Can You Do A Scenario Where Genshin Boys Unintentionally Made The Reader Jealous😳

[ID in ALT]

terrible, terrible self-preservation instincts

PART I  |  PART II  | PART III  

⇢ pairing: katsuki bakugo x fem!reader

⇢ rating: e, 18+

⇢ word count: 45,870 [ao3]

⇢ warnings: dubious consent, hybrids, graphic depictions of violence, biting, blood, knotting, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex (fem receiving)

⇢ tags: wolf hybrid bakugo, aged up characters, slow burn, bed sharing

⇢ summary:

You don’t have the time to foster hybrids like you used to, but going to the shelter is a habit you’ve been unable to break. You’re stunned, this time, to see a wolf hybrid there that defies all expectation - he’s gorgeous, fair haired and sharp faced, and he’s intelligent. Human enough to fully understand human speech, but animal enough to fight anyone that tries to tame him with pointed canines and a ripping snarl.

He has a bite history that would warn off any sensible adopter but when you see that he’s approaching the deadline for euthanasia, you have no choice. One sharp look from garnet eyes and you know you have to bring him home. You have to give him a chance, even if you’re risking life and limb to do it.

I enjoyed every second of this quest

[This art has platonic intention. Thank you for not tag ship!]

translation

Aventurine doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you. (Or: You are the only person in the universe who understands Aventurine in his mother tongue. He often regrets teaching it to you.)

5k words. gender neutral reader, established relationship, angst, non-graphic sex (reader bottoms, anatomy neutral), themes of cultural loss, references to slavery, aventurine’s canonically implied desire to die. MDNI.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

Deception does not come easily to him in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak—and too kind. The universe was a different place in the days when his life was coloured by the warble of Avgin dialect. It felt simpler, partly because he was a child and partly because Sigonia was yet untouched by outsiders. There were no corporations, no casinos, no commodity codes. His entire world was sand, desert, mother, sister, father (or more often—ghost), goddess, tent, wagon, luck, sin, rain, blessing, Avgin.

Katican.

Aventurine is sure that he knew more than just those words. He was fluent as a child. He had conversations with his sister that were complex enough to make his heart hurt, though perhaps his heart was just constantly aching anyway. But the rest of his early words escapes him. He could maybe dredge them up if he thinks long enough, but he also isn't sure if his tongue and lips could form the shape of them anymore. Sometimes he still counts in Avgin, memorises phone numbers in it, but he doesn’t remember the last time he actually strung together a full sentence in the language.

When Aventurine was first stolen into slavery (a word that he had not known as a child, and still doesn't know in Avgin), he wasn’t given a Synesthesia Beacon. He had to rely on his ears and his wits, deciphering the harsh edges of the Katican dialect and then the strange garble of Interastral Standard Language. By the time he had a Beacon installed, it was already translating all speech into Standard—his dominant language.

Sometimes he feels a little aggrieved by it, but at least it wasn't Katican. He'd have blown out his brains if it were.

But it is easy to console himself: Avgin is not a useful language anyway. Dead languages have no value, and the Avgin dialect was killed along with its people. You can’t perform commerce in a dead language, can't negotiate contracts, can't enter a gambling den and use your silver tongue to rob people blind. You can't use a dead language to fell governments and extract resources; you can't use a dead language to bring an entire planet to its knees. You can’t use a dead language to gamble your life; you can't use it to save yourself from the gallows.

You cannot deceive people in a language that is defined by sand, sister, goddess, ghost.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin. His command of it is too weak, and there is no one left to which he can lie, anyway.

When you ask Aventurine to teach you his first language, he gives you an amused look.

“Why Avgin?” he asks. “No one speaks it anymore. I can teach you Common Sigonian if you’d like. Or we could learn Xianzhounese together. Maybe Intellitron code? I know a little.”

“You speak Avgin,” you argue.

“Not often,” he says. “And badly when I do.”

“But it's still your language. And I want to understand you.”

Aventurine has to stop himself from laughing. Understand him? He hates being understood. When people understand him, it makes him predictable. And unlikeable. Hardly a position from which he can manipulate people in.

You understand him well enough to know that.

“You'll have to give me a better reason than that,” he says neatly. “Make it worth my while. Reward me.”

You look at him as you ponder, your eyes lingering on his. Perhaps trying to read him, though he prefers to think you're just enjoying the sight of them.

“I’ll teach you my language as well?”

“You mean—you'll reward my hard labour with more work?” he says, lighthearted.

You frown at him despite the joke. “You don't want to understand me better than what a Synesthesia Beacon would allow?” He blinks, pausing. “It’ll be convenient too. We can talk shit about other people in public and no one will understand us.”

Aventurine considers you. He doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.

He also likes the idea of talking shit in public.

“I'm listening,” he says, voice lilting. You lean in, smiling. Sweet. It makes his heart feel something he isn't used to. Something addictive. Something disgusting. He scrambles to cover it with one of the usual tools: humour or distraction or maybe just plain old lying—his most reliable weapon.

“I'll throw in a kiss?” you try.

He hums. “Just one?”

“One per day.”

“Three.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Well, I am a businessman.”

You snort, but he knows you're endeared. You have very noticeable tells when you’re flustered.

“Okay,” you say. “Three kisses on days you teach me.”

“Deal.”

Aventurine remembers more Avgin than he thought he would.

It comes to him slowly, painstakingly. You aren't interested in structured lessons, and he wouldn't be able to provide them anyway. He has a nonexistent grasp of grammar aside from this sounds right and that sounds strange, and Avgin dialect is both so niche and so dead that no textbooks are available. The scholars have abandoned the language as much as the politicians abandoned its people. Aventurine only has you, his fragmented memory, and whatever questions come to mind as you live out your days with him.

Mostly, you ask him about basic vocabulary. Sometimes you ask him to repeat sentences from your conversations in Avgin, like he’s some kind of multilingual parrot. Each prompt forces him to wade through the fog in his mind, the one that’s been shrouding his childhood memories until now. He's startled at how naturally the old words roll off his tongue: One, two, three, four. Good morning. Good evening. Good night. Sweet dreams. Five, six, seven, eight. You're lying to me. Why do you always lie to me? I don't know what you're talking about. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Welcome home. Have you eaten? Have some bread. I made you stew. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. That was dangerous. I thought you wouldn't make it back to me. Sometimes I think you want to die. One hundred, one thousand, one million, one billion. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

When you say, How do I ask you to let me hold you, he answers easily. He'd heard the words so often as a child: Let me hold you, Kakavasha. Let Mama hold you. His mouth forms the sounds without conscious thought.

He regrets it almost immediately.

When Aventurine hears it from you—stilted, halting, but no less gentle—he stops breathing. Let me hold you. You say it all the time in Standard, but it feels different in Avgin. More painful. A strange sense of panic closes in on him when he's wrapped up in you, thinking in Avgin, thinking sand, sister, goddess, ghost. He holds you tightly, like the rags cut from his father’s shirt, or his mother’s locket won back from the shell-slashers, or a bag of poker chips beneath a card table, clutched within his trembling grip.

“Aventurine, is something wrong?” you ask in Avgin, and he replies in Standard with his usual smile.

“Hm? No. What could be wrong if I have you here?”

Lying is one of his greatest tools. Sex is another one. So he says, “I think I'd like my reward now,” and he runs his lips along your jaw, your pulse, the spot over your heart (there's a word for that in Avgin but not Standard, he tells you), until you're laughing. I thought you wanted three kisses, you tease, and he replies, Who said I wanted to kiss you on the mouth?

But he coaxes open your thighs, and once he's inside you, he collects his payment properly. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and you swallow his lies whole.

There are some things that Aventurine doesn't teach you. Mostly, they’re things that he can’t teach you.

There are countless gaps in his Avgin. His speech is painfully childish—probably more childish than it was when he actually stopped speaking it. He doesn't know how to swear (something that disappoints you) and he doesn't know how to flirt (something that devastates you). He doesn’t know any words that would be useful for work either: commercialization, governance, stakes, winnings, profit. When you ask him what his job title is in Avgin (“Was senior management even a thing in Avgin society?”), he laughs and gives you the word for gambler.

Then there are the words that he remembers—has remembered his whole life—but never says. Not to you, and not to himself. He doesn't teach you any prayers. He doesn't teach you any blessings. He doesn't teach you about Mama Fenge, or the Kakava Festival, or how the rain fell when he was born. When you ask him, What holidays did you celebrate when you were little? he shrugs and says, We didn't have any. Sigonia’s too bleak to do any partying.

Then you ask him one day, while your bodies are spent in the afterglow of sex, sticky with sweat and sweetness, how to say I love you. And he goes quiet.

Love is a cheap word in Interastral Standard. In the language of globalisation and trade, love has been commercialised, commodified, capitalised for power. You say it to him in many contexts: I love this, I love that, I love you. He hardly ever reacts, and he's never said it back. It would feel unnecessary and also cruel if he did: Aventurine has only ever said the words himself as either a joke or a manipulation.

But love feels different in Avgin than in Interastral Standard, doesn't sound like a thing that can be traded or bought. Kakavasha only ever said the word love to his mother, to his sister, to his father's grave. Love in his mother tongue feels priceless.

When Aventurine thinks about you saying it—I love you, Kakavasha, in clumsy, earnest Avgin—something so painful swells in his throat that he can hardly breathe.

“There is no word for love in my language,” he tells you.

You blink. “Okay, then what's an idiom for it?”

“There is none. There’s no word or phrase expressing love.”

You raise a brow. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Is it?” He smiles. “There’s no Avgin in the known universe who cares about love. Only scheming, thieving, and treachery—and you can't do those things when love is involved.”

You look at him in alarm. “Why are you saying that?” You're practically squirming in your discomfort. “I don't know why you think I'd believe such a racist stereotype.”

“It’s not a stereotype,” he says. “I'm not talking about the Avgin culture. I'm talking about myself.”

After all, he is the only Avgin left.

It is an unfair thing to say. A cruel thing to say. After all the laughing and kissing and crying and fucking, after all the tender eyes and gentle words from you—it is probably the worst pain imaginable: I don't give a shit about you. He waits for you to cry.

But you only stare at him calmly, studying him. You brush the hair out of his eyes, seeing them clearly.

“If you lie to me all the time,” you say in Avgin, “eventually I'll stop believing anything you say.”

Aventurine is speechless. His heart does that addictive, disgusting thing again. He thinks about leaving, but then you say, Let me hold you, and he can't do anything other than obey.

Avgin dialect was once included in the Synesthesia Beacon list of functions. The Intelligentsia Guild added it before the Second Katica-Avgin Extinction Event, when the IPC was trying to get a political foothold on Sigonia via the Avgin people. The language was alive then, with enough value to be included into the Synesthesia LLM by the linguists.

But since the Extinction Event—since Kakavasha ran away from home—the Synesthesia data on Avgin has been stagnant, a fossil. Aventurine knows because he's subscribed to software updates for certain languages (Avgin Sigonian, Common Sigonian, Interastral Standard, and now your mother tongue). He gets pinged every time there's a new addition for slang, for neologisms—but there hasn't been a ping for the Avgin dialect since he had the Beacon installed. The live translation function hasn't even been available since the previous Amber Era. When he checks its page on his Synesthesia app, it's very clear why—

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 0 STATUS: Extinct END OF SERVICE: 2156 AE

The complete death of the language has led to an irritating dilemma for you and Aventurine. You keep running into words that he doesn't know—this time not because of his childlike speech, but because they never existed in his language to begin with. Ocean, tropical, rainforest. Starskiff, accelerator, space fleet. Stock market, shortselling, mutual funds. Black hole, event horizon, spaghettification. All things that never came up for Kakavasha, but now come up for Aventurine, and the language has not evolved to include it.

He always wants to switch to Standard to discuss these things, but you're insistent on speaking in Avgin as much as possible. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't mind humouring you—partly because he likes to indulge you, and partly because he’s grown used to hearing the honeyed timbre of Avgin dialect in your household. The place would feel strange without it.

So you start filling the gaps with other languages, filtering them through the lyricism of Avgin. Loanwords, he thinks they’re called. You take ocean, tropical, rainforest from Amazian; starskiff, accelerator, space fleet from Xianzhounese; stock market, shortselling, mutual funds from Interastral Standard. For the astrophysics terms, you try directly translating them—with limited success.

“Can't I literally just say ‘black hole’?” you ask in Avgin, and he nearly spits out his coffee.

“Please don't. That's a dirty word.” He can't bring himself to say what it means, but from the way you’re laughing, you can clearly guess.

“I thought you said you didn't know how to swear.”

“You've just reminded me how.”

“You're welcome.” You look on the verge of cackling. Aventurine finishes his coffee and wonders when you're going to surprise him with your newfound vulgarity.

“Let's just do the space terms based on Standard,” he says. Begs.

“No, that's so boring.”

“Then let's do your language.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Give him a blank look.

“You don't know how to say those words in your mother tongue either, do you,” he intuits.

“Well, ‘spaghettification’ doesn't really come up in everyday conversation, does it?”

“Then maybe we don't need it.” He smiles, senses an opportunity. Smells blood. “How about ‘love’? I'd much rather know how you say that. I bet it sounds beautiful.”

You give him a long look. Your eyes are vulnerable when you share it: Love. I love you. He’s fascinated by the sound of it. Your voice is never that fragile when you say it in Standard. It's never so earnest. He repeats it, staring at you, and your gaze falls to the ground. His mouth curls.

“I like it,” he says. “Let's use that. It'll sound nice in Avgin.”

You try to recover. “Sure. That works. But back to ‘black hole’—”

And the two of you continue like that for days, weeks, months. It feels like a complete bastardization of his mother tongue on some days, in some conversations. Almost unrecognisable. But it doesn't feel bad. It’s all he has, it's all you have, and when he walks into your home, he starts speaking it without thinking: your bastard, patchwork language. The Avgin dialect that exists only in your house. A tongue that can only be understood by a liar.

And then, one lazy Sunday morning, he gets a familiar ping. He expects it to be Interastral Standard, as usual. The language balloons with each planet that the IPC colonises.

But instead, he opens his screen and freezes.

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 2 STATUS: Endangered. SERVICE RESUMED: 2157 AE NEW UPDATES: 103 loanwords and 5 neologisms added.

He can't stop looking at the status. Endangered. Endangered, which means dying, but alive. The Avgin dialect is alive again. The Intelligentsia Guild determined it, so it must be true. But Aventurine can't agree: there are no Avgin speakers in the known universe other than the two of you, and what you speak isn't real Avgin. The Avgin spoken by his mother and father and sister is dead; the Avgin spoken by Kakavasha is dead. The festivals are gone; the deserts have been terraformed. There are no wagons; there are no dances; there are no prayers. There are no blessings, and he has no home—

As long as you are alive, the blood of the Avgin will never run dry.

His throat locks up.

“Aventurine?” you ask. Your voice is drowsy, but concerned. “Is something wrong?”

He looks at you from his phone, a polished smile on his face.

“No.” His syllables are plain and efficient in the noise of Interastral Standard: “Just looking at details for a new assignment. It’ll be a long one.”

“Oh.” You frown. “Will you be away from home for a long time, then?”

He stops himself from swallowing. “Yes, I'll be away from the house. For several months, probably.”

“Okay.” Your voice is small. “Take care of yourself, okay? I'll miss you.”

Each word you speak resonates with heartbreak. It always does in these conversations, even in Standard—but the sorrow is amplified in Avgin. His mother tongue has an inherently sad quality to it, he's noticed. His people have lost so much over their history—their language is one of loss. It's his language of loss. Kakavasha did all his grieving in Avgin; Aventurine has never felt sorrow in Standard. When the language died, so did Kakavasha—and all his regrets with it.

“You'll come home to me, right?” you ask. It's a beautiful sentence in Avgin. A heartrending one. He feels something that he hasn't known since he was a child.

It's a feeling he has to kill.

“Yes,” he says in Standard. “Of course I'll come back.”

This is not the first time that Aventurine has been mistaken for dead, but this is the longest time.

The latest world to join the IPC network was a tough acquisition. It had been ruled by a despot who wreaked havoc on both the people and the planet, and who was too stupid and reckless to resolve conflicts with his trade partners. He probably would have blown up the whole star system had he been left to his own devices. Aventurine had no qualms about bringing him to ruin, nor did he have qualms about nearly dying in the process.

If things had gone his way, he'd either be dead or missing. This would have been the perfect opportunity to do the latter, actually—to be freed from the IPC. Free to drift alone, speaking with strangers in strange, unfamiliar tongues. No connection to his past, to the cruel history of his luck, to his commodity code. No tether to his inherently unjust destiny. But instead he's back in your house, pockets heavy with his borrowed wealth, speaking to you in his bastardised, childish Avgin. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Your Avgin is—shockingly fluent. He doesn't know how. He can't think about it right now. All he can process is the wounded animal noise of your speech as you yell at him, as you cry. Like an injured songbird, or a weeping child. Why did you leave, why did you lie, why do you always lie to me, why don't you give a shit about me, you spit. Why do you want to die, why do you want to die, why do you want to die, you keep saying. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost, he keeps hearing. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost. Don't leave me, big sister. People will die. Why do you have to go?

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, this time in your language. “I'm so sorry. Come here. Let me hold you.”

You collapse into your mother tongue. Aventurine is both relieved and horrified. Relieved that he doesn't need to hear the language of his grief—horrified that he needs to hear yours. He's never heard you cry like this. He's never heard you break like this. These must have been the words you used when the soldiers found you hiding in your closet, when they dragged you out of your home. You were just a child.

Aventurine doesn't know the words you are using—you've never taught them—but he still understands them.

You're very malleable when you’re sad; even more so when you're hysterical. Aventurine understands this about you, and he understands how to calm you—this time in your native tongue—and he understands how to kiss you. He understands that you need to feel close to him. He understands that there are ways to accomplish this other than sex. A normal person would talk it out, have an honest conversation, come to a mutual understanding, and maybe even stop trying to kill himself. They wouldn't fuck you into the mattress while your face is still wet with tears.

But Aventurine is not a normal person. He doesn't know how to have an honest conversation, and he doesn't want to be understood. Lying is his greatest weapon, and sex is a close second. So he kisses you until you’re too breathless to cry, fucks you until you can't think, and makes you come so hard that you’re in too much bliss to grieve. And maybe it's horrible of him, but he enjoys it. He enjoys the way your body takes him in so easily, the way your nails dig into his back, the way you tighten around him when you climax, so wet and needy for him. The way you beg for him in your language for liars as he spends himself inside you: I love you, Aventurine, I love you, I love you, I love you—

Only because it feels good. This is all only because he enjoys fucking you. This is all only because you enjoy fucking him. This is all it'll ever be, and it'll be this way until he gets to meet his end.

(Some months ago, Aventurine started dreaming in Avgin.

It surprised him when he first noticed it. The last time he remembers having a dream in his native tongue, he was twelve years old and still in chains. And even then, it had become a sporadic, strange thing. Awful to wake up from. One minute he was with his mother and sister on a cool, rainy day, speaking fluently in Avgin as he laughed and played—and the next minute, he was being shaken awake in his cage, hearing the cruel lash of Katican.

But ever since he's started speaking Avgin with you, he's been dreaming in it. Vividly. Sometimes he's a child in these dreams, and sometimes he's grown. He's always back in the Sigonian desert, among the tents and the campfires and his family wagons. His mother and sister are alive. Sometimes his father is too. The skies roar with thunder and the stellar winds are always harsh, but they always keep him cocooned up in their arms. He's always warm.

Sometimes Aventurine dreams of nicer days. Clear skies, warm sun, cool breeze—all blessings from the Mother Goddess. On these days, he tends to be an adult, and you tend to be there with him. Your Avgin is fluent but strange, filled with funny loanwords and peculiar slang. His father likes the neologisms and starts using them—but only in wrong ways. His sister finds it embarrassing and keeps apologising to you.

His mother loves you. She loves you so much it hurts. This is how I know you're blessed, Kakavasha, she says, glowing. You’re so lucky to have found such a kind person.

Kakavasha knows this. He knows he's lucky, and in his dreams, that isn't a bad thing. In his dreams, his luck means that his home is not violently excised from his heart: his father never dies; his mother never dies; his sister never dies. The tents are not burned; the wagons are not destroyed. He is never forced to forget his people's dishes, their songs, their language, their joy. And in his dreams, his luck means that he meets you anyway, without all the loss and the chains and the lying.

In his dreams, he is able to bring you to the desert. He is able to teach you the Avgin he spoke as a child, to cook all the meals his mother used to make, to share with you their coffee and their tea. He teaches you prayers. He teaches you blessings. He tells you about Mama Fenge, about how the rain fell when he was born. He takes you to the Kakava Festival, shows you how to dance, sings to you all the Avgin songs until you're singing back. He presses his palm to yours in prayer; he kisses you in devotion, not avoidance.

Sometimes the two of you still fight, the same fights that you have in real life, but he handles them with honesty. He listens to you. He apologises to you. He tells you that he’ll change, and he means it—because this world is a kind one, and he has no need to be so cruel to you.

In this kind world, when you lay in bed with his arms tight around you, you smile at him and say, I love you, Kakavasha. You say it in Avgin—real Avgin, not the dialect born from genocide and deceit—and when he responds, there's not even a little bit of insincerity in his voice. Because Kakavasha never became Aventurine in these dreams, so he has no Interastral Standard in which he can lie to you, no silver tongue with which he can manipulate you, no commodity code that inspires his fear of being controlled by you. Kakavasha only knows Avgin, and he only has his sand, his family, his goddess, his home.

And he has you. Finally, he has you.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and then he tells you the truth.)

.

.

.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

You noticed this very early on: whenever he lies to you, he always switches to Interastral Standard. Probably he wouldn't be able to do it in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak, and the words he knows are all too kind. He speaks with the innocence of a child, and children cannot deceive people in the way that adults can. Children cannot perform commerce or negotiate contracts. They cannot use a silver tongue to rob people blind. They cannot save themselves from the gallows.

So Aventurine’s Avgin is defenceless. Vulnerable. So vulnerable it hurts. You are not so vulnerable in your first language because your captors spoke it on occasion, and you learned to lie in it to gain their pity. You told Aventurine that knowing it would help him understand you, but this was a deception. Aventurine’s mother tongue was a language of trust, but yours is a dialect of abuse.

The Avgin language died before Aventurine could be gutted by it; this is why it disarms him so completely. This is why he’s so indulgent and so warm when you use it with him, why he yields to all your requests. Not requests for money or gifts—you’re certain those are meaningless to him—but for affection. Let me hold you. Let me touch you. Let me kiss you. He can never say no.

This is also why he loves hearing you speak his mother tongue, you think—it makes him feel at home, it makes him feel safe. Maybe it even makes him feel loved. He never seems so at peace speaking any other language, so you try to use Avgin as much as possible. You like seeing him happy. You like it even if it means you need to teach him your own native language in exchange, even when it means you need to hear him say all the things your captors used to say. You don't mind it if it's him. You never mind the harm he inflicts on you, especially not when it brings you closer to him.

It is convenient that he cannot lie in Avgin. You only wanted to learn it in the first place because he talks in his sleep—mostly in Standard, but sometimes in his native tongue. And now that you know he cannot lie in Avgin, you also know he's always being honest in his dreams. Honest when he throws his arms around you in his sleep. Honest when he grabs you so tightly that you bruise. Honest when he buries his face into your neck and whispers prayers into your skin.

Most of the words he says are common ones, the earliest vocabulary that he taught you. But there are some things he's withheld from you—and to learn those things, you had to track down linguists from the Intelligentsia Guild, bribe them with your dirty money, have them give you all their deprecated, extinct data. It felt two-faced, and it was violating, but it was the only way. You already know that Aventurine would rather die than translate his feelings for you, would never want this part of himself understood.

I'm sorry for always leaving you.

I'm sorry for making you cry.

I can't bear the thought of losing you.

Freedom would be too lonely without you.

I don't want to hurt you anymore.

I don't want to lie to you anymore.

I missed you.

I want you.

I need you.

I love you.

end

afterword

'The Forbidden Flame.' Masterlist Prince Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Synopsis: In a world where royalty are born and bred to sit upon a throne built by their ancestor's aeons ago, there is a prince who is destined to sit upon the throne but there is worry amongst those of the high council. Will this Prince ever be able to shake the shackles of his ancestorial rage and become a just and rightful King? Or will he simply be another spindle in the wheel that continues to crush those of lesser importance?

Warnings: Similiar setting to House of the Dragon (the era, how royalty works) but not entirely, dragons, eventual smut, deceit, violence, blood, all characters are over the ages of 18, mentions of different religions, misogynistic themes, character deaths. No beta readers, we die like kings. (Will update individual chapters with warnings also.) MDNI.

The Glossary

Chapter I: ['The Barbarous Prince'] [28/08/22] [5086 wc.]

Chapter II: ['The Summer Solstice'] [31/08/22] [6829 wc.]

Chapter III: ['Seeking Respite'] [04/09/22] [8181 wc.]

Chapter IV: ['Dance of the Dragon'] [TBD] [??]

Chapter V: ['The Crimson King'] [TBD] [??]

(More chapters will be added, if needed. Names/dates are subject to change before publication).

credit for the background image/banner: @vampyrsm please do not plagiarise, or recommend my work to places such as TikTok. Date format is DD/MM/YY, chapter releases are at 9:00pm BST on the specified date.

synopsis | in which every kiss was an answer

tags | fluff, drabble, royalty au, mentioned/implied arranged marriage, mention of the words "kill" and "war" but no killing involved and no descriptions of war

reader | gender neutral

notes | inspired heavily by (+ some dialogues taken from) a scene in the manhwa "saving my sweetheart" && for @yae-publishing-house's winter writing challenge

"But, Ayato, aren't you cold?" your breath materialized into a cloud in the air.

He shook his head no. He brought his hands to your waist and pulled you closer. You looked away from him; you didn't know what else to say. It was strange. Supposedly, he was just kind to you, undoubtedly so. He took care of his own people, fought bravely against those who needlessly opposed them. That was the Lord of Yashiro. He hated you, he hated the leader of the land you were from. He was forced into this marriage to protect his people; how could he love you, when you had the blood of those he hated most?

You'd looked away from him, but he'd kept his eyes locked on you. "I'd thought I'd made it painfully obvious," his other hand, strangely warm, took hold of your cheek. "Did the kiss from last night not suffice? Was my lips upon yours, which had never touched another's in such a way, not enough?"

It was hard to understand. He was simply inexplicable, as to why he loved you so. At first, when you'd asked him to kiss you the first time, it was so that you wouldn't be surprised when you did kiss with him when needed. The nobles' mouths ran too far all the time. They said he wouldn't love you. They said he'd kill you, bring reason to war.

"Do you really love me?" you looked up at him. His kindness may have been inexplicable if he didn't love you- but now, still even if he didn't, he'd at least have to try much harder to look like it.

"Yes," that was all that he had said in response.

"If you truly mean it, then kiss me as if you really love me. Then, I'll believe you."

It wasn't even seconds before his lips hit yours, his hand bringing you closer to him. There wasn't a thought as your arms went around him ever so naturally, and it was more than difficult to separate from the kiss.

"Would you be shocked if I kissed your hand?" No. You let him kiss you again, bringing you closer to him. Despite the rigid cold of the air, it was warm. You could feel his heartbeat, faster than you thought it could go in such a situation.

"What if I interlaced my fingers with yours and wrapped my arm around your waist?"

"You're already halfway there."

"What if I pulled you closer and kissed you once more?" he asked. There was no one there besides you and him.

"Try it," you said. Your warm breath and the cold air hit his skin, and in milliseconds, your lips connected once more.

If there was one thought Ayato wished he was able to voice that day, it would be:

You cannot begin to imagine the depths of my greed and how badly I want to touch you.

tw: death, 18+ only: sukuna is very protective over his little wife.

“Woah, she’s hot!”

That was the first comment. SUKUNA knew then he wanted to kill this man.

“Shit, look at her.” The vulgar stranger whistled, his lustful eyes trailing the curves of your body. “I hope I can get five minutes alone with her in the bathroom.”

Sukuna swallowed a sip of his dark liquor.

He and this stranger were the only two individuals at the gathering sitting on the couches instead of mingling with the others. It was the perfect spot for him to keep an eye on you, his sweet little wife, but him alone. This man? Who dared to join Sukuna on the couch and pour himself a shot of whiskey?

He was going to die tonight. Sukuna was certain of it.

Sukuna turned to face one of the bodyguards standing beside the couch — not that Sukuna needed any protection. Silently, he gestured in your direction, and the bodyguard immediately understood Sukuna’s wordless command.

The stranger watched the interaction take place. He watched the guard approach you and guide you over to the sitting area, and he smiled wildly.

“You’re bringing her to me? You’re a good man,” he said.

Sukuna took another sip of his dark liquor.

When you arrived, a kind smile on your face, Sukuna put his glass down on a nearby table and patted his lap twice.

Happily, you took your seat, and his large hand rubbed your hip.

Oh, the man was stunned. Angry.

“Hey, I called dibs on that bitch first,” he spat.

Sukuna watched the corners of your lips fall as the man continued on, on, and on. During his ramble, Sukuna whispered in your ear, “Close your eyes and cover your ears, girl.”

You did as you were told, though it did little to muffle the sound of the gunshot that came seconds later.

The party guests were silent for a moment, but after observing you in Sukuna’s lap, a gun in his hand, and an unfamiliar dead body bleeding out on the couch, they were quick to return to their conversations.

After all, Sukuna owned this building. This party was his. And this wasn’t the first time he had to murder someone on his kindhearted wife’s behalf.

“Hey,” Sukuna, who was aggressive with every other soul except for you, spoke softly. “I’ll cheer you up when we get home, pretty girl.”

With him, that could have meant watching reruns of your favorite show with you, or him sloppily licking at your clit until you came repeatedly.

More than likely both.

THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT FOR THE BEAU IDÉAL OF IDIOCY | N.K. — TASK #3

SUMMARY: you're supposed to be in the stands, eating snacks and talking strategy with your friends, enjoying watching the three champions battle for the triwizard cup. you're not supposed to be entangled in what seems to be your own personal (hell) triwizard tournament.

PAIRING: ravenclaw!nanami kento x hufflepuff!fem!reader | mc’s best friend yu haibara, insufferable asshole fushiguro toji, best boy gojo satoru GENRE: hp x jjk au, (friends who are) idiots to lovers, romance, fluff, crack, profanity PLAYLIST: the course of true love never did run smooth WC: 12.2k WARNINGS: underage drinking (don't do this, kids), probably the most serious chapter of them all, mentions of self-doubt and inadequacy

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— TASK #3: HOW TO SURVIVE A BALL WITHOUT COSPLAYING AS A COURT JESTER (OR, ALTERNATIVELY, HOW TO AVOID SAYING TOO MUCH WITHOUT SAYING NOTHING AT ALL)

(Deep down, you know that tonight, the night of the Yule Ball, marks the most pivotal turning point in your relationship with Kento. Either the curtains will rise, casting a spotlight on the two of you, or - and this is less appealing to you - the velvet will fall, signalling the end of the show, of the experience, of you and him. You like to think you’re something of an optimist, especially when it involves Nanami Kento. Okay, maybe you should rephrase: you’re only an optimist when it comes to him. Anything else is a glass half empty.)

As much as you wanted to cuss Kento out for splurging on a gown that you’ll never wear again, especially for a one-time event like the Yule Ball, you haven’t gotten the chance to. Being Head Boy means shouldering a fraction of the responsibilities that come with preparing for it. He’s been booked and busy - so much so that you’re wondering if he’s fallen asleep in his dorm after exhausting himself to the max.

(In retrospect, you have to give him credit where credit is due. He made sure you got something to wear knowing that he wouldn’t be able to accompany you to Hogsmeade the next day to try again. As usual, Kento’s three steps ahead of you at all times.)

You’re fidgeting with your dress as you stand outside the door to the common room, contemplating if you should go up to the Ravenclaw common room to check on him. You’re accompanied by the two trusty goblins, stoic as ever, flanking you like two terrifying vinegar-spouting guardians.

The memory of Toji getting rained down on resurfaces and you stifle a laugh, clamping your hand to your mouth immediately. You glance around, worried that someone will see nothing more than a girl standing next to a huge barrel in a shimmering blue gown, giggling to herself. If that happened you’d actually wish the goblins activated then, just to really drive the humiliation home. (All or nothing mentality.)

The corridor is still, however, no foot traffic, no noise from the kitchens - though you know Sukuna and the other house-elves are in there cooking up a storm - and no one going in and out of the Hufflepuff common room. It’s probably because everyone’s already flocked to the Great Hall, dressed to the nines, in silks and satins and velvet, their hair neat and tidy, polished and primped to perfection, shoes shined so bright they reflect light off of them like a disco ball - long story short, everyone going to the Ball tonight looks sophisticated, and they’re all probably inside the Hall already, finding the perfect seat, drinking pumpkin juice and snacking on the food.

Haibara had left with Shoko earlier, but not before teasing you about your date being Kento, or, in Haibara’s lingo, lover boy. You’d rolled your eyes, throwing the both of them a sharp look that did little to mask the fluttering in your stomach. They’d just laughed, enjoying watching your face turn red (and you trying to hurriedly disguise it). Finally, you’d shooed them off, telling them they’d miss out on getting a good table if they continued to stand here and poke fun at you.

It’s quiet now.

You shift your weight onto your right foot, then back onto your left, wringing your hands together as a soft anxiety prickles at the back of your mind. 

Has he overworked himself?

If he has, you’re not surprised - Kento has a bad habit of taking on way too much, pushing through with nothing more than sheer determination. He always manages, always gets everything done with that unshakeable composure of his that he wears like a second skin (but not with you, you realize), but he rarely realizes the effects it’ll have on his body in the aftermath, the toll it takes on him.

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. You should go to him. (And, if he’s asleep, you’ll leave him be, because he needs it.)

You turn to the barrels, your fist raised to rap the code.

“I’m not late, you know. I’m on time.”

You freeze where you are, because you recognize the voice at your back. You fight back a smile, attempting to school your expression into one of indifference, before turning to face him.

It’s all for naught, because the moment you set your eyes on him, your breath is taken hostage.

Unfair. It’s unfair just how handsome he looks. You don’t even think the word ‘handsome’ embodies what you’re seeing right now. Kento’s always been infuriatingly striking, of course - that’s old news - but this? This is something else entirely, and your brain is trying (and failing) to keep up.

His dress robes, a rich and vibrant midnight blue that compliments the tones of your gown like drops of ink bursting like fireworks in water, like a beam of sunlight exploding into fractals as it passes through glass - fine on their own until they are touched by their opposite, making them ethereal - fit against him perfectly, tailored to his frame with an elegance that makes him seem almost regal. As if he truly belongs in a castle, awaiting his princess.

The robes in their entirety embody him, understated but undeniably refined (you’re pretty sure this is all calculated - Kento’s calm yet deliberate nature at work), with sleek white accents at the cuffs and collar that give them a subtle contrast, making the blue pop even more. The fabric flows effortlessly, like it’s made for him, a crisp, smooth look that screams of simplicity and luxury.

But no, that’s not what takes your breath away, not what makes your heart beat in your chest like the sound of a thousand drums in unison. No, it’s the tie. The tie that you sewed, the tie that Toji said was the ugliest thing he’d ever laid eyes on, and the tie that you eventually learned to be ashamed of.

The tie that Kento is wearing with a casual confidence, like it was never a question of whether or not it was going to be a part of his outfit. (You remember all the times he’s defended the necktie’s mere existence when all you wanted to do was burn it to ashes.)

If you were one of the Champions, he’d be your number one cheerleader.

You swallow hard, trying to push that thought away as your eyes trace the way the bright, warm, sunshine hue of the fabric stands out against the otherwise dark tones of his attire. The dark spots, like ink, dotting it make the yellow pop out even more, drawing attention to it, neatly knotted around his neck. 

But, the thing is, it looks good on him, and you’re not sure how to process that.

You shake your head, trying to focus. It’s like he’s got you in a spell (fitting, considering where you’re standing), completely consuming your mind, making you notice every single detail about him.

Your eyes slide to his hair in an attempt to stop gawking at his clothes and how good they make him look, but you realize too late that it’s just a poor move, because now you’re obsessed with the way his hair is neatly pushed back to expose his forehead and the way there’s still that hint of natural messiness, a slight disarray that elevates it all the more. 

You purse your lips together, because how can someone look so much like a deity among mortals? And, your mouth turns dry when you meet his eyes, how can the aforementioned person be looking at you like, well, that?

When you’d turned around, he’d been wearing an almost imperceptible smirk, but now, now you notice the subtle shift in his expression as his eyes slide over your figure, taking in your delicately placed headband (matching with his necktie), the gown draped over your frame, the slight dusting of makeup Shoko had insisted would make your eyes pop, and the way you’re just standing there, looking out of your depth, holding onto your wrist like it’s a lifeline.

You notice his lips part slightly, his brows relax, the faintest flicker of warmth in his sweet eyes, like a match being struck, lighting his world on fire. It makes your chest tighten with something you don’t want to name.

He steps toward you with the same measured composure he always carries around with himself, his gaze sweeping over you yet again with quiet intent, like he’s committing all of this to memory. Like he’s memorizing you, admiring you like you’re a painting in the Louvre, like you’re a work of art that’s been carved out of marble.

His hand lifts, reaching to fix something on your shoulder - a stray thread, you think, or, and this is a reach, an excuse to touch you. He’s so close to you, and his scent, clean, sharp, reminiscent of the ocean, envelops you and floods your senses. When his fingers graze your skin, it’s like you’ve been set aflame, and you shiver at the contact.

When he pulls back, he smiles at you. “You look beautiful.” His voice is even, but you catch something else, something low that makes your stomach flutter. “Breathtaking.”

It’s as if your vocal chords are finally retaliating against all of the stupid things you have ever said in your lifetime, because now - the one moment where you really want to reply back to him - you find yourself at a loss for words.

He glances down at his sleeves, adjusting his cuffs, and you see the tension in his movements - as if he needs a moment to collect himself.

Say something, please.

You shake your head again, slightly, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. (Who knew you just needed to see Kento in dress robes to forget how to talk? If Haibara knew about this it’d be over for you. He’d never let you live this down. Or, in fact, knowing Haibara, if he ever caught you running your mouth ever again, he’d simply make Kento dress up just to render you speechless. He’s creative like that.)

“You look very handsome,” you say, taking his hand in yours. It’s just instinct at this point. His warmth is like a balm to all of your worries, and it clears your head forthwith (and it works such wonders that for a moment you wonder if you’re suddenly thinking in 4K). “It’s unfair how you make anything look good. Even the necktie,” you admit begrudgingly.

His lips twitch. He laces his fingers with yours and says, “I told you you didn’t need to change anything about it. It’s perfect.” He holds his arm out for you to take. When you slip your arm through his, he shoots you a glance, and you swear that you hear him whisper something under his breath as the two of you make your way down the corridor to the Great Hall.

“Just like you.”

Everyone’s paired off, gently swaying to the delicate, sweeping melodies of the string orchestra, the music filling the air like a soft, enchanting breeze.

Anticipation swells in your chest. This is the moment of truth.The culmination of three weeks of practice under the moonlight, you and Kento honing every step and spin associated with a waltz, away from prying eyes and the weight of expectation (you weren’t that excited to attend the dance practice sessions led by your head of house solely because you knew you’d only end up embarrassing yourself).

Kento holds his hand out to you. “Dance with me?”

You bite your lip, your heart flipping in your chest, but you take his hand.

(You really hope you don’t trip over your own feet and crash headfirst into the table with the punch bowls. You’d have to use Obliviate on everyone in the room if that happened.)

He leads you onto the polished floor, looking as calm and measured as always, as if (you hope) his stomach isn’t doing somersaults and his mind isn’t calculating every single possibility that could happen, good and bad. You’re pretty sure you don’t look as composed as he does. In fact, you know what you look like - pupils blown wide, your hand weakly gripping a sliver of fabric as you walk, and your lips pursed together tightly (you don’t trust yourself not to say something to ruin the mood).

The world around you fades into a blur, narrowing down to him, and only him. For a moment, to steady your beating heart, you just gaze at him. His eyes, always so introspective, so sharp, so full of knowledge, like he’s seen almost everything there is to see in the entire universe, are soft now, relaxed, focused on you with a quiet intensity - as if nothing in all the galaxies could ever compare to you.

He’s smiling, and it’s small, but not invisible, holding a warmth that only you get to see - and you’re more than okay with that. He smiles like this when it’s just the two of you, reserved just for moments like these, moments when there’s no pressure and you can get lost in the ebb and flow of the music, of each other, of your hearts beating in sync.

His hand on your waist, holding you as if you’re something to be cradled with care, feels like an anchor in a storm. There’s something different about how he is holding you now compared to when you were practicing before. Before, his touch was protective, controlled - serious. Now, however, it’s softer, unguarded, like he’s allowing himself to have this, and tender, as if he’s silently letting you know just how much he is cherishing this with you.

You exhale quietly. You’re realizing that he’s more than just a crush - he’s been way more for a while now. This, plus every other thing he has done within the past weeks, is the final nail in the coffin.

You should say something. Anything.

Tell him you really love him?

You cringe inwardly. No, that’s too much too soon. You should just-

His touch pulls you from your thoughts, urging you to live in the moment, to relish in him, in dancing with him, in being with him tonight.

Suspended under the bronze glow of the chandeliers, sparkling like stars in the night sky, and wrapped up in the precise harmonies of the orchestra, your heart flutters, you wish, oh, how you wish that this moment could last forever.

As he guides you, maintaining eye contact throughout the entire waltz, you find that you’ve seen the various sides that come with Kento, the main dish - you’ve seen him serious, stressed, upset, stressed (again, but more intense) and, most commonly, composed and stoic, but this, right now? You’re getting to witness a side of him that’s more human, more open, filled to the brim with nothing short of pure affection. It makes your chest tighten with an emotion you can’t place (or something you just don’t want to name right now).

His eyes search yours, and you look back at him and hope that his body language skills are above average (he’s Nanami Kento, of course his skills are outstanding), because you have no words to describe how you’re feeling, how much you love this, how much you adore him.

His hand brushes against your gown, his other hand entwined with yours, and it’s all there, in the way he holds you, a silent understanding between the two of you that doesn’t need an explanation.

You’re so lost in him that you don’t notice what’s happening around you. You don’t notice the way Toji’s been roped into dancing with one of the professors, looking utterly miserable as he moves across the dance floor, how Haibara keeps stepping on the train of Shoko’s dress, how she simply laughs and slaps his shoulder, how Hogwarts’ champion Suguru is not-so-subtly glaring at the Durmstrang champion’s date, the girl from Gryffindor whom Sukuna had been talking about, as she lets him guide her - you barely notice Gojo casually sipping on some pumpkin juice whilst leaning against a table, or Utahime with one of her housemates near the food, laughing at something. (Okay, you noticed that one. But only because you were curious to see who Utahime’s date was since it definitely wasn’t Kento.)

“Looks like our practice wasn’t in vain,” Kento muses, his fingers flexing against your waist, sending heat running up your spine.

You tilt your head up at him, humming in response. “I lost sleep for this,” you tease - it’s the only way you can get yourself to think straight, by bantering with him, “so yes, I should hope so.”

His grip on your waist tightens ever so slightly as he guides you into a smooth turn. “I don’t do anything halfway, you know. I had to keep up with you,” he says, his tone level but his lips betraying a hint of a smirk.

“Oh, trust me, I’ve noticed,” you say, fighting a smile as you roll your eyes. It just comes so easily, this back and forth with him, the way he matches your wit, the way he looks at you with amusement and awe. You narrow your eyes at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. “You didn’t just practice with me, did you? Tell me, Nanami Kento, have you been secretly twirling around your dorm room at night?”

He exhales sharply, a mix of exasperation and mirth. “No,” he says, drawing the syllable out, “but I did consider replacing you with a mop once. Less... Hm, how do I say this?” He looks up at the bewitched ceiling, painted a starry night sky, before meeting your eyes again. “Distracting.”

You gasp dramatically, pulling back as much as his hold will allow. (You have to put some distance between the both of you before he realizes just how much that affected you. God forbid he actually starts hearing your heart thumping in your chest. He can already see the blush dusting your cheeks. You can’t handle a double whammy.)

“A mop?” you ask, incredulous. “You were going to replace me with a mop?”

His hand slips to the small of your back, flexing against the fabric as he draws you a fraction closer. (He’s not a fan of distance.) “A very cooperative one,” he deadpans. “Unlike someone who keeps stepping on my feet.”

This time you really gasp, hitting his shoulder softly. “That was one time-”

“Six times, actually,” he corrects, smoothly.

You frown at him, lips pursing in defiance. “Right, well, I hope you and your beloved mop have a wonderful evening together,” you huff, pretending to pull away from him.

But he doesn’t let you go. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he twirls you, effortless, catching you back in his arms with an ease that steals your breath away. His voice drops lower, softer. “Unfortunately for the mop, I asked someone else to the Yule Ball and I intend to spend the rest of the evening with her.”

Your heart stutters so badly in your chest that you’re praying you won’t need jumper cables, but you don’t give him the satisfaction (even though it’s clear as day on your face) of seeing you flustered. “How gentlemanly of you, Kento.”

He smirks, rare and fleeting, but it brightens everything around you. “I try.”

(Pay attention, because this is where it all goes downhill. But think of it this way: what’s a ball without a little bit of chaos and a lot of misplaced dignity, right? (You’re in denial.))

The music draws to a close, the melodies crescendoing into silence. You hear the musicians taking a small break - reaching for a snack or a drink before they’re to start their next number. The other couples surrounding you pull apart from each other and, after curtsying and bowing, they make their way off the dance floor.

You know you’re supposed to curtsy after the dance comes to an end, but you abandon all common sense and wrap your arms around his neck, embracing him tightly. It’s not graceful, it’s sure as hell not refined, but it’s real.

He stiffens, taken aback, and you worry for a moment that he’s going to pull back and tell you that you should be curtsying, but then you feel his arms around you, enveloping you in his warmth and his scent, and you melt.

A curtsy simply doesn’t cut it; it doesn’t let him know how special tonight has been, doesn’t let him know that if you could do it all over again you would, that you wouldn’t be caught dead with anyone else as your partner - that no one else compares to him.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The hum of the ball fades to the background. It’s just you and him, standing in the center of it all, wrapped up in each other.

Something warm blooms in your chest. It opens like a rose and spreads to every inch of your body, filling you up with something golden and light, making you feel like you’re floating. Like you’re on cloud nine. It’s, simply put, warmth and comfort rolled into one huge flower, planted inside of you, engulfing you in a quiet happiness that lingers in your fingertips, in the way that your heart is no longer erratic, but steady and sure.

It spreads like fire in the cold, chasing away every single doubt you’ve ever had, every hesitation, leaving only the undeniable truth you’ve tried so hard to ignore all this time - that you are exactly where you’re meant to be.

With him.

You sigh, more of contentment than anything else, and pull back. He’s smiling, really smiling. It looks good on him (what doesn’t?), because for once, he doesn’t look like he’s bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. He just looks happy - unguarded, at ease, like he’s allowing himself to simply exist without having to prove it.

And you, you realize with a jolt, you’re the reason for it.

You smile back, unable to help yourself. He takes your hand and leads you off the dance floor and towards one of the tables where Shoko and Haibara are seated already, munching on something you can’t make out just yet.

“You should smile like that more often,” you say, nudging him slightly. “Not the barely-there, stoic thing you’re always doing.”

Kento huffs a quiet laugh, tilting his head as he glances at you. “Maybe I would, if you were around to see it.”

Your breath catches. The words are casual, spoken so simply, but they carry a weight - maybe more than he even realizes. Or maybe he does. Maybe he does and he’s testing the waters, seeing if you’ll acknowledge what’s lingering in the air between the two of you.

You should know better by now. You constantly bait him, and when he gives you an answer, you’re always caught off guard. At this point, you’re just making a fool of yourself for seeming so surprised when he gives you exactly what you’re looking for.

You want to tell him that you feel it. It’s not exactly rocket science, is it? The tension is so thick that it’s practically visible, and yet you dance around it as if it will burn you the moment you touch it.

But maybe you’re not afraid to get burnt.

Before you can say anything, before you can make sense of the sudden, overwhelming feeling in your chest-

“Oi, Captain!”

Your heads snap toward the voice near the punch table at the same time.

Gojo Satoru stands there in navy blue dress robes lined with gold, elegant and sharp, still leaning against the edge, a glass in his hands, raised in the air as he beckons for you.

You cast Kento an apologetic glance. “Sorry,” you mutter, extracting yourself from him. “I’ll be back.”

He nods, then makes his way towards the table while you slide over to Satoru, curious to see what he’s up to. Maybe he’s realized that you don’t need to be his date for the two of you to be recognized for your Quidditch skills.

You lean against the table next to him, crossing your arms. “Where’s your date?”

“I thought you were my date,” he replies, taking a sip of his juice.

You glare at him, and he raises his free hand in surrender. “I’m kidding!”

The two of you settle, a comfortable silence permeating the air as you resort to people-watching. You can see the heads of the other two schools seated at the table assigned to staff, straight-backed and proper as ever.

You tear your eyes away from them before you psych yourself out. Maybe they’ve already noticed you and Satoru. Maybe they haven’t. Maybe they never will.

Satoru pokes your cheek. “What are you frowning about?”

You smack his hand away, your bottom lip jutting out at his audacity. You let out a sigh. “Do you think we have a shot at getting into the Nationals?”

The moment the words leave your mouth you realize just how childish they sound. Desperate, like you’re crawling on the ground, begging for scraps. You shouldn’t have to grovel for someone else’s validation, but damn if it doesn’t feel good to be recognized for your talents.

Satoru, for his part, simply shrugs and takes a sip from his juice. “I saw them watching you with Nanami earlier,” he says. His gaze drifts to a certain blond seated next to Haibara, no doubt entertaining one of the latter’s delirious stories about how he (allegedly) crossed paths with a Peruvian Vipertooth when he went home for the holidays last year and barely lived to tell the tale. Kento’s gaze is polite, never giving away anything more than required, occasionally nodding in agreement or arching a brow in dubiety (which you’ve noticed him doing at least five times within the last thirty seconds).

You find yourself smiling.

“I think we really do have a shot,” Satoru continues, yanking you from your haze. “They looked at me when they entered the Hall, too.”

Your mouth goes dry. If it’s really true, and they give you a referral, that’s your one way ticket to becoming a pro-Quidditch player. And who better than to be playing alongside none other than Gojo Satoru?

The mouth-watering prospect of having your dream come true curls in your stomach, and you feel like you’re going to throw up.

“Woah, hold on a second.” Satoru glances at you, noticing how queasy you suddenly look. He reaches for the bowl of pumpkin juice and pours some into a glass before shoving it in your face. His blue eyes are wide open, as if you hurling in front of everyone would be the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. (You don’t blame him, but he could’ve been more subtle about it.) “Here, drink this, you’ll feel better.”

You scrunch your nose as you take the glass from him, immediately hit by the sharp tang of something that’s definitely not pumpkin juice.

Slowly, you lift your gaze and shoot him a knowing look - there’s only one person who could possibly have had the balls to pull this stunt and it’s him. You’re not even remotely surprised.

“Relax, I wasn’t going to let you drink it without telling you,” he says. He rolls his shoulders before his lips split into a wide, mischievous grin. “I spiked them with Firewhiskey before the Ball started.” 

Satoru doesn’t meet your eyes, staring straight ahead, sipping his drink with faux innocence. You don’t look away. The gall this boy has, honestly.

Your eyes find Kento, looking like he can only handle one more story about Haibara’s antics, and you contemplate telling on Satoru. You tear your eyes away from your ever-responsible date - Head Boy Nanami. “Tell me you’re not letting the younger students drink this,” you hiss, your voice lowered as you tilt your glass, watching the orange liquid swirl ominously.

He lifts a shoulder, nonchalant as ever. “That’s why I’ve been standing next to this table the whole time.”

Okay, so he has a conscience. Great to know. That’s very important information, because you were beginning to doubt it for a moment.

You drag a hand down your face, then squint suspiciously at the drink.

What the hell, sure. You can handle your liquor. Probably.

You need something to help you relax and not overthink about every single thing until you lose your mind anyways.

You bring the glass to your lips, and take a sip.

The taste of pumpkin, cinnamon and nutmeg floods your mouth, followed immediately by a slow burn that makes you wince.

But that’s it.

You scoff.

Light work, no reaction.

You turn to Satoru, unimpressed, and point to the bowl of spiked juice. “Are you sure you did it right?”

He follows your gaze, his lips twitching upwards in mild amusement. “You’re aware that you need to take more than one measly sip for it to really hit, right?” He scoffs, crossing his arms, his glass dangling precariously from his fingertips. “Down that whole thing, and the next thing you know, you’ll be in Fushiguro’s arms.”

Your response is immediate, like a knee-jerk reaction solely at the mention of Toji Fushiguro (whose eyes you’ve been avoiding the entire time), and you shove him.

Caught off guard, Satoru stumbles, nearly losing his footing before he catches himself on the table’s edge. He blinks at you in momentary betrayal before the two of you burst into hysterics, drawing the attention of a couple of students nearby.

You catch your breath, holding onto his shoulder to steady yourself. You can always count on Gojo Satoru to be up to some sort of mischief at all times. It’s equal parts frustrating and comical, seeing how you’re always somehow drawn into the eye of the hurricane whenever you cross paths with him.

You squint up at Satoru, who’s trying desperately to stop his fit of laughter. You exhale sharply, suddenly determined to prove to him that he didn’t spike the pumpkin juice as well as he claims he did.

“Watch this,” you announce, downing the rest of the juice in your glass in one go.

Satoru stares as you grimace with the taste. Then he smacks your shoulder, throwing his head back as he laughs. “Atta girl, welcome to the good side!”

You roll your eyes at him. “I’m going back to Kento,” you say, elbowing him one last time before you make your way to your date.

“Don’t trip on the way over!” he calls behind you. You raise a hand up half-heartedly in response.

You’re not going to trip. What, does he think you’re some rookie when it comes to drinking? (You are.) That you can’t handle your liquor? (You’ll find out tonight.)

Gojo Satoru does not play around when it comes to drink spiking.

It hits you faster than you expect - one moment you’re weaving your way through the crowd, making you way back to Kento as you seriously doubt the legitimacy of the Firewhiskey Satoru’s used, and the next, your head feels light, the room tilting ever so slightly, your body buzzing with warmth. It’s like a delayed explosion, spreading throughout your body, from your chest to your legs to the tips of your fingers, until every inch of you feels light and floaty.

You pause, blinking slowly, desperately trying to recalibrate, but your brain has other ideas - like running on a ten-second delay. The realization creeps in like molasses - Satoru got you good.

Spurred by the sudden need for vengeance (or, at the very least, a show of good sportsmanship where you shake Satoru’s hand and tell him he does indeed know how to spike a drink), you whip around (a mistake), eyes scanning the Hall for the lovable menace. But you’ve turned around so quickly that now it’s like someone shook marbles around in your head and you’ve just gotten off a very violent merry-go-round that you can barely make out anything besides the sea of people who have seemingly swallowed him whole, his white hair nowhere to be found.

You grumble. How does someone that tall, that obnoxiously loud, disappear so easily?

Great, now you have to fend for yourself in your rapidly deteriorating state. Perfect.

You take a slow step forward. Then another. Then another. Then- oh, wow. Walking is a lot harder than you remember. If only you had your broomstick right about now. Everything feels a little too soft, too slow, too delayed, like you’re floating above your own body. And then you see him.

Kento.

He’s moving toward you, cutting through the crowd effortlessly (or maybe people are parting for him because he is, after all, Head Boy, and they’re worried he’ll write them up for obstructing his way), his eyes locked onto you with a sharpness that makes your stomach flip.

“Are you alright?” he asks when he reaches you, his hands finding your face with a tenderness that you immediately melt into. His palms are warm, grounding, his thumbs tracing the heat blooming across your cheeks. “Your face is red.”

You lean into his touch without thinking, your body practically melting into his hold as an indulgent, stupidly lovesick smile stretches across your lips. “It’s called… blush,” you murmur, voice slow and syrupy. “You should try it.”

His lips press into a flat line, like he’s contemplating what he should do with you. You swear you can hear the gears turning in his head. Or maybe that’s the murmur of the crowd. You’re not sure. But Kento doesn’t need to ask the question you know he wants to. He already knows the answer to that. (Any genius could figure it out in two seconds.)

He pinches the bridge of his nose, pulling his hands away from your face, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “How much did you drink?”

You hold up two fingers, making a pinching gesture to show him how much was in your glass. You start out small, then it becomes one inch, then two, then three- wait, no, that’s not right. You frown at your own fingers as if they have gained sentience and betrayed you.

(How rude of them.)

“...A responsible amount,” you reply finally, though your sluggish, uncoordinated movements paint a contradicting picture.

Kento sighs, pressing two fingers to his temple in an effort to ground himself. “Let me guess. Gojo?”

“Mm. Gojo. Satoru. Gojo Satoru,” you confirm solemnly. You had to say his name multiple times to make sure Kento knows who you’re talking about, because what if he’s thinking about some other Gojo? That won’t do.

Wait. You’re hit with the realization that you’ve just snitched on Satoru.

Shit, shit, shit.

You grab Kento by the collar and pull him close, so close, in fact, that your noses touch. “It wasn’t Satoru,” you say quickly. “Trust me, it wasn’t. It was…” You search about the Great Hall frantically, looking for a victim before learning that you don’t have the guts to throw an innocent person under the bus. "...Another Satoru."

(For the record, if you were a different person, you might have said Toji. But you’re not that person.)

Kento’s hands cover yours. You swear his lips quirk up ever so slightly.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Gojo didn’t do it.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank God. Don’t ever tell him I snitched on him.”

Kento raises his brows as if to say, Did you just hear yourself?

(You didn’t.)

Then, with no warning whatsoever, you giggle. You don’t even know why, but it bubbles up uncontrollably, and suddenly, everything is so, so funny.

Kento closes his eyes for a brief moment, as if mentally preparing himself for the ordeal ahead. When he opens them again, you’re gazing up at him like a love-struck fool, like he’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen in your whole entire life (he just might be). The fond exasperation in his eyes are clear, even through his deadpan stare.

Your eyes are wide and gleam with mischief, lips parted in an amused, breathless grin.

“Alright,” he mutters, prying your hands from his collar and adjusting his grip to steady you. “Let’s get you some water and-”

“You have really pretty eyes,” you murmur, cutting him off, tilting your head slightly as if to get a better view of his- wow, they are pretty. Gorgeous. 11/10. Then, as if struck by a great revelation, you lean in and whisper conspiratorially, “Did you know that? I bet you didn’t know that. A lot of people don’t know about that, actually.”

He exhales through his nose, his grip steadying you before you tip over completely. You don’t miss the way the tips of his ears flush crimson, and it makes your grin widen.

“I wasn’t aware,” he says dryly. “You’re the first person to tell me about this.”

You gasp, clutching his wrist like he’s just uncovered some deep, dark secret. “That’s because only like, one percent of the population know about it. But that doesn’t make it untrue, Kento! You have-” You wave your hands around, as if you’re trying to pull words out of thin air like some sort of linguistic magician, before settling on, “-historically significant eyes.”

He gives you a flat look, though the way his lips twitch gives his true feelings away. “Historically significant?”

You nod solemnly, like this is just another day of telling people the truths of life. You grip his forearm for support as the world continues to revolve, slow and syrupy and thick. “Yep. If someone painted a portrait of you, they’d have to put a warning on it. Something like, caution: do not gaze directly into the eyes unless you are emotionally prepared-”

“You’re so drunk,” he interrupts, unamused.

You scoff. How dare he cut you off, especially while you were spitting nothing but straight facts? “Am not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You straighten up, attempting to look dignified, but instead, it backfires, and you sway slightly and end up grabbing onto his robe for balance. “I’m perfectly fine, actually,” you insist stubbornly, scrunching your nose. “It’s just that Satoru - Gojo Satoru-” you jab a finger in the general direction of where you think he might be after ensuring that you’ve clarified which Gojo you’re talking about (there’s only one in the entirety of Hogwarts) “-gave me some… some spoked pumping juice-”

Kento’s lips definitely twitch at that. He snakes an arm around your waist to hold you up, pulling you close so that you lean against him. “Spoked what?”

You frown, trying to piece the words together in your foggy mind, unsure of what you’ve mispronounced. “Spoked- no, spoked pumping- wait, pumped spiking-” You pause, your frown deepening as you shake your head, frustrated. “Whatever. The point is, I’m not drunk.”

“You can’t even say it properly,” he sighs, rubbing his temple with his free hand.

“Well, he spoked it too lame,” you huff, completely ignoring Kento’s words to focus on the real issue here.

Kento looks like he wants to laugh. “He what?”

You stamp your foot on the floor. “I said, he spoked it too lame.” You pause, pouting whilst deep in thought. You turn to him, pointing a finger. “Write that down.”

“Write… what down?”

You spread your arms, exasperated. “Spoked too lame! Shakespeare would kill to write bars like that.”

Kento stares at you for a long moment, probably contemplating what he should do with you. (His date has gone off the rails.) With the patience of a saint and the resignation of a man who has accepted his fate, he simply says, “Let’s get you some water before you start challenging people to duels next.”

You gasp. “Oh my God. We should duel. I should duel Satoru. Gojo Satoru.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Coward.”

“Drink your water.”

And, despite his exasperation, despite the fact that you’re stumbling and slurring your words, he keeps a firm yet gentle hold on you, like it’s second nature, like it’s exactly where he’s meant to be. And somewhere beneath the veil of intoxication, your heart is beating as fast as ever - but it’s not because of the alcohol.

(The rest of the night blurs into a hazy, dreamlike mess, most of which you barely remember. If you really try, you can piece together some things - flashes of laughter, the warmth of Kento’s hand in yours, Satoru’s obnoxious cackling from somewhere in the distance (you assume he’s staying away in case Kento sends him to detention for bypassing the charms and smuggling in contraband - Utahime’s greatest nightmare). You think you remember dancing with Kento again (or, at least, attempting to), knocking over someone’s glass, and passionately debating with one of the ice sculptures about the ethical responsibilities of enchanted objects.

But one thing is constant the entire night - him.

His presence is like an anchor in a storm, always there, steady and grounding, no matter how much the world around you spins. His voice is a calm reassurance cutting through the chaos, the fogginess of inebriation. His touch is a gentle reminder that you’re not alone in this hazy whirlwind - that he won’t let anything happen to you. Even as your memory becomes patchy and everything fades to nothingness, overtaken by the influence of the Firewhiskey, his warmth never leaves your side.)

It feels like you’ve been hit by a herd of Hippogriffs.

Your head is pounding, as if someone’s inside your head banging on a gong, and you groan, shifting between the sheets of your bed. You open your eyes reluctantly, trying to gain your bearings.

The events of last night come to you in flashes - bits of conversations lost to the recesses of your mind, laughter, dancing, and a dizzying, overwhelming feeling of warmth. But it’s all scattered like a puzzle waiting for you to put the pieces together.

(You’re not too ecstatic about that.)

Then there’s Kento, like a beacon in the fog of your memory. You remember the way he’d looked at you with those sharp eyes of his, assessing your insobriety, softening as he noticed your unstable gait, how he’d caught you, a sturdy arm around you to keep you upright before you could fall. The touch of his hands against your cheek, concern and worry laced into the press of his fingers against your skin, the sound of his voice, steady as ever and overflowing with anxiety, pulling you back to the moment, keeping you grounded.

You press a hand to your forehead. You’re slightly embarrassed. Did one glass of Satoru’s Firewhiskey-pumpkin juice concoction really flip your world upside down, or are you just very intolerant when it comes to alcohol?

Ugh. You’re officially a lightweight.

As sweet as the memories you can vaguely remember seem, you don’t even want to know how much of your dignity you lost last night, especially in front of Kento? The last thing you’d wanted was for him to have to babysit you, which is, if your faulty memory can be trusted at all, precisely what he did for the rest of the night. You’re not surprised if it was him who got you back to the Hufflepuff common room before handing you off to one of your housemates, ensuring you got to your dorm safely.

You run a hand down your face, groaning into your pillow.

Great, just great. This is exactly what you needed.

You silently curse Satoru and his entire bloodline. You’ll deal with him later. Right now, however, you think Kento deserves an apology for having to take care of you instead of being able to enjoy his night, and you’re not too thrilled about trudging out of the common room to go and face him.

You roll onto your back, still buried beneath the sheets, the heat holding you hostage, keeping you locked in place.

The first rays of morning sunlight filter in through the partly drawn curtains, casting a golden glow over the room. It’s quiet, too quiet, and you wonder just what time it is. It’s the type of silence that makes everything feel still and unreal, as if the world is holding its breath.

The constant ticking of the clock on the far side of the room is the only sound piercing the blanket of silence that’s settled over everything. You squint, trying to make out what time it is - seven in the morning.

A quick once-over of your dorm tells you that your roommates are both still asleep, probably exhausted from the events of last night.

You begrudgingly sit up, forcing yourself to leave the comfort of your bedsheets, and gather yourself.

If you’re going to have to talk to Kento, the least you could do is look presentable while doing it, instead of looking like you’ve gotten run over by the Hippogriffs and then the Hogwarts Express.

You rub your bleary eyes as you make your way to the bathrooms, already trying to come up with something to say to him. Your opening line.

So far, all you have is, Hi.

(You’re done for.)

Nanami Kento always wakes up at six in the morning, no matter how much has happened the night before. You’re pretty sure that even if he was absolutely hammered he’d still wake up early, like clockwork, because it’s practically muscle memory to him now. 

You can’t relate.

That’s why, even after waking up at seven, you only end up dragging yourself to the Great Hall two hours later, your stomach grumbling, begging for sustenance.

All the decorations from last night’s Yule Ball have been stripped away, leaving behind the familiar towering windows and the enchanted ceiling reflecting the cold, cloud-covered morning outside. The Hall, though usually bustling with chatter and the clatter of breakfast plates, feels oddly subdued today, with barely anyone else in there besides yourself and a few Slytherins and Ravenclaws congregated at the same table, probably because everyone’s still recovering from the events of the previous night.

You trudge towards the Hufflepuff table, stifling a yawn as you rub at your eyes. The scent of toast, eggs and warm porridge drifts into your nose, and you immediately feel your sense sharpen - food will always work wonders on you. (You’re ignoring how hypocritical your stomach is behaving - it has the audacity to twist at the thought of eating anything substantial right now when it’s literally telling you it needs food. Tch.)

You settle for tea. Tea sounds manageable.

As you drop on the bench, resting your head on your folded arms, your cup of tea steaming next to you, you run through what you’ll tell Kento when you finally get up and seek him out.

It’s so embarrassing. You have a penchant for getting into worst case scenarios whenever you’re around him. It’s like the two of you together are some kind of magnet for your misfortune.

A shadow falls over you.

“You look happy to be awake today.”

Your blood runs cold. You don’t need to look up to know who it is. The smooth, familiar cadence of his voice is unmistakable.

You groan inwardly, your day ruined. Kento always has a way of knowing exactly what you’re thinking, which is probably why he found you first. Now your whole equilibrium is off. You had planned to seek him out, but instead, here he is, casually upending your routine.

None of this stops your heart from skipping a beat, the memory of his warmth from last night echoing in your mind, so much that if you close your eyes you can almost imagine you’re there once more, drunk out of your mind (on one glass, no less), and in his careful, steady arms.

“And you look disgustingly put together,” you mumble, peeking up at him through bleary eyes. Sure enough, Kento looks pristine as ever, despite being dressed casually, in nothing but a soft shirt and jeans, his hair let down for once, slightly tousled, as if he didn’t bother to fully brush it. (At first, you’re confused to see him out of uniform, despite you not even being in one, until you realize it’s the weekend.) There’s not a single trace of exhaustion on his face. It’s almost as if he didn’t stay up late last night dragging your very intoxicated self back to your dorm.

He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. You stare at the way the strands flop back against his forehead, slightly damp, as if he’d just come out of the shower and half-heartedly dried it.

He slides onto the bench to sit next to you. “Drink this,” he says, placing a cup in front of you. The steam rising from it carries the faint scent of ginger and honey.

You raise an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“Something to help with the hangover you’re clearly suffering from.”

You huff, burying your head back into your arms before pointing at your cup of tea, now lukewarm from sitting idly for so long. “I already have my poison here.”

You hear the sound of your cup being moved away, replaced by the one he brought. He puts his hand on your shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

Reluctantly, you lift your head. He’s not going to let you off the hook, is he? You purse your lips doubtfully, then take a cautious sip. (What is it with you and guys giving you drinks that make your throat burn?)

Despite the harsh bite of the ginger, the honey follows close, smoothing everything over, as if gently undoing the ginger’s damage like an exasperated mother. It soothes the dull ache behind your eyes. You hate to admit it, but it’s actually good.

“You’re so responsible that it makes me sick,” you grumble, before taking another sip.

Kento hums in agreement, sipping on the tea he’d taken away from you.

For a moment, the two of you sit there in silence (whether it’s comfortable is up for debate considering you’re still wrestling with the mortification of last night’s debauchery, wondering if you should apologize to him for being a total disaster at the Ball), watching the other students yawn and stretch and filter out, most likely going back to bed or their common rooms to lounge around.

The more you drink the ginger and honey concoction, the more you find last night’s events trickling into your mind, as if someone has opened a tap, but hasn’t turned it all the way open. Drip, drip, drip. The dancing, the warmth of Kento’s hand on your waist, the way he held you steady when your legs threatened to give out - it’s all coming together.

You cringe, refusing to think about how many other things, no doubt appalling, happened after that. Still, you should just get it over with and apologize to him. The Yule Ball was probably the one night he should’ve been allowed to relax, and you’d gone and fallen into a state of befuddlement, leading to him having to tend to you the rest of the night.

It wasn’t fair to him, and the guilt eats at you.

You open your mouth to say something, but he beats you to the punch.

“So,” he says slowly, shooting you a curious glance, “how do you feel?”

“Like I drank a glass of Firewhiskey and pumpkin juice and handled it like a real champ.”

He laughs. A real, deep, wholehearted sound that resonates through his chest, rich and unguarded, like the warmth of sunlight breaking through the thick layer of clouds on a cold morning.

You’re momentarily distracted from your thoughts by the sound of his laughter. It’s not something you’ve never heard before, but there’s something comforting in hearing it now. You watch the way his shoulders shake just slightly, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, little crow’s feet, and you almost forget you’re supposed to be feeling miserable. Almost.

Still, the sight of him looking so uncharacteristically carefree (though you’d argue that it suits him) soothes some of the residual embarrassment clawing at your insides. 

If he’s laughing, that’s got to mean that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t a complete disaster last night. That or, he just finds your choice of words particularly hilarious.

Even so, this is Kento. Ever-patient, ever-composed, ever-kind Kento. The same Kento who had, undoubtedly, spent the entire night making sure you didn’t accidentally fall face-first into a bowl of treacle tart when he should’ve been acting as carefree as possible.

You groan, dropping your head onto the table with a dull thud. “I’m so sorry,” you mumble into the wood. “You should’ve just let me pass out in the fountain or something. You know, the way someone with an ounce of dignity would.”

Kento smiles and shakes his head. “Right, because nothing screams dignity like being fished out of a freezing fountain in the middle of December.”

“Technically it’s almost the end of December,” you mutter.

“My point still stands.”

You groan again, turning your head to the side so you can glare at him without lifting it from the table. “It would’ve been poetic.”

“It would’ve been hypothermia, and then I’d have to carry you to the Hospital Wing again.”

The memory of that day crashes into you like a tidal wave. (All your efforts at compartmentalizing it into a box and hoping your brain naturally incinerates it are worthless.) You’re transported back to that day, weeks ago, when you, in a moment of pure, unfiltered insanity, had mustered the courage to ask Fushiguro Toji to the Yule Ball. When he’d looked disgusted and called you a Mudblood. When you’d almost got into a brawl with him. 

Then there was Kento, trying to restore order, and you, purposely shutting down your body to save yourself from the sheer, unadulterated embarrassment of him seeing you wild and untamed, ready to beat someone up.

This, of course, had been counterproductive, because when Haibara had told you that he and Kento had been the ones to carry your unconscious body to the Hospital Wing you wished you had just stayed conscious at the Great Hall and faced his look of disappointment instead of looking like some sort of damsel in distress. (God knows what you looked like passed out. You hope your mouth wasn’t open and your tongue hanging out.)

You can almost feel your soul leaving your body. You swear you can see it jumping ship, escaping somewhere, anywhere, other than here.

Kento watches your dawning horror with mild amusement, his lips twitching as if he’s barely restraining a smirk. “Wait, are you just now figuring that out?”

You hit his shoulder. “No, I knew you took me to the Hospital Wing,” you huff, trying to turn your head to hide how hot your face has become. “I just, I don’t know. I didn’t expect you to. You didn’t have to.” You bury your head in your hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

Kento tilts his head slightly, regarding you with those hazel eyes of his. “It’s not embarrassing. Besides, what was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” you mumble into your hands. “Leave me there? Drag me behind a tapestry and forget about me, maybe?” You peek through your fingers. “There were so many options.”

He sighs, a long-suffering but undeniably fond sound, as he looks at you. “Of course, because leaving you behind a tapestry would’ve been the rational, humane thing to do.”

“Exactly,” you say, nodding solemnly. (Now we’re getting somewhere.)

His lips twitch. “Okay, and what if someone found you before you woke up?”

You lift your head slightly from your hands, blinking at him. The answer is common sense. “Then that’s their problem.”

Kento pinches the bridge of his nose. “You are unbelievable.”

(He’s not wrong. In fact, you can be insufferable, too. But maybe, maybe he doesn’t need to figure that out just yet. Or, and you hate to admit it, he already knows.)

You grin. “You knew what you were signing up for,” you point out. “You’ve been dealing with me for weeks now.”

And that is what does it - because when you say it, you mean it lightheartedly, an offhand remark at best. But Kento suddenly looks at you, his eyes soft, like you’ve struck something raw inside him, like you’ve wedged something unspoken between the two of you, teetering on the edge of acknowledgement, and you can’t help but feel a strange, raw vulnerability in that moment.

(Oh, brother.)

You shift awkwardly under his gaze, your face still unbearably warm. “What?”

He exhales slowly, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

You squint at him suspiciously, now curious to know what’s going on in that pretty head of his, but he doesn’t budge under your scrutiny. Instead, he rests his elbows against the table and continues to drink his tea, seemingly lost in thought.

You grumble, dropping your head back onto the table. “This is going to sound stupid-”

“It won’t be.” He sounds so sure, so confident.

“You didn’t even wait to hear what I was going to say,” you sulk, sitting upright now. Your head no longer feels like it's been submerged underwater, moving in slow motion while something behind your eyes tries to split your head in half. His drink worked.

He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing you say is stupid. Not even,” and he leans in close, your shoulders brushing, “when you were rambling about spoked pumping juice-”

You lurch forward, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt in desperation as the memory of you clinging onto him with no shame while you struggled to enunciate something as simple as ‘spiked pumpkin juice’. “Stop.”

He doesn’t.

“-which, I must say, was an enlightening moment for me. I didn’t know you were capable of such creative linguistic innovations.”

You clutch your head in your hands, letting out a soft, pained whimper. Everything you remember about last night is the equivalent of you digging your own grave. “I need to be Obliviated. Can you do that? Just selectively remove everything after I got drunk, please.”

As expected, Kento doesn’t dignify your plea with a response. He watches you with that same careful, unreadable expression he wears when he’s thinking too hard about something. Like a few minutes ago. It unsettles you. Not because it’s unusual, but because you can tell he’s wrestling with something important.

And it has something to do with you.

You don’t want to press him, so you lean your forehead against his arm.

The air between you two thickens with something unspoken, something that fills the space in ways words can’t reach. You’re not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. The Great Hall is now empty and eerily silent except for the two of you. It’s almost as if the rest of the world has faded away, leaving the two of you locked in this quiet bubble of uncertainty and revelation.

“Ugh, I hate myself,” you murmur quietly to yourself. All the times you’ve been humiliated (mostly your own doing) in front of him float to the surface of the ocean in your mind. You’d be okay if he wasn’t there - you’re always getting into some sort of peculiar situation by default anyways. The fact that your crush is there to witness it all is just the final nail in the coffin.

His hand comes over yours, and you hear him, feel him pause before he says, so softly that you’re not sure he even says it, “That’s unfortunate, considering how much I like you.”

Your breath hitches, and you raise your head, because you’re struggling to comprehend that he, Nanami Kento, Head Boy, just told you he likes you.

That familiar warmth blooms inside of you, spreading around like cherry blossoms in the wind. Your heart swells, because isn’t this what you’ve waited for him to tell you for so long? Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?

You haven’t realized until now just how much the weight of your self-doubt has been consuming. Every misstep, every embarrassing moment, feels amplified when Kento’s around. And yet here he is, not judging you, not pointing out your flaws as you’re so used to doing to yourself. Instead, the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s touching you, his hand on yours - he’s acknowledging something you never thought anyone would care to see: the genuine, imperfect, human side of you.

His words sink in slowly, like a soft wave that licks at the edges of your consciousness. How much I like you.

You should feel overwhelmed. You really should. Maybe even giddy. But the truth is, there’s a strange sense of calm in hearing him say those words. You hadn’t realized just how much you needed to hear them, from him, from Kento, how much it means to you that the person who you’ve always admired from afar, adored from a distance, always untouchable to you, but always someone you wanted to get close to, is finally revealing something you thought you might never know about him.

I like you.

You’re still processing his words, still floating in the warmth of his admission, but the way your chest flutters tells you everything you need to know, beating your brain to the punch. This isn’t just some casual expression of affection. No, because that’s not Kento’s style. He never says things he doesn’t mean. Anything he does, anything he says - it’s always deliberate, calculated. This is him, telling you something deeper, something he’s been carrying for, you realize with a start, who knows how long. 

You should say something.

Reply to him.

But no, your body betrays you, and all you can manage is a shaky breath, your thoughts a malevolent swirl of emotions that threaten to spill over if you so much as attempt to articulate them.

As the silence begins to stretch between you both, Kento moves again. His hand, still warm and steady, shifts to cover yours fully, enveloping it in a soft but reassuring grip. You can feel the steadiness of his touch, and it grounds you, pulling you from the storm when the floor feels like it’s about to give out beneath you.

The intensity of his gaze never wavers as he leans in close, his voice barely above a whisper, yet somehow it cuts through the tension that’s built between you.

“You’re so worried about how you look to others,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. Solid. There’s an almost tender frustration in his tone, like he’s been watching you struggle with this for far longer than you realize. (You realize that his people-reading skills are truly excellent, because now you’re wondering how many times he’s seen something happen to you and watched you shrink into your shell, especially around him.) “But I don’t care.”

His words knock the air right out of your lungs. You open your mouth to respond, but you’re not sure what to say. You want to argue that of course he must care, because everyone cares, and they remember, but the words get caught in your throat as his thumb brushes against your skin, drawing a soothing line over your pulse. It’s a simple touch, nothing more, nothing less, but it speaks volumes, calming the anxious thoughts racing through your mind.

You’re still reeling from the shock of his confession, still tangled in the weight of his quiet (yet incredibly loud) assurance, when he continues, his voice warm and patient, as if he’s making sure you know just what he means.

“Look,” he says, his breath mingling with yours as he leans in ever closer, his presence coveting you. You meet his eyes, holding his gaze as tightly as you can, like flowers gripped in one’s hand. “When are you going to realize that I don’t care about any of that?”

Your heart feels like it’s going to explode.

His question hangs in the air, and for a moment, everything goes still. The words seep into your heart, filling the cracks and crevices you hadn’t realized were there.

And then, finally, the weight of everything you’ve been holding in - everything you’ve been trying to hide - starts to lift.

But even so, you can’t seem to get the words out. You want to explain to him, to make him understand why you’re always so self-conscious with him, why you can’t seem to let go of your insecurities, even if it seems like they’re nothing much. The fear of embarrassing yourself, of being seen for who you truly are, has always been a shadow at the back of your mind. Especially when it comes to him. But here, in the soft light of the morning, Kento is offering you something you never thought you’d receive from him - acceptance.

You sigh. “I make a fool out of myself whenever you’re-” you begin to protest, your voice barely louder than a murmur.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, cutting you off. “Yeah, and that’s what makes you human,” he says with an affectionate grin, his eyes sparkling in that way they always do when he’s trying to make you smile, and he takes your chin in his hand and lifts it upwards, ever so slightly. Your pulse speeds up. “Besides,” he adds, his grip on your hand tightening slightly, “it wouldn’t be you if you weren’t doing something incredibly odd.”

And just like that, the tension begins to dissipate, like a storm passing over after a long, drawn-out battle. Kento’s words, simple as they are, wrap around you like a soft, fuzzy blanket. There’s no judgement in them, no pressure to be anything other than what you are. He’s not looking for perfection; he’s not asking for you to change. In fact, it’s like he just wants you to keep being you. (Humiliating and mortifying moments and all.)

That’s enough for him.

You blink. The weight of his words finally settling into your heart. The tidal waves that have been thrashing about inside of your mind for so long begin to tame, and for the first time in a while, you feel a sense of peace.

He likes you.

And maybe, just maybe, nothing else matters.

You look at him properly, and see not the Head Boy who has everything figured out, or the crush who is majestic and good at everything he does (although this still stands), but the person you’ve come to know - steady, patient, and unexpectedly tender in his own stoic way.

And it’s then that you really realize something. Kento doesn’t like you because of who you pretend to be, or because of the version of yourself that’s always trying to keep up appearances. He likes you because you’re you - the version of you that’s messy, and vulnerable, and imperfect (and always stuck in some impossibly troublesome situation). The version of you that makes mistakes and doesn’t hide behind a facade of control.

The version of you that, in the three weeks you’ve gotten closer to him, has let your walls down and allowed him to see everything. The version of you that he’s come to care about.

You exhale slowly, your chest lighter than it’s been in a whole while, possibly since the moment the Yule Ball had been announced.

When you meet his gaze again, you don’t feel the need to say anything grand or profound. You don’t need to explain yourself or apologize for anything.

Because, for the first time in a long time, you feel like you can be yourself, that you’re worthy of his attention, that you’re enough.

You smile - a small, timid thing, but one that’s full of more words than you could ever articulate yourself.

“Guess I really am a little oddball, huh?” you say softly.

He chuckles, his eyes softening as he meets your gaze. “A little. But that’s why I like you.”

You don’t say anything for a few seconds, allowing yourself to bask in his presence. You lean against his shoulder while he traces patterns along the back of your hand.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” you say, nudging him.

He hums, then looks at you, his lips pulled up into a smile. (Oh, he looks so handsome. He looks like a deity came down and sculpted him with their bare hands.)

“I was waiting for you to catch up.”

You laugh softly. Of course he’d say that. It’s so on brand for him. Little does he know how slow you can be when it comes to reading signals, which is why you’re glad he straight up said something.

(If you’re being honest, you were aware that Kento liked you, because there’s no way someone just kisses you on the cheek, or on your head if they’re a friend. You just never knew if he liked you as much as you liked him. But now? Now you’re not afraid to risk it and put yourself out there for him.)

It doesn’t stop your heart from racing - but it’s not from anxiety, but rather with a fierce longing, a desire you didn’t realize was so strong until now.

You lean back slightly, pulling away just enough to meet his gaze fully. Your breath catches in your throat when your eyes meet his, and for a moment, you swear time stops. You can feel something in the air, heavy and palpable - the tension, the anticipation, the realization that everything is about to change between the two of you. More than it already has.

“Kento,” you whisper. “I-”

He shifts before you finish, his face drawing closer to yours. His expression is soft, like he’s trying to memorize every little detail of your face, like he’s always wanted to know you in the most intimate way possible.

You hold your breath, your heart pounding in your chest like someone banging on a bass drum, the world narrowing down to the two of you.

He’s so close that you can feel his breath ghosting your skin. His hand, still clasped around yours, tightens slightly, but not enough to hurt. It’s like he’s giving you a second, some space to decide, to make this moment yours as much as it is his.

“I’ve liked you since Year One,” he admits softly, his gaze dropping to your lips before finding your eyes again. There’s a quiet sincerity in his words, a vulnerability you haven’t seen before. “I just-” He pauses, searching your eyes as if he could find the words he wants in them. “I didn’t know how to tell you, and you’ve always been a little ball of sunshine, shining brighter than ever, and I just convinced myself that I could sit back and be content admiring you from a distance.”

His hand cups your face. “But I can’t.”

Your heart flips at his confession. You’d never known, never suspected that all this time, while you were struggling with your own feelings for him, that he’d been silently carrying his own. And for you no less.

But now, it makes sense - the way he’s always been so patient with you, always there, always so understanding, accepting.

Your chest is suddenly too full to contain all of your emotions. The ache that’s been growing in your heart for so long, the longing, the hesitation - it all fades away in that one moment of realization.

You’re not the only one who’s been waiting for this.

You can’t resist any longer.

With a quick breath, you lean forward, your body moving on its own accord. Your lips brush against his, tentative at first, testing, probing, giving him a choice. But then, something shifts. It’s as if the world aligns, the planets all align, everything falling into place in the blink of an eye. His lips press into yours with a softness that’s almost dizzying, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever known.

His hand cups your face gently, holding you in place, keeping you with him. You feel the warmth of his touch spread through you, his thumb brushing over your cheek in the most tender way, as if he’s trying to commit the feel of you to memory, just as you’ve been doing the same with him.

It’s… everything. It’s like flowers blooming after a harsh winter, it’s like the waves of the ocean carrying a message in a bottle to its destination, like the way the snow falls silently and softly, creating a blanket of comfort.

When you finally pull away, both of you breathless, you look at him, your lips still tingling from the kiss, your heart racing in your chest. His expression is a mixture of awe and something deeper, something that makes your face heat up.

“You’re the only one who’s ever made me feel this way,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, as though the words are more vulnerable than he meant them to be. “I never thought… I’d be here, with you.”

You smile softly, tracing his jawline with your fingers, and you lean in again, this time with more confidence.

“Well, I guess you don’t need to be a Champion to win,” you whisper before kissing him again, this time deeper, more certain of what you both feel.

He hums in agreement against your lips, and it sends a tingle down your spine.

And as you kiss him, you realize that this is just the beginning. The start of something new, something real. And for once, you don’t have to worry about how you look, or if you’ll mess up, because this? This is right. This is exactly where you’re supposed to be. Right here, with him.

And for the first time, you don’t care about anything else.

A/N: thank you so much for reading this chapter! i'm so sad it's almost over, with one more chapter to go, but it's truly been a wild ride! i have to give @gojover credit for the entire 'spoked pumping juice' sequence, because of a typo she made while texting me. gave me a streak of inspiration. (art by elitamasan on X)

HIII I love ur smaus and the way you write the characters are just ,,,,,jdjdjdjjs anwyas,, could u mayhaps pls do a Bakugou x romantically oblivious reader?? I just think the dynamic would be hilarious LOLL !! ty and hope u have a great day/night!! :)) <33

wait, are you flirting? | k. bakugo

bakugo is very obviously into you. you think he's just a strangely intense friend.

Recommendation - Jujutsu Kaisen/Haikyuu/Boku no Hero Academia/One Punch Man/Attack on Titan/Tokyo Revengers

Navigation

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🔮 Jujutsu Kaisen

Singledad! Sukuna x Neighbour! Reader

Sukuna - affaire de cœur

Sukuna - How Sukuna Loves

Sukuna - Having Soft Spot on Concubine Reader (NSFW)

Sukuna - Sukuna & His Love Languages

Sukuna - What If He Lost Someone

Yuta - Cursed Spirit (NSFW)

Gojo - Won't You Say It Back?

Gojo - Wanna Be Yours

Geto - Wings

Geto - We're In Trouble Now

Geto - Sorcery Schemes

Megumi, Itadori, Sukuna, Geto - When They Accidentally Yell at You

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🏐 Haikyuu

Ushijima - Story Time

Kageyama - Communication (Omegaverse)

Alpha! Kuroo - Come See Me

Alpha! Kuroo - Please Don't Let Me Go

Oikawa, Iwaizumi - Let Me Help You (Omegaverse) / Oikawa, Matsukawa, Hanamaki

Bokuto, Ushijima - Back Me Up (Omegaverse)

Sugawara, Ushijima - Time Bomb

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💥 Boku No Hero Academia

Bakugou - One Word to Describe Bakugou

Yandere Barbarian! Bakugou - Iron

Alpha Dragon! Bakugo x Thief Omega! Reader

Pro Hero! Bakugou Katsuki x Female! Reader

Overhaul - When Kai Wakes Up in Another Universe

Overhaul - Wedding Day

Hawks - Courting Troubles

Alpha! Dabi x Omega! Reader

Alpha! Tamaki Amakiji x Omega! Reader

Dabi, Shigaraki - He Tells You to Run During His Fight and You Get Lost

Hawks, Overhaul, Dabi - How the Boys React to You Doing the Break Up and Get Back to Your Ex Thing

Omegaverse - Anything from this Author is Great

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👊 One Punch Man

Yandere! Garou - Turning the Tables

Yandere! Garou - Please Don't Save Me

Yandere! Garou - Child's Play (NSFW)

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🔰 Attack on Titan

Levi - The Perfect Blend

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🏍️ Tokyo Revengers

Chifuyu, Mikey, Mitsuya, Baji, Izana - Mythological AU! #2 Omegaverse