Gaara will scorn the wicked in bouts of hypocrisy, do the deeds he was beaten into screaming he would never do, and enjoy the flashes of different expressions as others were beaten into submission. He will scorn with wicked. But only when the night is black. He laughs quietly, a dark, brooding laugh that holds a bit of a devil's voice on it's edge, pressing and pressing until a point is reached ('oh god, I'm gonna…') and there is a sudden, rushing release. His laugh beckons lullabies. They are sung by a voice he doesn't know, but he assumes it's his mother. His mother, the idealistic angel he would never, ever be.
Maybe that was what made Gaara so beautiful.
The candles would flicker, shadows cast at the will of the tiny flame, and beads of sweat reflecting tiny rainbows dancing across rigid flesh. Sasuke is always there when the nights are black, and Gaara fucks him. Sugarcoating it as poetry was a heresy to Gaara's very existence. But such is only real, the screams of agony and ecstasy and the scars left afterwards, on the nights when Gaara cannot see the moon. (Maybe the moon was the idealistic angel, beckoning the beast that lay inside him so mercilessly). Simple and animalistic as it was, it was.
The ink of the night bled through his curtains, dousing the candles until the flames would die in an angry hiss, and Sasuke would sink to his knees, ten times more degraded than his face would express. It had to be then (it was only then) that Gaara could find himself feeling human. Feeling real. (Domesticated).