Hotel Amefuto

Author: Ranier
Series: Eyeshield 21
Rating: M (the presence of a certain Mr. H demands this rating)
Summary: Honestly she didn't understand the allure of Deimon Devilbats clubhouse that made it The Number One Spot for couples' activities…

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situation created and owned by Inagaki Riichiro and Murata Yuusuke, and various publishers including but not limited to Shonen Jump and TV Tokyo. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Yet.

A/N: Originally published 09/09/2007. Reposted due to FFnet glitch that prevented it from being accessed. I thank Scrunchy and darkmage009 for their kind reviews, and I also thank those who put it into their favorite list.

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The Deimon Devilbats clubhouse was a little room decorated with reminders of quaint Vegas casinos. During the day it was the heart of a small American Football team (and a part-time pachinko parlor), while during the night it was usually deserted and let to rest. In many ways it was a beloved home.

However, the team that made it theirs would certainly have collective heart attacks if they overheard what was being said inside it one fine starry night.

"Really, I think our better option is to declare the clubhouse off-limit," Anezaki Mamori said to her counterpart in many, many ways, who was sitting next to her with his feet propped up on the table. "After all, if the rumors are true, we should do everything to discourage that kind of—" she shuddered "—behavior."

"Well," he drawled, contemplating her suggestion and dismissing it in one breath, "I'd rather liked the idea, actually."

She stared at him. "Surely you're not—!"

"Think of the admission fee we can charge 'em, fucking manager."

That silenced her. Their club, although not entirely poor, was always stretching a bit thin with all those repairs and cleaning going on. As much as the principal of their school supported and indulged their activities (under duress and threats of AK-47 popping his balls, of course), the board of directors wasn't very impressed with what they perceived as a lost cause. Mamori was getting tired having to budget, filch, ration, and bargain for every expense that occurred. An extra income would be very nice. They could buy more tapes, more towels, and possibly more… snack?

Hiruma saw gluttony manifest itself in the girl's lit up eyes and smirked. He knew where her thoughts rested now. On top of Kariya cream puffs' golden skin and sweet custard.

He pushed forward.

"Two thousand yen per person sounds reasonable," he said. "They don't get it cheaper than that."

Her eyes snapped at him. "How would you know?"

Hiruma only gave her one of his infuriating smirk and proceeded to distract her from a possible intrusion of her conscience by detailing his plan. "No matter how, but I'll have you know that we have a goldmine in our property, fucking manager."

"School's property," she corrected him without thinking. "And don't call me that."

"Whatever, it's still our clubhouse. And since we're not going to use it during the night, might as well—"


"—rent it out."

"Oh my god," she cried. "I was hoping you wouldn't say it out loud."

Hiruma toyed with the numbers. "Four thousand yen per day, twenty-eight thousand a week. Not to mention if the weekend rates are doubled. We can easily get a hundred forty thou a month."

Mamori squeaked. "Weekend rates? How are they going to get in?"

His feral grin answered all. "Courtesy of yours truly, of course."

"Hiruma-kun, I don't think this is such a good idea."

"On the contrary, think of the things you can buy with one hundred and forty thousand, fucking manager. Maybe one of these days we'll finally manage to have that training camp."


"And you can finally buy cream puffs for every occasion, without having to resort to some fucking second-class pastry shop."

"Stop it!" she hissed. "Stop justifying the means! I will not be able to see the clubhouse the same way again if we just, just… whore it out like that!"

"Tsk, tsk, my dear fucking manager. Language," he chided. "If you have such a dirty mouth, I don't see why you raise so many objections against my idea."

She punched him on the arm. "Do not put me in the same level as you are."

"American football is not a cheap sport, you know."

"I know, I know. As it is, we're already over the limit this month—and the month before, actually—but it doesn't mean we should find extra income this way. It's indecent."

"Wrong, it's making the best of what we have."

She blinked, thinking. "What do we have actually? There are no… beds."

He smirked. "There's the fucking table."

"Oh, god."

"And the floor."


"I'm sure they won't mind a bit of hard surface."

"…shut up, Hiruma-kun."

"What we have, fucking manager, is atmosphere. That's what sells. All the good ones have it anyway."

"Remind me not to ask you why you know so much about these places," she said, cheeks reddening. "Besides," she glanced around the room, "I don't see this atmosphere you're talking about."

"Do I need to fucking show it to you?"

"Stay back, please."

He grinned. "Not so innocent, aren'tcha, fucking manager?"

"Not when your hand's there." She slapped it away, blushing. "Don't distract me. Off! We're not finished discussing this absurd idea of yours."

"Profitable, you mean."

"Stop groping, you."

"But you were distracted—"

"Not going to work twice, Hiruma-kun, since I know you're only playing around, so you better—er—what's that noise? Is that…?"

"Cell phone." He scowled and glanced at the display. "It seems we have a fucking intruder. Or two."

Her eyes went wide. "Again?"

He pocketed the cell phone and cackled. "Fresh blood."

Mamori sighed and reached for her broom. It was her cue to do some discouraging, for the third time that night. Honestly she didn't understand the allure of Deimon Devilbats clubhouse that made it The Number One Spot for couples' activities—and what troubled her further was the fact that some of the people they had sent away weren't even Deimon students. Unbelievable.

From the corner of her eyes she saw Hiruma taking his digital camera out.

"Must you?" she asked him, whispering.

"Yes, I fucking must."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Like fucking Disneyland. Be glad it's not camcorder."


"Exactly, and, oh, fucking manager?"

"… I really should not response to your ever-degrading endearment, but yes?"

"When you're beating those horny fuckers, remember what I said about making the best of what we have, yeah?"

"No," she said. "I will not."

"Fine. Just fucking kill'em, then. Sell their livers."

She gave him a look. "You are a violent boy."

"Who's gonna make us richer," he said, grinning ear to ear.

And Hiruma was ever true to his word. The unfortunate couple that walked giggling and fumbling into their clubhouse minutes later was greeted with a metal nozzle ready to pop a bullet or two. They were let go after paying an admission fee of two thousand yen each, posing for a dozen of close-up photos, and listening to a good ten-minute lecture on propriety and underage sex, which needless to say flushed all thoughts of fooling around down the drain.

The fourth couple met the same fate.

So did the fifth.

And the sixth.

By the end of the week, Deimon Devilbats headquarters was no longer infested by wayward nocturnal students in heat. The twenty-four thousand yen they got that night was put into their summer training camp fund, and when Mamori asked why he didn't carry on with his wicked clubhouse-by-day-brothel-by-night plan, Hiruma only smirked and said, "I'd rather keep it for private use."

From the look he gave her when he said that, she somehow knew that sooner or later, she would have to get used to the idea of hard surfaces.