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hoseoksluna · 6 months ago

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THE BALL OF LIGHT, i. | myg, jjk

pairing: friend!jeongguk x fem!oc (ft. brother!yoongi)

genre: fluff

word count: 2.9k

summary: life of other people never mirrored yours and jeon jeongguk will never be yours, either.

pin: ball of light / taglist: join / discord: join / masterlist: run

cp: ao3 / wp

warnings: smoking, suggestive but not described thoughts of nudity, pessimism, orphancy / the members in this series are fictional.

note: everybody, welcome the new series. it is a multiple member-centered fanfic, so the names you see in the title don't necessarily mean the pairing is endgame or anything like that. who the main love interest is will be a surprise that the fic will slowly reveal. trust the process with the first chapter. it's short on purpose and i will reveal the information and quicken the plot along the way. let me know what you think. reblogs and esp comments are mandatory unfortunately in the hoseoksluna house:/ ...... sfjsldfjsldfj ENJOY. i love u guys! should i crosspost it on wattpad? (im scared of wattpad)

… Or was his destiny from the start To be just one moment Near your heart?

(Ivan Turgenev)

— an epigraph from the book White Nights by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Your brother Yoongi was always the pair of hands that would tug your legs down whenever you would fly in your books for too long. He did it out of tender care and fatherly kindness, calling your name in order for you to come join him in the kitchen for a meal. To be some semblance of a family after the tragedy had sunk its teeth into your bloodline. And what you had never imagined was that one day, you’d have to leave him behind to step inside a dream of this very reality.

Throughout the trajectory of your girlhood, you had lived inside the worlds of your books. Classical literature that carried more depth, more leniency, despite its hardships that the characters went through, than this world. The idea of love clung to you like a second skin, one you wouldn’t really receive from the two important roles in your life because you weren’t made out of love, but would find within flowery and difficult words of another time. Digging deep and understanding made you fall in love with it, seek it in school, in the streets and inside your own home, only to look and walk past those people still empty-handed.

In spite of it all, your palms were, somehow, still heavy. As if they carried something invisible for worldly eyes.

You would see it come to life whenever you would close yourself up in your room, with your folded legs, your short hair wild and with a book on your lap. Dostoyevsky taught you that love could be found upon a fateful coincidence and it marred you in a beautiful way that was pitifully disastrous. It forced your eyes to look for it everywhere, even through the reappearing pain of disappointment, and it especially forced you to look for it at home.

The hope remained even after both of your parents went to the other side of this love, beyond this world. They passed away due to an unfair illness. And because they went at the same time, you often found yourself thinking if they loved each other in the realm of eternity, when they very seldom loved each other in this temporary realm.

Your firm, ingrained dreaminess helped you cope with the sudden silence, the aftermath of your state of orphancy. You no longer had to reread a sentence in your book a thousand times, the once screeching voices beyond the door of your bedroom shunned out, dead, but still pulsing. The walls carried the ghosts of those parental fights and Yoongi… he, in his secret sensitivity to the paranormal, braided for you a bracelet of black thread. To keep you safe from those spirits, to help you heal.

He didn’t have one of his own, and that fact faultlessly described the new role he clothed himself in within this abrupt change. He would stare at the walls with a cold gaze, threatening them with power if they ever made a sound. He sat more at the kitchen table now than he did at his music station in his room, spine hunched over a myriad of bills that would make him pull on his hair until a bald spot formed. On the left side of his head, just above his ear, where his amygdala bloomed with black flowers.

You would come home from school, glide your eyes over his bare wrist pressed to his cheek, and touch the tense muscles over his protruded shoulder blades. You saw, vividly, the way his new role tore him apart and you wanted to help him. Physically and emotionally. But Yoongi rejected your help, rejected the emotions you were so willing to smooth out and caress with the lines of your palm that knew love from the way you caressed the pages of your books. He would get up from the table, tell you to shower, and he would walk to the kitchen to prepare you a meal, a meatless one because meat was expensive. He would wash his hands in the sink, let the cold water hide the strands of hair he plucked out of stress.

He would pretend that everything was fine when in reality, nothing was fine.

Your parents didn’t leave you a dime, but they let you keep the house you and Yoongi grew up in. Left an unpaid mortgage in your hands instead of happy memories, instead of love.

But Yoongi, he showed you love. He would show it to you by the way he would boil the water for you in the beginning of yours and his orphancy because he had no money to pay for the water bill and because all the money he had saved in his boyhood was used for funeral expenses. He would show it to you by the way your plate would have meat and his wouldn’t. And he showed it to you by the way he wouldn’t allow you to find a job and financially help him, but instead told you to focus on your degree. To focus on your dream. No matter how many times you pestered him that you could find a part-time job.

No, your dreams require your full attention, he had said once, that Yoongi-coded frown shadowing his features. Go study.

And so you bowed your head and silently left, retreating into your room while contemplating in your heart that Yoongi never knew what your dreams looked like. And neither did you. Not until they showed up right in front of you.

It is a time perfumed by the upcoming winter, the November time of the present. Frost has been kissing each corner of glass one would stumble across in the city of Seoul, decorating it with its affection using its snowflakes. It’s what you’re looking at, perched with your shivering form on the bus stop with the only friend you ever had in your lifetime.

Or a so-called friend. You don’t think you would use the term friendship with a guy like Jeongguk.

He represented the unattainable aspect in the books you’ve read. The goal that hasn’t yet been reached. The agonized yearning that hangs by a thread around the character’s life. He embodied the aspect of pain itself—because if life had been a little kinder to you, he would be yours.

Life, however, isn’t kind.

Life is realistic.

You met the boy at a wrong time in his life. Passing by him on the stairway of your high school, you caught him in a tense, yet volatile situation of an emotional kind. Spring, still reminiscent of winter, had wrapped itself around your nineteen years of age, and you, dreaming a strange dream that you couldn’t wake up from, ran late for your class. You hadn’t spoken to him prior this fateful day, though you knew of his existence. He was just a background character that you didn’t pay any attention to until he blazed up with life and the sparks of sensitivity on that empty staircase. And you couldn’t take the other way; you couldn’t turn around and miss the class. You had to walk by him and his girlfriend at the time while they were in the middle of an argument that shook through the echo of the space.

You walked by them, but the encounter changed your life. It changed your life because Jeongguk’s cheeks were tearstained, glistening in the uncanny white of the staircase. His eyes were fixed on yours, his eyelashes wet and long—prettily, so terribly prettily. You quietly apologized, running up the stairs as rapidly as you could, and his eyes did not leave yours until you were out of his view. And then you heard the shuffling of feet and where there was an absolute turmoil, silence replaced it.

Jeongguk found you that very day.

Alarm was eclipsed over those puffy eyes, his eyelashes no longer wet, but still long, so terribly pretty. You were on your way out, exiting the building, when he grabbed a hold of your backpack, stopping you from disappearing. And when you gazed back with absolute horror, your short bob swishing around you, Jeongguk smiled a soft half-smile, which thinned out that negative emotion—as if he did it on purpose, not wanting to scare you.

What’s your name? he started with a question, his shoulders slouched and drooping, an evident tiredness misting him in a drowsy aura. His voice was strained, bubbling in his throat as if he either screamed his vocal cords raw or didn’t speak for a while, choosing silence. Both options turned your heart upside down, painfully. You felt a greater pity for him than you ever have for someone in your lifetime—and that was the beginning of all your firsts with him.

When you said your name, Jeongguk averted his gaze and nodded his head. You expected him to ask you which year you were born, but he kept his eyes low as he uttered the words, which made your pity for him grow into a bare tree with just one twig, a seemingly singular wing, within you.

I don’t know how much you heard, but Ka-eun didn’t do anything wrong. It was a misunderstanding and I would appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.

You had heard a female screaming, seething voice, but due to your sleepy state, you hadn’t made out what those words actually were. But remembering the tears dripping off of his lashes, you realized how hurtful those words thrown at his must had been. And while you thought about this all, Jeongguk took your hand, pried open your fingers and fished out of his pocket a small banana milk.

Ka-eun, the it-girl of the high school. Jeongguk protected her reputation, in spite of the fact that she didn’t deserve it at all.

That was the kind of person Jeongguk was.

It wasn’t the only encounter you had with him. He would smile at you and greet you while passing you in the halls. Would put banana milks sometimes on your desk early in the morning. Would sit beside you at lunch when he wasn’t on speaking terms with her. And he would confide in you while knowing nothing about you.

That’s the reason why you can’t call your intertwinement with Jeongguk a friendship. Certainly not, after the person he became when uni life spread its roots in yours and his and he chose the one opposite of yours.

The faculty of medicine stood facing your faculty of philosophy and literature, and Jeongguk, wearing his green scrubs and his oversized hoodie, would meet you during lunch breaks, insisting that you spend it together because he didn’t know anyone else and he was too anxious to meet new people because of what Ka-eun put him through.

But Jeongguk didn’t eat. Not so much like he used to.

The trauma and the difficulty of his field forced him to turn to cigarettes. And him blowing out the smoke the other way so you don’t inhale it while eating your lunch made another twig, another wing begin to grow on your tree within your chest for him.

You didn’t love him, but he was kind to you and he meant something to you. You never loved a man, besides Yoongi and Dostoyevsky. And Jungkook puffing out the smoke like that, he reflected Yoongi and his brotherly love for you in a way that made you dream. Dream about a romantic love that everyone else seems to have so easily, except for you. About that romantic love you read about in your favorite Dostoyevsky book White Nights.

But perhaps the affinity you had for Jeongguk was some kind of love that the books haven’t written about, at least later on. A kind of non-romantic love that you, yourself, came up with. A love that meant nothing in this world, but everything to you. A love that blazed up like the tip of Jeongguk’s cigarette that he lit up for you at the beginning of autumn of this year, letting you try it out just because he felt like it.

Another first that has become a habit.

You didn’t have money of your own to spend it on packs of cigarettes, but Jeongguk did. And he’s never been the kind of person who was stingy. He would give himself if he could, and it completes him—the act of giving and the other person’s response of receiving.

His eyes burst with light at this very moment, a few months later, just like they did the first time when he lit up a cigarette for you. Though this time, you don’t need his help. You feel their heat, in the middle of this frosty bus stop, as he watches you place the cigarette he pulled up from his pack for you, his own hanging from his lips, unlit. He always waits for you to light up your own first like the gentleman he is, but something about his gaze is different. You sense their intensity, their foreign, foreign intensity that you don’t think is meant for you. And when you take that first puff, you expect it to leave you—like you’ve learned that it always does—but for some reason it doesn’t.

There’s depth to the eye contact once you reciprocate it. Murkiness descends upon the pair of you, the sun parting ways with the day in a much quicker way that you still haven’t gotten used to. And along with it, a light layer of snow begins to fall.

Something is meaningful about it—like it should be written down. Jeongguk’s eyes of lingering seriousness, pensive. The snowflakes that settle upon his ebony hair. How silky they must be to the touch. Always so poofy and voluminous.

Your hands itch to write and Jeongguk doesn’t ask for his pink lighter back. He merely keeps staring, and you start to think that maybe something is weighing his heart heavily. Something personal that he will soon pour out. Like he always does.

You’re the listener, never the talker, but something inside you urges you, strangely, to make the first move. Get him talking, get him smoking, so he can go home, go to bed and awake with a fresh consciousness, ready to be filled with anatomy, sicknesses and all the other stuff he needs to cram.

The hand that longs to write lifts, and it feels natural. It feels natural to flick your thumb on the lighter and call fire to life. It feels natural when Jeongguk purses his lips, lifting the cigarette in the process, and holds it up for you while his hands remain warm in the pockets of his oversized black jacket. It feels natural to watch him suck in, the cheeks that carry too many memories of his tears hollowing out.

And for a second that is too brief, you let your soul imagine what it would be like… to have Jeongguk as your boyfriend.

To have the full, ceaseless measure of his love. The one that is meant for the better people, but not for you.

To have his hands touch your skin in a way that would convey what he feels for you—

“Have you told your brother yet?”

Too, too brief, that second. Internally, you take your imagination and sew it shut with a pink thread. Pastel pink, like his lighter.

The question aches as if you pricked your heart with the needle. You haven’t told Yoongi that you smoke one cigarette a day with a boy after school. You haven’t even told your journal. All in fear that the only life you ever managed to experience out of the realm of your books would simply disperse, never to be found again.

In fear that Yoongi would be mad and you’d add another layer of stress on top of his already high pile. In fear that he would yell at you like your father did over meaningless things.

“No,” you respond, softly, dropping your gaze to the ashy tip of your cigarette, flicking it off. The prickling sensation deepens as the iciness of the weather grows. You shiver, sighing. The tree in you does as well. “I’ll never tell him. Never—”

“Never in a million years,” he finishes for you, and your mouth parts in the overwhelming realization that you were wrong.

Jeongguk does know something about you. He remembers that this is a sentence that repeats in your vocabulary multiple times a day. And there’s such intimacy to it, him knowing this, him finishing the sentence for you, him being educated in the matter that bears your name.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps you’re too starved of any male attention, love and touch.

Your imagination in you fights against the seam.

“What happens if he sees you?” Jeongguk asks, and you pause before replying. Take a puff of your cigarette, watch as a miniscule star of mischief begins to live within the macadamia chocolate of his eyes—as if the principle of him secretly corrupting you utterly enthralls him. You picture that’s what he smells like underneath all those clothes of his, your imagination poking a finger through the seam. And you let it—you let it grasp you because it’s stronger than you.

Macadamia, musk, cedarwood.

The kind of lustful smell that is dark to the sight, but innocent in its core.

Behind him, the blue murkiness fully evens out, no hint of the sun’s coloring painting its corners with positivity. Pessimism abides, and you feel it burying itself into your literature-woven bones.

You’ve been waiting twenty minutes for the bus, Jeongguk even longer for his. The roads are long and empty, darkening the longer you stand here. The snow forms a firm layer on the ground, and you already anticipate Yoongi’s anger-infused worry, crawling all over you.

You turn to look at Jeongguk, your blood flow at full halt.

“War happens, Jeongguk,” you say, swallowing thickly. “If Yoongi and I see each other outside of the walls of our house.”

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth , @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights

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bet-on-me-13 · 2 years ago

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The one where Bruce is the asshole (again)

So! We have a typical story where the JLA finds out about the Situation in Amity.

Whichever way they find out doesn't matter, but either way they end up sending Batman to do a threat analysis and review of whether this requires their attention.

And while there, he runs into a Kid who obviously needs to be saved from his Abusive Home. Look at him, he's far too thin, his grades are horrible, he has many unexcused absences, and he has bruises hidden under his clothes.

Even after figuring out that Danny is Phantom the local Hero, he thinks Danny needs to be saved from his Parents.

I mean, it's plain to see! They Hates Ghosts with a Passion, negelct their son very often, shoot at him nearly every day, and are probably the ones who killed him in the first place!

So, with no input from Danny himself, Bruce calls CPS on the Fentons and uses his Wealth to expedite the process and avoid the actual Investigation. (I mean, why would you even need one? It's so obviously a bad home!)

The Fenton's are arrested, and Bruce reveals that Danny is Phantom to convince the Courts that they are horrible people for shooting at their own son, and that they should be locked up (ignoring the horrified looks on their faces, probably cause they were living with a Ghost for so long, thats probably why).

He immediately offers to adopt Danny, even when Danny vehemently refuses his offer. He knows that Danny will come around to it, he's doing this for his own good. He still thinks his Parents were good people, and not thr Villains they really were.

Meanwhile Danny's life has been completely uprooted thanks to the self-righteous machinations of an Adoption Crazed Fruitloop! And not even the usual one!

Sure his parents were often busy with their work, but they Always set aside time to hang out with their kids and make sure they were okay. They never abused him, the neglect was only for like a month or two when the portal before they got their act together and apologized for it, and (most importantly) THEY DIDN'T KNOW he was a Halfa when they shot at him! They only found out when the ASSHOLE revealed his Identity in Court!

And Danny is Extra enraged by that part. The Adoption Crazed Fruitloop had revealed his secret identity for the ENTIRE WORLD TO HEAR!

He would never be able to live a normal life anymore, even if he managed to get away from the Moron who caused all this!

Bruce Wayne was a Villain in his eyes.

He ripped him from his home and from his family (basically kidnapped), revealed his identity to the world so he was forced to stay with him for fear of the GIW, and spun the whole story so that it looked like he was the Good Guy in this!?

It was official. Danny Hates Bruce Wayne, possibly more than anyone else in the World.

And that's a High Bar.

#Dp x dc #Dpxdc #Dc x dp #Dcxdp #Danny Phantom #Dc #Dcu #Danny is enraged right now #It's not also not a “petty revenge” kind of rage #It's a “I will rip apart your entire life before doing the same to your very body” kind of rage #Bruce thinks he's the good guy in all this #He only exploited bis wealth to control the Courts #And forced a Family to be split up while taking the one that fit his preferences for himself #And revealed the identity of a Teenage Vigilante to the entire world basically condemning him if he ever leaves the Manor again #Also revealing him to the Government Organization that has dedicated its very existence to murdering him and his entire Race #He's the Good Guy no doubt about it #Jason disagrees #He can see exactly how much hatred Danny has in his eyes when he looks at Bruce #He sympathizes #Danny will probably try to murder Bruce in his sleep #The League thinks Batman found an abused child and took him in #They only know what Bruce told them but when the Question comes forward with the evidence from his OWN investigation?#Well...questions will be raised

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star-crossed-fates · 28 days ago

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Even My Damnation Spells Your Name

Chapter 7: Written in My Pulse

Synopsis: In a city of steel and stars, you fall in love with a man the world calls a monster. He looks at you like you’ve haunted every life he’s ever lived. Sylus is danger wrapped in silk, secrets stitched into every glance, every touch, every word spoken like a spell. He’s yours before you even realize what you’re remembering.

Because this isn’t the first time.

Dreams unravel you. Memories not your own. A dragon’s death cry. A kiss beneath bloodied skies. A love too eternal to stay buried. As the past bleeds into the present, you begin to piece together the truth. Some memories burn brighter than the stars, others wound deeper than any blade.

And love, no matter how timeless, always demands a price.

Pairing: Female! MC [Named] x Sylus

Rating: Explicit 18+ [MDNI]

Spoilers: Sylus's myth cards/memories. Please note: memories might be a little different than from game for story purposes.

Warnings: NSFW, Explicit smut, including various kinks: Praise, degradation talk, first time, CP, DP, anal sex/play, probably some Dragon!Sylus smut, maybe a lot of it. Many, many more that I'm forgetting to list. Consider yourself warned. - Unlikely to be completely canon. - MC is named. Her personality is darker than in the game, far more morally grey. - Switching between MC's memories/dreams/flashbacks and current timeline. - Other love interests will not show up in this. - Some plot, but not super planned out. Basically, this is a "what if the closer they became, the more MC remembers her life with him on Philos.

You don’t belong here. The thought cycles for the third time as you sip on a flute of champagne that tastes like carbonated disappointment. Gold glitter swirls in the glass because someone somewhere decided that Linkon’s high society needed their drinks to shimmer like fairy vomit.

Nina leans into your side, grinning like she’s just found the last donut at a debrief. You’re both tucked away in a corner like delinquents at a school function. The ballroom is polished marble, decadent chandeliers, and people with names like Worthington and Deveraux discussing fiscal policy and post-Wanderer tax relief. Truly thrilling stuff.

Some wear supposedly symbolic masks, but all you can think about is how the real masks are the invisible ones, plastered in false smiles and manicured charm.

Ethan appears before you like a bad rerun, smile too wide and tie too tight. You sigh internally.

“Anira, hey!” He greets an octave too high, clearly a few drinks in. “Didn’t think I’d find you all the way over here in the… anti-social corner.”

Nina slides away with a whisper of, “Good luck,” and you silently curse her betrayal.

Ethan leans in too close. “You look incredible tonight. That dress—wow. Didn’t know Hunters cleaned up this well.”

“I clean up just fine when threatened with mandatory attendance and department-wide guilt-tripping.”

He laughs, missing the dry edge in your tone. “You know, they’ve got this whole garden terrace upstairs. Real quiet. Real private.”

You blink at him. “That sounds like a terrible place to get murdered.”

He falters, smile wilting, but rallies. “I was just saying—”

“Ethan,” you interrupt gently, “I appreciate the compliment, but I’m not looking for a terrace murder or a slow dance. I’m just here for the open bar and my annual quota of forced social interaction.”

He opens his mouth again, but you’ve already turned back to your drink, tilting it toward him slightly. “Cheers.”

Ethan slinks away, leaving you in blessed silence, or at least the closest thing to it in a ballroom filled with violins and champagne flutes. You catch yourself staring into the glittered fizz, the sound around you fading like fog against the tide.

Days have bled forward, but a name-shaped shadow stretched across your spine continues to cling. His voice still murmurs in the silence between heartbeats, echoing down a corridor of thought that shouldn’t exist.

You’ve turned it over in your mind until it splintered beneath the pressure of logic. Truth is circling just out of reach, coiled and waiting, and whatever it is, it doesn’t feel small.

It feels seismic.

There’s a tremor threading below your skin, as though some ancient part of you is beginning to stir, rising slowly from where it’s slept in the hollowed chambers of your bones.

Even now, his voice lingers in your chest, curling like smoke through the latticework of your ribs, as if your body were built to echo him. Whatever that was—whatever it still is—etched itself into the architecture of your mind, a scar that glows when you breathe too deep.

You shift your weight, heels biting into your ankles with the elegance of a slow betrayal. Across the ballroom, Nina is contorting her face into a tragedy of epic proportions behind a flute of champagne. You stifle a laugh with a breath of a smile, slanted and too tired to bloom fully.

You’re supposed to be paying attention. To the speeches. The fundraiser. The orchestral swell of ego in tuxedos. But your mind keeps backsliding back to him. He lives in the part of your brain that won’t shut up at night, the yearning that never learned to behave.

The air shifts as if the room exhales all at once and forgets how to breathe back in. Everyone's attention snaps to the ballroom doors as if fate has just walked in. You follow their lines of sight, but truthfully, you already know who you’re going to see.

Sylus.

Stars curse you; he looks like sin dressed in shadow. Tailored black suit, the kind that drinks the light and kisses every sharp line of him. Silver hair styled like moonlight frozen mid-fall. Those eyes burning infernal, steady as eclipses, unbothered by the sea of teeth and secrets around him as if he’s already named every threat in the room and deemed them unworthy.

He looks like a god built for ruin.

He walks toward you without breaking stride. Every movement is smooth, intentional, and unapologetically lethal, like he could waltz his way into heaven or hell, and neither would dare stop him.

Nina appears by your side, staring at him with a kind of reverent awe. She leans toward you, eyes wide. “Anira… Is that him?”

You don’t answer, because Sylus is already standing in front of you with a little curve of his mouth that makes the room fall away. “Evening, hope I’m not late.”

Before your brain can even attempt a reboot, Nina barrels past you like a one-woman stampede. “Oh my god,” she exclaims, grabbing his hand like she’s meeting a celebrity. “You’re him, aren’t you?”

Sylus raises an elegant brow. “Him?”

“The mystery guy Anira’s been daydreaming about! The one she’s been doodling in the margins of her reports and drooling over during briefings—”

It comes out in one long, horrifying breath. You make a very specific, strangled, soul-leaving-your-body kind of sound. You are torn between three options: Launching yourself out the nearest window. Stuffing Nina into a decorative urn. Simply dropping dead on the spot and letting the gods sort it out.

Sylus’s eyes, twin shards of garnet dusk, cut to you with a glint that dances like a secret on the edge of his mouth. “It better be me she’s been drooling over.”

Your eyes narrow, but he’s already giving you a look—half-amused, half-daring—a sidelong little tilt of the head that sends heat pooling low in your spine.

“I’ve been daydreaming about food, actually,” you say coolly, folding your arms like a shield you know won’t help. “Particularly dumplings. Very romantic dumplings.”

“Oh, I see,” he sulks, as though deeply wounded. “So I’ve been replaced by steamed carbs.”

“Not replaced,” you correct sweetly. “Just… prioritized.”

Nina looks between the two of you, grinning like she’s watching her favourite drama unfold in real time. “Oh, this is way better than what I imagined. You guys flirt like it’s a sport.”

Sylus chuckles smugly. “I do enjoy a bit of cardio.”

You shoot him a look. “Try walking home.”

Nina gives you a not-so-subtle wink and excuses herself. “I’m gonna go find more champagne and definitely not eavesdrop from ten feet away.”

She vanishes before you can stop her, leaving you alone with a man who is absolutely going to ruin your night in the most spectacular way possible.

Sylus leans in just a little, just enough for only you to hear. “Dumplings, huh?”

“Don’t you have a zone to rule?”

He grins. “Later. Right now, I’m prioritizing.”

You stand there with your arms still crossed, trying to recalibrate while he towers over you like he belongs in this room and every room you’ll ever walk into.

“What are you doing here, Sylus?”

His eyes sweep across your face slowly, and you’re painfully aware of how close he is. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he states.

You open your mouth to protest, but… you have. You’ve buried yourself in reports, doubled your hours at the range, and even let Nina drag you to a yoga class that almost snapped your spine in half just to keep your mind away from silver hair, red eyes, and the memories that are not your own.

He tilts his head slightly. “So I thought I’d come to you.”

Your heart gives a stupid lurch in your chest, and not even your snarky reflexes can save you fast enough. “Risky move,” you manage. “This room is full of Hunters.”

He shrugs, elegant and unbothered. “I’m not worried.” His expression shifts. Quietly, like it slips out before he can think better of it, he admits, “I wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

It hits you right in the sternum. You blink, stunned for half a second. Of course, that’s when fate decides to intervene.

“Anira,” your name drops like a threat.

You flinch.

Ethan. You can already smell the whisky on his breath before he’s in range. He’s not sloshed, but he’s definitely had enough to inflate his ego to critical mass.

He zeroes in on Sylus, shoulders squaring like a cat puffing its fur. “This guy bothering you?”

Sylus straightens from his lean, smooth-as-poured-silk. “Not yet. Should I be?"

“You her boyfriend?” Ethan sneers.

You cough loudly, stepping between them before Ethan combusts from sheer alpha energy. “Alright, that’s enough testosterone for one evening.”

Ethan glares but backs off a little, muttering under his breath about needing another drink. Sylus watches him with amused pity, like a wolf indulging a housecat that thinks it’s a lion.

“Was that the part where I was supposed to be intimidated?” he asks mildly.

“Don’t tease him,” you grumble. “He’s harmless.”

“Mm. He wanted to fight me with his feelings.”

You snort. “You’re such an ass.”

“Only when it works,” he retorts, offering you his hand. “Dance with me?”

The moment your fingers brush, it’s like flipping a switch. The ballroom narrows to a single thread of gravity, and you’re caught in the pull. One of his hands finds the small of your back, the other cradles your fingers with maddening reverence, as if holding a live flame he’s dying to be burned by.

It’s entirely appropriate. Chaste even. It still makes your thighs press together under your dress. He sets your skin alight, nerves singing in tongues you never learned but suddenly understand. The music is slow and classic, but his fingers drift just enough to keep your skin buzzing.

It’s the kind of wanting that lives in marrow, that speaks in the language of forgotten nights and what-if dreams. Your traitorous mind can’t stop imagining the ruin of your name on his lips, shattered on pleasure, spat like sin, or moaned like prayer.

Either would wreck you.

You catch your lower lip with your teeth, and his eyes dip like you’ve whispered scripture. The space between you vanishes one stolen breath at a time.

Sylus moves like he’s written this rhythm into his blood. Every shift of his frame is perfectly measured, like he’s dancing along the edge of a blade and daring you to fall. His thumb traces a lazy circle in that tender hollow where your spine curves inward, a single motion that steals every coherent thought from your skull.

Your pulse hammers, frantic. Your breath stutters, catching like it’s tangled in lace. You’re dizzy with want, drunk on proximity. You wonder if he knows and is enjoying every second of your undoing.

You tilt your head back to meet his gaze and immediately wish you hadn’t. His eyes catch the chandelier light like garnets left too long in the sun, dark and burning, swallowing the fire whole. There’s hunger in them, old and barely leashed, that doesn’t ask permission. It prowls through your thoughts, curling into the hollow places you pretend don’t ache for him.

His thumb brushes a fraction lower, and your knees go weak. You curse these heels. You curse this dress. You curse the way your body is learning the shape of his with terrifying ease, already memorizing every shift of his weight, every breath he draws.

He’s not even trying, and still, restraint feels like a dying language on your tongue. You long to kiss him until the world forgets its name. Until yours dissolves between his teeth. Until your mouth knows nothing but the shape of him—his hunger, his heat, his name said like a secret too dangerous to keep.

Your entire body is trembling with the effort it takes not to crawl into his arms and do something deeply inadvisable right here on the glossy ballroom floor, in front of half the city’s elite and at least three people who’d probably faint.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you whisper.

Sylus leans just close enough that his lips nearly brush the shell of your ear. “Only if I’m losing.”

His breath is warm, and it sends a full-body shiver down your spine. Just when your mind starts conjuring images you absolutely should not entertain in public, he pulls back slightly to search your face with a tenderness that undoes you more than anything else.

“You look beautiful tonight.” It rumbles from him, soft as midnight rain and unbearably sincere.

You laugh, a breathless sound that barely escapes your lips. “And you look like the reason women make bad decisions in hotel elevators.”

He grins, slow as sin and twice as inviting. “Then I suppose the real question is…” He leans in, “Are you planning to make any bad decisions tonight, kitten?”

Bad decisions happen to be your favourite.

The air shivers between you, charged like stormlight caught in glass. Your blood has gone molten, your skin too tight for your bones.

And your mouth?

Your mouth aches with the ghost of a kiss not yet taken, like it’s already forgotten how to be untouched.

You don’t remember the drive. Only fragments like the blur of city lights smeared across the windows, the low hum of the engine swallowed by the sound of your pulse.

But his hand, you remember. Resting on your thigh like it had always belonged there, casual in its possession, maddening in its restraint. Each idle sweep of his thumb, an unfinished sentence on your skin. The way he looked at you parked beneath the hush of a red light, like he could taste the tension and was deciding whether to bite down or let you squirm.

Now, you’re inside a mansion that feels like it stepped out of another lifetime—sleek obsidian stonework with ceilings high enough to trap stars. The moment the door clicks shut, restraint fucking shatters. You’re on him like gravity has surrendered to want, hands splayed against his chest, chasing the rhythm of his breath as if it holds the key to yours. You kiss him like hunger given shape, a raw, relentless pull that strips the air from your lungs and replaces it with heat.

He stumbles back, laughter coiled tight in his throat but never quite escaping, his spine catching the wall in the shadowed mouth of the entryway. One brow lifts, carved in smug approval, but you don’t pause to admire it.

Your mouth is already reclaiming his. He tastes like dark promises and defiance, like a man who’s never known hesitation and doesn’t plan to start now. His hands find your waist, fingers flexing once, twice, before pulling you closer, until even the breath between you is stolen and shared.

You move like your body was born knowing the weight of him, the shape of him, and how to make him falter with nothing but touch.

You’re done holding back. His suit jacket slips from his shoulders, pooling at your feet without ceremony. Your fingers dive into the buttons of his shirt, too eager to care about precision. One snaps off and skitters across the floor, and his chest trembles with the unmistakable rhythm of a smothered laugh.

“Sylus,” you murmur against his neck, “don’t start.”

“I haven’t said a word.”

“But you’re thinking loud enough to make me bite you.”

He leans in, just enough that his lips almost brush your ear. His voice is smoke and velvet and amusement edged with hunger. “Then bite.”

So you do, just above his collarbone, sharp enough to make him hiss, sharp enough to make his grip tighten.

“Fuck,” he breathes, half-laugh, half-curse. “You’re dangerous when you’re done being polite.”

You pull back, flushed and furious with wanting, the taste of him still lingering on your tongue. “I’ve been good. So good, Sylus. Letting you circle me like you’ve got all the time in the world while I burn under your hands. But I’m done playing spectator to your self-control.”

His smile could tear a lesser woman in two. “You’re ready to lose control?”

Your nails dig into the edge of his shirt. “No. I’m ready to make you lose yours.”

His breath catches, but it’s the silence that follows that undoes you. His smirk doesn’t just fade. It shatters. His crimson eyes darken, catching the low light like coals stirred from slumber, like he’s been pacing the edge of this moment for far too long, waiting for you to open the cage and invite the fall.

“If you’re going to break, then let it be against me,” he purrs, voice scraped raw. One hand finds your wrist and guides your hand slowly over his heaving chest. “Be greedy with me. Take what you want. Show me what you desire.”

He kisses you like he already knows the shape of your hunger. One hand at the back of your neck, the other splayed at your waist, anchoring you to the present even as he dismantles it. His mouth moves slowly at first, teasing, letting you lean into him with an impatience you don’t bother hiding.

You melt forward with no resistance, pressing against him like you’re desperate to blur the lines between where you end and he begins. Your hands roam across the taut landscape of his chest, memorizing every rise and hollow like scripture.

Sylus presses you into the nearest wall with intent. His lips graze your jaw, the scrape of his teeth followed by the velvet flick of his tongue at your throat. It’s a worship, indecent in how reverent it feels. A slow descent into delirium.

His fingertips trace the arc of your hips, slipping just beneath the hem of your dress as if coaxing permission from your skin. Every drag of contact kindles that feral throb that’s lived too long between your thighs.

You reach for his belt, unthreading it in a single fluid motion. His breath stutters, but he doesn’t stop you. He watches. Still. Waiting.

His eyes are fire made flesh, burning without smoke, without apology. He lets you lead, and that power in your hands is as heady as the scent of his skin.

His hands begin to rise, fingers trailing up your thigh. When he reaches the edge of where your restraint erodes, you freeze.

“Wait.”

It comes out too fast, too sharp. Your body tenses against him. Sylus stops immediately. Not just his hands, but everything. The teasing drops from his face like a veil being drawn back, revealing gentle concern.

He leans back just enough to give you space without letting go. “What’s wrong?”

You feel the words clawing at your throat—hesitating now that they’re at the edge of your tongue. Your face burns. Your hands tremble just slightly where they rest on his chest, and you hate that after being so bold, this is what trips you up.

You force the words out, fumbling, letting your eyes fall to the floor. “I haven’t… done this before.”

His fingers brush under your chin, lifting your face back to his. “Anira.” He says your name like a prayer dragged over embers. His thumb drags lightly over your lower lip, slow enough to make your stomach clench. “If you need me to go slower… or stop entirely… say the word.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want you to stop.”

He smiles, slow, molten, deliciously dangerous. “Good, because I don’t think I could.”

His mouth finds yours like a vow etched in flame. No longer a question, but the answer to every agony you’ve carried in silence. The kiss is deep and devastating, a communion that unmakes you by degrees, trading breath for longing, hesitation for fervour.

His fingers slip beneath the delicate straps of your dress, touch scorching where it lands. He traces the slope of your shoulders as though memorizing the way you unravel for him. Inch by excruciating inch, he guides the fabric down, letting it sigh to the floor.

The air bites at your exposed flesh, but you barely register the chill. His hands are already there, anchoring you to his warmth, stealing your breath before the cold can even hope to claim it.

His strong arms curve around you, and he lifts you from the ground. You cling to him out of instinct, legs curling at his waist. He carries you through the hallway without looking away, like letting go of your gaze might break the spell between you.

The bedroom door eases open with a nudge of his foot, shadows stretching across the floor in soft waves. He lays you down with care that borders on reverence, and he stands over you for a single breathless second—eyes aflame, chest rising like he’s been holding his need on a blade’s edge.

You reach for him, fingers curling into the open edges of his shirt, and you drag it down his arms, knuckles brushing against taut muscle. The fabric slips from his shoulders like water over stone, catching at his elbows before he shrugs it free.

He’s cut from tension and midnight shadow, each breath stretching across his chest like he’s straining to keep himself from devouring you whole. You sit up slightly, palms sliding along the hard planes of him, nails grazing the dip beneath his collarbones, and the way his breath stutters makes heat coil low in your belly.

“You’re not real,” you murmur against his skin, lips brushing his sternum. “You can’t be.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s ragged around the edges. “Then don’t stop touching me,” he whispers, voice frayed. “Remind me I am.”

Sylus kisses you like he’s trying to collapse time, like if he goes deep enough, he’ll find the first moment your soul ever touched his. You can’t tell if this is longing or memory, but it’s splitting through you, like lightning seeking its twin in the open sky. You arch toward him, drawn by instinct, or fate, or the echo of home.

His hands skim over your breasts, teasing you through the lace of your bra before sliding around to unhook it with a deft flick. The air hits your overheated skin, and you shiver, nipples pebbling in the chill. He takes your pert nipple into his hot, wet mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. You don’t even realize you’ve whimpered until he smirks against your skin.

He groans softly, his hand slipping down your stomach and between your thighs to cup your pussy through your soaked panties. The heat of him, the pressure, makes you rock instinctively against his touch. All you feel is need, ancient and aching, like your soul is crawling back toward someone it never stopped belonging to.

His fingers slip beneath the delicate lace, brushing against your dripping lips. You gasp, hips bucking as he parts you gently, circling your clit with feather-light strokes that leave you aching for more.

Sylus’s hands move like your body is a language he once knew and is now relearning, one searing syllable at a time. You can’t tell if you’re trembling from want or memory. Only that his hands are both the cause and the cure.

His fingers hook into your underwear, tugging them slowly down your thighs. You lift your hips to help him, breath coming faster now, anticipation coiling tight in your core.

When you’re exposed and wanting before him, the hungry way he looks at you sends a shiver racing down your spine. His palm slowly ghosts back up your leg, and he has this look about him, as if he’s both savouring and mourning each caress.

You’ve never pined for safety the way you ache to unravel in his hands, to be stripped down to whatever soul he can summon from you. He holds you like he’s memorizing the shape of your surrender. Like he wants the echo of it on his palms for the rest of time.

“You undo me.” His breath is hot against your throat as his fingers glide through your seam, teasing and exploring as you tremble. “Every fucking time. Like you were made to break me open.”

He circles your clit with maddening slowness, drawing out your pleasure. You drown in sensation, in him, in an echo older than memory, rising too wild for the cage of your skin. Breath forgets you when he touches you. You become shards of want scattered across his palms, his lips, the low burn of his voice when he whispers your name.

One finger slips lower, circling your entrance tentatively before pressing inside. A broken whimper escapes your lips at the unfamiliar intrusion, the stretching sensation as he works you open. Your inner walls flutter and clench, trying to draw him deeper.

Your hips rock to meet his strokes, chasing the burgeoning bliss. He adds a second finger, pumping slowly, carefully. Letting you adjust to the feeling of him moving inside you. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing firm circles as his fingers thrust deeper, pushing you to the edge.

You run your hands over him like you’re mapping starlight, tracing muscle and shadow, wondering how something so solid can feel so celestial beneath your fingertips.

The tension snaps. Your release doesn’t shatter; it blooms. Fire unfolding in your belly, in your chest, in your throat, until all you can do is cry out his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known.

Sylus gentles as he works you through it, panting heavily as your pussy spasms around his plunging fingers. He doesn’t withdraw until he’s worked every last shockwave from your writhing body.

Your fingers brush the sharp lines of his hips, tracing the edge where fabric clings too tightly to skin. He watches you with maddening stillness, like a creature caught between indulgence and self-control.

You toy with the button at his waist, slip the fastening loose, and his breath hitches, not loud, not sharp, but enough to make your pulse stumble. The zipper yields with a sigh, metal teeth parting like a secret you’ve coaxed free, and when you ease the fabric down over the sculpted lines of his thighs, he finally moves—just enough to let them fall away.

Your breath catches at the sight of him, thick and hard and intimidatingly large. A pearl of moisture glistens at the swollen tip, and your mouth waters with the urge to taste.

The sight of him makes your breath stall in your throat. Like he was never meant for anything so mundane as clothing, like his body was carved to be seen in shadow and low light, to be touched in reverence.

Sylus settles his hips between your thighs, the hot brand of his heavy cock nestling against your soaked slit. “Do you want it, kitten?”

Do you want it? Holy fuck. There’s no word for the way your body aches. No language is vast enough for the need. It’s not just want—it’s famine. It’s centuries of thirst. It’s a hunger born before this lifetime, one your soul remembers even if your mind does not.

Every nerve in your body sings a single answer, louder than breath, louder than blood. You want it like you’re drowning and he’s the only air that’s ever mattered. You want it like it might destroy you, and you’ll fucking thank him for the ruin.

In answer, you reach down and wrap your fingers around his shaft, marvelling at the girth of him. He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking reflexively into your palm.

You give him a languid stroke from root to tip and guide him to your entrance. Even in the haze of desire, you tense instinctively. He's so much bigger than his fingers, hard and hot and heavy.

Sylus pauses, sensing your hesitation. He brushes a tender kiss to your forehead, your cheek, and the corner of your mouth. "We can stop," he reassures, voice settling low, a promise dragged over gravel, like he’s swallowing fire to keep you from burning "If it's too much, we can—”

“I think I’ve been waiting for you longer than I’ve even been alive," you interject.

Your legs wrap around him and urge him forward, breath catching as he begins to push inside. It’s overwhelming, the feeling of him filling you inch by devastating inch. Your body yields to the insistent press of his, inner walls fluttering and clenching around his length.

“Breathe for me, sweetie,” he cajoles, brushing his lips to your ear. “You’re shaking. Is it too much?”

Your fingers find his back because you need to feel the way his muscles shift, like coiled storms under your palms. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He goes slowly, letting you adjust. The burn of it, the mind-bending stretch, has your toes curling. You make a choked little sound, low and pleading, hips rising as if your body is begging without your permission.

He bottoms out with a wrecked moan, buried to the hilt inside your tight heat. Your eyes flutter closed, breath coming in shallow pants as your body slowly relaxes. You feel split open, impaled on his girth. Every breath shifts him inside you, scrawling voltage down your limbs in a feverish script only your bones can read.

Experimentally, you roll your hips. Sylus groans, low and guttural, fingers digging into your thighs. Emboldened, you do it again, revelling in the drag of him, the exquisite friction. His breath tangles mid-air, suspended on a thread of sensation, as your body sinks him deeper.

Your hips shift restlessly, needing friction, needing movement to ease the building ache. He answers with a slow, deep stroke that makes your body chime in celestial static, constellations stuttering across your nerves like Morse code from a god.

A low moan escapes your kiss-swollen lips as he sets a steady rhythm of long, measured thrusts that have every vein and ridge of him sliding along your walls, hitting places inside you that you never knew existed.

It's all so new, so intense, that you are stripped of thought, pared down to pulse and craving and the echo of his name in your bones.

"Anira," he pants, voice fracturing on a moan, like the first crack in obsidian threaded with zeal he no longer bothers to hide. “You’re going to make me come just by squeezing me like that.”

When he moans your name, it doesn’t sound like a man losing control; it sounds like a man remembering something sacred. You’d let him ruin you a thousand times if it meant hearing your name in his mouth again.

Your head falls back, lips parting on a silent cry as his cock drags over that sensitive spot inside you again and again. Every kiss, every thrust, feels like falling upward, like being pulled into some higher place where pleasure doesn’t have a name strong enough.

“S-Sylus.” His name breaks from your lips like a spell that’s been waiting lifetimes to be spoken again.

“Say my name again,” he urges in a threadbare whisper fraying against your ear like it might fall apart. “I want to know how it sounds when it belongs to you.”

You recite his name like the word existed before time and your mouth was made to speak it. He reaches between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen pearl, sweeping over the sensitive nub as his hips stutter out of rhythm.

The added stimulation has ecstasy cracking open the sky behind your ribs, and every nerve becomes a burning sun. It’s as if he’s dragging the heavens through your skin, one breath at a time.

Your cunt clenches around his pistoning shaft, pulsing and fluttering as your orgasm rips through you. Your thighs tremble, toes curling as he fucks you through it. You are no longer a person, only sensation strung on the edge of his breath.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath hot and damp against your skin. You feel him throb and swell inside you, stretching you impossibly wider. His body trembles, and he mutters, half-formed and desperate, trying to tether himself to restraint. His control has always been a fortress—cold, towering, impenetrable—now it crumbles for you. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t—”

His words dissolve into a rugged groan, hips snapping forward as he spills himself inside you. You feel the hot rush of his release, the pulsing of his cock as he empties himself in long, shuddering spurts.

He repeats your name like it’s salvation, like you’re the shore his body crashes against, again and again, until he’s nothing but waves and you are the sea that drowns him.

For long moments, you lie tangled together, his softening cock still buried inside you as you both come down from the high. Your cunt throbs, pleasantly sore and still fluttering intermittently.

Reluctantly, he withdraws. You both hiss at the sensation, oversensitive flesh protesting the movement. A trickle of his release seeps out of you, warm and wet against your thighs.

He rolls to the side, pulling you with him until you're draped across his chest, head pillowed on his shoulder. You lie there in the hush that follows the storm. The world outside doesn’t matter. It’s just you and the man who peeled you open like a hymn and worshipped every fragile breath you gave him.

Your legs tingle in the most exquisite way, and your lips are swollen from too many kisses and not enough of them all at once.

He exhales, the sound low and molten, and you glance over to find his crimson eyes half-lidded. “Are you alright?”

You nod, a little dazed. “I think I’m dreaming.”

A slow, crooked smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “If you are, don’t wake up.”

You shift, your body sore and sated, and curl in closer. His scent pools in the hollow of your throat—red sandalwood and the scorched-sweet edge of burned amber.

Neither of you speaks. There’s no need. He brushes his fingers through your hair, over and over, like he’s memorizing the texture of trust. Does he feel it too, this impossible thread stitched between your bones and his?

“Say something,” you murmur into his chest, the words muffled by his heartbeat.

“Something?” he echoes, amused.

“Sylus,” you tut.

His breath is warm against your skin, and you can feel the slowly steadying rhythm of his pulse in your chest as you lie against him.

His voice cuts through the quiet. “You always wanted me to speak. Every time, like… you needed to hear it to know you’re not dreaming.” You shift against him slightly, tilting your head to look up at his face, but his expression gives you nothing. Just an unreadable calm, like the surface of still water veiling the pull of a hidden current far beneath. That odd, unwelcome feeling creeps up your spine.

What does he mean?

Fuck. I hope the wait was worth it. 😅

Chapter Masterlist

A03 [Cross-posted]

Taglist: @mcdepressed290, @animecrazy76, @harmonyrae, @for-hearthand-home, @redseablooming

Take care everyone and enjoy! ☺️

#dragon sylus #l&ds sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus smut #love and deepspace #sylus x mc #sylus x you #sylus x oc

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therealmilfdennys · 7 days ago

Note

love the idea of a shy! reader as lena's teacher...or even a school nurse maybe? pope gets called in to pick lena up when she has the flu at school. i feel like he would feel an immediate affection for anyone who shows lena as much care as he does.

school nurse....im losing it...this is so good..

and yes absolutely he does. he's like..so surprised and pissed off that his brothers don't really seem to care about what happens to lena after baz and cath uhhh..unfortunately depart from the living world :) ???

he meets this woman who is so steadfast in her affection for his niece, who keeps telling him he's doing a great job with that sheepish little smile and rosey cheeks. she can't meet his eyes most days but she can argue with the cps lady at full volume. how could he not fall in ( obssesive stalker like tendencies) love with her?

(sideline: her calling him mr. cody leaves him weirdly hot and bothered, like he genuinely gets confused as to why his dick is hard all of a sudden)

#andrew pope cody #animal kingdom #shawn hatosy #pope cody #andrew cody #animal kingdom tnt #andrew cody x reader #andrew pope cody x reader #pope cody x reader #shy!reader my goat

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eyesofbong · 9 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...

© eyesofbong. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize my work. If you see this content on any account that is not mine, please report it. My work is only available on this platform and on AO3 under the name @eyesofbong

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abigailovesz · 7 days ago

Text

thinking about...jj maybank as your younger brother.

(tw: angst and luke maybank n mentions of small injuries and blood, mentions of CPS)

you were eight years old when you realized your dad had changed.

luke maybank used to sing in the mornings. that was what you remembered most. he’d make pancakes and whistle johnny cash and call you “sweetheart.” he didn’t have much, but he had love once, or at least enough of it to make a little girl think he was a giant worth climbing onto.

but the singing stopped.

the laughter too. the syrup tasted bitter even when it was sweet. a year before jj was born, he got fired from the docks, and something in him just… cracked.

first came the slamming doors. then the yelling. then the hand. then the words.

“don’t be so goddamn slow when you walk.” “you think you’re smart? you ain’t better than me.” “jesus, you’re useless-just like your mother.”

your mother, for the record, wasn’t useless. just absent. she’d left when you were five. packed a bag, kissed your forehead, and never looked back. luke’s anger became a living thing. It lurked in corners, under kitchen counters, behind your bedroom door.

you learned how to breathe without making noise. how to shrink yourself. how to anticipate footsteps and gauge the temperature of a room by the way the doorknob turned.

then came jj.

luke had gotten some girl pregnant, he was barely there- probably fucking another girl while the pregnant one suffered at home. aswell as you. suffering, i mean. you stayed home all day, making food for yourself, going to school alone.

they let you hold him first.

that still surprised you, sometimes. you sat in the stiff hospital chair, knees swinging, and a nurse placed the warm little child in your arms.

“his name’s jj,” luke muttered from the corner, not even looking at her nor him.

but you looked. god, you looked.

he had a full head of blond hair and a wrinkly face, and when his tiny fingers latched onto yours, something deep inside you snapped into place.

“hi,” you whispered, eyes staring at his own. “your cute ya know.”

YOU learned how to mix formula. you learned how to count the seconds between jj's coughs at night. you learned how to put him to bed, at only the age of ten. most of all, you learned how to be soft in a world that was hard.

there were nights when luke stumbled in reeking of beer and disappointment. but jj never knew. because you would take him outside, sit on a blanket, and hold him with arms that were barely as big as his small form.

when he fell and scraped his knee, he called for you. when he woke up from a nightmare, it was you bed he crawled into. you let him. always.

JJ WAS running through the backyard barefoot when he slipped on a nail sticking up from a busted porch step. blood gushed from his foot, and he screamed like the world was ending.

luke was passed out drunk. no car. no help.

you didn’t hesitate. you carried jj down the sidewalk with chalk still in your hand, barefoot too, sweat and fear mingling on your face, whispering words into his hair while he sobbed against your chest.

you reached a neighbor’s house who took them to the clinic. four stitches. jj was brave-held your hand tight the whole time, but didn’t cry after that first scream. later that night, you knelt by his bed, wrapping a new bandage around his foot.

“does it hurt?”

he shrugged. “little bit. but it’s okay.”

“ya sure?”

he looked at you, calm and clear-eyed. “I didn’t feel scared once you picked me up.”

CPS SHOWED up at your door once. someone had made a report-probably a teacher. luke lied. claimed you both were fine. you lied too, you knew what would happen if you didn't. said you were just jj's sister, but you looked after him while your dad worked nights. said luke was “trying.”

jj lied, too.

when they left, jj was quiet.

“why’d we do that?” he asked.

“because if they take you,” you said, voice shaking, “I don’t know where you’ll end up. And I can’t let you just - just go.”

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ukrfeminism · 1 year ago

Text

We’ve been chatting for about half an hour when Eloise lowers her voice to a whisper. Until now she’s been confidently talking through the ups and downs of being a 19-year-old woman in a world she finds unsteady.

She’s annoyed that, on TikTok, the advertisements she gets are keyrings with rape alarms and “stabby kitties” (a cat-shaped metal keychain with pointed ears sharp enough to cause damage), feels that modern feminism sometimes goes a bit too far, but having grown up in the age of nudes, she doesn’t really trust men. Which is unsurprising considering the story she tells me next.

“So a boy I know was asking a girl at his school for nudes,” she says, quietly. “And then when she refused, he threatened to rape her.” The boy was 14 and had recently posted an Andrew Tate video to his Instagram page, which was Eloise’s first encounter with the online influencer.

“It said stuff like how women are your property and that it doesn’t matter if women say they’ve been sexually assaulted; if you’re with them that’s your right. I didn’t like it,” she adds.

Tate has made several appearances in the headlines this week. On Tuesday, a Romanian court rejected his appeal to ease the ban on him leaving the country as a legal case against him – in which he’s charged with human trafficking, rape and forming a criminal gang to sexually exploit women – continues. He denies all charges against him. The following day, Ipsos polling for King’s College London’s Policy Institute and the Global Institute for Women’s Leadership found that one in five men aged 16-29 who have heard of Andrew Tate have a positive view of him.

Separately – or, arguably, perhaps not – another survey published in the same week underpinned a renewed focus on the attitudes and beliefs of Generation Z, this time from the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS). The research asked just over 3,000 adults of varying ages – 50.6 per cent of whom were female – about their understanding of rape and serious sexual offences, and the law on consent, and drew troubling conclusions.

Overall, 74 per cent of people surveyed understood that it can still be rape if a victim doesn’t resist or fight back, but the number fell to just over half (53 per cent) of 18-24-year-olds who had the same understanding. Less than half of respondents from this age group recognised that victims might not report a sexual offence to police immediately, that being in a relationship or marriage doesn’t mean consent can be assumed, or that if a man has been drinking or taking drugs, he’s still responsible if he rapes someone. More than 70 per cent of over-65s recognised that even if no physical force is involved a person might not be free or able to consent to sex, compared to just 40 per cent of young people.

Previous generations have become used to hearing that rape myths and misconceptions continue to persist, but that’s precisely why this week’s grim trinity of headlines stings. “There tends to be a public assumption that things are generally always getting better,” says author and feminist campaigner Laura Bates. “Actually, views like these are incredibly widespread among young people.”

Bates regularly works with schools, talking to pupils who often tell her that “rape is a compliment”, that “it’s not rape if she likes it” or, “it’s your boyfriend, you have to have sex with him”.

She adds: “Attitude surveys have to be taken seriously because they are a real red flag that we’re going backwards – we’re seeing much more extreme and concerning misogynistic attitudes among the youngest generations than we are among the oldest. We have to face up to that and ask, why is that happening?”

Gen Z has never been neatly contained. Growing up as the first digital natives in the chokehold of crisis – climate, Covid, cost of living – has seen them praised for their social awareness, but disenfranchised and forgotten by politics. Their extremely online nature has given them unprecedented access to the world and other people – but, of course, that’s a double-edged sword.

“The internet has made everyone’s voices louder, but that means the most misogynistic people in the world are heard more too,” says Niya Clement-Hickson, a 26-year-old marketing designer from London. He says his generation has been “kind of ruined” by social media.

“You’d be surprised at just how many people around my age will argue that Andrew Tate is not as bad as he seems.”

When I spend an hour talking to 16-year-old Tate fan Manus from Ohio on TikTok, he says exactly that. He’s relatively timid and seems unsure of what he thinks at times, but came across Tate aged 12, being drawn to his motivational speeches, humour, and attitude towards making money. “[Tate] kinda showed me how people really are in reality,” he says. On Tate’s assertions that women are the property of men, he says those beliefs are simply from the Bible (though Manus himself is Muslim).

He maintains he’s never seen Tate speak violently about women, and when I send him leaked voicenote recordings of Tate saying that he enjoyed raping a woman, Manus is certain it’s fake “probably to make him look bad”. I ask for his views on feminism and he responds that feminists now want “superiority” and “more rights”. What rights exactly? “More rights in general,” he says, vaguely.

This opinion is not a rarity – there’s a pervasive idea circling comments sections and pub corners that the pendulum has “swung too far”. “Some of us warned that when you continue to suppress their identity by telling young boys that they are inherently toxic, they’ll start acting irrational,” one comment under an Andrew Tate post this week read. But it’s not just boys who hold this idea. Early last year, a survey from Ipsos UK and the Global Institute for Women’s Leadership at King’s College London echoed this and some of Eloise’s views that feminism has gone too far. They found that 52 per cent of Gen Z and 53 per cent of millennials believe that we’re now discriminating against men. Less than half of Gen Z respondents said they defined themselves as a feminist.

Was it coincidence then, to see that shortly after the research was published in March 2023, the year of the girl was in full swing? A persistently pink summer was punctuated with girl dinners, #tradwives – modern women who believe in traditional gender roles – and stay-at-home girlfriends sharing their daily rituals on news feeds. New York magazine’s The Cut declared it “Woman in Retrograde” as the year came to a close; a cluster of reactionary elements to a significant demise of mainstream feminism.

This shift back to traditional behaviours is also present in younger men, says Niya. “A lot of guys feel that their role is all about providing money, being a protector. But they feel they deserve to get something out of the interaction. They just can’t deal with being told no.”

In terms of consent, does he hear attitudes that put women in danger? “Absolutely,” he replies. Niya didn’t learn about consent in school – “I don’t think it was ever talked about beyond ‘don’t have sex until you’re old enough’” – and thinks this is quite common for men of his age. For Maya, who’s 24 and neurodivergent, the line of consent is difficult to pinpoint and somewhat shaped by social media. There’s a “disconnect” from what she really wants – and is able to articulate – in the moment.

“I think that we do have less and less sex and more and more porn,” Niya adds. “And I think that once porn is your main and in some cases, only engagement with sex and women, then that is going to completely screw up how you see sex.”

Do all roads lead to porn? Probably. Clare McGlynn, who is a professor of law with particular expertise in sexual violence and online abuse, says: “We know that algorithms promote more extreme content, more hate – and many, many younger people, men and women, are getting this. Millions of people, as we speak, are watching mainstream online pornography that is racist, sexist, misogynist and violent in its content. Of course, it’s shaping attitudes and lives.”

“There’s certainly a pressure on young boys and men, for example, to be taking and sharing nudes – they’re part of a culture that is encouraging them to,” McGlynn explains. During a study, she looked at what material was presented on the homepage of popular sites – she found landing pages which were filled with sexually violent material. “So it’s also not them even actively choosing that material; we’re part of a culture that is grooming young men, teaching them expectations around sex – and asking them to accept and normalise it.”

What appears clear from the survey conducted by the CPS is a dangerous lack of understanding of what constitutes a crime. “I do lectures on criminal law and I’ve had students come up to me afterwards and say that they didn’t know they had been sexually assaulted or raped,” McGlynn adds.

Laura Bates says that we’re in the midst of a “crisis of sexual violence among young people”.

“Deeply misogynistic misinformation is being spread to young people online at a rate that most people just have absolutely no idea about,” she says. “And there is a massive knock-on effect.

“Some will look at these surveys and go, well, what does attitude matter? But you have to draw a connection between these really worrying attitudes about rape and the fact that nearly 80 per cent of young people told Ofsted inspectors recently that sexual assault is normal and common in their friendship groups.”

So what can be done? More responsibility and accountability from social media companies, says Bates. Tate’s content – some of which reportedly shows him attempting to beat a woman with a belt; she later hides behind a locked door – has been viewed more than 11 billion times on TikTok, she says, adding: “That’s more than the population of the planet.” Last year, advocacy group HOPE found that more 16-17-year-old boys had watched Tate’s content than had heard of Rishi Sunak. “I think it’s really important that the government supports high quality, age-appropriate sex and relationships education,” she adds.

Actively listening to and engaging with boys – as seen in initiatives like the state of New York’s Starting the Conversation campaign – is also important. Boys must have a safe and judgement-free environment to express themselves: the more their experiences of rape culture are internalised, the more difficult they are to see.

The Online Safety Bill, which was enacted in October last year, she says, was a missed opportunity for change. While it asks for more transparency on social media platforms and imposes sanctions for those not following the act, along with criminalising cyberflashing and sending unsolicited nude images, “it went 250 pages without mentioning women and girls once, until campaigners changed that”, Bates says.

“It’s so much more effective to focus on prevention of radicalisation than trying to unpick it once it’s happened,” she says. “Young people really are prepared to listen and prepared to change their minds, it’s just a shame this isn’t happening in every school.”

“It does make me worried about how safe the world is going to be,” says Eloise, who will begin her twenties in the summer. “What if people really start thinking that women are property again?” Then, she’s quiet again. “I really hope it can change.”

#Articles #community #MVAWG

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