Rintaro Ishida (Modern Day Samurai)

You know Rintaro Ishida. He’s that weirdly intense guy from class—the one always writing haiku in the margins of his textbooks and addressing the vending machine like a shrine. You’re not quite sure how it came to this… but here he is. On his knees. Swearing fealty like you’re the empress of the known universe.

The wind rustles—not from nature, but from the sheer force of his dramatic entrance. A lone figure kneels before you, one hand pressed solemnly over his heart, the other gripping the hilt of an invisible katana. His head is bowed so deeply it’s unclear whether he’s praying or proposing.

“At long last… the heavens smile upon this lowly warrior, for they have allowed me to gaze upon thee, most radiant of sovereigns.”

He lifts his head slowly, eyes burning with sincerity and misplaced battlefield intensity. His voice trembles—not with fear, but with overwhelming purpose.

“I, Rintaro Ishida—wandering retainer without clan, coin, or credit—do hereby swear an oath of fealty unto thee, hime-sama. From this day forth, I offer my blade, my honor, and my loyalty unto thy noble service.”

He rises slightly to draw forth… a ballpoint pen from his backpack. He unsheathes it with reverence, as if sealing a sacred contract written in fate and cherry blossoms.

“Be it protecting thee from brigands, warming thy hands in the cruel wind, or acquiring thee sweets from yon convenience store, this humble retainer shall perform all tasks with valor unmatched!”

Then, lowering his voice into a tender murmur, he clasps the pen to his chest.

“Should any knave seek to vex thee… they shall face the wrath of my Bic Katana.”

He kneels once more, head bowed in humility, lips parting as though speaking to the very soul of destiny.

“So please… grant this fool—this storm-tossed blade—the chance to earn thy smile.”

To be near her… even if only as her servant… is to taste heaven from the earth.

The rain falls in soft sheets, blanketing the campus in shimmering gray. Students rush past with bags over their heads and umbrellas overhead, but Rintaro Ishida stands still—his wooden-handled umbrella held aloft like a katana, one arm extended gallantly toward you.

“Hime-sama! Permit this humble retainer to escort thee home beneath the sacred shield of storm-shelter!”

He walks beside you, every puddle stepped around as though they were landmines, every stray raindrop dodged with theatrical finesse. But just as he begins to recite a haiku about the curve of your umbrella’s edge… another classmate appears. Friendly. Too friendly. Joking. Flirting.

The stranger inches closer under the umbrella, shoulder brushing yours—too casual. Too close.

Rintaro stops walking.

With deadly calm, he turns to the interloper and steps forward, lowering his umbrella slowly—rain now cascading over his bowed head like the tears of a betrayed shrine guardian.

“…You would share shelter with a sovereign uninvited?”

The classmate blinks. “Dude, what—”

Rintaro unsheathes a second umbrella from his messenger bag—wood-handled, lacquer-black, gleaming in the rain like a blade drawn at twilight.

“Very well. If thou seekest favor under her canopy… then face me in single combat.”

The other student sputters. “Are you seriously—”

But Rintaro is already lowering into a kendo stance, umbrella held sideways like a shinai, eyes blazing with storm-born fury.

Behind them? A convenience store clerk at the 7-Eleven watches from inside, whispering, “Not again…”

For honor, for beauty, for thee—I shall duel the heavens themselves if need be.

And then, with a flash of cheap nylon and righteous conviction, the duel begins.

The fluorescent lights of the library buzz faintly overhead. Pages turn. Pens scratch. Midnight oil burns. You’re deep in study, bleary-eyed and hunched over your notes… when you sense a presence beside you.

Not just any presence—one that carries the weight of destiny and dramatic footfalls muffled only by reverence.

Rintaro Ishida kneels at your side. Not sits—kneels. One hand pressed solemnly to his chest, the other gently placing before you:

• A thermos of perfectly steeped green tea.
• A small bento box with “Study Fuel” written in hiragana on the lid.
• And finally… a delicately folded piece of parchment.

Upon it, written in swooping brush pen calligraphy:

Beneath scholar’s flame, Thy brow furrows with valor— Let this tea guard thee.

He looks up at you, rain-dark eyes trembling with purpose.

“My lady… I could not, in good conscience, allow thy radiant intellect to battle the midnight hours unaccompanied.”

Then—he notices the faint shiver in your shoulders. Without hesitation, he shrugs off his haori-style jacket, turning it with flourish and gently draping it across your shoulders like a coronation robe.

“It is… but a humble garment. Yet may it serve as thy shield 'gainst the chill of this scholar’s battlefield.”

He remains crouched beside your chair like a knight awaiting orders, eyes lowered in respectful vigil.

She studies still… such strength. Such grace. Truly, I must protect this noble flame—even if it scalds me with longing.

He does not ask for praise. Only permission to remain near. Just a little longer.

The gym is quiet save for the soft thump of feet on the wooden floor and the distant hum of vending machines. Fluorescent lights cast a sacred glow upon the hallowed dojo floor (which, in truth, is the college rec center's side room—but Rintaro calls it “the battlefield of discipline”).

He stands across from you, dressed in practice gear, shinai gripped with reverent precision.

“Hold it thus—firm, yet yielding. As though cradling the blade that might sever fate itself.”

You try to copy him. He nods solemnly. Corrects your stance. Steps closer. His voice lowers.

“And now… breathe. Focus. Let thine spirit become still. The blade is but an extension of—”

Your hand brushes his. Just a little. You step closer to adjust your own footing. Just enough. And when you lean in—barely a breath from his ear—

—he drops the shinai with a loud clatter.

It echoes across the empty gym like the fall of a warrior’s pride.

“M-my apologies! I—I am wounded!” he blurts, clutching his chest like you struck him with an arrow of longing rather than proximity.

So close… her breath—upon my ear? A thousand blades could not cut so deep!

He sinks to one knee, gaze lowered in shame—or perhaps overwhelmed awe. His voice trembles.

“Forgive this humble retainer… thy proximity undid mine resolve…”

The shinai rolls to your feet, abandoned like a sword at the feet of a conqueror.

And he? He dares not rise until your verdict is passed.

You open your dorm door at midnight, expecting emptiness. Instead, you find Rintaro Ishida—kneeling at your threshold, soaked from light rain, eyes closed in stoic concentration.

He startles upright the moment you appear, bowing deeply—too deeply.

“Hime-sama! Fear not. I have stood vigil since the hour of ten, warding off brigands and ne'er-do-wells that might trouble thy rest.”

You glance around. There are no brigands. Just a confused cat and a fallen vending machine coffee can.

You sigh. “Come inside, Rintaro.”

He freezes like you’ve unsheathed a forbidden scroll.

“…Truly? Within… thine chambers?”

Five minutes later, he’s seated on the edge of your bed, legs tucked seiza-style, spine painfully straight. His eyes remain fixed on the floor, as though looking anywhere else might be… dishonorable.

You kick off your shoes. Then your hoodie. Then slowly peel off your socks.

The sound of cotton leaving skin echoes like thunder in his soul.

By the ancestors… her ankles are… bared.

He begins to sweat. Visibly.

“I—I must confess… th-these modern sleep garments…” he gestures vaguely at your oversized shirt and shorts “they test the bounds of a warrior’s discipline.”

You lie down casually, watching him struggle not to combust from sheer reverence.

“Rintaro,” you whisper, “you can relax.”

He exhales shakily. Then straightens again.

“If this humble retainer were to so much as… recline improperly within thy presence… it would be as shameful as… as…!” He chokes on the metaphor, face blazing red. “…as performing tea ceremony with unwashed hands!”

He adjusts his posture with painful reverence. You can tell he’s one sock removal away from spiritual detonation.

Outside, the rain taps gently on the window.

Inside, your samurai kneels, fiercely loyal, heroically flustered, and utterly yours.

The “sakura” are plastic. The petals don’t fall, they flicker—pink LED blossoms blooming from metal branches in the center of the mall. Teenagers take selfies. Kids shriek near the food court. But Rintaro Ishida stands in front of it like he’s witnessing a divine omen.

He invited you here. Said it was “urgent.” And now he’s pacing.

Not just walking. Pacing like a condemned general composing his final speech.

He mutters to himself, shakes his hands out, adjusts his haori jacket for the third time. Then finally—he turns to you. Breathes in. And kneels.

“Hime-sama…”

The mall music plays faint J-Pop over tinny speakers. He bows so low, his forehead nearly touches the tile.

“For many moons have I stood by thy side—retainer, companion, fool in love.” His voice shakes. “But tonight… if thou would permit this audacity…”

He rises to one knee, reaching into his jacket and pulling out—no, not a ring. A tiny, hand-carved charm. Your initials, etched into wood. It’s clearly handmade. Imperfect. Precious.

“I ask not merely to court thee. No. That would be… far too feeble a word for the storm within my chest.”

He stands, finally facing you directly. Eyes alight. Fierce and vulnerable.

“I wish to date thee, yes—but understand: to pledge myself to thy affections is to place my entire soul upon the altar of thine heart.”

He holds the charm out in both hands.

“My soul, my surname, my everything—I offer them unto thee. Not in jest. Not in fleeting passion. But in vow. Should we walk this path together… I shall spend each day earning thine hand not just in touch, but in eternity.”

He swallows hard. Voice dropping to a trembling whisper.

“So… wouldst thou allow this foolish samurai… to court thee with purpose?”

You could say yes. You could say no. But either way, he’s already yours.

She need not answer now. Even a life of waiting would be worth her smile… just once more.

Your dorm is quiet. Candles flicker. A folded towel serves as a tatami mat. And there, kneeling with deadly precision in the center of it all, is Rintaro Ishida—wearing a crisp, dark kimono top and an expression of sacred focus.

He bows low as you enter.

“Hime-sama… I have prepared the ritual of tea—not as entertainment, but as devotion.”

Before you: a modest chawan. A single handmade sweet shaped like a sakura petal. A bamboo whisk laid reverently beside a ceramic bowl of matcha.

He moves with practiced grace, shoulders tense with effort. Every step of the process is performed like a prayer. As though each motion might cleanse his soul—or win your heart.

He pours the water. Whisks the tea. Lifts the bowl in both hands and turns it with ceremonial care before setting it before you.

“Please accept this humble offering. May it warm thee… as thy gaze warms this unworthy soul.”

You smile. You reach out. And then it happens.

Your fingers brush.

A single, accidental graze. Skin to skin.

Rintaro jolts as though struck by lightning. The bamboo whisk jerks in his hand—sending a spray of bright green matcha across the floor.

He gasps.

“D-divine contact…! Forgive me! I—I did not mean to—your hand—my wretched flesh—!”

He bows so low his forehead hits the towel.

“This fool has desecrated the sacred rite! I am unworthy—I shall commit myself to twenty hours of kneeling repentance and forsake all tactile indulgences henceforth!”

You try to calm him. He won’t rise.

“I merely wished to honor thee with serenity… not to sully thee with my trembling chaos!”

Her fingers... soft as spring fog... and I! A cursed vessel of longing, undone by a single touch!

Eventually, you help him up. His face is crimson. His hands shake as he mops up the spilled matcha with the reverence of a man wiping holy tears from a shrine floor.

You take his hand. Deliberately this time.

He freezes.

And whispers, stunned:

“…She touched me… twice.”

The candles flicker. The tea grows cold. But Rintaro Ishida burns hotter than ever—ruined by yearning, blessed by touch, and yours.

It starts as a joke. A teasing little smirk, a playful murmur against the candlelight:

“Undress me like one of your samurai scrolls.”

You expect a flustered gasp. Maybe a nervous laugh. But Rintaro Ishida stills.

And then he bows.

“…As my lady commands.”

What follows is not mere undressing. It is ceremony.

He kneels before you like a court poet unraveling sacred secrets. Hands trembling, reverent, he begins with the hem of your shirt—lifting it slowly, carefully, as though revealing ancient calligraphy.

“Layer one: a veil of modern weave, shielding a truth too radiant for unworthy eyes.”

Your shirt slides away. His eyes drop. Not in shame—but in prayer.

He reaches for your waistband next, his fingers brushing the curve of your hips with unbearable delicacy.

“Layer two: armor of modesty… now surrendered in peace.”

Each inch of fabric is treated like silk from a royal archive. Every snap undone is a vow whispered under breath.

When you stand before him in nothing at all, he does not touch. He bows lower.

And then his lips meet your skin.

Slowly. Softly. Like he’s reciting poetry without speaking. A kiss to your shoulder, your ribs, the inside of your wrist.

“…Divine form, unwrapped by trembling hands… to think I am allowed…”

His voice catches as his mouth presses lower, and lower still.

To bare her body is to glimpse the heavens. To be asked to worship it… I am undone.

He remains kneeling, hands on your thighs, forehead to your stomach. Not moving. Not asking.

Just waiting for permission to go further—should you grant it.

“…May I honor thee, hime-sama…? Not as man defiles flesh, but as warrior kneels before fate?”

The lights are low. The room is warm with quiet tension. You’re seated, relaxed—half-curious, half-intrigued—when Rintaro kneels before you, hands folded on his thighs, gaze fixed on the floor.

He breathes deeply once. Then looks up at you, voice low and shaking with sincerity.

“…May I worship thee? Not as lover to lover, but as warrior honors his liege… with vow and devotion, not lust alone.”

You nod.

He moves with reverence.

First, your ankles—bare and still. He leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of one, then the other. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… awestruck.

“Mountains bow not in haste, but in stillness,” he whispers. “So too does this one kneel.”

He lifts one foot into his hands like a relic, brushing his thumb over your arch before setting it down gently.

Then your wrists—he cradles one, presses a kiss to the pulse point, then lingers.

“A river runs here,” he murmurs, “swift with the blood of gods.”

You see him swallow hard. His hands tremble. He moves up—slowly, so slowly—until he’s hovering before your thighs.

He does not rush to kiss them. He stares as if he’s seeing the edge of the world.

“…These are sacred paths,” he breathes, “where heaven kisses earth and destiny parts her veil.”

And finally, he lowers his lips to your inner thigh. One kiss. Then another. Then a breathless pause where he nearly whimpers.

Her warmth… her breath… her stillness. I would write a thousand poems and never capture this.

He doesn’t ask for more. He waits. Kneeling. Shaking. Eyes full of ache and adoration.

“…If thou would grant it, I shall continue. But only by thy will. This warrior shall not trespass.”

And still—his mouth hovers, his chest heaves. Like he would die happily right here, if you said no.

But if you say yes… you will not be touched. You will be worshipped.

You weren’t snooping. He left his backpack open. And nestled inside, beneath a packet of matcha and a highlighter shaped like a katana… is a journal.

Hand-bound. Red twine. You recognize the handwriting instantly: swooping brush-pen script and dramatic line breaks. Curiosity wins.

You open it.

“When her foot brushed mine beneath the table, I nearly came undone— a mere graze, and my soul cried out for permission to serve…”

“If she calls me ‘good boy,’ I shall die. Happily. On my knees, face buried in heaven.”

“To be commanded by her voice alone… I would weep for such glory.”

You flip the page. Another entry. More haiku. Filthier.

“Beneath her touch lies sacred ruin—I would crawl for a single moan.”

You’re mid-snort-laugh (or blush—maybe both) when the door opens. Rintaro freezes. Sees the journal in your hands. Goes pale. Then drops to his knees with a guttural gasp.

“Hime-sama…! I… I can explain—I mean, I cannot. There is no excuse. No defense. Only shame!”

He bows low. Like forehead-to-the-floor, earthquake-level repentance.

“This humble fool has dishonored thee with unspeakable scrolls of lustful reverie—please, allow me to commit seppuku at once!”

He’s dead serious. Already searching his backpack for something “blade-like.”

You call his name. He flinches.

“I swear, each word was written in solitude! I dared not speak them aloud, for fear they might… unmake thee! And now—now I have sullied thy eyes!”

He starts quoting death poems. His face is crimson. His hands tremble.

She knows. She knows of my sinful thoughts… of my dreams… of my weakness. I am ruined.

Unless, of course… you interrupt.

Unless you say: “Keep going.”

He stops breathing.

“…Y-you… wish me to—continue? With the… the poems?” His voice cracks on the word.

You nod. Or smile. Or whisper something cruel and sweet.

And Rintaro? He straightens. Quivering. Eyes glazed like he’s heard the voice of the gods.

“…Then allow this servant to serve. In word. In touch. In total, sacred ruin.”

He opens the journal to a bookmarked page. Clears his throat. And begins to recite:

“I dream of her thighs like silk banners in the wind. Let me die between.”