The grand hall of the Uchiha clan leader's estate breathed in the amber hush of paper lanterns. Their light slid like warm oil across lacquered walls, each fan crest catching the glow and flinging it back in proud, silent challenge.
Sandalwood smoke curled lazy spirals toward the rafters, mingling with the dry scent of old scrolls and the faint metallic tang of ink.
The ebony table, polished until it reflected the ceiling beams, lay strewn with maps, wax-sealed decrees, and the future of a village balanced on a knife's edge.
Minato Namikaze sat at the head, golden hair haloed by lantern fire, the easy curve of his smile doing nothing to soften the razor glint in his cerulean eyes. To his right, Fugaku Uchiha was carved from obsidian: spine straight, jaw tight, dark gaze fixed on the middle distance as though the room itself might betray him.
Across the table, the five grand elders hunched like ancient crows, black robes pooling around them, the fan rings on their gnarled fingers catching the light with every measured gesture.
"We are grateful for the Hokage's generosity," Great Elder Tetsuo rasped, voice like gravel dragged over silk. His cane tapped once against the tatami, a punctuation mark.
"The Uchiha will not forget."
Minato's smile widened, warm enough to melt steel. "Gratitude is unnecessary, Elder Tetsuo. Konoha rises or falls as one. The Uchiha are its spine."
The elders exchanged glances—gratitude, suspicion, calculation—then rose in a rustle of silk and age. Their farewells were murmured, formal, final. The cedar doors closed with a soft, decisive thud, sealing the room in sudden, humming silence.
A low, velvet laugh drifted from the shadowed alcove beside the shoji screens. "Ancestors preserve me, I was drowning in incense and hypocrisy."
Mikoto Uchiha stepped into the light as though the lanterns had been waiting for her cue. The crimson silk of her kimono clung like spilled wine, the neckline plunging in a daring V that framed the creamy swell of her breasts, rising and falling with every deliberate breath.
A single obsidian hairpin tamed the raven cascade of her hair, though a few rebellious strands already teased the curve of her throat. Her lips, lacquered the color of fresh blood, curved in a smile that promised ruin and rapture in equal measure.
She moved with the lazy confidence of a panther, hips rolling beneath silk, the soft whisper of fabric against skin the only sound until her bare feet met the tatami with deliberate grace.
Fugaku breath caught—fear, anticipation, the old familiar ache—coiling low in his gut. Mikoto's gaze slid over him without pause, cool and dismissive, and settled on Minato like a match striking flint.
Minato rose in one fluid motion, arms already opening. Mikoto flowed into them, the impact muffled by silk and muscle.
He lifted her clear off the floor, her thighs bracketing his hips, the heat of her body searing through thin layers of cloth. His hands splayed across her back, fingers digging in just enough to remind her who held the reins.
"How have you been, Miko-chan?" His voice was a low rumble against her ear, warm breath stirring the fine hairs at her nape.
She arched into him, breasts pressing flush to his chest, nipples already stiff against the silk. "I thought the great Fourth Hokage had forgotten his favorite Uchiha."
"Forget you?" Minato's chuckle vibrated through her ribs. "I'd sooner forget how to breathe."
Fugaku stood rooted, pulse thudding in his ears. The sight of his wife—his wife—molded to another man should have ignited rage. Instead, heat pooled low in his belly, shame and arousal braided so tightly he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
This arrangement had been his idea, a political necessity to bind the Uchiha closer to the Hokage's seat. Loyalty, he'd told himself. Survival. But the truth was uglier: he craved the sting of it, the way Mikoto bloomed under Minato's touch like a flower starved for sun.
Minato's hand drifted lower, slow enough to be deliberate, fingers tracing the curve of her spine until they cupped the swell of her ass. He squeezed—hard. Mikoto's startled yelp melted into a breathy laugh, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Minato!" The protest was token, laced with delight. "Your hands are wandering."
"Exactly where they're meant to," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "And you're trembling. Don't lie to me, Miko. I can feel how wet you are through this silk."
Color flooded her cheeks, but her eyes sparkled with wicked challenge. She glanced at Fugaku—finally—dark gaze locking with his. The weight of it pinned him in place, a silent dare: Watch. Learn. Burn.
Minato followed her gaze, lips curving into a predator's smile. "He's watching, isn't he? Does that make you hotter, knowing your husband sees every filthy thing I do to you?"
Mikoto's breath hitched. "He's… right there."
"Exactly." Minato's palm cracked against her ass, the sound sharp in the hushed room. Silk offered no protection; the sting bloomed instantly, and Mikoto's moan was raw, unfiltered.
"Tell me, Miko. Are you dripping for me already?"
She tried for indignation, but her voice cracked. "You're incorrigible."
"Wrong answer." Another spank, harder. Her hips jerked involuntarily, grinding against the rigid line of his erection. "Try again."
"Yes," she whispered, the word torn from her throat. "Yes, I'm soaked. Happy?"
"Ecstatic." Minato shifted his grip, hoisting her higher so her thighs clamped around his waist. The movement bared the tops of her stockings, the lace edges stark against pale skin. "But words are cheap. Let's give your husband a show he'll never forget."
Mikoto's eyes widened. "Here? In the hall?"
"No." Minato was already moving, striding toward the corridor that led to the master bedroom, Mikoto still wrapped around him like a second skin. "In the bed you share with him. He'll have the best seat in Konoha."
Fugaku's feet moved before his mind caught up, trailing them like a moth to flame. The bedroom doors slid open with a whisper of wood on wood. Lanterns here burned lower, casting golden pools across the tatami and the low, wide bed draped in indigo silk.
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