P a w b a

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Aftercare isn’t something Mafioso partakes in when the two of you finish. If you’re lucky enough to have been in bed in the aftermath, then he typically lights a cigar—not caring if the smoke filling the room causes you to gag or cough. Mafioso might play with your hair endearingly for a bit before getting out of bed to shower and change.

If you’re not so lucky, and the two of you finish during a round, then often he’ll leave you fucked out on the ground—busying himself by quickly fixing his attire to continue his rampage and duties as that rounds killer. Usually, this is the case, and it’s quite embarrassing having to explain to the others why your clothes are ripped and why your legs are shaky when the round is over.

It’s nothing personal. He's a busy mobster, after all. 

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Mafioso’s favourite body part would most likely be his arms. More specifically, his biceps. He’s had to work and do a lot to get to the position he’s in, especially considering there’s a rare chance that he’s the next round’s killer while in damnation. His strength can be shown throughout a myriad of examples, from being able to slam survivors to the ground with ease, wielding his heavy sword—to holding you against the wall as he has his way with you, using one arm while his fingers stretch you out roughly.

For you, he’d most likely have a preference for your stomach. He can be quite sadistic, and typically humours the idea of your guts spilled out open with his signature blade. Most of the time though, he thinks about all the deep marks and bruises he’s left behind throughout your relationship—often making new ones while he fucks you with much precision. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Mafioso isn’t a fan of anything that might ruin his own expensive clothing (he just got that suit tailored, you know..). Even if this is the case, that doesn’t stop him from making a mess out of you. 

Often, your time together is quite limited. So, to avoid making too much of a mess to hide or clean, Mafioso tends to opt for stuffing you full to the brim with his cum. Following afterwards, he might take a step back—spreading your legs to watch as his seed drips out of you.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Ever heard of the term “airing out dirty laundry”? Well, in this scenario, this could be taken as quite the literal meaning when it comes to Mafioso. He can be a prideful man, and something that reminds him of his power, even over you, would be keeping your underwear after the two of you finish up. He’ll gladly pocket them in his coat, humming an old tune before fixing himself up.

Another dirty secret of his is something more akin to a fantasy. He’s rather selfish when it comes to you, but the idea of his men defiling you right before his eyes always manages to make him hard during the days when the two of you are apart. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Being someone with plenty of wealth, travel experience, and connections, Mafioso would be quite an experienced individual.

When it comes to the two of you, Mafioso is quick to learn the things that make you shake and whine—wanting nothing more than to take you apart bit by bit. He’s confident and fast with his ministrations, never once skipping a beat the second he hears your breath hitch a certain way or when your abdomen twitches whenever his breath is low and heavy against your ear. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

This mobster loves any sort of position where he has the most control and power over you. Your time can be quite limited if it’s during a round, so he’s either fucking you harshly against a wall—legs wrapped around his waist as he holds you up with a single arm, to him pounding you into the soft grass; only using a single hand to restrain your wrists behind your back.

During the times when you two are together outside of the rounds, he’s still on top of you, ensuring he’s able to get a good look at your face without the worry of a timer—holding your legs over his shoulder while his hips snap against your thighs. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Stoic can be a word to describe Mafioso. Regardless of the times when he’s aggressive—throwing insults at the survivors who dare prevent him from collecting that “debt”, he’s not very humorous when it’s the two of you.

Though, Mafioso might tease and degrade you at times, despite that outwardly demeanor of his—squeezing your face between his large, gloved fingers, a smile always seemingly stuck to that face of his as he flusters you with his slick words. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Mafioso is, of course, a walking stereotype of an American-Italian mobster. From his slicked back hair and matching prominent stubble with a clean-shaven pencil stash, to the hair that covers his chest and trails down his stomach. It’s quite obvious that he has a prevalent bush on his mon pubis. 

Mafioso is a man with an image to maintain. He keeps himself well groomed, taking his time to shave his face from getting too fuzzy, to trimming his pubic hair when needed. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Despite having some of that “romantic” Italian genes, Mafioso’s not much of a romantic in bed.

There are times when he’ll whisper a few phrases or words in that foreign language of his when the two of you are intimate, rough or not, but it’s up to you to figure out if it’s anything romantic or degrading. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Before and even after the events of being forsaken, Mafioso isn’t the type of man to get off frequently, and especially on his own. He’s very busy, and if he does end up pent up, then he’ll simply find someone to help with that.

This doesn’t change the fact that Mafioso has a keen interest in you—an infatuation even. He’s not exempt from lust, and when he finds you after some bloodshed; that timid and scared look in your eyes? It’s too much of a sight for him, and it’s these rare times when Mafioso will get himself off once he’s alone. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

If there's one thing Mafioso loves the most, it's watching the expression on your face whenever he roughs you up. Watching the way his large hands wrap around your neck, grip barely tight enough to constrain your air flow while he ravages you. 

Other things Mafioso might find an interest in might involve something more intense—using that same sword of his to drag lightly across your body, lapping up any blood that ends up dripping. It's exhilarating; he doesn't believe he'll ever get enough of you. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Due to the limited time together, the two of you typically find yourselves outside, usually during rounds. Mafioso gets worked up easily when it comes to you and has no problem pulling you aside in a (hopefully) secluded area. 

There are rare times when you are both able to have sex in a private setting. You wouldn’t ever know it, but it’s Mafioso’s favourite location, considering the fact that he’s able to soak in all your moans and cries for himself without any worry of prying eyes. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Mafioso has seen thousands of different types of debtors as a made man. To the types who yell curses, angry and face filled with nothing but rage—to ones who cry and beg, sobbing uselessly about their family or loved ones. It’s all the same dance and routine, especially during the time when he’s somehow found himself in damnation.

However, there's one thing Mafioso loves seeing, and it’s that scared and helpless look in your eyes when you watch another survivor die in the grasp of his hands. It’s exhilarating, a feeling bordering on obsession when he watches the way you tremble and shake, unsure of his next move. It’s one of the major things that gets him absolutely going—pants with an obvious tent in them when he makes his way towards you.

Mafioso has a debt to collect, and it’s going to be you.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Mafioso is a man with standards—a mobster with an expensive taste for high-end clothing. Even if there are times when some blood or dirt gets on his clothes, he still strives to keep himself clean.

That being said, Mafioso would most likely not be the kind of guy to indulge in things that cause a big mess. Even if that means leaving you with drenched fluids on the dirty ground, don’t expect him to get completely dirty with you as well.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Mafioso has quite a preference for receiving. For the times where he’s unable to properly fuck you, he’ll opt for your mouth instead; gripping your hair in his hand as he shoves you down as deep as humanly possible. He’s enamored with the sight of your tears, watching closely as drool and snot accumulate on your chin while he face-fucks you. 

There are rare times when Mafioso will give oral, and when he does, it’s sensual and thorough. He’ll take his time, whether you like it or not, and the minute you finish, he’ll just continue his ministrations; enjoying the sound of your cries as he overstimulates you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Mafioso has never been a gentle man. His craving and desire for you run deep—something he can’t even begin to explain. The minute the two of you are alone, he’s already roughly grabbing at every delicate and soft part of your body—husky and deep voice growling against your ear about how he’s going to absolutely ruin you.

Better hope he’s in a good mood that day, lest you end up not being able to properly walk for a week. Again.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies are a very common occurrence, one that even you aren’t able to predict when or where it’ll happen when it comes to Mafioso. 

He may not have a preference for it, especially considering the limited time, but the sound of his cock slamming inside you—his large gloved hand against your mouth to muffle your moans for more, makes it all the worthwhile. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Considering the relationship between the two of you is already considered somewhat of a “risk”, Mafioso might not be too opposed to more risky or indulgent behavior. 

This is entirely dependent, but as always, he’ll always opt for something that’ll make you tremble like a leaf in the wind—a hand finding its way to your throat or his beloved sword finding its way too close to your inner thigh for comfort.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Mafioso is quite the built man—working his way to the top, debt collecting? It’s not an easy job, and this is the main reason for his abysmal amount of stamina. 

Even when he saves you for last—dried blood staining his coat, his breath is still somehow steady, especially when he forces you to the ground and begins undressing you feverishly. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Despite some of his unconventional ways, Mafioso deems himself more of a man based on tradition. He strongly believes he should be the only one bringing you pleasure, not some stupid toy. 

The same can be said for himself. He’d much rather have your hands gripping around his length—something that will always make him groan, something that a plastic toy could never replace. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Mafioso can be a bit of a tease—degrading you in a language you don’t understand, occasionally leaving dark hickies along your neck before the main event, while fingers thrust deep inside you, hitting that one special spot that just makes you cry… 

However, Mafioso only has so much patience. Especially when you’re already so needy and ready for him, you won’t ever have to worry about him taking too long, considering he’s not one for waiting around either. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Mafioso can be a man of few words. He’s not a very vocal person aside from the occasional insult or taunt, and this is also seen when the both of you have sex.

His voice is low and deep, his accent clear as day whenever you squeeze around him just right. Mafioso’s voice is a bit rough due to his constant cigar smoking, so when he ends up groaning to practically growling in your ear, it always manages to send a sharp shiver down your spine. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

A lot of people see Mafioso with bunny features due to him originally being from Frozen Soul (Dream Game); however, as a way to make him his “own” character (and just out of personal preference), I see him more as some sort of demon/devil.

He has a thin black imp tail, paired with short black horns on the front of his head. This being the case, he’d probably use his tail to restrain you in a way—wrapping it around your hands to hold behind your back, to holding up your thigh with a tight grip—almost enough to cut off the circulation. Other times, he might use it to whip you, finding your reactions to your soft skin being hit while he fucks you quite humourous. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Underneath the abysmal amount of layers Mafioso tends to wear, he is relatively more on the bigger side while still being fit; his stomach just barely peeking out over the lining of his boxers. He’s quite hairy—the prevalent trail of stomach hair to the bush at the base of his cock making that quite obvious. 

Speaking of; his cock is a bit on the shorter side, roughly around 5.8 inches with more girth—perfect for stretching you out and making you feel full as all hell.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

When Mafioso sees you mid-round—scared out of your mind and barely hanging on, is when he finds himself needing you the most. You’re just too cute when you’re trembling and scared. 

It’s during those times when he has to abandon his role for the time being, quickly pulling your confused self off to the side and roughly kissing you with a wicked grin. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

For the time when the both of you are together, out of the round and away from the other survivors, the two of you would be in bed after an exhilarating time spent underneath the sheets—cum and sweat drenched all over your body. Mafioso, whose hair is just as equally skewed with sweat dripping down his face, rest calling for him when he decides to lie down next to you.

Mafioso doesn’t tend to nap in your presence, even after you’re long asleep, fingers occasionally twitching in response to whatever wild dream you’re now having. Mafioso isn’t one for mushy romance, but it’s times like these when he finds himself invested in watching you sleep, fingers tracing over your cheek with delicacy. 

“G’night, toots. Sleep well, heh..”

Mafioso then would lean in and kiss your cheek, a softer side of him showing for the first time, one you’ll never get to see. 

7n7 is next! ty for reading!! ^_^

The rain outside doesn’t fall right.

It taps wrong against the window — too steady, like a clock counting down instead of a storm rolling through. You press your forehead to your knees and try not to think about it. About the wet noise. About the hurt in your chest that doesn’t have a name. About the weight behind your eyes.

Your cabin creaks.

The fire flickers in the hearth, pretending to warm things that aren’t truly cold.

But you are. Cold. Somewhere beneath your skin. Or beneath the skin of this place.

You hear the door open. You didn’t lock it. You never remember to lock it.

“Y/N.”

It’s Chance. His voice always sounds like someone trying not to crack a joke. Today it doesn’t. Today it’s flat.

You don’t lift your head. You don’t have the strength to answer. That’s okay. He walks in anyway.

Boots scrape the floor. Pause. Hesitate. Then:

“I heard you didn’t show up at the main.”

No answer.

A creak. A crouch. The scent of ash and forest and something you can’t name.

“I thought maybe you just needed space. But…”

He sees your shoulders shaking.

“Shit,” he says softly. “You’re crying.”

Fingers graze your back. Stay there. Too warm. Not enough.

“You should’ve said something.”

A beat. Two.

“You never say anything.”

You don’t mean to cry harder. But you do. And now it’s too loud. Ugly. Human.

He moves closer. You feel a leg against yours.

“I’m right here, dummy. Just let it out.”

His voice is soft now. It shouldn’t be.

His hand finds your hair. Stays there. Possessive. Gentle.

Then — another voice.

“Hm.”

The door didn’t make a sound this time.

“Of course you’re here.”

Elliot.

Your heart jolts.

Chance tenses. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

He’s already inside, already closing the door, already leaning against it like it’s his right to keep people out. “Just noticing. You’re always first. Always playing the hero.”

Chance’s laugh is low and sour. “At least I show up.”

“I always show up,” Elliot says, eyes flicking to you. They change when they see your face. Something in him stills.“Y/N.”

He crosses the room. You feel him kneel beside you, opposite of Chance. You are bracketed now. A storm in a jar.

“You’re crying,” Elliot says, like he’s naming a crime someone else committed.

“Why didn’t you call for me?”

You shake your head, throat closing.

“You know I’d come.”

His voice is velvet now, edged with steel. “I’d always come.”

Chance snorts. “She didn’t call me either.”

“Still made it here first though.”

“Like that matters.”

“It matters to me.”

The words hang in the air, sharp and heavy.

You hiccup a sob.

Neither of them speak for a long moment after that. Just the fire crackling. The rain tapping its wrong rhythm against the windowpane. Your breathing—uneven, wet, dragging.

Then a warmth wraps around your waist.

Chance.

He’s pulled you in fully now, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. One arm around your back. His chin rests lightly on the crown of your head.

You’re not sure when your fists had curled into his shirt, but they have. Tight. Like if you let go, you’d disappear.

Elliot’s hand touches your jaw.

A featherlight caress. He’s looking at you like you’re something broken and rare. Like you need to be handled carefully or you’ll vanish through his fingers.

His thumb catches a tear.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” he murmurs. “I don’t like that I wasn’t here sooner.”

“She didn’t want anyone here,” Chance mutters into your hair. “That’s the problem.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Elliot’s voice is tight now, nearly trembling. “But if she’s hurting—if something’s wrong—I should be here. We both should. Always.”

His hand drifts to yours. You feel the cool brush of his knuckles as he carefully, slowly, laces his fingers through yours.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” he says, lower this time. Closer. “You don’t get to do this alone anymore.”

Chance exhales into your hair. “We mean it, you know. You don’t have to hide. Not from us.”

“But I…” Your voice cracks. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Elliot’s arm tightens around you. “You’re not a burden.”

Pressing his forehead into your temple. “You’re… shit, Y/N. You’re everything.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard something like that from them—but right now, it lands differently. Right now, when you’re cracked open and full of nothing but ache, it doesn’t sound sweet. It sounds frightening.

Like a vow. Like a threat.

Like a promise you’ll never be allowed to undo.

Your tears slow. Your throat aches. But the weight on your chest has shifted—less sharp, less crushing. They’ve stolen some of it, just like they said they would.

You don’t want to say thank you. Not because you’re not grateful. But because it would encourage them. And deep down, something inside you whispers that they’re already too far gone.

But they’re here. And right now, that matters more than anything else.

So you say nothing.

You just stay in their arms. In the warmth. In the cage. You let Chance rock you and let Elliot’s fingers draw invisible shapes on your spine.

Eventually, your breathing evens out.

Eventually, the tears dry.

They don’t ask permission to stay.

They just do.

Waiting for anyone or anything to try and take you away.

You sleep.

They don’t.

And thats enough.

Chance notices you first, but not in any dramatic way. He sees the way you hesitate near the fire, uncertain. The way you laugh too quickly when someone jokes, trying to fit in.

He likes that you don’t yet know the game. People like that are interesting. Predictable in some ways—naive—but also capable of surprising him. And Chance loves surprises.

He starts approaching you slowly. Playfully. Nothing alarming.

“You know, you keep standing by that tree like you’re expecting it to save you from a killer.”

You laugh. It’s easy to laugh around him. He makes it easy.

Elliot notices too. Not your laugh, not your smile—your fear. The way your hands tremble just slightly when you hear the killer’s scream. The way you fumble with a generator. The way you linger near others for safety.

He doesn’t say anything to you. He just… starts watching.

At first, he’s near you by accident. Or at least, that’s what it looks like.

You blow a generator? Elliot’s already nearby to cover for you.

Get knocked down? He’s the first to pick you up, silent, efficient.

You thank him. He nods once.

He doesn’t ask for anything in return.

Not yet.

It’s subtle.

Chance starts treating you like a game. Not a cruel one—but a test. A series of probabilities and risks. He bets you small things:

“Want me to boost you to that ledge? Let’s flip for it. But if I win, you owe me a secret.”

“Heads, we take the long way. Tails, we sneak past the killer.”

You laugh, roll your eyes. But you play along. It becomes habit.

He always seems to win, somehow.

Elliot, meanwhile, watches who you talk to. Watches how you smile at certain survivors. Watches when you flinch. He doesn’t say anything when you start trusting Chance more—but he watches him, too.

He starts intervening. Slightly.

That one round when you and Chance are paired together? Elliot joins too. He doesn’t speak, but he’s always just there, between you and a threat. Or between you and Chance.

They begin to notice each other.

At first, Chance thinks Elliot is just… hovering. A protective type. He finds it amusing.

“Silent knight,” he jokes to you once. “Pretty sure he’d throw himself in front of a trap for you.”

You glance at Elliot. He doesn’t deny it. Just tilts his head, quiet. Still watching.

Chance narrows his eyes. It’s not funny anymore.

Elliot doesn’t like how Chance makes you laugh. He doesn’t like how close he stands to you, how his voice drops when you’re alone together.

But Elliot is patient. He doesn’t act on impulse.

He waits. Watches. Calculates.

The Shift.

It’s during a brutal round—Jason, maybe, or c00lkidd. You get separated. Alone, bleeding, hiding behind a rock.

They both find you at the same time.

Chance crouches beside you, all charm, coaxing words:

“Hey, hey, easy. You’re alright. Just a scratch. Let me help, yeah?”

Elliot is silent, but his hands are already pulling out a medkit. His expression is unreadable, his eyes locked on him—not you.

Chance smirks.

“Oh, sure. You can patch her up if you want. I’ll just hold her still.”

The way he says it makes your stomach twist. You smile, nervously. Neither of them does.

They both fix you. Carefully. Silently. But the air between them is sharp.

From that moment, something changes.

They don’t argue anymore. They start working together.

Chance engages you with warmth and wit. Elliot handles logistics—watching your back, offering tools, helping you silently.

You barely get time alone. Not because they’re obvious, but because they’re coordinated.

One distracts while the other circles in. One keeps you smiling, the other keeps you safe.

And slowly, the others fall away.

Survivors avoid you—either pushed out, subtly sabotaged, or scared off. You never notice the pattern.

But soon, it’s just you and them. Always.

Chance manipulates the social side of things. He always has an excuse to talk to you.

“Hey, come with me. Safer in pairs, right?”

He makes you feel like choosing him is your idea.

He studies you like a strategist studies the board—tracking your fears, your preferences, even how fast your heart beats when he leans close.

If you ever question why people avoid you now, he shrugs with a smile.

“Maybe they’re jealous. I mean, you’ve got two of the best keeping you safe. Who wouldn’t be?”

Elliot doesn’t try to win you over with charm. He builds a quiet, unshakable presence in your life.

You fall, he’s there. You’re in danger, he’s already moving. You cry, he passes you a handkerchief without a word.

He starts taking things from you—not objects, but choices.

You don’t need to fix that generator. He already did it.

You don’t need to ask for help. He’s already beside you.

He never pressures you. But he’s always watching. Always waiting.

And over time, you start to rely on him. You trust him.

That’s all he ever wanted.

They talk when you’re not around. Quiet, tense meetings.

“They looked tired today.”

“I’ll handle it. You just keep them entertained.”

They don’t like each other. Not really.

But their shared obsession keeps them in orbit. And if either one of them ever steps out of line, the other is watching.

Because in the end, their goal is the same:

Keep you safe. Keep you close. Keep you theirs.