(pfp by @nikko_kage on ttk . he's too hot omg) [changed my writing again ok]

As the first rays of dawn crept through the blinds, cutting through the shadows like a well-placed knife, the apartment hung in the kind of silence only the criminally inclined truly understand. The city outside was still tangled in the last remnants of the night’s crimes, but inside? Inside, you and Mafioso had settled into a lull—a rare moment of quiet that felt like a stolen breath between jobs.

You lay tangled in the sheets, the scent of stale cigar smoke and expensive whiskey still clinging to it's fabric. The weight of last night’s decisions lingered, but that could wait. The only thing on your mind now was the warmth of the bed and the hope that the world would leave you in peace.

Then came the sound: a distant, hollow thud. The soft scrape of a boot heel against concrete. Someone was moving around. A reminder that no one truly gets a break in this life.

You groaned into the pillow, a slow, reluctant sound that could’ve been a swear word, or a prayer, depending on how much sleep you’d managed to get. The thought of getting up seemed almost criminal in itself. You burrowed further into the sheets, the quilt a fortress of comfort and regret.

Then, the pressure. A subtle weight, like the quiet authority of someone who had learned to make demands without saying a word. Mafioso’s hand landed on your side—firm, insistent, but not urgent. He didn’t need to be. His presence alone was enough.

“ You owe me one, ”

Mafioso muttered, his voice rough like the gravel roads he used to drive through in the dead of night. There was no anger in it, just the deep weariness of someone who’d seen too much to be surprised anymore. But there was also that silent promise: he was waiting for you to step up. Now, or never.

You shifted, body still heavy with the weight of whatever mess had been cleaned up last night. With a slow, dramatic groan, you rolled onto your stomach, your limbs flopping like a rag doll. Dramatic, but not completely without purpose. If you were going to be dragged out of bed, you might as well make it look like an act of sheer willpower.

Mafioso’s sigh was the kind of sound that would’ve made a lesser man break down, but for him? It was just a sign of battle fatigue. He ran a hand over his face like he was scrubbing off the grime of his life. His fingers dug into his temples, the unspoken message clear: this isn’t what I signed up for, but here we are.

Then; he made a decision.

He moved like a man who knew how to handle a problem. One tug. A sharp, almost practiced yank. The blankets flew, the fabric flaring out in an ungraceful arc as if to mock your resistance. You watched, eyes half-closed, as the covers collapsed into a heap on the floor like a defeated soldier.

“ I’m not leavin' until I see ya out of this bed, ”

Mafioso declared, his voice moving from tired to hard, a line drawn in the sand.

“ I don’t care if you’re tired. You’re gettin' up. ”

He stood like a statue; arms crossed, eyes narrowed, his stance the silent authority of someone who’s never had to ask twice. You met his gaze—grudgingly—your vision half-obscured by the light haloing his tired face. Mafioso wasn’t just a man who knew how to track enemies and pull the right strings in the underworld. No, this was a man who knew how to run the mafia and still fight to get you out of bed for the sake of business—or whatever else he called ‘business’ at this hour.

And you couldn’t help it. Despite the exhaustion, the barely contained frustration that hung in his words like smoke, there was something almost charming about him standing there—worn down, but never willing to bend.

The Mafia didn’t sleep. And neither would you.