Um, hi. New person here...
Hi. I'm a big fan of Neji/Hinata. (Wow, how obvious can you get? -.-U) Actually, I really love it. They're my favorite pairing from the series, in fact. How can I put this without understaing it?
*gives up*
Anyway, I mostly write fanfiction, but occasionally I can find someone to scan my fanart. Um, I'm new, so, uh...please be kind?
Title: Six Sizes too Big
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Hinata, Neji
Warnings: pregnant underage Hinata, cousincest (is that even a word?)
He finds her in the kitchen at one in the morning, half-gallon of ice cream set out, spoon in hand, the edges of her mouth rimmed with chocolate. She looks up when she sees him, embarrassed; she doesn’t say anything, but that’s not why.
Her eyes are big and full of tears; she was happy when they went to bed, her in one room, him in the guest accommodations. The sky-blue robe is a little too big, falling off one shoulder, and the scene is altogether too ridiculous for him to appreciate it, that soft patch of pale skin, divine in its unassuming, unintending demure seduction. This whole situation is another five sizes too big, for either of them. He doesn’t want it and she can’t handle it.
His eyes drift down her collarbone, to the still-girlishly-small breasts, and then he sees it, the spoonless hand resting over her stomach and not in the ‘eating this has made me fat’ sense. He sees it and he knows.
And she knows he knows, because she sees that he can see.
They need to talk, before everyone else starts to.
But...
It’s like the elephant in the living room. And there’s so many things he should say to her, so he doesn’t say anything because he can’t fit them all in.
“We should tell them,” she whispers.
“Tell them what?”
He sees everything, and he’s still pretending there’s nothing to see.
----------------------------
Title: Madness of the Sensorily Bound
Genre: Romance/Horror
Rating: PG-15
Characters: Neji, Hinata
Fandom: Naruto
Warnings: We-ell, it ain't R, but you can't say it's PG-13 either. Neji is one creepy, crazy bastard in this, and his insanity is vivid.
Hyuuga Hinata is a lifetime’s worth of study.
But Neji knows, already so clearly, that he will never find any part of her more intriguing and glorious than her hands.
They are graceful, swaying in the dance-like motions of a jutsu, but as unyielding as steel when they meet a target. She can cover them in the grit and blood of a fight, and wash it away until no trace remains behind. Her hands feel like being born, and he thinks they know every part of him, every secret and every scar: he shares at least such an intimate experience of her hands, running slender fingers over them, along every knuckle and down each tendon. His, in comparison, are the rough paws of a fiend, discovering constantly wounds on her otherwise perfect form which he had somehow inflicted, new bruises and fading marks. In battle, her hands sought to bring him back to himself; his searched out tender flesh to mar, yielding spots of softer baby’s fat where the sinew and leanness of training had not yet descended.
And in her hands still is the beautiful child he met so long ago: they are tiny, not a teenager’s, not a woman’s, yet without the pudge of infancy. That long-lost part of her essential innocence, that she even now holds with so much more success than he ever did his, resides in the valleys of dips between her rounded girl-child hands; the softness of her cuticles harbors it just for him to ply with seeking kisses; her palms, dented in just the right places from holding kunai perfectly, open like flowering maidenhood to his caresses. Yes, he has all the rest of her body, but the only part which can truly give to him Hyuuga Hinata’s essence and nature are her hands. Beneath every touch and fawning nip of gentle, worshiping mouth hot with passionate devotion, tiny scars-- nicks of shuriken mishandled in youth-- remind him of that other, less revered part of her. Hinata, heir to the Hyuuga. Hinata, the all-seeing.
Hyuuga Hinata is a genius by birth, a great and terrible force.
But Neji is certain, after just the few glances and brief sparring matches they’ve shared, that he will never spite and fear any part of her more than he abhors her eyes.
Hateful eyes, searing through his soul. Before her eyes, he is not lover and he is not cousin: his is nothing but the empty name Neji, Neji the title sometimes designated as bringer of past pains to that soft sweet form of hers, Neji the loathsome, Neji the judged. Her eyes are no part of her self, he is sure of it. When they are closest, in those midnight hours of tenderness and heat, when he really sees her, she spares him the persecution of her eyes. She grants no bearing to the counsel of her less wise parts, the eyes that see all and to all truths seem to him blind.
He knows it’s insane-- that he’s probably insane, but when she stares at him balefully with those washed-out lavender eyes, he feels naked. And he is, sitting up in her too-big bed, watching her stir and submit again to early-morning drowsiness; in fact he is covered only by the same gauzy sheets keeping her modesty intact. But somehow it feels deeper than that, like the very flesh of himself has been stripped away, revealing to her the ugly monster’s heart and bones that lay beneath such a fair camouflage just the past night, and it feels like-- oh, God, it feels like drowning-- it feels like she is seeing, and she is laughing, and he wants to grab her hair and take out her eyes, those judging eyes that are always staring, staring, seeing through him--
And then her arms come around him and the madness is gone, absorbed by her sweet trust. He lays a hand over hers, feeling its smooth skin, trembling inwardly. He loves her hands, mostly because when she touches him her eyes are always closed.
And there you have it. I'm going to have a special place reserved for me in Hell. ^_^U
*gives up*
Anyway, I mostly write fanfiction, but occasionally I can find someone to scan my fanart. Um, I'm new, so, uh...please be kind?
Title: Six Sizes too Big
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Hinata, Neji
Warnings: pregnant underage Hinata, cousincest (is that even a word?)
He finds her in the kitchen at one in the morning, half-gallon of ice cream set out, spoon in hand, the edges of her mouth rimmed with chocolate. She looks up when she sees him, embarrassed; she doesn’t say anything, but that’s not why.
Her eyes are big and full of tears; she was happy when they went to bed, her in one room, him in the guest accommodations. The sky-blue robe is a little too big, falling off one shoulder, and the scene is altogether too ridiculous for him to appreciate it, that soft patch of pale skin, divine in its unassuming, unintending demure seduction. This whole situation is another five sizes too big, for either of them. He doesn’t want it and she can’t handle it.
His eyes drift down her collarbone, to the still-girlishly-small breasts, and then he sees it, the spoonless hand resting over her stomach and not in the ‘eating this has made me fat’ sense. He sees it and he knows.
And she knows he knows, because she sees that he can see.
They need to talk, before everyone else starts to.
But...
It’s like the elephant in the living room. And there’s so many things he should say to her, so he doesn’t say anything because he can’t fit them all in.
“We should tell them,” she whispers.
“Tell them what?”
He sees everything, and he’s still pretending there’s nothing to see.
----------------------------
Title: Madness of the Sensorily Bound
Genre: Romance/Horror
Rating: PG-15
Characters: Neji, Hinata
Fandom: Naruto
Warnings: We-ell, it ain't R, but you can't say it's PG-13 either. Neji is one creepy, crazy bastard in this, and his insanity is vivid.
Hyuuga Hinata is a lifetime’s worth of study.
But Neji knows, already so clearly, that he will never find any part of her more intriguing and glorious than her hands.
They are graceful, swaying in the dance-like motions of a jutsu, but as unyielding as steel when they meet a target. She can cover them in the grit and blood of a fight, and wash it away until no trace remains behind. Her hands feel like being born, and he thinks they know every part of him, every secret and every scar: he shares at least such an intimate experience of her hands, running slender fingers over them, along every knuckle and down each tendon. His, in comparison, are the rough paws of a fiend, discovering constantly wounds on her otherwise perfect form which he had somehow inflicted, new bruises and fading marks. In battle, her hands sought to bring him back to himself; his searched out tender flesh to mar, yielding spots of softer baby’s fat where the sinew and leanness of training had not yet descended.
And in her hands still is the beautiful child he met so long ago: they are tiny, not a teenager’s, not a woman’s, yet without the pudge of infancy. That long-lost part of her essential innocence, that she even now holds with so much more success than he ever did his, resides in the valleys of dips between her rounded girl-child hands; the softness of her cuticles harbors it just for him to ply with seeking kisses; her palms, dented in just the right places from holding kunai perfectly, open like flowering maidenhood to his caresses. Yes, he has all the rest of her body, but the only part which can truly give to him Hyuuga Hinata’s essence and nature are her hands. Beneath every touch and fawning nip of gentle, worshiping mouth hot with passionate devotion, tiny scars-- nicks of shuriken mishandled in youth-- remind him of that other, less revered part of her. Hinata, heir to the Hyuuga. Hinata, the all-seeing.
Hyuuga Hinata is a genius by birth, a great and terrible force.
But Neji is certain, after just the few glances and brief sparring matches they’ve shared, that he will never spite and fear any part of her more than he abhors her eyes.
Hateful eyes, searing through his soul. Before her eyes, he is not lover and he is not cousin: his is nothing but the empty name Neji, Neji the title sometimes designated as bringer of past pains to that soft sweet form of hers, Neji the loathsome, Neji the judged. Her eyes are no part of her self, he is sure of it. When they are closest, in those midnight hours of tenderness and heat, when he really sees her, she spares him the persecution of her eyes. She grants no bearing to the counsel of her less wise parts, the eyes that see all and to all truths seem to him blind.
He knows it’s insane-- that he’s probably insane, but when she stares at him balefully with those washed-out lavender eyes, he feels naked. And he is, sitting up in her too-big bed, watching her stir and submit again to early-morning drowsiness; in fact he is covered only by the same gauzy sheets keeping her modesty intact. But somehow it feels deeper than that, like the very flesh of himself has been stripped away, revealing to her the ugly monster’s heart and bones that lay beneath such a fair camouflage just the past night, and it feels like-- oh, God, it feels like drowning-- it feels like she is seeing, and she is laughing, and he wants to grab her hair and take out her eyes, those judging eyes that are always staring, staring, seeing through him--
And then her arms come around him and the madness is gone, absorbed by her sweet trust. He lays a hand over hers, feeling its smooth skin, trembling inwardly. He loves her hands, mostly because when she touches him her eyes are always closed.
And there you have it. I'm going to have a special place reserved for me in Hell. ^_^U