Miscellaneous One-Shots

Ignorance is bait [BG3]

TW: Self-harm, blood

Hurt-Comfort

Chars: Wyll Ravengard (bg3) & Feigne (oc)

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Wyll stood in front of the small mirror in his tent, running his fingers over the smooth curve of the horns atop his head. His gift from Mizora. One he'd never asked for. He grimaced, grabbing at the base and tugging, wincing at the dull pain it caused to spread through his head. It was hopeless. He'd held out hope at one point or another that he'd be able to get rid of them through some odd means, but even after consulting with Gale for hours agonizing over potential solutions he was met with a harsh truth: he couldn't reverse it. No magic could breach the contract. Not without terrible consequences. It wasn't fair. The world wasn't fair. He went back and forth like that as he glared daggers into his reflections, lamenting his choice to ever accept the she-demon's deal in the first place. Still.. he'd go back and do it all over again, wouldn't he? Because he was a hero. That's what he did. And, where did that get him? Alone, disowned by his father, stuck with some godsforsaken tadpole slowly killing him and his soul doomed to be passed from demon to demon until he finished his years of service. If he even survived that long.

"Damn it all." He hissed, shoving the small mirror and watching it teeter on the shelf until it tipped backwards. Not hard enough to shatter, now just reflecting the sunlight up towards the ceiling in a tauntingly bright symbol. He turned his back to it as he grabbed for his dagger off his belt, raising it to his head and hesitating as he pressed it against the cold bone-like horn. He took a deep determined breath before he began to saw at it.

At first, he felt nothing, only a slight shuddering through his head as ihe cut through the outer layer. He knew immediately by the piercing pain through his skull when he hits the inner shell. He pushed through, feverishly hacking at it until blood poured down the side of his face and the pain was enough to make him dizzy and swaying on his feet. There was a sickening snap that made bile rise up in his throat and he watched as the horn fell to the floor with a thud. He felt his legs give as he knelt to the floor and lost the composure to keep holding the dagger, hearing it clatter to the floor beside him. He felt nauseous. Dizzy. It hurt. His lone act of rebellion.. and what had it earned him? He was sure he only looked more grotesque than before. He only noticed he was crying when he felt the tears hit his legs, silent sobs wracking him until he folded in on himself, hugging his body as if he could curl into his chest and disappear.

"Ohhh, princeling~ Are yo-" Feigne threw open the flap of the tent theatrically, his tone and body language mocking and playful until his eyes fell on the human curled into a ball on the floor, blood mingling with tears as they fell to the dirt beneath him. Immediately his cockiness melted away as he moved to the man's side and knelt down. "Wyll.." His tone was painfully tender as he reached for his shoulder, caught by surprise as the man all but threw himself into his arms. He held him as he shook with sorrow that had clearly been repressed for far to long. The demon had never considered that the blade was hiding such immense pain, having assumed his emotions had always been out in the open with how seamlessly he switched from cocky charm to rage or sympathy. But to see him cry? It was a first. And, not a good one. It made him angry- at what? He wasn't sure. Were it within his power at the moment he would've scoured the world for whatever had caused such suffering to his human and destroy it. Instead, he held him and whispered softly whatever affectionately empty words came to mind to soothe him.

Wyll reluctantly pulled himself away, casting his eyes towards the blood that had coagulated in the dirt so as not to meet the demon's eyes. To be seen in such a state by anyone would've been cause for shame, but by Feigne? For some reason, that hurt worse. He could just see the fuel the demon could gain from this to mock or blackmail him into whatever he felt like. He hadn't anticipated the gentle hand on his shoulder or the strangely worried tone that his voice had taken.