#kurdish oc

[avruwu]

Eileen Snape !OC

[nazarbabe]

made an oc for IkeVil based on snow white ^_^

[lieutenant-fred]

I am a man with a regular sense of humour (nuh uh I was laughing the entire time I was drawing this)

Lodi Moros and Damascus Parastin belong to @freezinglemur btw

[eye-of-enigmatic-thought]

Can someone please hit me over the head to make sure I post art ive forgotten to post :V

Here's a reference of all the main characters of my Feltling setting! Currently it's been on the backburner as I work on Flesh Effigy Complex.

I think the only one ive not introduced properly yet is Ashti, I really should get around to that-

[silversiren1101]

Hello Minovae! A silly question, but what's your favorite hot beverage?

"Not a silly question at all! The easy answer is coffee. I think every armiger that's spent their years in training in the barracks as opposed to with a questing knight knows that familiar smell of black, burnt as shit coffee in the mornings. It's... almost a rite of passage itself. Hellknights aren't supposed to have vices and crutches but damn if most I've met don't share a fondness for the stuff. It's an unspoken rule to turn a blind eye to it - helps facilitate productivity and keeps one sharp, after all.

The more complex answer is... there's a type of 'coffee' you can find many variations of around the coastal cities of the Inner Sea. Westcrown has a version of it but it's not where it originated from. It actually comes from Thuvia, I think, but trade has brought it all over the region. It's made from terebinth and it doesn't have the energizing effects of normal coffee, but the taste of it is... with just a hint of sugar and light cream... it's sweet and nutty and so impossibly rich and creamy. Whenever I visit Westcrown I stop by a little cafe that makes it every time. They just call it Thuvian coffee. I don't know the actual name of it or where it truly comes from but... it's by far my favorite hot drink. Paired with some shortbread or scones, it's worth getting in trouble over."

(Based on Kurdish coffee irl! There's a little locally owned gelato company here in my home town that operates their cart at my local farmer's market. In the winter they sell Kurdish coffee drinks instead that the father buys when he visits his extended family in Turkey. They make a from scratch syrup and slurry of pistachios to line the cup bottom and sides with and it's just the most magical delicious drink. I look forward to it every winter.)

[18starkitten]

So…I began watching the Tales of Arcadia series, starting with Trollhunters. And I really like it! And then I found tik Toks and fanart of the shows and it inspired me to make a Oc.

Meet Leonora “Leon” Kurdish

She is a 19 year old enchantress who joins Team Trollhunter after she witness a fight between Jim and Nomura. She uses her magic to stop Nomura from attacking her, and it kind of made the whole situation a bit awkward. She joins the team as a healer and a magic user like Claire and Douxie.

Leon is from a long line of enchantresses, and one of her ancestors, Sora Kurdish, was friends with Morgana.

Here’s some random art with random bases I found on Pinterest (original artists are unknown) for you to enjoy.

[mwoesstuff]

My oc! Zoran! Made by Mwoe (me)

So yea! Thx for 20 notes <33 ! I’m really happy

[sillyfriendssharingablog]

Bloody Tiger/Azedi El Sayyd voice claims

Bloody Tiger (Mgs1)

Urbosa from BOTW

or Helga Sinclair from Atlantis: the lost empire (2001)

Bloody Tiger (MgsV)

Jinx from Arcane

or Louise from Bob's Burgers (or any character that is dubbed by Kristen Schaal to be fair)

[rojekte]

trying to think up a new oc and what their name should be while sobbing and screaming bc ive decided that i can not make them kurdish this time

[afooldyedinfolly]

If I had a nickle for every aspec and genderqueer Kurdish OC I have who has some sort of symbolism and/or motifs relating to donkeys, I would have three nickles. Which isn't a lot, but it is weird that it happened thrice.

[ezralikesyaprx69]

🌈Prismatic coloration 🌈

[avruwu]

Laniya Kalmasi !OC - Eileen’s Mother

[rhyaxxyn]

a writeblr resurrection

my name is rhyannyn, and i'm looking to get more involved into the writeblr community after a lengthy hiatus of getting myself and my works in order. i'm always willing to follow new people, and reconnect with writeblrs i knew a few years ago when i was consistently on tumblr (going as kennedy :b)

if you write any of the following, are intrigued by any of the following, or just want to hang out and rip my OCs apart (i've got a list of where you should start, by the way) please feel free to follow and I will follow back. i'm really looking to find writeblrs right now who blogs are focused on writing, as i always love finding new things to read, and new stories to support :)

tragic characters--characters who see no way out, characters who are icarus coded and sisyphus coded AND antigone coded, characters caged by their duty and love and faith and it destroys them

in turn, complex characters with really rich backgrounds

stories influenced by slavic cultures (polish heritage plays a large part in one of my fantasy cultures)

queer fantasy stories by queer voices

FANTASY! CONTEMPORARY FANTASY! SCIFI FANTASY! DARK FANTASY! HIGH FANTASY! URBAN FANTASY! I WILL SCROUNGE THE FLOORS FOR FANTASY AND GORGE MYSELF ON IT!

stories that are anti-colonizer. i like seeing indigenous people win, and i love stories with irish, native american, sammi, and kurdish influences. i like seeing characters cling to who they are and old gods and kind ways while colonizers try to take it away, and i like seeing indigenous people prevail.

worldbuilding with a major focus on family values, religion, and magic.

any and all things dark

slowburn lovers, slowburn friendships, slowburn found family. make it teeth-gritting and loving and heart gouging. i will devour it.

characters who are hurt and traumatized and it isn't the end. characters in the dark who keep going even when there isn't any light in sight.

all things divine and demonic and grimy. i have a taste for violence as long as it serves a purpose to the story and isn't done just for fun

this is a list of things i write, and what i particularly love to read in literature, but i'm willing to follow any writeblrs and hopefully connect with some new and old accounts!

again, i've been off of tumblr for an official two years now (yes my bad, but alas i had the strangest hyperfixation on the job i despise and totally disappeared), but i am holding myself by the throat and forcing myself to resurrect because i am trying to publish a book right now!

oh and my wip page sucks. please avoid it at all costs while i try to edit it :3

[the-anon-scp-confessions]

I just love the general concept behind Detective Void so much but I HATE the fact that its a content farm + that so many videos have been deleted. Does anyone else remember when he tried detacting from SCP and become his own thing? I looked at his channel while writing this , and there are like only half of the vidoes i remember there being. Im really tempted to take all his lore , design and general concept and turn him into an OC.

TEXT READS: "Continuing my previous confession, I am pretty sure that there IS Detective Void lost media, like posters mentioning NFTs, his shorts channel and all videos from the non-scp era."

"Also I found out the specific branch of the content farm group behind him is based in the geographical region of Kurdistan. If I were to make him an OC should I make him a beautiful Kurdish man instead of a random white dude" [END TEXT ID]

Make that OC! There is nothing really stopping you.

New tag: 'scp content farm', the tag will be used when it direct reference to known content farms within the community.

[lunarubra]

Pairing: Cillian x OC (Jiyan Fabris)

Summary: Cillian is filming while Jiyan is at home trying not to get in trouble.

Warning: Angst, Mention of Miscarriage, Unplanned Pregnancy, English is Not My First Language.

Words: 2614

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Chapter 4 - Dictum, factum

Light poured through the wide window, illuminating the slight clutter on her desk—books stacked haphazardly, a mug still half-full from yesterday’s tea, and loose papers detailing her latest university writing. Outside, the sounds of the neighbourhood drifted in on the breeze.

Across the street, she could see the craggy rooftop of the neighbouring building, where seagulls had taken up residence. They squawked intermittently, breaking the otherwise tranquil atmosphere with their calls. Below her, the mechanic’s shop was alive with its usual chorus of metallic clinks, whirring tools, and the occasional shout between the workers. It was a rhythm she had come to recognize, a constant in the background of her quiet mornings.

Outside, Ireland was putting on a rare show of mild weather, the kind of crisp autumn day that made everything look clearer and brighter. The sky was a vast expanse of blue, with only a few wispy clouds breaking the stretch of openness. Though a chill hung in the air, it was gentler today, almost inviting, as if the world was encouraging her to step outside. The light flooding through the window cast a soft glow over her room, making even the rough, exposed beams feel warm and inviting.

But despite the fair weather, Jiyan felt too drained to venture out. Wrapped in her duvet, she lingered in bed long after waking, surrounded by the familiar sounds of her little world. She finally roused herself just enough to make a quick sandwich, hoping it would stave off her exhaustion. Yet the moment she finished, a thick wave of drowsiness settled over her again, and, surrendering to it, she returned to her bed, sinking gratefully into the soft warmth as the sounds of the outside world faded gently into the background.

She hated to admit it, but maybe Cillian was right—she should probably see a doctor, just to make sure nothing was going on. She’d felt so tired and sluggish since they returned from Italy, unable to shake the strange exhaustion weighing her down. Maybe it was the flu, or perhaps she just missed him more than she’d realised now that he was gone.

When she’d called her mother the night before, her advice had been given in typical Kurdish fashion: “Just eat more olive oil and sit in the sun—everything will feel better.” But apparently, that remedy wasn’t quite doing the trick here. Every time she ate something she felt more tired, if she could she would live by fruits and tea.

Checking her phone, she hoped for a new message from Cillian. He was filming in Wales for the week, something about a movie with an intense, mysterious plot she didn’t entirely follow, though she knew he and the two other leads were shooting everything in a single house within a week. She didn’t find any new messages, but she couldn’t help rereading the one he’d sent at 4 a.m., mentioning how hectic things were but how he wanted to call her tonight.

As she mulled over things, another message popped up, this time from Scott a colleague from another department at Trinity’s, confirming plans to celebrate her new position at the college that evening. He’d chosen a local pub and asked if she was still up for it.

Half-tired, half-trying to shake the exhaustion off, she replied, letting him know she’d be there but warning him she’d need a couple of wins in darts to feel better about herself.

“You just got a promotion—what are you complaining about?” he replied. “But fine, beat me if you must; I’ll drown my sorrows in pints anyway.”

Jiyan put her phone down and exhaled slowly, mentally preparing herself to leave the comfort of her bed for the evening’s plans. Even though a wave of fatigue still pressed down on her, she reasoned that some laughter and good company might lift her spirits. If nothing else, Scott was good at coaxing her out of a slump.

Walking through the cool night air helped wake her up a little, and with Cillian's leather jacket—just a bit oversized—wrapped snugly around her shoulders, she felt a comforting warmth. The pub was lively, more like a Saturday than a Thursday, with laughter and music spilling out onto the street. Inside, she spotted Scott waiting by the window, where the glow of warm light and lively chatter softened the room’s edges. She slid into the seat across from him, ordering a soda and hoping the bustling atmosphere might finally shake off her lingering grogginess.

Their conversation flowed easily, with Scott alternating between warm congratulations and his usual teasing. He handed her a “graduation hat” he’d swiped from the university storeroom—a silly, decorated cap—and a book she was already excited to read.

She couldn’t quite remember when their pub nights had become a habit or when they’d grown so close. If she had to describe him, Scott was like a smart but skittish cat, content to hide in his “box” (the old library at the campus) and come out only to eat and, occasionally, socialise. He’d probably describe himself as the department’s only good-looking black man, whose main hobby was guilting Irish students into attending his Gaelic lectures. Yet, their closeness came from something deeper—an unspoken recognition of shared struggles. She’d never forget the day he’d found her in the library, dark circles under her eyes after a panic attack and a sleepless night, and simply mentioned a therapist he’d been seeing for the past year. No questions, just quiet understanding.

Since then, they’d become friends in the most Irish way possible—by spending countless nights in the pub, swapping gossip from different faculties. Scott always had fresh stories about his dating life, an ever-changing carousel of encounters, while Jiyan would update him on her relationship with Cillian, even if he teased her endlessly about their “sickeningly in-love” status. His dry Irish humour kept her laughing, and these lazy, low-key nights out had become a kind of comfort. Cillian always joked that they’d made her a real Irishwoman at last, though she still needed to work on getting along with the weather.

“Look at you, Professor,” he quipped now, raising his glass with a smirk. “So you’re officially one of those high-brow academics now, yeah?”

“Oh, please,” she laughed, rolling her eyes as she clinked her glass against his. “It’s only part-time—barely counts!”

“Still counts to me,” Scott said, settling back in his chair. “Next thing we know, you’ll have us calling you Dr. Jiyan.”

“Dream on,” she replied, grinning. “And don’t forget, I’m definitely beating you at darts tonight.”

They had settled into an easy rhythm, trading quips and dissecting the latest university gossip. Scott, as always, had an arsenal of outrageous stories—from departmental feuds to faculty mishaps—and Jiyan’s laughter filled the air, blending with the hum of the pub. The warm atmosphere felt like a cocoon, a reprieve from the sluggish day she just had.

Scott was halfway through recounting the latest departmental drama when the aroma of fish and chips wafted over from a nearby table. The smell hit Jiyan like a wave, her stomach churning violently in response. A sudden, sharp nausea surged up, and she barely managed a quick excuse before darting toward the restroom.

Bent over the toilet, she didn’t even notice Scott follow her in, gently gathering her curls out of her face and murmuring a few steadying words. After making sure she was okay, he slipped out to go to the bar. By the time he returned, she was gripping the cold edge of the sink, still a little shaky and trying to catch her breath. Scott handed her a warm cup of water with a few lemon slices floating in it, giving her a moment to steady herself.

“Alright?” he asked, raising a brow with a hint of a smirk. “Or was my story really that outrageous that made you want to vomit?”

She let out a laugh, shaking her head. “No, no—it’s just that smell hit me like a brick, I guess. Came out of nowhere.” She tried to brush it off, but her mind was still buzzing with the strangeness of it.

Scott’s teasing expression softened. “You sure you’re alright? You’ve been looking a bit off since you walked in.”

“Yeah, probably just a virus or something,” she said, shrugging.

Scott looked at her, feigning suspicion. “So, no chance you’re… you know?” He waggled his eyebrows, only half-joking. “Don’t get mad, but my sister started feeling that way around greasy food and found out she was pregnant a week later.”

Jiyan went silent, her mind going blank suddenly. She stared at Scott, trying to laugh it off, but his words echoed in her mind. She hadn’t considered that, not even once.

Scott’s expression softened again. “You okay? Didn’t mean to freak you out, you just went pale for a second.”

She managed a nod and a forced smile. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.” But the idea wouldn’t leave, a quiet panic setting in beneath her skin.

“Come on,” Scott said, taking charge. “I’m bringing you home and tucking you in bed.”

Before she could protest, he’d already settled their tab, and they were soon in his car, the stereo playing a 90s girl-band mix that he didn’t explain. They pulled up at her place, and he walked her to the door, where she reassured him with a smile that she’d drink some tea and get to bed. Scott gave her a long, searching look, one she wasn’t ready to interpret. He pulled her into a hug, telling her to call him if she needed anything, and then left her alone with her thoughts.

Inside, she sank onto the couch, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea she couldn’t bring herself to drink, letting its warmth seep into her hands as she tried to calm herself. But the question lingered, pressing against her every thought. Finally, she shook herself from her daze, grabbed her jacket, and hurried out to the corner convenience store that doubled as an internet café, the only place open late in her neighbourhood.

The guy at the counter gave her a look of mild pity and concern as she paid for two pregnancy tests and a pack of mint gum. She avoided his eyes, stuffing her purchases into her bag and heading quickly back home.

Now, she sat on the closed toilet lid in her bathroom, staring at the two test kits on the sink as if she could make them vanish by sheer force of will. Her thoughts drifted to Cillian; she wanted him here beside her, yet she couldn’t shake the sudden fear of telling him. She felt foolish for not having considered this possibility at all. She had an IUD, after all, but she’d heard stories of failed contraceptives—her own cousin was the result of one.

A quiet dread crept into her, every old wound and memory flooding back unbidden. She could still see it—the stark images that played like a reel in her mind, memories of finding Samyah’s body, of blood running down her own thighs, each flash burning like it was happening all over again. Guilt, shame, and pain swirled together, tightening inside her chest until she curled up, hugging herself tightly against the bathroom floor, waiting for the storm inside to pass.

More than a year ago…

The university library felt colder than usual, its shelves casting long shadows that seemed to echo her own exhaustion. Jiyan wasn’t even sure why she’d come in the first place; the ache in her chest had been persistent all day, a gnawing grief that crept beneath her skin and refused to let go.

Kareem was at his parents’ house, helping his mother in any way he could, trying to stitch together the frayed remains of a family shattered by Samyah’s funeral. Their lives had been washed of color, the brightness and ease gone, leaving them trudging through each day as if even breathing had become a burden. Sometimes, Jiyan wondered if she and Kareem had made the right decision to keep the baby. What kind of family would they be born into? She could see the stiffness in Kareem’s shoulders, the way his jaw clenched whenever they spoke of it—he was as scared as she was. But the thought of letting go, of making that decision, had left them both gasping for air. She was tired of death, tired of the weight it cast over their lives, tired of the silence and the endless, unspoken pain. She didn’t feel ready to face motherhood, yet the idea of anything else left her as lost as the memory of Samyah, hovering like a ghost.

Since the night she’d found Samyah, sleep had become a stranger. Nightmares stole whatever little rest she managed, and she’d wake in a cold sweat, haunted by images she couldn’t shake. Kareem shared the same tortured nights, both of them carrying the scars of grief like open wounds. And still, nothing—not the long days, not even the sheer exhaustion—could keep her in their apartment. Being alone in that space filled her with a suffocating dread, and so she found herself here, pacing the aisles of the library with nothing to read or study, just a half-hearted attempt to distract herself. But even the words on the pages blurred before her, her tiredness too overwhelming to focus on anything for long. Instead, she drifted through the shelves like a ghost, barely noticing the titles, feeling as hollow as the silence around her.

Was she placing her hope for happiness in this unborn child? Couldn’t that be a cruel expectation, to imagine that everything might be okay just because she was pregnant?

For days, her body had been protesting: a constant ache in her back, bouts of dizziness, nausea that came and went without warning. She’d just reached an old shelf of tomes when a sudden, stabbing pain tore through her abdomen. She lost her balance, her hand instinctively grabbing the edge of the shelf for support, but the pain wouldn’t let up, pressing against her chest and stealing her breath. Books toppled around her, their thuds muffled as the world narrowed to the pain in her body and the wetness she felt but couldn’t place. Distantly, she heard the librarian’s panicked shouts, but her vision was already darkening, her senses slipping away. Another sharp wave of pain hit, and then… only blackness.

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there on the floor, eyes closed, focusing on her breath and trying to keep from being swept away by the flood of memories. She was startled only when her phone began to vibrate, the sound pulling her out of her thoughts. The vibrations buzzed insistently from the shelf, but she stayed frozen for a moment, simply listening to it hum against the wood until she finally found the strength to stand on shaky legs. By the time she reached it, though, the call had ended.

The screen showed three missed calls from “Stranger Man Met at the Pub”.

She stared at her phone, a knot of fear tightening in her chest, holding her back from returning the call. He’d know something was wrong the moment he heard her voice, and she wasn’t ready to explain. She didn’t even know what was happening herself and felt too drained to try.

She switched off her phone and, with one last glance at the two tests lying on the sink, left the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She crawled into bed, pulling the duvet up to her chin, hoping its warmth might chase away the hollow ache growing inside her.

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Thank you so much for taking the time to read. Your feedback, in any form, makes me happy. See you at the next one :)

amazing dividers from cafekitsune

[holycartoonwarrior]

ワラビスタン / Warabistan💺

In honor of my impending birthday in two days and the spirit of artfight (didn’t do it lol) I did a silly redrew my old OCs: Yu-Jin / “Jin” a Korean-Japanese salaryman and Wanawsha / “Wan” a Kurdish-Iranian migrant worker. Who live right outside Tokyo in 1992 at the start of the lost decades.

They fall in terrible wretched heterosexual love.