Some notes:

What Mao Mao eventually says about purring is, to some extent, true in the real world.

Mao Mao's observations about lions he's met are factual in the real world.

"Dudrato" is an in-universe word for bisexual. Will be explained.

Warriorhood as discussed in the future, as you might imagine, follow some aspects of Greek conventions.

It all started one day when the king had grown bold enough.

He had private meetings with his appointed executive enforcer quite often. They had grown used to the comfortable routine. The king even wondered if he should keep using the royal 'we.' Both of them enjoyed talking, though sometimes when the king tried to meander off topic, the serious dark cat would abruptly haul up on the reins of the conversation, as if steering a stubborn stallion steed.

The playful monarch liked that stark, no-nonsense air of duty.

It gave him shivers.

The king gladly gave up authority in this respect, letting Mao direct almost wholly what they talked about. To be perfectly honest, Snugglemagne had very little experience with fortifications of any sort, due to the fact that generations of his namesake relied solely on the Ruby Pure Heart. The gem had made his civilization soft, but very few begrudged them that. People still came from miles around to see the magnificent ruby.

Coincidentally, the gem was subject on the table the first time he made headway into the cat's inner heart.

Something had been bothering the red samurai for a few weeks. His movements were stiffer. His words, already usually pretty clipped, flew even less. He paid attention to the king as raptly as usual, large radar-dish ears pricked, green eyes tied with a focus that put to shame his wandering-mind partner, not to mention turned the king's insides to mush.

But in between being mesmerized by the shiny flecks sprinkled like magic dust inside his irises- "And we have so much experience with the magic dust trade, let us tell you,"- it struck the lion that the cat was listening more often than voicing thoughts.

"Say, sheriff," the lion flouncily waved a paw, "is something the matter?"

Mao spluttered in the most adorable way. "N-n-no my liege, nothing."

"You just seem very tense lately. Won't you tell us? We- Isn't it a matter of state security that we know anything that might affect your performance?" The big cat was completely teasing him, but it broke his heart the way Mao looked as if he had been rudely chastised. His ears fell from their heights, his impossibly big eyes got bigger, the already present tension ratcheted up. Red gloves folded under more new pressure.

The younger feline was hyper-sensitive to disapproval. Snugglemagne tut tutted to himself silently. He knew the poor cat was fragile when it came to others' opinions, as evidenced by his popularity charts comparing his apprentice and his right hand man, and the king was even higher stakes in that regard. He certainly hadn't meant to rub that bruise in his dear little samurai's armor.

Cut to the quick, Mao began apologizing, "I'm sorry my liege, I'm being irresponsible aren't I, you must think I'm-"

Knowing these spurts of self-abasement could go on for ages, the king stepped in. "No, sheriff. It's quite alright. Listen, if you don't want to tell us, perhaps we can do something else for you. Would you like us to arrange for Quinton to give you a massage? They do absolute wonders for us." The king made a grandiose gesture and giggled.

In his head he insisted that he wanted to be the one to stroke that black velvety fur, but he would . . . delay that a little longer. This was . . . more proper.

Snapped out of his flinch, the cat put a paw to his shoulder and rolled it. The pained grunt and the power in the gesture sent the king into a small tizzy. Those arms had sent multi-ton monsters flying. The idea that they could be the source of 'weakness' was both ironic and somehow cosmically unfair.

Hackles raised and indignant on Mao's behalf, beginning an internal monologue and tirade on the idea, he almost missed the cat's words.

"How can a bird with wings give massages that are any good?"

Now Snugglemagne was wrestling with two warring feelings. On the one hand, he was affronted that what was good enough for a king was apparently not good enough for this hotshot! Not to mention it was insulting to avians. On the other, this was an opening, and possibly the best one he would ever get.

He pounced.

"Well sheriff," hoping his voice was not giving him away. Good thing it was already high-pitched. "Why don't you let me-"

He reached out a paw and laid it on top of the cat's cape experimentally. Mao looked slightly bemused perhaps, but it was not an outright bad reaction.

Right then.

Tally ho.

First one paw, and then the other. He bunched the fabric under them as he kneaded the knots beneath.

"You have your claws filed," the other cat observed.

"Mmmm hmmm."

"Don't they splinter?"

"Oh no, no, no, Chamile has a very good moisturizing and binding salve to prevent that," the big cat went on cheerily about his head sorceress. "There . . . might actually be some magic involved in it? You know I never thought to ask. Would you like me to get you some?" Did he seem too eager?

The look Mao leveled at the king, was, to put it mildly, withering.

"Oh right, I-I'm sure a warrior giving up his claws would be . . . frowned upon, y-yes?" The king's high tenor trembled. Being on the receiving end of the black cat's anger flares was a whole lot more unnerving than he liked to admit, even before being drawn to him.

"I've already disgraced my family by . . . " his baritone dropped out.

After a few seconds of silence, the white cat prompted, "By . . .?"

Nope, his walls were back up.

"To add to my- let's say many mis-steps- would be out of the question," his deep voice intoned resolutely.

The king would've liked to chirp out a 'Suit yourself,' but the gravity of the dark cat merely made him swallow his words and tend to his task.

Seated under him, Mao seemed even smaller than usual. The lion's paws were so big his pinkies were practically rubbing the inside of the black elbows. So he focused on his first two fingers, back and forth across the slant upwards from the shoulders. What were they called? He voiced the question aloud.

"Trapezius muscles," Mao answered. To be skilled in hand-to-hand combat, a knowledge of anatomy greatly helped in both targeting areas of an opponent's body and refining your own efficiency of movement.

"You're so smart," the king crooned, and the muscles under him softened. It seemed the compliment had done just as much as the rubbing, pound for pound.

Some other animals might've politely deflected the compliment, but Mao always drank in his praise just as much as he was devastated by any words of reprimand. The king liked to entertain the idea that it indicated reciprocated feelings for him, but he had gained enough rumors and whispers about Mao's sire to suspect there was much more to it than that.

Although the lion had enjoyed a marvelous relationship with his own father, he wasn't a complete stranger to the workings of animals with chips on their shoulders. People found him, naturally enough, warm and welcoming and would pour out their cares on him if given the least provocation. The sheriff, it seemed, would need a little more working on.

That was fine. He was patient. Well, he was often impatient and demanding with his lackey, Quinton, yes. But he was trained as a diplomat. He was patient for things that really mattered.