#zetsu x reader

He always offers you help in the kitchen.

He is very picky when cooking for someone but is easily satisfied with whatever you cook for him.

He feels obligated to return the favor by cooking for you too. That's why he took charge of breakfast, always waking up before you to prepare what you like.

Likes hot foods and pasta. Loves handmade sweets.

He prefers traditional foods, but accepts trying new flavors when he's with you.

He loves going out to buy new ingredients with you, he knows a lot about the subject and would be of great help.

Kisame Hoshigaki

You know that popular saying that the best way to conquer a man is through his stomach? It applies very well to this man.

He likes to be spoiled with food and will be grateful for it so.. please cook for him.

His heart feels warm when he comes home and smells something delicious you are preparing.

He likes foods with a sweet and sour taste, and he loves meat. He also loves sweets, so it's not hard to please Kisame.

He loves trying new flavors with you. If you want, he'll even help you in the kitchen, but he's not very good (he's a bit clumsy).

He'll find a way to say thank you, whether it's washing the dishes, giving gifts, taking you out to eat, all of the above, whatever you prefer.

He's the kind of guy who would eat what you prepared even if it was completely burnt if he knew you put effort into it.

Deidara

He likes fast food, but is very happy when you cook for him.

Thanks to you, he's starting to eat more healthily, because he has a childish palate and is very resistant to exploring new flavors.

He likes spicy foods because are like an explosion in the mouth.

"I have to say, honey, your cooking is an art!" - he says with his mouth full when he really likes it.

One of his favorite moments of the day is when you're eating something you've prepared or he's bought, watching a movie and talking about anything.

It's something very simple, but if you make a cake just for him on his birthday, he'll feel so loved that he might even cry a little.

(Sometimes he brags to the other members about having such a skilled s/o in the kitchen).

But please keep this boy the hell away from the kitchen! When I say he's a complete chaos cooking, it's because the kitchen almost always explodes! Literally!

Sasori

He often forgets that he still needs to eat due to his puppet body, so he's grateful that you remind him. He still needs to eat a little every now and then to ensure a bit of vital energy or something.

And yes, that was the lie he invented to not disappoint you. And regardless of whether you believed it or not, he always eats your food, even though he knows how much work it will take to clean his insides afterwards (don't worry, he'll probably come up with something to solve this).

Understand, he lied because he knows how important cooking is to you, he sees how much you work at it, but had the misfortune of being with a guy who doesn't need to eat… but he couldn't risk hurting you for something that's his fault.

Sasori only eats your food and no one else's, no matter how much they insist.

He likes foods with strong spices, he no longer feels flavors in the same way as when he was a human.

At the end of every meal, he politely thanks you for the delicious food and offers to help with the dishes.

Kakuzu

He likes hot, very hot, and traditional foods. Doesn't like sweets.

He's great in the kitchen and sometimes cooks for you too, as a thank you. Kakuzu has many years of experience in the kitchen, take the opportunity to ask questions and get some tips, he may not show it but he really likes to help you.

Maybe you don't know, but Kakuzu practically never eats out, he knows that some people want him dead and could easily poison his food. So for him to eat everything you prepare without hesitation is really a great show of trust.

He is very silent while eating, but he doesn't mind if you want to talk about your day, he will be listening to every part.

He really appreciates your food, getting involved and asking about the spices you used, how you prepared it, he really likes it when you test a new recipe.

Always at the end of every meal he thanks you for the food and gets up before you to clear the table and wash the dishes, a silent way of thanking you.

Hidan

Spicy and crunchy foods and sour desserts, it's true heaven for him...

As incredible as it may seem, Hidan is very picky about his food, it's unbearable to go out to eat with him, it seems like he always makes a point of finding some flaw.

But it's the total opposite with you, he eats everything you prepare without complaining too much, just teasing you a little as always. Except if he is angry with you for some reason, then he will be impossible, no matter what you prepared, he will not eat it.

Hidan has a very annoying childhood palate, so don't force him to eat something he doesn't really like, like vegetables for example.

You'll probably have some arguments about him drink any kind of blood but not wanting to eat the soup you made (for example), but it won't change anything.

Whenever you enter the kitchen, Hidan follows right behind to find out what you're going to prepare and also because he loves to annoy you while you're cooking. He tickles you, bites you, hugs you, kisses you and even steals some utensils to disturb you before you kick him out of the kitchen.

Zetsu

He likes meat a lot, in fact you thought it was the only thing he could eat.

He is very impatient and even hugs you trying to convince you to let him eat before you finish.

"I don't care that it's not ready yet and it's raw, I'm hungry, love. Let me eat it just the way it is."

Not a very good critic of your recipes, he will eat literally anything you put in front of him and thank you for it.

You are the one who teaches him to have a more refined palate and he loves trying new flavors with you.

Zetsu grows a vegetable garden just for you, with everything you need fresh and tasty for your recipes.

Tobi/Obito Uchiha

Tobi >loves< sweets, make sweets for him and you'll have him curled up in the palm of your hand.

Both Tobi and Obito don't like spicy food.

He feels so loved when you cook for him <3 (a tip: prepare ramen for him when he's sad, it'll make him feel better).

Whenever he comes home early he brings you some sweets he bought at the bakery as a treat.

This is another man who is very easy to win over with his stomach. He'll feel very special if you tell him you've prepared something just for him. Make him your guinea pig for new recipes, he really doesn't mind and always gives you great feedback.

He always offers you the first bite out of respect, he is as happy to see you eating and talking about how tasty it is as he is to eat something you prepared.

Pein

Pein went through long periods of starvation as a child, so as much as it may seem, he isn't very picky about what he eats.

Likes hot and spicy foods. Hate sweets.

He is a great fan of your food, even if you've accidentally burnt it or overdone the seasoning, he'll be happy to eat something you've lovingly prepared.

Due to his work as leader of Akatsuki, he often forgets to eat properly. It's you who show up at his office and remind him to eat, with something you've prepared in hand, he's really grateful for your care.

He is always attentive to your needs. Did you like a cuter utensil kit than the ones you have? It's yours. Wanting new seasonings? Suddenly they appear in your pantry. Everything you need.

Pein always makes it clear how he likes you to cook but that he doesn't want you to be overwhelmed with it, so he does everything to make this task easier for you, including ordering something from restaurants for you to eat and enjoy your free time together.

Konan

She likes mild sweets and, ironically, spicy foods. (Please make sweets for Konan, she likes a lot).

She will always feel like she is bothering or burdening you when you cook for her.

Konan isn't that good in the kitchen, so she's grateful to have a s/o who cooks so well. Sometimes she watches you cook to try to learn something, in an attempt to return the favor one day.

Buy a lot of sweets for you and make a point of always keeping your pantry well stocked so you don't have to worry about buying ingredients.

As I said, Konan doesn't like to burden you, so very often she takes you on restaurant dates.

Konan loves the culinary tours you plan, she could listen to you talk for hours about techniques, recipes and ideas. She loves seeing how excited you get talking about it.

Sorry for any typos;

Buy me a coffee?

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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I am a huge proponent of the popular fanon opinion that if this man takes you so seriously as to express a label for it (love, spouse, etc.), he is at the brink of worshiping your feet. Don't get me wrong, in terms of the arrangement of proposal and marriage ceremony, the leader is still in charge; however, he is dictating with every detail painstakingly about you. If there is decor, it is your favorite color. If you expressed you like a certain gemstone, he tracks it down for proposal and gets the finest cut upon your finger. You don't want an actual wedding? No problem, you're just going to come home to several thousand lit candles and a profession of commitment as deep from his heart as a corpse is in the grave.

The idea is that it is necessary for this bond to be formalized, at least for his own sake. Pain would refer to it as something you need to hear. If he is nothing else, he is serious about whatever he experiences emotionally; that goes for both his immense suffering and his most delicate of joys. He declares you his, neigh: commands...but only after you assure him yes.

If a traditional proposal is done, it must be in private. He dares not be too exposed. It's already so much that he has become vulnerable to you.

It is a hard privilege to earn. And so, the Akatsuki leader pays you back in kind. As long as you both shall live, you are his deity. You will never want, not as long as he is allowed to bask in you.

Pain kisses you firmly, one hand on your wrist and one on your back. You are to feel both his presence and his commitment.

A wedding song for you: Take me to Church by Hozier (yes I am a sucker for this song, yes yes and yes) or Ship in a Bottle by fin

Konan:

All at once, her heart aches in the best and worst ways, as it is such a curse of the Akatsuki to have had their loves taken too soon. Up till this point, she has been passive, letting you lead the relationship, but now- despite how much she yearns for the same- the angel stands her ground.

"Why?" you ask her in retaliation. She's thin-lipped as she refuses the real answer. It takes a couple tries over a few, staggered moments in private for the truth to tumble out:

She does not want another person she loves to die because of her. It's irrational; your death is not predetermined by the commitment. And yet it remains. She is scared, and the closer you get the more she stings.

But you have to press closer. You have to assure, promise, fight your way back into her heart as it tries to close you out in self protection. You succeed, thanks to one of the reasons you adore Konan: her capacity to hope, no matter the circumstance. Reminder her of that, and she can only be yours.

The wedding is small, the two of you and whomever you deem precious enough to witness. (I imagine probably not even a full handful). It is twilight and the color of the world is shaded blue. Blue as her hair, blue as she feels whenever you're away, blue in the same way the purest of whites are to the human eye. You are pristine. The paper that folds the bouquets that drape around you are spotless and glow in the moonlight in such a way they're almost lanterns. Their starkly pale and crisply folded nature surround as if it is her prayer that everything that is good may stay that way.

Konan kisses you in such a way that no part of you but your lips touch one another. It is chaste, it is soft, it is a seal.

A wedding song for you: Saturn by Sleeping at Last (I cry every single time I hear this in full. I sincerely think there are few songs that have so viscerally touched me like this one has.) or Soul Meets Body by Death Cab for Cutie

Obito:

You cannot get his single-mindedness off of Rin. There is no way around it, and anything meant as distraction will not only fail but backfire on you. Therefore, if you are this deep into a partnership, you are there not in spite of her but thanks to her. You will be compared and contrasted to no end; this is not cruel, it is merely how he shapes his worldview in regards to goodness and love. You are his second chance. You are his solitude.

You don't get opportunity to propose. He will tell you first.

It is every definition of a ceremony, almost ritualistic, almost like they're crowning a king/queen. The ceilings are tall and decorated with the visage of ancestors and gods. Incense is lit and the setting sun sets the room on fire with orange and red. You are presented to him, ornate in the way he demands. A masked face cannot hide the lust and satisfaction in his voice. His hand reaches out, and you take it. For perhaps the first time, the mask is tilted to hide from their audience while still showing his scarred face to you.

His kiss is hard. Not sloppy, but hard. His hand is on the back of your head, and he going to press you into him until your soul enters his body.

A wedding song for you: Come Along by Cosmo Sheldrake or Sick of Losing Soulmates by dodie

Bad relationship songs because I can't control myself: Anybody Else by Dom Fera (THE song of all time for me, I love it) or Sex with a Ghost by Teddy Hyde

Zetsu:

Marriage? That's a fascinating concept. He's never had the desire for this kind of relationship before, but as you talk more and more of it, the more he grasps. In the end, it is a concept that matters to you, and he can appreciate the sentiment of it.

The weirdest part, honestly, is that you reserved such a thing for him.

Though he follows along (you must guide the entire arrangement), he quietly, curiously doubts the whole time. But your guiding hand is so soft as you take him and lead, so nice onto his skin as you select two rings and slide one on each color of hand. You make no mistake: it is both you are marrying. It is both you are committing to. That recognition is his first step into a hesitant acceptance of your eternal love.

When the time comes, you walk him to the first place you met, beside a large tree in a clearing with no human settlement in sight. None of the "don't see the bride/groom" tradition, it has no room here. Any amount of people you want are there, regardless of if it is everyone or no one. (He would prefer no one, but this is all for you, after all). As you're about to kiss him, he makes one request. It is the only thing Zetsu has asked for in all of this time:

Let him taste you.

How can you tell him no?

So his bi-colored lips part, taking your bottom lip into his first, and then rounded teeth gently drag the flesh into his mouth. Pressure is applied and you taste your blood, though fleetingly as he drinks it in. In all the time you've known him, this is the closest Zetsu has ever been to you. In this symbolic action, you have finally gained his full and complete trust.

Zetsu's kiss is metallic but it is not cold. It is pensive, meditative, doing his best to understand that which you crave, and so he does his best to crave you. He cups your face in both of his ringed hands so he need not focus on anything but your taste.

A wedding song for you: & by Tally Hall or Yes to Err is Human, So Don't Be One by Will Wood

Hidan:

At first he's going to make fun of you. He's going to tell you that this is the dumbest idea he's ever heard. And when you go quiet and don't bring it up again, he is going to pin you down and demand to be told why you changed your mind.

This man wants you so much, he can't fathom it. What is marriage if you must slaughter your neighbor? Well...a lover is a step above neighbor, isn't it?

Thank Jashin he doesn't need to kill you to get married.

If you do a traditional wedding, he will drag his feet but he will do it. It's to your detriment alone, really, how obnoxious he'd be. If you pin a flower to his lapel, he'll rip it off. He'll spit to the side in disgust at any mushy gushy talk done in front of others in this bastardization of another religion's ritual. This isn't a real ceremony. Let him show you what a wedding really is:

It's going to end up with your blood on his body and his blood on yours. He makes you straddle his lap, in the middle of the symbol of his lord that he's drawn upon the floor. The same sigil is dangled from a chain, his necklace held between you, from your view right between his intense violet eyes. The metal is cold as it plays a barrier between your lips and his.

Hidan's kiss is reverent. If this Jashinist is marrying you, he fucking means it. Do more than tolerate the cut a knife makes into your palm; pray to it.

...And then he will pray to you.

A wedding song for you: I Wanna Be Your Slave by Maneskin or Misanthrapologist by Will Wood

Bad relationship song I can't help but add: This is Love by Air Traffic Controller

Kakuzu:

Despite popular belief, this is not a man who fusses over money the way Scrooge does over every last coin. By the contrary, it is that he is a man that does not have much to give. This is in every sense, it turns out. Kakuzu is a man that has had all hope in humanity and for himself beat the hell out of him, so it's a shock to him if you hint at a desire for marriage. A mistake, that's what you're trying to make, here. At first he'll rebuff with few words but still sure, but it'll hitch onto him like a tick. A traditional man at heart, you know best to let him propose himself.

And so he does. It is the only time you've ever seen him doubt himself, but of course you tell him yes. As you throw your arms around him, that's when reality hits in the best of ways.

He does not wait, not if you don't oppose him. He takes you to a temple, middle of nowhere with no one either of you or your nations will know. For an old man, it's such a romantic, young man's task to arrange to elope. The priest marries you, as you sit side by side at the break of dawn upon his stoop. He wears his mask, still wears long robes to cover his stitches, but his silky brown hair drifts so beautifully with the wind; he will say this compliment is one he had of you and yours, when he looks back upon today. You are his world, intertwined in an immortal and mortal life.

Kakuzu does not kiss you at the wedding. That comes later, when no one else is there. He pulls down his mask and takes your mouth upon his, tangled until one of you can't breathe anymore.

A wedding song for you: Vanilla Curls by Teddy Hyde or Budapest by George Ezra

Deidara:

A flirt he may be, but a guy of commitment? Hell no. At first he's really flattered, chuckling and letting a large smirk trail up one side of his face. It falls when he realizes you're being serious. "Wait, really?" You nod, and his always-intense stare seems a bit closer to concerned.

"My dear...you're getting carried away, aren't you?" he offers like a second chance to not embarrass yourself.

Everything, as it always has for Deidara, has happened so fast it hits him before he recognizes what it is. Love is included, even and up until the point he's in this deep. Honestly? It terrifies him. He'll laugh and walk away, but it'll fucking haunt him.

A couple days of flying on a bird, all by his lonesome, and he returns with a bit of a different view. Life is short, beauty is fleeting: the opportunity is here and damned if he don't take it. He offers your hand- both in marriage and for a ride- and you soar into the sky.

There's no such thing as a traditional wedding, no need for it when the most beautiful things in the world are you and his art. Explosions and fireworks alike light up the night sky and he leans over to whisper his dedication upon your lips.

Deidara's kiss is, of course, bombastic. It's intense and with tongue and repeats, over and over, never lasting too long as he can't keep his love-drunk words to himself for longer than two seconds. Streamers and confetti flutter around your heads, grander than any parade for any newly wed prince or princess.

A wedding song for you: The Cult of Dionysus by The Orion Experience or Fear and Delight by The Correspondents

Sasori:

Only someone who knows him as well as you will pick up the subtlest shifts of the scorpion's expression, the way brown eyes barely widen. You bring it up, nearly like a dream you had, nearly like you're talking to yourself in your sleep, but he hears it. Sasori continues with his work, the monotony of woodwork allowing him to chew on the idea. A marriage isn't necessary, of course...but he also will lie to himself about how downright alluring the symbolism of a wedding is.

If the most beautiful things are eternal, why not your love?

If you've gotten him so far that Sasori will consider whatever form of affection he can manage in his barely organic heart, then he will make every second of your life never-ending bliss.

He decorates you, almost like one of his dolls, in the finest patterns of fabric and sleekest of jewelry. He pains over every inch of skin on top of muscle and bone, the way the ring slips on your finger and the way your wrist bends to do it. The ritual is an art piece, and you gaze upon him so marvelously... Your lips part with such slight but sure poise...

The venue is silent and you both are alone. Not even a bird caws, no insect chirps. Pure, clear as glass silence. You are the only two beings in all of existence. You will ascend time itself. A single candle is lit as you sit in the deepest depths of this cave, where no one may interrupt.

Where no one can hear him confess to you.

Sasori's kiss is soft, far too soft. He holds both of your hands so delicately, like they're on a string. Lines of chakra help you move into him in a way that is just right, just utterly perfect.

A wedding song for you: Thumbnail by Louie Zong and Brian David Gilbert or Dark of the Matinee by Franz Ferdinand

Kisame:

Shockingly enough, this guy is going to be your hardest sell. Perhaps predictably, it isn't because he dislikes marriage, settling down, falling in love. Disliking and opposing are very different things.

He panics, at least just a little the first time you mention it. "I'm a shinobi, you know. You won't see me very much." Time passes on, and your desire appears again:

"I'm a rough guy. Just take a second to think about what you're asking for, alright?"

More time, and more desperation on his part with your persistence:

"I am meant to die alone," he finally tells you outright. "Don't bother with me. You could be spending your time so much better than fussing over someone who isn't going to last."

But you do, and he does last. Unfortunately, he does last. It gnaws him to the bone.

"Alright," he'll ask you, a long time since you first expressed your wants, "Are you certain?" You say yes, of course you say yes. Bittersweet, sharp teeth smile. "Very well," the swordsman concedes.

You marry traditionally, though very small. A hood drapes over him, hiding his face as the priest speaks the seal of marriage. His hand clings to yours, so very afraid of losing you. Or worse: making you lose him.

With the formalities out of the way, his own way begins. Finally alone, you both plunge into deep water, a loud splash quickly muting to flooded ears. He holds your face as your hair drifts past him in strands noses nearly touching. Kisame gets a good look at you before he changes everything forever, closing his eyes.

Kisame's kiss is a leap of faith. It tastes like lake water and seaweed and his love. He presses all of you into him like a shell holds a pearl, limbs climbing around you as you suspend in water and sink. Breathe into him, breathe deep. Every last breath in his lungs is just for you.

A wedding song for you: Against the Kitchen Floor by Will Wood or If I'm Being Honest by dodie

Itachi:

The implications of this circumstance are astounding. He loves you- yes, of course he does- but what's more is that he loves you enough to be so selfish as to gift himself to you, even knowing the fate he's reserved. It is both impressive and heartbreaking. Have hope, you ask of him. That is all you ask of him. Give it a chance. It is what he wants, isn't it?

Of course it is. But are you okay if the inevitable comes true?

You pause, and he studies your naive, innocent eyes. But you know more than perhaps Itachi has realized. You know it is okay to treasure. It is okay to enjoy. The journey matters more than the destination. Yes, it is okay, you tell him, you love to love him all the same.

Dark eyes close. Then he will give you what is desired.

Kisame is present, of course, as well as the ancestors of the Uchiha clan in spirit. You are radiant, and he tells you so. You return the compliment in soft earnest. A single hand cups your cheek as he approaches, pausing to feel and taste your breath as it drifts into his mouth.

Itachi's kiss is barely there, like he's afraid of breaking glass. If you want to kiss deeper, you'll need to go in and get it yourself. Just don't mistake delicacy for a lack of interest. This is the most of his body he has ever given in his entire life. Just give him time.

"We should go," his white half whispered to the black half, though they remained glued to their spot, eyes unwavering on you. Your twitching core, your fast hands, your scrunched up face...

"It doesn't matter, we need to check on their wellbeing," black said, "and isn't it you keeping us here?"

White didn't even bicker back, someone had finally gotten him quiet for once as you whined out your pleasure. The mission you were on had nearly gone wrong, and you needed some heavy stress release. When you'd taken a cool bath in a lake you'd decided now that you were naked anyway you could as well take advantage of it. Knowing that you were in a safe distance from the Akatsuki hideout had made you bold. You knew Zetsu watched this area like a hawk, but he wasn't human, so you were sure he wouldn't care much about what you were doing. 

And even if he decided to watch, good for him. You were sure he'd seen people masturbate or fuck before, and you were only human. You had needs, and you needed them taken care of. Now.

A shiver went down your spine while you played with your clit. You were hurrying before, but now you stopped. There was someone watching you, though there was no bloodlust coming from their hiding spot. You were definitely in a vulnerable position but... you slowly started back up, realizing when the one watching you was indeed Zetsu. As if your thinking had brought him into existence. 

Well, you weren't going to let it stop you, but you were slowing down your pace. If Zetsu was here you were well watched over, the potential of any enemies being close was slim, and Zetsu would notify you if there were.

Slowly you widened your legs, making sure he could see every inch of you. If he was going to watch anyway you were going to make the most of it. It was obvious he didn't want to be found, considering he hadn't made himself known, but the thought of someone watching you do something so naughty heightened your arousal immensely. Even if it was just Zetsu.

"Fuckkk," you gasped as you circled your opening with a wet finger, lifting your head to look in the direction of the plant-man. 

"She knows we're here," white Zetsu said, his blood running cold. Why? He didn't know. After all, he wasn't doing anything different from the usual; watching. Moreover, he wasn't human, and he had no genitalia. A strange thrill went through his body none the less when he caught your gaze, a face filled with so much pleasure and desperation. Suddenly his fingers itched to be touching you instead. He wished he had a dick to pleasure you with. He wanted to draw more noises from you, he wanted you to whine his name, though he had no idea where the feelings came from.

"Just stay still," black said, "it's because you're bad at hiding your presence. Now we're stuck watching this... disgusting human act."

"You're not moving away either," white argued back, and both realized the other felt exactly the same as they did. A shameful sort of thrill igniting the blood in their veins. 

"Maybe we could... morph ourselves a bit," white Zetsu said as their hands fisted in their Akatsuki cloak, eager to touch something. "It wouldn't be impossible to grow a dick... would it?"

Black growled. Not liking where white's thoughts went, but unable to admonish him. Because his thought went the exact same way. He, too, wanted to fuck you. A pathetic, useless human being. Someone not even worthy to stand in his presence, let alone touch him. He wanted you for himself. "Just shut up and watch. We'll decide what to do another time. ...but yes, we could."

You were unaware of their inner turmoil, just enjoying yourself immensely. Slowly inserting another finger inside yourself as you pumped it in and out, imagining their fingers in your place, or better - a cock. If they even had that. 

A high noise escaped you at the thought of the dual coloured man fucking you into the ground, though you knew that was a fantasy that would probably never happen. Honestly, you weren't sure if you even wanted that to happen, but at the current moment you couldn't stop your brain from running away with any idea. 

"Yesss-" you gasped as you crawled towards the edge, so close to orgasm you could almost taste it. Once again you looked over to where you thought Zetsu stood, and your eyes met his'. Finally you saw him though the bushes, noting that he must've stepped closer to you to get a better look. The comical way his mouth hung open paired with the way his eyes didn't stray from your core had you tightening around your fingers. Slick squelching as your legs closed around your hands, finally coming harshly as your legs thrashed in the water. 

Zetsu snapped from his reverie when you came and he realized he, too, had moaned with you.

"It's time to go," black said hastily, trying to get a grip. Hoping to get away from the feelings you'd awoken in him. 

"Yes, we wouldn't want to get caught," replied white. 

Zetsu completely gets it. He's not a human. He doesn't judge you in any way. White Zetsu is completely innocently curious about you. He asks genuine questions. Black Zetsu, depending on how long you've been together, would be the exact opposite. White would only touch your horns with permission and would talk about how cute your purrs were. Black only touched them when you pissed him off. He's angry; now you are, too.

Kakuzu is completely oblivious to your appearance. You begin to doubt that he actually pays attention to you. It wasn't until one day that you were both headed to bed. He reached over and stroked your horn. An attempt to remove the thing sticking out of your head. You purred and swatted his hand away. He simply smiled, whether to touch you again or talk about the horns on your head. He wasn't quite sure what he wanted to do first.

He's not exactly human-looking. Kisame gets it. There's no judgment from him. He supports you in any way and will fight those who speak badly to you. He's not going to pet your horns without permission. When he hears you making noise, he can't help but smile. Only when you are both at home will he ever touch your horns to hear your purrs. He also has a tendency to growl when you touch certain parts of him (similar to your purrs, and only when you both are alone and in a teasing mood).

© SUVIDRACHE — do not copy, translate, modify, or plagiarize my work. reblogs are appreciated!