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It’s no matter whether she wins or loses, Wakatoshi finds the hero’s welcome she deserves. That she desires, and maybe not the one the world would give her--it is a quiet, quiet thing. It is the patter of Satori’s footsteps to the door of her tranquil apartment, it is the click of his key in the lock. It is the speechless pride on his face, and the way he hums to hold her, the little sounds of lips together.
It is her sighing amazement when he presents her with his gift. It’s no matter, he tells her, whether she wins or loses, whether she garners the laurels and the lauding of the world, Satori will always want to adorn her heavy with gold.
He lays the delicate chain around her neck, clasps it with careful chocolatier’s fingers. Strokes over it with a knobbed fingerpad, to the place where a tiny bird pendant rests in the cradle of her collarbone. It is the way that he kisses it, and feels the slowing of her pulse, it is in that silence that she is adored.
In that silence that he strips her of her clothes--her broad lines and sharp-starched angles, things that mark her for a man. The things that armor her, keep the world’s gaze from piercing.
Still, they did. It was weeks, weeks they watched her. That they called her powerhouse, demigod, specimen. Idol, Olympian, a thing cast heavy in marble or bronze.
And she is proud of her strength, she has always been. She does not mind that it is celebrated.
Satori, though, is the only one who knows how to make that celebration right. The only one who knows that her strength isn’t the strength of a man, who knows what a weight her power is to carry.
He brings her to the shower, and she kneels. Kneels for slim fingers on the oxe-yoke of her shoulders, scrubbing the last of the perspiration from her hair. Kneels, with her cheek on Satori’s willowy thigh, and lets her quiet be something softer than stoicism.
Her body, she tells herself, as he guides her by the hand to bed, can be something other than immovable.
Wakatoshi lets him lay her down, lets him kiss her cheeks and her stark brow, gone soft with Satori’s coaxing. The end of her nose, and her hair where it clings to her face, and the corner of her mouth.
It’s the first time either of them have spoken in a while, when his teeth tug at her earlobe, when he calls her “pretty girl.”
She wants to be, she tells him plainly. Satori lifts his head, cocks it like the twitching of a bird.
“You are,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You are, ‘Toshi,” and he kisses the wet gold of her necklace, her throat that reverberates soft when she sighs.
Wakatoshi has been indefatigable, these past weeks. She is through it now, Satori tells her, she can stop and be the lovely thing she is.
“Women need their beauty rest, yeah? That’s an important thing? You haven’t been getting that, I bet.”
Her laugh is a tiny quiet rumble, like thunder far away. “No,” she admits, and her voice thrums against his lips. “I don’t suppose I have.”
“I haven’t seen you,” she adds, as if this is the only reason why.
It pangs in Satori, that she only feels like a proper lady when he’s there. That he is the only place she can be soft, can be what she is at the rawest underbelly of herself.
He can give it to her now, in this quiet, and he will, he will. He needs to, it coruscates in him.
For starters--she has leaned up to kiss him, to be kissed by him. This won’t do. Satori settles her down, lays her damp head against the pillow, leaves her prone and perfect. He tells her, purring and soaked with suggestion, to relax.
She does, she nearly does, and it’s so beautiful to see her try that Satori can’t help but rain kisses all over her breasts, at the swells of them, her desert-rose nipples, the little scoop of space between. Can’t help but murmur all over her skin, drag his lips across and rub in his words like perfume, fuck, you are so pretty, Wa-ka-to-shi--!
Her breath tightens, heightens with it, with all of Satori’s worship. With the feel of his thin chapped lips, the gentle graze of his teeth, the way those spindly hands pet at her belly, her obliques. The way he makes a precious thing of her, touching so avid and careful.
“Ohhh,” he whispers, curling with intrigue, “you wanna be taken care of, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she’s bound to say yes. It’s only true, she has run herself so ragged, she has been a standing stone so long.
Satori just looks up at her with his feline eyes, his fey adoring little smile, and says he will. Makes good on it that instant, he reaches for the lubricant she keeps beside her bed, all matter-of-fact.
“Fingers, baby?” His voice lilts, coaxing, he is already slicking his fingers. Rubbing them together, he runs chilly at his gangly ends but he’s got to make it warm, got to keep her comfortable.
Wakatoshi knits her brow, it is the only muscle in her that is not entirely at rest. “What about you?”
The smile widens, dips to kiss the hard line of Wakatoshi’s jaw. “I’m not an Olympian,” he says, against her skin. “I haven’t just spent weeks kicking my own ass, I don’t need to rest the way that you do.”
“In the morning,” he assures her, with a dreaminess as soft as her duvet, “before we go out to that crepe shop. I’ll fuck your thighs, I’ll feel good.” It is an answer Wakatoshi can accept, something she can sigh and slacken to.
Still, he asks her if she’d like it. Still, she breathes her yes, still she shivers with the thought, with the way he bends to kiss her breast. The way he touches her, with a slick-warm hand, he coaxes at her thigh. Wakatoshi opens for him, lets the backs of those long fingers stroke her thinnest, softest skin.
Satori trails one fingertip down the length of her half-soft cock, he pets her tiny pink slit until it weeps. He calls her pretty then, calls her his miracle girl, and it makes Wakatoshi small.
Smaller, when chapped lips brush at the crest of her hip, when Satori’s fingers trail to pet her swollen balls, to rub gentle at her perineum. Little circles, lilted like the cadence of his voice--”when was the last time you took care of yourself, baby girl?”
His smile is mischievous, but not without gentility. It is a smile that Wakatoshi loves, it is a smile that she has missed. That she craves, when she breaks bread in the mornings, when she showers, when she goes to bed alone.
She would never be untruthful with him, but she thinks that smile could inspire anyone to total honesty.
“I have not,” she says, a loving rasp like a hearthstone, “I didn’t--orgasm. During the games, I was… focused.”
Satori brightens, just a little, when she says it. He loves it, he’s confessed, when she speaks so frankly, when he can make such a prim girl say such plain things about her body.
He croons over her, he slips his fingers down to stroke her entrance. Gently, careful little circles--people don’t look at Satori and see someone so precise, but Wakatoshi knows. She’s sampled all his little delicacies, and she loves them.
Kisses, again, to her taut belly and the crown of her cock. His lips, his voice against her swollen skin--”and how long has it been since you touched yourself here? Since you gave your pretty cunt some attention?”
“You know that,” Wakatoshi whispers, because he does. Because she’d never have done it without him on the line, praising and pressing her on--she twitches, in her throat and her belly and her cock, to think of the last time they did that. The thickness of her fingers, the way he kept her slow until she grew used to them. What Satori called her, pretty girl, babydoll, sweetest sweetest thing.
Satori remembers too, she knows it from the way he looks up at her, from the way his lips curve up against her cockhead.
“Been such a long time,” he murmurs, and his voice--it resonates in her, makes her drip against his mouth. “That’s not good for you, ‘Toshi, you’ve gotta feel good sometimes.”
He offered her a whole box of chocolates, earlier, told her much the same thing when he insisted she eat them all. She refused him then, demurely, but she--there was a part of her that wanted it. Wanted to take all of his affection into herself; she wants it now, too.
“Please,” she whispers, voice unwieldy. “Help me.”
And Satori does, once he is through kissing her belly, once he has nuzzled her cock and her balls and her thighs. Once he has told her that she’s darling, in English and Japanese and twice in French, once he has fixed her with that same beloved smile.
His fingertip coaxes inside, and she breathes. She relaxes for him, she envisions her body as something other than a weapon, something other than a wall. Something that yields, something that takes--and then Satori is stroking her, inside, and she can envision nothing at all.
She feels his knuckles, slipping soft inside, the slenderness of him. The way he curls that finger, just exactly where he needs to, and--Wakatoshi is sighing, tremoring, pressing heavy hips to his hand.
“You need it bad,” Satori muses. His eyes are crinkled shut, now, with his joy, he is brilliant. She tries to tell him; she cannot choose the words she needs.
All she says is yes, then, and Satori, and love. All she can manage is a cry, when he nudges at her weakest point, when he nurses it with the very tip of his finger.
She can’t keep still, she heaves her hips, she reaches for him. For his waist that’s filled out only slightly, for the softness of his hair. For his voice, with her own, she calls for him.
Wakatoshi thinks she might be crying. She thinks it might be good.
“Oh,” sighs Satori, and his eyes are still soft-closed, he does not need to see her to know what she’s become. “Oh, pretty girl. Baby, you need it, you need to come, don’t you?”
“I’ll make you,” he tells her, lips grazing her cockhead again, “you’re the sweetest thing in the world when you come. And when you aren’t coming, I s’pose. Are you getting there, ‘Toshi, do you like it?”
Her words have all fallen away, everything has. It’s all she can do to gasp, to curl her fingers at his waist, to tighten up around his finger. It’s all she can do to let herself shake apart, to sob and spill against his mouth. To let herself be beautiful, to let herself be small.
Satori brings her through it on his voice, the gentle off-beat music of him. “There,” he whispers, and doesn’t mind the way she comes across his lips. “There you go, ‘Toshi, thassit, that’s my girl.”
And she is, and for a moment she is nothing else. And Satori still strokes her, he pets her easy, milks her dry. Makes her cry out for him, little staccato sighs--he asks her, on her sharp breath, if it feels too much.
“Ah,” she says, again and again, between a cascade of little word-shards. Satori has to stop a moment, has to cluck his tongue, get her looking in his eyes.
“I,” breathes Wakatoshi, “I think it needs to be too much.”
A smile, curling on comestained lips. “I’ve got you,” he tells her, and she knows it’s true. Knows that if anybody has her, it is Satori.
And so she can go to pieces for him, all of her pillars can crumble. She can wince when he presses her sweet spot, she can toss her head, list her flaring cheek against the pillow. She can listen to his words, pretty girl, my girl, most amazing woman in the world. I’m not even surprised you got this far in life, only that you’re spending all your free time with me, oh, you’re a miracle. She parses none of it, and still knows what he means.
Still know that she’s loved, that she is known, in this tiny safe crevice of the world, for what she is. For what she needs to be--she cries out to him for it, some half-worded thanks.
Wakatoshi can’t be sure, she is wracking and wracking and wracking--but she thinks he might say something like of course, or I don’t mind.
“I’ll take care of you,” maybe. She knows he will, and it’s that or his kiss on her navel, his clever tongue lapping at her mess that has her coming again, weak from the soft tip of her cock; that has her wailing.
That has her breath weak, chest heaving, lashes wet, that has her small and shivering and clutching Satori’s voice when he speaks again, when he tells her that he always, always will.
And Wakatoshi knows, oh, she knows that this is true.