#neji x reader

────» Naruto.

The festival is crowded enough that you lose Naruto amongst the people.

One second he's beside you, loudly insisting he smells grilled squid somewhere nearby, and the next he's swallowed whole by a sea of colorful yukata.

You eventually spot a flash of yellow hair. Oh good, he somehow managed to escape the restless crowd.

He's standing in front of a game stall, arms folded, glaring at a dart board. It's quite intense. You've only ever seen him look like that at his rival, Sasuke. This must be some serious stuff.

Curious, you decide to watch.

First throw. He misses completely. The dart sails harmlessly past the board, clattering somewhere behind the prizes.

"… Warm-up," Naruto mutters.

Second throw. This one actually hits the target. For one glorious second Naruto looks victorious. Then the dart bounces off without knocking down the target.

"Okay, that one doesn't count."

The vendor says nothing. He counts it.

Third throw. Miss.

Naruto stares at the empty board for a long, painful second before shooting the vendor an angry look.

"This is total crap!" he shouts, pointing an accusatory finger. "You can't expect me to win when you only give me three tries!"

Several nearby festival-goers glance over, but the vendor doesn't even blink.

"Young man," he says with the exhausted patience of someone who's heard this exact complaint a hundred times tonight, "that's how games work."

"It's a scam!"

Deciding to save him from digging himself into an even deeper hole, you step forward.

"Would you mind if I tried?"

The vendor gestures towards the darts with an amused smile. But Naruto immediately protests.

"Bah! Don't trust this old geezer! He's gonna rig it or something—I know it!"

"I assure you," the vendor sighs, "the game isn't rigged. Your boyfriend may simply be an idiot."

Naruto splutters in outrage. "I'm standing right here!"

Trying not to laugh (too hard), you pick up your first dart. You take aim. Throw! It lands… roughly as well as Naruto's first three attempts.

"Oh."

Your second throw is better. It strikes the target dead center. Then, just like Naruto's, it bounces harmlessly onto the counter.

You narrow your eyes. One dart remains. Surely. Surely, this one— You throw. The dart sails majestically through the air. Past the board. Past the prizes. Past the stall. Straight out through the open side of the tent. Somewhere, in the distance, someone yelps. You and Naruto exchange a knowing look. Ehh, they'll be fine. Probably.

"Nonsense!" you suddenly realize, pointing dramatically at the dart board. "This game is impossible!"

"I know, right?!" Naruto agrees instantly.

But you know him. He sulks for only about two minutes. Long enough to kick absentmindedly at the dirt before something catches his eye in the distance. His entire expression changes. Like the sun breaking through clouds, he lights up with a grin so bright it could light up the world.

"Never mind this," he announces. "I'm gonna win you that panda."

You follow his finger. A massive panda plush sits proudly atop another game stall a few booths away, practically begging to be won. Naruto flashes you the most confident smirk you've ever seen, as though the outcome is already decided. He grabs your wrist and starts dragging you through the crowd.

"Come on!"

You don't have the heart to remind him how much money he has left.

Goodbye, Naruto's savings.

All 6,000 ryō.

────» Sasuke.

The evening air is colder than you anticipated. Not freezing, but cold enough that you find yourself regretting not bringing another layer. You do your best not to complain, shoving your hands deeper into your pockets and hunching your shoulders ever so slightly as you walk beside Sasuke through the quiet streets of Konohagakure.

The village is mostly quiet at this hour. Most of the market stalls have long since packed away for the night. Lanterns cast warm pools of light on the path. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots.

It's a lovely night. Or it would be, if only you weren't freezing. Damn it, you should've thought about this before leaving the house.

As you're mentally cursing your complete lack of foresight, something unexpectedly warm settles across your shoulders. You blink. Sasuke's cloak found its way around you.

For a moment, you simply stare at it before glancing at him. He doesn't say anything about it, just continues walking, staring ahead and not even sparing you a glance.

So, he noticed the way you'd been trying to curl into yourself against the wind, and without a word, he'd simply given you the only extra layer he had. You try to thank him, but he just shrugs.

"Thought you needed it."

You pull the cloak a little tighter around yourself and a small, thoroughly ridiculous smile threatens to spread across your face. Oh, he can play it cool all he wants. If he insists on freezing in your place just to maintain the illusion that he's so cool… Well. Who are you to stop him?

In fact… Your house is only a street away. A warm fireplace, fresh tea, and four solid walls sound considerably more appealing than wandering around outside. Surely even someone as aloof as Sasuke wouldn't object to escaping the cold.

You open your mouth, still deciding how to phrase the invitation. But Sasuke beats you to it.

"It's cold," he states.

You stare at him. You are very well aware.

"The inn I'm staying at is on the other side of Konoha," he continues.

You bite back a smile. Your king of insinuation is… insinuating, yes.

"So," you begin, playing into what you know to be his masterplan. "Do you want to stay over at my place instead?"

He hums thoughtfully, pretending to weigh his options.

"… If you insist," he finally answers.

You have to look away before he notices your grin. Of course. He's only borrowing your house because it's closer. It's not like he likes you or anything.

────» Kakashi.

You're halfway through cleaning your apartment when you get the distinct feeling that you aren't alone. You pause mid-swipe with your dust cloth and glance toward the hallway.

"…Hello?"

No answer. You poke your head into the living room.

"Kakashi?"

There he is. Completely at home. He's stretched across your couch, one leg lazily crossed over the other, engrossed in his book (the one that he's always dodgy about when you ask, so you stopped asking). He doesn't even give you the courtesy of looking up. You sigh, walk over, and flick the corner of the book. It slips from his hand and lands squarely on his face. One sleepy eye peeks over the cover.

"Oh," he says, sounding pleasantly surprised. "You're finally done."

You stare at him. "I'm not done."

He hums thoughtfully, as though considering your statement. Before he can say anything else, you shove a feather duster into his hand and point toward the bookshelf. Kakashi glances from the duster… to you… then back to the duster. He sighs, but doesn't complain. Not verbally, anyway.

Several minutes pass.

Then, you hear tiny footsteps. A familiar dog waddles around the corner. Pakkun peers into the room.

"Your man summoned me to get out of cleaning duty but failed to bribe me," he snitches. Wow. You should've predicted this. "I recommend finding a more reliable man, one who doesn't drag innocent souls like me into domestic slavery."

Of course. Of course Kakashi would try to outsource his chores.

"Pakkun!" Kakashi scolds. But Pakkun is gone by the time he can say anything else.

Kakashi then looks at you, apologetically raising his palm. "Hah, sorry… I guess, you'll forgive me if I help you clean?" he humbly concedes.

You scowl at him for a moment before allowing him to make up for his little blunder. After all, two pairs of hands are more efficient than one.

Kakashi lets out the deepest, most long-suffering sigh with a broom in his hand.

Oh, real relationships are nothing like in Icha Icha…

────» Neji.

Your arrangement of the gift looks good.

Neji looms over your shoulder, careful not to let his presence become distracting or annoying.

You furrow your eyebrows, it's good, but it's not yet without flaw. Neji can see it, too. He points to the congratulatory message written beside the flowers.

"We mention good fortune too many times," he says. "The gift is already adorned with peonies, which symbolize prosperity. Repeating the sentiment only cheapens it."

You nod in agreement. The two of you had chosen the flowers with purpose. Purple peonies, to acknowledge the newlyweds' noble standing and to wish them a prosperous, happy life. You don't need to say the same thing seven times.

"Perhaps we should wish them a large, happy family?"

Neji shakes his head almost immediately.

"What if one of them is infertile?"

You laugh. "That's so specific, Neji."

"Yes," he replies, "but we shouldn't be so presumptuous."

Fair enough. Resting your chin in your hand, you reread the message. Neji's handwriting is as elegant as ever. It's simply beautiful.

"Hmm…" You tap the edge of the paper thoughtfully. "What about beauty?"

Neji considers it for exactly half a second.

"No, I know the groom. Beauty has long abandoned him. He'd think we're mocking him."

Ouch. Neji is brutal. Though, considering the groom is an elderly nobleman taking a second wife after outliving his first, perhaps he has a point.

"Health," you decide at last.

Neji hums quietly.

"…Yes."

He reaches for the brush, and you watch him write: 'May you always bloom with health.'

You smile. "The wording pairs nicely with the flowers."

"It does."

He gives the completed letter one final, meticulous inspection, searching for imperfections. Seemingly satisfied, he sets the brush aside.

"If we received wishes like these at our wedding," he says thoughtfully, "I suppose I wouldn't be entirely offended."

You pause. Wait, what did he just say?

'Our wedding'?

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your smile from being too obvious.

Yeah. Real subtle, Neji.

SABAKU NO GAARA — the desert king content: supernatural horror, political captivity, implied stalking, protective obsession, sand/body horror, power imbalance

They had called you a guest because 'hostage' was an inelegant word.

Suna did elegance poorly in daylight. The village stood too bright, too bare, too honest about the fact that people too stubborn to die had carved survival from heat and stone while dun-coloured walls rose from the desert in hard angles and sun-bleached restraint, and after dark, the Kazekage’s palace became something else.

At night, lanterns burned behind paper screens, and wind prowled the corridors with a low, hollow voice. The sandstone hoarded the day’s heat like old grief holding its breath, then released it slowly beneath your palms whenever you touched the walls.

You had come as part of a peace arrangement following a border incident no one was willing to call a failure. A healer, officially—a diplomatic presence, a sign of good will. A valuable person kept within reach.

The Kazekage met you on the first evening with a face as still as a sealed tomb.

"I understand that this arrangement is uncomfortable," Gaara said. His voice was quiet enough that the guards at the door were forced to pretend they had not heard.

You looked past him to the balcony where the desert stretched, black and silver, beneath the moon.

"Uncomfortable is a diplomatic word," you responded, voice flat.

The corner of Gaara's mouth softened, though it never became a smile. "Yes," he returned gently, "it is."

That was how it began, with courtesy arranged over tension like a clean cloth over a blade.

The palace felt far too large for just one man, that was the first thing you noticed. Corridors turned where they should have ended, rooms remained closed for days and then opened without any servant approaching them. Your quarters overlooked an inner courtyard where nothing grew except one pale desert flower rooted into a stone basin, and every morning there was sand gathered neatly outside your door.

At first you had assumed it had blown in beneath the threshold. Then you noticed that it never crossed into your room. It waited, a thin golden line, precise as a warning.

On the fourth night, you woke to a sound in the wall. Not scratching… Not the settling of the stone… A soft, patient shifting.

You lay very still in the dark, listening as sand moved behind the plaster. It travelled from one side of the room to the other, slow as a hand dragged across silk. When your breathing quickened, it stopped. Then, near the door, something tapped once from inside the wall.

In the morning, you found Gaara waiting in the courtyard. He did not ask whether you had slept.

"You heard it.".

You folded your sleeves around your wrists. "Does the palace usually listen to its guests?"

"No."

Your stomach twisted. That answer felt worse than yes.

Gaara looked toward the window of your room, the sun casting bruised shadows beneath pale eyes.

"It listens to me."

After that conversation, the house changed. Or perhaps it had always been changing and you had only just learnt what shape fear took in Suna.

When you strayed too close to an unlit corridor, sand hissed under the door until you turned back. When a foreign watched you too intently over dinner, a thin crack opened his cup beneath his fingers. When you returned from the infirmary with blood on your sleeve, every lamp between your room and Gaara's office flared to life before you reached it.

He was always there somehow. He didn't intrude, but he was present in the architecture of your days, in the hush behind your shoulder, in the warm breath of the walls after sunset, in the subtle pull that always turned your steps towards him.

"You don't need to guard me from my own footsteps," you snapped one night.

Gaara looked up from the papers on his desk. Moonlight, drifting lazily in through the office window, made him seem carved from ash and old gold.

"I am not guarding you from your footsteps."

The sand inside the wall shifted at his words. You became aware, then, of the silence beyond the office door. The corridor had gone dead in the way a room does when everyone inside it has stopped breathing at once. That old, primal, ever-so-human instinct that recognised danger before your mind could name it.

Gaara rose from his office chair before you could speak.

One lamp guttered in the corridor.

Then another.

Darkness advanced towards the office, swallowing each flame in turn. It did not resemble a shadow cast by anything human; it moved with appetite, slow and deliberate, like a great mouth closing over the hall.

"Stay behind me.”

Gaara stepped between you and the doorway.

The golden line beneath the office door trembled, then surged upright into a wall. Sand poured from cracks in the stone and gathered around him, circling his feet with the devotion of something answering prayer.

At the far end of the corridor, a door opened and, from the room beyond it, a voice shaped exactly like yours whispered Gaara’s name.

HAKU YUKI — winter mirror content: supernatural horror, ghost imagery, drowning imagery, blood imagery, uncanny reflections, identity loss, self-sacrificial conditioning, death and grief themes

Winter fell over the Land of Waves in a single night.

By dusk, rain had silvered the harbour and slicked the ropes black against the docks. By dawn, the sea lay hidden beneath white mist and every fishing boat wore teeth of ice along their railings. Nets froze stiff in their baskets. Buckets split open in doorways. Even the gulls had vanished.

The villagers whispered that the weather had turned wrong.

Old women spat salt over their shoulders before crossing the street, fishermen refused to mend their nets after sunset, children were called indoors before the lamps were lit, and every polished surface in the village was covered with cloth. 

The first time you saw Haku was in the reflection of your inn room window, standing inside the glass.

He stood in a world identical to yours, but winter had claimed it more completely there. Snow drifted over his shoulders though your room remained dry. Frost threaded the walls behind him in pale, branching marks, and his face was gentle enough that fear hesitated before entering you. His eyes held a sorrow so old and so careful that, for one fragile second, you wanted to apologise without knowing why. When you turned, the room was empty, and the window had frosted over from the inside.

After that, he appeared whenever the cold gathered. In the back of a polished kunai, in a basin of still water left overnight, in the glassy skin of a frozen stream, looking up at you from beneath the ice as though the river had become a sky he could not reach.

The villagers warned you not to look too long at the reflections that formed during unnatural weather.

"They show you what the dead still want," one fisherman muttered, knotting red thread around his wrist until his fingers shook.

"What does he want?" you asked, head tilted with a frown slowly etching into your brow.

The old man looked past you to the covered windows of the inn. He took his fish basket and left without another word.

On the seventh night, the frost crept into your room.

It came first beneath the door in thin, white veins, then spread across the floorboards, delicate and deliberate, drawing itself towards the hall. The air tasted of iron, salt, and snowmelt. Every lamp guttered as you passed them, shadows trembling against the walls, long-necked and strange, though nothing moved to cast them.

Outside, the snow falling over the village felt almost ceremonial.

You followed the frost to the bridge where Haku was already waiting. He was no reflection this time.

His sandals rested on the snow, his breath clouded faintly before his mouth, and the mist behind him turned the bridge into something endless, a pale road suspended over black water leading nowhere any living person should go. When he looked at you, grief struck through you with strange intimacy; it was the feeling of being recognised by someone who had no right to know your face.

"You should be inside," he commented, voice gentle in the way a blade might be wrapped in silk before being carried into a house of mourning.

"You're dead…" you breathed.

"Yes."

The admission should have frightened you—instead, it only hurt.

Haku lowered his gaze as though to apologise for the inconvenience of his own impossibility. 

"I had not meant for you to see me so clearly," he confessed.

"Then…why do you keep appearing?"

He looked at you then, eyes steady as frozen water. "Because you keep looking."

The bridge creaked beneath its burden of ice. Below, the river's rush of water knocked against the pillars with a dull, hungry rhythm. You stepped closer to him before sense could save you. 

Haku did not retreat. Near him, the cold was absolute, but not cruel. It folded around you like a burial cloth folded by careful hands. Your eyelashes prickled as it settled on your face, your breath came out silver.

"You're not haunting them," you murmured, glancing back over your shoulder towards the village lights. "You're protecting them."

Haku's expression shifted as he bowed his head once, a crack in a frozen lake. "There are things that cross water in winter," he explained. "Things that wear familiar faces. They come when mirrors freeze."

"And…you stop them?"

"I try."

That was when you noticed the blood on the sleeve of his tunic, neither fresh nor old, but repeating; a red stain blooming and vanishing with each breath, as if death had not decided whether it had finished with him.

When you reached out to touch his arm, Haku caught your wrist, gentle and swift and cold enough to ache.

"If I am precious to you," he said with sudden urgency, "tell me what shape to take."

You stared at him, bewildered. "What?"

"I can be a blade, a shield, a memory, a warning." His grip trembled once around your wrist. "I know how to be useful."

The horror of it came slowly. Not the ghost, not the frost, not even the village windows hidden beneath cloth. The horror was in how little of himself he expected to keep. 

"You— You don't have to become anything," you stammered, and when the words left your lips Haku's face changed. For the first time, he looked truly afraid.

Behind you, every frozen pane in the village lit up from within, faces pressing against the glass. Your face. His face. Others you did not know, grey-mouthed and watching with eyes like drowned stars.

Haku released your wrist and turned, needles of ice forming between his fingers.

"Do not answer," he said, quiet, low, commanding, "if they call your name."

From the nearest window, your own voice began to sing.

KAKASHI HATAKE — the haunted soldier content: supernatural horror, ghosts, grief and survivor’s guilt, memorial imagery, implied child death, battlefield casualties, blood imagery, death omens

You found Kakashi at the memorial stone because everyone eventually did.

Not during the day. Daylight made grief performative. People came with flowers, bowed heads, clean sleeves, and words rehearsed until they no longer trembled when spoken. Daylight allowed the village to believe remembrance was tidy, something that could be arranged in vases and left respectfully beneath carved names.

Kakashi belonged to the hour after midnight, when the rain turned Konoha's streets black and all the warm windows had gone blind. He stood before the stone with his hands in his pockets, silver hair plastered dark against his forehead. Rain dripped from the edge of his mask, and at his feet lay a stack of mission reports bound with red string, paper darkening slowly as the rain found it.

"You know," he started without turning, "most people say hello before lurking."

"I wasn't lurking," you replied, too quickly.

"Pity." His visible eye remained on the stone. "I thought we'd finally found something to bond over."

His voice was light—too light. It skimmed across the dark like oil over deep water.

You stepped up the monument, stopping at his side, and looked down. Names had been crossed out on the reports in red ink; not all of them, but enough to notice.

"Paperwork?" you asked.

"Very dramatic paperwork."

"Kakashi."

He exhaled through his nose. It tried to become a laugh and failed somewhere behind the mask.

"They asked me to review old mission losses. Patterns, mistakes… Lessons for future teams." His gaze did not leave the stone. "They dead are useful once they stop asking questions."

Rain struck the stone in thin, silver lines. Water gathered inside the carved names, darkening each letter until they looked freshly cut.

"You didn't have to do that tonight," you offered gently.

"No," Kakashi replied. "I could have done it tomorrow, in daylight, with a cup of tea."

"Sounds healthier."

"Terrible. Next you'll be suggesting sleep."

You should have left him alone. That was what people always said about grief, as if solitude were a clean room one could recover in. As if the dead were not most talkative when no one living remained to interrupt them. Instead of leaving, you sat down on the wet ground.

Kakashi finally turned his head to you. "You'll get soaked."

"So will you."

"I'm famously beyond help."

"Then I'm in excellent company."

For a moment, he only looked down at you, then lowered himself down to sit beside you, water rising dark around his knees. 

That became the first of many bad habits.

You found him there after long missions, after memorial days, after meetings where too many names were spoken in careful voices. Sometimes he brought reports, sometimes old photographs. Once, a cracked forehead protector lay across his knee, and his fingers rested on it with the caution of someone touching a wound through cloth.

He joked every time.

He joked when rain soaked through both your coats. He joked when thunder rolled over the Hokage Monument. He joked when your shoulder touched his and he did not move away.

The laughter never reached the stone.

One night, the rain stopped while you were walking towards him. 

Every drop hung in the air, suspended like glass beads. The trees stiffened, the insects ceased their shrilling. Even the distant hum of the village thinned away, as though Konoha had been pressed under a great glass bell.

Kakashi was already looking over his shoulder when you arrived, his hand at his kunai pouch.

"You see it too," he stated. It was not a question.

At first, you saw only the memorial stone. Then the reflections in the suspended rain begain to shift.

Figures stood between the droplets, blurred and pale, wearing old uniforms and older wounds. Some were children, some were adults, some had faces you recognised from photographs that Kakashi kept folded between pages he pretended not to reread. Their mouths moved behind the water, forming words the rain would not let fall.

One stood closest to him.

A boy with dark hair, one eye missing, and his mouth open as though he had been speaking for years.

Kakashi stilled beside you, the way a blade stilled when it touched the throat.

"Does this happen often?" you whispered, careful not to disturb the ghosts.

Kakashi's attention stayed fixed on the boy. "Not when someone else is here."

"Then…why now?"

The boy in the rain lifted his remaining hand and pressed it against nothing. The suspended drops around his fingers were blackened, one by one as if ink spread through them. When he spoke, Kakashi's voice came thinner than before.

"The dead are less patient when they think they're being ignored."

You wanted to take his hand. You did take his hand, before you could rethink it, and his fingers closed around yours so tightly it almost hurt.

The rain began to fall again. Upwards.

Drops lifted from the grass, from the reports, from Kakashi's hair and your sleeves, rising back into the sky in shining threads. The figures blurred, but the boy remained clear.

He raised his hand, pointed, not at Kakashi, at you.

Behind the memorial stone, the rock gave a wet, grinding sigh. A new name began carving itself beneath the others, each letter cutting slowly into the black surface.

Yours.

NEJI HYŪGA — ancestral curse content: supernatural horror, family abuse, forced obedience, cursed seal imagery, bodily autonomy themes, surveillance, ritual imagery, institutional control, doppelgängers, implied child abuse

The Hyūga estate did not welcome guests, it received them.

There was a difference, and you felt it in the moment you crossed the threshold beneath the branch-laced crest. The gate closed behind you with the soft finality of a mouth. Gravel lay raked into perfect lines across the courtyard, white walls rose on every side, spotless as bone, and every window seemed placed not to admit light, but to observe who passed beneath it.

You had been invited here for "clan business." A neutral witness, they had said. A healer familiar with chakra pathways, someone unaffiliated enough to make the matter appear fair, though fairness in the Hyūga estate tasted like bitter tea served in porcelain too thin to hold heat.

Neji met you outside the eastern hall. He bowed with exacting courtesy, every angle of him controlled.

"You should not have been brought here."

His voice was calm enough to pass for politeness, but his eyes had already moved past you, measuring doors, guards, corners, escape routes.

You glanced at the closed hall behind him. "That seems to be a theme today."

His gaze flicked towards the guards at the end of the veranda. "Then listen when it repeats."

The first ritual began at dusk.

You were made to sit behind a screen while elders discussed blood, duty, inheritance, and obedience as if all four words belonged to the same body. Incense smoke threaded through the chamber, pale and medicinal, and caught in your throat until every breath tasted of ash and old flowers.

Neji stood before them with his spine straight and his hands loose at his sides. A posture that read as alertness, readiness, not relaxation. His forehead was covered by the cloth he always wore; no one mentioned it, which was how you knew everyone was thinking about it.

The house pressed closer as the evening wore on. Lamps burned without flicker, servants crossed the floors without stirring a board, doors slid shut a moment before you glanced towards them as if the estate had learned shame and surveillance in the same breath.

Behind the elders, old portraits watched from the walls. Pale eyes, folded hands, faces composed into ancestral judgement. Their painted mouths seemed almost wet in the lamplight.

When the meeting ended, you found Neji in a side corridor, one hand braced against the wall. The gesture didn't last, by the time you reached him he had already straightened.

"You're in pain," you observed.

"I am accustomed to pain."

"That isn't what I said."

Lavender eyes snapped to your face. For one moment, something old and furious looked out from behind all that discipline, something that had been caged for so long that it had learnt the exact dimensions of its cell. Then his face closed again.

"You should return to your room," he advised stiffly.

You looked back over your shoulder at the way you had come and saw that the corridor had changed, or perhaps it had lengthened while you were not looking. The paper walls stretched away in both directions, identical panel after identical panel, each painted with cranes in flight. Only…their wings looked wrong now, too narrow, too sharp, as though the birds had been pinned open.

"I—" You stopped, confused by what you were seeing, then tried again. "I don't know which way that is."

Neji's jaw tightened.

The house knew.

You understood it suddenly, horribly. This place had been built to instruct bodies—where to walk, where to kneel, where to lower the eyes, where to keep secrets beneath cloth and skin.

"If a door opens tonight," Neji started, stepping closer to you, his voice dropping low, "do not enter it."

"Why?"

"Because this house was built to teach us where we belong."

"And…what happens if someone refuses to learn?"

His hand lifted then and, for one suspended second, his fingers hovered near the back of your neck. He didn't touch, he was remembering. He knew exactly what a seal could mean there, what obedience looked like when written into flesh, what pain could do when given a family name and called tradition.

His fingers curled back into his palm.

"Then the house reminds them," he warned.

That night, you woke to a door sliding open.

Your room was dark. The lantern that had been lit beside your bed had gone cold, its wick drowned in wax. Beyond the open door lay a corridor you had not seen before, lit by blue-white torches and lined with portraits whose eyes were all Byakugan-pale.

The air smelled of cold rice, incense, and rain that had not fallen. At the far end of the hallway stood Neji, or…something wearing the shape of him. His forehead was bare and the mark there burned green in the dark.

"Come here," he demands.

The voice was his. The expression was not.

You sat frozen on the futon as the corridor seemed to breathe around him. The painted ancestors turned their heads one by one, following your hesitation. Somewhere deep inside the estate, a child began to recite a lesson in a language you did not know.

"You were asked to witness." The false Neji extended a hand towards you. "Witness properly."

You opened your mouth and behind you, another hand covered it before you could answer. Warm, living, trembling with restrained force.

Neji's real voice breathed at your ear, low and urgent. 

"Do not obey me."

TOBIRAMA SENJU — the cold founder content: supernatural horror, corpse imagery, blood and water imagery, necromancy, human experimentation, drowning imagery, body horror

The sealed archive beneath Konoha smelled of ink, stone, and cold water.

There should not have been water here.

That thought followed you down the narrow stairwell behind Tobirama Senju, the air surrounding the both of you carrying the mineral chill of something buried alive. You trailed one hand along the wall for balance, feeling the moisture that slicked the stone beneath your fingertips, though no river ran near the old village foundations.

Tobirama did not look back.

"If you fall behind, say so," he commanded.

"That almost sounded considerate."

"It was practical."

You smiled privately. "Of course."

White fur framed his rigid shoulders as he moved through the dark like a blade wearing human skin—severe, exact, and impossible to imagine at rest.

Several forbidden scrolls had begun leaking chakra through their seals. Not metaphorically; the parchment sweated black water into locked cases, staining the wood from within.

Most shinobi would have brought a team. Tobirama had dismissed everyone else.

"Why bring me?" you asked lightly.

"You can read damaged scrolls."

"So can you."

"You are less likely to lie to me about what they say."

That was not trust, though with Tobirama you suspected it stood close enough to trust to become dangerous.

When you reached it, the archive door recognised his chakra and opened on its own. Inside, shelves receded into the darkness and water fell steadily from the ceiling into narrow channels carved through the floor, each one carrying its thin stream towards a black gate at the room's centre. No mould touched the walls, no dust softened the shelves. The archive did not feel neglected. It felt fed.

You stopped beside the first leaking case. The seal bore an older script than Konoha's public records acknowledged.

"This…isn't storage," you murmured.

When Tobirama gave no answer, you turned to look at him. His red eyes rested, instead, on the scroll as though its survival constituted a personal offence against him.

"It's a grave," you continued, "isn't it?"

"Some graves require locks," he responded.

You should have left then. Instead, you opened the case filled to the brim with red water, watching it pour out onto the stone floor. Far beneath your feet, a river began to run.

You worked for hours while Tobirama stood close enough for his shadow to cross your hands. The scrolls described jutsu abandoned before they could become policy, experiments halted because even necessity possessed a threshold, and techniques designed to question the dead, command them, bind them into weapons, or drag them back long enough to make their corpses useful.

The characters shifted beneath your gaze, ink curling across the parchment like drowned insects. Your stomach twisted as your eyes slid toward the space where Tobirama was standing over your shoulder.

"You wrote these," you stated.

"Some of them."

"That's your defence?"

"It is not a defence," he snapped, voice cutting colder than the damp air. "It is an answer."

A torch flared violently blue upon the wall. At that same moment, a drop of warm water struck your wrist. You raised your head in confusion to see the ceiling had become the underside of a river.

Dark water coiled above you where stone should have been. Bodies drifted, face-down, in the current, their armour trailing weeds, their hair stirring around them like smoke. Some wore clan crests you recognised, while others wore symbols that history had scrubbed away.

One body rolled onto its back and the face of a young man peered down at you.

He resembled Tobirama around the mouth, but warmth softened the likeness. A smile lingered on his dead face, tender and wrong beneath the water.

Tobirama seized your shoulder and dragged you back.

"Do not look at him," he ordered.

"Your brother?"

Tobirama's fingers tightened where he had grabbed you and, above, the dead man opened his eyes.

Every seal in the archive shuddered in response, paper splitting with a sound like teeth breaking. The central gate buckled upwards, and black water burst through it in a twisting column. Tobirama stepped between you and the flood before you could even draw breath, his hands cutting through signs faster than your eyes could follow.

For all his discipline, all his doctrine and locked graves, his body understood protection before thought could interfere.

Water surged around your ankles carrying paper, strands of hair, and fragments of voices. Something beneath the surface brushed the sole of your foot, then curled around your ankle with the softness of searching fingers.

"Tobirama," you breathed, voice trembling around his name.

He glanced back, only for a moment, but the archive took it.

A pale hand pressed through the river's surface above, water bending around its wrist without falling. The fingers descended and combed gently through Tobirama's hair. He stopped mid-sign.

A voice drifted through the room like water poured over bones."

"Brother…"

Tobirama's face emptied, then recognition flooded it.

Around you, the iron locks of the sealed displays clicked open and every forbidden scroll unfurled at once.

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konohagakure, despite being the largest of all the hidden villages, was small enough for the sound of your family name to send ripples cascading down the spines of every shinobi who resided here.

the clearing collateral damage of the warring states period, and the creation of the hidden leaf was a beacon of promise that guided your ancestors to ingrain themselves within the fabric of its history. your forefathers, once vehement warriors, abandoned their violence once and for all to exchange it for status. 

blades raised with the intention to kill became firm handshakes that birthed clan alliances.

the spilling of blood became the pouring of luxurious wines.

and cumbersome, blood-stained armour became bespoke clothing, woven with fine silks and embroidered with the most intricate of patterns.

your parents, the leader and matriarch of the (l/n) clan, could easily pass as architects. they mapped out your existence, and constructed it carefully to ensure you would align with the reputation that preceded you. 

your efficacy in combat. your savoir faire. the cadence of your voice: you were built to be the picture of civility, befitting of the eventual heir to a strong legacy. you recognised your privilege, and you were grateful for the luxury of being brought up this way. however, your feelings of resentment were greater than any feelings of gratitude you could garner.

you hated that your upbringing was never truly for your own good, but rather, for the good of whoever's hands you were going to get tossed into. your family cared more about preserving the clan image than you, and you hated it.

you hated that you felt like a mere mass of consciousness, sealed inside of a doll to be played with by others. you were trapped in your own body, and you were forced to watch as your own blood negotiated with your suitor's family. 

during visits, your suitor would look at you with soft eyes. they would have the nerve to smile at you. their kindness felt like salt being rubbed into an open wound. anyone would've liked them, but you simply didn't—you couldn't. further insult gets added to your injury when you hear everyone in the room talk about you as if you were breathing currency; like a prized possession.

you were a sacrificial lamb being offered to somebody you did not know, nor care about. it fanned the flames of hatred that burned in your heart to the point of rebellion.

it's a rebellion that's futile, but you indulge in the freedom it gives you regardless. you're willing to pay in punishment, because it's probably the last time you will be able to rebel. you don't care for a moment if it's all illusory and fleeting. the sun will set, and you will sneak out to see neji in the isolated forest you've been meeting up at for the past few years, like you always have.

it began when the two of you were paired together by lady tsunade—assigned to a long-term mission outside the village on the basis that you were both high-performing students with similar backgrounds. your clan were famed for their taijutsu, and so was his. you'd score near-perfectly in exams, and so would he. you accelerated up the ranks quicker than your genin peers, and you were spending less time with your three-man squad. just like you, neji was prodigious.

there was an air of gravitas surrounding your clan that neji acknowledged, because it reminded him of his own. so when you walked into the hokage’s office with blunt-cut short hair, he frowned. what others saw as a superficial aesthetic change, neji recognised as a reminder of shame and disgrace; a punitive style. he had seen the same thing happen to hinata in childhood, when it was decided that she was much too timid, and much too weak to be the heiress to the hyuga clan’s head branch. he wonders what shame hangs over your head. he wonders if you too, have been forsaken by fate. 

he wants to make things easy for you.

he knows you're more than capable as a fighter, but he still feels compelled to look out for you more than you need him to.

he carries you on his back when you complain blankly about a minor ache in your legs. he dresses your wounds, even though you could've done it yourself. he never moves when you rest your head against his shoulder. 

why? 

because it feels good to serve on his own terms, and not because of fate.

a month and a few days have passed. nightfall has arrived, accompanied by floating lanterns in the sky, and fireflies lighting up the path you're both on. once again, you find yourself being carried on neji’s back, with your arms draped loosely over his shoulders, and with eyes shut against him.

“neji?” you call out softly.

“yes, y/n?” his voice is equally soft.

“thank you.”

neji pauses briefly. “your gratitude is unnecessary, y/n. there’s no need to thank me.” he says, flatly. 

his tone makes you roll your eyes. 

“and don't roll your eyes at me,” neji continues his admonishment. “i have a feeling you did that.”

“why shouldn't i?” 

“because you know very well that it’s rude to.”

“i’m aware, genius,” you tease, caustically. “i meant to ask why i shouldn't thank you, not why i shouldn't roll my eyes at you, neji.” 

“because, y/n,” he bites back. “it’s standard for shinobi to protect their teammates. i should be doing this for you regardless.”

“sure, but my legs aren't even hurting right now. i could walk on my own.”

“so then, would you prefer to walk, y/n?”

in that moment, you realise that it's not about whether or not you want to walk. it’s about whether or not you want to let go of neji, and you don't want to. so you wrap your arms around his neck with more intention, resting your cheek against his head. his hair feels soft against your face.

“i don't want to walk…”

a rapid exhale escapes neji's nostrils. the ghost of a smile forms on his face, away from your vision. 

“fine. you don't have to walk, then.”

eventually, neji’s footsteps stop when you both reach the inn you’ve been staying at since the mission’s start. the doors open to reveal the innkeeper’s seat, which is now vacant. you're glad she isn’t here right now, because if she were, she wouldn't shut up about how close you two were. neji loosens the grip on your thighs, a cue for you to dismount from his back, and walk back gingerly to your shared bedroom.

the bedroom is dark, with the only sources of light being the moon and lanterns outside working in tandem. you’re sat on the edge of the bed, putting your hair in a silk bonnet. at last, you can finally slip out of your heavier shinobi wear, and into your night clothes. it’s a silken dress that flares gently at your bust and stops just below your knees. your clan insignia is a delicate pattern, faintly printed across the dress.

at times, neji would steal glances at the dress against your skin, and memorise the detailing woven into the fabric before falling asleep on the floor. you didn't like the fact that he chose to sleep there, and you had protested against it on the first night. neji, however, insisted that you have the singular bed all to yourself. his obstinacy was stronger than your objections, so you just let it go, and routine was set, never to be spoken of again. 

routine was deviated from on this night, though. 

you felt the mattress dip from behind you, paired with the shifting sounds of the bed creaking. it isn't long before you can feel the warmth of neji’s body radiating onto your back. it coaxes you to turn around, and settle on your other side. now, you're face-to-face with him. in a rare moment where his headband is removed, you can see the seal emblazoned on his forehead. he's zoned out with half-lidded, milky eyes that don't budge from your face. 

exhaustion from the events of the day. sounds of fireworks outside. the wind against the windows. it all leaves you both in a trance-like state, where you find that neither of you care about the fact that you're staring at each other.

“neji?” silence is finally broken.

he says nothing, but the light in his eyes return when you speak.

“why are you so…” you pause, looking for the most appropriate word to define neji's behaviour. “nice to me?”

“what are you talking about?”

“well,” you half-whisper. “i mean, when we share food, you always give me the bigger portion, as if you're not hungry. you always want to patch me up, even if it's a tiny scratch that’ll just heal anyway…”

his eyes dart quickly before meeting yours again.

“...even today, you carried me. i know it's okay to hold me.. but you keep doing it. do you think i’m weak or something? tell me.”

he scoffs. “no. lady tsunade chose you to accompany me for a reason, y/n. that alone is proof of your strength. you’re one of our brightest kunoichi. use your head.”

“okay, okay,” you sigh. “so if you think i’m not weak, why do you do all of that?”

“because i think you’re strong." neji pauses to reconsider his words. “because i think there's something you're trying to be strong about, rather.”

you remain silent.

“do you remember when you were called to lady tsunade’s office before this mission? you had longer hair before that.”

your heart pounds against your ribs. “yeah. i did…”

“you didn't look so good.” 

you kick his leg.

“i wasn't calling you ugly, calm down,” neji brushes your leg away. “i mean you had a miserable look on your face. i didn't want to be presumptuous, and i didn't want to overstep by asking you, but clearly, something happened…” 

he already has an outline of what it could be: a clan-related problem. he just wants you to confirm it.

“you wanna know?”

“yes, but only if you’re willing to tell me.”

you take a deep breath. your throat feels tight, but your words rise to the surface regardless.

“you're the first person i’m saying this to, okay?”

neji nods slowly, with eyes staring intently into yours.

“i’ve been betrothed to somebody.” your voice trembles. “i’ve met them, and while they do seem lovely, it’s not something i want at all. i don’t want to be something to just… give away.”

the corners of neji’s mouth grow slightly downturned at your revelation. 

“and it just hit me—is this what i was raised for? to be some bride that just happens to fight? there's no way that's gonna be my life. so, i told my parents that i didn't want to follow through with the marriage, and they told me i had no place to,” you clear your throat. “and that if i am to be a good wife, i should first learn to not object, and instead, accept fate. to hell with that,” a scoff leaves your mouth. “i know better than to bite the hand that feeds me, but i was so hurt. i couldn't contain my anger. you know how that feels, right?”

neji nods his head slowly. memories of his fight against hinata during the chunin exams return to him in fragments. each one feels like a blister reopening.

“i do.” his voice is quiet.

“i tried to land a hit on my father,” you continue. “he caught my fist, of course. and after that, he cut my hair in front of my entire clan. i guess it was to shame me, and it worked. he did humiliate me.” for a moment, its like you're reliving that situation. your words revitalise the past, and once again, it taunts you in the present.

neji’s suspicions were confirmed. you too, were foresaken by fate.

no, you didn't have a seal that would be released at death, but still, you were imprisoned by your circumstances, just like him. neji himself knew that eventually, he’d have to preserve the legacy of the hyuga’s branch family, and birth another caged child. he wouldn't know who his suitor would be yet, but the fact remained that it was inevitable and sure to happen, as fate is. 

“that wasn't easy to talk about, was it?” his voice is more subdued in approach.

you’re trying to keep yourself together, but the memories from that day flood your mind. the pain of it makes you sit up from your reclined position, with tears flowing down your face.

a weak “sorry” is all you can muster, but you should know by now that neji doesn't care for apology. just as you're about to wipe your tears, neji also sits up to cup your face in his palms. his thumbs brush away your tears as they fall. he doesn't attempt to speed up your weeping with verbal consolation. you have all night to cry, just as he has all night to dry your eyes. 

“it's justified. you shouldn't be sorry.”

neji wanted to remain reticent about his life. this was only a mission, and you were only his teammate—no more, no less. but he couldn't remain silent. he saw so much of himself in you. you shouldered a heavy burden against fate and shared it with him, so he decided to lay out his burden in front of you.

“i’ve also been placed in a situation i wish i could escape.” 

your tears cease to fall, and his hands detach from your face. it’s your turn to touch his face this time. your fingers delicately trace the seal on his forehead.

“this is a part of it, isn't it?” you ask softly.

“it is.”

“you spoke about it at the chunin exams. i remember.”

he nods. “i wish i could be free, but i know i won’t be. it won't be long before i continue this cycle. like you, i’ll be trapped in marriage, adding onto this cycle…” his tone is laced with bitterness.

your heart aches.

“but,” his tone returns to neutrality. “i think working with you is the freest i’ve ever felt. it could sound selfish, but the reason i do all this for you is because i want to. i somewhat lied to you when i said that it’s because i should be doing it.”

you tilt your head slightly, surprised at his transparency. neji, ever the professional, was finally talking about himself for once. 

“the main branch don't thank us for our forced servitude as branch members. but you always thank me for making my own choices. i tell you it doesn't matter, but it does.”

your fingers move from the seal on his forehead. they run through the strands of hair that frame his face.

“you’ve made things bearable. and i see the things you're going through. i think part of me wanted to make it bearable for you too… you don't have to be strong all the time.”

you don't know if this interaction would've still happened if you both weren't tired out of your minds. you're probably never gonna get this level of vulnerability with neji ever again, so you force yourself to stay up. to keep looking into his eyes.

“you don't have to be strong all the time.” his voice echoes in your head.

you've never felt so seen before. you lay back down on your side, with your head against the pillow. he mirrors your position, facing you. some of his hair falls over his shoulder, and you brush it away.

“neither do you,” you whisper. your eyelids feel heavy. “again… thank you.”

“it’s fine, y/n. get some sleep.” neji’s eyes are already shut. you both fall asleep right after that.

years have passed.

war is over.

and neji’s heart continues to blossom after that mission, albeit in quiet ways that go unnoticed by others. in a crowd full of people, his longing eyes will devote themselves to his memory by stealing glances at you from across the room.

he’s a ghost whose hands caress the skin of your thighs under the table when you sit together. he is the perfect stranger in public who leaves messages that are indecipherable to everyone except you. 

with bound wings, neji felt as though he could soar in your presence. he found himself believing in the doctrine of fate devoutly: that life is fixed, and the future is set in stone. but he could have never predicted how strongly he’d feel for you. with a distinguished family of his own and expectations that weighed on him, he found solace in you. your life was a mirror of his own. he know your heart as if it were his.

and you both know you're being reckless. you know it's impossible to stop your soon-approaching marriages, and you know that neji will disappear into the arms of another hyuga, instead of retreating into yours.

but still, you never fail to meet him at night in that same spot in the forest, laid down on a blanket of grass away from the watchful gaze of your clans. the trees here were the keepers of your most precious memories and secrets. they shield you as moonlight peeks through its thick branches. 

"i missed you, y/n,” neji whispers against your neck. "it’s ridiculous..." 

he pulls you onto his lap and inhales your aroma before pressing light kisses along your neck, as if you're made of fine china—like you'll shatter into pieces if he isn't careful. neji loved to embrace you particularly for this reason. your body was a space where he could forget his strength. he could get lost in you, imagining a life where he'd never have to fight again and instead, devote every ounce of his tenderness to you.

your breathy exhales fade into the wind for every kiss he plants. "i know," your faint voice lingers in his ears. "i missed you too, neji..." 

so much pain is trapped in so few words. in the past, the ache of separation was tolerable, because you knew that you’d find relief in seeing each other here again. but this time, you're not so certain. 

"they came to my house today, you know." you confide, cupping his cheek.

neji raises a brow in interest, his pearl-like eyes scanning yours. the despondency in your eyes is enough evidence for him to piece together what you're talking about.

you didn't want to desecrate this sacred space with talk of the outside world, but you couldn't allow neji to remain ignorant. 

he takes a pause that feels like forever. "what happened? what did they say?"

your hand slips off of neji's cheek, and it remains clenched at your side. "my family paid the dowry." you hated having to verbalise that. it felt like you were really speaking it into existence.  

"i see." he pauses. "so your fate has been decided."

"neji..." your voice falters.

"there's nothing we can do." a slightly mournful edge slips in between his words.

"we knew that this would happen, though.” your tone lowers. “your clan would never accept me, even though we've built such a legacy for ourselves. i'm no match for a hyuga."

neji takes the clenched fist from your side, and plants a soft kiss on the back of it. 

“in spite of that, you're a match for me.” the look in his eyes breaks your heart. “we can’t do anything about the future, y/n. let's do something about the present. while we still have each other.”

you're both like magnets, unable to resist the pull of your faces as they draw closer, and eventually, connect lip-to-lip. in the past, the kisses tasted sweeter. they were a teasing defiance in response to your future. you’d hold back smiles and laughs, thinking you were both above it all. it was thrilling, to put on a show in front of everyone, only to drop the act, and kiss and kiss until your lips grew pleasantly sore in private.

but now, as his tongue wraps around yours, you can only taste a fervency that’s driven by fear. a taste you recognise all too well, because it lives in you too. he's scared that he’ll lose you to the future. he’s scared that this is really going to be the last time. 

he knows it will be.

his mouth is still on yours when he leans forwards with a hand on your chest, gently pushing you onto the soft grass. he looms over you, with both forearms planted on either side of your head. when your eyes open, neji is the only thing you can see. it’s unfair how gorgeous he looks, with his hair spilling forwards, and a soft blush adorning his skin. he’s an empty promise, staring right at you.

“will you think of me?” he begins, kissing down your neck. his lips find your collarbones, and stop above the beating of your heart. “when you're at your wedding ceremony?” 

“neji…” your hand strokes over the top of his head. “you know i will.” 

he wastes little time in unbuttoning your shirt, allowing the breeze to blow against your exposed flesh. he pauses for a moment, admiring the way your skin glows underneath moonlight. he discards the shirt to one side, and promptly resumes his kisses in between your breasts, focusing on your sternum while his large hands massage your supple breasts.

you unclasp your bra to reveal the extent of your hardening nipples to neji, who's already sucking them, and rolling circles with his tongue around the circumference of them. neji is full of you: the sound your soft gasps in his ears. you, in his mouth. you, in the palms of his hands as they roam up and down your torso. 

it was always you. it’s just a shame that it can't be. 

open-mouthed kisses travel down your belly, before they turn into light pecks at the waistband of your skirt. you can't help the way your core pulses when neji looks up at you through his eyebrows, almost like a puppy, you think. 

“would you like me to, y/n?” 

you don't need him to complete the sentence in its entirety. you already know what he's looking for. 

“yes, please, neji. i want you.” you plead softly. “please...”

without further delay, neji reaches for the hem of your skirt, easing it down your legs. he swallows at the sight of you, clad in just your panties. he can feel himself growing harder than he already was. 

when you lift your hips, neji wraps his fingers around your panties and drags them down with your assistance. a string of your essence connects your pussy to the fabric of the underwear, making his face grow warm. he feels the same way too, with the pulse of his cock growing faster under his garments.

he returns to the space in between your legs, experimenting with a ghost-like kiss to your swollen clit.

“here?” he breathes.

you nod, “perfect.” 

the kiss earns a gasp from you, but neji has decided that a mere gasp is not enough.

you feel a wet warmth that wraps around the expanse of your clit, taking you in and out with a gentle suction that comes and goes like the ebb and flow of waves on a shore. it’s a sensation that you could never replicate by yourself. your own fingers pale in comparison to neji’s own hunger, as his lips slurp away at your pussy, as if it were a ripe fruit that oozed the sweetest of nectars. he had to have every last drop of you. he had to memorise the way you tasted. he felt as though nothing in this world could take him away from in-between your legs. this would be his first, and his last time consuming you. this meal would have to sustain him for the rest of his life.

it's impossible to articulate how good he's making you feel. he’s easily reduced you to a litany of breathless moans, and desirous requests for more, more, and more. your fingers are embedded within the thick, dark locks of his hair, impossibly tugging him towards a distance that's already been sealed. your toes are curled, and your hips are raised, grinding and crashing against his tongue as it swirls around your clit.

the signs of your impending orgasm begin making themselves evident to neji. that sweet pussy of yours begins to weep more of its juices onto neji’s tongue. he can feel the pulse of it, throbbing intensely against the tip of his tongue in perfect synchrony with your legs buckling in place, and your hips jerking upwards into his mouth. a final whine escapes your lips, and the grip on his hair feels as though you want to dig into his skull.

paradise ends when neji separates his mouth from your core, but it resumes when his eyes meet your own from between your legs, half-lidded and dazed in a haze of pleasure. the gratification he receives from it is bittersweet. neji can live the rest of his life knowing he drove you to such ecstasy, but at the price of never being able to do it again. 

“neji,” your voice is like music to his ears. “i need you tonight.”

neji crawls forwards until his head hovers over yours, returning to the same position you were both in earlier where he was above you, with his forearms framing your face. with a singular hand, his knuckles gently traces the contour of your cheek.

“i’m already here, y/n…”

“you are. but i need to have you closer to me...” 

you never once sever eye contact with him as your palm cups the erection poking against the fabric of his pants. his breath caves in when you feel over his solid length. he can feel himself crumbling in your hands.

it's uncharacteristic of neji to push past his imposed limitations. you were both intentional in your mutual choice to never search beyond one another's clothes—to respect one another's honour, for the first time was a bridge to be crossed with your spouses. but this situation was dire. things were moving quickly in your arrangement; neji felt it, and you felt it doubly. it’s the perfect justification to claim you before anyone else can.

“how much closer?” his breath is warm against your lips.

“inside of me, neji,” both of your lips are barely touching. “i have to feel you.”

your hands move from his bulge, to the waistband of his pants, where your fingers promptly hook themselves around the material and tug downwards. neji lends a spare hand to help you, simultaneously grabbing the waistband of his boxers and freeing his dick with a swift pull. his length stands on end, tip flushed and glossy with pre-cum as it pulses above your pubic mound. 

neji swallows. “we can’t go back after this, y/n.” 

“there’s nowhere else i’d want to go.” your hands wrap around the nape of his neck. “it’ll always be you, neji.”

his forehead connects to yours before he speaks again. “and it will always be you.” he grabs his shaft and rubs his dick between the lips of your pussy, catching your dripping slick and coating his length in it. you can’t help but whimper at the friction against your clit.

“are you ready, y/n?” neji whispers in your ear.

you nod wordlessly, parting your legs wider in preparation.

“if you could use your words, y/n,” he positions his tip at your entrance, teasing it ever so slightly. “i would appreciate that.”

“yes,” you oblige. “i’m ready for this, neji.”

“i’m pleased, y/n,” he presses a gentle kiss against your temple. “stop me at any point.”

inch by inch, the length of his dick gradually begins to occupy the space in your eager, willing pussy. the foreign sensation of your walls stretching makes you suck in air through your teeth. the pressure is yet to feel pleasurable, and your eyes brim slightly with tears. without thinking, your fingers start to dig into the flesh of neji’s nape.

“y/n.” neji calls. “you’re doing well,” he whispers in between gentle shushes. “so well, y/n. just keep looking at me, alright?”

you hold his warm gaze while he continues to sink into you, slowly and with care. he kisses at your swollen lips, feather-light, for every ingressive hiss you make, almost as if he were absorbing your pain and sealing it inside of him. it’s unbelievable how big he feels inside of you, despite the fact that he isn’t completely in. before long, you feel him skin-to-skin, completely bottomed out in your pussy. he moans softly at the feeling. every vein and ridge of his cock is completely sheathed in your inviting warmth, leaving no part of you empty. neji remains still for a moment, just long enough for you to acclimatise to the feeling of him inside you. the tears that were once threatening to spill from your eyes appear to have rescinded, and your grip on neji has become something of a more languorous hold.

“there.” neji purrs in your ear. “i told you you were doing well.” you hum in response, running your hands through his hair. “do you want me to move now?”

“yes, neji,” you breathe hungrily against his lips. “please, do something. anything.”

and he would do anything for you. if he can’t free you from the throes of a future without him, then he’ll at least do you the pleasure leaving the memory of him seared in your mind as he makes you come undone.

neji barely pulls out before pushing inside of you again, testing the ways in which your body relinquishes itself to him. you can feel the resistance of your pussy cease as it stretches and molds to the shape of his dick. for every little thrust he takes in and out of you, he trains your muscles to recognise the sensation of pleasure.

“you… you feel,” neji breathes in between thrusts, “so good. i can’t compare it to anything.” you notice how he blinks slower, as if he’s trying to capture your face in his memory for longer. you mirror his actions, and stare into his being with half-lidded eyes.

your breath mingles with his in the air. “tell me,” your foreheads touch, “tell me how it feels, neji.”

neji pulls out further now, setting up a more leisurely rhythm as he pushes into your pussy with more courage—more vigour. “you feel so warm,” he slams himself down against you. “like you’re sucking me in,” and again. “i can’t believe i’m inside of you.” and again. he steals a kiss from your tender lips with a voracious abandon that makes you moan in his mouth. to him, your tongue tastes so sweet with desire, and yet, so bitter with anticipated grief that has yet to actualise.

when the kiss ends, your lips remain agape, allowing a chain of soft moans to slide into neji’s ears. the tip of his dick finds that distinct, spongy spot in your pussy with a precision that makes pleasure accumulate in your lower belly. it makes you arch your back against him, and writhe beneath his body. neji absolutely relishes in the awareness that it is his actions, and his actions alone, that makes you react in such a way.

“n-neji,” you pant, “oh, fuck-” you pull him closer to your body, leaving your breasts flush against his chest. “you’re making me feel so good,” you start to hook your legs around his waist. “so, so good… i-”

“speak to me, y/n.” he softly pleaded.

“i wish it were you,” you rasp. “every single day, i wish it were you.” neji is practically pounding into you now, filling the air with sounds of skin slapping, and obscene wetness. “neji,” your eyes begin to bubble with tears. “i love you,” you whisper. “i love you so much that it hurts.”

“y/n,” he whispers back against your lips. “i’m sorry,” he never takes his yearning eyes off of yours when his thumb finds your protruding clit, rubbing firm circles around it. “i wish i had all the answers to heal your heart,” he thrusts harder. deeper. “i wish things weren’t the way they were,” his breathing grows more ragged, “i never wanted to let go of you. you are so special.”

you moan at the additional stimulation. “oh, i love you,” you both kiss each other light-headed, with teeth clicking and lips crashing carelessly. “i love you, i love you, i love you.” it’s a mantra from the depths of your heart. you could find love in the future, but it would never ever be as immersive, and as true as this.

“i know,” he exhales gently, dragging out the syllables. “i love you too.”

neji begins to lose the rhythm he established and maintained. he can feel his inevitable release approaching, and he chases it with just a few more thrusts. you aren’t that far behind either, with the feeling of sweet static deep in your womb getting more and more difficult to hold in with each slam of his hips. 

“y/n,” neji hisses. “i’m close…” 

“oh,” you gasp, “me too. fuck, fuck, fuck.” you wrap your legs even tighter around his waist, keeping him locked in place. “please don’t go anywhere…” tears spill from your eyes.

“i won’t.”

with a final groan, neji has buried himself to the hilt of your drooling pussy. your body becomes rigid, and every muscle in your body draws taut as your hole clenches around his throbbing dick.

you’ve soaked his cock with sweet, sticky essence that leaves a ring of cream around the base of his length. at the same time, long ropes of hot cum begin to flood your womb, spewing out with each final twitch of his cock. he continues to move slowly in your heat, until your sore pussy drains him to completion.

neji, still buried inside you, wipes the tears from your eyes. neither of you speak. you simply savour the silence, and allow yourselves to come back to reality after spending what feels like an eternity in sheer bliss. the night air feels like cooling liniment over the blazing heat of your sweat-glazed skin. it feels almost surreal.

both of you stay holding onto each other, as though releasing one another would make dawn arrive faster. moonlight catches onto the dark strands of neji’s hair.

“do you remember the first time we came here?” you gently break the silence.

“i do,” he whispers. “you tripped over a tree root.”

your eyes widen. “i did not.”

neji reaches for a kunai in the holster he haphazardly shoved away after he stripped for you. he throws it at one of the thick roots with such accuracy, that you know can’t be made up. “it was that one over there.”

“fine,” you roll your eyes. “i guess it was.”

neji rapidly exhales, smiling with the utmost softness.

“will you think about me?” you tried to stop the question, but it snuck past you anyway. neji didn’t seem to mind the abruptness of it, though. “i will,” he answers. “whenever i come here… all the time, to be truthful.”

he takes a brief moment to look around the clearing. “the trees. their leaves, their roots,” he looks to the sky, “the moon.” his gaze then returns to you. “you’ve made it considerably impossible not to think of you.”

“but won’t it hurt? thinking of me, when your mind is supposed to be with your betrothed?” the question, as heavy as it is, manages to float in the air for a while.

he finally speaks. “it will hurt. but, i can’t complain. i made my choice the day i let myself love you.”

you both come together, lips meeting for a final kiss. “i wish i could stay.” you whisper against his lips.

neji shuts his eyes against you, and allows a stray tear to fall down his face.

“so do i.”

a/n: i've had this draft since April omg get it away from me bro.....!:!.?: also, thank you for this request nonnie. my first time doing a bit of angst, and my first time writing for Neji! i hope this is how you envisioned it 🪷🪷🪷

now neji wasn't particularly religious, though his father instilled it in him that it couldn't hurt to pray. so when no one else is there, neji circles to the back of the building where the seemingly innocuous shrine laid and prayed for protection.

it was a particularly long day of work when the rain poured with no sign of stopping anytime soon. it was quite a good day, how could the storm clouds randomly decide that now was the most optimal time to rain, he notes with a tinge of annoyance. but regardless, all neji wanted was to get home without looking too much like a drenched cat.

as he turned the corner, a large looking phantom starts turning the corner, its voice distorted as it keeps repeating "tired. tired. tired." the same thing neji himself mumbled when he left. nothing seemed to stop it as it charged towards him, much faster than it looked. though he was trained in martial arts, neji seriously doubted that such things would be able to take down something of that size.

but right when the phantom was about to jump and eat him, a sword flew through the air before slicing off one of its arms. taking shelter in an alleyway, neji looks up to see a woman on a rooftop, calling out a random name and summoning another sword. there was an almost graceful way with which you took out the phantom, the sword slicing through the flesh like it was nothing. a flash of light shined, before the silence returned once more.

the weapons disappeared before his very eyes and the whole sequence left neji reeling. were you one of the gods father talked about? there was of course the uchihas, the gods of fire. kakashi hatake, the god of lightning and many more he couldn't name off the top of his head.

when he was a child, hizashi would tell stories about the many gods and goddesses that people pray to. and to neji, they were nothing more than silly bedtime stories, even though his father and many others very well believed in them.

"hey, it's gone. you can come out now," you said, smoothing down your clothes.

neji flinched. of course you noticed his presence.

upon seeing you, neji noted that you didn't really have the usual disposition that was befitting of a god. it was as if you were just another person inhabiting this world. though an odd feeling surged in his chest as he allowed his gaze to linger on you for a little longer than he should.

something about you seemed familiar, but for the life of him, he couldn't understand why. and the feeling furthered intensified when you approached him to ask if he was okay. the tension in neji's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly—an instinctive thing that he barely noticed.

and as neji thanked you and continued on his walk home, you didn't leave his mind. even as he eventually drifted off to sleep.

* shinki: also known as regalia. divine vessels that have both human and vessel forms (these vessel forms can be weapons, animals and other objects such as clothing) that have special contracts with gods/goddess to do their bidding. a shinki is meant to obey their master at all times, control their emotions and avoid falling into temptations that lead to committing sins. one can only become a regalia after death.