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leighsartworks216 · 3 months

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Dominate Person

Wyll Ravengard x male!OC

Wyll and Romero are married in this fic! Because in the story I'm building (which will not be coming out in any sort of order), they've known each other since they were kids and they got married before the events of the game. Not proofread

Thank you @shenanigans-and-imagines for the angsty thoughts that have consumed my soul lol

THIS STORY DEALS WITH HEAVY THEMES

Warnings: swearing, blood, gore, violence, possession, mentions of vomiting, minor religious reference, grief, character death, broken bones (nose)

Word Count: 1,785

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“He’s summoning more undead!” Gale called. Sure enough, when Romero cut down the undead he’d been fighting and turned toward the spellcaster they fought, more undead were clawing out from the ground. He huffed, frustrated as hell, but there was little time to dwell on anything in the midst of battle.

He pierced one through the eye with his rapier, grunting as he yanked it back out of its skull with a crack. “Focus on him! We can manage the summons!”

As he wheeled around to meet the blade of another disgusting undead. Its skin was grey and leathery, just as all the others. Its jaw hung slack, only attached to its body with scraps of sinewy tendons. Its eyes, sunken and pale. If it was Romero’s first encounter with one, he may have wretched having it so close, breathing into his face with the stench of rot. Fortunately, it wasn’t.

A rapier came in from the side, slotting itself perfectly through its hanging jaw and ripping it away from Romero to the ground. Wyll lifted his blade and brought it back down into its ribcage, covered in paper-thin flesh. He shot a smirk over at the bard.

“Fancy a kiss?”

Romero laughed. “From you or these things?”

“Which would please you more?” he teased.

“Well, how could I turn down a kiss from the glorious Blade of Frontiers?”

“If you two are done flirting,” Astarion bit out from behind, where he picked off undead with his bow, “we’re still being overrun!”

Romero pat Wyll on the shoulder, a silent command to stay there, as he ran past. He slipped his rapier back into its sheath at his hip and pulled his lute off his back. Bony fingers grabbed at his arms and back as he ran into the hoard. He freed his arm with a firm yank and played as loud a note as he could. “Detono!” he shouted out with the disharmonious chords. A wave of thunder swept out around him with a monstrous boom!, knocking the creatures off their feet and pushing them away. Most of them stayed down, but the few that got up looked worse for wear.

“Better?” he called back to Astarion as he turned back with a triumphant smirk.

Before he could hear the vampire’s response, movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. Just in time, he turned and raised his lute to take the hit. He was not expecting to see Wyll’s face, contorted with rage, glaring at him from the end of his sword.

“Wyll?” he breathed.

The strings screeched as the metal slid off them, pulled back for another strike. Romero shoved his lute into the attack. Wyll thrust his rapier through the hole, through the back of the instrument, and nearly caught Romero’s nose. He let go of his lute in favor of drawing his rapier again, backing away to get distance.

His mind raced as he watched his lover ripped his blade from the wood. This wasn’t Wyll, he knew that. They’d sparred hundreds of times in their years together, but never in any of those times had he looked so angry. Like every cell in his body had been injected with a pure concentration of fury. Not to mention attacking him during battle.

“Gale! Something’s wrong with Wyll!”

Wyll ran to him and lunged to spear Romero’s heart. He deflected the attack, redirecting it over his shoulder. When Wyll pulled back, he slashed a line across his cheekbone. As he felt the blood trickle down his cheek, dread seeped into his bones.

He would have to fight his husband for his own life.

Gale glanced over. Romero deflected another swing, but in the opening Wyll kicked him in the stomach, pushing him back. He coughed, gasping as he regained his balance and sidestepped a thrust. The wizard cursed. “He’s enchanted! You might be able to knock him out of it!”

Clutching his stomach, he gripped harder to his sword. He was so accustomed to fighting properly when he sparred with Wyll. They’d bow to each other, walk in a slow circle waiting for the first strike, and they’d disarm or pin the other down to win. Now he had to relearn how to fight dirty.

He began deflecting Wyll’s blade to the right, ensuring he could see the motion with his good eye and focus in that direction. Once he had an opening, he let go of his stomach and grabbed Wyll’s horn, manhandling him and flinging him to the dirt. Wyll growled as he landed.

Before he could even think about getting up, Romero was on top of him. He grabbed his wrists and held them down tight, straddling his waist where he couldn’t be kicked off despite all of his thrashing and kicking about. It hurt his heart to see Wyll like this, more rabid dog than human. The bloodlust in his eye. The horrid grimace that twisted his lovely features, accentuating the demonic traits Mizora cursed him with.

“I’ve got you,” he promised, voice quiet. “Just hold on, my love. We’ll save you.”

There was a flicker of emotion across his face. He didn’t recognize it then, but he realized later, when it appeared again in his nightmares, what it was: Wyll’d been told by the spellcaster how to break free.

He gathered his strength and pushed his upper body off the ground enough to butt his horns into Romero’s face. It was a solid hit. With a sickening crunch, Romero’s nose was broken. By pure instinct, he let go of one of Wyll’s arms to grab onto it, but fought the urge enough to grab his horn and push him back down instead.

It was too late.

His eyes flooded with tears from the pain of his nose breaking, an unfortunate reaction of the human body. He couldn’t see anything. All he felt was a hand as his chest. Familiar and wrong. His body was sent backward before his mind could comprehend the words of the spell being cast. He landed hard on the ground, gasping for air. His chest burned, in a way no fire ever could. His hands shook as he clutched blindly at the pain, crying out as he found a bloody, fleshy imprint where the hand had been.

His mind was all at once fast and sluggish, like it was trying to run through waist-deep water. Tears slid from the corners of his eyes to his ears, clearing the dirt and sweat from his cheeks and soaking into the dreadlocks that cushioned his head. Blood poured from his nose; into his mouth, into his eyes, down the back of his throat. Copper was all he could taste as he tried to swallow around the gore, but his throat wouldn’t close around it. His chest felt so tight. He couldn’t breathe. And his body only wanted to wretch from the agony, from the breathlessness, from the iron flooding his mouth.

A body straddled his hips. He forced his eyes open. He fought to see through the red haze, through the tears. He could make out the blurred shape of Wyll over him. The shadows of his arms and hands raised, rapier clutched tightly, like a devout worshipper about to sacrifice the lamb.

The tip of the blade poked into his skin, digging into the palm of the hand print. He whimpered, but the pain was already fading to numbness. All he could think of was his failure.

He couldn’t stop Wyll. He couldn’t save him from this agony. Romero would lay his life on the line for Wyll in a heartbeat, but for Wyll to be the one claiming it… Death didn’t scare him. All he worried for was what would happen to his husband after the enchantment was broken.

Wyll raised the rapier up.

Blood dribbled from the side of his mouth as Romero mouthed his final words.

I love you.

He wished he could say more, say anything. Assure his love he does not blame him for this. Comfort his love, tell him it’s okay as he readied to plunge his rapier through his heart. Instead, he did what he could. He smiled.

It lingered there, even as his eyes fluttered shut and as his chest stopped aching for air. It was the last thing to stay as his fingers relaxed, one hand limp at his side and the other slipping from his chest as gravity took hold.

The rapier clattered to the ground.

Warm, rough hands cradled the back of his neck and held the hand on his chest. “Shit, shit, shit!” Wyll hissed, damning himself, all the gods, all the devils. Tears of his own rushed from his eyes like the currents in the Chionthar. They fell like rain on Romero’s cheeks.

He carefully peeled away Romero’s hand to reveal the damage, and covered it again quickly. His flesh was mangled, almost gooey. The white of bone from his sternum and ribcage glistened in the viscera. He felt sick knowing he did that. He cast that Eldritch Blast point blank. He had no control over it, but the damage glared up at him, blaming him.

He lifted his head, heavy and limp in his hold. He let go of his hand to brush the blood off his face. Dark red smeared and stained his tanned skin, never seeming to come out no matter how many times he brushed it away. His lips were stained, too, like lipstick. The thought tore open his ribcage and clawed at his heart.

Sobs wracked his body as he got off his love, kneeling by his side and dragging his body into his lap. He cradled his head to his shoulder, pressing Romero’s still-smiling face into his neck as he pressed his quivering lips to his forehead.

He knew they could revive him. Somehow, they would carry him back to camp. Shadowheart or Withers could bring him back, or maybe Gale had a scroll somewhere. Either way, this was not grief for lost love. Romero would live and breathe again. This was the grief of murder. He murdered his husband. He burned a hole in his chest, was prepared to finish the job. If Gale and Astarion weren’t there to finish off the spellcaster, what would have happened then?

“I’ll fix this,” he croaks, whimpering as he presses a firm kiss to his hairline. “I swear, I’ll fix this.” Another sob tears through him. His shoulders tremble, chest heaving for air. In a broken whisper, as he tangles his fingers in his hair and drags his body closer and closer until he’s laid awkwardly across his lap, he says, “I love you, too.”

#fanfic #fanfiction #wyll ravengard #romero tulb #wyll x romero #wyll x oc #oc #original character #original male character #x oc #x male oc #x original character #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate wyll #baldurs gate wyll #bg3 wyll #angst

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leighsartworks216 · 5 months

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Horn Care

Wyll Ravengard x male!OC

I have had this fic in the works for a while. It's just a little self-indulgent story of my dnd bard, Romero, with Wyll, with some stuff about his family and whatnot

I would love to answer any questions y'all may have about Romero's family because I love them sm

Dedicated to both @tripleyeeet and @shenanigans-and-imagines for listening to me ramble about these idiots <333

Warnings: mentions of alcohol and food, possibly OOC

Word Count: 1,266

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Romero diligently rubbed the oil over Wyll’s horns, skillfully getting within every groove and crevice. Wyll holds the bottle of high-grade horn oil (though he’s not sure where exactly the bard procured it from), squirting extra in the bard’s hand whenever he asks for more.

Wyll can’t believe for one second this is his first time doing this. And yet, the who for is the biggest question. He wonders if it was learned from caring for past lovers, or even friends who needed an extra hand. It shocks Wyll just how truly little he knows about the person leading them; the person he’s decided to court - properly, if he’s ever given the chance.

“I can feel you thinking,” Romero teases. He’s running his fingers along the undersides of the horns, feeling to ensure he got every spot. “Anything you want to share?”

“I can’t help noticing your distinct lack of horns. How do you know how to do this? Something you picked up on your travels?”

He chuckles. “No. I’ve been doing this since I was little.” Once he’s certain the horns have been fully taken care of, he rounds the stool Wyll sits on, borrowed from Astarion (with promises of two carafes of good wine. A hefty price for one little stool, but worth it, he thinks). He drops the bottle of oil, closed securely, into his pack and plops down on the floor of the tent, leaning back against his arms. “One of my parents, Amrus, is a tiefling. I was always fascinated with his horns. He’d pick me up on his shoulders and carry me around, and I’d hold on and steer him around.”

Wyll could almost picture it. A little boy with unruly hair motioning to be picked up, coming up with imaginative stories, pretending to be riding a dragon. He couldn’t imagine much changed in the years leading up to this moment.

“Well, he adopted some tieflings, too. Wild, little things. And we’re a big, busy family, so I offered to help out. As their horns came in, I took care of them, until they were old enough to learn how to themselves.” Romero smiled fondly, remembering his childhood with nostalgia. He could tell stories for hours of mischief he got up to, fighting with his siblings, whacking people with sticks when they disrespected any of his family. “You get quite good at it when you do it for years.”

“It’s an admirable skill to have, if only for how it was learned. Its uses are a bit… limited.”

“Unless I happen to be with someone in possession of horns,” the bard says, smirking up at the warlock. “Results of a deal with a devil or otherwise.”

–

“If you don’t mind my prying, how many parents do you have? You mention them a lot.”

The moon casts them in a cool glow. Light bounces off Wyll’s horns. The open amusement of the bard is perfectly accentuated, as though the shadows pull back just so he can be admired.

“Ah, plenty. Let’s see, are we counting all of them, or just the ones my father is married to?”

Wyll chuckles. “All of them, to start.”

Romero begins ticking off fingers, listing names as he went in a low murmur. He didn’t stop even after he ran out of fingers. “Twelve, technically.” Wyll gaped at him.

“Twelve parents?! How do you keep them all straight?”

“Well, not all of them live with us at one time. I only grew up around six of them; the other four live elsewhere, traveling or providing shelter to any of us kids who happen to wander in their areas. The last two have passed - and the mindflayer only counts as a parent because of my father’s insistence.”

“A mindflayer?!” He pushed himself up so he could gape down at his partner. “Your father was with one of those rubber-skinned Ilithids?!”

“Eh, it’s one of his stranger exploits.” Romero smirked, as though he’d gone through this exact bewilderment before. Though, Wyll supposes he must’ve done. “You haven’t even asked how many siblings I have.”

“I can’t begin to fathom.” He sighed, mentally preparing himself. “How many?”

Romero looks far too eager to share the number. “Eighteen.”

“How do you all fit in that house?!”

“My father and some of my parents help him build new additions. You should see it - it’s about as chaotic as the people who live in it.”

He gestured grandly, hands telling the story as much as his words. Wyll could picture him standing on a table in a tavern, spinning wild tales to enraptured guests all night long. It was like a fire lit in his eye. A spring added itself into his every motion.

“It reaches as high as any palace, built of hand-hewn planks and sun-dried bricks. The thundering of stairs as we all come racing down for Pimbul’s cooking - she’s the best damn cook, and he always makes plenty of extra. Laughter and music pouring out of every window, every balcony, every door - the sound of our love uncontainable.” He sighed wistfully, hands falling back at his side. “As soon as this is over, I’m headed straight back. I’ve been gone for too long.”

Wyll smiled. Romero poured affection for his family any time they came up, which was surprisingly often. An eight-pointed star on his chest denoted himself as a child of the famous Gerhart Tulb, adventurer and well-known flirt. Any time they weren’t in armor, his shirt was opened to proudly display the tattoo. Which meant everywhere they weren’t fighting, there was someone who recognized it. He always used it as an opportunity to relay the tales his father had told of his own adventures, and one’s he’d picked up from his siblings along the road. It was admirable.

“How long have you been away?” he asks as he lays back down. Though, his eyes don’t stray from him, even as the stars glimmer and flicker, begging for his attention.

Romero sighs and turns onto his side. “Almost a year. I know that’s not a very long time,” he offers Wyll a sympathetic smile, “I just miss everyone so much.”

“You’ll have a lot to share when you see them again.” Wyll rolls over as well, though his horns make it difficult to actually be comfortable. They were nice and shiny from his partner’s careful hands, but they were still a damned nuisance. “Grandiose tales of tadpoles and curses, of love and loss. The perfect story.”

“A story’s only as good as the person telling it.” He frowned, reaching out to hesitantly take Wyll’s hand. Calluses roughened his fingertips from his lute. Even more covered his palm from battles hard fought. “I don’t know how this story will end,” he begins slowly, almost a whisper, “but if–” He squeezes Wyll’s hand. “-- when we win, I wanted to bring you back with me. All of you, if I can. I know it’s a lot to ask, to drag all of you back on the road, but-”

Wyll squeezed his hand with a bright smile. “We’d all be glad to meet them. I can only imagine how a reunion with a family of bards must be.”

Romero grinned, sitting up and eagerly launching into another story. Wild descriptions of dancing and singing and drinking that lasted for an entire week. About a dance that all the kids did for the parents involving swords and drums. Fireworks, illusions, and so, so much more. Wyll could almost picture it all. And even crazier: he could almost picture himself there at Romero’s side.

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leighsartworks216 · 3 months

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Dragon Slayer

Wyll Ravengard x male!OC

This is really self-indulgent. In the dnd campaign I'm playing Romero in, they had to crush dragon eggs to prevent them from hatching so the cult couldn't use them, and it *wrecked* him. So I'm looking ahead at what could feasibly happen in the story and torturing him with it :D

Also not proofread. Wanted to just get it out there already

If you have any questions about Romero, please ask! I'd love to answer

Warnings: swearing, crying, hurt/comfort, descriptions of violence

Word Count: 2,488

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Romero was drained. More than he’d thought possible. He’d believed it would be a simple adventure: stop a cult of dragon-worshippers from destroying the world. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d stopped a cult, he just thought… Well, he hadn’t been thinking. He’d cursed his name in as many scraps of languages he could recall the entire trek back to Baldur’s Gate, though the ancient Draconic his pops would scold him in when he was just a child rang the loudest in his mind.

He dug through his pockets for the key and unlocked the door. He stood there, barely a step inside, and looked around at the small house. It was like stepping into a dream. All at once he recognized these walls and the decorations upon them, but it was jarring to come back to it all after weeks of sleeping in inns and on ratty bedrolls.

The sofa and armchairs were positioned around the hearth, shelves of books nearby and knitted blankets folded neatly on the armrests.

The kitchen was just as small as he remembered. A kettle sat on the stove, a mug sitting nearby. He could almost imagine the smell of chamomile wafting through the air. As it was, the dried leaves sat waiting in the strainer.

What he smelled instead was the smoke of a campfire, the lingering bitterness of alcohol, and something sweet and flowery hidden beneath it all. He stepped further into the house and shut the door behind him. His pack ached his shoulders and back now more than ever. His feet were sore and screaming. All his bones were turning into jelly the longer he stood there.

And like an angel, coming from the hall, his love. Wyll wasted only a second to process who was there, before he ran over and wrapped his arms tightly around Romero.

The bard slid the pack from his shoulders, where it thudded to the ground with a disharmonious clang. The vibration from the fall ran through the strings of his forgotten lute as he hugged Wyll close, burying his face in his neck and clinging to the fabric of his clothes. When he took a deep breath, he could smell the smoke of a campfire, the lingering bitterness of alcohol, and something sweet and flowery hidden beneath it all.

He was home.

He squeezed Wyll, digging his fingers into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him as close as possible, until he could feel the warmth seeping through his dirty travel clothes. He had a few new scars for the collection, a few more stories to tell, but none weighed so heavy in his heart at the guilt of his triumph.

They stood there, basking in each other’s presence, when Wyll felt Romero’s body tremble and shake. He could feel his lungs straining to breath evenly, the way his hands fought to hold on tighter to him. He cupped the back of his neck, stroking a thumb along the hair at the nape. “What’s wrong?” he whispered. He tried turning his head to see his love’s face, but Romero only buries further into his neck. “What happened?”

A sob, choked and painful, finally broke free. Soon, he was gasping for air as a flood of tears wet Wyll’s skin. The heavy burden he carried with him stretched like a pool of blood through his limbs. It reached, slow and dark and terrible, until it filled every cell, soaked every nerve. When his knees buckled under the weight, Wyll helped ease him down to the floor. And there he stayed, cooing as reassuring words as he could conjure.

Romero’s entire body jerked with his cries, each wail forced to be silenced, held tight within his chest, until it came out as nothing more than helpless whimpers and gasps.

The kettle hissed.

“Shit,” Wyll sighed. Not for nothing, it did get a small, wet chuckle out of Romero. Here they were, sitting on the floor, holding each other, and still the world moves on. The kettle still comes to a boil, the fire still crackles underneath it, the sky still grows dark as the sun dips below the horizon.

Wyll gently coaxed Romero from his neck, holding his face sweetly and offering a sympathetic smile. The bard’s eyes were bloodshot and watery. Tears had stained his cheeks, leaving lingering trails that followed their paths down his face. Despite this, a slight grin tugged at the corner of his lips. Almost imperceptible, but there.

“Honey, I’m home,” he said, but his cracking voice held no real warmth. No playful mischief lingered in the shaky lilting.

Gods, what had happened to take the joy that radiated from his love’s very soul so ruthlessly? What had torn him asunder like this?

“Romero,” he scolded quietly. The bard's smile fell. So rarely did his name pass those lips in a tone like that. Stern and soft at the same time. Immediately shutting down the humor he was so accustomed to using to hide the real issue, or buy himself more time to avoid talking about it. His crumbling façade was gone. Wyll guided his head down so he could place a kiss to his hairline, lingering despite the atrocious screeching coming from the kitchen. “Sit down. I’ll make us some tea and we can talk about it, alright?”

Romero nodded, but he grabbed Wyll’s hands before he could pull away. He held them to his face a moment longer, pressing them tighter against his cheeks, relishing in the callouses and warmth. With a long exhale, his shoulders relaxed. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to his palm. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

Wyll lightly knocked their foreheads together. “Of course, my love.”

He stood first and helped Romero to his feet. Without another word, they each went their separate ways. Wyll slipped into the kitchen, pulled down a second mug from the cabinet, and prepared chamomile tea for both of them. Romero grabbed one of the knitted blankets and wrapped it snugly around his shoulder before curling into the couch. As he waited, he wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. It wavered a little, especially as the reason he was so distraught came charging back into the forefront of his mind.

Wyll sat next to him on the couch. The mug of tea was warm in his hands, and the first sip burned the tip of his tongue. His fingers ran mindlessly over the little imperfections in the porcelain. This mug had been handcrafted by a local merchant; he could almost imagine working the clay between his fingers.

As much as he wanted to picture that scenario - working a ball of clay on a spinning wheel, covered in dust and sweat, doing his damndest to make something of it - he could not avoid the topic at hand forever.

“I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Wyll rested a warm hand on his arm. “It’s alright. I’m just glad to see you back in one piece.”

Romero took a long sip of the relaxing tea, closing his eyes and taking in the warmth and steam on his face. Even that was too much of a reminder. He lowered the mug back to his lap, and stared at the honey-colored liquid as he took a breath and began relaying the shortened version of his tale.

“I heard word of a cult in the southeast that worshipped dragons, and hoped to take Faerûn back to an age where they ruled the land. They’d attacked a village, Greenest, and myself and three others chased them out. We tracked them down from their hideout near the Reaching Woods to Berdusk, Scornubel, and Elturel. From there we took a boat down the Chionthar to make up for lost time, and came here, to the Gate. I’m sorry I did not stop by, but I don’t think we’d have been able to house a Goliath.”

Wyll chuckled. “Perhaps not. But I forgive you.”

Romero grinned slightly, but it slowly faded as he continued on. “We joined them in Blackgate under the guise of prospective cultists. They headed north along the path. For weeks we marched along with them. Waterdeep was right ahead, but we turned off the path to the Ardeep Forest.

“Hidden in the underbrush was a stone trapdoor that blended in almost flawlessly - it’s a miracle we found it at all. Inside were stairs that led down, down, down. For miles we marched deeper and deeper. When it finally evened off, there was a doorway, and through it a huge room. Underground, forgotten ruins, left to decay and rot. We couldn’t see the ceiling, but it was supported by thick, stone pillars.

“The cultists performed some sort of ceremony. I was so focused on trying to stop it, I don’t really remember what they did. But we couldn’t stop them in time. They opened a portal as tall as Ramazith’s Tower and from it came a massive dragon.

“You should have seen it,” he breathed, awe and melancholy mixing together. He stared hard at the bookshelf with furrowed brows. He swallowed thickly, and took a gulp of his rapidly cooling tea.

“I wish I could have,” Wyll offered when Romero was quiet for too long.

“I’ve only ever seen one other dragon in my life.” He set his mug on the coffee table. He no longer had an appetite for tea. “And it’s for his sake I feel so awful. But there was no other way. If we had let her go, she would have destroyed Waterdeep - destroyed everything. We had no way of sending her back through the portal, or be sure it brought her back to where she belonged. So my friends rushed in. I hesitated too long. I almost used up all of my spells trying to heal them for my mistake.

“I don’t know how long we fought for. Kobold cultists rushed us from all sides. Spells and blades glanced off the dragon’s hide. I exhausted all my magic, and as much as I love it, I couldn’t exactly mock her to death.

“By mere luck, our sorcerer was able to shoot a shard of ice up her nostril, where it exploded. The dragon went into a fury, thrashing all about. She hit a pillar with her neck, and it crumbled. Huge blocks of stone crashed down, sending dust all over the battlefield and blinding us. I heard her cry out and managed to catch a glimpse:

“A boulder landed on her head. It forced her head down, low enough I was able to jump on. She thrashed and screamed. I thought for sure that would be my end; holding onto a dragon’s nose, seconds away from being incinerated. But I…” His hands shook. He could feel it all so vividly - the heat, the strain, the fear. He rubbed his fingers together, dull nails flicking against the callouses, trying to emulate the feeling of plucking the strings on his lute. Tears began gathering on his lower lids. He did his best to blink them away. “I pulled out my rapier and thrust it into her great eye. I can still hear it… Feel the effort behind it… I don’t think it will ever leave my mind. I could only push it deeper, further, even as her eyelid clamped around the blade. As far as I possibly could. With one last cry, she collapsed to the floor. The impact knocked me off; sent me skidding across the floor. And the fighting stopped. We all watched as this once glorious beast was laid low…”

He gasped, fighting back the sobs even as his lower lip quivered, even as his eyes welled with tears so he could no longer see past his regrets. “My pops- My father, Cergad, he- he’s a dragon! And all my life, all my life he’s told me how he is one of the last, how when he’s gone no more dragons will remain. And I’ve just had to slay one, to aid in the slaughter of his species.” His face finally crumbled into an ugly grimace as the guilt took hold once more, squeezed at his soul until he felt utterly devoid of hope and consumed by darkness.

Wyll’s mug slammed harshly down onto the table in his haste to put it down. He wrapped his arms tightly around Romero, pulling him into his body, giving him what strength he could. Romero clung to him, wheezing as his lungs fought to suck in enough air for the next sob to wrack his body with. Every one hit him like a punch to his chest.

“Is this my purpose?” he cried with utter despair. “Is this what I am meant to do?”

“No,” Wyll answered adamantly. He cupped the back of his neck, encouraging him to cry all his tears into his shoulder. “You had no choice. I know you would have found any way to spare her, to save everyone else even if it meant losing yourself.” He kissed his temple. “Your father will not blame you. Nobody can blame you for what you’ve done. You are not only your regrets; you are so much more.”

He leaned back into the couch, pulling Romero on top of him so they could lay down together. It wasn’t comfortable, for Wyll, at least, but his comfort was not a priority right now. Romero automatically settled on top of him, laying between his legs, blanket still cocooned around him. It was childish, but it felt safe, soothing. It had always calmed him down as a child. Now was no exception.

As time passed, long enough to leave an ache in Wyll’s neck and back, and a wet stain in his shirt, Romero was able to catch his breath. His tears slowed, the tremors in his body lessened to mere shivers that only happened in time with a shuddered breath. The pain was still there, like a hole ripped into his chest. And it would take a while to fade, if it ever truly did. But Wyll would be here the whole way; he’d vowed it, and Wyll was never one to go back on a promise.

Romero turned his face from Wyll’s shoulder to press against his neck. His stubble scratched his forehead, but the discomfort pulled him into reality and away from his journey. He sighed. “I need a bath.”

Wyll chuckled and pressed his cheek to the top of Romero’s head. “Would you like to take one now?”

He thought about it. He reeked of the road, and undoubtedly of blood and death. Not to mention the dirt and grime on his clothes and skin. Still, he shook his head and held tighter to his partner. “Not yet.”

“Then we’ll stay here.” Wyll massaged the back of his neck and carefully brushed away the tears on his face. “However long you need, my love.”

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leighsartworks216 · 3 months

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Cure Wounds

Wyll Ravengard x male!OC

Super self-indulgent smut between my dnd OC Romero and Wyll. If you have any questions about Romero, please please please ask!! I love talking about him and some of the stuff I reference here is kinda "if you know you know" (like mentions of his family), so if you wanna know, please ask

Thank you @shenanigans-and-imagines for encouraging me to write more self-indulgent oc fics <333

SMUT BELOW THE CUT

Warnings: swearing, scratching, marking each other (hickeys), bruises, brief mention of battle scars, anal fingering and sex, possibly OOC Wyll

Word Count: 4,364

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

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“Do you remember how I used to heal you?”

Wyll chuckled, grinning at the mere memories that passed through his mind. “How could I forget? You would insist on kissing each bruise and cut, singing spells all the while.”

Warm sun flooded through the gauzy curtains that hung before the balcony doors. It warmed their skin, golden beams highlighting the scars they’d earned over their adventure to free their minds of tadpoles. It had turned out much more involved than any of them could have guessed. And despite the stories and tales that came of it, they were both quite glad for it to be over.

Romero lifted himself from his lover’s chest, the soft sheets slipping down his body as he supported himself on his arms to lean over his beloved. “I had to sing, it makes the spells more potent.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“I’m a bard! What about it sounds untrue?”

“That you only did such a thing with me, for starters,” Wyll said through a laugh. He reached up and carefully weaved his fingers through Romero’s long dreads, threading the thick strands between each digit and holding on lightly. It was always a treat to see his hair loose, rather than tied up by the ribbon he carried around. It fell wildly over his shoulders and framed his face. Wyll felt lucky to see him like this. “If anyone else were injured, a quick spell under your breath and they were right as rain.”

Romero leaned down until his chest pressed to Wyll’s, both rising and falling in a dance with each inhale and exhale. Their noses were only inches apart. Their eyes flickered about their faces, openly admiring the man they married. Sometimes, Wyll could not believe he had been so fortunate to stumble across Romero’s path thanks to that damned nautolid. After seven years, he remembered what it meant to be Wyll Ravengard, not only the Blade of Frontiers.

“Would you rather I’d kissed all their wounds, too?” the bard teased.

“Not as such, no, but I can’t help wondering why you did so with me.” When Romero smirked wide and devilish, he quickly added, “For reasons other than being your partner.”

Romero snickered, but he did not answer right away. His smile softened. “Because of my reputation, you mean?”

Wyll hummed, apologetically. “You weren’t exactly well known for long-term relationships.”

“No one in my family is - you’re perhaps the first among any of us to be properly courted.” He sighed softly and ducked his head to brush his nose along his neck, closing his eyes and appreciating the gift he’d been granted to indulge in this closeness. “I never did it to lure you into sex,” he assured in a whisper. “I never wished to pressure you like that… But I still wanted to love you, in the best way I knew how. Being able to kiss you - just kiss you - my love, it satisfied me more than an ocean of ale or banquet of roast meats ever could.”

Wyll let out a quiet breath. “Just to kiss me.”

“Even now,” he said, pulling back to speak face-to-face, “if you said for the rest of our days, this was all I could have: a cuddle and nothing else - I would never want for more.”

Their hearts thudded pleasantly against their ribs in a call-and-response of their souls, each beat like the skipping step of two lovestruck fools frolicking through an endless field of wildflowers, hand in hand. In all his past sexual encounters, never had Romero ever felt like this with anyone before Wyll. Never had his heart raced at the mere thought of a touch, nor had his mind been so consumed with thoughts of the other, no matter how mundane. It was addictive in its own right. And he prayed to any god willing to listen that this feeling would never fade.

Wyll smiled, warm and adoring, as his hand slipped from Romero’s hair to his cheek. “You can have much more than a cuddle, my love,” he promised. “No singing required.”

Chuckles and grins got in the way as he pulled his husband down to him, teeth clacking and lips barely brushing in the clumsy mess of it all. But it was wonderful. Once they could gather themselves, their laughs died down and the kiss became one for the ages: tender and gentle, yet full of passion.

Romero leaned more weight to one hand so he could tangle the other in Wyll’s hair. It had grown longer since the end of their quest. He took great pleasure in helping his beloved wash and retwist his locs, and he adored being able to tug on it in moments like this. Wyll vocalized his enjoyment with a groan, urging his head back further into the pillow despite his horns poking into the plush so he could follow the pull.

“How much more than a cuddle?” Romero teased into the kiss.

Wyll grabbed his waist and guided his lover to straddle his lap. Then he pushed himself up to a sit, chasing Romero’s lips, never wishing to be parted from them. He was free to do so, to experience moments like this not in one night of debauchery to be forgotten, but for years to come. He slid his hand along his back, pressing the bard closer. Romero acted in kind, one of his hands pulling him closer by his hair, and the other cradling his neck fondly. The calloused pad of his thumb stroked along Wyll’s scars, brushing along his stubble. When Wyll pulled away, Romero let him, but wouldn’t allow him to stray too far, pressing their foreheads together and sharing each breath.

He peered up at his lover with his one good eye, now a bloody red from Mizora’s punishment. Dark brown eyes looked back at him, blown with affection and lust. Even when he’d sprouted horns and ridges, he’d never looked at Wyll any differently. There was never disgust in his eyes directed at him. He left a chaste kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“As I said in my vows, Wyll Ravengard belongs to you.” he whispered. This close, he could feel the way Romero’s heart skipped a beat. The awe in his eyes - the full realization of what those words meant. I have your heart, and you have mine.

So long ago it seemed, when Romero flirted and fawned over Wyll, they kissed. A proper kiss, but it never went any further. Wyll wanted to do this properly, to wait. He could not have Romero’s body without first having his heart. And now he did, just as Romero had his.

Romero crashed his lips against Wyll’s, kissing him with as much passion and love as he could muster. His heart felt like it was bursting with love, almost painful as he desperately tried to be as close to his husband as possible. He slid a dextrous hand along Wyll’s spine, pushing his nightshirt up as he traced the ridges and scars that adorned his body. He pulled away from the kiss just long enough to maneuver the shirt over his horns and toss it to the floor, and then his hand was back in his hair, tugging him close, and his teeth were nipping at his plush lips.

“I love you,” he murmured in between each kiss. He couldn’t stop saying it. And Wyll couldn’t stop smiling like an idiot each time he did.

“I love you, too. By Balduran’s blade, I love you.” He worked quickly at the buttons of Romero’s shirt. It was half open already, as Romero loved to show off his chest and the tattoo on his right peck.

Once it was fully undone, he pushed his hands inside, caressing the warm skin now exposed to him. Romero sighed, arching his back just to have more contact. Gods, his skin was so soft. He felt down his back, up his sides, his stomach - everywhere he could reach. It would never be enough.

Wyll pulled away from the kiss, but his mouth immediately found purchase on his neck. The hand in his hair tightened, tugging and pressing him further into his skin, the other digging blunt nails into his shoulder. He could just imagine his beloved’s face. His eyes closed as he whines and begs for more, his mouth parted as he moans. When Wyll finds his pulse point just below his jaw, Romero won’t let him move until he sucks a mark into his skin, a pretty bruise that claimed ownership. He was certain he would have his own marks before all was done.

He trailed his mouth lower, lips brushing over his Adam’s apple and collarbones in open-mouth kisses. He deviated at his sternum to kiss and nip at his tattoo. It was a six-pointed star, denoting himself as a child of a famous bard who had more children than Wyll could fully wrap his head around. He traced each line, bit at each point, sucked at the open center. Romero groaned, craning his neck to place a kiss on Wyll’s head.

“My love, I need you,” he breathed. “Please.”

Wyll grabbed his waist and pressed to designate a side. He did not have the strength to push his love around, but Romero certainly did.

With arms wrapped around his neck, he was rolled over. Romero’s head fell back into the plush of pillows and Wyll was above him, trapped by the legs around his hips. He was tugged up by his horns into another crushing kiss. If their lips were not bruised and swollen, he would think it a miracle of the gods.

Romero slid his tongue along Wyll’s bottom lip. He opened his mouth instantly, moaning and tilting his head, wishing for more. He dug his nails into the bard’s hips, pushing down the hem of his sleep pants so he could grab even more, to trace his thumbs along the v-line that led like a pointing arrow to his arousal. His mouth watered at the idea of kissing along those creases, of marking his love where only he could see and enjoy. Of taking him into his mouth and placing his hands on his horns so he could be guided, used for his love to take all the pleasure he could ever want from him.

But not right now. They were too desperate to feel each other, to become as one. Soon, he told himself. He would make a whole day to spend with his love, with no politics or expectations, just to experience everything they could offer each other. One day.

His hands slid further into his pants, following his skin to grasp onto his ass and lift his hips up to grind against his own. They moaned into each other’s mouths at the slightest bit of friction. They could each feel just how aroused the other was. It was maddening.

He pulled away from the kiss, breathless. Romero loosened his hold on his hips, relaxing his legs so Wyll could sit up and push them apart further. They both looked like messes, he was sure, but he could not help admiring how beautiful his husband looked when he was so eager and marked up.

“Tell me what you want of me.” He guided Romero’s pants down his hips, lifting him up by his ass so he could slip them out from under him. Further still, his mismatched eyes could not tear from the beautiful half-lidded brown eyes of his lover as his cock sprung free from its cloth prison. He sidled back as he guided them down his legs. “Tell me everything you want me to do, and I will. Anything you ask of me,” he breathed, finally tossing the pants to the side and guiding one of his legs up so he could kiss his thigh, sucking at the skin by his knee, worshipping every inch he could, “say the word and it is yours.”

Gods, Romero’s head was spinning. A million images and desires flickered through his mind, ways to be taken and take in return, to taste and feel. The thoughts that filled his head, of Wyll in so many positions, so debauched and used, it would have sent him over the edge in an instant if he had been getting himself off. The mere prospect alone, of a partner who put themselves in another’s hands so easily, to be manipulated like putty to any whim or desire - it would occupy his every waking thought for weeks if he wasn’t careful.

“I need you to fuck me,” he told him. “I need to feel you inside of me, I need you to- Gods.” His hips bucked against air as Wyll slowly, so slowly, trailed his way down his inner thigh. Seeing his face so close to his aching cock had him flushing with arousal and want. “I need you to touch me and kiss me and just fucking fuck me, please.”

“So articulate,” Wyll teased against his skin. Romero whined. He’d never take it to heart; he fell apart so easily under Wyll, all flowery expressions of love were the first to devolve.

Wyll slid off the end of the bed to remove his pants, already much too hard and much too needy. Just the sight of his husband laid out on their shared bed, golden-brown skin gleaming in the sun’s morning rays, had his member twitching with anticipation.

He crawled back on the bed, over his lover, kissing him deeply as he reached into the nightstand for the bottle of oil. Romero grabbed Wyll’s hips and drew him down, grinding their dicks together. They moaned desperately, barely able to keep their mouths connected. Thanks to Mizora’s punishment, Wyll’s cock was lined with bumps and ridges. It had been extremely embarrassing at first, and a point of self-consciousness on their wedding night, but Romero had assured Wyll in multiple ways (though most often with his mouth) it was not an unwelcome part of his curse.

He poured a generous amount of oil into his hand and dropped the closed bottle on the bed beside them. With one hand, he pushed one of Romero’s legs up against his chest, and with the other he gently prodded at his entrance.

Romero hissed as a finger was slowly pushed inside him, followed soon after by another. He had to pull away to catch his breath, burying his face in Wyll’s neck as he wrapped his arms around Wyll. His fingers slid carefully in and out of him, pushing as far as they would reach and pulling out almost entirely before he pressed in again. Breathless curses fanned across Wyll’s scarred skin, mixed with little pecks and beautiful keening sounds, like music to his ears. When he was opened enough to push a third finger in, he felt Romero’s cock twitch against his, weeping with precum.

“Please,” he whimpered. He grabbed at Wyll’s ass, dug his nails in at his shoulder blade, trying to pull him as close as he possibly could. “I’m ready, I need you. Please, my love, need you inside me.”

He eased his fingers out of him and poured more oil into his hand. He rubbed it along his cock, knuckles brushing along the underside of Romero’s drawing out needy little breaths. He pulled back slightly to see what he was doing as he lined himself up. Romero’s stomach was already glistening with both their precum, the tell-tale drips of Wyll’s own decorating his cock. He had to restrain himself so he didn’t try to clean him up with his mouth.

Slowly, as gently as he could manage, the head of his cock pushed into his asshole. A guttural moan reverberated from the bard’s throat, choking off at the end as his cock pushed deeper and stretched him further.

It felt so fucking incredible. Tight walls clenching around him with the slightest movement, the heat enveloping him. Wyll groaned as he fully sheathed himself inside. He ran a hand along Romero’s side, caressing him and urging him to relax into it.

“If I ever get used to this feeling,” Wyll murmured by his ear, “I could be tempted to make another deal to remember it again.”

Romero chuckled airily, running a hand down Wyll’s locs and softly tangling his fingers in the ends. “Don’t worry, my prince, I’ll make sure you never get used to it.”

They laughed quietly together, holding each other close in a tender moment. When the laughter died down, Romero pulled his head from Wyll’s neck and kissed him. It was not lustful or desperate. It was slow and sweet, as if all time around them stopped just so they could indulge in this moment.

They pulled away slowly and pressed their foreheads together. Wyll looked at Romero so warmly, and so attentively, waiting for his signal before he moved again. They stayed there for a moment longer. Then, Romero nodded, and Wyll slowly pulled out.

They choked on shared air as the bumps and ridges lining Wyll’s cock grated and rubbed against Romero’s sensitive walls. Almost all the way out, he thrust slowly back in, fully seated once more. A pitiful whine came unbidden from his husband’s throat. He did not wait long before his hips were moving at a slow, consistent rhythm.

Someone swore, but Wyll couldn’t tell if it was him or Romero. The result was the same: Wyll picked up the pace, thrusting faster, losing himself to the pleasure, spurned on by every choked, panted breath and quiet plea for more, more, more. He pressed his cheek to Romero’s temple, wishing he could bury his face in his neck without risk of butting him with his horns. How he would happily ravage the skin there, feeling the vibration of his cries against his lips. Maybe Romero sensed the way he held back, felt the strain in his neck and shoulders not to give in lest he hurt his beloved, for he grabbed Wyll’s horn, pulled to make the young Duke crane his neck, and kissed feverishly over his pulse, his Adam’s apple, his jawline.

He sucked and bit a matching mark just below his jaw, where his heart could be felt strongest, as it raced and rushed with ecstasy. He cried Wyll’s name by his ear, before his words devolved into stammered nonsense before biting just under his earlobe in a lousy attempt to try getting his wits back.

Wyll pushed Romero’s other leg back against his chest, hands pressing under his knees to keep him contorted just like that. Gods, just like that.

He dug his nails into his skin, clawing at his flesh and urging himself to go faster, fuck him harder. He broke himself out of Romero’s hold to crash his mouth against his, open-mouthed and panting.

Birds chirped, greeting the new day. Down below, the market was waking up, stalls being set up and vendors chatting with each other. None of it mattered. None of it reached even the edge of their senses. Wyll growled and Romero swallowed it, responding with his own moan. Nothing else mattered.

Romero scratched at Wyll’s back and arched his own, longing to feel every inch of him that he could. Wyll hissed at the sting, but the pain faded from his mind when he was pulled close so the bard could hug him, crooning like the most beautiful songbird by his ear. Wyll felt the knuckles of Romero’s other hand brush his stomach as he stroked himself, fucking into his hand as Wyll’s thrusts became rushed and uneven.

“Love you,” Romero muttered breathlessly, choking on a moan. “Love you so much. ‘M yours. Gods, you have me. You have all of me. My beautiful prince.”

Wyll let go of one of his legs to cup his cheek. Romero immediately responded to the touch, moving to press his forehead to Wyll’s. His eyes fought through ecstasy to look up at him, half-lidded eyes squeezing tight before being forced open to see his husband.

“My handsome knight,” Wyll gasped. “So close.” His hips stuttered and his eyes shut, a whine leaving him as he pressed his forehead harder against his love’s. “Let me fill you. Let me fall apart with you. I want to be one with you, my love.”

Romero leaned up to kiss him, and Wyll responded in kind. His heart raced as his hips faltered, frantically thrusting as deep as he could possibly go, his pelvis crushing against Romero’s. He cried out, mouth falling open around his beloved’s name, panted and whining, lips still brushing against each other because they couldn’t bear the idea of parting.

His hot cum spilled in large spurts, driving Romero mad as he was filled. Romero tugged desperately at his cock, squeezing as his hips bucked up into his hand, until he finally found his release. A guttural groan morphed into a high-pitched whine as he worked himself through his orgasm, cum coating his stomach and hand. He only stopped when he became so oversensitive it hurt.

They laid there, panting, clinging to each other. Sweat glistened on their bodies in the mid-morning sun. Too soon they would have to greet the day, too soon Wyll would be dragged into courtly meetings and Romero would venture off into the city to help with what rebuilding he could. They wouldn’t see each other again until late in the evening, if they didn’t make an effort to share lunch together, and more often than not these days they had to forgo that small slice of domestic bliss. Staying here, even hot and sticky and sweaty, let them linger just that moment longer.

When Romero caught his breath, he slid his hand from Wyll’s shoulder to his cheek. He guided Wyll into a kiss once more, soft, barely even a brush of lips. Goosebumps trailed the young Duke’s skin at the delicacy. He should have known it would not last, however.

He felt the smirk grow on his lover’s lips before he saw it, and before he registered what mischief his love would pull now.

Romero trailed kisses along his cheek, down his jaw, and to the dark bruise he’d left at his pulse. It was sensitive to even the lightest brush, a slight hiss escaping Wyll when a kiss was placed over the darkest section. His lips brushed over it again, but before Wyll could scold him, the song-like whisper of Te curo hit his ears and the pain was gone.

He burst out laughing. He carefully slid out of Romero so he could sit back on his knees, still chuckling, his red eye gleaming with joy and fondness. “Do not tell me this was your plan all along.”

“It wasn’t!” Romero quickly assured him through a cackle. “But how could I resist? Far be it from me to leave a lover suffering because I couldn’t help myself.”

“I don’t know about ‘suffering’ - I quite liked it.” He brushed a thumb over the bruises at Romero’s neck. “And I know you did, but I suspect you’re not going to let me heal you.”

Romero chuckled, taking Wyll’s hand and curling his fingers so he could kiss his knuckles, asking playfully, “Would you like me to let you heal me?”

Wyll sighed, contemplative, a soft grin on his lips as he studied the constellations decorating his neck and chest. His love would walk down the streets of Baldur’s Gate, shirt wide open, marks on full display for the populace. It made Wyll flush just imagining it, but it stirred something unpleasant in his gut. As much as he loved marking his husband for himself to see, the thought of everyone else seeing it and knowing their private business made him feel exposed.

“Yes,” he finally answered. Romero smiled, understanding without words the thoughts going on in that head of his. He was always good at reading people, understanding their reasoning, how they thought, but he knew no one as well as he knew his husband.

Wyll slipped his hand from the warm grasp of his beloved, not without a kind squeeze to his fingers first. Romero watched in quiet admiration at the magical abilities of his love, as his hands performed practiced poses, glowing in mystical light. Wyll had a habit of casting his spells with a strong voice, like the words alone would strike terror into his foes. Even now, with a rough Sanitatem ius, a red elixir in a bottle forms itself in his hand.

He uncorks it and cups the back of the bard’s neck, lifting his head and bringing the lip of the bottle to his mouth. Romero didn’t take his eyes off Wyll’s, watching him with warm, dark eyes mellowed with overwhelming affection. He dutifully swallowed every ounce as his head was guided back to follow the tilt of the bottle, Adam’s apple bobbing and bruises already fading with each second. Once the bottle was empty, vanishing into thin air in a wisp of color, Wyll couldn’t resist leaning down and kissing him. His tongue ran along Romero’s lower lip, tasting the lingering flavor of liquid heat. A mere taste alone sent a jolt through his system.

He sighed softly, contentedly, as he slowly pulled away. “Come on, my love.” He slipped carefully off the end of the bed, legs aching from kneeling on them so long. He could only imagine Romero’s plight when he finally stretched out his legs with a quiet hiss, taking Wyll’s hand to help him off the bed. “It’s about time we got cleaned up.”

Romero rested a hand at Wyll’s lower back as they walked together to the bathroom. Wyll’s arm wrapped around his waist, tucked under the open shirt hanging from his shoulders, and rubbing mindless circles into his hip.

Wyll jolted when Romero playfully pinched his butt. The bard had a wide, stupid grin on his face. “I love you!”

Romero laughed as Wyll playfully shoved him away, just hard enough to have him stumbling. There was a bright smile on his face. “I love you, too, you damned fool.”

---

Fun fact: The spell Healing Elixir is a 1st level Warlock spell, and it didn't have a verbal phrase from bg3 that I could find. Te curo is latin for "I cure you", so I just translated "Healing Elixir" into latin to get "sanitatem ius" :)

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