Chapter 1: Highs and Lows
The bar was a fucking mess, a haze of smoke and neon lights cutting through the sticky air. Bottles clinked, laughter roared, and the table in front of us was a goddamn buffet of forbidden shit—pills, powder, you name it. Yoongi was already flying high, his pupils blown wide, burning like fucking embers. I could see it in the way he slouched, smirking at nothing, his voice slurring with every word. Me? I was the only asshole in the room who wasn’t touching that crap. It pissed me off, watching them all lose themselves to this shit, especially Yoongi.
“Yo, Jimin, you’re such a fuckin’ prude,” Yoongi drawled, leaning too close, his breath hot and sour with cheap vodka. “Live a little, man. One hit won’t kill ya.”
“Fuck off, Yoongi,” I snapped, shoving my chair back a bit, arms crossed. “I don’t need that shit to have a good time. Unlike some people.”
He laughed, low and rough, his hand suddenly landing on my back. I tensed, but didn’t say shit at first. Thought it was just him being a drunk idiot. Then his fingers started sliding lower, way too fucking low, brushing over my spine and dipping toward my ass through my jeans. My skin crawled, heat rushing to my face.
“What the hell, man?” I barked, jerking to my feet, chair scraping loud against the floor. My heart was hammering, half anger, half something I didn’t wanna name.
Yoongi stood too, faster than I expected, his grip clamping around my wrist like a vice. “Chill, pretty boy,” he slurred, dragging me toward the back of the club, away from the noise, straight to the grimy-ass bathroom. I yanked at my arm, but his hold was iron, and those damn drugs made him stronger than he had any right to be.
“What the fuck is this, Yoongi?” I spat as he shoved me against the cold tile wall, the stink of piss and bleach burning my nose. His body pressed into mine, heavy and unyielding, his breath reeking of alcohol as it ghosted over my neck. I grimaced, shoving at his chest, but it was like pushing a damn brick wall.
“Stop actin’ like you don’t want it,” he growled, his voice dark, not like the Yoongi I knew. His hand shot up, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back hard. Pain shot through my scalp, a sharp ache pulsing in my temples, and I couldn’t stop the pathetic sound that slipped out of me.
“Fuck you, get off!” I hissed, thrashing against him, but his other hand was already roaming, rough and invasive, sliding under my shirt, fingers digging into my skin. My stomach churned, a mix of rage and fear I didn’t wanna admit. I wasn’t weak, no way, but this wasn’t my Yoongi. This was some fucked-up, high version of him, and I hated how my body was starting to react, betraying me with every unwanted touch.
“Keep fightin’, Jimin,” he muttered, lips brushing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine I didn’t ask for. “Makes it hotter.” His hand slipped lower, groping my ass through my jeans, and I felt the heat of his hard cock pressing against my thigh. My breath hitched, panic clawing at my chest.
“Yoongi, stop, you’re fucked up—” My voice cracked, and I hated it. I shoved harder, but he barely budged, just chuckled like this was some sick game. His grip tightened, and I felt the dampness of my own sweat mixing with the humid air, my body trembling despite how much I wanted to fight.
The tension was suffocating, the air thick with something raw and dangerous. I could feel his horny intent, his breath panting against my skin, and I knew I was running out of time to stop this. My mind screamed to get out, but my body was trapped, caught between the cold wall and the heat of his fucked-up desire. Whatever was coming next, I wasn’t ready for it—but I wasn’t gonna go down without a fight.
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