![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
Title: Gunsmoke Signals
Author: ShadowDemon-Gengar
Challenge:![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
30_distractions
Theme: Out of Place
Fandom: Eyeshield 21
Pairing: Hiruma/Mamori
Genres: Romance/Drama/Humor
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I own nothing Eyeshield 21
Warnings: Profanity
---
Something was really out of place, Sena had decided nervously.
It was a nice day out in the picnic area of the school. Cool breezes gently picked off and carried away what leaves were left on the skeletal, hibernating trees that stood tall on the school grounds. The nipping, gentle wind teased various students' faces as they cheerfully ate their lunches and chatted noisily with their fellow Deimon High peers.
He could only stare, mouth slightly agape, next to an equally stunned Monta, unable to fully comprehend the scene that was unfolding right in front of him.
No one else seemed to notice how close Mamori and Hiruma were sitting. So close that the latter had his body twisted a certain way so that his shoulder wasn't knocking into the former. The position made it appear as if Mamori herself was nearly sitting in his lap as they discussed the plays laid out in front of them.
It was disconcerting enough to see them sitting like that without needing to also watch Hiruma's chopsticks pluck another piece of chopped celery from Mamori's bento. Actually, that wasn't what bothered him. Really, Hiruma doing something that rude actually came off as normal . . .
No, it was the fact that Mamori, not even looking up from the data sheets, was returning the same gesture. He watched as she absently dug her chopsticks in the small box in from of their football captain and picked out an apple wedge.
"They're . . . they're sharing food?" Monta whispered, sounding a bit frightened.
He nodded numbly, murmuring, "I wonder . . . if they even know?"
It was the only logical reason he could come up with. They seemed so caught up in analyzing the game plays, even occasionally jabbing chopsticks at the sheets of paper when a tiny argument ensued, to realize that they were eating each other's lunches.
But . . . if that wasn't the reason . . .
He glanced at Monta who returned the look. A silent understanding distinguished itself between them before they turned back to stare at their conversing control towers.
Sena, with an encouraging elbow-dig to his side, courtesy of the receiver, was the one to speak up on their suspicion.
"U-um . . . are you two . . . together?" he slowly asked, and it was as if the world came to a screeching halt at the innocent but explosive question. He blinked, wide-eyed, and looked around. Everyone on the Devilbats football team, as well as other surrounding students, froze and immediately stared at the quarterback and team manager, clearly knowing who the question was directed.
Apparently they noticed after all, Sena thought, and then swallowed nervously when the subjects of his question paused, their chopsticks stilling in one another's lunches.
Sena should have expected the next reaction. Hiruma's mouth split into that insane grin that always made one's blood run cold with fear. Before anyone could say anything, he quickly snatched up both bentos and held them out and away, cackling down at the gaping Mamori. "Fucking manager, what the hell are you doing? Not enough that you ate ten creampuffs this morning, but you gotta pig out on other people's lunches, too?"
"Hiruma-kun!" Mamori gasped, outraged, and nearly took the lanky, broad-shouldered teen right off the bench when she launched herself against him, reaching in vain to rescue her kidnapped bento that was easily being held out of range.
"Kekeke, you need to go on a diet starting right fucking now. Watch it! Don't sit on me! You'll break my legs, fucking manager."
"Ooh! I'll break your legs anyway, you jerk! I am not fat!"
"Ho-o? Did you just threaten me, Miss Disciplinary-Committee?"
Sena actually breathed a sigh of relief as the two fell into a routine of arguing that felt so normal that it was scary.
"Phew! Worried Max," Monta whispered and made a show of dramatically slouching in his seat and wiping away non-existent sweat from his brow.
He smiled a little in agreement and watched as Mamori smacked their captain in the shoulder, the latter laughing devilishly in response.
He'd been worried, too . . . because Mamori's reaction to the question - the look of horrified guilt and the harsh blush that had immediately painted over her face - actually had him believing that it was true.
---
OMAKE:
"Do you . . . really think I should go on a diet?" Mamori inquired delicately, chewing on her bottom lip as she attempted to look at her body in her makeup mirror.
"You're fine," came a nonchalant response, almost drowned out the clicking of keyboard keys. She made an exasperated face and looked up from her mirror to glare at the spiky-haired blond lounging back in his chair at the other end of the roulette table, his long, long legs braced up on the surface.
She rolled her eyes and lifted the mirror again, a small, worried frown creasing between her slender eyebrows.
"Knock it off," came an annoyed growl from across the table. She looked up, startled by the aggressive tone. Sharp, emerald-green eyes were glaring at her over the black laptop screen.
Feeling a blush of embarrassment warm her cheeks, she did as she was told, placing the compact mirror back in her bag. She quietly got up and reached for her broom. She attempted to work off the insecurity that was still burning in her heart by beating back the dust and dirt, but it did little to help. She couldn't stop thinking that maybe . . . just maybe . . . she did need to go on a diet. She couldn't deny that she had put on a few pounds . . .
She felt her esteem drop a bit more when she thought of all the creampuffs she actually had consumed that morning . . .
A large, long-fingered hand shackled itself around her wrist, and she squeaked when she was roughly yanked down. She fell against a strong, toned abdomen and into the cradle of narrow hips. Before she could jump back up or say something in protest, long, defined arms came encased around her. At first she was shocked beyond words, believing that he was going to hug her.
Until she then felt the weight of a laptop being balanced on her thigh, followed by the sound of resumed typing.
"I fucking said knock it off," it was coolly voiced. To emphasize that point, the top of her head received a sharp, reprimanding nudge from an angled jaw before it rested itself there.
For one, long moment, she didn't say anything; she couldn't. She didn't even dare to breathe. She stared off into a dark corner, listening to her heart pound, the rapid clicking of keys, and an occasional popping of gum.
And then . . . finally . . . she managed to find her voice, albeit it was breathy and soft, and she wasn't too sure he heard her. "This can't be comfortable . . ."
The typing never paused as another bubble popped over her head.
"It's not."
But there was no movement to imply that she should get up, nor was she told to do so. Instead, she heard the silent, underlining message in his words: 'It's not, so fucking enjoy it while I'm letting you, damn girlfriend.'
She bit her lip to keep from smiling largely and took him up on the silent offer, settling herself against his warm, firm body and resting her cheek against his broad chest. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in his clean, male scent and listened by the strong, steady rhythm of his heart beating just beneath the surface . . .
---
[link] - Distraction I: On the Phone
Author: ShadowDemon-Gengar
Challenge:
30_distractionsTheme: Out of Place
Fandom: Eyeshield 21
Pairing: Hiruma/Mamori
Genres: Romance/Drama/Humor
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I own nothing Eyeshield 21
Warnings: Profanity
---
Something was really out of place, Sena had decided nervously.
It was a nice day out in the picnic area of the school. Cool breezes gently picked off and carried away what leaves were left on the skeletal, hibernating trees that stood tall on the school grounds. The nipping, gentle wind teased various students' faces as they cheerfully ate their lunches and chatted noisily with their fellow Deimon High peers.
He could only stare, mouth slightly agape, next to an equally stunned Monta, unable to fully comprehend the scene that was unfolding right in front of him.
No one else seemed to notice how close Mamori and Hiruma were sitting. So close that the latter had his body twisted a certain way so that his shoulder wasn't knocking into the former. The position made it appear as if Mamori herself was nearly sitting in his lap as they discussed the plays laid out in front of them.
It was disconcerting enough to see them sitting like that without needing to also watch Hiruma's chopsticks pluck another piece of chopped celery from Mamori's bento. Actually, that wasn't what bothered him. Really, Hiruma doing something that rude actually came off as normal . . .
No, it was the fact that Mamori, not even looking up from the data sheets, was returning the same gesture. He watched as she absently dug her chopsticks in the small box in from of their football captain and picked out an apple wedge.
"They're . . . they're sharing food?" Monta whispered, sounding a bit frightened.
He nodded numbly, murmuring, "I wonder . . . if they even know?"
It was the only logical reason he could come up with. They seemed so caught up in analyzing the game plays, even occasionally jabbing chopsticks at the sheets of paper when a tiny argument ensued, to realize that they were eating each other's lunches.
But . . . if that wasn't the reason . . .
He glanced at Monta who returned the look. A silent understanding distinguished itself between them before they turned back to stare at their conversing control towers.
Sena, with an encouraging elbow-dig to his side, courtesy of the receiver, was the one to speak up on their suspicion.
"U-um . . . are you two . . . together?" he slowly asked, and it was as if the world came to a screeching halt at the innocent but explosive question. He blinked, wide-eyed, and looked around. Everyone on the Devilbats football team, as well as other surrounding students, froze and immediately stared at the quarterback and team manager, clearly knowing who the question was directed.
Apparently they noticed after all, Sena thought, and then swallowed nervously when the subjects of his question paused, their chopsticks stilling in one another's lunches.
Sena should have expected the next reaction. Hiruma's mouth split into that insane grin that always made one's blood run cold with fear. Before anyone could say anything, he quickly snatched up both bentos and held them out and away, cackling down at the gaping Mamori. "Fucking manager, what the hell are you doing? Not enough that you ate ten creampuffs this morning, but you gotta pig out on other people's lunches, too?"
"Hiruma-kun!" Mamori gasped, outraged, and nearly took the lanky, broad-shouldered teen right off the bench when she launched herself against him, reaching in vain to rescue her kidnapped bento that was easily being held out of range.
"Kekeke, you need to go on a diet starting right fucking now. Watch it! Don't sit on me! You'll break my legs, fucking manager."
"Ooh! I'll break your legs anyway, you jerk! I am not fat!"
"Ho-o? Did you just threaten me, Miss Disciplinary-Committee?"
Sena actually breathed a sigh of relief as the two fell into a routine of arguing that felt so normal that it was scary.
"Phew! Worried Max," Monta whispered and made a show of dramatically slouching in his seat and wiping away non-existent sweat from his brow.
He smiled a little in agreement and watched as Mamori smacked their captain in the shoulder, the latter laughing devilishly in response.
He'd been worried, too . . . because Mamori's reaction to the question - the look of horrified guilt and the harsh blush that had immediately painted over her face - actually had him believing that it was true.
---
OMAKE:
"Do you . . . really think I should go on a diet?" Mamori inquired delicately, chewing on her bottom lip as she attempted to look at her body in her makeup mirror.
"You're fine," came a nonchalant response, almost drowned out the clicking of keyboard keys. She made an exasperated face and looked up from her mirror to glare at the spiky-haired blond lounging back in his chair at the other end of the roulette table, his long, long legs braced up on the surface.
She rolled her eyes and lifted the mirror again, a small, worried frown creasing between her slender eyebrows.
"Knock it off," came an annoyed growl from across the table. She looked up, startled by the aggressive tone. Sharp, emerald-green eyes were glaring at her over the black laptop screen.
Feeling a blush of embarrassment warm her cheeks, she did as she was told, placing the compact mirror back in her bag. She quietly got up and reached for her broom. She attempted to work off the insecurity that was still burning in her heart by beating back the dust and dirt, but it did little to help. She couldn't stop thinking that maybe . . . just maybe . . . she did need to go on a diet. She couldn't deny that she had put on a few pounds . . .
She felt her esteem drop a bit more when she thought of all the creampuffs she actually had consumed that morning . . .
A large, long-fingered hand shackled itself around her wrist, and she squeaked when she was roughly yanked down. She fell against a strong, toned abdomen and into the cradle of narrow hips. Before she could jump back up or say something in protest, long, defined arms came encased around her. At first she was shocked beyond words, believing that he was going to hug her.
Until she then felt the weight of a laptop being balanced on her thigh, followed by the sound of resumed typing.
"I fucking said knock it off," it was coolly voiced. To emphasize that point, the top of her head received a sharp, reprimanding nudge from an angled jaw before it rested itself there.
For one, long moment, she didn't say anything; she couldn't. She didn't even dare to breathe. She stared off into a dark corner, listening to her heart pound, the rapid clicking of keys, and an occasional popping of gum.
And then . . . finally . . . she managed to find her voice, albeit it was breathy and soft, and she wasn't too sure he heard her. "This can't be comfortable . . ."
The typing never paused as another bubble popped over her head.
"It's not."
But there was no movement to imply that she should get up, nor was she told to do so. Instead, she heard the silent, underlining message in his words: 'It's not, so fucking enjoy it while I'm letting you, damn girlfriend.'
She bit her lip to keep from smiling largely and took him up on the silent offer, settling herself against his warm, firm body and resting her cheek against his broad chest. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in his clean, male scent and listened by the strong, steady rhythm of his heart beating just beneath the surface . . .
---
[link] - Distraction I: On the Phone
Mood: 
blank
blankMusic: "Open My Grave" - Rage
15 Songs | Access Music Library