#also wow mischa really eats men for brekkie lunch and din din huh

[prvntcessa]

✺ yip

effervescent giggles filled the air as russian mafia royalty mischa dostoyevsky buried her face further into the collar bone of unnamed boozy blonde no.26227, trailing chaste kisses down her tanned slender neck and whispering raspy kiskas into her hair as the club raged around them in all its intoxicated, sweat laden glory.

mischa had only been here for a couple weeks and she was already an indispensable fixture of new orlean’s night life. there were two reasons for this. the first was simply because she was her. mischa was electric; she was charming, vibrant and mysterious which made her as irresistible and intoxicating as the poisons and elixirs that sat in big bottles behind the bar.

the second reason was blood money – d r u g money – that ran through the veins of the n.o. clubs. the bratva provided the drugs and the club sold them under the table. tables mischa frequently got drunk and danced on top of.

nibbling on the tip of her ear with a naughty hand slowly inching up her thigh, the criminal was halfway through another pretty dirty word when a sloppy, sleazy voice boomed above the already blasting music.

“come on, i know you want it. don’t make this difficult, baby. you’re either coming home with me or you’re not going anywhere, bitch.”

the ravenette lifted her countenance from where it was obscured betwixt golden locks and immediately found herself fixated on the chaotic car crash commotion that was unfolding to her right. the booming voice, not surprisingly came from this sweaty, shit stain man, hovering over a girl he was two, no three times the size of, trapping her shaking body in place, his beer breath and spit misting over her delicate fac – mischa’s eyes went wide.

MARTY’S FACE. no, no, NO, this shit was not about to fly. not HER marty, in HER club, not on HER watch. so pushing some hair out of her eyes, the mafia princess winked and patted the woman’s thigh in a way that said she’d be right back before dusting off her pants and going off to WAR.

a woman on a mission, with her drink in hand and louboutins clicking, mischa rounded the corner and elbowed her way into the man, getting her drink all over him, his surprise and disgust creating just a big enough opening for mischa to grab marty and move her behind her.

she expected her oscar in the mail.

“SESTRA, sestra! oh my god, little, i have been looking for you all night, thank god.” the older girl cooed, planting a kiss on marty’s temple and ruffling her hair before her expression darkened into rage. 

“you should be ashamed. she’s SEVENTEEN.” mischa lied, but it was worth it to see how scared he got. very scared indeed. the man’s face crumbled. he was as pale and feverish as death as he spat little timid “i didn’t know”s, “she looked older” and “it was an honest mistake”, before backing away slowly, trying to escape.

rookie mistake.

“not so fast, piggy.” the mob boss smashed her heel into the foot, probably crushing bone in the process judging by the way he yelled bloody murder. unfazed by his excruciating pain, mischa grabbed him by the greasy collar of his shirt and yanked him forward with unbridled aggression, the stench of his fear and beer breath burning in her nose.

“now, you listen, pig boy, and you listen good.” with her free hand, she whipped out what looked like an ordinary lipstick until her thumb popped the cap and revealed a small knife that she held under his CHIN.

 “go home and PRAY that you will never see my face again because it will be the LAST one you ever see. if you so much as breathe or EXIST in the direction of my beautiful blini, i will GUT you like the worthless fish you are and feed you to the sharks. and alexei loves the taste of men who sexually harrass women in clubs. it’s his favorite food. 

– MINE TOO.”

mischa barred her teeth, lifted her shoe and dropped his sweat-drenched shirt … or were those tears? good. “now, go. cry wee wee wee all the way home, piggy. QUICKLY. before i change my mind.” and he must have been an olympic gold medalist in track the way he bolted out of that building. with a smirk mischa put her faux lipstick away and wiped the pathetic man sweat, tears and spit off her face before turning to marty, stern and high strung.

“MALISHKA, how many times have i told you not to go out without me?! it is d a n g e r o u s out here at night!!! especially somewhere like HERE with men like THAT!” she scolded out of fear that something could have happened to the younger girl. but seeing how upset marty was, mischa’s expression immediately softened and her voice was quiet, kind, gentle. a very rare occurrence. 

obsessively, mischa began to check under her arms, her legs and her shoulder before putting a hand on her cheek. “did he do anything to you, little? are you hurt?! i’ll kill him. i should have k i l l e d that mudak bastard. oh, tiny, you scared me … you scared me so bad, don’t ever do that again.” mischa said, fear and relief breaking in her voice before pulling her into a hug, holding her probably too tight.

after she collected herself, mischa offered the girl a small smile. “hey, do you like frozen yogurt, sestra? hm? lets go get frozen yogurt you will feel better, i promise. if i flirt with boy at the counter we can get it for free. О Боже, you must be so tired. here. hop on, sestra. let’s get out of here.”

and so mischa bent over, ready to piggyback marty out of the club, regardless of how it looked because friends came and went, but sisters?

sisters were forever.