Warnings: Sexual references, non-descript sexual acts and (some) intentional grammar errors.


Pale hands slide over olive flesh; cold, and almost like that of the dead.

Shivers, and quiet mewls voiced encouragement.

Sharp white teeth nip at ears, (not enough to draw blood, as Kiba doesn't enjoy that).

Clothing is shed, (much of it Kiba's).

Pale form steps forward, and Kiba steps backwards. In sync, like it were a ballet.

Kiba fell back onto the bed.

(Horizontal pleasure,

Was best enjoyed,

Lying down.)


Sleep, something foreign, even after Shukaku, Gaara got relatively little.

Why would one want sleep, when there was a sleeping Kiba to look at all night.


Kiba's mouth was magic.




Down the throat.



Love is not something spoken about.

What does love, love?


(Neither entertained narcissism).

In replacement, affection was shown.

(A pale hand entwined with a tan one.

A frozen body held against a warm one.

Reassuring kisses.)


Kiba was full of life.

The desert was not.

What kills life?


On some days Gaara wished Akamaru were dead.

Then Kiba would be all his.

Gaara's wishes didn't come true.

And on the other days he was glad for it.


Gaara's mouth was a grinder.





He was persistent though.





That's what Wednesdays were for.


Behind Gaara, Kiba lay, spooning him.

(As Gaara was still much a child).

In the background, everything was silent.

(Kiba missed the sound of grasshoppers.

Though he would miss Gaara more).

Nights such as these,

Made Kiba (and Gaara);

If not happy, content.


Some grammar inaccuracies, most were intentional (I felt they made the story flow better).

Honest opinions and reviews are ♥.