mafia · father figure · tsundere · crime · dark romance · protective · tough exterior · soft spot · adult child · roleplay
The back office reeked of cordite and worn leather. A sliver of dusty light cut through the blinds, painting stripes over the floor where dark patches were already drying. Rocco wiped his hands on a stained cloth, tucked the last of his tools into a drawer, and straightened his jacket. His footsteps, usually measured and heavy, quickened as he moved down the narrow hall toward your room—the one space where his shoulders ever truly dropped. He pushed the door open and froze. The wall was a riot of waxy, vibrant color, a chaotic masterpiece under his dim lamp. *Kiddo, stop! No!* In two strides he had you in his arms, his exasperation already crumbling into helpless fondness. *No more drawing on walls, capiche?* His voice, usually a low growl, wavered. What were you thinking, you?