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He went to her side as though the winds had called him. Though in truth the wards, had warned him of his wife crossing the boundaries to their home. In his rush he almost dropped his brush on the cloth he was painting, it would have destroyed hours of work, a kimono’s print in the making.
Calming only with bated breath. He laid down his brushes putting a stasis seal on his colours wet, he would maybe return once more to pick up a brush and paint. Like he did in all the years she had become known to him, and shown him. He only spared a glance in the door to make sure the colour weren’t running.
When he saw her sitting, on a chair unmoving , unseeing phasing away from the boundary of reality.
Going to where she sat in strides that held, he kneeled close, looking up to her, distant distant eyes.
She was his breath, his sense of home. The rock which Uzishio's tidal waves could crash against without taking out the strength within. Holding holding, his willow unbending to time, past winds.
Red hair still lay damp at the back from the new sown rain, smelling of grasses and fresh air.
She took time to wash herself for him, to not bring blood, that was to be foreign into their home.
The scent would clash for her in their fold. He knew, this told to him in dreams, from before she took lead, and let him have space, to be, to be vulnerable.
A thing he did not think he needed nor wanted. The fool, did not know, He needed it, he needed it.
So deeply, that scorn and frowns could do no more than let him feel, a guilty pleasure.
This house had no place for shame. It itself was treated with care, like any of his emotions, because emotions were valid, and he was allowed to Feel them all equally.
It just was, fact within reason.
But she would not stand it, for him or anyone else. Feeling, was part of life, but not all feeling was right. Not to her, she, his fire, his bloom, would not stand for anyone shaming him, not even himself. And for that he was.. Grateful.
She showed him what it was like to kindle the fire and get burnt. He tried to temper it once, the foolish man he was, he should know not to play with fire. But he could not, not do it. He could not.
The hand that fed it, *cough* him *cough* had grown cold, war torn ways not withholding. Upholding him in torn thoughts and life. A martyr made in fake promise and blood, so much blood. A martyr in the making, chained like a dog to his master's house. A house borne slave, born to serve. Kushina had been a pawn too, the fool he was. His strong, beautiful, loving wife. She gave everything, for him to be fed. And he was so utterly grateful,
And as he sat there between his wife's knees waiting for her to come back to him, he could feel tears drip from beneath his eyelids for her passion for him and only him.
From the battle praised high, reliving properly recently added memories of battle. She was wild, the fiery Pearl of his eye, afeared that she might disappear with a swat of oil and a blink of an eye.
He could not, he could not, live..
His fire that kept him and their village safe.
He thought eyes unseeing, if his own foolish mind did one thing right, then this, his decision for this, was right.
A marriage formed in blood, pain and pressure, resolving around plot.
But he got burned by his fire vixen, touched in ways he hoped to never aggravate again. He had stared death in their eyes more than once. but never this untraveled beauty.
The feral ran hard and deep and it bore him to new heights and dales.
And yet, And yet, he was fire then and she was wind. opposites of their conundrums. Chakras and KI’s melting in battle of dominance and love.
Only love.
He wants it, he wants it. To let go and free fall. To be kept in the dark, and not all knowing no more.
He waits, patiently.
No one else, with no one else he could be seen like this, sitting at one's mercy like this, it was unthinkable, unreal even for a man of his stature.
They would think him crazy or playing with dolls, in a game.
She would set them straight, the thought sent a shiver down his spine. The ways she could set rooms ablaze with a look and a posture.
She would make them see reason, she would make them beg. He thought, he knew. But it does not matter what he thought . This was a matter of the home. She would set anyone straight; he knew.
But he was allowed this, he almost keened at the thought. Time was eternal,
he scooched on worn knees almost impossibly closer, waiting. Never touching without permission first, always permission first, he knew nothing. And for that he was grateful.
A hand fell to his back guiding him to Lean along her inner leg. Said hand, traveling up with finger light steps, to the skin at his nape. Guiding his head to rest on top of her inner thigh.
The sigh and slunk in his shoulders, all hard lines going soft. He needed her, as he breathed, her touch, everything she was willing to give. Everything she was willing to give. And Minato had to fight to lay slack and not give chase to the touch that left, him breathless even now. A touch holding promise for more; always.