[10:50 Pm]

[10:50 pm]

“‘m tired.” jisung mumbles into your neck as his sweat rolls off his own.

the boys had just finished one of their many performances, the loud instrumental of ridin’ still booming in your ears.

jisung loves the way your hands caress his hair despite the sweat it’s drenched in. you giggle as he buries his face deeper, “you were perfect.”

your soft murmur pasted a wide grin on the boy’s face, the statement was hushed just enough that only the two of you could hear it, and he couldn’t be more thankful he had you by his side than in that moment.

“says you,” the snickers jisung lets out are quiet and exhausted, but with your soft humming of their last song, the exhausted lovestruck boy lets himself be lulled to sleep in your arms.

this is so sweet huhu tysm >_<

[8:58 am]

“hey, hey. why are you crying my love?” haechan gasps as he whisks you into his arms.

you were—slightly ashamed… but with the comfort of his arms everything felt so much better.

“i-i just… need you tonight, is that okay?” your low murmur causes his grip to tighten around you, his hand coming up to gently caress your hair.

“of course. you have me, my love.”

blue orchids

↳ hanahaki & soulmate au (reposted)

◇ pairing: jungkook | reader ◇ genre: angst and a sprinkle of fluff ◇ word count: 18.748 ◇ warnings: implied smut ◇ disclaimer: I do not own the hanahaki disease concept.

I am immensely thankful for the talented people who have created art / edits for this story: x, x, x, x, x, x ♡ also, make sure to read moonlight (drabble from jimin’s pov) and home after rain (short sequel) after reading this story. enjoy!

You were eighteen years old when Jimin’s name showed up on your hand.

The day is fresh and clear in your memory: early December, the winds stronger than ever as they threatened to pierce through the windows of your room, hints of snowflake dancing in the air as the first snowfall augured an even sharper winter. There was a smile on your face that didn’t match the unrelenting coldness of the month, and even though the night was falling and the air felt icy on the tips of your fingers, there was only warmth in your chest as you went through the pictures of your phone.

Pictures of you and Jimin drinking hot chocolate, of clumsy iceskating, of funny faces that made you laugh out loud in the quietness of your bedroom. The feeling sparking in your chest could be considered somewhat dangerous— after all, you were just a girl that didn’t have any marks on her skin, a girl whose fate was yet to be decided. Something as enigmatic as love could be a treacherous thing, too risky for someone that couldn’t decide their destiny on their own.

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wowowow user rnjfy posted wowowow this drabble is inspired by lauren spencer-smith’s song!! it’s really good and has me on my knees

fingers crossed — lmh.

in which he said he loved you but he must’ve had his fingers crossed.

—

the soft music rang throughout the fancy and definitely busy restaurant was a big contrast to the harsh pounding of your heart against your chest. the ice in your drink had melted—and the condensation had started to roll off the cool glass and onto the red cloth that lined your table.

“ma’am? if you’re not going to order anything, we’ll need to give up the table…” the assigned waitress looked at you with pity swirling in her eyes. this was the second time she’d approached you in the half hour you had sat and stared into nothing.

you could feel the embarassment creeping up your neck—but you swallowed it down as you smiled up at the young woman.

“sorry. you probably need the table… i’ll take my leave then.” after briefly bowing to apologize for any inconvenience, you wrapped your cardigan tighter around your shoulders as the cold wind greeted you.

you [7:16]: i’m at our table! the food looks really good, come soon! xx

no response. you wondered why you hoped for anything different, when all he seemed to be doing with you now is tolerating your presence. you terribly missed your boyfriend, but with how tonight was going you weren’t really sure how to feel.

the jingle of your keys sounded terribly loud as it echoed through you and your boyfriend’s empty apartment. you noticed the spot on your shoe rack where mark’s shoes were supposed to be—empty.

“as usual,” you mutter to no one in particular. the word ‘empty’ seemed to start to become a constant in your life.

your feet felt sore as you placed your keys in the small bowl you two had set up by the door.

“you suck at pottery.”

mark’s loud laugh surrounded the two of you as he struggled with the clay in his hands.

“dude! it’s crumbli—folding? what the hell!” he giggles as he tries to perfect the small bowl. your eyes lingered on his dark hair, his bangs falling slightly over his eyes.

“you suck at pottery.” you confirmed with a small nod, smiling at him as he rolls his eyes—a small smile curling at the edge of his lips.

“it’s just a unique bowl!”

your heart felt constricted in your chest. the small homey apartment that you two shared used to be close to what you would call your sanctuary.

now, you feel so so suffocated by the memories that would wash over you as you glanced over the decorations, furniture, artwork and other things that were scattered across your living space.

you walked slowly. the realization of what you need to do sinking in. your gaze catches the small couch that you both paid for.

“what d’you wanna watch?”

mark curls his arm around your waist, pulling you close to his chest as he flicks through the movies and shows netflix had to offer. you could hear his heartbeat going a mile a minute, but you leave your focus on the tv sat across from the two of you.

“what about friends?”

laughing loudly, mark quickly scrolls back up to the ‘watch again’ portion and clicks on the series you desperately loved.

burying his nose into your hair, “how are you not tired of this show?”

he giggles softly, the sound of the laugh track blending in with the silence of your apartment.

gulping down the memory, you start towards your shared bedroom. the sight of mark’s favorite guitar sitting next to your bed makes you uncomfortable, the tears in your shaky eyes seemed to be endless.

“y/n! c’mere. i wrote a song and uh… i wanted you to hear it, if that’s okay?”

the blush on mark’s face was something burned into your head. it was the most adorable sight and you never wanted to forget.

you nod, your hair bouncing at your shoulders as you sit next to him, watching as he clears his throat and fixes his fingers on the neck of his guitar.

his rough voice surrounds both your figures. the chords and the words—all of them blended so well together. they screamed mark, and you felt like you were falling in love all over again.

your movements felt robotic. you barely processed that your closet was now empty. mark’s clothes hung on their own, taking up only half of the large closet that occupied the left-hand side of your room.

the shine of your framed picture catches your gaze—it sat on your bedside table looking lonely now that you had taken your jewelry and other various knick knacks off the wooden table.

you pick it up shakily, your fingers caressing the smooth frame. the picture of you and mark on your first date, a concert. he had a bottle of water in his hand and his arm was slung around you.

his smile haunted you now, the look of love in both of your eyes felt taunting. your heart hurt even more.

a part of you longed to stay. to give yourself to mark, because at the end of the day, he’d come home. home to you. whispering apologies and empty promises of a next time.

but you were tired. and you’ve tried. you tried to stay. you tried to love him even when you knew he didn’t love you anymore.

the soft click of your apartment door sends a painful ripple from your heart to the rest of your body.

you stand there for a moment, your eyes closed as you whisper your last wish into the dead of the night.

i wish you said you loved me, when you didn’t have your fingers crossed.

—

in your face writer’s block!!!! i’m finally back with a drabble and hopefully this pushes my writer’s block fully away >:((( shares & likes are appreciated! i love you all <333

i dont know if you write angst stuff but i have a request for howl pendragon x dead past lover reader

so imagine this set post ending and sophie just cleaning the "castle" as for usual, while cleaning howl's room she saw a picture of a man/woman/person lovingly hidden away and on the back it says "my starlight" in howl's handwriting then she asks howl about it and howl shares how long before sophie came, this person was the one who accompanies him and practically helped him raised his apprentice, his starlight, his first love that died for some reason (maybe protecting him for extra angst?)

ur choice on how sophie reacts to knowing that even tho theyre together now and there was no doubt that howl loves him, its obvious that his heart still belongs to this person

also lemme formally introduce myself, my name is ilyushka or ilya for short and i hope u dont mind me becoming a regular now because you and your blog is literally my comfort place now

- Ilyushka -

— signed, your beloved Howl

💭summary; it's... pretty much all up there ^^^ they did all the hard work, i'm just typing it out-

💭character(s); Howl Pendragon, Sophie Hatter, Michael (mentioned)

💭warnings; angst, mentions of loved-one's death, pseudo unrequited love, gender neutral reader!

—notes; hello, darling Ilya! it's lovely to meet you! I am truly in love with this request and I hope that you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! this was so original and so very pretty! i was also listening to this to help channel the angst: [song] hope it worked! i also hope that my blog stays a comfort place for you, pretty!

Sophie moved with the pitter-patter of the rain, allowing it to guide her rhythm as she moved throughout the castle, weaving in and out of room and hall as she cleaned. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she often found the sound of rain to serve as a source of white noise, but Sophie's usually vigorous, precise movements were languid and almost lethargic as she swept and beat dust from the many mismatched rugs that covered the castle's floors.

Even as Sophie moved into the bedroom that she now shared with the infamous wizard Howl, her heavy eyes were drawn to the sight of her bed, wide and soft, practically calling out to her to lie down for just a moment.

After several moments of arguing with herself, reminding herself that she'd never finish in time if she were to lay down now, she decided to give into the urge to rest upon the embroidered down pillows that Howl saved just for her.

Even as her fiery red hair broke free of its usual braid, having been tossled about from hours of tedious cleaning and washing from this morning, Sophie swept the braid to her back before laying down. She groaned softly as she felt her muscles relax, allowing her to melt into the embrace of the bed she now knew so well. A small smile found purchase upon her lips as she was reminded of Howl's musk, finding that their sheets still maintained his signature scent of fresh air, fire wood, and various flower-based perfumes he still fuddled with to this day.

Before she even realized it, the sound of the rain against the flimsy panes of glass that resided on the wall beside her had lulled her to sleep, allowing the house to fill with a gentle kind of quietness that dared not be broken by even the smallest of mice.

Sophie dreamed of many things: of her life back home, of her dear sisters, and of Vanny's gentle eyes, and of course, of her Howl. Yet, this time, she dreamed only of the gentle side of him that he desired to keep private. As if the well-tempered, tame side of himself were only meant to be shared between him and his beloved. That the moments in which he looked at her with such love filled eyes that her anger toward him was forfeit, and in which he brushed her hair behind her ear so gently it was as if he feared she would break, were all meant for her to see, and only her.

She awoke feeling more love for her husband than she had felt for a while, and the strong desire for him to return home accompanied it. Even as she rolled onto her opposite side, her eyes still shut tight, she wished to feel his warmth against her as she turned. However, upon opening her eyes, she found that she would have to wait even longer before she could see her husband's irritably handsome face once again.

Sophie rose to her feet, her eyes still filled with sleep as she carefully felt her way along the cluttered nightstand that resided on Howl's side of the bed. Instead of finding purchase on the smooth, cool varnish of the wood, her palm was met only with various gems and stones and things, most probably filled with some type of forgotten magic, and knickknacks of wood and metal that resembled either a person or place upon its surface. However, buried amongst them was an item that Sophie had yet to see. Her curious hands moved to where her eyes resided, and found a picture frame of silver lying face down beneath the clutter of the rest of the many things Howl certainly needed to sort through tonight.

As she turned the frame over within her light grasp, she felt her lips part as an involuntary gasp barely passed between them. Within the frame was an image of the most beautiful being that Sophie had ever seen. It was difficult to tell their finer details apart from the faded background they rested upon, as the image seemed to be covered in a black sort of grime that only stained her fingers the more Sophie dared to wipe it off, but she could tell that they were certainly no average looking person like her.

Their eyes seemed to shine through the black smear upon the canvas, and their color was as brilliant as the life that seemed to pour from their figure. Even though she only held a picture frame within her hands, Sophie felt as if she were in the presence of a very important being, but one that seemed as gentle and as kind as the summer breeze itself. Her heart seemed lighter the longer she stared, only for another, much heavier feeling to take its place as she was able to make out handwriting hidden well within the corner of the image, almost covered entirely by the edge of the frame and the black grime.

Sophie made her way to the nearest windowsill and allowed for the few remaining golden rays of sunlight to shine upon the corner of the picture. Her lips moved as her eyes made out the words upon the image, but her voice remained silent all the same.

"My starlight. Signed, your beloved Howl"

Sophie's eyes rose to take in the sinking sun before her as her mind raced. Who was this wonderous being, and why did Howl seem to care for them so? Was there someone she did not know about or...

No, that couldn't be the case, she assured herself. By the looks of the quality of the image, it had been very poorly taken care of for quite a long time. Still, Sophie would have to ask him when he returned.

So, Sophie situated herself by the fireplace, contemplating just how she would bring this up during dinner tonight, or even if she should. But in her mind, if she were to continue being Howl's wife and he her husband, then there should be no secrets between the two of them. So although her heart still felt unsatisfied by the many excuses and faux answers that she came up with to soothe herself in the mean time, she found herself once again patching the holes in one of Howl's suits.

And that was just how he found her when he arrived home, working the needle on one of his newest jackets, mumbling to herself about something he decided he wouldn't even bother making out himself. He was tired, and all that he wanted now that he was home was to simply lie in the arms of his beloved wife, and let her scold him about how late he had returned once again as he fell asleep in her embrace.

Yet, Sophie seemed to have other plans.

"Who is this?" Sophie asked, obviously trying to hide the hint of impatience that carried within her tone, but failing nonetheless. Still Howl decided to play along, letting Sophie place an oddly familiar piece of silver into his hands.

He froze for a few good moments as he realized what had been handed to him. His starlight. The face of his starlight was staring back at him with eyes that he nearly managed to forget that he missed. Seemingly alive, seemingly... there again. This silent exchange between Howl and the image did not at all go unnoticed by Sophie, and she couldn't help the bit of jealousy that bubbled up from her chest and onto her tongue as she once again asked Howl about the person trapped within the frame.

"They’re..." Howl began, trying but failing miserably to find the right words to explain just who this person was, and how they had remained just out of reach for so long.

Finally, after his eyes grew less dull and his tongue less dry, Howl gave in.

"Sophie, my love," he began, his tone far softer and much quieter than Sophie had ever remembered hearing before, even when he spoke to Michael.

"This is... someone I once knew long ago. They were... much like what you are to me now, but from what seems to be another life."

A gentle but sad smile tilted the corners of Howl's lips, and Sophie immediately began to wonder if her jealousy was rightly placed with anger, or if she should have simply let this go.

"A very long time ago, I've even forgotten just how long..." Howl laughed to himself, but it did not take a fool to see that there was no joy in his doing so.

"I met them. This... beautiful, powerful, magical being... they were perfect in every way, and I wanted to be just like them."

Sophie couldn't deny the sting that she felt at his words, but she also could not deny that she had not seen such a look in Howl's eyes as long as she had known him.

That was the night that Sophie learned of the place you held within Howl's heart. Of the times that he had spent wooing you with far more than just his guitar. How he had used nothing more than his words and honest attempts to pursue you as his only methods of gathering your attention. How, once he finally was able to call you his, you agreed to teach him all that you knew, only to later on assist him with his pupil.

How Michael had been your favorite with how sweet and innocent he was at the time. With how gentle you were with children and how kindly you treated Howl and his insecure heart. Sophie saw that you even now held Howl in your hands, and you had not a clue.

Or perhaps you did. But, she would never be able to ask, as she found that you had died rather long ago. Even in such a valiant attempt to save his life, Sophie could see the hurt and anguish held within the tears that threated to fall from Howl's eyes before they soon cascaded endlessly down his cheeks. Nonetheless, he continued to speak as if this were a story he would only ever tell once, and that if Sophie so much as breathed too loud to hear, then that would be a piece that she would miss for eternity.

Sophie's stubborn heart swooned as Howl spoke of how his encounters with the very witch that had cursed her had lead to your demise. That a bought of jealousy from the witch had caused her to hunt you endlessly, somehow always finding you wherever you and Howl had hidden away, and all at the expense of Howl's meaningless flirting before a time where he had even known you.

And despite learning how much of a beautiful person you were, and how you were certainly a person that Howl not only love, but deeply admired, Sophie couldn't help but feel a deep seeded pit of resentment build within her chest for you, just at the way Howl's eyes slowly moved across your figure within the frame, as if you were a treasure he would only be able to remember if he looked upon you.

Sophie couldn't help but despise you, despite how wonderful you seemed. She wished she could love you just as he did, but she now knew that you had a hold on Howl's heart that she would never be able to obtain, and for that reason alone, she would hate you.

After that night, Sophie did her best to steer clear of the bedroom for a while. Even going so far as to skip it completely during her usual cleaning rounds. But, she knew that this couldn't last forever. Despite how many times she tried to get Howl to sleep with her by the hearth or to keep her and Michael company for the night, she was always somehow pulled back into that room with him. And even with Howl at her side, she felt colder now than ever.

How was she meant to sleep in the arms of the man that she loved when his heart still belonged to another?

She could feel it in every bouquet of flowers he brought to her, in every smile he showed only to her, in every kiss he offered and gratefully received, she couldn't help but think that he did it all for you...

But for once, she never said a word to Howl about it. She didn't want to hear him call her the "only one for him" or his "one and only" because she was afraid that, as ignorant as it was that the thought alone brought tears to her eyes, she felt that if those words did not lift the heaviness of her heart, then nothing else ever could.

She had to accept that her husband still loved you. Someone that he couldn't leave her for, although she sometimes wished that he could. Someone she could never come home to find him alone with, and someone that could never write him forbidden proclamations of love within letters that she'd find hidden beneath his pillow, because you were gone. Far, far away in a place that neither of them could ever find you. And yet, Sophie still believed for just a moment that you were somehow warmer than she now felt.

But alas, Sophie's aching heart started to feel less alone. With each press of Howl's lips against her own, she could feel her heart beginning to race again as it once did. She could feel it in the way he would press her frame entirely against his in a tight, warm embrace before heading out. She could see it in the smile that once again seemed to reach his eyes before it appeared on his lips as he stared at her. Even in the sharp words that he would throw at her whenever one of them decided to be more stubborn than the other and cause yet another fight to occupy the shortening distance between them.

She knew that her husband still loved her, and that no matter what had happened in the past, he chose her now and he would do so a million more times in a million more lives.

And that was how she regained the courage to set foot into her bedroom once more to clean. And only to clean, as she told herself. But with each stroke of the bristles of the broom against the floor boards, and with each step she took upon the floor that caused the aging beams to cry and moan, she couldn't shake the feeling of eyes upon her.

It felt as if your ghost was with her, watching her from just out of reach. Except, the twisting in her gut came only from the fact that this was not a harmful creature, but rather one of gentile silence that only came to wish her well. And that somehow only made her feel worse.

So with fire in her heart and impatience upon her tongue, Sophie turned around, her fiery red braid swinging behind her as she fully intended to curse, shout, and scream at that ridiculously intrusive face behind the glass, only for her throat to go dry as her eyes meet with yours.

Her anger and those pesky feelings of insecurity slowly began to melt away as she stared into the frame, her angry eyes melding with your honest ones and finding nothing but peace and... love. Love not just for Howl, but anyone else who was lucky to see them.

She found that she could not hate you. She did not blame Howl for loving you the first time she heard of you, and she still could not bring herself to do so now. Not after knowing of the kind of person you were. Not after seeing your face.

So instead of fighting as she always did. Instead of always needing to be right, and to be seen and respected, Sophie decided she would instead do you a favor.

She picked up her broom, shut her eyes tight, and turned toward the door before the right words arose to her throat.

"I promise to look after him for you," was all that she said before returning to her sweeping.

A short promise, but an unbreakable one nonetheless.

cry me a river | the puppeteer

— summary: father wanted perfection, you fell in love with disorder

— pairing: bts x reader

— genre: angst, mafia!au

— word count: 6.6k

— warnings: slight violence, flashbacks, y/n has a mental breakdown

— part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six

— masterpost “Did you hear? Apparently, he had a daughter all along.”

“What? No way.”

“Who do you think sent us the invitations? You don’t really believe the Reaper would have simply left this world without a plan, do you? He had a wife who died years ago, after all. Seems he kept his daughter in the dark for quite a while. Apparently, even many of his trusted allies had no knowledge she even existed.”

“But why hide this daughter of his? Surely she’s incompetent for someone whose name has never been mentioned in the underworld?”

The man shrugs. “If she’s incompetent, all the more reason to take over the empty throne.”

A laugh leaves another man. “The Reapers are indeed powerful. Stealing that throne would be quite the feat for the man who does it.”

Jungkook’s brows furrow as he makes his way around the room, gossips after gossips of the mysterious Reaper’s daughter whispering all over the place. Everyone’s curious as to who you are, what sort of person you will turn out to be, whether you’re worthy enough to take over your father’s throne or not.

Little do they know, you’ve already made a home for yourself on that seat long before they heard news of your father’s death.

And now here he is, in a dreaded room amongst many other mafia members who got your invitation to the party you mentioned weeks ago. The party being your debut, the party being — your father’s funeral.

He doesn’t know how to feel about it, not exactly expecting you to call your own father’s funeral a debut show for the underworld but what was he expecting when you killed your father with your very own hands?

News not many mafiosos in the room have knowledge of just yet.

He doesn’t like this as he finally makes light of one of his lovers, Seokjin, before finding the rest of them standing relatively close to one another. He takes the last spot beside them, brows still furrowed and waiting for your arrival.

He wishes this will end as soon as possible as he catches sight of Hoseok who stands two people away from him.

Hoseok is silent, eyes unwavering without the slightest hint of emotions on his face despite all the rumors and words leaving many lips in the room. Namjoon himself is questioned on his opinion, being one of the Reaper’s allies, though he refuses to comment much on it.

Yoongi and Taehyung both look bored. Jimin doesn’t want to be here. Seokjin can’t wait for your arrival so this so called party can end. And Hoseok is emotionless.

The youngest of the group wonders what is going on in his head. After all, ten years ago when things were falling apart with you, he had been the last to accept your leaving. And perhaps Hoseok never did come to terms with it, perhaps he still hurts, unsure of what to do in this dilemma now that you’re back, and Jungkook wonders how Hoseok is feeling through all of this.

He can feel his heart falling a little for his lover, eyes moving to the floor of the room when he knows he can’t take staring at Hoseok’s expressionless face any longer.

Hoseok held onto you when you decided to leave and for a while nothing but anger and pain filled his eyes whenever he looked at them. At him. It took some time for Hoseok to finally accept your absence and Jungkook never wants to go through the idea of his hyung hating him ever again. But now that you’re back in the picture, what does this all mean for them?

For Hoseok?

Jungkook doesn’t want to think about it.

He’s running away again, he knows, but…what else can he do? A small glance Namjoon’s way is all he can do.

The leader of Bangtan stands tall, eyes as cold and as intimidating as ever. His brows are creased even tighter today, refusing to answer anything anyone asks him about the mysterious daughter of the Reaper.

“Did you know she existed?”

“I do not know her,” is all he says.

Because it’s the truth.

Once upon a time the eight of you lived a life filled with soft smiles and sweet laughter. That story ended ten years ago when you pulled your ring off your finger, deciding to end all your ties with them. It was you who suggested never to meet ever again, promising to never utter a word about Bangtan to anyone, including your father.

It was you who made the rules of the contract, sitting across from him in the dim lit room ten years ago, looking as if you were barely holding on but still having enough strength to speak to him through the paper contract.

You wanted no relations with him no longer, the pen trembling in your hand when you reached to sign your name before the bottom line.

Still, despite the ache in your heart, the eyes that refused to meet his one last time, Namjoon remembered the last moment he had with you so well. It’s been engraved in his mind so well no matter how much he’s tried to get rid of it.

You bit onto your trembling lip, fingernails digging into the skin of your thigh as you sat in there in his office, head lowered, holding onto your sniffles as the tears cascaded from your closed eyes.

“Thank you, Namjoon. You were a wonderful husband.” The very last words you uttered to him, chin tilted upwards as your eyes remained closed, the corners of your lips barely holding onto the string when it tugged into a beautiful, painful smile, so broken and weak.

He did that.

That was the consequence of his actions.

Namjoon could have sworn his heart dropped in that very moment but he doesn’t remember much of how he felt in those few seconds.

Because after you whispered those words to him, you stood up and turned your back to him, head refusing to look back, feet walking on without another step of hesitation.

It was the last thing he saw of you.

And now here he is, in a building belonging to the Reapers, in your home, with your presence returning to take your revenge.

The door flies open and the noise dies down as all heads turn your way.

A black satin dress falling to the floor, black heels slowly clicking onto the carpet. The room falls so silent he swears he could hear a pin drop if it weren’t for the slow steps you make as the room create a way for you to head for the casket towards the back of the room.

Your hair is pulled up in an updo, a black birdcage veil decorated on the side, hiding part of your face in the dim lit room. Your chin is tilted towards the floor, refusing to make contact with all the curious gazes in the room while your hands fall together in front of you, holding onto a single flower.

The black dahlia tainted with a dark burgundy color.

You look like a grim reaper dressed in black, yet despite the dark color you are decorated in, your face is gentle and soft, pure and innocent with a grieving expression. No one has ever looked so pure dressed in black yet you make it seem so effortlessly looking like an angel walking in grim reaper’s clothing.

Of course Namjoon knows all of this is an act you’re putting on to play the role of the mourning daughter who had just lost her loving father.

He says nothing while the room already falls awestruck by your beauty, despite the fact that your face is tilted down and refusing to give them all a true view.

You fall to your knees once you reach your father’s casket and the room lower their heads in respect of the ritual once you’ve clasped your hands together, greeting the dead Reaper.

Hello, father, you call to him in your thoughts, eyes closed as if you were praying for the angels to bless his path to heaven. But you know more than anyone that your father isn’t in heaven.

I hope you’re rotting well in hell, though I doubt anyone would be able to rot well once they’re in hell. You don’t want to talk to him but you have to put on an act in front of everyone — at least for now. I want to thank you for bringing me into this world. It must be quite a shock to realize the very person you brought into this world is the sole reason you’ve left, huh? There are many things I wish to curse you for but you will never be able to comprehend them all. After all, you’re gone now all because of it. If we had more time, I would have taken my time killing you but I didn’t want to see you living for a second longer.

The flower you had placed before you is handed onto his casket. You stand back on your feet, watching it for a moment to remind yourself that you’ve done well. I’ll be keeping your seat warm for you now. Don’t look after me because I have no need of your guidance any longer. You’re useless to me.

With that, you turn your back to the casket to address the room before your very eyes.

With your face facing the room, you hear a small whistle that almost had you rolling your eyes if you didn’t have that much control over your emotions. You don’t like being seen before a crowd, addressing a room, and perhaps that’s due to the fact that you’ve always hidden yourself well amongst others to the point where you were simply but a shadow to everyone.

And now here you are, facing the underworld with everyone’s eyes staring right at you. You can feel the tremble in your hands and hold them behind your back as your face remains calm.

“Thank you for attending my father’s funeral,” you begin with a gentle facade, a small bittersweet smile curling along your lips as you speak as if you were looking fondly back on your memories with him. “It is a shame to bid him goodbye this soon and I understand that this may have shocked many of you in this room. After all, no one knew of my existence before this very day.”

“Will you be taking his place?” Someone asks and you address him with a nod.

“It is the duty of the heir to take the throne once the father has passed,” you remind him.

“Not unless they’re weak and incomptetent.” You remain nonchalant despite the criticism that leaves another’s lips. When you look over his way, his cocky attitude doesn’t sit well with you but you let him be for now.

He narrows his gaze in suspicion of you. “Your father has held onto quite the legacy,” he states. “How are we to know you’ll promise to continue that?”

“As you’ve said, no one knew of your existence until today. Doesn’t that mean something?” Someone else says, implying the fact that you aren’t up to lead a whole gang, that you’re weak and therefore your father refused to let the world know you existed.

Which was half true. Father indeed saw you as someone who shouldn’t exist and had shamed the face of the Reapers.

Yet despite all the jabs made your way and more, you refuse to give into their childish antics.

“I will assume you are saying this because you are concerned for the Reapers now that my father is gone,” you go on to say, receiving a few offhanded scoffs to which you ignore. “I will say this now, the Reapers will do well on their own without your concerns.”

“Young lady, if you hadn’t realized,” Ah, you don’t like the name he addressed you with, “Now that your father is gone, that throne is for anyone to take.”

“Ah,” you say, “are you saying you wish to takeover my father’s empire?”

“There’s no one left to defend it.”

“I am here to defend it.”

“Barely.”

A laugh and two.

They’re all mocking you.

The corner of your lips curl into a smirk at their underestimation of you. You can’t blame them, they don’t know who you are but that just makes it all the more fun for your part. Because unlike a hidden shadow whom no one has a clue on how her skills are, you have already figured out many of the weaknesses in this very room.

“Alright then, since you doubt me so much,” a playful pitying sigh escapes you, “I guess we’ll just have to deal with this the old fashion way.” Your eyes scan the room, a small grin plastered on your face. “Whoever defeats me will have the chance at taking over the Reapers.”

At your announcement, laughter leave some lips as if you had just made the most funniest joke. When you raise a brow their way, silent in response to their laughs, they realize this crazy fool have just created the easiest way to take over another gang.

“I don’t really like fighting with a girl,” someone steps up to say.

You smile. “Don’t worry about that. Just do your best without holding back.”

He scoffs at your words. “I think I should be saying that to you instead, darling. I’d hate to paint any dirt on that pretty face of yours.”

“Ah, you’re calling me pretty? Why thank you. But as I’ve said,” your eyes darken slightly with amusement, “don’t hold back.”

You stand still, standing tall without moving to any protective stance and they all watch as the gentleman of a different gang begins to lung at you.

His fist grazes past your face and when he almost stumbles on his feet to return back to his stance, the man realizes you’ve just dodged an attack of his. Brows furrowing, he looks your way to find a raised brow made his way.

“You’re holding back,” you say with a small pout. “I’m kind of disappointed you’re underestimating me, good sir.”

It’s easy to rile him up because a man like him doesn’t like it when their masculinity is being challenged. He goes in for another punch and when you dodge that one, his leg is ready to hit you at your blind spot, only it doesn’t get far because once more, he’s barely able to get within an inch of your bubble.

For a second Seokjin was almost afraid for you but seeing as that man is only making a fool out of himself, he lets out a bored sigh, knowing just how one-sided this has quickly become.

“Why don’t we add a weapon?” He suggests and you readily agree.

“Whatever you’d like.”

He reaches for a dagger while Mingyu hands you your katana and in split seconds, he thrusts it your way. Only a step to the side and a knee-kick up his stomach almost has him reeling. Yet the man doesn’t give up as he goes for you again.

A clash of the blades.

Another.

And he’s pushed to the floor.

“What a disappointment,” you say as you spin your katana along your fingers before letting it rest at your side. “Anyone else?”

A few more challenges you, not wanting to believe just how easy it was for you to knock down the first guy, only to realize you indeed have power as well as skills seconds into the fight with you. One of them gets close, however, when their blade grazes your hair, breaking the clip of your veil and causing your hair to cascade down your shoulders.

The darkness in your eyes only becomes more and more clear after each dodge and attack until you’re faced with the final challenger who threw his blade your way, which ends up missing completely and going for the side but you’re quick to grab it and throw it back to land it right before the tip of his shoe.

You turn for a second, gazing silently at the man the blade had almost hit if you hadn’t saved it, and Hoseok acknowledges you with a small nod.

“How?” The man coughs out and your attention is brought back to him.

You let out a small sigh. “Upset you were defeated by someone who carries a vigina in between her legs?” You hate to admit this but, “In the end, I am my father’s daughter after all.” A powerful man so strong almost no one can oppose him. You trained so well under your father you sometimes forget some people were never on his level to begin with — the only good thing that came out of being his daughter — though you guess it was also the very reason you had hurt a lot.

So in all honesty, these people weren’t even worth your time. Sure some of them put up a fight but these were leading members of the mafias you were once so afraid of.

What a let down.

You turn around to head for your father’s casket once more when the last man takes hold of the blade before his feet, running your way and ready to lead a surprise attack.

Only to be stopped by Mingyu who’s quick on his feet, stepping up before you and twisting his blade out of his hand.

Yuna jabs him on the neck and Yeojun stands at a protective stance in front of you.

The room falls quiet as you turn around while a few more of your Reapers have surrounded themselves around you with glares leveling around the room.

And that’s when they realize just how unrecognizable the Reapers faces are to them. After all, despite the fact that not everyone in this room was in your father’s favors, they have all encountered moments with his people. But looking at the people who have come to protect you, none of them are faces that were loyal to your father.

The people who served your father are all gone, replaced with your own people.

A look at the casket then a look your way.

And that’s when it hits them.

“You…” Someone points a finger your way, eyes wide as they level an accusation at you. “How did the Reaper die?” He asks the very question everyone else in this room has.

Finally they’re speaking your language.

Your lips tug into a smirk and that is all the answer they need.

Someone steps up to try and force their way through, only to be stopped by Namjoon’s arm.

“That’s enough,” he speaks in a low, commanding voice.

Another leader steps up, and then another. You stand at the very center of the room, a few Reapers by your side while your allies watch them with careful gazes.

When the remaining mafia members sees you’ve already built your own dynasty with your father’s former allies playing at your side, the consuming aura which exceeds from the new Reaper is so powerful the room becomes suffocating.

And that’s when it hits them: you’ve already taken the throne and they were fighting for nothing.

.

.

.

When the room empties and all that’s left are you and your Reapers, you stand there staring at your father’s casket as still as ever.

Everything falls silent once more and the longer you stand there looking at the room which looks so perfect without a hint of flower in disarray, the harder it is for you to keep still.

“You’re doing it wrong,” you hear your father’s voice in the back of your mind. “Why can’t you get it right?” He asked with irritation clear in his voice.

You coward before him, brows creasing with insecurity because you hated it. You just wanted to get it right yet nothing seems to be going your way.

“I’m sorry, father, I promise I’ll do it right next time.”

“Then show me,” he said and you faltered a little.

Yet father remained still with the slightest hint of budge as he stares down at you, eyes cold and dark as they had always been from the moment you left your mother’s womb.

“Do it right,” he said. “I want perfection. I don’t want disorder.”

You stomp up to the casket and kick it as hard as you possibly can, causing the wooded thing to crack and fall from where it was placed on.

The loud crash alerts your Reapers but they say nothing as they watch you from where they are, watching the boss who seems to be losing herself little by little.

You pick up a flower vase, throwing it at the casket which holds empty all for the sake of image. You had burned your father along with the former Reapers that had followed him and all their ashes have already been thrown into the ocean.

All that’s left is an empty room made for your armies to build themselves up. You’re creating your own empire whose legacy will exceed that of your father’s. It’s been weeks since his assassination and his presence should no longer hinder you in any way but why is it that he’s still here?

Living?

All in your head?

You throw another vase. A third. Then take some flowers that had been left for your father and smash them to the floor. They tear against the force of your hits, petals flying off, dirty and wet yet you can’t seem to stop.

“I want perfection.”

You create chaos.

“I don’t want disorder.”

Stop it.

Stop.

Stop.

Crashing and falling. Destruction and disorder are all that you seem to be able to make. But you don’t want perfection. Not like your father. Nothing like your father.

All his life father wanted perfection but you fell in love with disorder. If nothing you did in your father’s eyes was ever right then you’ll create disorder. He hates it and he hates you, it’s a perfect combination.

He never loved you anyway.

“I would be mad but…I’m actually quite proud.”

You scoff silently in your own thoughts, wanting nothing more than to rid of anything that reminds you of your father. Yet no matter what you think of to do, no matter how many physical things you’ve already thrown away, nothing is harder than getting rid of his presence that lives on in your head.

Get out, you say. Just get out.

But he’s not going anywhere and you aren’t sure what to do anymore.

“Boss.”

A cut to your hand caused by a shattered vase and you turn at your second in command who watches you with a silent gaze. You aren’t sure what’s on his mind but you’re sure he’s a bit concerned yet at the same time, used to your sudden outburst.

“Mingyu,” you whisper as you show him the gash and blood that oozes out from the palm of your hand. It’s on your non-dominant hand so at least you won’t have to worry too much. Brows furrowed, lips slightly pouting, you look up at him as a child would when they’ve gotten hurt and have to tell an adult. “It hurts,” you say and stare down at the cut on your hand, not liking the stinging sensation because it reminds you well of your father.

Then again, everything reminds you of your father so why does one more pain even matter?

It doesn’t.

“Of course it would.” Mingyu takes your wrist with a heavy sigh and Yuna hands him a white cloth, to which he carefully uses to wipe carefully around the cut. “What did we say about throwing a tantrum?”

You glare up at him. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, tugging you lightly and keeping his hand on your wrist as the two of you begin to head out of the room.

The room is nothing but trash after what you had done. Nothing remains perfect except for the remaining black dahlia which sits still on the floor.

Perfect.

Just as your betrayal to your father.

Just like you and your father’s hatred for one another.

He doesn’t love you, he never did. Whether he was truly proud of you or not, you don’t care anymore. You’ve lost touch of feelings long ago yet he still haunts your demons each and every day.

You hate him and the black dahlia is there to prove it right.

.

.

.

The repeated footage plays again and again as if a gif before his eyes and Namjoon isn’t sure what to make of it. Taehyung was able to verify that this wasn’t anything fake and he knows how good the man’s computer skills are but still, Namjoon has his suspicions.

This is his brother after all, the very person he’s been missing almost all his life, in a scene he’s never witnessed before until you sent this over. In all those years during the time he had first gone missing, Namjoon did all that he could to find any source of information in order to find his brother — with his limited skills and power because he had been so young then.

Who would have thought his brother had been with you all along.

“What’s on your mind?” Seokjin asks when he and Yoongi walks in to find the boss lost in thoughts.

Without looking up to know who it was that walked in, Namjoon continues staring at the footage played on loop. “My brother was seventeen when he went missing,” he says, still confused as all the questions are piling up before his eyes. “I thought that he might’ve gotten himself into trouble but this clip says otherwise. He’s living as if he doesn’t have a little brother waiting for him at home. What if he went missing on purpose?”

“You’re saying your father had something to do with his case?” Yoongi asks, raising a brow as the two of them takes a seat.

“The Reapers and Bangtan, we were enemies at the time,” Namjoon states. “We were never on good terms, ever, until I tied that down with Y/N as a vessel between our hands. My father would have never done that if he were still alive. It would make sense for him to send my brother there to infiltrate their home and find some sort of weakness.”

“But he never came back,” Yoongi says and the three of them stare at the monitor which shows Namjoon’s lost brother speaking kindly to a little girl.

A little girl who still lives today, the pure and innocence in her eyes no longer there and had ceased to exist.

“Whatever she knows,” Namjoon plays his finger along his temples with frustration, “I highly doubt a woman like her will give me all the answers without wanting to torture me first.”

“Well.” Yoongi doesn’t finish his sentence but they all understand. You had been loyal and faithful to them in all the days the eight of you were together but they had let you down.

That pretty lady who had the gentlest smile with the kindest heart no longer shines for them. Instead, that pure love you once had for the world itself has ceased from existence. They can still remember that broken girl who had been so desperate to save the relationship, fallen on her knees, only to be left with embarrassment and shame.

They did that to you.

And now here you are, no light left in your eyes, as if all the things you had gone through — whatever they were — had simply broken you.

You broke.

But when? And why? And how?

It is a question they know they will never get the answer to.

“Whatever two cent she’s going to give you, you have it take it,” Seokjin tells him. “At least then you’ll know more than what you do now.”

He’s right. Namjoon’s going to have to suck up whatever it is you have in store for him. No matter how unfair you will treat him, he’ll have to go through with it if he wants to know more about his brother.

All his life he’s has sworn Jungwon was still alive, always refusing to believe in anything otherwise. His brother wouldn’t just up and leave him like that after all. He wouldn’t just leave him alone with their father without a good explanation.

So where is he now? What happened to him and why hadn’t he come back to him?

Only you hold all the answers he wishes to know.

.

.

.

“What did I say?”

“Perfection.” You repeat his motto as if a doll in a trance and all your hands and feet are tied by the puppeteer who is your father. “Perfection.”

“Not disorder.”

“Not...disorder,” you say, eyes blank and staring straight ahead, voice a monotone your heart and ears have yet to get used to.

“That’s right.” He almost seems proud of himself seeing you like this, his daughter, his only heir, without life in her eyes and only responding well to the words he asks her to do. You’re just a pawn to his eyes, nothing more, nothing less, and slowly by slowly, bit by bit, he’s creating you into the perfect little puppet he wishes you had been from the very beginning. He has his fingers wrapped around the strings which tie you up as one would a doll.

You have nowhere to escape.

“Kill him,” father commands and you stare at the man who sits in the room with the two of you, arms and legs tied to a lone chair that sits in the dark room saved by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Kill him.

Kill him.

Kill him.

You’ve never killed a man before, not by your own hands, and this will be the first day you will prove your loyalty to your father. The day you will finally give all of yourself to him.

Hands and feet. All the strings that control your limbs.

You raise your hand and father steps back, watching you carefully with hawk eyes.

“I want perfection,” he repeats again and again. “Straight through the forehead. Do not miss.”

No second choice, no ‘otherwise something will happen to you.’ None of it. Because father expects the best out of you, nothing but perfection. If you can’t be perfect, you can’t be his little puppet doll. You have to be perfect.

Something pulls at your finger when it lands on the trigger as if a force screaming at you to run away, trying to pull you away from doing this. Because the second you have your first kill, you can never go back and the little girl who held so much hope and love for the world will no longer exist.

But where else can you run except the arms of your father who will never let you escape? You have nowhere to go.

You’re trapped. The second you broke, your past self no longer lives.

You’re dead and there is no one to save you.

They’d be all too late anyways.

You pull the trigger and the bullet flies straight into the forehead of the man. He falls back and the chair follows along with him with a loud thud. Blood pools all around from the head and you know right then and there that there’s no going back.

You stare at your hand which is wrapped in white bandage, alone in your vast bedroom surrounded with nothing but darkness. It can’t stop trembling, why can’t it stop trembling?

You thought you were over it. You were supposed to be over it. How many years has it been since your first kill? How many kills have you done after that first one?

Plenty.

Plenty.

Many more that will never be able to fit if you were to count using your fingers and many of them were instigated by none other than your father. You’ve done so much to earn your father’s trust, repeatedly committing crimes after crimes just to please him and prove your loyalty to him.

You may have looked like a try-hard before his eyes, doing all that you can to make him proud.

It worked, it seems, when the moment you stood above his dying body and he had no idea it would be you to eliminate him in the end.

He’s gone now, no longer here to order you around and rule above you.

He’s supposed to be gone but why is he still living in your head?

Ah, you hate this. You hate this so much.

A moment of anger and you punch your hurting hand against the countertop of your vanity. Disarray falls once more and you push everything off, causing many things to crash and break yet despite the stinging pain that appears from the palm of your hand, you ignore it all.

Your knees buckle underneath you and you fall to the floor of your room, hands hovering over your head as if trying to contain yourself from your father trying to get in.

Get away, get away, get away!!

You scream and scream but you know that no matter what happens, you’re still afraid.

Afraid of screaming, of making a single sound, of everything that reminds you of your father.

You’re afraid of him.

He’s gone but he’s here and you hate this more than anything in the world. It’s better that he’s gone but no matter what, father will always cause you fear whether he’s dead or alive and you hate how weak he makes you.

You hate him.

“Y/N.”

You hear Mingyu’s voice. He only calls you your name when you’re like this. He probably heard the loud crashing from outside and was alerted. Everyone knows that whenever you’re having your moments, Mingyu is the best person to go to.

And now here he is, knelt before your trembling body which can’t seem to control its own self. You feel his gentle touch against the wrist of your injured hand as he forces his way in.

“Don’t clench, Y/N, you’re only hurting yourself more.”

You shake your head, unable to listen. “I can’t,” you whisper softly. “He’s here, Mingyu. Get rid of him. Get rid of that bastard.”

“He’s not here.”

“He is.” You pull your arm back from him forcefully, refusing to hear a word he’s saying as you sit up to stubbornly curl your body into a defensive ball. “He’s here, he’s here, and he will always stay. He’s never going to leave.”

“He’s only here because you’re letting him.”

“What else can I do?” You want to cry, to tear up, to feel all the pain at once but your eyes are so dry you can do no such thing. Instead, you’re left with an uncontrollable trembling body and an injured hand, facing Mingyu who crouches before you and refuses to leave you alone. “What can I do when he’s always been here all my life? I can’t get rid of him. I thought that if he left physically, things would be better but I was wrong. It’s just like how it was when he was still alive. Father would never hit me but he constantly tortured my mind and now I can never get rid of him. I can’t and I…I…”

You can’t tell him that you’re afraid, that father scares you more than anything and that you want to be safe from the fears.

Yet Mingyu knows and Mingyu understands just as the day he gave you his life.

That’s why, without hesitation, your second in command slowly reaches for you once more. He’s careful, cautious, with eyes never leaving yours. With a hand wrapped around your hand, he takes a moment to assess your permission before carefully pulling you in.

Your body continues to tremble even as your head eventually lays against his chest and he’s holding onto you carefully, just as Mister Butler once did when he was still alive and taking care of you. You stare blankly at nothing before you, letting the quiet sound of the room echo on, listening to the steady beat of Mingyu’s heart.

He does this often when you can’t control yourself, when things get too overwhelming and the world becomes too scary for you to face. Yuna used to care for you like this until it got too difficult for her to accommodate to your needs.

You’re unpredictable after all, and Yuna’s nothing but a child. A child can’t look after another child, and so Mingyu took over the role during moments when things get too rough for you. When the world is closing in, causing you nightmares after nightmares, Mingyu is right there to lend you his arms and the steady rythme of his heartbeat.

You will always remember the beat of his heart.

For the longest time you sit there in silence, listening to his heartbeat while trying your best to tune out the rest of the world. Just as he’s constantly had to repeat over and over again throughout the years of serving for you.

Yet your body still trembles when Mingyu speaks again.

“You promised Mr. Kim a meeting at five today,” he says and you blink, unconcerned for it.

“And?”

“It’s nearly five.” You fall silent once more and he waits for a while until you finally break from his arms to stand. “Will you be alright?” He asks, eyes trailing after you with genuine concern.

“I have to fake it, don’t I?”

Mingyu sighs. There’s no way for him to convince you otherwise. After all, nothing gets in your way of doing your duties, no matter how bad your breakdowns may be merely seconds before meeting a member outside of the Reapers. You’ve learned to fake your emotions so well before everyone’s eyes, having been taught to do so from a very young age.

“At least let me wrap your hand again.”

You let him.

.

.

.

“How is she?” When Mingyu walks out of your room to let you dress, Yuna and Yeonjun are instantly at his feet, concerns clearly marked on their faces.

“She’ll be alright.”

“So she’s a mess,” Dasom interprets from the side of the wall, a furrow in her brows.

The two younger ones frown. “Why won’t she just cancel everything and rest?” Yuna asks, her head falling to the floor.

“You know boss’s stubbornness far exceeds any of our concerns. Now go back to your posts, simply worrying about her won’t let boss’s problems disappear just like that.” They know he’s right so without further ado, the two of them are on their feet, trodding along back to where they should be with one last glance made towards your closed door.

“Well?”

Hearing Dasom’s voice from the side, Mingyu looks up to find her watching him with expectancy in her eyes, letting him know that she wasn’t going to go anywhere unless he spilled.

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sometimes I wish she would just cry.”

“You know that won’t happen anytime soon.”

“Yeah well, that demon in her head isn't going anytime soon either.”

“The day she ever sheds a tear again,” she steps up to him with a hand on his shoulder, “our dear boss won’t cry pretty, so you’d better be prepared for that. Boss will hurt...and so will we.”

How many years has it been since she joined your side and pledged her loyalty to you? In all those years, you’ve never once shed a tear.

Mingyu and Dasom both met you after you were broken. The only one to ever witness it all was Yuna.

A little puppet in the making for your father to control.

But how does the puppet pick herself up after cutting the strings of the puppeteer, when she’s never known to control her own strings?