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They may be together, but that doesn’t stop Deidara from keeping an eye over his shoulder. Sasori is unpredictable, and though stunningly cautious and meticulous, he’s just as equally unstable. And on top of that, they’ve made it clear to each other that this is to be a relationship of convenience. When it comes down to it, they’re looking out for themselves and only themselves.
That’s starting to change on the battlefield and Deidara doesn’t know that he likes it. Before their missions, Sasori’s started to fret over him. Rushes to heal any wounds he has and assists more than he ever has in the past.
That is, not at all. And that’s not part of the deal.
If anything, he should be the one muddying it, so young, impulsive, and emotional. After a while, it starts to get old. Still, his partner persists and sure enough, on the next mission, Sasori’s scowling at him as he’s packing his pouches. “Are you sure that’s enough?”
“Are you the explosives expert?”
“You haven’t been careful enough.”
“Come on, don’t start on that again,” Deidara dismisses. He’s starting to go senile. “I know what I’m doing.”
Only days later, Deidara’s hit so hard in the chest that his heart stops and it’s only because Sasori resuscitates him that he’s brought back to the land of the living. It’s with a gasp that air floods into his lungs again and before he knows it, he’s being rolled onto his side just before throwing up the sparse contents of his stomach.
It’s a close call and one neither of them want to talk about.
“You said you were going to be more cautious,” Sasori chastises.
Sasori is no kinder to him when he’s injured than he’d been before their relationship. In fact, after this incident, he becomes avoidant. He barely pays attention to Deidara’s chatter and even if he hadn’t before, he’d at least entertain him with the occasional nod or hum. Sometimes, even just arguing with him is enough for him to get the attention he needs.
He expects a fight, or for Sasori to berate him to be more careful. Killing himself would be an inconvenience for them both and after Orochimaru, Deidara knows he won’t stand for another partner. At least he has that going for him.
Because they don’t fight, Deidara expects to fuck. But the hours pass and as they reach the inn, Sasori barely talks to him. They settle into their room, he makes himself dinner, and his partner tinkers with his wooden limbs as he slurps down huge mouthfuls of instant ramen. Tomorrow, he’ll force them out for breakfast but right now, they’re both sick of the public.
Night falls and Sasori is still working on his puppets as Deidara settles himself into bed. There are so many days that he forces his way through with military pills that he’s grateful for any sleep he can get in a proper bed. He doesn’t take for granted the weight of a comforter over him or the soft press of a pillow against his face and the creak of Sasori’s wooden limbs is a familiar one that rocks him to sleep.
Most of the night, he sleeps.
He doesn’t know what time it is when a shift against his back wakes him and a hand smooths up his chest. It’s Sasori, but the touch is unexpected given the pattern of the day. Still, there’s no way he’s going to lean away from it. His partner’s face is buried between his shoulder blades and they both know he doesn’t need to sleep, but when Deidara presses against him, he pretends he is.
He’s not going to stop him. It’s a comfort they both need, though neither of them are going to say it.
“Are you scared that I’m going to die?” Deidara asks one morning. On the outskirts of the Land of Fire, their tent is pitched on dew-stained grass that soaks through his pants where he sits. He can feel a stare on him but when his eyes flick up to meet his, Sasori looks away.
“It’s a fact,” his partner dismisses. “There’s no benefit to agonize over something I can’t change. It’s pointless.”
“Like trying to make yourself immortal, hn?” He hums thoughtfully, and he can feel Sasori’s eyes narrow at him. Looking up only confirms it. “You’re bullshitting me.”
Instead of lashing out like he expects, Sasori rolls his eyes. “Fine. You’re a liability. You don’t think your shit gets old? You’re reckless on purpose and I know you do it just to antagonize me sometimes. You’re just—”
Something clicks.
“Do you love me, hn?” Deidara blurts before he can stop himself.
A despair flashes in his honey-grey eyes that sinks Deidara’s stomach. “No.” He pauses. Clears his throat. “I shouldn’t.”
That’s enough of an answer. Still, he wants to hear it. “But you do. Right?”
Sasori looks away. Purses his lips. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” Deidara finds himself apologizing.
They both know they’ll never compromise their art for each other.
Sasori becomes angrier when they fight. Sadism has always been part of his personality but normally so controlled and composed, he’s starting to fray at the seams and unravel. He’s always killed indiscriminately but there’s something deeper to the way he tortures his prey. He goes after families. Lovers and groups that seem to depend on each other. He makes them kill each other, tortures them and mutilates them until they’re begging him to be killed.
They only need to go after the region’s daimyo, but Sasori takes out the entire castle.
Sprawled out in the building’s wine cellar is a body with a katana pierced through his heart and hair the same striking red as his and for the longest time, all he does is stare. Then, in one swift motion, he kicks the body in the head, hard enough to send it cracking against the flooring. He does it again and this time, there’s a crunch.
“Hey,” Deidara says the next time he does it. “We should get out of here before someone shows up, hn.”
It snaps Sasori back to reality and when he turns around, there’s something in his eyes that Deidara hates. Pain never looks good on him.
“What?” His partner snaps at him.
“Are you okay?”
Deidara is scoffed at. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Fine," he huffs. "Forget it.”
He’s never been the easiest to talk to and the argument, though short, is enough for them to travel the next few hours in absolute silence. If he wants to be stubborn, then so be it.
In a cave still damp from last night’s storm, Sasori does the same thing he always does when he isolates himself. He refuses to talk and summons forth his Kazekage puppet, laying its head on his lap and pretends to work on it. Deidara gives him privacy by working with his back to him, hands covered in slurry from his clay and tongues lapping wet against his palms. He tastes the earth on his creation and from the corner of his eye catches his partner stroking his fingers through the puppet’s hair.
He knows it’s because something in this last village reminded him of home. The head he’d smashed had hair the same striking red as his own and when he turned back around to face Deidara, there was a pain in his eyes he’d never seen before.
He only likes to see cruelty on him. Guilt he doesn’t expect starts to eat him inside out. When he dies, Sasori is going to be lonely.
His partner isn’t the only one that cares more than he’s supposed to.
“Sasori?” he whispers when the silence becomes unbearable.
“What?”
All he wants is to close the distance between them. “I love you, too.”
Deidara doesn’t particularly like to be fucked, but when Sasori pins his arms above his head and grinds his thigh between his legs, he doesn’t stop him. His cock, strained hard against him, is enough of a giveaway that he’s used that jutsu again and it makes his mouth dry. His heart beats in his throat when he uses wraps to bind him to the inn’s bedframe, because Sasori’s never fucked him before and he doesn’t know what to expect. He knows how he treats his boyfriend in bed and it’s far from kind.
Is he going to take the hurt he’s feeling out on him like that?
Deidara’s stomach twists when a thumb pulls down his lower lip and Sasori stares down at him with doe eyes that look exhausted despite his unchanging wooden features. By no means does it feel bad when he shimmies his hands under his shirt, up his ribs and back down to his hips, digging his thumbs into the dip of his pelvis. It’s daunting, but that makes it all the more enticing. He may get hurt, but he won’t get killed. Hopefully.
Deidara’s cock throbs between his legs and he moans when those same hands start to slip his pants off. Sasori fumbles as he does it and something about how awkward it is almost makes him laugh. It’s only bitten back because his partner will get pissed. Maybe rightfully so. And he likes to hurt but he doesn’t like to be hurt. That doesn’t mean there isn’t something almost too tender about the way his partner slips his boxer-briefs off and tosses them to the ground. He runs his nail gently up the underside of his erection, swirling his finger around the tip before palming at him.
His body jerks, hands straining against the bedframe before he can stop himself, and he expects Sasori to hurt him. He’s the control freak and lately, he’s been unstable. Anything he can get his hands on, he tortures. He doesn’t expect Sasori to dip his head between his legs and lap his tongue up his cock. It’s almost timid.
“Oh my god,” he groans and it dies to something unfamiliar and guttural as his partner takes him into his mouth. Bobs his head until he’s rocking him down his throat hitches Deidara’s breath. It’s burning hot and the wetness around him is almost too much. A slurp closer to a gag comes out of Sasori and it makes him ache even harder.
His eyes flick up to meet Deidara’s and he has to look away before he spills over. “Stop looking at me like that, hn.”
“You’re beautiful,” is all Sasori whispers back. When his body is like this, Deidara feels like he has all of him.
At the compliment, he laughs. “You’re saying that when you have a face like that? Come on.”
Sasori pulls away just long enough to bite bruising kisses up his thigh. “You always have to argue with me, don’t you?” he scowls before taking him back down his throat.
He may not like to be tied up, but he doesn’t mind being pushed around a little. The tongue swirling around him makes him tilt his head back and whine. “It’s because you—" Sasori pushes two fingers into him and Deidara chokes, cumming as soon as they fuck against his prostate. “Hey. Hey, not yet, I don’t want you to—your throat, I’m—” he doesn’t realize how he’s forcing his cock back into Sasori’s mouth until there’s another choked, wet gag around him as he melts into his orgasm. He barely notices how his wrists strain against the wraps as Sasori clings to him, swallowing around him.
He’s gasping for air, lips stained a messy red. Deidara knows it’s not enough for him. He’s possessive. “Can I—”
“Since when have you ever asked for anything, hn?”
Again, he expects aggression, but it’s just awkward as Sasori fumbles with oil and slicks himself up. The first few times he tries to thrust into him he slips against him, trying to pull him further onto his lap. Finally, he hoists him up and rolls that first thrust into him.
Deidara is the one that’s supposed to be making noise but instead, his partner is muttering an “Oh, fuck, Deidara,” as he rolls his cock into him.
It’s too tight for a second and he knows it’s not intentional, but Sasori fucks him too fast, pushing himself all the way into him before he can adjust. He sputters a gritted, “Careful,” that stops it almost immediately.
Why is he listening? “I’m sorry,” Sasori grunts, running his palm up the soft of his stomach, the heel of his palm pressing into his abdomen. His nails drag back down him and he can’t help but shudder.
Deidara’s never heard those words come off his lips. “Keep going, hn,” is all he replies.
Sasori isn’t rough with him—shockingly gentle, even—but there’s a possessiveness again to the way he fucks him. It’s not his preference, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel good as Sasori’s fist strokes him hard again and his cock hits that same spot inside him again. He tenses and his partner’s eyes flutter.
God, it’s so fucking intoxicating. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers and Sasori’s hips stutter, thrusts slow but start to roll deeper inside of him, pressing hard against his prostate. His hand fucks him sloppy enough that he’s squirming to try to keep up. Every time he feels like he’s about to cum again, it all stops. “Stop it. You’re doing that on purpose.”
Sasori snaps three sharp thrusts into him and he’s sobbing out a moan and Deidara tries to arch his back against him. “Of course I am.” This man is obsessed with him. He knows he is and relishes the way Sasori melts into him, clinging to him like he can’t get enough. “God, goddamit, you’re tight.”
“I’m the one that’s supposed to be moaning like a bitch, hn,” He taunts and that makes Sasori grope him enough to send heat plunging back between his legs, rocking against the fullness in him as he spills cum down his knuckles. This time, he’s oversensitive enough that it sends his knees practically knocking together, but a thigh forces them back apart.
It hitches Sasori’s breath and there’s that same frantic thrust against his ass. A fist in Deidara’s hair presses his face to the mattress while another forces his hip down. Even like this, he feels practically worshipped. There’s a desperate, “Come here, come here, I’m going to cum, you have to—fuck, god, you need to stop doing this to me,” practically begged above him that runs an icy shiver up his spine he thinks he could become addicted to.
When he’s finished and gasping hot air against Deidara’s throat, he loosens the wraps and presses kisses into his reddened wrists. It’s not long before he melts back into his puppet body, but his heartbeat is still alive in the center of his chest. The jutsu uses too much chakra and his body dysmorphia only lets him stay this way for so long.
It’s fine. He’ll take what he can get. Still, there’s something on his mind he can’t shake. “What was that about, hn? You never want to do that,” he asks as Sasori rolls back on top of him, resting his chin in the dip of his chest.
Sometimes, he looks away. Other times, his partner stares for so long that it becomes uncomfortable. Right now, it’s the latter. “I wanted to know what it felt like.”
“Wait, have you never—”
“Don’t.”
Deidara rolls his eyes. “Uhuh.”
They wake up before dawn and go on their way.
Deidara is sure Sasori would be no more comfortable in his own village than he is on the outskirts of Sunagakure. Regardless, he puts on an ambivalent façade as they trudge through rocky valleys he wishes he didn’t know so well.
“It would be more convenient if the jinchuuriki were here.”
“They were stupid enough to let it slip through their fingers, hn.”
“Is that where you get it from?”
Deidara bares his teeth. “Give me a fucking break. They didn’t understand me. I am an artist. If we’re going to bash each other’s brains out, I might as well add a little flair to it, hn.”
“Sensitive.”
“It’s not like you talk about your village, either.”
Sasori rolls his shoulders and there’s a series of chatters that come with it. Before, it had been eerie. Now, it’s a strange comfort. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You’re not this fucked up for no reason, hn,” Deidara argues.
The same silence as always settles over them. “It’s the same as you. They were holding me back. I wanted more than what being a shinobi had to offer.”
There’s a bitterness to it that’s different from what he feels. Sasori has muted anger in him. Deidara is just bored. And has a little bit of an inferiority complex.
They stop at a village on the outskirts of Sunagakure and right away, he wants to go to the bar. He hates travelling for days at a time, eating only rations and the preserved food Sasori’s stored for them. Not having to eat, himself, he’s purely utilitarian and it makes Deidara forget what real food tastes like. In a run-down ramen shop, he orders a beer they give him without question and a bowl of ramen he wolfs down in seconds. He goes for a second bowl and Sasori frowns at him.
Here we go again with the criticism. “You’re going to throw up if you eat that much.”
“You’ve been starving me. What else do you expect?”
“A little civility.”
“Kiss my ass, hn.”
He has one more bowl of ramen and three more beers.
On the way back to their inn, someone spits on Deidara and calls him a faggot and Sasori pulls him into an alley and slits his throat before anyone notices. Before even Deidara can move. And it’s only minutes later that the alcohol hits him a little too hard and he can’t help the way he pulls away after he sees the body. It lights a fury in him he can’t bite back. “What the fuck is your problem, hn?” He’s sick of the bullshit.
“I was doing you a favor. You’re drunk.”
“How is emasculating me by fighting my battles a favor?” It’s insulting. “You may think I’m an idiot, but I’m just as good of an artist as you are and you need to stay out of my fucking way.”
Instead of retreating, Sasori lashes out. “I’m not arguing with you. Sober up and get your shit together.”
He’s deflecting and all Deidara sees in his eyes is hurt.
“You’re right,” Sasori says one day and Deidara has no idea what he’s talking about. They’re in the middle of Kirigakure, bundled up to keep from the stinging, almost icy rain. He hates weather like this.
Chatter at least keeps him occupied. “I’m happy to hear that, but you gotta elaborate, my man.”
“You know I hate when you call me that.”
Like he fucking cares. “Elaborate.”
Sasori rolls his eyes. “You’re right,” he repeats. “I don’t want you to die.” There’s no way he isn’t forcing it out.
Deidara doesn’t want to laugh, but he can’t help himself. It’s supposed to lighten the mood. “Wow, you’re never chatty like this.”
“Do you want me to talk about it or not?”
Okay, maybe not. “Alright, sorry, sorry, hn.” Still, it doesn’t seem all that complicated. “Aren’t you just going to turn me into a puppet?”
“I can’t do that. Besides, I’m sure you’ll blow up. I would have a body to work with, anyway.”
That is more puzzling than anything else. Sasori can’t get rid of anything fascinating, never mind something he cares about. “Why?”
“You wouldn’t be you anymore.”
“Ah,” Deidara hums. He hadn’t thought about that. “I guess you’re right. But I still can’t do anything about it, hn.”
“I know.”
“I’ll be sticking around for a while, though. I’m not going down until I kick Uchiha’s ass.”
Sasori snorts and it’s a kick to his ego. “You’re going to be around for a while, then.”
“I could kick your ass right now, hn.”
“Be my guest.”
Instead of fighting him, Deidara reminds himself of how badly he wants him and pounces.
They don’t fuck all the way, but Deidara pulls his cloak open and tongues at his heart chamber until he feels him curl his toes against the back of his calves. He pulls himself out of his pants, laps at himself with his hand mouth, and moans against his partner’s beating heart. Sasori doesn’t always have to touch him, because sometimes he’s disgusted with himself and sometimes, he’s disgusted by Deidara’s humanity.
That’s fine. He doesn’t really care. Deidara dabs at his heart chamber again and Sasori lets out a soft moan that no matter how many times he hears is so fucking satisfying. Fingers dig into his scalp but this time, they’re kinder as they twist into his dirty-blond locks. That, he likes.
Still, there’s something he can feel Sasori wanting. Avoiding. Which does he fear more? Death, or being alone?
Deidara cums too fast and it splatters against Sasori’s pants. Can’t think about it.
Why is he still fretting? “Can’t you just enjoy yourself for once, hn?” There’s that, and the fact that it’s a little insulting.
“That’s careless.”
That isn’t what he wants to hear, and they both know it. Besides, there’s something he feels he’s owed. “If I’m going to bend for you, you have to bend a little for me.” He doesn’t get to be the one in control here and sometimes, he needs to be reminded of that. He can’t always have everything he wants.
“Imbecile.”
“But you will, right?” Sasori doesn’t say anything, but it doesn’t matter. A smile twists over Deidara’s lips. “That’s what I thought.”
He is, after all, more an artist than a shinobi.