soothsayer

"We passed under the mistletoe."

"No, we didn't."

"Yeah. We did."

Work Text:

“T-Taehyung,” you plead, hands up in gentle cajoling. It’s futile, though, totally futile – his eyes are a fine shade of strawberry auburn and when his smile widens, millimeter by millimeter, you see the faint prick of his fangs. “R-really, I meant it as a joke, you don’t – we don’t – i-it doesn’t mean–”

“Why’s it have to be a joke, though?” he asks lower than a whisper, and it makes the fine hairs on your neck stand on end with a shiver that rolls down you like heat lightening and melting snowflakes on your spine. “Why’s it have to be anything but really, really, really real? Why not?”

You don’t have an answer to any of those things. Just as he intended.

You had pointed out the mistletoe thoughtlessly. Why not? You were on a harmless grocery shopping trip, slowly opening up to your companion about which chips you liked the best and why you would try to go on Thursdays when you pointed at the silly fake mistletoe over the complimentary coffee machine. You wandered past it, even, and grabbed yourself a small styrofoam cup with sugar, when Taehyung asked what the mistletoe meant.

You blushed down at your coffee. “It’s a silly human tradition. I don’t know where it came from, but if you’re under the mistletoe with someone, you’re supposed to kiss them.”

“We passed under it,” Taehyung replied candidly, and your blood ran cold.

You didn’t drink from your cup, at first. You stared into the dark waters, your flustered expression and timid eyes – god, why had he chosen you again? – and your mouth suddenly moved to form words. “No, we didn’t. I-I don’t think we did.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung smiles, slow and dark and easy. “We did.”

And now, alone in the back corner of the store where all the tacky, unpurchased souvenirs are, he cages you lightly against your cart.

You’re braced against the handle when he leans in, and captures his cold lips against yours.

This kiss is rougher than others, and more urgent than you expect. Something hungry and desperate tinges the edges, and he takes great care not to touch you anywhere except his own mouth against your own. He artfully works his lips on yours, drawing the warmth out of you in sweet dragging motions, a sinful magnet of pleasure and torment and–

“I don’t like coffee,” he frowns as he pulls away, tongue running over his bottom lip petulantly. He must have forgotten you were drinking it.

Quickly – more quickly than you’ve ever moved in a grocery store, probably – you turn to face your cart and with shaky hands and a heart racing clumsily against your ribs, you take a long drink from your cup and scurry down the aisle with your cart, never once turning back to glance at him as you silently lick your lips, too.

It doesn’t taste like anything. You don’t know how you feel about that.

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