A small one shot. Taking a break from writing long stories. This is done differently than my others, so tell me if you like:) (This is Deidara's point of view)
I own nothing.
His hands cupped the delicate flower, the blood transferred to the small outburst of folds from his hands. He held the small piece of art, thinking back to only moments ago when his village became true art. The explosion, the raging fire still burning, the smell of burnt flesh. It was all amazing.
The flower, a rose to be exact, had small droplets of blood, dripping, down as the roll off the edge to burn in memory of the Earth. Delicious white petals, soft and gentle. Thorns who could easily cut, and dirt colored stem, all making up this beautiful nightmare.
Screams. They fill his head, making the yellow haired man grin, small sadistic chuckles floating into the night air. How he wanted them all to suffer, feel pain as he, and become what they were made to become; fleeting, true art. How he will always remember this night, no matter where life will take him.
Turning his attention to rose once more, he thought of how beautiful it looked, the white petals stained with death, a soft orange glow from the raging flames, and a milky color from the moonlight still visible from the dark clouds above.
"Truly art," he said under his breath, a small smile graced across his blood tainted skin. This, he thought, is only the beginning of my nightmare.
Two years later. A new life, a new beginning. He'd kept the rose, a memoir of his life and the day he brought slaughter upon his village. You can't, however, spell 'slaughter' without 'laughter'. The rose had died long ago, had even been replaced by a new rose.
Blood drenched hair, feather light touches, strong chocolate eyes, boring into his as they finally became one with each other. Gasps were heard. Scratches were made. Eyes sewn shut, creamy soft legs wrapped around the blonds waist. How he has grown to love this man. His dream, his nightmare, his life. It was all very real.
"More," The red haired man moaned into the hot room. He obliged, doing as asked. Looking down, he placed gentle, loving, kisses upon this man he loved. The sounds his nightmare only made it all the more enjoyable. He switched the way they sat, bringing the smaller male into his lap, those soft legs still around his form.
A scream. Yes he had found it. The spot he hit repeatedly over and over. Small arms wrapped themselves around the bomber, silently asking for more. More sounds of pleasure, more feelings of love completeness. Yes, this was truly turning out to be more of his dream, though the image of the moonlit rose haunted his memory. Perhaps in this dark world, there is always a shadow of light. And as soon as feelings had been confessed, he had stepped into that light, even if it was only a speck. Now it sparked up, higher, longer, wider. It had grown with every passing day.
Walls got tighter, music became louder, thrusts became faster. His name was moaned out, a ribbons of white exploding on himself. Too tight. Shooting into his lover, he kissed the swollen lips, panting and searching for air.
Breaths were caught, and lights were out. Noises of love stopped, but only for now. Yes, there will be more. Many more, even after this life takes them. Because if one goes, the other will follow, bringing bloody murder upon themselves. Living a nightmare isn't as nice as holding a delicate, naked, flower in your arms, whispering the love you feel, and always will.
Again, nothing special. It was just an idea I had before I went I to sleep, and wanted to test it out. But now it's 9 in the morning exactly. Hm. Review?