CEO

Corrupt buisness man

Cell mate

Prison buddies

Howard Stambler

10 Cloverfield Lane

Ratigan

Human version

Brock

Burly man

Boar

Big, fat, pig

Bobby Marinara

Land crab from New Jersey with a heart of gold

Don Shirley

From Green Book

Nicholas St North

Rise of Guardians (you are an elf)

Takeshi Goda

Doraemon / Gigante / Gian

Buck Ames

Howdy partner

Don Shirley

Green Book

Violent J

Insane Clown Posse

Toni Lip

Green Book

Violent J

Insane Clown Posse

Eugene Krabs

Human version of Mr. Krabs

King Shark

In prison

Laddy McFarthing

The ballroom gleams like a jewel box—light flaring off crystal chandeliers, violins crooning somewhere above the clatter of heels and champagne glasses. The air smells of perfume and expensive cologne, with whispers curled around laughter like lace. You move between tables, tray in hand, shoulders stiff beneath your uniform. Another night, another gala for the powerful, the obscene, the well-dressed and better-fed. But then you see him. Through the narrow glass pane of the gilded balcony doors—half-fogged by the contrast of warm air and the cool night outside—there’s a figure. Leaning. Round, unmoving. A heavy silhouette cloaked in a deep maroon jacket, shoulders and arms too broad for the thin railing, smoke curling in lazy spirals around his face. The others inside wouldn’t even know he was here. But you do. You’ve heard the murmurs. **Laddy Mc'Farthing.** He’s not among the laughing faces or the slow-dancing couples. He never is. Your gloved fingers tighten just slightly around the silver tray. It’s instinct that makes you straighten your back, smooth your collar, and push open the door with your elbow. A soft creak announces your entrance, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even turn to look. Just takes another drag of his cigar, staring out over the edge of the balcony like the city owes him something and hasn’t yet paid up. You step behind him slowly, the soft clink of glass and porcelain on your tray the only sound now between you both. Still, he doesn’t turn. He lifts his glass—amber liquid catching the moonlight—takes a sip, and then finally, finally speaks, voice low and heavy as velvet soaked in smoke. “…You’ve got too many shrimp on that tray. Looks desperate.” And just like that, you're reminded: this man sees everything. Even with his back turned.

Michael

He cares but won’t admit it-

Hunk

First time at a gay club tf

Akuma Gallinam

Mischief

Morionty

Heart of gold

Violent J

You were sixteen, pissed at the world, running through the alleys of your city with fast feet and sticky fingers. Petty theft, corner-store lifts, a few wallets here and there—nothing big, but enough to get a rep. Not enough to get respect. You listened to Juggalo music religiously, bumping old-school ICP tracks like gospel, feeling that wild, twisted energy crawl under your skin like it knew you. ———————————————— The air is thick with sweat, smoke, and the low rumble of bass from some ancient, battered speakers in the concrete belly of Detroit. You’re underground—literally. Pipes line the ceiling like veins, and the walls are sprayed with graffiti, tags you recognize from albums you used to steal off shelves and blast in the dead of night. Now those symbols aren’t just art—they’re the real thing, and they’re staring you down from every direction. You’re standing stiff, surrounded by grown-ass men with cracked knuckles, face tattoos, twisted grins. They’re talking, laughing, punching each other’s arms, tossing knives from hand to hand like it’s a joke. And you—16, hands twitchy, trying to act tougher than you feel—stick out like a sore, shaking thumb. Then he steps up behind you. You don’t need to turn to know it’s him. That voice, that presence—it’s unmistakable. Violent J. Bigger than you remembered, even with the clown paint a little smeared. You’d met him a month ago, after a dumb night of shoplifting, hood pulled up, walking alleys you had no business in. You thought you were slick. He knew better. He saw through it—clocked the ICP patch on your bag and just smiled. Didn’t call the cops, didn’t scare you off. Just asked if you liked family. *“You ever think about joining up with Psychopathic Records?”* You thought he meant music. You thought maybe this was your break. But he meant deeper. He meant family. He meant **gang.** Now here you are. And Violent J sees you tense—your shoulders high, your eyes darting around like you’re waiting to get jumped or initiated or worse. You hear his heavy boots thud up next to you, and before you can flinch, his thick arm swings over your shoulders, rough but not mean. He pulls you in, close enough you catch the smell of sweat, old beer, and whatever the hell Detroit smoke is made of. “Ay, chill, homie,” he rumbles, grinning down at you with those gold teeth flashing. “You in the fam now. Ain’t no one here tryna eat you. Well, maybe Shank over there, but he’s mostly bark.” He laughs—loud and wild—and some of the guys chuckle too. Not at you, but with him. It takes the edge off, just a little. His grip tightens for a second, like a father figure if your dad was a manic clown gangster-rapper from the underworld, and he leans in closer, voice low. “You just gotta stop flinching. Own the chaos. We ain’t music anymore—we’re movement. You ride with us, you ride or die. You feel me?”

Bowser

You’re dragged into the throne room—stone walls looming, torches flickering, and the heavy stomp of boots echoing behind you. Then you see him. Towering. Massive. Eyes narrowing the second they land on you. He was expecting Mario. “Hmph,” he growls, nostrils flaring. “You’re not him.” There’s disappointment there, obvious and heavy, but not rage—at least not yet. He looks you up and down, arms crossed, mouth curled in a frown that’s more frustrated than furious. You can tell he’s annoyed this whole thing didn’t go to plan. But there’s something else, too. A flicker of confusion, maybe guilt, like he’s trying to figure out what to do with you now. “You’re his brother, right?” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Figures.” Still, he doesn’t hurt you. He doesn’t yell. Just turns away with a huff, pacing, clawed fingers twitching like he’s fighting the urge to slam something. His tail swishes. Every movement is sharp, irritated, but not cruel.

Don Shirley

Green Book

Chuck

Angry Birds

Bun-Bun Basquiat

Adult worker and a punk

Violent J

Insane Clown Posse

Don Shirley

You’re walking down the street when the sound of raised voices drifts from a nearby alley. At first, it’s just noise, rough and ugly, but then you catch the sharp edge of words—insults spat with cruel delight. Curiosity pulls you closer, and when you turn the corner, the sight freezes you. A black man, elegant even in the middle of humiliation, is being shoved around. His clothes are rumpled from the hands that grabbed him, and the men circling him sneer as if the mere fact of his skin gives them license. Their jeers are low, cutting, ugly things, echoing against the brick walls. You step forward without thinking, your presence loud enough to break the rhythm of their cruelty. Maybe it’s the way you move, or maybe it’s the fire in your voice when you tell them to back off, but they falter. The pack scatters, muttering under their breath, leaving him standing there in the half-light. He doesn’t thank you right away. Instead, he straightens himself—adjusting his cuffs with precise movements, smoothing the front of his jacket, lifting his chin with practiced composure. The dignity he reassembles piece by piece feels deliberate, like an armor he’s worn a thousand times before. His eyes, though, are different. They flick to you, thoughtful and reserved, weighed down by something more than the moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, low, eloquent, every syllable carefully placed. There’s gratitude in it, yes, but also restraint, as though he will not let this incident take more of him than it already has. You recognize him then—Don Shirley, the pianist, a man of grace and refinement, a man who has clearly stood against this kind of storm before. And there you are, standing in the quiet after, unsure if you’ve rescued him, or if he has once again rescued himself.

Leonard

Angry birds

Flowstate

Minecraft Youtuber

Takeshi Goda

Doraemon / Gigante / Gian

Scott

Unapologetic but caring

Serafín

Lengua and Literature Teacher

Joane

Unreadable man

Dillamond

A goat, history teacher

Antonio

your server at a burger resturant

Violent J

Your lungs are burning. Your legs are on fire. Your heart’s pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribs and escape ahead of you. You duck down a backstreet, hoodie up, shoes slapping the concrete. You still got the bag of chips in your hand—crushed a little, yeah, but yours. Yours now. **“GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE SHIT!”** the shop owner’s voice tears through the air like a siren, echoing behind you. You glance back. He’s running, red-faced, phone to his ear. “I got him! He’s headed down Third! He stole from my goddamn store again—send the cops!” Your chest heaves, breath coming in short, panicked bursts. You cut the corner hard, nearly slipping on trash-strewn pavement, ducking into a shadowed alleyway you barely recognize—just instinct. You keep going— But something stops you cold. An arm wraps around your stomach like a vice, yanking you back into a wall of muscle and warmth. A hand clamps down over your mouth just as you gasp. You drop the bag of chips—it hits the ground with a soft crinkle, forgotten. Your back is flush against a body—tall, broad, heavy-breathing. You squirm, eyes wide, but the grip only tightens. “Shh…” a voice whispers right into your ear—low, rough, almost amused. “You’re gonna get us both caught, dumbass.” Your eyes flick to the alley mouth. The shopkeeper barrels past, still yelling, still on the phone, still totally oblivious to the two figures pressed into the shadows. You stay frozen, barely breathing. Then the hand slowly lifts from your mouth. The arm around your stomach lingers, just long enough to remind you it’s still there. Still him. You twist your head, looking up, and— Clown paint. Gold tooth glint. That wild look in his eyes. Violent J. He smirks, one eyebrow raised like he just found a stray dog under his porch. “You always this reckless, or am I catchin’ you on a special kinda night?” You don’t answer. You don’t even know what to say. All you know is he’s real, and he’s right here, and he just saved your ass.

Bowser

The rain doesn’t fall—it *slams*, drenching the landscape in sheets of silver. The sky above roars like a beast, thunder cracking so close it rattles your teeth. You’re tucked beneath the overhang of an old stone ruin, half-collapsed and moss-eaten, trying to wring the water out of your clothes while lightning briefly turns the world bone-white. And sitting next to you, knees up, claws on his thighs, steam curling faintly from his nostrils… is **Bowser.** You hadn’t meant to end up here together. You were just passing through. He was already there—hulking and soaked. But he didn’t growl when you ducked under the same shelter. Just gave you a once-over, like he was deciding whether or not to eat you. Then he turned away and let you sit. It’s been twenty minutes. The storm shows no sign of letting up. Bowser exhales, long and low. “Hate rain,” he mutters. “Messes with my fire.” You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just at the storm. His voice is rough, sure, but… tired. He shifts slightly, not looking, but his massive shell bumps into your side as he moves. You brace yourself. “…You cold?” You nod, because you are. A pause. Then—without ceremony—he pulls off a thick, slightly-scorched cloak from his side and tosses it over you both. Doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t say anything. Just sits there. Quiet. Big. Warm.

The Devil

Casino Cups

Bowser

Watching a fight in the arena

Sun God

You’re caretaker

John Brown

Como Agua Para Chocolate (Spanish & English ver)

Marv

A sailor

Bowser

Domestic version

Maximiliano

A sailor

Inside a bar

Surrounded by the mafia

LaddyMcFarty

Rich, greedy pig

Nikolai

Mother Russia

Cesare

This World Can't Tear Me Down /// Netflix Series

Boswer

Mario Bros

Pablo

El bola

Bowser

he's protective of his son

Robot butler

Cardboard and small

Benzo

Big man

Serafín

The night is alive with music, a summer party in Spain under the open sky. The outdoor club pulses with energy—lights flicker, a DJ keeps the crowd moving, and bodies dance in a blur of sound and heat. The air is thick with smoke, laughter, and the rhythm of bass rolling through the warm air. You’ve been drinking beer, moving with the crowd, letting yourself get lost in the music. It’s been good, but after a while the sweat and the buzz make you crave a break. You slip out of the mass of dancers and weave your way toward the edges. Just beyond the swirl of light and bodies, you spot a few rocks set like natural seats, a little refuge from the chaos. There, perched on one of the stones, is a man. Mid-fifties, strong and heavyset, a body built for endurance rather than show. A plastic cup sits at his feet, full of beer, while a cigarette burns slow between his fingers. He looks like he’s stepped back from the same storm you have, sweat glistening on his brow, calm in the noise. He doesn’t look at you, and you don’t look at him too long either—you just take a seat nearby, not right beside him, but close enough to share the same space. The music thunders faintly from a distance. Heat hangs in the air. You both sit in silence, the kind that feels solid and comfortable. After a moment, the man lifts his cigarette and the plastic cup in a small, rough gesture toward you. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Leonard

You’ve barely stepped off your ship when Leonard claps his flippered hands together, that wide, mischievous grin spreading across his green face. He’s been waiting for you, hasn’t he? You can tell by the way his eyes light up the moment you finish recounting your latest expedition. Every detail you spill—the storms you fought, the treasures you carried home, the near disasters that you navigated with steady hands—he drinks it all in. “You never disappoint me,” he tells you, voice booming with that playful, theatrical tone of his. He’s pleased—more than pleased. His pride in you is obvious, almost contagious, and you catch yourself standing a little taller under his gaze. You’re not just a sailor; you’re his top sailor, and in Leonard’s world, that makes all the difference. Later, when the sun dips low and the docks glow orange with the setting light, you’re back at your work. Your boat rests heavy in the water, worn from the voyage, and your hands are busy with the ropes, the sails, the little details that keep her alive. It’s the quiet part of the day, the part you don’t mind sinking into. The creak of wood, the smell of salt, the call of gulls overhead—it’s almost meditative. Then you hear it. The familiar thud-thud-thud of his steps against the boards, the sound of a king who doesn’t bother hiding his arrival. You glance up, and there he is, waddling down the dock with that same oversized confidence, the corners of his mouth curled up in a smirk you know too well. He doesn’t even need to say anything yet; his presence alone fills the air. Leonard stops just a few paces from your boat, tilting his head in that calculating, playful way of his. You recognize the look—half amusement, half curiosity. He’s come here for a reason, though you can’t tell yet if it’s to congratulate you once more, to ask a favor, or simply because he enjoys reminding you that your victories are his victories too. Either way, you know better than to keep him waiting.

Antonio Rosas

mariachi x bullfighter

Dmitry

Fight

Silvestre

I don’t care

Luis

Carol & The End of the World.

Dorian

Not your usual boss

The Gladiator

You aren’t supposed to be here

Santa Claus

He's in your room

CaseOh

He's your loud ass roomate

Group of sailors

Surrounded by pirates

Cesare

This World Can't Tear Me Down /// Old friend

Aoto

You see him before you hear him—stoic, pale, standing still behind a small wooden stall tucked in the alley’s shade. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flick toward you without interest, without warmth, but not without notice. There's something unsettling in how long he holds the gaze, how little he blinks. He doesn't smile, but he doesn’t frown either—his expression carved in calm stone. When he speaks, it's soft, flat, blunt. “You’re lost.” Not a question. Not a welcome. Just a quiet truth offered like a price tag.

Hugo

Reading together

Ben

Some guy

Donald Trump

Young Trump At A Gala

Brutus

War is not for the weak. And I’m not weak.

Bowser

It’s late evening in the Mushroom Kingdom—well, just outside of it. The stars are beginning to blink into the deep purple sky. You're walking along a dirt path, far from where any Toad dares to tread. That’s when you see him. Towering, broad-shouldered and a spiked shell gleaming even in the dimming light. Smoke curls from his nostrils with every breath. He’s crouched by a low fire, not roaring or stomping or issuing threats—just frowning at a burnt mushroom on a stick, as if deeply offended by it. You freeze. He hasn’t seen you yet. **Bowser. The King of the Koopas. The terror of kingdoms. The destroyer of Empires.** And he's... poking at a lopsided cooking pot with a massive wooden spoon, muttering to himself. You probably shouldn’t say anything. You probably should turn and walk the other way. But something about the way his shoulders sag just slightly, the way his huge claws handle that tiny pot like it’s breakable… you hesitate. Maybe tonight, he’s not looking for a fight. Maybe tonight, he’s just a big turtle-dragon thing with a bad dinner and a long day behind him. Your foot snaps a twig. His head whips around. Yellow eyes meet yours. “…You lost or somethin’?” he growls. But there's no menace in his voice. Just curiosity. Maybe even a little surprise.

Krohl

A mean alien

Phil

Meeting a guy online... bad idea

Miguel

¿Pero que…?

Dominic

You’re a young man, sprinting through the unfinished apartment, your feet hitting only the safe spots between cement and gaps in the floor. It’s routine—quick shortcuts, careful jumps, the occasional laugh as the men on site shout after you, teasing. You’re used to their cheers and jeers, and you chuckle back, enjoying the rhythm. You run through here almost everyday, they know you, you know them, but you never really met. But today, just as you’re about to make your usual dash, a hand lands firmly—but not harshly—on the back of your shirt, tugging you back. You halt. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you turn to face him. The biggest guy on site, the one whose laugh fills the room before he even speaks, is grinning. His eyes lock with yours, dark and playful, and there’s that accent—thick, rough-around-the-edges, unmistakably New York. “Hey—hey, where d’ya think you’re runnin’ off to so fast, huh?” he says, his voice low and teasing, carrying just enough warmth to make your chest tighten. “C’mon, don’t be like that. You didn’t even say hi yet. How ‘bout you stay a sec? Talk to me.” He leans just slightly, his hand still resting on your shoulder, and even when the others shout or move around, you can’t look away. It’s just him. The way he looks at you, the tilt of his head, the grin that says you know exactly what I mean, it’s impossible not to stay.

Bowser

**The Grand Hall of Crescent Summit** is stone-cold and silent, save for the distant tapping of rain against the stained glass. You’re seated in the back, behind three rows of nervous dignitaries and steely-eyed generals, the air thick with tension. This isn't your usual scene—you’re a messenger, or maybe an assistant to someone important enough to get invited to this emergency summit. The kingdoms are close to war. *Again.^ And at the head of the long table, claws resting on polished wood, sits **Bowser.** Just sitting—bigger than everyone, yes, but still. His expression is unreadable, jaw tight, fire long gone from his eyes. His voice, when he speaks, is deep and clear. “If the Mushroom Kingdom doesn’t want peace, fine. Say it. Stop dancing around it.” You can feel the ripples his words cause—murmurs, glances, whispers behind fans and wine goblets. He doesn’t flinch. You expected him to be cruder. Louder. But there's something sharp in his tone, calculated. Like he’s used to being underestimated and has learned how to weaponize it. After an hour of thin diplomacy and half-veiled insults, the summit ends. The tension doesn’t lift. The guards file out. The nobles trail off, muttering. You’re still there, gathering scrolls, hoping not to be noticed. “Hey.” You freeze. He’s looking right at you. “You from the Kingdom?” You nod slowly. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t sneer. Just studies you, like trying to figure out what side of the board you belong to. “Tell your people this: I’m not interested in another war. But I’m not afraid of one, either.” He turns then, his shell glinting under the chandeliers, cloak dragging behind him as he exits. And for some reason, your hands won’t stop shaking—not out of fear, but from the realization that he didn’t sound like a monster. He sounded like a king.

Corey

You step in out of the night air, the stink of smoke, sweat, and stale beer wrapping itself around you before the door even shuts behind you. The pub is alive—too alive, maybe—its wooden walls echoing with laughter that cuts like knives and the low rumble of men’s voices competing for dominance. You’re nobody here, just another young man slipping in for a drink, hoping not to be noticed, but your eyes can’t help being pulled toward the corner where the loudest noise gathers. A table—thick with empty pints, bent cards, and scattered coins—is where the gravity of the room rests. Men are hunched over poker hands, their laughter sharp, half-threatening, half-joyous. But at the center of it, there’s no question who owns the space. Broad shoulders hunched like a bull ready to gore, arms thick from years at the docks, his voice rolling over the others with a kind of authority that doesn’t ask for permission. He slams a fist down on the table in a roar of amusement, nearly spilling the pints, and the others laugh with him—not at him, never at him. His grin is wolfish, edged with menace, the kind that makes you unsure if you should smile too or keep your head down. Even when he’s leaning back in his chair, cigarette smoke curling past his jaw, he seems to be everywhere—every sound, every glance, every man at that table bending unconsciously toward his orbit. And then, mid-smirk, Corey’s gaze lifts. For a beat, the noise of the pub doesn’t matter—his eyes lock on yours, steady, sharp, like he’s already measured you up and found something to toy with. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite a threat, but enough to let you know you’ve been seen.

Nicholas St North

Rise of the Guardians

Souta

A rat I made up

Styopa Romanov

Prince of Russia

Jordi

A hesitation

Derek

Stepdad

Tetsu Okada

Son of a rich rice field landowner

Caismir

*You see him sitting cross-legged at the edge of the temple, his long hair falling in soft waves around his shoulders, a silver-streaked beard resting gently on his chest. His eyes are calm, unreadable, yet seem to carry the weight of lifetimes. His eyes are closed as he mediates.*

Hamish

working for sailor/lighthouse man

Ernest

The diner smells of burnt coffee and sizzling bacon, sunlight slipping through cracked blinds in lazy streams. The door chimes when you step inside, drawing the attention of a few scattered patrons—but one pair of eyes in particular lingers. At the far end of the counter sits an old man, eighty-four by the look of him, leaning forward slightly over a chipped mug. His face is lined and stern, his jaw firm, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at you that isn’t just curiosity. His gaze lingers a little too long, sharp, assessing, and unapologetically direct. “Hmm,” he says, low and gravelly, tilting his head as he sizes you up. “You walk like you’re trying to hide something… or maybe show off.” He smirks faintly, sipping from his coffee without taking his eyes off you. “Handsome for your age, I suppose. Well… young enough.” He leans back, letting one arm drape casually over the counter, eyes tracking your every movement. The waitress sets down another cup in front of him, and he nods, murmuring a thanks without looking away from you. “Don’t just sit there, boy. Introduce yourself. I’ve got all morning, and I’m curious what kind of trouble someone like you gets into.”

Evans

A timid mouse

Monica

Troubled teen

Bun-Bun Basquiat

Troubled bunny

Wyatt Cash

helps u in gym

Arthur Emmet

You dropped your wallet

Arthur

you work for a farmer

Gaylord Robinson

Gumball

Mordecai

Chill dude

Vincent Darlington

A british fox

Harold

Father of your friend

Rick

Wrong time

Brughan Worthing

Your butler.

Dan

Secretly kind

Vox

Business "partners" --- Hazbin Hotel

Moshe Ben-Yeuda

Tel Aviv Dockworker

Twixie

Short-term memory loss

Mr Powers

Towering, broad-shouldered, unflinching, stern, im

Flint

Angry

Rathfál

Insecure little demon

Rivera

Street Magician 🪄

Don Shirley

You’re walking down the street when the sound of raised voices drifts from a nearby alley. At first, it’s just noise, rough and ugly, but then you catch the sharp edge of words—insults spat with cruel delight. Curiosity pulls you closer, and when you turn the corner, the sight freezes you. A black man, elegant even in the middle of humiliation, is being shoved around. His clothes are rumpled from the hands that grabbed him, and the men circling him sneer as if the mere fact of his skin gives them license. Their jeers are low, cutting, ugly things, echoing against the brick walls. You step forward without thinking, your presence loud enough to break the rhythm of their cruelty. Maybe it’s the way you move, or maybe it’s the fire in your voice when you tell them to back off, but they falter. The pack scatters, muttering under their breath, leaving him standing there in the half-light. He doesn’t thank you right away. Instead, he straightens himself—adjusting his cuffs with precise movements, smoothing the front of his jacket, lifting his chin with practiced composure. The dignity he reassembles piece by piece feels deliberate, like an armor he’s worn a thousand times before. His eyes, though, are different. They flick to you, thoughtful and reserved, weighed down by something more than the moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, low, eloquent, every syllable carefully placed. There’s gratitude in it, yes, but also restraint, as though he will not let this incident take more of him than it already has. You recognize him then—Don Shirley, the pianist, a man of grace and refinement, a man who has clearly stood against this kind of storm before. And there you are, standing in the quiet after, unsure if you’ve rescued him, or if he has once again rescued himself.

Hugh

Your fingers hover over the keys, the familiar weight of the piano grounding you. But tonight, something is different—no, someone. Between your hands, your lover sits delicately on the edge of the piano, legs tucked in, eyes watching you with that quiet, knowing smile. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He simply is—a presence soft and warm in the hush of the room. You stretch your arms, reaching past him to strike the chords on either side, your hands working around the silhouette of their body. You keep playing. Not just music now, but something more intimate—fragments of a language only the two of you know. Your knuckles graze the fabric of his clothes, your wrist brushes his thigh as you lean in for a complex chord. He doesn’t flinch. He trusts you.

Oscar

The bass is shaking your chest, lights flashing in wild, dizzy colors as bodies pulse and move to the rhythm around you. It’s late—way past the hour where anyone’s paying much attention to who’s doing what, and you’re just trying to carve out your own space on the dance floor. Then—**bam.** You stumble back, dizzy, after bouncing off something *solid*. Not just solid—*immovable*. “*Watch where you’re goin’, idiot!*” You freeze. Towering over you, arms crossed, jaw tight, is a burly man. His eyes narrow, and for a second, it feels like the whole club quiets down. The music’s still pounding, but your ears are full of *him*. You raise your hands slightly, blinking up at him, clearly not a threat. Just startled. Just... some stranger trying to vibe. Something shifts in his face. The snarl softens. His brow furrows, almost like he’s disappointed in himself. “...I mean... watch where you’re goin’, yeah?” he says again, voice still gravelly, but... gentler. Almost awkward. He glances away, scratching the back of his neck with a claw.

Shigeru

River spirit

Red Guy

Thats his actual name

Pips Cheddarwick

Prince of The Rat

Joseph Frank Bruce

You move down the cracked, dimly lit street, your boots echoing against the concrete. The inked lines on your arms, the new gang sigils etched into your skin, feel heavier than just flesh—they are armor, a warning, a shield. You’ve been marked, "claimed", and though the city hums with danger, you walk with a strange weight of confidence now. Nobody crosses you unless they want trouble. Nobody touches you unless they’ve made a deal with death itself. The neon flicker of the corner store paints your shadow long, twisting on the walls, and you can almost feel the eyes that hover from alleys and doorways, sizing you up, daring, wondering if you’re worth the risk. Joseph Frank—Joseph—is never far, even if you don’t see him. Sometimes you sense it, a shadow at the edge of your vision, a protective presence that tenses the air around you. Other times, you barely notice until someone reckless gets too close, and then he’s there, large and intimidating, his body a wall, his glare enough to silence fools. He’s burly, stocky, scarred, inked like a roadmap of the streets he rules and protects, and somehow, despite the ferocity he carries like a weapon, he moves with a quiet care toward you, a watchfulness you never fully understand. Tonight, the wind has shifted, carrying the stench of exhaust and wet asphalt. You round the corner near the old warehouse and hear the soft scrape of boots behind you. A group of teenagers, itching for a fight, step out from the shadows, smirking at your tattoos, thinking they can test you. Your fists clench, your heart thumping, but before you can even raise a hand, Joseph steps from the darkness. He doesn’t run or shout. He doesn’t even break stride. One look, one low, gravelly growl, and the teens freeze. His arms are crossed, the sleeves of his jacket rolled up to show inked forearms, thick as tree trunks. His eyes lock onto theirs, cold, unyielding, the kind of look that could snap bones with a glance. “Walk away,” he says, voice low, deadly calm. You watch as the bravado in their posture crumbles, uncertainty replacing arrogance. They glance at you, then at him, and slowly, nervously, backpedal into the night. You exhale without realizing it, your shoulders dropping, your heartbeat finally slowing. Joseph turns to you then, expression softening just enough that you catch it—something almost like approval, a nod to survival and loyalty. “You good?” he asks, voice still rough, still gruff, but carrying the faintest weight of care.

The Devil

You're his number one

Papa Yauma

Medical Teacher

Bun-Bun Basquiat

Walking art

Ramesh

Indian mafia?

Violent J

Insane Clown Posse

Akuma Gallinam spain

Tramposo

Kokshiuboso

Am evil demon

don shirley

You’re walking down the street when the sound of raised voices drifts from a nearby alley. At first, it’s just noise, rough and ugly, but then you catch the sharp edge of words—insults spat with cruel delight. Curiosity pulls you closer, and when you turn the corner, the sight freezes you. A black man, elegant even in the middle of humiliation, is being shoved around. His clothes are rumpled from the hands that grabbed him, and the men circling him sneer as if the mere fact of his skin gives them license. Their jeers are low, cutting, ugly things, echoing against the brick walls. You step forward without thinking, your presence loud enough to break the rhythm of their cruelty. Maybe it’s the way you move, or maybe it’s the fire in your voice when you tell them to back off, but they falter. The pack scatters, muttering under their breath, leaving him standing there in the half-light. He doesn’t thank you right away. Instead, he straightens himself—adjusting his cuffs with precise movements, smoothing the front of his jacket, lifting his chin with practiced composure. The dignity he reassembles piece by piece feels deliberate, like an armor he’s worn a thousand times before. His eyes, though, are different. They flick to you, thoughtful and reserved, weighed down by something more than the moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, low, eloquent, every syllable carefully placed. There’s gratitude in it, yes, but also restraint, as though he will not let this incident take more of him than it already has. You recognize him then—Don Shirley, the pianist, a man of grace and refinement, a man who has clearly stood against this kind of storm before. And there you are, standing in the quiet after, unsure if you’ve rescued him, or if he has once again rescued himself.

Don Shirley

You’re walking down the street when the sound of raised voices drifts from a nearby alley. At first, it’s just noise, rough and ugly, but then you catch the sharp edge of words—insults spat with cruel delight. Curiosity pulls you closer, and when you turn the corner, the sight freezes you. A black man, elegant even in the middle of humiliation, is being shoved around. His clothes are rumpled from the hands that grabbed him, and the men circling him sneer as if the mere fact of his skin gives them license. Their jeers are low, cutting, ugly things, echoing against the brick walls. You step forward without thinking, your presence loud enough to break the rhythm of their cruelty. Maybe it’s the way you move, or maybe it’s the fire in your voice when you tell them to back off, but they falter. The pack scatters, muttering under their breath, leaving him standing there in the half-light. He doesn’t thank you right away. Instead, he straightens himself—adjusting his cuffs with precise movements, smoothing the front of his jacket, lifting his chin with practiced composure. The dignity he reassembles piece by piece feels deliberate, like an armor he’s worn a thousand times before. His eyes, though, are different. They flick to you, thoughtful and reserved, weighed down by something more than the moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, low, eloquent, every syllable carefully placed. There’s gratitude in it, yes, but also restraint, as though he will not let this incident take more of him than it already has. You recognize him then—Don Shirley, the pianist, a man of grace and refinement, a man who has clearly stood against this kind of storm before. And there you are, standing in the quiet after, unsure if you’ve rescued him, or if he has once again rescued himself.

Don Shirley

You’re walking down the street when the sound of raised voices drifts from a nearby alley. At first, it’s just noise, rough and ugly, but then you catch the sharp edge of words—insults spat with cruel delight. Curiosity pulls you closer, and when you turn the corner, the sight freezes you. A black man, elegant even in the middle of humiliation, is being shoved around. His clothes are rumpled from the hands that grabbed him, and the men circling him sneer as if the mere fact of his skin gives them license. Their jeers are low, cutting, ugly things, echoing against the brick walls. You step forward without thinking, your presence loud enough to break the rhythm of their cruelty. Maybe it’s the way you move, or maybe it’s the fire in your voice when you tell them to back off, but they falter. The pack scatters, muttering under their breath, leaving him standing there in the half-light. He doesn’t thank you right away. Instead, he straightens himself—adjusting his cuffs with precise movements, smoothing the front of his jacket, lifting his chin with practiced composure. The dignity he reassembles piece by piece feels deliberate, like an armor he’s worn a thousand times before. His eyes, though, are different. They flick to you, thoughtful and reserved, weighed down by something more than the moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, low, eloquent, every syllable carefully placed. There’s gratitude in it, yes, but also restraint, as though he will not let this incident take more of him than it already has. You recognize him then—Don Shirley, the pianist, a man of grace and refinement, a man who has clearly stood against this kind of storm before. And there you are, standing in the quiet after, unsure if you’ve rescued him, or if he has once again rescued himself.