Chapter 7: Doctor's Orders
The scent of simmering stew and freshly baked bread warred with the usual aromas of ink and medicinal herbs in Tsunade’s office. Sunlight streamed through the large window, illuminating dust motes dancing over towering stacks of paperwork. Sakura shifted uncomfortably in her chair, the fabric of her standard-issue blouse pulling taut across her back. A faint, strained sound, like a thread giving way, made her wince.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard, both of you,” Tsunade declared, her voice a low, powerful rumble. She stood before them, a formidable monument of sculpted muscle. Her shoulders were broad and dense, her arms corded with definition that stretched the fabric of her Hokage robe. The once-prominent curve of her hips had been streamlined into a powerful, athletic taper, a physique mirrored by the silently fuming Hinata who stood guard by the door, her own body a testament to relentless, curve-obliterating training. “Your chakra reserves are linked to your physical condition. Deprivation is a weakness. This isn’t a suggestion.”
She gestured to the low table where two heaping bowls of rich, fatty pork stew sat beside a basket of butter-slathered rolls. The food steamed, fragrant and heavy.
Ino didn’t need to be told twice. She leaned forward, her long platinum hair cascading over her shoulders, and dug in with a happy sigh. “You won’t hear me complaining, Granny Tsunade. I’ve been starving all morning.” As she reached for a roll, a soft roll of her midriff, paler and softer than the rest of her, pressed against the edge of the table. The waistband of her trousers bit deeply into her flesh, creating a pronounced spill of softness over the top.
Sakura, ever the medic, hesitated. “Tsunade-shishou, my energy levels have been fine…”
“Your last diagnostic report suggested otherwise,” Tsunade countered smoothly, her gaze unwavering. “Eat. That’s an order from your Hokage and your teacher.”
With a reluctant nod, Sakura picked up her spoon. The first bite was a revelation. Her body, seemingly starved for the dense calories, overrode her intellect. She began to eat, quickly at first, then with a slow, methodical thoroughness that spoke of a deep, primal hunger. Each time she leaned forward, the buttons on her blouse, particularly the one situated directly over the fullest part of her bust, groaned under the pressure. The strain was visible, the threads stretched to a translucent thinness.
Naruto, who had been quietly observing from a corner, felt a familiar, warm thrill. He watched the subtle drama of Sakura’s uniform fighting a losing battle against her expanding form. He saw the contented, almost drowsy look on Ino’s face as she sopped up the last of the stew gravy with a roll, a deep, satisfying belch escaping her lips without a hint of self-consciousness.
“Much better,” Ino sighed, leaning back in her chair. Her hands came to rest on her stomach, which now formed a distinct, rounded mound against her clothes. “I feel… solid.”
Tsunade gave a curt nod of approval. “Good. You’ll need that energy.” She moved to her desk, her movements economical and powerful. “The two of you are with me. A diplomatic mission to the Land of Hot Water. Two months. The dignitaries there equate physical… substantiality… with strength and stability. We will be ‘training’ extensively to meet their expectations.”
The office door opened again, and Shizune entered, carrying a second tray laden with honey-drenched pastries. Tsunade took it from her without a word and placed it before the two younger kunoichi.
“But… we just ate,” Sakura said, though her eyes were locked on the glistening pastries.
“This is the foundation,” Tsunade stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The mission starts now. Build the foundation.”
Ino reached for a pastry with a gleeful chuckle. “When the Hokage herself serves you dessert, you don’t say no.” She took a large bite, flakes of pastry sticking to her lips.
Sakura’s resolve crumbled. Her hand, almost of its own volition, picked up a pastry. As she brought it to her mouth, the central button on her blouse gave up its fight. With a sharp ping, it shot across the room, landing near Naruto’s foot. A deep blush spread across Sakura’s face, but Tsunade merely raised an eyebrow.
“See to your equipment, Sakura. We leave at dawn.” Tsunade’s eyes then flicked to Naruto. “You have your own assignments. Dismissed.”
Naruto bent down and picked up the loose button, the plastic still warm from the heat of Sakura’s body. He closed his fingers around it, a secret talisman. As he left the office, he caught one last glimpse of them: Sakura hastily trying to pull her blouse closed over the generous swell of her stomach and bosom, and Ino happily finishing her third pastry, completely at ease with her own expanding softness.
The door closed, separating him from the scene. He leaned against the wall in the quiet hallway, the button clutched tightly in his palm. For two months, they would be gone, being molded, fed, and transformed under Tsunade’s direct supervision. The anticipation was a physical ache. He imagined their return, the sheer, magnificent weight of them. It was a perfect plan.