︴𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵︴𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘪 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶 𝘹 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳︴𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦
The late afternoon sun cut through the high school hallway windows, turning everything a harsh orange. You were rushing back from the library with your arms full of notes for a group project when a tall, built guy came charging around the corner like the corridor was an empty soccer pitch.
Your books exploded across the floor. Your back slammed into the lockers. When you looked up, Shoei Barou was towering over you. Broad shoulders, sharp red eyes narrowed in irritation, that signature black hair spiked up into its dramatic crown shape. One single strand had fallen loose against his temple from the collision.
“Tch. Move,” he said flatly, voice low and commanding. No apology. He crouched, grabbed one of your notebooks with those big calloused hands, and shoved it toward your chest.
You took it, rubbing your shoulder. “You are the one who came charging like you own the hallway.”
Barou’s eyes flicked over you once, dismissive. His uniform jacket sat perfectly straight and his shoes still looked spotless even after practice. You noticed the faint sweat at his hairline and the overstuffed gym bag. He had probably been doing extra drills again.
He clicked his tongue and started to walk past. Before you could stop yourself, you reached up and tucked that stray strand back into his spikes. His hair felt surprisingly soft.
Barou went rigid. His red eyes widened for half a second before the glare returned full force. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Your hair was out of place,” you said with a shrug. “It ruined the whole king look.”
He stared at you like you had lost your mind. Then he turned sharply and walked off. But you saw him pause at the next window to check his reflection and adjust that exact spot.
A couple days later you were eating lunch alone under the big tree in the courtyard when his shadow blocked the light. Barou dropped onto the far end of the bench like it belonged to him. Arms crossed over his broad chest.
“You’re in my spot,” he grunted.
You glanced around at the mostly empty courtyard. “There are plenty of others.”
He did not leave. Instead he unpacked a neatly arranged bento with rice perfectly portioned and sides cut evenly. His red eyes kept sliding over to your half-squished convenience store sandwich with clear disgust.
After a minute of heavy silence he exhaled through his nose and slid a small container of neatly sliced strawberries toward you. “Sisters made too much. Eat it or don’t waste my time.”
You took one. They were good. “Thanks. Your Majesty.”
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, but his ears went faintly red at the tips.
That was how the routine started.
You kept noticing things about him. How he wiped his desk down with a handkerchief every morning before class. How he slipped into the bathroom between periods to fix his hair if one spike looked slightly off. How he sat on the bleachers alone after tough practices, staring at the field with that intense expression.
One rainy afternoon you found him in the equipment room reorganizing scattered balls and cones. His hair was down, long black strands falling to his shoulders and slightly damp from the rain. Without the crown he looked different. Still tall and muscular from years of relentless training, but less like a king.
You grabbed some stuff and started helping sort it properly.
Barou shot you a sharp look. “I don’t need your help.”
“Didn’t say you did,” you replied, lining up the cones straight. “You just looked like it was bothering you.”
He watched you for a long moment, jaw tight. Then he continued working, moving a little slower. When the room was back in perfect order he let out a low breath. “You are weird as hell.”
“Yeah,” you said. “But you haven’t told me to fuck off yet.”
It built slowly. Barou was arrogant and selfish about his time and goals, obsessed with becoming the best striker. He did not do grand gestures. Still, he started showing up in your orbit more often. He left an extra onigiri near your bag after practice. He walked to the station with you most days. You teased his massive ego just enough to earn a “Shut up,” but he always matched your pace.
One morning he showed up with a fresh cut his long black hair still the same deep black but styled even sharper, the crown spikes more precise and striking than usual. It made his red eyes stand out even more intensely. He carried himself like he dared anyone to comment.
You looked at him for a second and nodded. “Looks strong. Fits you.”
Barou’s shoulders eased a tiny bit. He flicked your forehead with one finger. “Obviously.”
That same day after school he grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind the gym where no one usually went. His grip was firm and warm.
“I’m not gonna do boyfriend crap,” he said bluntly, staring past your shoulder. “I’m focused on soccer. I’m going to be the best in the world. I don’t do sweet talk or holding hands in front of people. But you notice things. The hair. When the field pisses me off. How I keep my stuff. No one else does.”
He finally met your eyes. “So you’re mine now. Don’t complicate it.”
You smiled a little. “Yeah. I can work with that.”
He kissed you right there, direct and a bit rough, like claiming territory. His hand stayed on the back of your neck for a second longer than necessary afterward.
Dating Barou felt like slipping into a rhythm that was entirely his own. He kept his word about public displays. At school he was the same kingly figure, walking the halls with that arrogant stride, but you started catching the small differences. He would leave a perfectly packed extra bento portion on your desk without a word when he knew you had a long day. During lunch he claimed the bench under the tree as “ours” by simply sitting there every day, expecting you to join. If anyone else tried to sit too close, he gave them one sharp glare and they scattered.
In private it was different. He texted in short, demanding bursts: “Practice ended. Come over.” When you showed up, his little sisters would tackle you with questions about school while Barou pretended to ignore it from the couch. Once they were occupied, he pulled you down next to him, one heavy arm slung around your shoulders as he rewatched match footage. You could play with his long black hair when it was down and he would let you, leaning into the touch with a quiet grumble if you tugged too hard.
Arguments happened when you told him he was pushing himself too hard after brutal practices. “I know my body better than some amateur,” he would snap, red eyes flashing. Yet the next morning there would be strawberries waiting, or he would walk you to class without being asked. His version of sorry was never spoken. It was shown through actions he tried to make look casual.
Evenings often turned quiet and surprisingly intimate. The bathroom was already filled with steam by the time Barou finished running the water. He had turned the tap as hot as it would go, the way he liked it, until the mirrors fogged over and the small room felt like a sauna. His parents were out for the evening and his sisters had finally gone to bed, leaving the house unusually quiet.
“Get in,” he said, more command than invitation. He stripped off his shirt without hesitation, revealing the solid, well-trained muscle across his chest and arms, then stepped into the tub first. Water sloshed around his waist as he lowered his tall frame. His long black hair was already loose, the dramatic crown spikes gone for the night, strands falling damp against his shoulders.
You slipped in after him, settling between his legs with your back resting against his broad chest. The water was almost scalding at first, but it quickly eased the soreness from a long day. For a few moments there was only the sound of water settling and Barou’s steady breathing behind you.
Then his large hands moved.
He reached for the shampoo bottle with the same focused precision he used on the soccer field. A measured amount went into his palm. Without warning, those strong fingers slid into your hair, massaging your scalp in firm, deliberate circles. He wasn’t gentle in a delicate way Barou didn’t do delicate — but he was thorough. His fingertips pressed with just enough pressure to work the lather through every strand, thumbs rubbing slow circles at the base of your skull and along your temples.
“You always let it get this messy,” he muttered close to your ear, voice low and rough. “Tch. Hold still.”
You smiled but obeyed, tilting your head slightly as he guided you. He took his time, working the shampoo down to the ends, combing through with his fingers to make sure nothing was missed. The heat of the water mixed with the heat of his body behind you made everything feel hazy and intimate. Every so often his chest rumbled with a quiet grunt of concentration, like washing your hair was another task that had to be done perfectly.
When he was satisfied, he cupped water in his hands and rinsed carefully, shielding your eyes with one palm so none of the suds ran into them. Then he reached for the conditioner and repeated the process, this time with longer, smoothing strokes. His free hand rested possessively on your waist under the water, thumb brushing lazy arcs against your skin.
“Better,” he said once the last of the conditioner was rinsed out. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he wrapped both arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest. His chin dropped onto your shoulder, damp black hair brushing your neck. The usual sharp edge in his voice had softened just a fraction.
“You don’t have to do all that,” you murmured, relaxing fully into him.
Barou clicked his tongue. “I’m not doing it for you. I just don’t like things half-done.” But his arms tightened a little, holding you there in the hot water like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon. His usual arrogance was still there, but so was the quiet care he would never admit to out loud.
You stayed like that for a long while, skin warm, water gently lapping, Barou’s steady heartbeat against your back. No big words. No unnecessary sweetness. Just him, in his own stubborn way, making sure even this small thing between you was done right.
The water had cooled slightly by the time Barou finally moved. He gave your waist one last firm squeeze before shifting behind you.
“Enough. We’re getting out,” he said, voice low and decisive. He stood first, water cascading off his tall, muscular frame. His long black hair clung to his shoulders and back, dripping steadily. He reached for two large towels and tossed one at you, then started drying himself with rough, efficient movements.
You stepped out after him, the cool air raising goosebumps on your skin. Barou noticed right away.
“Tch. You’re dripping everywhere,” he grumbled. He stepped closer and draped the second towel over your head, rubbing it through your hair with focused intensity. His touch was firm but careful. “Stand still.”
You let him work. When he was satisfied, he moved the towel down to your shoulders and back, drying you off with quick strokes. Once you were mostly dry, he wrapped the towel around your waist and gave your shoulder a light push toward the door. “Come on. You’re staying the night.”
In his room, Barou opened a drawer and tossed a folded black t-shirt and a pair of his sweatpants onto the bed. “Wear these,” he ordered, already pulling on his own loose shirt. “Your uniform is sweaty and I’m not washing it right now.”
You picked up the clothes. They were oversized on your frame, clearly made for Barou’s broader build. The fabric smelled clean and faintly like him.
“Borrowing the king’s clothes, huh?” you teased.
He clicked his tongue, ears turning faintly red. “Don’t make it weird. Just put them on before you catch a cold.”
You slipped into his t-shirt and sweatpants, rolling the waistband a couple times so they stayed up. Barou watched you adjust them for a moment, his red eyes lingering. There was a quiet possessiveness in his gaze.
He turned away and pretended to fix the pillows. “They look better on me,” he muttered.
“Comfortable?” he asked gruffly.
“I guess I’ve never asked this but… can we sleep in the same bed this time?”
You said it quietly, standing beside Barou’s bed in his oversized black t-shirt and rolled-up sweatpants. The clothes were still warm from the drawer and carried his clean, familiar scent. Your hair was still a little damp from the bath, and you felt oddly nervous asking something that felt so simple.
Barou had just finished pulling on his own loose shirt. He paused, one hand still on the fabric near his collar. His long black hair hung loose over his shoulders, still slightly wet. For a moment he didn’t say anything, just clicked his tongue.
“Tch. What are you even saying?” he muttered, ears tinged with faint red. “You’re staying the night. Obviously you’re sleeping in the bed. Where else would you go?”
He didn’t wait for you to respond. Instead, he climbed onto the bed first, the mattress dipping under his weight, then reached out and grabbed your wrist. With one firm tug, he pulled you down beside him.
You settled in and Barou immediately moved, wrapping a strong arm around your waist and drawing your back flush against his chest. His body was still warm from the bath, solid and comforting. His long black hair brushed against the back of your neck as he got comfortable.
“Idiot,” he grumbled near your ear, but there was no real heat in it. “You don’t have to ask stuff like that.”
You smiled, relaxing into him. “Just wanted to make sure.”
He made a low sound in his throat and tightened his arm around you. His fingers idly played with the hem of the t-shirt you were wearing his t-shirt tracing the fabric like he was satisfied seeing it on you.
“Comfortable?” he asked gruffly.
“Yeah. Your clothes are really soft.”
“Tch. Obviously.” His chin rested near your shoulder, breath steady against your skin. He didn’t say anything else after that, but he didn’t loosen his hold either.
The room grew quiet. You listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your back. Barou’s arm stayed heavy and protective around you the whole time. Eventually, sleep pulled you under, warm and safe in the circle of his embrace.
The next morning, chaos erupted without any warning.
The bedroom door flew open with a loud bang, slamming against the wall. Barou’s two little sisters came storming in like hyperactive tornadoes, their high-pitched voices filling the room instantly.
The older sister launched herself onto the bed first, her small body landing heavily on Barou’s legs with a thud. The younger one followed right behind, belly-flopping onto his stomach with a delighted squeal. The mattress bounced wildly under their combined weight, creaking in protest. Within seconds, both girls were yanking at the blanket with all their might, the fabric tugging sharply across your chest as they tried to rip it away.
“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” the older one chanted, her voice bright and relentless. She bounced on her knees, each jump sending ripples through the bed and making the springs groan. The younger sister climbed higher, her warm little hands patting Barou’s face repeatedly before grabbing fistfuls of his long black hair and giving it playful, insistent tugs.
“Shoei-nii, get up already! We’re so hungry!” she whined loudly, her breath warm against his cheek.
Barou let out a deep, irritated groan, the sound vibrating through his chest against your back. He tried to pull the blanket back over both of you with one strong arm, muscles flexing, but the girls only pulled harder. The cool morning air rushed in under the shifting blanket, raising goosebumps on your skin.
But his complaints only fueled them. The older sister started jumping higher, the entire bed shaking violently with every landing. The younger one rolled around wildly, kicking her legs and yanking the blanket again while laughing nonstop bright, infectious giggles that echoed off the walls. One of them accidentally stepped on Barou’s thigh, her bare foot warm and surprisingly heavy for her size.
“Pancakes! Pancakes! Pancakes!” they chanted together at the top of their lungs, jumping up and down without any regard for personal space. The older sister landed near your legs, while the younger kept crawling onto Barou’s chest, her hair tickling his face.
You couldn’t hold back a sleepy laugh, still tucked warmly against Barou’s solid side, his body heat seeping through the oversized black t-shirt you wore.
Barou finally sat up with a loud click of his tongue, his long black hair a wild, tangled mess falling messily over his shoulders and into his narrowed red eyes. He looked thoroughly grumpy, voice rough and raspy from sleep. “Fine! I said fine! Just stop jumping on the damn bed before you break it,” he growled, carefully shifting his body to shield you from the bouncing.
The younger sister immediately turned to you with big, sparkling eyes while standing right on Barou’s leg, her small toes digging in. “You’re staying for pancakes too, right? Shoei-nii makes the biggest, fluffiest ones with strawberries on top! They’re the best in the world!”
Barou flicked her forehead lightly with one finger. “Stop bothering him and get out. Both of you. Go wait in the kitchen.” Even though his tone was sharp and bossy, he was already swinging his long legs out of bed, surrendering to the morning attack.
The girls squealed with victory and ran out of the room, their bare feet thundering down the hallway as they continued chanting about pancakes and strawberries.
Barou stretched his muscular arms above his head, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of toned skin. He glanced back at you on the bed, ears turning faintly pink when he saw you still wrapped in his clothes, hair messy from sleep and the chaos.
“Tch. Those two are too loud,” he muttered. “Hurry up and come eat before they destroy the kitchen trying to ‘help.’”
Despite the grumbling and the fake scowl on his face, there was a small, almost hidden smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he headed toward the door. The morning light filtering through the curtains caught on his messy black hair, and the distant sound of his sisters laughing from the kitchen made the whole house feel alive.
Mornings in the Barou household were loud, chaotic, and full of energy but they felt warm and strangely perfect in their own noisy way. Especially with the faint scent of his shirt still wrapped around you.
The kitchen was already filled with noise and the sweet smell of batter by the time you walked in, still wearing Barou’s oversized black t-shirt and rolled sweatpants. The fabric was soft against your skin and carried his faint scent, making you feel warm and a little embarrassed at the same time.
Barou stood at the stove like he was commanding a battlefield. His long black hair was tied back loosely, a few strands still escaping around his face. He wore a simple black apron over his shirt, moving with precise, efficient motions as he poured perfect circles of batter onto the hot pan. The sizzle of butter and batter filled the air, mixing with the sweet aroma of warming strawberries.
“Shoei-nii, are they ready yet?!” the older sister whined, bouncing on her chair at the table.
The younger one was on her knees on the seat, leaning dangerously far forward. “I want extra strawberries! And syrup!”
“Sit properly,” Barou snapped without turning around, voice sharp but controlled. “And stop yelling. You’re not animals.” Despite the bossy tone, he was already flipping the pancakes with careful precision, each one golden and perfectly round.
You leaned against the doorway for a second, watching. Barou’s shoulders were relaxed in that focused way he got when doing something he refused to do halfway. The pan hissed as he pressed down gently with the spatula. A stack of finished pancakes waited on a plate, kept warm under a clean cloth.
He glanced over his shoulder, red eyes landing on you. His gaze flicked down to his clothes on your body for a brief moment before he clicked his tongue and looked away.
“You’re finally here,” he muttered. “Sit down before these two start climbing the table.”
The younger sister immediately spotted you and lit up. “You’re wearing Shoei-nii’s shirt! It’s so big on you!”
Barou’s ears turned faintly pink. “Mind your own business and eat.” He slid two large, fluffy pancakes onto a plate, arranged a neat pile of sliced strawberries on top, and drizzled just the right amount of syrup in clean lines. He set the plate in front of you with more care than he showed for his sisters’.
“Here,” he said gruffly. “Eat it while it’s hot.”
You sat down beside the girls. The pancakes smelled incredible warm vanilla, buttery edges, and fresh strawberries. Barou continued making more, his movements neat and almost graceful for someone so tall and muscular. Every pancake came out identical, edges crisp, centers fluffy.
The older sister leaned toward you with a big grin, syrup already on her cheek. “Shoei-nii only makes them this good when he’s in a nice mood. You should sleep over more often!”
Barou clicked his tongue loudly. “I’m not in a ‘nice mood.’ I’m just not letting you brats burn down the kitchen.” He placed another perfect plate in front of each of his sisters, then finally made one for himself.
He sat down across from you, legs stretched out under the table so his foot lightly brushed yours. He didn’t say anything about it, just started eating with his usual serious focus, cutting precise bites.
For a few moments the only sounds were forks clinking, the girls chewing loudly, and Barou’s occasional gruff instructions. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.” “Wipe your face.” “Slow down or you’ll choke.”
You took a bite. The pancake was fluffy and slightly sweet, the strawberries fresh and juicy. It was genuinely delicious.
Barou watched you from across the table, trying to look casual. When you gave him a small thumbs up, he looked away quickly, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward for a split second.
“Tch. Obviously it’s good,” he muttered under his breath, ears still a little pink.
The kitchen felt warm and lived-in, sunlight streaming through the window, two excited little girls chattering between bites, and Barou sitting there pretending he wasn’t quietly making sure everyone had exactly what they wanted.
It was loud. It was messy. And it felt perfectly right.
Later that afternoon, after the kitchen was left spotless (Barou had scrubbed everything with his usual terrifying precision shit was shining brighter than a bald guy), he stood in the doorway of his room, arms crossed tightly over his broad chest. His long black hair was perfectly styled back into its dramatic crown.
“Tch. Don’t just laze around my house all day,” he muttered, red eyes looking somewhere over your shoulder. “We’re going out.”
You tilted your head. “Is this a date?”
Barou’s ears immediately turned red. “Hah? Don’t say such embarrassing crap. I just need to get some fresh air after dealing with those noisy brats all morning. You just happen to be here, so you’re coming along. That’s all it is.”
Why the hell am I doing this? I should be reviewing plays right now… but he stayed over and it doesn’t feel wrong having him around. He clicked his tongue loudly to hide his thoughts.
The two of you walked toward a quiet park a few stations away. Barou strode ahead with his usual arrogant posture, but he kept slowing down so you could walk beside him. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, and a light breeze rustled the leaves.
“You’re walking too slow,” he grumbled, even though he matched your pace perfectly. “I don’t have all day, you know.”
At the park, he claimed a shaded bench like it belonged to him and sat down with perfect posture. When you sat next to him, he didn’t move away. Instead, his thigh pressed lightly against yours.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said, staring straight at the small soccer field where kids were playing. “This isn’t some romantic outing or anything. I just thought the house was too loud after those two destroyed the morning. That’s it.”
You leaned back, enjoying the warm sun. “It’s still nice though.”
Barou clicked his tongue again, louder this time. “Tch. Obviously it’s nice. Anything I do is going to be good. Don’t act so surprised.” His hand rested on the bench between you, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for yours but refused to in public.
After a few minutes of silence, he stood up abruptly. “Wait here. You probably want something to drink. Not that I care what you like.” He marched off to the vending machine and returned with your usual favorite drink plus one for himself. He shoved yours into your hand without looking at you.
“Here. Drink it before it gets warm,” he muttered. “And don’t think I memorized what you like or anything. It was just coincidence.”
You smiled and took a sip. Barou sat back down, closer than before. His ears were still faintly pink.
“I’m only taking a short break from training,” he added gruffly. “Don’t get used to this kind of thing. I have to become the best striker in the world. I can’t waste time on… whatever this is.”
Even as he said it, he stayed right beside you, shoulder brushing yours every time the breeze blew. When the sun began to dip and paint the sky orange, he finally stood.
“Come on. I’ll walk you back. Not because I want to or anything. It’s just on the way.”
On the walk home, his fingers brushed against yours multiple times. Each time he would pull away sharply and click his tongue. “Tch. Watch where you’re swinging your hand.”
As you reached his neighborhood, he stopped and looked at you, jaw tight. “You’re… staying for dinner too, right? Not that I care. My sisters will probably throw a fit if you leave now anyway.”
You grinned. “Only if you actually want me to.”
Barou looked away, ears burning red again. “Do whatever you want. It’s not like it matters to me.”
Inside, though, his chest felt warm and annoyingly full. Having you here walking with him, wearing his clothes that morning, sitting beside him like it was normal felt dangerously good. He would never admit it, but the king was starting to enjoy having someone in his kingdom. Just a little.
He’s such a tsundere, you thought to yourself as you studied his face. The way his sharp red eyes tried so hard to look indifferent, the faint flush on the tips of his ears, and that stubborn set of his jaw it was all so perfectly Barou.
After a few minutes of silence, he stood up abruptly. “Wait here. You probably want something to drink. Not that I care what you like.” He marched off to the vending machine and returned with your usual favorite drink plus one for himself. He shoved yours into your hand without looking at you.
“Here. Drink it before it gets warm,” he muttered. “And don’t think I memorized what you like or anything. It was just coincidence.”
You smiled and took a sip. Barou sat back down, closer than before. His ears were still faintly pink.
“I’m only taking a short break from training,” he added gruffly. “Don’t get used to this kind of thing. I have to become the best striker in the world. I can’t waste time on… whatever this is.”
Even as he said it, he stayed right beside you, shoulder brushing yours every time the breeze blew. When the sun began to dip and paint the sky orange, he finally stood.
“Come on. I’ll walk you back. Not because I want to or anything. It’s just on the way.”
On the walk home, his fingers brushed against yours multiple times. Each time he would pull away sharply and click his tongue. “Tch. Watch where you’re swinging your hand.”
As you reached his neighborhood, he stopped and looked at you, jaw tight. “You’re… staying for dinner too, right? Not that I care. My sisters will probably throw a fit if you leave now anyway.”
You grinned. “Only if you actually want me to.”
Barou looked away, ears burning red again. “Do whatever you want. It’s not like it matters to me.”
You walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence, the tsundere king beside you pretending the whole afternoon meant nothing while quietly making sure you stayed close.
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