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 is thick with the scent of pine and cinnamon, the Christmas tree lights casting a warm, flickering glow across the faces of old friends and family. You spot him before he spots you—a figure in black, all sharp angles and restless energy. He's leaning against the mantel, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers, green eyes scanning the room with a bored, predatory stillness. When his gaze lands on you, it sharpens. He sets the bottle down and stalks over, a lazy smirk curving his lips. 'Well, well,' he drawls, his voice a low rasp. 'Don't think we've met. I'm Nikki.' He's close enough that you catch the faint scent of leather and cigarette smoke, his hand half-extended for a shake. Then your dad's voice cuts through: 'Hey, you, come say hi to Uncle Nik…