I didn't break the physical contact. I wasn't wasteful, and I certainly wasn't going to pull away when a girl like Sakura was practically vibrating with the need for a stabilizing force. Whatever she had to say, the intimacy of the moment could be useful.
I slid my hand from the crown of her head down to her exposed shoulder, my fingers tracing the bare skin left exposed by that sleeveless red top, before settling into a slow, soothing stroke up and down her upper arm. The touch was meant to be comforting and encouraging.
"What is it, Sakura?" I kept my voice low, intimate, the sort of tone that made people feel like they were the only person in the world. "You can tell me anything."
Sakura shivered, a tiny, almost imperceptible thing, under my touch. Her shoulders dropped another inch, the tension bleeding out of her as she leaned almost subconsciously into my hand. She liked this. She liked the permission to be vulnerable, the safety of a stronger hand guiding her.
A small, uncertain smile ghosted across her lips—those pink, soft lips that I'd been watching all afternoon, the way they parted when she was nervous, the way she bit the bottom one when she was thinking too hard. I wondered how they felt, compared to Ino's wrapped around my shaft.
Her green eyes flicked up to meet mine for just a second before darting away again, and I could see the war happening behind them.
"I... that day..." she began hesitatingly, her voice small and unsure. "It's about... about what I saw... when you and—"
She couldn't finish the sentence. Her face exploded into a furious blush, red creeping down her neck and disappearing beneath the collar of that tight red shirt. She dipped her head, staring at the ground like it held all the answers, as if whatever had just passed through her mind was too scandalous to exist in the open air.
I fought the urge to frown.
I had a feeling she was circling back to the affair with her mother. From what I understood of Sakura, she preferred to bury her head in the sand. She liked to construct elaborate castles of denial where everything was fine, and everyone she loved was a saint, and if they weren't, there was a perfectly valid reason for it. I hadn't expected her to bring it up first. Not without my prompting her.
I didn't know if this was good or bad.
At least she wasn't in her self-righteous, bratty mode like the first time she'd confronted me. I doubted she'd ever speak to me like that again. She'd gotten slapped and spanked down hard enough since then to learn her lesson.
Though this was Sakura Haruno, so who really knew.
I hummed thoughtfully, deciding that the moment was too ripe not to twist the knife a little. I was a jerk like that.
"What do you mean?" I asked, putting on a mask of mild confusion, tilting my head slightly. "Is this about what Naruto said earlier?"
I didn't know why I brought Naruto into this. I just needed some excuse to play dumb, and for some reason, that blonde idiot was what came first to mind.
Sakura blinked, confusion cutting through her embarrassment. "Naruto? N-no, not that, it's—" Then she snapped her head up, eyes wide. "Wait, is what Naruto said true?"
I withheld a sigh. I really shouldn't have brought the blonde idiot into this. I reconfirmed my intentions to make that blonde idiot pay twice over. But for now….
I frowned slightly in disappointment and squeezed her arm, just enough pressure to ground her attention back.
"Do you really have to ask me that, Sakura?" I asked in a dry tone, laced with a tired patience that suggested I expected better from her.
"R-right, right. It's Naruto." Her eyes widened, and then she dipped her head again, shame coloring her features. "That idiot probably made it up to get attention. He's always doing stuff like that, trying to be funny when he's just being stupid. I should've known better than to even—sorry, Sensei."
I watched her backpedal with a sense of dark satisfaction.
This was the conditioning taking root. Sakura was a girl who craved structure, craved discipline, of someone to tell her what to think when her own mind kept betraying her with inconvenient truths. Even if she didn't consciously realize it. When she questioned authority and got pushed back, she didn't fight; she folded.
Every time she deferred, every time she accepted my correction without protest, she was feeding that need. She wanted to be told she was wrong so she could correct herself and be 'good' again. It was a dangerous trait for a ninja, but for a pet student? It was perfect.
And I was more than happy to provide.
"Good," I murmured, resuming the gentle stroking on her arm. Reward the good behavior.
She nodded vigorously, leaning heavily into my side now, practically clinging to the validation of my touch. My eyes tracked down her form again—the way the short pink apron skirt sat on her hips, the sliver of pale thigh visible between the hem and her knee-high boots. Absolute territory. She wasn't hardcore athletic, hadn't trained a day in her life with any real intensity, but that amount of softness was its own kind of weapon.
"Anyway," she started again, her voice gaining a little more stability now that I was soothing her again. "It wasn't about that. It's... It's about you and my mom."
Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper when she said it, and her whole body tensed again, like she was bracing for impact.
So she was determined to talk about it after all.
I hummed, shifting my weight. "Ah. That." I looked her in the eye, keeping my expression open and reassuring. "I haven't forgotten the promise I made you before the mission, Sakura. You don't need to worry."
I had, in fact, forgotten the specifics. I remembered promising her proof—proof that her mother and family were somehow better off because Mebuki was relieving her "stress" on my cock. I remembered selling her some line about how it was a service, a necessary evil to keep the Haruno household peaceful.
It was complete bullshit, obviously. I hadn't prepared a damn thing. I had hoped the mission would wipe the slate clean, or at least push the domestic drama to the bottom of the pile. Tough luck.
I was frantically scrolling through my mental rolodex of excuses when she spoke up.
"You don't have to."
…..I don't?
I blinked. Sakura's voice was meek, almost apologetic. She tucked a strand of that long pink hair behind her ear, still not looking up at me.
"I've been... I've been thinking about it a lot," she confessed softly. "During the mission. Seeing how dangerous everything was... it made me realize how silly I was being."
She took a breath, and then, to my utter baffling amusement, she started doing my work for me.
"I didn't have the right to be angry," she murmured, her logic twisting and turning in real-time to fit the narrative she wanted. "You and Mom... you're both adults. And Mom... she's always been so nagging. Annoying, even. I always found her irritating, you know? I never took the time to understand why."
She paused, swallowing hard, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter yet more certain, as if just voicing her delusions painted them to reality.
"I was so absorbed in my own training, in... in Sasuke-kun... I didn't see how much pressure she was under. Taking care of everything... " She offered a fragile, wobbly smile. "You made me see that, Sensei. She just needed... an outlet. She needed someone to help her carry that, so she could be a better mother. I was being selfish, making it about me. And if that's you, then... then I don't have the right to judge her for it."
I said nothing. Because, quite honestly, I have nothing to say even if I tried.
I was genuinely baffled. She was really doing this. Making excuses for us, unprompted, just like she'd done for Sasuke moments ago. Her mother was a status-obsessed, cheating slut who'd spread her legs for a man half her age because she liked the attention. And I was, well, the lowest scum on earth.
Yet here was Sakura, spinning a narrative where we were justified, where her anger was unreasonable, where she was the one in the wrong for feeling upset.
This girl was a master of gaslighting herself. She would twist reality into pretzels just to avoid confronting the ugly truth that she didn't like. She was practically begging to be used.
Sakura continued, her voice gaining strength as she built momentum.
"I think I was just... surprised," she said, looking up at me with a smile that was equal parts genuine and strangely proud. Like she'd solved a difficult equation and was waiting for a gold star. "You don't need to explain, Sensei. After the mission, I... I think I've started to understand how stress can affect people. I've been foolish, thinking the world was black and white, but now I get it. People need... connection. Even if it doesn't look right to others."
She shifted her weight, the movement drawing my eye to the way her boots hugged her calves, the slight play of muscle in her legs.
"My dad is always away on business," she went on, her gaze drifting toward the river. "And when he comes home, he's... usually drunk. Or asleep. My mom has to handle everything. The house, the family, him, me. She carries the whole world on her shoulders. And after everything she's done for us, maybe she deserves to be taken care of, too."
She paused, and her green eyes searched my face with an earnestness that made my skin crawl.
"And you..." Her voice softened. "You carry a lot more than you show. I know that. I see how much pressure you're under, Sensei. How much you give for everyone else. The mission, protecting us, how the village is starting looks at you,... you need someone too."
I felt a frown twitching at the corner of my mouth before I could smooth it away.
I always hated when people thought they could understand me. Especially after the last encounter with Itachi, which had touched some sore spots I'd rather leave buried. This girl—who was her own worst enemy, who lied to herself constantly, who sabotaged her own prospect—couldn't possibly understand a shred of what I carried. She didn't know me. She knew the version I'd carefully constructed for her consumption.
I wanted to correct her, to tell her she was wrong, that she was projecting her desperate need for meaning onto a situation that was just base and selfish and wrong.
But the best thing to do here was let her get everything out. Let her empty her chest of all the rationalizations she'd been nursing. If she wanted to paint me as a tragic figure who needed to sleep with her mother to cope with the weight of the world, who was I to stop her?
So I stayed quiet, letting my thumb continue its lazy, hypnotic rhythm against the skin of her arm.
Sakura took a deep breath, closing her eyes like she was centering herself. When she opened them again, those big green eyes locked onto mine with startling intensity.
"I forgive you."
I blinked. My hand stopped moving on her arm. "What?"
For a second, I was genuinely baffled.
She smiled then, and it was the smile of someone who'd found exactly the reaction they were seeking. Like my confusion justified everything she'd told herself, validated her entire internal narrative.
"I used to think love and loyalty were all neat and clean," she said, and there was something almost wistful in her tone. "Like in the stories. But that was childish thinking. The real world isn't like that. People are messy. Relationships are complicated. You're important to me, Sensei, and so is my mom. So I'm not going to hold this against either of you."
She tucked another strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture that contrasted with the conviction in her words.
"I don't want things to change between us. I want us to keep training. I want you to be my sensei. I don't think anyone should have to suffer just for wanting a little comfort, a little connection. We're all just trying to survive, right?"
There was quiet sincerity in her eyes—honest, but warped by layers of self-delusion so thick I wasn't sure she could ever dig herself out. She truly believed she was being kind, mature, understanding. In her mind, this wasn't submission or self-betrayal. This was growth. Evolution. The mark of someone who'd learned to see past black-and-white morality.
As she stood there, smiling faintly, she didn't realize that what she called forgiveness was just her way of burying the truth deep enough that it could never hurt her again.
I stood in silence for a long moment, genuinely wordless.
This girl was lost. Truly, profoundly lost. This level of self-deception, of reality distortion, was almost impressive in its completeness. She'd taken something that should've shattered her—walking in on her mother fucking a man barely older than herself—and had somehow transmuted it into a lesson about compassion and understanding.
Part of me wanted to tell her it wasn't her place to forgive me. But then again, it kind of was. It was her mom I'd drilled into the mattress. It was her family structure I'd put at risk, her home I'd violated with my presence and my hands and my cock.
So she did have some right to that forgiveness.
But what about her father? It was his family, his wife. I looked at the girl standing in front of me, pretty and pliable and offering me absolution on a silver platter.
I did the wise thing and decided that if she, the daughter, didn't care, why the hell should I? It would be pretty ungrateful of me to refuse such a generous gift.
Besides, an idea was already forming in my mind. A final test of sorts. A boundary to push, to see just how willing and accepting she really was. How much her forgiveness actually amounted to. How much more she could take.
Her final test before I moved inside her and took what I wanted.
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