a/n:this was written for shikatema month 2024 week two!

the prompt I picked for this chapter was ANBU Shikamaru, but there were three others available and I tried to reference them all (Kazekage Temari, "smart but stupid", and body swap), so keep a lookout.

please enjoy!


Chapter 2: ANBU Shikamaru


The music gets even louder after the sun sets.

It's thrumming and repetitive and feels dizzying — like it's supposed to align with the regular beat of a heart at rest, synchronizing the man and the music.

Which is fine, yeah. Good for the business, definitely. And good for the customer, too… when the customer is twenty, maybe. Not now. Not his purlieu in any way. Not great for him.

Or maybe great. He doesn't know. He honestly doesn't care enough to even meditate on it, though he supposes he'd be more entertained if he had something to think about.

Still. He's not supposed to be thinking now. Not really.

He's just supposed to be here. Watching. Observing.

Though he'd rather be somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

To be fair though — fair, yes, not just equanimity — he supposes that most nights he's working, no matter where he is, he always wants to be somewhere else. And, fairly, with his psychological stability, that somewhere else is only ever just his own bed in his own home.

Shikamaru glances at his watch. Three hours and twenty-six minutes to go.

And then he glances up.

And there she is.

He blinks.

There she is.

Temari is slightly turned, facing him at an angle. Her mouth is closed, but relaxed. She's paying attention to something someone in front of her is saying.

It's been forty-two minutes since Shikamaru had arrived and taken his seat at the far edge of the bar. She must have just come. He has a good position to watch the proceedings of the beach club — he would've seen her earlier if she'd been there. She must have just walked in. He'd looked down at his watch and then up and in those few seconds she'd appeared.

He recognizes her right away.

It's been a few years, but she's kind of a person of interest to him (or something like that). They'd grown up together, maybe, sort of, and then worked together for a few years there. Once, they even—

Shikamaru huffs. Pain in the ass.

He leans to the side, away from the bar, and raises his wrist to his lips, planning on calling it in over the comms. If she sees him — breaks his cover — the whole mission will be shot.

He's in public, exposed, hidden solely in the everyman figure he cuts among this crowd of everymen.

Any attention on him will ruin that.

It's no issue. He'll just switch out with someone else and pick up later whenever she's gone.

She'd recognize him as fast as he recognized her, but she probably didn't know his teammates, so they'd be fine.

He clicks open the communication device on his wrist. And then stops.

Temari is frowning now, responding to what the woman next to her is saying with a mildly irritated expression, though he doesn't think it's directed at anyone she is with.

She left ANBU two years ago. But she'll know he hasn't.

Or maybe she doesn't know (did she? — did she stay in any sort of loop in relation to him?). But she would likely have some idea. She'd be able to look at him now, he believes, and understand.

If (when) she does see him, she won't say anything to him or act differently in any way. She'll be able to tell he's working.

Right?

Shikamaru exhales, looking away from her and back to his objective.

He reaches for the drink he'd ordered and wets his lips.

His shoulders feel tight, suddenly. And he feels antsy, vaguely. He hates this kind of music. He hates this kind of setting. He wants to be home. He's itching to look further left to see if she's still there.

The man he's watching isn't particularly interesting. Older; likes younger, better-looking women. Kind of sleazy. Gained his wealth through extra-legal means.

Shikamaru isn't supposed to be doing anything. Just watching.

That's how these kinds of jobs start. He's just learning habits, that's all.

He holds his breath and looks back at Temari.

She's on the other side of the dancefloor from his target, sitting on one of the couches, one leg tucked beneath her as she smiles at her companions. She's with two other women and three men. Partners? Spouses? Friends? — He wouldn't know. He hasn't spoken with her since she left the organization.

It's February now. Everyone here is on vacation. Mostly pale bodies, faces red with the surprise of the sun that day, here for a quick weekend or weeklong respite from the snow.

She looks good though. Less severe, maybe. Different, surely, in a sundress than in her old uniform.

He looks away again. He wishes he were able to drink right now. Not just mimic it.


Ten minutes. Then twenty. He works hard to keep his attention on his mission.

He hasn't spoken with her since she left, yes, but honestly, it's not like they spoke before that, obviously. Obviously. They never really spoke. Not since they were teenagers.

But that was over a decade ago… he really knew nothing about her life after the war. Even when they worked together in ANBU, he didn't know her.

He just… he kind of thinks she's not here with anyone, you know? Not romantically.

Or, at least, nothing serious.

If there were someone serious, he'd have heard about it, right? Someone would have said. Not to him or anything… just, like, around. Maybe.

Not that it matters. It doesn't. It's really nothing.

Hm. Whatever.

He looks down at his watch. And then back to his man, letting other things — unimportant things — fall aside.

Thirty minutes.


"Long time no see."

Her elbows are on the bar next to him, behind him, really. The shoulder strap of her dress digs into her skin.

She says it under her breath, not looking at him as she draws the bartender's attention, keeping from appearing as though she is interacting with him in any way whatsoever, not to be seen speaking with him.

Shikamaru takes a deep breath, not looking at her, facing the dancefloor. He waits until the bartender leaves after taking her drink orders.

He genuinely didn't expect her to approach.

"You went into civilian life," he responds, catching himself tapping his fingers to the music.

She laughs behind him. He imagines she's smiling. "I did. And without even a goodbye gift."

He looks over to his guy, makes sure he's still there, reminds himself of his purpose.

It's a warm feeling, in his stomach; his chest. Must be the heat.

A whiff of perfume over the salt air and alcohol. Hers?

"You didn't invite me to the party."

"There wasn't a party," Temari says quickly. She sounds light. Maybe a little drunk. Slippery.

"I wouldn't have been on the list anyway."

"No." She laughs again, hardly disguising it now. It's carefree, almost, like the way she might laugh around others but never had around him. "You wouldn't have."

He swallows.

And then her drinks are there. She's staying at the resort and puts the tab on her room and then, as she leaves, she bumps his back with her arm, stumbling under the weight of the tray she is balancing. It's purposeful, he knows — the touch, careful, to his back. He swallows again.

He hadn't expected her to come by. If he'd known they'd speak, he would have said something better.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as the group she is with grins and hollers at her arrival with their drinks.

He dumps the glass he is pretending to use and orders another one with a raise of his hand. As little attention as possible.

The drink comes. The music goes on.


Shikamaru is trying to avoid looking at her — trying to accomplish the sole task he was sent out here to accomplish. And trying, harder (because the avoiding isn't really happening), to not appear as though he has his eyes on any specific person.

What else can he do?

(Well, he could, of course, call it in and take a later shift if he wanted to — avoid the entirety of his self-imposed and warrantless predicament if he wanted to).

Shikamaru looks down at his watch.


The old man has been chatting up two blond girls for the past thirty minutes, plying them with drinks.

Now, Temari is half-on the dance floor, half-sitting on a couch and speaking excitedly with her friends.

He's figured that she is much more sober than she appears. He thinks. He thinks, if he didn't know better, he'd think she was working…. But she's not working. She's not trying for anything. She just seems aware. She just seems… conscientious of others. Of him, maybe.

Shikamaru looks at his watch.

Never mind, he's not making any sense.


This time, she's in front of him, finishing off the last of her drink as she orders new ones. She's still facing the bar, still seeming to not engage with the boring man alone on a stool. But he can see her easier now. See her shoulders and the wisps of hair at her nape that don't make it into her ponytails. He can look at her up close like this, despite his attempt to train his eyes past her, to avoid her so as not to seem lecherous or weird or looking like he's trying to talk up women.

"What would you have wanted?" He asks, low, hardly moving his mouth.

It's three rounds later — all bought by others — but he follows up from her last statement as though no time has passed.

There is a pause, and, for the briefest moment, he is unsure if she even remembers what they were discussing for half a minute over an hour before.

What would you have wanted as a gift?, he means.

But then her lips come off her straw with a pop and she pushes her glass, now only ice, forward. A sheen of sweat on her temple reflects the lights above her.

"From you?"

He looks over at the man he is supposed to be watching.

"I'm not sure," Temari continues. "We had some pretty great sex though."

He almost chokes. He'd thought the question clever (a little flirtatious maybe) but he didn't mean for that.

See — they. They had never discussed it again. Those years ago.

She's smirking when he looks at her directly, giving up all pretense of appearing to not be in conversation. It's hot, under these lights. Her eyes are bright. He might be sweating too.

"Yeah," he breathes, mouth dry.

He remembers craving the noises she made; how good it felt bending her over like that, drawing that out of her. After years of her being so, so… hard all the time. And she was so hard. But she was also….

Shikamaru swallows and her eyes move to his throat.

Oh.

He shakes himself with a hard inhale. He's supposed to be here working.

He looks past her again at his man.

It's a minor assignment — the beginning of a much larger operation. Surveillance of this type takes months. Years, sometimes. So he's just watching as part of a brief dispatch. He'll be gone in a few weeks. He'd just been through hell in Kiri last month. This posting was supposed to be a bit of a reprieve.

"God," she says, leaning closer, close enough that he can inhale the scent of her skin, "for supposedly being so smart, you really can be stupid."

Hm. Supposedly? But she's walking away. She hadn't actually ordered any drinks.

He closes his eyes; takes a deep breath. Then blinks, ordering another drink (he will probably actually drink it this time), and checks his watch.


Once, maybe six months after they slept together, they had a mixed Konoha/Suna assignment not too far from the resort they're at now.

They'd been in a fight with their targets and she'd wielded her fan as a distraction, knowing he was there and would pick up from her. His team knew his ninjutsu well enough to perform with him, to back him without discussing the strategy. But that fight was the first time someone outside of his team had ever done the same thing.

He remembers how attractive he'd found it, but afterward, when he went up to tell her so, she'd snapped something about how she'd had to pick up his slack.

She'd been wrong, but he didn't correct her. She knew it anyway, he'd figured — she'd only egged him to try to find the rise. But he didn't engage. Giving into her, sometimes, could be fun (he'd done it before, after all), but overall, it was too much work.

It's embarrassing, really, how much he remembers it.

He's slept with other people. Obviously. Most of them like her (coworkers finding solace through quick, and sometimes angry, sex). But he remembers her the most. Probably.

Probably because she's such a pain in the ass.

And he was young then. So he felt things like that (arguing, attraction, orgasm) in a different kind of way. Or something like that.

Plus, they'd always kind of had a thing. Kind of. Like, kind of had that arguing and attraction and orgasm thing. Like, he'd always kind of figured it would happen. In the way, he remembers (a little too well) how she'd said it as a conclusion before they'd actually done it (I'm going to hate myself for having sex with you). Sort of like that. Like, he'd just concluded, even if there really was nothing to base that conclusion on. Especially now, years later, two years after they last spoke, and the other years in which only the "arguing" part had actually happened (well, okay yes the others too, just not actualized between them). Even now, he kind of thinks….

He looks down at his watch.


She's on the dance floor. So are three dozen others, but she's easy to spot — toward the edge under a bright light.

Embarrassing, seriously, how much he remembers.

She knows he's looking. She looks at him fully, smiles, mouths dance? And it's only then, honestly, that he realizes he's been watching her this long.

Shikamaru immediately looks away, finds his target in the same spot he's been in most of the night.

Shikamaru swallows, flexes his hands; downs the rest of his drink without taking his eyes off the man he is meant to be watching. He doesn't hear anything, but feels as though he can hear her laughing at him.

Dancing wouldn't help him blend in nearly as much as simply sitting at the corner edge of this bar and drawing no attention does.

He checks the time. Another hour.


With the distraction of her, his job is much harder than he'd been expecting. But he manages… mostly.

She dances with a few men one on one, only one or two outside the group she's been sitting with, but she pursues nothing noteworthy. Usually, she is dancing in a larger group, loose-limbed and rhythmic.

He keeps his eyes from her.

She must acknowledge this change — she did this work too, once — and so she leaves him alone.

It's much easier to keep his eyes somewhere else when she's not trying for them. Easier: not easy, but possible.

And when he does look over, does see how free and easy-going she looks — how completely unlike he feels in that moment — he imagines what it might be like to feel like that. To be in her body. To be near her. To feel as unburned. To find such freedom.

It's a false and half-cocked fantasy. He has no idea how she is feeling.

But if he wasn't working, if he wasn't in ANBU any longer and something was different than it was now, in this world, he imagines, maybe….

He doesn't know. It makes no sense. And is meaningless anyway. She's just a girl he used to work with a bit.

It was just a hard go these last few weeks. He just needs more sleep.

Plus, normally, when he's working, he's in uniform. If he sees anyone he knows, they don't recognize him. He doesn't have to work around them like he is now. That's all. It's just draining: this.

And he's being an idiot.

She's gone not long after.

He scans around for her, but she and some of her friends (a few are still there) must have slipped out without him realizing.

He checks his watch. Forty more minutes until his shift ends.

Shikamaru orders one more drink.

He won't drink this one, but he puts on some airs as though he might. He squints around the beach club. Attendance had almost doubled since his arrival. His target has hardly moved seats in hours.

Shikamaru takes a long breath. And then holds it, for a while, until his throat burns and he grows lightheaded. It doesn't help.

—not that he even knows what it is he is trying to help.


Shikamaru rolls over.

He can't seem to keep his eyes closed.

Every time he starts to fall asleep, his heart starts pounding, loud and consistent until it's all he can hear, and then suddenly he is wide awake again and fighting to keep his eyelids shut.

He rolls again, facing the window where Towa is sitting on the tiny desk chair the hotel room provides, facing binoculars out the window toward their target's room.

Shikamaru wants to bring it up — bring what up, he's not sure, just… bring it up, but he knows if he says anything about being recognized, he'd get written up for failing to take himself out of the mission.

Plus, he knows the whole conversation already: Remember the Kazekage's sister? Yeah, she was in ANBU for a sec, right? Few years. Never worked with her really. Our units trained together some times. Heard she left after the Kazekage got injured; gov. wanted her to take over in case he didn't make it. Yeah, heard that too.

He never really believed that. She never really seemed interested in politics.

But that's all Towa would remember. He'd probably never met her. Wouldn't recognize her if he spotted her out again.

Shikamaru huffs, lying on his back and pushing down the covers to his waist.

"You good?" Towa asks.

"Hm."

What the fuck did he know — he had no idea whether she was interested in politics or left the organization to possibly become the next Kazkage. He had no idea if she'd ever worked with Towa or really any idea what her life had been like at all at any point.

He'd always felt like he knew a lot… but there was no justification for that conclusion; no factual basis to support such a proposition.

This room is too hot. They should open the window.

He rubs a hand over his chest, as though he can forcefully slow his heart rate down.


That was an invitation though, wasn't it?

Flirtation, yes, and the enjoyment of straining for the rise she knew she couldn't get from him on the job. But also a future lure. A look me up next time you're in town kind of thing. In other words. In different words.

He peers at the ceiling, but can't see anything; imagines he's seeing something else.

You're overthinking, she would say, he thinks. Fuck me, she did say. Once, a lot. Like, a lot, once.

He'd been upset (unsurprised, but upset) when she'd ignored him the following day.

But it was better that way.

The sex was good — pretty great — yeah. But she was difficult. Not worth the headache. Too much work, really.

It was easier for it to be nothing. Chalked up — defined — by the energy expension it was. Two people who had a good spark getting some of that tension out. That's all. Not worth more than the night itself.

A rematch, she'd called it.

And he thinks she probably won fairly that time.


Shikamaru runs a hand through his hair.

Her shoulders in that uniform.

Pretty great.

Ha.

He needs to go to sleep.


He stands in front of her door, rolling up and down on the balls of his feet, rubbing a hand to the back of his neck.

He's usually so sure, but he feels hesitant right now.

It's just. It's clearer, usually, when someone wants something from him.

(Though, he supposes, he's never been clear about what she wants. She's the most confusing one of all).

But. He just—


Years ago, before they slept together, when they both first joined, he recognized her (her shoulders? Was it her shoulders? He thinks it was; the way he can picture them now. As though he'd spent too much time looking at them at some point) in her uniform. It didn't matter that only her eyes were showing above her mask.

Those eyes.

It didn't matter — he'd known it was her right away.

Go further, she'd say — urging him to work. Further left, push harder. Urging him to do better.

Their supervisors trained them, their fellow operatives weren't supposed to add input, but she always did.

It wasn't nice. Patronizing, maybe (though it never felt that way).

But she never corrected anyone else. Never vocalized criticism on others. Only him.


Shikamaru swallows.

He remembers too much, he thinks.

But the tender hadn't asked for her room number when she said it aloud.

He raises his hand to knock, nervous, when the door opens.

She's standing there, face directly in front of his raised fist, looking shocked. But she can't be surprised.

Still. He feels like an idiot, standing there. Like he's lost all composure (and who is he, if not composed?).

"What the fuck, Shikamaru," she snaps, "what if my friend were here?"

She's in shorts and a tank top now, her hair down, a toothbrush in her hand.

An idiot.

He can see past her. There is one large bed. Two open suitcases. A glass of water on one side.

The friend is clearly not here.

And, he gathers in the same realization, the friend is not going to be here.

Of course. He inhales.

She's so difficult.

She'd known that long before she came to talk to him.

So, so hard. All. The. Time.

"I have four hours," he responds, voice a little more unsure than he means it to be.

She snorts, straightening up at him as though rearing for a fight.

"Oh? You're gonna fuck me for four hours?"

God.

"No, I—"

She grabs him before he can finish, pulls him inside the room, pulls him forward, mouth on his, kissing him before the door can even close.

He doesn't hesitate, following her back, sweeping his tongue into her open mouth, grabbing her and holding her close, feeling the press of her breasts against him, the sharpness of her jaw under his hands as he pushes her head back to kiss down her neck.

Yes, he thinks, mouthing at her neck, pressing hard to feel her pulse against his tongue — yes this….

But he isn't sure what he is saying yes to… he isn't sure what answer he's giving or what the question even was in the first place.

It doesn't matter though, because she's pulling him further in, turning him until the back of his knees hit the bed, but she keeps a grip on his shirt, keeps him standing.

"I'm glad you're here," she says, but when he prompts her to say more, she doesn't.

Instead, she falls from her toes and reaches her hands under the hem of his shirt to push it up, urging it off. He obliges, pulling it over his head and when he comes back, she is already kissing down his sternum, hands splaying over his stomach, moving with his breaths.

He reaches down as she begins to lower, trying to reach for her groin — he wants to touch her too — but she bats his hand away.

"Just," she says, a little breathless, a little annoyed, moving to palm him under his pants, "let me."

And he can't protest because the sound is caught in his throat with her hand on him; caught deeper as she fully kneels and kisses at his stomach, moves lower to mouth at him through the clothing, wet and warm even through the two layers.

It's all happening so fast.

He feels like he's losing it — like it (whatever that is) is slipping through his fingers faster than he can pick it up.

The exhale comes as a groan, half choked. It feels so good to be touched like this, by her.

Temari hums as she pulls his pants and underwear down together, smiling as his cock practically springs out. He's harder than he expected, harder than he should be given that they just started (though he was honestly hard enough to do whatever she wanted the moment he left his room).

The windows are open and the breeze off the ocean blows in. He feels lightheaded solely in anticipation. Her skin tasted like salt.

Temari pushes his dick back against his stomach and kisses lightly around it, at his thighs, his pubic area, sitting higher to kiss at his belly button and then down the trail of hair.

He's breathing so heavily. His ankles are shaking, just with the expectancy of it; with the desire of what will happen next. Even the light press of her fingers on the bottom of his penis, lifting it up to his stomach, make his pulse skyrocket, bring moisture to the tip before she's even really started.

He brushes his hands into her hair.

He's seen her in all sorts of positions.

Not once did he ever think (well, he certainly thought about it, but never actually expected) she'd be on her knees like this.

And then, carefully, she moves her head lower and opens her mouth, flattening her tongue against his balls. Shikamaru makes a noise that almost seems to echo in the otherwise silent room. And then her tongue drags up slowly, up to the bottom of his cock and, tongue wide and wet, all the way up to the tip.

"Wow," he breathes, dizzy, blinking her into focus as she does it again, holding his dick up as she laps at the base, drags her tongue up to the top, and then starts over. His pulse throbs. He knows she can feel it there too, beneath her mouth. "Temari."

His knees buckle when she finally opens her mouth wider and takes his whole penis all the way down.

"Oh god," he finds himself saying, head falling back. Oh god. He repeats it over and over as she sucks him down.

She looks so good. She looks so… he can't explain it. It defies definition. It's not the subservience of kneeling or pleasuring (nothing about this feels as though he is in control) and not the inverse power-imbalance of having him vulnerable at her mercy. It's not the explicitness or eroticism of it. It's just…. Wow. She looks so good.

She goes slowly, despite how quickly she'd begun. Taking her time as she moves around, holding him in place with one hand while she sucks at the tip, rubbing her tongue along the rim, mouthing at the head, and with the other hand, she traces an old scar on his hip bone. He notes it, absently. He got that injury four years ago. He didn't have it when she saw him naked before.

He fists his hands in her hair. He wants her to go further, but he doesn't push down.

He only moves her back, once, when it gets too much — when he feels the tightening in his balls and the quickening realization that he is going to come in her mouth.

But he doesn't push her away, and so she stays kneeling, looking up at him, lips red and eyes patient. And he must close his eyes and bite his tongue to work on not just coming then and there.

But he takes a long breath and, when she goes back to it, she is louder, moaning around his cock in her mouth. It's messier too, as she takes him deeply, her mouth getting wetter, saliva dripping onto her hands.

She uses her hands more now, one pressing into his thigh for stability, maybe, while the other circles at the base of his penis as she mouths at the top. And holy shit that's it. That's it. That's….

"You," he says, tries to say, blinking and trying to pull her back again. "It's too much, I'll…" but it's only when he falls back, sitting onto the bed, that she even pulls off.

"Fuck, Temari," he says again (he thinks he's been saying a lot). She would've let him come in her if he hadn't stopped, he thinks, and the desire for it makes him twitch, jumps at his pulse.

She's grinning— and it's something he's never seen directed at him before. Usually she's so angry or stubborn, or even so sure just in her flirtation. But she's smiling now. Looking happy, as though satiated on him. Quiet, though he's never known her to be, lips swollen and eyes wet as she stands up, still looking… just…. He doesn't know. Pleased?

"Good," he says, as Temari strips off her clothes and then comes to lay down on the bed, spreading out on her back in the middle of it, opening her legs and starting to touch herself. He wants to grab onto her waist, tighten his hand against her soft skin. He takes off the rest of his pants. "Good."

"Shut up," she snaps, opening her legs wider as he turns around on the bed — and that's more like the woman he knows.

Shikamaru smirks as he grabs her thighs to pull her closer before burying his face between her legs.

She's so wet — more than he expects, and, although he doesn't remember it tangibly, he remembers thinking this last time too. All he wants is to be inside her, to keep that pressure on him as he slides into her. But it'll be better if she feels good too. Will feel good to make her feel good.

If pressed — if questioned or interrogated ten hours before — he never would have guessed this is where he would end up (in her bedroom eating her out). When he saw her earlier tonight, he wouldn't have guessed this is where they'd end up (despite probably wanting to end up here the entire time for years and years).

It's not that he never would have seen this coming — like he said, he'd always, just… knownsomething. They always had a thing. Which, maybe, is another way of just saying he'd always thought of her. Even when he was trying not to. Even when he might not voice otherwise.

He focuses his attention on her clitoris and she scratches at his shoulder, bucking her hips up with a high-pitched sound.

"Oh, fuck," she half-gasps, "keep going right there." She moves her hips again, trying to match him in something. "I'm going to come. Keep going."

It takes only seconds and then her knees shoot up and her back arches and he feels her whole body shake with the orgasm.

He keeps licking at her until she grabs his face and pulls him up. "No, come on, hurry up."

Shikamaru crawls above her, kissing her, biting at her lip, settling his still-strong erection against her.

"I don't have a condom."

"I do," she snaps, as though angry about something, "on the counter."

He laughs into her shoulder and she smacks his arm.

"Hurry up."

And so he does, finding the package she's gesturing to, and sitting up to put it on.

Temari moves up the bed to lay her head on the pillow, hair splayed out around her, bright in the harsh overhead light of her room. Her nipples are hard and he wants to touch them, to hold her breasts and suck them into his mouth, but she's already reaching for his cock, trying to guide him into her, and so he comes down and kisses her as he slides in slowly, hot and encasing, letting the noise she makes as he does drown into his own throat.

She lets her legs cradle his hips, knees pushed up to allow him more space.

There's nothing better than this, he thinks — being inside her, feeling how tight and warm and wet she is around him.

He keeps his strokes slow and short, letting her get used to him, letting her breathe heavily into his ear with every thrust.

Kismet, he thinks, distantly, that they're here now. As in: how could they not be, when it feels like this?

But that's ridiculous and absolutely meaningless and, really, makes no sense (he's just lightheaded and out of breath and so hard it hurts, that's all. That's all).

And then Temari reaches forward, grabs at his butt, and pulls him in harder. And he goes deeper. And then she makes a different noise.

"What do you want," he asks, bringing his face above hers, kissing her, breathing into her open mouth.

Her eyes are half closed, mouth open with her breath, with the noise she's making.

"This," she says, hard despite her seeming inability to focus her gaze on his when he's seeking it. "I want this."

He smiles, kissing her, sucking on her tongue as she brings it into his mouth.

And then he sits up, sits onto his heels and brings his hands to her knees to hold them open as he thrusts harder into her.

This, she's said. This, he thinks.

When he looks down, he can see where they're joined, can see his cock sliding in and out of her; see how she's opening for him.

This, he thinks, over and over.

And then Temari looks down too, brings a hand down to the base of his penis, feels him slide into her with her fingers, and when he looks at her, her lips are pulled into a smirk, smug in some way he understands.

Why wouldn't she be smug?

She's got him AWOL on his mission to fuck her covertly over two years after the last conversation they even had, four, almost, since they last had sex.

She always gave him shit for saying he was letting her win in any competition they had — seemingly never letting it occur to her that anything he does is because she's already won.

He's never simply let her do anything.

He's never once done anything he didn't want to do.

Temari pushes her hips higher, opening her legs even more, and it allows him to settle in closer, to scoot further between her legs, resting her hips, almost, on his upper thighs, and with one hand he grabs the sole of her right food, holding it up to the ceiling as he thrusts into her.

"Fuck," she whispers, cheeks red. And then she brings her hand from where it was brushing against his cock and rubs it against her clit, squeezing around him and throwing her head back as she starts to get herself off.

He tells her how good it feels. And when she comes, her whole body vibrates.

"God," he exhales, pausing as she comes down, his hand still holding the sole of her foot. He takes deep breaths, working to continue, working to keep himself in some check as she squeezes around him in small bursts. "You—"

"Just keep going," she urges, but she's out of it. He watches as she blinks him into focus, bleary, brushing the sweat from her eyes. "Just come," she says loosely, a hint of a smile on her lips. "You're okay."

And he finds himself laughing. Loud and surprising.

He's so fucking hard.

Everything is so fucking

Shikamaru rolls over and she follows, climbing onto him, settling her weight on top of him as she brings him back inside her, letting out a moan at the new position.

She's smiling down at him as she starts to move.

She starts slow, still wet, still sliding over him with ease. And then she picks up, lifting on her knees until she's riding only the top half of him. And oh, oh, "fuck, fuck, Temari," he exhales. He feels it starting in his stomach, then his groin, feels the tightening of it in his testicles. He has to close his eyes to concentrate even though there is nothing he'd rather see than her above him. "That's going to make me come."

She leans slightly back, holding a hand on his upper thigh. "Do it," she says, smirk in her tone. But when he opens his eyes, there's no sass or conception of arrogance in her gaze.

It seems soon. She's only finished twice. She could come more. He could give her more.

But she said yes and hasn't stopped riding him, going, if anything, faster, and he doesn't have it in him to say no right now. He also really (really) doesn't want to.

So he grips her hips, sweaty, and holds her as she moves above him; fingers digging into her, holding harder than he knows he should. And doesn't protest anymore as he comes closer and closer until he feels the orgasm explode through him, curling his toes and shooting through his shoulders and pulling a moan from deep within his throat. It's long and pulsing and she doesn't stop her movement, she just slows down, sinks lower onto him, matches his exhales with her hips until she finally settles down. He's still inside her, cock still throbbing, and she's just looking down at him, grinning, hair wet at her temples. Her smile is so bright, he has to close his eyes.


"Oh," she breathes after he's tied the condom off and is lying naked on top of her bed, penis softening. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her breast rise and fall with her inhales. "We should've done that more."

Her voice is quieter, gravelly, a bit.

He feels raw and exhausted, but he also feels her words all the way in his stomach.

"You didn't talk to me afterward." He says, looking up at the fan on the ceiling as it whirs, knowing that if he stays here long enough, it'll dry off his sweat.

She laughs, rolling onto her side and tracing the tattoo on his bicep with her finger. "You didn't talk to me during."

He huffs, smiling, remembering something he'd mostly hoped to forget.

"You kept talking about hating me."

They'd broken two teacups, he remembers, and he'd waited until the morning after she left to clean it up.

"Hating you?" She laughs, loudly this time, falling onto her back again. "I never hated you."

"Yeah, okay." He licks his lips. "It was mutual," he says, "kind of."

"Oh," she ventures playfully, "was it?"

But he doesn't respond, rolling his body onto her and kissing her, sucking her bottom lip lightly between his.

She entertains it for a second, and then pushes him off.

"Yeah," she continues. "After, you know, when we'd work together… I used to think of coming to you and lifting your mask up just enough to kiss you."

"You did?"

"The sex was really good."

He laughs, low. "You should've." He thinks back to her shoulders in that uniform. "Why didn't you?"

Temari huffs and rubs her eyes with her hands. "I don't know," she says, honestly. "I was too stubborn? I was mad at you. Like, all the time."

"You're still mad at me." He says, and she swats absently over at him. "You're mad at me now."

"You do maddening things."

He exhales, long. But he's smiling.

"It would've been easier," she says after a while, letting everything else hang in the air. "Before I left."

Easier? Would it?

It's been so long. He remembers her coming to his apartment. Remembers the scrimmage they'd been in earlier that day. Remembers not quite believing she was actually at his door. Remembers the way she would argue against him at seemingly every opportunity she had.

Easier, she means, in that it was against the rules, maintaining anything without disclosure — but that's not what they would do. That's not what she was saying. They're not maintaining anything.

They can't date now, not while he is in ANBU, but that's not what she is saying either.

If they had done this earlier, when they were working together, it would have been easier. Not now, when their lives would never intersect.

She's right. "Harder now," he articulates.

But Temari laughs. "I'm not dead, you know."

Shikamaru reaches, resting his arm on her stomach. He feels warm. "I said harder, not impossible."

"Oh? Use your words."

"I'd like to do this again." he articulates, and she sits up to look at him. Her eyes are bright, playful.

Fuck you, she'd said, last time.

And he fights the grin as she says, this time, with no pause, "me too."


It's past dawn when he wakes up.

Shikamaru squints into the bright window, dimmed partially only by Towa's silhouette.

"Any movement?" He asks in a grunt, tongue heavy.

"None," Towa responds, not looking back at him.

Shikamaru huffs and rolls over, closing his eyes.

He takes a long breath, sinking back into his sleep, rubbing a hand over his tattoo.


a/n: an infinite thank-you to weirdcreepies on tumblr for the help (and requests and sounding-boardness) that made this chapter happen. she has some gorgeous art that inspired this fic a lot, and is thinking about publishing it, so please go speak to her about that!

and go read all the other great works posted for st month and support the great creative artists/content creators we have in the ST fandom!

thank you all ❤️