Dawn crept into the eastern bedchamber like a conspirator, pale gold light slipping between the lattice screens and spilling across the ruined futon.
The midnight silk was no longer midnight; it was a battlefield of sweat, dried release, and the faint, unmistakable scent of sex that clung to every breath of air.
The sheets lay twisted and half on the floor. One pillow had been flung somewhere in the night; another was clutched beneath Hinata's cheek like a lifeline.
She woke slowly, the way a person surfaces from the deepest ocean: limbs heavy, mind soft, every muscle humming with a pleasant, bone-deep ache.
For a moment she did not know where she was.
Then memory returned in a warm, dizzying rush: Minato's mouth on her throat, his hands spreading her thighs, the thick drag of him inside her again and again until she forgot her own name.
She was curled on her side, naked, one of Minato's arms locked around her waist, his chest pressed to her back. His breath stirred the fine hairs at her nape in slow, even waves; he was still asleep.
Between her thighs she could feel the sticky evidence of how many times he had come inside her (warm, thick, slowly leaking onto her skin whenever she shifted). The sensation made her clench involuntarily, and a soft, mortified whimper escaped her lips.
Minato stirred instantly.
"Morning, princess," he murmured, voice gravel-rough with sleep and satisfaction. His arm tightened, pulling her flush against him.
The movement nudged his half-hard cock (still nestled between her legs from some point in the night) against her swollen folds. Hinata's breath hitched.
"I… I'm sticky," she whispered, cheeks flaming. "Everywhere."
Minato's low chuckle vibrated through her spine. "Good. I like you sticky with me."
He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the bite mark blooming on her shoulder (one of many), then another lower, tracing the curve where neck met shoulder. His hand slid up from her waist to cup her breast, thumb brushing the tender, darkened nipple with deliberate gentleness.
Hinata shivered. "Minato… we should… my father—"
"Is still kneeling outside the fusuma with your mother," he finished, amusement and something darker lacing his tone. "They've been there all night. They heard everything.
Every time you screamed my name. Every time you begged me to fill you again."
Hinata made a small, mortified sound and tried to bury her face in the pillow. Minato laughed softly and rolled her onto her back, settling between her thighs with lazy confidence.
The movement spread her open; cool air kissed the wet, sensitive place between her legs and she gasped.
"Look at me," he said quietly.
She did (shy, flushed, impossibly beautiful in the morning light). Her lavender eyes were huge, pupils still faintly blown from the night's excesses.
There were tear tracks on her temples, faint bruises on her throat and breasts, and a soft, wondering smile tugging at her swollen lips.
"I have never seen anything more perfect than you right now," Minato said, voice low and serious.
"Marked by me. Full of me. Glowing with it."
Hinata's blush deepened, but she didn't look away. "I feel… different," she admitted. "Like something inside me broke open and let all the light in. I'm sore and aching and I've never been happier."
Minato leaned down and kissed her (slow, reverent, tasting of sleep and sex and them). When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.
"You're not just the Hyūga heiress anymore," he murmured. "You're the woman who took the Fourth Hokage apart with her body and put him back together with her heart. Remember that when you walk out of this room."
Hinata's eyes filled with sudden tears. She reached up, fingers trembling as they traced the line of his jaw.
"And you?" she whispered. "What are you now?"
Minato's smile was small, crooked, devastatingly tender.
"Yours," he said simply.
The tears spilled over. He kissed them away, one by one, until her breathing steadied.
Eventually he shifted to the side, pulling her with him so they lay face-to-face, legs tangled, her head tucked beneath his chin. His hand stroked lazily down her spine, soothing, possessive.
"We should bathe," he said after a while. "There's a private spring through that door. I had it prepared last night."
Hinata nodded against his chest, then hesitated.
"Will you… carry me?" she asked, voice tiny. "My legs still feel like water."
Minato's laugh was soft. He rose in one fluid motion and scooped her up bridal-style as though she weighed nothing. Hinata squeaked, arms winding around his neck, and hid her face against his throat as he carried her across the room.
The fusuma slid open just as they reached it.
Hiashi and Hana were exactly where they had been all night (kneeling, backs straight, faces calm). Only the faint redness around their eyes and the slight tremor in Hana's hands betrayed that they had heard every second of their daughter's transformation.
Minato did not stop. He met Hiashi's gaze evenly, Hinata cradled naked and glowing in his arms, her thighs visibly streaked with the evidence of the night.
"Good morning, Clan Leader," he said, voice warm but edged with steel. "Your daughter served Konoha exceptionally well. I trust the alliance is sealed to your satisfaction."
Hiashi inclined his head, the movement precise and deeply respectful.
"The Hyūga are honored, Lord Hokage," he said, voice steady.
"Our house… and our heiress… are yours."
Hana's eyes (so like her daughter's) were soft with something that might have been pride, or relief, or both.
Minato's arms tightened fractionally around Hinata.
"Thank you," he said simply.
Then he stepped past them, carrying Hinata toward the private spring, her face still hidden against his neck, body trembling with a mixture of shyness and overwhelming joy.
The private spring was carved into natural stone, fed by a hidden hot spring that bubbled up from deep beneath the compound.
Steam curled thick and lazy in the cool morning air, carrying the faint mineral scent of the earth itself. Lanterns still glowed low along the walls, painting everything in soft gold and shadow.
Minato lowered Hinata into the water until her toes touched the smooth stone bottom. She gasped at the heat (scalding against her tender skin, perfect against the ache between her thighs).
The water lapped at her waist, then her ribs, then her breasts as she sank deeper, until only her shoulders and the column of her throat remained above the surface.
Minato followed her in, the water rising to his hips, then his chest as he stepped down. He was already half-hard again (morning hunger and the sight of her naked, flushed, marked by him doing nothing to help his restraint).
Hinata's arms instinctively crossed over her breasts, trying to hide the bruises and the swollen, darkened nipples that still throbbed from his mouth. Minato caught her wrists gently and pulled them away.
"No hiding," he murmured, voice rough with sleep and renewed desire. "Not from me. Not ever again."
He guided her hands to his shoulders instead, then let his own palms glide down her sides (slow, possessive, tracing every curve he had worshipped through the night).
When his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts, Hinata's breath hitched.
"You're still so sensitive," he said, wonder and hunger in his tone. He cupped her breasts fully now, lifting them slightly so the water lapped at her nipples. The contrast (hot water, cool air, his warm palms) made her arch with a soft, broken moan.
"Minato…"
"Shh." He leaned in and kissed her (slow, deep, tasting the faint salt of dried tears on her lips). While his mouth claimed hers, one hand slipped lower, over the soft curve of her belly, until his fingers found the slick, swollen place between her thighs.
Hinata jolcried into the kiss as he parted her folds with deliberate gentleness. She was tender (deliciously sore), but the moment his fingertips brushed her clit she jerked against him, thighs trying to close on instinct.
"Easy," he soothed, nipping her lower lip. "I'm not going to fuck you again… yet. Just want to take care of what's mine."
He circled her clit once, twice (slow, teasing strokes that made her tremble). Then he slid lower, two fingers easing inside her with exquisite care. The water made everything slick, but he could still feel how puffy and used she was, how her walls fluttered around the intrusion.
Hinata's head fell back against the stone edge, eyes fluttering shut. "It's too much… and not enough…"
Minato curled his fingers, pressing against that spot inside her that had made her scream hours ago. Her hips bucked involuntarily, water sloshing.
"Still so greedy," he murmured against her throat. "My perfect little princess, still dripping for me even after I filled you half a dozen times."
A broken whimper escaped her. "You left so much inside me… I can still feel it…"
That earned a low, filthy growl. He pumped his fingers slowly (in, out, curl, press) until her thighs shook and her nails dug into his shoulders.
"Look at you," he whispered, watching her face with reverent hunger. "Completely wrecked and still trying to ride my hand. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are when you're desperate?"
Hinata could only moan, hips rolling in tiny, helpless circles.
He kept her there (on the knife-edge of too much and not enough) until her breath came in sobbing little pants. Then, just when she was trembling on the brink, he withdrew his fingers and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with deliberate slowness while she watched, wide-eyed and flushed.
"Still taste like us," he said, voice dark with satisfaction.
Hinata made a soft, mortified sound and splashed water at his chest. He laughed, caught her wrist, and pulled her flush against him. The movement lined their bodies up perfectly (her breasts crushed to his chest, his cock (now fully hard) trapped between them, sliding against her belly with every breath).
"Tease," she accused, voice shaky.
"Always," he agreed, and kissed her again (deeper this time, hungrier). When they broke apart, both were breathing hard.
He turned her gently until her back was to his chest, arms wrapped around her from behind. One hand splayed possessively over her lower belly, pressing just above where she still ached with the memory of him.
"Lean back," he murmured against her ear. "Let me wash you properly."
He reached for the wooden bucket of scented soap (jasmine and something citrus) and lathered his hands.
Then he began the slow, reverent process of cleaning her.
He washed her throat first, thumbs tracing the bruises he'd left, lips following the path of his hands. Down to her breasts (lifting, kneading, teasing her nipples back to stiff, aching peaks until she was writhing against him).
Over her belly, fingers dipping briefly into her navel, making her squeak. Then lower.
He parted her thighs with gentle insistence and washed her there (slow, careful circles over her swollen folds, rinsing away the evidence of the night only to replace it with fresh slickness).
Every time she tried to close her legs, he clicked his tongue and spread her wider, until she was trembling and clinging to his forearms.
By the time he was done, Hinata was a boneless, whimpering mess (head lolling against his shoulder, thighs shaking, pussy clenching around nothing).
Minato pressed a kiss to her temple.
"Good girl," he praised softly. "Now my turn."
He guided her hands to the soap, and she washed him with the same trembling reverence (fingers tracing every scar, every ridge of muscle, lingering over the sunburst seal that still seemed to pulse beneath her touch).
When she reached his cock (hard, flushed, curving up against his stomach), she hesitated.
"Go on," he encouraged, voice rough. "Touch me. I'm yours too."
Hinata's small hands wrapped around him (both barely fitting around his girth) and stroked slowly, reverently, learning the weight and heat of him all over again.
She traced the thick vein along the underside, circled the sensitive head with her thumb until precome beaded and mixed with the water.
Minato's head fell back, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
"Fuck… just like that…"
She kept going until his hips were rocking into her grip, until his breath came in harsh pants. Then, without warning, she leaned forward and licked a slow stripe up the underside of his cock (just like she had the night before).
Minato's hand tangled in her wet hair, not pushing, just anchoring.
"Hinata…"
She looked up at him through wet lashes, water dripping from her hair, lips swollen and parted.
"I want to taste you clean too," she whispered.
And then she took him into her mouth (slow, careful, worshipful) while the hot spring steamed around them and the morning light painted them both in gold.
Minato let her set the pace (let her explore, let her learn), until his thighs were shaking and his control was a thread about to snap.
Only then did he gently pull her off, turn her around, and crush her to his chest.
"Enough," he rasped against her lips. "Or I'll end up fucking you against the rocks, and you're too sore for that."
Hinata's answering smile was soft, sated, devastating.
"Later," she promised, echoing his words from the night before.
Minato kissed her once more (slow, possessive, tender) and lifted her out of the water.
He dried her with the thick Hokage-white yukata, wrapping her up like a gift, then carried her.
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