The night air inside the Hyūga compound was cool and still, thick with sandalwood and the low burn of anticipation. Minato moved like a shadow given flesh, the hem of his white haori whispering over polished cedar.
The sentries at the inner gate dropped to one knee the instant the yellow flash resolved into their Hokage; they did not speak. They never did.
A rustle of silk preceded her.
"Lord Hokage," Akane murmured, bowing so deeply that the neckline of her indigo yukata parted, revealing the soft inner curves of her breasts.
She was the same woman he had bent over a moonlit railing three months ago, the same woman whose quiet, desperate cries still echoed in his memory when council meetings dragged too long.
He stepped close (too close), letting the heat of his body press against her back. One hand settled possessively on the curve of her hip; the other brushed a loose strand of hair from her neck so he could speak directly against her skin.
"You wore the scent I like," he said, voice a low rumble. "Jasmine and something darker. Were you hoping I would come tonight, Akane?"
Her breath trembled. "Every night, my Lord."
His fingers slipped beneath the edge of her obi, tracing the warm skin just above the cleft of her ass.
"And your husband?"
"He… prepared the eastern wing himself," she whispered. "He knows what the clan owes Konoha."
Minato's smile curved against her throat. "Good. Then walk ahead of me. Slowly. Let me watch what will soon belong to me again."
Akane obeyed, hips rolling with deliberate grace, the silk clinging and releasing with every step until Minato's blood thrummed hot beneath his skin.
When they reached the final corner, he caught her wrist and pressed her gently to the wall, mouth finding the frantic pulse beneath her ear.
"Next time," he promised, teeth grazing the lobe, "I'll take you right here while he listens from the garden."
She whimpered, thighs pressing together beneath layers of silk.
He released her with a final stroke of his thumb across her lower lip and pushed open the heavy doors.
Moonlight spilled across the chamber like liquid silver. Hiashi knelt at the low table, spine straight as a blade. To his left, Lady Hana (cool, regal, devastatingly beautiful in deep violet). To his right—
Hinata.
She stole the air from his lungs.
Her yukata was the palest lavender, so sheer it might have been woven from dawn mist. The wide obi cinched her waist to impossible fragility and lifted her small breasts into soft, perfect swells that rose and fell with every shallow breath. Her midnight hair spilled loose over the tatami, framing a face flushed crimson with nerves and something far more dangerous.
All three Hyūga rose in perfect unison.
"Lord Hokage," Hiashi said, bowing low. "The Hyūga welcome you."
Minato's smile was warm, almost lazy. "Rise, old friend. Tonight is not about ceremony."
Lady Hana's dark eyes glittered.
"Everything is prepared exactly as you requested, my Lord. The eastern bedchamber has been aired and warmed. The screens are thick; no sound will carry beyond the corridor." Her gaze flicked to her daughter, soft and proud and merciless all at once. "Hinata has been bathed in jasmine oil. She is ready."
Minato stepped forward until he stood before the girl. Hinata's lashes trembled, but she did not lower her eyes.
He reached out, slow enough that she could have moved away, and brushed the back of his knuckles along the delicate line of her jaw.
"Do you know what tonight means, princess?"
Her voice was barely a breath.
"That I… belong to you now."
"Completely," he confirmed. His thumb traced her lower lip, parting it slightly. "Body, breath, future. All of it."
A visible shiver ran through her. Her nipples tightened beneath the thin silk, betraying her.
Minato turned to Hiashi and Hana. "You will wait outside the chamber doors. Close enough to hear if I call for sake… or anything else. You will serve me tonight the way your daughter serves me (silently, obediently, and with absolute devotion)."
Hiashi inclined his head, the movement precise. "As you command, Lord Hokage."
Lady Hana's smile was slow, knowing. "We live to please you."
Minato offered Hinata his hand. She placed her small fingers in his without hesitation, letting him draw her to her feet. The yukata slipped from one shoulder as she rose, baring the delicate curve of collarbone and the upper swell of her breast. He did not fix it.
He led her from the main chamber, past her parents (who sank gracefully to their knees in the corridor the moment the fusuma slid shut behind them).
The eastern bedchamber glowed like a secret kept too long. A single low lamp trembled, its flame licking gold across the midnight silk of the futon. Moonlight poured through the high lattice window, silvering the air, silvering Hinata's skin where the yukata had already begun to slip from one pale shoulder.
Minato sat on the edge of the low couch, legs parted, the white haori open and hanging loose. He did not speak until she stood before him, close enough that the faint jasmine on her skin mingled with the heat radiating from his body.
"Come sit on my lap, princess."
The words were soft, but they landed like a command wrapped in velvet. Hinata obeyed without a sound, lowering herself sideways across his thighs. The generous curve of her ass settled against the rigid line straining beneath his trousers; the contact drew a tiny, helpless gasp from her lips.
Minato's hands immediately found her waist, fingers splaying wide, thumbs tracing the delicate cage of her ribs through silk.
"You are beautiful, you know," he murmured, and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the flushed crest of her cheek (so gentle it felt like worship, so deliberate it felt like sin).
Hinata's lashes fluttered. No man had ever kissed her before (not once). The warmth of his lips sent a shiver racing down her spine and pooling hot between her thighs.
"Thank you… my Lord," she whispered, the honorific trembling on her tongue.
His palms slid up her back, gathering her closer until her breasts pressed to his bare chest, until she could feel the thunder of his heart against her own. One hand settled at the nape of her neck, thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath her hairline.
"Be honest with me," he said, voice low and intimate, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "How do you feel right now?"
Hinata swallowed, the words catching in her throat before they spilled out, raw and unguarded.
"It's… nerve-wracking. I'm about to share a bed with the man I've admired my entire life (the leader of our village, the Yellow Flash, the Fourth Hokage). It feels strange… almost forbidden. But I don't dislike it. Not even a little."
Minato exhaled slowly, the sound rough with approval. His fingers tightened at her waist, guiding her into a subtle roll of her hips that dragged the slick heat of her core along the hard ridge of his cock. A soft whimper escaped her.
"Good," he praised, lips grazing the corner of her mouth. "Because from tonight forward you are mine, Hinata. That means protection, privilege, power. Training no one else will ever receive. Political favor that will silence every elder who ever doubted you. Anything you desire, you will have."
She could only manage a tiny, overwhelmed nod, cheeks burning crimson. "Mmmh…"
He smiled against her skin, slow and dangerous. "Tell me something, princess. Have you ever been in love?"
A shy, almost wistful laugh slipped free. "No… but I have been the object of it. Many times. I'm told I'm… very popular among men."
Minato's hands slid lower, cupping the lush swell of her ass through the yukata, kneading gently until her breath fractured.
"I have no doubt," he growled. "Any man with blood in his veins would kill to be where I am right now."
Hinata's fingers curled against his shoulders, nails grazing the sunburst seal over his heart. "One of them was even your son," she confessed in a breathless rush. "Naruto-kun… he still carries that crush like a torch."
Minato's eyes darkened (possessive, amused, unapologetic). "I can't blame him," he said, voice velvet and steel. "You are exquisite. Anyone would beg to taste you."
His hands became greedier, slipping beneath the loose folds of her yukata to find bare skin. One palm splayed across the small of her back; the other cupped her breast, thumb circling the stiff, silk-covered nipple until it ached and throbbed.
Hinata's head fell back, exposing the pale column of her throat. "P-pardon me if I seem bold," she whispered, trembling, "but… I've never done anything with anyone. I've never even been kissed until tonight."
Before he could answer, she shifted in his lap (deliberately this time), rolling her hips so the slick heat between her thighs dragged along his length. Then she cupped his face with both small hands and pulled him into a kiss.
It was clumsy at first (hesitant, reverent), but it quickly turned hungry. Her lips parted on a soft cry as she poured every unspoken year of longing into him: every time she had watched him from the shadows, every fantasy she had buried beneath duty and shyness.
She kissed him like surrender, like devotion, like a girl finally allowed to want.
Minato groaned into her mouth, the sound raw and reverent. His arms locked around her, crushing her to his chest as he took control of the kiss (deep, filthy, consuming). When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same trembling air.
"Careful, princess," he rasped, voice wrecked. "Keep kissing me like that and I'll forget I promised to be gentle."
Hinata's answer was another slow, deliberate roll of her hips, the soaked silk of her yukata now clinging transparently to them both.
"I don't want gentle tonight," she breathed against his lips. "I want to feel owned. I want to feel chosen. I want to feel you, my Lord… everywhere."
Outside the fusuma, Hiashi and Hana knelt in perfect, aching silence, listening to the soft rustle of silk, the broken hitch of their daughter's breath, the low, reverent growl of the Hokage as he finally began to unwrap the gift the Hyūga had laid at his feet.
Inside, beneath moonlight and jasmine, Minato lifted Hinata into his arms and carried her to the midnight futon (slow, deliberate, as though she were made of spun glass and wildfire both).
And the night swallowed them whole.
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