There's a knock at your door. You fix your hair in the mirror then rush to leave.
There he is,
dressed up as a vampire.
He's wearing a beautiful vintage, tailored suit. His waves are tamed back. He has a bit of fake blood dripping from his bottom lip to his jaw then down to his neck. He really committed to the part.
You discussed costume ideas a few days before the party. You came up with the idea of dressing up as gothic style vampires; you'd been watching vampire romances all week, though you left that part out. Miguel was hesitant at first, said it would be too flashy, but after you showed him your pinterest board, and some whining and convincing, he agreed.
You've got the look down: a long, black vintage dress, fake blood around your lips, chin, and down your arms, jewelry adorning your collarbones, and fangs you've glued onto your canines.
Your dress hugs you in all the right places. Your bust is bursting, practically spilling out of the bodice. It accentuates your curves, tightly hugging your waist and hips. You look and you feel the best you've felt in a really long time.
Seeing Miguel like this, at your door, makes the butterflies in your stomach go wild. You never thought he'd see you like this, so grown up, blossomed, and beautiful. And you never thought you'd see him like this.
Your eyes meet, then part, as they explore each other's figures. He quickly looks back up, keeping a straight face, like he didn't just gulp at the sight of your curves.
"This hot vamp look really suits you."
"Hot?"
He furrows his brows and smiles, exposing his fangs, as he slides a hand over his waves.
"Wait, your fangs... I'm impressed."
"A vampire needs a good pair of fangs. I'm not an idiot."
"I'm learning that..." you mutter looking him up and down.
****
Miguel introduces you to your floor neighbors, in a way that makes you feel like you're his. You look like you belong to each other, but you push those thoughts away. He was kind enough to welcome you and introduce you to his friends. You're neighbors. Friendly neighbors.
Your neighbors welcome you, you have multiple small-talk conversations, and most of them ask how you know Miguel. You both say you're neighbors who've just met a few days ago. You're both liars.
Alicia, the host of the party, calls him out for not attending more of their get-togethers, and he promises he'll come out more often, as he turns to look at you.
You all start the night off with one shot of tequila then disperse through her apartment.
You and Alicia click, as Miguel stands by sipping at a mixed something, listening, and secretly laughing at your tangents.
After a bit, you both end up alone at the kitchen counter.
"I think I want to drink a lot tonight. I need it."
He nods slowly, trying to read your face as he sips his drink.
"If that's what you want, okay. I'll drink with you."
He pours you another shot. You cheers then both down it. You wince at the aftertaste, then look up at an unfazed Miguel.
The music progressively gets louder as the apartment becomes more full. You move to the rhythm, barely dancing, not drunk enough to let him witness it. Miguel smiles, sipping at his drink, leaning against the counter.
"You know what? You're like four times my size. You're going to need to drink four times what I drink to feel anything," you slur, clinging onto his wrist for balance.
"Mhmm, okay," he chuckles, looking down at your hand on his wrist. You're too tipsy to pull away. His warm skin feels too good, you feel glued to him. He smiles, pouring two more shots into a red cup.
He drinks, lifting his chin up, his jawline advertised as he swallows the hard liquor.
"It's been thirty minutes. I want another." You slide your shot glass to him.
He grabs the liter of strawberry soda on the counter and starts to pour it into a red cup.
"This should help with the taste."
He adds a shot into the soda.
"So kind, such a gentleman," you slur, taking the drink from his hand.
"Truth or dare!" one of your neighbors yell. Everyone gathers, drunk and stumbling to sit on the floor and on the couch, forming a circle in the living room.
After half of the circle takes their turn, it's your turn.
"Truth or dare," Alicia asks you.
"Dare."
"I dare you to play seven minutes in heaven with Miguel," she shrugs.
"Seven minutes– Is this fucking high school?" Miguel mutters rolling his eyes.
"Okay, Y/N, sorry. You're going to have to take another shot."
You're fucked up. Another shot is going to destroy you.
"Shut up, okay? Mierda. Come on, Y/N," he mutters as he stands up. He reaches both hands down to you, then helps you up. You stumble, as he grabs your hand and leads you to the closet down the hallway.
You both enter the closet; Miguel leaves the door open a crack, allowing the purple light to illuminate the side of his face. The speakers begin to blast music again in the living room. It bleeds into the dark closet.
You laugh at how drunk you are, and at the situation, then look up at Miguel. His concern is obvious, but it fades a bit when your eyes meet.
"I was too sober to say it earlier, but you look... divine," he confesses.
"Wow, that's... you can't do that to me. Not now," you laugh, looking down, shaking your head. You avoid eye contact.
You've dreamt about moments like this since university. About being this close to him, about him saying romantic things like this, but you're drunk, and you don't believe him.
"I mean it," he adds, leaning down to catch your eyes.
"You look really good too. So handsome," you breathe out. You cover your eyes. That took a lot.
"Yeah? You think I'm handsome?" he asks, drawing closer.
He gently pulls your hands off of your face.
You look up at him.
His cheeks are pink, flushed from the alcohol, his hair is less tame than it was when you got here, and his crimson eyes are radiant, even in the dark.
"Miguel," you exhale.
"Y/N," he says, smoothly, deep, pretty on his tongue.
You grasp onto his suit jacket, pulling him into you.
He strokes your cheek, then combs his fingers through your hair, pushing it out of your face.
You stare into each other's eyes, then his eyes wander down to your lips.
You tilt your face up and he leans down.
You kiss.
It's heated, drunk, wet, and addictive.
It intensifies as he slowly presses you up against the wall, your lips still glued to each other.
His lips detach, his kisses trailing down to your neck.
"Y/N," he breathes against your skin.
"I know you remember me," he mutters into your neck.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"English 150A. I know you remember."
"I didn't realize you did."
"You're hard to forget."
You pull him back in for a kiss, shutting him up. It's drunk and passionate. Your cheeks burn hot.
His fangs are razor-sharp; you're too drunk to realize when they cause you pain.
You pull away, then reach your hand up to his lips.
"Can I?"
He obeys, looking down at you with drowsy eyes.
You stroke his fangs. They're hyper realistic. If you applied a bit more pressure, they would puncture the tip of your finger.
"Why are they so sharp? Mine aren't that sharp. Where did you get them?"
"Doesn't matter. They were expensive though," he shrugs, allowing you to continue touching his lips with your thumb.
"Miguel, these could actually cut me."
You reach back to his fangs, before he gently pulls your hand away.
"Here, I'll do it,"
He grazes his own fingertip on his fang, drawing blood.
"Miguel, stop," you squeal, yanking his hand away from his mouth.
He laughs, showing you the blood. He's too drunk to read the concern on your face and you're too drunk to realize it's not that serious.
"It's like a paper cut, Y/N," he reasons, sucking the blood off his finger.
"You're annoying. I'm not staying here and entertaining this." You reach for the closet door. He grabs your wrist. You turn to look up at him.
"Come on, Boots, I was just showing you,"
"What? What did you just call me?"
"Boots. You wore those red rain boots that week of the storm. I thought they were cute, and it just stuck with me," he says, shrugging it off.
"You really do remember me. Okay, we're doing this... wait, you're a science boy, what were you doing TA-ing for an English course?"
"Hm yeah, it was a favor for Professor Reyes,"
"Favor for what?"
"I'm too drunk to talk about this right now," he groans, throwing his head back.
"Okay," you nod, leaning only your back against the wall.
He looks up at you, then slowly approaches you.
"We still have like four minutes left," you sigh.
"Four minutes. I can work with that," he smirks, towering over you.
Then he's kissing you, hands on your waist, holding you against his body. Again, he's pressing you up against the wall.
His leg is in between your legs, as you lean back.
You squeeze his tricep, encouraging the pressure he's applying all over you.
"You're so warm, and god, you're so beautiful," he grumbles into your lips.
You feel it, something pressing into your thigh, against your dress.
The butterflies in your stomach intensify. You feel hot all over. You're drunk and you want him and he's right here and he wants you too.
"I want you," you moan into his mouth.
"Yeah?" he whispers, trailing his lips down to your neck, sucking gently.
"Harder," you encourage, enjoying yourself a little too much.
You comb your fingers through his hair, gripping tightly.
He squeezes your thigh, holding you tight against his leg.
He sucks harder; you feel his fangs brush against your skin.
You moan, pulling his hips into yours. He grips your waist tighter. If you weren't wearing this dress, his fingerprints would be bruised into you. He hangs his head on your shoulder, quietly moaning into your skin, before bruising you again.
He restrains himself.
"Now bite me,"
He pulls his face from your neck.
"Y/N," he says, head tilted, face drowsy, hair tousled.
"It's gonna hurt," he shakes his head, his eyes glued to your lips.
You pull him down for a kiss.
The music stops.
"Seven minutes up!" they yell, clapping.
You pull away from each other. You try to catch your breath.
You fix your hair, bring it forward to cover your neck, wipe around your lips, and look up at Miguel, who's brushing his hair back and straightening out his suit.
You walk out of the closet and join the circle once again.
"How were the seven minutes? How was the sex?" they tease.
"We just talked," you slur, shrugging, suppressing your smile.
"Miguel?" they press on.
"We just talked. You heard her," he defends, eyebrows furrowed at their doubt.
They move on to their next victim.
You turn to each other. Your eyes meet then break.
The night goes on.
⋆♱✮☽🎃☾✮♰⋆
Happy Halloween <3
-G ⋆୨୧˚