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after-witch · 3 months

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Check Out Time is Eleven [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Check Out Time is 11 [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You're invited to a hotel for a warm meal and a place to sleep by a mysterious stranger. Soulmate AU.

Word count: 7100ish

notes: yandere, kidnapping, mentions of drugging, a really useless and non-philosophical reference to My Dinner with Andre

The red thread on his finger loses slack for the very first time in his life, and for the smallest of moments, Chrollo Lucilfer forgets himself. His steps falter, expensive, stolen shoes nearly scuffing on the sidewalk, and a startled breath quivers through his chest. His mouth gapes, ever so slightly.

In surprise.

In trepidation.

In realization.

The red thread was, had always been, attached to you. His soulmate. Whoever you were. The gentle tugging of the thread meant that after years of fruitless searching, you were finally somewhere nearby, close enough to reach. Probably, given the tautness of the thread, even within walking distance.

How lucky for him.

How unfortunate for you.

You were finally discovered. You were finally within his grasp, fingers itching, warm satisfaction blooming through his skin. How often had he ruminated over the fact that you had yet to belong to him? How often had he wondered what you would look like, how you would feel under his touch? And what you might do to him when he had you in person? Would he find himself changed, however slightly, as the others in the Troupe had been? Or would he mold you with his own presence, looming over you like a shadow?

The mere thought of you is enough to get his heart racing, bring a bead of sweat to his neck. It was so unlike him, and wasn’t that a thrill?

And then, just like that, the moment is over. He recollects himself and his mouth closes and his mind whirs back into focused gear.

He needed to find you, first thing. The rest of the logistics could come later.

His eyes track the movements of the thread, and without missing a beat, he turns on his heels to follow the direction of the movement. It was possible--no, highly probable--that you were close enough to reach on foot. Within the city, certainly, and he didn’t mind the exercise.

As he continues to walk, the cold gleam of the business district turning into rows of glitzy restaurants and downtown attractions, he’s glad that you weren’t too close. It gives him more time to think about what he wants to do with you.

The Troupe members that had already found their soulmates--and Chrollo feels a surge of pride in his chest, counting himself among them now, fulfilled in that goal--had taken on different approaches.

Some merely kidnapped their soulmates and kept them in secure locations. Simple, effective in terms of security, but that would ensure it would take him a long time to win you over. And he knows that he will do just that, eventually, no matter how he decides to keep you. Others took their time, attempting to strike up something of an ordinary relationship before revealing their knowledge of the red thread, and persuading their soul mates to come with them for safety (and romance)’s sake. Surely the more appealing of the two options, but it did come with the downside of expended time and energy.

What he would do with you depended on so many factors. Did you live in some stationary location, or were you prone to travel? What did you do for a living? Were you already in a relationship, some inferior partnership with someone who could never appreciate you the way that he could, as your only soulmate?

All of these questions circle heavily in his mind as he walks, following the thread that was becoming tighter and tighter between the pair of you. The ritzy downtown buildings were now gone, replaced by rows of old buildings that had seen better days. In place of fine dining were small cafes and diners that practically exuded grease, laundromats with blinking signs, and the occasional busted out window. The scores of people walking, gabbing, waving around fancy handbags were replaced by only the occasional person walking with clear destinations in mind, eyes in front.

As the thread becomes even tighter, it leads him down an alley that most people would have surely avoided. But he doesn’t worry about the glances of the people leaning up against heavy exit doors, or the people crouching on the ground with needles against their arms. He thinks about you. Will he find you here, perhaps, curled up in the arms of a drug dealer pumping you full of toxic chemicals that flushed you with endorphins and heat? Or you might be on the other side of the needle, pocketing cash and going on your merry way?

But, no. Perhaps not. Instead of leading him further into the den of seedy dealings, the thread brings him away, feet crunching on broken bottles, towards some type of fenced-in parking lot. Or it had been a parking lot, once

From a short distance through the metal fence, he can see burning barrels, tents, carts. The smells of cooking grills waft over, greasy foods, easy to cook outdoors. It wasn’t a new sight, in this city or otherwise. Chrollo had seen worse. Had lived worse.

And then, there--at the end of the red thread that weaved in between one of the fence’s metal honeycombs: you.

He sees you for the first time and knows, with a burning intensity that threatens to knock him over, that he needs you. He needs you now. He needs you always. You have something that he lacks and perhaps possessing you will give it to him.

Is this what the others felt, when they first saw their soulmates? Or is it something unique to you and him? Some unfathomable bond that has shaken him to his core? Not for long, of course, never for long. He regains his senses within moments and catalogs the feeling away for later analysis.

It’s you that he focuses on, now. And the fact he will have you, as soon as he decides on the where, when, and how. He wouldn’t be the leader of the Phantom Troupe if he wasn’t skilled at taking what he wanted.

Today what he wants is not a gallery of paintings or a rare gruesome artifact, but a person.

You.

What to make of you?

You’re standing in front of one of the burning barrels, rubbing your hands together. They look red and chapped, even from his vintage point. Behind you is a shopping cart filled with odds and ends. On the side nearest the fire, you had clearly laid out clothes over the edge of the cart--wet ones, from rain or maybe you’d had the opportunity to wash them. Your current ensemble is a simple hodgepodge. Clearly, you wore whatever was cleanest, whatever was warmest, whatever you could find.

He remembers such a living.

You appear to be on the outskirts, avoiding the groups scattered around the encampment. No one approaches you and you don’t approach them. A loner… by choice, or not? You wouldn’t be alone for long, if it wasn’t by choice, and in time you might be grateful for it. If it was by choice, well, there were ways to tame feral cats.

It doesn’t take much analysis to decide what to do with you, to decide how best to approach things. He’s glad that he wore something casual today. Just some simple slacks and a nice sweater. If he was overdressed, it might be more difficult. Not that he couldn’t manage it, but he enjoys advantages when he can get them.

With no hesitation, he walks through one of the ragged gaps in the metal fence and begins to approach you.

Your head jerks towards him the moment that his steps become even remotely close. He doesn’t mind. It’s only natural, especially for someone who has been living the way you surely have. There’s a tugging somewhere inside him--memory of himself and connection with you.

He smiles, not broadly, but in a way meant to disarm.

“Hello,” he says, stopping a few feet away from you.

You stiffen.

“I’m Chrollo,” he continues. His voice is undisturbed and calm. As if he was meeting you on a sunny afternoon in the park while you were both buying ice cream from the same cart. That might have been a more charming meeting, he muses, but this one can work to his advantage just as easily. “Won’t you tell me your name?”

You snatch your hands back from the barrel and step, refusing to turn your back to him, behind your cart.

“None of your business,” you say.

And oh, he thinks, it would be heaven if he could somehow bottle the first time he hears your voice and listen to it on demand. But he supposes, he has the rest of his life--and yours--to hear you speak.

“That’s all right.” He gestures towards you, the cart, your life. “I see you are in need.” You frown at him, but he continues. “How would you like to go somewhere warm?”

Your lip pulls back in a sneer and you move yourself on the other side of the cart.

“I don’t do that. Fuck off.”

Ah. You thought he wanted you to--well. It wouldn’t be the first time people took advantage of others in less fortunate situations. There had been enough of that in Meteor City.

“No, nothing like that,” he says, voice going soft. “I should have clarified. I’m a… missionary of sorts. I look for people in need and offer what help I can give. I’d like to buy you a hotel room for the week.” He notices your wary expression. “Or even the day, if that would be more comfortable for you. Somewhere you can get some safe sleep, a shower, something to eat. I wouldn’t even be there.”

He recognizes the look on your face all too well. Wariness. Suspicion. The face of someone who knows that people are tricky and greedy and cruel. That people will take things that they haven’t earned. Oh, yes-- he knows all of that so well, from both sides.

And he also knows how to get your guard to drop enough for him to accomplish his goal. Sure, mistrust is essential in an environment like this. But mistrust can always be overpowered when there’s something essential within reach. Like comfort. Or food. A warm place to stay, even if it’s just for a few hours. A private bathroom, a toilet, a tub.

“I don’t know,” you say, finally, having given him the appropriate stare down.

He nods his head.

“I understand. I would feel wary myself, in your position. It’s perfectly reasonable.” It is more than reasonable, he thinks, but you don’t need to know that. You just need to believe that coming with him will be worth your while, worth ignoring what he’s sure is a growing pit in your stomach.

“What I would like to do is accompany you to a hotel where I often book rooms for those in need. It’s a private room, of course. And I will pay for your meals.” He sees the gears turning in your mind at the promise of a bed. The promise of food. “I have my own room in the hotel, but it’s on a different floor, and I won’t have to see you at all,” he adds, and this is how he will make you step over that cautionary line. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Everything is pre-paid on my card, of course, and you’re free to order whatever you’d like. What do you say?”

He lets his words hang in the air, wafting like smoke from the nearby barrels.

You wet your lips. You glance around at the people around you. A few of them have taken notice of Chrollo, perhaps as a mark, perhaps more; but he pays them no mind. He could kill them in a fraction of a second and whisk you out of here just as easily, if he needs to… But he hopes it will not come to that.

“All right,” you say suddenly, softly. “If… you’re just going to give me a room and feed me, then all right.”

Chrollo smiles. It is, he thinks, perhaps close to a genuine one.

“Wonderful. Follow me, if you please.”

The hotel is expensive, but thankfully not terribly ostentatious. Chrollo would hate to put you off by throwing you into some gilded lion’s den. But the hotel is more reserved, classy. Comfort and luxury without any of the ridiculous trappings that often come with them.

Chrollo does bring you with him to the front desk, if only to reduce the chances that the security will kick you out for looking out of place. And you do look out of place, but perhaps that’s for the better. It will make you appreciate what he’s going to do for you more, won’t it?

You’re quiet all the while, but that’s to be expected. You only hold tight to your backpack, where everything you hold dear has been crammed, and let him do the talking. A reservation is easily made under the guise that only you are to know the room number--you certainly don’t need to know that he’ll swing back and reserve the connected room next door--and the key is given without fanfare from the polite desk clerk who gives you curious glances but nothing more.

Chrollo walks you to the elevator, ever the gentleman, and hands you the key. You stare at it. The uncertain expression on your face is unbelievably precious, he thinks. He hopes he can see more of it before it inevitably morphs into shock and anger and fear.

“Would you like some new clothing?” Chrollo asks, after he pushes the button on the elevator for you. “I can have some sent up from the hotel’s boutique. I’ll tell the front desk, so they can give the concierge the room number. Ah, and I’ll need to know your size, if you’re willing to give it.”

“You want to buy me clothes?”

You almost splutter out the words, and he has to restrain himself from kissing you right then and there. You are terribly cute, and there’s a slight disturbing tinge to how much he finds everything about you enticing so quickly. The way you furrow your eyebrows at his question. The slight look of embarrassment, the twitch of your lips.

He needs you so much, and he’s only known you for a few moments.

You tell him your size, then glance at him before staring at the glossy metallic doors. “Um, I need something warm. No useless stuff.” Your head gestures back towards the hotel lobby, where a few women are walking on the arm of male companions, dressed in sleeveless dresses and likely heading for the restaurant.

“Of course.” Chrollo does not tell you that he can envision you wearing all sorts of useless things in the future his mind is creating, brick by brick. You would look heavenly in something strapless, something slinky. Something that hangs off your shoulders. He would drape a fine wrap over them, were you behaving enough to go out with him--no one else but him will be privy to such delicacies.

For now, though, he resolves to send you the clothes he knows you want. Things will be a little more seamless if your guard isn’t entirely raised.

The elevator doors open.

Chrollo steps aside, and gestures for you to enter.

“This is where I take my leave. I will let the restaurant host know your name, and you can order whatever you’d like. It’s on my card. Please, don’t feel the need to hold back.”

You take a step inside the elevator and ah, there it is. Just the slightest hesitation. The slightest jerk of your head as you look back at him. Do you feel bad, leaving him in a lurch when he’s giving you charity? Do you feel beholden to him in some way?

“I guess it’s okay if we share a meal. You’re paying for it, anyway. It’d be awkward otherwise.” You stare down at the elevator carpet as you say the words, and Chrollo realizes that he’s perhaps misjudged the gesture. Your sense of shame, maybe, outweighs your desire to be rid of him and his potential alternative motives for assisting you.

That might come in handy.

He nods, as you turn around and make brief eye contact with him.

“Well, then. How about we meet here in 5 hours for dinner? I can send something dressy to your room, if you’d like.”

You shrug your shoulders as the doors close, which is as good as assent in his view. The string on his finger rises with the elevator, but now there is no fear that he’ll lose you. The string, something which had been maddening in its slackness for so long, is now something of a treasure itself. A little leash, keeping you to him, wherever you go.

Which, for now, is your hotel room--meaning he needs to get moving. He won’t pick anything too flashy out from the boutique; something modest, something simple. There are delicate steps to take to avoid making you feel ashamed without offending your sense of dignity all in one go.

Thankfully--for you and himself--he’s attuned to such needs.

5 hours. That would give you enough time to take a shower or bath, to change into the fresh clothing he’ll send up, to take a nap. Perhaps you’ll stare out the hotel window at the view or curl up in the bed, rolling on the fresh sheets.

Five hours would give you time to freshen up and relax, yes. And it would give him enough time to get hold of Shalnark and procure anything he needs to make your removal from the hotel as smooth as possible.

The shower is running again. He doesn’t blame you. He remembers days where a hot shower was a luxury beyond imagining.

He keeps his side pressed against the door connecting your rooms--not that you know he is on the other side with a key to yours, of course--and holds back a contended sigh as he watches the red string on his finger twirl and shift with your every movement.

What are you thinking about? He wonders. Are you thinking about how long it’s been since you had a hot shower? Are you thinking about slipping the shampoo bottles into your backpack?

Perhaps more inviting… are you thinking about him?

He knows what’s on his mind, and has been for the last few hours now. You.

What were you like, deep down, underneath your layers and justifiably guarded stance? Maybe you liked to read, maybe you once had a dream of being a dancer before life went to hell, maybe you were shy, maybe you liked to get drunk and sing your favorite songs at full volume.

What would you be like, once you were fully his?

What do you look like, underneath all of your clothing? What has nature and nurture shown fit to bestow upon you, your skin, all those secret places you keep hidden?

The thread bobbles again. Are you stepping out of the shower soon, or still scrubbing yourself? You’re so vulnerable, naked and unawares, just a few feet away from him. The water running is a delicious sound to his ears, because he knows that you’re underneath it.

He imagines what you might look like naked. He imagines what sounds you might make, underneath him, gasping and--

Oh, but he’s getting ahead of himself. He smiles and shakes his head at the rush. He should slow down, yes. Slow down and savor it all.

He clenches both of his hands. In one is the duplicate key, in the other is a syringe. Both go into opposite pockets, awaiting their respective time to shine.

The dress that arrives at your door with a prim knock from a porter is not quite what you expected--which is a relief. You expected the stranger to send up something ridiculous. Something slinky and glittering, maybe with only a half shoulder.

But instead it’s a simple dress with a flared skirt, all made from dark blue fabric. The sleeves are elbow length, the neckline isn’t too low, and there’s a matching black belt to go with it. He’s even sent up a pair of nylons, which are something you haven’t worn since you were a little kid, desperately trying to mimic your mother’s fancy outfits.

He also--and maybe this is overkill--sent up a few pairs of shoes in different sizes, along with a transcribed note instructing you to call the front desk if none of them fit, or simply wear your own shoes if you are uncomfortable with it.

This stranger--Chrollo--is awfully accommodating. And kind. And considerate.

Which is exactly why, when the dress is on and your nylon-clad feet are resting in the shoes easiest to run in, you tuck your switchblade into one of the dress pockets for safekeeping.

Maybe he is just kind. Or he’s one of those people that makes themselves feel better by occasionally being charitable; he’s harboring some sort of guilt that can be alleviated, however temporarily, by buying a person a sandwich or two.

But maybe he’s not. You’ve known people who have been hurt or killed or sometimes worse by so-called charitable people. People that lure you in with showers and hotels, meals and clothing. People that slit your throat before or after they have their way with you.

Life was dark and life was shit, and you weren’t born yesterday. If this stranger had any nefarious intentions, you certainly weren’t going to walk into them like a bleating lamb.

And yet, and yet… some part of you wanted to believe he had good intentions. You’re not sure why, exactly. You weren’t the type to look on the bright side or always see the good in people--or at least, you hadn’t been that way since childhood. Yet something about this Chrollo made you hope that he was a good person. That you’d have a nice conversation and he wouldn’t do anything more than give you a nice afternoon and a place to sleep comfortably for a bit.

It was an almost primal feeling, which made it all the more stranger. Your gut feelings usually told you something like: this place is dangerous, this guy’s probably got a gun, that alley’s too notorious to use as a shortcut.

Your gut didn’t give you silly notions, like wanting to trust someone, hoping they would talk to you during dinner, wondering if they’d be pleasant to be around for longer.

At least, not before today.

“And the lady will have the cailles aux raisins.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Quail,” Chrollo says, allowing the waiter to take the leather-bound menu from his hands. As if your issue was with the choice of food--okay, you didn’t know what it meant, but still--and not that he ordered for you. “Stuffed with shallots, grapes, liver, and ah, I believe, some cognac, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s correct, sir,” the waiter says, not giving you a second glance--you didn’t even get a menu, which irked you, but considering you had nothing to pay with and perhaps the hotel staff knew it, it was a practical snub.

Your lips twist into a frown, although you suppose you can’t complain. The dish does sound good. Not that you’ve ever had quail. But it can’t be that different from chicken. Or duck. You had duck, once, as a kid. Your mother brought you to a hotel just like this for a Mother’s Day brunch and you sat at a table with an embroidered cloth and wore a pair of your mother’s white gloves, so that you would look extra fancy.

“I apologize,” Chrollo tells you. “I should have asked your preference first.” The strangest part is how sincere he sounds, like he really didn’t want to offend you. Like he actually might be interested in what you want to eat. Part of you can appreciate that, and part of you wants to finger the handle of your knife inside your pocket.

“It’s fine.” You shrug it all off. Because you can, and you choose to--but also because you’re famished and the smells wafting from the other tables is enough to make your stomach growl. “People usually don’t order things like this for me, anyway. If they do give me anything.”

Chrollo tilts his head slightly, looking at you like a particularly interesting painting on a wall. “No?”

You smile thinly. “Nope. I’m lucky if I get someone’s leftover fries from a fast food shop.”

“What a shame.” He places both hands on the table, clasping his fingers together. His gaze bores into yours. You look away, briefly, but find yourself wanting to look back. How odd. “I’m sure,” he begins, talking slowly, measuring out his words, “that must be demoralizing--to be treated as lesser-than.”

You can’t help the snort that comes out your nose, or the quick words that follow. “Yeah? And what would you know about that?” Your eyes rake over his outfit, your mind whirls over how much money he’s spent on you alone, as if it was nothing. A drop in the bucket. Some rich man playing with his money. Or daddy’s money, depending on the circumstance.

Of course, you expect him to get offended. You expect him to call you ungrateful and cancel the order and ship you out of here like yesterday’s trash. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has gotten angry that you didn’t play into their savior fantasies. Your muscles even prep to stand, your face goes stony, ready to block the anger that he’ll throw your way.

Only... none of that happens.

His face looks--it’s hard to describe, really. It’s almost like it glitches for a moment, and you see something you weren’t meant to see. You’re not even sure if he realizes it. And then his expression gets so remote and so quiet. He looks away from you for perhaps the first time, looking instead, at his hands.

“I know a lot about that, actually.”

It’s not offense in his expression but… sympathy? No, that’s not it either. You know “sympathy face” like the back of your hand, for all the good it does you.

It’s empathy. Trace, but there. A shared experience between you. Maybe that’s why you’ve felt inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt all day. Why you went with him in the first place, hunger pangs aside.

“So you’ve been…” You begin, but is there a need to finish. He’s been homeless, or something like it. Downtrodden. On the bottom.

He nods.

“Sorry.” The word comes out blurted but soft. Well, I’m an asshole, you think.

He smiles at you, a soft, thin thing--almost like a gloss that covers up his previous expression. “No, don’t be. You had no way of knowing, dear.”

Dear.

The word hangs between you silently, as if it’s being dangled on some sort of invisible string. He opens his mouth slightly--maybe to apologize--but shuts it when you don’t say anything. Instead, he simply blinks, and watches you.

Perhaps a minute ago you might have bristled at the nickname, might have sought to cut it right down, in fact. But for now, you brush it aside. He’s being nice--he knows what you’re going through. And sure, there’s some sort of guilt relief in his actions, but it’s not coming from the place of a rich man making himself feel better. It’s coming, you think, from a place of not just knowing where you’ve been but having been there himself.

Before either of you can speak, the waiter returns with your appetizer and despite the guilt in your gut, your hunger practically sings at the sight of the plate of bread and butter. It’s fancy bread, already cut, gleaming with what smells like garlic butter spread over the top.

The flavored butter is shaped like a rose and it’s only after you childishly dip your bread right into it and take a loud, chewy bite of the delicious goodness that you realize you’ve committed a faux-pas. There’s a tiny butter knife on the plate, obviously meant to delicately smear the butter onto your bread. And here you are, gnawing on the piece like some sort of medieval peasant during a bad harvest.

A pang of shame tingles over you. It’s a silly kind of shame--inconsequential, really. Who cares how you eat bread at some hotel you’ll never step foot in again in your life? But it lingers terribly. Until Chrollo picks up a piece of brand and dips it right into the butter, too, taking a chewy bite with far less graciousness than you imagined with his sophisticated appearance.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” He asks, not even bothering to cover his mouth.

You smile. You almost-snort. And the shame dissipates like ice crystals on a sunny day, as you and Chrollo both finish off the appetizer. He lets you eat more without saying a word, which you appreciate.

There’s a lot to appreciate about him, really. He’s been kind. He hasn’t been terribly condescending, dinner order notwithstanding. And he seems to know how to approach you with actual empathy and not just the sticky, coddling sympathy that most people do.

And you won’t lie--he is nice to look at. He even smells nice, but with the amount of money he had to spend on the clothing he sent up to your room, he can likely afford to buy expensive cologne.

If he notices you staring, he says nothing. Instead, he half-closes his eyes and appears to be deep in thought. Over… you? Or dinner?

He hums a bit under his breath, and you realize: it’s the music. It’s a delicate song being played by a small group of musicians set up on a stage in the corner. It’s familiar… your brain strives to catch up with your ears.

“You like this song?” You ask, because the silence has stretched too long, and the bread is now gone.

Chrollo opens his eyes and regards you with a sober smile. “Yes.” He pauses, then. “It’s--”

“Elgar's Chanson de matin,” you blurt, before he can. “I know it.”

His eyes widen, just a tad. Enough to show that he’s curious. A funny bit of pride thrums through you. It can be retribution for the quail earlier, you decide.

“You’re familiar with his work?”

You feel your cheeks heat up, even though you don’t get the sense that he asked to be cruel. He seems actually interested. Like he wants to know you. It’s nice, and confusing, and a little startling.

You nod, wishing there was more bread to break up the conversation. “What, you think someone like me can’t be interested in classical music?

“Of course not.” He answers swiftly, resolutely.

He reaches his hand towards yours and grasps it before you can think to pull away. It seems silly to yank your hand out of his, so you don’t. Even if the way he looks down at your interlocked fingers makes goosebumps dance up your arm.

His expression is so strange. He looks… lonely. And desperate. And relieved. But why?

Both of your gazes meet for one electric moment and for that moment, you feel like he sees you. And you see him. Not as clearly. But you see something inside him that is not quite on the surface. Something which does make you pull away, but not with distaste. You withdraw your hand from his slowly, like he’s a wild animal that you don’t want to startle.

The waiter, impeccable timing as ever, arrives with the main courses just as your hand makes its way into your lap.

And just like that, the spell is broken. Ripples of water dash whatever it was between you, and he’s speaking charmingly to the waiter, who appears swiftly again with a glass of champagne for each of you. You weren’t intending to drink, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt. It could calm your nerves.

Neither of you talk much for the rest of dinner. It’s not tense, exactly, but you can tell there’s something in the air. Questions unspoken, maybe, or just an awkwardness between two strangers who seem to both understand and misunderstand each other in equal measure.

The hotel’s restaurant begins to thin out after your main courses are taken away. A dessert menu is brought, and Chrollo orders a simple slice of cake for both of you.

Real vanilla bean frosting is on your lips when you ask your question. Quiet, but with most of the other guests gone, he has no trouble hearing it.

“So you were… homeless, before?”

You’re not sure why you need to know this. To confirm that he’s not some rich boy playing with his father’s money? To see how much he can really understand you? Maybe the champagne went to your head. You don’t normally drink, it wouldn’t be impossible.

His fork stalls as the question comes out. He glances up at you and there’s nothing offended or hurt in his eyes. He seems to weigh his answer before he gives it. It doesn’t really surprise you; he could be just as mistrustful of you as you are of him, couldn’t he?

“Something like that.” He rests his fork on his plate. “I suppose you are trying to decide just how much I can sympathize with your… situation.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you’re grateful the water brought another glass of champagne that you can sip from to loosen the tightness in your chest.

If he notices your flushed countenance, he doesn’t remark on it. You like him better for it. He continues speaking, looking at you with a measured expression. Like before, his words come slowly and carefully, given to you with something akin to grace.

“Our situations were not exactly similar. I don’t find it terribly useful to compare them. Better in some ways, worse in others. Like anything.”

“Better?” You dab at your mouth with a napkin.

“Ah.” He seems to weigh his next words with even more scrutiny before he decides on them. “I had something you didn’t, which surely benefited me.”

“Which was?”

There’s something wistful in his voice now. It makes you lean forward over the table. With most of the other guests gone, it feels strange to talk so openly about clearly delicate matters. Chrollo mimics your lean, and while he doesn’t take your hands across the table into his, you get the feeling he’d like to, if you let him.

“Companionship,” he says simply. The word settles in the air like a brick that seems to land right on your chest. You blink and feel the beginnings of tears in your eyes. You really did have too much champagne, and this is all getting to be a lot. You start to lean backward when he speaks again.

“Aren’t you lonely?”

“No,” you lie. The shock of the question does make you lean back fully. Then, to be spiteful. “Are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He only looks down at his hands and the empty spot where yours used to be, and then back at you.

Nothing more is said on the matter. He pays for the meal and leaves a nice fat tip for the waiter--who has, you think, been lurking nearby either to witness your drama or to make sure no one swipes his tip from the table--before escorting you back to the elevators.

Shame slams back into you while you’re standing in front of the elevator doors.

“I’m sorry.” Sure, he asked it first, but fuck--you hate being rude. If you were rude. It was hard to tell how Chrollo felt about anything. The champagne making your head fuzzy doesn’t help. Not at all.

He tilts his head a little. “What for?”

Your eyebrows furrow together. “You know, for asking… for being…” You wave your hands around a little. It’s too hard to put into words. You’re tired, you feel out of sorts, and you’re tipsy bordering on drunk. You can give yourself some forgiveness in a lack of coherency in this matter, at least.

Chrollo regards you for a moment before he shakes his head, scoffing a little as he smiles.

“For being yourself? Or at least showing some small part of it to me? I don’t mind.” He holds out his arm and you, unsteady champagne fuzz in your head, take it. “I’ll escort you to your room, if that’s all right. I don’t feel comfortable letting you go there alone.”

You should tell him that you’ll be fine. You should. But the champagne in your brain and the way you feel drawn to him--however slightly--makes “should” fly out the window. So you nod and let him lead you into the elevator, where the ride up makes you dizzy enough that Chrollo has to steady you carefully, and you mumble out another apology.

He only chuckles a little and helps you walk out of the elevator without stumbling over the threshold. Your room is just down the hall and he keeps a steady grip on you the whole way, even though you’ve told yourself that you won’t stumble anymore. It feels weird, to have someone so close to you; to smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his skin.

It feels weird, yes, but giddy too. He is handsome. And he did buy you dinner. And clothes. And he’s not as shitty as you thought he might be at first. The way he ate the bread in solidarity with you earlier--you can’t forget that, can you? It was… cute, even. If someone like Chrollo could be called cute.

Is it the champagne, the newness of this stranger-but-not-entirely, the rich disarmament that comes with a full stomach and freshly washed face? All of the above? Whatever it is, it’s got you thinking too much about Chrollo as he gently takes the key from your hand and opens your hotel room door.

A gentleman, he only sees you just inside before taking his leave, promising to meet you for breakfast in the morning--if you’d like.

You would like, you tell him, and the door shuts and locks swiftly afterwards. Chrollo’s cologne lingers in the air, or maybe it rubbed off on you from all the steadying he had to do.

The hotel room is just as you left it. Clean and pristine, smelling vaguely of lemon. Your duffel bags and personal belongings are shoved in the corner. Maybe you’ll try to read one of your books tonight, before you sleep? It would be the first time you read on an actual bed in ages. Maybe you could even call for room service? A little midnight snack? It’s not like Chrollo would mind, or at least, he probably wouldn’t. It’d be something small anyway, nothing wild.

Unless you wanted a bubbly nightcap.

Full of ideas, you take your giddy champagne self back to the bathroom to change into pajamas that he sent up earlier, humming Elgar’s Chanson, thinking about bread and quail and… Chrollo. The knife in your dress pocket gets left on the bathroom counter. It was silly to bring it, now that you think about it.

Still humming, you flop on the bed and grab the menu for room service. It wouldn’t hurt to order some extra dessert. And another glass of champagne. Maybe two…

You’re so out of sorts that at no point for the rest of the night, before your weary head hits the soft pillow, do you stop to wonder how Chrollo knew your room number.

There are few things Chrollo truly regrets in his life. One of them, he knows, will be that he couldn’t plant himself in this town for a few months in order to properly court you; to introduce you, gradually, to the concept of nen. To the knowledge that you were his soul mate.

But it can’t be helped. He has to leave tomorrow night, come hell or high water. And he certainly won’t let you drown here a moment longer. It’s for your sake. You’ll come to realize that eventually, just as you will--in time--come to forgive him for what he must do.

You’ll no doubt regret letting down your barriers in the morning. But if you hadn’t been so keen to trust in someone, to trust in him, then he wouldn’t have gotten to see something of the real you underneath all of that built-up survival instinct. And didn’t you see something of him, too? He thinks you did. Just a moment, a spark, but it was there.

You sweet thing. He could hear you humming through the door earlier; heard you order room service (champagne and desserts) and he regretted not having Shalnark swoop in during dinner to set up some security cameras.

The key to your room feels heavy in his hand. On this side, he is simply himself, staring ahead as the red thread of his soulmate leads away from him. But once he turns it into the lock and quietly opens the door, there will be nothing between you but sleep.

He opens the door and relishes in the way the thread sags even further downward. If only you could have seen how beautiful the thread looked during dinner, all tangled up as he clasped your hand in his. That’s how the thread was meant to look. Not tight and taut and unforgiving.

You’re fast asleep when he silently enters the room and unlocks the deadbolt so that Shalnark can help him remove you from the premises. Curled up underneath the covers, you look like you’re in bliss. It’s likely the first restful sleep you’ve had in a long time. Months? Years?

How awful for you, to wake up tomorrow and realize that you’re no longer in the hotel bed. And that he’s the one to blame for it. How awful for him, too, to lose his grasp on the tentatively pleasant and revealing evening you had together. But he doesn’t think you’ll be empathetic on that matter. Not for a while, anyway.

He sits down on the bed next to you and it takes a considerable amount of self-control not to curl up against you. It’s not worth the risk of you waking, although the tranquilizer in his pocket could be jabbed into your thigh early, if need be.

Besides… you’ll have a lifetime of nights together after this.

There’s no need to rush what is finally his to keep forever.

#yandere chrollo #yandere hunter x hunter #chrollo x reader #yandere #yandere chrollo lucilfer #afterwitch writes

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prokopetz · 7 months

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Your long and arduous journey has led you to this, the final confrontation. You thought you knew what to expect, but just as you struck the final blow, your ultimate foe's eyes gleamed with unnatural light as they proclaimed…

THIS ISN'T EVEN MY FINAL FORM

A game for 4–6 players

Introduction

This Isn't Even My Final Form is a GMless tactical minigame for 4–6 players. You'll take on the roles of a party of heroic adventurers nearing the end of a world-spanning quest to defeat a great evil, the Final Boss. Unfortunately for them, each time they think they've won, the Final Boss assumes a new, even more horrifying form, and the struggle begins anew. Is there any end to this conflict? There's only one way to find out!

What You'll Need

This Isn't Even My Final Form requires a dozen six-sided dice, as well as a way of keeping track of a few important numbers – a shared text document or some scrap paper will suffice.

Update 2023-10-30: Print-and-play card decks are available here:

http://penguinking.com/this-isnt-even-my-final-form/

Character Creation

Choose two of the following actions to be your Party Member's Class Actions: Strike, Heal, Buff, Debuff. If you'd rather determine this randomly, roll on the following table.

1. Strike, Heal 2. Strike, Buff 3. Strike, Debuff 4. Heal, Buff 5. Heal, Debuff 6. Buff, Debuff

Give your Party Member's Class a name which suits your Class Actions. Also give your Party Member a name; it is traditional but not obligatory for your Party Member's name to have exactly five letters.

Playing the Game

Play is divided into a series of Phases. During each Phase, one player takes on the role of the Final Boss. That player's Party Member does not participate in this Phase; they're trapped, lost, incapacitated, or otherwise separated from the party or unable to act for the duration of the Phase. All other players take on the roles of their Party Members.

The Final Boss player's first order of business is to describe what the current Phase looks like. The Final Boss player can roll 1–3 times on the following table (re-rolling duplicates) to decide on a theme, or use it as inspiration for their own theme. To use this table, roll a six-sided die twice, treating the first roll as the "tens" place and the second roll as the "ones" place, yielding a number in the range from 11 to 66.

11. Beasts 12. Bells 13. Blood 14. Bones 15. Chains 16. Chaos 21. Cubes 22. Eyes 23. Fire 24. Flowers 25. Food 26. Games 31. Gears 32. Glass 33. Gold 34. Hands 35. Holes 36. Ice 41. Iron 42. Light 43. Mazes 44. Meat 45. Mirrors 46. Music 51. Orbs 52. Order 53. Plague 54. Shadow 55. Slime 56. Space 61. Spikes 62. Teeth 63. Time 64. Trees 65. Weapons 66. Wings

Once the Phase has been defined, set the party's Momentum to zero. Momentum is a value which will increase or decrease over the course of the Phase; it has a minimum value of zero, and no particular upper limit.

Play proceeds in a series of rounds, as follows.

The Final Boss Attacks

The Final Boss always goes first in each round. Roll one die:

1–3: The Final Boss chooses one of the following actions. 4–5: The Final Boss chooses two of the following actions. You may not target the same Party Member twice; however, you may use the same action on two different Party Members if you wish. 6: The Final Boss does nothing this round. On its turn next round, it does not roll and instead uses its Ultimate Attack.

Wound: Inflict the Critical Condition on a single Party Member. If the chosen Party Member already has the Critical Condition, it's replaced with the Down Condition and the party loses one Momentum.

Imprecate: Inflict the Cursed Condition on a single Party Member.

Envenom: Inflict the Poisoned Condition on a single Party Member.

Bewilder: Inflict the Confused Condition on a single Party Member.

Counter: If you're targeted by the Strike or Debuff actions this round, after resolving that action, perform the Wound action on the Party Member who targeted you. You may counter any number of actions in this way.

Dispel: Remove the Buffed and Protected Conditions from any number of Party Members.

Enrage: The Final Boss rolls two dice and takes the better result on its next action. The party may cancel this benefit with a successful Debuff action; doing so removes the extra die instead of forcing the Final Boss to roll twice and take the lower result.

Ultimate Attack: This action can only be chosen by rolling a 6 during the previous round. When the Final Boss uses this action, choose Cursed, Poisoned, or Confused: you may perform the Wound action AND inflict the chosen Condition upon any number of Party Members, in that order. (i.e., Wound each targeted Party Member, THEN Curse/Confuse/Poison any who remain standing.)

The Final Boss player describes the outcome of the chosen action(s) in as much or as little detail as they like; control then passes to the other players.

The Party Acts

After the Final Boss has attacked, each Party Member who doesn't have the Down condition chooses one of the following actions, in any order the players wish. After choosing any action other than Defend, the player rolls their dice pool, which is a handful of six-sided dice constructed as follows:

Start with a number of dice equal to the party's current Momentum (initially zero, though it will grow over the course of the Phase)

Add one die if you're performing one of your Party Member's Class Actions

Add one die if your Party Member currently has the Buffed Condition

Add one die if your Party Member currently has the Critical Condition

Roll all of the dice together, and find the highest result. Ties for the highest result have no special significance; for example, if you rolled four dice and got 1, 3, 5 and 5, your result is 5. If you'd ever end up with zero or fewer dice for any reason – either because your dice pool was empty to begin with, or because some effect obliged you to discard every die you rolled – you receive an automatic result of 1.

If an action requires you to target a specific Party Member or make other choices, you can wait and see the result of your roll before making those decisions.

Strike: You attack the Final Boss. Roll your dice pool:

1–3: Nothing happens – either the attack misses, or the Final Boss turns out to be immune to whatever you just did. 4–5: The attack strikes true. The party gains one Momentum. 6: Critical hit! The party gains two Momentum.

Special: If you roll triples or better (i.e., at least three of the same number) on a Strike action, the Final Boss' current Phase is defeated, and you move on to the next Phase. It doesn't matter what number comes up triples.

Heal: You attempt to restore the party's strength. Roll your dice pool:

1–3: You may remove the Critical Condition from a single Party Member. If no Party Member has the Critical Condition, nothing happens. 4–5: You may remove the Critical Condition from any number of party members OR you may remove the Down Condition from a single Party Member. 6: You may remove the Critical and Down Conditions from any number of party members.

Buff: You attempt to bolster a party member. Roll your dice pool:

1–3: You may grant the Buffed Condition to a single Party Member OR remove a Condition of your choice other than Critical or Down from a single Party Member. 4–5: You may grant the Buffed Condition to a single Party Member AND remove a Condition of your choice other than Critical or Down from that Party Member, if they have one. 6: You may grant the Buffed Condition OR remove a Condition of your choice other than Critical or Down to any number of Party Members. You may choose a different option for each targeted Party Member.

Debuff: You attempt to weaken the Final Boss. Roll your dice pool:

1-3: Nothing happens – it turns out the Final Boss was immune to that effect. 4–5: The Final Boss rolls two dice and takes the lower result on its next action. 6: The Final Boss rolls two dice and takes the lower result on its next action AND the party gains one Momentum.

Defend: You may grant the Protected condition to a Party Member of your choice. Do not roll.

Based on the outcome of your roll (if applicable), describe the outcome of your action in as much or as little detail as you wish.

Once each Party Member has acted, return to "The Final Boss Attacks" to begin the next round.

Ending the Phase

As noted above, rolling triples or better on a Strike action results in the immediate defeat of the current Phase. Alternatively, if all Party Members simultaneously have the Down Condition, the Final Boss player's Party Member suddenly breaks free or arrives on the scene and rescues everyone in a stunning deus ex machina; this also ends the Phase, but does not count as defeating it.

In either case, reset the party's momentum to zero, remove all Conditions, and move on to the next Phase. The role of the Final Boss passes to a different player, with preference given to those who haven't yet had a chance to be the Final Boss; the previous Final Boss player resumes playing their Party Member.

Continue until the party has defeated a number of Phases at least equal to the number of players, or until mutual agreement has been reached that all this has gone on quite long enough.

Conditions

Some actions can impose Conditions upon the individual Party Members. Conditions can be positive or negative, and last until specific conditions for their removal are met.

Buffed: Your strength has been boosted. When rolling your dice pool, you roll one extra die.

Confused: You've lost your wits. When the party acts, your action is determined by rolling a d6 – 1: Strike; 2: Heal; 3: Buff; 4: Debuff; 5: Defend; 6: do nothing this round AND remove this Condition. This Condition is also removed if you gain the Critical Condition while under its effects. You may choose targets normally if the rolled action requires them. Confused Party Members always act before their un-Confused peers; if there are multiple Confused Party Members, the Final Boss decides the order in which they act.

Critical: You are badly wounded. Desperation lends strength, and so this Condition adds one extra die to your dice pools; however, if you suffer the Critical Condition a second time, it becomes the Down Condition instead.

Cursed: You've been afflicted with misfortune. Discard your highest result after rolling your dice pool, but before applying your chosen action's effects. If there's a tie for the highest result, discard all of them; for example, if you roll four dice while Cursed and get 1, 3, 5 and 5, your result is 3. If the Condition causes you to discard your only set of triples of better on a Strike action, the Phase does not end.

Down: You are incapacitated by injury or foul enchantment. When the party acts, you may not choose an action; your action remains lost even if this Condition is removed before the end of the round. When you gain this Condition, remove all other Conditions, and the party loses one Momentum. (This is not in addition to the Momentum loss noted by effects which inflict this Condition – those are just reminders.) You may not gain other Conditions while this one persists.

Poisoned: You're afflicted by a poison, plague, or death-curse. If you have the Poisoned Condition after resolving your action for the round, you gain the Critical Condition. If you already have the Critical Condition, you instead gain the Down Condition, and the party loses one Momentum.

Protected: The next time you would gain any Condition other than Buffed, remove this Condition instead. You also remove this Condition if you take any action other than Defend on your turn.

#gaming #tabletop roleplaying #tabletop rpgs #this isn't even my final form #game design #violence mention

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catboyieejeno · 6 months

Text

.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・★

cw: mark x reader x hyuck, threesome, very little plot, unprotected sex, a lot of mentions of cum, so much cum... this shit is filthy... npr

18+ minors do not interact !

[ 11:44pm ]

it's unclear whether the heat that radiates off of you is due to the alcohol that swims in your system or the pair of mouths that kiss and lick across your body fervently. you can't keep track of all the sensations you feel, mind blurry as you moan and pant, writhing restlessly between your two best friends. kneeling on the mattress in front of you is mark with one hand pumping his flushed pink cock, the other squeezing your boob—the one that isn't in his mouth. his eyes are half-lidded and staring into yours, watching the way your face contorts each and every time hyuck slips a finger into your impossibly tight cunt.

the younger of the two boys who sits behind you, presses his swollen erection to your ass. meanwhile, his fingers are lost in your panties, thick digits alternating between pumping into you and rubbing your pulsing clit. your grip on his wrist tethers you, nails digging into his arm whenever something feels a little too good.

the night had started much differently: a movie night had dwindled into banter after hyuck's complaints that the movie mark picked out was awful. defeated, and knowing it was practically impossible to argue with hyuck, mark proposed that you guys get some wine and just talk instead, which was fine... until each of you were about three glasses in.

mark's fingertips began brushing your thighs, higher and higher, following the hem of your skirt that at some point, you stopped pulling down. hyuck's lips were whispering teasing comments in your ear, his arms snaking around your waist—something he usually did sober, except this time, with much less restraint.

you weren't oblivious; slightly past the point of tipsy? yes, but never oblivious. you leaned into their touches, giggled and blushed at their flirty passes, batted your eyes as your thighs pressed together...

just as you noticed the bulge in mark's pants, hyuck's wine-stained lips were on yours.

"d'you like that, baby?"

"yes," you reply so quickly that it's almost pathetic, letting your head fall forward and onto mark's shoulder. your eyelids are squeezed shut as your hips roll, grinding down into hyuck's hand and back against his dick.

he lets out a grunt, sliding his free hand all the way up your spine until it wraps around the base of your neck. he pulls you back up to him then moves to hold your throat, pressing his chest against you and attaching his mouth to your shoulder.

you whine out when he withdraws his fingers from between your legs, using your slick to rub his tip in circles. as he teases himself, he breathes hot air onto your skin where his tongue swirled just seconds before.

thankfully, you don't feel empty for long because mark scoots closer, looping his index finger on the strip of your cotton panties that covers your pussy. he moves it aside and guides himself towards you, sliding his length between your lips and coating it with your arousal.

"so wet," he mutters to himself, rubbing into you a few times.

"mark.."

he doesn't reply; instead, he guides himself side to side between your folds in order to stimulate your clit. your jaw slightly drops as you relish in the feeling.

"i need you," you whine.

"i know, i know," his reply doesn't sound convincing in the slightest. you can tell he's distracted watching the way his cock glistens from your juices, and your cheeks flush red in embarrassment as you open your mouth to protest once more.

"'need you to fill me up, baby, please," you plead in a small voice, but he only smirks and raises a brow at you.

"yeah?" he asks, "want me to stretch you out, sweet girl?"

from behind you, hyuck growls, "if you don't stick your dick in her right now, i'm going to."

unwilling to push hyuck's withering patience, mark scoffs and disappears between your folds in one smooth motion, pushing the head of his dick into your walls with almost no resistance. both of you sigh out in relief. your hands claw at his shoulders, grip tightening when he bottoms out inside of you. a moan rumbles in mark's chest and he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss.

he's so close that he's pressing his hips completely to yours, pelvis flush against your clit, the pressure so delicious on the needy bud. he swallows every last moan you feed him, only pulling back from your kiss for air.

mark takes his time finding a pace, observing how you react to each thrust. he takes note of both your expression and your clenching cunt that flutters around him when he slows down or picks up speed.

every time he pulls out, his eyes look down to where your bodies meet, obsessed with the way you suck him back in.

"fuck," he breathes, "this pussy's so good. s'tight, so warm,” he’s babbling incoherently, unable to suppress his moans when you swivel your hips. he stills for a moment, letting you pleasure yourself on his cock. you feel unreal, better than he could’ve ever imagined (and boy, did he imagine this quite a few times in the years he’s known you).

"move, please,"

"always so polite," mark teases and snaps forward. you cry out, and he does it again, quickly finding a rhythm that has your head spinning. he’s long and you’re so wet that if it wasn’t for how tight you are, there would be no push back at all. the stretch is delectable, like nothing you’ve felt before.

"you're such a good girl, taking mark so well,” hyuck sticks his thumb between your parted lips and rests it on your tongue, “i bet you love being used like this. you do, don’t you, baby?”

mark sucks in a breath when you bring your hand down, spreading your folds with your fingers, “you’re doing so good for me,” he says, eyes locked on the sight.

their praises go straight to the bundle of nerves between your legs, your orgasm building in the pit of your tummy. you can only hum around your best friends finger, head bobbing up and down in agreement with his filthy, yet nonetheless true, accusation.

the tip of mark’s dick kisses your cervix repeatedly, slipping through your sopping folds at a pace so eager that you’ve started to melt. if it wasn’t for both boys holding you up, you’d have become putty in their arms.

all of your senses have started to blend together, starting with the salty taste of hyuck’s thumb that he finally withdraws and drags down your front, rubbing your saliva around your perked up nipples until they’re coated and gleaming. his dick couldn’t possibly be any harder, standing prominently up and constantly poking at your backside. you’re pretty sure he’s been leaking pre-cum, too, because there’s a wet spot on your lower back where the draft hits slightly different.

mark’s hands that grip and squeeze the flesh of your ass to pull you to meet his thrusts, suddenly lift up to land a slap on each cheek. your eyes are locked on his glossy ones, though you can’t see very clearly through the pooling tears that gather and blur your vision.

you’re close, so fucking close that you’ve started moaning out shamelessly, rambling nonsense, “i’m gonna—it feels so—ng, fuck! mark, please don’t stop, please, please–“

mark’s head falls into the crook of your neck, lips right by your ear as he chants encouragements in low whispers, just for you.

“come for me, baby. yes, just like that." his voice strains as your pussy squeezes him, "take my dick, take it.”

you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling and tugging at his dark strands. your orgasm hurdles towards you, and it only takes a particularly deep thrust for your breath to hitch in your throat, the coil snapping in your tummy.

mark’s coming too, before he even realizes it. his lip is clamped between his teeth as he tries his absolute best to keep a steady pace, so desperately wanting to make you feel as good as he does.

he empties himself inside your walls with a raspy, dragged out groan, chest heaving in pleasure. his toes are digging into the bed, abdomen flexed and dick twitching. there are beads of sweat trickling down his chest and he swipes away at them, leaning back to watch your fucked out face as he finishes. this is one of the best orgasms he's ever had, he decides; still, his high ends before yours.

in fact, his tip is screaming with sensitivity by the time he peeks his eyes open and realizes, you’re still coming. god, it’s fucking hard to keep up, regardless of how bad he wants you help you ride it out. it's nearly impossible when your gummy walls are so warm around him and your release is gushing out, dripping down your thighs.

“shit, y/n,” hyuck moans your name out loud, fucking his fist shamelessly.

he watches as mark scrunches all his features and picks up his pace just enough to amplify the end of your climax, the sound of his skin slapping against yours a little louder. your cries are louder, too.

he finally slows down once your thighs start trying to clamp shut, and you've started shaking from overstimulation.

"holy shit, mark. i've never come like that before," you whimper, reaching between your legs as he pulls out to feel just how wet you are. mark leans back on one arm, cupping his balls in his palm.

he looks over at you and laughs softly at the way your pupils are blown wide, "me either," he agrees, cheeks and chest flushed red from effort.

"let me see," hyuck insists, huffing, "lay back,"

the moment your back hits the mattress you wince, the burning in your thighs suddenly very evident. hyuck hushes you sweetly, gently parting your legs and leaving a few open mouthed kisses on your stomach. when he pulls away, it’s to gawk at the silky white mess of cum between your legs.

“we should’ve done this long ago,” mark jokes, but there’s a glimmer of sincerity in his eyes.

you nod, propping up on your elbows to meet him halfway where he leans in giving you a slow, wet kiss. his tongue swipes at yours, the shared air growing warmer between you. there’s a few hushed noises coming from both of you, and the kiss lasts until you feel something fill you up again.

you pull away to find donghyuck, two fingers shoved into your hole, tucking away any of mark’s cum that tried to seep out.

when your eyes meet, there's a pout resting on his lips as he whines, "pay attention to me, baby… he had his turn,”

you laugh and nod, “you’re right, hyuckie. i’m sorry,”

situating himself between your thighs that rest on his own, hyuck takes a moment to steal a kiss for himself. it’s paced and sensual, and the pretty noises he makes when your fingers disappear into his hairline leave you winded.

“wanna make you feel really good,” he mumbles against your lips. there’s a warm weight that rests on your stomach as he says this, and it takes a moment for you to put two and two together.

when you look away from his soft, brown eyes, you realize his cock, thick and swollen, is resting on your tummy, sizing up how far it would be inside you.

he’s less lengthy than mark, but undoubtedly thicker, his prominent head staring back at you, dribbling pre-release on your skin. just when you didn’t think you could get any needier, he presses against you more, and his heavy balls brush right up against your clit.

“hyuck, baby,”

“tell me,” he whispers into your chest, “i’ll do anything you want, just say the word,”

you squirm against him, “wan' you to fuck me,”

swinging one of your legs up, hyuck picks up his cock from your tummy and directs it toward your entrance.

“m’gonna fuck mark’s cum deep into you, okay? then i’m gonna fill you up with mine,” then, he presses in, brow furrowing at the feeling of you enveloping him.

mark’s cum is practically serving as lube, but even then, you can fucking feel the difference in girth. he hisses, letting his head fall to the side to rest on your calf that sits on his shoulder. instinctively, your hands paw at his chest. he isn't even all the way in yet, and the stretch is already surreal. you take your lip between your teeth and hyuck cups your face, letting his thumb graze your cheek.

“i’ve got you, princess,” he soothes, flicking your clit with his other thumb, rubbing slow circles on it.

"keep doing that, please," he nods at your instruction, gazing at you through his eyebrows in search of your approval. your face says it all, eyes rolling back and puffy lips shaped into an 'o'. the back of your head digs into the pillow as he enters you fully, then he drags his dick all the way back out until only his tip is sheathed, before doing it all again.

beside him, mark's eyes are glued to your core, specifically to the white ring at the base of hyuck's cock. he identifies it as his own cum, and his balls tighten. it's a mess, but the lewdness is enough for him to get hard all over again.

hyuck maintains his slow pace, making you shudder impatiently. "hyuck," you start. he hums attentively, "faster.."

"you want me to go faster, baby? already?"

you nod yes quickly, "i want you to fuck me stupid."

in less than a second, his fingers are digging into your waist and he's rocking you up and down, drilling his cock into you just as you had asked.

you moan out and he slaps your thigh, swiping his tongue at the bit of drool that threatens to slip from his bottom lip. between his brutal pace and the attention he's paying to your bud (and how sensitive you were from having come once already), your climax starts approaching rather quickly.

hyuck can tell, too, because you've started to squirm and shake under him. your back is arching off the mattress, and the sheets are clenched between your fingers as if you'd float away by letting go.

"am i doing good? does that feel good, baby?"

"yes!" you all but sob, clasping a hand over your mouth.

you're still slightly dizzy from the wine, so when you come hard for the second time tonight, you become so light headed that dark spots burst all over your vision like some visual effect. you gasp and cry out when hyuck slaps your clit before continuing to rub it mercilessly, his fingers soaked through with juices that spill with every thrust.

the bed creaks beneath you as he refuses to let up, even when your moans have gone up in pitch to become broken whimpers.

he'd give you anything you ask for, he told you so.

as you come down, you open your eyes just in time to watch hyuck's face shift, hips bucking wildly after his own finish. it doesn't take much longer, and in seconds, he stills, burying himself deep inside of you as he pumps you full of his load.

at some point while bystanding, mark had started touching himself again, letting out a long sigh as he grips his head tight and paints your folds with his second round of seed. some of it slips onto hyuck's base, and some of it mixes with the bit hyuck's cum that had poured out the sides of you, even despite his thickness.

"what a fucking mess," mark laughs as he catches his breath, "sorry about your sheets-"

"s'fine," you grab his hand, grinning, "it was worth it,"

"remind me to buy us that bottle of wine again," hyuck mutters tiredly, making sure he brings your leg down gently as to not hurt you. he still hasn't pulled out of you, though, allowing himself to grow soft within the warmth of your pussy.

the two boys watch wide-eyed as you reach down, using your index finger dip into both of their releases (surely, yours too), and bring it up to your mouth for a taste.

"i don't think we'll need the wine next time."

⋆ ★

sidenote: this is the nastiest shit i have ever written … thank u to my babies @mingyuonthemoon and @m-arkmywords for giving me some inspo to write this

also ... hi... i am glad 2 be back

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faeries-fires · 18 days

Text

⋆⋅☆ Gale's illusions ☆⋅⋆

I've been wanting for some time to make a list identifying the spells that Gale uses during his cutscenes.

There are two spells in this list that most players will be familiar with, Minor Illusion and Mirror Image, because some of the spellcasters can learn them in the game, but most of them are things that Larian didn't include and you won't know about them unless you're a D&D player or you check a list of spells.

Long post under the cut.

───── Minor Illusion ─────

- Level: cantrip - Casting time: 1 action - Range/Area: 30 ft / 5 ft cube - Components: S M (A bit of fleece) - Duration: 1 minute - School: Illusion - Available for: Bard, Sorcerer, Warlock, Wizard You create a sound or an image of an object within range that lasts for the duration. The illusion also ends if you dismiss it as an action or cast this spell again. If you create a sound, its volume can range from a whisper to a scream. It can be your voice, someone else’s voice, a lion’s roar, a beating of drums, or any other sound you choose. The sound continues unabated throughout the duration, or you can make discrete sounds at different times before the spell ends. If you create an image of an object—such as a chair, muddy footprints, or a small chest—it must be no larger than a 5-foot cube. The image can’t create sound, light, smell, or any other sensory effect. Physical interaction with the image reveals it to be an illusion, because things can pass through it. If a creature uses its action to examine the sound or image, the creature can determine that it is an illusion with a successful Intelligence (Investigation) check against your spell save DC. If a creature discerns the illusion for what it is, the illusion becomes faint to the creature.

This one is easy to guess. A small image that doesn't move or make sounds, no point in wasting a spell slot when you can just achieve the same result with a cantrip.

───── Mirror Image ─────

- Level: 2nd - Casting Time: 1 action - Range/Area: Self - Components: V S - Duration: 1 minute - Available for: Sorcerer, Warlock, Wizard Three illusory duplicates of yourself appear in your space. Until the spell ends, the duplicates move with you and mimic your actions, shifting position so it’s impossible to track which image is real. You can use your action to dismiss the illusory duplicates. Each time a creature targets you with an attack during the spell’s duration, roll a d20 to determine whether the attack instead targets one of your duplicates. If you have three duplicates, you must roll a 6 or higher to change the attack’s target to a duplicate. With two duplicates, you must roll an 8 or higher. With one duplicate, you must roll an 11 or higher. A duplicate’s AC equals 10 + your Dexterity modifier. If an attack hits a duplicate, the duplicate is destroyed. A duplicate can be destroyed only by an attack that hits it. It ignores all other damage and effects. The spell ends when all three duplicates are destroyed. A creature is unaffected by this spell if it can’t see, if it relies on senses other than sight, such as blindsight, or if it can perceive illusions as false, as with truesight.

An illusion that looks and acts like the caster and stands close to them. The spell creates 3 copies initially, but they can be dismissed.

─── Programmed Illusion ───

- Level: 6th - Casting time: 1 action - Range/Area: 120 ft / 30 ft - Components: V S M (A bit of fleece and jade dust worth at least 25 GP) - Duration: Until dispelled - School: Illusion - Available for: Bard, Wizard You create an illusion of an object, a creature, or some other visible phenomenon within range that activates when a specific condition occurs. The illusion is imperceptible until then. It must be no larger than a 30-foot cube, and you decide when you cast the spell how the illusion behaves and what sounds it makes. This scripted performance can last up to 5 minutes. When the condition you specify occurs, the illusion springs into existence and performs in the manner you described. Once the illusion finishes performing, it disappears and remains dormant for 10 minutes. After this time, the illusion can be activated again. The triggering condition can be as general or as detailed as you like, though it must be based on visual or audible conditions that occur within 30 feet of the area. For example, you could create an illusion of yourself to appear and warn off others who attempt to open a trapped door, or you could set the illusion to trigger only when a creature says the correct word or phrase. Physical interaction with the image reveals it to be an illusion, because things can pass through it. A creature that uses its action to examine the image can determine that it is an illusion with a successful Intelligence (Investigation) check against your spell save DC. If a creature discerns the illusion for what it is, the creature can see through the image, and any noise it makes sounds hollow to the creature.

The famous spectral messenger that appears the 1st time Gale dies in act 1 or in the epilogue if he sacrificed himself. A spell with a condition to trigger on his death, casted while he was still alive.

───── Project Image ─────

- Level: 7th - Casting Time: 1 action - Range/Area: 500 miles - Target: Any location within range that you have seen before - Components: V S M (A small replica of you made from materials worth at least 5 gp) - Duration: Up to 1 day - Concentration - Available for: Bard, Wizard You create an illusory copy of yourself that lasts for the duration. The copy can appear at any location within range that you have seen before, regardless of intervening obstacles. The illusion looks and sounds like you but is intangible. If the illusion takes any damage, it disappears, and the spell ends. You can use your action to move this illusion up to twice your speed, and make it gesture, speak, and behave in whatever way you choose. It mimics your mannerisms perfectly. You can see through its eyes and hear through its ears as if you were in its space. On your turn as a bonus action, you can switch from using its senses to using your own, or back again. While you are using its senses, you are blinded and deafened in regard to your own surroundings. Physical interaction with the image reveals it to be an illusion, because things can pass through it. A creature that uses its action to examine the image can determine that it is an illusion with a successful Intelligence (Investigation) check against your spell save DC. If a creature discerns the illusion for what it is, the creature can see through the image, and any noise it makes sounds hollow to the creature.

The illusory Gale that guides you to his act 2 main scene. It could be another Programmed Illusion, but I've chosen Project Image instead because this one's eyes don't glow like the other's, which makes me think they were created with different spells. Also because the copies of Lorroakan and Rolan in Sorcerous Sundries are confirmed Projected Images and they look and act similar to Gale's.

I know it's labeled as "Gale's Mirror Image", but it can't be a Mirror Image because illusions made with that spell stay close to the caster and imitate them, but this one is standing there on its own and having a full conversation with the player while Gale prepares the next spell on this list.

───── Mirage Arcane ─────

- Level: 7th - Casting time: 10 minutes - Range/Area: Sight / 1 mile - Components: V S - Duration: 10 days - Available for: Bard, Druid, Wizard You make terrain in an area up to 1 mile square look, sound, smell, and even feel like some other sort of terrain. The terrain’s general shape remains the same, however. Open fields or a road could be made to resemble a swamp, hill, crevasse, or some other difficult or impassable terrain. A pond can be made to seem like a grassy meadow, a precipice like a gentle slope, or a rock-strewn gully like a wide and smooth road. Similarly, you can alter the appearance of structures, or add them where none are present. The spell doesn’t disguise, conceal, or add creatures. The illusion includes audible, visual, tactile, and olfactory elements, so it can turn clear ground into difficult terrain (or vice versa) or otherwise impede movement through the area. Any piece of the illusory terrain (such as a rock or stick) that is removed from the spell’s area disappears immediately. Creatures with truesight can see through the illusion to the terrain’s true form; however, all other elements of the illusion remain, so while the creature is aware of the illusion’s presence, the creature can still physically interact with the illusion.

In his act 2 main scene Gale veils the shadow-cursed sky with an aurora borealis.

The Waterdeep scene that follows in the astral variant of the romance path could also be part of this spell if we bend the rules a bit and let him have the Malleable Illusions feature that only Wizards from the School of Illusion get.

Malleable Illusions: starting at 6th level, when you cast an illusion spell that has a duration of 1 minute or longer, you can use your action to change the nature of that illusion (using the spell's normal parameters for the illusion), provided that you can see the illusion.

As for the Astral sex part and the boat scene, I think those are something else. The closest I've found is the next spell, from the School of Necromancy.

──── Astral Projection ? ────

- Level: 9th - Casting Time: 1 hour - Range/Area: 10 feet - Target: You and up to eight willing creatures within range - Components: V S M (For each creature you affect with this spell, you must provide one jacinth worth at least 1,000 gp and one ornately carved bar of silver worth at least 100 gp, all of which the spell consumes) - Duration: Special - Available for: Cleric, Warlock, Wizard You and up to eight willing creatures within range project your astral bodies into the Astral Plane (the spell fails and the casting is wasted if you are already on that plane). The material body you leave behind is unconscious and in a state of suspended animation; it doesn’t need food or air and doesn’t age. Your astral body resembles your mortal form in almost every way, replicating your game statistics and possessions. The principal difference is the addition of a silvery cord that extends from between your shoulder blades and trails behind you, fading to invisibility after 1 foot. This cord is your tether to your material body. As long as the tether remains intact, you can find your way home. If the cord is cut—something that can happen only when an effect specifically states that it does—your soul and body are separated, killing you instantly. Your astral form can freely travel through the Astral Plane and can pass through portals there leading to any other plane. If you enter a new plane or return to the plane you were on when casting this spell, your body and possessions are transported along the silver cord, allowing you to re-enter your body as you enter the new plane. Your astral form is a separate incarnation. Any damage or other effects that apply to it have no effect on your physical body, nor do they persist when you return to it. The spell ends for you and your companions when you use your action to dismiss it. When the spell ends, the affected creature returns to its physical body, and it awakens. The spell might also end early for you or one of your companions. A successful dispel magic spell used against an astral or physical body ends the spell for that creature. If a creature’s original body or its astral form drops to 0 hit points, the spell ends for that creature. If the spell ends and the silver cord is intact, the cord pulls the creature’s astral form back to its body, ending its state of suspended animation. If you are returned to your body prematurely, your companions remain in their astral forms and must find their own way back to their bodies, usually by dropping to 0 hit points.

I've included this one because I've seen several people refer to the sex scene with this name, and while it's the spell with the closest description, there are too many things off: the absence of the silver cord, the hight cost (2200 gp total), the 9th level (max spell level, learned at 17th+ character level), the ability to go anywhere in the Astral Plane and even use portals, the fact that it is a necromancy spell instead of illusion magic like Gale mentions both times...

Also the two scenes are different from one another despite both sharing the Astral Plane scenery:

On the Astral sex scene Gale and the PC are ethereal figures and there's no verbal component, the glyph in the book seems to be what activates it.

On the Astral sea scene only the boat is ethereal and there's a verbal component, "Astra Navigamus" (we sail the stars). We also know from Gale's words that it requires to maintain concentration, but Astral Projection doesn't.

Gale: Find me later, and I will show you something truly divine. I will show you what a crown like this could mean for both of us. PC: Can't you just tell me now? Gale: Afraid not. What I have to show you requires us to be its only witness, and our minds to share in the most exquisite concentration.

I don't think there's a real equivalent and they're simply homebrew creations.

────── Simulacrum ──────

- Casting Time: 12 hours - Range/Area: Touch - Target: One beast or humanoid that is within range for the entire casting time of the spell - Components: V S M (Snow or ice in quantities sufficient to made a life-size copy of the duplicated creature; some hair, fingernail clippings, or other piece of that creature’s body placed inside the snow or ice; and powdered ruby worth 1,500 gp, sprinkled over the duplicate and consumed by the spell) - Duration: Until dispelled - Available for: Wizard You shape an illusory duplicate of one beast or humanoid that is within range for the entire casting time of the spell. The duplicate is a creature, partially real and formed from ice or snow, and it can take actions and otherwise be affected as a normal creature. It appears to be the same as the original, but it has half the creature’s hit point maximum and is formed without any equipment. Otherwise, the illusion uses all the statistics of the creature it duplicates. The simulacrum is friendly to you and creatures you designate. It obeys your spoken commands, moving and acting in accordance with your wishes and acting on your turn in combat. The simulacrum lacks the ability to learn or become more powerful, so it never increases its level or other abilities, nor can it regain expended spell slots. If the simulacrum is damaged, you can repair it in an alchemical laboratory, using rare herbs and minerals worth 100 gp per hit point it regains. The simulacrum lasts until it drops to 0 hit points, at which point it reverts to snow and melts instantly. If you cast this spell again, any currently active duplicates you created with this spell are instantly destroyed.

Despite popular fandom belief, none of the Gale duplicates that we see in the game is a Simulacrum, they don't fit the criteria:

They are translucent and their voice sounds hollow, as if there had been an invisible successful investigation check.

When you destroy them they disappear with a puff of magic lights instead of transforming back into ice/snow and melting.

Notice that Simulacra clones are tangible, unlike the others from before. They are basically glamoured and animated life size ice/snowmen. They're also quite expensive and elaborate, not something you'd want to cast for a short single use (unless you're super rich I suppose).

That doesn't mean that there isn't any use of this spell in the game, there's in fact one:

That's right, the Elminster we encounter isn't the real one, but a construct made with Simulacrum, charged with finding Gale and delivering Mystra's will and spell. All that complaining about a long and extenuous journey, worn boots, and hunger is an act, an imitation of the real Elminster's mannerism. Makes you wonder what happened to all that cheese and wine that he "ate"...

───────────────────

Bear in mind that the devs have taken some creative liberties and there are lore inconsistencies. More than half of these spells are a higher level than what's possible to learn at that point, most aren't even in Gale's spellbook and, by the Wizard class rules, he' s only allowed to cast the spells that are written on his book and memorized during a long rest. So unless he secretly has with him the spellbook that he used when he was an Archmage or a scroll version of them, it shouldn't be possible to use most of these.

Oh well, sometimes is necessary to change things a bit because they don't translate well to videogame mechanics and it would make things more tedious and not as enjoyable.

And that's it. If you've made it this far, thank you for reading!

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 meta #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep

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