Brandt Devereux was born on August 10, 1983, in Larchmont, New York to Charles and Emelia Devereux. The main arcs of his story occur between 1995 and the early-to-mid 00s.
Too soft to survive the world he comes from, too stubborn to let it crush him. The youngest son of a cold dynasty, he was raised on silver spoons and sharpened tongues, always too delicate, too dramatic, too much. Now grown and aching to be wanted for who he is—not what he represents—Brandt drifts through life like a half-finished symphony, full of potential and pain.
His father’s lineage was old money and polished politics, steeped in generational privilege and cold ambition. Judges, congressmen, police commissioners—the Devereux name opened doors and closed cases. His mother, Emelia, came from a different kind of power—New York’s oldest crime syndicate, silent but sprawling, its roots running like veins beneath the city. Their marriage wasn’t born of love, but necessity. A merger. A pact. The alliance was heralded publicly as visionary, but behind closed doors, it was transactional—a union forged to ease the machinery of corruption on both sides.
As the child of this cold-blooded accord, Brandt was never allowed to simply be. He was crafted. Polished. Raised to be seen, not felt. From his earliest memories, he was expected to embody perfection: pious, polite, pliable. A poster child for clean-cut Catholic virtue, all while the sins of his parents rotted just beneath the surface. And for a long time, he complied. He played his part so well he almost forgot he was performing. Almost.
Charles Devereux ruled the household with a clenched fist and a bourbon glass. A man of cruelty sharpened by intellect, he believed fear was the purest form of discipline. Brandt’s older brother, Cole, absorbed most of it—stepping in, shielding Brandt whenever he could, even if it meant taking the fall. Cole fought fire with fire: he rebelled, raged, burned everything in reach just to keep Brandt safe. But Brandt… Brandt learned how to disappear without leaving the room. He learned to smile through gritted teeth. To fold himself neatly into silence. He learned that obedience was safer than defiance, and invisibility was a kind of armor.
And so, Brandt is a study in contrasts—devout and doubting, gentle and hungry, soft-spoken yet capable of fierce, reckless passion. On the surface, he presents a quiet, almost shy composure: polite, courteous, a young man raised to be good. His upbringing leaves him with a natural inclination to obedience, an eagerness to please, and a deep yearning love for love that feels safe. But beneath that carefully maintained surface stirs a storm of unspoken desires, suppressed hungers, and a secret ache for the forbidden.
Sensitive to the needs of others, Brandt possesses a tender empathy, often absorbing the emotions around him like a sponge. He wants to comfort, soothe, and make himself small if it means keeping peace. But that same sensitivity leaves him vulnerable—to manipulation, temptation, to men who recognize the softness in him and wish to bend it.
His faith is important to him—but it’s also a battleground. He wrestles daily with guilt, shame, and longing. The lines between sin and sanctity blur dangerously in his world, and though he tells himself he craves purity, a darker part of him thrills at the forbidden. He finds himself drawn to power, to submission, to the dangerous intimacy of his own surrender. His desires frighten him as much as they intoxicate him.
Despite all of this, Brandt has a core of resilience. He is not naïve, not truly—and though he may tremble, he learns. He adapts. There is a quiet strength in him that only surfaces when he’s pushed too far, or when love or safety is threatened. Those who mistake his softness for weakness often discover the depth of his devotion and the sharp edges hidden in his heart.
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