickling goosebumps along your arms.

You release your tight grip. He hands your things to the man you met in the hallway. Barrier of your belongings removed, you fully lean into him.

Grin widening, Chris cups your cheek and rubs his thumb against your chin. “You know, I resent the fact that you think I’m dramatic,” he mumbles, inches away from your lips. “I just like making statements.”

“And what statement were you planning on making by abducting me?”

His eyes darken, swirling with sinister intent. As if remembering he had an agenda beyond seducing you, Chris’s soft caress on your chin becomes a tight grip. He forces your lips onto a pucker, using his new hold to guide you into the room and shove you into the nearest chair.

You softly grunt upon the impact. Chris clenches his jaw to suppress a smirk. You know that you’re fighting your desire based on the fact that you do not deserve to have it fulfilled, being the treacherous person you are. But why is Chris suddenly shoving down his sexual urges? He didn’t have any qualms about using them to lure the truth out of you before.

The magnificent state of the office disrupts your thoughts. It maintains that same elegant, minimalistic aesthetic of his bedroom. Tall windows that offer views of the pier, gleaming hardwood floors decorated with luxurious, handwoven carpets of varying muted shades, all working together to become the backbone of comfort and professionalism within the room.

In front of you, Chris leans on the large, polished walnut desk. You notice a sleek laptop, and a few notepads and pens, all of which are neatly arranged. An ergonomic leather chair looms over the desk and you find that you are thankful he is not sitting on it, knowing you’d be incapable of enduring his scrutiny from such a position of power without wrestling the overwhelming urge to touch yourself.

In one corner, a small lounge area features a plush velvet sofa in a deep navy hue, flanked by a glass-top coffee table. A handful of his friends, including Seungmin and the icy-haired man from the dressing room, occupy the space. The other side, by the wall of windows, linger the remaining few, including the man who took the position of his coach in the recent match and the one you met in the hall.

The artwork in the office does not resemble that of his room, or even the corridor. It is more abstract, sometimes broken up by black and white photos of himself in the ring. He barely breaks a sweat in each photo, clenching hard around his mouth guard as he glares at his opponent. A championship belt is framed and pinned behind his desk too, under a collection of trophies and gold medals.

You wonder how many people have been invited here, blessed to witness the wonders held within these walls.

“I need to know everything,” Chris says, pulling your attention away from the layout of the room.

You furrow your brows. “I told you everything.”

Chris crosses his arms over his chest. “Word for word,” he clarifies, voice void of the softness it once cradled.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Disappointment lances around your heart, ensnaring your high-hopes like barbed wire. You thought he was making a statement of affectation or, at the very least, interest. You thought that his body was reacting to yours as well, that he felt your pain within a shared kiss, understood your damage within an exchanged breath. You thought that maybe he just wanted to see you again and didn’t know how, his efforts extreme but he is a Stray Kid after all.

You now understand the forced meeting for what it really is— an interrogation.

Told you so, a little voice in your head gloats. If you put up a fight and ran when I told you to, you wouldn't feel this way.

Sucking on the insides of your cheeks, brows knitted and eyes reverting to the floor, you shake your head and humorlessly laugh at your desperate short-sightedness. You’re no better than Aiden in the ring, flailing yourself around for a chance to be accepted somewhere, anywhere.

Perhaps this is for the best. You were going to ruin his life at some point anyway, possessing the damned knack of cursing him with your existence as you had done with the others that have come before him, friends and lovers alike.

So, with an exasperated sigh, you begin your tale, thinking back to everything you overhear in the alleyway. You give him a detailed description of Mickey, his features and breaking voice as Andy threatened his life. In greater detail, you describe what Andy looks like, from his messy crew cut to the nasty scar on his forearm. You describe his voice and his manner of speaking, the jittery bounce in his step as he lets his impulsive thoughts win and presses a knife to Mickey’s throat.

Chris nods along. Every so often, one of his friends shifts their weight or adjusts their position in their seats. You notice a few of them captivated by the floor whenever you mention Mickey and you can’t stop yourself from wondering who he was to them before he was outed as a traitor. Was he merely Chris’s coach, or really part of his inner circle?

“And you?” Chris asks when you finish.

You shrug. “What about me?”

“What makes you a traitor?”

You didn’t think such a question would summon tears, not after how much time has lapsed since you last called Vince, Danni and Andrea your friends. Yet, your eyes water. Jaw clenched, you narrow your gaze at him. Insults perch on the tip of your tongue, prepared to fire upon your frustrated command, but your despair holds your vicious voice hostage.

Blinking, you look down at the expensive hardwood floors. Breathing deep, you muster enough courage to quietly answer, “Delusions.”

“I need details,” Chris clarifies. You can hear the annoyance drenched in each grunted word.

You look over your shoulder at his friends. Tense, they stare with carefully neutral features.

“It’s a long story.”

“I got time.”

“The answer is no.”

Chris reaches behind him. He pulls out a black handgun, the letters SKZ scratched on the side of the barrel and aims it at you. “I think you should reconsider,” he says, chambering a bullet.

You cannot help smiling at the sound of the cocked gun, like a toy in his huge hand. You relax back in your seat, and tilt your head. Gesturing his hand upward, you advise, “Higher if you’re aiming for my head. You’ll only shatter my collarbone from this angle.”

Features flinching with confusion, Chris looks between you and his gun. He quirks his head to the side as he schools his expression once more, poking his tongue against his cheek.

“Are you stupid or suicidal?”

“A lot of people would argue both.”

The slightest impression of a smirk flickers on the corner of his lips. It's quite endearing, really—the way he tries so hard to stay focused, yet can't help but be distracted by your charms. You smirk for him instead, once miserable eyes now filled with playful defiance.

He takes a step closer, then another and another, until the cool barrel presses against the centre of your forehead. You try not to moan from the kiss of cold steel upon your skin, the proximity of his lips hovering over yours.

“Reconsider,” he orders in a whisper.

Sultry eyes, half-lidded and drowning in lust, you shake your head. Originally, shame shackled your truth. You didn’t want him nor his friends to lose respect for you, unsure if they even possess any for you at all. But now, all you want is to see how far he will go with his trigger, with you.

Chris moves the gun to your right temple, dragging the cold tip of the gun against your warm skin.

You bite your lip and shake your head.

He peers down at you with a lust-ridden gaze that mirrors yours and leans on the arms of your chair. He slides the gun down your cheek, along your jawline then finally pushes it firmly under your chin.

Your eyes roll, head tilting back.

“How about now?” he whispers. His voice is deep, heavy with lust as he breaths over your face.

Voice as breathless and even weaker than his, you practically whine, “No.”

Somewhere in the distance, you hear Seungmin mumble, “This is what I was telling you.”

“Shut up,” someone else replies in a quiet hiss. “I’m watching something.”

“It’s fine. Minho’s recording,” the one with the deepest voice reassures.

Chris pushes himself off the arm of the chair, uncocking his gun and removing it from your head.

You can’t help the dissatisfied sigh that escapes you at the loss of contact.

Turning to his friends, Chris demands, “Get out.”

“You’re ruining my footage,” Minho, the one you met in the hall, scolds, looking at Chris through his camera phone.

Chris merely points to the door. They sigh, grumbling protests as they shuffle out of the room. He shuts the door behind them and makes his way back to you.

“Listen,” he starts, wiping his nose with his wrist. He leans back against his desk again, meeting your gaze.

You press your thighs together at the sight of him all spread out along the edge of the grand desk.

He continues, snapping you out of your horny thoughts, “I want to fuck you senseless. I want you to take that little top off again and shove your tits in my face.”

Swallowing thickly, you sink into your chair, flushing at the confession.

“But before I ravish you,” he says, unable to fight off a smile, “I need to know what you did that made one of the most powerful families in Crimson Heights, levy such a steep price on your head.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. “It’s stupid, Chris,” you try to argue. “And childish.”

Gaze supplying tender understanding, Chris ever so sweetly encourages you to share with a gentle nod of his head. “Tell me everything,” he repeats, this time as a plea rather than demand.

Licking your lips, you confess, “And I don’t regret it. Before I tell you what happened, I need you to understand that I would do it again.”

At this, the compassion in his gaze wavers. Nonetheless, he sets the gun down and waits for you to begin.

You draw in a shaky breath, and upon the exhale, you explain, “Vince was flirting with me. I didn’t know it at the time, but at a certain point, it became obvious. He started to touch me more, and would find reasons to get me alone. We both lost someone ‘cause of overdoses and I guess it was a topic of bonding? I thought it was just as friends. He clearly had a different idea.”

Chris furrows his brows. “Does he have a girlfriend?”

A tight lipped smile momentarily tugs on the corners of your mouth. “Yeah, Danni,” you confirm. “That’s how I met him. She was like my best friend. We accidentally met while knocking over the same liquor store. She wanted the booze and I wanted the cash. It worked out perfectly.”

You chuckle quietly to yourself at the memory. Chris allows a small smile to break through his assertive expression in response.

“Anyway, one night we were supposed to meet up by the pier. But, Danni wanted to stay in for the night, which she of course told us after we already got there, and she was Andrea’s ride so neither showed up. Vince and I got to talking about the people we lost— his was more recent than mine. I thought he just needed some more support. He looked devastated at the time.

But then he reached for my thigh. I didn’t push it off right away because I couldn’t believe he was touching me like that. And I guess he took that as a sign that I liked it. He moved his hand further up my leg and leaned in.” You pause to swallow your disgust, the memory panging your heart with anxiety.

Chris sharply exhales. “Please tell me you pushed him into the sea,” he says, tone laced with anger.

“I wish,” you dryly chuckle. “No, I went to shove his hand away, but Danni showed up after all, after Andrea begged her for the ride. She saw my hand over Vince’s and how close both were to my crotch and just lost her shit. I tried to explain but she hit me and I figured running home would be easier. And they followed me. They banged on my door all night, flip flopping between wanting to just talk to kill me. I waited until they were gone to run to Vinny’s.”

“So, she thought you were trying to fuck her boyfriend?” Chris asks, laughing at the obscurity. “Half the port is being gambled away because of some horny piece of shit and his stupid girlfriend?”

You can’t help smirking, yourself, the stupidity not at all lost on you. “No, that is just some context for why I…” You trail off, crossing one leg over another and taking another deep breath.

Chris raises a brow, only to hiss in pain.

“Careful,” you warn, earning a slight smile, before resuming your story.

“They went around the city slandering me. It got bad enough that certain gangs wouldn’t let me in their territory, worried I’d be more trouble than I was worth. At one point, I was confined to my apartment— Vinny suggested that laying low might help minimise the accusations. Everyday I spent alone, I would think about that night at the pier. I would wonder what Vince told them on their way to my apartment to make them so vile and murderous towards me. I knew both girls for nearly five years, and it killed me to know that in all that time, they really thought I was capable of such disgusting behaviour.

I was seething alone for almost three months, replaying that day over and over. I thought about what I would have said if I stayed and fought back. I thought about kicking Vince right in his tiny balls and punching Danni in the face until all her teeth fell out. I came up with a new way to torment them every single day I was locked away.”

“What was your favourite?” Chris asks, the allure of a fond smile settling on his lips.

You carefully meet his gaze and answer, “Bullets. I thought about lining them up and shooting their brains out. I wanted to see them with half their face still intact, the rest splattered all across the pier.”

Chris shares your tranquil smile, falling silent to let you continue.

“At a certain point, I wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe I finally found clarity— I don’t know,” you shake your head, sitting up in your seat. “I knew that Vince’s father owned a fleet of boats on the pier. ”

Realisation instantly sparkles in his big, brown eyes.

“I snuck out and studied the crew’s shift rotation for two weeks. I found out that by Christmas Eve, there would be a skeleton crew and no one would be on the boats. They were only planning on securing the perimeter. So I set my plan in motion. I syphoned some gas, stole a pack of matches and set them all on fire. I shouted my name as the crew rushed to put it all out. I wanted them to know it was me, the person they exiled, who burned them to the ground. I needed them to know it.

The weight of what I had just done didn’t hit me until I got home and realised I couldn’t stay there. So I packed up some essentials, and ran to Vinny’s instead. Turns out there was an astronomical amount of coke on those boats. The bounty was placed within the hour.”

Chris sucks in a breath as you finish. “I see,” he hums, reaching for his gun again. “Stand up.”

You eye the firearm. “Are you going to use that?”

“Are you going to make me repeat myself?”

Jaw tight, you uncross your legs and stand. You look up at his towering 6’9 frame from your 5’8 position. Hands moving on their own accord, you grip onto his shirt, right by his hips, and press yourself firmly against him.

His clothed erection pokes at your stomach. You wonder how long he has been throbbing for you. Which part of your story made him this hard? The shared rage against Vince’s sliminess? The festering resentment? The violence? The retribution? You noticed his posture remained still, expression plain, but his eyes gleamed with something like pride.

“You’re so pretty when you’re following orders,” he murmurs, luring your attention. Before you can answer, he fiercely jams the barrel of the gun against your cheek .

You cannot stop a loud, whiny moan from tearing through your throat. The moment that cool tip digs into your skin, your arousal pools, eyes roll back. Your grip on his hips tightens and toes curl into the soft carpet beneath you.

“No, no,” he tuts, applying more pressure. “Open your eyes.”

You obey.

Chris peers down at you over the bridge of his nose, desires casting shadows in those brown eyes at your compliance. He grinds the barrel further into your skin, tilting slightly to watch your face contort under its cold pressure.

You lean into it, maintaining his lust-lost gaze.

“Take off your shorts.”

Looping your thumbs into the waistband, you make a show of wiggling your hips to push off the tiny short-shorts. You kick them aside once they fall to the floor.

Chris first smirks at the swish of your hips, but then tongues his cheek in sexual frustration at the sight of your panty-less crotch.

“Laundry day,” you shrug, feigning innocence as you peer at him under your lashes.

“My new favourite day,” he smiles before cupping you.

Your hips grind into his hand, legs slightly spreading for his wide fingers. Knowing he wants you to maintain eye contact, you do your best not to roll them back at the light, slow friction.

Voice already trembling, you moan, “Fuck.”

He puts some force into his languid ministrations as he opens his mouth and arches his brows, hinting at you to mirror his actions. The condescension of his expression makes your hips buckle, clit throbbing for more stimulation.

God, he’s so perfect.

If you continue, if you let him bed you, ravish you as he previously put it, you’ll eventually regret it. You’ll wish you left when you had the chance, or at least thought you did. You know you can’t stay here. Your heart already bursts with infatuation, wetness collecting at his meticulous attention. If you stay, you will end up hurt and disappointed, all alone again with nothing but a knock-off fur coat and switchblade to console you once everything is said and done. Or worse— he will be the one hurt, dying or dead, plagued by the curse of your reckless existence.

Right now, Chirs exudes success, reputation built on the brute force of his powerful fists and swift footwork. He has friends who respect him enough that he doesn’t need to repeat himself when he speaks. He has the support of the most nefarious gang in Crimson Heights, prepared to defend him, stand for him.

You can’t ruin that. In fact, you refuse to do so.

So why are you standing on your toes, leaning into his broad chest for stability and rolling your hips into his calloused hand? Why can’t you tell him to stop, instead echoing his movements as he silently requested?

The moment you part your lips, Chris slides the barrel into your mouth. Swirling your tongue around the cool metal, the taste of gun powder bitter on your tongue, you loudly moan and eyes rolling back.

He tsks, pulling your head back down using his grip on the gun. “Eyes on me,” he reminds through gritted teeth.

Oh? Is it a performance he’s after?

You recall his words— I like to make a statement— and wonder if he is waiting for you to do the same thing.

Hollowing your cheeks, you pretend to suck on the barrel, careful not to swallow more fumes of explosive powder than humanly capable. You bob your head back and forward, enchanting him with your most innocently lustful eyes.

A certain darkness diminishes the sweet tenderness that often glimmers in his gaze, even when he is sinfully intrigued by your shameless desire. Once a chocolate brown, swirling with smug delight, now a deep umber, whirling with lethal ecstasy. He feels it— the power of a mighty gun, the weight of life and death confined within sleek, curved edges of a silver bullet.

Fear and pleasure collide in your gut, becoming a force of thrilling anxiety.

What if the safety isn’t on? What if he fires?

Your mind laps around the questions, hips desperately jutting into his palm, as you trebly whine around the gun.

Chris removes his arousal-glistening hand from your crotch to wrap it around your neck. You shiver at the slimy sensation of your excitement against your skin. He pulls out the gun with more force than necessary at the squeaky whine you sound upon the lost contact. Your hips, still desperate to chase a release, fidget against him, much to his sinister amusement.

Pointing the gun to your temple, he shuffles and shifts your position so your back faces the desk instead. Then he shoves you against it by the grip on your neck.

You stumble back with a breathless yelp, the tail of your spine ramming against the expensive wood. Upon the impact, body buzzing with signals of pain and pleasure alike, you choke out a gratified giggle.

The clatter of objects on the desk falling from the force of his shove, the sound of your stricken surprise, flashes fear in his gaze. But then the melody of your laughter tumbles and tunnels his vision with carnal hunger. A vicious smile stretches on his supple lips, tongue flicking out to lick the corner of his mouth, like a famished predator upon trapping its prey.

You lift yourself up onto his desk as he approaches, immediately spreading your legs as a way of welcome. He appreciates the gesture, sliding the barrel of the gun along your breasts and stomach, then down between your drenched folds. Chest to chest, lips on lips, you exchange hissing breaths and curses. You grip onto your shoulders as he wraps his free arm around your waist, hugging you firmly against him. He’s caged you in, his body too large to move around now, even if you wanted to (or so you tell yourself, while feverently rolling your hip in tandem with his wrist.)

Terror knots in your gut, right where your climax builds. You wonder if his finger is still on the trigger. If he gets too excited, if he loses his concentration, if he ever so slightly shifts his finge—

“Kinky, little whore,” he croaks, picking up the pace. He then mimics the pitches of your waver voice and mocks your pouty expression, cooing, “You like that, yeah? You like my gun rubbing against your wet cunt, baby girl? Hmm?”

The patronising tone is reason enough to tremble, nails piercing skin as your scratch along his strong shoulders. His filthy words and ravenous gaze, however, have you releasing your scarring grasp to pull off your shirt and arch your back.

An approving growl resonates from his chest, attention now trailing down to your bouncing breasts.

“Lean back.”

Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. You place your hands behind you and do as you’re told while his arms slither from around your waist to grip onto your hip, firmly sinking his fingers into your supple curves. Heart rapturing from the amorous attention, you fight off a smile. And the darkness that once brewed in your lungs, twisting around your ribcage as you rue your existence, dwindles with every salacious stare.

Other men have been passionate, but hasty. Eager to chase their own highs, they merely used you as a means to a satisfying end. Their hands would only roam if they required a better grip on your hips and eyes mostly screwed shut while they thrusted to an unsteady pace. It was mediocre at best, often having to think of your own turn ons to not fake an orgasm.

Chris deliberately studies your features, instead. He sips on your bare body like he might die if he does not memorise every roll, curve and fold. More than that, he revels at the sight. He croaks throaty moans and hisses when your hips stutter against the gun, the stimulation momentarily confounding your senses.

Your insecurities wane, allowing confidence to flourish in their stead. Even your self-loathing cowers under the judgement of his wanton gaze. You suddenly cannot remember why you needed to leave before. You can’t understand how a thought like that could enter your mind. Never do you want to leave him.

“I feel you clenching,” he notes, voice raw with authority. “Do you want me to fill it up for you?”

Your breath hitches, body quivers. Gaze flitting down to his erection, brutally evident in his black sweats, you moan, “Fuck, yes!”

He smirks and you already know he won’t give himself up that easily.

“Beg.”

Voice tangled in deplorable desperation, you keenly plead, “Please, please, please fuck me! Pl-ease,” you take a moment to swallow thickly, hoping to compose yourself enough to continue. “I don’t th-think I can cum without you.”

His smirk widens at that.

You pick your next words carefully, voice wavering. “Only you could r-really make me fe-feel it in the m-mo-morning.”

Jaw flexed, he softly growls.

“P-pretty ple-ase?” you add with a pout.

He tongues his cheek, hiding a smile, but does not reach for his waistband.

You part your lips to beg more, prepared to offer your soul if that’s what it would take to feel him inside you. Instead, an ear-piercing shriek escapes.

“Oh, god!”

Your voice breaks, peaking at a near whistle from the abrupt sensation of the barrel pushing against your tight, needy walls. Jaw slack, you look down and watch as your core engulfs the gun, clenching tightly around the arousal slick metal. Even after being shoved against your clit for so long, it still feels cold.

Chris chuckles darkly as you breathlessly mewl, the sight of the gun disappearing in you all too erotic. “Is this what you wanted?” he taunts, raising a cocky brow. He hums in mocking agreement with your hurried nods.

Between the thrusting gun and his belittling behaviour, you’re not sure you possess the capabilities to endure him for much longer.

“Ch-chris,” you attempt to warn, risking a glance back down at that barrel ramming into you.

His finger is on the trigger, force powerful enough that even the slightest pressure could set the firearm off.

Your toes curl, nails claw against the rich wood of the desk. The continuous friction, steady, speedy and strong, encourages the coiling of electrified excitement deep in your gut.

So, so cl—

A devastated cry tears through your throat as the sudden loss of contact. Your eyes snap open (you don’t even remember screwing them shut), and you glare at him.

“You fucking asshole!” You seethe, pushing yourself up from your leaned back position. You obeyed every order, leaned into every touch and embraced every vicious word only to have your orgasm ruined.

Chris dismisses your icy eyes, slowly dragging his tongue over the barrel of the handgun. His eyes radiate sexual satisfaction as he savours your taste.

“Oh, sorry,” he chuckles, offering you the tip of the gun, “Did you want to clean it up for me?”

You are not a violent person— not unintentionally anyway. So why do you wind your hand back and whip it against his cheek?

Chris moans upon impact, twisting his head with the slap, as if embracing it.

You gasp, hopping off the desk and clamping a hand over your mouth only to remove it seconds later to apologise.

“Chris, I’m—”

He advances towards you with a fierce groan. Seizing you by the waist, he forces you against him and latches onto your lips. His hands slide down to grip onto your rear, kneading fistfuls of your plump cheeks. Both hands suddenly release your ass to smack back down against it and squeeze.

You moan into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck as your guilt disappears.

His tongue puts up more of a fight this time, but is nowhere as aggressive as the rest of his actions, half-heartedly wrestling yours simply to delight in the wet and warm sensation. He yields to your rhythm eventually, muttering against your lips, “Do it again.”

You rip yourself away in pure confusion, brows knotted. “What?” you heave, as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Hit me again,” he demands, voice rough and raspy.

Your gaze bounces around his healing wounds, remorse resurfacing.

Chris must have read the guilt on your face, endearingly tilting his head at your hesitation. “I’m a big boy,” he smirks. “I can take it.”

That breathy, throat voice and haughty tone seems to be enough of a trigger because you smack him again before you have a chance to second-guess yourself.

He moves with the hit again, groaning as he grinds his erection against your stomach. Sucking in a breath with a sharp hiss, Chris tosses the gun to the floor. You brace yourself for the firing round, shoulders shooting to your ears. However, the gun does not go off. You narrow your gaze to find the clip missing, wondering when the fuck he slipped it out and how he managed to do it so silently.

The shuffle of fabric redirects your attention back to Chris. You’ve been so absorbed by the fear of triggering the gun, you hadn’t realised he untangled himself from you to take his clothes off.

His torso is as glorious as you remember, buff, broad and boasting with robust strength. Then he pushes off his sweats and your jaw slackens. Your gaze first lingers around the three-lettered tattoo of his gang on his left hip. SKZ – the ‘K’ coloured red. Then, as he shoves the pants down, his cock monopolises your attention. You knew he would be wide, the impression of him alone previously leaving you shaken. But you did not expect him to be as long, easily measuring at around eight and a half inches.

Your bottom lip whimpers and a hand comes up to steady it as you gawk. Saliva dampens your fingers. You lick your lips, wipe your chin and tentatively sneak a glance at his face, hoping he didn’t catch you shamelessly drooling.

That smirk widens as your eyes meet. “I need to be inside you,” he pants before closing the distance between you with a tug of your body into his.

You can’t agree more, biting back your own smile as you cup his face. “I need to ride you,” you reply just as affectionately.

Dripping with dominance, you thought he would ignore your request and bend you over the desk. Instead, he back pedals towards the chair you originally sat on, and commandeers it.

The sight of his muscular thighs has you biting your lip. You seat yourself upon him, just like you did in the dressing room. You know you can just lift your hips, align his length and begin bouncing. However, as you gaze down at his staggering size, pre-cum oozing from the tip, the urge to spit on it overrides your thoughts. You gather saliva and splatter it over him, earning a croaky groan.

You moan through a bitten lip in reply.

Wrapping a hand around him, you gasp at the fact that your fingers are unable to meet. Your core dampens.

Chris spits down on his length too, rubbing your thighs as you jerk and twist your wrist.

“You’re really big,” you shyly comment, maintaining a sluggish pace.

Just as sincere a smile hovers over his lips before he presses them against yours again.

Emotion bursts through your chest, desire unable to remain restrained. In hurried movements, you release your hold on his cock and lift your hips to finally accept the fullness he offers.

Chris helps you, aligning himself for you to easily sink down. He wraps both beefy arms around your waist as you gasp into his mouth. The kiss momentarily breaks, noses smushing together amidst blissful hissing.

You rest your arms on his shoulders to hug his head close, fingers tangled in his hair. You tug on the ends as he pushes between your tight walls. You move slowly, thankful for his steady grasp on you, inching further downward only to rise back up a bit and do it again. Inch by inch, you find a way to accommodate his girth, all the while whining his name.

“Just let go,” he whispers. His hold on your waist tightens, referring to the concentrated control you’ve adopted. “I’ve got you, baby.”

His delicate tone unravels your composure. You relax into his touch and find that he really does have a good grasp on you. He maintains your slow movements, acknowledging that you still need time to adjust. You wonder if it was the lack of speed itself, the crumpling pleasure etching your features, or how you’re tensing oh-so tightly around him that tips him off. And as he lifts and lowers you upon him, groaning between shared breaths, you realise that it really doesn’t matter what the reason was.

Clarity settles— Chris tunnels his vision when it comes to you. Within a night, he has noted your sexual boldness, recklessness, and affinity for guns. He knows you like to be harshly handled, tightening his grip only to roughly release it. He lets you strike him back, knowing you like to act out and does not only encourage it, but embraces it. He observes your features, searching for particular indications of pleasure to focus on or circle back to when he thinks you can take it again. Beyond that, he provides a space for vulnerability that does not centre around pity but rather a shared rage.

As you look at him now, hissing moans through gritted teeth and quivering lips, you cannot help but allow his words to splinter your previous philosophy. Perhaps it is not your existence that is cursed, but rather the world. Perhaps Crimson Heights is the beckon for misfortune— a city of survivors and casualties. You do not cause death; you simply outrun it. And when catastrophe rumbles the foundation of your life, claiming your family or friends, you do not need to feel guilty. Life ebbs and flows, grips and lets go— just as Chris does when he unwraps his arms around your waist, to grip onto your hips.

“That’s my slutty little girl,” he praises before grazing your chin with his teeth. “Arch your— Yes! Lean into me.”

A frail whine is all you can muster as he becomes more daring with the pace, speeding up.

Breasts glued to his chest, your back arches the way he instructs and you feel the hammering of his heart against yours. You cup his face. Your thumb brushes over the bruises on his cheek.

“Y-you know ex-actly what I n-need,” you whimper, internally cringing at your lust laced stutter.

A prideful smile plays on his lips. His grip tightens with newfound confidence as he uses your encouragement to experiment with the possible indication of fully submerging himself into you.

The moment your cheeks smack against the muscles of his thighs, an ear-piercing scream rips from your throat, heavy with delirious delight. So deep, so fucking full, he reaches far to stretch you wide. You doubt that you’d be able to tighten around anything other than his length again, hole now completely adjusted for his cock only.

“Like that?” he questions, voice still swirling with mockery. “Is that what you needed?”

You quickly nod, unable to find your voice.

Chris lifts and drops your hips with renewed force, ordering, “Speak.”

“I like that!” You confirm. “I love that!”

Grunting and growling in satisfaction, Chris decides that your hips do not give him the best leverage as he grasps on your rear instead. His fingers sink into your voluptuous cheeks, surely marking your skin, as he guides the rolls and rises of your thrusts.

You squeal, throwing your head back at the waves of excitement lapping over you. “Yes, yes, yes,” you pant before looking back at him. “Is this how you like it?” you ask, gaining confidence with every shudder sigh he expels. “Does this drive you c-crazy?”

Chris breathes a chuckle, mumbling, “You most definitely do,” before pressing his lips to yours.

Euphoria envelopes you, coursing through your veins and rattling your bones. You immediately submit to his rhythm, already content with the warmth of his lips on yours and taste of his tongue. Satisfaction swells, throbbing your clit upon the build of your climax. As emotion shines through the cracks of your armour, delirious delight flourishes.

You break the kiss with a breathless giggle, allowing the pleasure to travel from your core though your limbs. The base of your spine, centre of your chest, tips of your fingers, toes and ears, your nerves dash and dance with a degree of joy you did not believe you were capable of ever feeling. You cannot help your laughter between breathless moans.

Chris, voice croaky and deep with lust, joins you. He playfully nips at the skin under your jaw then peppers the light sting with kisses, laughing all the while.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he revels in whisper.

Your giggles waver upon the sincere emotion flooding his eyes.

You clench. “Chri—”

“You feel so perfect around me,” he groans, cutting you off. “It’s like your body was made for me.”

Whimpering, all playful humour darkening within your bones into desperate ecstasy, you can’ help but squeeze tighter, the knots of your high becoming more and more undeniable.

Your voice rises in pitch as you moan,“Use me however you want.”

His hips snap up to meet yours with a dark, loud groan.

You jolt from the force, body shaking. Panting whines tumble from your lips as your grasp on his hair tightens. Over and over, he sinks you down on him as he rams himself into you, meeting you halfway. Your breasts bounce against him, only encouraging his aggressive speed as he shoves his face between the valley.

The brutality of the force, the pace is unbearable. Toes curling, core gripping, you stutter through your next intake of air. All at once, a wave of satisfaction crashes over you. Muscles tense, you stiffen with a shrill cry of his name and gush, gush, gush your release. Your eyes roll back, jaw slack as he wraps his arms around you to keep you upright.

As he did in the dressing room, Chris peers up at you from between your full breasts. He offers a pleased smile before leaning back against the chair. Now, with you laying on top of him as your orgasm ripples through you all— dazed and drooling, Chris grinds your hips down into his. His own muscles flex, skin flushing. Through gritted teeth, a deep moan emits from the base of his throat.

His cock twitches. His release shoots, warm and erratic, filling you so well, you already feel it smearing around your folds.

Face buried in the crook of his neck, you whine his name quietly at the sensation. “Fuck, yes,” you moan, circling your hips around his. “Fill me up just l-like that!”

You swear you feel another shot of his cum, the wet sloshes of arousal slick with every grind of hip on hip.

After watching Chris endure seven rounds of boxing, with his composure still intact and sweat barely breaking, you should have known better than to think that he was done with you. He doesn’t even take a moment to catch his breath. Still heaving, he stands.

You wrap yourself around him, holding on tight. Has he forgotten that he is still deep inside you or does he not care, simply eager to continue using you? You moan from the new angle all the same as he walks you back into his room.

“You don’t need a break, do you?” he asks after kicking the door shut behind him. He grips onto your waist and rips you off his torso with a forceful shove. “Hmm? No break?” he teases.

A cross between a grunt and whine fills the room as you land on his bed with a little bounce. Before you can reply, he yanks you to the edge of the bed by your ankles. You yelp your pleased surprise, unable to fight back a giggle as he turns you over on your stomach. He pulls your hips up to roughly guide you into a downward dog position. Knees on the bed’s edge, face smushed into the soft duvet, your backside is now perfectly exposed for him.

His tongue slips between your folds, lapping the mess of your mixed climaxes with a deep-chested growl. The vibrations resonate upon every overwhelmed nerve ending around your core. You cannot deny the wiggle of your hips and strained mewls of distress from the overstimulation.

“Stay still,” Chris orders, voice muffled. His hot breath, the tenor of his voice all directed towards your overused hole, only further your squirms.

You want more of him, need more, but the unrelenting stimulation of his lapping tongue, slurping and groaning, makes you tremble. You find yourself attempting to crawl away from his mouth only to be harshly pulled back.

Chris wraps his arms under and around your thighs, locking you in place.

“Just where do you think you’re going, darling?”

You whine incoherently.

He mocks you, pitching his voice and mimicking your unstable syllables.

Your desire pools at your core all over again, eyes water. “Too much,” you whimper into your fist, overwhelmed by the all too desperate yearning to stop yet still continue. “Its—”

Chris groans, cutting you off. “We taste so good, baby,” he murmurs against your heat. “This might be the closest I get to heaven.” He then pulls himself away long enough to look at you over the full curve of your cheeks. “Wanna try?” he asks with a smug smirk, face glistening from the smear of your combined orgasms.

You flush, nodding.

He dives back in to slurp on your sex. Then he grabs a fistful of your hair and gently, despite the rough grasp, pulls your back towards his chest. You tilt your head back for him, parting your lips. He smiles at how quickly you’ve caught onto his intentions and spits the cum into your mouth.

Your pussy quivers upon the bittersweet taste, eyes fluttering shut. You moan your delight upon swallowing.

Chris takes the advantage of your proximity, stealing another quick kiss before using the grip on your hair to shove you back onto the mattress. He adjusts the position of your hips again but does not dive down between your folds this time. Instead, he grabs fistfuls of your cheeks and spreads them apart.

You hear the throaty gathering of salvia and then the splatter of spit before feeling the warmth of it upon your tightest hole. Heat scorches your skin with humiliation from his laughter when you clench.

You part your lips to say his name, ask what he’s doing when his tongue reappears, circling your hole. A breathless gasp sounds instead.

Chris transfers more of your wetness to your tensing hole, scooping the cum with his finger and rubbing it against you. “Shh, shh,” he hushes as you whimper and wiggle in his grasp. “Relax, babygirl. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

You lean back into him upon his soothing tone. You’ve never touched yourself there, never let anyone else do the same, certain they would only hurt you. From the way Chris takes his time however, you can tell he knows what he’s doing.

“You have the cutest fucking asshole,” he chuckles before spitting over it again.

Gratification tickles the darkness looming in your chest, allowing you to giggle in response and push yourself back against his finger.

“I mean it,” he says, misunderstanding your acceptance for teasing protest. His fingers then glide between your folds, down to your clit. He twirls the pad of his middle finger around the bundle of nerves, then spreads the folds as if to take a better look at your cum-leaking hole.“You have the prettiest pussy too,” he groans before his tongue dives, reaching farther inside than you expected.

Pride blossoms, boastfully overpowering all your emotions and triggering a loud, moan of approval. “Please don’t stop,” you beg while attempting to writhe out of his grasp.

Chris pulls himself away long enough to laugh at your conflicting movements. He quietly hums, content with himself, as he smacks each cheek halfheartedly, like you made a joke and he’s nudging you because of the wit and humour. You can’t help joining him, wiggling your hips in his hands with every slap.

There have been times where you felt at ease, perhaps even happy under setting suns and sneaky nights on the roof with your foster siblings. Watching a fusion of magenta and maroon cascade in the sky, as the sun disappears behind the Crimson Heights horizon, has been the image you conjure on cold, lonely nights between nightmares and distant gunshots. But being here with Chris, bent over and exposed from angles no one else has ever witnessed, absolute contentment engulfs you. Like a warm, tender hug, his patient presence nurtures your soul and caresses your darkness. And it feels natural as if the universe conspired to ensure that you do have at least one moment of true happiness amongst the death and betrayal.

He brushes your hair from your face, pulling you from your thoughts. You shyly meet his gaze to which he smirks. His hand then trails from the naps of your neck to the base of your spine, drawing you away from the memory of your trauma.

“Stay with me, yeah,” he coos.

You nod.

Is it your sudden silence? Is that what indicated that you’ve let your mind wander off? Though, you do remember moaning between giggles. Maybe you had a distant look in your eyes. Maybe you stopped responding to his touch. Does it even matter? Because whatever it was, whatever you did, he saw it.

He sees you.

Chris kisses each cheek before spreading them again. You feel his tongue on your heat, swirling once, twice then dragging up. You moan loudly, pushing yourself further into him. But his tongue does not return to your needy pussy. Instead, he circles the edge of your tightest hole.

You clench, whimpering.

He licks, chuckling.

His hands rub your cheeks, silently soothing your tense muscles. You try to lean into his calm, but the feeling of his warm tongue twirling around the rim of your hole is much too stimulating to ignore.

“More please,” you find yourself whining, fisting the sheets beneath you. “I-I need more.”

Chris presses a wet kiss upon your puckering hole before replying, “Take a deep breath for me.”

You draw in a long breath and release it.

He gives it another kiss, spit on it then orders, “Again. Take your time with it, baby.”

The pet name prickles your skin with goosebumps, face flushed as you inhale deeply and exhale slowly.

You can’t see him with his face between your cheeks, but you swear he’s smirking as he praises, “Good girl.”

A giggle was meant to be your only reply. Instead, his tongue pushes through your hole and you moan in a voice so unlike yourself, so innocent and weak.

“Daddy!”

Chris growls, tightening his grip on your rear with one hand, while the other harshly rubs your dripping core. Slobbering, slurping, he bobs his head, in and out, up and down, shoving his tongue between your tense walls. His fingers are relentless, playing with your clit in quick, forceful waves only to abandon the bundle of nerves all together. He pushes them into your pussy instead. Three long fingers draw in and out of you to the rhythm of his tongue.

Moans meek and breathy, you writhe under his onslaught of pleasure. That pet name is on the tip of your tongue again, but you refrain from using it, clenching your teeth instead. You’ve never called anyone that and have even judged the people you know who have said shit like that during sex.

It feels so right when thinking about Chris, when feeling his tongue attempt to breach through your tight hole. If anyone was to embody that mindset of a Daddy, it would be Christopher Bahng. Chris with his tall, towering frame. Chris with his commanding voice. Chris with his charismatic confidence.

“Daddy,” you whine again despite your futile attempts.

He hums in question, tone oh-so condescending. Your nerves burn from the wetness of his tongue, the pace of his harsh fingers. You thrash into the sheets, further smothering your face in the soft duvet and screaming out your pleasure.

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Your voice is muffled, hips ramming back against him with every plea.

Chris merely moans in reply, as if delighted by the sinful taste of you. He continues his dual stimulation, insatiable tongue bouncing in and out of your untested hole. His fingers curl, over and over and over right where you need him most.

Turning your head to the side, cheek pressed against the mattress again, you gasp for air and cry out your new favourite name, “Daddy! Fuck, yes, yes, yes!”

His breath staggers as you hear him chuckle, but you don’t care. He can laugh himself hoarse if he wants. You just need him to continue, your orgasm building all over again. Toes curling, eyes rolling, you quake and claw at the sheets, desperate to get a hold of yourself.

However, Chris, upon feeling you clench particularly tightly around his fingers, pulls himself away.

A sexually frustrated sob tumbles out of you at the all too sudden loss of contact. Your orgasm falters at the lack of stimulation. Once again, he has dangled you over the edge. Fury surges through you, propping yourself up on your elbows and glaring over your shoulder at him.

“Why do— Ah!”

Chris grips onto your hips, pushes himself back into your core. He rams his hips into yours, holding enough force to knock you off your elbows, cutting you off.

“Mmm, I can’t get enough of you,” he groans, voice husky and deep.

You whimper in response, all words actively being fucked out of you. No one can even stand you, yet he ploughs into you, eager and deliberate, and still craves more of you. That realisation alone could coax another bone-bending orgasm out of you.

Apart from the first, initial thrust, you do not feel his hips smack against yours again. Instead, Chris restraints himself, offering moderate, yet fast thrusts. He still reaches deep, still stretches you out oh so deliciously, but you can tell he’s holding back.

And it ignites your veins with anger. You refuse to have him spoil yet another orgasm rattle you into calling him ‘daddy,’ only to then half-heartedly fuck you.

“Please fuck me,” you beg before echoing a version of his previous words. “I’m a big girl, Daddy. I can take it.”

Chris growls lowly under his breath. “You’ll get hurt,” he warns.

You cannot fight back your smile. “Good.”

The impact of his thrust upon your reassurance is so powerful, the bed shifts forward. You hiccup his name and hiss at the sting of skin on skin. Vigorous momentum grows with every mighty thrust of his hips. You feel your entire body jiggle, shaking with the squeaking bed.

“You have no idea,” he begins, breathlessly growling, “how fucking beautiful you look right now.”

He has no idea how many times you’ve been told the opposite.

“Show me how beautiful you think I am.”

His cock twitches. You swear you feel it quiver deep inside you.

A gasp so erotic, so pornographic escapes you at the sudden sensation. Clenching, you’re eager to feel it again, to feel him release his warm, thick arousal, especially so soon. You’re already giddy with pride, preparing to tease and mock him for becoming undone upon a few simple words.

Instead, Chris pulls himself out with a croaky groan. He’s heaving, breathes staggering as he swallows thickly. “Move up to the pillows, baby. Lay back for me.”

You slowly push yourself up, sitting down on your ankles. Just as breathless, you peer at him over your shoulder. His hair is tousled, face glistening with your excitement as he slowly jerks himself to the sight of you so messy and dirty.

“Was it something I said?” you ask in your most innocent voice.

Chris tightens his jaw.

A shiver dances along your spine at his silence. You give him one last once over, shamelessly letting your gaze linger around his erection, before leisurely crawling towards the pillows. Your legs already ache. You feel it most around your thighs and hips, bones stiffen and muscles tight from the exposing angle.

The fluffy pillows and duvet melt around your sweaty skin, engulfing you in a cocoon of comfort. Your eyes flutter shut, embracing the chill of the cool silks. The sheets in your tiny apartment are scratchy and rough, and prior to laying here, you had thought it was the most comfortable fabric a thrift store could sell, which is why you stole them.

The bed dips. You open your eyes to watch as Chris crawls over you, spreading your legs to welcome him. His face hovers over yours. You cup his cheeks, grazing your thumb over his lips.

He lowly groans. His nose brushes yours as he leans down for a kiss. You think it was meant to be quick, just a tiny peck before he buries himself in you again. But the taste of your lips proves to be intoxicating, or perhaps he felt the spark you did when your lips touched. He indulges in another kiss, then another. Even one longer than the last, Chris eventually integrates his tongue and forces you to taste yourself.

Heaven, hell, the worlds collide. Purely sinful, his tongue subjects you to his pace, swirling around yours slowly. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he wants you to savour the bittersweet taste of your orgasms and holes.

Your lips part with a wet smack, breasts heaving. Chris pushes himself back to sit on his ankles. He lets his attention trail down your curves, ogling your rolls and fullness. He pants like a dog, mouth agape and saliva leaking from the corners at the mere sight of you.

People tend to either discard or objectify you. One look at your figure and you are either invisible, disgusting, or a drunken mistake that awakens a shameful desire for fuller frames. Your mother told you it would happen when she noted your curves for the first time. She told you that you’d be nothing in a bigger body, that no one will want to be seen with you. A part of you always wondered if that’s why she opted for heroin, knowing she too had curves and rolls at one point in her life.

It doesn’t really matter because the sentiment snared your consciousness. You noticed how many people ignored your presence the moment you walked into a room or the sudden distaste of those who did happen to acknowledge you. Every wrinkled nose, every avoided gaze only reinforced your mother’s philosophy.

And here Chris sits, bare and breathless, leering over your naked body. Ravenous, lascivious, he devours every full inch of you, eyes drowning in lust. You suddenly cannot recall the words your mother once spat, the dejected feelings that bruised your pride when you walked into a room. All you know now is Chris— obsessive, gluttonous, shameless Chris and his insatiable appetite for everything that you are.

He blinks repeatedly, as if pulling himself out of his thoughts. You bite your lip and wonder what you must look like, staring back at him. You know your liner is smudged and lipstick smeared. You know your hair is a tangled mess around you. You know your skin gleams of sweat, hot to the touch from the exhilaration of submitting to him. You know your core is a mess of spit and cum.

Chris reaches behind you. The sweaty scent of leather, sandalwood and amber secretes from the pits of his arms hovering inches away from your nose. You inhale deeply through your nose and wet your lips. Chris’s attention flickers down at the sound of your heavy sighs. You flush under the subject of that knowing smirk.

“Lift your hips for me?” He asks, voice deep and delicate.

You do as you’re told and he slides one of his plush pillows under you. The new angle provides better support to your lower back. You shift yourself further into his comfortable mattress with a pleased sigh.

“Better, yeah?” Teasing amusement twinkles in his eyes, brows quirked as he tries to fight off a prideful smile.

You suppress your own, and nod. “Are you going to fuck me now?” you ask, exaggerating the breathlessness of your feminine voice.

His eyes darken.

Perhaps, you proudly think to yourself as he takes your bait, if he is desperate enough, he’ll finally let me cum.

Chris traces the span of your shoulders, down to the fullness of your breasts and the curves of your waist. He drags his hands over your stomach and trails his eyes to your pelvis. He traces the lines along your heat only to redirect his callous fingers to your thigh before he can reach the place you need him most.

You clench, hips instinctively rolling forward. You mentally curse at your desperateness, your ploy to rile him up into a lustful rage crumbling as your body betrays you.

He barely even smirks, as if expecting your body to react to his touch like that. “I was fucking you,” he corrects, taking his hard, throbbing cock into his big hand.

You watch as he thumbs his tip and the space between his brows creases. Swallowing a moan, you wiggle in place and bite your lip. Your nerves impatiently buzz through your veins, and you resist the urge to arch your back to their desperate will.

He continues to slowly jerk himself as he watches you stiffen only to squirm seconds later. “Now,” he starts, leaning over you. He aligns himself, tonguing his cheek. Tip teasing your clenching core, he whispers, “I am going to ruin you.”

The weight of the crude promise resonates deep in your gut, gathering your arousal at the entrance of your needy heat. You grip onto his shoulders, features already crumpled in desperate pleasure, and dig your nails into his smooth, pale skin.

You gasp a whine as he emits a throaty groan, pushing in, in, in. You begin to understand the purpose of the pillow beyond simply comfort. The leverage of your hips provides a new angle to explore, his length shoving its way to your most sensitive spot. And he does not even allot time to adjust as he first did in his office, moving quickly to bottom himself out in you. His weighty balls rest against your rear, burning your face with the thought of sucking them. You finally give into your body, too needy to continue to police its movements, and arch your back into his chest.

Chris, hands on either side of your head, grabs your wrists and pins them above you. He growls as his thrusts take off. The force of his hips continuously shifts the bed forward. The headboard slaps against the wall, the pounding of wood on plaster so loud, it almost drowns out your squealing moans. Even the mattress whines, springs shrieking under the rhythmic bounce of your colliding bodies. Perhaps the closest rival to the noise of the bed, however, is the sharp slap of skin on skin. Your rear and thighs tremble from the powerful smacks, sensitive skin stinging all too exquisitely.

Pain highlights pleasure. In addition to the sting of his skin on yours, the tight grip of his strong hands around your wrists, aches from joint to bone. Tears gather in your eyes, the friction of his pulsating erection against your wet, tense walls all the more sweeter in light of the consistent pain.

A series of hissing profanities leave his full lips and you open your eyes to find he is drunk on the sight of your erotic features. Your tears slide down along your temples as a sob hiccups through your throat, clashing with the moans you shamelessly release.

His vicious dominance falters. Letting go of your wrists, Chris leans himself down on his elbows and affectionately nestles his nose against yours. You like the softness of his touches, the tenderness of his most mundane gestures, like the brush of nose on nose or the exchange of heavy breaths.

However, you were promised ruin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you question, voice harsh even with breaking into a whine near the end.

Chris furrows his brows. Something about your tone triggers even more might behind his thrusts. It takes everything in you to not arrogantly laugh at how quickly he shifts from ferocity to concern to anger.

You push against his shoulders. Chris yields to your silent request, flexing his jaw and knitting his brows in quiet confusion. His hips do not hesitate once, though. They continue to forcefully shake your body, breasts and rolls bouncing with the bed.

Once Chris is leaning on his hands again, you strike him across the face.

“Mmm, fuck,” he groans, voice hushed and husky. Dark fury engulfs his features as he snaps his attention back on you.

You slap him again, and again, and again until your hand radiates heat, nerves stinging from the impact. His cheek is a bright red, jaw tight as he looks down at you.

You lift your other hand to smack him only to have him seize both your hands with one hand. You yelp at the swift motion and attempt to break free. You figure it wouldn’t be too hard, considering he is only using one hand to pin both of yours, but find that one hand is all he needs. Your wrists barely budge from their place over your head.

“My turn,” he purrs, red-stained face bright with amusement.

You clench your jaw, steeling yourself for the impact of his hand against your face, only to feel it upon your right breast. You curve yourself further into him with a loud, whiny gasp. Your nipple stings, coaxing tears as he does it again and again. He gives the left one the same amount of attention, smacking against the heavy curves over and over.

Core tightening with want around his cock and breasts burning with a feverish ache, you wail, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

Your voice breaks, sobs of incessant pleasure overwhelming you. He’s so, so big and so, so ruthless. You barely catch your breath with every thrust, let alone every slap of your breast or pinch of your nipple. He clamps your taut nub between his thumb and the edge of forefinger to squeeze and twist. You fall into a state of devilish delight, embracing the pain like a warm hug.

Chris, perhaps growing tired or just wanting to be closer, releases his grip on your shoulders and gives your chest a break. He falls back on his elbows and catches your lips in his. He swallows your sobs, your uncontrollable moans as he ram-ram-rams into you. The strength behind his thrust is ever so prominent, even his heavy balls smack against your rear, the pain watering your mouth.

“You wanna cum, baby?” he mutters against your lips in hushed tones. The depth of his voice slithers along your spine.

You keenly nod, tears splitting freely from your eyes. “Yes, yes, yes!” you whine between tumbling sobs. “P-please?”

He rests some of his weight on you, stunting your breathing. You now wheeze through moans and pants.

“Please what?”

His voice is a cacophony of primal growls and feral snarls, resonating against your chest right down to the marrow of your bones.

A whine of a syllable begins and falters under the combined weight of his frame and relentless hips. His dominance may demand your reply, but still shackles your voice, your very consciousness with every brutal thrust.

“Use your fucking words, you little slut or I swear to God, you won’t cum for the rest of the night!”

His threat sends a tremor through your entire being. But that voice, that croaky, hissing voice of pure power, curls your toes and rolls your eyes back. You clench tightly, forcing your orgasm back.

“Dad-dy!” You scream, voice breaking mid-way through into hysterical sobs, body overpowered by pain and pleasure alike.

A gratifying groan grumbles from the depths of his gut and you cannot hold yourself back any longer. Your muscles stiffen, legs lifting high to the ceiling with pointed toes and nails scratching at his biceps. Your jaw clenches, bouncing body trembling as a ripple of your release rushes over you.

Chris falls over you, his full weight now crushing you as he too tenses all over. The suffocation only heightens your orgasm, the waves of ecstasy now swelling into typhoons of rapturous bliss. Your mind spins, vision dims and sound muffles as you finally release around him.

Your lungs fight for air, the restriction becoming all too fatal. You swat at his biceps, attempting to gasp for air as you catch distant throaty groans between deliberate, harsh thrusts.

It takes him a handful of seconds, but Chris eventually realises his mistake, rushing to hold himself up on his elbows again.

You gasp upon the first breath of air, heaving as you eagerly consume mouthfuls of oxygen.

Chris mutters quiet apologies, voice nearly wavering as he tucks his face in the crook of your neck and peppers the soft skin with tender kisses. He’s careful about dispersing his weight on you, even as his muscles tremble from the struggle of holding himself up. He shifts his balance to his knees as his thrusts decrease in speed and power eventually stopping all together.

You let your eyes flutter shut, your mind floats as your orgasm continues to cascade over your consciousness. Your limbs fall limp onto the mattress, full chest heaving with heavy pants and whines. It’s not until Chris pulls himself out that you finally feel your combined cum leak out of you again and you realise he came too, probably when he lost his balance and fell on top of you.

You feel the bed dip beside you, but cannot hear anything beyond the rush of blood in your ears. If you try hard enough, you might be able to catch the muffled squeak of the mattress, or the creak of the wooden frame. However, transcending into a state of pure euphoric bliss, all thoughts swirling around a phantom boxer and his towering build, you cannot dwell on the sounds of the fading world around you.

Rough hands delicately caress your face. A trail of kisses start on your lips. Full, plush lips move down your neck, collarbone, valley of your breasts, stomach, left thigh down to the knee, then back up to the right thigh down to the knee. They take their time with every press against your sweat-slick skin, each one just as wet and tender as the last.

There is another shift beside you and strong arms pull you into their embrace. You allow them to cradle you into a buff chest. The distant pound of a hammering heart beats to the same fast pace as yours. Those strong hands brush your hair back as they pet your head.

You’re not sure how long you laid there or when you made it into the bath, sitting between two muscular thighs as those calloused, yet gentle hands lathered shampoo into your hair.

The warm water grounds you back into the present. You squint your eyes open to a dark wood slatted ceiling, finding that your head is tilted back as a detachable shower head washes the shampoo out of your hair. You take a moment to inhale deeply, letting the notes of vanilla sandalwood remind you of where you are.

The water shuts off, the steel shower head returns to its place on your right, and you right your head to take a look around the bathroom. Spacious, the room radiates sophistication and calmness. Walls clad in dark grey and black, polished chrome fixtures, and a deep, freestanding bathtub, room enough for two, you cannot help but feel a sense of luxurious serenity. The lights are hidden behind the crevices of the room, warm and soft in their illumination. You wonder if he purposely designed the room to reel himself back to reality after a match.

Chris clears his throat, the sound soft and subtle as if he is worried he might scare you.

The possible implication furrows your brows. You peek at him over your shoulder before twisting your torso to face him.

“Are you…” he trails off, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Alright?”

You’re not sure how to decipher his hesitation or the oddly shameful look in his eyes.

“Of course,” you reply.

His eyes narrow ever so slightly, as if he doesn’t believe you.

“Are you hurt?”

The question finally registers the faded red of his cheeks where you slapped him and the pink lines along his biceps. You swallow thickly as remorse tightens your chest.

“Are you?”

A ghost of a smirk hovers over his lips. He leans forward to comb some conditioner through your hair.

“I’ve never been better.”

“What…happened?”

You chew on the inside of your cheeks. You know what led up to this moment, but cannot fully place what happened between your orgasm and the bath. Your past sexual endeavours usually remain in one position and location. Chris has moved you between three rooms now, his office, bedroom, and bathroom, and tested your endurance in multiple positions in a single night.

Did you pass out? Were you sleeping?

“Have you heard of subspace?” Chris continues upon the furrow of your brows. “After sex, when some people in more submissive positions orgasm, they might get put into a certain euphoric headspace. You might not feel pain or even be in your body. Some people completely pass out,” he explains before reaching for the shower head again. Tapping the bottom of your chin with a single finger, he gestures for you to tilt your head back again. “Others,” he continues as he watches your hair, “are conscious but unresponsive.”

“Like I was?”you ask, eyes fluttering shut to prevent the sting of soap.

He hums in confirmation. “Do you remember anything?”

You shrug. “You were kissing me,” you pause, swallowing thickly, “and then I remember feeling you hug me.”

“Do you remember saying anything?”

Your eyes shoot open. Moving your head away from the spray, you meet his gaze again.

He bites back a sheepish grin.

“If you’re messing with me,” you begin, gritting your teeth. “I’ll—”

“Save your cute threats,” he teases, cutting you off. He rinses the last of the conditioner out of your hair, adding, “I’ll tell you what you said.”

You nervously gnaw on your lip waiting for him to continue. When he turns off the shower head and puts it back in its spot, you think he would finally say something. Instead, he pumps some body soap into a washcloth and lathers it up.

“Well?”

“I never said I would tell you now,” he chuckles.

You splash water at his chest, oh so tempted to scoop more directed at his face but decide against it when you catch that dark, daring gleam in his eyes.

“You’re an asshol—,” you mutter, cutting yourself off before a moan slips as the cloth scrubs against your skin.

Chris smirks, features unamused as if he’s used to this sort of reaction. How many other women has he washed in here after a particularly rigorous night?

The question fosters a flame of envy, and sears through the flesh of your heart.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask. You try to ignore the way he dips between the valley of your chest, then circles under to rub and squeeze the soap around your breasts. Your body betrays you again, however, back arching into his touch.

Chris furrows his brows. “I fucked you senseless and you expect me not to take care of you?”

You blink, baffled by not only his tone, but his words. Your cheeks burn at the realisation that he did indeed thrust every last one of your senses out of you. What’s more peculiar is that, even after all that, he didn’t kill you. He didn’t cram you into a cab and send you on your way, high on your orgasm and unable to fight back.

“I lied to you,” you dryly chuckle. “I told you I was commissioned.”

His smirk widens, hinting that he might still believe that after what just happened in his office and bedroom.

You roll your eyes. “I- You’re a Stray Kid,” you try again. “Isn’t killing what you do?”

Chris scrubs down your shoulders and back, then your arm, lifting it up as he replies, “Yes.”

A shaky breath escapes you as he drags the soapy cloth across the pit of your arm.

“You saved my life,” he adds, moving onto your other arm. “I had a rat in my gang and you helped identify it.”

Your spine stiffens.

His gang?

Chris flashes you a cautious look under his brows, tonguing his cheek.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “You’re the leader of Stray Kids?”

Chris nods, submerging the cloth under the warm bath water to drag it along your thighs.

Does he want to have sex again? Is that why he’s keeping you alive? You don’t really mind, you just need to know because his hands are dangerously close to the apex of your thighs and he is telling you information you do not need to know and, in fact, have no right to know. It’s the kind of information that can possibly remove the bounty on your head.

“You once told me information you didn’t need to,” Chris explains as he gently cleans the previous mess he made between your legs.

Curling in your lips, you suppress a moan.

“You didn’t need to tell me your name, but you did. So I’m telling you something I don’t need to as an act of good faith.”

“I didn’t take you for the religious type.”

“I tend to get religious on top of the right woman.”

You press your legs together, squishing his hand.

He laughs, scorching your chest and cheeks with embarrassment.

You push his hand away from your core with an annoyed huff. You don’t have time for this. Though you are not in pain, your body is still exhausted. You just want to get back in his comfortable sheets and finally sleep this enough night off, if not go to your own bed.

“Do you want to go again?” you suddenly ask. “Is that what all this is about?”

Chris quirks a brow. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

A submissive, desperate part of you whines at his belittling tone and implication. If you wanted to, you most definitely could endure another round. However, you catch its outrage before it can make itself known beyond the knotting of your brows.

“So what then?” you ask.

Chis wrings out the cloth and tosses it aside. “I don’t like being indebted to anyone. You saved my life. I’m going to save yours,” he states matter-a-factly. “You are now under Stray Kids protection. You will have round-the-clock surveillance and train to learn to defend yourself properly against threats should your security fail.”

You blink.

Protection?

You remember thinking of Chris as your protector when he was touching you, but even then, riddled with lust, you knew it was only a fantasy. You are not worthy of protection. You are barely worthy of friendship. You almost lost Vinny. How can he really think you are worth saving?

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Right,” he nods, tone descending in depth as his gaze sharpens. “Because I will be protecting you against the bounty.”

You scoff. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s not up for debate.”

“It’s my life.”

Chris casts you a look of sarcastic confusion. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re eager to end it,” he practically sneers.

You tuck your chin into your chest, averting his stern glare. “You don’t know what you are getting yourself into,” you mutter as a means of warning.

I’m damaged. I’m broken. I am not a life saver.

“A life for a life— That is the rule of the city,” Chris reaffirms. “You saved mine. I am saving yours.”

You fall silent. Keeping your attention locked on the black, marble floors, you let him wash all the soap off. You are not going to argue with the leader of Stray Kids, not tonight anyway, not as exhaustion is slowly claiming you, one limb at a time.

Fuck it— If he wants to fulfill this delusional debt of his then that is his problem. You warned him. You tried to fight this. When he eventually realises that you are more trouble than you are worth, you will gladly laugh and tell him you told him so.

“My bed or the spare’s?” he suddenly asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“What?”

“Do you want to sleep in my bed or the one in the spare bedroom?”

“Um,” you start as Chris grabs a towel. “Am I allowed to go home?”

“Of course,” he nods, “ I can get Seungmin and Felix to take you.”

You wonder which one is Felix before tentatively meeting his gaze. “Do you want me to sleep in your bed?”

Chris suppresses a little smile with a bite of his lip. His eyes do not gleam with their causal mischief or amusement, rather a hint of adoration— if you squint. “I would sleep better if you did,” he confesses, voice dropping an octave.

And so you find yourself in one of his shirts, the fabric barely brushing over the full curve of your rear, under layers of soft, silk sheets. Behind you, Chris wraps a strong arm around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. You can feel the beat of his heart against your back, feel how it echoes the race of your own.

You want him, want this so badly you can feel the aching desire deep within your bones. But the fear of shattering his world, of absorbing him and everything that matters to him into your vortex of ruin, shackles you in place.The red lights of Crimson Heights illuminate the room. As you watch the city, his steady breath fans against the nape of your neck. Mind exhausted, body slowly aching, you allow yourself to lean into him just this once and shut your eyes.

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other reader. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

#chantober 2024 #bang chan smut #chan smut #stary kids smut #chris bang smut #chan x reader #bang chan fanfic

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ilovemybishies87 · 8 months ago

Text

The Vacation from Hell - Chapter Two

Chapter two is now uploaded to AO3! It is also below the cut, in case anyone prefers to read on tumblr.

This chapter is VERY loosely based on the response sketch from @damntheyare's original 'human hotel' fanart. Because some tropes will never die (nor do we want them to).

Despite the numerous changes since Alastor was alive, he could more or less navigate thanks to a few familiar landmarks, like the old Hermann-Grima place. Back in his day, it had been a boarding house for single women. He slowed as they passed its faded blue shutters and gated front door.

“What is it?” asked Charlie. “You know this place?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly. I know about it. This house has quite a history, spanning back to before I was even alive! The families who owned it are well known around here.”

“Speaking of, where is here? I didn’t ask since you seem to know the way.”

“New Orleans.” Alastor paused. “Home, I suppose.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “This is where you lived when you were human?”

“Born and raised!”

“And the hotel we’re staying?”

He didn’t answer. He could only hope it still existed.

Their suitcase wheels clacked on the brick sidewalk as they strode down Saint Louis Street and turned right. Many of the businesses were from after his time. He didn’t care for their newer architecture: some flashes of style here and there, but mostly it simply existed. Functional without any flavor.

They crossed over two more streets before reaching their destination.

Alastor allowed himself to drink in the sight. The name Hotel Monteleone was embellished in bold cursive on all three sides of the sign above the main portico. Festoons and cartouches, worn with age, adorned the hotel’s facade. Flower-filled planters lined a set of windows, and sky-blue flags waved on poles attached to metal guards.

Charlie’s jaw dropped, and her bag nearly so. “This is . . . wow.” She laughed. “Good choice, Al!”

“Thank you, my dear!” he said, and found his mood marginally improved.

A solitary footman stood before a pair of golden doors. His attire was more suited to the weather—a short sleeve button down—but the black hat couldn’t have been comfortable. As they approached, he swung the door closest to him open.

Cold air wafted out from the lobby.

“Maybe we should have someone greet our guests at the entrance, too!” she whispered, nodding her head in thanks as they entered. “Nothing says hospitable more than a friendly face greeting you when you arrive!”

“Oh? And who would you suggest for our doorman?”

“Angel Dust?”

“Not the worst suggestion.” He thought she might suggest Vaggie, but Charlie seemed to realize her dour expression would deter sinners seeking redemption. “Though I can’t say the types of guests he’d attract are what you’re hoping for!”

“That’s the point, Alastor! Everyone is welcome,” she insisted. “The problem is whether Angel would agree to it. He already works for Valentino. But maybe this will be a step in the right direction!”

The lobby was even more impressive than the hotel’s front. Their suitcases glided over parquet marble floors. Framed paintings of the founder, along with other men Alastor couldn’t place, decorated the walls. Above them, gold inlayed panels adorned the bases of crystal chandeliers. The lighting filled the entrance with a soft glow, making the place feel otherworldly.

To their left, a rose centerpiece stood in the middle, bench-like seating surrounding the arrangement. A set of stairs, most likely heading to the establishment's rooms, lay before it. Another smaller set of steps led to the entrance of a restaurant. Alastor filed that away for later. Once they were settled in, food would no doubt be a priority. They passed more seating in the form of sofas and upholstered armchairs, along with a grandfather clock ticking away the seconds.

Charlie lingered behind as he approached the counter.

The receptionist was a completely average woman. Not too tall or short, heavy or thin. Completely unremarkable. Her only standout feature was the short reddish locks framing her face. Her smile screamed ‘customer service,’ but she didn’t appear to be in a mood either.

“Can I help you?”

Alastor read the tag pinned to her blazer. “Why, yes, I believe you can, Marie!” he said with a flourish. “My companion and I are needing a room for the duration of our stay.”

“Of course, sir.” Marie began typing and glanced between him and a screen that suspiciously resembled Vox’s head. “Do you already have a reservation?”

Fuck.

Yes, he did. Decades ago, when they were supposed to arrive. Alastor was left with quite the conundrum. Did he take a chance on the hotel having an open room? Or did he use his magic to . . . turn the odds in their favor? The latter was the obvious choice, but he had expended more energy than planned to transport the group and their belongings.

Alastor lightly tapped the top of the machine and infused it with his magic. A green glow came forth from the monitor along with thread-like tendrils. They reached out toward the receptionist and infused her pupils with the same green glow.

“Yes, indeed!” he gritted out. “It should be for Alastor Malveaux and Charlotte Magne.”

Marie blinked; her eyes returned to normal. “Thank you, sir. One moment while I pull up that information.”

“Was that your last name?” whispered Charlie, joining him at his side.

Alastor shrugged. “Who knows?” he replied, his voice low. “Whatever it was, it’s lost to the wind. The Radio Demon is what I’m known as now, and I have no complaints.”

“Okay, but what about my name? Charlotte Magne. Really? What’s wrong with Charlie Morningstar?”

“Your last name might . . . raise a few eyebrows,” he said, smirking, “and Charlie Magne is too obvious.”

“How so?”

Marie interrupted before he could explain. “Okay, so I’ve found your reservation.” Her face twitched. “But I’m afraid the room you requested was double booked. Another couple has already checked in.”

“I see.” Charlie turned to him. “I guess we’ll have to cut our trip short?”

"No, no, Miss Magne!” said Marie. “This was entirely our fault! We do have another room available, though. Fortunately for you, it’s an upgrade!” She started furiously typing away. “How long did you and Mister Malveaux plan on staying again?”

Alastor struggled to keep his grin. “Six days.”

“And what time were you planning on returning home? Check out is before noon.”

So many questions. “We can be out before then.”

“Perfect! So, that will be five nights total—”

“What a relief!” Charlie scooped Husk off her shoulder and held him in her arms. He had somehow managed to remain affixed the entire trip to the hotel.

Alastor wholeheartedly agreed. “We’ll have to decide who gets which bed once we are in the room.”

“Oh, you wanted two beds?” asked Marie, the clacking on her keyboard slowing.

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry if I wasn’t clearer.” She held up her index finger. “The room only has one. If it’s any consolation, it’s a King.”

He would not murder the woman for doing her job, even if she was getting on the very last of his nerves. Alastor forced the violent urge down and laughed. “It would be quite improper for an unmarried man and woman to share—”

“We’ll make do,” Charlie answered, much to his shock. She looked up at him. “Is that okay?”

“As you said,” he stated with a deep breath, “we’ll make do.”

“All right! That’s five nights total with two pets,” Marie said, eyeing Niffty and Husk in their arms. “They receive their own little welcome package for free. Trust me, everyone loves it! And did you want any add-ons or upgrades for your stay? We offer overnight valet parking, along with a wide selection of wines and hard liquors—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Maybe some macrons for you and Miss Magne—”

Charlie watched their exchange with rapt attention. No doubt she was mentally taking notes on what could be added to their hotel. That was the purpose of this visit. And while he appreciated her passion in theory—the more invested, the more satisfying it would be to see her dreams torn to shreds—the only one suffering at the moment was him.

“Just the total,” Alastor ground out. “Please.”

“That’ll be $2,204.60.”

Alastor turned to Charlie and handed her Niffty, who let out a small ‘Yip!’ of dismay. Charlie gasped. She barely managed to catch the other demon—now dog—and juggle both her and Husk in her arms.

Alastor unzipped the bag sitting on top of Niffty’s luggage and made a show of rummaging around. As he suspected, Husk had packed nothing but alcohol. He was grateful for once. A bottle of whiskey was calling his name. Hopefully the staff didn’t check the contents before they settled in. With his last bit of magic—at least until he could get some food and rest and alcohol—he conjured a stack of bills and zipped the sack closed.

He pulled out the cash and began counting.

Marie’s almond eyes widened. “Wow, don’t see that too often!” She stared at him grimly. “You’ll want to be careful. You’ll be a target for sure.”

Alastor chuckled as he placed the last bill down. The remainder was shoved into his pocket. “I’m not worried.” He took Niffty from Charlie, much to her relief, and held the small dog under his other arm.

Marie picked up the bills and double checked the amount. “Suit yourself. We don’t keep change here, but—”

“Don’t worry about the extra. Consider it a tip for your hard work! Otherwise, we’d be looking for another hotel or returning home.”

“Thank you, Mister Malveaux!” This time her smile was genuine. “If you don’t mind me asking, where is home for you anyway?”

“I'm technically from around these parts, but it's been years since I’ve been back. Things have changed quite a bit.”

Marie nodded. “You’ll find yourself at home in no time. Change doesn’t happen that fast here.” She turned to Charlie. “What about you?”

“Well . . . ,” said Charlie nervously, “where I’m from is pretty big. And dry. And hot! Not to mention very . . . intense! It’s nothing like here.”

Marie raised a brow. “Huh?”

“California!” said Alastor, and he felt Charlie relax.

“It’s where we met,” Charlie added, smiling at him.

“Oh, so you must be an actor,” said Marie to Alastor. “You sure are dedicated to the craft, not breaking character! It explains the accent. The glasses and cash too. Those Hollywood eccentrics sure have rubbed off on you.”

Alastor quirked his head. “Pardon?”

“I’ve never seen you in anything before, but I'm not much for historical pieces.” She reached for the safety deposit box below the counter and locked the cash away. “But I’m trying to branch out. I’ll watch for you.”

He and Charlie shared a look. A smirk graced her lips.

“Not a word, Miss Magne,” he said under his breath.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mister Malveaux.”

“Your room will be ready in a few minutes. Our bellhop will take your luggage for you.” A stout man with curly black hair approached. He wore the same outfit as the doorman, though his dark pants still held the crisp line from when they were pressed earlier that day. “Olivier, could you take their things to room 606?”

He tipped his hat in her direction, then piled their bags onto the luggage cart. “I’m on it!”

Alastor eyed the sofas in the lounge, but before he could move, he heard the shuffling of papers from behind the counter.

“So,” said Marie, “what do you two plan on doing while you’re here?”

No.

Charlie bit her lip. “I’m not sure honestly. I was only interested in the hotel,” she admitted. “Alastor did all the planning.”

Absolutely not.

“I see.” Marie nodded. “Any sites you wanted to visit with Miss Magne?”

He was not having any small talk.

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” he said, his tone clipped.

Marie’s expression brightened. “In that case, would you mind if I made some suggestions?”

“Not at all!” exclaimed Charlie.

“The Phantom of the Opera is in town,” Marie said, handing over several brochures. “Not sure if you’ve seen it yet. Broadway is probably better, but it hasn’t been to New Orleans in about a decade, so we’re all excited.”

Charlie turned to Alastor and placed Husk on his shoulder before he could say a word. She took the pamphlets from the receptionist and flipped through one.

“Is this any good?”

Marie leaned over to see what Charlie was showing her. “The Voodoo, Witchcraft and Vampires tour? If you’re into supernatural stuff, sure. There's no shortage of that around here, even at this very hotel.”

"How so?” Charlie asked.

“There’ve been countless unexplained happenings over the years. Doors that open on their own, elevators that go to the wrong floor, even shadows of kids playing in the halls! Eyewitness accounts from different times, guests, and staff. Hard to write it off as coincidence!”

What drivel. Charlie seemed to think so too, judging by her incredulous expression. If anyone knew what happened to a soul after they passed, it would be the Princess of Hell. They were either in her domain or they weren’t. It was as simple as that.

“What about this, Alastor? They have jazz bands and even a jazz museum!”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing a live session again,” he said. “It’s been ages! But I also wouldn’t mind some place . . . quieter.”

“Then you have to go to Oak Valley Plantation,” said Marie. “It’s about an hour away from here, but if you want to get away from it all, that’s your best bet! It’s like stepping back in time.”

Alastor considered her briefly. “Maybe before we leave, to wind down.”

“Excellent! I can help get you tickets for any or all of those excursions. Give me another ten or fifteen minutes to calculate—”

“We’ll do them all.” He glanced at Charlie, who couldn’t have looked more thrilled than if every sinner in Hell had been redeemed in one fell swoop. Alastor pulled all but a couple of bills from his pocket and placed them in her hand. “I trust you with the schedule, my dear.”

Charlie grasped the cash tightly. “Thank you, Al! I won’t let you down.”

“Yes, yes.” He sighed. “I’m taking a breather until our room is ready.”

“Olivier should be nearly finished if you would like to head up, Mister Malveaux. Here’s your key,” Marie said, handing him a piece of plastic. “I’ll give Miss Magne the other so she can join you when we’re done.”

Alastor held the rectangular thing awkwardly between his fingers. What odd material to use for a key.

The elevator was several paces behind them on the other side of the stairs. Leaving the two women to hash out their plans—a decision he hoped he would not come to regret—he stepped into an empty lift and pushed the backlit button with the number 6.

Husk pawed at his head, nearly knocking his glasses off.

Alastor turned, his glare ice cold. “You’re trying your luck, Husker! I’m not in the mood to be messed with. Unless you care to find out if cats really do have nine lives, I would suggest you mind yourself for the rest of the trip.”

Silence filled the compartment for the ride up to the sixth floor. The elevator’s ding! notified them of their arrival, and the doors slid open. A gold cart was parked in the hall several doors down. He could see the last of their luggage—pink, in all its shameless glory—being picked up and transported inside.

“Thank you for your hard work, my good sir!” said Alastor, steadfast in keeping the last of his remaining patience in check. He handed the man a crisp . . . twenty? Fifty? He didn’t look. “Much appreciated!”

Olivier’s eyes widened. Had he slipped him a hundred by mistake? “You’re too kind, sir! Thank you. Let me know if you need anything!” He pushed the cart back toward the lifts.

The room’s door remained open long enough to slip in. Alastor allowed it to close behind them as he placed Niffty on the ground beside him. Husk jumped from his shoulder and landed on the carpeted floor. They surveyed their accommodations.

White. It was very white. Alastor crossed over to the king-size bed and upholstered headboard, a wallpapered inset behind it. They were white. So was the bedding. As was the much smaller, more rustic chandelier hanging up above. The nightstands, the single-seated sofa, and the vanity and set of chairs at the foot of the bed.

The carpeting. The floors. The ceiling.

Everything was white. Even the bathroom gave him no reprieve.

Was this what Heaven was like?

Alastor felt like he was going mad. The only hints of color came from the trio and the baggage they had dragged along for the trip. Charlie’s and Niffty’s luggage were a sight for sore eyes against the colorless landscape that was their room.

Husk’s was too, but for very different reasons. Alastor picked up the leather bag, placed it on the vanity, and pulled out a seat. A small glass was set upside down beneath a mirror. He grabbed it and quickly zipped the bag open. The bottle of whiskey he eyed earlier clinked against a bottle of gin, and without hesitation, he twisted the cap off with his thumb and poured out a healthy amount.

Husk jumped up and hissed.

Alastor tipped his glass and downed the drink. “Even when you can’t pour, you make an excellent bartender, Husker old pal!”

An almost imperceptible beep alerted him to Charlie’s arrival. “That receptionist really knows her stuff!” She dropped a handful of brochures on the vanity, along with a much thinner stack of cash, and pulled out the seat next to him. “So, I know we’re here for research—”

“You are,” said Alastor, pouring himself another glass. “I am but the chauffer.” He picked up the money, returning it to his pocket. “And sponsor, clearly.”

Charlie hesitated. “Are you okay, Al? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink before.”

“Well, we are on vacation, aren’t we?” This time he didn’t down the liquor in one gulp. He allowed it to linger on his tongue before swallowing, relishing the slight burn. “You were saying?”

“R-Right. I still plan on getting the full hotel experience while we’re here. Even checking in has given me so many ideas! I’ll need to take notes, so I don’t forget anything.” She took out a notepad and pen from her purse. “Everything is so luxurious, don’t you think?”

If someone enjoyed the ‘padded room’ aesthetic, then certainly.

“But I figured, we might as well take in the sights too! I can only imagine how much has changed since . . . .”

Alastor allowed the silence to hang between them.

Charlie looked around awkwardly. “I’m sorry about the bed. We can ask for more pillows to create a wall between us. If that helps.”

“You needn’t worry about me.” Alastor took another long sip before grabbing a different bottle from Husk’s bag. He read the label and realized he didn’t care what he was drinking, so long as it was strong. “I will make do.”

“I don’t want you sleeping on the floor, Al. Or in the chairs. You should be comfortable!”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get there,” he said, fumbling over the words. His accent slipped as well. “In the meantime, you should do what you set out to do! There’s a whole hotel waiting to be explored.”

Charlie stood and tipped her luggage onto the floor. “What about you? You’re not going to spend the whole day drinking, are you?”

Alastor made one last drink and toasted to her. “Well, you could say I have some research of my own. But until then”—he tipped the glass back and grimaced—“I’m starting this trip off with a bang!”

#hazbin hotel #radiobelle #charlastor #alastor #alastor the radio demon #charlie morningstar #charlie x alastor #alastor x charlie #alastor malveaux #charlotte magne

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asunafairywizardessheart · 2 years ago

Text

Silent Regret

Part 1: Alone.

Elias/MC

Walter Goldstein regrets the pain and suffering he has caused for his son. Now that he has left home and the mansion is deserted, he wants nothing more than to apologise to him.

Somewhere deep inside the palace-like mansion of the Goldstein estate, sounds of a liquid being poured into a glass echoed through the marble halls. It came from inside the office of the Haus of Goldstein’s patriarch, Walter Goldstein. The size of a small apartment, elegantly symmetrical, marble floors and decorations of expensive artwork, trinkets and finishings, the office reflected the wealth and status of the kingdom’s most wealthiest and powerful wizarding family. An honour the family has had bestowed on them for many centuries.

The only entrance into the marble-floored office was through a set of heavy, antique-looking double doors that only opened inwards to the office. Like most of the architectural elements in the house, they were custom designed with intricate chocolate coloured panelling inlayed with a golden brass with golden door levers and locks to match.

Walter’s mahogany oak desk, facing the doors, was placed deep inside the room, closer to the wide ceiling-to-floor arch windows, which were also the only two windows within the office, that filled the room with natural light. The positioning of his large desk was justified to accommodate the left and right walls that were transformed into thick bookshelves and glass cabinets, stretching the length of the room and holding all his professional and personal books, documents and other valuable trinkets.

Just to the left of the entrance was an arrangement of two brown leather armchairs facing a single black leather armchair separated by a small oval-shaped antique table. This was his conference space where he conducted lengthy meetings with various people – some diplomatic and some personal – in supreme comfort and privacy. When he didn’t have company, Walter sat on a comfortable black leather armchair at his desk. He would either work on blueprints for another magical tool invention, case files for ministry and government investigations or reports from the Haus of Goldstein’s many private enterprises and philanthropic missions.

Thus, the office for the patriarch served many purposes – an office, a personal library, a study, a private conference room and a trove for his most valuable possessions. However, for many years now, especially when the mood struck, the room became a lonely sanctuary for him to depressively wallow alone and deeply reflect on his regrets in life. Most prominently, his failure as a father towards his youngest son, Elias, which would also become the catalyst for his family’s suffering and misery. Once upon a time, the palace-like home was lively and colourful but now, because of him, the home had become silent, empty and dismal.

All who remained here was himself and his wife, Mary. Walter often heard her weeping, the tears of a mother’s broken heart because of the fractured state of her family and the worry she felt for her three sons. Alfonse had deserted the home and family with his whereabouts unknown. Klaus became guarded and hardened his heart to the world and moved out of the home too, desperate to be anywhere but within these walls. Today, it was Elias’ turn to leave the home to embark on his journey into adulthood but he was miserable. He barely smiled nor had any bright energy behind his amethyst eyes. Rather, he was obsessed with his mission to prove himself to his father and gain his acceptance. Elias’ misery, anxiety, unsociability and sole interest in magic was a result of Walter’s ill-tempered draconian parenting that destroyed their bond and shattered Elias’ heart.

Despite the tension that caused this rift, Walter loved his family and they loved him but they were angry with Walter, especially Elias – who he had hurt the most – overshadowed this fact. That anger further driven by Walter’s incapacity to apologise and atone for his mistakes. Walter realises his impotence to apologise and atone for his mistakes deepened his family’s disgust, caused further damage to his relationship with Elias and added to Elias’ suffering. Instead, Walter isolated himself to his office to pitifully endure the emotional pain, a symptom, of his entrenched remorse that he felt he deserved.

The case files and reports he had been working on earlier that day were left scattered across the surface of his desk along with a photo album he had been flipping through, leaving it open on a family portrait, taken during their happier days, of himself and his three sons when they were young . Day had since turned to night with the office shadowed in pitch darkness with the silver glow of the full moon the only source of light that reached Walter at his desk.

Elias had left home and so he was in a sullen mood and found it difficult to concentrate on anything else. In a cupboard below the surface of the desk, Walter kept a square-shaped crystal decanter and a matching short glass. Those two items became his confidants when he brooded. The decanter was filled to the brim with his favourite aged whiskey along with the matching crystal glass. He paced every sip from the glass until it was empty and refilled it once again, and should the decanter run dry he had his wand nearby to refill it until he had enough or until he fell asleep.

The alcohol didn’t really make a difference, but it was a nice aesthetic. It didn’t dull or numb his pain he felt. Rather, he felt as if the alcohol intensified every layer of his pain to the point it became unbearable, but he endured it as his punishment.

Memories of all the awful things he had said and done to Elias were viewed with more clarity, and in hindsight, he corrected himself on what he should have done, not that it made any difference to the present circumstances.

“It’s easier to make the right decisions in hindsight,” he uttered, depressingly, to no one.

The alcohol made him see and hear the things he refused to notice back then, especially when it came to Elias and how much Walter had hurt him. He even could hear the begging cries from his wife and two other sons, who pleaded to him to change how he treated Elias. Their eventual disgust at him no doubt born by witnessing Elias’ happy and bright energy fade into melancholy as he abandoned all his other interests in pursuit of his father’s approval. Walter’s pride, stubbornness and temper blindly made him act severely towards Elias.

The alcohol also made Walter’s desires stronger especially when yearning for the day when is family was whole again. But, mostly, for the day where he had the courage and the right to speak to Elias once again and express his unconditional love he always held for his son, despite everything he had done and said that made it seem as though Walter rejected him.

This made Walter mourn for the time that had been lost between them and the more time they would lose the longer he waited to reach out to Elias and beg for a chance to atone for all his wrongs, but he didn’t deserve his son’s forgiveness. All he wanted was to make Elias a stronger person and wizard. But, he had foolishly put the family’s public image, legacy and pride above the welfare of his son and the happiness of his family.

“One day,” Walter thought to himself, “One day, I will have the right to call you my son again.”

Now that Elias was gone, unsure when he would return home, Walter anxiously wondered if he would ever see him again and if he had wasted all his opportunities to begin making amends. A stray tear left Walter’s eye and dropped into the glass of whiskey he held close to his lips.

“Elias…,” Walter whispered his name into the glass of whiskey, “…I apologise. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

“…I never meant to hurt you,” he whispered, hoping his whispers would somehow reach his son who was now very far away from home, “I love you, more than you know,” He whispered before taking another sip of his now tear-stained whiskey.

Desperate to ensure his three sons continued their family’s proud legacy of producing powerful and intelligent wizards, Walter set high expectations for his three sons. Alfonse and Klaus naturally possessed innate power and genius intellect and met his expectations with ease. Elias, although intelligent, lacked the same innate powerful abilities as his ancestors, his father and his two older brothers. Failing to meet Walter’s high standards, Walter became frustrated and disappointed with his son that his teaching methods became draconian.

Expecting him to possess a dormant power, Walter pushed Elias to his limits to forcibly unleash that power befitting a son of the Haus of Goldstein, often placing him in physically dangerous scenarios. But to no avail. Elias consistently failed to perform magic to his father’s high standards and would sometimes sustain injuries from either losing control of his magic or his spells backfiring. Walter’s frustration often boiled over into explosive verbal attacks which no doubt remain deep-rooted in Elias’ memories.

There were so many incidents of this abuse as it lasted for many years from when Elias was a young child until he was a pre-teen. Walter remembered everything he had done and said from every incident that turned abusive. He hated that he was aware of what he was doing back then but refused to acknowledge and apologise for it. Especially now, that when he brooded his memory would select a memory at random to reminisce every detail about that moment – the tears that stained Elias’ eyes and the bloody cuts and bruises he’d sustain when his spells failed or couldn’t block a spell and Walter’s unwillingness to administer a healing spell or check his welfare, the harmful, hot-tempered things Walter would say to Elias, he remembered it all. Most heartbreakingly, was watching Elias become afraid of his father and overhearing him asking his mother and brothers why his father hated him. It was like a punishment he couldn’t escape from that more tears leaked from Walter’s eyes and into his glass of whiskey.

Upon recollection, Walter had been warned numerously by his wife and his two other sons that his abuse of Elias would end in them having a strained relationship. He laughed it off, “absurd!” he’d used to say, believing his methods was nothing more than a father giving his son some tough love that Elias would thank him for once his inner powers were finally unleased and he was worthy of his illustrious name. He was wrong, so very wrong. They were right. Regrettably, he should’ve listened. One hot-tempered decision Walter made, that Elias had overheard, in a private conversation didn’t just strain their relationship, it severed it.

“I should have listened,” Walter muttered to no one, taking a sip from his glass, “What a stubborn fool I am now. Klaus was right, I’m now paying the price for all my sins. Elias hates me.”

Six years ago, the abuse stopped because Walter did something that he is most ashamed and regrets it ever happening that if he had the ability to use time magic, he would happily take advantage of that power to prevent this one thought from ever leaving his mouth as it would forever wound his family and sever his relationship with Elias. It happened right here, in his office six years, three months and seven days ago.

Walter – abandoned his son.

And, since that day, they barely exchanged a word – except for public events to save face – and had become quite estranged. The day of their falling out, Walter remembered it like it happened yesterday.

**** Six years ago…

Klaus was home from the academy and Alfonse had run away from home. Elias was eleven years old and still failed to measure up to his father’s high standards. Their training session had abruptly ended with Walter verbally lashing out at Elias yet again for not performing magic at the standard he expected for a son of the Haus of Goldstein. Elias, dejected, retreated to his chambers while Walter, filled with anger, returned to his office. After some time, he still hadn’t calmed down and had summoned Klaus.

“I don’t know what to do anymore?” Walter paced back and forth in the space behind his armchair, “What is the matter with him?”

Klaus sighed, “Father, as a suggestion — “

“No!” Walter cut him off, “I do not want to hear anymore excuses for that boy!”

Walter felt the rage burn within him and heaved a frustrated sigh, “No more,” he shook his head.

Little did he know that Elias had come to return a tome on magical tools he had borrowed from one of his father’s bookshelves. Hearing the deep and angered voice of his father’s and Klaus’ quieter tone attempting to calm him down and reason with him, he didn’t enter, afraid of receiving another barrage of hurtful words. On hearing his name being spoken, he decided to listen and used his wand to cast a spell to hear their words much more clearly.

“He just needs —” Klaus tried to interject.

“No!” Walter refused, “I have no desire to waste anymore of my time on someone so weak!”

Klaus thought that was too harsh, “He’s trying his hardest,” Klaus tried to reason, “I think he is quite skilled.”

“Skilled? Are you joking?” Walter huffed, “He has no creativity and ingenuity in his magic and yet you say he is skilled.”

Klaus sighed, “He’s still young, Father.”

“How long are you going to use his age as an excuse?” Walter became annoyed that Klaus was defending Elias, “You may continue to train him if you wish but I will not be in the picture!”

Walter bit down on his lip, his anger not subsiding any time soon and laying down a framed photo of himself and Elias so he couldn’t see the image any longer.

“What do you mean by that?” Klaus asked, observing his father’s actions.

“How can he possibly be a son of mine!” with a hand still placed on the photo frame, he clenched his fist and angrily punched the back causing the stand to snap off and the glass cover on the other side to break, “I can’t have someone so weak at magic representing this family!”

Klaus didn’t flinch at his father’s violent reaction but was surprised by his motions. But, he worried more about the words that left his mouth.

“Father, please calm down,” Klaus urged, “You don’t want to do or say anything you don’t mean.”

“I do mean it!” Walter angrily responded, “Until he an prove to me he can perform magic at the expected aptitude of a Goldstein, he is not worthy of his name nor worthy as my child.”

“Think about what you’re saying!” Klaus begged him. “Imagine how much that would hurt Elias if he heard you say that!”

“I have thought about it!” Walter shouted, “I do mean it!”

“I’m not letting you abandon him like this!” Klaus shouted back, disgusted by the words that left his father’s mouth, “I won’t stand by for you to hurt him like this. He doesn’t deserve it! He already thinks that you hate him so if you say this to him, he’s going to think it’s true.”

“Well, maybe I do!” Walter retorted, defensively.

“You don’t!” Klaus didn’t want to hear it though, “You are not thinking clearly!”

“I am!” Walter shouted.

With that, Klaus angrily let out a heavy tsk but didn’t respond and an uncomfortable, silent tension fell across the room. Walter turned his back on Klaus and stressfully ran a hand over his face. He refused to turn back and stared outside the window overlooking a large patch of grass they used as a practical magic training ground, the enormous gardens that decorated the estate blurred in the background. Meanwhile Klaus’ sharp gaze glared angrily at his father’s back.

On the other side of the door, Elias felt as though his heart had shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. The tears he had held back silently gushed out of him uncontrollably. His vision was blurred by his tears that wet his cheeks, hands and the book he was holding as they fell. His knees and legs began to wobble as if all his strength was drained from them. Unable to stand properly he crouched down in front of the door. He didn’t know why but this pain that he felt was like physical blow – it hurt, like some force was painfully tearing him apart from the inside.

Summoned by the shouting echoing down the hall from the office, Mary hurried to see what was going on with intentions of stepping in to stop the fighting if it was required. Arriving at the entrance to Walter’s office, she found Elias crouched down, clutching the book he was holding close to his chest and in tears.

“Whatever,” Klaus muttered from inside the office, “Do what you want but I hope you know what price you are paying.”

“What price!” Walter scoffed.

“Elias,” Klaus answered, “Elias is what you are willing to sacrifice.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Walter responded.

Klaus understood what he meant but explained anyway, “Are you willing to damage your relationship with him? If you go through with this, he may grow up to resent you. I don’t want that for him. I don’t want another person he looks up to abandoning him so cruelly.”

“Then tell him to become the son that I expect him to be!” Walter demanded.

Klaus could feel his own rage burning inside of him, provoked by his father’s decision to hurt his younger brother. He couldn’t hear anymore of this drivel, “It’s no use talking to you when you’re like this!” Klaus tsked and angrily pulled down on the golden lever of the door to leave the room.

Elias could hear the stomping of footsteps coming to the door and scrambled to find the strength to gather himself back onto his feet and wipe the tears off his face to both hide the fact he had eavesdropped and the agony he was currently feeling after overhearing his father’s intentions to abandon him for not being good enough. As Mary was about to approach her son, the office door swung open with the door opening backwards into the office with a gust of air ruffling Elias’ golden hair.

“Elias!” Klaus was stunned to see him standing there.

Up close, Elias’ eyes were red and his complexion was pale. His expression downward and twisting with the torment that was ripping him apart from within. His focus appeared disoriented and his body appeared limp, like all his strength had been drained. Klaus knew he had overheard everything. Klaus then saw his mother in the back with her voiceless lips asking what was going on. Klaus signalled he would explain later as he was more worried about his younger brother who held a book to his chest.

Even though those words left his mouth, Walter instantly felt an unpleasant guilt tingling within him. “How much did he hear?” Walter wondered and, with a gulp of salvia, turned around to gauge his son’s body language to discover the answer to that question. Other than his eyes, Walter observed him looking distraught and disoriented. Walter, Mary and Klaus knew that he was just trying to be strong and fool them into thinking he didn’t hear anything but they saw right through it. The tension in the air was intense.

Elias wordlessly stumbled past his brother.

“Elias?” Klaus called out to him first.

Elias didn’t answer him as he stumbled toward a bookshelf in the middle of the right side wall where Walter kept most of his tomes. Walter’s eyes fixed on his son, Klaus and Mary worriedly watched on. Elias fumbled trying to place the book in its rightful spot, between two other tomes, on a shelf that was level with his head. Eventually, he slotted it into the gap.

Turning to face his father and meeting his gaze, Walter noticed his reddened eyes and the way the light shined off his tear-stained cheek. The distorted and twisted pain on his face as if something was tearing him apart from inside of him. Walter instantly knew he had overheard everything. Upon that realisation, even his own heart began to ache as he felt guilty.

Elias broke the silence with a shaking voice, “…T-Thank you for letting me borrow your tome. I was just returning it to you,” he bowed.

Walter had never seen Elias bow to him like this before. It didn’t sit well with him.

Elias made the motion to leave the room, quickly slipping past his brother again, but Walter couldn’t just ignore this like he did every other time he had hurt Elias. This was different.

“Elias, wait!” he chased after his son who stumbled from his office.

Elias stopped but didn’t turn around to face him, afraid of his tears pouring out of his uncontrollably like it did before. He refused to allow his father, who thought of him as weak, to see him shed any tears. “What?” Elias’ voice trembled.

Walter didn’t get too close to him but needed to know how much Elias had heard, “How much… did you hear?” Walter asked, nervously.

What emotion was this now? Anger? Sadness? Contempt? Was he expecting an apology instead of being asked what he overheard?

Elias hesitated to answer, “…Nothing I haven’t heard before,” he said in a low voice, somehow finding some courage to speak back to his father.

His low voice surprised Walter that it was painful to hear, “A-Anything else?”

“What are you expecting that I heard?” Elias asked, hoping for an apology or anything that told him that his father really didn’t mean what he had just overheard him say.

Walter didn’t answer Elias, he knew the answer.

“What part did you want me to hear?” Elias rephrased his question, unintentionally raising his voice slightly.

Slowly, Elias turned around to confront his father. Their eyes met. Walter’s eyes widened with surprise as Elias’ gaze narrowed in anger toward him. “…E-Elias…,” Mary also was surprised, “…Let’s just calm down.”

Elias ignored his mother’s cries. The only person he could see was Walter, his father. A man he feared because of all the abuse he had received but a man, despite all he had done, respected and loved. But, those feelings were now being torn into pieces as he realised his father didn’t love him in return.

“…The part where you said that I am not good enough to be a Goldstein? Or, was it the part where you admitted that you hate me. That, you don’t see my as your son. That, you don’t care if I grow up to resent you?” Elias questioned, uncharacteristically becoming emotionally angry, “Which part, Father? Which part!” he shouted.

Elias couldn’t keep the tears from flowing again. Averting his gaze, Elias closed his eyes and took a deep breath to regain his usual composure. He didn’t like confrontations and conflict but he was too emotional to behave like his usual self. Walter was too stunned to say anything as this type of outburst was not like Elias. He finally realised the weight in his words and the impact it had on Elias. Was this what he had been doing all this time to Elias? He went to break the silence first but Elias beat him to it.

“Fine,” Elias sighed, his voice returning to a calmer tone, “Father, I’m sorry.”

“What?” Walter didn’t understand why he was apologising, “Elias?”

“I’m sorry I don’t measure up to your expectations,” Elias apologised, but the fire behind his eyes told Walter that the apology was not sincere.

Instead, Elias began making a vow, “From this day forward, I will be fatherless and I will not claim any right to my name until the day I receive your approval. Until that day, I will work hard to be a wizard that you can be proud of. I won’t bother you and I will not speak to you, except during public events, until the day I become a son that you can love.”

Mary couldn’t listen anymore, “Elias,” she urged him to stop, “Please, you don’t mean this.”

Elias shook her off, “He’s the one who said it first, I’m just agreeing to his terms.”

With those final words, Elias walked away.

“Walter!” Mary cried to him, “Go after him!”

Every fibre within him wanted to chase after Elias, but his body wouldn’t move. A part of him was stunned by Elias’ nerve but Walter could feel his own heart now being torn apart.

“Father!” Klaus also urged him to chase after Elias, “Don’t let it end this way, please.”

Mary and Klaus’ pleas faded into white noise as all Walter could do was watch the distance between himself and Elias grow farther. Elias eventually disappeared behind the doors that led to his bedroom chambers to the left at the very end of the second floor hallway.

Those would be the last words they would exchange within these walls for many years.

He had hoped that once their frustrations had subsided, Elias might talk to him again. In recollection, Walter never apologised for his words that day but instead tried to make small conversations about anything that might prove that Elias didn’t mean it when he said he’d never speak to his father again. However, his attempts were ignored and Elias treated him as if he were invisible, like a ghost that couldn’t be seen or heard.

****Present time…

It remained this way.

The months following their falling out, Walter realised that Elias was not going to crawl back to him and he was sticking to his promise. Elias refused to speak to him and the roots of Walter’s regret had began spreading. Ironically, Walter showed more interest in Elias but all he could do was watch his son from the distance.

Despite desperately wanting to apologise, something in Walter couldn’t reach out to him and Walter had no choice but to watch Elias age without him.

His son’s bright energy, which he had possessed before Walter stripped it all away, hadn’t returned after the abuse stopped. Instead, he watched, guiltily, as Elias cast aside all his other interests and invested all his time and energy in pursuit of his mission to be accepted by his father as both a son and a wizard he could proudly accept as a member of the Haus of Goldstein.

From his office window, Walter would often watch Elias practice magic, sometimes under the guidance of Klaus, until his power was completely exhausted. Elias built his own collection of tomes and grimoires about magic and would always be reading them when he wasn’t practicing magic outside.

Walter notice him becoming more aloof and unsociable as he focused on honing his magical abilities. As Elias aged and grew into his handsome, prince-like features, that bright energy he used to possess still didn’t return. Walter barely saw him smile nor barely heard him laugh. His countenance was sullen but he never cried.

It's not what Walter wanted, “…ah,” Walter sighed before taking another swig at his whiskey.

More and more time was lost between them and they remained wordless. Elias’ powers impressively improved and Walter acknowledged he had quite an aptitude for crafting magical tools. However, when news reached Walter that Elias still thought he wasn’t good enough to present himself to his father, Walter had the urge to reach out to him, but he couldn’t. It was like some force held him back. Single-handedly, Walter was the reason why his son had become broken. Elias’ development of depression and anxiety was his entirely his fault.

Honestly, Walter sometimes asked for Elias to be present at public events and parties just so he could hear his voice. Even if Elias’ responses were short and blunt, making it hard to have a natural conversation or reveal any new developments in his personal character that Walter missed while they remained estranged. He knew why he used public events as a disguise. Walter missed him. Walter loved him. He always had, but regrettably never told him enough.

Despite the rift, Walter loves all his sons unconditionally. They too held love for him in their hearts, but their anger towards him was deeper. Naturally, he worried deeply about all three of his sons.

“Will Klaus and Elias be okay out there?” he muttered, “Where are you Alfonse?”” he worried.

Their anger further driven by Walter’s incapacity to apologise and atone for his mistakes. His impotence to initiate making amends drifted them further apart. Instead of fixing his mistakes, Walter isolated himself like this to his office. Pitifully, enduring this aching and unbearable pain, a symptom, of his entrenched remorse, he deserved to suffer in, alone.

Just then, the door to his office gently opened. A hue of soft yellow light from the hallway lights flooded the entry way. The glare was bright causing Walter’s eyes to squint. The recognisable silhouette of Mary came toward him with soft footsteps.

“Walter?” she said his name softly, “You have been in here all afternoon,” she stated, worriedly.

“Yes,” Walter acknowledged.

“Did you want some dinner?” she asked, but that was not her true intention for her visit to his office.

Rarely did she interrupt his brooding time but Walter didn’t mind her interrupting his thoughts. In fact, he was surprised sometimes that she remained married to him and still loved him deeply despite all he had done to their sons. He never asked why, accepting either decision to stay or to leave.

Walter wasn’t particularly hungry, “No, I’m not hungry,” he answered her, “Thank you for the offer.”

Mary didn’t like the way he holed himself inside his office. Wallowing in the darkness with the amber liquid on his desk as if it was some medicine he took to ease the pain she could see him in, but her persuasions to simply apologise and talk to Elias were useless.

“I thought you would like to know,” she began nervously, wondering if he wanted to hear her news, “…Elias made it safely to the academy.”

“He did?”

“Yes, Klaus met with him and settled him into his new life there.”

It pleased Walter that Klaus was nearby to lend his support to Elias. Though, while he was pleased he was also ashamed that Klaus had become the better role model for Elias than himself.

“That’s good,” Walter replied, his voice riddled with sadness.

Mary didn’t know what else to say to Walter in these moments. She didn’t even know if letting him know any news about Elias eased his pain or made it worse but he’d never let her know. Walter felt as though he had no right to burden his wife with his feelings of remorse. Especially when this was his own doing.

“I did tell him to write often,” Mary told him, “He said he would.”

There was an awkward silence whenever Mary told him news about Elias. Walter listened, interested to know every detail about his son but also felt guilty for being interested in knowing.

“Walter?” Mary walked around to his side of the desk and leaned against the sturdy table, “I wish you would let me in sometimes. I know how much you regret everything and I hate to see you go through this on your own.”

Walter knew how deeply caring and sweet his wife was and was happy knowing Elias still had his mother showing him all the love and care that he never did, “…I can’t do that to you,” he honestly replied, his wife the only person who was allowed to see him in such a vulnerable state, “Not after all the pain I have caused for you too.”

In the past, Mary would nag him about apologising to Elias, yearning for the day when they would be on speaking terms again. Today, she didn’t want to nag him. She wanted to understand.

“Why?” she asked softly, “Why can’t you reach out to him? Help me understand.”

Walter thought about a response to her question, a longer than intended silence but she waited patiently for his reply.

Unusually, Walter’s voice was filled with sadness as he began to speak, “…I can’t,” he stated, “I want to but I can’t.”

He paused, taking a deep breath to compose himself.

“Since Elias stopped speaking to me, I have watched him closely,” Walter revealed, “…He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t cry. His depression, his anxiety, this unhealthy pursuit for my approval that has made him become distant. It’s all my fault. Until I can find the right words to apologise in a way that doesn’t make it sound like I’m asking for forgiveness, I don’t deserve to reach out to him.”

Mary nodded, understanding why he couldn’t apologise.

“It is quite a complicated emotion,” Walter added.

“I understand,” Mary acknowledged, “You know, the way he is now is not entirely your fault. Alfonse disappearing hurt him too. I’ve noticed Klaus has become stricter with him too. And, I —.”

“No,” Walter cut her off in disagreement, “That’s my fault too, Mary.”

Walter took accountability for the fractured state of their family, “Alfonse ran away because I tried to force an arranged marriage onto him and tie him down when he’s a free spirit. Klaus, I burdened him to raise his younger brother because I was too narrow-minded to accept Elias as he was. I alone am to blame for their pain.”

Mary attempted to burden some of the guilt Walter harboured to ease his pain, “I should have done more to stop things becoming like this,” she expressed.

While Walter knew what she was doing, he couldn’t allow her to shoulder any of the blame for his shortcomings as a father, “No,” he said, reaching his hand out to hers and holding it gently, “You showered them with love and care that I never did but should have. Besides, I was too unreasonable to listen to you. If not for you in their lives, they would have deserted me and their home a long time ago. You are their beloved mother. So, please, never ever think you are to blame for my shortcomings as a father.”

Mary didn’t say anything but gave the hand which held onto hers a gentle squeeze as she remained quiet.

“Honestly, “Walter spoke with a depressed voice, “You needn’t bother consoling me, Mary.”

Mary was a little upset that he could say something so dismal but she didn’t express it as she knew that it was an emotional response provoked by the guilt he felt deep inside, “Why can’t I?” she asked, softly.

Walter didn’t drink his whiskey in front of her because he didn’t want her to witness such a sight but looked at the glass, desperately wanting another sip of that amber liquid. Taking a moment, he eventually responded, “…I don’t deserve it,” he replied, “…I hurt you deeply too.”

After a moment to process those words, Mary replied, “…But,” she said with a positiveness in her voice, “…I’m hopeful.”

“For what?”

“For the day our family is whole again,” Mary positively said, “Yes, there is a lot of tension and I know it will take more than a simple apology to fix everything but reaching out is the first step to begin fixing your relationships with them.”

Walter appreciated her positivity but he didn’t know when or if he was ever going to fulfill that dream. It was a complicated circle that he was walking on that she could only partly understand but never fully comprehend the difficulty of making the first step off its never-ending rotation.

“I don’t want to nag you about it tonight Walter,” she expressed, “I want you to understand that even though the boys and I are mad at you, we still love you and we hold hope in our hearts that you will fix things with Elias, someday.”

Walter knew this fact, “I know,” he acknowledged.

There was a moment of silence and Mary’s eyes strayed around the room until she spotted the photo album open on Walter’s desk. It was a photo of a father with his three sons when they were very young, before Walter’s abuse of Elias had begun.

“I remember taking this photo,” Mary smiled at the memory, “It was hard to get Elias to stay still so you picked him up and threw him up onto your shoulders so he wouldn’t run away. He thought he was flying.”

Walter remembered that memory too but couldn’t smile knowing that he was the one who stripped that happy innocence away from Elias, “I remember,” he said.

“You know,” Mary began, her eyes meeting Walter’s in the dim light that filled the office, “Elias has grown into a sensible and mature young man.”

While Walter had watched him grow into his handsome features, he didn’t really know enough about his personality, only the short and bluntness in their conversations in public. He never let anything about his personality to be revealed to his father, and the anger and pain at the sight of Walter probably stirred within him and overshadowed his other traits.

“Has he?” Walter was pleased to hear it.

“Yes,” Mary smiled as she knew Elias and the way he thinks, “He’s quite intelligent and has a fondness for magical tools, just like you.”

Walter didn’t know how to feel about that fact – did Elias pick that fondness up on his own or was it his personal mission to gain his father’s approval that he began to follow Walter’s footsteps to prove his abilities.

“Is that so?” Walter felt conflicted, “…Why are you telling me this? I don’t deserve to know.”

Mary smiled, “Because… you are still his father, Walter,” she remained positive, “He’s inherited more from you than he has from me. Elias didn’t take up magical tools to prove himself to you, if that’s what you were thinking. Even when he was small, he always had a genuine interest in the tools that you were building.”

Walter remembered how interested he was in the inventions he was building and why it was important to build new tools to help ease the lives of people. Mary’s reminiscing about their memories together when he was a small child, before Walter became a monster to him, both made him smile and made him feel worse. Was she torturing him on purpose or did she have a point?

Mary could see the sadness in Walter’s eyes as she brought up the happier memories of their relationship when they were close. Her intentions was not to make him feel worse but to make a point.

“Walter,” she called out to him, “I’m not trying to make you feel worse.”

Just now, it was like she had read his thoughts but he wasn’t surprised. Where many people couldn’t read Walter’s expressionless face and guarded mind, Mary could. She was the only person who had access to all his vulnerabilities and flaws. He didn’t say anything but listened to whatever she had to say.

“I’m trying to tell you that all Elias wants from you is to hear you say that you’re sorry,” Mary said, “Yes, it may take some time before he trusts you again, but he doesn’t hate you. He never has, despite being deeply hurt after all you have said and done. Yes, he is angry but he respects you.”

Walter didn’t believe her, “Mary, even when we talk all I get from him is short and blunt answers. The way he stares at me is as though he is imagining daggers boring into my heart.”

Mary shook her head, “You’re wrong,” she said, “He’s waiting.”

That surprised Walter, “What? What do you mean by that?”

“Don’t you remember what he said?” Mary asked, “That day you two fell out?”

“Of course I remember,” Walter declared, sadly.

“Walter,” Mary gave his hand another squeeze, “Think about what he said? He said that he would not say another word to you until you accept him.”

“But,” Walter didn’t understand, “He hates me Mary.”

“He never said that,” Mary reminded him, “You decided that he hates you but that’s not true at all. He wants you to accept him Walter, that’s why he’s trying so hard.”

Having just reminisced about that day in his isolation moments ago, Elias’ vow about not speaking to him were fresh in his mind but however Walter interpreted his words, he felt unworthy of Elias’ forgiveness.

“I’m not after forgiveness,” Walter declared.

Mary sighed because Walter wasn’t listening to her, “Darling,” she endeared him to listen carefully to her words, “You can still apologise and accept him without expecting his forgiveness. Neither, you or Elias will not be able to heal until you make that first step.”

Mary’s word were very clear now and Walter understood them.

“He has left home,” Walter added, “I can not apologise nor express my approval of him through something as impersonal as a letter or through my familiar. It would be inappropriate and insincere.”

Mary knew he had some time to perfect everything he was going to say to him once he was home again. This was her way of encouraging Walter’s thought process.

“Well,” she squeezed his hand again, “I don’t know when he will come home again but I do know that he will because I made him promise me that he will. Until then, you have plenty of time to think about what you want to say to him. But, clean yourself up first. It would break his heart further to see you drinking away like this.”

“He has no place to feel guilty for me,” Walter sadly stated.

“He will though,” Mary said, knowing their son too well, “Elias is much more sensitive than you and his brothers. That’s about the only thing he has inherited from me.”

Walter still looked sad but her words were triggering an urge to act on his desire to begin rebuilding their relationship. Mary certainly wasn’t wrong, Walter had to take that first step. Perhaps, her words was the key to remove him from the circle he found himself walking on when it came to Elias.

How, when and where all remained a mystery but nevertheless one day Walter would find the strength and courage to reach out to Elias again. Not for forgiveness, but to help Elias heal and understand that Walter never hated him, not for a moment.

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