“This time, we wanted to sing about the youth confronted with a
temptation. We experience an inner conflict when we’re confronted with a
temptation, and I think we can grow up through such an experience.”
you are one of the most special persons of the fandom for me and I know I always say this but I’m really happy to have met you, because you are so sweet and beautiful and you don’t know, but you were one of my first followers and all those little messages you left me when I started to post my drawings on tumblr motivated me to continue with my fanarts
I wanted to draw some SoMa for you and here we have them in their spartoi uniform with the colors of their souls
Worn down leather bench, soft wood caressing marble keys,
rust suffocating the delicate insides.
The piano had been tucked into the back of university
storage for years, hadn’t seen the light of day in far too long. Dust and
spider webs dance across its surface. You try to recall the last memory of it
It had once been on display in the center of the theatre,
thin fingers dancing across the keys. You try to picture his face, the curve of
his jaw and the slope of his nose but you cannot. Instead you only hear the soft
rain beating down on the roof of the school and fading symphonies.
The memories dissipate like smoke into the air. The only
thing you can remember are Yoongi’s words, “I think we should break up.”
They sting your eyes and you find yourself choking up simply
at the sight of this piano. You look around for something, anything. Your hands
land on a steel bat the baseball team used to use. It’s freezing under your
grip as you furiously push desks, chairs and art supplies out of the way.
When the piano is close enough, you lift the bat, bringing
it down on the wood. It cracks, the boards breaking in on themselves. Before
you can stop yourself, you take out a leg, the whole masterpiece collapsing on
You don’t stop there. Furiously you beat down on the keys,
watching them fall out of place. Memories you’ve hidden bubble to the surface
and you can begin to feel his touch against you once more.
Holding the inside of your wrist, wrapped around your waist,
plump lips against your own. You remember every text, every word, every mistake.
You remember how he used to call you doll
and sing you his music. You remember watching Yoongi play the piano, soft
chords ringing in your ears.
Though your throat feels tight and tears brim in your eyes,
you continue to slam the bat onto the piano, watching as it disassembles
helplessly. You let out a scream, cracking the lip into two as a memory of your
first date surfaces. It burns in your head and you throw all your strength into
breaking the bench.
You see yourself on it next to him, his hands guiding yours
against the cold keys. The memory only spurs you to smash it more. Bits of the
leather begin ripping and cracking, the legs in shreds.
For two years, you wanted him to love you. You longed for it
in your heart and everything in you. He was your night and day, he was a sweet
candy placed between your parted lips, he was an evil tingling that sparked at
the bottom of your spine.
But all he did was play you the way his fingers delicately
played the piano.
Someone’s hands wrap around your waist from behind, pulling
you away. They assure in your ear that everything is okay. Something stings in
your neck, you begin to feel drowsy.
Voices close in around you and your body falls to the floor.
The last thing you see are the painted words:
“저 빛이 저 빛이 내 죄를 비춰줘 돌이킬 수 없는 붉은 피가 흘러내려 더 깊이 매일이 죽을 것만 같아” - Stigma
He’s scared of dying, of drifting away without meaning. He
wants to be known, his name ringing ears across the globe. But his life is
completely meaningless, drifting from job to job, apartment to apartment, city
to city. He goes with no name, no trace he’s ever even been there. His mark
reaches no man and he impacts nothing.
Dreary days drag on, transferred from hospital one bed to
another. From one ambulance to another. He barely knows the color of the sky,
the memory fading away like burned out fire. Desire twinkles behind his
He lets the vignette in his vision slowly creep closer,
keeping to himself busy in the deadly quiet of the hospital. He twirls a small
blade between his thumb and first finger, trying to see how long he can last without
it breaking his skin.
Footsteps slowly approach the bed and a soft scent passes
over him. He knows it’s you. “This one is new.” He says, turning. He can barely
see your face through his fading vision.
“Yes, it is. I
purchased it last night with you in mind.” Your voice is soft, sing-songy and
Taehyung cards his hand through his hair, ruffling the thick
locks. He feels dirty, the fresh dye feeling odd against his scalp. “So, what’s
on the schedule for today, doc?” Taehyung tries to sound happy, but you see through it.
“We’re going to run some more tests, draw some blood—the usual.
But I’ve planned a special evening for you, Taehyung.” You sound excited, like
you’re about to grace him with a secret.
Taehyung sits back, trying to focus on you. The only thing
he can make out is your typical black hair—dyed. Your features escape him,
blurred like you’re standing behind foggy glass. He would reach out and touch
you but he fears his touch will infect you somehow. He blinks, still trying to
make out your face. “What does that include?” Taehyung asks curiously.
“Oh, just some takeout and a movie.” You giggle.
You’re the only doctor that has treated Taehyung like a
human, not an experiment. He feels safe under your care.
Taehyung endures the long afternoon of doctors and nurses
huddling over him, the thought of tonight buzzing in his mind. He barely
notices the time fly by and suddenly he’s wondering where it went.
He wants to change out of his hospital clothes, he wants to
show you the real color of his eyes, not contacts everyone must wear. He wants
to run his hand across your cheek and map out your face in his mind. But he can’t.
So, he sits miserably on his bed, legs folded as he waits for you to come.
Minutes tick by slowly. He gets distracted trying to focus
on what’s outside the window. Usually everything is black and white, but a
spark of red pushes him off his feet. He travels to the window, hand above his
eyes as he tries to see what it is. He can make out the shape of a billboard through
The fog seems to have lifted from his vision and he sees someone—a
person!—on the billboard. It seems as if the color is coming from their hands.
They slowly cover the billboard in red, then orange, then blue, green, and
purple. All the colors he’s missed so much. It’s as if he can see again as the
person paints the billboard, stark black words slowly coming together over the
beautiful disaster of color.
“You cannot control
The sound of sirens grows from the silence and Taehyung
frantically tries to search the ground below for a sign of a police car. It
comes speeding up to the billboard and he begins screaming, banging on the
glass. He yells for the person to run even though he knows it will not help
They have nowhere to go.
Suddenly the door behind him opens and he hears someone
enter. Then it hits him, your perfume. It’s soft, like a daisy before they eradicated
them. He wonders where you got it. But he can’t turn, he can only sit and stare
as the person is pulled down from the billboard.
Before he turns around and greets you, he just barely makes
out the words on the police car below.
His voice was like silk. He could hit every note perfectly,
pitch not faltering. Jimin was an unwavering soul, voice filtering through the
streets at night. His voice played from beat up cars of rebellious kids looking
to get caught.
You thought he had quit, but you realized he lied when your
friend had snuck you an old iPod and headphones. She wanted to show you her
favorite underground artists. Piano filtered through the old ear pods, calming
your nerves of getting caught. It had been almost two years since you last
listened to music.
But then you heard his voice. You couldn’t stand it for
longer than a few seconds before ripping them out and turning to your friend. “When
did this come out?” You breathed heavily, worry bubbling in your gut.
“Last week,” she smiled, shoving the iPod down the front of
her pants as a police officer walked by.
That night, you confronted Jimin. He had told you he stopped
after the new law was enforced. You had watched the officers take away his
microphone and computers back then. You figured the two of you were safe as
long as he stopped.
But he didn’t.
Every time a sin slipped past his lips, another droplet was
added to his reserve—as he called it. The liquid was a deep navy, seemingly
invisible in a black room filled with dark horrors. He tried not to be reminded
of it, keeping only angel wings on his tongue. But it was hard, he revealed,
head hanging low.
Even when he admitted his faults, the reserve did not
change. It just continued to grow more full, dark liquid sloshing up the sides
of the glass caldron.
Eventually, it began to pour over the edges, splashing onto
an endless floor of darkness. When it was at its peak, he broke. Wall cracking
down, lips bruised and bleeding from the abusive words he allowed to roll off
the tip of his tongue.
Everything spilled from his eyes, throat, hands, and feet.
He cried, he screamed, he threw things and kicked them down. Months of keeping
everything inside had finally come an end. The glass holding his reserve of
deceit cracked, no longer holding under the immense weight.
It slipped between the cracks, making them bigger. It flooded
the dark room, breaking down the walls with its poisonous ways. It’s corrosive.
It ate him up from the inside out. It spilled onto you as well, lashing at you
with a serpentine tongue and alluring whispers. It tempted you, luring you in
as it slowly killed him.
You tied to turn away, ignoring the pleas and cries for
help. You’ve met the face of the devil before and it’s not sweet. But you
battle your inner demons, looking back just once to see him on his knees,
wallowing in his faults.
The liquid had spread across the floor, touching your feet
and soaking the bottom of your pants. You took a cautious step towards him. His
red, swollen eyes stared back at you.
Slowly, you reached your hand out, helping him up. He atoned
for his sins, all of them carefully on display in front of you. They began
slipping through the cracks in the floorboards, slithering away. His reserve was
completely empty now.
“Promise me this time you’ll stop singing,” You whispered,
pulling him into your chest.
He sadly looked down at you “I promise.”
A single drop fell into the bottom of the broken reserve.
Months later, you realize that he had lied to you again as an officer pulls him away. Jimin
allows himself to be dragged away. You stare at his back. Before you turn away,
you catch the letters stamped onto the side of the cruiser.