A Life in the Hidden Leaf
Tsunade
Nagasawa Yasuo's earliest memories in this new world were fragmented, like shards of a broken mirror reflecting glimpses of a life he couldn't quite grasp. Born into the Hidden Leaf Village, Konohagakure, he grew up as an orphan, much like many in a world scarred by endless shinobi wars. In the beginning, my days were simple: training at the Ninja Academy, learning basic jutsu, and navigating the social dynamics of a class filled with future legends.
He was in the same batch as some of the village's most promising talents—Hatake Kakashi, the prodigy with a mask hiding his emotions; Obito Uchiha, the clumsy but kind-hearted boy from the Uchiha clan; Rin Nohara, the gentle medic-in-training; Might Guy, the energetic taijutsu enthusiast; Asuma Sarutobi, the son of the Third Hokage with a rebellious streak; Kurenai Yuhi, the illusion specialist; Anko Mitarashi, the wild and unpredictable one and more prominent names in Konoha. They were a diverse group, bonded by the rigors of academy life and the looming shadow of conflict.
I was average at first—neither a standout genius like Kakashi nor an underdog like Obito. But strange dreams haunted me: visions of a modern world with cars, screens, and a peaceful existence far removed from chakra and kunai. These fragments came slowly, piecing together over the years. By age 5, he recalled odd concepts like "anime" and "manga," dismissing them as childish fantasies. At 6, flashes of a fatal accident surfaced, making him question his sanity.
It wasn't until he was 7, during a particularly grueling training session where he first manifested his Lightning affinity, accidentally shocking himself with it, that everything clicked. The pain triggered a floodgate: I remembered who I was—a young man from Earth, obsessed with the Naruto series, died and reincarnated here. The realization: this was the Naruto universe, and he was living in it.
Armed with foreknowledge, I could have changed everything—warned about the Kyuubi attack, prevented tragedies, or sought ultimate power. But he chose discretion. The plot was a minefield; altering it too boldly could unravel timelines or paint a target on his back. Instead, he went through the motions: graduating early due to the Third Shinobi War, becoming a Chunin at 12, and a Jonin by 18. He fought in battles, lost comrades, and grew stronger, mastering Lightning and Wind Release while delving into Medical Ninjutsu—a rare combination that made him versatile but not flashy.
Yasuo stayed low‑key, avoiding the spotlight. He wasn't interested in becoming Hokage or a legendary Sannin. No, his focus shifted to something more personal: the women of the Narutoverse. They were breathtaking—strong, resilient, and multifaceted. In his old life, he'd been a fan, admiring characters like Tsunade, Kurenai, and Anko from afar. Now, they were real. Why not pursue them? Discreetly, of course. He built connections, flirted subtly, and let his charm do the work. A shared mission with Kurenai led to stolen moments; training sessions with Anko turned heated.
As the years rolled on, Yasuo moved through the major events of the Naruto world with the precision of someone who already knew the script—but chose never to rewrite the ending. He stood among the crowds during the Kyuubi attack, helping direct terrified civilians to safety while Minato and Kushina fought their final battle above the village. He survived the brutal meat-grinder of the Third Shinobi World War, slipping through ambushes that claimed far too many lives, including the supposed death of Obito Uchiha and the heartbreaking murder of Rin Nohara. Each loss carved another scar into him, yet his foreknowledge let him make quiet, anonymous differences: rerouting a patrol just in time to avoid a hidden explosive tag, passing along a seemingly casual medical tip that saved a squad from more severe injuries, or simply being in the right place to pull a wounded genin out of the line of fire.
These small interventions kept him alive and unremarkable—exactly where he wanted to be.
By age 26, Yasuo had become a seasoned Jōnin whose reputation was solid but never flashy. His Lightning Release granted him blistering speed and be able to land heavy strikes; Wind Release let him slice through defenses or create razor-sharp gusts at range; and his Medical Ninjutsu, honed through relentless self-study and battlefield necessity, allowed him to stabilize the dying or patch himself up mid-fight. He was versatile, reliable, and—most importantly—discreet.
That discretion finally paid off when Tsunade Senju returned to the village as the Fifth Hokage. Jiraiya had dragged her back kicking and screaming (metaphorically, though there were rumors of actual punches), and the village needed capable aides who could handle both administrative drudgery and high-stakes emergencies. Yasuo's combination of combat prowess and medical skill made him a natural choice. He found himself assigned to the Hokage's inner office alongside Shizune, spending long hours sorting reports, reviewing mission logs, drafting health policies, and occasionally joining Tsunade on field inspections or sensitive diplomatic trips.
Tsunade noticed him almost immediately.
Not because he was loud or showy—he wasn't—but because he was quietly competent. He never fawned over her legendary status, never stared too long (at least not obviously), and when he spoke, his suggestions were sharp, practical, and delivered without ego. She began asking for his input more often: on hospital staffing shortages, on training programs for field medics, on how certain jutsu could be adapted for trauma care. Yasuo answered thoughtfully, sometimes challenging her assumptions in a respectful but firm way that made her golden eyes narrow with interest.
But Yasuo's real game had never been politics or glory. It was seduction.
He had already quietly claimed several women in the years since his memories fully returned. With Kurenai Yūhi, it started during joint genjutsu-resistance training sessions. She would trap him in illusions; he would break them with ruthless efficiency, then—once alone—trap her in something far more intimate. Their encounters were slow, intense, almost hypnotic: whispered commands, blindfolds made of silk, her breath hitching every time he told her exactly how beautiful she looked when she surrendered. Kurenai never spoke of it outside their private hours, but the way her eyes softened when they passed in the halls told the story.
With Anko Mitarashi it was different—raw, chaotic, almost violent. After Orochimaru's final betrayal left her branded and broken, she sought oblivion in sake and sparring. Yasuo gave her neither. Instead he met her aggression head-on, turning their training sessions into brutal, sweat-soaked fucks against the walls of abandoned training grounds. She clawed his back, bit his shoulder, screamed curses and pleas in equal measure. He pinned her down and fucked the pain out of her until she trembled and begged for more. Anko never asked for gentle; she asked for real. And Yasuo gave it.
He was careful, always. No bragging. No jealousy. Mutual satisfaction above all. Yet deep down he relished the transformation: strong, proud women slowly becoming addicted to the way he made them feel—seen, desired, utterly taken apart and put back together.
Tsunade Senju, however, was different. Not the biggest conquest, not some checklist item. She was personal. Her legendary strength, her towering presence, the voluptuous body she hid under flowing robes, the iron will that had survived decades of grief—it all called to something primal in him. He didn't want to ruin her; he wanted to make her bend, just for him.
The seduction started small, almost imperceptibly.
Their first private meeting in the Hokage's office was ostensibly about updating the village's medical supply chain after a recent border skirmish. Tsunade sat behind the massive desk, sleeves rolled up, blonde hair tied back in a messy knot. Yasuo stood across from her, pointing out discrepancies in the inventory scroll. As he leaned forward to indicate a line of text, his forearm brushed hers—just barely. He didn't pull away immediately. Neither did she.
"You know, Lady Tsunade," he said quietly, voice pitched for her ears alone, "your hands are legendary for healing… but I've always wondered what else they're capable of when no one's watching."
She froze for half a second. Then she laughed—a short, surprised bark—and flicked her eyes up to meet his. "Careful, Yasuo. Flattery will get you nowhere with me."
But her cheeks held the faintest flush, and when he straightened, he caught the way her gaze dropped—very briefly—to his crotch.
Over the following weeks he escalated in measured steps.
Late-night strategy sessions over sake became routine. Tsunade would pour generously, complaining about the elders, about Danzō's endless scheming, about the weight of the hat. Yasuo listened—really listened—nodding at the right moments, offering quiet insights drawn from his "unique perspective." When she spoke of Nawaki and Dan, her voice would soften, crack just a little. He never interrupted those moments with cheap comfort. Instead he let silence sit, then gently covered her hand with his.
"Dan was a good man," she said once, staring into her cup.
Yasuo stroked the back of her hand with his thumb—slow, deliberate. "He was. But a good man isn't always enough for a woman like you."
She looked up sharply. "And what kind of man do you think is enough?"
He held her gaze. "One who isn't afraid to take what he wants… and give you exactly what you need in return."
Her breath caught. She didn't pull her hand away.
On a secret mission to a neighboring daimyo's estate, they were forced to camp overnight in a secluded forest clearing—only the two of them, no escorts, no Shizune. Yasuo set up the tents while Tsunade built the fire. When he passed behind her to grab firewood, his chest brushed her back; his hand "accidentally" grazed the curve of her hip. She stiffened—but didn't step away.
Later, after dinner and a shared flask of sake, the fire crackling low, Yasuo moved closer. He didn't speak at first. Just let the tension build until it was thick enough to choke on.
Then he reached out, fingers brushing her jaw, tilting her face toward him.
"Tell me to stop, Tsunade."
She searched his eyes for a long moment. Then she leaned in and kissed him—hard, hungry, like she'd been starving for years.
Yasuo took control instantly. He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding into her hair, the other gripping her waist and pulling her flush against him. She moaned into his mouth, hands clutching his shoulders. When they broke apart, both breathing hard, he growled against her ear:
"You're mine now."
She shivered. "Prove it."
They didn't make it to the tent.
In the shadows of the trees, Yasuo stripped her slowly, reverently at first—then with growing impatience. When she stood naked before him, moonlight painting her curves in silver, he stepped back and simply looked. Tsunade—proud, powerful Tsunade—shifted under his gaze, arms instinctively covering herself.
"Don't," he ordered softly. "Let me see."
She dropped her arms.
He stepped forward, hands roaming—tracing the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. When his fingers finally slipped between her thighs, she was already soaked.
"Dan never got you this wet, did he?" he murmured, circling her clit with agonizing slowness. "He was gentle. Kind. But you need more than kindness, don't you?"
Tsunade whimpered, hips rocking against his hand. "Yasuo… please…"
"Please what?"
"Make me forget."
He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them just right, thumb still working her clit. She came fast—shuddering, gasping his name, knees buckling. He held her up, kissing her through the aftershocks.
From that night on, she was hooked.
Yasuo didn't rush. He made her wait sometimes—summoning her to empty training grounds at midnight, or to a sealed room in the Hokage Tower after hours. He'd order her to her knees, make her suck him while he sat in a chair and spoke degrading truths in that calm, even tone she couldn't resist.
"Suck it the way you wish you could have sucked Dan's… but we both know mine is bigger. Thicker. Better. Don't we?"
She'd moan around him, tears of effort and arousal in her eyes, nodding frantically.
He'd fuck her against walls, over desks, in hidden hot springs during missions. Each time he pushed her further—spanking her until her ass glowed red, edging her until she begged, whispering how Dan could never have handled her like this, how she was finally getting what she'd always secretly needed.
One evening, after a brutal council meeting left her furious and drained, Tsunade found him waiting in her private quarters. She didn't speak—just crossed the room, dropped to her knees, and looked up at him with raw need.
"I can't stop thinking about you," she admitted, voice rough. "Dan… he loved me. But you… you make me feel alive. Used. Wanted. Owned."
Yasuo cupped her cheek, thumb brushing her lower lip. "That's because I'm the one who fucks you right. Dan couldn't handle a woman like you. But I can. And I will—every time you need it."
She leaned into his touch, eyes closing in surrender.
From that moment, their bond was sealed—not romance, not affection in the traditional sense, but something darker, hungrier. A ritual of power and release where the Fifth Hokage willingly became Yasuo's needy, obedient slut.
And she never once asked him to stop.
The Hokage Tower stood silent under the cover of night, the village lights twinkling like distant stars far below. The air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of cherry blossoms from the gardens outside, but inside the office, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation. Yasuo had slipped in after hours, drawn by a cryptic summons from Tsunade—a simple note left on his desk earlier that day: "Midnight. My chair. Don't make me wait." He knew what it meant. She had a particular fantasy, one that thrilled her with its taboo nature, flipping the power dynamics of her role as Hokage in the most intoxicating way. "Sit in my chair," she'd whispered to him that morning during a mundane meeting, her eyes gleaming with mischief and unbridled lust, her hand brushing his crotch teasingly under the table, sending a jolt through him that had him hard for the rest of the day.
Now, Yasuo lounged in the Hokage's seat, the polished wood creaking slightly under his weight as he shifted, his muscles taut with expectation. His Lightning affinity buzzed faintly in his veins, a subtle hum of readiness that made his skin tingle, but it was his cock that throbbed most insistently, already half-hard from the mere thought of what was to come. The chair felt oversized, symbolic of the authority he was usurping for this game, and it only heightened the erotic charge in the room. The desk before him was cluttered with scrolls and seals, remnants of the day's work, but they meant nothing now. All that mattered was her.
The door opened softly, a whisper of hinges in the quiet, and Tsunade entered like a shadow come to life. Her Hokage robe was draped loosely over her shoulders, the fabric clinging just enough to hint at the voluptuous curves beneath—no undergarments, as per his earlier command whispered in her ear during lunch. The robe parted slightly as she moved, revealing flashes of smooth, pale skin that made Yasuo's mouth go dry. Her blonde hair flowed freely down her back, tousled as if she'd run her fingers through it in impatience, and her golden eyes locked onto him with a predatory hunger that belied the submission he had so carefully cultivated in her. But beneath that fire was the glint of yielding, the knowledge that tonight, like so many nights, she would be his to command.
"You dare sit there?" she teased, her voice a husky purr that sent shivers down his spine, though it held no real anger. It was part of the game—the power play that excited her, that made her pussy clench with need, her thighs already slick with anticipation.
Yasuo smirked, spreading his legs wider in the chair, his posture relaxed but commanding. "You commanded it, Lady Hokage. Or should I say... my slut?"
Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, a mix of embarrassment and arousal that only made her more beautiful, but she sauntered over anyway, her hips swaying with deliberate seduction. She dropped to her knees with graceful submission, then crawled the last few feet like the eager whore he'd trained her to be over their months of secret encounters. The sight of her—the mighty Tsunade Senju, Fifth Hokage—on all fours, robe slipping off one shoulder to expose the swell of her breast, made his cock twitch harder in his pants.
Her hands traced up his thighs slowly, fingers trembling slightly with excitement, undoing his pants with practiced ease. She freed his throbbing cock, and it sprang forth, thick and veined, slapping against his abdomen before pointing straight at her face like an accusation—or an invitation. Tsunade's eyes widened, as they always did, a mix of awe, greed, and pure addiction washing over her features. It was obscene in its size, ridged with pulsing veins, the skin stretched taut over the hardness beneath.
"Gods, Yasuo... so obscene, so perfect," she murmured, her voice thick with desire, her breath hot against his skin as she leaned closer. The masculine scent of him hit her like a wave—musky, salty, with an undercurrent of sweat from the day's training, intoxicating her senses and making her mouth water. Her cunt throbbed emptily between her legs, already aching for what she knew would come later.
Before she could dive in, Yasuo grabbed a fistful of her blonde hair, pulling her back sharply but not painfully. The tug sent a spark of pleasure-pain through her scalp, making her gasp. "Not so fast, slut. Beg for it. Tell me how much better I am than Dan."
Tsunade whimpered, her hands clutching his thighs tightly, nails digging in just enough to leave faint marks. Her eyes were glassy with need, her lips parted. "Please, Yasuo... your cock is so much bigger than Dan's ever was. He could never make me this desperate, this wet. Let me suck it, own me with it. I'll do anything..."
Satisfied with her plea, he released her hair, and she surged forward like a woman starved. She leaned in, nuzzling his heavy balls first, inhaling deeply to savor that ripe, musky scent that drove her wild. Her tongue darted out, lapping at the sensitive seam where his balls met the base of his cock. The taste was divine—faint iron tang from his blood-warmed skin, mixed with the salty essence of his arousal. She sucked one swollen ball into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing as she nursed it gently at first, then with more fervor, feeling it tighten and twitch against her tongue. The sound was wet and obscene, a soft slurping that echoed in the quiet office.
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