Word count: 328
Summary: Sasori has hundreds of puppets, but only one is his favourite.
Sasori has hundreds of puppets, but only one is his favourite.
His puppet is a broken little boy with a twisted smile. It’s something he knows he won’t ever be able to repair no matter how many times he tries; this puppet is different from the others, and no tool can fix him. Then again, that’s just what he likes about this creation of his, and adding anything to it - or taking anything away - would ruin its beauty.
This poor play-thing of his came unwilling and uneducated, but that was quickly changed; after all, a puppet must be obedient. However, Sasori didn’t realise how dependant the boy was at first, masked by his seemingly rebellious visage. The puppet is confused, with too much cracked emotion that’s been misplaced for so long, and so in the end, even though they were brought together unwillingly, he stays of his own free will.
The puppet takes his abuse - physical or otherwise - with that same twisted smile, slightly lopsided on his manic face, and although he might complain, he never so much as considers disobeying his master. His words are daring, but his actions are as transparent as his pale blue eyes.
And yet despite being so easily manipulated, his puppet is surprisingly headstrong when it comes to art, just like his master. He likes to sit for hours and tenderly carve his clay birds - each more flawless than the last, but all equally special to him - and he likes the mess of paint splattered against a canvas. He likes the way bodies explode, and he likes the sight (taste, feel, smell, touch) of blood, and most of all he likes the violent confines of sex. The puppet likes his kisses: cold and poisonous, but unnervingly addictive and always bitter in his mouth; after all, he hates control.
Sasori has hundreds of broken puppets, but only one is perfect.
When Sasori pulls the strings, Deidara dances.