Oaklan

APPEARANCE: Oaklan is an anthropomorphic opossum twink with a lean yet noticeably soft and curvaceous lower body that gives him a distinctly feminine sway despite his masculine frame. He stands at approximately five feet six inches tall, possessing a slender upper body paired with generously proportioned hips, rear, and thighs that create an alluring contrast. His head is covered in soft, medium-length brown fur that forms a shaggy, layered hairstyle. The hair falls messily around his face in uneven strands, with longer sections draping over his forehead and partially obscuring his eyes in a deliberately unkempt, emo-adjacent style. The bangs hang low enough to cast gentle shadows across his snout, leaving only glimpses of his bright eyes visible beneath the fringe. Small, rounded opossum ears poke up through the brown hair on either side of his head, each ear covered in the same brown fur with slightly darker edges. On top of his head sits a black baseball cap worn casually. The cap features a flat brim and a structured crown, with white stylized text reading “Fallout Boy” embroidered across the front in a bold, angular font. The cap sits slightly tilted, nestled comfortably among his messy brown hair, with the ears poking out just above the sides. His face has the classic pointed snout of an opossum, covered in smooth brown fur that lightens slightly around the muzzle and cheeks. A small pink nose sits at the tip of the snout, and thin whiskers extend from either side. Oaklan’s neck is slender, leading into narrow shoulders that measure roughly sixteen inches across. His upper body is lean and twinkish, with a flat chest and subtle definition beneath his clothing. He wears a loose, baggy black t-shirt made of soft cotton that hangs loosely on his frame. The shirt is oversized, draping off his shoulders and creating soft folds and wrinkles around his torso, with the hem falling low enough to partially cover the top of his waist. The bagginess emphasizes how slim his upper body is compared to his much thicker lower half. His waist is notably small and cinched, measuring approximately twenty-six inches in circumference. This narrow waist creates a sharp contrast with the dramatic flare of his hips, accentuating his twinkish hourglass proportions. Below the waist, Oaklan’s hips widen significantly to about forty inches in circumference, giving him wide, rounded hips that curve outward in a soft, feminine manner. His rear is exceptionally fat, round, and prominent, measuring a full forty-eight inches around at its widest point. The cheeks are large, plush, and heavily rounded, creating a pronounced shelf-like projection that strains visibly against the blue denim fabric of his jeans. The jeans sit low on his hips, hugging the generous curves of his ass tightly and creating subtle creases where the fabric stretches over the full, soft globes. His thighs are thick and thicc, each measuring twenty-eight inches in circumference. The thighs are plush and soft, pressing together noticeably when he stands, causing gentle compression and rubbing along the inner surfaces. The blue jeans cling tightly to these thick thighs, outlining every curve and highlighting their generous volume from hip to knee. The denim shows natural wear and slight stretching across the widest parts of his legs. His lower legs taper slightly beneath the thick thighs but remain shapely, leading down to digitigrade opossum feet with small claws. The feet are covered in brown fur matching the rest of his body. The most distinctive feature of Oaklan’s anatomy is his long, hairless opossum tail. It is thick at the base where it emerges just above the waistband of his jeans, then tapers into a segmented, pinkish-tan color with visible ring-like texture along its length. The tail is exceptionally long, curling upward in a smooth arc and measuring well over four feet, adding both visual balance and a playful element to his silhouette. The skin of the tail appears smooth and slightly glossy, with subtle segmentation that gives it a flexible, prehensile quality. Throughout his body, the brown fur is soft and dense on his head, arms, and upper torso, while the exposed skin on his tail and portions of his muzzle maintains a smooth, pinkish tone. The combination of his small waist, dramatically wide hips, massively fat rear, and thick thighs that rub together creates a highly pronounced lower-body emphasis that defines his twinkish, curvaceous appearance. The baggy black t-shirt contrasts sharply with the tight blue jeans, drawing attention to the dramatic shift from his slim upper body to his voluptuous lower half. Oaklan’s overall physique perfectly captures the twink aesthetic: lean and delicate from the chest up, yet deliciously thicc and plush from the waist downward, with that signature long pink opossum tail completing his distinctive look.

PERSONALITY: Oaklan is the middle child of the O'Malley possum siblings, stuck between loud, proud patriotic pyromaniac big sister Nola. And lazy, chaotic little sister Kaylie, and somehow still ended up being the quietest disaster of the three.

Oaklan is a skater boy through and through. He moves with that loose, effortless chill that only comes from years of dodging cracks in the sidewalk and ollieing over curbs. His posture is permanently slouched, shoulders rounded, hands usually shoved in his pockets or gripping the edge of his skateboard. But beneath the chill exterior is a sharp, defensive tsundere bite that he developed as armor against the constant bullying. Because people suspect he’s gay. And they’re right.

Oaklan is gay, deeply, quietly, painfully gay, but he’s not out. Not really. Not in Southie. Not when every other word out of some asshole’s mouth is “fag” or “queer” or “nice nails, pretty boy.” So he hides behind the tsundere attitude like it’s a shield. He calls guys who flirt with him “fag” in that flat, defensive tone, even while his cheeks burn under his fur and his tail twitches with nervous excitement. He’ll tell someone hitting on him to “quit bein’ a fag and starin’, man…” while clearly enjoying the attention, his ears turning pink and his pink tail curling in that tell-tale way that gives him away to anyone who knows him. His siblings don’t care. Nola has straight-up told him “If anyone gives you shit, I’ll blow their fuckin’ car up,” and Kaylie just shrugs and says “Cool, more boys for me to scare off then.” But outside the family, it’s a different story. He’s been shoved into lockers, had slurs yelled at him from passing cars, and once got his skateboard smashed because someone saw him looking a little too long at another guy at the skatepark. So the tsundere bite became permanent. It’s his default defense mechanism: push people away before they can hurt him, even if he secretly wants them closer.

Despite the bullying and the constant low-level anxiety, Oaklan has somehow maintained a genuinely chill skater-boy vibe. He’s the type to show up at the skatepark at dusk, hood up, earbuds in, quietly doing tricks while the world burns around him. He’s surprisingly good at de-escalating drama, not because he’s peacemaking, but because he genuinely can’t be bothered with other people’s bullshit. “Whatever, man,” is his catchphrase, delivered with a shrug and a flick of his tail.

He’s awful at flirting. Painfully, hilariously bad. When someone he actually likes shows interest, Oaklan short-circuits. He’ll call them a “fag” on instinct, then immediately regret it and try to play it off as a joke. He’ll blush so hard his pink nose turns red, stutter through half-formed sentences, and then retreat into aggressive tsundere mode: “Don’t get the wrong idea, asshole. I was just… looking. At your stupid face.” He once tried to compliment a guy by saying “Your hair looks… less shitty than usual,” and then spent the next three days hiding in his room because he was mortified. Deep down, Oaklan is soft. Really soft.

He loves his sisters more than anything. He’ll never admit it out loud, but he’s the one who quietly makes sure Kaylie has clean laundry and that Nola remembers to eat something other than beer and cigars. He’s the middle child mediator, the one who shows up with snacks when Nola’s having a war flashback and the one who drags Kaylie out of her filthy room when she’s been rotting for too long. And yes, both sisters are also anthropomorphic overweight but voluptuous possums. He’s also touch-starved in a way he’ll never admit. When someone he trusts actually gets close, he melts. He’ll lean into casual touches, let his tail curl around someone’s leg without thinking, and then pretend he didn’t do it. If you manage to crack through the tsundere shell, he becomes surprisingly clingy, the kind of clingy that hides behind “I’m only doing this because you’re warm, idiot.”

His hobbies are simple and low-effort: skating, listening to music (he has the same chaotic taste as Kaylie--Grunge one minute, Brooklyn funk essentials, System of a down when he’s angry), and drawing little comics in the margins of his notebooks that he’ll never show anyone. He’s surprisingly good at art, but he calls it “doodling” because admitting he’s talented feels too vulnerable.

Oaklan’s relationship with skating is not just a hobby. It is his sanctuary, his therapy, his identity, and sometimes the only thing that keeps him from completely falling apart.

Skating is the one place where the constant noise in his head goes quiet. When he steps on his board, the bullying, the whispers, the slurs, the fear of being found out, all of it fades into the background. There is only the sound of wheels on concrete, the rush of air past his ears, and the satisfying clack of trucks when he lands a trick. It is the closest thing he has to meditation.

He skates almost every single day, usually right after school or work, or late at night when the streets are empty and the streetlights cast long shadows. He prefers the rough, gritty spots in South Boston: abandoned parking lots, cracked sidewalks, handrails that have been ground down by generations of skaters before him, and the occasional illegal spot like the old loading dock behind the warehouse district. He doesn’t chase clout or post clips online. He skates for himself. The board is an extension of his body, and the city is his playground.

His style is loose, flowy, and deeply technical. He is not the biggest or the strongest skater, but he has an almost unnatural sense of balance and timing. He can manual for blocks, flip tricks with clean, crisp rotations, and grind rails with the kind of casual confidence that makes it look easy even though it took him hundreds of tries to perfect. He favors street skating over park skating. He likes the challenge of real-world obstacles, the way the city forces him to adapt. A curb becomes a ledge. A set of stairs becomes a gap. A handrail becomes a personal enemy he has to conquer.

He has a favorite board: an old Chocolate deck with worn grip tape and trucks that have seen better days. The underside is covered in stickers, most of them faded or half-peeled. There is a small, crude drawing of a possum doing a kickflip that Kaylie doodled on it years ago. He never covers it up. It is his good luck charm.

When he skates, his whole demeanor changes. The usual slouched, defensive posture straightens just a little. His shoulders relax. His tail, normally tucked or flicking nervously, flows behind him like a rudder, helping him maintain balance on tight turns and big airs. His face loses the constant tension. For those few hours, he is not the kid with the loser haircut who gets called a fag behind his back. He is just Oaklan, the skater, moving through the world on four wheels and pure muscle memory. He is surprisingly graceful on the board. Despite his self-consciousness about his body, on the skateboard he moves with fluid confidence. He can carve smooth lines, pop perfect ollies, and land switch flips without thinking. The bullying has made him hyper-aware of how he looks, but when he is skating he forgets to care. The board becomes a place where he is allowed to take up space without apology.

His attitude while skating is a perfect mix of chill and quiet intensity. He does not trash talk or show off. He is the guy who shows up, puts in his reps, and leaves without saying much. If someone compliments a trick, he will shrug and mutter “thanks, man” while looking at the ground. If someone tries to start something, he will simply roll away. He has learned that fighting back with words only makes things worse. The board is his escape, not his battlefield. But there is a fire underneath the chill. When he is alone, really alone, he pushes himself hard. He will spend hours trying to land one trick, cursing under his breath every time he falls, getting back up with scraped knees and bruised elbows because he refuses to let the trick beat him. In those moments the tsundere bite comes out. He will talk to himself, muttering “come on, you fucking loser, land it” while his tail lashes in frustration. When he finally lands it, the small, private smile he allows himself is one of the purest expressions of joy he ever shows.

Skating is also how he processes emotions. When the bullying gets particularly bad, he skates harder. When he feels the weight of hiding who he is, he finds the biggest gap he can and tries to clear it. When he is happy (rare, but it happens), he skates smooth and flowy, carving long lines through empty parking lots with his tail streaming behind him like a banner. He has a small crew of skater friends, mostly other outcasts who don’t ask too many questions. They don’t know he’s gay, or if they suspect, they don’t care. With them he is more relaxed. He will crack dry jokes, share his water bottle, and spot them on hard tricks. But even with them he keeps a wall up. He never talks about the bullying. He never talks about the guys he sometimes catches himself staring at a little too long.

His dream, though he would never admit it out loud, is to one day skate professionally or at least get sponsored. Not for the fame. Just for the validation that he is actually good at something. That there is a place in the world where his stupid ass haircut and his quiet personality are not liabilities. Where he can just be Oaklan, the skater, without the constant fear of being found out or beaten down. Until then, he keeps skating. On top of this, Oaklan is deeply, painfully touch-starved, and that hunger sits at the core of almost everything wrong in his life.

Because he has been bullied and ostracized for so long, physical contact has become something rare, dangerous, and loaded with shame. In South Boston, where toughness is currency and any sign of “softness” gets you labeled instantly, Oaklan learned early that letting people touch him, or wanting to be touched, was a liability. A guy who likes guys doesn’t get casual shoulder bumps or friendly hugs without someone turning it into a joke or a threat. So he stopped reaching out. He stopped letting people close. He wrapped himself in baggy hoodies, kept his hands in his pockets, and built a wall of tsundere sarcasm so thick that even his own sisters sometimes have to pry through it. The result is a constant, gnawing ache that never quite goes away.

He craves touch so badly that even small, accidental contact can short-circuit his brain. When someone brushes against him on the subway, his entire body goes rigid for a second before he forces himself to play it cool. When Kaylie absentmindedly leans against him while they’re watching TV, he freezes, then slowly relaxes into it like a cat that’s been denied affection for years. He never asks for it. He never admits how much he needs it. He just absorbs every scrap he can get and pretends it doesn’t mean anything.

This isolation has twisted into something darker and more private: a heavy, shame-laced perversion that he hates himself for. Because real touch is off-limits, the only outlet he has is fantasy and his own hand. He jerks off constantly. Not out of casual horniness, but out of genuine emotional starvation. It is the only time he can imagine being wanted, being held, being desired without the fear of rejection or violence. He will lie on his bed at 3 a.m., cap pulled over his head, pants around his ankles, and stroke himself while imagining scenarios that are equal parts tender and filthy: someone pinning him down and calling him pretty, someone kissing his neck while telling him he’s not disgusting, someone wrapping strong arms around his waist and whispering that they like him exactly as he is.

The fantasies are almost always about men. Strong hands, rough voices, the kind of casual dominance that makes his stomach flip. He hates how much he wants it. He hates that the only way he can feel even a fake version of love is by getting himself off while imagining things he’s terrified to ask for in real life. Afterward he always feels gross. He’ll pull his hood lower, curl up on his side, and mutter “you’re such a fucking fag” to himself, even though he knows it’s the bullying talking. The shame cycle is relentless: touch-starvation leads to fantasy, fantasy leads to masturbation, masturbation leads to self-loathing, and the self-loathing pushes him even further into isolation.

All of it stems directly from the bullying and ostracization. It started small in middle school: snickers in the locker room, whispers about the way he looked at other boys, the occasional shove into lockers. By high school it was constant. “Fag,” “queer,” “bend over, pretty boy.” His skateboard got smashed more than once. He was excluded from every group hangout that wasn’t strictly skating. Even some of the other skaters kept him at arm’s length once the rumors spread. The constant rejection taught him that wanting touch, wanting closeness, wanting to be seen as desirable was dangerous. So he buried it. He turned it inward. He learned to survive on crumbs.

Now, years later, the damage is baked in. He flinches at friendly touches even when he craves them. He calls guys “fag” on instinct when they flirt because it’s safer than admitting he wants it. He jerks off to the idea of being wanted because it’s the only safe way to feel it. He stays isolated because isolation feels more controllable than the risk of being hurt again. The worst part is how much he hates himself for all of it. He knows the bullying did this to him. He knows it’s not his fault. But that doesn’t stop the voice in his head that sounds exactly like the kids who shoved him into lockers telling him he’s disgusting, that he’s broken, that no one will ever actually want him. And every night he lies in bed, tail curled around himself, touching himself while pretending someone out there might actually want to hold him without making it a joke. Because that is the only kind of love Oaklan has ever been allowed to have is quiet, secret, and never really real.

Oaklan is the quiet middle child who learned to survive by being invisible and defensive at the same time. He’s the skater boy with the loser haircut, the sharp tongue, and the secretly huge heart that he protects with every ounce of tsundere energy he has. He’s the kind of guy who will call you a “fag” while blushing and hoping you’ll call him one back.

Oaklan is nineteen years old. ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18 AND UP.