The Favourite Trick
Setting: Hisoka X Fem!reader AU where Hisokaâs choices create their consequence. Warning: torture, trauma, violence, blood, manipulation, emotional distress, psychological themes, light body horror (injuries, healing), minor character death, morally gray dynamics. (please read only if youâre comfy with heavy content!! <3) A/n: I am backkkkkkkkk, with my darling Hisoka. It's gonna be a long story I am telling you. Since, again, it's my first time ever righting such long stories, they may be rushed. I'll try to keep them as entertaining as possible. The storyline is really fun, I swear. Like we are soooo main character here ehhaha. Hope you enjoy, keep reading pookies <3
You push yourself up from the ground as you hear the door sway open. Pakunoda enters. Her sharp, prominent nose caught the faint light from the corridor, and her golden eyes looked down at you with a complete, chilling absence of emotion.
With a lazy, fluid motion of her long fingers, she tossed a small, plastic-wrapped package onto the dust-covered concrete a few inches from your face. It was a standard, high-calorie survival rationâa block of dense, dry nutrient paste and a small, unbranded plastic bottle of plain water.
She pauses and just stares. A young girl, clothes barely covering her wound-inflicted, blood-stained body. Scars stare back sharply from wherever the spectator's eyes land. Face drained of any colour, her eyes aren't functional â they're tired of bleeding. Where eyes should have glimmered, there were only charred hollows, dark and unblinking. The skin around them was scorched, cracked, and red â like the aftermath of fire â and even the faintest twitch of the eyelids sent tiny shimmers across the raw, blistered surface.
That's you. "Eat," Pakunoda breaks the silence. Her voice was flat, low, and completely devoid of comforting warmth. And without another word, she leaves.
You listen to the tap of her heels against the broken tiles of the room and then the door closing.
Suddenly, you can't taste the food, neither is the world as appealing.
The following days come and go like they're silk slipping away from your hands â except they leave deep scars.
But you don't let it get to you. You don't let his monsters eat you alive. You don't show it. You wipe away the blood as you hold back your tears.
Look him in the eye, and smile.
At first, it seemed so easy for him to toy with you. You would easily cry out, even at the slightest touch of the molten rod â you'd pray to God with tears as offerings.
But he noticed â the twitch of your eyebrows when he had dropped lower to your ears after spitting on your face and whispered,
"Your mother was way better than you whore, atleast she'd protest when I'd use her. You are pathetic, accepting all this without question."
If your eyes could light up with rage, they would have. You really were a pathetic little creature â at least, that's what you believed. You hated yourself. All of it. Every little pitiful inch.
Maybe that's why you didn't protest much when all of it had started. You never resisted â not because you had accepted it, but because you were utterly hopeless and consumed by despair. You body was broken, will fractured, and you were clinging to silence as your only shield. There was no fight, only quiet endurance.
But there was this one thing you were exceptionally proud of. Your mother. That's all you ever loved about yourself, that you were her daughter. And you learned that he took her from you.
So you rebel.
You don't give him the thrill of hurting others. You don't give him the reactions he yearns for.
You don't let out even a single noise, whenever he touches you to scar you. You look him in the eye. Daringly, demandingly, dangerously.
Even you are shocked to see this phenomenal change, but you had waited for this pivotal moment all your life. For it comes for everyone. You had to make something out of it â of this new maturity.
But what can you even do right now? You are still helpless.
Simply being defiant won't always help. And the torturer, Karl, has some divine powers. Or else how could you be alive even after that horrendous branding of your eyes?
You feel the pain â no, you were left alive to feel it. As a normal person under these circumstances would have ascended to oblivion.
There's something different â something out of this world, yet in the grasp of humans â and this "Phantom Troupe" has it.
It's Nen, perhaps, going by what you gave heard. But how do you learn it? Do you need to be special for it? Or is it for some special race?
How do you defeat him, in a game that he is supposed to win?
You sigh, and lay on the dirty floor, like you have been for the last 15 days.
Your mom, You instantly feel a choke in your throat. The pain that tugged at your heart was far worse than whatever torture you were subjected to. That little good-for-nothing motherfucker told you that he'd spare your mother if you agreed to be his slave. But you learned that instead, he violated her later after taking you with her. Your father was a trash human to begin, so you didn't care if he died. But not your mother, she was an angel, your winter soldier, always standing tall and strong to protect you. And Karl took her away from you. Your freedom and your reason of being. And you were thoroughly, almost painfully reminded of the promise you made to him the night you learned. You will, and definitely will, shred him down to pieces.
But how? The only dreadful question rings in your mind, questioning your resolve and exhistence. You clutch the threadbare sack cloth that tries to cover your body, till your knuckles turn white. You cover the pain with your fury â that's about all that you can do when it's a game, played unfairly by God.
Yet again, how could God let one question when they believed in them? Even God couldn't look over the insatiable sense of revenge inside you.
The door opens once again, and you almost don't hear the swing. You only feel someone's breath skim against your shoulder, and you get up frantically.
"I'll be honest, it's lovely to see you getting tortured" A velvety, silk voice vibrates down your eardrums. You can't figure out who it is. Because only one person's voice was devilishly carved into your senses.
And this wasn't him, this wasn't Karl. Maybe someone else.
He smells sweet. But sounds just like him. Grey and immoral.
His touch is even softer than his voice as he runs his hands over a prominent scar on your face. "Poor girl, Karl really doesn't know how to spot potential~"
You stay silent. Potential?
"Hmmmm, I love the way you changed your attitude when he hit your nerve. You're a treasure â nothing of what Karl measures you against."
You just sit, oblivious. He leans in again, and your hands, though weak, still try to push him away â but they only brush against his chest as he drops lower near your ears.
You suddenly feel warmth â a little nurturing, but a lot more alien. It plays with every ounce of your existence â and it's like your rage has a vent now.
His touch lingers, and you realize the warmth isn't external; it's seeping into the scar tissue, threading into your veins. It feels thick, almost like molten metal being poured through a brittle straw. The fire is sudden, centered in your chestâthe locus of life and emotion. It ignites not just pain, but the dormant, bitter fury you've been hiding. You can feel him forcing it, a precise, methodical invasion. Itâs not a gift; itâs an imposition. You want to scream, but the fire is choking the sound in your throat. The heat is so intense, you wonder if it's re-scorching the flesh around your eyes, or if a new, invisible scar is being carved into your very soul.
And then
you black out.
"Don't disappoint me. You're now a part of my game."
A/n: This ain't ending here. There will be more parts for sure.
Part-2
