![[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: Enticing Scent (Running Water, Part II)
Fandom: Eyeshield 21
Pairing: Hiruma/Mamori
Genres: Romance/Drama/Humor
Rating: MA+
Disclaimer: I own nothing Eyeshield 21
Warnings: Profanity, Vulgarity, Brief Sexual Content
---
A small, wry smirk crossed his lips and he stepped under the hot spray of the shower, sighing heavily as he pushed his long fingers through the waterlogged spikes of his bleached hair.
Rinsed, muscles relaxed from the heated water, and the pressure of his thoughts reduced to quiet nothings, he lazily smacked the water dials, spinning them until they tightened and closed off the valves.
"Fuckin' dick," he yawned, stepping out of the shower stall.
And right into an unseen wall of peaches.
He reared back, blinking in surprise at the abrupt attack of the sweet, fruity scent.
"The hell . . . ?" he growled, his nose wrinkling as he irritably waved a hand around, batting away the invisible assault before walking through it.
Unabashedly nude and dripping, he strolled over to the white towel lying across the countertop and picked it up. He set about the task of drying himself, a difficult feat with only one hand. It never failed to piss him off in the end; it took twice as long and he never fully got his back dried.
"Tch," he grumbled, roughly scrubbing his hair.
If there was ever a time he needed fucking Anezaki's mothering help, it would be to assist him in drying himself off properly.
Anezaki.
He yanked the towel from his head frustratedly and glared at himself in the mirror's reflection, his eyes narrowed and mouth pulled into a hard frown, spiky blond hair going every which way in dishevelment.
Damn woman; always on his fucking mind. Pissed him off.
He knew he needed to focus all his attention on the team, to prepare them up till the last second before the Christmas Bowl, but goddamn, she always managed to make it to the forefront of his mind! What with her fuckin' pink mouth, those fuckin' blue eyes, those long thighs . . . tiny fuckin' waist . . . damn good tits . . .
His cock gave a hungry twitch, his blood thickening in his veins as he reveled in the image of Miss Goody-Goody giving into his corruption . . .
"Fuck . . . I need to get laid," he growled irritably, tiredly scratching the back of his head as he sneered down at his newly lifted erection. And what he wouldn't enjoy more than to have Anezaki get rid of the problem for him . . . preferably on her knees, wrists cuffed behind her back, all forcibly submissive and ready to exploit; to do whatever he wanted . . .
A vivid, heatedly sexually image exploded up into his mind: his hard cock pumping in and out of that small, hot mouth, one of his hands clenched in her soft, brown hair, holding her still as he greedily fucked her throat . . . those pouting pink lips stretched around his thickened width as she hungrily sucked him off . . .
He grunted with disgust when his cock began to throb.
Moodily, he tossed the towel back down on the sink and stalked impatiently out of the shower room.
Yeah . . . he really needed to get laid.
---
"Kekeke, you look like shit, fucking manager."
Those were the very first words out of his mouth after having slammed open the clubhouse door, the ever dramatization marking his arrival.
She tensed at his taunting, offhanded remark, her grip tightening on the playbook as she fought against the quick rise of a blush and the sharp, hot poke of irritation.
It was everything she could do to not look at any of the team members, especially the Devil himself when he started lurking around, barking orders and announcements. She could feel everyone's curious gazes on her, and she realized then that they, too, had noticed her unkempt appearance. But she didn't acknowledge any of them; instead, she stared determinedly at the 'x's and 'o's arranging the Shotgun formation on the page.
She already knew she looked a sight; she didn't need Hiruma's input to confirm it.
She'd found out that morning, much to her dismay, that no amount of makeup would cover up the dark, sunken circles under her eyes, nor could it give her pallid cheeks a healthier looking color. Ever her hair was frizzy and slightly tousled.
All because she hadn't gotten an ounce of sleep the night before. If wasn't the terrible paranoia, distress, and fright of what she would expect to see or hear from Hiruma that kept her up, if was the darkly passionate images in her dreams . . .
A certain cruel, electric-blond extortionist trailing hot, biting kisses down her neck . . . long fingers rolling and pinching her hardened nipples . . . strong, hard thighs knelt between her softer ones, forcing them open and wide . . . a roughened hand delved deep inside her tiny panties . . . his voice, so throaty and raspy . . . hissing dark, erotic threats . . . telling of the things he was going to do to her; what he was going to force her to do to him . . .
She swallowed hard, her mouth having gone dry as her heart pounded in her ears. Oh, God, what was she going to do? Was she now going to be haunted every night by dreams of sexual touches and words by the most undesirable man ever to grace her life?
Her only saving grace was that he clearly didn't know about her . . . seeing him . . .
She hadn't seen any signs or posters of blackmail, nor heard any rumors or seen any odd looks sent in her direction. All day, she went on without any confrontation or hint that her innocent misdeed had been acknowledged by the school's personal demon. So this was clearly a sign he didn't know . . . right?
And even now, after school and stuck in a room with him, he hadn't said anything about it, neither bluntly, cryptically, or otherwise.
He hadn't even brought up anything about the folder. Somehow, he must have missed that she had left it last night, so she basically hadn't left any proof of her being in the clubhouse when she took back.
Which meant he didn't know.
He didn't know.
Which meant he would never know!
Her mind was reeling and her heart was pounding with such excited relief that she didn't even notice that she was being stalked from behind.
"Fuckin' manager!"
Right in her ear.
She shrieked, startled, and nearly tossed the playbook over her head as she sat up immediately. She shot the devious blond a frightened look, leaning as far away from his shark-toothed grin as possible. For one wild moment she thought she had somehow been found out because he read her mind.
His face-splitting grin fell into a sly, satisfied smirk before straightening up again, towering over her easily. Even without the bulk of the protective gear beneath his red-and-white jersey to make him appear larger, he still felt overwhelmingly imposing. Even the vulnerable sight of his arm still encased in a thick cast and resting in the plain white sling did nothing to take away from the dark intimidation he seemed to effortlessly exude.
"Get your head out of your ass, damn mother, and pay attention," he drawled as rounded to the other side of the table, unknowingly doing her a favor by giving her his back when he turned to face everyone.
She exhaled the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding and bit her lip, eyeing the playbook page. She mentally reprimanded herself. She needed to relax . . . or he was going to start suspecting something . . .
"And shitty goatee, stop dicking around with that fucking –"
She looked up when the vulgar order was abruptly dropped and saw his shoulders visibly tensing beneath his red-and-white jersey. Her heart started to pound again as she sensed something immediately wrong. The foreboding feeling only strengthened when he wordlessly and deeply inhaled the air around him.
Being that he stood in front of the table, all she could see was his tall, broad-shouldered back. His face was completely turned away, even when he suddenly cocked the gleaming black AK-47 Assault Rifle that'd previously been braced against his shoulder and started firing into the ceiling, the sound explosive and violent, equal to his voice.
"GET ONTO THE DAMN FIELD, FUCKING BRATS!"
And with bewildered and terrified yelps they did so, evacuating the clubroom in one massive flood of Devilbat colors. Their departure made the room seem suddenly larger.
But something in the way Hiruma just remained in the same spot, not chasing them out as he slowly lowered his weapon, caused a sickening chill brush over her skin. Something was wrong . . . and being alone with him was only making the feeling worse. She needed to get out to the others.
Quickly grabbing up her notebooks and play sketches, she shot up from her chair and was near to bolting across the room . . . when she looked up to see Hiruma giving the door a vicious yank, slamming it closed with a loud bang. Dread settled like dead weight in her belly when he made a show turning the bolt lock until it landed with a resounding clack.
'Oh, please, no . . .' she mentally whispered, her eyes wide with rising panic. She backed up until the edge of the table bumped up against her bottom.
"So . . ."
She stiffened, the tone of his voice sending a bout of anxiety crawling up her spine. It was low and cool; controlled.
". . . You enjoy the fucking show?"
---
[link] - Distraction XXVI: Headache
[link] - Distraction XXIII: Bitter Taste
[link] - Distraction VIII: Running Water
[link] - Distraction VII: Hug; Tackle; Glomp
[link] - Distraction VI: Kiss
[link] - Distraction XXV: Out of Place
[link] - Distraction I: On the Phone
Author: ShadowDemon-Gengar
Challenge:
30_distractionsTheme: Enticing Scent (Running Water, Part II)
Fandom: Eyeshield 21
Pairing: Hiruma/Mamori
Genres: Romance/Drama/Humor
Rating: MA+
Disclaimer: I own nothing Eyeshield 21
Warnings: Profanity, Vulgarity, Brief Sexual Content
---
A small, wry smirk crossed his lips and he stepped under the hot spray of the shower, sighing heavily as he pushed his long fingers through the waterlogged spikes of his bleached hair.
Rinsed, muscles relaxed from the heated water, and the pressure of his thoughts reduced to quiet nothings, he lazily smacked the water dials, spinning them until they tightened and closed off the valves.
"Fuckin' dick," he yawned, stepping out of the shower stall.
And right into an unseen wall of peaches.
He reared back, blinking in surprise at the abrupt attack of the sweet, fruity scent.
"The hell . . . ?" he growled, his nose wrinkling as he irritably waved a hand around, batting away the invisible assault before walking through it.
Unabashedly nude and dripping, he strolled over to the white towel lying across the countertop and picked it up. He set about the task of drying himself, a difficult feat with only one hand. It never failed to piss him off in the end; it took twice as long and he never fully got his back dried.
"Tch," he grumbled, roughly scrubbing his hair.
If there was ever a time he needed fucking Anezaki's mothering help, it would be to assist him in drying himself off properly.
Anezaki.
He yanked the towel from his head frustratedly and glared at himself in the mirror's reflection, his eyes narrowed and mouth pulled into a hard frown, spiky blond hair going every which way in dishevelment.
Damn woman; always on his fucking mind. Pissed him off.
He knew he needed to focus all his attention on the team, to prepare them up till the last second before the Christmas Bowl, but goddamn, she always managed to make it to the forefront of his mind! What with her fuckin' pink mouth, those fuckin' blue eyes, those long thighs . . . tiny fuckin' waist . . . damn good tits . . .
His cock gave a hungry twitch, his blood thickening in his veins as he reveled in the image of Miss Goody-Goody giving into his corruption . . .
"Fuck . . . I need to get laid," he growled irritably, tiredly scratching the back of his head as he sneered down at his newly lifted erection. And what he wouldn't enjoy more than to have Anezaki get rid of the problem for him . . . preferably on her knees, wrists cuffed behind her back, all forcibly submissive and ready to exploit; to do whatever he wanted . . .
A vivid, heatedly sexually image exploded up into his mind: his hard cock pumping in and out of that small, hot mouth, one of his hands clenched in her soft, brown hair, holding her still as he greedily fucked her throat . . . those pouting pink lips stretched around his thickened width as she hungrily sucked him off . . .
He grunted with disgust when his cock began to throb.
Moodily, he tossed the towel back down on the sink and stalked impatiently out of the shower room.
Yeah . . . he really needed to get laid.
---
"Kekeke, you look like shit, fucking manager."
Those were the very first words out of his mouth after having slammed open the clubhouse door, the ever dramatization marking his arrival.
She tensed at his taunting, offhanded remark, her grip tightening on the playbook as she fought against the quick rise of a blush and the sharp, hot poke of irritation.
It was everything she could do to not look at any of the team members, especially the Devil himself when he started lurking around, barking orders and announcements. She could feel everyone's curious gazes on her, and she realized then that they, too, had noticed her unkempt appearance. But she didn't acknowledge any of them; instead, she stared determinedly at the 'x's and 'o's arranging the Shotgun formation on the page.
She already knew she looked a sight; she didn't need Hiruma's input to confirm it.
She'd found out that morning, much to her dismay, that no amount of makeup would cover up the dark, sunken circles under her eyes, nor could it give her pallid cheeks a healthier looking color. Ever her hair was frizzy and slightly tousled.
All because she hadn't gotten an ounce of sleep the night before. If wasn't the terrible paranoia, distress, and fright of what she would expect to see or hear from Hiruma that kept her up, if was the darkly passionate images in her dreams . . .
A certain cruel, electric-blond extortionist trailing hot, biting kisses down her neck . . . long fingers rolling and pinching her hardened nipples . . . strong, hard thighs knelt between her softer ones, forcing them open and wide . . . a roughened hand delved deep inside her tiny panties . . . his voice, so throaty and raspy . . . hissing dark, erotic threats . . . telling of the things he was going to do to her; what he was going to force her to do to him . . .
She swallowed hard, her mouth having gone dry as her heart pounded in her ears. Oh, God, what was she going to do? Was she now going to be haunted every night by dreams of sexual touches and words by the most undesirable man ever to grace her life?
Her only saving grace was that he clearly didn't know about her . . . seeing him . . .
She hadn't seen any signs or posters of blackmail, nor heard any rumors or seen any odd looks sent in her direction. All day, she went on without any confrontation or hint that her innocent misdeed had been acknowledged by the school's personal demon. So this was clearly a sign he didn't know . . . right?
And even now, after school and stuck in a room with him, he hadn't said anything about it, neither bluntly, cryptically, or otherwise.
He hadn't even brought up anything about the folder. Somehow, he must have missed that she had left it last night, so she basically hadn't left any proof of her being in the clubhouse when she took back.
Which meant he didn't know.
He didn't know.
Which meant he would never know!
Her mind was reeling and her heart was pounding with such excited relief that she didn't even notice that she was being stalked from behind.
"Fuckin' manager!"
Right in her ear.
She shrieked, startled, and nearly tossed the playbook over her head as she sat up immediately. She shot the devious blond a frightened look, leaning as far away from his shark-toothed grin as possible. For one wild moment she thought she had somehow been found out because he read her mind.
His face-splitting grin fell into a sly, satisfied smirk before straightening up again, towering over her easily. Even without the bulk of the protective gear beneath his red-and-white jersey to make him appear larger, he still felt overwhelmingly imposing. Even the vulnerable sight of his arm still encased in a thick cast and resting in the plain white sling did nothing to take away from the dark intimidation he seemed to effortlessly exude.
"Get your head out of your ass, damn mother, and pay attention," he drawled as rounded to the other side of the table, unknowingly doing her a favor by giving her his back when he turned to face everyone.
She exhaled the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding and bit her lip, eyeing the playbook page. She mentally reprimanded herself. She needed to relax . . . or he was going to start suspecting something . . .
"And shitty goatee, stop dicking around with that fucking –"
She looked up when the vulgar order was abruptly dropped and saw his shoulders visibly tensing beneath his red-and-white jersey. Her heart started to pound again as she sensed something immediately wrong. The foreboding feeling only strengthened when he wordlessly and deeply inhaled the air around him.
Being that he stood in front of the table, all she could see was his tall, broad-shouldered back. His face was completely turned away, even when he suddenly cocked the gleaming black AK-47 Assault Rifle that'd previously been braced against his shoulder and started firing into the ceiling, the sound explosive and violent, equal to his voice.
"GET ONTO THE DAMN FIELD, FUCKING BRATS!"
And with bewildered and terrified yelps they did so, evacuating the clubroom in one massive flood of Devilbat colors. Their departure made the room seem suddenly larger.
But something in the way Hiruma just remained in the same spot, not chasing them out as he slowly lowered his weapon, caused a sickening chill brush over her skin. Something was wrong . . . and being alone with him was only making the feeling worse. She needed to get out to the others.
Quickly grabbing up her notebooks and play sketches, she shot up from her chair and was near to bolting across the room . . . when she looked up to see Hiruma giving the door a vicious yank, slamming it closed with a loud bang. Dread settled like dead weight in her belly when he made a show turning the bolt lock until it landed with a resounding clack.
'Oh, please, no . . .' she mentally whispered, her eyes wide with rising panic. She backed up until the edge of the table bumped up against her bottom.
"So . . ."
She stiffened, the tone of his voice sending a bout of anxiety crawling up her spine. It was low and cool; controlled.
". . . You enjoy the fucking show?"
---
[link] - Distraction XXVI: Headache
[link] - Distraction XXIII: Bitter Taste
[link] - Distraction VIII: Running Water
[link] - Distraction VII: Hug; Tackle; Glomp
[link] - Distraction VI: Kiss
[link] - Distraction XXV: Out of Place
[link] - Distraction I: On the Phone
Mood: 
tired
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