Synopsis — You remember the tranquil feelings that comes from seeing your flowers grow. You remember feeling extreme happiness and satisfaction from seeing the first leaves grow and the flowers blooming. These flowers are your everything.
When you enter high school, you are confronted by your future and all the decisions that will make your life.
Even as you isolate yourself from the world, Barou refuses to leave you alone.
Word Count: 5.2k
Tw. Mentions and depictions depression, mental illness, minor suicid€ ideation, aelf-destructive behaviors, reader is depressed, absentee parent but not really. I forgot to make the mom relevant.
It was like any other day: you got ready for the day, watered your plants, eat, put on your shoes, and then go to school. You felt no different—no happier or sadder. Yet, you felt as if the world around you was different. The weather was no different from every other day. Yet there was something about it that made you uneasy. You didn't want to go out. You didn't want to get out of your bed or change into your school uniform. You didn't want to eat, nor did you want to go to school.
You sat at your desk as you got your school bag ready for the day. As you left the room, you ignored the flowers on your windowsill.
An honor student, top of the class, every day was the same: no different, no oddities, no change. You stared ahead at the teacher with your textbook on your desk, unmoving. You don't remember what the teacher said, yet you still completed the assignment perfectly; it was expected. You ignore the window next to you. You ignore the birds flying by and the howling of wind.
You don't like eating outside, yet it was where you usually ate your lunch. You would eat in the school's cafeteria. However, the tables were made with the purpose of eating with others—you don't have anyone to eat with. You don't want to bother the others by taking up space at the tables. Though there are people who eat outside, there are areas isolated from the rest of the student body. Eating outside where you can't see anyone makes you feel less lonely than eating in the cafeteria.
You hate looking at the flowers planted by the schools faculty. As you eat, you do your best to ignore the flowers in your peripheral vision; you hate eating outside.
After eating, you head back to your classroom, finish the day, and walk home. You clean the house before your mother comes home. You help your mom cook when she eventually comes back from work. You eat together once the meal is finished. You smile as you talk about your day and the gossip you overhead among your peers; you leave out the part that you weren't part of these conversations.
"How is Shouei these days? You two go to the same school and have the same homeroom, right?" Your mother asked.
You froze the moment you heard Barou's name. What do you tell her? That you run away whenever you see him? That you avoid him because you don't want him talking to your mom about how lonely you are? You don't want to think about Shouei—you don't want him to see you like this. Why should he care?
"I—We don't have the chance to talk to each other because of the seating arrangement. Besides, I get to class as soon as the bell rings."
"—be gone for a while."
You excused yourself and went upstairs and in your room. You laid on the floor as the setting sun blinded your eyes. You had your back turned against the messy bedroom and stared outside. You felt the feeling of anxiety grow as you stared at the wilting sunflower on the windowsill.
You never really liked flowers; your mom spent a lot of money to help you start a garden after hearing you mention it once. However, it's because of her smile that came on her face whenever she looked at flower—you spent hours and hours making sure each seed was perfect and the soil not to compact. So many of them grew up to be little sprouts: so many of them died due to your neglect. It's difficult to care for something when you can't care for yourself.
"What do you want to study?"
"Where do you want to work?"
"You have to take these classes and exams in order to get into your career choice."
"If you miss out on this, you'll never be able to make it up again."
"This is what I send you to school for! Just do your responsibility as my child and go."
"You graduate next year, so when will you grow up?"
"The flowers, they're dying. Do you want me to do it myself?"
"Throw them out."
How?
You couldn't keep up with the emotional and mental demands from the adults around you. You couldn't bring yourself to care for those sprouts. You felt yourself growing anxious the longer those flowers stood around your room. Countless flowers wilting on your windowsill, and now your favorite sunflower is wilting. You know you could save it if you just water the plant, but you're scared to look at it any longer. The longer you hesitate, the worse it becomes—the worse it becomes, the more anxious you become.
That lone sunflower is trying to keep up with your cruel neglect. You were supposed to nurture them, not kill them. Just looking at the flower makes you sick. You want to pull the roots out and burn it; you're so scared to look at it, yet you continue to stare. You can't bring yourself to care for them, yet you can't bring yourself to want them to die.
You wish you could just disappear.
There would be days that you felt as if you were on the top of the world. You feel as if there is no one who could ever compare to you. First place—first rate, there was no denying your academic achievements. There was never an exam or test you didn't place first. It was quite the achievement with the number of students attending Akudo Academy. Yet, you felt as if that was all you had to you.
There were countless other students who got average grades and still excelled at other things: sports, art, dance, and literature. Just what do you have outside of being intelligent? You have flowers that are nothing but an obligation that you can't even fulfill.
Why does that sunflower still try?
When morning came, you got up, used the bathroom, got dressed, and packed your lunch—ignoring the sunflower on your windowsill. As you got your shoes on, you looked at the front door and saw a note. "(Y/n), I left enough food for three days in the fridge. I'll be back in a month —mom"
Did your mom tell you that she was leaving? You put on a jacket and stepped outside. You froze when you saw someone waiting outside your house's front door. "Barou? What are you doing here?"
Barou glared at you as he took your school bag out of your hands. Bewildered by his brash actions, you let him. "Your mom wanted me to make sure you weren't dead yet. Did she not tell you I'd be over?"
You stood still and looked away. "No, she didn't tell me you would be here." Trying your best to ignore him, you walked ahead of him. Just why would your mom want someone to take care of you while she was gone? Why him?
Barou just watched as you tripped on a rock.
"—you may be seated."
You stared blankly in front of you.
Class just started, and you already want to leave. Like every other day, you took notes, tidied the classroom, helped your homeroom teacher, go back, get your lunch, and eat. Sitting outside away from your gossiping peers: peaceful, quiet, tranquil, dreadful, and lonely.
You picked at the food in the lunchbox. Staring at the peeled orange, you did your best to ignore the prying eyes of the flora. It was everywhere: the grass, the shrubs, flowers, trees, it never left you alone. You just wished it would all disappear along with your constant loathing. Mocking you for the neglect you put tgose flowers through. You wished someone would just tell you how awful and disgusting you were for being the abuser.
You couldn't bring yourself to swallow the fruit.
"What are you doing here by yourself?"
You flinched as you turned to look behind you. You wanted to do something: to express how annoyed and angry you were, but nothing came out. Every day was the same: same house, same uniform, same class, same dread. You got used to your monotonous schedule—you had no reason to expect otherwise. That is why you found yourself unknowing how to react properly.
Today was full of surprises, wasn't it?
You swallowed the orange as Barou sat next to you. You tried your best to ignore the towering giant sitting next to you, but how does someone eat comfortably with a person watching them as they eat? You forced yourself to chew the food as you stared at your lap.
"You didn't answer my question."
"Why does it matter to you?"
Barou gave you one last look before sighing. "You got me there."
You ate in silence as he watched the wind blow through the trees and flowers. You couldn't help but glance at Barou every now and then: wondering why he insisted on walking with you. If your mother wanted to ensure you were alive, you could've sent her daily messages—not this. Everything was fine. You were fine. This day was fine.
For the first time in a while, you wanted to strangle a cat.
Your annoyance hit a boiling point when you saw Barou waiting for at the school's entrance; you wanted to jump off a bridge. You did your best to blend in the crowd of students, but who would have guessed, he still found you. As Barou did in the morning, he insisted on holding your things as he walked you home. You were too emotionally drained to talk. All you could do was stare at the concrete sidewalk—devoid of any lively thing.
When you reached your house, you walked ahead of him. You wanted to close the door on him and huddle in your nest of blankets. Reaching the front door, you slid the key into the lock, and in a quick motion, you jumped inside.
"Bye-bye now!"
"Wait—" You closed the door before Barou got the chance to speak. With your back against the door, you stared at the houseplant in front of you; it was one of the few your mother watered. You kicked off your shoes and slid down the door. Sitting on the cold floor, the sound of cars and birds drowned out your silent tears.
You didn’t eat.
You were so full with hate and annoyance earlier, but now—suddenly—you couldn't bring yourself to get up from the front door steps. You just sat there slumped, staring at the vibrant green leafs of that horrible plant. Staring staring, and staring, you eventually fell asleep at the front steps.
As you slept, you had a dream that you didn't dream.
You ran along the side of the streets of an unfamiliar city. Waving at the passing pedestrians and cars, dancing in the empty night streets, twirling under the rain, talking and socializing: it felt as if you truly belonged in this place. You were at ease and content with this life that you created. Surround with people who understood you and gave you a sense of indistinguishability, this was living. Then, you walked past a puddle and looked at your reflection: you saw a stranger.
Blonde curly hair with gray eyes—this person couldn't be you. This life couldn't be yours. Looking at the city around you, you couldn't read or understand the language around you. You felt alienated in a world where this person should have belonged. For a feeling and blessing as calm as this place could never belong to you.
"If only I could be you for a day. Then I could finally be happy."
You awoke to the sound and vibrations of knocking on the door. You rubbed your eyes and yawned. Looking at the floor, you wanted to pull vomit. Did you really sleep at the front door? Before you lament your self-hatred, the knocking returned.
"Hey! (Y/N)! Don't keep me waiting!"
You don't know why you did it, but you opened the door. You sat on the floor in your school uniform while looking up at Barou pathetically. Barou, for his credit, didn't question you about your unruly appearance. Sighing, he stepped inside, closed the door, and took off his shoes. Setting his things aside, he kneeled down to your level. As you averted your gaze from his, the feeling of familiarity washed over you. It felt as if you were reliving this moment all over again.
"Are you going to sit there all day, or are you going to get up?"
You turned to look at Barou; he was just as annoying as he was yesterday. Grabbing onto your arm, Barou helped you stand up. Holding your hand, he walked you to the bathroom. This definitely happened before.
"Talked to you for the first time in seven years, and this is how you treat me?"
"You could always just leave."
"Alright."
"I was kidding—oww!!!"
You kicked Barou in his stomach after he dropped you onto the bathroom tiles. Barou just let you kick him; it wasn't like you were strong enough to hurt him....you should workout.
The first time Shouei hugged you was when you almost drowned.
"Leave me alone!"
Shouei shouted at you. He really tried to deal with you, but this time, it was it.
"Why can't you do anything right!"
When Barou first met you, he was eight, and it was the start of summer. Barou thought you were another annoying kid; just another snotty, yelling, crying kid. Both your moms were friends, and considering you and Barou were close in age, they wanted you two to get along. However, how often do kids get along when awkwardly introduced by their parents?
He didn't want to be forced to befriend someone he didn't know. The only reason he gave into his mother's nagging was because you weren't as annoying as he had thought. Like an ant, you were smaller than most kids your age. You were quiet and quite forgettable; Barou found it easy to drag you around without actually interacting with you under the guise of playing together. That was one of the very few things he liked about you: you listen to him. You went wherever he told you go—you did whatever he told you to do. Not once did you ever talk back or reject his demands.
"Look at those two! Aren't they getting along?"
"Look how (y/n) follows Shouei everywhere! Aren't they adorable?"
Even then, if Barou had a choice, he'd rather not have you around. But due to your supposed "friendship" together, your mom often had you stay over with his family. With his parents, having an extra person in his home made the place feel suffocating. To remedy this, Barou often went out to practice playing football whenever you were around. That was until his mom forced him to take you with him.
No matter how obedient and well-behaved you were, Barou didn't want to be around you constantly. You were alright to be around at first, but to be constantly forced to be around you made him sick. At least he could tell you to sit somewhere he couldn't see you while he practiced. That's how it was for most of your time together. You sitting behind a tree, watching as Shouei kicked the ball—and that was fine.
It was only when you seeked him unprompted that Barou couldn't stand you. Could you not see how uncomfortable he was around you? In his eyes, you were truly pathetic; you couldn't even muster a proper sentence or defend yourself. Like mouse wavering when facing the lion, you were the worst of the worst.
Two kids fighting near the water canal. A young child holding onto a boy for comfort. All that child wanted was love and affection. All the boy wanted was independence and glory.
"Leave me alone!" You held him by his leg: you were suffocating. Shouei kept pushing you off him, only for you to continue trying to hold him. He didn't want to push you too hard, or he might hurt you, but you just kept trying to tip him over the edge.
"Why can't you do anything right!"
Shouei breathed heavily when he saw you fall into the water. He didn't know what to do. He didn't mean to it! You were touching him, and he didn't like it, so he pushed you off him. He never meant to push you into the water.
Shouei breathed heavily as he held you close. Both cold and wet, Shouei refused to let go of you. What if you fell into the water again? What if he somehow pushed in again? Stay away from the water, and you'll be fine.
It was the moment the distaste he had for you grew to a feeling of neutrality. As long as you were alive, his mom wouldn't care.
When Barou saw you lying on the floor, he didn't know what to think. The only thing that came to mind was that you were dirty.
It was quiet the whole time.
You looked down at Barou's hands as he stripped you out of your school uniform. You looked his own uniform and wondered if he would be alright with an unexcused absence. Then again, he wouldn't be here with you if he did. The sound of water hitting the shower tiles reverberated in your ear: It was deafening. Looking back at Barou, you thought about the last time you showered. Did you really look that bad?
"If you didn't bother me, I would have been fine."
"So me simply talking to you was enough to mess you up?"
You had nothing to say to that. Instead, you kicked him away and covered yourself with a towel. Without a hint of embarrassment, you pointed to the door. "Go away now. I can shower myself."
You really didn't like him....you forgot that you didn't have clean clothes to change to. "BAROU!!! Get me clothes or something—same place!"
When you got out of the shower and changed, you expected Barou to have left. Instead, you found him in the kitchen preparing food or something.
"So....are you leaving or what? I don't want you here all day." You dried your hair with a towel as you leaned against the wall.
Barou just glared at you before saying, "I'm literally feeding you right now."
"Yeah, and?"
"Knowing you, you'd probably starve before ordering fast food; am I right?" You might as well be an open book with how easy you are to read. Then again, Barou has seen you in your most vulnerable moments. You sat down at the table and watched as he went through the fridge. If it wasn't for his personality and knowledge of your most embarrassing moments, you would consider marrying him with how well-kept he was.
"You should marry me." You said without a thought. Barou just stared at you with the most disgusted look. You tried to throw an orange at him.
Your mom really likes Shouei. She often compliments his cleanliness and manners; often comparing your unmotivated behavior to his. Saying how you should get into sports or how you should clean out your cluttered room. Shouei is proper and knows how to take care of his home, so why couldn't you? Shouei eats healthy and works out. Why can't you? Watch your weight, and do something with your time inside of staying in your room all day. You shouldn't be asked to clean this house. You shouldn't be asked to do anything I want you to do. Why did you do that wrong? Why can't you do anything right? I told you over and over again, and you do it like this. Why do you talk back? Why don't you talk to me? Speak up. You never do anything in this house. Go outside and hang out with your friends if you're too lazy to do anything here. Just go, I don't want to talk to you.
"Why can't you be like Shouei?"
It's because you aren't happy.
Why aren't you happy? Despite her bad moments, your mom is a good one. You don't live in poverty. You are at the top of your classes. You get honors every single year. You have a guaranteed future if you do what you are told.
You just aren't happy, and you don't know why.
"You have flowers in your room."
You stared at the television as you laid your head on the sofa's armrest. Barou sat at the other edge of the couch. You furrowed your brows as you thought of the sunflower.
"What about them?" You refused to look at him; trying to drown out your emotions with mindless content.
"They're dying, aren't they?" Barou paused for you to speak. Turning to look at you, he could see that you moved further away from him. "So why don't you take care of them like you used to?"
"Like how I 'used to?' I only started growing flowers three years ago."
"Your mom often comes to my house and talks with my mom. She mentions you a lot."
You turned to lay on your back, facing Barou. Staring at him while prodding at his leg with yours, you spoke, "—and she probably told you how all my plants died this year and how lazy I am."
"What's new?" You glared at him when you heard him say that.
"Get out of my house if that's how you'll be." You moved towards Barou and tried to push his large frame off the couch. "Go!"
Unsurprisingly, Barou stood up, unbothered by your physical attempts to get him out. "Calm down, will you? I'm going, alright!"
You pulled on his arm and dragged him to the front door. You slammed the door the moment he stepped out: you really didn't want to seem ever again.
Barou just outside the front door as he sighed for the hundredth time that day. He forgot his things there. Stretching his arms, he watched as you turned on your room's light; you are alive and breathing. He wanted to chuckle at how sporadic you were, but how could he when he saw the state you were in. The house was overall clean and organized; your mother must have spent the day before deep cleaning the house. However, when he saw this morning, you were still on the floor in the same uniform from yesterday. Your hair was a mess and smelled of sweet: eyes red from crying. You were an absolute disaster.
It was irrational, unreasonable—however—a sense of dread washed over him when he saw you like that. Like when you almost drowned, you didn't make that much noise. You had the same eyes from that day, and it scared him; did he do that?
Barou doesn't make you cry. He couldn't even if he wanted to. He remembers holding your hand and walking back inside his house after you almost drowned. He remembers you not wanting to let go of his hand and him not pushing you to do so.
Barou didn't like you—that much was true—yet it was the bonds falsified by your parents that made it. As brittle as antiques, as transparent as glass: with one word, you two could separate for years and years at a time yet see through each other. Though, it was mostly Barou reading your mind and you putting words in his mouth.
When your mom asked him to talk to you in her place, Barou had no reason to refuse. Unlike her child, your mom was respectful and understanding as well as a loving mom would to her friend's exceptional kid. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time he took care of you. No matter how many times you push him out of your life, he now has a reason to force himself back in.
"Do you not have any friends?"
"Oh my God, you don't just ask someone that."
"Well, I just did."
Barou stared at the back of your head as you slouched over the lunch he made for you; can't believe he's more well‐adjusted than you. You tried to think of an excuse as to why you haven't eaten with anyone the past week he "stalked" you. If you tell him how socially isolated you are, he'll tell your mom.
"You know, I doubt you even have friends with an ugly personality like that!" You retorted.
Barou snickered, "i have the right to do so—what excuse do you have to act like you're worth something?"
Did he just?
" 'worth something?' "
Without a word, you stood up and walked towards him. In a split second, you jumped on top of him and began to pull his hair. "Poor choice of words, you idiot! Damn narcissist! I'll show you my worth!"
"Get the fuck off me! Don't you think you're a bit immature for your age?!!!" Barou had a hand on your face, pushing you away. You pulled on his uniform and tried to scratch his skin
"Immature for MY age?!?! I don't go walking around acting entitled like I'm the goddamn king!!!"
You bit his arm.
"This is exactly what I mean!"
You and Barou often got intimate and physical.....and by that, it means fighting and poking at eachothers worst flaws and moments. You never won these fights, for obvious reasons, and they often resulted in Barou restraining you as if you assaulted him—which you totally did. You started over half of the fights, and if not half, all fights. However, how are you to blame! You don't do anything to him, and yet he keeps bringing up your insecurities unprompted.
"Are you done?" Barou held your hands behind your back. You laid on the floor and stopped trying to squirm out of his hold.
"Yes....."
Barou let go of you and left. You stared at the ceiling as you heard the front door click. Maybe he said something to you, maybe he stayed a bit a longer—but you didn't have it in you to pay attention. You wanted to melt into the floor.
Just two more weeks until your mom comes back, and that prick leaves you alone. After two weeks, you can go back to how you were living before.
You avoided your room. You slept in the living room and only went to your room to change. If Barou was there, you would have him get your clothes, and you would change in the bathroom. You knew he wanted to question it, but with how you often avoided answering, he didn't.
You would lay on the floor with your back turned to your room door. Having Barou force you to be productive made you realize how much you hated staying your room. You didn't want to open the door and face the flowers you neglected. You didn't want to look at the wilting sunflower. You opted for watching a movie on your phone. In the middle of doing so, your phone gave a five percent warning. You sighed as you rolled on your back and dropped the phone beside you.
" 'worth something.' "
what were you worth? What future do you have without motivation?
You stood up and held the door knob tightly. You furrowed your brows when you noticed that the door was cleaner than it was before. What you saw when you entered your room made you want to go to sleep for a long time.
Something was different.
Everyday was the same. Same routine, same food, same class, same distance, people: nothing was new. Same, same, same was all that burdened you. The same flowers you wake up to see every morning. Wilting, dry, wrinkled, torn, cracked flowers. You have two flowers in your room:
Sunflowers and white clematis flowers.
You poked the flowers as you sat on the ground. The leaves look hydrated and vibrant with life. The petals are without bruising or tearing. The soil is the correct pH and perfect moisture. Your flowers—the ones you were so afraid of—were alive. Seeing the sunflower and clematis side by side, it was like the clematis was always there.
There was nowhere better to sleep than under the light of the setting sun—underneath the windowsill covered the shadows of clematis and sunflowers.
Every day was something similar and sometimes different. You still recoil at the sight of flowers, but you can water them. The fear of abusing the things you so treasured was deafening. You once turned a blind eye to the sunflower's existence; you were afraid to confront your regrets. You stared and pondered the reason for your unhappiness. One day, you're the happiest you could ever be, then the next, you can't get out of bed. That sunflower that stood on your windowsill was daunting as you waited for it to die—however—it never did.
"To be honest, I never thought you actually came here." You sipped on your drink as watched the bowling ball hit the pins. "I thought you were joking or something."
Barou scoffed at you as he picked the next bowling ball. "What do you think I do in my free time?"
You tilted your head as you thought about it. "I mean—you're such a clean-freak, and I only see you playing football whenever you're not like babysitting me. Oh! Another strike!"
"I can't with you." Barou sighed. Such were the cons of being with you.
"I'm cute." It's true—your the cutest in the whole wide world.
"Sure, whatever you say."
You wanted to say something to rile him up but decided to be nice. For someone who is adamant about their indifference towards you, Barou surely does love you in a not‐lovers-but-not-friends-but-a-mutual-bond-of-trust type thing.
You only had sunflowers in your room. You never owned clematis flowers until someone gave you them—forcefully you might add.
"You want to go to my pla—why are you blushing? Hey!"
Was it that noticeable?
When he got close enough to you, you grabbed his hand and got on knee.
"Barou Shouei, would make me the happiest and most blessed person in the world and marry me?" You were definitely blushing hard to the point you felt light-headed. When was the last time you felt this bold? Six years since you last felt a sense of normalcy.
You felt tears of nervousness coming out the edge your eyes as you gave Barou's hand gentle kiss. This was supposed to joke—how did you derail to the real thing?! Why isn't he saying anything!? Why isn't he stopping you from embarrassing yourself anymore than you have already!?
Barou, in a swift motion, held your hand and hoisted you up on your feet. Holding both your hands, he looked down to face you. Barou could swear he could see the sweat rolling down your flushed face. You looked and acted Ike a wet dog left in the rain; it was precious.
Letting your hand go, he turned away.
"If you're going to propose, you got to do it right. Get my parents' blessings, then win me over. Got it?"
𝓼𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼: Barou seems to have enough of your godawful dating life. What he doesn’t know is that you’ve reached your breaking point, too.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚: explicit content ﾉ 18+ ﾉ fem!afab!reader ﾉ friends to lovers ﾉ idiots in love ﾉ roommates AU ﾉ barou centric ﾉ soft love making bc he's a CLB duh ﾉ narration heavy ﾉ kinda mean to reader but it all means well ﾉ first time/virginity loss ﾉ dry humping ﾉ fingering ﾉ missionary ﾉ no beta we die like men wc: 8.5k (longest smut fic i've written thus far whew)
a/n: hello friends i am back hehe trying out a new format :3 and also a standalone barou fic because wow i've always paired this guy w nagi sjakhdkajdfh pls give me more hair down barou im begging on my fuckin knees
“Promise me that you won’t get mad,” you peek around the door frame, head poking into Barou’s room.
“The hell did you do this time,” Barou tries to keep his voice casual, red eyes flickering from his computer monitor to your face, then back again. Frankly, he has no idea what you’re possibly referring to, but whenever you’re vague like this, it’s usually not a good thing.
Your brows knit together and you clench the sides of the door. “You gotta promise me, Shouei.”
It has to be something bad, at least in his mind, because you’re trying really hard to look convincing. He can make out the small fidgeting motions by just how hard your knuckles are gripping against the door frame. Barou exhales and pauses, and it’s for a long, rare moment. He’s always the type of guy to say whatever comes to mind, and it’s usually a whole bunch of unfiltered harsh truths and things that others don't want to hear. It’s rare that Barou is actually picking his words carefully and, of course, that catches your attention even more.
“Shouei…”
After a few seconds, Barou manages to narrow the possibilities down to three.
The first answer being the obvious choice: you’re planning to invite a bunch of your friends over for a last minute party. Your friends are loud, messy, and a bit too friendly towards him despite the numerous times he’s yelled at them. Whatever, he’s used to this by now. Afterall, he’s been living with you at this apartment for well over a year now—four years if he counts the amount of times you’ve crashed at his dorm during his time in high school and university.
The second outcome might be directly related to the second half: you’re moving out. Could it be a new job opportunity with better pay? Hell, he’s seen you hunched over and obsessively scrolling through multiple job posting sites these past few months that he’s had a feeling that the day will come sooner or later. But it wouldn’t be something that Barou could see himself getting frustrated over.
Which only leads to the third option: you’ve somehow brought home a stray animal and expect him to be okay with it—
“Okay, dude, you’re seriously starting to freak me out.”
Barou snorts and rolls his eyes. “Can’t promise if I don’t know what it is,” and motions at the empty space by the edge of his bed. “Whatever you brought back home, though, it’s a no. You know I have a cat allergy.”
“I wouldn’t bring an animal home without telling you! Plus, that’s such a lie because you had a cat growing up,” you flush brightly and glower. Needless to say, you end up shuffling past the door frame, into full view, and Barou quickly realizes what you’re referring to, and why you’re acting so agitated.
Breath quickly catches in Barou’s lungs. He averts his gaze, looks back, and clenches his jaw—all in a matter of seconds.
“You’re… dressed up,” he’s pretty sure his face is all contorted, because you’re suddenly acting meek again.
“Don’t give me that look,” your hands fly up and do a poor job covering your chest and exposed thighs.
A form fitting dress is the last thing he’d ever imagined you in, then again, you were never the type to actively show off your feminine outfits in front of him—lounging around in nothing but sweats and an oversized tee is a sight he’s more used to—until now.
“I don’t normally see you wearing stuff like this,” he tries to make the words casual and dismissive, though he’s very aware that he’s just admitted that he pays close attention to you. And, for whatever reason, he has the burning urge to tear himself away, before the tiny voice in his head starts taunting him to go even lower. “Why are you even showing me?”
“Y’know, I had an explanation to give you, but now you sound borderline pissed,” you begin to tip toe back behind the door frame, slowly.
“I always sound borderline pissed,” Barou adds. He’s paused his task at the desk, computer monitor on mute, and the room is exceptionally quiet, except for the low, hesitant creaks from the floor panels. After another moment of studying your face, he exhales and shakes his head. “Let me guess… a date?”
“Oh,” you look momentarily surprised, or maybe that’s just his imagination. You revert back almost immediately though. “How’d you figure it out so quickly?”
If it weren’t for those damn career boosting sites, the second most used apps would be those stupid dating ones.
Both of your parents work all the time, business partners even, so it’s been mainly the two of you left to your own devices at a young age. Barou didn’t have many friends growing up, outside of you and his sisters, if he can even count them.
You’re generally introverted by nature, but somehow you seem to attract people who seem to lack common boundaries and have a strange affinity to soccer. Of course, that includes him, your friends, and all the dates you try and bring back—Barou never lets them go past the shoe rack and, thankfully, your dates always seemed too afraid to object.
Your parents think that it’s a blessing of some sort. That he’s your personal guardian or a shitty guard dog to keep out unwanted men. Something about keeping you safe, another comment about being a good future son-in-law. Conversations with your relatives always tend to steer from topics of career goals, the amount of savings you have, to relationship status, and—ultimately—hey, Shouei’s available, right? Of course, you two don’t have that type of relationship.
Barou is observant, despite what others might think. Observant enough to know that you get uncomfortable when the idea of the two of you being together comes up. You tend to go quiet, then flustered, all before storming off to your own room. Maybe that’s why you spend all your energy into those dating apps—a weird rebellion phase of sorts.
He wants to chastise you, hoping it’ll lead towards you finding another pastime that consists of less unimpressive dicks. Perhaps picking up more books would be well suited for you. Though, upon recent apartment cleanings, he’s stumbled upon plenty of your obscured romance novels. The type of novels that the covers consist of half naked men in cowboy attire with the classic damsel in distress in his arms—Barou doesn’t understand why anyone reads that stuff—piled up all on the living room coffee table.
Scolding you is definitely on top of his to-do list right about now, second to decluttering the fridge. Advising that you can’t blindly trust men on these shitty platforms because god knows what they lie about to get a person’s attention. But he has a feeling that you’ll brush him off, spouting an all too familiar speech that you’ve given him plenty of times before about not being a kid. It’s probably a dumb idea, and he knows that.
So, instead, he shrugs and ignores the anxious buzzing tugging at the back of his mind. “An educated guess.”
“Oh, hm,” you go quiet at that and he isn’t entirely sure why that makes him nervous. “Do I look weird?”
“What?”
You tilt your head. “You’re staring. Like deep in thought.”
So much for keeping his expression neutral.
“Hmph,” Barou snaps his gaze back to his monitor, observing you from its reflection.
His awareness of your dress comes in levels of recognition. First is material: even from the distance he’s sitting, he can tell with a quick eye that it’s from some sort of designer brand. The silk fabric clings to your figure as if it was made for you, worshiping every curve and kissing your features perfectly. Second is how you chose to style it: the adjustments made to your chest is purposeful, making your cleavage the centerpiece while your neckline draws attention to it. Third is his own reaction to it: his mind races to the thought of how unfair everything suddenly feels.
“It’s nothing. It’s just—it’s different from the usual, that’s all.” An awkward beat and, “You don’t look weird.”
You lean back on your heels, body now coming back into view, and there’s a small grin. Looking closer, he sees that you’ve got your makeup and nails done, too.
“What? You’re coming at me for relationship advice now?” Barou asks, after a moment. “I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Your big mouth always has something to say,” you look at him with quirked brows.
He sighs airily. “Who cares, it’s not like you’ll listen,” then rolls his eyes. It’s a bit of an exaggeration, of course, but you’re quite literally one of the most stubborn people he’s ever come across.
Barou’s familiar with your on and off dating sprees before, and in the beginning he did loosely hand out some advice—even though most of the information came from all those dumb teen magazines he found in his sisters’ rooms. It’s almost like a damn script by how it plays out: obsess over a mediocre guy, go on a date or two, and be extremely disappointed when they don’t live up to your expectations.
It’s been about three months since your last date, and Barou doesn’t understand how this one might end up any different.
As if you’ve read his mind, you begin to explain, “We’ve been texting for a few days now. He seems super nice over video call, likes to cook, has a stable job—”
“Hate to break it to you, but that’s the bare minimum.”
“Shouei,” you grumble, “be nice.”
He feels his eyes narrow, lips pressing thin. “You planning to bring him back or something?” Barou can’t seem to mask the edge in his voice.
“If everything goes well, then yeah,” you look relatively proud of yourself. “Which is why I’m asking you to not scare him away—you’re capable of doing that, right?”
“It’s not gonna happen regardless,” the words roll out almost too naturally for both of your comfort, “something always goes wrong, anyways.”
Your lips press thin, weight shifting subtly between your feet. “Don’t be such a dick. I’m bringing a guy back this time.”
Barou doesn’t know what to say. What the fuck can he say? All he knows is that this is making him feel more annoyed than usual. You’ve got to be aware of that, right?
You two have fought before, of course. Nothing ever goes well when it deals with two stubborn individuals. Thankfully, none of the arguments have never escalated past mild inconveniences. Barou can’t seem to remember when’s the last time you’ve actually gotten angry, though. He imagines it being similar to his mom, or sisters, and it’s terrifying because you’re giving him that look—one where you’re a comment away from swatting everything off his desk.
His brows draw together for a moment, eyes squinting, before regaining his ground. He bites back his tongue. “Do what you want.”
“So, I take it that you’re not…?”
Barou scoffs, drumming his fingers against the desk. “Why would I be mad? I’m not in charge of you.”
It’s over a late dinner when Barou finally checks his messages. He sees a few notifications under your name, and he pauses. He doesn’t know why he’s hesitating, there’s a strange churning feeling in his stomach and suddenly he’s lost his appetite. Barou flips his phone down at the table before discarding his utensils, and the look Isagi gives him is a weird one.
“Everything alright there?”
“I’m not mad.”
Across from him, Isagi leans against the kitchen counter and laughs. “Didn’t say you were,” he picks at his dinner plate with a tilted head. “So, erm, why did you call me over here again? Something about a problem…? You still haven’t gotten to that part.”
“Everything’s fine. I’m fine. Not a damn problem around in this shithole. Fucking perfect around here,” he’s suddenly hot with anger.
Isagi replies to this with a vague handwave. “If I had to guess, someone’s out on a date, again, and you haven’t done much about it.”
Barou shoots him a scathing glare. Thinks of denying for a moment. Doesn’t. “Why bother asking if you already knew?”
Like him, Isagi is oddly extremely aware of everything and everyone. On and off the playing field. Which probably explains why he’s both the coach and fan favorite of the bunch. And more of a reason why Barou is stuck third in line for most sponsorships, right behind Itoshi Rin. Well, whatever, he was never a people’s pleaser to begin with. Though, it is nice having him around to vent to—if you count offering to cook dinner in tense silence while going over sporting logistics—because Isagi Yoichi doesn’t judge. Unless your name is Kaiser, then that’s a whole different story.
A shrug. “Wanted to hear it from you, though that might’ve taken all night.” It’s not a tease.
No matter how rough and rugged Barou looks, he can’t wipe the knowing smile off of Isagi’s features.
“So,” Isagi continues, “how long before you miss out on your chance? A few months? Days? Right now?”
He lowers the volume on the TV and shoves another bite in. “Most likely never. If anything goes down south, that’ll be on me.”
“You’re thinking about this carefully,” Isagi observes, earning him another annoyed look. “It’s a good thing—you’re usually, uh, headstrong and tenacious most of the time.” It’s kinda a compliment, Barou thinks.
“We live together,” he emphasizes, “that’s different.”
“For how long, though? At this point it feels like you’re doing this to yourself.” The corners of Isagi’s lip raise, just a little. “Have you tried seeing if she likes you back?”
Barou scowls and absently fiddles with his hair, still a bit damp from the shower earlier. “What’s with that question? If I knew then I wouldn’t be inviting you over here, dumbass.”
A beat or two. He stares at the wall for a moment and cracks.
“If she liked me back then I doubt she’d be out right now with some random guy,” Barou hates how whiny his voice sounds. He’s not the type to openly complain, especially not with his feelings like this. With Isagi, however, it seems like he brings that side out of everyone. What a weirdo.
The younger male simply smiles. “Maybe look into her dating history, you might be able to figure out some patterns.”
“Like I’m some sort of masochist.”
“Well, you’re currently spending your Saturday evening watching football highlights with me, and I think that’s telling by itself.”
Barou doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t bother to say anything to that. He just shoves a spoonful of rice in his mouth and half-distractedly finishes watching a previous games’ highlight on the TV. A quarter way through, and he feels himself starting to drift off.
Isagi’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and that’s a surprising relief to Barou. The younger male lets out a small noise, sets his empty plate in the sink, letting water and soap soak it up for a bit, and fishes his phone out. A few seconds and he starts making his way towards the door, gym bag in hand.
“Rin’s asking to see me for something,” he mindlessly explains while slipping on his shoes. “Guess I’m gonna have to pass on keeping you company tonight, bud.” Isagi says this with a bit of playfulness, but he shoots him a look of sympathy when his hand reaches the knob.
It makes Barou flinch, badly. “Go home, dumbass.”
Once Isagi leaves the premises, he goes back to his own devices. Watching sporting highlights soon went stale, so he opted to watch a drama that you’ve been raving about a while back.
It has an interesting start. The main lead somehow paraglides her way into a foreign country and the tall, handsome, and stoic—your words, not his—military officer has to take care of her.
He remembers, when you first discovered the drama, the main actor was all you could talk about. Sure, he’s your typical standard silent, tough guy trope, but you were especially smitten over him.
“The way he looks after her, the yearning and the need, it’s just—” you would wave your body back and forth, at a loss for words.
The ending credits snaps him out of the small lull and, out of curiosity, Barou browses through his social apps and thumbs your handle into the search bar. You guys are mutual friends, so this shouldn’t feel weird. Though, if he’s being honest with himself, he really, really doesn’t care much for what other people do in their spare time. Looking at his own account, there’s only two posts and both of them are cringey gym mirror selfies from several years ago.
So Barou doesn’t really know what to expect when he looks through your recent story highlights.
There’s a picture of a fancy looking latte with an equally fancy looking cheese foam design on top. The guy’s out of the frame, but he can make out an arm with a decked out watch in the corner. Another picture and this time it features a set of flaky chocolate pastries on a square plate with red sauce paired on the side. The third picture makes Barou pause, because it’s a selfie of you and some guy. From appearance alone, the guy is conventionally attractive, but he also has an extremely punchable face. White collared button up shirt, except for the plain fact that it’s wild open and his damn chest hairs are poking out. He’s got his hands around your waist, his stubbled chin pressed extremely close to yours, looking into the camera as if you belonged to him.
He feels his head throbbing, almost full of cotton, and he shuts his phone off, tossing it onto the far end of the couch. Barou doesn’t bother to clean the dishes, at least not yet. He sets his dirty plate aside, letting it soak in the sink alongside with the other bowls. It’s not until after another hot, long shower that Barou starts stress cleaning the apartment.
And, yeah, vacuuming the living room and running the loud dishwasher at nearly midnight is pretty outrageous and, frankly, dramatic—even for someone like him. By the time he’s done destressing, the air wafts with lemon essential oils and a hint of antiseptic scent. Eventually, after everything, he crawls under the blankets and lies still for a long time before the hint of sleep catches up.
It’s one in the morning when he hears you coming home; heels wobbling against the wooden panels, faint mumbling with a drawl, and sounds of keys hitting the small trinket bowl by the front door. He thinks maybe he should go see you, but stops himself halfway. Barou doesn’t know what he’ll do, how he’ll react, if you come back with smeared lipstick stains on your face, or if you smell like musk— like some stupid, rich casanova’s cologne.
Barou’s just about to pull the covers back over his head when a noise from the living room jolts him wide awake. A loud clatter, body hitting a surface, and he snaps his attention away. And, luckily for him, you just smelled like straight alcohol.
“I should’ve never gone out, I should’ve just…” A beat, followed by a series of painful groans.
You’re definitely tipsy from whatever drink that’s in your system. From what Barou can tell, it was strong.
“Did you take anything else?” It’s a rhetorical question but he keeps his voice quiet, low, and observes you from the couch.
You’re half slumped over, limbs hanging all over the place and your trench coat is doing an awful job at covering up your promiscuous dress. Tired exhaustion plagues all over. Barou quickly covers you with a spare throw blanket on the side.
He tries to get you off the couch, as carefully as he can, and you nearly jump out of your skin from the proximity. Your eyes are glazed, mouth slightly dry and slack, and some of your makeup has smudged—whether it’s from the date or the excessive tossing and turning, Barou doesn’t really want to know. What he does know is that you’re close, now actively leaning into his touch, and your eyes meet, and he’s yet again faced with that strange fire rushing through him.
He swears under his breath, lifting you into his arms.
There’s a million things he wants to say, majority of them being half-ass insults and I told you so, but none of that seems appropriate. His face is only inches away from yours. Barou quickly realizes that his mouth has gone dry and his tongue feels heavy. His recent reactions towards you have been… confusing, to say the least.
You stir, hand shooting up to hold your head. “Is he gone?”
“Your shitty date?”
“Mhm,” your head droops to the side. “That asshole…”
He scoffs, and makes a mental note to personally beat up the guy who left you while you’re like this. “He’s not here.”
“Fuck, thank god,” your eyes hover on his neck. It catches him off-guard. You swallow, and a strange expression flicks across your face, a bit unreadable and different from your usual wasted self. “You were right, sorry.”
For a moment, he thinks he’s in a dream; that he’s still in university, still checking up on you in-between his classes and labs—out of courtesy from your family, and being on the receiving end whenever you get your hopes up.
He shuts his eyes and opens them.
“Let’s get you to bed.”
Barou hears every heavy thump that his heart makes as he carries you to your room. His eyes keep shifting all over your body, whether he means to or not. Most of it is out of concern, your face looks terribly dazed and you’re warm all over, even if you keep insisting that it was just one drink. You’ve never been a heavy drinker, no matter how many times you tried to train your lack of alcohol tolerance. He wonders if he should let you sleep in what you’re currently wearing but, after quick consideration, you’d probably feel extremely uncomfortable the next day.
You press into the warmth of his shoulder, against his neck, then exhale. “I’m a pretty shitty friend, aren’t I?”
“What?” Barou’s eyes flick down the hall, then back to you.
“Ugh,” you make a face. “You know what I mean. How I’m always so tunnel vision when it comes to shit like this…”
“Then just stop,” he feels his face tightening ever so slightly, the unfiltered words unclogging. “Everytime this happens. Why bother going through with it?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” You laugh a little, and it’s half bitterness, half joy—something a little broken and somehow Barou immediately understands.
He watches, almost morbidly, the way your eyes subtly linger on parts of his body for a moment, before sighing. A hesitant, unspoken conversation stuck in your throat, and all at once, Barou wants to scream.
But he doesn’t.
He feels flames crawling up the back of his neck when you snuggle closer into his arms. Thankfully, before he can further combust, he’s pushing his way into your dimmed bedroom.
Barou takes a careful glance around in the dark, noting the familiar scent of you, the numerous prints that hang from the eggshell colored walls, and the small pile of clothes on your desk chair. He’s only been in your room once before, but that was just to help you settle in, so he’s never really paid attention to your surroundings. Now, though, as he lays you on top of the mattress, he notices everything in this room just screams who you are, and he realizes that maybe he should’ve said his piece earlier to avoid all of this together.
The idea fizzles out when Barou feels you tugging loosely on his wrist before letting it fall against the mattress.
“Shouei,” you call out, reaching for his hand again.
He absolutely hates the way he instantly stops and holds you, cherishing the warmth of your skin. Your fingers shakily curl around his, and Barou can’t help but squeeze back. His heart is thundering against his chest, and he’s making it painfully obvious that his breathing is erratic.
After a moment, he clears his throat. “What are you doing?”
His blood has rushed so high to his head that it’s the only thing he can hear, clogging up in his veins and leaving him feeling like he has to cling onto you for dear life. Barou isn’t quite sure what’s happening here, still disbelieving at the way you’re batting your eyes at him, eyes brimming with tears and lips puckered.
“Stay with me, please,” you mumble.
Barou lets out an airy breath, and hears himself saying your name. He’s so confused by all the fucking emotions hitting him right now, and it doesn’t help the fact that his voice gets so soft and tender when he calls out for you. His hand twitches against yours.
This isn’t fair, this isn’t fair, this isn’t—
“You’re drunk,” he finally manages to respond.
His crimson eyes trace your face in the dark, and makes out the shine of wetness on your lips when they part. You lift your eyes, and they instantly hook him in. He resists the urge to lean forward. And, just as instantly, he wants to kneel down, close his eyes, and exist anywhere but this moment.
“I’m not,” you continue and tug him closer, forcing him to sit on the mattress. Your words come out more as hot breath. He definitely smells it but, if he’s being honest with himself, you’re usually not this desperate.
Needless to say, it’s still a concerning fact. “You’re not yourself.”
You squeeze harder, brows furrowed. “I know what I’m doing and what I want.”
Barou tears away from your mouth and glances back into your eyes, studying them closely. You’re still clamped onto his hand, and he knows you’re burning on edge, too. Undoubtedly, he’s half-mast in his pants, and he’s very aware of that, as you slowly rise up, eyeing him with an expression that can only be described as hunger.
“We’ll talk in the morning, idiot.”
“What’s your deal?”
I should be the one asking that.
Barou stares at you for a long moment, The silence is heavy, suffocating. The bed shifts, and in that second, that quiet desperate hope, becomes even more evident. His grip tightens, just a little, and there’s that building headache pulsing through his temple. He really shouldn’t be here, entertaining whatever this is. What he should be doing is sleeping, it’s midnight and, fuck, he has to go to practice tomorrow, but you…
“Are you even listening to me?”
“I am,” his voice is rough when he answers, words dripping with heavy caution. “Even if you aren’t wasted, you’re acting like a real piece of work, right now. None of this shit is funny.”
“I’m not trying to be—I’m being serious,” you reply, but your lips are trembling.
Barou’s stomach lurches and he swallows back a groan, not the pleasure kind. “What do you want me to do?”
Suddenly, you shift restlessly, as if taken aback. “Stay by my side.”
“I know that,” he breathes in, and out. “I asked if there’s anything you want me to do?”
The moonlight creeps past your curtains and coats you in various shades of silver. It’s then, Barou realizes, that he's afraid of what your answer might be. He’s taken care of you hundreds of times before, it’s become second nature for him to look after you, but now this feels foreign—almost daunting when you’re looking just as scared.
But, scared as you are, you lean forward, steadying your palms onto his broad shoulders. It burns his skin at contact, but he steels himself, watching your lips part slowly. Focusing—absolutely fucking focusing—on the way that they move and the damn syllables that come right after.
He feels like dying when the words finally register.
“Kiss me.”
Barou stills, pressing a palm against the mattress and clenches his jaw, running his tongue hard against his teeth. He opens his mouth to reply—and immediately snaps it shut. It’s when you make a small dip in the bed that he recovers, gears running over a hundred miles an hour in his mind. “You want that?”
“Don’t make me repeat it,” your eyes wander all over his face and the intensity almost burns his skin. “It’s embarrassing enough that I’m doing it like this…”
Barou stares in awe. His throat feels tight and his chest clenches uncomfortably. “Doing what?”
A frown erupts on your face and you’re visibly frustrated, more flustered. “Why are you choosing tonight to be a dense prick? Do you need me to spell it out for you? I’m confessing to you. I like you—god, this is so fucking stupid—I’ve liked you since grade school, throughout college, and now! The dates, the guys, none of them work out because they’re not you. Do you know how many times a guy is saying some shit and I’m sitting there thinking ‘Shouei wouldn’t say that’ or when I’m trying to find a guy that looks kinda like you, and even that’s fucking impossible—that’s how much you’re on my mind!”
Your confession—honesty—hangs in the air and Barou nearly chokes on it. You make a low, undignified sound, and press your back against the headboard, looking absolutely anywhere but him. Barou, on the other hand, hears nothing but pounding in his eardrums. He’s not sure if that’s his heartbeat, or yours. There’s a feeling of tight strings tugging at his chest again, a painful ache being left behind. After a moment, the bed creaks.
“Okay,” he breathes, and swallows around that awful lump in his throat.
“Okay?” your voice cracks embarrassingly. “I pour out my feelings and all you say is ‘okay’? This is worse than a rejection. Yoichi said the worst thing you could say is ‘no’ and—”
“Wait, that idiot knows about this?”
“That’s what you’re focused on? Ugh, forget it, I’ve said too much already!”
“Stop,” Barou’s face contorts into a heavy scowl, taking slight offense. “God, sometimes you ramble on so much that it’s hard to take everything at face value.”
He hesitantly presses a palm to your cheek and holds it there, watching your sudden stiff reaction. He shudders, slowly, before dusting the palm across your cheek, ears, hair, and settles it against the back of your head. He’s aware of his breathing, shaky and full of nerves. Barou moves closer until he can feel your breath fanning over his lips.
Before he can say anything else, you lean up and press your lips softly against his. They’re surprisingly soft, he realizes. There’s no heat to it, just a plush press of warmth, a little bit of pressure, and you’re silently swearing under your breath when you pull back.
“Oh god, was that dumb? Am I being stupid right now or what?” Your hands fly up, cradling your face. A muffled scream, then a groan. “I’m sorry—I don’t know what I was thinking! You—me, we were—argh!” Your body retracts back, knee pressing up against your chest as you begin to lean away from him, almost in disgust with yourself.
Barou begins to feel a strange surge in his stomach and gnaws the insides of his cheek. The unusual warmth comes back and, this time, it settles between his legs, but there’s more to that. It was a small, soft kiss—barely long enough to be classified as one. He watches you fidget more before snapping.
“Do you know how to fucking relax?” Barou adjusts his grip behind your head, tangles his fingers in your hair, and drags you back in for another.
This time, it’s lasting, a more proper kiss, and he feels you getting lost in it. Your hands fumble their way back onto his body, finding ground on his thighs and leaning forward into the heat. Barou makes sure that his grip in your hair isn’t too tight, but warm and full of affection, and it makes you moan quietly, mouth parting and allowing his tongue to swipe over your lips.
Hardly any words are exchanged while he kisses you, slowly becoming more frenzied, drowning in the wet heat, tongues curling and hands roaming. There’s a steady, painful throbbing eagerness between Barou’s legs, and he’s positive that you can feel it.
It’s overwhelmingly awkward and stupid, how worked up you both are from just a bit of kissing; from taking turns ghosting each other’s jaws and necks, to hands blindly groping and snaking under clothing to get a squeeze at bare skin. You lean up again, lips tracing the contours of his jaw, and shift a hand down, curling your fingers through his sweats and around his length. A light, breathy noise slips out of him and he feels you pulling away, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen from the heavy makeout session.
“I, um, take it that you like me back…?” You ask quietly, tugging Barou out of his trance.
He blinks, feeling the tips of his ears flushing with warmth. “You really know how to ruin the mood, don’t you?”
“I-I just need confirmation, stupid!”
“Maybe,” Barou confesses, his voice wavers just a little as he speaks. His body shifts with you in his arms, palms cupping both sides of your face. When you refuse to meet his eyes, he huffs. “Look at me. I wouldn’t do this to just anyone if I didn’t like them.”
You make a low, unpleasant noise. “So, you’ve done this with others? I don’t want to think about that.”
Barou’s chest tangles over itself again and, for a moment, being with you feels just a little less daunting. His posture stiffens, then goes lax in a quick second. He could honestly ask you the same thing, whether or not some of the men you’ve matched with have showered you in affection like this but, given your behavior, it seems like you’ve been hesitant and selective. If Barou’s being honest, he’s glad it’s that way.
“Then we don’t have to,” he surges forward, forcing his head down to catch your gaze before capturing your lips in surprise once more.
Eventually, he ends up hovering over you. You’re lying on the mattress, head semi-propped up against the pillows with half of his body weight on top of you—not too heavy, but not too comfortable. Barou’s vaguely aware of what this might lead to, with the look you’re giving him—with the look he’s giving you. He should really go to bed, or else he’s going to wake up with a migraine and a sore neck. But your cheek is nuzzled against his palm, he’s got his other hand running through your hair, soft and lazy, and he’s finding himself grinding against your lower half almost pathetically.
It’s impossible to put his thoughts into coherent sounds when your fingers work at his pants and manage to free his erection, springing it heavily against his stomach. Barou’s mind short-circuits, body jerking in reaction, with the slow, experimental pump of your fist around his aching cock. The look you’re currently giving him is mesmerizing, and it makes him feel as if he’s the most powerful person in the world.
He’s not sure how far you’re willing to go, especially since this feels like your first for everything. You adjust your hand around his length and let it run for a few more strokes. It feels foreign and electric at the same time, softer than his own hands that’s for sure. After you brush your thumb over his tip, smearing the pre, Barou immediately tries shielding himself from you, face buried in his shoulder, and swallows back a rumbling moan.
You pause, hand loosely wrapped around his base, frowning. “Is it bad? I’ll stop if…”
“No,” Barou clasps a hand over yours, squeezes, and sets a slow, firm pace. He shudders again when you adjust your position, hot breath fanning over his tip. “You don’t have to go down—”
“I want to,” you look at him with pleading eyes. “I want to make you feel good, Shouei.”
His mind goes through a whirlwind of possibilities, debating the urge to either run or dominate. Barou closes his eyes, breathing deeply in order to steady himself before he fully loses it. His cock twitches and your hand is clinging around him like a mold.
“Please,” you moan, a plea that’s both an invitation and a surrender, and it’s that damn voice that cuts through his brain fog.
You make a small noise of confusion when he pulls you back, and settles you flat against the mattress. Disappointment flicks across your face but disappears as quickly as it came when his palms make contact with your legs. He carefully watches you squirm, thighs pressing together, when he starts hiking up the dress past your waist and eventually off your body.
Barou sucks in his teeth, eyes drinking in your shy figure underneath him as he stares at your heaving chest, stomach, and plump thighs. He swears under his breath, hesitating for just a moment, before slipping a hand lower, past the barrier of your panties.
A strangled moan catches in his throat as he discovers the slick heat from your arousal, thick fingers pressing gently at the entrance. Your face casts a wild, bewildered look and you throw your head back, hand covering the lower half of your face.
“D-Don’t tease me…”
Barou clicks against his teeth. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
Almost entranced, he stares at your slick center, folds glistensing and your clit practically pulsing with need. His fingers tremble, exploring with hesitance born from innocence. The warmth between your thighs is new, intoxicating, and downright terrifying. With each careful, slow, tentative touch, the sound of his name spilling from your lips is like a sacred plea and it ignites a spark within him.
He can’t wait any longer.
Barou groans as he rubs his padded fingers in between your dewy folds and slides in, a tight and perfect fit that draws a gasp from both parties. Your walls flutter around him almost instantaneously, paired by high pitched mews rolling off your tongue. He watches your knuckles fist the sheets as he starts his slow, stretching movements.
Your body squirms under his onslaught, thighs threatening to press closer from the sensitivity but he settles a firm grip on one of them. The sight of you under him, vulnerable and consuming, with hot tears springing out of the corners of your eyes, drives him over the edge. His fingers pick up speed inside, soon turning relentless, scissoring your gummy walls at a pace that you struggle to keep your volume low. Barou watches you throw a hand over your mouth when his thumb starts rolling over your clit in slow but purposeful circles. The scent of sex drenches him, listening to you mew and beg, his heavy cock leaking all over your thigh when you begin to raise your hips.
“Shouei,” you moan out, skin glistening and wet, flushed from the heat. Your fingers grasp sloppily against his biceps, sending shivers down his arms. “I want to take care of you, too.”
He spreads your legs even further out, applying more pressure to your core. Seeing the sight of you buckling your hips, grinding so shamelessly down on his fingers, brings him more pleasure than it should. Hearing the sighs and whines you babble out tells him everything he needs to know.
Barou raises his lips to your temple as he picks up the pace, groaning from the lewd sounds below. “Finish for me first, I don’t like owing favors,” he starts kissing your throat, tongue tracing over your sweet spots as your walls start fluttering around his digits.
Your hands land on his biceps, clutching his body as close to yours as possible while you calm down from the rush, unable to stop the way you're wailing his name right into his ear. It isn’t until Barou releases his fingers that he realizes that his sweats are now soaked from your orgasm.
“I'm sorry...” You sharply turn your head away, pleasure quickly replaced by embarrassment.
Barou carefully brushes the hair out of your eyes and captures your lips in a sweet and tentative kiss. “Was gonna get rid of them anyway.”
"Oh," you breathe out, unable to form a more suitable response.
He gets up from the mattress and manages to free himself from the remainder of his clothes. Normally, he would toss them in a hamper, but tonight he’s kicking them to the side. Mild anxiousness and anticipation claws at his throat when he formally settles between your legs and, this time, your hands are back to poorly covering up your bare, flushed out body.
Barou furrows his brows and gently pulls them aside, already reading your thoughts. “Stop, you don’t look weird.”
“But—”
He bends down, hands kneading on the flesh of your breasts while his mouth latches onto the side of your neck. You struggle to keep your voice down and squirm under his touch, again. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise.”
It’s like he can almost see all the blood rushing towards your head when he pulls back. You’re nodding, shaking and quivering, and he can practically hear your heartbeat over his own.
“Let me know if I’m hurting you,” Barou’s amazed that he’s able to keep it together, that his voice is even, because your fingers are slowly guiding his cock towards your entrance.
He’s had a girlfriend in the past, though the intimacy has never gone past making out. He has a faint idea of how it should feel and what he should do, but all that thought gets thrown out when his tip presses softly against your wet folds. Everything starts to feel unbearingly hot and tight.
“I trust you,” you sharply inhale when the first few inches slide into the soft, heated space, and spread your legs wider. You shift against the mattress, a hand splaying on his chest while the other is fisting the sheets. “I trust you more than I trust myself, Shouei.”
He hisses in response to that, adjusting his length, and cranes his head back so he can avoid releasing everything right then and there. You bite back a loud moan as soon as he bottoms you out, your nails digging and leaving half crescent marks into his chest at the stretch.
“Shit—you’re so warm,” he steadies his breathing, and reaches out a hand, caressing your flushed cheeks. He carefully dives in to kiss your lips and then your throat, biting until he nearly breaks skin.
You shudder beneath him, responding with a noise that’s in between a moan and a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to cum already?”
Barou ignores your taunting and scrapes his teeth along the ridge of your throat until he finds your earlobe, basking in the way you’re squeezing around him. “How you do want me to fuck you?”
Silence takes over as your answer, eyes widening at his response. A small thrust and he watches you wince from the stretch. Barou slows down his movements, pulling all the way out before sliding back into the hilt. Shocks of pleasure surges through his veins, and his throat rumbles with every tight pulse your velvety walls offer him, holding your hips steady as he builds up the rhythm.
Your moans and gasps send shivers down his whole body, arching your back as he finds the furthest point. Your grip on his chest tightens, fingers grasping, nails breaking the skin. Though, the pain is nothing compared to the binding pleasure Barou feels being buried deep around your enveloping, addicting warmth. His brain melts into a puddle, every nerve in his system heightens to a new level as you’re tightening around him.
You raise your hips higher, opening yourself and deepening the angle that he can thrust his way through. Barou’s browline pools in a thin veil of sweat as he works his way through it all, staring down at you in a silent, consumed gaze. He presses his hips forward and manages to find the spot that makes you violent and wild. The sound of his name shatters the air and you throw your head back, bliss screeching through both of your veins.
"Shouei, it’s too much," you cry out.
Barou sucks in his teeth, fingers pressing hard into your flesh. “Just breathe, you’re okay.”
He watches your eyes widen with a shaky nod. Your chest rises and falls, eyes frantically darting from the area between your legs up to his face in an attempt to calm yourself.
“I-I know, I know,” you respond, choked out and breathless.
Any consideration for neighboring guests in the complexes are abandoned as Barou pumps into you, his core tightening as every thrust brings him closer. Your walls and arousal coat around his cock with eagerness, as if afraid to let him go.
At the sight of you, teary-eyed and a babbling mess, Barou leans down and his mouth captures yours in another searing kiss that mutes your sounds. Your fingers shoot up, tangling in the mess of his long, black locks, pulling him closer until there’s no space left—until he feels nothing but wet skin and sheer desperation.
He buries his face in your neck, his hot breaths and pants tickling your skin as he senses the incoming orgasm. Barou shuts his eyes and lets his concentration break, mind fully focusing on the feeling of you swallowing him as he works his cock deep inside of you as he could go. All he can think about is how warm and tight everything feels, the sounds you’re making, how much he loves hearing you, and how long he’s been waiting for this moment. Now, with your cries of passion filling the room, back arched in a way he can't even fully describe, it’s more than he can handle, more than he can believe.
Your walls clench violently around him, one hand flying up and tugging at his hair so hard that it stings. But he’ll take it, Barou will endure all the pain and hunger from you knowing you’re cumming hard on his cock. He lets the pain ebb away, turning into waves of ecstasy. Your name falls from his lips and fills the dark room.
Barou bites back a moan and chews his lower lip, head nuzzled deep into your shoulder blade and hips stuttering as his vision goes blurry. Pleasure overtakes him, both immense pressure and the immediate release of it exploding in his skull, and he ends up gasping for air, legs jerking and body trembling as he releases inside of you.
He holds you tightly, rocking your body and panting against your warm skin as both of you try to catch your individual breaths as the aftershocks settle through. Everything stills, all that’s left are the low hums of the air conditioner and your frantic heartbeats. Barou isn’t sure how much time has passed when he finally feels his length go limp. Gently, he slips out and catches the way you moan in disapproval at the feeling of sudden emptiness.
He raises his head and meets your eyes, finding yours wet and half-lidded, completely fucked over. Lifting a thumb to wipe away the threatening tear, he rolls off and settles upright by the edge of the bed. The darkness strains his eyes, but he manages to find what he’s looking for. A few moments later and he hands you a few tissues from the bedside table and cranes his body.
“Are you okay?” Barou’s cautious of the volume of his voice, as if raising it an octave higher would break you even further.
Your breath hitches, wincing and moving meticulously to avoid spilling out all the contents on the sheets. “I think I am?”
“You sound unsure.”
“Well,” you prop up next to him, body curling tight together like a coil, head nudging against his bare shoulder. “We just had sex.”
The word almost slaps him in the face, making him sit up even straighter.
“We… did,” he said, slowly, and now feeling a certain way that he isn’t sure how to describe. Comfortable isn’t the right word, but it’s not exactly uneasy either. But that’s another step to think about, one that he probably won’t take today. He pauses for a moment, tongue heavy in his mouth, but pushes through and ignores the fretting in the back of his mind. “Do… Do you regret it?”
“No,” and you’re quick with it, despite avoiding eye contact. Instead, you curl your fingers around his bicep and squeeze hard. After a pregnant pause, you throw back the question. “How ‘bout you?”
“I don’t,” Barou finds himself equally as responsive, and he’s sure about a lot of things.
He’s sure he’s going to wake up tired and sore, but definitely is still going to out perform his other teammates tomorrow. He’s sure that one day he’ll surpass Isagi. And he’s sure that he wants to be here, with you. You two are best friends and… what, girlfriend and boyfriend now? It’s a crazy thought, but it has his heart fluttering like some dumb teenage romcom.
You simply nod, humming in deep thought, before reaching over and pulling him in for another kiss, and this time, it’s soft and delicate. Fragile, slow, and it has Barou clenching around the edge of the mattress. You’re both making quiet sounds, and he wants to keep going, but he can’t quite subdue that little bubbling jolt of fear in his head. And, because you’re stupidly observant at the strangest times, you pull back.
“We should… probably talk about this, right?”
“We should,” he agrees but, as soon as he glances at the time, exhaustion hits him like a freight train. Barou shudders and he allows gravity to take over, collapsing back onto the cold, wet mattress.
“Hey,” you shake him, enough to rouse some of the tiredness away. “Don’t crash here tonight, everything’s covered in sweat.”
He scoffs and turns over, relishing in the mild comfort. “You’re starting to sound exactly like me.”
“C’mon, Shouei,” he can’t exactly see you from this angle, but he imagines a big pout plastered over your face. “I mean it, let’s sleep in your room. This is like a sex bed…”
“Don’t call it that,” Barou cringes.
“I mean, technically it is. Y’know, couples get twin beds in hotel rooms all the time for that purpose and—”
“If we move to my room, will you promise me that you’ll be quiet and get some sleep?” Barou can slowly feel bags forming under his eyes.
Your weight shifts above him and you make a small noise of approval. “Sure, but no promises.”
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