I placed my hand gently atop Sakura's head, petting her slowly, like soothing a tense cat too proud to admit it wanted comfort.
Her hair, long and smooth, slid between my fingers. She hadn't cut it. With no chunin Exam, no rivals to outshine, and no brushes with danger to harden her, there'd been no need. She'd graduated at fifteen, like all of them did now, untouched by the kind of turmoil that used to force kids to grow up fast—or at least act like they had.
"I know you've been going through a lot lately," I said, keeping my voice low, warm, and reassuring. "Holding everything together when things don't make sense around you… that was something I see. Even if you don't say it."
For a beat, she didn't react. Her body stayed rigid, like she wasn't sure if this was a trap.
The pulse at her throat fluttered. Her lower lip trembled, glossy and full, bitten raw from habit. Her breath smelled faintly like cinnamon. And when she shifted slightly, I caught a glimpse of taut muscle in her thighs under the hem of her skirt—tension coiled tight.
Her breath hitched, a subtle shift in the way her shoulders trembled as she processed the intimacy.
But a second later, she slapped my hand away sharply.
Her jaw clenched, and her face was flushed.
"Don't," she snapped, pretty green eyes glassy. "Don't act like you get me. I don't need your... pretend sympathy."
But her voice cracked slightly, almost like she was trying to convince herself. And still, her feet didn't move.
"I know you want me to be the villain in this story, Sakura."
Her eyes widened just a little. I'd hit too close to home.
"It'd make this easier, wouldn't it?" I continued. "If this were all black and white. If I were just some bastard chasing after your teammate's mom. Just another pervert you could righteously hate."
I stepped a bit closer, letting my words brush against her like breath.
"But real things—especially feelings—don't work like that."
She swallowed, visibly.
Her hands flexed again—not into fists this time, but open-palmed, like she wasn't sure whether to push me or touch me. Her lips were parted, trying to find a rebuttal.
But nothing sharp came. So she defaulted to bravado.
"Stop talking like you know me," she muttered, looking away, "It makes me feel sick." But her voice had lost its venom. It trembled faintly, her body taut with tension that wasn't entirely righteous anymore.
I raised an eyebrow, watching her carefully. Her reaction was interesting indeed. Too sharp to be purely moral outrage, too controlled to be raw pain.
Her mother had been the doorway. I didn't kick it open. I just knocked, and she let me in. That's what Sakura couldn't stand — not that I seduced her mother, but that it had been so easy. What kind of woman does that? What kind of daughter watches and stays?
Maybe it was time to test whether the threat of force still had any effect on her… or if last time had just been a fluke. After all, her head hadn't exactly been in the right place after she caught me balls-deep in her dear mother.
"But….. if you want the easy route, Sakura," I said calmly, "I'll pretend to be the monster you need me to be."
I stepped forward, close enough to make her flinch. Close enough to feel the edge of her breath. Then I reached out and grabbed her by the jaw and tilted her face up to mine assertively.
Her skin was warm. Soft. Far too soft for someone who played tough. My thumb pressed up just enough to remind her who held the reins. I wasn't rough. I didn't have to be.
Her jaw was delicate, birdlike almost, but clenched with stubborn fury. Her nose flared when she was angry—small, slightly upturned, cute in a way she'd kill you for pointing out. Her cheeks flushed pink.
Her body jerked instantly, wired to resist, even before her mind caught up. Both palms pressed against my chest, shoving. But her force wasn't wholly committed. Her breath hitched sharply, pupils dilating. I could feel her pulse jump beneath my fingers.
"W-what are you….." she said, "Don't… don't touch me like that,"
Unlike last time, when I'd slapped her, there was no sharp correction to interrupt her instincts. No fear to override the need to fight back. This time, she had space to resist. And still… this was all she gave me. Half-hearted push. A shaky breath. That hesitation was telling.
But I held her gaze anyway, staring into those fiery green eyes until the flaring struggle slowed. Her shoulders still tense but trembling now, as though something inside her was bending under pressure rather than breaking.
I held her like that, steady, letting the silence stretch.
"Sakura Haruno," I said with the cold precision of a commander dressing down a reckless genin. "You've made a grave accusation. One that could damn a jounin commander… and stain the wife of the Hokage and the entire village by extension. So… tell me. Do you have any proof?"
Her jaw clenched beneath my grip, but not from fear. Pride, fury, maybe something darker twisting inside her. Sakura's eyes blazed with that familiar storm; even cornered, she couldn't shut her mouth.
"I don't need proof," she snapped, voice tight. "I heard Naruto. Even he noticed. Your little… crush wasn't so subtle, was it?"
I felt a ghost of a smile tug at my lips.
"You're grasping, kunoichi," I said softly.
Her glare deepened at the word—kunoichi—a reminder of her rank, her discipline. Of where we stood.
She pushed harder against my chest now, but her fingers curled just slightly into my shirt before shoving away. Not full resistance. Not yet. And when I didn't budge, she gave one final hiss through clenched teeth:
"You don't scare me."
But her voice wavered.
"I'm not trying to scare you," I said, my grip tightening slightly under her jaw, thumb brushing along the edge of her cheek. "But still…."
Then I turned her face left, then right, just a reminder. Of the difference between us. Of what she already knew but didn't want to admit. Strength and weakness, plain and bare.
Her cheek fit against my palm too well. I studied her face like a sculptor inspecting raw clay — not with tenderness, but with intent. There was a high, stubborn beauty to her — one I wanted to see break.
Her grip on my chest shifted. Slackened, just a little. Enough that I felt it.
A small, involuntary breath slipped past her nose — barely audible, but there. Not fear. Not quite arousal. More like tension cracking at the edges.
"You don't seem to understand," I began, and that earned me a sharp glare.
She jerked her head as much as my grip allowed and hissed through clenched teeth, "Let me go."
I didn't.
"Look, I'll say it straight. Naruto's mom? She's hot."
That stunned her. Her expression flickered, like I'd slapped her. Or not. The expression she had made when slapped was way too…. still, it was rather funny that I had to restrained the corner of my lips from twitching up. She had not expected that level of straightforwardness.
"And if you think that means anything, you're dumber than I thought. Half the village says that out loud. The other half's just scared to admit it. For fuck's sake, Sakura—'Red Hot Habanero.' Hot is literally in her name."
Sakura's mouth opened, but no words came out at first. Just a stuttered breath and a spark of outrage that didn't know where to land. Amusing it was, seeing her make the realization the ground under her was no longer stable.
"You're sick," she finally hissed, but even that lost its edge. It didn't land the same.
Her eyes flicked away for a second. When they returned, little remained of the fire in them.
"Good," I said softly, almost chuckling at her little outburst. "Think of me however you want."
I let go of her jaw, finally, and her chin stayed tilted up like she wanted to keep the tension alive. She didn't move. Her plump, bitten lips stayed parted like she might still say something. Her thighs, flush against one another, betrayed a subtle, rhythmic twitch. Even the slight arch in her back, like she hadn't decided whether to run or lean in, spoke louder than her silence.
She didn't step back. That said enough.
"You think I care what you call me? Villain, predator, bastard?" I tilted my head. "I can live with that."
I stepped back, just slightly, enough to take the heat off—but not the weight of the moment.
"What I do care about," I continued, eyes still locked on hers, "is what happens if you keep running your mouth like this. You think the Hokage will laugh off that kind of accusation? You think the council won't sniff around for blood? You're not some nobody anymore, Sakura. You're a kunoichi of Konohagakure... with the wrong kind of curiosity, and that makes you a problem. And problems don't get handled kindly in this village."
That got to her. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed something—maybe fear, maybe anger, maybe the sick realization that he was right.
I smiled, just a little.
"I don't want to see your mom cry, Sakura," I said, tilting my head as I looked her in the eye. "Just because you didn't know when to keep your mouth shut."
Her breath caught again. No glare this time. No push. Just stillness. A flicker of confusion. She didn't know whether to scream or apologize.
And that meant I had to make her choose.
"You can hate me all you want," I said. "Honestly, from you? I'd expect nothing less."
I watched her closely. Her fists were clenched, jaw tense. Maybe trying to convince herself she was still angry, still sure.
"But please…Please keep this between us."
A silence settled for a moment.
"…Why do you care?" she said softly. She tried to make the question sound disdainful, but I could tell. She wanted a reason to disbelieve me. Words she could mock and throw back, twist into ammo to reaffirm her rage.
I gave her none of that.
"Because," I said, voice barely above a whisper, "the village doesn't forgive little uprisings from people who should know better. And I'm not worried about me."
She took an almost involuntary step back now, like the gravity of that truth had sucker-punched her in the gut.
I nodded slightly, like I understood.
"I'm worried about you. About what they'd do to you." I looked away for a second, just to ease the tension between us. "I don't want to lie to your mom when she comes asking why her daughter vanished behind Anbu walls."
Her breath came shallow. Like she wasn't breathing right.
She didn't answer at first. Just stared at me, mouth slightly open, eyebrows pulled tight, and I saw through her eyes, the war in her chest. The instinct to scream she didn't need protection versus the cold awareness of how real what I said really was. Not after her pathetic performance during the attack.
"…I wasn't gonna tell," she muttered finally. "I just…"
She didn't finish the sentence. It sounded like a confession too close to guilt. Her pride needed a strong hand to bend.
She looked smaller now. Not in stature—her legs were long, bare beneath the skirt's edge, still firm—but in spirit. Her eyes darted, lips twitching like they couldn't hold steady, her breath shallow and shaky.
Slowly, gently, I lifted my hand and placed it on top of her head once more. Just resting there for a second. Like I wasn't trying to dominate, not this time. Just ground her.
And then, slowly, I patted.
Once.
Twice.
A comforting rhythm, parental almost—and infuriatingly tender because of that very contradiction.
This time… she didn't slap my hand away.
Her shoulders twitched, but she didn't move. Not an inch. The tension was abandoning her bone by bone, like her body didn't quite know how to react.
I could've gotten this victory sooner, had I used Devil's Whisper, or perhaps not. But it felt infinitely more delectable to attain it with mere words.
"You just what?" I asked softly, voice rumbling with that coaxing presence again. Charm turned low and honey-slow. "Come on. Say it."
She bit her lip hard. And I watched her eyes flicker—doubt, vulnerability, something raw underneath that brash kunoichi mask.
"I just…" she whispered. "I had to ask. I—no one else sees it. They're blind or too scared. But I'm not crazy. I know you're hiding something."
There it was.
And damn… I loved the way her voice cracked on that last word. That edge of desperation that meant she wasn't just chasing justice—she was chasing validation. Truth. Meaning in something she didn't yet understand about herself.
"We're shinobi," I murmured softly, fingertips moving slowly over the crown of her head, through those pink strands. "We all have something to hide."
She didn't argue. Just made a noise in the back of her throat—something between a scoff and a sigh. Resigned. Not defeated. And while she didn't give me a nod or a word, she did something far louder than either.
She dropped her head… slowly, deliberately, as if offering it. Neck bowed under my palm.
Letting me keep touching her.
My hand moved gently through her hair now, fingertips grazing the curve of her scalp, aware of every barely audible breath she took. The tension in her had uncoiled.
She didn't react much when I tucked her hair behind her ear. Perfect.
Emotions lower defenses; this was when she was most malleable. The trick was never to force it all at once. Touch her like it's normal — a hand brushing hair out of her face, a thumb on her jaw when she talks too much. The first time, she flinches. The second time, she tolerates it. Third time? Her body doesn't even react.
That's when I'd know I have won. Not with pain. With familiarity.
And for a long moment, we stayed just like that—in that quiet clearing surrounded by the hush of forest breath. Trees swaying above. Leaves whispering their own kind of secrets. The anger had melted into something oddly intimate.
Crisis averted, I thought. Also able to confirm things about her.
"Say," eventually I said. "How about you let me fondle your tits?"
Because apparently, one crisis was not enough for me.