TON AMOUR, TON AMOUR, NOTRE AMOUR
(Your love, your love, our love)
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“Chéri.”
“Repeat it.”
“Ché-ri.”
Joel just hummed, hazel eyes enraptured by the movements of your lips, tracking how they parted in a beautiful shape to let the sound out - fascinating foreign syllables singing sweetly to his ears. You could talk nonsense for all he cared and he would still listen with the utmost attention. This language - whatever French pet name you just gave him - only mattered because it was you. You and no one else. Your voice was his favourite lullaby, your gleaming eyes luring him more and more every second you repeated the same word to him, your mysterious smile - as if you only held all the secrets of the universe - was the only thing he remembered before closing his eyes.
And yet, he had no idea what chéri or whatever you said meant. Whispered like a secret into the night that was meant only for his ears, it meant everything if it was coming from your loving mouth. He didn’t really need the translation - the depth of your devotion reached his soul before he knew it.
“You wanna know what it means?”
“Don’t need to.”
Cheek squished against the soft pillow, your legs tangled with his in the sheets - he could feel it. The thump of your heart matching his. Like waves coming back to the shore in a tender embrace, yours was calling him back, back home. The feeling of being cherished filled him entirely, so much that he wanted - no, he needed to be closer. To understand you more. To feel more. To hear you more, to hear you say something, anything, everything in your language.
“Sourcil.” His finger traced your eyebrow in a gentle caress, your eyelashes fluttering slowly as you leaned into his rough palm. You whispered against his touch, warmth slowly pooled in your stomach as his index finger went lower, and lower, feeling each of your facial contours. He had all the time in the world - the warm summer night full of promises before the hazy sunrise.
“Nez.” Grazing the tip of your nose, he stopped for a second. Perfection. You were perfection. There was no other possible explanation. How couldn’t it be when you were so patient and gentle with him?
“Joue.” He went lower, against your cheek this time. Your voice was only a soft murmur at this point, waiting for his next move.
And then-
“Lèvre.” You caught his thumb between your lips. A sound left his mouth - something between a deep rumble coming from his chest and a soft groan, his other hand cupping the side of your jaw, ready to taste the sweet promise of your words.
“I like the sound of that one.” And he kissed you. Oh, did he kiss you. Again and again and again and again until the divine touch of your lips against his was imprinted in the marble of his mind. Until he memorised the shape of them, the perfection of how they perfectly fit against his. He did it until he stole the breath from your lungs, leaving you panting, your forehead against his.
“Think you can teach me more?”
“Yes, honey.”
He definitely liked this language now.
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the perks of being fluent in both languages 🙂↕️ I would sweet-talk him every night btw, he deserves it