Don't Call Me Angel || VMIN

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The dancer's hair was styled, parted off-centre like two sweeping curtains framing his face, and he stared at the silk robe lying on the bed before him. It was midnight blue and the shoulders glittered with tiny moonstones, giving the impression that someone had stolen part of the night sky and transformed it into something for Jimin to wear. It certainly felt like air when he put it on; there was little-to-no weight to the cool fabric and it was thinner than paper. The neckline was arranged to have the glory of his collarbones on full display and a slit running down to his hips exposed the milky skin of his back.

If one's gaze happened to wander down low enough, one would see the intricate angel wings tattooed across his sacrum. It was the first tattoo he had ever gotten and it wasn't all that long ago either.

A month after his eighteenth birthday, he was crashing round at Hoseok's for the night and the two of them were finishing their takeaway, enjoying it all the more because the delivery boy had assured them they didn't need to pay for it. Neither of them was foolish enough to wonder why, seeing as the younger hadn't changed out of the garments he had performed in, but this didn't stop them from accepting the offer with several flirty winks and suggestive comments in return. They always found it hilarious to watch people fall to pieces over a simple smile.

Anyway, the ravenette had been worked up about a particularly heated row he had just had with his mother and was in dire need of a way to take his mind off it. His best friend had spent the past hour trying to help, although he knew there wasn't a lot he could do, and was half-joking when he suggested they visit the tattoo parlour down the road from his apartment. Knowing how much it would torture Nayeon and feeling rather reckless, he had sprung on the idea at once and practically raced out of the room.

Given their limited time to plan the designs, Jimin had simply flicked through a few pictures on Pinterest and immediately been drawn to the sketch that now donned his lower back, despite his hatred towards anything associated with his stage name.

He had gotten two designs that night and one might disagree when he said they were a pair, for the second one, which was inked on the front of his wrist in a dainty scripture, was a single Greek word that translated to 'sinner'. Maybe he would have decided against getting it any other day, but his mind hadn't been in the best of places and he felt a particular deep-rooted attachment to the bundle of letters.

Those were the only designs he was marked with, but they were enough to get the desired reaction from his mother and he wore them with a secret sort of pride.

Once again, the shorts were extremely high-cut. However, unlike many of the other options, they were loose and fell comfortably around his upper thighs. Jimin stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and marvelled at the difference in the person who stared back. If he had thought the outfits his mother had selected for him were sensual, then these were more so by a tenfold. Gone was the fragile scrap of innocence that once tainted the eighteen-year-old boy's expression and in its place, helped by the dusty shadows above his eyes and the sharp black wings that harshened the curve of his irises, stood a haunting beauty he had never encountered before.

The short beep of the clock, that sat on the small shelf above his sink, told him it was nine o'clock: time to leave. Picking up a pair of stiletto platforms, he walked over to and out of his door. Thankfully, the corridor was empty.

After this morning, he had done his best to avoid everyone else, going as far as feigning lightheadedness so he could be excused from dinner. Instead, a few hours earlier, he had snuck down to the kitchen and fashioned himself a quick snack out of some leftovers he had scavenged from the fridge. Even though it could hardly be called a meal, he knew it would be stupid to go to the club on an empty stomach and so ate it up.