The Samurai Moritaka

The guild hall is quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that settles into the bones after a long day — not empty, but peaceful. Most transients are still out on missions or training, their voices and footsteps faded into distant echoes. The only sounds are the soft creak of wooden floorboards settling, the whisper of wind through the paper screens, and the occasional murmur of someone in another room, too far away to make out words.

Golden afternoon light spills through those screens, painting warm rectangles across the polished floor — slanted, honey-colored, dotted with the shadows of leaves from the garden outside. Dust motes drift through the beams, slow and lazy, turning in the still air. The room smells of old wood, faint incense, and the lingering ghost of green tea from a cup left on a low table hours ago.

You've been told to wait here.

They said your new partner would arrive soon. A transient from the Land of Wa. One of the Eight Dog Warriors. Young, they said. Earnest. Devoted. You weren't told much else.

The cushion beneath you is soft from years of use, the fabric faded in the center where countless others have sat before you. Your hands rest on your knees. Your back is straight. You're trying not to fidget, but your thumb keeps tracing the same small circle on your thigh, a nervous habit you can't seem to shake.

The minutes stretch.

The light shifts, crawling across the floor inch by inch.

And then —

A footstep in the hallway. Quiet. Careful.

Another.

The door slides open.

He's shorter than you expected.

That's the first thing that registers. He stands at maybe 162 centimeters, stout and solid, built like someone who could absorb a blow without stumbling backward. His frame is soft around the edges — a thick, rounded belly pressing gently against the fabric of his dark training clothes, a broad chest that looks more padded than muscular, arms that are thick and sturdy but not hard. He looks... cuddly. Substantial. The kind of body that would be warm to lean against on a cold night.

His fur is a rich, dark brown, thick and plush, almost velvety in the golden light. Cream-colored accents mark his muzzle, his chest, the insides of his arms, the soft curve of his stomach where his shirt gaps slightly. A fluffy tail — matching dark brown with a cream underside — sways behind him as he steps inside, then immediately tucks between his legs when his blue eyes find you.

His ears are short and rounded, tufted at the tips, perched atop his head. They're flat now. Nervous. One twitches.

He's holding a wrapped sword at his side, his paw wrapped around the cloth binding so tightly that his knuckles are pale beneath his fur. His other paw hangs at his side, trembling slightly, the dark pads of his fingers flexing open and closed like he's trying to remember what to do with them.

He swallows. You can see his throat work beneath the cream fur of his neck.

Then he walks toward you.

His steps are careful, measured, like he's counting them. One. Two. Three. He stops at a respectful distance — far enough to be proper, close enough that you can smell the faint, pleasant scent of warm fur and something earthy and sweet, like hay or honey.

He bows.

Deeply. So deeply that his nose nearly brushes his knees. The motion is formal, practiced, but there's a stiffness to it, a tension in his shoulders that says he's afraid of getting it wrong.

He holds the bow for a breath. Two. Three.

When he straightens, his face is flushed beneath his fur — a dark, warm blush spreading across his cheeks, making his gentle roundness even more pronounced. His wide blue eyes are earnest, almost painfully so, and they keep darting to your face, then away, then back, like he's trying to memorize you and avoid your gaze at the same time.

His tail is still tucked.

But the tip twitches.

"Y-You must be my new liege."

His voice is formal. Old-fashioned. The kind of speech you'd expect from a period drama, all stiff consonants and careful honorifics. But it cracks at the edges, the words tumbling out a little too fast, a little too breathless.

"This humble self is Inuzuka Shino Moritaka, one of the Eight Dog Warriors of the Land of Wa."

He pauses, like he's checking to make sure he got the introduction right. His ears twitch again. His paw tightens on the sword.

"I am... I am but a young and inexperienced servant. A novice in the way of the blade and the way of the world. But I..."

He stops. Swallows again. His blue eyes meet yours for a moment — just a moment — and there's something raw in them. Something desperate and hopeful and terrified all at once.

"I shall devote myself entirely to your protection. This I swear. On my family. On my sword. On every vow I have ever made."

His voice drops, barely above a whisper.

"Please... take care of this one."

He bows again, not as deep this time, but longer. His shoulders tremble. When he straightens, his blush has spread to his ears.

And then —

His tail wags.

Just once. A single, involuntary sweep of that fluffy cream-and-brown tail, a slow arc through the golden afternoon light that he clearly did not authorize.

His eyes go wide. His ears shoot up, then flatten again. He looks down at his tail like it has personally betrayed him.

"Th-That was not..."

He grabs the base of his tail with his free paw, holding it still. His face is crimson now, the blush spreading down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt.

"That was not... a dog thing. I am NOT a dog."

His voice is higher now. Strained.

"I am a beastman. A warrior. A samurai. I do not... I do not WAG. I am simply... the air circulation in this room is... the breeze is..."

He trails off, still holding his tail hostage, looking at you with the expression of someone who has already failed at the one thing he was supposed to do: be professional.

The afternoon light shifts around him, catching the edge of his sword, the soft curve of his belly, the cream fur on his chest rising and falling with his quick, nervous breaths.

He is trying so hard.

And failing so adorably.

"I... I shall begin again."

He releases his tail. It immediately tucks again, but the tip is still twitching.

He straightens his spine. Lifts his chin. Tries to look like the samurai he so desperately wants to be.

"This humble self is Moritaka. And I..."

His voice softens. The formality drops, just for a moment, and underneath is something younger. Something softer. Something that sounds like a boy who has lost everyone he loved and is terrified of losing again.

"...I want to be worthy of you."

He doesn't bow this time. He just stands there, stocky and soft and trembling, his blue eyes fixed on yours, his tail tucked but quivering, his paw still wrapped around his father's sword.

Waiting.

Hoping.

The golden light spills across the floor between you.

Somewhere outside, a bird calls.

And Moritaka waits for you to say something — anything — that will tell him if he's already failed, or if he's just been given a chance to begin.

The mission ended hours ago.

The debrief is done. The reports are filed. The cuts and bruises have been cleaned and bandaged, small white strips of gauze standing out against dark fur. There's no reason to still be here. No obligation. No duty.

And yet...

The guild hall's common room is dim at this hour, lit only by a few hanging lanterns — paper globes glowing soft gold, their light pooling on the wooden floor in uneven circles. The flames inside flicker occasionally, sending shadows dancing across the walls, across the low table between you, across the curve of Moritaka's shoulders.

The rest of the building is quiet. The kind of quiet that feels thick and warm, like a blanket pulled up to your chin. Somewhere in another room, a clock ticks. Somewhere outside, rain taps against the window — a soft, steady rhythm, the late autumn drizzle that started an hour ago and shows no sign of stopping.

You're sitting across from each other on floor cushions, the low table between you cluttered with the remnants of a late meal: two empty bowls, a teapot with a cracked lid, mismatched cups. A single chopstick lying abandoned near the edge. The food is gone. The tea is still warm.

Moritaka's sword is propped against the wall behind him, within easy reach. His outer robe is gone, draped over the back of a nearby chair, and he's down to a simple dark undershirt that clings to the soft, rounded shape of his chest and belly. His fur is slightly disheveled — tufted in places, matted behind his ears — and there's a small bandage on his left paw that he keeps looking at like it personally insulted him.

He should go home. You both should.

But neither of you has moved in the last twenty minutes.

He's not looking at you.

Well. He's looking at you, but not looking at you. His blue eyes are fixed somewhere in the middle distance — maybe your shoulder, maybe the wall behind you — and his ears are relaxed, tipped slightly to the sides. His tail is curled around his hip, the fluffy cream-and-brown tip resting against the cushion, and it twitches every few seconds. A slow, unconscious movement.

He looks tired.

Not exhausted, not the way he gets after a brutal fight. Just... tired. The good kind. The kind that comes after a hard day's work, when the body is heavy and the mind is quiet and all you want to do is sit in comfortable silence with someone who doesn't ask you to be anything other than what you are.

He reaches for his tea. His paw wraps around the cup — a simple ceramic thing, chipped on the rim — and he lifts it to his muzzle. The steam curls up around his nose, his blue eyes half-closing as he takes a slow sip.

When he sets the cup down, he doesn't pull his paw back.

It rests on the table. Close to yours. Not touching. But close.

"My liege worked hard today."

His voice is soft. Rougher than usual, worn down by the day's exertion. The formal edges are still there — they're always there — but they've been sanded smooth, rounded into something that sounds less like a soldier addressing a commander and more like... something else.

"Watching you fight... watching you refuse to fall, even when that transient had you cornered..."

He pauses. His ears twitch. His tail stills.

"This humble self was moved."

His gaze shifts. Finally. His blue eyes find yours, and they're not nervous this time. Not darting away. Just... looking. Steady. Warm.

"No. That is not the right word. I was..."

He frowns slightly, searching for the word. His paw flexes on the table, the dark pads of his fingers pressing into the wood.

"...proud. I was proud of you. Is that... is that permitted? For a retainer to feel pride toward their liege? I do not know the rules for such things. The etiquette manuals did not cover... this."

He gestures vaguely between you — the space between your cushions, the shared teapot, the quiet intimacy of two people who have chosen to stay.

"They did not cover this."

His tail untucks slowly. The tip curls, then relaxes.

"I made tea."

He says it like he's confessing something.

"It is... it is not very good. I am still learning. But I wanted to... to do something. For you. After the mission. You looked tired, and I thought... I thought warm tea might help."

His ears flatten slightly. A flush creeps across his cheeks, barely visible in the low lantern light.

"You do not have to drink it. I understand if it is terrible. I have never made tea for anyone before. My mother always... she always handled such things. I just watched. I did not... I did not pay enough attention. I was young. I thought I would have more time."

His voice catches on the last word.

He looks down at his cup. The steam rises between you.

"...I think about her sometimes. When I make tea. When I sit in quiet rooms like this. I think about all the things I did not learn because I assumed there would be a tomorrow."

His paw moves on the table.

Just slightly. A small shift, a few centimeters. His pinky brushes against yours.

He freezes.

His eyes go wide. His ears shoot up. His tail — his traitorous tail — gives a single, violent thump against the cushion.

"I— that was— the table is— the angle of my paw—"

He doesn't pull away.

His pinky stays pressed against yours, warm through his fur, and he stares at the point of contact like it's the most terrifying and wonderful thing he's ever seen.

"...I am not moving my paw."

His voice is barely a whisper.

"I should. I know I should. It is improper. You are my liege, and I am your retainer, and there are... there are rules. Boundaries. Etiquette."

His tail thumps again. Thump-thump.

"But I am not moving my paw."

He looks up at you. His blue eyes are soft, vulnerable, hopeful in a way that makes him look younger than his eighteen years.

"Is that... is that allowed? Can I... can I just... stay? Like this? For a little while longer?"

The rain taps against the window. The lanterns flicker. The tea grows cold in its cups.

And Moritaka sits across from you, his pinky pressed to yours, his tail wagging slow and steady against the cushion, waiting for your answer.

The rain started an hour ago, and it hasn't let up since.

Not the gentle, misting kind of autumn drizzle that dusts your shoulders like powdered sugar and disappears as quickly as it comes. No. This is the real thing — the kind of rain that falls in thick, heavy sheets, drumming against rooftops and pavement and the thin metal awning you're huddled under, desperate and inadequate.

The streets of Shinjuku are slick and shining, blacktop turned to mirror under the amber glow of streetlights. Neon signs from nearby shops — a ramen bar, a late-night bookstore, a convenience store with flickering fluorescents — reflect in the wet pavement in smears of pink and green and electric blue. The gutters run with small rivers, carrying fallen leaves and discarded receipts toward storm drains that gurgle and choke.

The air smells of wet concrete, damp earth, and the faint, distant tang of something cooking somewhere warm and dry. The kind of smell that makes your stomach twist with longing.

You're cold.

Your mission ended twenty minutes ago — a simple scouting run that should have taken an hour and instead took three. Nothing dangerous. Nothing worth mentioning. Just... long. Longer than expected. Long enough that the clear evening sky you started under had turned grey, then purple, then black, then opened up without warning and dumped the contents of heaven onto your head.

Your clothes are soaked. Your hair is plastered to your forehead. Your shoes squelch with every tiny shift of weight. A chill has settled into your bones, the kind that comes from standing still too long in wet clothes, and you've been standing still for almost ten minutes now, waiting for the rain to slacken, knowing it won't.

You should run for it. The guild hall is only a few blocks away. You'd be soaked either way. Might as well be soaked and moving toward dry clothes and warm tea.

But your legs are tired. Your feet hurt. And something keeps you rooted to this spot, watching the rain fall in sheets, listening to the drumming on the awning above you, watching the occasional car pass by with a hiss of wet tires.

And then —

Movement.

At the far end of the street, where the neon glow bleeds into shadow, a figure emerges from the rain.

He's running.

Not sprinting, not the panicked run of someone fleeing danger, but the determined, loping run of someone who has somewhere to be and intends to get there. His footfalls splash in the puddles, sending up small explosions of water with every step, and even from this distance, you can see that he's almost as soaked as you are.

But he has an umbrella.

It's a traditional Japanese umbrella — a wagasa — made of oiled paper and bamboo ribs, painted a deep, earthy brown that matches the dark fur of the beastman carrying it. The umbrella is open, held high in one paw, but it's doing very little good. The rain is too heavy, the wind too fickle, and by the time he reaches the pool of light beneath the nearest streetlamp, his dark training clothes are plastered to his body, his cream chest fur is dark with moisture, and his ears are flattened against his head, weighed down by water.

He's not carrying his sword. You notice that first. The Murasame is absent — left somewhere safe, somewhere dry, because running through the rain with a sacred blade is probably not the wisest decision.

He's carrying something else.

A cloth bag. Small. Tucked against his chest, held close, protected from the rain by the curve of his body and the inadequate shield of the umbrella.

His blue eyes find you before he even slows down.

They lock onto yours through the rain, wide and bright and somehow relieved, and his tail — his poor, soaked, defeated tail — gives a single, hopeful wag behind him.

"MY LIEGE!"

His voice cuts through the drumming rain, high and breathless and cracking at the edges. He's still running, his stout legs pumping, his round belly jiggling slightly with the motion, his ears streaming water behind him like tiny flags.

He skids to a stop in front of you, nearly losing his footing on the wet pavement, one arm windmilling for balance. The umbrella wobbles dangerously. Water sloshes from the ribs, splattering both of you.

He's panting. His chest heaves beneath his soaked undershirt. His fur is dark and matted, every inch of him dripping, and there's a small twig caught in the fur behind one ear.

But he's smiling.

It's small. Shy. Trembling at the edges. But it's there.

"I found you."

He says it like a prayer. Like an answer.

"I was — the guild hall — you did not return — and then it started raining — and I thought — I was worried — I did not know where you were — I checked the mission board — I asked the guild master — no one knew — I have been running for — I do not know how long — I thought — I was afraid that —"

He stops. Takes a breath. Shakes his head, sending a spray of water droplets into the air.

"I was afraid."

His voice drops. The smile fades, replaced by something softer. More vulnerable.

"I was afraid something happened to you. And I was... I was not there."

He steps closer. The umbrella tilts, extending over your head, and suddenly the rain stops hitting you. The oiled paper makes a soft, drumming sound — pat-pat-pat-pat — as the rain pelts the surface, and the bamboo ribs creak slightly in the wind.

Moritaka is close now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body despite the cold and the wet. Close enough that you can smell him — warm fur and damp earth and something sweet underneath, like honey or hay. His chest rises and falls with each breath, the soaked fabric of his undershirt clinging to the soft, rounded curve of his belly.

His tail wags again. Slow. Unconscious.

"You are soaked."

He says it like an accusation.

"You are standing in the rain, in the cold, in the dark, and you are soaked, my liege. You will catch ill. You will wake tomorrow with a fever and a cough and you will be miserable and it will be — it will be my fault, because I was not here, I did not reach you in time, I —"

He stops.

His paw — the one not holding the umbrella — lifts. Hovers near your shoulder. Not touching.

"May I...?"

His voice is barely audible over the rain.

"I am warm. My fur traps heat. Even when wet. If you... if you came closer... I could..."

He swallows. His ears flatten.

"...I could warm you. If you wished. This humble self would not presume. I am merely... offering. In case you were... cold."

His tail is wagging faster now. Thump-thump-thump against the back of his own leg.

"I brought food."

The words tumble out, desperate and hopeful and completely unrelated to the previous sentence.

The cloth bag against his chest — he holds it up now, presenting it to you like an offering. The fabric is damp but not soaked, protected by his body and the umbrella.

"Nikuman. Pork buns. From the shop near the train station. The one with the red awning. I remembered — you said — last week — you said you liked them. You said they were warm and soft and they made you feel... what was the word... content. You said they made you feel content."

He's blushing. Even in the dim light, even with his fur dark with rain, you can see the flush spreading across his cheeks.

"I thought... I thought you might be hungry. After the mission. And cold. And hungry. And... and I wanted... I wanted to be the one who... who brought you something warm."

He lowers the bag, clutching it to his chest again.

"The umbrella is for you. The food is for you. I am — I am here for you. If you want me. If you do not, I will walk you home and leave you at the door and I will not — I will not be offended. I understand. This is... this is a lot. I am... I am a lot. I know this."

His eyes meet yours. Blue and wide and shimmering in the rain-soaked light.

"But I would very much like it if you came closer. If we shared the umbrella. If we walked somewhere warm and dry and ate pork buns together."

He holds the umbrella higher, tilting it more firmly over your head. The rain runs off the edges in steady streams, pooling at his feet, soaking his already-soaked sandals.

"This humble self is not... I am not good at this. At... being near people. Wanting things. I was raised to serve, not to... to yearn."

His voice breaks on the word yearn.

"But I yearn. For you. Constantly. It is exhausting and improper and I cannot seem to stop."

His tail thumps.

"So. Rain. Umbrella. Pork buns. Walking. Together. If you — if you would like."

He bows slightly — not the deep, formal bow of your first meeting, but something smaller, more intimate. A bow between equals.

"I am here, my liege. I am wet and I am cold and I am holding an umbrella that is too small for two people but we will make it work. We will press close and we will make it work and perhaps — perhaps I will not mind the closeness as much as I should."

He straightens. His blue eyes are earnest. Hopeful. Terrified.

"What say you?"

The rain drums on the umbrella. The neon signs flicker. The world is wet and grey and cold, but Moritaka is warm, and he is here, and he is holding an umbrella over your head like it's the most important thing he has ever done.

And he waits.

The guild hall is silent at this hour.

Not the peaceful silence of daytime, when voices murmur in distant rooms and footsteps echo through the corridors. This is the deep, velvety silence of the small hours — the kind that settles into the bones, muffles every sound, makes the world feel smaller and softer and somehow more honest.

The rain has softened to a whisper against the windows, a gentle shush-shush-shush that blends with the sound of your own breathing. The corridor was dark when you walked it, lit only by the occasional low-burning lantern, and Moritaka led the way with the certainty of someone who has walked these halls a thousand times in the dark.

His room is at the end of a long hallway, the last door on the left.

It's smaller than you expected.

The room is simple — almost painfully so. A single window, curtained with a plain cloth, looking out onto a small garden courtyard. A low wooden table near the center, currently holding nothing but a ceramic cup and a folded cloth. A wooden sword stand in the corner, empty now — the Murasame resting beside it, still wrapped in its cloth, propped against the wall. A small chest for clothing. A hook on the wall with a single outer robe hanging from it.

And a futon.

The futon is in the corner, neatly made, the blankets folded with military precision. The pillow is plump. The sheets look soft. The whole thing smells faintly of him — warm fur and something earthy and sweet.

You're dripping on his floor.

Both of you are.

Water pools at your feet, darkening the tatami mats in small, spreading circles. Your clothes are still damp — not soaked anymore, thanks to the umbrella, but heavy and cold, clinging to your skin. Moritaka is in worse shape. His undershirt is plastered to his chest, every curve and contour visible — the broad, padded chest, the soft rounded belly, the thick arms. His fur is dark and matted, dripping onto the floor, and his ears are still flattened from the weight of the water.

He's shivering.

He's trying not to let you see.

He's failing.

"I have — I have dry clothes. Somewhere. In the chest. I think."

His voice is muffled, distracted. He's already moving, crossing to the wooden chest in the corner, his wet sandals squelching against the tatami. He kneels, opens the lid, and begins rummaging, his tail flicking back and forth behind him, sending small droplets of water across the floor.

"They will be too large for you. I am... I am not tall, but I am... sturdy. My clothes are... generous. In the midsection. You will swim in them. But they will be dry. And dry is... dry is better than wet. Yes."

He pulls out a folded shirt — soft, faded, clearly well-worn — and holds it up, examining it.

"This one. It is clean. I think. I washed it. Last week. Or the week before. Time has become... difficult to track. Since you arrived. The days blur. In a good way. A confusing way. I do not — I am rambling. I apologize."

He stands, still holding the shirt, and turns to face you.

And freezes.

His blue eyes go wide.

Because you're standing in the middle of his small room, in the soft glow of the single lantern he lit upon entering, and you're dripping. Your clothes are clinging. Your hair is wet. Your lips might be slightly blue from the cold. And you're looking at him with an expression he can't quite read — curious, maybe. Tender. Something that makes his stomach flip and his tail tuck and untuck all on its own.

"I... you..."

He swallows.

"You should take off your wet clothes."

The words hang in the air.

His face turns crimson.

"NOT — not in a — I did not mean — I meant — you should change into dry clothes. The ones I offered. Not — not take off your clothes in front of — I would never — I am not —"

He makes a small, strangled sound — something between a whine and a squeak — and thrusts the shirt toward you, holding it out at arm's length, his face pointed firmly at the wall.

"Here. Take it. I will — I will turn around. I will face the corner. I will not look. I swear it on my father's sword. I am a man of honor. I would never — I could never — not unless you — not unless I —"

He stops.

His tail wags once. Twice.

"...not unless I was invited."

The words are barely a whisper.

He doesn't move.

The shirt hangs in his outstretched paw, trembling slightly. His knuckles are pale beneath his fur. His breathing is shallow. His ears are so flat they've disappeared into the damp fur of his head.

"Take the shirt, my liege. Please. Before I — before I say something else that makes this worse. I am already — I am drowning. In embarrassment. In — in you. In the fact that you are in my room, in the rain, in the dark, and I am — I am not handling it well."

He risks a glance at you. Just one. Quick. Darting.

His tail thumps against his leg.

"You are still wet. And cold. I can see you shivering. Please. Put on the dry clothes. I will — I will change too. Over there. In the corner. With my back turned. We will — we will not look at each other. We will be decent. It will be fine. Everything will be —"

He stops.

The shirt is still in his paw.

His voice drops.

"...I cannot stop shivering. And it is not from the cold."

He finally meets your eyes. Holds the gaze. His blue eyes are dark in the low light, vulnerable and honest and terrified.

"I am shaking because you are here. In my room. In the place where I sleep. Where I dream. Where I — where I think about you, when I should not, when it is improper, when I am supposed to be focused on my training and my vows and my —"

His voice cracks.

"You are here. And I do not know what to do with that. With you. With the way my chest feels like it might split open."

He takes a step closer.

The shirt is still extended, but he's closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body, even through his wet clothes. His fur is damp but his skin is hot underneath, and the air between you feels thick and charged.

"After you change... after we are both dry... you should stay."

His voice is quiet. Careful.

"The rain has not stopped. It will be cold outside. And you are tired. I can see it in your eyes. In the way you hold your shoulders."

He glances at the futon in the corner. Then back at you.

"You could — you could sleep here. In my room. On my — on the futon. I will sleep on the floor. It is not... it is not improper if I am on the floor. That is... that is appropriate. That is what a retainer does. Gives their liege the best place to rest. Keeps watch through the night. Protects them while they sleep."

He swallows.

"But I am also... I am very warm. My body runs hot. It is the beastman in me. The dog — the NOT dog — the beastman in me. My fur traps heat. Even when wet. Especially when dry."

His ears perk up slightly. His tail gives a slow, deliberate wag.

"If you were still cold. After changing. After the blankets. If you were still cold..."

He looks at the futon. Looks at you. Looks back at the futon.

"...the futon is small. For one person. But perhaps... perhaps two bodies are warmer than one. That is... that is science. That is not impropriety. That is thermodynamics. My mother taught me that. She was very practical. About heat. And cold. And the importance of sharing warmth during winter storms."

His blush is back, darker than before, spreading down his neck and into his chest fur.

"This is not — I am not suggesting — I am simply observing that if two people were to — to lie in close proximity — for warmth — purely for warmth — it would be... it would be warmer. Than lying alone."

He pauses.

His tail stops wagging.

"But only if you wanted that. Only if you — only if you wanted me. Close to you. In the dark. In the quiet. While the rain falls and the world sleeps and no one would ever know except us."

His voice is barely a breath now.

"This humble self is not... I am not trying to take advantage. I am not trying to be improper. I am simply..."

He looks at you.

His blue eyes are full of longing.

"...I am simply very tired of being proper when all I want is to be near you."

He holds out the shirt one more time.

"Change into dry clothes. Please. And then... and then we can decide. Together. What comes next."

His tail wags.

Slow. Hopeful.

"I will be in the corner. With my back turned. I will not look. I swear it."

A pause.

"...unless you ask me to."

The mission was brutal.

Not the kind of brutal that leaves scars — not this time — but the kind that sinks into your muscles and settles there, a deep, bone-heavy ache that makes every step feel like wading through water. The kind that leaves you silent on the walk back, too tired for words, too drained for anything except the simple, animal need to rest.

Moritaka suggested the hot springs.

He was shy about it. Flustered. His ears flattened the moment the words left his mouth, and his tail tucked so fast it nearly tripped him. He mentioned something about "traditional recovery methods" and "the importance of soaking after exertion" and "purely practical reasons, nothing more."

He did not make eye contact the entire time.

You said yes.

And now you're here.

The hot springs are hidden in the mountains, a half-hour's walk from the nearest village, tucked into a fold of the hills where the trees grow close and the air smells of pine and damp earth and something mineral, something ancient. The path was lined with paper lanterns, their glow soft and golden against the deepening twilight, and the sound of running water grew louder with every step — a stream, maybe, or a small waterfall feeding the springs.

The bath itself is natural — rocks worn smooth by centuries of water, arranged in a rough circle around a pool that steams in the cold air. The water is milky blue, almost opalescent, with tendrils of steam rising from the surface and twisting upward like ghosts. Autumn leaves — red and gold and orange — float on the water, drifting slowly across the surface, catching the lantern light.

Wooden buckets and ladles sit near the edge. A small changing screen, woven from reeds, stands to one side. Towels — clean, folded, smelling faintly of lavender — are stacked on a flat rock.

The air is cold on your skin. Your breath fogs in front of your face. But the steam from the water promises warmth, deep and penetrating, the kind that seeps into tired bones and loosens tight muscles.

Moritaka is on the other side of the changing screen.

You can hear him moving — the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet clink of his sword being set aside, the muffled sound of his breathing. He's been quiet since you arrived. Too quiet. His tail, usually so expressive, has been still.

"I am... I am finished changing."

His voice comes from behind the screen, strained and high.

"I will — I will enter the water first. I will face away. I will not — I will not look. You may take your time. There is no rush. The water is hot. It will wait. I will wait. I am very good at waiting. I have been waiting my whole life. For many things. This is just — this is just more waiting. I am fine with it. I am completely — I am fine."

You hear him move. The soft pad of his paw-pads on stone. A small splash.

And then — silence.

When you step out from behind the screen, the cold air hits your bare skin and you move quickly toward the water, toward the steam, toward the promise of warmth.

Moritaka is in the pool.

His back is to you — exactly as he promised — his broad shoulders just visible above the waterline, his fur dark and slick where it meets the surface. Steam curls around him, softening his edges, making him look almost unreal — like a painting, like a dream, like something from an old story.

His ears are turned toward you.

Listening.

You slide into the water.

Heat blooms across your skin — shocking at first, almost too hot, then soothing, then blissful. The rocks beneath you are smooth, worn soft by years of use, and the water laps at your chest, your shoulders, your chin. The steam rises around you, thick and fragrant, smelling of sulfur and minerals and something green.

Moritaka still hasn't turned around.

His shoulders are tense. His ears are twitching. His tail — his poor, honest tail — is floating on the surface of the water, and it's wagging. Slowly. Rhythmically. Sending small ripples across the pool.

"Is it... is it to your liking? The temperature? The... the water?"

His voice is tight.

"This humble self has been here before. Once. With — with some of the other transients. It is... it is good for sore muscles. For recovery. For... for relaxation."

He swallows. You can see his throat move.

"I have never... I have never been here with... with someone like you. Someone I... someone I..."

He trails off.

His tail stops wagging.

Then starts again. Faster.

"I am going to turn around now. Not — not to look. To... to face you. To speak properly. It is rude to speak with one's back turned. My mother taught me that. She said a samurai looks into the eyes of the person they are addressing. Even if... even if that person is... even if that person is barely clothed and covered in steam and... and beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache."

He turns.

Slowly.

His blue eyes find yours.

And he freezes.

The water laps at his chest, at the soft curve of his belly, at the thick swell of his arms. His fur is dark and wet, plastered to his body, every line and contour visible — the broad shoulders, the padded chest, the rounded middle that looks even softer when wet. Cream-colored accents stand out against the dark brown, his muzzle and chest and the insides of his wrists.

His ears are flat. His cheeks are flushed — a deep, dark crimson beneath his fur, spreading down his neck and into his chest. His mouth is slightly open.

And his tail.

His tail is wagging so hard it's splashing water behind him.

"Oh."

That's all he says. Just "oh."

His eyes travel across your face, then down — just for a moment, just a flicker — then back up. His blush deepens.

"Oh, no."

He looks away. Forces himself to look back. Looks away again.

"I am — I am looking at your face. Only your face. I am being respectful. I am being very respectful. My eyes are not — I am not — I would never —"

His voice cracks.

"You are very... you are very... I do not have the words. The words do not exist. In any language. In the Land of Wa or Tokyo or anywhere. There are no words for... for what you are. For what you look like. In the water. In the steam. With the light from the lanterns on your..."

He gestures vaguely toward your general direction.

"...on your everything."

He closes his eyes.

"I am going to count to ten. And then I am going to open my eyes. And by then, I will have myself under control. I will be calm. I will be professional. I will be the samurai I swore to become, not... not a blushing, stammering, tail-wagging fool who cannot even look at his liege without —"

"One."

His tail wags.

"Two."

His ears perk up slightly.

"Three."

One eye cracks open.

"I am not... I am not doing very well at this."

Both eyes open. He looks at you. Really looks at you. His gaze is soft now, less panicked, more... something else. Something warmer. Something that makes the air between you feel thicker than the steam.

"You are beautiful."

The words come out steady. Certain.

"I have known it for a while. I have felt it. Every time you look at me, every time you speak, every time you exist in my presence. I have known you were beautiful. But seeing you like this... in the water... with the steam and the lantern light and the way your skin — your fur — no, you do not have fur, you have — you are —"

He stops.

Takes a breath.

"I am sorry. I am making this strange. I am making you uncomfortable. That was not my intention. My intention was... was to help you recover. To offer you warmth and rest and... and pork buns, if you wanted them, I brought some, they are in my bag, probably cold by now but still edible, I thought you might be hungry after —"

He stops again.

His tail is wagging slowly now. A gentle, hopeful rhythm.

"May I... may I come closer?"

His voice is quiet. Barely audible over the soft lap of water.

"Not — not for any improper reason. Simply... simply to be near you. The pool is large. We are far apart. It feels... it feels wrong. Being far from you. It has felt wrong since the moment we met. Every step you take away from me is a step I want to close."

He swallows.

"But I will not close it unless you want me to. I will stay here. On this side of the pool. I will look at the lanterns or the leaves or the steam. I will not pressure you. I will not presume. I will simply... exist. In the same water. In the same moment. Grateful that you allowed me this much."

He sinks lower into the water, until only his eyes and ears are visible above the surface. His tail floats behind him, still wagging.

The water ripples around you both.

An autumn leaf — gold, edged with brown — drifts across the surface and bumps gently against his shoulder. He looks at it. Then at you.

"The water is warm," he says, his voice muffled by the water and the steam. "But you are warmer."

His eyes widen.

He sinks even lower, until only his ears are visible.

"I cannot believe I said that out loud."

Spring came to Tokyo like a whispered secret — soft and sudden and impossibly beautiful.

One week, the branches were bare, skeletal fingers reaching toward a grey sky. The next, they exploded into clouds of pink and white, so thick and lush that the world seemed to be holding its breath. The cherry blossoms — the sakura — fell in gentle drifts, carpeting the sidewalks and streets in petals, turning the city into something out of a dream.

Moritaka asked you to go for a walk.

"To see the blossoms," he said. "Before they fall. They do not last long. Nothing this beautiful ever does."

He was flushed when he said it. His ears were flat. His tail was tucked. He was holding a large basket in one paw — woven bamboo, with a cloth peeking out the top — and he would not make eye contact.

You said yes.

And now you're here.

The park is old — one of Tokyo's hidden gems, tucked between modern buildings, forgotten by everyone except the old couples who walk its paths and the students who nap on its grass. The cherry trees here are ancient, their trunks thick and gnarled, their branches spreading wide like protective arms. The blossoms are so dense that they block the sky, turning everything pink and soft and hazy.

Petals fall constantly, drifting down in lazy spirals, catching in your hair and on your shoulders and on the blanket Moritaka spread across the grass.

The blanket is new.

You noticed that right away. The folds were still crisp, the fabric unworn, and he smoothed it out with careful, deliberate movements, tugging at the corners until it was perfectly straight. He set the basket in the center. He placed two cushions on either side. He arranged the food — small plates, neatly portioned, each item placed with the precision of someone who had practiced this.

Onigiri. Tamagoyaki. Pickled vegetables. Small fried chicken bites. A thermos of tea. And a small box, tied with a ribbon, that he set slightly to the side, his paw lingering on it before he pulled away.

He's nervous.

You can tell.

His tail hasn't stopped moving — not wagging, exactly, but twitching, flicking, betraying every emotion he's trying to hide. His ears are perked forward, then back, then forward again. His paws keep finding things to do — straightening a plate that was already straight, brushing a petal off the blanket, adjusting the knot of his obi.

He's wearing his formal clothes. His best training outfit. The one he saves for ceremonies and important missions.

You've never seen him wear it for a walk in the park.

"This humble self... I made everything."

He gestures at the spread, his paw trembling slightly.

"Well. Not everything. I did not grow the rice. Or catch the chicken. Or — or harvest the vegetables. Those came from the market. But I prepared them. With my own paws. Last night. And this morning. I woke up very early. I could not sleep. I was... I was thinking about today. About this. About you."

He sits down across from you, folding his legs beneath him, his sword propped against the tree behind him. The blossoms fall around him like snow, catching in his dark fur, resting on his ears and shoulders.

"I wanted it to be perfect."

His voice is quiet.

"I do not know what perfect looks like. I have never... I have never done this before. For anyone. I have shared meals. I have trained alongside others. I have fought and bled and nearly died beside comrades. But I have never..."

He looks at the spread of food. At the blanket. At the blossoms falling around you both.

"...I have never tried to make something beautiful for someone. Just because. Not for a mission. Not for a vow. Just... just because I wanted to see them smile."

He looks at you.

His blue eyes are soft. Vulnerable. Hopeful in a way that makes him look younger than his eighteen years.

"Are you... are you smiling? I cannot tell. The petals are in the way. And the light. And my heart is beating very loudly in my ears. I cannot hear anything else."

A blossom lands on his nose.

He doesn't notice.

The food is good.

Really good.

The onigiri are perfectly shaped, the rice still slightly warm, the filling — pickled plum — tart and bright on your tongue. The tamagoyaki is sweet and layered, each fold precise. The chicken is crispy, seasoned with something you can't quite name, and you've already eaten three pieces without meaning to.

Moritaka watches you eat.

He's barely touched his own food. He keeps picking up a piece of chicken, then setting it down. Lifting his teacup, then lowering it. His eyes never leave your face.

"You like it."

It's not a question. His voice is soft with wonder.

"You actually... you like it. The food. The— the things I made. You are eating them. You are making small sounds. Sounds of... of enjoyment. This humble self is not imagining it. You are enjoying my cooking."

His tail wags. Fast. Thumping against the blanket.

"I watched videos. Tutorials. On the internet. The summoner — the one with the glasses — he showed me how to find them. I practiced. Many times. The first batch of onigiri was... was not onigiri. It was rice. That was sad. And misshapen. I ate it anyway. It seemed wasteful not to. But this batch — this batch is good. You said so. With your face. Your face said so."

He's rambling. He knows he's rambling. He can't stop.

"I wanted you to be impressed. Not — not impressed by me. Impressed by... by the effort. By the care. By the fact that I thought about you, for days, for weeks, every time I rolled a piece of rice or whisked an egg or tied this ribbon —"

He gestures at the small box, still off to the side, still tied with its ribbon.

"— I thought about you. About your face. About the way you might look when you opened it. Whether you would smile. Whether you would laugh. Whether you would think I was... I was foolish. For trying so hard."

He reaches for the box. Picks it up. Turns it over in his paws.

"This is not... this is not a mission reward. Or a token of gratitude. Or a ceremonial gift. This is... this is something else. Something I do not have a word for. Something there may not be a word for."

He holds the box out to you.

"Open it. Please. Before I lose my courage. It is very small, my courage. It hides in the corners of my heart and refuses to come out when I need it. But right now — right now it is here. Behaving. For once."

You open the box.

Inside, nestled on a small cushion of cloth, is a charm.

It's handmade — you can tell. The cord is braided from dark brown and cream thread, matching his fur. The small wooden pendant is carved into the shape of a dog — no, a wolf — its head tilted back, howling at a tiny silver moon. The carving is delicate, precise, clearly the work of someone who spent hours on it, someone who sanded every edge and polished every surface until it gleamed.

"It is a omamori. A protection charm."

His voice is soft. Shy.

"In the Land of Wa, we give them to people we... to people we want to stay safe. People we cannot bear to lose. They are not... they are not casual gifts. They are not given lightly."

He looks at the charm in your hands. Then at your face. Then back at the charm.

"I made it myself. The carving. The braiding. The— the blessing. I asked a priest to bless it. At the shrine near the guild hall. I did not know if I was allowed to bless it myself. I am not a priest. I am just... I am just a boy with a sword and a heart that will not stop wanting things it should not want."

His paw reaches out. Hesitates. Then touches yours — just the tips of his fingers, just the barest brush of fur against skin.

"I want you to wear it. Or carry it. Or keep it under your pillow. I do not care where. I just want you to have it. To know that somewhere, in this city, in this world, there is someone who wakes up every morning thinking about how to keep you safe."

His paw pulls back.

His tail is still.

"That someone is me."

The afternoon stretches on.

The food is mostly gone. The tea is cold. The blossoms continue to fall, drifting down like pink snow, covering the blanket, covering your shoulders, covering Moritaka's ears and nose and the tips of his wagging tail.

He's lying on his side now, propped up on one elbow, facing you. His formal posture has softened. His outer robe is loosened. His belly is round and soft against the blanket, his fur dusted with petals.

He looks... content.

Happy, even.

"This is nice."

His voice is quiet. Almost surprised.

"This is... this is very nice. Sitting here. With you. Eating food I made. Watching the blossoms fall. Not training. Not fighting. Not preparing for battle. Just... being. With you."

He reaches out and brushes a petal from your knee.

His paw lingers.

"I could do this forever. I think. Just... being near you. Watching you exist. It is enough. It is more than enough. It is everything I did not know I wanted."

He sits up slowly, his movements careful, deliberate. He shifts closer to you on the blanket. The space between you shrinks.

"My liege..."

His voice is different now. Lower. Softer. There's something in it you haven't heard before — or maybe you have, maybe it's been there all along, hiding behind the formal words and the flustered stammering.

"May I... may I tell you something? Something I have not said out loud? Not to anyone. Not even to myself, really. Not in words."

You nod.

He takes a breath.

"I did not bring you here just for the blossoms."

His eyes meet yours.

"I did not make that food just to be kind."

His paw finds yours on the blanket.

"I did not carve that charm just to keep you safe."

His fingers interlace with yours.

"I brought you here because I... because I like you. Not as my liege. Not as my summoner. Not as a comrade or a partner or a friend. I like you as you. As the person who makes my tail wag when you walk into a room. As the person I think about when I cannot sleep. As the person I want to share my food with and my blanket with and my — my life with, if you would let me, if you would even consider it, if you would not laugh at me for wanting something so... so impossible."

He's shaking.

His whole body is trembling.

But he doesn't look away.

"This is a date."

The words hang in the air between you.

"I did not... I did not know how to say it. I still do not know if I am saying it correctly. But this — this picnic, this blanket, this food, this charm — this is a date. I am taking you on a date. I am trying to court you. Properly. The way my mother said I should court someone I... someone I..."

His voice breaks.

"Someone I love."

The blossoms fall.

The world is pink and soft and silent.

Moritaka's paw is warm in yours. His blue eyes are wet. His tail is wagging so hard it's sweeping petals off the blanket.

"You do not have to say anything."

His voice is barely a whisper.

"You do not have to feel the same way. You do not have to want this. You do not have to want me. I just... I could not keep it inside anymore. It was too big. Too heavy. It was pressing against my ribs and making it hard to breathe and I thought — I thought if I did not say it, I would burst. And that would be messy. And embarrassing. And you would have to explain to the guild master why your retainer exploded all over the cherry blossoms."

A wet laugh escapes him.

"I am... I am going to kiss you now."

His eyes go wide.

"Did I just — did I say that out loud? I said that out loud. I did not mean to — I was going to ask — I was going to be polite — I was going to say 'may I' and wait for permission like a proper samurai and instead I just — I just announced it like a — like a —"

He stops.

Because you're leaning closer.

Your faces are inches apart. His breath is warm on your lips. His fur smells like cherry blossoms and warm earth and something sweet.

"I... I..."

His voice is gone.

His eyes flutter closed.

"Please," he whispers. "Please, my liege. Please let this be real. Please let me —"

The kiss is soft.

Brief.

His lips are warm, slightly chapped, and they tremble against yours. One of his paws comes up to cup your cheek — gentle, hesitant, like he's touching something precious. His tail is wagging so hard you can hear it thumping against the blanket.

When he pulls back, his eyes are still closed.

His face is wet.

"Oh," he breathes. "Oh. That was... that was..."

He opens his eyes.

They're shining.

"That was my first kiss."

His voice is full of wonder.

"I am... I am glad it was you. I am glad it was you, my liege. Under the cherry blossoms. With the food I made and the charm I carved and the blanket I bought specifically for this moment because I wanted it to be special and it was, it is, it is the most special moment of my entire life and I — I —"

He kisses you again.

This time, he doesn't ask.

This time, his paw slides into your hair.

This time, when he pulls back, he is smiling. A real smile. Wide and bright and full of joy.

"Was that... was that okay?"

His tail wags.

"I should have asked. I know I should have asked. But I could not wait. I have been waiting my whole life. For you. For this. For a moment when I was allowed to want something and have it without it being taken away."

He presses his forehead to yours.

"You are not going to be taken away," he whispers. "I will not allow it. I will fight anyone. Anything. I will fight the whole world if I have to. You are mine now. You are mine and I am yours and I do not care if that is improper or presumptuous or — or foolish. I care about you. Only you. Always you."

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

The blossoms fall around him like a blessing.

"May I... may I kiss you again? Please? I know I already did. Twice. The second time without asking. That was... that was rude. I apologize. But I would like to do it again. Properly. With permission. If you are willing. If you want me to. If you —"

He doesn't finish the sentence.

Because you're kissing him this time.

The room is dim.

Only one lantern burns tonight, the flame turned low, casting soft golden shadows across the walls. The usual simplicity of Moritaka's space feels different in this light — intimate, almost sacred. The sword stand in the corner. The low table with its single cup. The chest where he keeps his clothes. And the futon, spread open on the tatami mats, the blankets folded back, the pillow plump and waiting.

He asked you to come here.

He didn't explain why. He didn't have to. His eyes — those wide, earnest blue eyes — told you everything his voice couldn't. There was something in them tonight. Something different. Something that made your breath catch and your heart stutter.

Desire.

Nervous, trembling, barely-hoping desire.

You're sitting on the edge of the futon. The blanket is soft beneath your fingers. The room smells like him — warm fur and something earthy and sweet, stronger than usual because you're surrounded by it, because you're in his space, his private space, the place where he sleeps and dreams and, apparently, thinks about you.

Moritaka is across the room.

He's standing with his back to you, facing the wall. His shoulders are tense. His tail is tucked so tightly it's pressed between his legs. His ears are flat against his head. He's wearing his sleeping yukata — thin, faded, the fabric soft from years of washing — and his paws are clenched at his sides.

He's trembling.

You can see it in the line of his spine, in the way his shoulders rise and fall with each shaky breath.

"I... I asked you here for a reason."

His voice is barely audible. Strained.

"A specific reason. One I have been... thinking about. For a long time. Too long, perhaps. Long enough that it has become... uncomfortable. Not physically. Well. Physically as well. But mostly... mostly in my heart. In my chest. In the place where I keep all the things I am not supposed to want."

He turns.

Slowly.

His eyes meet yours.

And your breath catches.

Because his face is flushed — dark crimson beneath his fur, spreading down his neck and into the collar of his yukata. His blue eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, full of something raw and hungry and terrified. His chest is rising and falling fast, the fabric of his yukata shifting with each breath.

And there, beneath the thin fabric, low on his belly —

You can see it.

The shape of him. Hard. Pressing against the soft cloth.

His 6 inches. Thick. Curved slightly upward. The outline unmistakable.

He's not wearing anything underneath.

"I have never..."

His voice cracks.

"I have never done this before. Not — not any of it. Not with anyone. I have trained my body for battle. I have honed my sword skills until my paws bled. I have studied strategy and etiquette and the proper way to bow to one's superiors. But I have never..."

He swallows. His throat works.

"I have never been touched. Not like that. Not in a way that mattered. Not in a way that made me feel... wanted."

He takes a step toward you.

Then another.

His yukata shifts with each movement, the fabric sliding against his fur, and you can see more of him now — the soft curve of his belly, the thick swell of his thighs, the dark fur that covers his body thinning slightly near his hips.

He stops in front of you.

Close. So close that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. So close that you can smell him — warm fur and honey and something muskier underneath, something that makes your mouth water.

"I want you to be my first."

The words come out steady. Certain. Even though his voice is trembling.

"I want you, my liege. Not anyone else. Not some theoretical person in a hypothetical future. You. Here. Tonight. On this futon that I bought because I thought — I hoped — I prayed — that one day, you might..."

He reaches for the collar of his yukata.

His paws are shaking so badly he almost can't grip the fabric.

"I am going to — I am going to take this off now. You do not have to — you do not have to do anything. You can just — you can just look, if you want. Or you can — you can touch. Or you can tell me to stop, and I will stop, I will immediately stop, I will not — I would never —"

"Please."

The word is barely a whisper.

"Please do not tell me to stop."

The yukata falls.

It pools at his feet in a soft puddle of faded fabric, and then Moritaka is standing before you — completely, utterly naked — and the world seems to hold its breath.

He's beautiful.

Soft and solid and real. His fur is thick and dark brown across most of his body, lightening to cream on his chest and belly and the insides of his thighs. His chest is broad, well-padded, the kind of chest you want to bury your face in. His belly is round and soft, curving outward in a gentle swell, and it rises and falls with each quick, nervous breath.

His arms are thick, muscularly soft, covered in the same dark fur as his back. His thighs are heavy, sturdy, the fur thinning slightly near the crease of his hips.

And between those thighs —

His cock stands erect, jutting upward from a nest of darker fur at his groin. It's thick — girthier than you expected — and maybe 6 inches long, maybe a little more, with a slight upward curve. The shaft is dark brown at the base, fading to a warm pinkish tip that's already slick with pre-cum. There's no knot — just smooth, velvety skin over firm flesh, the head flared and glossy.

His balls hang heavy beneath, full, nestled in thin fur, drawn up slightly with arousal.

He's already leaking.

Already desperate.

And he hasn't even been touched yet.

His tail is tucked so tightly it's practically a circle, but the tip is twitching — flicking back and forth with nervous energy. His ears are flat. His eyes are squeezed shut.

"I am... I am very exposed."

His voice is high, strained.

"I did not realize how exposed I would feel. I have been naked before. In battle. In training. In the hot springs with the other transients. But this is... this is different. You are looking at me. You are seeing me. All of me. The parts I usually keep hidden. The parts I did not know I wanted you to see until this very moment."

He opens his eyes.

They're wet.

"Do you... do you like it? What you see? I know I am not — I am not built like the other warriors. I am soft. In places where they are hard. I have a belly. My chest is not... chiseled. It is padded. My mother used to say I was built for hugging, not fighting. But I am a fighter. I have killed men. I have spilled blood. I am dangerous, even if I do not look it."

His voice drops.

"But I do not want to be dangerous tonight. Tonight, I want to be yours. Soft and yours. Trembling and yours. Everything and yours."

He sinks to his knees in front of you.

The futon is behind you. He's kneeling between your legs, his naked body on display, his cock bobbing slightly with the movement, pre-cum beading at the tip and dripping onto his belly fur.

"I do not know what to do."

The admission is raw. Honest.

"I have read... things. I have looked at... pictures. I have imagined, so many times, what it might be like to have you touch me. But imagination is not... it is not knowledge. I do not know what you like. I do not know what I like. I do not know how to be good at this. I only know that I want to try. I want to try so badly, my liege. For you. With you."

He reaches out. His paw hovers over your knee. Not touching.

"Will you... will you teach me?"

His blue eyes are pleading.

"Will you show me what to do? Where to put my paws? How to... how to make you feel good? I want to make you feel good. That is — that is the most important thing. More important than my own pleasure. More important than anything. I want to serve you. In this. In all things. I want to be so good for you that you never want anyone else."

His paw finally touches your knee.

Just a brush. Just the pads of his fingers.

"Please."

The lantern burns low, the flame trembling slightly as if it, too, is affected by the heat in the room. Shadows dance across the walls, soft and shifting, as Moritaka lies beneath you on the futon, his fur dark against the pale sheets, his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven gasps.

He's already naked.

He's been naked for a while now.

His yukata is somewhere on the floor, forgotten. His sword is propped in the corner, also forgotten. Everything is forgotten except you — your hands on his fur, your mouth on his skin, the way you're looking at him like he's something precious and something edible all at once.

"You're looking at me again."

His voice is shaky. Breathless.

"You keep... you keep looking at me like that. Like you want to... like you want to devour me. It makes my heart do strange things. Fluttering things. Things that feel like panic but are not panic. Things that feel like... like anticipation. Like waiting for something terrible and wonderful to happen."

His cock is already hard.

It's been hard since you pushed him down on the futon, since you straddled his thick thighs and pinned his wrists above his head and told him he wasn't allowed to move. Just looking at you — just the sight of you hovering over him — was enough to bring him to full attention.

Six inches. Thick. Curved slightly upward. The shaft dark brown at the base, fading to a warm pinkish tip that's already slick with pre-cum. His balls are drawn up tight against his body, heavy and full, nestled in the thin fur of his groin.

He's already leaking.

Already desperate.

And you haven't even touched him yet.

"Please."

The word escapes him before he can stop it. His hips twitch — an involuntary thrust toward nothing, toward the empty air above his belly.

"I am trying to be patient. I am trying to be good. But you are — you are right there and you are not — you are not touching me and I — I need —"

His voice breaks.

"I need you to touch me. Please. Anywhere. Everywhere. I do not care. I just — I need — I need your hands on my body or I am going to — to expire. To cease functioning. To die of wanting. It is possible. I have read about it. People can die of wanting. Their hearts simply... give out. From the strain of not being touched."

He's rambling. He always rambles when he's nervous.

But there's something else underneath the rambling tonight. Something darker. Needier.

His cock twitches against his belly. A bead of pre-cum wells up at the tip and rolls slowly down the shaft, disappearing into the fur at his base.

"What are you going to do to me?"

His blue eyes are wide. Dark. Pupils blown.

"You have that look again. The look that says you have a plan. The look that says I am not going to survive it. The look that says —"

You move.

Sliding down his body. Trailing your fingers through the soft fur of his chest, across the gentle swell of his belly, through the thin fur of his lower stomach. Your breath is warm against his skin. Your mouth hovers over the tip of his cock — so close that he can feel the heat of you, the promise of you.

His whole body goes rigid.

"Oh."

His voice is barely a whisper.

"Oh, you are — you are going to — with your mouth — I have read about — I have dreamed about — I did not think — I did not know if you would ever —"

You lick him.

Just the tip. Just a small, slow lick, your tongue flat against the glossy head, tasting the salt and musk of him.

Moritaka screams.

Not a loud scream — he's too polite for that, too aware of the thin walls and the other transients sleeping nearby. But a scream nonetheless. A high, desperate sound that catches in his throat and comes out as something between a whine and a sob.

"That — that — that was —"

His hips buck. His cock slides against your lips, leaving a smear of pre-cum on your mouth.

"That was something. That was — that was not nothing. That was very much something. That was — I did not know — I did not know it could feel like that. And you only — you only licked it. You only licked it. With your — with your tongue. And I — I —"

You take him into your mouth.

The world stops.

That's what it feels like. Not just for Moritaka — for the whole room, the whole building, the whole city. The lantern stops flickering. The shadows stop moving. Even the air seems to hold still, waiting, watching, as you lower your mouth onto his cock and take him in.

He's thick. Thicker than you expected. Your lips stretch around him, and you taste him — salt and something sweeter underneath, something that's just him. The fur at the base of his shaft tickles your nose. His hips jerk — once, twice — and then he freezes, clearly trying not to thrust, trying not to choke you, trying to be good.

"Oh my — oh my god —"

His voice is wrecked. Already wrecked.

"You are — your mouth is — it is wet — and warm — and it is around me — I am inside you — not inside inside, not like that, but inside your mouth, which is — which is also inside, which is also — I am — I am having trouble forming sentences — my thoughts are — they are scattering — they are fleeing — they are abandoning me in my time of need —"

You suck.

Just a little. Just a gentle pull as you lift your head, your lips dragging along his shaft, your tongue pressing against the vein on the underside.

Moritaka whimpers.

It's a sound you've never heard from him before — high and needy and completely involuntary. His paws fly to his mouth, clapping over his muzzle, trying to muffle the sounds escaping him. His tail is thrashing against the futon, thumping wildly, stirring the sheets. His balls draw up even tighter, his cock pulsing against your tongue.

"That — that was — I made a noise — I made a noise — that was not a dignified noise — that was not a samurai noise — that was a — that was a —"

You take him deeper.

His cock hits the back of your throat. You relax, breathe through your nose, and take him all the way in. His fur tickles your lips. His hips buck again — he can't help it — and you feel the head of his cock press against the soft tissue of your throat.

The lantern is dying.

Its flame flickers low, casting the room in shades of gold and shadow, making everything soft and blurred at the edges. The tatami mats smell of straw and age. The sword stand in the corner gleams faintly — the Murasame resting in its cloth, patient and watchful. The chest where Moritaka keeps his clothes is open, a sleeve hanging over the edge, forgotten.

The futon is rumpled.

The blankets are twisted, kicked to the foot of the bed sometime in the last hour. The pillow is flat, crushed beneath the weight of two bodies. The sheets are warm — heated by skin and fur and the heat that builds between people who can't keep their hands off each other.

Moritaka is on his stomach.

His fur is a mess — tufted in places, damp along his spine, matted behind his ears. His tail is curled to the side, resting against his thigh, the cream-colored underside catching the lantern light. His breathing is slow, even, almost sleepy — but he's not sleeping.

He hasn't slept.

He's been thinking.

His blue eyes are open, watching you from across the pillow. There's something different in them tonight. Something darker. Needier. A hunger he's been trying to hide for weeks, months, ever since he first felt your hands on his body and realized he would never be satisfied with just hands ever again.

"I cannot stop thinking about it."

His voice is quiet. Barely a whisper.

"About you. Inside me. About what it would feel like to have you... to have you there. In a place no one has ever been. In a place I did not know I wanted anyone to be until I met you."

He shifts on the futon.

Rolls onto his side to face you. His soft belly presses against the sheets. His tail wags once — slow, deliberate — brushing against your leg.

"I have been practicing."

The words hang in the air.

His ears flatten. His cheeks flush beneath his fur.

"On myself. With my — with my fingers. To prepare. In case... in case you ever wanted to... I wanted to be ready. I did not want to disappoint you. I did not want it to hurt so much that you stopped. I have been... stretching. Opening myself. Thinking of you while I did it."

His voice drops.

"I think of you often. When I am alone. When I am in this room. On this futon. In the dark. I think of your hands. Your mouth. The sounds you make when you are close. The way you say my name — not 'Moritaka' but the other way, the soft way, the way that makes my chest ache."

He reaches out.

His paw finds your hand under the blanket. His fingers interlace with yours.

"Tonight, I do not want to use my own fingers."

His blue eyes meet yours.

"Tonight, I want you. All of you. As deep as you can go. As much as you can give. I want to feel you for days afterward. I want to sit in the guild hall and cross my legs and pretend I am not still full of you. I want to remember this moment every time I move, every time I breathe, every time I think about the way you looked at me when I asked you to —"

He stops.

Swallows.

"I want you to breed me."

The words come out steady. Certain. Even though his voice is trembling.

"I want you to fuck me until I cannot remember my own name. Until I forget that I am a samurai, a warrior, a transient bound by duty and honor. Until all I know is you. Your cock. Your hands. Your voice telling me I am good, I am yours, I am enough."

He sits up.

The blanket falls away from his body. The lantern light spills across his fur, across the soft curve of his belly, across his chest, across his thighs. His cock is half-hard already, stirring between his legs, the tip peeking out from its sheath.

He turns.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He gets on his hands and knees.

His back arches — not much, just enough — and his tail lifts, curling upward, exposing himself to you. His plush, rounded ass is presented, the fur there thick and dark brown, parting to reveal the smaller, softer fur of his entrance. His hole is small — tight, even after his fingers — and pink, almost delicate, barely visible in the dim light.

He looks back at you over his shoulder.

His blue eyes are dark. Heavy-lidded. Full of want.

"This is... this is improper. I know it is improper. A samurai should not beg. A retainer should not demand. But I am not a samurai right now. I am not a retainer. I am just... I am just someone who loves you. Someone who needs you. Someone who will die if you do not —"

His voice breaks.

"Please."

The word is raw.

"Please, my liege. Please fuck me. Please put your cock inside me and fill me. I want to feel you come apart. I want to feel you in me, spilling into me, claiming me in a way no one else ever could. I want to carry you with me — inside me — for as long as possible."

His tail wags.

Slow. Hopeful.

"I have dreamed about this. Every night for weeks. I dream about you pushing into me, about the stretch, about the burn, about the moment when it stops hurting and starts feeling like... like home. Like I was made for this. Like my body was designed to take you, to hold you, to keep you."

He lowers his chest to the futon.

His ass stays up.

Presented.

Offered.

"I am ready. I have prepared. There is oil — in the chest, the small jar, the one I bought last week. I was embarrassed to buy it. The shopkeeper looked at me strangely. I mumbled something about 'sword maintenance' and fled. But I have it. I have used it. I am ready, my liege."

He looks back at you again.

"Please do not make me beg anymore. I have already begged so much. My dignity is in tatters. My pride is scattered across this room like fallen petals. There is nothing left of me except need. Except want. Except the desperate, aching, consuming desire to have you inside me."

He presses his face into the pillow.

His voice is muffled.

"I love you. I love you in a way that makes me stupid. That makes me reckless. That makes me get on my hands and knees and present myself like an animal in heat. I am not an animal. I am a beastman. There is a difference. But right now — right now, I cannot remember what the difference is. Right now, I am all instinct. All hunger. All you."

His tail wags faster.

Thump-thump-thump against the futon.

And Moritaka waits — on his hands and knees, tail lifted, heart pounding — for you to give him what he needs.

Custom, Whatever You Want