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deja-you · 1 month ago

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Starling: Act VI

bucky barnes x reader

masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part

word count: 2.8k

summary: Fake relationship. Real feelings. One bed. All the tropes.

The hotel is all marble floors, golding lighting, and professional employees who don’t blink at fake names and beautiful couples.

Bucky’s got one hand on the strap of a leather duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The other, gloved, is wrapped around your waist. His hand placement is intimate but not inappropriate.

“Checking in for Mr. and Mrs. Alpine,” Bucky tells the concierge.

You arch an eyebrow but wait to say anything. The concierge looks up your reservation, hands you over key cards, and tells you both to enjoy your stay.

You loop your arm into Bucky’s as he leads you over to the elevators.

“Really,” you say dryly, “you named us after the cat?”

He doesn’t even look up.

“She deserves better than shared custody.”

A smile pulls at your lips. “Mm, I’m sure she’s tired of being a child of divorce.”

Bucky–Mr. Alpine–shrugs.

“This is a healing moment for her.”

This elicits a soft laugh from you. You lean into his shoulder and lower your voice.

“Smile, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want them thinking we’re in this for the free minibar.”

“I’m smiling on the inside.”

“Great. Now try that on the outside too.”

He attempts a sharp, forced smile. It’s horrifying.

You snort.

“Okay, I take it back. Never do that again.”

The elevator rise up is short and you make your way to the hotel room. You enter the room. Clean. Elegant. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A balcony. One bed.

You both notice it at the same time.

“Guess we’re really selling this marriage thing,” you say, tossing your bag onto the bed. “I’m going to change.

You slip into the bathroom with your change of clothes while Bucky assembles tiny ear-comms, scans for bugs with a handheld reader. The hotel room is clean, but he checks twice.

A few moments later you step out of the bathroom in dusk spun into silk–a dusty blue gown that looks almost like glass when it catches the light. Sheer sleeves float off your shoulders, barely tethered to the sweetheart neckline.

“So… how do I look?”

He turns. Freezes a beat too long. His eyes sweep over you once. Slowly.

“Be honest. Too much for fake-wife espionage?” You ask.

Bucky forces himself to look away. “Nah. You’ll blend right in with all the other supermodels taking down trafficking rings.”

He turns to grab his suit hanging in the closet and pauses in the bathroom doorway. He turns to face you, a small, boyish smile on his lips.

“Remind me to frisk you before we leave.”

You throw your head back and laugh. “Buy me dinner first.”

“Let’s just get through this mission, Birdie.”

He reemerges shortly after threading cufflinks in his shirt. A crisp, black tie. Gloves on both hands.

“You ever take those off?” You ask curiously.

Bucky doesn’t look up. There’s a beat.

“Not when I’m someone else.”

Your tone is softer, slightly teasing. “So if this were real, you’d take them off?”

He takes a step toward you, one of his gloved hands tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. When Bucky speaks his voice is low.

“If this were real,” he says, eyes flickering over your dress once more, “they wouldn’t be the only things I’d be taking off.”

At his words you’re frozen and you barely register the hand that is still at your cheek gently tucking a comm into your ear. It crackles to life and you don’t get the opportunity to respond.

“You two lovebirds ready?”

You hear Sam’s voice in your ear. Bucky grumbles a confirmation.

“One of the donors from Virell’s network is at the welcome reception tonight,” Sam continues, “You’re lifting a card key from his wife’s bag. No screw-ups.”

“We never screw up,” you reply sweetly, “just…improvise. With flair.”

You hear Sam scoff.

“I’m logging that for when this goes sideways.”

You enter the elevator with Bucky and lean against him just slightly. Your arm brushes his chest. You feel him freeze behind you.

“Always this stiff on vacation, honey?” You ask innocently.

“I’d be less stiff if you stopped poking me with that knife in your garter, doll.”

He exaggerates the pet name, rolling his eyes performatively. You shift closer. Real close now.

“S’that what you would call me? If you were deeply, tragically in love with me?”

You keep pushing.

“Doll? Not love? Not darling?”

His eyes flick to yours. Unblinking.

“I’d just call you Birdie.”

You go still. He’s already looking away. The elevator doors roll open. Showtime.

The ballroom has high ceilings and gilded accents. Waiters mill about the room in white jackets, crystal chandeliers brighten the space, a string quartet is playing a familiar Vivaldi piece. You and Bucky are arm in arm.

“Remember,” you whisper to him, “you’re crazy about me.”

“Of course I am.”

You bump his arm with your shoulder, grinning. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

The two of you drift around the perimeter of the party, champagne glasses in hand. You find a reason to fix his tie. He’s watching you instead of the room, gently adjusting a strand of your hair and murmuring something about “obscuring your comms.”

Your eyes scan the room until they zero in on your target. A woman in her mid-50s, silver dress, hair spun like glass. She’s on the arm of a large, red-faced man. You nudge Bucky gently.

“Silver clutch. Five o’clock.”

In sync, you both shift your direction with ease. Like a dance you’ve practiced.

Bucky intercepts a waiter and, with effortless coordination, “accidentally” lets a champagne flute crash dramatically to the marble floor. Crystal shatters. Heads turn.

Your target gasps. Her husband mutters something about “hiring better staff.”

Everyone is distracted and you move like a ghost. Your fingers catch the strap of her purse just right. Lift. Twist. Slip. The keycard is yours. You slide away toward a side curtain. Bucky joins you soon after.

“You got it?”

“Of course I got it. You planning on thanking me or just brooding attractively for the rest of the night?”

“Depends. How do you want me to thank you?”

Once more this evening, you’re stunned into silence. You blink. He looks at you, expression unreadable but certainly not innocent. You don’t reply, and Bucky takes your hand and turns down a hallway and beckons you to follow him.

You both slip into a service elevator. You don’t let go of his hand. Neither does he.

Neither of you mention it.

The elevator whirs to life.

The doors open to your floor. The mission isn’t over. You still have the keycard. You still have a job to do. But something changed between the two of you this evening. Or maybe it started changing long before that.

For now, you don’t talk about it. You just keep walking down the hallway together. Slowly. Quietly. Fingers still intertwined.

You’re barefoot on the balcony, leaning against the stone railing. Bucky’s inside going over details of the mission on the phone with Sam.

The dusty blue dress still clings to your body, the fabric getting swept up in the cool evening air. The city buzzes. Glass towers reflect the horizon. You focus on your breathing.

You’re not sure if you’re calming down or winding up. Tomorrow is your chance to take down Virell and his operation once and for all. But something about the quiet unnerves you.

The weight of the dress. The memory of Virell’s voice. The feel of Bucky’s fingers laced with yours. The feel of cool metal against your skin from nights before.

The door creaks behind you.

Bucky steps onto the balcony. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, slow and sure. His chest presses into your back so close you can count his heartbeats.

He lowers his head. A soft kiss to the exposed skin on your shoulder. Another to your neck. His voice low as his lips brush against your ear.

“They’re watching the hotel,” he says coolly.

Your body melts into his on instinct, hands finding his.

Your eyes flick across the street. Three figures. All in black suits. Tinted windows. Virell’s men, watching the lobby.

Bucky brushes his lips against your temple.

“Come to bed with me, doll,” he murmurs softly.

You recognize the callback to the elevator. Fake couple. Real danger.

You turn in his arms to face him, playing along. One hand trails over his chest, the other behind his neck.

“If you wanted me, you should’ve just said,” you say gently.

You kiss the sharp edge of his jaw, just enough to blur the lines between the mission and reality.

His breath hitches–barely. A low hum escapes his chest. He kisses your cheek. Then your neck. Collarbone. Shoulder. Everywhere but your mouth, although he gets awfully close.

His hands curl under your thighs and lift you without much effort. You wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you inside.

Bucky carries you to the bed and lays you down gently like you’re something fragile. The bed dips beneath your weight. The fabric of your dress pools around you like a lake.

He leans down and places one more kiss to your jaw, his stubble brushes against your skin.

Then he’s gone, moving toward the windows. He draws the curtains shut slowly. Deliberately. He doesn’t look at you. Not once.

“If I didn’t know any better, Barnes,” you say coyly, “I’d say you enjoyed that.”

Bucky doesn’t reply. Jaw tight. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he walks stiffly to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. You hear the shower start. Steam curls out from the edge of the door.

You exhale and touch the space on your jaw where he kissed you. You lay back fully on the bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s getting harder to separate what’s pretend and what’s real.

Later, the bathroom door opens with a soft click.

Steam spills out behind him, curling toward the ceiling like smoke. Bucky steps out shirtless in low light that catches the water beads across his shoulders. A subtle glint where metal meets skin at his left arm. Sweatpants. That ride just a little too low on his hips. He’s still drying his hair roughly with the towel before hanging it on the hook on the door.

He glances toward the bed.

You’re lying there, half tangled in the sheets, facing the empty space beside you like you’re daring it to stay empty.

You blink once, slowly. Your brain short-circuits halfway through forming a thought and reroutes to something safe, something boring.

He doesn’t notice your stare. Or maybe he does and is pretending not to. Which might be worse.

You don’t say anything. You watch him from the corner of your eye. Your breath is steady. Your heart rate is not.

He crosses the room slowly. Avoids your gaze. There’s only one bed. It’s not that big.

You scoot slightly to one side, giving him more space.

“I won’t bite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“I’d let you.”

It’s not fair, the way your whole body flushes.

You turn slightly toward him, trying to play it off like it didn’t affect you. Trying to be normal. Chill. Capable of human speech.

He doesn’t meet your gaze, just climbs into bed like he didn’t just set your skin ablaze.

The mattress shifts under his weight. The space between you narrows. You lie back on your pillow, close enough to feel his breath, not close enough to calm your heartbeat.

And God help you, he smells good. He smells like clean soap and warm skin. Cool metal and rain that hasn’t touched down yet.

You shift. So does he. Your knees brush. Neither of you pulls away.

“You okay?” He asks quietly.

You pause. Then nod. He probably can’t see it in the dark.

“You?” You ask, just as quietly.

“No.”

You both fall quiet again. The truth hangs heavy between you.

He lets out a breath. You think maybe this will be it and he’ll head to bed without another word. You pull some courage out from somewhere deep in your stomach.

Softly:

“You ever think about what it’d be like?”

He blinks.

“What what’d be like?”

You smile faintly.

“If this was real.”

His breath catches.

The silence feels deafening. Charged.

Your heart beats like a caged bird against your ribcage. You feel something shift between the two of you. You think you’ve made a huge mistake, just ruined something good, and you open your mouth to say as much.

“I–I just meant–”

“All the time.”

His voice is even. You can hear the truth on his lips. You’re both inches away from something that will break everything or fix everything. Or both.

Neither of you speak again, silently agreeing not to speak about this further.

At least for now.

Under the sheets, his fingers brush lightly against yours.

You jolt awake well past midnight. A sharp, soft gasp.

Your chest is heaving, pulse thudding in your ears.

The sheets are tangled around your legs, damp with sweat. One hand clenched tight against your ribs like you can hold in the fear.

Bucky’s awake in seconds, his body rigid scanning the room for a threat. It softens once he realizes it’s still only the two of you.

He turns toward you carefully, not touching you yet. He watches carefully, doing his best not to crowd you. His voice is low and gentle.

“Hey. You’re okay. It’s just me. Just a dream.”

You clench your eyes tightly closed, hand shaking slightly as you lift it to wipe your face of a tear you don’t completely notice is there.

“Didn’t feel like one,” you mutter hoarsely.

Bucky sits up slightly, propping himself on an elbow. He doesn’t ask you what it was about. He knows.

He slowly extends his hand but pauses. His vibranium hand is closest to yours. He moves to pull it back but you grip it in your hand, pulling him closer. You don’t move to pull away and he gently threads his fingers through your hand, his thumb rubbing gently circles into your skin. It’s cool and grounding.

“Breath with me, okay? In…out…” He tells you.

You follow slowly at first. Then steadier. You match his rhythm.

You’re aware of the cool metal against your skin. It’s not scary. It’s safe. Real. It’s hurt people before, but never you. It only provides comfort.

Eventually your eyes begin to flutter shut again. Exhaustion ebbing in gentle and slow. Your voice is drowsy when you speak again.

“Thanks.” Almost inaudible.

“Not going anywhere,” he responds.

You wake first.

Still on your side, curled against Bucky. His arm is slung loosely around your waist, the other tucked under the pillow.

His breathing is deep and even. He’s fully asleep. Maybe the first real rest he’s had in a while, too.

You shift carefully, trying not to wake him, but:

“You always this wiggly in the morning?” His voice is gruff, still laced with sleep.

“Only when I wake up with someone’s arm wrapped around me like a weighted blanket.”

He groans and stretches, keeping one arm looped lazily around your waist.

You can’t remember the last time you’ve woken up this peacefully.

Then you whisper into the quiet morning:

“We forgot to feed Alpine.”

Bucky’s eyes remain shut. “Soraya’s got her.”

A pause.

“I miss her.”

“She’s got a better bed than we do.”

“She deserves it.”

His eyes finally open and you share a look. It lingers.

You stretch your arms above your head and the blanket slips slightly. Enough to catch his attention. He looks, then immediately looks away. You caught it.

“Are you checking me out, Sergeant?” You ask mischievously.

“Just checking for weapons,” he deflects.

“Smooth recovery.”

You finally roll out of bed with a groan and start rummaging through your bag for clothes.

Shortly after there’s a knock at the door. You glance at Bucky. He frowns and moves quickly, grabbing a gun from his bedside table.

“Subtle,” you say.

“Habit,” he replies.

He checks the peephole and sighs.

“Sam.”

Bucky opens the door and Sam and Torres enter, Sam’s got two coffees and a folder tucked under his arm. He hands one to Bucky. Torres has a grin and a latte for you.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Torres says to you. “Hope Barnes didn’t hog all the blankets.”

“She was warm enough,” Bucky says, unamused.

He gives Torres a look that says try that again and I’ll put you through a window.

Sam ignores both of them. “You two look cozy. Bed bugs treating you well?”

“They unionized,” you say, deadpan. “We let them have the minibar.”

“That’s generous,” Sam replies. “I’ll be sure to put that in the mission report.”

Sam sets the folder down on the desk and opens it. A full file of updated intel. Maps, guest lists, surveillance stills.”

“Virell’s confirmed. He’ll be at the gala tonight,” he informs you.

You and Bucky exchange a look, the calm of the morning dissolves piece by piece. The weight of what comes next settles in.

Sam begins to brief the two of you. Torres hands you your latte and backs away. Smart man. You take a long sip.

Somehow Bucky has made his way to your side, your shoulders brushing slightly.

“We’re gonna burn it all down, right?” You murmur to him.

Bucky’s voice comes out quiet and certain.

“Every last piece.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #marvel fanfic #sebastian stan #thunderbolts fanfic #starling

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reality-detective · 2 months ago

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Archbishop Carlo Maria Viganò was excommunicated by Pope Francis after daring to publicly reject the Pope’s authority and denounce the direction of the modern Church.

His excommunication stripped him of any eligibility to become the next pope, cutting him off entirely from Church leadership.

Viganò spoke out against global child trafficking networks, directly naming powerful figures like Hillary Clinton and John Podesta.

He went further, exposing how Jeffrey Epstein ran a Mossad-backed blackmail operation on his private island, collecting damning evidence of elites engaging in ritual abuse of children.

Imagine him leading the Catholic Church. 🤔

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radfemsiren · 1 year ago

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🤍A basic rundown of my beliefs as a radical feminist 🤍

(I don’t represent every radical feminist, but these are usually the standard opinions you’ll find of many radfems. Hate or disagree with them, that’s fine! But know the truth of who I am and what I stand for beforehand)

- there are 2 sexes, the male sex is oppressing the female sex

- femicide, rape, child sex abuse, hijab laws, female genital mutilation, domestic labor, trafficking, war crimes, revenge porn, prostitution… women and girls around the world are being exploited, tortured, and killed because of this oppression, and it must end.

- female oppression is sex based oppression, meaning a woman can’t just identify out of her oppression (for example hijab laws)

- sex is biological and an immutable truth, gender is a social construct

- gender should be done away with because gender roles are male supremacist and result in women and girls being stereotyped, dehumanized, barred from education, safety, bodily autonomy, etc.

- defining women with anything other than biology is misogynistic and relies on stereotypes

- the biological differences between men and women must be acknowledged in order to effectively end patriarchal oppression

- radical feminism is getting to the root of female oppression (radical -> root)

- misandry is not real and is just an extension of misogyny (for example, “men are told not to cry!” Yes because women are seen as inferior and any trait associated with us is seen as degrading/emasculating for men. This is why there is no female equivalent to emasculation.)

- all current religions are patriarchal and made by men to exploit and control women

- access to abortion is a human right and should never be threatened, women are the creators of life and deserve to gatekeep it, as well as exercise full autonomy over our own bodies

- Using sexist gender roles to define yourself is giving these misogynistic stereotypes power (wearing makeup or dresses doesn’t make anyone less or more of a woman, this is misogyny)

- the beauty industry is patriarchal and exploits women, our bodies and our money

- sex work is not work, it’s always exploitation (consent can not be bought)

- the porn industry is patriarchal and relies on trafficking, coercion, and rape to function. It also conditions its watchers to be aroused by violence against women, and results in more real life consequences for women and girls

- women’s spaces and institutions must be protected. Women’s safety is more important than catering to male feelings

- marriage is a patriarchal institution made to exploit the domestic labor of women for her entire life

- BDSM/kink are patriarchal and only center the pleasure and well being of men.

- hookup culture is patriarchal and the risk to reward is not worth it for women to engage in it

- gender ideology is patriarchal and is a direct hindrance to female liberation (we can’t define ourselves or our oppressors, we can’t create spaces away from our oppressors, we can’t create laws and policy based on these definitions, people who are gender non conforming / have gender dysphoria are pressured to alter their bodies to conform to a rigid standard and become lifelong medical patients, etc)

- choice feminism and liberal feminism caters to conforming to patriarchal standards and institutions, and refuses to examine why women make choices under patriarchy

- women of color face oppression on the axis of our sex and race, men of color only face oppression on the axis of their race

- non white patriarchal institutions must be criticized: a mullah is just as dangerous to the liberation of women as a pastor is

- women should decenter the men in their lives just as men have done with women. That means prioritizing us! Engaging in women’s media, art, stories, fostering female communities and support networks, uplifting and empowering their sisters around the world

- being a radical feminist means consistently taking radical action, big or small, we all can do it! Go support a female artist, go donate menstrual products to a shelter, go tell off a man when you see him making a woman uncomfortable. We all can make a difference!

…My feminism focuses on criticism of Islam and middle eastern patriarchy, but there are radfems with many focuses/passions… some in eco feminism, some on uplifting Romani women, black women, neurodivergent women, women with disabilities, prostituted women… some are passionate about women’s sports, women’s art, women’s writing, women’s history, lesbian and bisexual women’s stories… everyone has their passion on here, so before you come to attack, just check out my blog and click around at the different profiles on this corner of the internet…. maybe we might not be the terrible witches you thought us to be. Or maybe we are, but witches are awesome so who cares lol

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nando161mando · 2 years ago

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Janet Russon, a psychic medium from Utah, was a central source of “intelligence” for OUR, leading to at least one failed mission and no evident rescues of missing children.

#operationundergroundrailroad #timballard #psychics #janetrusson #anti-trafficking #Trafficking #gardymardy #guesnomardy

@vicemag @vicenews @viceuk

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oldraysblog · 8 months ago

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Dawn is coming, open your eyes…

Whether Trump is the hero so many trust him to be, or not, only time will tell, but that world will be better off with him, that’s for sure.

In any case, those of us that are awake, will never stop exposing the truth about the satanic nature of those in power and the child trafficking network that forms part of the globalist machinery.

This war was always about saving the children, only when we do that, will humanity stand a chance to redeem itself.

May God help us…

🙏🏻❤️🙏🏻

https://t.me/LauraAbolichannel

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sweetromanova · 19 days ago

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Off The Record: Part Seven🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Criminal Defense Lawyer!Original Female Character

Summary: She’s built a career on keeping secrets and defending the worst with nothing to lose. That changed when Natasha Romanoff showed up on the other side of the courtroom.

Warnings: descriptions of violence, psychological manipulation, implied child abuse and trauma, emotional abuse, mentions of torture, human and sex trafficking, war crimes and murder, implied coercion, legal corruption, gun violence, secondary character deaths, power imbalance, blood and injury depiction

A/N: not the happiest with this editing but we move, pay attention to the warnings for this one!

Chapter Seven

Abandoned Warehouse, New York

April 3, 2022

The sack was pulled off.

Sienna blinked hard against the low fluorescent glare, pain blooming hot and sudden at her temple. The floor beneath her was concrete, cold, dusty, reeking of oil and metal. Somewhere nearby, a pipe dripped like a broken clock counting down.

Then she heard it.

“Blake.”

That voice. Honeyed and sharp.

Luka.

She turned her head slowly. Same lean build and that same hawk’s gaze. But something was off, he looked scrubbed clean, surgically calm. Like he’d sterilised every part of himself that used to feel.

He crouched beside her. “Had to pull you off the chessboard for a bit.” He said. “You’ve been making… creative moves.”

“Don’t pretend this is a check-in.” She rasped. Her throat felt raw. “You dragged me off the street. Lost my number?”

“You were wandering.” Luka reached out, brushed a strand of hair from her face like a parent soothing a child. “I needed to reorient you.”

“Bullshit. You needed control.”

His smile widened, just slightly. Something darker flickered beneath. “You always say that when I remind you who you are, where you’re from.”

Sienna pushed herself upright, hands sliding against the grit as she rose on unsteady legs. “I’m not yours, Luka. We might be family but I’m not your weapon. Not your project. You lost that right years ago.”

He took a step closer. Deliberate. Patient. His voice stayed soft, but every word landed with edge. “You forget how many times I saved you. If anyone found out who you really are... they’d tear you apart. You still work for me remember that.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t save people. You break them before anyone else can.”

A twitch at his jaw, barely there but real. The only crack in the mask.

“We were good together once.” He reminisced. “You were sharper then, more focused.”

“I was twelve.” She shot back. “Orphaned and clinging to my ‘big brother’ like he was the only thing keeping me from drowning.”

He didn’t reply.

So she pressed. “You trained me, no, you groomed me. Wrapped it in loyalty and called it love.”

“It was love.” He murmured. Sienna didn’t miss the ‘was’.

“No.” Her voice cut like glass. “It was a cult. A cult of violence and fear. I stayed because I didn’t know better, because I thought I was honouring my parents.”

Luka exhaled hard, turned his back briefly. His composure faltered, just for a moment.

“You’ve been slipping.” He repeated. “Losing the thread. Maksim’s been concerned.”

She stilled. “Maksim’s been lying.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Maybe not. But even the whisper of betrayal? I can’t wait for the storm. You know that, little sister.”

He crossed the room, grabbed something behind a crate and dragged it across the floor with a low scrape.

A body, slumped, bound and hooded.

Sienna’s pulse surged.

“Luka…”

He didn’t answer her, he didn’t even look.

He just pulled the hood off.

Antonia.

“Antonia…” Sienna choked out. “Oh my god.”

Luka stood calmly between them, a wall of cold authority. “She’s been playing both sides.” He told her. “You didn’t know this but she helped us move a case through Vienna last year. Information. Names.”

Sienna stared at him, breath catching. “She didn’t know it was you behind this case, Luka! You’ve hid behind Anton’s networks. You used her. How was she meant to know?!”

“She made a choice.” Luka shrugged, his voice hardening. “She gave me what I needed. Then she gave the court what they needed.”

He stepped closer to Antonia and his voice dropped, quieter and noticeably more deadlier.

“That makes her a liability.”

“No.” Sienna took a step forward. “Don’t. Luka, don’t do this.”

But he wasn’t looking at her anymore.

His eyes were on Antonia, studying her like an old regret. “She wanted out. Just like you. But she came back. And there are only two ways that ends.”

A flick of his wrist.

One of the guards stepped forward, offering him a knife, long and clearly familiar.

He crouched beside Antonia, brushing her hair back in the same tender gesture he’d once used on Sienna, back when she was too young to know what he was preparing her for.

“Luka!” Sienna dropped to her knees beside him, eyes wide with desperation. “Please. Don’t. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“This is mercy.” He shrugged.

“It’s murder.” She whispered, shaking. “It’s murder to someone who doesn’t deserve this.”

“You’ve changed your tune. People like her will never be out of this line of work, it’s only a matter of time before she kills for money again.”

“No! She wouldn’t do that, not to Nata- Please Luka.” Sienna cried but she knew it was already too late to convince him. Not that she ever could.

Antonia stirred. Her body twitched, breath catching as she began to wake.

“Wh–”

“Antonia, look at me.” Sienna reached for her, voice shaking but steady. “It’s okay. Just look at me.”

“Sienna?” Her voice was rough, accented, thick with confusion. “What’s- what’s happening?”

“Shh. Keep your eyes on me. Stay with me.”

Luka didn’t flinch. “This is what happens to double agents, Sienna.” He said. “To soft hearts.”

And then he struck.

The blade slid across Antonia’s throat with a terrible, practiced grace.

She gasped, once. Her hand jerked toward Sienna, fingers stretching for something that would never come.

Then she stilled.

Her blood spilled across the concrete like dark ink.

Sienna didn’t scream.

She didn’t cry.

She just froze.

Her hands clenched, her body trembled but she never looked away.

Luka stood, calm as ever. He wiped the blade clean on a cloth pulled from his coat. “She would’ve gotten you killed.” He said, as if that excused it all.

Sienna didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

He looked at her then, head tilting with mock sympathy. “You’ve been slipping, sister. I needed you to remember how this works.”

Then he turned, barking a quiet command to his men. “Take her home.” Luka murmured. “Let her think it over.”

They moved in but Sienna didn’t resist. She knelt there long after he was gone, eyes locked on Antonia’s body.

And something inside her broke.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The Avengers Compound, Upstate New York

April 3, 2022

Natasha was pacing.

Something had been wrong since dusk.

Sienna’s tracker had gone dark. Not just the main signal but every backup was redundant, encrypted, virtually impossible to jam. And yet it was gone.

The others tried to dismiss it. “She’s probably hiding out. Laying low. Taking space.”

But Natasha knew better.

She always knew better.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Undisclosed Safe House, Upstate New York

April 3, 2022

They dumped her on the edge of her street like trash. Blood still painted her hands, her blazer was torn, streaked with grime. Her breath came in shallow, frantic bursts. She hit the pavement with a thud and stayed there, unmoving. Eyes unfocused. Hair clinging to her face, matted with blood, not all of it hers. The blood still felt warm from where she had pressed her hands against the throat of Antonia, like with enough pressure it would just seal back up and she’d open her eyes again.

A car passed.

She didn’t flinch.

Then a flash of red blurred her vision.

“Sienna?!”

Natasha.

Boots pounding the sidewalk. She dropped to her knees beside her, fury and fear warring in her face until she took in the state Sienna was in.

Her voice broke. “What happened?”

She gripped Sienna’s shoulders, gently at first then more urgently. “Sienna. Look at me.”

No answer. Sienna’s eyes were glassy, distant. She looked through Natasha, not at her.

“You disappeared. We lost your signal.”

Sienna blinked, slow and almost mechanical.

Her lips parted then closed again.

Natasha’s gaze dropped to the blood. The blankness in her expression. The eerie stillness of her body.

She knew.

Without another word, she slid her arms around her carefully and steady. And this time, Sienna didn’t pull away.

She let herself be guided across the street, her feet dragging like they’d forgotten how to walk.

For Sienna, the world had tilted, not just from grief but from the terrifying clarity anchoring itself in her chest.

Luka was gone, he wasn’t ‘Luka’ anymore.

And there was no one left to protect her from what came next. Even worse, she didn’t know who she was now that she wasn’t protecting him.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The safehouse was too quiet.

Not just silent but weighted. The air felt thick with things unsaid, grief and guilt pressing into the walls. A kettle hissed faintly from the kitchen, the only sound in the hollow space.

Sienna sat on the edge of the couch. Her blazer hung off one shoulder. Blood had dried into the seams of her shirt. Her hands lay still in her lap, palms open like she didn’t know what to do with them anymore.

She hadn’t spoken since Natasha brought her in.

She looked like she’d clawed her way out of something. Her eyes were too bright, vacant but burning. Like whatever fire had once fueled her had devoured everything else on its way out.

Natasha knelt in front of her, moving slow, deliberate. She placed a mug of tea in Sienna’s hands.

“Drink.”

Sienna didn’t look at her but after a moment, she whispered. “I didn’t know he’d go that far.”

Natasha went still. “Who?”

A shake of the head. “She went so cold.” Sienna murmured, voice fraying.

Natasha leaned closer, her voice gentle. “Who, Sienna?”

Sienna’s eyes squeezed shut, tears slid down her cheeks, soundless.

“I tried to stop it.” She said and this time her voice cracked. “It’s my fault.”

Natasha sat beside her, close but not touching. A steady presence.

“Sienna.” She said, quietly. “Tell me what happened.”

Sienna stared down at her stained hands. “I don’t have a choice.”

Natasha’s jaw tightened. “You do. You always do.”

Sienna finally looked at her. And this time, she saw her.

“Then help me.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The water pounded against Sienna’s skin, hot enough to scald but she didn’t turn it down.

She stood motionless under the stream, forehead pressed against the cold tile, arms braced on either side of her head. Her body trembled, even in the heat.

She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, Antonia’s blood bloomed again across her hands. She heard the ragged breaths, felt the weight go still in her arms.

The sob she hadn’t let out then burned at the back of her throat now but it stayed there. She always kept it in.

The water slowed to a trickle. She reached blindly for the towel and stepped out, steam curling from her skin as she padded barefoot into the bedroom of the safe house.

Her phone buzzed on the dresser.

She nearly ignored it, already half-expecting another check-in from Natasha, who adamantly stayed alert in the living room. Refusing to leave Sienna in this trance-like state.

It wasn’t.

[Unknown Number] You let her die. Don’t make me kill another Widow. Tick tock, Sienna.

She stared then her breath hitched, once. The phone slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor.

“No.” She whispered, barely audible. “No…”

She took a step back, towel slipping from her fingers, heartbeat hammering in her ears.

Not Natasha. Please not Natasha.

Her knees hit the edge of the bed and she sat down hard. Shoulders hunched, hands gripping her skull like she could press the panic out of it. This was her mess. Her family. Her ghosts.

Not Natasha.

Her breathing turned shallow. Her body stiffened, rigid with the effort of not falling apart.

But still, a low whimper escaped. Not quite a sob but something cracked. She bowed her head, jaw clenched, eyes burning.

Then the door burst open.

Natasha froze in the threshold, taking in the steam still hanging in the air, the wet footprints on the floor, Sienna half-dressed and hunched on the bed, trembling. The phone on the carpet, still lit.

She was at her side in two strides, wrapping a fresh towel around her shoulders without a word. “What happened?” She asked quietly but firmly. “Sienna.”

Sienna didn’t answer. She just held out the phone.

Natasha took it. She read the message once. Then again.

“Who sent this?”

Sienna opened her mouth but closed it and shook her head.

“I don’t know.” She managed, voice barely above a breath. “But they know what happened.”

Natasha didn’t press. She slid down beside her, one hand steady on Sienna’s back while her other already reaching for her own phone.

“You’re not staying here.”

Sienna looked at her, hollow-eyed. “I can’t protect anyone from this.”

Natasha met her gaze. She looks undetermined and fierce, Sienna almost had to admire it. “Then we go where we can fight.”

She stood, already moving. “Get dressed.” She instructed. “We’re going to the Tower.”

72 notes · View notes

eyesofbong · 10 months ago

Text

A Chrollo x F!Hunter Reader Fic | Summary

Best advised to be read in dark mode. AO3 link coming soon!

★ 18+ MDNI WARNINGS: descriptive murder, burning of corpses, torture?, arson, slight implication of attempted suicide, gore, blood, violence, strong mentions of sexual abuse towards children including human trafficking, implied kidnapping, perversion of innocence, predators, CP, and implied rape. (NO I DO NOT ENDORSE THE ABUSE OF CHILDREN. it is only briefly mentioned since it is disgusting to keep the story realistic and strictly used as awareness since this is actual problems in the real world they don't just kidnap children. I WILL NEVER! write about non-con with underage characters or children, rape, and assault.) ★

☆ word count. 8.9k (sheeeesh had to hold back on somethings)

✥ Chapter Summary: Lost in the shadows of your despair, haunted by memories of the children you once saved, you find yourself drifting further from your purpose. But when a call from Chairman Netero breaks the silence, you're pulled back into a world you thought you'd left behind, drawn into the unknown for one last round — for the sake of saving a young man from making the same mistakes you did. ✥

The church was still, bathed in the soft glow of flickering candles. You remained in the pew, feigning prayer, while your mind wrestled with turbulent thoughts.

But before you found yourself here, in this quiet sanctuary, there was a journey—a path that led you back to the world you had once left behind.

“You can’t save them all.”

The words echoed in your mind—a truth you had grappled with for most of your life. So why was it so hard to accept that cruel reality? Why did you live your life the way you did? Most people would argue that they wish they had your power and skills. But they didn’t understand. They couldn’t comprehend the burden that came with such strength.

Why would anyone want to carry that weight for so long?

Power is a double-edged sword. If you aren’t corrupted by it, you’re crushed beneath its weight. How easy it is to destroy rather than create.

You often wondered why Netero had chosen you that day. What did he see first—the helpless child who had lost everything or the Hunter who would grow into his greatest soldier?

You trailed behind the men, each step leading you deeper into the belly of this vile place. They had no idea you were not one of them, no clue that every word you spoke and every move you made was part of a carefully laid trap. The air around you was thick with malice, a foul concoction of despair, fear, and predatory intent.

Since taking the head of your family’s killer, there has been a void in your heart—one you filled with vengeance.

But now, you had a new purpose: to use your power to hunt down the worst of humanity, like this network of mafia traffickers.

Suddenly, your senses sharpened. You heard it—a soft, muffled cry—the children.

The group leader, a man with greasy hair and a twisted grin, laughed. “You hear them, little rascals?” he sneered, gesturing ahead with a perverse pride. “Got a fresh batch of chicklings just yesterday. Innocent, full of life... worth a lot more in certain markets, if you catch my drift..."

A wave of revulsion swept over you, but you kept your face steady, fighting internally the burning in your throat.

Sick bastards. That’s all they were to you. There was nothing more vile than preying upon children, tearing away their innocence, and selling their pain.

Once, you had believed killing was always wrong. But when faced with monsters like these, death seemed like the only solution.

“That shouldn’t be a problem, right, Mistress?” The leader’s voice was thick with expectation, his beady eyes studying you for any sign of weakness.

You met his gaze with a cold, calculated, calm one. “The price is no problem, but I’ll need to see the ‘quality’ of the children you speak of to ensure they’re worth it,” you replied, playing along with his sick game. He grinned, his yellowed teeth bared like a predator sensing victory.

“Of course, my lady, right this way,” he said, gesturing for you to follow him up a rickety flight of stairs.

As you ascended, you noticed the tapes scattered on the floor—stacks of them carefully labeled and arranged. Your heart sank at the sight. You knew exactly what they were: recordings of abuse. Child pornography is waiting to be sold and distributed. Evidence of what these children had endured and what they were being forced to relive in the most horrific way possible.

Images of small, terrified faces pinned to the walls, some in tears, others with expressions frozen in fear, burned into your mind. You forced yourself to keep moving, to keep your eyes forward, your face blank. Every fiber of your being screamed for you to lash out, but you had to stay focused. You had to see this through.

When you reached the top, he led you to a door and pushed it open with a creak. Inside, the children were huddled together, wide-eyed and trembling. At the front stood a small boy with big gray eyes—"The runt." of the group. His clothes were torn, dirt smeared on his cheeks, but there was something in his gaze—a spark of defiance that hadn’t yet been snuffed out. The other children seemed to hover protectively around him, even in their weakened states.

“Well, what do you think of these little lambs?” the leader asked, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Aren’t they precious?”

You glanced at the children, your heart aching. For a split second, your gaze softened when you saw the small, porcelain-skinned boy, his eyes locked onto yours. He seemed to sense something in you, something different. You took a slow, steady breath, and without moving your lips, you mouthed, “I’m here to help.”

The boy’s grip on the bars loosened slightly. Hope flickered in his big gray eyes. You could feel the children’s fear and desperation mingling with a fragile thread of trust. They were so small, so fragile, yet somehow still fighting.

“They are precious,” you murmured, your voice taking on a steely edge. “But not in the way you’re thinking.”

The men’s laughter faltered. They sensed the shift, but too late. You moved swiftly, raising your hand. A wall of stone shot up from the ground, separating the children from their captors. Panic spread among the men as they scrambled for their weapons, but you were already moving.

With a flick of your wrist, a vine extended from the stone wall, and in its grip, a sword was handed to you. The blade flashed, slicing through the air. In one swift motion, you severed their hands before they could draw their guns. Blood spattered against the walls, and the men screamed.

“You crazy bi—” one of them began, but his voice was cut off as you grabbed his face. Nen flames flared from your palm, melting his skin. His screams turned to a hideous, gurgling cry as you slammed him against the wall, against a picture of him touching one of the children.

“My flames are nothing compared to the ones you’ll face for eternity,” you said, your voice cold and unwavering.

"THE DEVIL! YOU'RE THE DEVIL!" he shrieked, his voice cracking in terror.

“YOU’LL GO TO HELL TOO!” another screamed.

You tilted your head slightly, unbothered. “I know,” you replied calmly. “And I’ll be right there with you... to make sure you suffer.”

With a final, furious surge of nen, you let the flames consume him, his body twitching as the fire took hold. One by one, the men fell, their screams swallowed by the inferno of your rage.

The air thickened with the stench of burning flesh, but all you felt was a calm, cold satisfaction. You took a deep breath, letting the fire die down, leaving only smoldering ashes behind.

The floor was now slick with blood, staining everything it touched. You closed your eyes and focused, drawing on your nen, the energy that flowed through your very being. You felt a ripple within yourself, a gathering of moisture in your veins, pulling towards your fingertips. With a single thought, you summoned it forth.

20%

A small, shimmering blob of water began to form, hovering just above your palm. It glistened with a faint blue hue, infused with your nen—your life force flowing through it. The water was more than liquid; it was an extension of your will, a manifestation of the purity and cleansing you desired.

You moved your hand slowly, and the blob expanded, reaching toward the crimson stains that pooled on the floor. It touched the blood, and a strange, almost serene reaction occurred. The nen-infused water seemed to drink up the blood, absorbing it into its depths, turning it from a crystalline blue to a dark, murky red. It quivered and shifted, gathering every last drop, until the floor was clean.

Once it was done, you flicked your wrist, and the blood-tainted water dissipated into steam, evaporating into the air. The scent of iron and smoke faded, leaving behind only the faintest whisper of moisture.

You turned to the vine still hanging from the wall. “Take the corpses to another room,” you said softly. “I don’t want the children to see this.”

The vine extended, wrapping around the charred remains and dragging them away, leaving the room clear. You watched it go, feeling a pang of sorrow in your chest. “I’m sorry, Mother,” you whispered, “but someone has to purge the evil, right?”

The vine nodded as if in understanding and vanished into the shadows.

With the room now clear, you lowered the stone wall, allowing the children to see. They were still huddled together, wide-eyed, trembling, but there was a new light in their eyes—a glimmer of hope.

You kneeled, using a tiny flame to illuminate the room gently. “You’re safe now,” you said softly, your voice switching to a delicate tone.

The small, marble-eyed boy stepped forward. His hand slipped into yours, his grip surprisingly strong for his size. “You back came for us?” he whispered, his voice shaking but resolute.

You nodded, squeezing his hand gently, a warm smile breaking through your hardened expression. “Always.”

The children began to move toward you, timid at first, then with growing confidence, their small hands reaching out, seeking comfort. For now, at least, they were safe.

And you would make sure it stayed that way.

It was mostly your funding that kept the orphanages in Meteor City from crumbling. Your money was funneled into the broken, forgotten corners of the city where children like Chrollo and his friends sought refuge. You couldn’t always be there, but when you were, you made it count—your presence, your touch, your attention. That was the difference, wasn’t it? You had to put your wealth somewhere, after all—unlike Ging or Pariston, whose fortunes seemed to disappear into the wind, chasing their whims. For you, though, Meteor City had become an escape, a place to atone for the things you couldn’t control.

But it was more than duty, wasn’t it?

Chrollo had bonded to you in a way that you hadn’t expected. The other children admired you, but he worshiped you. His innocence clung to you, unsettling and infectious, dragging you into a world where, for brief moments, you almost believed you could be more than just a Hunter. That you could be someone who stayed.

It was one of those quiet, unguarded moments when you found yourself in Meteor City again, his small, frail body curled up against yours on his bed, his head tucked beneath your chin as if he could melt into your very being. His face pressed into your chest, and his small hands clung to your shirt as if you were his entire world.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, his voice soft, pleading. His wide gray eyes blinked up at you, still so full of that childlike adoration that made your chest tighten painfully. He didn’t understand—how could he? He was too young, too innocent.

You combed your fingers through his shaggy, jet-black hair, pretending it didn’t hurt to hear him ask. Pretending it didn’t make you feel like you were betraying something inside yourself. The glow from the window—the familiar golden light of dawn—signaled your impending departure. Mother Nature, it seemed, always knew when it was time to pull you away. You would have to leave again. You always left.

But not yet.

“Okay,” you whispered, the lie slipping from your lips like it always did. “I’ll stay.” You tucked his head back against your chest, hoping to drown his fears in the safety of your embrace. He felt so small compared to you, so fragile. You held him tighter, but no matter how tightly you cradled him, you knew it wouldn’t be enough. You couldn’t stay.

He sighed, his words soft and filled with frustration. “I wish you were just a normal girl. Not the Great Hunter. They always take you away from me.”

The weight of his words crushed your chest. You swallowed hard, burying the guilt and sorrow that always surfaced in these moments. He was just a boy, after all—a boy who didn’t know what it meant to live a life like yours. His love was simple, innocent, and untainted by the reality that you could never be what he wanted you to be.

He sighed again, his voice thick with sleep. “It’s not fair. You’re just a kid like me, but it’s like... you’re not. You’re stronger, taller... you have magic. You’re not afraid of anything.” His sleepy eyes blinked up at you, half-lidded, his gaze lingering on your face as if you were the only thing keeping him from falling asleep. “You’re so cool, Y/N.”

You forced a smile, your heart aching with every word. How could he say these things so easily, not knowing the storm they stirred within you? You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be feeling this pull toward him, this unbearable conflict between duty and something else—something darker, something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

“I want to be strong like you,” he continued, his voice fading as sleep began to pull him under. “Then I’ll be the one to save you.”

You let out a chuckle, though it felt hollow. “Oh really? I can’t wait to see you try.” Your voice was soft and gentle, as if you could keep him safe from the weight of your feelings. But even as you spoke, your gaze lingered on his longer than it should have. The way his eyes—those innocent gray eyes—held yours made something inside you crack. You didn’t want to look away.

And yet, you had to.

As Chrollo yawned, his body slowly relaxing into the warmth of your embrace, your heart clenched in that familiar, bittersweet way. You knew what was coming next—the moment when he would fall asleep, and you’d have to leave. You always left. He knew it too, even if he didn’t say it. His eyes fought against the sleep pulling him under as if staying awake would keep you there just a little longer.

You should go. You needed to go. But instead, you held him close, brushing your thumb along his cheek, tracing the outline of his pale face. He murmured something so soft, so quiet, you almost didn’t hear it.

“I love you, Y/N.”

Your heart shattered.

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating. You didn’t respond. How could you? What could you say to that? You weren’t supposed to feel this way. You weren’t supposed to let it hurt. And yet, his innocent words cut deeper than any wound you had ever known.

You didn’t respond. Instead, you cradled his face in your hands, letting the silence fill the space between you. Your mind and heart were at war, clashing violently as you tried to convince yourself that you felt nothing for this boy—nothing beyond duty, beyond the role you were meant to play.

But his words lingered. His love lingered. And it was killing you.

Only you could carry this burden. You had to ensure that you were the last shepherd, even if you were just a broken saint now.

And when he called, you would answer, no matter how much time had passed since that harrowing incident.

Isaac Netero’s familiar contact flashed onto your phone just as you returned to your quiet estate. The grand home, surrounded by vast lands, had become your sanctuary—where time seemed to stand still. Bamboo trees swayed in the wind, whispering secrets you couldn’t quite hear, and the rustle of leaves was like a lullaby to your broken spirit. This land, untouched and isolated, had become your refuge. Here, you could pretend the world had forgotten you, just as you had tried to ignore it.

You rarely needed to leave; everything you required, you grew with your own hands. The earth was rich and forgiving; the bamboo was tall and kind, your only companions, as well as the critters that inhabited the land, your only solace. They tried to aid in healing your scars, though they only made the loss more bearable. They connected you to reality, keeping you grounded and pulling you back from the edge whenever you felt yourself slipping away. They depended on you as much as you did on them.

But even Mother Nature, with all her quiet persistence, couldn’t fill the gaping void left by your loss. She could only make the emptiness more bearable, less suffocating.

You had given in to the silence, but she hadn’t given up on you. Yet the moment Netero’s contact appeared, the corpse of your heart couldn’t help but beat with a retired purpose you knew you could no longer fulfill.

Still, your hands, worn and deft, quickly picked up the phone, bringing it to your ear.

“Y/N L/N. Think you have a chance to talk, my dear?”

His familiar, softened gruff voice was a reminder of how time had aged him, even though he had left you with so many unanswered questions. He was still your father in many ways.

But you were now Netero’s little fallen general.

“I’m here,” you replied, your voice a ghost of itself, as if unused to forming words meant for anyone else. “It's good to hear your voice. I would ask, How have you been?”

“I am well, Father,” you cut in, a weary undertone threading through your words. “Trying to keep the ground from swallowing me whole.”

A heavy silence fell between you, a shared history that neither of you wanted to address hanging thick in the air. Netero sighed, his voice dipping into a tone you had not heard in years—gentle, almost pleading.

“Y/N…”

You remained silent, unyielding, waiting for him to continue.

“Listen to me, just this once,” he started, but you interrupted again, sharper this time, like a blade cutting through the fog.

“My nen is gone, Isaac," you said, each word deliberate and hard. "There’s nothing more to that story. There is no Master of the Hunters anymore.”

The silence that followed was colder, heavier. You could almost hear him wince at the use of his first name, a name you rarely called him. You knew it hurt him—that it stripped away the façade he liked to wear around you.

He hesitated, then took a deep breath, his voice laced with quiet desperation. “I'm not asking for her to listen to me,” he said carefully. “I'm asking for you, Y/N.”

Your gaze drifted to the bamboo outside, watching the stalks bend and sway in the wind. There was a part of you that wanted to hang up, to let the silence consume you once more, but another part—a faint, barely alive spark—kept you on the line.

“There is a young man,” Netero continued, “who is the spitting reincarnation of you."

Your chest tightened, the ache spreading like a slow poison through your veins. You swallowed, but it felt like shards of glass in your throat.

Netero’s voice softened, almost as if he were trying to soothe a frightened child. “I know I pushed you to retire early, and for that, I am sorry,” he confessed, his words heavy with regret. “I couldn’t bear the thought of what might happen if the wrong people found out you had lost your nen. But this boy—he needs someone who can show him the way. Someone who can give him a chance to choose a different path. A scent he can follow.”

He paused, the weight of his words settling into the air between you. “None of us can do that.”

A flicker of frustration sparked within you, threatening to crack the numbness you had wrapped around yourself like armor. You closed your eyes, the familiar heaviness of duty pressing against your chest. "Why... why do you always drag me back, Isaac?" you murmured, your voice almost devoid of emotion, a whisper lost in the wind.

“Because,” he replied softly, his voice steady but filled with quiet insistence, “you lost your nen, but you didn’t lose everything. I couldn’t save you from your fate... but you can save him before he makes the same mistake.”

For a moment, the world outside seemed to be still. The bamboo stopped swaying, the wind held its breath, and even the critters paused their quiet movements. Everything waited for you to decide whether you would let yourself be pulled back into the life you had tried so hard to leave behind.

A slow exhale escaped your lips, and your grip tightened around the phone. Maybe it wasn’t about saving yourself. Maybe it was about saving someone else—just one more time.

“I’ll think about it,” you finally whispered, knowing you were already halfway convinced.

Netero's sigh of relief was almost inaudible, but you felt it—a soft echo in your chest. "That's all I ask," he said gently. "Just think about it."

And with that, the call ended, leaving you standing alone in the quiet of your sanctuary, the wind picking up again, the bamboo swaying once more.

For the first time in a long time, you felt the stirrings of something beyond emptiness—a faint, fragile thing that might have been hope.

You let yourself fall back against the mat, feeling the familiar, frayed edges pressing into your back. Your phone lay loosely in your grip, screen dark, but its weight still anchored you to the moment. You stared blankly at the stone pond before you, the water still and silent under the overcast sky. But inside, that gnawing feeling had grown stronger, louder, and more insistent. The doubt and emptiness you had tried so hard to bury now surged to the surface like a wave, threatening to swallow you whole.

Then you saw her—the familiar, ethereal form rising from the pond—"Mother," your nen-made spirit, tilting her head at you, trying to read the emotions you kept so tightly locked away. Her shape shimmered and wavered, the liquid surface of her body catching the dim light, reflecting a thousand tiny, dancing fragments of your surroundings.

“You’re cruel...” you muttered, not bothering to lift your head. You didn’t need to see her to know she was there, watching you with a concern you could not bear. The water spirit hovered closer, her presence radiating a gentle insistence. A wave of water reached out, almost like a hand, and as she moved, droplets broke away and splattered onto your face. The cool water trickled down your skin, obliging you to finally look up and meet her gaze.

Her expression was unreadable, but the tension in her form, the way her edges seemed to blur and tremble, told you everything. She was worried. She is always worried. Especially when you have attempted to end your suffering...

Seeing her like that... It only made the ache worse. It plagued you and gnawed at you like an open wound. You hated it. You hated feeling like this—so useless, so empty. Once, you had been so certain of your place in the world, so sure of your purpose. You had moved like a blade through the darkness, cutting down every evil in your path. You had saved countless lives and fought battles that others had deemed impossible. You mattered.

And now... now it felt like all of that was gone. Stripped away the moment your nen vanished. When it had left you, it had taken everything with it. Your sense of self, your purpose, your reason for being—it had all crumbled to dust, leaving nothing but a hollow shell behind.

"Quit it," you muttered, your voice low and tired. "I'm not in the mood."

But Mother didn’t listen. She never did. Instead, she moved closer, her form rippling like a soft wave, the water elongating until it seemed to reach across the space between you. With a sudden, playful motion, she curled around your feet, a cold grip tightening around your ankles. Before you could protest, she yanked you off the mat, dragging you across the ground.

“Really?” You groaned, exasperation flaring. You knew what she was doing. She was trying to wake you up, to stir something inside you. “Cut it out, Mother.”

She didn’t respond. The water around your ankles tightened, and with another tug, she lifted you upside down, your hair falling toward the ground. The blood rushed to your head, and you blinked, momentarily disoriented. For a moment, you dangled there like a rag doll over the pond, your feet held aloft by a watery tendril.

You found yourself staring directly into her face—or what passed for a face—her liquid eyes focused intently on you, unblinking, unwavering. She was demanding your attention, forcing you to look at her to confront whatever was buried deep inside. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the gentle slosh of water moving with every slight motion.

“I said quit it,” you repeated, a hint of irritation in your voice. But she didn’t budge. Her expression seemed almost stern. The water droplets that made up her body shivered slightly, as if she were speaking a language only you could understand.

Mother’s form shifted, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her head tilted again, and for a second, she almost seemed to frown. The water that held you up began to twist and turn, slowly spinning you in the air as if examining you from every angle. Her touch was cold, but there was something else there—something gentle, almost comforting, beneath the chill. She wouldn’t let you hide from this. She wouldn’t let you sink back into the darkness you’d been wallowing in for so long.

“Quit it, Mother,” you muttered, voice strained, but there was no real fight in your tone. You were too exhausted to fight her, too tired to do much more than dangle there, your heart heavy and your purpose frayed.

Mother, ever persistent, moved the water around you in a swirl, as if shaping something from the depths of her core. You felt a coldness, a thin sheet of water sliding up to your face, and then you saw it—your reflection mirrored perfectly in the water.

But Mother didn’t stop there. Slowly, deliberately, she turned the reflection around.

Your eyes widened as you caught sight of your own back and your skin. The large, red Hunter symbol emblazoned between your shoulder blades, stark against your flesh, with the L/N family symbols woven underneath, bearing the phrase that had once given you strength:

"No child left behind."

The words, so familiar, stared back at you with a cruel clarity. Your vow, your creed. The promise you had whispered to yourself a thousand times over, in the darkest nights, in the quiet moments of despair. The very words you had once tattooed onto your skin were like armor against the world.

Your breath caught in your throat. You tried to look away, but Mother twisted the mirror slightly, making sure you couldn’t escape it.

The reminder was as sharp as a blade, cutting through your excuses and your self-pity.

You were The Great Hunter, not because of the nen you wielded, but because of the promise you had made. Because of the innocent you had sworn to protect.

Mother watched, her watery eyes soft but firm, refusing to release you until the weight of that reflection settled back into your bones.

You sighed, a long, tired exhale, and for a moment, just a moment, you allowed yourself to feel the ache of that old purpose stirring within you.

She stared back, unyielding. Her watery surface rippled slightly, as if in response to your unspoken thoughts, and you felt a tear prick at the corner of your eye. A tear you quickly blink away. The silence stretched on, filled with everything you weren't saying—filled with all the things she knew you didn’t want to admit.

You sighed, feeling the fight leave you, your shoulders slumping. “Fine. Fine, you win,” you said quietly, feeling defeated, but in a way that almost felt like relief. She had always been there to stop you from corrupting yourself, always pushing you, always forcing you to face the things you wanted to ignore. And now, as much as you hated to admit it, you needed her to do it again.

You felt her release your ankles, and for a moment, you simply stood there, breathing, your heartbeat slowing, the cool air biting at your skin. She hovered closer, her watery hand reaching out as if to touch your face, but she hesitated, just a fraction of an inch away. You stared into her eyes, feeling something inside you break loose like a dam giving way.

You hated this... You hated feeling like you were nothing. Like you were just a vessel for the person you used to be.

Your Nen was gone, but you were still here. That gnawing, insatiable need to matter, to make a difference, was still there, burning quietly beneath the surface.

You took a breath, your fingers tightening around the phone still in your hand. "Alright," you whispered, almost to yourself. "Alright, I'll do it."

Mother seemed to shimmer, her form brightening slightly as if she were smiling. Her droplets swirled around you, a gentle, swirling dance of liquid light like she was encouraging you, cheering you on.

Your thumb moved over the phone screen, almost of its own accord, and you found Netero’s name again, hesitating for just a heartbeat before you pressed the call button. The phone rang once, twice, and then his voice came through—calm but expectant as if he had known you would call back.

“Y/N?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, steeling yourself, and then spoke, your voice steady. “Where is he?”

You stepped off the airship, choosing to take a more grounded approach this time. It had been so long since you walked among society; today, you wanted to feel the earth beneath your feet and hear the noise of life all around you. Normally, you would have flown in on Khan, your Seraphrid—a creature resembling a winged horse, only larger and more formidable, a loyal companion since your youth. But today felt different.

As expected, Khan had already beaten you here. His sleek, black form stood tall among the trees, his six powerful legs moving with an elegance that defied his size. His head was turned in your direction, and the two long, string-like antennae that served as his natural bridle extended, sensing your presence. They wrapped around your arm, their touch gentle but firm, syncing with the veins on the underside of your wrist. The bond was immediate, an ancient connection that required no words.

With a familiar pull, you mounted him, his raised hoof serving as a stepping stool, an unspoken offer only the two of you understood. You clicked your tongue softly, a signal you’d always used, and he responded with a low, rumbling neigh that resonated through your bones.

Khan didn’t need instructions. He read your intentions through the link you shared, feeling the subtle shifts in your thoughts and emotions. He began to trot into the dense forest, guided by your thoughts alone, the rhythm of his steps matching the cadence of your heartbeat.

Netero had informed you that the young man, the one you were to meet, was training in these woods. He had given you the young man’s contact information, though he had been elusive with any real details. When you had pressed for more information, Netero had only chuckled, his words tinged with mystery: “You’ll see...”

Typical of him to leave you to uncover the truth on your own, to dig up the bone yourself, like always. As Khan weaved through the thick underbrush, you found yourself wondering about this boy. What was it about him that had made Netero reach out to you after all this time? What was so special that it warranted pulling you back into this world?

The dense forest began to thin, opening into a sun-dappled clearing. Khan slowed to a gentle canter, his antennae twitching as if sensing something ahead. You felt it too—a presence, quiet yet intense, like a heartbeat echoing through the trees.

This had to be the place. As you dismounted, Khan’s gaze remained fixed forward, his body tense and alert. You patted his side, reassuring him, and he relaxed slightly, though his eyes never wavered from whatever lay beyond the clearing.

You took a deep breath, feeling the familiar stir of curiosity and something deeper—something that felt like the whisper of purpose reigniting within you. Stepping forward, you moved into the clearing, ready to meet the young man Netero had sent you to find, ready to face whatever awaited you on the other side.

You dismounted slowly, your feet sinking into the damp earth as the coolness of the soil crept up through your boots, grounding you in the present moment. The clearing before you stretched wide, dappled sunlight breaking through the thick canopy above, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the forest floor. The air was thick with the scent of moss and earth, a living, breathing presence around you. Khan stood tall beside you, his powerful form coiled with restrained energy, his antennae twitching in tune with the undercurrent of tension that rippled from you like a stone dropped in water.

Ahead, the low murmur of voices reached your ears, punctuated by the rhythmic clack of wood striking wood and the sharp rustle of leaves disturbed by quick, deliberate movements. You moved forward slowly, cautiously, each step bringing the sounds into sharper clarity. As you reached the edge of the clearing, you paused, taking in the scene before you.

Two figures moved with practiced grace, their forms entwined in a dance of combat, their bodies speaking a language of strength and discipline. One of them, tall and broad-shouldered, had a presence that radiated intensity and control—Izunavi, a hunter you had known from years ago. His sharp, unwavering gaze and the calm precision of his movements marked him as a hunter, one who had taught countless others the art of survival.

But it was the boy who drew your attention.

He was younger than you had imagined, his golden hair catching the sunlight like a halo, his eyes narrowed in concentration, a fierce determination burning in their depths. His posture was taut, muscles coiled and ready, every motion calculated and precise as he mirrored Izunavi’s steps, his gaze never faltering, never leaving his mentor for even a heartbeat. His body moved with the grace of a predator, but there was a tension there—a rawness, a desperation that was almost painful to watch.

So this was Kurapika.

Your breath caught in your throat. It was like staring into a ghost, a specter of who you had once been—a younger self, with that same consuming fire, that same drive, that same reckless need to prove something to a world that had never shown mercy. You recognized the look in his eyes immediately. You had seen it in your reflection, in the faces of those you had saved and those you had failed. The beast of burden lay heavy in his gaze, the weight of vengeance familiar darkness that seemed to clutch at his very soul.

He was still a child. Just as you had been—a child thrust into a world too cruel and too vast, carrying a burden too heavy for shoulders so young. You lingered in the shadows, your heart tightening in your chest, a sense of foreboding curling in your gut. Finally, you decided to step forward, your presence pressing through the air like a ripple in still water.

Izunavi’s movements stilled. He sensed you first, his eyes flickering toward you, his expression a mask of calm neutrality, though you saw the faint recognition behind his eyes. His stance eased, a subtle acknowledgment. Kurapika followed his gaze, turning to face you, and the intensity of his scrutiny hit you like a blow—a look so piercing it seemed to strip away layers, searching, demanding answers before he even spoke.

“Master,” Izunavi greeted, his tone respectful but carrying a hint of something harder beneath. "Netero told me you might be dropping by."

"Y/N," you corrected, voice soft but firm. Each syllable felt heavy in your mouth, burdened by the memories of your past. You inclined your head slightly, stepping fully into the clearing, moving with purpose, though a knot tightened in your stomach. "It’s been a while, Izunavi," you said, your voice sounding almost foreign to your ears. "I see you’ve taken on another pupil."

Izunavi nodded. "One with a special kind of determination," he replied, a note of pride softening his otherwise stern demeanor. He glanced at Kurapika, who stood like a coiled spring, ready to snap. "Kurapika, this is Y/N L/N—once known as Master Hunter, The Great Hunter, the Hound of the Hunters… too many names to count."

Kurapika’s eyes widened slightly at the sound of your name. Recognition flickered across his features—his expression shifting from curiosity to something deeper, something darker. You could almost see the thoughts racing behind his gaze, the questions forming, and the curiosity and anger mingling in a storm of emotion.

Netero had left you a note from the first examiner of the 287th Hunter Exam: "Kurapika Kurta said he wishes to become a Hunter to exact revenge on the Phantom Troupe and seek aid from the Master Hunter." The Phantom Troupe, a name you had only heard in passing, a whisper of a threat, a gang too small to matter back then. But now, seeing Kurapika’s face, you realize how much had changed and how much you had missed.

“Where were you that day?” Kurapika’s voice was low but steady, each word laced with a simmering rage that seemed barely contained. "I read stories about you... Master Hunter, the one who made crime vanish like mist before the sun. When my people were slaughtered, I didn’t fear, because I knew—you would come. You would hunt them down for me."

The pain in his voice was like a knife twisting in your chest. “I waited years for you! Held onto that hope until I had no choice but to become the hunter I needed.”

His voice cracked, but the fury within it did not waver. "You let them walk this earth after what they did to me... to my people." His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white, his breath ragged. And then you saw it—the flash of scarlet behind his gray contacts, the burning rage of his clan's curse, the anger and grief all mixed into one volatile storm.

A lump formed in your throat, and you swallowed hard against it. The weight of his accusation bore down on you like a physical force. In your absence, the world had shifted and twisted, and you had been powerless to stop it. You had lost your Nen that day, the day you had lost everything.

That’s why you weren’t there.

The same beast of burden now latched onto him had once latched onto you. You had failed him, and his words cut deep into whatever was left of your fractured soul. If only you had known... If only you had hunted them when they were small, a mere whisper of a threat. If only…

But you hadn’t. And now you were facing the result of that failure.

Your silence hung heavy in the air. You felt the burn in your eyes, the sting in your throat, and the weight of every decision and every choice you had made that led to this moment. There was nothing you could say to erase the pain in his eyes—the sense of betrayal that seemed to radiate from him like heat.

Kurapika's expression hardened, his jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing to slits. “I need justice,” he said, his voice colder now, like a blade drawn against a stone.

You drew a deep breath, fighting against the rising tide of emotion within you. “Justice is a fine line, Kurapika,” you replied quietly, meeting his gaze with a steady resolve. “And revenge can blur it until you don’t know which side you’re on.”

His jaw clenched, his eyes burning with a mixture of fury and something deeper—something fragile and almost broken. He turned away, shoulders tense, his footsteps heavy, as if carrying the weight of the world on his back. A part of you wanted to reach out, to stop him, to pull him back from the edge. But you knew better than to force it. He had to find his way, just as you had.

“Kurap-” Izunavi began, his voice edged with concern, but you raised a hand, silencing him. Your eyes remained on Kurapika’s retreating form, watching as he disappeared into the trees, swallowed by the shadows.

“Let him go,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath. "I’ll talk to him later... once he’s cooled off."

Izunavi hesitated but finally nodded, trusting your judgment. You stared into the forest where Kurapika had vanished, the weight of his words still heavy on your heart. You knew that if he continued on this path, it would lead only to more pain and more loss. You weren’t sure you could bear to watch someone else descend into the same darkness that had swallowed you whole.

You had to try for his sake and yours.

“How far is he in his Nen?” you asked, breaking the stillness. Izunavi turned, his expression solemn.

“He's a determined, quick learner, but he’s already made those terrible vows for his Nen ability. It’s been five months since he started, and he’s planning something for September 1st.”

Next month, you thought. Not much time. “Is it related to the Troupe?”

“Positive.” Izunavi’s response was immediate; his voice edged with tension.

You sighed deeply, feeling the familiar heaviness in your chest. Another lost child, another soul standing at a precipice. The memory of the children from Meteor City flickered in your mind—those small, eager faces filled with both mischief and hope. Even now, you could remember the way they looked up to you, their eyes wide with wonder and something more—something like belief.

Chrollo, Feitan, Phinks—all those troublemakers who had once felt like yours in some way despite being the same age. You had often wondered where they were now, how life had treated them, and if they had stayed on the path you had hoped for them. Maybe, when all of this was over, you’d find them again. Just to see. Just to know.

Izunavi’s voice pulled you back. “His vows are monstrous, Y/N. I don’t know what he sacrificed, but his chains are still out of control. He’s powerful, but he can’t command them yet.”

“Chains?” You repeated, an eyebrow arching in surprise. “That’s his ability?”

Izunavi nodded gravely. “Yes. He wants to bind the spiders to hell with them.”

A small, amused laugh slipped past your lips, as that did sound like something he would say. Then your expression turned serious. “Izunavi… I’ve lost my Nen. If I decide to teach this boy, will you be my eyes?”

Izunavi blinked, momentarily stunned, but he quickly nodded, his gaze steady and filled with a new understanding. “I will,” he promised softly. “But... are you ready for this?”

You took a breath, the weight of your own words settling within you. “I wasn’t Netero’s best hunter just because of my Nen.”

You could still feel Nen, even Mother’s Nen whenever she came to you, like a whisper at the back of your mind, a gentle reminder of the power that once flowed through you like a river. You hadn’t lost your instincts—if anything, losing your Nen had sharpened them. It was like losing a sense and gaining another. You could feel things now, in ways that other Nen users couldn’t—like sensing the shift in the air before a storm.

Izunavi hesitated for a moment, then spoke again, his voice a little softer, a little more unsure. “Y/N, you can do it? Teach him? With your Nen gone…?”

You looked at him, a small smile playing on your lips. “I can.”

Izunavi seemed to consider your words, then nodded again, more firmly this time. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll be your eyes.”

Your gaze drifted toward the direction where Kurapika had stormed off, your thoughts tangled with the past and the present. You knew the path he was on—you had been there yourself once. And you didn’t want Kurapika to stain his hands as you had stained yours, even if it was for what you believed was “good.”

If you could help him find another way—if you could keep his hands clean, you would. You were willing to stain yours all over again for the sake of keeping him from the blood that had already marked too many lives.

You had to operate in his shadow. Teaching Kurapika while also trying to beat him to the Phantom Troupe would be no easy task—especially if you had to do it behind his back. There was still so much you didn’t know. The years you spent disconnected from society left gaps in your knowledge. You couldn’t deny it, and the thought made you clench your fist. At least you could still rely on the physical strength of the L/N bloodline—but even that might not be enough. What if the Phantom Troupe’s Nen abilities were stronger than you anticipated? If they were all together, no matter how much experience you had, they could easily overwhelm you by sheer numbers.

What if you couldn’t protect Kurapika? The thought sent a shiver up your spine.

This was a mess just waiting to explode.

Izunavi watched you quietly, sensing the shift in your mood, the old scars being reopened, and the new purpose forming in your heart. You felt the stirrings of a familiar resolve—a quiet, burning fire that refused to go out.

“Let’s start now,” you said, meeting Izunavi’s gaze with a calm but determined look. “We have until September 1st. I won’t let him fall.”

You followed Kurapika as the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink. Shadows lengthened, and the woods grew quieter, the sounds of the day's creatures giving way to the night’s. You had given him time—enough time, you hoped—for his anger to cool and for his heart to steady. But you knew that the embers of rage didn’t die so easily; they could smolder for a long, long time.

You found him near the lake, sitting against a tree with his knees pulled up, his blonde hair catching the last rays of sunlight like threads of gold. He stared blankly ahead, lost in thought, his face a mask of quiet resolve. You watched him for a moment from a distance, letting your presence be felt without imposing yourself. You knew words wouldn’t be enough—not yet, not for a boy with a fresh wound.

Slowly, you made your way toward him, moving carefully and deliberately, leaving space for him to turn you away if he chose. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t push you away either. That, in itself, was something. You took a seat beside him, leaving enough distance between the two of you to let him feel unpressured but close enough that your presence was felt. You let the silence stretch, understanding that sometimes it was the only thing that could truly speak.

After a while, you finally broke the silence, your voice soft, almost tentative. "You want to hunt the Troupe, right?"

Kurapika didn’t move at first, his eyes still fixed on the water. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but resolved. “I don’t have a choice.”

The words hung between you, heavy with finality. You have heard that before, spoken in different ways by different people. It was always the same. A choice made in desperation, when the soul felt trapped by the past, by the need to correct something that could never truly be fixed.

“You always have a choice,” you replied softly, your tone neither reprimanding nor coddling. It was simply a statement of fact.

Kurapika shifted, his hands tightening around his knees. “Not when it comes to this. Not when it comes to them.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, studying the lines of tension etched across his young face. He was still so young—too young for this kind of rage to live so deeply inside him. But rage wasn’t something that cared for age, wisdom, or even reason. You knew that better than anyone.

“They took everything from me,” he continued, his voice harder now, laced with bitterness. “Everything. My family, my home, my future. I can’t just let that go!”

You exhaled slowly, a quiet sigh that was lost in the soft rustle of the wind through the trees. “Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting,” you said gently. “It doesn’t mean forgiving either. But this path you’re walking... It’s not just about revenge anymore. It’s about who you become at the end of it.”

Kurapika’s eyes flicked toward you then, sharp and wary like he was expecting a lecture he’d heard a thousand times before. But you weren’t here to preach.

“I’m not asking you to stop,” you clarified, your gaze still on the water, the gentle waves reflecting the dying light. “I know that’s not an option for you. But you need to be careful, Kurapika. Rage has a way of consuming everything in its path. It’ll burn through you if you’re not careful. Until there’s nothing left of the person you used to be.”

He was silent for a moment, absorbing your words. The tension in his body hadn’t lessened, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—uncertainty, perhaps. Or maybe it was understanding.

“I can control it,” he said, his voice quieter now, but the determination in it was unmistakable. “I have to.”

You nodded slightly, acknowledging his resolve. “Control is important. But you also need balance. Power without purpose is dangerous, even to yourself.”

Kurapika frowned, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Purpose? My purpose is to kill them.”

You turned to face him fully then, your eyes locking onto his. “And after that? What happens when they’re gone? What’s left for you?”

The question caught him off guard. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. For a moment, the hard façade he had built around himself seemed to crack, and you saw the lost boy beneath. A boy who had lost everything and didn’t know how to live without his hatred to guide him.

“That’s why I’m here,” you continued, your voice softening. “I’ve walked this path before. I know where it leads. If you’re not careful, you’ll reach the end of it and find that nothing is waiting for you on the other side. Nothing but emptiness.”

Kurapika’s hands slowly unclenched, his fingers tracing the edge of his sleeves as if grounding himself in the present moment. He didn’t say anything, but you could see the conflict in his eyes.

You reached out then, gently placing your hand on his shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort. “I’m not saying this to stop you,” you said, your voice low, almost a whisper. “But I am saying you need to think about what comes next. After the bloodshed. After the vengeance. What will you be left with?”

Kurapika lowered his head, the weight of your words sinking in. The silence stretched between you again, but this time it wasn’t filled with tension. It was a moment of quiet reflection.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted, his voice barely audible.

You gave a small nod, squeezing his shoulder lightly before pulling your hand back. “That’s okay. You don’t have to know yet. Just... don’t lose yourself in the process.”

For a long moment, Kurapika didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the ground, deep in thought. When he finally looked up, there was a new clarity in his eyes, though the fire still burned there, too. He wasn’t ready to let go of his vengeance, but at least now he was starting to see the danger in letting it consume him completely.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, his voice steady but quieter than before.

You nodded again, satisfied for now. It was a start. He would need time to fully understand what you meant, but at least the seed had been planted. And as much as you wanted to protect him from the pain of the path he was walking, you knew he had to walk it for himself. All you could do was guide him along the way.

As the last traces of daylight disappeared from the sky, you stood up, brushing the dirt from your pants. “Come on,” you said, offering him a hand. “Let’s head back before it gets too dark.”

Kurapika hesitated for a moment before accepting your hand, pulling himself up to his feet. He stood beside you, his gaze lingering on the horizon for just a moment longer before he nodded, turning to follow you back toward the camp.

As you walked side by side, the soft sounds of the night surrounding you, you couldn’t help but glance at him, the weight of the future heavy between you both.

The journey was far from over...

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