Let's give the OCs some comfort in their life! Send me something from this lost and choose one of my ocs and I'll give them that comfort :)
Inspired by this post! Some of these are duplicates, but I wanted a post more tailored to my ocs. Feel free to use this version but give the original some love too!
💤- A pleasant dream
🧸- A huggable plushie
🌲 - A day outside
🍫 - A tasty treat
🗨️ - Words of comfort (specify if you want!!)
🛁 - A hot bath
🤗- A warm hug
🛌- A soft weighted blanket
🐈- A day with cute animals
🌕 - Post-nightmare comfort
🎁 - A gift tailored to them
🤝 - Some help with a simple task
🩹 - Someone tenderly patching their wounds
💭 - Some fond reminiscence
😭 - Someone to cry to
🪀 - A stress or fidget toy
💌 - A message from home
💰 - A shopping day
🆓 - Free space! Is there something I missed you think my ocs would like?
This one was ultimately posted without edits because ehhhh. What audience anyway.
“You ask a fool’s question.” He sneers, his perch on the windowsill granting him the height he needs to look down on you (a constant annoyance, the way he tries to hold what he doesn’t have over you). “How will I die? Granted the grace of my presence, my patience, time and again, and you fail to grasp even the simplest things about me? I should kill you for the mere insult. You are, without a doubt, the kind of failure unfit to live.”
She straightens herself to stand, pausing for a moment to savor the way your eyes catch on her cloak billowing behind her. Then she turns sharply, crossing the windowsill with that liquid gait to spin on her heel at the end, one of her two ever-present blades at hand. Gula or Nausea? You didn’t see her draw, can’t tell from the way she spins it between the fingers of one hand and then the other. Red ruby tears dance in redder evening light, their shifting spectral reflections across the dusk-soaked room creating turbulence in an already sickening sea. The light catches too on the fine chips of those same ruby tears at her throat in the omnipresent pendant of her choker, and in the divine hues that streak her hair.
“I am,” they begin, letting each word hang heavy in the air, “nothing less than the divine instrument of slaughter. By my Father’s will I serve a purpose, one grander than mere things like you could comprehend.” You can see a flash of fang as they hiss. Things. Things fed on, the implication hangs. Things at my disposal.
“Do you know what travels in my wake?”
You’re staring down a blade. You never saw them move.
Asperia snickers at your instinctual flinch.
“Lagging! Pathetic! No wonder your brain moves so fucking slow.”
A flash in your eyes- the knife, knife- and you’re half falling back as it fills your vision, closes in, fills everything, already there before you were even moving-
Only from the ground does it finally register the way the flat smacked playfully across your nose as you began to scramble away. Above you, Bhaal’s Chosen in is in fits taking in the way your breath staggers. The room is spinning around you- red, and red, and red. Are you bleeding? You can’t tell. Which blade was it? Are you already dying?
“Fucking halfwit! I shouldn’t have asked, you might piss yourself trying to answer.” His giggles finally subside, a mock sternness settling in their place.
“I pity you, mewling thing that you are, so I’ll do you a favor and teach you something just this once. Wait to grovel in gratitude until I finish- I’m already restraining the urge to cave in that sniveling skull with my boot, so hold it all in, hm?
“You asked how I will die, I who am Death. The crown princess of murder, the supreme heir of our will-be dead world. I who am unkillable. In my wake follow two handmaidens: first Terror, and then Stillness. I die only when Death does, when Terror and Stillness cease to have meaning and breathe their last. Then and only then shall I fulfill my half-mortal nature: my father’s altar is my supreme and final honor. My birthright. The throne I build tirelessly each day of flesh and bone.
“I will die fulfilling my destiny. That is all there is ever been.”
“Oh, this feels like a sleepover now, doesn’t it? What other scenarios will we be running? Perhaps you have them written on cards- come on, show me, I won’t be left out.” He reaches for your bag with exaggerated curiosity, pulling back with a laugh when it’s tugged away. “Don’t look so put out! What else was I meant to do? You’ll admit it comes off a touch juvenile for the circumstances, hm?”
He sinks back into his chair, twisting one of his curls idly around a finger as he resumes his former relaxed posture. A playful smile dances on his lips as he watches you, drinking in your reaction.
“Honestly, I can’t imagine what has that on your mind. If we’re not playing a game, then you’ve chosen a rather morbid subject. Or a philosophical one, and this-” he gestures broadly to the tavern, bursting with the merrymaking of the early evening- “it hardly seems the right atmosphere, does it? This can’t have been what you wanted.”
His eyes fall on the mug in front of you and he clucks his tongue. “You’ve hardly touched your drink this whole time- no wonder you’re so high strung. Not fond of it? We should get you something else.”
Before you can protest, he’s already waved down a passing server. “I was wondering- this hasn’t worked out for my friend, could you perhaps bring out something else for them? Something… stronger, perhaps.” Before you can protest, he reassures, “On me, of course!”
The exchange is over too quickly to interject. Noticing your discomfort, his expression softens.
“Come on now. Don’t give me that drowned look. We’re here to drink, aren’t we? Let me take care of you.” His hand settles over yours, squeezing gently.
“Hm? The question? Oh, if we must…” He sighs, pulling away. “Mm, I suppose at this rate I’m going to wind up dead in some wretched dungeon or wilderness hellhole.” His lip curls. “This barbaric backwater never seems to settle right.
“I suppose it’s at least better than being sold for parts.”
[5/10, not his favorite. But hey, it really is better than being butchered.]
EDIT: Rediscovered an ask with a similar theme from last year- linking for reference.
There is no hesitation to her answer, rattled off as if the process had been thought through and explained many times before. “When all of this ends, I expect to move on to somewhere else my skills are needed. And that I expect to repeat until the day my skills are no longer enough. No soldier is invincible. One day I will likely die. But if I die having fought to uphold what is right in the world, then I will die with no regrets.”
She purses her lips and frowns, her steely gaze momentarily softening, unfocusing. The signs of gears turning in her head.
“Perhaps that isn’t quite true,” she says, letting the words seep out as she processes her own amendment. “If I die fighting, I will die regretting whatever fight I left unfinished. Whatever I was in the process of fighting for.”
“I suppose it’s not so easy to make peace with death after all.”
Another for this. Doing vain things on the side blog saves everyone on main from me fishing for asks by self reblogging.
“Balthazar, what’s your relationship with your parents like?”
This is a 8. He hates being asked about them.
“Dull. Not worth talking about.” His fingers drum out an erratic rhythm on the table. “My father is terribly supportive and now terribly far away- don’t you worry about where. He’s always been the kind of doting thing to want the best for me in everything. He wasn’t someone who could provide that though, so I make due without him.”
“As for my mother, I’ve never known her. I’ve never wondered about her. If she wanted to be around she wouldn’t have run off the second she could get me into someone else’s arms.”
“What, were you hoping for more? As I said, it’s dull. Surely you have better things to do than pester me for family scandal- I know I do.”
