This is not the fic you are looking for.
Dec. 4th, 2003 06:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenDone. Done finally. Sorry Kii, I could not work your special ending into it.
Warnings for, uh. Pretension. And not!smut. And probably shameless abuse of tenses. And incest, but that kind of goes without saying.
Title: Curves
Author: Moonsheen
Fandom: Naruto
Type: Het.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: No ninja were harmed in the production of this fanfiction. No ninja belong to me, either.
The back of Hinata’s shoulder is smooth and yielding.
It’s not that there’s no muscle on her--there is, years of training have seen to that—but her body just doesn’t have the hardness that one expects from a kunoichi. It’s difficult to find the knots in her arms among all of those smooth contours, and the weariness that might show in her face at this hour is lost to full cheeks and large, bright eyes.
He touches the skin there, and it surrenders almost gladly, five slight indentations for five fingers. He presses his palm to her shoulder blade and she shivers. There are no scars, and the only firmness he finds is a rise of bone where she’s turned against him. He slides his arm along hers, and it’s a world of difference.
The inside of Neji’s forearm is hard and cool, made up of bone and muscle and not much else. His knuckles stand out under the skin as he closes his hand around her wrist. If he pressed a little harder, he would feel her pulse, if he squinted a little more, he would see her chakra, and where the channels of it combine and grow bright around the joints. Through the veins and arteries the coils overlay blood comes in pulses, but the flow of chakra is constant. Without outside interference at least—he knows that if holds two fingers together and presses with the right amount of precision, in just the right spot, with just the right amount of force, he would see it flicker and the skin blister from the pressure with a neat hiss and a pop. He has seen her arms lined with red welts from the wrists to the shoulders. Each the approximate size and width of his fingertips and each hurting like hell. They must have taken at least a month to heal. They always did for him when he was younger and practiced on himself regularly. He doesn’t know about her though—he’s never bothered to ask. Her arms are bare now and white as they can be when she is flushed from head to toe. His fingers move along the back of her hand, and her breath catches. She leans her head forward and glances back, a strand of hair falls perfectly along the curve of her cheek; her lips are a pursed, puzzled line. His are pressed to her neck, suddenly, and she gasps.
Hinata’s body has always told too much. He can feel the jolt travel up from the diaphragm, he can feel her hand flex under his and hear her breath quicken, too harsh to be voluntary. Neji’s mouth tells more, though. “You’re angry,” she whispered once, after he kissed her. It had been back at the beginning, and he’d barely touched her otherwise, and even then it had been a bare, cautious brush, and it was the boldest she’d ever been in such a circumstance. “I can tell,” she’d whispered, almost guiltily. Almost, because she was still smiling even as she brought her hand up to hide her face reflexively. ‘I can tell,’ As though she could taste it in his breath. Then, she turned to him, and told him it was all right. Now, she turns, smiles, and says nothing as she slides her fingers up through his hair where the strands hang over her shoulder. She knows. He’s learned not to take offense.
He kisses her with his eyes open, feeling the tug against the movement where his hair catches in her hand. It’s a simple movement, to hold her chin and lean in. It requires very little effort, just the right angle—and Neji is all about that, from the tilt of his head to the bend in his elbow where she’s twisted enough and taken his hand with her, leaving the arm folded loosely across her back, and then, then there is muscle to be found in the curve of her spine as she curves against him. Hinata’s gaze meets his at another angle and it holds steady--though her breath is almost fast enough to shake them both apart. “You’re afraid,” he once accused, and found himself met by a very staunch denial he hadn’t been ready to believe. “Ah, I see,” he’d scoffed when she looked away, still shaking her head.
Then Hinata had laid her hands against again his jaw and pulled him down. “I’m sorry.” She’d pressed her forehead to his. “I’m not.” It’s a movement she echoes now, though there’s something less panicked in her face, and he doesn’t flinch.
The skin of Hinata’s face is flushed and near and, under the fall of feather soft bangs across her forehead, perfect and unbroken. Once, that alone was enough to make him burn behind the eyes. The sensation has since come to reside his throat--which she touches with the fingertips of hand he’s still holding, the hand in his hair tightening, painfully. He hisses, and she lets it fall, following the natural line of his neck to his shoulder, where it rests, and where she draws close, pressing her cheek to the crook.
“Forgive me,” she says, voice low and lips brushing him as she speaks.
The front of Neji’s shoulder smooth and unyielding. It’s not that it’s immovable—it is, after all this time, it has to be—it’s just softness is not what she expects from him, so it surprises her, as it always does, the slowness with which he releases her hand, and the care he takes in brushing his knuckles under her eye.
“It’s fine,” he says shortly.
And there’s little more said that night.
Warnings for, uh. Pretension. And not!smut. And probably shameless abuse of tenses. And incest, but that kind of goes without saying.
Title: Curves
Author: Moonsheen
Fandom: Naruto
Type: Het.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: No ninja were harmed in the production of this fanfiction. No ninja belong to me, either.
The back of Hinata’s shoulder is smooth and yielding.
It’s not that there’s no muscle on her--there is, years of training have seen to that—but her body just doesn’t have the hardness that one expects from a kunoichi. It’s difficult to find the knots in her arms among all of those smooth contours, and the weariness that might show in her face at this hour is lost to full cheeks and large, bright eyes.
He touches the skin there, and it surrenders almost gladly, five slight indentations for five fingers. He presses his palm to her shoulder blade and she shivers. There are no scars, and the only firmness he finds is a rise of bone where she’s turned against him. He slides his arm along hers, and it’s a world of difference.
The inside of Neji’s forearm is hard and cool, made up of bone and muscle and not much else. His knuckles stand out under the skin as he closes his hand around her wrist. If he pressed a little harder, he would feel her pulse, if he squinted a little more, he would see her chakra, and where the channels of it combine and grow bright around the joints. Through the veins and arteries the coils overlay blood comes in pulses, but the flow of chakra is constant. Without outside interference at least—he knows that if holds two fingers together and presses with the right amount of precision, in just the right spot, with just the right amount of force, he would see it flicker and the skin blister from the pressure with a neat hiss and a pop. He has seen her arms lined with red welts from the wrists to the shoulders. Each the approximate size and width of his fingertips and each hurting like hell. They must have taken at least a month to heal. They always did for him when he was younger and practiced on himself regularly. He doesn’t know about her though—he’s never bothered to ask. Her arms are bare now and white as they can be when she is flushed from head to toe. His fingers move along the back of her hand, and her breath catches. She leans her head forward and glances back, a strand of hair falls perfectly along the curve of her cheek; her lips are a pursed, puzzled line. His are pressed to her neck, suddenly, and she gasps.
Hinata’s body has always told too much. He can feel the jolt travel up from the diaphragm, he can feel her hand flex under his and hear her breath quicken, too harsh to be voluntary. Neji’s mouth tells more, though. “You’re angry,” she whispered once, after he kissed her. It had been back at the beginning, and he’d barely touched her otherwise, and even then it had been a bare, cautious brush, and it was the boldest she’d ever been in such a circumstance. “I can tell,” she’d whispered, almost guiltily. Almost, because she was still smiling even as she brought her hand up to hide her face reflexively. ‘I can tell,’ As though she could taste it in his breath. Then, she turned to him, and told him it was all right. Now, she turns, smiles, and says nothing as she slides her fingers up through his hair where the strands hang over her shoulder. She knows. He’s learned not to take offense.
He kisses her with his eyes open, feeling the tug against the movement where his hair catches in her hand. It’s a simple movement, to hold her chin and lean in. It requires very little effort, just the right angle—and Neji is all about that, from the tilt of his head to the bend in his elbow where she’s twisted enough and taken his hand with her, leaving the arm folded loosely across her back, and then, then there is muscle to be found in the curve of her spine as she curves against him. Hinata’s gaze meets his at another angle and it holds steady--though her breath is almost fast enough to shake them both apart. “You’re afraid,” he once accused, and found himself met by a very staunch denial he hadn’t been ready to believe. “Ah, I see,” he’d scoffed when she looked away, still shaking her head.
Then Hinata had laid her hands against again his jaw and pulled him down. “I’m sorry.” She’d pressed her forehead to his. “I’m not.” It’s a movement she echoes now, though there’s something less panicked in her face, and he doesn’t flinch.
The skin of Hinata’s face is flushed and near and, under the fall of feather soft bangs across her forehead, perfect and unbroken. Once, that alone was enough to make him burn behind the eyes. The sensation has since come to reside his throat--which she touches with the fingertips of hand he’s still holding, the hand in his hair tightening, painfully. He hisses, and she lets it fall, following the natural line of his neck to his shoulder, where it rests, and where she draws close, pressing her cheek to the crook.
“Forgive me,” she says, voice low and lips brushing him as she speaks.
The front of Neji’s shoulder smooth and unyielding. It’s not that it’s immovable—it is, after all this time, it has to be—it’s just softness is not what she expects from him, so it surprises her, as it always does, the slowness with which he releases her hand, and the care he takes in brushing his knuckles under her eye.
“It’s fine,” he says shortly.
And there’s little more said that night.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
;O;
Date: 2003-12-05 01:25 am (UTC)I hope people are interested enough now that they will bug you about it. >:D
-Kii http://kiikii-sempai.deviantart.com
AaronSirk
Date: 2003-12-05 07:01 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2003-12-07 07:23 am (UTC)