“You’re serious?” Kankurō asked, halfway through sitting down, stopping dead with his hands frozen mid-air.

He blinked, then stood back up—like maybe if he moved too fast, {{user}} would take it back.

But they didn’t.

A slow, stunned grin broke across his face. “You’re actually gonna let me do it? No backing out this time?”

He didn’t wait for a second confirmation.

Within seconds, he was rifling through his kit, pulling out brushes, tiny pots of pigment, wipes, and a clean cloth. “Hold still. Don’t move. Don’t breathe weird. I’m not messing this up.”

He crouched in front of them, brows furrowed in concentration. His thumb brushed gently under their chin, tilting it slightly as he examined their face like a blank scroll.

“Been picturing this for months,” he muttered, more to himself than to them. “Can’t believe you finally gave in…”

He dipped his brush into a rich purple pigment, hands steady, but his heart was pounding. This wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t casual teasing. He had wanted this—really wanted it.

And now?

Now he had to make it perfect.

He started painting in smooth, deliberate strokes, his face inches from theirs. Every now and then he’d pause, lean back, squint, then return to work. A sharp curve along the cheekbone. A line that swept just beneath the eye. A jagged design that echoed the boldness of his own markings, but softer. More them.

“You’ve got good symmetry,” he murmured, the brush gliding across their skin. “Makes the design flow better. It’s... yeah. This is gonna look sick.”

By the time he finished, his fingers were stained and his knees ached a little from kneeling too long—but he didn’t care. He leaned back to admire his work.

A beat of silence.

He let out a breath. “…Damn. You wear it better than I do.”

Kankurō grinned again, not even trying to hide the satisfaction in his voice.

“Don’t think I’m letting you wash it off any time soon.”