[mourvii]

❝ ⌗ ﹒ ʏσυ’ʟʟ ƒιɴԃ ɱҽ ωԋҽɾҽ

тԋҽ ԃαყԃɾҽαɱʂ ℓινҽ ! ໒꒱ ❞

◟♯ . / VYEN filipino she/her cancer infp ! 🪽

⌗ !! ꒰ terms of devotion | vyen's library ꒱ !! ⌗

𓂃۶ৎ۪ 𝅄 requests : open ˚.⋆ֹ

© mourvii | all rights reserved. please do not repost, plagarise, translate, or feed any of my work to ai.ᐟ

[powerhayakawaa]

when you're trying to find a good fanfic to read but your tumblr fyp is genuinly shit

[mourvii]

I love u keep doing what you're doing pls

awww this means more to me than you know :(

i’ve been on a little hiatus because of studies and tumblr issues, and thank you for being patient while i figure things out

i love u too, angel!

[mourvii]

Where did you go... :(

hello, angel! forgive me for i had to go on an unexpected hiatus. tumblr wasn’t cooperating with my posts and graduating demanded all my focus, so i stepped away for a bit. it wasn’t easy because writing here means a lot to me. thank you for asking where i went—that really touched my heart. i swear i’ll get back to writing very soon!!

[mourvii]

. ݁ ⋆ ۶ৎ — hᥱrᥱ bᥱgιᥒ᥉ ᴛhᥱ qυιᥱᴛ ᴛᥲᥣᥱ oƒ ᥲ ρrιᥒcᥱꜱꜱ whσ fᥱᥲrᥱd hᥱr fᥲᴛᥱ, ᥲᥒd ᴛhᥱ ρrιᥒcᥱ whσ hᥲd ᥣo᥎ᥱd hᥱr ᥣoᥒg bᥱforᥱ fᥲᴛᥱ ᥱ᥎ᥱr ᥒᥲmᥱd hᥱr hιꜱ.

— prince! itoshi s.

you remember the exact sound of the quill when it signed your name beside his—the sharp scratch of ink against parchment, the sealing of something you didn’t ask for. they called it diplomacy. an alliance of peace between two kingdoms long kept at arm’s length. and you, their daughter, their symbol, their offering.

the name of the man you were promised to fell heavy on your tongue—prince itoshi sae of the western lands. you had never met him, yet you had already built an entire image in your mind from the murmurs that swirled through the palace halls. they said he was cold, brilliant, detached. a man who carried silence like a sword and had no interest in warmth.

so when your father clasped your hands and told you, you are to be wed, you curtsied, lips trembling into a practiced smile. you said you understood, because that was what a princess should do. but deep down, all you felt was dread.

the day he arrived, the world seemed to shift on its axis. the court filled with the sound of trumpets, of boots against marble, of silks whispering against stone. you stood beside your parents at the steps of the throne hall, hands clasped before you, heart a bird inside its cage. and then the doors opened, and you saw him.

he was everything the rumors promised and nothing they prepared you for. tall, graceful in a way that spoke of discipline rather than vanity, his expression unreadable beneath the fall of russet hair. there was a stillness to him—a quiet so complete it made the air itself pause.

he bowed, his movements deliberate. “your highness.”

you curtsied in return. “your grace.”

his eyes, cool as the edge of dawn, flicked toward you—just once, just enough to leave a mark.

later that evening, after the feast and the endless introductions, your father announced that the prince would reside in your kingdom until the wedding. “so that the two of you may know each other better,” he said, smiling as if this were a kindness.

you could only nod. your pulse pounded behind your ribs like a warning.

— 

the following days unfolded in quiet formality. you and sae took your meals together—breakfast beneath the arched windows where sunlight bled gold over your plates, dinners under chandeliers that flickered like dying stars. he spoke little, always courteous, always measured. you replied with the same restraint, keeping your gaze on your cup, on your food, anywhere but his face.

at night, you shared a chamber—by order of your parents, who insisted on the symbolism of togetherness. yet a curtain divided the space neatly down the middle, and the silence on either side was deafening.

you would lie awake and listen to the faint sounds he made—the rustle of fabric, the soft exhale of breath when he turned. you never looked. you never spoke. but sometimes, you wondered what he thought of you.

on the fourth night, when you couldn’t sleep, you sat by the window and stared at the moonlight spilling across the floor.

“you’ll catch cold.”

his voice startled you. you turned to find him awake, seated on the edge of his bed, the shadows soft against his features.

“i couldn’t sleep,” you said, perhaps too quickly.

he nodded, rose quietly, and disappeared behind the screen. when he returned, he carried a cloak—his cloak—draping it gently over your shoulders.

“you didn’t have to,” you murmured.

“i wanted to,” he said, almost absently, before returning to his side of the room.

and then silence again. except it wasn’t heavy anymore. just quiet. almost comfortable.

— 

the next morning, you found him in the gardens. he wasn’t supposed to be there—the prince of a foreign kingdom, standing quietly among your roses as if the world itself had stilled to make room for him.

he wore a deep blue doublet trimmed in silver, the color catching the soft light of dawn. a few strands of his hair had fallen loose, the breeze brushing them across his brow, and for the first time since you met him, he looked almost—human.

the sunlight poured over him like gold brushed across canvas, painting him in warmth he didn’t seem to notice. his profile was sharp, composed, his gaze distant as though his thoughts were leagues away. he looked every bit the prince he was—self-contained, unreachable, untouchably calm.

you wondered if he knew how magisterial he looked. how the quiet seemed to bend around him, how the air itself felt different when he was near. it wasn’t just beauty, though he had that in abundance—it was stillness. that rare, unnerving grace of someone who belonged to the silence itself.

and when he turned, eyes catching yours across the rows of roses, the moment stilled completely. the morning light caught the faintest hint of warmth in his gaze, a softness so fleeting you almost believed you imagined it.

“good morning,” he said, voice low, steady.

and though you’d heard those words a thousand times before, you realized this was the first time they ever made your heart skip.

you blinked. “you’re early.”

“so are you.”

you hesitated before stepping closer, the scent of roses thick in the air. “you don’t strike me as someone who enjoys gardens.”

“i don’t,” he replied, eyes flicking to you, unreadable. “but you do.”

you frowned. “how would you know that?”

“you hum when you walk here,” he said simply. “you don’t realize it, but you do.”

you tried not to smile. “and what do i hum?”

he thought for a moment. “something soft. like a song that doesn’t need words.”

you didn’t know what to say to that, so you looked away, pretending to inspect the roses. he didn’t move, didn’t push. only stood beside you, the faintest trace of warmth radiating from where your sleeves brushed.

— 

as the days turned to weeks, something began to shift.

he was still quiet, still composed, but his presence no longer felt like a wall. it felt like a calm sea—steady, dependable. he joined you for afternoon tea, listened when you spoke of trivial things, offered thoughtful answers when you asked about his homeland.

you began to look forward to the meals you once dreaded. you began to notice small things—the way he always waited for you to sit first, the way his eyes softened when you laughed, the way he remembered what you liked and what you didn’t.

one evening, after supper, you found yourselves alone by the fire. the servants had long gone, and the room was bathed in the low amber glow of candlelight.

he was reading, the faint furrow between his brows deepening with concentration. you watched him for a while, the quiet steady rhythm of his presence strangely grounding.

“you don’t talk much,” you said finally.

he looked up, one brow slightly raised. “do you prefer I did?”

“i don’t know,” you admitted, smiling faintly. “sometimes silence says enough.”

he hummed in agreement, closing his book. “and what do you think mine says?”

“that you think too much,” you teased.

“and yours?” he asked.

“that i feel too much,” you replied softly.

something passed between you then—something wordless and delicate.

he leaned back, his voice low. “maybe that’s why they chose us. to balance the other.”

you looked into his eyes, and for the first time, they didn’t seem cold at all. they were warm—like the last light before dusk.

— 

that night, when you both retired to your shared chamber, he paused before the curtain.

“goodnight,” he said quietly.

you hesitated, then added, “goodnight, sae.”

it was the first time you said his name.

he stilled—just for a heartbeat—and when he looked at you, there was something almost fragile in his expression. “sleep well,” he murmured.

you did.

— 

a month later, you found him again in the garden. this time, he was the one seated on the stone bench, watching the breeze play with the petals.

“you’re not reading,” you remarked.

“i wanted to see what you see,” he said.

“and what do i see?”

he looked at you then, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “beauty, even when it hides.”

you smiled. “you sound like a poet.”

“not a good one,” he replied dryly.

“maybe not,” you teased, sitting beside him, “but you could try.”

his lips curved. “i’ll leave that to you.”

and you did. that night, you wrote a poem about sunlight on bronze, about quiet devotion and the way some silences felt like love in disguise. you didn’t tell him. you didn’t need to.

— 

the night before the wedding, the world seemed to hold its breath. the palace glowed with anticipation, servants rushing, nobles whispering, musicians tuning their instruments for tomorrow’s celebration.

you couldn’t sleep. so you stood by the window again, gazing at the silver fields below.

behind you, sae’s voice broke the quiet. “nervous?”

“terrified,” you confessed.

he moved closer, his reflection appearing beside yours in the glass. “you don’t have to be.”

“you’re very certain of that.”

“i’ve waited too long to let this feel uncertain.”

you turned to him, confused. “waited?”

his eyes met yours—steady, unwavering. “i saw you once. years ago. during a royal summit. you were making flower crowns in the gardens with the other children. i was supposed to be in the study, but i… watched. you made one for everyone but yourself.”

you blinked. “i don’t remember that.”

“i do,” he said. “i’ve remembered it every day since. you were—” he hesitated, as though searching for the right word. “you were sunlight. i didn’t think I’d ever get to have that.”

the world seemed to narrow to the space between you.

“why didn’t you tell me?” you asked softly.

“would you have believed me?”

you shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “no.”

he smiled faintly. “then I’m glad you learned on your own.”

you laughed quietly through your tears. “you’re still impossible.”

“and you’re still lovely,” he said.

you didn’t know who leaned in first, only that his lips brushed yours—a whisper of warmth, tentative and sure all at once. it wasn’t fire, it was something gentler. like the moment a flame finds a wick and begins to glow.

— 

the next day, you stood at the altar, his hand in yours, the two kingdoms watching as you spoke vows that felt less like duty and more like destiny.

when the priest declared you husband and wife, his thumb brushed over your knuckles—a silent promise.

that night, as the celebrations faded into laughter and music below, you and sae found yourselves once more in your chamber.

you sat together by the fire, no curtain between you now, your gown spilling like a pool of silver on the rug.

“so,” you said softly, teasing, “the quiet prince had a secret all along.”

he smiled—small, content, the rare kind that reached his eyes. “not a secret. just patience.”

“and what will you do now that you have what you’ve waited for?”

he leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “cherish her. quietly.”

you laughed, resting your head against his shoulder. the fire crackled softly, filling the space between your breaths.

and for the first time in your life, silence felt like home.

[mourvii]

the tags won't work, i'm literally about to cry :x

[mourvii]

. ݁ ⋆ ۶ৎ — ᥲ ρrιᥒcᥱꜱꜱ ᥲᥒd hᥱr kᥒιghᴛ. bσυᥒd bყ ɗυᴛყ, υᥒɗoᥒᥱ bყ ᴛᥱᥒɗᥱrᥒᥱꜱꜱ.

— knight! ushijima w.

the first time you meet him, he does not speak.

he only bows—head low, one knee bent against the marble floor. the sunlight spills through the stained glass, painting his armor in shades of pale gold and rose. for a fleeting moment, he looks less like a man and more like a prayer carved from light.

“rise,” you tell him softly, the echo of your voice catching on the cathedral walls. “your duty begins today.”

and so it does.

ushijima wakatoshi becomes your royal guard.

at first, he is nothing but silence and precision. he keeps his distance—always a few paces behind, always just within reach but never too close. he speaks only when addressed, moves only when required. his stillness feels like command, his presence like a mountain—solid, immovable, unreachable.

others whisper that he is cold, that he feels nothing. but to you, he seems calm in human form—a place your thoughts can rest when the court grows too loud.

still, there’s something about him that unsettles you. something in the way his gaze lingers a second too long when you’re not looking, or the way his hand always hovers near his sword whenever someone unfamiliar steps close.

he isn’t cold. he’s careful.

and you find yourself wondering what kind of heart lives beneath all that silence.

—

weeks pass.

you learn the sound of his footsteps before you hear them—that steady rhythm, neither rushed nor hesitant, always sure. you learn that he stands at the perfect distance during your walks in the garden—close enough to protect, far enough not to intrude. you learn that he barely sleeps, and that sometimes, when the world is still, he lingers by your balcony to watch the stars.

one night, you find him there.

“you should rest, sir wakatoshi,” you say softly.

his hand tightens around the railing before he answers. “rest doesn’t come easy.”

“for knights?”

“for those who think too much.”

you smile faintly. “then we are the same.”

his head turns slightly, the moonlight catching on his features. for the first time, you see it—that glimmer of softness behind his composed exterior. “you shouldn’t be awake, your highness.”

“neither should you.”

his jaw tightens, his eyes distant. “if i don’t stand guard, who will?”

you take a step closer. “and if i told you i trust you enough to close your eyes, would you believe me?”

he breathes out slowly. “you shouldn’t.”

the words sting—but you understand. he means them not as rejection, but as confession.

—

days blur together—diplomacy lessons, court meetings, endless smiles that mean nothing. the palace is a golden cage, and everyone wears their masks perfectly.

everyone except him.

he never says much, but he looks at you like you are something worth protecting, not because of your title, but because his soul already decided to.

the first time he touches you—truly touches you—it’s an accident. you stumble while descending the grand staircase, and before you can even gasp, his hand catches your wrist, firm and steady.

you fall against his chest. his heart beats hard beneath the armor.

“are you hurt?” he asks quietly.

you shake your head, breathless. “no.”

he doesn’t move right away. his hand stays where it is, careful but reluctant to let go. when he finally does, it feels like something sacred has been taken away.

“be careful,” he murmurs.

you smile. “will you always be there to catch me?”

his eyes soften, just slightly. “if i can.”

“and if you can’t?”

he hesitates. “then i’ll fall with you.”

—

the sun dips low when you find him again, the courtyard bathed in amber light.

he stands at the center of it—armor loosened, shoulders bare, head tilted toward the sky. the light gilds him in gold, tracing every edge of restraint until he looks almost divine.

you forget to breathe.

he looks magisterial—that’s the word that comes to mind. regal, quiet, and alive. he carries silence like a vow. and for the first time, you realize that peace can look like this: the shape of him in sunlight, still and certain, as if the world could not move him even if it tried.

when he turns, your eyes meet. the air hums. it feels as if the universe exhales.

—

he becomes your constant—a shadow stitched to your side, a wordless guardian whose silence speaks in ways no one else could understand.

you learn to read it.

the way his jaw tightens when he’s worried, the quiet breath he takes when he’s relieved, the faintest shift of his shoulders when you smile.

one evening, as you’re preparing for a royal feast, you catch him standing by the door, patient as ever.

“sir wakatoshi,” you ask softly, “do you ever wish for another life?”

his brows furrow. “another life?”

“one where you weren’t bound by duty. where you could choose for yourself.”

he is quiet for a long time. then, finally—

“i would still choose this,” he says simply. “i would still choose to protect you.”

the words are gentle, but they break something inside you.

—

the moment you realize you love him isn’t grand. it isn’t born of kisses or declarations.

it’s born of fear.

an ambush near the outer gates—a flash of steel, a cry, and then him stepping between you and danger without hesitation. by the time it’s over, there’s blood on his sleeve.

“you could’ve died,” you whisper, pressing cloth to the wound.

his voice is calm. “if it meant you were safe, it would have been worth it.”

“don’t say that,” you tremble. “don’t ever say that.”

he looks at you for a long moment, then lifts a hand—rough, trembling—and brushes away a tear from your cheek.

“please don’t cry,” he murmurs.

“then stop making me.”

a faint smile ghosts his lips. almost there, almost soft.

—

that night, you find yourself outside his quarters.

he startles when you enter. “your highness?”

he’s in plain linen, the bandage visible against his arm. he straightens instinctively, but you shake your head.

“you’re awake,” you say.

“i was making sure the guards were stationed properly.”

“you shouldn’t be working.”

his eyes meet yours. “i don’t know how not to.”

you step closer. he doesn’t move away.

“thank you,” you whisper. “for saving me.”

“you don’t have to thank me.”

“and yet i want to.”

you stop before him—close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. “you’re always protecting me,” you say softly. “let someone protect you.”

his breath catches. “no one can.”

“i can.”

he freezes, unsure whether to believe you.

“wakatoshi,” you whisper. the name feels fragile, reverent.

his hand rises—hesitates—then falls. you take it instead, pressing it to your heart.

“you’re allowed to rest here,” you tell him.

he exhales, forehead falling gently against yours. no armor, no duty. just him.

“if i stop being strong,” he murmurs, voice breaking, “i’ll fall apart.”

“then fall apart,” you whisper back. “i’ll hold the pieces.”

—

the next morning, the castle stirs awake. sunlight spills through the curtains, brushing against polished steel.

you wake to find him already dressed, his expression calm once more—but you can feel it now, the warmth hidden beneath the discipline, the quiet tenderness that belongs only to you.

you cross the room, stand before him, and before he can bow, you rise on your toes and press your lips to his cheek.

he freezes.

“that,” you murmur, “is my vow.”

he doesn’t move. the light catches his face, painting him in gold.

“your highness,” he whispers, voice rough. “you shouldn’t.”

you smile faintly. “and yet, i did.”

and when you turn away, he stays still—one hand brushing the place your lips touched, his eyes unreadable, his heart not so much.

as he follows you down the corridor, his shadow overlapping yours, you think that maybe this—this quiet, unspoken devotion—is its own kind of forever.

[mourvii]

⊹₊ ⋆~ · — ❝ the moon knows your name, whisper gently as you enter. ❞

۶ৎ ⋆｡˚ terms of devotion

⋆˙ everything here is sfw. comfort spun into sentences, fragments of tenderness, little gestures of love disguised as stories.

⋆˙ english is not my first language, but i adore it enough to tend to it carefully. forgive me when a sentence stumbles; i promise it tried to bloom.

⋆˙ this is my only blog. no secret doors, no mirror pages. if you find my work elsewhere, it’s a ghost of something sacred.

⋆˙ there is no place here for hate, cruelty, or strange demands. the walls of this space are kept clean for peace, for art, for the people who need a breath of quiet.

⋆˙ please do not repost, copy, or translate my works. reblogs are enough—they are modern love letters.

۶ৎ ⋆｡˚ requests

⋆˙ my askbox is open. you may send prompts, half-dreams, or stray thoughts about your favorite characters. i see everything, even if i take time to answer.

⋆˙ i write only for blue lock and haikyuu!! for now. these are the worlds i know by heart. though my pen wanders where it wishes. each story is a small offering; each character, a feather. 

⋆˙ detailed requests are welcome—i love clarity—but vague ones with emotion are just as lovely. sometimes a single sentence can unravel into a thousand words.

⋆˙ i cannot promise completion, but i can promise care. if a request is not answered, let it drift kindly, every story arrives when it is meant to.

⋆˙ i write for fem!reader, though i keep the details blurred so anyone who needs warmth may find themselves inside. 

⋆˙ no male reader, no explicit content, no violence romanticized.

۶ৎ ⋆｡˚ gentle reminders

⋆˙ i am a student first, a writer second. time moves strangely here—slow, but always forward. so please be patient with me, and with yourself too.

⋆˙ drink water. rest your eyes. remember that love can be quiet, it does not always arrive with noise.

⋆˙ please have courage and be kind.

⋆˙ thank you for being here. you’re part of the beauty that keeps this place alive.

[mourvii]

can i req tsukishima kei x reader please? and be added to the hq taglist?

YESSSSSS DEFINITELY!!

[mourvii]

they’re trying so hard to behave

⤷summary: totally innocent things you do that makes them lose their minds a little

⤷content: fluff, light crack, suggestive undertones??, established relationship

⤷characters: miya osamu, sakusa kiyoomi, ushijima wakatoshi, miya atsumu, kita shinsuke, and tsukishima kei

‎ . ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ OSAMU MIYA

it’s the sauce again.

you’re perched on the counter in one of his shirts, eating fried chicken with your fingers, and you don’t even notice him watching.

“you’re starin’,” you say, voice muffled with food.

“am not.” he’s absolutely lying.

he’s supposed to be mixing batter, but instead he’s thinking about the way you just licked your thumb clean—slow, absentminded. he grips the whisk tighter.

you tilt your head at him, all innocent eyes and a sauce-stained cheek. “you okay there, chef?”

osamu blinks, turns around, mutters something like “yeah, fine” while trying to look anywhere but you.

he’s not fine. not even close.

you swing your legs and hum as if you haven’t just ruined his entire morning. he swears the next time you sit on his counter like that, he’s confiscating all sauces within a ten-meter radius.

. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ SAKUSA KIYOOMI

he’s folding laundry when you come in, hair down and messy from sleep.

then you grab a scrunchie, push your hair back, and tie it up.

he swears time slows down. the wrist twist. the tug. the reveal of your neck. he blinks once, twice, and looks away like he just saw something illegal.

“what?” you ask, oblivious.

“nothing.” he’s staring at the wall now. very intently.

you shrug, go back to scrolling your phone, and he’s left pretending that he isn’t imagining pressing his lips right where your pulse beats.

later, you catch him watching you again in the mirror. “you sure it’s nothing?”

he exhales sharply. “you should... wear your hair down less.”

you laugh, because you know exactly what he means.

. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

you stretch beside him, arms raised above your head, shirt lifting just enough to show the soft curve of your stomach.

he’s reading, or at least he was. now his book is halfway forgotten.

“tired?” he asks, voice steady, but his eyes have gone a little unfocused.

“just stiff.”

he hums like he didn’t just witness a divine act. you drop your arms, sigh contentedly, and he swallows. he has a thought—something about how delicate you look and how badly he wants to trace the shape of you—but he keeps it to himself.

later, when you fall asleep next to him, curled and warm, he closes the book, presses a kiss to your forehead, and whispers something you don’t quite catch.

it sounds like mine.

. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ ATSUMU MIYA

you sass him again—hands on hips, that tiny pout, that look.

“i told you it’s your turn to do the dishes,” you say.

“i’m the breadwinner ‘round here,” he argues dramatically, “shouldn’t have to wash dishes when i’m providin’ for us.”

you stare him down. he cracks first. he always cracks first.

five minutes later, he’s elbow-deep in soap suds, muttering under his breath. you lean against the counter, smug.

“what was that?” you ask sweetly.

“nothin’, sweetheart.”

you hum, start humming a tune as you dry the plates.

he glances up. there it is again—that stupid warmth in his chest that feels like home. he grins, shakes his head.

“ya drive me crazy, ya know that?”

you smirk. “that’s the point.”

. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ KITA SHINSUKE

you’re curled up on the couch, oversized sweater sleeves covering your hands, a steaming cup of tea resting in your lap.

he stops in the doorway for a good ten seconds before he moves again.

“you okay?” you ask, smiling softly.

he nods. “you just look… peaceful.”

it’s a small thing, but it hits him every time—the way you exist so gently. the way you make his quiet evenings feel warmer.

he sits beside you, careful, and you shift enough to lean your cheek on his shoulder. he freezes for a moment, then exhales.

“that’s nice,” you mumble, eyes half-closed.

he hums. “yeah. it is.”

he’ll never admit it out loud, but he thinks you might be the most dangerous thing to ever happen to his heart.

. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ TSUKISHIMA KEI

you’re talking—about something random, probably a meme or a classmate—and your hands are moving all over the place. waving, gesturing, tapping your knuckles on the table when you pause to think.

he’s not listening. not really.

“are you even paying attention?” you ask.

“no,” he says truthfully.

you roll your eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but you’re smiling.

he watches you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and it’s unfair, honestly, how you can make him feel this unsteady without trying.

when you reach out to poke his cheek, he catches your wrist—not hard, just enough to make you blink up at him.

“you talk too much,” he says, but his voice is softer than usual.

you grin. “and yet, you never tell me to stop.”

he doesn’t reply. just lets go of your hand and goes back to his phone—even though he’s not reading a single word on the screen.

[mourvii]

tsukishima kei — in a world of boys, he's a gentleman

⤷summary: everyone thinks kei is a sarcastic, emotionally constipated menace. and honestly? they’re not wrong. but when it comes to you—he’s not cold. he’s careful. he's warm in ways only you know. in a world full of boys fumbling for attention, kei quietly, softly shows you what it means to be chosen.

⤷content: fluff fluff fluff, tsukki’s soft side, light crack

everyone thinks tsukishima kei is difficult to like.

too blunt. too detached. too good at pretending he doesn’t care.

and maybe they’re right. he is a little sharp around the edges—snapping at hinata, rolling his eyes at yamaguchi, walking away from group chatter like it’s too loud for his quiet kind of peace.

but you’ve learned that kei's silence isn’t emptiness. it’s observation. it’s the way he listens before he speaks, the way his eyes soften when he thinks no one’s watching.

it’s the way he looks at you.

he doesn’t flirt. he doesn’t tease. he doesn’t say the pretty things everyone else does. instead, he holds open the gym door for you every time, like it’s a habit now. he’ll untangle your earphones without being asked, hand them back wordlessly, then act like it never happened.

he remembers things you don’t even remember saying. that you hate soggy fries, that you prefer the corner seat in the library, that you always tap your pen twice before writing.

and maybe he doesn’t say you look beautiful today—but he does say, “you forgot your jacket again,” before draping his over your shoulders.

and maybe he doesn’t hold your hand in front of everyone—but he’ll walk on the outside of the sidewalk, every single time.

kei doesn’t do grand gestures. he does quiet ones. he doesn’t chase attention; he just chooses you, again and again, in the simplest ways that mean the most.

he’ll mock you when you trip, “how clumsy can you be?" but still steady you with a hand on your arm. he’ll roll his eyes when you rant about something stupid, but he’ll also be the one to text you later—did it go okay?

you once asked him, half teasing, “do you even like me?”

and he just looked at you for a long time, something unguarded flickering in his eyes before he said,

“if you need me to say it, you haven’t been paying attention.”

and that’s how he is. not loud, not obvious—but steady, constant, the kind of person who makes love feel like safety, not spectacle.

tsukishima kei doesn’t hold your hand to prove anything. he holds it because it fits. because it’s warm. because he wants to.

and in a world of boys trying too hard to impress, he’s the one who doesn’t need to.

he’s the one who looks at you like you’re already enough.

he’s the one who teaches you that love doesn’t have to be loud to be real—

sometimes, it just sounds like, “text me when you get home.”

[mourvii]

oh em gee please i love you so much

i think you are the best blogger and you have the best romantic writing.especially the kaiser ones.BRO THIS IS PEAK.i love how you can see the characters down moments and the reader...probably the best reader ive ever seen and has the closest personality to mines

dare i say if your fics were food i would eat them up and not shitting it out 😖😋

STOPP ILOVEYOUSOMUCHHTOOO😭 this is literally the greatest compliment for me in the whole century?? thank you sm you don’t understand how much this means to me🥹 and i love that you love my kaiser fics (you have taste) it makes me so happy that you can see yourself in the reader. thank you for saying this, you just made my whole day🙆🏻‍♀️

[mourvii]

haiii… i had an idea, may i please request something kinda like “you are loved, michael” but with rin? maybe he’s feeling crushed by the weight of being in sae’s shadow and he’s Sad GUHHHH SORRY THAT FIC JUST MELTED MEEEEEEEE im a huge sucker for reverse comfort with “tough” characters ;_; <3

it’s totally okay if not! thank you! ^_^

-🐩🎀

haii!! omg first of all i’m so sorry this took forever😭 school’s been eating me alive lately (events, exams, everything all at once sobs) but i finally got around to writing your request! thank you so much for being patient with me💙 i just posted it, you can read it [here] <3

[mourvii]

itoshi rin — you are loved, rin

⤷summary: rin comes home carrying more silence than words, and you remind him that he doesn't have to be strong all the time.

⤷content: soft hurt/comfort, quiet love, reassurance, exhaustion, tenderness, emotional intimacy

rin doesn’t come home angry. he comes home empty.

the door clicks shut behind him, and he doesn’t even bother with the light. just toes his shoes off, drops his jacket somewhere, and sinks onto the edge of the bed like he’s carrying too much weight.

you know better than to ask right away. when it’s like this, rin needs space—just enough to realize he doesn’t actually want to be alone.

so you sit beside him, close but not touching, letting the silence stretch. eventually, his hands drag over his face, down his neck, like he’s trying to rub away everything he’s not saying.

“practice?” you ask softly.

he gives the smallest nod. his hair falls into his eyes, and for once, he doesn’t push it back.

“bad day?”

“...something like that.” his voice is hoarse, barely there.

you hum, not pushing. you wait. and it works—after a long pause, he mutters, “i can’t do it. not like him.”

he doesn’t name sae, but the ghost is there. he always is.

your chest aches. “rin—”

“don’t.” his head drops, shoulders curling in. “don’t tell me i’m fine. i hate when people say that. i’m not.”

he’s not looking at you, but his hands twitch against his knees like he wants to reach for you and doesn’t know how.

you shift closer, slow enough for him to stop you if he wants. “okay,” you whisper. “i won’t say you’re fine. i’ll just say i’m here.”

he lets out a humorless laugh under his breath, low and sharp. “doesn’t feel like enough,” he mutters, voice cracking. “i’m trying and trying, but it’s never enough. not compared to him.”

“it’s enough for me,” you say firmly, not letting him sink further. “you don’t need to compare yourself in this space. with me, there’s no competition.”

his breath stutters, shaky. and then, after another beat, he leans—hesitant, stiff at first, like he’s testing if you’ll really stay.

you do. of course you do.

you wrap an arm around him, coaxing him down until his forehead rests against your shoulder. his fists stay clenched in his lap, but little by little, his body gives in, his weight sagging against you.

“if i stop being strong for even a second, i’ll fall apart,” he whispers, so faint you almost miss it.

you stroke his hair back from his face. “then fall apart here. i’ll hold the pieces.”

“you don’t have to be like him,” you murmur into his hair. “you don’t have to be anyone but you. that’s already enough for me.”

his shoulders tense, like he’s bracing himself against your words, like they’re too heavy to believe. you smooth your hand down his back, slow and steady, letting him feel the truth in your touch before he can argue with it in his head.

“you say that like it’s easy,” he murmurs, bitter but trembling. “you don’t know what it’s like—living in his shadow. i feel like i’ve been drowning since i was a kid.”

“then let me be the shore you can rest on,” you reply gently. “you don’t have to swim alone anymore.”

his throat works around a sound he doesn’t let out. but when his fingers finally uncurl to catch at the fabric of your shirt, you know he heard you.

the grip isn’t strong—it’s almost shy, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away if he holds too tight. you cover his hand with yours, weaving your fingers through his, anchoring him in place. “i’ve got you,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

and when he whispers, barely audible—

“don’t let go.”

you hold him tighter.

his voice cracks on the words, and it guts you. but it also makes you want to wrap the whole world around him, keep him safe from every shadow he thinks he’ll never outrun. you press your lips to the side of his head, lingering there.

“i’m scared you’ll realize i’m not worth it,” he admits suddenly, voice breaking, as if the confession has been rotting in his chest for years.

“rin,” you breathe, tugging him closer, “you’re worth it to me. every version of you is. even when you’re quiet. even when you’re hurting. especially then.”

“i won’t,” you promise. “not even if you ask me to.”

there’s a pause, a trembling silence, before you feel him exhale against your neck. it’s shaky, uneven, but it’s real—like he’s been holding his breath for years and is finally letting it go. you rock him slightly, an instinct more than anything, and his body follows the rhythm, loosening by inches.

the quiet settles again, but it’s different now. softer. safe. rin doesn’t have to say anything else—you can feel it in the way he breathes, in the way he stays pressed to you like he’s letting himself believe, for once, that maybe he isn’t second best. maybe he’s just… loved.

“stay like this,” he mumbles, half-asleep already, words thick and slurred. “just for a while.”

you smile into his hair, your hand tracing calming lines down his spine. “for as long as you need, rin. i’m not going anywhere.”

and as his weight melts fully against you, you know he’s letting you carry him, even if only for tonight. his hand curls tighter in your shirt, like he’s finally allowing himself to need someone. you squeeze back, silent but steady, and think: let him sleep, let him rest. you’ll keep him here as long as it takes.

[mourvii]

michael kaiser — all the ways i need you

⤷ summary: drinks after work shouldn’t feel like betrayal, but when you come home late to a dark apartment and a frantic michael kaiser, silence turns sharp and love starts to sound a lot like fear.

⤷ content:  angst to fluff, fear of abandonment, arguments, yelling, vulnerability, messy love, aftercare, mentions of childhood trauma

michael is waiting for you before you even step out of the office.

well, not literally—he’s not leaning against the doorframe with his hands shoved in his pockets like some brooding movie character. but the thought of him lingers, in the back of your mind, the way it always does. you picture him sprawled on the couch, hair still damp from a shower, scrolling on his phone and pretending not to check the clock every five minutes.

he always tells you he doesn’t care what time you get home, says it with that lazy grin, like he’s above worrying. but you know better. michael kaiser doesn’t do well with silence, with waiting. he doesn’t do well with uncertainty.

so when your coworker insists on drinks, you hesitate. your first instinct is to decline—to go straight home, back to him. but then someone clinks glasses, laughter spills out like it’s contagious, and for once you let yourself sink into it.

now, you don’t think much of it at first. drinks after work. one of your coworkers got a promotion and insisted on celebrating, so you let yourself be talked into one round, then two. it’s been a while since you laughed like that, head thrown back, cheeks aching.

but by the time you realize your phone is dead and the streets are quieter than you’d like, it’s nearly midnight.

your stomach twists, not with fear exactly, but with the sudden awareness that someone is waiting for you. michael. the thought makes you quicken your pace, guilt blooming with every step closer to home.

your keys fumble in the lock, and for a split second you imagine him already asleep, blanket pulled up over his shoulders—but you know better. he doesn’t sleep when he’s waiting for you.

when you finally push the apartment door open, you find michael sitting on the couch in the dark. tv off, his jacket still on, sneakers tossed half-heartedly near the door. his hands are pressed together, knuckles white, and he looks up at you like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

“hey,” you start carefully, soft, guilty. “sorry. my phone died. i should’ve—”

“where the hell were you?”

the words snap sharper than you expect. not just sharp—loud. michael’s voice cuts through the still apartment, ricocheting off the walls, and for a second, you just stand there. stunned.

because michael doesn’t yell at you. he teases, he whines dramatically, he sings off-key to annoy you—but he doesn’t yell.

“i told you,” you say slowly, trying not to flinch. “we went out. i just… lost track of time.”

“lost track of time?” he repeats, louder now, almost incredulous. “do you think that makes it better? do you even fucking realize what it’s like for me—sitting here, staring at the door, wondering if i’m gonna get a call instead of seeing you walk through it?”

he surges to his feet, voice rising with every word. his sudden movement makes you flinch before you can stop yourself, shoulders jerking the slightest bit back. it’s quick, almost imperceptible, but not to him—never to him. you see the way his face twists, the flash of self-disgust flickering under the anger. still, he can’t seem to stop himself, words tumbling out sharper than he means them.

“midnight, no texts, no answer, nothing—do you know what goes through my head? every worst-case scenario! you’re hurt, you’re gone, you’ve decided not to come back—” his hand cuts through the air, sharp, helpless. “and i’m just supposed to sit here and take it?”

his pacing grows erratic, steps too quick, too tight for the small space. “fuck, do you get it at all? you think it’s just drinks after work, but to me—it’s hours of silence. it’s this pit in my chest that doesn’t let me breathe. it’s waiting for someone who might never walk back in.” his voice breaks on the last word, the anger cracking into something more fragile, though he’s still shouting. “and you just stroll in like it’s nothing!”

but he’s already pacing, dragging a hand through his hair. his eyes are bright, frantic, like a cornered animal.

“do you even know how fucking worried i was?” he spits, voice trembling under the weight of it. “i thought—” he cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut.

the silence that follows is heavier than the shouting.

you swear you can almost hear the clock ticking in the background, filling up the space he can’t.

you see it then. the panic trembling in his hands, the redness at the tips of his ears, the way his chest heaves like he’s been running laps in his head all night.

and you get it. you get how a boy raised on instability, on broken promises and worse, might spiral into believing he’s seconds away from being left again.

but that doesn’t mean the sting of his voice doesn’t linger. and it doesn’t mean he missed the way you recoiled, even for that single second. that image has already lodged in his mind like glass.

“michael,” you murmur, a warning, a plea.

his head drops into his hands, shoulders curling inward. the fight drains from him in an instant, leaving behind only exhaustion and regret.

“fuck,” he whispers. “i didn’t mean to yell at you. i just—” he lifts his face, and the cracks are all there, raw and ugly. “i got so scared. you didn’t answer, and i thought… i thought you weren't coming back. i thought i’d already lost you.”

and then it hits you. the truth of it. not anger. not control. fear.

you cross the room, kneeling in front of him, tugging his hands away from his face so he has to look at you.

“micha,” you say softly, steady. “i came home. i’m here. you didn’t lose me.”

his throat works around a swallow, eyes glassy. “i sounded just like him, didn’t i? i promised myself i’d never be like that, never shout at someone i…” his voice cracks, breaking on the last word. “someone i love.”

his voice gets smaller the more he speaks, like he’s shrinking under the weight of the memory. “he’d scream at me over nothing. slam doors, break things. i hated it—i hated him. and now i’m standing here hearing my own voice echo back at me and all i can think is… maybe i’m no better.” his fingers twist in the fabric of his pants, restless, desperate. “i don’t want you to ever feel what i felt growing up. not even for a second. but tonight—” his breath hitches, raw. “tonight i know i made you flinch. i saw it. and i can’t forgive myself for that.”

his chest heaves, uneven, as if he’s choking on air itself. “what if i don’t know how to stop? what if i ruin this—ruin us—because i don’t know how to be anything but broken?” he squeezes his eyes shut, like he can’t bear to see your face when he admits it. “tell me what to do. tell me how to be better. i’ll do anything.”

and god, it hurts. because you see the boy underneath the bravado. the one who still flinches at echoes of a childhood he’d rather bury.

when you reach for him, his hand jerks back instinctively, like he’s terrified of himself. his eyes widen, panic flooding them. “don’t—” he croaks, shaking his head. “if i touch you, what if—what if i hurt you again? i can’t—i can’t be that person to you.” his hands hover uselessly between you, trembling with the war inside him: the need to hold you and the terror of breaking you.

you catch his wrist gently, pressing it to your cheek, grounding him. “micha,” you whisper, letting his touch linger. “this? this doesn’t hurt me. you don’t hurt me. you’re not him.” your words settle like a balm, soft and steady. slowly, cautiously, his fingers curl against your skin, the fear giving way to fragile relief. and when you lean in, guiding his other hand to your waist, you feel the shudder leave his chest, like he’s relearning how to trust himself.

you press your forehead to his, grounding him. “you’re not him. you raised your voice, yeah. but you’re not him. you didn’t hurt me. you got scared. and that’s human.”

his breath shudders out against your lips, the tension in his shoulders melting like ice in your palms.

“don’t leave,” he whispers.

“i won’t,” you promise. “not because you asked. but because i choose to stay.”

michael folds then. into you, into your arms, into the quiet relief that maybe—just maybe—the cycle ends here.

you stay like that for a long time, curled together on the couch, his face buried in the crook of your neck like he’s trying to inhale proof of your existence. his hands—those hands that the whole world calls ruthless on the field—cling to the fabric of your shirt as if it’s the only thing tethering him.

every time he shifts, he makes a small sound in the back of his throat, like he’s checking you’re still there.

“you smell like cheap beer,” he mumbles into your skin, voice muffled and raw.

you laugh softly, combing your fingers through his tangled hair. “and you smell like cologne and nerves.”

he lets out something between a chuckle and a sob, the sound breaking against your collarbone. “god, i hate how much i need you.”

“that’s not a bad thing,” you whisper, tracing lazy circles down his back. “needing people means you’re alive.”

his head tips back then, eyes still shining but softer now, the storm giving way to something clearer. he cups your jaw with a trembling hand, thumb brushing over your cheek like you’re fragile porcelain he’s terrified to crack.

“you have no idea how much i love you,” he says, voice so low it feels like a confession not meant for anyone else to hear.

and before you can answer, he kisses you. not with his usual fire or teasing smirk, but with desperation that tastes like salt and apology. you let him kiss you messy, unpracticed, because it’s the most honest thing he’s ever given you. you kiss him back, steady and unhurried, like you’re reminding him there’s no rush—there’s a lifetime here, waiting.

when you finally pull away, he presses his lips to your temple, your nose, your eyelids, like he’s relearning every inch of you by heart.

“stay with me tonight,” he murmurs, though you both know it’s less a request and more a plea.

you smile, tugging the throw blanket over both of you. “i wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

he exhales, a shaky, grateful sound, and finally—finally—his body goes slack in your arms, like he’s let himself believe you.

and when his breathing evens out, his face tucked safely against your chest, you hold him closer, thinking how strange and beautiful it is: this boy who shouts at the world but whispers his fears into your skin.

and in that quiet, you decide you’ll remind him a thousand times if you have to: you’re not leaving. not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. 

later, when you coax him up from the couch, he moves like he’s half-asleep, half-afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. he follows you into the bedroom without protest, hovering as you change into an old shirt of his, watching like he needs the reassurance. he brings you a glass of water, presses it into your hands with a mumbled, “drink.” when you do, he kisses your damp lips after like it’s proof you listened.

in bed, he doesn’t sprawl like usual—doesn’t take up space with that cocky ease. instead, he tucks himself into you, head heavy on your chest, arms tight around your waist. you smooth his hair back again and again until his breathing slows. just before he drifts, you hear him mumble against your skin, words slurred with exhaustion:

“wake me if you need anything. promise?”

you kiss the crown of his head, whispering, “promise,” even though you’re not the one who needs it. and when sleep finally takes him, you stay awake a little longer, keeping watch, because for once, you don’t mind being the one to hold the weight.

[mourvii]

michael kaiser — don't leave me behind

⤷ summary: michael thinks you’ve stopped loving him when finals take up all your time. so he starts spoiling you, desperate for your attention—until you remind him that your love never left.

⤷ content: angst to fluff, hurt/comfort, emotional vulnerability, soft comfort, established relationship

he watches you sleep like he’s trying to memorize it.

not just the shape of your lashes against your cheeks or the way your lips part with every breath,

but the fact that you’re still here. beside him.

you’re still his.

but god—

for the first time in a while, michael kaiser doesn’t feel sure.

he used to be certain of everything. the ball, the goal, the win.

the world revolved around his name, his image, his genius.

he’s kaiser. he doesn’t lose.

and then there’s you.

the girl he lost to the library.

the girl he’s losing to finals.

the girl he’s terrified he’ll lose, period.

it’s stupid. he knows it’s stupid. you told him you’re just busy. you’re always like this during exams. hyper-focused. tunnel vision.

he knows.

but it still doesn’t stop that sick little voice in his head whispering,

“she doesn’t need you anymore.”

“you’re a distraction.”

“she’s tired of you.”

because you haven’t touched him the same lately.

you haven’t looked at him like he’s everything.

and maybe it’s dramatic—okay, it’s absolutely dramatic—but he swears you used to kiss him like you needed him to breathe.

and now you just say “i’m tired, goodnight.”

and that?

that fucking wrecks him.

because michael kaiser only ever had one person leave him.

his mom.

and now, the fear that you’ll be the second is eating him alive.

—

so the next day, he does what he knows how to do best.

he wins you back.

coffee. snacks. post-it notes with stupid little doodles of you with hearts around your head.

he books a spa day. he buys you a plush bear that says “i love you” when you squeeze it.

he sends flowers to your dorm. he cooks dinner.

he fucking tries.

he even goes out of his way to walk you back from the library one night, despite it being way past midnight, despite his teammates nagging him about needing rest. he stands outside waiting in the cold just so he can carry your bag.

he doesn’t say it, but he’s hoping you’ll notice. hoping you’ll look at him like before.

and you—

you notice.

you notice how your desk is cleaner than you left it.

how your favorite mug is washed and warm in your hands.

how your highlighters are neatly lined up instead of scattered.

how he’s waiting up for you every night, even when you tell him not to.

how his eyes look a little more desperate lately, like he’s searching your face for something he can’t name.

but you’re tired.

so tired that when he reaches for your hand one night, you barely manage to squeeze it back before mumbling something about “just one more chapter.”

you don’t realize how much that crushes him.

how he sits awake after you fall asleep, staring at your hand limp against his chest, wondering if you even want to hold him anymore.

—

it builds.

the tension in his chest, the ache in his throat.

one day, he shows up at your study corner with your favorite pastries, only to see you laughing with a classmate who just cracked a joke about finals stress.

and for a second—just a split second—he hates that person. hates that someone else is making you smile when he’s been working so hard just to get a glance.

he doesn’t say anything, though.

just drops the bag of pastries on your desk and says, “don’t forget to eat.”

but his voice is too sharp, too bitter. you notice.

and that’s when you decide you’ve had enough.

—

you sit him down that night.

you don’t even ask “what’s going on,” because you already know.

you just say,

“hey. come here. talk to me.”

and he hates that you’re being gentle.

he hates that you see right through him.

he wants to pretend he’s fine. that he’s confident. that he hasn’t been spiraling every night just because you haven’t touched his hand in three days.

but the words come out anyway.

quiet. cracked.

“i thought you stopped loving me.”

and you break.

just a little.

“michael…”

he doesn’t cry, but he’s close.

the boy who walked out on his childhood home at fifteen with a middle finger in the air and a dream in his chest now looks like he’s ten again.

“i know it’s dumb. i just... i don’t wanna be left again.”

and that’s the thing about michael kaiser.

he never asks to be held. never asks for comfort.

he just gives and gives until he’s empty and calls it love.

but tonight, he lets you hold him.

lets your fingers thread through his hair, lets your words patch the bruises in his brain.

lets himself believe that maybe—just maybe—you’re still choosing him.

“i’m sorry i made you feel unloved,” you whisper into his skin.

“i was just locked in. i didn’t realize i was locking you out, too.”

you kiss his temple.

his jaw.

his lips.

soft. slow. like you have all the time in the world.

“you’re not second place, micha.”

“you’re not a distraction.”

“you’re everything.”

and just like that, he breathes again.

—

the next morning, when you wake up wrapped in him, your nose in his neck, his arms holding you like a lifeline—

you realize he wasn’t trying to win you back.

he just needed to know you weren’t walking away.

and god, you’d never let him think that again.

[mourvii]

itoshi sae — burnout

⤷ summary: you're running on deadlines and stress-tears when sae shows up at 1 a.m.—half-asleep, hoodie-clad, and ready to remind you that even achievers need rest.

⤷ content: fluff, comfort, academic pressure, softy boyfriend sae, academic achiever girlfriend, kinda angsty..?

it starts with your laptop screen glowing in the dark, the only source of light in your room at 1 a.m. your fingers hover over the keyboard, your eyes glassy and heavy, but your to-do list isn’t finished yet. you told yourself one more task. just one more.

but your mind is fried. your chest is tight. you can’t even remember what the last paragraph you read was about. the words blur together, and you let out a shaky sigh as you pull your blanket tighter around your shoulders.

you take another sip of your now-cold coffee, wincing at the bitter taste. the mug’s been sitting there for hours, probably since you started this study session. a part of you wants to get up and make a fresh one, but your body feels too heavy to move. instead, you stare blankly at the blinking cursor, wondering if your brain’s finally given up on you.

outside, the night is quiet. too quiet. you can hear the faint hum of your air conditioner and the occasional bark of a stray dog down the street. you wonder if everyone else in the world is asleep, except for you and maybe some other overworked student miles away, both of you burning your sanity for deadlines no one will remember in a few years.

then there’s a knock. two soft knocks. your door creaks open a second later.

"you’re still up," sae says, not surprised.

he walks in quietly, wearing an old navy hoodie and sweatpants. his hair is a little messy, his eyes still soft from sleep. he looks so warm, so calm and so different from you right now.

“you look like you’re about to fuse with your laptop,” he comments, leaning on your doorframe.

“funny,” you mutter without looking up.

“not really. you’re blinking like.. once every three minutes.”

"i have deadlines," you mutter, trying to sit straighter. "and i’m behind on a few readings."

he doesn’t say anything at first. he just walks to your desk and peers at your screen. word document. empty. google classroom. seven unread messages. multiple tabs open.

"you’re exhausted," he finally says, gently.

"i know," you whisper.

he crouches down beside your chair, reaching out to tuck your hair behind your ear. his thumb brushes your cheek, and he frowns. "and you’ve been crying."

"not really. just.. stress-tears."

he looks at you for a long moment, then pulls you by the hand.

"sae… i really have to—"

"no," he says firmly, tugging you to your bed. "you need to rest. five hours of sleep won't kill your grades, but burnout might."

“you sound like my guidance counselor,” you grumble, even as you let him pull you away from the desk.

“except i’m better looking,” he says flatly, which earns him your first small smile of the night.

you don’t have the energy to fight him on that. not when his hand is warm around yours, not when his voice is so steady. so you let him guide you to your bed.

he makes you lie down, and then crawls in beside you, pulling the blanket over both of you. you nestle against his chest, and he pulls you closer, as if trying to shield you from the world.

the steady sound of his heartbeat is a sound you didn’t know you needed tonight. it drowns out the noise in your head—the reminders, the lists, the “you’re not doing enough” voice that’s been gnawing at you all week.

"you know i think you’re the smartest person i’ve ever met, right?" he murmurs against your hair.

"i’m not that smart," you mumble.

"you are. you work so hard. too hard, sometimes."

you go quiet, heart thudding. sae never says much, but when he does, it always hits.

"i just want to make my family proud," you admit, voice small.

"and you do. you make everyone proud. even me."

that makes you smile a little. "you? mr. national treasure?"

he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. his expression is serious. "yeah. me."

"you’re ridiculous," you whisper.

"you love it," he whispers back.

and you do. god, you do.

he's seen you at your most composed—honor student, debate champion, organized planner with neat notes and a full schedule. but he's also seen you like this: messy bun, eye bags, trembling hands from too much caffeine and too little rest. and he still looks at you like you're everything.

“stop staring at me like that,” you mumble.

“like what?”

“like i’m… something special.”

“that’s because you are,” he says simply, and you have to look away before your heart combusts.

you don’t even realize you’ve been clutching his hoodie like a lifeline until his hand slides over yours, gently easing your grip. “relax,” he says softly, and for a moment you let yourself believe that it’s okay to.

"i'm scared, sae," you say suddenly. "what if i mess up? what if i'm not enough anymore?"

he doesn't respond right away. he simply moves closer, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"then i'll still be here," he says.

you blink up at him.

"even if you fail," he adds. "even if you're tired. even if you're not perfect. i'm not here for your grades. i'm here for you."

it makes your throat tighten. your eyes sting again.

"that's so unfair," you whisper.

"why?"

"because now i love you even more."

his lips curve into the faintest smile. "good. because i plan to stay."

"you don’t get it," you mumble, pressing your face into his hoodie. "it’s like… if i stop working hard, everything i’ve built will just crumble."

"then let it crumble for one night," he says softly, his hand rubbing circles on your back. "i’ll help you rebuild it tomorrow. but tonight, you’re mine. not your deadlines’."

you let out a small, helpless laugh. "you sound like you’ve been rehearsing that line."

"maybe i have," he says, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "you’re worth preparing for."

and you know he means it.

“fine,” you sigh, pretending to be reluctant. “but only because you’re warm.”

“you could just admit you like sleeping next to me,” he teases.

“don’t push it, itoshi.”

then, minutes pass in comfortable silence. your breathing starts to match his. at one point, his hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers intertwining like they were always meant to fit.

he stays with you the entire night. eventually, you fall asleep in his arms.

—

when you wake up, the sunlight is peeking through your curtains, your laptop is shut, and there’s a glass of water and a handwritten note on your desk:

breathe. your brain deserves rest too. - sae

and on the corner of the note, there’s a little doodle of a cat with a graduation cap.

(it's terrible. he's a football prodigy, not an artist. but it makes you laugh.)

you pick up the note, smiling to yourself, when you hear a sleepy voice from behind you. "don’t laugh at my art," sae mutters, still half-asleep on your bed.

"it’s cute," you assure him, tucking the paper into your planner like a keepsake. "i’m keeping it forever."

he hums, eyes closing again. "good. then you’ll always remember that someone told you to breathe."

you glance at him—hair messy, hoodie wrinkled, but still effortlessly him—and it strikes you how rare it is to feel this…. safe.

and maybe, you feel like you can do this.

not because you have to. but because you want to.

and because someone like itoshi sae is cheering for you, quietly, always.