Shawn Mendes Imagines

Heavenly Bodies (SMUT)

THESE IMAGINES ARE NOT MINE!!! I JUST EDITED THEM A LITTLE!!

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"Troye!" you grinned, wrapping your arms around him, the mesh material of his shirt, scratching your exposed skin as he bent down to embrace you tighter.

"I've missed you," he mumbled into your hair.

"I'm sorry we didn't get to meet up earlier," you said as you pulled away, his wide eyes taking in your appearance as you grinned, "It took a while to get ready."

"I can see that," he took your right hand in his, spinning you around, "you look fucking gorgeous. Like an angel."

"That was the idea," you winked, happy that he understood the look you were going for. This year's Met gala's theme was Heavenly Bodies. So your team figured that nothing screamed heaven more than an angel. You were wearing a fitted floor-length gown, a large slit in the front – revealing your left leg, maybe a little too much. The top was a lacy, flowery print that went off your shoulders. Your hair was pinned back in an updo, a halo of diamonds coating your locks. Your makeup, however – was your favorite part. It was natural for the most part, but Gina – your stylist – made you look like you were practically glowing.

"I mean it Y/N," he said again, taking your hand in his as he led you to the parked car you were traveling to the gala in, "Everyone's going to be so jealous I have you as my date."

"Jealous of you?" You scoffed, "Have you seen yourself? You look like the human embodiment of sex."

"Exactly! Thank you!" He looked over at you incredulously as you slipped into the car after him, "Martin said I looked greasy."

"Martin's an idiot."

"I know," he leaned back into the black leather seat, "I can't wait to get drunk tonight."

"Troye," you groaned, "I am not going to be taking care of you again tonight."

He nodded, a small smirk on his face, making you roll your eyes and turn to look at him more clearly, "I mean it."

"I know," he hummed, "You won't have to, you'll be drinking with me."

You laughed, throwing your heat back, "That's hilarious, there is no way they're going to serve alcohol to a nineteen-year-old."

"I can sneak you some."

You rolled your eyes, "I'm not getting drunk tonight – I can't have pictures of my underage intoxication traveling the Internet."

He snorted, "I almost forgot – the world's princess."

"Ew," you scrunched your nose at the nickname, it was something James Corden called you a year ago when you were on his show – and it had stuck ever since, "I hate that."

"I know," he shrugged, "But it honestly suits you. I don't know a single person that dislikes you."

You shook your head, "That's a lie."

He nudged your shoulder with him, his hand taking your hand from your lap, gripping it tightly, "Look!"

You turned your head, your eyes widening as you realized how close you actually were to the event. There were people everywhere, the flashing of hundreds of cameras making you avert your eyes, "Holy Shit."

This was your first time attending the Met Gala – last year being too busy with filming your latest project.

"I'm going to pull up over here," you heard the driver say from upfront, "We're going to have about a forty-second window for you to get out of the car before I get yelled at."