OC ask meme (or you can just fill it all out yourself for fun…not that I do that or anything)
works for either fantasy or modern settings…tbh mostly just the things I want to be asked about my own ocs
1. Describe your OC physically- what do they look like? What notable features do they have, or what’s your favorite part of their design?
2. What role would your OC fill in a friend group?
3. What is their stance on religion? Are they a devout believer, against the idea of gods, or somewhere in between? Do they make their practice or their opinions public, or keep it private?
4. How do they act when they’re sick, and does it change depending on who they’re around or how sick they are?
5. What’s one hill your OC will die on (anything from a guiding moral position to a strong opinion about combining mint and chocolate)?
6. How did you choose your OC’s name?
7. Lots of people don’t have a favorite food when put on the spot, but what’s a food or drink that your OC would never turn down if someone offered it to them?
8. What’s something that your OC owns that means the world to them? What’s something they own that they don’t like, but can’t bring themself to part with?
9. How do they fare in cold or hot climates, and which do they prefer?
10. Share a sentence of dialogue from your OC that you think represents them well.
11. How are they seen by people around them - family, close friends, colleagues, or strangers?
12. What does their bed and/or desk look like? Tidy or cluttered - are they both the same, or is one neat and the other messy?
13. How do they deal with pain (physical or emotional)?
14. How comfortable are they relying on other people, and what situations would change their comfort level?
15. How does your OC take up space? What do they do with their hands when they talk, or how do they sit in chairs?
16. Point assign D&D ability scores to your OC (STR, DEX, CON, INT, WIS, CHA; out of 27).
17. What are three moments in their life that impacted your OC the most?
18. If they can or would drive, what would their car be like?
19. How do they connect with the people around them? Love language, how they offer comfort, etc.
20. What kind of clothing do they feel most comfortable in? What kind of clothing do they wear most often?
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.
âś“ Live Streamingâś“ Interactive Chatâś“ Private Showsâś“ HD Qualityâś“ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
posting this one too, and I’ll even use the tag list for it
no content warnings aside from implied off-screen intimacy
He’ll call himself a coward but the sheer bravery this man has to answer his lord’s bedroom door *in Maithyr’s sleeping clothes* and just go “it’s exactly what it looks like. you can be judgmental later, stop staring, your news is clearly urgent, go ahead with it.” I think he gets to be rightfully confident in his abilities and his queerness for once tbh
All things considered, Idhren decided it was lucky he had very little pride left to injure. Melancholic tendencies aside, he considered himself pragmatic in matters of the court’s favor. It was easy to pay them no mind if one couldn’t imagine being well-liked in the first place.
Even so, at this moment, it would have been easier if he’d been able to greet them with more decorum. He could endure their silent distaste, but it was really such a waste of time, when there were more important things to be dealt with.
The scouts had been expected tomorrow evening. It must be important, if they’d kept such a pace, if their news had already reached their officers, if said officers thought it worth approaching their lord in the middle of the night.
It’s common knowledge that the Warmaster relies on sleeping draughts these days. Honestly, I don’t know why they’d expect to speak to him now.
The dilemma, of course, was not only that Maithyr wouldn’t easily be woken. The dilemma was three-fold. Firstly: someone had to answer the damn door. Secondly: Maithyr’s state of consciousness was not only due to his medicine, but to the…vigor of the activity that preceded his sleep. And finally: when his lord had dozed off, Idhren had done little more than turn to his back and stare at the ceiling. The knocking and urgent words had interrupted his pathetic brooding, and now he had to get himself up and clothed and pretend he hadn’t been laying next to his lord like some cheap courtesan and feeling sorry for himself.
The officers outside (Idhren couldn’t tell who was present, voices muffled through the door as they were) seemed intent on knocking the door from its hinges a moment ago, and he really should answer before they tried again.
…The problem was four-fold, then. He could take the time to dress himself in his own clothes, do up the row of delicate buttons with shaking hands, try to lace the collar up tightly and fasten the cuffs securely. Or—or, gods damn its convenience, there was Maithyr’s robe de chambre, the finest velvet and silk, a shade of red so deep it was nearly black, with scarlet stitching and gold buttons.
Idhren put on his own boots as well, to keep from looking wholly ridiculous.
“The Warmaster is resting,” he began before he’d fully opened the door. “Whatever news the scouts have brought, it can be left with me.”
There were three officers present. Caedir, a captain from Silorn who Idhren had usually found more agreeable than most, and two of the newly-arrived Ngelori he had yet to meet.
No time like the present. He wished though, for a fleeting moment, that he’d had a chance to at least brush his hair, maybe find a tie for it, to look a bit more presentable.
He was grateful, at least, for the size of Maithyr’s quarters. If they kept their voices low in the outer room, even in natural sleep he’d have no chance of waking. Idhren gestured for the trio to enter. Caedir did. The Ngelori officers did not.
Gods’ sake, with as much gossip as I’ve heard about myself, you’d think they’d at least have the decency to not act so surprised, no matter how new they are?
Idhren was barely an inch shorter than Maithyr. When he set his shoulders and stood with full military posture the effect was, he’d been told, nearly as imposing.
If they’d stop looking at this damn coat, at least. Don’t they have more important things to do?
“I’m aware the situation is obvious,” he said, and willed his face not to flush, to limited success. Similar in height though they were, Maithyr was broad-shouldered and well-muscled, and the coat’s tailoring reflected this clearly.
“I am of adequate rank to receive your news in his stead. You may talk all you like later, but your message seems to be urgent. I would advise delivering it.”
The coat’s collar was cut low even on its intended wearer, and as Idhren raised his hand to the doorknob the wide sleeve fell back a bit. He could feel the officers’ eyes shift from his attire to the scar on his neck and the other on his sword arm. He wasn’t sure which thread of gossip he was more uncomfortable with, the warmaster’s plaything or the disgraced soldier.
It didn’t matter, they’d talk about both. But he’d changed his mind: with his hair down, that unsightly scar was at least partly hidden.
He cleared his throat. Caedir, to his credit, waved the other two officers inside impatiently. One of them unfolded a map, leaned over it hesitantly to point at a mark near the Lochieru lines, beginning her explanation at last.
She stopped short, unsure, and looked to Caedir.
“Go on.” Idhren spoke before the captain had a chance.
There was no time for shame of any sort. His lord deserved what rest he could get, and feeling sorry for himself could wait until after this was dealt with.
tag list: tag list: @just-emis-blog @orions-quill @honeybewrites @leahnardo-da-veggie @acertainmoshke @robin-the-blind-sniper-rifle
new commissioned art from ermine.foster on instagram btw!!! finally got something of both of the Fractured Shield mcs together, my beloved duo of weird offputting gremlin child + parent burdened by inescapable melancholy
also i spent a few hours yesterday making a compilation of all the short scenes i wrote in 2025 and adding summaries and content warnings and a table of contents
i spent the year focusing on prequel material for fractured shield, the war-court drama and romance and everything involving my protagonist's parents. it's been fun but sort of challenging as i typically don't write romance
there now exists a 30 minute recording of @just-an-elf-with-the-socks asking me oc questions from various tumblr prompts and us just having more and more unhinged answers
so here’s a scene based on one of them bc I made myself sad and couldn’t sleep. unedited and directly pasted from my notes app as it should be
“Stay, please, just for the night.”
Idhren was glad for the dark, so Leithe couldn’t see how he flinched. But the hand on his wrist was small and warm, and her grip soft enough that he could leave if he wanted. He didn’t.
“Don’t leave tonight. Please.” Maithyr caught his wrist in a trembling vise-grip, words loosened by both darkness and wine. He had been honest, and that hurt worst of all, to know that in this moment when he wasn’t himself, Maithyr wanted him. He would forget by the morning and ask to be left alone, or maybe he wasn’t seeing Idhren at all but a ghost of Linna in his stead. Idhren flexed against his lord’s tight hold and eased himself onto the bed.
Leithe’s shawl draped loosely across her freckled shoulder. She reached for him as he lay next to her, brushed her legs against his, let her hand come to rest on his cheek.
He wasn’t being fair to her.
He put his hand over her own, where it still encircled his wrist, and when she let go he held her hand in both of his own, close against his chest. He felt as if his own limbs were foreign to him, thick and slow. There she was, real and alive and coming to him for warmth and comfort as if he was any good at such things, and he was too constrained by the memory of another to look at her properly.
Leithe shifted closer until she was right against him, and lowered her hand from his cheek to his collar. He bowed his head low over her until her curls brushed against his nose.
The cold of Nar-thelyr had always set his joints aching. He supposed that was half of why Maithyr drank, these days. He did not move, did not loosen his lord’s hold on him, did not protest nor show pleasure when his lord reached to trace one thumb along his cheek, the bridge of his nose, down again past his jaw, lingering along his neck until he reached the curve of his collarbone. Maithyr’s hand was not gentle, whatever his muddled intentions might be, as if the strength of his grip might mask the trembling.
Idhren didn’t mind. His lord was not unkind, even if he was ungentle. Even if Maithyr thought of Linna when he asked Idhren to stay, when he touched him, it was enough to serve his lord. Idhren would not ask for anything more, and if he was selfish enough to harbor unspoken wants, he would welcome a heavy hand as his due.
Leithe had not been drinking, that much he knew. She never drank more than a few sips for appearances, at events when she was expected to speak. Her affections, then, were her own, if a bit softened by sleep.
He should answer such affections with his own. He wanted to. She’d said so many times that he didn’t have to ask, that he was permitted to touch her, but he’d never gotten over the idea that something about her was too wonderful to be touched by him.
He put one arm around her, carefully, let his hand rest on her shoulder blade. She sighed, content and half awake, and the air of it tickled against his collarbone. The hand on his collar slipped beneath the stiff fabric, crossed the scar tissue where he couldn’t properly feel, and came to rest at the nape of his neck, tangling in his hair.
“Relax,” she was saying into his chest. “We should sleep.”
He couldn’t manage an answer, whether from her hand in his hair or the imagined hand on his collarbone he wasn’t sure.
“You’re thinking of Maithyr.”
Leithe, to her credit, did not sound angry. He would deserve it if she was.
Then again, who would be jealous of a dead man?
“You’re tense,” she continued, gentle fingers stilling in his hair.
“Forgive me.” Forgive me. He wasn’t sure whose forgiveness he was asking. It was an awfully selfish thing, either way.
tag list: @just-emis-blog @orions-quill @honeybewrites @leahnardo-da-veggie @acertainmoshke @robin-the-blind-sniper-rifle
“I’m so selfish and awful to be thinking about my dead lover while in bed with my partner” my guy that is called an emotional flashback. that is the trauma
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.
âś“ Live Streamingâś“ Interactive Chatâś“ Private Showsâś“ HD Qualityâś“ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
icon by @astrozure, header by oliv_pit on instagram
About my work:
Fracture Shield is a bittersweet, tender fantasy about a young person caught between two cultures, forging a place for herself amidst an escalating war. It’s interwoven with commonalities of queer, neurodivergent experiences, and centers familial bonds, realizations that people who seemed infallibly strong to a child are no less able to break.
It uses the familiar constants of high fantasy to explore themes of longevity and loss: what happens when you know you won't have a peaceful death from old age, when you mature slower than your friends, but feel just as out of place with your own kind? How do you live with hundreds of years of grief, and how will you be judged by those who only know the worst days of your life as a page in a history book?
Two hundred years beyond the third war with the Lochieru, the Flamekeeper’s Alliance has rebuilt a tenuous peace. But the new Lochieru sovereigns, blessed by the vestiges of their god, are intent on waging another war, turning factions against each other and poisoning the very land itself to breed their dragons.
Therien, an apprentice leather worker in Reddan’s capital, insists on being caught up in the politics of the brewing war. She’s been living in Reddan for five years, after her mother’s untimely death. The only problem is that Therien is an elf, and Reddan is a kingdom of mortals. Her people are spurned by their mortal allies and branded “Forsakers” for actions they weren’t alive to remember.
Reuniting with her father comes with its own emotional turmoil. He’s lived through centuries of fighting and never really stopped grieving the people lost along the way, and he’s trying his best to protect her both from the brewing war and from the messy parts of his guilt at surviving the ones before it. She holds herself to an impossible standard, spending the following years looking for purpose amidst her frantic attempts at fitting in with a culture she’s lost touch with, and learning how to grieve her mother.
When armored dragons are sighted over Alliance territory, Tarnuvin sends messengers to its allies and Therien, bearing both her father’s melancholy and her mother’s righteous anger, leaves her home once again. The heroes of past ages are long gone, their cities and fortresses crumbled into ruin, and the Flamekeeper’s Alliance is close to breaking. As the war begins in full, others emerge to try mending the wars of their elders. What place is there for her, on the other side of her stubborn idealism, if they succeed?
as I was telling @robin-the-blind-sniper-rifle earlier, by book one’s opening, Idhren has no intention of ever entering another relationship. he’s lost his wife just five years earlier, he’s lost his lord who he loved as well, and so many years before that he survived an incident that killed his two closest friends, whose relationships with him were too new to have any name to them. he’s very tired. this never changes, his arc being more focused on platonic and familial love
that being said!! there’s something so fun about describing characters from his pov, ones who he finds attractive, just passively so with no interest in pursuing
Tanril is introduced as “Ilgost's capital representative, a broad-shouldered man with iron-grey curls, attractive in the robust manner of particularly adventuresome nobles” and I’m just thinking about that line a lot tonight as I struggle to write dialogue for the bastard
