If this makes sense, you weren\'t paying attention.

Disclaimer: I did not have sex with that woman. Oh wait, this is a fanfic... Nevermind.
I don\'t own Love Hina. And the lUcky bastard that does if filthy stinkin\' rich, probably.

Warning: God, didn\'t your parents teach you anything? I\'m not warning you anymore.

Yeah, I know it\'s been a long time since my last update. Sorry. I just couldn\'t get the scene with Motoko started. I\'m still not happy with it.




Inaphrel frowned to himself. “Kendo-ka ga, kendo-ka no youni furumawanakucha ikemasen.”

Kendoists should act like kendoists.


Motoko chased after the retreating shadow. Her opponent leapt high into a tree. The kendo mistress reared back and shot out a Rock Splitting Wave. There was the screech of splitting wood. A symphony of cracks played, the branches snapping away as the tree fell. The shadow, not prepared for the tree to just up and fall, landed unceremoniously on his ass.

A pair of eyes, glaring at her in blatant fury, gleamed from behind the ninja mask. Motoko remained in her on-guard position. The ninja stood up, brushing off his rump.

“Are you done trying to kill me, Aoyama?” he asked in a familiar voice. Keitaro then pulled off his mask, exposing his face to the world.

Motoko felt her jaw drop. Only sheer pride kept her from standing in one spot dumbfounded. “Urashima? What are you doing, running around in the night like a ninja?”

He gave her an ‘oh please’ look. “Because I AM a ninja, fucktard. Why else do you think it took me so long to get into Todai? I run a dorm, get chased around by my tenants, and get sent out on night raids. Not much time for studying.”

The kendoist glared at her landlord even harder. “Night raids? Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know where a pervert like you goes at night.”

“So, we’re back to that,” grumbled Keitaro. He was no longer scowling. Instead, his eyes had become flecks of blue-black ice. “I can’t win with you, can I? Everything I do is perverted in your eyes.”

“That’s because you ARE perverted. You sex-minded fool, always trying to sneak in a peek on the girls.”

“Aoyama,” he said in a calm voice, “if I want to see a naked woman, I’ll go to a whorehouse.”

“See! There! You’re not just a pervert, you’re depraved!”

“‘Those in glass houses should not throw stones.’ Or in this case, ‘That which declaims the most imperfections, is in itself most flawed.’”

“What are you babbling about?” Aoyama huffed.

“You’re a kendoist. Surely you’ve heard a Zen riddle or two. Figure it out Aoyama, I know you can do it,” patronized Keitaro.

Motoko’s screech was deafening. “WHAT!”

“Come off it, Aoyama. I say good morning to Shinobu, I’m a pervert. Narusegawa walks in on me in the bath, I’m a pervert. Mitsune the fox-demon sexually harasses ME, and I’m the pervert.

“Face it, Aoyama, everything with you comes down to sex.”

“No it doesn’t! I never allow myself to think about such disgusting things.”

“There you go again! ‘The lady doth protest too much’ and all that.”

“Shut up!” she screamed, trying to wrap the last scraps of dignity or denial around her. But Keitaro wouldn’t allow her, verbally tearing her covering away, leaving her exposed.

“You can’t take the face that you have hormones and desires just like everyone else.”

“It’s not true!”

“You hide behind this false purity, claiming you have nothing to hide…”

“No!”

“…when in fact, you are just as much a sexual creature as any of the rest of us.”

Her sword clattered in the dust. “Stop it!” Motoko seized her ears, hoping to shut out the sound of his voice. But his violating words reached her just the same.

“You’re afraid. You’re afraid of your own feelings. And you run around, covering up that fear with anger. And then you go and direct that anger at anyone and everyone.”

“SHUUUT UUUP!”

Keitaro smiled a shark’s smile. “Tell me Aoyama, why are you always so angry with me? Why do you always accuse me of being a pervert and no one else? Is it just simply misandronistic tendencies? Or is it something else?” Despite the distance between them, he seemed to whisper in her ear. “Is it because you want to jump my bones?”

Even a tiger can kill an elephant. Even a straw can break a camel’s back.

Snatching her blade from the dust, Motoko rushed at Keitaro. She wanted his head. She wanted it on a silver platter. The blade was swung. She could see it, descending for his neck, ready to slide through the sinew and bone, open up his blood vessels, before rending its way out the other side.

But Keitaro dodged. A small, insignificant hop backwards. Motoko swore she saw his flesh ripple from the wind caused by the sword’s tip. Recovering, the heir to the Aoyama sword school twisted her blade around and swung again. Keitaro put one foot behind him, shifting on his hips. The katana dragged harmlessly against his shirt before biting the dirt.

Two strikes. Each one, dodged in the last ‘setsuna.’ Each one, dodged in the last seventy-fifth of a second. Each one, dodged by a paper’s breadth.

Motoko screeched. Her arsenal was brought out in full. Nothing was spared. Even the pinnacle techniques were used. Keitaro grinned. Her arsenal was of no use. Nothing hit. Even the pinnacle techniques were dodged.

She began to roar. Motoko’s lungs were on fire, her battle training having given way to pure rage. Her anger had pushed her beyond capacity for words. She had been reduced to snarling. Motoko heaved her body into the air. Her sword was brought up, intent on cleaving downward, and wiping away Keitaro Urashima in a smear of blood and bone.

Keitaro gazed at her with eyes colder than a winter sky. He backhanded her descending blade, with the same absentmindedness a bull would snort away a fly. The sword snapped. Keitaro jabbed the kendoist’s throat.

And Motoko’s world exploded in pain.

There was a pulsing in her throat, keeping in time with the horrid pounding in her head. She gasped for air, desperately trying to get more oxygen into her lungs. But this only made the stabbing pain in her throat grow worse. What little air she had whooshed out her mouth. This brought more pain, causing more air to escape, causing more pain, continuing on and on in a downward spiral until Motoko was afraid she’d black out.

Sky and ground, up and down. What were these? These words had lost all meaning to Motoko. The world had vanished, her eyes stopped seeing, her ears stopped hearing. Only the pain remained.

When that agony finally faded, she was strapped down. Her legs were tied open at a rude angle. She pulled on the bonds. The rope creaked, and the knots tightened, but didn’t give. Straining even further, she felt blood run down her wrists.

“Don’t even bother. Not a chance in hell you’re getting out.”

Motoko turned her head to see Keitaro standing just inside her field of vision. She tried to burn him to death with her stare. The effect was ruined by her blush, caused by the sight of Keitaro’s… oaken staff.

Not caring that he was naked, the dorm manager paced around his captive several times, finally coming to a stop and kneeling over her head. Motoko glared into his eyes, blushing again at the fact she had to look past the one-eyed monk to do so.

Lightly, Keitaro cupped her cheek. “Before we begin, I want you to know one little detail. What I’m about to do is about revenge, not sex.”

She stammered out a question as he stood up. “Wh-what you’re about to do? What’s that?”

“What a squeaky voice,” he said leeringly, “Maybe you need a little grease in that voice box?” At this, he shook his penis in a lewd gesture. “I just thought that if you’re going to go running around calling me a pervert, I might as well live up to the name.”

He let the meaning of those words sink in. “They’ll… They’ll kill you, Urashima!”

“I’m ninja, Aoyama,” snorted Keitaro, “I’ve got a lotta people wanting to kill me. And frankly, your clan’s methods of execution are tame compared to those of the yakuza or Triads.”

“I meant Narusegawa. And Su, and everyone else they’ll hunt you down and kill you make you beg for mercy.”

“Quit trying to reassure yourself, Aoyama. I can disappear like you wouldn’t believe. By the time they pull themselves together, even the Keitaro-tracking radar won’t be able to find me.”

He began stalking toward his prey, affecting a parody of a seductress’s rolling hips. Motoko close her eyes away from the sight, concentrating inward. She began to recite the sacred Hannya Shin Kyo to herself, forcing her breathing to calm.

“Form is Emptiness; and Emptiness is Form,”

Nude knees struck the ground between her thighs. She flinched away.

“Emptiness is not different from Form; Form is not different from Emptiness,”

A muscular chest brushed against her breasts. Motoko jolted, then pushed herself to continue.

“What is Form—that is Emptiness;”

Hot breath blew over her face. Whimpering, the kendoist went on.

“What is Emptiness—that is Form,”

Her tongue tried to wet her lips. Trying to hold the tears back, Motoko bit her bottom lip.

“Keep going,” whispered a voice in her ear, before kissing the lobe, “it’s my favorite sutra.”

“…P-per-perception, n-name, concept, and… and…”

“…and knowledge.”

“And knowledge, are also emptiness. …There is no eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind.”

A moist tongue gently licked away a tear from her face. Motoko felt herself smiling.

Traditional kendo clothes consist of a kimono whose skirts are divided down the front, and the manpei pants that are divided along the sides. The manpei are secured only by a strap tied on the right side, and these in turn hold apart the kimono. This arrangement allows for almost limitless flexibility while maintaining the modesty of the kendoist. It was easy for Keitaro to undo the straps, and fold down the manpei. Then, it was even easier to spread the kimono, leaving Motoko exposed to the night.

The kendo girl felt her nipples crinkle erect, drawing a gasp from her.

Keitaro’s deliciously wet mouth latched onto her breast. Motoko jerked up, driving even more of her chest toward his tongue. She then seemed to remember she wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this, because she slammed back down to the earth.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you perverted freak!” she roared at him.

“Finish the damn sutra, Aoyama,” growled Urashima around her nipple. His teeth scissored painfully into flesh, underscoring his command.

Whimpering again, but in a different way this time, she complied. “…But when the consciousness had been annihilated,”

Keitaro was ruthlessly pumping more and more spit onto her nipple.

“Then she becomes free from all fear,”

He pulled his mouth away, letting the cold night air strike his spit. Motoko gasped at the feeling.

“Ah! ah, aaah… aaand beyond the reach of change,”

Here, Keitaro placed his burning, throbbing penis against her clit.

“Ah! Hah! Hah. hah…,” gasped Aoyama, each ‘hah’ actually a sudden escaping of her breath. “En…Enjoying final Nirvana!” she rushed out, finishing the sutra.

His body pulled away from hers. Motoko moaned in disappointment.

Violently shaking her head, she glared at Keitaro. “Quit messing with my head, Urashima!”

He smiled wickedly. “My dear, if you really hated it, no amount of foreplay in the world could get you hot. And yet,”—he curved one hand around her honeypot—“this tells me everything.”

“I-It’s a natural reaction!”

Keitaro stared at her. Then he actually fell over laughing. “Oh god that’s funny!” he cried between guffaws. “That’s truly rich! Ah! I think I’m going to wet myself!” The man managed to get control of himself, straightening up. “How many times did I tell you that, Aoyama, and you never believed me? This is just too perfect.”

Motoko watched him stalk over to her again. His hand descended to her crotch. Her hips jerked. Toward the hand.

“Oh my. I was just kidding, Aoyama. But it looks like you really do want it.”

Two fingers dug into her. Motoko cried out. Her eyes closed of themselves, squeezing shut against the pleasure.

The fingers disappeared. Motoko was left struggling for breath, staring blankly at the sky, and feeling oddly empty.

Something warm and wet smeared against her anus. Her head shot up, looking down at her… at Keitaro. As she watched, he moved his hands again to her dripping slit, plunged in two fingers again, before bringing them to her rectum to smear all over the rosebud there.

Slip!

“Aaaah!” One of those wonderfully long fingers was straight up her ass. It swiveled around and around, flexing, depositing its load of lubricant all over.

He lifted her hips.

“What are you doing?” Motoko was burning up from the heat. She wouldn’t be surprised if her nipples popped right off, they were so tight. There was a pleasurable knot of pressure centered on her womb.

He gave her a gentle smile. “Sorry, Motoko. I said this was revenge, right? Try not to enjoy this too much.” With that, he thrust forward…

…Right into her anus.

“HOOOLY SHIT!” And it was. It felt like she had to take the world’s biggest dump. But it was as hot and unbending as fresh-forged steel. Following natural instinct, the sodomized girl tried to force the offending organ out of herself.

A groan drew her attention back to her—let’s not pussyfoot around!—her rapist-lover. Keitaro’s eyes were unfocused, his mouth slack. Motoko grinned. She tried to push him out again. This time, Keitaro’s eyes literally crossed from the sensations.

“Maybe I’m the one in charge here,” she teased.

Keitaro growled. “I’ll show you charge.” He pulled back and thrust in hard. Pain and pleasure shot from her violated backdoor. It washed upwards along her spine. The overflow splashed out into her stomach. Motoko gasped.

The ninja didn’t give her a chance to recover. He pounded like a blacksmith at his anvil. “How’s. That. For. Charge? How. Do. You. Like. That?” he ground out, each word punctuated by his quivering manhood slamming home.

The kendoist dragged herself free from the fire in her nerves. Desperate, she focused on her anal contractions. The balance of pleasure and pain shifted a little more toward pain, but it was obviously driving Keitaro up the wall.

Keitaro’s stomach was dragging along the bottom of her vagina with each thrust, but that soon wasn’t enough. Motoko relaxed for a few strokes, timing him. Then she set up a counterstroke, dragging her slit down his stomach for every stroke of his.

“Damn. It. I. Told. You. Not. To. Enjoy. It.”

“Sh…aah! Sh-shut up! Oh!” Motoko strained at her ropes again. Not to get away, but to reach down there and rub at her boiling self.

It was hovering so close. So close she could almost taste it already. Like a ray of sunshine beyond the thunderstorm. It was just over the horizon! So what if it was Keitaro who gave her this? If he could do this with his dick up her ass, what the hell could he do if he was trying? She was getting nearer. It was almost…

Keitaro gave a final grunt and shoved himself deep inside her bum. He quivered, pulsed, and pulled out.

“GODDAMMIT! God damn you! I was so fucking close!”

He displayed his teeth in a lopsided smirk. “Not my problem.”

“You bastard!” she roared and lunged at him.

And shot upright from her futon. Urashima was gone. Blinking, the kendo girl looked around. Yes, this was her room. There was her sword, there was her chest of drawers, there was Su. But no Keitaro.

“A dream? But such vividness. Was it a vision?”

Dawn was already breaking in this part of the world. Aoyama changed quickly, going outside to work off some of her frustrations.

A dream, yes, but she still hadn’t gotten off.


A familiar head popped up from the floor after. Inaphrel quickly checked the banana girl to make sure she was still dead to the world. This was achieved with the most advanced form of magical and technological capabilities available to him.

He poked her with a sharp stick. A magic stick, but still a stick.

Satisfied, he floated up the rest of the way out of the floorboards. Now where did he put that dreamcrystal? Oh, of course it would be on the opposite end of the room.

Soft arms encircled his leg.

“Banana…” Guess who just grabbed him.

Inaphrel sagged. “Goddammit.”


Tama jumped as lightning struck the roof. The hot springs turtle blinked, rubbed its eyes, and looked at where the strike had hit.

‘When he gets back, tell Inaphrel not to use my name in vain.
-Kami-sama.’

Eyes wide, Tama nodded.



Author\'s Notes: i have no idea where the bit with the Hannya Shin Kyo came from. i just pulled it out my ass. Sad part is, that\'s probably the most erotic scene i\'ve ever written. God i suck!

And this was supposed to be dark, not waffy! Oh well, that\'s what i get of listening to Santana while i write. It always puts me in a good mood. Next time, i listen to Puddle of Mudd or Papa Roach. Wait, i don\'t own any Papa Roach. Oh well.

Okay, time to be serious for a minute. i have a severe problem with Motoko\'s behavior in the anime. Think about it: she is a trained martial artist, high level, and regularly uses a sword.

Martial arts, every martial art style, is the culmination of all the previous masters\' lives\'s work. Every practictioner of the style carries with him or her the honor of all those past masters. And, in more practicle terms, a martial art is nothing but a systematic way of killing people. Even the relatively gentle arts like judo or aikido can be fatal if used improperly.

Now let\'s look at Motoko. She regularly beats on Keitaro for the slightest provokation. And often with live steel in hand! Martial arts is about control of your body and emotions. Yet, Motoko displays none. More to the point, as a martial artist, Motoko is a lethal weapon. Not just her sword; Motoko herself.
In short, every time Motoko beats the shit out of Keitaro, she is not only spitting on the memory of all those masters who came before her, but she is also committing assault with a deadly weapon.

On a more personal note, i don\'t see how she can so callously beat on Keitaro like that. i am only a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and i wouldn\'t go around doing crap like that. i\'m paranoid of killing someone accidentally. It\'s easier to do than you might think. Motoko chases the dude with a drawn sword. i wouldn\'t even draw a sword if someone could conceiveably get hurt with it.

i guess what i\'m trying to say is, don\'t be like Motoko. If you have a weapon, be it a gun, a sword, or even your fists, don\'t draw it unless you plan to flat kill someone right there. And don\'t plan to kill someone unless you are absolutely prepared beyond a shadow of a doubt to deal with the consequences of doing so.

Rant over.