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He's stretched out on her bed, languid, loose, watching her sit up between his legs. The liquid sounds of his father's language spill easily over her tongue as she moves forward, breathing poetry into the hard planes of his abdomen. "Amei bushi shan zhong yue," she recites, pausing at the end of each line to press kisses into his skin. By the time the poem is over, she's kissed her way up to his neck, and slides easily into his own native language. "Hitome borenano. Hi-kun, daisuki wa yo. Taisetsu desu." The sounds wash over him, and though the endearments are unfamiliar -- he's never had a lover who spoke his language before -- he delights in them.
He lifts his hands to her waist, stroking her soft curves. She moans and rocks her hips against his, and he's not quite surprised to realize he's almost ready to go again. "Kimi, suki da," he murmurs, deeply grateful that Japanese is among the many languages she speaks fluently. He flushes as an unbidden memory of his clumsiness with Standard surfaces in his mind.
"Why Hikaru, you're blushing. Whatever for?"
"Oh it's nothing," he mumbles. "Just remembering that incident with Psi 2000. Wishing I'd been less of dope."
"You're not still embarrassed over calling me a fair maiden are you?" She giggles and rolls off him. "You made such a gallant musketeer."
He snorts. "Gallant? More like ridiculous." He pulls her close and caresses her cheek. "You learned an entire language for me, Nyota --"
"And you engineered an entire new species of flower for me," she cuts him off and pulls him down onto her. "Donna no tomodachi ga dango irimasu?"