Standard disclaimer here.
She had never known the feeling of a man touching her in any way that resembled intimacy. Her body was long, lean; comprised of wiry muscle, and skin that still remembered all the bruises it had borne, once upon a time. Sometimes she could still feel the flat end of a blade striking her across the ribs, a quarterstaff to her shoulder, a close-fisted blow to the side of her face. Her mouth could recall all the battle cries it had shrieked in those days, all the times it had filled with blood- her blood, and the blood of her foes, sometimes-, and still knew how to form into a grim little line, could still smile bitterly if she had the mind. Physically, she had felt her share of things both painful and not so much.
It was just as well. She'd never craved a man's touch anyway.
She was too strong for that.
In the months and years that would pass after her first failed examination (her last, she promised, because failure couldn't be tolerated, no), she took a step back and a long look at herself. Changing the things that didn't work out, sacrificing little parts of herself, becoming what she needed to be instead of what others expected her to embody.
Grace, power—she was a femme fatale if there ever was one, but she didn't take on too much, because she'd already proven she couldn't handle the responsibility anyway.
He came knocking on her door one night, during the small hours when the sun had not yet poked up above the horizon. Eyes hard, he stared at her, seeing bruises that weren't from him, seeing scars he didn't know she had. They never trained together anymore, because she found that being around him distracted her from what was real, there, and possible; there was no room for childish fantasy in her life anymore. He glowed in the moonlight, an ethereal being that far surpassed her in strength, and—hell—even beauty.
Did he need her? She was almost afraid of the answer.
Did she need him? That one scared her too.
"Hello," she said, and she smiled at him, and, satisfied, he left her to her own self-destructive devices. Closing the door, she pressed against it and sighed wearily. What she wouldn't give for the usual awkward years of a normal teenager.
Her skin and bone and muscle remembered what killing felt like, too. What crushing a skull beneath a blunt weapon sounded like, how blood felt against her bare arms, the beauty of a battle-induced adrenaline rush. Everything blended together, becoming One but also having the same, separate parts they'd always had. The trees and the grass and the sky were scenery, yes, but weapons too, and she could smell a breezed tainted with a touch of blood, taste the decay in the air. She was dangerous, distractions were dangerous, and second-guessing could cost the lives of anyone stupid enough to do it too often. You make a decision, you stick to it—if it works, great; if it doesn't, you're already dead so what does it matter?
Pain was no stranger, she couldn't stress that enough. She had broken more bones than she could count, been in the hospital enough to know every nurse by name, the scent of sterilized white rooms clung to her. It beat smelling like blood and gore and bile, though, so she didn't complain too often.
She'd been shadowing her teammates for years, so by the time she became Anbu she was already well practiced. Weapons were her forte, but she'd spent years dabbling in poison, too, so it was little surprise when they asked her to be the head of Torture and Interrogation.
Eventually, she gave into the throes of passion—or else something very much like it—and found herself sick and dissatisfied later. There was lust, but no love, and if that had been 'passion' she'd rather have remained a virgin forever. Too hard, too fast, and just generally unpleasant, she'd scrubbed herself very thoroughly that night, and had to down a glass or two before she felt sane again. Ew, just… Let's never go through that again.
The pregnancy seemed inevitable, because she was just lucky like that, and she'd terminated it without a second thought. She'd killed people professionally since she had been twelve, so why shouldn't she kill something she had a genuine dislike for? Her mother had hated her for it later, as had the thing's father, but she was too far gone and didn't give a damn about that anymore. It was over, done, and she would make a point to never speak of it again, just in case guilt snuck up on her someday.
She had nightmares about little babies trapped inside of jars for a month and a half, torn and bloody and looking like her, and looking like Neji sometimes too. Sometimes she would wake up screaming.
Most mornings, she would wake up early—some ungodly hour—, get dressed in a pair of shorts and a tank top, and run around the village. The cold morning air would bite and tear at her skin, and she would run and run and run and run until her muscles began to burn. It would take hours sometimes, and she would collapse randomly in a heap, pounding at the ground and wondering when everything had turned so sour.
She was dangerous, dangerous.
Eventually she would pull herself together, go into work, take a quick shower in one of the locker rooms, and change into her shinobi uniform. She would walk into her interrogation room, armed with weapons and poisons, bamboo shoots and wires, batteries and knives and corkscrews and needles. There would always be that moment when she would enter, and the enemy ninja in question would look at her; the more experienced ones would sneer at her, beg her to do what she could and see if she could get anything out of them—and the rookies would stare, eyes wide, face pale. Then she would get to work, and the screaming would start.
Her teacher and teammates had stared at her, disbelieving, when she'd told him of her promotion. They hadn't thought she could handle it, hadn't believed that their blossoming flower of youth could ever do something dishonorable and underhanded and dirty. There would always be that moment, when her target would bleed over her hands and grow cold, when she believed that they had been right.
She was dangerous, dangerous.
"I don't love you anymore," she told him the next time he came to her front door. His eyes had seen through her, seen to her heart and her soul and her core, and he didn't believe her. Lying, and they both knew it. He stopped her from closing the door, grabbed her wrists and pulled her towards him. Lips met.
He tasted like rain and sweat and oh-gods-is-this-really-happening, and he was warm but she was cold, and with a bleeding heart she pulled away. "I'm sorry." And she was gone.
She realized with a pang that it had been years since she'd ever really been there.