Heh, this was a completely random one-shot that came to me when I was too lazy to write up another chapter for The Weapon. Call it a side fic, call it a staller, whatever. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.

-x-

Dead of night. Whispering leaves betray the gossiping trees. Swaying in a dull wing, casting long dark shadows under a cloudy muddled moonlight.

They talk about the man. There, sitting on the apex of a small hill. A creek trickling over it with the betrayal of the laws of gravity. Murky, smelly water. Tar like in the night.

His dark bangs hung low over his eyes, his ivory skin glowing. Delicious pink lips were parted as he panted. Long, shallow, deep pants.

He was crouched on his knees. Huddled into a small ball. Taking up as little space as possible. The crunchy grass beneath him noiseless due to his stillness.

A bare arm was held out in front of him, the elbow resting on one knee. His arm was flawless, smooth skin bulging with muscles. The sleeve of his crow dark shirt rolled up to the point of being uncomfortable below his shoulder.

In another hand was a kunai. Gleaming, malicious, horrible. It's handle was made of some kind of dark iron, rough and heavy. The blade was only a few inches long, the tip sharpened to a smooth even point.

The eyes are what gave away him away. Glassed with fear. Fogged with anger. Buried in pain. A pair of dark onyx marbles, flashing with emotions that had been strangers throughout his life.

His breath stops midway. Heavy and floating. His kunai pressed against his pale skin, teasingly pricking.

Liquid oozed out. A delightful bright crimson, as if absorbing the light of the moon. It brought a sensation into his heart. Deeper than that. Into his very soul. The soul which was once forgotten and cold, warmed by a blanket of blood.

He slashed robotically, his position never changing. Never feeling the cramps. Never tiring. He brought the soaked tip to tainted pale skin, covering what was clean to be cut.

When he was done with the first arm, he moved to the next one, his bloody palm leaving wet stains on the handle. His arm finished, his shins. Moving up, taking every bit of skin there was to offer.

His breath was weakening. He lost so much blood. So much blood warmed his inner soul. He felt alive at the verge of death.

His long lashes began to flutter, his mind began to oscillate. His groans filled the empty night air. The trees had ceased their whispers.

An unusual uprising of wind, a figure within a shadow. He made no sign of recognition, he was there. He saw what was there.

The figure came closer, hooded and unfamiliar. Locks of indigo and pale skin. Peach lips straight line. Emotionless.

She reached him and sat in front of him, mimicking his crouch. Pulling her hood down, her eyes were stony. No emotion. They were both just simply there.

Soft, delicate hands skillfully touched each sinfully opened wound, a flash of green, new skin reformed. The blood was still there. He was covered with it. But he was no longer losing anymore. The blood that was there was all that there was.

He was sticky and wet. His hair was plastered to his forehead, still hanging low over his eyes. The girl before him was in a similar position. They both showed no emotion. They didn't need to. They could just feel it hanging there.

He reached a bloody hand out, grasping one of the soft silky locks, staining them delightfully. His hand moved her forehead, to her cheek, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake. The tips of his fingers brushed her lips.

A whistle of wind. He crashed his lips to hers. Licking away the blood he had left. Tasting his own metallic liquid.

His sharp tongue continued to clean up the blood as another bloody hand left more as it went down her cloak, untying, unbuttoning, releasing.

The girl used the close proximity to her own advantage, once again mimicking his movements. She followed his lead and licked away his blood. Small circles of saliva combining with the crimson droplets.

They didn't look at each other. They knew the other was there.

They didn't release any emotion. No moans would fare.

They made love that night under the moonlight.

Never knowing who the other was.

They did it because the other was there.

Each soaked in crimson lust.