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Requested by anonymous

Pairing: Shikamaru/Temari Theme: accidental sext

Temari is washing her hands the first time her phone buzzes, but she’s hardly paying attention to it. The water is a little too cold, and she has the kind of soap that foams when it comes out (from an accidental purchase a few months ago) that she’s desperately trying to work through because she can’t justify throwing it away…. Whatever. The point is: she’s hardly paying attention.

She doesn’t need to check her phone to see what it’ll say. Something about her being hot. Something about how sexy it is when her thighs shake when she comes or how he wishes he were there to fuck her through the orgasm. It’s nothing he hasn’t said before. Just platitudes that would turn her on if she were still going — but she’s done now. And has no specific interest in watching whatever video he sent back.

Another buzz. And another.

She ignores them. She’s not paying attention to her phone. She has about fifteen minutes before she has to leave. Maybe less.

Leaning over the counter, Temari presses her fingers under her eyes, blinking at the mirror. With her thumbs, she fixes some of the mascara that has bled onto her skin throughout the day. She’s a little worn down post-work, but she looks okay. It’s only drinks. They never even schedule a full dinner (though often people end up eating anyway — either through the fries bought with their first round or after as they pass the rows of food trucks waiting outside). But it’s not dinner. It’s drinks. Friday night drinks she’s attended most of the time since they’d started the tradition.

She looks fine. She looks good. She’s not even going to change. She’ll just put her jeans and underwear back on.

Hands still wet, Temari stands back from the counter, watching, fingers tugging the bottom of her top down as she evaluates herself in the mirror.

Okay. Maybe she’ll grab a new shirt. Her blouse is a little too Office. Maybe a white tee. Yes. The one that’s loose enough to not put her in a skintight outfit, but thin enough that a black bra will be visible through it. Perfect for a bar. She washed it last week, right?

Her phone goes again.

With a small sigh, Temari wipes her hands on the towel behind her and bends down to pick up the noisy device.

The messages are on her lock screen, a minute or so between each.

cant wait.

Hurry.

I want to seeeee

Come back

Imma cum without u

Temari frowns.

Passcode in, her phone opens first to the video she’d just sent — a short video of her finally climaxing — and then opens her texts to see her new messages.

Huh.

No video.

No ninety-second clip of her orgasm.

Just his messages waiting for her to send the video she was sure she’d sent five minutes ago.

She goes back to see her texts and—

Oh. Fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck—

Nara Shikamaru 1 video

Temari falls back against the wall, knees locking as she slides down gracelessly to the floor.

What the fuck did she just do?!

Yes. There it is. Open in the text. From her to him. One video.

The thumbnail shows it: legs spread, vagina hidden by the PLAY button.

Oh fuck.

There are no prior messages. She’s never texted him. She’s never had reason to. The fact that she has his number itself is a fluke. An accident! They’re not even friends.

And then — as though life cannot get any fucking worse — the stamp of Delivered on the bottom of the message changes to Read 17:13.

This time, Temari flinches back, squeezing her fingers so hard to keep from dropping her phone that she accidentally re-locks it.

Black screen. Okay, good. Nothing damning here. Maybe she made it all up. A minor bout of insanity. A brief streak of fantasy. There were weird greens in the salad she ate for lunch, weren’t there? Yeah. They had a bitter, unfamiliar taste. Was she drugged? Was she hallucinating now?

She had to imagine that a nonconsensual ingestion of illegal substances (or maybe legal?), despite being terrifying, was still preferable to the alternative….

With held breath, Temari opens her phone again.

. . .

Look. Look.

It’s not a full crush. She’ll maintain that on her deathbed. It’s just a regular, lower-level, garden-apartment, pedestrian kind of interest. He has these good-sized hands (yeah, whatever, they’re big) and a sharpness to his gaze that perfectly juxtaposes his perpetual air of ennui that she finds arousing in an infuriating sort of way. But she doesn’t have a big crush. She hardly even knows him. She just thinks about fucking him. And even that’s only every now and then. She’s maybe said his name with her hands between her legs once — maybe twice — when she’s a bit too far gone and not thinking things through clearly. So… yeah. Small tinge of interest that amounts to almost nothing. A sliver of passing acknowledgment. So innocuous she hardly even thinks about it.

That’s what she’ll maintain. All the way to her death. Dying on this hill holding this stick aloft or whatever they say. It’s what she’ll say now — if she is forced to explain anything at all — as she furiously hovers her thumb over Ino’s number.

(who else can she call? who else could steal his phone and throw it into the river? no, fuck… they’re past that (see: READ 17:13)… who can she call that could throw him in the river?)

Her hands are shaking again. The entire phone is vibrating with the quake of her wrists. She feels lightheaded. Not just because of the orgasm still pulsing in her knees or the cold tiles against her bare ass or the salad she’s now half-convinced is causing some currently-undiagnosed delirium (though she wishes that if there really was poison contributing to this situation, she would be blessed with the never-wake-up kind and not just the could-be-fun-trip kind).

Maybe she can get drunk right now? The kind of drunk where they find her too late to pump her stomach and Shikamaru, the subject of her very, very small crush, attributes the naked video he’d already seen (!) to an accidental drunken misdial — which, in a way, it is! — and not because of her small crush. The kind of drunk where she doesn’t wake up again.

Fuck.

Okay. She needs to stop theorizing her potential [and theoretical and eventual] ingesting of extrinsic toxins as an actual Game Plan on how to deal with the fact that she just sent an actual minute and a half-long video focused on her legs spread wide as she brings herself to orgasm.

Belatedly, Temari tries to Unsend it, but the option doesn’t even come up. It’s too late, probably. Not that that was a failsafe anyway.

(it’s been read)

No. The best thing she can do is explain it to him (or murder him, whichever feels more natural in the moment).

This is okay. It will be okay. Accidents happen all the time. The video obviously wasn’t meant for him. They’re not even friends. It’s completely innocent and he (maybe) is one of those good men who will simply abide by her follow-up messages to delete the attachment without ever viewing it and let her go without any follow-up questions.

Yes. That’s what she should do.

. . .

Is a call best?

Hey, this is Temari. I know I just sent a hugely inappropriate video to you, but it was a genuine accident. And I am so sorry for that. I cannot apologize enough for that. But can you delete it and pretend it never happened and we can maybe never think about this again?

What could he say? She doesn’t know him well, but he’s a reasonable guy. Kind of cocksure, yeah, but surely capable of a little grace. Kind of an asshole, but not… inhumane. He’d agree. Wouldn’t mention it again. Right?

Right.

Fuck. He’s probably at the bar already. Probably sitting in their usual booth between his usual friends drinking his usual whiskey (“neat”) and wondering why the fuck he’s getting sexts from a woman he’s directly spoken to only a handful of times.

He finds her unreasonable — that she knows. He’s said it to her before. It’s only half-justified, but that’s neither here nor there.

No. She should bite this in the bud. If she doesn’t confront it now, it will only get worse.

Temari isn’t a coward. She doesn’t like him. And he doesn’t like her. That’s really it. She’s not asked him out because she doesn’t want to. Her crush — pedestrian! — is hardly more than a blip in the scheme of her sexual reference. She doesn’t want to call him not because she isn’t sure of herself —

She just… Honestly. What would she say?

The truth?

I was sexting some guy I don’t even really like and was instead imagining it was your hand on me when I came and I think that image was just so in my head and I was so out of my head post-orgasm that I typed your name in without even realizing and that’s the only explanation that even remotely fits the crime even though I struggle to comprehend the fact that I would do something so pitiful and egregious?

She’s supposed to tell him that?!

Fuck no.

But she’s no coward.

She’ll go tell him in person: it was an accident, please delete.

Temari thumbs open the video again. Really, he might not even realize it’s her. She has his number, but he seriously might not have hers. And looking at this video, unless he knew what her bathroom looked like or knew the shirt she was wearing or knew her voice like that… he wouldn’t know who it was (and — well. he wouldn’t know any of those things. there is no reason for him to).

Actually, she wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t recognize her at all. They’ve never talked seriously. They’re not friends. She only has his cell because she’d needed to contact him once, but ended up changing her plans. Not friends!

Okay.

…okay.

She needs to do something.

Him not knowing is not an excuse — apart from the humiliation of him recognizing her, what she has done really is egregious. Egregious, | iˈɡrējəs |: Adjective, 1. outstandingly bad; shocking: egregious abuses of power. Right. Honestly, is there a difference between this and her receiving an unsolicited dick pic? Is this not unsolicited nudity? Is this a version — minor, accidental, hardly inculpatory, lacking all forms of intent and mens rea — of an assault?

Oh.

Okay. She’s reading too much into it. He’s a heterosexual man (from all she’s heard — which isn’t much, but she knows he’s no monk), it is (honestly) a pretty hot video. And he’s an adult. He can delete it if he wants. It’s clear, from the thumbnail, what it is. If he doesn’t want to view it, he can delete it.

And he should! He will! It was an accident and he won’t recognize her and he will delete it.

That’s all. Easy.

She’ll text. That’s best. And then later, if she’s wrong and he has her number, she can apologize in person. She will have already made clear where they stand (which is Nowhere. They’re not friends. He doesn’t even like her).

Temari gets up. Her fingers aren’t shaking anymore.

Sorry! She texts, imagining the flippancy of how she’d say it if she were speaking. Wrong number.

She watches it to ensure it gets delivered. And immediately, as though he’s on his phone waiting for a message: Read 17:16. She waits another moment, but no response comes. Not even the three dots that denote the consideration of one. Okay, not going to respond. Good. Easy. Okay.

She goes back to the messages from the guy she’s been hooking up with to quickly type: ugh, sorry to leave you hanging. something came up. Then she exits the app, locks her phone, and leaves it on the counter to go get dressed.

It’s only when she exhales that she realizes she’d been holding her breath. It had made her a little dizzy.

. . .

Shikamaru, as he always does, hardly looks her way when she slides back into the booth after stepping out of it to let Sakura leave. It’s a corner one — the kind that wraps in an L shape. And, even though something in the universe is clearly divinely conspiring against her (how else could one explain how, for the first time, every single mutual friend of theirs has either failed to show up or suddenly thought this bar was a good place to dance despite there being only a poorly-maintained jukebox and no open area to move around), the length of the booth at least presents them with some space between them, even though they’re currently the only two sitting in it.

People are there and then they’re not. And, when she exhales, it’s just them.

Temari keeps her distance, settling toward the long end of the cushion while Shikamaru sits unmoving around the corner, vaguely facing her profile.

…he’s not looking at her though. He never is.

She’d thought he’d been, earlier — all throughout the night, really — but she was wrong. It just feels like he is. But she’s putting her own worries onto him. He clearly didn’t know she’d sexted him a little over an hour before; whether because he hadn’t recognized her or because she had the wrong number, she isn’t sure. But either way, as far as he seems to be aware, nothing untoward has passed between them.

He’d been there when she arrived, elbows on the table and whiskey halfway gone. His cell, unlike the other ones on the table before their owners, was nowhere to be seen.

Good, she’d thought at the time. Despite the read receipts (and ugh of course he’d be the type to leave them on), she still probably would’ve found a way to drop his phone into the water jug in the center of the table had it been readily available to her. Just to be safe.

But he’d been quiet, as he usually is, his phone put away, his eyes lazily moving over the rest of the group; only engaging when asked a direct question. His voice, as it often does Friday nights, carries a light hint of exhaustion. He always sounds tired. A bit reluctant. A bit amused too, though.

Really — this was all as usual; all as it always was. He really had no idea. Absolutely nothing bad had transpired.

It should be a relief — it is! But, instead of feeling the assurance unwind in her stomach, all she finds herself doing is knotting her organs further. Squeezing against her core. And not in the good way. She feels pent up. She feels exhausted.

“That bad?” Naruto’s voice cuts through whatever she’d been thinking.

Huh? Temari blinks. “What?”

Naruto laughs from the front of the table. “Jeeze, Temari.”

From behind her: “You were yawning.”

She snaps her head around to Shikamaru. He’s looking at her now, lips a little thin.

Swallowing, she nods; looks back at Naruto. “Yeah, hard day.”

“Let me get you another drink,” Naruto reaches over for her glass. He’s smiling (he often is) and had been in the dancing group, so there is sweat at his forehead.

“No, I’m—”

“Ino! What’s that one—”

“No, really, I’m okay.”

But Ino bounds over, landing perfectly on both feet as though she’s made one long leap to the table, and, through some rapid exchange Temari barely catches, her empty glass is taken away and then she and Shikamaru are alone once more.

“I don’t need another drink.”

He flicks his wrist and she catches it out of the corner of her eye. “They’ll bring something.”

“You seem to be misunderstanding me. I don’t want anything else to drink.”

A pause. She doesn’t think he’s going to respond. They don’t really have anything to say. Then: “are you going to get up?”

She scoffs, surprised. “What? In protest of your friends? It’s fine.”

“Our friends. And no. To dance. Or get something to eat.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re not?”

Temari narrows her gaze as she glances over at him for only a second before refocusing on the empty table before her. Is he prompting her to leave?

“And too tired to dance.”

She says it to ignore whatever he’s getting at. To talk past him the way he’s been talking past her. He’s often difficult. It’s why they’ve never really gotten on. It’s why they’re not really friends. It always feels like he’s looking at her but he never really is. She doesn’t like being near him.

Shikamaru yawns too, openly and deliberately, as though triggered by her clipped sentence. It’s loud and seems closer to her ear than she knows he is.

Hm. Would his voice sound the same when he fucked her? Would he lean over her and groan in her ear about how long the week had been? Would he push into her slow and deliberate? That same edge of amusement in his tone as he complained about how tired he was even though he was still inside her?

Ugh. She’d roll her eyes if she were alone. See? Even her misguided sexual fantasies —No. No! One passing momentary thought! Not fantasies, plural — portray him as thoroughly exasperating. He’d probably be just as difficult in bed as he was everywhere else. She really needs to stop this; to get her mind back level.

Temari opens her mouth to say something, but nothing useful comes.

. . .

It’s ninety seconds from start to finish.

She’d cropped the beginning and end out (which was mostly just her leaning forward to start and then stop the video). For the aesthetic. And to keep her face out of it.

The final version, the version he’d maybe received, starts with her touching herself and ends the same way, her working hand settling on her inner thigh after the come down. She’s leaning back on her other hand, only visible in the space between her thigh and the floor.

It really is minimal.

She’s taken better, more intimate videos before. She’s not even saying anything during this. It doesn’t even show any of the build-up (which she finds much more interesting than the climax itself). It’s just an orgasm. And a minor one at that.

The man she’s hooking up with is fine. They meet rarely. Neither ever spends the night. Soon, she’s sure she’ll meet someone else and just transfer the easy casual sex to them. He’s nice and… easy. Easy. So goddamn easy. He fucks her from behind a lot too which is, of course, easiest. She can imagine she’s fucking whoever she wants then.

Boring. Yeah. But easy. Fine. It’s fine.

. . .

Shikamaru’s second yawn is louder than the first, prompting her to look over at him.

He works for the mayor’s office. She’s pretty sure he just answers phones all day. Two yawns in a thirty-second period is a little much. He’s being dramatic. Or maybe he’s making fun of her. She can’t really tell.

When she opens her mouth this time, it’s to ask which it is, but before she can, a drink is being placed in front of her by a woman wearing an apron. It’s two seconds. And then they’re alone again.

“That’s mine.”

Temari frowns, looking at it. There’s a dusting of cinnamon powder, she thinks, atop the foam. She slides it over.

“What is it?”

“A dulce noche.”

“What’s that? A fancy espresso martini?”

The drink looks completely at odds with the heavy line of his brow and stubble along his jaw. She’s grown so used to his small tumblers and single fingers of whiskey, the martini glass is near-impossible to reconcile with the man before her.

Shikamaru shrugs. Then yawns again. She fully rolls her eyes this time.

“Oh,” Temari finds, watching his mouth close, “really? Work so exhausting you need this—” she gestures to the glass he’s currently twirling by the stem “—to take the edge off? The whiskey will put you to sleep before the coffee even hits.”

She huffs, mostly at herself for even getting involved. Then frowns. And then straightens and refocuses her attention back to the empty table before her. There’s not another glass in sight. Maybe Naruto had actually listened and not ordered her anything else?

“It’s possible, though it can take the edge off. But you know all about taking the edge off, don’t you,Temari?”

“I never understood the point of irish coffees as a pick-me-up for that reason — because doesn’t it just cancel out— Wait, what?” She stops and turns her whole body his way.

“Hm?”

“What did you just say?”

Shikamaru’s mouth works over something. He’s really looking at her now. It’s not just the feeling. She sees it now too. “I said: It’s not whiskey. It’s just coffee liqueur. And Espresso. Not just drip.”

Oh. Right. Her chest unclenches. She’s being paranoid; imagining things.

She has a bad number. Or he didn’t recognize her.

“Want to?” He pushes the glass forward with just two fingers pressing on the base, split open over the stem.

Temari shakes her head, but pulls the glass toward her, careful to not touch any part of his hand as she takes it from him and takes a sip. Huh. Good. A bit sweeter than an espresso martini, though not as nice (or warm) as an irish coffee. But it’s nice. She likes it.

Shikamaru’s still watching her when she puts the glass down, his gaze certain but a little distant. Temari licks the foam from her upper lip and looks away, thoughtful.

“Yeah, actually,” she gives, working to pull their regular incompatible stand back into focus. “That’s pretty good.”

The coffee liqueur still coats the back of her tongue. He’s still looking at her. Her mind feels sluggish. She feels like somewhere down the line of tonight she lost the control she didn’t really know she even needed to have. She feels a bit… well. Hungry.

. . .

She hasn’t made it far into her night before she’s looking at her phone again.

It’s exactly the same as it was when she left her place. And now, shoes off and legs crossed beneath her on the couch, she’s still staring at the same video, the same apology, the same instruction to ignore, same (maybe incorrect) name at the top of her message.

The read receipt says it was received and read hours ago. She remembers. She watched it happen.

Okay. Look. At this point, he obviously doesn’t recognize her. Or, worse (or maybe better?), she really has just sent some form of a sex tape to a random stranger who will (hopefully) totally ignore it. There isn’t anything identifying in it. So. Good. Right?

Nothing has changed. Temari hasn’t eaten. She has only had water to drink for at least the last eighty minutes. The sun has long set. And the message is exactly the same — Sorry! Wrong number. — as it was when she’d first sent it.

But she keeps looking at it.

And then — three dots.

She doesn’t move, but the spike through her makes her feel like she’s doubled over.

They’re there. Then away. Then there. And then, suddenly,

are you sure?

Um.

What?

Yes. Yes! She’s sure. It was a wrong number. There was no intention! Oh fuck wait — she didn’t even think! Is it illegal if it went to a kid? Like… if she sent it to a kid, isn’t that a crime?

But yes (she’s definitely sure) that it was the wrong number. She’s completely innocent.

So…?

Her mouth is dry. No three dots for the respondent. It takes less than a second for her to type and send:

Yes

And then, just as fast,

Oh. Well, if you change your mind, will you send one with your face next time? I’d like to watch you, Temari, if that’s alright.

The phone falls out of her hands.

---

ty for @twnj for the extra help and @weirdcreepies for her six-month consult

oseahellooo

btdt 🙃

Having many conversations at once is dangerous.