pet an amatomnes fanfiction

Barely past midnight, and Temari is unable to sleep. She has work in the morning, and this has been a recurring theme of her evenings so far. She tosses and turns until she can do so no more, and usually she gets out of bed and works on whatever paperwork she's brought home. She has none tonight, so she's left alone in her thoughts, thoughts of herself, and what she has become. And she hates it. She hates that she's weak, and hates how easily she's coerced. But wasn't it always like that? Didn't she always take her orders so blindly, barely stopping to question them? Didn't she always let Gaara get away with murder-- literally? She can hold her own in any fight, but when it comes to saying no and sticking to her guns, she can't, especially when it comes to those she holds close. It's painfully obvious that she won't be getting to sleep any time soon, so she slides out of the bed, leaving the lavender covers bunched up where they are, not even bothering to turn the bedside light on. Her silky nightgown falls smoothly around her form, the lacy trim tickling her thighs, one strap hanging off her shoulder just a bit. Her hair hangs about her neck and shoulder in loose waves, but she doesn't bother to tie it back, as it's far too late to be hunting down her hair ties. Instead, she pads her way out of the bedroom quietly, first glancing down the hallway, to see that the light in Shikamaru's room is off, as it has been for a while now. Of course she's worried, but this isn't like home where she can send a search party out to look for him. Perhaps he's gone home. She can only hope. She sighs softly, shaking her head, then turning, she notes that the light in the other bedroom is on. Tyki's room. His company is what she seeks right now anyway. Shikamaru frets too much and asks too many questions for her liking. She knocks quietly before pushing open the door, not waiting for the answer. On the bed, Tyki is seated cross-legged, shirtless even, with a deck of cards in one hand a few of the playing cards placed face up in front of him on the bedspread. Like her, his hair is loose, framing his face in dark, sleek curls that she's always sort of admired in a way. As he looks up to her and gives a lazy smile, her heart flutters, and she can't help the uncharacteristic sheepishness that takes over her. "To what do I owe this honor?" His voice is smooth and tinted with sarcasm-- it nearly makes her weak in the knees, and her only saving grace is to consider whether or not he actually tries to have that effect on her or not. It's weak of her, she knows, but damn him for being so charming. "I can't sleep," she pouts, but otherwise manages to keep her composure. She's still a shinobi, after all. (Sometimes, she thinks, only in name anymore, after these long five months.) "Oh? And what should I do about it?" It's not an abrasive question, but genuinely curious, if not a little confused. Of course, the second she says it, he has a few ideas of his own, but he's interested to see what she wants of him, if anything at all. It's a little game he likes to play, and she's one of the few he can play it with. But she has no expectations. She came in on a whim, with no idea as to what she might ask of him. She pauses for a moment, trying to think of something-- anything-- but comes up with none, so she shrugs slightly, the errant strap sliding down a little more. "Well, I saw that you were up too." But she has nothing more to say, and he just chuckles softly as he begins to gather the cards back into their box, while she takes a seat behind him. When he's done, the pack gets tossed haphazardly onto the bedside table, and when he turns to her, he gestures for her face the headboard. She complies, pulling her feet up onto the bed, leaning on one hand, and she's glad for it when his hands come to her tense shoulders and squeeze comfortingly. If she has no better ideas, it's up to him. And so the game's begun, a game of dominance, so to speak. There are a few seconds in which he massages her in silence, hands cool on her warm skin, but pleasant none the less. But it doesn't take long for him to lean in, hands still working, close enough to her ear that she can feel his breath tickling her skin as he exhales. "Does that help?" he purrs, soft and sultry and full of intent, because an opportunity has presented itself, there's an opening in her line of defenses, in that carefully-constructed façade that he has come to know very well, and he's more than ready to seize it. "Hmm, it does," she murmurs distractedly, leaning back into him a little bit. He couldn't ask for a better response. This small action forces him to drop his hands, lower, lower still, encircling her torso until one hand comes to rest first against her ribs, the other splaying across her belly to try and pull her hips closer to him, although really he's trying to coax all of her back into his lap. She relents and feels her back press against his chest, feeling every breath, stealing a little of his warmth for herself and giving him a little of hers in return. But just as soon as she's comfortable, there's a gap, and it allows him to trail a few soft kisses along her neck. She wonders if he knows that he doesn't have to bother with any of this, but she says nothing, and delights in the way his warm breaths play against the soft skin of her neck and shoulders. She sighs in appreciation, tilting her head a little to give him better access, to tempt more of the same affections out of him. She likes the feeling too much; it relaxes her, allows her to wash her troubles away for the time being. Still, it would not be her to just so blithely accept these attentions, without so much as a word otherwise. She'll consent and concede for now, but not quietly. "This wasn't what I had in mind, you know. Damn tease." "Tease?" he murmurs, sounding more amused than she thinks is really necessary, and she can feel him smirking, even if she can't see it. He has to agree, really, as all the insinuations of such a statement against him, all the ones that he can know, anyway, run through his mind. Regardless, to take the statement at face value, he has to live up to the accusation. "You don't know the meaning, pet." Oblivious to what might have been implied, what might have slipped past her unnoticed, she tries to pull away, but his grip on her tightens, and she's not up for a fight. Still, she's not endeared by his new name for her. "I'm not your pet." "You're not?" He's only feigning confusion, even more entertained by her assertion than her original accusation. But he doesn't wait for her to react. That's not how the game is played. Instead, he bites down on the soft, fragrant skin of her neck, and she gasps at the sudden rush of sensation. If the light scars aren't any indication, she's already made known what her pleasures are, and while she's distracted with that, his hands move further downwards, until they catch the lace-edged hem of the nightgown. Gathering up the material, he pulls it upwards in one swift movement, so that she's only left to go along with it, out of instinct. He grabs her around the waist again so that she can't run off, but she has little intention to, and given the opportunity, he pulls again to make sure that she's comfortably situated in his lap once again, her legs to either side of his, allowing him access to run one hand up the inside of her thigh as the other slides under her arm and then comes back up so that he can hook a finger through the ring on her collar, giving a light tug. "Because I was under a different impression." "Ah…Tyki…" she manages to breathe out as his hand wanders farther up her thigh, but not far enough, and he nibbles at the skin of her neck just so. "Yes, pet?" But words don't come out for her, instead replaced by a sharp intake of breath, because he chooses that moment to step up his teasing by finally letting his fingers flirt over her most sensitive spots. She's already slick with anticipation, and she lets her knees part a little more to accommodate his wandering hand. But true to her accusations, they're all light touches, barely enough to be felt, but more than sufficient to stir the promise of more within her. The way he so freely touches her makes her feel a little self-conscious, so brazenly exposed, even though it's just the two of them. And so she is very suddenly aware of her own weakness, her lack of self restraint, and she starts to think-- just for a second-- that if this is what weakness really is, does she mind so much? He taunts her some more with those barely-there touches and resumes kissing at neck, still maintaining his grip on her collar as she tenses and becomes a doll in his capable arms. Yes, she's shared with him more than she has others, but she's never told him everything, never divulged all her secrets-- that's the difference between being weak and being stupid, she rationalizes-- but it seems she has no need. He picks up quickly on the way she operates, still. If it weren't for that, then he might have been back out on Atia's streets again, and that just wouldn't do. He's managed to make it this far, though, on inference, on what he can divulge from her, on what she tells him in those ever-brief moments of weakness. She's not weak overall; he has a higher opinion of her in this regard than she does of herself. But she does have certain downfalls, quirks that he can exploit to get what he wants or needs. She's close. So very close. Her back arches against him every time he brings her within seconds of orgasm, only to back off again, caressing her thighs or stomach or breasts, those little touches growing increasingly firm to match her mounting tension. "Not yet," he whispers into her ear, lurid and desiring, "just a little more, pet." She whimpers and whines and presses her body to him, and she could grab his hands, try and force him to just be done with her. Her hands grip at whatever she can, having found the sheets, and she tries to contort enough that she can steal a real kiss, however awkward. The small laugh he gives at the endeavor is a bit more sinister now, but he doesn't give in, and with sharp tug at her collar he stops her in her endeavor. He's stopped now, one hand resting lightly just below her navel. She struggles to retain that build-up of pleasure, but his grip on her collar remains tight and she doesn't see any way out of this, not easily, not without a full stop. "What do you say…pet?" The smooth, enchanting voice that can send shivers down her spine with just how alluring it is takes on a darker tone that makes her shudder for entirely different reasons. She falters, understanding his game just a little better than he thinks she does. She knows the answer he's looking for, but in saying it, asking for it, begging for it as the case might be, she knows that she'll have to accept the title he's given her now as well. And then what will he assume? That he's somehow gained ownership of her? And is she really so resistant to that idea anyway? (that's the part that really confounds her, makes the decision that much more difficult.) He waits patiently while she thinks, lightly nuzzling her shoulder, the crook of her neck, that soft spot behind her ear, although he knows she can't take too long or else this will all be for naught. If she denies him…well, he'll just have to convince her some other way, and he's more than willing to do so, so be it. But the fact that she's taking quite so long to think about it tells him that he's made a convincing argument so far. She's not so quick to deny him as she was when they'd started. Had he known she was this easy to break, he might have tried sooner, but then where would the fun have been in that? He loves her strength and loves that sense of defiance she still shows. She has to decide. Either she acquiesces or she goes back to her cold bed sheets to finish this alone. She realizes the choice she has: to be weak, to be humiliated, to do what he says, just as he wants, or to push it away just as she does everything else, denying herself all the pleasures of life. "P-please," she finally stammers, flushing red for an entirely different reason. Her stomach sinks immediately. "Good girl." It's back to that soft, lilting tone again, which chills her more if anything. It's lovely, he muses, simply wonderful-- she's warm, and ready, and pliable. He hums something softly, not quite a tune, but satisfied still with the work he's done so far. She's enticing in her own way and even the loose-fitting pants he'd donned for her evening are getting stuffy. But not yet. There are other matters to attend to, which is why he coaxes her out of his lap and onto her back on the bed. She looks up at him, confused and just a bit of that spark back in her eyes, that defiant look that says she's not just going to let this go if he leaves her here cold. The best part is that he knows she'll follow through on all those unspoken threats, if he so much as thinks about stopping. It yanks a little of the control away from him, of course, but the back-and-forth is the fun part, and he can regain the upper hand easily enough. All it takes is a hand sliding up from her ankle, across the underside of her calf, lifting her knee to where he can easily lean in and leave a feather-light kiss. That's the sweet spot that has her shutting her eyes tightly, pushing her head back into the pillow, gripping at the sheets. That's it, he knows, and he lingers there all that much longer for it, but there's only so much he can delay before those kisses start trailing up the inside of her thigh, until he can hook her knees over his shoulders. If he hadn't toyed with her enough already, he might have stopped just to see if he could get her to beg some more. There would be other times for that, but of course there were his own needs to eventually tend to. And who was he to hold back when he could feel her heat, with her scent caught up in his senses? All things in due time, after all. Goodness knew how much longer they had left here in Atia for them to experiment. Or moreover, for him to play with her, his new little toy, his pet. She's waiting in anticipation, feeling his breath, his presence, so close. It's when his tongue flicks out the first time, then a second and third time, oh so briefly, that her grip on the sheets tightens and-- there it is, that inevitable utterance of hers, a small squeak, muffled but still audible. She hates that she does it, but has little time to continue that thought as his tongue lingers a little longer, tracing unidentified shapes against her as her muscles tighten and her toes curl. Her breath hitches, catches in her throat, and she struggles to catch, but then just as soon as she's caught it again, she tenses further, tighter, straining to keep from bucking up towards him-- And then it's done, as she shudders with a wash of hot pleasure that leaves her incomprehensible for a good several seconds before she relaxes and sinks back into the bed, spent and satisfied as he lays several more kisses on the inside of her thighs. She opens one eye first, then other to see him sitting up, brushing his bottom lip with the back of his hand before he eases her legs off his shoulders, situating her knees to either side of him again. She could have him in the palm of her hand if she so wanted to, if she had the mind to, but he knows that-- at least tonight-- he's won their game, and so it's time to claim his reward. He makes his move, once he's shirked those pesky pants, moving fluidly, with no real sense of urgency. It's not his style, after all, and because he knows she wants it just as much, he takes it slowly. He starts just below her navel, training his tongue up the center of her body, until he reaches her neck where he kisses and bites possessively. When she brings her hands to his shoulders, he pauses, backing up a little, catching her eyes. She's gazing up at him rather intently, and he's glad to see that she still has that fire that he so enjoys. His trademark smirk tugs at the corner of his lips again, and she mirrors it in a muted manner. Taking her hands in his, he gently pulls them from where they've come to rest, kissing at her wrist delicately. His gentility is short lived; just as quickly, he pins her wrists to either side of her head, the surprise causing her to breathe in sharply, uttering a little yelp in the process. She's startled but not altogether surprised; still, she's given little time to protest as his lips press against hers for a real kiss. She strains, caught off guard, her instincts kicking in, before she settles back down into the bed again. She's had her turn, now it's his-- even she understands this. How little of a fight she puts up is her silent approval, but still he hesitates just a second. When she puts her legs around his, however, there's no more doubt, and no more hesitation either. He relinquishes his grip on her wrists so that he can brace the both of them for when he pushes forward. She's warm and wet around him, as he presses into her, as far as he can go, and it's his turn to take several deep breaths, recomposing himself. So few things cause him to lose composure, and the most animalistic of human acts are among them-- even so, this is much more of an exception than anything else is. Their bodies entwine in a slow rhythm, striking contrast against each other, with his tanned skin against her creamy complexion, and the way he brushes some of her blond hair out of her face so that he can kiss at her forehead, while her hand tangles in his dark curls. Her other hand grips at his back now, digging her fingers into his skin. He's not complaining, instead retaliating with longer, more forceful strokes, and that in turn makes her grip him tighter. Together the sound a chorus of heavy breathing, soft moans, drawn-out groans as they move together, slowly tonight if only because that's what he feels like and she's not one to complain. He takes the time, even as he thrusts forward, pulls back, repeats the movement over and over, to whisper nothings into her ear in his native tongue; she accepts it, leans her head into his whenever he does. She loves it, every second of it, even if the words mean nothing to her. The pleasure is nowhere near as intense as hers when he finally finishes, as entirely expected, but it has its own charms, in the way that, even in her submission, she pulls him close to take all of him and keep him there as he does. But it's the process that's the most satisfying part. This is just finishing up to save some unwanted annoyance later. Simply getting her to submit-- that's what's most gratifying. That's the game, the game of control, of domination and submission. Eventually, though, he rolls off of her onto the bed, and she sighs contentedly. She drags herself into a half sitting position as he gropes around on the side table, nearly knocking the lighter onto the floor as he grabs for it and the pack of cigarettes underneath, pulling one out and lighting up. She gives him a critical look as he does so, and he just smiles back. Speaking without words now, as sometimes happens, she's more than clear about her displeasure, but it doesn't stop her-- after he's taken a long drag and exhaled-- from stealing it from his hand and taking a drag herself. She's not nearly as adept, and it's an awkward action for her that leaves her coughing just a bit as she hands it back to him. It's cute, really, and he can't help but laugh. She only pouts. There isn't much to say, so for a long while they both lay there, and eventually she comes to be propped up against the headboard with the help of a few pillows, taking his head into her lap as he lays there, moving only to take another draw off his cigarette-- she doesn't try to steal it again. The air fills with hazy smoke as she toys with his hair, running her fingers through it, curling it around her index finger. Eventually, she turns to lightly tracing the marks on his forehead with one finger, which only elicits a confused look from him, tilting his head back into her lap to look up at her better. Now it's her turn to smile, although hers is much less mischievous. It's calm, loving even, if looked at in just the right light. "You never tell me about yourself." It's an astute observation, as it's something he's very much done on purpose. Before answering her question, he reaches over to deposit the mostly-spent cigarette butt in the tray on the bedside table, before getting comfortable again. She's still looking on intently when he does, expecting some sort of answer either way. Really, he's unsure of what to say to her that will appease her without chasing her off. Women are fickle like that. "Well," he starts, as that expectant look starts to turn annoyed, "maybe tomorrow, hmm?" To complete the act he yawns emphatically; she's convinced. She smiles again, sighing in feigned annoyance, but still she shifts him out of her lap, so that she can get up and turn the lights out. Her bed is bigger, but it's warm and comfortable in here, so she slips under the covers and with a lot of awkward wiggling, he joins her there. She cuddles up close and there's only a second of hesitation before he drapes an arm around her. The whole picture is a little too perfect, for the both of them. He's too good, she thinks; she's doesn't know what she's getting into, he thinks. But to anyone else it might seem like a happy little partnership, if not a little unconventional. One thing is clear, though: for as long as they play this game of manipulation, for as long as he holds the upper hand, she'll be his little pet-- and she'll be content with it.