Sherry or Sher. She/her. I am 18+ but I will only write sfw.
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after many years i have finally watched the final gintama movie and wow. wow. gintama you are a story about dudes getting stuck in a bathroom bc they ran outta toilet paper taking a shit. but you are also an anime about people. about humanity. about starting over. about trying again. about love. and the monster becoming human, because he is loved, and is capable of love, and that love can find him in the people he meets in edo who think this wavy-haired bum samurai is someone they'd lay their lives down to fight for and beside because he has done the same for them. my goodness. gintama drives me insane. it's such a beautiful story about starting over and enjoying your everyday life for its absurd moments, its quite moments, its painful moments. gintoki sakata i am so glad you lived. i am so glad you chose to keep living. i am so glad you were able to start over. i am so glad you found people to love and be loved by in return. never pay your rent pookie.
you could be sitting in a pool of your own blood, lips dry and cracked and skin so deathly pale that you look almost dead, and he would still look at you as if you've kissed life into every being on this planet. aka ; you've fallen ill and your boyfriend takes advantage of that.
feat. phainon & gn!reader
warnings : fluff, established relationship, modern au, entirely self indulgent boohoo, phainon.
w.c. : 2.4k
note : guess who lost the battle w my cold?? orz i was in the TRENCHES so this is my light and short comfort fic of what i wished happened while i was asleep for 18+ hrs again to heal from this illness + sore throat orz no phainon to care me but that also means no phaicham homemade soup so... a win is a win ig nodnod
Phainon loves everything about you.
He loves how your eyes avert from his whenever he compliments you, always admiring the way you fidget underneath his gaze and deny his words or tell him to 'be quiet' with a gentle shove. He loves it when your eyes visibly light up when he mentions grabbing a sweet treat after stuffing your faces from dinner despite your comment of not having enough room for anything else.
They're his favorite color on you and he never misses a moment to remind you again and again.
He adores the feeling of your body on his when he grabs something out of your reach and you're desperately jumping up to snatch it away from him. He adores how soft and warm your hand is when he swiftly slides his palms into yours and how your eyes widen at the fingers that have suddenly appeared interlocked in yours. His rough callouses, his prized possessions from both farming with his parents back home and from his dedication to keeping his body in shape, are a stark contrast to how smooth your hands are, and yet it's where his hand loves to be.
You never pull away, even when you're mad at him for whatever shenanigans he has pulled prior.
He cherishes the tender, love filled gaze directed at him when he rests his head on your lap after a long day. Phainon could stare into them all day if he could, but you always shy away when you've noticed how long he has been watching you. With your fingers buried in his fluffy hair, the gentle massage against his scalp soothes all of his worries away. It's quiet moments like these where you're free to show him affection through your touch or from whispered compliments, a rare occasion from you but he never minds; it's still your love and he would do anything to be the recipient of it.
He could be facing the worst fate in the world for the 33,550,336th time, but a single touch from you, a mere whisper of his name even, would be enough to give him the hope that everything will be okay. As long as you remain by Phainon's side, as long as you continue to love him in the special way that you do, he feels near invincible.
However, out of all the things that he loves about you, Phainon especially loves it when he has the perfect chance to shower you in his favorite love language: annoying you affectionately beyond compare, especially when you've been vocally and physically incapacitated by the cold that has seized your body.
phaicham (6:45 PM) : so... you're bedridden and can't speak because of your sore throat with no access to any soup or medicine? say less, my beloved. your precious knight is On my way!
you (6:46 PM) : pls don't come here. you'll get sick too.
you (6:50 PM) : Phainon. I'm being serious do not come here.
Read 6:50 PM
The text shines harshly against your tired eyes in the midst of your softly lit room. The warm light of the fairy lights delicately hanging off of your wells are gentle on your eyes and provide just enough light for your sickly body to see but not enough to hurt.
It's warm in your room due to the summer heat and you're in a perpetual state of hell with the air conditioning blasting air that's too cool for your body without your duvet on and your body overheating in seconds and sweating your butt off should you have your duvet on. So you do the next best thing and have half of your body sprawled out from your blanket and the other haphazardly tucked underneath to equalize the use of both temperatures.
Is it working? Absolutely not, but you don't care; this is the most comfortable you're going to get before the storm that you unfortunately love with all your heart arrives.
You know damn well that your very loving and especially doting boyfriend is not joking about being on his way to care for you, and you mentally groan at the thought of having to weakly fend for your life against his actions towards you knowing full well your physical limits for today.
Not that you hate them... but affection is something you're working on accepting and Phainon is never one to hold back on sharing his affections towards you either physically or verbally. And if he were to start being physically loving to you, which no doubtedly he will be, there's a definite chance that he can catch whatever you have and the thought of your lover, bright and full of warmth, sick in bed does make you worry.
In the midst of your pitiful lamenting of having a lover that loves you so much, the jingling of keys perks your ears up and your eyes snap up to your bedroom door. There's a brief pause as you hear your front door swing open and close, then footsteps. They walk around your apartment for a brief moment before they get closer and closer to your bedroom door until-
Beautiful seas of sky blue peer at you through the sliver of space from your cracked door. They assess your situation, scanning your demeanor, and only when he realizes that you're not sleeping does your boyfriend fully reveal himself.
He's wearing something simple — a black form fitted shirt and a pair of comfy grey sweatpants — and yet he looks just as charming as he usually does. His eyes, always shining with adoration aimed only at you, flit over your pitiful figure on your bed and his eyebrows tilt upwards in a sympathetic smile.
"Look at you, sweetheart. You look so miserable," Phainon coos, kneeling down at your height. His fingers brush against your forehead and blue eyes narrow at the sweat on your forehead. "It's so warm in here. Why didn't you turn on the air conditioning?"
You meekly croak something in response, an attempt to respond to your lover but with your sore throat all you can manage is a hoarse and breathy noise. Phainon blinks in surprise, the surprise of your voice shocking him for a mere moment before he chuckles softly.
"I didn't know it was this bad. Let me get you some food in your system before we take your medicine."
You've drifted off in the brief time that your boyfriend had left your room; you're so used to the slight burn of your eyes as your eyelids close and the dry pain of your throat with every gulp that at this point it's almost comforting to you. It's quiet in your room with the only sounds you can hear, outside of your haggard breathing, being the distant humming of your lover in the kitchen and the faint buzz of the kitchen lights through the cracked door of your room.
Though the thought of Phainon cooking in the kitchen worries you — he's not known for his ability to cook — the dry pain itching in the back of your throat distracts you from the reality of your kitchen possibly burning down. Rather, it's more comforting knowing that there's someone home with you with the intentions of caring for you in your time in need.
Even if that someone could easily make your situation much more worse than it already is.
There's a gentle a knock on your door and your eyes open just as your boyfriend reappears into your bedroom with a steaming bowl of soup in his hands. As you breathe in, there's a nasty, wet congested noise from your nose and blood flushes to your face as Phainon hears the brunt of how sickly you are.
A weak apology attempts to leave your lips, but your lover pays you no mind. With a simple smile tugging at his lips and his brows pulled upwards, he gives you a look of pity before your bed dips a little as he takes a seat at your bedside.
"Don't worry about it, darling. Come on, let's get you up." His voice is so gentle, a timbre that you're so familiar with and one that tugs at your heartstrings from the contrast of the delicate way he's treating you and the abrasive whispers that you're limited to.
The soupy broth before you is steaming, fresh off of the stove, and to your surprise it looks and smells appetizing. There's carefully chopped carrots floating in the yellow-ish liquid, bits of celery here and there, and small chunks of chicken — a tantalizing bowl chicken noodle soup perfect for your sore throat and light enough for your poor stomach.
It looks and smells perfect. A little too perfect.
As if reading your thoughts, Phainon chuckles softly from beside you and your eyes flit over to your boyfriend. Eyes of azure are twinkling with mirth and, through the cold fighting through your body, the warmth of your blood rushes to your cheeks at being caught making faces at the small bowl of soup.
"You're furrowing your brows; is my cooking really usually that bad?" Phainon asks you, tilting his head and in this moment you're reminded of just how similar he is to his fluffy dog back in his hometown. You turn your head to the side briefly to give your lover a side eye — he laughs even harder.
"Relax, I asked Mydei to make some soup for you and he wrote very clear instructions on how to heat it up so I wouldn't ruin it. Don't worry, I'm not poisoning you, sweetheart."
Relief floods your system and your body immediately relaxes knowing that you weren't about to be fed some rancid tasting soup. Slowly, your hands raise to take the steaming bowl away from your lover and fill your stomach with something for the day, but as your fingers touch the warm ceramic of the bowl, it's pulled away from your reach.
A quizzical look spreads across your face and with an eyebrow raised, you look up at your boyfriend who's smiling at you cheekily. Something is brewing in that thick head of his and you know for sure you aren't going to like it.
"Hm, what was that?" Phainon begins, his eyes never leaving yours with mischief dancing dangerously in those hues of blue that you love so much. "You want your devilishly handsome and loving boyfriend to feed you soup because your hands are so feeble and sickly that you can't lift the bowl properly?"
There it is.
Your lips part, but all you can manage to get out is a gruff whisper and a shake of your head. Your fingers reach for the bowl again, but you're dreadfully reminded of your boyfriend's towering height compared to yours and how often he abuses it.
"Don't worry, since I love you so much I'll do what you ask for and feed you, sweetheart."
Your glare is near lethal, pointed daggers directed at the teasing smile growing on Phainon's lips, spoon full of soup held carefully in front of your lips. You're tempted to curl up back underneath the blankets and deny him the satisfaction of getting under your skin, but the soup smells so decadent and heavenly….
The steaming broth, light in flavor but delicious nonetheless, warms your throat almost immediately and the sharp, biting pain that flared up with every breath slowly fades away with each spoonful. Embarrassing as it is to be spoonfed something you could easily eat independently, there's something so tender about being cared for that moves your heart; Phainon's quiet hums as he gently gets you to part your lips for the spoon, his soft touches as he wipes away any dribble of broth that escapes the corners of your mouth, and the never ending fond and affectionate gaze that settles on you.
His love envelopes you in warmth, like the blazing flames residing in the hearth of a home. He is the sun incarnate shining down brilliantly with his golden rays just to melt away the cold that seeps at the edge of your fingertips. His love is ardent and bright and you cannot hide from the sun no matter how hard you tried to; light always finds a way to break through even the darkest corners.
Though, at this point you don't ever want to. Phainon's love is bright and passionate, nearly all-consuming.
And it's addicting.
"I love you."
There's a shrill clang as the spoon clatters into the ceramic bowl and a gasp from your boyfriend. Though small and slightly raspy, the words that have slipped from your lips are as clear as day. With quick movements, the bowl is hastily placed on your nightstand and a trembling, warm hand encases your own.
"Say that again, won't you?" His voice is shaking, a quiet whisper as if any decibel higher would shatter this moment.
"I love you, Phainon."
As his name slips out in a hoarse murmur, Phainon wastes no time in cupping your jaw in his hands. With a soft murmur of your name, his lips are on yours before you know it. He's kissing you with a fervor that you're all too familiar with; gentle and affectionate, yet he yearns for more and he isn't afraid of being greedy with you.
A kiss that's just like him.
He's insatiable when it comes to you. It doesn't matter how much he takes from you, how much attention he devours or how many devoted kisses he can steal before you slip away from his fingers, he'll always want more, more, and more.
"Stop, you'll get sick…!" You manage to get out as your hands swiftly reach up to press against Phainon's lips and push him away from you. Endless blue eyes peer into your own, engulfing you with a desire only held back by your palm. A large hand wraps around your wrist, holding it gently as he kisses into your hand before freeing his lips.
"I don't care. Let me kiss you, please?" His kisses trail down from the center of your palm to your inner wrist, the light touch sending shivers up your arm.
"Please?"
Every thought in your mind is screaming at you to be rational about this; say no to your boyfriend and deal with his pouting for the sake of his health and wellbeing.
But his love is addicting and he is so addicting to love.
You follow what your heart tells you. You don't fight him when he leans forward to capture your lips in another kiss, this time his passion overflows into you and your hands find their solace in the sea of soft white tufts. Quiet whispers of affection, 'I love you's mumbled against your lips, and a man who yearns for your entire being fills your heart with the love you so crave.
And you don't pull away, not like you would ever want to.
(6.2k, idol au, friends to rivals and exes to lovers, angst with a happy ending, non linear narrative)
first time writing for lovebrush!!!! this entire fic was running on pure inspiration i had so much fun c:
The VMAs 2025 - Artist of the Year revealed
The glitter and gold of the hall you sit in screams luxury. Every floor tile shines with diamond specks, every seat covered with the softest silk, and every meal is cooked to perfection. Even the butlers hired are impeccable, each one flawlessly attending to the absurd demands of the highly recognised celebrities sitting together with you in this very hall. The airconditioning, annoyingly set to the perfect temperature, brushes your bare shoulder with a chilling breeze, reminding you to plaster on yet another smile to appease the older gentleman conversing with you.
If he complimented your navy dress tonight, or commented about the weather, you don’t care for it. You’ve long zoned out. Neither do you really taste the fruity champagne on your painted lips, despite liking sweet drinks yourself.
You’re a woman on a mission. There’s only one thing you came here for, one title to claim in front of these powerhungry businessmen and self-absorbed celebrities.
For about four years now, you’re neither a fresh new face nor a wisened veteran in the pop industry, but you started your career strong with a debut album boasting a handful of popular hits among the youth. It earned you a spotlight in the mainstream centre stage of music, and you’ve only been growing since, if the ever-rising statistics on your streaming services and album sales have anything to say for themselves. You’re plenty decorated yourself, so not winning Artist of the Year this year would not pose a big threat to your empire; you’d still get to return to your penthouse and wake up to a scrumptious breakfast feast tomorrow.
The main problem behind your unwillingness to lose, however, lay behind ruby red eyes that have been staring your way for the past hour.
Ayn Alwyn’s gaze is so striking, so loud, so blunt that you can feel it through the back of your head. But you refuse to give him your time, let alone a speck of attention. You feel his stare prickling at your skin as you gingerly raise your champagne glass to your lips, intentionally leaving behind a dulled lipstick stain that you know he’ll pay close attention to.
For a fellow mainstream artist known for his impassivity to everyone, you’ll never understand the way he stares at you like he demands for something more. Or, maybe you do. Maybe you understand, and you’re choosing not to.
Another half hour goes by with mindless, performative chatter. Your feet are burning, your dress is slipping, and minutes are ticking by like hours. But a raging fire still burns in your chest (adrenaline or pure spite, you can’t tell), keeping you alive. Because the main event is coming soon, just around the corner; evident in how the chatter begins to dim, and the cameras come back on. Ayn’s heavy gaze subsides, reluctantly turning away from you, and you let out the breath you’d been holding.
Then finally, finally, the emcee walks on stage to begin his introduction.
When the emcee pulls out the card, ready to announce the Artist of the Year, you close your eyes, squeezing your hands deathly tight together, your sweat settling uncomfortably between.
The hall falls into silence, tension dense in the air. Slowly, painstakingly, the emcee raises the microphone to his mouth, face unreadable for seconds. Until he breaks out into a wide smile, loudly announcing a name that has the crowd around you erupting into boisterous cheer, fellow celebrities jumping up and down for joy.
It’s not yours.
-
Summer Interview 2022: Ayn Alwyn on Huajia’s career
“Yes. We’ve been friends for a long while now, since we were classmates in college.
Of course. I’m truly happy for her. I always believed in her talent, and I’m glad that the world can finally see it during her debut too.
Yes. She’s always been this dedicated. I hope you’ll enjoy the album as much as I did when she sent me some of the demos. No, she wrote everything herself. No, I promised her I won’t leak anything.
Once the album releases, well… I’ll treat her to lunch out. She deserves at least that much, with all the work she puts in behind the scenes. What else? That’s between the two of us.
Some of the songs were inspired by me? …I didn’t know that. How did you? She teased it on Twitter? …Hm.
A collaboration… that’s for both of us to decide. We’ll work on one only if she wants it.
…For the last time, we’re not dating.”
-
Midnight finds the accomplished Ayn Alwyn standing outside your door like a sopping wet cat.
You look up at the man before you, half annoyed, half amused. For an accomplished musician who was up on stage receiving the Artist of the Year award with quiet pride three hours ago, he certainly looks quite pathetic by your doorstep now; rainwater dripping down his black hair, red eyes sadder than you’ve seen in a long while. He hadn’t even bothered to change out of his gala clothing— did he just leave the afterparty, or did he choose to not attend, knowing you hadn’t either?
Regardless, he’s already here at your door, and you’re honestly slightly infuriated at how handsome he looks even when drenched. “You came running in the rain, didn’t you? You’ll get sick.”
“Mm,” he replies, stoic, with an underlying sadness you don’t address.
You don’t have it in you to turn him away.
It takes twenty minutes for him to wipe the rain out of his hair, shower, and change into clothes his size conveniently found in your penthouse. It takes much less than that for him to settle himself on your couch, like he lives here himself, like the rivalry between the two of you as competing music artists doesn’t exist.
Not wanting to hold a proper conversation with him tonight, you let the TV play in the background, accompanying the rain in drowning out the silence. It doesn’t stop Ayn from glancing your way ever so often, striking red eyes expectant and longing.
Finally, you cave. You’ve never been good at refusing this man.
“Congratulations on the win,” you say, hoping bitterness doesn’t lace your tone too much.
He lifts his head to you, quietly observing your features, until he whispers slowly, hesitantly, “It should’ve been you,”
“Don’t piss me off,” you sneer. A tightness knots in your chest, for the nth time tonight. Because what does he know? What does he know of worthiness, when all he does is win and all you do is watch? How could someone born in the industry with a silver spoon in his mouth possibly understand someone who climbed from the bottom?
Much to your chagrin, he wisely chooses to keep quiet, instead of indulging your itch for a fight.
Outside, the rain beats down harder on your penthouse windows. The raindrops roll down, each forming a unique zigzag trail, as if racing with each other.
You wipe away the tear tracks on your own cheeks resembling them.
-
“When I first met you
It just felt right
It's like I met a copy of myself that night
I don't believe in fate as such
But we were meant to be together, that's my hunch”
— Huajia, “Illustration”
-
The VMAs 2022 - List of Winners
“Stop that.”
Before you can fully peel the skin off your thumbs, Ayn gently grabs hold of your hands, separating them with his own one. The way he smoothly intertwines your fingers brings a rush of heat to your ears.
“I can’t help it,” you whisper, your shoulder touching his. “I’m so nervous.”
“I know,” he whispers back, brushing the back of your hand with his thumb.
Both of you turn your attention back to the stage, waiting in anticipation for Album of the Year to finally be announced. You’re aware that you’re already privileged enough, as a fresh new artist, to be nominated for multiple awards within your first year of debuting in the industry. And precisely because you’ve already made it this far, starting from the bottom with your blood, sweat and tears, you aren’t willing to walk away now.
Compared to you, Ayn’s more familiar with the industry, for the reasons that he’s been doing music a little longer than you along with the fact that he’s practically music royalty. His father is the head of a conglomerate that owns many, many music labels, but he manages to impress the world by forming his own identity completely unrelated to his father, building his empire as independently as a nepo baby possibly can.
“I know better than everyone just how hard you worked on your debut album,” he squeezes your hand, showing you a small smile meant only for your eyes. “If you don’t win, I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”
“Please don’t,” you half giggle, half sigh. “I don’t want to see my nepo baby boyfriend on the news for fraud.”
Ayn keeps you engaged in small banter, easily taking your nerves away, replacing it with the warmth of his presence by your side. His words, quiet yet firm, remind you of his eternal support. And then, when he leans in to ground you with a gentle kiss, the world around you both dissolves to nothing.
The announcer makes his way up on stage, and with Ayn’s hand clasped in yours, you feel more than ready to accept your soon-to-be award.
-
Pop Crave
@popcrave
[image]
Ayn Alwyn’s 3rd album wins Best Album in the VMAs, and Album of the Year in the GRAMMYs. (2022)
(5k Reposts, 121k Likes, 700 Comments)
-
Your manager sometimes jokes that your biggest enemy is yourself. You sometimes believe her.
In an industry that is inherently competitive, abusive and moneyminded, there is no place on stage for the weak or ordinary. Just like any other thriving artist, you’ve done your very best to cement a solid brand for yourself and an adoring fanbase, at the cost of sleepless nights and mental breakdowns.
So for what it’s worth, you feel genuinely grateful to be under a label that puts less pressure on you than you do yourself.
Come the morning after the 2025 VMAs, your manager is the first contact you call— choosing to ignore the countless messages of faux pity from celebrity acquaintances on your recent loss.
“You already know what I want to say,” she opens when she picks up, the exasperated smile on her side seeping through the line. It gives you a minimal amount of comfort, but comfort nonetheless. “So I won’t. Album sales are still climbing. Streaming is at an all time high. If there’s no rush to prove a point, why don’t you take a break for a week?”
“And drown myself in my thoughts, dear Naledi? Cruel.”
“Take a walk!” she cheerfully supplies. “I won’t totally ban you from working if inspiration strikes. But that’s all you’ve been doing non-stop; even the CEO herself is worried about you.”
You let out a snort, the closest to a real laugh in days. “Madam Liore would never, you’re joking.”
It’s the healthiest back and forth banter you’ve had in a while, emphasis on ‘healthiest’; you had shut yourself in your room last night after that brief talk with Ayn, and he had left your house before you woke, gone like a barely-there breeze, the only evidence of his existence being the breakfast left on your kitchen counter. Which you didn’t eat.
“Anyway, I’ll let you know if there’s anything important,” Naledi hums, reassuring, “Madam Liore chastised everyone in office today to not give you anything to do for the week— really, not joking! I swear you’re her golden child. Enjoy your week off!”
She hangs up before you can argue. Your tummy rumbles at that exact moment, and you remember that you hadn’t eaten, but you’re not in the mood to leave the house right now, nor whip up something from your empty fridge. That only leaves…
Begrudgingly, you make your way to the paper bag on the counter, convincing yourself that you’re just checking out what the bastard bought for you so you know what you’re passing to your elderly neighbours. But when you open the bag and actually see the contents, you’re left utterly speechless and a small flutter in your stomach.
Your favourite breakfast sandwiches from the store across your apartment building stare back at you, with extra cheese and no tomatoes— exactly how you like them. And by some otherworldly magic, they’re still warm and toasty when you touch them.
Inside the bag, along with the sandwiches and a bottled fruit tea, is a note.
Don’t eat late. Heat up well before eating.
When your fingers ghost over the cursive scrawl of his handwriting, an ache makes a home in your chest.
It worsens when you bite into the sandwich, the feeling of Ayn’s unspoken care flooding your senses.
-
Harp Island Times: Pop stars Ayn Alwyn, Huajia have ‘decided to take a break’ from two-year-long relationship
Chen Zihan, Feb 2024
A source confirms to Harp Island Times that the pair have gone their separate ways.
While not publicly known, the pair was speculated to have started dating back in early 2022. Prior to that, Alwyn and Huajia had been close friends from the same college, St. Shelter Institution, years ago. Their romantic friends-to-lovers story awed many fans and fellow celebrities alike, and generally received positive reception.
Users on TikTok and Twitter speculate that the reason for the breakup was building animosity between the pair over Alwyn winning Album of the Year twice in a row, along with Artist of the Year 2023 — titles that were highly expected, by both social media and critics, to be awarded to Huajia, whose debut pop album ‘Godheim’ consisted of four songs with at least 100 million streams on Spotify.
Others go on to further speculate that Ayn Alwyn’s consistent success might be backed by his father, the head of a powerful music conglomerate…
(Read more)
-
Two days before your week-long break ends, a phone call from Ayn shatters the slow peace you’d attempted to build for yourself.
To be honest, it might’ve been on you for picking it up in the first place. But you know that when Ayn calls, it’s because he urgently wants to hear your voice, and if you decline his calls, he would spam you with texts anyway. You never truly win when it comes to him. A gut feeling tells you that today won’t be different, if not worse.
When you answer, his breath comes through in slow puffs, heavy with the weight of an impending decision.
“The cats outside my hideout keep returning,” he begins, almost like a casual conversation, “but this time they won’t leave. I’m running out of treats to feed them.”
“Bann and Madu?” you snort, a wry smile on your lips as you make your way to the balcony. The night breeze brushes your hair, and you look up at the moon, the same one Ayn is under. “Don’t overfeed them. They’re almost overweight, last I saw.”
“You haven’t been here in nearly a year, though.” It sounds teasing, but his tone reveals more melancholy than it should, and your breath hitches, not sure if you’re ready to enter that territory of thought.
He moves on mindlessly from topic to topic, describing everyday activities, just like the night of the VMAs when he crashed your place. Like he’s pretending that everything is fine and normal between the both of you, and there is no strained rivalry, and you are still in love, and you would run back into his arms the moment he asked you to. You’re pretending there isn’t truth to any of that.
And honestly, you want everything to be fine and normal. You want to be in love with him. You love him. You truly do, even with your spite and dignity on the line. Because you’re tired of pretending your love has faded, pretending every love song you write isn’t about him, pretending it’s not him consuming your every waking thought. Ayn Alwyn has been written into the pages of your story in permanent ink from the moment you met him in St. Shelter Institution. His ghost haunts you in everything you do, everywhere you go, and you’ve never cried nor yearned for anyone else as much as him.
Still, for performances’ sake, you choose self preservation. “Why did you really call, Ayn?”
As expected, he goes quiet, and the familiar jingle of the windchime in his hideout is the only sound you hear from the other side of the line. Then, quietly but firmly, like an anchor in deep sea, he whispers something that sends your stomach plummeting to the ground.
“I love you.”
Clear as a musical note, sincere as a melody. He says it softly, but so loudly in that determined tone of his, leaving your ears ringing and your head spinning. “I love you. I adore you so much. I miss you.”
“Ayn,” you let out a strangled whine, tears dotting the corners of your eyes. “Don’t do this to me.”
“All I want is you here with me,” he only continues, a single crack in his voice being the only indicator of any emotion. “My Huajia. Won’t you come home to me? I love you. I want you so, so much.”
“That’s the problem!” you scream, crumpling to the floor. “All you do is want, want, want. What you want, you get. What you don’t want, you get anyway! You win everything you want and more, and all I do is watch from below you. I tried to save myself, choose myself when I broke up with you, but now you want my autonomy too? Are the awards you’ve taken from me not good enough for you, Alwyn?!”
“No, that’s not what I—”
You suck in a harsh breath, schooling yourself out of your brief moment of hysteria. Nonetheless, you can’t prevent the despair from seeping into your voice, “Ayn, I’m begging you. I’ve already lost too much to you; I can’t lose myself too.”
He doesn’t have a reply for that. The jingle of the windchime fills up the silence on his end, stretching, waiting.
“Then,” he murmurs, slow and resolutely, but not without bitterness, “I won’t tell you I love you anymore. Sweet dreams, Huajia.”
He hangs up before you can get the satisfaction to. Immediately, you lose all remaining feeling in your legs, the world around you dropping into a blur. Your phone clatters loudly onto the balcony floor, and a neighbour is probably looking at you in concern, but all you’re preoccupied with is wailing into your hands.
In an industry that is inherently competitive, abusive and moneyminded, there is no place on stage for the weak or ordinary. Even though your pity party isn’t over yet, adrenaline and pure rage pulls you off the floor, and you’re ringing up your manager before you register it.
“Forget the break, Naledi,” you seeth through your teeth, angry tears blurring your vision, “I’ve got inspiration for a new single.”
-
“Come rest your bones next to me
And toss all your thoughts to the sea
I'll pull up each of our anchors
So we can get lost, you and me”
— Ayn Alwyn, “Buried With You”
-
It’s a random Tuesday when you decide to drop your new single, ‘Dreamscape’. No advertising, no prior announcement, no promotional buildup. Fans are curious. Critics are skeptical. Regardless, many people give it an experimental listen. The result? Everyone is shocked.
“I hate it when you think you're reassuring
'Cause it don't make me feel like I
Can tell you I'm over always hurting
You can't live with a heart like mine”
Neater than a diss track, angrier than a breakup song. Your new single is absolutely nothing like you’ve ever done. From the instrumentals to the layering of your voice, it’s a complete 180 from your typical style. It is raw, unadulterated, and full of pure spite.
And the cherry on top? The cover is a candid picture of you raising an uncensored middle finger, with the words “FUCK YOU AYN” messily scribbled in red marker ink at the corner.
The world goes a little nuts, to say the least.
Despite the uncharacteristic crudeness and the direct diss to a prominent fellow celebrity, responses to your new single are surprisingly well received. Streaming statistics jump high, higher than they’ve ever been. The media praises it as your most critically acclaimed work yet. Hell, the song is booming across TikTok and Instagram, with teenagers and adults alike syncing the chorus to videos of them cursing out their toxic exes.
Some are even predicting it to be 2026’s Song of the Year. And with the GRAMMYs’ submission deadline fast approaching and no new musical projects from Ayn Alwyn, there’s higher optimism that you’ll finally get your deserved recognition long overdue.
-
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE
@lovebrushedworlds
BRO???? THE NEW HUAJIA SINGLE IS SOO?? UNHINGED???? 😭😭
Most relevant replies
katsudon @hotricebowlsoup
the way she released it on his birthday too IJBOLLL
cloud ☁️ stream dreamscape! @huajiaverse
Im saying like… Ayn had to have wronged her in that relationship for the crashout to be this bad :shrug:
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE @lovebrushedworlds
and it’s cos that nepo baby stole her awards for years… we been knew [gif]
Savannah @savannahhh
Bro sybau literally no one confirmed it.
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE @lovebrushedworlds
ok *yn defender
katsudon @hotricebowlsoup
HELPPP HE DOESN’T EVEN HAVE ENOUGH LETTERS IN HIS NAME TO PROPERLY CENSOR
cael’s wifey ⋆｡‧˚ʚɞ˚‧｡⋆ @mrsanselm
no cos it’s literally a masterpiece fr??? even tho you can feel the pain and rage in her voice her lyricism is still top tier oh queenjia we never doubted u
Ayn Alwyn ✅ @aynalwynofficial
You’re right. It’s exceptionally well done.
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE @lovebrushedworlds
??????????? AYN ALWYN??????????????????? [gif]
-
Harp Island Times: CEO of Alwyn Conglomerates involved in vote-rigging power abuse
O’Connor, Jan 2026
The head of Alwyn Conglomerates, which owns multiple notable music labels, was revealed to be heavily involved in the rigging of votes in multiple prestigious awards such as the VMAs and GRAMMYs.
His only son, Ayn Alwyn, is an acclaimed music artist with many of said awards under his belt. This has led to the younger Alwyn being the subject of multiple rumors and theories over the years regarding his father’s involvement in his success.
The issue was first brought to light when Twitter user @lovebrushedworlds posted a call-out thread linking evidence of Mr Alwyn’s alleged fraud, which went viral and incurred a large movement from social media, pushing for authorities to further any investigation in this matter.
Surprisingly enough, Ayn Alwyn himself played a big part in the advocacy, being among the loudest voices in uncovering his father’s crimes…
(Read more)
-
The GRAMMYs 2026 - Live Performances
The glitter and gold of the hall you sit in screams luxury. Every floor tile shines with diamond specks, every seat covered with the softest silk, and every meal is cooked to perfection. Tonight, you’ve changed up your style a little, just to match the trending hot single that earned you a nominee and a well deserved spot in this hall.
If anyone complimented your different look tonight, you don’t really remember it. You’ve long zoned out. Neither do you really taste the heavy wine on your painted lips, only grimacing at the bitterness ever so often.
You’re a woman on a mission. There’s only one thing you came here for, one title to claim in front of one person.
Unfortunately, right before the event to announce Song of the Year, is a live performance; by none other than the bane of your existence, the muse of your magnum opus. Ayn Alwyn makes his way on stage, heading to the standing microphone instead of his usual seat on his beloved piano.
You’re just as confused as everyone else. The crowd is wondering what he’ll do next— a PR stunt, to save his reputation before it crashes to the ground like his father’s? A desperate speech, to defend himself right before you claim the award you earned from writing a song lamenting about him?
None of you expect soft, composed Ayn to be backed up by a whole rock band on stage, electric guitarists and drummers taking their spot behind him.
Apparently, you’re not the only one changing up your musicality here. You almost find it funny. You almost find it cute.
Silence washes over the hall in anticipation as the lights dim. Then, Ayn starts to sing, and the crowd is taken aback. Because where soft, composed Ayn should’ve been, stood a young man, desperate and genuine, belting out lyrics that sounded like a teenage dirtbag garage band’s song.
But you knew it wasn’t. This isn’t a rock cover. It’s Ayn’s brand new single, ‘Eden With You’, performed live for the very first time on the GRAMMYs stage. And it’s so, so… different, so jarring. Gone are his skillful symbolisms and meticulous metaphors, which are prominent traits of his lyric writing; in their place, tonight on stage, are simple words so unfiltered and full of longing you can’t help but choke up badly.
“I hate your touch, I hate your mouth
I can't stand every single word that falls out
But you're all that I've been dreaming of
This is not another song about love”
It’s so corny. It’s so raw. It’s a replica of the 2010s love songs you grew up with, screaming in your childhood bedroom like you were the only person in the world.
The crowd around you fades to nothing when he makes direct eye contact with you throughout the chorus, striking red eyes daring you to break away first. You don’t. Like a sailor to a siren, you’re utterly hypnotised, hook, line, sinker. He’s never looked more desperate, but he’s never looked more beautiful.
The most infuriating part? He never says “I love you” directly.
“The sky fades from blue to gray
Inside she's just like an ocean, still I'm drowning
How bad I wanna sink and let it take me away
I don't know why I come back, I do every time
We get close to the end, it's a finish line
Sing these words for the girl I've been dreaming of
Is this just another song about love?”
The whole situation is so laughable. You, the writer of a song detailing every single moment you hated Ayn Alwyn; Ayn Alwyn, the writer of a song detailing every single moment he loved you. Both blunt and unadulterated in their own way. One a critically acclaimed masterpiece, the other arguably the worst work in their discography.
Is this Ayn’s revenge? For the poisonous words you spoke to him that night, or for the song you wrote? But where you expected yourself to feel humiliated, bare, you feel… full. Warmth overtakes you, searing across every inch of your skin, even in the chilling airconditioned hall. You feel seen. You feel worthy.
And then, it hits you: that just as much Ayn Alwyn haunts your every living moment, your ghost haunts him back too. Your essence lies in every single handwritten lyric of his, your voice the only music that plays in his head, your touch never unremembered by his skin. You are his salvation as much as you are his ruin, and he knows how to shatter you as much as he knows to piece you back together.
“I need your voice, I need your lips
I need you bad, I wanna steal your kiss
'Cause you're all that I've been dreaming of
This is just another song about
Another song about love”
The song comes to a close. The crowd cheers like crazy, but you can’t hear any of it, far too consumed by the heavy gaze he gives you before walking off stage.
You’re so caught up in a daze, you don’t even register how you make it back to your assigned seat. Even when the Song of the Year event begins, even when your name is called out, even when you finally receive your most anticipated and well deserved award in your entire career — none of it washes out the memory of striking red eyes piercing right through you.
-
Fall Interview 2022: Huajia on her relationship with Ayn Alwyn
“Ah, well, we were just classmates back in St. Shelter. I didn’t know anything about his family back then, so we became friends like normal people do.
Eh…? I mean, he was really attractive back then… maybe I did have a crush and refused to admit it to myself, haha.
I can’t tell you that! It’s too private, he’ll get mad at me.
Of course we compete with each other! It was practically the basis of our friendship back in college. He’s really talented though, even without his connections; he makes it hard for me to win.
Yes, I’m incredibly proud of his recent win in both the VMAs and the GRAMMYs. Sure, I did hope for myself to win… who wouldn’t? But I’m happy it was Ayn.
My favourite trait of his? Mm… his attentiveness. To me. Haha! No, really, he remembers so many things about me, and it makes me feel so seen and loved.
Yes, of course I’ll write more songs about him! Don’t worry, he’s not finished being my muse.”
-
Pop Crave
@popcrave
[image]
Ayn Alwyn posts a stunning picture of Huajia on his Instagram Story.
Most relevant replies
cael’s wifey ⋆｡‧˚ʚɞ˚‧｡⋆ @mrsanselm
OMG hard launch???? my parents are back tgt 🥹
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE @lovebrushedworlds
MOVE AYN IT SHOULDVE BEEN MEEE [gif]
cloud ☁️ dreamscape with you! @huajiaverse
Soo… we agree that Grammys live performance did something? Lmao
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE @lovebrushedworlds
it defo did bro look at her she’s GLOWINGG they actually kissed and made up,, is the 24th floor high enough
Savannah @savannahhh
It’s literally a PR stunt to ignore his correlation to CEO Alwyn’s corruption.
athy!! ✰ HUAJIA NEW SINGLE @lovebrushedworlds
??? i’ve had it with your bs bro come over and SQUARE UP
Savannah @savannahhh
Yes, babe. Check your dms
katsudon @hotricebowlsoup
woaw… e2l yuri……… [gif]
-
Your phone, after last night’s shenanigans, understandably blows up in the morning.
As always, the first contact you call back is your beloved Naledi, whom you gently reassure of your physical and mental wellbeing. It takes multiple rounds of convincing, but eventually she relents and suggests you rest up for the next few days. You make a mental note to bribe Madam Liore into raising your manager’s pay for all the hard work she’s done for you.
“So, what of the smitten guy?”
“What about him?” you feign confusion.
“Huajia, please. Ayn Alwyn basically serenaded you on live TV yesterday, going all out on the teen angst, right before you received an award for a song you wrote about him! Huge congratulations by the way, everyone’s so proud of you— but that’s not the point! What did you do with loverboy afterwards? Surely you talked it out?”
You sit up in bed, stretching your muscles, only to deliver a resounding “Nope.” The line goes dead silent, and you expect Naledi to either (1) let out a giant sigh or (2) chastise you for leaving the “poor loverboy” hanging after his grand confession in front of millions of viewers.
What you don’t expect is for her to softly weigh in her own opinion, “I don’t know, Huajia. It’s no secret that all his love songs were written with you in mind. Forget last night’s live performance; if the countless interviews of him talking about you mean anything? Then he clearly adores you so much. I don’t want to influence your personal life, because you’re a grown adult and my good friend who’s capable of making the right decisions, but… if you have yet to, I strongly suggest you hear him out, just the two of you.
I never told you this, especially because I didn’t think you wanted to hear it after your breakup with him, but… did you know he sent letters to your studio? In those letters he writes lyric after lyric, different from the style he markets, but overflowing with his devotion nonetheless. I’ll apologise for peeking another day, but the letters were so heartfelt, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.”
You don’t know what to say to that. You truly don’t.
“Anyway, are you at home? I’m making my way over to your penthouse. Liore’s got a gift for you.”
Finally, you shake yourself out of your reverie. “Oh, no, I’m not at home. I won’t be for… the entire morning?”
You can hear Naledi come to an abrupt halt, slowly processing your words. “What do you mean you’re not home? It’s only 8, you never leave your house this… Wait. Oh my god. Huajia, where are you? Huajia? Huajia—”
Quickly hanging up before she can finish her train of thought, you toss the phone to the side, telepathically sending an apology over to Naledi’s mental state. Then, you turn over to your left, poking the warm body sprawled next to you.
Ayn Alwyn buries his face in his pillow, only revealing one eye to give you a death glare you can’t help but giggle at. Together with the mess in his hair, the wrinkles in his clothes, and the golden rays of sunlight splashed all across his bed, he looks like everything home is and more.
“You sent me letters?” you tease, leaning in to poke his cheek with your nose. He grumbles and tightens the arm around your waist, but he fails to hide the redness on his ears, so you take it as confirmation.
The next few moments are quiet, but for the first time in many years, it’s a peaceful silence you share with Ayn. There are words you can choose to say. There are words you want to say. But when he glances at you through the corner of his eye so soft and unguarded, your tongue goes completely numb. So instead, you choose to stroke his hair, gentle with the strands you help him untangle. He returns the favor, drawing something unintelligible with his thumb on your hip, protecting the silence with you.
When the birds chirp, a melody of their own filling the calm, you lean further down to kiss his jaw. A quiet hum from him, a soft exhale from you. He turns to reveal more of his face, bringing his free hand up to your cheek, holding you close; his every breath falls on your lips, light as a butterfly’s kiss.
“I really liked the song you wrote about me.”
“Is that so? I won an award for that.”
“I know,” his smile widens, just slightly. “It was very much deserved. Congratulations, my Huajia.”
“I cursed your name over and over.”
“I liked it. You wrote about the true me. Only you know who that is.”
You regard him with as much seriousness as you can while laying down on his bed with him. “I still don’t quite forgive you.”
“I know. I’m not expecting forgiveness.”
“I think some part of me still hates you.”
“That’s okay.” He grabs my wrist, bringing it to his mouth to bite it as well. “Love or hate, I don’t care… as long as you think only of me.”
“I hate you so much,” you spill out, just as vulnerable as you did in ‘Dreamscape’, but with a slight difference. Every feeling of affection you’d been holding back for the past two years comes tumbling out of your mouth, bleeding out of your chest, and you’re off rambling on a tangent and repeating the same words over and over out of pure frustration.
And Ayn, godforsaken Ayn, your Ayn listens attentively, reacting to every curse and cry of his name from your mouth. When you admit his most attractive traits, he bites your fingers and leaves you stinging, and when you lament all his fatal flaws, he kisses the soreness in lieu of an apology.
You fall, and you rise. You break, and you build. The push and pull of destiny, the ups and downs of life are inevitable to everyone including you.
But this time, in the quiet bedroom of Ayn’s isolated hideout, he’s your terminator, the bringer of your ruin; he’s your saviour, the one who quietly pieces you back together. He sends the unignorable message that regardless of where you are, what you go through, he wants to be part of it all, beside you. Yes, he’s greedy — he wants, and he wants, and he wants. What he wants, what he wins. And when he wins, he always, always shares the win with you. It means nothing if you’re not there.
The whole morning passes by in a blur of regretful kisses and tearful closure. The whole morning, Ayn never outright says “I love you.”
this is all platonic/familial btw! reader can be read as around 22-23 ish and haitham is in his late 20s, early 30s and sometimes people don't really like that kind of age gap plus i think alhaitham as a tired dad figure is way funnier somehow
this is pretty ooc!! not in the way he talks but like i lwk don't think he would act like this LOL to me these two are the family ever
tw / alcohol but its brief in the beginning, addiction to nicotine and specifically smoking, talk about reader gaining weight as a symptom of withdrawal, and general symptoms of addiction that might be triggering so please be wary!
wc / 2.1k
also this sounds really obvious but i don't condone smoking!!! i believe anyone and everyone is capable of quitting and living the best life they can without nicotine.
You need help.
Serious help? Maybe not at this point, but you can certainly see yourself in some deep shit pretty soon.
And it all started when you graduated.
Your brand new degree was fresh and crisp. You celebrate with all your friends, glad that you all somehow survived the four years up to that point. You screamed your head off when you partied later that night, alcohol basically coating your entire insides. Your liver would probably murder you before dying.
That was when you took your first cigarette.
Nowadays, it seemed that vapes and e-cigs were all the rage. You could honestly give less than half a shit. And really, you don't even remember who offered it to you. The white stick somehow ended up between your fingers and an outstretched hand with a lighter lit it up for you.
You took a drag, and coughed up violently. It tasted like filthy waste, smoke clouding your throat and building up in your lungs. Clouds of gray puffed out of your mouth with each heavy heave.
Somehow, you ended up burning through the entire stick. After the first initial puff, you went in for another because that was just embarrassing. Soon enough, the yellow end was all that remained in your hand. It felt almost electrifying, fueled by adrenaline and nicotine running through your body. Basically, you felt high on life.
Not wanting to ruin the fun with a fire, you escaped to a less crowded area and found an ashtray filled with other finished cigarettes. Your own joined in the dozens of yellow ends sticking up into the air.
And then after graduation, of course, came moving out. Luckily you had planned ahead during your finals week while procrastinating and found the perfect place to live: a semi-decent two room apartment with affordable rent. Basically, the best place for a soon to be master's student. Undergraduate dorming would no longer be viable for you.
Waitering part time has left you with a pretty good amount of money, too. It would, for now, be able to support your new apartment.
So begins the current day you. Tired, stressed, and chronic smoker.
Ever since that party, you went out and bought a pack of Marlboro from the liquor shop that was about a block away from your apartment. It was tiny and smelled too strongly of gasoline, but they had Marlboro and Arizona Ice Tea. That alone was a good enough excuse to visit every free weekend you had. Which just so happened to be every weekend.
You paid in cash, with the tips that you would get at the end of every week. You would just leave your wallet at home, fish out $15 in cash, and leave with your phone and keys. The bare necessities, because you were semi-scared of being robbed for some reason.
You swear the cashier at the liquor store has something against you. Every time you hand him the bills in your pocket you swear he's glaring at you.
It's whatever. You get your tea and cigs, he gets your money. Simple as that.
You tip him every once in a while. You bring an extra dollar to the usual $13.86 you pay and slip the single dollar into the small glass case labeled "tips: thank you for the generosity!"
You never speak to the cashier, either. You only started talking to him because the cigarettes were behind him. The first time he spoke was when he scanned your items silently as the scanner beeped, said "13.86," and didn't even say have a good day. But you know what, good for him. Working with tough customers, you can understand some of the stuff he goes through.
After that he never speaks to you again. He gets used to seeing you walk in and grab a can of Arizona tea from the fridge. He already has a pack of Marlboro on the counter by the time you're there.
And so life went on. Life went on until 6 months later, when on a particular Saturday evening you speak up.
"Can I have another pack?"
The cashier's face remains the same. He turns to his left and reaches for another pack of Marlboro cigarettes.
"26.73."
You brought your wallet for today. You were too lazy to calculate how much you needed to bring. Future master's degree student, everyone.
You dig out a 10 and 20 dollar bill. You take the two packs into your hand while he still counts your change.
"You know smoking kills, right?"
You almost jump at the sound of his voice. He never, ever spoke to you. His words also, oddly enough, offended you.
"You work here, I'm giving you more money. Do you say that to everyone who buys a pack from here?"
You raise a brow as he hands you your change. He starts talking again when you open the small pack.
"Today's the only day I work here. You're also the only regular I see."
"Damn, part time only on a single day? Your day job must be nice."
You curse under your breath when you realize your lighter ran out of fuel. You sheepishly look up at the cashier who simply sighs, already hitting the numbers on the cash register.
"3.63.”
~~~
About a month after that, you started a small conversation.
"I've decided that I'm going to reform. I'm buying a vape!"
You refrain from laughing at the grimace on the cashier's face. His teal-amber eyes scrutinize you and he remains speechless.
"Oh, c'mon. I heard these are like a healthier alternative."
You inspect the pod as the cashier pulls out a pamphlet from underneath the counter. As you read through it, he explains what it is.
"A whole 20 pack of cigarettes has the same amount of nicotine in a single vape pen. Where did you even get your information from?"
You look at the infographic carefully, not hearing his words very clearly.
"No shit? I had no clue. Well then, I'll see how this peach flavored pen tastes, otherwise it's back to the classic for me!"
“Not so fast. Here.”
Before you can leave, he stops you in your tracks. The cashier grabs something opposite of his side of the counter.
“On the house. Slow to melt candy is another way smokers quit.”
A wrapped piece of candy is placed in your palm. You unwrap it and suddenly you feel like a child again. Sweet sugar coats your mouth instead of smoke, and you can kind of get behind this.
“No shit? I’ll keep that in mind.”
~~~
A month later, he's the one that talks first.
"On the house."
He hands you a blue package. Upon reading the big white letters, you see it's a box of nicotine patches.
"Are you… serious?"
You mutter incredulously. There's no way he was being for real right now. Yeah, sure, the nicotine was getting pretty rough by now, but there’s no way you look that bad. Right?
"I'm not taking this. Have it back."
He blinks, staring at the box in your hands. You glare when he does nothing to try and grab it.
"If you're worried about paying for it, I already paid for it. Take it."
The fucking audacity of this guy… You instead slam the box on the counter, since he wasn't willing to take it back from you himself. You could quit anytime, you didn’t need his help in this.
"I said I don't fucking want it."
You leave the store. In your rage, you don't even realize that you left with only your tea in hand, Marlboro left on the counter along with the nicotine patches you very violently placed down.
And so you suffer throughout the week. The itch for a hit of nicotine is strong, but you don't have the time to go out and buy one. Final exams had you studying for hours at a time without much time for anything else. And when you go out to eat dinner with a couple friends to chill before final exams really start going, you struggle to think straight and accidentally snap at a friend. You immediately regret it and apologize but you are clearly not doing ok.
You avoid going to the liquor store too. Partially because of the one time someone offered you help you pushed them away and it felt awkward just walking back like nothing happened and partially because, of course, of exams.
You can't sleep, and that barely helps with your appetite. Never in your life had you ever felt so hungry all the time. When you stare at yourself in the mirror, you very much look heavier and unhealthier than ever.
Exams pass. You can't say you're very confident that you passed any of them.
So you trudge your way back to the usual place for a smoke. You cough the entire way there, almost gagging a couple times before finally arriving.
Despite the distance being the same, the walk there felt so much longer. You struggle to breath at a normal rate and the only thought in your mind is getting a lit cigarette in your mouth.
You can feel the familiar green-red eyes on your back. When you open the fridge to the Arizona tea do you finally turn to stare back at him.
Neither of you say anything. When you get there, the usual pack waiting for you is gone.
"Please just take this."
Instead, the blue box of nicotine patches is there. Replacing the usual gold and white box is instead something that you know you should have used long ago.
"...Why do you care so much anyway?"
Your voice is hoarse, and you let out a particularly nasty cough. You wince when your throat burns at the surplus amount of coughing you've been doing.
"Because you look about the same age as my students, if not younger. Someone as young as you shouldn't be suffering from this."
He crosses his arms. You open the blue box and pull out a patch that looks like a sticker. You like stickers.
"For now, peel one off and put it on your bicep. It'll last for about 24 hours. I'll send a couple links about what you can do afterwards. There will be side effects. Hand me your phone."
In a daze, you slide your phone out of your back pocket and place it on his outstretched palm.
"This is a timer. You reset it everytime you relapse." The cashier shows you the app he laid out on your phone. Oddly enough, you feel rather comforted knowing he's doing all this.
"You are the only person who can reset it. If you relapse and decide not to restart the timer, no one will know. The only person holding you accountable is yourself. I will not scold you for relapsing. It is very difficult to overcome any kind of addiction." He places the phone back into your hand and slides the blue box of patches towards you.
Wow, you weren't even sure what to say back to that. So instead you stare at the dual colored eyes of the familiar cashier.
"... Y'know, for a liquor store cashier you care a lot about your customers. I'll rate you 5 stars on Yelp. 'The kind cashier sabotaged his own business for a pitiful customer like me.'"
He looks concerned, brows furrowing. You wonder if you said anything to offend him.
"I don't care about this place. In fact, if it shuts down then it's all the better for me."
You blink.
"Huh?"
"I'm only working here because I owed the manager of the store a favor. If this place closes down I can focus more on my job and get a promotion sooner."
A moment passes before you let huff out a laugh.
"No shit? Whatever you say."
You realize you don't know this man's name. You've known each other for almost a year and you never bothered to learn his name.
Wow, it's crazy to think that you moved into your apartment a year ago. The complex felt more homely, and you could relax at home without it feeling weird. You felt a sense of belonging in this tiny cramped liquor store. You walked to and from this place so often it was basically a second home.
"Just stay safe and healthy. That's all that you can do for me at the moment."
His voice was so… warm. You try not to cry as you feel the weight of his tone.
"Right, whatever you say. Also, I never got your name, cashier guy. Care to tell me who my nic addiction savior is?"
Maybe you joked about your situation a bit too early. But the cashier only places the blue box into your hands, wrapping his hands around yours to curl over it.
summary: he hasn’t dreamed in a long time, but when al-haitham dreamed for the first time after the akademiya coup, he dreamed of you.
WARNINGS: archon quest akasha pulses, the kalpa flame rises spoilers! soulmate au if you squint, swearing, mentions of violence, death, injury, minor self-loathing, plot AND lore heavy, angst, fluff, not poly, happy ending!
pairing: al-haitham x fem!reader, minor kaveh x fem!reader
word count: 18.1k grind
a/n: written for the lovely @zhongrin and her elemental supercharge collab! it was super fun to work on and really inspired me to love writing again because it was just a breath of fresh air. my entry: dendro + dendro + cryo = permafrost
here are some important notes for this fic to help with understanding it:
tsaritsa is the former goddess of love. the goddess of flowers was a seelie. king deshret reborn was al-haitham. possibly ooc al-haitham (he’s also deaf!) i made shit up about teleport waypoints and about pretty much all the lore surrounding the three god-kings besides what i glimpsed through some books/theories/etc. i was just like fuck it we ball.
inspo songs: who is she? - i monster, about you - the 1975, awake from a nightmare - hoyo-mix (i recommend you listen to this one especially during kaveh - chat: craftsmanship)
Opening up the pages of the newest fantasy novel had you wishing for a more exciting life. Perhaps you should have been careful because the glowing light made sure to give you what you asked for. Underneath one sky, they all love you. As time passes, you will have to make a choice. Remember, choices are only for the brave and love must find you before you search for it. Out of the thirteen paths, just which one will you choose?
CHAPTER FIVE OF SEVEN.
characters: childe x gn! reader
word count: 2.4k
warnings: there are mentions of blood and reader seeking revenge but nothing graphic, these chapters are vaguely connected but you can still understand them completely separately, the rest of the fic is in regular font.
[SERIES MASTERLIST]
CHILDE - SOME PEOPLE MOVE LIKE SUNLIGHT. IS IT SO HORRID THAT YOU WISH TO CATCH UP TO HIM? HE SPENT SO MUCH TIME PROTECTING YOU, YOU HAVE A RIGHT TO AVENGE HIM.
Even lakes and rivers converge to form a new entity while unlucky bastards such as yourself have not been blessed enough to change. People call it the axiom of equality, was it? x will always remain x and after so many times, you are back to be part of this blank nothingness.
It isn't that you actually remember how many times exactly or that there are markings on a wall to remind you of countless failures. Emptiness you've come to realize is scarier when it is not dark. When there are no shadows and bells, no voices that call out to anything or anyone - that is true nothingness.
Waking again - ache and tiredness felt - just to be in this white canvas is excruciating. If your x is nothingness, how many times must you go through this and open up the doors in search of something? Maybe if you simply refused to get on your feet and walk around this time, the entity that wakes you up would decide to move on and find a new play thing?
Your mind seems to be as confused as the soul that lives in every atom of your body. Were you tasked with saving someone? Saving the world? Was it perhaps revenge that wants something important? Were you trying to save yourself even? It feels like it has been years at this point. Leaves and snow have switched places with blossoms countless times while you were wandering in this fucking nothingness.
Blank. Pale. Without shadows or doors this time.
Surely, giving up is the only option now even if you aren't sure what would be slipping away.
"Oh you poor thing. You must be exhausted after so many defeats."
That is new. A voice other than your own finally inside of this space. Would hope make you helpless now? Hallucinations aren't out of the question either. The mind finds it interesting to play tricks on its host.
"If I knew how many times I have failed, something tells me I would feel even worse."
"I know the exact number. Would you like me to say it?"
"Obviously not. Was that not clear from my earlier response?"
"You've always said one thing and then done another. All humans are a paradox somewhere from my perspective."
"Must be a fun perspective when you are forced to hide away and keep me here."
"You have failed over a hundred times already and nothing about your attitude is helping you right now you know."
How petty. She said that on purpose to get back to you. "Nothing is forcing me to be nice to you."
"And exactly nothing is forcing you to make so many mistakes. The same nothing that is making you enjoy the idea of relinquishing everything you gained so far because you got tired. I am not the one keeping you here."
"What are you doing then?"
"I have been tasked with guiding you."
That makes you snicker.
"Guiding me? It seems we are both failing at our tasks."
"That just proves you know nothing about the gravity of the situation. I will not argue with someone lacking in knowledge of this world."
"You just di-" Sunlight seems to hit your face before you can finish that sentence and that feeling of feeling washed by it makes something in you wake up. Unbridled sadness takes the shape of a ray that tries to climb towards the sun.
He moved like sunlight. Washing over the forests and the lakes, even the distant mountains in his hue that grew stronger and stronger every single year.
Wait..he who? The only reason your eyelids try to look towards the source of the sun is because that way tears would not fall. You would be crying over someone you don't even remember.
"Has that managed to refresh your memory?"
"I would appreciate it if you could speed this up. Something about this dance of yours is not making me feel pleasant."
"You haven't forgotten yourself. That is the most important part to me."
"How kind."
You can feel something dropped on the ground behind you. First, you move your knees to help you sit up and after that you rise.
"If I see one more door when I turn around, I will find you and make you regret it."
"If I stop acting like your guide, you will never leave this place. Just know your empty threads do not phase me."
How annoying she is. You pray that when you turn on your heels it will not be another door and - to your big surprise - it is not.
"Do not feel so relieved at this. The fact that I cannot guide you towards a door right now proves we are on a dangerous path to you vanishing."
"Is that why I can also hear your voice right now?"
"Precisely."
Perhaps this voice is just another part of you trying to force a way in? Your 'guide' did not manifest a door but she seems to have manifested a pedestal used for museum exhibits. As you approach it, you see that there are exactly four of them that extend in a straight line. She will make you walk to each of them, surely.
The first pedestal seems to hold envelopes and paper. You cannot read them because of the haphazardness in which it exists inside the glass but you are able to catch glimpses.
Some of these are completely yellow, other white. There are a few stains on the ones in the corners and the writing seems to belong to multiple hands. Confident and smooth cursive is right next to insecure and clumsy boxy letters. There are no signatures to give away the senders or what they might have written about but you can see a few blots. Was it rain on tears that made these spots so ineligible to the point where you are unsure there even is meaning in deciphering a few letters from the words?
Then, there are crumbled papers that have been straightened again, some never even got that far because you can see a few burn marks.
If all of these were written to one person - they must have been loved on a level unknown to most. To have so many hands pen them with the same family stamp must be proof of unyielding love.
"I wish I was loved like Ajax. I would always know by his eyes when his siblings would write. Once, he lost a letter and I was the one who found it. I always had to thank him for everything - that was the first time he thanked me."
"Finally. You remember one of the key things we need to open the door. Who was he to you?"
"He was a knight."
And that answer feels wrong. Yet, nothing else besides these traces is on the surface. He was a knight to everyone, not just you! The answer is wrong and you feel like you are undermining an entire world for not having something else.
"Not good enough." The first pedestal disappears and your stomach crashes into the second one because even the blank space seems to be in a rush.
"I need you to stop relying on what you know. Look at that and tell me what it makes you think of."
"This? It makes me think of children that play games."
"Why?"
"It is a wooden sword with dried mud on it. What else is it supposed to make me imagine?"
"Have you ever seen it?"
"I have not..."
The wooden sword is almost on the cusp of falling apart. Dust would suit it better than how it is right now. The handle is darker than the tip and somethink akin to mold seems to be spreading on it. Do kids play this hard with swords? Hard enough to leave grip marks?
Again you are missing something. Something is escaping you. These depths of your senselessness cannot be penetrated by the sun. You have to help yourself now. What are you missing? What crucial thing?
Your head is touching the glass now and your breath is making it fog up. Impatience was never a virtue but it seems to help you right now.
"Is... is one of those spots actual blood? Did- Did he kill when he was still so young?"
The voice does not respond to you and that itself is answer enough. It isn't just your breath that gets in the way now, a few tears fall down.
When did his childhood end? When did Ajax lose his innocence that other kids were allowed to keep and carry for maybe even a decade longer than he had been fortunate enough to? Perhaps he lost his innocence when he had to use a false name for the first time in his life. Perhaps he lost his innocence when he had to take the oath to protect knowing just how much blood could be part of it in the future? He wasn't playing like other kids, he was destined to do this.
All of those thoughts are there as distraction. You know he lost his innocence the first time he used this sword to kill. And yes, he told you that the first creature he killed was an animal but it doesn't lift up your guilt. Somewhere inside of your blood the guilt flows.
How does a child feel when he has to kill something with a wooden sword he used for practice all that time? He probably threw it away afterwards. Danger requires sharper weapons.
Your voice is strained and something is salty on the tip of your tongue.
"Make this disappear. Make it go away. Right now. I don't want to-"
"The fact that you don't wish to remember is what forced my hand and taken away the key. You haven't forgotten yourself because you cannot forget him."
The voice replies and you cannot find it in yourself to respond because she is kind enough to let you walk towards the next pedestal.
Are things in this space supposed to repeat? Maybe this is what you do. Repeat things just enough so that small parts are changed. The next pedestal holds papers once again but instead of them being cramped up and constrained - there are only two papers with an envelope behind them.
Unlike before - you are able to read the words now.
One of them is written like a short letter. A notice - a certain person claims they have found your secret. You do not know who they are or who the words are addressed to but apparently this secret would change everything and create chaos. A royal seems to have married a commoner despite being engaged to another kingdom's ruler. What makes your heart drop is that this letter is related to the paper next to it.
A wedding certificate with your own name next to his. Was this the secret they were reporting on? Was this a crime that caused the attack and raid? It cannot be.
In that instant, you see a vision. Something about the room is familiar to you, a tall imposing figure with shades of blue stands in the middle of the room while Ajax's glowed hand which is hiding a ring raises up and up. There is no sunlight in his eyes and you wish to pour it in somehow. The dark room, the other person not speaking - it is all too much. Suddenly, a light sparks in them.
The wedding certificate before you starts to disappear. In the vision - Ajax throws it into the fire to appease and protect like he always has.
"Assure the king, I was and always will be, nothing more than a simple friend and knight."
He did not betray you, he protected you in that moment. You are sure of it. Still, the realization of this makes it hard to breathe and your brain keeps trying to tie it all.
That other man in the room must have been the one to blame. It doesn't matter if he wrote the letter or if he was the king. You finally remember enough to rush towards the fourth and final pedestal.
This one will always be recognizable. It is the sword he carried for so long. The sword that protected you but that marked the day he told you to run and meant his end.
Because you recognize it, you have to get to it. You have to break this glass and take it into your own hands. Vengeance screams and the space seems to be getting smaller - you only feel it because it continues to look the same.
Desperate fists make the glass break and you are able to grab the sword. At that moment - you know what you have to do. A door opens and you fall through it - rage seeps in and you are not aware where it opened or where it is leading you. But you see that face, the one you need to confront.
There is no white space around you anymore. You will use this sword to fulfil your own oath made on the dawn after he threw his life away. Golden light was your witness and since he moved like the sunrays, you will have to apologize to him for not having enough grace to carry on in such a way.
You rush, you stumble. But you can fell that soon your feet will hit the ground. And then, you will come face to face with the man who took him away from you. He worked for that king. The name does not come to you but his face does.
The light disappears and you don't hear a voice.
Thud.
Your feet are on the ground and this sword will be used to strike the enemy. He will stand before you once you open your eyes.
There is no hesitation. Before your eyes are open, your feet are moving forward. This is it. This is the moment you have been walking towards even in that white fucking space.
Except, it is not the enemy that greets you.
It is his eyes. His hand because you would recognize those small blue veins anywhere for there once was a ring next to them.
Your Ajax is standing in front of you, leaning against a building. There is not red that surrounds him but there is a sunset that lights up his lips as he takes a puff of his cigarette.
"Took you long enough."
Is the shine slowly coming back to his eyes, or is it just your imagination?
a/n: Hello everyone!! Yes, it is not two characters but just one this time. My apologies but it has been so long since I have written anything and Childe simply came calling me. I realize I started this ages ago and it not even halfway done but please enjoy! Kazuha is the next character but i am not making promises when that will happen.
If you are able to make the connections by crumbs i give you - feel free to tell me about them!
