Chapter 7: Finding a Favorite
The lantern in the main room had been lit earlier than usual, its soft glow pushing back against the deepening twilight. Fuu Jin found himself straightening a scroll that was already straight, adjusting the position of a cushion for the third time. The phantom ache in his throat was a persistent, private reminder. He touched his lips, still tender, and a shiver that wasn’t entirely unpleasant ran through him.
The knock, when it came, was firm and familiar. Minato stood on the engawa, haloed by the last orange light of the day, a bottle of decent sake in one hand. His smile was easy, warm, but his eyes scanned Fuu Jin’s face with an intensity that missed nothing—the slight redness around his lips, the way his throat worked when he swallowed.
“I come bearing libations,” Minato said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation that was already implicit in the waiting lantern light. His presence filled the entryway, then the main room, as he toed off his sandals. “How’s the throat?”
Fuu Jin felt a blush rise. “Sore,” he admitted, his voice still carrying a slight rasp. “But better.”
“Good.” Minato set the bottle on the low table and turned, his movements fluid. He didn’t sit at a polite distance. He sank onto the worn leather couch and patted the space right next to him. “Come. Tell me about your day.”
Fuu Jin obeyed, the old habit of compliance mingling with a new, eager curiosity. He sat close, their thighs touching. Minato’s arm came around his shoulders, pulling him into his side. It was possessive, comfortable.
“My day was quiet,” Fuu Jin said, leaning into the solid warmth. “I tended the garden. Thought a lot.”
“About?” Minato prompted, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Fuu Jin’s upper arm.
“About yesterday.” The confession was soft, almost lost in the quiet crackle of the lantern’s flame. “About choice.”
Minato hummed, a low, approving sound vibrating in his chest. He shifted, turning slightly to face Fuu Jin more fully. One hand came to rest on Fuu Jin’s knee. “And what did you choose today?”
The question felt heavier than it should. Fuu Jin looked down at the hand on his knee, then up into Minato’s waiting gaze. “I chose to open the door.”
Minato’s smile was brilliant, triumphant. He leaned in and kissed him, not deeply, but with a firm, lingering sweetness that tasted of the outside world and promise. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. “A perfect choice.” His thumb began to stroke slow circles on Fuu Jin’s inner thigh, creeping higher. “Can I ask you something personal?”
Fuu Jin nodded, his breath catching as the thumb brushed perilously close to his groin.
“What’s your favorite position?” Minato asked, his voice casual, conversational, as if asking about a preference for tea.“When you make love. What do you like most?”
The question struck Fuu Jin like a physical blow. His mind went blank, then scrambled.Favorite? He had never… Sakumo had his preferences, and Fuu Jin had accommodated them. He’d enjoyed the closeness, the release, but the mechanics were something that happened to him, not something he curated. The concept of having a favorite felt alien, a luxury he’d never considered.
“I… I don’t know,” he stammered, heat flooding his face. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
Minato’s expression softened, not with pity, but with a kind of fierce delight. “Never?” He cupped Fuu Jin’s cheek. “That’s a crime. A beautiful man like you, should know what makes his toes curl.” His other hand slid fully onto Fuu Jin’s thigh, squeezing. “We could find out. Try everything. See what makes you lose that pretty little mind.”
The offer was a vortex, pulling Fuu Jin down into a world of terrifying possibility. His body, long dormant, was already responding to Minato’s proximity, a warm, heavy ache settling in his gut.
“But for now,” Minato murmured, leaning in so his lips brushed Fuu Jin’s ear, “let’s start with my favorite.” He guided Fuu Jin until he was straddling his lap, knees sinking into the soft leather on either side of Minato’s hips. The position was shockingly intimate, Fuu Jin looking down into those knowing blue eyes. He could feel the hard, thick line of Minato’s erection, still confined, pressing insistently against his own through their clothes. “You.Riding me. Taking your pleasure at your own pace. Being in control.”
Control. The word echoed. Fuu Jin’s hands came to rest on Minato’s shoulders for balance. He felt dizzy.
Minato’s hands went to his own trousers, deftly undoing them and freeing his cock. It sprang out, fully hard now, a thick, veined length that made Fuu Jin’s mouth go dry. The memory of it filling his throat was one thing; the reality of it soon filling another, tighter part of him was another entirely.
“You guide it,” Minato said, his voice a husky whisper. He took Fuu Jin’s hand, wrapping his slender fingers around the hot, rigid shaft. “It’s yours. Put it where you want it.”
Fuu Jin’s fingers trembled. He lifted his hips, fumbling with his own hakama, managing to push the fabric down just enough. The cool air kissed his bare ass, his hairless hole. He was exposed, stretched over Minato, completely vulnerable. He reached down between his own legs, guiding the broad, slick head of Minato’不必cock to his entrance. The blunt pressure against that forbidden nerve-rich ring made him gasp.
His thighs shook, muscles quivering with the strain of holding himself up, with the enormity of what he was about to do.
“Take your time,” Minato breathed, but his own composure was fraying. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk, smearing more pre-come against Fuu Jin’s tight pucker. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Fuu Jin closed his eyes. He thought of choice. He thought of the empty compound. He thought of the aching, lonely hollow inside him that only this man, in this moment, seemed to fit. He let his weight drop.
The initial penetration was a slow, burning breach. The head pushed past the resisting muscle, stretching him open with a deliberate, unforgiving pressure. A sharp, ragged cry tore from Fuu Jin’s throat.It hurt. It burned.It was too much.
“Breathe, Jin,” Minato groaned, his hands flying to Fuu Jin’s hips, not to push, but to steady him as he forced himself to relax, to accept. “Just breathe. Let it in.”
Fuu Jin panted, tears pricking his eyes. He focused on the feeling of being filled, of the impossible thickness spearing him open. He sank lower, another inch, the drag a wicked, delicious friction. His body was yielding, adapting, the initial burn melting into a deep, throbbing fullness. He took another inch, and another, each one wringing a broken sound from both of them.
When he finally settled, fully impaled, Minato’s pubic bone pressed against his ass, the sensation was overwhelming. He was stuffed, stretched to a dizzying limit around the massive intrusion. He could feel every frantic heartbeat in Minato’s cock pulsing inside him.
“Fuck,” Minato hissed, his head thrown back against the couch, tendons standing out in his neck. “Jin. You feel… god, you feel like a fucking dream.” His hands tightened on Fuu Jin’s hips, his knuckles white. “So tight. So perfect.”
For a long moment, neither moved. Fuu Jin trembled, adjusting to the invasion, feeling his inner muscles flutter and grip Minato’s shaft in helpless, rhythmic clenches. The pain had transmuted into a deep, aching pleasure, a fullness that touched something primal in his core.
Tentatively, he rocked his hips. The movement dragged Minato’s cock against his prostate, a lightning bolt of pure sensation that made his eyes roll back.
“Yes,” Minato encouraged, his voice guttural. “Just like that. Find your rhythm. Use me.”
Fuu Jin began to move in earnest, rising up until only the head remained inside, then sinking back down, taking the full length in a smooth, slick slide. Each descent punched a soft “uh” from his lungs. He set a slow, grinding pace, too lost in the sensation to be graceful. His hands clawed at Minato’s shirt, seeking anchor.
Minato watched him, his gaze fever-bright, drinking in the sight of Fuu Jin’s beautiful face contorted in pleasure, his slim body working on his cock. “Look at you,” he rasped. “So fucking beautiful. Riding my dick like you were made for it.”
The praise was fuel. Fuu Jin’s pace increased, his rises becoming more desperate, his falls harder, driven by a need that was quickly spiraling out of his control. The slap of skin on skin, the wet, rhythmic squelch of penetration, filled the quiet room. His own cock, trapped between their bodies, dribbled pre-come onto Minato’s stomach with every jolt.
“Harder,” Minato growled, his own restraint snapping. He began to meet Fuu Jin’s descents with sharp, upward thrusts, spearing into him from below. “Take it. Take all of it.”
The force of Minato’s thrusts changed everything. Fuu Jin was no longer in control; he was being used, fucked up into with a brutal, exhilarating power. The couch creaked violently in protest. Minato’s hands gripped his hips like vices, guiding him, slamming him down onto his cock with a force that stole the air from his lungs.
The coil in Fuu Jin’ s gut wound tight, then tighter, a spring of pure, mindless pleasure. He was babbling, meaningless pleas and curses falling from his swollen lips.
“Come on,” Minato snarled, his thrusts becoming erratic, animalistic. “Come on my cock, Jin. Milk it out of me.”
It was the command that broke him. The orgasm erupted, a white-hot detonation that ripped through his nervous system. His back arched violently as he came, striping Minato’s stomach and his own chest with hot, helpless spurts. His internal muscles clamped down on Minato’s shaft in vicious, rhythmic spasms.
The vicious tightening was the final trigger. Minato shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound, and buried himself to the hilt, pumping his release deep into Fuu Jin’s convulsing channel. Fuu Jin could feel the hot, liquid pulses flooding him, each one a shocking, intimate claim.
They collapsed together, a tangled, sweating heap on the couch. Minato lay beneath him, chest heaving, one arm draped possessively over Fuu Jin’s back, keeping him close, keeping him full. Fuu Jin’s face was buried in Minato’s neck, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. The air was thick with the scents of sex, sweat, and spent release.
Minutes bled by, marked only by the slowing of their hearts. Finally, Minato shifted, his softened cock slipping out of Fuu Jin’s well-used hole with a soft, wet sound. A trickle of warm come followed, staining the leather beneath them.
Minato reached for his discarded shirt, using it to clean Fuu Jin’s stomach with a startling tenderness. Then he pulled Fuu Jin against him, arranging them so Fuu Jin’s head lay on his chest.
“So?” Minato whispered into his hair, his voice rough with satisfaction. “Any clearer on a favorite?”
Fuu Jin let out a shaky, breathless laugh that was almost a sob. He felt shattered, remade, overflowing. “That… was a good start,” he managed.
Minato chuckled, the sound vibrating through him. “Good.” He kissed the top of Fuu Jin’s head. “We’ll try another tomorrow.”
The promise hung in the air, a guarantee of more exploration, more choice, more of this all-consuming connection. Fuu Jin closed his eyes, listening to the strong, steady beat of Minato’s heart. Outside, night had fallen completely. The compound was silent, but for the first time in years, the silence within him was not empty. It was sated, warm, and terrifyingly full.
It was sated, warm, and terrifyingly full. The deep, rhythmic throb between his legs was a raw echo of that fullness. Fuu Jin didn’t want to move, fearing the spell would break and the profound silence of the compound would rush back in.
“It’s gotten late,” Minato murmured, his fingers tracing the knobs of Fuu Jin’s spine. The lantern oil was burning low, painting longer shadows across the ceiling.
Fuu Jin stirred, a small protest in his throat. The thought of Minato leaving, of the sudden emptiness where this solid warmth pressed against him, was a physical dread. “You could stay,” he heard himself say, the words soft against Minato’s collarbone. “It’s a long walk back to your apartment.”
Minato went still for a heartbeat. “No one’s waiting for me tonight,” he said, his tone light, effortlessly casual. “I’d like that.” His acceptance was a simple, warm thing that settled in Fuu Jin’s chest.
They untangled themselves, the cool air raising goosebumps on their sweat-damp skin. Fuu Jin pulled Minato’s oversized shirt around himself, the hem brushing his thighs, and padded toward the kitchen. Minato followed, bare-chested, his trousers hanging loose and unbuttoned at the waist.
“I’m starving,” Minato announced, leaning against the counter as Fuu Jin gathered vegetables. “All that work.”
Fuu Jin shot him a look, a genuine, flustered smile touching his lips. “You didn’t do all the work.”
“I provided essential structural support,” Minato countered, his eyes crinkling. He grabbed a knife and began slicing scallions with a jonin’s effortless precision. “And moral encouragement.”
The ease of it was disarming. Fuu Jin found himself laughing, a real, unguarded sound that seemed to startle them both. He focused on the sizzle of oil in the wok, the sharp, clean scent of ginger hitting the heat. Minato moved behind him, his bare chest a line of warmth against Fuu Jin’s back. He simply wrapped his arms around Fuu Jin’s waist and rested his chin on his shoulder.
“That smells incredible,” Minato breathed, his lips close to Fuu Jin’s ear. He nipped gently at the lobe, a playful, intimate gesture that made Fuu Jin shiver and lean back into the solid embrace. For a long moment, they just stood there, Minato holding him as he stirred the frying vegetables, the domesticity of the scene more intimate than anything that had happened on the couch.
After they ate, the mundane act of cleaning the bowls felt strangely significant. Fuu Jin dried his hands, his mind turning to logistics. “The guest room is just down the hall,” he said, nodding toward the corridor. “I’ll get fresh linens.”
Minato caught his wrist. His touch was gentle, but it stopped Fuu Jin completely. “Can I sleep in your bed instead?”
The question hung, direct and unadorned. Fuu Jin looked at him. Minato’s expression held no pressure, no manipulative gleam—only a quiet, hopeful candor, as if he was merely voicing a preferred possibility aloud. The last of Fuu Jin’s tension dissolved. He let out a small, indulgent huff, a smile finally reaching his eyes. “Yes. Alright.”
Minato’s smile was a sunrise. He followed him to the bedroom, a space still steeped in the ghost of Sakumo’s sandalwood scent. Minato didn’t seem to notice or care. He slid into the futon after Fuu Jin, immediately spooning his slender frame, his chest a wall of heat against Fuu Jin’s back. His arm draped heavily, possessively, over Fuu Jin’s ribs.
Sleep came with a shocking, deep swiftness.
Fuu Jin woke to a different heat. The insistent, hard press of Minato’s morning erection was nestled in the cleft of his ass, dragging slowly, deliberately, over his sore, reddened rim. A small, sleepy sound escaped him.
“Good morning,” Minato murmured, his voice gravelly with sleep. He kissed the nape of Fuu Jin’s neck, then his cheek, his stubble scratching pleasantly.
One of Minato’s large hands slid down Fuu Jin’s stomach, his fingers wrapping around Fuu Jin’s already hard, relatively smaller cock. He gave a slow, testing stroke. “Is this okay?”
Fuu Jin answered by pushing back against the thick length behind him and thrusting lightly into Minato’s grip. His body, oversensitive and primed from the night before, was a live wire. Minato stroked him with a lazy, practiced rhythm, his thumb swiping over the leaking slit.
“That’s it,” Minato whispered, biting his shoulder softly. “Come for me, Jin. Let me feel it.”
It was too easy, too fast. Pleasure crested with a devastating suddenness. Fuu Jin’s hips jerked as he came over Minato’s fingers with a choked gasp, white stripes painting the sheets below his stomach. Minato held him through the tremors, then brought his wet, spend-slicked fingers back to Fuu Jin’s hole. He pressed two fingers against the tight furl, using Fuu Jin’s own come to ease the way, circling and prodding until the muscle softened and yielded.
“Good,” Minato breathed. He shifted, hooking his hands under Fuu Jin’s knees and lifting his legs up, opening him. The morning sunlight poured through the window, bathing them in a soft, honeyed glow, Minato’s bright blonde hair a shock against Fuu Jin’s pitch-black strands.
He pushed in. There was no burn this time, only a deep, slick, overwhelming fullness as his thickness sank home in one smooth, relentless slide. He seated himself flush against Fuu Jin’s ass with a groan of pure satisfaction.
“Pay attention,” Minato said, his voice a low rumble against Fuu Jin’s back as he began to move with slow, deep rolls of his hips. “See if this one could be a contender for your favorite.”
Fuu Jin gave a breathless, giddy laugh. “Maybe.”
It felt different. The brutal, claiming stretch was still there, but his body had accepted it as a fundamental fact. The huge cock inside him didn’t feel degrading; it felt essential, a plug holding his spilled-out self together. His rectum welcomed the invasion, clenching and rippling around the shaft as if it had missed the brutal stretch. Minato set a fast, deep pace, each thrust punching the air from Fuu Jin’s lungs and hitting a spot deep inside that blurred his vision.
One of Minato’s wandering hands splayed over the lower curve of Fuu Jin’s stomach, pressing down. “Feel that?” he growled. “Feel me in you?” Fuu Jin could—a distinct, internal pressure bulging against Minato’s palm with every deep plunge.
Minato’s rhythm fractured into something primal and ragged. He fucked into him with hard, slamming drives, the sound of their skin meeting growing obscenely loud in the quiet room, his balls slapping wetly against Fuu Jin’s underside. He buried his face in Fuu Jin’s shoulder, his groans harsh and unvarnished, and then he was coming, his whole body locking as he emptied deep into Fuu Jin’s clutching heat.
They lay gasping, still joined, until their breathing eased. Cleaning up was a quiet, shared ritual. As Fuu Jin moved to the kitchen, Minato caught his hand. “Let me take you out,” he said. “There’s a stall by the market. Best grilled mackerel in the village.”
Dressed properly, they walked side-by-side through the awakening streets. Fuu Jin observed the world he usually navigated with invisible, apologetic steps. A grocer waved. “Morning, Minato-sama!” An old woman selling flowers beamed. “You’re up early, future Hokage-sama!” Minato returned every greeting with cheerful, genuine warmth, a stark contrast to the wide, wary berth villagers usually gave ninja. His popularity was a tangible force, a bright public tapestry woven in direct opposition to the private, carnal truth pressed against Fuu Jin’s leg just an hour before. Minato’s hand brushed his, a casual, hidden point of contact as they walked toward the smell of charcoal and fish.