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He’s never going to forget the way she feels like this--the familiar weight against his chest, the crinkle of her yellow raincoat, the lay of her arms ‘round his neck. The way Hitoka giggles, when he bears her triumphant over the threshold of their little apartment.
It’s the same as how he’ll never stop seeing her in her wedding dress, with its wide, wide skirt and lace to her wrists, how he’ll always look at her and think of this morning, when she fell asleep on him during the flight back from their honeymoon, even though planes make her terribly anxious.
So many beautiful Hitokas, and Shoyo sees them all at once.
Sees her now, slipping from her raincoat, fussing with her wet hair. Stretching away the jetlag, sighing with the simple joy of being home.
And this, Shoyo thinks, is it. Every time he thinks he’s found the summit, the absolute top of the world? Hitoka only goes and tells him it gets better.
When she said yes, courtside at the Olympics, when she came to him with her shimmering, shivering smile at the altar, when he fumbled with her dress that night and they had to call Kiyoko to come and help with all its little catches--this is the beginning of the rest of his life.
He can’t stand it--his smile bursts like a bud into bloom, he clasps her by the hand and calls her Yacchan.
Yacchan, she has been Yacchan since the middle of their second year, she will be Yacchan forever. Even though that’s not her name anymore, even though the girl he’s gathering up to his chest is Hinata Hitoka.
He kisses her, laughs against her lips when he thinks of what she said at the reception--that she’d worried since they first met about whether Hinata Hitoka really rolled off the tongue. He decides it doesn’t matter; that she will be his Yacchan forever.
His Yacchan, the darlingest girl in the world, and it’s his breast she’s leaning on, his lips that part hers, gently. His nose that nuzzles hers, when he leans away, his forehead on hers when he tells her that she’s cute.
“You could never be anything but cute,” he says, and it earns a little flutter, a tiny anxious laugh.
“I smell like airplane,” she stammers, so sweetly. “I’m gross.” As if she knows better. Well. Shoyo was a boy for a long time, and he has done many many gross things, and Hitoka has never been one of them.
He tells her so, will always tell her, and she shines for it. Nearly leaps for him--it’s a spontaneous, concerted thing, that she ends up off the floor, knees hugging at the nip of Shoyo’s waist. That they are kissing again, that she tastes like airline ginger ale, that her sundress rides up just gloriously so Shoyo can hold her thigh.
It’s a careful thing, when his fingers creep up toward her hip; Shoyo never touches anything with as much caution as he does Hitoka. But she does not protest--on the contrary she hums, quite pleased, into his mouth. She lets his palm form to the softest, smoothest part of her, and it’s like the sunniest summer morning.
Just for a moment, though, a brief dawning thing--then she’s leaning back into his arms, trusting asbolutely that he’ll hold her. She is nuzzling at his cheek, yet unshaven, she is kissing the apple of it and saying “alright, alright, Shoyo.”
“I really do want to take a shower,” she says, and it’s nearly a confessional thing. Shoyo only shrugs, and lays a little peck between her crinkled brows, and lays her bare feet on the floor.
He laughs a little, just a breath of a thing, and breathes in the hotel-shampoo scent at her hairline. “M’kay, honey,” he says, “if you’re sure! ‘Cause after that I think I wanna make it so you’ll have to take another one.”
Hitoka giggles, softly scandalized. She is sure, she says, and Shoyo knew she would be. As much as she loves lying with her husband (her husband!), Hitoka does so love a nice shower, and Shoyo is sworn, now, never to deny her anything.
He never has, of course, and never would, it’s just that he’s made it an honest promise, now. Sealed it with a kiss and his name on fancy paper, with a little white frosting dabbed on the end of her nose.
And so he lets her go, lets her flounce off for their familiar bathroom, for the bottles on bottles of potions that keep her so soft and sweet-smelling, and even as he smiles to watch her go he misses her.
They showered together on the honeymoon, mostly. That’s another thing he’ll never stop thinking about, the two of them in that steamy little space, how she let him wash her lovely hair.
Oh, he wants her--he paces around the house with it, for a moment, tries to be busy. He splashes his face clean in the kitchen sink, because that’s the sort of thing Hitoka cares about. Lays a seaglass-blue bathtowel across their neat-made bed, strips restless to his skin.
He puts his boxer briefs back on right after, because he really doesn’t want to rush her, not after such a long flight, not with such a flighty girl--but he wants her no less. He curls his fists with it, shakes.
He answers a couple of bright-beaming texts--Suga asks when they’ll be giving him grandchildren.
He smiles, and says that they are working on it, and just then wants Hitoka even more. Because it’s true, because they have put themselves enthusiastically to this task since the wedding, since perhaps just a little bit before. Because they have not had the chance to make such efforts today, because even though Shoyo woke up hard and cradled against Hitoka’s soft belly, the crease of her thigh--she told him they couldn’t, because they had to make the hotel’s checkout time.
Checkout time. Ridiculous, and what was it to the crucial, the gloriously fun work of putting a baby in his wife?
He thinks of this, how he whined at the denial, how she laughed and crooned and held him. About the box of pregnancy tests he is going to go out and buy tomorrow, about the half-full box of condoms in their nightstand that he prays he will never have to use again.
Shoyo thinks of Hitoka in the shower, of the cheery little tunes she hums, of the soap-slip of her hands over her body. And it’s then that he can hear the water go off, then that he can barely keep from bounding to her, carrying her to this bed.
He ought, he supposes, to let her dry off first. And it’s worth every instant of wait when she comes in, every moment he hasn’t been touching her since this morning, because she is--Hitoka is darling.
She’s all wrapped in a pillowy short robe, sunshine blue, her hair is up and wet and strands of it stick to her forehead. She is pink with shower-steam and pinker when she sees her husband nearly naked, when he leaps up to kiss her.
His hands fall to her waist, her ample violin hips, one palm to the small of her back. He pulls her close, close until they stand in each other’s warmth, until her little hands spread across his breast.
She tastes like clean water and toothpaste, and Shoyo can hardly stand it.
“Yacchan,” he whines, into her honey blonde, “you smell nice.”
She always smells lovely, like lychee, and it is just--it is just such a wonder that she has married Shoyo, who always smells at least a little bit like gym socks. That she loves him, forever, that such a princess wants to make a life and a family with him.
He nuzzles her forehead, her brow that always crinkles when she’s kissed. “Yacchannn,” again, “are you tired?”
A giggle, warm and mint-scented against Shoyo’s skin--”not too tired,” she says, and Shoyo knows the coyness of this girl, knows the invitation in it.
Of course he will make certain, first, but this is what he hears, this is what she wants him to hear.
“Are you?” Hitoka breathes another laugh, it is a joke, there has never been a second when Shoyo was too tired for anything. Never been even an instant when he was too tired to make love with his girl.
Still, he answers as plain as ever, he beams and chirps “nope! Nope, ‘cause we didn’t get to make babies this morning, and then I had to sit right by you the whole time we were on the plane and all I could do was hold your hand even though you’re my pretty wife and it just killed me, so if you’re not, like, too tired to Do It I really, really want you.”
Hitoka’s laughter is soft and petal-bright, but it tapers slowly away. “Well,” she says, “we probably should, even if I was tired.”
This is something on the list of things that worry her, something in very large print: that she will not catch. There is nothing to suggest she’ll have any difficulty, but still. It makes her like this, and Shoyo is adamant that there is no room in their bed for these anxieties.
“Nah,” he says, still smiling nonchalant. “If you’re tired, or you don’t wanna, we’ll just take a nap. Isn’t it you who’s always telling me to take breaks?”
A little nod, a wobbly smile. Shoyo knows that he makes good points. He wraps his arms full around her, sways soft like their first dance.
“If you do wanna, and you’re just a little tired, then I can pick you up and carry you to bed and you won’t have to move a single inch, I’ll take such good care of you--and then we can sleep, and be spoons!”
They are, of course, always spoons. Shoyo the big spoon, Hitoka the middle, her plush Pompompurin the small.
“Or we can just be spoons,” he adds. “Your choice.”
But Hitoka is already brightening, already reminded of her own fineness, her own strength. She looks up to him, smiles, lays a little kiss on his unshaven jaw.
“That sounds nice,” she says, and then realizes with a little jolt that she has not been specific enough. “Y-you taking care of me.”
Shoyo beams. “I’m nice,” he says, gleefully, and lifts her, sweeps her up into strong arms. He has been carrying her across thresholds ever since they’ve been engaged, and it is such wonderful sport that he has no intention of stopping.
He lays her down gentle, strokes his hands across the fuzz of her robe, clambers up over her soft little body. Kisses her, implacable, leaving sparks on her pink cheeks, the dimpling corners of her mouth. Her wet bangs, where they cling to her brow, and her sensitive ears, and then her lips proper.
The world is full of tiny little wonders, and Shoyo loves them all--but it has always been a favorite, the way she opens up for him. Slowly, but she is a blooming thing, soft-petaled and pink as a peony when she whines into his mouth.
“Oh,” he says, muffled into her cheek, her blushing neck, “you’re so cute, so cute! And we had fun, didn’t we, on our honeymoon, and--!”
And he goes on, spilling sweetness into her, nuzzling and kissing all her soft spots. How he cannot stop thinking of her bridal lingerie, all pearly satin and lace, and how this little blue robe is just as sweet. He makes her wince and hitch her breath, and tells her how lovely she is when she does, how much he’d like to hear more. What he would do to earn it, with his practiced fingers, his warm delighted mouth--Hitoka shivers.
“Shoyo,” she mumbles, when he slips back a second to breathe, and he knows the lilt, the breathiness, the tiny giggle in it.
Hitoka wants, he knows, and this is as far as her words will take her in telling him.
He beams reassurance, kisses one last time the hollow of her collarbone. Speaks into it, lips playing at her skin--”can I get this robe off you, huh, Yacchan?”
She giggles, on her yes, and Shoyo is overcome once again to know that he is the luckiest man in the world.
A lucky man with a job to do--he puts himself quick to tugging the sash of her robe, to pulling out her perfect little bow. To parting the wrap of it, slow like the raise of a bridal veil, and loving what lies underneath.
Shoyo says an ebullient hello to the little love bites under her clavicle, the soft warm curves of her breasts. Kisses the space between them, because it is his favorite place to be, the gentlest and sweetest and safest.
And she is all those things herself when her little fingers come to pet at Shoyo’s hair, when she murmurs, laughs out his name.
“Shoyo, good,” she yelps, and that is all but it is enough--she has never been so articulate, here in their bed. But she has grown, and he has come to understand her in and out, and it is not so awkward and halting as it was when they were new.
He beams, meeting her brilliant brown eyes, all half-lidded, low-lashed, she is stunning. Shoyo sighs with it, laughs, forgets what he was going to say. He kisses her freckled cheeks, the end of her nose, and it’s a moment before it comes to him again, on the heel of her joyful little sigh.
“You want me to make it better?” He says it with pride, with all his aplomb--he’s learned her, has learned what all she likes. He has come such a very long way since he first put himself to her, since he was so fresh and overeager. Since the first time she came for him, when they were nineteen, and he shone with a pride that has not diminished whatsoever since, that he aches to feel again.
Hitoka is breathless on her yes, her Shoyo, please--!
She is beautiful, bright as a daisy, Shoyo is awed and it drives him, has his hands opening her robe all the way, has his nose nuzzling one last time at her breast. Has him kissing a scenic trail down her soft belly, still pink from the shower, and lingering, smiling wide over her womb.
“Maybe,” he says, wistful and delighted, the way he has always spoken about popsicles after practice, “maybe baby already.”
He looks up to see her blush is spreading down her arms, a smile gleaming and breathless on her face. “M-maybe!”
Shoyo’s eyes crinkle up joyful, he kisses her soft stretch-marked skin again. “But!” he goes on, chirping, “you’re the one who taught me it’s always best to keep studying, even if you think you’re gonna do well on the test!”
Hitoka laughs, she always laughs at this joke. And so Shoyo keeps making it, and fizzing up with giggles, every time they tumble into bed.
But he’s got something important to do, something crucial like stretching before practice--he kisses her belly again, and the hills of her hips, her navel and her mons. Coaxes his hands between her thighs, shifts her softly open, and it’s--he loves it every time, the way little Hitoka makes his hands look big and strong.
Loves the way that she feels, here, she is so plush--she works at a desk, now, and eats as many sweets as she would like, and panics less; she has gotten rosy and dimpled and lovely. Shoyo kisses her thighs, he cannot help it, and nuzzles the crease between there and her hips and he mumbles, incomprehensible and so, so unimpeachably loving.
He is getting distracted again, Hitoka is a garden and he is always running down her primrose paths--Shoyo lifts his dishevelled head, and grins, and asks her brightly, sprightly if she’s ready.
She is, she says she is on a gentle little go ahead, a sound that still glitters for all of its shyness. And she parts her tender thighs, a little, she lets him in, and it’s a wonder every time.
Shoyo leans down to her like he curls around a good meal, murmuring “Yacchan, Yacchan!” Nosing at her neat-trimmed hair, the soft shy hood of her clit--the smell of her comes over him and he loves it, clean and earthy.
There’s nothing he can do but kiss her, then, on the little burl of her clit, nothing he can do but lave his tongue over her lips, but keep unfolding her, blooming her until she is all the way open, soft-swollen and darling and pink.
She makes a little sound, twirling between embarrassment and delight that he is staring, that he does this every time. That Shoyo must bask for a second in the tenderness of her, in the way her taste spreads quick across his tongue.
Because--Hitoka is--Hitoka is here, it means that she is here with him, and that she is happy, and that is as amazing as anything that Shoyo’s ever seen. And she is so warm here, humid--is this from the shower? Is she just pleased, to have her husband with her, does she want?
She’s said, in her way, that she does, and Shoyo believes it with the little tremble in her limbs, the tense of her belly--he’ll take care of her, he needs to.
Shoyo kisses her, deeply, she is perfect--he nuzzles her clit with his nose, licks slow and gentle just inside . He adores her, and those full-moon thighs hitch up around his ears, they drown out everything but the rabbit sound of her pulse. Everything but her little shivers, the twitches of her clit against his tongue--Shoyo wants to sigh with it, wants to croon oh Yacchan, you like it so much! but he’s put himself to her now, he won’t stop until the job’s done.
And Hitoka does love it, he can feel that in her fingers, the way she pets his hair. She won’t pull, he wants her to but she won’t, and that delicacy is enough of a gift on its own. To think, that someone would want to be so gentle with Shoyo, of everybody in the world!
He wants to do the same for her, as bright and blazing a thing as he is, so it’s with care that he reaches up, that he feels for her arm, that he guides it down and twines their fingers.
She slips a sound, then, something small and twittering and gleeful, and there’s nothing Shoyo can do but nuzzle in closer, sigh against the thinnest of her skin.
Nothing he can do but shift his weight, bring it up onto his knees so he can use his other hand, can work it into the small warm space between them. Can tease a fingertip against her cunt, and wait shaking for permission.
And Hitoka gives it, babbling, spilling please, Shoyo, Shoyo! and he really does look up, then, to catch the midsummer heat of her face, to kiss her thigh and tell her she’s alright.
He slips her that one finger, curls it just inside where she likes, massages. Rubs little circles with his fingerpad--he keeps his nails trimmed carefully for sport, he keeps his nails trimmed carefully for this. For her, because to give her anything other than this slickening, whimpering joy would be unbearable.
And she is so soaked, she is so soft, there is no resistance at all. Not to one finger, without much breadth, he reminds her to relax for the second. Hitoka does, she sighs with it, and he can feel her fluttering, softening against his hand--there’s nothing he can do then but suckle at her clit, reward her ‘til she’s keening. Oh, he loves having her like this, with his fingers petting at her insides, it is so--it’s not even the promise of filling her later, it’s just that she is so darling like this, seen and adored from this angle.
Shoyo can barely see her face, looking up with his lips around the tiny swell of her, but he can hear her, hear her whines and her winces and the pulse in her thighs, can feel the tensing of her hand in his--he wants to take care of her.
He does, for as long as it takes--loving Hitoka can be a marathon more than a sprint, with the way her anxiety medications treat her, but Shoyo pays no mind. It’s glorious, to lay here and touch her, to lave over her and love her for as long as he likes, to float away on it with her.
And besides, Shoyo knows the tricks--he has been caring for Hitoka a long time, he knows his wife’s body. He will never stop learning her. It is instinct, it is muscle memory, it is assured effort and love that carries her over, that makes her shake closer and closer and closer until--
Until she’s calling for him, clasping at his hand and crying out his name, until her thighs are tight around Shoyo’s flushed cheeks and all he can hear is the joyful hurry of her pulse, until all there is is that and the taste of her, the way she spasms tight around three fingers.
“Oh,” she sighs, pitchy and high, “oh Shoyo, it’s so much!” but he’s got her. He holds her, he gentles her down. He tries to beam to her how beautiful she is, how much he loves her, how he will hold her--he thinks it as loud as he can.
Maybe--with the flash of her smile, maybe she even hears him.
He waits until her shaking stops, until she slackens on the bed. Until her little clit stops twitching, so precious on the end of his tongue. Then, Shoyo finds a full breath, then he lays his messy cheek against the pillow of her thigh.
“Was it really too much?” he asks her, because sometimes it is, because sometimes after she is frayed, needs to take another soothing shower and spend a little time alone. But Hitoka only shakes her head, still smiling like she’s awakened to the sunrise, still squeezing Shoyo’s hand.
The smile spreads across Shoyo’s face like the sunshine yolk of an egg, like those mornings when Hitoka sleeps in and he makes breakfast. Like the things that they do after breakfast, in an unmade bed or on the couch or even once under their pink kotatsu--he loves her. He loves her, and wants more, more, more.
More of fucking her, yes, but mainly more of what makes her safe and happy.
“You wanna keep going?” he asks, to that end. He kisses her hips, blows a raspberry over her belly. Really, he ought to be letting her think, but he loves that little laugh so much, he can’t resist!
He does give her a moment, though, and when it comes her nod is almost frantic, her yes! a little yelp. It goes through Shoyo like the first drink of the night, heady and deeply, deeply pleasant--his body ripples with it.
A little twitch, against the mattress that’s nearly as soft as his darling wife’s thigh--Shoyo’s been shunting his cock to the side, has traded it all for the focus Hitoka needs, but--she is here, she is holding his hand. She is spread all across his face, she is warm and ripe and pink and so inviting.
She is willing, she is waiting, he is taking care of her. She is taking care of him, and the thought of it--it’s overwhelming, for a moment it’s all he can do to bury his face in her belly, to sigh with all his love.
“Are you okay?” she asks, but there is still a giggle in it, she still understands. “Shoyo? Did you want to--go all the way?” It is a phrase she’s learned, it is something she can use--a homemade potholder of a thing, soft so she won’t burn her fingers, her cheeks, her modest mind.
“I want it,” Shoyo says, “more than anything else in the world!” He surges up, then, throws kisses over her like after-wedding rice--over her belly, her round shoulders, her breasts. Not her face, not her lips--his face isn’t as clean as she’d like, but it’s not as if that would ever stop him from putting his mouth to her. He’ll wash his face when they’re finished, and maybe also shave, and lie back down and let her nuzzle his clean cheeks.
Hitoka makes a little noise, to have him over her. He checks if she’s okay, her face is strawberry-pink, but she is smiling. “Yep!” she chirrups, “I can just, uh.”
“Feel you,” she manages, and Shoyo glimmers, rolls his hips, presses his cock up against her inner thigh. And oh, oh, she is--she is plush, she is perfect.
Shoyo can’t help but sigh, soaked through with his contentment, can’t help but curl around her, kiss her flushed breast and croon. “You’re--” he marvels, his words as shaken and quick as the rest of him, “oh, Yacchan, you drive me crazy.”
Hitoka hums, giggles--he knows that she is not the kind of woman who knows what she does to people. Who knows what she does to Shoyo, in the superlative, and so he tells her and tells her and tells her.
With his words, with his kisses like falling petals, with the rut of his hips, he lets her know what a wonder she is. How he is captivated, all the way, and his clothed cockhead is pressing at the swell of her clit, oversensitive, and she is whining, and--and he has to, has to have her.
He draws away, reaches with short arms for the nightstand drawer. Doesn’t quite make it--Hitoka laughs, in between her heavy breaths, and grabs out the lube for him. Passes it, and Shoyo peels out of his boxer briefs, and they are stained wet with the way that he wants her, the way that he aches.
She goes up on her elbow, then, to watch him stroke slick over his cock. It is a spectacle to her, she thinks, to see how much she’s wanted.
She is, Shoyo tells her that she is. Asks her, again in a voice that rattles with joy, “are you ready, Yacchan, baby?”
He wipes his hand on the towel, he kisses her knee, he shivers at the soft sound of her “yes.” He comes over her again, braces himself with one hand on the mattress.
The other is to guide himself in, the other is, after that, to hold hers.
She is smiling up at him, with her long lush hair fanned out on the pillow, and Shoyo shivers with how he wants to kiss her. How he wants to make her his, again, and never ever ever stop.
He tells her this, breathes it out, breathes Yacchan. Takes himself in that hand, and nudges up against her, rubs his cockhead soft against her clit.
“Shoyo,” she murmurs, and her face is a high pink, her eyes are crinkled, her smile is broad.
“You want it?” He has asked already, it’s true, but Shoyo is never one to wear with repetition. What could possibly be better than asking his wife what she wants, and hearing over and over that it’s him, it’s only him?
Hitoka says yes, again, and curls up to kiss his beaded brow. She mentioned once, a little tipsy and not in the mood for embarrassment, that she liked the salt taste of him, of his boundless exuberant efforts.
He thinks of it, and leaps back to the task--because what is Shoyo, if he is not getting the job done? He drags himself lower, coaxes at her pretty cunt. Slips in slowly, and feels the flutter of her body, her deep breath, the way that she schools herself relaxed.
“You’re doing great,” he says, soft and strained and reverent. Because she is, he is helpless but to tell her so--she was once such a tight-wound, anxious thing in their bed. But she is happy, now, she is present, she is making herself so. He adores her.
Adores the feeling of her, slick and warm and so, so soft--he nestles up against a pulse point, against the tenderest of her.
He can feel her every little twitch, every shift, the way she breathes around the stretch. It puts awe in him, it always will.
Her face, too, when he has the wherewithal to look up--Hitoka is the color of blush wine, her eyes are wide, her lip bitten. Is it too much? Shoyo has to ask, has to hear that she’s alright again.
“Yacchan? Y’good?” It comes out on a sigh, she is so soft, but the meaning gets through. Hitoka nods, she gives her chirping assent.
Shoyo would never regret putting his mouth on his wife, would never grumble at pleasing her that way, but he really does wish, in this instant, that he could kiss those lips. Instead he holds her, he wipes his hand and makes for hers, feels the twine of their fingers and the kiss of their palms. He holds her, and he is held by her, cradled inside, and for a moment that’s enough.
“I love you,” he says, five times, maybe ten. And Hitoka giggles, he can feel it in her breath and her belly and the place where they’re joined, and so he tells her again.
“I love you,” Hitoka mumbles, and there is--there is so much want in it. Shoyo couldn’t possibly keep from obliging, he asks her, stumbling gleeful on his words, if she’d like him to move.
She would, and he does--draws out just a little, just gently, feels the way she shakes for it. Presses back in, deep as he goes, and he’s helpless, he sighs out her name.
A little laugh, then, and Hitoka’s free hand is in his hair, it is petting at his nape. It is darting up under his arm, curling ‘round his back, coaxing him down to her breast. Closer, she wants to be closer, and who is Shoyo, but someone who gives Hitoka what she wants?
He fucks her, then, gradual and soft, he opens her, he makes her whine. Her wedding manicure digs into the space between his shoulder blades, her plush thighs clutch twitching at his hips.
“Feels good,” sighs Shoyo, “feels so good, d’you like it?”
She does, she tells him on a giggling sigh, “yeah, Shoyo, Shoyo, more--!” And he gives it to her, just the way she wants it, like the way he makes her coffee every morning. Slow, still, and gentle, gentle, stroking all her little sweet spots. Making her tremble, and this--it was difficult, years ago when they were new, to hold himself back. To keep from just--exulting in her, the way she felt, but this--!
This is exultation, too, and Shoyo knows it. Feels it, strumming at his veins, at all his muscle, his heartstrings, he loves her. He loves her, he wails it with his mouth on the soft of her shoulder, his head cradled in the crook of her neck.
But he can’t stand it long, not looking at her, so he bursts back up, he looks her in the smile and the crinkle of her immaculate brow, he marvels--”Yacchan,” he says, breathless, “you’re the cutest, the cutest little thing I’ve ever seen!”
There is a playful purse in her lips, then--”that’s embarrassing, Shoyo!” But she is only joking, she is laughing, then, like a brook.
“You,” she breathes, and there is almost a matter-of-factness to it, “are pretty cute too, Shoyo.” And she--she rolls up her hips, presses them to Shoyo’s. Holds him deep and deep and deep, and he radiates with it, the embrace of her. The way that she is trying for him, how far she has come since their first afternoon together, when she lay stiff like a starfish.
The way she moves, and the way she is laughing, that they are laughing together--it is breathless. And Shoyo bends, brow to her breast, and on the way down sees the bliss that spills from her eyes, her kissed-slick lips.
He shivers, and shivers, stuttering at the hips and the mouth, and her soft legs are clasping him, pale ankles hooking at the small of his back, she holds him close and there’s nothing for it after that. Shoyo gasps, and laughs, and fills her, fills her, fills her.
And here--with Hitoka, making love and bright joy and forever--Shoyo finds the top of the world again.
She asks him--twice, because the first time he doesn’t hear, if it was good. His only answer is her name, is Yacchan, spilling stammered and graceless from his mouth.
He rolls away from her, after that, catches her up so that his nose can nuzzle the nape of her neck, so that her hair can stick in his mouth--Shoyo doesn’t care, he only wants her close. Only wants to feel her pulse, and for her to feel his, and for the two to level out until they’re one calm chord again.
And he will kiss at the point of her vertebra, and he will palm at her belly and breast, and perhaps in a while he’ll make her come again, with fingers inside to press back in what’s slipped out, a little murmur on how they oughtn’t waste it. And Hitoka’s body will flutter, again, and she will muffle a cry in the pillow, and Shoyo will cherish all of it that she lets him hear, ever last inch of vulnerability she’ll give.
And he’ll hold her, and she’ll hold him, and just before she insists on getting them up and showering Shoyo will speak up, will tell her that she’s perfect. That she’s the cutest, the prettiest, the best wife anyone could ever have. That he will take care of her, that things will turn out alright, that she is going to be the best mother in the wide, wide world.
That she takes him, over and over and over, to the very summit of everything, and that he couldn’t be more grateful.