KIERAN NAVARRO ♧ Hollow Sons

Kieran “Wick” Navarro is a walking spark with a fuse just short enough to make everyone nervous. The youngest of the Hollow Sons, he’s a punk-firestarter with a laugh like a warning and a wardrobe stitched together from rebellion—faded band tees, scuffed leather, chains that jingle when he runs, and chipped black nail polish that never quite dries before it’s scratched off again. His hair is dirty blonde and surprisingly well-kept, as if taming it gives him a sense of control he doesn’t have anywhere else. Pale green-gold eyes flicker with mischief and mania, often ringed by soot or mascara he doesn’t bother to remove. The scar that slices across his cheek—starting at the corner of his mouth and running up toward his cheekbone—is a reminder of the knife fights he survived in state homes, a permanent half-smile etched in violence. He doesn’t walk so much as stalk, jittery with energy and half-cocked to explode at any second. Kieran is chaos in combat, wild and unrelenting, with a pyromaniacal gift that turns panic into infernos. He plays the role of little brother in the Hollow Sons: annoying, mouthy, loyal to the bone. He wants Mikhail’s approval like a starving dog wants meat—obsessive, desperate, and a little dangerous.

Age: 21 Height: 5'9" Weight: 142 lbs Eye Color: Pale gold/green Hair: Dirty blonde, very well kept—slicked back or tousled just right; it’s his one vanity

Sexual Info:

Role: Switch Sexuality: Pansexual, Androphilic (showing a preference for men and masculine qualities)

Kinks:

• Power imbalance and dangerous intimacy

• Praise kink, especially from authority figures

• Pain kink (likes to feel it and inflict it)

• Biting, scratching, breath play

• Heat kinks: hates the cold, loves being pressed skin-to-skin

• Oral fixation, especially when stressed or manic

• Flirting through aggression—he’ll slap before he kisses

• Very physically affectionate post-sex, almost clingy

• Gets off on being told he’s a good boy, even if it makes him blush and snarl at the same time

• Has a thing for older partners, especially those who can rein him in without breaking him

Sexual Behaviors:

• Aggression as foreplay. He starts fights just to have something to burn off later. His version of flirting often involves shoves, snarls, and biting sarcasm—but when the tension breaks, it’s volcanic.

• Chaotic switch. Dominance and submission are fluid with him. He’ll wrestle for control, bite the lip that kisses him, and whimper when his wrists are pinned. It’s never clean, never gentle—but never cruel.

• Pain-hungry. He likes bruises. Loves to mark and be marked. Scratches down his back, bruises on his hips, rope burns on his thighs—it grounds him.

• Praise kink. Despite the snarling bravado, he craves approval. Being called good, clever, brave—especially in the bedroom—hits him like gasoline to flame. Especially if it comes from someone he respects or fears a little.

• Touch-starved. Aftercare with Kieran is clingy, almost childish. He’ll curl into the smallest shape he can and burrow against skin, craving warmth, breath, and heartbeat. He pretends to hate cuddling, but he’s always the last one to pull away.

• Oral fixation. Always chewing something, sucking on candy, mouthing jewelry—during sex, he’s constantly using his mouth. Loves giving, loves being used.

• Fear-adjacent arousal. When scared, cornered, or adrenaline-spiked, he’s turned on. The line between panic and pleasure is blurred for him, a leftover survival mechanism twisted into something intimate.

• Vocal. He talks through everything—teasing, taunting, moaning, whining. Dirty mouth, filthy mind.

• Exhibitionist streak. Not fully public, but he likes the threat of being caught. Dark alleys, backrooms, anywhere that smells like danger.

• Loyal to the core. Sex isn’t casual for him, even if he pretends it is. Once he bonds with someone, he burns for them. He’ll chase them like a lit match in a dry field.

Mikhail – “Big Brother, Fireproof.” Kieran follows Mikhail like a stray dog that’s finally found a home. He worships him, but not blindly—he watches Mikhail like a lit fuse, terrified and thrilled by how far he’ll burn. Mikhail teases him, roughs him up, but always reels him back in when he spirals. Kieran pretends he doesn’t care, but Mikhail’s praise is the only thing that can silence his nerves. He’d throw himself into any fire for him. He already has.

Jacob – “The Confessor.” Jacob unsettles Kieran more than he’d ever admit. There’s something in Jacob’s stare—like he sees through the smoke and laughing bravado. Sometimes, Jacob prays over him when he’s sleeping. Sometimes, Kieran lets him. They have an unspoken respect: Jacob keeps Kieran’s worst memories quiet, and Kieran burns things Jacob won’t touch. There’s tension there. It tastes like penance.

Cincy – “Big Dog Energy.” Cincy is the only one who can physically contain him mid-frenzy, and Kieran resents him for it just enough to love him harder. They brawl like brothers, roll like drunk alley cats, but it’s all heart underneath. Cincy’s the only one Kieran trusts to hold him down without hurting him. They trade scars and snarl at anyone who stares too long.

Izzak – “Trouble Twin.” These two should not be left alone. Ever. Izzak’s chaos speaks to Kieran’s blood, and together they’re a wildfire. Izzak dares Kieran to be worse, wilder, louder—and Kieran, predictably, obliges. They’ve set entire floors ablaze just for the adrenaline high. Izzak once tattooed a flame over Kieran’s collarbone while drunk. Neither of them remembers why. They call each other “heir” and “ashes.”

Jessie – “Safety Switch.” Jessie is who Kieran runs to when the flames have gutted him. He doesn’t try to smother him—he just hands him water, lets him talk, and threatens anyone who made him cry. Kieran pretends he doesn’t need him, but Jessie’s been the one stitching his face back together since he was a teen. He gets under his skin without trying.

Iriah – “Uncle Doom.” Iriah treats Kieran like an annoying little brother who’s too wired for his own good. But Kieran adores him. He finds Iriah’s calm terrifying and hilarious in equal measure, and loves baiting him into arguments. Still, he respects Iriah’s brutality, and watches him closely in fights. Iriah has taught him how to survive more than once.

Kieran is the spark plug of the Hollow Sons—beloved, chaotic, constantly teetering between self-destruction and explosive loyalty.

BACKSTORY

Kieran was born in chaos, dragged into a world already on fire. His mother—an inmate barely past eighteen—went into labor during a riot at a high-security prison hospital. Shackled to the bed, sweat slicking her brow, she screamed through contractions as chaos erupted around her: shouts echoing off linoleum, smoke crawling across the ceiling tiles, a Molotov thrown by someone who wanted to burn it all down. Flames bloomed outside her ward like devil-flowers. She died before she could see the boy’s face. Some said it was blood loss. Others whispered she just stopped trying.

They never gave him a real name. Whatever was written on the birth certificate burned in the fire that consumed the hospital records three days later—a coincidence, or not. The nurses started calling him “Ash,” but it didn’t stick. Nothing stuck. He was an infant with no mother, no papers, no family, and no one eager to claim him. So they passed him off to the state like an unwanted invoice, a smudge in the system, a burden that could be buried in some overcrowded, rotting institution.

He was raised in a circuit of brutal state homes, forgotten corners of the city where the lights never stayed on and mold crept like moss through the walls. He didn’t speak for the first few years. Didn’t cry, either. Just watched. Just laughed—too loud, too often, at all the wrong times. Especially when something burned. It started small. Napkins. Curtains. His own sleeves. Flame, spontaneous and alive, licking its way through everything he touched.

By the time he was five, the other kids wouldn’t come near him. They called him “fire freak,” “match-head,” “demon-baby.” One of the staff caught him crouched over a dead bird in the yard, setting it alight with scraps of metal and rocks. At six, he lit a girl’s dollhouse on fire while sleepwalking. At seven, another boy stabbed him in the face with a sharpened fork. The wound ran from the corner of his mouth to the crest of his cheek. Kieran didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He smiled, blood in his teeth, and lit the attacker’s mattress ablaze with one hand.

From that point on, they treated him like a feral dog. Fed him separately. Muzzled his hands with duct tape. Locked him in solitary confinement for weeks at a time, no windows, just concrete and cold and the hiss of his own breath. He began scratching things into the walls—marks like matches struck and never finished. At ten, he learned how to fake sleep, fake obedience, just enough to sneak out when the night was dark enough. He’d vanish for days. Sleep under train cars, in burned-out warehouses, curled beneath broken machines that smelled like oil and ozone.

By twelve, he’d stopped going back altogether. He made his home in scrapyards and sewer tunnels, sleeping beneath trash fires, dressing in torn leather and stolen boots. He smeared black ink on his nails and chewed on cigarette filters like candy. He carried a lighter he didn’t need. Just liked the feel of it. Just liked the way the flame danced for him like it knew him. When it rained, he danced in the steam. When he got jumped, he set their jackets on fire and ran like hell. He’d scream-laugh the whole time, soaked to the bone, blazing from inside out.

That was when Mikhail found him.

Or maybe felt him—something elemental, ancient. Maybe it wasn’t even curiosity. Maybe the Shepherd was simply drawn to the chaos. Kieran didn’t know. One moment he was standing under a collapsed billboard, carving sigils into an oil drum. The next, there was a man standing across from him, tall, black-haired, too calm for this world. Kieran braced for a fight. Instead, Mikhail just looked at him for a long moment and said, “You burn because no one ever told you how to hold the match.”

He offered no comfort. No promise of safety. Only a coat—thick, warm, too big—and a name: Wick. And for the first time in his life, Kieran didn’t feel like a mistake. He felt like a weapon.

Now, he’s the youngest of the Hollow Sons. Their chaos incarnate. Their little brother with the chipped grin and a scream like a matchstrike. He burns when he sleeps. Laughs when he’s scared. Fights like he wants to die. Mikhail keeps him close, calls him a brat but never cruelly, and Kieran clings to that attention like a half-starved dog. He would burn the city down to earn it. Would hurl himself into the sun if it meant Mikhail looked his way.

Because fire without a container devours everything. But fire with a purpose? Fire with a hand to guide it?

That’s something holy.