Don't Call Me Angel || VMIN

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Jimin didn't even bother trying to quell the trembling in his legs, cautiously stepping out of the bathroom in the fresh pair of clothes he had been provided with. Both the hoodie and the sweatpants were far too big for him, swathing his frame in their clean folds. At least they ensured every mark on his body was completely covered. They also smelled faintly of Taehyung and, if he were in a different state of mind, he would have wondered when the elder would ever be caught wearing something so casual.

Regardless of their cleanliness, the dancer still felt contaminated, unable to shake the dirty feeling of the vile touches from his body. He had tried scrubbing himself with a loofah he had found in the bathroom, rubbing furiously at the marks on his skin until his entire self was red and sore to the touch, but nothing worked. Not even the hand sanitiser in the cupboard had been effective, only worsening the stinging sensation, and after applying three layers without any signs of change, he abandoned it on top of a closet in Jackson's bathroom. 

Footsteps still unsteady, he stumbled over to where Taehyung was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, refusing to look up and face the pity in his gaze. He couldn't stand it, feeling as though he didn't deserve a single ounce of anyone's sympathy, he never did. It was his own fault after all. The ravenette had never stopped the others when they approached him and he was always dressed in such provocative outfits that it was hard to blame them for wanting to touch him. Furthermore, it was normal for people to experience sexual urges and he just happened to be a brilliant way of relieving them.

Upon noticing the slender hand waving at the edge of his vision, Jimin flinched, almost losing his footing completely. He reluctantly looked at the owner, meeting the piercing hazel eyes of Taehyung. They lacked their usual ferocity, no longer taunting the younger with their steely glint, and he couldn't decide whether he preferred this softer version or the mocking glare he was used to seeing. The other dropped his hand, gesturing at the front door before starting down the stairs.

"Jin hyung is waiting in the car when you're ready," he expressed, continuing when Jimin began to follow him, "If it makes you more comfortable, he can find another car to take back or I can ask a different driver to take you?"

There it was again, the same sympathetic tone, and he hated it, irritated by the way it made him feel smaller than he already was, weaker. Why couldn't people go back to treating him like they used to? Why couldn't Taehyung go back to being annoying? He couldn't stand being talked to as though too harsh a word would break him. He wasn't fragile, why didn't anyone get that?

"I'm fine, you don't need to baby me," the dancer stated, although his voice sounded far from alright, breaking off at the end due to the pain in his throat.

Goddamnit, he cursed, screwing his hands up at his sides and quickening his pace.

"Clearly," he heard the brunette mutter behind him, causing his anger to swell, but he made no attempt at retaliation, simply continuing towards the open front door.

He couldn't think of anything to say, knowing it would sound like a lousy excuse. As he neared the exit, Jackson sauntered out of a room off to the side and smirked at him, eyeing the younger's new attire with obvious distaste. He didn't seem bothered by Taehyung's presence now that they were far enough apart and he let his stare travel over him before speaking, directing his words at Jimin.

"You looked better in leather by the way, especially with those pretty little studs of yours on show. Those sweats don't do your ass justice," he sneered, swiftly drawing back into the room and shutting the door when the brunette glared at him, hand poised on his left hip.

Jimin didn't have to wonder whether the man would actually use his gun, the dangerous shadow on his features and trained reflexes spoke volumes. He definitely knew how to use it and probably skilfully too. His mind ran through all the possible reasons why he would need one, what did he do that required him to carry something so lethal? Was he an assassin, hitman, or mafia? Maybe it was just for shits and giggles? He knew the last one was unlikely, but one could never be sure. Whatever it was, the ravenette couldn't deny the small sense of comfort it brought him, knowing that, at least for the time being, the weapon was being used against those who wanted to hurt him and wasn't being directed at him.