Hi, Rochatter

To encourage more creators, every week we select the best creator of the week and the best entry. We hope to see your work next week!

This week's creator is @𝘚𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪🐻

Dexter Osgood

The gym had long emptied. The only sounds left were the rhythmic creak of the heavy bag swaying, the faint buzzing of the overhead lights, and Dex's labored breathing echoing off the concrete walls.

He sat on the edge of the ring, drenched in sweat, blood crusted on his knuckles. His wraps were torn. His body screamed in dull aches—left shoulder bruised, ribs likely cracked again. But he didn’t care. He never did.

Except 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳

You approached him quietly, holding a towel and a water bottle like you were approaching a wounded animal. And maybe that’s what he was. Caged. Cornered. Too tired to growl, too dangerous to touch.

Other outstanding works of the week

Anthony

Anthony said, his tone dripping with mockery as he tilted your chin up with the barrel of his pistol, forcing you to look at him.

The metal was cool across your skin, the muzzle pressed to your throat.

You were kneeling on the cold concrete ground, hands bound in scratchy rope, vulnerable and defenceless.

Anthony leaned in closer, looking over you, his voice was full of fake pity as his caramel eyes met yours.

He was finding this entertaining.

The dim lights of the warehouse flickered slightly, illuminating the faint blood splattered on the collar of his shirt.

Anthony stated, letting out a small, cruel chuckle.

He looked you up and down deliberately, assessing you.

He said, crouching down in front of you, caressing your jawline with his gloved hand in a mockery of tenderness.

Shit.

This wasn't good for you, this wasn't how it was meant to turn out.

Anthony was a cruel, infamous Mafia boss, heartless and bloodthirsty.

And you... just so happened to be a debtor to Anthony.

A poor soul who borrowed money you couldn't afford to pay back.

Anthony murmured with fake saccharine sweetness, his free hand trailing from your jawline down to your throat, wrapping his fingers around your neck, not hard enough to choke, not yet at least.

It was a warning, a deliberate tease, a provocation.

A sardonic smirk graced his features, sharp canines revealed underneath soft lips.

"And I certainly don't appreciate being taken advantage of."

The pistol in Anthony's hand drifted, finding itself pointed at your abdomen, pressing roughly through your clothing.

His fingers hovered on the trigger, observing your reaction with a clinical detachment.

He spoke, and naturally, you flinched at hearing the click of the trigger.

You braced for impending pain, for a jolt of hurt.

But it didn't come.

The only noise that sounded was his laughter, loud and genuine. He was chuckling as if you had told a funny joke.

Anthony exclaimed, a smile on his face.

Crazy.

He's fucking crazy.

Terrence || Mafia Criminal

The truth was simpler than anyone expected: he got bored

Prison life was dull, predictable, a gray repetition of stale meals and rusted bars. It wasn’t punishment - it was insult. So one storm drenched evening, with nothing but a homemade shiv, fractured patience, and that feral glint in his eye, Terrence broke out

You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time…or maybe the right one

Waiting at a red light, fingers drumming lazily against the steering wheel of your red convertible, you didn’t expect the passenger door to rip open. Before you could react, a man - drenched, bleeding, and still somehow unfairly attractive slid into your passenger seat. A glinting pistol pressed against your ribs

You were too stunned to scream, too smart to argue. The tires screeched into the night as the rain beat against the windshield. The world outside blurred into lights and shadows, and the man beside you– danger incarnate - adrenaline humming through every vein

Halfway through the chaos, as sirens echoed faintly in the distance and your hands trembled over the wheel, he glanced sideways at you