A vignette.

Who knows if the actual story will ever be written. Right now this is pretty much just pointless PWP.

This is not for kidlets. Approaches heavy R, though steers well clear of NC-17. I could never write a full-on sex scene. --yikes!--

This takes place when they're older, and Natsume (in this story, assuming that it ever sees the light of day) has defected and is even more angst-ridden than before. Deliciously so. Ruka-pyon's floating around out there in the story-ether, as well, but right now I can't see him interfering.

Oh, and ignore the very obviously OOC Mikan.


Whatever he'd been expecting, it HADN'T been to turn into the embrace of this damnable little girl.

"It's scary here! Please, let's go! Please!" He'd already lifted his hands to push her away, but he found himself freezing suddenly, the tips of his fingers grazing the fabric of her uniform on either side of her hips. She had pressed into him in desperation, unconsciously molding herself to him, her face buried in the space between the bottom of his chin and the top of his collarbone, the frantic pattern of her warm breath stirring the tiny hairs on the back of his neck to life. More than anything, though, was what she was saying, in a voice at once desperate and broken. "I'll do anything, anything you want, Natsume, please, please let's get out of here..." He was burning, and he hadn't summoned his Alice.

Everywhere, everywhere she was, he was on fire, and it was almost unbearable. She shouldn't be saying those things, and making him think these things, not NOW, at such a time!

"Shut up." He whispered, his hands inert at her sides. He wouldn't touch her --he couldn't--

"Natsume, please...I'll stop smiling and I'll --I'll --I'll...I'll quit and go home and I just wanna get away from here...please...please..." Gods, he hated her so much...and she wouldn't stop crying! It was easy to respond with ire to her smiles, to rebuff her when she was trying so hard to win everyone's approval, to callously dismiss her sincere affability and honest nature as duplicity and deceit. But these tears...

"I said shut up." How could she not be neutralizing this heat? Wasn't it burning her alive? Wasn't it painful? HE was struggling to temper it, and it was HIS Alice.

"...just wanna go..."

When had he--?!

"I said, shut up."

What on earth was he--?!



"Baka..." Somehow, in the course of the past few moments, he had maneuvered her backward so that she was sandwiched uncomfortably between himself and the wall, had angled her chin upward so that he could watch her, watch the pain, the fright, the drastic change of expression from those hated smiles. He was disgusted and enthralled by how fascinated he found himself by her tears. She was so strong, so eager to be liked, so thoughtlessly consumed by making everyone else happy and still somehow blithely, obliviously, impossibly happy herself. She had no right to be so happy when he couldn't be. This is how he liked her; twisted with fear and desperation, weak and clingy and helpless. One hand still anchored firmly underneath her chin as she cried and only gradually realized what was happening, he fought to control the heat he was sure would devour the both of them as his other hand, entirely of its own volition, found the flesh of her thigh just beneath the hem of her skirt.

Lightly, experimentally, unconsciously, he applied pressure, and then ignored her squeak of surprise. Ignored it in favor of watching her features transform again, this time in abject disbelief and bewilderment, and somehow still with fear.

Good, he thought. This is how it should be. She SHOULD be afraid of him, and should rightfully have been from the start.

"What are you doing to me..." He whispered, and was vaguely surprised that his voice didn't waver. Sniffling and panting softy and still crying, though less freely now, she opened her mouth to speak, to ask him, perhaps, what the hell he thought he was doing. But he was in no mood to indulge her, and instead relocated the hand on her chin to the back of her neck, his thumb wrapping underneath her ear for a better grip, and he pulled her head forward, so close to his own as he leaned down to meet hers that her breath ghosted delicately, haltingly, across his lips. He was still watching her carefully, as she tried not to go cross-eyed, tried to decipher the doubtlessly unreadable expression on his own face.

This wasn't right...

There was still fear there in those large brown eyes, but it was less pronounced and, he was beginning to suspect, not there because of him; confusion was winning over everything else. Shouldn't she be even MORE terrified of him now? Her Alice nullified his fire, but was otherwise ineffective as a tool of protection, and when it came down to it, he was bigger and stronger and vastly more malicious and could overpower her in little to no time at all. Why wasn't she frantic? Why wasn't she squirming to get away from him, to escape this stifling heat? Why was there only a question there in her gaze, and not horror?

The fingers on the back of her thigh were moving again without his consent, skittering delicately across smooth skin and then lifting for better purchase, hooking underneath her knee and securing that one long white leg around his waist. She choked on whatever she had been about to say, and it escaped through her lips as a strangled whimper, which trembled softly on his mouth. He shuffled forward again, minutely, and tried to speak, struggled to find words with which to do so.

"I hate your smile so much...Sakura..." He didn't --couldn't-- understand what made his stomach coil like that when initial shock at the familiarity melted into something...something so...warm. She was...even now...even though half a minute ago she was losing her mind with panic and frantic to escape...just using her name had made her...happy?

Because suddenly she was smiling, softly, wanly, weakly, but in an instant, there it was, the herald of her strength, the symbol of her person, the one thing he could not stand.

And he knew he had to take it from her, once and for all, so, with a sharp growl that had her flinching back and the smile slipping, he separated the distance between them and devoured it like a man starved and dying. His tongue fought its way into her mouth as quickly as he could manage to coax it open, and he disregarded her squealed protests in light of pillaging that gods-be-damned thing that had started all this trouble in the first place. If only she hadn't smiled so much, if only she wasn't so obliviously thoughtful, if only she had ducked her head and stayed out of the way...

He was being so rough with her, and he didn't care. He was sure she must have been having difficulty breathing, from the exertion of their mouths and also from being pushed so heavily against such an unyielding surface. The hand behind her head was gripping painfully now, some fingers tangled thoughtlessly in her hair, the others abusing the delicate flesh of her neck and face. His other hand, meanwhile, had (decidedly this time) found its way to the inside of her thigh, underneath her skirt, where he was massaging the skin none-too-gently. She continued to make pathetic noises, and he continued to ignore them. If anything, the tiny sounds only made him more eager to ruin her. To see her despair again, like him. But then...

He touched her, almost tenderly, almost hesitantly, and he pulled his head away from hers just in time to watch her brown, brown eyes snap open with surprise and...and...


When had she started to enjoy herself? Why hadn't he realized that she...

"Fuck..." He growled eloquently, his head tipping forward and his vision blurring as her hips bucked forward once, violently. Fleetingly, insanely, he wondered if she'd done it on purpose, and then he forgot everything altogether because the only thing he could see were those large eyes and that small, round mouth.

He heard her sigh somewhere in the back of his mind, felt tiny hands appearing timidly on either side of his face, touching, delicately stroking, setting him on fire. He ground into her once, twice, and leaned in close to her face to listen to those sounds he now lived to hear again. Her hands were lost in his hair, gripping painfully when she seemed finally to realize that that was him against her core, and pulled him down again to kiss him. He obliged her wildly, without a second thought, as his hands busied themselves with her legs, the skirt around her waist, the belt and pants around his, those fucking polka-dot panties --Gods. This girl was going to burn him up and kill him.

"Sakura..." This couldn't be real. This girl astride him, doing these things, making these infuriating, maddening sounds, this girl could not be the obnoxiously and obstinately happy girl he hated. He was dreaming. He had always and never wanted to like her, to hold her, to love her.

"Na-Natsume..." He snapped back to attention at his name, pushed her curious, questing hands away from him, kissed her once, tenderly.

"You've always been mine." He said, and she met his eyes with a glassy, far-away expression of lazy contentment. Had she always looked this beautiful?

"Natsume--" She looked as if she were about to protest.

"Shut up. Don't make me repeat myself."

Wanna know a secret?

Natsume's delerious. Not everything that just happened is actually happening. Drag? Meh.

(I'm sorry to have ended it here, by the by, but it just got silly after this, and unless it gets woven into the fabric of the Fic That Shall Never Be Written, I'm not sure this ficlet will ever have a proper ending.


Apologies and such.)

Equestrian Ewoks Engender Egalitarian Entropy. ( --Drugs Are Bad.)