mourvii

[mourvii]

🎐⊹₊ ⋆~ · — vyen's library

last updated: [ 08/02 ]

✧˚ · . BLUE LOCK

— michael kaiser ⭑ you are loved, michael ⭑ crybaby

— itoshi sae ⭑ he only untangles his silence for you

✧˚ · . HAIKYUU

— miya osamu ⭑ 2:37 a.m.

— kita shinsuke ⭑ you can always come home to me ⭑ love me a little louder, please ⭑ when second place feels like last, but they remind you you're first

— iwaizumi hajime ⭑ play casual

— ushijima wakatoshi ⭑ museums and you ⭑ when second place feels like last, but they remind you you're first

— sakusa kiyoomi ⭑ when second place feels like last, but they remind you you're first

— tsukishima kei ⭑ when second place feels like last, but they remind you you're first

[mourvii]

michael kaiser — crybaby

⤷ summary: you knew michael kaiser had a past—he was a heartbreaker, a player, a man built for the spotlight. but you didn’t expect it to hurt this much. and you didn’t expect him to choose you this softly.

⤷ content: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, romance, emotional healing, insecure!reader × protective!kaiser, established relationship

michael kaiser was a lot of things before he met you.

and everyone knew it.

a heartbreaker. a flirt. a man who left lipstick stains on his collar and never remembered the name of the girl who left them. they called him the emperor for a reason—not just because of how he ruled the field, but because of how he ruled hearts, only to toss them aside when he got bored.

and you? you weren’t stupid. you knew exactly who he was before you even let him touch you. you weren’t supposed to fall for him. but somehow, you did.

somehow, he made you feel like you were the only girl in the world.

but that didn’t mean the fear went away.

especially not tonight.

it started with a tweet. one you didn’t mean to see. you were just scrolling through your feed to distract yourself from studying, and there it was—#kaiserxamelie trending in bold letters. a blurry photo attached: michael, supposedly laughing with some model at an event you didn’t know he went to. she was stunning. the kind of beautiful that made you shrink in your seat.

people were already eating it up. shipping them. calling them "perfect together."

you stared at your screen until the words blurred. until your stomach twisted and your chest grew tight and you couldn’t breathe around the ache.

you tried to convince yourself it meant nothing. you tried so, so hard.

but your mind was a cruel thing, feeding you every 'what if' you’d been avoiding since you met him.

what if he found someone better? what if you were just another one of his phases? what if he never really stopped being a playboy—just got better at hiding it?

and worst of all:

what if he leaves you, too?

like the last one did.

so you cried. you cried the way you always did when the world felt like it was closing in. quiet and curled up under your sheets, pillow pressed to your face, trying to suffocate the sobs.

—

you spent the whole afternoon lying in bed, phone clutched in your trembling hand, that trending hashtag burned into your memory like a scar. you tried to look away, to distract yourself, to reason with the ugly voices clawing inside your brain—but nothing worked. every time you blinked, you saw his name next to hers. saw the photos. the quote retweets. the laughing emojis. the assumptions.

“kaiser and amelie confirmed?”

“i knew he couldn’t stay loyal for long.”

“poor girl, whoever she is.”

you felt like a fool.

every doubt you tried to bury started digging itself out of the grave. all the smiles he gave to others. the way girls still looked at him like he was god. the way he sometimes flirted just to win. and you—how could someone like him ever want someone like you? someone who cries when overwhelmed. someone who flinches at love like it’s a loaded weapon.

you sat there in the dark, curled up under your blanket like it could protect you from a heartbreak that hadn’t even happened yet. but god, it felt like it had. your chest ached. your stomach twisted. your brain wouldn’t shut up.

what if he really was tired of you?

what if you were just another name on a long list of girls who thought they were special?

what if he was already planning to leave?

you bit your lip until it bled just to stop yourself from sobbing again. but the tears came anyway, hot and endless, like they’d been waiting for this moment. you cried until your head throbbed. until your voice went hoarse. until your pillow was soaked and your hands felt cold and useless.

—

by the time michael got home, you were a mess.

"schatz?" his voice echoed down the hall, casual and light. "i brought your favorite—"

he stopped when he saw you. you didn’t even hear the bag drop to the floor. your head was still buried beneath the blanket.

"hey... hey, baby," he was kneeling by your bed in an instant, his hand gently tugging the sheets down. "what happened? why’re you crying like this?"

you turned away from him, biting back another sob. your voice was hoarse and small when you mumbled, "it's nothing."

"don’t do that," he said quietly. "don’t lie to me. talk to me, schatz. did someone hurt you?"

you shook your head. but your shoulders were trembling. he could see it—hell, he could feel it. his girl, the one who cried when she dropped her favorite mug, who got weepy over sad commercials, was breaking in front of him.

and he had no idea why.

"was it me?" he whispered. "did i do something wrong? please—please just tell me."

you finally turned to him. your eyes were red and swollen, lashes wet, cheeks blotchy from crying for hours. your lips trembled as you tried to speak.

"i saw a tweet..." you started, voice barely there. "they said you were with someone. some model. and—and everyone was saying you looked good together and i... i know it’s stupid, i just..."

more tears spilled.

"i got scared. i thought maybe you’d realized you could do better. that you’d leave. that you’d cheat."

and there it was.

the wound you’d kept hidden. the fear that festered quietly behind your smiles and soft kisses. it all spilled out in broken pieces.

michael was silent.

for a second.

then, gently, he cupped your face with both hands. thumbs wiping your tears away like they were poison on your skin.

"hey," he said, forehead pressing to yours. "look at me. look at me, schatz."

you tried, even through the tears.

"do you really think i’d ever do that to you?"

you hesitated. he kissed the corner of your eyes, soft and slow.

"do you really think i’d ruin the best thing in my entire life for someone i won’t even remember the name of tomorrow?"

you hiccupped, sniffling. he kissed your other eye.

"i know i used to be a dick. a dumbass, even. but i’m yours now. completely. every messy, chaotic, obsessed part of me. i’m yours."

his lips found your cheeks, warm and damp with salt.

"i don’t want anyone else. i’ve never wanted anyone else since the moment you looked at me like i mattered. since the moment you kissed me like i wasn’t just another pretty face."

his hands curled around your waist, pulling you into his chest.

his arms tighten around you, like he’s trying to convince your bones that they belong here—with him. he rests his cheek against the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your shampoo like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“i don’t care what the world says about me,” he murmurs, voice low and scratchy, “but it kills me that you think i could hurt you like that.”

you sniffle, still curled against his chest, fingers fisting the fabric of his hoodie. “i—I didn’t mean to. i just... i got scared.”

“i know, baby,” he says, rubbing slow circles on your back. “i know what that kind of fear feels like. i hate that you felt it because of me.”

he leans back just enough to look you in the eyes—those pretty, watery eyes he swears he’d fight the world for. then, with the softest voice he’s probably ever used in his life, he says, “you’re my person, okay? no one else. no one ever comes close.”

he presses another kiss to the tip of your nose. “even when you cry so hard your nose turns red and you sound like a little hiccup machine.”

you sniff, letting out a shaky laugh through your tears.

“there she is,” he smiles. “still the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen.”

"and if you ever see shit like that online again, please—please just come to me. don’t cry alone like this, schatz. my heart can’t take it."

your arms looped around his back. you felt so small in his arms.

"‘m sorry," you mumbled. "i just... i got scared. my ex—he cheated on me, and i keep thinking you’ll get tired of me, too."

he pulled back, just enough to kiss your lips.

"never. you hear me? never. you could cry every day, snore in your sleep, burn toast every morning, and i’d still pick you in every lifetime."

that made you choke on a laugh.

"...i don’t snore."

"you do. like a baby walrus. but it’s cute."

"kaiser—"

he kissed you again. slower this time. sweeter.

"go to sleep, crybaby," he whispered into your hair. "i'll be right here. always."

that night, for the first time in what felt like forever, you fell asleep in his arms. safe. loved.

and michael kaiser held you like you were his entire world.

because you were.

—

his grip stays gentle even as your breathing evens out, soft and steady against his chest. he brushes your hair away from your face, pressing one last kiss to your forehead, then shifts slightly—just enough to free one hand and reach for his phone on the nightstand.

his other arm never moves from around you. he won’t risk waking you. not when you look so at peace. not when you finally let yourself rest.

and god, the sight of your tear-streaked cheeks still makes something violent twist in his chest.

he's angry. not at you—never at you—but at the world for putting that look on your face. at the people online who think they know him. at himself, for ever giving you a reason to doubt how completely, utterly his you are.

he taps on his screen, presses call, and waits.

“hey,” he mutters when the line picks up, voice quiet but laced with steel. “get those fucking posts taken down. now. all of them.”

a pause.

“you hear me? i want everything wiped—tweets, tags, articles, reddit threads, burner accounts—everything. i don’t care if it’s 1 a.m. i don’t care if you need a damn lawyer. fix it.”

another pause. his jaw tightens.

“i don’t care if you have to contact the platform or sell your damn soul, i want every single photo and rumor wiped. i’m not asking again.”

his tone leaves no room for negotiation. he may be a player on the field, but off it? he’s a king, and he doesn’t tolerate disrespect. especially not toward you.

another pause.

“good.”

he ends the call with a sigh, sets the phone face down, and curls his arm back around you like that was where it always belonged. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath syncing with yours, finally letting himself fall asleep.

he’ll deal with the rest of the world tomorrow. the fans, the press, the rumors. he’ll face it all with his chin high and his crown steady.

but tonight? he holds you like you’re the only thing that matters.

and if the world was gonna try and make you doubt him again?

then he'd burn the whole fucking thing down before he ever let it touch you.

“and if the world ever dares to hurt you again, may it know the wrath of the boy who once swore to never let go.”

[mourvii]

itoshi sae — he only untangles his silence for you

⤷ summary: the world calls itoshi sae cold. arrogant. maybe even cruel. but that’s only because they’ve never seen him lace your fingers with his, or brush hair from your eyes like it’s instinct.

⤷ content: fluff, slow soft romance, gentle character study

sae doesn’t talk much.

but when he does, it’s sharp.

precise.

clean like a blade.

he cuts through conversation like it bores him.

he listens with eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable, like he’s too far ahead to care about catching up.

he walks five steps ahead. always.

and everyone has a story about him.

a cold moment. a snide comment.

a time he said nothing when he should’ve said something.

and you think maybe they’re not wrong.

but you know him differently.

you know the way he always holds the umbrella above your head even when it leaves his shoulder soaking.

you know how he remembers your drink order without trying.

how he listens to you rant about things he has no context for and nods at all the right times.

how, when you text him “sorry i’m just being dramatic”,

he replies, “you’re allowed to feel things. don’t say sorry.”

and that’s something no one else gets to see.

not rin, not his teammates, not even the friends he barely lets in.

they see the quiet. the distance.

you see the space he makes for you to exist.

like today.

you’re walking beside him, hands swinging in your coat pockets, scarf bunched up too tight.

you’re babbling about your professor and the way your class was exhausting, when you feel him pause.

you turn.

his eyes are on you.

but not your face.

he frowns, then steps in close. too close.

“stand still.”

“huh—?”

his fingers brush against your cheek.

gently.

and then he reaches up and tugs your scarf looser.

“you’re choking yourself,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

you laugh, cheeks burning.

“you could’ve just told me.”

he shrugs. tucks a stray hair behind your ear.

“you wouldn’t have fixed it right.”

and then he’s walking again, like he didn’t just pull a literal kdrama move on you in the middle of the sidewalk.

you have to jog to catch up. “you’re so dramatic sometimes, sae.”

he scoffs. but you catch it — the tiny lift of his mouth.

you saw it. even if he tries to hide it.

later, when you sit together on the train, he rests his hand on the seat between you. palm up. wordless.

you place your fingers into his, and he curls his around yours like a promise.

his thumb strokes once across your knuckles.

he never says i love you.

not with words.

but you think maybe that’s what he means, when he waits at your stop.

when he holds your scarf right.

when he holds your silence without asking you to fill it.

because maybe this is what love looks like for someone like itoshi sae.

not loud.

not proud.

not roses and rainbows and kisses on the forehead.

just—

he lets you in.

and he doesn’t let anyone in.

[mourvii]

michael kaiser — you are loved, michael

⤷ summary: fame doesn’t fill the emptiness. trophies don’t tuck you in. but you do. you, who sees him not as a prodigy, not as a king, but as a boy who once only wanted to be loved.

⤷ content: hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, emotional intimacy, soft soft soft

he doesn’t ask to be held. he never does.

but tonight, you can tell.

he’s not kaiser right now—not the arrogant genius, the prodigy showstopper, the king of blue lock’s bright future.

he’s just michael.

and michael is tired.

you notice it in the way he walks in—slow, heavy, like the weight of the day finally got to him. he doesn’t meet your eyes. just toes off his shoes, wordlessly pads into the bedroom, and sinks into the mattress like he can finally stop pretending he’s fine.

you sit beside him gently, hands folded in your lap.

“bad day?” you ask.

he doesn’t answer right away.

instead, he turns his face into the pillow and mumbles, “just... noisy.”

you know what he means.

the noise of the world.

the noise of being michael kaiser.

cheers, expectations, eyes watching. never blinking. never giving him space to breathe.

you slip under the blankets, crawling closer until you’re pressed against his back. arms wrapping around his waist, cheek resting between his shoulder blades.

“you don’t have to talk,” you murmur. “just let me love you.”

his breath hitches.

you feel him shift, just slightly, like he’s trying to curl into your touch without admitting he needs to. his fingers ghost over yours, slowly lacing them together.

"say it again," he whispers, voice so soft it could break.

your brows furrow. “what, love?”

he turns over to face you now, eyes glassy under the dim bedroom light. his voice cracks.

“that i’m loved.”

and oh—your heart shatters.

you cradle his face with both hands. kiss his temple, then his cheek, then his lips, gentle as the first snowfall.

"you’re loved, michael," you say, and then again. "you’re loved. so much."

he squeezes his eyes shut.

you keep going.

"you’re loved when you win. you’re loved when you’re quiet. you’re loved when you feel like nothing is enough. even then, i’m here. i love you."

your thumbs brush the corners of his eyes when they get too wet. he presses his forehead against your collarbone and clings to your shirt like it’s the only real thing in the world.

you run your fingers through his hair, slower now, like you’re rocking him to sleep. like you’re holding the broken parts of his childhood in your palms, giving them warmth they never had.

“you don’t have to earn it,” you whisper. “you don’t have to perform. not with me.”

his breath slows.

"i used to think," he murmurs, "that if i wasn’t the best, no one would care."

you pull him even closer, tangle your legs with his.

"you’re more than your talent, michael. you’re more than the version the world sees. i love this version. the one who gets quiet at night. the one who’s just a little boy who wanted to be loved."

he lets out something between a sob and a laugh.

"fuck. why do you always say the right things?"

you kiss the top of his head.

"because you’ve spent your whole life being the best. it’s about time someone else did the loving."

and finally—finally—he lets himself rest.

face buried in your chest. arms around your waist. your heartbeat a lullaby against his ear. the room is still, soft, safe.

in this bed, in this moment, michael kaiser is no longer a prodigy, a star, a king.

he’s just a boy.

and he is loved.

“the world asked him to shine. i only asked him to rest. and still, he gave me all his light.”

— for michael, who just wanted to be loved.

[mourvii]

should i start writing for blue lock?? 'cuz i'm tempted to do so🥹

[mourvii]

kita shinsuke — love me a little louder, please

⤷ summary: you knew who he was from the start—gentle, kind, always careful with everyone’s heart. but that doesn’t stop you from wondering if yours is really the one he holds the tightest.

⤷ content: jealousy, soft hurt/comfort, romantic angst, fluff, established relationship

you fall for him slowly.

like the sun rising over sleepy fields, soft and quiet.

because that’s just how kita shinsuke is.

quiet.

the kind of boy who folds his emotions with the care of someone who knows how easily things can wrinkle. who says what he means, but never more than what’s needed. who shows you he loves you without ever saying it—not because he doesn’t mean it, but because to him, love is a verb, not a word.

and you do love that about him.

you really do.

but sometimes—sometimes it hurts.

it starts with the small things.

the way he carries someone else’s books without hesitation.

the way he adjusts a classmate’s collar with that same gentle touch he uses on you.

the way he speaks to everyone with a kindness that feels… intimate.

you know that’s just who he is.

you knew that when you fell for him.

you don’t want to be possessive, or childish, or that clingy partner who makes everything about themselves.

but still.

every time you watch someone else get even a sliver of the softness he gives you, your chest tightens.

he doesn’t even notice it, and maybe that’s the worst part.

because to him, it means nothing.

but to you, it feels like everything.

—

you especially remember one moment. you were all leaving class—everyone half-asleep, trudging through another wednesday—when one of the girls from student council “accidentally” dropped her pen in front of shinsuke.

he was already mid-sentence with you, but he immediately bent down, picked it up, and handed it to her with a soft “you dropped this.”

she smiled, all teeth and fluttering lashes. touched his wrist when she took it. leaned in, just slightly.

and he didn’t flinch away. didn’t even blink. just nodded and turned back to you like nothing happened. like she hadn’t just tried to steal a piece of him.

“she’s always dropping something near you,” you said flatly.

he blinked, confused. “is she?”

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. because the ache in your chest was already settling in, bitter and slow, like morning fog that wouldn’t lift.

—

you start pulling away in small ways.

you answer his texts, but a little slower.

you wait for him to reach out first.

you smile when you’re supposed to, but you don’t really mean it anymore.

you still love him.

but you start wondering if you’re allowed to want more.

if you’re allowed to ask him to love you a little louder.

just for you.

just once.

you tell yourself you’re overreacting.

you shouldn’t be upset.

you have no right to be.

he hasn’t done anything wrong.

so you swallow it. again. and again.

and again.

—

until one afternoon, you're sitting behind the school building, picking at the threads of your sleeve, because the ache in your chest has started to feel heavier than your silence can carry.

you don’t even hear him approach.

you only feel it—his presence, calm and steady, as he sits beside you without a word.

“you’ve been distant.”

his voice is low, even. not accusing. just true.

you look down. “i’ve just been tired.”

“mm.” he hums, then pauses.

“are you mad at me?”

you shake your head too quickly. “no. no, shinsuke. i swear i’m not—”

but your voice wavers, betraying the tears you’ve been trying not to shed for days.

he waits.

of course he does.

you hate that it makes it worse. that he’s being so gentle when you’re the one who’s been pulling away, hiding, bottling up emotions you don’t even fully understand.

“i just…” you exhale shakily. “i’ve been feeling kind of… invisible, i guess.”

that gets his attention.

he turns his head slightly, brows knitting together.

“invisible?”

you finally look at him.

and god—it hurts, the way he’s looking at you. like you hung the damn stars and he can’t figure out why you don’t know that.

“you’re kind to everyone,” you say softly. “and i know that’s not a bad thing. but sometimes i wonder if you treat me differently. or if i’m just another person you’re nice to.”

the words hang in the air like smoke—bitter, rising.

he doesn’t speak right away.

you glance down at your hands. “it’s stupid. i know.”

“it’s not.”

his voice is firmer now. not sharp—but clearer.

“(y/n),” he says, turning fully to face you, “you’re the most important person in my life.”

your breath catches.

“i didn’t realize the way i act with others might make you feel like you’re not special,” he continues, his tone laced with regret. “but you are. more than anyone. you’re not just someone i’m kind to. you’re the person i love.”

your eyes widen.

you’ve heard him say that before.

but not like this.

not with this urgency. this need to make you believe it.

“i know i’m not always good at showing it the way you need me to,” he admits, eyes lowering for a moment. “but you can always tell me. you don’t have to keep it all inside.”

you nod slowly, tears gathering at the corners of your lashes.

“…i was scared that if i told you, you’d think i didn’t trust you. or that i wanted you to stop being yourself.”

he reaches out, takes your hand—thumb brushing your knuckles, grounding.

“i don’t want to stop being myself,” he says gently, “but i do want to be better for you.”

he lifts your hand to his chest, presses it flat over his heart.

“this is yours,” he says simply.

“no one else even comes close.”

then, he brings your hand to his lips. presses the lightest kiss to your fingertips. then another. and another. like he’s apologizing in a language only you understand.

“tell me when it gets too heavy,” he murmurs. “let me hold it with you.”

that’s what breaks you.

not the guilt, not the jealousy—

but him. always him. meeting your insecurity with love instead of shame. choosing to listen instead of shutting you down.

you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his neck, and finally let the tears fall.

he holds you close.

so close.

hand running along your back in slow, soothing lines, and for the first time in days, your heart unclenches.

neither of you says anything for a long while.

just two hearts, beating quietly in sync.

finally, he whispers, “you never have to fight for my attention. you already have it. always.”

and this time, you believe it.

[mourvii]

ushijima wakatoshi — museums and you

⤷ summary: timeskip!ushijima brings you — his high school sweetheart to a museum in greece during your vacation. you've always loved museums — and he's always loved you. (museum dates with ushijima just feel like love in its purest form tbh)

⤷ content: soft domestic fluff, established relationship, museum date (totally wasn't listening to golden brown on repeat while typing this)

wakatoshi doesn't speak much.

he never really did — not in high school, not in college, not now, years later, standing in a sunlit museum hallway somewhere in greece, holding your hand like it’s something precious he found in a gallery.

the place is quiet. there’s soft gold spilling in from the tall windows, brushing your skin in the kind of light people try to paint but never quite capture. you stand in front of a marble sculpture, chin tilted up, lips parted slightly as you read the plaque — and ushijima? he doesn’t care for the art as much as he cares for you.

you’ve always been like this.

curious. still. so deeply moved by beautiful things that he wonders if you even realize you are one of them.

you lean in, whispering something soft about the statue’s age. your voice is low, awed, like the past is something fragile in your mouth. he doesn’t respond right away. instead, he watches the curve of your expression, the light caught in your lashes, the way your fingers gently fidget at the hem of your shirt — as if grounding yourself in this moment.

and god. he loves you so much it hurts.

his voice cuts the hush. “you like it here.”

you smile without looking at him. “museums are kind. they let everything matter.”

he hums. and maybe that’s what you are, too — kind. and the reason everything in his life feels like it finally matters.

you move through the museum slowly, like you want to memorize every artwork. ushijima doesn’t say much. he just follows your lead, listens to your soft explanations, holds your bag when your shoulders ache, and steals glances at your profile every time the light hits you just right.

you’re his favorite artwork here.

you always have been.

later, you find a quiet bench in a corner of the gallery and sit beside him, legs brushing, heads slightly tilted toward each other. you start talking about the mythology of one of the sculptures — your voice animated, your hands gesturing — and he doesn’t understand all the references, but he nods anyway. because he’s not here for the myths.

he’s here for you.

and when you laugh — all breathy and bright, he swears it echoes louder than anything in this marble-covered place.

he’s not poetic.

not the type to say things like “you’re my masterpiece” or “i’d choose you in every lifetime.”

but he thinks it.

he feels it.

in the way his hand never lets go of yours.

in the way he looks at you like he’s still seventeen and madly in love.

in the way he murmurs, barely audible, “i’m glad it’s you. always you.”

and you glance at him, a little surprised. not because he said it, but because he finally said it out loud.

he doesn’t look away.

he just smiles — the rare, small kind of smile that only you get to see — and squeezes your hand a little tighter, like a vow.

no grand declaration. no dramatic kiss.

just this:

you, and him, and the moment between.

quiet. timeless. golden.

[mourvii]

when second place feels like last, but they remind you you're first

⤷ summary: you cry because you only got second place in a “most beautiful girl” class vote. (this is so random but bare with me pls)

⤷ content: comfort, fluff, established relationship, crybaby reader energy

⤷ characters: kita shinsuke, sakusa kiyoomi, ushijima wakatoshi, tsukishima kei

SHINSUKE finds you curled up in your blanket, sniffling, trying to play it off like you’re not crying over something as “silly” as a classroom vote. but he doesn’t think it’s silly. not one bit. “come here,” he says gently, arms open like a promise. he lets you cry against his chest, rubbing slow circles on your back. “you are the most beautiful girl i’ve ever laid eyes on,” he murmurs. “votes don’t change that. they never will.”

KIYOOMI blinks, silent at first. not because he doesn’t care—but because he’s trying to figure out how to fix this. “they voted wrong,” he says flatly, arms crossed. “clearly their eyes don’t work.” but when you still look down, teary and snotty, he sighs and pulls you into him. “hey. look at me.” he cups your face, wipes a tear with his thumb. “i don’t care about their list. you’re my number one. always.”

WAKATOSHI'S brows furrow immediately. “you are…upset because of a ranking?” he asks, tilting his head. when you nod and cry harder, he quickly gets it. ushijima’s quiet for a beat, then kneels in front of you and says—completely serious—“if they could see you through my eyes, there would be no vote. just you.” and that’s when you really start sobbing. so he hugs you, strong and still, and lets you cry it all out.

KEI rolls his eyes when you tell him why you’re crying. “wow. what a prestigious title. almost like—it doesn’t matter at all.” you glare at him, even through your tears. “kei, i’m serious.” and that’s when his expression softens. he sighs and takes off his glasses, sitting beside you. “…you really think some dumb vote decides how beautiful you are?” you nod, barely. he clicks his tongue. “well, they’re wrong. and if i ever see that list, i’m burning it.” pause. “and buying you cake.”

[mourvii]

iwaizumi hajime — play casual

⤷ summary: gone girl is on, it’s pouring outside, and neither of you want to admit how bad you’ve got it.

⤷ genre: mutual pining, fluff + tension, keeping it casual lol

there’s a storm outside, and hajime’s in your room again.

it’s been like this for years—him showing up after practice, toeing off his shoes like he owns the place, heading straight for your room like his name is written on the door. and you let him. always have.

the sky outside is dark, like it’s mad at the world. rain hits the windows hard, like fists. somewhere, thunder grumbles low and tired. and inside, “gone girl” is paused at the part where nick dunne really starts losing it, but you and hajime are only half watching anyway.

you’re sitting on your bed. he’s on the floor with his back against it, stretching his legs out like he’s been here forever. (he kinda has.)

a bag of half-eaten chips is between you, and your fingers keep brushing when you both reach in at the same time.

he pretends not to notice. so do you.

you rest your chin on your arms, watching the side of his face instead of the TV.

“d’you think he did it?” you ask, voice soft over the crackle of rain.

hajime shrugs, lips quirking just barely. “wouldn’t blame him.”

you snort. “wow. that’s dark.”

he tilts his head back to glance at you, eyes lazy and warm. “you asked.”

there’s a beat. the TV glows quietly in the room. hajime shifts just slightly, and your comforter brushes against his shoulder.

he clears his throat. “you scared of the storm?”

“no,” you lie, staring at your hand. “i’m not a kid anymore.”

he hums. “still doesn’t mean you’re not scared.”

your breath catches a little. you peek at him.

he’s still looking at the screen, but something in his voice is softer now. like he knows exactly how your thoughts work, like he’s been watching you too.

you lean over the bed slightly and bump your forehead against the top of his head.

he goes still.

“thanks for always coming over,” you say, trying to sound chill, even though your heart is doing backflips in your chest. “you could hang out with anyone else, y’know.”

he shrugs, but you notice the tip of his ear turning pink. “yeah, but i like it here.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

silence again. rain. a tense scene flickers on-screen, but neither of you are really watching.

then:

“y/n,” he says, and his voice cracks just slightly. you sit up straighter.

“yeah?”

he doesn’t look at you. just swallows hard and says, “nothing.”

you laugh quietly, pulling the blanket over both your shoulders even though he’s still sitting on the floor. he leans into it, just barely. just enough.

you both play casual. like always.

but maybe this time—when the credits roll and the thunder fades—you’ll both stop pretending.

maybe.

[mourvii]

જ⁀➴°⋆ · vyen — 🎐 ⋆ 7/04 ⋆ minor ⋆ filipino ⋆ she/her ⋆ infp ⋆ cancer

જ⁀➴°⋆ · dream girl in progress, mostly romanticizing my regrets. currently obsessed with: blue lock and haikyuu

જ⁀➴°⋆ · open for writing requests!

જ⁀➴°⋆ · MASTERLIST

[mourvii]

kita shinsuke — you can always come home to me

⤷ summary: you get a little tipsy at a party, and he tucks you into bed like it's the easiest thing in the world to love you.

⤷ genre: fluff, comfort, drunk!reader, soft!kita

you don’t mean to stay out late. really, you don’t.

the plan was to stop by your friends' birthday party, maybe say hi to the girls, laugh a little, leave before the drinking started. but somewhere between being handed a paper cup and someone shouting “just one shot,” your phone ends up buzzing against your thigh and you’re tipsy and warm and all your friends are smiling and—

you text him.

you: hey love i might come back a bit late they’re drinking now

you: i didn’t wanna be a killjoy hehe i’ll be okay tho, i promise 

you: i’ll come home to you after <3

he replies fast.

kita: alright. be safe.

kita: text me when you’re on the way back.

kita: your blanket’s waiting.

(you smile at that. maybe giggle into your sleeve. you love him. a lot.)

the next thing you know, someone’s guiding you out of a car, and the porch light at kita’s house is glowing warm, and he’s already outside waiting.

“there she is,” he says softly.

you stumble into his chest, arms wrapping around his middle, and he holds you steady like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“you smell like rum,” he murmurs.

“i smell like fun,” you mumble, giggling against his hoodie.

he lets out the softest laugh. not quite amused, not quite exasperated — something warm in between. “let’s get you inside.”

—

he’s so gentle with you.

helps you out of your jacket, brushes your hair back, makes you drink water while you pout up at him like he’s torturing you. he puts on one of his oversized t-shirts for you, helps you slip it over your head when you get stuck halfway through, even ties your hair up for you while you sit on his bed and sway like seaweed.

you watch him with your chin on your knees. “you’re so… husband.”

“hm?”

“you’re so husband-coded, shinsuke,” you say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “taking care of your drunk girlfriend? letting her crawl into your bed after she partied without you? god. you love me.”

he pauses. smiles. shakes his head like he’s trying not to melt.

“of course i do,” he says simply. “always will.”

—

later, when you’re curled up under his blankets, arm around his waist, head tucked under his chin, you mumble something into his chest.

“‘m sorry if i worried you.”

he runs his hand along your spine, thumb brushing gently against your back.

“you told me where you were. you came back safe. that’s all i ask.”

you hum. “you’re too good to me.”

he kisses your forehead.

“nah,” he whispers. “i just love you.”

you fall asleep like that. safe, warm, loved.

and in the morning, you’ll wake up to breakfast, your hangover meds already on the nightstand, and kita pressing a soft kiss to your cheek like you never even gave him a reason to worry.

[mourvii]

miya osamu — 2:37 a.m.

⤷summary: it's 2:37 a.m. and you're still studying. he thinks that's stupid—but he also thinks you're brilliant, even when you don't believe it yourself.

⤷genre: fluff, sleep-deprived love, soft!osamu, comfort, academic gf x athletic bf dynamic

you don’t mean to wake him.

you’re trying your best, actually—being quiet as a mouse while your highlighter glides across your notes, soft lamp barely flickering in the corner of his room. you're curled up in one of osamu’s oversized shirts, legs tucked beneath you, hair messy from rolling around with your thoughts.

your textbook stares at you like it knows you're about to fail. and you’re just about ready to cry over a single sentence that refuses to make sense.

“you’re gonna burn a hole through that page, ya know.”

his voice—raspy, half-asleep, laced with teasing—comes from behind you. you jump a little, eyes wide as you turn. he’s sitting up now, hair a mess, sleepy lines etched into his cheek from the pillow. he squints at you through the darkness, clearly unimpressed.

“go back to sleep,” you whisper, trying not to sound guilty.

he yawns, ignoring you completely as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and trudges over to you like a grumpy cat.

“you’re still studyin’?” he mumbles, kneeling beside you on the floor. “it’s like… 2:30.”

“2:37,” you correct automatically, and his face says girl, that is not the flex you think it is.

“you’ve been doin’ this since we went to bed.”

“i have a quiz tomorrow—”

“monday quiz?” he interrupts, brows furrowing like he's offended on your behalf.

you nod. he sighs like it’s the biggest tragedy he's ever heard.

“you’re killin’ yourself over somethin’ that’s worth, what, ten points?”

you pout, and he softens—just slightly. his hand reaches up to tuck your hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“i just…” you start, voice suddenly smaller, iI don’t wanna mess this up.”

and that’s when he knows. this isn’t just about the quiz. it’s about everything. about how you always try too hard. how you want to be enough in every way. how no one ever taught you to rest without guilt.

he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there longer than usual.

“you’re enough even if you fail that quiz, y’know that?”

you don’t answer. you blink back a tear instead.

so he takes the notebook gently out of your lap and closes it with a soft thud. “quiz ain’t goin’ anywhere. but if you crash, i’ll have to carry you through school, and i’m not built for that.”

you laugh, a watery little thing, and he grins because he got you to smile.

“come back to bed,” he says, tugging at your hand. “i’ll let you drool on my shoulder. free of charge.”

“osamu.”

“i’m serious. c’mere. i’ll even quiz you with my eyes closed.”

you sigh, but your body follows. he pulls you into his bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world. tucks you under the blanket, wraps an arm around your waist like you’re the only thing that matters.

and when you finally rest your head against his chest, his voice is barely a whisper against your hair.

“get some sleep, baby. you got this. i believe in you more than any quiz ever could.”

and you do.

you sleep.

safe, warm, and loved at 2:37 a.m., in the arms of a boy who would stay up all night just to make sure you did.