Jingure (rightclawsouth) wrote in nejiten,

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Fanfiction to offer; if you have the time, review @ ff.net because I do so love feedback. And I'm a closet review-whore.

[update, because double posts are for sinners] Also, as of October 17, 2004, I've scrawled down another fic: Till Morrow Deep Midnight. Strong NejiTen, 2nd-person perspective, please review because I am greedy and shallow and so forth, but I do hope you genuinely enjoy it.

Title: Directus
Author: Pickled Death
Genre: Romance
Rating: PG
Summary: one-shot; Neji x Tenten; Tenten throws things and Neji thinks. Or tries not to. Um, what?

“Weapons specialist”.

This is the thing about simplicity. Simplicity is when he melds himself to
the tree behind him and closes his eyes and listens, nets the whistle of
steel as it sails a painfully small fraction of a centimeter above his head.
Simplicity is when he is the tree, a stability he knows she clings onto with her
chipped fingernails and a plaintive frown; taking root in her life and her
existence and her mind, and when he is the tree she takes shade beneath his
branches with an easy smile.

The earth is red and quivering softly, imperceptibly beneath his feet, and he
can only feel it when it isn’t.

Canyons. Canyons, red canyons, chasms that threaten to open and swallow them

He’s a Hyuuga, branch family but still Hyuuga, and she’s—

Steel. He conforms to a mold of steel, embracing his lean form, remains
utterly, utterly still, and her chakra carefully embraces the hilts and removes
the weapons from the tree just as easy as she flung them. A sound, like a thunk.

He always envisioned those weapons flying out of a stump of flesh, and the
wood chips that cry out upon removal of the steel become spattering blood.

You know, he thinks she’d look beautiful in a dress.

Thick, silk and satin dresses with obscured patterns of stitches and gold.
Mandarin collar, as is her preference. Hair down and cradling her thin
shoulders…lips coated in an immaculate layer of glinting blood and a katana
latched to the swell of her hips.

Imagery always becomes twisted. Man does dream.

Neji doesn’t.

So he spends his time remaining ignorant to the visuals conjured by an
overactive imagination. Because it does exist, as much as he disregards

Neji is growing up.

But growing up is simpler than it seems, really. The weapons lie discarded in
a heap at her feet. Puppets. She breathes life into the lifeless.

She crawls over to him on her hands and knees—and collapses beneath his

This is how Gai-sensei and Lee found them—she sprawled quite
inappropriately in his lap, her lips carelessly mashed against his, her body
heaving with the fruits of a seven-hour workout and her eyes heavy-lidded,
lilting with tire but glinting because the sun always brings out the best in
her, and perhaps it is her blacksmith’s prowess but in summer she is in her
prime and the sun maintains few grudges against her.

It’s simple, really, how she breathes fresh air into his lungs.

(life into the lifeless)

It’s simple as she does her best to ignore Lee’s scandalized screams and
he does his best not to become even the slightest bit annoyed as Lee accuses him
of being a rapist and Gai-sensei is looking pretty damn pleased with himself,
like he’s the one who ushered them into puberty or something.

But really, this isn’t hormonal and she’s in no hurry to have her
devotion reciprocated…though, really, it already is. He just doesn’t have
the words to say it.

It’s not that he can’t find the words; it’s that he doesn’t
have them

Because (and he frowns and smiles at the same time) some things just aren’t
as simple.

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