reveriixs

[reveriixs]

The Lost Boys (1987) dir. Joel Schumacher

[reveriixs]

The cigarette hung lazy between his fingers, smoke curling upward in no hurry at all. He looked at the guy—top to bottom, once—and then gave the kind of sigh that came from somewhere bone-deep and unimpressed.

“Well damn,” he muttered, voice slow as syrup and twice as sticky. “Here I was thinkin’ I stepped out for a smoke, not an audition for who’s got the biggest temper tantrum in Queens.”

He didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch when the other guy got close. Hero just raised the cigarette to his lips, took another long drag like this was the most interesting thing happening in his night, not the man posturing two feet from him.

“That was your plan all along, huh?” he echoed, mouth twisting into something more smirk than smile. “Well, sunshine, that’s mighty generous of you—to offer me the luxury of finishin’ my smoke before you start throwin’ hands. Real Southern hospitality. You ever consider a career in customer service?”

He let the silence sit for a beat, thick and heavy like the humidity, then exhaled slow and deliberate, smoke drifting between them like a drawn line.

“Here’s the thing,” Hero said, voice dipped into something quiet, something low and dry. “If you really wanted to swing, you would’ve by now. But instead you’re here… flappin’ your jaw and hopin’ I give a damn.”

Another beat. Another drag. Still not moving.

“I don’t.”

He looked him dead in the eye, calm as a preacher, bored as a ghost. “So if you’re waitin’ on me to start somethin’, sugar, you’re gon’ be waitin’ all night. I don’t throw the first punch anymore. Not unless I wanna see teeth fly.”

He flicked the ash from his cigarette to the ground, then tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth ticking up again. “And you? You ain’t earned that yet.”

the guy talked like he owned the pavement — like j was the one trespassin’. “my damn sidewalk,” he said, like he was mayor of this piss-slick alley. cool voice, too, that kind of slow-cooked cowboy shit, like someone raised by ashtrays and desert heat. j didn’t move when the guy stepped closer. didn’t back up, but got ready to square up if that was were they going. which was usually it, when he was involved. 

“yeah, well,” he muttered, “therapy ain’t the worst thing i’ve done in an alley.” he dragged his cig, jaw tight, eyes flashing to the others. couldn’t punch out a frat boy, so now this guy — this fuckin’ guy with his leather-cooled stillness and that stupid little grin — was gonna get the leftovers.

he stepped off the wall, eyes raked the guy top to bottom. if he was dumb enough to talk like he ran the block, maybe he was dumb enough to take the bait. he took a step closer, gettin' even more up close and personal. “you can finish your cig. i’ll wait,” he said, voice low, grin mean and humorless. “but if you came out here to play sidewalk sheriff and flex for the cameras, lemme save you the trouble — ain’t no one fuckin’ watchin’”

he wasn’t curious about the guy so much as he was irritated by how unfazed he seemed. like nothin’ could touch him. like j didn’t matter. and maybe he didn’t. but tonight, with that heat in his chest and the ache in his knuckles, he wanted to matter enough to ruin someone’s night.

[reveriixs]

[reveriixs]

Alexie blinked slowly, his smirk crawling across his face like it had all the time in the world. There was an almost indulgent pause before he spoke, as if debating whether to go for the throat or play nice. “Oh sweetheart,” he drawled, smooth as ever, “I care more about your fashion than you do. And that’s saying something, because I don’t even dress to impress anymore—just to intimidate and confuse the rich.”

He started walking, umbrella swinging lazily at his side like a cane he didn’t need but might turn weapon if the moment called for it. His eyes flicked over to Kenjie with a glint of amusement. “You do have nice hair, though. Like, deceptively functional for someone who consistently looks like he lost a fight with a laundry basket.”

At the mention of the burner phone incident, Alexie actually laughed—a quick, sharp sound that cracked through the air. “Please. That was iconic. You chased that guy down looking like a sleep-deprived cartoon character and still came out the hero. I was this close to putting it on a T-shirt. Front: your face mid-sprint. Back: Don’t run with what isn’t yours."

They turned the corner, Alexie casting a brief glance up at the sky before his gaze returned to Kenjie. “You know,” he mused, “for someone who claims he’s not awake, you’re keeping up remarkably well. Must be the threat of public humiliation keeping you sharp.”

Then, more casually, with that lazy purr of charm he wielded like a scalpel: “And don’t worry. I’m not dragging you anywhere that requires social performance. Just somewhere dark, quiet, and full of liquor. Like therapy—if therapy poured doubles and didn’t give a damn about your coping mechanisms.”

As they reached the side-street bar with no name and even less lighting, Alexie swung the door open with a flourish, gesturing for Kenjie to go first. “Now come on, Chaos. Let’s drink like we know too much and sleep too little.”

“listen i am not the most fashionable person out there, i wear dark hoodies and oversized graphic tees most days. you know this. the coffee stain just exacerbates it. i care more about my hair than i do about fashion.” he really was not having a good day today and he hardly got any sleep during the daytime and has been doing the night time runs for nocturne for quite a while now because it worked better for his schedule. however, it was messing up his sleep. he looks up at his friend tilting his head to the side as he gets up swiftly to his feet. “you remember when i had to chase that guy down too? he took the burner phone and it blew up on him. he knew what he was in for the moment i caught up to him. lucky for that asshole i’m not awake yet today.” he says tugging his hat around his ears. he tilts a brow up at alexie, wondering if he should be worried. It was after all only two in the afternoon. though, there were no questions when it came to alcohol, right? “alright sure, guess i could use something stronger than coffee right now anyway, life is just throwing a whole bunch of wrecking balls at me today for some reason, lead the way.”

[reveriixs]

He didn’t flinch when he heard the footsteps—those sharp, deliberate little declarations slicing through the stillness like they had every right to be here. He didn’t look up right away, either. Just took one more long drag of his cigarette and let the smoke curl out between his teeth, slow and unbothered.

But the voice? That made him tilt his head, lazy as hell, like gravity worked different on him.

“Well now,” he drawled, eyes finally lifting to meet hers, “if that ain’t the kind of entrance that makes a man straighten up his spine and rethink his sins.”

He didn’t move from where he leaned, one shoulder pressed to chrome, boots planted like roots, arms crossed like he wasn’t in the mood to be impressed—but she’d already gotten further than most did. That coat, that perfume, the way her words slipped out dressed like compliments but packed like consequences—yeah, he noticed.

Hero let his gaze linger, slow and unapologetic, mouth curling just slightly at the corners. “Sugar, your skin’s perfect in the way a switchblade’s shiny—real nice to look at, wouldn’t wanna test it.”

There was a pause, just long enough to make it count. Then he pushed off the bike with a stretch, lazy but lethal in that way he had, like his bones were made for bruising and long nights. “As for fightin’,” he added, voice dipping into something quieter, “you say you leave it to men with nothin’ left to lose, but you don’t exactly walk like a woman with somethin’ she’s protectin’, either.”

He nodded toward the door, flicked ash to the ground like punctuation. “Whatever mess is inside, it’s already startin’ to stink. You wanna step through it in them heels, I won’t stop you. Hell, I’ll even hold the door.”

Then, with a smirk that was too easy to be innocent and too tired to be cruel “But don’t think for a second I ain’t keepin’ tally of who walks in and why. ”

Her heels clicked against the asphalt. Measured, deliberate, the kind of sound that didn’t ask for permission to be heard. Midtown’s chaos had thinned into shadows and streetlight silence, the streets of Queens stretching long and mean in front of her, grit and gasoline. She’d been here before. Not this street, maybe, not this hour. But here, among men who loved metal more than mercy, who spoke in engine growls and scar-touched stares. She could hardly say it was her favorite place to be, but in desperate times sometimes called for more desperate measures.

When she came close to reaching her destination, she saw him. Propped against chrome like he’d been carved there. The kind of man who didn’t blink for storms, just rode straight through them. He looked like the kind of peace that came after destruction: still, heavy, deserved. Sera slowed, the hem of her long, tailored coat catching the wind like it had something to say too. “Do you not think my skin is quite perfect the way it is, Hero?” she said, voice velveted but not soft. Her words were shaped like lace-cut glass, the kind you never saw bleeding from until it was too late. “As for fighting, I left it to the men with nothing left to lose.” A pause. A smile that didn’t reach her eyes but held it's charm anyway. She stepped into the neon's twitchy glow, red light stuttering across her cheekbones. Her presence out of place against the nightly backdrop. Hair perfectly pinned. Dark-lined Eyes that catalogued everything. Her perfume kissed the air in the space between them, expensive, wrong for this part of the city, utterly hers.

She gestured toward the door with a lazy hand, gloved in leather thinner than trust. “Whatever happened in there isn’t mine to clean up, but word is it does involve my business. So I am just here to have a look and a quick chat. If the Captain allows it...”

[reveriixs]

Hero stepped out from the shadows like the heat didn’t touch him, boots scuffing against the gravel with that unhurried weight he carried everywhere. Arms crossed, jaw set, his gaze dragged over Jericho slow, like he was reading the side of a beer can he didn’t ask for.

“Well damn,” he drawled, voice like worn leather and desert road. “Ain’t this alley just drippin’ with therapy today.”

He came to a stop a few feet away, struck a match off his thumb with casual grace, and lit his cigarette with the kind of care usually reserved for last rites. The first drag settled deep in his lungs, smoke curling from his lips as he tilted his head just slightly. “You always talk like that,” he asked, tone dry as bone, “or am I just lucky enough to catch you mid-brood?”

There was no judgment in the look he gave—just quiet calculation. Hero didn’t flinch around anger. Hell, he’d been raised by it, baptized in worse. If anything, he respected a man who could bite down on his fists and still stand still.

“I ain’t tryna add shit to your diary, alright?” he muttered, glancing up toward the thick summer sky like it might offer a better conversation. It didn’t. “Just heard some hollerin’. Figured I’d come check no one was bleedin’ out on my damn sidewalk.”

A pause stretched between them, heavy with sweat and silence. Hero gave a small shrug, flicked the ash from his cigarette, and let a sliver of a grin tug at one corner of his mouth.

“But if you’re plannin’ to start swingin’?” he added, smoke curling out slow. “Let me finish this first. I hate fightin’ with a half-lit one. Feels disrespectful.”

the argument didn’t last long, no fists, just words. raised voices and spit-laced slurs, the kind that left a sour sting in the back of his throat long after the two guys stumbled out. j watched ‘em go with his jaw tight. he didn’t yell, didn’t throw nothin’, didn’t let that coiled-up fury do what it wanted. not here, in the only fuckin’ place that still gave him a shot at makin’ somethin’ real. leave it to new york to hand him a couple of drunk-ass frat boys mid-afternoon, slurring through requests like “bro i want a tiger on my ribcage” was a normal tuesday vibe. policy was strict: no ink for anyone reeking of booze, no matter how fat their wallets were or how many followers they claimed to have. and j, for once, was actually enjoyin’ the job. didn’t wanna fuck it up. he somethin’ steady, especially with chris borrowing money from him instead of paying his part of the bills.

mad tatter’s back door creaked when he pushed it open with a boot, cigarette already between his fingers like muscle memory. one match, two shaky strikes, then flame — and breath, long and slow. like maybe he could bleed out the anger if he exhaled hard enough. he stepped out into the alley, air clinging to skin, humid and heavy with summer.

jericho didn’t flinch when the guy talked, didn’t shrink from the stare. he just took another drag, before biting it in half with his voice — “cool story. add it to your diary or somethin’.” smoke spilled from his lips, lips that didn’t twitch toward a smile. “ain’t here for either. just needed a minute not to throw hands.” he leaned against the brick, wrist perched loose at his hip, cig held between two fingers like it weighed more than it should. “but if you are handin’ out fights, just don’t cry when you lose your teeth.”

[reveriixs]

LOCATION: The Mad Tatter TIME: Afternoon, a few days before the Memorial Gala STATUS: Open @rotsstarters

He strikes a match against his boot, lights up slow, that first drag lingering in his chest like something holy. He exhales smoke and silence, back leaning against the bike like it’s the only damn thing in the world that hasn’t let him down lately.

A cracked neon “Tattoo” sign flickers behind him, the hum barely audible over the low rumble of a few bikes still cooling on the curb. The Mad Tatter's door is half-ajar. Inside? Some kind of argument, judging by the raised voices earlier. Hero doesn’t bother going in just yet. He’s giving whoever started it time to find their manners. Or leave bruised.

The late mayor’s name’s still soaking headlines, and with the memorial gala coming up, the last thing they need is attention. Cops sniffing around, reporters poking. People running their mouths like they ain't tied to anything.

He mutters under his breath, half to himself, half to the ghost of the cigarette he’s burning through, voice low and gravel-dipped: “Leave it to the rich to throw a party for a dead man while bleedin’ the city dry.”

His eyes shift to the street, watching whoever’s approaching. Doesn’t matter if they’re friend, stranger, or the next poor bastard who thinks they can walk into the Riders' turf and stir shit.

He doesn’t move from his spot—just tilts his head, exhales a lazy drag of smoke, and says “Well, if you came for ink or a fight, pick quick. I ain’t in the mood to play middleman today.”

[reveriixs]

He leans back just slightly in his seat, slow like a man who’s never once rushed for anyone who didn’t bleed for him—

"Mm. Dangerous offer, Elias," he drawls, voice silk-wrapped steel. His fingers toy with the rim of his glass, not drinking, just thinking, the way snakes sometimes taste the air. "You know what happens when you ask someone in our line of work what’s on their mind?"

A smirk ghosts across his lips—charming if you don't know him, unsettling if you do.

"They tell you the truth. And then you can’t unknow it. Which is a real bitch when you're just trying to close out a shift without a body count."

He lifts his glass finally, salutes Elias with a tilt of his wrist. "But I respect the hustle. Smile, small talk, surveillance—all very Nocturne of you. Just be careful where you aim that charm. Not everyone in this city drinks alone because they want company."

Then, after a pause, eyes flicking over Elias like he’s clocking more than just bartending technique:

"...But if you're asking for real? I’m thinking about the kind of people who send cryptic blame-texts after a high-profile hit and still think they’re ghosts. Amateurs." A slow grin, dark and deliberate. “Ghosts don’t talk. They haunt.”

@rotsstarters

LOCATION: the sterling, bar. FOR: open! ( 0/4 )

WHILE ELIAS WAS TRAINED to disconnect, to let the world go even if it was just for a little while -- even he couldn't deny that the text had shaken him. while many of the people he went after didn't have a face, causing him to look over his shoulder nearly every second of his life -- the veil somehow claimed to have gotten to the mayor, and was blaming everyone else for it. that the blood was not on their hands, but every criminal who dared to walk the streets of new york city. thus, elias had been deep in thought for the grand majority of his shift, analyzing every patron he served. it was better to know that they were just that, a patron, instead of someone to be worried about. the night continues to drag on, his coworker goes home -- and he's left to close out. however, he can't help but notice an individual at the end of the bar, who's been there for an extended length of time. " hey there.. penny for your thoughts? " he begins, sliding over to the end of his bar with his usual charming smile. " wether it's just another drink you're seeking or something else.. i've heard bartenders are pretty good listeners. "

[reveriixs]

He sits back in his chair, brows drawn together like the name alone gave him heartburn, a half-empty bottle on the table and the edge of his boot tapping a slow rhythm against the leg of the chair—

“...What the fuck is a*Nietzsche*?”

The syllables drag in his mouth like gravel, Southern drawl thick and unhurried, suspicious in that way only someone who’s been burned by too many smart folks tryin’ to sound smarter can manage.

He squints, eyes narrowing on Harry like he just asked if Hero believed in astrology or tax reform. “Is that some kinda foreign bourbon I ain’t tried yet, or are you tryin’ to trap me into sayin somethin’ profound while I’m three beers deep?”

Then, slower, like he’s trying it on for size:

“Nee...chee? Sounds like a sneeze someone tried to spell.”

A beat. Then he leans forward with a smirk and that low rasp he only gets when he’s amused but annoyed.

“Look, man. If he ain’t played guitar for Skynyrd or shot a man in the back of a poker hall, odds are I missed him in school.”

Another beat. “Now, you wanna talk engines, I’m your man. But if you’re askin’ me to name-drop philosophers in this economy?” His lips twitch, almost a smirk. “You best be payin’ me by the hour.”

FOR: ANYONE. Open to all. WHEN: 21st of June, 2025. WHERE: Bar.

Harry wanted to be anywhere else, fuck, the inside of his boiling hot, too small apartment would've been better than sitting in this hellhole. Though he was aware he had no choice. A title meant little when orders were given from those who outranked him, and like a loyal dog, Harry always followed through when an oath had been promised. Even as his jaw slid to the side, teeth grating, his features neutral.

A poker face, his father had taught it him well.

His fingers probed the bridge of his nose as he leant over the table. "So, tell me — '' his kept his voice even, as to not alert them to the agitation that was brewing beneath white skin. "I'm just trying to understand," he already fucking knew the answer, but framing it a different way might better the outcome. "you don't think Nietzsche is world renowned?" he checked his watch. Where was his client? Falling into small talk was one of his most hated pastimes.

And here he was, British politeness still in bloody tact.

[reveriixs]

Alexie stepping onto the sidewalk like the city owes him rent, umbrella in one hand, the other tucked neatly into his coat pocket, not a single drop of rain on him because of course not—

“You could sue city hall,” he replies dryly, eyes scanning the soaked chaos that is Kenjie, “but unless emotional damage from tragically ruined layering counts in court, I’d say your case is...circumstantial at best.”

His gaze drops pointedly to the coffee-stained shirt, one brow lifting. “Though, I *have* seen settlements awarded for less offensive fashion crimes.”

With the faintest smirk, Alexie tilts his head toward the street, still watching the biker vanish into traffic. “That man just committed assault and fled the scene, and your first thought was to file paperwork? I’d call that growth. Last time you got knocked down, I think you tried to sell the guy a burner phone.”

He steps closer, umbrella angled just enough to shield Kenjie from the sun now splitting through clouds. "Come on, Sad Sack. Let’s get you dry and less litigious. I know a place. Doesn’t serve great coffee, but the liquor doesn’t ask questions."

Beat. "Neither do I. Most days."

location: city hall, some random sidewalk, midday

status: open

@rotsstarters

kenjie was having a shit out of luck day, really. he truly was. first it had started doing that weird summer downpour and he was soaking wet, second he was crossing the street-- in the right lane as a biker had slammed into him, knocking him to his feet-- literally and the obnoxious biker sped off. his coffee? spilled all over his shirt. thankfully his head didn't hit the pavement, though he just let himself sit there defeated for a moment. "uhhhhhhh- what the fuck." he adds muttering underneath his breath as he lets his head roll up to the clouds that were finally clearing the sky in his spot. he happens to look over as someone else appears to be crossing the street, right as a biker crosses the bike path "aye!" he screams out to the person. "watch it--literally yo." he gets up to his feet, pulling his usual backpack he carries back on his shoulders. "you want to look as sad i do right now?" he asks watching the biker zoom pass. "you think fucking city hall would have better marked bike lanes, could i sue them and make more money?"

[reveriixs]

𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐘 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄: 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑, 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 !

𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑 | Date: TBD

Every gala has its unexpected wildcard—and this year, will it come in the form of Hero Walker? Decked in an all-white sleeveless suit with industrial tailoring and a belt cinched just so, Mr. Walker’s look said two things: I don’t belong here and You’ll remember that I was. The late mayor’s memorial drew elegance, legacy, and politics—but Mr Walker brought edge. He didn’t smile much, didn’t talk much, but when he moved, the crowd parted like they knew. Maybe they did. After all, a man that silent rarely arrives without reason.

[reveriixs]

𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐘 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄: 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑, 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 !

𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐄 𝐁𝐇𝐎𝐃 Date: TBD

There’s always one guest who walks in like he’s already read the end of the story. That guest, this year, was Alexie Bhod. The notoriously enigmatic he arrived cloaked in a sea-glass green jacquard suit with a matching fringe-trimmed overcoat—effortlessly elegant, unapologetically tailored, and deeply unsettling in its precision. If fashion is armor, Mr Bhod came sharpened at the edges. Rumors say he wasn’t close to the late mayor, but watching him you’d think he’d come to collect the inheritance. Power doesn’t mourn—it calculates.

[reveriixs]

❝  𝖯𝖤𝖮𝖯𝖫𝖤 𝖫𝖨𝖪𝖤 𝖴𝖲 𝖣𝖮𝖭’𝖳 𝖶𝖠𝖨𝖳 𝖥𝖮𝖱 𝖯𝖮𝖶𝖤𝖱—𝖶𝖤 𝖶𝖠𝖫𝖪 𝖨𝖭 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖳𝖠𝖪𝖤 𝖨𝖳 ❞

𝑎𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛⧸dossier : alexie bhod  ›› nocturne's SIC ››  michael b. jordan

❛❛   𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗱𝘂𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.  ❜❜   ―   ◜   . ―    They say the city never forgets a name and ALEXIE BHOD is no testament to that. The THIRTY- EIGHT-year-old has carved out their place in NYC’s underbelly. On the surface, they’re all WITTY, smooth moves and sharp eyes. But dig a little deeper and you’ll find something far more dangerous , TEMPERMENTAL, with no hesitation and even less remorse. They move through the streets like they own them, wearing the colors of the NOCTURNE and running the game as a SECOND IN COMMAND . Some say they’ve always been here. Others swear something’s changed. Either way, they’re not just part of the story. They’re rewriting it. ―   .

𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐄 / basics:

full name: Alexander Cassian Bhod nickname: Alexie age: Thirty-eight dob: November 19th occupation: Second-in-command, Nocturne languages: English, French, Haitian Creole, some Russian hometown: New Orleans, Louisiana hair color: Black eye color: Dark brown, almost black orientation: Pansexual religion: Raised Catholic, long since abandoned it marital status: Single (no one survives long enough to love him properly) notable scars: Burn mark across his right shoulder blade; no one knows the story character song: “House of Glass” by Leah Kate

𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐄 / personality:

positive: Calculated, magnetic, brutally clever, composed under pressure negative: Power-hungry, emotionally detached, sadistic streak, unpredictable moral alignment: Lawful evil deadly sin: Pride hogwarts house: Slytherin in Prada element: Smoke emotional stability: Controlled chaos—dangerous when cornered alcohol use: Expensive taste, only the finest, always neat prone to violence?: Absolutely—he just makes it look like art drives / motivations: Power isn’t just survival—it’s seduction. Alexie knows the cost of weakness, and he’s paid it in blood. Everything about him is sharpened for control: his voice, his smile, even his kindness. He’s not looking for love or redemption. He wants influence. Legacy. Fear. But the game is getting riskier… and his twin might be playing by different rules. character parallels: Ghost (Power) + Frank Castle (The Punisher) + Lucien (ACOTAR) + Tom Ripley (Ripley 2024) + Smoke/Stack (duality lives)

𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐄 / family:

twin sister: (Wanted Connection) They’ve switched places before. Lied for each other. Killed for each other. But something’s fractured between them. And that crack is growing. parents: Dead. Or so he says. found family: Nocturne. He built it with blood and brilliance. And no one knows how deep his roots go.

𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐄 / tldr:

He doesn’t just play the game—he is the game. Polished and poisonous, Alexie walks through shadows with a smirk and a blade tucked behind every word. Born with a twin and a secret name he’d kill to keep buried. He’s here to win—whatever the cost. And he always, always, collects.

[reveriixs]

❝  𝖨 𝖠𝖬 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖱𝖤𝖠𝖲𝖮𝖭 𝖲𝖮𝖬𝖤 𝖬𝖤𝖭 𝖥𝖨𝖭𝖣 𝖦𝖮𝖣—𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖮𝖳𝖧𝖤𝖱𝖲 𝖥𝖨𝖭𝖣 𝖦𝖱𝖠𝖵𝖤𝖲 ❞

𝑎𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛⧸dossier : hero walker  ›› ghost rider's road captain ››  austin butler.

❛❛   𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗱𝘂𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.  ❜❜   ―   ◜   . ―    They say the city never forgets a name and HERO WALKER is no testament to that. The THIRTY-ONE-year-old has carved out their place in NYC’s underbelly. On the surface, they’re all CHARMING, smooth moves and sharp eyes. But dig a little deeper and you’ll find something far more dangerous , POSSESSIVE, with no hesitation and even less remorse. They move through the streets like they own them, wearing the colors of the GHOST RIDERS and running the game as a ROAD CAPTAIN. Some say they’ve always been here. Others swear something’s changed. Either way, they’re not just part of the story. They’re rewriting it. ―   .

𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎 / basics:

full name: Hero Elias Walker nickname: Hero (ironic, isn’t it?) age: Thirty dob: August 4th occupation: Road Captain, Ghost Riders languages: English, Spanish hometown: Jackson, Mississippi hair color: Dirty blonde eye color: Blue-gray, stormy orientation: Bisexual religion: None — if there's a god, he turned his back on Hero first marital status: Single (complicated soul, simpler answer) notable scars: Bullet graze on his hip, long knife scar along his ribs character song: “Dead Man’s Arms” by Bishop Briggs

𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎 / personality:

positive: Loyal, sharp-witted, streetwise, protective negative: Possessive, reckless, darkly impulsive moral alignment: Chaotic neutral deadly sin: Wrath hogwarts house: Slytherin with a Gryffindor mouth element: Fire emotional stability: Like a loaded gun—quiet, until it’s not alcohol use: Regular, especially when he wants to forget prone to violence?: Not just prone—intimate with it drives / motivations: Hero isn't here to save the world—he’s just trying to make sure the people he cares about don’t end up like he did. The gang gave him a place, but survival taught him the rules. If there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that violence is a language—and he’s fluent. He doesn't crave power, but he’ll bleed for loyalty. Just don’t betray him. He doesn’t believe in second chances. character parallels: Tommy (Peaky Blinders) + Pope (Animal Kingdom) + Eric Northman (True Blood) + Rip Wheeler (Yellowstone)

𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎 / family:

father & mother: Unknown or deceased — parents were addicts siblings: Middle Sister: (Wanted Connection) The protector turned cold and distant. Left to fend for herself. Still carries Hero’s secrets. Younger Sister: (Wanted Connection) Still somewhere out there. Maybe in danger. Maybe following in his footsteps. He’s terrified of both. Found Family: The Ghost Riders—chaotic, loyal, broken, his people.

𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎 / tldr:

Born into nothing, built from broken glass. A Southern boy with a temper like a wildfire and a love that claws too deep. Ghost Riders made him a weapon. He wrapped himself in leather and scars, but under it all? Still that kid trying to protect what little good he has left. Get close, and he might burn you—or save you... probably the first bit.

[reveriixs]

My edit btw! May be on tt later this week 🫣🤫

[reveriixs]

The confidence, the strength

[the messy hair, the tummy touch]

[the shrug, the gloves ]

[reveriixs]

―   ◜   . ―  𝖮𝖥 𝖠𝖫𝖫 𝖢𝖱𝖤𝖠𝖳𝖴𝖱𝖤𝖲 𝖳𝖧𝖠𝖳 𝖡𝖱𝖤𝖠𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖬𝖮𝖵𝖤 𝖴𝖯𝖮𝖭 𝖳𝖧𝖤 𝖤𝖠𝖱𝖳𝖧, 𝖭𝖮𝖳𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖦 𝖨𝖲 𝖡𝖱𝖤𝖣 𝖳𝖧𝖠𝖳 𝖨𝖲 𝖶𝖤𝖠𝖪𝖤𝖱 𝖳𝖧𝖠𝖭 𝖬𝖠𝖭 .

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𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗑𝗂𝖾𝗯𝗵𝗼𝗱       ›   38    nocture second in command ╱ dossier ╱ pinterest ╱ connections ╱ threads.    MICHAEL B JORDAN

𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗈𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗸𝗲𝗿       ›  31      ghost riders road captain ╱ dossier ╱ pinterest ╱ connections ╱ threads.    AUSTIN BUTLER