Sasori wants all kinds of love with Hatsue. The kind that leaves a mark on ivory skin. The kind where daylight blurs his edges into something soft. The kind where a kiss is a chaos of storms. The kind with orange butterflies — the kind where they're consumed by flames. The kind that hurts and leaves him writhing — fragile, broken, and covered in wounds. The kind that runs through a sandstorm. The kind that yields, like sunlight on desert palms. The kind that poets do not know about. The kind that leaves and finds its way back — the kind that always does. The kind that never leaves at all. The kind that's an almost. The kind that he'll pay for with his bones. The kind that haunts him in years. The kind that holds on. The kind in wrinkles. The kind that lasts. The kind that stays.
He wants all kinds of love with her.