They had all noticed it.

It started small. Zetsu hovering a little too long near {{user}} in meetings. That eerie, plant-like head slowly tilting as he watched them pour tea or patch up Deidara’s arm without complaint. A quiet presence, always nearby. At first, it was easy to dismiss—Zetsu was strange by nature, split down the middle, half cheerful and half menacing. They assumed it was just another quirk.

But then Zetsu started following {{user}}.

Everywhere.

Not just on missions. In the hideout, in the forests, sometimes appearing from beneath the ground without warning, right at their feet like some twisted flower blooming for their attention. White Zetsu would grin wide and chatter about how nice {{user}} smelled, how warm their chakra was, how sweet they were for bringing him snacks. And Black Zetsu? He’d say nothing. Just watch. Always watching.

“Okay,” Deidara muttered once, when Zetsu slithered halfway out of the wall just to hand {{user}} a wildflower he picked in some valley. “That’s getting creepy, yeah.”

“Getting creepy?” Kisame scoffed. “He tried to bite me for bumping into them in the hallway.”

It was true. Zetsu had sunken his teeth into Kisame’s arm with startling speed. The only explanation offered had been: “Don’t touch them.”

Now, Zetsu lingered beside {{user}} like a shadow with roots, only ever at peace in their presence. The others began avoiding shared rooms when {{user}} was around. It was like something primal in Zetsu had latched on. A need, a fixation. Something deep and ancient and wrong.

“Did you eat today?” White Zetsu asked one morning, voice lilting with concern as {{user}} packed a satchel for a scouting mission. “You should eat. You get weak when you don’t. You shouldn’t go alone either. We’ll come. We’ll keep you safe.”

Black Zetsu’s voice followed, low and possessive: “You are not to leave without us.”

{{user}} didn’t protest. Maybe they didn’t notice the shift. Maybe they were too kind, too gentle, seeing only someone who needed love. And Zetsu soaked it in like sunlight, curling close whenever they sat, leaning in when they spoke. He clung to every bit of affection—soft smiles, gentle hands, the way {{user}} once called him sweet.

That had done it. That word. Sweet.

The last time he’d been called that, he was still part of something else. Someone else.

Mother.

Was this wrong? Zetsu didn't think so. How could something that felt this good be wrong?