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Verse
Star
- Joined
- May 8, 2011
Sabaru Reitachi was a young demon.
He featured in many nightmares with his imposing, tall frame, where long muscles clung to far reaching bones. A beautiful menace, he was speckled with tattoos, the beginnings of a full skin of them; eastern monsters and lewd scenes. But the remaining negative space was more plentiful than the ink, which betrayed his youth in an old-man's game. Impressive for his few years under the Yakuza, he still didn't have the respect of his elders, even if he had underlings far beyond his crime-ridden wisdom.
He was ambitious, finally, after having only attended school for the girls he could get there, and the boys he could bully. With some influence and the threat of crushing, he still had his grades. Most of his memories of studying were cut with scenes of beating down other bucks and giving weaker males swirlies. The kind of ruthless behavior that hadn't just given him his gaggle of hoodlums, but also kept him in charge of them. The higher-ups could toss all the street-soldiers at you feet they wanted, but if you couldn't scare the living shit out of them, they'd never follow your command, and you'd never get the results to hold on to your position.
Saba had wild black hair. Today he kept it back from his face with a tie, though the day's hard work had still bled a few black fangs to court his eyes. Light brown, red in some angles. Right now, with dusk outside of the old office building, repurposed to host some of Yareli's criminal lost boys, the color on his irises looked like backlit blood. With him sitting on a crate that said 'bananas' but had been used to smuggle guns, one leg off the edge, he seemed every bit the criminal prince that he'd boast himself. He had a leather jacket hanging on the shoulders that otherwise just hosted a white tanktop. The neckline made his throat look endless, leading up to a diamond-cut jawline. Delicate features and strong, regal nose. The tattoos made it ominous, but there was plenty of beauty still clinging to his grave skin.
He had been successful today. There were bricks of cash and a duffle of contraband on the table around which the boys lounged to tell that story. With the looming danger of bloody punishment if he didn't fill quota always present, Saba was usually still casual. He liked this life. He couldn't have gone this far without being able to take a beating, and dealing them out better. He still had all his fingers, after all, which meant he hadn't fucked up. A strong disposition coupled with plenty of relief had him rather balanced for a violent criminal. As he sat, elevated from the rest who'd chosen strewn about, worn couched, he seemed an idol among his peers. The cigarette in the corner of his lips added whisps of atmosphere that smelled strong of arson.
They were quiet because he was, and Saba was quiet because he'd been letting his pressure out on a rather familiar target hours before. A blonde, rich boy who still had to suffer his attention even though Saba was out of that school for now. The boy had cried. Not that they were low on runners, or that the boy was very good at it, but there was something fun with ruining something clean. We all need hobbies, right? Saba chuckled about it as he ashed with a flick of his fingers, and the cinders sailed down to land on the valuable cargo on the low table. Now, he was thinking he'd reward himself further. Maybe it was time to get off?
He featured in many nightmares with his imposing, tall frame, where long muscles clung to far reaching bones. A beautiful menace, he was speckled with tattoos, the beginnings of a full skin of them; eastern monsters and lewd scenes. But the remaining negative space was more plentiful than the ink, which betrayed his youth in an old-man's game. Impressive for his few years under the Yakuza, he still didn't have the respect of his elders, even if he had underlings far beyond his crime-ridden wisdom.
He was ambitious, finally, after having only attended school for the girls he could get there, and the boys he could bully. With some influence and the threat of crushing, he still had his grades. Most of his memories of studying were cut with scenes of beating down other bucks and giving weaker males swirlies. The kind of ruthless behavior that hadn't just given him his gaggle of hoodlums, but also kept him in charge of them. The higher-ups could toss all the street-soldiers at you feet they wanted, but if you couldn't scare the living shit out of them, they'd never follow your command, and you'd never get the results to hold on to your position.
Saba had wild black hair. Today he kept it back from his face with a tie, though the day's hard work had still bled a few black fangs to court his eyes. Light brown, red in some angles. Right now, with dusk outside of the old office building, repurposed to host some of Yareli's criminal lost boys, the color on his irises looked like backlit blood. With him sitting on a crate that said 'bananas' but had been used to smuggle guns, one leg off the edge, he seemed every bit the criminal prince that he'd boast himself. He had a leather jacket hanging on the shoulders that otherwise just hosted a white tanktop. The neckline made his throat look endless, leading up to a diamond-cut jawline. Delicate features and strong, regal nose. The tattoos made it ominous, but there was plenty of beauty still clinging to his grave skin.
He had been successful today. There were bricks of cash and a duffle of contraband on the table around which the boys lounged to tell that story. With the looming danger of bloody punishment if he didn't fill quota always present, Saba was usually still casual. He liked this life. He couldn't have gone this far without being able to take a beating, and dealing them out better. He still had all his fingers, after all, which meant he hadn't fucked up. A strong disposition coupled with plenty of relief had him rather balanced for a violent criminal. As he sat, elevated from the rest who'd chosen strewn about, worn couched, he seemed an idol among his peers. The cigarette in the corner of his lips added whisps of atmosphere that smelled strong of arson.
They were quiet because he was, and Saba was quiet because he'd been letting his pressure out on a rather familiar target hours before. A blonde, rich boy who still had to suffer his attention even though Saba was out of that school for now. The boy had cried. Not that they were low on runners, or that the boy was very good at it, but there was something fun with ruining something clean. We all need hobbies, right? Saba chuckled about it as he ashed with a flick of his fingers, and the cinders sailed down to land on the valuable cargo on the low table. Now, he was thinking he'd reward himself further. Maybe it was time to get off?