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He has gorged himself on dark chocolate these past months, searching for the bittersweetness of her. And nothing has ever compared, nothing has felt like her body at the baggage claim, warm and wide and clutching him close until the strain of an international flight, of eight months on his own is gone, melting and dripping down bird-boned arms.
Here she is, Wakatoshi, broad and beautiful, and Satori nuzzles into her breast, the starched fabric of her shirt. Wants to cant up on his toes and kiss her, wants to nose at her lovely ear and whisper how is she, how’s my girl?
It is a hushed thing, though, the way she is. Satori has never been a man for keeping secrets, but he would do anything for her. Anything—even wrest himself away, and collect his baggage like it matters at all, and fight down his whoops, his hollers of I’ve got the prettiest girl in the world!
How he would have walked here, how he would have dog-paddled the sea and wrestled all its serpents. Even though he’s out of shape since school, since eating chocolate became his trade. How he loves her, when she offers to carry his bag.
How wonderful it is that she is near him on the train, that their shoulders almost brush. That he can smell her again, clean, and speak to her without satellite distortion. And he does, he carries on and on—how he loves the French, how he hates the French. The way they kiss for a greeting, which he likes because it’s just so strange, because nobody back home would ever. Satori talks about tempering chocolate, the read-blocking precision of it, about the French swear words he’s learned for when it seizes up.
And she listens to him, demurely, the way she always does. He watches her face, studies the curling of her lips, the minute crinkling at the corners of her eyes. Knows that every tiny trace of it speaks to a deep, abiding contentment, something he loves to give her.
He asks her about the team, just lightly. How practices are getting on, whether Wakatoshi’s making friends. Soft things; they do not talk about the way she is, the way that it might affect her status as an athlete. That she will likely hang it neatly in her closet until she retires, they have spoken about this enough. He has consoled her about this enough, assured her with all of his spark that when she was ready to fly her flag, he’d follow with all his defiant joy, with all his bells on.
Wakatoshi says the team is progressing well--laconic, but Satori understands. No news is good news, he lilts, and then is back to chattering, on and on about something or another. The vagaries of customer service, the way that Goshiki still texts fervent to ask advice on Koganegawa, even though their wedding’s in six months.
How spoiled he feels, that he will get to come back here in only half a year, and see their friends wedded, and see her. Sit with her, in the church, and propose bets on when dear Goshiki will cry.
And then she is laughing, softly, and soon after that they’re off the train, heading through a sleek section of town for her apartment. It’s a clean place, new-traditional, dark wood and warm white. The sort of place that might make Satori feel cagey, like he oughtn’t make sound, like he oughtn’t touch.
It doesn’t, though, for all of its class it is a lived-in place, a home. An air that only Wakatoshi could give it, and he leaves his shoes crooked in the foyer like they belong there.
And he kisses her, once the door is locked, throws thin arms around her and gathers her up tight, and he feels like a salaryman, like he comes to this place, to her every evening. Like he knows the sound of his key in the lock, the echo when he calls I’m home.
He says it, soft against her shaven cheek, just because he can. Because it makes her stiffen in his arms, because he knows what that means--that his girl is blindsided by him once again, and not unhappily.
She leans back, she presses her aquiline nose into his hair, she murmurs to him. “Do you want me to run you a bath?” and it makes Satori shiver, coruscating with delight. She can play at this game, too, she can be, for this moment, a calm and happy housewife.
He noses at her neck, at the buttoned collar of her shirt. Asks her, at a little purr, if she’d like to come with him.
She hems a soft little no, though, and Satori is nearly crestfallen until she gathers up her words, says “I can’t, because I have to make you dinner.”
And as much as he wants her, wants to sit in her lap in warm water, wants to turn and wash her hair--this, too, is a beautiful thing. Satori acquiesces with a smile, and they go--she fills the tub for him, and he marvels at its size, at the way it saps the trans-continental soreness from him.
He plays in the water, absently, and changes into his pajamas when he’s through--the white ones, candy-striped red. Emerges from the steam into the cool air, the smell of evening through the open windows, the smell of cooking.
It’s incredible, warm and spicy and well-loved. Like home, like coming home.
Satori hastens to her, lays his hands on her strong back, tugging the tie of her apron. Peering around her wide shoulder, to ask what smells so damn fantastic.
“It’s only curry,” she says, and Satori thinks that’s ridiculous. Tells her so, too, that it has been months since he’s had any besides the stuff he makes for himself, that despite all his chocolate savvy he can never get the hang of savory cooking.
She laughs, because for some reason it is unbelievable to her that Satori is not good at everything. Kisses his forehead, just a careful brush of lips, and tells him to wait until it’s ready.
And her body against him, the sizzling smell of home, the sound and feel of mother-tongue against his scalp--Satori shivers.
“Whatever I did to deserve all this,” he says, “I’m gonna keep doing it until I fucking die.” And Wakatoshi nods, sends him off with her little Mona Lisa smile. Looks over at him, every few minutes or so, while he sits cross-legged on her crisp-lined couch, rocking twitchy back and forth.
He keeps on talking to her, tells about the strangest, Frenchest folk he’s met, and then the meal is ready and he sits with her under her kotatsu and inhales the food and doesn’t speak at all.
It’s delicious, it’s perfect, he is starving for anything but microwave meals, airline peanuts. It feels like he’s come home from a long shift, from a nagging boss, and this place is his sanctuary. This woman is his home.
And then it’s time for dishes--he insists on doing them for her, since she was the one to cook. It is a brief staring contest until she lets him, until she excuses herself, briefly, to her bedroom. Satori loads the dishwasher, although it’s probably not quite the way that she does it, probably just a little bit offbeat. He hums through it, French top forty, and thinks of what she might be getting up to. Has she gotten him a gift? More so than just herself--your presence is a present, he’s told her.
And then he is finished, and he turns to find her standing in the delta of the hallway, and Satori--Satori is stunned.
There she is, in her straight, stiff stance, but there is a serenity to it--she is all calm summer in this eyelet-laced white linen, the way it drapes across her breast. The way it falls, cascading to her ankles; the modest way she holds her hands, as if asking what Satori thinks.
He doesn’t think anything, not for a long time. Not with her like this--he has seen her before, seen awkward-angled pictures of his darling dressed the way she dreams of, but…
Wakatoshi is here, now, barefoot, and her nightdress speaks to elegance, yes, but it’s the comfort, the affection--like Satori sees her like this every night, like he has for twenty years or more. Like they are settling in for the night; like if Satori is good she will make quiet love to him under the covers.
He doesn’t even have to be good, really, because she calls him every time their schedules sync for even fifteen minutes, and she tells him what she wants so plainly, so clear.
That she misses him, and sometimes--not every time, only when she is properly alone--that she waits and waits for him, that she needs. And he’ll tease it out of her, whether she wants the touch of his deft hands, the lay of his slender body next to hers. Him in her careful mouth, inside of her, between her sturdy thighs.
He’ll give it to her, he always promises. No matter what it is, no matter how long it will take, if they need to spend this entire week in bed to hack it.
There is one thing she always asks for, slow words in her low voice--lay down with me, she always says, that’s all.
And Satori can give her that--he aches, tingles with the need to sate this for her now.
He lopes to her, kisses her, presses up against her strong soft body. She does not look, does not feel like other women, but nonetheless she is a beauty. Satori tells her so, when their kiss breaks, when her broad hands lay on his sharp-boned hips, fingertips stroking the small of his back, he says fuck, ‘Toshi, I can’t believe you.
“My pretty girl,” he murmurs, and the words just spill from him, “‘Toshi, sweet pea, miracle girl.”
And Wakatoshi stops, she shivers--it is always strange, to feel the way vulnerability seeps into the pillar of her body. But strangeness has always been Satori’s bedfellow, Wakatoshi’s strangeness most of all. He sighs with it, wonders at the speed of sound how he can coax her to do this again.
To that end he kisses her, kisses her cheek and the corner of her mouth, tastes the last of the curry spice on her lips. Her jaw, then, and the soft spot where it meets her ear, and then--then she is drawing softly back; making ready, he realizes, to speak.
“Take me to bed,” she says, in much the same tone as she would say anything, but--Satori knows the softness in it. Knows the love.
And so he does. He takes her hand, and swings it on their way down her hall, down to the little bedroom at the end. The place is just as clean, as simple and steady as the rest of the house, but--she has left her futon rolled out on the floor. And, neatly at the head of it, close at hand are condoms, a fresh bottle of lube, a washcloth for after.
She is asking to be taken care of, and Satori will.
There isn’t even any scandal in it, his quiet love’s admission of want. It’s only a fact, solid like every word she speaks, like the way she always is. Warm, and Satori basks in it.
Still, there’s no helping teasing her. Satori preens a little, kisses her jaw, asks her “‘Toshi, did you miss your man?”
He can feel Wakatoshi smiling, can feel the heating of her cheek under his lips. Can hear a strain in her voice, a weakness when she says “yes, I did, Satori. Terribly.”
“Every day,” she confides in him, and there is nothing he can do with that but kiss her again, her soft lips and her jaw and her neck with the delicate chain around it, the pendant in rose gold that hangs in the hollow of her collarbone. It’s a little heart shape, and Satori is helpless but to kiss it as well, to warm it through with his lips. To suck at the crest of her clavicle, nosing under her décolletage until she slips a tiny sound.
Until her hands are enfolding his hips again, big and warm--they can wrap around his waist, he knows. Or they could, when he was a little fitter. Either way there is no less wonder in the way she holds him now, drawing him close until they’re fitting together again, until he can feel her twitching hard against his thigh.
“Look at you, sweet thing, my pretty girl. Look how bad you have it,” he murmurs, drawing back, “‘Toshi, I’d be a serious tool to make you wait any longer.”
She gives a quiet little nod, a quiet little smile. Raises her hands from him, steps back. Says “thank you,” and goes slowly across the room, sinks to sit cross-legged at the center of the futon.
Her skirt spreads out like this, but not so much that Satori can’t see her straining where she needs him. He’s nestling into her lap in an instant, and kissing her, kissing her. Feeling her palms, as they take up their place at the peaks of his hips, as those fingers stroke at his sharp backbone.
Satori lays his own hands across the linen, down to feel her hard obliques--she is beautiful. She always has been, it has always been a thing sourced from her strength.
He tells her so, though not in so many words, calls her three times pretty and one time strong. Coaxes her to lie back, he rests her head against the pillow, he smooths his clever hand across her chest.
He pets her there, at her breast, brushes fingerpads across a nipple through her nightdress. Watches her shiver, and feels her hands raise, and she is--she is unbuttoning the placket of her nightdress, with slow and steady motions.
Satori is entranced by the moves of her hands--clothes like these button up the other way, and there is an inexperience there, but she carries it well. She lets the dress slip open across her breastbone, lets her cream cotton bralette into view.
He can barely breathe with the sight of it--the way it arcs over the curve of her breasts, the way her nipples peak even underneath the fabric. The lace that trims its edges, delicate yet unpretentious, and the fact--the simple fact that she is letting him see this at all.
“Holy fuck,” breathes Satori, because there is nothing else to say. There is nothing else to do, nothing but catch up with his breath, trace his finger slow between her breasts.
Her lip trembles just a tad between her teeth, her cock twitches up at Satori’s innermost thigh. “Please,” she murmurs, and it is enough. Satori bends to kiss her--the heart-shaped pendant at her neck, the crux of her ribcage, the lace that decorates her breast.
He tugs at it, with his artisan fingers, and she gives her soft assent--he shifts the thing aside, sees her bare. Hairless--whatever has she done to get this way? Did it hurt? Satori wants to have been there, but the best he can have at this second is to kiss the smooth skin, feel it soft against his nose.
To rub softly at her nipple, make her breath break in her throat. To goad soft words from bitten lips--”yes,” she says, “Satori, it feels good.”
A smile--Satori cranes to kiss her cheek. “Does it, do you like this? Did you do it to yourself, while I was gone, did you imagine it was me?”
Wakatoshi only shakes her head, soft. “No,” and it’s a soft rasping rumble, like thunder outside when Satori is safe next to her. “I didn’t,” she confesses, “my fingers aren’t like yours.”
Satori swears again, wholly hushed and reverent. “I-I’ll take care of you,” he says, and means it, thinks that he would abandon everything for her. Thinks that he would not hesitate in coming home, in cramming all his things in this apartment, being hers, making her feel good all the time.
He would still make chocolates, of course, but they would only be for her. And her teammates, if they asked nicely, and--Satori feels for a second like a truffle sans filling, that he can’t care for her constantly.
That even if she can read his texts, even if she can hear him down the phone, she cannot feel his breath on her skin when he calls her his miracle girl.
He does, now, because she is so blessedly here, because it makes her shiver. Makes her hips twitch, up against the inside of his thigh.
“Sensitive?” There’s a lilt in Satori’s voice, something that tempts and teases and knows, but she would answer him no matter how he asked.
“Yes,” she breathes, and she stares him in the eye when she says it, fluttering as her eyelids are, “yes, Satori, and only for you.”
He calls her by her name, then, incredulous, like looking out across a mountain range. How could anything be so beautiful and vast--but at the same time, she is here looking up through long lashes, she is a small thing under Satori’s slim frame.
She doesn’t mind the sound of her name, and likely will not change it for some time. It is enough, she has told him, that Satori knows, that he will always embrace the strangeness in her.
That he will always embrace her, he extrapolates, and--he is too much in his head. He is too used to dreaming of her, he has grown unaccustomed to having her so near.
Satori kisses her, then, and pets her hard ribcage, fingertips slotting neat between the vaults of it. Nuzzles her breastbone, mouths at her nipple until it’s piqued and pink, until she rumbles out a sigh and says you feel good.
He asks if she wants more, he has to, and Wakatoshi only nods, says plainly that she does.
In that second Satori is flashing back, gathered on the floor by her ankles. Smiling wide and fey and feline, so that she won’t feel the loss.
His slim fingers curl in the hem of her nightdress, light and diaphanous, warm to his touch. “Can I, ‘Toshi?” he asks, and she gives another nod, lets him slip it up from her heels to her hard shins. To the cusp of her thighs, broad and strong and steady, and this is where Satori stops--he is just so awed by her, here.
Wakatoshi shifts up on her elbow, reaches tender and wordless to pet at Satori’s close-cropped hair. She smiles at the fuzz of it, or maybe she’s just smiling at him, but Satori can’t take it anymore--he dives up her skirt, his mouth on her skin in an instant.
He suckles her skin, the slight give of twitching muscle--higher, higher than her uniform will show. And isn’t it a grand coincidence, that she is so sensitive here, that in all her strength her breath wobbles, she tremors.
“Satori,” she says, as calm and even-toned as ever she’s said it, and it’s all Satori needs to hear. All he needs to feel, when her broad hand comes to cover the nape of his neck, when her thighs part for his mouth.
He adores her, then, with his lips and his tongue and the chipped edges of his teeth, just careful, just precise the way she’ll shake for. Kisses at her thinnest skin, takes in the clean musk of her, and it settles every night he spent cold in his bed, wishing that warm scent was with him.
It suffuses him, now, and Satori--he needs her. Needs more than just her soft skin under his lips, his cheek against the strained fabric of her underthings. And he tells her so, mumbles it against the softest part of her, “please, ‘Toshi, let me suck you off, I’m dying for it.”
Wakatoshi strokes him, hems a little in her riverbed voice. “Don’t die,” she says, and Satori can hear the blunt edge of her humor, “I’m right here.”
And he laughs, muffled in her thigh, in the hang of her bunched-up skirt. Against the crag of her hip, the tapering-off of her Adonis belt. With his lips brushing the waistband of her panties, edging at the warm crown of her cock.
He kisses her, there, where she’s dripping through the fabric, where she must be aching, and it’s so--to think that she missed him, that she wants him just as dearly as he does--Satori tremors. Lays his lips on her again, right over that little wet spot, and murmurs “miracle girl.”
And again, and again until the words jumble in his mouth, until she is throbbing up against his lips, until she sighs with such simple pleasure as a cat in a lap.
Oh, Satori wants to keep her this happy forever. Wants to give it to her in chocolates and in the heat of his mouth, a delicate rosy gold ring that careens fully formed into his imagination--everything. Everything for this woman, for his miracle girl.
What matters most, though, is what he is giving her this instant, what she has waited so sweetly for--Satori curls his fingers in her plain underthings, draws them down and aside. Catches her cock up in his gentle fingers, and--oh, she is a beautiful thing. Swollen, beading like a pearl, it’s obscene and yet there’s nothing lurid about it at all. It’s just a fact of her life, that this is the way she gets for him. That this is what she wants.
It’s a heady thing, as immovable as it is, and Satori’s lips fall on the shaft of her cock, whisper her name, whisper “miracle girl, miracle girl.”
There is nothing else he could possibly say, could possibly think, that and the feel of her, the way she whimpers--it is all there is.
“Satori,” she says, soft and low, with all the warmth of waking in her arms. “Please.”
And who is he to deny her? When she is so tense and tight beneath him, when her hand is so sure, so shaky on the back of his neck? Satori can do nothing but say it one more time, just because she needs to hear it, just because his mouth is about to be full. Miracle girl, and he makes his mouth wide for her, takes her in.
He can swallow her whole, he has practiced on his toys--and what bliss, when the point of his nose meets her skin, when he can breathe in the soap and spring water, the gentle musk of her. When she cries for him, soft and tempered, saying “feels good, Satori, please.”
Satori throws himself on her. Wants to break against her, knows he won’t. She could never hurt him, and he wants to give her everything, even the hollow of his cheek, the beginning of his throat. His hand, curled tight in the bunch of her skirt, and this need he has to keep from pulling back, just to take and take and take.
He only holds her in his mouth, only swallows, works tender tongue and throat. Only feels her, in him and under him and over, where her warm hand trembles in his hair, comes to cup his wide-spread jaw. Her fingers, callused from work--but they are so gentle, she is such a gentle thing.
It’s not long before her voice tumbles over him too, warm and soft and stretched nearly to breaking, “I’ll--” she says, splutters out fragments because she cannot reach her words. Satori knows, though, and lays his hand out on her hip. Holds her as close as he can even with the ache in him, in his jaw, his cock against her calf, in his eyes where they mist over--it can wait. All of it, none of it matters until Wakatoshi knows she’s loved for everything she is.
And just maybe he’s done well enough the work of telling her, because she brims, she spills over into him with a tiny muted sob. Gives him everything of her, and he takes it into himself, lets it fill in all his little cracks.
He hopes that hers are filled in too. Smoothed over, the way her fingers rub the soreness from his jaw, the way they stroke at swollen lips.
And Satori is not finished, does not think he ever will be. Not until he rights her nightdress, and curls into her side, not until he feels her sleep. Not until later, when he will let her bring him off in the palm of her hand, or until tomorrow when he will take her for a soft stroll down high streets. When he will buy her some lovely delicate thing, a thin bangle or a body chain, and then bring it home and kiss it, kiss her all the way soft.
Not until he comes home for good, not until he can spend everything that’s left to him saying the things she wants to her, calling her miracle girl.