--.

Sadist

She always cried when he kissed her with his mouth—his real mouth. So somewhere along the line, he stopped. He didn't need to kiss her to fuck her.

After their first time, he'd leaned over on impulse to press a semi-affectionate kiss to her lips. They were nice lips—parted like petals and sticky with beads of sweat. The only problem was the way she reacted when he tried to force his tongue inside.

She bit him. Hard.

He winced, scowled—and for a moment, considered hitting her. Better not, he decided, it'd only make him want to take her for another round. Instead, he settled for a sharp glare, called her a crazy bitch, and rolled off her naked body.

She immediately curled into a ball and stared at the wall. When he finished pulling his clothes on, he reached over to smooth the hair sticking to her cheek, "Take a shower. You look like shit."

Her face was wet. When he licked the moisture off his fingertips, the salt tickled his mouth. She'd started to shake, her shoulders curled over her knees like little bird wings.

It got him hard. Gods help him, he was one sick fuck.

Taking her wrist, he removed her fingers from her teeth with a soft 'pop' and guided her hand to the zipper of his pants. Methodically, she undid his belt, dropped his weapons, his clay pouch to the floor, and inched his slacks off his hips. He put his hand to the back of her head, raking her hair out of her face so he could memorize the way she took him in her mouth.

"Good girl," he murmured, his desire knitting knots in the pit of his stomach, "I'll fuck you until you forget it all, yeah."

--

He liked it when she screamed for him. He liked it a lot.

She was always trying to hold back—biting her fingers to swallow her moans, chewing her lip until it bled. When he finally got her to surrender, her futile attempts at being quiet made it that much more satisfying. Once—just once—she said his name, short and breathy. "Deidara…"

He almost halted in shock—hovering over her naked body, slick with sweat and teasing the brink of climax.

"Say it again." He ran his hand over her breast, tracing tight, heated circles over her peak with the tongue on his palm. His free hand moved to grab her jaw, tightening his grip on her cheeks in a way that forced her mouth into a small 'o'.

When she didn't respond, he thrust into her—long and hard, hitting a spot deep inside that caused a pained whimper to rise from the back of her throat. It would've pushed him over the edge, if it wasn't for the next word she spoke. It wasn't so much a word as it was a name—a dirty, dirty name that wasn't his, and ruined for him her perfect, perfect mouth.

"S…Sasuke…"

He should have pulled out of her then. He should have thrown his clothes on and stomped off while she lay on her back atop the cheap motel bed, hazy with desire and entirely unfulfilled. His pride tugged at him to leave, and he would have done it if he hadn't looked down that very second to stare into her glassy gaze. There were tears caught in her eyelashes, and he'd bent down to lick them away with his tongue. Afterwards, he decided that the moment for him to get angry had already passed, so there was really no use to throw a fit anymore. At least, it was the excuse he gave himself.

The truth of the matter was that he was in over his head.

He pounded into her harder than ever. Her raspy gasps accumulated into breathless cries, and at the crest of release, he pulled out in spite of his own lust. His fingers slid between her folds, throbbing and wet, and cupped her so hard she bucked her hips against his hand in a painful scream. He rubbed her rough and fast, the teeth in his palm closing around her clit as his tongue swept over it—again, and again, and again…

Within seconds, he had her coming against his hand. He covered her mouth, kissing her with his palm to swallow the building shriek. His tongue curled around hers, ran along her teeth, tasted her lips the way he wanted so badly to do with his real mouth—the one on his face.

Dimly, he wondered how much more of this he could take.

--

When the war ended and orders were given to 'clean-out' the remaining terrorist organizations, Deidara faked his death. Everyone was led to think that he'd exploded himself—a final, effervescent display of flash and art at its best. He had gone out with a bang, or so they believed. Really, all there was to it was an extremely large clay bird and a random, blonde civilian who'd been unlucky enough to be very purposely caught within the center of the blast.

The process itself was simple. It was the aftermath that hurt.

Sakura came to visit his grave—as much it could be called a grave when the body was burnt and scattered within a 10 mile radius. The weather had been rough that week, so he was able to watch from the sky on his clay bird, dodging between clouds when she scanned the horizon for him.

"You're such a bastard," she told his headstone, tucking her hair behind her ear. She looked exhausted and delicate—her shoulder blades stuck out from under her shirt like angel wings. He wanted to tell her to go home and take a shower, come back when she didn't look so sad and pathetic. "What kind of place is this, to put a headstone? It doesn't even have your name on it. I bet your Akatsuki buddies just stole a brick and stuck it in the ground."

She played with the flowers in her hand, ripping the stems as the plant juice wet the tips of her fingers. "I know you're not dead," she called, when she got tired of waiting. Her palm rested above her brow to shield her eyes from non-existent sunshine. "I know you're watching me. I can see you."

Bluffing. She was facing the wrong direction.

"You said you were going to be with me until I forgot it all. You lied, you know. I haven't forgotten anything." She was crying again. How many times a day did this girl cry? He wished she'd stop. It made him want to throw her on her knees and fuck her until she screamed for mercy or exploded. Whichever came first.

"You'd better come out, because I'm not going to lose you too." There was a break in her voice. "I'll beat you up." Her hand was shaking. "I'll kiss you wherever you want me to."

She must've heard him approaching before she felt his fingers on her cheek, but Sakura never turned around. Not until he deliberately grabbed her face in his hands and pressed his lips to the hollow above her eyelids.

"Stupid girl," he seethed, feeling ridiculously warm, "Don't cry so much, yeah? It makes me want to blow you up."

She choked back a laugh. He traced a line down her jaw, and pressed his mouth to hers—perfect, perfect lips that repeated his name over and over until he silenced them with his tongue. She tasted sweet, a foil to the saltiness of her tears he was used to. In the back of his mind, he decided he liked kissing her.

Maybe even more than making her cry.

--

Fin

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