#bloodnglory.task

[aslandurmaz]

Beverly Hills, CA, 90210 - ADDRESS UNAVAILABLE.

"I gotta fucking move."

Perched on the edge of a cliffside in Beverly Hills, this isn’t so much a home as it is a fortress. Secluded and near-impossible to reach without intention, it’s the kind of place designed for someone who doesn’t want to be found, or who expects that when they are found, it wasn't by accident.

From the outside, the structure cuts a clean silhouette against the skyline. The driveway is steep and narrow, protected by bulletproof security gates that only open by access codes or fingerprint recognition. His paranoia prompts him to constantly change said codes every two to four days.

Inside, the house feels more calculated than lived in. No clutter and no distractions. Everything is placed exactly where it belongs. Even his extensive car collection - every vehicle is placed with intention in the hidden garage. Panoramic windows stretch across the main rooms, flooding the space with light by day and giving him a full view of the city below by night.

The kitchen gleams, but he rarely cooks. More often, it’s where he reviews files with a pot of Turkish coffee. There are no personal photographs anywhere. Just the scent of oud, the precision of folded suits, and the air that this could be a show home, but not a lived in place. The only area that feels used is his study that's tucked away and secured with biometric access.

This house, according to Aslan, has a mind of its own. He only bought it for the seclusion, the privacy, and the ability to install bulletproof windows, but he hates it with a burning passion. It’s far too technologically advanced for his liking; everything is controlled through iPads mounted on the walls, which he can never seem to figure out.

On the rare chance you’re within earshot (you won’t be), you might overhear him cursing at the tech in Turkish that he has to fucking move out or the occasional gunshot fired into one of the control panels. Somehow, thanks to Charlie, they always manage to get repaired.

There are only two specific people he trusts enough to update on the access codes - Camilla Barone and Esra Durmaz (sometimes Charlie depending on his mood but Aslan doubts he'll remember it anyways)

The only things that are his own within the home are his clothing and the watch and car collections.

He keeps some artwork and priceless artifacts in various parts of the home, mostly in the study, but nothing too eye-catching.

[leon-orozco]

where: yacht party baby who: the hollow ( @bloodngloryhq ), ft @tomhatch @aslansoykan

The twin buzz of incoming texts vibrated through the bar—Tommy’s first, then León’s half a second later. The glow from both screens lit their faces in the dim, opulent yacht light.

León’s eyes narrowed as he read:

My my, I shouldn’t be surprised to know you harbor such a dirty secret. What’s a little more blood on those hands? Do what I say and your secret will stay hidden. Go inside the main room with everyone else for the speech. After the lights go out, another will accuse two in the crowd of being behind this. Start a fight with Aslan Soykan. Have Thomas Hatch join you. Don’t forget I want to see some blood and chaos. You should be used to the violence by now.

“Who the fuck is Aslan Soykan?”

León didn’t look up right away. He lit a cigarette with practiced ease, took a drag, then exhaled slowly. “Top dog with Kurtlar. Moves like a goddamn ghost and hits like a freight train.” He finally met Tommy’s eyes. “If this is real… we’re gonna have to go through hell for whoever’s playing puppeteer.”

They moved through the crowd into the yacht’s lavish main hall—chandeliers swaying slightly with the gentle rock of the sea, voices buzzing louder with anticipation. The crowd clustered together, waiting for the speech that had been teased for days.

And then—right on cue—the lights dimmed.

A spotlight flicked on. A woman stepped forward in the darkness, voice projected, accusations flying towards their target and another, her voice slicing through the worried mutters. A collective gasp swept the room. León didn’t hesitate. He glanced at Tommy, gave him a quick nod, and the two of them started moving—fast and quiet—toward Aslan through the crowd.

They flanked him from behind, and then in perfect sync—Leon struck first, a sharp right hook to the side of Aslan’s head. Tommy followed, driving a fist into the man’s ribs. Aslan staggered—just for a beat—then turned with the reflexes of a killer, eyes blazing.

The ballroom exploded into chaos.

Aslan’s elbow cracked back, catching Tommy in the jaw. He spun to meet León’s next punch with a forearm block, countering with a brutal knee to León’s gut. The fight became a blur of motion: fists flying, heels skidding on polished marble, bodies colliding into stunned guests as they scrambled to get out of the way. Aslan wasn’t just skilled—he was surgical. But León was feral. Every blow Aslan landed, León returned with raw, vicious power. Tommy held his own, but he was still a new member, still learning.

And then—it happened. Aslan grabbed Tommy by the collar and slammed his forehead into the younger man’s skull. The crack was sickening. Tommy crumpled instantly, eyes rolling back as he hit the floor, unmoving. León didn’t even flinch. He let out a breath like a snarl and lunged.

What followed wasn’t trained—it was pure survival. León absorbed a hit to the ribs, threw an elbow that grazed Aslan’s temple, then landed a blind, lucky shot right to the side of Aslan’s head. The man dropped to the floor. León moved fast, trying to pin him down, to finish what they started—but Aslan’s hand shot out like a striking viper. A glint of silver—Steel bit into León’s abdomen.

The pain was white-hot. León gasped, mouth open in a silent yell as the blade twisted once before Aslan shoved him off. Blood soaked his shirt almost immediately. But he was like a dog who hadn't been told stop yet, and lunged for him once again, only for him arm to be caught, a familiar flash of black hair. His opponent stood, and he too was being pulled away by someone.

Just as fast as it had started, it was over. Somewhere behind them, security was shouting. Someone was calling for help. The room had devolved into panic and violence. And León was sure whoever sent the message was watching, but all he could think about whoever had just pulled his strings. And how badly they’d underestimated what he’d do to cut the cord.

[emildelcastillo]

(Undisclosed Addres), Beverly Hills, CA 90210

From the outside, Emiliano’s $75 million Beverly Hills home looks like quiet money — all glass, stone, and precision. The kind of place designed by someone who doesn’t need to prove anything. But step inside, and the tone shifts. It’s not just luxury — it’s calculated. Like the house was designed as much for privacy as it was for comfort.

Emiliano actually loves his house. Not just for how it looks, but for what it gives him: privacy, control, and quiet. Perched in Beverly Hills, it’s sleek, modern, and full of sharp edges, but behind the glass and stone is a space that finally feels like his.

The house is fully wired — every room, every entry point. The only way in is by facial recognition and a unique passcode assigned to each person he allows. No surprises. No mistakes. That’s how he likes it.

Inside, the design is clean and cool: dark wood floors, custom lighting, walls that hide speakers, cameras, and motion sensors. He built it to be high-tech and low effort. Lights, music, temperature all controlled from his phone or a quiet command. His dog, Backup, usually follows him from room to room, the only living thing outside of his best friends, he fully lets in his space.

There’s a hidden shooting range downstairs, a full gym, and a basketball court out back. It’s all practical to him; part of the routine, part of staying sharp. His office doubles as a surveillance hub, where he can see almost every angle of the property with a glance, and the perfect place to go Live on Tiktok.

In the garage sits his collection of cars, mostly McLaren's, but a few unique collection cars that were in his favorite movies. Although his most prized car and possession, which he uses almost daily, may be the 1966 red cherry Ford Mustang that once belonged to his father, driven from Mexico to California by Emiliano himself when he was of age.

His bedroom is his favorite space, minimalist but lived-in. The blackout shades open automatically in the morning unless he tells them not to. There’s a shelf lined with memories he’d never admit mean something: old photos, a knife from his uncle, a few things from Sinaloa he never got rid of.

It’s quiet, controlled, and built exactly the way he needs it. A place where Emiliano is the most himself.

[troywindsor]

1714 Stone Canyon Rd, Los Angeles, CA

Perched high in Bel-Air, the home at 1714 Stone Canyon Rd is less of a refuge and more of a curated exhibition — a showroom, rather than the place full of love that it once was. The sprawling, ultra-modern estate is built into the hillside, its sharp angles and vast panes of glass a stark contrast to the turmoil that haunts its owner.

From the outside, it gleams; pristine white walls, floating staircases, and mirror-like surfaces that reflect nothing back but sky, trees, and whatever version of himself Troy allows the world to see.

Inside, the home feels both lived-in and eerily untouched. There’s art everywhere. Abstract pieces dominate the space, bold splashes of color breaking up the otherwise controlled minimalism. Pieces that have replaced family photos, memories and a life he no longer has.

His home office is the only room that feels like it has a pulse; where most of his illegal negotiations take place after his regular work hours. It’s overstuffed, a little chaotic, full of yellowed paperbacks and first editions. His son's books are still there, untouched. His wedding photo is still on one of the lower shelves, always facedown. It is the only place that Troy spends hours in, outside of sleeping in his bedroom.

Since there are often visitors, Troy has private security and an assistant who work the same hours as he does. Anyone that tries to step foot into the house must have a previously scheduled meeting, their identity must be confirmed and the meeting approved by the Attorney General himself, who gives only have gives his guest access to the office and living room areas. There are only a few exceptions to this; the familiar faces of his closest friends which security can recognize by now, Esra, and his brother Charlie, who has a set of keys.

Troy’s backyard is clean, modern, and almost too perfect. The infinity pool stretches toward the canyon view, its water always still, glowing blue at night. Sleek lounge chairs and a fire pit sit untouched, more for display than comfort.

It’s quiet, beautiful, and empty at the same time, like everything was built for someone who no longer enjoys any of it.

[bloodngloryhq]

Home is where our story beings -

The theory is that a lot can be said about a person by how their home looks. Messy or clean; bright colors or neutral, maybe even monochrome; whether they let their animals on the sofa or not. With this task, we want to gain a better understanding of your muse. Show us what their home looks like, let us see how messy or clean they are, whether they hoard trinkets or live a minimalist lifestyle.

This task can be completed however you would like, whether it's more a moodboard of various imagery, or a full home tour. It is completely optional, and does not need to be completed for all muses, if you wanted to pick and choose. If you do participate, please tag your posts with bloodnglory.task002!

[bloodngloryhq]

The Interview

The police encircling the home of Enzo Barone drew a swarm of reporters like vultures to a fresh carcass. The shocking loss of the Family organization’s board members and don has left the media in a frenzy, scrambling for any exclusive details about the events at the Manor of Hope Gala. Everyone is desperate to uncover the truth about what happened to the five bosses.

IMPORTANT THINGS: this should NOT reveal your characters secret. Some questions reporters may ask are:

“Did you know the deceased?”

"Can you confirm if you personally witnessed the bodies being discovered?"

"Do you believe this tragedy was tied to the Family’s business dealings?"

"Do you think this incident was a targeted attack or an internal conflict?"

"What do you think happened?"

"Were you aware of any conflicts or tensions between the victims before the event?"

"Did you notice anything unusual leading up to the incident?"

"How did you react when you realized what had happened?"

"Were there any visible threats or warning signs during the gala?"

"Have the police shared any theories or details with you?"

"Are you concerned about your own safety after what happened?"

"What would you say to the families of the victims?"

EXPECTATIONS:

This is not a required thing, purely for fun to explore how your muse would handle being in the public eye and how'd they react to being interviewed.

DO NOT REVEAL YOUR CHARACTER'S SECRET.

You can tackle this task however you see fit, but I’d suggest focusing on how the character responds to the reporters' questions rather than revealing the actual truth. After all, the public doesn’t need to know everything about the criminal underworld. Hehehe.

You’re not required to answer all the questions; they’re simply a guide for you to pick and choose from. The questions your character is asked can vary depending on their relationship to the deceased or how well they knew them, so feel free to tailor the selection based on your character’s connection to the events.

This task will be a self para!

[g3mcore]

⸻ 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀 ⸻ perched high in the beverly hills estates, just off a ridge that overlooks both the city and the ocean haze of malibu, lies 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒂 𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂, a mansion that real-estate watchers never stopped talking about. originally built in the 1980s and sold several times between hedge fund magnates and celebrity royalty, the estate was last purchased for $74 million. under nero di fiore, its value has swelled to an estimated $120 million; not just from the renovations, but from the aura it now carries.

⸺ 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑰: 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒍 the driveway coils upward like a private road to olympus, lined with olive trees and security cameras disguised as lanterns. by the time you reach the gates, flanked by wrought-iron and stone, the city below feels like it belongs to someone else. the mansion rises like a fortress, pale stone softened by ivy. the swimming pool stretches out beneath it like a mirror, pristine, still, cutting the lawn with clean geometry. his bulk notwithstanding, nero's a swift swimmer, it helps him think and unwind. the upper floors are lined with terraces and windows.

the lemon trees garden is the only softness welcoming the guests. nero insists the trees stay close to the entrance, and they’re not just for show. his staff plucks them, slicing the fruit into water or over oysters served in the courtyard. a reminder of sicily. a reminder that roots don’t die, no matter how much wealth you bury them under.

⸺ 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑰𝑰: 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒚𝒘𝒐𝒐𝒅 the grand salon is a study in intimidation disguised as taste. geometric carpets, angular furniture, carefully chosen art, rooms that look comfortable but are designed for dominance. nero doesn’t host family dinners; he hosts negotiations. every sofa and armchair is placed so that no one forgets who sits at the center.

then there’s the bar-room, an homage to hollywood. black-and-white portraits of dead icons loom over the liquor shelves. sinatra, monroe, taylor: faces as immortal as the empire nero is carving for himself. fame is fleeting, but legacy – this kind of legacy – is eternal.

⸺ 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑰𝑰𝑰: 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒔 the bedroom is a paradox of indulgence and restraint. towering arched windows open to filtered morning light, where the sound of fountains blends with birdsong. rich rugs stretch across wooden floors, plants soften the corners. this is not a sanctuary; it’s a throne. further inside, a black library. paneled in shadow, gold accents catching the dim light. shelves stacked high with philosophy, history, art, books as weapons, as status, as myth.

⸺ 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑰𝑽: 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆 marble gloors gleam under recessed lights, reflecting the predators that wait: lamborghinis, ferraris, rolls-royces, a black bugatti la voiture noire. a personally curated collection that doesn’t just scream money, it whispers bloodlines of engineering, dominance in speed. rumor says nero holds meetings here. that men have stood between the cars, the hum of the place thick with something more dangerous than words. it isn’t a garage, it's a cathedral.

⸺ 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑽: 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔 bathrooms carved in onyx, mirrors cut like jewels, chandeliers that refract light like prisms of ice. nero’s guests find themselves staring into reflections that feel accusatory, as if the house itself were measuring their worth. other corners reveal indulgence: citrus trees growing indoors, mosaics underfoot, marble kitchens where private chefs perform their craft behind closed doors. fountains that throw water skyward, only to let it crash back in rhythm.

in 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒂 𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂, the heart beats in marble and steel. counters cut from single slabs of stone, veins of grey and white running like maps of conquest. sometimes he drinks espresso at dawn, a glass left steaming on the counter when he walks in, shirtless, eyes still cold from the night. beyond the kitchen sprawls the dining space arranged for spectacle. breakfast can feel like an intimate ceremony; dinner, a performance. the air always carries citrus from the garden, smoke from the nearby fireplace, the faint sweetness of sicilian pastries.

⸺ 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑽𝑰: 𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒖𝒔 the jet ives in hangars at van nuys or lax, depending on which runway he needs cleared. matte black interior, leather stitched sharp, obsidian tables bolted into place. it serves as a statement. with a jet like this, time itself bends. breakfast in la, a meeting in new york, sunrise in paris. the company owns it, officially. nero commands it.

the interior has been photographed once, leaked through a lifestyle magazine. the captions called it tasteful minimalism. insiders laughed. It’s not minimalism, it’s menace. a flying boardroom where no one leaves until Nero says so.

[staincdvermillion]

— bitter home sweet home

nestled on the coast of los angeles, california, is one of cassio's many homes. with three bedrooms, four baths, it is a quaint accommodation that allows him the space to unwind. it's considered to be his middle home. not the apartment that he keeps within the city. nor the luxurious home settled up in the hills. this home was purchased after his accident, and allows him the space to be separate from everything else. it is not the home that he entertains his family within. nor the one that he uses for less than savory acts. it is simply somewhere that he can disappear within. a sanctuary of sorts specifically for him.