Prologue to Smut
Sakura's heart raced as she entered the room with the detective, her emotions a turbulent storm of fear, confusion, and guilt. She had never imagined herself in this situation, caught between the truth of Sasori's gruesome secret and the uncertainty of what to do next.
Seeing Sasori lying there, his body a patchwork of stitches holding together the wounds she inflicted, filled her with a mixture of panic and dread. Until she blinked and saw the clear truth, he was as perfect as always, pristine. Mostly at least, perhaps she could subjectively admit he was lacking his normal lively hue. And certainly, the gown was hiding his stitched chest.
The superimposed memory of one of his victims jarred her into a momentary disjointed state. But she wouldn’t easily forget stabbing him through his heart.
Still, relief that he was still alive, despite her actions, and his actions, had her feeling at least some positive emotion. The room may contain a murderer, but it did not contain a murderess.
Her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions as she struggled to make sense of everything, including how to move her feet. She was justified in defending herself, that she was certain. But how could she cross that line so easily, attacking him with the intent to kill? Someone she so adored and loved. Even with his dark secret, the horrific truth she stumbled upon in that seemingly harmless room, how did she flip like a switch. Light to dark, with no lingering glow.
Never had she thought she had that within her.
Sakura's appearance mirrored her inner turmoil, a disheveled reflection of the chaos consuming her soul. She felt the weight of Sasori's gaze upon her, his hooded eyes piercing through her skin and directly to the raw vulnerability beating beneath.
He was out of surgery this morning, cleared for visitors not long after. But she couldn’t come right away, fear held her back in part. The other part was her indecisiveness on what to do about what she knew, causing her to delay and deflect with the officers who arrived at the scene of his stabbing. Although, the moment she didn’t lead the authorities directly to his trophy room, she supposed she had already decided what to do.
The detective's presence offered a sense of stability amid the chaos, his support a lifeline in her moments of weakness. Yet, even as she leaned into his reassuring presence, Sakura couldn't escape the pull of Sasori, calling out her name without words, with an aura of urgency that sent shivers down her spine. She was nearly hysterical with the need to run to him and away from him.
Her hand trembled as she reached out towards him, allowing herself to be drawn by a force she couldn't fully comprehend and pushed by the unawares gentleman who had been kind enough to escort her here. Despite everything, despite the horrors she had witnessed, dismembered limbs and arms, empty heads with preserved eyes…there was a part of her that still cared for him, that couldn't bear to see him suffer, no matter how deserving. And another part that couldn’t help but see him as pieces of what he was before.
As Sakura's fingers brushed against Sasori's skin, his exposed arm, she felt a surge of conflicting emotions flood her senses, causing the edges of her vision to grey and blacken. Guilt, revulsion, love, regret, compassion—all warring for dominance.
All she could do was stand there, caught between what she knew she knew and what she thought she knew and what she now knew she didn’t know. The moment stretched and stretched, taut with tension.
His hand reached over his body, slow and stunted as if in pain but determined not to show an ounce of weakness, to end resting gently atop her. “Hey there, doll face,” he said, practically giddy. His voice was raspier than usual, dreadfully sexy for the circumstances.
She felt like fainting, she felt like vomiting, but most of all she felt like crying. So, she did, she leaned forward and bawled until her eyes stung and her head pounded with aching.
One week had passed since Sasori's discharge from the hospital, and Sakura found herself in a delicate balancing act between her normal affections and the palpable need to withdrawal from him.
Each day brought its own set of challenges as she tended to Sasori's needs while grappling with her morals. He was more affectionate than before, seemingly renewed by the fact that she stayed. If she loved him how he was before, she would be obsessed now. Obsessed if not for the bodily details that keep reappearing in her dreams, peripheral vision, and outright imaging whenever she saw something vaguely arm shaped.
She would often flinch when he reached for her, and she never did that before.
In the mornings, Sakura would wake early to prepare breakfast for Sasori, just to get out of their shared bed faster. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with their traditional styled breakfast, pleasantly filling the air. She would set the table with care, arranging the dishes just so, a small gesture of normalcy. It reminded her of home, ‘everything in it’s place and a place for everything’ her mother would say.
Sasori liked that, liked order and structure. Sakura was raised on it, and liked it well enough, but she also rebelled and liked to kick her shoes across the room when the occasion called for it.
She didn’t think the occasion would ever call for her to carelessly discard her shoes again…
As they sit together at the table, Sasori would speak with animated expressions and subdued gestures, his eyes alight with passion as he recounted his exploits as an artist and collector, explaining his journey to her in gruesome detail. Sakura would listen intently, feeling a sense of understanding from the more righteous actions he partook in, and then horror as they started to morph into what she saw nearly nine days ago.
Once breakfast was finished, she would rush to clean up, afraid to have him at her back as she washed the dishes. He would patiently wait within her sight, then slowly walk with her to whatever it was they decided to do that day.
Throughout the day, Sakura would tend to Sasori's needs with quiet efficiency, changing his bandages, administering his medication, and ensuring that he remained comfortable. She moved about the house with a sense of purpose, her movements graceful, guarded, tiptoeing through a minefield of memories for every location within their home.
Despite her best efforts to maintain a sense of normalcy, there were moments, moments threatening to overwhelm her. She would retreat into herself, lost in a labyrinth of doubts and fears, her heart heavy with the burden of secrets she dared not speak aloud. She knew he killed people, she knew, and she stayed. Worse, she protected his secret.
She felt some semblance of anger, that she was now burdened with what he became unburdened with.
Sasori, ever observant, would time him moments well. He would track her, sense her distress. And he would pull her into his arms, holding her close as if to shield her from the storm raging within at the most opportune moments. He would whisper words of comfort and reassurance, his voice a soothing balm against the raw edges of her pain. He would caress her cheek with gentle fingers, his touch a reminder that she was not alone.
Still, she thought him a coward. For all the touches and comfort, he was too afraid to test a kiss. Too afraid of rejection.
In the evenings, they would sit together in the dim glow of the living room, the flickering light of the fireplace casting dancing shadowy puppets across the walls.
Sakura would watch him, watch the shadows, and sometimes, she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the two.
As the days stretched into weeks, and Sasori’s recovery meant more mobility, he and Sakura found solace in their shared moments of connection, fleeting though they may be. It was like learning to love again for her, and for him, he had to learn to hold back his emotions – so happy was he who had someone that knew the truth and stayed.
It had been some time, enough time for the wound over his heart to be red and ugly, but closed and healed. Enough time that he was now more invested in touch, feel, and connection.
She accepted him, in the end. Allowed him to touch her, but she felt like she lost a bit of herself to do so. Like forcing two unmatching pieces together, she tried to reconnect to him on the level they had before she found out she was dating a serial killer. Their connection remained both tight and loose, a delicate balance between acceptance and apprehension.
For him… for him he was happier and healthier than she had ever seen him. Things that he wouldn’t or couldn’t do were now executed without hesitation. Things like “I love you,” came out more than daily. His declaration of love flowed too freely, leaving Sakura both touched and wary of his intentions. Friends said it was because he nearly died to a ‘burglary,’ that would change anyone’s outlook on life. Only she knew the truth.
Yet, Sakura remained by Sasori's side, drawn to him by a bond that seemed to transcend. In his arms, with a forgetful mind, she found a fleeting sense of peace. Despite her efforts to bury the memory, the memory of Sasori's secret trophy room continued to haunt her curiosity, its sinister presence looming.
One evening, when Sasori slept early, she, consumed by a gnawing curiosity, ventured into the depths of their home once more, her quite footsteps echoing like a ominous drum against her fears. As she stepped into the shadowy confines of the trophy room, her heart thundered in her chest, each beat a reminder of the horrors that lay hidden within.
She pressed on the false bookcase, opening the hidden door. He showed her this area when they first started dating and she once thought was his panic room. How stupid she had been. How stupid she was.
To her shock, dismay, and expectations she beheld the disassembled display of limbs, which was strangely homely to her now, that like pots on a rack over the sink. The torsos were nicely positioned on a rack adjacent to the door, heads more skillfully mounted for optimal retention of features. It was less like a horror show and more like a prop room this time around.
Still, when she her the sounds of his controlled steps, she instantly became panicked. Sakura turned to flee, her footsteps echoing in the darkness as she raced towards the safety of literally-anywhere-but-here. She made it out of the room, and into the hall where he stood.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still as Sakura stared into Sasori's eyes, a whirlwind of emotions churning between them. She elbowed past him, ducking lower than he could quickly reach and beelined for the kitchen. She hoped he would know, would instantly recall the last time this happened she nearly killed him.
Still, she heard him follow.
The butchers block was still missing the knife she pulled from the first time, but there were plenty of alternatives, she got the first blade her fingers touched. She turned just as he reached for her.
In that tense moment, Sasori's features contorted with a mixture of shock and apprehension, his gaze flickering, but accepting. She couldn’t seem to stop crying, though she had no idea when she started. Perhaps when she started running, perhaps she never stopped after that day in the hospital.
She could see the puppet shadows on the wall again, mocking her sanity again. With a starting swift and determined motion, she reached and struck out, the blade stabbing through the air, as deadly as before.
To her astonishment, Sakura watched as the shadows behind Sasori crumpled to the ground.