Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10532727.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Other
  Fandom:
      Naruto
  Relationship:
      Gaara/OC
  Character:
      Gaara_(Naruto), Gin_(OC)
  Additional Tags:
      what_in_gods_name_was_I_thinking, I'm_Going_to_Hell, dubcon_(But_it's_ok
      I_Promise), im_placing_myself_under_arrest, I'm_fully_aware_of_how_Edgy_
      (TM)_this_is, BloodPlay?
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-04-03 Words: 2075
****** Four Times I Died in the Sand ******
by Texas_not_Tex
Summary
     This is the edgiest piece of shit I've ever churned out.
     It's not crack, though. just not my usual style? It's written ok,
     it's just...
     Basically; EdgelordMcGee my OC gets a weird crush on Gaara (before
     anyone heads over to the leaf village) and coerces him into some
     weird, kinky shit. and then I write an unsatisfying ending because
     IDGAF.
Notes
     GIN is an OC of mine who is not, actually, meant to be in the Naruto
     universe. He's an asshole who got himself "cursed" into being
     immortal when he tried to kill himself over a sigil in which a
     powerful witch-spirit was sealed, awakening her. He now searches the
     world for this spirit so he can defeat it and finally die. In this
     story, he's already been at it a while, and he's not doing so great.
     Gin does not have to be read as male in this context. part of the
     curse is that his/their/her body gets...fucked up after a while, and
     pretty inhuman looking, so picture a hotter, shorter, caucasian
     slenderman with facial features, and you've got it.
     I hate this fic.
     (I didn't add the italics that were in the word doc in because I'm
     not whipping out any html for this garbage)
See the end of the work for more notes
The first time we met, he tried to kill me.
And the second.
And the third.
And the fourth.
The first time in itself—now, that wasn’t unusual. It wasn’t uncommon for
people to want me dead for some reason or another. It was the consecutive third
and fourth tries that were a little more surprising. You see, when a person
sticks a knife into someone’s heart, and twists it, and that someone keeps
moving, the would-be killer tends to get the fuck out of Dodge. The brave ones
will come back with friends for a second try, but third? And fourth? You’d have
to be hellishly determined, or just plain crazy. And it wasn’t hard to tell
which Gaara is.
I suppose I should add a little context here.
I—I am called Gin. Countless years ago, a witch-spirit cursed me and bound my
soul to my physical form indefinitely; resulting in what some might call the
“gift” of immortality.
Yes, it still hurts if you punch me in the nose, no, I don’t die from a stake
to the heart, and my God, yes, have I tried.
I have traveled a long, long way, for a long time, going nowhere. I’ve been
called a ronin, a criminal, a bum, a devil—not inaccurate, but also not
relevant. Once you’ve wandered deathless for a couple lifetimes, names and
labels ebb and flow, their value waxing and waning like a sluggish moon. Or
perhaps like the shifting of the sands in this Land of Wind I’ve found myself
in. And that’s where this story begins.
The Land of Wind is appealing to me. It reminds me of the beginning of my
journey. Its ferocious winds soothe me, making me almost believe it could be my
ending place, too. How lovely would that be? A bookend. A practice in perfect
symmetry. But that sense of finality did not last long once I encountered him.
The first time we met, it was by happenstance. All of it. He’s a temperamental
kid, to say the least. All hate and bloodlust, brimming just below the surface.
I thought it a mess, at first, once I had the chance to think after realigning
all my bones. I’d gotten in his way, it seemed. That boy was a born killer. I
could see the demon in him as clearly as I could feel my own knitting together
my broken flesh. Sloppy. Boring.
But the next time I met him. And the next.
I saw his eyes.
There was a disaster in that heart of his, yes. Dry and desolate and merciless
as the sand he clung to. But there was also a deep, focused hunger, the likes
of which I’ve never seen. He wanted to kill. It was no accident, no compulsion;
it was a desire, sensuous and wild as the feral wolf’s need to hunt. It was…
attractive.
I could barely see his confusion the first time he saw me alive after he
“killed” me, but it was there. I suppose with power like that you don’t leave
many survivors. He set on me again, and I made an attempt to escape, but had no
success ( I admit, I might not have tried very hard. Being crushed and skewered
and taken apart hurts like hell, yes, but sometimes I just have to bear with
it). This time, he stood over my body after he broke it. Before he struck, he’d
spoken to me; but now there were no words. My bloody mess didn’t even touch his
calm. He stood there for minutes, watching. Making sure he’d killed his prey
this time.
I knit myself back together after he left.
The third time he saw me, there were no words. Not even in the beginning. Just
a gleaming fury in his eye and a sudden strike. His sand formed spears and
pierced me before I could even turn a corner to protect myself. It was a type
of pain I relished. The sand was so rough and warm and his eyes were so filled
with the taste of my blood. I gasped, opening my red mouth, his grit on my
tongue. But there was little time to savor the moment, as painful as it was. He
tore me to pieces. Very thorough. When he was done, I couldn’t even see. It
took longer to become human-shaped again this time. But this time, I knew that
there was something in this land of wind and dust that I needed to find. A
blood diamond gleaming among the sands.
It was the fourth time when I had the presence of mind to lure him to me.
His eyes locked onto me, and I smiled. He was cold, determined. I ran to my den
and he shadowed me like a ghost at my heel. No more random encounters, now. He
was in my space, and he was curious, and I wanted to get closer. Was his skin
soft? Or was he a raspy as his blanket of deadly sand? My heart raced. I had to
know.
“Why,” He asked me quietly, in that broken, childlike voice of his.
“Why are you still alive.”
It wasn’t directed at me, I knew as much. I was still little more to him than a
rat caught in his trap. But that would change.
“You’ve noticed, have you? That you can’t kill me.” I taunted him.
He grunted, animalistic. His sand swarmed around us both and I made no attempt
to avoid it.
“Why won’t you die?” He asked again. He sounded petulant, enraged. It was cute.
I stepped closer.
“You have to. You have to!” he repeated, as I walked closer. I could see him
twitch. His mind, his stone of a heart, in a frenzy. He was so curious. I knew
he could see the dark within me like I saw his within him.
“Go ahead,” I offered, still advancing slowly as if approaching a wild animal.
“Try again. Go for my heart.”
I could feel the witch’s energy crackling in me, strengthening me. I felt more
alive than I had since I’d died. And Gaara did try again. His sand cut straight
through me, surgically. Like a child focusing all his energy on burning an ant
with a magnifying glass.
I hung limp on the sand-spear for a second, growing cold, smiling. He withdrew
and I straightened.
As worked up as I was, the hole in my chest closed in moments. I pulled off my
tattered robe to show him the new skin. I was… proud. Absurdly proud.
But he didn’t stop there. He came at me again and again with his sand, choking
me, running me through, knocking me down, breaking me. But I continued forwards
until I could feel his wet, panting breaths on my neck.
He was shaking, unhinged. He was aroused but terribly confused and conflicted,
not meeting my eye, instead watching the last drops of my blood run down my
skin like a man lost in the desert would eye a waterfall. I wanted him to lick
them off of me. He did not.
He made a confused groan, as if he’d never learned enough of the human language
to express his thoughts and feelings in words. It was charming, very much so.
And now that I was so close. I had to know. His skin…his skin, what was it
like…?
I ran my long, slender, inhuman fingers down his cheek, and he flinched.
“No one…touches me…” He croaked out, still seeming for all the world like he
could barely find the words.
“Oh,” I replied.
He was soft. He was soft. He was so, so soft.
His sand still hovered around us like a waiting tomb, but it was his hand that
he haltingly brought up to grab at my wrist, pulling it away from his face. He
shook steadily, but I could tell it wasn’t from fear. It was from potential
energy. All that desire for death. All that lust, bottled up and undirected. I
wanted to break him open and spill it all over myself. I knew what to do with
that soft unbroken skin of his. I knew how to release him.
I closed the distance between us with my teeth and I drew him to me, digging my
sharp canines into his tender neck and pushing his trembling body up against
mine insistently. We fell as he tried again to push me away. He was underneath
me, tangled up in my arms and legs; whimpering and half-screaming like he’d
never felt pain before. I was exhilarated. He tasted even better than he felt.
I was drowning in him, losing human perspective fast. He stopped trying to push
me away as I licked and bit at him, instead gripping my sides and squirming. I
felt him hard against me. Thrilling. Thrilling. Ah, and I was hard, too. Of
course.
Suddenly, he violently shoved me off and hit me. It wasn’t out of a desire to
stop, I could tell. This was just the way he understood. He kneeled above me,
straddling me, and I made no move to get up. His blood was still on my lips and
I licked it, staring straight at him as he prepared to strike again.
“All the blood that sand has tasted,” I wondered aloud. “I wonder if you’ve
ever tasted your own?”
He just stared at me for a minute, head cocked, eyes wide and insane. Then he
grasped my throat and leaned down, down… cutting off the blood and air to my
head, filling my vision with white and red. He hovered there for a second. Then
he licked.
He was voracious, ungentle and messy. He was still a child, after all. What
could I expect? I opened my mouth, exposing the stained red of my teeth, and he
tasted his way into me. We shared breath and blood until I’m sure he was dizzy.
I could feel him bucking uncertainly against me, rubbing his aching hardness on
my bare midsection. We were both still almost fully clothed. I pulled his hips
down harder, grinding him against me greedily as he mewled. He got rougher,
drawing blood wherever he could. I could tell it was not enough.
“Here, here,” I gasped breathlessly, offering him a kunai from my belt.
“Fucking do it. Cut me open, boy. Feast on my blood and guts and let it come
over you. Come on,” I pressed it into his hand, and he took it instantly,
effortlessly. Those hands which were so soft, uncalloused. He pressed the tip
between my ribs, still grinding his pelvis down on me mindlessly. I closed my
eyes until they were just slits.
I felt the kunai enter me like a bolt of ice. It pressed down, down, into my
beating heart, and I cried out incoherently in pain and desire. Gaara too let
out a desperate sound, spasming as he reached his climax. He shuddered and went
stiff. Shaking, I pulled the kunai out of me, blood bubbling out hot and fresh.
He clung to me then, hard. Eyes closed. Mouth on my breast. Like a suckling
babe, almost. But there was no mother’s milk for this demon child. Only the
sullied blood of another devil to wet his lips.
I was close, too. I couldn’t think of taking advantage of this child to take
care of it, so to speak—at least, not any more than I already had. So I took
his damp hand and gently guided it to myself. It took only a few touches before
I, too, spilled.
We were both left exhausted and high. I could feel his lips and teeth and
tongue on the hole he’d dug over my heart, tugging on the flesh there, seeking
deeper entrance. I cradled him, his hair in my hands. I whispered to him
breathlessly. “That’s right, boy. Don’t you just wish you could go inside? Take
a place next to my organs. Or to consume me. Find all the secrets in these
bones and sssssuck the marrow out. Wouldn’t it just be so nice? Wouldn’t it
be…” He curled into me, slowing.
“…Wouldn’t it be nice.”
He slept, and I was gone before he woke. I don’t do mornings after.
Sometimes, though. I regret that.
I really think that if I’d stayed he might have been the one to finally kill
me.
End Notes
     "Newt, why aren't you writing Ghost in the Machine? What is this
     garbage?"
     Look. I'm busy drawing furries right now. I swear to god I'm going to
     finish GitM someday. I will. But now, I'm up to no good.
     i already want to write a sequel Help
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