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Elijah Dawson Hunt

Eli was always the marrying kind. The settle-down kind. The kind that dreamed about a white picket fence, three kids, and a career in the NFL by twenty-two. Raised just outside Dallas, Texas, Eli Hunt didn’t grow up on the East Coast cocktail circuit—he grew up on red dirt and raw ambition. But don’t let the southern drawl fool you. His family had oil money so old it came with land deeds written in cursive and friends in the Senate.

His father believed in hard work, not handouts, and raised Eli accordingly. Cattle ranches. Fence mending. Sunrise starts and bloody knuckles. Even with the Hunt name stitched into the pockets of half the state’s economy, Eli earned his keep the way men did a hundred years ago: with his hands and his back and the kind of muscle that didn’t come from gyms.

But Eli had bigger plans. Football wasn’t just a game—it was the dream. He had the build, the discipline, the drive. And for a while, it looked like he was going to make it. Then came the concussions. One. Two. Then more. Doctors said no. His father said hell no. But Eli wasn’t the type to quit, and when he tried to buy his way back onto the field, his old man cut him off at the knees. Hunts built pipelines, not highlight reels.

The dream shattered. The life he pictured vanished. Now, he's thirty-something with nothing to prove and no clear path to follow—at least, not one that’s his own. He’s clocking hours in the family business, gritting his teeth at every boardroom meeting, playing the part of the good son while resentment simmers just under the surface.

And marriage? That’s on ice. So is the house, the dog, the backyard barbecue. His high school sweetheart still waits—hopes, maybe—but Eli's not sure he sees that future anymore. He’s been through a couple of bad relationships, sleeping with women whose names he forgets before he gets out of their beds. Living in the moment is easier than planning a future that no longer fits.

He’s charming, solid, and dangerous in that heartbreak-you-once kind of way. He smells like cedarwood and bourbon. Drives too fast. Talks slow. And when he looks at you, it’s with the weight of everything he could’ve been—and everything he still might be, if only he could figure it out.

Eli Hunt wanted the American dream. Now he’s just trying to wake up without hating where he landed.

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open to: females plot: based on this connection: a longtime girlfriend from the same world

She’s crying again. Not sobbing—nothing dramatic enough to make him leave the room—but that quiet, trembling kind of crying. The kind where the breath catches in her throat like she’s trying to be brave about it. He’s poured himself a drink and hasn’t offered her one. He’s not sure she needs anymore. Eventually, he glances over his shoulder.

"I know you think I don't care because I don't lose control of my emotions like you do," he began, predictably cold. "But when have I ever reacted to things the way you do?" The question came like a hit to the chest, like he intended for it to hurt.

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Michael Francis Carradine

Born last in a family of ten, Michael Carradine was never meant to carry the torch—just to polish it. His father, Richard Carradine, is an American titan: businessman, investor, politician, and patriarch of a Roman Orthodox dynasty that treats ambition like religion. His siblings are national fixtures: a senator, an ambassador, three officers across the armed forces, two corporate lawyers, one Ivy League economist. Michael? He graduated from Choate at the bottom of his class, high on something expensive and angry about everything.

At first, his father tried to force discipline through enlistment. Michael joined the Marines—and lasted exactly one year before an illicit substance discharge sent him back home in shame. His mother made excuses. His father didn’t. He barely spoke a word to Michael from that moment on.

But Michael didn’t need his father’s money to make a name. The last name did that for him. And when you’re a Carradine, doors open—even if you’re drunk, underqualified, and grinning at the secretary like she’s next.

After bouncing from rehab to family exile to a brief stint at Fordham, Michael clawed his way into the world of high finance. He was fast, clever, and charming in a way that made investors trust him—but never successful enough to make his father proud. By 28, he’d been fired from the NYSE, indicted for embezzlement, and arrested for stock manipulation, extortion, and possession of a controlled substance. He served seven years total. He wears the prison time like a tailored jacket—rumpled but intentional.

He’s 31 now. Still beautiful. Still broken. Living in a trust-funded purgatory just outside Manhattan. His mother says he’s “recovering.” His father calls him “a disgrace.” Michael just calls it Tuesday.

He chases Everclear with espresso. Smokes cigarettes like a dying god. Snorts designer coke off dirty bathroom counters, and tells himself it’s not a relapse if you don’t cry afterward. He’s always in a button-down—blue or black, never white. His rings are real gold. His charm is weaponized. His favorite girls are blonde, barely dressed, and just bored enough to say yes.

He doesn’t work. Not really. But money shows up when he needs it. And pain does too.

Calculated. Bold. Sadistic when bored. Stoic when cornered. Manipulative always. Michael Carradine is the worst-case scenario of what happens when legacy, addiction, and intelligence collide—and no one dares intervene.

He isn’t looking for redemption.

He’s just waiting to see how far down he can go before someone actually pulls the plug.

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Slade Everett Rothvale

Polished, pedigreed, and perpetually torn, Slade Rothvale is the great-great-grandson of Milton Rothvale—the man who turned steel and smoke into a kingdom. The Rothvale name is etched into railroads, shipping lanes, and airline fleets. In certain cities, you can’t charter a plane, hail a cab, or board a ferry without brushing against their empire.

His father, Albert Rothvale, is everything the dynasty still pretends to be: tireless, composed, ruthless in the boardroom. He sits on the boards of Union Pacific, General Motors, United Airlines. He’s the Chief Operating Officer of Rothvale Global and personal advisor to the oil royalty at Godson Gulf. If there’s movement, there’s money—and somewhere, a Rothvale is counting it.

But names like theirs don’t stay clean. Not forever.

The family has always walked a line between industry and indulgence. Some inherited the empire and tried to expand it. Others inherited the lifestyle and tried to survive it. One cousin disappeared into meth addiction. Another dove from a tenth-story balcony after a week-long bender in Florence. The girls were no less destructive—just quieter. Their scandals were swept away with cash, charm, and strategic marriages. Appearances matter. Reputations even more.

Slade knows this. And yet.

He swings like a pendulum between legacy and recklessness. One moment he’s in a suit, shadowing his father through investor meetings. The next, he’s in the South of France, drunk before noon, charming a yacht crew into forgetting who their actual guest of honor is. He wants to make Albert proud. He also wants to burn everything down.

He was raised in glass towers and stone mansions, educated by the best money could buy, and groomed for success by people who measured it in bloodlines, not GPA. He’s sharp. Charismatic. Capable. And wholly undisciplined. He doesn’t need to try very hard—so he usually doesn’t. But when he does, he can be terrifyingly effective. It’s the inconsistency that keeps everyone guessing. That, and the grin.

His wardrobe is curated down to the cufflinks. His calendar is filled with “work” that happens on golf courses and private jets. He reads financial reports on red-eye flights, then sleeps through the meetings they were meant to inform. Still, the job gets done. Or at least, no one dares suggest otherwise.

People say he’s a lot like his father. They also say he’s the one who could ruin everything. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deny it. Just raises a glass and changes the subject. Slade doesn’t know if he’s building something or simply delaying collapse. But for now, he stays in motion. That’s the family way. Build. Spend. Move. Repeat.

He wants something real. Maybe. Eventually. But legacy is a heavy thing to carry—especially when you're not sure you asked for it.

Slade drinks too much. Works just enough. And isn’t quite sure if he’s the empire’s future—or its reckoning.

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Jimmy Lee Alwyn

Cocky, animated, and unapologetically loud, Jimmy Lee grew up in a rusted-out trailer parked behind a truck stop on the edge of nowhere. He was raised by a single mom who could handle a double shift and a bar fight in the same night. His dad’s name isn’t on any paperwork—just a ghost people stopped mentioning.

Lee’s the kind of man who can fix anything but himself. Give him a busted engine, a fried circuit, or a smashed generator, and he’ll have it running in an hour flat. But when it comes to his own wreckage—his temper, his bad decisions, his need to push people away right when they start to care—he leaves it all smoking in the rearview.

He talks with his hands, smirks when he’s lying, and gets into fights more often than he should. Not because he wants to—but because something inside him gets hot, fast, and breaking something feels easier than breathing through it. Still, people like him. They shouldn’t, but they do. He’s got that kind of charm—the reckless, unpredictable kind. The kind that makes you laugh even while your world is on fire.

His clothes are mismatched—oil-stained tees, ripped jeans, a pair of boots he’s duct-taped three times over. He wears sunglasses at night. Drinks warm beer like it’s holy. Never goes anywhere without a multi-tool and a lighter. He works hard, like he’s waiting on the weekend—or like he’s scared they’ll start pricing cigarettes at a four hundred percent mark up. By the time he finally rests, he could sleep through an EF-5.

In school—when he showed up—he was the kid who could rebuild the principal’s carburetor in exchange for wiping his detention record. Never made honor roll, never gave a damn. He spent most of his time underneath cars, skipping class to chain-smoke behind the gym, or dragging home half-dead appliances just to see if he could bring them back.

Relationships are volatile. Women fall for the grin, the hands, the chaos. He loves hard and fast and never carefully. Sometimes he ghosts. Sometimes he breaks things just to see if someone will stay and fix them. They rarely do. Or if they do, they regret it.

People laugh when he enters a room. Then they hold their breath. He’s the punchline and the threat. The guy who’ll help you move a couch one minute and punch your ex the next. His loyalty is dangerous. His rage is worse. And if he ever learned to sit still, he might actually scare himself.

Lee burns through life like he’s racing a clock no one else can hear. He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t calm down. And when he crashes—and he always crashes—he wipes the blood off his knuckles, fixes what he can, and moves on.

He means well. He just breaks everything he touches. Maybe that’s why he’s so good at fixing things. He has a lot of practice.

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happy birthday baby boy ♥️

we ♥️ u

[veonom]

Sebastian Augustus Falkner

Sebastian Falkner was born into quiet wealth and colder expectations. The kind of childhood that teaches you to be perfect in public and invisible at home. He learned to read moods before he could read books. Learned how to charm, how to deflect, how to disappear. His father was a financier with a god complex; his mother a socialite who smiled for cameras and ignored phone calls.

What began as survival became style. He learned that invisibility, when chosen, is power.

His confidence is understated, elegant. People are drawn to the ease with which he carries himself. It’s not an act. He just knows how to manage people—how to turn silence into control, how to win a room without ever raising his voice.

Until he does.

Sebastian has a temper like a live wire. Controlled—until it snaps. He doesn’t simmer. He explodes. Glass-breaking, voice-raising, adrenaline-laced rage. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s nuclear. He says things he regrets. Does things he shouldn’t. And afterward, he shuts down completely—remorse curling under his skin like smoke he can’t exhale.

He’s magnetic. Women are drawn to him… to the way he carries himself like a god. Poised, detached, untouchable. There’s something in the way he moves, the quiet control, the sense that nothing could shake him—and maybe nothing ever has. They mistake his calm for safety. They mistake the stillness for peace. It isn’t. But it’s beautiful to watch.

He dresses like someone who inherited his wardrobe from a favorite grandfather and never saw a reason to change it: relaxed suits, soft sweaters, elegant watches that still work. His hair’s always a little messy. His smile is always a little knowing. He doesn’t need to look perfect. He just always does.

People confide in him. They shouldn’t. He remembers everything. And when he’s angry, he’ll use it—words like knives, thrown to hit. He doesn’t reach for power. But in a fight, he knows where it’s kept. He’ll apologize later. Genuinely. But the damage will already be done.

He isn’t cruel, not naturally. But he can be. His kindness is real. But when the switch flips, it’s like it was never there.

He’s loyal to a fault. But that fault has a breaking point.

A temper is a terrible thing to waste on a stranger. Passion—even the kind born of anger—is reserved for the ones he loves.

For everyone else, it’s silence. And a door that never opens again.

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I never watched euphoria tbh but I’m sad cuz my brother did for whatever reason (I think he had a crush on zendaya idk) and I think they’re making a new season. But like he’s dead and can’t watch it

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SYDNEY SWEENEY Saturday Night Live (2024)

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Bill Skarsgård as Keith Barbarian (2022) | Dir. Zach Cregger

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hmu for plots w/ max while I work on other bios. (He’s my baby rn plz understand this)

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Byron Maximilian Van Buren

Polished, powerful, and emotionally vacant, Byron Maximilian Van Buren—only ever Max or Maximilian—is the eldest son of Randolf Van Buren and heir to a fortune so vast it’s practically abstract. Money isn’t real to him. He doesn’t check price tags, doesn’t care if his shirt costs thirty dollars or three thousand. Caring is for people who haven’t had wealth carved into their DNA.

He grew up in a marble penthouse with more staff than family, raised by nannies who rotated out before learning his favorite color and tutors who taught him diplomacy, military strategy, and philosophy by the time he could tie his own tie. Love was conditional. Expectations were not.

Max was trained to believe the world would yield to him—and it always has. Adults find him charming: polite, intelligent, disarmingly witty. His peers? Not so much. Among them, he’s magnetic in the way a lit match is—fascinating, dangerous, and likely to burn something down. He ruins people without ever raising his voice. Sometimes without even noticing.

His style is unconscious: tailored navy blazers, cashmere turtlenecks, monogrammed oxfords. He pairs cheap slacks with a thousand-dollar belt and doesn’t know the difference. Someone else manages his wardrobe, and he barely notices what he’s wearing—only that it fits. He could wear the same cufflinks for years and never clock the family crest etched into the gold.

In school, he filled his time with prestigious sports: water polo, fencing, rowing, track. Not for love of the game—Max doesn't love much of anything. He played to dominate. To control. To win by default. He didn’t need teammates. He needed another arena to stay untouchable. He captained without camaraderie, competed without joy, and never stayed long enough to accept a medal.

Relationships? Transactional. He’s drawn to women who adore him, who unravel in his orbit—but he withholds his affection just enough to keep them craving what he won’t give. Sometimes it’s intentional. Sometimes he’s just bored. Either way, they always want more than he’ll offer. It’s not cruelty exactly. Just disinterest.

People respect him, fear him, and resent him—all at once. He leads because no one wants to be on the receiving end of his disdain. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t argue. He shuts people down with a look. And when he does feel—when he gets jealous or angry or even protective—it’s worse. Because it means he’s capable of feeling. He just usually doesn’t bother.

Max drinks too much. Sleeps too little. And never, ever apologizes.

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okaaaaay I'm so back. my baby is 4 months old so I'm like... surviving, and ready to get back into rp very slowly. I've deleted a bunch of stuff, and I'll be revamping / posting new bios as I have muse. hmu to rp on discord

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I have already been on hiatus from this blog, but it might be longer than I thought. I learned yesterday that my little brother was found dead, one state away after being missing for a week. My heart is in pieces, and my family is feeling this so deeply. He was so good, so caring and considerate. And now he’s gone.

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I deserve more credit for not picking stupid fights on the internet than a nice person who doesn't pick fights does, because I have an unpleasant personality and it's harder for me

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it seems that ppl were, in fact, ready for that

listen; when I say give me a toxic pairing I don’t mean ‘he’ll be mean and she’ll be sad about it’. I mean ‘he’ll be mean and she’ll set his fucking car on fire’ but ppl aren’t ready for that idk