Additional Tags: Suicidal Thoughts, Ambiguous POV, Idolverse or canon compliant(i'm not too sure what's the difference actually), Vague religious references
Permission to remix: Yes
400 words yahaa
thank you for the interesting prompt i enjoyed analysing it a lot
He wants to die.
They say this phrase a lot, bent over panting after six straight hours of practice. The four syllables ricochet off of the studio walls, with every day-long shoot concluded. It collects in the walls, floors, every nook and cranny of their dorms, said again and again and again. But it’s always a joke, because after a few minutes of silence, they’ll pick themselves right back up and dive headfirst into the pain, again.
He’s not fucking joking this time.
His clothes drape him exquisitely, flowy and elaborate, and it doesn't hide shit. He clutches his collar and does the moves he’s done a thousand times already. With precision, his muscles tense and relax alternately. Neck. Chest. Upper to lower torso and then back to the top. He thinks he hasn’t lifted his leg high enough on the move after. The spin comes next, and when he lifts off, he doesn’t know if he’s going to land on solid ground. He half wishes he would phase through the false earth of the stage. As the world turns, everything is white.
Maybe it’s the stage lights, or the Caratbongs, or the stars above, but it blurs together into bright, and he hopes it’s the light of heaven, the steps to the pearly gates to take him away.
He’s already given up his body; gone since that day he sat in an office chair far too big for him, in between Mom and Dad, in front of the sheaf of legalese. His body gave him a place to stay, twelve brothers, riches more than he could ever imagine. It was only right for his soul to go along with it too.
Maybe it’s the pyrotechnics in his face, or the humid summer night, or the overexertion, but it envelopes his body in hot, and he hopes he’s rising, evaporating into the clouds.
But of course, he’s still standing by the end of the sequence, and when he raises his head he can sense he’s landed a little bit further than he’s supposed to. It's doubly disappointing. He surveys the crowd with a smile. He feels their presence at every stage, but today could be the day they reunite. He looks for a cloaked figure, of bones and a scythe.
Beyond a camera, beyond a screen, somebody presses a button, and lines of code whizz by.
[FILL] fever 95.77°c
Ship/Member: (Anyone in) Seventeen
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: Suicidal Thoughts, Ambiguous POV, Idolverse or canon compliant(i'm not too sure what's the difference actually), Vague religious references
Permission to remix: Yes
400 words yahaa
thank you for the interesting prompt i enjoyed analysing it a lot
He wants to die.
They say this phrase a lot, bent over panting after six straight hours of practice. The four syllables ricochet off of the studio walls, with every day-long shoot concluded. It collects in the walls, floors, every nook and cranny of their dorms, said again and again and again. But it’s always a joke, because after a few minutes of silence, they’ll pick themselves right back up and dive headfirst into the pain, again.
He’s not fucking joking this time.
His clothes drape him exquisitely, flowy and elaborate, and it doesn't hide shit. He clutches his collar and does the moves he’s done a thousand times already. With precision, his muscles tense and relax alternately. Neck. Chest. Upper to lower torso and then back to the top. He thinks he hasn’t lifted his leg high enough on the move after. The spin comes next, and when he lifts off, he doesn’t know if he’s going to land on solid ground. He half wishes he would phase through the false earth of the stage. As the world turns, everything is white.
Maybe it’s the stage lights, or the Caratbongs, or the stars above, but it blurs together into bright, and he hopes it’s the light of heaven, the steps to the pearly gates to take him away.
He’s already given up his body; gone since that day he sat in an office chair far too big for him, in between Mom and Dad, in front of the sheaf of legalese. His body gave him a place to stay, twelve brothers, riches more than he could ever imagine. It was only right for his soul to go along with it too.
Maybe it’s the pyrotechnics in his face, or the humid summer night, or the overexertion, but it envelopes his body in hot, and he hopes he’s rising, evaporating into the clouds.
But of course, he’s still standing by the end of the sequence, and when he raises his head he can sense he’s landed a little bit further than he’s supposed to. It's doubly disappointing. He surveys the crowd with a smile. He feels their presence at every stage, but today could be the day they reunite. He looks for a cloaked figure, of bones and a scythe.
Beyond a camera, beyond a screen, somebody presses a button, and lines of code whizz by.
“Group synchronisation score: 95.77%”