It Was Truly A Story That Had My Interest All The Time And Even Made Me Curious About Chevalier's Call To Clavis - Tumblr Posts

Cyran gangster spice ^^

A/N: Here you go, anon! I hope you like it!

Cyran x Reader, Gangster AU/ Gangster x Doctor AU

TW: blood, injury, needles

WC:~2.2 k

The ringing cracks the silence of your darkened bedroom like a sledgehammer on ice. You push yourself up, still bleary with sleep, one hand fumbling through the gloom for your phone which should be sleeping too, well-behaved and quiet on your nightstand. It takes another second of angry ringing before you realize it’s not your personal phone. It’s the other phone. The one in the top drawer, rattling the items inside of it as it vibrates in time to the ringing, demanding attention. The phone you don’t want to hear going off, especially not in the heart of nighttime.

Sleep evaporates like frost on a sunny morning as you yank the drawer open and grab the small, nondescript black device. Caller unknown. But you know who it is. Only one person has this number.

“Hello?” Your voice is fuzzy with sleep.

“Good evening. Does your store sell copies of fairy tales? I’m looking for Little Red Riding Hood, the Rosenbrand edition. I hear there are only 10 copies left in circulation.”

Your heart sinks. Red Riding Hood means a serious injury, something bloody. Rosenbrand means the flower shop location. Ten copies means be there in 10 minutes.

“I’m afraid you have the wrong number.” The standard response. Your code for I’ll be there.

On the other end, the voice you know to be Nokto’s hangs up and you leap out of bed, changing into dark jeans and a black sweater, yanking open the closet to grab your medical kit and then you’re off, dashing out of your apartment and into the deceptively calm night.

You slip into the dark flower shop via the backdoor and immediately the velvet scent of roses overwhelms you. It is their specialty after all. And their symbol. Anywhere the Rhodolite Mafia goes, roses follow in their wake, their dark red petals scattered across crime scenes like little calling cards. Their members all bear the same rose tattoo on their bodies. You don’t have a tattoo. You’re not a member, officially but you are on their payroll and under their protection. So says the delicate golden rose and chain that hangs around your neck, resting against your heart.

You punch in the security code and a door at the back slides open, revealing a set of cement steps that lead down, down, down until you reach the bottom and step into the large room that the mafia uses for all medical emergencies. Your own private little examination room. And if necessary, OR.

For the second time that night, your heart stops. Laying back on the examination table is the one person whose name flashed through your mind like a neon sign the entire moonlit dash here, the one who you were silently hoping wouldn’t be your patient.

Cyran.

His shirt has been unbuttoned and he has bloodied gauze pressed against his arm, his dark eyes closed as he focuses on keeping pressure on his own wound. Clavis turns, golden eyes bright as an owl’s in the dim light.

“What happened?” Your tone is short, brisk. Every nerve in your body is on high alert as you pull on your latex gloves, moving towards Cyran.

“Blade, not a bullet.” Clavis steps back as you move in, the next steps of assessment as automatic to you as breathing. Cyran’s eyes open, only now aware you are there and you notice the flash of something across his features, some light in the depths of the fog of pain that he’s in. Your name passes his lips, a rough whisper.

“Altercation at the docks. Obsidian thugs thought they would be able to disrupt an important shipment.” Clavis’s phone chirps and he turns away from where you are working, removing Cyran’s shirt, cleaning up the bloody mess so you can get a better idea of what you’re dealing with.

You glance over your shoulder at him, the slight frown on his face as he reads whatever message he’s received.

“You ok, Lelouch?”

He fixes a bright smile on his face, but the light never reaches his eyes.

“I have to go.” No explanation. You are too low on the food chain for those. “Take good care of my right-hand man. I need him back in action soon and in one piece.”

You flick him a two-fingered salute and he nods, knowing Cyran is in good hands. As he jogs up the stairs, you hear him on his phone.

“....On my way, Chev….” The door at the top of the stairs closes with a heavy thunk and you are left alone with somewhat less bloody, very tense Cyran.

His shirt has been cast away, banished to a red and white heap on the floor which you casually kick to one side as you lean in to get a better look at his upper arm, where an ugly gash cuts across his deltoid. Reaching up to adjust the overhead lamp, you open your medical kit and begin the careful process of stitching the taunt skin back together. He hasn’t said a word since Clavis left, stoically staring straight ahead, intensely focused on the concrete wall opposite him.

Your head is bowed down, gaze following the rise and fall of your curved needle, the rational, medical part of your mind tightening its grip on the reins of your imagination. After all, there is an entire landscape of shirtless Cyran laid out in front of you. Curves of hard muscle that dip and bulge, secret places usually hidden by austere suits or leather jackets.

You’re close enough to hear the coarse sound of his inhale as you grip his arm. Clearing your throat you make an attempt to pierce the thick fog of tension that has settled over the room.

“Why is it always blades with you? Other members have the decency to just get shot.”

Your comment is so unexpected and honestly, so intentionally ludicrous that he turns his head involuntarily. Now his face is mere inches away from yours and you can feel his gaze on you as strongly as sunshine on a summer’s morning. And just like the sun, it brings a warmth to your cheeks that you hope he doesn’t notice.

He grunts as you finish suturing the injury, glancing down to take in your handiwork. You straighten up, adjusting your weight on the small padded stool you’ve been sitting on.

“And? Do I pass inspection, Mr. Rose?”

Something about the tone of your voice, an attempt at lightheartedness that skims over the jagged peaks of anxiety, has him finally meet your gaze and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile.

“You always do, doc.”

Those words settle across your mind like a silken sheet across a bed. You’re about to pull off your gloves, searching for something to say when you notice the blood staining the top of his gray slacks.

“What’s this…..?” You lean forward, glancing at him for permission to reach into the hem of his pants and take a look. An expression you don’t expect crosses his face: he looks almost sheepish.

“I….I was involved in a scuffle last week.”

You motion for him to lower his pants, trying to ignore what the sight of Cyran’s large, rough hands pulling down his zipper does to your body temperature. He slides his pants down slowly, just low enough for you to be given a tantalizing glimpse of that alluring line where the obliques meet the transversus abdominis muscle.

Medical professionalism trumps lust as you take in the shoddy stitching at his hip.

“What quack did this?” You’re already preparing another needle and thread, brow furrowed in annoyance.

“I did it myself.”

You glance up sharply, hands pausing for a moment.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You return to the work of fixing his on-the-fly patch job. He’s silent a moment and you wait, knowing he heard you. It takes him until you’re nearly done to answer.

“You know I couldn’t.”

Your work is finished and yet somehow you can’t move you away, one hand resting on the hard plane of his lower stomach, the other pressed lightly under the wound you’ve just finished re-stitching. Slowly you tilt your head up to look at him. He’s backlit by the overhead lamplight, his red hair almost black because of it. Shadow falls across the angles of his face and all you can see clearly is the brightness of his eyes. As if pulled by a magnet, your upper body rises slowly, your face coming closer to his. Carefully, with every other part of you crystallized in place, you remove your gloves, then return your hands to where they were, touching the now warm skin of his body.

Your lips are scant inches apart and your heart slams into your breastbone as if urging you forward to close the gap.

Cyran’s beautiful eyes close and his head turns ever so slightly away from you.

“We can’t.” 

The words are tight in a way that tells you he doesn’t want to say them, that he’s forcing them out between clenched teeth.

Still so close, you breathe outward and you know he feels the warmth on his cheek. Your nose brushes his, your lips ache at how close they are to the paradise of his kiss.

“We already have,” you whisper in return, forgetting everything: the phone calls in the dead of night. The hiding in secret rooms tricked out with medical equipment. The heart-stopping anxiety every time you think you hear gunshots. All that you know right now is that he’s here, warm to your touch, so close you can count every individual eyelash.

His eyes flutter open and he meets your gaze.

“And it can never happen again.”

It’s there, in the depths of his soulful eyes. The memory of….

….that night, the one where he escorted you home under a black sky, raging with thunder and pent up clouds. Your skirt was stained with blood that wasn’t yours, your fingers trembling with a fear that definitely was. Your car, several streets away, gasping with bullet holes. Cyran had been there, had whisked you away in an armored vehicle and insisted on seeing you to your apartment, on coming inside and making sure everything was secure.

When he turned to go, every nerve in your body screamed at once at the loss. You launched yourself towards him, a wild bird in flight, and he had welcomed you into the sky of his arms, pulling you against the safety of his hard body. He held you until the trembling stopped.

And then the world exploded as the clouds released their pent-up rain and you had lifted yourself up to press your mouth to his. Cyran pushed his fingers into your hair with a groan, allowing himself to fall, a raindrop from heaven, a soul giving in, into you and your sweetness, your want, your heated kisses.

The wild storm had nothing on the two of you, that night. 

You see the way the memory is reaching for you both at once, has you both angling your heads so that only the slightest movement will have your mouths touch once again. Your lips actually hurt with need. Your body practically thrums with the desire to taste him again.

He shifts and suddenly the metal pan holding the needle and thread and gauze clatters to the ground, his thigh having bumped it off the table’s edge. The loud crash shatters the moment and you both jump apart, hearts racing. Cyran clears his throat, his head shaking as if waking himself from a dream. When he speaks, the same words you have heard too many times since that night fall from his lips.

His life is dangerous. 

You are already way too involved. 

The reality of being with him is nothing but heartache and worry. 

You need to remain as innocent and ignorant as possible, for plausibility, deniability, for your own damn safety. 

He could never live with himself if anything happened to you…..

The flow of words stops as you press your finger to his lips. A sigh like the storm-buffeted waves of the ocean escapes him, shaky and uninhibited. The touch turns into the kiss you’ve been hungering for, except it's not the crush of his mouth on yours, the stampede of desire come to call, but rather the softest press to your fingertip, the fleeting caress of a butterfly’s wing.

Your heart both sinks and lifts, a paradox of emotion flowing through you.

He turns his face into your hand, his usual stoicism bled out by the force of his feelings for you. Pain, longing, tenderness bow his shoulders, pull kiss after kiss from his lips to your palm. You slide your hand across the line of his cheekbone, thumb stroking the rough stubble there. And then you lean down, pressing a petal-soft kiss to his forehead. 

Cyran is still as a winter’s night, frozen despite the thundering of his heart. He knows this is for the best….but how much longer can he continue to do the right thing? 

You start to pull away, turning towards the stairs that lead up and away, back into the night and its bright, cold stars, when something clamps around your wrist, stopping you.

You turn to see him, eyes flashing with something hot and bright, his strong fingers wrapped around you, holding you. He whispers your name, an echo of the rough whisper from earlier, when he first realized you were there, and you capitulate, crumbling into the shelter of his embrace even as your mouths seek and find each other.

If not doing this, if not kissing you desperately, touching you, claiming you, if not doing these things is the right thing…..then Cyran is tired of it. 

Forget the right thing. He lives a life that blossoms in the shadows of right and wrong anyway. Right and wrong are shades of gray in his world. And now as he drags his mouth down the smooth line of your neck, revels in the sting of your fingernails digging into his shoulder, he knows that he can deny this, and you, no longer.

He sinks into dark temptation, caring for nothing other than right here and now.

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