i just want to make a clean escape
i just want to make a clean escape
deidara/sakura. pg. 217.
Those clenched fists, sweat dripping down a neck pale and glistening, green eyes like signals sent to ward off demons.
for rika, who gave me this random pairing. i actually hate deidara, but i like this fic? idk.
It's not art, it's a shell: a wooden corpse of someone who used to be worth something, a mannequin to mock life and determination.
There is no hint of pride in the puppet's face, and the worst part is he knows it should be there.
---
Those clenched fists, sweat dripping down a neck pale and glistening, green eyes like signals sent to ward off demons.
He can see this, because he knows:
She's about to explode.
---
He doesn't understand how she lost -- no disrespect intended to his fellow artist -- because she had so much force behind her punches and even more behind her personality.
In the end, we all only have as much stamina as we're born with.
(Except Sasori. His puppets never tire.)
She could have grown up to be someone brilliant.
---
Is he mourning?
---
Because now she'll never grow old
or tired
or loved.
He would try his best to fix it, but his best isn't ever enough.
---
Pink strands slip through the cracks between his fingers, drifting listlessly to the floor.
He releases them. A breeze takes them skyward and he smiles.
When his fist connects with the green-gazing skull of wood and wire parts, his grin extends even wider.
---
She can be free, now.
deidara/sakura. pg. 217.
Those clenched fists, sweat dripping down a neck pale and glistening, green eyes like signals sent to ward off demons.
for rika, who gave me this random pairing. i actually hate deidara, but i like this fic? idk.
It's not art, it's a shell: a wooden corpse of someone who used to be worth something, a mannequin to mock life and determination.
There is no hint of pride in the puppet's face, and the worst part is he knows it should be there.
---
Those clenched fists, sweat dripping down a neck pale and glistening, green eyes like signals sent to ward off demons.
He can see this, because he knows:
She's about to explode.
---
He doesn't understand how she lost -- no disrespect intended to his fellow artist -- because she had so much force behind her punches and even more behind her personality.
In the end, we all only have as much stamina as we're born with.
(Except Sasori. His puppets never tire.)
She could have grown up to be someone brilliant.
---
Is he mourning?
---
Because now she'll never grow old
or tired
or loved.
He would try his best to fix it, but his best isn't ever enough.
---
Pink strands slip through the cracks between his fingers, drifting listlessly to the floor.
He releases them. A breeze takes them skyward and he smiles.
When his fist connects with the green-gazing skull of wood and wire parts, his grin extends even wider.
---
She can be free, now.