Tsunade, Fifth Hokage, wasted the afternoon on a nobody.

He was nobody. Ugly, thick, already red in the face, and somehow under her. She didn’t care. Blonde hair stuck to her neck as she sat on him, hands locked behind her head, hips doing the work. Sweat ran between her breasts. Her mouth stayed open, half a laugh, half a moan.

He tried to say her title. It came out broken. She rolled her hips harder and watched his eyes go stupid.

“Quiet,” she said. “You’re not here to talk.”

The bed creaked. Her thighs pinned him. She took him deep, stayed there, and ground until her breath hitched and her tongue slipped past her teeth. He twitched under her, finished, and she didn’t climb off. She laughed once, low, and started again.

Outside, the village still called her Hokage. In the room, she was just a woman using an ugly nobody because it felt good, and she wasn’t done.