Series: Monoshizukanohi AU
Pairing: Sasori and Deidara
Word Count: ~6900
Warnings/Notes: Language, violence, death (non main character), chaos, anal, gun play, impact play, BDSM, exhibitionism, hand job, blood, semen play, graphic sex, did I mention violence? Also -- strange humor and an overabundance of italics.
Spoilers: None whatsoever for the actual manga.
Summary: Deidara helps Sasori cope during a difficult time.
A/N: Guys? This one's crazy even for me. Heed the warnings, and remember: Deidara and Sasori are NOBODY's example of sanity. On any level.
Deidara hated guns. They were heavy, bulky, lumbering things, so uncouth and unsophisticated. Even the smaller ones made Deidara's fingers look positively dainty, his palms too narrow and his wrists too fragile. The first time he'd ever fired one, he had screeched and jumped. It was so loud, and the damned thing leapt in his grip. He'd closed his eyes, too, and the shot had gone far afield of the target. The instructor at the range had calmly explained that such reactions weren't so unusual, but Deidara had tried to escape further training, regardless. He wanted nothing to do with the clunky pieces of metal and plastic, but Sasori wouldn't hear of it. Sasori, the sadistic fuck, had wrapped around Deidara and the weapon, and had purred in Deidara's ear that if he didn't keep going, he was a coward, and Sasori wouldn't tolerate cowards. Not in the shooting gallery, not in bed, not in Sasori's life.
Really not such a nice man, Sasori. Deidara usually enjoyed that part -- the unkind pieces that kept him in bruises and cuts. Deidara hated guns, yes, but he loved knives and whips and metal-tipped floggers. Give Deidara a razor blade and tell him that before the hour was done and dinner could be eaten, he had to figure out twenty-five places to slice himself in three-inch long slashes, and Deidara could go to the task with the enthusiasm of a pair of virgins sucking dick and seeking their first orgasms. He'd go to the table dressed in running red liquid silk, and he'd triumph in the way Sasori would almost smile, almost praise him, and almost moan when Sasori would press Deidara into the glass top and fuck until they looked like sacrifices on the altar to the god of war.
Deidara shifted on the cold floor of the master bathroom in the grand home he and Sasori shared in a neighborhood that made Stepford Wives look tame. He curled into a tighter ball and banged his head against the wall when his cock stirred at pleasant memories. There had been exactly no violence, mayhem, or sex of any sort in two weeks. It was a non-fucking eternity, and Deidara was going to lose his mind and his balls at this rate. Yes, he could jerk off, and yes, he'd done that, but he didn't like coming when Sasori wasn't watching or goading or humiliating or hurting him. It reduced the sensation to mere mechanics instead of the artistic symphonies strummed by an orchestra of devils, and, damn it, Deidara was... lonely. And insulted. And fucking worried.
Fourteen unsatisfying days ago, Sasori had taken a phone call that had ruined Deidara's life. They'd been in the den, Sasori reading Atlas Shrugged for the hundredth time and Deidara getting lost in Facebook games. The phone buzzed, Sasori answered, listened, and hung up.
"Who was it?" Deidara had asked, but Sasori didn't reply. Instead, he left. As in, went to the garage, got into the Mercedes, and drove off into the night with a screech of Michelin.
Honestly, it was times like those that Deidara had to wonder why people thought he was the dramatic little shit between them. Stunts like that weren't so uncommon, though, and normally Deidara didn't really mind it because he got to play the part of despairing damsel. Which typically led to a screaming match that morphed into a close encounter of the not-quite-rape kind.
So, true to form, Deidara had spent the next two hours pacing and biting his manicure to ruins, and when Sasori had returned, Deidara had chased his lover of fifteen years around their house.
"Where the hell were you?" Deidara had yelled at Sasori's back. Deidara's silk robe snapped with the speed used to dash after Sasori through the hallways. "Who was on the phone?" Sasori stepped into his bedroom. They didn't share a room most nights. Deidara snored, and after Sasori's fourth real attempt to smother Deidara with a pillow, they chose separate sleeping quarters in a truce. "Don't you know I was worried sick?"
Sasori had paused, then, in the act of shutting the door. He'd glanced at Deidara and had looked... well. Almost sad. Fifteen goddamned years and it was the first time Deidara had ever seen that particular emotion. When they first got together, Deidara had made a game of putting on the most weep-fest-tastic movies known to mankind. Sasori had never so much as teared up through the death of dogs, children, grandmothers, or spouses, and he'd seemed thoroughly unimpressed by relationship drama. Deidara had been fascinated and sort of thankful. After all, who cared if your partner cried at funerals when he could make you cry for God to end the pain, oh please, oh please?
"The fuck is wrong with you?" Deidara had yelled, and Sasori's face had hardened. A spark of hope ignited, then, because it was that look that often meant the fun was on the doom horizon, but Sasori slammed the door without another word. Deidara beat the thing down with his palms, snarling and shouting, but Sasori just threw the locks. Deidara went to bed alone, which wasn't so bad, but he was confused and horny, which was awful. Sasori was predictable in pattern, and that night, Sasori had broken ranks and had wandered into left field.
It had taken two days, scores of inquiries, and too many unrequited begging sessions to figure out that the phone call had been from a doctor explaining that Sasori's aunt had passed away suddenly in her sleep in the assisted living facility where she lived. Deidara didn't get to hear the news from Sasori; he heard it from the funeral director who called the house to ask why Sasori was late for their appointment.
"Everything's taken care of," the director had reassured Deidara. "She set up a pre-plan with us years ago. We just need his signature."
"When are the services?" Deidara asked.
"I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"
"I'm his husband," Deidara replied with saccharine inflection. It was an approximation of the truth.
"Oh. And he... didn't tell you when...?" The director coughed. "Apologies, they're the day after tomorrow."
Deidara had wheedled the other details out of the man, and had enjoyed a moment of prideful anger that he was both good enough to figure out the mystery and that he had to solve the riddle in the first place. But this was Sasori, who made rocks seem positively communicative.
On the dressing table in the Master bathroom, Deidara's phone buzzed. He bit his lip, tucked his knees closer to his chest, and didn't get up. He knew it was Sasori, and he always answered Sasori's texts or calls or emails. Sasori could beckon from a room a thousand miles away, and Deidara would start running.
But not tonight.
The vibrating went on and on, and when Deidara put his hands to his ears, the H&K's chilly weight gently thudded against his temple. The gun was compact, clip-fed, and the .40 caliber rounds were in a box to Deidara's right. The noses gleamed in the low light.
"Shut up... shut up... shut up..." Deidara screeched, and the phone finally went silent. Deidara panted, long blond hair disheveled in its braid, robe askew, face without even a hint of eyeliner or nod to the beauty Deidara held so dear. He gulped on a dry throat and stared at the suit he'd worn to Sasori's aunts' funeral. It was lying in a rumpled pile of fabric across the cushion of a Louis XIV's inspired armchair, exactly where Deidara had thrown it when they'd gotten home.
Two days after the chat with the funeral director, Deidara had appeared in the foyer, dressed and ready to accompany Sasori to the memorial service. Sasori, in classic form, had raised eyebrows, linked their arms, and escorted Deidara to their car, but not said a word to Deidara on the drive or throughout the ceremonies. They'd not spoken, in fact, since the night when Sasori had received the unpleasant notice. Sasori stayed in his room, went to work at the Spa to manage necessities, and he soundly ignored Deidara's overtures to talk, to fuck, to eat, to do anything at all.
Now, Deidara understood that to a point. Auntie Yuki had been basically the only person in Sasori's wicked family to show any kind of affection toward Sasori. Deidara had met some of them over the years, and they were pack of cold, traditional, uptight Japanese asshats who had by turn tortured Sasori for being too quiet, too stupid, too dull, too smart, and, finally, too gay. They were all convinced there was something horrifically wrong with Sasori, and they'd done things to him in the course of the "fixing" that made Deidara cringe... while holding surgical needles and sewing up cuts and putting ice on bruises and reminding Sasori to get the coarse rope, not the pussy-suck nylon shit. Of course.
Sasori's family righteously pissed Deidara off. Sasori wasn't broken or even complicated. He was brilliant, and he was violent. Deidara didn't see where the hell the lack of comprehension could occur, there. Sasori needed to hurt things, preferably often and hopefully while they screamed bloody murder. Seriously, how difficult a concept was that to manage?
Deidara had gotten it as a teenager, for fuck's sake. He'd met Sasori while causing clay mayhem in art class at the Academy. Sasori watched Deidara argue that a sculpture of a man pissing into the mouth of a figure who looked a bit like Jesus was absolutely art, damn the prejudices to hell, and no Deidara would not deform the men, undo the urine, or clothe them. Deidara noted the intrigued cast of Sasori's eyes from where the strange, somber boy sat in the corner sketching demons eating babies or whatever it was that made the teachers send Sasori to the school counselor on a regular basis. Deidara won the argument because the teacher gave up in the battle against Deidara's volume and art history citations, and Deidara threw a knowing smile in Sasori's direction. Deidara recognized those of his own ilk on sight, always had.
So on that same, sunny, spring day when Deidara had found Sasori standing solitary behind the art building smoking a cigarette like it wasn't a massive transgression of Academy rules, Deidara hadn't hesitated in the slightest. He walked over, plucked the cig from between Sasori's fingertips, and took a drag.
"The fuck," Sasori said, a declaration, not a question, and a calm one at that.
"If you want," Deidara answered.
"Slut?" Now, that one was definitely an inquiry, but it was curious not accusatory.
Deidara shrugged. "Just honest."
"Gay." A statement.
"If you say so."
Deidara had chuckled, dropped the cigarette, and enjoyed it when Sasori's hands fisted at the stolen and wasted nicotine. Deidara leaned closer and blew smoke against Sasori's lips, which parted to let in the tendrils. "They're just cannon fodder. You're the goddamned captain. Why the hell should you ever care about a mutinous crew?" Deidara closed his eyes. "Bombs away." He kissed Sasori, light and quick, and a second later, a fist collided with his jaw.
"Ooh, nice," Deidara had hissed, spitting blood and laughing. He regained balance and scampered to Sasori, who stood with heaving chest and wide eyes. Such pretty features Sasori had, even long before Sasori had started dying natural black locks an insane shade of red. Deidara cooed and grabbed a handful of thick, inky hair along with Sasori's silky shirt. He pulled Sasori closer, until their lips almost met, and he purred in the steamy, heated breath pouring out of Sasori's mouth: "Now... do it like you mean it, baby."
Sasori had tried to knee Deidara in the nuts, but Deidara had blocked the blow. Sasori's palm connected to Deidara's bruising cheek again, and Deidara howled while clawing at Sasori's face. The details got a little hazy, but Deidara knew Sasori had damned near broken Deidara's wrist in the final pin, and Sasori had slammed Deidara's back into metal railing outlining a handicap walkway.
"What is wrong with you?" Sasori had asked, and Deidara had fallen completely, totally, immortally in love with Sasori's voice tainted with real inflection. That was him making Sasori gasp and pant; that was him pulling emotion out of a man who supposedly didn't have any; and that was certainly him trembling and grasping at Sasori yet again when it looked as though Sasori was just going to shake Deidara's teeth loose and walk away.
"Nothing's wrong with me," Deidara had answered, throwing his arms around Sasori's neck. "And not with you, either."
Sasori didn't answer, choosing instead to bore into Deidara's soul with his eyes. Deidara hung on, letting the idea of companionable insanity sink home. Clouds were rolling across the sky when Sasori's throat finally worked in a thick swallow. "You're bleeding."
"You kissed me."
"And I'll do it again if it means you'll hit me."
Comprehension had dawned in Sasori's seventeen-year-old self. He shoved against Deidara, roughly palming Deidara's cock through the jeans. Deidara grunted and cried out when Sasori started rubbing.
"God... yes..." Deidara's head went back, nails digging into Sasori's nape. "Bite my throat?"
Sasori stopped, and Deidara snarled, grabbing Sasori's hand and forcing it to continue. Sasori complied. "People will see."
"I want people to see."
"Why?" Sasori asked, suspicious but also softer, and Deidara was out of his mind with the brewing orgasm and the sting of his cut lip and the dull ache in his jaw and spine.
"'Cause..." Deidara was breathless, and Sasori was relentless and hard against Deidara's hip. "Like you."
"People hate me."
"So hate them back." Deidara yanked Sasori toward his neck. "But keep hating me like this and you'll fucking make me come."
Sasori stuttered around what might have been a groan. Lips grazed Deidara's flesh first, followed fast by the sink of incisor. Deidara yelped and twisted so the skin would tear, and he sprayed the insides of his clothes thickly enough to stain his entire crotch.
After that, things had gotten simple between them. Sasori channeled rage into what they did together, Deidara made sure there were plenty of chances, and most of the rest of the student body and faculty steered clear. They'd graduated, and Deidara went to art school. They'd gotten a place, they'd started a business with Deidara's trust fund to make humanity more perfect, and life was a frenzy of creation, management, and pain.
It was beautiful. It was effortless. It was peace.
And it was like none of it had ever existed or mattered when they'd gotten home from putting Sasori's Aunt to rest. "Can I get you anything?" Deidara had asked after he'd closed the front door.
"No." Sasori started to walk away, but Deidara grabbed his arm.
"Do anything for you?"
"I said no." Sasori shook Deidara off, face contorting into something akin to a scowl, but it was directed at the floorboards, not at Deidara.
"Why are you acting like this?"
Sasori had faced Deidara, had almost met his eyes and had lifted one arm like Sasori was going to reach for him, but Sasori had pivoted at the last second, instead. Deidara gave chase. "Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it."
"There's nothing." Sasori's voice was weird, and Deidara tripped on the hallway runner.
"I can think of a million somethings. Damn it, Rori, don't put your back to me!" Deidara had lunged for Sasori, and for an amazing moment, Deidara thought he'd gotten through. Sasori spun, put Deidara into a wall, and wheezed a string of curses that thrummed a sweet melody in Deidara's ears. He relaxed though his hands went to Sasori's eyes, made like he would put them out, and Sasori slapped Deidara down.
"Nothing," Sasori spat, and Deidara licked the spittle from his lips with an unrestrained groan.
"C'mon baby," Deidara encouraged.
Rage had bloomed in a flush on Sasori's cheeks and a spark deep in his eyes. Deidara was hard to aching and dripping in the time it took for Sasori to grab Deidara's shoulders and throw Deidara onto the ground.
"Fucking..." Sasori couldn't find words, and Deidara had known something was amiss when no weight fell upon him, no insults reached him, and the focus he craved didn't find him. Sasori's door slammed, and Deidara stayed where Sasori put him until he was numb.
Distantly, Deidara heard the garage door, and his heart started to pound with the call back to present reality. He had decisions to make, and he had to make them fast. He fumbled with the gun while calculating how long it'd take for Sasori to get into the house. He wasn't sure if Sasori would even come looking for Deidara. Sure, Deidara had carved a new wound on the top of his arm and left a trail of blood from the mud room off the garage to his bedroom, but Sasori had ignored every single one of Deidara's advances since the funeral. Who was to say this one would actually work? Deidara had tried nudity, bondage, catcalling, insults, and had even slapped Sasori across the face. The only thing he'd gotten for his trouble was a push here or a shove there. It was maddening, and it was reaching critical mass.
The customers at their spa had started to notice that something was wrong. Sasori had overturned a tray of microdermabrasion instruments three days ago, scaring the shit out of Mr. Oakley. Sasori had told one woman that there was no hope for her or her face and never to grace their day spa again with her ugliness. Deidara would have soothed that one over, but Sasori had a point.
There were other problems, too, though. Sasori's hours, normally so punctual that the sun and the moon could learn a thing or two from him, had gotten erratic. And when Sasori's internal clock changed, so too did Deidara's, who relied on Sasori's schedule. Deidara spent all of last night, in fact, sitting in their home gym and watching Sasori torture himself on the treadmill. Deidara passed the time by sketching Sasori's form, still so sleek and tone and perfect after all these years, but any effort to talk or to stop Sasori from running until he collapsed was met with silence or, in the incident that was the final fucking straw, a foot to the gut.
"If you're going to hurt me, get off that goddamned thing and fucking hurt me!" Deidara had screamed, so tired, frustrated, angry and dying on the inside that he was crying. Deidara never cried unless he meant to for some act or role play or means to an end, and he was embarrassed on top of everything else.
"Go... away..." Sasori wheezed. He was too thin from not eating, and his lips were white as exhaustion drew closer and closer with each slam of sneaker on the rotating belt.
Deidara had thrown the sketchbook at Sasori's head. "I hate you!" he'd screeched, inconsolable, and he'd ran upstairs and thrown himself into bed, sobbing until he was choking.
He wasn't used to being ineffective. Ever since Deidara could remember, he had been the only thing in the world that had actually moved Sasori. Touched and inspired and drawn the man out from whatever dark dimension where Sasori lived and onto a battlefield where Sasori could be master and commander. Again, it was fundamental to Deidara's logic: Sasori had spent a childhood being ruled, oppressed, and misunderstood. Sasori needed ways to vent like everyone else, but those ways weren't conventional, which added to the so-called problem. Deidara's inherent craving for disorder was also an issue to ignorant society, but it was one that was resolved by Sasori. It worked because they both wanted it to and because Sasori always stopped short of killing Deidara. Sasori's trigger switch, the thing that knew without asking when enough was enough, was sensitive, innate, attuned to Deidara, and... something Deidara loved. Cherished. Couldn't actually live without.
A door somewhere in the house slammed. Deidara jumped. One bullet? Two? Shit... were those footsteps? Deidara panicked, went with true Russian Roulette rules, and fed the round into the clip with shaking fingers. He deliberately did not load it in the chamber, choosing instead to snap the magazine home. He clutched the hateful thing to his bare chest, sent up a prayer to whatever benevolent evil might be listening, and crawled out of the bathroom and into the main part of the master suite. He knelt at the end of the bloody trail, scratching absently at the clotted wound to make it ooze.
Deidara had never tried to lure Sasori quite like this. He wasn't sure what kind of reaction it would get, and oh, Mother Mary with a black heart, what if Sasori walked in, saw Deidara kneeling and ugly and untidy, and just... left? What if Sasori didn't notice the gun like Deidara hoped? He despised the things, Sasori knew that... but what if it didn't make the point because Sasori was temporarily blinded by grief or denial or whatever the hell? Deidara always -- fucking always -- understood Sasori, but not these last few weeks. By all rights, Deidara should be in traction with the need Sasori should have to relieve the internal pressures the death of a loved one put on one's shoulders. Their lives were about patterns and limits and pretend, and damn it all to eternal fuck, but Deidara's eyes were stinging with tears, again. He couldn't cry. Not now. Sasori didn't like weeping, and neither did Deidara. He wiped his nose on the edge of his sleeve, hastily spreading the thin silk so his nudity was artfully shown. He dragged his unkempt braid over one shoulder, held the weapon with both hands, and strained to listen.
The footsteps coming toward Deidara's room were quickened, and Deidara turned his head sharply and tuck his mouth against his shoulder to keep quiet. His gaze darted from rich rug to armchair to curtained window, and the sound of the doorknob catching and unlatching seemed to echo. In slow-motion horror, Deidara looked down at the H&K, and changed his mind about the initial plan. Instead of leaving the weapon at his side, he lifted his chin, raised the gun, and set the barrel to the tender place behind his lower jaw. He had to grit his teeth to keep from whimpering in some combination of fear, outrage, desperation, and cowardice, and he stared at Sasori's boots when his lover stopped just inside the threshold. He held his breath.
Sasori hated the sound of ticking clocks and found the glow of digital neon annoying, so all the time pieces in their home tolled the hour in whispers of winding mechanisms. So Deidara counted internally, one-one-thousand-two, and got to eight before Sasori took another step closer. Deidara dared to glance at Sasori's expression, saw the tiny tightening of jaw that indicated a clench or swallow, and Deidara blew an explosive sigh when his lungs involuntarily drew oxygen. They stared at one another, and Sasori was gorgeous in the Eastern-style suit, was perfect even with the bags under tired eyes and green pallor to the smooth skin. Sasori's hand flexed into a fist, Deidara's heart leapt, and he carefully undid one of the H&K's safeties. There were two to throw and one on the trigger pull, but Sasori froze, nonetheless.
"Baby..." Deidara said, voice a threadbare, telltale whisper. He was dizzy with adrenaline and blood loss, his vision tunneling, but he held his ground. "Wanna... hate me tonight..." Deidara put his finger on the trigger, and his gulp shifted the business end of the gun. "Baby?"
The low glow from the single, bedside lamp glinted off the slick, royal blue fabric of Sasori's shirt. Sasori's chest rose and fell, rose and fell, and for a moment that shredded Deidara's mind to tattered fragments, nothing happened. They stayed as they were, a tableau of potential disaster, until Sasori growled like a feral cat and stalked to where Deidara knelt.
"Give it to me," Sasori demanded, hand out.
Deidara placed the gun in the outstretched palm without hesitation and with nerve-frying sparks of hope. He watched Sasori drop the clip and yank the slide, and laughed the world's most hysterical giggle when Sasori's face melted into inhuman contours at the sight of a real bullet loaded in the weapon.
Sasori studied the ammunition and then Deidara. He tossed the clip, his lips formed a thin, uncompromising line, and Deidara had the chance to breathe, "Oh, thank you" before Sasori's hand and the butt of the pistol cracked against the side of Deidara's head. Pain exploded in a thousand stars and night descended.
Time ceased to exist and matter. Everything was gray, grim murk, and when Deidara swam to consciousness, he was lying on his stomach, bereft of his robe. His wrists were cuffed together behind his back, a hand was in wrapped in his hair, and a heavy weight just above the crack of his ass pinned him to the floor. While he was still dazed and mumbling banalities across a vast wasteland of hurt, a sharp, slicing sting that surely severed his legs from body struck his thighs. There was no breath to cry out, no pause for reflection, no possible way to get thought together. Another stinging, reality-altering hit landed, followed by another... and another... and another...
When Deidara got enough wind to scream, it rattled out his lungs in a wet rasp, and still the thuds kept falling. Soon his backside and legs were nothing more than agonized, raw, nerve endings. Deidara's memory searched and couldn't find evidence of hurting like this because if it had ever happened before, all traces had been wiped clean. It was too much to comprehend, too much to handle. He writhed, but fighting was virtually impossible. If he squirmed, the fist in his hair tightened, his scalp roared in terrified rage, and the pressure on his lower back increased. If he dug his toes and knees into the rug and tried to leverage himself away, the strikes sped up and bit deeper.
"Stop, oh God, shit, Christ, stop!" Deidara begged, sobbing. He was dying, oh he was definitely dying, and he couldn't do this. He couldn't stand it. Couldn't take it, and he was going to lose his mind.
"Please... pu-huh..." Deidara choked on red-black-purple pain. "Oh... fuck... please!" He screeched and yelled until his throat hurt and none of it mattered. It took an age for the flesh to start to numb, and Deidara slid into a kind of faint. Oddly, crazily, and thankfully, his body started to register the stings as borderline pleasurable as they got more distant. Deidara didn't understand that, sort of remembered that it happened often and it was okay, and all he knew was gratitude. The line of impact moved upward and hit beneath the swell of his ass, and maybe the force lessoned or maybe Deidara was deadened to it, or maybe he was just that kind of sick-sad-fuck, but he widened his legs. Rolling into the floor gave friction to his cock, and that was distracting if nothing else. He couldn't hear anything but a high whine, couldn't see anything but wavy lines, couldn't feel anything but a burn building into a weird, unsatisfied, ball of ache that Deidara knew, fucking knew, he'd do anything to sate.
Deidara's brain didn't register that the torture had ended until something sharp broke through the skin at his throat. He wailed, and he was covered from shoulder to blazing ass by warmth. Familiar, smooth, shifting warmth with pointy things ringed with sucking softness that kept biting him until he was hard and rocking beneath it.
Sasori. That was Sasori with the teeth. Lips. Kisses. Sasori's bare skin of belly against Deidara's palms, faint hint of hair under his fingertips, and... whispers. Words. Something being... spoken to Deidara. It registered as warning; a call never to behave like this again. Never to threaten. Not to hurt. How dare he. Didn't understand. Damned and doomed and disobedient. A sharper bite strung tension through Deidara like electrical current. Pressure on his scalp bowed his spine.
But then Sasori pressed him even flatter on the floor, encircled Deidara's head with both arms, buried lips and mouth in Deidara's throat, and muffled a scream against Deidara's skin. It was so loud as to be impossible. That couldn't be Sasori. That couldn't be a man. No person on this plane of existence could make that noise and live to tell the tale, certainly not if they did it twice. Definitely not if they managed three times, and Deidara dug his fingers into Sasori's stomach deeply enough to draw blood with ragged fingernails. He was terrified and confused and so very lost. He wished he could pass out, he longed to say whatever it would take to make the pain in Sasori's voice vanish, and he was helpless to do anything at all.
Soul crushing breathing filled the air around them, and the closeness of Sasori's body forced Deidara's diaphragm to mimic the pattern. Heat and a tongue found Deidara's ear, and he groaned. His face was wet, everything was a shade of deep blue suffering, and oh God, but he needed to be fucked. Held. Filled. Kissed. Now... oh God, now.
Deidara wasn't sure he heard that right, wasn't sure of anything except how tightly Sasori drew the cage of arms and hands around Deidara's upper body. Trapping, keeping... clinging.
"My pretty... Dei."
"Yours..." Deidara gasped, latching onto the single word with an eagerness bordering on religious ecstasy. "Yours... yours..." Deidara focused enough to see the legs on the trunk that stood in front of their footboard. It was open. He saw a dust bunny on the hardwood under the bed, worked to discern a discarded sock. His shoulders hurt, and after Sasori shifted, he was immediately cold. "Yours!" he cried, unable to say anything else and hoping the single syllable could somehow contain the loss, the hunger, the fear. He bellowed like a wounded animal when Sasori smacked the sides of his ass until they, too, were bruised. His nose was stuffy, his head was a ten-ton anvil being beaten by a blacksmith's hammer, but he found plenty of room for shock and pleasure as Sasori parted his cheeks and dipped to lick his asshole.
"Yours..." Deidara sighed. He hiccoughed around a groan, stuttering a cry when Sasori spat and swirled and sucked. "Oooh... yours... please... yours..."
Sasori growled, plunging, spitting, biting, spreading, eating Deidara's ass with an abandon that would shame the most avid of men. Deidara didn't know when he had gotten hard, only knew that he was. Deidara didn't know what he said, but he bellowed when Sasori spanked him, shouted when Sasori nipped at welts, and started to cry in overwhelmed frustration when the pleasure and pain seemed without end, without purpose, and strung him out in battered pieces across a hellish pit.
"Baby?" Deidara asked in a high, tiny voice found between sobs. "Ruh-Rori... baby...?"
The kisses started mid-back and continued to lap at the wounds on Deidara's shoulder. His hands fell to his sides, clasp undone, but they were deadweight. Useless. All they could do was curl along with Deidara's toes when Sasori's dick nudged Deidara's wet and tender entrance. Sasori was slicked up and slid within, pausing to stroke shallow when further depth was denied for a few frantic flutters.
"Nnn-ah... baby... yeah..." Deidara went lax in the fraction of time Sasori stilled and taut as Sasori began to move, to plunge, to fuck. Every drive slapped skin that sizzled with mind-whiting pain, the width and angle filled and ignited the bonfire blaze that was the urge to come, and Deidara braced with his knees to take and meet every, single, heaven-sent stroke. "God-baby-YES!"
Sasori wrapped an arm around Deidara's neck, sank teeth into the shell of Deidara's ear. He spoke, and clarity enough came to Deidara to decipher language delivered between punishing thrusts: "I asked you... if you like... that dick in your ass..."
Sasori growled again, the rumble shooting arrows of want deep into Deidara's guts. "My little whore?"
"Yours! Oh fuck me, yours... baby..."
"Say it again."
"Yours!" Deidara shouted, the word broken in the middle when the tempo ratcheted.
"YOURS!" Deidara knew when the rhythm faltered that Sasori was about to lose it, and he lived only to see Sasori over that edge, though envy flew to roost in a harpy's nest in Deidara's core. "Yours, come in me... nnngh-yours... come in me... please..."
This time Sasori didn't muddle the banshee bellow, and at full volume, it sundered Deidara's sanity. He had no idea how he went from face-down and filled with dick to on his back and bent in half, and he didn't care. His cock bobbed, wet with the head fully exposed, and Deidara shook with sensory overload.
Sasori crouched between Deidara's legs, shoulders hunched, chest flushed, nipples hard: an incubus incarnate. "Hand," he said, gritty and guttural.
Deidara lifted one leaden arm, and Sasori grabbed his wrist, pulling until Deidara's palm nudged his balls out of the way and rested against his cheeks. Sasori gave him a long, menacing look complete with a lingering lick of lips. "Push it out."
"Nnngh..." Deidara's head tipped backward, and the room spun like he was caught on a carnival ride. He breathed in short, staccato pants that caught to hold on each inhale. There was no space for anything but craving and the desire to follow orders. He flexed and commanded what muscles he could to obey, and thick fluid poured from him to coat his fingers.
"Again." It wasn't a command; it was a god's decree. Deidara sobbed for oxygen, willing more come out of ass.
Sasori uttered a pleased syllable. "Use it."
Deidara's whine trailed into a whimper, but he gathered and spread the body-warmed lube over his shaft, stroking and calling to his god with each one.
"Pretty." Sasori tugged at his semi-erect cock, flashing teeth and lining up to Deidara's hole yet again. He pushed inside, teasing the ring, and Deidara's entire lower half spasmed.
"Eyes." Sasori's voice yanked Deidara's chin down and gaze onto Sasori's, willing puppet to cruel master. "Come for me."
Deidara's jaw dropped, his fist flew along his dick, and at the precise moment that he drew air to groan in warning and in endgame, Sasori pulled out, bent, and engulfed Deidara into Sasori's mouth and throat. Deidara grunted, gripped Sasori's arm, and came in complete silence. He undulated with each wave, finally whining at the weak, dull complaint of his ass and shoulders and balls, spending to empty and shivering with each of Sasori's demanding suck-and-swallows. Reality fled, Deidara chased it into floating oblivion, and the last thing he registered was Sasori tenderly kissing the inside of Deidara's knee.
Deidara awoke in a cocoon of limb and blanket. Familiar, feathery and faint chest hair brushed his forehead. It was dark, it was quiet, and nothing hurt. He shifted, noted the swimming, disconnected feeling that spoke of drugs, and didn't care in the least how Sasori had gotten them into his system. What mattered was that Sasori had cared enough to do it at all. It meant that everything was okay, again, at least for right now. Nuzzling against Sasori, Deidara cooed a sigh, high and happy. He was stiff, but warm, though his face was uncomfortably swollen.
Sasori tensed, tightened his embrace, and Deidara got enough wit to note that the clenches shook Sasori's entire form. Concern darted into the cracks of the drugged haze, but when Deidara feebly struggled, Sasori just clung all the fiercer.
"Don't do that ever again."
"Do which?" Deidara asked, practically indecipherable. Vaguely -- very vaguely as God only knew what Sasori had given him, but fuck all it was strong -- Deidara worried about what Sasori said. Not doing any part of tonight ever again was just... too depressing to live.
"You didn't answer your phone."
"Huh?" Deidara fought Sasori's anaconda hold until he could stare into Sasori's eyes. They were swollen. That was weird. "Didn't 'cause... wanted to surprise you. Had to surprise you. Been fucked up for... weeks." Deidara wanted to talk more, to explain all the reasons why tonight and all its decisions had been necessary, thank you very much, but Sasori kissed him. Sweetly and softly and for long enough that Deidara had no idea what the fuck he'd been about to say.
"Never again." Sasori seemed so serious, and Deidara wanted to cry. Or maybe he was crying, because Sasori wiped his cheek with a thumb. "Never..."
"Not bullets. Not guns." Sasori frowned, deep lines ridging his brow. "Not on yourself. I can't lose you." He shook Deidara, and it hurt, but Deidara didn't care. "I can't. Lose. You."
"But... you... I tri-tried everything e-else, and you wouldn't... I couldn't h-help and you wouldn't le-let me..."
Sasori's mouth tightened into a tiny pink knot. He kissed Deidara, nodded sharply, and rolled backward and out of bed. Deidara sniffed and fumbled to all fours, swaying and cussing through swollen everything about drugs and crazy husbands and dead aunts. Sasori kept bending over to pick things up, and when Deidara's feet hit the floor, Sasori paused. In his hands he held the reassembled H&K. He stared at Deidara, who thought he might be pondering something and hoped to god that it wasn't shooting Deidara because damn it all, there was only so much a body could take in one night, but then Sasori was crossing the room. He wrapped an arm around Deidara's middle, Deidara breathed a sigh of complaining relief, and together they started for the door.
"Where are we going?" Deidara asked. He was naked, and so was Sasori, but that hadn't exactly stopped them from going out for late night ice cream from time to time.
Sasori didn't answer, the recalcitrant fucker, and Deidara let it go. For one, it was a goddamned challenge to walk while drugged out of his mind. Not to mention half crippled. "Did you hit me with the car?" he rasped when they made it into the kitchen and had to stop so Deidara could catch his breath.
"No. The thin metal cane."
"Jesus," Deidara muttered. "Next time use the car."
Sasori did the thing that sounded like a belch or maybe a muted cough to most people, but Deidara knew it was a laugh. Sasori got the sliding glass back door open, and they stepped out into the chilly night. The cold felt incredible to Deidara's aching lower half, and he moaned as they walked across the stone patio, down the stairs, and across the grass.
"You feeling like a swim?" Deidara asked when they got to the edge of the pond that occupied the back part of their property. They shared the scenery with four other houses on this wing of the sub-division.
"No." Sasori eased away from Deidara, and it occurred to Deidara that Sasori was being unseasonably nice, even for post-session antics.
"The hell is going--" Deidara began, but didn't bother to finish when Sasori answered by doing. He reared back and threw the gun with impressive force into the water. Deidara heard the splash and blinked, toes going numb in the frosty reeds. Sasori turned, breath fogging the air, and Deidara gaped. Sasori's features were etched in patterns of light and shadow. His hair was tousled, his eyes too large for his face, his cock limp and spent, his legs spread like he would burst into a sprint at any second. He was... beautiful didn't cover it. Preternatural came closer. Inhuman and more incredible for it.
"Never again," Sasori repeated, and Deidara nodded, the full weight of Sasori's gesture threatening to knock Deidara to the ground.
"I'll never use a real, loaded gun on me ever again to get your attention," Deidara said, only slightly slurred and proud for it.
"Good." Sasori walked to Deidara and pulled him into a careful hug. "I will remember that you are never as breakable as I think when I am hurting."
It was practically a sonnet for Sasori, and Deidara giggled and drew away to kiss Sasori like he'd been kissed earlier: simple and affectionate. "I hate you too, baby."
Sasori gazed down at Deidara for a minute that was punctuated by faint noise that Deidara thought might be important, but he was too busy memorizing Sasori's cheekbones for the sculpture he'd do later: Sasori nude and throwing a spear at an undead beast.
Deidara let Sasori look until he'd had his fill, and then they started back to the house. It was then that Deidara noticed the handful of figures standing on the neighbor's top deck. Deidara was pretty sure even from here, the whites of their eyes were clearly visible.
"Hellooo!" Deidara trilled, waving cheerfully. "Remember children! Misfiring guns just ruin a good fuck! Stick to the knives!"
Hesitant laughter and shocked cries rose on the wind. "Wave to the Mallorys, dear," Deidara encouraged at volume, not minding when Sasori abjectly ignored him. Deidara waved, anyway, already happy about the thought of the incoming letter from the Homeowner's Association. Sasori huffed a chuckle, not breaking stride until they were safely inside the home they made possible together.