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Ryuuichi Naruhodou had always kept his eyes to the ground.
By this point in his life it was more habit than anything else; from the moment his parents had figured out his oceanic blue eyes weren’t going to mature properly into black, his eyes only left the ground when it was necessary to restock shelves. By way of gossip it didn’t help much – the town never seemed to tire of whispering about the exotic possibilities of a foreigner somewhere in the Naruhodou family line – but at least it showed proper shame about the subject, and Ryuuichi did his best to remain as inconspicuous as possible.
It was in the summer when he first met the samurai; Ryuuichi knew because he measured his years in the cycle of growing and processing the precious tea leaves that allowed his family a decent living, and his father was out in the valleys of Uji checking on the crop. Ryuuichi had been alone, eyes glued to the shelves as usual, when he heard the rice paper doors roll back on themselves.
“Welcome,” he intoned automatically, turning in welcome, eyes widening in surprise when he noted the pressed magenta hakama, the white tabi socks, the clean-woven sandals, and swallowed.
Naruhodou tea house was not usually frequented much by the upper classes, and the part of Ryuuichi’s brain that was pure merchant wondered why the samurai hadn’t gone to Hoshikage’s store down the way, a much more respected and widely known tea distributor.
Raising his eyes as high as he dared, he marveled at the extensive use of what was clearly imported Chinese silks, and tightly woven imperial-grade cotton. The samurai’s two swords hung well-attended and clean at his sides.
“You are the son of Naruhodou?” the samurai asked, arms akimbo.
“Yes, sir.” The words came out quiet and distant, as if Ryuuichi hadn’t said them himself. This wasn’t the ordinary, run of the mill samurai that came to harangue his father into giving out loans. What did he want?
A few moments of pregnant pause followed, and Ryuuichi found himself torn between wanting the samurai to leave immediately, and wanting to raise his head to see what his face looked like. He didn’t dare.
The samurai hummed quietly in the back of his throat. “Merchant’s son, look at me.”
What? the calculating part of Ryuuichi wanted to know, torn between confusion and a stab of fear. Uncertainly, he raised his eyes to the samurai’s chest – more fine magenta silk tailored expertly to the samurai’s broad shoulders and chest, and Ryuuichi felt his throat go dry.
His indecision lead to another annoyed sound from the samurai; in a rush of silent magenta silk the samurai had stepped forward, reached out, grabbed Ryuuichi’s chin and jerked it upwards, leaving them face to face mere inches away.
The samurai was unexpectedly young – though his face was slightly tanned from the wind he showed no signs of actual age, other than a slight lightening of the hair. High cheekbones tapered down to a sharp chin, and Ryuuichi’s traitorous blue eyes followed that taper down to thin lips before meeting those scrutinizing eyes again. The samurai’s fingers turned Ryuuichi’s head a little to the side, examining, and Ryuuichi’s lips parted – a shuddering sigh escaped that was much too loud, his heart started pounding.
Calm down! he ordered himself, but the closeness of silk and what smelled like yuzu fruit did nothing but accelerate his heart further.
“Your father took a foreign mistress,” the samurai said after a moment. Ryuuichi wasn’t sure if this was a question – if it was, it was certainly worded like a statement of fact.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ryuuichi managed after a moment, swallowing hard to bring moisture back to his suddenly dry mouth, “but my mother is Japanese.”
Another rumble from the samurai, this one more contemplating than irritated. “I was passing through to Kyoto, and I hear gossip about the son of Naruhodou and his foreign eyes.”
Ryuuichi didn’t reply, and the samurai finally pulled away, his fingers drawing away from Ryuuichi chin in what almost seemed like a caress. Ryuuichi’s skin prickled.
The samurai stepped back and Ryuuichi hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until his lungs demanded release.
The samurai looked contemplative. “My name is Mitsurugi,” he said.
Before Ryuuichi had the chance to react, Mitsurugi had turned in another rush of silk and glided out the door.
# # #
The next day, Mitsurugi returned.
“Welcome,” Ryuuichi repeated, eyes snapping up gleefully to the samurai’s face, retracing the contours of Mitsurugi’s jaw. For some reason, he found it absolutely entrancing.
Mitsurugi nodded, clad today in a slightly darker version of maroon. Ryuuichi wondered how much silk the man owned. “I was distracted yesterday,” Mitsurugi murmured, “and didn’t purchase my tea.”
The merchant went off in Ryuuichi’s head again – Hoshikage ran a much finer establishment, and clearly this particular samurai could afford Hoshikage’s wares, so why return? Wordlessly, and not taking his eyes from Mitsurugi’s face – so much more interesting than the ground! – Ryuuichi motioned to the shelves behind him.
Mitsurugi’s lips quirked, and Ryuuichi was immediately distracted. “Merchant’s son, I pray this isn’t the way your father taught you how to run your shop.”
“No, he taught me better,” Ryuuichi replied, not even taking into consideration how inappropriate his language was for a member of the upper class, feeling his chest constrict at another quirk from the samurai’s lips. He wondered if that was how Mitsurugi smiled. He wondered if, somehow, he could get the samurai to smile.
On the noiselessness of silk, the samurai glided forward, and Ryuuichi automatically retreated until his hips struck the back of the low counter, and he was trapped between the hard wooden edge and Mitsurugi’s strong silk-clad thighs. Ryuuichi’s lips parted, and never before had he been so glad that his father had left him alone to run the store.
“Merchant’s son.” Mitsurugi’s voice was low, commanding. “What is your name?”
“Ryu,” Ryuuichi whispered, his entire world narrowed down to the samurai’s thin lips, sharp angles, and broad shoulders.
“Ryu,” the samurai breathed, as if tasting the syllable and Ryuuichi swallowed, hopelessly aroused and knowing that Mitsurugi had to know as well.
Mitsurugi’s hand reached up and took Ryuuichi’s chin, leaving a path of fire where the fingers trailed. Ryuuichi swallowed, parting his lips when one of Mitsurugi’s fingers rested there, taking it in his mouth with a quiet moan when Mitsurugi pushed it in.
The samurai’s other hand was busy – deftly he parted Ryuuichi’s plain overcoat and silk undercoat, finally resting his free hand against Ryuuichi’s abdomen. Ryuuichi’s hands hovered in the air for a final moment of indecision before pushing up against Mitsurugi’s chest in a caress, his hands resting on the samurai’s broad shoulders, sucking eagerly at the proffered finger, eyes closing.
Mitsurugi’s free hand slid down around to Ryuuichi’s behind, and – to Ryuuichi’s embarrassment – he squeezed slightly and Ryuuichi moaned again, this time louder. Mitsurugi’s lip quirked again, and he removed the finger from Ryuuichi’s mouth.
“Merchant’s son – Ryu,” Mitsurugi corrected, and Ryuuichi almost came right there, “have you ever…”
Ryuuichi opened his eyes again, fixating on Mitsurugi’s face, now slightly flushed and a sensation of victory arose within Ryuuichi because of it. “No,” he replied.
“Ah,” Mitsurugi murmured, his saliva-slippery finger sliding between Ryuuichi’s legs. “Well, then here would not be the best place, but perhaps…”
When Mitsurugi’s finger breached him, Ryuuichi cried out, more from surprise than pain. It was only one finger, after all, and the sensation was strange… though not altogether unpleasant. Ryuuichi forced himself to breathe evenly and looked back up into Mitsurugi’s face.
“Stop squirming,” Mitsurugi ordered, and Ryuuichi froze, unaware of the fact that he had been moving uncertainly under the samurai’s ministrations. Mitsurugi smiled – actually smiled – and leaned down, pressing his lips up against Ryuuichi’s as that finger, previously a slight discomfort, twitched slightly up against something that caused pleasure to streak through Ryuuichi’s body like a supernova, and Ryuuichi cried out into the kiss, arching his back.
A second twitch was all it took, and Ryuuichi whimpered, twisted his head, and buried his teeth into Mitsurugi’s shoulder as climax overtook him harder than it ever had before in his life, pounding him in wave after wave of sensation, dirtying his clothes and dripping to the floor.
An indeterminate amount of time later, Ryuuichi, now sagging bonelessly up against the samurai, felt Mitsurugi withdraw his finger, and the movement was enough prompting for Ryuuichi to sit back, unsteadily, on his own power against the counter.
“I will be staying at the western ryokan tonight,” Mitsurugi said evenly, sounding for all the world like nothing unusual had occurred, “I hope to see you there.”
Again, Ryuuichi wasn’t sure if the samurai had intended that as a request or an order, but Mitsurugi stepped back, hands folded, eyebrow raised, waiting for a response.
“Yes, Mitsurugi,” Ryuuichi managed, belatedly closing his over-kimono. Another lip twitch from Mitsurugi at the effort for modesty.
“My name,” Mitsurugi replied, “is Reiji.”
And with that, the door to the tea shop rolled back, and Mitsurugi Reiji, the samurai, was gone again.
# # #
Ryuuichi hated grinding tealeaves. Of course, he’d never say so to his father, especially as the only son to inherit the business, but the whole thing made his back and fingers ache, and he’d pinched his fingers between the grinding stones so many times that it almost ceased to hurt.
Almost, he thought ruefully, taking a break to stick one of his injured fingers in his mouth in an attempt to suck away the injury.
Fingers in his mouth took him abruptly back to the events of earlier and Ryuuichi shivered, winding an arm around himself in remembrance of the samurai’s broad, smooth hands. Ryuuichi had been thinking about those hands a lot – despite the swords that dangled around the samurai’s waist effortlessly as a birthright, he wondered if those hands had actually ever seen battle. They were impossibly soft.
Mitsurugi, he thought to himself, another pleasant shiver going through him at the name. Mitsurugi Reiji. The fact that the samurai had entrusted Ryuuichi with his first name seemed like a tiny gift; he kept the syllables folded up in his mind like the paper cranes his father sometimes made during the rare times he wasn’t grinding tea.
Ryuuichi looked at his own hands – red and chapped from the grinding, blood blisters under a couple of nails where he had pinched himself, and sighed.
The sun was beginning to set over the horizon, and Ryuuichi chewed his lip a little in thought. The western ryokan was about a half- hour’s walk from his shop, in the more upscale part of town – but he definitely didn’t want to appear before the samurai had finished with his supper. And his father usually insisted on grinding until the sun had completely set.
Looking back down at the small pile of tea powder he had managed to produce made him entirely too impatient. Covering what little work he had completed, he went to clean up a bit before heading out on the walk.
# # #
Mistress Himigami, the proprietor of the Western Ryokan, raised an eyebrow at Ryuuichi when he appeared, covered in road dust, at the front door of her establishment.
“Can I help you?” she asked, eyebrows still raised over her long-stemmed tobacco pipe. “Are you…” she trailed off as smoke chased itself out of her mouth, “…lost, Naruhodou?”
Something inside Ryuuichi bristled, and he looked up, blue eyes and all, baleful. “No. I am here for Mitsurugi.”
Himigami’s eyebrows lowered, but her incredulous look didn’t falter as she took another slow pull on her pipe. “One day,” she said after a gratuitously long exhale, “your father will have to tell me where he managed to get you those eyes.”
“If you would be so kind,” Ryuuichi managed between tightly clenched teeth, “to inform Mitsurugi that he has a guest.”
“No solicitations,” Himigami replied lazily, tapping the end of her pipe against her lower lip, “we can’t have the likes of you irritating the customers.”
Ryuuichi was struggling with the urge to cram the pipe down her throat when a familiar voice intoned, “That will be quite enough, Mistress Himigami.”
Himigami’s eyes widened as Mitsurugi – Reiji, Ryuuichi thought – stepped out from behind a door hanging, tabi socks shuffling elegantly across the tatami, impeccable in a dove gray yukata tied with navy. “You know this… merchant?” Himigami wanted to know, her look quickly shuttling from shocked to scandalized.
“I do know this merchant.” Despite speaking to Himigami, Mitsurugi’s gaze was leveled on Ryuuichi, which made his bare feet curl slightly against the dirt-packed entryway. “If you please… yukata?” The samurai’s gaze dropped down to Ryuuichi’s feet. “And perhaps a bowl of water?”
“Of course,” Himigami replied, and Ryuuichi could see her braiding together strands of gossip as she walked away to do Mitsurugi’s bidding. Ryuuichi sighed. This would be all over town by sunrise.
“No shoes?” Mitsurugi asked, pulling Ryuuichi back to the present.
“Not during the summer,” Ryuuichi replied. “I’d wear them out.”
“Hn,” Mitsurugi replied as Himigami returned with a yukata draped over one arm and a large wooden bowl cradled in her hands. “Merchant’s son to the bone. Put the bowl down,” Mitsurugi instructed Himigami, who was hovering with evident interest. “That will be all.”
When Himigami had padded away down the hallway, Mitsurugi pointed to the raised ledge in the entryway. “Sit,” he instructed. “We can’t have you tracking dirt into the hallway.”
Ryuuichi obeyed, and turned to pick up the bowl of water, but Mitsurugi beat him to it; deftly, the samurai stepped down the ledge and knelt at Ryuuichi’s feet, balancing the bowl on his knee and guiding Ryuuichi’s foot, businesslike, into the warm water.
“You really don’t hav-“ Ryuuichi started, but a raised eyebrow from the samurai cut him off, and Ryuuichi submitted (rather gratefully) to the feel of Mitsurugi’s hands massaging the dirt away.
“How old are you?” Mitsurugi asked, having moved on to Ryuuichi’s second foot.
“Twenty-four,” Ryuuichi replied, carefully keeping his clean damp foot from touching the dirt floor.
“No family?” Mitsurugi finished Ryuuichi’s second foot and reached back for a towel that Ryuuichi hadn’t noticed was there.
“Not other than my father. My mother died, and… no wife.” Ryuuichi pointed to his blue eyes, in explanation as Mitsurugi toweled his feet dry. “Cursed. Foreign eyes.”
“Nonsense,” Mitsurugi said, rising and stepping back up into the house. “Your eyes are…” Mitsurugi trailed off, shaking his head. “Not cursed.”
Feet clean, Ryuuichi slid onto the soft tatami, marveling at how tightly woven it was, unlike the time-worn mats in his own home. “Tell that to everybody else,” he muttered.
“Everybody else isn’t worth my time,” the samurai replied dismissively. “Come on,” he instructed, when Ryuuichi rose to his feet.
# # #
Predictably, Mitsurugi had the best room in the ryokan – ten whole tatami mats, which was about the size of Ryuuichi’s entire house. The front screens opened onto a meticulously tended rock garden, complete with gently bubbling stream and loud – too loud, in Ryuuichi’s opinion – crickets. Green maple leaves dangled lazily above the stream, promising to be fantastic when the season turned.
Mitsurugi entered first, carrying the spare yukata to a corner, where a black lacquered screen painted with white cranes stood. “Change,” Mitsurugi ordered, draping the yukata over the screen and crossing the room again to a low desk.
Ryuuichi watched Mitsurugi settle down behind the desk, ignored for the moment. With a slight shrug, Ryuuichi stepped behind the screen and divested himself of his dark green kimono in favor of the dove gray yukata that matched Mitsurugi’s.
The door slid open again, and heavy-sounding footsteps clunked in. “Sir?” another male voice asked, sliding the door closed so violently that it clacked in its grooves and Ryuuichi winced, tying his yukata closed with the navy tie, wondering how the door didn’t fall out. “You called?”
“Yes,” Mitsurugi replied quietly. “I have a guest tonight. Ryu, come out when you’re decent.”
Ryuuichi stepped out from behind the screen, coming face to face with a beast of a man about a head and a half taller than Ryuuichi, and at least twice as wide. He looked a little older than Mitsurugi, and his identical gray yukata seemed to be struggling with the man’s hulking frame.
“Naruhodou Ryuuichi, this is my manservant Keisuke Itonokogiri,” Mitsurugi said, his head bent over something on his desk, an inked brush in his right hand.
Ryuuichi stared up at the beast of a man before him, before Keisuke’s mouth split in a goofy grin, rendering him almost kindly-looking. “Pleased to meet you. You’re the one with the eyes, then?”
“Keisuke,” Mitsurugi said, warningly. “I want you to make sure that horrible ryokan mistress doesn’t disturb me any further tonight.”
Kesuke blinked, sudden bewilderment almost comical. “She won’t leave you alone?”
“I have suspicions she may not,” Mitsurugi replied, looking up from his work, eyes drifting over to where Ryuuichi stood.
The way Keisuke’s face contorted, Ryuuichi was pretty sure the innuendo went over his head, but the implications in that look sent a thrill through Ryuuichi.
“Whatever you say, Sir,” Keisuke said. “I’ll be bedding in the hallway then?”
“If you please,” Mitsurugi said, eyes flicking up to Ryuuichi again.
Ryuuichi stayed silent as Keisuke very noisily exited the room again, blinking after the door slammed closed.
“He’s not the brightest, but he’s loyal,” Mitsurugi sighed, looking back down to dash a few more lines of script across the page. “It’s correspondence with my lord,” he offered as explanation, motioning to the paper.
Feeling slightly awkward, Ryuuichi crossed over to the desk and knelt by Mitsurugi’s side, far away enough for propriety, close enough to smell the faint scent of yuzu the samurai gave off.
The silence was companionable for a few moments, before Mitsurugi broke it again. “Can you read?” he asked.
Ryuuichi shook his head. “We have a tally system for bookkeeping,” he murmured, eyes flowing over the lines of script Mitsurugi had penned, their meaning incomprehensible.
Mitsurugi paused, fixing Ryuuichi with his stare again. “Is your name just ‘Ryu’?”
“…no,” Ryuuichi replied. Frankly, even he was at a loss to why he had told the samurai his pet name – everybody in town called him by his surname, except for his father, who preferred his full first name. Only his mother had used “Ryu.” “It’s Ryuuichi.”
“Ryuuichi?” Mitsurugi asked, lips twitching slightly. “Is your father a proud man?”
Ryuuichi had to smile. “He is.”
“Ryuuichi, the first dragon,” Mitsurugi murmured. “Let me see your arm.”
Surprised, Ryuuichi held out his right arm, and Mitsurugi pushed back Ryuuichi’s sleeve, exposing the underside of his arm. Carefully, the samurai re-inked the brush and slowly printed a line of characters down Ryuuichi’s arm, causing Ryuuichi to gasp at the light, tickling sensation the brush left behind.
“I can’t be sure what the kanji characters would be,” the samurai murmured, his voice pitched a bit lower, “but those are the kana for your name. Ryu-u-i-chi.” Gently, he traced over the marks he had outlined with the brush only seconds earlier.
A little breathless, Ryuuichi stared down at the markings for a few moments, before reaching over, rolling up his left sleeve, and proffering his left arm. “And yours?”
That earned another lip quirk, and another line of printing with the brush. “Re-i-ji,” Mitsurugi breathed, retracing the characters with his fingertips again.
The samurai was flushed again, and Ryuuichi’s breath fell short as they leaned in simultaneously, lips meeting before the ink had dried on the characters in “Reiji.”
A break for air and Mitsurugi’s hand was untying the navy band holding together Ryuuichi’s yukata, hands parting the fabric and sliding along Ryuuichi’s bare sides, causing Ryuuichi to shiver, raise on his knees, and press his chest against Mitsurugi’s, in desperation for contact.
“Mitsurugi,” Ryuuichi breathed, hands tentatively creeping along that sharp jaw line that captivated him so, “Reiji…”
“Yes?” the samurai asked, lips tracing along Ryuuichi’s collarbone, which made the other man shudder.
“…who are you?” Ryuuichi managed, pulling Mitsurugi’s head up so they could look each other in the eyes, though his brain was clouding over with lust.
Mitsurugi paused; dark eyes boring into Ryuuichi’s blue ones. His hands, still on Ryuuichi’s body, didn’t move.
“Reiji?” Ryuuichi tried again, a lump rising in his throat from some unnamable emotion.
Mitsurugi sighed deeply, pulling away. “Tea?” he asked, detangling himself and standing.
Personally, Ryuuichi dealt with the stuff so much he could barely stand it, but he nodded anyway, his yukata still hanging open, bewildered.
Mitsurugi was silent in the tea preparation, finally turning back with two thick, handleless clay mugs of clear green tea. Ryuuichi accepted one, also silent.
Settling down cross-legged next to Ryuuichi, Mitsurugi looked out onto the garden – the crickets had thankfully quieted a bit – and contemplated for what seemed like an eternity before speaking.
“My father was Mitsurugi Shin,” he said, voice back on an even keel. “I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of him, but he was a pretty prominent samurai, back before I was born. And he taught me much about the way of the warrior.”
Ryuuichi, as a member of the merchant class, knew a little about the basic codes that samurai kept, but nodetails. He made a note to ask Mitsurugi about it later – if there was a later.
“However, he was slain in cold blood…” Mitsurugi hovered over the sentence, as if to add more, but seemed to settle. “I was there.”
Reaching out, Ryuuichi gripped Mitsurugi’s shoulder, but the other man barely seemed to notice. “I don’t… my memories are foggy,” he admitted. “But I was adopted into what I thought, at the time, was a rival clan, the Karuma. They raised me, taught me how to handle a sword, everything I know.
“As soon as I was old enough to walk without my swords dragging, I sought revenge on the ones who killed my father. I… was lead to believe by Karuma Gou, my… mentor, that the murder was committed by a rogue… Koutarou Haine, I was told for so many years… and when I was old enough, I spent five years of my life tracking him down.”
Ryuuichi suddenly felt guilty, assuming that the samurai’s soft hands indicated that the man had never seen blood.
“When I… killed him, he… told me that Karuma Gou had paid him an amount of gold that would make the Shogun think twice about it to kill my father, and had Karuma’s seal to prove it. I… went a little mad… and when I got back to Karuma’s lands, he was gone.”
Finally, Mitsurugi turned his head back to face Ryuuichi, his eyes a bit glassy, face as impassive as ever. “I was traveling to Kyoto, because it’s court season, and I was hoping to gather information. On the way… I ran into the three Ayasatos.”
Ryuuichi’s jaw dropped; unlearned though he was about samurai culture, the Ayasato name was legendary for soothsaying and divination. It was said that an Ayasato could detect lying within a two-day walk, but Ryuuichi wasn’t sure if he believed any of it.
“The most senior one said to me…” Mitsurugi sighed, shaking his head. “She said… and I swear I didn’t believe it at the time… but my quest would only be successful if I found a… a blue-eyed dragon.”
“A blue eyed…” Ryuuichi’s eyes widened, his hand dropping from Mitsurugi’s shoulder. “Are you serious?”
“And I would know I found it,” Mitsurugi continued grudgingly, sipping his tea like the divination was the beverage’s fault, “because it would affect me. Like nothing else.”
“I… affect you?” Ryuuichi repeated, feeling idiotic but not being able to help himself. Ryuuichi was attracted to the samurai, but thought the samurai’s interest in him was purely lust-based – surely, as handsome as Mitsurugi was, he would have ladies and lords lined up.
Mitsurugi’s eyes turned intense, and he put down his teacup, reaching for Ryuuichi’s arm, pushing back Ryuuichi’s sleeve to reveal the characters that meant “Reiji.” “The last person to use my personal name was my father,” he said roughly, eyes turning glassy once more.
Understanding dawned, and Ryuuichi’s mouth froze in a little ‘o’ for a few moments, before a hesitant hand reached out and cupped Mitsurugi’s chin gently; Mitsurugi closed his eyes and leaned slightly into his hand. Slowly, Ryuuichi brought their lips together, drawing out slow reciprocation from Mitsurugi until the embrace changed tone from intimate to lustful.
Ryuuichi had always felt awkward around other people, particularly females – despite being somewhat of a pariah in his community, plenty of neighborhood girls liked his eyes, but any time anybody had approached him, or even the time when the daughter of the carpenter wrote him a love poem, he had no idea how to respond other than skulking around the shop, playing excuses to his father so he wouldn't have to go into town.
But a newfound well of confidence had suddenly appeared, and Ryuuichi was surprised to find himself parting the samurai’s lips and deepening the kiss, of his own initiative.
The samurai hummed in the back of his throat; the noise sent thrills through Ryuuichi. “Merchant’s son, I didn’t know you had that in you,” Mitsurugi rumbled when they had to part for air.
“Neither did I,” Ryuuichi admitted.
Mitsurugi’s lips quirked, and Ryuuichi took advantage of his amusement to reach forward and undo the samurai’s navy yukata tie, and when Mitsurugi made no move to stop him, pushed the gray yukata from Mitsurugi’s shoulders.
Ryuuichi paused, willing his mouth not to dry out again as his eyes traveled slowly along the samurai’s body, taking in the little scars and battle wounds of Mitsurugi’s profession, how Mitsurugi’s adam’s apple bobbed slowly when he swallowed.
The brushes were still sitting on the low desks, next to the cooling and forgotten cups of tea, and Ryuuichi had an idea. “Lay down,” Ryuuichi ordered.
“Merchant’s son, don’t forget whom you’re talking to,” the samurai reprimanded him, but acquiesced to the demand. Ryuuichi’s lip tugged in amusement.
“I’m beginning to think that’s an endearment,” he replied, divesting himself of his own yukata, to study more accurately the names that Mitsurugi had written on his arms.
Carefully, Ryuuichi reached for the paintbrush, and dipped it in the part of Mitsurugi’s inkwell that hadn’t dried out yet.
Mitsurugi’s eyebrow raised. “You’re not-“
Ryuuichi didn’t let him finish that sentence, as he slowly replicated the first character of his name as well as he could with the brush on Mitsurugi’s left pectoral. “Ryu,” he said, proudly.
Mitsurugi shifted at the brush’s teasing touch. “Very good,” he said, voice rising.
Ryuuichi dutifully printed the second character below the first. “u… i… chi,” he finished, taking care to ensure Mitsurugi squirmed with each stroke of the brush.
“That was awful,” Mitsurugi protested, gasping slightly. Ryuuichi raised his eyebrow, looking askance at Mitsurugi’s prominent erection.
“Sure,” Ryuuichi said, rewetting the brush. “Whatever your worshipful lord samurai self says.” He positioned himself to start on Mitsurugi’s left pectoral. “Ryu…”
“That’s enough,” the samurai decided, moving impossibly quick and in a flurry of motion, Ryuuichi found himself face down on the floor, pinned effectively.
“Unfair,” Ryuuichi gasped, ignoring how aroused the position was making him.
Mitsurugi hummed in the back of his throat, plucking the brush from Ryuuichi’s unresisting grip.
Ryuuichi cried out in surprise as Mitsurugi penned a fast line of calligraphy from the back of his left thigh down to his calf, causing a rush of sensation and a flood of goosebumps. Gasping harder, Ryuuichi contorted to try and read the line – but gave up, as he was still pinned to the ground and still illiterate, anyway.
“What… what does it say?” Ryuuichi wanted to know, trying hard not to climax all over the tatami – which would doubtlessly displease Mistress Himigami.
“It says,” Mitsurugi began, and Ryuuichi started at how low Mitsurugi’s voice was and how close it was to his ear, “’property of Mitsurugi Reiji.’”
The most coherent response Ryuuichi was able to offer was a moan.
“Hn,” the samurai hummed. “Well, we’ll stain Himigami’s sheets, but I can pay her for new ones,” he decided, finally letting Ryuuichi up. “Get on the futon.”
Ryuuichi might have protested against the ordering, if it didn’t turn him on so much. Instead, he slowly clamored to the futon and sat down, the ink on his leg smearing the white sheets black.
Mitsurugi had crossed to his neatly stacked belongings in the corner. “Lay down, merchant boy.”
“It’s merchant boy now?” Ryuuichi asked, an excited chill coursing through him as he obeyed the order.
“I don’t want to bring your father into it anymore,” the samurai replied, shuffling through his belongings.
Ryuuichi winced. “I don’t either.”
“Didn’t think so.” Mitsurugi crossed the room again, holding a jar of something, and Ryuuichi fisted the sheets in anticipation as Mitsurugi leaned over him, still standing. “…you did say this was your first time?”
Embarrassed, Ryuuichi looked away. “Other than earlier today…”
Sighing, Mitsurugi knelt next to him. “If it makes you feel better…” he trailed off, before shaking his head. “You’re my second.”
“Who was…” Ryuuichi wanted to know, trailing off at Mitsurugi’s distant, pained look.
“I’ll tell you later,” Mitsurugi said, setting down the jar – which had more writing on it that Ryuuichi couldn’t read – and blanketed himself over Ryuuichi’s body, which caused Ryuuichi to gasp at the onslaught of sensation and warmth, skin on skin contact, blocking out all other questions.
When Mitsurugi’s lips found his again, Ryuuichi’s body arched of its own accord, his legs rising to wrap around the samurai’s lower back. Mitsurugi broke the kiss with a smile, rocking his hips into Ryuuichi’s, before untwining himself and leaning down to leave a trail of kisses from Ryuuichi’s chin to chest.
“Oh,” Ryuuichi said quietly, eyes fluttering as thin lips closed over his left nipple, gasping when the sudden warmth was followed by suction.
Ryuuichi’s hands were hovering uselessly at his sides, before burying them in Mitsurugi’s surprisingly soft hair, while Mitsurugi seemed to be everywhere; hands on his chest, his thighs, his stomach, lips following in their wake.
“Reiji…” Ryuuichi finally managed, entire body quivering with sensation. When Mitsurugi’s only response was a tongue swirling just below his navel, Ryuuichi used his leverage in Mitsurugi’s hair to pull the other man up.
“Yes?” Mitsurugi wanted to know, face heavily flushed. Ryuuichi swallowed on another moan at the sight, but just barely; instead, he groped at his side for the little jar that Mitsurugi had put there earlier, and thrust it into the samurai’s hand.
Mitsurugi raised an eyebrow at the jar in his hand. “Let’s not forget who’s in charge here, merchant boy.”
Ryuuichi’s mouth answered for him: “There would be no warrior class if there weren’t any merchants to feed them,” he retorted, aroused and twitching with the sensation.
That gained a smile – a real one. “I’d say I miss the creature that wouldn’t even look off the ground at me yesterday, but I don’t.”
Ryuuichi opened his mouth to retort, but ended in a strangled cry when Mitsurugi leaned back down and took Ryuuichi’s cock into his mouth; Ryuuichi slapped a hand over his own mouth to muffle it.
“Mm,” Mitsurugi protested, pulling away and eliciting another whimper from Ryuuichi. “Don’t do that.”
“But…” Ryuuichi gasped between his fingers, “the other… customers…”
Mitsurugi’s eyes rolled to the heavens. “Deliver me from merchants,” he muttered, before retorting, “I’ve rented out the entire Ryokan.”
Ryuuichi whimpered again, letting his hand fall to the side.
“Better,” Mitsurugi said, resuming his work.
Feeling his stomach tighten in anticipation, Ryuuichi tried to call a warning, but could barely form syllables – suddenly a strong scent of yuzu passed through his senses, and Ryuuichi felt a slicked finger probing against his entrance – mindlessly, he spread his legs and cried out in a near-delirium at the introduction of more sensations.
The finger was slightly uncomfortable and helped take the edge off of what Mitsurugi’s mouth was doing to him, and when the second finger entered, he closed his eyes, threw his head to the side and hissed as pain almost overtook pleasure entirely.
“Relax,” came Mitsurugi’s voice from somewhere, gently twisting the intruding fingers, his free hand coming around to pick up where his mouth had left off.
“Hurts,” Ryuuichi mumbled, shivering alternatively between the steady stroking on his cock and the strange internal massage.
“I know,” Mitsurugi replied, and when Ryuuichi opened his eyes, Mitsurugi looked almost sympathetic, and the slight softness in the expression relaxed him far more than his words did.
The third finger coincided with another brush up against that spot inside him that sent waves of pleasure, and Ryuuichi cried out loudly enough for Himigami’s Ryokan competitors to hear.
“Roll over,” Mitsurugi directed, twisting those fingers inside. After a few moments of wrestling with his difficult-to-control limbs, Ryuuichi managed to roll around on his knees, and Mitsurugi pulled his fingers away.
The resultant emptiness was nearly as uncomfortable as the initial penetration had been, and he whimpered as Mitsurugi wound strong arms around his waist, pressed his chest against Mitsurugi’s back, and pushed in.
“Ah,” Ryuuichi moaned against the pain, feeling beads of sweat he hadn’t even known existed sliding down his body as Mitsurugi’s lips found the back of his neck.
By now, Ryuuichi realized there was an incredible pleasure center inside of himself, and distracted himself from the stretching pain by trying to shift slightly to find it again. Just when he was about to give up, his body twitched and sensation shot through his body so intensely that he wasn’t sure how loud he screamed.
“Hn,” Mitsurugi said behind him, and Ryuuichi rather thought the other man was trying not to laugh, but any coherency was killed by another rotation from Mitsurugi’s hips.
The climax came up on Ryuuichi so fast that he was powerless to stop it; twisting his body, he buried his face in Mitsurugi’s neck and sobbed as his body was wracked with pleasure so intense it was almost painful.
Shortly after, Mitsurugi let loose a strangled whimper and Ryuuichi felt his body flood with liquid, whimpering at yet another strange sensation. Mitsurugi managed to pull out and they collapsed, bonelessly, onto sheets that smelled of sex, sweat, ink, and yuzu fruit.
The only sound for long minutes was deep breathing and the errant cricket from the garden, before Mitsurugi rumbled, “Renting out the ryokan was the best investment I’ve made in a while.”
Ryuuichi was far too spent to offer any reply to that other than an irritated grunt, pressing his shoulders back into Mitsurugi’s chest; Mitsurugi draped an arm over Ryuuichi’s waist.
More silence, and Ryuuichi was almost asleep when Mitsurugi said, “My first was Karuma.”
Ryuuichi’s eyes flew open. Craning his neck, he looked back into dark, sober eyes. “…I’m… sorry,” he managed.
“I loved him,” Mitsurugi sighed.
Ryuuichi rolled to his other side, pressing his forehead into Mitsurugi’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. Mitsurugi sighed again, and brushed his fingers through Ryuuichi’s hair.
“Can you leave here?” Mitsurugi asked.
“…with you?” Ryuuichi wanted to know.
Ryuuichi felt Mitsurugi nod above him. “I know you have your father, and your shop, but… I can make sure that your father is provided for. Unless you have a desire to grind tea for the rest of your life, but if you do-“
“I don’t,” Ryuuichi interrupted.
“Then can you leave here?” Mitsurugi repeated.
Ryuuichi sighed. It was going to be the final nail in his coffin as far as his hometown was concerned – a mother who died before anybody knew who she was, foreign eyes, and then walking away from the family business. He breathed deeply, thinking of the endless nights of grinding tea and looking at the ground, and then he looked up, into the sharp-angled face of the samurai on the futon with him.
“Yes,” he replied.
And just in case you don't know the Japanese names of characters...
Naruhodou Ryuuichi = Phoenix Wright
Mitsurugi Reiji = Miles Edgeworth
Himigami = Dee Vasquez
Keisuke Itonokogiri = Dick Gumshoe
Karuma Gou = Manfred von Karma
Koutarou Haine = Yanni Yogi
Ayasato = the Feys