Standard disclaimers apply and stick... like Orochimaru's eye shadow... i mean... Gaara's an insomniac, he has an excuse. Snake boy? we all know he's really a pansy.
Pervasive
Their life was really just a horrible mess of stain and contamination. The Hyuuga heiress and the Uchiha genius should not have been lovers. They should have hated one another, but instead they thrived in each other's presence. The taint was almost tangible. Her weakness, her light, her joy, her love… they were pervasive, slipping in between the cracks of his mask and his armor, consuming him from inside and out. She had changed him, had brought him to his knees, weakened and dependent. He was happy, he was content, and he was… nothing without her. He lived for her smile, broke with her tears, killed for a spilled drop of blood. The one thing he would never allow his hands to be tainted with.
This taint of white was destroying all he had been for years. And he enjoyed every second of it. The once forbidden fruit of her lips, the coveted jewel of her mind, and the freed wings of her love; they were seeping in to his soul, and they would not leave. He was addicted to her; the way she laughed, the way her eyes changed when she looked at him, the way she tended to shrink in on herself most of the time. He loved the taste of her, he loved how careful, deliberate, sure uses of his mouth and hands and eyes and words darkened her eyes to tarnished silver, he loved feeling her arch and unfold, but only with him, she would only ever open, literally and emotionally, for him. Everything no self respecting woman would do, she gave to him. Her body, her mind, her soul, her life, he had it all to bend or break to his will. Each time she should have been the one sullied, sinking deeper into darkness, shame and sin. But she was still so clean, and he… he was still so polluted. But the taint of white was stronger than the stain of red. And slowly it was pulling him away from the clinging abyss of darkness.
He was a man to look upon in terror. She was a woman to look upon with pity. His hands were defiled with the red of blood. Her hands were always open, still white, still pure. She left everything behind when she left with him; her position, her name, her friends and family. She chose to follow him, he chose to let his love come with him. So how was it that when she should have despaired of what her once wholesome life had become, she was happy? How was it that amidst the swirling pulls of blood and darkness, she was a shining white light, burning away the vestiges of red and black? Her very being tainted everything he was. Pervasive, it transformed his love of the scent of blood to longing for the scent of her skin, morphed the desire to hear screams of pain to craving those cries of pleasure, mutating his existence into existing for her. His need, his desire, his obsession, they drove him mad. She drove him mad. He loved her.