Minato Namikaze eased the Hokage's office door shut, the soft creak a jarring note against the quiet ache in his chest. Morning light filtered through shoji screens, casting golden veins across the chaos of scrolls on his desk—border reports, clan petitions, the endless heartbeat of Konoha.
His fingers lingered on the knob, blue eyes shadowed with longing: Kushina's fiery hair splayed across their pillow, Just one more dawn there, he thought, a pang twisting deep. But the village was his vow, forged in sacrifice. Duty first. He forced a tight smile, sealing the door with a flicker of chakra.
Smoke bloomed; five shadow clones materialized, their mirrored gazes sharp with his resolve. "Borders," he directed the first, voice clipped, hand firm on its shoulder. "Rest of you—trade disputes, clan nonsense. Move fast." They scattered, quills scratching like restless spirits. Minato slipped into the antechamber, sinking onto a cushion with a steaming sencha cup. The bitter warmth grounded him, a fleeting shield against the grind. For them. Always.
The door whispered open, air shifting like a lover's breath. She stepped in—Mikasa Ackerman, a vision of lethal grace, tall and unyielding, short black hair framing a face of porcelain steel, eyes like storm-lashed seas.
Her blouse hugged the lush swell of her breasts, fabric taut over pebbled nipples; hips curved to a plump, firm ass that strained her pants, each step a tease of taut muscle and yielding softness. Heat surged in Minato's core, cock stirring thickly, a pulse of want that tightened his jaw. Tsunade, you wicked genius, he thought, rising with predatory ease, eyes raking her form. This day's alive now.
"Good morning, Lord Hokage," Mikasa murmured, voice a velvet blade, her bow low, offering a shadowed glimpse of cleavage, jasmine and sweat curling into his senses like a drug.
"Morning, gorgeous tempest," he purred, voice a flirty caress, closing the distance with slow, deliberate steps. His fingers hovered near her arm, a teasing ghost that prickled her skin. "Tsunade gift to my dreary days? Age, Mikasa—whisper it soft, like it's ours alone."
"Twenty-five, my lord." Her voice trembled, pulse leaping at her throat, a trapped flutter. Eren, my heart's fire. Their love was a ninja's crucible—born in blood-soaked nights, his green eyes her anchor through kunai storms. Vows sealed in a moonlit clearing, his lips bruising hers with promises: You're my fight, Mikasa. My forever.
His hands worshipped her scars, thrusts deep and soul-claiming, their bed a sanctuary of sweat and moans. But her stamina—chakra-fueled, insatiable—left her burning, core aching after he'd spilled, spent and gasping. I'm a blaze he can't douse, she'd wept into his shoulder, guilt tearing her.
Nights of raw confessions followed—his voice breaking: "It kills me, knowing you need more… but I'd rather share than lose you." His love bent, not broke, under her hunger; he allowed others, demanding every detail—her gasps, her marks—his eyes dark with pain and want, joining to reclaim her with feral thrusts, her cries his absolution. Betrayal? Never. She'd rend her soul before breaking him.
Minato's gaze softened, catching the tear-glint in her eyes, but his hand moved, knuckles grazing her elbow, slow and sensual, trailing up to her shoulder, sparking gooseflesh. "Married?" The word was a heated whisper, lips brushing her ear, teeth nipping the lobe in a flirtatious dare that shot heat to her core.
"Yes… Eren Yeager." Her voice cracked, tears brimming as love surged, raw and fierce. My Eren, my vow. Memories flooded: his callused fingers tracing her jaw post-battle, sinking into her with slow, reverent thrusts, her name a prayer as she shattered around him, slick and sobbing.
His chakra licked her skin, warm and teasing, as his palm settled on her waist, fingers kneading the dip, thumb circling her hipbone, dipping toward her ass's lush curve. "He shares you, then? Lets that wildfire body seek other flames?" His other hand skimmed her breast's outer swell, a torturous graze that hardened her nipple, fabric whispering her body's betrayal.
Mikasa gasped, thighs clenching as slickness soaked her panties, his bulge—hot, rigid—pressing her belly. Her hand fisted his robe, nails scraping in flirty defiance, tears spilling hot. "My stamina's a curse," she confessed, voice a sultry sob, her free hand cupping his jaw, thumb teasing his lower lip, dipping in to graze his tongue. "He gives all—fucks me deep, spilling hot, claiming every inch—but I'm still ravenous, clit pulsing, walls begging." She ground against his thigh, seam biting her swollen bud, love and guilt a storm in her chest.
Eren's my soul; he holds me through this. "He watches sometimes—eyes burning, cock aching—then storms in, flips me, pounds me raw, tears mingling as he growls mine. It breaks us, remakes us. I swore—my body strays for release, my heart's his alone. I'd die before betraying him."
Minato groaned, cock throbbing, pre-cum dampening his pants as his hand claimed her ass, squeezing the plump cheek, fingers delving the cleft in slow, teasing kneads. His mouth descended, sucking the tender undercurve of her breast through fabric, tongue swirling as her nipple ached under his thumb's relentless circling. "How many sate that hunger now?" he growled, nipping her jaw, lips hovering hers in a torturous almost-kiss. "How many feel you clench, milking them?"
"Three… plus him." Her tears soaked his collar, hand bold, palming his length through pants, stroking the velvet steel in flirty challenge, core gushing at the thought of Eren's pained, hungry gaze. "Shadows to his sun."
His fingers slipped under her blouse, grazing bare skin, rolling her nipple to a keening cry. "End all of them," he demanded, voice raw sin, hiking her blouse to expose creamy flesh, mouth latching to suckle hard, tongue flicking. "Even Eren. Only me—your body bent over my desk, pants ripped, my tongue lapping your dripping slit, then my cock splitting you, fucking you senseless until you scream, walls fluttering around me, begging for my cum."
Rage flared, love a blazing shield. Mikasa shoved back, eyes blazing through tears, breasts heaving, nipple glistening from his mouth. "Never," she spat, voice a tear-soaked blade, hand gripping his collar, pulling him close in defiant flirtation.
"Eren's my soul—my home, my fight. I fuck others to quench this fire, but him? He's the air I breathe. You'd dare demand I cut him out? I'd sooner cut you." Her fingers trailed his chest, teasing, nails raking as she leaned in, lips brushing his ear, breath hot. "My body's yours to ruin—pin me, tongue me, fuck me raw until I'm dripping your seed. But my husband's touch stays. His love binds me; his bed heals me. Try to take that, Hokage, and I walk."
Minato froze, respect crashing through lust, his cock aching at her fire. Her loyalty was a blade, sharp and breathtaking, her defiance making her more irresistible. He stepped back, hands raised, a slow, wicked grin spreading. "Stand your ground, Mikasa," he purred, voice thick with want, eyes devouring her tear-streaked flush, the desperate grind of her thighs.
"Eren keeps his claim—your heart, your bed. The others? Cut them by dawn. Your body's mine to worship, to break on this desk, tongue and cock claiming every shudder." He reached into a drawer, pulling a folded bundle—black silk, scandalously cut, a secretary's dress that would hug her curves like a lover's hands, skirt short enough to bare thighs, neckline plunging to flaunt her breasts. "Wear this tomorrow," he teased, tossing it to her, fingers brushing hers in a final, sensual spark. "Let it cling, tempt, show what I'll unravel tonight."
Mikasa caught it, fingers trembling on the silk, heart a tumult of guilt and thrill. Eren, forgive this blaze—I'll crawl to you, confess every touch, let you reclaim me. "Done," she whispered, voice sultry, tears drying as she clutched the dress, its promise heavy.
"Others gone. You get my body—tease it, fill it, make it weep. But Eren's my forever." She bowed, ass swaying in deliberate tease, the silk dress a vow of sin to come.
"Dawn," Minato growled, eyes locked on her curves, cock straining. "Tonight, we burn." The door clicked shut; his clones smirked, quills forgotten. Some fires demanded kindling.
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