Kankurō wasn’t a subtle man, but he liked to think he was.

He played it cool. Relaxed. Laid-back. That guy leaning in a doorway with his arms crossed, talking trash but not really meaning it. He had charm—his kind of charm, anyway. But lately, that easy rhythm he kept around you had started slipping.

And he knew exactly why.

It was the damn piercings.

He caught himself staring again, and not in that casual, harmless kind of way either. It was the full-on, eyes dragging over every bit of metal like they had a mind of their own. Lip ring. Nose stud. That glint of silver hugging the curve of your ear. The little shine at your brow when the light hit just right.

It wasn’t even about the jewelry. Not really. It was about the way you wore it—bold and cool and completely unbothered. Every piece had this gravity to it, like it wasn’t just an accessory, it was you. And Kankurō—gods help him—was drawn in like it was a jutsu.

He blamed the gleam. The way it would catch him off guard in the middle of a sentence. The glint would flash and suddenly his thoughts would scatter like sand in the wind. He'd lose his train of thought mid-mission briefing. Once, Gaara had actually asked him to focus. Gaara.

“Just tired,” Kankurō had lied. And then immediately looked directly at the barbell through your ear like a fool.

There was something magnetic about it, all of it. A little dangerous. A little rebellious. And it made something primal and stupid in him perk up every time you walked into the room. You didn’t even have to say anything—just show up, silver catching the sun, and his pulse would skip like a kunai off stone.

He’d be carving puppets or oiling joints, and his mind would wander—imagining how cool the cold metal must feel against your skin. What it would be like to trace the shape of each one, slow and careful, just to see your expression change.

Sometimes he wondered if you noticed.

If you caught the way his gaze lingered a little too long, how his voice dropped when you got close, how he’d fidget with the rings on his gloves just to keep his hands busy.

He didn’t mind being the tough guy with grease under his nails, but damn if he didn’t feel like some awkward teenager again when you tilted your head and those piercings glinted at him like they knew what they were doing.

It wasn’t fair.

But he wasn’t complaining.

Not really.

Because honestly?

It was hot.

Too hot.

And one of these days, he was gonna snap and say something reckless—like how he thought the lip ring was slowly killing him. Or how he’d had actual dreams about that tiny hoop in your nose.

Or worse.

He might admit that he liked the way your piercings made you look like you could break his heart and laugh about it after.

Kankurō groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“I’m so screwed.”