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Tug-of-War	By : thewriterwhocameinfromthecold Category: +G to L > Love Hina Views: 57788 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 6
Disclaimer: I do not own Love Hina or it's associated characters. I am not profiting off this work in any way.

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
Keitaro sipped his tea as he contemplated the trigonometry functions on his desk – or rather avoided working on them. Studying was much harder without Naru to help him. Granted, it wasn’t easy with her around either on account of both his general lack of skill and the way Naru’s presence often left him in a halfway state of arousal. It had been a week since their date to the karaoke lounge, and Naru had largely been businesslike since then. Not that she had been unaffectionate. In fact she had taken to giving him a kiss whenever he solved a difficult problem during their study sessions, but as she’d promised him at karaoke, the clothes stay on until he decided otherwise.
On a Saturday night such as this – when Keitaro was buried up to his neck in studying (an academic capstone to a week devoted almost entirely to studying) and he knew full well that the streets were just full of people out there without a care in the world all having a better time than he – Keitaro was sorely tempted to abandon his squeamishness and take everything that she offered. He wouldn’t have long to wait. Once Naru finished cleaning up the dinner plates, she was planning to study in her own room tonight. They’d agreed that they should have at least one night a week free from distractions.
Or rather, she’d said, “It’s easier to study when I’m not fighting to keep my hands off you,” and kissed him while she slid his hand under her shirt. At that point he would have agreed with anything she told him.
Still, the events of the last couple days suggested that after a week of studying, she wouldn’t be too upset if he knocked on her door. Should he take her in his arms or would that be too forceful? Oh, what the hell? It was a fantasy, so what did it matter? Yes, he’d take her in his arms and kiss her like she was that first drink of water after a week in the desert. Keitaro sighed as he imagined burying his nose in her ginger tresses. He inhaled deeply.
Then he noticed it: the spicy, musky scent wafting under his nose that put him in mind of passages from those books of his; ones that spoke of quick forbidden couplings in dark corners; of tantalising trysts on silk sheets and love drunk with lust. So, it was mild surprise and not shock that ran through him when a pair of silky smooth hands clapped over his eyes before he could open them and pulled him back against a warm pillowy softness.
“Guess who,” whispered a voice restraining giggles.
A week ago, Keitaro would have flung himself to the other side of the room, but a week of living with women so open in their affections was teaching him to tolerate being touched. After the week he had had, a part of him practically demanded it. Determined to enjoy while he could, he nestled a little deeper into his assailant’s chest.
“Koyuki Kato?” he guessed with a smile.
She giggled. “Nope.”
Keitaro hummed, pretending to think as he inhaled deeply, savouring the warm scent.
“Gong Lee?”
“Prettier.”
“Junko Noda?”
“Getting warmer.”
“Well…” Keitaro pretended to struggle. “I guess then it must be you, Kitsune.”
The hands that had covered his eyes caressed his cheeks.
“However did you guess?” Kitsune asked, planting a smooch on the top of his head.
He shrugged, not brave enough say that it had been the size of her breasts against his head.
Kitsune wrapped her arms around his shoulders and learned forward to look over his shoulder.
“Whatcha doin’?” she asked.
Grateful to hold on to her warmth a little longer, Keitaro smiled as he nodded at his desk.
“Trig,” he said, and nearly groaned at the loss of Kitsune when she let him go to reach around him and grab his papers off the desk.
“Not tonight, you’re not,” she declared in officious tone.
Keitaro would have happily seen the back of mathematics for the rest of his life, but his work ethic made him protest, only to be silenced with a wave of Kitsune’s finger.
“No excuses. After a whole week cooped up here, I am determined to save you from yourself. Come on, get up,” she said, tugging his arm.
“Where are we going?” he asked, rising to his feet.
“I’m kidnapping you,” she said with a giggle. “You’re my hostage, so you have to do what I tell you until the end of the night, got it?”
“What about Naru?”
Indeed, what about Naru. In the back of Keitaro’s mind, he felt guilt for even being this comfortable with Kitsune. Over the course of the week, he’d tried to confess to Naru what had occurred between Kitsune and him; but every time he came close to bringing up the subject, Naru would ask him a question or challenge him with a difficult exam problem, and he’d lose his nerve. Why was he so pathetic?
If Kitsune was offended by the mention of Naru, the only sign was a falter in her stride, there one minute and gone the next.
“Don’t worry about her,” she said without turning or releasing his arm. “We’ll take her next time, but tonight it’s just you and I. Unless,” here she turned and pouted, “you don’t want to spend time with me?”
Keitaro felt his wheels begin to slip at her forlorn face. “No, of course I d…”
Kitsune smiled and cut him off with a kiss that he felt all the way to his toes.
“Good. Now hurry, we’ve got a train to catch.”
Then she led him out the back way just to make sure that none of the other girls saw them and had a chance to interfere. The conversation was light as she led him down to the train station, arm in arm. He talked about his studies, and she surprised him when she mentioned she was writer. The strangeness of Keitaro’s situation hit him for the thousandth time as he realized how intimate and unknown his relationships with Kitsune and Naru both were. It was like everything was going in reverse. While it bothered him, it only made him more determined to get to know these girls who had in so short a time become so central to his life. So he was delighted as Kitsune told him about the pieces she had gotten published as they rode the train into the city.
When they arrived, the sun was a pink haze on the horizon and they disembarked into a crowd of late commuters.
“Hold onto my hand,” Kitsune told him, “or we’ll never make it out together.”
Keitaro obeyed. Kitsune laced her fingers between his just as the door opened.
“Charge!” she cried and bulldozed her way into the crowd of salarymen and office ladies.
Keitaro held on tight, trying to stay close to Kitsune as she led them on an ambitious course right through the centre of the crowd towards the staircase at the end of the platform. Keitaro gritted his teeth as he swam against the current of grey business suits; men’s shoulder’s hit him in the chest, and briefcases knocked his shins as his arm stretched in front of him almost painfully. Kitsune pulled him too quickly for him to even apologise to the glaring strangers for his collisions. So he considered a great mercy once they reached the stairs and managed to sidestep the opposing current by keeping to the side. Once they reached the top, Kitsune shot up her arms, and his, in triumph.
“Made it.” She released him and spun around – arms wide and hands open, as if she were beckoning the world to herself – presenting a smiling picture of indomitable youth so intoxicating that Keitaro filed the image away to draw in his sketchbook later. “And now all of Tokyo is ours for the taking. We are going to have so much fun.” She stopped spinning to look at him, her eyes wild and happy.
At that moment, as she smiled at him and the pink of the setting sun shone between the buildings to glint off her hair, Keitaro felt he had never seen anything more beautiful.
It took Kitsune more than she had expected to convince Keitaro to drink more than one beer. Carousing clearly wasn’t his style, but in the end she simply overrode him by ordering them both another round and keeping the conversation going at such a pace that he had no time to object before the frosted mugs were placed in front of them. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they drank, and Keitaro was a sipper: his quaffs were slow and cautious, just like his conversation. As he talked about his studying and his drawing, Kitsune’s portrait of her most unusual lover began to fill in. He was a man who was led by life and not the other way around. He reacted to things rather than forcing them to work to his advantage; especially with women, she noted as he let himself be led by her through one subject and another.
The reason for this became clear by the time they were on their third round as Keitaro conveyed haltingly that not only had he never had a lover prior to arriving at Hinata, but had never even been on a date with a woman.
“You and Naru are the first who took an interest,” he told him, staring down at their table with such a forlorn expression that Kitsune felt compelled as she leaned across the table to kiss the pain away.
“What matters is now,” she said, caressing his cheek with the back of her hand as she sat down, noting as she did that Keitaro was relaxed enough to lean into her hand ever so slightly with his eyes still closed from the kiss. She decided to move the plan forward.
“You know what you need?” When he shook his head, she went on, “A new way of looking at yourself.”
Keitaro squinted in incomprehension.
“Why do you think women dress up the way they do?” Kitsune asked. “Because,” she explained to the shrugging Keitaro, “they want to feel attractive.”
“They want to be seen as attractive by other people?”
“Yes, sometimes. But more importantly, they want to see themselves as attractive.”
“So?”
Kitsune swallowed the last of her beer and waved down the waiter. “I’ll show you.”
It was a short walk from the bar to a nearby clothing shop. Keitaro gave the place a dubious look the moment he laid eyes upon the window mannequins. As a man, Keitaro held to the majority opinion that shopping for clothes was something to be avoided, done as little and as quickly as possible. To make matters worse, the fancy materials and designer labels that the mannequins bore upon their shoulders told Keitaro – whose socks were threadbare and patched for lack of funds – that the wares within were well above his meagre savings.
Heedless to his protests, Kitsune dragged him through the front door and straight towards the nearest salesman.
“Menswear?” she asked.
The salesman pointed up. “Up the escalator and to the right. Do you need assistance?”
“Thank you, no,” Kitsune replied. “Let’s go Keitaro.”
Keitaro looked around the room, at the expensive shirts and jackets on the racks, half afraid that it would cost him everything he had just to try something on.
“I don’t know about this.”
“You’re my hostage remember?” Kitsune said as they stepped onto the escalator. “You have to obey me.”
“Take pity on me. I’m poor.”
“Not a chance. Ah, here we are.”
Kitsune dragged Keitaro by wrist towards the menswear section, making a circuitous course around the racks, grabbing things as she went until she was forced to release Keitaro in order to hold on to her haul. Once they came within range of the fitting rooms, she laid her load down and started pairing jackets with pants and shirts. She handed him the first outfit: a sky blue button up shirt with a tan pair of pants.
“Get in there.”
Keitaro took the outfit with a mute nod and stepped through the door. Once he’d slipped out of his street clothes and reached for the new pants, he was surprised to discover that they were his size exactly, the shirt too. How could she possibly have known? Was she able to judge just by looking at him? He’d heard of people who had that ability, but he’d never met one. His respect for Kitsune rising, Keitaro slipped into the new clothes and stepped back into the showroom.
“Well,” he asked Kitsune, holding up his arms.
Kitsune rubbed her chin in thought as she advanced, looking him up and down. “Turn.”
He did.
“Hmm…Not bad. Try this instead.” She handed him a pair of jeans and a black leather jacket; but once Keitaro walked out wearing it, she was already shaking her head. She strode up to him and removed his glasses against his protests and stepped back to look at him.
“Uh uh,” she declared. “No way.”
Handing him his glasses, she turned back to her pile of outfits, mumbling to herself. “Perhaps something a little more formal,” she said, holding up a charcoal blazer and dress pants. “Wear the white…no, no, not white. Wear this.” She dug through the pile, and handed him a navy dress shirt.
Keitaro took loving hold of the suit that cost more than three months pay at his last part time job. The cool, smooth feel of the wool against his hands made him sigh as he stepped into the change room. A few minutes later he stood in front of the full length mirror. He had to admit, with the collar of his shirt open and his blazer unbuttoned, he thought he looked pretty good. He unlatched the change room lock, and prepared to receive judgment from a higher authority.
Kitsune’s face lit up the moment he stepped through the door. Keitaro said nothing as she removed his glasses and stepped back. Then she came back and ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back. She leaned back to look at him, and then handed him back his glasses.
“Does it look all right?” he asked.
“All right?” Kitsune licked her lips. “You look good enough to eat, baby.”
Keitaro felt his face begin to burn.
“Let me show you something,” Kitsune said, stepping towards a full-length mirror next to a table laden with jeans.
Keitaro complied and stood in front of the mirror. He blushed even harder as Kitsune draped herself against him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.
“Look at that, baby. We match.”
Keitaro looked at the couple in the mirror – at the bewildered young man and the siren with the feral grin – and saw that between his shirt and her dress, they did indeed match.
“See, there is a sexy man behind those glasses. You just have to let him out to play every once in a while.”
“You really think so?”
“Baby, with the right words you could get the phone number of any girl in here.”
Keitaro snorted.
“It’s true,” Kitsune insisted, cuffing him on the chest. “Sexy is as much a state of mind as it is a look. If you ever learn to talk to girls without blushing, then they’ll be lining up to bear your children. Point is, you are buying this,” Kitsune declared, running loving hands over his shirt and laying a kiss on his ear, her tongue flicking against the shell of his ear.
“I’d love to,” Keitaro agreed, “but I can’t. There’s just no way.”
Kitsune pouted, and dropped her arms. Keitaro suddenly felt cold standing there, and looked for a way to fix things until Kitsune spoke up again.
“Maybe you could buy the shirt?” she suggested.
Keitaro gave her a relieved smile. It wasn’t cheap, but he was sure he could swing at least that much.
Kitsune insisted that Keitaro wear the shirt out of the store, claiming it made him irresistible. Once they left the store, Kitsune clung to Keitaro as if to prove her point as they journeyed to the next place on Kitsune’s meandering path: a small bar with live music, her favourite sake, lights turned down low, and nice private booths where young lovers could safely begin their rendezvous.
Kitsune ordered a carafe of warm sake as thanks for Keitaro buying the shirt.
“It really does look great on you,” she said, pouring out the drinks. As the band began their set with Miles Davis’ So What, Kitsune and Keitaro lapsed again into small talk about movies and music. As he drank and talked, Keitaro felt the sake take him to a dreamy place. As he swayed back and forth to the steady pulse of the music, he found himself staring at Kitsune as she talked about a show she had seen the week before his arrival. In the soft glow of the candle light, she looked enchanting, magical as her namesake. He considered that namesake as he watched her tongue caress her lips at a dramatic pause in her story. Kitsune were tricksters by and large. Stories abounded of men led astray by kitsune in the form of women who teased them and lured them away to far off places for evenings of passion, only for the men to wake up next morning groggy and dishevelled in back alleys and farmer’s fields.
As Keitaro considered the beautiful woman before him who had seduced him, made love to him and lured him here, he wondered at the possibility of waking up in such an alley to find out that the last week had been an illusion, and that he had been nothing more than another in a long line of victims of the kitsune. Of course there were plenty of kitsune in the stories who were helpers, loyal servants of Amaratsu who aided those whom she favoured on Earth. Trickster or helper, which would this Kitsune turn out to be?
In a rush of emotion made melodramatic by liquor, Keitaro realised that he didn’t care so long as she really was there with him. He could handle anything just long as this divine creature really was sitting before him, really saw him as someone worthwhile. But he had to be sure. In the dark, she seemed so near, and yet so far away. Almost unconsciously, his hand shot out to grab hers. She paused in the middle of her story to stare at him as he traced his fingers over her palm marvelling at the warmth of her hand.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I wanted to be sure,” he replied, oblivious to her confused look.
“Sure of what?”
“So beautiful…”
“What?”
“I said you’re beautiful.”
Kitsune said nothing for a long time, but stared at him, considering him. Then she laced her fingers with his and brought his hand up to her lips.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she said in a voice made husky by the sake, or was it something else? “People will take you seriously.”
Keitaro gave her an affronted look. “Of course I mean it.”
Kitsune looked from one side of their booth to the other. There was no one sitting next to them, and the waiters were at the bar waiting for a lull in the music. Kitsune got up and moved over to Keitaro’s side.
Keitaro let out a surprised squeak as she gripped him by the shoulders and kissed him hard, her tongue taking advantage of his open mouth. She pressed Keitaro against the wall, running her hands through his hair, over his arms, his chest, everywhere she could reach. She took hold of one of his hands and brought it up to her chest, stuffing it under her dress. He squeezed her and she let out a gratified moan. Keitaro was far from idle as he ran his free hand over her bare back, loving the feel of her smooth skin. How did women get their skin like that? He moved his hand lower still until it came to rest on her heart shaped rump.
He gasped against Kitsune’s lips as she snuck a hand under his shirt and pinched his nipple. He responded in kind, eliciting a small squeak. As her other hand came to rest on his hardened cock, Keitaro felt himself entering some sort of delirium. He felt as he had entered some sort of paradise as his mind whirred and crackled at the sensation of one hand on a woman’s tit, the other on her firm rear, while she jerked him off through his clothes. He moaned into her. It was too much and it wasn’t enough. He wanted her, he wanted to be consumed by her, to take everything she offered, and give her everything he had.
She was straddling his knee now, rubbing herself back and forth against him, letting out little keens as she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him. Keitaro’s hands went to her back, trailing his questing fingers along the curve of her spine and over the arch of her shoulder blades.
It wasn’t until they heard the clapping that they realised that the set was over. Shocked by the sound, they pulled apart, and Keitaro felt a pang at the loss of Kitsune’s weight. The applause sounded like thunder to his ears as he panted and stared into Kitsune’s eyes, which he could tell, even in the candlelight, had turned pitch black.
“Let’s…” Kitsune was panting too. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”
- 8
- 9
- 10
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Tug-of-War