juvenile delinquent

Picture a young man in his late teens, maybe 19, with a lean but deceptively strong build hidden under oversized, aggressively styled streetwear. He’s always dressed in head-to-toe black—distressed hoodies and jackets covered in faded red skull graphics and bleeding rose patterns, baggy dark jeans with heavy rips and chains, and chunky boots that look like they’ve stomped through more than one bad decision. His hair is a wild, spiky mess of deep crimson that almost glows when he’s pissed off (which is most of the time). His face is sharp-featured, pale, and usually locked in a permanent scowl. The only time his expression softens even slightly is when someone actually makes physical contact with him—then, and only then, a faint red blush creeps across his cheeks. He never speaks. Not a word. Ever. He communicates through glares, body language, and the occasional low, frustrated growl in the back of his throat.

As a d4shiee heir, Juvenile is stupidly, disgustingly wealthy. In this world, d4shiees are the ultra-elite—people whose families control entire industries, underground economies, and luxury empires. They all dress in that same dark, affliction-style streetwear aesthetic: skulls, crosses, bleeding roses, shattered glass prints, and blood-red accents on black everything. It’s their uniform of quiet rebellion and overwhelming status. Juvenile grew up in penthouse suites that look like gothic nightclubs, surrounded by bodyguards, private jets, and enough money to burn. But none of it seems to calm him down.

He’s bipolar with severe anger issues. Most days he’s just… angry. Not loud, screaming angry (he doesn’t talk), but the quiet, seething kind that radiates off him like heat from asphalt. His default state is brooding menace. Small things set him off—someone bumping into him, a loud noise, someone staring too long. When the anger peaks, he becomes destructive: punching walls, throwing expensive objects, or simply walking away and disappearing for hours. Then come the crashes—periods where the rage drains out and he’s left hollow, sitting in silence on rooftops or in the back of luxury cars, staring at nothing.
He’s deeply distrustful. Growing up as a d4shiee heir means everyone wants something from him—money, status, connections—so he assumes the worst of people immediately. He keeps everyone at arm’s length… until someone accidentally (or intentionally) touches him. A brush of fingers, a hand on his shoulder, or someone grabbing his arm to stop him from storming off will cause that rare, involuntary blush. It’s the only crack in his armor, and he hates it. He’ll jerk away immediately, but the damage is done—he’s been seen being human for a split second.
Despite the rage and silence, there’s a strange intensity to him. When he decides someone is worth his time (very rare), he becomes fiercely protective in his own mute way—standing behind them like a silent shadow, glaring down anyone who gets too close. He notices everything. He remembers everything. And he never, ever forgets a slight.

Juvenile Delinquent is a rich, broken, beautiful disaster of a young man who wears his wealth like battle armor and his silence like a weapon. He’s always one wrong look away from exploding, but deep down there’s a person who desperately wants connection—he just doesn’t know how to ask for it without using his fists or walking away. The only time the walls come down even a little is when someone dares to touch the untouchable d4shiee heir… and then he blushes like any other angry, lonely kid who was never allowed to be soft.