(no subject)
Who: Tayuya, Sasori, Deidara
What: The best birthday gift ever, courtesy of Deidara's random bout of semeness
When: After Tayuya's party from the 15th of February (IT TOOK A LONG TIME STFU)
Where: Tayuya and Deidara's apartment
Warnings: ... Sex. ♥
Somewhat blindly does Sasori’s free hand find one of Deidara’s hips, and he feels his own skin go somewhat rigid under his friend’s fingers, nonetheless does he press into one of the many mapped out points in the body that can either send an obnoxious amount of pain or a rather warmed feeling upon contact. He brushes the pad of his thumb into the point and applies some amount of pressure, and it’s alternation between pain and calamity he’d tested time and time again until memorized. He doesn’t make any move to stop Deidara’s movements, and the hand under Tayuya’s shirt moves further still, to one her breasts with a hint of a smirk on Sasori’s lips.
(You’re good with your-) He can feel the burn between Deidara’s tongue and teeth, and he can feel the heat of a hickey growing at his neck, motivating the drags of his fingers from the many pressure points at his abdomen until his hand is at Deidara’s waistline. Herein he stops, wavering as to what exactly he should do next and tweaking a little at one of Tayuya’s nipples, quiet in opposition to her moans against the rhythm of Deidara’s fingers.
“God, fuck-” She hisses, and she rocks her hips into his fingers, the pressure both painful and desired, and for a half or second she muses a little on the fact that what they are doing is damned illegal (-as so many of the things they do are) - and how something as trivial as sex is even upheld by the law. (And maybe after being arrested so many times you find a certain amount of humor in what people are arrested for. Maybe.)
Deidara breath catches as Sasori's fingers play against his skin, hitting the pressure point and playing with his nerves. Just when he is able to fully sense the pleasure, Sasori turns it to pain, unbearable without the knowledge that the pleasure will return. He cries out softly against his friend's throat, the pleasurable sound turning to a plead to stop the pain. (But he doesn't want it to stop.)
Tayuya's words are breathy and wanton compared to his own unclear murmuring, and he wonders what Sasori's cries or moans would sound like. He gasps at Sasori's touch, increasing his own in Tayuya inadvertently and causing her to moan in unison with him.
As his fingers continue to probe her, the valley between his thumb and forefinger rubs against her clit and his thumb presses down on the triangle of skin between her hips.
Deidara lets his hand drag across the waistband of Sasori's shorts and onto his abdomen, fingers tracing over the muscles he couldn't tell were there just by looking. He then brings his hand back over the side of Sasori's torso and feels across his back, touching his spine and learning just how well the thing cotton shirt hid the boy's thinness.
(And maybe sadism is just an attribute. A characteristic in Sasori as standard as Tayuya’s swearing or Deidara’s pyromania, and it is exerted in the alternations, the precise pressures bringing something like a grin onto his features into the pain. Maybe, maybe.) He feels his skin tighten further, and the gesture is automatic, yet painfully human of him, rigidity in touch he cannot ever truly accustom himself to. (Cannot, will not, and he thinks distantly of Temari.)
(Sasori had only ever let Deidara come to Suna with him once.
The large home he and Chiyo Baa lived in seemed a bit smaller upon every return, and when they walk in, the woman’s fake adoration makes him want to vomit. His room is where it always is, the entirety of the attic, and he gives Deidara his bed in light of a parasitic insomnia. And for the first time - to Deidara - were Sasori’s puppets somewhat eerie, for in his room were parts splayed across the floor, some broken, some just a little imperfect, and some not too deviant from the one Sasori’d created of Tayuya.
Sasori had only ever considered showing anyone his Special puppets when he brought Deidara to Suna.
He didn’t.)
When Tayuya pushes Deidara a few feet backwards, out of her body, and away from Sasori, she gives neither sound nor explanation, staring at her boyfriend almost stoically, though a bit of a smirk on her face. (One of her canines pokes a bit at her bottom lip, and it had grown into her smirk, her arrogance that seemed, if anything, justified at this point. Not most high school girls can get away with-) “Take off your god damned pants.”
Deidara balks for a few moments at her command. He moves his eyes to Sasori's, now that his lips are no longer on his friend's slender neck. He swallows (he had said that anything goes, after all) and meets his girl friend's eyes again. There's that untamed gleam in them that everybody obeys without question, and he's tempted to try it now. To see how she'd attack him.
The fingers wet from her body sink beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, leaving traces of her against his skin. The hand that had been on Sasori's back slips down his other hip and he wiggles his hips as the old elastic is pulled down. (He decides to tease her by leaving his boxers on. Technically she had only demanded him to remove his pants, which he had.)
"As you wish, yeah," he returns to her, matching her smirk, though he is sure it looks less feral than hers. He kicks his pants from his ankles and shifts his gaze between the (his?) two redheads.
(If Sasori could read Deidara’s thoughts, he would be happy to readjust them, for he belongs to no one and no one at all, and would never let himself be such. There’s a hollowness in his being, an irreversible sense of recluse and remorse that no amount of tiding would save and no amount of pain could lessen it, for the greatest way to heal is to first inflict, and Sasori knows this well. But Sasori cannot read Deidara’s thoughts.)
He glares a bit at the back of Tayuya’s head, returning gaze to Deidara as he wiggles out of his pants, and his hair had untied at some point, loosened from the braid and devoid of a ponytail. If anything, Deidara could only look different when his hair was down. More feminine, and, in Sasori’s eyes, a bit more destructive, though he isn’t sure where this view origins from.
(But it is not to be forgotten that Deidara is chaotic. That he, in his kindness and being, has taken the life of another. Has murdered a person who had a life. Maybe a wife, maybe a child, and it is not to be forgotten that Deidara has taken that life. Stolen it. And Sasori does not forget this, of course, because he has done the same. He has done the same and so much worse. He has not only stolen the life from a person, but two. Or was it three? No… it was five, wait, but that other one- that other one, and those three or four at that station…. Sasori has stolen too many lives to count, stolen them with a brutality completely inhuman, and he is somewhat happy Deidara and Tayuya are oblivious to it.
Ignorance is bliss. And Sasori’s hands are stained.)
Though, in reality, Tayuya is no different. At fourteen she is putting complete strangers in comas for even looking at her the wrong way. At fourteen she’s been to jail and rehab centers too many times. At fourteen she knows the names of four Parole Officers, lost many of them, slept with one, and hates them all. And now Tayuya is eighteen.
(Sasori smiles down at Deidara’s form, the boy’s cheeks blackened from something experimented with in the confines of his room, and his exhaling thickened with smoke. They were only sophomores, but Sasori had already memorized Deidara’s routine from when they got home from school, one that was the same but different in certain, small details. And when Deidara had gotten home a little bit after him today, gone in his room to play about with fire as usual, Sasori had just taken it for usual, but the noises stopped too early and he never came out to make dinner.
He’d choked on smoke when he opened the door, and Deidara was unconscious on the floor, and Sasori had picked him up and brought him into his own room with more strength than his thin arms could possibly have suggested. He is still breathing, and most of the necessitation techniques had already been preformed, and, at this point, it’s Sasori’s choice whether he lives or dies.
Deidara’s wrist is underneath a padded pressure of his fingers, and he eyes the clock warily, gazing lazily down at him and pressing forward with a bit more zeal. “You know, Deidara, there are fourteen meridians in the Pressure Point fighting style.” He pauses, watching the boy breathe and letting his smile widen. “Over the entire body, there are hundreds of pressure points, and an uncountable number of arteries.”
“I could kill you in eleven minutes just by compressing the pressure points in your neck, which constrict the flow of blood in your brain. If I hold your wrist for longer than the next thirty seconds, the damage to your limb is irreversible, and wouldn’t that be bad?” Sasori smirks a little, dropping Deidara’s wrist loosely back onto his chest. “But Tayuya wouldn’t like that.”)
Tayuya glares, grabbing his thighs and jerking them apart, taking the material of his undershorts off with a rather satisfying tear of ripping fabric. She sinks between his legs, glancing upwards at him with a bit of a smirk before nosing lightly at it, the automatic hardening of his flesh making her smirk further. She takes him in both slowly and suddenly, and she can feel Sasori watching her head move in Deidara’s lap, the feel of his palm at her head making her brush her teeth across it a bit in indignation. (“I might be sucking your fucking cock, but I am not your bitch.”) The fabric shifts under her legs and Sasori’s standing up, and she feels his fingers brush over her spine as he rounds to Deidara’s other side, the tip of his cock brushing the back of her throat and her eyes watering a bit to not gag.
Sasori’s knees fold beneath him when he sits back onto the floor, legs spread around Deidara, and he kisses him somewhat harshly from the lobe of his ear down the joints of his spine, and his fingers claw into his thighs, leaving marks and the burn of inflamed skin ripe under the pads of his fingers. There was something uncharacteristically erotic about watching Tayuya suck him off, which both made him feel further out of place and like he was supposed to be there, however such was to work out. The bites at the pulsing jugular. (Ten minutes.)
Deidara feels his heart quicken with each of Tayuya's movements around his member. He allows only a bit of his mind to wander as her tongue slides against his skin (and he quickly suppresses the question he'd never ask her, because he'd already forgiven her silently, and Hidan wasn't worth his thoughts - not now).
He makes a fist in her long red hair. His own has fallen over his shoulders (and been pushed over his shoulders by Sasori) and he focuses on the way his blond and her red remind him of flames.
Sasori's chest against his back is cool (maybe he should finally start believing when Sasori tells him he's cold-blooded, but the slow beating of Sasori's heart will always keep him from believing his words), and the contrast to the heat in his groin is a welcome one.
As his friend's longer nails dig into his flesh Deidara winces slightly). He moans at both sets of lips and both tongues working on his body. He frees his other hand and holds it up to Sasori's head for a moment as he lingers near his neck and then drops it as delicately as possible to Sasori's thigh. He scrunches up the mesh leg of the shorts a bit and is able to grip Sasori's knee before dragging his nails up a few inches before the way the fabric catches and won't move any further. (Maybe they can all have matching scars after tonight.)
"Unnn," he pushes out from his chest, but which person triggered the cry, he can't decide.
Tayuya’s head burns as the hairs of her scalp are pulled, and she digs her fingers into his thighs, somewhat indignantly, rotating her tongue up the shaft of his erection and rather explicitly avoiding where he wanted it. His moan is quiet, but tangible, dragging somewhat helplessly between both herself and Sasori, and she squeezes his thighs a little, not clawing from where she can feel his skin rising in scratches, but uncharacteristically gently in the rare occasions she is.
(Tayuya’s sick when she says she isn’t going to be there for dinner that night, so when Deidara, Shizuko, and Kyo chatter amiably about the coming New Year’s Party, neither of the parents notice when their son goes extremely rigid. Sasori is in the kitchen, drinking what remained of the morning’s coffee, and he only turns around and goes directly upstairs upon a glance at Deidara’s posture.
Ten minutes go by, and both of Deidara’s hands are under the table, the color in his face both rising and dropping and extremely-suppressed gasps escaping him every few seconds, and when Shizuko feels his forehead (“You must have caught Tayuya-chan’s cold…”) he comes messily into Tayuya’s mouth from where she’s beneath the table on her hands and knees. Deidara wanted to yell at her when he stumbled back up to their room sometime later (he couldn’t tell how she’d gotten from beneath the table with no one noticing) but she’s playing GameBoy and Sasori’s asleep for the first time in a week.
“Goddamnit Tayuya, yeah-”
“’S not what you said there. U-un~”)
Sasori makes a very slight noise as Deidara’s hands grope blindly at the inners of his thighs, and there’s an almost immediate regret and punishment in his action, and his fingers dig into a pressure point under the floating rib, the shake of Deidara’s body beneath the pain he is sadistically aware of making him grin into a kiss at his neck. (He knows the pain is there because he’s practiced on himself. Hitting one pressure point causes pain. Two causes pain from where the vein, artery, whatever the case may be, meets up midway. Three, if on the same flow of blood, will cause unconsciousness. Four, if on the same blood flow, will cause unconsciousness and disruption of the corresponding organ.
Five.
Causes death.
Sasori both adores and detests the human body, in all of its weakness.)
He brushes into Deidara’s touch. (Make me moan, let me make you scream.)
Deidara gasps loudly at the pain in his chest, fingers digging into Sasori's legs. A moment after the initial pain he climaxes in Tayuya's mouth. The sigh of pleasure is edged with the hurt caused by Sasori (but pain and pleasure go hand in hand, don't they?) and he loosens his grip on Tayuya's hair and pushes her back gently. His hand runs down her cheek and wipes some of his cum from her lips as she swallows.
He twists his neck, his chest still enclosed in Sasori's vaguely cage-like hold, nosing the side of Sasori's head until the boy lifts his lips from his back. Deidara moves his lips against Sasori's cheek, searching out Sasori's. He brings his other hand up to one of Sasori's (how different but similar they are - Deidara's thinner and longer, and even though Sasori is so dangerously underweight, his hands are still more muscular than Deidara's, and his fingers are thicker.
"Hey danna, does having small hands make your work easier when you're carving yeah?" he had asked, looking at his own large hands and boney fingers.
Sasori was sitting at his desk carving the small scorpion he had picked to make for Iruka's animal-themed assignment. The redhead had sighed and was about to speak when the class bell rang. Deidara had scrambled to put his own sculpting tools away - freshman year he had Drama after Art and Gai's punishments for being late to class were things he'd rather not go through if he had the choice.
Somewhere along the line the question had been forgotten. Until now.)
He pulls Sasori's hands from his body enough to turn his upper body and kisses Sasori soundly on his lips, worming his way into his mouth. He feels Tayuya shift near his lap and takes the opportunity to turn to sit in a more comfortable position and puts his hands on either side of Sasori's hips as he runs his tongue along his friend's bottom lip ("Can you taste me?" he asks silently.) Sasori's arms return to his torso, and Deidara wonders what the puppetmaker will make him feel next.
Deidara’s come tastes bitter in Tayuya’s mouth when he orgasms (that didn’t take long) - and she’s somewhat surprised he’s still quite as energetic afterwards, wasting no deliberate time in jumping Sasori a few seconds later. She leans back against the couch that had been pushed some space away from the futons, panting a little for breath and wiping the rest of whatever remained at the corners of her mouth on the back of the large sleeve.
Sasori’s tongue slicks across Deidara’s, roughly (as always), and his hands tighten at the curve of his friend’s waist, his body in between the space of Deidara’s legs as the skin of his own slim hips steadily work away from the tension. (Crack of skull to waxed wood, straddled hips- “Get the fuck off of me.”) The burn of connected bodies is a rather abrupt rip from his own half-human reality to reacting nerves and the hard-on he could control, if he wanted to (his knowledge of the human body is ceaseless) - but doesn’t care to as Deidara’s nails scrape softly into his hips.
The shift of Tayuya’s weight as she edges out of the room goes unnoticed or ignored, and when she returns thirty or so seconds later (Deidara and Sasori hadn’t much deviated positions, though there were lines from Sasori’s nails up Deidara’s back) she returns to where she had been sitting, the tiny digital camera Kyo had bought her for just the last Christmas squeezed in her palm. (“This is my life, and it’s ending one motherfucking second wasted doing things I don’t want to do. I will document every fuckin thing I see, and when it’s over, when I die by a gunshot wound, there’ll be someone ready to see everything I did.” The photography teacher stares at her. First day of the freshman class, and the reverberating question had been ‘Why are you here?’ Tayuya’s answer had been… unique.)
Deidara feels the lines on his back, and tries to figure out if they're as perfectly aligned to his spine as they feel. His hands inch up to the waist of Sasori's shorts again.
He leans forward into the kiss, tongue exploring Sasori's mouth thoroughly (counting each tooth - he should have known Sasori would have all 32 adult teeth (he himself was still waiting for his wisdom teeth to come in), Sasori was always exact when it came to anatomy). He doesn't pay much attention to the fact that he's forcing Sasori to lean back slightly, but as he moves his mouth to his friend's neck he does notice Tayuya holding her hands tightly closed.
He drags his teeth up along the invisible line the runs from the shoulder up to the earlobe and takes the lobe between his lips, flicking his tongue across its edge as his fingernails brush against the smooth skin of Sasori's lower stomach while the pads of his fingers slide against the material of the boy's boxers.
After an inch he stops their advance.
Sasori’s stomach is deceptive like the rest of his body, a tiny layer of baby fat still clinging over it, even in his thinness, and it’s this that takes away the tone of the rock-hard six-pack underneath his skin. (Sasori accepts the fact that his growth is stunted, and like all of anything than could pose damage to him, he manages to twist it to his own twisted little advantage. So often, in fights, is Sasori attacked first because he looks something easy to break, and so often does he glut in adjusting these assumptions.)
(The first time Deidara kills anyone, it’s an accident.
He’s only fifteen when it happens, and at this point, Tayuya’s hands are already stained and Sasori’s been cold blooded since he was a child, though Deidara only lets himself be somewhat aware of this. (The road to hell is paved with good intention, and denial is even worse. It is good intention with a nagging in the back of your mind you force away. And hell is a suiting place for Deidara. Brimstone and-)
His pyromania had led him to an empty warehouse in the heat of an afternoon, and the building he’d scoped loosely for people went up in flames in a matter of minutes. Tayuya lays on her back, in a bikini she’d bought for a hundred yen in some thrift shop, and, for once, enjoys an agonizing heat, occasionally snapping photographs from the camera around her neck. Deidara sits next to her, smiling toothily, sipping at a bottle of water as the sparks and spits crackle through the air and sweat beads on his forehead.
It’s some time the next day, on a Sunday, where the sky that had seemed so clear just the previous was now clustered with rain clouds, and Oshima is drizzled with hot rain, that the newspaper he buys from the gas station that sells him Orange Juice every Thursday has a front page picture of his handiwork. (Tayuya’s photographs were better.)
Sasori reads the article when Deidara tosses the paper on the kitchen table, and his voice is as apathetic as it always is when he reads aloud there is a casualty. (It isn’t until later that he learns Deidara is the one who set this fire.)
Deidara spends the next four hours locked in his room, and eventually Sasori removes the hinges and removes the door entirely, and the blonde is hunched in a corner, hair hanging in his face and limbs jerking every few seconds in the possibility of noiseless sobbing, though Sasori can’t really tell. He doesn’t say a word, but Tayuya’s photographs of burning buildings are in a mess around his form, and he isn’t stupid enough to not put two and two together.
There’s a listless space of time between him standing there and him sitting in front of Deidara, and on the way there he takes Deidara’s favorite brand of matches into a palm and sits before him. He can almost hear ‘danna’, but a clap of lightning outside muffles Deidara’s coherency, and Sasori strikes a match, the hiss of flame momentary before vanishing into embers and dropping from his fingers onto the carpeting.
“If you play with fire, you’re bound to get burned, Deidara.”
Sixty matches, four arms blackened with burns, hair torn in chunks, and several loud cries of pain or frustrations later, Deidara is somewhat calm again, and Sasori is almost indifferent (as he always is. As he should be.) - the signs he isn’t indifferent in the scent of burned and destroyed flesh wafting through Deidara’s room, out the space once a closed door and circulating the apartment something terrible.
“I didn’t mean to, yeah.”
And he never forgot.
“I know.”)
Sasori’s nails dig into Deidara’s spine in response to the abrupt halt of movement, and he drags them down, a long set of four fresh streaks turning his skin first a bright white, then an inflamed red, and it’s just shallow enough to not cut him open, but deep enough to hurt much worse than if he’d actually broken the skin. Another very slight noise from where Deidara’s at his earlobe (and it’s uncertain what it says) - and he eyes Tayuya from his insomnia lined eyes.
(Aren’t you the sneaky little one?)
Deidara lowers his hands into Sasori's pants even more, over the arches of the Iliac Crest and onto the soft flesh of his pelvis. He kneads the soft flesh with the backs of his fingers, wiggling them slowly lower.
Leaving Sasori's ear, Deidara brings his mouth over the pulsing vein in his neck, holding his tongue over it from a moment before dropping to the "u" at the bottom of his neck. Deidara kisses the indentation gently, expanding the area of his kisses and giving the boy a hickey on his lower neck, near one Tayuya had already given him.
He's hunching over as Sasori leans back further, and he lifts his right leg over Sasori's left, uncurling his left after and resting it on Sasori's right. He takes the time to rotate his wrists and feeling the edge of Sasori's pubic hair. His wrists push down the front of Sasori's shorts, and loose as they are on his body, the inclusions of Deidara's hands beneath the material cause the elastic to press into his skin, indenting it with a momentary half bracelet.
He pauses in his kisses to suck in a breath as Sasori's nails prod into his back, in the spaces between his ribs.
Tayuya smirks somewhat, and the million comments about Deidara being Sasori’s wife run through her head as she watches him with his hand in his pants, and she leans back, waiting for her cue and the camera tightly compressed in her palm. (This is my life, and I am documenting every fucked up little thing I see, and someday someone’s coming along for the goddamn ride.)
Sasori moves his hands to the front of Deidara’s chest, somewhat indignantly, and he smirks, tracing his finger to Deidara’s chin and forcing it away from his neck. “Conception vessel.” He states, and he feels his hips jerk a little, the color and expression steadily rising into his face as he forces a finger into a spot at Deidara’s gum, above his right front tooth. “Point twenty-five.”
He doesn’t say a word, but presses down hard, and the movement is fast, a series of brief, painful pressures from his gum, the center of his throat, and down his chest until Deidara’s chest is utterly raw and he’s at Point two above his groin, and he presses his index and middle finger into it with more intensity than any other spot, gasping involuntarily into Deidara’s hands and punishing him for it with a sadism only characteristic to him. (Only Sasori.)
He kisses Deidara hard on the lips when he hits the last point, barely above his cock, and he knows how much it hurts because he’s practiced on himself a million fold. (One cannot heal if they have never suffered.) He slicks at his tongue, and Sasori is smiling something that none of them - including himself - can really tear apart, and Tayuya only watches with an artistic fascination.
(“-art appreciation, yeah.”)
In the wake of Sasori's fingers is the sensation of a million nails being slowly forced into his chest. Deidara opens his mouth to cry out, but the pain is so great he cannot sound it after the first few seconds. When he is able to sound his pain, it's to whimper and gasp quietly, tears welling in his eyes. (He has been burned so many times that he never really thinks twice about it. But any other pain for him is like regular pains to regular people.)
It goes away then, but comes back.
He can do nothing but rest against Sasori and let his friend do as he will while the pain lingers. His jaw hangs with a good deal of slack in it as his neck aches, and he wishes he could carve the center of his chest out, so great the pain is. His stomach rolls as the throbbing slowly eases.
The pain above his groin he has no words for, but otherwise, he is un-effected. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, looking down at his lap and Sasori's. Deidara slides his hands around Sasori's hips and he hooks his thumbs over the edge of both shorts, pushing down and shifting back on the futon, pushing his legs against Sasori's and forcing the material off his friend enough to give him unobstructed access. (He thinks he hears Tayuya muffle a sound of surprise, but his mind is still swimming with pain.)
He wraps one hand around Sasori's length and holds it, not loosely, but not tightly either. The pain in his neck is still there, but he presses through it and kisses Sasori gently as his hand slowly turns around his cock, careful of friction. (Sasori finds pleasure in pain, but Deidara will show him pleasure from pleasure.)
Sasori’s eyes widen in the slightest as Deidara’s hand wraps around him, and he pauses in his outright sadism to stare at his friend, just stare as he felt himself tense up in Deidara’s hand, and his body heats up at the contact (because Sasori lets it. Because Sasori lets him. Because he knows that Zabuza raping him was his fault, because, if Sasori had wanted to, he could have killed Zabuza with only a few movements of the hand. And Sasori knows this. He knows this and it keeps him awake at night, and when he’s not between bodies, he’s breaking the plaster walls around him with self-destruction. Because, in the end, it is, was, and will always be his fault. Because, in the end, Sasori could have ended Zabuza’s pitiful excuse for a life with just a few fingers, and there would have been no evidence. There would have been no nothing. Just a dead man on the floor and a flustered teenage boy. And instead, Sasori left him alive. Sasori let some sick bastard live, and fuck him, and maybe, in some way, it was consensual. In a demented little way, it was consensual, just a “Hurt me” masochism to contradict his sadism. Just a contradiction so he could fuck himself over a little bit more. And, in knowing this, Sasori makes Deidara hurt. Because Deidara is his contradiction. Deidara is the mirror image of Sasori’s self, the masochistic little one that let himself be raped into the gym floor by a sick piece of shit, and at that point, is it even rape? At that point, is it really non-consensual, is it just some form of a sick one night stand?
He doesn’t know.) You could have it all; my empire of dirt. I will let you down. I will make you hurt. If I could start again a million miles away, I would keep myself away. And in this does he stare into what he can see of Deidara’s eyes, and it’s not listless (as it had been then) - nor weak, because there is a rare form of life in Sasori’s eyes, lust in apathy, and his fingers are warm from the twenty-five swift pressures into Deidara’s conception vessel. (Distantly, at Deidara’s pain, in his gasps, he could hear Tayuya shout something, but it is only so distant.)
He hardens up, at for a second he stops ripping Deidara apart, stops hurting him in that twisted little way, just to stare, just to say. (Don’t. Stop.)
Sasori is normally a rather stiff person, but as he stiffens in Deidara's hand the blond falters for a second. Western stereotypes about blonds aside, Deidara knew how to read his friend, and he knew there was only one thing he could be thinking of at this moment.
"Hurt me, give me your pain, yeah," he thinks as he slowly continues running his hand along Sasori's length. "You don't have to suffer alone. I want your pain, yeah." Deidara stops staring and closes his eyes and leans in, placing the gentlest of kisses possible, more like a feathering touch, on Sasori's lips.
He kisses Sasori again, applying a tad more pressure as his lips press into Sasori's before hovering near them. He opens his eyes, centimeters from Sasori's and blinks. "Danna, yeah?" he asks quietly, the pain in his chest still aching.
Tayuya watches them carefully, and there’s something grotesquely romantic about the scene, not grotesque in the fact that they were both boys - she went to an art school after all, and most of her friends were day - and not grotesque because it was her boyfriend and his best friend right in front of her - that, in and of it self, was a bit of a turn on - but because, in all of the times Deidara had screamed for him, Sasori’s still his master in the end. It’s still all about Sasori. And, grotesque as it is, there’s still that certain amount of romance in it, and this is what is morbidly fascinating about them. About Sasori. About the fact that they’re all so goddamned unstable, that Oshima island is the layer of foundation that keeps them from slipping completely, and it is thickest beneath Deidara’s feet and thinnest beneath Sasori’s.
But Deidara’s there to carry both Sasori and Tayuya in the end.
Sasori blinks up at Deidara, and he silently does as blue eyes demand, finding the tip of Deidara’s ring finger wrapped around his cock and pressing into a weak spot, hard, working sharply up his arm, fourteen different hard jabs until he’s at his shoulder, working straight up the right side of Deidara’s head in another ten points at temples and spots around the neck and below the ears, and Deidara’s skin inflames under the pressure, and as he finishes, he wraps the arm around Deidara’s neck, pulling him so his ear is at his lips.
“Feel your flames, my Deidara.”
(Triple warmer. 24 point attack in a vertical line beginning from the ring finger and ends at the temple.
Applied five times in the same hour ensures brain damage, though it can be fatal.)
His flames, huh? Deidara's familiar enough with being burned. You don't work with explosives and fire for nearly your entire life without being burned at least once. But as long as they didn't get in the way of your work, they weren't unwelcome. Battle scars, that's what his family called them. Going up against something that could take your life and coming back alive.
Deidara had always wondered what it felt like to be consumed by flames internally, though. One of his first memories was of asking his mother what it felt like, ("You mean like a fever, yeah?" she frowned at him. He shrugged, having had the luck to never have had a fever.) and even after she explained he wondered, and purposely stayed out in a rain storm in the hopes to develop a fever. He had, and that was the only one he had ever had. He mostly suffered through colds and allergies, but doctors don't get sick, and neither did Dei after coming to Oshima (he had to take care of Tayuya after all).
But the memory of how he felt with the fever remained, but this... This was completely different. He felt as if the bones in his hand and arm would melt, and that the muscles would burn up faster than the time it took for his best Zippo to create a flame right after opening it. He felt his eyes water and wasn't entire aware of what sounds his vocal chords were making. His head hurt so much he thought it'd spontaneously self-combust.
But even through the pain he couldn't even grasp coherently, he felt something else stir within him, a different type of heat. The pain in his hand around Sasori is still too much, but he reaches his other to Sasori's free hand and brings it to the space between their laps.
He tastes salt on his lips as he realizes what his friend has done - pain and wanting at the same time. How ingenious. His head is burning but he feels his own member growing harder as the pain drowns out his thoughts again.
I exist through my need to self oblige.
Deidara’s jerks and erratic shaking underneath Sasori’s palms that grasp onto his shoulders, holding him steady, come as no surprise, and he can hear Tayuya shout behind him “SASORI, YOU MOTHERFUCKER, WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?!” but the yell is silenced by Deidara’s free hand to her. The skin beneath his fingers is raw and reddened, and the unabridged pain and unfaltering arouse is enough to make him smirk a little. (The body. Such a beautifully predictable thing. Something so sterile that it is only the deranged ones that Sasori can find remote attraction or interest in, for they bring deviation to what is. Physically, we’re all full of shit, no matter how pretty we are on the outside. Psychologically, the possibilities are endless, but only if we allow them to be such, and such is why Sasori lets himself have a Leader. To be in the Akatsuki. Because only someone insane would subject themselves to the lives he and Tayuya and Deidara live of his or her own will. And insanity is-)
Sasori’s teeth bite down into Deidara’s bottom lip roughly when he comes into his hand, and a capillary in his lip is severed, the body forcing him into something resembling submission still trembling from the damage he’d done. Even as he tourniquets himself in splitting Deidara’s lip, he groans, and it’s throaty and dark like glass. (The way someone like him would groan, whatever such a stereotype could fit.) And he is completely unsurprised when there’s a flash of light and Tayuya’s eyeing the screen of her digital camera, in a voyeuristic sort of way. (Deviation?)
She is something in me that I despise.
Deidara's breath still comes in sharp short measures. When Sasori bites on his lips, he sucks in his breath sharply at the sting (stinging, burning, wanting). He pulls his lips from Sasori's, a tired (pained?) smile on his face. "Wow, yeah," he pushes out once his friends moans have completely silenced. His hand is still numb, but he feels (and sees) the fluids on his hand. He swallows. "Danna, yeah?"
He pushes against Sasori with his forehead and looks up at the smaller boy, uncertain for the first time since the three of them began. He hopes this time was different - better.
A muscle in his neck twitches, and he curls in on himself, away from his friends as he licks his lip gently. Art appreciation, yeah.
Tayuya’s arms wrap around Sasori’s chest, fingers mingling in with the stickyness of the come at his abdomen, and Sasori’s reply to his (if I am the master, are you the slave?) friend is in the form of a few fingers pushing him back, in a semi-intimate sort of way that seemed to fit with the flush in his face and Tayuya’s tongue at a hickey on his neck. Deidara scoots away in compliance, limbs burning, against the couch Tayuya had rested against where the picture of Sasori’s face when Deidara made him orgasm still fresh on the screen.
There’s an uncharacteristic life in Sasori’s posture. The momentary lapse of energy is just as it is stated; lasting only a second before a violent wanting and anger rises from a latency in the pit of his stomach. Something raw, intimate, and yet completely unromantic, because, in the end, Sasori is incapable of such; romance is made up, and affection is damned overrated. It’s fucking, not Making Love. Affection is overrated, and rage is so damned beautiful, in the sudden clash of tongues and teeth between Sasori and Tayuya.
The taste of Deidara’s come on Tayuya’s mouth doesn’t disgust Sasori as much as it probably should, nor is Tayuya quite as furious as she should be when Sasori splits her lip open with the same vigor he had done so to Deidara, and the blood seeps into both of their mouths, between bitterness and angry noises and hands wasting no time to grope blindingly for limbs. His teeth are stained pink when he smiles into the kiss, and the blood is already clotting up (-unbreakable-) her lips tightening in anger and a mumbled curse between the mesh of skin. A fistful of hair is grabbed and yanked, and Sasori doesn’t make a noise as Tayuya rips out so many of his scarlet strands, the burn of tearing scalp causing his elbow to slip into her throat, and she jerks back in gag.
It is something between a fight and want, and the both of them can feel Deidara’s eyes on their moving forms, though unaware as to whether or not it’s in horror or fascination. Sasori kisses her roughly as the breath constricts and a bruise forms at her neck, and both of their lips are bright red, stained with blood or something else entirely, and there is a blatant sense of venting about the scene. (Tayuya is destroying Sasori the way that Sasori destroyed Deidara, and he is somewhere between taking it like a little fucking masochist or retaliating with a brutality uncharacteristic even for him.) Red hair tears under knuckles, lips bruise, eyes widen, and Sasori and Tayuya are ripping each other completely apart.
“Tayuya-” Sasori growls, and her shirt is being pulled off her head without either of their consent, the oversized garment shrugging off of her shoulders until it’s tossed loosely onto the floor. The kiss he leans into is as hard as the rest, if not more violent on Tayuya’s part, a vicious struggle of I-Am-Better, though the rings clanking on their fingers and the identical purple color of their nails a reminder of the fact that even though Deidara (and Sasori) have dominated her - Tayuya is still their leader.
(The first time Tayuya takes a bullet, it’s Sasori and Itachi that are with her. She’s a sophomore, and she’s blacked out as she sends the heel of one of her boots into the skull of a punk who thought picking a fight was a good idea, and he dies quickly but messily in the back alleys of Oshima. Sasori watches her slip a little further into her insanity with no interest, back resting lazily against the brick wall of a long closed warehouse, and Itachi spares himself the gruesome image in favor of another one. (The lesser of two evils-?)
And when the bullets begin to fly, they’re loud, a snap of noise echoing through the brain, the first two barely avoiding Tayuya’s skull, and the third lodging into her shoulder. Tayuya’s yell is enough for Sasori to kill the man without a word, and she bleeds and yells until Itachi knocks her out to kill the pain for a little while and Sasori compresses the arteries in the area.
They drag her back to Sasori’s apartment and quickly remove the bullet, and when Deidara comes home from getting his kicks burning another building to the ground, he stops dead at seeing Tayuya crumpled on their kitchen table, Sasori’s arms covered in her blood, and Itachi’s clothes stained scarlet. They don’t have to explain it. Deidara doesn’t need it. Tayuya wakes up some time later with a system full of Hydros, a gauze at her shoulder, and three boys around her.
And it was the same routine the next two times she was shot.)
He jerks her knees apart, and her legs bend at a pretty awkward angle, though not impossible enough for her to react in pain. And her underwear are already gone, stripping her completely naked as he shifts a couple of fingers roughly into her, the lubrication present hot against the pads of his skin. “Fuck. You.” Tayuya half-shouts, and Sasori silences further negative response with his movements, livid moaning escaping her throat, and there’s a smirk on his face with interest in reaction. He bites down at a spot on her collar, and she jerks in his arms, half-fighting and half-relaxing in a vicious demand for something unspoken.
He moves his mouth, fingers slicking and pushing against the ridges of her insides, and he bites down the inches until he’s at the curl of metal in her naval and she’s forgetting to yell in anger every time he hits a place she likes. He wavers there for a few seconds, twisting the barbell a little with his tongue and testing the feel. (Pierce at an angle, Listerine kills the pain and sterilizes it, and it doesn’t take too long to heal-)
Hey god, are you ready?
Deidara slouches against the couch, gaze flicking over the screen of Tayuya's camera. His lips curl into a small smirk that fades as he stares at it a little longer. Those weren't puppets, nor were they sculptures. It was him and Sasori.
He didn't think it was weird because it was him and Sasori, over the years of being known to call the redhead master he knew what people thought (however wrong they were, and maybe that's why he stopped using the term until recently). Oshima High being what it was , a male student or faculty member was more likely to be talked about if they were straight, since the larger part of the student body wasn't (stereotypes exist for a reason).
No, it was weird because it was him and Sasori. Something mutual. Their constant polarization had ceased for a brief span of time, and had been captured forever. On the rare occasions the two agreed, it was never complete. Akatsuki wanted to take someone out? Deidara agreed (he was loyal, after all), but was always about getting it done quickly. Take him out before he can realize it's coming Sasori would agree (it was something to do, and he was loyal), but enjoyed drawing the process out. Make him suffer and wait for rigor mortis to set in, setting his muscles so the look of fear prevents him from having an open casket funeral.
Tayuya's gag jars him from his reverie, and he watches with mixed feelings. Their violence was to be expected. Both were savage in their own ways, and to see them soft with each other would have had him worried. He knows they could come close to killing each other, but he knows that it won't happen.
The need in him Sasori stirred before they broke apart is still there, and as Sasori lowers his head down Tayuya's body, Deidara feels it spread a bit. (He knows getting turned on isn't wrong, but getting turned on by watching his girlfriend and his best friend...) He watches, breathing heavily from the pain that is only slightly lifting, as Tayuya jerks as Sasori takes her naval ring in his mouth. Deidara's good hand rests lightly fisted in his lap, twitching with each of Tayuya's moans. It uncurls only to brush against his naked length. He's a bit hard.
(He was in the sixth grade and playing hide and seek with a few of his younger cousins. His mother had asked him to keep them entertained in a safe and appropriate manner while their parents and she planned an important fireworks display. He had brought them outside and the game had begun, and he had been searching for half an hour - they had their shortness in their advantage, he muttered to himself. If any of them got lost or misplaced he'd be punished, and punishment in the Bakuhatsu family meant no helping in the warehouse for a period of time, and Deidara didn't want to miss out on this new job.
He wandered over to the back of the barn, hoping that he'd find at least one of the brats, but only heard the shuffling of paper, like someone rifling through a magazine. He grinned to himself and snuck over, thankful that an old barrel and tall grass would hide him for the most part. "Found you!" he tried to call out menacingly, popping out in front of the person near the ground with his back against the barn. His jaw hung open as he took in what was before him.
Toshiya was crouching with his pants and underwear pushed down to his ankles, several copies of men's magazines on the ground before him. He looked up at his younger cousin with a bored expression behind his long black bangs. "What, Deidara?"
The blond sputtered a reply, which only earned him a sigh from the older boy. Toshiya explained that no, he wasn't going to pee on the magazines, but that he was testing something out, and proceeded to explain puberty to Deidara. Deidara pointed out that Toshiya was still a bit too young for his experiment to work, to which the older boy only grinned and said there was nothing wrong with learning a head of time, and offered to help Deidara out when the time came. Deidara turned beet red and stormed away, resuming the search for his cousins.
When Deidara's voice started changing, Toshiya renewed the offer, and made sure to ask Dei about how he was enjoying his body's changes.)
Deidara squeezed his eyes shut at the memory, hand moving around his dick as Sasori lowered his face even more.
Both are more turned on and more angry then they had been in a while when Sasori’s head sinks between her legs and the pair of fingers reappear to support his weight, glistening and sticky against the futon. He noses a little into her pubic hair, breathing into the contraction when he rolls his tongue somewhat experimentally Tayuya groans as he slicks inside of her, and her thighs hike up, the scars seeming more vivid in the dimness versus the painful bright of the way the apartment appeared most of the time. (Maybe I’m looking in the wrong direction, maybe I’m looking for any direction?)
Her fingers curl in the locks of his hair, and they’re softer than her own, but rougher than Deidara’s, the place in between (like wet sand before ocean and beach. But Sasori himself is not so calm. Sasori is the oil spill destroying the life of the ocean and plaguing guilt into the men who did it. Deidara is the animal struggling to survive in the wake of the poisons, Tayuya is the other poisons the men threw into the sea ‘Well-We-Already-Did-This-So..’ and, of all of these things, the sea itself is-) She doesn’t tear at them with the harmonious vigor that had been in their kisses (such an innocent word to describe it, really) - though it isn’t gentle, either, for the only part of Tayuya that harbors gentility is her flute.
(In the middle of a gunfight; In the center of a resturaunt, they say “Come with your arms raised high!” Well they’re never gonna get me! I’m like a bullet through a flock of doves. To wage this war against your faith in me.) It takes about two minutes of playing with her and about fifteen seconds to find her G-spot before Tayuya’s come spills into Sasori’s mouth, and he licks her clean into her panting and the redness in her face, wiping his lips with the back of his hand and eyeing Deidara somewhat lazily. “F-fuck...Sasori…”
Deidara meets Sasori's eyes and takes his hand from his cock (he had been using slow strokes to keep himself hard but not enough to work himself to his climax). The pain Sasori had caused him in nothing more than a slight tingle now, and he crawls over to his friends. He slowly turns to the old side table that had ended up next to the couch. It had a closed storage space in the base, and the door liked to stick. With a little force that made his arm shoot with pain again, he stuck his hand into the space without looking, feeling around for the items he had stored there before going to the church. One small unopened box of condoms, and another opened box of lubricant. He finds them and pulls them out, not bothering to shut the door as he scoots closer to the other two.
Sasori backs away from Tayuya and Deidara leans over Tayuya. "One more time, yeah," he tells her, dropping his head and pressing his lips to hers, hand still sticky with Sasori's come cupping a breast. His thumb brushes over the nipple as his fingers knead the soft skin. As he pushes his tongue as far as he can into her mouth he tweaks the stiffened nub.
He moans with her and feels himself brush against her thigh as he lowers his hips to hers. "Ready for me, yeah?" he asks, lips brushing against hers as he draws back for a breath.
“It’s going to hurt you.” Sasori states, more to Deidara than to Tayuya, as he slips the condom on and coats it thoroughly with the clear liquid from the bottle and tosses it away in irritation when satisfied. He eyes Deidara, wrapping his arm around her abdomen in some form of latent possessiveness he would deny otherwise. (He’s the third wheel in this, and he takes no offense to this notion, nor has he forgotten it. Deidara doesn’t love him, Tayuya doesn’t love him, and he doesn’t love either of them. It’s mindless teenage sex. Something Sasori finds himself mildly surprised he’s doing, considering what he did to Temari, but not necessarily wary of. He doesn’t care enough about anything to do so.)
(Use me like I was a whore.
Relationships are such a bore.)
Tayuya ignores his statement, for the most part, spreading her legs with one thigh up and the other almost splayed to the left. There’s no elegance in it. The girl playing the flute in the dress on the stage, beautiful and dedicated and pretty is gone, and she should be, because that Tayuya is only a phase. The real Tayuya is the fighter, the one putting people in comas, starting gangs, screwing anything that catches her fancy, the artist Yankee pressed between Sasori and Deidara. There is no elegance in it, for if there was, it would have been wrong. It would have been an awkward placement of people, because Tayuya can play the same stunt that the cheerleaders could. Angels Monday through Thursday, sleep with the entire football team on Friday, and re-incarnated on Saturday with halos. Except the order is reversed.
“If I gave a shit about whether or not something hurts…” (The first time she ever knew Deidara, any part of him, it was teaching him to fight. The first time she ever knew Sasori, it was through Deidara, and they wasted no time in getting in a fight. So, really-) “-I wouldn’t be fucking either of you.”
. When Deidara inhales each breath, he feels his chest rise into Tayuya's breasts already pressing against him and Sasori's hairless arm against his stomach.
("Danna, do you shave your arms, yeah?" a bewildered Deidara had asked freshman year as the two were cleaning up in the bathroom after a rather messy science lab.
"No," was Sasori's short reply.
"So you naturally don't have hair on them, yeah?"
"I wax them, Deidara."
"Oh," came the delayed response. "Why?")
He slid his tongue along Tayuya's lips as they all prepare themselves for what's to come. He meets Sasori's eyes and nods to him, even as his tongue rolls across Tayuya's. He was ready
The penetration could almost be sudden, and Tayuya bucks, her moan deep throated and wanting when Sasori pushes into her. It hurts (expectedly so), like being split in half the way it had felt when she lost her virginity to her parole officer to save her own ass when she was thirteen. (But that is how it has always been. Life is a bitch, and Tayuya has felt the brunt of it since as far back as she could remember. Like the bullets she’s taken in the name of her cause. In the name of her self built religion that she has dragged so many into. (Akatsuki.)
When Deidara’s arm wraps around a thigh and buries into her, she screams, not out of pain (never out of pain, of course, of course) but out of something hot from within her that Sasori had beckoned and Deidara had- (Bang.)
(The second time Tayuya is shot, it hurts far more than the first. It leaves a scar at her side, a rugged twist of flesh and messy scar tissue so many have commented on, the How Did That Happens growing old and her inventive, sardonic stories getting more and more elaborate. The burn of her body splitting around a bullet and the heat and the blood-) Sasori’s palm grips that spot when he fucks her, Deidara’s grips the other side of her waist, and she has no words for what Is, in this. Just-
She screams in his ear, and he flinches slightly. He doesn't like to hurt her, but it's inevitable during something like this. The hand around her thigh pushes her leg out a bit more to make more room (he's always done whatever he could for her to ease her pain) and he holds onto her waist to steady her as the three of them move against each other.
Her skin is slick with sweat and he dips his head to her shoulder, licking the slight sheen from her skin. He waits for a spot in Sasori's rhythm when he'll be easiest to reach - a thrust, draw back (now) and lets go of Tayuya's waist to grab onto Sasori's, pressing Tayuya between them as he stretches over Tayuya's slight frame and runs his tongue along a small length of Sasori's shoulder.
Even covered in each other's sweat, they all taste different. He lets go of Sasori abruptly and crushes his lips against the pulse in Tayuya's neck, sucking and biting as he lets Sasori rock them both. If not for the futon, their knees would be hurting in the morning.
When he pulls away from her neck he scratches a fingernail against Sasori's side and thrusts at the same time as his friend, ready to take the lead if Sasori will let him. (If not, it doesn't matter very much at all, really. He knows now that they've come this far, a second time is more likely.)
Sasori is a monster he himself created. (He can understand why no one wants to see Him anymore. There is a silent revolution going on around himself, around his bones no longer full of marrow but something else, the poison he injects to build immunity perhaps? Or maybe the come on his chest and the blood under his nails, or, or-) And maybe. (He used to fantasize about cutting himself up. Taking himself apart, piece by piece, serving it with vodka to jumpstart a heart of a body on his own operating table. Because the bodies are always so much more entertaining when they move. People are only ragged and ovulating, male or female, because everyone is bleeding from the inside by the time he gets to see within them. By the time he splits them down the center and tears them open to find out no matter how damned beautiful, they end up full of shit like the next person. And everyone’s got a someone with heart complications, no matter how perfect they seem. A disease on the diamond.
And it’s the school that’s preventing him of being himself, in all of his unabridged insanity. He refuses to believe that the Akatsuki keeps him sane, because they are all shutting down that piece of himself that he is letting slightly through when he fucks Tayuya. Fingers running across her chest, the come on her breasts and the taste of it in her kiss, and the million other tiny remnants and reminders of what they are doing. Because Sasori is far away.)
Maybe this is why he’s here. To bring controversy and discord to the faux perfection of Deidara and Tayuya’s relationship. (But were they ever pretending? Of course not. If they had, he wouldn’t be buried into Tayuya and she wouldn’t be moaning his name in between Deidara’s. It wouldn’t be that way. It would be some other way that could make so much more sense and not seem so twisted. But all three of them are twisted. So it’s suiting, he supposes.)
Tayuya’s arms wrap around Deidara’s neck, hellish and rebelling of something unnamed, the last of her something (not virginity, but-) taken painfully by Sasori, but the harder he strokes, the more she moans, in time with Deidara, and somewhat surprised when the redhead lets up so Deidara can be the dominant. (She should feel helpless. But she doesn’t. She is a prisoner in a million other ways, perhaps solidly to her own self loathing, but not to Sasori and Deidara. And until someone takes on the visionary of a mission to make her not detest her existence, she will remain herself. But she knows she has no visionary to come take that. The vision is far too revolting.)
Deidara smells like pollution every time she’s this close to him, a scent that marks his place in a nine man revolution and distribution of self inflicted world domination. (Maybe she should just revel and bask in what she has made, for they are under her, and yet it’s all a disaster waiting to happen. And when such a beautiful catastrophe occurs, she will be there, ready to pour the pig’s blood on the prom queen and be burned to death in return, for Tayuya is ready and waiting to die. She has returned to the stable home to fix a broken antennae and tune it to the news where her destruction interrupts this broadcast, and she adores it. Being the center of awful attention. The best thing since wrestling and infesting and testing the “attention please!” in the Oshima auditorium so she can feel the tension with the bucket over her own head. Ten cents and two for a laugh, and Tayuya’s rich in her own sick amusement.) But who sent for such a god? (A nuisance.)
(“I’ve got a job for you, Deidara.”
A tit and a tat, a clock going tick tock tick and a little bit of shit here and there, people talking it and people making it, like a poetic allusion times five of people we all hit. Kicking ass and polluting airwaves and fourty year old cocks jammed into Sasori’s ass, and it’s all chaotic and erratic like techno music and old hits you can’t understand as to why they’re hits. The signal has been given, the lips have been kissed, and the new list of creative insults from the suspenseful pencil poised in an artist’s hand has been written for the record. And is Tayuya really such a topic of conversation, disgusting and yet over discussed in the circle of nine with a group who hates her as much as they love her.
Because it’d be so empty without her.)
“A-ah, god!”
Each of them has such a distinct personality that it's rather strange they can read and understand each other's cues when there is nothing signaling them. Deidara still has trouble reading Sasori every so often, but that comes more from Sasori knowing how to be unreadable (it hurts Deidara when he can't read Sasori) and making himself blank. Tayuya's like an open book, though, and always has been as long as Deidara's known her. He's somewhere in between the two, and maybe that's why they work so well together.
He slows the tempo down a notch, but thrusts harder into Tayuya, Sasori's sharp knuckles pressing into his chest (that'll leave a mark). The hand on Tayuya's thigh slides over her skin, damp with more than just sweat, and over her hip. Sasori is firm against her back, and Deidara feels each of his friend's ribs as his hand continues up Sasori's back and into his short red hair.
Faster now, again, Tayuya's heavy breath in his ear as he draws his lips across her jaw line. He bumps his head against Sasori's as he lifts his chin and take the stud-decorated lobe into his mouth. He flecks his tongue between the metal posts, ignoring the small sting that tells him he's cut himself on the pack of a post. A soft bite to a tiny spot of smooth skin and a whispered "don't hold back, yeah" as she pants.
In and out, in and out. Clench, unclench, and repeat. Synchronization between three people.
An hour later it’s over, and Sasori doesn’t have to pretend he knows how to love any further. (It is returning to comfort zone after a dangerous deviation, and so many other things unspeakable and imperfectable. To saw up and throw away bodies he thought might have been pretty, but were only a terrible little lie upon true sight. To paint a portrait that is perfect to the last and final detail, smidgeon of color and brushstrokes invisible, only to cut through the canvas in the middle of the piece. To do those things Sasori does, but to do them wrong. That is pretending to love.)
Between the futons he is distant, melancholic as he stares at the rotating fan he couldn’t feel with Tayuya and Deidara so close, staring at it through the night in his wretched insomnia until he pulls himself for a shower at six am and leaves a note goodbye. (But Tayuya and Deidara can still be beautiful. How lucky of them.)
What: The best birthday gift ever, courtesy of Deidara's random bout of semeness
When: After Tayuya's party from the 15th of February (IT TOOK A LONG TIME STFU)
Where: Tayuya and Deidara's apartment
Warnings: ... Sex. ♥
Somewhat blindly does Sasori’s free hand find one of Deidara’s hips, and he feels his own skin go somewhat rigid under his friend’s fingers, nonetheless does he press into one of the many mapped out points in the body that can either send an obnoxious amount of pain or a rather warmed feeling upon contact. He brushes the pad of his thumb into the point and applies some amount of pressure, and it’s alternation between pain and calamity he’d tested time and time again until memorized. He doesn’t make any move to stop Deidara’s movements, and the hand under Tayuya’s shirt moves further still, to one her breasts with a hint of a smirk on Sasori’s lips.
(You’re good with your-) He can feel the burn between Deidara’s tongue and teeth, and he can feel the heat of a hickey growing at his neck, motivating the drags of his fingers from the many pressure points at his abdomen until his hand is at Deidara’s waistline. Herein he stops, wavering as to what exactly he should do next and tweaking a little at one of Tayuya’s nipples, quiet in opposition to her moans against the rhythm of Deidara’s fingers.
“God, fuck-” She hisses, and she rocks her hips into his fingers, the pressure both painful and desired, and for a half or second she muses a little on the fact that what they are doing is damned illegal (-as so many of the things they do are) - and how something as trivial as sex is even upheld by the law. (And maybe after being arrested so many times you find a certain amount of humor in what people are arrested for. Maybe.)
Deidara breath catches as Sasori's fingers play against his skin, hitting the pressure point and playing with his nerves. Just when he is able to fully sense the pleasure, Sasori turns it to pain, unbearable without the knowledge that the pleasure will return. He cries out softly against his friend's throat, the pleasurable sound turning to a plead to stop the pain. (But he doesn't want it to stop.)
Tayuya's words are breathy and wanton compared to his own unclear murmuring, and he wonders what Sasori's cries or moans would sound like. He gasps at Sasori's touch, increasing his own in Tayuya inadvertently and causing her to moan in unison with him.
As his fingers continue to probe her, the valley between his thumb and forefinger rubs against her clit and his thumb presses down on the triangle of skin between her hips.
Deidara lets his hand drag across the waistband of Sasori's shorts and onto his abdomen, fingers tracing over the muscles he couldn't tell were there just by looking. He then brings his hand back over the side of Sasori's torso and feels across his back, touching his spine and learning just how well the thing cotton shirt hid the boy's thinness.
(And maybe sadism is just an attribute. A characteristic in Sasori as standard as Tayuya’s swearing or Deidara’s pyromania, and it is exerted in the alternations, the precise pressures bringing something like a grin onto his features into the pain. Maybe, maybe.) He feels his skin tighten further, and the gesture is automatic, yet painfully human of him, rigidity in touch he cannot ever truly accustom himself to. (Cannot, will not, and he thinks distantly of Temari.)
(Sasori had only ever let Deidara come to Suna with him once.
The large home he and Chiyo Baa lived in seemed a bit smaller upon every return, and when they walk in, the woman’s fake adoration makes him want to vomit. His room is where it always is, the entirety of the attic, and he gives Deidara his bed in light of a parasitic insomnia. And for the first time - to Deidara - were Sasori’s puppets somewhat eerie, for in his room were parts splayed across the floor, some broken, some just a little imperfect, and some not too deviant from the one Sasori’d created of Tayuya.
Sasori had only ever considered showing anyone his Special puppets when he brought Deidara to Suna.
He didn’t.)
When Tayuya pushes Deidara a few feet backwards, out of her body, and away from Sasori, she gives neither sound nor explanation, staring at her boyfriend almost stoically, though a bit of a smirk on her face. (One of her canines pokes a bit at her bottom lip, and it had grown into her smirk, her arrogance that seemed, if anything, justified at this point. Not most high school girls can get away with-) “Take off your god damned pants.”
Deidara balks for a few moments at her command. He moves his eyes to Sasori's, now that his lips are no longer on his friend's slender neck. He swallows (he had said that anything goes, after all) and meets his girl friend's eyes again. There's that untamed gleam in them that everybody obeys without question, and he's tempted to try it now. To see how she'd attack him.
The fingers wet from her body sink beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, leaving traces of her against his skin. The hand that had been on Sasori's back slips down his other hip and he wiggles his hips as the old elastic is pulled down. (He decides to tease her by leaving his boxers on. Technically she had only demanded him to remove his pants, which he had.)
"As you wish, yeah," he returns to her, matching her smirk, though he is sure it looks less feral than hers. He kicks his pants from his ankles and shifts his gaze between the (his?) two redheads.
(If Sasori could read Deidara’s thoughts, he would be happy to readjust them, for he belongs to no one and no one at all, and would never let himself be such. There’s a hollowness in his being, an irreversible sense of recluse and remorse that no amount of tiding would save and no amount of pain could lessen it, for the greatest way to heal is to first inflict, and Sasori knows this well. But Sasori cannot read Deidara’s thoughts.)
He glares a bit at the back of Tayuya’s head, returning gaze to Deidara as he wiggles out of his pants, and his hair had untied at some point, loosened from the braid and devoid of a ponytail. If anything, Deidara could only look different when his hair was down. More feminine, and, in Sasori’s eyes, a bit more destructive, though he isn’t sure where this view origins from.
(But it is not to be forgotten that Deidara is chaotic. That he, in his kindness and being, has taken the life of another. Has murdered a person who had a life. Maybe a wife, maybe a child, and it is not to be forgotten that Deidara has taken that life. Stolen it. And Sasori does not forget this, of course, because he has done the same. He has done the same and so much worse. He has not only stolen the life from a person, but two. Or was it three? No… it was five, wait, but that other one- that other one, and those three or four at that station…. Sasori has stolen too many lives to count, stolen them with a brutality completely inhuman, and he is somewhat happy Deidara and Tayuya are oblivious to it.
Ignorance is bliss. And Sasori’s hands are stained.)
Though, in reality, Tayuya is no different. At fourteen she is putting complete strangers in comas for even looking at her the wrong way. At fourteen she’s been to jail and rehab centers too many times. At fourteen she knows the names of four Parole Officers, lost many of them, slept with one, and hates them all. And now Tayuya is eighteen.
(Sasori smiles down at Deidara’s form, the boy’s cheeks blackened from something experimented with in the confines of his room, and his exhaling thickened with smoke. They were only sophomores, but Sasori had already memorized Deidara’s routine from when they got home from school, one that was the same but different in certain, small details. And when Deidara had gotten home a little bit after him today, gone in his room to play about with fire as usual, Sasori had just taken it for usual, but the noises stopped too early and he never came out to make dinner.
He’d choked on smoke when he opened the door, and Deidara was unconscious on the floor, and Sasori had picked him up and brought him into his own room with more strength than his thin arms could possibly have suggested. He is still breathing, and most of the necessitation techniques had already been preformed, and, at this point, it’s Sasori’s choice whether he lives or dies.
Deidara’s wrist is underneath a padded pressure of his fingers, and he eyes the clock warily, gazing lazily down at him and pressing forward with a bit more zeal. “You know, Deidara, there are fourteen meridians in the Pressure Point fighting style.” He pauses, watching the boy breathe and letting his smile widen. “Over the entire body, there are hundreds of pressure points, and an uncountable number of arteries.”
“I could kill you in eleven minutes just by compressing the pressure points in your neck, which constrict the flow of blood in your brain. If I hold your wrist for longer than the next thirty seconds, the damage to your limb is irreversible, and wouldn’t that be bad?” Sasori smirks a little, dropping Deidara’s wrist loosely back onto his chest. “But Tayuya wouldn’t like that.”)
Tayuya glares, grabbing his thighs and jerking them apart, taking the material of his undershorts off with a rather satisfying tear of ripping fabric. She sinks between his legs, glancing upwards at him with a bit of a smirk before nosing lightly at it, the automatic hardening of his flesh making her smirk further. She takes him in both slowly and suddenly, and she can feel Sasori watching her head move in Deidara’s lap, the feel of his palm at her head making her brush her teeth across it a bit in indignation. (“I might be sucking your fucking cock, but I am not your bitch.”) The fabric shifts under her legs and Sasori’s standing up, and she feels his fingers brush over her spine as he rounds to Deidara’s other side, the tip of his cock brushing the back of her throat and her eyes watering a bit to not gag.
Sasori’s knees fold beneath him when he sits back onto the floor, legs spread around Deidara, and he kisses him somewhat harshly from the lobe of his ear down the joints of his spine, and his fingers claw into his thighs, leaving marks and the burn of inflamed skin ripe under the pads of his fingers. There was something uncharacteristically erotic about watching Tayuya suck him off, which both made him feel further out of place and like he was supposed to be there, however such was to work out. The bites at the pulsing jugular. (Ten minutes.)
Deidara feels his heart quicken with each of Tayuya's movements around his member. He allows only a bit of his mind to wander as her tongue slides against his skin (and he quickly suppresses the question he'd never ask her, because he'd already forgiven her silently, and Hidan wasn't worth his thoughts - not now).
He makes a fist in her long red hair. His own has fallen over his shoulders (and been pushed over his shoulders by Sasori) and he focuses on the way his blond and her red remind him of flames.
Sasori's chest against his back is cool (maybe he should finally start believing when Sasori tells him he's cold-blooded, but the slow beating of Sasori's heart will always keep him from believing his words), and the contrast to the heat in his groin is a welcome one.
As his friend's longer nails dig into his flesh Deidara winces slightly). He moans at both sets of lips and both tongues working on his body. He frees his other hand and holds it up to Sasori's head for a moment as he lingers near his neck and then drops it as delicately as possible to Sasori's thigh. He scrunches up the mesh leg of the shorts a bit and is able to grip Sasori's knee before dragging his nails up a few inches before the way the fabric catches and won't move any further. (Maybe they can all have matching scars after tonight.)
"Unnn," he pushes out from his chest, but which person triggered the cry, he can't decide.
Tayuya’s head burns as the hairs of her scalp are pulled, and she digs her fingers into his thighs, somewhat indignantly, rotating her tongue up the shaft of his erection and rather explicitly avoiding where he wanted it. His moan is quiet, but tangible, dragging somewhat helplessly between both herself and Sasori, and she squeezes his thighs a little, not clawing from where she can feel his skin rising in scratches, but uncharacteristically gently in the rare occasions she is.
(Tayuya’s sick when she says she isn’t going to be there for dinner that night, so when Deidara, Shizuko, and Kyo chatter amiably about the coming New Year’s Party, neither of the parents notice when their son goes extremely rigid. Sasori is in the kitchen, drinking what remained of the morning’s coffee, and he only turns around and goes directly upstairs upon a glance at Deidara’s posture.
Ten minutes go by, and both of Deidara’s hands are under the table, the color in his face both rising and dropping and extremely-suppressed gasps escaping him every few seconds, and when Shizuko feels his forehead (“You must have caught Tayuya-chan’s cold…”) he comes messily into Tayuya’s mouth from where she’s beneath the table on her hands and knees. Deidara wanted to yell at her when he stumbled back up to their room sometime later (he couldn’t tell how she’d gotten from beneath the table with no one noticing) but she’s playing GameBoy and Sasori’s asleep for the first time in a week.
“Goddamnit Tayuya, yeah-”
“’S not what you said there. U-un~”)
Sasori makes a very slight noise as Deidara’s hands grope blindly at the inners of his thighs, and there’s an almost immediate regret and punishment in his action, and his fingers dig into a pressure point under the floating rib, the shake of Deidara’s body beneath the pain he is sadistically aware of making him grin into a kiss at his neck. (He knows the pain is there because he’s practiced on himself. Hitting one pressure point causes pain. Two causes pain from where the vein, artery, whatever the case may be, meets up midway. Three, if on the same flow of blood, will cause unconsciousness. Four, if on the same blood flow, will cause unconsciousness and disruption of the corresponding organ.
Five.
Causes death.
Sasori both adores and detests the human body, in all of its weakness.)
He brushes into Deidara’s touch. (Make me moan, let me make you scream.)
Deidara gasps loudly at the pain in his chest, fingers digging into Sasori's legs. A moment after the initial pain he climaxes in Tayuya's mouth. The sigh of pleasure is edged with the hurt caused by Sasori (but pain and pleasure go hand in hand, don't they?) and he loosens his grip on Tayuya's hair and pushes her back gently. His hand runs down her cheek and wipes some of his cum from her lips as she swallows.
He twists his neck, his chest still enclosed in Sasori's vaguely cage-like hold, nosing the side of Sasori's head until the boy lifts his lips from his back. Deidara moves his lips against Sasori's cheek, searching out Sasori's. He brings his other hand up to one of Sasori's (how different but similar they are - Deidara's thinner and longer, and even though Sasori is so dangerously underweight, his hands are still more muscular than Deidara's, and his fingers are thicker.
"Hey danna, does having small hands make your work easier when you're carving yeah?" he had asked, looking at his own large hands and boney fingers.
Sasori was sitting at his desk carving the small scorpion he had picked to make for Iruka's animal-themed assignment. The redhead had sighed and was about to speak when the class bell rang. Deidara had scrambled to put his own sculpting tools away - freshman year he had Drama after Art and Gai's punishments for being late to class were things he'd rather not go through if he had the choice.
Somewhere along the line the question had been forgotten. Until now.)
He pulls Sasori's hands from his body enough to turn his upper body and kisses Sasori soundly on his lips, worming his way into his mouth. He feels Tayuya shift near his lap and takes the opportunity to turn to sit in a more comfortable position and puts his hands on either side of Sasori's hips as he runs his tongue along his friend's bottom lip ("Can you taste me?" he asks silently.) Sasori's arms return to his torso, and Deidara wonders what the puppetmaker will make him feel next.
Deidara’s come tastes bitter in Tayuya’s mouth when he orgasms (that didn’t take long) - and she’s somewhat surprised he’s still quite as energetic afterwards, wasting no deliberate time in jumping Sasori a few seconds later. She leans back against the couch that had been pushed some space away from the futons, panting a little for breath and wiping the rest of whatever remained at the corners of her mouth on the back of the large sleeve.
Sasori’s tongue slicks across Deidara’s, roughly (as always), and his hands tighten at the curve of his friend’s waist, his body in between the space of Deidara’s legs as the skin of his own slim hips steadily work away from the tension. (Crack of skull to waxed wood, straddled hips- “Get the fuck off of me.”) The burn of connected bodies is a rather abrupt rip from his own half-human reality to reacting nerves and the hard-on he could control, if he wanted to (his knowledge of the human body is ceaseless) - but doesn’t care to as Deidara’s nails scrape softly into his hips.
The shift of Tayuya’s weight as she edges out of the room goes unnoticed or ignored, and when she returns thirty or so seconds later (Deidara and Sasori hadn’t much deviated positions, though there were lines from Sasori’s nails up Deidara’s back) she returns to where she had been sitting, the tiny digital camera Kyo had bought her for just the last Christmas squeezed in her palm. (“This is my life, and it’s ending one motherfucking second wasted doing things I don’t want to do. I will document every fuckin thing I see, and when it’s over, when I die by a gunshot wound, there’ll be someone ready to see everything I did.” The photography teacher stares at her. First day of the freshman class, and the reverberating question had been ‘Why are you here?’ Tayuya’s answer had been… unique.)
Deidara feels the lines on his back, and tries to figure out if they're as perfectly aligned to his spine as they feel. His hands inch up to the waist of Sasori's shorts again.
He leans forward into the kiss, tongue exploring Sasori's mouth thoroughly (counting each tooth - he should have known Sasori would have all 32 adult teeth (he himself was still waiting for his wisdom teeth to come in), Sasori was always exact when it came to anatomy). He doesn't pay much attention to the fact that he's forcing Sasori to lean back slightly, but as he moves his mouth to his friend's neck he does notice Tayuya holding her hands tightly closed.
He drags his teeth up along the invisible line the runs from the shoulder up to the earlobe and takes the lobe between his lips, flicking his tongue across its edge as his fingernails brush against the smooth skin of Sasori's lower stomach while the pads of his fingers slide against the material of the boy's boxers.
After an inch he stops their advance.
Sasori’s stomach is deceptive like the rest of his body, a tiny layer of baby fat still clinging over it, even in his thinness, and it’s this that takes away the tone of the rock-hard six-pack underneath his skin. (Sasori accepts the fact that his growth is stunted, and like all of anything than could pose damage to him, he manages to twist it to his own twisted little advantage. So often, in fights, is Sasori attacked first because he looks something easy to break, and so often does he glut in adjusting these assumptions.)
(The first time Deidara kills anyone, it’s an accident.
He’s only fifteen when it happens, and at this point, Tayuya’s hands are already stained and Sasori’s been cold blooded since he was a child, though Deidara only lets himself be somewhat aware of this. (The road to hell is paved with good intention, and denial is even worse. It is good intention with a nagging in the back of your mind you force away. And hell is a suiting place for Deidara. Brimstone and-)
His pyromania had led him to an empty warehouse in the heat of an afternoon, and the building he’d scoped loosely for people went up in flames in a matter of minutes. Tayuya lays on her back, in a bikini she’d bought for a hundred yen in some thrift shop, and, for once, enjoys an agonizing heat, occasionally snapping photographs from the camera around her neck. Deidara sits next to her, smiling toothily, sipping at a bottle of water as the sparks and spits crackle through the air and sweat beads on his forehead.
It’s some time the next day, on a Sunday, where the sky that had seemed so clear just the previous was now clustered with rain clouds, and Oshima is drizzled with hot rain, that the newspaper he buys from the gas station that sells him Orange Juice every Thursday has a front page picture of his handiwork. (Tayuya’s photographs were better.)
Sasori reads the article when Deidara tosses the paper on the kitchen table, and his voice is as apathetic as it always is when he reads aloud there is a casualty. (It isn’t until later that he learns Deidara is the one who set this fire.)
Deidara spends the next four hours locked in his room, and eventually Sasori removes the hinges and removes the door entirely, and the blonde is hunched in a corner, hair hanging in his face and limbs jerking every few seconds in the possibility of noiseless sobbing, though Sasori can’t really tell. He doesn’t say a word, but Tayuya’s photographs of burning buildings are in a mess around his form, and he isn’t stupid enough to not put two and two together.
There’s a listless space of time between him standing there and him sitting in front of Deidara, and on the way there he takes Deidara’s favorite brand of matches into a palm and sits before him. He can almost hear ‘danna’, but a clap of lightning outside muffles Deidara’s coherency, and Sasori strikes a match, the hiss of flame momentary before vanishing into embers and dropping from his fingers onto the carpeting.
“If you play with fire, you’re bound to get burned, Deidara.”
Sixty matches, four arms blackened with burns, hair torn in chunks, and several loud cries of pain or frustrations later, Deidara is somewhat calm again, and Sasori is almost indifferent (as he always is. As he should be.) - the signs he isn’t indifferent in the scent of burned and destroyed flesh wafting through Deidara’s room, out the space once a closed door and circulating the apartment something terrible.
“I didn’t mean to, yeah.”
And he never forgot.
“I know.”)
Sasori’s nails dig into Deidara’s spine in response to the abrupt halt of movement, and he drags them down, a long set of four fresh streaks turning his skin first a bright white, then an inflamed red, and it’s just shallow enough to not cut him open, but deep enough to hurt much worse than if he’d actually broken the skin. Another very slight noise from where Deidara’s at his earlobe (and it’s uncertain what it says) - and he eyes Tayuya from his insomnia lined eyes.
(Aren’t you the sneaky little one?)
Deidara lowers his hands into Sasori's pants even more, over the arches of the Iliac Crest and onto the soft flesh of his pelvis. He kneads the soft flesh with the backs of his fingers, wiggling them slowly lower.
Leaving Sasori's ear, Deidara brings his mouth over the pulsing vein in his neck, holding his tongue over it from a moment before dropping to the "u" at the bottom of his neck. Deidara kisses the indentation gently, expanding the area of his kisses and giving the boy a hickey on his lower neck, near one Tayuya had already given him.
He's hunching over as Sasori leans back further, and he lifts his right leg over Sasori's left, uncurling his left after and resting it on Sasori's right. He takes the time to rotate his wrists and feeling the edge of Sasori's pubic hair. His wrists push down the front of Sasori's shorts, and loose as they are on his body, the inclusions of Deidara's hands beneath the material cause the elastic to press into his skin, indenting it with a momentary half bracelet.
He pauses in his kisses to suck in a breath as Sasori's nails prod into his back, in the spaces between his ribs.
Tayuya smirks somewhat, and the million comments about Deidara being Sasori’s wife run through her head as she watches him with his hand in his pants, and she leans back, waiting for her cue and the camera tightly compressed in her palm. (This is my life, and I am documenting every fucked up little thing I see, and someday someone’s coming along for the goddamn ride.)
Sasori moves his hands to the front of Deidara’s chest, somewhat indignantly, and he smirks, tracing his finger to Deidara’s chin and forcing it away from his neck. “Conception vessel.” He states, and he feels his hips jerk a little, the color and expression steadily rising into his face as he forces a finger into a spot at Deidara’s gum, above his right front tooth. “Point twenty-five.”
He doesn’t say a word, but presses down hard, and the movement is fast, a series of brief, painful pressures from his gum, the center of his throat, and down his chest until Deidara’s chest is utterly raw and he’s at Point two above his groin, and he presses his index and middle finger into it with more intensity than any other spot, gasping involuntarily into Deidara’s hands and punishing him for it with a sadism only characteristic to him. (Only Sasori.)
He kisses Deidara hard on the lips when he hits the last point, barely above his cock, and he knows how much it hurts because he’s practiced on himself a million fold. (One cannot heal if they have never suffered.) He slicks at his tongue, and Sasori is smiling something that none of them - including himself - can really tear apart, and Tayuya only watches with an artistic fascination.
(“-art appreciation, yeah.”)
In the wake of Sasori's fingers is the sensation of a million nails being slowly forced into his chest. Deidara opens his mouth to cry out, but the pain is so great he cannot sound it after the first few seconds. When he is able to sound his pain, it's to whimper and gasp quietly, tears welling in his eyes. (He has been burned so many times that he never really thinks twice about it. But any other pain for him is like regular pains to regular people.)
It goes away then, but comes back.
He can do nothing but rest against Sasori and let his friend do as he will while the pain lingers. His jaw hangs with a good deal of slack in it as his neck aches, and he wishes he could carve the center of his chest out, so great the pain is. His stomach rolls as the throbbing slowly eases.
The pain above his groin he has no words for, but otherwise, he is un-effected. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, looking down at his lap and Sasori's. Deidara slides his hands around Sasori's hips and he hooks his thumbs over the edge of both shorts, pushing down and shifting back on the futon, pushing his legs against Sasori's and forcing the material off his friend enough to give him unobstructed access. (He thinks he hears Tayuya muffle a sound of surprise, but his mind is still swimming with pain.)
He wraps one hand around Sasori's length and holds it, not loosely, but not tightly either. The pain in his neck is still there, but he presses through it and kisses Sasori gently as his hand slowly turns around his cock, careful of friction. (Sasori finds pleasure in pain, but Deidara will show him pleasure from pleasure.)
Sasori’s eyes widen in the slightest as Deidara’s hand wraps around him, and he pauses in his outright sadism to stare at his friend, just stare as he felt himself tense up in Deidara’s hand, and his body heats up at the contact (because Sasori lets it. Because Sasori lets him. Because he knows that Zabuza raping him was his fault, because, if Sasori had wanted to, he could have killed Zabuza with only a few movements of the hand. And Sasori knows this. He knows this and it keeps him awake at night, and when he’s not between bodies, he’s breaking the plaster walls around him with self-destruction. Because, in the end, it is, was, and will always be his fault. Because, in the end, Sasori could have ended Zabuza’s pitiful excuse for a life with just a few fingers, and there would have been no evidence. There would have been no nothing. Just a dead man on the floor and a flustered teenage boy. And instead, Sasori left him alive. Sasori let some sick bastard live, and fuck him, and maybe, in some way, it was consensual. In a demented little way, it was consensual, just a “Hurt me” masochism to contradict his sadism. Just a contradiction so he could fuck himself over a little bit more. And, in knowing this, Sasori makes Deidara hurt. Because Deidara is his contradiction. Deidara is the mirror image of Sasori’s self, the masochistic little one that let himself be raped into the gym floor by a sick piece of shit, and at that point, is it even rape? At that point, is it really non-consensual, is it just some form of a sick one night stand?
He doesn’t know.) You could have it all; my empire of dirt. I will let you down. I will make you hurt. If I could start again a million miles away, I would keep myself away. And in this does he stare into what he can see of Deidara’s eyes, and it’s not listless (as it had been then) - nor weak, because there is a rare form of life in Sasori’s eyes, lust in apathy, and his fingers are warm from the twenty-five swift pressures into Deidara’s conception vessel. (Distantly, at Deidara’s pain, in his gasps, he could hear Tayuya shout something, but it is only so distant.)
He hardens up, at for a second he stops ripping Deidara apart, stops hurting him in that twisted little way, just to stare, just to say. (Don’t. Stop.)
Sasori is normally a rather stiff person, but as he stiffens in Deidara's hand the blond falters for a second. Western stereotypes about blonds aside, Deidara knew how to read his friend, and he knew there was only one thing he could be thinking of at this moment.
"Hurt me, give me your pain, yeah," he thinks as he slowly continues running his hand along Sasori's length. "You don't have to suffer alone. I want your pain, yeah." Deidara stops staring and closes his eyes and leans in, placing the gentlest of kisses possible, more like a feathering touch, on Sasori's lips.
He kisses Sasori again, applying a tad more pressure as his lips press into Sasori's before hovering near them. He opens his eyes, centimeters from Sasori's and blinks. "Danna, yeah?" he asks quietly, the pain in his chest still aching.
Tayuya watches them carefully, and there’s something grotesquely romantic about the scene, not grotesque in the fact that they were both boys - she went to an art school after all, and most of her friends were day - and not grotesque because it was her boyfriend and his best friend right in front of her - that, in and of it self, was a bit of a turn on - but because, in all of the times Deidara had screamed for him, Sasori’s still his master in the end. It’s still all about Sasori. And, grotesque as it is, there’s still that certain amount of romance in it, and this is what is morbidly fascinating about them. About Sasori. About the fact that they’re all so goddamned unstable, that Oshima island is the layer of foundation that keeps them from slipping completely, and it is thickest beneath Deidara’s feet and thinnest beneath Sasori’s.
But Deidara’s there to carry both Sasori and Tayuya in the end.
Sasori blinks up at Deidara, and he silently does as blue eyes demand, finding the tip of Deidara’s ring finger wrapped around his cock and pressing into a weak spot, hard, working sharply up his arm, fourteen different hard jabs until he’s at his shoulder, working straight up the right side of Deidara’s head in another ten points at temples and spots around the neck and below the ears, and Deidara’s skin inflames under the pressure, and as he finishes, he wraps the arm around Deidara’s neck, pulling him so his ear is at his lips.
“Feel your flames, my Deidara.”
(Triple warmer. 24 point attack in a vertical line beginning from the ring finger and ends at the temple.
Applied five times in the same hour ensures brain damage, though it can be fatal.)
His flames, huh? Deidara's familiar enough with being burned. You don't work with explosives and fire for nearly your entire life without being burned at least once. But as long as they didn't get in the way of your work, they weren't unwelcome. Battle scars, that's what his family called them. Going up against something that could take your life and coming back alive.
Deidara had always wondered what it felt like to be consumed by flames internally, though. One of his first memories was of asking his mother what it felt like, ("You mean like a fever, yeah?" she frowned at him. He shrugged, having had the luck to never have had a fever.) and even after she explained he wondered, and purposely stayed out in a rain storm in the hopes to develop a fever. He had, and that was the only one he had ever had. He mostly suffered through colds and allergies, but doctors don't get sick, and neither did Dei after coming to Oshima (he had to take care of Tayuya after all).
But the memory of how he felt with the fever remained, but this... This was completely different. He felt as if the bones in his hand and arm would melt, and that the muscles would burn up faster than the time it took for his best Zippo to create a flame right after opening it. He felt his eyes water and wasn't entire aware of what sounds his vocal chords were making. His head hurt so much he thought it'd spontaneously self-combust.
But even through the pain he couldn't even grasp coherently, he felt something else stir within him, a different type of heat. The pain in his hand around Sasori is still too much, but he reaches his other to Sasori's free hand and brings it to the space between their laps.
He tastes salt on his lips as he realizes what his friend has done - pain and wanting at the same time. How ingenious. His head is burning but he feels his own member growing harder as the pain drowns out his thoughts again.
I exist through my need to self oblige.
Deidara’s jerks and erratic shaking underneath Sasori’s palms that grasp onto his shoulders, holding him steady, come as no surprise, and he can hear Tayuya shout behind him “SASORI, YOU MOTHERFUCKER, WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?!” but the yell is silenced by Deidara’s free hand to her. The skin beneath his fingers is raw and reddened, and the unabridged pain and unfaltering arouse is enough to make him smirk a little. (The body. Such a beautifully predictable thing. Something so sterile that it is only the deranged ones that Sasori can find remote attraction or interest in, for they bring deviation to what is. Physically, we’re all full of shit, no matter how pretty we are on the outside. Psychologically, the possibilities are endless, but only if we allow them to be such, and such is why Sasori lets himself have a Leader. To be in the Akatsuki. Because only someone insane would subject themselves to the lives he and Tayuya and Deidara live of his or her own will. And insanity is-)
Sasori’s teeth bite down into Deidara’s bottom lip roughly when he comes into his hand, and a capillary in his lip is severed, the body forcing him into something resembling submission still trembling from the damage he’d done. Even as he tourniquets himself in splitting Deidara’s lip, he groans, and it’s throaty and dark like glass. (The way someone like him would groan, whatever such a stereotype could fit.) And he is completely unsurprised when there’s a flash of light and Tayuya’s eyeing the screen of her digital camera, in a voyeuristic sort of way. (Deviation?)
She is something in me that I despise.
Deidara's breath still comes in sharp short measures. When Sasori bites on his lips, he sucks in his breath sharply at the sting (stinging, burning, wanting). He pulls his lips from Sasori's, a tired (pained?) smile on his face. "Wow, yeah," he pushes out once his friends moans have completely silenced. His hand is still numb, but he feels (and sees) the fluids on his hand. He swallows. "Danna, yeah?"
He pushes against Sasori with his forehead and looks up at the smaller boy, uncertain for the first time since the three of them began. He hopes this time was different - better.
A muscle in his neck twitches, and he curls in on himself, away from his friends as he licks his lip gently. Art appreciation, yeah.
Tayuya’s arms wrap around Sasori’s chest, fingers mingling in with the stickyness of the come at his abdomen, and Sasori’s reply to his (if I am the master, are you the slave?) friend is in the form of a few fingers pushing him back, in a semi-intimate sort of way that seemed to fit with the flush in his face and Tayuya’s tongue at a hickey on his neck. Deidara scoots away in compliance, limbs burning, against the couch Tayuya had rested against where the picture of Sasori’s face when Deidara made him orgasm still fresh on the screen.
There’s an uncharacteristic life in Sasori’s posture. The momentary lapse of energy is just as it is stated; lasting only a second before a violent wanting and anger rises from a latency in the pit of his stomach. Something raw, intimate, and yet completely unromantic, because, in the end, Sasori is incapable of such; romance is made up, and affection is damned overrated. It’s fucking, not Making Love. Affection is overrated, and rage is so damned beautiful, in the sudden clash of tongues and teeth between Sasori and Tayuya.
The taste of Deidara’s come on Tayuya’s mouth doesn’t disgust Sasori as much as it probably should, nor is Tayuya quite as furious as she should be when Sasori splits her lip open with the same vigor he had done so to Deidara, and the blood seeps into both of their mouths, between bitterness and angry noises and hands wasting no time to grope blindingly for limbs. His teeth are stained pink when he smiles into the kiss, and the blood is already clotting up (-unbreakable-) her lips tightening in anger and a mumbled curse between the mesh of skin. A fistful of hair is grabbed and yanked, and Sasori doesn’t make a noise as Tayuya rips out so many of his scarlet strands, the burn of tearing scalp causing his elbow to slip into her throat, and she jerks back in gag.
It is something between a fight and want, and the both of them can feel Deidara’s eyes on their moving forms, though unaware as to whether or not it’s in horror or fascination. Sasori kisses her roughly as the breath constricts and a bruise forms at her neck, and both of their lips are bright red, stained with blood or something else entirely, and there is a blatant sense of venting about the scene. (Tayuya is destroying Sasori the way that Sasori destroyed Deidara, and he is somewhere between taking it like a little fucking masochist or retaliating with a brutality uncharacteristic even for him.) Red hair tears under knuckles, lips bruise, eyes widen, and Sasori and Tayuya are ripping each other completely apart.
“Tayuya-” Sasori growls, and her shirt is being pulled off her head without either of their consent, the oversized garment shrugging off of her shoulders until it’s tossed loosely onto the floor. The kiss he leans into is as hard as the rest, if not more violent on Tayuya’s part, a vicious struggle of I-Am-Better, though the rings clanking on their fingers and the identical purple color of their nails a reminder of the fact that even though Deidara (and Sasori) have dominated her - Tayuya is still their leader.
(The first time Tayuya takes a bullet, it’s Sasori and Itachi that are with her. She’s a sophomore, and she’s blacked out as she sends the heel of one of her boots into the skull of a punk who thought picking a fight was a good idea, and he dies quickly but messily in the back alleys of Oshima. Sasori watches her slip a little further into her insanity with no interest, back resting lazily against the brick wall of a long closed warehouse, and Itachi spares himself the gruesome image in favor of another one. (The lesser of two evils-?)
And when the bullets begin to fly, they’re loud, a snap of noise echoing through the brain, the first two barely avoiding Tayuya’s skull, and the third lodging into her shoulder. Tayuya’s yell is enough for Sasori to kill the man without a word, and she bleeds and yells until Itachi knocks her out to kill the pain for a little while and Sasori compresses the arteries in the area.
They drag her back to Sasori’s apartment and quickly remove the bullet, and when Deidara comes home from getting his kicks burning another building to the ground, he stops dead at seeing Tayuya crumpled on their kitchen table, Sasori’s arms covered in her blood, and Itachi’s clothes stained scarlet. They don’t have to explain it. Deidara doesn’t need it. Tayuya wakes up some time later with a system full of Hydros, a gauze at her shoulder, and three boys around her.
And it was the same routine the next two times she was shot.)
He jerks her knees apart, and her legs bend at a pretty awkward angle, though not impossible enough for her to react in pain. And her underwear are already gone, stripping her completely naked as he shifts a couple of fingers roughly into her, the lubrication present hot against the pads of his skin. “Fuck. You.” Tayuya half-shouts, and Sasori silences further negative response with his movements, livid moaning escaping her throat, and there’s a smirk on his face with interest in reaction. He bites down at a spot on her collar, and she jerks in his arms, half-fighting and half-relaxing in a vicious demand for something unspoken.
He moves his mouth, fingers slicking and pushing against the ridges of her insides, and he bites down the inches until he’s at the curl of metal in her naval and she’s forgetting to yell in anger every time he hits a place she likes. He wavers there for a few seconds, twisting the barbell a little with his tongue and testing the feel. (Pierce at an angle, Listerine kills the pain and sterilizes it, and it doesn’t take too long to heal-)
Hey god, are you ready?
Deidara slouches against the couch, gaze flicking over the screen of Tayuya's camera. His lips curl into a small smirk that fades as he stares at it a little longer. Those weren't puppets, nor were they sculptures. It was him and Sasori.
He didn't think it was weird because it was him and Sasori, over the years of being known to call the redhead master he knew what people thought (however wrong they were, and maybe that's why he stopped using the term until recently). Oshima High being what it was , a male student or faculty member was more likely to be talked about if they were straight, since the larger part of the student body wasn't (stereotypes exist for a reason).
No, it was weird because it was him and Sasori. Something mutual. Their constant polarization had ceased for a brief span of time, and had been captured forever. On the rare occasions the two agreed, it was never complete. Akatsuki wanted to take someone out? Deidara agreed (he was loyal, after all), but was always about getting it done quickly. Take him out before he can realize it's coming Sasori would agree (it was something to do, and he was loyal), but enjoyed drawing the process out. Make him suffer and wait for rigor mortis to set in, setting his muscles so the look of fear prevents him from having an open casket funeral.
Tayuya's gag jars him from his reverie, and he watches with mixed feelings. Their violence was to be expected. Both were savage in their own ways, and to see them soft with each other would have had him worried. He knows they could come close to killing each other, but he knows that it won't happen.
The need in him Sasori stirred before they broke apart is still there, and as Sasori lowers his head down Tayuya's body, Deidara feels it spread a bit. (He knows getting turned on isn't wrong, but getting turned on by watching his girlfriend and his best friend...) He watches, breathing heavily from the pain that is only slightly lifting, as Tayuya jerks as Sasori takes her naval ring in his mouth. Deidara's good hand rests lightly fisted in his lap, twitching with each of Tayuya's moans. It uncurls only to brush against his naked length. He's a bit hard.
(He was in the sixth grade and playing hide and seek with a few of his younger cousins. His mother had asked him to keep them entertained in a safe and appropriate manner while their parents and she planned an important fireworks display. He had brought them outside and the game had begun, and he had been searching for half an hour - they had their shortness in their advantage, he muttered to himself. If any of them got lost or misplaced he'd be punished, and punishment in the Bakuhatsu family meant no helping in the warehouse for a period of time, and Deidara didn't want to miss out on this new job.
He wandered over to the back of the barn, hoping that he'd find at least one of the brats, but only heard the shuffling of paper, like someone rifling through a magazine. He grinned to himself and snuck over, thankful that an old barrel and tall grass would hide him for the most part. "Found you!" he tried to call out menacingly, popping out in front of the person near the ground with his back against the barn. His jaw hung open as he took in what was before him.
Toshiya was crouching with his pants and underwear pushed down to his ankles, several copies of men's magazines on the ground before him. He looked up at his younger cousin with a bored expression behind his long black bangs. "What, Deidara?"
The blond sputtered a reply, which only earned him a sigh from the older boy. Toshiya explained that no, he wasn't going to pee on the magazines, but that he was testing something out, and proceeded to explain puberty to Deidara. Deidara pointed out that Toshiya was still a bit too young for his experiment to work, to which the older boy only grinned and said there was nothing wrong with learning a head of time, and offered to help Deidara out when the time came. Deidara turned beet red and stormed away, resuming the search for his cousins.
When Deidara's voice started changing, Toshiya renewed the offer, and made sure to ask Dei about how he was enjoying his body's changes.)
Deidara squeezed his eyes shut at the memory, hand moving around his dick as Sasori lowered his face even more.
Both are more turned on and more angry then they had been in a while when Sasori’s head sinks between her legs and the pair of fingers reappear to support his weight, glistening and sticky against the futon. He noses a little into her pubic hair, breathing into the contraction when he rolls his tongue somewhat experimentally Tayuya groans as he slicks inside of her, and her thighs hike up, the scars seeming more vivid in the dimness versus the painful bright of the way the apartment appeared most of the time. (Maybe I’m looking in the wrong direction, maybe I’m looking for any direction?)
Her fingers curl in the locks of his hair, and they’re softer than her own, but rougher than Deidara’s, the place in between (like wet sand before ocean and beach. But Sasori himself is not so calm. Sasori is the oil spill destroying the life of the ocean and plaguing guilt into the men who did it. Deidara is the animal struggling to survive in the wake of the poisons, Tayuya is the other poisons the men threw into the sea ‘Well-We-Already-Did-This-So..’ and, of all of these things, the sea itself is-) She doesn’t tear at them with the harmonious vigor that had been in their kisses (such an innocent word to describe it, really) - though it isn’t gentle, either, for the only part of Tayuya that harbors gentility is her flute.
(In the middle of a gunfight; In the center of a resturaunt, they say “Come with your arms raised high!” Well they’re never gonna get me! I’m like a bullet through a flock of doves. To wage this war against your faith in me.) It takes about two minutes of playing with her and about fifteen seconds to find her G-spot before Tayuya’s come spills into Sasori’s mouth, and he licks her clean into her panting and the redness in her face, wiping his lips with the back of his hand and eyeing Deidara somewhat lazily. “F-fuck...Sasori…”
Deidara meets Sasori's eyes and takes his hand from his cock (he had been using slow strokes to keep himself hard but not enough to work himself to his climax). The pain Sasori had caused him in nothing more than a slight tingle now, and he crawls over to his friends. He slowly turns to the old side table that had ended up next to the couch. It had a closed storage space in the base, and the door liked to stick. With a little force that made his arm shoot with pain again, he stuck his hand into the space without looking, feeling around for the items he had stored there before going to the church. One small unopened box of condoms, and another opened box of lubricant. He finds them and pulls them out, not bothering to shut the door as he scoots closer to the other two.
Sasori backs away from Tayuya and Deidara leans over Tayuya. "One more time, yeah," he tells her, dropping his head and pressing his lips to hers, hand still sticky with Sasori's come cupping a breast. His thumb brushes over the nipple as his fingers knead the soft skin. As he pushes his tongue as far as he can into her mouth he tweaks the stiffened nub.
He moans with her and feels himself brush against her thigh as he lowers his hips to hers. "Ready for me, yeah?" he asks, lips brushing against hers as he draws back for a breath.
“It’s going to hurt you.” Sasori states, more to Deidara than to Tayuya, as he slips the condom on and coats it thoroughly with the clear liquid from the bottle and tosses it away in irritation when satisfied. He eyes Deidara, wrapping his arm around her abdomen in some form of latent possessiveness he would deny otherwise. (He’s the third wheel in this, and he takes no offense to this notion, nor has he forgotten it. Deidara doesn’t love him, Tayuya doesn’t love him, and he doesn’t love either of them. It’s mindless teenage sex. Something Sasori finds himself mildly surprised he’s doing, considering what he did to Temari, but not necessarily wary of. He doesn’t care enough about anything to do so.)
(Use me like I was a whore.
Relationships are such a bore.)
Tayuya ignores his statement, for the most part, spreading her legs with one thigh up and the other almost splayed to the left. There’s no elegance in it. The girl playing the flute in the dress on the stage, beautiful and dedicated and pretty is gone, and she should be, because that Tayuya is only a phase. The real Tayuya is the fighter, the one putting people in comas, starting gangs, screwing anything that catches her fancy, the artist Yankee pressed between Sasori and Deidara. There is no elegance in it, for if there was, it would have been wrong. It would have been an awkward placement of people, because Tayuya can play the same stunt that the cheerleaders could. Angels Monday through Thursday, sleep with the entire football team on Friday, and re-incarnated on Saturday with halos. Except the order is reversed.
“If I gave a shit about whether or not something hurts…” (The first time she ever knew Deidara, any part of him, it was teaching him to fight. The first time she ever knew Sasori, it was through Deidara, and they wasted no time in getting in a fight. So, really-) “-I wouldn’t be fucking either of you.”
. When Deidara inhales each breath, he feels his chest rise into Tayuya's breasts already pressing against him and Sasori's hairless arm against his stomach.
("Danna, do you shave your arms, yeah?" a bewildered Deidara had asked freshman year as the two were cleaning up in the bathroom after a rather messy science lab.
"No," was Sasori's short reply.
"So you naturally don't have hair on them, yeah?"
"I wax them, Deidara."
"Oh," came the delayed response. "Why?")
He slid his tongue along Tayuya's lips as they all prepare themselves for what's to come. He meets Sasori's eyes and nods to him, even as his tongue rolls across Tayuya's. He was ready
The penetration could almost be sudden, and Tayuya bucks, her moan deep throated and wanting when Sasori pushes into her. It hurts (expectedly so), like being split in half the way it had felt when she lost her virginity to her parole officer to save her own ass when she was thirteen. (But that is how it has always been. Life is a bitch, and Tayuya has felt the brunt of it since as far back as she could remember. Like the bullets she’s taken in the name of her cause. In the name of her self built religion that she has dragged so many into. (Akatsuki.)
When Deidara’s arm wraps around a thigh and buries into her, she screams, not out of pain (never out of pain, of course, of course) but out of something hot from within her that Sasori had beckoned and Deidara had- (Bang.)
(The second time Tayuya is shot, it hurts far more than the first. It leaves a scar at her side, a rugged twist of flesh and messy scar tissue so many have commented on, the How Did That Happens growing old and her inventive, sardonic stories getting more and more elaborate. The burn of her body splitting around a bullet and the heat and the blood-) Sasori’s palm grips that spot when he fucks her, Deidara’s grips the other side of her waist, and she has no words for what Is, in this. Just-
She screams in his ear, and he flinches slightly. He doesn't like to hurt her, but it's inevitable during something like this. The hand around her thigh pushes her leg out a bit more to make more room (he's always done whatever he could for her to ease her pain) and he holds onto her waist to steady her as the three of them move against each other.
Her skin is slick with sweat and he dips his head to her shoulder, licking the slight sheen from her skin. He waits for a spot in Sasori's rhythm when he'll be easiest to reach - a thrust, draw back (now) and lets go of Tayuya's waist to grab onto Sasori's, pressing Tayuya between them as he stretches over Tayuya's slight frame and runs his tongue along a small length of Sasori's shoulder.
Even covered in each other's sweat, they all taste different. He lets go of Sasori abruptly and crushes his lips against the pulse in Tayuya's neck, sucking and biting as he lets Sasori rock them both. If not for the futon, their knees would be hurting in the morning.
When he pulls away from her neck he scratches a fingernail against Sasori's side and thrusts at the same time as his friend, ready to take the lead if Sasori will let him. (If not, it doesn't matter very much at all, really. He knows now that they've come this far, a second time is more likely.)
Sasori is a monster he himself created. (He can understand why no one wants to see Him anymore. There is a silent revolution going on around himself, around his bones no longer full of marrow but something else, the poison he injects to build immunity perhaps? Or maybe the come on his chest and the blood under his nails, or, or-) And maybe. (He used to fantasize about cutting himself up. Taking himself apart, piece by piece, serving it with vodka to jumpstart a heart of a body on his own operating table. Because the bodies are always so much more entertaining when they move. People are only ragged and ovulating, male or female, because everyone is bleeding from the inside by the time he gets to see within them. By the time he splits them down the center and tears them open to find out no matter how damned beautiful, they end up full of shit like the next person. And everyone’s got a someone with heart complications, no matter how perfect they seem. A disease on the diamond.
And it’s the school that’s preventing him of being himself, in all of his unabridged insanity. He refuses to believe that the Akatsuki keeps him sane, because they are all shutting down that piece of himself that he is letting slightly through when he fucks Tayuya. Fingers running across her chest, the come on her breasts and the taste of it in her kiss, and the million other tiny remnants and reminders of what they are doing. Because Sasori is far away.)
Maybe this is why he’s here. To bring controversy and discord to the faux perfection of Deidara and Tayuya’s relationship. (But were they ever pretending? Of course not. If they had, he wouldn’t be buried into Tayuya and she wouldn’t be moaning his name in between Deidara’s. It wouldn’t be that way. It would be some other way that could make so much more sense and not seem so twisted. But all three of them are twisted. So it’s suiting, he supposes.)
Tayuya’s arms wrap around Deidara’s neck, hellish and rebelling of something unnamed, the last of her something (not virginity, but-) taken painfully by Sasori, but the harder he strokes, the more she moans, in time with Deidara, and somewhat surprised when the redhead lets up so Deidara can be the dominant. (She should feel helpless. But she doesn’t. She is a prisoner in a million other ways, perhaps solidly to her own self loathing, but not to Sasori and Deidara. And until someone takes on the visionary of a mission to make her not detest her existence, she will remain herself. But she knows she has no visionary to come take that. The vision is far too revolting.)
Deidara smells like pollution every time she’s this close to him, a scent that marks his place in a nine man revolution and distribution of self inflicted world domination. (Maybe she should just revel and bask in what she has made, for they are under her, and yet it’s all a disaster waiting to happen. And when such a beautiful catastrophe occurs, she will be there, ready to pour the pig’s blood on the prom queen and be burned to death in return, for Tayuya is ready and waiting to die. She has returned to the stable home to fix a broken antennae and tune it to the news where her destruction interrupts this broadcast, and she adores it. Being the center of awful attention. The best thing since wrestling and infesting and testing the “attention please!” in the Oshima auditorium so she can feel the tension with the bucket over her own head. Ten cents and two for a laugh, and Tayuya’s rich in her own sick amusement.) But who sent for such a god? (A nuisance.)
(“I’ve got a job for you, Deidara.”
A tit and a tat, a clock going tick tock tick and a little bit of shit here and there, people talking it and people making it, like a poetic allusion times five of people we all hit. Kicking ass and polluting airwaves and fourty year old cocks jammed into Sasori’s ass, and it’s all chaotic and erratic like techno music and old hits you can’t understand as to why they’re hits. The signal has been given, the lips have been kissed, and the new list of creative insults from the suspenseful pencil poised in an artist’s hand has been written for the record. And is Tayuya really such a topic of conversation, disgusting and yet over discussed in the circle of nine with a group who hates her as much as they love her.
Because it’d be so empty without her.)
“A-ah, god!”
Each of them has such a distinct personality that it's rather strange they can read and understand each other's cues when there is nothing signaling them. Deidara still has trouble reading Sasori every so often, but that comes more from Sasori knowing how to be unreadable (it hurts Deidara when he can't read Sasori) and making himself blank. Tayuya's like an open book, though, and always has been as long as Deidara's known her. He's somewhere in between the two, and maybe that's why they work so well together.
He slows the tempo down a notch, but thrusts harder into Tayuya, Sasori's sharp knuckles pressing into his chest (that'll leave a mark). The hand on Tayuya's thigh slides over her skin, damp with more than just sweat, and over her hip. Sasori is firm against her back, and Deidara feels each of his friend's ribs as his hand continues up Sasori's back and into his short red hair.
Faster now, again, Tayuya's heavy breath in his ear as he draws his lips across her jaw line. He bumps his head against Sasori's as he lifts his chin and take the stud-decorated lobe into his mouth. He flecks his tongue between the metal posts, ignoring the small sting that tells him he's cut himself on the pack of a post. A soft bite to a tiny spot of smooth skin and a whispered "don't hold back, yeah" as she pants.
In and out, in and out. Clench, unclench, and repeat. Synchronization between three people.
An hour later it’s over, and Sasori doesn’t have to pretend he knows how to love any further. (It is returning to comfort zone after a dangerous deviation, and so many other things unspeakable and imperfectable. To saw up and throw away bodies he thought might have been pretty, but were only a terrible little lie upon true sight. To paint a portrait that is perfect to the last and final detail, smidgeon of color and brushstrokes invisible, only to cut through the canvas in the middle of the piece. To do those things Sasori does, but to do them wrong. That is pretending to love.)
Between the futons he is distant, melancholic as he stares at the rotating fan he couldn’t feel with Tayuya and Deidara so close, staring at it through the night in his wretched insomnia until he pulls himself for a shower at six am and leaves a note goodbye. (But Tayuya and Deidara can still be beautiful. How lucky of them.)