summary: loving mello means being chosen by a man who turns devotion into strategy, jealousy into warfare, and vulnerability into a loaded gun he refuses to admit he is holding
word count: 1,277
content: mello x gn!reader, possessive behaviour, jealousy, controlling/protective tendencies, emotional volatility, inferiority complex (of course 💀), violence, scars, trauma, moral ambiguity, power imbalance, dark romance themes
a/n: somehow this man treats romance as both competitive sport and emotional hostage situation at the same time 😭
A relationship with Mello feels like loving a lit match thrown into a cathedral—dangerous, beautiful, stubbornly bright, and always one breath away from either warmth or ruin. He does not love gently at first; he loves like he is trying to prove something to the world, to himself, to every ranking system that ever carved his worth into numbers. But beneath the leather, the sharp tongue, the chocolate snapped between his teeth, and the violent machinery of his ambition, there is a man who wants to be chosen without having to win first.
Mello needs to feel chosen as himself, not as the better alternative to someone else. He can handle enemies, guns, surveillance, criminal politics, and even the threat of death with unnerving confidence, but being compared to Near will get under his skin faster than almost anything else. In a relationship, the healthiest thing you can give him is not constant reassurance that he is “better,” because that only keeps him trapped inside the old contest. What matters more is making it clear that you love him specifically; his intensity, his drive, his temper, his nerve, his ridiculous dramatic flair, his scarred and difficult heart. He does not want to be your first choice because he defeated everyone else, he wants to be your first choice because no one else is him.
Mello shows care by trying to control every possible danger before it can reach you. His affection is not always soft, and sometimes it arrives wearing the face of irritation. He wants to know where you are going, who contacted you, whether the exit route is clear, whether your phone is secure, whether you remembered the code he gave you, whether you actually slept or just lied badly about it. It can feel overwhelming, even controlling, if he is not careful, but the root of it is fear sharpened into strategy. Mello is a planner by instinct and a survivor by necessity so if he loves you, he starts building invisible walls between you and the world’s teeth.
Mello is fiercely attracted to competence. Empty admiration might please his ego for five minutes, but it will not hold him. He notices when you think quickly, when you do not panic under pressure, when you challenge a weak point in his plan, when you stand your ground even while your pulse is trying to escape your body. He might argue with you, snap at you, or act personally offended that you dared to be correct, but he remembers it. Respect is the door his deeper feelings crawl through first, usually while he is pretending not to notice the hinges moving.
Arguments with Mello can become intense because vulnerability often comes out of him disguised as anger. If he is scared, he may sound furious. If he feels unwanted, he may become cutting. If he thinks you are pulling away, he may provoke a fight just to force certainty into the open. This does not mean you should excuse every harsh word, because Mello absolutely needs someone who can tell him when he has gone too far. Once you learn him, though, you begin to hear the wound beneath the bite. Sometimes “you should have told me” really means “I was terrified something had happened to you and I had no way to stop it.”
Mello’s softer moments are rare enough to feel almost secretive. He is not the sort of man who melts into affection in front of everyone. Publicly, he might stand too close, glare holes through anyone looking at you for too long, or make some sharp little comment that sounds more possessive than romantic. Privately, though, softness appears in smaller, stranger offerings like a piece of chocolate placed beside your hand, his coat dropped over your shoulders without discussion, his fingers lingering at your wrist after checking your pulse, his voice going lower when he tells you to stay. He is not gentle by habit, but he can become careful with someone he truly trusts.
The scar changes the way intimacy works with him. After the explosion, Mello becomes even more sensitive to being observed too closely, especially if the attention carries pity. He does not want you to flinch, stare, or pretend the scar is invisible with theatrical effort. What reaches him most is honest acceptance; seeing it, understanding that it cost him something, and still touching him like he is not broken glass. The first time he lets you kiss that side of his face, he acts impatient, maybe even scoffs, but his stillness gives him away. For Mello, allowing someone near the evidence of his failure and survival is an act of trust so intimate it almost frightens him.
Mello’s primary love language is access. Information is power to him, so every detail he chooses to share means something. The location of a safe house, the outline of a plan, the name of a contact, the truth about how badly he was hurt, the fact that he is afraid Near has already moved ahead of him, these are not casual confessions. They are keys. Being loved by Mello means slowly being allowed into rooms no one else gets to enter, both literal and emotional. He might still keep secrets, especially if he thinks they protect you, but when he starts telling you things before necessity demands it, that is one of his clearest declarations.
Mello is possessive, but the best version of him learns not to confuse possession with love. His first instinct may be to grip too tightly, especially when danger, jealousy, or insecurity get involved. He does not like feeling replaceable, and if someone else seems too close to you, his pride can turn viciously alert. Mello does not actually want a passive partner, though, no matter how much control soothes him in the moment. He respects fire, he respects choice. The relationship becomes stronger when you make it clear that staying beside him is not obedience, fear, or convenience. It is a decision, and the fact that you keep making it means more to him than ownership ever could.
Romance with Mello is rarely peaceful, but it can be fiercely alive. Ordinary dates may become strategy sessions over takeaway, late-night drives through cities that do not know your real names, arguments in safe houses with rain ticking against the windows, or sharing chocolate while he stalks around a room full of evidence boards and half-mad conclusions. He is restless, dramatic, ambitious, and difficult to keep still, but he also has a way of making every moment feel charged. Loving him means accepting that the calm days are rare, but when they arrive, they feel almost holy. His head near your shoulder, his boots still on, chocolate melting forgotten between his fingers because, for once, he trusts the room enough to rest.
When Mello loves you, he wants to be understood without being softened into someone easier. He does not need you to pretend his choices are harmless. He does not need you to clap politely for every dangerous escalation or excuse every moral line he crosses in the name of catching Kira. In fact, a partner who truly matters to him is someone whose honesty survives his worst defensiveness. He may hate being challenged, but he respects it when it comes from courage rather than condescension. The deepest kind of love with Mello is not smoothing away the blade in him. It is looking him in the eyes and saying, “I see the blade and I see the hand holding it. I am still here, but I will not lie to you about the blood.”
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SINGLE — matt / mail jeevas ✶ can you let your baby be my girl?
matt wasn't the envious type. he didn't envy any time his best friend scored higher than him. he didn't envy always being the third successor and never the second. he didn't even envy being mello's right-hand man. he only ever envied that mello got to have you.
pairing matt x implied fem!reader
content warnings mildly suggestive, angst, also fluff? implied sex, mentions of hickeys, cigarettes, alcohol, everyone is lowkey a chain-smoker, unrequited love but also not, mello and reader are 'together', slight mello x reader, implied mello x matt, actual love triangle, reader is a wammy kid, childhood friends, it's not really cheating if they all want each other, this is set post L death, lowercase intended
author note i can never stick to one consistent fandom im so sorry. i literally had a sunghoon exes to lovers angsty fic cooking in my drafts but i find it too corny. i find this corny too but oh well. i've been rewatching death note and noticed the lack of fics?! esp for matt?! anyway here's my contribution to the wammy boys fandom. which is probably dying
you’re in the kitchen now, humming.
mello's with you. naturally. he’s always at your side when he had the time—like a shadow made of fire.
matt sat on the couch, controller idle in his hands. the screen in front of him was still, a paused game he stopped caring about half an hour ago. his eyes weren't on it anyway. they're on the sound of your voice, echoing through the apartment like a song he’ll never stop knowing the lyrics to.
he heard the clink of glass. you’re pouring gin. you giggled at something mello said, and it cut clean through him—like static through silence. the kind of giggle that wasn’t for everyone. the kind you saved. he leaned back. exhaled smoke from a second cigarette he didn’t mean to light.
he remembered the first time you touched mello’s hand. how mello flinched like he'd been struck and then grabbed back like he wanted to be. like pain from you was worth gold. matt had stood in the corner, eyes hidden behind amber lenses, watching it all happen like it wasn’t real. like it didn’t matter.
he saw the way mello looked at you—like you were made of something he couldn’t break, and that terrified mello in all the right ways.
and matt? matt just memorised the small things. the curve of your smirk when you lied. the way your voice softened when you're tired. how you tugged your sleeves down when you're nervous.
he once caught you in the hallway, too close for his own good. you were reaching for something on the shelf. your chest brushed his arm, and you didn’t move away. you didn’t apologize either.
he still felt it sometimes—ghost pressure where your skin met his, like you branded him without trying.
mello called you 'trouble with eyeliner' and laughed like it's a compliment. matt called you nothing. he didn’t have the right. but in his head?
you’re thunder before the storm. you’re the last cigarette in the pack. you’re the pause between gunshots—dangerous in the quietest way.
you walked past him now, barefoot, lazy. mello’s voice trailed behind you in his bedroom, like a leash you hadn’t cut yet. your hair’s messy. your lipstick’s smudged. you met matt’s eyes. he didn’t blink. “you okay?” you asked, voice low, soft like sin.
matt nodded. lied, like he always did. “yeah. just thinking."
you smiled, mouth moving to say something—a witty counter, probably. but, matt lost it to an annoyed grunt called out by mello.
he’ll feel that for days.
then you disappeared down the hall again—back to mello, back to the fire.
matt crushed the cigarette out. watched it die slow. he never got burned. because he never got close enough. but god, did he want to.
a few long hours passed before you slipped out of the room, quiet.
matt didn’t move. didn’t speak. you wondered if he’s asleep—head tilted back. but then his eyes opened, slow and steady, catching every step you took. every shift of your weight. every fresh bruise bloomed like violets across your neck. his gaze lingered there.
you swallowed, but didn’t speak.
"you're up late," he said, voice rough, casual—but not really. he tilted his head, like he's trying to see through you. like he hadn’t already. oh, he knew why you’re up. but he asked anyway. just to hear what lie you’ll give him.
a startled "hm?" escaped your throat when you heard matt's voice.
you walked across to matt, your footsteps silent against the carpeted floor. you brushed your hand through your hair, fluffing it up. your legs slightly shook as you walked, you looked more disheveled than usual—but your demeanour was all the more casual. "why are you?" you retorted, looking down at matt on the couch, his playstation seemingly forgotten.
"couldn't sleep—" matt simply answered, shifting on the couch and running a hand through his already unkempt hair. his voice was nonchalant, betraying nothing. his eyes lingered on the hickeys on your neck, and a pang of something he couldn't quite identify shot through his chest. jealousy, anger, resignation—all in one.
you noticed the almost stressed look matt wore. it's unusual coming from the most nonchalant guy you knew.
you chose not to bring his worries up, instead plopping yourself next to him on the couch. you fished for a packet of cigarettes from your cotton shorts' pocket—stolen from mello's room. you never bought cigarettes on your own—because you knew if you did, it'd start an addiction. ergo, you'd only ever take one from someone else.
"want a smoke?" a silent offer to give matt some sort of relief.
matt exhaled a dry laugh, shaking his head slightly but already reaching for the cigarette anyway. "you stole mello's shit again." his tone was flat—not a question, just an observation. a tired smirk tugged at his lips as he took it between his fingers.
"y'know," he flicked open his lighter with practiced ease, "one of these days he’s gonna notice you keep pickpocketing him like some kinda klepto." the flame illuminated half his face before he leaned back, smoke curling lazily from between parted lips.
your smile widened, "he was a raised to be a detective—there's no way he doesn't know by now." you picked out a cigarette for yourself. "doubt he minds since he hasn't said anything."
a beat of silence. then, quieter: "—could've just asked me for one. i always got extras."
placing the cigarette on your lip, you leaned closer to matt, a silent gesture for him to light yours as well. a flicker of something unidentifiable crossed matt's dark gaze as he watched you lean closer, a subtle breath catching in his chest. you watched him back, the flame between them casting a beautiful glow on his goggles and face. the dancing fire radiated an intimacy over the situation that shouldn't be there. but here it was. in the quiet at four a.m., between two people who felt more for one another than they'd ever willingly admit.
his hand raised, almost hesitating, before lighting the end of your cigarette with a trained snap. with a sharp inhale, you leaned back into your comfortable position. the nicotine filled your lungs and you exhaled after a beat, the cig now expertly resting between your two fingers.
"i thought you'd be asleep." you explained after you exhaled. your gaze roamed the moonlit room. "didn't want to bother you if you were."
matt exhaled a slow stream of smoke through his nose, watching the way the moonlight caught in your hair. "tch. like you ever care about bothering me." his voice was dry but fond—the ghost of amusement buried beneath layers of exhaustion and something heavier.
your lips quirked up at the comment matt made, your lack of a counter proved that you lowkey agreed—and that you're feeling not too chatty, but rather tired for any banter.
he tapped ash into a nearby empty soda can (because, of course, he wouldn’t get up for an ashtray). you glanced over at the makeshift ashtray—seemed like this wasn't his first cigarette of the day. naturally, that's nothing new with either of the guys. "you were loud as hell in there," he added, like he’s commenting on the weather, "—figured i'd stay up. in case you needed water or some shit after." a lie. he stayed up because listening to mello make you laugh felt like swallowing glass.
your eyes slightly widened, almost sheepishly. he had said that way too casually.
using your foot that was crossed on top of the couch, you jabbed him. "perv! you were probably jacking off to that shit." you scoffed out a laugh, clearly more teasingly amused than offended.
matt nearly choked on his cigarette smoke, coughing as he swatted your foot away with one hand—but there’s no real annoyance in it. just that same tired simper. "the fuck i was," he scoffed, shaking his head like the accusation was ridiculous (it wasn't).
"unlike some people," he flicked ash with unnecessary force, "i actually have standards." with eyes fixed on the tv screen that hadn’t been turned on all night: "—besides. prefer listenin' to you two argue about chocolate distribution rights or whatever fuckin' weirdo shit you do."
translation: i prefer when you're happy and laughing, not whatever noise mello drags out of you at four a.m.
the sound of sirens in this higher crime-ridden neighbourhood served as ambience for their late night hangout. you watched matt through thick lashes, occasionally taking a puff from your cigarette.
you laughed, still kicking his side with one foot. "yeah right, we've never even done that." you snorted before resting that leg on his lap.
there's a tranquil moment of silence, your eyes glazed over as a memory swept over you. you decided to bring it up, a smirk to your lips. "i remember back at wammy's how you used to shove that little camera of yours under the gaps of the dorm doors." you snickered at the memory. "always knew you were a pervert since then."
it's a light jab—no real accusation, and they both knew that. he'd never actually use it for deviant tendencies, but to snoop for information whenever the three of the were doing something troublesome again.
matt's snigger only widened as you reminded him of the wammy's house spying, his thumb idly tracing patterns across your ankle. "hey, we all gotta have hobbies." he took another long drag of his cigarette, eyes flashing in the low light as he exhaled a lazy stream of smoke.
"besides, it was more like— investigative training." he chortled softly, the tiredness finally catching up—making him less sharp than normal. "you got the brains, mello's got the brawn—i got the—uh—"
your grin remained intact as you heard matt out. "technically, we've all got the brains." you corrected, sitting up to stub your finished ciggy out on the soda can.
it was true—they were all supposed to be the bright successors to L. mello at second place, matt at third and you coming in fourth.
"it's more like—" you thought out loud, sitting back now. "you're the tech guy, i'm the psych one and mello's— the mad one." you sniggered, a lighthearted comment on the blond.
matt laughed, shifting to lay back against the couch cushions. the bags under his eyes were prominent now, and his hair stuck up every which way. "that doesn't even begin to cover it. dude's a ticking time bomb."
you smiled at matt’s comment about mello. before it was the three of them, it had always been just the two—and you’d always admired how inseparable they were, even if they never stopped bickering.
he stretched with a long, quiet groan. his shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of pale skin at the hip. your eyes shamelessly flitted down to his exposed hip—it's only for a split second before your gaze was back on his face again. he's quiet and then: "hey. come here." the abrupt switch of conversation topic showcased his sudden boredom. a classic move from a guy whose attention span was ruined by his constant gaming.
you cocked your head to the side, squinting your eyes playfully. "what're you trying to do?"
he rolled his eyes, though his lips quirked up in a crooked smile, tugging your ankle to get you to scoot closer. "trust me, alright? just come 'ere." he made a 'come-hither' motion with two fingers. it's an order that sounded more endearing than it should. you couldn't help but find his little command attractive, the motion of his two fingers curling buzzing your mind with less than holy thoughts.
you shrugged it off.
standing up on your knees, you waddled closer to matt. "where?" you laughed, intrigued.
"here." without warning, he grabbed your hips and pulled you to sit on his lap, arms wrapping loosely around your middle.
he looked up at you through half-lidded eyes, an indolent smirk on his face. his breath still smelled like cigarettes. one hand remained on your hip, thumb absently drawing circles through your t-shirt. the other reached for his forgotten game console, fingers tapping across the buttons. "comfortable?"
you groaned in defeat, realising this was just a ploy to trap you into playing games with him. that, or he just wanted to hold you while he played.
"bugger." you cursed him under your breath, though there's a certain glint in your eyes.
matt snickered, not taking his eyes off the screen—but you could feel the way his fingers twitched against your hipbone. "you love it," he murmured, and there's no smugness in it. just—fact. like he knew you won't pull away. you clicked your tongue before melting into his embrace, getting comfortable on his lap. you rested your chin on his shoulder as you leaned into him, loosely keeping both your arms around his torso.
he exhaled slothfully, controller clicking softly under quick fingers. "can’t let mello have all the fun." your lips twitched at his comment, unsure whether you're even resisting a frown or smile.
it wasn't uncommon to be this affectionate with matt. especially when they always tethered the line between romantic and platonic before you and mello even started hooking up. not to mention, matt was your first kiss at sixteen. those lines had always been blurred. you and mello. you and matt. hell, even mello and matt.
matt hummed in contentment, shifting to press his face against your neck. he's uncharacteristically affectionate tonight, his free hand idly rubbing slow circles into your spine. there's no sexual intent in the touch—just quiet, tired intimacy. his thumb brushed the edge of a hickey on your skin, left there only a few hours prior. it's almost instinctual, the flicker of jealousy he felt at the sight of it. but matt doesn't comment on it. he just—leaned into you heavier. closer.
it'd been minutes into content silence. the only noise being the clicking on matt's controller and the limited buzz from outside.
he assumed you'd fallen asleep on him. it was well past anyones bedtime after all—and there was no doubt mello exhausted you hours prior. hence why mello was also passed out in his room.
"you ever thought it'd be us two instead?" you quietly spoke up, your head still tucked in matt's neck. a yawn escaped.
matt didn't even miss a beat, his fingers still dancing across the buttons of his console. it took him a moment to process what you said, though—his brain taking a beat to catch up. when your question finally registered, he chuckled under his breath, the sound low and quiet. he seemed like he wasn't expecting the question, though he didn't hesitate before replying. matt never hesitated.
everything in the moment felt domestic. like two teenagers who'd fallen in love and stuck together through thick and thin. it felt right.
it felt so right with mello, too.
"of course i've thought about it," he murmured against your hair, eyes fixed on the screen.
"why'd you never say anything?" you asked, chewing down on your lip in slight nervousness. it was partly why you kept your head hidden.
matt paused, his game character going still on the screen. he sighed, dropping his controller to the side in favour of wrapping both arms around your waist. the action brought your chest flush against his—and you could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. his chin rested atop your head. a thumb brushed slow, distracted circles across your back.
"dunno," he murmured after a long moment. "never really thought i had a shot."
with your face pressed against him, he's bound to feel your smile rise. "you did." the tiredness had finally caught up to you in these past few hazy minutes, struggling to keep your eyes wide.
"maybe still do." you mumbled ever so quietly, tittering into a deep slumber.
matt froze, your words sinking into his skin like ink—permanent, irreversible. for a moment, he wondered if he imagined them.
his grip tightened ever so slightly as you drifted off against him. he exhaled through his nose and reached for the nearest blanket (a ratty old thing mello threw at him once) to drape over your shoulders.
"maybe," he echoed softly—too quiet for anyone but the moon to hear.
he looked down at your face, now pressed against his chest. he could feel the steady rhythm of your breathing and knew you've fallen into sleep. matt sighed, eyes fluttering shut.
୨୧ 𝐁𝐎𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐈𝐂 !
frustrated incel!mahito headcanons . . . ꒰ read part 1 here ꒱
incel!mahito who usually humps his favourite body pillow when he just can't get the image of your drooling cunt out of his head! he can't last more than two minutes and spills inside his pants every time.
incel!mahito who keeps thinking about all the men who you've let fuck you in the past. you've let them pull your hair and call you all kinds of names while being balls deep inside your pussy. it makes his blood boil. all he wants to do is get his hands on you and rub his cock all over your insides so hard that all the filth from your other pathetic boyfriends gets scrubbed off completely (even though deep down he knows he's just all talk and could never get his hands on a girl like you).
incel!mahito who sweats buckets the first time you visit his place to work with him for an important presentation. he showered and even bothered to brush his messy hair before you came.
incel!mahito who remembered everything else but to close a few tabs he had opened the night before in his computer, so as soon as he opens it to google something, graphic hentai flashes on the screen. he shuts it off immediatelly, hoping you were too engrossed in your textbook to notice anything. but when he subtly turned around, your eyes were glued to his screen and your eyebrows knit.
"what was that...?"
"n-nothing! just pop ups and stuff..." he stumbles over his own words. you find the combination of his barely noticable lisp caused by his braces and his burning red ears absolutely adorable.
you lean closer to him, your fist propped under your chin. "is that so?"
"yeah!" he says a bit too eagerly, but he immediatelly clears his throat. "i mean, why would i..." his anxious blabbering abruptly stops when your hand drops to his crotch. there is a soft curve and a continuously growing wet spot that darkens the fabric of his sweatpants.
"liar."
incel!mahito who leaks so much pre that you can barely give him a proper handjob. you can't really wrap your hand around his cock since it's so slippery and his legs keep shaking.
incel!mahito whose cock is way bigger than you expected. it's fat and heavy, and everytime he lifts it up and lets it fall, it lands on your stomach with a wet plop.
incel!mahito who doesn't know where his dick is supposed to go. he is clueless about female anatomy and he almost starts crying out of sheer frustration when he can't find the right hole, but you guide him in before he bursts into tears on top of you.
Vertigo in your arms
One second you hate me, then it's false alarm
That's just what you always do, every time
Watch me when I break and say it's paradise
When you first met Kankurō, you were thirteen years old during the Chūnin Exams.
And honestly?
You hated him.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
He was loud, arrogant, and carried himself with the kind of confidence that made you want to knock him down a few pegs. He acted like he was untouchable, like everyone around him was simply another obstacle in his way.
And maybe that was what bothered you most.
Not his attitude.
Not his insults.
But the fact that you couldn't understand him.
He had entered your village and immediately antagonized everyone around him. He had tormented Konohamaru, provoked Sasuke, and treated Team 7 as though they were nothing more than children playing at being shinobi.
It didn't make sense.
Because there was something in his eyes that contradicted everything he showed the world.
You saw it only briefly.
The way his attention always drifted toward Gaara.
The way he positioned himself between danger and his siblings without hesitation.
The way he watched.
Always watching.
But at thirteen, you didn't know how to recognize that as fear.
Your team had been lucky enough to obtain an Earth scroll early, but luck in the Forest of Death was never something you trusted.
You knew better than anyone that things could change in a second.
And they did.
One moment, your team was moving carefully through the trees.
The next, you were staring down Kankurō and his puppets.
Your teammates barely had time to react before you shoved the scroll into their hands.
"Go."
They argued.
You ignored them.
Because you knew.
Your Sound Release was powerful, but it was not limitless.
Your chakra traveled through your vocal cords, amplifying every note, every frequency, every vibration until your voice became something far more dangerous than sound alone.
But Kankurō was smart.
Too smart.
The first time your voice struck one of his puppets, you saw the realization flash across his face.
He understood.
He was learning.
And that terrified you.
Every pulse through your throat burned more than the last. Your voice grew rougher, weaker, until every sound felt like it was tearing itself out of you.
And still, you fought.
Because that was what shinobi did.
You lasted longer than he expected.
Long enough for your voice to cut through the battlefield and leave him injured.
Long enough for him to finally take you seriously.
But not long enough to win.
By the end, your hand was broken.
Your throat was raw.
And you were left with the memory of his eyes looking down at you.
Not triumphant.
Not cruel.
Almost conflicted.
You hated that most.
You hated that even after hurting you, he looked like he regretted it.
And I've been waiting for the sunset
Waiting on a sorry
But you're never sorry, are you?
No, you don't even care
How can you stand and watch
Lady Tsunade sent you to Sunagakure soon after Gaara had become the Fifth Kazekage, as a sign of goodwill between the two villages.
If only you’d felt it as goodwill then.
It was one thing to stand before a new leader and offer congratulations. It was another thing entirely when your body still remembered the sound of wooden puppets moving behind you, the pressure of chakra strings tightening, and the pain of a broken hand caused by the person you were now expected to work beside.
Every time Kankurō stepped within a few feet of you, your shoulders tensed before you could stop them.
You hated that.
You hated that your body remembered him as a threat before your mind could remind it that he was different now.
But what you could admit was that the sunset over the dunes was beautiful.
There was something almost unfair about Sunagakure.
The village that had once represented invasion and fear was now painted in shades of gold every evening. The same sands that had once felt like an enemy territory now looked almost peaceful.
Gaara’s apologies had gone over well enough in Konoha. You had felt the sincerity behind them.
You believed him.
But part of you always waited for the possibility of an apology from Kankurō.
Not because you expected him to beg forgiveness.
Not because you wanted him to feel guilty forever.
You simply wanted him to acknowledge that it had hurt.
That your fear had been real.
That the girl he fought in the Forest of Death had been more than an opponent.
The breaking of your hand had not been necessary during the Chūnin Exams, and even years later, a small part of you remained bitter about it.
You told yourself it was because you were stubborn.
Because you held grudges.
But maybe it was because some part of you wanted proof that he saw you.
That you mattered.
The apology never came.
But the joint missions did.
For some reason, every time there was a possible assignment between Konoha and Suna, your name seemed to appear beside his.
At first, you assumed it was coincidence.
Then you started wondering if he had something to do with it.
And that thought alone was enough to irritate you.
Your Sound Release required control, precision, and an immense amount of chakra. The stronger your technique became, the more dangerous it was to your own body.
Your voice had always been both your greatest weapon and your greatest weakness.
And that day, you had pushed it past its limit.
You remembered the ringing in your ears.
The burning in your throat.
The way your knees nearly gave out beneath you.
And then Kankurō was there.
He moved before you even realized you were in danger.
A kunai meant for you never reached you.
Because he took the risk first.
Because he stepped in without hesitation.
And when you looked at him afterward, you saw something you had never expected.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For you.
For the possibility that he could have been too late.
Oh, I've been waiting for the sunset
Waiting on a sorry
But you're never sorry, are you?
No, you don't even care
How can you stand and watch?
You’d been exchanging letters for months.
At first, they were easy.
Light.
Almost childish.
You’d tell him about the smallest things—the weather in Konoha, the missions you’d gone on, the ridiculous things your teammates had done. He would complain about Temari being unbearable, about Gaara working too much, about how everyone in Suna somehow expected him to be the responsible one despite him insisting he wasn’t.
You would smile every time a letter arrived.
You hated how quickly you recognized his handwriting.
You hated how much your entire day could change because of a few pieces of paper.
And you hated how much you missed him.
Sometimes, when Temari visited Konoha, you would talk her ear off about him.
She pretended to be annoyed.
You knew better.
She always smiled when she realized how happy he made you.
But you hadn’t been back to Sunagakure yet.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried.
You had.
You had counted the days.
You had planned.
You had imagined the moment you would finally see him again—not through a mission, not surrounded by other shinobi, not with an objective hanging over both of your heads.
Just him.
Just you.
But something always happened.
You’d plan for him to come to Konoha, and then Gaara would need him.
A political meeting.
A security issue.
A responsibility that couldn’t wait.
And you understood.
That was the worst part.
You always understood.
Then you’d try to go to Sunagakure, and the same thing would happen.
Gaara needed him.
The village needed him.
Someone always needed Kankurō.
And you never wanted to be the person who asked him not to help.
So instead, you settled for glimpses.
A passing look in the middle of a mission.
A brief conversation before he was called away.
A moment where your fingers brushed against each other before reality interrupted.
And somehow, being close hurt worse than being apart.
Because at least distance allowed you to miss him.
Being near him reminded you that you still couldn’t have him.
Your letters changed slowly.
You didn’t even notice at first.
The excitement faded.
The words became heavier.
You stopped telling him when you were upset because you already knew what he would say.
“Next time.”
He always promised.
Next time, he would visit.
Next time, he would make it up to you.
Next time, things would be different.
But when next time arrived, something else always took its place.
And the response you always gave became automatic.
“It’s okay.”
Even when it wasn’t.
Because you weren’t official.
Because you had never asked him to choose you.
Because you knew what kind of person Kankurō was.
You knew he would always choose the people he loved.
You just never realized that sometimes meant you would be the person left behind.
Breakin' all my bones, tryin' to hold you close
Cut my heart right out my body
Tearing off my skin, just to let you in
Isn't it a bit unethical?
Got me on my knees, have you any mercy?
Every time you hurt me, baby
Tell me, have I not given you enough?
If you ever loved me, let me go
Burning.
The flames were hotter than you expected.
You had known what you were doing.
That was the worst part.
There had been no mistake.
No accident.
No one else could have made that decision for you.
You had chosen.
The enemy was too close to the refugee camps.
Too close to the Allied Shinobi Forces.
Too much was at stake.
So you used the one thing you had always carried with you.
And I've been waiting for the sunset
Waiting on a sorry (let me go)
But you're never sorry, are you? (I'll let you go)
No, you don't even care (if you let me go)
How can you stand and watch?
The years passed.
Youth became something you remembered rather than something you lived.
You became a teacher alongside Shino.
You found purpose again.
You found happiness again.
But some scars stayed.
Not just the ones on your skin.
The ones beneath it.
So you painted over them.
Flowers.
Swirling patterns.
Something beautiful over something painful.
Something that made your students see art instead of damage.
Something that made strangers look away instead of stare.
You told yourself it was for them.
Maybe part of it was.
But maybe part of it was for yourself.
Because every time you saw the scars, you remembered the girl you had been.
The girl who loved Kankurō so much she forgot she was allowed to be hurt.
Walking through the newer areas of Konoha, you felt eyes on you.
Breakin' all my bones, tryin' to hold you close
Cut my heart right out my body
Tearing off my skin, just to let you in
Isn't it a bit unethical?
Got me on my knees, have you any mercy?
Every time you hurt me, baby
Tell me, have I not given you enough?
If you ever loved me, let me go
He never meant to let her go.
That was the part that hurt the most.
Because Kankurō knew what it meant to lose someone.
He knew what it meant to be afraid.
He knew what it meant to love someone so much that losing them felt impossible.
But he had spent his entire life choosing Gaara.
Not because Gaara mattered more.
Because Gaara needed him in a way nobody else did.
And somewhere along the way, he convinced himself she understood.
That she was strong enough.
That she would always be there.
But looking at her now...
Thirty-three years old.
Covered in flowers painted over scars he knew he had a part in creating.
He finally understood.
She had never asked him to stop loving Gaara.
She had only wanted him to love her without making her beg for pieces of him.
And standing there, years later, he realized the cruelest thing of all.
He had spent his life protecting people from being hurt.
And he had never noticed the person hurting herself just to stay close to him.
A/N: Yes I already know the meaning behind the song, but I kept having these thoughts for Kankuro with this song before I knew.
MULTI | the shinobi gothic — entry #04: painted mouths, stolen hearts 🕯️
ft. deidara, hidan, kisame, kakuzu, zetsu
summary: five gothic romance vignettes for artists, heretics, monsters, misers and things that mistake keeping you for love
word count: 4,878
content: gn!reader, multi-character x reader, gothic romance, dark romance elements, horror imagery, canon-typical violence, cliffhanger endings, individual content tags are attached to each mini-story
a/n: the horrors persist but so does the sexual tension. gods forbid a missing-nin have hobbies, feelings and your precise location 🙄
🖤 series masterlist
DEIDARA — beautiful destruction
content: canon-typical deidara violence, destruction of religious sites, children's remains, clay creatures and mouths, stalking as courtship, obsessive attention, voice theft
The first temple had not collapsed, it had bloomed.
There was no kinder word for the way its roof had opened beneath the blast, blackened tiles curling back like petals scorched at the edges. The prayer bells had fused together, sealing a dozen bronze throats into one useless mouth, while the stone foxes knelt with their faces split. The surviving monks could not explain why the little clay flower at the centre remained untouched by ash or rain.
It had five white petals, a stem no thicker than your finger and a mouth where its heart should have been. The lips were pursed as if keeping a secret.
“Don’t touch it,” your escort warned.
You let your hand fall. It was not the destruction that tempted you, nor the heat still breathing from the floorboards. It was the care—someone had ruined a holy place and knelt afterwards to leave something delicate among the dead.
By the third temple, you understood that Deidara had been choosing his canvases. One shrine concealed relics taken during the war, while another had been raised over a trench of unrecorded bodies. Beneath the prayer hall of the third, you found ledgers naming every refugee a local lord had sold back across the border. Deidara did not expose the rot so much as detonate everything built to hide it. He wanted no righteous truth, only a revelation that scarred the earth.
He was waiting at the fourth ruin, perched on a roof beam above a row of headless saints. Smoke silvered his bright hair and made the red clouds on his cloak appear to drift.
“You’re late, yeah.”
“You overbalanced the western arch.”
His heel stopped swinging at that. When you explained that the inward collapse had spoiled the symmetry of his blast, disbelief tightened his mouth before delight broke through it. His laughter rang obscenely through the roofless sanctuary.
“You’ve got nerve, criticising my work while you’re standing inside it.”
“You left it for someone to notice.”
“Someone with taste, yeah.” He leaned forwards, studying you as if the ruin had produced one last unexpected fragment. “I was starting to think none of you had any.”
After that, his attention began appearing wherever yours had been. A clay moth slept between the pages of your mission report, powdering the paper white when it stirred, and a bird watched from your windowsill for three nights without blinking. During an interview with the lord whose donations had funded the temples, a spider crept from your sleeve and clicked its tiny teeth until the man confessed merely to make it stop.
None of the creatures harmed you, but this was not mercy. Mercy released its object; Deidara’s little mouths followed you home.
The flower you found beside your pillow was still damp from one of his palms. You sat across the room until sunrise, listening to its sealed lips breathe. When the petals finally opened, they revealed a message pressed into the clay beneath them.
You looked bored.
You found him again on a ruined bell tower, feeding clay into the mouths in his hands. Their tongues worked wetly over the yielding white mass, and something winged began to flex between his fingers.
“Obscene, isn’t it?” he asked, catching your stare.
“You were going to say beautiful.”
“Same thing, if you’re honest.” The new bird climbed onto his knuckle. Its breast was smooth, but you could hear a faint mechanism ticking inside. “That’s what I like about you. You keep pretending disgust is the reason you come.”
You accused him of turning prayer houses into graves and he accused them of turning graves into prayer houses. When you told him he wanted witnesses rather than justice, the bird flew to your shoulder and its claws pierced your clothes. Deidara followed it close enough for you to smell smoke on his hair and the mineral dampness of clay on his skin.
“Art is only eternal if no one survives it unchanged,” he murmured once he was close enough.
“There’s a difference between changing someone and scarring them.”
“Only to people ashamed of their scars, yeah.”
The ticking quickened against your throat. His gaze rested on your mouth with such feverish concentration that you finally understood the gifts for what they were—studies. He had been learning what startled you, what disgusted you, what you could not stop yourself from touching.
“It only explodes if you lie to yourself,” he promised.
You cupped the bird in both hands, feeling that tiny false heart labour against your palms. “And…if I lie to you?”
His smile became almost tender. “Then I make something unforgettable.”
That night, a procession carried the stolen relics through the valley beneath red lanterns where Deidara’s creatures had already colonised the route. Moths clung beneath the eaves; spiders nested in the prayer ropes; white flowers filled the mouths of every roadside god. As the first fuse caught, you ran towards the shrine cart while the crowd scattered, and the lacquered reliquary split open before them all.
Children’s bones spilled across the road.
Above the screaming villagers, Deidara balanced on the back of a clay bird, gold hair lashed wild by the approaching storm. His laughter faltered when you raised your face through the ash—not because horror had failed to find you, but because something worse had arrived beside it. Recognition, and the terrible beauty of a secret forced into daylight.
His expression told you he had seen it, then, the second explosion swallowed the valley like a sunrise learning to bite.
You woke in your own bed with grit between your teeth and no memory of being carried there while rain ticked at the window. On the pillow beside you, the clay bird beat its wings while a note trembled beneath its feet.
Tell me whether I changed you.
Its ticking stopped. The mouth opened, shaped itself around a voice it had heard often enough to steal, and answered in yours.
“It was beautiful.”
HIDAN — blood saint
content: hidan 💀, religious and cult horror, blasphemy, blood rituals, graphic injury, visible organs, repeated death and resurrection, involuntary bodily movement, possessiveness, sacrificial imagery, supernatural marking
There was blood on the shrine door, five fingerprints dragged down the wood as though someone inside had tried to claw their way out. You saw them through the rain and entered anyway. The storm had drowned the forest road, lightning was peeling branches from the trees, and omens were easier to survive when they had a roof.
Inside, every little god had been turned to face the wall. Prayer ropes hung stiff from the rafters, silver pendants had been nailed over the windows, and a ritual circle filled the floorboards in lines of drying blood. A man lay at its centre with his chest split open.
You had begun backing towards the door when one violet eye opened.
“Took you long enough.”
He grinned at your horror. Pale hair clung to his face, his cloak was sodden beneath him, and several things no living person should see moving inside his chest. Another body moved when he propped himself on one elbow and the locked door ignored your attempts to wrench it open.
“You— You should be dead,” you managed.
“Yeah, people keep saying that.” His gaze travelled over you, bright with either pain or pleasure. With him, you suspected the distinction had long since been worn away. “Very fucking rude.”
His name was Hidan, offered with the casual confidence of a threat. You kept your blade within reach while binding what could be bound, because leaving him open upon the floor felt too much like giving the shrine what it wanted. He criticised your knots, preached Jashin’s appetite and flirted throughout with such cheerful obscenity that you nearly forgot he had enough blood beneath him to drown a smaller man.
Then your palm slipped against a broken offering bowl.
One drop struck the circle. Suddenly, every lamp flared blue, the prayer bells convulsed without wind, and the dark lines beneath your knees began rearranging themselves like veins seeking a heart. Shadows appeared behind the paper screens—dozens of kneeling shapes, their heads bowed towards you.
Hidan stopped laughing immediately. Revelation hollowed the humour from his face and left hunger shining beneath it.
“Well,” he breathed. “Aren’t you interesting?”
The shrine, he explained, belonged to a sect so old even he considered them fanatics. They believed immortality was not Jashin’s reward but His loan, and that every breath taken beyond death incurred interest. Blood for breath, pain for proof. An undying body must remain an open account.
“You came here knowing that?”
“Obviously.” Hidan sat upright, apparently indifferent to the wound reopening beneath your bandages. “What’s the point of worship if your god never bites back?”
“And now it wants me…”
His grin returned, but something territorial had entered it. “Can’t blame the place for having taste.”
At midnight, the centre of the circle cracked apart. Steps descended into earth packed black and glossy with old offerings, and chanting climbed from below, one prayer spoken through many dead mouths. The kneeling shadows rose behind the screens as threads of blood lifted from Hidan’s wounds and streamed towards the hidden altar, pulling him onto his knees.
The force caught you differently. Your body began walking.
Hidan seized your wrist before you reached the stairs. His palm was slick, fever-hot, and now his voice held no mockery. “Don’t.”
The threads tightened. He convulsed, died with his fingers locked around you, then returned on a wet gasp when the bells rang. It happened again before you could call his name. Again before he finished cursing. Each death bowed his spine towards the altar; each resurrection made the grip on your wrist more desperate, until his nails broke your skin and the shrine tasted the two of you together.
The chanting changed. It had found a cleaner offering.
Hidan heard it too. Blood sheeted down his chin as he glanced from the opening floor to the pulse beating under his thumb. “Pain is prayer,” he rasped, “if you know who you’re offering it to.”
“Use my blood and I’ll haunt you until even your god gets sick of me.”
His mouth split into a delighted, feral smile. “Feisty.”
He tore the scythe from his back and drove it through the altar stone. The shrine screamed with every voice it had kept. Rafters cracked; the nailed pendants flung themselves from the walls; dead worshippers poured through the broken floor in bodies made of shadow and old blood. Hidan planted himself between them and you, laughing as they opened him from throat to hip. Every wound became another mouth through which he cursed the thing he worshipped.
“Wrong offering,” he shouted, hauling the scythe free. “You sanctimonious piece of shit!”
While his body barred the stairs, you pressed both hands to the circle and dragged them through its sacred lines. Blood became smears and doctrine became nonsense. The shadows bent towards you with a sound like a congregation drawing breath, but dawn reached the doorway first. The wood burst outwards, and the storm flung you into the grass.
When you woke, the shrine had aged a hundred years. Moss covered the threshold, dust lay inside where no blood had ever dried, and Hidan was gone.
His pendant had been tied around your wrist with a strip torn from his cloak. A note pinned to the earth beside you read, Best little heresy I’ve ever met.
You pulled at the knot but the cloth only tightened until the silver pressed over your pulse, and a black ritual circle surfaced beneath your skin, delicate as a bruise.
Somewhere among the dripping trees, Hidan began to laugh. The sound travelled farther away even as the pendant warmed against you. Then it answered your heartbeat with one of its own.
KISAME — the sea monster
content: drowning, underwater horror, human sacrifice, attempted murder, blood and injury, corpses, predatory imagery, monstrous transformation, carnivorous sea creatures
The harbour had teeth.
They showed first in the dock posts, where something below the tide-line had bitten through salt-swollen timber. The villagers blamed rot, storms, worms—anything but the sea eating people. By the time you arrived, seven more had vanished. The last was a fisherman’s daughter whose basket remained on the pier while the water beneath it frothed red.
No one had seen anything. The headman told you so with the entire village assembled behind him, pale and dry-mouthed, each face repeating the lie before its owner spoke.
That night, a storm pressed the houses flat beneath black rain. You stood at the harbour with a lantern in one hand and a knife in the other, listening to something drag itself beneath the boards, when a voice at your shoulder observed that the blade would not help.
Kisame Hoshigaki seemed to have stepped out of the weather itself. He eclipsed the harbour lights, blue-grey skin streaming, his grin crowded by teeth made for holding whatever he bit. The bandaged sword across his back shifted as if scenting the water. Below the dock, every ripple ceased.
You raised the knife anyway.
“That won’t help either,” he added.
“You’re the missing-nin.”
“One of them.” Kisame glanced towards the black water, and the amusement thinned from his face. “I’m here because something down there has been eating better than I have.”
The sword gave a low rasp beneath its wrappings that sounded unpleasantly like laughter.
You kept watch together because the alternatives were the harbour, the village or turning your back on him. Kisame proved brutal but honest company. He identified chakra in the tide and told you the missing girl was dead unless she had learnt to breathe seawater. When the sword stirred, he rested one hand against its bindings the way another man might soothe a hound.
“Samehada doesn’t like this place,” he explained.
“I find myself agreeing with the sword.”
“Careful. It gets attached.”
Near midnight, the water began speaking. Knocking rigging became syllables dragged through throats full of salt. Names surfaced among the waves—the girl, two fishermen, a long-dead merchant. When a voice called yours, you drifted closer towards the edge. Kisame caught your coat and hauled you away so hard your feet left the dock.
“Never answer water that knows your name.”
“Experience?” you choked, catching the breath he had knocked out of you.
“Common sense.”
Something struck from underneath then. The planks heaved, Samehada shrieked with delight, and Kisame moved in front of you before his smile had time to widen. It was not gentleness; nothing about him invited so soft a word. It was the reflex of a creature accustomed to placing its own hide between danger and the few things it had decided were behind him.
You found the offering board under the fish market the following morning. Names had been carved into it beside tide marks—travellers, orphans, criminals, anyone whose absence might be absorbed by the road. The ritual was older than the harbour, it seemed. Sacrifice one life when the red tide came, the records promised, and the thing below would leave the village boats untouched. Your name was the newest addition. So new, the grooves still held sawdust.
Kisame ran one thumb over them. “Bold.”
“Don’t kill anyone yet.”
“Yet?” His grin returned, slow and sharkish. “You do know how to keep a man interested.”
They came at dusk with weighted nets, driven past shame by the terror of missing a payment. You cut one line and three closed around you. A club glanced off your temple and the harbour tilted. Kisame moved through them like a wave over gravestones while Samehada chewed through rope, weapons and flesh as someone screamed that the monster had betrayed them.
Kisame bared all his teeth. “No. You forgot which one you invited.”
The net dragged you over the edge before he could reach you.
Cold locked your lungs. Beneath the surface, the harbour widened into a depth the coastline could not contain, crowded with faces gone pale from waiting. Hands rose from the silt and mouths shaped your name as the rope pulled you among them. Something vast circled below, its white jaw appearing where the darkness should have ended.
Then Kisame struck the water.
The sea recognised him; his shape lengthened as he descended, skin and sword joining in a silhouette all fin, muscle and appetite. Blood unravelled from his shoulder where the creature’s first bite had found him, but he tore through the net and gathered you against his chest. Samehada’s laughter travelled through your bones.
One of the drowned caught your ankle, and when you looked down you saw that it wore the missing girl’s blue sleeve. The thing beneath the harbour spoke through every corpse at once.
Give us the shark, and we will let you breathe.
Kisame held you suspended in the blood-dark water. He did not deny what he was, soften his face into anything more human or loosen his grasp so you could pretend the choice had not been placed between you. He merely waited, monstrous and wounded, his eyes brighter than the drowned.
You reached for him.
His grin opened against your palm. Samehada screamed, delighted by your answer, and the sea convulsed as Kisame drove both of you into the older creature’s mouth.
You remembered teeth closing and his arm locked around your ribs. Afterwards, he carried you along an empty dock, his skin scored by wounds already sealing. Behind him, the harbour boiled with pale bodies rising at last.
“It knows you now,” Kisame remarked when you coughed seawater over his shoulder.
“Is it dead?”
He glanced back. Far below the floating corpses, a second mouth was closing in the dark.
“Water doesn’t die,” he answered. “It remembers.”
For months, every cup beside your bed tasted faintly of salt. Sometimes you woke with Kisame’s name in your mouth and wet footprints beneath the window that always faced inwards.
KAKUZU — the stitched corpse
contents: corpse imagery, beating/preserved hearts, body horror, graphic organ removal, objectification, possessiveness, supernatural contracts, implied ownership
The ledger should not have breathed, that was the first problem. The second was the ink, which moved whenever your eyes left the page.
Old books tended to acquire strange habits in a bounty exchange. Their corners darkened with blood; their pages stiffened after journeys through rain; desperate men scratched out their names and imagined death would respect the correction. They did not, however, open themselves to accounts written fifty years apart in the same severe hand; they did not list a dead shinobi twice, and they certainly did not record that the second payment had been delivered as a heart.
You found the discrepancy near midnight, alone in the back office while rain worried at the shutters. A Takigakure missing-nin, confirmed killed thirty-two years ago, had appeared beneath a new alias the previous month. The bounty was claimed without a body, and pressed flat beside the sum was a length of black thread.
It curled around your fingertip. You slammed the ledger shut.
“Unwise,” a voice judged behind you.
Kakuzu filled the doorway, taller than the room seemed designed to admit. Cloth concealed his face below inhuman green eyes; the lamplight bent from him, catching upon stitches that vanished beneath his cloak. He regarded you with the patience of a debt that knew exactly where its debtor lived.
“You’re not permitted back here,” you told him.
“You are not permitted to read accounts above your value.”
“And what is my value?”
His attention travelled over you without heat or haste. “Undetermined.”
That was how his courtship began, as an audit he could not finish.
The false accounts led beneath the old slaughter district, where contracts hung from meat hooks and corpse tags were filed by country of origin. Kakuzu brought you because you could recognise the altered entries; he kept you because your continued breathing made the investigation quicker. He made no effort to disguise either calculation.
Yet as he noticed disturbed dust, counterfeit handwriting and every body priced a fraction below its worth, you began noticing him in return. The stitches beneath his cloak moved like worms under burial soil and several heartbeats answered when he entered a room. Whenever the ledger opened to certain older names, his hand covered his ribs before he remembered to prevent it.
He disliked being observed. You continued anyway.
The book grew bolder. It opened on your desk while you slept and filled the room with the papery murmur of breathing. Names bled through from pages beneath them and when you touched an entry, a heartbeat knocked against your finger. Then, one dawn, the ledger found a blank sheet and wrote your name across it in glistening ink.
No price followed.
Kakuzu stared until the lamp guttered. When he called it an accounting error, you pointed out that the book appeared to disagree.
“Everything has a price,” he replied. Black thread tested the cuff of his sleeve like an insect’s feeler. “You should fear that I know yours.”
“If you knew, you would have written it down.”
One of the hearts inside him stumbled. He closed the ledger hard enough to make the table groan.
After that, his protection became suffocatingly efficient. Threats travelled to the wrong address, antidotes appeared before you learnt poison had been purchased, a broker who offered money for your movements lost three fingers while Kakuzu asked whether pain had improved his memory. When you reminded him that he had only called you inconvenient to replace, his silence contained too many heartbeats.
The trail ended in a vault beneath the counting house. Jars lined its walls, each holding a heart labelled with a name, an ability and a price. Bodies sat at desks with their dead hands curled around abacuses, jawbones clicking as if the calculations had continued after language failed. At the centre waited a second ledger, bound in skin that puckered when Kakuzu approached.
Every jar began to beat.
Payment due, the book announced.
Black threads burst from Kakuzu’s back. The masks beneath his cloak screamed as the stolen hearts inside him strained towards their former names, and the ledger opened to your unfinished entry. Ink pooled beside it, gathering itself into the first stroke of a number.
Kakuzu’s fist punched through the page before the price could form. The book shrieked. “Assets are not appraised twice,” he snarled.
“I am not an asset.”
His head turned. Among all those preserved organs and obedient corpses, nothing frightened you as much as the possession in his gaze.
“No,” he agreed.
A thread slipped around your wrist—not tight enough to hurt, not loose enough to mistake for freedom.
The skin-bound cover laughed. Then pay properly.
One of Kakuzu’s hearts stopped. He did not hesitate; his hand plunged into his chest as the seams opened to receive it, and he tore free a living heart webbed in black threads. For one suspended moment it beat between you. Then he dropped it onto the ledger.
The cover opened like a mouth.
When you caught Kakuzu, his weight bowed you both towards the feeding book. His remaining hearts battered his ribs out of rhythm. “Do not,” he warned through the pain, “make this sentimental.”
By dawn, the vault was ash. On the table of your rented room, Kakuzu’s personal ledger lay open even though you had watched him fasten it inside his cloak.
Your name remained. Beside it, in his uncompromising hand, he had written Retained. Ink crept onwards while you watched. It added a date years in the future, then two final words beneath it.
Collection due.
You pressed your fingers to the page. The heartbeat below it was not the one he had surrendered. It was your own.
ZETSU — the thing beneath the garden
content: stalking and surveillance, invasion of privacy, graves and human remains, botanical horror, claustrophobia, physical restraint, attempted burial, possessive behaviour, boundary violations
The flowers turned their heads when you passed.
Nothing moved beneath your direct attention, yet each morning the blooms along the path faced your bedroom even though the sun rose behind them. You had been sent to the abandoned estate because it was growing. Not overgrown. Growing. Vines sealed open doors, moss filled fresh footprints, roots pushed through the floors in maps of battles fought before the house was built.
On your third night, a light voice inside the wall remarked, “Living things sleep so strangely.”
Something deeper answered from beneath the bed. “They are easier to study that way.”
The estate began leaving gifts. A polished finger bone appeared on the windowsill, then stolen letters, then white flowers spelling your name across the coverlet. One morning, you found a dead bird on the threshold with its wings folded in prayer. When you threw it into the woods, plaster dust trickled from the ceiling.
“Wrong?” the wall asked.
“Ungrateful,” the floor replied.
The following day, the bird had been replaced by a silver ring still clogged with grave-soil.
Eventually, you found Zetsu beneath the greenhouse. His face rose through the earth between knots of root, one half white as fungus and the other black as the shadow beneath rotting leaves while a flytrap collar framed him in green. He seemed less like something crawling from the ground than something the ground had finally decided to confess.
“You’re not a ghost.”
“No,” the white half replied, pleased to be understood.
“Worse,” the black half corrected.
You attempted to leave before noon. The path returned you to the same gate three times, marker stones shifted behind your back, and hedges joined where gaps had been. At dusk, the estate waited with its windows veiled in trembling vines.
“I did not trap you,” Zetsu insisted from the rose bed.
“The road disagrees.”
“The ground misplaced you.”
“The ground is lying.”
“Living things are very attached to direction,” White observed.
“Living things are very attached to leaving,” Black answered.
Zetsu’s attention inhabited everything the roots touched. He listened beneath the floor while you walked, appeared in the wall while you dressed and watched from tree trunks as you searched for a route beyond the garden. When you demanded privacy, both halves contemplated the unfamiliar word with grave concentration.
“It means stop watching me.”
The next night, he kept his face out of your room. Flowers opened under your pillow instead, hundreds of pale eyes without pupils. You threw a boot at the wall and the house shed a wounded strip of wallpaper.
Soon the horror became harder to separate from care. Floors warmed beneath your feet and poisonous leaves curled away from your hands. When a stair collapsed, brambles caught you by the waist. After a nightmare, roots lifted your blanket and slid across your ribs, counting each breath.
“No.” You could barely force the word through your throat. “Do not do that.”
The roots stopped.
“Breathing means alive,” White explained from inside the wardrobe.
“Alive means temporary,” Black reminded him beneath the boards.
The graves explained the rest. They lay under the orchard and the house, wherever flowers grew with human teeth caught in their roots. Centuries of battlefield dead had sunk unnamed into the mud, and Zetsu had watched the earth consume them. He understood people best once they stopped moving. Affection was observation, care was preservation, love was the refusal to let the soil lose what it had been given.
You rebuilt the fallen shrine at the garden’s edge, reburied the bones the roots had exposed and spoke the names you could recover. Zetsu watched through the ivy as you pruned the vines strangling the memorial stones.
“You cut living things,” White accused.
“So they can grow without consuming everything around them.”
“You bury dead things,” Black countered.
“So they can rest. Graves are not consent.”
For the first time, the estate gave you no answer.
That night, the garden bloomed with white flowers shaped like reaching hands. Beneath the willow, moss had grown into a perfect impression of your sleeping body, reproducing the turn of your head and each separate finger. Fine roots filled the hollow where your veins would have been.
You packed before the sun cleared the trees. At dusk, the floorboards opened.
Pale fingers pushed through the soil beneath your bed, followed by roots thick with moisture. They wound around your ankles before you reached the door, dragging you hard onto your back. Vines measured your wrists, ribs and throat without crushing them, not yet. Zetsu rose waist-deep from the earth, his divided face holding two incompatible expressions.
“The garden decided,” Black announced. “Below is safer.”
White watched the roots position you over the dark. “Below is forever.”
“Do not bury me and call it love!”
The grip at your throat faltered. All around him, flowers opened in the walls, pink at their centres and hungry for the shape of you.
“Living things need air,” White whispered.
“Living things leave,” Black replied.
Your nails tore against the floorboards. “Then learn distance.”
The estate strained around him. In the garden, trunks split and hedges writhed; beneath you, generations of bones shifted as though the dead were rolling over to listen. Zetsu’s face contorted with the effort of desiring two opposite things.
At last, the roots released you and the garden screamed.
By dawn, half the estate had withered. You woke beyond the gate with earth packed beneath your nails and one rootless white flower resting over your heart. Beside it, a message had been written on a dead leaf in soil-dark ink.
I did not keep you.
Three nights later, miles from the estate, wood creaked beneath your borrowed bed. A pale shoot pressed through the gap between two floorboards and unfurled towards your hand.
“I learnt the distance this time,” Zetsu whispered from under the earth.
When you touched the leaf, something beneath the floor touched you back.
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You get injured during a mission and can’t walk back — Do they offer to carry you back?
Naruto, Gaara, Rock Lee x gn!reader
type: headcanons
genre: fluff
warnings: none.
notes: someone ordered a dessert so I decided to treat you — it’s on the house ~
Naruto
You don’t even have to ask
The moment your mission is over and he can concentrate on everything else again, his attention is all yours
He gets on his knees in front of you and simply gestures for you to climb onto his back
It doesn’t matter if he’s exhausted or not, he has more than enough stamina and strength left to carry you back to the village
Arguing about it is fruitless — he does NOT listen
Gaara
It is completely out of question, you may save your breath before asking
The moment he realises that you’re injured, he squints his eyes at you
Not out of disdain but rather because he knows that you like to downplay your injuries and he’s not up for any kind of discussion
His sand platform is spacious enough to carry the both of you comfortably and he won’t let go of you either
It doesn’t matter how depleted his chakra resources are, he will bring you back safely
If he’s a little more obvious about certain matters afterwards, please don’t mention it
Rock Lee
There’s two hearts beating in his chest about that one
Does he enjoy that you’re injured? No. Does he see carrying you all the way back to the village as more training? Yes.
He will challenge his teammates to a race and promises you in the same breath, that he will win this one
Totally not to impress you or anything .. Not him, never ..
Exhaustion fears him and injuries apologize to HIM before he ever goes out
So trust in him to bring you back safely AND keep you well entertained all the while
(Remember that one scene in Shippuden when Guy carried Kakashi? I’ll leave the rest up to your imagination lmao)
by restaurant-behind-the-leaf — writings are for entertainment purposes and are not to be taken too seriously. Please refrain from reposting my works on other platforms. We don't support ai in this household.
Just a bit outside of Konoha, you and Lee find a nice little grove. It's a lucky find, really. You're always happy to tag along when he trains, but this time you're especially glad that you did. There are a few plums growing, and since it's the middle of summer, you expect at least a few of them to be ripe already. You stand on your tippy toes, desperately reaching for a red fruit that stands out amongst its less ripe siblings. Just as your index finger is about to brush against it, Lee sweeps you off your feet. No, this is not a romantic metaphor. He does it literally.
"Hey! Lee, I almost had it!" you protest.
"I cannot, in good conscience, allow my beloved to overexert like that!" Lee declares.
Without another word, he crouches down and flashes you a bright, earnest smile.
"Hop on!"
Well… alright then, if he's so sure. You climb onto his shoulders, and suddenly the fruit that had been just out of reach is right in front of your face.
"Oh! I can actually reach it now."
"Excellent!"
You pluck the plum. But while you're up there, you take a moment to look around. Wow, higher up you can see so many more red goodies. You could definitely pluck a handful more.
"… Actually, could we grab that one too?"
Lee takes one careful step to the side, following your directions. He watches you reach for the plum and then tuck it in your pocket. Then he squints his eyes.
"Ooh, there is a good one over there!" Lee points.
Before long, you're holding onto so many plums that they almost tumble out of your shirt. Lee gently helps you back onto solid ground. Despite having spent hours training beforehand, Lee still beams with energy. You stare at the plums for a moment before an idea crosses your mind. You rip off one of the stems. It holds a gently swaying plum leaf.
"I'll give you the biggest plum if you can keep this leaf in the air with kicks alone," you smirk.
Lee's eyes sparkle with excitement. A worthy challenge! But wait!
"How many times?" Lee asks.
You tap your finger on your chin. "Let's say… twenty times around this plum tree."
Lee chuckles. Easy! He gently tosses the leaf into the air and kicks it to the side. The gentle wind has it sway in a curve around the plum tree. Before it can land, Lee kicks it again. Perhaps you underestimated his abilities because it doesn't take long for him to make twenty laps. Only a few minutes have passed before he excitedly returns to you.
"I did it!"
You give him a proud thumbs up before presenting the promised plum with all the dignity of someone bestowing a great honor.
"For your unparalleled dedication," you speak, extending the plum to your noble shinobi, accompanied by a little bow.
Lee accepts it with both hands. You smile at each other before taking a triumphant bite. And then… your face puckers… Oh no, the plum is unbelievably sour. That's right, you knuckleheads forgot that these aren't human cultivated plums, they're wild plums. You scrunch your nose; if only that realization had come sooner.
"It has… a spirited flavor!" Lee says.
Well, that's certainly a way to put it, you think. You frown apologetically. You had him do all that work and for what? Something that is nigh inedible. Lee's optimism seems barely stirred, though.
"We could pickle them!" he suggests.
You glance at the bundle of terribly sour plums. Then at Lee again. He's already rambling about learning how to pickle fruit, wondering whether they should ask Tenten if she knows any good recipes (Neji is probably not much of a cook, but it wouldn't hurt to ask him either), and insisting that every failed experiment is just practice for the next one. You just gotta try! Listening to all that with widened eyes, you can't help but smile. Okay, you can't stay as sour as those plums for long with someone like Lee around.
────» Shikamaru.
You spend an entire afternoon looking for Shikamaru. Well, almost an entire afternoon. Finding him is never easy whenever he doesn't want to be found.
Eventually, your search leads you to the outskirts of Konoha, where he's exactly where you should've checked first. He's lounging beneath the shade of an oak tree, back resting against the trunk, one leg lazily stretched out over the grass. An empty bag of snacks lies beside him.
His eyes are closed. Right. He's probably napping. And normally you'd let him enjoy his nap, but unfortunately, this time you spent far too long tracking him down to leave empty-handed.
You poke his cheek. Nothing.
You tug on his jacket. Still nothing.
"Hey," you say. Silence.
"…Hey!" you repeat, a little louder this time. Not so much as a twitch.
You narrow your eyes. At this point, you're almost certain he's pretending. In Shikamaru's mind, if he stays perfectly still long enough, whoever is bothering him will eventually give up and go away. A respectable strategy…. if it were anyone else but you.
You pick up the bag of snacks, shake the remaining crumbs loose, and hold it over his head. With a cruel grin, you tip it upside down. Crumbs rain down into his hair, his clothes, his face. Like magic, Shikamaru's eyes snap open.
"… You done?" he asks flatly, brushing crumbs off his shoulder. "What a drag."
You smile sweetly. "The Cryptoanalysis Team asked for your help with some encoded documents."
He freezes. The color drains from his face.
"No…" His horrified stare slowly lifts to meet yours. "…You wouldn't do this to me."
He looks genuinely stricken, as though just imagining the work is going to give him a headache. You smirk. So, he wants you to bail him out, just as you predicted. You tap your chin thoughtfully.
"I got you. Let's go on a date."
Shikamaru stares at you, trying his best to connect the dots.
"That girl on the team, Shiho, has a thing for you. If she sees you with someone else, it will break her heart and she will avoid sending for you ever again," you calmly explain.
Shikamaru carefully nods. That's a long-term solution. That's good. Very good.
But… wait, he thought that he was the calculating one? Since when were you so ruthless?
Terrifying.
He loves it.
────» Kiba.
Dog. Dog hair. Dog sounds. Dog smell.
You feel like you've been living and breathing Dog these last few days. Well, to be fair, you knew exactly what you were signing up for when you started dating Kiba. Akamaru is just part of the package. It's not a shock, not really.
Still, you couldn't have predicted that Akamaru would get so… clingy. You can't seem to leave your room without coming back to find Akamaru sprawled across your bed, if not tailing after you. And that's just the beginning. Your freshly folded clothes? Sat on. Your blanket? Claimed. Your favorite spot on the couch? Occupied. What's yours is Akamaru's. You're not sure this goes the other way around, though. Not that you'd want Akamaru's half-chewed toys or bone-shaped snacks, anyway.
Lately, Akamaru is glued to your side, occasionally nudging your hand until you scratch behind his ears. It happened just this morning, when you were talking a walk.
You don't really complain. What can you say, you like the big rascal. You like both of your rascals, now that you think about it. With that thought, you glance at Kiba, who's comfortably leaning back into the couch beside you. Good for him; he's able to get comfortable. You? Not so much. He catches you looking.
"What?"
You gesture vaguely towards Akamaru, who is happily occupying approximately ninety percent of your side of the couch. Kiba watches as Akamaru lets out a content sigh, resting his enormous head in your lap. There is a bit of his white fur stuck to your shirt already.
"Huh…" Kiba starts, thinking. Then hesitates, as if he had an idea, but he's not sure how to distinguish whether it's an epiphany or a delusion: "No…"
He scratches his cheek. "Or maybe… Oh, no way!" Kiba announces.
You immediately turn to him, averting your gaze from Akamaru (much to the latter's dismay). "What is it, Kiba?"
"He's jealous!"
You raise an eyebrow. "Of who?"
Kiba points a thumb at himself. "Me, of course!"
You don't look very convinced, mostly just assuming that Kiba is trying to flatter himself as always. Kiba is forced to elaborate. "You've been spending a lot more time with me lately…" He sounds far too pleased with himself. What, does he see your presence as an achievement on its own, now? "… And you see, he decided if he can't have all my attention anymore, he's taking yours instead."
Hearing that, Akamaru scoots even closer, pressing his butt to Kiba and effectively shoving him off his half of the couch. Kiba catches himself before tumbling onto the floor. You look at Akamaru, and consider the meaning of this little tantrum. It lends some credibility to Kiba's boasts.
"Watch this," Kiba says, leaning in close. "Gimme a kiss."
Sure, whatever. You're curious what that's going to prove. You'll be sure to poke fun at Kiba if it proves nothing. Just as your lips are about to brush against the red fang marking on his cheek, you feel a furry softness. Since when is Kiba so… fluffy? You open your eyes. Akamaru. Akamaru's long snoot is right between you and Kiba. You're kissing Akamaru's cheek. He's happy about it — his tail swishes excitedly.
"Oh wow…" you mutter.
"I'm telling you," Kiba confirms.
You stare at the two of them. "This just means that he's not getting enough love and attention!" you conclude. Akamaru lets out a (possibly) affirming bark. Kiba would know what it means, but he doesn't translate. So, you basically know you're right. "Let's go buy him some snacks."
Kiba sighs. "Damn it, don't encourage these annoying habits…"
His words fall on deaf ears. A very special someone is going to get a mountain of treats, and there is nothing he can do about it.
────» Shino.
How fortunate the two of you are to have stumbled upon one of those rare summer afternoons when the weather is just right. The sun is warm. The breeze is gentle enough to rustle the leaves overhead without stealing your hat.
A broad tree casts a cool patch of shade over the bench you've claimed for yourselves, its branches swaying above.
You lean back with a content sigh. The village feels unusually peaceful.
Beside you, Shino sits in comfortable silence, seemingly just as content to enjoy the afternoon without filling it with conversation.
You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself simply exist.
When you open them again…
There's a tiny black dot hovering directly in front of your nose.
"…Ah!"
You instinctively jerk back, already preparing your highly sophisticated anti-insect strategy—flailing your hands and screaming. Before you can commit to it, however, Shino calmly reaches over. He offers the tiny beetle his finger, allowing it to crawl on him.
"Don't worry," he says. "It came to say hello. It seems to like you."
The beetle pauses on Shino's finger for all of two seconds before changing its mind. Instead, it toddles onto your sleeve. You freeze. Shino watches with quiet amusement as your eyes follow the tiny traveler's every step, your entire body remaining perfectly still lest you offend it somehow.
"It appears you're getting along."
For just a moment, you think you catch the faintest hint of a smile beneath Shino's high collar. The little beetle explores your shirt for another minute or two before finally unfurling its wings. With a soft buzz, it lifts into the air and disappears among the leaves overhead. Only then do you allow yourself to relax.
"…Phew. That wasn't so bad." You dust off your sleeve, then pause. You can't believe what you're about to say, but it feels like the correct dialogue option. It's not a lie. "…It was actually kind of cute."
Shino gives a small, satisfied nod. "I thought you might think so."
Manga edits and writing are mine. Please don't repost the writing.
You're happily working your way through a table laden with sweets. Konoha's festival may not be your favorite place to spend an afternoon. The crowds, the noise, the endless lines… but you can certainly appreciate one thing. Free desserts: rice cakes, sweet bean buns, dango. If there's one thing capable of convincing you to brave a crowd, it's an unlimited assortment of confectionery.
You become so engrossed in sampling everything that you almost fail to notice someone quietly joining you. Then again… Sai would be easier to notice if he announced his presence instead of quietly materializing beside people. You glance at him, cheeks still full of soft rice cake. He smiles at you. It doesn't mean anything, he does that a lot.
"You look very nice," he finally says.
You hurriedly chew. "Th-thank you."
Unfortunately, the three seconds it takes you to respond are more than enough time for Sai to continue.
"I like that there is potato starch on the tip of your nose." He thinks for a moment, hoping to draw the perfect parallel and impress you with his awesome verbal skills. "It makes it look like you were snorting—"
"Okay, that's enough, Sai," you interrupt.
He obediently falls silent. You glare at him for a second, but his soft facial expression gets in the way of you getting mad. With a small sigh, you wipe the dusting of starch from your nose.
Sai's shoulders sink ever so slightly and he frowns.
"I was going to draw you like that… I thought it looked cute."
You raise an eyebrow. "…Cute?"
You glance at him and realize he's completely sincere. Now /both/ of you are smiling like two idiots. But, well. You can't lie. He's pretty cute himself. Without warning, you reach up and gently boop his nose with your fingertip, still lightly dusted with potato starch.
"There. Now you can look cute too."
Sai blinks. His hand instinctively rises toward his nose before stopping halfway, as though he isn't sure whether removing it would be socially appropriate.
You grin, but it falters after taking a longer look at him.
"Hmph. Your skin's too pale," you grumble, disappointed. "You can barely even see the starch."
"…I see." He considers this very seriously. "I suppose I'll need more."
Before you can stop him, he's already reaching toward one of the trays of rice cakes. You burst into laughter.
"…Sai. I was just joking around. You don't need to do that."
"Oh."
This idiot. You're definitely taking him on a date.
────» Yamato.
The gently sloping hill is blanketed in wildflowers. Yamato sits beside you on the outdoor blanket, enjoying the quiet afternoon as a warm summer breeze rolls lazily across the field. The grass sways in soft waves, carrying with it the scent of earth and blossoms. It's peaceful. Exactly the kind of day the two of you rarely get to share. Yamato doesn't have many days off, after all, so you intend to make the most of this one.
"I like those," you say, pointing toward a distant patch of your favorite flowers growing farther up the hill.
Yamato follows your gesture.
"I see." He studies them for a moment. "They're beautiful."
His gaze lingers there a little longer, quietly thoughtful. You don't mind the silence, it's not awkward with him. The breeze, the chirping of birds, and simply having him beside you are more than enough.
After another moment, he speaks. "Give me a minute."
Curious, you watch as he places one hand against the ground. You feel the flow of chakra, and almost immediately, see the meadow respond to his touch. The thin leaves of grass around you stretch upward as though an entire week has passed in the blink of an eye. Tiny buds emerge from the earth and unfurl, until bright blossoms bloom in every direction. They form a neat circle around your blanket. You reach down and carefully pick one of the flowers. It looks perfect, indistinguishable from the ones growing naturally farther up the hill.
"…Yamato."
He smiles sheepishly before you can thank him. "I'm glad you like them."
Then his expression changes. His eyes dart around the suddenly much more colorful meadow, and he rubs the back of his neck.
"Do you… Do you think this upsets the ecological equilibrium?" he suddenly asks. Truly a man of concerns.
You blink. Of course that's where his mind went. You take a moment to genuinely consider it: a small patch of extra wildflowers, not invasive species, no trees bursting through the blanket, no forest swallowing the hill.
"…Nope. If anything, I think the bees are going to have a fantastic day."
Yamato looks around at the blossoms once more. The worry leaves his face, replaced by a smile again. Satisfied that he hasn't accidentally committed ecological sabotage, he leans back beside you.
The two of you spend the rest of the afternoon watching the flowers sway gently in the summer breeze. One more little patch of color in the meadow will remain for the entire summer as a little landmark of your date.
────» Gaara.
The room is so peaceful that you don't even realize you've fallen asleep.
When you finally wake, the golden light streaming through the windows has shifted across the floor, painting circles over the tatami. It's no longer as warm as it was during daytime.
You blink away the last traces of sleep. Then you notice that a blanket has been draped neatly over your legs. You smell something pleasant lingering in the air: a cup of tea sits nearby, still warm.
Across the room, Gaara sits with a book in his hands. He's reading quietly, slowly turning one page after another.
For a moment, you simply watch him. You almost don't want to break the silence. But eventually, he notices your gaze. He gives you a gentle smile. The sort of smile that he rarely wore years ago, but now seems to come naturally whenever you're around.
Staring at him a moment too long, your face suddenly grows warm. …Wait. You'd fallen asleep. In the Kazekage's personal chambers. On his bed. And the first thing you'd done after waking up was ogle him. You're not entirely familiar with the etiquette in Suna, but you're pretty sure that this is very, very, very rude.
"You should've woken me," you mumble, unsure how to apologize for… all of that.
Gaara closes his book. His gaze is soft, and so are his words. "I couldn't. You looked too comfortable."
A soft sigh escapes you before you even realize it. He's always so serene that it's contagious, and you can't help but relax as well. You only hope, perhaps a bit selfishly, that he enjoys your company half as much as you enjoy his.
As though hearing the thought before you've spoken it aloud, he soothes your worry: "I like having you here. So… Stay as long as you want."
His sentence ends a bit too abruptly, almost like he wanted to add a 'please' at the end, but hesitated. You smile anyway. The bed is, admittedly, far too comfortable to abandon just yet. Certainly more comfortable than the futon waiting for you at home. Rolling onto your side, you reach for the teddy bear resting beside the pillow and pull it into your arms. It smells faintly of clean linen… and of Gaara. More than any other object in the room.
You peek over the plush's head. He's pretending to have resumed reading. Pretending, because every now and then, you catch the corner of another tiny smile before he lowers his eyes back to the page.
Maybe staying a little longer isn't a bad idea after all.
────» Kankuro.
Ahh, the searing desert sun is going to drive you insane. The shadows cast by Suna's rounded buildings aren't enough to hide you from the heat, and staying cooped up indoors all day sounds like a different kind of torture. Kankuro told you to wait on a bench while he went to buy ice cream. Unfortunately, the bench feels about as cool as sitting on the surface of the sun.
"There was a long line," he sighs, breaking your inner monologue of a barrage of complaints. He hands you your favorite flavor. It's nice of him to remember that. "Apparently every idiot in Suna decided they wanted ice cream today."
You can't possibly imagine why. But you don't sass him, and graciously accept his offering. Finally! But before either of you can enjoy the summer delight, a small voice chimes beside you. A little boy, no older than six, runs over with an enthusiasm that only a child would have in this unbearable heat. Kankuro frowns.
"Oh, it's you."
The kid nods and beams, oblivious to the fact that he's impeding on a very important date of a very important guy. "You said you were gonna show me Crow again!"
With a dramatic sigh, Kankuro hands you his ice cream for safekeeping. He unfastens the scroll strapped to his back. With a puff of smoke, Crow appears. The child gasps, in awe. You look it over as well, not that you hadn't seen it before, but in the daylight outside of Kankuro's workshop, that thing looks even more terrifying. The boy doesn't seem to mind though, and asks Kankuro if Crow can wave. So Crow waves. Then he asks if Crow can spin. Crow spins. You diligently finish your ice cream as you watch the performance. Just when you're done with yours, a chunk of Kankuro's scoop slides down the side of the cone and drops on your hand. Hmph. Well, there's only way to solve this problem, you think.
"Dance! Can you make Crow dance?" the kid asks after having witnessed thirty perfect twirls. Yeah, you counted.
Kankuro's eye twitches. "Crow doesn't dance. He's a war machine built for battle, not a geisha."
The boy pouts. A moment after, his mother calls out to him, and he runs off with a short 'bye-bye'. Kankuro exhales. If the mother hadn't called out to him, you have a feeling the kid would've learnt a new swear word.
"Finally," Kankuro mutters, turning to you and reaching for his ice-cream. His ice-cream… that is not there anymore. He slowly looks from your empty cone to your lips, still glistening in the sun. It is such a mystery, he thinks, where his ice cream could have disappeared to. "I can't believe you couldn't wait five minutes."
You think five minutes is unreasonable. This was a lesson Kankuro had to learn the hard way. "Nope, the sun wasn't gonna wait. It was basically melting already, so technically I didn't even do anything wrong. I didn't let it go to waste."
Kankuro rolls his eyes. "Was it at least good?"
You look at your hand, which still has the little bit of ice-cream that drooped earlier.
"Try it," you joke, extending your hand towards Kankuro.
To your surprise, he leans down and actually licks it.
"Eh, it's alright."
You stand still for a moment, astounded. Kankuro is so down-to-earth and goofy that it's easy to forget he's basically Suna royalty. You look away. You're pretty sure any second now your cheeks will flush a darker shade, and you're not giving him the satisfaction.
Manga edits and writing are mine. Please don't repost the writing.
Can I please request one about the naruto characters of your choice with a s/o that is the stereotypical Canadian? Always says "sorry" and "eh". Always overly polite and sweet. (I'm totally not projecting myself here lol)
✨️Naruto characters with s/o who's overly polite and sweet✨️
Characters: Kakashi, Naruto, Gaara, Rock Lee, Shino
cw: none, fluff ❤️
Kakashi
- you activate all the protectiveness in him
- seeing how you navigate this cruel world while being so sweet, kind and helpful fills his heart, but also makes him worry about you every day
- he traines with you from time to time, partly to spend more time with you, partly so you can defend yourself when he's not around
Naruto
- you're the cutest thing for him
- you get along perfectly, both being rays of sunshine - but you're the gentler one, balancing out his wildness
- he makes sure no one oversteps your boundaries- if someone tries to take advantage of your kindness, he'll deal with them immediately
Gaara
- you're both gentle souls, perfect for each other
- he knows how much it costs to stay kind and sensitive in this world, so he understands you perfectly
- he's your protector, always ready to shield you from cruelty and bad intentions
Rock Lee
- he's crazy for you and your gentle personality
- he has some serious problems with being kind to himself and needs someone who'll take care of him - and you fulfill that need perfectly
- your presence is like a soft light, warming him during tough moments and inspiring him to keep going
Shino
- he once saw you taking care of an injured bee and decided he was going to marry you some day
- you're his reminder that gentleness still exists in this world, and he cherishes it deeply
- he's completely comfortable around you - he knows he can fully be himself with you, and you'll understand him
✨️The two of you are on a mission together, and the night is really cold✨️
It's a long one! And! We have new characters! Fanfiction gods blessed me the past couple of days with inspiration and I had so much fun, so I added Itachi, Neji and Shino.
Characters: Kakashi, Sasuke, Shikamaru, Naruto, Gaara, Kiba, Rock Lee, Itachi, Neji, Shino
CW: 18+, suggestive, mdni
Kakashi
He proposed it first.
To be honest, there was no other way. It was so cold you didn't feel your feet and hands already. Sleeping alone would have been risky, not to say: stupid.
The thought of it made your stomach flutter in a weird way, even if the purpose was simply survival.
You set your small camp together in silence, moving with the effortless coordination you'd developed over the course of the mission.
You both were tired, already travelling for a long time, far from villages and comforts.
Kakashi put his bedroll next to the campfire, in a small nook provided by a big tree trunk, shielding you from the freezing wind.
"You can sleep first," Kakashi said, crawling under the thin fabric and making room for you.
It was too cold and you were too tired to even hesitate. Maybe later, if the gods let you make it out of this mission alive, you would come back to this moment and have time to process that you slept in the same bedroll with Kakashi Hatake, the man you were yearning for for ages.
Now you just squeezed yourself inside the cover, as respectfully as the situation allowed.
"I-" Kakashi cleared his throat. "I know it's probably uncomfortable, but if you turn to face me, I could warm your hands a bit."
Your heart started pounding just on the thought of that.
You slowly wiggled your body to lay on your side. Your gaze settled on his chest, dressed in the black shirt. You didn't have the courage to look up.
His hands found yours.
"Your fingers are cold as ice," he sounded worried. "Do you want to put them under my shirt, skin to skin? It'll be the fastest way to warm them up."
You considered the possibility that you already died and your body was laying somewhere, frozen still. And now you were experiencing your personal heaven.
"Okay," you agreed in a high pitched voice.
He took your hands and put them under his clothes, pressing them against his chest, just like that.
You were cursing your stupid fingertips for being too stiff to feel anything beside the warmth.
But it was his warmth, and that was more than enough.
----------------------------------------
Sasuke
Neither of you wanted to admit that you were too exhausted to continue your journey.
It was late at night, the cold rain was robbing your bodies of the last ounces of warmth. You were shivering under your dark cloak, pushing forward only on pure stubbornness.
Suddenly, Sasuke stopped under a slope providing a small shelter from the rain.
You shot him a questioning look.
"We're stopping for the night," he said. "I can hear your teeth chattering from a few feet."
"I'm fine," you said firmly. Even if it wasn't true, showing even a hint of weakness in front of him never sat well with you.
"Sure," he answered with arms crossed on his chest. "If you faint along the way, I'll just leave you."
"Oh, how lucky I am to have a teammate like you."
"We're staying there until sunrise," he ordered, ignoring your comment. "I'll make a fire."
You hid under the slope, grateful for the break. It was so relieving not to feel heavy rain hitting your skull incessantly for hours you almost wanted to cry. You sucked it up instead and took off the cloak, heavy from water and unpleasantly sticking to your skin.
When the campfire was ready, Sasuke followed your footsteps and joined you on the ground. You unpacked both of your bedrolls.
"Your lips are blue," said Sasuke, his dark eyes glancing over your face. "Do you have any spare clothes?"
"No."
He murmured something angrily.
"Then we will share."
"What?"
"I have a spare set of clothes, they should be dry. You can take the top."
When you finally undestood what he was proposing, your face instantly went red.
"I-I think I'll be alright, we have the fire..."
Sasuke thought for a second.
"No," he said strictly. "If you fall ill, we'll fuck up the whole mission. We need to change in dry clothes and warm ourselves up as quickly as possible."
"You want me to stay just in your shirt?" you asked in a faint voice.
"It'll be long enough on you."
"But you'll be left with nothing but pants. You'll get cold."
"Not if we stay close to each other. Stop inventing problems and just do as I say."
He pulled his clothes out of the bag and gave you a neatly folded shirt.
"Change now. I'll turn around."
You stopped trying to change his mind. The fact was, the cold clothes stuck to your body really made it impossible to warm up. And if Sasuke himself was offering you his shirt, you're gonna take it, for fucks sake.
It really was long enough to at least cover your ass. The fabric was dry and thick, and it smelled nice. You changed into it quickly and rushed to your bedroll, burying yourself in it up to your nose.
You didn't dare to look at Sasuke until he put his bedroll down right next to yours.
He was indeed shirtless. Droplets from his still-wet black hair were streaming down his arms and chest, slowly drawing lines on his skin, curving around muscles.
Miraculously you weren't cold anymore.
-------------------------------------
Shikamaru
"I'm freezing my ass off," you muttered angrily, rubbing your hands together.
He was the one leading your two-person team on this mission, and it was his idea you'd stay the night at some ruins at the top of the hill. The observing point was great, but you couldn't even light a fire without being spotted. And the night was freezing cold.
"Can we mourn your ass in silence," asked Shikamaru with his usual annoyed tone. "Just try to get some sleep."
"I already tried, smartass. Not everyone is like you - capable of sleeping in any conditions."
"Not any. I can't sleep when someone is constantly whining."
You stayed silent for a whole minute.
"I think my corner of this stupid hut is colder than yours."
"Then come here."
You hesitated for a second.
"Can't we just switch places?"
"I'm not moving anywhere."
"Fine."
You took your bedroll and dragged it across the floor, stopping about a foot away from Shikamaru. It seemed proper enough.
"Happy?" he asked, when you lay back down.
You checked.
"No. It's as cold as before."
He sighed.
"I thought women store more fat under their skin to stay warm."
"Women have slower metabolism, you dumbass," you hissed. "And estrogen makes us feel cold easier. It's basic knowledge."
His silence was the best proof that he didn't know about that, which would give you satisfaction, if you weren't so uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry I didn't take it under consideration," he said, and it was surprisingly nice for his standards.
"It's okay. It's just this fucking stone floor, cold as ice."
"All i can offer is lying on me instead," Shikamaru said in this specific voice you heard from him a couple of times before. The voice you couldn't really decipher, if he was joking or being serious.
"That would be nice," you said, just to tease him. If he wanted to startle you, he picked the wrong one.
Shikamaru lifted his head enough to look at you. His dark eyes were curious, as if he was checking how serious you were.
"Then come here."
It suddenly became a game of who will back down first. And you, if you were honest, didn't like to lose.
You stood up, and he opened up the zipper of his sleeping bag.
You moved over him, and he was looking at you with a challenge in his eyes.
You knelt down with his body between your legs and he... became red.
"Don’t get all worked up, pervert," you said, knowing damn well you won this round.
But then he put his big hands at your hips, not breaking the eye contact, and suddenly something in you shifted. Your throat got dry.
"Just lay down already, smartass," he answered with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
--------------------------------------
Naruto
"It's so cold," you stated the obvious, shivering in your sleeping bag.
You and Naruto were spending the night under the bare sky, with nothing to shield you from the freezing wind.
"I know exactly what to do," said Naruto, getting straight down to work.
He left his bedroll and started taking off his shoes.
"What the hell are you doing?" you asked. When it came to him, everything was possible, and you were not sure yet if you should be concerned.
"I remember it from training! When it's really cold, and you're with someone, you can share one sleeping bag together, but facing opposite ways. This way, I can put my feet under your armpits, and you can do the same. Get it? It's a great hack to not lose your feet in freezing temperatures!"
"Naruto," you tried not to laugh. He was so proud of himself. "We didn't shower for two days. Get your feet back into your shoes."
"Oh, come on, give it a try!"
"Won't happen. It's not even freezing, just cold. Our feet are safe, I think."
"Fine." Naruto put his shoes back with a pouty face.
Suddenly, he brightened up again.
"What about hands?" he asked.
"What about hands?" you repeated.
"I can get into your sleeping bag and you can warm your hands under my armpits."
"And let you stick your hands under mine? Nice try, Naruto."
"No, just your hands. I'm not that cold anyway. With you in the bedroll, I think I would be alright."
His face was so cute and innocent, as always. And you didn't really mind sleeping next to him.
"Fine. Come here," you said, making space for him.
He rushed to you with the biggest smile. The sleeping bag squeezed you both tighter than you thought it would. Suddenly you found yourself closer to Naruto's body than you have ever been.
He wiggled and moved for a while, making himself comfortable, not minding tossing you around a little. When he finally stopped, you had one leg around his hips and his arm under your head.
"This is nice," he said, smiling down at you, blushing a little.
It was indeed very nice.
"Now put your hands under my armpits."
"You know what, there's no need," you said in a sleepy voice.
------------------------------------------
Gaara
You had no idea the desert nights were that cold.
Not being fully prepared for your mission was not your style and made you ashamed of yourself. Especially since you were with the Kazekage himself.
He, used to the desert climate, had a nice, thick sleeping bag.
You took only your thinnest blanket. It was embarrassing.
While both of you were getting ready to sleep, you hoped he wouldn't notice. At first it seemed like it - he wished you a goodnight and closed his eyes.
You curled up under your cover and watched his peaceful face. The view was breathtaking - dunes to the horizon, night sky dusted with stars. And him, with his maroon hair - such a perfect addition to the landscape.
It didn't take long for you to start trembling with cold.
"Well, all I can do is make it to the morning," you thought.
But the temperature dropped so much it was hard to bear. You hid your hands between your thighs, but your feet dressed in light shoes, so comfortable during the day, were freezing. Your nose started running.
"Fantastic," you thought, feeling more and more uneasy. "I was supposed to show myself from the best side. And now he will see me unprepared and sick. Couldn't be better."
Too tired to beat yourself up endlessly, you finally fell asleep.
A quiet sound of crackling fire woke you up.
You opened your eyes and didn't see the stars.
You jumped to your feet in fear, drawing a kunai.
But then you saw Gaara sitting next to the campfire, giving you the reassuring smile.
You looked around and realized you're in some kind of cave, made of... sand.
Gaara's sand.
The realisation hit you like a brick.
"Are you warm now?" Gaara asked quietly, worry in his voice.
"Yes," you choked out.
He made a whole shelter, just so you could be warm.
Your heart started pounding.
"I'm so sorry," you whispered, not able to look him in the eyes.
"For what?" he looked confused.
"I caused you so much trouble!"
He shook his head.
"You were taking care of me for the whole day. I should make sure you're comfortable during the night. I'm sorry that i didn't notice earlier."
-----------------------------------------
Kiba
"Hey, is something wrong?" Kiba asked, pointing at you suspiciously, like you were trying to hide something from him.
Because you were. And he, as always, noticed a change in you.
You were the one guarding your little camp, while he and Akamaru tried to catch some sleep. You were supposed to switch later.
The thing was, it was so fricking cold. On one hand, it successfully chased the sleep away. On the other, you were so jealous of Kiba and Akamaru, cuddling together so peacefully.
"Everything is fine," you answered Kiba's question.
Akamaru lifted his head, silently judging you. They both knew you were lying.
"Sure. Your scent is telling me something different."
"Stop smelling me."
"Are you not feeling well?"
You gave up, knowing he won't leave you alone.
"I'm fine. I'm just cold."
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, surprised.
"Akamaru, let's go."
"What are you doing?" you asked, watching them getting up and stretching.
"We can cuddle in a pack," answered Kiba like it was the most obvious solution.
And maybe it was in the Inuzuka clan, you thought.
Before you could voice your objections, Kiba sat next to you and wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer.
Akamaru lay down by your side and placed his big, fluffy head on your lap.
Your cheeks started burning. It was not usual for you to cuddle with anybody, especially on a mission. For them, it was like the most natural thing in the world.
Kiba's hand caressed your arm. He leaned his head back and not long after started snoring quietly.
It took you a couple of minutes to relax your stiff body. You even gathered the courage to rest your head on Kiba's chest.
It was warm and comfortable. You heard his strong heartbeat and it made you feel... safe.
------------------------------------------
Rock Lee
You were pretty sure Lee would want to continue your travel for the whole night. He didn't show any signs of exhaustion, not even the slightest hint of fatigue.
You couldn't say the same about you. You needed a break and, more importantly, to warm yourself up. The night was so cool you started to worry you'd catch a cold.
You were embarrassed to ask for setting up a camp, but it was Lee - you knew he wouldn't judge you too much.
"Lee, I'm afraid I need to stop," you said. "It's so cold I can barely feel my body."
He turned around to face you, instantly worried.
"Oh! Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asked, taking off his backpack. Before you realised what he was doing, he took out his cloak and wrapped it around your arms.
"Look, i think we could set up a camp near these trees. Let's go, it's not too far."
He led you there, sat you down and started setting up a tent.
"Lee, you don't have to do it all by yourself-" you tried to interrupt him, but he gently took tent pegs off your hands.
"I can see now how tired you are. Just rest, i'll take care of it this time."
Just a couple of minutes later the tent was ready. Lee took your backpacks inside and called you over.
"Quick, to the sleeping bag," he ordered and you noticed that he zipped the two of them together, so they became one big sleeping space.
Lee blushed under your look.
"The most efficient way to warm someone up is with another person's body heat," he said with his usual enthusiasm.
You could only blame yourself for the turn your thoughts took.
He got into the sleeping bag first and lifted the fabric in a welcoming gesture, unaware of your sinful imagination.
And sinful eyes, noticing the tensed biceps of the arm he was leaning on, and the muscles of his chest, visible in that position even beneath his jumpsuit.
You slipped into the bedroll, getting redder and redder in your face.
"Do you mind if I cuddle you?" Lee asked shyly.
"I don't," your voice was hoarse.
He went closer, putting one arm around your waist - respectfully, hand placed on the ground.
The heat radiating from him was so comforting, so tempting for your freezing body.
You switched to your side, becoming a little spoon, and he followed up immediately, cuddling you from the back.
His breath tickled your neck.
"You'll be warm soon," Lee said in uplifting tone.
You quickly forgot about the cold, focusing on all of the places where your bodies were touching.
-----------------------------------------
Itachi
Itachi had never missed any detail in his life, you were pretty sure, so it was not really a surprise, when he said:
"I can see you're cold and exhausted. You can just tell me, there's no need to push over your limits."
"Noted," you said, not seeing the point in arguing. It was true you tend to overwork yourself and he had spoken about it with you once. Or twice.
"Let's take a break. There's a small cave, half an hour from there, on the east. We can spend the night there."
You didn't question his familiarity with the area. Working with Itachi was accepting that he simply knew things.
The cave had just enough room for two people, but in those conditions it was more than enough.
"I remembered it being bigger," said Itachi. "It'll have to do."
You sat in the deepest corner, knees to your chest. It was nice to have a shelter from the wind. And it was nice to watch Itachi's hands, when he was lighting a fire.
It was a little secret pleasure of yours. His long fingers had always been mesmerizing to you.
"Come, sit closer to the fire," he ordered. You obeyed, squeezing yourself between the cave wall and his body. You sat there in silence, arm to arm; the fire slowly warmed you up. Your muscles stopped trembling with cold and your body finally relaxed a little. Sleepiness caught you off guard; suddenly it was impossible to keep your eyes open. You slowly drifted off.
You woke up in Itachi's arms.
It took you a second to realize that you fell asleep as you were sitting next to him. You probably just fell on him and he was too kind not to wake you up.
You jerked back in terror and embarrassment.
Itachi let you move away from him, but didn't take the arm he was holding you with off your back.
"I'm so sorry," you murmured, feeling all hot and flustered.
"It's okay. Let's just sleep."
You looked him in his dark, forever-tired eyes. It was always so hard to decipher what was hiding behind them. Especially when they were as close.
He gently pulled you closer, and you obeyed, letting him place you in his arms.
-----------------------------------------
Neji
Your hands were shaking so much you were barely able to lit the fire at your camp.
It was the coldest night in your life, and it caught you under the bare sky, in the middle of a mission far, far from home. You couldn't believe when it began to snow - small white flakes were peacefully falling from the sky, making you feel completely alone in the world.
You were travelling solo for over a week now, and it already took a toll on you. Even basic human interaction felt in this moment like something precious, undervalued by you till now.
Shinobi instinct kicked in even despite your exhaustion. Someone was coming.
You quickly stamped out the fire, covered up your tracks and hid on a tree.
You weren't expecting to hear familiar voice.
"Byakugan."
Neji came alone. You couldn't mistaken his dark, long hair, tall posture and, above all, striking light eyes, which were piercing right through you at this moment.
"Come down immediately. You're so cold I have almost mistaken you for a tree branch." His voice was harsh, but you knew him well enough to know it meant he was worried.
You jumped off the tree.
"Neji? Something bad happened?" You asked, feeling your stomach dropping.
"Not yet," he answered, observing you carefully. Swollen veins showed up near his eyes.
"Everything alright?" You asked, feeling uneasy.
"No."
He knelt, taking off his backpack, and began building a new campfire in a place of destroyed one.
"I finished my mission earlier and wanted to check on you. Definitely wasn't expecting to find you in that state," he said angrily.
Flick of a match, and fire spread on dry sticks neatly formed into the stack. The way flames reflected in his eyes was hypnotizing.
"In what state?" You asked, sitting down. You were so tired you allowed the possibility that he was just a product of your imagination. Which should probably scare you.
"You're close to hypothermia," he answered. "Don’t stop moving. Stand up and walk around me."
You simply obeyed, not wanting to worry Neji - imagined or not.
He quickly finished with fire and set up your sleeping bag.
"Now get inside," he ordered, and you welcomed it with a sigh of relief. You could barely stand from exhaustion.
The inside of the sleeping bag was warm and cosy, probably. To be honest, you couldn't feel that much.
Neji wrapped himself in his bedroll like it was a cloak. Then he took you in his arms, sweeping you of the forest floor.
You gasped, surprised. Strong hands pulled you close. Neji sat near the fire, placing you on his lap.
"You can't manhandle me like that," you said in a weak voice.
"We'll talk about it next time."
One hand was rubbing your legs, from feet upwards, the other took care of your arms. You rested your head on his chest.
"Don’t fall asleep," Neji rasped to your ear.
"Are you angry at me?"
"Yes."
"I can't control the weather, you know."
He sighed.
"I know. I'm sorry."
-----------------------------------------
Shino
You always liked missions, where it was just the two of you. You seemed to understand each other well, both operating the best in silence. Shino was your only teammate you felt comfortable with, when you were not talking- he was giving you the space to simply exist, without wasting energy on socialising.
Since you both were mostly living in your pretty closed up worlds, you didn't expect him to notice, that you were not doing great.
You decided to spend the night under the trees, but the temperature dropped too low.
You tried to fall asleep, burying yourself under the thick layers of sleeping bag, a blanket, and your coat, but you just felt too cold.
"Your limbs are too cold," you heard a voice from under another tree, where Shino earlier took his bedding.
"My limbs and everything else," you answered, trying not to sound too whiny.
"How do you know? You're cold too?"
"No, my bugs told me."
"Oh, right."
You thought it would end on this simple exchange, but a moment later you heard some noise. You lifted your head to see Shino dragging his sleeping bag to you.
You quietly observed, as he placed it close to your body and knelt on the ground. As if it wasn't surprising enough, he took off his coat. Which he rarely had been taken off.
He placed it at the top of your mound.
"Thank you," you said, really touched by his kindness. "But aren't you cold now?"
"I suggest we cuddle," answer Shino, which made you question everything you had known about him to this moment.
"Kiba taught me this on long missions," he explained, shrugging his arms.
"Oh," you suddenly felt... butterflies. And they were not Shino's. "Sure, we can cuddle."
He lay down as close to you as he could and snuggled to your side. You looked up - it was nice to see his dark brown hair, usually hidden under a hood. You never saw Shino's face from this close. The dark glasses were shielding his eyes, as always, and you thought how nice it would be to see them.
"You're staring at me," said Shino.
"I can't see if you're doing the same," you replied, which was a sneaky move from you, you had to admit.
As you were hoping to, he took off his glasses, sliding them on the top of his head.
His eyes were dark, with surprisingly long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
You lost your words for a minute, just admiring how beautiful they were.
And realizing how hot you were getting.
"I think cuddling works," noticed Shino in a deep voice.
Tags: Virgin! Gaara, slow unraveling, deep trust, smut
You found him alone on the Kazekage’s balcony — again.
His red hair caught the moonlight, wind stirring the edge of his robes. He hadn’t heard you approach, or maybe he had and simply didn’t react. With Gaara, it was always hard to tell.
“Gaara,” you said gently.
He turned to look at you — that stillness, that steady green gaze, focused entirely on you.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. His voice was calm, but his shoulders were tense.
You stepped beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “Nightmares?”
“No. Just… thoughts.”
You tilted your head. “About?”
He hesitated, then looked down at your hand resting on the railing next to his.
“You,” he said simply.
The breath caught in your throat.
In all your time working alongside the Kazekage, you’d never seen him look away after saying something vulnerable. He always meant what he said. And this? This wasn’t casual.
You didn’t reply with words.
You just stepped in front of him, placed your hands on either side of his face, and kissed him.
Gaara froze.
And then—slowly—he kissed you back.
Tentative at first, as if memorizing the sensation. His mouth was soft, his breath warm, and the hand that rose to your waist trembled just a little.
“Have you done this before?” you asked against his lips.
He shook his head. “No.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I want… more,” he admitted, voice rough now. “But I don’t know how to ask.”
“You just did,” you whispered, leading him inside.
Inside the Kazekage’s Quarters
He watched you undress with reverence.
You stripped slowly, letting him see everything, watching his chest rise and fall harder with each piece of fabric that hit the floor.
His eyes never left yours — not out of shyness, but because he needed your reaction to ground him.
When you reached for his robe, he caught your hand.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
You smiled. “Only if you are.”
Gaara nodded, kissed you again — deeper this time, more sure.
His robe slid off easily. His body was lean, lithe, scarred in places that told stories only he knew. His fingers grazed your skin like you might vanish, as if he was afraid to press too hard.
You reached between you, wrapped your hand around him.
He gasped — jaw slack, eyes wide.
You stroked him slowly, watching his breath hitch, the way his hips instinctively shifted forward.
“You’re beautiful,” you whispered.
His cheeks flushed — a soft pink that crept to the tips of his ears.
“I don’t know how to be good at this.”
“You don’t need to be good,” you said. “You just need to feel.”
He swallowed hard. “I’ve tried so long not to.”
“I know.” You guided him down onto the bed. “Let me show you it’s safe now.”
You climbed over him, skin on skin, your body sliding against his until you were straddling his hips.
His hands found your waist — careful, reverent. You kissed him again, deeper this time, and slowly reached between you to guide him in.
The stretch was slow. Careful. He filled you completely, and you saw the realization bloom in his eyes as you sank down.
He was inside someone for the first time.
Inside you.
Gaara groaned, low in his throat, gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself to reality.
“Is this okay?” you asked.
His eyes were wild. “More than okay.”
You rocked against him, slow and steady, letting him feel every inch. His breath stuttered, hands tightening, hips instinctively rising to meet yours.
“You feel—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Just groaned and thrust upward, shallow but desperate.
You leaned down and kissed his neck, whispering, “You feel amazing too.”
His hands moved — one sliding to your back, the other threading into your hair. He held you like a lifeline, like you were made of glass and fire all at once.
Every movement was slow, deliberate. No rush. Just pure sensation. Gaara learned your body like a scroll he’d been waiting to open his whole life.
The moment he began to move harder, faster, you met him — hips rolling, mouth on his, hands braced on his chest as you rode him toward something bright and burning.
He reached up, touched your cheek. His thumb brushed your lips.
“Please,” he whispered, voice wrecked, “don’t stop.”
You didn’t.
You tightened around him as you came, crying out against his mouth — and he followed with a low, broken sound, his whole body trembling as he spilled inside you.
Later…
You were curled against him beneath the sheets, your head rising and falling with each slow breath he took.
His arm was wrapped around you tightly, his face pressed to your hair.
“You’re shaking,” you murmured.
“I know.”
“Was it too much?”
He shook his head. “It was… everything.”
You kissed his shoulder.
“I’ve always felt apart from the world,” he said quietly. “Even after I was accepted. Even after peace.”
