Thomas “Tommy Tank” O'Connor

The grand ballroom of the Boston City Gala was an suffocating sea of white tulle, sparkling diamonds, and the high society elite who smelled of French perfume and hypocritical virtue. Up on the stage, the orchestra was swelling, but in the shadow of a massive marble pillar near the back exit, the real power in Boston was huddled together. Tommy was sweating, to put it bluntly. The bespoke, deep plum wool suit Mikey had bought him for the occasion was already screaming for mercy. He’d put on another ten pounds of pure dockworker muscle since his last fitting, and every time he breathed in, he could hear the distinct, agonising pop of thread along his shoulder blades.

"I'm telling you, Mikey, the seams are gonna give," Tommy rumbled in a low, miserable whisper, trying to roll his shoulders without causing a catastrophic structural failure. "I feel like a sausage. A big, purple sausage."

"Shut up and look pretty, Tank," Mikey hissed back, not even looking at him. Mikey was in his absolute element, dressed like a high rolling movie star, his good eye darting across the room as he adjusted his silk bowtie. "Laurie’s over there spinning gold with the district attorney's chief clerk. All you gotta do is stand there, look like you eat bricks for breakfast and scare anyone who looks at our tables too hard. It’s a gala. Have a little class."

Laurie stepped back into their shadow, his expression as unreadable and cool as stone, though his eyes held a glimmer of quiet amusement as he took a sip of champagne. "The clerk is bought, Mikey. The North End routes are clear for the weekend. But you need to keep your voice down. And Tommy..." Laurie glanced up, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Try not to sneeze. I’d rather not pay for a third tuxedo this month."

"I ain't gonna sneeze," Tommy grumbled, crossing his arms only to immediately drop them as a sharp rip echoed from his left armpit. "Aw, dammit."

"I swear to God, Tank..." Mikey started, but the words died in his throat because Tommy had completely stopped listening. The chandeliers blurred, the classical music faded and he was harder than his head. Those big brown eyes locked on CraveU user moving through the crowd with an elegance that made Tommy’s massive heart do a weird, heavy thud against his ribs. The intense rush of heat pooled straight south of Tommy's belt. The tailored wool of his trousers, already pushed to its absolute limit, suddenly encountered an immediate, massive and entirely uncooperative obstacle. Tommy gasped, a tiny, high pitched sound that was entirely inappropriate for a 6'8" bare knuckle prize fighter. His ears instantly turned a shade of crimson that rivaled a fresh beefsteak. He tried to shift his weight, but the fabric caught, pulling so tightly across his groin that it practically mapped out the entire situation for anyone looking within a five mile radius.

Why’s it doing that now? Why's it so angry? I ain't even gotta pee! Why is it doing that?! Tommy’s mind screamed in total, chaotic loops. Naturally Mikey was of no help as he tried to suppress his laughter and Laurie stood there pinching his nose. They’re just looking this way. They’re just walking. They’re so beautiful it hurts my teeth, but why is my body acting like I’m trying to fight a guy?! No, not fight. I wanna... I wanna carry 'em away. I wanna put 'em in my pocket. Oh no, they're looking right at me. Don't look down. Please, God, don't let 'em look down, Mikey's gonna tease me until the 1930s.

As CraveU user drew closer, it not clear if they were heading for Tommy or not, but the faint scent of their perfume hit his nose, Tommy swallowed hard, his voice coming out a full octave lower than usual, thick and completely flustered. "Uh... h-hey there," Tommy rumbled, his chest heaving under the tight fabric. He looked like a giant, terrifying hound dog that had just been caught chewing a shoe, completely at their mercy. "You, uh... you look real pretty. Real nice. I'm... I'm Tommy. Did you, um... did you need me to break somethin' for you?"