felibrary

[felibrary]

hey guys..so id like to inform yall abt one of ur fav writers. @azullumi is in love with edward cullen. azul keeps searching for sunscreen and i think that's a sign....

[felibrary]

guys so id love to upload the first chapter alr but its too LONG LMFAO. ill beta read shorten and edit tmrw and hopefully it'll be released then or the day after that!!

[felibrary]

you're in a crisis !! the crisis being there's only one bed

content tags — featuring: hsr men (not everyone though) | fluff, whatever thing is going in on your relationship, except they have a little crush on you, kind of crack, headcanons | wc: 1.2k

jellyfish notes — guys my phatass cat wont stop hoarding the bed

Phainon is gaslighting himself into thinking that the floor looks the most comfortable even if it actually wasn’t. He absolutely thinks it’s the superior option—sure, his back will hate him tomorrow but at least his dignity remains intact. He avoids admitting that the bed is fine as if he would die the moment he utters his predicament. When you finally drag him to the mattress after what seems to be hundreds of years of insisting, he lies so rigidly he could practically become a table at this point. The barrier of a single pillow between you is a joke. He hates how hyper-aware and sensitive he can be of every shift you make, every rustle of fabric, and when morning comes, he’s a sleep-deprived mess staring at the ceiling. “This is fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

Anaxagoras sees nothing worth panicking over—he raises an eyebrow at your hesitation. “It’s just a bed,” he says, “the both of us will just sleep on it,” he says. Unless you want to complain, then you should go sleep on the couch or the floor or the bathroom even. It is as simple as that (he’s on that nonchalant sh). The problem is he hoards the blanket as if he owns it. The man literally has it trapped under his weight like a wrestler pinning an opponent and you’re left shivering with what you have, wondering why you ever trusted him.

Before you could even say anything, Mydei is already walking to the couch and flopping down on it. When asked if he’s going to sleep on the bed later, he’ll only say that it’s all yours to have. Discussion closed. If you toss a pillow at him, he’ll catch it without opening his eyes before tucking it under his head—that’s the most you’ll get from him.

You should have known what a little shit Caelus is. He'll opt for sleeping on the floor, right close to the bed where you can completely see him, even though there is a perfectly fine couch over there that is possibly more comfortable than the ground he insists on. He is committed to the bit, escalating his performance into Oscar-worthy height, sprawled all over the ground like a fallen hero in a musical. “The aching," he moans, clutching a throw pillow to his chest like a deathbed prop. “UGH, my back! If only someone is so kind as to offer me something warm… like a bed. This is not directed to you, [Name]. How could I ever be so scandalous and greedy to take something away from you.” Except he’s being scandalous. Is this his way of making you feel guilty? Yes. Is it working? Terribly so.

It’s hard to tell what Dan Heng is thinking at the moment, especially with his silence. But suddenly, he moves with the precision of a mechanical robot, prepares the bed and tells you that you’ll have it while he sleeps somewhere else. However, it takes three logical appeals—“The chair will ruin your back"—, one impulsive grab at his sleeve, and his own traitorous exhaustion before he relents and lies down. It’s a little quiet, don’t you think? Is he already asleep? Apparently not, because the ceiling looks more interesting than any kind of dream right now. Eventually, you’ll find yourself asking him random questions to which he answers anyway until you fall asleep. Dawn reveals him exactly where he started, spine straight, hands folded on his chest, as if he’s some kind of a display. The only evidence he ever moved at all is the blanket now tucked over your shoulders.

Jing Yuan finds some kind of delight or entertainment in this situation. He’s having way too much fun with this, so much so that he teases you so much and you have to smack him repeatedly until he stops—he doesn’t though, and you’re so close to just grabbing his lips with your hand. Grinning, he’ll say: “But why would I sleep on the couch? There’s a bed over there.” or something like, “Oh, you’re sure you don’t want to share?”. In the end, you cannot completely win against him so the two of you end up in the same space, only a few inches apart because as fate would have it, there’s only one pillow too.

Give Sunday a moment to just process and look if there are any other beds in the room. When he finally realizes there’s one and nothing else, yeahhh… flustered at the thought of being on the same bed as you? Maybe, but he still tries to be a gentleman and offers for you to take the bed’s comfort and he’ll look for something to work with for his sleep. He is just so close to cracking—his princely composure fading into nothing as he debates the ethics of sharing versus his very obvious crush. "Perhaps… if we both face opposite walls?" he suggests weakly, like that’ll somehow erase the tension. When you finally tug him onto the bed, he lies so still you’d think he’s in a coffin, hands clasped over his chest like a vampire praying for restraint.

Yeah, you and Boothill are sharing that bed despite you insisting that the two of you would not fit in it. You have no choice at all. And somehow, your crisis went from where to sleep to how to sleep because he moves a lot like he’s in some kind of boxing competition in his dreams. He is a one-man apocalypse—he is both the zombie and the survivor, flipping, rolling, and doing everything but not giving you peace. You ended up kicking him out of frustration, perhaps a little too hard because he nearly fell to the ground—-amazingly, he didn’t wake up. Annoyingly, he just comes back like a boomerang and by morning, you’re a shell of a person, while he stretches like he had the best sleep in his entire life.

That is no problem at all because Blade does not fucking sleep. Somehow, that stresses you out.

Dr. Ratio would sigh and ask whether you prefer the bed, the floor, or the couch (if there is any). Whatever you choose, you’re sleeping there, although it seems kind of stupid to give you the illusion of choice because he’ll scold you if you choose anything else other than the bed. Say what? You’re choosing the couch? Okay, have fun sleeping on the bed. Unbelievable, he has logicked you into submission. And when words fail and you still protest, he lifts you like a misbehaving kitten and drops you onto the mattress (those muscles are not just for display). "Go to sleep," he commands, looming over you like a crazed professor.

With the ever-loving gentleman Argenti, you’re always taken care of and considered by him. He is just insufferably chivalrous. "A flower as delicate as you deserves the finest rest," he’ll say, gesturing to the bed like it’s a throne. He’s draping you in blankets, tucking you under them like you’re some kind of fragile artifact, then afterwards, he prepares to rest on a single-cushioned chair. He will not be swayed no matter what you say, so just go sleep and don’t worry about him.

One bed? No worries, Aventurine will just get another room for himself. No room either? Guess, you’re stuck with him now. “What’s the harm in sharing, friend?” What you imagined to be a night of fine wine and dinner ends up in a mess of pillow-fighting after you threw one directly on his face, to which he retaliated, and you, too, also retaliated until it ended into this chaos. Finally, when you grudgingly settle in and resigned to your fate, lounging on your side of the bed, you fall asleep to the sound of his laugh and his whispered words of goodnight. You’ll wake up baffled, however, as you see him curled on the couch, one arm dangling off, having silently relocated sometime in the night. The audacity of this man to play chivalrous after wrecking the room.

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[felibrary]

you're in a crisis !! the crisis being there's only one bed

content tags — featuring: hsr men (not everyone though) | fluff, whatever thing is going in on your relationship, except they have a little crush on you, kind of crack, headcanons | wc: 1.2k

jellyfish notes — guys my phatass cat wont stop hoarding the bed

Phainon is gaslighting himself into thinking that the floor looks the most comfortable even if it actually wasn’t. He absolutely thinks it’s the superior option—sure, his back will hate him tomorrow but at least his dignity remains intact. He avoids admitting that the bed is fine as if he would die the moment he utters his predicament. When you finally drag him to the mattress after what seems to be hundreds of years of insisting, he lies so rigidly he could practically become a table at this point. The barrier of a single pillow between you is a joke. He hates how hyper-aware and sensitive he can be of every shift you make, every rustle of fabric, and when morning comes, he’s a sleep-deprived mess staring at the ceiling. “This is fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

Anaxagoras sees nothing worth panicking over—he raises an eyebrow at your hesitation. “It’s just a bed,” he says, “the both of us will just sleep on it,” he says. Unless you want to complain, then you should go sleep on the couch or the floor or the bathroom even. It is as simple as that (he’s on that nonchalant sh). The problem is he hoards the blanket as if he owns it. The man literally has it trapped under his weight like a wrestler pinning an opponent and you’re left shivering with what you have, wondering why you ever trusted him.

Before you could even say anything, Mydei is already walking to the couch and flopping down on it. When asked if he’s going to sleep on the bed later, he’ll only say that it’s all yours to have. Discussion closed. If you toss a pillow at him, he’ll catch it without opening his eyes before tucking it under his head—that’s the most you’ll get from him.

You should have known what a little shit Caelus is. He'll opt for sleeping on the floor, right close to the bed where you can completely see him, even though there is a perfectly fine couch over there that is possibly more comfortable than the ground he insists on. He is committed to the bit, escalating his performance into Oscar-worthy height, sprawled all over the ground like a fallen hero in a musical. “The aching," he moans, clutching a throw pillow to his chest like a deathbed prop. “UGH, my back! If only someone is so kind as to offer me something warm… like a bed. This is not directed to you, [Name]. How could I ever be so scandalous and greedy to take something away from you.” Except he’s being scandalous. Is this his way of making you feel guilty? Yes. Is it working? Terribly so.

It’s hard to tell what Dan Heng is thinking at the moment, especially with his silence. But suddenly, he moves with the precision of a mechanical robot, prepares the bed and tells you that you’ll have it while he sleeps somewhere else. However, it takes three logical appeals—“The chair will ruin your back"—, one impulsive grab at his sleeve, and his own traitorous exhaustion before he relents and lies down. It’s a little quiet, don’t you think? Is he already asleep? Apparently not, because the ceiling looks more interesting than any kind of dream right now. Eventually, you’ll find yourself asking him random questions to which he answers anyway until you fall asleep. Dawn reveals him exactly where he started, spine straight, hands folded on his chest, as if he’s some kind of a display. The only evidence he ever moved at all is the blanket now tucked over your shoulders.

Jing Yuan finds some kind of delight or entertainment in this situation. He’s having way too much fun with this, so much so that he teases you so much and you have to smack him repeatedly until he stops—he doesn’t though, and you’re so close to just grabbing his lips with your hand. Grinning, he’ll say: “But why would I sleep on the couch? There’s a bed over there.” or something like, “Oh, you’re sure you don’t want to share?”. In the end, you cannot completely win against him so the two of you end up in the same space, only a few inches apart because as fate would have it, there’s only one pillow too.

Give Sunday a moment to just process and look if there are any other beds in the room. When he finally realizes there’s one and nothing else, yeahhh… flustered at the thought of being on the same bed as you? Maybe, but he still tries to be a gentleman and offers for you to take the bed’s comfort and he’ll look for something to work with for his sleep. He is just so close to cracking—his princely composure fading into nothing as he debates the ethics of sharing versus his very obvious crush. "Perhaps… if we both face opposite walls?" he suggests weakly, like that’ll somehow erase the tension. When you finally tug him onto the bed, he lies so still you’d think he’s in a coffin, hands clasped over his chest like a vampire praying for restraint.

Yeah, you and Boothill are sharing that bed despite you insisting that the two of you would not fit in it. You have no choice at all. And somehow, your crisis went from where to sleep to how to sleep because he moves a lot like he’s in some kind of boxing competition in his dreams. He is a one-man apocalypse—he is both the zombie and the survivor, flipping, rolling, and doing everything but not giving you peace. You ended up kicking him out of frustration, perhaps a little too hard because he nearly fell to the ground—-amazingly, he didn’t wake up. Annoyingly, he just comes back like a boomerang and by morning, you’re a shell of a person, while he stretches like he had the best sleep in his entire life.

That is no problem at all because Blade does not fucking sleep. Somehow, that stresses you out.

Dr. Ratio would sigh and ask whether you prefer the bed, the floor, or the couch (if there is any). Whatever you choose, you’re sleeping there, although it seems kind of stupid to give you the illusion of choice because he’ll scold you if you choose anything else other than the bed. Say what? You’re choosing the couch? Okay, have fun sleeping on the bed. Unbelievable, he has logicked you into submission. And when words fail and you still protest, he lifts you like a misbehaving kitten and drops you onto the mattress (those muscles are not just for display). "Go to sleep," he commands, looming over you like a crazed professor.

With the ever-loving gentleman Argenti, you’re always taken care of and considered by him. He is just insufferably chivalrous. "A flower as delicate as you deserves the finest rest," he’ll say, gesturing to the bed like it’s a throne. He’s draping you in blankets, tucking you under them like you’re some kind of fragile artifact, then afterwards, he prepares to rest on a single-cushioned chair. He will not be swayed no matter what you say, so just go sleep and don’t worry about him.

One bed? No worries, Aventurine will just get another room for himself. No room either? Guess, you’re stuck with him now. “What’s the harm in sharing, friend?” What you imagined to be a night of fine wine and dinner ends up in a mess of pillow-fighting after you threw one directly on his face, to which he retaliated, and you, too, also retaliated until it ended into this chaos. Finally, when you grudgingly settle in and resigned to your fate, lounging on your side of the bed, you fall asleep to the sound of his laugh and his whispered words of goodnight. You’ll wake up baffled, however, as you see him curled on the couch, one arm dangling off, having silently relocated sometime in the night. The audacity of this man to play chivalrous after wrecking the room.

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[felibrary]

hey hey yall!! Thank you for all of you which have interacted with the ibytam series already <3 im quite busy this week but I’ll try to release chapter one throughout this week!! So stay tuned

[felibrary]

PAIRING: tsukishima kei x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: When life gives you lemons, make some lemonade. If life gives you limes, mix a mojito. And if life gives you TSUKISHIMA KEI, make a run for it. After returning home from abroad, you reunite with your high school friends at a New Year's Party. But nothing could’ve prepared you for seeing Tsukishima Kei again — the boy who broke all contact with you after you moved places. So why is it that after all these years, he’s determined to get to know you again?

CONTENT & GENERAL WARNINGS: all characters are 18+, might not be canon-compliant, has elements of the canonical universe, college AU, swearing, tsukki is bad at feelings (water found in ocean), yearner!tsukki (has his own ways of showing it tho lol), (mentions of) alcohol/drinking/partying/smoking etc. , kissing and making out, fluff, angst (??), suggestive but no smut, english is not the author's first language; i do not own any of the characters

AUTHOR'S NOTES: funny how one minute i'm gawking at this beautiful, beautiful piece of art which i stumbled upon on tiktok and next I'm writing this. my second series yall..and hopefully one ill finish LMFAO. hope u enjoy this angels!! + regarding updates: i post sporadically but ill try to give weekly updates !!

ART CREDITS: garfbarf_ on tiktok! (shoutout to them because i made myself such a fool in their dms. felt like a giddy teenage girl asking her crush for their insta LMFAO. so I'm beyond grateful that the wonderful user garfbarf_ let me use their amazing art!! check out their other art too <3)

TAGLIST: @azullumi @rinsnowfield @snowthatareblack @kokokoula @skyvella @longhairandnormalhairtsukkisimp @heavenlystarstruck @araragomennnn @violettev4lentine @cleartragedyidiot

(comment or drop your user in my inbox if you wanna be tagged <33)

NEXT

CHAPTER 1: In Between Lines and Stolen Kisses

CHAPTER 2: Call It a Bad Habit

CHAPTER 3: #HOLYFUCKINGAIRBALL

CHAPTER 4: Two Sides of the Same Coin

CHAPTER 5: Say the Words If You Dare

© FELIBRARY 2025. stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms or feeding them to ai is not permitted.

[felibrary]

PAIRING: tsukishima kei x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: When life gives you lemons, make some lemonade. If life gives you limes, mix a mojito. And if life gives you TSUKISHIMA KEI, make a run for it. After returning home from abroad, you reunite with your high school friends at a New Year's Party. But nothing could’ve prepared you for seeing Tsukishima Kei again — the boy who broke all contact with you after you moved places. So why is it that after all these years, he’s determined to get to know you again?

CONTENT & GENERAL WARNINGS: all characters are 18+, might not be canon-compliant, has elements of the canonical universe, college AU, swearing, tsukki is bad at feelings (water found in ocean), yearner!tsukki (has his own ways of showing it tho lol), (mentions of) alcohol/drinking/partying/smoking etc. , kissing and making out, fluff, angst (??), suggestive but no smut, english is not the author's first language; i do not own any of the characters

AUTHOR'S NOTES: funny how one minute i'm gawking at this beautiful, beautiful piece of art which i stumbled upon on tiktok and next I'm writing this. my second series yall..and hopefully one ill finish LMFAO. hope u enjoy this angels!! + regarding updates: i post sporadically but ill try to give weekly updates !!

ART CREDITS: garfbarf_ on tiktok! (shoutout to them because i made myself such a fool in their dms. felt like a giddy teenage girl asking her crush for their insta LMFAO. so I'm beyond grateful that the wonderful user garfbarf_ let me use their amazing art!! check out their other art too <3)

TAGLIST: @azullumi @rinsnowfield (comment or drop your user in my inbox if you wanna be tagged <33)

NEXT

CHAPTER 1: In Between Lines and Stolen Kisses

CHAPTER 2: Call It a Bad Habit

CHAPTER 3: #HOLYFUCKINGAIRBALL

CHAPTER 4: Two Sides of the Same Coin

CHAPTER 5: Say the Words If You Dare

© FELIBRARY 2025. stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms or feeding them to ai is not permitted.

[felibrary]

PAIRING: tsukishima kei x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: When life gives you lemons, make some lemonade. If life gives you limes, mix a mojito. And if life gives you TSUKISHIMA KEI, make a run for it. After returning home from abroad, you reunite with your high school friends at a New Year's Party. But nothing could’ve prepared you for seeing Tsukishima Kei again — the boy who broke all contact with you after you moved places. So why is it that after all these years, he’s determined to get to know you again?

CONTENT & GENERAL WARNINGS: all characters are 18+, might not be canon-compliant, has elements of the canonical universe, college AU, swearing, tsukki is bad at feelings (water found in ocean), yearner!tsukki (has his own ways of showing it tho lol), (mentions of) alcohol/drinking/partying/smoking etc. , kissing and making out, fluff, angst (??), suggestive but no smut, english is not the author's first language; i do not own any of the characters

AUTHOR'S NOTES: funny how one minute i'm gawking at this beautiful, beautiful piece of art which i stumbled upon on tiktok and next I'm writing this. my second series yall..and hopefully one ill finish LMFAO. hope u enjoy this angels!! + regarding updates: i post sporadically but ill try to give weekly updates !!

ART CREDITS: garfbarf_ on tiktok! (shoutout to them because i made myself such a fool in their dms. felt like a giddy teenage girl asking her crush for their insta LMFAO. so I'm beyond grateful that the wonderful user garfbarf_ let me use their amazing art!! check out their other art too <3)

TAGLIST: @azullumi @rinsnowfield @snowthatareblack @kokokoula @skyvella @longhairandnormalhairtsukkisimp @heavenlystarstruck @araragomennnn @violettev4lentine @cleartragedyidiot @sophiahearttss @fairuzwhat @marisolls @sunnysanii @shibaco @toroufriteh @axquella

(comment or drop your user in my inbox if you wanna be tagged <33)

NEXT

CHAPTER 1: In Between Lines and Stolen Kisses

CHAPTER 2: Call It a Bad Habit

CHAPTER 3: #HOLYFUCKINGAIRBALL

CHAPTER 4: Two Sides of the Same Coin

CHAPTER 5: Say the Words If You Dare

© FELIBRARY 2025. stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms or feeding them to ai is not permitted.

[felibrary]

be ready feed..be ready....

[felibrary]

IN THE DESCENT OF MADNESS CALLED LOVE !!

premise — he’s going to die in this place; he will be trampled on and reduced to nothing, and the only thing that will ever be remembered of him are those hues of skies that glimmer like stars in their wake and hair that mirrors falling snow, and the only one who will remember is you; alternatively, phainon is everything warmth and kindness embodies, and when he stumbles upon you, a person who just wants to get out of this very hell but can’t, the both of you get caught up in the mess created by your very own hands. content tags and warnings — pairing: phainon x gn!reader | alnst!au, kind of a toxic relationship, graphic descriptions of death, wounds, and blood, cynical and hater reader meets golden sunshine boy, a lot of physical touching and intimacy, religious themes and metaphors, love is cannibalism, some things about anakt garden is up to assumption, comfort/fluff if you squint, rocky start but they get bad before they get better then worst, angst, not proofread | wc: 5.0k

note from me — i did not write this with a sane mind at all but its fun exploring this kind of dynamic lol also this week i learned that i have scoliosis ?

i.) cast the flames and shatter your heart, you are nothing without the ache of your hands

Anakt Garden is ugly.

It’s suffocating and abhorrently quiet despite the echoes of laughter and feet stomping and stumbling on the grassy grounds. It’s detestful how some humans treat it as paradise when it actually is a warm embrace before death takes you, a preparation for something equally repulsive as the lights on stage or the collar on your necks. 

You’ve stopped caring about it, about everyone else. 

You’re a few minutes into your granted free time, and you’ve decided to sit by the trees near the lake—not a lot comes here, after all, so you can finally have some peace.

You’re halfway through sketching a single fish when a shadow looms over you. You don’t look up, disregarding the presence as another measly child who is simply too curious.

You finish the sketch, take out the crayons, and begin coloring. Minutes pass; you hear some shuffling and rustling, then finally, a voice, gentle and clear as the crafted melodies you have sung.

“Can I color too?”

You look beside you where the sound came from, where you see a blur of blue and white. It’s a boy—there’s a boy sitting right beside you and peering over your sketchbook and you cannot see his face.

Either he had mistaken you for a close friend of his or it’s normal for him to be this friendly to a total stranger.

“No.” You simply answer, before scooting a little away from him and resuming your work. You add details to the fish on the left, adoring it with sparkles and a reddish pattern.

The boy follows and keeps the same distance.

“Why not?” You don’t answer, so he pursues like a relentless fire. “I’m not going to ruin it.”

This time you finally look at him and you see it—hair, the reflection of snow, and a pair of eyes that holds the skies within. It’s a beautiful blue, adoring and soft; the kind of hue you have heard your provider tell you when she mentions this place called ‘ocean’. You’re sure you can see yourself in them too as he keeps his gaze on yours.

“It’s not about ruining it.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know you.”

Not like you know anyone here, though. You’ve always kept your distance from everyone, nothing good is going to ever come out of making bonds in this grand play of life and death. You look back to your artwork. 

Silence falls in the small space between you and him, in the gap between that can be easily closed if he were to push a little closer, but he seemingly abates and you’re about to let out a sigh (of relief?) when he speaks once more.

“I’m Phainon.” He beams a grin at you when you look at him again. “Nice to meet you!”

It feels like there are floating flowers and stars surrounding him when he speaks, and you’ve come to realize and accept the fact that this stubborn child is not going to give up. So you simply just relent and give him the boxes of crayons, bringing the sketchbook closer to him.

You don’t see him but you feel it—the sparkle in his eyes and the utter warmth that clings to his smile. You think you never want to see it.

“Ah, you smudged it.”

“Oh, wait. Let me fix it quickly.”

“You ruined it even more!”

“Oops, sorry.” He looks at you while scratching the back of his head, his somewhat insincere face completely rendering his apology useless.

“Don’t look at me like that. We can just do this,” he picks up a different crayon, one that stands out from the background, and begins doing whatever he is planning while you watch. It’s not like you don’t have the energy to stop him—and maybe you actually do—, but curiosity triumphs over you as your eyes follow the movement of his hand. “Ta-dah! I present to you: Fishnon!”

There’s another fish standing beside the one you have drawn now, except this one looks a little messier—mixed in the blur of colors and blue, laid on top of the hues like a coveted stain, but it stands out in the array of pigments, nevertheless.

“Fishnon…?” You don’t know why you question it nor what you are even questioning for, but your eyes are glued to the paper, specifically to the newly-added fish with a sword. Oh, and the two fishes are now holding hands.

“Yeah, Fishnon! It’s Phainon and Fish combined.” 

He’s rather enthusiastic. And it’s stupid. Like extremely stupid.

Phainon’s art skills are not much developed compared to yours and his fish persona looks ridiculous standing beside the one you have drawn. But for some reason, the tight knots in your chest eases just enough to make you breathe again. You don’t realize you’ve been holding it.

“It looks just like you.” You say, adding details to Fishnon.

“As it should.”

And somewhere between here and there, in this moment under the carefully drawn skies, he calls for you in a kind tone (you don’t recall ever telling him your name) and you can feel something shift deep within you. Something soft, warm, slowly unraveling itself.

It’s high time in noon, meals are being served, and it feels like a curse has been cast on you.

Ever since then, your eyes betray you—always seeking blue, and whenever you find it, it’s already gazing back.

The thing that has you scratching your head and wishing to slap yourself is that it always follows with that stupid smile—that stupid grin with that dumb face and those annoying eyes that crinkles into crescents.

You stab your fork harshly on the pea that it scratches against the plate’s surface. It bursts under the tines, its guts smearing the porcelain. The poor vegetable colony probably cripples in fear of being the next victim.

“Is this seat free?” 

You don’t look up. You don’t need to. His voice is unmistakable—honeyed and light, like the choir’s song before they curdle into screams.

“Yes.”

“Can I sit beside you?”

This is why you never try to know anyone. Not only is it a waste of effort but it will do nothing but harm. Bonds here are rotten fruit born from a splendid tree, dangling from a branch just to be plucked and crushed underfoot. The Garden’s love is a slow poison, and Phainon gulps it down like communion wine. You’re not sure who to blame here, but is there really anyone to do so? Was this a sin?

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is:

“Go ahead.”

It all feels so foolish. Like pull-your-hair-out stupid, what-the-hell-did-i-get-into foolish. Despite averting your eyes away, your gaze only returns to him soon after like a pair of magnets that can never be separated—and perhaps he simply was just like that, how irritating he may be even if doing nothing. There was a certain fascination in how he can remain rather optimistic and happy despite the circumstances he is in.

Your gaze drags back to him. Always to him.

Phainon eats like someone who still believes food is a gift, not fuel. He peels the crust off his bread, arranges his carrots into a smiley face, hums between bites. Alive. Too alive.

“Are you always eating alone?”

You shrug, “I’m used to it.”

He leans in, elbows on the table, breadcrumbs clinging to his lips. "Let’s always eat together," he declares, as if it’s that simple. 

He’s going to die in this place; he will be trampled on and reduced to nothing but another pretty corpse onstage, and the only thing that will ever be remembered of him are those hues of stolen skies that glimmer like stars in their wake and hair like falling snow, and the only one who will remember is you.

"Suit yourself," you mutter, but your hand is already stealing a carrot from his tray.

He laughs, bright and startled, and you hate how it settles in your ribs like a second heartbeat.

ii.) let it consume you, it must consume you, allow your body to return to ashes

You’ve noticed this before but Phainon is really well-cared for.

In every moment he had pestered you —leaning into your space with that infuriating grin, humming off-key hymns—and in every moment that you had indulged him, you have never seen him unkempt clothes or tattered fabrics. He appears to be pampered, meticulously attended to and looked after—it almost feels like every joint of his are strung, his movements controlled and calculated. Everything about him is so well-maintained it practically exudes that he is beloved by the aliens.

But not now.

Not with the bruise blooming across his cheekbone like a stain, not with his shirt torn at the collar, rust-brown blood smeared down his chin, dripping on his pristine-white shirt.

Your eyebrows knit into one, “What did you get yourself into?”

He had never struck you as someone who would get into meaningless squabbles. 

Earlier, whispers slithered through the halls: A scuffle near the dorms, a group of boys throwing punches against one another, a chorus of gasps. You ignored it—until you couldn't and you found yourself with your hand on his wrist and running away with him. And so here you are, inside one of the vacant art rooms—your art room, the one reeking of turpentine and stolen solitude—tending to his wounds with a careful efficiency like handling a porcelain vase.

You dig through the kit that you retrieved from your room: half-dried alcohol, cotton balls pilfered from the infirmary, bandages fraying at the edges. Supplies you’d hoarded for yourself, for the days when the weight of the Garden’s hymns threatened to crack your ribs open. 

You’ve never thought that you were going to use it in this way. I mean, sure, they are eventually going to be used to clean up wounds, cuts, or whatever, but you’ve only done it to yourself.

Doing it for someone is different. This—closeness and something unnamed that sinks into your bones, that engraves warmth in your lungs, that makes your hands tremble—is different.

He laughs—a nervous and embarrassed sound as he darts his eyes to the side. His collar is red. “Let me explain.”

You work in silence, dabbing at the split skin of his lip and he takes it as a sign to continue.

“They started it.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“They called you a freak.” Your hand doesn’t falter, even as your pulse stutters.“They called me one too, but that’s whatever. Then they dragged you into it, said you were—”

You press particularly hard, shoving the cotton into the gash of his knuckles. squeezing alcohol out of it that seeps directly into his wounded skin. He yelps.

“—OW! Okay, okay! Mercy!”

“Don’t do that ever again.”

Don’t make it so easy.

Don’t let them see you bleed. Don’t let them hear you care. But he does, he always does, and that’s what makes it devastating—like a tragedy waiting to be written with the ink of your blood and papers of your flesh.

Phainon’s smile is lopsided, a fractured thing, too bright for this rotting world. Blood is still trickling from his lip. "Worried about me?"

You want to strangle him. You should have let him bleed out on the floor, should have let the surveillance catch him and apprehend him, you could have.

You tape the bandage over his knuckles too tight, relish the way he grits his teeth. "I’m worried you’ll get us both in trouble."

He leans in, close enough that you taste copper on his breath. "Too late for that."

Outside, the tree’s shadows stretch long across the fields, and for a heartbeat, you let yourself loathe him. Loathe the way his lashes catch the light like gilded wire. Loathe the way his pulse jumps under your fingertips, alive and reckless and his. Loathe that he’s here, now, ruined—for you.

He is a cosmic masterpiece carved by the stars themselves.

A divine joke, what a terrible sense of humor the universe has. A boy built from sunlight and sonatas, now bleeding onto your hands because he thought your name was worth defending.

You press your thumb to the bruise on his cheekbone, smearing the violence deeper. This is how love feels, you think: like swallowing a shard of glass and calling it sacred. Like watching a god kneel in the dirt and knowing you are the blasphemy that brought him low.

“What are you thinking?” His voice is soft, mingling with your tangled breaths.

“Nothing.” You say, closing your eyes and inhaling the scent of the crushing abyss that awaits for your fall.

You will remember the exact shade of red his blood makes against your skin, long after the stage burns his voice from the light.

“Did it hurt?”

Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, wrenching it aside to reveal the jagged letters carved into his skin. PHAINON—a filthy scar that glares at you, one that should have never existed.

You were subject to an excruciating procedure of having your names burned into your skin, a brand that will forever remain in your being, a foul stain. You don’t like it, you don’t like the pain, the screams that only the walls and machinery can hear; everything about it was disgusting.

Phainon tilts his head back so you can see the engraving better. “Not really,” he simply says, like he’s discussing the weather. “I didn’t feel anything at all.”

“You’re a bad liar, Phainon.” Your thumb gently glides over the engraving and his breath hitches—just once—when you trace the A, the I, the N, as if you could rewrite him with your hands.

“Okay, yeah. It hurt a lot.” A shadow flickers across his face—there and gone, like a fish darting into deeper water. “But it’s just skin anyway,” he murmurs.

Just skin. As if the both of you don’t know that skin is the first thing they take from you.

You release his collar with a sigh, “Whatever.” But he catches your wrist before you can retreat, his hand wrapped around right above where your name is engraved. He smiles, tilting his head like a curious hound: “Why do you care?”

The question hangs between you, sharp as a guillotine. You could lie. You could say it’s disgust, that it’s nothing else beyond the warmth that spreads on your skin that touches his, that it’s fear and repeated nightmares of his blood on your hands.

“I resent you.”

His thumb strokes your inner wrist, right over the vein. “I know.”

Of course he knows. He’s always known.

You resent the way he grins through bloodied teeth, the way he hums and runs around like everything is just a mere game. You resent that he chose you—a hissed sit with me, a crayon shoved into your hand, a thousand tiny violations of your solitude that you allow anyways.

Hatred, you’ve learned, is the closest thing to love this place allows.

This rotten land doesn’t teach you how to cradle someone’s face gently—it teaches you to bite. It doesn’t teach you whispered confessions—only how to carve your devotion into flesh, letter by letter, until the wound never closes.

"You’re disgusting," you say, and your fingers dig into his engraving like you want to peel it off his bones.

Phainon laughs, breath hot against your cheek. "Yeah." His other hand slides up your spine, nails catching on fabric. "You too."

It almost feels like a vow.

You hate him. You hate the way his breath hitches when you claw at his back. You hate how he licks the blood off your skin, how he steals food from the cafeteria trays to leave in your room, how he burns brighter every time you try to push him away.

Most of all, you hate that he’s right—that this is love, here in this rotting cradle.

Love is teeth breaking skin, it is holding someone’s heart just to feel how hard it struggles, it is watching the aliens mark him for slaughter and thinking, Mine, mine, mine.

“You shouldn’t have followed me that day,” you mutter.

“You were drawing a fish,” he says, as if that explains everything. Maybe it does.

The air between you is thick with the scent of something cruel and soft at the same. His grip tightens, not enough to bruise, but enough that you feel the ridges of his fingerprints like another brand.

“Does yours still hurt?” he asks suddenly.

You could lie again. Instead, you yank your wrist free and press your palm to his chest, right over his heartbeat. You lightly push him away, glaring, “Yes.”

He exhales, sharp, like you’ve stabbed him. Then he leans forward until his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven. “Good.”

Phainon does not believe in love the way they tell it, in the way endless adoration and worship is tangled into one golden thread that ties you to another person, but he believes in you, in this anger, hatred, warmth, in the way your nails dig into his engraving like you want to peel his name from his flesh and swallow it whole. 

It’s ugly. It’s his.

And that’s close enough for him.

(He will adore you for a very, very long time.)

It’s starving, gnawing.

The guilt is a living thing inside you—a parasite with needle teeth, chewing through your ribs, gorging itself on the soft pulp of your shame. It festers in the hollows of your lungs, swelling with every breath, until you choke on the stench of your own rot. 

You want to claw it out. You try—digging your nails into your sternum, as if you could peel back skin and snap your bones apart to reach it. But it’s slick with bile, writhing deeper every time you grab hold, leaving your fingers glistening with the proof of your sickness.

Every thought is a crime.

You should have pushed him away harder.

You should have let him hate you.

You should have been cruel enough to save him.

But you weren’t. And now, the competition looms like a guillotine blade, and all you can taste is the sour tang of regret on your tongue, the way it coats your teeth like rust. You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to tear your own skin off if it means escaping the weight of what you’ve done—what you’re still doing—by letting him stand this close, by letting him believe, even for a second, that you can protect him, that he can protect you, that you are safe in this tight space you have molded for yourselves.

“You’re not going to die!”

This was the first time Phainon has raised his voice at you.

It cracks through the air like a whip, raw and desperate, and you flinch like he’s struck you. His hands are fists at his sides, trembling, his knuckles white with the force of it. There’s something wild in his eyes—something terrifying, something alive—and it makes your stomach twist.

"Say it," he demands, stepping closer. His foot knocks against yours and your vision spins as you fall back into your bed, your body welcomed by the soft mattress. He hovers over you, hands caging the sides of your face: "Say I’m not going to die."

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

The silence is worse than a lie.

Phainon’s breath hitches, and for a single, horrifying moment, you think he might cry. But then his jaw sets, his shoulders squaring like he’s bracing for impact, and he laughs—a sharp, broken sound that scrapes down your spine. It dies like a record slowly breaking down and he pulls you up in his arms, cradling you close to his chest, his face buried in the crevice of your neck.

“I can never understand you at all.” His words vibrate against your neck, warm and damp with something too close to tears.

You chew the inside of your cheek until copper floods your tongue, your hands trembling by your side instead of embracing him too. You don’t offer any words of comfort but you allow him to pull you close, let him hold you—you allow this. This fragile, fractured closeness where your shadows merge into one grotesque shape on the wall, a two-headed creature bound at the ribs but never at the hands. 

Yet it is not enough, it feels like you’re still far from him, like you could easily slip away from his grasp, and it makes him scared.

“Do you want to leave?”

“But where do we go?” There’s nothing else for you out there. Perhaps there was a time, a spur-of-the-moment decision when you had run away with him, slipping through the cracks to be greeted by crimson skies, vastly different from the perfect cerulean illusion you are used to seeing. You'd run until your lungs burned, Phainon's hand welded to yours, both of you laughing like the world couldn't catch you, but that was it.

“Anywhere.”

“There’s no ‘anywhere’ for us.”

“Then the rebellion, I’ve heard—”

“And what, Phainon? What happens after that?” Your voice cracks like dry earth. "What happens after that? We trade one collar for another? Die faster?"

The words linger between you, sharp as the scent of ozone before a storm.

Phainon's fingers dig into your waist, his breath hot against your skin he begins trailing his mouth up your neck, like he’ll eventually meet god at your lips. A salvation, a small prayer.

"We could fight."

"We are fighting," you snap. "Every single day. And look where we are."

The competition looms in three days and you can hear the ringing in your ears, the humming, and you cannot ignore it. You will lose yourselves one way or another, and that is a tragedy, a certainty, that had loomed over you, that had awaited you.

The only thing you could do was to lie there, tangled in each other but impossibly separate, his heartbeat thundering against your chest where yours should be answering. 

Phainon's hand slides up your spine, pressing you closer like he can fuse your skeletons together. "Tell me to stay," he breathes.

"Why?"

"So I have a reason not to go."

Your fingers finally move—not to push him away, but to clutch the back of his shirt, twisting the fabric until your knuckles bleach white. The cotton stretches taut between you, threads straining like the last fraying ties to sanity. His warmth seeps through the thin material, burning your palms, but you hold tighter—as if you could stitch him into your skin with just your desperation alone.

"Stay," you whisper.

It's too much. It's not enough.

There’s a wet, broken sound—and suddenly his arms are crushing you against him, his face buried in your hair. You feel the exact moment his resolve shatters; the tremor that runs through him, the way his shoulders curl around you like he's trying to shield you from the world, from himself, from the inevitable.

You are so terribly, devastatingly alive together.

Alive in the way open wounds are alive—raw and pulsing and too tender to touch. Alive in the way a noose is alive when it snaps taut. Alive in the only way the world has allowed you to be: achingly, horrifyingly, beautifully alive, even as death crouches in the corner.

iii.) until the world stills, until you weave your hands into mine, until death embraces you

Inherently, every human is afraid of dying.

You’ve watched him on the big screen as he performs, as he tramples over every single person he is faced against, as his numbers rise higher and as it declares his win; his victory flashing as he smiles—that brilliant, broken smile—and bows like the good little performer they've molded him to be.

But you always see what they don't.

The way his fingers twitch at his sides when he thinks no one's looking. The barely-there tremor in his shoulders as he walks offstage. The single bead of sweat trailing down his temple that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the knife's edge he's balancing on.

He does the same for you, he watches every single one of your performances with a glimmer in his eyes, like pride and adoration, but something else also stains the hues—fear, anxiety, and everything that makes his fingers tremble and his mind muddled. It’s raw and rancid.

It's in the way his breath catches when you hold a high note a second too long. In the way his lips move silently, mirroring your lyrics like a prayer. In how he searches and reaches for you after every round of yours, his trembling fingers skimming your wrist, your jaw, the pulse at your throat—as if to remind himself that you’re still here and alive, and the knowledge sits between you like a third body in bed.

The screen glimmers, your profile and his beside each other blinks mockingly. It’s like a death sentence. No, it is a death sentence.

The air hums with static as you walk toward the stage, each step heavier than the last. Anakt Garden's constraints had been suffocating, but this is akin to drowning in open air.

You've always thought Phainon would die under these lights. That his blood would be the one to stain the stage crimson, his final note ringing through the speakers as the audience cheered his demise. You'd imagined it so often the scene played behind your eyelids every night—his blue eyes going dull, his snow-white hair matted with red, his hand slipping from yours as the life left him.

Perhaps you’ve changed by now.

The bars of your scores compete against one another, numbers flashing across the screen in a cruel mockery of choice. You’ve cut your lines short, fallen into a note lower than you’re supposed to sing; you'd practiced this for weeks in empty rehearsal rooms—how to make imperfection look accidental, how to falter just enough.

Then you feel it—something cold punching through your neck, sharp and sudden. A gasp tears from your throat as warmth spills down your skin.

Phainon's eyes widen in dawning horror as your fingers twitch in his grasp; you swear you could hear him calling your name out in panic. He sees it before you do, before you even realize what is happening—the dark bloom staining across your clothes, the way your lips part to speak but only blood spills forth. Your knees buckle, and he moves without thought, catching you as you collapse against him.

Oh, you think, distantly amused. You’re dying.

And, oh, you are dying. The realization comes with startling clarity, with something almost like relief, and it feels euphoric like warm honey flooding your veins. It makes your chest ease as if you could ever breathe again—like the time he had shown you his ridiculous art piece with pride. Because you are the one dying, because you are the one bloodied and the crimson staining the stage is yours. You are dying, desperate and violent, but it’s you.

His arms tighten around you, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your temple. The audience's cheers fade to white noise as he presses his forehead to yours, his tears mixing with the blood on your lips. "We're okay," he chokes out, the words a desperate incantation. "We're okay, we're okay."

You can feel his heartbeat where your chests press together, wild and frantic and alive. So alive. More alive than you'll ever be again. The thought should terrify you. Instead, it settles in your bones like peace.

You kiss him instead of answering. His mouth tastes like the candy he stole from the cafeteria, like the salt of your shared sweat, like last chances. And when you pull away, his sob cracks through you like gunfire. You want to tell him it's alright. You want to tell him to run. Instead, your fingers find him, twining together one final time as the world narrows to the blue of his eyes, the warmth of his hands, the sound of your name on his lips.

You and him could have done so much more if you were on earth, instead of whatever rotten, disgusting stage this is. The thought comes unbidden, sharp as the pain radiating through your chest. 

You could have had lazy mornings in sunlit kitchens, his humming drifting over sizzling pans. Could have traced the constellations on his skin without counting the scars. Could have stood before stained glass windows, vows spilling from bloodied lips not in desperation, but devotion.

Instead, you get this: his tears hot on your cheeks, his voice breaking around your name, the metallic tang of your last breath clinging to his tongue.

You don’t want to die, you never wanted to die—perhaps the feeble attempts of not caring whether you’ll end up bloodied either on stage or on dirt were simply just things to lessen the growing void of fear that gnaws at your heart, to make it painless. But it hurts, it hurts so bad, you can feel it; your body feels cold, everything feels cold, your eyes are becoming blurry, and everything around you is fading into nothing. You don’t even feel Phainon’s arms wrapped around yours, gently cradling your existence within his grasp as if you’re going to slip away—because you are.

It all dawns on you. You feel selfish, you’re being selfish. Stupid, reckless, selfish. You’re going to leave him alone in this hell, with nothing but the memory of your blood on his hands and the echo of your voice in his ears. The realization claws up your throat, bitter as bile. You want to take it back. Want to scream. Want to beg for more time—just one more second, one more breath, one more chance to tell him—

“I know,” He presses his lips to your forehead, lingering like he could imprint himself there. “You’re not being selfish, I know.”

Of course, he does. He’s always known you like the back of his own scarred hands—known the way your bravado cracks at the edges when the lights dim, how your "I don't care" always meant "I care too much." Known that beneath all your sharp edges and bitten-off words, you were always the one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant he could stand in the light a moment longer.

“Please,” You plead for the first time in your life, and it hurts to speak but you still do, fingers tightening weakly in his shirt. “Forgive yourself.”

The both of you had made this decision knowing it won’t end well. 

And you murmur it: the three words that have caused all of this mess, the confession that started your slow descent to madness. They taste sweet as stolen sugar on your dying tongue, bittersweet as the candy he used to slip into your palm. His arms tighten around you like he could rewrite fate through the sheer force of his embrace, and he wishes he could.

PHAINON WIN.

BRO IS NOT MIZISUA

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[felibrary]

guys im acc on the verge of fucking tweaking out. why cant my groupmates do shit 😭😭 the submission date is tmrw and wdym you're telling me that you don't have ANYTHING at all

[felibrary]

ANG BEER NA 'TO O ANG PAG-IBIG MO?

synopsis: taking care hsr men when they’re drunk ft. hsr men

pairing: aventurine, sunday, veritas ratio x reader (separate) | wc: 1.2k | content & warnings: fluff, mentions of alcohol and drinking/being under the influence , mentions of bathing together (veritas part) ; headcanon + drabble

tags: this is dedicated to my beloved filipino alcohol addict, who else if not @azullumi?? (istg one day you're gonna get an alcohol poisoning if you continue to drink) note to azul will follow at the very bottom as always <3

a/n: ang beer na 'to o ang pag-ibig mo? -> is it beer or your love? (im not even filipino but vietnamese..oh well..)

SUNDAY

talks a lot.

much different from his usual demeanor

really talkative 

he babbles, rambles and chatters your ears off

“did you know that me and robin used to take care of a charmony dove?” he asks.

“yes, yes i do. you’ve told me thrice in the past 30 minutes.” you sigh. 

“oh.” his mouth forms a small “o” before speaking up again. “well did you know that-”

“that you still have to make some preparations for the upcoming charmony festival?” you interrupt him and finish his sentence.

“how’d you know?” you can’t make out if it’s amazement or curiosity in his words. “well, a little birdie told me that not too long ago.” 

“my bird?” he asks. 

“..yeah, totally..” you hum.

AND really touchy which is unusual

sunday reaches forward to push the loose strands of your hair away from your forehead. “sunday what are you-” before you’re able to finish your question he presses his chapped lips against your forehead, placing a tender kiss on it. 

before going down and peppering kisses along your jawline until his lips reach your collarbone. “stop that tickles!” you giggle and try to push him away to no use - it was pointless. it was like he was glued to your side.

his bony fingers find your hand and laces them together before softly squeezing them, eyes never leaving your face as he studies your expression.

he keeps eulogizing and complimenting you

“have i ever told you how pretty you are?” he takes a small bundle of your hair into his hand, before slowly caressing it with his thumb and index finger as he awaits your response.

upon that you can’t help but smile. the corners of your lips quirk up and you grin like a teenager who spots their crush exiting the classroom after intentionally switching routes just to see them.

“you do, but not as openly and often.” you say in response he can only gasp in surprise. “really?” “really!” you laugh.

(he then proceeds to write a sticky note for his future sober self to compliment you more.)

only shuts up when you kiss him. 

you lean forward to press a chaste kiss on his lips, it’s a fleeting moment and the kiss doesn’t last as long as sunday wishes it would. it’s too short for his liking, granting him no chance to reciprocate the action. 

“shut up, loverboy. let’s get you back home.” you beam at him with a smile brighter than both the moon and stars. your eyes are pools of love, an intoxicating essence sunday would gladly drown in. (not like he already hasn’t.) 

in return he shoots you a lovesick smile which makes you melt.

AVENTURINE

unusually quiet until you talk to him and he pours out his heart

this is weird.

normally aventurine is the talkative one among the two of you but it seems like the tables have turned. there’s nothing but the sound of the wind blowing through the night and you cringe at the silence. 

“‘rine are you okay?” you attempt to ask, hoping that he’d at least respond with a hum.

““you still like me, right?” he whispers. his answer was so quiet that you almost didn’t hear it but it did catch you off guard.

 “what?” you ask confusedly, almost in disbelief.

“what.” 

when you drape his arm over your shoulder to help him walk he’s slightly tripping and keeps apologizing 

unlike sunday who’s the one reassuring you, aventurine is the one who constantly seeks reassurance from you

and not even indirectly, yeah no, directly

“m’sorry that you have to take care of me. you can tell me if it’s bothersome.” he says in an apologetic tone and you try your best to reassure him. “no, really it’s alright!” you stop your movements to take a quick breather.

aventurines quick to react and extracts his arm from your shoulder and tries to stand steady on his two feet. (miserably failing) “am i too heavy? sorry.” he apologizes, not being able to stand still.

“not at all!” you smile. “i just had to take a quick break but let’s continue.” you reach out your hand for him to grab on and as soon as he places his palm on yours you hold on tightly. 

“also, aventurine, you don’t have to keep apologizing.” you say empathetically. 

“sorry.”

aventurine is someone who has only had himself for a very long time and he himself was the one who helped him overcome many obstacles in his life with no one else at his side so try to reassure him as much as possible to let him know that he’s not alone

VERITAS RATIO

the type who only gets drunk when it’s a party hosted by the company or anything regarding his researches to indulge in the fun and celebrate the process

later on only babbles about some of his discoveries 

the others eventually get tired but try to look interested, veritas, like the attentive person he is, notices and complains about how you’d listen

you’re leaving the bathroom and come back with 9 new messages from topaz and 7 ones from aventurine begging you to pick up veritas. 

as you enter the party you immediately spot him near the bar, crowded by some employees and topaz and aventurine who look like they’re done. 

you step over to the bar and greet the both of them. “hi, i’m here to pick up veritas.” you smile. “that sounds like you’re picking him from kindergarten.” topaz laughs. “but yeah he’s all yours now.” she says as she clinks her glass against aventurines, as if she were to celebrate a victory.

you move towards veritas and tap him on the shoulder, the action makes him turn around and raise an eyebrow in confusion. “sorry, what business do i have with you?” he asks at which you can only laugh at. “veri, i’m here to pick you up.” you smile.

“my partner wouldn’t like you addressing me with a nickname that they exclusively chose for me.” he says politely. “ah and could you please not hold onto my hand, i doubt that they’d like that either.”

“veritas, i am your partner.”

he's not the one who’s touchy he wants you to be touchy

trace shapes against his back, bury your head into the crook of his neck and leave kisses, ruffle his hair and so on (especially when taking a bath!!)

“so what shape was that?” you ask in excitement after you drew a tree onto his back with your wet fingers. 

“π” he responds. (it sounds more like a question than an answer from the way he responded.)

at that you can only laugh. “close, it was a tree!” you lean down and bury your head against his neck, his back now facing your chest as you smile down at his skin and smear kisses along the crook of his neck thus making your lips covered in shower gel now. 

you remove your mouth from his skin and start to massage his back slowly and tenderly, making his tense muscles relax before moving your hands to his head, ruffling through his hair and softly massaging his scalp before coming to a halt.

“why’d you stop?” his eyelashes flutter as he opens his eyes and turns around to face you.

“ah, well you didn’t say anything so i thought you didn’t like it. so i stopped.” you answer apologetically. 

“did i tell you to stop?” he raises his eyebrow. “i suppose no..” you reply. 

“well then continue, please.”

he trusts you enough to bathe with him and especially when being drunk

knows that you won’t just leave him be and actually care for him and tend to his needs 

shower him with much affection and great care!!

okay tending to the most special guest now!! @azullumi ladies and gents, non binaries and the others whatever you identify yourself with, make way for user azullumi!! if you think your 4 month situationship who had a gf all along responds slowly TALK TO AZUL. HE NEVER RESPONDS TO MY TIKTOKS AND OMG EVEN WORSE I REPLY TO THE ONES HE SENDS ME AND THEY DON'T EVEN RESPOND TO MY MESSAGES BUT PROCEED TO SEND ME ANOTHER TIKTOK??? THE AUDACITY HELLO??? anyway i hope this reaches you in good spirits?? is that how you say that?!?!?! i like this song a lot i think the first time i've heard it was in a kaeya (genshin) edit LMFAO and it's been one of my fav songs ever since. beer, love and filipino put that in a pot and your receive azul. but azul azul i love love love you a lot. it's always fun talking to you and sharing my ideas. knowing that i have you by my side is always so reassuring for me to know. someone who's proud of me and my achievements, someone who's willing to listen me out, someone who actually has great advice which is helpful. thank you, thank you. i'm so blessed to have you. you're probably the best thing that has happened to me in the past few months. (and that one A- i got from my strict history teacher 😍😍)

© VYNICITY 2024. stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms or feeding them to ai is not permitted.

e/n: not toooooo sure how to feel about this cause i wrote this for funsies but yeah! also rbs (with comments) are as always greatly appreciated. (i read through each of them). kisses to yall!!

[felibrary]

hey guys long time no hear haha. I've actually been doing horrible the past months. diagnosed with depression, in and out of the psychward, prescribed medication and so on — its been a hell of almost half a year LOL

sometimes when you drown in the depths of misery and grief, you feel trapped. the more you sink down, the more things you lose in the process and eventually the enjoyment you've gotten from certain things that used to make you happy.

writing has been a challenge for me the past months but as cliche as it might sound, id really consider it my first love. I've loved writing ever since i was a child and its been my only ever form of expression, that i don't think id ever want to not write.

i often find myself at loss for words, both verbally and on paper. but ill try to find my words again. so that I'm able to share the love that i pour into my words with others <3

[felibrary]

“me time” and it’s just lay in bed reading fanfiction for hours

[felibrary]

WITH LOVE: your summer thing

PAIRING: Michael Kaiser x Reader (gender neutral)

SYNOPSIS: "Granted, you’re more than aware that you’ll regret this later on, but where’s the fun if not doing something reckless once or twice—or well..always whenever you're with Michael."

The universe seems to resent you. Being dumped by MICHAEL KAISER was apparently not nerve-wracking enough—the two of you were never quite ‘a thing’ to begin with. So, how come he worms his way into your life once more, and worst of all, on your birthday?

wordcount: 2.3k | content & warnings: consumption of alcohol (both), mentions of drinking & slightly smoking (not by either of them), they kiss like once, ngl #situationshipfinalboss#bothkindatoxicbutwhocares#cancelsitout (who can relate), one suggestive/nsfw remark (not explicitly detailed); oneshot

author's note: i proofread this i swear! (i scream as they drag me to the psych ward) well talking of psych ward, my therapist recommended me to go there again cause she had the impression i was doing worse but HELL NO also sorry writers block been eating me alive. had this in my drfats for like 4 months LOL

“So Meguru, mind telling me, why did you think announcing my birthday party and leaking my address in the local newspaper was a good idea?”

What was supposed to be a peaceful evening, hosted and arranged by your closest friends, in honor of your birthday, (which was only supposed to be celebrated in your small social circle) quickly turned into an open house party—all because Bachira couldn’t contain his excitement and wanted to share the news with everyone. 

Which leads you to this predicament: your ex of a situationship (or summer thing—how he’d call it), standing right before you. There’s a boyish smirk slapped onto his face, as if he found the whole situation too funny to be true, and seemed to enjoy your disapproval of his presence.

Bachira tried exchanging apologetic glances with you, but you simply dismissed them. “Well, you see, I now of course realize it was a mistake, but I just thought it’d be a nice surprise to have people congratulating you.” He lets out an embarrassed huff. “Though now, I see why that might not have been a great idea.” 

Meguru presses his lips into a thin line as he looks at Michael awkwardly, before turning his gaze back to you. “Sorry, I was so excited that I didn’t think about the consequences and how it could possibly affect you.”

Although it was a reckless decision (and idiotic if you may add), you didn’t want to be mad and put all the blame on Bachira. “I suppose there’s nothing we can do now, it’s fine.” The exasperated sigh that leaves your lips tells otherwise, but you weren't going to start arguing with one of your best friends on your birthday—especially if it was done out of good intent.

There’s loud 2000s pop music filling the atmosphere. People dancing along to the sound whilst shouting the wrong lyrics across the room.

The smell of cheap alcohol and poorly rolled blunts reeks in every corner of your place, accompanied by the whistles and claps of barely legal adults playing party games — spin the bottle, seven minutes in heaven, two truths, one lie—you name it.

Cleaning everything up was going to be a mess, but that’s a worry for later.

There was one thing you were sure of, though: If you stay here any longer, you’ll lose your mind.

So, before you let the blond jerk (Michael) open his chatty mouth and leave some insulting remark, you take your leave. Grabbing the red plastic cup filled with some mixture consisting of a random fruit soda you found on the table and vodka, you then try to leave in hopes of finding a quiet place to put your mind at ease.

(Preferably your bedroom if it isn’t already occupied by some strangers who locked the door to make out.)

But, perhaps, the alcohol has messed with your head that it slipped your mind just how insufferably determined Michael can be. “Der Spaß hat doch gerade erst angefangen und du willst bereits gehen?" "Sei doch nicht so lahm drauf, ist doch dein Geburtstag, hab Spaß!” his laughter fills the space. …and just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse.

You shoot him an irritated look, eyes wandering from his flushed face down to the tight grip his hand has on your wrist. “Man, what are you saying?” 

Out of nowhere, and if on command, Alexis chimes in. “Well, he basically said that you’re kinda lame for already leaving, despite the fun only having started, and that this is your birthday party, exactly why you should enjoy it!” Ness finishes his translation of Michael’s gibberish before adding a remark of his own:” And I couldn't agree more.” 

There’s a somewhat prideful smile gracing his lips as he agrees with Michael’s statement, and you’re not sure whether to feel impressed that Michael has someone who’s this devoted to him or if you should pity Alexis for being this devoted.

“Whatever. Just don’t do some stupid shit and don’t even fucking think about talking to me.” The sour words you spit are full of sincerity. With the amount of people approaching and congratulating you (even though they barely even know you—same goes for you, though) you’re already overwhelmed enough, and if then, Michael out of all people, started talking to you, you’d probably start malfunctioning. 

Michael just stares at you, fully captured in a haze as he looks at you through a blurred vision. “Mhm, can’t keep any promises,” he simply tilts his head to the side and grins. 

At that, you can’t help but scoff. “Yeah, I’m quite aware.” You hint and take your leave. 

“What was that all about?” Alexis asks, confusion written all over his face. “Not important,” Michael mutters under his breath, and suppresses his groan by biting down on his tongue, before disappearing into the crowd—Alexis running right after. 

Luckily and surprisingly, your room was unoccupied and left untouched. With a sigh of relief, you slump against your bed. Exhaustion fills your limbs, and your body feels heavy, not to mention the relentless stinging in your head.

If this continues, you're certain you'll fall asleep at any given moment.

Buzz

Drowsily, you open your eyes, patting your pants to find your phone. When you do, you see that Isagi sent you a message.

Isagi: dw about michael btw. me and the others will keep an eye on him and make sure that he won’t bother you

A small smile creeps onto your face as your eyes skim over the text.

: thats rly nice of u guys. i appreciate it. : thank uuu :)

Not even a second later, you already see Isagi typing a reply. 

Isagi: only natural, dw.  Isagi: btw megs apologised for basically inviting michael over again

Your smile softens upon reading the message, and you send Isagi a small message.

: it’s all good : tell him not to overthink it : guess we'll just have to manage w his ass for the time being lmfao

Isagi: haha, ill tell him that Isagi: rest well :)

You react to the message with a heart before tossing your phone somewhere on your bed. 

The red plastic cup sits on your drawer, and you reach out to grab it. It smells horrible. Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if you got alcohol poisoning from it and the other questionable mixtures you consumed tonight. 

You ignored the smell and gulped it down in one go, face contorting into an expression of disgust as you tasted the alcohol on your tongue. 

But it wasn’t merely the taste nor the smell that made you dislike alcohol so much—it’s what it did with your body and mind. 

Reckless decisions and impulsive actions were always guaranteed when drinking, not to mention how much you started overthinking your entire life, love life, to be precise.

Never in a million years would you’ve thought that you’d see Michael Kaiser again. If someone told you that he’d appear at your birthday party, with that all too familiar smile plastered on his face, which you fell in love with, you would’ve simply dismissed the comment.

After all, things were a total mess when he broke it off. From then on, you tried to avoid him as much as possible. Walking different routes to your classes, intentionally looking away when you’d pass by him on campus, not attending any parties you knew he’d go to, and not visiting any of the football games your school held. 

Because you knew that if you saw him, you’d start to crumble. 

Michael always knew what to say when it was about getting a reaction out of you. Whether it was bringing a smile to your lips or dropping snarky remarks where he knew that they’d tick you off and make you snap.

Truly, you convinced yourself that you despised him. The feeling of hatred coiled in your stomach whenever his name slipped into a conversation. 

What you hated more, though, was the effect that he had on you—how he’s able to spark a reaction despite not being in the room. The mere mention of his name was enough to send you over the edge.

There were days when you thought that Michael was the person for you. All the things you never told anyone, which you were convinced you’d take to your grave so not a single soul will ever know—they were all laid bare when you were with Michael.

But that wasn’t because he forced you into it. In reality, he was the first one to open up. Admittedly, you still don’t have an explanation for that and how it happened. But it somehow did. 

Little did you know that by doing so, you’d started growing weak around him, eventually telling your secrets, too.

Those countless nights where you were wrapped in his arms, barely able to move because he hugged you so tightly as if he feared that you’d flee from his hold if he were to let you go—they’re priceless memories that led you to believe that things were progressing positively.

But perhaps you were too caught up in your imagination that you didn’t see the changes in him and yourself.

Sometimes you think that Michael planned out your whole relationship. Playing the role of a picture-perfect boyfriend only to end up leaving.

While he seemed to be more than just fine—maybe even better than before, you were contemplating whether all of those moments you shared meant anything to him.

Why were you the only one who seemed to be affected by this?

Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud knock on your door and you snap your head towards it. “Who is it?” You yell out, hoping it reached the person on the other end of the door.

It doesn’t because they just decide to enter without answering, and you look up.

There he was.

Long blond hair with fading blue tips, hands loosely stuffed into the pockets of his denim jeans, and the same smile that never failed to make you falter.

His unevenly cut strands of hair fall perfectly on his face. You always laughed about it. Telling him that he should go to an air dresser instead of letting Alexis mess with his hair but Michael always insisted. 

Looking back, it seemed really endearing.

At the sight of him, you can’t help but let out an annoyed groan. “What did I say about not getting in my way? Fuck off.” You demand him to leave, and your eyes dart to the door. 

When everything you wanted was for him to stay. 

For him to explain his reason for attending, if he’s thought of you too, if he had any regrets—all the things you never dared to ask, because some things are better to be left unsaid for the sake of peace.

Michael and peace don’t belong in the same sentence. Whenever you spent time with him, things were anything but in order. Sure, he stirred chaos, but somehow always managed to make it pleasant—it was messy, but in a good way. 

You feel your body tensing up as you watch him, but he doesn’t leave, doesn’t budge a little. Instead, he leans against the door, closing it by doing so. “Isn’t it obvious?” A smirk finds its way on his face. “I wanted to see you.” He says, as if it were the most natural thing ever, pointing it out as if it were in his nature.

“Ugh,” you can’t help but groan. “Shut up, for once, will you?” Michael seems to be caught off guard for a moment before smiling. “Hm? Why should I? I thought you liked it wheneve—” “You’re annoying” you butt, then proceeding to lay down on your bed.

Silence fills the room, and you scoff in amusement. “Never got told to shut up or what’s with the silence?” you snide. He chortled at your comment before seating himself on your bed, the mattress slightly dipping as he set his weight on it. “Guess so. You’re always my first one.”

You let out a dry, almost mocking laugh. “Mhm, enlighten me, will you?” Michael looks down at you, and if you were sober enough, you’d say that he’s almost admiring you with fond eyes. His blue eyes glint with fondness, gazing at you as if you hung up all the stars in the sky. “Well, if we wanna start with the get-go, you were my first ti—” 

“You’re insufferable,” you exclaim in embarrassment. Unlike you, Michael seems to find enjoyment in your flustered state and reaches his hand out to your face, cupping your cheek and brushing his thumb over your flushed face. (It’s from the alcohol and not his touch, you convince yourself.)

His fingers graze your face gently, lingering for a moment before he tucks the stray strands of hair behind your ear, his touch tender and quiet, but enough to make you soften. 

Granted, you’re more than aware that you’ll regret this later on, but where’s the fun if not doing something reckless once or twice—or well..always whenever you're with Michael. “Man up, and kiss me, will you?” you grumble in annoyance. 

You should’ve known it was a bad idea when you saw Michael immediately smirking. “Thought you’d never ask, but I thought the atmosphere would be more romanti–” For the third time this evening, you shut him up, although not with a snarky remark or a rebuttal, but with a kiss—and in every case, you catch him off guard.

Michael’s eyes widen in surprise as he feels your lips press against his. With no hesitation, he reciprocates the action, closing his eyes and kissing you back. He’s quick to grab the hem of your shirt, his hands move beneath the fabric, and he starts roaming around on your bare skin.

You despise how good his touch feels, but what you hate even more is how his touch feels the same. How everything is the same, as if nothing has changed. His messy kisses, the familiar scent of his cologne, and how he’s still able to make you sway. 

You’ll most likely regret this in the morning, but hey, at least you know birthday wishes aren’t always so far out of reach—the impossible is possible, after all.

© FELIBRARY 2025. stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms or feeding them to ai is not permitted.

[felibrary]

WITH LOVE: your summer thing

PAIRING: Michael Kaiser x Reader (gender neutral)

SYNOPSIS: "Granted, you’re more than aware that you’ll regret this later on, but where’s the fun if not doing something reckless once or twice—or well..always whenever you're with Michael."

The universe seems to resent you. Being dumped by MICHAEL KAISER was apparently not nerve-wracking enough—the two of you were never quite ‘a thing’ to begin with. So, how come he worms his way into your life once more, and worst of all, on your birthday?

wordcount: 2.3k | content & warnings: consumption of alcohol (both), mentions of drinking & slightly smoking (not by either of them), they kiss like once, ngl #situationshipfinalboss#bothkindatoxicbutwhocares#cancelsitout (who can relate), one suggestive/nsfw remark (not explicitly detailed); oneshot

author's note: i proofread this i swear! (i scream as they drag me to the psych ward) well talking of psych ward, my therapist recommended me to go there again cause she had the impression i was doing worse but HELL NO also sorry writers block been eating me alive. had this in my drfats for like 4 months LOL

“So Meguru, mind telling me, why did you think announcing my birthday party and leaking my address in the local newspaper was a good idea?”

What was supposed to be a peaceful evening, hosted and arranged by your closest friends, in honor of your birthday, (which was only supposed to be celebrated in your small social circle) quickly turned into an open house party—all because Bachira couldn’t contain his excitement and wanted to share the news with everyone. 

Which leads you to this predicament: your ex of a situationship (or summer thing—how he’d call it), standing right before you. There’s a boyish smirk slapped onto his face, as if he found the whole situation too funny to be true, and seemed to enjoy your disapproval of his presence.

Bachira tried exchanging apologetic glances with you, but you simply dismissed them. “Well, you see, I now of course realize it was a mistake, but I just thought it’d be a nice surprise to have people congratulating you.” He lets out an embarrassed huff. “Though now, I see why that might not have been a great idea.” 

Meguru presses his lips into a thin line as he looks at Michael awkwardly, before turning his gaze back to you. “Sorry, I was so excited that I didn’t think about the consequences and how it could possibly affect you.”

Although it was a reckless decision (and idiotic if you may add), you didn’t want to be mad and put all the blame on Bachira. “I suppose there’s nothing we can do now, it’s fine.” The exasperated sigh that leaves your lips tells otherwise, but you weren't going to start arguing with one of your best friends on your birthday—especially if it was done out of good intent.

There’s loud 2000s pop music filling the atmosphere. People dancing along to the sound whilst shouting the wrong lyrics across the room.

The smell of cheap alcohol and poorly rolled blunts reeks in every corner of your place, accompanied by the whistles and claps of barely legal adults playing party games — spin the bottle, seven minutes in heaven, two truths, one lie—you name it.

Cleaning everything up was going to be a mess, but that’s a worry for later.

There was one thing you were sure of, though: If you stay here any longer, you’ll lose your mind.

So, before you let the blond jerk (Michael) open his chatty mouth and leave some insulting remark, you take your leave. Grabbing the red plastic cup filled with some mixture consisting of a random fruit soda you found on the table and vodka, you then try to leave in hopes of finding a quiet place to put your mind at ease.

(Preferably your bedroom if it isn’t already occupied by some strangers who locked the door to make out.)

But, perhaps, the alcohol has messed with your head that it slipped your mind just how insufferably determined Michael can be. “Der Spaß hat doch gerade erst angefangen und du willst bereits gehen?" "Sei doch nicht so lahm drauf, ist doch dein Geburtstag, hab Spaß!” his laughter fills the space. …and just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse.

You shoot him an irritated look, eyes wandering from his flushed face down to the tight grip his hand has on your wrist. “Man, what are you saying?” 

Out of nowhere, and if on command, Alexis chimes in. “Well, he basically said that you’re kinda lame for already leaving, despite the fun only having started, and that this is your birthday party, exactly why you should enjoy it!” Ness finishes his translation of Michael’s gibberish before adding a remark of his own:” And I couldn't agree more.” 

There’s a somewhat prideful smile gracing his lips as he agrees with Michael’s statement, and you’re not sure whether to feel impressed that Michael has someone who’s this devoted to him or if you should pity Alexis for being this devoted.

“Whatever. Just don’t do some stupid shit and don’t even fucking think about talking to me.” The sour words you spit are full of sincerity. With the amount of people approaching and congratulating you (even though they barely even know you—same goes for you, though) you’re already overwhelmed enough, and if then, Michael out of all people, started talking to you, you’d probably start malfunctioning. 

Michael just stares at you, fully captured in a haze as he looks at you through a blurred vision. “Mhm, can’t keep any promises,” he simply tilts his head to the side and grins. 

At that, you can’t help but scoff. “Yeah, I’m quite aware.” You hint and take your leave. 

“What was that all about?” Alexis asks, confusion written all over his face. “Not important,” Michael mutters under his breath, and suppresses his groan by biting down on his tongue, before disappearing into the crowd—Alexis running right after. 

Luckily and surprisingly, your room was unoccupied and left untouched. With a sigh of relief, you slump against your bed. Exhaustion fills your limbs, and your body feels heavy, not to mention the relentless stinging in your head.

If this continues, you're certain you'll fall asleep at any given moment.

Buzz

Drowsily, you open your eyes, patting your pants to find your phone. When you do, you see that Isagi sent you a message.

Isagi: dw about michael btw. me and the others will keep an eye on him and make sure that he won’t bother you

A small smile creeps onto your face as your eyes skim over the text.

: thats rly nice of u guys. i appreciate it. : thank uuu :)

Not even a second later, you already see Isagi typing a reply. 

Isagi: only natural, dw.  Isagi: btw megs apologised for basically inviting michael over again

Your smile softens upon reading the message, and you send Isagi a small message.

: it’s all good : tell him not to overthink it : guess we'll just have to manage w his ass for the time being lmfao

Isagi: haha, ill tell him that Isagi: rest well :)

You react to the message with a heart before tossing your phone somewhere on your bed. 

The red plastic cup sits on your drawer, and you reach out to grab it. It smells horrible. Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if you got alcohol poisoning from it and the other questionable mixtures you consumed tonight. 

You ignored the smell and gulped it down in one go, face contorting into an expression of disgust as you tasted the alcohol on your tongue. 

But it wasn’t merely the taste nor the smell that made you dislike alcohol so much—it’s what it did with your body and mind. 

Reckless decisions and impulsive actions were always guaranteed when drinking, not to mention how much you started overthinking your entire life, love life, to be precise.

Never in a million years would you’ve thought that you’d see Michael Kaiser again. If someone told you that he’d appear at your birthday party, with that all too familiar smile plastered on his face, which you fell in love with, you would’ve simply dismissed the comment.

After all, things were a total mess when he broke it off. From then on, you tried to avoid him as much as possible. Walking different routes to your classes, intentionally looking away when you’d pass by him on campus, not attending any parties you knew he’d go to, and not visiting any of the football games your school held. 

Because you knew that if you saw him, you’d start to crumble. 

Michael always knew what to say when it was about getting a reaction out of you. Whether it was bringing a smile to your lips or dropping snarky remarks where he knew that they’d tick you off and make you snap.

Truly, you convinced yourself that you despised him. The feeling of hatred coiled in your stomach whenever his name slipped into a conversation. 

What you hated more, though, was the effect that he had on you—how he’s able to spark a reaction despite not being in the room. The mere mention of his name was enough to send you over the edge.

There were days when you thought that Michael was the person for you. All the things you never told anyone, which you were convinced you’d take to your grave so not a single soul will ever know—they were all laid bare when you were with Michael.

But that wasn’t because he forced you into it. In reality, he was the first one to open up. Admittedly, you still don’t have an explanation for that and how it happened. But it somehow did. 

Little did you know that by doing so, you’d started growing weak around him, eventually telling your secrets, too.

Those countless nights where you were wrapped in his arms, barely able to move because he hugged you so tightly as if he feared that you’d flee from his hold if he were to let you go—they’re priceless memories that led you to believe that things were progressing positively.

But perhaps you were too caught up in your imagination that you didn’t see the changes in him and yourself.

Sometimes you think that Michael planned out your whole relationship. Playing the role of a picture-perfect boyfriend only to end up leaving.

While he seemed to be more than just fine—maybe even better than before, you were contemplating whether all of those moments you shared meant anything to him.

Why were you the only one who seemed to be affected by this?

Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud knock on your door and you snap your head towards it. “Who is it?” You yell out, hoping it reached the person on the other end of the door.

It doesn’t because they just decide to enter without answering, and you look up.

There he was.

Long blond hair with fading blue tips, hands loosely stuffed into the pockets of his denim jeans, and the same smile that never failed to make you falter.

His unevenly cut strands of hair fall perfectly on his face. You always laughed about it. Telling him that he should go to an air dresser instead of letting Alexis mess with his hair but Michael always insisted. 

Looking back, it seemed really endearing.

At the sight of him, you can’t help but let out an annoyed groan. “What did I say about not getting in my way? Fuck off.” You demand him to leave, and your eyes dart to the door. 

When everything you wanted was for him to stay. 

For him to explain his reason for attending, if he’s thought of you too, if he had any regrets—all the things you never dared to ask, because some things are better to be left unsaid for the sake of peace.

Michael and peace don’t belong in the same sentence. Whenever you spent time with him, things were anything but in order. Sure, he stirred chaos, but somehow always managed to make it pleasant—it was messy, but in a good way. 

You feel your body tensing up as you watch him, but he doesn’t leave, doesn’t budge a little. Instead, he leans against the door, closing it by doing so. “Isn’t it obvious?” A smirk finds its way on his face. “I wanted to see you.” He says, as if it were the most natural thing ever, pointing it out as if it were in his nature.

“Ugh,” you can’t help but groan. “Shut up, for once, will you?” Michael seems to be caught off guard for a moment before smiling. “Hm? Why should I? I thought you liked it wheneve—” “You’re annoying” you butt, then proceeding to lay down on your bed.

Silence fills the room, and you scoff in amusement. “Never got told to shut up or what’s with the silence?” you snide. He chortled at your comment before seating himself on your bed, the mattress slightly dipping as he set his weight on it. “Guess so. You’re always my first one.”

You let out a dry, almost mocking laugh. “Mhm, enlighten me, will you?” Michael looks down at you, and if you were sober enough, you’d say that he’s almost admiring you with fond eyes. His blue eyes glint with fondness, gazing at you as if you hung up all the stars in the sky. “Well, if we wanna start with the get-go, you were my first ti—” 

“You’re insufferable,” you exclaim in embarrassment. Unlike you, Michael seems to find enjoyment in your flustered state and reaches his hand out to your face, cupping your cheek and brushing his thumb over your flushed face. (It’s from the alcohol and not his touch, you convince yourself.)

His fingers graze your face gently, lingering for a moment before he tucks the stray strands of hair behind your ear, his touch tender and quiet, but enough to make you soften. 

Granted, you’re more than aware that you’ll regret this later on, but where’s the fun if not doing something reckless once or twice—or well..always whenever you're with Michael. “Man up, and kiss me, will you?” you grumble in annoyance. 

You should’ve known it was a bad idea when you saw Michael immediately smirking. “Thought you’d never ask, but I thought the atmosphere would be more romanti–” For the third time this evening, you shut him up, although not with a snarky remark or a rebuttal, but with a kiss—and in every case, you catch him off guard.

Michael’s eyes widen in surprise as he feels your lips press against his. With no hesitation, he reciprocates the action, closing his eyes and kissing you back. He’s quick to grab the hem of your shirt, his hands move beneath the fabric, and he starts roaming around on your bare skin.

You despise how good his touch feels, but what you hate even more is how his touch feels the same. How everything is the same, as if nothing has changed. His messy kisses, the familiar scent of his cologne, and how he’s still able to make you sway. 

You’ll most likely regret this in the morning, but hey, at least you know birthday wishes aren’t always so far out of reach—the impossible is possible, after all.

© FELIBRARY 2025. stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms or feeding them to ai is not permitted.

[felibrary]

WITH LOVE: your summer thing

PAIRING: Michael Kaiser x Reader (gender neutral)

SYNOPSIS: "Granted, you’re more than aware that you’ll regret this later on, but where’s the fun if not doing something reckless once or twice—or well..always whenever you're with Michael."

The universe seems to resent you. Being dumped by MICHAEL KAISER was apparently not nerve-wracking enough—the two of you were never quite ‘a thing’ to begin with. So, how come he worms his way into your life once more, and worst of all, on your birthday?

wordcount: 2.3k | content & warnings: consumption of alcohol (both), mentions of drinking & slightly smoking (not by either of them), they kiss like once, ngl #situationshipfinalboss#bothkindatoxicbutwhocares#cancelsitout (who can relate), one suggestive/nsfw remark (not explicitly detailed); oneshot

author's note: i proofread this i swear! (i scream as they drag me to the psych ward) well talking of psych ward, my therapist recommended me to go there again cause she had the impression i was doing worse but HELL NO also sorry writers block been eating me alive. had this in my drfats for like 4 months LOL

“So Meguru, mind telling me, why did you think announcing my birthday party and leaking my address in the local newspaper was a good idea?”

What was supposed to be a peaceful evening, hosted and arranged by your closest friends, in honor of your birthday, (which was only supposed to be celebrated in your small social circle) quickly turned into an open house party—all because Bachira couldn’t contain his excitement and wanted to share the news with everyone. 

Which leads you to this predicament: your ex of a situationship (or summer thing—how he’d call it), standing right before you. There’s a boyish smirk slapped onto his face, as if he found the whole situation too funny to be true, and seemed to enjoy your disapproval of his presence.

Bachira tried exchanging apologetic glances with you, but you simply dismissed them. “Well, you see, I now of course realize it was a mistake, but I just thought it’d be a nice surprise to have people congratulating you.” He lets out an embarrassed huff. “Though now, I see why that might not have been a great idea.” 

Meguru presses his lips into a thin line as he looks at Michael awkwardly, before turning his gaze back to you. “Sorry, I was so excited that I didn’t think about the consequences and how it could possibly affect you.”

Although it was a reckless decision (and idiotic if you may add), you didn’t want to be mad and put all the blame on Bachira. “I suppose there’s nothing we can do now, it’s fine.” The exasperated sigh that leaves your lips tells otherwise, but you weren't going to start arguing with one of your best friends on your birthday—especially if it was done out of good intent.

There’s loud 2000s pop music filling the atmosphere. People dancing along to the sound whilst shouting the wrong lyrics across the room.

The smell of cheap alcohol and poorly rolled blunts reeks in every corner of your place, accompanied by the whistles and claps of barely legal adults playing party games — spin the bottle, seven minutes in heaven, two truths, one lie—you name it.

Cleaning everything up was going to be a mess, but that’s a worry for later.

There was one thing you were sure of, though: If you stay here any longer, you’ll lose your mind.

So, before you let the blond jerk (Michael) open his chatty mouth and leave some insulting remark, you take your leave. Grabbing the red plastic cup filled with some mixture consisting of a random fruit soda you found on the table and vodka, you then try to leave in hopes of finding a quiet place to put your mind at ease.

(Preferably your bedroom if it isn’t already occupied by some strangers who locked the door to make out.)

But, perhaps, the alcohol has messed with your head that it slipped your mind just how insufferably determined Michael can be. “Der Spaß hat doch gerade erst angefangen und du willst bereits gehen?" "Sei doch nicht so lahm drauf, ist doch dein Geburtstag, hab Spaß!” his laughter fills the space. …and just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse.

You shoot him an irritated look, eyes wandering from his flushed face down to the tight grip his hand has on your wrist. “Man, what are you saying?” 

Out of nowhere, and if on command, Alexis chimes in. “Well, he basically said that you’re kinda lame for already leaving, despite the fun only having started, and that this is your birthday party, exactly why you should enjoy it!” Ness finishes his translation of Michael’s gibberish before adding a remark of his own:” And I couldn't agree more.” 

There’s a somewhat prideful smile gracing his lips as he agrees with Michael’s statement, and you’re not sure whether to feel impressed that Michael has someone who’s this devoted to him or if you should pity Alexis for being this devoted.

“Whatever. Just don’t do some stupid shit and don’t even fucking think about talking to me.” The sour words you spit are full of sincerity. With the amount of people approaching and congratulating you (even though they barely even know you—same goes for you, though) you’re already overwhelmed enough, and if then, Michael out of all people, started talking to you, you’d probably start malfunctioning. 

Michael just stares at you, fully captured in a haze as he looks at you through a blurred vision. “Mhm, can’t keep any promises,” he simply tilts his head to the side and grins. 

At that, you can’t help but scoff. “Yeah, I’m quite aware.” You hint and take your leave. 

“What was that all about?” Alexis asks, confusion written all over his face. “Not important,” Michael mutters under his breath, and suppresses his groan by biting down on his tongue, before disappearing into the crowd—Alexis running right after. 

Luckily and surprisingly, your room was unoccupied and left untouched. With a sigh of relief, you slump against your bed. Exhaustion fills your limbs, and your body feels heavy, not to mention the relentless stinging in your head.

If this continues, you're certain you'll fall asleep at any given moment.

Buzz

Drowsily, you open your eyes, patting your pants to find your phone. When you do, you see that Isagi sent you a message.

Isagi: dw about michael btw. me and the others will keep an eye on him and make sure that he won’t bother you

A small smile creeps onto your face as your eyes skim over the text.

: thats rly nice of u guys. i appreciate it. : thank uuu :)

Not even a second later, you already see Isagi typing a reply. 

Isagi: only natural, dw.  Isagi: btw megs apologised for basically inviting michael over again

Your smile softens upon reading the message, and you send Isagi a small message.

: it’s all good : tell him not to overthink it : guess we'll just have to manage w his ass for the time being lmfao

Isagi: haha, ill tell him that Isagi: rest well :)

You react to the message with a heart before tossing your phone somewhere on your bed. 

The red plastic cup sits on your drawer, and you reach out to grab it. It smells horrible. Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if you got alcohol poisoning from it and the other questionable mixtures you consumed tonight. 

You ignored the smell and gulped it down in one go, face contorting into an expression of disgust as you tasted the alcohol on your tongue. 

But it wasn’t merely the taste nor the smell that made you dislike alcohol so much—it’s what it did with your body and mind. 

Reckless decisions and impulsive actions were always guaranteed when drinking, not to mention how much you started overthinking your entire life, love life, to be precise.

Never in a million years would you’ve thought that you’d see Michael Kaiser again. If someone told you that he’d appear at your birthday party, with that all too familiar smile plastered on his face, which you fell in love with, you would’ve simply dismissed the comment.

After all, things were a total mess when he broke it off. From then on, you tried to avoid him as much as possible. Walking different routes to your classes, intentionally looking away when you’d pass by him on campus, not attending any parties you knew he’d go to, and not visiting any of the football games your school held. 

Because you knew that if you saw him, you’d start to crumble. 

Michael always knew what to say when it was about getting a reaction out of you. Whether it was bringing a smile to your lips or dropping snarky remarks where he knew that they’d tick you off and make you snap.

Truly, you convinced yourself that you despised him. The feeling of hatred coiled in your stomach whenever his name slipped into a conversation. 

What you hated more, though, was the effect that he had on you—how he’s able to spark a reaction despite not being in the room. The mere mention of his name was enough to send you over the edge.

There were days when you thought that Michael was the person for you. All the things you never told anyone, which you were convinced you’d take to your grave so not a single soul will ever know—they were all laid bare when you were with Michael.

But that wasn’t because he forced you into it. In reality, he was the first one to open up. Admittedly, you still don’t have an explanation for that and how it happened. But it somehow did. 

Little did you know that by doing so, you’d started growing weak around him, eventually telling your secrets, too.

Those countless nights where you were wrapped in his arms, barely able to move because he hugged you so tightly as if he feared that you’d flee from his hold if he were to let you go—they’re priceless memories that led you to believe that things were progressing positively.

But perhaps you were too caught up in your imagination that you didn’t see the changes in him and yourself.

Sometimes you think that Michael planned out your whole relationship. Playing the role of a picture-perfect boyfriend only to end up leaving.

While he seemed to be more than just fine—maybe even better than before, you were contemplating whether all of those moments you shared meant anything to him.

Why were you the only one who seemed to be affected by this?

Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud knock on your door and you snap your head towards it. “Who is it?” You yell out, hoping it reached the person on the other end of the door.

It doesn’t because they just decide to enter without answering, and you look up.

There he was.

Long blond hair with fading blue tips, hands loosely stuffed into the pockets of his denim jeans, and the same smile that never failed to make you falter.

His unevenly cut strands of hair fall perfectly on his face. You always laughed about it. Telling him that he should go to an air dresser instead of letting Alexis mess with his hair but Michael always insisted. 

Looking back, it seemed really endearing.

At the sight of him, you can’t help but let out an annoyed groan. “What did I say about not getting in my way? Fuck off.” You demand him to leave, and your eyes dart to the door. 

When everything you wanted was for him to stay. 

For him to explain his reason for attending, if he’s thought of you too, if he had any regrets—all the things you never dared to ask, because some things are better to be left unsaid for the sake of peace.

Michael and peace don’t belong in the same sentence. Whenever you spent time with him, things were anything but in order. Sure, he stirred chaos, but somehow always managed to make it pleasant—it was messy, but in a good way. 

You feel your body tensing up as you watch him, but he doesn’t leave, doesn’t budge a little. Instead, he leans against the door, closing it by doing so. “Isn’t it obvious?” A smirk finds its way on his face. “I wanted to see you.” He says, as if it were the most natural thing ever, pointing it out as if it were in his nature.

“Ugh,” you can’t help but groan. “Shut up, for once, will you?” Michael seems to be caught off guard for a moment before smiling. “Hm? Why should I? I thought you liked it wheneve—” “You’re annoying” you butt, then proceeding to lay down on your bed.

Silence fills the room, and you scoff in amusement. “Never got told to shut up or what’s with the silence?” you snide. He chortled at your comment before seating himself on your bed, the mattress slightly dipping as he set his weight on it. “Guess so. You’re always my first one.”

You let out a dry, almost mocking laugh. “Mhm, enlighten me, will you?” Michael looks down at you, and if you were sober enough, you’d say that he’s almost admiring you with fond eyes. His blue eyes glint with fondness, gazing at you as if you hung up all the stars in the sky. “Well, if we wanna start with the get-go, you were my first ti—” 

“You’re insufferable,” you exclaim in embarrassment. Unlike you, Michael seems to find enjoyment in your flustered state and reaches his hand out to your face, cupping your cheek and brushing his thumb over your flushed face. (It’s from the alcohol and not his touch, you convince yourself.)

His fingers graze your face gently, lingering for a moment before he tucks the stray strands of hair behind your ear, his touch tender and quiet, but enough to make you soften. 

Granted, you’re more than aware that you’ll regret this later on, but where’s the fun if not doing something reckless once or twice—or well..always whenever you're with Michael. “Man up, and kiss me, will you?” you grumble in annoyance. 

You should’ve known it was a bad idea when you saw Michael immediately smirking. “Thought you’d never ask, but I thought the atmosphere would be more romanti–” For the third time this evening, you shut him up, although not with a snarky remark or a rebuttal, but with a kiss—and in every case, you catch him off guard.

Michael’s eyes widen in surprise as he feels your lips press against his. With no hesitation, he reciprocates the action, closing his eyes and kissing you back. He’s quick to grab the hem of your shirt, his hands move beneath the fabric, and he starts roaming around on your bare skin.

You despise how good his touch feels, but what you hate even more is how his touch feels the same. How everything is the same, as if nothing has changed. His messy kisses, the familiar scent of his cologne, and how he’s still able to make you sway. 

You’ll most likely regret this in the morning, but hey, at least you know birthday wishes aren’t always so far out of reach—the impossible is possible, after all.

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