Hiroshi leaned against the cold stone wall of the corridor, his spear propped beside him like a silent sentinel. The secret mansion's air was thick with the damp chill of the forest mist that seeped through the cracks, carrying the faint, earthy scent of wet pine and moss.
It was a far cry from the polished halls of the daimyo's palace, but this hidden lair suited Fubuki's shadowy dealings—meetings with dissidents, whispers of alliances, and now, apparently, her entanglements with that Konoha ninja.
His shift had dragged on through the night, the flickering lantern light casting long shadows that danced like mocking spirits. Kenji paced nearby, his lean form tense, boots scuffing softly against the uneven floor. They had been Fubuki's guards since childhood, sworn to her protection by oaths etched into their very souls.
Hiroshi remembered the days when they were kids, sneaking into the palace gardens where Fubuki practiced her wind jutsu, her laughter like a gentle breeze that stirred his heart.
He had bandaged her scrapes, shared stolen sweets, and dreamed of a future where he could confess his love. Kenji, ever the quiet one, had his own memories—hiding in the shadows during her training, his obsession growing with every graceful swirl of her ice-infused gales.
But now, those memories twisted into something bitter. The sounds from her chamber that morning had been torture—Fubuki's moans, varied and unrestrained, echoing faintly through the reinforced door. Hiroshi's jealousy had burned like a fire jutsu gone awry, his mind painting vivid pictures of Minato's hands on her, claiming what he had longed for all these years.
Why him? A outsider from Konoha, flashing in like lightning, stealing her touch, her cries. His fists clenched, the calluses from years of swordplay digging into his palms.
Kenji's face was a mask of stoic control, but his eyes betrayed the storm within. I've loved her silently, devoted my life to her shadows. And he gets to wake with her, feel her warmth? It's unbearable. The jealousy was intense, a venom that spread through their veins, mixing with the damp air's chill to form a knot in their chests.
The door finally creaked open, and Hiroshi straightened, his heart pounding. Fubuki emerged first, her emerald hair slightly disheveled but tied back in a practical knot, her yukata adjusted but still bearing the rumpled evidence of intimacy. She looked every bit the daimyo's daughter—poised, powerful, her kekkei genkai humming faintly in the air around her like an invisible aura.
But it was Minato who followed, that yellow-haired ninja with his casual smirk, his blue eyes scanning the corridor with a shinobi's wariness. He was dressed in his standard Konoha flak jacket, but his hand immediately found Fubuki's waist, pulling her close without a shred of discretion. Hiroshi's breath caught, jealousy flaring like a explosive tag. How dare he touch her like that, in front of us? As if we're invisible.
Kenji's pacing stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing as Minato's fingers roamed freely over Fubuki's hip, tracing the curve with possessive familiarity. The touch was bold, unapologetic—the ninja's calloused palm sliding lower, cupping her ass through the thin fabric of her yukata. Fubuki didn't pull away; instead, she leaned into him slightly, a calculated smile on her lips, her body responding with a subtle arch that made her breasts press against his arm.
The guards could only watch, their positions demanding silence and vigilance. Hiroshi felt a surge of rage, his face heating despite the cool air. That ass—soft, perfect—I've dreamed of it, protected it from assassins' blades. And he just grabs it like it's his? The jealousy was visceral, a burning knot in his gut that made his spear hand twitch. He imagined lunging forward, driving the weapon through Minato's chest, claiming Fubuki's gratitude and perhaps her affection.
Minato, oblivious or uncaring, gave her ass a light squeeze, the sound of fabric rustling faintly in the quiet corridor. Then, with a playful grin, he delivered a sharp spank— the smack echoing softly off the stone walls, Fubuki's yelp a mix of surprise and amusement. "Ready for the meeting?" he murmured, his voice low and intimate, as if they were alone. Fubuki laughed softly, swatting his hand away half-heartedly, but the way she lingered in his grasp spoke volumes.
Kenji's jealousy intensified, his breath coming in shallow bursts. Spanking her? In our presence? I've guarded her baths, seen glimpses of her grace, yearned to touch her even once. And he treats her like a plaything? The envy was all-consuming, a dark chakra that clouded his thoughts, making him fantasize about poisoning Minato's tea during the meeting, watching him choke while he stepped in as her protector.
The pair moved down the corridor toward the central chamber, Minato's arm slipping around Fubuki's waist, pulling her into his side. Hiroshi and Kenji fell in step behind them, their boots thudding dully on the stone floor, the lantern light flickering across their tense faces. Minato's hand continued to roam—sliding up her back, fingers tracing her spine through the yukata, then dipping low again to rest on her ass.
He even lifted her slightly at one point, hoisting her into his arms with effortless strength, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her a few steps, their laughter echoing.
Fubuki hands tangled in his yellow hair, her body molding to his, the intimate press of their forms a dagger to the guards' hearts. Hiroshi's vision blurred with rage, the damp air feeling suffocating. Holding her like that, her thighs around him—I've carried her when she was injured, felt her weight, but never like this.
Jealousy doesn't cover it; it's a curse. He could smell the faint jasmine from her skin, mixed with Minato's earthy scent, a reminder of their shared night.
Kenji's mind raced with bitter thoughts, his stealthy nature turning inward. Lifting her, spanking her—treating her like his prize. I've loved her from the shadows, killed for her, and all I get is to watch? One day, I'll expose him, turn her against him. The jealousy was intense, a physical ache in his chest, his hands itching to draw his hidden daggers.
They reached the central chamber, a spacious room with low tables surrounded by cushions, scrolls of maps and rebellion plans scattered across the surface. The air here was warmer, heated by a small brazier that crackled with embers, casting an orange glow that danced on the walls.
The meeting was about the rebellion—a covert plot Fubuki had been nurturing against her own father, the daimyo, It was high treason, but in this mansion, secrets flowed like water.
As they entered, Minato set Fubuki down but kept his hand on her lower back, fingers occasionally dipping to trace her ass. The other attendees— a mix of disgruntled samurai, rogue shinobi, and merchant spies— were already seated, their faces illuminated by the brazier's flicker.
The scent of herbal tea steamed from cups, mingling with the sharp ink of fresh scrolls. Fubuki took her place at the head, her posture commanding, but Minato sat close, his thigh pressing against hers under the table.
Hiroshi and Kenji positioned themselves at the door, their eyes fixed on the pair. Minato's hand vanished beneath the table at one point, and Fubuki's subtle shift— a faint flush on her cheeks—suggested he was roaming again, perhaps teasing her thigh. Hiroshi's jealousy boiled over, his breath ragged. In a meeting about overthrowing the daimyo, and he's fondling her? I've sworn to die for her cause, and he treats it like a game.
The discussion unfolded with tense whispers. Fubuki outlined the plan: strikes on supply lines, alliances with border clans, and Minato's role in providing Konoha scouts. "The daimyo's grip weakens," she said, her voice steady, but her body leaned toward Minato, his arm draping casually over her shoulder.
He nodded, his fingers playing with the edge of her yukata, exposing a sliver of skin that made Kenji's blood run hot. Touching her in front of everyone— no shame. I've loved her purity, her strength, and he's corrupting it.
The jealousy was a storm, thundering in his mind, making the brazier's heat feel like an inferno. Maps were unrolled, the crinkle of parchment filling the air, fingers pointing to key villages. Minato contributed details on Konoha's neutral stance, but his free hand slipped to Fubuki's ass again, giving a discreet squeeze that she acknowledged with a sly glance.
Hiroshi could barely focus on his duty, scanning for threats while his thoughts raged. Spanking her earlier, holding her—it's like he's marking territory. After all these years, my devotion means nothing? The meeting dragged, voices rising in debate over timelines—the rebellion set to ignite in weeks, with Fubuki at the helm, using her kekkei genkai to turn battles.
Minato's touches continued: a spank under the table that elicited a muffled yelp from Fubuki, her laughter covering it as "a cramp." Kenji's envy peaked, his stealthy hands twitching toward his daggers. I could end him now, claim it was an intruder. She's mine to protect, to love.
As the meeting wrapped, agreements sealed with blood oaths—the metallic scent of pricked fingers sharp in the air—Minato stood, pulling Fubuki into his arms one last time. He hoisted her up, her legs wrapping around him, and spanked her ass playfully, the smack resounding. "Until next time," he said, his voice low, before setting her down and vanishing in a yellow flash—teleporting back to Konoha for his village duties.
Fubuki adjusted her yukata, a satisfied smirk on her face, dismissing the attendees.
Hiroshi and Kenji remained, the jealousy lingering like smoke from the brazier. He's gone, but the fire he lit in me burns, Hiroshi thought, vowing silent revenge. Kenji nodded, their shared envy a bond stronger than any oath. The mansion's shadows deepened, the rebellion brewing, but for the guards, the true war was within.
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