You hate him for doing this to you. When you lay here, satiated in every possible way, and laying under his sweaty arm. You hate the "after" because it leaves you to wonder such things as why you have dreams about him shoving you up against a wall and rubbing against you through your clothes until you come. Why he takes every time you say "I hate you" and turns it into "I love you". Why you are doing this with the challenger for your spot of the Tenth's Right-Hand Man instead of propositioning the Tenth himself. Why you wish he would kiss you more often. And, most importantly, why you are the one on the bottom.

You usually wait for him to fall asleep before leaving, but today you have a headache that even sex won't assuage and all the questions that keep buzzing in your head aren't making it any better. Throwing off his heavy, muscled arm, you sit up and reach around for your underwear.

"Where're you going?" he asks quietly in that horribly low and melodious voice of his. It makes your back stiffen as you hold back from returning to the warm sheets.

"Away," you snarl in reply, and the angry words release your body and remind it of what it is supposed to be doing. Pants, belt, shirt, sweater - all the dynamite is just where you left it. He doesn't say anything more until you're pulling your shoes on at the door. You hadn't realized he had followed you out of the bedroom, so when he speaks you jump.

"Why are you so scared of enjoying this?" he asks, and you think to yourself: "Yet another time when Yamamoto has got the situation all wrong."

Instead, you say: "Why, why, why?! I don't know why! I'm horny, you're available, what's the problem?!"

And you make the mistake of looking back at him over your shoulder and although he is completely, gloriously naked, it is not that that catches your eye. It is the sad, defeated look on his face. A little thought wormed its way into your head. "Would it really be that bad?"

And when you falter he steps forward, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his face against your neck.

"What are you running away from?" his hot breath against your skin makes you shiver. You choke on your snide answer and he slowly pulls back enough to turn you around. When you look straight ahead you are looking only at his collarbones, and you have to look up to look into his eyes. You hate that with a kind of vague, detached feeling, as if it doesn't really matter any more.

He slides his fingers around your neck and holds you chin in place before kissing you. He's not a fantastic kisser, too enthusiastic at the best of times, but even just the touch of his lips is enough to set a maelstrom of pleasure whirling in your stomach. He slides fingers into your hair and your hands slide over his skin, slicked by the sweat that is beginning to dry.

"I want to be with you," he whispers huskily and you try and act haughty even though you already know you've lost. He smiles without you even saying anything and starts kissing your throat instead, making you groan and slide your hands into his short black hair.

All those questions fly out of your mind as he falls to his knees and looks up at your in benediction. Somehow, he has always had a more realistic view of the situation than you; he always knew you would never go.