#also the thing i enjoyed drawing the most here were the lil wrinkles around his left eye lol

[not-xpr-art]

progress pics for my jekyll & hyde piece!

relatively smooth progress in this piece for once lol!

[alpacaparkaseok]

As Fate Would Have It

[1 / 5] 

Ghost

The last time I saw him was July 16, 1392. It was also the day I died. 

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➣ pairing/genre: idol!KTH x reader, past life au // feat. OT7 BTS

➣ word count: 1.3k (jus a lil bitty beginning)

➣ warnings/tags: this is gonna talk about death, but not in a super gruesome/direct way. we keep things pretty SFW over here

a/n: here we goooo! thank you guys for sticking around for this new series, I hope you enjoy it! as always, your comments, reblogs, and asks mean so much to me and really help more than you know to keep going. So please let me know how you feel about this new series! Enjoy! 💕 p.s. if you didn’t read the prologue I would recommend you do! 

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“This is a major downgrade,” you sulk while shivering beside a crowded bus stop.

           “Yeah, well,” Noa, your roommate gripes from your right, “at least you got to be royalty once. Quit complaining.”

           “I heard that Kate Middleton is on her third life, and she’s been royalty all three times!” Daeun chimes in from your left. She’s also shivering, clinging to a flimsy umbrella that’s doing a poor job of keeping the three of you safe from the rain.

           “Like what, born into royalty? Or did she manage to marry into it like this lifetime?”

           Daeun and Noa continue chattering away, throwing off multiple theories and speculating about Kate Middleton’s past lives. Of course it’s all guesswork; the details of previous lives are usually meant to be kept secret. However it provides a temporary distraction from the bad weather, which is all you can really ask for right now. Hopefully it will prove enough of a distraction to sway you from your rampant thoughts of last night’s dream.

           “Being born royal isn’t all that fun,” an elderly woman calls out as she ambles up from her seat to catch the approaching bus. It’s not the one you’re taking, that won’t be here for another couple of minutes. “My mistress saw a lot of sorrow in her day, and few remember her now. She deserved to be remembered, in my opinion. I owe her my first life.”

           You tilt your head, squinting a little as the woman gives a wistful sigh. A memory nudges you from the catacombs of your mind.

           “Who was your mistress?” The question falls from your lips before you can catch it.

           The woman blinks, smiling softly. It’s almost as though the mere thought of her past mistress brings her peace. “Iseul, the final daughter of the Goryeo dynasty.”

           The name carries a weight that comes crashing into you, both liberating and binding you to your memories. You’ve heard that name before, albeit centuries ago. And this woman…

           “Ja-young.”

           Two syllables, enormous power. The instant you utter them, the elderly woman gasps and drops her cane in shock. You rush forward, picking it up and placing it gently in her hands with a warm smile. There are tears in Ja-young’s eyes as you look at her, her old face creased with wrinkles and countless stories.

           “My…my lady…” Ja-young attempts to bow, drawing the attention of several onlookers. You grasp her shoulders, stopping her.

           “There’s no need to bow,” you reassure. “I’m just a girl now. I hold no power.”

           Ja-young shakes her head. “No, my lady. I- I owe you my first life! What you did for me-”

           “You would have done the same for me.”

           “Oh, my Lady…” Ja-young’s bottom lip quivers as she clutches your forearm with surprising strength. “My wish has been granted. For so long I’ve been waiting to meet you again. You look just as you did, all those years ago…how did I not see it sooner? So vibrant – you haven’t changed at all.”

           Noa and Daeun remain silent behind you, having experienced this before. It’s not your fault that nearly all your court from your first lifetime as the emperor’s daughter in the Goryeo dynasty have just so happened to be born within the same lifetime. Although, it does become a little odd when you cross paths with a gossipy maid or flirtatious errand boy in the produce aisle of your local grocery store.

           Life is funny that way. You’re on top of the world one moment, and living off of a diet of Mac n Cheese the next.

           “I’m happy to see you like this,” you smile. “You’ve lived a full life, it appears.”

           Ja-young inclines her head. “As I did in my first lifetime, so long ago. My Lady-”

           “I’m afraid that I’m just Hana now,” you gently correct. Despite the fact that you’re living in the 21st century, you still aren’t the most keen on the general public discovering your identity. Not when there’s potential danger still lurking out there.

           “Oh, if that’s the case then I’m Ma-ri now,” Ja-young – now Ma-ri says. “Hana, I’ve been praying for the opportunity to see you again. I’m running out of time now.”

           Time. It once seemed so infinite. And now it’s slipping through your fingertips faster than you can keep up.

           “You’ve made it to your fourth…?”

           Ma-ri nods solemnly. “And final lifetime. But I wanted to tell you, my Lady, that I kept my promise to you. I visited your grave often, I told my children stories of you. However, I wasn’t the only one who frequented the site.”

           You jump as the bus driver lets out a shrill honk, clearly impatient. Ma-ri turns around, waving him on. With a shrug and an eye-roll, the bus driver closes the doors and continues on his way. Now the bus stop is empty save for your party of four.

           “Who else visited me?” You ask, curious now at the gleam in Ma-ri’s eye. She had always been a feisty one, if you remember correctly.

           An invisible shudder runs through Ma-ri’s body as she finally delivers the message she’s waited three lifetimes to deliver. Indeed, she can pass on to the unknown now that she’s finally laid eyes on her mistress once more.

           “Sungho.”

--

           “Kim Taehyung is not a murderer!” Noa defends, crossing her arms protectively as you clench your jaw.

           “No, but Sungho was. And they’re one and the same, aren’t they?” You mirror her, also crossing your arms. “Aren’tthey?”

           Your eyes flicker across the street, toward a billboard that lauds a BTS sponsorship for all to see. However, all you see is Sungho, smiling down at you with those same dark eyes from centuries ago.

           Ma-ri left just a few minutes ago, catching a bus and leaving you with a scribbled address to visit anytime you wanted. You tucked it away safely into the pocket of your jeans before losing your mind.

           “Hana, I don’t think you should be directing your anger at Taehyung,” Daeun quietly interjects, standing just off to the side. “He’s done a lot of good in this life-”

           “You’ll understand when you’re older!” You grind out. Noa winces, but begrudgingly agrees.

           “Yeah…sorry Daeun, but you’re a first-lifer. You’ll understand the next time around. It’s hard to separate people from what they were before.”

           Daeun doesn’t argue, knowing it’s pointless. Living with seasoned lifers, as people who have lived multiple lives have been so lovingly dubbed, doesn’t allow much room for argument. Noa sports two past lives, enjoying her third. And you…

           “Is this really how you wanna live this life?” Noa says, arching a brow. “Angry at some idol philanthropist just because of what happened in your first life? C’mon, Hana. That was three lifetimes ago.”

           “You’re not suggesting that I get over it, are you?”

           “Well…”

           “Nuh-uh,” you take a step back, offended. “No way. Goryeo fell, I died, and he was there to watch everything burn to the ground. And I’m just supposed to let it go all because he’s some adored global icon?”

           “YES!” Both Noa and Daeun shout, sending a few birds flying from a nearby bush.

           You pause to think, staring daggers up at the billboard and Taehyung’s flawless features. Perhaps you would find him beautiful if it weren’t for the past marring your current viewpoint. You stare and stare, mind whirring with the possibilities of all that you could do instead of forgiving.

           “It’s no use sitting here and sulking about the past, not when I can’t do anything about it…” you start, ignoring the relieved expressions on your roommates’ faces.

           “Good, that’s good.”

           “But…”

           “No, back up. You were doing so well!”

           The corners of your lips turn up into an evil grin. “…I have an idea.”

           Daeun groans. “What’s the stupid idea now?”

           You shake your head, stepping forward as the bus rounds the corner. “I’m not telling you.”

           “Why not?”

           “Because you’ll try to stop me.”

           Noa elbows you lightly. “At least tell us what your end goal is here.”

           The bus pulls up, doors opening and a flurry of people pouring out onto the street. In the din and chaos of it all, you turn to your friends.

           “If you can’t beat them…” again, your eyes fall on the billboard, quickly finding Taehyung’s eyes among the rest. “Join ‘em.”

--

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[artlessictoan]

Day 3 - Family

eyyy looks like we’re back to my fave theme that is the hardest one to write! why do I do these things to myself.. this one….. this one got kinda very dark at points. I uh………. yeah, tw suicidal thoughts, it’s only implied and he gets better but please avoid this chap if you need to

just a lil reminder that in these fics I’ve altered ages a little so the sibs are each a couple years apart instead of being born basically back-to-back, for poor karura’s sake. also autistic kank hcs abound!

(ao3 version)

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Day 3 - Family

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Age two and the world is far too big and scary for him.

Outside there is wind and sand constantly brushing his skin with their feather-light touch that turns his skin inside out, and his mother insists upon holding his hand loosely wherever they go, no matter how her grip rattles down to his bones; he much prefers inside, where it is cool and quiet and he’s allowed to play alone with his toys as much as he likes, even if Temari keeps trying to take them for herself.

Family is a word mother keeps repeating to him, broken up into small, slow sounds, eyes wide and hungry as she waits for something, he doesn’t know what, but he knows that the word is the long sigh when he flips his bowl onto the table, is a firm press of lips against his forehead every night before he falls asleep.

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Age three and he realises how much he misses routine.

There doesn’t seem to be any explanation for why mother hasn’t taken him out for several days now, no reason for father’s sudden disappearance from family dinnertime, just the reassurances of his sister as she pulls him away from mother’s room, she’s tired, she needs to sleep, c’mon I’ll tell you the story with the owl again, you like that one, mother will get well soon, then we can all go out together, .

Family is worry and feeling the sharp pain of a missing presence at his side, wishing he could be big and strong like Temari, so he could help make mummy feel better.

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Age six and he hates how everything is being kept from him.

Father has been spending less and less time with him and when he does, it’s only to instruct him on jutsu and frown when metal does not shiver at his touch; Temari is busy with her tutors, he can’t remember the last time they said hello without her apologising; uncle Yashamaru’s hair is wilder and his eyes darker every time he sees him, apparently his little brother is doing well, but he wouldn’t know, he hasn’t seen him since he was a baby.

Family is trying to piece together the broken fragments of an old life, work out what he did wrong and how he can make it right, it is asking father what he needs to do, is it picking up a weapon for the first time in his life.

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Age ten and he can no longer feel his fingertips.

Chakra burns as he forces it from his body, it whips and flails like a desperate animal as he stretches it out further and further, a distant voice barks at him to focus, silk-fine threads snap and the puppet crumbles to the ground in a heap of fabric and wood. He holds his aching hand with a white-knuckled grip, bites his lip until it bleeds, holds his eyes wide open until the urge to cry burns away under the scorching midday sun.

Family is the wrinkled old men and women of the puppetry core, with their sharp tongues and hard glares, the ancient, crumbling papers that are quickly becoming the only thing he truly understands.

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Age twelve and he is sick, sick, sick of it.

He’s not good enough, never has been, never will be. The Kazekage’s disappointment comes through in every curt, backhanded compliment that slips out of his slimy mouth and his tutors dismiss every win he takes, grinding away at his pride until he can’t bare to even look at himself in the mirror. When the first strokes of deep purple cross his features – paint laced with a mild poison, in Suna tradition – he claims it’s because he knows he is ready to call himself a true puppet master, whether the elders accept it or not, in private, he tells Temari that it’s because he’s seen the venom in the stares Gaara sends their father and has no desire to face an early grave, but when he’s alone, with nothing but a mirror to judge him, he knows it’s because he can’t bear that hate reflected back at him in his father’s eyes.

Family is never feeling safe, never feeling content with himself, because himself was worth less than the dirt on Gaara’s shoes. He spends a long time staring at the kunai, carefully sharpened to a dazzling gleam; Temari’s call from down the hall jolts him back to reality. Blade hidden back under his pillow, he welcomes his sister home with a smirk and a joke and tries to believe that the warmth in her tired eyes and weak smile prove his value to the world.

---

Age fourteen and he doesn’t realise how much he loves Suna until he leaves.

The air here is too sticky, the people too loud and the colours too garish. He finds himself urgently fidgeting every time he sits down, fingers going through the motions that would see a hidden blade spring from Karasu’s arm, a pack of senbon scattered in a wide arc, lethal, invisible gas released in the middle of a crowded street, only when a hand lightly slaps against his and a warning is hissed in his ear does he stop and recognise the exact same restless agitation in his little brother’s face.

Family is seeing the life and joy of the people around him and wishing for the simple, familiar distrust of home, where he knew where he stood and didn’t feel the aching want when he saw a trio of siblings playing in the street, running away laughing when their mother called them home.

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Age fifteen and, for the first time in years, he can breathe.

New responsibilities and worries keep him busy, distracted from emotions that he refuses to look at, lest the old, comfortable claws of anger once again claim their rightful place at his throat, but suddenly he doesn’t have to rely solely on himself. Temari demands that he stop shouldering his burdens alone in an attempt to protect her, Baki-sensei shows up at their home unannounced bearing food, gentle, uncertain touches and sly warnings of political machinations. More than them though, Gaara is the one who finds him in his pit of heavy, guilt-laden quicksand and reaches out, not to pull him free, but to find comfort from one entombed in the same suffocating place.

Family is support and comfort, it is warm meals eaten together to the sound of laughter, it is long, dark talks stretching long into the night, it is desperately clinging to the one person you thought would never understand and dragging each other back to the surface.

---

Age eighteen and he couldn’t stop the emotions escaping if he’d tried.

He still hated touch, hated how it made him feel trapped in his own skin and so uncomfortably close to another… but when they were finally home and free of prying eyes and constant attention, he pulled his siblings into the tightest, most painful hug he’d ever experienced. None of them let go, not even as they fell to the floor together – legs bent awkwardly beneath them – not when Gaara started mumbling every pain and fear he’d never let out, not as Temari finally broke down and howled, long and wretched and terrified, into his dusty, bloody coat, not when the hall became too dark to see, not even when Gaara had passed out from exhaustion and Temari fell into a light, fretful sleep; Kankuro refused to close his eyes or let go, keeping silent watch over them until the sun rose.

Family is horrible and wonderful and he will never, ever, lose a piece of it again, to do so would be to lose a part of himself.

---

Age twenty-nine and he has to wonder what the hell Gaara was thinking.

As much as he’d grown past his childhood hatred of those younger than him, there was a difference between tolerating children in specific situations, and suddenly having them infiltrate every part of your life. He wants to resent them for it, wants to pretend that he doesn’t get a kick out of Yodo’s games, doesn’t enjoy sharing his love of puppetry and art with Shinki, doesn’t feel a deep connection with the boy who loathed his own face.

Family is half-hearted protests and insincere complaints, poorly hidden laughter and smiles that warm him down to his soul. Araya lights up when he gives him a mask, cries when he assures him that there’s no shame in hiding, as long as it’s on your own terms.

---

Age fifty-six and he’s looking forwards to an early retirement.

The news that the three Kazekage siblings would be stepping down from their political posts had rocked Suna to it’s foundations, though Gaara’s calm words and unshakable faith in the next generation had soothed most concerns; they hadn’t done all they could in shaping the new world, but they had done enough, now was the time to let those with new ideas for change and progression take the stage. Now was the time to experience all those things they’d missed out on growing up.

Family is finding the time for the small moments as well as the big, it’s sticking together through the bad, in the hopes that one day you’ll be able to enjoy the good and the mundane and the thousand states in-between.

---

Age eighty-two and there simply isn’t enough time in the world.

He refuses to stop moving, no matter how his joints complain and eyes cloud; as long as he draws breath, he will live each day to its fullest.

Family is messy and confusing and he could never properly describe it, but if asked he would say it is the friends who stand by you, through thick and thin, the communities you build with like-minded people, the children you mentor, comfort, encourage and raise, the man who embraces you, sharp, broken edges and all, the siblings who push you to be better, to be your truest self, it is accepting someone as they were, good and bad and so terribly human, it is the comfort found in a gentle touch against the forehead.

Nothing in the world would ever be as precious.

---