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slashbitch2 · 1 month ago

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i'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you

Summary: reeling from the sting of rejection, you're surprised when a certain witch approaches you with a dangerous offer Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader TW: none actually W.C: 3k words I believe

Autumn had fallen across Salem like a blanket, wrapping its way around the trees and shaking until every golden-brown leaf had fallen to the damp ground below. The leaves began to meld back into the Earth from whence they came, and the smell of rot which accompanied such a time filled your nose: fresh and earthy. It was the smell of home. The damp air settled upon your clothes and chilled you to the bone, while leaves crunched underfoot, clinging to your mud-caked boots. Yet you marched diligently on.

The bucked swung by your side with each step, rusty joints at the handle creaking into the empty night air. The forest was always eerie after the sun had set, and you had regretted volunteering to go and get water for the coven the very minute the words left your mouth. Truth be told, you had seized the opportunity to escape, to continue avoiding a certain brunette witch who had been eyeing you up all evening.

Somewhere in the far distance, an owl screeched and you jolted, fist instinctively tightening around the metallic handle of the bucket and causing pain to shoot through your hand.

You forced yourself to stand still for a second and took in a deep gulping breath, feeling the fresh air enter your body and soothe your nerves.

It was a new moon tonight, and so the usual silvery light illuminating the woodland was lacking. It also meant it was an important night for the coven, and so you ought to hurry. You resumed your original pace to the well along the outskirts of a nearby town, memory guiding your movement. The nearby town was rather suspicious of your coven’s activity, and thus the only opportunity to access this source of water was under the cover of darkness.

Tonight, the water was crucial. On every new moon, the entire coven gathered together to cast a protective spell over the land, and you could imagine them all sitting around the fire, patiently awaiting your return.

Between the silhouettes of the trees, you caught sight of warm, orange light emanating from the distance. You were nearing the town. Squinting, you paused to peer around, trying to remember where the well was situated. It was so dark you could barely make out where the ground merged into the roots of each tree. You would have to be careful not to trip. Any sound could alert the dogs which vigilantly guarded the town, and in turn, call attention to you.

You hesitantly stepped forward, fixated on the distant light source like a moth to a flame. The lanterns which hung from each house roughly guided you, promising that the well would be somewhere close. A twig snapped underfoot, and you froze, scrunching your eyes closed and waiting with bated breath for the telltale sound of violent barks and howls.

A beat passed and nothing. You reluctantly opened your eyes, your head whipping around to check the forest remained still. Each oddly shaped tree or slight movement in the corner of your eyes held your attention for a second longer, your anxiety running rampant and conjuring impossible images into your mind.

You shook these impossibilities away, and deciding all was clear, you turned to face forward once more, only to crash directly into something.

Gasping was all you could do not to scream at the sudden intrusion. You stumbled backwards, realising it wasn’t something- rather someone blocking your path. The person reached out to grab hold of your arms, steadying you.

She shushed you, and before you could even adjust to the darkness and make out her face, you already recognised her. It was Agatha Harkness who stood before you, that particularly annoying, brunette witch you had been trying to avoid.

“Careful now.” Agatha admonished, though you could hear the smirk in her voice.

You exhaled, feeling your fear melt away into annoyance. “You scared me, Agatha.” You shook off her hold, immediately missing the heat of her hands against your clothed skin.

“Scared, why? What’s out here that a powerful witch like yourself wouldn’t be able to handle?”

The way she emphasised the word 'powerful' made you frown. You knew she was trying to flatter you, though you didn’t understand why just yet.

“An angry mob from the village.” You answered after a beat.

“Please.” Agatha scoffed. “It’s not that you couldn’t handle them, you just wouldn’t want to.”

You rolled your eyes at her subtle jab. Agatha was more inclined to use her magic against people, whereas you didn’t think it was a fair fight. She always seemed to believe there was some kind of competition between you, as two witches of the same age who had cultivated a similar level of power. Therefore, anything she perceived as a weakness, she would frequently remind you of.

Refusing to let her aggravate you any further, you changed the topic. “What do you want?”

“I just want to talk.” Agatha shrugged, and before you could react, she reached out, her hand brushing past your face to your hair, gently twirling a strand around her finger. “You know, girl to girl, witch to witch.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Sinner to sinner.”

The lack of distance between you, the soft touch, the secretive tone to her voice; it was almost affectionate, perhaps seductive. But you knew better than to fall for her act. This was Agatha Harkness, after all.

“Well, too bad 'cause I really don’t want to talk to you.” You said simply, hoping she would pick up on the finality you had imbued within your words. Instead of waiting for a response, you sidestepped and pushed past her, determined to finish the job you had been tasked.

“That wasn’t the case a few nights ago,” Agatha called out.

You cringed first at the volume of her voice, not having forgotten how close you were to the town, and then again upon taking into consideration the meaning behind her words. You stopped, inhaled slowly and forced your tense shoulders to relax. Then, in a quieter tone, “Can we please just pretend that never happened?”

There was a rustling behind you as Agatha drew closer. “Sure.” She responded simply, though the word was anything but simple to you.

As much as you loathed how Agatha had treated you, how carelessly she had played with your heart, you couldn’t forget how well you understood her. Like now, at this moment you recognised the mask of indifference in her voice, hiding beneath it a vulnerable admission of guilt, sadness even. You watched with shallow breath as she pivoted slowly to stand in front of you, her attention ever fixed on you, observing your reaction.

“We won’t talk about it if that’s what you want.” Her eyes searched yours, ice cold even in the lightless forest. “But I didn’t follow you out here for a heart-to-heart.”

You paused, frowning. “Then why did you?

“Because I need you”

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t hide behind her usual cocky attitude. Her statement was simple and true, sufficient to steal your breath away.

“I’m forming a group- well, a coven within a coven I guess you could say.” Agatha continued, quick to move past the tension, though you were still reeling from it.

Agatha pursed her lips thoughtfully, as if considering each individual word and how you might respond. Whatever she was about to say, this was big.

“I want to walk the Witches Road.”

“Are you serious?” You spluttered out in disbelief, then remembering to keep your voice down, added, “That’s suicide!”

The Witches Road was notorious. Infamous. A suicide mission you all had been warned about from the very moment you started to learn the craft. To hear that Agatha planned on confronting this risk head-on was hardly surprising, but you thought she was smarter than that. You were disappointed in her. That she would think of doing such a thing, that she would believe even for a second that you were stupid enough to join.

“Not for us.” Agatha smiled sinisterly. “Maybe the others… but we’re strong. Stronger than any other witch in this coven. We can do better.” She implored, her hand snapping out to grasp your own free one, bringing it toward her chest. “So, what’d you say?”

Her hand was cold, her grip unrelenting, yet as she pressed you closer, you swore you could feel her heart pounding in her chest. It was endearing, and still, you weren’t a fool.

“Who are the others?” You questioned instead, partly deflecting having to answer, and partly in disbelief that anyone would even hear Agatha’s proposal out, let alone agree to join.

She quirked an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.” You challenged. “Have other witches actually signed up for this?”

“Oh. You’d be surprised!” Agatha sneered. “Loads of them, queueing up around the block to be part of my team.” Her expression morphed into one of excitement, though you guessed she was merely teasing.

“Huh, really?”

“You bet. I can be persuasive when I want to.”

“Irritating more like.”

“Maybe.” Agatha rolled her eyes fondly, unable to hide the way the corners of her lips twitched upwards before taking on a more serious straight line. “But look, I’m not going to do this without you, Y/N.”

This gave you pause, and then, a sense of indignant frustration.

“Why? Isn’t the all-powerful Agatha usually a solo act? What was it you said? You don’t want anyone tying you down?” You spat.

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about the other night.” She said, slowly, seemingly waiting to see how you would react.

The other night. When you had taken a chance, and it hadn’t worked out. When, in a moment of bravery, you had been honest with yourself, with Agatha, about how you truly felt, only to be met by derision and cruel laughter. The other night, when upon realising you were serious, she had tried to soothe your hurt feelings, but by that point, you had lingered long enough in your humiliation, choosing instead to turn and run. You would rather surrender to spending the rest of your long, long life avoiding Agatha than face that again.

“You’re right.” You sighed. “But I’m also not going to talk about, or even entertain this idea any further” You tugged your hand out of her grip like it had scorched you. “Actually, idea’s a strong word. I don’t think you’ve put any real thought into this.”

Agatha had the sense to look at least a bit ashamed of her suggestion and paused for a moment, as around you, the wind picked up, carrying leaves through the air and rustling the trees. It was as though the forest had come alive for a second, filling the silence between you. Shivering, you wrapped your cloak tighter against yourself, loathing how you regretted having been so quick to put Agatha down. She looked disheartened.

“Look…” When Agatha spoke at last, you were unnerved to see how she didn’t meet your eyes. “When I said I wouldn’t do this without you, that’s not strictly true… I already promised the others we’d meet in the clearing when the sun rises.”

“What?!” You exclaimed, your annoyance being instantaneously overpowered by a mix of anger and panic at this sudden revelation.

“So-“ She interrupted, throwing her hands in the air to pacify your outburst. “Just take your time to think about it. Either you’re in or you’re out and either way, that’s fine.”

“Ohh, a whole half a night to think about it. Very generous as always Agatha.” You spat, incredulous that she would leave you so little time to decide, should you even have entertained the idea… Not that you were thinking about it. Nope. Not at all.

“Well, I wanted to ask you first, but you kept running off!” She explained- or rather argued, as of course, she would pin the blame on you and your hurt feelings rather than take responsibility.

“I wonder why.” You muttered, irritably folding your arms.

“Okay.” Agatha mirrored your pose, crossing her arms across her chest. “I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it, but clearly this,” she gestured between the both of you, “needs to be addressed.”

“I don’t think-“

“No.” She interrupted, harsh and unforgiving of your clear reluctance. “I know I wasn’t exactly considerate to you, maybe a little meaner than I should’ve been.”

“That’s an understatement.“

“But regardless of what I said then, I want you by my side now. Walking the road, together-“

“So, you only want me when it’s convenient? When you need my help.” You snarked. “How lovely of you to say, I feel so much better already!”

“I won’t force you to do anything.” She continued, ignoring your comments. “Nor can I promise we’ll return. But I think we have a hell of a lot more of a chance if we’re together.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, listening to her try to reason with you. Not that it would ever work. No way. The Witches Road was suicide, and Agatha was hardly much better herself. “You’re saying this like I’d ever consider joining you.” You said with a shrug.

Agatha smiled suddenly, like you’d said something hilarious, then averted her gaze down for a beat before stepping closer. A lot closer, invading your personal space and causing all rationality to flee your mind. And yet, you didn’t step back. She leaned forward, and you felt her breath fan across your cheek. “You’re an idiot if you don’t see the opportunity in all this.” Her voice was raspy, barely above a whisper. She was so close, her gaze flickering across your face like she could read your every micro-expression or movement.

Your inner logicality screamed at you to tell her no, you would not be joining her, nor did you ever want to see her again. That she should back up, walk away and never look back.

Every other fibre of your being dreamt of the possibilities, imagined how her lips would feel against your own, how her fingertips would trace across your skin. Your heart betrayed you. It urged you to lean in.

Agatha’s normally ice-cold eyes were softer as they darted down to your lips, though you couldn’t be sure that you hadn’t imagined it. After how she had responded to your confession, there was no way she could harbour any kind of feelings towards you beyond that of mild irritation and perhaps a tad bit of insecurity.

Reluctantly, you stepped back.

Agatha’s eyebrows scrunched up, her lips curling in displeasure as another gust of wind blew, chilling the newfound space between you.

While you were certain Agatha’s one goal in life was to rile you up, it seemed as though you had managed to do the same to her this one time. She looked annoyed, slightly sad and clearly disappointed.

In spite of everything, you revelled in this power you currently held over her. “I guess I’ll see you around Agatha. Good luck with your death wish.” Deciding to take this unusual superiority as an opportunity, you sidestepped her to continue on, not daring to glance back as you walked through the woods.

Or maybe you did. Just once. And maybe it was the darkness, or your mind playing tricks on you, but you could’ve sworn Agatha stayed standing there, watching to ensure you safely accessed the well without alerting the townspeople.

But when you began your journey home, she was nowhere to be seen.

...

As the night wore on, you found your mind didn’t cease.

Agatha’s eyes were constantly on you, carrying an indecipherable weight. You wondered if, perhaps, this would be the last time you’d ever see her. If she would step foot on the Witches Road and disappear from your life forever.

This idea should’ve brought you some form of peace, and yet, it didn’t

How could you go on knowing that Agatha was condemning herself to death, and you weren’t there to witness it? Or even, put a stop to it.

Agatha Harkness was your burden to carry. She was irresponsible, power-hungry and manipulative, and yet, you couldn’t find it within yourself to let her walk the road alone. You wouldn’t let her go thinking that you didn’t care.

You had put on an act to try and protect yourself, something to ease your heart, still reeling from her rejection. But you knew it was futile to try and keep it up. Whether you joined her to walk the road or not, Agatha had already caused you enough pain. And so, what the hell, you might as well indulge in her company a little more.

Halfway through the coven’s ceremony, placing protective runes upon the land, you noticed Agatha slip away from the crowd, fixing you with one final glance before she disappeared into the night.

You waited a little longer, savouring what would possibly be your last time as part of the coven. And then, as you noticed the sky take on a purplish hue signifying that the sun was fast approaching the horizon, you stood, numbly walking in the direction of the clearing Agatha had referred to.

Your mind was empty when you caught sight of a group forming a circle in the middle of the field. You didn’t bother to try and catch a glimpse of anyone’s face, knowing that soon they would reveal themselves, and you would be trapped, relying upon each other on the Witches Road. Fresh dew glistened upon the grass in the morning light, the damp seeping into your boots as you approached. It had been a long night already, and you longed for your bed.

And then you caught sight of Agatha, and she smiled, soft and scared, and all your problems seemingly melted away.

...

notes: bonus points if anyone can name the song lyrics i used as a title cause im too lazy to be original

hope you enjoyed :)

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness #agatha all along

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unadulteratedsoulsweets · 9 months ago

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A DC X DP IDEA #26

History hates Lovers

Imagine dis…

When Batman got lost in time it was said that he made some signs or even some symbols that send a message in the future. For example, a portrait that looked exactly like him or even a cave painting of a bat that looked too modernized to be from the early cavemen.

But it seems that we have forgotten that every change that he made whether it was just standing in a portrait as a background has a severe consequence in the time stream. The butterfly effect rests on the notion that the world is deeply interconnected, such that one small occurrence can influence a much larger complex system. The effect is named after an allegory for chaos theory; it evokes the idea that a small butterfly flapping its wings could, hypothetically, cause a typhoon.

Small changes could result in another and entirely new timeline, whether the changes were small enough that people don’t notice or large enough that people merely conceived it as normal.

But at the end of the day it still changes, so how did the timeline remain stable as it is?

(I am no expert in time travel so don’t get your hopes up, I do enjoy a good time travel or time travel -fix it fic in A03)

…

Bruce didn’t know where and when he is right now. Still weak and disoriented from the consent way he fell from each timeline. One moment he could be in the middle of a group of cavemen and then he was at the edge of a town in the Middle Ages.

He kept sending messages subtle as they may be, as long as they survived the passage of time and arrived to his future. He just hopes that his teammates can see his messages, especially with the flash in their midst who had both knowledge and experience in time travel.

He tried to fit in every time he tried to send a message as the last thing, he needed was to change the time.

…

But little did Bruce know the little messages he kept making and sending, despite their subtleness still created a butterfly effect. It makes some of the people in the period who were supposed to be in time to some event pause and take a look at the mysterious symbols and signs that Bruce made. Thus, making them late or even have some delay, thus creating a large domino effect that started small. From insignificant people, people who are just literally background characters who just have a very short greeting or meeting with someone in the event made the entire timeline crack.

Clockwork was looking at the time stream due to the fragile situation at hand. CW knew that this event was crucial for the Red Robin’s growth as a detective and vigilante. But the small cracks are turning into something unchangeable, CW knew that this was the only communication that the Dark Knight could send as well it was his way to get back to his own time.

Yet CW can see the cracks getting larger and larger, with each move that the Dark Knight made creating more holes in his known future. Usually, such events as the Dark Knight's faces don’t create any consequences or even affect the time stream of the said dimension as it was meant to be. An event unavertable in the end is more justifiable than the means.

But due to the Flash family going back in time as well the countless time traveler visitors made the time stream in that dimension week and prone to break in any given time. It was just a surprise to CW that it lasted so long.

CW found a solution in the form of his apprentice/ grandson, Phantom. Despite the young ghost being an Ancient of Space as well as the King of Infinite Realms he still needs a mentor to not only guide him to his new duties as an Ancient but also his responsibilities as the future High King.

Space and Time are two sides of the same coin thus CW ended up being the mentor of the young Phantom.

Clockwork sent Danny to not only seal in the cracks in the flow of time but also want some great-grandchildren, if you heard the last part then you heard nothing from me.

…

Danny didn’t know he was getting in when Clockwork sent him out to another errand at another time. He should have gotten used to CW’s vague and cryptic errands through time when he was a teen, but as he was sealing another crack from time, he saw something that shouldn’t be in the period. A man clearly from out of time trying and failing to fit in, though he may have fooled the locals but he had been traveling and fixing time since he was in high school.

At first, he looked perplexed but if CW didn’t mention anything then he won’t do anything.

But slowly Danny realized that whichever period the guy was in, it was where the next set of cracks would be, so Danny decided to follow the guy.

…

Bruce may still be weary and tired from the constant falling through time but even in his tired state can see that there is someone following him.

Every era there that man was, seemingly walking around aimlessly but then he noticed that he kept a good distance away from him.

Eventually, it led to and confrontation between the two males.

…

Danny who explained that despite having the power to travel through time cannot help Bruce as his little messages are creating small cracks in the time stream and are merely there to seal up the cracks, but offers news that he will get back to his own time.

Bruce who is just wishing for human contact that relates to him as well in the verge of going off to the Flash to stop going back in time for another chance to eat a breakfast that tasted better than before.

…

The two began conversing with one another and slowly fell in love.

…

Bruce is the first one to fall hard, Danny whose light-heartedness brought Bruce out of his shell. It had only taken a few conversations with each other to lose his shield around his heart. Danny both accepted both Bruce and Batman within him. Danny’s smile lights up Bruce’s world, at first Bruce tries to hide his feelings to Danny so as not to lose his only companion throughout the ordeal.

…

The two began dancing around their feelings and Bruce in an out of character of him sent a love letter and a poem to Danny when the ghost was needed somewhere else to seal the crack.

As old as I am, I have had the most dreadful experiences in love. I have a very dark past and I'm a damaged soul. My past experiences have groomed me into believing that there's no such thing as true love, but with you, I feel different. You make me fall in love with myself too. You always make me smile, and I'm scared. I'm scared to fall in love and get broken again, I'm scared to give my all, only to be used again, to get shamed and embarrassed. I've seen how careful and caring you are around me, but sometimes you give me a cold shoulder, and it's small things like these that break me. Please bear with me and be fragile. I come from a very painful past where I had to be a woman and have no say. All this love and affection is a little scary to me because I'm not used to it. I'm falling for you and I'm falling hard. I hope our love story has a happy ending. Know that I will always love and cherish you.

(Mmakoma Kamogelo. "My Confession." Family Friend Poems, September 6, 2016. https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/my-confession-2)

Danny who received the letter burned red from reading the poem to the point his freckles were the only thing prominent on his red face, Danny knew that this man was from the future and couldn't help but feel a little bit insecure. That man, the Batman is someone out of his league but sends out a letter and a poem of his own.

Published by Family Friend Poems September 2016 with permission of the Author.

My love for you is uncontrollable.

My feelings for you are unstoppable.

Can't go a day without thinking about you.

Without you, I'm not complete.

With you, my heart finds its beat.

My heart is filled with joy because of your love.

You are my strength, and without you I'm weak.

Before you came into my life, I was

Hopeless, lonely, sad.

When you showed up, I knew that you were sent to me. (Namely CW, Danny just knew that old Ancient did something)

You are always here to support me.

Your smile makes me shy,

And sometimes I wonder where you have been all this while,

But I'm just glad that I managed to get you in my life...

YOU FILL MY HEART WITH JOY!

(Mmakoma Kamogelo. "My Confession." Family Friend Poems, September 6, 2016. https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/my-confession-2)

…

When the two realized both were pinning to one another began sending each other little love notes, in the form of short poems to full-blown letters.

Both males whenever received a letter when one was apart, collected and hid it in a box to reread each stroke of the letter from the other, and whenever they were together, they just spent the entire day basking in each other’s presence.

Their little note exchange didn’t stop whenever Bruce fell to another period, Danny just followed him and started a new exchange mail of letters.

Of course, both used pseudonyms in their letters ranging from initials to fake names using only the letters from their names.

…

When Bruce was saved by Red Robin, he felt relieved as he could now stop falling into another period but another shock as he didn’t get to say goodbye to Danny.

Bruce knew that someday it come, but he was going to offer Danny the future with him. He is going to offer Danny the world, but it seems that it was never meant to be.

Maybe that’s why his past self never met Danny, too disappointed, too dejected to meet him once again.

…

It has been a few months since he came back to his future, it was another family outing organized by Dick.

It was a museum featuring the latest found by archeologists, as Bruce was surveying case to another case, he fell upon a worn-out parchment with his handwriting.

Wide-eyed, Bruce looked closely at the exhibit and found that the description said the letter was about a man named “Brooks” confessing his love in the form of a short poem to a woman named “Daniella” who had the same feelings as him but had other responsibilities to fully go where he is.

Bruce began looking at the other exhibits and there along rows and rows of his letter exchange with Danny from different periods.

Jason and Tim who were a few cases away from him began having a heated discussion with a stranger about the supposed woman in the letters being a man the entire exchange is between a pair of male couple, and the so-called Historians are hiding the fact that it was between men.

Bruce was about to interfere with the upcoming verbal fight when a stranger beside him commented that “Daniella” probably missed “Brooks” as the last letter and poem to the exchange when “Daniella” noticed that “Brooks” is no longer responding is…

(By E.E. Cummings)

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)I am never without it(anywhere

I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

I fear

no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

(E.E. Cummings. "[i Carry Your Heart With Me(i Carry It In]." Family Friend Poems, https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/i-carry-your-heart-with-me-by-ee-cummings)

Bruce is startled as he doesn’t even notice Danny’s last letter to him when he takes a good look at the stranger…

…

There he is, Danny in his early 30’s looking at him with softness and deep love in his eyes and a gentle smile. As if he hadn’t waited centuries for Bruce to appear once again, and what looked like willing to wait once again for him.

…

PS: If someone out there wanted to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: As you can see, I have never fallen in love and please mind my poor and lack of love life in my life to relate to my work.

PPPS: I decided to post a bit early, I've got something going on to the actual February 14.

#dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #danny phantom #dp #danny fenton #ghost king danny

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faatxma · 2 years ago

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Meadow Garden

Pairing: King George III x Reader

Synopsis: With love crucial pain usually follows so with this couple

Warnings: Heartbreak

Part. II Part.III

What you didn’t expect was King George shirtless working next to your father shoving straw. Before you could even register everything, your father made eye contact with you waving you over to them.

'Hello Father' you said when you walked over to him quietly playing around with your fingers something you did when you got nervous.

'Your Majesty' you said curtsying to him getting his attention. His back was facing you, but when he turned around it seemed like he froze. George was never someone to get shocked over someone. But when he saw you standing there his breath hitched. You were gorgeous, a rare jewel in his eyes. He wonders why he has never seen you around. Someone like you would’ve gotten his attention in a second.

'Hello….' he said smiling to you, wiping his dirty hands on his linen shirt. He jumped of the carriage making his way to you.

'This is my daughter your Majesty' your father said motioning you to come closer.

'Well it’s nice to meet you' he said you blushed while looking at his very handsome face. But to be honest his chest was very distracting.

‘You as well your Maje-' he interrupted you before you could finish your sentence.

'Call me George. Just George'

You could say this encounter changed everything for the better but also for the worse.

It’s been six months since you guys met and something beautiful flourished in terms of your feelings for each other. He tried to meet you regularly portraying it as we wanted to work with your father. But your father could see through it easily with how often he mentioned you. It didn’t take long for him to ask you on a walk through the Meadow Garden. You happily accepted his invitation, and the time was also perfect since it was nearing sunset. You guys spoke for hours not noticing that is already became dark. You could see the stars clearly which left you in awe.

'Do you like stars?' He asked you grazing his arm with yours. All you could do was nod happily, this made him want to kiss you so bad. He tried to resist but he couldn’t.

'Can I kiss you?' he whispered, but you could hear him loud and clear.

'George' you muttered shockingly. It was dark but due to the moon you could see his face perfectly. The way his eyes were looking at you, made your heart quicken.

'Kiss me' you said and he didn’t waste any time and leaned down to you, pressing his lips to yours. This was your first kiss and he could feel it. The way you shyly responded, and you clenching your fists into his shirt spoke volume.

'Be my lover'

'I’d love to' you smiled hugging him.

Months passed and you couldn’t be happier, your studies were going along and you and George were as happy as you guys could be.

'George stop it what If someone sees us.' You said looking around you. He grabbed you by your waist pulling you behind the horse stable. Before you could react his warm lips were placed onto yours. You moaned grabbing his cheeks press yourself closer to him.

'I love you' he said pressing his forehead to yours, caressing your right cheek tenderly. All you could do was smile

'I love you more' you said pecking his nose 'thats impossible my beautiful jewel' he muttered placing gentle pecks along side your neckline. You moaned quietly trying to unbutton his shirt hastily. But you guys were interrupted by something you never thought you would hear.

'Have you heard about the King and his arranged marriage to the daughter of a German Duke' one of the voices said.

Your breathe hitched and it felt like you were frozen in time. You didn’t dare to look up to George hoping everything you heard was a bad dream or a rumor amongst the staff.

'That‘s what I also heard, and it seems like the wedding will go down in a couple of days.'

You released your hands slowly from George’s shirt, keeping your eyes to the floor.'

'It was good to be true.' You mumbled

'My lov-'

'Please do your duty Georgie be a good king to your people and a good husband to your wife.' You said trying to suppress your tears, after all you were just the Royal gardeners daughter.

'Stop, I won’t hear any of this' he yelled loudly, you didn’t flinch cause it wasn’t the first time. You knew it wasn’t towards you and all he wanted was you to finally let him love you with everything he had.

'I love you, I breathe for you, all I want is you and I won’t accept anything or anyone else.' He mumbled sadly.

'Don’t make it harder than it is George I beg you.'

'I’ll and I won’t stop, I can be myself when I’m near you. This arranged marriage won’t stop me from loving you.' He said intertwining your hands together.

'Is it really love? You kept this from me George. Is this between us really love?' you asked him pulling your out of his grasp.

'Please don’t say that, you don’t mean it.' Tears were running down his cheeks and all you could do was wipe them away.

'I think I should go your Majesty' you whispered sadly you placed a delicate kiss onto his forehead, curtsying before you left.

All you could hear were the cries of a broken man.

'Are you alright my child' your father asked concerned. Since the talk with George days ago you haven’t seen him. You basically refused to see him, he made sure to make Reynolds deliver his letters to you. But you couldn’t find the courage to open them.

'I’m fine father' you said while washing the laundry. Today was the royal wedding from what you heard, the queen was from northern Germany and only 17 years old.

'I know that you aren’t fine, and I know it has something to do with King George' you stopped what you were doing. You could never lie to your father he could see right through you.

'It hurts' you whispered.

'My heart hurts.' you said starting to cry, you couldn’t breath properly when he wasn’t near you. You sometime wished that you never meet him and kept your distance.

You felt your father pulling you up into his embrace, he didn’t say anything and you were thankful for that.

Why was it so hard to breathe when he was not near?'

#young king george #queen charlotte #bridgerton #king george bridgerton #king #king george x reader #king george iii

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a-town-called-hometown · 8 months ago

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yippee! apologies if my takes are horrendously bad

my personal take on the matter is that i definitely think the dark worlds can work as a metaphor for escapism without undermining the darkners' personhood. it can be more than one thing, yknow? the darkners are important, their lives matter. and the lightners do go to the dark world as an escape from the problems they face in their own life. but that's not the darkners' whole PURPOSE, yknow? i mean. according to the laws of the universe of deltarune yes darkners' "purpose" is to serve the lightners but like it's not their whole purpose in the STORY.

it's sort of like how, in UNDERTALE, LOVE represents how distant you've become, how easy it is for you to hurt people. but it also literally gives you the power to destroy the world.

i think the biggest reason i believe escapism is at least a part of deltarune's narrative is queen.

queen's whole speech in both of her fights is about how she intends to provide escapism for the lightners (so that they will worship her but also so that they will he happy). she wants to turn the whole world into a dark world, so that everyone can live in bliss and not have to worry about the woes of the light world. she mentions "Staring, Tapping, To Receive Joy. Staring, Tapping, To Avoid Pain." which is like pretty much the definition of escapism

she wants to help Noelle with the problems she faces in the light world ("Noelle. Who Will Be There To Help Her? Her Strange And Sad Searches" and "My One Idea To Help Noelle, Failed") by just... shoving it away for a blissful fantasy world ("Wake? No, She Has Already Awakened Too Much. Let Her Close Her Eyes And Sleep Away, Into A Darker, Darker Dream.")

...i forgot the rest of what i wanted to say!

well first off, thank you for your ask! I'm going to get extremely in depth in my answer, so bear with me here. sorry it took several weeks to write this. the escapism reading of deltarune is pretty deeply entrenched in fandom, and to refute it, I felt it required a full-length essay to completely explain my viewpoint.

yes, "the lightners desire escapism" does not automatically translate to that being the darkners' actual narrative purpose. escapism can be a theme without dehumanizing those who are used in order to escape - in fact, I've read a number of stories that use someone's desire to escape to HIGHLIGHT how they're hurting others in pursuit of that. I believe that toby fox is definitely capable of telling a story about kids having a valid desire to escape, and about them grappling with having inadvertently created a world of real, living people as a result.

(I'll reiterate again that this is not the story arc that generally shows up in fanon. the common consensus is that the game will end in an omori-esque "growing out of" the dark worlds. it's why I have a huge dislike of the fanon escapism reading, given that the darkners are shown as people whose lack of agency parallels kris' own. it would feel cheap if the resolution to that plot was that the darkners were actually never meant to be agents in their own fates. but this is a digression.)

the reason why i DON'T believe that this is a story that toby fox is telling is because of the way the world, themes, and characters are written. put simply, it just doesn't come across as congruent with the story being told.

deltarune's main themes are agency, fate, identity, and control. this is a conflict that shows up in nearly every major character, is baked into the worldbuilding, and is the central struggle involving us, the player. the protagonist of deltarune is literally possessed by us against their will. the darkners are objects that have no choice but to serve and be discarded. over and over again, there is emphasis on roles that characters play - and crucially, roles that are imposed on them.

what would escapism mean, in this thematic context? in real life, escapism can represent any number of things, but in a story, a major narrative theme generally has to dovetail with other major narrative themes in the work. I would argue that escapism in deltarune would likely mean going to a place where characters are able to choose for themselves what roles they embody, or even to discard the notion of roles altogether. a fantasy of control is the only way to escape a reality where you have no agency. and honestly, it's hard to imagine that something could count as an escapist fantasy if you don't even get to choose whether or not you participate in it.

let's talk about kris.

I see a lot of discussions around kris that say that kris goes into the dark worlds to escape. the dark worlds are posited as kris' fantasy of heroism. it's a world where they can seem heroic and cool, a world where they can have friends. this theory makes a decent amount of sense on the surface level, but only until you consider that kris is being controlled in order to go into the dark worlds. and it is not a control that they appear to welcome.

if those worlds represent kris' fantasy, then why don't they get to choose what happens in those fantasies? why are they being controlled by an external force, one that they actively push back against? if it's really an escape, then why does everything about this world reflect their lack of agency? if they really think this world is just a pure fantasy, then why do they care if spamton falls when his strings are cut?

because they're being deliberately obscured to the player, it is hard to say how kris actually feels about many subjects... but I do seriously doubt that they view the dark worlds as an escape. they don't act in a way that is consistent with that. they resist their lack of agency, and what little we do see of their reactions to darkner characters doesn't suggest that they view those characters as part of a disposable fantasy, either. they seem to have complicated feelings on ralsei. and of course, one of their biggest emotional reactions in the game is to the spamton fight. I would argue that that suggests they have empathy for spamton, which is a hard emotional reaction to have if you believe he's just part of a fantasy. not impossible, mind you, but it seems unlikely that kris believes that all this is simply fantasy.

also, considering that snowgrave both actively discredits the idea that the dark worlds are mere fantasy and is actively traumatic for kris... I seriously doubt they'd open another dark world in chapter 3 on a snowgrave run if their motive was purely to escape. on that route, they've seen the damage we can cause in a dark world. they know that berdly has sustained lasting damage due to our actions, assuming he's not outright dead. why would they want to try and "escape" to a place like that again now that they know what can happen?

the only answer is that they have a motive that isn't escapist.

now, as for ralsei... what part does he have to play in all this?

ralsei does play a lot to the fun, fantastical elements of the dark worlds. he delivers the prophecy that kickstarts the adventure. he flatters both kris and susie endlessly when they act appropriately heroic. he welcomes them into the castle and even makes nice rooms for them. he initially seems tailor-made to enable a fantastical experience where no real issues can ever complicate anything, and where the pain of reality can successfully be hidden from. but there's a lot of complications to the idea that he might represent an escapist fantasy.

the first, and what honestly seems the most important to me, is that he doesn't encourage kris and susie to remain in the dark worlds. he is welcoming and kind, but once the adventure is over, he prompts them to return to the light world. he wants them to deal with their more "real" problems like homework. that doesn't feel like he is trying to facilitate escapism in them. a real fantasy would encourage you to stay in it, wouldn't it?

and while ralsei is definitely invested in making sure the lightners are happy, there are always cracks that show. he isn't able to make kris ignore what happened in the spamton fight. he isn't able to convince susie to be peaceful and kind. and in his very essence, he represents a number of uncomfortable ideas. very importantly, he represents a number of uncomfortable ideas to kris.

this probably ain't your first fandom rodeo, so I'm not going to explain all the different ways that ralsei interacts with kris' personal issues. there's plenty of posts on it out there. what i will point out is, once again, it feels odd that a character who seems tailor made to bring up kris' most uncomfortable associations with their lack of agency and their outsider status in their own family would be part of a fantasy of escapism to them. you'd think that they'd prefer something that didn't have an inbuilt hierarchy, a prophecy that denied them autonomy, or especially a person that reminded them how little they fit into hometown.

that doesn't mean kris doesn't care about him at all - it seems very likely that they do. what I mean to say here is that he just seems ill-suited to an escapism reading, both behaviorally and on a conceptual level. it doesn't seem like that's at all part of his servitude towards the lightners.

of course, there is another non-lightner entity that ralsei seems diegetically engineered to serve. but I'll discuss that later.

now as for susie...

yes, susie definitely views the dark worlds as more fun than the light world. and why wouldn't she? the light world sucks for her, and she doesn't seem very aware of the fact that the dark world can also suck. you could definitely make the argument that she views the dark worlds as a fantastical escape from reality... were it not for the fact that she treats her darkner friends with just as much importance as she does kris and noelle.

can someone treat components of an escapist fantasy as real and important? of course. but given deltarune's themes of agency and control, as well as the fact that darkners exist in servitude to the lightners, I feel like you'd have to make escapism tie into forcing others into a lack of agency if you wanted the theme to feel coherent with the rest of the work. this would require susie to be limiting the agency of the darkners around her. and obviously, she doesn't do that. her presence around them might be inherently limiting, just by simple virtue of being a lightner, but she isn't aware of it, and clearly is uncomfortable with the idea of limiting anyone's agency. she encourages ralsei to make choices. and she supports lancer in basically anything he wants to do. her treatment of lancer is integral to chapter 1's narrative, and it seems like that treatment of ralsei is integral to the ongoing narrative as well!

her preference for the dark world feels very rooted in her engagement with it as its own reality. rather than trying to avoid her real-life problems by engaging in a pretense, she seems to simply want to spend time with her friends in a place that isn't cruel to her. she isn't ignoring any of the dark world's problems in service of that, either. she notices when things don't line up. if she thought of it as a fantasy, wouldn't she be inclined to ignore issues that impede the fantasy?

and critically - like kris, she does not intentionally choose her imposed role in the prophecy at first. she steps into the role of bad guy to resist it, but that role is limiting too, and she eventually acquiesces to being a hero. it's never something she's completely on board with, though. she actively pushes back the limitations that the role places on her. I find this important to reiterate when we are discussing the notion of the characters viewing the dark worlds as fantasy.

noelle has a complicated relationship to the dark worlds. susie tells her that it's a dream to make her accept the strange reality she finds herself in, which works well on her. she continues to think of it as a strange dream throughout the chapter. (though, like the others, it is not a 'dream' she entered of her own volition!)

it is also a markedly unpleasant 'dream' at times. she has her agency restricted, is kidnapped, has to evade a controlling monarch, and is even tied up in a weird evangelion cross thing on the hand of a giant robot. it's not purely fun. noelle does like scary things, and while it might be healthy for her to have an experience where she stands up to a controlling adult figure... again, the circumstances make it difficult for me to assume that this is a fantasy she would choose for herself. not impossible, mind you, but it's not the first reading of the situation that comes to mind.

and while she does say she wishes she could dream like this every day in the normal route, that does happen specifically because she was talking to the girl she likes. it makes sense she'd find that pleasant. I don't think that necessarily equates to her finding the dark worlds escapist.

and importantly, this isn't the sentiment that she expresses in every route.

again, there's a lot of analysis on snowgrave, so I won't bother regurgitating it much here. but it's nightmarish for both kris and noelle, and very likely fatal for berdly. noelle needs to believe that the event is a dream, for her own psychological safety, but one of the most important parts of snowgrave...

...is that its events, and the world it took place in, are very, very real.

noelle wants to have the strength to face her problems, both in the regular route and in the snowgrave route. rather than escaping from them, she views the "dream" as a chance to practice dealing with her day-to-day issues. it's just that in the regular route she finds that strength authentically, and in the snowgrave route, that desire is manipulated and pushed until she is forced to kill berdly. she doesn't interpret snowgrave as an escape gone wrong. she views it as a dream that became a nightmare. and those are two extremely different things.

but i haven't even gotten to the biggest thing that undermines the concept that the dark worlds are a metaphor for escapism! which is: this fucking guy is dead wrong about everything.

so full disclaimer - I really love berdly. I think he's slept on a lot in the fandom because he's annoying and weird. which is fair, I suppose, but I think ignoring him hinders a lot of people's understanding of deltarune's overall narrative. because berdly often illustrates a lot of concepts in the game, but his narrative framing as a joke (usually...) prevents the player from taking it completely seriously. he has things to say and ideas to show off, it's just that he's often very loud and kind of dumb in his expression of them. which is kind of the point!

ralsei brings up the idea that the darkners are meant to serve the lightners very seriously in chapter one. by extension, and by way of the literal mechanics involved in a dark world's creation, we can infer that this logic is probably something that also applies to the dark worlds themselves. they are allegedly worlds and characters that only are supposed to fulfill a dream of the lightners. but due to narrative framing and deltarune's themes, we know that that's not the full truth. however dark worlds and darkners are created, they deserve to have their own agency. they can't just exist to fulfill a higher being's wishes.

you know who else undermines that view of the dark worlds? berdly! berdly does!!!!

because berdly is the only lightner in the game so far who does take the dark worlds to be an escapist adventure! he wants to turn cyber world into smartopia. he views this as a chance to be a cool hero. he believes he's going to get the girl, he's going to shape this world to his own liking, and maybe also he's going to get queen to acknowledge him or something so he stops being a forgettable little bluebird. and not only does none of this happen, his steadfast belief that it will happen is continually a joke within the narrative!!

berdly's wishes for uncomplicated escapist fantasy are flat-out denied by the dark worlds themselves. as a lightner, those worlds should be serving him. he should have the power to do whatever he wants within the bounds of an escapist fantasy. these npcs should be singing his praises!

but he doesn't have the power. and this world doesn't sing his praise. because it just isn't an escapist fantasy. he isn't right to view it that way. his wishes for heroism are always going to be thwarted.

so now that I've gotten all that out of the way, let's swing back over to the subject of your original ask. queen.

because, like berdly, queen's entire character arc is about how she's completely wrong about what the lightners actually want.

queen would in fact like nothing more to place the lightners into an escapist fantasy. she believes that that's the best way to serve them and make them happy forever. as a darkner, queen has very much internalized the idea that a lack of control is what actually makes people happy. since darkners have no choice in their destinies and are supposed to be happy in it, and since she personally finds her role as a darkner fulfilling, she believes that that's true of all people everywhere. if you want to make people happy, you just have to remove that pesky personal agency!

so she spends the story trying to force the lightners and particularly noelle into situations where she controls them in order to make them ostensibly happier. she does genuinely believe that this is the right thing to do, but as she finds out eventually, she's just wrong. noelle doesn't want that. queen believes that escapism is why the lightners use the internet... but that's totally wrong too.

while there are other searches mixed in, noelle is trying to use the internet to find her sister. instead of trying to hide from whatever happened, noelle wants to figure it out. queen's thesis about noelle and the lightners is proven wrong even before she personally encounters noelle in the dark world. it's just that queen doesn't realize it due to her limited perspective.

the concept of escapism being brought up with both queen and berdly is not there to say that the dark world is escapist. rather, it's there to say that it isn't. despite the dark worlds being a fantastical place, they are extremely real. to view them as a means of escape is foolhardy at best. you cannot act as though you are above consequences within them.

themes and ideas exist within the story for a sake of an audience. so let's get into the final character I need to discuss here. hopefully this will tie my thesis of deltarune together neatly.

that character is of course us. the player.

when creating a piece of fiction, an astute author will often identify and anticipate an audience's reactions to certain things in their work, and write things in such a way that they elicit the desired reactions. in essence, a writer is directing the "character" of the audience. how we feel and how we are anticipated to react to things is an integral part of nearly every fiction.

that effect is far more overt when dealing with metanarrative fiction that diegetically involves the audience. since the fiction is saying a lot of things about the general 'you,' the audience in aggregate, your reactions to certain things in the story have to be finely cued and anticipated by the author, so that the author can thus commentate on the reactions that you have to the story. the "character" you are assumed to inhabit is posited by the author to have certain traits.

to explain what I mean in plainer terms, I'll use the player of undertale's no mercy route as an example. because undertale is commenting on the way rpgs generally work. the player's behaviors in no mercy are attributed by characters in the story to be the result of us acting like a typical gamer. we kill the characters in the game because we want exp. and more than that, it's because we want to see everything the game has to offer. the role we inhabit in this role-playing game is that of a completionist. you could say that that's assumed to be our "character" in no mercy.

deltarune also posits that certain things are true of its audience. by being written to evoke certain cultural ideas, rpg tropes, and references to undertale, it guarantees that its audience will probably have certain traits, and spends a large amount of its conceptual focus commenting on those traits. one of those traits is nostalgia, which is probably an idea that I'll expound upon in a further essay because it's quite integral to my reading of deltarune. but the main one I mean to discuss here, and why I went off on this tangent about how audiences are dealt with in metafiction, is that we are posited as someone who believes in the logic of certain narratives.

deltarune's writing evokes a lot of portal fantasy narratives. alice in wonderland, narnia, pretty much every story where it's revealed at the end to be all a dream... the story of deltarune superficially resembles a lot of those. this, I think, is responsible for the popularity of the escapism theory. because those stories are often at their end about a child learning to put away fantasy and grow up, people tend to believe that deltarune must be about the same thing. but I truly don't think that deltarune is trying to do anything with that aspect of portal fantasy narratives, at least not directly. its main characters aren't involved in that exact type of coming-of-age arc.

instead, deltarune is very concerned with what happens to characters in fantasy, and specifically fantasy rpgs. if your world is deemed to not matter because it's a dream, what does that mean for you, who has no choice but to live in it? if you are an npc whose role has been predetermined for you via script, then can you ever decide for yourself what you want? what if you want to matter? what if you want to be your own person?

as the major controlling force of deltarune, we are initially cued to believe that deltarune is like a dream. it superficially fulfills so much of what we want from undertale fanon. hometown seems like it's a perfect idyllic town, at least until you start noticing the obvious cracks. and remember what I said about ralsei earlier? he is so reminiscent of asriel, and extremely eager to help us. it's not a stretch to say that making us specifically view deltarune as dreamlike and idyllic is probably part of his purpose in the game.

I would not say that we are posited as escapist. but the idea of escapism as brought up with queen and berdly is meant to strike at the heart of a much deeper idea that deltarune is trying to deconstruct. because if we view deltarune as a dream, escapist or otherwise, then we are inclined to write the internal realities of the characters inside off. the dark world can disappear without it mattering. we can control kris without it mattering. if it's all a dream, what does it matter? why should we care to let its characters go free? aren't we supposed to be in control?

if deltarune is an rpg... what is the significance of us interacting with it?

#deltarune #deltarune analysis #BIG big thanks to tvlandofficiall for being my sounding board and providing the flavor images for this essay #this one gets into some big overarching analysis of deltarunes construction and what it deconstructs. hope u enjoy

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lunar-years · 2 months ago

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Jamie spending so much time with Roy and visibly being so close to Roy that even Roy’s little niece takes note and ensures he’s invited to their Uncle’s Day celebration as Uncle Roy’s best friend, YET Jamie still being surprised, flattered and excited several episodes later when Roy does something as simple as invite him out for a beer, because that’s clearly something that’s unprecedented—the first opportunity to hang out as friends without any guise of it being for football—is just soooooo!! The implications are so silly. Roy definitely spent the entire season framing every interaction he had with Jamie around “work” and “training” even when he really just needed to be around someone (well, specifically around Jamie) because his ass couldn’t just admit he likes having Jamie around. We know from the show he showed up at least once in the evening for “once more before dinner” (Roy…it was literally dark outside and you’d already had Jamie running around twice that day. be forreal)

…so anyway! Roy bringing dinner over to Jamie’s 4 nights a week and it’s really because he doesn’t want to eat alone and having his meals with Jamie is just better, but he still disguises it every time as “well I obviously need to make sure your nutrition is sound and you are eating enough and the right things this is a very important part of your training. I am doing you a crucial service.” Roy bringing Jamie along with him when he watches Phoebe because Phoebe and Jamie adore each other, but Roy “makes” him show her some footie tricks in his back garden and claims it’s because “being able to explain it to someone else is how you become a leader on the team this is very important” or else has him haul phoebes around on his back or whatever as “strength training” to make himself feel better about just wanting Jamie to be there to hang out. Roy following Jamie back home after matches because he needs to “assess his post-match routine and make sure he’s not overdoing it,” but really it’s just them plopped on Jamie’s couch watching bad reality tv and judging it together. And then *obviously* he might as well stay over, so that he can also observe and give Jamie his helpful advice on a morning wake up and stretch routine. Totally necessary!

And look, part of Jamie understands what’s really happening here and at least sort of knows Roy really does like spending time with him outside of just work and training (hence all his best friend teasing on Uncle’s Day), but Jamie is also a bit of an idiot (affectionate) who in equal measure sort of believes he’s just deluding himself and that all of this really has been an elaborate and effective training scheme from Coach Roy.™️ They perplex and bewitch me. s

#Roy your incredibly stunted ability to express the overwhelming weight of the emotions inside you enchants and alarms me #silly silly boys #also yes I am still on the bones and honey scene lmao I’ve been thinking about it a LOT this week #like even if you set aside that Jamie may have thought roy was asking him out (a theory I tend to agree with)#isn't that even MORE bewildering?? like that means Jamie was THAT happy and shook about being asked to hang out as FRIENDS.#because roy really has never once done that without pretending it's actually about something else #roy you stupid idiot (affectionate)#Jamie Tartt #Roy Kent #royjamie #ted lasso

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melanieph321 · 5 months ago

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If you’re writing for Riccardo calafiori i have a lil req! You work for bologna and always have to do media work with him but you’re not a fan of his attitude and make that known and in return he makes it known he doesn’t like you. Then one night you guys are at a charity event and you’re both drinking when you shouldn’t be then one thing leads to another and you’re fucking each other in one of the empty rooms of the hall😼

This is sooo good!!! 🤭🤭🤭

SEVEN DAYS OF REQUESTS 3.0

(DAY 2)

Riccardo Calafiori x Reader - Difficult Part 1/3

Part 2 Part 3

Enjoy!

Post-match interviews, just the words post-match interviews, brought you nightmares as a media manager for Bologna FC.

The preparations, as well as the handling of Italian media, was nothing your professors at school could have ever prepared you for. Neither could they have anticipated the sheer pain in the ass it would be to work with someone like Riccardo Calafiori.

"Who do I get?" You asked your boss, a native Bolognian, and the media principal for the team. He was handing out spreadsheets to each of your colleges, preparing them for the questions the different journalist and their publication may want to ask the players. It was a standard procedure after any game. However, as your boss got to you, there were no more sheets for him to hand out. Instead, he slipped you a pink Post-It note that read - Keep him happy. Keep it short.

"What's this?" You frowned reading the note.

"You're notes."

"But for who? Surely I'm gonna need a bit more than....."

"Y/N." You're boss sighed. "I'm giving you the responsibility of Calafiori tonight. Please do me the favor and make the interviews go as smooth as possible, okay?"

"Calafiori?" You protested. "I'm sorry, sir, but you've got to be kidding me, right? Bologna just lost 3-0 to Fiorentina FC."

"And let's not forget Calafiori's red card." Your boss wiped the sweat of his shiney forhead. "Look, I know that it's not ideal. But the media is eager to speak to him. Let's just make his encounter with the press as quick and snooth as possible. No distractions."

"No. I refuse."

"Please, Y/N. You've done so well before. Why not do it again? Just this one?"

It was true. The last time you had to deal with Riccardo Calafiori and his sharp temperament was in a similar context. Bologna had just been knocked out of Copa Italia after an unnecessary tackle made by Calafiori, who injured a player, which resulted in stoppage time. Enough stoppage time for Bologna to concede a late goal, ultimately losing the crucial game. Calafiori had arrived at the teams dressing room and set out to break anything in his path. That is, until you convinced him to go ahead with his post-match interviews in order to be the first player to be let go for the day. To your suprise, Calafiori agreed to your terms without arguing any further. This achievement certainly earned you some points with your boss. However, something told you that this time would be different.

You watched Bologna players flee their own locker room at the sight of a fuming Calafiori. He made his way down the stadium tunnel, hair covering his face like a dark and unraveling vail. He marched on, into the locker room, slamming the door behind him.

"How about a five percent raise on your salary?" Your boss said, his gaze also fixiated down the tunnel.

"Ten."

"Five, plus an invite to the teams next charity event in Milano."

"Deal."

"Grazie mille!"

It was set. You stuffed the Post-it note in the pocket of your jeans and made your way to the players' locker room. Surely this time couldn't be worse than the last? People change, don't they?

There was only one way to find out.

Part 2 Part 3

#fanfiction #football imagine #footballer x reader #footballer imagine #seven days of requests #riccardo calafiori #bologna fc #italia

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aleskie-hischier · 4 days ago

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Summary: Tasked with eliminating the government spy Nico Hischier, you arrive in Paris prepared to do what you’ve always done: obey Father’s orders without question. Unexpectedly, you get closer to Nico and he shows you a glimpse of a life beyond the underworld. Torn between your present and the possibility of a future free from darkness, you make a choice that changes the course of your life.

Word Count: 15k Warnings: fluffy angst!! there's a swear word somewhere there and there's a scene that leads to something spicy but there isn't any actual smut!! also there are inaccurate descriptions of advanced technology and chemicals...don't come for me, i'm not a stem student and i don't actually know how that shit works

READ PART TWO HERE

You first meet him at a gala somewhere in Germany. It’s the birthday of some socialite, celebrated in the only way these people seem to know how—a garish display of lavish opulence. The mansion is dripping in gold, with polished marble floors that gleam under crystal chandeliers, and an endless fountain of champagne that flows throughout the night. Around you, guests float about in grand clothes, laughter echoing through the hall. And, from the corner of your eye, in the dimly lit corners, you spot couples slipping away for moments of…private intimacy.

In a perfect world, you’d join the festivities—join in the dancing and drinking, maybe you’d even find someone who catches your eye, flirt for a while, let the champagne make you bold. But you aren’t here for any of that. No, your attendance tonight is strictly for work, and you’re eager to make a good impression. After all, ‘Father’ had chosen you personally for this assignment, this chance to prove yourself by approaching The Target.

The honor wasn’t lost on you. Out of all your ‘siblings,’ it was you he’d chosen—‘Father’s’ quiet, watchful shadow. You almost let a smile slip at the thought of them fuming, quietly seething that you had been singled out as his best. Still, you keep your gloating hidden deep inside. You keep your expression composed, calm, your mask perfectly in place. Just like what you were trained to do.

One by one, ‘Father’ takes you through the crowd, introducing you to guests scattered throughout the hall. There are socialites wrapped in silk and jewels, politicians with their fake and steely smiles; There are actors who prance around with perfectly practiced charm and singers who cast secretive glances at one another—everyone who matters, the pillars of high society, are all here.

You’re cordial, polite, doing exactly as you were trained: standing straight with your head high, giving a subtle smile, letting ‘Father’ do most of the talking while you speak only when directly addressed.

This is why you’re his favorite. You’re a shadow, a seamless extension of his will, your own desires tucked away beneath the polished surface.

Your gaze occasionally sweeps the room, catching every flicker of movement, every momentary lapse in composure. You’re waiting, watching, until finally, you see him: The Target. Standing across the room, just beyond ‘Father’s’ line of sight, and yet right within yours.

The cold and calculating Agent Heart. Real name: Nico Hischier. One of the top operatives the Swiss government had ever produced—usually, anyway. He’d unknowingly made a crucial mistake at his last job, leaving just enough of a trace to reveal the man behind the code name. And now, he would die by your hands.

It was almost a pity to end the life of someone so...well, so pretty, with that sharp jawline and those doe-like brown eyes. But a job was a job, and Nico Hischier had been a thorn in your client’s side for far too long. His audacious infiltration schemes and the false information he’d planted across organizations had finally backfired, landing him in the crosshairs of nearly every intelligence agency in Europe. The bounty on his head was astronomical. And very soon, you’d be securing a piece of it.

You quietly excuse yourself from the current group of guests as ‘Father’ continues talking, stepping away with a smooth, practiced grace that goes unnoticed amidst the swirl of laughter and clinking glasses. Moving through the crowd, you feel the thrill of anticipation quicken your heartbeat—not nerves, but the pure, cold excitement that only missions like this can give.

You’d studied him meticulously, learning everything from his birthplace to his weapon of choice to the peculiarity of his movements. By all accounts, he’s one of the deadliest targets you’ve ever been assigned. But here, under the shimmering lights and surrounded by Europe’s elite, he almost seems ordinary. Unsuspecting. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Carefully, you make your way to him with a calculated grace, cutting through the crowd with subtle purpose until you find yourself near the champagne tower where he stands, engaged in polite conversation but always surveying the room. In these few seconds, your mind runs through the best approaches. This first contact would be critical—too bold, and he’d suspect something; too subtle, and you’d be ignored.

As you near him, you make a choice. You pass close enough to him for a brief, delicate brush of your arm against his, subtle enough to seem accidental yet deliberate enough to catch his attention. The spark of contact makes him look down at you, his gaze as sharp as you expected. You meet his eyes, letting a faint smile tug at your lips, mysterious and inviting.

You let the moment linger just a second longer than usual before drifting away, casting a fleeting glance over your shoulder as you head towards a nearby balcony. A silent invitation, daring him to follow.

It works. Just moments later, you sense his presence behind you, following you closely. And when you step onto the quiet balcony overlooking the gardens, he’s there, closing the doors softly behind him. For a brief moment, you both stand in silence, the sounds of laughter and music now muffled by the thick glass. The night air is cool, and he takes a step forward, his posture casual but his eyes sharp, assessing.

“Didn’t think I’d see someone like you out here,” he says smoothly, his voice low and slightly amused.

You arch a brow, leaning against the stone bannister, feigning a casualness you don’t entirely feel. “And what is ‘someone like me,’ exactly?” you ask, letting a slight challenge slip into your tone.

He chuckles softly, his gaze trailing over you with an interest that’s as analytical as it is intrigued. “Someone who seems a bit out of place among all the gold and glitter.” He pauses, a smile touching his lips. “Though I suppose that’s part of the charm.”

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze with a smile of your own. “Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

He hums, studying you with a spark of intrigue. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

You smirk, crossing your arms loosely in front of you. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He chuckles, mirroring your smirk with one of his own. “Don’t you want to know who I am?”

You shrug lightly, keeping your gaze steady. “It’s not that important. We won’t be meeting after tonight, anyway,” you reply, your tone coy, almost daring.

He tilts his head, clearly amused, and leans in just a fraction closer. His hand rests on the bannister, his fingers nearly brushing against yours. “And what if I wanted to meet again?”

A playful smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “I think I could make that happen.”

He opens his mouth, about to respond with some new flirtation, but he’s cut off by a familiar voice.

‘Father.’

“Ah,” he says, his tone measured, assessing, “My child, here you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

You turn, adopting a soft, slightly apologetic smile, and gesture toward Nico. “I found some lovely company tonight. I’m sorry for slipping away like that.”

‘Father’ shifts his gaze to Nico, then back to you, a look of subtle satisfaction passing over his features as he realizes you’ve made contact with the target. “I see.” He extends his hand to the spy. “Thank you for looking after my treasure.”

The air shifts as Nico straightens, his previously casual demeanor giving way to a guarded coolness. He accepts the handshake, meeting ‘Father’s’ gaze with a measured look. “It’s my pleasure,” he replies smoothly. “She’s been…lovely company.”

‘Father’ gives an approving smile that, even to you, seems convincing. “Well,” he says, glancing between the two of you, “I hate to cut this meeting short, but our chauffeur is here to take us back home.” His tone is warm, but there’s no mistaking the command in his words.

Nico’s eyes flick from you to ‘Father,’ assessing, before he nods. “Of course.” Turning back to you, he reaches for your gloved hand, lifting it with unexpected gentleness to his lips. “Thank you for your company tonight.”

You give him a warm smile, your heart skipping just slightly under the guise of composure. “It was no trouble at all.” Then, slipping your hand free, you take ‘Father’s’ arm, feeling Nico’s intense gaze burn into your back as you leave the balcony.

Once in the car, the silence is weighted, yet you can sense ‘Father’s’ satisfaction without needing to see his face. He finally speaks, his voice brimming with a rare touch of pride.

“My Shadow,” he says, almost tenderly, “To have made contact with a target even I did not see is nothing short of impressive. I knew you were the right choice for this assignment.” He leans back, a hint of a smile ghosting across his face as he watches the city lights flicker past the window.

A subtle warmth blooms in your chest, a swell of pride that you rarely allow yourself to feel. You’ve made ‘Father’ proud—exactly what you’ve been trained for, the purpose he’s molded you into. And tonight, you’ve once again proven yourself worthy of his trust.

You allow yourself a brief, quiet smile as you reply, “Thank you, Father.”

Suddenly, ‘Father’ turns to you, a faint glint of scrutiny in his eyes. “I must ask, however,” he says, his voice sharp and questioning, “Why did you allow him to kiss your hand goodbye? You don’t often permit targets to make contact with you.”

Caught off guard by his intensity, you pause, then offer a calm, practiced smile. “Oh,” you say, feeling the weight of his gaze, “I left him with a small gift, is all.”

‘Father’ raises a brow, his silence an unspoken command to elaborate.

With a slight, mischievous smile, you hold up your hands, drawing his attention to the delicate gloves still clinging to your skin. “I laced these with poison.”

For a second, ‘Father’ stares, his eyes widening as he processes your strategy, before he lets out a hearty, genuine laugh that seems to echo in the dim car. “Oh, my dear Shadow,” he says, mirth evident in every syllable, “This is why you are my greatest investment.”

He shakes his head, almost in awe, and pats your shoulder as if to say, well done. “Brilliantly done. Precise, discreet, and utterly poetic. I knew I was right to trust you with this.”

The pride in his tone washes over you, and you lower your eyes, feigning humility even as satisfaction hums beneath your skin.

Right now, in this moment, you’re more than just his tool—you’re his masterpiece, a testament to his power, and his most prized creation. The night around you darkens as the car glides down empty streets, but you feel only the steady glow of triumph.

You don’t see Nico Hischier for another five years.

After that night, he vanished as if he’d never existed, leaving no trace, no sign, not even a whisper in the underworld. Informants scrambled and came up empty-handed, unable to find the faintest clue of his survival. For all intents and purposes, Nico Hischier was dead and Agent Heart was wiped from the face of the earth—yet his memory lingered, nagging at the edges of your mind. A shame, really. He’d been charming, a master of his craft, and more than easy on the eyes with a lovely accent to match. But business was business, and you’d pocketed a handsome payday from his supposed demise.

Life moved on. You took new assignments, completed them, and then went on a shopping spree with the bounty you collected from each person’s demise.

And then, just as you’d almost forgotten him, a report surfaced: Nico Hischier, codename: Heart, was sighted in Prague.

The message left you cold, gripping the paper so tightly your knuckles turned white. Somehow, he’d managed to reemerge five years after you’d assumed him dead. It could only mean one of two things: either he’d somehow already developed an immunity to your poison, or he’d anticipated your move that night and carried an antidote. Either way, he’d outplayed you.

When ‘Father’ found out, his reaction was…uncharacteristic. You almost expected him to explode in fury, yet he remained unsettlingly calm, though you could feel the chill radiating off him. “Lay low,” he commanded, his voice edged with a steely calm. “Do nothing reckless. We will let him think he is safe.”

You nodded, as did the others. Defiance wasn’t an option—not against ‘Father.’ You were his creations, his most prized agents, trained to bend to his will, to serve as extensions of his power. But as reports trickled in of Nico’s movements—Italy, Spain, then Germany, and now, most recently, Paris—a restlessness began to simmer beneath the surface.

It was infuriating. This job should have been finished years ago, with your flawless record kept unblemished. Instead, Nico Hischier was hopping across Europe as if untouched, while your high-profile clients grew increasingly frantic, demanding answers.

What was his plan? He hadn’t been stirring up trouble, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was biding his time, collecting information, plotting something. Five years of his survival meant five years for him to watch, learn, and scheme. Who knew what kind of leverage he might hold now?

The insult burned, a taunting reminder of your one unfinished task. This was personal now.

With a calculated calm, you start packing, your room a messy whirl of preparation. You move quickly, gathering clothes and essentials, disguises folded neatly alongside your dark ensembles. The commercial airport would be a nightmare for weapons and the more, shall we say, experimental items you’d usually pack, so you strip down to the essentials—your laptop, and hard drives and USBs loaded with data on ‘Father’s’ warehouses, contacts, and safehouses in Paris. You weren’t about to leave anything to chance this time. You were going to get the job done.

“What do we have here?” Hyacinth drawls as he strolls into your room, that infuriating smirk playing across his lips. “Shadow, breaking Father’s orders? Never thought I’d live to see the day! Maybe the world really is coming to an end.”

His laugh grates against your nerves, adding fuel to the fire of your frustration. You clench your fists, willing yourself not to snap.

“Shut up, Hyacinth,” you snap, your tone ice-cold.

He lifts a brow, feigning shock. “Touchy, touchy. What’s the matter? Can’t handle the thought of being like the rest of us disappointments?”

Your glare sharpens. “You don’t know a damn thing.”

“Oh, maybe not,” he shrugs with feigned nonchalance, though the glint in his eyes says otherwise. “All I know is that Father’s perfect little lap dog has her first big failure and can’t handle it. Didn’t even get a scolding for it, either. Let it go, Shadow. Shit happens.”

“Not to me!” The words are out before you can stop them, the heat in your voice betraying the tight hold you’ve tried to keep on your emotions. “Shit isn’t supposed to happen to me. He should have been dead five years ago. Something is clearly wrong here, and I’m not about to wait around to see what it is.”

Hyacinth leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Don’t you think by going after him, you’re just putting us all at risk? Maybe you’re the one digging our graves.”

You set your jaw. “I’m making sure it doesn’t come to that. Someone has to, and if that means going out there myself, so be it. I won’t let him compromise us.”

He snorts. “That superiority complex of yours is showing again. Newsflash, Shadow: you’re not any better than the rest of us. We can handle ourselves, you know.”

“Then do that.” You meet his gaze, refusing to waver. “I’m going to end this, for good this time.”

Hyacinth shakes his head, letting out a scoff as he gives you a mock salute before flipping you off on his way out. Once he’s gone, silence falls, leaving you alone with the simmering anger and resolve that’s been building inside you since that first sighting in Prague.

You turn back to your preparations, each item you pack a step closer to reclaiming your spotless record. If Nico Hischier thought he could walk back into your world without a consequence, he was in for a rude awakening. This time, you’d make sure he didn’t walk away—no matter what it took.

The first thing you do when you touch down in Paris is seek out a café where you can start tracking down the location of the warehouse without raising suspicion. You drag your suitcase through the bustling crowds, winding your way to a small café tucked in a quiet corner off a narrow street. It’s the kind of place tourists overlook but locals appreciate, which suits you just fine. Settling at a corner table, you pull out your laptop and hard drive, your eyes flicking discreetly around before focusing on the screen.

Phase one: gathering supplies and resources. It’s essential to be meticulous here, covering your tracks as you hack into the security systems guarding the warehouse. ‘Father’ couldn’t know, not until Nico was back under control, one way or another. Hyacinth was a wild card, as always. But you know your ‘brother’ well enough—he wouldn’t risk his neck tattling to ‘Father’ when it could mean he’d get burned for letting you slip through in the first place. No, the only way you’d get caught would be if you made a mistake. But you don’t make mistakes. Not often, at least.

Steeling yourself, you quickly hack into ‘Father’s’ network, bypassing the high-grade security systems with a practiced ease. You knew every firewall, every code embedded in his system—hell, you’d helped create a few. Within minutes, you’re inside, scanning inventory lists, security schedules, and surveillance layouts. The target warehouse isn’t far, just on the outskirts of the city, and you catch a hint of satisfaction at the minimal security—surely an oversight on ‘Father’s’ part. A clean entry and exit should be more than manageable if you stick to the plan. This was your element. It’s what they trained you for, why they called you Shadow: no one saw you coming, and no one would see you go.

Hours later, with a mental map of the warehouse in place, you check into your hotel—a high-end spot tucked away in the heart of the city. You present your fake ID and passport with the same confidence you’ve honed in every mission. The upscale surroundings are a deliberate choice. Tourists flood hotels like these, and with so many faces coming and going, no one would remember one more guest. Plus, you think, casting a glance around the pristine lobby, it’s a definite improvement over some of your previous hideouts.

Your room is a large suite with a view overlooking the Seine, but there’s no time to enjoy it. By nightfall, you’re ready. Dressed in sleek, dark clothing, a mask fitted snugly over your face, and your bag packed with the essentials, you slip silently into the shadows outside the hotel. Your path takes you through side streets and alleyways, every step calculated as you make your way toward the necessary location.

The warehouse looms ahead, tucked in an industrial sector where only the hum of distant traffic breaks the silence. You slip into the shadows along the building’s side, blending in as you’ve always done. You double-check your tools, each one a lifeline in your hand. There’s no room for error tonight. Not this time.

When you arrive, the warehouse looms ahead in the darkness. It’s surrounded by high fencing, security cameras rotating from their posts like watchful sentries. For most, this would be intimidating, but you’ve faced far worse. The thrill kicks in once more, sharpening your senses. You take a slow, steadying breath, then melt into the shadows, silent as smoke. This time, you’d finish the job you’d started years ago—no matter what it took.

The sunrise has always fascinated you. It’s a signal of beginnings, fresh starts—a promise of new opportunities. You find it poetic that it’s the first thing you see as you slip out of the warehouse, your mission complete and a cold, gleeful satisfaction filling you.

Breaking into the place had been more challenging than anticipated. The exterior’s casual security had lulled you into a false sense of ease, making you believe the rest would be a simple infiltration. But inside, the game shifted. Lasers crisscrossed the halls like webs, ready to alert ‘Father’ at the faintest touch. You’d navigated through them with a mix of agility and nerves of steel, carefully calculating each movement. Then, hacking into the security system to loop the cameras—well, that had demanded an even steadier hand.

Each door you encountered was a new puzzle, a metal barrier locked with outdated ciphers that even the finest digital decoders couldn’t solve alone. Finally, you resorted to an old cipher-decoder tucked away in your bag, the kind you’d almost forgotten about, to get you through. Each second felt stretched, every click and buzz echoing louder in the silent warehouse, but you refused to let it fluster you. You were trained for this—methodical, composed, and ruthless in your precision.

The challenges only fueled you. They reminded you of the spies you’d watched over the years, their sneaky maneuvers and meticulous planning. Spies and assassins weren’t all that different, you thought wryly. Both had to be intelligent, inventive, and constantly three steps ahead. You’d taken notes, refined your approach, and now, standing here at the brink of success, you see it paying off.

Once inside the warehouse’s main sector, you located everything you needed: small vials of acids and chemicals with potent effects, needles to inject them into precise targets, and, of course, your preferred daggers. You recognize the risk of bringing such conspicuous weapons; the daggers would leave a clear mark, something easily traced to you. But they were your final line of defense if all else failed. A contingency. You liked to be prepared for every possibility.

With your haul secured, you slipped out as silently as you’d come, setting everything back to how it was before you’d entered.

Back at the hotel, a wave of exhaustion hit you, the adrenaline finally draining. You collapsed onto the plush bed, relishing the soft linens and the contrast of comfort after the tense operation. As your eyes drifted shut, the golden light of dawn filtered through the window. In the back of your mind, a voice whispers that this time, things will fall into place. The sun feels like a premonition—a promise of victory.

When you wake up, it’s just about time for lunch, and the day outside is sunny, practically inviting you out to explore. After a quick shower, you slip into a simple outfit, throwing on a light cardigan, and head down to the lobby. You tell yourself it’s to grab a bite to eat while you figure out how to locate Nico—if he was even still in Paris. A grimace crosses your face at the possibility he’s already vanished, but a quick spark of determination flickers. You’re prepared to follow him to the ends of the earth if that’s what it takes.

Lost in thought, you walk briskly toward the lobby’s exit, but you’re jarred back to the present by an unexpected bump into someone. Instinctively, you’re ready to apologize—until you look up and see him. Nico, in the flesh, his expression caught halfway between surprise and something else. He’s as handsome as you remember, wearing a casual pair of jeans, a sleek knit sweater, and a trench coat that perfectly frames his sharp build. Jackpot.

His eyes first widen when they see you, a flash of recognition, but they don’t show any signs of him connecting you with a failed assassination plot, so that was working in your favor. Then he gives an amused smile.

For a split second, his eyes widen, a flicker of recognition lighting up his face. But he doesn’t show a trace of suspicion; if anything, he looks amused. It’s almost funny how little he realizes who you truly are or that you were ever tasked with ending his life.

“When you said you’d make our meeting happen again,” he says smoothly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I didn’t think you’d keep me waiting for five years.”

You recover quickly, letting an amused smile play on your lips. “Good things take time,” you reply, matching his tone with ease.

“Well then, I guess it’s about time we do this properly." His smirk deepens as he extends a hand, offering a more formal greeting. "I’m Nico.”

“Y/N,” you say, your smile widening as you take his hand, giving it a light but confident shake.

He studies you for a moment, his gaze both amused and appraising. “So, Y/N,” he says, the casualness in his tone belied by the spark of curiosity in his eyes, “What brings you to Paris?”

“Oh, just a bit of business,” you reply, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “But I don’t mind having a little fun on the side.”

“Funny,” he replies, the amusement in his eyes intensifying. His gaze lingers, assessing, as if you’re a puzzle he’s suddenly intent on solving. “I could say the same thing.” There’s a spark of intrigue in his eyes, a quiet challenge, like he’s not quite sure what he’s getting into but is curious enough to find out. “How about we continue where we left off and get lunch? My treat.”

There’s a quiet thrill in how easily he’s letting his guard down. “I’d be glad to,” you say, your voice warm and laced with charm. You place your hand lightly in the one he’s offered as he leads you out of the hotel lobby, and a strange feeling of satisfaction blooms in your chest.

As you step out into the Parisian sunlight, you feel his gaze drift over you from time to time, like he’s trying to piece together the mystery that is you. In a way, it’s thrilling—the careful dance, the unspoken tension between you. For now, you’re both just two strangers, meeting by chance, sharing a meal in the city of lights. But beneath that veneer of normalcy, you know exactly who he is. And soon, he’ll find out exactly who you are, too.

The walk to the restaurant is mostly silent, save for the sounds of cabs and people on the street, though his hand remains firmly laced in yours, grounding you in a way that’s both strange and unexpectedly steady. You’re not sure if he’s doing it to ensure you don’t slip away—not that you would—or if it’s simply his way of staying connected, holding onto this chance encounter as long as possible.

He leads you to a cozy little bistro just a block away from the hotel. It’s the sort of place that’s swarming with locals, with warm wooden tables and waitstaff bustling through the crowd, balancing plates with practiced ease. You’re seated by a window, the afternoon light filtering through as the hum of Parisian life passes by outside. He lets go of your hand to pull out your chair, a surprisingly old-fashioned gesture, before taking a seat across from you. You’re handed menus, and after a quick glance, he orders a steak. You, in turn, order ratatouille—a choice that earns you a look of amused surprise.

“Ratatouille?” He raises an eyebrow, the grin on his face both intrigued and playful as the waiter collects your menus.

You can’t help but smirk back, rolling your eyes a bit as you explain. “I saw the movie last year and figured I should try the dish, see if it lives up to the hype.”

He laughs, the sound warm and relaxed, making him seem momentarily less like the man you’re here to kill. “So, you’re into those kinds of things? Movies?”

“Not really. Just curious.” You give a small shrug, keeping your tone light. “I figured that if I was gonna eat in Paris I might as well go for something classic.”

He nods, eyes never leaving yours, his gaze intense but inviting. “I suppose you just don’t strike me as the type to follow a…classical path, so to speak.”

You tilt your head, intrigued. “And what exactly do you think my path looks like, then?”

“Something more mysterious.” His smirk returns, laced with a deeper curiosity, as though he’s trying to peer through whatever mask you’ve chosen to wear today. “You’ve got this air about you...like you’re here, but not entirely. A bit like a cat. Sneaky, quick,” he says, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that feels both measuring and teasing. “Elusive.”

You laugh, letting out a genuine sound. “A cat? That’s a first.”

It is a first. People in your world were more likely to call you names like “Golden Girl,” “Father’s Shadow,” or “Lap Dog” when your so-called ‘siblings’ wanted to get under your skin.

“Well, you are hard to pin down, aren’t you?” He leans back, still watching you, and the playful energy from before shifts. “People like us—those who can walk in and out of rooms unnoticed—we tend to be running from something, or toward it. Which one is it for you?”

The question catches you off guard, the subtle implication making you wonder if he knows more than he lets on. You lean in, matching his intensity. “Maybe both. Or maybe I just like the thrill of new places and new faces.”

He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, as though filing the answer away with real interest. You notice the warmth in his curiosity, and for a brief moment, it almost makes you feel guilty, like he genuinely wants to know the truth about you.

“Besides,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips, “I’m the one who’s hard to pin down? You’re the one who’s been quite hard to find these past few years.”

The words slip out before you realize how they might sound, and for a brief second, you see his expression flicker from amused to alarmed. Most people wouldn’t catch it, but you do, and you pivot quickly.

“I just…” You let out a breath, recalibrating. “I thought you’d stay in Germany longer. I tried looking for you after the gala.” It’s the truth, in a way—you had tried to track him down, though for different reasons entirely. “But you were gone. Just…vanished.” The words carry a hint of something unintended, something softer. You sound almost sad, like a lover abandoned or a child denied a favorite toy.

His expression shifts, easing into something more open, though there’s a guarded look in his eyes you can’t quite place. “Oh,” he says simply. “Had some business to take care of.” Then, his lips curve into a smirk, casual and inviting. “If I’d known you were looking for me, I would’ve found you first.”

You return his smile, allowing the flirtation to flow easily between you. “Well, lucky for you, you didn’t have to try too hard this time.”

“Lucky for me indeed.” His gaze sharpens with interest, as if he’s thinking of something more he’d like to say but chooses to leave it unspoken.

As the light shifts, bathing the restaurant in a soft glow, you realize just how naturally the conversation has fallen into place, how seamlessly you’ve slipped into the part you need to play. It’s dangerous, how easy it feels, how perfectly he responds to every cue. For a moment, you wonder if he’s doing the same—if he’s playing a role, hiding motives of his own behind that smooth smile. But the real danger, you know, is how much you welcome it—yearn for it—how a part of you longs for this illusion of normalcy.

You let yourself drift for a second, thinking about a quiet cottage somewhere in the mountains. You imagine waking up next to someone you love, sharing breakfast and laughter in the early morning light. You picture spending your days apart, coming home to one another at night, swapping stories about the small things, the safe things, the little moments of joy. In this little dream, you hold children of your own—kids who’d grow up safe, untouched by the world you’d grown up in.

You look across the table at Nico, studying his face, his easy demeanor. And for a brief, painful moment, you think that if things were different, if he truly was just a man sitting here with genuine interest, the two of you might have been a good match. But that world, that life, feels as distant as the sunlit street outside, just out of reach and fading as quickly as it appeared.

The food arrives, interrupting the charged silence, and you focus on your plate, cutting into the colorful layers of ratatouille. The flavors are rich and earthy, a surprising comfort, and for a moment, you lose yourself in the meal. The flavors are unexpectedly comforting, earthy and rich, a pleasure you can savor for once, without wondering if it’s laced with some new toxin or if a hidden blade will come flying at you as you take your next bite.

‘Father’ had a way of turning even meals into exercises in survival, leaving you perpetually on guard, reminding you, every time you sat down, that you belonged to him. The absurdity of it all isn’t lost on you—the idea of “family” twisted into something you’ve learned to navigate but never fully accept.

As you eat, Nico occasionally glances up, a hint of curiosity in his gaze, and you realize he’s studying you, reading you as if you’re some puzzle he’s intent on solving. His careful attention puts you on edge, yet you find yourself playing into it, letting him look, letting him think he has the upper hand. But under the surface, you’re calculating, assessing how best to keep him close. After all, you have a job to finish, and the more he thinks he’s reading you, the more you can quietly prepare.

“So,” you say, dabbing the corners of your mouth, casually probing, “How long have you been in Paris?”

“About two weeks now,” he replies, his voice a low hum.

That aligns with the information you received, so you press a bit further. “Work?” you ask, giving him a look of mild curiosity.

“Something like that.” His gaze drifts, thoughtful, as if his mind is somewhere else, somewhere you can’t follow. “Just needed to get away from everything for a while.”

You nod thoughtfully. You understood completely. The life you both lead and the secrecy, the horrors that come with it aren’t for the weak. There are times you’ve dreamed of disappearing yourself, slipping out from under ‘Father’s’ iron grip, but fear keeps you rooted. The thought of ‘Father’ discovering an unsanctioned trip would lead to more than just fury; it would likely spark consequences you can’t afford.

You glance at Nico, taking a sip of water to mask the tension creeping into your thoughts. This job has to go as planned—flawlessly. If it doesn’t, you know you’ll be dragged back to face ‘Father’s’ wrath, and Paris, Nico, all of it, would be nothing more than a dangerous, haunting memory.

“I get it,” you say finally, a hint of wistfulness creeping into your voice. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here.”

“Not even your dad?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You shake your head. “No one knows.” A pause, then you add, “Well, except my brother. But he won’t tell.”

“You have siblings?”

“Three older ones, one younger,” you say with a small smile. “They’re annoying, but they’re mine.” It isn’t exactly a lie. There may be rivalry and threats and a constant competition for ‘Father’s’ approval, but there’s also a silent bond, a certain understanding that only comes from surviving the same relentless environment together. In some twisted way, you protect each other.

He chuckles, a soft, genuine sound. “I’ve got two older ones. A brother and a sister.”

“Yeah?” you ask, leaning forward with genuine interest, surprising even yourself. “What are they like?”

“They’re fun,” he says, his eyes softening as he talks, affectionate in the way most families are with each other. “We’re close—we talk all the time, take trips to the beach or the lake. We play sports together, laugh about stupid things. Just…normal stuff.”

You can’t help the pang that tugs at you, the unfamiliar ache of what you’ve missed. “What about your parents?”

A smile spreads across his face, warm and fond. “My mom makes the best food. Seriously. She’s always trying new things, always spoiling us.” He laughs. “And my dad, well, he’s your classic dad. Quiet, but caring. You should’ve seen him when I graduated university, got all choked up—I’ve never seen him so emotional before.” He pauses, a nostalgic look in his eyes. “They used to drive my brother and me to a whole different town just so we could play hockey—never missed a game or a school event.”

You feel yourself drawn in, pulled by the mundane beauty of what he’s describing. The picture he paints is a world away from what you’ve known, yet there’s something so alluring, so...possible about it that it stirs something in you. A strange longing, a memory of a life that could never be, echoes faintly through your mind.

“What was that like?” you ask softly, not even sure he’ll answer, but he surprises you.

“Safe,” he says, looking right at you, as though he knows you need to hear it. “It felt safe. Like no matter what happened out there, there was always a place to come back to.”

The silence between you feels heavier now, carrying words unspoken, secrets untold. But for a fleeting moment, you let yourself imagine—just for a little while—what it might feel like to have that too.

The conversation settles into a comfortable silence, both of you focused on your plates as the weight of his words lingers in the air.

“So,” he says after a while, setting down his knife with a thoughtful expression. “How long do I get to enjoy your company here in Paris?”

You meet his gaze, a slow, amused smile forming. “Well, that all depends on you, doesn’t it? How long are you here for?”

He leans back, his expression light but his eyes intent. “I’ll be around for the next couple of weeks,” he says, fingers tapping idly on the table. “Exploring, finding the hidden corners of the city.” There’s a pause, and then his smile shifts, turning almost playful. “You should come with me. Two tourists, no plans. Let’s explore together.”

“A bit eager, aren’t we?” you say, tilting your head with a raised brow.

He grins, leaning forward just a little. “What can I say? Don’t wanna lose sight of you again.”

There’s something layered in his words, a glint in his eyes that suggests he may be speaking more truth than he lets on, but you can’t quite pin down what it means. He’s either a very convincing actor or just naturally this mysterious, and you can’t decide which one makes him more dangerous.

You take the final bite of your meal, letting his invitation sink in as you weigh your options. A simple "no" would be easy. Safe. But something inside you is intrigued, drawn to the thrill of the unknown he represents—a thrill so rare for you it’s almost intoxicating.

Finally, you set down your fork and look up at him with a slight smirk. “All right,” you say, voice casual but steady. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

His face brightens, the guardedness dropping ever so slightly. “Perfect,” he says, looking genuinely pleased. “Let’s see where the city leads us.”

The city, or rather Nico, leads you through winding streets and narrow alleys, his arm still linked with yours, his steps unhurried as though he has all the time in the world. There’s an ease to his movements, his glances at you are light and almost boyish, as if you’re both just a pair of tourists enjoying a quiet afternoon. Yet, beneath it all, there’s a tension that winds between you—a silent ache that pulls tighter with every look and every laugh.

You pause by tiny cafés and quaint kiosks, sampling pastries and sipping espresso from delicate cups. At one stop, he takes your picture in front of a flowering tree, snapping a few from different angles until he gets the best shot. At another, he buys you a small trinket from a street vendor—an inexpensive little charm shaped like the Eiffel Tower. You murmur a thank you, clutching it in your hand, the warmth of the gesture somehow surprising.

Yet, in the back of your mind, you can’t shake the thought of the vial of poison and the small dagger nestled in your purse, waiting for the moment you’re supposed to make your move.

You imagine your life after he’s gone.

The assignments will continue, the wealth will accumulate. And then every so often, you’ll look on your shelves and see these small ornaments and think of your time walking the hidden streets of Montparnasse. You’ll look at your phone and see these pictures from Paris and they’ll remind you of him snapping the photos as he bent into different angles until he got the best shot. You’ll see the cheap hair clip in your dresser, tucked away in the back amidst other jewelry and accessories you have, and think of how he noticed you wanted it and got it without needing to ask.

Slowly, these mementos will gather dust, hidden in corners of your room, little souvenirs of the man who saw you. Nobody had ever seen just you.

It’s startling and strange, this feeling—this gentle awareness of being seen, of being considered. Until now, you were always someone else’s shadow, ‘Father’s’ instrument. You were trained to be invisible, an extension of his will and no more. But Nico isn’t like that. His gaze lingers, soft and genuine, as though he’s curious about what lies beneath the surface.

You shake off the thoughts and try to focus on the moment. There’s still time before you’re meant to make your move, time enough to let yourself enjoy the rest of the day. Just for now, you decide to let yourself exist in this quiet, stolen happiness.

Eventually, Nico leads you up a tower to a viewing deck where the city sprawls beneath you in an endless expanse of rooftops and streets. The Eiffel Tower rises in the distance, a towering symbol of the city, so far away yet it feels within reach, as though you could stretch your hand out and touch it. The evening light casts long shadows, painting the Paris skyline in shades of amber and rose, the kind of beauty you’d only ever seen in your dreams.

"So," Nico murmurs as you approach the edge of the deck, his voice low, almost reverent. "What do you think?"

You glance at him, taking in the slight, an almost vulnerable expression that flickers over his face as he watches you, waiting for a response. The view, the quiet intimacy of the moment, all of it makes the silence heavier. And for a split second, you allow yourself to forget who you are, who he is—to forget the guilt that’s rising inside you. Right now, you’re just Y/N, a girl seeing Paris for the first time, with someone who—if things were different—might have become a part of your life in another way.

“It’s beautiful,” you reply softly, though your words feel too simple, too small for everything swirling inside you.

He studies you, his gaze lingering with a weight that makes your heart beat just a little faster. “I figured you’d appreciate it. It seemed…fitting.”

“Fitting?” you echo, glancing sideways, a faint smile on your lips.

He shrugs, his hands slipping into his pockets as he steps closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. “For a girl who seems to belong everywhere and nowhere all at once.” He smirks, and there’s that gleam again, that sense he’s peering through the walls you’ve so carefully constructed. “You don’t stay still, do you?”

“No,” you say softly, the words falling from your lips with ease. “I travel a lot for work.” You pause, the silence thickening before you add, “The family business.”

He nods, his gaze steady, as if processing your words with more attention than you expected.

“My Father can be…strict about leaving, about staying in one place for too long,” you continue, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Says it can be dangerous. It’s his way of showing he cares.” You say it, but even to your own ears, it sounds hollow, like you’re trying to convince yourself of something you’ve never quite believed.

His expression shifts, an intensity in his eyes that almost feels like he’s seeing right through you. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if you should tell him everything. Lay it all out in the open, be honest for once in your life, and admit the truth: I’m here to kill you. It feels almost tempting, the release of that burden, especially after the small kindnesses he’s shown you. But as you look at him, something inside you twists. The idea of telling him what you really came for feels like a betrayal, one that goes deeper than the job at hand.

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his gaze with a quiet challenge. “You seem to be running too.”

The smirk fades, replaced by something solemn, almost haunted. “Maybe I am,” he admits, surprising you with the vulnerability in his tone. “But Paris feels…different. Nice.” He hesitates, glancing down at the city below before meeting your gaze. “It’s good to feel grounded, even if it's just for a little while.”

The simplicity of his words catches you off guard, and something within you softens, cracking the thin armor you keep in place. In another life, you might have wanted this—the city, the warmth of his hand, the glint in his eyes. A life where you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder or running from the darkness that’s haunted you since childhood.

“So you’ll stay, then?” you ask, the question falling from your lips before you can second-guess it.

Nico chuckles softly, but it’s a sound tinged with something sad, something fleeting. “Long enough, I hope,” he replies, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though he’s already aware that time is running out for both of you.

You look back to the skyline, your gaze lingering on the Eiffel Tower glowing faintly in the dusk. You should be thinking about logistics, about his weaknesses, about how you’ll manage to complete this mission without the complications he’s bringing out in you. But instead, your attention is elsewhere, caught in the warmth of his proximity, in the fleeting tenderness of this moment. His hand brushes against yours, just the lightest graze of fingertips, and a strange pull stirs deep inside you.

The silence between you stretches out, heavy with the weight of things neither of you dares to speak. It’s fragile, this connection, and it feels like it could shatter with a single word, a single choice. But for now, neither of you makes it. Neither of you dares to break the fragile calm.

“In another life,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, as if mulling over the thought, “I think I would have played hockey.”

You blink, momentarily caught off guard. “Hockey?” You laugh softly, amused, but the intrigue lingers.

He glances at you, his expression wistful. “Yeah. My brother and I played growing up. It’s what he’s doing now—he plays professionally.” He turns back to the view, his gaze distant, as if lost in the memory. “I think I would’ve liked that too.”

You hum, your mind wandering to your own past—those moments you never allowed yourself to think about too deeply. “I don’t know what I would’ve been,” you admit.

His gaze sharpens, sensing the quiet weight behind your words. “No?” he asks, his voice soft but probing.

You shake your head, feeling the familiar tightness in your chest. “Father always told us not to dwell on impossibilities. Said it was a waste of time. So, I don’t.”

There’s a brief silence, a gap between you, as Nico processes your words. His eyes flicker to the horizon, but his attention never strays too far from you.

“Well,” he pressed, the question gentle yet insistent, “What did you enjoy as a kid? Surely there’s something—something you loved, even for just a moment?”

You close your eyes, the memories swarming, distant and fragmented. The orphanage, the cold walls of ‘Father’s’ estate, the endless missions, the calculated steps you were taught to take. They blur together in an unbroken chain, all leading you to the person you are now. But there’s little more than blood and monotonous days.

“I don’t know, actually.” Your voice is soft, almost a whisper, as the weight of the realization settles over you. “I just…did what I was told to do.” It sounds hollow, even to you. A life spent living by someone else’s rules, devoid of anything truly yours.

“You can always start now,” he says quietly, turning to face you fully, his eyes intent and unwavering. “I mean, you came here on a whim, didn’t you? Surely, that counts for something. It was a choice, even if a small one.”

You chuckle, the sound escaping softer than you intended, and meet his gaze. “It might be too late for me,” you murmur, feeling the weight of your words settle between you. Part of you wonders if he can see past your deflection, to the fear simmering beneath it.

He shakes his head, a flicker of resolve crossing his face. “My dad used to tell me that people change as often as the wind changes directions.” His eyes meet yours, piercing yet gentle, holding a challenge you didn’t expect—or maybe a plea. “It’s never too late,” he says, his voice dropping, the sincerity clear. “Not even for you.”

You don’t get a chance to kill him that day—or the days that follow. Somehow, time keeps stretching between you, days folding into nights and back into days. You still carry your bag, its hidden arsenal of a dagger, poison, and an anesthetic always on hand if the right moment arises. But each day, that moment slips further out of reach.

In the days after that first encounter, you and Nico drift through Paris, claiming the city as if it’s yours alone. Together, you cover every iconic landmark—standing in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower as its lights sparkle above, wandering the vast halls of the Louvre, where he teases you about different statues and their poses, and insists that he point out and then mimic every half-smiling portrait you come across. He surprises you with his knowledge of art, the Renaissance, and even Latin, which he learned in school and continued through university. When you reveal you also know the language, it becomes a game, a shared secret as you converse exclusively in Latin for hours, drawing amused looks from strangers and fits of laughter between you two.

He takes you to hidden corners of the city he’s uncovered on his own—the quiet Canal St. Martin, where you dangle your feet over the edge, watching swans glide past as you sip wine together. You learn a lot about him from your day here as he regales you with stories of his childhood: mischievous pranks with his brother, run-ins with strict teachers, and wild nights from his university days. You don’t have many anecdotes to share, but you do tell him carefully curated pieces of a past filled with botany and gardening, though you omit the lessons in toxicology and the purpose behind knowing which plants to avoid—or harvest.

One afternoon, you wander through the ancient arches of the Musée de Cluny, and he spins a story of a different era, playfully declaring you both a lord and lady sneaking away from the prying eyes of nobility, relishing the thrill of being together in secret. For a fleeting moment, you feel swept away by the fantasy, nearly forgetting the truth as you and him find solace in making playful and risqué conversation in hidden corners of the museum, your faces getting dangerously close to one another’s.

He brings you to unassuming cafés, bustling markets, and winding streets that all seem to have stories of their own—each location now carrying traces of you and Nico, building memories you never planned to make. You rate the coffee and croissants with mock seriousness, shop for souvenirs and trinkets neither of you need, and get hopelessly lost trying to find your next destination, only to laugh when you end up exactly where you started.

And every day, the armaments in your bag grow heavier as you begin to wonder when, or even if, you’ll ever use them.

You find yourself unwinding in his presence, relaxing into the rhythm of the city beside him where even the smallest, most ordinary parts of Paris feel enchanted. His hand often brushes against yours as you walk, or he catches your gaze and holds it a beat too long, a subtle invitation hidden within each glance and touch.

Today, he brings you to the Wall of Love in Montmartre, where countless couples gather, drawn by the allure of seeing “I love you” written in over 250 languages. The blue tiles shimmer with red letters scattered across the wall, each phrase a declaration whispered across the world and etched here—a universal symbol of love and longing.

He pauses in front of the wall, his gaze soft as he reads a few of the phrases. As they often do these days, his fingers brush against yours, light and unhurried, as if savoring the contact. When he speaks, his voice is low, reverent, as though the moment demands a quiet respect.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, tracing one of the lines with his eyes. “So many ways to say the same thing. Even if people don’t understand each other, they understand…this.” He gestures to the wall, his hand grazing yours in a way that sends a shiver up your spine.

You look up, taking in the mosaic of languages and emotions woven together on the wall, words you may never fully understand yet somehow feel, even here, in the silence between you. You wonder if he’s trying to tell you something with his own actions, if he’s hinting at something deeper beneath his words. The moment feels suspended in time—a fragment of connection forever binding you to this place and each other.

For that brief, fragile moment, you’re just two people in Paris, a part of the world where love and connection persist against all odds. The weight of the dagger and vials in your bag fades, his presence anchoring you to the present. It’s enough—almost too much.

Yet, even as your heart flutters, there’s a part of you wound tight, like a coil ready to spring. You tell yourself it’s because you need to stay focused, that letting your guard down even slightly could cost you everything. But every time he meets your gaze, the edges of your resolve blur, replaced by something nameless and terrifyingly real.

“Have you ever felt that?” he asks, his tone almost tentative, as though he’s not used to letting anyone in. “A feeling you don’t even have to translate. It just…is.”

His question catches you off guard, slicing through whatever shield you’re still trying to keep intact. You look at him, unsure of what to say, and then, with a carefully neutral smile, you reply, “I wouldn’t know.”

He looks at you for a long moment, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. “Maybe it’s not too late to find out,” he says softly, as though he’s suggesting something that has the power to change everything.

And for a moment, you wonder what could happen if you could let yourself feel, let yourself know what it means to be more than just a weapon. What would your life look like then?

The question lingers between you, silent and electric, and you feel it—your heart beating too fast, filled with a hope that you’d be able to stay in this moment just a little longer.

That night, he takes you to dinner at the hotel restaurant where you’re seated at a cozy, dimly lit corner. It’s the kind of place where the music is soft and the waitstaff almost invisible, giving you the sense that this moment belongs entirely to the two of you. You share a perfectly seared steak and a rich pasta dish, complemented by a bottle of red wine that he insists on pouring for you since there is apparently a ‘proper’ way to pour wine. The food is delicious, but the real highlight is the conversation—sharp, teasing banter that’s layered with the kind of teasing that’s come to define your time together.

“Superpowers are supposed to come with weaknesses,” he huffs, swirling his wine as he gives you a mock-serious look. “Yours, though? Too overpowered.”

You smirk, slicing off a piece of steak and savoring it slowly before answering. “Time control isn't as powerful as everyone makes it out to be,” you counter with a casual shrug. “I mean, have you seen the people who have these powers? Most of them are absolute idiots.”

“See, that’s exactly what I’m saying. You’re smart. Tactical. Absolutely stunning.” He leans in, his voice dropping just enough to make your heart skip. “You’re dangerous.”

His gaze holds you captive, his eyes twinkling with that strange mix of admiration and mystery that you’ve come to recognize. There’s a glimmer of something in his expression, something that suggests he sees you more clearly than you’d like—an unsettling thought, yet one you can’t seem to shake. You smile, hoping it masks the way his words make you feel, the faint warmth that they stir against your better judgment.

“If you only knew,” you reply lightly, reaching for your glass to steady yourself.

Before he can answer, his phone buzzes on the table, its screen lighting up with a notification. He glances down, and his expression shifts—serious, as though the world outside your bubble has come crashing in. He looks back at you, and there’s an almost apologetic look in his eyes.

“Work,” he says simply, pushing his chair back as he stands. “Give me a few minutes?”

You nod, watching as he steps away from the table, disappearing through a side door to take the call. As soon as he’s out of sight, the warmth and playfulness of the evening evaporates, leaving you in silence, alone with the untouched glasses and the low hum of the restaurant around you.

You glance down at his glass, still half-full, a perfect vessel for the vial of poison you carry in your bag. It’s as if the universe itself has laid this moment out for you, a seamless opportunity wrapped in the elegance of the night. The decision lies before you, chilling and familiar, and you reach into your bag, fingers brushing the cool glass of the vial.

Your heart races, your pulse pounding against the quiet that’s settled around you, and you feel the weight of the past few days hanging in the air. You tell yourself this is just another assignment, that you’re here to do a job—but you can’t shake the look in his eyes from moments before, the way he seemed to see you as something more than just a stranger passing through his life.

The guilt seeps deeper, harder to shake than ever. And it’s not just guilt now; it’s something more—a gnawing certainty that you’ll regret this moment forever if you follow through. You’ll live with the memory of Paris, with his laughter and the streets you wandered together, haunted by the lingering, unanswerable what-if.

But you also know what needs to be done, and you steel yourself, feeling the familiar resolve settle in, as cold and unyielding as the vial in your hand.

As you twist open the vial, preparing to pour the poison into his glass, your resolve falters. The weight in your hand suddenly feels unbearable. And then, almost involuntarily, you snap the vial shut and tuck it back into your purse, just as swiftly as you’d pulled it out.

Not tonight. You still have a little more time. There’s no need to ruin this evening; you’ll let yourself have this, one final night untouched by duty.

When he returns to the table, his expression is tinged with disappointment, and he slips back into his chair with a sigh. “Looks like we’ll have to cancel our trip to the gardens tomorrow morning,” he says, a faint apology in his voice. “There’s something I need to take care of.”

You nod, feeling an odd relief flood through you. “It must be important,” you say, the words coming out with a quiet, unexpected understanding.

He watches you for a moment, something warm in his gaze. “Yeah. But meet me in the lobby at 10 p.m.” He leans forward, that familiar spark lighting up his eyes. “I’ve got something I want to show you.”

You smile, feeling the tension begin to loosen. “It’s a date, then.”

And in that moment, it feels like it really could be.

After dinner, with the warmth of the wine still buzzing in your veins, he offers you his arm for the short walk to the elevator. You’re both a little giddy, leaning into each other as you talk about small things—favorite flowers, favorite colors. Mundane details that you usually wouldn’t think twice about sharing, but now they feel oddly significant, like small secrets passed between you in the quiet of the evening.

Neither of you realize you’ve stepped off on the wrong floor—his floor—until you’re standing at the door to his room. You pause, staring at the unfamiliar numbers on the door, a surge of nerves rising in your chest. You could laugh it off, step back and blame it on the wine, let the moment slip away. But instead, you find yourself rooted in place, unwilling to pull back, unable to let go of him just yet.

When you look up, you find him already watching you, his gaze heavy, something unnamed flickering behind his eyes. The silence thickens, and the air between you crackles with a tension neither of you are willing to break. You’re close enough to see the way his eyes linger on you, as if he’s caught in a moment he doesn’t want to end.

Then, as if in silent agreement, he turns to face you fully, leaning down. And you, almost instinctively, rise onto your toes to meet him halfway. The kiss is tentative at first, soft and searching, but it quickly deepens, growing heated as his hands slide to your hips, pulling you against him. Your arms wind around his neck, and he holds you closer, the kiss turning into something heady and electric, filling you with a rush that’s terrifying in its familiarity.

It’s as if you’ve been here before, in another life where things were simpler, where there were no secrets and no deadly consequences. And in that moment, you can’t help but let yourself sink into it, feeling everything you’ve ever felt in the safety of his embrace.

By the time you finally break apart, your back is pressed against the wall beside his door, his hands framing your face as he stays close, his breath warm against your skin. You’re both breathing heavily, the quiet hum of the hallway the only sound around you, as if the world itself has faded to give you this stolen moment. His eyes flicker over your face, studying every detail as if trying to memorize it, and you feel an ache settle in your chest at how vulnerable he seems in this dim light.

He leans in again, his lips ghosting over yours, hesitant, as if he’s asking for permission that neither of you should be giving. His hands shift, sliding to the small of your back, pulling you against him once more, and you’re keenly aware of every point of contact, of the warmth radiating between you that seems to make time stand still. It’s almost too much, and yet, it’s not enough at all.

You close your eyes, your resolve blurring like mist, as he presses a trail of soft, lingering kisses along your jaw, down to your neck, each one more deliberate than the last. A shiver runs through you, and you clutch his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to this fleeting reality.

“Nico,” you whisper, barely audible, as if saying his name out loud might break whatever spell you’re under. He pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his own eyes darkened with something unspoken, something that feels just as dangerous as the feelings swirling within you.

Without another word, he turns and, still holding you close, reaches for the keycard. The door clicks open, and in a quiet invitation, he leads you inside, his hand never leaving yours. Inside, the room is dimly lit by the streetlights filtering through the curtains, casting a soft glow over everything, lending it a dreamlike quality. You step in, and he closes the door softly behind you, a final barrier between you and the outside world.

For a brief moment, you stand in the center of the room, facing each other, as if testing the reality of this moment. His hand remains on yours, his thumb tracing slow circles over your skin, and you feel the weight of all the words you haven’t said, all the truths you’ve hidden. But right now, they feel so far away, overshadowed by the nearness of him, by the quiet intensity that draws you closer still.

You’re both silent, the tension between you simmering just below the surface, until he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek. It’s a simple gesture, but it sends a rush through you, and before you can overthink it, you find yourself leaning forward, closing the space between you once more.

The kiss quickly spirals into a whirlwind of sensations, a chaotic blend of tongues and breathy moans that echo softly in the dim light enveloping the room. His hands, warm and confident, glide down your waist, finding their way to your ass, fingers curling around it with a firm squeeze that sends a shiver coursing through you. As his lips trail from your mouth to the curve of your neck, the intoxicating way he devours you leaves you gasping for more.

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, drawing him closer as if the distance between your bodies could somehow separate the energy pulsing between you. In one swift motion, he throws you onto the bed, the soft mattress cradling you as it folds under your weight.

For a brief moment, he breaks the kiss, his deep-set gaze searching yours with a mix of urgency and desire. As he peels off his shirt, the dim light casts a glow over his chest, revealing scars—stories etched into his skin—that tell tales of battles fought and survived. You reach out, letting your fingers wander over the uneven terrain of his torso, tracing the outlines of those marks as though they hold a significance only you can understand.

He captures your hand in his, planting a soft, lingering kiss on the inside of your wrist, the touch conveying a tenderness that starkly contrasts the fervor of the moment. It’s a gentle reminder of the man you’ve come to know, the complexities beneath the surface that lie just beyond the heat of desire.

As he positions himself above you, his arms forming a protective barrier on either side, the intimacy of the moment grows palpable. Every part of you ignites under his watchful gaze.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathes, his voice low and barely above a whisper.

Your heart races as you reach up, cupping his face with your palm, and you draw him down for a tender kiss, soft yet electric, filled with unspoken promises. “I want you,” you murmur against his lips, surrendering to the impulses that have plagued you since you’d reunited.

A spark ignites in his eyes, darkening with desire that mirrors your own. In that moment, the world outside fades away, and there’s only the two of you, lost in a dance of want and need and maybe something more, something unspoken.

Tomorrow you’d blame all this on the wine and the Paris atmosphere, but tonight? Tonight, he’s all yours.

By the time you wake, the room is drenched in the light of a quiet morning, and he’s already gone. You’d expected it, but the emptiness of the vast hotel room lingers, a reminder of the intimacy that filled it just hours ago. Your body aches, the dull soreness a vivid reminder that what happened last night was no dream. You run your fingers over the faint marks he left on your skin, each one like a silent promise, a testament to your night together that bled into the early hours of the morning.

You turn and find a neatly folded bathrobe on the chair beside the bed, a bowl of fruit, a pitcher of water, and a note. You unfold it, catching your breath as you read:

Thank you for last night. You were amazing, the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

A quiet laugh escapes you, and you shake your head. Of course, he’d thank you for something you both wanted, as if last night had been some favor you’d done for him. Your eyes skim the note, the faintest warmth creeping up your cheeks as you read the next line.

Stay as long as you want. Just remember to meet me at the lobby at 10 p.m. I have a surprise for you.

His signature trails off at the end, barely legible, a scrawl that feels both intimate and endearing. You find yourself tracing the curves and edges of his handwriting, as if somehow it can hold you here, hold you to him, even as reality waits for you on the other side of this door. You clutch the note to your chest, swallowing hard against the feeling building inside—a quiet, sinking ache that whispers of the inevitable.

For just a moment, you let yourself fall into the delusion that this could somehow become part of your life beyond this moment, this city, this tangled web of secrets you’re both keeping. But deep down, you know better. Whatever this was, however fleeting or real, it was doomed from the start.

The softness of his touch, the laughter that lingered through the night—all of it will eventually be filed away as just another memory, another ghost from another life.

You close your eyes, clutching the note just a little tighter, feeling the weight of all that’s left unsaid between you. He’d left marks on you, physical and otherwise, reminders that would remain long after you’d finally carried out your mission. You were meant to be unbreakable, and yet here you were, on the edge of something that threatened to pull you under completely.

And as the morning sunlight filters through the curtains, it hits you fully—you are utterly, royally, and completely fucked.

At 10 p.m. on the dot, you’re waiting in the lobby, the anticipation almost unbearable.

And then you see him, standing by the entrance, his silhouette softened by the warm glow of the lights. When he sees you, his face lights up, his smile tender as he steps closer, reaching out a hand to caress your cheek. His thumb brushes against your skin, and for a moment, the world narrows to the warmth of his touch.

"Hi," he murmurs, his gaze steady, warm. “How was your day?”

The gentleness in his voice and the easy way he looks at you tells you everything he can’t say outright—that he doesn’t regret a thing. There’s still a tension between you, but it’s softer now, more grounded, something that feels like it’s become part of the air you share.

“It was good,” you reply, lifting your hand to cover his, savoring the warmth that seeps from his skin to yours. “Thank you for the fruit.”

"Just wanted to make sure you were taken care of,” he laughs softly, the sound warm and familiar, “Come. I wanna show you something nice." His fingers slip between yours, his grip firm but unhurried as he pulls you towards the door.

You give him a playful smirk as you follow, feigning skepticism. “Something nicer than what we’ve seen already? You’re setting the bar awfully high.”

He chuckles, glancing over his shoulder with a glint in his eye. “It’s my favorite spot around here,” he says, a note of something deeper lingering in his tone. "I wanted you to see it, too."

The streets of Paris are quieter at this hour, the hum of the city softened as the evening deepens. Hand in hand, you walk through winding alleys and past dimly lit cafés, his fingers laced with yours grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. The conversation is light, snippets of dreams and half-whispered thoughts, but you both feel the weight of the silence between words, the unspoken sense that this night means more than either of you dare to admit.

Eventually, he leads you to an inconspicuous building, old stone framed by wrought-iron accents, the kind of place you’d pass by without a second thought. He releases your hand for a moment to unlock a side door, glancing back at you with a mischievous grin.

“Are you bringing me somewhere I won’t be able to find my way out of?” you tease, the words playful but carrying the faintest edge, as if part of you is still wary, still on guard.

But he just laughs, a low, reassuring sound as he steps inside, gesturing for you to follow. “You’ll have to trust me on this one.”

He guides you up a narrow, winding staircase, the only sounds your footsteps echoing off the stone walls. With each floor, you feel a faint thrill building, your pulse quickening as the city outside draws farther and farther away, until finally, he opens a door and you step out onto the rooftop.

The view is breathtaking.

Paris stretches out before you, the city unfolding in all directions, a sea of lights glistening under the deep indigo sky. The Eiffel Tower shimmers in the distance, its glow a warm, steady pulse against the night. The Seine snakes through the city, its surface reflecting the light like a thread of silver weaving through shadows.

He comes up beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, and the silence that falls between you is comfortable, heavy with something unspoken. He doesn’t say anything, letting the view speak for itself, and you find yourself grateful for the quiet, for this moment that feels somehow suspended from everything else, a stolen piece of time that exists only for the two of you.

You glance at him, catching the way he’s watching the skyline with a reverence that tells you this city means something deeper to him, something that goes beyond words. When he finally turns to look at you, there’s an intensity in his gaze, a softness that makes you forget, for a split second, all the reasons you’re here.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, as if the quiet could somehow protect this fragile peace, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever spell holds you both here.

He nods, his gaze drifting out over the city before shifting back to you, his eyes unreadable. “It is,” he murmurs. Then he pauses, his gaze softening but sharpening all at once, layers of unspoken thought flickering there. “Some things are more beautiful when you see them for what they truly are.”

His words settle between you like a dare cloaked in careful phrasing, wrapped in a fragile honesty that you aren’t sure you’re ready to unfold.

You don’t answer him. A part of you is afraid of what he’s implying—what he’s already begun to see. So instead, you simply stand next to him, your shoulders brushing, as you take in the Paris skyline. The world below is a vast glittering sea of lights and lives, yet everything you care about in this moment is standing right beside you.

The silence between you feels heavier now. The night air is cool, a breeze brushing past, yet the weight of his words clings to you, pressing in. This moment feels more fragile than anything else so far, as if it could fracture at the slightest touch. The weight of the armaments resting in your purse suddenly feels unbearably heavy, its presence inescapable.

“So,” he says finally, breaking the silence, his voice lower, rougher, edged with a tension that matches your own. He turns to you fully, his eyes piercing in a way that’s almost challenging yet laced with something like hurt. “When are you gonna kill me?”

You freeze, his words cutting through the delicate peace, a shocking confirmation that he’s known, maybe all along. You snap your head toward him, eyes wide with disbelief, the weight of what you carry crashing over you.

His gaze is unrelenting, holding you to the spot, as if daring you to answer.

“You knew,” you say quietly, as if speaking louder might unravel you entirely.

"I've known since Germany," he admits. His gaze sharpens, but his voice is calm, almost careful. “You’re not going to deny it?”

You swallow, the weight of being caught pressing down on you, but nothing can dull the ache settling over your heart—the pain of knowing that somehow, you’ve brought him to this. Your hand drifts toward your purse, fingers grazing the cold metal of the dagger. You started this dance, and now you’re bound to finish it.

The familiar sound of the blade flicking open doesn’t startle him; he remains perfectly still, his expression calm, almost resigned, but there’s a flash of hurt beneath his steady gaze. He looks at you as if bracing himself for what you’ll do next, yet refusing to flinch, like he’s known this would come and decided to face it head-on.

“You should start moving,” you murmur, your voice barely steady as you raise the blade, the tip just inches from his chest. “I could kill you where you stand.”

His lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile, a mix of defiance and sorrow as he takes a step forward, so close now he could almost lean into the blade. “You could,” he says, voice steady. His hand reaches out, wrapping around your wrist, pulling it—and the blade—down to your side with a gentle but unyielding strength. “But I don’t think you will.”

Your grip on the dagger tightens, but his words unravel something in you. He studies you intently, his face inches from yours, his voice low. “You could have killed me at any time—probably should have. I gave you every opportunity to finish this. So why am I still breathing?”

The question slices through the silence between you, barbed with challenge but tinged with something else, something that sounds heartbreakingly like hope.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, unable to meet his eyes as the blade dangles uselessly from your grip. It’s close to the truth, but you know he’s not satisfied with it.

He steps closer, his hand still firm on your wrist. “I think you do, Y/N.” His voice softens when he says your name, like it’s something precious, something he’s been holding close all this time.

“I don’t,” you say, shaking your head, even as the words feel hollow. “I don’t.”

“You do. I know you do.” He leans in, lifting his other hand to cup your face, tilting it so you’re forced to look at him, his touch gentle against the raw tension hanging between you. “Tell me I wasn’t wrong about this. Please.” His eyes search yours, pleading, as if he’s hoping that whatever truth you have left to give will be enough to make sense of this chaos.

The weight of it all—the tension, the longing, the fear—crashes over you like a wave you can’t fight. The dagger slips from your hand, clattering uselessly to the ground as you sink to your knees, your shoulders trembling. “You aren’t wrong,” you murmur, unable to look up at him, unable to face the full force of what you’ve confessed.

Silence settles as he watches you, his expression softening, and for the first time in as long as you can remember, you feel utterly exposed, stripped bare beneath the weight of his gaze. And, impossibly, he kneels down beside you, his hand brushing yours, wordlessly reassuring you that he’s still here.

“Then come with me,” he says quietly, his voice barely a whisper, as if afraid to break the fragile trust that’s woven between you, “Run away with me and we can leave this all behind.”

You don’t miss the desperation in his voice, the way he’s so set on leaving the underworld, as if he already knows exactly how he’ll escape it.

Then it hits you like a wave crashing to the shore—he was always going to leave. One way or another, Paris was going to be his last stand, his final act before he vanished. For good.

“You were never going to stay, were you?” The words leave your mouth in a rush, sharp with the sting of your realization. Tears well up in your eyes as you lift them to meet his.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “These past few months have been my last mission for the government.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, cylindrical remote with a red button on top. “I infiltrated the warehouses from your father’s organization, taking what the government wanted me to and leaving behind…a present.” His gaze locks onto yours, filled with an intensity that cuts through the night. “Paris was my last stop.”

Your heart drops as the weight of his words sinks in. He’s going to destroy them all. Every warehouse from Prague to Italy to Paris, every asset, every last piece of ‘Father’s’ empire—all of it was going to blow to pieces at the push of a button. The very thing you’ve spent your entire life in service of, your family's empire, your future—all of it gone in the blink of an eye.

You should have been furious. Should have attacked him in that moment, fury and vengeance bubbling up inside you. Instead, something else surfaces. A soft laugh escapes you, one that’s equal parts incredulous and impressed. You smile at him, a genuine expression that seems to surprise even yourself.

“You outplayed me. All of us.”

He doesn’t respond at first, just looks at you with a mixture of regret and admiration. The tension between you has shifted. He knows what he’s done, what he’s about to do, and yet—there’s something about the way he leans into your touch when you reach for his face that makes you hesitate.

For a split second, you wonder if there’s still a chance for both of you. Or if everything you thought you knew was simply another game, one you didn’t even know you were losing.

“Ask me a question,” you say finally, your voice low and steady as your hand moves to gently tangle in his soft hair. “Anything. And I’ll answer it.”

He looks at you, a mix of amusement and confusion flickering across his face, before he nods, settling into the moment. “Is Y/N your real name?”

The question isn’t what you expected, but it’s also exactly what you needed. You smile, a tear slipping down your cheek that you quickly wipe away, a quiet laugh escaping your lips. He could have asked about anything—your work, sensitive details of ‘Father’s’ organization that only you were privy to, any of the secrets you’ve carried for years. Instead, he wanted to know about you.

It’s then that you realize the depth of what you’re willing to do for him. You make a choice. One that saves him. Even at the cost of yourself.

“It’s what they called me at the orphanage,” you tell him, your voice softening. You take his hand in yours, grounding yourself in the warmth of his touch. “The one I stayed in before father took me in. It’s who I was before I became father’s Shadow.”

He furrows his brows, looking at you with a quiet curiosity. “That’s what they call you, right? Shadow?”

You smile, the corners of your mouth lifting faintly. “I’m not as strong as Punch or as quick as Lightning,” you explain, your fingers tracing patterns on the back of his hand. “But I’m sneaky. Agile. Unassuming to most people. No one ever sees me coming until the last second.” You inhale deeply, the weight of your next words pressing heavily on your chest. “But they call me Shadow because I was the most obedient. I did everything he asked of me, never questioned him, even when I knew something wasn’t right. I followed father everywhere. I was…his shadow.”

A look of concern crosses his face, the sadness in your voice not lost on him. He leans in, his hand tightening around yours, and there’s a softness in his eyes that makes the sting of your past feel like it might just be bearable. But the moment is fleeting. You know what’s coming next.

“Thank you for believing I can change,” you whisper, your heart heavy with the unspoken truth. Even when you thought there was no way out, when you saw no escape, he believed in you. He wanted to believe in you, wanted to have you leave this all behind with him. And that belief stirs something deep inside you.

You pull away from him gently, reaching into your purse. The soft rustle of fabric sounds loud in the silence of the room as you retrieve the remaining arsenals—a vial of poison and a syringe of anesthetic.

You take both of his hands in yours, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. The taste of regret and longing lingers on your lips.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you say quietly, your voice breaking ever so slightly. A second kiss follows, this time slower, lingering just a moment too long. “Let me take care of you now.”

His eyes soften, his trust in you so complete that he doesn’t notice the quick movement of your hand as you grab the syringe with the anesthetic. You press it into his arm with practiced precision, the needle sinking into his skin. His gaze remains on you for a moment longer, confusion flickering across his features as the drug takes hold.

He loses his grip on the remote, it falling from his hand as he slumps back, the weight of the anesthetic bringing him near unconsciousness. You don’t hesitate. You pick up the remote and sit beside him, watching as he fights the sleep that crawls steadily toward him, his breath shallow and labored.

“Y/N,” he chokes out, his voice thick with the confusion and panic of fading consciousness. “What are you doing?”

“It’s okay,” you smile, though the fear in your eyes is undeniable, “I’ll take care of myself. So, you go out and live on. Be happy, okay? For me?”

“Don’t do this,” he slurs, his words starting to lose coherence. “We can leave together.”

You shake your head, tears welling up again, blurring your vision as they escape down your cheeks. “It’s too late for me.” You gently caress his face, fingers lingering on his skin, tracing every curve of his jaw and the line of his cheek. You commit the image of him to memory, knowing it will be the last time you ever see him like this. It was a shame this wasn’t the last thing you were going to see when this was all over, but at least you could remember it.

A small sob escapes you, but you continue, your voice barely a whisper. “Just so you know, I think I could have loved you more…liked you even more than I do now.” His hand reaches out to grab your wrist, trying to stop you, but you shake it off. The tenderness in his eyes breaks something inside you, but you don’t let it stop you. “I think…we could have had a very happy life together.”

“Y/N, don’t!” His voice is filled with desperation, but it’s too late. He tries to reach for the remote, but the drug has already taken hold of him, and he doesn’t have the strength to stop you. You stand quickly, turning your back to him as he weakly tries to move toward you.

Before he can reach you, you press the button. The room is filled with a sudden, deafening silence that only amplifies the heaviness in your chest. The sound of an explosion rips through the night air, just a ways off in the distance, a harsh reminder of the irreversible decision you’ve just made.

His eyes widen in realization. He’s awake long enough to understand what’s happened, the realization of your fate when you return back to ‘Father’ settling over him like a weight he can’t escape. His gaze flickers, searching your face as the truth sinks in.

Then, his eyelids flutter, the anesthetic pulling him under as the last traces of consciousness fade from his eyes. His body goes limp, his hand falling from his chest, and the last sound you hear from him is a quiet exhale before his eyes close.

You don’t know how exactly how long you sit there, staring at him, the weight of everything you’ve done crashing over you. But there’s no going back. You’ve made your choice.

You chose him.

READ PART TWO HERE

#nico hischier #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier fic #nico hischier au #nh13 #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl fic #nhl #nhl x reader #new jersey devils #✩ allie's writing ✩

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warping-realities · 3 months ago

Text

Gracefall Operation - Prologue

Finding Joy in The Job

Alan had witnessed this scene before, always with a sense of helplessness. A suited man, distractedly talking on his cellphone, would inadvertently take a wrong turn and end up in a shady alley of the big metropolis, only to find himself surrounded by the scum of societ. Alan always hated going through this situation. He tried to get attention, shout, take any action that would not reveal to the world the secret he was hiding. However, his attempts always seemed insufficient, leaving him with a sense of helplessness.

But not this time. As he watched the middle-aged man being harassed by the thugs he would finally be able to act more assertively. The new hero chose a strategic point in a shadowy area of the dark street. Gathering courage he prepared to attack checking once more if the balaclava correctly covered his face. If someone from the outside saw the skinny boy in tactical gear approaching that group they would have thought the boy was out of his mind. And that person couldn't have been more wrong, because the only thing Alan needed was a touch, and everything would be over. The crucial point was that they didn't notice his presence until it was too late. Hence the ninja-like outfit.

Alan gave the thugs no chance to react before he struck them. Just one touch and one of them was knocked out unconscious on the ground. The second was thrown far away, crashing against a wall, falling to the ground, moaning and reluctant to get up. The last one threw a punch at the boy, who was hit hard on the face and staggered, but not before touching the bare arm of the goliath, the thug fell to the ground, with all four limbs broken. Alan, still dazed, quickly repositioned himself, fighting against the pain while dragging the executive with him to a safe place. Running he wondered why he decided to do it. He had possibly saved a life, right? So, why the feeling that it wouldn't make the slightest difference, except for the fact that he would have to explain a black eye the next day? The executive jogged with some effort beside him, probably knowing it was better for him to have a superhero giving him cover. After running a few blocks to a quieter part of the city, he felt the tension in his body dissipate, letting out a sigh, while the man looked directly at his bloody nose.

“Th-thank you...”

Said the man breathlessly. They were on the side of a clothing store in empty street. The hero was feeling his nose while the man bent over, breathing deeply. “I really don't know how to thank you, you saved my... what happened, did they hurt you?” He asked with a high-pitched voice, and eyes shining with interest as they measured Alan as if he were the most fantastic thing the man had seen in his life.

“No… It's just that it wasn't how I imagined it would be.”

“No? You just saved me. You must be proud.”

“I am, don't get me wrong, it's just that I expected more...”

The man frowned.

“You can't continue this work if you don't get satisfaction from it.”

“I'm sure many heroes don't worry about this, I shouldn't be worried about this, I… I’ll do what's necessary and deal with it. I'm sorry, you don't need to hear my complaints.”

“Don't apologize, you're right in one point, a hero needs to do what's necessary, but also doesn't need to live in martyrdom. You need to plan better so you can relax later and enjoy what you decided to do, even have fun. Tell me, what kind of martial training have you had, what protections does this uniform provide, and... well, if it's not asking too much, how exactly does your power work?”

“Well, that's asking too much, just say that one touch from me is enough to end any fight. And as for training? Well… I haven't had any, and the outfit is just something I bought at a military surplus store.”

“Oh, boy, you really didn't think before getting into this? Sorry, but we're talking about something very delicate, not just your life but also others'. Let me help you.” The man reached for a card in the pocket of his suit and handed it to Alan. “Listen. The life you chose is much more complex than picking a uniform and going around hitting others, it takes a lot of planning. But it doesn't mean you have to do it. I know some people who can help you. You overthink and hold yourself back, not reaching your full potential. You come here and she will do this for you, you'll feel that everything is right and maybe enjoy yourself a bit. If you'll excuse me, my wife is waiting for me.”

Watching the man walk away, Alan looked at the card in his hand and read the name on it, Serena Reid.

The incident still dominated his consciousness when he returned to classes the next day, to the point where he couldn't even remember the content discussed in class. He kept telling himself that he didn't need anyone's help... he was just starting, after all. Although he had to admit that the man was right about his lack of planning. He thought it would just be a matter of putting on a uniform and going to fight, that everything would work. He had the ability to copy and store moments lived by a person from a touch to later pass them on if he wanted. However, he had not considered that others could hit him to, as his black eye demonstrated. He really needed to plan and train better. But he would do it alone, improve, and get to the point where he finally feel fulfilled.

But then why did he end up calling and scheduling an appointment with the mysterious woman? The man seemed very sure in his statements about why Alan felt that sense of emptyness. And, well, it would just be a consultation, nothing too much, right?

In doubt if they would really let him enter a building in broad daylight with his face covered, Alan arrived in a modern office building, Serena's office was on the tenth floor. Entering he was greeted by shiny porcelain floors, expensive art and a very well-lit hall. If they hadn't informed him that the consultation would be free, he would have turned around at that exact moment.

Too late, standing next to the receptionist was the man he had saved. "I'm glad you accepted the offer. You won't regret it. My name is Larry, by the way."

Alan followed him to the elevator, making small talk about the work there. Apparently, all the offices in that building belonged to a large corporation, which didn't prevent them from doing some pro-bono work occasionally, like help Alan. He wouldn't be the first or the last hero full of uncertainties to enter that building.

“Although certainly, everyone left there extremely satisfied, of course," said the man, pompously. In the excitement of the other night, Alan hadn't noticed that trait, but it made sense, after all what kind of executive would the man be if he didn't display some confidence?

---

As they walked through the office complex something caught Alan's attention. There were many guys there who seemed out of place. Broad and muscular, could they be other heroes in disguise? No, they didn't have that spark of goodness; these were brutish men with the air of danger that mercenaries should present. They were by no means the type of people he expected to see in that place.

"Ah, yes, our field team. Later you will have the opportunity know them better. We've arrived!" Larry opened a large door, gesturing for him to enter revealing an opulent office, where sitting at an elegant desk was a beautiful asian woman in her thirties, who smiled at the young man.

"Please, have a seat, Mister...?"

"I, well, I haven't chosen a hero name yet."

"A bad start, dear, if I may offer a small critique. Please, have a seat. And Larry, if you could kindly wait a moment before leaving."

Alan sat in the armchair in front of the woman as requested. With each step he took, he was overwhelmed by the exasperating feeling of entering some monster's lair, although Serena's beautiful face revealed no danger.

"Comfortable, Alan?" she asked, her smile widening.

"How... how...?"

"What kind of company do you think we would be if we didn't have enough resources to discover the identity of new potential assets, my dear? Let me introduce ourselves , I’m Serena Reid CEO of the Meng Po Company, while Larry here, whom you so bravely saved, is the head of our acquisitions department. Now, with introductions made, I would like you to explain to us how your abilities work. That way, we can have an understanding of what you can do and the best way to help you reach your full potential."

Alan had not explained the entirety of his abilities to anyone else. Having had them for only a few months, even he did not know their full extent and was not comfortable sharing that information; That situation was making him uneasy.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Reid, but I don't feel comfortable..."

"No need for Mrs. Reid, dear, we are all friends here, aren't we? And why don't you relax a bit?." She said with a melodious voice, and Alan felt all the tension melt away. "You sought us out asking for help, so let us help you, and for that, we need to know how your abilities work."

Yes, he wanted help, so he needed to let these people help him...

"I collect and store memories of any kind. Later can relive them in other people, exactly as it happened with the one who lived it the first time, and for that, I just need a touch."

"Fascinating, so you can turn something intangible into action. Reminds me a lot of the powers of an old hero, have you heard of the Deceiver?"

"Deceiver was an illusionist, ma'am, what I do is real."

"Oh, my dear, I know. But believe me, his illusions can seem very real to those who fall into his web."

"You speak as if he were alive, but he passed away years ago, killed in action."

"Boy, the keyword here is Deceiver, and if he's dead, how can he be standing right behind you?"

"What?" he asked, startled, turning to see the man behind him, but that was... "But it's just Larry."

"And just Larry is exactly what he wanted you to see, look again." Alan look back, only to find a man completely different from the one who was there before. While the other was thin and emaciated, this one was strong and robust, taller than Alan by several inches. Black skin but with an ethnic mix that Alan couldn't quite define, but there was certainly something Asian in him.

"I'm sorry for deceiving you, Alan, but I needed to test you. What we do here is very important. As a way of apologizing, let me introduce myself: I am Anan Tsé, formerly known as the Deceiver. My identity and the fact that I am alive are something few know and I hope it stays that way. Telling you these things is a vote of confidence."

Alan was speechless. Deceiver was a great hero, but it didn't seem right; however, before he could speak, Serena spoke again with that melodious voice.

"Relax, Alan, you can trust us. You trust us, otherwise why would you be here?"

Yes, he trusted them, he was here, wasn't he?

"Yeahhh, of course..."

"Great, then it's time to speak openly. We weren't completely honest with you, we've been watching you for a few weeks and we already had a good idea of what your power would be. There are certain types of incidents that are unique, almost impossible to happen twice, let alone three or four times. So when you do exactly that, it became clear that you could reproduce the same incident multiple times. That's why Anan needed to test you personally. He met a man a long time ago who was capable of something similar, but the most interesting thing wasn't that, was it, Anan?".

"Exactly, of course I could be wrong, but it was worth the risk. And jackpot, your powers are exactly as my old friend's. You don't realize it because you haven't trained it properly but your power is more than you realize. Even more so when combined with mine. My illusions affect the world in an immaterial way; the damage I produce happens inside people's minds... unless... how's that nose, kid?"

"Broken, but getting better, not thanks to you." Alan replied, indignation winning over the molasses in his head.

"But if what I do are just illusions, how could your nose be broken?" Anan asked with a mocking smile.

"I... I don't know."

"Let me clarify then. You think you only work with copied memories, but in reality, your powers go beyond that. You alter reality on a very small scale. So, when you were hit by that punch from my illusion, your body unconsciously responded the way it should have if it had been hit for real."

"What? That's..."

"Impossible? Your nose clearly says otherwise, dear." Interjected Serena. "In any case, this gave us a very interesting idea. Anan here suffered an incident some time ago; we both suffered, in reality. On the day of his supposed death, we were together..."

"Together? But Deceiver died in a fight of the Alliance against the Supreme Trio... against the ... Serena Reid? Serenaid? You are the Siren."

"Congratulations, kid, you didn't take long!"

"Your voice, I... what are you doing to me?" he asked, trying to cover his ears.

"Don't be silly. Everyone assumes my power is in my voice, but that's not real; my power is in my glands."

"Pheromones!!!"

"My, my, you're really smart, kid; naive but smart. It's no use covering your ears or trying to hold your breath... with me, it's skin deep. My pheromones hit all your exposed areas: nostrils, skin, and leave you... open to my suggestions... so why don't you relax a little more and listen to what I have to say, since we're such close friends that we know everything about each other's powers."

Alan tried to fight the feeling of numbness unsuccessfully. He should try to run, try to touch both of them and give them the worst moments from the memories he had collected as a volunteer in various trauma hospitals over the past few months. But he did none of that; he just stood there, paralyzed, with the agonizing feeling of being anesthetized in the face of danger, unable to do anything to change that.

"Now that we're more relaxed, let me continue." Anan, lend me the device, dear." Deceiver approached the table and handed her a small metallic sphere.

"This is one of the little wonders that Techno created and provided to the members of the Alliance. It allows storing some types of powers and releasing them in the way the bearer wishes. This one is always charged with my pheromones, to ensure Anan's loyalty wherever he goes. He has been under my command for so long that using the device is no longer necessary, but a cautious woman is worth a battalion. You must be wondering how one of world the greatest heroes is doing alongside a convicted criminal?"

Alan was not in a condition to wonder about anything while trying unsuccessfully to overcome the stupor that engulfed him. The only response to leave his lips was a grunt.

"Anh..."

"Well, maybe I exaggerated a bit with you but as I said, I'm a cautious woman. The answer to this question lies in the incident we were both involved in two years ago. But before we get there, I need to tell you more. Haven't you wondered why no other hero has contacted you in these months? Well, it's because they were obscured; they don’t know about your existence. Their trackers in most major countries have been compromised, thanks to Anan's good work. They still inform the Alliance of most new heroes, but those that are of our interest. This is extremely important for us. You would know the reason if the usual contact process had been carried out. The Alliance establish contact as quickly as possible with new candidates, even if they do not end up being selected. Their goal is installing a small intradermal device, another of Techno's inventions, with the ability to block any kind of mental control powers, mine included. He’s such annoying nerd. However, even he couldn’t predict everything. During our fight against the Alliance, my brother hit Deceiver with an energy blast before being eliminated. In my rage over Ampere's death, I released all my powerful pheromones; nothing should have happened, of course. However, to my surprise, Deceiver remained under my total command and quickly created the illusion of our deaths. After that the Trio was dismantled and I had to restructure. Without the other two, I could focus on my own goals. The truth is that I never cared about the Trio's manifesto; I just followed my brother and his friend's wishes. So, using my powers and Anan's combined, I created an empire. Reaper can rot in jail; if it weren't for his influence, Ampere... Armand would be alive. And regarding the Alliance, I will never forgive them for taking my brother from me, but it is not enough to take their lives; I want them humiliated at my feet. And you will help me with that, dear."

Alan again did not respond, which seemed to irritate Siren.

"You are so unamusing; I will lower the intensity a bit so we can have a decent conversation. In the meantime, let me explain your role in this story. Over the past two years, Anan and I have tried to recreate the incident to disable the device in some lesser heroes, without success. Either the charge used was too weak, or so strong that it killed our test subjects, or the problem was another: it had to be Ampere's energy to work, or worse, a perfect combination of the events of that day, which would clearly be impossible, but... Anan?”

"But it turns out that it's not impossible, just very unlikely; it would require an unique combination. One that I myself experienced but unfortunately did not have the means to recreate. This was almost thirty years ago; the Alliance had not yet been established, and the sharing of information about superhuman abilities was scarce. In my search for knowledge, I found an old man with the same powers as you, kid. Together we experimented and to our surprise we managed to combine our powers. The trick was to deceive the part of his consciousness that made his powers work and thus turn an illusion into reality. And that was one of the most incredible things I have ever witnessed. We conjectured for some time about the possibilities that this gave us; with the right approach, we could rewrite a person's entire history, turn a criminal into someone useful for society, or even reverse aging process. However, since he could only retain memories of a few minutes, that remained just a theory. Only a few years later were the first enhancers identified, but it was too late; my old friend had left this world."

"Which doesn't mean that someone with a similar power couldn't appear again; unlikely but not impossible. So we pooled the company's resources in two fronts: one focused on identifying and recruiting as many enhancers as possible and the other on finding someone with the same powers. Anan managed to infiltrate among the Alliance trackers to facilitate this. And now we are here, finally ready to test his hypothesis and start my revenge."

"Why..."

"What, dear?"

"Why... help her... Deceiver... fight against... you... hero."

"Kid, you heard Serena say it yourself, she no longer needs to use her powers on me; I am her ally. This toy is just a guarantee on her part. A guarantee totally unnecessary, as she knows well."

"Silly boy, if I had patience I would do to you what I did to him; in five years you would be a totally different person, but I want more, and I want it now."

"No... never... impossible..."

"Impossible doesn’t exist for people like us. Get ready; You can send the girl in, Anan."

Anan headed to the doors and returned with a young woman who seemed to radiate power.

"Faye is our most skilled enhancer; she is charged with the power of all the others we have gathered for our ranks. It’s so much energy that if released in some heroes could cause catastrophic changes in the world, but this time it will be just in one person. Rest now, dear."

The feeling of stupor intensified, mixing with a feeling that something extremely wrong, was going to happen to him and then Alan felt a hand guiding his bare hand his other hand, while he struggled to overcome those sensations, knowing what was coming.

"Annnh..." His eyes widened as he fought to stop it, only to discover he had no strength in him. He began to visibly sweat as the first images began to appear before him, it was a matter of seconds before his powers activate, so he try even more desperately to escape that predicament.

"You are going to give me what I want." Serena's voice lost its softness. "This will be easier for all of us if you stop trying to resist." This only made the young man want to fight even more. He grunted defiantly as he looked at the beautiful woman who seemed ready to devour him alive, and then, summoning strength he didn’t know where it came from, he screamed as he felt something starting to stir inside him. He groaned as he felt his whole body contract in the prison that was that armchair, his arms flexing, his abdomen cramping, his legs outstretched. As the images passed before him, too quickly to be truly understood, he felt something he had never felt before: his raw power coursing through his whole body while something very different of himself began to awaken in a deep corner of his mind, advancing slowly but steadily to the surface. That thing brought with it an aggressiveness he had never experienced before; he wanted to punch someone, blow heads off, break legs! As Alan struggled to contain that invasion of his consciousness, he let out a grunt that resembled a growl through his clenched teeth. That torrent of indecipherable images were beginning to alter him more profoundly. They came like a wave pushing him to accept what was happening, and he realized that he wanted part of it: the adrenaline of battle, the sensation of crushed bones under his fist and broken necks under his feet, always living at the center of the action. The young man with wavy blonde hair, lost in that myriad of sensations, did not notice when someone removed the hood and mask he was wearing, or that his hair was slowly darkening and shortening. As his jaw widened and sculpted into a square shape, his neck bulged with pure muscle and his chest expanded forward. Why had he never tried to exercise properly? Why hadn’t he trained in any fighting? He was a hero; this should be basic! Besides, that would be fun, and he needed a little fun in his life while having such a responsible job.

As the images continued to swirl in his head his biceps contracted and relaxed reaching the size of cannonballs. His chest expanded absurdly, widening and projecting, while his lats grew to the point where it seemed that two wings were coming out from there, forcing the t-shirt he was wearing into tatters, partially hanging from his immense physique. He really needed to put more effort into his training; after all, his strength and dexterity were what made him known. Of course, his powers helped, but many times he didn’t even use it just to ensure more fun while doing his job. The whirlwind of images spun, in his head. As the pace increased, he could practically feel his mind shrinking while that other brutal will expanded. The two consciences touched in an assimilation process as his modified memories began to solidify... The memory that he had entered in college thanks to his GPA disappeared, replaced by the fact that his entry was due to a wrestling and gymnast scholarship. His legs expanded, thighs transforming into tree trunks, calves into defined diamonds, his butt growing , two perfect muscular globes.

Suddenly, the flow of memoreis began to slow down, perhaps approaching the end; Came the moment of discovering his abilities; it was awese! He relived the moment he used his powers against thugs in a dark alley, laughing at the fallen idiots. Now his feet increased from a discreet size eight to a gigantic size thirteen, bursting the too-small sneakers and socks, exposing the massive paws covered with thick veins that emanated an animalistic funk.

Slowly, a wave of thick black hair began to spread from his toes to the base of his thighs, transforming his smooth crotch into a thicket that almost completely hid his average cock. The hair continued its advance, while images of other street fights filled his head, many of them started by him for no major reason. A treasure trail formed on his abdomen, slightly covering the defined six-pack, while the two slabs of meat that were his pecs became covered by a thick layer, and his pits by two giant funky bushes. Finally, his new square face was covered by a well trimmed beard, the bruises fading, while his was shaved in a military buzzcut. His bright blue eyes slowly took on a brown hue, while a spark of intelligence was replaced by malice. When a tanned tone spread across his skin another memory of his abilities capabilities took the forefront. It was the recollection of a night when he had made three women from his college climax in a loop. Reliving that made his dick come alive inside the underwear that was almost ripping apart due to the pressure exerted by his massive thighs and giant ass. The addition of a thick cock was the final blow, making his underwear tear and exposing the engorged nine inches python.

The growing man roared as the muscles of his entire body tensed again, definition forming in all of them, the striations visible, a huge scar in his pec. He had become the perfect specimen physically, but that was still not enough; a body that size couldn't belong to an eighteen-year-old wrestler and gymnast. That was the body of a mature experienced in man... which he truly was. After dropping out of college in his junior year, he enlisted and ended up joining the SEALs, his appearance and heritage were usefull in operations in the Middle East. During the seven years he served his body had gone from lean and strong to a tremendous mass of raw muscular power.

After being discharged, he had done his work in all corners of the world; his name was whispered in fear from the bustling streets of New Delhi to the narrow alleys of Eastern Europe.

"no...."

Those people were trying to turn him into a war machine, and the worst part was that he liked what he was becoming, a being of pure masculinity who would be in command of any battle, ensuring that enemies were broken and incapacitated, out of commission for a long time, if not permanently. He didn't care if the opponents remained on the ground forever. The two entities inside him were already so amalgamated that any attempt to fight against the process became an impossible struggle. Alan had become an efficient brute, a powerful warrior devoid of mercy while doing his job, reveling in it, with a playful smile always on his face. That last spark of resistance extinguished taking with it all the arguments for why he should have fought against what was being done to him, while his hardened cock shot a torrent of cum into the air and he was overwhelmed by an extreme sensation of pleasure before suddenly losing consciousness.

"Alan, are you listening to me?"

"It's Aslan, ma'am; it means lion." replied the muscular giant to the beautiful woman leaning against his chest, the two laying on the persian rug in her luxurious office after countless hours of wild sex.

"Whatever your name is, if you're going to work for me, it's important that you listen while I'm talking to you. Just because we're occasional fuck partners doesn't mean this will change; I demand respect from all my employees, including my head of security and tactical operations. Are we understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Great. As I was saying before you got distracted, before we put Operation Gracefall into practice, I need to test you in the field."

"I believed my credentials spoke for me."

"I am a cautious woman. I may be dying for revenge on those fools, but first we need to test if Anan's memory will work on the blocking device. Understand that this is for your own safety; your ability is incredible, but it's no match for the heavyweights of the Alliance, at least not yet. We'll work on that, but first I need to test you. So listen closely to my instructions."

….

Aslan confidently entered the company field operations GQ, quickly gathering his team.

"Gentlemen, my name is Aslan Ayad; you may refer to me as Sir or Commander. Tonight we will have a special operation. The Lady Boss wants us to capture a rookie hero and bring him here for recruitment. Apparently, normally this is a job done by Mr. Anan Tsé, but she wants to test my skills and yours. Any questions?"

"Sir, Sorry, but why does the boss want us to capture a rookie?"

"Because, soldier, it seems that the kid hasn’t been contacted by the Alliance yet, which means he hasn’t had the blocking device applied to him, making him quite susceptible to her powers."

"What kind of rookie goes out to patrol without proper protection?"

"Did I ask you something or authorize you to speak, soldier?"

"No, sir; sorry, sir!"

"That’s better. To facilitate communication, all of you are now authorized to speak without asking for my permission. Regarding your question, I asked myself the same thing. God, I was an idiot at the age when my powers manifested, but I would never be foolish enough to dress like a clown and not wear the right protections."

"So you never thought of being a superhero, sir?"

"Me, a superhero? I’ve been hero enough serving my country for so long, only to be discarded for doing my job too well. It's not my fault the black ops were fun. But this business of a cape crusade would never give me the satisfaction I seek. Ok boys, enough of small talk, I want all equipment tested multiple times in the next hours. After that we will have some fun. We have a naive goodie to recruit and I plan to enjoy every minute of it!"

#male tf #mind change #reality change #corruption #mental transformation #race change #arab tf #corruption kink #mind corruption

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