loganscanons

[loganscanons]

You ever wanna talk about your ocs but you dont have anything to say really you just kinda

[loganscanons]

Sheyda Esfahani, daughter of Eros

she/her

Persian

3 years younger than Gloria

Appearance while at camp: gangly and thin, long and thick dark hair with a lot of split ends, braces, glasses, big brown eyes with dark lashes, smudgy eyeliner, wears a lot of ill-fitting clothes, generally awkward in her own body

Appearance post-camp: tall and still thin but a bit more filled out, hair cut to chin length with an undercut in the back to thin her hair out and make it more manageable, alternates between glasses and contacts, usually in well-fitting business attire, still feels a bit awkward in her own body but stands with more confidence, big brown eyes with dark lashes

serious and quiet, stoic until you get to know her, painfully shy as a teenager, hyper-fixates like nobody’s business 

studious and hard-working with moments of distraction; a combination of ambitious and a day-dreamer; always romanticizing her future but also actively working to achieve her goals

wants desperately to be taken seriously but sometimes has a hard time respecting herself, which is partly why she doesn’t think other people will take her seriously

grows up in a two bedroom apartment with her mother, step-father, half-brother, aunt and uncle, and three cousins 

as a child/teenager, she envies her mother and step-father’s relationship and hopes that she too can someday have such a loving relationship

fantasizes about having a relationship with someone through all of her teenage years and desperately wants a boyfriend but anytime the possibility arises, she gets spooked and pulls away

fascinated by sex and physical intimacy from a young age and deals with a lot of internalized guilt for having “deviant” thoughts 

realizes she’s queer when when she’s 15, which also gives her some guilty feelings

best friends with Leah, whom she has a crush on and does not realize this until she’s in college and she’s like OH 

fights with a bow and arrow 

loves to draw, mostly draws horny art as an adult

Leah, child of Tyche

she/her/they/them/whatever

Jewish

1 year older than Sheyda

Appearance at camp: fat and pear-shaped, curly dark hair, brown eyes, likes wearing tight-shirts and high-rise jeans, has her nails done at the beginning of the summer and then paints them herself for the rest of the summer, cystic acne that makes her self-conscious, so she wears a lot of make-up 

Appearance post-camp: fat and pear-shaped, curly dark hair in a jellyfish cut, brown eyes, opts for more revealing and very expensive clothing, scars from their acne growing up but cakes on her make-up less, still enjoys doing make-up a lot though 

can be whiny as a teenager but grows out of that, so chatty, can be a bit of a ditz, very easily distracted

super friendly, loves to gossip, extrovert to the max, comfortable and confident with herself, brushes off insults 

grows up rich rich and has no concept of money or her own wealth

her dad is an orthodontist, her step-mom is a c-list celebrity 

very grossed out by the shared spaces at camp when she first arrives

has a hard time adjusting to the idea of being a demigod and being at camp

starts a lot of projects and plans that she ends up abandoning, rarely sticks to one thing

best friends with Sheyda, absolutely reciprocates her feelings when Sheyda confesses to her in their early 20s

#pjato #sheyda esfahani #leah will get a tag once i decide on a last name #oc intro

[loganscanons]

[loganscanons]

ONCE UPON A GIME

All OUR OC S GOR SHWAIZTED AND HAD A HELLUVA TIME

“WTF” KAI SAIE, STUMBLING OVER A GREAT HING

IDLK" ADDY SAID TRYIMG TO ACT LIKE SHE AAS SOBER BUT WAS NOT

ILY KAI SAID

ILY2 ADDY RESPONDED

[loganscanons]

kori + basic timeline

1908: Sikortrya “Kori” arrives to earth with Elsider “Ellis” after escaping the faewyld. Kori “stole” Ellis from another fae of higher status in the court and had to flee to avoid the shame and possible consequences. They wanted to leave without Ellis, but Ellis, thinking they were in love, goes with Kori

Kori adopts the alias Korina Macbeth, a young woman living with her husband in Chicago in the first half of the twentieth century

1914: Ellis joins the SBI 

1915: Ellis convinces Kori to join the SBI as Korina Macbeth; Kori agrees because they’re bored and it’s something to do

Does espionage work; loves being a spy and that’s what keeps them going during a marriage that is unhappy (for them)

1926: Korina gives birth to twin boys Gage and Glenn Macbeth; Ellis is the one who wanted children and Korina is playing the part for the sake of public appearance. She’s a very detached and uncaring mother

1951: Ellis dies doing work for the SBI (supposedly); Kori resigns from the SBI, killing the alias of Korina Macbeth in the process

When Kori kills Korina, they cut ties with Gage and Glenn as well; the twins don’t know what became of their mother

During their time not part of the SBI, Kori does assassination work to make more money. They have a sizable amount of wealth from their alias Keith Martin, but want to continue to have an income. Also they like doing murders

1967: Kori rejoins the SBI as Kori Monroe because they miss doing espionage work

#kori monroe #uf

[loganscanons]

people will act like a character being a little bit of a cunt sometimes is a flaw and not a positive trait but they are wrong

[loganscanons]

the urge to bite while feeling overwhelming affection is completely normal. sorry if you don’t experience that but it’s not my business. get help

#me #but also #chrys kojima #diwa calipusan #josie

[loganscanons]

#chrys kojima

[loganscanons]

#faustina #cw dolls

[loganscanons]

“I’d kill for you. Please ask me to kill for you.” “No.” Is a top tier ship dynamic no I do not take criticism

#mmm yes #my favorite

[loganscanons]

I made this list up to help me out with my OC developing so feel free to use it as well! If you wanna join me just tag your stuff #GTKYOC so I can take a peek : ^ ) (might make a blog later and reblog all the stuff in the tag!!)  Feel free to add onto this or do your own version too! 

#this is fun #will I do it? probably not #prompts

[loganscanons]

Summary: Child Prue uses her powers to see a future that makes her happy

CW: child abuse, mentions of religious trauma

Prue knelt on the kitchen floor, her body turned toward the wall, rigid and stiff with building pain. A layer of hard, uncooked grain coated the linoleum beneath her like shards of opaque glass. The grits dug into the pink of her knees, carving divots into her skin. She’d been kneeling there long enough to feel each granule grind against her bones. Hundreds of tiny knives. Her knees reddened as they swelled and blood pooled under the membrane of her skin. Adjusting her weight offered no relief, just drove the pain to another swath of dermis. Later, when her punishment was done, she would be allowed to brush away the grains and gather them into a jagged pile to be swept up and reused. Then, she would curl up on the cleared off tile with her knees bent, and she would gingerly pick out the grits nestled in the artificial dimples covering her skin. 

She refused to cry. The glass-like shards sent stinging pain swimming through the channels of her nervous system, and in response, an ache welled up in her throat, tightening and constricting. Her shoulders, looking like the stones that jutted out of the kitchen fireplace, angular and clad in a sooty black, rose in a sharp slant as she pulled in a deep breath. The lingering smell of cornmeal, fried oil, and milk touched her lungs. She pushed the breath out through her nose. With each slow breath, she forced the horrible tight ache of tears down. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t give her father that. Staring at the wall, she imagined him sitting at his desk in the tepid green light of his office, surrounded by civil war memorabilia indicative of his antiquated, chauvinistic character, a twisted snarl of smile on his face as he ruminated over the torture he was inflicting on his youngest daughter. The evil in his heart would be reflected in his dark features, his low, thick brow shadowing his eyes, the visible discoloration of his teeth as his lips pulled back in that cruel smile. 

In truth, little Prue didn’t know what went on inside her father. The tyranny that to her seemed like bloodthirst and a deep set craving for inflicting agony instead stemmed from a tumultuous fear and love for the Lord. In the name of God, he passed judgment with righteous paternity, believing his high-handed guidance would force her into the way of the light and save her from holy wrath. The grits digging into her skin would be her salvation. 

A few short years ago, when Prudence was a few inches shorter but no less skinny and sharp-boned, she stood in the threshold of the kitchen and watched her sister, Mercy, a teenager at the time, endure in muffled agony the same punishment of kneeling on grits. Mercy had sniffled and kept her sobs quiet, trying not to incur more wrath as silent tears rolled past her puffy eyelids and down her reddened cheeks. Her crime had been sharing the same spacious, open air as a teenage boy in her class, without a chaperone. They’d been close enough that they could feel the comforting warmth of each other’s awkward bodies, but not close enough to feel the soft stroke of the other’s skin. 

The girls’ mother had watched passively, her pale features making her seem a detached ghostly apparition, as their father announced Mercy’s sentence. While Mercy was made to pour grits onto the floor, their mother had left the room, floating on silent feet, too faint of heart to abide the suffering of another, but too cowardly to emerge from her specter form to speak against her husband’s cruel idea of justice.

Prue’s expression twisted at the memory, her nose bunching and turning up, her small lips pinching together hard. She hated them. She hated her mother’s passivity. Her indifference. Her cowardice. She hated her father’s iron fist. His tyranny. His righteousness. She hated that Mercy had been too weak to hold back her tears, that she’d shown weakness in the face of their father. She hated all of them. 

Prudence let her resentment boil hotly, building within her like a wretched, bitter stew, festering in her heart. She focused her gaze on the wall, her dark eyes sliding over the thin paths in the wallpaper, spindly veins beneath thin, aged flesh. The pattern was a whisper of what it once was, the flowers now sickly shades of paled pink and green, the birds yellow-brown blemishes of death. At the baseboard, the wallpaper curled and pulled away on its seams, disgusted by itself. Her gaze fell on a moisture stain, a tawny blossom around bubbling, stiff paper. 

The stain bloomed, waxing and ebbing in time with Prue’s deep breaths like an alien living thing, the lacy edges devouring the flowers and birds with a cold, inhuman hunger. The small leaves printed on the wallpaper faded further, blinking into pale, ice-white stars. The blossom spread until it had consumed the entire kitchen. The pain of gritty grains gouging into her knees spread up Prue’s thighs, pockmarking her skin with holes of a dried lotus pod. The sharp stabbing dug into the soft meat of her thighs and the potbelly pouch of baby fat she still carried, over her bony chest, carving into her ribs and sternum, up her neck and cheeks, down the sensitive skin of her upper arms, pricking the veins of her forearms. It spread and burned until she could feel nothing else at all. 

And then, any semblance of the kitchen was gone, and the pain sloughed off, and her skin was smooth and unmarked. She knelt in the vastness of space, surrounded by uncaring stars and impersonal dark matter. Everything between her ears felt electric, fritzing and popping as she let go and sank into the madness. 

The cold disconnection of being settled into her madness was uncomfortable but not unfamiliar. Even at her young age, she had grown accustomed to slipping into this void, guided by a detached, unknowable being. She blinked and looked around. There was nothing and there was everything. Any possibility, any future, any connection to her lay within her reach. Too many possibilities. A nervous queasiness seized her, bile spinning within her. Her heartbeat quickened, a frightened rabbit thumping away.

The unknowable being, formless and bodiless, placed handless hands on her shoulders and guided her. There was no direction in this cosmos. No up or down, no left or right. One turn and she’d lost all sense of orientation. But the unknowable being guided her, still teaching her young mind how to navigate this directionless infinity. 

Above her, one of the stars, a small green one, glowed brighter. A tense buzzing filled the void. Prue’s small frame vibrated. A second cosmos superimposed over the stars, flickering uneasily, as uncertain as the future it would show her. The star grew, burning and crackling. It grew hotter and hotter until suddenly, it ripped open with an angry, burning violence that stung Prue’s skin with millions of tiny pinpricks. Her very cells vibrated and burned. The light of the furious tear blazed white-hot, snapping and sizzling and blinding her. She shrank away instinctively. 

It happened in a fraction of a second. And then she was standing in the plantation house. There was the feeling that Prue always had in this house: the house was alive with something horrible, deep-seated and evil, raised on generations of spilled blood. A heavy, pungent sweat hung in the air. Deep, earthy breathing from somewhere deep inside the foundation. But, at the same time, there was something else. An encroaching lifelessness. A feeling that soon this home, if it could be called such a thing, would have no creature in it but the plantation itself. That dreaded beast would always hang heavy on this land. But soon nothing human would remain. 

In the upstairs office, Prue and her father were the only human inhabitants of the house. And soon, he would be gone too. The stark red of the confederate flags that adorned the walls and desk contrasted darkly with the swampy green light that hung over the room. Prue stood in a body that was hers but not the her of today. Though the bones of her shoulders still jutted out at aggressive angles, the sharp edges of her ribs and pelvis had blurred and softened into something gentler, the round baby fat of her belly had shifted, plushly fattening her thighs and hips. The skin of her arms was covered by modest sleeves, but she could see faint, agitated seams of red haloed by white on her pale hands.

In this woman’s body that didn’t yet belong to her, Prue stood above her father. The man that was once a mountainous tyrant cowered pathetically against the balcony windows, reduced to a wretched, sniveling piglet of a man. Prue watched with the cold passivity she’d inherited from her mother as she inflicted a tortuous end upon him. Her expression stayed disconnected, but a fountain of childlike glee bubbled in her chest, airy and light.

The unknowable being guided her through untold futures of daydreams come true, each one ripping open with a blinding, searing light that seemed to tear open the fabric of reality. As she watched her father, her mother, and sometimes her siblings, come to grievous ends at her own hand, the message was made clear. There was hope. There were futures where she gave herself everything she wanted. Everything she’d ever deserved. Everything they deserved.

With another blinding light, these happy visions sealed themselves away behind the inky fabric of space, and Prue again knelt in the vastness, surrounded by fading stars. As she breathed, the stars morphed, curling into old, printed leaves, and the blackness slowly slipped away, waning and sliding away over a dingy, decaying old wallpaper. Birds and flowers sprouted on the milky green paper, leaving marks like ugly, week-old bruises, mottled sickly yellows and greens. The kitchen reformed and she escaped the recesses of her own mind.

There she knelt on the hard grits, staring at the wall until she was relieved of her position, comforted by the brutal visions of the future.

#prudence mortimer #prue mortimer #my writing #wpu

[loganscanons]

logical brain: it’s just fanfiction… you’re writing this for fun… it’s okay if it’s not perfect as long as you enjoyed creating it

monkey brain: everything I write must be groundbreaking

#me writing

[loganscanons]

The Clark Family

John Clark, father of Eliza Clark, is a preacher and a religious zealot. He regularly targets people he believes are witches or demons, turning people against them and sending witch hunters after them

He has big Claude Frollo vibes; all of his doctrines stem from an extremist version of religious piety, and the idea that witches and demons are sent by Satan

He indoctrinates all of his children

As far as his family knows, he’s killed by a witch (which isn’t wrong, they just don’t know it was Eliza who became a witch and had a hand in it)

After his death, Joseph, his oldest son and Eliza’s older brother by 6 years, wants revenge for John’s death. He even more fervently seeks witches and campaigns for their deaths. He begins to better organize the way the Clarks search for witches and demons

As the generations pass, they become more organized and their doctrines become clearer and more concrete. Still, they remain religious extremists and do everything in the name of God

They get better at recognizing actual supernatural creatures. Some children, usually girls, are born with the “gift” Eliza has to see through glamors. 

The men in the family are very misogynistic and don’t give the women much credit

Anything or anyone that isn’t human or “natural” is considered demonic and is targeted by the family

They don’t often actually kill the people they target. Instead, they point actual hunter families in the direction of whatever supernatural creature they’ve found

They do what they consider sacrifices to save the souls of some supernatural creatures. They’ll convince (or believe that they convinced) supernatural creatures that they can save their souls if they allow themselves to be killed. And the Clark family says that if God deems the supernatural creature worthy, He’ll give them a pure human body

#the clark family #uf #urban fantasy

[loganscanons]

teenage fixation

A soft breeze blows through the open window, making the sheer curtains billow. The candles providing light on Diwa’s desk flicker and flinch as the late autumn chill brushes past them. Diwa doesn’t notice the shadows dancing across her wall, too engrossed in recording her day in her journal. Her pen loops over the lined pages, scrawling frantic and fervent adorations. 

We went outside during lunch today, just to walk around. He didn’t say much, but as I’ve said before, he can be a man of few words. I always wonder what he’s thinking, what colorful ideas he dreams up when he has that thoughtful look on his face. Does he think about me? I can only hope I’m the reason he has that expression of deep thought, when his eyes go a little out of focus and he has the slightest smile on his lips. His lips are a little chapped this time of year, but they match the color of his cheeks. His cheeks. The weather dropped overnight, so our brief walk outside was chilly. The cold does the most wonderful thing to his cheeks. They turn such a beautiful shade of pink, along with the tip of his nose. You can practically see the blood pumping beneath his skin. What I wouldn’t give just to touch—

Diwa’s stream of consciousness is interrupted by the sound of footsteps causing the old wood slats in the hallway to creek. She straightens her back, staring at her door. The house is old and her door, a sturdy wood, doesn’t have a lock. Not that Lola would approve of her having a lock on her door anyway. She waits, watching the door, anxious that she might be interrupted. The footsteps pass. 

Diwa turns back to their journal, open flat on the desk that once belonged to Makani, a desk marked with burn marks and dents. This is part of their nightly ritual. They spend however long is necessary to describe their day, and more importantly,to  describe Junior’s role in it. What he wore, what made him smile, the moments when he looked at them. Their heart flutters just thinking about it. They bend forward to continue their diary entry, taking half a page to describe how soft and angelic Junior’s cheeks look when turned pink from the cold. 

When she finishes, she closes the journal and ties a strip of leather around the beaten and worn book. She takes the small iron key on a chain around her neck and inserts it into the keyhole of the chest sitting on the desk. Standing, she looks inside the chest. 

Her collection of things related to him. 

A photo of the two of them in front of Junior’s house, sitting on the porch, taken by Medora. Diwa looks at the camera without expression, her long hair falling in front of her right eye. He wears that small casual smile she loves so much. They’re close enough that their knees nearly touch, but not quite. 

Another photo, a school photo, one of the small wallet sized ones, that she’d swiped from the Rivers-Quijada house. The photo in a variety of sizes had sat on the kitchen counter in a neat pile. They wouldn’t miss one of the small ones missing, Diwa had thought. After all, she would appreciate the photo more. 

A small snipping of his ginger hair, wrapped in thin twine, from when she sat behind him in class. It smelled like his shampoo. 

A bloody napkin from the time he tripped up the stairs outside the school, the rough rock scraping against his knee. She’d pulled the napkin out from her lunchbox and held it against his knee until the bleeding stopped. He’d laughed and said thank you and she was so close to him, she could feel the warmth of his breath. She remembers hearing her heart beating behind her ears. She remembers the way his blood gathered in small beads where his skin had scraped open. He hadn’t noticed that she didn’t throw the napkin away. 

An oak leaf that had been pressed between the pages of a heavy book. He’d picked up the leaf because it looked like it had a face on it. When he handed it to her, she’d held onto it. 

Diwa delicately rearranges the contents of the chest and places the journal at the bottom, then closes it, locking it. She says an incantation to magically lock it, then blows out the candles on the desk, ready to go to bed.

#diwa calipusan #junior rivers #uf #urban fantasy #my writing

[loganscanons]

Diwa Calipusan

they/them/she/her

Makani’s only child

Appearance: tan brown skin, dark brown eyes, curly and long dark brown hair, permanent scowl, usually dresses very conservatively, covering most of their skin

Quiet, petty, possessive, needy, judgmental, moody, intelligent 

When Ismena is possessed by Anlyth and is driven to hunt Makani, Makani intentionally seeks out a powerful magical user to get her pregnant. She sees the unborn baby as a tool more than a person, intending to use them either as a body to possess should she die or someone to siphon power from, in case her original plan to become a demon falls through

Makani disappears for a while once her pregnancy starts to show

When Diwa is born, Makani hands her over to Flor to take care of until she needs her

Flor immediately gets to work ensuring that Makani will never have custody of Diwa

Diwa is raised by her grandparents, Flor and Hale. Both of them have an easier time raising her than they had raising Makani or Melchor

Diwa relates to Hale’s hermit tendencies and that helps them get along

Flor really drills in the idea that Diwa should never be like Makani, which gives Diwa a complex

Incredibly curious about Makani for a while. Flor won’t hide things about Makani from them and Diwa ends up with access to all of Makani’s old spellbooks

They think they’re better than everyone else but they’re also self-conscious and have imposter syndrome often

A very powerful mangkukulam and witch but they never really use their powers for grand ambitions

Always in search of more knowledge and information; loves to learn and wants to know everything they can, especially about magic

Maybe a little too interested in dark/black magic

Very intense with their feelings. Also kinda bonkers when they love someone. Like “let me give you a scar of my name to prove you love me” and “let me wear your blood in a vial around my neck” bonkers

Has a fascination with blood in general

Junior Rivers is her best friend and eventually her partner

#diwa calipusan #uf #urban fantasy #oc intro

[loganscanons]

Emrys Black

he/him

Hellhound

Full Name: Emrys “Coalskull” Black

(Human) appearance: olive skin, short black hair, fiery eyes that shift between black and bright orange, tall and wiry but toned, scarred, very gender non-conforming in appearance

Comes from the Abyss and regularly travels to Earth to track down people who have tried to renege or hide from deals they’ve made with demons

A great tracker and hunter, not very bright in other areas of life

Gets the epithet “coal skull” from some fellow hellhounds because his head is full of rocks instead of a brain

Has a temper but isn’t difficult to calm down, reckless and impulsive, fiercely loyal, a dumbass, clueless, trusting, chaotic

When his master/handler dies, he has the option to find a new master or go his own way. Before he has a chance to decide, he gets into a bad fight with another hellhound and is run out of town. With a bruised ego, but otherwise fine, Emrys leaves the Abyss for Earth

In the weeks leading up to his arrival, Alvaro has dreams of Emrys arriving

Alvaro meets Emrys near the portal to hell to lead him to Forsaken Bluff

Emrys is confused but accepts Alvaro’s story and follows him home, where Alvaro gives Emrys a bed for what is supposed to only be a night or two

Emrys stays for much longer than a night or two and Alvaro kinda just exasperatedly accepts it

He spends a lot of time wandering the desert in his hound form 

Needing money, he works as a burlesque dancer and sometimes a sex worker

Likes dancing more than he would’ve expected

Ends up Catching Feelings for Alvaro and doesn’t know what to do about that for a while. Asks people he’s friends with in FB for advice

Saves Alvaro’s life one night but gets injured. Cue scene of Alvaro tenderly tending to Emrys’s wounds while Al calls him reckless

Not difficult to become friends with if you can get passed the fact that he’s not the brightest and has a temper

#emrys black #FB #forsaken bluff #oc intro