Title: The Look of the Thing
Summary: Mamori is pretty sure Hiruma just likes dressing her up in outlandish outfits.
Notes: Written for IJ's Porn Battle, to the prompt "Eyeshield 21, Hiruma/Mamori, dealing cards." Smut with just enough plot to excuse it, post-series. 1410 words.
The Look of the Thing
There had to be better ways of fundraising than high-stakes poker. Mamori had said as much, repeatedly and at ever-increasing volumes, but Hiruma Youichi was goal-oriented to a fault. The goal, in this case, was a set of new, state-of-the-art training facilities for the college football team, and Mamori's protests fell on conveniently-deaf ears.
"I am not a prop!" she had also argued, when he had presented her with her role in his plots.
He'd just grinned at her, clearly unimpressed by her ire, and said, "No, you're the fucking distraction."
And somehow she'd ended up in the slinky red dress, with its slits up the skirt that came all the way up to here and the neckline that plunged entirely too low for her tastes, perched on strappy stiletto heels that were not at all ladylike, and watching a table full of poker players lose again, and again. Watching him play, long fingers picking up and discarding cards, shuffling the deck with the same careless ease he used to throw a football or clean a gun, Mamori couldn't decide which was worse: the fact that Hiruma really was that good at cards, or the fact that it didn't seem like she was needed for the purposes of distraction at all.
It was six of one, half a dozen of the other, she supposed.
Hiruma laid his cards down and the rest of the table groaned to a man. The other three women present cooed at their distraught companions, simpering outrageously as Hiruma raked the pot over to join the already-huge pile in front of him. "Another hand to make up your losses?" he suggested, and seemed only moderately disappointed when no one accepted the offer. He didn't bait anyone into playing, which Mamori supposed meant they'd made their goal for the night.
At least this set of marks--and she felt guilty for thinking of them like that, but it was the accurate word--wasn't inclined to fight. That was a small mercy, especially given the way Hiruma gloated as he collected his winnings.
"You didn't really need me here," she scolded him, once they were on their way out of the casino. Hiruma had his hand at the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd (possessive? protective? or just for the look of the thing? who could tell, with him?)
"Course I did. You see those other hags at that table? Least I had something to look at that didn't make me want to bleach my eyeballs," he said.
"You say the nicest things to me," Mamori murmured, dry as dust.
"Don't get used to it," he said, maniacally cheerful, as they left the floor and entered the lobby. There was an elevator just disgorging its passengers; once they'd slid into it and the doors had chimed shut after them, he laughed, triumphant. "They'll be inviting me into the big games now."
"Hurray for us," Mamori said, as the elevator jerked into motion, ascending slowly. "I still say--"
Hiruma cut her short by edging her against the wall of the car and kissing her. "That's a good color on you," he said, against her mouth.
The sudden kiss and the warmth of him, caging her against the wall, made her breath quicken. "You're the one who picked it out," she said, as he set a hand at her waist and stroked it up her side. "Sometimes I think you just get a kick out of dressing me up in weird clothes."
His grin flashed at her. "So what if I do?" He cupped her breast, hand hot through the silky fabric, and she shivered with the pleasure of his thumb stroking her, slow and knowing. "I think you like being dressed up."
"Maybe a little bit," she admitted, husky in her own ears, and wound her arms around his shoulders, fingers trailing over his nape. She traced her nails over his skin, and he growled low in his throat and pressed closer, thumb circling over her nipple. Mamori tipped her head back, watching the floors gliding by, entirely too slow for her tastes. "Why did we need to be in the penthouse?" she asked, breathless, as Hiruma's other hand stroked down her spine.
He laughed against her throat. "Looks better if we do." His hand slid lower, finding one of the slits in her skirt, and slipped under the fabric. It stroked higher, until--"Fuck," he said, throaty. "You aren't--"
"They'd show," she said, arch, and smiled at the way he cursed, low and reverent, as his fingers traveled over the curve of her hips and rear, bare underneath the silk. "Fuck the penthouse," he said, breathless, and reached one long arm away, hitting the emergency button. The car jolted to a halt, stuck between floors, and somewhere, an alarm buzzed politely.
"Youichi," she began, half-laughing, half-scolding, but he stopped her protest with another kiss, this one scorching hot enough to melt most of her reservations.
The rest of them melted away when his mouth slid down her throat, hot and wet, and sharp teeth grazed against her earlobe and then her pulse, the delicate scrape of them making her shiver. "Youichi," she breathed, stomach tightening, and kneaded her hands over his shoulders.
"I fucking love this dress," he muttered against her throat, hands slipping under the skirt again, lifting the front panel entirely and sliding it out of his way. "Worth every fucking penny I spent on it."
"I'm starting to get a little fond of it myself--oh..." Mamori closed her eyes, gasping, as his fingers slid up her thighs and dipped between them, wickedly slow. "Youichi..."
He laughed softly, fingers stroking over the wetness of her, slipping inside her and sending sparks dancing behind her eyelids. "Kind of eager, aren't you?"
"Oh, shut up," she said, and pressed a hand between them, squeezing him through his pants. "We could be in bed by now, you know." He had her pressed against the wall of the car, and she let him hold her there as she traced a foot up the back of his calf and hooked her thigh around his hip as he groaned. "Come on, Youichi..."
"This is why I like you so fucking much," he breathed, as she worked his pants open. "Think a lot like I do..."
"Shh, don't tell anyone," she murmured, and moaned as he slid his hands under her rear and lifted her, easy. "Got a reputation to keep... oh yes..."
Youichi's groan matched hers as his cock slid into her, the slow hot stretch of it sending heat running through her, voluptuous. "Secret's safe with me," he said, against her ear.
"Good," she gasped, and wrapped her legs around his waist. "Come on... ah!" She heard her own voice echoing back at her as he drove into her again, deep and hard. Pleasure crackled along her nerves as his hard strokes drove her against the wall, the texture of his pants against her bare legs and the whisper-slide of silk against her bare skin twining with the effortless strength of him holding her up and the steady slide of his cock inside her. Each thrust drew the thread of pleasure tighter and tighter, until she slid her one fingers down to brush against her clit, and came undone, bliss unspooling in a rush and shaking her apart.
He groaned against her throat, thrusts turning faster and harder, sliding deeper, shaking her with almost more sensation than she could quite stand as he came.
She leaned her head back, resting it against the wall and panting. "God," she said, when she had begun to collect herself again, and stroked a hand through the wild mess of Youichi's hair.
He let her down, careful the way he only ever showed clearly after sex, and brushed his knuckles against her cheek briefly. "Yeah."
They set their clothes back in order--or tried to. Mamori surveyed the wreckage of her dress as Youichi set the car back into motion. "I think it's ruined," she declared.
"I'll buy you another," he promised. His grin was quick. "A whole closetful, even. We've got the money for it."
Mamori leaned against him, and twined an arm around his. "Mm, sounds good to me," she murmured, smiling.
He was willing to spend football money on her. Mamori wasn't quite sure, but she was beginning to think that it might just be love.
end