Kankurō’s obsession didn’t bloom like a crush; it festered like poison. From the shadows of the Sand Village, he followed your every mission, his chakra threads ready to strike at anyone who so much as glanced at you too long. His puppets became his spies, watching through hollow eyes as he memorized the way you walked, the curve of your smile, even the smallest twitch of your fingers. He didn’t bother hiding the scratches and blood left behind when someone dared to flirt with you—those unlucky enough to test his patience never returned. “No one gets near you but me,” he whispered, stroking the wood of his puppet as though speaking through it to you.

When you trained alone, you weren’t truly alone—he was always nearby, crouched in the darkness, his painted face peering at you through gaps in the wall. Kankurō muttered your name under his breath like a curse and a prayer all at once, his voice thick with hunger. He found excuses to linger, to stand too close, his hand brushing yours as though by accident. “You don’t get it, do you?” he hissed one night, stepping from the shadows with Crow at his side, its blade-tipped arms quivering. “You belong to me. Even if I have to cut down every shinobi in this world to prove it.”

His love was suffocating, violent, and unyielding. He carved your likeness into his puppets, replacing their wooden faces with distorted versions of yours, so you would always “fight” by his side. When you tried to confront him, his painted lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t run,” he warned, his chakra threads twitching in the air, weaving invisible traps around you. “Because if you disappear, I’ll tear this entire village apart until I find you. You don’t want that blood on your hands… so stay with me. Forever.”