A truly vague and a tad disturbing oneshot. My morbid brainchild where, apparently, exists Sasori and Deidara in an AU with them going to the same studio. Cliché, anyone? But it's not a happy fairytale where the pairing triumphs over all after many obstacles in a long and drawn out fic. It's there, my flippant drabble-esque thing with barely there wish-I-could-write-half-assed smut. Damn. It's not even close to romance, is it?
Why all the deaths and why all the unexplained background and why all the lack of plot? Read all of the above. Otherwise, read on.
Oh, yeah, and I was sleep deprived when I wrote this. I think that explains a lot of things.
There is something utterly beautiful about release.
Screams. Why do they scream?
For that matter, why do they cry?
Why does my heart beat so?
I have no heart.
Untrue. I, too, have a heart. A living, beating heart…yet I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing. And it frightens me.
But I grin.
While on the inside, I am screaming, screaming just as beautifully as the boy before me does. Just as all the men and women before him did.
Why do they scream?
I am simply giving him release. Don't they like the euphoria of death?
I've released them from this pittance of a life, this chain that tightens ever so sweetly over our barred souls…why do they cry?
"Instead of being liberated, as I've hoped, I'm deteriorating, aren't I?" I laugh. The sight of his wide, terrified eyes please me somehow. Something in my chest gives a flutter—my heart? "Deteriorating…into this creation of mine, this being that I've…become."
"Mur…Murderer!" His shrill voice almost makes me wince, it is so hysterical. But at the same time I am enthralled. "You killed everyone! All those people. Why? Why? Why am I still…?"
And he looks so confused, too. So alone in this big, big world.
Crouched before him, I am amused at the jerky desperation in his efforts to scramble away from me. Am I hideously disfigured? He hits a wall. He goes no further. His shoulders are so taunt and so deliciously tight…his fingers arch back behind his head and claw at the walls. Blanched, white walls…how glorious they look drenched in my life's art.
The floor is slick with it, after all.
I feel like a child, sometimes. When I regress into this state…I feel like a child.
Wide-eyed. Curious.
A single finger slides across the boards and my finger drips with the rich, creamy substance. It dribbles down my hand in its own slow, teasing way. Like melting ice cream. I eye it, smell it, and give it a lick. Tentatively. One lick turns into a suckle until I am feeding off of myself.
I taste metal in my mouth.
The blond's eyes are riveted to the grotesque sight, and I never move my eyes away from his shivering form. Clawing it, devouring it with my sense of sight.
Delicate. Pale skin, translucent. Maybe. Thin enough to see the palpitations of his heart. The prominent bones of his collarbone, the ripped shirt barring shoulders' skin...
In time he'll eagerly join in, too. This feast of mine.
"Why are you still alive?" I finish for him, but the question is rhetorical. Poor baby looks too frightened to answer. I give another lick, eager this time, and he shudders. "You honestly don't know?"
He looks too shocked to move, much less breathe. That adorable look suits him. Suffocatingly, tightly, horrifically scared, scarred. Little mouse, little mouse...it makes him look so much more alive than anyone ever had before in this despicable studio.
"It's simple," I say. "It is because you are my inspiration."
"Wh-What?"
I sigh before I clarify, "My art. You give birth to it. You sanction it. Words on a page…don't compare to what I feel when I quench this want of mine."
Something dribbles down from my lips. Saliva, drool? What does it matter when I lick it all up again—iron. I bite down hard and produce more.
I crawl towards that man, my art, and I smile.
I am in between his legs. He is scared out of his wits. I adore him.
I love him. Love that stark, fervent gleam in his face that suggests this is all a nightmare—just a bad dream, a bad joke. In truth that man is in his bed and he has just awoken from this dream of murder and blood, massacre and horrors. He pants out a breath of relief—none of it is real! It has never even happened, only in the dark, dank corners of his twisted mind! There is no studio. There is no art.
Art is transient and beautiful, but the dream is anything but.
Pushing down on both of his thighs with pale, fleshy hands, I whisper things in his ears. Endearments, enchantments. And when I lean over and press my weight onto him, pinning him to the wall, that man realizes he is not awake after all and the dream has just begun.
The dream is wonderful and sweet and smells of an aching aroma of a myriad of emotions, sounds, sights, impressions, and sensations that all comes down to blood. Lots of it. I smear it all over him. He trembles like a bug, a butterfly. Fluttering, helpless wings—I've caught them! Holding them in between cruel, tormenting fingertips, I breathe.
I pull, back and back and back until they threaten to rip off of him entirely. Prick! The needle through his heart. I want to pin him down some more. Down and down until he can think no more. Think of me—only me. Smell me, taste me, fear me, until I've consumed him wholeheartedly. Mindtalk all about me. Only me.
His eyes are wide and as beautiful as any art. Pupils mere pinpricks, the whites of his eyes find no end with its surrounding skin. He is white all over! Ugly, filthy—it makes me want to corrupt him more.
More. More!
Until he is red all over. Crimson happiness, I smear it again and again all over him. More.
He is quite pale. He shivers all over. My little specimen is unhappy. How to help?
Free him? He lives in a cage! Once locked away, he doesn't come out. He can't. Maybe if I box him up tight and warm and put him on a wall...with only glass separating us two? Impossible. I don't want him to just peer at the world beyond his wing cage and see me! Feel me, touch me, more and more!
I want to consume him, not eat him. Isn't glass cold?
He is the butterfly and I am his cage. Or...am I an insect collector?
My hand on his thigh, the other at his cheek, his gaze is dazed and unseeing. I think he is in shock. Trailing tips leaves rich dye all across his chin, face, skin until I force two erect digits between warm, clenching lips.
I feed him. My little doll. My pretty butterfly.
Transient? Transience is the worst art available. But, ah...beautiful. Spectacular while it lasts. And it can't last, you understand. Something truly beautiful never does.
He was white before, but he is now all red. I broke him. He cannot move! I've dyed him. Let's corrupt him some more?
I lean fully against him and wrap tainted arms around his neck. He does not respond to my embrace. I grind my chest against his, brushing and grinding, grinding...a response! He pushes me away. I do not let him.
I am sitting on him. I've somehow gotten on top of him. Arms around his throat, I cling. I want to hold him. But how? He's so slack, he does not move. Boring. What a bore. Move.
He flops to the side. Like a dead fish. Hideous. Move, little bird, fly away if you can!
He does not. There are unseen tremors in his body that I can only feel. He shudders against my touch as I bowed to touch my ear against his breast. Listen.
A heart thuds in my ear. Alive. So...why does he not live?
No reactions. Give me more of your fright, more of your lust and anger. Back room scuffles and quick romps on top of paint-stricken, acrylic desks do nothing for my disposition. I thought he loved me, but he does not act.
Patience is my downfall. There is none. I hate it when he does not act.
Submissive. Like a woman—but he is not. He is...
Butterfly, butterfly, float your wings. Glide if you can. Flap, please. Flap.
"If you will not move..." I murmur, "then I will make you."
He is on his side and has not bothered to lay back. I fix him, and he is prone. His vision of the ceiling and sky is replaced by my countenance. I stare at him and he stares back, and it is suddenly delightful. This game of ours we play.
Yes. No impatience if I think of it all as a coy, fond game. Like games, don't you? Of course you do...
I touch him, and he recoils. Reaction at last! For every action, there is a reaction. Or so says science. Logics say that as parts of his cottony, artist's shirt rips, threads shred away. The material of his clothes is poor. Teasing him for I am mean I take a handful of that paint-dripped, protective cloth and tear it away.
Body bared to the world, large expanses of it, I adore him, I embrace him. He does not stop me. My arms are wrapped around his form. His torso gleams with sweat and blood.
I've spoiled him. Where had all the blood come from?
Creeping along our way is a puddle. I follow his eyes, which follows the puddle, which follows us. Unhappy puddle originating from an unhappy source. A liberated source! A chilling body, but barely cold and already I've pinned my boy to the floor.
"Does he bother you?" Curling heady words, they are hissed in his ear. "Don't worry. There are more."
I touch breathless lips to his neck, and his eyes finally close. In defeat? How droll.
But I want more. Impatience has not turned to anger in the end, not at his reticence or apparent detachment—I have won.
Face impassive, blank-faced, he only gives a shiver as hands trail down a teasing paths towards his legs. I pull them upright so that they are bunched at the knees. I want to sing his praises.
I smile.
Those same hands work at his front, work at his clothes. Remaining ones, anyway. Annoyances, temporary, now impeding but hardly hindering. Scratching and clawing, I get it off. He does nothing.
Not for long.
Chest arching, his mouth opens in a soundless scream.
Poor thing.
Panted saliva dribbles out of the corner of his lips. I suck it off. He hears nothing. He sees nothing. He can only feel, in agony, the shutdown, the detachment.
But that breath of fresh air does not come. He is surrounded by corpses, our grand audience, and I make sure he sees the sight of them all throughout our time. The air is salient with a heady, addicting heaviness. It seeps into the room and suffocates him as he tries to breathe. I am affected; it is in his hair.
Struggling, fledgling bird. Why do you flutter so or I will crush you with my two hands.
At one point I scoop that obliging blood and pour it down his throat. He gags, the puddle does not mind, and the nearest head watches us with mindless eyes.
I am aggrieved. He does not look at me, he is staring at them.
"See me," I hiss. "See only me."
He sobs. I kiss.
I love.
No discernible plot, no attempts at a background, and riddled with implications. Did you know Sasori did actually have a firm grip on realty in events unseen way, way before? It's there, hinted at the beginning, didn't you know? Okay, so maybe not.
At one point, I imagined Sasori with a tattoo of 'Ai' on his forehead. Like Gaara. Creepy. But unlike Sasori, I can't get the cute, cuddly image of Gaara's teddy bear out of my head. Aww.
I've seen some pretty dark, twisted, psychological brainchild-worthy fics about Sasori. Now I'm feeling nostalgic. Man, I can't do the guy justice.