-หห โ โโโโโโโโ ๐ฐ ๐๐๐๐ณ๐ ๐ธ๐ฝ โ southern decay wrapped in sunday best, blood remembered long after it's been washed away, inherited violence passed down like a family heirloom, devotion that curdles into obsession, faith worn thin by unanswered prayers, the impossible weight of carrying another person's sins, humid summer nights where the cicadas drown out confessions, old churches that have witnessed more damnation than salvation, lonely highways stretching toward nowhere, towns where every front porch hides a secret worth killing for, monsters who still reach for humanity, capability of far greater cruelties, the quiet understanding that love has always been the sharpest weapon of them all .แ ๐ฟ๐๐ด๐๐๐ ๐๐พ๐๐ป๐, ๐ฒ๐พ๐ฝ๐๐๐ผ๐ด๐ณ ๐ฑ๐ ๐ณ๐ด๐ฐ๐๐ท [ .. ]. โ.
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full name: kozen de vos.
nickname: ko, or z.
gender: cis man.
pronouns: he&him.
orientation: bisexual, biromantic.
age: 27.
date of birth: december 1st, 1981.
zodiac: sagittarius.
occupation: hunter, thief & hacker.
species: human.
faceclaim: josh heuston.
height: 6โฒ 0.
hair: black.
eyes: green.
spoken languages: english.
piercings: ears.
tattoos: one behind his ear.
other distinguishingย features: a collection of old scars hidden under clothes, each with a story, a small faded tattoo of a snake eating its own tail.
you were born into a life that never allowed for much innocence. moving through louisiana, mississippi, and texas with parents who had specialized in the art of disappearing before anyone could ask too many questions. you learned early on that a name was only as permanent as the person wearing it and that every town had a different version of yourself waiting to be created. your parents were known throughout the southern criminal underbelly because they were good at what they did. they could convince anyone of anything, steal anything their hands fell upon. you and your brother grew up surrounded by that world. lessons to pick locks came before algebra. how to recognize when a person was hiding something because your entire childhood was spent watching people do exactly that. crime was the family trade, passed down like shitty inheritance.
by your teenage years, you and your brother had become a reflection of the people who raised you, making a living through theft, hacking, carefully planned cons that relied on your charm and intelligence. you weren't interested in hurting people, or stealing from those who had nothing, but the world had always been divided into those who had power and those who knew how to take it. this was your way of living. the bad guys were your family's rivals, and the brave ones who stood in your family's way. that belief was tested the night everything you knew about the world changed. the job was supposed to be simple. a wealthy target to con. instead, you and your brother found yourselves standing in the aftermath of a mistake your parents had made. the person they had crossed wasn't a powerful businessman, or anyone belonging to the human world you understood, but a vampire.
hunting began as a way to find the one responsible for what happened to your parents, but even after you did, it became something harder to walk away from. every case brought more questions than answers, and each creature you encountered left you on the fence about whether everything supernatural was inherently evil. while your brother saw a world full of threats waiting to strike, you saw something far more complicated. you weren't naive enough to believe every monster had a heart underneath the cruelty, but you also couldn't convince yourself that every creature deserved death simply because of what they were.
you and your brother continued taking jobs, and hunting whatever crossed your path, sometimes for money, and sometimes because after living that way for so long, normal life felt more unfamiliar than any supernatural ever could. you became good at walking the line between hunter and criminal. you both had mastered the line between the right thing and doing whatever was necessary to make it to tomorrow. and then, just like your parents, another wrong move shifted the board.
your brother was turned into the very thing you had spent years hunting, forcing you to confront the one thing you had always avoided: that monsters were not always born monsters. lafleur is a familiar place, simply another stop in a life built around movement. you've been here before plenty of times. you still take jobs, still break into places you shouldn't. though now guilt claws inside your chest and rips it open and the future doesn't seem as certain anymore. how much longer can you endure like this, how much longer until your impulsiveness and sharp tongue stops hurting the people around you, and finally becomes the thing that gets you killed instead ?
full name: viktor rousseau.
nickname: vik.
gender: cis man.
pronouns: he&him.
orientation: bisexual, biromantic.
age: 39 / 695.
date of birth: january 10th, 1313.
zodiac: capricorn.
occupation: historian.
species: vampire.
faceclaim: ben barnes.
height: 6โฒ 3.
hair: brown.
eyes: brown.
spoken languages: english, italian (native tongue), latin (picked up from his time in the authority), russian (picked up from his maker).
piercings: none.
tattoos: none.
other distinguishingย features: a vintage ring he never removes, always impeccably dressed, like he walked out of another century.
mother: allegra rousseau (deceased).
father: tomas rousseau (deceased).
siblings: gio rousseau (deceased).
wife: francesca rousseau (deceased).
children: viktor rousseau ii (deceased).
you were never destined for anything particularly extraordinary. born into a respectable family with enough expectation resting on your shoulders to keep your future carefully mapped out before you were old enough to question it, yours was a life meant to be measured in quiet successes rather than grand adventures and freedom. wed young by arrangement, a son born soon after. while most men sought power by demanding it, you discovered it was far easier to simply watch. people had a habit of revealing exactly who they were if you remained silent long enough, a quality that unknowingly earned the attention of someone who had spent centuries searching for minds worth preserving rather than bodies worth feeding from.
your maker never stumbled upon you by chance. they stalked from a distance for years, quietly inserting themselves into your life whenever curiosity got the better of them, fascinated by the composure that seemed almost unnatural in someone so painfully mortal. they offered immortality as though extending an invitation into something far greater than yourself, promising knowledge, purpose, and a place among those who would outlive kingdoms. by the time you accepted, not truly knowing what you were stepping into, you'd imagined many things waiting on the other side. devotion and complete detachment from your human family had not been one of them.
the household you entered was less a family and more a religion built around one man. every fledgling belonged to him. taught that obedience was love and suffering was simply another lesson worth learning. starvation became a punishment. kindness had to be earned from him. every decision, every hunt, every drop of blood required permission, and yet none of you questioned it as often as you should have because the bond tying you to your maker made his word feel as natural as breathing. if there was any comfort to be found, it was in proving yourself useful, and you did so with remarkable ease. you listened, learned, adapted, endured and somewhere along the way became the favorite, which was no happy place to be.
no more than a decade and a half into your existence inside his cult, the authority arrived calling themselves saviors, though history has always taught you that those with the loudest sense of justice are often the first to rewrite it. your maker's household had grown too large, too violent, too independent to be ignored, and dismantling it proved far more convenient than allowing it to exist. they executed your leader, scattered what remained of his progeny across the country, and collected those they believed still had value. you happened to be one of them. offered a sheriff's position and told your future no longer belonged to the man who'd made you, you accepted because there was nowhere else left to go, convincing yourself in the years that followed that perhaps this new order truly was different from the last.
it wasn't until you loved someone that you understood how little had changed. affection had never existed inside your maker's walls, not in any form that hadn't been twisted, and when you finally found it for yourself you clung to it with both hands, determined not to lose the first thing in your immortal life that had ever been yours. you turned them before another could, determined to keep them for yourself. one fleeting moment of planted evidence and the authority tore through your fragile peace. your years of loyalty had earned enough grace to forgive you. however, your title disappeared almost as quickly as it had been given, and the same institution that had once promised more forced you to watch the one you'd loved meet their final death while deciding you were somehow more valuable alive than buried beside them. but they mistook your survival for forgiveness.
you've become exactly the sort of vampire they hoped to create. well-spoken, impossibly wealthy, a respected historian whose fascination with the past has quietly afforded you influence in all the right places. you've spent decades collecting rare books, forgotten artifacts, favors owed by powerful people, and every inconvenient truth the authority would've preferred remain hidden, all while smiling politely enough that nobody has ever thought to question your intentions. lafleur is only the latest chapter in a story you've been writing for longer than most vampires have been alive. if your interest in history has taught you anything worth remembering, it's that every empire eventually convinces itself it's untouchable moments before it begins to crumble.
the obedient son died, the surviving fledgling gone, the authority's loyal employee sniffed out. all that remains now is a man, dressing up his insanity in expensive suits. hiding his cruelty behind dry wit and observant eyes. building a network of loyalty to him. placing himself first, with no regard for a single life beside his own. the only people who survive in this world are selfish, aren't they ?
full name: belail.
vessel: stefano blanco.
gender: cis man.
pronouns: he&him.
orientation: bisexual, biromantic.
age: 26 / unknown. earliest record of his name being mentioned recorded 978 years ago.
date of birth: unknown.
zodiac: unknown.
occupation: unemployed.
species: demon.
faceclaim: nicholas alexander chavez.
height: 6โฒ 1.
hair: brown.
eyes: brown.
spoken languages: all.
piercings: none.
tattoos: none.
other distinguishingย features: eyes that appear almost black, the iris swallowing the color, traces of black ash in places he lingers, or leaves.
whatever name belonged to you before the fire has long since rotted away. if there was ever a mother who mourned you, or a life worth remembering, hell saw to it that none of it remained. centuries spent beneath its surface have a way of peeling flesh from memory until all that's intact is instinct, and yours has a knack for preferring twisted mayhem. by the time you clawed your way into someone worthy of being fear, there was nothing recognizably human left behind.
violence doesn't offend you. in fact, you've always found it rather beautiful. you'll slit a throat simply because the silence afterward amuses you, set a house ablaze to watch the neighbors argue over who started it, whisper impossible promises into willing ears before disappearing to enjoy the fallout from somewhere nearby, plant anger in a head of innocence so deep and let them fall into devastation after. there's never been a right way to sow chaos, and you've never cared enough to choose just one. some days it begins with a body. others with a push. more often than not, it ends with both. boredom is your greatest enemy, isn't it ? the world is far more entertaining when it's falling apart. when it resembles your home.
your name has lived far longer than any body you've borrowed. witches speak it with the sort of caution reserved for things they can only delay and never truly get rid of. you are called a trickster, a devil, a manifestation of chaos, and eventually, belail.
the latest grand return simply took longer than expected. a beloved priest named stefano blanco, resting in a humid southern town. his life had been devoted to confessions and promises of salvation, and when a door cracked open for you to escape and embrace your favorite playground again, it was his voice who you found and his vessel who you stole. you wore his life long enough to remind everyone surrounding him how fragile faith really is. creating havoc with your presence alone, stefano's small town turned into a frenzy from an average calm monday morning. seemingly every neighbor and every friend slipping into unfathomable rage at once. and then ? you left.
lafleur was your next stop, but certainly not your last. small towns have a knack for being your favorite. they're built on gossip, old grudges, secrets people swear they'll carry to the grave. so many threads to pull. so much humanity to strip away at. after all, who are you if not a helping hand ?
full name: ximena cavazos.
nickname: mena.
gender: cis woman.
pronouns: she&her.
orientation: bisexual, biromantic.
age: 30.
date of birth: march 30th, 1978.
zodiac: aries.
occupation: witch for hire.
species: dark witch.
faceclaim: alexa demie.
height: 5โฒ 0.
hair: black, always worn down & curled.
eyes: brown.
spoken languages: english, spanish, latin & french.
piercings: ears, belly button.
tattoos: none.
other distinguishingย features: ritual scars along her palms, black veins spread beneath her skin when using heavy magic.
you were born beneath a storm that split the sky wide open, in a town too small to remember your name, but just large enough to remember your mother's shame. she was a married woman carrying another man's child, though the truth ran deeper than infidelity. long before you ever drew your first breath, something ancient had wrapped itself around her soul. a demon wore her like a second skin, and when it finally loosened its grip, it left a piece of itself behind. that piece was you.
her husband knew you weren't his. whether he sensed what stirred beneath your skin, or simply couldn't bear the sight of another man's daughter didn't matter. you were sent away without so much as a backward glance. a dark magic practicing coven tucked away from prying eyes, women who felt the magic humming beneath your skin took you in and wrapped you in promising potential. they called you a blessing. perhaps even a miracle. whispered that no infant should radiate power the way you did. they raised you on old rituals, blood offerings, whispered incantations, and the belief that your abilities would help them rise above even their own expectations.
it wasn't until years later that you understood why. you had never been their daughter, never truly their sister, simply a pawn.
for decades, the coven chased a ritual thought impossible: the summoning and binding of a demon. they believed they would bend one to their will, siphoning its strength until every member of the coven stood untouchable. they failed again and again, each attempt costing blood and lives, some even their own. still, they persisted. you became the centerpiece of their work without ever being asked if you wished to stand there. the demonic residue left in your blood before birth made you uniquely suited to bridge a door no ordinary witch could force open.
only one woman ever knew the whole truth. the high priestess had no intention of sharing that power. she wanted eternity. the ritual was never meant to strengthen the coven, it was meant to preserve herself. she would bind the demon, drain it slowly, abandon the women who had followed her for decades, and leave them with nothing but empty promises. you recognized ambition because it looked so much like your own. so, you stole it.
the night of the ritual, you summoned and bound the demon to yourself. the coven shattered at your betrayal, and many of them died attempting to kill you. a bloodbath before a departure that marked the next two centuries to come, traveling with your hell counterpart and cheating death every step of the way. you charge for your services now, never intending on doing anything for less than a pretty, shiny, large price. but just how long can you truly postpone the inevitable before it catches up to you ?
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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