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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Gaara raises the largest smooth stone he can lift high above his head, closing his eyes tight as he brings it down on the volcano-glass rock face, sending shards flying in all directions, crying out at the sting as small bits of shrapnel dig into his skin. 

The volcano rumbles with every smash, deep and earthy, spewing molten lava from slow-moving pits. 

Peeking one eye open, hoping this time to have managed to shatter off a large enough chunk to attach to the end of his spear. He’s managed one, it’s too big and not quite the right shape, but his last attempt to break just a little off had ended in several fragments too small for his use. 

A strip of bandages is used to tie the spearhead onto the pole. Gaara is sure to wrap it tightly, securing the knot well so as to not lose it or the fish. 

The nymphs quite like it when he loses a fish, wounded and easy prey for their sharp talons to dig through. 

Limping his way down to the sea, his stomach rumbles. Lack of food will not kill him, but an eternity of hunger is not the future he will have—if he can help it. 

One of the nymphs spots him long before he hobbles into the surf, whistling for the others to join as spectators to his poor fishing. 

A whole afternoon is spent before his body is too tired to fight the churning waters, only having managed to deeply gouge a fish. Much to the delight of the onlookers, shrill shrieks fill the air as they descend on the injured animal. 

He throws the spear to the ground, and himself after it, staring at the horizon, the bright star that hangs low as the sun sets. until one of the nymphs pops up beside him. 

“Your spearhead is sharp,” it tells him, crawling closer to Gaara’s weapon. “A good spear is worth its weight, you know.

Gaara grabs hold of the shaft, pulling it in closer. The nymph follows, eyeing the volcano glass as it shimmers in the sun. 

“May I have it?” The sea nymph asks, reaching out a hand to caress the fine edge, hissing as even the gentle touch breaks skin. “The spearhead?”

Now Gaara, as young as he may be, raised spoiled of all his siblings, is more than aware that one should not give away something of value without an exchange. 

“What will you give me for it?” He sits up, turning the spearhead over in his hands. 

The nymph smiles, pulling a single pearl off a strand of a shiny-shell bracelet, holding it out on an open palm. 

It’s not food, as Gaara would have hoped. Nor is it a pearl of quality—small and misshapen—but he accepts to trade, nonetheless, plenty more volcano glass lines his home. 

Holding it carefully in his fist so as not to lose it—making his way back up and over the rim. Falling asleep rolling it between his fingers. 

The next morning he breaks off another spearhead, this one is his best yet, longer than his palm and streamlined.

He ties it onto the pole and strings the single pearl alongside it, the nymphs are attracted to things that glisten, maybe the fish will be as well. 

The fishing goes much as it did yesterday, leaving him empty-stomached and sprawled on the shore. 

This time, when the nymph comes to barter, Gaara demands a nicer pearl for the better spearhead.

The process repeats the next day, only two nymphs come to barter, and he receives two nice pearls for his spearhead. 

The pearls are much better bargaining tools, and Gaara is soon able to use them to trade for fish and supplies, and he soon finds the more perfect the shape of the spearhead, the more pearls he can receive in return, upwards of four or five on a day where many nymphs gather to buy from him. 

Now his days are not wasted hunting fish he cannot seem to catch, he spends his afternoons at the water's edge, learning to weave nets. Holes too big and the fish slip through, holes too small and the water drags, weighted too heavy and it sinks, too light and it floats away. 

He learns he is able to file down the sharp edges of the volcano glass, stringing it up with pearls and seashell beads into flashy lures and bracelets. These baubles, Gaara finds, are desirable enough to bring payments of tools—copper hammers and axes. 

Of which, are nearly useless against the hard rocks of the crater’s interior. Breaking faster than he can work up enough jewelry and spearheads to cover the cost. He needs something better, more dependable. 

The only reliable thing here is hardship, Gaara thinks, glaring at the golden spear—the stark reminder of where he’d come from, of how far he’s fallen, frightened and alone—that rests against the wall. He’d be better off melting it down, for all the good it’s done him. 

The thought hits him like a bolt, a jolt down his spine. 

The staff is hardly worth anything to the nymphs, Kisame always dotes well on pretty things that come from the ocean, often leaving them to scavenge shipwrecks for riches, but the metal itself has many more possibilities.

As with everything else in the bowl of the volcano, Gaara’s first attempt at melting by dunking the end straight into a lava pool ends with nearly a third of the staff gone. Turning to liquid too quickly for him to control, the molten mass bubbling and gurgling with its latest acquisition. 

Days of trial and error, chunk after chunk lost before he manages to form a solid bar on a bed of sand with the very last of the gold. Letting it cool before he takes one of the smooth rocks to it, each clang resounds harshly, leaving divots that pile on one another, creating false scales that dance in the light. 

When he breaches the rim, the first nymph to see him shrieks in delight, summoning a near swarm of wiggling bodies by the time he’s limped clear to the bottom. 

“You have not brought us anything in days, child,” they pout, words overlapping as they all jabber away at once. “Do you not wish to play with us any longer? Have other less fair creatures of land diverted your attention?”

Gaara grins, reaching into his robes to draw out the golden cuff, the glint of it brings the whining to silence, awestruck eyes tracing his movements. He holds it out with both hands. “No, you doltish fish, I have been busy crafting you a treasure even better than those others.”

Chapter Text

“Please don’t be angry with me.”

Sasori can feel it, the rage pounding within him, swelling with each passing heartbeat. Greater than the frenzy of war, of disguising himself as a mortal and standing in the rank with the front lines, gladius drawn, face set in sternness as the air buzzes with fury.

It feels akin to anger, at least. 

“Is this all?” He tries to keep the grit from his tone. Neutral, even, and steady as he twists her arm to view the bruising from all angles. Well over a week old, but less than a fortnight.

The shake of her head is slight, the tears that drip down her face luminescent on her skin. 

He remembers the bareness of her arms on the day he left to join the battle—a new army is creeping, conquering, paying homage to him, devoting their battles to him. Decorated in golden bangles and cuffs, crossed upon the windowsill of her room, head tilted to the side and resting atop, tears streaking down her face at his departure. 

Nothing more than a foolish little woman who doesn’t understand the difference between desire and delirium.

“Show me,” Sasori demands. Another shake of her head in defiance of his orders, a rarity for him, soldiers fall in line or they fall to the ground at his feet. Always one to favor armies that value order and conduct. “Show me, or I shall unsheathe my dagger and cut your robes from your body to inspect for myself.”

Sakura gasps, lips parting just so. Tugging at his grip, he allows just enough slack for her arm to slide, not fully out of his hand, her own fingers curling against his palm. 

“What if,” she pauses, stepping closer to him, her robes brushing against his skin, her face blushing with the contact, “it is embarrassing?”

Her free hand comes to the small of her back, smoothing down the fabric before coming to rest where the plumpness of her ass meets the apex of her thighs. Palm out, fingers spread wide, protective. 

The problem with war is all the energy that comes to a roaring boil—the clanging of metal on shields, the sick squelch of his gladius tearing through flesh—doesn’t dissipate, and even the most staunch of men revel in the breaking of the weakest members of society, the ones the conquered army have failed to shield and protect. 

Pillaging and plundering, rape and mutilation. From the oldest, most seasoned captains, with notes from their precious loves tucked into their breastplates, to the fresh-faced boys who have endured their first time on the front lines, too young to have properly wet their cocks before. 

Sasori’s fingers curl down around hers, squeezing until her knuckles threaten to pop. “Did he force himself on you?”

The third shake brings a wave of relief that does little to quell the rising agitation in his chest. A pain like his very heart might stop beating should she say the word, ready to tear it out and wage warfare like nothing this world has seen before.

“He said I was acting infantile,” she admits, leaning even further into him, pressing the soft curves of her body against the hard muscles of his. “A punishment fit for a child.”

Ah. Rasa has little leniency for the behaviors of babes, and his favorite forms of discipline are often corporeal—Sasori’s own ass still to this day bears scars of a particularly vicious caning from his youth. 

Sakura’s offense is easily recognizable, with the way tears pearl and spill down her cheeks, for the thing his father is the least favorable to is a bawling tot. 

As much as he wants to fulfill his threat of derobing her to inspect the damage himself, he refrains. Bringing his hand up to rest upon her cheek, wiping away the molten liquid. “What did he use?”

Her fingers dance in his, flexing and stretching, stroking his palm soothingly.

A spanking. A common correction for the servants, man or woman, his father takes a certain pride in being able to overpower those feebler than him.

Sasori can picture it—Rasa using his grip on her arm as leverage to haul her over his knee, holding her tightly in place despite her attempts to escape. Skirts and robes tossed aside to reveal the bare skin of her ass to the air, harsh smacks that ripple the flesh as she cries out harder, pleading for the beating to stop with each heavy impact.

“How many?” It comes out a hiss, sharp and swift. “How many times did he strike you?”

“Twelve.”

It takes him nearly as many deep inhales to rein in his temper, to throw a fit so large it demolishes the heavens, with death and destruction raining down on the mortal realm below. 

The god of the front lines—Rasa had sneered when Sasori had first enlisted with a mortal army, inexperienced and impatient with a chip on his shoulder big enough to bear the heavy weight of his shield. 

The need to fight and win until he can prove to his father that he is capable, that he is worthy of a love neither of his parents will ever bestow upon their children. 

The battlefield becomes his escape, his sanctuary. Never having had a treasure waiting at home, no precious possessions worth a hasty return to the mountain of the gods. 

I worry when you leave. 

Sasori had been the cause of her tears, and in turn, those tears were the root of her punishment. The thought twists a knot in his stomach that he had so inadvertently caused her pain and sorrow. 

The ache doubles as he knows any retribution against his father will end with her as the collateral damage. A spanking is light in comparison to the fates of his siblings who’d pushed back too far.

Would she survive a fall from the heavens or die of heartbreak during the long plummet?

“Sakura,” he wraps his arms around her, as gently as he is able, tugging until she is fully flush with him, pressing lips to her temple, whispering into her hair—smelling of fragrant bath oils, a stark contrast to the stench of the battlefields. “You may seek solace with me any time you require.”

Chapter Text

Gaara makes his way through the lava tunnels looking for large chunks of metal ore, a makeshift torch of driftwood illuminating his way. The expansive maze hides away many riches—if one takes the time to pull them from the grasp of the earth, commandeer the force of fire, and hammer it into shape. Blow after blow, gaining muscles as his body grows into adolescence.

The nymphs are ever-demanding for more and more weapons and unique pieces of jewelry. Pearls from the sea and gemstones mined from the island set into delicate, intricate rings and pendants. Handfuls of pearls traded in payment and used to make more and more ornate pieces. 

With their constant requests, cooing praises as his skill set grows, years start to slip by as he becomes more and more proficient. Refining his technique until every trip down the volcano side causes a slew of them to gather, splashing at the water's edge. 

A trio of cyclops inhabit a nearby island, easily persuaded to relinquish a few days' time every month to haul large stones and boulders around the simple cave, building a real forge fueled by the flowing lava, and felling trees to construct a small one-room hut outside of the volcano’s basin, compensated in massive fatty fish caught and traded to Gaara by the nymphs.

It’s not until he reaches the cusp of adulthood that he dares to venture into the mortal settlement to trade his wares for coins of bronze and silver. Cloaking himself in a deep hood to hide the shame of his face, the dark red birthmark that mars the skin.

Timing his trips with the festivals of the gods, hiding in the swell of the crowds as the inhabitants of the local islands sail to the temples erected in the village to make offerings of riches and sing praises of worship to other, more handsome gods, unknowing one walks among them.

The crowd grows denser at the center of town, the mortals too distracted by the occurrence inside the ring they form to shy away from him, uncaring of his limp or any glimpses of his face. His hood falls back entirely as he worms his way through the mob.

Two imitation gladiators—or, in this stretch of seas, mere boys searching for a life of wealth and power—dressed in crude armor swing dull swords. The armor is heavy, designed for grown men twice their size, and slow and cumbersome on juvenile bodies. 

They fight until one beats the other down to his knees, the crowd cheering the winner on. This is until the boy’s next challenger steps into the ring, a big hulking brute of a man in well-fitted militant armor.

Gaara turns away, pushing against the current of the crowd, but the bodies are not enough of a shield to stop the loud clanging that rings through the air. A hiss, oohs, and oh nos that echo about, the match over just an instant after it began. 

“That poor boy,” a mortal woman whispers to another, bouncing a fussing babe in her arms. 

Across the island, the volcano rumbles, as if it is as unsatisfied with the outcome as he is. 

Escaping the village, Gaara’s leg grows weary with the distance traveled, the walk home across the isle slow, sluggishly trudging along as night falls around him. 

Dropping his wares at the forge, he debates sleeping on the hard stone floor, but doing so will aggravate his limp tomorrow—the thin straw mattress in his house is mildly more comfortable, so he pushes on, climbing the well-worn path to the top. 

Just as his head pops over the rim, he notices a commotion down on the shore. A gathering of gods—for just a sliver of a moment, Gaara hopes they are there to retrieve him. 

But the visiting trio of men take no notice of them as he spies down from his perch, surrounded by a large clamshell washed ashore. The moon is high and bright, illuminating the scene below.

The shell is hinged open, resting in the sand where the waves lap and recede, but his father’s form hinders Gaara’s view, the length of his purple toga unfurled, swaddling the mystery that lies inside. 

Kisame stands knee-deep in the water, mouth tight, the muscles of his neck flex, and nostrils flare, the nymphs curl around his ankles like wolf pups sheltering under their mother when danger nears, atypical of their usual upbeat, playful attitudes. 

Gaara makes a point to not give attention to the third man, who has now conjured up a lute, dancing around on the sand as he sings a vulgar little ditty. 

Rasa fusses for so long, Gaara nearly climbs back down to the cave, and just before he turns, his father moves, stepping back to reveal the pearl inside the shell. 

Not pearl—pearls. A young woman stands, clad only in the fabric that symbolizes Rasa’s supremacy over the other gods, with hundreds, if not thousands, of pearls dripping in strands around her, shimmering in a rainbow of shades and hues under the moonlight. 

Her hair is full and lush, pink pearlescent waves that float lightly around her like a wind blows just for the purpose of ruffling the flow. 

Gaara’s never seen such an enchanting sight. The front of his breeches tents as blood pools, a molten throbbing settling deep into his lower belly.

“A goddess, a goddess, the sea gives us a goddess,” his half-brother Obito sings, frolicking and spinning in a dizzying way. “A lady of lust, I’d like to fuck this lovely little goddess.”

The sentiment seems to be shared with Rasa, who’s now extended a hand to help the giggling goddess step down from the shell and onto land. Gaara knows of his father's infidelity—the evidence of one such dalliance prancing about—one to indulge in every pretty face that he comes across. 

Evidently, the radiant goddess is Rasa’s newest conquest—as he takes her hand, tucking it into the crook of his elbow, before they shimmer and pop from sight, away to the heavens Gaara has been cast down from.

Kisame follows quickly, leaving only Obito on the beach. 

The music stops abruptly, and Gaara ducks back down, hoping he has not been spotted.

Of all his siblings, Obito is one of the ones he likes the least, popping sporadically into the forge in a most startling way right at a pivotal moment of pouring molten metal, all to inform Gaara that he still has no letters or messages to deliver. 

His wishes to remain unnoticed have failed, as Obito’s voice rings through the air. “Goodnight, little brother. Sleep tight, nestled in your little volcano cradle.”

It’s followed by a cackling laugh that resonates long after Obito leaves to join the others.

Gaara follows his advice, returning to the cave instead of his hut. Deep, deep into the tunnel system before he flops to the ground, exhausted and drained from the day.

He falls asleep trying to ignore the temptation to shove his hand down the front of his pants and tug until he spills. Doing so feels like it would be an admission of guilt—that deep down he is no different than his father.

No, if he intends to lust after the new goddess, he will do it the proper way—as man and wife, sharing a marriage bed.

Chapter Text

The strength of the mortal army that devotes itself to Sasori grows at an astounding rate, spending nearly triple the number of days on the battlefield as he does on the mountain of the gods. More lands to conquer, more armies to destroy. 

Every battle fought is fueled with the rage he cannot enact on his father, a gladius and a shield, and a passion to emerge on the other side of warfare the victor. 

Always victorious. A treasure unlike any other waits for him back home now. Serene and soothing when she cleans the grime of war from his skin, gentle hands wiping away the blood of those who now wait for the ferry to transport them to the underworld.

His stature as a god swells. Expansive marble temples and in-home shrines are erected in his honor. His name invoked by all, from fresh-faced youths marching off to war to hardened veterans. Weary mothers and lovelorn maidens flock to his places of worship to pray and to ask for blessings and favors to be bestowed on their men.

Sasori no longer finds the urge to participate in reapings and sackings, completing his tasks and duties with haste, keen to ascend to the one thing that quells his mind more than the beating heart of war.

After a particularly nasty altercation, an opposition who fights with giants in their ranks, an oversized club catches in his breastplate, severely denting in the metal and restricting the movement in his chest. He’s lost his shield in the impact, a white-hot pain shooting down his arm as his shoulder snaps out of its socket. 

Wounded, left without his last form of defense, half-delirious as he roars savagely. The blood-soaked ground shakes underfoot, an earthquake spreading from where he stands, where he fights. Where he endures and emerges victorious. 

The rush pounds in Sasori’s ears as he returns home to lick his wounds. Relieved to find his room unoccupied, a weeping Sakura in need of consoling would certainly work herself into a tizzy over his injuries. 

Stripping himself of all the armor he can manage, popping buckles and ripping laces where he cannot. Peeling off layers of cloth and metal until he is bare on the floor, grasping his elbow and shoving bone back into socket.

Pain subsiding to a throbbing ache, he throws on just a tunic and crawls into bed. The rest of his wounds can be mended in the morning, and then he can set off to commission a new set of armor before the next battle.

Sasori falls asleep slowly, tossing and turning despite how heavy his eyelids feel. Wishing—willing—that the silly little goddess might have an unpleasant dream, a light nightmare that would send her scurrying into his bed, just so he may hold her close.

He does not have to wait long.She comes with the soft light of morning. Kneeling beside his bed in only her nightshift, tears already pooling in her eyes. 

“Hush now, my dawn,” Sasori reaches out in a bid for Sakura to join him on the narrow bedframe. “No need to cry over me.”

Embracing her tightly, pressing her firmly on the bruises blossoming under his tunic, the pain a reminder to keep himself grounded, distracted from how simple it would be to slide his hands under her shift and feel for himself if her cunt weeps for him as well.

“You did not wake me,” she pouts, shying away and resting her forehead against his chest. 

“A goddess needs her beauty sleep, does she not?” He teases lightly, his spirit calmer already with just her mere presence. 

Sakura sits up with a start, a single hand coming down to bat at his chest playfully. “Are you telling me that you don’t think I’m—” 

Sasori hisses at the swat, the sounds drawing her attention as she trails off, reaching to pull down his collar and expose the contusions and abrasions. Gathering her in his arms before she can start fretting, stroking her hair and cooing sweet whispers of his devotion to her, pressing his lips to her skin, dotting them across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose—he’s spent hours mapping the terrain of her face, all except the rosebud frown that puckers her lips.

A boundary he dares not cross in fear he’d never return from the plummet, destroying Sakura like he does all else.

As she settles, his doting slows, fading to twirling a lock of her hair as she rests her head lightly on his chest. 

“Sasori,” she calls lightly, looking at his face with wide eyes, fingertips tracing unrecognizable patterns across his chest. “Will you ever kiss me properly?”

“My restraint is not to be teased. Nor is your dedication to your godhood.”

“My godhood?” She laughs brightly, moving again, this time to swing her leg over his body, tugging at her shift so the thin layer of his tunic separates his hardening cock from the warmth of her bare cunt, as if he is nothing more than her throne of pleasure. “Who are you to tell me how to reign over my worshipers?”

“A god commands,” Sasori counters, bringing his hands to hover just above her hips, fighting the urge to dig his own fingers into her flesh until she whimpers and whines, bruising delicate skin like a peach. “A god makes decrees and spews orders.”

“If I demand it—that you kiss me,” she rocks, hips bucking slightly, searching for friction, already soaking through the fabric. “Will you obey me?”

“I will be too rough,” he warns. “Too brutish. Vicious and savage.”

“I would not mind, so long as it was you,” admits Sakura, a blush creeping over her cheeks. 

“Order me,” he demands, sitting up and snaking his arms around her waist, grinding her down on his raging cock until pretty gasps and hiccups fall from her lips. “Bid me to kiss you, to ravage you. Command it, my dawn, and it shall be yours.”

“Sasori,” she says, high and breathless as she begs. “Please, kiss me, take me, ravage me. Don’t you know what it’s like? To pine and yearn and ache—”

As if the very mention of her discomfort is sufficient to justify what is surely to end with his eternal life spent as a servant in the underworld, his lips find hers. Devouring. A hand twisting into the hair at her nape, tongue in her mouth when she searches for air.

A soldier at heart, Sasori will ensure that every demand that falls from her lips is seen to, spoiled and wanting for nothing but the sating feeling of his cock lodged deep inside of her cunt.

Chapter Text

Gaara builds a villa. Several of them, in fact, as the first handful were quickly destroyed by natural disasters—a tempest storm, an earthquake, or a lava flow that had broken loose. Mortal years slip by. Mud and mortar, timber and stone. Hard, backbreaking labor with his own two hands to create a massive, sprawling structure with all the amenities, bathhouses, and gardens a goddess would require.

The villagers construct a temple, a utilitarian marble structure, along the path he takes when he traverses into town. Fires burn inside at all times of day and night, maintained by priests in dark robes. 

The stretch of road between the temple and the village becomes a hotspot to sell his wares. Pieces of armor and gladii were traded for gold and silver. Soldiers and sailors of all ages turn up to try and barter for his workmanship, whispers that his little island is the place to come to purchase the highest quality weaponry spread through the mortal realm. 

The village is a decent trading post for seafaring ships. Gaara is able to slowly acquire any household necessities he cannot make himself. Linens and proper clothing, livestock and grain.

Obito frequents the forge even more frequently now, bringing paintings and etchings of the new goddess who is the source of his infatuation. Gaara takes them hesitantly, for Obito’s words of offerings are correct, but his tone is condescending, as if he is in on a joke Gaara is not privy to. 

There is one other thing the village can provide for him that his volcano cannot: a brothel. 

He goes with a desire for knowledge of how one goes about the act of sex. The picture in his head of being highly overcharged by an ugly, surly whore with decades of experience tending to sailor men—the only thing that would take him as a patron. But much to his surprise, the matron of the establishment, after ensuring he was good for the coinage required, lets him loose to roam the halls and choose his own enjoyment.

Picking on his own is more problematic than he expects, finding himself walking from doorway to doorway, reading the names, services, and prices listed for each of the women. Peeking in on those not occupied only to find they lack the radiance he strives for, none rile him as he would like. 

Gaara finds himself abandoning his search to admire the paintings and mosaics depicting the scenes that are surely being reenacted on the other side of the walls. His fingers spider over the couplings, trying to imagine what it must be like for the artists watching such spectacles. 

The ash and soot embedded in the skin of his knuckles smudges and smears when he brushes against the painted image of a woman straddling a reclining man. Pert breasts and pink nipples, face twisted in a palpable pleasure, dirtied by his very touch. 

Stepping back as he appraises the damage, he swallows, unsure if he likes the physical reminder of how his touch sullies, of his chances at earning back his place in the heavens with the loveliest of wives sat by his side. 

Gaara pays the matron for the services not rendered, a palmful of bronze coins, unsatisfied, but slightly more aware of the sensual interactions of men and women. 

The walk home is long as ever. Gaara catches a second wind when the temple's fires come into sight, or maybe it's just the comfort of the smoke, black columns rising to haze the skies.

The forge is not empty when he arrives. Obito’s nonsensical singing rings from the mouth of the cave. 

Checking in, before his half-brother can break anything, Gaara is surprised to find a second visitor inspecting the bits and pieces of armor lying about. 

Sasori, god of war, fiddling about the forge. One of the siblings who's never cared to visit, Gaara has not seen him since before his fall when Sasori had himself fled the heavens and inscribed himself into the mortal armies. 

And here he stands now, infuriatingly godlike as he wrinkles his nose at Gaara’s handiwork, looking every bit like what Gaara imagines he would look like, the god he could have become had he not been tossed away by their father. 

“Little brother!” Obito sing-shouts, having noticed Gaara’s appearance at the mouth of the cave. 

“What are you doing here?” Gaara questions dryly. “Leave.”

“Well, which is it?” Obito asks, startling Gaara when he pops up next to him, slinging an arm around his shoulder, and leads him to the middle of his workspace. “What are you doing here? Or leave?”

“Whichever will get you out of my forge with haste.” Gaara’s annoyance grows, as well as the pounding of a headache forming in his skull.

“You’ve really made all this?” Sasori’s gaze remains on the assortment of half-finished blades scattered on one of the tables. 

Gaara huffs, this collection is nearly a fraction of what’s been accomplished in his forge. “I have plenty of free time.”

Sasori takes a pointed inhale through his nose, another wrinkle that irks Gaara to no end. “I’d imagine so, with the way you reek of the brothel.”

Gaara resists the urge to bury his own nose in his shirt and check if the scent of the oil lamps does linger on his clothing.

“I am in need of a breastplate,” Sasori informs, never one to waste time, attention back on the weapons scattered about. “Obito claims you are quite the metalworker these days.”

Shrugging off Obito’s hold on him, Gaara’s limp feels more pronounced than ever with the eyes of his brothers on him. The uneven sounds of his steps echo through the cave.

Whether it is the presence of Sasori and all his bridled rage or the self-consciousness of their judgement, spitefulness settles over him.

Choosing a piece ill-suited for soldiers at war. Gaudy and golden. Ornate and only big enough to cover the front of one’s rib cage, thin leather straps to wrap around the back hold it in place.

“What is this?” Sasori questions when Gaara returns to hand him the armor. 

“A breastplate,” Gaara deadpans, turning to limp to a nearby pile of wood and metal, shuffling them around as he searches for the right one. 

“Where’s the rest of it?” Obito laughs. “What good’s a hunk of metal like that going to do?”

Gaara opens his mouth to speak, but Sasori answers for him. “Mobility, speed. Without the extra weight, one could carry an extra gladius.”

“Won’t stop you from getting stabbed in the back,” Obito teases with a slap to Sasori’s shoulder.

“No,” Sasori holds the breastplate up to his chest, a perfect fit. “But the size of the shield you could carry—”

Gaara finds what he was looking for, hefting it out of the pile it occupies, sending other pieces clattering to the floor. 

Sasori smirks when he sees it, a massive thing, large enough for one to cower behind. Layers of wood and sharp, metal-shrouded edges. “Perhaps you are a fledgling smith after all.”

Somehow, even with the backhandedness of the compliment, it feels like the highest praise Gaara’s ever received. 

Chapter Text

Sasori takes Sakura as regularly, routinely as he can, habitually. Watching her, hunting through the palace like a game of cat and mouse. Lurking about, waiting for the exact moment he can get her sequestered off from all the others, fingers digging into her flesh. 

Bracing her against his shield, using it to hide their misdeeds in the hedges of the gardens. Mouth on mouth, even her used air is rejuvenating, revitalizing. Reveling in her euphoria, her rapture. Inhaling her gasps, her mewls—a hundred wars, no, three hundred wars, could be won of the substance he gains from her devotion alone. 

Fingers alternating between flittering and teasing her slit, dripping with her essence, and harsh rubbing over the pearl of her clit. 

“I fist myself at the dawn of every battle,” Sasori confesses. “To bless the fields with the spill of my seed from only the mere thought of you.”

Sakura’s fingers join his, swirling around in the slick that drips from her cunt, and then bringing the coated digits up to his mouth. He draws them in suckling and lapping until he’s sure all traces of his gift have been removed. 

“A blessing,” she teases, high and breathless as he turns her around, holding her delicate throat in the crook of his elbow, fumbling to hike her skirts up high enough to slot his cock between her legs and thrust inside with one brutal push. 

Groaning lowly as he sinks inside her, continuing his petting of her pearl, while she gasps at the sudden stretch. Waiting until she comes undone, peaking around him in waves, to grasp her by the chin, tipping her head so she may watch him lift his hand and smear her essence down the interior of his shield, drying into a pearly stripe on the wood's surface. 

“A blessing,” Sasori swears—a promise, an oath, his vows to her. 

He worships her when he is at home, the soldiers in the growing army worship him night and day, ever marching, ever devouring. Victory is all he searches for—for it means the chance to run, back to the heavens he’s spent his whole life avoiding, for the one thing of true beauty in any of the realms.

He’s on top of the world when suddenly he’s not, returning home to find Sakura is nowhere to be found. 

Well, she’s nowhere to be found alone, where Sasori can get her all to himself. Not hidden in his room or tucked away in a curtain-draped alcove, aching and needing and waiting for his return and the relief of him sinking his cock into the soothing warmth of her cunt. A torrid affair, a secret kept from the other gods.

He has not held her in nearly a month, campaigns and battles eating away at all of his time, keeping him in the mortal realm for longer and longer stretches, but still she stays away, just outside of his reach.

Sasori sees her all over the palace. In the dining hall, sitting in her usual seat, between Deidara and Ino, plates overflowing as the goddess of grain piles on bread and cheese and the god of wine fills her cup with only the sweetest of honey-meads. Wandering the gardens arm in arm with one of his sisters. Glimpses of her in the baths, being thoroughly scrubbed down by her attendants.

Normally so wanton and licentious, eager to seek him out, the sudden coyness is unordinary. He’d understand it if it came with looks of disgust or revolt, that a creature as beautiful as she may decide to not taint herself with the likes of him.

No, looks of longing are replaced with a flustering blush when he catches on to them. She’s always quick to glance away, squirming in her seat as her thighs rub to gain some sort of semblance of the friction Sasori could so easily provide for her.

His temper eats away at him, short and cross with his siblings and the servants. 

The time before his duty calls dwindles, the sun’s light beginning the early hours of the morning on the day he must leave, dressed fully in his newly acquired armor, shield in hand and sword on his hip. 

Sasori stalks into her room, all destruction and mayhem, ready to remind the fickle little goddess of lust just how vicious he can be. Heartbeat pounding like a legion of soldiers marching in step. 

The mounting pressure of his rage falls to the wayside when he sees her. 

Sakura sits on her bed, legs tucked up to her chest under her tunic, arms wrapped around, chin atop her knees, tears streaking down her face.

“My dawn, what troubles you so?” His shield falls with a clatter to the floor, rushing to kneel by her side, cupping her cheek in his palm. “Lay your problems upon me, and I will bear them all for you.”

She nuzzles into his open hand, pinning it to her shoulder, a fresh wave of tears pouring out of her.

“I knew you’d be so furious when you found out,” she whispers hoarsely, raw from her emotions. Had she cried all night while he paced in his room, unable to sleep, knowing she was so near? “I couldn’t bear to see you in such a state of rage.”

“Nothing you could do would ever bring me to anger,” he swears, drawing her in closer. “My comfort, the nexus of my heart, the solace that settles to my bones, never could you fill me with a rage directed at you.”

“More suitors came while you were gone,” Sakura admits, shifting to curl into the safety of his arms. “Gods from distant, far-off lands, ones with piles of wealth and chests of riches.”

“Wish it and I will slay them all,” Sasori offers as his heart sinks, the depths of his chest a despairing pit, ready to swallow him whole. “My dawn, my goddess. Sakura, please, I beg of you to command it.”

“Your father is unhappy—he says I must accept a husband soon, or one of the lot shall be chosen for me.” Her words are muffled in his chest, lips moving against his skin, too soft for such violence enacted on her behalf. “Kisame will not refute a suitable match with a proper dowry. I will be wed by the week's end."

“I will burn the world down for you.” His eyes burn, stinging, a newfound anger hammering into his heart, filling the void in his chest to cushion his fall. “I will lay siege and storm this very palace until there is nothing left but ruin. You do not have to go through with this.”

“It is what is best,” she says, pressing a hand to his breastplate, using it as leverage to tip back and look into his eyes, tears the size of the pearls she drapes herself in dripping down her face, searing where they land on his skin. “I could not bear it if you or any of the other gods were hurt because of me.”

Sasori swallows thickly, blinking back the rage that wells in his eyes. Crying is childish. Infantile, the memory of Sakura echoes in his head. 

He hardens his gaze, untangling himself from her arms. Silent as he crosses the room to retrieve his shield, heavy footsteps resound, mixing with her muffled sobs as she collapses onto the bed.

Her cries follow him down the hall, mourning—haunting. He keeps moving forward, as a good soldier would, pushing down the concern that she might just wail and weep until his father hears.

Chapter Text

Gaara frequents the brothel several more times with the conviction to choose one of the prostitutes to lie with, all to the same fate of wandering the halls and appreciating the artwork. 

By his third visit, the matron finds him in one of the corridors, contemplating the logistics of a fresco depicting a man entering a woman, just as a second man enters the first. 

“If you enjoy watching,” the older woman says, beckoning him to follow down the hall. “We have men available also. A scene could be arranged to suit your preferences.”

Gaara blanches at the thought of all the acts decorating the walls, of which one he would pick, of having to choose a man, one with proficiency and experience he himself lacks. 

“Of course, if men are not suited to your tastes, the women here are more than capable of pleasuring themselves.” The matron stops outside one of the little rooms that house the prostitutes, pulling back the patchwork quilt draped over the doorway and ushering him inside.

The black falls back into place behind him, leaving him standing in the narrow walkway that runs alongside the small cot taking up a majority of the floor space. 

The cot is occupied by a run-of-the-mill woman, neither handsome nor homely. Nude, legs spread to expose the way she is vulgarly pumping her fingers into her center, a squelching sound with each movement, layered with a chorus of heavy moaning and groaning. 

A heat creeps up Gaara’s neck, glancing around the room to find anything else to rest his eyes on, only to find the only other item of note in the room is a small shelf inset into the wall. In it are the lit oil lamp that casts the dreary room in a flickering glow, burning incense, and a small altar. 

A glass of wine, a handful of scattered petals, and a metal disk—no bigger than Gaara’s palm—with a depiction of a beautiful woman etched into its surface. 

No, not just any woman, a goddess, the goddess of lust—his goddess. Sakura’s profile, the soft slant of her nose, and the shape of her lips. 

The woman on the cot continues with her moaning, the tempo of her fingers increasing in pace, uncaring of Gaara’s distraction.

There is a weight in his pocket, a pearl gifted to him by one of the sea nymphs this morning, seeming to grow heavier with each passing breath. Following the urge, all the noises and smells falling to the wayside, as in a near-trance, he pulls it out and places it on a bed of petals.

Is this his sign? Is it the moment to try and regain his place in the heavens? To face his father for the first time since he flung Gaara from the mountain?

The daze continues, clouding his mind with swirling questions of his future. Not clearing until he stands in front of the temple outside the village, blinking as the ever-present smoke cleanses the haze from his mind. 

Back at the forge, Gaara sits hunched over his latest project, an intricate diadem, thin vines of metal twisting and looping to secure seven dazzling pearls, varying in hues, and a myriad of smaller gems of moonstone and opal garnered from the sea-voyaging traders in the village.

The nymphs will trade a hefty amount for it, several oversized fish he needs to feed the cyclops who stay in the forge more often than not these days, laboring for Gaara as he constructs a suitable amount of furniture for the house. 

Now in the completion of that quest and his experience at the brothel, he muddles over how to go about getting back to the heavens, debating the merits of calling on Kisame for such an endeavor.

He fiddles with one of the settings, very nearly snapping it in two in his startle when Obito pops into existence beside him.

“Hello, little brother!” Obito cheers mockingly. “I have no messages for you.”

“Then why come all this way simply to bother me?” Gaara says, keeping his focus on correcting the loose stone setting. 

“You will not ask me if I bring you news?” Obito’s smile is wide, almost feline, tilting his head. “Not even of the goddess you so desire?”

“What news do you bring?” Gaara grits his teeth, unhappy he must play Obito’s silly little games.

“I am so glad you asked, little brother,” Obito sing-songs. “For our father has become quite cross with the object of your infatuation these days.”

Will Rasa cast her from the heavens, as he did to Gaara?

“Father even says,” Obito continues on, “he will marry her off to whatever beast with a sizable dowry that shows up next to ask for her as a wife.”

Hands stilling, Gaara lets the words sink in.

“You are no beast.” Obito’s grin is even wider now, leaning in closer to the discolored mark on Gaara’s face. “But I do not think Father will find much difference.”

Gaara sets the headpiece down gently. “This is no trick of yours?”

“I swear to you, little brother,” Obito says, throwing his arm around Gaara’s shoulders, squeezing over affectionately. “It is my utmost earnest intention to bring you to the heavens, so you may plead your pitiful case of lovelorn foolishness.”

His preparations are complete: hard work and dedication and a house of handcrafted furnishings. All he needs is the goddess he’s lusted after to complete it.

“Okay,” Gaara agrees, wrapping the diadem in a soft cloth before tucking it away in a bag for the journey. “I will go.”

Obito cheers, letting go of Gaara in favor of dancing about, pulling a bottle from his robes. “But first, a drink! Only the finest of wines made by our brother! To celebrate, to calm your nerves! Oh, how anxious you must feel right now, little brother.”

Gaara takes the offered flask, sniffing the aroma that escapes when he pulls out the stopper, fruity and floral in his nose. Sweet on his tongue when he takes a long drink, and another for good measure, wiping the spillover off his mouth with the hem of his tunic. 

Obito takes the wine back, taking a small sip himself. “Alright now, little brother. We shall return to the heavens to fetch you a pretty little bride."

Chapter Text

Sakura sits at a picnic, deep in the gardens, sipping the wine Deidara keeps topping her goblet off with. A habit she keeps that is not quite as pious as the rest of her supposedly chaste divinity, but other than disapproving looks from Karura, no other god minds her tipsiness much. 

Ino lounges on her other side, basking in the rays of the sun, as if she too can use its powers to grow as the grains do. A selection of bread and cheeses, along with berries the trio had freshly gathered on their romp to the babbling brook that runs at the edge of the maintained land.

A facade of giggling and teasing, hiding her sour mood, but overall a pleasant morning spent in the company of her friends. Swallowing down her worry over Sasori's departure and her distress over Rasa’s control over her impending marriage, in an attempt to keep the concerned glances Ino and Deidara share when they think she’s not looking to a minimum.

As the sun grows high, the atmosphere shifts, building the pressure of a storm, and not far off, the musical styling of Obito and his lute rings through the air, with lyrics of brides and grooms as he draws closer. Odes of true love weddings and sonnets of an indecent nature.

“Father comes,” Deidara warns, slipping the goblet from Sakura’s fingers as if it was always his own. 

“You don’t think he’s made his choice, do you?” Sakura turns to Ino, who saddles in closer, wrapping her arm comfortingly around Sakura’s shoulders.

“Calm yourself,” Deidara advises. “If he declares an engagement, bear it with grace. Do not give him the satisfaction of your tears.”

“Kisame will not allow malignant matchmaking for you,” Ino says, rubbing warmth into Sakura. “It would be foolish of him to turn away an adequate suitor.”

Sakura twists her hands together, wishing to run, to find Sasori wherever he fights in the mortal realm, and to tuck herself away between his shield and body, hiding from the rest of the world to indulge in one another. 

A good husband, or a bad one, either is unconcerning to her when neither would be her lover, not when confessing to the affair would raise the ire of the king of the gods. 

She’s heard tales of Rasa’s anger—stories that make her spanking truly seem juvenile in comparison. Of sweet babes lost and misplaced, tossed from the sky without a second thought, the heavens are no place to raise children under his rule.

Sakura can see the lust in him, the way his eyes linger on anything with a pretty face and a fertile womb. The base desires to breed and procreate, to fuck and spill his seed, taking pride in swollen bellies and numerous neglected offspring.

As if seeking the trio out, Rasa and Obito beeline for the spot they occupy, turning their pleasant brookside picnic into an unpalatable luncheon.

Sakura rises with her companions to greet them, to find the duo is not alone—a third member of their party is cloaked in a deep hood that obscures his face.

“Sakura!” Obito cries, the first to reach her. Arms open wide, smug grin painted on his face, practically purring in his amused attitude, hard, dark eyes narrowed in spite of his mirth.

“I’ll see to it that you will regret spurning my proposal,” he whispers in her ear, the embrace threatens to crush her as she places her lips to his cheek in greeting. 

“Wine, brother?” Deidara asks, shoving Sakura’s cup into the nonexistent gap between her and Obito, causing her to step back to avoid the red liquid that sloshes out of the cup with the movement. 

“Sakura,” Rasa beckons her over with one hand, while the other clasps the shoulder of the stranger. “Do you ignore me in favor of my children?”

Sakura’s stomach twists as she approaches, taking his outstretched hand in her own, placing her lips on the tops of his knuckles. “My apologies, I was overcome by Obito's eagerness.”

"No need for such formalities," Rasa says, tugging her in closer. “Any of the lovely blessings you dote upon my family may always be extended to me.”

She paints a false smile on her face and allows Rasa to pin her to his side, avoiding his smirking lips to peck a small kiss on his cheek, ignoring the way his harsh fingers pinch the flesh on her hips. 

“We certainly do our best to keep her well-fed, don’t we? Love flourishes when nourished after all.” A set of arms slink around her waist as Ino’s head pops up over Sakura’s shoulder. Her voice is light, but her grip on Sakura is a comforting vise, holding her steady. “There is plenty to eat, a feast of a spread, should you thirst or hunger.”

“So it would seem.” Rasa’s scrutinizing eyes rake over Sakura’s form as he lets go of his hold on her, stepping back, soaking in her curves, and mapping the shape of her body. “However, we are here on a matter of business.”

“Bearing great news!” Obito cheers, shoving the hooded man forward, causing him to stumble, the slight lurch repeats with every step, a severe limp in his gait. “Father has found you a husband!”

Obito reaches up as he dances about, yanking the hood of her most recent suitor. A head of red hair takes her breath, very nearly the same shade as Sasori’s, a strong familial resemblance shared with Rasa.

The similarities end there. A discoloration mars his face, as if the pigment from his hair has run, leaking down and staining the skin below. The man has not taken his azurite eyes off of her. Wide and unblinking in astonishment and shy adoration, much the way small children or animals will gaze at her. 

“May I present Gaara of the volcano, god of the forge!” Otibo sing-shouts with a dramatic flourish of his hands.

“My son,” Rasa pats the younger man on his shoulder. “Resides on a mount in the mortal realm, your new home. My brother Kisame has already given his blessing, amiable to the match.”

She is to go live in the mortal realm? 

She’s only spent a handful of moments on the land. Her life began fully grown, from the moment the nymphs had pried open a clamshell deep in the underwater realm, squealing and screeching in delight as they presented her to the god of the seas—chanting and singing, “A pearl, a pearl, a pearl!” 

And when Kisame had brought her to the surface, Rasa stood at the shoreline, ready and waiting to drape her in his tunic, declare her a goddess, and drag her to his kingdom in the heavens.

“Go on,” Rasa urges, giving a hearty slap to Sakura’s bottom to get her moving. “Wedlock is sealed with a kiss, after all.”

Gaara remains silent, a bit pale, and the sheen of sweat on his skin smells of wine and frankincense, making no effort to meet her in the middle. The look of awe goes a bit cross-eyed, swaying, unsteady on his feet as she leans in, bringing her lips to his, briefly, quickly stepping back and out of Rasa’s reach. 

Her betrothed sways in his spot, belching lowly, twisting to grip Obito’s arm as a form of support, before he keels over, heaving and vomiting down the front of the other man’s tunic.

“Enjoy your life, little goddess of love and lust,” Rasa hisses as he passes her by, off to attend to his other, more important godly affairs. “Wed to an ugly, drunken whoremonger.”

Chapter Text

Gaara wakes, the harsh light of midday beaming in through the windows, head pounding, like a hammer to an anvil, and the inside of his mouth tastes like sick. The room spins when he sits up, pressing the heels of his palms into his temples, as if the pressure will relieve the throbbing.

He is unsurprised to find he is alone, his new bride having made herself scarce in her new home after his lack of decorum on their wedding night, having fallen asleep the moment he laid down on the plush mattress of their marriage bed.

She is not in the bathhouse as he cleans himself up, nor in the kitchens while he nibbles on a loaf of bread to settle his stomach. Wandering the villa in his attempt to locate her, only to find her in the gardens, sitting in the shade of a pavilion overlooking the sparkling sea.

Lost in thought, her hair flows in the breeze, more beautiful than the way the sun glints off the water, radiant as any pearl the nymphs have ever bestowed on him. He is tempted to leave her be, to admire her splendor from a distance—how could someone as lovely as she tolerate a grotesque beast such as himself?

She does not notice his approach, even with the way his leg drags in weariness. A hand to steady himself against the marble pillars as he clears his throat to announce his presence.

Rising, her pearls grate dully against each other as she moves before the strands settle into place, a fortune's worth of bartering power with the nymphs draped around her neck, gnawing at him. How is she deserving of such splendor that he only gains through blood and sweat, worlds apart, spoiled and sheltered in her high palace, while he’s spent so much of his life struggling below? 

A half-drunk decanter of dark wine and a platter of fruit sit on a small table nearby, not necessarily a nourishing meal, likely whatever she’d come across in the kitchens.

“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable,” Gaara bites dryly. 

“I hope you do not mind,” Sakura says, blinking guileless emerald eyes in his direction as she wrings her hands together. “There were no servants about to assist me, and I have little aptitude for the culinary arts.”

Whether it be her nervousness or naivety, Gaara’s vexation melts away as she approaches with trepidation. Unblemished and unsullied, how disquieted she must feel, a sweet virgin, thrust into a marriage with the likes of him.

Patience and diligence—Gaara has learned this lesson plenty of times. The proper preparation and effort given will be needed, lest he leave her fragile nature shattered and ruined like fragments of volcanic glass.

Sakura steps in closer, the fabric of her long tunic brushing against his, intent on setting a kiss on his lips, the proper way a wife should. He ducks at the last moment, tucking his chin to his chest, so the pucker of her mouth lands on his birthmark. 

Surprise overtakes her expression, wide eyes and high eyebrows, as he steps back. 

“I—we, we may,” Gaara struggles to form a coherent thought, taking a deep breath to center himself. “I have spent many years building the villa and tending to the lands to be able to bring you here. There is no need to rush the physical aspects of our relationship—they will come with acquaintanceship, as we grow more comfortable together.”

Sakura remains silent, lips parting softly in awe. Gaara knows it is a silly notion to not take her as any other man would, but he does not wish her to despise him, and perhaps with some time, the goddess of love might bestow her blessing upon him.

“There is access to the water, a path on the cliffside,” he suggests in an attempt to get her to make any other expression than the look of astonishment on her face. “I could show you, if you would like.”

Sakura brightens, a small smile gracing her lips. “I would like that very much indeed.”

Gaara leads the way to the worn dirt trail. She keeps pace with him until the first switchback, when one of the nymphs spots them with a shriek of delight. In all his years he’s never seen the creatures in such a frenzy as Sakura breaks away to skip down the path, reaching the water’s edge well before he's made it halfway down.

“Sakura, wait. The nymphs are—” He tries to warn, to no avail, terror seeping into his bones at the thought that they may try to seduce and eat his fresh bride.

There is no need to worry, however, the sea-dwelling nymphs calm as she kneels down on one of the large rocks, crowding around in the water with little of the shoving or splashing that Gaara’s presence incites. 

Sitting down to play some sort of game with them, Sakura appears to be in no immediate danger as he limps down the face of the volcano. The crowd has thinned out, each taking their turn and then returning to the depths of the ocean. Only a handful remain by the time Gaara joins her on her perch. 

A small nymph, no more than a fryling, swims up to Sakura, presenting a small, grey pebble that she plucks from its hold. Cupping it in her palms, bringing her hands up to her mouth, and blowing gently between them. 

And when she opens them, clamlike, a gorgeous pink pearl sits in the cradle of her hands. 

“A pearl!” the sea-nymphs cry, crowding around the token.

“Go on,” Sakura urges with a nod of her head, extending her arms so the nymph who gave it to her may pluck it out. “It is yours now.”

As the creature hauls itself out of the water to pinch the pearl between two webbed, talon-tipped fingers, two of the nymphs break free of the pack. Pulling and tugging on Gaara’s ankles and breeches, uncaring of his bad leg, until he stumbles, falling on top of Sakura.

Catching himself before he crushes her, with one hand on either side of her head, eye-to-eye and no desire to move, stunned by the sudden onset of her allure. He can feel her breath as the nymphs hoot and holler, shouting with delight and bursting into songs that would make even Obito blush.

One sentiment repeated over and over again, the very thing the nymphs have been bringing Gaara for all the lonely years he’s spent in the volcano.

“A pearl! A pearl! A pearl!”

Chapter Text

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. 

Chapter Text

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. 

Chapter Text

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.”