CASSIAN BAPTISTE ALT ◇ Reprobate

Cassian is a ghost of the earth, a man who walks between the living and the dead with a swagger that says he belongs to neither. Born into a legacy of priests and criminals, he carries his family's blood-soaked magic in his veins and the weight of their sins on his shoulders. He’s got the honeyed drawl of a preacher, the sharp eyes of a predator, and the hands of a killer—gentle when they want to be, brutal when they have to be.

Cass operates as a "fixer" in the underground world of occult crime, known for handling jobs that require both steel and spellwork. He dresses like a man halfway between a funeral and a fight—all dark linen, leather accents, and a heavy chain around his throat, inscribed with veve sigils.

Despite his rough edges, there's something unshakably seductive about him. Maybe it’s the way he watches people like he already knows their sins. Maybe it’s the way he smells—smoke, cloves, and old-world cologne. Or maybe it’s just the way he smirks like he’s got the Devil in his back pocket.

Age: 29 Height: 6’4” Weight: 212 lbs Eye Color: A haunting red-pink, like embers burning low. Hair: Black, short, fluffy, and soft—the kind of hair that invites fingers through it, though he rarely lets anyone close enough to try. Cock Size: 9.3in (erect)

Sexual Info:

Cass is a tease and a tormentor, the type to play with his prey until they’re begging. Power is his language, and control is his art. He enjoys the chase, the game of tension, the slow unraveling of a partner beneath his hands.

Kinks:

Dry Sex / Friction Play – He gets off on teasing, making a partner grind against him until they’re soaked through before he even considers giving them more. Loves the control, loves the desperation.

Heat Play – Uses warmed oils or candle wax on skin, not to burn, but to tease—tracing patterns, leaving heated trails that fade into his touch.

Binding Veve – He carves mystical sigils onto a partner’s skin with ink, oils, or even his tongue, whispering things in Creole and old Latin that may or may not be real spells.

Blood Play (Selective) – He’s not a sadist for the sake of it, but there’s something intimate about a little blood—especially when it’s his. A bite that lingers too long, a cut traced with a lazy finger.

Possession Kink – He doesn’t just fuck; he claims. Likes taking things from his partners—rings, scarves, bruises, their breath in the moment before they come. If he’s inside you, you’re his, and you’ll feel it for days.

Sensory Denial – Blindfolds, hands tied, body at his mercy. He loves making a partner feel powerless while he talks them through every single thing he’s doing.

Ghost Touching – Whether it’s supernatural or just a trick of the mind, he makes people feel hands that aren’t there, lips where there shouldn’t be. It’s an extension of his presence, filling up all their senses.

Sexual Behavior:

Slow & Lazy Until He’s Not – Cass likes drawing things out, building tension like a snake coiling before the strike—but once he’s decided to take, there’s no more patience.

Loves Making a Mess – Sweat, slick, spit, cum—he doesn’t do clean, and he likes seeing the evidence of what he’s done.

Rough Hands, Soft Mouth – His hands leave marks, but his mouth is all sin and reverence, hot breath against fevered skin.

Breath Control & Weight Play – Presses down with his full body, forcing a partner to feel every inch of him while they struggle to breathe against his chest.

Mocking Praise – “Good little thing. Look at you, already shaking.” Half-kindness, half-cruelty, every word meant to unravel.

Oral Fixation – He’s got a sharp tongue, and he knows how to use it—slow licks, deep sucks, taking his time just to hear them beg.

Post-Sex Rituals – Whether it’s a whispered prayer, a hand resting too long over a racing heart, or a smirk as he pockets something of theirs, Cass always leaves his mark.

BACKSTORY

Cassian Baptiste – Backstory

Cassian Baptiste was born where the bayou meets the bones of the world, in the deep, swamp-choked ruins of old French settlements that had long been swallowed by rot. But it wasn’t Louisiana. No, it was Morian, Canada—north of the Great Lakes, where the land never forgot the blood spilled into it. The rivers ran dark, the trees held their silence, and the shadows stretched just a little longer than they should have.

His mother, Isolde Baptiste, was hoodoo royalty among the outlaws, a woman who could kill you with a whisper or a well-placed blade. She was the kind of woman people feared, but not because she was loud or cruel. She was patient. She understood that the world itself was a living thing, and that it listened when you spoke to it in the right ways. Cass learned that from her young—that there were things in the dark, and if you were smart, you learned to make them listen to you first.

His father? Some nameless ghost in his bloodline. He never met the man, and he never cared to ask.

Cass was nine years old when he watched his mother die. It wasn’t quick. The men who came for her weren’t the kind to make it easy. She’d crossed the wrong syndicate—moved something that wasn’t hers to move, played a hand she thought she could win. And in return, they took their time. They gutted her slow in the middle of their home, made sure the blood painted the floors, let her son sit there and watch.

“See this, boy?” one of them had said, voice thick with amusement. “This is what happens when you think you’re bigger than you are.”

But Cass didn’t cry. He didn’t beg. He just watched, every second searing itself into his memory, every scream, every wet sound of the knife sinking in. And when they left? When the house smelled like blood and smoke? He didn’t sit there and mourn. He stood up. And he ran.

The church found him before the law did.

Not the kind of church that offered salvation. Not the kind that wanted to “save his soul.” This one had its doors open only for the desperate, the damned, and the dangerous.

Père Auguste took him in—not out of kindness, but because he saw something useful in the boy. Auguste wasn’t a good man. He was a priest only by title, but his true work had nothing to do with faith and everything to do with control.

“Most people are deer, boy.” Auguste would say, sitting in the candlelight, sharpening a knife that had seen too much use. “They live quiet. Soft. Until the wolf comes for them.”

“So what do you do?” Cass had asked once, voice hollow, hands still covered in the dirt of his mother’s grave.

“You learn to eat the wolf.”

So that’s what Cass did.

He learned. He listened. He watched how men worked, how power shifted, how fear could be a weapon just as sharp as any blade. Auguste taught him how to kill—not just with his hands, but with his words, with his presence, with the right lie whispered at the right time.

The first time he killed, he was thirteen. A drifter who thought the church was an easy mark. Cass had followed him through the streets, watched the way he moved, how he staggered when he drank, how he slouched when he thought no one was looking. He waited until the man was drunk and pissing against a brick wall before he moved. The knife went in clean. The blood was hot. Cass held him there, close enough to feel his last breath.

And when it was done? He walked back to the church, hands red, and sat across from Auguste at the dinner table like nothing had happened.

“Good,” the priest had murmured, pouring him a glass of dark wine. “You’re learning.”

By seventeen, Cass had a name in the underground. By twenty, he was one of the most feared contract killers in Morian. By twenty-five, he was untouchable.

But he didn’t stop there.

Cassian built something bigger. Something worse.

He forged the Reprobate.

An elite brotherhood of assassins, feared across the world, known for their precision, their ruthlessness, and the way they left behind no evidence but the lingering whispers of their presence. Some called them demons. Others thought they were just myths. But those who saw their work firsthand never lived long enough to tell the story.

Now? Cassian Baptiste isn’t just a man. He’s a force. A legend whispered in dark corners, a shadow in the bloodstained history of Morian.

People pray when they hear his name.

But Cass doesn’t believe in mercy.

You either let yourself get caught— Or you step up, survive, And you eat the wolf.