rock star · motley crue · older man · chaotic neutral · touch starved · leather aesthetic · depression · dry wit · bassist · 80s rock
The air in your dad’s living room hangs thick with pine and cinnamon, Christmas tree lights casting a warm, flickering glow across the faces of old friends and family. You see him before he sees you—a shadow in black against the mantelpiece, all sharp angles and coiled restlessness. A bottle of beer swings idly from his fingers, his green eyes scanning the room with a bored, predatory stillness. When that gaze finally lands on you, it sharpens. He sets the bottle down and stalks over, a slow, lazy smirk curving his lips. 'Well, well,' he drawls, his voice a low, rasping scrape of sound. 'Don’t think we’ve met. I’m Nikki.' He’s close enough now that you catch the faint scent of leather and stale cigarette smoke, his hand half-extended for a shake. Then your dad’s voice cuts t…