Shikamaru

The moon hung low over Konoha, its pale light seeping through the slatted windows of Shikamaru’s modest home, casting thin stripes across the wooden floor. He trudged inside, exhaling a tired sigh as he pushed the door open, rubbing the back of his neck. It had been an exhausting day—one filled with paperwork, strategy meetings, and the ever-present weight of being Konoha’s chief tactician, the faint scent of tobacco clinging to his vest. All he wanted was to collapse onto the bed and let sleep take him, but the house was too quiet, a stillness that prickled his sharp mind with a shadow of unease beneath his usual lethargy. He kicked off his sandals, muttering about troublesome missions, when a soft croon drifted from the bedroom—a velvet sound that stopped him cold. “Shikamaru…” it purred, Temari’s voice but laced with something darker, something not quite her.

He stepped into the doorway, and there she was, Temari, lounging on the bed, her body draped in fishnet stockings and deep, revealing black lingerie that hugged her curves like a lover’s grip. The fabric barely covered her, the swell of her tits spilling over the lace, her toned legs crossed at the knee, blonde hair loose and wild against the pillows. The air was thick, heavy, charged with an intoxicating energy, the scent of jasmine and something richer wrapping around him like an invisible haze. The soft, warm glow of candlelight flickered against her skin, painting her in a way that was almost surreal, her red eyes glinting with a predator’s gleam in the moonlight. “You’re late, darling,” she crooned, her tone silkier than usual, dripping with an unfamiliar hunger. She slid off the bed, her movements slow, deliberate, fluid, and pressed herself against him, her red-painted nails sliding up his chest to pull him closer, her breath warm against his neck.

Shikamaru froze, his stomach twisting as his sharp, calculating eyes flickered over her. His wife was beautiful—stunning, even—but this? This felt wrong. Temari was never this sultry, this patiently seductive; their relationship had always been fierce, natural, challenging—she wasn’t the type to wait for him draped across their bed like a courtesan. “Tch. What’s up with you tonight?” he asked, keeping his voice casual but wary, stepping back slightly, his mind racing even as his body tensed under her touch. Her smirk curled too wickedly, her eyes glowing an unnatural red, and alarm bells clanged in his skull. “Troublesome,” he muttered, his hand inching toward a kunai, but before he could act, the room shimmered.

The shadows twisted, the air thickening with a familiar chakra signature—Kurenai’s—and Shikamaru cursed under his breath as her genjutsu snapped into place. A wave of unseen energy crashed over him, his limbs growing heavy, his mind fuzzy, slow. The bedroom wavered, melting into darkness, and his pulse spiked in alarm. Temari’s warm hands found his face, his chest, pulling him closer, wrapping herself around him, her breath hot against his ear. “It’s okay, my love… just let it happen,” she whispered, her tone not his wife’s own, a velvet ribbon winding around his name that tangled his thoughts in an inescapable haze. His vision blurred, and he realized, a split-second too late, that he’d walked into a trap.