Another idea from athanatosora (also did coverart). She wrote the majority of this sometime last year as a birthday gift for me and didn't want to publish it so she gave me permission to post it on my account and continue it. It's based on my prompt for shikaFem!naru.

Shogi

He was a mere three months into his eighth year of life when curiosity had inexplicably overruled his laziness.

He had been given the task of returning the library books his mother had borrowed a month previously. Normally, such a simple task would be deflected after his logical reasoning that she could have one of the other clan members return it since he already had homework from the Academy to complete and the task was just too troublesome, but she had stated her thoughts on the matter plainly.

"You will drop these books off at the library, Nara Shikamaru. You laze about the house all day when I'm not needling you to and fro about doing your chores or getting some fresh air, so you will do this, or so help me…"

She had been rather severe that day, even for Nara Yoshino, and some simple mathematics and collecting of clues had left him with the answer that she was nearing that time again, that horrid term that occurred roughly every month dubbed, "Avoid-Bothering-the-Nara-Matriarch-at-All-Costs Time."

Partly due to the fact that he was doing his part as a dutiful son, mostly because he didn't wish to incite the wrath of a woman on a hormonal trip, he had taken the fourteen pound stack of books to the library with minimal groaning.

Unfortunately, the librarian appeared to be on break, so he had to check the books in and place them on the bookshelves himself.

(Knowledge was considered highly valuable in Konoha, but many overtly advanced tomes were unobtainable to the masses unless one was part of a clan, had connections to the Academy, or were privileged with access to the local bookstores' more exclusive collections. As such, the Konoha library was severely under-funded and had rather generic texts, mostly of the fiction or historical variety instead of the practical hands-on variety like jutsu scrolls. As far as he knew, there was only one hired librarian and one or two assistants for the entire building, and the books themselves were not particularly valuable. Hence, the system that allowed borrowers to return books on their own, should an employee be unavailable.)

He had finished placing the final book in it's place on the top shelf when he noticed that a lone shogi board sat across the room, secluded from the sparse tables and chairs.

Sliding down the ladder he had used, he trudged over lazily to take a look at the dilapidated slab of wood.

As one would assume of an item in a public place such as the library, the corners were worn, possibly from improper storage or careless hands. The pieces themselves were worn as well, and showed obvious signs of handling and use. At least it wasn't simply collecting dust, he mused.

His eyes narrowed when he realized that the pieces were not simply set in the start position. Black's pawn at 2g had been moved forward, the start of a match.

Shikamaru watched the board for a moment, a niggling curiosity and the strange urging of a challenge eating away at his usual inhibitions. It was a silly compulsion, one that he had little doubt would not receive a response, and it wasn't as if he would be coming back to the library if he had anything to say about it.

Regardless, he moved White's pawn at 3c forward.

And then he turned around and left.

The following week, Shikamaru had found himself visiting the library again.

His father, Shikaku, had apparently forgotten to drop off a few literary donations he had meant to earlier on in the week, and because Shikamaru had just arrived at home after a long day at the Academy, the elder Nara had decided to task his son with his chore.

He had given minor grumbling about the troublesome assignment, but had acquiesced nonetheless.

Dutifully, he had returned the books, politely greeting Tanaka-san (the middle-aged, kindly old librarian) and turned to the door with the intention to leave.

Curiosity, however, gripped at him and after a moment's contemplation, Shikamaru turned around and headed to the secluded corner he knew the dilapidated shogi board sat.

He felt a pleasant form of satisfaction, relief and excitement perhaps, when he had seen that Black had made it's move despite the fact that he hadn't expected there to be a response. The pawn at 7g was moved forward, a retaliation to Shikamaru's own challenge.

Not wasting another moment, he moved his pawn at 8c forward.

He turned and left the building, hesitance and annoyance replaced with an odd lightness within him.

Inexplicably, the young Nara heir found himself jumpy, not a week later.

The eased, pleasant happiness he had felt prior had quickly ebbed away, leaving a strange sort of anxiousness. Anticipation.

His abnormal levels of energy and restlessness had been a cause of concern for his mother and father (though the former had, at first, been delighted that her son had seemed to change from his usual lethargy) and on more than one occasion he had been asked if he ate something strange. It was a foolish thought that gave him slight offense—because, for all the time he spent with his best friend, the other's eating habits were not something that he could have (or would have) picked up for himself. And Chōji, despite his voracious, never-ending appetite, was not the type to eat something he felt could be harmful (and thus, the insinuation that Shikamaru would have eaten something strange, stemming off of an assumed habit from the Akimichi, offended him on behalf of his best friend. It was a slightly outlandish thought process upon later speculation, but he was a Nara—and a Nara always considered even the most outlandish of possibilities).

To his dismay and shame, it had taken him a couple days to realize the root of his issue himself, but once he had, he informed his parents that he would be going to the library.

Luckily, they had attributed it to his over all strangeness as of late and quickly dismissed him—though in Shikaku's case, not without the narrowed, assessing look he had seen many times before—and he headed to the library.

He walked into the building at a pace somewhere in-between his usual low-paced gait and a more hurried one, and had offered the librarian only a curt nod in greeting (which earned him a single, raised eyebrow) before heading to the back of the room.

The corners of his lips twitched upwards when he realized that, once again, Black had responded to his move—having moved the pawn at 2f forward.

There was a slight, yet acute anticipation for when their sides finally clashed, but as it was, he schooled his rudimentary reaction and allowed his mind to come up with appropriate strategies. It was still in the beginning stages of the match and as a result Shikamaru didn't yet have a firm grasp on his opponent's skills, but he could at least garner that his mystery foe was no fool. It was unseen whether or not he (Shikamaru had no way of knowing whether or not his opponent was a he or she, but due to his own history of opponents being strictly male it was simply easier to rely on that pronoun) was only sub-par, but Shikamaru would take this match seriously until proven otherwise.

In a decisive movement, he moved his pawn at 8d forward.

He stared at the board for a few more moments, musing that—due to the nature of their blind match—this would be the most drawn-out match he had participated in yet.

With a final glance to the board, he walked away, contemplating the means of his next escape from the Nara compound.

The cycle continued for several months.

For the first month, it had been relatively simple to slip out of his home on the premise that he wanted to go to the park to watch the clouds, hang out with Chōji, or go grab a small bite to eat.

However, it was clear after said month that Shikaku was beginning to question his usually-indolent son for his frequent, weekly excursions that came around like clockwork, and Shikamaru had to find some reasonable excuses to divert his father's attention.

Of course, he had no illusion that the man didn't doubt his excuses for even a second, even if his mother bought them with ease. And yet, Shikaku hadn't made a move to stop or find out more about his son's excursions. However much the fact that Shikamaru was actually making excuses piqued his interest, he had let the topic drop after a minor interrogation one slothful afternoon.

"… Shikamaru."

The addressed Nara turned to his father, a lazy, half-lidded look in place. "What, Oyaji?"

Shikaku rubbed his chin, his gaze unflinching. "Where are you going?"

For a moment, Shikamaru contemplated lying, but he knew it would be seen through immediately. He sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "… I'm going to the library."

Shikamaru fidgeted as his father observed him, feeling the vague impression of being dissected and probed down to the very last fibre of his being.

He hated when his father did that.

To his surprise—though, he probably should have expected it, considering who it was—Shikaku nodded, the stern look replaced with his own lazy countenance, the air significantly lighter. He turned around and waved a hand in dismissal.

"Just be back before Yoshino forces me to retrieve you for dinner."

Month after month had passed, and with each new move his mystery opponent made, his opinion on him formed.

He was good. Really good.

On more than one occasion, Shikamaru had found himself coming into close scrapes with Black's Gold and Silver Generals—a dangerous combination, and he was inclined to say that he had never seen anyone use the two so efficiently, his matches against his father aside. Not to mention, the Yagura Castle defense his opponent somehow kept reconstructing was almost impossible to break through.

A part of him had realized early on that his father would no doubt be presented with a challenge like no other, should he participate in a match against the mystery opponent. But strangely, Shikamaru didn't wish to reveal these encounters to his father—and not simply because he was lazy, either.

He could admit that he treated these moments as something special, something to look forward to near the end of the week. If his father were to become involved, he had little doubt that his mystery opponent would move on to the more advanced player, and Shikamaru would lose these weekly challenges.

So he kept the nature of his outings a secret.

As their match progressed, Shikamaru found himself musing beyond the shogi board alone, wondering about the person behind Black's pieces. Curiosity, something he was usually rather devoid of, yet had felt with startling frequency ever since "meeting" his opponent, had surfaced once again.

He had, on many occasions prior, attempted to find out facts about his opponent. One week he had taken to visiting the library daily, trying to catch a glimpse of his opponent, but unfortunately he never showed. He never made his move either, and though disappointed, Shikamaru had understood. Whoever it was, his opponent didn't appreciate his curiosity, so he had reigned in the incessant urge to actually see his opponent and went for minor, more subdued details.

He had made it a custom to leave books from his clan's library (hidden, of course, with a note indicating where they could be found) to try and figure out the other's interests. He noticed that some of the more fanciful texts, relating to fiction—romance, in particular—were oft ignored, as were the scrolls on history. Instead, this mystery individual seemed to have an avid interest in the Fūinjutsu scrolls that he provided.

Shikamaru realized that his approach wasn't exactly wise. It was very well possible that his opponent kept to the shadows not because of some nervousness or personal issue, but rather, due to something more insidious—perhaps, he was a spy with the task of gaining as much practical knowledge on Konoha as possible. It would make sense, considering the nature of the texts he seemed to prefer, but somehow… Somehow, Shikamaru couldn't bring himself to suspect his opponent, not entirely. Because it had been a completely independent maneuver on his part to bring the scrolls in an attempt to learn more about the individual. He had not been manipulated to do so in any way.

(Not to mention, he could recall in one instance where he had accidentally grabbed one of his father's less-than-proper books, with a gaudy orange cover called "Icha Icha" or something. That had gone missing and his opponent had yet to return it, even to this day. Shikamaru would be lying if he said he hadn't lost some respect from his opponent for this, but he had been secretly glad to realize that the demographic of the… Novel, greatly narrowed the possibilities of who his mystery opponent was.)

Of course, not long after his outings began including a quick pilfering of his clan's library, Shikaku had confronted him again. It had been a substantially less intense stand-off that time, despite the fact that his father had once again not bought his excuse of, "I want to study more," but as usual, the man just relaxed back into his usual demeanor and allowed his son to do as he pleased. It still made him somewhat skeptical of the man; he did not think his excuses were farfetched, as the prospect of wanting to study more (especially since he was nearing the end of his third year in the Academy) was not so strange. Stranger still was the fact that his father simply accepted the fact that his son was lying and allowed him to go about his business without question.

Shikamaru had attributed those facts to being idiosyncrasies to his father. The man seemed to trust him, and even though logic dictated that Shikamaru show at least some level of suspicion towards his opponent, he still couldn't bring himself to. It was the most irrational thing he had ever done, but he just felt like he could trust his mystery opponent. So he did.

About two months after he had begun his airing-out of the Nara clan libraries, his efforts were finally reciprocated with something more tangible. Literally.

He had received a text on tangibility of shadows, in turn.

Shikamaru found it rather irksome that his opponent clearly knew who he was while he only had sparse information on the other, but he refused to allow it to bother him. He had already made a solemn promise to allow the other to reveal himself when he wished; he wouldn't pursue the issue.

Towards the two-year-mark, Shikamaru was proven correct regarding his earlier assumption of proficiency regarding the other, and his own defenses had finally fallen.

His opponent was more than proficient in shogi, and Shikamaru had found himself trapped on all sides—an enemy pawn and knight on 7 and 6b respectively, pawns on 4c and 6g, Silver Generals on 5f and 4d, a knight on 4f, and his King at 6d was surrounded. His other pieces were collected around the board at an unreachable radius from their King, and without the hope of recovering the piece. The best chance he had would take five turns, and he had little doubt that his opponent would see through any ploy within one.

Ninety-eight moves. It had taken his opponent a mere ninety-eight moves to successfully trap and subdue him, ultimately winning the game.

He had never lost to anyone aside from his father, even when he went against the other Nara clan members. The fact that he actually had lost… While he figured it should have incited frustration, sadness, anger, and feelings of inadequacy… It instead gave him a sense of purpose, and of a renewed curiosity to get to know his mystery opponent—even stronger than it had been before.

The awestruck mystique about the situation quickly dissipated, however, when he realized that it was over. Done.

Shikamaru frowned, eyeing the checkmate on the board. He wondered if he should simply reset the board and make the first move as Black, this time, to show his opponent he wished for another game.

Instead, he gathered a pen and paper, and began to write.

"Congratulations. That was a good game. Rematch?"

He did a quick once-over to ensure that his scrawl was legible before nodding, tucking the small parchment slightly under the board, just visible.

The next week, he was relieved to see that Black had made their move again.

He was pleasantly surprised by a response to his note, settled neatly on top of the board, folded with precise lines.

With utmost care, he unfolded the delicate parchment and read the short message.

"Your move."

It was a quick and concise response, and to his disdain, he was unable to glean the exact gender of his opponent based off of it. For all of the script's elegance and almost artistic appeal… It wasn't a feminine sort of elegance, to be particular. No, it was a sort of genderless, unexplainable grace, speaking more of practiced precision instead of intrinsic finesse.

Fūinjutsu, he realized. That was probably why the strokes, even with a pen, were so precise and flowing.

His thoughts were cut off when he caught a faint, almost undetectable shift in the air. The parchment itself held it's own fragrance, and he noticed the faint smell of earth, ink, the forests of Konoha… And yet, something else, something sweet that reminded him vaguely of vanilla and honey.

Shikamaru flustered, quickly shoving the strangely aromatic parchment in his pocket, his eyelid twitching in shame and irritation. It was weird, especially if he thought about the possibility of his opponent being male—and old, based on his preference of literature.

The Nara glanced back to the board, moved a piece, and walked out—feeling faintly disgusted and disturbed with himself, and the idea of an ojisan that smelled like honey and vanilla.

He blinked. And then abruptly forced himself to stop thinking.

Their new game had continued, well into Shikamaru's fourth and final year at the Academy.

He was twelve, now, and slated to graduate at the end of the school year. He realized that his graduation meant more than simply moving onto a new chapter of his life; it meant that he would be placed on a Genin team and would pursue his career as a Shinobi.

It also meant that the chances of him being able to continue this shogi game with his unforthcoming opponent were slim.

This in mind, he had promised himself that he would be sure to make the most of this match. He had entertained the idea of letting his mystery opponent know about his slated graduation and subsequent loss of time, but ultimately settled for waiting until it was completely relevant—after all, he still had a year before he would need to truly worry about the issue.

However, not even four weeks after their second game had started, his opponent had stopped his responses altogether.

It started off as an innocuous, slight concern. Shikamaru had been slightly more irritable than usual, certainly, but he had little concern about the issue. He was certain that his opponent would have made his move by the following week, and their routine would resume.

It didn't.

He had begun to worry, not long after. The other hadn't notified him, hadn't left him even so much as a note (and even though they had only exchanged notes a sparse number of times that he could count on one hand with fingers left over, he still would've expected something) and it worried him.

But perhaps he was overreacting. No, he realized it wasn't just perhaps, he was overreacting.

He sighed and shook his head, pushing the concern to the furthest corners of his mind. It was all so troublesome, to worry over someone he didn't even know the appearance of. It wasn't as if they were in times of war, so he doubted his mystery opponent had died on a mission or anything similar (and though he had never actually questioned the other, he was certain his opponent was a shinobi—the interest in Fūinjutsu and the strategic, shinobi mindset was a dead giveaway) and if it was something truly worth stressing over, his opponent would have notified him.

That's what Shikamaru liked to think, anyway.

It still irked him somewhat that, after two years and some months, he still didn't know the other's name. He didn't even know the gender of his opponent, let alone the age, appearance, and other attributes that acquaintances of two years typically knew about each other.

After almost two months of no response, harried, Shikamaru finally gave up.

He decided to go one last time, feeling awfully childish for clinging to the hope that, maybe, that day would be the day. He had never made himself weak, half-meaning promises of, "this will be the last time," or, "just one more time," because he knew he wouldn't adhere to it. This time he did, however, because he was tired of this charade and it was just so troublesome an issue.

Though this time, instead of checking the board, he had decided to speak to the librarian.

So there Shikamaru stood, blinking up at the woman who was decidedly not an old, tired but genial man named Tanaka.

She sat in the spot Tanaka usually occupied, quite-literally buried in texts and scrolls from behind the desk. His eyes absorbed her image, a jumbled mess of thoughts and opinions crowding his mind as he looked at her hair, tied up in a messy ponytail that trailed down her shoulders, and her eyes that held a deep blue that he wasn't certain he'd ever seen. Her skin was not pale, closer to tanned, but it held a healthy, rosy hue that seemed to give life to her already bright hair and appearance.

The first coherent thought that occurred to him was, 'pretty.'

He blushed, realizing what he had been thinking and how embarrassing his thoughts were regarding the woman.

Shikamaru stiffened when the very eyes he was contemplating connected with his own, almost expectant. Feeling his inhibitions crumble, the Nara inched away as his gaze darted elsewhere and he mumbled a quiet, "sorry."

Retreating seemed like a particularly wise course of action, then. Yes. A strategic retreat.

He heard a chuckle, sounding airy and light, and he dared to glance back at the strange blonde.

Her eyes sparkled with mirth, a mischievous, vulpine smirk tilted; teasing, humorous. She cocked her head to the side, and Shikamaru watched as her hair moved, swayed gently with the movement, and every minor shift she made seemed to transition smoothly, and yet, with an edge of steel. Of challenge.

Shikamaru felt the odd compulsion to correct an earlier thought, because the woman before him was not "pretty." No.

She was beautiful.

And then his face pinched in a strange mixture of confusion, disdain, and disgust—because he really didn't care to entertain the idea that he possibly, just maybe was in the midst of developing a crush, something he had hoped would pass him by with hormones in tow.

Because no thanks. That was too troublesome for him.

"What is it, kid?" The pretty blonde (because even though he was in slight denial, he wasn't going to lie) questioned, a look of amusement on her face.

Shikamaru glanced to the scroll in her hands (that he noted was angled just right, so that it's contents were not visible to him while also seeming to be done casually, without purpose—shinobi, she had to be a shinobi) before coughing, focusing on his self-appointed task. For some reason, he felt like a busy-body.

"I… I wanted to know where Tanaka-san, the usual librarian, was."

The blonde lifted an eyebrow. "Tanaka takes the morning and evening shifts while I take the afternoon. It's been like this for a while, in fact," she stated plainly, grinning. "You didn't notice before, little Nara?"

Shikamaru was too focused on a certain detail she had revealed to notice the emphasis placed on his surname. "So you've been here for a while?" He blurted, his earlier awkwardness long forgotten. "How long?"

She paused, seemingly mulling over the question. "Hmm… A little over two months now, I'd say. It's a pretty well-paying job."

"Did you notice anyone using the shogi board in the back?" He questioned, feeling an atypical excitement within himself at the realization he might find out the identity of his mystery opponent. "Could you describe him to me? Or her? When does he come by?"

He didn't notice how the woman's playful demeanor turned a smidgeon strained, her smile somewhat dulled. "Why do you want to know?"

At this, Shikamaru shrunk into himself slightly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Well… I wouldn't say worried, but I'm a little unnerved because my opponent disappeared." He frowned, considering his words. "Not that he was ever really there to begin with. He's never here when I'm here to make my move."

He noticed a brief look of surprise flicker on her face before being tucked away, replaced with a smile brighter than before. "I'm sure your mystery opponent will come back soon enough. Patience."

He shot her a look. "So you know who it is," he grumbled, only slightly petulant.

The woman's smile only grew and, unbidden, the Nara felt his accursed blush slowly make it's way back onto his cheeks.

He ducked his head in a quick bow and murmured "thanks" before leaving.

It was a mere three months to doomsday that he noticed something.

Doomsday being graduation, wherein he'd very likely be saddled with Chōji (which he actually preferred) and Yamanaka Ino (and the very thought of being on a team with a fangirl had his mental alarms buzzing insistently about how troublesome it'd be), and something being a certain blonde-haired, blue-eyed, whiskered girl that he hadn't really paid much attention to previously.

It was almost something of a rude awakening to go to class the Monday following his visit to the library. As usual, Iruka-sensei began calling roll when classes started, and paused when he came upon a certain name.

"Uzumaki Naruto."

Silence met the call, and Iruka's narrowed eyes scanned the room before a hand flew up to smack his forehead. "Late again?" He grumbled to himself before turning to the class expectantly. "Before I go out to track her down myself, has anyone seen her? Do any of you—"

"SORRY I'M LATE!"

Shikamaru winced at the loud tone that accompanied his weekday mornings like clockwork. Though he wasn't one to really pay much attention to his peers, it was almost impossible to not notice the shift that Naruto's presence had brought to his life—no matter how much he tried to ignore her overly noisy behavior.

After Naruto's loud entrance, Iruka had pulled her to the side for a not-so-quiet lecture about arriving on time, with Naruto only nodding while scratching the back of her head in a nervous fashion, a bright and completely unapologetic smile in place.

It wasn't until midday, during Iruka's lecture on the strategic maneuverings of Konoha during the Third Shinobi War that Shikamaru noticed.

He had glanced to Naruto, compelled by the strange familiarity he felt to her, and he wondered exactly what the root of his curiosity was. When he realized it was her coloring, he was hard-pressed not to show any outward signs of his realization—her coloring, hair, eyes, skin tone and all, were exactly like the librarian he had seen the other day.

And then, belatedly, he had noticed something else that left him almost shocked and with his curiosity piqued.

From past experiences, Naruto was the type to fall asleep during long lectures, and after so many attempts at trying and failing to motivate her to listen, Iruka had given up altogether and only occasionally got after her about her daydreaming or sleeping during class time, if only to keep up appearances. When she wasn't skipping, she slept, zoned out, doodled, and probably did everything else a bored child in the middle of a lecture would do. The point was that Naruto never focused.

And yet, looking at her, really looking at her, she was not daydreaming. She was not relaxing and zoning out, even though her relaxed and unassuming posture would indicate otherwise. No, because her eyes, they held the same, piercing depth the librarian's had as she stared at Iruka's profile.

But then, the teacher suddenly turned to her with a sharp gaze and called out. "Naruto!"

She jolted, belying Shikamaru's earlier observations. "H-huh? Yeah, Iruka-sensei?"

The Chūnin gave her a flat, unimpressed look. "What was the Yondaime's most prominent accomplishment during the Third War, that earned him his famed moniker?"

Shikamaru watched as her eyes widened, and heard the delighted giggles and whispers at her lack of an answer. They no doubt expected her to laugh nervously with her usual, light-hearted reply.

But he observed her. Watched as her fists clenched under the table, as her eyes flickered with something inexplicably tight, before she fulfilled their expectations.

She laughed, blushing slightly as she nervously pulled at a pigtail. "Ehehe… Um… He won?"

The repercussions of her less than satisfactory response were expected (the usual after-school detention) and the resulting laughter from her peers were mocking. But she didn't mind, and she continued laughing with them.

When everyone else was excused for the day, Shikamaru pondered over the day's events with a mulish expression on his face. He had always assumed that Naruto was as everyone seemed to believe; the foolish prankster who couldn't create a Bunshin to save her life. He always knew that it was foolish of him to rely on what the masses believed without any actual proof, but it wasn't as if he really cared—he figured that if the situation presented itself where the truth would make itself known, he would readily accept it as opposed to strict denial.

So when he turned back to the Academy and saw her through the window, he made his final decision.

She sat in the classroom on her lonesome, eyes transfixed to a piece of parchment he was unable to see as she wrote furiously and efficiently. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her overall countenance reminding him strangely of the few times he had seen his father completely serious. The only difference was the snaggletooth digging into her lower lip.

All too suddenly, she looked up, her eyes locking with his. Shikamaru suddenly felt like an animal caught in the line of sight of a predator, a deer in the face of a lion. 'Threat,'he thought quietly, his chest tightening as his heart beat in a fast rhythm. But that look softened in a mere second, replaced with a blink of comprehension followed by a smile of recognition.

She tilted her head and beamed, waving at him almost childishly in a welcoming, friendly gesture—a stark contrast to the mere look not a moment earlier that promised death if he proved to be a threat.