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the evening star

Chapter 2: ii. Sasori - the new goddess

Chapter Text

Sasori is home when they bring her up to the heavens. 

Dressed in robes, not war armor, he lounges on a dining couch as servants carry platters of food to and fro, several of his siblings lying about, enjoying the decadent meal.

A mouthful of wine, sweet and rich, turns to vinegar on his tongue when Rasa enters, unable to compare to the pretty little thing holding onto his arm. Clothed in nothing but Rasa’s purple toga, looking like a whore selling herself on the streets of the mortal realm. 

His uncle Kisame follows behind, weaving a magnificent story of how she was born of sea foam, a clam shell washed ashore, opening up to reveal her—the precious, pink pearl inside. 

Sakura, they call her, they give her a title, the goddess of lust.

His siblings and cousins gather around her, eager to introduce themselves to the latest treasure of the skies. 

A virgin goddess, Kisame iterates, again and again. Not to be sullied with the likes of men. Shy and sweet. Naive and innocent. 

Sasori remains at his meal, watching as she presses her soft body closer to his father's, using him to shield her as the group evaluates her worth—the claims of her beauty. 

She will learn with time, he thinks, taking another sip of sour wine. Rasa is no god to seek protection under. 

Sakura remains at the summit, given the luxurious, cushioned room his youngest brother once lived in before his fall. Trained and tutored to be a proper, modest young woman. 

Sasori keeps his distance, unwilling to sully her grace with the brutality of war. Too tempting when she seeks him out anyway, all gentle curves and teasing smiles, as if she is wholly unaware he can kill a thousand men in a single battle. 

A flirt, coy and alluring. It is rare to see her not in the company of either the goddess of grain or the god of wine or at least one of his siblings, and even rarer still to see her without her trio of attendants. 

So it comes as a shock when he comes home from war, the blood of his enemies crusted onto his skin and armor, to find her alone on his bed. 

Groggy, she blinks at him, awoken from her sleep by his ruckus. Fully clothed, tunic and stola, despite it being the middle of the night, like she’s been here for hours, napping the day away. 

“Sasori,” she calls out, letting her body relax back down on the wool-filled mattress. “You’ve returned.”

“Yes, a successful campaign,” he tells her as he begins to unlatch all the buckles that hold his armor in place, removing one heavy, cumbersome piece after another, plates and scales left in a heap on the floor. 

Set on ignoring her prying eyes as Sasori undresses—it is his room after all—stripping clear down to his loincloth as she watches with wide, guileless eyes. 

A basin of fresh water is set out for him, he uses a rag to scrub the worst of the blood away. 

“Are you injured?” Sakura rises slowly as he works, crossing over to join him before kneeling down at his feet to look up at his face, her flirtatious side kept at bay, a more serious tone about her. 

“No more than any other battle,” he tells her, wiping away the evidence of those who were unlucky enough to meet the blade of his gladius. 

“I worry when you leave.” A dainty hand, adorned in jeweled rings, comes to rest on his thigh as she leans in closer, uncaring if he dirties her robes with him. 

Sasori has no comeback for that, letting silence fill the air as he returns to cleaning himself. Fussing and fretting are women's work after all. 

He is stopped, both of her soft, uncallused hands on his, allowing her to pull the rag from his grip. She stands, dunking it in the water and bringing it back to his skin. Small, tender circles to wash away the battlefield grime, inspecting to see if he is telling her the truth. 

It’s not until Sakura reaches his face, a finger under his chin to direct his movement so she may reach all the nooks and crannies of his skin, the space behind his ears, and the column of his throat—vulnerable—that he asks, “Why are you here?”

“No one ever looks for me in here,” she says simply, a frown tugging at the plushness of her bottom lip. “I did not think you’d return so soon.”

“What do you hide from?” Sasori questions, she is adored by all the other gods; it is strange for her to be so apprehensive.

It is her turn to say nothing, as she uses a fingernail to remove a particularly stubborn bit of dried blood off his forehead, chewing on her bottom lip, and he wishes it were his teeth sinking into her flesh so hard her lifeblood bubbles at the seams of his maw.

“Sakura.” More serious now, like he is addressing a disobedient soldier. “Why are you hiding in my room?”

She swallows. Sasori traces the movement, watching the muscles of her thin neck—layered in strings of pearls, doting gifts from the god of the sea—flex, wishing to wrap his palm around it and squeeze until she reveals all of her secrets to him in a desperate attempt for mercy.

Managing to keep his hands to himself, it takes her a moment to find her words. 

“It is best for all to not speak ill of your father,” she whispers with an air of finality, trying to tip his head to reach the back of his neck. 

Her words cut deep, gutting him. Sasori knows of Rasa’s inclinations towards women, harsh treatment, and cruel words. How far has his father pushed the boundaries of the young goddess entrusted to his care?

Standing swiftly enough to knock her back, he catches her by the wrist, eliciting a sharp hiss of pain from her. Has he let his anger turn him into his father? 

He doesn’t let go, intent on yanking up Sakura’s sleeve and inspecting the damage he has caused her, his mark branded in her skin.

When he does, jerking the fabric from her forearm, the bared skin is not freshly reddened from his grip, instead the creamy surface is marbled in shades of deep purple, greens, and yellowed edges. 

“Are you—” she starts, shaking in his hold. A goddess she may be, but what measly power could she hold over him—the god of war, of rage and destruction? Sasori drags his gaze from her arm up to her face. Upset and puffy, red-rimmed eyes, tears welling up and spilling over as she begs, “Please don’t be angry with me.”