Alone
Deidara couldn't help but peer further through the crack between the wall and the open door. He knew they probably sensed his presence a while ago. He was aware that they had more than likely noticed him the previous night. But somehow, he couldn't bear to tear his eyes away.
The object of his desire was a mere fifteen feet away, but it was so much further beyond his touch. It was the worst torture, having the embodiment of his admiration dangled in his vision, causing more pain than he had ever known in battle.
Embracing one another, their limbs – blue and lightly tanned – were tangled together on the bed. Long, raven tresses and tousled, navy spikes hung loose.
He listened intently to the soft groans and laboured breath. He watched the bodies move as one, completely untouched by his existence. He could taste the heat in the air and smell the flesh. But there was nothing there for him to touch.
As he watched the scene, his hand moved past the folds of his cloak and lingered at his waistline. There was a small moment of hesitation, before his fingers unfastened the pants and delved down.
He gripped himself hard, his frustrated expression revealing the anger he bore at such a physical reality of his arousal; of his longing. Unable to resist, he let his hand slide up and down, the tongue on his palm swirling about, moistening the hot skin. It pressed hard on the tip, caressing the slit and rubbing against the rest of the length.
He bit a finger on his other hand to contain his moans. The tongue was swift and jerky, and moved uncontrolled as if it belonged to another. He closed his eyes and listened to the moans of the two lovers. He could imagine that he was there as well, loved and wanted, touched and pleasured.
His balanced began to wobble, and so he carefully knelt down, staring at the couple intensely with watery, cerulean eyes. He watched as they reached their climax, ceasing up together before collapsing onto the bed, bodies spent from such an arduous expression of lust and emotion.
Deidara soon came as well, biting into his finger until he tasted blood. He let out a low whimper as his body was assaulted with such meaningless pleasure. The tongue was still moving, lapping up the sticky, white fluid. He almost felt sick at the touch.
Slowly, he slid his hand out from the depths of his cloak, letting it fall limp at his side. The first thought he had when his mind became lucid again was, 'It was cold'. The heat he should have felt, the warmth of pleasure and satisfaction and love… None existed in his world.
He ran his clean hand shakily through his ash-blonde bangs. The other hand was eyed with disgust. He gripped it as rough as he could until it was bloody, ignoring the pain.
Not caring to watch them hold one another for a moment more, he hastily retreated back to his own room and his empty, lonely bed. And in that bed he wept, clutching the soft pillow to his chest as he wished to be whisked off forever into a world of dreams where he no longer felt such achingly dark solitude.