#Greenwarden OC

[noanieactuallydrawingalot]

Quick character concept sketch.

[ambrosykim]

my oc index

listed by how much they're on my mind, with some exceptions. bolded ones are especially dear to me.

mind blind

oc: alex wiseman (alex x rosy) (art) oc: evelyn wiseman (evelyn x noh) oc: frankie baker (frankie x nick)

the exile

oc: alva kalesko (alva x vethna, alva x syfyn) oc: zora hanak (zora x vethna, zora x vethna x nikke)

body count, infamous 

oc: angel andrews (angel x vinh, angel x august) (art) oc: noah nelson (noah x charlie, noah x seven)

a tale of crowns

oc: jêla teyran (jêla x delal) oc: niyan goran (nîyan x azad, nîyan x xelara)

the wayhaven chronicles

oc: charlie reyes (charlie x adam, charlie & felix) oc: lauren greene (lauren x mason) oc: del newman (del x farah) oc: simone moore (simone x nate) oc: kiki mori (kiki x ava)

dragon age

oc: ysolt cousland (ysolt x alistair) oc: alden hawke (alden x varric) oc: helle lavellan (helle x solas) oc: iola lavellan (iola x cullen)

thicker than

oc: day arthur (day x marcel) oc: aimee young (aimee x tracy)

baldur’s gate 3

oc: saffron carnavon (saffron x astarion) oc: zia lhalabar (zia x minthara) oc: sindri silversong (sindri x rolan) oc: nahza sunsvalor (nahza x shadowheart)

other ocs

oc: con silva (con x nightowl) (blooming panic) oc: noa sano (noa x sergi, noa x marco) (blood moon) oc: day arthur (thicker than) oc: mia kovacs (mia x blane, mia x kai) (the midnight hours) oc: ben anderson (ben x bautista x nazeri) (greenwarden) oc: jade foster (jade x oliver) (scout: an apocalypse story) oc: orion wright (speaker)  oc: thom dawson (the golden harp)

[queenofthieves]

tagged by @lavampira to take this uquiz for my ocs <3

i'll tag @frozenabattoir and @hero-of-the-horn (no pressure to actually do it), and if anyone wants to do it then i tag you

Nadezhda/Nadya - DnD

Love That Calms this is sweet. i hope you know that you make others feel at ease around you. you're a gem, a blessing, a treasure – and you should know it. it's comfortable loving you. it's a privilege to be around you and to be let into your world.

Crystal Locke - Infamous

Love That Lasts love unconditional, love unfailing. you love no matter what happens because you believe in the best – of you, and them. it will hurt and it will fail you, but this love tastes so sweet – you can never believe that it bitters sometimes. the way you choose to love unconditionally is incredible.

Lyn Arle - Greenwarden and Northern Passage

Love That Heals your love is healing. it burns you with every bit of your soul, but you choose to heal, nevertheless. you are so, so so strong and i hope you know that. i send you peace. i send you calm. i hope things will become better for you in time, just as you have made others better in time as well.

Vasilia - BG3

Love That Strengthens you make sure that people know that they are loved, and you give them strength when they need it the most. this is an ability that is rare; the love that you hold speaks wonders of yourself. i hope you're doing alright. isn't it exhausting always being the bigger person?

[selfinsertsenpai]

Sometimes, Foster hopes and prays that there’s no God so that they don’t have to see him live the way he does.

He’s 28 years old (already too long a life for someone like him), and there’s a lingering smell of cigarette smoke when he enters a room, as if the ash in the air were writing his signature in front of his eyes.

He’s too tall -- he’s still not as tall as Bautista, and for that he’s honestly grateful, because how that man doesn’t accidentally knock his head off getting into the car is legitimately impressive. His limbs are gangly and he looks like an alien in a human suit when he moves.

He rubs the back of his head, his undercut getting less and less noticeable with every passing day. Dull, lifeless green eyes stare back at him. If he were any less optimistic, he would maybe want to rip them out of his skull, just so that he wouldn’t have to look at them (or any of the rest of himself, for that matter) again.

There’s grime on the motel mirror, and he feels some sort of sacred kinship with it, splashing water from the sink onto his face. The bags underneath his eyes only stand out more. “You need to go outside more,” his mother would tell him. But every time he did, it would never result in a tan. Just another splash of freckles somewhere on his body. (He doesn’t think about how badly he wants Bautista to find all of them, make constellations as if his body is somehow comparable to the clear night sky.)

It probably had something to do with his stark-red hair. Kids would call him shit like “daywalker” and “red-headed step child” when he was little. They would also call him stuff like “girl” and “miss,” which was equally as wrong. He wonders if they’d call him a girl now, or if they’d upgrade to blatant dehumanization.

It was hard enough being a “girl” going through a growth spurt that put you at a solid 6′2″ in freshman year of high school -- imagine how hard it would be to be in front of those same kids that had called him nasty names as he is now. (Maybe he’d deserve it this time.)

He looks like shit, and doesn’t feel any better. Bautista keeps asking him if he’s okay, as if the answer’s gonna change. (He doesn’t think about how his heart starts to beat faster when he hears the worry in Marc’s voice.)

His top scars are one of the few things that he finds any beauty in on his body. They remind him that he’s done what he can to create himself. He is his own man, and he no longer has the tits to prove it. He can’t help but crack a smile at the thought of the way Bautista chuckled when he told him that joke, about a year into their “partnership.”

The syringe of testosterone is lying precariously on the edge of the porcelain, a millimeter of movement away from being on the floor, ready to step on and stab your foot into. The thought of just taking testosterone accidentally like that has come into Foster’s head once or twice before. He doesn’t dare to think about how Bautista would react if he walked out of the bathroom with a hole in his foot.

It doesn’t register that his breathing is getting heavier and more ragged until he looks into the mirror again and sees that he’s crying.

He’d have to deploy the special technique to go to sleep tonight, probably. He might even have to cuddle up with his bottle of ginger ale, if it gets any worse. (He doesn’t think about how Bautista’s arm would be just about as thick around, and how much warmer it would be.)

A knock on his door disturbs his thoughts (and temporarily disrupts his panic attack, thank God for Marc Bautista), giving him a bit of time to try and excuse the tears streaming down his hollow cheeks as droplets of water from attempting to wash his face.

“You can come in, I’m not naked or anything.”

Bautista gives him a second before he takes Foster up on that offer. “I heard you breathing heavy. Wanted to make sure that you were okay in here.”

Foster chokes down a sob. “You ever thought maybe it was just me getting my rocks off?”

“Knowing you, I would honestly be more surprised if that were the reason.”

Foster looks up to meet his “partner’s” eyes, and this is one of the few times of his life that he’s actually felt small.

“Bautista, seriously, I’m fine,” he says, and he would almost get away with it if it weren’t for the breathlessness.

The taller man looks into Foster’s eyes, and he rests a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to lie to me, Pierce. You’re... Christ this is gonna sound pathetic. You’re my best friend.”

Something inside Foster breaks. A rubber band that had been holding his ball-joints in place snaps in half. He feels himself crumble into a pile of mushy messy lovestruck pieces onto the dirty bathroom tile.

“I wish I were a better friend,” he replies, his voice breaking. He means it, in many ways. To be better at showing that he wants to be Bautista’s friend, to be deserving of that level of trust and care, to be even closer...

“You don’t have to be better. You’re great already.”

“Can I hug you?” Foster asks, knowing that this was never guaranteed. He cares so much about Marc. He wants nothing more than to hold him close to his chest and forget about the weight of the past hanging around his neck for just one goddamn second.

When he nods, Foster can’t help but sink into the warm slab of muscle in front of him. He can hear Bautista’s heart beating in his chest, and he wonders if this is the normal pace it goes at, or if it quickens when he’s around, like Foster’s own does.

Jesus Christ, he’s so good at hugs. There was a nagging thought in the back of Foster’s mind that told him that he was gonna snap in half when Bautista’s arms wrapped around him, but he’s so gentle, and it makes the ache in his stomach pulse harder.

One of the arms holding him moves away, and Foster has half a mind to protest, until he feels it on the top of his head, softly massaging his unruly mess of hair, fingers sprawling out across his too-long undercut and too-windblown hair. If this was an attempt at making Foster feel comforted, it was working, but if it was an attempt to stop his heart racing, it was failing miserably.

Foster pulls his head away from the crook of Bautista’s neck in a daze, looking at him through blurry eyes. His face is scorching hot, and it only gets warmer when he feels a calloused hand cup his cheek, tenderly moving a thumb across his cheekbone, catching a tear in its tracks.

And the next thing he knows, they’re connected at the lips, and it’s so good. It’s so fucking beautiful. There’s no perfection to be had here, no fireworks, no swelling symphony. It feels like a release of tension. An elastic band coming back to shape after being stretched to its limits. The ball of anxiety and overwhelming fondness in Foster’s stomach unravels itself as he feels Bautista’s chapped lips slide against his own.

Despite the times this has happened before (however few and far between), they’re still not quite in sync with each other’s movements yet, bumping noses and occasionally clacking teeth. It’s the best kiss that Foster’s ever had.

This isn’t a good way to stop him from panicking, and they both know it, but it gets him out of his head, and it helps them in figuring out exactly what they are, what they want, how they’re gonna fucking make it like this.

Foster’s never been the best at showing restraint, and this is no different. He’s desperately trying to get his tongue into Bautista’s mouth within seconds, and his hands wrap around his neck, hands trying to pull him even closer. His spit tastes like mint, and it’s even better tasting than the mints he steals from Bautista when he’s not looking. It seems like Bautista’s defenses are down too, because he’s relatively quick to allow it.

He’s almost too focused on the sensation of kissing the man in front of him to realize that he’s being pushed backwards towards the wall, and it’s only once his back is pressed to it that it fully registers. Bautista’s hands leave Foster’s body and are now fully boxing the shorter man in. The force behind them would suggest that it’s less about wanting to keep him against the wall, and more as an act of self-stabilizing.

And CHRIST, Foster can feel how warm and strong he is, and he wants to keep kissing him into oblivion, but he knows this is a bad idea. He knows that this will end badly, he knows that they’d both beat themselves up about it if they let it escalate like that, he knows, he knows, he knows.

He pulls away for a moment, breath ragged, as his hand runs along the taller man’s jaw. (He doesn’t think about how sharp and perfect it is, or how nice the stubble feels underneath his fingertips. He doesn’t think about tracing his fingers down his neck, toward his chest, down his abs...

(Or maybe he does.)

[iamverycrappyatwriting]

Dream

Greenwarden WIP fanfic

F!MC McDonough x M!Bautista

TW: gore, self harm, horror

F!MC has a dream and realizes Bautista might mean more to her than she thinks...

This is the first time I’ve written in 4 years I hope it’s not too offensive >_<

“Hey Guttersnipe, come look at this.” Bautista barely glances over his shoulder to acknowledge you entering his room before he is beckoning you in closer.

Something feels off today, it feels… Lighter. The air around him seems to shimmer, warm and golden as the early evening light makes its way through lace curtains, casting floral shadows over the room creating a comforting affect. A feeling of nostalgia sweeps over you that you can’t quite place and time seems to stretch as you lazily traipse over to him.

Throwing a hand out to lean your weight on the desk, you bend and peer at the screen to see what he’s showing you.You can’t focus on the screen. You’re leaning so close, you can feel the heat radiating off Bautista’s body. Your hair stands bristling, static electricity sparking between you. You feel the back of your neck flush, the tops of your ears, your cheeks. You can’t tell what's on the screen because all you can concentrate on is how close Bautista is to you. How easy it would be to reach out and touch him.

You dare to peak out of the corner of your eye. Why - to see if he’s reacting too? That’s a stupid train of thought… But he is looking back. He looks almost shy for Bautista. A heavy look, the heavenly light reflecting the warm flecks of brown in his dark eyes; intense and magnetic, drawing you in even closer so you find yourself face to face. His dark lashes casting a slight shadow over his strong cheekbones.

He smells good, you find yourself thinking. Warm and earthy, you can smell the spearmint on his breath. 

You're so close now you find yourself looking back and forth between each eye to make eye contact. His pupils are blown wide - is he feeling this too? You would never dare to think… But maybe… You shouldn’t think like this, this is Bautista this is your partner who finds you annoying and selfish and responsible for his failures. And yet… You feel like you can’t pull away.

Beautiful, you find yourself thinking and this time you can’t chastise yourself for the thought. He is. He’s tall and large and strong with hands like shovels but he has a gentleness you’ve never seen in a man of his size; a gentleness creating a sense of safety, his dark eyes so warm and inviting, his lips -

You can’t help to break eye contact to look at his lips. Soft and full and -

And he’s moving closer.

Slowly, tentatively. Your eyes shoot up to his and you find he’s looking at your lips but he glances up to look into your eyes millimeters before his lips hit yours. His eyes asking you the question ‘is this okay?’ as he hovers just above yours. He looks a little afraid - as if he expects you to lash out, or bolt in terror, but in this moment there’s nothing you want more than to see how his lips taste.

Your heart is pounding in your ears, butterflies are creating a storm in your stomach but you feel light and joyful for the first time you can remember.

Hesitantly you lift your lips ever so slightly closer to his, your eyes scanning his face for a sign he’s about to come to his senses - to back out - but the moment you move closer so does he and he gently grazes his lips against yours. A soft kiss so tender your heart aches in your chest and tears spring to your eyes.

His lips whisper against yours again and it feels like heaven and he tastes so sweet, of mints, and a little spicy - that hot sauce he puts on them to stop you from stealing them - and you feel electric. You feel alive. You feel warm. You lean in and deepen the kiss and it feels like you’ve been dying of thirst your whole life and he’s an oasis in the desert. You finally can have a drink you so desperately need and you pull.

Hands reaching - you both gently, tentatively hold each other, your hands running through his dark hair, his tugging you closer to him by your waist, pulling your flush to his chest as he still sits in the desk chair. The touching is doing something funny to your stomach and your kiss deepens again, hungrier you kiss again and again gently building up in intensity and - 

oh God, this feels so good…

You never dared to dream this could happen! His hands are warm and rough but they hold you so gently and you feel so small in his hands but you - you don’t feel breakable. For once you feel safe. Solid. Secure.

You shouldn’t. The intrusive thoughts creep in. 

What are you doing? 

You’re filthy. 

Get off him. 

You’re tainting him.

You open your eyes and find the room has gone cold. Grey, and oh God.

Everywhere you’re touching him there’s blood. Where your hands have been his flesh has been flayed open. The sweet taste of Bautista is overwhelmed by the taste of carrion in your teeth; disgusting rot, black and viscous.

Oh fuck.

Nononononono.

You rip yourself off him to find Bautista is looking grey, and thin and gaunt like something was sucking the life out of him - you were sucking the life out of him. He looks weak, his skin torn and ragged, shredded and macabre and there’s a milky film over his beautiful eyes and you - oh God - you want to be sick.

Bautista turns to you weakly, confused and also barely there, like holding on is hard.

This is wrong this is very, very, wrong.

“McDonough?” He asks, confused, his voice a raspy whisper grating against your ears.

You see the filth you left in his mouth; it spills out rancid and corrosive.

And he’s covered in red, in blood. Your hand prints clear as day.

You did this to him.

He reaches out for you and his hand tremors.

This is wrong this is so, so wrong.

I ruin everything.

“McDonough?”

He stands from the chair to step towards you and he looks skeletal, he looks aged. Blood drips on the floor where he stands, pooling.

Everything feels wrong.

You step back away from him, shaking like a leaf, you hold your hands up to keep him at a distance.

They’re red. So red. So much blood.

You scream.

…

……

……..

You wake thrashing in your sheets, cold sweat soaking you to the sheets.

You think you knew it was a dream by the end but the beginning had felt worryingly, tantalizingly real.

You can’t think like that. You can’t think of Bautista like that. You can’t wish, hope, dream of kissing him. Of being with him. It’s too dangerous. You’re too dangerous. You can only ruin. You destroy everything. You taint everything. Nothing good can come to close before you cause it to decay.

You can’t do that to Bautista.

You sit up, tangled in your damp sheets, hair sticking up every which way and light up a cigarette. It’s still dark out, but your alarm reads 4.15am so not too early then. Not for your line of work.

You let out a shaky breath, grateful you fell asleep with your vodka next to the bed and take a mouthful, swilling it around like mouthwash and swallow.

It’s warm and bitter and makes your eye tear up. Between the vodka and the cigarette you're feeling a bit more grounded.

Today however, you don’t resist that little voice that tells you to hurt yourself and you do put your cigarette out on your arm. It hurts. Fuck, it hurts. It sizzles and leaves the flesh under red and weeping and you want to scream but somehow it also feels like a relief.

Let it be a reminder. You tell yourself. I ruin what I touch.

The burning, stinging sensation stays as you get up to start your day when you hear a knock on your door.

It’s still only 4.22am. Too early to be work related - most likely.

You answer the door still dressed in only an oversized t-shirt and your underwear; let whoever is bothering you at this time feel uncomfortable. It’s not your job to care.

But when you see Bautista you feel your heart seize uncomfortably. You don’t open the door all the way and hide the arm you just burned behind the door frame. You know it was only a dream but you are finding it difficult to make eye contact as if he could see your dreams.

“What do you want?” Your voice comes out closer to a snap than you intended but Bautista doesn’t flinch towering over you in the way he does. God - why do you feel embarrassed, why do you feel so guilty? You can’t look him in the eye.

Bautista however is looking flushed and slightly embarrassed at the sight of you in nothing but a t-shirt (as if it isn’t covering all the scandalous bits, as if he hasn’t had to see most of you to patch you up) and though you felt confidant the thought of him seeing you like this wouldn’t affect you either, you feel even more exposed.

“I just - Jesus, McDonough. Have you been drinking?”

You don’t know why he sounds incredulous at the idea, it should be nothing new to him by now.

“Yes.” You roll your eyes and shift your weight from leg to leg holding the door ever so slightly more open. It gives you another excuse to not look him in the eye and you know it will wind him up. Let’s not think about what just happened. It’s easier to piss him off than face that dream.

“Did you stay up all night drinking? Or is it the first thing you do when you wake up? Because -”

“Did you come here to give out to me for my drinking habits? Or were you coming to check if I’d done you all a favour and finally off’d myself?” You resist the urge to wince, that was probably too far but you’re not one to back down. You were looking for a fight after all. You smile as cruelly as you can manage instead but your heart is aching in your chest.

Bautista is obviously as thrown as you had expected and he gives you a hard look.

“That’s not funny, McDonough.” His voice is hard but he quickly looks behind you into your hotel room. “Can I come in?” It’s a question but he pushes the door to go in as he asks it as if he just expects you to say yes. A sense of panic fills you, as if by entering the room he’ll see the mess inside your head, he’ll see the dream you dreamt and you grab the door quickly to stop him.

“Jeeze, I show a little bit of leg and you’re that eager?” 

Deflect, deflect, deflect.

Bautista’s face twists, his cheeks redden but he looks as annoyed as he is embarrassed by your crass remark.

“Fucking assho-” He starts to snap but suddenly he grabs your arm behind the door and pulls it close, twisting it to inspect it. It happens too fast to react before he sees the burn mark. You feel your gut twist uncomfortably, guilt, shame, those nasty feelings you feel because you’re aware this is something you shouldn’t do but you push them down quickly. It’s not your fault others feel uncomfortable by your coping mechanisms.

Still, you don’t want him to look. Even if he’s seen it before.

“Guttersnipe…” His voice is soft, his hands on your arm hold you softly, his lips are pursed tightly and his face has that awful pinched look. You hate this. You hate being pitied. It makes you feel small; weak. How dare he pity you.

You rip your arm out of his grasp.

“Gotta put cigarettes out somewhere.” Your tone is joking but you are not smiling.

“Let me dress it.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’ll get infected.”

“I said. It’s fine.”

“Just let me look at it.”

“Fuck. Off. You’re not my friend, okay? I said ‘I’m fine.’ I’m fine.” You glare up at him as intensely as you can. You feel like an exposed nerve after that dream and you just want to hide. Every second around him feels like he’s going to find you out and having him act like he cares… It’s too much. It hurts. You want him to hurt back.

It works, you think. Bautista takes a step back, he looks both annoyed and concerned and you suddenly want to be alone. It hurts to see him look at you like this.

“I just…” He begins but you don’t let him finish. You wish you had got dressed before you answered the door now. You see other people wear dresses shorter than this t-shirt all the time and it doesn’t look lewd but you feel undressed all the same. Naked.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll try get a few more minutes shut eye before we get back to work. Later, Bautista.” You close the door in his face before he can tell you what he even came for.

This is for the best. You’re not friends.

You can’t shake this dream.

You know now, you have feelings for your partner. You have feelings for Bautista. But you shouldn’t.

You can’t filthy him, you can’t do that. Not to him.

He matters too much.

[wolfsspectre]

mc: you know, nazeri, i've really come to value our friendship

mc: and that's why i feel i can talk to you about something that's been bothering me

nazeri: feel free - i know if i had a problem, i'd want to confide in someone like me

[fat-rolls-frictions]

the bis are kissing,,,,,,, my and @estroniaid‘s ocs :>

[anxietytwist]

𝐊𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰

[ 𝟹𝟹 | 𝟻'𝟶" | Trans Man | Demisexual | 𝐁💚𝐍 ]

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⟨Clothing⟩

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⟨Notes⟩

ᴘʀᴏɴᴏᴜɴꜱ➔ He/Him ʙᴜɪʟᴅ➔ 𝘛𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥ʜᴀɪʀꜱᴛʏʟᴇ➔ Wavy, short, undercut

ᴍᴇᴍᴇɴᴛᴏ ᴍᴏʀɪ➔ Mom's wedding ring💍

𝐊𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧 had top surgery (𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘛) & is currently taking testosterone (his parents were very supportive during his transition)

He has 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘤 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦

The more layers he's wearing the “happier” he is . . . 🙃

𝐊𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧 DOESN'T drink alcohol (preferring to instead order pop when he's out at a bar)

...

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𝐼𝐹: @fiddles-ifs

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Picrew used:

The height difference between Kieran & everybody else makes me so amused, considering how feral/dangerous he is in contrast to some of the other characters...

[luxecoffin]

for oc kiss week 2022, i decided to do something a bit different! who’s responsible for the kisses? that’s up to you ;)

part 1 here. 

top row: eurydice lavellan belonging to @star--nymph, talvinder kaur cousland belonging to @vakarians-babe

middle row: fenesvir belonging to @forystr, rabbit winslow belonging to @impossible-rat-babies

bottom row: pepper belonging to @ineed-to-sleep, katerina irakleids belonging to @rosewoodcasket, ilora betek belonging to @missiodine

[ghoulvatt]

some semi blending practice with the Greenwarden boys

[impossible-rat-babies]

--> rabbit’s wardrobe 1/?

[writerrayart]

A while back I started trying to draw all of my interactive fiction mcs. These are the ones I managed to finish before getting distracted by trying to figure out Procreate. The names and games are listed below, but here’s a game first! The games they’re from are Attollo, Blood Moon, Speaker, Greenwarden, Bastard of Camelot, and Golden. I’d say Speaker, Bastard of Camelot, and Greenwarden are pretty obvious, but regardless, try to guess which is which before looking lol

1. Modred, Bastard of Camelot by @llamagirl28

2. Holly, Blood Moon by @barbwritesstuff

3. Piper Sinclair, Golden by @milaswriting

4. Claire and Gwen Young, Speaker by @speakergame

5. Sabrina Kleine, Attollo @attollo

6. Leah Stark, Greenwarden

[prim-moth]

A yellow eye making you sink

Been playing @fiddles-ifs Greenwarden!

[kruk-art]

Yelene just found her sister :D Robin belongs to @somewillwin 

[khiita]

OC-TOBER day 24 // meet my mcs!

finn oz / oswald 🩹 (he/him)

verse(s): fallen hero, greenwarden, project hadea

ortega playlist / theme song / pinterest board 🩹

[witchofthewild]

The my oc as meme for Lewis! You can find the template here.