Will you write me something then? Lmfao something with taehyung and preferably "rated m" for whatever you feel necessary omg
disclaimer: I don’t speak french but my best friend does, and I’m sorry if it’s not smutty enough for ya but this is what i came up with so.
jeu blanc rated m for mon amour pour toi est aussi grand que le monde word count: 1,703
Somehow in the span of 48 hours, your whole life has come undone and you find yourself in a muss of bedsheets, legs tangled, hair even more so, blinking in the light splaying across the room in great slabs of painful, piercing white, but through it all, you feel breath and heartbeat next to yours, and you can’t help a smile.
“One game, just one.”
“Do I at least get your name?” you ask.
“I’ll tell you if you win.”
“And if you do?” you’re unlocking the gate and stepping to the side to let him in, tapping your foot against the court.
“If I do, I get to take you out to dinner.”
“You could’ve just asked.” You rummage around your bag for your spare racket and hand it to him.
“You could’ve said no.” He takes it and sets the head to the ground, handle up.
“You could lose.” You eye him up and down; he doesn’t seem like the tennis type.
He grins a helpless, charming, half-broken kind of grin and spins the racket without waiting for you to speak, “I already have.” It falls and to preserve some semblance of sportsmanship, you keep your eyes leveled with his and say—
“Smooth.”
It wasn’t.
“Your serve,” he says.
He doesn’t get a single shot passed you, though he almost does a couple of times. He keeps a running conversation over the net, making you laugh, asking about your hobbies—you’ve never played such an interesting match, hitting words back and forth more than the ball, the sun fading, fading, fading, till the sky is aglow with the lights of the city, shimmering Parisian nights.
“So you have to tell me your name,” you say, packing your sports bag, wiping a hand across your forehead, glancing up at him, who, in his white shirt and dark pants, doesn’t look like he came dressed for the sport. He flashes you a large grin and holds out his hand.
“Taehyung.”
“Taehyung,” you repeat, taking his hand and shaking it, eyes lingering for too long on the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips, before you let go and the moment breaks, fading like the daylight, dripping down the sky.
“Let’s go out to dinner,” you say, grinning to yourself as you straighten up and he blinks, nodding for a full five seconds before managing to catch a breath enough to breath out a single—let’s.
Three courses and a bottle and a half of champagne later, he is walking you through the Parisian streets, with all the grandiosity and subtlety the books and poems boasted and what have you but you can’t see passed the brim of his smile and the bright of his eyes. You can’t hear past the low ground of his voice as he leans in close, so close his face blots out the entire world and somehow, you’re okay with it. Somehow, it feels right this way.
“Beautiful,” he says, looking straight at you.
You feel your cheeks prickling with heat and glance away, casting about.
“It is, isn’t it—the lights of Paris really are something else.”
“Les lumières de Paris ne comparent pas à tu.”
You start at the sound, no matter the fact that you’ve heard it before—the language rolling off his tongue, like something smoother than the finest wines, the words blending together to teeter on the brink of song, so it feels almost surreal and you look back at him, cursing the fact that you didn’t pick French to study during high school.
You cock your head and he grins.
“The lights of Paris don’t compare to you.”
“Are you always this romantic?” you ask, biting down a smile, though failing rather miserably, turning and strolling ahead, feeling him level himself with you once more.
“Not really—I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”
You laugh, shaking your head, not really able to put a marker on his character, not really. So much as he is solid, walking next to you, there are moments when he’s made of smoke (and maybe mirrors but you’ve yet to catch the flicker of one), or some distilled down figure of moonlight and starshine and too perfect for you to catch between your fingers or cup in your palm. Too precious and beautiful.
And later you find him tugging at your lips with his own, tasting like a sliver of paradise, like the sin of knowing the future, the giddiness of it all, and you kiss him back without having to think about it. His fingers cascade across your skin and set every inch on fire, breathing seasons over your bones to where time and space fall irrelevant of the pace of his breath and the width of his smile as he presses his lips to your collarbones and promises you a lifetime, if you’d let him.
You’ve never believed it till you heard it from him.
“Taehyung please—”
Between the hitched gasps and low, drawn out moans, he reaches for your fingers and fits his own between them, one by one, the world pausing to watch as everything falls into place. Your breath comes in shallow pants, hot and needy and he licks into your mouth, hungry and bursting with a barely controlled desire. And it’s sweet, sweet surrender, him pressing you into the mattress, lifting your legs to hook over his shoulders, cupping your cheek and telling you to look at me, because he doesn’t ever want to look away; it’s falling up and breaking down and breathing him in to let yourself drown, and the solid, the liquid and gas of every single element that is falling in love, condensing and consolidating against your skin, in the negative space between you and him, pressing, pushing, and pulling; it’s saying his name till it tastes like forever; it’s drinking in the night with the moon on your tongue and his breath in your lungs; it’s jumping into love with your eyes wide open, stretching your arms towards the great open seas and shattering through the surface of him and you, and us and we.
And in the aftermath, the trainwreck of tired muscles, sore in the best, best way, you turn to him and smile, your fingers still laced.
“What did I do right to deserve you?” you ask, the words between the words—how did you find me, why did you find me, why me?
He grins back and traces your cheek with a hand, “Win that game, I guess.”
You press your lips. “Best win of my life, I’d say.”
“And best loss of mine,” he says.
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That you would lose before we played? Or did you lose on purpose?” You shift to your side and hook your ankle around his, him pulling you close enough to hear his heartbeat.
“Because there are winners and losers in the world, and I’m one of the latter,” he says, carding his fingers through your hair in a way that has you purring. You look up at him, eyes catching, you frowning lightly.
“What, so you always lose?”
“Almost.”
“Sounds tough to me.”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into your cheek and your close your eyes for a moment to savor it, wrap it in your throat and tuck it into your own chest.
“Sometimes losing is the better option.”
“How do you figure that one out?” you look up at him once more and he glances down, winking.
“Well I’m here, aren’t I?”
You crinkle your nose and lean up to nip at his jawline. He laughs again and tightens his grip, pressing you to him just a bit too hard to keep you from moving, locking his leg over yours, bodies almost melding at the edges.
“And I think there’s a lot more to losing than there is to winning,” he says, “And life is a whole lot of losing, isn’t it? We lose things all the time, lose people too—” he pauses to press a kiss into your forehead, “We lose bits of ourselves, and then lose them to people, lose time, and in the end, we lose so much that we even lose our lives, but—” he kisses you again, just as you’re about to object, “It’s in that losing that we find the important things, isn’t it? It’s in losing things that we find how much they’re worth, realize how much people meant, so that if we do find them again, we treasure them more than before. So I don’t think losing is all that bad, really.”
You blink up at him, stunned.
“Wow Ernest Hemingway.”
It’s the first time all night you’ve seen him blush and you can’t resist the urge to lean up and kiss it right off his cheeks.
“You make me feel like crap for winning,” you say, but you’re laughing and he rolls his eyes.
“So long as it’s not crap enough to keep your from winning your match tomorrow.”
“Oh shit,” you’d forgotten all about the reason you’re even in Paris to begin with. But he shakes his head and holds you close.
“Sleep, I’ll wake you up in the morning.”
“But—”
“No but’s—save for yours.” And he grins, suddenly resembling a boy more than a man as his hand slides down your waist to give your ass an appreciative squeeze.
“Taehyung!” You yelp, laughing all the same.
He grins down at you and gives you one last kiss before pressing your head back into his chest and evening out his breathing and in the warmth and paced pulsing of his heartbeats, you lose yourself, willingly and completely, to him.
