Remedy - by Ayatsu
He could visualize it perfectly in his mind, but his nerves refused to give him his satisfaction. He could tell from the flow of chakra that his wrists were bound, held firmly against the untidy, scratchy sheets gathered under his mattered hair. He didn't know about the sheets, of course, he only heard about them through the complaints Deidara would make. As far as he could tell, the blonde would already be drowning in so much ecstasy, there was no room for complaining about the material the sheets were made from.
Deidara was obviously found the taste of Sasori's artificial flesh to be gratifying as his palm mouths made their usual routine along Sasori's chest and neck. He would leave wet trails along his inner-thigh, and Sasori, as custom would go, would form moans in the back of his throat. He could only tell how far up his thigh Deidara was by the chakra his partner emitted from his pained fingertips. His moaning would grow louder, even tossing his head back into the pillow or curving his back over the mattress as Deidara got closer to his groin.
He knew when a moan was needed, another whimper, or even a scream. He knew when to ask for more and even when to beg Deidara to slow. He would willingly allow Deidara to bind his wrists over his head and tear his clothes off. Deidara would douse Sasori's body in the pleasurable trail of his palm mouths, tasting the tangy, sweet wooden flesh. He would tease his Danna with his seductive moaning before the two would find themselves intertwined in each other's touches, their hands and lips roaming over each other's bodies.
It was all rehearsed. Sasori would flick his fingertips and help Deidara into a passionate kiss. The blonde would moan and follow up with a teasing of Sasori's lips with his strawberry-flavoured tongue.
He couldn't feel it. Though Deidara knew how Sasori's body worked, Sasori never so much as earned the true taste of Deidara's flesh or the pleasure of his warm silken tongue across his chest. Deidara never received the true moan he wanted. He had never felt or tasted the soft vanilla-bean flesh he envisioned on Sasori's skin. He would burry his nose in Sasori's light, feathery hair and dream about Sasori's body drowning under the scratchy sheets, melting in the rapture of their intercourse. They would tease each other of who would be the first victim of sleep, but Deidara almost always lost, giving Sasori the pleasure of listening to his partner's sighs. He knew Deidara's skin was soft. He knew this because of the way Deidara's skin molded under his fingertips, but he could never truly feel the soft, milky texture of his partner.
Deidara couldn't feel it either. Over the years the two lost their lust and being with each other merely became a tradition rather than a delight. "I love you" only became words breathed through tension, but they could detect the apathy and monotonic manner in each other's voices.
Sasori could feel the stinging pain in his eyes but it was all he could ever feel even though Deidara would do things more painful to him. The tears never came, but he clearly pictured them. He still begged for Deidara and Deidara still willingly obeyed, but the two of them never spoke to each other. Sasori would watch Deidara drift off into sleep before he finally got his courage back to talk to his partner. He could feel that Deidara heard him, but everything was always the same the next morning: silence and regret.
Those regrets lead to sadness. The sadness turned to anger. The anger brought more silence. The silence brought more heartbreak.
But this was different.
He couldn't bring himself to it. "I love you" were words they would never mutter. The touches became less passionate and more programmed. Deidara grew tired of the taste of tangy flesh; Sasori could tell by how submissive his palm mouths were against his neck. Sasori would barely satisfy Deidara with so much as a whimper, staying silent with his gaze locked on the wall.
Times change.
Happiness was only a word. Art means sacrifice. Love required the sacrifice of your art and that was not a risk Sasori would take. But if all would be in his favour, he would be happy.
Sasori fell back onto the mattress, pulling Deidara with him. Deidara's golden hair fell down on Sasori's shoulders and intermingled with the light red threads, awaiting the flow from the golden fountain above him. The puppet master giggled as Deidara bunched his wrists over his head and pressed a kiss into the midst of Sasori's scarlet tresses.
He had practiced it times before. He was the director, Deidara was merely an actor in his puppet show. The blonde burned his gaze into Sasori's eyes, Sasori counting the silver flecks in his partner's eye.
There was still a hint of blood present in the taste of Deidara's flesh.
The moment fleeted like a shadow in the rising sun and the redhead pushed Deidara off of his shoulders so he could sit up and truly meet his partner's gaze; Deidara did nothing to retort. The arsonist only stared back with in his eye swallowing Sasori like a black hole and drowning him in pain. He brushed Deidara's bangs away and stared at his reflection in the lens of Deidara's scope before pressing a quick kiss against Deidara's lips.
He didn't kiss back.
Sasori pulled the scroll out from underneath the pillow and gently pulled it open, stroking it fondly with shaking fingers. Four individual Kanji characters were hand-painted on its smooth, velvety surface. The characters blazed into a deep purple and Sasori felt the weight lift from off of his legs.
The smoked cleared and Sasori was left alone; the Kanji faded back into their respected black colour. Deidara had gone, leaving Sasori with a hint of blood left on his lips from when he had kissed him. The blood on his hands were equally, if not more, evident than the trace of it left on his lips. His mahogany carpeting was soiled with the once proud threads of the blonde river he had grown so fond of. The pure gold had glazed over with the coppery taste of crimson, the feeling of death floating about the room like a vengeful ghost.
He could still hear his pleas and screaming. The knives were still doused with his blood. He could still hear his heartbeat: his beautiful heartbeat. The heartbeat of his partner. His insanity. His reason.
"…I love you."
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A/N - I finally finished a story! Depressing, I know, but I always get upset around Valentine's Day. My friend said I was better at one-shots than chapter stories, so I gave it a shot. Please review it! I love to hear your feedback! If you couldn't tell before, the story basically implies that Sasori got tired of Deidara of him drifting apart, so he killed his partner and turned him into a puppet to find love. Depressing, ne?