Redemption and Legacy┃┃┃A Singed x Reader ONE SHOT
Redemption isn’t a single moment. It is the sum of choices made for those we hold dear.
A wholesome one shot about Singed x Reader. Contains themes of childbirth. And an amusing scene of Singed meeting your family :)
❤️ Enjoy ❤️
Singed had never imagined the possibility of turning a new page. For the past several decades, his life had been nothing but a downward spiral, consumed by the single desperate cause to undo the past, to reclaim what had been taken from him. The idea of starting anew never existed.
But now, he sat outside a delivery room, waiting for you to give birth to your second daughter. His hands resting on his knees, his scarred fingers twitching slightly with every muffled sound from inside.
He’d heard screams before. He’d been the reason behind screams before, more times than he could count. Agonized wails, desperate cries, pleas for mercy, each one carved into the darkest corners of his memory. But this was unlike any of that.
This wasn’t the sound of fear or suffering he had inflicted; it was you, his wife and his light, crying out in pain, and he couldn’t escape the gut-wrenching helplessness of it. It clawed at him, an unbearable weight pressing against his chest, louder than any laboratory explosion or battlefield roar.
He wasn’t the cause this time, not directly anyway, but he wasn’t the cure either, and that terrified him more than anything else.
He had been low. So low the thought of ever crawling back out never as much as crossed his mind. Dragging others into his descent had been a necessary evil, or so he told himself. Emotions were for others, for the weak. He didn’t feel. He calculated, hypothesized, and executed. That’s what it meant to be a scientist.
Until you.
He had met you on a particularly grim evening in Zaun, having a drink in a dimly lit, greasy bar with some friends of yours. He wasn’t there to revel in the fleeting comforts of alcohol but to dull the gnawing ache inside him, which, despite years of carefully bottling his emotions, sealing them away like dangerous chemicals in an unmarked flask, sometimes resurfaced, clawing its way out.
Yet, as he stared into the amber depths of his glass, a woman’s voice broke through the static.
“You look like you could use another.”
A drink, placed before him. He looked up and saw you. A woman who didn’t belong in this world. Young, vibrant, glowing with a light that felt blasphemous in the grimy, muted tones of the filthy Undercity. At first, he thought it a jest, some cruel joke among the youth you were with. But you stayed. And for reasons beyond his comprehension, he let you.
He had told himself to keep his distance, that you didn’t know what you were inviting into your life. Yet, with each passing encounter, you, a Piltover woman who saw beyond his sins and scars, pulled him closer.
You had made him want to change.
It hadn’t been easy. Decades of habits couldn’t be erased overnight. But the moment you told him you were carrying his child, everything shifted. He had looked at his hands, stained with the past, and had no other choice but to. For you. For your child.
He remembered the day you introduced him to your family. He, Singed, Zaun’s pariah, Piltover’s exile, had tailored a suit, his scars hidden beneath layers of fabric and freshly-washed bandages. Meeting your father, a man his own age, was a peculiar sort of torment. For him and your father, it was an unspoken battle of wills, and the stakes couldn’t have felt higher. And you loved them both dearly, but watching them silently stress themselves.
He remembers you just floating through the evening with an amused grin, pouring drinks, cracking jokes, and watching them both squirm, “Dad, I think you’ll like him. He knows a loooot about chemistry,” you added fuel to the fire with a grin, earning a sharp side-eye from him and an even sharper fork stab into your father’s potatoes.
He had spent the entire evening waiting for rejection, for the inevitable moment when your parents would denounce him.
And when your mother and grandmother saw him at the potluck they’d hosted to “meet the one who’d finally captured their daughter’s heart”, they nearly passed out. Their polite smiles faltered, their eyes darting over his scarred face and weathered demeanor, desperately trying to reconcile the man before them with the man they’d imagined.
But what choice did they have? He’d already given them a grandchild. Such bright and beautiful baby. And now, with another one on the way, nobody’s reservations had any room to grow. They also couldn’t deny the way you looked at him with devotion that spoke louder than any words ever could, or the way he stood by your side, as though ready to destroy anyone who so much as thought of causing you harm.
That day every glance, every word seemed laden with judgment to a tangible extend, and though he hid it well, you could see the effort it took for him to stay composed. You found it almost endearing, and surely beyond amusing, though he’d probably never forgive you for not taking it seriously.
Returning to Piltover had been surprisingly uneventful.
And yet, through it all, he found solace in fatherhood. He hadn’t expected to be good at it, but you had shown him otherwise. Your first daughter had quieted in his arms before she had even calmed in yours, her tiny fingers wrapping around his scarred ones.
That day, for the first time in decades, Singed willingly indulged himself in emotion.
The sound of a door creaking pulled him from his thoughts. A nurse stepped out, her face paling slightly as she took him in.
He stood immediately, his heart pounding so loudly the nurse could likely hear it. This stress couldn’t possibly be good for his age, he had mentally noted, though the thought was fleeting. You didn’t want to be apart from him, not now, not in your most vulnerable moment, and he would never tell you no. Not to this. Not to you.
Sweat clung to your forehead, your face strained with exhaustion, but you smiled when you saw him. “I want you here,” you whispered, your voice trembling.
He would do anything for you.
Moving to your side, Singed repositioned you gently, his knowledge of anatomy guiding his hands.
Hours passed, but he didnt waver. The tension in the room ebbed and flowed with each contraction, but he remained steady amidst the storm of pain and anticipation. When the moment finally came, he moved with precision and calm, his hands as sure as they had ever been in the laboratory, though this time they were bringing life into the world instead of unraveling it.
You’d insisted he deliver your second daughter himself, so he did, catching her tiny, wriggling form. The first sound she made was a piercing wail, her lungs announcing her arrival with ferocity. Her tiny fists flailed, her face scrunched in indignation at the cold air of the world outside the warmth of the womb. For a moment, everything else, the chaos, the exhaustion, the years of doubt, all faded away, and the room was silent save for her cries. It was a sound that filled the space with hope.
He handed her to you carefully, his breath catching as he watched you cradle her to your chest. You were exhausted, your eyes heavy with sleep, but you looked up at him and smiled.
Singed knew, with absolute certainty, that he would tear the world apart piece by piece, leave it smoldering and broken at his feet, if it meant keeping you happy. Nothing, no force would ever stand between you and the life you deserved.
Proship has never meant anything except a combination of three ideas:
Ship and let ship (your ships don't harm me and vice-versa) and YKINMK (your kink is not my kink, and that's okay; my kink stories don't harm you and vice-versa)
Harassment over fiction is not acceptable
Censorship of fiction is not acceptable either
Any other definitions are made by antis, not proshippers, and are an attempt at revisionism to justify harassment based on false claims.
Yeah.
Antis like to claim that the "pro" means "problematic", but nope. "Pro" (for) is simply the opposite of "anti" (against), and all that "proship" really means is "Let everyone ship what they want, everyone mind their own business".
some people think writers are so eloquent and good with words, but the reality is that we can sit there with our fingers on the keyboard going, “what’s the word for non-sunlight lighting? Like, fake lighting?” and for ten minutes, all our brain will supply is “unofficial”, and we know that’s not the right word, but it’s the only word we can come up with…until finally it’s like our face got smashed into a brick wall and we remember the word we want is “artificial”.
Summary: Deidara visits an old friend.
Rating: 18+, smut
Warnings: Stalking, psychological trauma/drama/abuse, violence, blood, abuse, implied dacryphilia, noncon, dubcon, panic attacks, insomnia, dark themes, darkfic
Word count: 12k
They say how you meet someone is how they leave you. But, as you swallow the thick of your terror, you realize he might have never left.
“Oh gods,” your friend gawks, inching closer to the artwork. “Is this one of yours, (Y/n)? It’s amazing! I didn’t even know you did self-portraits!”
You do not answer her. Fear wraps around your throat like a physical hand. The sculpture is, without a doubt and objectively, beautiful; its ivory color stings your eyes. It is you in art form; from the precision of your knuckles to the accuracy of your eye shape; to the planes of your calves to the curves of your waist. The depiction is uncanny.
But it does not stop you from becoming delirious with dread.
Your friend raises a head to the sculpture. “How did you do it?” she asks with admiration.
As your friend draws closer to the piece, you back away, hyper-aware of your surroundings.
“… I didn’t.”
“Hm?”
A beat. Your friend faces you, curiosity raising her brow.
“Then …” her attention returns to the piece. “Who left this for you?” Then, she gasps, delighted. “Is it a gift? Do you have a secret admirer?”
You release a shuddering exhale. It is a long while before you breathe again.
You start calling him Deidara-sensei ironically at first, no matter how true it becomes later.
You hold up the tiny clay bird for his view. “What do you think of this, Deidara-sensei?”
He always scoffs at the honorific, but you know he likes it — he enjoys being admired.
Because that’s how it started, didn’t it? You had elbowed the group of kids laughing at Deidara’s work and defended him, told him how amazing his art was and expelled the other kids, told them to get away, fuckheads. You would never forget the light birthed in his eyes at your appreciation. But why? You couldn’t have been the first to tell him this?
… Right?
Deidara glances at your little bird — the shape meant to flatter him — made from the clay he allowed you to borrow. He scoffs at that now, leaning against the little nook on the rooftop.
“It’s all right — for a beginner, anyway,” he says.
You lower your offering to him, analyze your bird, hope deflated.
“What’s wrong with it?” you ask.
Deidara’s ringed gaze lingers on the novice sculpture. You follow his gaze; you certainly can’t tell what’s wrong with it — and perhaps that’s the experiential gap between your talent and his — with its fat little physique, its folded wings, now coming to glow in the dying sunset light of day, the detail of the feathers at the fringes of aforementioned wings. It seemed perfect to you.
You look back to Deidara — only to catch him gazing at you instead of your creation.
He turns promptly, huffing. “The head and body aren’t even proportioned,” Deidara rises a second finger like he is counting down the list of your offenses. “And the whole thing would tilt over if you weren’t holding it in your palms — amateur.”
You roll your eyes, hugging your utter monstrosity to your chest. “Geez. You don’t have to be so mean about it, Dei.”
“You said you wanted my help.”
“Still, You could’ve been nicer about it …”
A pause. Deidara leans against the railing of the rooftop with a sigh.
“Look, I’m sorry, all right?” Deidara says. “It’s good and all, it just needs work. You dedicate yourself to art for long enough, you learn that everything does. There’s no such thing as the perfect piece, but it can always be better. Never forget that.”
“Okay,” You say. “Understood.”
You let your bird settle on the ground — and, sure enough, the creature dips on its side, waddling to stillness.
Deidara pauses. In retrospect, he should’ve known; his partner knows him too well, at this point, to not notice the tremble in his fingers, the rise of heat in his blood, in his veins.
When Pain greeted them that day with a new assignment, he had his share of offers, but Deidara usurped them all; Deidara was adamant to be the one to go, and their fierce leader had no objections — no one did, once there was time for consideration; the Stone Village was Deidara’s turf. No one knew it better.
He was going back to Iwakagure.
“Hm,” was all Deidara said at first, eyes and hands on the things essential for the trip. I already blew it — might as well not make him more suspicious. “It’s been a long time.”
“I would’ve thought you’d consider it a drag to go back,” Sasori says against the wall. “Scheduling a little detour while we’re there?”
“Is that any of your business?”
“No, I suppose not,” Sasori let the silence, the rhythmic drip, drip, drip, in the great cavernous space speak for him before adding, “I’ve just never seen you so … enthusiastic about our assignments. About anything really — except that damned art of yours. I wondered what was up.”
Deidara let the moment hang himself. Sasori wasn’t wrong — he was planning a detour. Several, in fact, if all went well. He narrowed his eyes at the wall as he felt Sasori’s gaze on his back.
Ah, what’s the trouble with letting him know.
“Well, You’re right, anyway,” Deidara said. “I do have something planned.”
“… Oh?”
“… Yeah,” Deidara said.
“… I wonder what?” Sasori replies in a tone that implies he very much wants detail.
Deidara raises to stand. He turned to face his partner. “There’s someone I need to see.”
When he and you first become friends, everything he makes excites you. He’s not surprised when you come to him one day, asking for him to teach you how to do the whole “art thing,” as you call it. He has to teach you everything, which is both frustrating and oddly liberating; you know nothing about depth or the right utensils to use for what or negative space when he begins teaching you.
“Am I gonna have to teach you how to use a fucking pencil, too?” he quips one day, face-palming.
“You’re such an ass sometimes, Dei,” the insult sits between giggles.
“Draw one, why don’t you — oh, that’s right —“
That earns him an elbow in the stomach.
But, as much as Deidara complains about your lack of knowledge, it is more liberating than frustrating. It is almost like returning to the beginning himself, seeing art through virgin eyes. He falls in love with art twice as he introduces it to you.
As he falls in love with you.
His sessions with you are private, sacred. While you’re scribbling, following his aid with your pencil or the bareness of your hands, he studies you — he’s given an excuse to do so. He sees the intensity in your gaze as you shade or trace or highlight. The way your jaw works when you hit a snag, the way your fingers steady the paper or pinch or twist clay to accentuate detail, to create some kind of flair. You never even seem to notice how close he stands or sits or leans toward you. Sometimes he plays a game with himself: how close before you notice? Before you feel his breath on your skin. He’s ashamed to admit how much it turns him on to see it; someone who is as passionate as him at the very thing he loves most.
He’s struck by how beautiful you are. Art seeks art.
He appreciates it. He appreciates you. But he doesn’t tell you.
You become the highlight of his day, but he doesn't tell you that, either. Instead, he sends you back to the literal and figurative drawing board with more complaints, more "constructive criticism" so you'll seek the perfection he tells you doesn’t exist, so you’ll hunger for more.
Hunger for him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You know Deidara will come. It is only a matter of when.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”
You lower your tea cup, face the concern in your friend’s eyes.
“It’s nothing, just … just nightmares again.”
“So that’s it,” your friend says, hand gingerly caressing your back. “You definitely don’t look like you’ve been getting any sleep.”
No, you haven’t. What little sleep you’ve gotten constitutes simple cat naps, and always you wake, expecting to see Deidara standing over you, incubused around you …
You flinch away from the thought’s touch.
“(Y/n) …” your friend coos.
“I’ll be fine,” You assure, smiling faintly. “Just like all those other times, I promise. You know how they come and go.”
This is not your first rodeo; everyone who knows you with the slightest intimacy knows about your tendency to have nightmares. You have a lot to fear, but you have never shared Deidara with anyone. Your … friendship, apprenticeship. Too much guilt hangs on his name.
And it would link you to his victims.
I couldn’t stop him, you reassure yourself, to no avail. You massage your temples. No matter what.
The drawing was meant to antagonize you. I’m watching you and I can do what I want.
If he so much as lays a finger on my kids, you glare at the thought.
“Where do you think they come from?” your friend asks, eyes concerned. “Your nightmares?”
From Deidara, you so wanted to say — long had it been since you called him Dei. The nickname was dead, turned to dust on your tongue ages ago, and from the very big debt I owe.
“Well,” your friend stands, “I’m not going to let you suffer like this. Let’s go out, get you something to help you sleep.”
You comply, but the last thing you want is something to help you sleep. Sleep itself was hard enough, but the idea of aided sleep, where anything — anyone — could occupy your physical space without your knowledge, was a horrifying prospect.
The mountains nestling Iwakagure cast long afternoon shadows over the stony structures. The streets are thick with people and heat. The swarm is wild and disorienting; you hold tighter to your friend’s hand, fearful you may lose yourself at sea.
This village is a fucking hole in the ground, (Y/n), Deidara’s words rise up in your mind like smog. And its people are the fucking moles.
Why did you hate them so much, your eyebrows furrow. And what was so special about me?
“Here we are~” your friend sings, twirls in front of the corner store.
You manage a small smile as she goes in, an airless laugh as she pulls you with her.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sasori’s laugh is a deep, rich cackle. Loud and heavy, like the puppet he lumbers around, and for a second Deidara believes he was mistaken and accidentally brought the fucking fishman in his place —
Deidara’s eyebrow twitches. If he didn’t respect his partner so much, he would have obliterated him by now. Instead, Deidara swings his head toward the patio doorway where Sasori’s puppet sags.
“You followed me.”
“I followed you,” Sasori’s voice still tinges with amusement. “Curiosity got the better of me; I just had to see what this little detour was all about.”
“And now?”
“I can’t believe it,” Sasori says. “For a second there, I thought you might’ve had a lead you didn’t want to share. But now … hehhehe —“
Deidara scowls. He can’t have Sasori up here making such a raucous. The streets are thick, gross with people, but he can spot you anywhere; his eyes follow you as you turn with your friend toward the corner store.
“So, is she an old sweetheart of yours?” Sasori continues.
“… Yeah, something like that.” He lets Sasori think it because it is what he likes to think.
Sweetheart.
Even from here, he detects the bags under your eyes. You haven’t been sleeping, your gait unhurried and abetted by the compelling of your friend.
You’re every bit as beautiful as the last time he saw you.
But, he has to admit, there’s something even more beautiful about you losing sleep over him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Hello~” she sings again, this time at the cashier who waves her down.
You’re startled by the stark contrast between the heated streets and the cool, refreshing store air. Rows of snacks form aisles; you feel your stomach roar.
“Heard that,” your friend winks. “I’ll get something for you, go grab somethin’ to eat.”
She releases you and you drift away.
“Hello? Do you have any sleeping pills or something …?”
You walk the chip aisle, scan the options. You see extra salty potato chips, your eyes widen —
Those are disgusting, Deidara says.
They are absolutely not disgusting, you say, practically throwing a chip in your mouth. They’re delicious!
Maybe to you, Deidara’s gaze lingers.
You charge away from the aisle, near the sweet snacks.
The world whirls around you, makes a mockery of your vision as you fight for air. You kneel to the floor, hands trembling to hold the shelf opposite you.
How was it you never noticed how he looked at you? How long had he — or had he always —?
Had you led him on? Were you the reason he killed people —?
Thoughts hurry up your arms and legs. They spider through the cracks of your fragile mind, intrusive and gross. You gasp for air, call out to your friend with hitched breaths.
Your heart trounces in your chest, frighteningly alive.
I’m going to die …!
“(Y/n)!” your friend’s voice travels through several depths of water.
Hands on you — you jerk. Reality becomes a jumble of clips. Grainy. Undefined. The chilled corner store floor, the cashier, ruffling of paper bags, the crowded streets …
You struggle to breathe throughout it all. Your vision tunnels, Deidara’s face at its center.
Deidara watches from his dingy apartment-turned-hiding place. Your friend ushers you out of the store. He can hear your sobs from where he stands. You’re crying.
Fucking crying.
He smiles.
He shouldn’t get this much pleasure from seeing you pant and sob in your friend’s arms, but he does. He shouldn’t feel his cock twitch at the cries his trained ears pick up — even in the dense summer crowd — but he can’t help himself.
He shouldn’t even be here at all, risking his plan just to get a glimpse of you, but he is glad of his lack of restraint.
You say (in a moment of vulnerability, Deidara guesses) it’s only because you have such a good teacher — and he doesn’t argue, but he also doesn’t tell you how his heart flips at being the one to coax the genius out of you.
There’s so much he doesn’t tell you.
You frustrate and fluster him, frighten Deidara in the places he refuses to go.
Deidara knows you’re naturally gifted; the talent inherent within you will carry you wherever you wish to go, just like the birds you carve for his approval. He also knows he has nothing to offer you save his knowledge.
You won’t need him for much longer.
He lets you share his apartment and his art room — one you’ve presumptuously banned him from until you’re done with your current piece, and Deidara has just enough artistic integrity not to peak, not to disturb you while in the act. He’s tickled by your determination. On the last day of its construction, you take his couch. In the midst of night for many nights, he hears you tiptoe in and out of the art room, working all hours decent and not. He doesn’t tell you how much he loves it, to hear you accompany his space in such an intimate way, how your passion carries you into his special room, how what’s his is yours and what’s yours is his.
Once it’s done, he forces you to get your rest — insists he will take the couch and you take his bed, and you’re actually too tired to argue. You don’t even grow suspicious of his intentions, so he doesn’t even have to overthink about how he wants to be able to smell you on his sheets, feel the ghost of your body heat against the mattress.
Now, you remove the sheet from the sculpture, baring it to the world of only him and you.
“So, what do you think?” you ask him, earnest as always.
This time, it’s not a cute little thing that can fit in your lap or in his hands — it’s a giant sculpture, once again of a bird. You have depicted it mid-soar, its wings spread about its body as opposed to cuddled into its side.
You step away to give the piece space to breathe. You turn to him, gouging his reaction.
“So?” your voice is high with hope.
Deidara forces his face into neutrality. His eyes travel down the sculpture. He takes in every feature, every purposeful blemish and meaningful dip of the clay, once again borrowed from his stash to give your creativity its breadth.
It’s beautiful.
But he can’t tell you that. He can’t.
Beautiful, Deidara works his jaw, resisting the thought, just like you.
He scans the bird a few seconds more, eager for a flaw to reveal itself. Finally, he turns to you, eyebrows furrowed. “Why a bird?”
You perk. “Huh?” you say, clearly thrown by his inquiry.
“It’s always birds with you.” Deidara clarified. “They’ve always been my thing; why do you like them so much?”
C’mon, he thinks achingly. Give me a reason — anything, anything.
You shrug. “I don’t know — I just think they’re pretty, is all. They have … a very inspiring shape that makes me want to work with again and again.” You look to him, and your expression is so innocent, shy even, he has to swallow his fondness for you. “And … they remind me of you. You understand, right?”
Warmth spreads throughout him. His gaze locks onto yours; you’re just so kissable at that moment. He clenches his fists, resisting the urge to grab you and make you his.
Two orphans, brought together by a hobby — no, a passion. But, ultimately, you could go on; he had found a home in you, but your home could be anywhere. What did he have, if you were called away?
All the more reason why I have to tell her no. If she knows how good she is, she’ll leave.
His gaze lingers on you before returning to your piece. “Yeah, I do.”
A beat passes. Your enthusiasm is punctured. Your shoulders depress, your face falling.
“You don’t like it.”
Another beat.
“No, I don’t.” Deidara says. “You’ll never get anywhere copying somebody else, (Y/n).”
“I know,” You say hurriedly, as though you knew it was something he could say. “But — but the actual sculpture is okay, right?”
He closes his eyes, pinches the space between his eyebrows. Your desperation thrills him, but he disguises it in feigned exhaustion, shudders a sigh. I got her. “No, it’s not all right, (Y/n). It doesn’t matter how nice it is if you’re just imitating. Imitation is flattering, okay? But it’s all anyone’s gonna see if you don’t stop.”
Deidara savors the disappointment in your expression, despite your acquiescence. “I get it, yeah, you’re right. I don’t want anyone thinking … I understand.”
He begins to walk away. “Do it again, something different this time. And another thing — we need to work on your dimensions. It’s obviously supposed to be in the third but parts of it look like it’s in the second. Seems like I have way more to teach you.”
You feign normalcy as much as you’re able to your friend and sleep at her house, leaving your own. Does he know where you live yet? It’s only a matter of time.
When you brave the trip home, you close all the curtains, but you know it won’t help.
You also lock — double, triple lock — the doors, but you know it’s also futile; Deidara is a shinobi, a rogue one, at that. You’re a civilian. The full extent of his powers are completely unknown to you.
And, you know no one will believe you.
You’re the zany art lady who sees shapes in the shadows and ghostly voices down hallways. All the children you grew up with who knew Deidara — not knew-knew Deidara, but knew of him — had married away or ventured far from the village of stone. No one could vouch for you. You were alone.
The only place you didn’t fear Deidara appearing was the art studio — ironically. There were so many beautiful pieces in there, some made by your students, some by your own hand. Would he risk destroying all these, just to get to you? Plus, would he want to make a scene? You had only the memory of Deidara’s view of art as sacred, never sacrificial.
His sociopathy frightened you most, but … something told you he cared little for an audience; nothing could shame him, that wasn’t it. If you knew anything about him at this point, it was that he wanted you alone.
So you go on teaching and laughing, feigning normalcy as much as you’re able. Your students, their bright smiles and inspired souls work to calm your own from the horrors that seeks to unmoor you.
“Hey, (Y/n)-sensei?” one of your students, a pretty petite blonde, approaches you after class.
“Hm?” you speak through giggles — despite the paranoia you feel, it’s been a good day; one of your funniest male students managed to both master a technique and make you laugh, and he and his friends are entertaining you from your desk. Truth be told, you’re not much older than the pupils you instruct — perhaps a good three years apart at the oldest — but you see them as so much smaller than you. “What is it, sweetheart?”
She hands you a piece of yellowing paper. “Someone told me to give this to you.”
Your eyebrows crinkle as you take the paper, unfold it.
The hand returns to your throat, clenching.
It is a drawing of a pretty ivory bird, with a fat little body and wings tucked at its side. Beautiful detail of its feathers at the fringes.
And at the paper’s bottom, mingling with the aged yellow, one word:
flattered.
“Do we have a new student coming to class? Or already here?” your blonde student asks, oblivious and arm akimbo. “Like, I know I skip a lot of classes — like, a lot — but I swear I’ve never seen him here before.”
You feign normalcy as much as your able, which is not much.
“Mh,” You swallow, smile up at her through the terror. “W — what did this person look like?”
She averts your eyes, a blush tints her cheeks. “Oh, Just some blonde guy. Well, I shouldn’t say that — after all, he was gorgeous.”
Mole, you remember, taking a swig from your liquor bottle. He’s made me a mole, just like the others. I’m even living in total darkness now.
With the lights off and the curtains closed and enclosing you in the sweltering Iwakagure heat, you feel as though you have returned to the womb. But if this must be, it must be; you will not put your friend in danger. You will not put your students in danger.
A part of you wonders, however … Maybe you could say something. There were no civilians to remember Deidara, but surely the shinobi did. How could they not? Deidara, domestic terrorist. How many had his explosions killed? How many lives lost to the euphoria of his passion? And now he was back in the village, ready to cause more havoc?
But, to tell them about Deidara, you would have to explain what he wants with you. Why would the rogue ninja choose to stalk a simple art teacher such as yourself?
How, exactly, are you involved with him?
Fuck.
You know, in your heart, this is what he wants: to torture you, to make you seek him out. But … a part of you wants to seek him out. You yearn for closure of some kind.
Even if it kills you.
Especially then. The guilt of being inflaming Deidara’s ire and inspiring his explosive tirades across the village gnaws at you always, never letting up.
Your resolve becomes as hard as the stone walls surrounding you and you shoot out of bed. If he kills me, he kills me. You snatch the sleeping pills, untouched since your trip to the store, and shove them in your bag, dress, and head out the door.
The bruised purple of the sky alerts you to imminent nightfall. You open the door tentatively; the art studio is quiet, ghostly. Abandoned art projects, all in various stages of construction, scatter the room, watch you as you ease in.
You slump into your teacher’s chair with a contented sigh, relish in the silence. You retrieve the pills.
The likelihood of anyone disturbing you was minimal, and, despite your previous premonitions about Deidara not daring tread this place, you hope your presence changes his mind. Surely, he scans the streets for you. Surely, he’s already seen you walk here.
You count on it.
You tilt your head, slip the pill through your mouth and swallow. You lean into the chair.
If he wants me, he can come get me. I’m not running anymore.
The room and its pieces reduce to a colored haze. Your lids droop. Your head lulls and, at last, the drugs pull you into nightmareless sleep.
You trust Deidara, more than you could ever trust yourself.
He’s vespine and ephemeral and mean, but he also protects you as though you were his own flesh. He’s always there, sharing food and washing your battered, paint-stained hands. Even as he berates and diminishes your talent, his concern glares like the sun. Maybe you saved him, all those years ago, from the group of kids hounding him. Weird blond kid. He saves you just as much every day.
You cannot imagine a reality without him. There is none.
When he tells you about his desire to become a ninja, it doesn’t surprise you; his nonchalance toward violence makes him, you think, perfect for the job. Meanwhile, you flinch so easily. It’s admirable, it’s a quality you wish you possessed.
But …
But it also frightens you, how little concern he shows for anyone who is not you. You’re scared — but not necessarily of him hurting you.
“Stop!” you squeak. “Get off me!”
Hands fondle your crawling skin. You wrestle but begin to wither; you’ve never been touched this way before.
“Calm down,” your attacker hisses in your ear. “Just a little, c’mon, don’t be a bitch —“
It is just the wall on one side and your attacker on the other. Panic pumps your blood, sends your heartbeat in your ears. No, no no. You’ve heard it before — the rapid footsteps, young girls screaming in the dark — but you had always thought you wouldn’t …
Wouldn’t …
Your attacker screams; his hands are ripped from you. Your eyes dart to the sudden new action.
Deidara is there, thrusting the guy to the ground, standing over him.
You hurry away from the wall, breath catching in your lungs. Your chest heaves but you cannot seem to get enough or any oxygen.
Your attacker props on an elbow, glares.
“Hey, what the —“
Deidara stomps his mouth in with his foot. You gasp at the unforgiving craack of impact, the way the guy clutches his bleeding mouth in pain. A white shim falls between the gaps of his finger. A tooth.
There’ll be more where that came from, you’re sure.
“Dei —“ You start.
Deidara faces you and again you step away.
“What did I tell you?” he says. “What I tell you about going out after dark?”
His anger catches you by surprise. Your eyes flicker to your attacker, who is now Deidara’s victim — Deidara’s foot is planted on the guy’s head, never letting up.
“You’ve gotta find a hobby besides being a dumbass, (Y/n)! What if I wasn’t here —“
The guy groans, catching Deidara’s attention. Deidara rears, anger shifting from you to his new victim.
“You got something to say?”
Stomp.
“The fuck you think you’re talking to?”
Stomp.
“Think you can come after her?”
Stomp.
Stomp. Stomp.
“Deidara!” You shout. “Deidara, stop, you’re going to —!”
But Deidara’s deaf to his bloodlust; his foot falls on the guy’s face again and again, again and again. You watch as his face bloodies, turns to slick pulp with each blunt hit.
You draw away as Deidara relishes in the blood. You retreat against the alleyway wall and slick against it.
Finally, it stops. Deidara kneels before his fresh kill as the blood leaks from the guy’s head. He is — was — probably only a bit older than the two of you. The trauma disorients your sense of time. You do not know how long the scene lasts, but suddenly you blink and there is a long scarlet stream that leads to your shoe.
You have never seen a dead person.
Deidara notices the small river. He leans forward, swipes some of the blood up with his finger.
“Gods, Dei …” You breathe out. “You didn’t — you didn’t have to —“
“Save it,” Deidara bites. He rises, fingers manicured with blood. “Don’t waste your breath.”
“But —“
“He was street trash,” Deidara reaffirms, gaze hard on you. “He tried to hurt you, think I’d stand for that? Besides …” Deidara’s gaze trails back to the body. The corpse. He will be cold in a few hours, you realize. Cold even though the night is warm. “Remember what I told you?”
You are silent as Deidara draws shapes in the ground with his new paint. Weak streaks of blood stain the rocky floor.
“Anything can be art,” Deidara says with a smile, dead body forgotten. “And art can be made from anything. Even trash like this. Remember that.”
You do not know what to say, so you comply. “Ye — yes.”
He did it to protect me. He wouldn’t ever let anything happen to you. Not ever.
But …
Deidara rises after a few seconds with a sigh. “Now, let’s search his pockets. I meant to tell you, we’re running low on money.”
Reality totters before your eyes. You blink against the strange sound busying your right ear. You allow your head to lull to its source — and freeze.
You are another sculpture, motionless and tight, as the figure by the window tosses a kunai in the air, it landing perfectly in their hand each and every time, garbed and obscured in a black cloak patterned with scarlet clouds.
You straighten in the chair, swallowing dry.
“Deidara,” You warn.
Deidara turns his head, admires the way the moon’s light grazes the metal of the weapon.
“You know what I notice, being back after so long?” Deidara begins, enamored still with the kunai. “So many peasants … They’re fucking everywhere. If this is how they treat the adults, I can’t imagine how the orphans are doing, the street trash.” Finally, he looks to you. “Tell me, is it just as bad as when we were kids?”
Silence.
The smile he gives you is from long, long ago. A familiar quirk on a monster’s face.
It’s not him. He hasn’t been him for a long time.
“Uh,” Deidara leans, expectant. “Hello? Am I talking to myself here?”
He insists on playing coy; you’re even more disgusted than you thought possible.
“What do you want with me?”
Deidara waves his hand with a ‘duh’ expression. “I came to say hello to my old student. What? Is it a crime to miss you, hn?”
“No,” Your tone is stony. “But it is a crime to fucking blow up people.” You retort, “and kill them because you like the way your explosions color the sky orange. Bastard.”
This does not faze him; your fire is what he expects, after all. “Because I missed you,” his voice is low, eyes locking on yours. “I miss that passion. Remember the way you used to follow me around like a fucking lost puppy? I guess that’s what we were, huh? Lost.”
You’re expressionless. You remain where you are, simply because you do not want him to think you fear him — and in that moment, you don’t. For some reason, his appearance zaps the fear from you and replaces it with something else, something sharper. You retrieve sketches left on your desk and place them in a drawer, just to busy your hands.
“You want me, is that it?”
Deidara ticks the kunai against his face. “Is that a rhetorical question?”
“When have I ever not been forward with you, Dei.”
You hear him chuckle and, again, it reminds you of better times — of wrestling with him on the couch, sharing the most intimate of inside jokes, watching suns recline into the horizon. Life has become a funny mirror.
“I’ve always wanted you,” Deidara answers. “Did you like the drawing?”
“It was sick. Just like you.”
Deidara feigns a wince. “Ouch, that hurt. But,” he laughs. “I can’t believe I’m asking you for approval now — guess the tables really have turned.”
“You know,” You begin coolly, “it’s not every day a domestic terrorist comes strolling back into the village.”
He doesn’t like that; his eyebrows twitch — a blink and it is gone.
“They must be looking for you.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Deidara spits. “Think a bunch of village anbu are gonna make me start shaking in my boots?”
You kick yourself inside. You suspected as much, but it was worth a try.
“But, hey,” Deidara continues. “Let anybody try to intrude on my visit with you. I’ll blow them to pieces. Speaking of which …”
Deidara’s mood changes as he leaps from the windowsill, sheds his cloak. The darkened skin of his arms catch your eyes. They are patched at the elbow.
“The fuck happened to your arms —“
“Nevermind that,” he hurries. He steps down the stairs of the auditorium, glares to you. “You didn’t open your mouth about me to anyone, did you? Better not have — this is about me and you.”
The edges of your lips tick. “I thought you weren’t scared, Dei —“
“Hey!” Deidara’s voice echoes off the high ceilings of the auditorium. “Think this is funny? It’s not. This is about you and me, and what we have. No one else!”
“Fuck!” You shoot up, your voice cracking. “Fucking hell, Deidara, I know what this is about, okay? This is you not getting what you wanted from me years ago. I get it, okay? Just take what you want and FUCK OFF!”
You blink and he is there, his face inches away from yours. You gasp, lean away — but his hand grips your wrist. He advances, leaving you no choice but to back into the chalkboard behind your desk.
“You mean that, don’t you?” Deidara’s voice is barely audible now. “Don’t be coy ...”
You wrench away but Deidara is stronger, yanking you back in place.
“I’m not,” You insist. “Let’s just get this over with.”
You refuse to face him. You feel him read your face.
“I love you,” he says, grip painfully tight. “I always have.”
You resist the urge to spit in his face. “You don’t know what love is, Deidara.”
“How could you say that?”
You push him away.
“I rejected you,” You press. “I rejected you and you got mad and blew up shit.”
“So?” Deidara says. “I kissed you and you disappeared! I didn’t know what to do with myself! All I had was my art to comfort me!”
You laugh from sheer disbelief. “You can’t even hear yourself — how psychotic you sound. You’re willing to destroy and hurt people in the name of art,” You hissed. “It’s obsession and it’s gross.”
You conceal a whimper as he yanks your arm again; his grip is bruising.
“Love is the greatest form of art, (Y/n),” Deidara says. “How dense can you be? Love is — it’s meant to be an explosion! It could only be my love for art — my love for you — that inspires me to go on to design such displays of affection. This?” he shoves his hand to his chest, “it’s love.”
“It’s arson.”
“It’s a lot of things,” Deidara advances. His hold mercifies as he soaks you in. “Gods, the things you inspire in me.”
You recoil from his breath, his attempt at caressing your cheek.
“My perfect student. My eternal muse.”
The gentleness in his voice causes you to release the whimper you held. You grimace, eyes stinging. There was once a time when you would have been elated to hear him praise you, to see your worth. Now, it sickens you.
“It can never be the way it was,” You tell him, resist the pang of sadness in your gut. “I don’t think there ever was ‘the way it was.’ We’re not friends anymore.”
His breath clips with desperation.
“That’s not true — I could go into hiding; I could take you with me.”
You scoff. He’s totally gone. “Okay, Deidara. Let’s imagine —“
“Yes, let’s.”
“You have me,” You continue, tone harsh, “then what, Deidara? Am I supposed to follow you to … only the gods know where? You’re a fucking criminal. You’re wanted everywhere — you think I want to be affiliated with you in any way? I’d rather have you kill me right now and never breathe again than go anywhere with you.”
Once again, Deidara’s demeanor shifts; he glares. “Fine. Then I want you admit it.”
“Admit what?”
His eyes narrow.
“That I created you. That everything you have — this,” he gestures around the auditorium. “— is because of me.”
You scoff, look to him, utter disbelieving. “Is that really what you think? Is that honest what you believe?”
“That you were my greatest masterpiece?” Deidara says. “Yes.”
You flinch as Deidara flexes his thumb over your lips.
“I want you, and I want to be wanted by you,” Deidara says softly, mesmerized. “That’s what I’ve always wanted … that was what I wanted that night.” His breath is hot on your skin as his voice dips to an even more intimate timber. “Do you remember? That last night …?”
You remember. As much as you wish you didn’t — as much as you don’t want to … gods, you remember.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Dei. Dei, wake up!”
His arm visors his vision. Deidara removes it, cracks an eye open.
“What is it?”
You are there, body dangling on the couch’s arm, tilting backward and forward like a drinking bird. Your smile rivals the morning sun and wins.
“It’s done!” You enthuse. “It’s finally done — you’ve gotta come see.”
Deidara groans, rising off the couch halfheartedly. He never was a morning person — you should know that by now.
“See what, brat?”
“My art, what do you think?”
You giggle as you raise from the couch. He watches you bounce and your passion wanes some of his irritation.
“All right, fine, I’m coming.”
You leap, clapping.
“Fucking hell, are you on something?” Deidara annoyance mingles with a chuckle. “Or are just a fucking five-year old?”
You ignore him, taking his hand and pulling him. “Come on,”
He allows you to lead him to the storage room, uses his other hand to wipe the sleep from his eyes as he stumbles past the threshold with you.
You let go, to find the lights probably; they’re off, thank the gods, and the room is dim. Deidara shuts his eyes, ready to open them once he detects the glow behind his eyelids.
He hears you pull a lamp chain down.
“You can look now.”
Deidara “hmphs,” opens his eyes.
And widens them.
Before him are two life-sized figurines, one that looks exactly like him, the other exactly like you.
“Tada!”
The significance of the figures don’t strike Deidara for a few seconds, then lightning bolts him in the chest. The figures are verbatim replica of a photograph the two of you had taken; your figure’s arm is wrapped around the neck of Deidara’s, two cheeky smiles blazing into a non-existent camera.
He scans the two figures with his eyes, determined for a flaw. There are none. Every line, every graze, it’s all the same. Even your legs — though the photograph hadn’t pictured it — are crossed against each other, the exact pose you had taken seconds before the camera blazed white in two sets of eyes.
It’s perfect.
He … he hasn’t even thought of doing something like this.
“So?” You wait on him, expectant, “do you love it?”
Deidara examines the pieces for a few seconds more. There’s something intimate in the way your figure holds to his, the perfect rendition of skin on skin. How had you managed to remember so vividly? He feels a blush coming on. She’s sending me a message …
“I thought about what you said,” You began. “About being more original. I’ve never done human pieces before, so this was a big challenge … but it was a lot of fun, too. An artist should always accept a challenge, isn’t that right, Deidara?”
“Ri … right,” he trails stupidly.
There is a pause. Deidara finally tears his gaze away from your work and toward you. Your enthusiasm is gone.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, roll your eyes. “What did I do this time?”
Deidara’s eyes dart to and fro. “Nothing.”
Your shoulder fall. “Wait … Nothing?”
“Yeah, nothing,” Deidara says.
“Then why are you looking like that?” You say. “Stop looking ‘round like that — gods, I thought I was the one meant to be on something.”
“I … I just don’t like it.”
“What?”
“Do it again.”
“What?” Your confusion tumbles into laughter. “Like is … It’s subjective, Dei. Be specific.”
“I …”
“What?”
“I just …”
“Okay, now you’re scaring me. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I just don’t like it, okay?” Deidara shouts, waving an arm at you. You startle. “Your work is always so … so needlessly melodramatic. Why — why are so you fucking sentimental about everything? It’s so tiring! First the shitty birds, now this? You need to get a grip!”
“What are you talking about?” You challenge him. He backs away. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked, everything you’ve advised! What’s …”
You trail off and it allows Deidara to retreat into his head.
“Are you … are you jealous?”
He can’t hear you anymore; his thoughts drag him under.
She loves me. She wants me. This is what this is about — what this has always been about.
You laugh at him, sickened. “That’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it?” you press a hand to your head. “The pupil surpasses the teacher, and you can’t handle it. That’s why your complaints have gotten more and more ridiculous. You can’t handle the fact that one day I may better than you!”
She doesn’t even know it yet. It’s all in the subconscious.
“You know what?” he hears the tears in your voice, looks up to see how the lamp’s light heavens down on you. “Fuck you, Dei!”
She’s so beautiful.
“I don’t need you!”
She wants me.
You rear on him, inches away from his face.
“I’m never taking your advice again!”
And I want her, too.
And Deidara smooths his lips to yours.
You are lost. Your body is frozen. You hum despite yourself and all it does is encourage Deidara further. Deidara doesn’t wait; he cups your cheek, pulling you gently toward him.
“(Y/n),” he breathes your name down on you.
As you pull away his hand travels from cheek to neck just in time to keep you hooked to him.
“Mm! N — n — o!”
You pull from him, hurry away from him. Deidara’s eyes open wide, his gaze following your scurry.
You press yourself to the wall, chest heaving.
“I …” Deidara’s voice lives and dies. “I … I thought …” He is mesmerized by his hand. He clenches and unclenches it, as though he cannot understand how you are no longer there.
You say nothing. Silence bridges the gap between the two of you. At last, you part your lips to speak; the ghost of Deidara’s lips shadow yours.
“I’m — I’m sorry, Dei, I …” You say as you begin to recover. “… I don’t feel … I don’t feel that way.”
You apologize again and again, but you don’t know who to or what for — because this isn’t Deidara. You don’t know who has slipped into his skin, who has just kissed you. The Deidara you know, who has sheltered you, mentored you, chastised you endlessly, cannot be the same one who has just kissed you so desperately.
And it was your first.
But as Deidara rises his head to fix you with his beautifully rimmed gaze, reality sits inside you, refusing to move.
It’s him.
Did I ever really know him?
The two thoughts triple with a third, one even more dangerous.
Why didn’t you ever say anything?
But you don’t say it. You don’t dare say it — because Deidara’s stare changes, hardens. You freeze as he moves in a swift move and charges to you —
You brace yourself, breath sharp —
But Deidara passes you. You follow his back as he storms down the hallway.
“Dei, stop …”
He stops only to fit into the nearest pair of shoes, then heads to the nearest window.
“Dei, c’mon …”
“Forget it,” his growl fails to conceal the hurt. “Just …”
He doesn’t finish. He leaps to the windowsill.
“Wait, Deidara —!”
He whirls on you, eyes wild.
“They’re beautiful, all right?” Deidara shouts.
You pause again, blinking surprise from your eyes.
“Your work is always beautiful, okay?” he says. His gaze lowers to the floor, pained. “You don’t need me to say tell you that.”
Deidara leaps from the window, parkouring from roof to roof until he’s out of your sights.
You watch his departure long after he is gone. You don’t know how long you stay there, tracing the ghostly dirt tracks of his shoes left on the windowsill.
You had gotten your approval, your approval from him, but at what cost?
Deidara doesn’t return. Not the next day or the next or the next.
Everything startles you, from creaking doors to the rumbling feet of downstairs neighbors. Everything sounds like Deidara come back to … you don’t know what.
But it is never him. Worries storm your thoughts — is he okay? Where is he? Is he coming back? When? How? In what condition? Food becomes impossible to keep down so you allow yourself to run out of it. Soon both the lack of sustenance and the thought of it send you reeling over the toilet, retching until you lack the strength to lean away.
You check yourself into the hospital. It is all you can think to do.
The doctors cannot find what is wrong with you and you do not tell them.
“Nerves, it seems …” your doctor says absentmindedly one day, looking over your sheet. “Coupled with loss of nutrients. How many days has she been like this?”
“I’d figure about a week, not counting the days she’s spent before coming here,” says a nurse. Though their voices are kept low, the door is adjacent and you catch every word. “She won’t speak to anyone.”
“Do you think she’s …” your doctor’s words teter off. “You know …?”
“I didn’t find any fluids on her that weren’t her own.”
“I’m not a fucking prostitute,” You hiss quietly, before turning over and falling back into sleep.
Sleep full of paint like blood, blood paint — no, blood. Sculptures and oils, sketches and the sound of paper tearing. And Dei. The ink black of his shoes on the windowsill. Dei. Dei’s hands and his ringed eyes. Dei’s lips falling on yours. Dei Dei Dei.
When you wake, reality feels like a dream, too.
The next week is a blur of feeding tubes and blood tests, nurses and doctors wraithing in and out of your vision. Things only grow clearer as you nutrition improves. Your mind remains the same, however.
When you are well enough to walk unaided, you wander. The hospital is labyrinthine and crowded with the injured and dying and sick. Your guilt compounds; someone else could use the bed space you currently occupy, yet you laze about, desperate to escape, the hospital a fort you use to hide from Dei.
Dei.
“Are you sure you want to leave?” one of the nurses says one day, concern dipping her eyebrows.
She’s sweet. It’s been a long time since anyone has cared for your wellbeing — well, except …
You offer her an eye-closed smile. “It’s fine. And yes, I’m sure. It’s about time I step out into the wild again.”
A second nurse behind the counter holds her arm akimbo, suspicious. “Are you ever going to tell us what brought you here? I mean … you were in dire straits when you came to us. You never explained.”
You understand; to her — to everyone — you’re just a girl with no name, no past or present, who checked herself in from nowhere and is now out to disappear again.
You wish to throw them a bone, so you attempt to be as vague as possible.
“Guy trouble,” You say.
“Ohhh,” the nurses sing in unison.
It is hilarious, how quickly they catch your meaning. You gather your things — and by things, you mean the clothes you had worn on your back when you had checked in — shed your patient gown, dress and bid your goodbyes.
“Just … be careful okay,” one of the nurses say.
It won’t be long before you catch her meaning.
The air outside is fresh and it takes you a moment to adjust to it all; the air, the sun, the bustle of people.
You look around; the familiar stone architecture of Iwakagure enclose you in like a mother’s hug. Your gaze lifts, toward one of the bigger buildings ahead —
Your breath stops.
An entire section of a tower is gone — chewed out and blackened. It is a building you have passed many times over, hardly recognizable in its current state. Workers climb the infrastructure like ants to repair it, but are swallowed by the tower’s giant gap.
You ask around, ignorant and hurried for answers. It doesn’t take long for you to piece together what has happened since your hospital recess.
Someone has been supplying terrorist groups with explosives.
You don’t go back Dei’s apartment; you don’t make it that far.
You are too distracted by the wanted posts plastered everywhere.
There just always was money. For food, for the apartment, for art supplies. Somehow. Some way.
In only a matter of years, Deidara’s artistic acumen had become widely acknowledged; his art was exquisite, the envy of all the underground art groups that huddled in the dark of Iwakagure. When he had made enough to rent out a personal studio for himself and supplant it with painstakingly-detailed sculptures towering like gods, you didn’t ask.
You had always just assumed he sold his art — and turns out he had.
It was … just not all he sold.
Deidara’s a genius. Way smarter than you. He found a way.
Explosive clay, bombs, torques — all of them found in bulk in his apartment, a small supply found in the studio also.
He is so close now; he smells like you remember; wet clay and fire.
“You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” Deidara says this and nothing more.
Now, in the auditorium, you want to scream. You wish to repel so successfully away from him you cease to be. You eye his kunai abandoned on a the windowsill and dream of using it to open your throat.
None of your dreams come true.
Instead, Deidara touches his lips to yours.
It is nothing like the dire, fevered kiss he bestowed on you all those nights gone passed; you’re surprised with its tenderness, with his gentleness. He kicks your chair way to afford him more room. His arm rides the curve of your back and once a hand presses into your spine, he secures you to him.
“Mm,” You pause, try to pull his arm away — only to step farther into him as he yanks you. “Stop.”
Deidara peppers kisses against your jaw, lowers to your neck. “No.”
You grunt and twist, flail out your arm for help, but Deidara presses himself into you, planting you to the durity of your chalkboard.
“Deidara —“ You emit a pained hiss as you struggle, “Ah, Stop —!”
He grips your chin, forces your gaze to him.
“Hey,” he says. “I thought we had an understanding, hn?”
You stare into the blue pastel of his eyes, shudder in his grip.
I thought I could let you have your way. I can’t. I can’t with you.
“Just —“ You continue your struggle, “just let go — ah! Stop!”
“Shut up —“
He forces a kiss on you and you squeal into his mouth, wrestling for control. You wrench your head away from him, but he captures your lips again — you take his lower lip into your mouth only to bite —
“Ah!” he grunts. “Bitch!”
“Get off!”
Deidara covers your mouth with his hand. Your eyes are on him, strained with hatred, glaring. But it softens when you smirk against his hand; a part of him is afraid help will come. Big bad criminal ass, he is. The delight is dark in you.
“I can make this good, all right?” Deidara bargains quietly. The hand on your mouth settles on your cheek, petting you complacent. “I can make this good for both of us.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
Deidara glares. “Fine. Scream again and I kill them.”
Them.
… Them.
You breath hitches.
It is Deidara’s turn to smirk.
“Every single one of them,” he continues.
You are silent. The sweet faces of your students flash into your mind, their smiles, their futures in your hands.
“You can’t.”
Deidara’s tickled by the challenge. “Oh, really? They don’t mean shit to me, (Y/n). You’ll have them on your conscience. You want that?”
You think of the poor souls that have come before them, blown to smithereens by Deidara’s fanatic ambition…
I can’t do it again.
Your muscles relax. You settle against the board, slip to the floor. Deidara lets you.
Deidara kneels, both hands traveling to the intimate realm under your skirt. His fingers hook under the band of your panties. “Good girl.”
You settle your head to the side as your panties are slid from your legs. You hyper-focus on the broken sculpture, having been knocked over by the chair, its parts scattered across the floor like chunks of hail.
“Hey, eyes on me.”
Reluctantly, you turn to see Deidara’s face between your legs, eyes hard on you.
His eyes flutter, close as his tongue parts his lips and offer an experimental lick at your womanhood.
“Mmm,” Deidara hums. His fingers spread your lips, lapping at the juice simmering from your cunt. “You taste just like I always thought you would.”
You resist a shiver born of disgust and pleasure. Fuck, how long has he imagined this?
“Wanna taste you everywhere …” Deidara raises his hands, where the lines of mouths form and smile, widening to —
You scream —
“Hey!”
Deidara’s glare freezes you, the horror freezes you as tongues on his hands trail the sides of your hips. You look away — freak! — and feel one of the tongues tease the nub of your nipple.
The fuck is he now? What’s he done to himself?
You cannot resist a second shiver, neither ignore the mortifying sounds of Deidara’s moist tongue — tongues — against your skin and wet pussy. You arch, but Deidara’s hands press hard into your thighs, restraining you. You twist your head, grimace. You refuse to admit how good he is making you feel, nor how experienced his tongue. Deidara dances patterns on your excited clit, lapping up the juices flowing from your aching core, while his companion tongues tickle you with flicks. Who else has he done this to? You’re sick by the jealousy grazing you like a knife.
You relax. Deidara’s hold is gentler now as he brushes the span of your thighs. One of his hands tuck under the your hip, the other sucking the tender pink of your nipple into its mouth. You feel the light graze of his teeth tickle your clit and —
“Ah — hah!”
Deidara stops. He finds your eyes with his eyelined ones. He lifts his head enough to let you see his smirk.
“Someone’s enjoying herself, hm.”
You glare — wince with pleasure as he resumes. You lay back, defenseless. You have a plan but you hate how it means you must lay there and receive, enjoy the pleasure he gives.
It would be so much easier if he was bad at this, but, like all things, he is expert; Deidara’s tongue is lingering and smart with each flick and roll, lick and swirl. When he abandons your entrance for your clit, he replaces his tongue with the light probe of his finger.
“Ahh …” You squeeze your thighs against his head.
“We could have this all the time, you know …” Deidara murmurs between licks. “If you weren’t so stubborn, come with me — more ways than one — I could give this to you all the time …”
He is so good at this, you allow yourself to imagine it. Every day and night, Deidara in between your legs, making your cunt sing with his trio of tongues. You breathe out, feel your orgasm rise. With begrudging instinct, you reach down, grab his head and press him to your pussy. You feel him smirk into your lips and you want to slit his throat, but for the time being let him eat you out as though he’s still a starving orphan and you are the only meal he’s ever had.
You gasp, squeeze a hand in his hair. His finger goes beyond your entrance and into you, his tongue flickering at your clit.
You arch. This time, he lets you.
“Deidara!”
You hear Deidara grunt with so much pleasure, you wonder if he’s found his climax as yours clouds your senses. You suffocate him with your cunt, which he does not stop tormenting with his tongue and learned fingers, lapping up your excited juices until you overstimulate — and long after.
You tremble against him, fight to find breath.
“Deida — Deidara, stop!”
But he doesn’t; like a machine at your womanhood, continues to push you into a second orgasm. A scream rips through your mouth and in your clouded haze you wonder if anyone can hear. Deidara lifts your lower half into his arms and hungry mouth. His tongue latches to your clit, rides you through your second release of the night.
An eternity passes before he sets you back down. The cold floor shocks you alert. Deidara stares down at you, now gasping himself, mouth glistening and shoulders undulated from the effort. His eyes chase your flushed form.
“You said my name … just like I wanted you to …”
Your head falls back. Your eyes find the door.
You ignore the soft kisses Deidara butterflies on your skin, focus only on regaining the lost breaths stolen by him in this room. If I’m gonna do it, it has to be soon.
Pressure at your waist brings your attention back to Deidara; he’s shirtless and crawling up to missionary you, planted between your legs.
He dives for a kiss. Your lips are dead to him but you don’t fight it. Your hands graze the plains of his back but not to hold him. His hand hooks behind your knee. You wait for the last ounces of dizziness to erode away before you try anything. Deidara presses into your neck, bruising hickeys into your humid skin. You finally speak up —
“Mm, wait, wait — Dei …?”
You are clever with your wording; you have not called him Dei in only the gods know how long, and it gets his attention immediately. He comes up for air, meets your eyes.
“Yeah? What?”
You swallow. Your hands scale his shoulder pads, his neck, until his head is in your hands. Life shifts in the funny mirror and you imagine another world where Deidara is still your friend about to be your first. Your only.
You blink and reality returns. The criminal is above you, waiting.
Reality causes you to choke — you use it to your advantage.
“I … I don’t want it to be like this,” You pull him closer. “Not on the floor of my auditorium. We can’t.”
Deidara’s eyes glance around the room. He catches your meaning and his eyes fall back on you.
“My desk,” You brush a thumb against his cheek. “Take me there.”
Deidara’s face softens. His weight lessens on you.
“All right,” Deidara says. Your suggestion brings his tongue to his lips. “Good idea …”
You struggle to collect yourself as Deidara sits on his knees. You prop up as he stands. He offers you a hand and you’re struck by the hilarious politeness of the gesture.
You take it, though, and stand. The sharp brown mahogany of your desk comes into your view. You sigh, let go of Deidara’s hand as he approaches the desk.
And you book.
“What the fuck —?”
You leap over broken sculpture pieces as you hurry to the door. You land a hand on the door frame, feel yourself pass the threshold —
And yelp as a hand mats in your hair, pulling you back.
“So that’s your game,” Deidara hisses, dragging you to your knees.
You whimper, mewl. You’re practically scalped as Deidara drags you to the table, forces you up and slams you into its face. You twist to face him and come to meet his hand. The slap sends you falling, but Deidara grabs you again, forcing you to look at him.
“Deceitful little bitch,” he says.
You glare at him, glance at his lower half.
“Says the little bitch —“
Slap .
“Shut up!” Deidara seizes your face with one hand, the other tugging his pants down.
You hold your face, the sting grimacing you.
“See what you make me do?” he says. “You think I want this? For that little stunt, I got a punishment for you.”
His cock springs free, inches from your face, hungry and red. You open your mouth to speak but he doesn’t wait, directing his cock into your surprised mouth.
“If you bite me,” Deidara growls, “you and all of your brats are dead, got me? Last warning.”
His cock chokes you. You stutter, grasping it. You can feel Deidara looking down at you, monitoring you for good behavior. You pop him from your mouth.
“The fuck —“
“I just gave you the best head of your life, so return the favor,” Deidara growls out. “Least you can do. I know you can … aah …”
I hate you. You take him. Deidara shudders as you hollow your cheeks, grasp the length of his cock to cover whatever cannot fit in your mouth. You bob, create a rhythm with him; his hips buck, fucking your mouth whenever you lean in. Deidara’s hand comes to cup the back of your head and scoots you on his cock, choking you again. You glare.
“Yeah,” he breaths, lids laze over his eyes. “Glare at me with those pretty eyes. Don’t pretend like you don’t love this. Ah, your mouth is the perfect place for my cock.”
He bucks deep and miraculously, you don’t choke. But his little laugh temps you to bite —
“’Cept one other place.”
You grasp, hard.
“Got a problem?”
You freeze, your cock-stuffed mouth silencing you. Maybe for the better. You apologize with a hard suck and continue your subservient bobbing.
“Didn’t think so … You were made for this, hah,” Deidara’s spite bites into every word. “My cock in your mouth — ahh …!”
You pull away to swirl at his cock head — anything to get him to stop talking. You swallow him again and hear him grunt above, hand tight against your sore scalp. Deidara’s rocking quickens, the motions becoming sloppier, less pronounced.
He pulls away and his cock leaves you with a firm pop. You stare up at him. His hair grows dark shadows on his face, his breath shallow.
“Take those tits out,” he orders under his breath. “I want to see all of you.”
I hate you. Just when you thought you would be allowed some dignity. A huff escapes you as you work to remove your shirt and throw it elsewhere. A scream threatens your throat. You reach behind as Deidara strokes himself, unhook your bra and let it fall. Your breasts teardrop as the garment falls in your lap.
Silence. You dare to look up, feel utmost disgust at how Deidara admires you.
A smirk. “You’ve really filled out.”
You return to his cock so you don’t have to look him in the eye any longer.
“Let’s just finish this.”
“Yes, let’s.”
You swirl your tongue at his head before taking him into your mouth. It scorns you to give him any pleasure, but Deidara’s moans catch on the air and you hate how good he sounds. You feel a sinful ache below and mentally kick yourself for it.
Deidara scoops your head, rocking harder, deeper into your mouth. You squeeze your eyes —
“So good,” Deidara huffs. “So —“
Deidara’s voice dies. His cock twitches, pulses in your mouth as it ends. His seed spills on to your tongue and you release him, turning away.
“No,” Deidara jerks your head up. “Swallow.”
Hate you.
You do as you’re told, throat undulating as his release fills you.
Deidara moans, admiring your fucked face, only for his gaze to trail downward to your skirt, the only garment keeping you decent.
Deidara has you on your feet and on the desk. Deidara fits between your legs. His hand caresses your pussy and you twitch from the sudden contact, covering his hand with yours.
“I thought you didn’t like this, hn,” Deidara trails kiss down your exhausted neck as you squirm. “So wet, mm …”
You tightrope between begging him to stop and submitting. “Fuck, Deidara …”
“Call me Dei, like you used to,” he demands against your earlobe. “Remember …?”
Deidara hugs you tight as he explores your wet folds. You wonder why you aren’t instructed to remove your skirt, before realizing it is probably intentional; you feel his new erection probe your inner thigh. He rock his hardness into and you gasp —
“Ah …!”
“Gods, you’re beautiful everywhere,” Deidara runs hands over your sides, squeezes the fat of your thighs. “A work of art yourself …”
You groan as his hands imprison your wrists, pins you to the desk. You don’t remember him being so strong; years as a shinobi have strengthen him and weakened you to him. There is nothing you can you as he positions himself against you, the weight of him crushing you once more.
The head of his cock invades your cunt; your shrill cry mingles with his blissful moan as he finds his home in you.
“Perfect,” his breath hits your face. He kisses the side of your nose. “Absolute perfection …”
There is no easing; Deidara thrusts and a moan escapes you as you clench around his cock. Deidara’s lips cover yours, tongue finding yours as he rocks messily into you.
The tongue of his left hand licks and trails one side of your neck as his right plays at your clit. With each thrust, Deidara’s cock sheathes into you, dizzying your mind. You hold on to his stitched arms to give your hands somewhere to land.
“Let them come in,” Deidara breaths. “See their precious teacher like this —“
He pounds you, robbing a cry from your throat before circling his hips and hitting back the way he was. Your hands crawl up his arms to his back, bite his skin with your nails. The desk creaks, threatens to give as Deidara’s thrust quicken.
You twist your head as Deidara returns the favor and sinks teeth into your abused neck. His thrusts are rough and horrible and not enough — you bite your lip, hating both yourself and him for what you are about to demand:
“Harder.”
You see the tease in his eyes as he lifts his head to look at you in his peripheral.
“Heh,” a smirk. “As you wish.”
Skin stung as Deidara slapped against you. Air knocks from your lungs. You threaten to fall back but Deidara hooks you to him, driving into you with immense force.
“Would love to turn you over,” he says before grabbing your face, forcing your attention on him, “but I wanna see that pretty face when you cum.”
The tongue of his hand flicks happily at your clit. Deidara hammers you. Your desk whines. Your stomach squeezes, the end near.
“C’mon,” he says. “C’mon …”
He leans down to bite and drag your lower lip. Deidara last few thrusts force a singing moan from your throat as you fall into his embrace. He follows you, roaring as he pumps weak thrusts into you.
You hug him with your legs without thinking. You feel the warmth of Deidara’s seed pump into you. The tongue of Deidara’s hand insists on flicking you until Deidara’s too weak to continue with it and retreats.
You hear nothing but your breaths and his, voices mingling once more as the relief kicks in. You daren’t move, lest the desk finally chooses to give underneath you both. You are humiliated enough.
It’s over … thank the gods …
For a second, your mind swims, but lucidity returns and stings like an open wound. Deidara crooks into your neck and settles there, cock still warming itself in your cunt. Fury overtakes you; he is weak enough to push away. He stumbles as you rise, grunts in protest.
“What’re you doing …?” he slurs.
“You had your fun,” You hiss, dipping back and forth to retrieve pieces of clothing. “Fuck off.”
Deidara’s expression morphs, the fatigue gone in an instant.
“You’re kicking me out?” he says. “After we just made love?”
“That’s what you thought this was?” You say. “You’re even sicker than I thought!”
“Hn,” Deidara’s glare is deadly. “What a cold-hearted bitch you are.”
“We’re done, Deidara,” You cover yourself with your bundle of clothes. “I don’t know you. And you don’t know me. I’ve worked hard to rid myself of the stink of you, what you did. All you do is destroy shit. You’re proud of it. You destroyed us. Be proud of that and go.”
Deidara’s eyes widen in their fury.
“We’ll never be done,” he says. “Shows how much you know; you’re never getting rid of me. I don’t care where you are, or who you think you are, I’m the only one who’s ever known you. Who’ll ever know you. That’ll never change.”
To say more would encourage discussion. You turn away. He can kill you if he wants to, but you close your eyes, tune out the aggressive tussling of clothes, try to block out the feel of Deidara’s skin, his tongues, him.
When you dare to look back, Deidara is gone, and finally you can breathe.
The note is crisp, new and blindingly white in Deidara’s grip.
“What’s that now?” Sasori says. “Another note from your little girlfriend?”
Deidara is silent for a good while.
“Yeah.”
Deidara turns over the note, reads for the umpteenth time.
Come find me.
Since his last meeting with you, he has visited the auditorium, but you are never there.
But upon his last visit, a note was.
“Just what have you been up to with her …?” Sasori asks, considers the inquiry. “Nevermind, I don’t think I want to know.”
Deidara closes his eyes and sees the hate he saw in your eyes. Your moans mutate into cries. A dull pinch of guilt nags at him.
Not my fault. She should know by now we belong together.
Guilt is replaces curiosity as Deidara toys with the note in his fingers. A mouth forms to devour the note.
Fine, (Y/n), I’ll hear what you have to say.
Deidara rises. The Stone village comes into full view from the valley where he and Sasori stand.
“I’ve got one more thing,” Deidara says. “I’ll be back.”
“Suit yourself, ladies man.”
Deidara poofs, opens his eyes and he is in an alley, two buildings squeeze the heat in.
A part of him wants to return to the auditorium, find you there, but another part of him is equally as convinced you are home. Deidara licks his lips at the thought of having you again in a more intimate setting. He transforms himself into the first random man he sees and begins his way through the village, passing the debilitated buildings and ugly apartments.
The village is as ugly and depressing as he remembers, and he feels the urge to just blow it all away in one fell swoop.
But that would include you, so he grunts and moves on.
A gangle of street kids giggle and pass him by, immersed in their game.
A trip down memory lane. Deidara thinks. He remembers you and him at that age, and nostalgia runs its hand over his heart.
A complex. This is it. It is a ghost town, silent as the graves ghosts come from. He travels to the first floor until he gets to your door. A wild thought occurs and he twists the nob and his theory is confirmed; open.
The door invites him in with a creak. He releases the jutsu masking his identity and closes the door, walks through your small living room. It smells like you. Deidara recalls the scent of you on his sheets in a different world, a smell so profound he will recall it as he dies. He travels into the hallway —
“In here.”
Your voice sounds from what must be the bedroom. Deidara’s heart quickens. He travels to the end of the hallway, opens the door.
Your room is a haunting mirror of his all those years ago; clay sculptures decorate the room. Illustrative watercolor paintings are stringed on the walls. You are on the bed in a simple white shirt and shorts.
“Long time no see,” Deidara murmurs.
It’s meant as a joke but you don’t laugh — neither do you roll your eyes or glare, only offer a light smile, though it is heavy enough to assuage his conscience. A little.
“I thought about what you said,” You say as he nears the bed and sits by you. “About … us.”
Deidara conceals his nervousness as well as he can manage. “… Yeah?”
You look to him. The light of the sunset plays in your eyes. “You’re right, Dei — I mean, I’ll never get rid of you and you’ll never get rid of me … For the longest time, we were all we had.”
Dei. You're saying it again. He feels like he is home.
Deidara risks a hand reaching up to shift hair behind your ear.
“That’s still true.”
Your gaze is locked on him. “I don’t even remember anyone before I met you. You taught me everything I know. You’re my beginning, and you’ll be my ending, too.”
“I feel exactly the same way …”
Deidara caresses your face. You hold his hand there.
“I’ll never forget you —“
Your grip on his hand tightens, though your face is clear.
“and you’ll never forget me.”
A sense of wrongness comes over Deidara. His brows furrow.
Something’s wrong.
“I’m going to make sure of that,” You say.
He smells it then.
Sulfur.
He pulls his hand away — but with difficulty, you hold on.
“What did you do?”
You’re silent. You smile.
“(Y/n)!”
Your face is frozen in his mind. Forever.
“I told you, didn’t I?” You say. “I learned from you.”
Deidara senses it before he see it; heat, fire blazing at his back. He disappears, lands. He is back before the Stone village, Sasori behind him.
“What happened —“
Deidara doesn’t hear him — he hears nothing.
The explosion is all there is.
Clouds of fire bloom, raging red and orange, mocking the colors of the sunset with its own. The apartment is devoured in flames.
It deafens Deidara, momentarily blinds him before it is all he can see.
“Deidara,” Sasori’s voice is slow. “What did you do …?”
It is a while before he answers. “’S … it’s not me.”
You’ll never forget me. I’ll make sure of that.
The explosion meets with the sky and becomes the new sun.
Hello I love your writing big fan, i was wondering if you can do something with yandere gaara where he finds someone who admires his tattoo something he ashamed of, can you include baby trapping?? If you can’t or uncomfortable with I totally understand! Anyway thanks love your writing! <3
love; gaara
synopsis — how could a person as broken as gaara ever love someone? and if he did, how could he ever accept the thought of losing them?
content warning — gaara is 21, yandere!gaara, baby trapping, choking, his sand
a/n — aww, such a sweet message 🥹 it would be a pleasure to write your request
was love ever truly unconditional? was it possible for you to love someone no matter their faults? the truth wasn’t as appealing as the delusion that many believed. love was a murderous entity, love would make you do anything, be anything, it made you irrational. you didn’t want to love someone unconditionally, gaara knew first hand what it was like. all his life he put no one above himself, it was futile because people would always eventually turn against you. then he met you and overnight love came in and devoured him.
he could remember the day naruto introduced him to you. the way you smiled at him, as if he wasn’t a monster. the way you moved closer, unafraid, but curious, asking about his tattoo. you loved his tattoo for someone reason. he could remember when you accidentally stumbled across him training, when you tagged along with a few of your ninja friends in the village. you stayed behind, bowing out of respect before you proceeded to ask questions about his sand that you were deeply fascinated with.
he could remember how his face burned with embarrassment as he asked you on a date. he was mentally preparing himself for rejection when you smiled, agreeing to go. your first kiss, when he asked you to be his, when you moved in with him, when he proposed, your wedding, your first time. gaara didn’t forget any of it, because of love. once it had its hooks in him, there was no going back.
he had you, you were his, and there was no way he could ever let go. you wanted him to heal from his trauma, unknowing that you made him crazier. he needed you at all times, in his lap, placing soft kisses on his tattoo. you were his trophy, yet he hated when the eyes of other men fell onto your gracious figure. you were the perfect wife of the strong kazekage, yet he despised when the young shinobi spoke to you, even if it was with praise.
for the last two years of marriage, you had no idea how deep his obsession went, until he began to ruin everything. sasuke uchiha.
you had come along with gaara to visit the hidden leaf. you sat comfortably on gaara’s leg, like his own personal doll, when someone called your name. turning, your smile grew larger as you seen sasuke dressed in all black. standing up, you approach the uchiha, giving him a small hug.
the air became cold, as gaara sat in confusion. how did you know sasuke when you didn’t become a shinobi?
“how are you?” sasuke asked you, ignoring the eyes of everyone at the table.
“i’m great, i’m here visiting. i hear you married sakura, and i wasn’t invited. that is just plain mean, sasuke,” you laughed.
“you know why,” he said, making your face heat up.
“yeah,” you whispered, shifting your eyes.
“and you married the kazekage without saying anything,” he smirked.
“what can i say?-
noticing sasuke’s eyes shifting over, you turned to see gaara standing behind you, staring at sasuke, with an unfamiliar look in his eyes.
“gaara, you know sasuke, he and i were close growing up,” you smiled, interlocking your arm around gaara’s.
“sasuke, let me reintroduce you to the kazekage and my husband, gaara,” you said, watching as sasuke bowed.
“that is unnecessary,” gaara told sasuke, turning to walk away, leading you back to the table, and pulling you into his lap.
you found the entire interaction embarrassing and awkward. you knew gaara struggled with jealousy, but you never thought he would do something so rude. staring down at your hands, he snapped you out of your gaze, when he interlocked his fingers with yours. smiling softly, you face him, kissing the red tattoo on his forehead.
you knew better than you look in the direction sasuke once stood, desiring to not deal with gaara in a sour mood. so you put on your best fake smile until the gathering was over and you were back in the hotel room.
gaara soon left to meet with the hokage, when there was the sound of a pebble hitting the window. opening it, your eyes widened as you stared at sasuke.
“what are you doing?”
“jump”
“i'm not jumping-
“jump, i’ll catch you,” he said, smiling at the familiar words, you held onto your long kimono, before jumping out of the window. keeping his word, sasuke easily caught you, lowering you to the ground.
“you don't get overheated dressing like this with all of the sand?” he asked you.
“no, i like to look pretty for gaara, i’m never out in the heat too much anyway,” you shrugged.
“you loved the sunlight”
“gaara finds it safer for me to stay indoors at home, and i agree-
“he keeps you locked away?”
“no, i can come and go as i please, i just agree with him that it’s better for me to be indoors”
“then why do you never visit? you swore that you would stay here until you were an old lady”
“am i not allowed to change my mind sasuke, we said a lot of things when we were younger”
“leave him”
“excuse me? sasuke, i told you after your letter, i wouldn't compete anymore-
“i know and i'm not asking you too, don't think i don't still care about you and i can see how he looks at you”
“sasuke, he’s my husband, he’s supposed to look at me a certain way, you're being ridiculous-
“he looks at you as if you're his property. how could you go and fall for a guy like that anyway? what happened to waiting for me?”
“sakura was more determined, she wouldn't give up, it was cute. she deserved the guy in the end. sasuke, you shouldn't be this close,” your breathing hitched, as he moved closer to you.
“did you get my letter?”
“i did and i was already with gaara, it was too late,” you whispered.
“am i interrupting?” gaara spoke coldly, making you shove sasuke away.
“no, we were only talking, weren't we?” you said, turning to sasuke, who stared at gaara.
“yeah, reminiscing” he mumbled, as the two men stared at each other.
“well, we should get inside, it’s getting late. it was nice to see you, sasuke, take care,” you said, your eyes pleading that he would leave. bowing, he stood tall, the wind blowing, revealing his sharingan, hidden behind his hair.
“goodnight,” he said before he was gone.
“are you finish with your business with the hokage tonight?” you asked gaara, who stood still watching where sasuke once stood.
“yes”
“then let’s go,” you giggled, grabbing his hand, and pulling you to the hotel.
once back into your large room, you slowly stripped from each article of clothing, going to take a bath, while gaara sat at the edge of the bed. he was trying to calm himself, but how could he? you were his and yet here that uchiha was trying to make his way in between the two of you.
it had to be nearly an hour of gaara sitting deep in his thoughts when you interrupted. standing in the doorway of the bathroom, you wore the robe, nothing underneath, making the silk hug you even closer.
“are you okay, my love?” you asked him, going to sit at the vanity.
“do you take me for a fool?”
“i-what,” you began to turn around, when you noticed his sand pouring out onto the floor.
“what was your relationship with sasuke?” he asked, his voice cold as ever.
“gaara, where is this coming from?” you furrowed your eyebrows.
“do not think to lie to me,” he warned, as the sand began to move up your body.
“we were together as children, and-and when he came back began to date again, but-
“but you allowed sakura to have him, and what of this letter”
“he sent me a letter, before he and sakura married. he told me if i came to him at that moment, he would leave her and choose me,” you said, attempting to back away at the blood lust oozing from his body.
“i’ll kill him,” he grit his teeth.
“i threw the letter away, i rejected him because i wanted you, gaara. he’s history, we have our own lives,” you said, when suddenly his sand went to your throat, tightening, as you lifted from the ground.
“you were supposed to be mine,” he growled, before the sand loosened, catching you as you lost your balance and fell.
walking away from you, you could hear the sound of his sniffles, breaking your heart.
“gaara, listen to me”
“what makes him better? why do you want him more? i love you more than myself and i still am not enough for you?” he cried, making you stand up rushing over. throwing your arms around him, you held him closer.
“i only want you gaara, don't stay things like that. i married you, i’m yours,” you said, kissing all over his face until he finally met your lips. picking you up, while tearing off his clothing, and laying you down, you reached to touch his face, as he hovered over you.
“you're everything i want and more,” you said, as he kissed your lips.
“i love you,” he whispered.
“i love you too,” you told him, opening your robe. watching as he reached for his cock, stroking himself until his shaft hardened.
sliding into your wet hole, he rubbed his thumb against your clit. roughly kissing your lips, he bit your bottom lip as he pulled away. his eyes glued to your bouncing breast, enjoying the way everything moved, he pushed his cock in deeper.
moaning, you threw your head back, as he kissed along your neck, while you took in his size.
"perfect, you take me so well," he said, kissing your lips as you whined your hips.
"don't stop," you cried out, hoarsely.
"i wasn't planning too, my love" he slowly moved, making sure you felt every inch.
"please make me cum," you whined.
"you're mine?"
"yes"
"only mine?"
"yes, yes, yes," your cries were enough to make him give in. holding your hips in place, he deeply thrusted, smirking at the noise you made.
"fuck," he mumbled, enjoying the feeling of the how tight you were around him.
"my beautiful bride," he said lowly, his hand moving to your breast, giving them a light squeeze.
"all yours, i’m all yours," you moaned, rubbing your clit, as he pounded into you.
wrapping your legs around his waist, you both moaned as you inched closer to the orgasm. both of you panting, while your leg shook.
"i’m cumming," you moaned, but were quickly silenced by gaara kissing your lips, as his seed began to fill you up.
"that was amazi-
you were about to smile, but stopped, noticing the dull look on his face.
“i meant what i said, you’re my present and future,” you said as he laid beside you, enfolding you into his arms.
“i know”
“i love you,” you said, tiredly kissing his tattoo.
“i love you more”
falling asleep in his arms, you were too naive to see the mischievous glint in his eyes. he hoped his mother turned a blind eye to how theatrical he acted. however, it was necessary because after tonight, he would make sure no one would ever come in between you ever again. even he was surprised by how easy it was, the kazekage’s bride, perfect and pure ready to be on your knees, just to please him.
he wouldn't kill sasuke, not when he had to see the evidence of his final results of claiming. you were his and because of his love for you, he would make sure that you never were close to slipping away, or that you even acknowledged another man again.
“where are you going?” you whined, rolling on top of him, making him grin.
“to pack our things, we are leaving very early and from the looks of it, you didn't start,” he chuckled.
“five more minutes,” you whined, wrapping his arms around your waist, as you dozed back off.
“please back away, i present to konoha, lord kazekage and his wife,” the shinobi said, opening the door. stepping out, gaara waved at the crowd, before he turned back in the direction of the carriage.
he was visiting for the chūnin exams and while you initially planned to stay home, you had been so clingy and just wanted to be under him always. holding out his hand, many of the onlookers gasped, as you stepped out, your womb swollen with his offspring.
stepping down the final step, you held your tummy with one hand, the other interlocked with gaara’s as you followed him closely. being brought to meet with the hokage. as you both entered the arena, gaara noticed the familiar faces, even sasuke alongside sakura with the young child.
however, you didn't seem to pay them any mind too focused on telling him about your excitement to see the young genin from the village hidden in the sand. you couldn’t wait for your baby to grow older and become a shinobi and be trained by gaara. biting back his smirk, gaara simply pulled you closer, listening to your hopeful banter.
love, it was as old as time and as dangerous as it could be, it had made the self-loving demon weak for an ordinary woman. utterly consumed, love plagued gaara’s thoughts every hour of the day. you didn't need to know that your baby wasn't a happy accident, but a strategic idea. you didn't need to know this would be happening a few more times in the future. there was no one to blame, gaara couldn't help that he needed you, he couldn't help that he felt angry when you acknowledged anyone but him, or when you smiled at anyone but him, could you blame him? if you wanted someone to blame, blame love.
A/n: Based loosely on the song Ptolemaea by Ethel Cain. Long live the queen
Kabuto’s stomach churned in disgust and disbelief as he watched you float through the halls like a ghost. The white nightgown you wore flowed around you and your eyes were rimmed in darkness, a sign that you had not been sleeping well. “Lady Y/n. Why are you out of your bedroom?”
You halted and let your darkened eyes flick to Kabuto in the shadows, you knew he was there, knew that he was always there. Kabuto stepped into the light, head tilting at how you stared at him so lifelessly. What had Orochimaru been doing to you? Kabuto moved closer, slowly as if to not disturb the beast that surely was rumbling below your flesh.
“Y/n?” Kabuto asked once more as he came to a halt before you, mere inches from your face. At this distance, he could see the pure sadness and darkness in your eyes, but he felt like he could do nothing about it. No medicine he concocted nor regiment he suggested would fix the shattered pieces that his master left you in.
His hand reached up to cup your face, causing you to flinch slightly. He ignored it though and rested it on the coldness of your cheek. A ghost indeed.
“Are you alright?”
He didn't know why he cared. Didnt know why he even stopped you. He knew where you were going, knew you were going to get your daily high from the sick love that Orochimaru gave you. It was an addiction to you, one that was slowly but surely killing you from the inside out. “Does he love me yet?”
Kabuto’s eyebrows crinkled at that as he inhaled in shock, how could he explain to you that, no, Orochimaru still doesn't and may never love you? It seemed that his silence was enough for you as a tear slid down your cheek, soaking his thumb in the salty liquid. Every fiber of his being told him to pull back and leave you be, for if Orochimaru found him comforting his ‘toy’, Kabuto would not live to see another day. But he couldn’t pull back. Your breathing began to grow labored as the panic set in.
“Y/n?” Kabuto whispered as your hand rose to your chest, eyes frantic as you backed up into the wall behind you. The cold cement bit into your shoulders, but it did nothing to stop your downfall.
“Stop. Stop. Stop.” you whimpered out as Kabuto lurched forward to try and calm you down. Your hands moved to your ears, trying your best to block out the repeating memory of hearing Orochimaru state his love for you. It no longer made you swoon, it made you sick.
Kabuto didn't say anything but frowned deeper as you kept muttering ‘Stop’. Your legs began to give out as you fell to your knees. “Make it stop, I’ve had enough” Your cries soon turned to wails and he was worried you would draw unwanted attention. “Hey… Hey, it's okay” Kabuto stated awkwardly as he tried to pull your hands from your ears but you only pulled away from him with a shake. “Stop. Stop. Stop” Your voice grew louder with each pass of the word and Kabuto fought the urge to just pull you into him to silence your desperate and panicked screams. He gripped your wrists tighter and screamed your name, shaking you as if to shake you awake from a nightmare.
“STOP!” Your scream echoed down the hall and his eyes widened as snakes wrapped around his wrists. Before he had time to explain, they had ripped him away from your shaking form on the floor. “Orochimaru sir, she… I was only-”
“I’d stay silent if I were you” Orochimaru snarled back as he stalked towards your whimpering form, “What did you do to her?”
“I didn’t- I swear I didn't do anything! She was panicking and I was just trying to calm her down so as not to bother you sir” Kabuto frantically sputtered out, eyes wide with fear as he watched his master kneel beside you. He watched in awe as your eyes opened in disbelief, twinkling with something only his master could pinpoint. “My my. Why are you out of bed?” Orochimaru cooed down at you as he easily pried your hands from your ears, “I was just on my way to join you, my love…”
A lie.
Kabuto knew it was a lie. Knew that this whole display was a lie. But it worked.
It always worked.
Your lip quivered and you wrapped your arms around him, shoving yourself into his embrace as you cried out every emotion you had been feeling. Orochimaru dragged his hand up and down your back before shooting a glare at Kabuto. A toy, that's all his master saw you as, the thought made him pity you, knowing just how cruel Lord Orochimaru could be in private.
“You’re free to go Kabuto. I will get her back to bed…”
But it wasn't his duty to save you from the hell you’ve fallen into, he knew that much at least. He chewed his lip as he watched his master move you back to the bedroom on the other end of the complex, he wished that he could somehow free you. Like a bird trapped in a cage, it was painful to watch you slowly die.
Warnings: NSFW, not for minors, manipulation, season 1 spoilers for Rings of Power, AFAB reader!
Rest does not find you easily, the bed feeling too cold and too empty compared to the warmth it had given before. Your hands curl around the second pillow next to you, pulling it close in hope of finding the same warmth as before. To pretend like nothing had happened and that he would still be here. It still smelled like him, perhaps if you closed your eyes it was enough to pretend he was still here. A quiet chuckle, soft hands cradling your cheeks before his soft lips would find its place on your neck. It hurts and it aches to realise it could never be like that again.
He had gone, betrayed your kin and misused your feelings, fitting according to his nickname, the deceiver. It was almost enough to make tears roll down your face, whether this be from anger or hurt was difficult to know. Maybe you should have seen it coming, there should have been signs you had to have been able to pick upon.
Celebrimbor had been kind enough to let you rest for now, Galadriel’s words had cut through your chest. A shaky breath escaping your lips as you looked at her, stunned by the news. “He’s gone….?” Your voice is quiet among the louder ones, Elrond asking if Galadriel knew for certain and her wanting everyone to promise not to let Halbrand back in if he should appear. Her eyes soften as she turns her attention towards you, hand softly placed on your shoulder. “I…. know how you felt about him but he has deceived us all.” For a moment you could swear that the air felt heavier than ever before, gravity almost pulling you to the ground. “Promise me, you won’t let him in again for he will only cause pain and doom.” Galadriel all but begs as she steps closer to you. “I..I won’t.” Your voice cracks. Slowly she pulls her hand off your shoulder and turns to the others, needing their promise as well.
Thus you left, to rest, to let every thought you ever had about Halbrand, or rather said Sauron, cross through your mind. How much of his words has been a sickening sweet lie, how much of his touch has ruined and corrupted your mind and soul, how much were you a plaything or victim in his plans for Middle-earth. You breathe in deeply, hoping to selfishly remember his scent, sweat mixed in with sulfur and burnt leaves. You sob quietly, afraid of being caught crying for one who has caused much pain and danger in the world but who was still dear to your heart. This goes on for a while, unable to tell the time but knowing it has been a bit because of your sore throat and burning eyes.
This time, it does not take long for rest to find you, enveloping you like an old friend’s arms. The darkness feels safe yet there is the unmistakable feeling of being watched. The scene in front of you feels familiar, water slowly rolling downstream, birds chirping softly. The grass feels cool under your touch, flowers in full bloom as the sun shines warmly on your skin. Red eyes stare from a distance, hidden in the bushes where the trees seem to grow closer and darker. You swallow and stand up, focusing on the red eyes in the distance that seem to follow your movement, perhaps you should feel danger but somehow it brings you calmness.
“I see you.” The words are simply stated, the red eyes blink before a disembodied voice calls out. “And I see you, fully and completely.” A shiver runs down your spine, the voice being more familiar than one would have liked. “Yet I don’t see you wholly.” Slowly he comes out of the darkness of the forest, red eyes transforming into hazel ones. Your throat feels dry as he comes closer to you. “You are just a mirage.” You hiss and turn away from him, from Halbrand, from the one who had taken your heart. His hands wrap themselves around your waist, his head resting on your shoulder as your vision becomes blurry. His lips almost touch your ear as he whispers. “And what if I’m not? What if I’m actually here.” A warmness spreads through your body, his arms almost tightening around your waist as if to try and convince you to give in. “Thír upon nin.”**
“Your words have proven false before, I won’t give in again.” You take a deep breath, your own hands pushing his away from your waist. “They were not entirely false.” His sweet voice whispers in your ear before you turn around to face him, anger brewing through your body. “All we had between us and all you did was a lie!”
Halbrand doesn't seem to be fazed by your anger, having long expected such emotions. He clenches his jaw and before he can help it, he grabs your wrists, tighter than he had ever done before. “Not everything, remember.” He almost seems to hiss in your ear as he pulls you against his body. “I remember the way your body writhed beneath mine, begging for release” There is nowhere to look but at him, his eyes staring into yours. “Screaming my name.” He says lowly. “A false name.” The sky that seemed to shine so brightly seems to darken the longer Halbrand talks. “I have many names.”
“Halbrand, you deceiver!” You struggle against his grasp, the dream starting to feel too real to be simply a figment of your mind. Halbrand glares down at you. A cold wind pushes through the meadow, flowers turn brown and fall apart. “And you let me in, into your life, into your mind, into your bed and body, do you think you can keep me out now?”
“What would your friends and family do? Knowing that you were the one who let the great deceiver in?” A shiver runs down your spine and he knows you feel it. You tug against his grasp, wanting to escape the dream.
The wind gets knocked out of your lungs as your back makes painful contact with the ground. Halbrand simply stood, leaning slightly over as he had let go of your wrists. “They know your tricks and influence.” You say out loud and try to move away and stand up. Halbrand quickly lowers himself, his hands placed on both sides of your head. “My influence is that you love me, because you are meant to be mine.” Your body feels warm, familiar to the situation as he hangs above you. His knee slowly moves one of your legs aside. “Don’t deny what we share because you care about others.” Halbrand whispers in your ear, his lips pressing down just behind your ear before slowly traveling downwards. “Know me as I was, Halbrand, not the name others have pushed onto you and me.”
A yearning grows within, his touch feeling like a fire as his hands push up your shirt. Your breath hitches as he roughly bites your neck, harsh enough to leave a mark but not yet draw blood, claiming you as his in a more physical way. In a blur he has pulled down your pants, resting them under your knee as he withdraws his face from your neck. “A sight to be remembered, to be admired.” Halbrand’s voice is low with desire as you feel your face burn at the way he looks down through half hooded eyelids. It feels awfully familiar, the way he can make you feel flustered so easily. Your hands grasp the grass under you, tightening as if expecting him to make the first move but he always did like to play. “The way you look up to me makes you seem like a sacrificial lamb, my love.” His words sound playful to your ear, a grin grows on his face. “Oh shut up.” Halbrand laughs. “Found your tongue again? Perhaps our time apart made you grow braver.” You roll your eyes and let out a small huff. Swiftly you turn your gaze back upon Halbrand, his face lowered near your cunt as he looks up to catch your gaze. "Then again, perhaps not, seeing as you are barely talking now." He says playfully. "Maybe I am thinking of closing my legs again if you continue to be like that." A low chuckle emits from his throat before he oh so slowly nears your cunt. "You could never close your legs for me, though you may try" You feel his warm breath upon the inside of your thighs. "I will simply help you open them again." A shiver rolls down your spine, sensing the subtle threat beneath his words, his eyes almost appearing slightly colder than before though his voice still has the same warmth it always had.
Halbrand smirks as he feels your body tense when his tongue makes contact with your clit. His eyes keep gazing upwards to see your facial expressions, enjoying the way you let go with his actions. He knows exactly how to move his tongue to make you wetter, one of his hands holding onto your hips posessively and the other reachings upwards to gently caress your breast. He feels your hips slightly buck up, seeking more friction. "Quite impatient I see." He murmurs softly yet loud enough for you to hear. "Stop teasing me." You say softly, he grins as he pulls back. "You think this is teasing? I could do so much more than simple touches to tease you, my love." A shiver rolls down your spine as his voice lowers when he refers to you as my love. "Your body seems to appreciate me well enough." His fingers slip between your folds, making simple up and down motions to gather your wetness.
He notices how your eyes follow the motion of his hand as he pulls back, slipping them, with your essence, into his own mouth to get a taste. You swallow hard, your own throat dry as you watch him close his eyes for a moment before he opens them to gaze upon your half naked form. "None compare to you, my love." He whispers lowly. Halbrand shifts himself closer to your body, your breath hitches as his face is right in front of yours in a second. "You shall only be mine." It feels like the flames are trying to claim the earth itself, his tongue taking control as he forces it past your lips with ease. The heat is overwhelming but softens as you give into it, letting Halbrand stake his claim as he had done so many times before. A hiss escapes your mouth as you feel a sharp pain on your lower lip, tasting blood as Halbrand pulls back. His own lips a crimson shade, your blood upon it.
"Mine alone." He mutters more to himself than to you. An uneasy shiver travels down your spine, his voice seems more distorted. Your heart sinks as something about Halbrand's appearance seems to.... differ. His hair being longer than you had seen in person, more to his shoulders. "Halbrand?" The words come out of your mouth as you softly grasp his cheek. The smile upon it no longer seems warm like usual, the glint in his eyes darker than before. You swallow hard, knowing within that Halbrand is but another fake persona but your heart yearns to hold onto when everything felt innocent and honest. "Was any of it true?" Your throat feels dry as you watch him carefully, blood dripping down your chin. "Yes.... my words may have lied" He starts before claiming your lips once more. "But my actions have not, dear one."
"Will you let me inside once more? To be surrounded by your warmth and spirit?" His voice is low, almost growling. Your heart feels torn, one side wanting to cast him out for his lies, for he is and what he had done. But the other wants to so desperately hold on to what was true once, what could have been if Galadriel's word was proven to be untrue. "Tell me." He urges, his hands tightly holding onto your waist, sqeeuzing it to get your attention. "...yes." You whisper out without thinking, certain this was just a realistic dreams. It almost seems to happen too quick, his face gone again and going back to returning to his former actions. A gasp leaves your lips as his tongue swirls around your clit, warmth spreading through your lower body. "Fuck." Halbrand feels your hips buck against his face, searching for more friction. A groan leaves his mouth and he pulls away, one of his hands lowering his own clothing, his breath heavier as he feels a change come about. Halbrand swallows hard and frees himself from his own clothing. "You're going to feel so good." He murmurs softly. Nothing can compare how it feels when he enters you first, heat rising through his body as he groans, leaning above you now. "Such sweetness for me." Slowly he pushes more into you, clenching his jaw until he is fully inside of you. "H-Halbrand, move, please."
He listens and his starting pace makes you gasp, none of the gentleness from before was there. "Too much." You whimper, his thrusts harsh and fast like an animal starved. It feels difficult to even talk, his thrusting pushing the air out of your lungs. One of his hands reach around your neck, not tightening to choke you but showing dominance over you. Knowing he would only need to sqeeuze a bit tighter to choke you out makes him feel powerful. "Nothing ever compares to your noises, the way your walls cling around my cock like you're trying to strangle it." Halbrand murmurs softly, eyes open but dilated. "No one came make you feel like I can." Your cheeks feel flushes, the warmth spreading through your body with every thrust. Halbrand quickening his pace as he begins to feel lost in the feeling of your walls clenching around him. You grasp his back hard, scratching his back with your nails. "S-shit." He whimpers and pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath and pushing your knees more against your upperbody so he can thrust in deeper. "Say my name again, who do you belong to." Halbrand hisses sharply as he begins thrusting in harshly again. "Oh oh."
Everything feels too warm, as if something within you is going to burst any moment now. "Say it." Halbrand whispers sharply in your ear, nipping at it harshly. "Y-you." Your breath hitches as you feel Halbrand smile against your skin, biting harshly in your neck to leave a mark for others to see. Tears grow in your eyes with this combination of pain and pleasure. A tingeling sensation roll from your shoulders down your body as heat rises within. "That's right." Halbrand mutters and claims your lips harshly, pushing past your lips to dominante all he can in the moment. It is clear to him how your body is teethering on the edge, so close to statisfaction. He lets go of your throat, his hand reaching low to ensure you finish around his cock soon enough. The moan you let out the moment he rubs your clit has him close to finishing in that moment, but he breaks off the kiss and clench his jaw. Wantin- no, needing to see your face as you fall apart. "Cum for me, give me those pretty eyes as you finish on me." He growls. A gasp leaves your mouth as you feel your clit throb once with his touches before a pleasant warmth flows through your body, clenching around Halbrand's cock.
Halbrand groans and his breath grows heavier as he murmurs. "Such a pretty toy, so pleasant and inviting for my seed." You pant as he keeps thrusting, his forehead leaning against yours as he groans, spilling inside of you. "Fuck." His movements still as he stays inside, feeling him soften before pulling out. Halbrand pulls back and look down as he does, seeing some of his cum drip out of your cunt. He scoops some of it and brings his fingers to your lips. "Taste yourself and me." You part your lips and he pushes his fingers in, making you taste the mixture of salt and something slightly sweet. "You are always mine, nothing will keep my away from you." His eyes make you shiver, feeling like something is wrong but you feel so tired. "I will find you here and anywhere else you might hide. You may think yourself safe but not from me." Tiredness falls over you as you try to catch your breath. "Sleep, I will be there soon." Darkness overtakes you as exhaustion claims you.
With a gasp you sit upright in your bed, sweating from the dream you awoke from. Your legs ache as you slip out of it, looking around to see any sign of someone being in here with you. None can be found and a sigh of relief escapes your lips. The promise to Galadriel still standing, it was just a realistic dream after all. A knock interrupts your wandering thoughts, almost making you jump as Galadriel's voice rings out. "Are you alright?" She enters carefully and looks at you. "You seemed.... restless in your sleep, muttering and groaning." Galadriel comes closer to you. "Was it him?" You shake your head immedaitly. "No... noo I just...." You take a deep breath. "I just couldn't sleep." Her eyes glance over your neck, your cheeks starting to flush as she is staring at the same spot Halbrand had bitten down in the dream. "You have a.... mark." She says softly, her hand placed gently on your shoulder as she focuses on the spot. Your throat feels dry as you turn to the mirror in your room, rushing towards it. There indeed it is, a light purplish colour blotted on your skin. "I...It's real?" Galadriel's eyes narrow as she steps behind you, holding her gaze upon you in the mirror. "It was him, seems you two had more of a bond than just a mental one." She glances her jaw and glares, taking a moment before sighing before she reveales what she hadn't said at first. "He is Sauron, the abhorred. His tongue does nothing but spews lies and manipulation."
She worries for you, evident in her voice. "We need to get you away from Eregion." You nod, absentmindely, still wrapping your head around Halbr-, no Sauron, actually leaving a mark when you feel something wet drip down your legs, making you freeze.
