➵ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓: 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒 [𝐊.𝐓𝐇]

"Gods, what have I done to deserve such a beautiful smile?"

"All I'm saying is, don't you think we should try to get our minds off all of this right now? We found Tae after almost a thousand years, by all the gods— can't we celebrate for at least one night before getting all worked up over his bastard brothers?"

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was how the dumbf*ck nation of Jeon Jungkook convinced everyone in the room to take Taehyung out to dinner— and you by extension.

"Son of a b*tch," you muttered in sheer irritation, cursing Jungkook with every fiber of your being. To be fair, you'd really only gotten acquainted with the dude that very day, but between the prancing on your marble counter and the loud, sleazy comments and now this, the idea of taking Taehyung to a 'celebratory dinner' when there were way more important things to be discussing and him somehow convincing everyone to listen to him— lord above, it was a miracle you hadn't strangled him already. "F*cking son of a f*cking b*tch—"

"Love!" a familiar voice rang out obnoxiously cheerfully on the other side of your bathroom door, husky as ever and laced with a teasing undertone, "Love, I'd like to know who you are cursing with every breath right now, if only to be wary when you finally open this door. It isn't me, is it?"

You let out a long sigh, shooting a look at the door. No doubt Taehyung had already effortlessly gotten ready with the clothes Seokjin had managed to snag from his mother's store just for this reason (ugH, rich kids) and was looking like the incarnation of sin just to piss you off or something.

Or maybe to seduce you. There was a fine line between those two endeavors, and anyone who walked it was flirting with death, really.

Too bad Kim Taehyung seemed to really enjoy flirting with death.

At the moment, you were gripping the sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror as you adjusted the elegant outfit Seokjin had thrown at the back of your head when he'd been sifting through clothes like one of those sassy French stylists and you'd tried to make a smooth getaway before he could saddle you into something ridiculous.

No such luck.

You glared hard at the gaping v-neck of the ivory silk blouse you were donning, the buttons only there for aesthetic purposes, clearly, because there was no way to close them up and at least create the impression of modesty. Tucked into a dark skirt that hung to your lower thigh with a few aesthetic flaps and a prominent belt and adorned with a small, black Gucci buckle and once again wearing the laced, tall skater boots you'd been flaunting last night (because no matter what the hell Seokjin said, there was no way you were stepping into those ridiculously high-heeled cream pumps he'd shoved into your arms), you felt a tinge of self-consciousness flood you even though you looked incredible— almost like a CEO, really. It was professional and elegant, even if it was slightly revealing.

You fingered the gold hoops in your ear, remembering with a faint smile the nervous little girl who'd offered them to you, shyly saying that they'd suit you. She had actually been quite beautiful, with stunning auburn hair and an aura that made her seem like she was made of crackling leaves and firelight and autumn rain. Seokjin had later hold you she mostly likely a daughter of one of the Horae, a season spirit who served Aphrodite.