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They bought their house in Monaco around mid December of twenty twenty-two, a week before they got married; Taehyung still vividly recalls being carried across the porch in the arms of his husband, seeing as he’d injured himself just three days prior to the ceremony. On their wedding night, he wore a cast and Jeongguk giggled between kisses laid down Taehyung’s leg – and their honeymoon vacancy spot, then, turned to be a new home for the next two years to come.
Waking up on early summer mornings, such as this, has become a blessing as of late. Taehyung waddles to the kitchen still groggy, toying with the hem of his sweater and slipping a hand beneath it to splay a palm across his growling belly, result of the delicious smell soon hitting his senses.
“Gguk-ah,” he groans, as though cavil, eyeing the shirtless man busy stirring up some breakfast. “Why’d you get out of bed so early?”
“It’s noon,” Jeongguk points out, looks over his shoulder with a brow raised in mirth. “C’mon, I cooked your favorite.”
Taehyung’s eyes lighten, a small bout of energy surging through him. “Bulgogi?”
“Bulgogi,” Jeongguk affirms with a nod, smile widening. “Wanted to bring you some to bed, but you got up before I expected.”
Pout playful, Taehyung rounds the marble island and comes up behind his husband to wrap arms around his waist; his head rests on those strong shoulder blades, fingers dancing across the plane of the stomach. “Mhm,” he mumbles, sways a bit and presses a good morning kiss to Jeongguk’s nape, nuzzles the same spot, “You let Seokjin-hyung off today?”
“I let everyone off today, it’s just us. The Sun’s nice, I thought we could go out an’ play for a bit.”
The strong whiff of sesame oil makes it so Taehyung gets more lost in the scent than Jeongguk’s words—he pauses then, tuts his chin on his partner’s shoulder. “I assumed you’re gonna rest for a few days,” he admits, “You just came back from Wimbledon and Namjoon said you need recovery time.”
“I won’t practice,” Jeongguk stresses the last word by dropping a dramatic portion of gojuchang in the pot (he tends to go overboard when making doenjang-jjigae). He turns his head just enough to drop a peck on Taehyung’s temple, adds, “It’s been a while since we played together, though, and I wanna get some movement in. Now, go set the table.”
With another groan of disappointment, Taehyung woefully detaches himself from his husband; set the table he does, albeit with some trouble of finding the silverware Seokjin usually keeps stored behind the golden sets Jeongguk accumulated across the years of winning tournaments (he doesn’t like those, at the end, even preferring them to the so-called ‘trays’ Taehyung saw him earn at Roland-Garros).
They have supper in chatter, making plans for several days ahead and willing out any small promises. The food is as tasty as always, homely and lovely much like all the food their personal chef (and friend, Kim Seokjin) makes on the weekends; out of eagerness, Taehyung burns his tongue, tries to soothe it down with cold water as Jeongguk laughs with all the great care in his heart.
The second rice bowl in, Taehyung hums around a piece of cut beef, blowing air on it despite its current medium temperature. “How about we go out for a bit today?” He ponders out loud, mostly to himself. “The post office is open today, right? Thought I’d send a check back home, for school.”
“Jimin-hyung’s?” Jeongguk asks, though there is no need to – his husband’s been a contributor to Jimin’s ballet teaching work since day one, sleeping well on the fact that a cut of their fortune is going to teaching less fortunate kids the art of dance. It’s a wholesome part of the work they love doing.
Nodding with his mouth full, Taehyung tries reaching across the table for more dumplings. “Mhm,” he hums, swallowing the savory food slowly after enjoying every bite and chew. “So yeah, thought I could do that. Then get some groceries too? Might bake a thing or two today.”
Something about this makes Jeongguk’s heart fill with warmth – yes, of course, everyday married things, relaxing in the domesticity of their home and mutual love; a lot of which has been neglected these past two years, more so after Taehyung had become busy with rehabilitation and Jeongguk lost track of time in reaching the heights of his career.
“Let’s take Tan-ie on a walk too, then,” he then says, rather content as they wrap up post-noon breakfast.
The dish washing machine has been broken for two days now, feeling up to making dish washing noises instead of actually cleaning dishes, so Jeongguk makes a mental note to call someone to fix it during these next busy loving-his-husband hours. So instead, he dumps all the dirty plates in the sink, trying to rearrange the pots so they fit on the stove again.
Taehyung waddles over, rubbing a hand over his sore tummy (an avid food lover, he calls himself, thus he tends to ignore whatever fullness cues his body holds); he grabs the half-full saucepan with bulgogi from Jeongguk’s hand, bumping shoulders with him.
“I’ll put these in tubaware,” he says, almost as an afterthought, though Jeongguk knows it isn’t. “We could drop these by the shelter on our way to town, yeah?”
His smile’s so, so in love with all of it, with the little tingle and affection, the care and will to do good with no motive except a wish for others to be happy
Grinning, he drops another kiss to his husband’s head. “Let’s do that,” Jeongguk says. “Help me wash these too?”
Yeah, that was a good idea.
Halfway through, Taehyung nearly squirts dish washing soap into his eye—well, remembering the poor, distant days of high school, Jeongguk does vividly recall the little fact of Taehyung’s mother banning him from the kitchen as a safety precaution, so this may stand to reason why.
“You little—” Jeongguk mumbles when another fresh wave of bubbles hits his face, followed by the sound of melodious laughter. He wipes away the soap, charges forward and grabs at Taehyung by the waist. “Come here.”
“You got me, you got me!” Taehyung giggles some more, pressing his forehead to the other’s still bare chest. With a shy smile, he looks up then, lick across his lips while trailing a finger down his sternum. “Hey, is this your way of teasing me? Walking around all morning shirtless?”
Jeongguk’s grin wides, his grip tightens. “Nothing you haven’t seen already, darling,” his voice is a bit breathy, voice punctured once he begins dropping kisses over Taehyung’s neck – following from his ear, down to his shoulder, all a subtle and shudder-inducing touch.
The moan is hitched, the scent strong of… well, some aftershave, then soap as well—because they’re supposed to be washing dishes—and Taehyung’s wiggling then, pressing his body closer. “God, yeah, hopefully I see more later,” he says, brushes his fingers across Jeongguk’s abs and dips them enough under the waistband of his sweatpants to pull at the baggy material. “Husband duties first, though, so chop-chop.”
Jeongguk kisses him, licks over his lips and revels in the spicy aftertaste. “Yeah, yeah,” mumbling, he delivers a gentle slap to Taehyung’s ass, barely concealed under Jeongguk’s own sweater. “Let’s finish this up, then get dressed. Town’s waiting.”
◊
Central European summer weather is about what one would expect—scorching, burning, designed to make people strip to restless, loose clothing standing in way of the heatwave. Jeongguk can already feel the kilo of sunscreen Taehyung slapped on his cheeks prior to heading out already starting to melt off.
Yeontan continues barking at every poodle which walks by. Typical.
“No—no, god, no,” Taehyung’s voice is raising on the line he’s been holding for the last ten minutes or so (Jeongguk can’t quite tell, he’d been gazing at the coast of the Medditerannean sea for a bit now). “Just, give me a minute… Tan-ie, calm down! I’ll give you some treats, okay? Good boy, good boy…”
Jeongguk’s been noticing for the last month or so, how the limp in Taehyung’s walk had almost completely disappeared, past the occasional overstep or slip-up, not unusual to his somewhat clumsy at-home tendencies. Even as they both know his healing process has been going well so far, it’s different to see it in action, rather than on paperwork and X-rays.
Maybe it’s the Sun, elevating his beauty – Jeongguk remembers the first time he brought him here, to Monaco, an off-hand trip to Europe in their early twenties; a vivid memory laying in photographs he’s secluded back in Seoul, of Taehyung on the beach, warm sand on his skin, waves hitting his feet, stars in his hair.
He’d always been so stunning, a breathless enchantment. Jeongguk knew he had to marry him.
“Gguk-ah! Baby,” a voice breaks whatever train of thought he began having. Looking over, he sees Taehyung’s eyes gleaming with the same love of all those summers ago. “We’re at the store, c’mon. Tan-ie is already set.”
His gaze gestures towards Yeontan, currently making acquaintance with a cocker spaniel, presumably also waiting for their owner in front of the no pet-friendly grocery store.
“Right,” Jeongguk mumbles, then shakes his head. He reaches back, unties his hair and attempts to put it up again—the sweat at his nape is becoming unbearable. “Right. What’d you say we’ll get, again?”
Taehyung rolls his eyes, hoops his arm around Jeongguk’s own. “Whatever bakeries have, flour and whatnot,” he mumbles, pull him inside the freshly air-conditioned space. “Wanna make some pie, maybe cookies as well?”
“Oh. What about… what’re they called again? The berry ones?”
An eyebrow raise, then, “Blueberries?”
“No, no, the pink ones! T… The… fraises.”
“Strawberry?” Taehyung prompts. “God, what’d you reckon I make with those? Strawberry cookies?”
Jeongguk clears his throat, his breath hitches and cheeks turn a similar shade to the aforementioned fruit. “They’re in season,” he protests in defense, falling hush under his husband’s gaze. “I’m no baker, you know this.”
Despite himself, Taehyung sighs, kisses his temple with affection; his hand around Jeongguk’s bicep tightens, a gentle and silent apology. “Yes, of course. We’ll drop by the sea later, to see the locals,” he says. “Much rather buy something fresher. Fish sounds good for dinner?”
With a widening smile, Jeongguk nods, “Sounds perfect. Now, what else are we getting? Some food for Tan-ah, I’m hoping.”
Taehyung has an entire grocery list, which is… nice, in its own way. Generally helps to maneuver around and get everything as efficiently as possible, despite Taehyung’s tendencies to look over any intriguing article in his way. At one point, he argues with Jeongguk on the kind of cereal they’re lacking at home (“chocolate, Gguk-ah, we need chocolate!” as if he isn’t in the position to buy all and any type he wants), before actually getting pet treats (once more, Taehyung insists on buying chicken-flavored ones instead, saying Yeontan’s been having too much beef lately—whatever that means).
They’re in the baking goods aisle when there’s a high-pitched scream from the other side of the store. Jeongguk looks over quick enough to only catch a small glimpse of the running child soon clinging to his leg, her voice giggly and breathy as she keeps calling him some mispronounced, misplaced variation of the word “uncle” in French.
“Goodness!” A woman runs over with her shopping cart, attempting to unglue the girl from the athlete’s leg. “Mr. Jeon, my apologies, she was gone in a second and I just—”
“It’s alright, madam,” Jeongguk laughs, tugs his mask until it hangs by one ear. He crouches down, looks the child straight in the eye with a welcoming hand, “Meriem, right? You’ve grown up since I last saw you.”
Said child – Meriem, whose parents the couple met down by the bay’s fish market mere days after they first moved in – shakes his hand reluctantly, a pout to her lips. “You said you will teach me tennis, uncle. Did you forget?”
“Of course not! Did your papa give you the racket I sent you?” A small nod of confirmation. “And did you practice with it?”
Meriem nods more eagerly this time, as if she couldn’t wait to be asked such a question. “Every day, every day, uncle!” She assures, the enthusiasm in her voice heavy.
Jeongguk grins, ruffles her hair before straightening back up. “If it’s alright with you,” he tells the caregiver, arm wrapping around Taehyung’s waist to bring him closer. “We could come around this week? I want to show her some tips and tricks.”
“Oh, Mr. Jeon, you must be busy! We wouldn’t want to bother—”
“No such thing, please. I have free time these days, it’s fine.”
As Meriem begins clapping excitedly, Taehyung chimes in with his own limited knowledge of the French language, “Do you happen to like Italian wine? We have a few bottles which could come to use.”
The woman happily affirms this, soon noticing the amount of patisserie goods Taehyung is holding in his hands – she inquires what sorts of sweets is he keen on making and he begins talking about his own lost path, the confusion of a fresh, inexperienced home-baker; this brings to her helping out with the grocery shopping for whatever Monaco-style cookie recipe she gives Taehyung along the way.
Jeongguk holds Meriem’s hand through the store and answers any and all questions she has about his profession. He watches his husband tattle and laugh and bloom, making him fall in love more and more.
◊
The weight of their shopping spree falls on Jeongguk’s hands; Yeontan had made friends with two dogs by the time they came out, making it difficult for Taehyung to separate him from a white pomeranian he’d set eyes on.
It’s become hotter outside, blazing and somewhat torrid—the closer they come to the sea, though, the air brightens and fills out their lungs better. Taehyung pushes back his hair, inhales deeply with rosy-colored cheeks, a tint matching his sore lips wrapped around a lolly he got at the store.
His roots began to grow out, dark in contrast to bright blond. Pretty.
“You’re good with kids,” he says to Jeongguk at some point, looking over at him handling shopping bags with little difficulty; a smile comes to his lips, pert, “Do you like ‘em?”
The heavy accent, the satoori, it reminds Jeongguk of home. “Yeah, I guess,” he replies, “Why, do you want to have some with me?”
With unexpected nonchalance, Taehyung shrugs. “Maybe one day? There’s always time for that,” he says, tugging the leash a bit when Yeontan tries to stop and inspect some suspicious-looking liquid on the sidewalk. “Besides, we got this little one already, don’t we?”
A ringing phone doesn’t leave much room for Jeongguk to answer. Taehyung struggles with getting it out of his shorts for long enough that he might’ve picked it up at the last chance. It pulls up face-time, of unidentifiable expressions which soon clear once they step in the shade of the buildings lining the neighbourhood.
“Hyungs!” Taehyung cheers, waves a hand in their direction. “Can you see us?”
Yoongi nearly presses his nose into the camera trying to figure out what sort of setting made their exposure so bright. After adjusting, he pulls back and – from the looks of it – sits straight in his partner’s lap. “Now we do,” he mumbles, groggily rubbing sore eyes, “”S daytime there?”
“We’re out shopping for some goodies! Nice weather and all—say hi to Gguk-ie!”
He directs the phone in Jeongguk’s direction and the other smiles, coming closer so they both fit in the view-frame. “Evening to you,” he lightly jokes, noting the indoor lights and background sound of the television running of what must be another drama-marathon. “Long day?”
“You could say that,” Hoseok replies with much more energy, arms holding Yoongi tight and swaying him side to side. “We haven’t called since the tournament! Rest doing you both good?”
“You could say that,” Taehyung responds. “What about you two? Work going well?”
They talk about the usual – home, the people they miss, the food they miss, the workload and childish memories. Hoseok mentions they’ll be celebrating their wedding anniversary in near time, just so he could passively ask if they’ll be coming back to Seoul anytime soon. As always, the answer is inconclusive.
Rare are the times they can catch up in person, all with Yoongi and Hoseok competing in men’s doubles and preparing for competing all year round for as long as Jeongguk can remember and he, as well, being just as busy.
“Tae-ah,” Yoongi says at one point, gaze dropping downwards in a gesturing manner. “Is your leg doing okay?”
“It’s great! Still got a bit of pain but the physiologist told me it won’t stay for long, so… yeah, I should be back to dancing next year, tops.”
Jeongguk will never forget, not in the grand scheme which surrounded their eloping, Taehyung wrapping up quite the successful season he’s had doing classical—one last show prior to their marriage, at the National Theater of Korea, when upon a crucial mistake of the staff not cleaning the podium properly for the last act, Taehyung ended up slipping out of his dancing partner’s arms.
He fell, a flash which wooshed right before Jeongguk’s eyes. Vaguely, he remembers running on stage mere moments to the curtains closing – forming a soon to be, well-known cover photo and headline for weeks to come, by holding Taehyung’s pained and curled body in his arms while they both cried.
At first, the doctor said he won’t be able to dance again. Not for a while.
And like any other leap in their life, they did it together.
Thus, no wonder the brief sight of teariness in Hoseok’s eyes—though, before he utters a word, a fairly-flushed Taehyung is interrupting, “Don’t think about it, alright? I’m okay now. And busy buying fish for my husband.”
Yoongi chuckles, rubs Hoseok’s eyes dry with the sleeves of a black sweater. “Okay, okay, happy fish-buying, then. Good idea, lots of healthy fats, Omega-3…”
Yes, fish, meat, fresh produce—thank the lord for locals.
The sea has always been a godsend; crashing waves, ringing laughter and skin which appears to have been kissed by the Sun, making Taehyung fit in a way it suggests he’s been born from the waters himself. They often took to running by the beachside with Yeontan, in Taehyung’s early recovery, burnishing the coast with lovely reminiscence of healing times.
Meriem’s parents catch Jeongguk’s eyes soon enough, selling what appears and smells like fresh tuna right at the shore. Tugging off his mask, waving a hand in their direction, he soon catches attention of Meriem’s father, “Oh, Mr. Jeon! Come by, come by, pick what you like.”
Taehyung says some brief greeting in French, more so acquinaticing himself with the array of fish at their disposal.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” The fisherman says, making small talk.
“Sure is,” Jeongguk briefly responds, a small voice ringing in the back of his mind. He clears his throat, “We were just at the store, actually. We saw your daughter there.”
At this, the mother’s ears perk and she comes over. “Ah, she hasn’t caused you any trouble, has she?”
Quickly, Jeongguk dismisses this, “Not at all, Meriem’s a very sweet girl. She… she came over to ask me if I could teach her tennis and all. Says she’s been putting the racket I sent her to good use.”
“Indeed, she couldn’t stop running around with it the first few days after I gave it to her! It was very kind of you to lend her your possession, Mr. Jeon.”
Choosing not to remark on how little that of a gesture is, Jeongguk tries explaining, “I hope it wasn’t rude of me to invite myself and my partner over, in order to show her how to play? I think she’s got quite the passion for it and with a little bit of a push, she could go a long way.”
There’s a pause, brief, accompanied by the sounds of seagulls. The waves crash again.
“Oh, that silly little girl,” Meriem’s mother shakes her head, “Mr. Jeon, you are free to come by, teach her all you like, but it may only give her unprecedented hope. We can’t afford the school and it’ll take us—”
“I’ll pay,” Jeongguk interrupts without thinking much of it, earning frazzled reactions from the two parents. Taehyung nudges his side warningly, so Jeongguk makes quick to bow his head in pardon. “I’m sorry, I just… ah, I saw how much she yearns for it. Please, allow me to pay the tuition—I know the best trainer at the Academy, I could set her up to a good and useful time there. It’s the least I could do.”
The parents look reluctant, rightfully so. The father continues packing their tuna, hands the bag over to Taehyung and says with a gracious smile, “Thank you, Mr. Jeon, for even considering it. We can talk more on it when you and your partner come over together, yes?”
A weight lifts from Jeongguk’s chest. Saying their goodbyes, Taehyung and him then head home.
“I loved that,” Taehyung soon whispers in his ear, while they’re still in eyesight. Jeongguk hears the smile in his voice, further filling him with happiness, “And I love you. So, so much.”
◊
Jeongguk hasn’t the slightest idea of how any of this is made.
Granted, though he is a splendid cook of anything but desserts, working ways around a kitchen for baking isn’t in the first of his strongest suites. Taehyung finds these most endearing, because – as incredibly faultless as his partner seems – weak spots are still there, laying under careful hands and recurring questions of whether he’s doing something right or not.
Now, it would be useful if Taehyung, in his stead, was the tasteful baker (which, spoiler alert, he’s not), but love is all a recipe needs (apparently).
“This doesn’t even make sense,” the blond stresses at some point, trying to chew on their first – failed – batch at Milano cookies; leaning a hip at their kitchen island, he then sighs mournfully, “Where did we go wrong?”
Jeongguk looks at the mess they’ve made mixing the ingredients – the bouts of flour slapped over both of their apron-clad bodies, the stray cacao nibs they’ve belatedly realized aren’t needed in the recipe at all, a splash of milk near the counter… “Should’ve we put eggs?”
He receives a look of disbelief right back, “Pray tell, why would eggs be needed?”
“Because they help the cookies… grow?”
“Jeongguk, the nonna who made you a fresh, homemade batch last year back in Sicily would be so disappointed right now.”
Remembering the petite, lovely grandmother who offered him wine when he mentioned having a headache after a full day of swimming in local lakes, Jeongguk’s shoulders slump in despondency. “God, I’m so bad at this…”
He looks like a kicked puppy, an expression Taehyung always succumbs to; setting aside a spatula he’d been holding this entire for no good reason and then turning up their radio for some mellow, slow music, he approaches his husband with a perpetual sway to the hips, which Jeongguk’s eyes cannot help but follow.
“You’re not bad at it. It’s just that neither of us are experts and that’s fine,” Taehyung says, winding arms around Jeongguk’s shoulders and knocking their foreheads together affectionately when his darling still looks dejected, “Baby, you’re a grand slam champion. Failing to make some cookies hardly accounts to that.”
Jeongguk pouts, wraps strong, gentle arms around the little of Taehyung’s waist. “Yeah, but… I wanted to make some for you.”
Of course you do. You’d give me the entire world if you could. Taehyung smiles to himself, leans closer to the touch, “If your inability to bake was a deal-breaker, I wouldn’t have married you two years ago.”
As Jeongguk remains silent, though with a dumb grin on his face, an Edith Phiaf song comes on. “Oh, mon dieu!” Taehyung gasps dramatically, in an over-exaggerated accent which has them both giggling. “The romance, the pain! Let’s dance, honey, c’mon!”
Protests falling short on his lips, Jeongguk’s pulled by flour-covered hands, led to a ballroom type of sway through the kitchen. He steps in a twirl, voice booming with adoring disbelief, “Taehyung, the cookies will burn to a crisp—”
A finger presses to his lips, eyes which meet his desperate in an out of place manner. “Just one dance, please?”
Softening his hold, as well as his tone, Jeongguk realizes where this is coming from—what sort of detached, lost need is rising up again, hopeful and ever so insistent. “Yeah, of course,” he smiles, pulls Taehyung nearer to watch those pretty eyes widen and brighten, “As many as you like.”
This sort of movement, dance, it’s a hobby Jeongguk’s done plenty in his teenage years and has since abandoned while entering his current professional career – for Taehyung, however, it’s a lifestyle of hard work, devotion since the mere age of five. And granted, ballet is an entirely different ballgame to casual partner-type of dancing in the comfort of your home, but for someone’s who’s been on a two year break, someone who’s been told they may never dance again, this isn’t just that.
And Jeongguk sees it so well, in the spins and turns, the closed eyes and in-the-moment expression, chimeful and breathless chuckles, all of it. Taehyung looks ecstatic, even with strawberry jam on his face, with chocolate mousse on his nose, he looks beautiful and alive.
“Fuck, I love Phiaf. What a wonderful and poor soul,” Taehyung says at some point, he falls in Jeongguk’s arms with no effort and feigned exhaustion. As they sway, he adds, “Y’know, Gguk-ah, I think this must be what true happiness feels like.”
Gulping, Jeongguk struggles to find the right words for that, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Taehyung affirms, face still snuggled in his husband’s neck, “But enough of this chit-chat, let’s get the cookies out and go out to play for a bit, as you wanted. I’m feeling up to beating you at your own game today.”
“Do you now?” Jeongguk grins, tickles up his abdomen until Taehyung tries to struggle away, at which point he pulls the lithe body back in, “Fine. But only after another dance.”
They laugh, they lead and they fall in love, all over again. (The cookies are burnt in the end, but who cares? There’s always tomorrow.)
◊
So. Jeon Jeongguk in a polo shirt.
It’s a bit ridiculous, Taehyung knows – considering this man is his actual husband, his childhood sweetheart, the man he lost his virginity to and made love to countless of times, his everything – and yet, still, he gets thrown by such simply and unexplainably attractive things such as Jeongguk wearing a fucking polo shirt.
The fit of navy on him, the sleeves around his biceps, collared neck so subtle and hiding enough of the pretty collarbones and sculpted shoulders Taehyung knows are under the material… yeah, it’s hot (he says while pulling a pleated skirt up his lean legs, figures).
To be fair, Sana (Jeongguk’s half-sister, who flew back to Tokyo less than four days ago) does tend to leave her things behind for Taehyung to try. Though their sizes do – of course – greatly differ, she always makes sure to bring matching sets for some Parisian girlfriend she’s been coming to Europe for, in the measures which coincidentally match up to Taehyung’s body.
This particular pair is white, with blue vertical lines running across bottom seams of both the top and skirt. He steals some Adidas socks from Jeongguk’s drawer, the knee-length ones he hasn’t worn in months and— ah, a sports visor as well, perfect.
He comes down to the court in a gentle skip, to see Jeongguk already swirling and throwing his racket around while playing simple serve with the tennis ball machine. Taehyung grins, bounces in the crop top, yells, “Jeongguk-ah!”
His husband turns and stills in a second. Then, a ball promptly hits him in the crotch, a reward for not paying attention.
As Jeongguk doubles over with palms cradling his private areas, Taehyung has a hard time holding in his laughter while coming forward. “Y… you… fuck,” he gasps for air, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think you’d—you’d get hurt from this.”
“This,” Jeongguk emphasizes, looking up with squinted eyes and getting quite the glimpse under the pleated skirt. He gulps, directs his gaze elsewhere just as quickly. “Where did you even get this? God, I thought I was hallucinating for a second…”
Taehyung’s cheeks are beginning to hurt by now, all the smiles, the giggles, the chuckles, every laugh line Jeongguk’s given him over the years. Helping his husband up, he then steals the racket from him, briefly explains, “Sana left it for me. You like it?”
There’s a sharp inhale, as Jeongguk tips down to nuzzle at Taehyung’s neck and take it the scent of the rosewater he bathed in preceding this. “Like would be putting it lightly. How am I supposed to focus when you’re wearing a skirt?”
“I’m afraid that’s a you problem, darling,” Taehyung replies, kissing his cheek with the same sweetness he coated his words with, “Let’s play.”
Play, they do.
Except… well, Jeongguk’s swift backhand is rendered about useless when Taehyung crop-top does as much as lifting a singular inch upon a move or leap, distracting and enticing all the same.
So, Taehyung wins the first game. And the second… and the third.
Alright, maybe Jeongguk lets him win—maybe because his skirt bobs whenever he jumps and Jeongguk (feeling a small bit like a pervert, though he knows it’s Taehyung’s intention to begin with) revels in each time he gets a glimpse of those lean, pretty legs and what appear to be… mesh panties?
Deep breaths.
Jeongguk settles his feet apart, watches Taehyung bounce the ball off the terrain while preparing to serve, his hip jutted purposefully (assuming by the sly grin on his face); god, Jeongguk sees the fire for movement in his eyes, even from a distance, the swift whip of his hand and...
Thwap. Straight, clean ace.
“Whoo!” Taehyung cheers, runs closer to the net to inspect where the ball may have left an indent in the court. “See, Gguk-ah? I got the first set, didn’t I?”
Jeongguk grabs a towel before heading forward as well, dabbing sweat away. Taehyung’s hunched over the net, his unbuttoned top drooping to give glimpses of tan clavicles, pretty nipples.
“See, see? The doctor was right, I can still—” A hand handles Taehyung’s chin, lifts his head to meet a heated pair of eyes, slightly hidden by messy locks. His mouth instinctively drops when a thumb presses over his bottom lip, “—...run.”
“Yeah. I’m proud of you, baby,” Jeongguk is genuine, he really is, but when Taehyung’s lolling his tongue forward in invitation, his irises dancing with mischief, what else can he do but be drawn in. “And really fucking horny too. Get in the house.”
Disobediently, as expected, Taehyung bites down on his finger. “Not yet,” he refuses, shakes his hips a bit and pretends to think about it, “If you win the match, I’ll let you fuck me all you want. Anywhere you want.”
Jeongguk inhales deeply, leans down to kiss his partner’s neck, nibble up to his ear and hear him sigh with content, “And if I lose?”
Taehyung laughs, presses closer, “I know you won’t.”
◊
They barely make it to the living room, toppling across the couch while trying to shred clothes and finally deciding against it. Jeongguk chucks the visor across the room, pants and bites all over Taehyung’s nape, tasting sweat and sweetness all the same.
“Good, fuck …” He’s mumbling, strong hands working over Taehyung’s ass under the skirt, groping and spreading the cheeks to let cold indoor air hit the honey skin. Dipping down, Jeongguk licks broadly over the panties, where he can tell Taehyung’s hole is, prodding over the mesh material. “God, you’re gorgeous.”
Taehyung moans brokenly against the eco-leather sofa, breath leaving traces on the black surface. “Mhm, J–Jeongguk, please...—”
“Hyung,” Jeongguk says instead, pulling at his shorts enough to free his cock from its confines, slapping it against his husband’s ass lewdly. Taehyung moans, bucks his hips backwards until Jeongguk’s hold stills him. “Tell me what you want.”
It only takes a second, “Fuck me,” Taehyung begins shifting again, his voice cracks and pitches to an echo in the empty house, “Please, I want—I want your mouth, your cock, just… inside, please, I’m ready—”
Jeongguk settles for neither; instead, rubbing the pads of his fingers over Taehyung’s rim – still covered with mesh – he draws out more of those long, wretched moans. Whatever Taehyung wishes to say, it’s incomprehensible, specially when the panties are pulled to the side, exposing enough of his hole for cold lube to be poured over it.
He doesn’t get an opportunity to ask where Jeongguk got the bottle, soon clinking against the floor from his peripheral vision – not that it even matters, seeing as Jeongguk is sliding in a moment later, deep and hard and… fuck, Taehyung digs his nails into the bedding of the sofa, lets a forlon moan escape his mouth. Warm palms hold his hips, ass flush against Jeongguk’s groin.
They’re both a bit dizzy, from the earlier recreational activity, adrenaline still pumping fresh, as well as the lust, the heat between them; Jeongguk’s impatient and eager, the vision of Taehyung in the skirt, the panties, drooling over their furniture while stuffed full with cock, it’s riling him up to the nth degree.
Snapping his pelvis forward, he draws a piercing gasp, rattling in his ears, “J–Jeongguk, you’re… t–too deep, wait—”
Tilting his head, Jeongguk catches sight of precum staining eco-leather. “Huh,” he mumbles, tries to pray away a haze forming in front of his eyes, “Safeword, darling?”
It takes a moment and with Taehyung’s face hidden from sight, it’s hard to decipher what he might want, if he’s given any non-verbal cues to stop. Instead, he soon presses his ass closer, whispers, “Please.”
Fucking hell, what a tease. Jeongguk grins, reaches to tangle fingers around his husband’s blond locks – tugging, he leans down, licks up the shell of his ear. “Yes, dear?” He says, making point of using a leveled voice. “I didn’t hear you.”
When Taehyung doesn’t respond, Jeongguk pulls harder—there’s an instantaneous tightness around his cock, good enough to drive anyone out their mind, the other’s voice following, “Please!” this time pointed, accentuated and hopeless.
But of course, how could Jeongguk refuse?
By all means, it’s no different than it would be any other time. Taehyung likes to be roughed up, bruised and bitten, thrown and manhandled like a ragdoll, a pretty thing meant to be fucked; never afraid of saying what he wants, with full trust in his partner, knowing if he wishes to be cherished and made love to slowly, under pale moonlight paired with burning incense, the wish will be granted.
Now, in broad daylight, in the empty house, Taehyung wants to be taken.
Jeongguk does so well, thrusting and thrusting and thrusting, until he’s out of breath and Taehyung’s panting and gasping, searching for air between each and every slam to his prostate, between each kiss Jeongguk presses to his shoulders, between every dry orgasm his body spasms through.
He’s worn and limp by the time Jeongguk comes.
Taehyung hasn’t got a minute to process it, either, being left empty and gaping – a small, ebbing thrill of cum dripping down his thighs – for he’s turned over, seated on the couch and Jeongguk’s immediately settling between his shaky legs, parting them quickly.
“W–What’re you,” Taehyung tries asking, voice venturing to a high-pitched moan when Jeongguk disappears under his skirt and his hard, bobbing dick is swallowed down to the base; Jeongguk’s nose presses to his pelvis, throat tight around him and shit, it’s too much, “F–Fuck, wait…I–I’m…”
God, he’s still open. Still full, still leaking cum which Jeongguk soon pushes back in with two fingers, twisting them inside. He lifts his head, drops it down, rolls his tongue over the head and doesn’t tire in the least, until Taehyung’s seeing stars, body drawing to a taut string as he finally comes, releases the built tension in Jeongguk’s mouth, insides contracting and squeezing around those relentless digits.
It’s a high, one he hasn’t experienced in a while. And even after countless seconds pass, Taehyung’s at the edge, twitching when lips kiss dangerously close to his puffy rim.
“Baby,” Jeongguk calls and when Taehyung’s eyes lock with his, he finds them to match the roughness of his voice. There’s a nuzzle to his thigh, a smirk and then he’s asked, “Another round?”
Chest rising, everything in him used and overworked, Taehyung can’t resist the temptation. “Give me more, darling.”
◊
On other days, it’s as though time is returning, instead of running away.
Taehyung’s been growing quite the abundant cacti garden since they’ve moved in. Every morning, Jeongguk watches him step out on the balcony lining the side of the house where their bedroom lays and each time, he blends in with the honey sky, dripping against the palette of the city as though he’s been painted into it.
And there’s something peculiar about it, something distinct, despite it simply and only being Taehyung watering his plants, occasionally sniffing those who grow flowers. He’d, once or twice before, stung himself on them, thus having to wear bear-patterned band aids on the tip and slope of his nose for days – an act which Jeongguk teased him relentlessly for, later apologies being served in kisses to the injured area.
Sunrise began by the time Jeongguk slid out of bed.
Walking over, taking note of the early, warm air, he sees Taehyung sporting but a wrinkled dress shirt over his body. One which, upon wrapping arms around him from behind, Jeongguk realizes faintly smells of his cologne.
Pressing his nose to Taehyung’s hair, inhaling lavender, he sighs slowly, “Morning.”
There’s a chuckle, as a hand comes up to tangle in his bed hair, untangling locks. “Morning, baby,” Taehyung murmurs back, tilts his head just enough to search for Jeongguk’s lazy lips, bringing them to an even slower kiss. “Mhm, slept well?”
“I slept tremendously, until you left. Why the early rise?”
The blond looks right through him for a moment. And then, leaning back into his husband’s embrace, he begins staring across the cacti-littered balcony railing instead. “Oh, I just thought about how beautiful the Sun must be at this time. I used to watch it like this every morning, back when we first moved in.”
“I remember,” Jeongguk whispers, presses his lips to Taehyung’s nape – not a kiss, but a more so incisive as he thinks, reminescents, “It’s almost like you couldn’t believe it, that we moved here.”
“I couldn’t believe that we got married, is what it was,” the other male admits. “Couldn’t believe the life we built together. It seemed as though, just yesterday, I saw you win your first big match and tripped while trying to jump over the breeches to get to you.”
Well, he actually would’ve landed right on his face if it weren’t for Jeongguk there to catch him. If only he would have been able to do the same every time Taehyung fell.
“Yeah,” Jeongguk pushes away the thought, throat tight. “I knew it then, that I would never let you go.”
“Really? I assumed you got that straight when I did your homework in highschool each time you decided to ditch work to go practice.”
Jeongguk pinches his waist, earning a small sound of protest. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
Taehyung scoffs with what sounds like amusement, turning around to wrap arms around Jeongguk’s neck; coming closer, he presses their noses together, gives him a cheeky smile. “Don’t be silly now, Gguk-ah,” he says. “I was just there to help out at time, but all the hard work, the training and dedication, that was all—”
“You,” Jeongguk finishes for him, hushing his husband with a quick peck when Taehyung’s mouth opens in protest. “Shut up, I’m here because of you. Because you convinced me to start doing tennis in middle school since you, apparently, had a fucking hunch for it or whatever; you watched my every game, you were there when not even my parents were, when no one was.”
When he finds himself unable to deny this, Taehyung tries turning his head instead. Jeongguk cups his cheek, makes their eyes meet again and oh … they’re glistening, like diamonds glittering under sharp light.
“Did my homework, stayed up late to help me practice my serves, reminded me to take breaks, let me cry in your chest…” Jeongguk continues listing, smile wide and full because yeah, this is what happiness feels like. “You’re my rock, Taehyung, my everything. You gave me your youth and I swear, I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
Taehyung’s bottom lip trembles and he hits his fists softly on Jeongguk’s chest, shaking his head furiously. “Idiot, don’t recite our fucking weddings vows, oh my god,” he exclaims, all of him a bit frazzled. “You don’t need to make anything up to me, I already—fuck, I’m the luckiest man in the world, you know that? Even if you make me cry first thing in the morning.”
Laughing, Jeongguk wipes those pretty tears with his thumbs. “Sorry,” he whispers, kisses him as an additional apology. Warmth and love, it’s what Taehyung feels like. “But I made a promise. I will make you more than lucky.”
His husband giggles through the kiss, “Of course you will.”
“And I won’t ask for divorce just because your cookie recipe needs more work.”
“I don’t think the recipe is at fault for us being lousy—mhmm! ”
So, they kiss under fresh sunrise. How nice.
the end .