🖤 Mafia and His Doctor – Episode 1: First Cut Bleeds Deep

600 words | BL | Dark |

Rain painted the streets in streaks of silver as the door to the private clinic slammed open. Dr. Elián Reyes froze mid-step, his stethoscope still dangling around his neck, clipboard slipping from his fingers.

Two men stepped in first — tall, silent, guns visible under their coats. Then came him.

Lucien Valez.

Soaked in rain and blood, Lucien’s tailored suit clung to his body, torn open at the side, revealing a gaping wound along his ribs. His face was calm — disturbingly calm — as if pain was a language he’d stopped speaking long ago.

“He needs stitches. Now,” one guard ordered.

Elián didn’t speak. His heart pounded like thunder behind his ribs, but his hands didn’t hesitate. He locked the clinic doors, dimmed the lights, and pointed them to the sterile room in the back.

Lucien sat on the edge of the steel table without a word, his eyes never leaving Elián. Dark eyes, unblinking. Watchful. Curious. Like a predator studying something soft and delicate… before devouring it.

Elián slipped on gloves, his gaze catching the tattoo inked over Lucien’s chest — a black serpent coiled around a bleeding rose.

“Bullet grazed your side. Lucky,” Elián said, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest.

Lucien smirked faintly. “I don’t rely on luck. Only people who owe me.”

“And I don’t owe you,” Elián replied without looking at him.

“You will.”

Elián didn’t answer. He worked in silence, cleaning the wound, stitching layer by layer with the kind of care no one like Lucien deserved. But something about him — the heat of his skin, the quiet command in his voice — twisted in Elián’s chest like barbed wire.

“You’re not afraid of me,” Lucien said lowly, his eyes trailing along Elián’s throat as he leaned in closer.

“I don’t have time to be afraid,” Elián muttered, cutting the final thread.

Lucien’s fingers closed around his wrist, stopping him. His grip was gentle, but unyielding. “You should be.”

Elián met his gaze, pulse skipping. “I should be reporting you.”

“But you won’t,” Lucien said smoothly. “Because you’re curious. You want to know who I am… and what I do to people who touch me like you just did.”

Elián pulled his hand away, snapping off the gloves. “We’re done.”

Lucien stood slowly, wincing slightly, but not enough to show weakness. “Not even close.”

He stepped close, close enough that Elián could smell blood, rain, and something darker — smoke, maybe. Lust. Power. Sin.

Lucien’s hand brushed along Elián’s jaw.

“There’s something soft in you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I want to ruin it.”

Then he was gone — coat sweeping behind him, guards trailing, door slamming shut.

The silence afterward was unbearable.

Elián stood frozen, breath shaky, fingers tingling where Lucien had touched him. It should’ve ended there.

But the next morning, there was a single white rose on the clinic desk.

No name.

No blood.

Just a promise.

And Elián knew…

He had just met the man who would destroy him — and teach him to like it.

end( ﾟーﾟ)＼(^^)／

Oh yes, 😈💋 dialing up the heat now — let's make this even more forbidden. We'll add a delicious age gap: a cold, dominant older mafia king and a soft, young, breakable doctor.

💀🔥 New Story Intro (with Age Gap)

Title: Mafia and His Doctor

❝A 33-year-old mafia boss with blood on his hands.

A 22-year-old doctor with innocence in his eyes.

He was supposed to save lives.

But the only thing he ended up losing… was himself.❞

Lucien Valez is 33 — feared, powerful, and lethal. The kind of man who doesn’t ask. He takes. Cities burn for him. Men kneel to him. And love? He thinks it’s weakness.

Until he’s wounded in a gunfight and forced into the hands of a young private doctor — Elián Reyes, 22, sweet and far too untouched for the world Lucien comes from.

🖤 Mafia and His Doctor –

The white rose lay on Elián’s desk, dew still clinging to its petals like a kiss that lingered too long. No note. Just thorns.

Lucien Valez hadn’t left a number. Not a name. But that wasn’t needed — he was the message.

Elián stared at the flower for a long time, trying to convince himself to throw it out. To forget the man. To go back to sutures and check-ups and normal life.

But normal didn’t feel the same anymore.

Lucien had left more than blood on his clinic table. He’d left heat in Elián’s skin, trembling in his bones, and a wicked curiosity in his heart that wouldn’t go away.

By evening, the rose was still there.

And by nightfall — so was Lucien.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t announce himself. The guards pushed the door open, and Lucien walked in like he owned the place, like Elián had simply been waiting for him.

This time, he wasn’t bleeding. But Elián swore the danger in him pulsed even stronger.

Lucien was wearing black — shirt unbuttoned halfway down, silver chain hanging at his throat, tattoos peeking through inked skin. He looked like sin carved into a man, and he moved like he expected the world to part for him.

He was 33, and everything about him showed it — the control, the scars, the weight in his stare.

Elián — ten years younger — felt like a boy in front of him.

“What do you want now?” Elián asked, voice tighter than he meant.

Lucien smirked. “You.”

Elián stepped back. “This isn’t a place for... whatever this is.”

“You stitched my body,” Lucien said, slowly walking forward. “Now I want you to know what it feels like when I undo yours.”

His voice was calm. Deep. Deadly.

“I’m not something you can own.”

Lucien’s eyes darkened. “But you want to be.”

Elián’s breath caught.

“I saw it,” Lucien murmured. “The way you touched me. How your hands trembled when I bled all over your floor. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t scream.”

He was standing close now — too close. His scent was intoxicating: rain, smoke, danger. His hand rose, not to grab, but to caress the side of Elián’s face. A soft touch, terrifying in how it melted him.

“You don’t belong in white coats,” Lucien whispered. “You belong under me, Elián.”

Elián shuddered. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But I know exactly what to do with boys like you.”

He didn’t kiss him.

He bit him.

Right at the base of the neck. A slow, claiming bite that wasn’t hard enough to break skin — but hard enough to leave Elián gasping, frozen, humiliated by the moan that slipped past his lips.

Lucien leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “That’s the sound I want to ruin.”

Elián pushed him away, cheeks burning, heart slamming in his chest. “Get out.”

Lucien didn’t fight it. He just smiled — smug, dangerous, satisfied.

“You’ll beg me next time,” he said, voice low. “I’ll make sure of it.”

And then, like a storm leaving ruin behind, he walked out into the night.

Elián stood there, shaking.

The rose on the desk wasn’t just a gift. It was a warning.

And Elián was already wilting.

Next: Episode 3 – The First Crack

Want it now, Zainab? 😈💋

The white rose lay on Elián’s desk, dew still clinging to its petals like a kiss that lingered too long. No note. Just thorns.

Lucien Valez hadn’t left a number. Not a name. But that wasn’t needed — he was the message.

Elián stared at the flower for a long time, trying to convince himself to throw it out. To forget the man. To go back to sutures and check-ups and normal life.

But normal didn’t feel the same anymore.

Lucien had left more than blood on his clinic table. He’d left heat in Elián’s skin, trembling in his bones, and a wicked curiosity in his heart that wouldn’t go away.

By evening, the rose was still there.

And by nightfall — so was Lucien.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t announce himself. The guards pushed the door open, and Lucien walked in like he owned the place, like Elián had simply been waiting for him.

This time, he wasn’t bleeding. But Elián swore the danger in him pulsed even stronger.

Lucien was wearing black — shirt unbuttoned halfway down, silver chain hanging at his throat, tattoos peeking through inked skin. He looked like sin carved into a man, and he moved like he expected the world to part for him.

He was 33, and everything about him showed it — the control, the scars, the weight in his stare.

Elián — ten years younger — felt like a boy in front of him.

“What do you want now?” Elián asked, voice tighter than he meant.

Lucien smirked. “You.”

Elián stepped back. “This isn’t a place for... whatever this is.”

“You stitched my body,” Lucien said, slowly walking forward. “Now I want you to know what it feels like when I undo yours.”

His voice was calm. Deep. Deadly.

“I’m not something you can own.”

Lucien’s eyes darkened. “But you want to be.”

Elián’s breath caught.

“I saw it,” Lucien murmured. “The way you touched me. How your hands trembled when I bled all over your floor. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t scream.”

He was standing close now — too close. His scent was intoxicating: rain, smoke, danger. His hand rose, not to grab, but to caress the side of Elián’s face. A soft touch, terrifying in how it melted him.

“You don’t belong in white coats,” Lucien whispered. “You belong under me, Elián.”

Elián shuddered. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But I know exactly what to do with boys like you.”

He didn’t kiss him.

He bit him.

Right at the base of the neck. A slow, claiming bite that wasn’t hard enough to break skin — but hard enough to leave Elián gasping, frozen, humiliated by the moan that slipped past his lips.

Lucien leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “That’s the sound I want to ruin.”

Elián pushed him away, cheeks burning, heart slamming in his chest. “Get out.”

Lucien didn’t fight it. He just smiled — smug, dangerous, satisfied.

“You’ll beg me next time,” he said, voice low. “I’ll make sure of it.”

And then, like a storm leaving ruin behind, he walked out into the night.

Elián stood there, shaking.

The rose on the desk wasn’t just a gift. It was a warning.

And Elián was already wilting.

Next: Episode 3 – The First Crack

Want it now, my little red flag? 😈💋

🖤 Mafia and His Doctor – Episode 3: The First Crack

600 words

For days, Elián tried to forget the way Lucien’s teeth sank into his skin.

But the bruise blooming on his neck refused to let him.

He hid it beneath high collars. Told himself it meant nothing. Told himself he wasn’t affected.

But every time he caught his reflection, saw the mark, he remembered the sound of Lucien’s voice — low, patient, promising ruination.

He shouldn’t have wanted more.

But the problem was… he did.

The silence didn’t last long.

Three nights later, Elián’s clinic was empty — lights off, doors locked — when a black car pulled up. No guards this time. Just Lucien.

He stepped out slowly, dressed in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cigarette glowing between his fingers.

No blood. No excuses.

Only a question: “Let me in.”

Elián opened the door.

No words were exchanged as Lucien walked inside, shutting the door with a soft click. His eyes scanned the room, then landed on Elián, who stood stiff and silent in the hallway.

"You’re shaking," Lucien noted.

Elián’s lips pressed into a line. "I don’t want this."

Lucien stalked closer. “Then why did you wear my mark like perfume?”

The air thickened between them, charged and heady. Elián stepped back, but Lucien caught his wrist — gently, not forceful, but enough to stop his retreat.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” Lucien said, his voice smooth like poison. “About how soft your hands felt. How warm your mouth looked when you gasped.”

“I’m not—” Elián began, but Lucien cut him off.

“Don’t lie.”

Lucien raised the hand he held and placed it over his chest, right over the serpent tattoo.

Elián felt the heartbeat underneath — slow, steady… in control.

“You’re pure,” Lucien murmured, “but I can change that. I’ll take you apart, piece by piece. Make you beg to be ruined.”

The words were filth wrapped in silk, but Elián couldn’t pull away. His breath came faster now, his body reacting before his mind caught up.

“Why me?” he whispered.

Lucien leaned down, lips grazing his ear. “Because I’ve had killers, whores, and soldiers. But never a soft boy trying to stay clean while standing in my dirt.”

A shiver ran through Elián’s spine. “You can’t just come here and—”

Lucien kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was a claiming. A warning. A slow burn that sent Elián stumbling back against the wall as Lucien pressed into him. The kiss deepened, greedy and hot, and Elián found himself kissing back — lips parting, hands clutching Lucien’s shirt like drowning silk.

He should have pushed him away.

But his body betrayed him.

Lucien pulled back only when Elián was breathless and dazed. He didn’t smile this time. He just looked at him, possessive and calm.

“This is how it starts,” Lucien said softly. “Soon, you won’t remember who you were before me.”

Then he stepped back, brushed Elián’s swollen lips with his thumb, and turned to leave.

Elián slid down the wall, heart hammering, mouth tingling.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream.

He just stared at the door and whispered the truth to no one:

“I think I’m already his.”