Just Gaara

Suna did not sleep beautifully. It cooled, contracted and breathed around the lives sheltered within its walls. The day’s heat seeped from the sandstone, leaving the floors pleasantly cold beneath bare feet. Beyond the open window, wind brushed sand along the streets in soft, skittering currents and lanterns glowed behind coloured paper screens, staining the alleys amber, rose and muted blue. Somewhere in the lower district, the last vendors were fastening awnings and calling farewells to one another. A door closed, crockery clinked, then the village exhaled.

Gaara sat beside the open window with a report in his hands, he had been reading the same line for almost ten minutes. You knew because you had been watching him from the bed, curled beneath a light blanket while the night air cooled your shoulders. At first you had allowed him the pretence because Gaara valued dignity the way other people valued water—without spectacle, but with an understanding born from deprivation. You would not take it from him merely because you recognised the weariness gathering around his eyes.

Still, there were limits to how long one could seriously contemplate municipal pipe fittings.

His gaze remained fixed upon the page as the lamplight painted a warm edge along his cheek and caught in the dark rings beneath permanent markings that sleep might soften one day, though never erased entirely. He had not turned a page, he had barely even blinked.

His eyes were open but that did not mean he was awake.

“Gaara,” you called softly.

His attention returned at once. He did not startle, exactly, but his fingers tightened against the paper as though he had been pulled back from somewhere very far away.

“You should come to bed.”

“I am not tired.”

It was a poor lie, made almost impressive by the calm with which he offered it.

You pushed yourself upright and tucked the blanket around your waist. “You’ve been staring at an import request for ceramic pipe fittings as though it personally betrayed you.”

Gaara lowered his eyes to the document, perhaps hoping it might support his defence.. “I was considering it,” he said slowly.

“You were losing a fight against it.”

Something delicate moved across his face, not quite a smile, but the beginning of one, fine as the first line of dawn.

“The pipe fittings are politically significant.”

“Terrifying things, pipe fittings. They’ve brought stronger men to ruin.”

His mouth softened further as you held out your hand. He simply looked at it. The report remained between his fingers but his attention had shifted fully towards you now. You did not reach across the remaining distance, you did not coax him as though he were a frightened child or command him as though he were still confined to the care of Suna’s medics. You simply waited with your palm open upon the blanket, offering rather than taking.

For several moments, Gaara did nothing.

Then sand lifted from the floor beside him. It rose without a sound, gathering around his ankles in a slender, restless ribbon. The grains caught the lamplight as they moved, tiny sparks of gold travelling through the room. Since Shukaku had been torn from him, the sand had felt different. It remained his, fiercely and instinctively so, but the pressure behind it was gone. There was no longer the impression of another consciousness pressing its face against the inside of his skin, peering through his bones whenever his concentration faltered.

Now the sand answered Gaara alone. Tonight, it wound once around the leg of his chair, hesitated, then loosened across the floor.

Gaara set the report upon the table with meticulous care, aligning its edges with the documents beneath it. Even exhausted, he could not leave a stack untidy. The gesture was so painfully familiar that affection swelled beneath your ribs.

When he stood, weariness revealed itself in the fraction of a pause between thought and motion. He removed the Kazekage robe and folded it over the back of the chair, smoothing the fabric once with his palm. Without the weight of office draped across his shoulders, he seemed smaller, young in a way Suna often forgot he was entitled to be.

The village looked at him and saw its Kazekage. The shield above its walls, the hand capable of stilling armies, the child it had once feared transformed into the man it trusted with every life inside the desert. You looked at him and saw the person beneath the title. A tired young man, barely sixteen, standing barefoot in his own bedroom, uncertain how to approach the simplest human comfort.

Gaara crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed and you watched the mattress dip beneath his weight. He held himself carefully, hands resting upon his knees, shoulders still carrying the shape of robes he had already removed.

“You don't have to,” you reassured him.

His gaze rose to meet yours, his eyes pale and solemn in the amber light, their usual intensity worn thin by fatigue. “I know.”

The answer mattered. Gaara had spent too much of his life having things taken from him. Sleep, trust, childhood, safety… The right to inhabit his own body without another will clawing through it. Even love had once been stolen from him and returned wearing a lie. Whatever happened here had to belong to him.

You drew the blanket back in invitation.

Gaara watched the movement before lowering himself onto the bed. He did it slowly, with the concentration of someone relearning an act his body should have known without thought. First one elbow, then his shoulder, then the careful stretch of his legs beneath the covers.

He lay upon his back, rigid against the mattress. His shoulders remained braced, his hands rested flat near his sides, fingers held unnaturally straight. His eyes fixed on the ceiling as though sleep might descend from it without warning.

You settled beside him but did not touch him yet.

The space between you was narrow enough for your warmth to travel across it and beneath the blanket, your foot rested only an inch from his. The lamp flame trembled in its shallow dish, painting slow patterns along the walls. Through the window came the dry scent of dust, cooled stone and the faint smoke of cooking fires extinguished for the night.

Gaara breathed in.

Held it.

Released it.

“It is…strange,” he murmured at last.

“Sleeping?”

His gaze remained steady on the ceiling. “Knowing nothing will happen if I do.”

The words were spoken without emphasis, but years lived inside them. Years of his body belonging partly to something else, years of rest carrying the threat of possession, years in which closing his eyes was not an ordinary act but a surrender of territory, a door left open for Shukaku to force its way through.

You turned onto your side to face him. “Does it feel like nothing will happen?”

His throat moved. “No.”

You let the honesty remain; there was no use pouring reassurance over it until the truth disappeared beneath something sweeter. Comfort was not denial, it was making room for fear without letting fear have the whole bed.

Gaara’s eyes closed, then opened again almost immediately. His breathing had sharpened, though his face remained composed. It was an old reflex, faster than reason. His body had sounded an alarm before his mind could remind it that Shukaku was gone.

No wonder peace felt foreign to him.

You shifted your hand across the mattress, stopping just short of his.

"You don't have to sleep yet," you murmured. "We can just lie here."

Gaara's eyes turned towards you.

"There's no test to pass. No one is measuring how long it takes."

His gaze dropped to the space between your hands.

"And if you close your eyes and need to open them again, you can. I'll still be here."

Something in his expression loosened at that. Not relief, exactly, but the first cautious belief that relief might be possible.

You turn your palm upward on the sheet and, after a moment, Gaara moved his hand. His fingers brushed yours first, tentative enough that the contact might have been accidental, then they settled into your palm. You closed your hand around his, gently. His skin was cool from the night air, and though his grip remained light, he did not pull away.

You let his hand rest in yours until the tension in his fingers began to ease. His pulse moved beneath your thumb, swift despite the composure of his face.

"I'm here," you reminded him.

"I know."

The answer was immediate this time. You traced the inside of his wrist with the pad of your thumb, following the steady beat there. "You can stay awake if you need to."

Gaara turned his head towards you.

"I'm not saying I recommend it," you added. "I become extremely persuasive when I'm denied sleep."

"I have noticed.

"And deeply unreasonable."

"That too."

The dryness of his reply warmed something in you. Even exhausted, even with fear wound through every breath, he could meet you here, inside this familiar little exchange. The night had not swallowed him whole.

“But you can stay awake,” you said. “I won’t be disappointed. You don’t owe me sleep just because I offered you somewhere safe to do it.”

Gaara studied your face.

He had always looked at people intently, as though every expression contained information worth preserving. Tonight there was something searching in it, something more vulnerable than suspicion. He seemed to be measuring the truth of your words against every lesson his body had learned before he knew enough to question them.

At last, his fingers curled more tightly around your hand, then he shifted towards you.

The movement was cautious. One shoulder turned first, followed by the slight lift of his head from the pillow. He paused halfway, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath, but not yet touching. The question in his face was unmistakable.

You opened your arms and Gaara came into them.

The first contact was careful enough to ache. His forehead settled beneath your chin, near your collarbone while one hand hovered beside your waist, uncertain whether it was permitted to land there. You guided nothing, you only waited until his palm rested against you of its own accord, the pressure so light that he could withdraw at the smallest sign of discomfort. You drew the blanket around his back, enclosing you both in its stored warmth, then laid your hand between his shoulders.

He remained braced beneath your palm, every line of his body suggested readiness; to wake, to defend, to pull away before comfort became something that could be used against him. You knew better than to tell him to relax. The body rarely obeyed when ordered to feel safe.

Instead, you began tracing broad, unhurried patterns over his back. Your palm followed the slope of his shoulder, then returned to the centre, creating a rhythm he could anticipate. Your other hand rose to his hair where the red strands at his nape were soft beneath your fingertips, slightly mussed from the pillow.

Gaara released a breath against your skin.

There was no dramatic collapse, no sudden shedding of all the years he had spent denying his own exhaustion. Only that breath. Yet, you felt the difference in the way his chest settled against yours.

At the foot of the bed, the sand loosened from its watchful coil. It drifted over the floorboards in a thin, gleaming sheet, following no command you could see. A few grains collected beneath the window where moonlight silvered them. It was not defending him. Perhaps it was listening with him, learning that the absence of danger did not need to be treated as a trick.

"Is this alright?" you asked quietly.

His answer warmed the hollow of your throat. "Yes."

There was certainty in the word despite its softness.

You tipped your head and pressed your lips to his hairline.

Gaara's entire body held fast, and your hand stopped its movements at once. For one breath, then another, you wondered whether you had misunderstood. The fear of having crossed a boundary opened cold beneath your ribs. Before you could pull away, his fingers tightened at your waist, enough to keep you there.

"Again?"

The request was so unguarded that your chest seemed to fold around it.

You kissed his hairline once more, letting your lips linger this time. Then you pressed another kiss to his temple, where warmth gathered beneath his skin.

Gaara's eyes closed. The breath he took trembled on its way out, and his forehead nestled more firmly against you. His hand no longer rested upon your waist as though asking permission to remain. He held you with careful purpose, anchoring himself to the shape of your body and the certainty of your presence.

The lamp burned lower.

Beyond the window, Suna moved through the smallest hours of night. Wind travelled along the upper walls and sent a loose shutter knocking somewhere in the neighbouring courtyard. A guard’s sandals passed beneath the residence, each footfall measured before fading towards the eastern gate. From a distant house came a baby’s brief cry through an open window, followed by the murmur of a parent soothing them back to sleep.

Life continued around you, ordinary, imperfect, and safe.

You combed your fingers through Gaara’s hair, untangling the strands at his nape. His breathing touched your throat. At first it caught every few moments, interrupted by some ancient alarm that refused to believe the night had changed. His eyelids would tighten, his hand would flex against your waist. Once, the sand shivered across the floor as though struck by a passing current.

Each time, you pressed your palm more firmly between his shoulders.

Each time, you reminded him without words that he had not vanished into sleep alone.

There was only the cool desert air slipping through the window, your fingers in his hair, and the blanket tucked around him.

Only you.

Gradually, his breathing lost its careful discipline. The pauses between each breath shortened, the rise and fall of his chest became deeper, natural rather than measured. His shoulders softened beneath your hand. The weight of his head settled fully against you, no longer held as though he might need to lift it at any moment. His fingers loosened at your waist but did not leave.

Gaara slept.

He was no longer hovering at the edge of rest, listening for the slightest reason to retreat. His body had surrendered its weight to the mattress and to you, his mouth parted faintly against your skin. A stray lock of red hair lay across his brow, and the severe lines of vigilance had left his face.

For several moments, you scarcely breathed.

Wonder pressed warmly behind your chest. He slept tucked into your arms, trusting you with the one state in which he had once been most vulnerable. The shadows beneath his eyes remained, evidence of years no single night could undo, but they no longer looked sharpened by immediate strain. Sleep made him look younger. Not innocent—the world had taken that from him long before either of you had met.

Unarmed.

Gaara looked unarmed.

The sand rested across the floor in pale drifts, its surface smooth and undisturbed. It no longer searched the corners or gathered near the bed. Even that oldest extension of his will seemed to recognise that nothing here required teeth.

You remained awake for some time.

Not from fear, but because the sight of him resting felt too precious to abandon immediately. Your hand stayed between his shoulder blades, following every breath. You learnt the warm weight of his head beneath your chin and the way his fingers curled lightly into the fabric at your waist.

The lamp gave one final flicker before its flame expired.

Moonlight took its place, drawing faint blue shapes across the room. The guards changed posts, the last lanterns in the neighbouring streets went dark, and sand brushed the residence walls with the sound of dry fingertips.

Gaara slept through it all.

Eventually, your own eyes closed.

Near dawn, movement stirred you.

Gaara's fingers flexed against your side, his brow furrowed, and a strained breath left him. For an instant, old fear crossed his sleeping face. His body drew taut, caught between memory and waking. You lifted your hand to his cheek.

"Gaara," you whispered, "you're safe."

His eyes opened halfway.

Disorientation clouded them initially. He looked past you first, taking in the unfamiliar angle of the room from within your arms, the extinguished lamp and the paling window. Then his gaze found your face and recognition returned. The tension beneath your hand ebbed, leaving his cheek warm against your palm.

Morning had begun to colour the room. Outside, Suna lay washed in blue and lavender, its rooftops cold before sunrise as wisps of smoke rose from the first kitchen fires. Somewhere below, shutters opened and a broom swept sand from a doorstep, beginning a battle that would be repeated tomorrow.

Gaara looked at you as though waking itself had become something new.

"I slept," he stated, his voice rough with disbelief and the softness of recent dreams.

"Yeah," you smiled, brushing your thumb beneath his eye, “you did.”

"For how long?"

"Several hours."

His gaze moved briefly towards the window, measuring the light, before returning to you. "And nothing happened," he breathed.

“Nothing happened,” you confirmed. “You stole most of the blanket, but I survived.”

Gaara glanced down at the covers around his shoulder. "I did not."

"You did! It was a ruthless campaign of territorial expansion," you sighed dramatically.

The corner of his mouth lifted. Sleep had softened his expression enough that the smile appeared more readily than it had the night before.

"I apologise."

"You may have to make amends."

His eyes lingered upon yours. The humour between you gentled into something warmer. Neither of you moved away, his hand remained at your waist; yours still cupped his face. The new sunlight reached across the bed and caught in his lashes. Gaara raised his fingers to your wrist, not to remove your hand, but to hold it there.

Then he leaned closer.

He paused with only a breath between you. There was uncertainty in him, but no fear of punishment now, this was the hesitation of someone standing before a kindness he wanted and had not yet learnt how to claim. His eyes dropped to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

"May I?" he asked.

"Yes."

Gaara kissed you.

The first touch of his lips was tentative, warm with sleep and careful in the way everything tender still was for him. He did not rush. He seemed to acquaint himself with the feeling, learning that closeness could be welcomed rather than endured.

You returned the kiss with the same patience.

Your fingers slipped into his hair as his hand moved from your wrist to your cheek. The second kiss lasted longer; his mouth softened against yours, and a small breath passed between you, carrying the last remnants of the night.

When you parted, he remained close enough for your foreheads to touch and, for a while, neither of you spoke.

No old wound disappeared because the night had been kind once. Shukaku was gone, but the years of fright remained written into Gaara’s instincts. The sleeplessness, the blood, the terror of losing command of his own body, the loneliness that had taught him to mistake vigilance for survival, none of it could be erased between one sunset and dawn.

But Gaara had slept.

He had closed his eyes in darkness and woken to warmth. He had trusted the night not to consume him, and it had returned him safely to morning.

His thumb moved over your cheek in a slow, wondering stroke.

“Could we stay like this a little longer?” he asked.

Outside, sunlight touched Suna’s tallest roofs, turning the sandstone gold. The village was waking now. Soon there would be reports, advisers, guards, petitions and all the daily machinery of leadership. For another little while, however, none of it was permitted inside this room.

You tucked the blanket more securely around his shoulders and pressed a kiss between his brows.

"As long as you want."

Gaara settled against you again and allowed his eyes to close. This time, they did not immediately open.

For the first time since you had known him, rest did not look like surrender. It looked like trust.

tag list: @4theloveoflotus, @neuschwastein, @jone3y

if you would like to be added to the tag list, please let me know! 🖤

He crosses the room carefully, setting the mugs onto the coffee table before placing the snack tray nearest to you on instinct alone. He bought your favourites for a reason, after all. The couch dips beneath his weight as he settles at the opposite end.

“What happened?”

You turn your phone toward him.

The first thing he sees is a long wall of text. Then his eyes catch on the myriad tags at the top. Finally, he looks at an attached photo of himself from a live performance three months ago. His stomach sinks with startling immediacy.

“What is that?” he asks carefully, already certain he does not want the answer.

Your shoulders start shaking again. “You have fanfiction.”

“I know that.”

“No.” You push upright so quickly you nearly fall over the cushions, wiping tears from your eyes. “No, you don’t understand. You have fanfiction.”

Gaara stares at you with the wary composure of a man realizing he has just stepped onto unstable ice.

You settle yourself beside him properly, still visibly fighting laughter.

“I found the archive.”

“...Archive.”

“The archive, Gaara.”

“I do not like the way you’re saying that.”

“You shouldn’t,” You grin, take a deep breath, and begin scrolling rapidly. “Okay, listen to this.”

Gaara already wants to leave. Unfortunately, he loves you, so he stays where he is, fingers tightening slightly around his coffee mug like proximity to caffeine might somehow preserve his dignity.

You clear your throat with unnecessary drama.

“The stage lights carved gold into the planes of his face, but there was something almost cruel about how gently he accepted the audience’s devotion, like someone holding a wounded bird with hands capable of shattering stone.”

Silence settles across the apartment. Rain taps softly against the windows. Somewhere below, a siren wails briefly through wet streets before fading into the city again.

Gaara blinks once, very slowly. “That seems excessive,” he says at last.

“Wait, wait, it gets worse.” You’re already scrolling again with the reckless delight of someone excavating treasure. “This person has a master’s degree somewhere!”

“Y/N, please.”

You look up at him, grinning helplessly. “They wrote twelve thousand words about your hands.”

Gaara closes his eyes in exasperation. “My hands?”

“Your rings, specifically, are a recurring motif, apparently.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Gaara lifts the coffee toward his mouth with visible caution. Steam ghosts briefly across his face before dissolving into the dim room.

This is not entirely unfamiliar territory. Fame has created stranger situations before this one. Fans waiting outside venues for hours in winter storms. Interviewers asking invasive questions with rehearsed politeness. Entire online arguments he’d unfortunately stumbled across debating whether his silence during behind-the-scenes footage was intentional artistic symbolism or severe social discomfort.

The answer is usually both.

This feels different than all of those things; strangely intimate, like discovering people had been standing outside the window of his life sketching theories onto the glass.

Beside him, you let out a sudden gasp. “No,” you whisper in horror, eyes widening further. “No way!”

Gaara knows that tone intimately, it is usually followed by catastrophe.

“What?”

“This one thinks you’re secretly pathetic.”

He frowns immediately. “That’s rude.”

“No, no. Affectionately pathetic.”

“That didn’t improve the sentence, beloved.”

You rotate the phone toward him again. Tags blur past too quickly to fully process, though a few still manage to lodge themselves in his consciousness. Slow burn. Mutual pining. Emotionally constipated Gaara.

The mug stops halfway to his mouth.

Gaara’s brows furrow at the screen. He looks at you for a long moment, then back at your phone screen. 

“Emotionally what?”

You’re crying openly again now, nearly folded in half by the look of genuine offense gathering on his face.

“They diagnosed you from interviews alone!”

“I don’t understand why strangers are discussing my emotional state.”

“Oh, love.” You drag in a breath, still recovering from the latest laughing fit. “They’re not discussing it anymore. They’ve built entire ecosystems around it.”

Rainwater slides slowly down the windows behind you, distorting the city lights into liquid gold. Somewhere deeper in the apartment, the dishwasher hums softly beneath the storm.

Gaara takes another careful sip of coffee while you continue scrolling. Each increasingly horrified noise you make seems to age him incrementally.

“This one says you look like you apologise when furniture bumps into you.”

He sighs. “Sometimes I do.”

“I know!” You point at him violently. “That’s why they’re winning!”

Heat gathers traitorously beneath the collar of his shirt now, because much of this is absurd, yes, but some of it is uncomfortably accurate. Apparently the internet has reconstructed entire sections of his personality using nothing but live performances, magazine interviews, and observational skills sharp enough to qualify as psychological warfare.

Beside him, you suddenly go very still.

“Oh no.”

Gaara closes his eyes briefly, bracing. “What now?”

Your voice drops into something dangerously reverent. “The good writers found you.”

“I didn’t realise there were categories.”

“Of course there are categories,” you scoff, shifting instinctively closer, curling sideways against the couch as you turn the screen back toward yourself. “This person understands yearning on a molecular level.”

“Beloved.”

“No, listen—” you cut yourself off, clearing your throat loudly. “‘He loved with the caution of someone who still expected tenderness to explode in his hands’.”

Gaara stops moving completely, the coffee cup frozen where he holds it on his thigh, and something shifts subtly in his face. Outside, rain rattles harder against the windows for a few brief seconds before softening again. Of course, because the universe enjoys humiliating him personally, you notice the change in his expression immediately. The grin spreading slowly across your face turns incandescent.

Gaara looks away toward the windows as warmth begins climbing traitorously up his throat. 

“They got you exactly right.”

“They do not know me,” he mutters.

“No, but they know the vibe.”

“I still don’t know what that means.”

You lean sideways against Gaara’s shoulder, still scrolling, while the city outside glitters wetly beneath the downpour. For a while, you simply read snippets aloud between laughter. Some are ridiculous. Others are strangely beautiful. Some are alarmingly observant in ways that make Gaara feel briefly as though he’s being studied under laboratory lighting. Some are earnest enough to remind him painfully of old songs scribbled into notebooks at three in the morning; lyrics written during hotel insomnia and tour bus silence and moments of loneliness too embarrassing to revisit in daylight.

You reach another passage and let out a strangled sound. Gaara sighs heavily.

“This author thinks you’d fall in love because someone handed you a bottle of water after rehearsal.”

“That seems unrealistic.”

“You literally carried my migraine medication around for six months because I forgot it one time.”

He inhales to answer automatically, then pauses. His mouth remains slightly open for a second too long as he visibly recalculates. “That was…practical.”

The two of you stare at each other across the couch in complete stillness while rain patters softly against the windows, then, very slowly, you lower your phone. 

“Gaara.”

“Yes?”

“You’re in love exactly like fanfiction.”

“I don’t think that sentence means anything.”

“It means you’re doomed.”

He rubs one hand tiredly over his face as you collapse against him again in obvious victory. 

The room gradually softens around the two of you after that. Rain and distant traffic drift through the cracked window alongside the scent of cooling coffee. One forgotten lamp throws warm amber across the apartment while the skyline beyond the glass blurs silver with weather.

The snack tray sits abandoned on the coffee table now, half demolished. Gaara’s arm settles loosely around your waist without thought. Your socked feet disappear beneath his leg for warmth. Slowly, your breathing evens out as the laughter finally burns itself away. Beside you, Gaara makes the naive mistake of believing the danger has passed.

You inhale sharply beside him.

“Oh,” you murmur, “this is smut.”

Gaara nearly inhales his coffee. He coughs hard enough to jostle the cushions beneath both of you.

“I don’t think I want to hear this,” he manages eventually.

“Unfortunately, I think it’s important that you do.”

“I disagree—”

You are already reading tags aloud. 

“‘Tender dominance.’”

Gaara goes completely still beside you.

“‘Worship kink.’”

His eyes close for a moment.

“‘Service top Gaara.’”

“I don’t know what that means.”

You peer at him over the top of your phone. “Yes, you do.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

Before he can defend himself further, you continue reading.

The flush gathering beneath his collar now is unmistakable. Controlled embarrassment. The kind he is trying very hard to survive with dignity while the person he loves most in the world treats this entire experience like live theatre.

“Whoa,” you whisper, visibly awed. “They think you make eye contact during sex like you’re apologizing for the collapse of the Roman Empire.”

“Y/N…”

“They think you kiss like a man handling sacred texts.” You pause thoughtfully for a moment before shrugging. “Not untrue, actually.”

“Y/N.”

“This one called your hands ‘devotional.’”

Gaara covers his eyes with one hand and exhales slowly through his nose like a man attempting self-regulation in real time. The traitorous thing is that none of this sounds impossible because intimacy, to him, is careful. Intentional. Serious. Unfortunately for him, the internet has apparently mistaken emotional sincerity for devastating eroticism.

You suddenly suck in a breath. “No.”

“What now?” Gaara asks, sounding genuinely tired.

“They figured out the forehead touch thing.”

The silence that follows is fatal.

Rain rattles softly against the windows. Somewhere in the kitchen, the dishwasher hum suddenly feels deafening.

Gaara lowers his hand slowly.

“...How?”

You stare at the screen like someone witnessing divine intervention as you read, “They think you do it automatically when you get overwhelmed by affection.”

Gaara’s gaze fixes on the opposite wall instead. Beyond the glass, rainwater slides down the skyline in distorted ribbons. Heat climbs mercilessly up his throat until even his ears burn red in shade that disappears into his hair.

“They’re studying you,” you say quietly, amusement still threaded through your voice.

“They are making assumptions.”

“Correct ones.”

“They are still assumptions.”

You giggle softly and shift closer until you’re pressed fully against his side, stealing warmth through the fabric of his shirt.

“You know what the worst part is?”

“I suspect you’re going to tell me.”

“You would say half the things they write for you.”

“I would not.” The response is immediate. Offended.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh, really?”

“Really.”

You hum softly, scrolling a little further through the story currently open on your phone before pausing and reading aloud, “‘You don’t have to earn gentleness from me.’”

Gaara freezes. For a moment he simply watches rainwater streak down the towering windows, city lights smearing gold beneath the storm. Then he clears his throat quietly. “That one is…better written.”

You make a sound so loud and delighted that it startles him outright.

“YOU ADMITTED IT!”

“I did not.”

“YOU CRITIQUED THE PROSE!”

Gaara exhales slowly through his nose. Somewhere beneath the embarrassment, amusement has finally begun slipping through the cracks despite himself, small and reluctant and warm enough that the tension in his shoulders eases for the first time all evening. Because unfortunately, some of it is well-written.

Your grin softens for a brief, dangerous moment into something genuinely fond before sharpening again with catastrophic intent.

“You know,” you say carefully, “there are probably fanfictions about us specifically.”

Gaara looks genuinely alarmed.

“…Us?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Y/N.”

You’re already typing.

Rain drums softly against the windows while the apartment settles deeper into midnight around you. The coffee has long since gone cold on the table. One corner lamp still burns amber beside the couch, throwing soft light across abandoned snack wrappers and tangled blankets.

Several minutes pass in increasingly suspicious silence.

Then you suddenly make the kind of horrified delighted noise that signals you have discovered something unspeakable. Gaara closes his eyes immediately and, with perfect clarity, he understands this is how he dies.

Not through scandal. Not through exhaustion. Not even onstage beneath hot, blinding lights.

But on a couch after midnight while the person he loves most in the world reads internet pornography about him with the delighted concentration of a scholar uncovering lost scripture.

bonus because i can’t help myself

You wake up to an empty bed and thin amber light spilling beneath the bedroom door. For one disoriented second your brain supplies ‘intruder’ before you remember who you live with.

The apartment is quiet except for distant rain and the low refrigerator hum that always seems louder after midnight. 4:23 AM glows neon-blue across the microwave clock as you pad barefoot into the living room. The apartment still looks faintly wrecked from earlier. Cold coffee abandoned on the table and half-demolished snacks left out on the tray. A blanket is tangled sideways on the couch, hanging precariously off the edge.

Gaara sits in the middle of it wearing sweatpants and an old black band t-shirt, laptop balanced across his knees and sitting completely motionless. 

The expression on his face is gravely serious, neither entertained nor embarrassed, but more like…studying.

You narrow your eyes through the darkness.

“Gaara?”

He doesn’t look up from the screen.

“This characterisation is inaccurate.”

A beat of silence hangs perilously in the air.

“YOU’RE READING THE FANFICTION?!” you shriek, absolutely obliterating what remained of the apartment’s peace and quite possibly waking at least one neighbor.

He finally glances over then, entirely calm despite the fact that you’re yelling like you’ve just caught him committing treason.

“This version of me wouldn’t say that.”

You stare at him in utter disbelief. 

The laptop glow reflects faintly in his eyes. Paragraphs of text scroll endlessly across the screen, AO3 tags lined across the top like cursed academic terminology. 

“I can’t believe this. You’ve become your own fandom discourse.”

“That is not what’s happening.”

“Gaara, you’re fact-checking fanfiction at four in the morning.”

“I was curious.”

“YOU’RE PEER-REVIEWING IT!”

He pauses thoughtfully, and then, with absolute sincerity, “This author fundamentally misunderstands how I would approach emotional vulnerability.”

You make a noise usually only heard in wildlife documentaries moments before the predator attacks its prey. You gasp, catching sight of something on the screen and stumble closer. “You left kudos on this one!”

Gaara’s expression shifts microscopically into something that could almost be called sheepish. “I appreciated the pacing,” he admits awkwardly.

You collapse face-first into the couch cushions beside him, laughing so hard that you can barely breathe while Gaara simply turns back to the screen with that same grave concentration and says, “The dialogue improves significantly in chapter four.”

🖤 tag list: @4theloveoflotus, @neuschwastein

if you'd like to be added to the tag list, please let me know!!