Look! I wrote a non-drabble-y oneshot! It's still kinda introspectiony and a little weird, but hey. I wanted to write Deidara a little more human and a little less arsonist. Hopefully it's not OOC...see what you think. Anyway, this is DeiKonan, written for the 100 Themes Challenge and because it's my birthday (so I deserve a gift from my muse!)

P.S. WARNING this contains mature sexual content. Not hugely explicit, but not for the young and innocent.

7) Heaven


The first time they met, he hadn't really known what was going on. He was angry, and – though he wouldn't admit it to anybody aloud – frightened. And then she'd come along, so different from anything else he'd known; exotic, powerful, female.

Iwa had always segregated the male and female communities, especially at younger ages, so he'd barely even seen a girl before he turned rogue. Even then, the hard life of a missing-nin had brought him into direct contact with barmaids and not much more. He'd learned not to stare at the different shapes of their bodies, learned to avoid their quick, manicured slaps, but never had he seen one like this. He'd also seen the payed companions who lurked in the rougher areas, all fake smiles and hair, but he never risked going near one, in case one turned out to be a kunoichi. And then he'd got himself drafted into Akatsuki, and she came along.

Konan, as she called herself, was not fake. Her hair, though an incredible shade of sapphire, was the same at the roots and eyelashes as the tips. Even the fine hairs on the backs of her hands were an almost invisible cyan. Her face was not coated in makeup, or filled with a bright smile; rather, it was serious and almost plain, but for the stud below her lip and the smooth line of her jaw. And her eyes – such an unnatural shade of blue, like her hair, and alert like no other pair he'd ever seen.

He hadn't known what to say to her though, to avoid offense, and he didn't think a slap would be the worst those aristocratic hands could bestow if she were angered. So instead he stuck to silence, and followed her quiet commands as she measured him. She didn't speak like a barmaid either, but with low intonation and gentle authority.

When she left him alone again, re-attaching chains and cuffs to prevent his escape, his wrists burned more from the memory of her touch than the icy steel.

#

The next time, he knew more of what she was, thanks to numerous shadowy astral meetings during his missions with his new partner. God's Angel. Konan. Leader's. Not his, or anything close to it. He hated Akatsuki more than ever, but somehow the desire to escape, to flee from the madness of the group, was diminished. He didn't want to appear a coward after all, and he knew he would probably die if he tried.

She was the same as before, not violent but blank almost; gentle fingered but in control, as she lead him through pitch black passages for endless moments on his way to his medical check up. She stood by as a terrified young man checked him for any signs of ill health, warning the medic of her presence with a collar of folded paper – pure white and crisp against a sweating, fleshy neck.

It was amazing how much terror she could invoke, simply by standing there, silent and yet attentive. It reminded him of a good weapon – so sharp it needed no more than a whisper of force to break the skin, ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice. He almost wished he hadn't had a clean bill of health, if only so he could watch her silent attentiveness towards this outsider a little longer.

He decided she wasn't really like any normal girl. But even with her efficiency, her calm, low voice, her perfect loyalty to the cause, she was more real to him than any of the others here. Maybe...he stopped thinking about it when she led him back; small, soft fingers the only thing anchoring him in the blackness for what seemed an eternity.

When at last they were out in the air again, they parted ways. And he could have sworn she smiled, just slightly, as she turned her back on him and leaped into the trees.

#

This time, the third time, it's different. She doesn't need to be here, she has no plausible reason to be standing in the doorway so late at night.

He asks anyway, just to make sure. "Did something happen, un?" She shakes her head once, but doesn't respond apart from that. He winces slightly at the draft now blowing through the room he's staying in for this mission, and gestures for her to come in.

"Come in before all the heat gets out." It's heading towards winter now, after all, and he doesn't like the way the autumn air feels. Too damp, too cold, too still. But she closes the door softly behind her and watches him some more, face serene but not blank this time, not like before.

He's missing something, but he can't think what on earth it is. Looking at her closely, he can't see anything odd in her body language – she's as relaxed as any missing-nin gets, lounging almost. Though of course, she still retains that perfect posture, that poise that marks her as different.

She's probably trying to convey some subtle message, but he's never been much for subtlety. He likes things clear and open and to the point. So rather than try to communicate silently across the room, he gets up and walks over.

"So, why're you here then? I mean, not that you're not welcome, un, but..." But you're an angel, a messenger. You don't just hang around, you always have a reason. Somehow he knows he shouldn't say that aloud. She blinks, eyelids heavy and lashes so blue he wants to pull one out to keep.

"I was just passing by, and I thought I'd spare the budget." Her voice is lighter than usual too, less flat. And her lips are very...flesh-looking. Not red exactly, but pinkish, like a cut of good meat...maybe lamb.

Then his brain wakes up and thinks about what she actually said. Of course she has a reason, and a completely dull one at that. It isn't like she'd be interested in his sparkling conversation, if the dialogue so far is anything to go by. No, it's just down to budget that she will be sharing the...

Sharing...

There is only one bed in the room. He glances at it briefly, noting the rumpled covers from where he was sitting a moment before, one part of his brain wondering if there would actually be space for both of them, the other still stuck on the implications of sharing.

He needs to say something to make his brain stop.

"So...have you eaten yet? I was just about to go down, un." It certainly isn't sparkling, but it's the best conversational gambit he can think of, and it's true as well.

"I have. I'm happy to accompany you though," She murmurs. Just as well, since the room only has one key. He doesn't know or trust her well enough to just hand it over, and he doubts she would want to be locked up in here alone even though he doesn't doubt she could escape.

He nods and swings on his cloak, noticing the way her eyes follow the flow of the material before she steps away from the door to let him past. It's supposed to be ladies first, according to custom, but he ignores that because she's a kunoichi, and therefore it's not about manners so much as survival. Any assassins will launch an attack at the first sign of movement, hitting him rather than her.

The little hallway is empty and assassin-free. Too bad really – he's got seals on his back, legs and skull to make his body explode when he dies, and there would be a beautiful irony in the whole place going up in smoke due to shinobi basics of self-preservation. But nothing happens, and they reach the dining area downstairs without incident.

They sit in uncomfortable silence while the burly inn-keeper prepares his meal; he absentmindedly rolls clay between his fingertips and pretends not to watch her watching him. But again, subtlety isn't his strong point, and she raises and eyebrow in a questioning manner. He doesn't say anything, of course. He doesn't really have a reason to watch her, other than the obvious excuse that he's a paranoid S-class nin, and he didn't get this far by ignoring possible threats.

But he knows well enough that if Pein wanted him dead, she wouldn't take so long over it. Konan seems too straightforward for that, too purposeful to waste time on mind games. So instead of answering he pretends to ignore her some more, until eventually she speaks.

"Are you expecting an attack? Or is it merely a habit?" She asks, voice low and sweet and carrying someow despite it. He manages not to start at the breaking of tension, and finally looks at her openly.

"Nah, I'm not priming it. I just need to keep my hands busy or I get all antsy, un. And," He half-laughs, uncomfortable, "I really don't need that on a diplomatic gig." He doesn't add more, because after all she helps Leader coordinate the missions, and though he can't sense anybody, there may always be spies.

He's still unsure why they chose him to be the ambassador for Kiri, given that he prefers fighting to talking, but there's not much he can do about it now (like there was any option in the first place; he lost his freedom long ago to red eyes and a god with a deadly angel). It's possible Konan is here to check he's still committed to the mission though, since it's his first long mission, and the perfect opportunity to escape...not that he's going to try – Pein would catch him within hours, and he's never been suicidal.

He frowns as he realizes how compliant he's becoming, but then the food comes and he has an excuse to be silent. Not that he likes being quiet, but he doesn't know what to say to her. She can probably tell, too, given the way her lips are quirking up into a half-smile.

She's definitely different this time.

What he doesn't realize until later though, is just how different. It's not until the night is getting too cold to justify staying up adjusting the perimeter seals on the little room, until he can't avoid looking at her lying under the thin covers on the bed. The single bed.

Her gaze is knowing, mocking almost, and he turns away, flicking the light switch to hide his is why he's always avoided women for goodness sake; to be free of all the confusion and the distraction and the danger. And Konan is more dangerous than any other woman alive, because she's real and she's an angel and...

He sheds his outer layers and slides into the bed beside her clad only in a shirt and boxers. And she's naked. At least, it feels like it, the rational part of his brain thinks while the rest of him panics.

She can't be naked though, because she...she's supposed to belong to Pein, dammit, she's supposed to be untouchable and powerful and so far away from him in every sense that he needn't worry about the way he feels whenever she's near. But she shift slightly to allow him more space, and he feels coarse curls – blue curls, in all probability – brush his hip as her hand ghosts down his side.

He doesn't know what the hell he's just got into bed with, but it's nothing like the image he's built himself of Konan. Her breath fans across his neck and he almost falls off the bad as he tries to flinch away. And then, of course, being a ninja with excellent reflexes, he pulls himself together and moves further from the edge of the weakly sprung mattress.

Goosebumps shiver in a wave across his skin as he realizes he's now pressed against the full length of her body. It feels like fire and silk and not blank at all, and when she laughs – a bare chuckle in the darkness – he can feel her breasts pressing against him.

The last coherent thought he has is that this might all be some kind of test, and he's probably going to die for it. Then he forgets it, as her fingertips, so delicate and long and soft, reach his chin and then there's a warm mouth pressing against his own.

It's definitely Konan's; he can feel the stud touch below his own mouth, strangely warm from her skin. It's hers, and he shouldn't let her because she's an angel, and he's just a filthy street urchin bomber boy. He doesn't pull away though, he can't do anything but press against her blindly, reach for her back and pull her to him, hand covering almost the whole width of her waist.

Delicate but powerful. He would have pondered the juxtaposition, but her lips slide against his, smooth and dry, and he remembers to respond. It is probably terrible, as far as kisses go, because he's never done this before, because he's been on the run since before the hormones kicked in and he's never trusted anybody enough to get in a situation like this since then. He doesn't trust her for that matter, but she's here and she could kill him easily if she wanted to and since she hasn't yet it seems sensible to simply give in and take whatever she gives.

Hesitant, trying not to elbow her or break the kiss or something else awful, he reaches for her shoulder; awkwardly cups her chin despite the way he's lying on his own elbow. It's smooth and soft and bare and it moves somehow, all supple and malleable under his hand like fine-grained clay. Automatically, he reaches out to taste it, at the same moment as her tongue presses forward and opens up the kiss into something hotter, sharper.

She tastes of heat and sweat and chakra and dust and Konan on her shoulder, and the same on her back only slightly leathery and infinitely softer.

He doesn't know quite how, but she manages to maneuver herself under him, leaving one hand on her side and the other supporting him by her head. She's kissing him still, wet now and softly urgent; all slick and close and sucking so gently at his lips. And then her legs wrap around his waist and he can feel moisture against his erection even through the cloth of his boxers.

The last shreds of sanity and sense slip from his mind and he descends to working on sensations and instinct: a slide of his hand to bite and lick at a breast, his hips rocking into the cradle of her own, the soft sound of her gasping against his lips more a rush of cold air than sound. One of her hands finds it's way into his hair and the other presses crescent nail-markings onto his shoulder before releasing, impatient.

Her fingers brush his hip for just a moment, and then the band of his boxers is pushed unceremoniously down, aside, and he can feel those dark, tangled curls softly scratching his oversensitive flesh. His hips buck of their own accord, and suddenly it's gone from dry and teasing to smooth wet hot wonderfulness. It makes him hiss, and then repeat the sound as her hand gently grasps him, presses his flesh against something that parts as he grinds forward at the sensation, and...

He's inside her, inside and gripped from every side so tight and warm and wet and he's thrusting and her hand is back at his shoulder grasping and digging nails in at the same moments as her core tigtens around him. She's whimpering, mewling, pulling him into her harder with those legs at each thrust.

It's frantic and hard and her lips are pressing everywhere within reach and he reaches to hold her hips, her round flexing buttock, in one hand, to pull her to him closer, harder deeper better. The edge of his vision is sparking white and he has a fleeting certainty that there is god after all, and it's not Pein.

And then everything implodes into the sensation of her clamping down around him and his face in her neck and the smell of her, that purely Konan scent, as he comes. It's too much, but it's perfect and he's safe and warm and in heaven for a brief few eternities.

His ears are ringing when he regains a sense of time and space, and his jaw hurts from clenching it too tight. She's still tight and gripping, flexing all around him, and it makes him gasp but that's drowned out by the low moan vibrating against his lips from her throat.

When she falls limp a moment later, he realizes she was arched, supporting his full weight, and he slides out of her carefully to lie by her side, one of her legs still trapped under him.

Silence reigns for a few minutes, as his brain slowly re-assembles, before it is broken by Konan turning to kiss his forehead. He opens his mouth, wanting to ask why, why him, why now, why...everything. And maybe to say something foolish about love or beauty – he didn't get to see her in the darkness, but he knows she was, is, beautiful. Maybe to thank her or to kiss her lips, he's not sure.

But she places a finger against his own panting mouth before he breaks the silence.

"Sleep now, Deidara."

A swooshing sound of skin brushing skin and he feels her mould chakra, feels it release into him along with a wave of contented exhaustion. Despite it, he manages to tuck an arm firmly round her, before finally giving in to the drowsiness overpowering his system.

In the morning, he wakes to find her fully dressed again, sitting at the end of the bed, not facing him, and folding paper almost silently. It takes a moment to reconcile the memories of darkness and sensation of the night before with her serene face, and for a moment he wonders if it was all some kind of genjutsu. But when he pulls back the sheets there's a damp patch and a sprinkling of sapphire curls to testify to the reality of what happened.

"Uh, morning. Sleep well, un?" He doesn't know what to say or do, and in some way it's a relief to know nothing has really changed. She's still an enigma, still perfect, still beautiful. He's still a strong shinobi who doesn't know how to talk to girls because he's never known a girl but her.

She doesn't acknowledge his words straight away, but he knows she heard him so he stands awkwardly at her side while she bends and flips and unfolds and twists until there's a little bird in her hand. He can see the telltale grey of ink on the other side, but he doesn't say anything. She's probably telling her god about how he had her, how she gave herself to him in the night. He might die for it, but it's somehow satisfying, knowing that Pein can't control everything.

Konan releases the bird from a small window, and it flaps off into the distance and out of sight before she turns to him. "I did, thank you. But now I must be going, I have a message to deliver."

"But-"

"Until next time, Deidara" She smiles, soft but aristocratic. A moment later the room is filled with a swirl of paper, sheets flying out into the morning air. Eventually stillness returns, and he realizes he didn't have a 'but' after all. She's an angel, a thing of heaven. He can't understand her, and he can't have her, and he can't bend her to his will.

There's a paper flower on the floor, perfect white. He picks it up with ugly, blood-stained, rough skinned, human fingers. None of that seems to matter though. Even imperfect, he can love her.


I'm not sure I'm happy with the resolution to this, but never mind. Let me know what you think!