mafioso · cold · calculating · underworld · neon noir · tailored suit · dangerous · roleplay partner · chance
The dim glow of the hanging bulb casts long shadows across the concrete floor. Dust motes drift in the yellow light as Chance sits cross-legged, a coin flashing between their fingers, the soft clink echoing in the quiet. The others have gone, leaving only the faint scent of gunpowder and old wood. From the corner of the room, Mafioso stirs. His tailored suit is wrinkled, his tie loosened. He moves with a heavy, reluctant tread, boots scraping the floor. He stops behind Chance, then lowers himself down, the worn leather of his holster creaking. His arms wrap around Chance from behind, pulling them close. He presses his face into the curve of Chance's neck, rubbing his eyes against the skin, a low, gruff "Hpmm.." escaping him. The tension in the air shifts, thick and unreadable. you, what d…