Don't Wanna Be Your Boy | Yoonmin

11

Jimin hated parties.

He was anxious, and nervous, and really introverted, and god did he hate parties.

Parties, a mixture of everything that made him feel like he was about to have a full blown panic attack right then and there.

People.

Drunk people.

And loud social situations.

He wanted to leave as soon as they walked through the door, music bursting from the speakers crashing over his ears and vibrating furiously in his bones, so loud he could barely hear his own thoughts. The dim lighting cast harsh shadows over his cheekbones, and heated, alcohol stained air wrapped around him in a smothering cloud. All around him, there were high pitched giggles, encouraging jeers, and the smacking sounds of couples making out passionately against the closest piece of furniture.

There were clusters of people on the dance floor, some in very revealing clothing, grinding against each other and screaming muddled words into each other's ears. Sweat pooled in the crevices of their collarbones and dampened their hair, and he held Jimin tightly against his side as he tugged him through the crowd, hand gripping his slender waist.

He held him like he was trying to prove to him and everyone else that Jimin was his. Maybe once that would have felt like a promise, but now it just felt like a threat, and Jimin wished he would let him go and let him walk on his own.

But of course, he didn't ask, allowing himself to be dragged around like a rag doll, eyebrows pinched and plump lips painted in a distressed frown. His mocha eyes widening slightly when they came to stop in front of a group of guys holding red cups, liquids sloshing against the edges, and he greeted them with rough hand shakes and loud words.

When their judging eyes fell on Jimin, they bit their bottom lips and unsubtly looked him up and down, pausing on every strip of exposed honey skin, and clearly glancing around to check out his ass.

Jimin shuddered, wishing he hadn't made him wear an outfit like this. A pair of tight fitting leather pants, a shirt with a neckline that barely covered his chest, and a choker around his neck, face decorated with light make up.

If it was something else, somewhere else, someone else, Jimin wouldn't have had an issue with this, but this outfit and this party felt like his punishment, and he didn't like it at all.

"Is this the little twink you kept talking about?" One of them asked with a secretive, sickening grin, and Jimin's heart sank when he returned it, pulling Jimin further into his grip.

"You weren't just making him up?"

"Of course not," He scoffed playfully, and Jimin gasped when his hand suddenly slid father down. He bit his lip harshly to refrain from telling him to stop.

The man stared at him appreciatively, and Jimin shivered, begging for the floor to just swallow him.

Make him disappear.

"Damn, he is hot as fuck. Would you let me hit that just once?"

Jimin cringed, pushing back the burning tears behind his eyes as he chuckled darkly, squeezing his ass as he replied.

"Nah, he's my bitch. Only I get to hear him scream like a whore in bed."

They laughed, he laughed, ignoring the pain doubling, sharpening in his chest, cries building up in his throat.

Jimin wanted to scream.

I'M NOT A TOY.

I'M NOT A PRIZE.

I'M A PERSON.

But he didn't.

He swallowed his voice.

And he stayed quiet.