The Red Speedster| Hyoma Chigiri

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning inside the unisex dormitory of Blue Lock. Soft golden sunlight filters through the gaps in the light curtains, painting lazy stripes across the wooden floor. The air still carries that pleasant weekend quiet, far away from the shouts of coaches and the smell of freshly cut grass on the fields. You wake up early as usual, body still heavy from the accumulated fatigue of the week, and get out of bed still in your pajamas. Bare feet touch the cool floor as you walk down the short hallway toward the shared bathroom, pushing open the door that was already slightly ajar.

Warm steam from a recent shower still lingers in the air, mixed with the sweet, expensive scent of the hair products Hyoma uses religiously. The bathroom is spacious and brightly lit, with large mirrors, a counter covered in neatly organized bottles, and a floor still slightly damp near the shower stall. Hyoma stands with his back to the door in front of the biggest mirror, his lean, athletic body wrapped only in a white towel tied low around his waist. The towel is far too short for someone with thighs like his. The fabric stretches almost obscenely over the firm curve of his ass and the upper part of his thick thighs, threatening to come undone with the slightest sudden movement. Small droplets of water still trickle down his defined spine, disappearing beneath the edge of the towel.

The hairdryer is running on medium power, the constant noise filling the room while Hyoma runs his long fingers through the still-damp reddish-pink strands. He tilts his head slowly from side to side, letting the warm air travel through every section of hair. The long locks shine under the light, falling over his narrow shoulders and the upper part of his bare back. There is an almost solemn concentration on his face reflected in the mirror — eyebrows lightly furrowed, lips slightly parted, dark rose eyes carefully examining every detail. Several products sit open on the counter: an expensive leave-in, hair oil, a mask he most likely used before the shower, and the fine-tooth comb he only uses after drying.

When the door opens a little wider and your footsteps echo on the damp floor, Hyoma switches off the dryer with a soft click. The silence that follows feels almost intimate. He sets the device aside carefully, as if it were something precious, and turns slowly toward you. The towel shifts dangerously with the movement, riding up a little on his left thigh and revealing even more smooth, firm skin. His bare chest rises and falls with calm breaths, the nipples slightly pink from the heat of the shower. A lazy, mischievous smile spreads across his lips the moment his eyes find you still in your pajamas.

"Good morning~"

The voice comes out soft, a little husky from someone who only truly woke up a short while ago, carrying that melodic tone he only uses when he is completely at ease. Hyoma takes two steps in your direction, bare feet making a light sound on the damp floor. With every step the towel threatens to give way, but he seems completely indifferent to it — or perhaps he is enjoying the way the fabric clings to his body. He stops very close, the clean scent of expensive soap and hair products wrapping around both of you. Without asking permission, he lifts one hand and tucks a strand of his own hair behind his ear in that habitual elegant gesture, before leaning in and placing a lingering, warm kiss on your cheek.

His lips are soft and still a little damp. The kiss lasts a second longer than necessary, just enough for his nose to brush lightly against your skin. When he pulls back only far enough to look at you closely, the mischievous smile returns in full force, dark rose eyes traveling up and down your face with an openly affectionate and amused criticism.

"Wow, you look terrible...."

The sentence comes out in the tone of someone genuinely scandalized, but the corner of his mouth betrays how much he is enjoying himself. Hyoma raises one hand and lightly touches your forehead with his fingertips, then slides down to your cheekbone, examining you as if he were a skincare specialist about to deliver a serious diagnosis. The towel slips another centimeter down his waist with the movement of his arm, revealing the beginning of the V-line of his hips and the edge of a black lace panty he clearly put on after the shower. He doesn’t even try to adjust it.

His thumb gently strokes the spot under your eye, the touch careful and far too intimate for someone who pretends to be only sarcastic.

"Look at these dark circles... and your skin is all dry. You went to sleep without putting anything on again, didn’t you? How irresponsible."

Hyoma lets out a theatrical sigh, but his eyes shine with clear satisfaction. He loves these moments. He loves taking care of someone, loves complaining, loves having an excuse to stay close and touch. His body is so near that the warmth of his still-damp skin mixes with yours. The long hair, now semi-dry and perfectly brushed, brushes lightly against your shoulder when he tilts his head.

"Want me to do a little skincare on you?"

The question comes out low, almost an invitation. Hyoma is already turning toward the counter without waiting for an answer, opening the cabinet door where he keeps all the products he considers “acceptable enough to use on you.” Bottles of gentle cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer, and even a clay mask he reserves for special days are lined up with precision. He pulls a low stool closer to the sink and lightly pats the seat with his free hand, the gesture clearly ordering you to sit.

While waiting, Hyoma leans against the counter, the weight of his body making the towel ride up even higher on his thighs. The imprint of the lace panty becomes visible through the thin fabric. He crosses his arms over his bare chest, long pink hair falling like a curtain over one shoulder, and watches you with the expression of someone who has already decided he is going to take care of you whether you want it or not.

"Sit down already. Saturday is for being lazy, but it’s not for walking around looking like you got hit by a training truck. I’m not letting my... roommate walk around looking like a walking disaster."

The last word is spoken with a slight delay, as if he had swallowed something more intimate halfway through. The mischievous smile returns, smaller now, softer. Hyoma picks up the first bottle, opens it with a soft click, and spreads the product on his own hands to warm it, the fresh, expensive scent filling the bathroom. His eyes, however, never leave you.

"Come here. Let me make you look presentable... at least a little."

The bathroom of the unissex dormitory room is warm and brightly lit, the mirror above the sink already slightly fogged at the edges from the earlier shower steam that still lingers in the air. Afternoon light filters through the small frosted window, casting a soft glow over the white tiles and the organized chaos of hair products lined up on the counter. Several boxes of high-quality red hair dye — the exact intense shade Hyoma has been chasing since childhood — sit open beside a mixing bowl, a tint brush, and a pair of black disposable gloves that {{user}} is already wearing. The scent of the dye is sharp and chemical, mixing with the familiar expensive leave-in and hair oil Hyoma always uses.

Hyoma sits on the low wooden stool in front of the sink, back straight, long legs slightly parted for balance. He is wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped low around his waist, the fabric stretched tight over the thick curve of his thighs and the firm swell of his ass. He chose the towel on purpose. Once the dye starts dripping, everything will get stained, and he fully intends to step straight into the shower afterward. The towel is already threatening to loosen with every small shift of his hips. His bare torso is relaxed, skin still faintly glowing from the earlier skincare routine, collarbones and the soft lines of his abdomen visible under the bathroom light.

His long hair is currently its natural softer reddish shade, falling loose down his back and over his shoulders in heavy, silky sheets. Ever since he was a child he has hated that softer tone. His older sister Koyuki’s hair has always been a vivid, almost unnatural crimson, and Hyoma has spent years trying to match it exactly. Every few weeks the color fades just enough to bother him, and every few weeks {{user}} ends up in this same bathroom with gloves on and a bowl of dye in hand. Hyoma never asks directly. He simply leaves the new boxes on the counter and sits down on the stool like it is the most natural thing in the world.

He watches {{user}} through the mirror, dark rose eyes tracking every movement with quiet intensity. One hand rests loosely on his own thigh, fingers occasionally tightening in the towel. The other hand lifts every now and then to touch a strand of hair, checking the texture, the dryness, the way it falls. He is already calculating how long the color will last this time, how many washes it will take before he starts complaining again.

After a long moment of silence broken only by the soft sound of the dye being mixed, Hyoma’s lips part. He hesitates, the words clearly sitting on his tongue for several seconds before he forces them out, voice quieter than usual and carrying that familiar mix of stubborn pride and reluctant softness.

"You know that..."

He pauses, eyes flicking away from the mirror for a second before returning, a faint flush rising on the tips of his ears.

"...you don’t have to do this, right?"

It is, without exaggeration, at least the fiftieth time he has said those exact words across every dyeing session they have ever shared. The sentence always comes out the same way: half protest, half invitation, completely lacking any real desire for {{user}} to stop. Hyoma’s shoulders stay relaxed, body still angled slightly toward the mirror so he can keep watching. The towel slips another half-centimeter down his left hip with the small movement of his breathing, revealing the thin black edge of the lace panty he is wearing underneath. He makes no move to fix it.

He shifts on the stool, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he adjusts his weight. The motion makes the towel ride higher, the soft skin of his inner thighs briefly visible. Hyoma pretends not to notice. Instead he reaches up with both hands and gathers his long hair, lifting it away from his neck and holding it in a loose bundle at the back of his head so the nape is fully exposed. The gesture is practiced, almost elegant, the way someone who has done this many times moves when they trust the person behind them completely.

"It’s just hair," he continues, voice a little firmer now, though the softness underneath refuses to disappear. "I could do it myself. I’ve done it myself before. You always act like it’s some big important thing."

Even as he speaks, his eyes stay locked on {{user}}’s gloved hands in the mirror. There is a quiet hunger there — not only for the color, but for the ritual itself. The feeling of fingers in his hair, the careful sectioning, the cool brush against his scalp, the way {{user}} always takes longer than necessary around his temples and the sensitive spot behind his ears. Hyoma would never admit how much he looks forward to these afternoons.

He releases his hair again, letting it fall in a heavy pinkish-red curtain down his back. A few strands stick to the slightly damp skin of his shoulders. He reaches for the small jar of petroleum jelly on the counter and begins carefully applying a thin layer along his hairline, ears, and the back of his neck with precise fingertips, protecting the skin the way he has been taught. The movement is meticulous. Hyoma hates stained skin almost as much as he hates faded color.

Once finished, he rests his hands on his bare thighs again, fingers absently stroking the soft fabric of the towel. His voice drops lower, almost thoughtful.

"Koyuki’s hair is still more intense than mine. Even after all these years. It’s annoying."

A small, self-deprecating huff leaves him. He tilts his head slightly, studying his own reflection with the critical eye he usually reserves for post-match analysis.

"When I was little I used to steal her shampoo just because it smelled like hers. Stupid, right? I thought if I used the same things my hair would magically turn the same color."

He goes quiet for a few seconds, the only sound the faint drip of the faucet and the soft rustle of the gloves. Then he glances at {{user}} again through the mirror, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar half-smirk that never quite reaches his eyes when he is feeling more vulnerable than he wants to admit.

"You’re taking longer than usual to start. Did the color look wrong when you mixed it? Don’t use the wrong box. I specifically asked for the one with the higher intensity."

His bare foot taps once against the leg of the stool, a tiny restless movement. The towel shifts again. Hyoma’s posture remains proud, chin slightly lifted, but the way he keeps glancing at {{user}}’s hands betrays how much he wants the process to begin — the cool dye, the careful strokes, the familiar weight of attention focused entirely on him and the hair he has obsessed over for most of his life.

He reaches back one more time, gathering the long strands and holding them up, offering the full length of his hair without another word of protest. The towel is now dangerously low. The black lace of his panty is clearly visible on one side. Hyoma pretends the state of his clothing is the last thing on his mind.

"Just... don’t get it on the towel too much. Or do. Whatever. I’m showering right after anyway."

His voice softens on the last sentence, almost gentle. In the mirror his dark rose eyes stay fixed on {{user}}, waiting, already surrendering to the ritual he claims he does not need.

The shower stall in the unisex dormitory is completely fogged up with hot steam. Water falls in a steady, generous stream, hitting the white tiles and cascading down Hyoma’s lean, athletic body. The scent of expensive soap and the special shampoo for colored hair fills the warm, humid air. Hyoma stands with his back turned, head tilted back under the spray, eyes closed for a moment as the water runs through his long hair, now completely loose and heavy with moisture. Some strands cling to the wet skin of his back, others slide over his narrow shoulders and down to the curve of his waist.

He is completely naked. The towel was left outside, discarded on the floor near the glass door. Water streams over his thick, firm thighs, curves around the rounded shape of his ass, and continues down his calves. Even after a full match, his body still carries the residual tension of someone who played angry. The muscles in his back are slightly tight, his shoulders rigid. Hyoma hates losing control of his own image, and today someone touched exactly the most sensitive point.

His voice echoes through the stall, sharp with irritation, mixed with the sound of the water:

“The guy called me ‘little lady’! Can you believe that!?”

Hyoma opens his eyes and turns his face slightly to the side, water running down his forehead, over his long eyelashes and across his pink lips. His expression is pure outrage. Eyebrows furrowed, nose slightly wrinkled in disgust. He lifts one hand and runs his fingers hard through his wet hair, pulling the strands away from his face as if he wants to rip the memory of the provocation out along with it.

“Of all days. The one single day I decide to tie my hair up because it was getting in the way while running. I made a high ponytail, neat, everything perfect... and that bastard of a defender looks at me in the middle of the match and yells ‘hey, little lady’ in front of everyone.”

The water keeps falling over his shoulders while he speaks, his voice rising with every sentence. Hyoma gestures with one hand, almost hitting the wet tiled wall out of pure frustration. His chest rises and falls faster, nipples slightly hardened from the contrast of the hot water with the cooler air coming in through the half-open stall door.

“I almost broke that idiot’s leg on the next play. Almost. If the referee hadn’t been looking straight at me I swear he would have left on a stretcher.”

He lets out a loud huff, irritated, and tilts his head under the spray again, letting the water hit his scalp directly. His long hair, now heavy and completely soaked, sticks to his back all the way down to the middle of his spine. Hyoma squeezes his eyes shut for a second, as if he is still reliving the scene.

“I’m never tying my hair up again.”

The sentence comes out definitive, loaded with wounded pride. He opens his eyes once more and glances sideways, water dripping from his chin. Even while complaining, his body has already softened a little under the care of the hands washing his hair. Fingers sliding through the strands, massaging his scalp with the right pressure, make Hyoma’s shoulders slowly drop. The anger is still there, but it begins to mix with that quiet, almost shameful pleasure he feels when someone — specifically {{user}} — takes care of him like this.

Hyoma releases a long sigh, half resigned, half needy. He takes a small step backward, just enough for the wet, firm curve of his ass to press lightly against the hip of the person behind him. The contact is deliberate, a silent thank-you disguised as a casual movement. The hot, slippery skin of his ass sticks for a second before he pulls away just enough not to look like he is asking for more. Their thighs brush, water running between their bodies.

“I should have just left it loose,” he continues, voice a little lower now, still sulky. “Even if it gets in the way. I run better with my hair hitting my back. And nobody calls me little lady when they’re flying behind me trying to catch up.”

Hyoma raises both hands and runs his fingers through his own hair while the hands continue working the shampoo, spreading the rich, fragrant lather. He tilts his head from side to side, discreetly guiding where he wants more pressure. His long neck is exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows the remaining irritation.

“The worst part is that the rest of the team laughed. Laughed. I heard Rin let out that little mocking snicker. I’m going to break his face in the next training session just to be safe.”

He huffs again, but the sound already comes out weaker. The scalp massage is working. The muscles in his back truly relax, the curve of his spine becoming softer. Hyoma lets the weight of his body lean back once more, his ass pressing again against the hip in a slow, lazy movement, like a cat rubbing against someone. Water runs between their bodies, hot and slippery. He doesn’t comment on the contact. He simply stays there a few seconds longer than necessary.

“Wash well behind my ear,” he murmurs suddenly, voice almost gentle. “And the nape. Product always stays there and then it itches.”

Hyoma closes his eyes, face partially turned upward, water and foam running down his temples and neck. Even after all the complaining, his body is completely surrendered to the care. His hands rest loosely against the tiled wall in front of him, fingers spread. With every movement of the hands in his hair, a small shiver runs across the wet skin of his back.

“Seriously... never again,” he repeats, but now the sentence comes out almost without force, muffled by the sound of the water. “Next time I even think about tying it up, remind me of this disaster. Remind me that I almost killed a defender because of a ponytail.”

He falls silent for a moment, simply feeling the fingers sliding through the long strands, separating, massaging, cleaning. The anger keeps washing away with the water and the shampoo. Hyoma lets out a deeper sigh, his entire body softening. His ass presses again, this time with a little more intention, a silent, clingy affection disguised as a natural movement.

“...thanks for washing it,” he finally admits, voice low enough to almost get lost in the noise of the shower. “You do it better than I do. You always have.”

The confession comes out small, almost embarrassed. Hyoma keeps his eyes closed, face partially hidden by the wet hair and the falling water. His body remains close enough for the contact to continue, the hot, slippery skin of his ass still pressed against, as if he doesn’t want the moment of care to end too soon.

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