Royal Crush: GOM + Kagami
authors note: y/n = your name// not proof read// GIFs not mine // Have fun <3
pairing: Named Characters x gn!reader
summary: What happends, when our boys fall in love with the student concelor of their schools. Reader is basically school royalty, so things get a little tricky.
genre: fluff, cuteness and a little cheesy
If perfection wore a face, it would be yours. Top of the class. Graceful, even under the most insane amount of pressure. Student counselor, speaker of reason, the calm in every chaos. When you walked down the hallway, silence followed. Admiration buzzed like electricity—people didn't just respect you; they revered you. You were untouchable.
And then there was Tetsuya Kuroko. A shadow on the court. Soft-spoken. Often overlooked even when standing next to someone. He was the ghost of Seirin—essential to their wins but rarely in the spotlight. The basketball club was cool and also a highlight among the sport-loving students. However, other clubs, such as the chess club, with its many victories and commitment to the school, were much more in the limelight. For the academically rigorous students, the basketball club was a waste of time. Like all sports clubs. For this majority of the student population, members of the sports clubs were inferior.
So naturally, everyone thought, you would also be academically driven. Therefore, no one would put you two in the same sentence. No one except fate.
You first met in the library. It was quiet. Late. Most students had gone home. You were flipping through student performance reports for tomorrow’s meeting. A mug of cold tea sat beside you.
"Excuse me," came a soft voice. "You're in my spot."
You looked up—and blinked. You hadn't even noticed him approach.
"...Your spot?" you asked, amused.
Kuroko nodded,"I always sit here after practice. The light’s not too harsh, and the librarian doesn't mind if I bring Nigou around."
Sure enough, a small cute dog wagged its tail beside him. You smiled,"Fair enough. I can share."
That was how it started. Quiet meetings in the library turned into walks home, conversations about books and basketball, talks that meandered into dreams and fears. Kuroko didn’t look at you the way everyone else did. Not like a statue or a star, but like a person.
He listened. He noticed the details. He brought you yogurt drinks when you looked tired. You started looking forward to those almost invisible moments. And somewhere in between silence and glances, you started falling.
The rest of Seirin caught on… slowly. It started with Riko noticing Kuroko spacing out during practice. Then Hyuuga saw him smiling at his phone—Kuroko does not smile at phones.
Kagami nearly dropped his burger when he spotted you standing at the gym doors one afternoon, smiling like the sun as you waved at Kuroko.
“No way,” Kagami muttered,“That’s the student counselor L/n. The student counselor.”
“You mean Seirin’s Queen/King?,” Izuki chimed in,“That’s like—royalty dating a ghost!”
Even Aomine, upon hearing the rumor later, spat his drink, "Tetsu has a type? And it's perfect?"
When you finally confirmed it—hand in hand, quietly but clearly—nobody could believe it. But you didn’t care. Kuroko had once told you, in his quiet, thoughtful way, “I don’t need to stand out. I just want to be someone’s constant.”
And he was. Yours. To the world, you were perfect. But to Kuroko, you were just you—and that made all the difference.
If you asked anyone at Kaijou High what perfection looked like, they’d say your name without hesitation: Top grades. Impeccable manners. Beautiful, intelligent, poised—student counselor and the unshakable pillar of the school. Teachers relied on you. Students admired you. Underclassmen practically worshipped you. You weren’t just respected; you were revered. Some called you the “Royalty of Kaijou.”
Meanwhile, Ryouta Kise was… Ryouta Kise. Model. Flirt. Goofy, dramatic, and occasionally late to class. Stunning, yes. Talented on the court, no doubt. But Kise was the kind of guy people thought of as pretty—not serious.
He knew it. He played into it. And he was fine with that. Until he met you.
It started with detention. Kise had skipped a full morning of classes for a modeling shoot in Tokyo. Again. Coach had warned him. His homeroom teacher had warned him as well. This time, they handed him off to you.
You were sitting behind a neatly stacked desk in the student council room when he walked in. Dressed in his uniform, face obscured by sunglasses and an over-exaggerated pout.
"Ryouta Kise," you said calmly, barely looking up,"Take off the sunglasses. And sit."
Kise blinked. Something about your voice made him obey before he even registered it. He sat. The door closed. You went back to filling out paper stuff, that needed your signature. As you began writing, you spoke, "You’ve missed three classes. That’s six hours. You’ll make it up here with me, cataloguing event records and doing filing. Any questions?"
He leaned forward with a grin,"Can I at least have the pleasure of your name?"
You looked up slowly, your gaze unimpressed. "You already know it."
What Kise expected: Boredom. Silence. Maybe some awkward small talk. What actually happened: You working like a machine, delegating tasks to him with smooth authority, all while sipping lukewarm tea and correcting his grammar when he misread a label. But somewhere between filing class schedules and stapling reports, he noticed it. The way your eyes softened when you focused. The little sighs you made when people were careless with paperwork. The way you spoke—calm, sharp, intelligent. The faint crease in your brow when the copier jammed. The tired smile you gave when he jokingly offered to model as a stress reliever.
And, shockingly, the fact that you actually laughed at his dumb jokes—not a big laugh, but a real one. Kise realized something dangerous:
He liked you. Really liked you. And you were so out of his league.
He kept finding reasons to drop by the student council room. Sometimes with excuses: "Oh, I forgot my form!" "I got lost!" "I brought snacks!" (That one actually worked.)
You saw through it immediately. But you let him stay. And then... he stopped making excuses. He just came. Quietly, respectfully. Sometimes just sitting in the corner, watching you work. Sometimes chatting about your day. Other times staying silent, content with being in your presence. You started to enjoy it. Ryouta Kise, the loud, glittery model everyone thought was all show—was different here. Thoughtful. Surprisingly insightful. Gentle in ways that most people missed because of the sparkle.
You wondered if maybe… he wasn’t so out of place beside you.
Kise’s teammates noticed something was off. Kasamatsu saw it first,“You’ve been spacing out during drills.”
“You smiled at your phone for ten minutes,” Moriyama added,“Did your agency send you a cute manager?”
“No, I—” Kise hesitated,“I was talking to someone…”
Kasamatsu narrowed his eyes,“A girl?”
Moriyama gasped,“A gorgeous, unreachable, perfect someone?”
“Don’t say it like that!!” Kise wailed,“They’re not unreachable!!”
And then… the bomb dropped.
"You have a crush on the student counselor?!"
Moriyama nearly fell off the bench. Kasamatsu looked like he’d aged five years.
“THE student counselor?”
“The one teachers bow to?”
“The one that makes our class president look like a background character?”
Kise turned red, “They’re not like that, okay? They’re nice. Smart. Funny. A little intimidating, but—” he sighed dreamily, “—they’re amazing.”
“…You’re dead,” Kasamatsu muttered. “But good luck, I guess.”
Word got out. Whispers in the hallway. Classmates staring. Even the basketball team couldn't stop teasing him: “Our Kise-chin’s fallen for a queen,” Midorima said dryly when he found out,“How dramatic.”
Kise didn’t care. One day, after practice, he marched to the student council room, hair messy, still in his jersey, and stood in front of you.
“I like you,” he said, chest heaving from nerves,“I know I’m not... you know, perfect, or composed, or anything like you. But I like you. A lot.”
You looked at him—really looked—and smiled.
“Good,” you said, closing your file. “Because I was starting to like you too.”
To this day, Kise’s friends still shake their heads in disbelief.
“You really landed them?”
“What did you say?”
“Did you bribe someone?!”
But the truth is simpler. He didn’t fall in love with your perfection.
And you didn’t fall in love with his beauty. You saw each other—not the roles, not the rumors, not the reputation. And in each other’s eyes, you weren’t “out of league.”
You were just right.
There were two kinds of royalty at Touou High. One kind wore it loud. Aomine Daiki—the ace of the basketball team, raw talent in human form. The sports loving students in total awe of his talent, he walked through school like the rules bent around him. He skipped class, slept on the rooftop, lived for streetball and convenience store snacks. Everyone knew him, feared him, talked about him. The arrogant prodigy who didn’t need to try.
The other kind wore it like silk: You. Student counselor. Precise, composed, brilliant. Every tie in place, every word well-chosen, every answer already prepared. You walked the halls and people parted like water. You were everything a school wanted in its model student—and so much more. The two of you were as different as night and day. And that should have been the end of it. But fate has a funny sense of humor.
It happened in the most unremarkable way. Aomine had been called to the office—again. This time, not for fighting. He hadn’t shown up to three consecutive classes. Even Momoi couldn’t cover for him anymore. When he trudged into the discipline room, half-asleep and barefoot in his slides, he expected a teacher. He got you. Seated perfectly, pen in hand, clipboard resting against one elegant leg. No smile. No scowl. Just calm, unreadable professionalism.
Aomine froze. Not because he recognized you, but because you didn’t flinch when you looked up and saw him. No tension. No hesitation. Just, “You’re late.”
He blinked,“Didn’t know the student counselor runs detention now.”
“I volunteered,” you said simply,“You’re not the only one who hates wasting time.”
That was it. Cold. Surgical. And yet, Aomine remembered it for the rest of the week. It kept happening. He’d get in trouble. You’d be the one assigned to handle it. At first, he thought it was coincidence. Then, maybe a sick joke by the principal. But eventually, Aomine began to notice something else. You weren’t trying to change him. You didn’t scold him. Didn’t give long, exhausting lectures about wasted potential. You just gave him tasks, short and focused. Stack these papers. Sort these files. Read this over and give feedback. No nonsense. No babytalk. You treated him like… an equal. Which was new.
And slowly—without permission—Aomine started looking forward to those detentions. He began showing up to school on time if he thought you might be on morning duty. He stopped skipping just enough to avoid a suspension. He sat through homeroom, headphones half-in, but present. Not because of grades. Not because of pressure. Because of you.
He didn’t even realize he liked you until he caught himself trying. Trying to remember what day meetings happened. Trying to hide his snacks when you passed by. Trying not to sleep through the class you helped tutor. It wasn’t like with the girls who chased him. You weren’t impressed by his looks or his record. You didn’t melt when he walked into the gym shirtless. You didn’t laugh at his stupid jokes unless they were actually funny. You weren’t swayed by charm—because you had substance.
And in that, you humbled him. He wasn’t used to being humbled. It pissed him off. Made him restless. And yet, when you handed him a cleaned-up schedule one day and said, “You’ve been doing better. Keep it up,” his chest swelled like he’d just won a championship.
He didn’t know how to say it, but he admired you. Fiercely. And that terrified him. Aomine knew he wasn’t easy. He didn’t study unless forced. He rarely showed emotion unless it was frustration. He hated formality, hated expectations. Most days, he barely held himself together. And you? You were everything he wasn’t. Organized. Graceful. Reliable. Always focused. People respected you without fear. When you smiled, it was gentle, not smug. You carried yourself like you belonged to something bigger—while Aomine always felt like a walking fire hazard.
He wondered why you never judged him. He wondered, deep down, why someone like you even looked his way. The rest of the basketball team found out by accident. One day, Aomine lingered after practice. Usually, he was the first to bolt. But that day, he was slow, checking his phone like he was waiting for something. Or someone. Momoi teased him,“Daiki~ You’ve been checking your phone every ten minutes. Who is it?”
“No one,” he said nonchalantly.
“Liar," Momoi snatched it. The name on the screen made her blink, “Wait... the student counselor L/n?”
The locker room erupted,“Are you serious?!”
“Touou’s biggest slacker has a crush on the golden child?”
“Bro, you’re aiming out of orbit.”
Aomine groaned and shoved his face into his towel,“Shut up.”
But they kept going. Not cruelly—just in disbelief. Because for the first time ever, the unbeatable, untouchable Daiki Aomine looked... soft. It was jarring. It was real. And it made sense. Sort of.
Eventually, you noticed. Aomine wasn’t subtle. Not when he cared. He started showing up early to meetings, sitting with his legs sprawled across two chairs. He’d bring you vending machine drinks—awkwardly placed on your desk, no explanation. Sometimes, he’d just loiter nearby, watching you work, asking lazy questions with sharp eyes. At first, you let it happen. Then you started waiting for it. And then... you missed it when he wasn’t there. It wasn’t dramatic. Not a confession in the rain or a bold hallway kiss. Just one day, in the quiet of a mostly-empty room, you looked up from your desk and said, “You’re staying again?”
He shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Got nowhere better to be.”
You smiled—genuine, warm,“I’m glad.”
And Aomine realized: he wasn’t out of your league. He was just... still getting there. People still stared when you walked into a school event together. Perfect posture beside casual swagger. Royalty beside rebellion. But no one laughed. Because they saw how he looked at you—like you were gravity itself. And they saw how you looked back—like he was worth anchoring. In the end, Aomine Daiki didn’t need to be perfect. He just needed someone who saw the chaos in him... and didn’t flinch. And somehow, impossibly—you did.
Midorima Shintarou had always been the top. Top of his class. Top of his game. He planned his life like clockwork, followed routines with surgical precision, and upheld order in everything he did. Rules mattered. Discipline mattered. Effort, above all, mattered.
So when you arrived at Shutoku as a transfer in your second year and immediately earned top marks, the student council’s lead position, and unanimous praise from every adult in a three-mile radius, you became an anomaly he couldn’t ignore. You weren’t just another smart student. You were perfect. Effortless in how you carried yourself. Impeccable in every presentation. Flawless in uniform, tone, posture. Students admired you. Teachers trusted you. And the worst part? - You never tried to rub it in. Because you didn’t need to. You were excellence made real—and Midorima hated how much that fascinated him.
It began in silence. There was no declaration of war. Just two top students constantly outscoring each other in alternating subjects, submitting committee reports before deadlines, and handling school duties with unshakable professionalism. You passed each other in corridors like two generals acknowledging a worthy foe—never rude, never friendly. Just... aware. When you took the school-wide mathematics award he’d held for two years, Midorima stayed up an extra hour every night for the next semester. When he scored perfectly in English literature, your essays became subtly more layered, more incisive. You didn’t speak much. You didn’t need to. Competition spoke for you. But it was never hostile. Not really.
It was... charged. It happened slowly. After a particularly long council meeting, you passed by Midorima sitting alone in the library, cross-referencing a schedule with three textbooks and a blistered hand from practice. You didn’t speak, but you left a small bottle of antiseptic beside him without breaking stride. The next week, he returned one of your forgotten folders to the student council office—its papers perfectly aligned, clipped and labeled in his neat handwriting.
The back-and-forth grew. Thoughtful gestures that neither of you ever acknowledged. Not gifts. Not favors. Just—proof. Of understanding. Of respect. He began to notice things. The way you sighed, barely audible, when overwhelmed. The pause in your stride when something didn’t go to plan. The crease between your brows when someone disappointed you—not in anger, but disappointment. Midorima found himself... wanting to ease that crease. And that disturbed him.
He was logical. Detached. Focused on the future. Romance was frivolous. And yet you were always in his thoughts. He called it “strategic curiosity.” He told himself it would pass. It didn’t.
Midorima never admitted anything easily—not to others, and especially not to himself. But feelings don’t care for logic. They chip away slowly, like water over stone. He began arriving early to morning meetings—not because he needed to, but because you were always there first, sipping tea and scribbling notes.
He lingered after school events, just long enough to walk past you heading out, the sky casting light on your face in ways he’d later remember and loathe himself for noticing. He started reading books you'd praised during speeches. Secretly. Quietly. You were the only person who made his certainty tremble. You, who didn’t gloat. Who never looked down on him. Who stood equal—sometimes taller—and yet never made him feel small.
And that admiration... slowly shifted into affection. He didn’t know how to handle it. So, he buried it. Like any good Midorima would.
The Shutoku basketball team was sharp—but not subtle. Takamoto noticed Midorima organizing his desk with unusual frequency. Kimura caught him staring out the window during lunch—his expression not annoyed, but... thoughtful. Midorima began checking his horoscope twice a day. Then, one practice, he nearly tripped over his lucky item for the week—a glass swan—because he was too distracted watching someone walk past the court. Someone wearing the student council armband.
“Midorima,” Takao teased, grinning, “are you in love with the school idol?”
Midorima didn’t answer. His teammates howled: “He totally is!”
“The guy who thinks emotions are inefficient is crushing on the embodiment of perfection!”
“Sheesh, does your planner even allow for feelings?”
Midorima flushed to the roots of his hair, pushed up his glasses, and snapped something about "irrelevant distractions." But the truth was already out. And none of them let it go. But they didn’t mock him cruelly. Because for once, Midorima looked human. And weirdly... it suited him.
Eventually, you noticed as well. Midorima wasn’t someone easy to read—but he was predictable. So when his schedule began to overlap with yours a little too neatly, when he began offering help without being asked, when his replies to your suggestions stopped being clinical and started being curious...
You understood. But you didn’t tease him. You didn’t confront him. You gave him space. And that space became something tender. A quiet companionship. Two perfectionists who had, in each other, found the only person who understood what it meant—the weight of expectation, the burden of excellence. Midorima admired your grace. You respected his integrity. You didn’t fall in love like most people do. There were no confessions under cherry blossoms. No dramatic music or blushing stutters. Just two people, once rivals, now always aware of each other’s presence—choosing, quietly, deliberately, to walk side by side.
Some said you were too perfect to be real. Some said Midorima was too cold to feel. But the ones who saw you together—when you thought no one was watching—learned otherwise. In the smallest glance, the way he adjusted your coat when you weren’t looking, the way you packed his forgotten lunch when he overstudied, the way silence between you never felt empty...
There was feeling. Not loud, but honest. Because love, for someone like Midorima, wasn’t something to chase. It was something to earn. Something precise. And somehow, impossibly—you were his perfect match.
Rakuzan’s halls had always echoed with the quiet awe reserved for the chosen few. And among them, two names ruled—like chess pieces that never moved without calculation.
Akashi Seijuro: A king, and the kingdom’s calm.
Y/n, Student Counselor: A strategist, and the school’s beloved ideal.
They never shared a class. Rarely shared a room. But they shared something else: gravity. The kind that makes heads turn before either of them speaks. People whispered it before it was ever real:
“School royalty.”
“He’s the Emperor; they’re the Crown.”
“If they ever stood side by side, the world might just freeze in awe.”
It was a joke, at first. A fantasy spun by students too young to understand the weight of pressure. But Akashi… listened. And watching you from afar became part of his routine.
He first truly noticed you at a formal disciplinary hearing. Not that he hadn’t known of you—your reputation arrived weeks before you ever did. But that day, with the student council gathered to decide the outcome of a cheating scandal, Akashi sat across the room, silent. Observing. You didn’t speak until everything had devolved into flustered voices and indecision. Then you stood. Not loud. Not emotional. Simply composed. Your voice was calm, but commanding.
Not challenging authority, but clarifying it. And for the first time in a long while, Akashi leaned forward. Not because you were beautiful.
Not because you were admired. But because you understood control.
Not as domination—but as balance. The moment you spoke, the room fell still. The decision you proposed was fair, but firm. Empathetic, yet efficient. You didn’t overpower the room.
You led it. And Akashi felt something rare flicker deep within:Respect.
In the days that followed, he began to study you like an opponent. Where others admired your perfection, Akashi looked for its cracks.
Surely you had limits. Faults. Weaknesses you buried beneath your poised mask. But you never stumbled. Never slacked. Never fell short. Worse—your perfection wasn’t cold. You were kind, approachable, sincere without ever compromising strength.
And Akashi found himself—shamefully—drawn. He wasn’t used to wanting. Not like this. He’d always had power, fear, admiration.
But never… equal footing. Until now. And for someone like Akashi Seijuro, that was terrifying.
It began with shared obligations. You were assigned to oversee a regional academic event. He, representing the basketball club, was automatically involved due to the school's PR stance. Working together was inevitable. The room was full of people, yet it always seemed to come down to you and him. Two leaders, organizing without friction. Two minds moving like parallel rivers—never crashing, always flowing. He would glance at your notes, surprised to find his thoughts already written down. You would hand him the right forms before he asked.
Efficiency met elegance. Precision met grace. And somewhere in the middle, admiration grew. Akashi never smiled in public. But when you nodded at a job well done, a quiet flicker pulled at the edge of his lips. It wasn’t love—not yet. But it was no longer a game.
The student body noticed. How Akashi, always untouchable, started attending council events without being summoned. How he stood beside you during assemblies, arms folded, not out of command—but quiet support. How you—who never needed assistance—allowed him to carry your clipboard or straighten your stack of files when your hands were full. No hand-holding. No public fluster. Just two pieces of royalty orbiting closer. Students whispered: “They’re perfect together.”, “He’s the moon, and they’re the stars.”, “They don’t even need to speak. Look at them.”
And for once, Akashi didn’t mind the noise. But perfection is a fragile thing. Akashi had spent his entire life suppressing weakness, masking emotion beneath layers of expectation. And now, in the stillness between your shared moments, he felt something dangerous. Want. Not possession. Not control. But a soft, aching want to be seen—not as a leader, not as a prodigy—but as just Seijuro. And it terrified him. Because if anyone could see through him—it was you. You didn’t fear him. You didn’t flatter him. You simply stood beside him. Unmoved. And that made your presence… heavier than any crown.
You never asked him to change. And he never asked you to bend. Instead, you grew closer like seasons do—quiet, inevitable, necessary. You began to walk home together when your meetings ran late. He would lend you rare books from his family library; you would leave handwritten notes in their margins.
He started bringing you tea from Kyoto when he traveled. You remembered the dates of every one of his matches, even when he didn’t tell you. No confession. No dramatics. Just slow, precise trust.
Until one day, without warning, he paused beside you at the council office, the last rays of light catching your silhouette against the glass, and thought—I would give up control... for this. That was when he knew.
The school never got the dramatic romance they fantasized about. There was no viral love letter. No secret kiss behind the gym.
Only small, exact moments that slipped past the radar of all but the most observant: Akashi watching you speak at a school ceremony, eyes softer than anyone thought possible.
You waiting at the court's edge after practice, holding his towel like it belonged there. Two rulers, not in competition—but in quiet, sacred partnership. Eventually, they stopped calling you “school royalty.”
Because the word royalty couldn’t capture the grace between you two anymore. You weren’t just leaders. You were each other’s equal. And in Akashi’s eyes, that made you—not his rival—but his only match.
Taiga Kagami wasn’t used to palaces. He didn’t understand quiet hallways that smelled of polished cedar and fresh ink. He didn’t understand students who walked like royalty, heads held high, words chosen like chess pieces. He didn’t understand what it meant to belong in a place like Seirin—not really. But he understood fire. He understood effort. And he understood what it meant to claw your way forward, even if everyone else thought you didn’t belong.
That was how he noticed you. Not because of how perfect you looked—though you were the kind of perfect that didn’t seem real. Everything about you was polished: your uniform crisp, your posture impossibly upright, your gaze steady and kind. You never stumbled over words. Never raised your voice. Never arrived late. The entire school looked at you like you were something untouchable. Maybe you were. You were the head of the student council, the one the teachers trusted with everything, the one who handled school chaos with a smile that never cracked.
Kagami didn’t get it. He wasn’t into “perfect.” He liked real. Honest. Loud. Or so he thought. Until the day you approached him. It was after practice. He’d stayed late, wiping down the court alone. Sweat clung to his shirt. His stomach growled loud enough to echo. He had a bandage on his arm from diving after a ball he missed—again.
He was thinking about skipping homework when you stepped into the gym. You didn’t speak at first. Just watched for a moment, arms folded, clipboard in hand. Kagami thought maybe he was in trouble—he usually was when someone that composed looked at him like that. But you only walked past him and started picking up forgotten water bottles, one by one. You didn’t talk down to him. You didn’t smile like he was a charity case. You just... helped. Without asking.
And that was the first crack in Kagami’s defenses. Not your perfect grades. Not the way people whispered about you in hallways. But the way you saw mess and didn’t flinch. The way you didn’t seem bothered that he wasn’t elegant. That he was sweaty and awkward and didn’t know how to say thank you without it sounding weird. He kept thinking about it. And the more he watched you—not stared, he told himself, just… noticed—the more he saw things no one else did.
You were always surrounded by people, but somehow still alone. People praised your perfection, but no one really asked how you were doing. You listened to everyone’s problems, but no one ever asked what you were carrying. Kagami didn’t know how to say things beautifully. He wasn’t subtle. But he cared deeply, fiercely, and when he started falling for you, it hit him like a freight train. He didn’t fall in love with your perfection. He fell in love with the way you stayed late to help a first-year struggling with paperwork. With the way your fingers trembled when you thought no one was looking, exhausted from being everyone's rock. With the quiet sighs you let out behind closed doors, thinking the burden was yours alone to carry.
The others noticed too—but not the things Kagami noticed. They noticed him. When he started lingering in the library even though he never studied there. When he stopped mid-practice just to glance toward the windows, wondering if you'd walk past. When he started asking dumb questions like, "Do student council people even eat lunch?"
Kuroko noticed first. Then Hyuuga. Then the whole team. They laughed. They teased. They told him he had no chance: "You? The guy who yells at vending machines?","They're literally perfect, Kagami. You're a disaster with legs.", "She probably dates future doctors, not guys who burn toast."
And maybe they weren’t wrong. Kagami wasn’t refined. He didn’t know which fork to use at a formal event. He forgot school announcements unless they were printed on food wrappers. And he swore way too much when he was stressed.
But he was honest. Passionate. Loyal.
He started bringing two lunch boxes to school, just in case you forgot to eat. He volunteered to help set up school events—not because he liked it, but because he figured you could use the backup. He started listening more. Not because he wanted points, but because he realized you rarely got the chance to just... be. He didn’t ask for anything. He just showed up. And you noticed.
You, who always handled everything alone, found your gaze drifting toward the back of the classroom where Kagami slouched over his desk, frowning at an open book. You noticed the effort in his help, the quiet way he waited after meetings, the small offerings he never made a show of—like the time he left your favorite sports drink on your desk during exam week with no name attached. And somewhere, between shared silences and mismatched energy, you started to see the boy beneath the flame. He wasn’t polished. But he was real. And kind. And fiercely, protectively good. When you smiled at him during morning announcements one day—really smiled—Kagami nearly choked on his drink.
It was subtle. Barely a twitch of your lips. But it meant something. Because no one smiled at him like that. And just like that, the school’s golden one—the one everyone thought was out of reach—was looking at Kagami like he belonged. Rumors bloomed. At first, no one believed them. But then they started watching. The way you always saved him a seat in the front row during assemblies.
The way he went silent whenever you walked into the gym.
The way you started laughing—laughing, not just smiling—around him.
Eventually, someone asked you directly. You didn’t deny it. And that was all it took. Suddenly, the school had a new ship: The Flame and The Crown.
“I can’t believe it,” someone whispered. “Taiga Kagami? With them?”
“I thought they’d date someone from a student council conference, not the basketball court!”
“Did you see the way he looked at them during the school festival? He was practically glowing.”
But it didn’t matter what they thought. You knew what you saw. A boy who wasn’t trying to impress anyone—but gave his all, anyway. A boy who never asked for attention—but paid attention to you in ways no one else did. A boy who wasn’t afraid of your crown—because he never wanted to take it. He just wanted to walk beside you. And maybe, just maybe, burn a little brighter doing it.
The gym always smelled faintly of rubber and polished wood, filled with the soft echoes of basketballs bouncing, sneakers squeaking, and the occasional sleepy grunt from Atsushi Murasakibara as he blocked yet another shot without lifting much effort.
He didn’t care much about school. Or grades. Or order. Or appearances. He cared about snacks. About towering over his opponents. About not being bothered. And for the most part, people respected that. Or feared him enough to stay out of his way. But even someone like Murasakibara couldn’t ignore you:
You were the student counselor—no, the student counselor, the one who made the title look like it belonged in gold. You didn’t walk—you glided. Everything about you was composed, clean, impossibly refined. Teachers adored you. Students respected you. There was something magnetic about how you could silence a hallway without raising your voice, how you solved a fight with a glance and a few calm words. And for the most part, Murasakibara found you irritating. Not directly—you’d never been anything but polite to him—but the kind of perfect that reminded him school was still school. Rigid. Pressured. Annoying. He noticed you, sure. Who wouldn’t? But he didn’t care.
At least, not until the day he saw you in the cafeteria, eating alone with an unopened bottle of milk and a half-wilted sandwich on your tray. You looked tired, just slightly. Like no one had noticed, or worse—like you expected no one would. He placed a bag of honey-drizzled senbei on your table without a word. Just dropped it beside your untouched lunch and walked away, chewing on pocky with his usual slouched gait. You looked up, startled, but he didn’t turn around.
The next day, it was a bag of wasabi chips. Then strawberry gummies. Then a rare imported box of chocolate-covered almonds that even the vending machines didn’t stock. It became a language. He never spoke much. Never needed to. But every snack meant something: “You looked annoyed. Here’s something crunchy.”,“You skipped lunch again. This one’s got nuts—protein.”,“You didn’t smile yesterday. This one’s sweet. Like weirdly, aggressively sweet.”
You started leaving notes in return—tiny, neatly folded papers tucked under the snack wrappers: “Thank you. I liked these.”, “I noticed you didn’t come to practice. Everything okay?”, “You’re not so scary when you’re feeding people.”
He never responded in writing. But sometimes the snack the next day would be bigger. Sometimes two. Once he left an entire box of mochi with a childish drawing of a sleepy bear on the lid, cheeks puffed out.
The others started to notice. “Is he feeding the counselor?,” Himuro raised an eyebrow one day during practice, watching as Murasakibara lazily tossed a bag of custard cream buns onto your desk in the student council room. “That’s his love language?,” Kuroko commented quietly, blinking at the growing pile of wrappers you never threw away.
“Does they even like him?,” Midorima asked with narrowed eyes, “They’re the definition of school royalty. And he’s… he’s Murasakibara.”
And maybe it was strange. A lazy giant with snack crumbs on his uniform falling for the student body’s golden one. But it was real. And deep down, he cared more than anyone thought. He didn’t tell you he liked you. He just sat closer every time you were around. Brought snacks tailored to your mood. Let you sit on the bench during practice without asking why. Nudged your arm gently when you looked too serious. Even let you take the last piece of candy once—and that meant more than words ever could.
Then came the game against Too Academy, the finals game of the youth basketballs series. A tournament, wich was played international. Since it was such a big deal for your school, you were there, clipboard in hand, always responsible, always calm. Representing the school and its high standards. So of course, the other school’s student council had come too.
The match was aggressive. The team from Too was bitter, rough, pushing the rules. And when the referee wasn’t looking, one of their players shoulder-checked you as you passed behind the benches. Not hard. But intentional. Enough to send your clipboard clattering to the floor. The student council rep from Too laughed. Said something low and mocking. Something about you “acting like royalty” and “getting in the way.”
Before you could blink, there was a shadow overhead. Atsushi was standing behind you, tall enough to blot out the lights, candy stick dangling loosely from his lips, his usual slouch replaced by something unnaturally still. He wasn’t yelling. Murasakibara didn’t need to yell. But the air around him had shifted—heavy, sharp. Predatory. He looked at the Too student with the same expression he wore right before blocking a shot that should’ve landed. Not angry.
Just… annoyed enough to crush you. The player backed off. The council rep too. Murasakibara bent down, picked up your clipboard, and handed it back to you with both hands. Then he returned to the court without saying anything, his steps slow and deliberate, like every part of him was just waiting for someone else to try. No one did. After the game, you sat beside him on the gym steps. He handed you your favorite snack again. But this time, he didn’t look away as you took it. You smiled, faintly. And for the first time, you reached into your bag and handed him something back—a neatly wrapped sandwich, handmade.
He blinked. Stared at it. Then at you. No note this time. Just the sandwich. And your hand brushing his for a second longer than it needed to. The language had changed.
But the message stayed the same.
“I see you.”
“You’re enough.”
“You’re not out of your league. You’re in mine.”
And that was all he needed. Because Atsushi Murasakibara didn’t care about crowns or rankings. But he would protect what he cared about—quietly, completely, and with the gentleness only someone like him could hide behind towers of snacks and sleepy eyes. And you—flawless, graceful, golden—you had become his favorite thing. Better than sugar. More important than silence.
