When he was little, Shikamaru's father always lectured him about the importance of men. Men were the protectors, he said. Men were stronger than women. It was a logical progression that men would be dominant over women. Shikamaru liked logical progressions, like if-then, action-reaction, I-IV-V.

Temari defied logic itself, which was why he was so surprised when she came to him one day with a suggestion. She had been thinking, she said, about a deal. Whoever was dominant in public was submissive in private, how did that sound? After all, a man's place was the bedroom. Though suspicious, Shikamaru agreed to it. Perhaps she was coming around to his way of thinking. "Don't think that I'll just roll over and show my belly, though," she warned him, her eyes sly. "You'll have to prove yourself to me."

So they played the game according to her rules. They occupied the roles of superior and inferior, Shikamaru ceding to her seniority, according her respect as her level demanded. Whoever was dominant in public was submissive in private, or so the deal went. They pretended they were acquaintances, stilling the heart rates quickening in their chests, smoothing the inexplicable grins away from their mouths. "Here's your report," Temari would say, completely professional, but when she handed it to him the air would fairly crackle with the sexual tension. He knew she was anticipating the dark, awaiting the slam against the door, the breathlessness, the sheer thrill of being completely and totally overpowered by him. Hands ripping off clothes. Teeth marking necks. Wrists being pinned. And the look of pure ecstasy on her face when their hips connect, violent and beautiful, and she falls off the edge, crying out, looking for purchase, finding it on him.

"Thanks," he would reply. They fooled absolutely nobody, and they both knew it.

Today, today, it is different. Temari's eyes smoulder with something not-quite-the-same when he sees her in passing at the cafe. For just a second, their eyes meet. For just a second, his heart stops.

He doesn't see her when he returns to his apartment, but he knows she's there because her shoes are leaning haphazardly against the step, and her fan is set carefully by the door. Her sash has been left unceremoniously in the middle of the hallway. Shikamaru takes his time undoing his sandals, lining them up, putting away his flak vest. As his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, he sees hair ties strewn across the floor, leading him inexorably to the bedroom. He smiles, thinking of blonde hair between his fingers.

When he finally makes it to his room, he finds Temari curled up on his bed, occupying the last rays of the setting sun. She is an arresting image; Shikamaru is drawn to the way the light caresses her hips. She stretches, lithe as a desert cat. He notices that she is wearing only fishnets and her skirt, and nothing else. Her lips bear a feral smile as she catches him looking. He swallows, tears his stare away from her chest. She hates it when he talks to her boobs. "Yo." He forces himself to sound bored.

"Yo." She stands, waits as he advances. The mesh clothes her body in light and shadow, black slashes clinging sensually to her breasts, shading down to her neat, tiny waist. Shikamaru never ceases to be amazed at how many curves her body yields whenever they're together, or at how naturally he follows them, as if he has known them before. As if he is tracing them from memory.

He reaches her and she twines her arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe. Her face is now disarmingly innocent; her cheeks are flushed pink, and a light shines out of her eyes as she kisses him tenderly. Shikamaru relaxes, arms wrapping around her slender warmth. They have never started off this way.

Goosebumps prickle along his skin. He is immediately on his guard.

Lazily, casually, Temari sweeps his feet out from underneath him, guiding his fall down to the mattress. She slinks between his legs and up his body, eyes gleaming dangerously. His shirt rides up with the movement, and for a moment their skins converge.

The corner of her mouth turns up as her eyes narrow. She raises herself up just barely – Shikamaru can still feel their body heat mingling – and pulls the shirt back down. His hair tie describes a beautiful parabola as she tosses it away. Shikamaru frowns at her and her uncharacteristic position, grasps for the hem of her shirt.

Temari's response is a lightning-quick smack. His hand flies to the side and she catches it, lacing her fingers in his, forcing his arm to the covers.

"Hey," he protests, wriggling, trying to free himself. "We had an agreement."

She settles her weight on one elbow, leaving her breasts pressed against his chest. He catches a glimpse of cleavage as she shifts. "Not today, lover," she says. Shikamaru scowls deeply to cover the smile he knows is threatening to take over. "Today, you'll just have to get used to being the bitch."

"Girls shouldn't talk so dirty," he admonishes her.

"Shut up," she breathes, pinioning his hips with hers. "Shut the fuck up." She kisses him hard.

He won't. He can't lose to a girl, not in the bedroom, not when he has the upper hand. He wrenches away, that smirk playing over his lips. A quick jerk and they are topsy-turvy. Temari gasps, surprised and fighting, but Shikamaru holds her down. "How rude," he says mildly, right before he counterattacks. Her body stills underneath him, but not for long. The ensuing war is waged with lips and tongues, insistent hands, sharp breaths. Shikamaru loses track of how many times he wrests control away, but he doesn't stop trying.

Even if she has broken the rules, Shikamaru still follows them. They have a deal, and he always comes out on top.

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