Sasori tells himself he is not lurking about the island, lingering among the soldiers who have sojourned to the temple of his younger brother as if the underwhelming qualities of the overpriced armor being swindled will improve their footwork and swordsmanship or lack thereof, not because he thinks the mortal men a challenge to his goddess—even less so to the hammer of Gaara—but in her current constitution the mere thought of trouble brought upon her shores at the hands of his band of worshipers weighs like a heavy stone on his chest.
A lack of strength is not his concern, but the naivety of the younger couple. Gaara does not hide his limp, not even from the mortals—an easy task for a god—and while Sakura does disguise herself as a human, but whether it’s her own vanity or a lack of understanding just how ethereal she looks, even now with her stola draped loosely over her long hair, still too pink to exist naturally among the women in this realm.
So he stays just on the edge of the temple’s structure, watching as Gaara leads Sasori’s love and a horse-drawn cart into place among the other smiths and he is not the only one. Every man they pass by looks her head-to-toe, eyes roving over what is Sasori’s that grows in her belly, and switching to the way Gaara’s leg missteps, up to the discoloration that bleeds into his hairline, and back once more to his goddess.
Ravenous. The looks follow them about their dealings with the mortals, working their way into the village proper. Men sizing up the crippled god of his perceived abilities to defend and protect a wife that seems to have no eyes for anything other than her husband.
Sasori shadows them, stall to stall and shop to shop, while Gaara uses what was traded for the armor to procure goods and wares. At least until Sakura fakes a yawn, shielding it with her hand and giving doe-eyed blinks as she requests to visit the bathhouse for a few hours of respite before their trek back across the island.
Gaara does not remain—freed of the burden of his gravid wife, hastily limps from the bathhouse to the nearby brothel. He’s not the only one, Sakura, a glamor settles over her—slipping past the mortals unseen as she trails behind.
While Sasori is less adept at hunting than some of his other siblings, it is an easy matter to track both gods as they move. Gaara spends little time admiring the variety of women available, a beeline straight to the back of the brothel and whatever it is he seeks there. A mature woman—dark haired and an olive-toned tan—and a distended belly, swollen nearly as much as Sakura’s own. They do not retreat to a private room, instead finding a small, secluded bench for a soft-spoken conversation, while Sakura watches from behind the curtains of a nearby alcove. It does not surprise her when Sasori joins her, wrapping his arms around the growing babe in her womb, as if she was already well aware of his presence.
“You’re jealous,” Sasori teases, burying his nose into her hair, inhaling the scent of the perfumes and oils she likes to douse herself in.
“I am not jealous,” Sakura pouts at him, never taking her gaze off of the unaware god and his current mortal companion. “I am curious.”
“Curious?” Sasori laughs. “As to what type of woman your husband finds most sexually pleasing? My dawn, you know better than most that lust does not equate to love. What he finds here, what he pays for here is not a reflection on you.”
“It is not about his attraction to the mortal whores,” Sakura denies with a huff. “I could lie beside him in bed fully nude and I do not think even that would give him the impulse to fuck me.”
“Such foul language from such a lovely mouth.” Sasori tsks. “You’ve yet to even kiss me and I have not forgotten.”
“If you are only here to vex me, you may leave.” She waves her hand as if to shoo a pesky fly away. “I am busy.”
“Is that an order?”
“No,” she sighs, softening in his grip. “I fear if you leave now, the business will not recover from the number of unsatisfied customers that would pass through today.”
“Are you unsatisfied?” Sasori bites, despite the grin inching across his face, teasing and mocking. “Are you frustrated and unfulfilled in your marriage?”
“Please, Sasori. I am desperate.” It’s nearly a whine as she begs for him.
“Is that why you're here?” He brings a hand up to her chin, turning her back to her husband, so she may look upon his brother as he slides his cock through the dampness growing between her legs. “So wonton that you’ve snuck into the brothel…are you hoping he catches you? Stumbles upon you and takes you right here like a common whore?”
“I want you to fuck me like a whore.” The confession slips from her lips, hanging in the air as he presses the tip of his cock against her entrance, stilling her hips with his grip as she tries to rock further down his shaft. But he is feeling rather mean-spirited after watching her spend all day observing his brother the way she’s looking at him now—lips agape, wide-eyed, and short of breath. Pinning and longing and needing.
“I’d fuck another babe into you right now if I could,” Sasori admits to himself more than Sakura. Sinking into the hilt in one deep motion, and in a few thrusts, he can feel she is already very nearly at her peak. The urge to do something reckless over powers him, to show the little goddess which one of them is really in charge—to remind her he is also a god, one whose affection is not so easily dismissed, so he pulls back, shallow and shallower, drawing her out of the daze of elation back into reality.
To teach her a lesson, to send her home in such a burning desire that she demands her husband please her—no, that she learns to take what she needs, what she deserves. And just as he reaches his own precipice, he pulls out completely, catching his seed in his hand.
A wave of victory washes over him, at least until Sakura turns to face him, clinging to his arms, tears in her eyes and a wobbly power lip. Not desperate, but despairing.
The harsh scowl of victory on the god of war's face softens the moment his eyes land on Sakura’s face.
She doesn’t even know why she’s crying—not really. The amalgamation of sexual frustration and her own weariness from a day traveling with a babe inside of her, who today seems intent on kicking so hard he breaks through her rib cage to escape, boiling over and spilling out. A whole day of observing her chaste husband and how he acts so like Sasori—save for one lone aspect.
And the unfairness of Sasori to come and tease her so, when she only came here with good intentions, combined with his withholding of her offering, sets off a wave of vexation at the thought of being so thoroughly annoyed that she has been brought to tears over it.
“Oh no, my dawn,” he sighs, tugging her in closer so he may slip his hand beneath her skirt and use his fingers to pump his withheld seed into her. “It was not my intention to upset you.”
“I’m not upset,” she protests, despite her sniffles. “I am. Mad. At. You.”
Each word is accompanied by a light playful swat about his arms, hardly any harsher than a horse's tail shooing away a fly.
“Oh, what a terrifying goddess you are.” He chuckles in her ear as he nips at the flesh, sending a shiver down her spine and a gush of liquid from between her legs. “Give me your anger so I may bottle it up to drink before my next conquest.”
Whatever pretty words of negation that lay on Sakura’s tongue dissolve as he grinds his palm over her clit, sending her tumbling up and over the edge of her peak—and in the course of that moment a wave of pleasure ripples through the building, sending the servicers and patrons alike into their own ecstasies—white light and the sturdiness of Sasori’s body surrounding her as she bites into his shoulder to stifle her noises. He sways as he holds her, the hand covered in their combined fluids dragging down her thigh so it may dry to serve as a reminder of his devotion to her when she lies next to her own disaffectionate husband in her marriage bed tonight.
“Why are you here?” Sasori whispers into her hair, hands falling to either side of her stomach. The babe inside moves under his touch, pressing against his hold on her.
“You will not jest about it?” Sakura braces herself against him so she may look into his eyes. “Truly?”
“I promise, my dawn. I will not ridicule you.”
She turns away from him to again peek at Gaara, ruddy in the cheeks at the backlash of her magic but otherwise unaware of her effect as he continues conversing with the pregnant prostitute. Sasori snakes his arms around her, just to hold her steady in his embrace, his head coming to rest on her shoulder so he may spy alongside her.
“You are worried about him,” he sighs against the shell off her ear, sending another pulse ricochetting through her body.
“I only wanted to be sure,” Sakura admits, hardly more than a whisper, “That the mortal women were not taking advantage of his disposition.”
“Mmmm, you fret over his purse strings? That he will empty your coffers and leave you destitute because the whores are overcharging him?” He teases lightly, picking at her sense of humor to try and lighten her mood. Gaara’s wealth—the things the mortals value—is almost laughable compared to her own collections of baubles and jewelry, offered by Kisame and the nymphs at nearly every interaction as if to weigh her down with enough pearls and precious metals that should she slip and stumble into the sea, the weight will pull her under to never resurface again.
An assist—a safety net—among both the mortals and those that reside in the heavens. Escaping the notice of all, the wide-eyed gaze of awe of her husband, the sharp stare of Rasa, and even the hawk-like eyes of the one holding her, always circling and appraising, for he doesn’t notice the way her fingers flex, twisting around a short strand attached to her belt hardly enough to catch the eye of the mortals of the village.
All it takes is a quick tug and it snaps off, three pink pearls landing in Saskura’s palm. No magic, just a slight of hand, a distraction to keep his mind from dwelling on her and Gaara’s non-existent physical relationship, should it cause him to rush headfirst into something foolish.
She pinches one between her thumb and forefinger, hiding the other two within her grasp. She has to ensure safety for much more than herself now.
“What is this—payment?” He chuckles as he takes it from her. “Are you not the one playing the part of the whore?”
“A blessing.” Sakura corrects, keeping her eyes firmly on Gaara as he rises, pulling several golden coins from his pouch and leaving them sitting on the table as he politely thanks the mortal woman and excuses himself. “I suspected he was coming for information. He has constructed a nursery, crafted cradles, and woven bassinettes. Purchased more linens and blankets than any one babe could ever use in a lifetime.”
“He intends to raise it as his own.” Despite his closeness, Sasori’s voice sounds distant. “A blessing indeed.”
“Sasori,” Sakura takes a deep breath and faces him fully, placing her empty hand flat against his cheek. “It is more than I could hope for—safety and security for the babe that a home on the mount of the gods could never allow.”
“Not as long as my father sits on the throne,” he says with a bite to his tone. “But none will submit to and serve your wills, whims, or wishes better than I.”
She kisses him, lips and hungry teeth nip, letting him devour her as she gently places the two concealed pearls into the small shrine of offerings to the gods piled on a small, built-in shelf on the wall. Only the curl of the burning incense notices the movement, dancing over her fingers as they retreat to find a hold in Sasori’s hair.
“I must go,” Sakura pants into Sasori’s mouth.
“You must,” he agrees, but makes no move to retreat.
“I will be caught,” she whines, putting both of her palms flat to his chest to feel the thundering of his heartbeat. “If I am not back at the bathhouse before he arrives.”
He relents the siege on her mouth, pressing his forehead against hers and chuckling dryly before the room swirls and spins, colors shifting and falling back into place of the woman’s bathing area. “You do not think of me as such a pitiful god to be bested by my little brother now do you?”
And with another swirl of magic, Sasori is gone, just as a mortal servant enters to announce to a weary Sakura of her husband's return to collect her when she is content with her rest.
The walk home drags, feeling nearly twice as long as the trip there, walking in silence next to the man who’d wished for her hand in marriage. Upon reaching the forge, Gaara leads the cart into the cavern to store for the night, unhooking the horse to return to the stable.
Sakura stands on the rim of the volcano, rubbing her hands over her belly, weary from the day’s events, watching the sun low in the sky casting the seawater in an orange hue. The baby kicks again, the force of it has Sakura crying out in pain. It rolls over her in a wave, swift and sudden, as she clumsily staggers to her knees before trailing off, leaving her panting.
“Sakura!” Gaara has emerged, hastily limping in her direction. “Sakura!”
“The baby.” Sea green-eyes are wide as he helps her to stand, wrapping an arm around her waist and bracing her against the side of his uninjured leg just as another wave of pain hits. “It is time.”
Sakura is roused from her slumber, dreams of a salacious nature broken by Gaara’s gentle calling of her name. She pulls on her layers slowly, taking care to swaddle her growing stomach in the fabrics. Focus drifting to the bare back of her husband as he dons his tunic and the breeches he prefers over his robes to keep his weaker leg hidden away, even from the goddess he shares his bed with.
Tanned skin, muscles and flesh, and the width of his shoulders. A dryness fills her mouth—one not even Deidara’s finest wine will quench.
Dressed before she’s finished combing through her hair, Gaara assures he will be waiting at the forge once she is ready. Yawning as she slips on sandals to follow the path her husband has taken out to the mountainside.
He is still clamoring through piles of weapons and shields, picking pieces seemingly at random and tossing them haphazardly into the cart, leaving her to sit out on the rim of the basin, rubbing circles into her belly, as the rays of the dawn peek over the horizon and warm her face while he makes his selection.
The trek to the mortal village across the island is a full day of travel to get there and back at the pace the pair sets walking next to the horse-drawn cart hauling all of her husband's wares to sell. Her full-bellied waddling an even match for his limp—a slow, comfortable gait for them both.
A comfortable silence settles over them, Sakura enjoying the sparrows and swallows that flitter about ground level, dancing with each other and dodging the birds-of-prey that circle high in the skies. The path winds across the isle, with majestic views of both the serene scenery of the seaside and the rise of the volcano they call home. Gaara occasionally lifts his eyes from the trail—scouting that nothing lies ahead that would trip him up as he leads the horse—to dazily admire the way she relishes in the beauty of nature.
It is quite quaint to play as the mortals that have flocked to the isle to worship at the temple that lies near the village. Far enough away, a wayward flame would not catch and threaten to burn the budding city to the ground.
Her husband seems rather unaware that the temple has been built to worship him as the god of the volcano, lining up his cart alongside other smiths who’ve found the outskirts of the city a hotspot for sailors and soldiers seeking out armor rumored to be blessed by a god.
“We may be here a while,” he states, narrowed eyes gazing across the other vendors' wares. Evaluating, assessing, appraising. A stark sternness to the usual dreamy look that he has when Sakura catches him watching her, much like the expression he wears when handling molten metals in the ash of the forge. “I’ll clear off a spot so you may sit and rest your feet.”
Tugging at a shield, a sword and helmet tumble out after it, creating a clatter that draws a rumble of laughter from the other men bartering nearby. Gaara leaves them be, pushing armor and sharp, sheathed blades aside to arrange a wall of shields with enough room for Sakura to perch upon the open back of the cart and let her sandaled feet dangle in the air.
He hovers nearby, offering a hand to steady Sakura as she lifts herself up. An intense heat flows through his touch, warmth like the basin of the volcano seeping deep beneath her skin. She settles, trying to sort her sensibilities back into place, when he leans in close, reaching around to shift the shield behind her.
For a moment she is pinned between the brawny arms of a god and the solid surface of the scutum. Muscles formed from years of laborious work in the forge, swinging the might of his hammer, flex, and the heat arises again, molten in her core, spreading up and out in a flush across her body.
A gasp slips from Sakura’s lips. Gaara pulls back, and suddenly the fervor of his sea-storm eyes meets hers, gone nearly as quickly as it appeared, leaning back to rove over her body in a way he has never looked at her before—all the seriousness of his mastery of fire and metal that echoes as a pounding ache in her lower belly.
“My apologies. I did not mean to injure you.” Gaara moves again, but this time Sakura finds herself chasing, teetering precariously on the edge of the cart as her body follows his.
The distance feels unbearable, and she reaches out, a hand on his arm to keep him close by. She has not received any damage, and yet it is there, a tender agony, a tingling discomfort Sakura knows only he can sate within her. “You did not. I—”
The moment is interrupted by another ring of masculine laughter, and Sakura’s hand hangs momentarily in the air, reaching, before it falls.
A buyer approaches, Gaara stepping away to barter all his time and effort away for the measly coins the mortals can provide.
Absentmindedly rubbing her stomach as she watches her husband size up customers, his strong hands and the veins in his forearms as he pulls armor and weapons seemingly at random and taking what little payment they have to offer. Squirming in her makeshift seat, as if the friction of her thighs could bring her to a pinnacle, a peak, a summit—an eruption.
He seems to prefer to outfit the mortal underdogs, baby-faced, scrawny boys or lanky, wiry sailors, wrinkled like leather from the sun and salty spray of the sea. Intuitively knowing what weapons suit each best, as if he’d sensed what each one needed as soon as they stepped onto his island.
Ones with a fighter’s spirit, the kind of man with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.
Gaara’s villa is quite impressive, Sasori had not been expecting such opulence and grandeur, not from his stoic little brother.
Marble columns and mosaic-tiled floors, Sasori wanders until he finds the baths, with no servants lurking about to bother him whilst he searches out cleanliness.
Stripping bare of his armor and submerging himself without a proper cleansing first, a cloud of dirt and dried blood spoils the water around him.
Cool, a bit salty on his lips when he cups his hands to splash it over his face, lowering his shields and loosening his muscles.
Drip-drying, once he has washed all traces of gore and viscera from his hair and under his nails, he wanders nude through the home, searching now for any spare clothing he can don.
In the main bedroom—the biggest of them all—he finds Gaara’s stack of tunics and a most curious vanity.
Quickly pulling one over his head, he moves in for a closer inspection. A mirror atop a small sitting table, jewelry strung about. Crystals and gems and pearls catch his eye. Kisame must be as fond of gifting Gaara with silly little trinkets as he was of Sakura.
His chest pangs, a vexation, a nuisance.
Footsteps echo in the hall, steady and even, but he can’t look away. Not as he picks up piece after piece, slipping from his hands one by one, scattering all over the floor.
In the room now, soft steps as she sweeps by. He hunches over, grasping a golden cuff in his hands.
“Oh,” she calls out, moving to the wardrobe to shuffle through the fabrics. “I had thought you’d be in the forge for the rest of the day.”
Sakura.
The metal dents under his fingers, crushing it instead of her delicate throat.
She prattles on, as if the silence of the man she assumes him to be is commonplace. “I was going to visit today. One of my necklaces has a loose setting. I was hoping you’d be so kind as to mend it for me?”
Is that why she chose his little brother over Sasori? Does Gaara shroud her in pearls and gems she is so fond of? Does he fuck her in the marriage bed that looms in the room?
He can feel his anger boiling under the surface, all he can do is keep his silence as she patters around, mistaking him for his younger brother.
“Unless you wished to lie together—” she trails off, as if lost in thought.
It takes all of Sasori’s self-discipline to keep from facing her head-on to confirm what she has done. How has she betrayed his love so thoroughly? Was he nothing more to her than a dalliance, a silly little fling under the nose of his father?
“You’re not Gaara. Who are you?” She demands to know, her voice hard and stern. “What are you doing here?”
Her footsteps are quieter, as if she’s taking care to not make noise, creeping towards the door—an attempt to flee, to leave him—again.
His heart cannot bear it—she should be afraid of him, terrified, she has every reason to be, every excuse for who he is, right down to his core—but even now, his devotion to her eats away at him.
She bolts, darting for the door, flinging herself into the hall, the name on her lips—her call for a savior is not his name. “Gaara!”
Sasori’s body moves of its own accord, dropping the mangled bracelet and dashing after her. Incapable of keeping himself from chasing her down, now that she’s so close once again.
He catches her in the atrium, hardly breaking a sweat in doing so. One arm around her waist, the other grips her face, fingers digging into her cheeks as he forces her to face him.
She shakes under his hold as he presses his forehead to hers, her fear does not dissipate, no solace is found in his arms.
Her hands at his chest, pushing to keep as much distance as she can manage between them. Voice wavering, warbling. “Sasori, I—”
“I do not want your excuses,” he tells her, closing his eyes and inhaling through his nose, the very essence of her aura consuming him. “I do not want your pitiful declarations of love. No more of your fallacies and fables, nor your childish beliefs that lust and passion are anything more than skin-deep affections. Oh-so easily tossed aside and replaced with mediocrity."
A battle—a war raging in his heart. His fingers twitch, yearning to tear into her delicate flesh, to maim and mar, ruining her beauty so no other man would dare to look upon her face.
“I want to consume you so wholly not even the vultures will get a scrap of your flesh.” Bringing his mouth to her ear, a cruel whisper, accompanied by a harsh bite. “If I had my gladius, I’d gut you where you stand so you may feel even a shred of the anguish, the agony you have set upon me.”
A pained noise escapes her, none like he has heard from her before, as she removes her hands from his chest, laying both atop her belly, spreading her fingers wide, as if they would shield her organs from the force of his blow.
“Sasori,” she begs through his hold on her face, words distorted. “Please, you must understand. There were no other options. I—I could not stay there any longer.”
“My father?” He grits his teeth, tugging her in closer, the back of her hands pressing into his abdomen. “If he has laid his hands on you—”
“It is not what he has done,” Sakura starts, Sasori loosening his grip on her face so her words may flow like the opalescent rivers running down her cheeks. “It is what he will do, should he ever find out.”
Sasori leans back, shifting his grip to hold her by her arms, silently reading over her face for signs of falsehood, contemplating her words.
“I could not sit back and witness the atrocities, the things your father depicts as discipline.” Her words are firmer now, backed with her conviction. “I would bear every punishment he sets forth, if I had to.”
His mother—he can see her in Sakura, the way she used to deflect Rasa’s rulings in his childhood, shifting his corporal punishments onto herself to spare Sasori from the worst of the beatings he was sentenced to receive.
His gaze sinks back down to her hands, curled so protectively around the gentle swell of her belly. Dizziness overtakes him, vision tunneling as his legs buckle, knees slamming to the tile below.
The words are caught in his throat, thick, choking, like smoke and ash in his mouth. Coughing out, “A babe.”
“Your babe,” she tells him, removing one of her hands to cup his chin, tipping his head back so he may gape up at her ethereal beauty, smiling gently down on him. “Our babe.”
Gaara’s first days of marriage are full of a shared nervousness with Sakura, an adjustment from living alone for so many years, and the habits and tendencies of his now being fully observed by a goddess lovely to the point of distraction.
He could observe her for hours on end, from the morning when she runs a comb through her long hair, smoothing down the strands, to the evening, when she strips herself down to only her underclothes, crawling into his bed with a growing trepidation on both their parts.
Trying to soothe her nervousness and his own unease with the sudden onslaught of physical attention, assuring her she has no need to force herself to try and seduce him, the small pecks she places on his cheek are the limit of his composure, and he is quick to hold her wandering hands and dancing fingers when they lie next to each other.
Weeks slip by like that before the other gods begin to visit—to see his beloved wife.
Ino and Deidara come the most often. The pair bring casks of wine and baskets of bread and fruits. Comforts of the heavens, delivered right to her door—gifts neither had ever brought him in all his years of living at the volcano.
The attention bestowed on her is hard to swallow—to see how adored she is by his family, to see how little any of them cared when he struggled and scraped by to survive.
Even Kisame, who visited Gaara at least once or twice a season, comes nearly weekly now that Sakura occupies the house. Bringing gems and jewels, all to her delight.
“Hello, my pearl!” Kisame booms, drawing her attention from the polite conversation she tries to make at dinner, giving one or two-word answers to all her questions.
A sharp intake of breath, Sakura cries out, “Papi!”
So unreserved, uninhibited with her informalities.
She dashes across the room, bare feet pattering on the floor, flinging herself at him. Kisame catches her with one brawny arm, spinning her with a practiced ease, her hair flowing along in the movement, until he sets her back on her own two feet.
“You look more radiant than ever,” Kisame tells her, cupping her face in one of his large palms. “Positively glowing. The sea air does wonders for your complexion, does it not?”
A pang of jealousy fills his chest that Kisame should dote on his goddess with such ease. That all the others touch and hug, kisses to cheeks and foreheads given and taken, when even taking her hand in Gaara's own makes him clammy and flustered, with sweaty palms and shaking fingers.
"Have you brought me a present?" Sakura’s smile is wide and unfairly pretty as she beams up at Kisame.
“Are you so spoiled that you ask for a gift before asking for my well-being?” Kisame teases lightly.
Sakura hums. “Are you well, papi?”
“Of course, my pearl, now that my day has been brightened with you.”
Her laughter is like music, ringing in Gaara's ears.
Kisame reaches into his robes, pulling out a golden bracelet, inlaid with pearls and pink gems, holding it out on his finger for Sakura to take delicately, slipping it onto her wrist.
It catches Gaara's attention—the shape, the placement of the stones. A piece of his that had long ago been traded to the nymphs, relatively unsurprising that it has ended up in Kisame’s possession. And the more he looks at the jewelry she adorns herself with, the more of his own craftsmanship he can pick out.
It feels pleasant to have his handiwork worn by Sakura. But only briefly, before it sours, the realization that this is where all his work and effort have ended up, all the struggles and strife he has overcome, bestowed upon her as if it is something she expects—something she deserves.
Gaara toils in the forge from dawn to dusk most days, avoiding the gods who frequent his domain now, leaving the overwhelming barrage of houseguests to the care of his wife.
“Brother!”
Gaara turns, following the source of the call, to see Sasori standing at the mouth of the forge.
“Sasori,” Gaara acknowledges in between hefty swings.
Sasori crosses the cave, setting down a broken gladius on one of the work surfaces, split clean in two. “Can you fix it?”
“You’d be better off choosing a new one,” Gaara’s pace doesn’t stop. Hammering and hammering, the echo the beating heart of the volcano.
“I am quite partial to this one,” Sasori says in earnest. “If you do not think you can undertake the task, I will go elsewhere.”
Gaara snorts at the insult. “I did not say I would not.”
Sasori smiles as Gaara sets down his hammer and the hot chunk of metal, limping his way across the forge.
“Three days,” Gaara says, inspecting the pieces of the gladius. The blade has been snapped in two, a clean break—a monumental amount of energy behind the swing that broke it.
“Atta boy.” Sasori reaches out, ruffling Gaara’s hair in a brotherly fashion.
Gaara takes the pieces, clearing out a space on his workbench to set them. The grip and pommel have been decorated and coated in some opalescent paint, shimmering in the light of the fires.
Sasori makes himself comfortable. pulling out a small stool and sitting down. watching with sharp eyes as Gaara lays out the gladius, preparing for the mending.
“Do you have nothing to do,” Gaara eyes him, “or do you intend to stay here the entire time you wait?”
"Are these not your accommodations?" Sasori looks around with a raised brow and a shrug. “I’ve slept in worse conditions.”
“No need to lurk about while I work. I assure you I prefer the solitude. The brothel in the village has many open beds, the girls should surely enjoy your patronage.”
“I’ve no desire for mortal women. They only serve as a distraction to more substantial affairs.”
“You really intend to stay here?” Gaara balls his fists, bracing them against the workbench. “In the forge?”
Sasori chuckles, “Do you think I'm so illustrious, brother? There is a roof, dry ground, and a fire. Any good soldier knows to rest when he can, wherever he can.”
Gaara stares him down, his brother showing no signs of ceding. Yielding, Gaara offers all he can for the comfort of the sanctuary of his workshop. “Follow the path out of the basin, my villa rests on the outer slope. The baths are warm, and the gardens are fruitful.”
“Do not fear, little brother,” Sasori grins, wide and bewitching. The months he’s spent with Sakura have done little to ease the dazzling effect of all of the divine aura all his siblings carry. “I will make myself right at home.”
It is only after his brother's footsteps have stopped echoing about the cave that Gaara ponders if he should have forewarned Sakura about the appearance of his elder brother.
In the end, he decides it matters little—she gets along well with the handful of gods and goddesses that now visit much more regularly than ever before, hosting all in the villa Gaara built with his own two hands with a skill and grace he himself could never manage.
Sasori avoids the heavens, distracting himself with the onslaught of war for weeks and months on end with no respite. There is no stopping, no solace to be found as the mortal army conquers lands he’s never set foot on before.
Countries where they worship other gods—ones with power and riches and worshipers. Temples and altars destroyed, followers converted, his power swells with the growth, fueling an ever-pressing expansion of the empire.
He may not be able to enact the vengeance he seeks on Rasa, but the temples of bastard gods who thought themselves worthy enough to seek matrimony with his goddess, coming with riches, trying to use their wealth and prestige to buy her love or her body, fall to the forward-marching drive of the mortal army.
Corpulent and greedy, what fortunes can compare to his devotion? What are gold and gems to blood and battlefield grime? What are soft, unworked hands to calluses and a grip he’s sure will not loosen once he gets his hands on Sakura again, his gladius slicing all too easily through whatever fat pig that calls himself her husband, separating their union?
He aches, muscles and heart, trying to will the organ to stone so it may not beat out of his chest.
A break in the warfare, seeking out the nearest temple devoted to one of his family members, the hearth of the heavens not enough to warm the numbness from his fingers, no bed there alluring, no rest for his weary bones.
He pays little mind to the priestess manning the temple—slinking through unseen as they tend to the fires, letting himself into the gardens, the dirt as good a bed as any other he will find.
The gardens are poorly tended, near abandoned, and filled with grass and weeds in the raised beds instead of vegetables. Ivy creeps along the marble pillars, and overgrown thorny bushes invade the paths.
The only sign of any upkeep, the singular lit torch, mounted on a pedestal in the center, the flickering flame dancing, casting shifting shadows over the desolation.
It is familiar, like a dream just out of Sasori’s reach, one he cannot shake, haunting him for centuries upon centuries. If he closes his eyes, he can picture the splendor it was once, full of life and flames and giggling maidens who’d never laid eyes on a god in the flesh before.
He shouldn’t be here.
As if sensing his trepidation, the flame wanes before swelling, a bright, glaring light that fades slowly, the pedestal and torch replaced with the goddess of hearth and home, looking displeased to find the god of war lurking around her temple lands.
“Why have you come?” Tsunade asks, agitated that he should disturb her here, at this temple, of all places in the mortal realm for him to seek shelter at.
“Your girls used to worship me here,” Sasori admits, looking around the barren gardens. “They'd come to pray for favors and blessings, for protection and defense. Safety and security for their homes and families.”
“They did,” Tsunade agrees. "Centuries ago, but you have long since fallen out of their favor. The girls choose now to pray to other goddesses, ones who honor their vows of celibacy."
“The vows of your virgin priestesses are not mine to uphold,” Sasori argues. “Not my oaths, not my covenants—”
“Do you know what happened to her, that mortal woman, after she bore your children, your sons, to this world?” Bitter words drip from her lips, as sharp as any sword that’s sliced its way through his skin. “Do you know why my girls have abandoned your temples, forsaken your sacred gardens, and left them to wither and ruin?”
“The lives of mortals are fleeting—death catches them all in the blink of an eye. I presume she spends her days dancing through the fields of the underworld.” Sasori says, the stone weight that is his heart beating heavily against his chest. “I do not care to burden my mind with something as trivial as the thoughts of women.”
“Do you even remember her face? Her name—did you even bother to ask? Or are those things trivial to you as well?” Tsunade circles slowly, appraising him from all angles. “Where were you, after all your revelry, when your transgressions were said and done? Leaving her to bear the cost of your desires, buried alive for your sins? When her sisters in priesthood circled around and prayed for you to come and save her?”
“You think you know the minds of mortals—what do you know of their wishes and desires beyond what they lay at the feet of your altars?” Sasori grinds his teeth, rage swelling in his chest. “Eons have passed by since you’ve left your hearth and walked amongst them. Since you’ve visited your home, your family on the mount of the gods.”
“Family?” Tsunade snarls. “You dare speak to me of family? After the mortals ripped your babes from her arms, casting them away as if they were molded fruit, a rot that threatened to spread across the earth?”
“You grow old in your isolation. Tending to your fires, forsaking your own family for the dwindling devotion of a handful of women—it is like you said, the mortals will find new gods to worship if the ones they pray to do not fulfill their needs. Where were you to stop it? This is your temple, is it not?”
“And where were you when your sons were left to be devoured by the wolves?” Tsunade narrows her honeyed eyes at him.
“Better raised by the wolves than a ruthless brute. I will not stand by while you question the depths of my devotion.” His voice is steady, but the anger creeps up his throat, burning his eyes. “I have fought amongst the mortals for over half a millennium for those boys, for their lineage, for the empire they created. While you hide in the fires and my father wastes his time amusing himself with dalliances and affairs.”
“You speak as if you are righteous, but you are no better a man than your father.” She spits, like a curse on her tongue.
The boiling rage peaks, and Sasori draws his gladius and swings—hard. Tsunade dissipates, replaced with marble and the torch of her fires.
The metal lodges itself into the pillar, breaking in two as he tries to heft it back out. He falls against it, knocking the flame from its perch as he screams, raw and roaring, shaking the ground and stone temple in his ire.
prologue
i. Gaara - the origins
ii. Sasori - a new goddess
iii. Gaara - the god of the volcano
iv. Sasori - the god of passion
v. Gaara - the goddess of lust
vi. Sasori - the worship of a god
vii. Gaara - the god of the forge
vii. Sasori - the blessing of a goddess
ix. Gaara - a god’s ascension
x. Sakura - a husband fit for a goddess
xi. Gaara- the pearl of the sea
xii. Sasori - the legacy of a god
xiii. Gaara - the union of a god
xiv. Sasori - a reunion with a goddess
xv. Gaara - the god and the eruption
xvi: Sakura - the lust of a goddess
xvii: Sasori - the goddess in the brothel
xviii: Sakura - a god’s blessing
