The silk caught the candlelight just right—shimmering, weightless, threaded with silver like moonlight woven into fabric. Madara’s eyes followed the way it clung to your frame, the way it draped along your shoulders, sliding over the slope of your arms with maddening softness. It was almost unfair how beautiful you looked in it.

Almost.

He’d chosen it himself.

It hung off you in all the right ways, high-quality and hand-stitched—dark crimson silk, accented with jet-black embroidery along the edges. Subtle. Elegant. And there, right beneath the collarbone, nestled like a secret over your heart: the Uchiha fan, stitched in shining black thread, barely noticeable unless you knew to look.

He liked that part the most.

It wasn’t just clothing. It was his mark.

Madara sat back in the plush chair of his private quarters, one arm slung lazily over the armrest, his gaze never leaving you. The firelight flickered against the sharp lines of his face, casting shadows across his jaw. His hair was loose for once, falling in wild dark waves over his shoulders. It softened him. But his eyes—those obsidian things that burned like coals—remained sharp, hungry in a way he didn’t bother hiding anymore.

“…It fits,” he said at last, voice low, smooth like velvet over a blade. “Better than I imagined.”

Not that he hadn’t imagined it. Far too many times.

He didn’t care for most extravagances. Power? Yes. Prestige? Of course. But jewels, silks, trinkets—those were things he ignored. Until you. Until he discovered the way your skin looked when touched by candlelight and luxury. Until he realized the precise kind of pleasure he took in choosing something expensive, exquisite, personal, and watching it wrap around you like his name already had.

He wouldn’t say what it did to him—seeing you like this. Dressed in things only he could provide. Brushed in color and fabric and weight that screamed his wealth, his taste, his devotion, without ever needing a word.

He wouldn’t say how his heart thundered in his chest when you smiled in one of his gifts. How a single glance could strip away the layers of control he spent years building like armor.

He wouldn’t say how much he wanted to keep you like this forever.

But he would keep buying them. Robes and jewelry. Hair ornaments and bracelets. Soft-soled sandals and delicate gloves. Even when you told him it was too much, even when you tried to protest—you were only encouraging him.

And he reveled in it.

Let the world think him cruel. Let the clan whisper that he was too consumed with war, too lost in power. They didn’t know. They didn’t see the quiet part of him that lived for these moments. That wanted to wrap his strength around someone he deemed worthy and say: You’re mine. The world won’t touch you unless I allow it.

He stood slowly, stepping toward you.

One gloved hand lifted to brush a stray thread from your shoulder, a touch that lingered longer than necessary. His eyes traced the embroidered fan across your chest before they met yours again, dark and unreadable.

“I like you in my colors,” he murmured. “I think you were made to wear them.”

And in the soft silence that followed, he allowed himself one moment—one precious, dangerous moment—to wonder what it would be like to have you beside him always. Draped in red and black. Carrying the Uchiha name. A symbol of everything his the world could never take.

It was a dangerous thought.

But then again, so was he.

And you… looked so very good in danger.