Description

F U L L 0 N A M E
Nikolai Malkov

N I C K N A M E S
Nik, Nick|Common shortened version of his name
Shakespeare|A nickname that's caught on as being his alias during work
Russia. Russian, Soviet|Done teasingly towards him because he's Russian

A G E
24

G E N D E R
Male

E T H N I C I T Y
Russian

S E X U A L I T Y
Pansexual|Heteromantic
Sex is sex no matter the gender

H E I G H T
5'10

W E I G H T
180 lbs

H A I R 0 C O L O R
Dark Brown

E Y E 0 C O L O R
Blue

A P P E A R A N C E

There is no denying how handsome Nikolai is. He just has a classic look and fabulous curly hair that people can't get enough of. He often wears it short in a fifties like fashion adding more to his classic vibe. His build is very well defined from years of training and his height would be considered about average for a male. Other than his hair, Kai's most intriguing traits would be his beautiful blue eyes and smirk.

M A R K I N G S

Nikolai has a tattoo on his right forearm of a rune symbolizing protection. He also has a nose and tongue piercing along with a tattoo on the top center of his back that symbolizes invincibility in battle.

O D D I T I E S

His only oddity to mention would be his Russian accent. It's not thick like it was when he was a child but it is noticeable enough when he speaks still.

R O L E S

Mob Boss's Son|Nikolai is the son of a powerful Russian mob boss.
Negotiator|Nikolai is well known for his sly tongue. Mafias, cartels, gangs, etc... They all want Nikolai to be their right hand man. He knows the business in and out from growing up around it and he could charm the pants off anyone even with his tongue cut off.
Enforcer|This is more of a hidden talent and what his father often used him for. He has extensive knowledge in hand to hand combat along with his calm and stoic demeanor making him all the more terrifying as the enforcer to come knocking at your door.

S T R E N G T H S

Intelligence|Nikolai is an undeniably intelligent young man. He graduated high school and college at an early age with top grades and utilizes it well in his field. It's just a mystery he only applies it to the Mafia.
Silver Tongue|His tongue his mightier than any weapon with his ability to sweet talk and manipulate anyone into whatever he pleases make him a dangerously good negotiator.
Combat|His father had him take many private lessons of various styles of martial arts. He's well versed and dangerous when provoked.
The Business|He knows the business inside and out making him incredibly valuable to anyone who picks him up.

W E A K N E S S E S

Arrogance|Many mistake the way Nikolai carries himself with arrogance. Yes he is confident but he doesn't boast that much... He thinks. Anyways, some interpret in wrong and bring trouble to themselves or Nikolai.
Distrust|Nikolai is not one to trust anyone completely. He always keeps himself protected.
Protective|He's extremely protective of those he cares about meaning he also puts himself at great risk for them.
Surrender|Nikolai has never been one to surrender and it could very well get someone hurt.

F E A R S

Losing Loved Ones|No one desires to lose the ones they care about.
Ferris Wheels|He has an irrational fear of ferris wheels.

P E R S O N A L I T Y

WIP

So begins...

Nikolai Malkov's Story

Seen 4 Times • Page 1 of 1

Setting

Brooklyn, New York

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#2016-02-25 18:42:20, as written by Sacrificatoria

⟝BEL⟞

The Brooklyn sub rosas, cage and coop of something bound for victory and moved on the backs of rats who dreamt for better lives. Puppets in buildings by the string yanking of a cosa nostra sensation. Labs go east, west. North. South. Between. Pocketed in those non-English-speaking districts where the cards are cut just by bare management. 'Cause it can go one of two ways: riches or ruin. These stockrooms range from coffee houses, basements, titty bars, to crack dens. Each front has its purpose. The mass production of analgesics, opiates and stimulants is the foremost. Branded Zaire.

A familiar theme 'round these parts is the devil's song and frequent libido to dance to it. The opposite of the bible is the parables written in this place, where indulgence is courtesy of opted intent for dirty glory. If one can't find it in an empty wallet and scattered teeth of a sidewalk, they will find it in the rippling of their blood after selling their soul. Euphoria is never too far for the willing hedonist. But prestige? Big guns never lose it when they're unafraid, against the odds without hesitation toward the next spirit they break. It's why this neighborhood is gutted down the middle.

Two kings. Two houses.

Bel sat under the crown of cold hard cash. He'd accept nothing less in the absence of his father. His former brother in arms, Gunner, resided on the diametric side, with significantly less losses. It was because of this that Bel found himself at war even more so internally than out - the agony behind painful self questioning never garnered him reason. Never explanation.

Why was it that, as Cristobel and Senna's father became a ghost, Gunner got to speak to his one last time? Why in all of this, did Gunner's spine stiffen to a formidable code he wouldn't break, not even for his best friend? Why wouldn't he tell anyone anything? Why didn't he want the family he grew alongside to have closure? Why in Andres Zaire's memory, was there only the aftermath of Gotti Bates and his perpetual stain on Bel's family? Why did any of the Bates stay in New York? What gave them the nerve? How was that family name still remotely alive in the streets? Was Bel just fucking their only daughter in the name of some sworn counter play? Was he next to be taken out? These things were contemplated quietly. Inside the glock-tapped-temple of none other than Cristobel.

His morning routine involved casting aside his blatant love for Julia Bates and all the vindictive poison for the rest of her bloodline. Somewhere beside the discarded sentiment was likely an empty bottle, Rolex, and an iPhone loaded with missed calls. A few inches beyond the dangling wrist of a mattress ornament. His nocturnal penchant. Sun stream trickled through the window and ignited the curves of her silhouette, glittered on dark hair but failed to lighten under eye shadows. Cocaine coma. She was nameless and catered to, he was a stack of Benjamins richer. Bel inhaled the aroma of some catty perfume stuck to his sheets, half lidded, hand down the front of his boxers. A lone thumb lazily grazed Calvin Klein's in a hazy blur of ink. Just another successful night in paradise.

The rough skin of a tattooed palm came down his face at the realization that morning was actually noon and noon was surely ticking past 2PM. With a knuckle slide along the ribs of his clientele and concubine, he murmured, "Muñeca I got shit to do." No movement. He assessed his stubble from mandible to chin point, waiting for a response.

“Vamos,” he snagged the comforter from where it rested just enough to protect her dignity below, tugged on one of her ankles and gruffly spoke up, “Salir. Now.” The baritone spilled out of his mouth in autocratic excellence without room for second thoughts or apologies. Not like he ever gave either, anyway. The Latina hissed in recoil, “Yo sé cómo funciona!” She went vertical, suddenly turning the rounded tip of her nose up and gathering material around her naked frame. He was pleasantly surprised by her comprehension, being that it was almost impossible to recall whether she spoke English or at all the night before. “Cálmese. I don’t wanna’ fucking cuff you. No te hagas ilusiones.” It appeared she was mocking him, but he attributed it to her beauty sleep being disturbed.

“Nobody owns Cristobel Zah-ree.”

It appeared his generous assumption was wrong. Nope, this was home-brewed loathing. But all he could do was furrow his brow at the rolling of her tongue around the syllables of his name and let a grin split across his face. There was real anger behind the full red mouth that was barking at him, stainless cotton falling from her grasp in her audacity. As her dialect proceeded into a flood, he scrolled through his phone, acknowledging the common case among all of the texts. More or less a block party at The Little Lady which would be warped into a business opportunity the minute he stepped foot on the property. Live music, good food, maybe they’d even open up the outdoor dining portion if the sun stayed at it. A cocked eyebrow hit when the firecracker threw a hand toward him, breasts jiggling at every point she made, babbling about him not even listening.

Had to love the sass and fearlessness of a Latina, the disrobed pride and promise that he would miss her when she was gone. That she swore. His response was unmoved by her passionate script, but hell if it wasn’t entertaining. “Si, si.” He’d say. Hypnotizing, really. Watching the bounce of her chest and allowing her voice to fade into static. Just smile and nod. Offer her a ride home and try not to laugh.

By the time she’d finally relented and caved for a cruise in the A6, he was short on time. He didn’t get her name. Back to the pad and swiftly into the shower. The usual nine yards. Shit, shower, shave. What greeted him in the mirror was prominent cheek bones once made way for by the clearing of condensation. A pair of dark riddles above his nose, the steel jawline complimenting surfeit of symmetry. Dead set terrain down his abdomen showed in washboard fashion. Somehow it was maintained by the occasional shake and two hour gym session. Casual slap of Armani aftershave, finger rake through chocolate hair at the hard part, pomade to keep it in place. Save for the clothes in the bedroom, he was just about done.

Pregaming lone wolf style would have him fashionably late for the bash but no one would mind. Julia, maybe, but it wasn’t like she could come sit in his lap either way in a place like that. Not with the odds of her brothers showing up. Senna would reserve a table or a seat at the bar, clock him with her tiny hand and chide him without any real effort whenever he decided to make an appearance. Everything else would be handshakes and exchange.

Bel neglected pulling a shirt on until the last possible moment, lethargic in sliding a denim jacket over it as well. The permanent medallion across collar bones barely peeked over the white seam. And when he rocked himself to his full posture of six feet and then some, floorboards creaked under his shoes.

The atmosphere was friendly, happy enough. Light. Yeah, that’s what he would use to describe it. Lots of family-oriented cordiality and the smell of home cooked recipes. The doors were propped open as if to say, “Everyone is welcome.” Immediately behind the counter with a twist on his mouth was what Bel assumed to be the owner or head chef, muscles wrapped around his arms and twitching when something was out of place. At his side, a young girl, maybe six or seven at the most. She pulled on him and suspended from his side in the way children do when they really want something.

It didn't take Bel long to spot Dominic Bates, cigar between teeth and sidewise to the commotion. The rest of the clan would surely be arriving if the least-involved tramp was there. So when Leigh slid up next to Bel, voice meek, maintaining just enough distance to be his shadow, the reminder of advantage was cognizant. One of his arms went around her shoulder to whisper something into her hair. Similar to how a federal agent holds up a piece of clothing to his dog and starts the hunt, but more refined and indirect. Her tresses were ambrosial of Tsubaki and it lingered on him when she split off.

There were the regulars, then. Neighborhood-y faces recognized easily. Malkov with his Russian charm, something in his glass, patting backs and politely regarding matrons. In fact, he was just a short distance from Bel’s little sister, who was eyeing the cracked-concrete look of an arm laid on the bar top. The back face of its palm had a song bird tattoo. Had to belong to a junkie from the vein structure. Someone paler than a ghost. Tall and thin, akin to a specter, too. Must have been one of the kids that showed up to Bel’s HQ with a jittering violent need that couldn’t be sated by just any product. He was shameless, bumping Senna and causing a spilled drink when he readjusted himself. Judging by the carriage and slick smile, it had to be Jasper. Senna was regaining her composure, waving it off and saying it wasn’t a big deal as she dabbed at her dress with a napkin. Typical. But at least it was handled.

Bel held a menu in his hand. The place was stacked with decent options, none of which he’d get to sit down and enjoy with sniper-eyes in every corner but. He’d take a mental note of it and return on a less crowded day. The sandy-haired hurricane herself blew in a moment later, eyes buffed black by make up. Julia totally avoided her brother, curved anyone else and went straight for the bar. Eventually the brawn known as Gunner showed up, then a Kim [or two], and Simone in the ironed perfection of a tailored get up.

Suddenly it felt congested.

Upon ordering himself a bourbon, Bel found himself next to a familiar patron, scarlet shade pinning crux on her. But he knew all about Chloe. Her habits, her cool exhibition of being the secret aficionado. He ordered her a vodka and cranberry, mouthing, “It’s on me.” She was pressed to the bar by the back of the Yakuza’s daughter [really strange seeing her out in the daylight, let alone somewhere like The Little Lady].

Moving between the crowd was a blue-haired girl, anxious in mannerism, serving plates of food. She dumped an appetizer tray in front of Chloe and Bel, looking flustered. The air constricted, thickened with the humidity of bodies packed and much too comfortable whether in a drunken state of food or booze to move. Bel closed a hefty tip in her free hand and waved her off. He tried to keep his gaze off of Jubes, raising his glass to toast with Chloe, “So aside from the obvious, what do you do in your free time? You don’t strike me as the regular New Yorker, and I’m all sorts of curious.”

Read Jubes' Post Here

Setting

Brooklyn, New York

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#2016-02-26 23:16:40, as written by Yonbibuns

Every coin has another side, cleaner or dirtier is a matter of perspective, and the West dealt with midnight, back-alley dealings and baseball bats breaking bones of those too stupid to pay up. Relying on a gusto of gnarled thugs, frost-wielding transport trucks, and bearded brothers to keep their business running like freshly greased cogs, the Bates starlight business of narcotics, premium nose candy and dirty work clambered to the top, with their neighbourhood Colombians. They kept their fingers in everyone's pie. Rubbed shoulders, shook hands, buried bodies. Knowledge and connections might've been powerful, but it's the ones that back it up with ripped knuckles and gnashed teeth that get to keep it all. And if there's something to say about the Bates family, it's that they're damned fucking determined to keep what they've earned.

While Dominic sat in the second throne, narcotic-crown as soft and delicate as flowers on his head, Gunner was at his side. Behind his chair, at his feet, arms crossed and always waiting: a bearded beefcake, a dog with a short leash, and a penchant for abusing their own merchandise. Frequently. If anyone actually noticed, they didn't say anything. Too much of a bother. And for once, in that damning instance, Gunner knew more than his older brother, and his attempts at drowning out his father's wrangling words ended up in barely-recalled nights heating spoons and taping clean needles, passed out in the hallway of his home; clothed or unclothed.

Why had his dad reached out to him first? He wasn't in charge. He'd never been in fucking charge, so why had he pulled him aside, bright eyes like delirious lanterns. Gripping his shoulder like a drunken man holding onto a pillar. Why couldn't he have just left him out of it? Instead, he dropped a handful of shit into his hands, and took off to god-knows where. No instructions as to what he was supposed to do with what he told him. What was he supposed to do? One person couldn't stand up to the shit-storm that was brewing in the distance, and the sickness swirling in his gut told him that he didn't want the change that was coming. Something would burn to the ground. And they'd expect him to tickle his fingers across his glock: friend or not.

His own morning routine wasn't as glamorous. Gunner didn't rake his teeth across a stranger's thighs, didn't transpose his room into a tourist attraction and click his tongue at a nice pair of legs until they felt compelled to trail their way inside. He'd never been like that, much to Bel's disappointment. How many times had he dragged his sorry ass to strip clubs, or dumped a friend of a friend into his lap, hoping for something entertaining to happen? Too many times to count. Mornings like these were spent wallowing in the tangled sheets, leather belt just barely slinking down his forearm. His phone buzzed off the coffee table, and clattered on the ground until the caller finally gave up and left a nasally message. Hardly any sunlight trickled through the bamboo blinds, carefully shuttered close to prevent his head from spinning when he finally cracked his eyes open. Feather-light foot treads pounced on the corner of his bed, clambered up his spine, and settled beside his face. A lady of the feline persuasion. A rattling purr sounded, nestling itself under his jawline. Better than any alarm clock he'd ever had.

A soft sigh sifted past his lips, buried in fur, until he rolled to the side, and pushed himself up, disentangling himself from the thin sheets. He didn't bother with heavy blankets, no duvet, because it was too hot and nightmares addled his narcotized dreams. Dragging heavy hands across his face and through his hair, Gunner dragged his knuckles over his bleary eyes. Lidded at half-mast, they combed across the room and found the glowing numbers blinking up at him: 1pm. Wasn't like he had much to do today, but sleeping in when he should've been slinging dope, or following Dominic's instructions, wouldn't bode well for him. He dropped a hand across the feline's head, scratched at the back of it's ears, and murmured a barely intelligible word before slipping off the bed and stumbling towards the bathroom.

An initial bout of inertia made Gunner's shower dismally miserable. His head swam like a fishbowl, splashing over it's sides. Soap, scrape, forehead pressed against the tiles, finished. He swiped his palm across the surface pf the wall-sized mirror, clearing the condensation to expose a slice of raccoon-eyed bags, like purple and black prose, and drifting lower, a flat-lined frown. Thick, dark eyebrows, framed murky eyes, or puddles, or shit, for all the baggage they carried. Aquiline nose, crooked. Lip, scarred. Fortunately, they weren't bloodshot. Clipped his beard so he looked less like a lumberjack and more like someone who had their life together, which was hilariously inaccurate. Taming the scruff of brown hair with pomade, and briefly spraying his collar with whatever was on the counter. Probably Dominic's stuff.

He flicked through his phone, halted on a few texts, though they generally said the same thing. When was he getting there? The Little Lady—a party of sorts, and there'd be business, because wherever the families went, there was always fucking business to take care of. Almost made him want to stay in. Tuck himself back in bed. Send himself off in another ceiling-raising stupor, drifting away from everything that made his knuckles crack. Gunner took a deep, withering breath and snapped open his closet.

Clothes. Clothes made the man... or whatever his pops used to say, tightening tiny ties around the boys' necks whenever they were allowed to follow him around. It stuck with him, like a rough-housing growl in the back of his ear, even if he deliberately ignored it. His style allowed for brisk movements, bloody fists, and future stains, because blood was unforgiving on designer suits and shiny shoes. A plain white shirt, fitted to his stocky form. Black dress pants, fitted with a belt for ulterior purposes, and a pair of ass-kicking boots, prime for extracting teeth from pretty faces. Slipping a leather jacket over his bulky shoulders, he shook out the collar and sucked at his gums, hesitating at the doorway. Aviators completed the ensemble, to hide the mess of restlessness splayed across his face like a crime scene presenting itself to his betters.

But, it wasn't the glasses he'd been wondering about. It didn't make him rock back on his heels, fingers resting across the door handle. A bump. That's all he needed right now, before throwing himself neck-deep into whatever was going to happen at The Little Lady. He wasn't stupid. He'd been avoiding Bel like he carried the bubonic plague, like he had rats scurrying at his heels, threatening to infect everyone around him. Might've been cowardly, but Gunner didn't have a way with words, and something told him that whatever he managed to say would end up in broken bottles and flying fists. It wasn't what he wanted. He raked his fingers across his face, exhaled sharply and lurched back into his room. Only took him a few seconds, fishing out that tiny bag of paradise, of silent sanctum. Meticulous movements, dividing pure whiteness into lines, and sending it straight up his septum. A few head shakes, sniffles, and he was right as rain.

Showing his face late wasn't anything out of the ordinary, though he was neither fashionably late or cared enough to come early. Sometimes, he didn't bother showing up at all. Shaking hands and clapping shoulders didn't appeal to him. Now, busting heads and making people cry, that was a different beast altogether. Nettled energy sizzled through his fingertips, jettisoned up his spine, and wriggled down his neckline; sordid warmth, cat-calling him to break things, run, expend it in any way possible. But this was the wrong place. Everything in the Little Lady screamed civil, organized, friendly. Jona's bearded gruff greeted him first, eying the establishment through the eyes of someone who cared too much. Gunner took another deep breath through his nostrils and felt the bitter, residual lick dripping down his throat, numbing the portions it touched. And he was calm, for the most part. He licked his lips, hooked his aviators in his shirt and bustled through the gathering crowd of locals.

Bel was hard to miss in the crowd, even if he'd rather go without seeing him here, he knew it'd be impossible. Of course, he'd be here. Wouldn't miss it for the world. Besides, they had business to settle, and he wasn't saying a word about it. How awkward would this be? Gunner slipped a hand to the nape of his neck and scratched at his hairline, idling closer to the bar, than anyone's table. Usually, he wouldn't cut through the crowd and plopped right down beside his upscaled, swanky partner in crime, but times were changing and he didn't feel like facing him just yet. Not without a drink warming his belly. He noted the shaking phantom bump into Senna, and spill her drink, and almost stepped over to see if there was a problem, until he overhead him apologizing. Jasper, that's what his name was. Just another junky. Kinda like he was, he supposed. His gazed lingered on the youngest Zaire, dabbing her dress and waving Jasper off like it was no big deal, because it wasn't, but that's just how she was. They were contradictions, reacting in distinctive ways. She was too good, sometimes.

Gunner averted his gaze, because it was never good looking at her for too long when Bel was around. Instead, he wandered to the bar and leaned his elbows across the smooth, clean surface, glancing up at the grisly bartender, “Two shots of rum, each. Thanks.” He didn't look at Jubes for a second. Only shifted his position and leaned his back against the bar, regarding everyone else flitting from group to group. Simon was smoothing ruffled feathers. It was a knack he had, churning turmoil into something a little lighter. Then, there was everyone else. Businesses rubbing elbows in the dark, smoke puffing from lips; Russian, American, Colombian, Yakuza alike. It would've been strange if he wasn't used to such shady company, and if he didn't belong in it himself. Once the drinks arrived, he slid one over to his younger sister and took a whopping gulp of his own, sighing over the rim of his glass, “Hope you're having a better day than I am, Jubes.”

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Brooklyn, New York

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#2016-03-01 10:10:57, as written by OtakuD1213

▲▼▲▼ JUNKO takayama ▼▲▼▲

A single cobalt ray made way through the thin crack between heavy curtains, a flickering beacon of light in the night of the room. It followed a path over haphazardly removed boots, and a stretched out scarf, up to the sleeve of a woolen coat lying messily on the sheets, and it curved over the shape of a motionless body underneath the covers. The young yakuza woman lay still on her back, black eyes half-lidded and staring up at the peeling ceiling. Dark purple streaked her eyes having forgotten to wipe the coverage up hours before. She needed not to crane her head to the lucky cat clock hanging by her door. She always woke up at the same time. It was just a matter of when she got out.

She wishes she could stay. Junko would never say that aloud, nor acknowledge it personally, but the morning was quiet. It was predictable. Because there was nothing to predict. Nothing except that in about five minutes she would hear footsteps pace outside her door, which usually belong to her little Akecchi, headed to freshen up for school. The low rumbles of the water pipes would course through the wooden floors of their aging rowhouse. And she would probably spend too much time on her face to realize that she would be running late. This short 30 minute period on weekday mornings was probably the closest to the “ordinary” life Junko had always fantasized of. A sudden pang of the previous day’s events knocked on Junko’s thoughts and then threw her back into the real world.

Momentary vertigo accompanied Junko’s movements as she sat up in her bed, her eyes still glazed over with a film of contemplation and exhaustion. She sat hunched over, somewhat uncomfortable having remained in her clothes from last night as opposed to her nightwear. She clamped a cold hand to her forehead and pushed her hair back, remembering the brief moment of escape with Hani in that sultry café. She stood and walked over the scattered objects on her dusty floor to her own bathroom. Slovenly, she tossed her garments across the tiles and beared the shower’s ice cold water on her tepid body. A quick dry-off with a towel and a makeup remover rag later, she stood naked in front of her mirror, feeling the closest to pure a hitwoman could feel. In a stride she put on a dark blue crewneck and black tight jeans. Topping her armor was a fresh new mask-- nothing out of the ordinary that day. Just the run-of-the-mill black wing and nude lipstick, and generally liked what she saw. Before leaving her room, she picked up her purse and her .380 lying in her wardrobe.

As expected, the twenty-three-year-old finished her morning routine before her younger sister. High schoolers care too much, she supposed. Walking toward the stairs, she passed by her younger brother’s room-- his door left ajar and the young bozo in question snoring naked on his floor. Of course. She quickened her stride and sure enough, downstairs her brother’s latest victim was at the door, putting on her shoes for her escape. The girl was just a kid, probably even younger than Akecchi. She turned wide-eyed at the sheer coolness of the big sister, her movements hastening to get the hell out. Poor thing, probably had some traumatizing fight with her daddy or something. That’s how Seiji picked up most of his girls. Junko would’ve taught him otherwise, ‘cept it’s kinda just how the way things are with the men in her family. All of them.

Junko stood silently, her presence as foreboding as her look. As if she had a band of men at her side. She looked down in contempt, watching the girl struggle with her excuses. “I’m Seiji’s friend,” he let me stay,” I’ve nowhere else to go.” Her face remained unchanging, her eyes black daggers. The girl’s excuses turned into insults, most likely just a plan B defense. Not that Junko cared. Scaring the kid off might save her from falling into their lifestyle. She didn’t seem cut out for it, and this was the woman’s way of showing mercy.

Incoherent babbles were all that left the now sobbing kid when Junko decided to finally pull the plug. ”Get the fuck out of my house.” Poor thing. She yelped before making her escape, her shirt still unbuttoned and hanging loosely from her purple and blue chest. Junko oughta strangle her brother for playing rough with children, but she’s got work to do. A job, really. She greeted her mother’s shrine, small and simple on the countertop, then left for the casino.

The Aneesan leaned tiredly over the bar, watching her lackeys go about in the dayless room. Business was slow on weekdays, and her father was out doing the big jobs. No one rang her up for a job yet, and her little brothers took care of the other stuff. The chores. Collecting money, controlling family businesses, beating up wise guys who thought it smart to pick fights with them. Being second-in-command was pretty boring. Junko appreciated the quiet, but damn, a nice intelligent chat with someone would make the hours pass that much quicker. She thought about Hani, the only good thing that’s happened to her outside of her own gang. The boys seemed well-behaved enough. And it wasn’t like they were gonna do anything stupid, either. Those who hang around the headquarters know better. Even the kids. She pulled out her phone to make a call, but stopped upon seeing the alerts.

The sullen lieutenant wasn't anti-social or anything. It was more like she didn’t have a natural penchant for parties. Okay, no, wrong-- she’s the goddamn outcast of outcasts. Her job requires her to show up only to smooth shit over if any of her little brothers got out of line. And even with the bigger missions, they’re usually ran solo. Not to mention the extent of her connections were mostly acquaintanceships or brief clientele. So much surprise was met with her appearance at The Little Lady. The place wasn’t nearly like her usual drinking spots, but if anything, it was refreshing. Then of course came the recognition of certain faces.

Shackles raised higher than they naturally had. Smoothly, she walked over to the bar, but changed her mind about the drink, feeling the need to distance herself from big boy Zaire, more for the sake of having nothing to say to him than an actual precaution, though that's important to not as well. A young scamp made his way, making Junko press onto the lady behind her. Slightly chuffed, she was granted the satisfaction of seeing the boy blunder-- on the baby Zaire nonetheless. She made her way to a table in the corner, facing away from the crowd. Alone, she wonders what was she even thinking? This wasn’t where she belonged. Her portrait is that in front of a band of extortionists and fallen bodies. Business. This place wasn’t her business. There were, god forbid, children in the area. Even amidst the most prolific individuals of the underworld, she didn’t belong there.

Juno’s internal soliloquy was interrupted with the sound of broken glass, and a slew of profanities. She looked vacantly across the empty seat, tensing under the air. Of course a room with both the Bates and the Zaires would ultimately end up this way. Hand clutched over her revolver, she stayed hidden, listening to the exchange. She would only involve herself if necessary-- is what she told herself until she heard a familiar chime of a voice. The Japanese woman turned her head abruptly to the scene, eyes magnetized to her relatively delicate companion clinging onto the arm of the hunk of dynamite. She looked so small next to him.

The yakuza woman stood slowly from her seat, making brief eye contact with the eldest of her allies before returning her specs to the woman she had no control over. Only hope. When they left the scene, leaving a mess of overturn tables and broken glass, Junko’s eyes stayed glued to the exit. Whatever was eating at Bel was beyond Junko’s concern-- it’s the one who’s tagged along she’s worried about. What a party. For now, she couldn’t think of how else to approach the situation besides glancing toward the Bates. Her eyes read only one thing, as did many others. What’s their next move?

Setting

Brooklyn, New York

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#2016-03-01 19:04:38, as written by Yonbibuns

For the first time since he'd wandered into the Little Lady, Gunner chuckled when Simon regarded the whip-cream monstrosity Jubes ordered, lips twitching up into a little smile. It might've been the drubbing pangs pulsing against his temples, or the lack of sleep tickling at his humor, but he shrugged his shoulders and tipped an eyebrow up, eying the bearded bartender over his shoulder, “God knows why you sell these things, Jona.” Sugary nonsense, metaphoric implications aside. It represented nothing to him, though someone else might've seen it as claws extended and hackles raised. Snubs read between catty lines, reserved for barbed words, and glowering glares. It wasn't his way of doing things, so he thought nothing of it. Instead, Gunner turned his attention towards the approaching blue-haired lass he'd often seen working here, of all places, though he knew her from the days she dated Simon. Sienna. Nice girl. One of the few friends he actually approved him of having. He offered her a curt nod, and a smile, before his gaze drifted back towards the sea of people, swimming against transparent currents: all too dangerous and surrounded by lurking bears, waiting to snatch them out of the water.

A soft sigh sifted from his lips, as he set down the second shot of whiskey and turned his attentions back towards the only one that snared his attention—decked in white lace, dainty movements, and a goodness that trailed through the black tar of the present individuals like sunlight invading dark spaces. After handing a bill to the small, bundle of grinning little girl, he watched as Senna plopped herself beside Bel and Chloe, leaning into whatever conversation he was intent on, smarmy smirk oozing carnal innuendos, most likely making sly invitations to his sheets, in his arms, as he always did. He recognized the look, anyhow. Seen him work his magic and try to coach him into the same slimy conventions, even though he preferred cold sheets than meaningless romps and awkward mornings, chased by ensuing departure attempts. It was too much, and as brazen and caustic as his temper was, he'd prefer a constant companion rather than infrequent lip-bites, thigh kisses, and crippling thoughts wondering if they were the only ones involved.

Between hearing the hiss and crackle of glass crunching betwixt a hand and a frigid growl, all too familiar to his ears, Gunner stepped away from the counter and tensed his shoulders, his own hands curling into bruised fists, still ripped and scarred and scabbed over from his last fight. This was a train wreck in the making and they were both hurtling in front of it, heedless of the lights and the rumbling tracks, and maybe just a little antsy to slam themselves against it. A sordid tornado designed to tear apart everything in its path, raging against buildings, people, tables and ten-year grievances that wept like open sores, packed with salt. The drumming in his ears threatened to block them out. Everything besides the stalking individual that had once been his best friend, licking his chops for a scuffle. For a beginning and an end, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if he cared. In a matter of seconds, Senna billowing out a protective circle around her much larger brother, small cry above the silence, an ineffectual stopping sign.

Bel rounded on his like a hound waiting to rip out someone's throat and here he was, stepping up to the plate, baring it like a dare, murky eyes staring bullets, staring daggers, promising that this fiasco would end if that was what he wanted. Gunner's blood sang in his veins and pumped a muscle against his jawline, bouncing whenever he mashed his molars together. His breath heaved out in a hiss, and his hands splayed open, sweeping out in a wide arc that might've said go ahead and fucking do it. If he was anything at this point, he was fucking tired of Bel's accusations, weary of his perpetual venom. They fluctuated between two constants: a raging tempest eating up the shoreline, gnawing at the earth until their island became smaller and smaller, and a history that spanned the ages, one that was difficult to ignore. There were buttons there that only they knew how to press, and they did, infrequently, when the silence between them bubbled over the edge, and stained the ground they stood on. It wasn't poetic. It was a fucking shit-show. And he wasn't even sure how it'd happened, only that a bull was pawing at the ground, and his patience was waning thinner.

It was Dominic who stayed his twitching hands, cutting through the tension with two distinct words: stand down. As if someone had pulled a leash tight against a slavering hound who was ready for blood, Gunner exhaled sharply and licked his lips, stepping out of Bel's line of fire. At least, out of range. So focused on the destructive force in front of him, he hadn't noticed Jona slipping in from behind the counter, landing a crackling blow with his cane, straight across Bel's back. Jolting him back to reality, maybe. He doubted it.

It hadn't occurred to him that he should reach for the glock nestled at his spine, curved into his jeans, even as Bel's hand drifted from behind him, brandishing his own piece, waving it in front of the bearded bartender's nose, unflinchingly. As soon as it swayed in his direction, Gunner's heart lurched and the same restrictive fury threatened to bubble from his parched throat, and culminate into a fist, “You are so fucked, Bel. C'mon pull the trigger.” Because Bel didn't know what the fuck he was talking about and as much as he wanted to correct him... his words jumbled against his tongue, stacking like fallen cards and if he wanted to capsize all the dominoes, he'd have to wait.

And as if nothing stranger could happen in this place, at this time, Hani drifted in like a pixie, flapping her small hands against Bel's elbow and whispering as softly as a mouse that he needed to get out of there. A dainty, delicate spirit whisking in to save the day, as she usually did. He hadn't seen her in awhile. Not since their impromptu break up, contrived by her stern-faced family. He was too much. Too dirty. An ugly compromise of violence and gnashed teeth. Comprised of too many things that did not settle in their palms, and if he was something that couldn't be controlled, he wasn't made for their tiny, virtuous daughter. Strangely enough, Bel complied. Gunner ignored the flare of mossy resentment as they bustled out of the establishment and smoothed his trembling fingers across the front of his pants, though he couldn't exactly pinpoint why he was shaking. His gaze flicked over to Dominic and met his, he nodded and slumped back against the bar, mouth set into a firm line, mulling over Bel's words, grinding them into chewable morsels. Jasper, Chloe, and most others who were looking like deer in the headlights. Suppose he couldn't blame them.

Don't you fucking look at her.

Gunner wasn't an idiot. He knew exactly who he was talking about even as he slunk out the door, led by the cupid-faced fairy. From the growing din of murmurs, and individuals sitting back in their seats, he could hear Senna blubbering out apologies, trying her best to smooth any ruffled feathers. He rolled his gaze towards the ceiling and closed his eyes for a few seconds, attempting to smoother down the growling pull to use anything and everything that could drown out Bel's words, to smother a pillow over the stagnant energy sizzling acidic spirals in his belly: unspent energy threatening to spill over. It was Junko he looked to next, leveling a mildly apologetic stare, though he knew he had little to apologize for. Never a dull moment with the Bates and Zaires circulating in the same room. He wasn't sure what to say to her, though he might've suggested following Hani out. Wasn't sure why, either. Smoothing a hand through his hair, Gunner maneuvered himself away from Jubes, and Simon, and perched himself beside Senna. A few feet away, close enough that he'd be noticed and far enough to... he didn't know, seem less threatening?

“What the hell was that?” His voice was a low hum. Barely audible, a whisper. Enough that she'd need to lean in to hear what he was saying. So that she'd need to pay attention. He didn't like seeing her like this. Fixing Bel's mistakes, flustered and embarrassed and stricken with a need to set everything back on the right path. A rankled hand stopped her movements, pressed her purse down as his free hand fished his wallet from his back pocket. He didn't look at her right away, though he did retract his fingers from hers, and he turned to regard Jona, “I'll pay for the damages, Jona. Everything's fine. No more trouble.” She wouldn't like him handling her business, so he wouldn't act like that was what he was doing. Business was business, and as much as it was his to knock people down a few pegs, Dominic didn't like burning bridges when they could be mended.

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Nikolai Malkov

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a character in “Dirt & Opulence”, as played by tigerz

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