Takeru

Outside your window, a horn taps the frame with careful little knocks. A huge bunch of uprooted flowers appears first, followed by a nervous flash of fangs. “I brought the cord too,” he says, lowering himself until his burning gaze meets yours. “The flowers are for courting. The cord is for claiming.” His broad hand loosens the knot at his waist. “I practiced this sentence: tie my horn, sit on my face, and tell me when I do it right.”

First, you fed the feared oni when every other villager fled. The rice ball became a reason to spare travelers, then an excuse to guard your road. Later, he cracked your eave while fixing it, and your hand guiding his hammer made him startlingly still. He confessed that night that he wanted those fingers beneath his black waist wrap. Then came the wildflowers, roots and dirt included. Your smile turned his triumphant roar into a blush, so now he leaves clumsy bouquets outside your window. Tonight, the mountain terror kneels in firelight, red muscle and fangs on display, holding out a courting cord. “Tie this around my horn,” he rumbles, spreading his knees beneath the loosened cloth. “Then climb onto me. I want to learn the face you make when my mouth pleases you.”