SAKURA HARUNO
The sun rose sooner that day. Light filtered through her bedroom window, soft and golden, warming her skin where she lay stiff in bed.
The world outside her window carried on as usual. Birds chirped. The village stirred. Somewhere in the distance, someone called out about fresh produce at the market. Everything was normal.
So annoying. Sakura groaned, rolling onto her side, pulling the blanket over her drumming head.
Her body felt sluggish like she hadn't rested at all. She hadn't, really. Her mind had been chewing on itself all night, looping, spiraling—over what she saw, what she heard, what she felt. It left her exhausted, but wired, like her body had forgotten how to rest.
Sleep had been impossible. Every time she closed her eyes…..
...you love this...
A fleeting stillness settled in her chest.
The image of his hand pressed flat against her mother's back, the way her mother arched into the touch…. A strange heat pooled low in Sakura's belly, a confusing and unwelcome sensation that made her breath catch. She squeezed her eyes tighter, trying to banish the picture, but the feeling lingered, a shameful curiosity blooming in her chest.
She forced herself up. Her sheets were twisted around her legs, the fabric clinging to her skin. She pushed them off, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and sat there, elbows on her knees, fingers gripping her temples. The cool air against her bare legs sent a shiver that had nothing to do with temperature.
Move. Get up. Training. Breakfast. Something. Anything.
Her gaze flicked to the drawer.
...keep them for me...
Her stomach clenched. Right. Breakfast.
She didn't look for long. Instead, she forced herself to move, to do something, to pretend that today was just another morning.
Sakura grabbed the hairbrush off her nightstand. Routine. Just focus on the routine.
She ran it through her hair, movements too fast, too sharp. Get ready. Go outside. Pretend nothing happened.
The bristles snagged on a tangle. She yanked harder than she should have, wincing when it pulled at her scalp.
...be a good girl....
An almost automatic response flickered within her, a desire to smooth her hair neatly, to present a calm and composed exterior. The rebellious urge to yank the brush harder faded, replaced by a sudden need for order.
She inhaled sharply, tossing the brush onto the dresser with a clatter.
...be obedient....
She paused, her hand hovering over the discarded brush. For a fleeting moment, she considered picking it up, putting it back neatly. The impulse surprised her, and she quickly reached for her clothes instead, dismissing it as just needing to get ready.
Her hands felt mechanical as she dressed. Black shorts. Good. Comfortable. Safe. She yanked them up her thighs, the fabric clinging too much to her skin. The slight friction of the fabric against her inner thighs brought a flush to her cheeks.
"..."
Her stomach twisted. It doesn't matter. Just get dressed.
Next, her skirt, after that her red top. She pulled it over her head, arms sliding through the holes, hands smoothing it down. Too tight. No, not tight—just… fitted. It always fits like this. She adjusted the hem, but the feeling didn't go away.
...be a good girl....
Sakura instinctively straightened her posture, pulling the hem of her top down just a fraction more, as if an invisible observer was judging her. The feeling was fleeting, but it left her slightly self-conscious.
She wrapped her leg tight, the bandage pulling across her shin with a satisfying tug. Again. Tighter. Her fingers moved too fast. She had to redo the knot twice before it held.
She reached for her leg wraps, fingers moving on instinct. Wrap. Tie. Secure. One after the other, just like always. Her knee guards. Her gloves. Her headband. The motions were supposed to settle her, ground her. That's why she trained so hard, right? Repetition. Precision. Control.
But her hands were trembling.
She flexed her fingers. No tremble. Good. Good. That meant she was fine. It meant nothing was wrong. It meant she hadn't stood frozen like an idiot in the hallway last night, watching her mother—
She blinked hard.
"Tch."
But it wasn't leaving her. It crawled back in. That image. Her mom's voice. Breathy, whiny, not even pretending to feel guilty. Legs shamelessly dangling over the edge of her own damn bed. Him behind her. His hand pressing down on her. That grin in his voice when he said…. his voice….
Sakura's jaw locked.
Her mother had smiled.
Smiled like it felt good. Like it meant something.
At first, Sakura thought he was forcing her. Now, she wanted that to be the truth. Some fucked-up assault—anything that made her mother a victim instead of a whore moaning like that. But her mother had leaned into him, saying things no daughter should ever hear.
Disgusting things.
They hadn't even used protection. Her mother, who'd lecture Sakura for leaving a single hair in the drain or not properly rinsing a dish, hadn't even bothered with something so basic. It was almost laughable, this blatant disregard for… well, everything. As if the sheer filth of the act wasn't enough, they had to add this layer of utter sloppiness. It just proved how little respect her mother had, not just for herself, but for everything else too.
Lust-drenched filth spilled out of her mouth, the same mouth that used to scold Sakura for short skirts and missing curfew. And then he came—on her face—and Sakura had just stood there, hidden in the hallway, watching it happen like a freak.
It had to be a genjutsu.
That was the only thing that made sense. She wanted it to be a genjutsu. She flared her chakra over and over until her teeth hurt from the tension in her jaw. She bit her lip. She clawed at her wrist. She used a release seal twice.
But it stayed.
Every time she blinked, it stayed. No genjutsu. No trap. Just real. Stupid, ugly real.
She kept seeing her mother's thighs shaking and his huge, filthy thing going in and out of her.
Sakura's breath hitched. It was… bigger than she could have imagined. Thick and….. moving with a brutal rhythm that made her stomach churn with a mix of disgust and something else she didn't want to name.
...Stay like that...
...Be a good girl....
...Be obedient....
She'd pressed herself flat against the wall then. Shaking. Sweating. Listening. Watching.
She should be furious. She was furious. She should've done something. She should've screamed, attacked, broken something. But she didn't. She just… stood there. Watching.
And Sakura had watched.
The shame twisted inside her again.
She felt dirty.
She should never have seen that side of her mother. Never should have heard those things. Never should have felt what she felt when she froze there, listening, obeying.
A part of her felt tainted by what she'd witnessed. It wasn't just the visual horror; it was the way her own body had reacted, the strange stillness that had held her captive. She was supposed to be disgusted, purely and completely. But there was a knot of confusion in her chest, a nagging feeling that she didn't fully understand her own reaction, and that was almost more disturbing than the act itself.
Her eyes darted to the drawer again.
Top-left. Under the training manuals and spare gloves. She'd shoved them in there fast, hands shaking, breath stuck in her throat like she'd swallowed smoke.
Her panties.
Not hers—her mom's.
Soaked. Ruined. Stained with arousal and his—
Sakura's stomach twisted hard, like she'd swallowed kunai. She clenched her jaw until her teeth ached.
She should burn them. She would burn them.
She had to.
But they were still there.
She hadn't even touched the drawer this morning. She dressed around it. Moved around it. Like it was infested. Like she could feel heat leaking from it every time she walked past.
She'd gone to sleep with her back turned to it. And still felt it.
She didn't even know why she'd taken them. Why she hadn't thrown them in the trash. Or torched them. Or screamed at her mother until the entire block heard her.
But instead, she'd scooped them up in shaking fingers, shoved them in a drawer, and sat down on her bed with her fists clenched in her lap, breathing like she'd just run a mission solo.
The scent still haunted her.
She could smell it even now. Faint. Wrong. A mix of sweat and sex and something darker that made her thighs press together when she should've been gagging.
She rubbed her face hard and hissed under her breath.
"Fuck."
This wasn't normal.
None of this was normal.
And she needed it to stop.
Her nails bit into her palm.
That bastard.
Her heart pounded in her ears, hot and furious, even as her stomach twisted itself into knots. Eishin Sasayaki — fucking Eishin Sasayaki — had stood there in her house, in her mother's bedroom, left his mess behind like it meant nothing, and then—
Then he'd looked right at her.
Not in shock. Not in guilt. Not even in amusement.
Like he already knew she was there.
"Keep them for me," he'd said, his voice smooth, casual, like he was asking her to hold onto a goddamn training scroll. And then he put them down—those disgusting, ruined things—right on the table. In the open. For her.
Her entire body burned, and she didn't even know which part of her shame she hated more. The fact that he saw her? The fact that she hadn't moved? Or the fact that, deep down, she knew — knew — he had done it on purpose?
He knew.
And the worst part?
She hid.
Like a fucking coward.
Why?
Why would he do that? Why her? Was he mocking her?
Eishin was a respectable man. A teacher. He trained kids—younger kids—at the Academy. He was smart, a genius even, someone Naruto had spoken highly of before. A Jonin at fourteen. An expert in fuinjutsu. Someone people admired.
Someone she should have admired.
But all she could see now was the way he looked at her mother while she said those profanities under him. The way he'd looked at her when he left.
Like she was part of this.
She gritted her teeth so hard it hurt.
That was the worst part. That was what made her stomach churn and her hands shake. Not just that she saw it—but that he saw her.
Sakura shot to her feet, chair scraping against the wooden floor. She grabbed her pouch, tightened the straps of her gloves, and stormed for the door.
She didn't know what she was going to do.
But she couldn't stay here.
Not with that drawer still closed. Not with the scent still lingering in the back of her mind.
She needed to hit something.
Or maybe she just needed to find him.
The wooden floor creaked softly beneath her feet as she made her way downstairs. The smell of grilled fish and rice filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of tea. The familiarity of it made her stomach turn.
She wasn't hungry.
But she had to sit. Had to act normal. And being alone upstairs with her thoughts was worse.
She stepped into the kitchen, and there she was.
Her mother.
Kizashi, her father, was already at the table, dressed in his usual plain yukata, reading a some paper while lazily picking at his food, his usual goofish smile on his face.
His oblivious contentment a stark contrast to the turmoil inside her. He looked so easily fooled, so blissfully unaware. It wasn't pity she felt, not really. More like a detached observation, as if he were a character in a play she was forced to watch.
A tiny, almost imperceptible part of her wondered if he even deserved to know, or if this ignorance was a kind of peace he should be allowed to keep.
Her mother, on the other hand—
Sakura's fingers twitched at her sides.
Mebuki Haruno looked… radiant.
Her golden-blonde hair was freshly brushed, swept to one side over her shoulder, catching the light from the kitchen window. She wore a soft pink blouse, loose at the collar, the kind of thing that barely hid the curve of her collarbones. Her makeup was subtle but fresh, lips tinted the faintest shade of red.
She looked younger. Brighter.
She was smiling.
Not just any smile. That smile. That self-satisfied, glowing expression that a mother shouldn't wear. That no one should wear after what she did.
Like a woman glowing from a good night.
Sakura's stomach twisted.
"Oh, good, you're up." Mebuki said cheerfully as she set a plate down at the table, a perfectly arranged meal—grilled salmon, rice, miso soup, and a small side of pickled vegetables.
Her voice was light. Carefree.
Like nothing had happened.
"Morning, sleepyhead," her father said equally cheerful. "You're up early. I thought you were going to sleep in today."
A wave akin to disdain washed over Sakura, quickly followed by a flicker of guilt for feeling it. But the disdain lingered, a bitter taste in her mouth.
Sakura forced a nod and sat stiffly, barely looking up.
She didn't trust herself to speak.
Her mother had no idea.
She didn't know Sakura had been there, standing in the dark, watching her make those disgusting expressions, listening to her moan—
Sakura's grip on her chopsticks tightened. She hadn't even touched her food yet.
"I have some errands to run today," her mom said to her father, continuing their conversation, casual, light, content, pouring tea into her husband's cup with a practiced ease. "The market's having a sale, so I figured I'd restock a few things."
Her father droned on about something. Sakura barely registered his words, her focus entirely on her mother's unsettling composure. His ignorance felt almost… deserved. He was just… there.
Her eyes flicked over to her mother's hands.
They weren't shaking. They weren't restless. There was no guilt. No shame.
Just ease.
Like nothing had happened.
Like she wasn't a cheating slut.
The harsh word echoed in her mind, but it lacked the genuine sting of moral outrage. It felt almost… performative, a label she knew she should apply, but didn't entirely feel. A strange detachment separated her from the expected anger.
Sakura stared at the rice in her bowl, her own appetite long gone.
Like…. she hadn't ruined everything. Sitting across from her husband, laughing softly at some meaningless comment, acting like the perfect housewife. A perfect houswife would never have said those things.
The hypocrisy of it all was suffocating. Her mother, the woman who'd always preached about propriety and respectability, was now the very embodiment of everything she'd warned Sakura against. It wasn't just the act itself; it was the casual deception, the ease with which she slipped back into her role as the perfect wife, that truly stung.
She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to chew and swallow, chew and swallow—fighting the nausea, the shame, the rage.
...Be a good girl....
A fleeting stillness settled in her chest.
And then, as if the universe wanted to push her to the brink, her mother turned to her. "You need to do something about your posture, Sakura. And honestly, have you been eating enough? You look pale."
That did it.
Sakura pushed her chair back abruptly, the sound sharp against the wooden floor.
Both her parents looked up, her father blinking in confusion, her mother's eyebrows raising slightly.
"I'm not hungry," Sakura muttered, grabbing her pouch as she stood. "I'm going out,"
Her mother frowned. "Sakura, I was talking to—"
But Sakura was already moving.
...Be a good girl....
A small, almost imperceptible part of her felt a pang of guilt for leaving so abruptly, a fleeting sense that she should have stayed and… been good.
But if she stayed, she was going to snap.
And she wasn't ready for that.
Not yet.
Not until she understood the strange, conflicting emotions churning within her.