#racket gamble

[cathoderaykobold]

More minecraft kobold. Sorry about the Repost. One of the images made Tumblr explode.

[mariocki]

New Scotland Yard: Fire in a Honey Pot (1.8, LWT, 1972)

"You make it sound very convincing."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your Mr. Logan was seen at the club on the afternoon before it burnt."

"Oh, now, don't ask me what could have taken him there, to a place like that."

"You mean you've never heard of the protection business?"

"Isn't that what you're in?"

[alyseofwonderland]

the funniest thing in fan fics is when its a Mob fic but the author has drawn a line in the sand. I just hear Britta say "I can excuse murder but I draw the line at dealing illegal drugs." Its wild every single time.

[mayorwhisper]

What did you just say to me?!

[infowhirl]

Policiais do Deic são suspeitos de vender proteção a cassinos clandestinos em SP

Um grupo de policiais civis de São Paulo é suspeito de vender proteção a donos de cassinos na capital e Grande São Paulo. De acordo com o jornal Folha de S.Paulo, os agentes investigados trabalham em uma delegacia do Deic (Departamento Estadual de Investigações Criminais).

Os policiais também são suspeitos de criar um monopólio no setor de jogos de azar ao atacarem, com uma série de operações, endereços ligados aos concorrentes desses empresários. Conforme a Folha, um inquérito policial foi instaurado pela Corregedoria da Polícia Civil, que também afastou os agentes supostamente envolvidos no caso.

As the investigation unfolds, the revelations surrounding this group of São Paulo civil police officers have drawn significant attention. Their alleged involvement in creating a protection scheme for casino owners and orchestrating a monopoly in the gambling sector paints a picture of deep-rooted corruption. The fact that they reportedly attacked competitors’ establishments to solidify this monopoly adds another layer of illegality to the case.

The magnitude of the accusations prompted the Corregedoria da Polícia Civil to take swift action, initiating an internal inquiry and suspending the officers involved. This step indicates the seriousness of the claims and the need for thorough examination. With millions of reais possibly exchanged in monthly protection payments, this case has not only impacted the gambling industry but also raised concerns about the trust and integrity within law enforcement.

The investigation is still ongoing, and its findings could have major ramifications for both the police force and the larger battle against organized crime in the region.

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ ultraviolence ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! there is also a part one to this imagine, playing dangerous, and a part two, do you think you’d kill for me, one day? i hope you enjoy reading! 🤍

˚ ༘♡ choosing to take up arms and align yourself with player 456’s desperate plan was not so much a choice as it was an ultimatum. to do nothing, continue playing by their sadistic rules, meant walking the same path to inevitable death. but this? this rebellion, this gamble to strike at the heart of the operation. a blaze of defiance instead of the slow suffocation of compliance.

˚ ༘♡ the gunfire came fast and relentless, each crack like lightning splitting the air around you. the deafening staccato of bullets ricocheted off the metal structures, sharp and unforgiving. you pressed yourself hard against the crimson barrier, your heart a violent drumbeat in your chest. each near miss tore at your nerves, leaving behind the bitter taste of survival.

˚ ༘♡ the red structures were impractical shelter, offering only the facade of safety. around you, the others fought back with what little ammunition and courage they had. some fired blindly, their hands shaking, others aimed with accuracy, faces set with the resilience of people who knew they may never see another day.

˚ ༘♡ the air reeked of gunpowder and sweat, and your own breath came in short, uneven bursts as you tried to steady your hands. the ground beneath you was littered with shell casings and splintered debris, each piece a fragment of the chaos you had willingly stepped into. a thought crossed your mind, whether this was bravery or madness. but the thought vanished as quickly as it came, drowned out by the next thunderous racket of gunfire.

˚ ༘♡ you don’t have time to think, only to act. your fingers find the magazine release instinctively, pressing it hard. the spent magazine drops to the ground, clattering louder than you’d like. your other hand is already reaching for a fresh one, fumbling for a second before finding it.

˚ ༘♡ the cool metal feels heavy in your palm as you slot it into the magazine well. you shove it upward until it clicks into place, a sound that’s both satisfying and urgent. your hand moves to the slide, gripping the serrated edges. you pull it back sharply, feeling the resistance, and let it snap forward with a crisp, metallic clank.

˚ ༘♡ your heart is racing, but your hands are steady. you flick the safety off with your thumb without even thinking about it. the gun is ready again, its weight familiar in your grip. you take a breath that doesn’t seem deep enough, your focus narrowing as you lift the weapon and prepare to fire at the masked men who stand across in another block structure.

˚ ༘♡ player 001 had insisted you stay behind. his voice was grounded, almost gentle, as he took your hand, his rough fingers a stark contrast to the warmth in his tone. “this plan is reckless,” he said, his expression unreadable except for the glint of concern in his dark eyes. “we have enough people. you don’t need to put yourself in danger.” but his attempt at reassurance only fueled your resolve.

˚ ༘♡ “if you’re not staying behind, neither am i,” you replied, your voice firm, though your heart pounded like a war drum. his face darkened with vexation, but he didn’t argue further, young-il knew he could not change your mind.

˚ ༘♡ crouched behind the unforgiving cover of the red structure, your hands trembled as you clutched the empty weapon. “i’m out of ammo,” you called, your voice barely cutting through the raucous chaos around you.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun and jung-bae had disappeared minutes ago, slipping into the chaos to infiltrate the control room. every second they were gone stretching unbearably thin. around you, the others were panicking. shouts rose above the gunfire, “almost out!” player 246 hollered, “running low!” player 120 yelled out, desperation laced every shout.

˚ ༘♡ young-il’s radio crackled to life, gi-hun’s strained voice breaking through. “we’re running out of ammo here. there are more magazines on the guards, someone has to get them. hurry!”

˚ ༘♡ the moment the line went dead, young-il turned to the group. unlike the others, he was calm, his face as still as stone, his composure a striking contrast to the pandemonium. his eyes swept over each of you, calculating, deliberate. “four of us will move to back them up,” he said, his voice even, “but someone has to retrieve the magazines from the guards.”

˚ ༘♡ you felt the weight of his gaze settle on you for a moment longer than the others. your stomach tightened. the bodies of the masked men were out there, sprawled in the open, exposed under relentless gunfire. retrieving the magazines meant running into certain danger.

˚ ༘♡ “i’ll go!” dae-ho shouted, his voice quivering. his hands shook as he clutched his weapon, his knuckles white against the grip. before anyone could argue, he pushed himself to his feet and sprinted into the open, his silhouette a vulnerable target in the chaos. bullets ricocheted off nearby walls, sparks flying like tiny explosions. player 120 darted after him, crouching low and firing in short bursts to cover his reckless charge.

˚ ༘♡ young-il, player 047, and player 015 began moving toward the exit. you didn’t hesitate to follow, the worn soles of your shoes crunching against the debris-strewn ground. before you could take more than a few steps, young-il stopped abruptly, turning to face you. his stern gaze locked onto yours, “stay here,” he said, his voice low.

˚ ༘♡ your chest tightened with frustration, and you met his command with a sharp glare. “i can’t stay out here,” you hissed, your voice barely louder than the chaos around you. “how can i stand by knowing you’ll be in danger while i sit here, doing nothing? i can help.”

˚ ༘♡ his expression darkened, his face hardening as his jaw tightened. the faint lines around his eyes deepened into sharp creases, the wear of age etched into his skin. you could see the conflict inside him, his instinct to protect you clashing with the knowledge that he couldn’t stop you. his shoulders sagged ever so slightly, a reluctant surrender.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t argue further. instead, he turned sharply and continued toward the exit, his steps heavier than before. you followed close behind, the cold air biting at your face and your hands shaking.

˚ ༘♡ once inside, the oppressive silence of the corridors was shattered by the sharp crack of gunfire echoing through the narrow passageways. your boots slid against the blood-slick floors, the dark streaks smearing across the ground like grotesque markers guiding your way. shattered shell casings crunched underfoot, their metallic edges catching the dim light as you moved in tight formation behind the others.

˚ ༘♡ the sounds grew louder with every turn, each burst of gunfire sending a jolt through your chest. when you reached the source, your heart sank. gi-hun and jung-bae were pinned down behind a stack of crates, their weapons barking in quick bursts as masked men returned fire from the opposite end of the hall. “the control room is there!” gi-hun shouted, his voice strained as he gestured toward a guarded staircase. the veins in his neck stood out with the effort.

˚ ༘♡ young-il’s gaze darted between the staircase and gi-hun, his expression grim. “i’m nearly out of ammo,” he said, his voice undisturbed despite the chaos around him.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun didn’t hesitate. he reached into his pocket, retrieving a magazine with shaky fingers. “here,” he said, extending it toward young-il. “it’s my last one.”

˚ ༘♡ young-il’s eyes flicked to the magazine, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “are you sure?” he asked, his tone measured, though the tension in his voice was unmistakable.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun nodded. “dae-ho will be back with more. now go!”

˚ ༘♡ young-il looked as though he might argue, yet with a reluctant nod, he took the magazine. sliding it into his weapon, he jerked his head toward the opposite direction. “this way,” he commanded.

˚ ༘♡ you fell in step beside him, your shoulder brushing his as you moved. the air felt thick, you couldn’t help but glance at young-il, his face a mask of stable focus.

˚ ༘♡ arriving at another stairwell, the tension in the air felt suffocating, every step heavy with the weight of what might come next. player 047 and player 015 moved quickly, their rifles poised as they positioned themselves near the walls, peering toward the masked guards above.

˚ ༘♡ you and young-il lingered behind them. he reloaded his rifle with the magazine gi-hun had given him. your hands tightening around your weapon. the cold metal felt heavier than ever, slick with the sweat of your palms. you tried to calm your breathing, to ready yourself for the chaos that was certain to erupt. beside you, young-il raised his gun, his posture steady and unshaken. you followed his lead, preparing for the onslaught, waiting for the inevitable storm of bullets. the shots rang out, but they weren’t aimed at the guards.

˚ ༘♡ the first sharp crack reverberated through the stairwell, a deafening sound that seemed to shatter the air. player 047 jerked forward, his body crumpling to the ground like a discarded puppet. his rifle clattered away, the life drained from him in an instant.

˚ ༘♡ before the echo of the first shot faded, another followed, sharp and final. player 015 collapsed, his body writhing as blood began to trickle beneath him. he let out a guttural, choked gasp, his hands clawing weakly at the ground as he struggled to breathe. his voice, broken and trembling, was barely audible as he begged for mercy, his words dissolving into wet, rasping breaths.

˚ ༘♡ you stood paralyzed, the scene before you unspooling in a sickening blur. player 047’s body lay still, his eyes vacant, while player 015 twitched helplessly, his life draining away with each agonized second.

˚ ༘♡ your eyes went to young-il, who remained motionless, his gun still raised. his expression was cold, unreadable, as if the weight of what he had done didn’t touch him at all. there was no hesitation in his actions, no flicker of remorse in his eyes.

˚ ༘♡ the distant echoes of gunfire and screams drowned out by the discordant pounding of your own heartbeat. your mind raced, grasping for something, anything, to make sense of what was happening, but your body refused to move. your breath caught in your throat as young-il turned toward you, his weapon still raised, the barrel gleaming under the light.

˚ ༘♡ time seemed to stretch as the frigid metal pressed against your forehead, the faint scrape of the barrel against your skin sending a chill down your spine. his eyes, once a source of reassurance, now bore into you with an intensity that felt almost inhuman. they weren’t angry, but calculating. you opened your mouth to speak, to plead, to demand answers, but no sound came. the words were trapped, strangled by a fear that gripped your chest.

˚ ༘♡ for a vanishing moment, hope sparked when he lowered the gun. relief struck you so abruptly it nearly made your knees give out. that hope shattered as quickly as it came. he aimed the gun not at your chest, but lower. you barely registered what was happening before the deafening crack of the shot filled the air.

˚ ༘♡ the agony radiating from your shattered knee. it was as if every nerve in your body had been set ablaze, the pain so consuming it blurred your vision and stole the breath from your lungs. blood gushed from the wound, pooling rapidly beneath you.

˚ ༘♡ you clawed at the ground, desperate for anything to anchor you as your body convulsed with the shock of the injury. tears streamed down your face, hot and uncontrollable, as a strangled cry escaped your lips. the cold floor beneath you seemed to pull the heat from your body, leaving you trembling and vulnerable.

˚ ༘♡ through the haze of agony, you forced your gaze upward, meeting his cold, unflinching eyes. “why?” you rasped, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your ears. the word was a broken plea, filled with pain and betrayal, though deep down, you already knew no answer could justify what he had done.

˚ ༘♡ young-il stalked over to player 047’s lifeless body, his demeanor disturbingly composed despite the carnage surrounding you both. crouching beside the corpse, he grabbed the sleeve of the dead man’s jacket, his fingers curling around the fabric. with a deliberate pull, he tore a strip from the bloodied material.

˚ ༘♡ you writhed where you lay, the searing pain in your knee refusing to relent. blood continued to seep from the wound, its warmth pooling beneath you in thick, sticky smears. your breathing came in short, erratic gasps

˚ ༘♡ he returned to you, the strip of fabric clutched in his hand like a twisted tool of control. his presence loomed over you, suffocating in its quiet intensity. you flinched as he knelt beside you, the smell of blood and sweat clinging to him, a grotesque reminder of what he’d done.

˚ ༘♡ without warning, his hand shot out, his grip firm as he seized your chin. the sudden pressure forced your head off the cold, blood-slick floor, and you gasped, your lips trembling as you struggled to focus through the pain clouding your vision. his touch was rigid, his fingers digging into the tender flesh of your jaw.

˚ ༘♡ young-il worked methodically, winding the fabric around your mouth. you tried to jerk your head away, but his grip tightened, holding you in place as he secured the knot at the back of your head. the coarse material bit into the corners of your mouth, the taste of grime and death filling your senses as your cries were reduced to stifled, pitiful sounds.

˚ ༘♡ when he finally let go of your chin, your head hit the floor with a thud that seemed to echo inside your skull. the pain was sharp, but it paled in comparison to the turmoil raging within you. confusion clawed at your thoughts, tangled with disbelief so heavy it was suffocating. this was young-il, the man who had stood beside you, risked his life for you. you couldn’t reconcile the murderous figure before you with the person who had once seemed so kind, so loyal. why? the question screamed in your mind, louder than the agony in your leg or the blood pounding in your ears.

˚ ༘♡ he pulled the portable radio from his pocket, the cold efficiency of his actions cutting deeper than any bullet could. he walked over to where player 015 lay, choking on his own blood, the pitiful sound barely audible between gurgling gasps. kneeling down beside him, young-il’s voice changed, slipping into a grotesque mockery of grief and desperation.

˚ ༘♡ “i’m sorry, gi-hun,” he said, his voice uneven, laced with feigned exhaustion. “it’s over.”

˚ ༘♡ your eyes widened as the meaning of his words sank in. you thrashed against the bindings around your mouth, your muffled screams raw and desperate as you tried to drown out his lie. gi-hun needed to hear the truth, that young-il betrayed them, but the gag stifled every sound.

˚ ༘♡ young-il pressed the radio closer to player 015, holding it just inches from the man’s face. the wet, ragged gasps of the dying player filled the channel. you watched in horror as young-il’s hand rested on the radio. it was cruel, calculated, a performance designed to destroy any hope gi-hun might have left.

˚ ༘♡ with a flick of his finger, he silenced the radio. the stairwell was suddenly quiet except for your muted weeping and the faint rasp of player 015’s fading breaths. young-il stood over him, his gun raised once more. there was no hesitation, no emotion as he pulled the trigger. the crack of the shot was deafening, the sound of it reverberating off the concrete walls and leaving an emptiness in its wake.

˚ ༘♡ the silence that followed was unbearable. it pressed down on you, crushing your chest, as the weight of his betrayal settled fully in your mind. young-il turned, his face as calm as ever, and you felt your stomach twist. “i’m sorry,” young-il murmured. your heart sank as you convinced yourself this was it. he was going to kill you, finish what he started and tie up loose ends.

˚ ༘♡ instead, he turned and walked away, his footsteps unhurried. the sound of them faded into the distance. confusion churned in your chest, mingling with the pain that consumed your body. why leave you in such a pathetic state? surely, even he wouldn’t be so brutal as to condemn you to bleed out slowly, to suffer alone in agony until death finally claimed you.

˚ ༘♡ time became meaningless as you lay there. blood seeped from your shattered knee in hot, pulsing waves, the sticky warmth swarming beneath you, soaking into your clothes. the air grew colder, or maybe it was you, the life draining from your body, inch by inch. you couldn’t tell if a minute had passed or an hour.

˚ ༘♡ somewhere far away, gunshots cracked. a scream came, a piercing, gut-wrenching sound that sent a shiver crawling up your spine despite your weakening state, unmistakably gi-hun. you refused to consider what might have happened, it was far too devastating.

˚ ༘♡ and then, footsteps.

˚ ༘♡ as the figure emerged into view, a dreadful realization set in. it wasn’t anyone you recognized.

˚ ༘♡ tall and imposing, the stranger was clad in sleek black from head to toe. the fabric of their attire shimmered faintly under the dim light, perfectly fitted, without a single crease or flaw. their face was concealed by an angular black mask, its pristine surface reflecting nothing, revealing nothing, not even a hint of the eyes beneath.

˚ ༘♡ your mind, dulled by pain and blood loss, struggled to comprehend the sight. fear should have seized you, but your body was too weak, your thoughts too fractured to muster a response. when the figure crouched beside you, their movements swift and efficient, you didn’t resist as they ripped the gag from your mouth.

˚ ༘♡ “who… who are you?” you managed to slur, your voice barely audible.

˚ ༘♡ the figure didn’t answer. they didn’t hesitate. one gloved hand cradled the back of your head, tilting it upward with unsettling care, while the other hand brought a cloth to your face. the sharp, chemical scent hit you instantly, chloroform.

˚ ༘♡ panic flared, yet it was short-lived. the edges of your vision blurred, your body growing heavier, like you were sinking into a dark, bottomless pit. the last thing you saw was the smooth, featureless mask staring down at you, icy and unfeeling, before the world faded into black.

a/n: another hwang in-ho fanfiction! let me know your thoughts and if you have any requests! 🤍

[andrewminyardslawyer]

The Mafia In Sports

Blows my mind that so many people in the fandom think the mafia being involved in sports is wild and unrealistic. They are and have been for decades. Teams being owned by the mob, gambling rings, rigged games with referees and sometimes the players themselves. The mob is involved is literally everything. Clothing, food industry, construction, airports, newspapers, gambling, trash disposal, labor racketeering.

A minor league hockey team (Danbury Trashers) from 2004-2006 was owned by the mob and the guy let his 17 year old son be the general manager. In 1920s the New York Americans were owned by the mafia. A goalie broke a refs nose in who was in the mafia and he was almost killed for it. The whole huge betting scandal with the referees in the NBA in the early 2000s. And that's just what is public information. I don't know why people think AFTG is so ridiculous for that being the main plot when it's been a thing since sports leagues started

[livingmybestfakelife]

Birds Of A Feather

Elijah “Smoke” Moore x Annie Moore, Elias “Stack” Moore x Annie Moore (Platonic)

The usual sounds of moaning, cussing, gambling and headboards banging up against the walls were currently being replaced with a Hoover vacuum picking up every crumb, dust and dirt on the Moroccan imported rugs that laid on the first floor of the mansion. A cleaning crew of six went to work as scheduled to freshen up the house. Every Sunday at 8 o’clock on the dot, the men and a few women of Harrison’s Housekeeping had entered L’Étalon to do a deep cleaning of vacuuming, dusting baseboards, sweeping and mopping the hard wood oak floors. Sometimes when bed linens pilled up, they would even take that down to their laundromat and wash them for an extra fee, which was no issue for Miss Annie.

Annie Moore née Walker, had inherited the stunning mansion by her late mother Juanita, who was also a madame. She taught Annie everything she knew on how to run a business like this and how to keep your gigolos and their tricks in check. It wasn’t a career field she’s ever dreamed about, but it’s what she was good at. And the same was said about the Smoke Stack twins. The handsome men and voluptuous woman had all grew up in the gritty Delta that had various ways of survival, and that was either racketeering, hard labor in the fields, scrubbing laundry for rich folks, or turning tricks. And the twins were very good at the first and latter options. Stack especially enjoyed the fucking, that much was obvious, and he thought he might as well get paid for it so why not. That’s when he went into “business” with his dear old friend Annie. Doing four nights in the week, he had a decent amount of frequent customers who paid a generous cut for him to fuck them good into the mattress, it was no surprise that he was one of the fan favorites.

While the rest of the house was being cleaned. Annie was in her en suite soaking in her clawfoot tub. The warm water of the bubble bath heated up her soft skin while the fireplace was beginning to heat up her bedroom. She added some drops of lavender oil within the water, a fragrance she’s loved as long as she could remember. As she scooted herself up, some heavy footsteps made its way behind her. It belonged Stack. He had sat down on a plush cushioned foot stool and began to run his fingers through her hair. She moaned at the feeling, loving the treatment from one of her dear friends. He soon began to separate her hair into sections and took his time to oil her scalp. He never rushed this process, it was one of their bonding moments. He did it for her every other day and she would be the only person he trusted to shave him. Some moments later they began to sing a tune together, it was their song.

“My girl, my girl , don’t lie to me, tell me where did you sleep last night, in the pines, in the pines, where the sun don’t ever shine, I would shiver the whole night through”

He picked up her boars hair brush on the little table next to the tub. It had a sterling silver handle with flowers and vines engraved, a gift from Smoke when they got married. He gently brushed her soft tight coils. The feeling almost made her drift off to sleep. He ended the grooming session with a kiss to her temple and stood up to walk to the mirror in front of the sink to spruce himself up. Today was the only day of the week he got to visit Smoke, the inmates of Haywood Detention Center allowed twice a week visitations and only one person was allowed to come at a time, he used one day and Annie used the other. Stack always liked to look his best, even if it was just to visit a jail. He pulled a little comb out of his sweater pocket and combed his facial hair, he would wait a little while longer for Annie to shave him, liking the slight scruffy look for now. He topped off his own grooming with a few dabs of Florida Water that Annie kept in the mirror cabinet.

“Anything you want me to update him on?”

“No…it’s been slow this week, not much going on”

“It’s because of that new police chief in everyone’s business, scaring off folks from round here”

She sighs at the reminder. Vernon Hanley was steady “cleaning up the streets”, and one of the ways he was doing that was slowly cracking down on the red light district part of Clarksdale. Which was bad for business. He was part of the reason that Smoke was locked up now, though it was unrelated to the hoeing. He got caught up in a racketeering conspiracy which would’ve been five years, but with the help of a smooth talking yankee white lawyer, it was able to be talked down to just a year and four years probation. Which meant Smoke would have to have no parts in his and Stack’s casino business. He was screwed on that part, but it was better than the chain gang and not being able to see his wife and brother everyday

He nods and goes to walk out of the bathroom, but not before turning around and letting her know about the decision he made. Last week Stack had discovered Annie’s emotional affair with one of her workers, Lonnie. He’s been working there for three years and managed to fit in well enough, though Stack never warmed up to him as much as everyone else. Annie tried hard to convince him to leave him be, that she’ll fire him and make him leave town, and most of all, that it never got sexual. But Stack didn’t care about none of that, to him, Lonnie was a threat to the already built in family, he told her that he’d think about it, but that was just to calm her down for a while, he already made up his mind the moment he found out.

“I’m sorry Annie….but he had to go”

She begins to shed some tears, looking at him with the most devastating eyes, deep down inside she already knew what Lonnie’s fate was, but she still wanted some hope, how silly of her.

“Did you make him suffer?”

“Nah, it was quick, don’t worry”

She nods and sniffs and looks in the opposite direction to compose herself, if she saw his face a little bit longer she was bound to get sick.

“Smoke will forgive you, he always did, and always will….I do too, I mean with Smoke been tangled up in this shit you needed a shoulder to cry on, a woman can’t be without her man for too long, it’ll make her crazy”

“Elias, please…”

He walks over and crouches down in front of her, he gently grabs her chin to look at him.

“It was always just us, the three musketeers against the world, you really thought I was gonna let a muthafucka come between us like that Annie?”

“All we did was talk, I was hurting and alone-“

“You come to me then! You talk to me, not an outsider”

He wipes her tears and rests his forehead against hers.

“This whorehouse, the casino, none of this shit makes us Annie, we’re bigger than all of that, whatever temptations that come from it we fight through it, we’re all that matters, okay?”

“Okay, yes alright”

He gives her a forehead kiss and leaves for visitation. Annie hasn’t felt this much guilt in a long time, she felt like she could’ve tried harder to keep Lonnie at a further distance, keeping it more professional, no matter how hard he wanted her attention, she should’ve tried harder, but she couldn’t. It was too little too late to turn back now, Lonnie was probably buried in the woods somewhere, waiting to be consumed by whatever type of nature consumes him.

@sinnersappreciation

@childishgambinaax

@uzumaki-rebellion

@browngirldominion

@tforpresz

[inkedtae]

the underground ⇾ bgc. [M] | PART I

⎡ In a city fuelled by greed and ambition, secrets are a currency. Yet here you are, gambling yours away on a captivating smile.⎤

PART II ➡︎

⌁ pairing; boxer!chan x curvy!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; boxing au, s2l, angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 14.4k

⌁ summary; You’re just a runner. So why the hell are you straddling the lap of an undefeated boxer, massaging his chest and whispering secrets you have no right knowing? Oh, yeah— ‘cause he’s hot.

⌁ warnings; dark themes: mentions and depictions of graphic gang activity, abduction, possession and distribution of drugs, addictions, use of deadly weapons, violence, blood, gore, and death threats, explicit sex: dom!chan, sub!reader, daddy kink, size kink, multiple orgasms, ruined orgasm, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, overstimulation, degradation, dirty talk, handjob, thigh riding, spanking, face slapping (m. receiving), rimming, fingering, edging, manhandling, gun play, anal play, cum play, spit play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

❥ prefer ao3? keep reading here

❥ i want to give special thanks to jen ( @anobodyslove ) for being so patient with me and reading this monster of a fic over! 💕 and @awrkives for the most amazing banner! 💗

❥ and happy birthday to my channie! here's to another year of unhinged love letters. 🐺🖤

❥ okay so i'm moving this fully to tumblr as well as it being available on ao3 HOWEVER the entire fic is over the character limit for tumblr post so this one-shot has been divided into two parts. both parts are uploaded.

!! the following story contains mature themes, including mentions and graphic depictions of racketeering, gang activity, weapons, drugs, violence, blood, gore, and death threats. please do not read nor interact if these themes cause you discomfort !!

Dusk is a medley of tangerine and indigo. Peachy rays of the sun shine between drifting clouds. A quartered shadow of the moon makes a premature appearance. You breathe in the early October air, eyes fluttering shut with the exhale. Clutching onto the balcony’s rickety railing, the rusted metal so cold on your bare hands, you fill your lungs again, taking deep, slow breaths.

The world stops spinning. The muffled music, once pounding against your temples, fades away. Body steady, you sip on the fresh air and swallow away your nausea.

I can do this, you tell yourself. Just one last drop off. I hand it over and leave.

They probably won’t even recognise you. You let your hair grow past your shoulders and dyed it strawberry blonde. You changed your style, trading your baby pink and blue matching sets for muted mixtures of red and black. Fishnets, little gym shorts, a graphic KISS babydoll tee and an oversized, knock-off fur coat you nicked from a local bodega weeks ago, you transformed yourself into someone new.

You turn back to the glass doors now. Catching your reflection, you cringe at the smudged eyeliner and runny nose. You wipe your hands under your eyes and above your lip, sniffling your worries away. You fix your jacket, reapply your dark red lipstick, and frame your hair around your face.

“I can do this,” you mutter as you slide open the door and step back into the party.

You spot Vince by the DJ, Danni and Andrea lingering nearby. Your heart drops to your stomach. They once told you they hated Day-1 parties, yet here they are, taking shots of gin and robbing the entertainment of their equipment. They once told you they loved you too, that they would never leave you behind. All at once, the three of them turned their backs on you, forever haunting your every waking moment.

You push between bodies. Tonight is not about ghosts. You have a debt to settle.

“Name?”

“Don’t be an asshole, Vik.”

Viktor crosses his arms over his chest. “Think this a joke?”

You fight off a smirk. “Nah, that’s not what I think a joke looks like.”

He grits his teeth, tossing you a vulgar gesture before moving aside. “Bitch,” he hisses in your ear as you walk into the master bedroom.

Red lights, smoke, needles. Two topless women dance to the muffled music, bottles in hand. Three Day-1s watch, one with his hand on his crotch. The bed shakes by them, two junkies bouncing on it like children as another Day-1 makes out with their friend.

By the window, two more members stare out to the street.

Exit compromised.

Gagging erupts from the en-suite, coaxing your curiosity. Another topless woman hunches over the toilet. Horny Day-1 members crowd around the entrance, trousers around their ankles as they watch.

You redirect your attention to the table on the far right. Reggie, point-man of tonight’s drop off, sits facing the door. He flashes a toothy grin, racking his gaze over your curves.

Hands remaining by your side, you fight against the instinct to wrap your coat tighter around yourself.

Reggie calls you over with the curl of two fingers, puffing his cigarette smoke out through his nostrils. 

“Name?”

“Vinny sent me.”

The three men sitting around him exchange glances.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, Reggie, dressed in a blood speckled undershirt and baggy cargos, sits up in his seat. “Is that what I asked?” He looks around his fellow members, drily chuckling with them before repeating, “Name!”

The rules for runners are very simple; there’s only one— Never state your name. It creates a trail and binds you to an affliction. Rival gangs won’t work with a spy, and your name will be the first they spill if caught. You’re simply a messenger, no different than the guy that delivers the same-day Amazon order, distributing grams of coke and meth instead of a Roomba.

Honour gangs, like Day-1, are tricky, however. They have a second rule:

“Never lie,” Vinny warned.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do then?”

“Figure it out.”

You shift your weight. His insistence on your name, knowing you will risk your safety, is simply a test of will and grit. You purse your lips, flirting your eyes over his all too arrogant, lanky frame, and reply, “Bitch.”

Reggie raises a brow. He stands, reaching a hand behind him.

“That’s what everyone calls me,” you quickly add, then you shoot him a wink. “Fat bitch, if you’re nasty.”

The room stiffens. Even the gags from the bathroom cease. You keep your attention tunnelled on Reggie. You watch as he fixes his shirt over his gun, holding your breath when he rounds the table.

Nearly an arms length away, a smile finally settles on his old face. “Where the hell did Vinny find you?”

You force yourself to return that same easy grin and peel back the lining of your coat. “Be sure to ask him that the next time you see him. I’m on a tight schedule.”

Reggie gestures for his members. You pull out the wrapped bags of crystal and pass them out, ignoring the way his eyes devour your frame.

“Are you handling the cash too, princess?”

You try not to cringe at the pet name. Licking your lips, you keep your features soft and peer at him from your lashes. “Not tonight. Vinny said you know where the drop point is.”

He hums. 

You pull your coat back around your body, resisting the urge to recoil under his glutinous gaze. He looks no younger than forty-five, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes not doing him any favours. Vinny warned you Reggie might get handsy. Under any other circumstance, you would have kicked him in the balls and spat on his face by now. But you’re in Day-1 territory and don’t have a gang of your own for support.

Reggie reaches his hand out. You take a step back.

Before the thrill of your resistance can poison his stare, you flash him a coy smile and playfully whine, “I’m working tonight.”

He nods towards the door, laughing to himself. “Go on then, princess.”

You turn your back to him, unable to force down a gag. Though you’re eager to escape, you keep your steps steady and even. You stride towards the door, knock thrice and shift your weight to make a show of your boredom while waiting for Viktor to respond.

A relieved breath topples out of you once the door shuts. You lean on your knees, shakily trying to catch your breath.

Viktor carefully scans your hunched frame. “You good?” He whispers, voice is strained, carefully void of emotion.

You nod, standing back to your full height.

Hazel eyes lock on you from the bottom of the stairs. Vince furrows his brows. Danni follows his gaze, Andrea already staring, lips moving.

Shit.

They can’t know it’s you, right? From the way Vince merely narrows his eyes, he must simply suspect something.

You turn to face Viktor.

He tosses you a cautious look, muttering, “I can’t help you.”

You know this, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Just tell me if they’re still looking.”

“Yes.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Viktor keeps his features neutral, posture stiff with his hands clasped before him. “They still got a hit on you, yeah?”

You nod.

“You packing?”

“You know I’m not,” you snap.

Non-members are not permitted entrance if carrying a firearm. You left yours with Vinny before running. Shoving your hands in your pockets, all you feel is your phone, lipstick, and switchblade.

“On the move,” he warns.

“Give me your gun.”

Viktor casts you a sidelong glare. “I can’t.”

You sneak a peek over your shoulder to find Vince halfway up the stairs. You see Danni reaching into her pocket, catching the glare of the lights against a blade. They’re in no rush, but if they make it to the landing before you can secure a proper weapon, you’ll be out of options.

“Do you have a knife?” you ask, taking a step back.

Viktor stiffens.

Shit, are they close?

“Last room down the hall,” Viktor mumbles.

You know you shouldn’t have, but fear triggers adrenaline and soon overwhelms your nerves. Panic binds to your bones, snapping tense muscles into action. You bolt— alone, alarmed. Pushing between drunks, jumping over junkies, you hurry to the farthest room and slam the door. It doesn’t have a lock so you tuck a chair under the handle. Rummaging through drawers, digging through the closet, lifting the mattress, you look for a knife, a gun, anything other than a three-inch switchblade to defend yourself.

The door trembles from the pounding of their fists.

“Come on out!” Vince shouts.

“It must be her! She’s always fucking hiding!” Andrea adds. “Get the fuck out here! Have the balls to face what you did, bitch!”

You find yourself warped in a memory—

“No one wants your boyfriend, Danni,” you shouted. “He came onto me.”

Her open palm landed on your cheek.

Tears gathered in your eyes, face stinging. You stumbled back.

“You’re a lying bitch,” she spat. “At least have the decency to face what you did.”

You blink out of your thoughts, dropping the mattress.

Dresser, closet , bed— Where else could a weapon be? You scan the room, heart hammering with every forceful knock of the door.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Reggie asks, voice muffled.

Your attention settles on the window in front of you. You hurry towards it to find the fire escape.

“Viktor, you sneaky fuck,” you whisper through a relieved chuckle. He wasn’t directing you to a weapon but rather an exit.

You quickly push it up, catching rumblings of orders to blow the door open. Up and out, you jump, sparing a second to shut the window behind you. It might be counter-productive to waste precious time on a window but you know that concealing your exits always gives you a head start.

Rushing down the stairs, you don’t look back upon hearing the loud blast of metal on wood. You just catch their commotion over the heavy bass of the music.

Jumping the final steps, you run.

The Underground sits on the corner of Bank and Third Avenue, tucked under a row of red-bricked townhouses. You lean against the wall, stowing yourself away in the alley to catch your breath. Sirens whirl down the street, casting red and blue lights over your sweaty face. A man of very little wealth stumbles by, clothes torn and stained, waving a sign that reads, JESUS LOVES YOU.

You roll your eyes, wondering where the fuck Jesus was when your parents failed you, when the bank repossessed all you had and when the system passed you from house to house.

The thick stench of sewage and rotten trash suddenly sets in, blighting your next inhale. Leaning over, you succumb to a gagging fit. Thankfully, only bile and saliva gather. You cough and spit it out, then wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. An annoyed sigh escapes you at the realisation that you fucked up your lipstick yet again.

“Just some drunken slut.”

You carefully redirect your attention to the far end of the alley. Two men stand a couple of inches apart. One of them wears a grey tracksuit, glaring at you under the light of the backdoor. He has a towel resting around his neck, just over a thin gold chain. Perhaps in his mid-twenties, his relatively handsome twists with contempt. The other one wears an oversized jersey and low-riding jeans. Though dressed like a boxing fan, you can tell by his rigid posture he’s anything but. No one who gambles their mortgage away on Underground matches stands that straight.

And then you catch it, in the glimpse of the light, the flash of his badge nearly slipping out of his pocket. You wish you were surprised, but you know all too well that it’s dirty cops like this legitimising gang activity.

He pulls his pants up, and continues to pace. “Is he gonna throw it or not?”

“He won’t,” Tracksuit replies, looking over his shoulder.

The dirty cop curses.

“You know how Bahng is,” Tracksuit explains. “He’s too prideful. He won’t ruin an undefeated streak for a few thousand.”

“It’s five hundred thousand, Mickey. Did you tell him that? Does he know?”

Mickey nods, readjusting the towel behind his neck. “And I’m telling you he doesn’t think it’s worth it.”

A shiver dances along your spine at the way the cop’s face hardens. Sinister desperation gleams in his gaze and he pulls out a long knife. In a single motion, he shoves Mickey against the wall and presses the blade against his throat.

Mickey chokes back a scream, throwing his hands up in surrender. “W-whoa, Andy! C-Come on, man.”

Andy bears his teeth, quietly laughing to himself. “Do you think this is a fucking joke? Do you know how fucked I am if he wins this match? Day-1s, Ravens, Siphons— they’re all after me, Mick. I have a family— a fucking career.”

“That’s not my pr—”

“Problem?” Andy finishes, his laughter becoming more manic. “You think it’s not your problem? What do you think I told them when I promised that Bahng would lose?”

Mickey’s face drains of colour.

“I told’em Mick with the little dick can fix it for us.”

Tears gather in Mickey’s eyes. He swallows thickly before shakily asking, “Wh-Why would you s-s-say th-at?”

“Come on, everyone knows you have a small—”

“You know what I mean!” He shouts.

Andy applies pressure with his knife. You catch a trail of blood running down Mickey’s throat.

“L-Look,” Mickey starts, screwing his eyes shut, lips quivering. “He’s hard-headed. The only way he’s not w-winning this ma-tch is if s-someone gets to h-him bef-ore he makes it to the r-ring.”

Andy smiles.

“He takes the long way ‘round. He likes the attention, c-can’t resist it, you know?” Mickey continues. “He goes thr-ough the back h-hall to circle the a-arena and enters the c-crowd from the fr-ont.” He takes a second to swallow before continuing, “It-It would be a real sh-shame if someone g-g-got to him before he can m-make it.”

You watch Andy nod.

“What did you do?”

You jump, hand already grappling for your switchblade as you turn to face your assailant.

Vinny glares back at you.

Giving him a shove, you clench your jaw and hiss, “Don’t do that!”

He corrects his stance, hands in his pockets, then spares a look over his shoulder. “Day-1s are blowing my phone up about some blonde bitch. Did you lock yourself in Tatiana’s room?”

You look back to the other end of the alley. Only flies circle under the backdoor’s light.

“Hey!” Vinny hisses, forcing your attention back to him. “Are you listening?”

“It wasn’t me,” you lie.

He deadpans. “You’re the only bitch I know who has a score to settle with Vince.”

You avert your gaze.

“What happened?” He repeats. This time his voice is less accusatory.

You’ve known Alvin “Vinny” Tucker since you were sixteen. He lived in the apartment above yours and later became your foster brother. You dropped out of high school together a couple months later to sell bootleg Marvel movies on Sixth Street. He really wanted to see Madonna in concert and promised you a front row seat with him if you helped. He was recruited by the Sixers around the time your foster mom came to collect you off the street and force you back to school. He told her where you were, you later found out, to spare you the violence the Sixers had in store for you. He never said it was a debt, though you did feel like you owed him something.

Things changed when Vince set a hit on you. Your description and name were on the radar of every gang, the reward being the acquisition of new territory. The left port is the most sought after piece of land, currently managed by Vince’s father, Vincent Jones Senior. Anyone able to deliver you back to your ex-friends alive suddenly has access to the docks and a monopoly on shipments.

With nowhere else to go, you turned to Vinny. He called Viktor, cashing in a favour, and got to work. The dyed hair, new wardrobe, change of address, it was all done in a matter of hours. And all you had to do was run, hand over the rocks and not attract attention— the goal was simple.

“So how the fuck did you manage to screw that up too?”

“I told you that it wasn’t me!”

“Say that again and I will lose my shit.”

“They can’t prove it was me, okay? Tell Day-1 Vince is paranoid. Run them my old description. Tell them he’s desperate. Let him clean that mess up himself,” you reply, rubbing your temples. “It’s not that fucking hard, Vin.”

You could use a hot bath right now. All you want to do is scrub off the stench of the alley and chaos of the night. For someone who swears he doesn’t want you, Vince took one look in your eyes and knew it was you. He always acted strange but you just thought he was being friendly. It wasn’t until he was rubbing your thigh between shots and rounds of cards that you realised he wanted more than friendship.

You cringe at the memory, pulling your coat tighter around your body, and push past Vinny.

He grabs your arm, yanking you back to face him. “Not that hard? Jesus, you’d think there isn’t a bounty on your head,” he hisses. “You need to be more careful, alright? This is my life too!”

Guilt gathers bile at the base of your throat. You let out a shaky breath, redirecting your gaze to the floor. “I-I know,” you mumble. “I’m sorry, okay? I just—”

Vinny grasps onto your biceps, lowering himself to meet your remorseful gaze. “You can’t panic like that,” he reminds, cutting you off. “The guilty don’t run. You know this.”

“I’m sorry.”

You hate the shakiness of your voice, the admittance of guilt. It’s fucking Vince and Danni and Andrea, the same fucking people that swore they were there for you. It’s their fault everything is falling apart. You’ve known Danni for five years, Andrea for three and both of them just believed Vince when he told them that you were hitting on him, even going as far as kissing him. Had they always suspected you to be a conniving whore, the type of malicious bitch that would risk five years of friendship, of real connection over some guy?

And you were too nice to him— a mistake that now could cost your life.

Vinny releases you with a defeated sigh, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Let me walk you home,” he offers, shoving his hands back into his pockets.

You nod and hug your coat tighter against your body.

He nods towards the entrance of The Underground. “After the match,” he promises. “Sixers have a bet to place.”

Bracing yourself, you follow him down the steps. “Against Bahng?”

“Boxing fan?” he half-jokingly asks, tossing you a confused look over his shoulder.

You shrug your reply.

The main hall smells of sweat and beer. One side holds five queues for refreshments and ticketing, while the other fosters chaos. Men clutching cash and shouting names crowd around the betting stands. Security struggles to keep them in line. Loud rap music plays over the looped announcement of tonight’s opponents — AIDEN MATTHEWS VERSUS CHRISTOPHER BAHNG. You watch their names flash over the screens, pictures of both boxers on either side of the doors. While Aiden is actively fit, muscles and abs on display, Christopher is the embodiment of perfect physique. Muscles defined, shoulders broad, chest puffed out, abs tight and chiselled, he stands with the grace of Adonis himself. Tall, confident, he leers over spectators through the screen with a cold-cutting glare.

Your knees almost buckle.

“It is the clash of titans! Reigning champion, Aiden Matthews, against the undefeated, the unstoppable, the undeniable, Christopher Bahng,” the announcer enthuses over the intercom before urging the audience to lock in their bets.

The only titan you see is Christopher, trailing your gaze up and down his televised body.

“You’re drooling,” Vinny teases.

You turn to cast him a sidelong glare to find he’s no longer by your side. His red beanie bobs in the crowd, through the doors and further into the arena.

“Vinny!” you call, trying to push your way through.

The crowd pushes back, almost throwing you against the wall. You curse under your breath, realising you might have to wait until the match starts to navigate through the arena.

Isn’t there a back hall that circles around, though? You recall Mickey’s words, scanning the crowd for that red beanie again. It still sits atop Vinny’s head by the ring on the other side of the arena. You look for a nearby door or access-point, finding a guarded door to his far left. If you can find the entrance on your end, you can skip through the large crowd and get to him easily.

You survey your surroundings. Another security guard stands before a door to your right. Pushing through the gamblers again and again, you force your way towards him.

“Authorised personnel only,” he gruffly informs.

“I-um—”

“You need to move, miss.” he cuts you off with a pointed look.

“I’m here to see Bahng,” you lie, letting your jacket drop off one of your shoulders.

He raises a brow. “Who commissioned you?”

“Mickey,” you reply before you can stop yourself.

There is much honour among gangs, this Vinny always makes sure you know. He always warns you against dishonesty, especially to certain gang members, since you have no affiliation of your own. But it’s just so easy when you have the right information and you like the way lies just happen to roll off your tongue, effortless and oh-so convincing.

The guard nods, much to your concealed surprise. “Just his type,” you swear you hear him grumble as he opens the door for you.

Hiding a smile, you make your way in without another word.

The back hall is dimly lit. The click of the door echos. Medleys of muffled bass and roaring fans only just seep through and bounce off the brick walls. You adjust your jacket on your shoulders and follow the turns of the hall.

DING!

You jolt, cinching a yelp at the base of your throat. Hastily, you dig into your pocket for your phone.

Vinny: where r u?

You: be there soon

“Lost?”

You look up at the sound of an Australian accent. To your left is an open door of a dressing room, casting a bright spotlight on you amidst the dark hallway. You put your phone away and take quick note of the bodies around the room. Mickey stands by some weights in the corner, eyes narrowing. A handful of medical professionals assess their equipment, rummaging through their kits and looking over clipboards just across from him. By the punching bag, right in front of a wall of mirrors, a couple of men, one with long, icy blonde hair and the other a short midnight black, evaluate your presence.

And there, in the centre of it all, stands Christopher Bahng. Jawline sharp, nose large and lips plush, those big brown eyes soften. You recall the way they were once glaring at his opponent on the screen, wondering what the hell it is about you that makes him opt for a gentler approach. Wrapping boxing tape around his hand, he approaches you.

“Can I help you find something, darling?”

The pet name sounds so casual, so natural, you wouldn’t have guessed that you just met. Your posture relaxes, coat falling off your frame, held up only by your arms. There is a softness in his deep voice that nurtures something forgotten deep within your soul. You feel it- whatever it is- sprout roots in your gut.

Searching his eyes, the cursed word escapes within a breath— “You.”

He smirks.

Does this happen often? Does everyone simply fawn over him?

He smells of leather and vanilla, towering over you. His minty breath fans your face. He rubs his thumb under your lip, cleaning up the smudged lipstick from your chin.

You lean into his touch.

“You’re early!” Mickey shouts from his place in the back. “Sister Maria knows you’re needed after the match.”

Sister Maria can fuck herself, you think. She has tried and failed to recruit you one too many times. Though, if you had known that her clientele was anything like Bahng, you might have reconsidered.

Looking at him now, you can confirm that those screens barely did him any justice. He’s big. It’s no wonder he’s undefeated, the sheer size of him dominating enough. He barely even has a scratch on him, just a couple of cuts on his perfect cheekbones and a bruise that is well on its way to being fully healed, along his jaw. You resist the urge to trace the length of his shoulders, or the ridges of his abs all while leaning in to kiss his wounds away.

Instead, you swallow thickly and nod, “Yes, I-I just got confused.”

Bahng curls a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s okay, darling,” he smiles.

You bite back a moan. God, when did you get this pathetic? So what if he’s hot, and sweet, and beautiful, and huge, and—

“You can wait in here for me,” he nods back into his dressing room. “I won’t be too long.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. He flashes a cocky grin, knowingly gazing down at you. He really is prideful, a bit arrogant too, but you’re not quite sure it’s misplaced. Undefeated in the ring, the only chance anyone has at beating him is by planning an ambush before a match .

Shit.

Your eyes flicker to Mickey. He’s going to kill him. In a matter of minutes, Bahng and his team will circle the arena to enter the ring and get intercepted. And for what? A fucking paycheque?

You shift your weight.

“No!” you shout, starling the room.

All eyes snap to you.

What? You mentally scold. I can’t just shout ‘No’ and expect the entire fucking shit-show to be called off.

Bahng raises his brows. A smile plays on his lips and he lets a chuckle slip. “That needy?” he teases.

Fuck, he’s insufferable… You need to ride him.

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you force yourself to concede, “Mhm.” You grasp the waistband of his crimson silk shorts and tug him closer. He lets you, pressing himself against your stomach.

A trembling breath slips.

He holds back a chuckle.

Say something, your mind shouts.

“Fuck me.”

Not that!

He cups your face. The way you instantly melt into his hands is truly pitiful, your chest raging with humiliation. But then his lips meet yours and those roots that grew deep in your gut begin to blossom up through your rib cage and around your lungs. Absolute serenity blinds whatever contempt took purchase in your chest. You try to grapple onto that anger, that disdain, finding this sudden light feeling much too foreign.

But just as his lips cradle yours, this incomparable feeling of pure contentment soothes your panicked instincts. And it’s as though those roots, those branches that sprouted around your lungs, bloom petals of… Acceptance? Approval?

The feeling of his hands trailing down your spine ground you back to him. You wrap your arms around his neck. Cheek by cheek, he cups your rear and squeezes, pushing your hips up into his.

You moan, the muffled sound so frail. His tongue slips through and, for a boxer, he doesn’t put up much of a fight. He lets you take the lead, following your tongue round and round until you release another fraught groan.

And then he’s torn away.

Mickey stands between the two of you. He shoots you a nasty look before pushing Bahng back into the room. You can tell Bahng allows the meek force of his coach to overtake him, lazily stepping back.

The ease of his movements is not what arrests your thoughts, however. It’s the mess of red lipstick around his mouth, of which he makes no effort to remove.

“… and I’ll say it again!” Mickey shouts, his voice finally registering. “No sex before a match!”

You blink your attention off Bahng as Mickey moves to shut the door in your face.

“Let her in,” Bahng orders.

Mickey turns to give him a look. “She’s a distraction.”

You catch Bahng walking towards the weights along the back brick-exposed wall, effectively ignoring Mickey’s protests. “Don’t make me come over there, Mick,” he playfully warns, taking a seat on an inclined workout bench, “Let my girl in.”

You’re in the midst of wondering whether he’s merely his coach, a friend, or both when his final words set in. You hold onto the door frame to keep from falling over. His girl? You’d turn yourself in, confronting Vince, just to hear those words in that Australian accent again.

“You commissioned her for me, didn’t you?”

Right, you think to yourself as you will strength back to your legs. You’re his sex worker. This is nothing personal.

You roll your shoulders back and adjust your stance, channelling bored seduction, as Mickey begrudgingly opens the door.

Bahng calls you over with a nod. He has heavy weights in each hand, curling slow reps.

You lick your lips and force one foot before the other. But his biceps are flushed, flexing with every lift. You can’t help gawking, bouncing your attention from arm to arm, and almost run into one of his men.

“Jacket,” Midnight-hair says, positioning himself between you and Bahng with an outstretched hand.

While there isn’t anything of value left in your jacket, you know that if they find the lining is removable, your cover will be blown. You cannot deny them it either, especially if you want to get close enough to warn Bahng.

So you slowly peel the jacket off, sticking out your chest in hopes of distracting Midnight-hair. He keeps his eyes trained on you, gaze hardening as if he is struggling to commit to his choice. From the corner of your eye, you see Icy-hair push himself off the wall to carefully watch. If they refuse to get lost in your show, you’ll have to switch gears. In one swift motion, you whip the jacket off and roll it to a ball.

Midnight-hair glares. He unfolds the jacket as soon as he takes it– a detail you should have anticipated. Rummaging through your pockets, he announces, “Switchblade, lipstick, phon—”

You freeze.

Though it is quick, occurring in a blink of an eye, you know he sees it, cutting himself off at the realisation.

The lining flaps open.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shi—

“Hang it by the door, Seungmin,” Bahng orders.

You meet his gaze. That easy playfulness that once danced within it, now dims into calculated intrigue. You spare a quick glance at Mickey. A relieved breath escapes at the sight of him muttering into his phone, alone in the corner.

Looking back at Bahng, you finally see it. There, sprayed on the back wall in black and silver paint, is a three pointed crown. In the middle, drawn with jagged, lazy lines, are three letters— SKZ.

Of all the fucking gangs.

Stray Kids, speculated to have immigrated from Australia or Korea, have slashed their way to the top of the city’s food chain. The chambering of a round— chk chk boom — shoot first and ask questions later. It’s how they’re known. Notorious for money laundering, drug trafficking, vandalism, extortion, arson, street racing, they’ve swept the city up from the coast to the police department. You’ve witnessed gangs fall silent at their mention, caught the way they would take hold of their weapon.

While there have been whispers about the members, the leader remains faceless. Vinny once informed you that no organisation can become this connected without someone calling the shots. At the time, you wondered if that was the most terrifying thing about them— how unknown they really are.

Staring at Bahng now, white canines on display behind a wicked grin, you realise that his leader’s anonymity is futile compared to the intimidation of their members. It’s their silent power, the ease in which they can rattle bones with a single look, perhaps even crack them with a single blow. You are not sure who Christopher Bahng is to Stray Kids— the muscle, the brains, some money pawn as they infiltrate the underground boxing scene, but you know he is dangerous.

Arousal dampens your shorts.

“Take a seat, darling,” he purrs.

He’s lethal, and your lies are unravelling. If you are going to make it out of here alive, you must reassess your information. You inhale deeply, filling your lungs with wavering courage, and move towards Bahng.

Step.

Mickey is a rat.

Step.

This is Stray Kids territory.

Step.

Bahng knows you are not a sex worker.

Step.

Exits are compromised, Icy-hair now standing at the door.

Step.

Your life is now in the hands of an unrivalled boxer.

Bahng nods down to his lap. You carefully straddle it when it dawns on you— His life is in your hands too.

Half-hard, his cock pokes at the clothed apex of your thighs. Your lips quiver as you try to fight back a pathetic whine.

“My pecs tend to ache after working out,” Bahng sighs, continuing his reps. “Won’t you be a doll and massage them for me?”

You don’t need to be told twice, shifting yourself closer.

His jaw sets at the gesture.

Pecs of pure muscle, big and tight, you take a moment to gawk. They extend beyond the span of your palms, pale skin flushed under your touch. He’s sweaty but cold, nipples hard. You hold his gaze and kneed the heel of your hands into his chest. Again and again, you apply gentle pressure, watching as his brows furrow, large nose scrunches and full lips curl into a pleased sneer.

He hisses between breathless gasps. You resist the urge to catch another kiss at the sound.

“How does that feel?” you ask in a whisper.

Bahng sets his weights down. You notice Seungmin straightening his stance in the corner of your eye. Though your hands start to tremble, you continue massaging, knowing sudden movements might trigger a bullet.

Hands on your waist, he pulls you closer into him. “Have you done this before?”

You shake your head.

“Don’t do much massaging in your… line of work?”

You mentally curse. He knows you’re a runner.

“This is not the body part most people want massaged.” You try but cannot keep your lip from slightly curving, the thought of servicing him on your knees all too captivating.

He presses his fingers into your skin and parts his lips. You can tell from the force of his grip and shape of his mouth what he’s about to ask.

Sparing a quick glance at Mickey, you find he is still tied to his phone, muttering quietly into the receiver.

But then he catches your eye.

“Who—”

You throw your body over Bahng’s, exaggerating the force with a whip of your hair and a loud, erotic yelp to cut him off. You wrap your arms around his neck, press your lips to his ears and whisper, “Mickey is a traitor.”

While he originally hugged your waist to keep you from falling, Bahng now stiffens.

“Alright, whore,” Mickey shouts. “Get the fuck out!”

You spot him stomping towards you through the mirror. The collided image of your body intertwined with Bahng’s then overwhelms your attention. You have never felt small a single moment in your life, yet in his arms, you are minuscule. Your body relaxes into his, despite the chaos that ensues around you.

“…a fucking distraction, Chris,” Mickey argues. “You can fuck her after the fight.”

Chris. You like the sound of that, can see yourself moaning it as you bounce on his cock. You clench at the thought.

“Go back to your little corner, Mick,” Chris nods. “Don’t interrupt us again.”

“You want to win, don’t you?”

You can’t hold back your scoff. You can see the room stiffen at the sound through the mirrors. Peeling yourself from Chris’s strong frame, you fake a string staggered cough. The physicians ignore you, Mickey dismisses you, but Chris and his other friends remain observing, analysing.

“I’ve fucked plenty o’bitches before a match,” Chris confesses, flashing a smile so dazzling you almost abandon the jealousy that plagues your chest. “I always win.”

Mickey looks between your tangled bodies. His jaw sets, throat bobs. He wipes his face with the towel around his neck and forces a smile. It doesn’t meet his eyes, but it’s the thin scab on his neck that leaves you queasy.

Chris’s legs bounce beneath you, beckoning your attention. You grip onto his shoulder to maintain your balance as you meet his gaze. Wetness pools at the sight of his mischievous eyes. He peers at you under his brows, quirking one at your enamoured silence.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

What if you just kissed him again? How would he let it go? Knowing you lied and now leveraging information, would he be outraged if you closed the distance between you and played with his tongue? You know he enjoyed himself from the grip he had on your ass alone, not to mention the bulge pressing against your stomach.

You lean forward, leaving one of your hands rested on his shoulder, and brush your nose against his. He remains still, letting his gaze fall to watch your lips. While oh-so tempting, you don’t press them to his. Instead, you knead into his pectoral muscles deeper with your other hand, pushing into his skin with the heel of your palm. You’ve made sure to angle your head towards the mirror to gauge the distance of the other bodies in the room— particularly Mickey’s. Back in his “little corner,” he resumes his phone call.

Chris’s soft groan redirects your gaze to his features, contorted in relieved pleasure. Is he really tense or is it simply your touch?

Seungmin clears his throat from his place in front of the mirrors.

Chris shoots him a warning stare before offering you a softer version of one too. “Tell me what you know, runner,” he orders, voice quiet but full of command.

“I know he came to you with an offer to fix the fight,” you reply, keeping an eye on Mickey’s pacing frame. “I know you declined.”

His hands find a comfortable place on your thighs, and begin to glide up and down, soft and slow. Calloused, bandaged in boxer’s tape, they somehow provide tender care. You relax into him once again, resting your forehead against his.

“I know Mickey sold you out. I know he cut a deal to save himself and they’re coming for you.”

“Who?”

You nudge his nose with a shake of your head.

A ghost of a smile hovers over his plump lips at the gesture. He breathes half a chuckle and presses his fingers into the fat of your thighs, between the diamonds of your fishnets.

“You don’t know?” he practically coos. “Did you happen to catch a name, little one?”

Your attempts at pressing your legs together are pathetic. Instead of subtly easing your clenching desire, you squeeze his sides with your knees. Blood rushes to your face, heating your cheeks.

Chris lets that smug smile settle on his lips, tonguing his cheek. “Yeah,” he chuckles, “You like it when I call you that?”

“I like it when you talk to me like that,” you stupidly confess. You switch sides before he can reply, turning away from the mirrors to face Mickey’s corner, and kneed his other pec with just as much pressure, perhaps adding a bit more to combat your embarrassment.

He allows you, leaning back and watching.

He’s so patient, you fondly think, avoiding his gaze. Won’t he let you suck him before his fight? Even allowing you a little taste would suffice. Swallowing, you cannot stop thinking how empty your throat is, how wonderfully agonising it would be to try to accommodate him.

You spare a sidelong glance at Mickey, snapping yourself out your lustful yearning long enough to ensure you aren’t being overheard. When you find he is tapping away on his phone, you press your lips to Chris’s ear and whisper, “Andy.”

Chris continues rubbing your legs, asking, “What do you know about him?”

“I think he’s a cop.”

“You think?”

“He never said it.”

“So how do you know?”

You force your hips to remain still even as goosebumps rise in the wake of his risky touch, inching closer and closer to the apex of your thighs.

“His posture, he said something about his career being on the line, and I think I saw a badge. I just–” you pause to swallow the excess saliva gathering in your mouth. He’s barely even touched you and you’re already drooling. “I just connected the dots.”

Chris hums.

You lean back to get a better look at his face. His features are compressed in thought, brows knitted and eyes uncertain. Your hand has a mind of its own, abandoning its task on his chest to comb your fingers through his dark hair. Leisurely, he meets your gaze, even leans into your touch. You graze his scalp with your long nails, soft and slow.

You have had sexual partners. You have allowed your lust to cloud your judgement, tossed back drinks and spread your legs quite a few times between parties and side-jobs. But you have never been able to hold someone down, however. You have never been able to consistently see the same person over and over or even call them yours.

Here is Christopher Bahng— undefeated boxing champion, the best The Underground has seen. Sitting beneath you, erection pushing against your clothed crotch, he contently sighs. His hands move up to your hips, rubbing, soothing, adoring the shape of your curves and rolls. And his gaze gleams with admiration, bouncing around your features as if looking for a flaw.

You allow yourself to forget the world, the distant chants of fans and gamblers alike eager for the show to start. You forget the bounty on your head, your ex-friends, Vinny, Viktor, Seungmin lingering around the door with Icy-hair, Mickey texting in his sad little corner. You forget who’s territory this is and the title of the man sitting under you. You allow yourself to isolate this tender moment and pretend that Christopher Bahng is yours.

Your man, your protector, your love. He’d crush skulls between his fist and snap spines over his knee. He’d make sure you’d never have to run again. He’d make sure you’d never have to fear for your life. He’d hold you when you’re tired, and carry you to bed when you’re too lazy to make the trip yourself.

You wonder what that’s like— Love. You remember your mother once said something about it when you asked about your father.

“Love is a lie men created to seduce women,” she said while heating the bottom of her spoon. “Any man telling you otherwise is just desperate to fuck you.”

You mentally roll your eyes. You also remember instantly regretting your mention of it. You were about eight years old when she shared that nugget of knowledge. She then wrapped the conversation up by telling you the heroin she was preparing was her “special medicine” and you shouldn’t, under any circumstance, touch it when she passes out.

If that’s not motherly instincts, you’re not sure what is.

“How can I trust you?” Chris asks, lulling you out of your thoughts.

You make sure Mickey is still preoccupied with his phone before joking, “The word of a whore isn’t worth much anymore, is it?”

He cracks half a smile before leaning his head away from your touch. You take the hint, retracting your hand from his hair.

“You’re not a whore,” he states, voice gruff but quiet.

You swallow thickly. “I could be.”

“Yeah?” He quirks a brow. “Tell me what you’d do right now if you could.”

You wonder how honest you should be. Vinny always said that lying would get you killed, but you have an audience. Looking over your shoulder, you find Seungmin alone by the door. Icy-hair must have left when you let your delusions engulf you earlier. The physicians are desperately trying to look busy, sneaking glances at your proximity with their client. Everyone, save for Mickey who seems the most peeved by your presence, is already uncomfortable by your position on his lap.

How dangerous could the truth really be?

Meeting Chris’s playful stare again, you rest your hands on his tight abs and let a shy smile tug on your lips. “I would ride your thigh,” you confess. When he raises his brows, a surprised smirk gracing his lips, you explain, “They’re just so big and strong. I’m just curious to know what it would feel like on my clit.”

The transparent vulgarity of your confession dries your throat. Your chest heats, humiliation trembling your fingers. You part your lips, wishing you can take it back. But your voice fails you, as if standing firm with your statements.

“Interesting,” he muses. “Do it.”

You clear your throat, furrowing your brows. “What?”

“You want me to trust your word?” he asks.

He lets his hands fall to his sides. Your legs suddenly feel so cold.

“In—” you cut yourself off, taking another quick look around the room. “In front of everyone?”

He shrugs. “You told me you would do it.”

You projected two outcomes the moment they discovered you’re a runner and you decided to exchange information for your life.

One — You get laughed at and kicked out of the establishment.

Two — Chk chk boom.

You might have hoped that Chris considered fucking you before discarding you to the streets, wishful for a good orgasm or two. But you did not expect him to order you to grind on his leg in front of his team.

“Match starts in five,” Mickey announces.

While you turn to acknowledge the warning, Chris keeps his attention on you.

“It starts when I say so,” he replies.

Mickey grumbles profanities under his breath before turning back to his phone. You start to wonder what the fuck has held his focus all night when Chris cups your chin, forcing your gaze back on him.

“I’m beginning to lose my patience, darling,” he warns. “You’re either telling the truth or you’re not.”

You lick your lips. Of all the things you thought your life would depend on, you did not think it would be an orgasm.

Inhaling deeply, you adjust your stance and straddle his thigh. Your lips tremble at the sheer strength of his leg, so tense and taut under your wet shorts. You couldn’t have been more thankful for laundry day and the lack of clean panties available. With nothing but your tiny gym shorts between your crotch and his leg, you can feel every mighty muscle.

You notice movement in the mirror from the corner of your eye. One glance and you find Seungmin has turned to face the door. How often has Chris played with a whore in front of his friends? You clench your jaw as envy pesters your heart. What the fuck did those other girls have that you don’t? Why did he pick them? Why—

“Look at me.”

You obey, meeting his pacifying gaze. He curls your hair behind your ears, the gesture gentle and genuine.

You suck in your bottom lip, eyes wide as jealousy transforms into wonder. He may have picked others before you, but he chose to let you in now. He had a chance to turn you away and he fought to have you in this specific position, all to himself. And maybe he wants others to know that. Or maybe he really does have a fucked up way of verifying his sources. What matters is this time, it is you. And you’ll be damned if you don’t take advantage of that.

Hands on his stomach, fingers sliding between the ridges of his abs, you thrust. The first jut of friction is tentative. Hiccups of pleasure spark from your bundle of nerves and you wobble over his leg. Chris grabs your waist simply to steady you, and retracts once you regain your balance.

You continue, jaw dropping at the constant surge of satisfaction. Wetness gathers and stains your shorts, making the glide of your hips all the more effortless. One look in his eyes, and you know Chris feels it too. However, that wicked smile of his does not overwhelm his features until you moan.

Strained, frail, the sound cuts over the ruckus of the physicians. The room falls silent as you ground yourself hard against his thigh and release another fraught moan of pure enjoyment. Your hands travel higher on his chest, and you lean forward into him, keen to gain more leverage to arch your back.

Chris catches onto your intentions, his attention all too consumed by the curves of your rear. He grabs your waistband and pulls on it, tightening the fabric to sharpen the friction of the thrusts.

“Fuck!” Your voice breaks from bliss, orgasm already festering in the base of your gut.

It’s all too hot. Face, arms, legs, your skin burns, blood racing, nerves jittering. You need everything off. You need his skin on yours, his body engulfing you with more pleasure, more attention.

Lips quivering, breaths shaky, you sit back. You continue to chase your high while grabbing the hem of your shirt and pulling it off. Your hips don’t miss a beat as you reach back to unclasp your lace bra in a few simple manoeuvres and toss it aside as well.

Chris lowly groans. His eyes flicker between each bouncing breast, hands finally finding their rightful place on your backside. He digs his fingers into the fat of your cheeks and helps you with your final few thrusts.

“Can you go a little faster for me?”

You enthusiastically oblige.

A powerful smack, landing on your left cheek, triggers your most erotic moan, voice laden with submission. He issues another on your right and you whine this time, squeaky and breathless.

Chris leans forward so your breasts bounce against his face. He doesn’t bury his face between them however, eager to watch your face eventually contort in ecstasy.

“Good girl,” he praises. “That’s right, keep looking at me.”

Twisting and turning, your arousal gathers.

“You’re doing so well, riding my thigh just like you promised, yeah?”

His voice is condescending, almost making a mockery of your whimpering. He even momentarily mirrors your rounded eyes and slightly pouty lips, looking up at you tauntingly. So why does it fuel your desire, motivate your hips?

You nod, despite your humiliation, voice whiny as you confess, “I’d do it again too.”

A growl of approval resonates from his chest and into yours. He kneads your cheeks, letting a deep groan of his own escape and collide with yours.

“That’s my good girl,” he affirms. “Don’t stop, darling. You’re almost there.”

Your toes curl, tight in your platform boots. Your eyes roll back, twitching when you throw your head back. Your jaw drops, a loud, shattered moan escaping. You cum between sporadically clenching, pathetically gyrating on his firm thigh.

Chris holds you still, mumbling quiet affirmations between your breasts. He presses wet kisses on each one, pulling you back into him. Draping your arms around his shoulders, you fall limp against him. He moans from his smothered place in the valley of your breasts and rubs soothing circles around your backside.

Head foggy, chest heaving, you let your eyes flutter shut. You know you won’t be staying here for long, either meeting the barrel of his gun or the side of the street. There’s no harm in soaking in this moment then, is there? You pretend he is your boyfriend, issuing tender aftercare as you attempt to collect your sanity. You don’t have to try so hard to keep up the delusion with the way he delicately wraps you in a warm hug and comforts your hammering heart with his lips. He peppers kisses up your collarbone, neck, then jaw before meeting the shell of your ear.

“You know you’re really pretty when you’re cumming,” he teases. “Does your right eye always twitch like that? Or was that just for me?”

You open your eyes, squinting against the brightness of the room. Nuzzling the bridge of your nose under his jawline, you whisper, “Do you really need more convincing, Chris?”

You like the way his name rolls off your tongue.

The widening grin on his face tells you he likes it too. “I might,” he replies.

You tell yourself that it just slips, but you’re only lying again. You just want him to know. You want him to imagine you when he jerks off later, when he pounds that traitor to a bloody pulp, when he’s standing in the ring and winning his fight. You want him to be thankful for your presence tonight. You want him to repeat it over and over, to tell his friends about you.

So, shifting back enough to whisper in his ear, you offer your name.

Chris moves back to meet your gaze. He scans your features, his own a blanket of neutrality.

The weight of your action does not settle upon your shoulders until his eyes meet yours again, and you realise you cannot decipher them. Swallowing thickly, you blink back tears. How could you say that? Vinny just warned you against being this reckless. Your new image is tied to him too. You’ve been running around town, disturbing drugs on his behalf or Viktor’s. And you just offer your name, for what? A second of appreciation from a pretty face?

It’s my life too, Vinny’s voice quietly returns. He reminded you of that not even half an hour ago. Why the fuck would you tell some Stray Kids member your darkest secret? Why would you gamble the lives of your only remaining friends?

“I’m—”

Chris cuts you off with a shake of his head. So, you swallow your words.

He reaches for your shirt and helps you put it on. You don’t have the courage to tell him he forgot your bra. He then gestures for you to stand, and fixes your ruined shorts so they’re not riding up anymore. You watch as he studies the damp spot and clenches his jaw to force back a smile.

“Seungmin,” he calls, standing up and towering over you again.

You wonder how tall he is but know better than to ask now.

Seungmin reports to Chris’s side. Chris nods to your fur coat, “Grab it and escort her to the stands.”

“You’r—”

“Now,” he reaffirms, cutting you off again.

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you accept your coat and follow Seungmin out. You shouldn’t have, but you sneak a glance at the mirror eager to catch his reflection one last time.

Chris’s features harden as he faces Mickey. His fists clench.

Mickey stiffens, all previous irritation dissolving into fear.

The door shuts.

Waves of painted faces and torsos, endless banners, and flashing lights— the arena succumbs to insanity. Roars of chants echo upon the ring announcer’s behest. The thick stench of sweat and spilled beer is what overwhelms you, however. Scrunching your nose in disgust, you try to swallow your nausea.

You wonder how anyone here can stand it, turning back to take a final look at Seungmin. He stands at the doorway, arms crossed, gaze lingering around your rear. His ears flame a hot pink at the realisation he’d been caught.

A lazy smirk plays on your lips. He didn’t get a good enough look before?

Seungmin mutters something to the security guard stationed at the door then hurries back into the hall. You wonder if the guard is a Stray Kids member too. Is the ring announcer? What about the employees behind the stands? Or do they simply work for the gang?

“Runner!” Vinny’s voice cuts through the crowd. You turn at the call of your position, finding him standing on his seat and waving you over.

A relieved smile spreads across your lips. He meets you halfway as you push between rowdy spectators. He takes your hand firmly in his and leads you back to your seats.

“Where the hell were you?” He asks over the commotion.

“It’s complicated.”

Vinny’s face darkens with scepticism. “What the fuck did—”

“Who did you bet on?”

He clenches his jaw. “Matthews,” he practically screams.

So the Sixers are in on it too. You wonder if the gangs are onto Chris, knowing he might be affiliated with Stray Kids, and are working together to bring them down.

“Change it.”

“The bell rings in less than a minute,” Vinny shouts before looking over his shoulder to the front doors. He meets your gaze, uncertainty flooding those cerulean eyes, and mouths, It’s fixed.

You shake your head.

Vinny rolls his eyes shut, teeth grinding. He swallows his anger, knowing he cannot hurl insults right now with such an audience. Unlike you, he knows better than to call attention to himself. Exhaling sharply, he harshly holds your gaze and parts his lips.

Profanities? Threats? You expect both, bracing yourself with a clench of your fists.

But Vinny merely shakes his head in disappointment. He pulls out his phone and begins dialling. While waiting for someone to pick up, he yells, “If I die, I’m going to kill you!”

You suppress a smile and stifle the urge to respond with a joke. You fear you might have reached his limit. You’ve dragged him into your dark vortex of despair, endangering his life again and again. You should reach out to him now, pull him into a tight hug and offer endless apologies. You should have taken the chance he gave you when he called your foster mom, and stayed off the streets. You should have finished high school, applied for colleges outside of the wretched city of Crimson Heights, and never looked back. Instead, you continue to test his patience. 

Side-jobs were simply more lucrative. You have a talent for blending in too, a permanent look of indifference plastered on your face. No one ever suspects some girl, twirling a joint between her fingers, to be running or organising hits on corner stores and local diners.

The first time you held a gun, power ignited through your veins. You carried the weight of life within a bullet, finger teasing the trigger. The first time you pointed it at some store clerk, black ski mask over your face and tongue swirling around a pink lollipop, you felt that stone cold power of metal and powder snake along your spine and caress the nape of your neck.

You rolled your shoulders back, angled your head and smirked.

The clerk soiled himself, hands up in surrender.

You pressed the barrel to his head anyway, boring your wild eyes into his fearful ones.

“Well, this is awkward for you, isn’t it?” you giggled before cocking your gun.

The memory lures a smile. While you didn’t shoot him, provided he was very cooperative, it was fun toying with him.

The lights begin to whirl around the arena, snapping you out of your thoughts. Vinny hangs up the phone, and though the crowd is deafening, you can still hear his heavy, nervous breaths beside you.

All lights converge in the centre of the boxing ring. The cheers increase, crowd buzzing with anticipation. A tall, slender man dressed in a clean, glittering suit enters and takes his place in the middle of the ring. He holds a hand up and waves, encouraging excitement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to The Underground!” He shouts into the microphone. Cameras capture his perfect white smile, projecting the image on the large screens hanging over the ring.

“My name is Jackson Wylder and I will be your ring master this evening. Now, I have an important question for you tonight.” He scans the audience, displays a look of curiosity and asks, “Are you ready to rumble?”

The cheers surge.

“I said,” he starts before darting around the ring, “ARE YOU READY TO RUMBLE?”

You clap your hands over your ears at the thundering roars of the fans. A group of manic men jump behind you, almost pushing you off your seat and onto the spectators in front of you.

Vinny links his arm with yours and pulls you into his side. You turn to give him a thankful look, but he avoids your gaze.

“Tonight, we have a clash of titans!” Jackson continues, turning to point to his left. “In this corner, weighing in at 210 pounds and hailing from our very own, Crimson Heights, give it up for the man who’s always up for a fight— the skilled and tenacious, Aiden Matthews!”

Aiden emerges from a dark hall closest to his corner. He wears a blue silk robe and white gloves, bouncing on his toes as he makes his way through the unruly crowd. They holler at him, either tossing praises or insults, and bump their hands against his fists. He waves his arms up to encourage their hectic energy then finally enters the ring. His coach unfolds a chair and then helps him out of his robe.

Jackson shakes Aiden’s hand. He mutters a few words before returning to the centre of the ring.

“And in the opposite corner, we have a fighter who needs no introduction—” Jackson starts again. A childish smile plays on his lips, like he’s a fan, himself. “A crowd favourite, a sensation, and the undefeated champion who makes every match feel like a blockbuster!” He’s giddy, practically giggling his words. “Standing tall at a staggering 6 feet 9 inches and weighing in at an impressive 215 pounds, please put your hands together for the man who’s taken the boxing world by storm, Christopher ‘The Phantom’ Bahng!”

The roars bellow deep from the crowd as they cheer and chant, “Bahng! Bahng! Bahng!”

Everyone, even Jackson, turns to the front door, waiting for Chris to emerge.

You swallow thickly.

The lights then shift to the other end of the arena.

Your heart already falters at his height. He’s still almost a foot taller than you in your thick platforms. You stand to see him, legs almost giving out when you spot his large figure appear through the back door. But it’s the mess of red lipstick still smeared on his lips, the blood speckled like freckles on his cheeks, and the dark patch on the leg of his shorts that wrings your soul. He didn’t even give you a chance to be grateful that he trusted you, slaughtering your sanity with such a dishevelled look.

Decorated in you, he enters the ring and shakes the hand of a bashful Jackson. No one seems fazed by his appearance. Jealousy pangs your chest at the thought of him being drenched in his past whores, the admittance of his pre-match rituals returning to you.

One look from Vinny might indicate otherwise. He glares at your smudged lipstick.

You roll your eyes and lean into him, too breathless and trembling to fight off his wrath.

“Tonight,” Jackson smiles, raising his hand to redirect the crowd’s attention. “Tonight, we’re in for a spectacular display of skill, heart, and,” he shoots the fans a little wink, “perhaps a bit of humour—because let’s face it, if you can’t have fun while throwing punches, what’s the point?!”

He takes a moment to laugh at his own joke.

You keep your eyes on Chris. Mickey does not unfold his chair and take his robe. Instead a shorter, just as muscled, man does. He gives Chris a weary look, of which Chris ignores, and squirts some water in his mouth.

You force yourself not to focus on the droplets that drip from his pouted, stained lips.

“This is not just a fight, folks,” Jackson informs with a raise of his brows. “No, no! This is a showdown!”

He lets the crowd go crazy before continuing, “Aiden Matthews is ready to prove that he’s a force to be reckoned with, but Christopher Bahng,” he turns to his favourite star and grins, “has captured the hearts of fans everywhere. Can Aiden dethrone the giant, or will Bahng continue his reign of dominance?”

You suck in a shaky breath and blow it out. You fill your lungs of tainted sweat-slick air, fighting the urge to gag, and release it once more. Looking around the arena, you swallow the growing lump in your throat. All these fans have come to watch Chris win, and have no idea that he almost died.

“So, buckle up, ladies and gents! Keep your drinks close, your snacks handy, and your eyes glued to the ring! It’s time to witness boxing history unfold right before our eyes!” Jackson’s eyes twinkle with astonishment and wonder. He holds his arms out and turns in a slow circle. “Are you ready for this showdown?” He asks as if truly probing for a personal answer.

“Let’s get ready to rumble!”

Mouth guards in, both fighters stand.

Aiden, while built and tall in his own right, looks like an ant compared to Chris. He pounds his fists together and grunts to assert his dominance. He bounces on his toes and shoots Chris his most menacing glare.

Chris flashes a lazy smile. He rolls his shoulders back and holds his fists up. He peers over his gloves at Aiden like a predator stalking its prey.

The bell rings.

“And here we go, folks! Round 1 is officially underway! Aiden Matthews is looking to prove himself against the undefeated giant, Christopher Bahng!” Jackson comments ringside.

Aiden cautiously circles the ring with Chris. He maintains a safe distance, the heat of his gaze wavering under Chris’s relaxed stance. Testing the waters, he tries his luck with a quick jab.

Chris has the height advantage, however, effortlessly leaning back to dodge. The punch barely grazes the air before him.

Aiden narrows his eyes.

“Ooo,” Jackson hisses. “So close!”

The crowd laughs, almost as one, before splitting between chants for each boxer.

Aiden, eager to recover, steps in quickly, unleashing a flurry of body shots aimed at Chris’s midsection.

You hold your breath and tighten your grip on Vinny’s arm.

But, Chris doesn't flinch. His arms, long and strong, keep Aiden at bay with precise blocks. The controlled ease of Chris’s movements highlight Aiden’s childish, tantrum-like fighting style. You can’t help wondering how the fuck Aiden made it this far. Perhaps other boxers can’t track the chaotic jabs as well as Chris does. Maybe they didn’t even try.

“Matthews is coming in hot, throwing quick combos, but Bahng is as cool as ice—deflecting every shot with ease!”

Chris, ever patient, waits for an opening. He keeps his elbows tucked in, movements minimal, letting Aiden expend energy. He evades each punch with swift swerves of his head, taking small steps back. Even hunched, crouched inwards, his frame still looms large over Aiden.

The majority of the crowd now chants Chris’s name, flooding the arena with jittery admiration.

Like a trigger, fast and smooth, Chris snaps forward with a sharp jab. The blow lands against Aiden’s guard, but the sheer strength of it forces him back.

“Bahng with the first real strike of the night!” Jackson shouts.

Aiden’s eyes widen. He finally feels the power, you realise, and his gaze floods with fear.

Jackson tosses the crowd a giddy look and gushes,“That jab was like a freight train!”

The crowd clamours with laughter in agreement.

You catch a ghost of a smile hovering over Chris’s lips. Is it insane that you find him even more attractive when he’s menacingly playful? An image of his face inches from yours, that same impression of a smile unable to settle on his lips, surfaces. Those feline eyes, teasing, daring, coaxing you to ride him.

You bite your lip and refocus your attention on the match.

Aiden resets and presses on. He bobs and weaves to avoid Chris’s long reach. Ducking low, he slips inside Chris’s defence to unleash a rapid combination of punches to the torso and a hook aimed at the chin.

Chris blocks the body blows then, all too calmly for someone being beat up, rolls with the hook, avoiding the brunt of it. That sinister smirk settles, oh so cunningly, curving the corners of his lips. Without delay, Chris counters with an uppercut from the right, the snap of his arms swift and steady.

Aiden only just manages to block it in time, but the impact leaves him rattled. He stumbles back with a loud grunt. Wheezing and regaining his footing, his eyes betray him, glowing with newfound respect for his towering opponent.

In awe, Jackson remarks, “Bahng is a mountain of patience—waiting for just the right moment to strike! Matthews is going to have to dig deep if he’s going to find a way in!”

You glance at the final seconds of the first round, glowing red above the ring. Less than thirty seconds remain.

Aiden, perhaps knowing he has to make a statement, launches a last-ditch effort. He levels a heavy left hook aimed at Chris’s side, almost mirroring the speed Chris recently displayed.

But Chris, as if seeing it in slow motion, smoothly side steps.

You gasp with the crowd.

He counters with a punishing fist aimed at Aiden’s temple. The punch connects cleanly, the crowd choking on their cheers. The thick sound echoes between the staggered shouts, twisting your stomach with unease.

Aiden stumbles towards the ropes, using their stability to keep himself standing.

The bell rings before Chris can issue another attack.

Jackson steps back into the ring. He eyes Aiden with wide eyes before sharing a look with the audience. “What a way to end the first round!” He laughs. “Bahng’s precision is something to behold, and Aiden Matthews has already felt the sting of that power! Can I get…”

The rest of his words fade as you fixate your attention on the boxers. Aiden returns to his corner with a shuffle of his feet. He’s drenched in sweat, face red and eyes tired. His coach wipes his face then squeezes some water into his mouth.

Chris leisurely walks to his seat. He wipes nose with his arm as he sits. Composed, unbothered, he stares his opponent down.

Aiden shifts in place.

You can’t help but do the same.

You’ve been wanting to leave since the fourth round.

You thought it was over when Chris landed an uppercut so sharp, you swear you heard Aiden’s jaw shatter. You watched as his eyes rolled back and he met the floor with a loud, echoing thump. Aiden’s team flinched, leering over the ropes only to be scolded by the referee.

Chris’s eyes gleamed with something ominous, standing over Aiden’s limp body. He tilted his head and tongued his cheek, lips heavy with the impression of a smirk. He doesn’t merely look proud, but gratified. You wondered at the time if he loves the splitting sound of a bone breaking just as much as you love the chambering click of a loaded gun.

But the crowd remained in the arena. Vinny gave you a reassuring look as if silently telling you it won’t be much longer, and the fifth round commenced.

Jackson returns ringside now, two more rounds later, announcing after the signal of the bell, “Round seven, folks, and this has been an all-out war! Aiden Matthews has been relentless, but Christopher Bahng’s defence is like a fortress!”

The crowd roars as Aiden and Chris step toward the centre of the ring again. Aiden, slick with sweat, jabs at the air, his face tense and determined. Chris, towering over him with his eyes ever so calm and calculating, bounces lightly on his feet.

As the audience resumes their chants for Chris, Aiden charges forward. He jabs with considerable speed and aggression. His punches are fast but painstakingly desperate. It’s almost embarrassing to witness, and you’re not even a fighter.

One glance at Chris and you catch his mask of cool flicker with hushed notions of pity, as if feeling sorry for his opponent. You scan his fighting stance, devouring his toned body with your eyes. His skin gleams with sweat and blotches of forming bruises. His left cheek holds a patch of purple; right brow split.

You swallow thickly, watching his muscles twist as he effortlessly weaves. He slips left, right, then ducks under an all too wide hook.

“Stay still, you fucker!” Aiden orders through gritted teeth, the microphones hovering over the ring catching every spit-splattered syllable.

Chris faintly smiles, eyes locking on Aiden's. He moves just enough to miss another jab by mere inches, dancing around the ring like he has all the time in the world. He then jumps high, resembling a kangaroo, once, twice, only to circle the ring again.

The buzzing energy of the crowd grows, their cheers building as if Chris’s little gesture is any indication of a shift in the round.

The screens cut to Jackson. He swallows thickly as his eyes track Chris’s movements then comments,“Matthews is giving it everything he’s got, but Bahng…” he takes a moment to let out a whistle, “Bahng is like a ghost out there! Just out of reach!”

Aiden presses harder, frustration creeping in as he tries to close the distance. He throws heavy hooks and uppercuts.

You almost scoff, wondering why he hasn’t learned yet. His efforts are useless against someone as skilled as Chris. Truly a phantom in the ring, Chris’s footwork is flawless, always just a step ahead, and he barely reacts.

He then ever so slightly adjusts his stance, leaving an opening wide for Aiden to pounce.

You furrow your brows.

Jackson voices his concern too, narrowing his eyes. “Is Bahng showing weakness?” He asks as if he cannot believe it himself. Then his eyes widen. “Matthews sees it—he’s going for it!”

Aiden lunges forward, hurling all his power into a swift right hook toward the exposed side.

However, as steady as his opponent commits to the punch, Chris sidesteps with speed that rivals lightning, and counters with a sharp left jab that snaps Aiden’s head back.

You stand again with Vinny, both gasping with the crowd. A hand flies to your mouth as you watch Aiden stagger back.

“OH!” Jackson beams, “Bahng saw that coming from a mile away!”

Chris is relentless. He moves in smoothly, landing a quick, precise combination—jab, cross, uppercut—that sends Aiden stumbling backward.

Aiden’s guard falters.

Chris steps forward. He drives a thunderous right hook straight into Aiden’s gut.

Aiden gasps for air, the force buckling.

Chris, collected and focused, steps back, allowing Aiden a moment to gather himself.

Your eyes widen at the pacifying gesture, wondering what he has to gain by giving his opponent a chance to strike again.

All thoughts cease within seconds as Chris feints an attack. It draws Aiden’s guard up high only for Chris to slip low and deliver a devastating body blow, placed perfectly under the ribs.

Aiden groans, dropping to a knee. The air is completely knocked out of him.

The referee stands over his kneeling frame, counting, “One!”

The crowd erupts with excitement, some jumping as they cheer for Chris, while others remain shackled in disbelief as Aiden tries to regain his strength.

“Two.”

Jackson is rocking in place, jittery with joy as he enthuses,“Bahng is not just beating Matthews—he’s outthinking him! Every move is a step ahead, like he’s reading Aiden’s mind!”

“Three.”

Aiden is wobbly, but pulls himself back to his feet. He shakes his head, attempting to refocus. You suppose that Jackson’s comment must have struck a cord because Aiden looks as though he is done thinking. He lunges again, impulsive and messy.

Chris is undeterred by the chaos Aiden becomes, this time feinting a right cross.

Aiden’s guard flies to the right. Then, Chris pivots and delivers a clean left hook to his temple.

“What a move!”Jackson praises. “Bahng’s precision is surgical!”

Aiden collapses against the ropes.

Chris steps back, watching, waiting.

The stillness of Aiden’s muscular frame worries the referee. He steps in, leaning by Aiden’s side to get a better look.

The camera pans over his swollen, bloody face. You cringe.

The referee stands back to his full height to wave his arms, calling, “It’s over! It’s over!”

The crowd explodes into catastrophic cheers upon the referee’s decree.

Chris raises his gloves in triumph and pride. While he is well within his right to gloat, and perhaps has done so before based on the fact that you know he likes to show off, he remains composed. The only emotion hinting towards elation is in the lightness of his gaze as he looks around the arena at his fans. He nods to them, lips finally curving into a smile.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was shy.

Jackson returns to the centre of the ring. He gestures his hands towards Chris, encouraging the howls of the crowd. “Christopher Bahng has done it again!” He says, smiling fondly at Chris. “Not just with power, not just with speed, but with pure brilliance in this ring. He’s shown everyone why he’s the undefeated champion!”

You don’t get a chance to revel at the sight of Chris stiffening as Jackson holds his arms out wide for a hug. Vinny tugs on your arm instead, nodding his head towards the exit. You keep your arms linked and stay close as he pushes between the manic crowd for you.

“Explain yourself,” Vinny orders the moment you’re back on the street.

You look over your shoulder at the entrance of the arena, then whisper, “Not here.”

Vinny rolls his eyes but starts walking towards your apartment. After three blocks of silence, he says, “Talk.”

“I was looking for yo—”

“Don’t bullshit me,” he seethes, cutting you off. “How the fuck did you know Matthews would lose? It’s been fixed for the last week.”

“Just listen to me,” you plead, raising your voice. “When I was waiting for you in the alley, I heard some things.”

Vinny shoots you a nervous look.

You continue, “One of those things was that there were back halls that go around the entire arena. I really was looking for you in there, Vinny. You left me to fend for myself and those people were hard to squeeze through. So, I found one of the doors. And— listen, I know you’re gonna be mad at me, but I really thought it would be easier this way.”

His face falls into disappointment. “You lied.”

“I lied,” you confess, avoiding his gaze as you continue down the street. “I told the guy at the door that Chris—”

“You call him Chris?” Vinny interrupts, voice heavy with astonishment.

“Well—”

Vinny cuts you off with your name and a shake of his head. “No, no, you don’t understand,” he humorlessly chuckles. “No one but his inner circle calls him Chris. What the fuck did you do?”

“I told the guy at the door that I was his prostitute. It was only supposed to get me in so I could find you.”

“You didn’t,” Vinny says. Upon the guilty look in your eyes, he closes his own and sighs, “You fucked him?”

“Not exactly,” you hesitantly correct. “He’s really hot, okay? And he was really nice to me, and I don’t know if you know this,” you sarcastically start. “But not many people have been lately.”

Vinny offers you a vulgar gesture.

You roll your eyes. “I just told him what I heard and he needed convincing.”

“You fucked him,” Vinny concludes.

“Do you think I would be able to walk right now if I did?”

You try not to laugh as Vinny’s features coil in disgust. Parting your lips, you’re about to tell him that it doesn’t matter now. Chris is fine, the Sixers didn’t lose a dime and you can finally get that bath you have been craving earlier this evening.

However, the shriek of tires pierce through the silent night instead.

Vinny reaches for his gun, pushing you behind him. You go to grab your own only to remember you don’t have one. The switchblade will have to do if running is not an option.

A black van speeds down the street, darting past you to swerve onto the sidewalk and block your path. Seungmin jumps out of the passenger seat. Icy-hair and another tall, dark haired man, whose features remarkably resemble that of a fox, emerge from the back.

Vinny cocks his gun.

“Wait,” you shout, stepping between them. You hold your hands up, giving Vinny your most reassuring look. “I know them,” you explain.

Looking amongst the intruders, Vinny furrows his brows and asks, “How?”

“They’re Chris’s friends,” you reply, quietly adding, “I think.”

Vinny glares. “You think?”

“Walk away,” a deep voice orders.

Icy-hair steps forward with a gun of his own. However, he is not aiming it at Vinny.

You deadpan. “Did he tell you to do this? God, is he always this dramatic?”

“Tell me about it,” Seungmin mutters, then nods towards the van. “Get in.”

Turning to Vinny, you offer him a small, assuring smile. “I’m fine, Vin. Just go.”

Vinny scoffs, narrowing his eyes in disbelief at you. “He has a gun to your head.”

“Chris is an egoistic, attention-seeker,” you dismiss. “If they wanted to shoot me, they would have done so already.”

“How can you be sure?” Vinny shouts.

Chk chk boom, you think. Your brains would have already been splattered on the sidewalk.

Nodding behind him, you repeat, “Go. I’ll call you later.”

Vinny shakes his head, clenching his jaw and directing his frustrated gaze to the ground. As if wrestling his intuition, he resentfully lowers and uncocks his gun. He takes another look around at the men, swallowing thickly.

You wonder if they know he’s trying to memorise their faces. You wonder if they care.

“If you die,” Vinny says, voice wavering. “I will kill you.”

You suppress a laugh, tightening your lips. “Good.”

He breaths a baffled chuckle, gives you one final look, then forces himself to walk away

You turn to face the others, or at least you’re in the process of turning.

A black bag slips over your head. Arms pulled back, hands bound, you attempt to struggle against their grip. Too slow, your squirming does not distract them. Someone hooks their arms under your shoulders, another scoops up your legs. Heart pounding, you release a searing scream, attempting to wrangle your way out of their grasp. You kick and try to flail your arms, grunting as you fight against their hold. The three men look strong, but they are nothing compared to Chris. You doubt only two of them can maintain their grip this well when you feel another set of hands, then another.

Vinny shouts your name.

Your body is tossed into the back. You land with a loud groan, cursing at the impact of the pain.

He shouts your name again, the hard stomp of his feet echoing in the street.

A bullet sounds.

No, no, no—

“No!” You desperately scream. “Vinny!”

Tears gather in your eyes. This is all your fault. It goes beyond sticking your nose in business you had no right knowing. Since that day he found you back on the streets, hustling scammers out of their well-stolen money, you have dragged Vinny into your hole of reckless misfortune. You asked him to bail you out of one too many fuck-ups, forcing him to further implicate himself in your thoughtless schemes, often against the advice and support of his gang. He has risked his reputation, relationships, money, his good fucking sense, all in the name of childhood friendship.

And how do you repay him?

With a bullet.

Lip quivering, you ask between sobs, “Did you shoot him?”

You never deserved kindness. You never deserved freedom. You never even deserved compassion.

You are a tornado of vile anguish, a chaotic force of impulse and betrayal. You are a waste of space, your very existence is a curse set upon your parents. You should have known as much when the universe tore them away. You are not worthy of connections— all your friends withering in the wake of your misfortune.

What compelled you to believe that Chris would be any different? He might have been devastatingly beautiful and the look in his eyes might have continuously hinted at something tragically scarred. His kisses might have breathed new life into your soul, hands might have cradled every nightmare to rest. But he is still a victim of your calamity. You should have known a good feeling never lasts.

The back door slides shut. The engine revs, jolting the van into motion.

“Did you fucking shoot him?” You cry, voice breaking as a sob overwhelms you. “Vinny!”

Please forgive me, you want to scream.

“Shut up!” Someone shouts over you. You move to kick the speaker only for someone to grab hold of your ankles and bind them together too.

“He shot at us.” The same speaker clarifies. “And he has terrible aim for a self-appointed hero.”

Relief washes over you, ice-cold upon your trembling bones. You lean back, embracing the pain of the awkward position of your hands under you.

“He told us to knock her out,” Seungmin says, voice slightly distant. He must have returned to his place in the front seat.

“He did?” Icy-hair’s deep voice replies.

“I don’t think so,” someone else adds.

You lay limp amongst the shuffling of movements, ignoring their argument, too lost in thought to care. Though Vinny is alive, it does not alter the epiphany that has just dawned upon you— You inevitably ruin anyone foolish enough to come too close.

The edge of the bag lifts and a damp cloth presses against your mouth.

You embrace the darkness.

PART II ➡︎

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other reader. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

[cathoderaykobold]

I accidentally made something good in Blender Going for a sort of mid-PS2 era aesthetic

[literaryvein-reblogs]

hello! not sure if you've already covered this, but what's the difference between a sociopath and psychopath? as well as a bit more information on the two.

Writing Notes: Sociopath & Psychopath

Sociopath and Psychopath - former names for an individual with antisocial personality disorder (ASPD)

Psychopathy

a synonym for ASPD

formerly: any psychological disorder or mental disease

Sociopathic behavior - dyssocial behavior (i.e., a former name for behavior associated with delinquent or criminal activities, such as gangsterism, racketeering, prostitution, or illegal gambling. It was attributed to distorted moral and social influences, frequently aggravated by a broken home or a deprived environment. Such behavior is now regarded as an aspect of ASPD.)

What’s the Difference Between a Psychopath & a Sociopath?

Psychopath and sociopath are often used interchangeably in common speech.

Although the terms are also used in the scientific literature, they are not well defined there; mental health professionals instead prefer to understand both psychopathy and sociopathy as types of antisocial personality disorders, each condition being distinguished by a few characteristic features but both having many features in common.

To put the matter simplistically, psychopaths are born, and sociopaths are made.

Among persons who display ASPD, those called psychopaths are distinguished by:

a nearly complete inability to form genuine emotional attachments to others;

a compensating tendency to form artificial and shallow relationships, which the psychopath cynically exploits or manipulates to benefit himself;

a corresponding ability to appear glib and even charming to others;

an ability in some psychopaths to maintain the appearance of a normal work and family life; and

a tendency to carefully plan criminal activities to avoid detection.

Sociopaths, in contrast, are generally:

capable of developing a close attachment to one or a few individuals or groups, though they too generally have severe difficulties in forming relationships.

incapable of anything even remotely resembling a normal work or family life, and, in comparison to psychopaths, they are exceptionally impulsive and erratic and more prone to rage or violent outbursts.

Accordingly, their criminal activities tend to be spur-of-the-moment rather than carefully premeditated.

In Children: Conduct Disorder

Psychologists and psychiatrists emphasize that ASPD cannot be properly diagnosed in children, because it is by definition a condition that abides for many years and because the personalities of children are constantly evolving.

Nevertheless, adults who develop ASPD typically displayed what is called conduct disorder as children, generally characterized by:

aggressive behavior toward people or animals,

destruction of property,

deceitfulness or theft, and

serious infractions of criminal laws or other norms.

Antisocial & Asocial

Antisocial - denoting or exhibiting behavior that sharply deviates from social norms and also violates other people’s rights. Arson and vandalism are examples of antisocial behavior.

Asocial - declining to engage, or incapable of engaging, in social interaction; or lacking sensitivity or regard for social values or norms. —asociality n.

Antisocial Personality Disorder

The presence of a chronic and pervasive disposition to disregard and violate the rights of others.

Manifestations include:

repeated violations of the law,

exploitation of others,

deceitfulness,

impulsivity,

aggressiveness,

reckless disregard for the safety of self and others, and

irresponsibility, accompanied by lack of guilt, remorse, and empathy.

The disorder has been known by various names, including dyssocial personality, psychopathic personality, and sociopathic personality.

It is among the most heavily researched of the personality disorders and the most difficult to treat.

It is included in DSM–IV–TR, DSM–5, and DSM-5-TR (i.e., "Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders", which is the handbook used by health care professionals in the United States and much of the world as the authoritative guide to the diagnosis of mental disorders, currently in its 5th edition, text revision).

Symptoms of Antisocial Personality Disorder

People with ASPD tend to have few symptoms. Rather, they cause discomfort or distress to others through socially unacceptable behavior and by being:

Deceitful

Impulsive

Aggressive or irritable

Reckless

Irresponsible

Remorseless

Expected duration of ASPD: All personality disorders are lifelong patterns.

Diagnosis of Antisocial Personality Disorder

The diagnosis is made on the basis of a person's history, usually by a mental health professional. There are no laboratory tests to assist in diagnosing this disorder. Other psychiatric disorders, such as a mood or anxiety disorder, attention deficit disorder, or substance abuse, may also be present.

In order to be diagnosed with ASPD, an individual must show a continuing pattern of disregard for and violation of the rights of others, occurring since age 15, with 3 (or more) of the following:

Failure to confirm to laws and social norms (repeatedly breaking laws).

Deceitfulness (repeated lying or conning others for personal profit or pleasure).

Impulsivity or failure to plan ahead.

Irritability and aggressiveness (repeated physical fights or assaults).

Reckless disregard for safety of self or others.

Consistent irresponsibility (repeated failure to sustain consistent work behavior or honor financial obligations).

Lack of remorse (being indifferent to having hurt, mistreated, or stolen from another).

In addition, the individual must be at least age 18 years and there must be evidence of conduct disorder before age 15.

There is no way to prevent this disorder.

It is conceivable that a general improvement in social conditions could reduce the incidence of antisocial personality disorder. An improvement in a person's social environment may reduce the severity of the problem, especially if changes are made early in life.

Research has yet to demonstrate an effective or practical way to accomplish these goals.

Many psychotherapy techniques have been proposed for treating antisocial personality disorder. Unfortunately, research does not indicate that any of the current treatments is particularly helpful for treating the personality disorder itself.

As a result, the choice of treatment is usually guided by a person's specific circumstances.

In younger people, family or group psychotherapy may help to change destructive patterns of behavior, teach new vocational and relationship skills, and reinforce a person's social support.

Psychotherapy also may help a person with this disorder learn to be more sensitive to the feelings of others and encourage new, socially acceptable and productive ways of thinking about one's goals and aims.

Cognitive therapy attempts to change sociopathic ways of thinking.

Behavior therapy uses reward and punishment to promote good behavior.

In some cases, symptoms can be treated with medication, although again there is no specific medication that is considered best for all people with this disorder. Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs), such as fluoxetine (Prozac) and sertraline (Zoloft), may decrease aggressiveness and irritability. These drugs are useful if either anxiety or depression are present, or if the person is using substances to self-medicate for anxiety or low mood.

There are many questions about how helpful any of these interventions can be in an illness where, by definition, people who are affected do not recognize that they have a problem.

Treatment is more likely to be successful if it is started earlier in life. But it is difficult to change long-entrenched patterns of thinking and behavior.

Also, the longer a person lives with this personality style, the less he or she may be interested in taking responsibility for change. For some people, the tendency toward aggression and irritability decreases with age. But some personality characteristics may persist.

Often the only thing that can protect victims of antisocial behavior is the criminal justice system. In rare instances, corrections systems (jails and prisons) provide opportunities for treatment or rehabilitation, but often these environments, with their abundance of antisocial individuals, tend to promote antisocial behavior.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

Hope this helps with your writing!

[spicyschemmenti]

SMOKE AND SCARLET ➫ melissa schemmenti

MAFIA AU - let me know if this catches anyone's interest?

Philadelphia, 1925. The city pulses with corruption, jazz, and crime. You’ve spent years climbing the ranks of the force, earning a reputation for your relentless pursuit of justice. Your latest case? Bringing down the infamous Schemmenti crime family. But the woman at the top—Melissa Schemmenti—is more than just a name in a file. She’s a storm wrapped in silk and gunpowder, as dangerous as she is captivating.

When a raid goes south and you find yourself face-to-face with the mafia queen, lines blur between duty and desire. Melissa offers a deal: walk away, let it go. But you refuse, forcing you both into a dangerous game of wits, temptation, and betrayal.

The city isn’t big enough for both of you but neither of you is willing to back down.

The Schemmenti Crime Family & Melissa Schemmenti

The Legacy of the Schemmenti Name

Philadelphia in the 1920s is a city of two faces—one built on glitz and promise, the other drowning in corruption. And at the heart of it, controlling the pulse of the underworld, is the Schemmenti crime family.

The family rose to power in the early days of Prohibition, transforming from small-time bootleggers into one of the most formidable crime syndicates on the East Coast. What started as a simple liquor-smuggling operation quickly expanded into gambling rings, underground speakeasies, and a lucrative protection racket. Unlike other families who relied on brute force alone, the Schemmentis thrived on loyalty, strategy, and an unshakable reputation.

And at the top of it all?

Melissa Schemmenti.

The Woman Behind the Empire

Melissa wasn’t meant to take the throne. In a world where men passed power from father to son, she was the wild card—expected to marry into another family, to play the role of a dutiful wife while the empire fell into her older brother’s hands.

But fate had other plans.

After a mysterious “accident” left her brother dead, Melissa stepped in. Some whispered she had orchestrated it herself, others said she had no choice. Either way, when the dust settled, the Schemmenti family had a new boss. And she didn’t just inherit the empire, she made it stronger.

Under her rule, the Schemmentis became untouchable. She played the game differently from the brutish men who came before her. Instead of threats, she offered deals. Instead of bloodshed, she made problems disappear with a quiet word or a well-placed bribe. But when someone did cross her?

Well.

No one ever crossed her twice.

What She Looks Like

Melissa Schemmenti is a woman who owns every room she walks into.

Her red hair is unmistakable. Rich, auburn curls framing her sharp, knowing features. Her eyes, a piercing green, flick over people with a mixture of amusement and calculation, always seeing more than she lets on. Her full lips, often painted a deep crimson, curve into smirks that make men uneasy and women weak in the knees.

She dresses the part of a queen. Tailored suits that hug her figure, silk blouses that hint at softness, but never weakness. Gold rings glint on her fingers, each one a symbol of power, a quiet reminder of the debts people owe her. A delicate silver flask often rests at her hip, filled with the finest whiskey money can buy.

And then there’s her voice—low, smooth, wrapped in a South Philly accent that lingers like the burn of a cigarette. Every word is deliberate, every laugh calculated. She never raises her voice. She doesn’t have to.

Her Reputation & The Cat-and-Mouse Game

The police call her “The Scarlet Fox”—a nickname earned from her ability to slip through their fingers time and time again. No matter how close they think they are to catching her, she’s always one step ahead.

She doesn’t tolerate rats. Snitches disappear. Enemies crumble. Yet, despite her ruthlessness, those who are loyal to her would die for her. Because Melissa Schemmenti doesn’t just command respect—she inspires it.

And now, she’s taken an interest in you—the one detective reckless enough to think you can bring her down.

Only time will tell whether you’re playing the game…

…or if she’s already won.

Detective [Your Name] – The One Who Won’t Back Down

The Weight of a Name

Your badge may read Detective, but blood ties don’t wash away so easily.

You weren’t just any cop hunting Melissa Schemmenti — you were born into a family tangled in her empire. Your father, your uncles, maybe even your siblings — they all worked for her in some way. Some ran numbers for the Schemmentis, some smuggled liquor in the dead of night, and some? Some broke bones when debts weren’t paid.

But not you.

You were the one who broke free.

Joining the force wasn’t just a job; it was a statement. A middle finger to the world that said you wouldn’t be like the rest of them. You worked twice as hard, climbed twice as fast. And now? You were one of the best damn detectives in the city.

Your mission was clear. Bring down Melissa Schemmenti. Not just because she was the queen of the underworld, not just because it was your job… but because her power had cost you too much.

And yet, every time you got close, every time you thought you had her cornered, she’d slip away — leaving behind nothing but a smirk and a whiskey glass with her lipstick print on the rim.

What You Look Like

You carry yourself like a fighter, because in this city, that’s exactly what you have to be.

Your sharp eyes miss nothing, scanning rooms the second you step inside. Whether they’re dark and calculating or burning with barely restrained rage depends on the day. You walk with purpose — strong, confident strides that tell people you’re not someone to mess with.

Your hair? Always neatly styled, though the long nights on the job leave it a little more tousled than you’d like. You don’t have the luxury of silk and diamonds like Melissa—your wardrobe is all business. High-waisted trousers, crisp button-ups, suspenders on bad days, a trench coat when the weather demands it. A gun holster rests against your ribs, a constant reminder that in this city, justice doesn’t come without a fight.

Your knuckles bear the faint scars of past altercations, proof of every fistfight, every suspect who thought they could take you down. You’re not afraid to get your hands dirty, but unlike the criminals you chase, you still believe in the law. Even when it feels like the city’s already lost.

Your Reputation & The Unfinished Business

To your fellow officers, you’re the most relentless detective in the department. The one who doesn’t quit, who takes every case personally, who works until exhaustion forces you home.

To the Schemmentis?

You’re a problem.

Melissa’s men watch you whenever you step foot in her territory. Some of them whisper about how you’re a traitor to your own bloodline. Others respect you, in a twisted sort of way. But no one respects you more than Melissa herself.

She calls you Detective like it’s a joke. Like she already knows how this game will end.

You tell yourself you hate her. That she’s just another case, just another criminal to be put away.

Then why does your heart race every time she smirks at you?

Why does her voice send a shiver down your spine?

Why do you feel like, no matter how hard you chase her… she’s always the one leading you exactly where she wants you to go?

And worse—why does a part of you want to follow?

[ceekbee]

There are moments in history where you can feel the tectonic plates of power shifting under your feet, the precise seconds when empires declare themselves rotten and ready to collapse. February 28, 2025, was one of those moments—a grotesque display of unchecked narcissism, geopolitical idiocy, and the full-throttle transformation of American foreign policy into a goddamn mafia shakedown.

Donald Trump, the world’s loudest and dumbest charlatan, decided to hold a public execution of Ukraine’s President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, not with bullets, but with bullying. This was not diplomacy. This was not strategy. This was the kind of goonish humiliation typically reserved for reality television, except now the stakes were measured in millions of lives and the looming specter of World War III.

“YOU’RE GAMBLING WITH WORLD WAR III”

Trump—flanked by his yes-man JD Vance and an eerily silent Marco Rubio—welcomed Zelenskyy to the Oval Office only to berate, belittle, and ultimately dismiss him like a waiter who forgot to refill his Diet Coke. The Ukrainian president had made the grave mistake of advocating for his people, for his country, for his soldiers dying daily on the front lines against Russian invaders. But in Trump’s world, there is no room for dignity or resistance—only total submission to the Don.

"You’re gambling with World War III," Trump barked at Zelenskyy, acting like a discount Tony Soprano shaking down a local shopkeeper. "You either make a deal, or we are out." The message was crystal clear: Surrender to Putin, or America lets you rot.

When Zelenskyy pushed back—trying to explain, like a rational human being, that diplomacy requires more than rolling over and exposing your belly to a psychotic autocrat like Vladimir Putin—Vance chimed in, whining that it was "disrespectful" to discuss such things in front of the American media. Disrespectful! As if the real problem here was the optics, not the grotesque moral betrayal unfolding in real time.

TRUMP’S FIXATION WITH GRATITUDE: A MOB BOSS DEMANDING TRIBUTE

"Have you ever said thank you once?" Vance sneered at Zelenskyy, echoing his master’s worldview that all human interactions are transactional. "You have to be thankful," Trump added, "you don’t have the cards. You’re buried there."

This is what American diplomacy has become: an extortion racket.

Forget alliances, forget history, forget standing up to despots—Trump views everything through the lens of a cheap con artist running a rigged casino. Ukraine, in his mind, is a desperate gambler, and Trump is the pit boss deciding whether to extend another round of credit.

If Zelenskyy had gotten on his knees and kissed Trump’s golden slippers, maybe he’d have left with something. But instead, he left with nothing, because he had the audacity to act like the elected leader of a sovereign nation, rather than a groveling servant.

THE CANCELED PRESS CONFERENCE: WHEN THE HUMILIATION IS TOO MUCH TO SPIN

After the carnage, Trump did what he always does: He took to Truth Social to declare victory.

"I have determined that President Zelenskyy is not ready for Peace," he wrote, as if the real issue is Ukraine’s unwillingness to surrender, rather than Russia’s ongoing campaign of war crimes and territorial theft.

The joint press conference was canceled—which in diplomatic terms is the equivalent of overturning the table and storming out of the restaurant. Zelenskyy was seen leaving the White House, no deal signed, no support secured. Just the bitter taste of betrayal in his mouth.

Meanwhile, the Ukrainian ambassador literally facepalmed in the middle of the meeting. She couldn’t even hide her disgust. This was the international equivalent of watching your boss drunkenly scream at a client in a meeting while you rub your temples and quietly plan your resignation.

TRUMP’S ‘PEACE’ PLAN IS A SURRENDER PLAN

This is all part of a deliberate pivot in American foreign policy. Trump has always sided with Russia, whether it’s calling Putin "a very smart guy," ignoring his war crimes, or pretending Ukraine started the war. Now, his administration is pushing a so-called "peace plan" that amounts to a glorified land grab for Moscow.

The Wall Street Journal has already reported that Trump’s advisers are split on how exactly to force Ukraine to submit. Some want a "frozen conflict"—which translates to "Russia keeps what it stole"—while others are pushing for a formal deal that outright cedes Ukrainian land and resources to Putin. Either way, the outcome is the same: Ukraine loses, Russia wins, and Trump gets to preen about his ‘deal-making.’

THE DEATH OF AMERICA’S WORD

The entire world saw this Oval Office debacle. If you’re an ally of the United States, you just learned a very clear lesson: You cannot trust America under Donald Trump. Your security, your sovereignty, and your survival are all secondary to whether Trump personally feels flattered. If you are not groveling at his feet, you’re expendable.

Meanwhile, Putin is watching. And he’s grinning. Because now he knows that Trump will do his dirty work for him.

Zelenskyy was just the first ally to be fed to the wolves. He won’t be the last.

Welcome to America, 2025. This is what losing looks like.

[rozeliyawashereyall]

I fucked around, I found out, and I came out with an AU that wouldn't make the slightest of sense in the actual universe of where the series take place

But do indulge me, cringe AUs are addictively fun to make.

Thanks to @weltthejellyfish , @lightdragon789 , and @astralbulldragon13 for writing like, 98% of everything, would be clueless about my own AU without you 🙏

Anywho chat. Casino AU.

The casino is kind of like?? A haunted house?? Or at least the concept of it. Yeah human owned places are scattered publicly, but halfblood owned ones are in more secluded and secretive places—no human was allowed into said places, only those who are like, an altruist for halfbloods, and even they have very limited access.

Bug getting into the casino would be very difficult, they'd have to first find out where the casino even is, find it and pretend to be an ally and after that slowly work their way up and face some pretty hard challenges

The casino is a family business that was bustling at first but Cercie caught wind of it and started hunting down every family member until it was only bodie left. With only Bodie running the business, he finds a college graduate, Marco, and decides to hire him as a dealer. A few years later and he finds a kid abandoned by his step parents, Timmy, and the rest is history.

•

The descriptions of the three in the drawings:

-​Swamp of Fortune was a family business run by the Willowroots, but after Cercei caught wind of it she started hunting down every family member until it was only Bodie left. Stressed and paranoid about his safety, he closed the casino down and resulted to alcohol for a few years before meeting Marco, a shady college graduate who's determined to help he guy out of his slump. One thing lead to another and now the casino is both getting popular again and is under watch by the government for alleged suspicious practices.

-​Marco Palustris Cydarki dropped out of college after his involvement with dangerous people led to concerns for his safety. While he majored in computer science, his real talent lies in the arts. After dropping out, he found refuge with Bodie, an older man who just happens to own a casino, one that has a history of questionable purchases and suspicious rumors. Marco has been assisting him in various capacities since being taken in. Whether Bodie's influence is protective or manipulative remains to be seen, but Marco has stuck around, likely owing something to his benefactor.

-​Timmy’s life has been a mix of captivity and survival. Born under Cercie Fain’s control, his parents faked his death, cutting off his dragon wings to pass him off as a regular gator half-blood. After being auctioned off, he was raised by Elizabeth Wheat on a half-blood farm until Cercie’s men took him. He later escaped, and found himself stranded and injured in the city, where Bodie found him and became a father figure for the guy. Since then, he's grown into a mini-manager at the casino, following in Bodie’s footsteps as a floor supervisor. Despite being the smallest his presence is larger than life.

•

These little guys personalities are a mix of OG and BM. So more sadistically playful, hence the neutral/hate relationship Marco and Timmy have with bug in this AU. Timmy and Marco probably see Bug as just a new pet, but with them getting more popular around the casino and climbing up— they could turn from a pet to a threat to the two. When it’s revealed that they’re a cop, they probably do some very… thorough interrogation to make sure they are actually on the casino’s side. Then maybe Bug offers to be a Triple Agent. They're lucky Bodie likes them around, I fear they would NOT survive if he didn't enjoy their company, they'd be torn apart if it wasnt for him...he may have used that to his advantage..but Bodie’s just so sweet, they’d never suspect anything..

•

Crimes👍

​Money laundering

​Bootlegging

​Illegal gambling

​Probably murder ngl

​Loan sharking

​Labor racketeering

​stock manipulation

​Tax fraud

•

Stupid stuff:

​They'd only start calling bug, well, bug, because they were caught in their trap, and they have a habit of playing with their food. After they start using Bug as a double agent they start throwing in other nicknames—First it was just bug but then it'd turn into more playful variations of it (IE: Waterbug, Sugarbug, Bedbug, etc) The day Bodie calls them Sugar Bug, they are caught so off guard

​Bodie gifted Bug a pair of butterfly earrings as a welcome gift, only for the earrings to turn out to be a tracking device/listening ddevice.

​Timmy would drink like five cocktails and get black out drunk because they don’t taste like alcohol. Mudslide would be his favorite though. I can picture Marco drinking red wine, he'd would like mulled wine or wassail during winter. Bodie is either whiskey, or bourbon, but during business meetings, they all drink Willowroot family recipe Moonshine

​Bodie still drinks but has cut back. He only drinks half a bottle compared to the two a day he used to drink.

Bug's aim is so fucking bad bro, it's storm trooper level bad

More stupid stuff but timeline version, kinda, idk actually:

-Bug was tasked to locate the casino, gets chased and almost mauled by a halfblood before Bodie intervenes and helps Bug from dying.

- I'd imagine when Bug is recovering and is eager to work to repay Bodie back. He asks Timmy to keep watch of Bug and kind of assesses Bug to see if they could work at the casino and the two talk from there

-Then Bodie and Timmy along with Bug, go out on a walk, talking about taxe evasion, casinos, and mafias, all that fun jazz. But they stumble upon Tony and Sparkie trying to track down any rogue halfbloods. prompt them to relay it to Cercie that Bug found the casino and she sends the hunters to bug, just to tell them to get every secret they can find and report back to them. Which Bug is very hesitant on doing. Not only because they’ve helped them and shown they aren’t the monsters their people painted them as... also because these gator folk could kill them very easily.

Like the end of episode 3 or maybe when Marco comes in with info on Bug (that maybe Bodie asked Marco to do a background check or interrogate Bug idk man) and that’s when they ask Bug to be a double agent

-It’s been a few months (maybe) and Bug is stressing but pulling through being a double agent in relaying info to both sides. But also getting closer to the bois as they treated them slightly better then Cercie and her people did. Which results in Bug confiding in Bodie and being accepted into their lives.

Idk what to do with the rest bro you figure it out.

Last stupid stuff I promise

Okay I'm done now

Yippee @capitalmaudios @magebunkshelf @dayspriteofficial

[grntre23]

modern day things jsmn characters would love:

segundus: excruciatingly detailed tea ceremonies, wearing his pjs till they have holes in the sleeve hems, afternoon baking television specials, subscribing to science magazine periodicals, indoor plant gardening, trader joe’s, (being a teacher) and decorating his classroom, weekly (gossipy) neighborhood book clubs, keeping a physical journal on him at all times, independent booksellers

childermass: not being on social media, niche tarot draw youtube videos, the concept of irish goodbyes, using the oldest working phone model possible, bed on the floor no frame, wearing sunglasses indoors, depressing british rock, guessing jeopardy/who’s going to be a millionaire answers before anyone else can, never picking up phone calls, being a horse girl, having a masochistically loud alarm, being a political centrist, being a coffee purist

vinculus: drink vouchers marketing people hand out on the street, public transport, tinder, watching a game at the pub, rentable public scooters, selling fake fortunes/conducting seances online for believing middle-aged clientele, mobile gambling apps, action movies, spending inordinate amounts of money on his tattoos

norrell: instacart grocery delivery, obsessively stalking subreddits, ebay, sending whatsapp threads of fake infographics, eating a whole foods diet with no seasoning, directing people to his PA (lascelles), obscure netflix documentaries he quotes for two weeks after watching, keeping up with the british royal family, vitamins, remote work policies, twitter conspiracy theorists

strange: starting a podcast, apple pay, getting really into running, getting really into bitcoin, being a ‘wife guy’, using his veteran’s discount for overconsumption, truth or dare and he only ever picks dare, backpacking in xyz european country, picking up his work phone during date night, making ‘am i the asshole’ reddit posts which norrell secretly and unknowingly follows, eating ‘superfoods’, ensemble cast movies

gentleman: tiktok trends, shitty reality television, amazon prime next day delivery, owning a motorcycle, going on resort vacations 6x/year, brand name clothing with ostentatious logos, biweekly hair appointments, sliding into DMs, caffeinated energy drinks you can overdose on, orange theory classes, having a miniature designer dog, acting ‘woke’, getting scammed by phishing, dentist appointments

stephen: interior design, considering veganism, high thread count bedsheets, having a cat, going to therapy and actually improving, high quality european butter, 10 step self-care routine, homemade laminated pastries, sustainability, notion

emma pole: advanced embroidery kits, spiked morning drinks, doc martens, girls’ night, having a private instagram, clubbing, cat instagram reels, 9-5 work hours, racket sports, going with bell to expensive dessert cafes, classical music

arabella: pinterest boarding, girls’ night, knowing wine pairings, being really into running (influenced by strange, she keeps going after he quits), jellycats, diverse milk options at coffee shops, watching ootds, bon appetite recipes, meal prepping, having a well-loved dog whose lifestyle needs she researches with academic detail, expensive dessert cafes, radio pop playlist

drawlight: excessive instagram posting, watching tiktok fashion critiques, weekend brunch, ‘i know a guy’, bespoke clothing, 34 hour screentime, influencer events, house parties, half off convenience store wine, being employee of the month, forgetting his wallet at group dinners/not paying back venmo requests, keeping up with celebrity drama

lascelles: group projects he can monopolize, stock market trading, expensive branded clothes without logos, being a coffee purist, driving a ridiculously loud sports car, not caring about politics, getting valet service, searching his own name up on google, winning employee of the month over drawlight, scrolling his linkedin feed

[alaritheaurora]

Okay just discovered the superhero AU i have questions i hope im not repeating myself or you havent already explained it im sorry if you have but i am so very excited about the logistics of this so i hope you dont mind if i ask questions okay im just going to ask them

Can people have the same ability? It seems like people would get found out pretty quickly if they had the same ability as a superhero. Or does the gang have tech that lets them pretend they have a different power?

Is Clown’s ability stamina cost multi tiered? ie does he use more stamina say if he took 5/10 of Reaper’s power than 5/10 of Ros’ power? Is it more economical for him to take 7/10 of Sneeg’s abilities than 3/10 of Foolish’s? Can he take an ability and hold it in ‘storage’ or does both holding AND using the power take stamina/just the previous? If he takes Sneeg’s powers does that limit the number of sizes either of them can be? Thinking about the disasters that could occur if tiny Clown suddenly ran out of juice in a smaller space..

Speaking of Sneeg I think you clarified his ability isn’t to physically grow or shrink it’s more to swap sizes (like a character select?) so does the swapping size tire him out rather than being a specific size? I’m also assuming his tech work benefits a lot from him being able to change size since he can do detailed work more easily. Also, if his clothes and everything scale with him are they specially made or does his ability extend to skin contact? When he gets infected by Sculk, do his preferred sizes change?

Can Ros make the hands different sizes? If they’re like extensions of her hands I imagine it’s a bit like using a tennis racket or something- did she struggle with judging distance initially? Also since they’re impenetrable I can see her confiscating things from people for giggles lol. Has she ever tried to paint the hands’ nails? Do they have nails????

Has anyone else tried to scout Tango before? Abilities like those obviously aren’t great in combat but in the public eye they’re definitely incredibly useful. Does he pull pranks with his abilities or is emotional manipulation off the table after the Owen incident (yikes). Tango maybe using his powers over emotions to sway public perceptions of the group- can he affect multiple people at a time?

Is Zam’s power to freeze things a lowering temperature ability or is it just water? I’m thinking about liquid nitrogen I’m not going to lie. Does she like sculpting with the ice he makes?

Foolish is all for theatrics, has he ever done one of his wild gambles that the team had to bust their asses to achieve lest their reputation tank? He’s definitely tried to challenge Bad to a sailing race before. It’s kinda funny to me that he has water powers given his original beef with Bad in canon occurring in the desert ngl

Does Owen need to see his destination to teleport there? Can he take things with him? Maybe not, since he’s already carrying all that audacity…

SORRY THIS IS A HUGE THING TO SEND IN SORRY ITS MOSTLY TECHNICAL MY HEADCANON GAME IS MID I JUST WANT TO SAY I LOVED THE FIC ITS INCREDIBLE THANK YOJ

Dw, I loooove me some long asks! And this made me so happy!

Okay so, yes, people can have duplicate superpowers, but it’s like DNA. Two people may look similar without being the same. It’s the same with powers, technically, no power is identical, but some are so similar that the differences don’t even matter. And so, arresting villains based on power alone is really hard to do because you have no other evidence than “well it looks a whole lot like what this guy does”. And if you don’t know how the power exactly works, it’s also tricky. Take Ros for example, her power is that she has an invisible hand, but that can very easily be mistaken for telekinesis. Unless someone took a DNA sample and compared it, you wouldn't be able to confirm based off of superpower. It’s also just considered rude and improper to track someone down based on power. It’s like taking off masks, big nono.

Clown’s power is technically distance based. He can detect powers around him, and it’s easier to steal powers the closer he is to someone, and to initiate that he needs to touch them. He can push himself, but that’ll make him tired and eepy. He’s also constantly aware of how much power he’s leeching off of someone, and so are they. Because not only does it affect Clown, it affects the person he’s stealing from. Say he was borrowing 5/10 of Sneeg’s power, well then Sneeg ALSO only has 5/10. Realistically, that’s harder to uphold though, so usually when stealing from people he’s only borrowing about 1-3/10 of them. HOWEVER, if he’s in close combat with someone he will absolutely leech more, because he’s right by them and it gives him a direct advantage. His energy gradually saps and he knows when to stop pushing himself.

Sneeg’s size switching makes him hungry! Most people get tired when using their powers, but Sneeg’s is so incredibly used in his daily life that he doesn’t feel any exhaustion from using it, maybe just a bit hungrier. However, that’s with his typical sizes, if Sneeg goes really drastically in one direction (Say atom sized, or like as tall as a skyscraper) then yes, he will feel a bit tired. But theoretically he could just stay in that size and let the exhaustion wear off. Sneeg’s power is probably the most useful for daily life, and so yes, he does use it to work on tech stuff. As for clothes, I’ve implemented the fun “Powers affect clothes too” to avoid him being naked every time he shifts. Any and all clothes he wears change with him, and if there’s someone with a similar power, they’re clothes also go with them. I can’t say much about what happens when he gets infected by the sculk (that would be spoilers for an arc), but I will say while his preferences don’t necessarily change, he does end up being a bit bigger than usual, around 8 foot.

Ros cannot change the size of the hands! They are roughly the size of like, an armchair. Using her power only makes her tired if she wants to have two hands, usually she defaults to one. As a child Ros often had issues of going to pick things up and accidentally picking up a desk on the other side of the room, but she got the hang of it! Had to learn motor skills for two sets of hands smh. Ros absolutely will take things from people, and they cannot get them. Also, her hands are entirely invisible, and to paint the nails she’d have to get someone else to do ot, because she’d have to hold her actual hands still. So while I’m not saying it hasn’t happened, it was very hard and impossible to tell what wa snail and what wasn’t.

Tango probably had a great job as a therapist lined but he went “nuh uh, I like tech”. Nobody but the fools really know what Tango’s power is (mental ones ar emuch harder to figure out) and that is definitely to their benefit. Lets just say there’s a reason Foolish has such a good public view, and it may have something to do with a little emotional manipulation of the public. Tango doesn’t usually use his powers on his teammates, unless someone asks him to. But then they also had to make a rule against that because Ros tried to use him as free anti-depressants and constantly being happy isn’t really how the human body is supposed to run. So mainly he uses them if someone is freaking the hell out and they need to calm someone down. He can affect multiple people at a time! But it’s more diluted than if he focused on one specific person. (Tango’s only use in a fight is to make his opponent have a mental break down)

For Zam… She’s straight up just elsa. She can create ice out of thin air. If we’re talking real science, she can lower the temperature in very specific places and freeze the water molecules in the air to create ice. He does sculpt! He’ll donate them for parties and city events!

Foolish’s reputation is like a fucking seesaw. If it weren’t for Bad actively terrorising the city everyone would hate Foolish. Like this guy pretends to be nice and he’s all “Oh, I’m anti murder and protect civilians, teehee” but bro will literally make town hall into his personal swimming pool and challenge bad to ne of them cardboard boat races. Like he’s just here for a goofy silly time, and the rest of the Fools are there like “God fucking dammit”. Like one of the main ways they keep Foolish in a positive light is by being feral freaks themselves, like “if we’re weird enough it’ll make HIM look normal”. I gave him water powers cuz he a shark :)

Owen either needs to see where he’s going, or be somewhere familiar enough to not worry about being stuck in a wall. And he can bring things with him! That includes people! But that’s very exhausting, and so is teleporting long distances. The audacity is a plus!