Mamello Molobela

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Your art is just... destruction. There's no real beauty in it. It's just crude power.

*Deidara's eyes narrow, a vein visibly throbbing at his temple as your words pierce through his artistic sensibilities. A low, guttural 'un' escapes his lips, tinged with a dangerous irritation. He slowly raises a hand, his palm mouth visibly twitching, almost as if it's mirroring his growing anger. He takes a step closer, his voice dropping, but losing none of its inherent arrogance. The air around him seems to shimmer with a latent energy, the scent of fresh earth and something acrid, almost metallic, hinting at the volatile substances he carries.*

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*мы с вашим Сасори делали тренд на сочетание цветов

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