a/n: this was written for st month 2024 (all credit to shrimparmy on tumblr). each story, mostly, is based off a specific encounter.
a thorough and never-ending thank you to weirdcreepies on tumblr for all of the massive help and inspiration for this story! and thank you to the tumblr anon who kept me motivated with weekly spoilers!
the prompt I picked for this chapter was Rematch, but there were three others available and I tried to reference them all (daydreams, family bonds, and "it's been a while").
Chapter 1: Rematch
Temari has nothing to say for herself.
Well, okay.
She's never without speech.
She doesn't struggle to put words together or need time to think through her words or whatever. Sometimes she says things she shouldn't but it's not because she ever spoke without thinking. She thought about it. And then still said it.
That's all.
But whatever, that's not important. That's not the issue at bar right now.
The issue is she just has nothing to say. She has no words to explain what she's doing because honestly she has no idea exactly what it is she is doing.
Right. Make sense?
She picks up her fan from where she had put it down in this random hallway only a few seconds earlier. Its weight secures her. She hadn't the opportunity to use it earlier today. And it makes her a stronger fighter. Her development of her wind manipulation is tied to it — this time, she'll level it.
Four seconds pass. Helps to count them, as though there is some countdown or end result once she gets to a certain number. The lights in this hallway are old and yellowing, casting an unattractive look to the place. She's passed this building before, but never been inside it. It's quiet. A television in the apartment nearest to her is on, but it's too muffled to hear whatever program is playing.
What is she doing.
Five seconds this time. One long breath, in and out. She takes steps closer to the last door on the left, but stops yards away from it. She puts her fan down.
Fuck.
It's just that face — so fucking smug all the fucking time. Even when he lost (because he didn't, right, that was the issue, that's why she's here — yes! Those are the words! Or, at least, some of the words.).
She reaches for her fan, bearing the weight in her left hand as she walks up to his door, raising onto the balls of her toes and then back down again, heart thrumming. She pulls off the cloth still covering the bottom half of her face.
She raises her free hand to knock, but holds it still, motionless in the air.
Fighting, she thinks, gets the point across.
She has all the words. And she can back it up.
She can do both.
And boy does she know how to be mad. Capital-M Mad.
She rubs her eyes with her other hand. What is she doing? What does she want? To fight him?
Yeah, if words aren't enough. A fight to what end? To beat him beat him over and over until she gets… what? To beat him into submission? Hm. Well.
Yeah yeah, she knows what that sounds like. But.
She swallows. Rallies. Knocks on the door. Once, loudly.
And then… nothing. No answer. She knocks again. Fuck that — and fuck him if he's not there.
But then there are movements, soft, slow ones, and then, after another few seconds, the door pulls open with Shikamaru Nara on the other side of it, a hand on the edge of the door holding it open, brow furrowed.
Temari doesn't blink. He's out of uniform, wearing just a black tee shirt, hair pulled back half-heartedly, lower on his neck than usual. And yeah — yeah, she doesn't blink. Doesn't hesitate out in this hall. She pushes right past him, moving his arm — the one holding the door open — out of her way with a hand that lands half-on his shirt, half-on the skin of his bicep.
"Um," Shikamaru says, hesitant as she walks in, but he puts up no actual protest and lets the door close behind her. "Temari?"
She pauses. Her heart is pounding. Fight, she thinks, sweeping her eyes across his residence. When she looks back at him, it's clear he was asleep when she knocked. He's very noticeably just woken up.
"You were sleeping? You left work forty minutes ago."
Shikamaru blinks, still looking unsure (not that she knows what he ought to be sure about). "Uh, yeah." He takes a breath, blinks into more recognition. "And I was asleep ten minutes after that."
"Wow."
He frowns vaguely, looking down. "What are you doing?"
She's standing tall in his living room. In his apartment. Breathing faster than she wants to. She has no idea what she expected. Or what she expects now… That he have been in uniform still? The tank top? His shirt tucked in?
Maybe? After all, she's ready to go. Why isn't he?
Fine.
"I want a rematch," she says, voice harder than she means it to be.
"What?" He huffs, rubbing a hand over his face, but she stays resolute. This is what she wants. A rematch. "Temari. I'm not going to fight you." He shakes his head, eyeing her. "You won. Why would you even want a rematch? Just," a pause as he waves a hand at the door, "leave me alone."
"Fuck you."
Shikamaru sighs, again, and looks her up and down. Then, seemingly deciding something she's not privy to, his stance changes and he turns from her, walking into another room.
"I'm making tea."
And then he's gone and she's alone again. She inhales, and her exhale, when it comes, seems to loosen something. Her hands are still fisting (itching) but she can breathe now; her shoulders can fall. Temari, who'd been staring off where Shikamaru had just been standing, turns away. She places her fan at the foot of the couch and then collapses onto the harder-than-it-looks sofa, knocking her shoulders against it in her fall.
Why is she here?
Oh. Rematch. Yes, that's it. That's what she wants.
His apartment is mostly empty. It's clear he doesn't spend much time here, but that was a given. She could've predicted that without ever seeing it firsthand.
"Would you like some?" He calls out, sounding, if anything, bored. She ignores him.
There's a low table, wide and short, by her knees, separating two mismatched chairs that are facing her. There are some framed photographs on the shelf to her left. Without looking intently, she sees many of his parents and old classmates. One of those easy going people with family bonds that he's always known without question and that she's never been able to comprehend.
The apartment is otherwise sparse. Knowing him, and his complete lack of interest in anything, his lack of decor isn't not surprising.
No, not knowing him. She doesn't know him.
Her breath picks up again as the kettle comes close to whistling. She isn't sure how she wants it. Or what she wants. Or why she's even here.
Just… a rematch. Another shot.
Her hand is fisting again.
When Shikamaru returns, two cups in hand, he seems more awake than before. Tired, maybe, and perhaps not as blowhole and cocksure as he was earlier that afternoon. But he's still too arrogant. Arrogant in how he walks and how he places the tea before her. Arrogant in how he looks at her like he knows exactly why she's there and what she wants and why the universe turns the way it does.
Shikamaru takes a seat in the chair opposite her, staying at the edge of it, leaning his elbows on his knees.
He's always been a dick. A misogynistic prick. Been one since the day they met.
She looks at his forearms and the lines of muscle up to the wide flex of his wrists.
Neither speak. He's watching her watch him and it makes her angrier.
"It's been a while." He ventures eventually.
She wants to laugh. Yeah it's been a while. "No shit." She says.
She's not even sure why she's so irate.
When they were young, after they met, they were friendly (emphasis on the qualifier, on the ultima — they were not "friends," just friendly) for a little while. They didn't spend time on their own or anything, they just worked together for a bit. And only argued half the time (which was half less than they argued now). And then they changed jobs and moved apart and her annoyance has only grown, if anything. But even then — he was never not a dick. Always been a chauvinist. And always (more than anyone she's ever known) liked to play games with her. Liked to get under her skin.
In a way, sometimes, she'll admit, she can't understand why she hates him so much. But then something like today happens (he lets her win during training solely for the rise it'll bring forth from her) and she wants to wring his neck, squeezing until his eyes grow big. Maybe instead of her fan she should've brought a knife.
"Always figured you'd be here."
Temari laughs and it sounds angry. "What? In your apartment?"
Shikamaru looks at her, raising his brows slightly, eyes dark in a way she hates that she even notices. She swallows, her throat hurting.
"No, ANBU."
"Bullshit."
He shrugs, palms his cup. And watches her.
Temari inhales slowly, trying to calm down the thrumming her heart. She curls her toes. "Why?"
He responds as though the answer is clear as day. "You love to fight. You push yourself— "
She scoffs. "I don't want to fight, Shikamaru."
"You came in here asking for a rematch."
"Yeah," she snaps, "to fight you. Not, like, generally. That's not what I want." She huffs, sitting up straight. "God you're such an asshole. You have such a fundamental misunderstanding of people."
He doesn't rise to anything, looking as cleverly self-controlled as he did when he'd sat down. "I understand people."
She wants to wipe that expression off his face. Like, to physically reach across the table and make it go away. "You don't even understand yourself."
Him, one knee in the dirt, eyes tilted toward the shadows.
"Why do you think you keep letting me win?"
He licks his lips. "You're better than me?"
"Fuck off. It's not even because you're lazy and can't be roused or anything blase like that."
His shadows feel like nothing.
They don't feel. Like anything.
You don't even know he has you until you try to move and can't. Or you're keeping your arm down and suddenly it's up. Sneaking up isn't even the right term. He has you on the ocean floor long before you even recognize a leak. Infiltrated long before the opening was even noticed. By the time you know he has you, he's already long-ahold of you. He controls her entire body and she doesn't even know it. If he didn't show her — move her — she wouldn't even know he could. He could be holding her right now and she wouldn't even know.
Temari reaches forward and picks up the cup of still steaming tea, gulping it down, searing the top of her mouth and throat.
His knees. Fuck.
"God," she half-gasps when she puts the cup down, mouth burning, wincing around the pain of it. He's eyeing her, concerned. "I'm going to hate myself, aren't I?"
Shikamaru frowns, concerned, confused, starting to breathe heavy as he watches her burn her mouth, but he doesn't move.
Her throat hurts. But at least she can feel that. She welcomes it.
"Hate yourself?" He repeats carefully, in question.
The shadows here, in this old apartment, scare her.
"For having sex with you."
To her, the answer couldn't be more clear. She's surprised, now, that he'd even asked the question.
Shikamaru exhales low, looking at her tea cup back on the table, still steaming. He licks his teeth.
She hates herself for even saying it. No words came and then those?! She didn't even mean them, she doesn't understand what they do mean even if the curvature of them in her mouth, the answer of them in her head, feels right.
Shikamaru looks up at her. "Your idea of a rematch?" He says.
Or he starts to say. Or that's what she thinks he is saying. But she can't be sure, because as he's speaking, she essentially throws herself across the coffee table, knocking over both cups of tea and locking her mouth onto his, arms around his neck.
And he opens right up to her, which is worse, she thinks, annoyed even as she is licking into his mouth, teeth hitting against him, his forehead butting against her own as she scrambles to get closer, to get her legs around him at the same time he is leaning out of his chair trying to grab her butt and direct her to the same thing.
It's annoying because he doesn't hesitate. He opens right away, like he was waiting for it. Like he knew this was happening. Like he wanted this to happen.
Fuck that.
But she doesn't think about it (or can't) because he's pushing her down, back flattening against the coffee table, her knees falling open so he can kneel down between them. He's biting at her neck, her ear, pulling at the clasps of her flak jacket.
"Fuck," he says between breaths, the words coming into her open mouth. She's scrambling to take her pants off, undoing the buttons and trying to both continue kissing him and push him away at the same time. "Stop trying to win fucking everything. I lost. Get over it."
"Shut up," she says, but then he is standing up more, pushing his thigh against her purposefully. She's nowhere near his groin (he's not pushing his erection into her) he's just giving her purchase and she despises the immediacy with which she starts grinding onto him.
She's swimming. It feels hard to breathe, like her lungs are short-circuiting. She's not getting enough oxygen and it's making her dizzy.
"Just stop talking," she tries, trying for some sensibility, even though she's moaning at the push against her, rubbing herself against him, body moving involuntarily.
"I haven't said anything, Temari."
It's so smug and it's so fucking annoying. She wants to tell him to keep her name out of his mouth. But then he is leaning back and helping her pull down her pants, pulling them off and casting them aside.
And so what can she say that won't make everything about this situation more humiliating?
God.
She's still wearing her shirt and vest when he pushes her underwear to the right and is sticking his fingers inside her with no hesitation. And oh, oh wow, that —
It's all happening so fast. And it's not what she wanted at all.
But she also can't think through anything except chasing this feeling in her gut, hunting closer to that feeling he is bringing forth from her chest; between her legs.
She doesn't open her eyes, but kisses him when he comes closer, grabbing the back collar of his shirt as he sweeps his tongue into her mouth, continuing nonstop with his hand inside her, pushing into her in time with her own movements, opening her in a rhythm. Pushing harder as though he could go further. As though…. She doesn't know. She doesn't know what she's thinking. It's not making any sense. It's just. It's him. And it's been so long. And it feels so good. And she's so wet, she can't remember the last time she was this wet. She just wants. She wants more. Wants to feel it better. Wants to be splayed out, taken in.
But she also hates that she wants that. Hates that she wants more of anything from him.
She's literally zipped up to the top, vest pressing into her neck the way it's being pushed up, and the lower half of her naked body is being splayed out on his coffee table, her knees spread to either wall.
Is this what she has always wanted? Is this why she came?
When she watches his hands form his jutsus, is this what she is thinking about? Them inside her? Stretching her? Moving deep in her?
And then he's pulling out of her, moving to hold her knee open as Temari begins to protest. She continues to move her hips down as though she'll still find his hand down there, as though if she pushes more, his fingers will slip back inside her.
But he huffs, saying something like hold on but it's too low for to catch. And then he's scooting back on his knees and leaning down, pushing her underwear further to the right. His arm moves to wrap around the bottom of her thigh to grab her underwear from around back and hold it further aside, pulled tight and cutting into her skin, while his left arm resituates, bending low as his fingers come back to her entrance, not going in this time, but just brushing around.
She lifts her head to watch this happen, the protests dying out on her tongue because she knows what's coming next, wanting it to come next; wanting to see it.
He licks her long, first. His tongue is wet and soft and hot and she would come from anything touching her the right way, but nothing is ever as good as someone's mouth. And his is — well. Good at some things. Good at many things. Good, she thinks, as licks from the bottom all the way up, at this. Good. Yes. Good.
Not enough breath. She's dizzy.
Shikamaru makes long sweeps with tongue, up and down, and then circles at her clit — widely at first, and then narrower and harder as he moves in. She inhales, arching her back and closing her eyes, finding her hand gripping his where he is holding her underwear aside. He's focusing more on the wrong side, but it doesn't matter because it feels so good, it feels so, so good.
She's going to come like that. She tells him. She grabs at his head, tries to bring him even closer, to keep him right here he is, to do something because she can't breathe in this fucking vest and she's going to come and oh god like a rubber band being pulled and pulled and —
She digs her nails into his scalp and her legs violently shake as she climaxes. She feels it violently, all the way into her toes.
And then, before she can properly come down, Shikamaru is up, kissing her without hesitation, letting her feel herself over his lips, biting at her mouth, not hesitating in even his breath as bring his hands to her face.
"Condom," she manages to get out, and he laughs. "Hurry up and fuck me," she says in response as he runs his lips around her ear.
"Calm down."
"Fuck you."
"Stop cursing at me," he says, but it's not angry.
Temari manages to roll her eyes (she thinks… or they roll back in her head)... But he's sweating too.
And so while he sits up to start on his pants, she does the unfastening on her vest and pulls it off, taking her shirt with it. And then she just waits, watching him, trying to catch her breath, her elbows leaning on the coffee table (which would hurt if she took the time to notice it). She's now naked save her bra, watching her stomach move with each exhale.
He's so hard when she gets an eye on him. And she hasn't even touched him.
It would be endearing maybe (she would be smug about it) if it wasn't drowned out by the sight of him opening the condom wrapper without even getting up. She has no idea where it came from — does he keep one in the living room? Was there one already in his pants? Or a nearby wallet? Did he get one when he went to make tea after she'd shown up?
— all of them are the wrong answer. She's annoyed with any of the possibilities she's flit through. And she's about to ask, impugnment, when he fails to put it on correctly, trying to roll it open the wrong way. And yes that is kind of endearing.
She opens her mouth to say something, but there are no immediate words (those, too, would all be the wrong answers), and then she is just open-mouthed and then there is his cock, hard and rubbing up and down her vagina, picking up some of the lubrication before he pushes in.
He stops a second after the first initial push. Waits. And Temari, holding her legs open trying to urge him in, grabs hip to try to pull him in.
She wants it hard. She expects it hard.
This is a fight, isn't it?
She wants to be sore tomorrow, wants the light blood in her underwear from that first deep push where he hits her cervix.
But he has stopped! And it forces her to writhe, to move herself on the table, the noise high in the back of her throat to voice her immense displeasure.
"Just," Shikamaru says in response, hands splaying out on her hips, coming up to her stomach, spread wide to hold her still. "Tell me when it's too much."
And then he pushes in deeper, moving in and out in shallow thrusts, pushing her open a little further each time. All she can manage is the start of some comment — "it… it" — but it's no matter of correction because what she really wants to say (but hopes she won't say) is keep going.
It's only a few seconds and just like that he is all the way in, sliding in long strokes out and back, filling her up over and over, slow enough to make that burn on the slide palpable. She looks down between them, looks at his stomach above her, the crease where their bodies meet, the inch or so of his penis she can see from her angle as he slides back on each thrust.
Feel so good, he says, god, he says. Noises, he's making. She squeezes around him.
They're both true, you know: she never came here with this intention and has absolutely no idea how she ended up here, and she also only ever knew their arguments would lead to this.
Beat him into submission, right?
Is this submission?
He's hard for her, but is she not the one at the mercy he granted to her? Violence, regardless. Mercy, nevertheless.
And then his gentle hands on her stomach move, grabbing the straps of her bra and pulling them down, pulling the whole contraption down to her stomach, forcing her tits out and bounced back with his push. And then he leans down, locking his lips around one nipple and sucking, hard. And then the other one, like he's trying to be just and fair in something so removed from equality or grace that she wants to laugh. She would laugh, if it didn't feel so fucking good she couldn't even attempt to make the noise.
It's only a second — like getting her more naked was just preparation for the rest — before Shikamaru is up again, holding her rib cage with either hand, pressing her bones down with his weight as he holds her tightly, and pounds.
Fuck, it's good.
It is too much and it is too soon, but that's what she wants. She wants that pain. She wants the hurt of him hitting her too deep too hard before he's stretched her out, the ache in her stomach, like beating a bruise over and over and over.
And (maybe) she wants to see him like this: see him looking down at her body, see the look in his eyes at he's watching her, see the sweat on his brow and redness of his lips, hear the noises this draws from him. And it feels just so… good the way he is holding her ribs, crushing them, keeping her in one place.
It's good. And then it isn't good anymore.
And she places her hand on his hip and tells him to stop. Tells him it's too much and to slow down and he does without hesitation, pulling out and reaching to flip her over, her knees coming to rest on the floor, shins parallel to his own.
Shikamaru adjusts to spread his legs wider and work the angle between them while she waits.
(Not that she's waiting patiently — she's just too angry to admit she's not using this opportunity to leave and gather her wits and conceptions of self worth from whatever other reality they've seemingly disappeared into)
And then he's opening her cheeks and running his cock against her before he pushes in again, slower this time.
He keeps himself shallow inside her, just bringing the tip of himself into her and sliding. It's that slide that feels best. The pressure against the walls of her vagina, the movement (so wet) of it.
She leans forward, panting into her hand. Her legs are shaking.
She feels heavy and weak and lightheaded all at once.
She came here to feel something else, right? To feel the full (whole, entire) opposite than she is feeling now?
Who is winning? As though there is any question in that answer while he is above her and she feels like she can't breathe.
"Fuck Shikamaru," she says. And he grips her right shoulder in response.
She closes her eyes tightly, willing herself to not stare at the edge of his couch. Willing herself to just feel how good this is even as she hates every second of it.
"I've imagined this," he says quietly behind her. Maybe. Distantly. "Dreamt…" he says. Or maybe not. She's in a haze. Maybe he's not whispering anything at all. She doesn't know.
The air, crisp — daydreaming, lying in the grass, the passing clouds. His black uniform and the tree casting shadows for his use —
(she feels nothing and yet knows he feels all of her. can he feel her now? is this different, being inside her now?)
Temari squeezes herself around him, clenching involuntarily.
The sound he makes she feels all the way into her toes. She opens her eyes to see the foot of his couch and for no reason whatsoever she finds herself squeezing around him once more, this time purposefully.
"Stop, stop," she says, gathering something she thought she'd lost (though no credit is due, this action and purpose is quite minor and in no way reflects her greater mores and intentions and, if anything, is the most humiliating thing she has done since she broke two tea cups trying to kiss him) as she sits straights and pushes him away.
Shikamaru falls back onto his heels, sliding out of her without comment. He moves away as she stands.
"Are you —" he cuts off his own question, closing his mouth and looking up at her..
Temari takes a deep breath (or as deep a breath as she can — she feels as though she can't get in enough air, as though no matter how much she takes in, she isn't able to clear the cloud in her head) and surveys the scene before her — the mess on his coffee table and floor, the varied locations of her clothes spread around where he is kneeling.
Her whole body hurts.
She looks at him. It fills her with a feeling she can't identify. Fills her stomach and she finds herself bringing her hands to her middle, as though if she felt it in her, she'd be better able to identify the feeling.
A rematch, right?
Silently, she unclasps her bra from where it settled around her waist, letting it fall to the floor.
She's exhausted.
Her knees ache.
He looks so different kneeling, cock out, hair half around his face and eyes… looking at her like that.
"Bedroom?" She says, instead of whatever else she wants to say, which is… what? What does she want to say? What—
Shikamaru stands and it's enough to stop thinking and follow him as he takes her hand and leads her down a short hall next to the kitchen before turning left.
His room is lit only by the light from the hallway, its contents made visible by the open door. His bed is unmade. He'd been here, sleeping, when she'd arrived.
She faces the bed at the foot of it, leaning down until her hands are braced on the mattress, arching her back, urging him to come back and line up behind her once again.
Shikamaru follows, standing where she's beckoned him. Her heart is pounding in her chest, thrumming up her pulse and, once more, quickening her breath. She's still hot. She's still sweating at the inside of her elbows and under her arms.
She hears him take off his shirt and then, when he starts to take off his pants, she turns around and grabs his forearm. "Keep them on," she says.
He looks at her. He doesn't look confused or stern or anything like she is expecting. He looks at her like he knows something more than she does, but it's not smug. Like he knows something she doesn't. Or is urging her to know something she's refusing to understand.
He does that sometimes — look at her like that (though it's usually drowned out by the constant combination of utter boredom and/or ever-present smirk).
She thinks she hates this look (when his eyes are dark like this) the most.
There were nights during the war (some nights, more nights than she'd admit, nights that she tries to forget) where he'd look at her like that.
Temari licks her lips.
Without thinking further, she takes his cock into her hands. It's warm, solid and hard in her palm. Dry now, with the condom and the open air, but she's wet enough it won't matter.
He watches her.
And so she turns around, hiking one knee up onto the bed to open herself up more, hand still holding him as she guides him into her.
And the noise he makes this time is louder than any other he's made before, hands gripping her waist as he slides in. She's so aroused, the inside of her thighs are slick.
"Deeper," she says, and he takes the direction, reaching a hand to her upper back to urge her down to her forearms, before he goes back to holding her hips, pulling her back onto him. Pulling her back and also thrusting into her at the same time. Over and over until she's panting again and closing her eyes so tightly tears come to the corners of them.
God.
"Fuck me," she directs, putting stress on the words.
"Trying," he says from behind her, "if you'd ever shut up." But it's half a laugh. Said with a smile, she imagines. Cocky.
She could scream.
He's twenty-two. What'd she expect?
But god it's so good. It's so good. It might be the best— Who even knew twenty-two year olds could fuck?
And then he reaches one hand around her and pads roughly at her clit.
And she hates herself as she moves; hates how she buckles and cramps and feels like she's drowning all over her again. Her throat is so rough. She's being fucked absolutely raw. It sounds raw as she tells him she is going to come.
"Keep going," she manages.
"Come on me," he says, deep from behind her. It's so gross. He's such an asshole.
But she does it.
She comes, and her whole body vibrates. Her knees shake out from under her, her hips roughly try to pull away, but he holds her to him, stays inside of her only by his own strength, and she falls down in a cry.
She's swimming.
There is a distant can I and she nods without thinking.
She's so sweaty.
She doesn't move as he fucks her hard from behind.
"Yes," she says, yes, over and over, encouraging, not even realizing it. Yes, she says in a half-whisper.
And half a whisper to herself. Yes, she was right: and she hates herself for it.
She buries her head as he comes with a loud moan, grasping her hips, pushing her standing leg further until she is on her toes. She knows his hands are leaving dark and purple bruises into her hips.
His bed sheets smell like grass.
What is she even thinking?
Rematch?
What a fucking joke.
She walked in asking to get beaten up.
It's a long moment after he finishes that they stay still. Joined. Sweaty. Silent except for their breath.
She feels full and hot and worn, even if there isn't any semen filling her up, trying to get the relentless pounding of her heart to return to normal faster than it currently is.
"We can never mention this again," she says, turning her face to bury her cheek in the bed, looking at his open closet. She tries to sound resolute, but the high, light pitch of her tone post-orgasm undercuts her intensity. "Forget it ever happened."
She expects some sort of retort from him, but he says nothing. He takes a long breath, exhaling slowly, like he's working to regulate it.
And then, in one motion, he releases her hips and steps back, pulling his cock from her, and she is surprised to find she falls forward onto the bed, collapsing into his sheets.
She hadn't realized his hands had been the only thing holding her up.
When she is able to lift herself up and turn around — why are her arms tired? — she finds that Shikamaru too has likewise lowered himself down, sitting back on his heels on the floor, pants still pulled down to his midthigh.
Temari shakes her head, frowning, looking away from him, looking to the corner as though she could see through the walls to find her clothes in the living room.
And then she looks back. She is sitting half on her side, completely naked on his bed, and he's below her on the floor, chest pale in the dim light, eyes still — always — dark.
"Sure." He says, and she expects it to sound amused, sound like he's accomplished something in fucking her — but it doesn't. It is just the simple, single syllable. Nothing of note. As though he'd been expecting the response and confirming the mutually-desired end to this unnatural and violent meeting.
Then he looks away and she watches, blinking, as he takes off the used condom, tying it off and tossing it to the side. She looks at it on the floor. And then looks at his cock, still hard, as he rubs the remaining moisture off it with his hand.
He's watching her. Not meeting her eyes or seeking anything from her. He's not looking at her face in any way where she might expect some expectation from him.
He's just looking at her, eyes trained maybe at her breasts or her knees, or maybe, from his vantage a few feet below and away from her, he's just seeing her entire form in his singular focus.
And he's not at all shy about it, as he drags his hand slowly over himself, mouth closed, a slight tension in the corners of his lips. No, not shy at all. And, so, yeah… she lost, right?
She lost anyway. The deck was stacked against her the moment she walked in.
And so Temari sits all the way up — dizzy, weighted — and slides to the edge of his bed, sliding off and onto the floor, crawling over (letting him watch her, expression stoic) as she pushes him down.
He'd said sure like something was "sure" — but she's not sure about anything.
Shikamaru falls to his back with no resistance, letting his legs come long until he's stretched out, tall, head landing all the way into the doorway of his bedroom.
And, without a word between them, she crawls up him. Climbs up him. Climbs up to his face, lets her weight fall on him, lets his hands direct her hips until she's positioned so that he can lick into her.
And she holds herself there, lets him fuck her with his tongue like that, lets his hands wander up to play with her tits as she balances above him until her thighs shake with the burn and the orgasm as one.
It's hours later when she fastens her flack jacket back; when she reties her hair and straightens the tuck of her shirt into her pants. The cloth mask she'll cover her face with bulges in her back pocket.
"So that's that." Shikamaru says. He offers no questioning lilt at the end, though she supposes he's probing for something nonetheless. "Game, set, match."
She draws the bottom left fastening of her vest tighter across her waist.
"Work is work," she says crisply, trying (still) to be austere, as though the words aren't hoarse from the worked-over burn in her throat.
He laughs, short, in his exhale. "Yeah."
Shikamaru sits up from where he'd been leaning back against the couch. He's wearing only his underwear, his hair loose around his shoulders, a perfect red handprint stark against his chest where she'd smacked him as she came the last time.
He's holding a cigarette absently. It's unlit. There's no lighter in sight.
His eyes are darker than ever.
Temari feels sick.
She was right. Humiliating, isn't it?
"So," he ventures casually, looking away from her, leaving his attention to the cigarette between his fingers. "You were right, weren't you?"
"Hm." She pretends, wanting to leave without answering aloud the rhetorical question she'd just answered for herself seconds before.
"You knew it," he continues. "For having sex with me?"
What the fuck.
She wants to leave. Being here at all (being here in the first place) is dangerous.
"No one is always right, Shikamaru." She says instead. Instead, though what she means is Yes.
Right?
"I am." He responds, as though his superlative omniscience (omnipotence?) is the forgone conclusion he espouses.
"Oh fuck you," she spits, but she's not even really sure what they're saying anymore. They haven't said anything of import at all all night.
She leans down to grab her fan where she'd abandoned it hours and hours (many too many hours) before, and then turns on her heel, turns away from the cracked teacups still on the floor, and opens his door as easily as though she'd been opening it her whole life.
They hadn't done anything of import all night.
This didn't matter.
This — This! — is nothing.
She doesn't hate herself for it. She was being overly dramatic.
Something like this is so incredibly meaningless as to not warrant any kind of emotion as strong as hate.
It's just a thing that happened. (Maybe. Or maybe not. Just a mistake. It's nothing she'll think of again).
Temari walks out of his apartment without another word (and he does nothing to stop her), legs a bit like jelly (not that she'd say that about that — maybe if she were with someone else, in another place, she'd say it, but not right here, not to him). Her legs are wet from the entirety of the night. She didn't pee after any of the times like she should. She didn't wipe anything down.
She hadn't done anything actually.
She usually prides herself on doing good, hard work. But she'd just let him fuck her. A rematch to absolutely fucking nothing.
Yes, she thinks on the other side of his door, now physically removed from everything that had happened before — she was right.
Temari stops and leans against the wall outside his apartment. There'd been some noise when she'd paced this hall the prior night, but now, deep into the early hours of the morning, only the buzzing of the lights make a sound.
The air is sweltering.
In a few minutes, she won't be able to distinguish the wetness on her inner thighs from the sweat that is going to accumulate from her walk.
Sighing, she pushes her hips forward, pressing her shoulders back into the wall so she can see her body. She pulls up the left side of her tank top from where it is tucked into her pants, dragging it up enough to see the skin covering her left hip bone.
She looks down at the bruises already forming; the darkness against her skin.
Oh fuck him. Asshole.
She traces her bruises with her right hand before dropping her shirt and hitting the back of her head against the cement wall.
His hands are nothing like his shadows — they leave marks.
a/n: i've said this on tumblr (and will be repeated a lot here) but it should also be known that half these sexual positions were based off fanart from weirdcreepies, so if you want to bug her to publish them please please do they're gorgeous!
and PLEASE go read all the other great works posted for shikatema month and support the great creative artists we have in the ST fandom!
thank you for reading 3
