The Wind Shadow’s Dream

The Wind Shadow’s Dream

He still walks the streets of Suna late in the night, not because of Shukaku anymore but because sleeping still isn’t easy for the Kazekage, the Wind Shadow. Sleeping is too much like dying, and he had already died once and doesn’t want to do that again. So he roams the streets at night, wandering in a different part of his town each night. He doesn’t know that he is watched at night, that seeing him is something little ninjas brag about in the schoolyard. He wouldn’t know about that sort of thing anyway since he’d never found any kindness in a schoolyard.

The damage, the deaths from Deidara happened almost a year ago now. But he looks up at the night sky, and sometimes a moonlit cloud stops his heart for a second, looking like a soaring white bird. He sees that bird, hears Deidara’s laughter, when he sleeps. Nightmares are another reason he walks the streets at night.

Tonight he began his walk early and has traveled far from the big central building he and his siblings call both home and work. Lately there doesn’t seem to be any criminals he can catch and punish—no thieves, no vandals, not even any drunks. The only people awake he meets are his own ninjas or city police.

The figure in the alley startles him. He stands under the light, half naked, blatantly drinking and fondling one of his nipples. When he sees Gaara, he calls out, “Hey, don’t be shy, come closer.”

Gaara’s right hand rises up to his chest, feeling his heart beating. Yes, he’s awake.

“Please, don’t go,” says the young man, for he has to be no more than Gaara’s age, if not a little younger.

Gaara walks forward into the little circle of light, and the teen’s eyebrows fly up and his mouth drops open. God, it shouldn’t hurt to see the fear on his face, thought Gaara. Why had he expected anything else? Yes, many villagers had come to save him, but still he was Gaara, and he killed better than any one else.

“My god, you are so fucking gorgeous! Your hair, those eyes, your skin, that tatt—oh, yes, you’re the Kazekage, aren’t you? Beautiful and powerful. Are you kind, too? Will you give a lonely boy a kiss? Or are you going to kill me? Is being gay a crime here? Will I have to leave? Or are you lonely, too, like me? Are you winking at me or just blinking? Are you ok?”

He puts the bottle down and moves towards Gaara. The Kazekage’s sand moves without his conscious thought, swirling in bands around the youth’s legs, around his wrists, holding him at a distance from Gaara.

“Hentai! So the honorable Kazekage is a pervert who looks for action at night. Lucky, lucky me! You caught me, you have me, now come and have your wicked way with me, please.”

Gaara’s cock has never felt so hard before, and he moves towards that half-naked body dazed, still wondering if this is a dream. But then his arms are around that hairless, thin chest, and he’s gotten enough control to make the sand fall to the ground. The moment those thin wrists are released, Gaara feels hands on his ass squeezing, pulling his body against the one in his arms. Gaara’s eyes shut, and he shudders as for the first time in his life, his aroused cock presses into another body. He whimpers.

And then the hands are gone from his ass, and he is being held, being kissed, being guided away from the light to the darkness, until there is a wall at his back, a tongue deep in his mouth, and hands cupping his face. The crotch of the teen rocks into his own again and again, a pleasure that is unbelievable, unbearable. He tries to cry out, to push away the body against him—or he thinks he does, but he does nothing but writhe and gasp, and then when that hot mouth pulls away and the stranger whispers, “Oh, god, god, kissing you is like drinking flame,” he cries out and comes in his pants.

“God, god, you didn’t, you didn’t, oh, god, you did! Oh, god, you came, you came from just a kiss, oh, god, so sexy—so fucking sexy! Please don’t leave me, now, don’t leave me wanting you, needing you! Please, please, feel me, feel me hard for you, touch me, touch me, Beautiful.”

His cock is in Gaara’s hand, and Gaara’s own cock, so starved for any release, any touch, stiffens again. And then they are stroking each other, using Gaara’s cum to make their hands move faster.

“Your name,” says Gaara, the first words he’s said to the boy. His voice sounds odd, strange to his ears—desperate, weak, needy.

“Seimi, my name is Seimi, Call me Seimi, please, just Seimi.”

“Seimi,” he says, and the teen cries out and begins to come. His hand falls away from Gaara’s cock, his body swaying as his cum sprays up and hits Gaara in the face, on his chest.

“Forgive me, please, forgive me,” Seimi begs even as he still shudders from his orgasm.

Gaara catches him and pulls him close, feels the thin body tremble in his arms, and his hand pulls that pretty face to his, kissing Seimi fiercely, rubbing their faces together, then licking at the cum now smeared there. The teen moans, and his hands try to find Gaara’s cock again.

The sound of a window opening is shockingly loud, and Gaara acts without thinking once again, surrounding Seimi and himself with a shell of sand. The body in his arms is limp, too limp. The ribs are too prominent; the teen too thin. He’s passed out, and Gaara hopes it is from too little food and sleep and too much drink and pleasure. Surely not from fear, no, no, Seimi doesn’t fear him, can’t fear him.

Gaara lets his sand shift to a cup and raises that cup up over the city, moving quickly to his home. He wants Seimi in his room, now. He wants him naked, wants to watch him come in the bright lights of his room. He wants to feed him, to bathe him, to kiss him. But he’s met on the terrace by four ninjas, worried at his speed, his use of chakra, the body in his arms.

Gaara says, “Leave me be,” and uses his chakra to transport Seimi and himself to his room, a little shocked he didn’t think to do that before moving across the sky like he had when fighting Deidara. He places the body in his arms on his bed gently, reverently. It seems too long until Seimi’s eyes finally open. Gaara has already cleaned them both, had food brought, stripped them both, and examined and memorized every bit of Seimi’s body. He sits on the side of the bed, looking down at the body there.

“Who? Where?” Seimi asks confused, his head rising up from the pillow, looking around confused.

“Gaara. Home.”

“Gaara-sama? Home?” His eyes are brown and fixed on Gaara now. To Gaara, they are the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen.

“Gaara, just call me Gaara, Seimi, please.”

“Gaara,” says Seimi, his voice soft, full of wonder, his face looking at Gaara like no one has ever looked before.

Gaara’s cock twitches, and he whimpers.

“Home,” says Seimi, his voice now stronger, seductive. “Hentai! You brought me here to have your wicked way with me after all.”

“Stay, please.”

“Silly Gaara,” says Seimi, pulling him down on the bed, “Silly, silly, Gaara,” he adds, rolling them, so Gaara lies beneath him. Then Seimi is kissing him, moving that body over him. But then the smaller teen’s stomach makes a loud rumbling noise that makes them pull apart.

“There’s food,” says Gaara.

“Feed me, then fuck me, Gaara.”

Gaara’s body spasms a little under Seimi’s, and he moans. He never liked the word fuck before this moment, and now, now, he wants nothing more than to hear it again. When he was little, before he’d known what fucking was, he’d heard the tone, the hate, in the voices that said, “Fuck you!” As he’d grown in power, fuck was a curse that was muttered behind his back or maybe some of the last words heard before he’d feel that rain of crimson blood spilling down from the sky. But this wasn’t “Fuck you,” it was “Fuck me”—and the voice, oh, god, the voice, and the face, the eyes—oh, they all make Gaara feel like he was needed, no beyond needed—wanted, desired, craved.

“Hentai! My new master is such a hentai!” he says as his hand strokes Gaara’s erection making him cry out and buck up. Then that brown-haired head lowers down and sucks Gaara’s cock into his mouth.

Gaara let out a little shriek, and Seimi’s hand and mouth take less than a minute to send Gaara into the strongest orgasm he’s ever experienced. As he cries out and his seed bursts out into Seimi’s mouth, into that tight, wet, warmth, Gaara suddenly thinks this is why he was born, why he didn’t die, why he had to live—because Seimi was waiting for him, lonely, and because together, together, they could feel this. But he can’t hold on to that thought because the feeling of his cum spraying out into another body is too amazing, too incredible to experience and still think. And for that instance all the burdens Gaara has carried from conception are gone. He is just a man, a man in orgasm, a man with his cock in another man’s throat, crying out as his lover drinks down his cum.

“Seimi, Seimi,” he gasps out when he can spill out no more sperm, and then Seimi’s heads rises, and those brown eyes meet his and make him gasp.

Those eyes seem hot, burning, and Seimi licks his lips and then says in a low husky voice, “You’re all flame from your fiery hair to your burning kisses and your hot cum. Immoliate me, make me yours, brand me, command me—“

Seimi’s words set him ablaze, and Gaara can’t listen, can’t wait any more. It doesn’t even matter that he is still soft from Seimi’s sucking; he needs to touch, to taste, to rub his hands and body against this boy in his bed. He pulls Seimi close, kissing him, his hands stroking his back, his ass, his shoulders, his arms, his hair. His tongue explores Seimi’s lips, his teeth, his tongue, his cheek, his ear, his neck. Seimi’s hard cock is between them, against Gaara’s belly, and the feeling of that cock makes Gaara feel more powerful than he’s ever felt.

His hands slide in between, reaching for that hardness, and Seimi raises his head and says, “Gaara, do you want to fuck me or me to fuck you?”

Gaara blinks again, confused. They are both men; how can they fuck without a vagina? Oh, with their mouths! “Yes--both, everything. What do you want now, Seimi? Food?”

Seimi smiles, and Gaara is entranced. He’s had so few people smile at him, and no one, no one has smiled at him while laying against him, naked skin to naked skin. “Hmm, food or fuck the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen? The one whose kisses and cries and touch made me pass out from the pleasure? I’ll have to--”

“From pleasure, not hunger?”

Seimi laughs before kissing Gaara again. But soon his mouth slides to Gaara’s ear, and he asks, “Where are my pants, Gorgeous? I have some lube in them, or do you have some closer?”

Gaara turns his head and blinks at him, confused again, so Seimi just whispers, “My pants, Gaara.” That Gaara can do, and his sand has the pants on the bed next to them, and as Seimi puts a runny liquid on his hands, he realizes suddenly Seimi is going to put his fingers, his cock inside his ass. Yes, that must be it, there isn’t any other place. And suddenly Gaara’s anal muscles tighten up, and his cock stiffens abruptly, instantly. His legs push together, one knee crossing over the other, and his mouth drops open. His sand springs to life, swirling up around the bed.

Seimi pauses, his sticky fingers in the air, saying softly, “Lube and sand is a painful mix. Do you like pain, Gaara?”

The sand goes back into his gourd so fast that it doesn’t hiss, it snarls. Gaara feels a strange heat on his skin and wants to shout and hide, to hit Seimi and to run away, to cry and to kill; and all the conflicting emotions suddenly make him feel afraid.

But Seimi is kissing him again, rubbing his wet, aroused cock against Gaara’s erection, then whispering, “Gaara, Gaara, let me love you, open your legs for me.”

It isn’t hard to do, to move his legs apart, to spread them, but it seems so hard to get his body to make the simple movement. His muscles are quivering and his body feels heavy. He’s panting as if he had been fighting for a long time. Moving his thighs apart makes his ass clench and his dick throb, and a little breathy “Ahh” comes up out of his throat.

The fingertip slides in just a quarter of an inch, and Gaara gasps and throws his head back, arching up from the bed, driving that digit in deeper.

“Gaara, god, Gaara!”

Seimi’s finger is in him, all the way in him, fucking him, loving him, and Seimi is babbling now, his words almost incoherent, words that make Gaara feel drunk or drugged, words he can’t understand anymore, but it doesn’t matter because he can hear the tone, the inflection, the emotion—the desire, the passion, the adulation, the adoration in that voice.

He hears love.

He feels love—or lust, at least. He feels the panting, the heated skin, the sweat—and the stretch, the strain, as seven inches of swollen cock slowly slide into his ass. Seimi’s cries as he pulls out and pushes in are answered by Gaara’s—and then he finds that spot, that special spot, and Gaara goes wild. He has Seimi on his back, held down with sand, and his hands gripping his own cock, his body slamming down hard enough to bruise Seimi’s hips, his ass grinding and rocking, then rising up to slam down again, so that cock spears that spot inside him, making him spasm. Faster, faster, until he finally explodes again with a shout and sprays his sperm once more. There isn’t much cum left in him, just a few thick, heavy spurts, but this time the feeling is even better since he feels like his ass is coming too—and then he realizes that it’s Seimi’s sperm, Seimi’s cum inside him, and he thrashes and shakes even more violently, his head tossing back and forth wildly until it crashes painfully against something hard. The burst of agony in his skull is dimly registered, but it makes the pleasure manageable. He’s hit his head on the ceiling—in his ecstasy his sand had sent them soaring up over the bed.

They drop back down, screaming as Gaara’s control is shoddy, crude, and they smash into the bed. Gaara tumbles forward, shocked, but braces himself above Seimi with his hands. Drawing deep breaths in his lungs, he gazes down too dazed to have any expectations. The thin, delicate body beneath him is bright red, breathing even more raggedly than he is. The face, the face he will never forget, has a new look he’s never seen directed at him before.

He freezes.

He’s seen that look before—the memory flashes over him, almost overwhelming him with pain. His uncle, his uncle who tried to kill him, had looked at the picture of his beloved sister like that. He’d whispered the name of Gaara’s mother to the image of her face, whispering he loved her. And the memory of how he’d wanted that look to be turned on him, to hear his name said with love, to see that love in the eyes, the cheeks, the lips of another, brings another memory: that moment of absolute conviction that he was unloveable, that he’d never experience love. Once more he feels that desire to die, to end the pain of feeling hated, and he recalls the feeling of the hated sand that won’t let him die cutting his skin, scarring it, scouring it so deeply that his forehead would remain red for life with the word for what he wanted.

Seimi’s hand reaches up as if he knows what Gaara is thinking, and his finger strokes lightly over the kanji carved on Gaara’s temple.

“Gaara.”

Gaara falls down on him, and his sand wraps tight around them and begins to obey the desire Gaara doesn’t voice. He shouldn’t do this, but he can’t stop himself even when Seimi begins to scream in pain, shouting his name, begging him. And when he falls silent, Gaara holds on tight until his own shaking and sobbing overwhelm him, and the sand drops down in heaps. The room is awash in sand—it covers the floor to the level of the bed.

Gaara looks down at the silent, still Seimi, and smiles. Energy floods him—he feels stronger than he’s ever felt, stronger than when he had Shukaku inside him, for Shukaku possessed him, and this, this is all his own strength. He banishes the sand with ease, his chakra shimmering around him, visible. He gently lifts Seimi, washing him, waking him gently, giving him water drugged with painkillers, feeding him bits of soft food. They don’t speak. And when the last bit of food is gone, Gaara gently kisses Seimi until that look is almost back on his face.

“Why?”

Gaara opens his mouth and finds he can’t speak. He picks Seimi up carefully and carries him across the room to the mirror. He watches Seimi’s face as he sees what Gaara has done to him.

And when he sees love on Seimi’s face to match his new sand-scoured mark of “love,” Gaara’s voice comes back.

“I love you, Seimi.”

And that face in the mirror suddenly starts to laugh.

For just the smallest fraction of a second, Gaara thinks he is dying again, thinks he is being rejected. But Seimi is still looking at him with that look, smiling, now smirking, saying in the voice whose tone is like a caress, “Teaching me a lesson about being careful what I ask for, eh? I guess I’m lucky you just branded me, marked me as your love slave, and didn’t burn me to ashes, Master Hentai! You better keep me, now—I’ll never get another lover with this on my forehead. Everyone will think you’ll kill anyone who touches me.”

And jealousy rips through Gaara, and he growls out, “I will! Mine!” And his cock springs to life again, and he pulls Seimi back and pushes that rod of flesh against his ass, and his mouth bites down on Seimi’s ear, then his shoulder.

“Animal! Hentai!”

Gaara doesn’t care—maybe he lived with Shukaku inside him for too long, but this man is his, all his, and the drive that made him brand him makes him want to bite, to devour—to fuck, yes, god, yes, he wants to fuck, needs to fuck, needs to be inside this one he loves, needs to claim his love inside and out.

And Seimi whimpers and gasps out, “Gaara, Gaara.”

“Say it, Seimi, say it!”

“Gaara!”

“Seimi! Tell me!”

“Fuck me! Fuck me, Gaara!”

“Why? Tell me fucking why!”

“Gaara, please, Gaara, I need you, I need you now!”

And Gaara cries out like an animal in pain, and Seimi cries out as well as he realizes what Gaara needs.

“No! Shhh! Gaara, love, Gaara, baby, I love you! I love you! I do, I do. I swear—oh, god, Gaara, don’t tear me, please, lube, spit, saliva, anything. Thank you, thank you, thank—Oh! What?! Gaara! Oh, fuck, yes! Gaara! I love you! Ohhh, mother of god, Gaara, this has to be a dream—Ahhh!”

The screams and cries of Seimi make Gaara thrust his tongue faster and deeper into that tight little hole where he is going to put his cock. He wonders if he can make Seimi come from just his tongue, but the sudden realization he himself is going to come soon from just listening to Seimi, from tongue fucking his ass, makes him rise up and position his lover against the mirror.

“Yes! Fuck me, my love! Gaara, love me! Please, I love you, so fuck me, fuck me hard!”

It’s a hard fuck, a fast fuck, and Gaara doesn’t last long—but Seimi loses it even sooner than Gaara. It doesn’t matter to him that Gaara didn’t stretch him enough, that Gaara never found his prostate, that his new “tattoo” burns despite the painkillers, and that his stomach was too full of food to be happy about the pounding thrusts shaking every bit of his body. None of that even registers with Seimi because that was the best fuck of his life, the first fuck that wasn’t just a fuck—he really believes that, really, this isn’t like those other times. He’s fallen in love before, he’s begged to be fucked, cried out words of love, even heard them back. But then he’s woken up alone, or even worse, with money on the table. But, Gaara, the Kazekage of Suna, Gaara is like no one he’s ever met. And Gaara hasn’t just fucked him, he’s loved him and claimed him.

Claimed. Branded. Mastered. Loved.

He tries to tell Gaara that as they lay on the bed, in a happy exhaustion, that this is the first time he believes that this is forever, that this is it, this is what he’s looked for ever since his sexuality first awoke. And Gaara misunderstands and whispers back between kisses and licks and gentle little nips and soft strokes of his hands on every bit of Seimi’s skin that it is his first time, too, his first everything—first kiss, first touch, first orgasm (aside from wet dreams), first oral sex, first fingering—and Seimi can’t listen to the rest of the list.

His—all his, only his, always his—his Gaara, his virgin, his love. His to teach, his to train, his to love. Perfect. Pure. Powerful.

Now Seimi too is licking, kissing, stroking, tasting, and exploring. Neither one has experienced anything like this slow savoring.

But then neither one has been in love and loved before.

And when they make love for the first time, there is this eerie feeling like they’ve done this all their lives, that this is their whole life, that everything else was some strange and scary dream.

That feeling never quite goes away. Sleep is always a little scary—will they discover this world of love and happiness, this sexual bliss is the dream? Will they wake alone and unloved once again?

So many a night they walk the streets of Suna, hand in hand, sometimes silent, sometimes singing softly. They fuck in alleys, they make love inside shells of sand, they giggle and whisper about silly little things. Some nights they talk to other lovers they meet in the streets, to those that can’t sleep, to the lonely and sad who find solace in the dark, cool desert nights. When Gaara worries that more and more of Suna’s citizens seem to suffer, to seek the night, and doubts that he is helping his city, Seimi shakes his head at such stupidity.

There is no crime in Suna at night. In the sunless streets, Gaara gives into passion. He isn’t the Kazekage, he is Seimi’s lover, Seimi’s protector, and his sand suffocates or savages those that dare disturb or endanger his love. The nights are the lovers’ dreamworld, their own paradise.

And like ripples from a rock that drops in a pool, love’s sweet dream spreads out in Suna.

It’s the sort of town now where people believe in happy ever after. Where they believe in world peace and the goodness of humanity.

Because if Gaara can find true love, anyone can. And with love, anything is possible.