the white wolf.

ronan ludolf. 36 years old. russian mafia member. assassin ; the white wolf of the north.

[ronanvvludolf]

mikhailovs·:

Escaping a scathingly tedious conversation with some finance guy who seemed to think the more he talked money, the more interested she’d be in keeping his company. Ivanna’s gaze swept the room in hopes of a familiar face that’d prove to be better company. Spotting the other Russian she made her way over just in time to catch him speaking his grievances of the lack of Vodka selection at the bar.

“Let them have their mixed drinks, and subpar spirits, they couldn’t appreciate it even if they had it.” She responded as she joined him at the highboy, her own flute half filled with a bubbly. “Didn’t think I’d see you here to night, considering you’ve gone and gotten yourself domesticated.” She jibed lightheartedly.

"That maybe so, Mikhailov, but I am deeply morose in their absence,” Ronan said with a sigh, rubbing his temple as the blonde approached him. There was a kinship of sorts among the Russian assassins--between himself, Celine, and Ivanna, the three were like wolves prowling in a field of sheep.

“I came to support the family, but between the two of us, domesticity is starting to grow on me,” he said at last, casting furtive glances around the ballroom. “What about you? Finding the party as dull as I am?” Except, of course, for the hunt for the diamonds.

[dailymarvelkings]

I keep everything very simple. I like telling stories.

[daily-men]

What I find really interesting is to try and mix it up, to push myself and try different things. I don’t want to stay in my comfort zone. I want to take risks and keep myself scared.

[ronanvvludolf]

volkovcatarina·:

   Catarina smirked as she overheard Ronan complaining about the lack of quality alcohol. If it wasn’t for the flasks of vodka she had in each of her pockets she’d be complaining too. You’d think they would know better than to invite Russians and not have the proper drinks. She rolls her eyes at the inadequacy. “Just goes to show that they lack taste and any real knowledge of what constitutes as a good time.” 

Catarina reached into her pockets and pulled out two medium sized gold flasks. She kept one for herself and gave the other to Ronan. Technically both were supposed to be hers,  it wasn’t even enough for a good buzz but it would take the edge off, a way to deal with the tension of being in a setting she’s not familiar with. But she didn’t mind sharing it with a peer. Especially the quiet and stoic Ronan, he was a pillar of strength in the Bratva and she appreciated his abilities more than she ever admitted. “Luckily, I suspected as much and smuggled in my own goods. A toast…what do you want to toast to Ronan?”

"You should know better than most, Volkov, that the vast majority of these bland, cookie cutter upper 1% here wouldn’t know taste if it smacked them across the face,” Ronan managed with a vague gesture of his hand. He had worked for the Russians for many years now--more than half his life, really, if he were to tally it all up--and had more money than he could have ever imagined, but he had grown up poor. Dirt poor, and seeing the way these pretentious, egotistical bastards spent their time and coin was enough to have him roiling with disgust.

He took the flask she handed him gratefully, unscrewing the cap and downing some of the vodka inside. Finally, something decent. He paused when she asked him for a toast, lifting his flask and clinking it to hers as he added with a grim face--”a toast to unraveling the truth, by whatever means necessary.”

After he’d taken another swig, pondering over the weight of his toast--finding the person who had threatened Emmaline, discovering who held that much weight and information over his personal life--he redirected his attention back towards the brunette seated beside him.

“How are you managing tonight, Volkov? Think it’s a good idea we’re here?”

[ronanvvludolf]

noahxgreyheart·:

Ronan’s was the last face that Noah had expected to see at such a lavish event, Tatiana had been chattering on and on excitedly for the past few weeks about how “Uncle Ronan was being much pregnant with little baby”, and the bodyguard had only assumed that he would need to continue keeping a low profile because of said child on the way. He hadn’t met Ronan’s intended yet, just knew that she was supposedly young and not at all involved with the Bratva, Noah could only imagine the fucking stress that had been placed on the elder gentleman as a result.

“No vodka, but they’ve got prissy arse drinks like Aperol spritzes and Irish coffees on the menu tonight. How fitting is it that the Italian and Irish bastards are getting off with their girly little cocktails while we’re scrounging for something to drink on the rocks. Ludolf,” Noah said in greeting then, coming up beside the assassin at the bar and placing a large hand briefly on one of his shoulders. “Didn’t think I’d see you here tonight. I hear congratulations are in order, yeah?”

Ronan shouldn’t have been surprised to see Noah here tonight, he supposed, but a part of him had thought the other man would have been asked to stay home and watch over Tatiana. They’d gotten her back only recently, and yet Ronan already feared what the Irish would do to try and take advantage of any weaknesses or tears in the Russian defense. He knew the man before him likely felt the same way, even as he turned to face the Bratva bodyguard with a friendly expression on his. Or, well, as friendly as someone with Ronan’s otherwise stone-like features could manage to be.

“What’s the point? People drink alcohol to get drunk, and there’s few things quicker than vodka or tequila to get the job done.” Ronan managed bluntly with a roll of his eyes. Finally, a member of his own--someone who understood it. He paused momentarily when Noah expressed his surprise at Ronan’s presence this evening; in many ways, he was just as surprised by himself as the man standing beside him.

“I felt it was my duty to the family; I feel--awful, for everything they’ve had to do for me these past few months,” he answered honestly, glancing around before lowering his voice. “Emmaline is at home, meant to be resting with Tatiana and Anya. I just hope she’s not--upset with me. For coming.” He blinked, glancing at Noah with an intent to change the subject. “What about you, though? Any whirlwind romances in my absence?”

[ronanvvludolf]

wvrlcrd·:

It was hard to be sure of who all would be coming to this overblown shindig, but Liam was certain that there were at least a few loyal dogs from other mafias present. Probably even some who he didn’t know of, at least not by their appearance. There were plenty of shady bastards who were only known by pseudonyms or nicknames, with only their reputation to precede them. With any luck, he might be able to start putting some faces to those names, maybe add them to a running tally of targets for the Irish to take down.

Whoever this guy was, either he had horrifying taste, or he was with the Russians. Honestly, either could be the case. There were a lot of guests tonight who clearly had never heard of the concept of 'good taste’. But since he wasn’t able to be sure which category the guy belonged to, Liam affixed a jovial grin to his face and laughed. “Vodka? At a Golightly party? Come on, man, they have better taste than that. You should try the whiskys, they got some great ones.”

At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, Ronan glanced up just in time to see a lanky, dark-haired man saunter towards him. He seemed rather opinionated on the matter himself, and it took nearly all of his willpower not to crinkle his nose at the assumption the stranger was making. Whiskey was fine and all, but did it pair with everything as nicely as vodka did? No. He quirked a brow, glancing around the party and then down at the beer he’d chosen for himself for the evening instead. He had no plans of getting intoxicated--not with what was on his agenda for the evening--but a drink to blend in with the rest of the crowd? Sure, why not.

It might dull the edge off dealing with the man in front of him, anyway.

“Whiskey isn’t nearly as versatile a spirit,” Ronan argued dryly, eyeing the man over the rim of his glass as he took a hearty gulp from his beer. “Vodka is a catch all; you can drink it straight, you can mix it with other non-alcoholic drinks, or you can make a cocktail of a fuck ton of liquor all on your own and use it as a base or additive. Vodka’s the easy win here, man. Whiskey’s too polarizing.”

[ronanvvludolf]

emmalinefaun·:

It went without saying that young Emmaline Bennet…might have been in over her head at this point. Somehow she had managed to find herself separated from both Tatiana and Anya, despite the pact the three girls had made to stick together, and now she was hopelessly lost in the middle of a gala she had no business attending in the first place. All that she wanted was to find Ronan - Tatiana had hinted that the Golightly birthday party might have been a troubling front for mafia activity, and Emmaline had to concur; what other reason would her mate have to attend such an outlandish event? He - he was an assassin (a word she still had extreme difficulty saying out loud, and not just because of her stutter), and so she could only assume that his very particular skill set was needed due to some form of imminent danger, and while she knew that Ronan was more than capable of taking care of himself…she still couldn’t stomach the thought of him being in harms way at all. He might have been her protector first and foremost, and right from the moment they met come to think of it,  but she liked to think that she could be a little bit of a guardian for him as well…albeit a very tiny, young, and not-so-strong one. 

She had left her phone home at the compound under the assumption that she wouldn’t need it until she returned back to her shared apartment with Ronan, but now that she was lost and alone, she wished more than anything that she had a way to contact the father of her child. He would be so upset with her, of course, for disobeying his direct orders and sneaking out with the other girls, but Emmaline was more than ready to offer as many tearful apologies as he needed to forgive her just so long as it meant that he would bring her back home. This had been an awful idea - there was no sign of Christian, or Lilianna, or even Rafael or Tommy, and given that Emmaline was rather frail and vulnerable even when she wasn’t almost three months pregnant, this wasn’t a good place for her to be at all. She fretted anxiously with her small hands as she looked around for any glimpse of a familiar or friendly face, but in the process she was just shoved out of the way and pushed - manhandled, really - back towards the dancefloor. Right where she had just left because it had been too loud and scary for her to handle! 

“No - please - “ Her weak voice fell on deaf ears as she was all but shoved further inside of the ballroom, and she had to protectively place a shaky hand on the barely-there curve of her baby bump just to keep herself safe. Everyone was taller than she was - everyone was bigger than she was - and Emmaline felt as if she was about to be swallowed up by the crowd. But then…somehow, over the roar of all the voices, and even over the sound of the orchestra, she heard - a voice. It was urgent, and not at all pleased, but it was low and husky and just faintly accented, and - oh! That was her daddy, her popochka, he was here, and now all that she needed to do was find him. Like a bunny rabbit following a trail of breadcrumbs, her button nose twitching as if she could somehow catch a whiff of Ronan’s scent on the air, Emmaline pushed clumsily through the crowd that had so roughly maneuvered her, and it was when she finally reached the back of the room that she came face to face with Ronan. Goodness, she had seen him dress in his suit before he had left for the evening, of course, but - now, in the setting of a party… 

Tears of relief lept into her warm brown eyes at the sight of him, and it was with a broken-sounding sob that she ran to him on clumsy doe legs, nearly knocking his phone out of his weathered hands as she tossed her arms around his mid-section and buried her face helplessly in the reassuring warmth of his broad, barreled chest. Originally, when Tatiana had offered her full-reign over her closet, she had picked out the pretty blue dress solely to please Ronan, as well as the matching flowered headband, but as she clung onto him now and cried into his expensive suit jacket, she found that she no longer cared one bit about what she was wearing. No…all that mattered was that, in the middle of all her chaos, there was him. “Daddy - popochka - I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry!” She looked up at him, then, wide-eyed and tearful, and she let out another pitiful-sounding sob as her tiny shoulders shook with a mixture of relief, fear, and shame. “I - I know I wasn’t supposed to leave our apartment, but I was just so - so worried about you! The other girls, they - they said it would be real safe and that I’d find you right away, but then I got lost, and - and all the people were shovin’ at me, and I…I was so scared.” 

She wasn’t answering. The fear was beginning to creep in, a real and tangible thing as his hands began to shake from where he gripped his phone too hard. Much tigheter, and he was almost certain he’d crack the glass across the front of the screen. But whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see was bodies, strewn across the floor; blood-soaked carpet and splatter across the walls. Mouths gaping open in horror, eyes glassy and vacant of the vivacity of life. The memories of his family haunted him still, ghosts that whispered horrible things in his memories. You could have done better; why are we dead and yet you live? Why have you wasted your life, Ronan, on anger and vengeance? Poor dear; nearly forty and he still can’t protect his family...

He blinked the haze of guilt and fear from his gaze, his mind spinning as Emmaline’s phone clicked to voicemail once more. His throat was dry, his heart hammering in his throat. But on the outside, he remained stoic, if not a little on-edge. He refused to believe anything had happened to his mate; it wasn’t possible. It was an improbable probability, and he would uproot New York from its very foundation before he allowed the sole source of joy n his life to evaporate like mist on the wind. Still, the threat of what might happen to her in his absence swam in his head, like a hive of angry bees, and he was in the middle of shutting off his phone and placing it back into his pocket when a small body barreled into him. Blinking, Ronan turned just in time to see a soft figure, clad in blue and a ribbon of sorts done up in her tight brown curls, collide against the hard planes of his body. He staggered a foot as he caught the warmth and familiarity of Emmaline in his arms, her small baby bump pressing against his own abdomen.

Thank God. Thank God thank God thank God.

She was apologizing to him, but Ronan could do little more than just try to calm his racing heart. A thousand terrible images had filtered through his mind, each more horrifying than the last, so the knowledge that she was here--that she was okay--was almost more than he could possibly bear.

“Myshka, myshka,” he breathed shakily into her hair, kissing the top of her head and rubbing her back soothingly as she rambled her apologies. She was prattling on about how ‘the girls’ had stated that it would be alright for them to sneak out, and a very new, very different sort of fear pierced his heart. He pulled her face away from his chest gently, cradling her tear-stained face in his palms and lowering his voice. If he spoke to her like they were the only two people in the room; in the city; on the entire globe, he was certain she would calm down. His thumb brushed tenderly over the arch of her cheekbone as he bent down and kissed her forehead. “It’s alright, little Russian doll, I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise. But tell me--who did you come here with? Tanechka? Anya? We need to find them--we need to find Viktor--before someone else does.” He released his hold on her cheeks in favor of sliding a hand down to brush, almost reverently, against her baby bump.

“When I asked you to remain behind at the compound, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to be here with you--it’s because it is dangerous for you to be here, Emmaline; you and the baby,” he explained, his voice soft but firm. “I would have stayed home with you if I could have--I spent...every moment in your absence worrying over you. If it was not for my duty to the family, I would have left an hour ago. Two hours ago. Пойдем со мной, маленький медведь. Come with me, little bear, before you hibernate in my suit jacket for the rest of the night.” He took her hands in his, glancing around the ballroom for any sign of Tatiana or Anya. Just what in the world did the girls think they were doing by sneaking out? Tatiana was likely in danger of Irish occupation again; the sooner they could find everyone and round them up, the sooner the Pakhan could deal with them.

“Do you know where the other girls could have gone?” he asked Emmaline, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. “We need to find them before--we just need to find them. Point me in the right direction, myshka, and I’ll get all three of you out of here.”

[ronanvvludolf]

( &&. OPEN )

“Unbelievable,” Ronan murmured to himself, observing from one of the high top tables scattered around the bar area, fiddling with a bowl of peanuts as he watched the tenders seamlessly work together behind the counter.

“Would you believe they don’t even seem to have premium Russian vodka on hand?” he asked, more musing aloud to himself than anyone else. He thought Celine might be nearby, perhaps, likely to respond to the retort with a snort and quip of her own, but he couldn’t be entirely sure.

[ronanvvludolf]

RONAN LUDOLF ☾ GOLIGHTLY GALA

attending the event as a guest of the Russians, Ronan is only attending undercover to be the eyes and ears for Viktor Valentina. As one of the Russian mob’s hitmen, he’s trained to detect any sort of threat that may befall the Pakhan in such a public setting.

[ronanvvludolf]

celinedahl·:

Celine had been the midst of preparing for an outing in the evening. A small vial of heavy-hitting drugs, a few knives sharpened to near perfection and a half-assembled gun lay out on her coffee table so neatly that she could have put them on proper display for a storefront. She enjoyed this part, imagining just how she would take out her target for the night. This time around, she was aiming for an Italian; someone easy to lure away and make an example of. They were easy enough to pick out at a bar, but the real question was how to best present them to give the don and his lackeys a proper scare. Put onto display? Dropped off at their front step? Would a message be effective, or simply overkill? So many options, so little time.

 A knock on her door interrupted her fantasizing, but as soon as Celine opened the door, any annoyance she might have had about it vanished immediately. “Ronan! Oh please, come in.” She broke out into a wide grin, eyes lighting up as she stepped aside so he could enter her not-so-humble abode. “Viktor mentioned you were coming back, but I had no idea when. We have so much to talk about. But first, you said something about gifts?” She eyed the tupperware hopefully, her voice lowering as she glanced up at him again. “How have you been? I’ve been wondering about you and…well, best to discuss these things indoors, yes?”

There was a very strong likelihood he would catch Celine unawares; after being gone from the city for so long, he could only imagine what his favorite working partner had gotten up to in her spare time. Celine was a bit of a loose cannon, in the sense that even Ronan had difficulty predicting what the Bratva’s spider was going to do next (and to who), but that merely made her interesting company. So when Celine threw the door open, surprised (but seemingly pleased) to find him awaiting on her doorstep, Ronan found himself answering her wolfish grin with one of his own. He followed her into her luxurious living space, lifting the tupperware and preserves he’d brought with them. Moving towards the kitchen counter, he set the goods down, working on popping the lid of the tub he’d brought with him.

“Emmaline and I took the liberty of preparing you some crepes; I figured we could just go ahead and assemble them here--I haven’t forgotten your weakness for them, after all,” Ronan teased, opening the container for the both of them. “Would you mind getting us both plates, мой дорогой друг? I’ve brought along some preserves for us, and Emmaline tucked away some powdered sugar into the container. I would have told you  sooner that we were arriving, if I could, but...I didn’t feel it was safe.” He turned to face her, leaning against the counter and folding his arms over his chest.

“I’ve been...a mess of anger. Relief. Exhaustion. I am...sorry I wasn’t here. For Tatiana. It’s a weight I’ll never let go of, knowing I wasn’t there to help you when you might have needed my assistance the most.”

[ronanvvludolf]

emmalinefaun·:

Emmaline couldn’t bring herself to believe all of the hard work that Ronan had dedicated to putting together the nursery for their baby-to-be; it was a beautiful, safe space for their unborn child to grow and develop, and even though she was only a few months along, she could already imagine the dozens of memories that would eventually take place within the soft yellow walls. Returning home to New York City…it was the first step in reclaiming the life that had been stolen from them so shortly after they had first met and fallen in love, and while Emmaline still knew that they had a long road ahead of them before they would be able to find peace once more, she was over the moon excited to share the news of her baby - and the fact that she wasn’t dead - with Christian and Lilianna. That would come soon, of course, and she could hardly wait, but right now, Emmaline was focused on breathing in the serene little nursery that Ronan had so painstakingly put together for them. The world might have seen Ronan as a hardened, cold-blooded killer of a man, but it was moments like this that revealed his softer side, as well as just how much he loved and cared for his pregnant little wife-to-be. Well…hopefully, anyway. He hadn’t asked her to marry him just yet, of course, but - maybe - if she was lucky enough - 

She was drawn out of hopeful, pining little thoughts by the gentle poke of Ronan’s finger into the dainty curve of her waist, and she let out a delighted little squeak of a sound as she scampered back over towards him. Instantly, her big man bent down to gather her up in his impossibly strong arms, and Emmaline mewed softly, sweetly, as her body went pliant and obedient so that he could lift her up and off of the ground. Even with her tiny baby bump that was growing every single day, she still wasn’t quite a hundred pounds, and therefore still incredibly easy for Ronan to lift. She wrapped her faun-like legs around his waist as if it had truly become as natural to her as breathing, and when he began to kiss all over her face, calling her his myshka, she couldn’t help but let out a soft little sigh of pure pleasure, the apples of her cheeks flushing pink and rosy beneath the beard that he nuzzled into her silken skin. 

“Wait, you - you put everything together yourself? All on your own? Popochka…” Emmaline said in breathless awe, and her eyes fluttered shut as her lips parted on another soft, contented little peep as she slid her arms around Ronan’s neck, relishing in how tightly and securely he was able to hold her. “Baby bear will be so happy with his nursery; I - I can’t wait until he’s here to see all of your hard work. Oh, I…” she trailed off, then, blushing and looking up at Ronan with a shy, sheepish smile as she tugged cutely at the collar of his shirt with one tiny hand. “I keep callin’ him a boy, don’t I? But we won’t find out for a little while still…what d’you want more, honey? A little girl with your bright blue eyes, or a handsome little boy with your auburn curls?” The thought of their child taking after her didn’t occur to Emmaline in the slightest - her greatest hope was that their baby would resemble its father in all of his perfection and glory - and with a soft sigh, she rested her head sweetly on his shoulder, tucking her face to the side to press a kitten-like kiss right beneath his beard. “I - I’d love either or, just so long as they’re born healthy and happy.” 

Ronan felt, deep in his soul, that he could pinpoint the exact moment he had fallen in love with Emmaline. He had never believed in love at first sight, or even really the mere concept of something lasting long enough to him to be considered love. After losing his parents and his siblings so many years ago, Ronan had grown to consider himself poisonous; a venomous flower that would destroy the lives of those around him. The thought of subjecting someone else to that had been painful and almost unbearable--so when he had seen Emmaline at the bank that day, when the masked shooter had come in and held them hostage...he had instinctively dived on top of her small, delicate frame to hold her in place and shield her from the bullets, and something inside of him had just clicked into place. Shortly after that, it was no longer just Ronan Ludolf, prized assassin for the Russian Bratva. There was a part of his soul that had been branded with the imprint of Emmaline’s very being; in some ways, he became Ronan-and-Emmaline, ceasing to exist as one person, but instead becoming one soul shared between two bodies.

Which was why, truth be told, he’d gone to the extra effort of building the perfect nursery for them. Not only to protect and prepare for the babe that was on the way, but to show Emmaline even an ounce of what he felt for her. He loved her as the moon loved the sun; something far too pure and warm to ever touch, but to chase after ceaselessly. Longingly.

She fit so snugly around his arms, as though her body had been made to nestle against his own. Ronan couldn’t fight the grin that lit across his face as she squirmed and cooed as he dotted her face with kisses, his beard scratching her soft and supple skin as she went pliant against him. Everything about Emmaline screamed submissive, from the way her body would just fold for him to the way her neck arched, seeking his warmth and assurance. He enjoyed thinking of himself as her protector; he would guard her life and her heart with everything in him, especially with the threat that still hung over their heads like a dark thundercloud.

“I did put everything together myself; I figured I might as well make myself useful, da?” Ronan managed, his grin widening. For her; for Emmaline only. “There’s still quite a few finishing touches I’d like you to take the reins on, or maybe we can work them out together, but I thought the furniture would be a nice start.” He glanced around, from the crib to the rocking chair to the little changing table he’d equipped the room with; even the turning mobile he’d adjusted above the baby’s bed. It wasn’t perfect--wouldn’t be until Emmaline had properly added a mother’s touch--but it would do. For now. He listened thoughtfully as Emmaline asked what he’d ideally love the sex of their baby to be; he allowed his mind to drift off, imagining them with their small babe clutched in their arms, and felt a swell of pride erupt within his chest. He hummed as she kissed his beard, leaning down to steal a kiss from her lips before he slowly set her down and spoke. “I’ve always wanted a little girl, but mainly, I’ve always wanted a family. And now I get to have one, with you; somehow, you’ve chosen to stick by me, even after all the trouble I’ve caused you, and...” he trailed off, resting a hand against her cheek as his thumb stroked the corner of her sweet little mouth. “I’ll spend every single day proving to you that it’s worth it. But--come. Come with me.”

Ronan grabbed her hand then, pulling her away from the baby’s room and towards the master bedroom just across the hall they’d be sharing. He led her in cautiously--tentatively--and moved around the bed and dresser in favor of showing her a fluffy dog beg in the corner of the room.

“I had thought, perhaps, while you’re going through your full term, you could get to practice--on a much smaller scale--raising a very different sort of child.” Ronan released her hand and moved towards the en suite bathroom, disappearing momentarily before returning with a ball of fluff in his arms. A small dog--a pup, really, who would grow big, and strong, and muscular--cradled in one of Ronan’s large palms, yipping as it squirmed its fluffy body around in his grip. A silver-and-white speckled thing, that would turn to resemble a dark grey-to-black tuxedo as the dog aged and grew. He presented the small, fluffy bundle to Emmaline, speaking lowly to the dog in Polish, commanding it to calm down as it tried to squirm out of his grasp and get to Emmaline. Almost as if it sensed the sweet sunshine emanating mere feet from him.

“An Alaskan Malamute; or will be, once he grows up a bit,” Ronan said, his accent slipping through as he glared at the tiny little beast. “Przestań. Stop it, tiny little devil.” He held the creature out to her, something like hope blooming in his gaze. “And entirely yours, myshka.”

[ronanvvludolf]

son or daughter or lizard person?

“What do you mean, or lizard person?”

[ronanvvludolf]

What do you think of Emmaline's changing body?

“If I say I have breeding and pregnancy kinks, is that too much?”

( @emmalinefaun )

[ronanvvludolf]

Can I call you daddy?

“Are you my unborn child?”

[ronanvvludolf]

How is your baby mama doing?

“She’s doing well…I can tell she misses her brother, though, and it’s a heavy weight that rests on my chest, growing with each day I see the sadness reflected in her bright eyes.”

( @emmalinefaun )

[mordreign]

you are the witch in my head.

[celinedahl]

( @ronanvvludolf )

[ronanvvludolf]

charles-rothschild·:

Ever since Tatiana was gone, Charles had found himself more frequent by with the Russian affairs, which includes him personally going to a known Russian territory. Although he was an adviser, he personally chooses to see things for himself and assess the enemy first hand. He took a lot of security with him disguising as random strangers as he paves his way to the Little Odessa, the threshold of the Russian Mafia. It was a risky task to visit there given his position in the Irish Mob, but nonetheless, someone’s got to do the job. Charles decided to get some coffee before he starts conversing to some of the tipped informers the Irish was able to procure. He occupied himself staring at the menu, a lot of which have Russian names that he was trying to decipher when he was interrupted by a man on his side. Charles recognized the Russian accent and he looked at him with a scorn. He felt the blood rushing to his face as he forces himself not to make a scene and choke the other’s man neck. He hated the Russians more than anything else. They were bad for the business, they were bad for the mob. “How about you go shit yourself? That’s what it is.” He said, looking at him sternly before taking his coffee from the counter. He didn’t have enough patience to deal with anyone when he’s on work, especially when it comes to Russians. 

The moment he heard the voice, Ronan was able to adequately place a face to it. And, more importantly, a name. A title. He froze from where he’d been bent over the bakery’s display case, and through the reflection in the glass, spotted a tall, lithe figure with a mop of blonde hair standing just behind him. Gritting his jaw, Ronan stood slowly and turned just in time to see that smug-faced, blonde bastard from the Irish. The fuckhead Irish mob boss’ adviser, if Ronan’s memory served correctly. Standing here, in the middle of a Russian-owned bakery. On Russian territory. The memory of Tatiana’s terror endured at the hands of these uncouth brutes had Ronan’s hands slowly curling into fists at his sides, but he stood tall, glowering down at the young man with barely-suppressed, cool rage.

“You seem a far way from home, little leprechaun,” Ronan said, his voice low and smooth as he sized up the blonde before him. “You speak awfully loud for someone surrounded in a territory owned by the culture you’re mocking.”