Author's Note: in reading Sasori/Deidara fics, I noticed that most have them actually have sex. But Sasori is a puppet, without the necessary organs. So I thought. what could they do? And this was the result. It's not very graphic, in spite of the rating, but there is sex, so...yeah, just so you know. Hope you enjoy.
Hands-Off
(There are some barriers that can't be crossed; that doesn't stop them from trying.)
Sasori likes to watch.
There is no point in touching, because his wooden fingers get nothing out of it and they don't give much pleasure to Deidara either. He knew the consequences when he sacrificed the world of touch and taste and smell for immortality, for power, for perfection. He doesn't regret them.
But there are times, times in the night when Deidara is near him and he wants to touch but cannot bear to because he knows what he will not feel. Times that he thinks he might know what it means to regret.
It is the only way they can be close. Even they can't fool themselves into believing that their relationship is strictly sexual, not when they can't even have sex in the first place, but what else can they call it? Not love. Sasori has nothing to compare it to, but he's sure this can't be love.
Because puppets don't feel things like that.
Deidara hardly needs Sasori's help. He could ask Sasori not to watch while his hand trails down his chest, past the stitches, past his stomach, and the tongue coming out of his palm wraps around his cock, sliding in spirals. But the name that Deidara says, high and breathy and wanting, is Sasori's.
Sasori wonders, sometimes, what it would be like if he could feel it. If there was some mutual pleasure they could experience. But there isn't, so Sasori watches, and that is his pleasure, and Deidara pretends that Sasori is the one touching him like this, not his own hand. His own mouth.
It's only a game, and they both know it. But sometimes, just sometimes, when Deidara has come and Sasori has not because he never can, they stay together on Sasori's bed. Deidara lays down beside him, rests his head on Sasori's unfeeling chest, and at times like those, Sasori has trouble saying what the hell love is if it's not that.