#branch will end up being pop/rock at the end

[pastelclovds]

thinking about red riding hood laios with big bad wolf shifter!reader…

cw: forest sex, knotting, male!reader, size difference (reader is 3 ft taller than laios), blood (laios gets scratched a bit sooo), reader and laios are obsessed with each other, cock slut laios, everything’s planned cause laios and reader are FREAKS

your laios looked gorgeous in the outfit you hand picked for him to wear in this… lewdly hot scenario he wanted to act out with you.

you knew how fascinated laios was of you, especially with your abilities to transform into any creature at will. you also knew just how blunt he was when it came to his needs, and you willingly fulfilled every single one of his wishes. no matter how outlandish they were. your laios was a creative, horny nerd.

you were enjoying each other’s company in comfortable silence one day when out of the blue he asked you, “have we ever had sex in the woods before?”

that question made you cough out your water as laios looked up at you with curious eyes that quickly turned dark. ravenous scenarios popping up in his head left and right. you knew that smile of innocence was fake as he asked you if you wanted to “try something”. you didn’t refuse, of course.

and that’s how you ended up here.

naked. in your werewolf form. in the middle of the woods. secluded far away from prying eyes. at midnight where the moon was high and creating light bright enough to make the forest visible. but even if it didn’t, your night vision would’ve helped you.

and even if you didn’t have your vision, you could track laios’ scent from miles away. it smells like a mix of nuts and spices. it’s so addicting, you would die happy if it suffocated you.

your cock is already leaking pre at the sight of his ridiculously short frivolous red skirt barely being able to cover his satin panties. the cape attached to his hood sways as he takes cautious steps over leaves and puddles.

he isn’t carrying kensuke or any other weapon in his basket. just snacks, tissues, and containers of water for after the fun. the fact that he trusts you that much that you’ll protect him makes your heart and cock throb.

when laios purposely steps on a branch, its crunch filling the deafening silence of the forest, it was your signal to make yourself known. your paw makes a loud thump as you step foot from your place behind the tree.

laios trembled in both fear and excitement at the sight of your towering form. the sharp claws on your hands scraping against the bark of the tree, your fluffy chest rising and dropping from your heavy breathing, and tail raised in anticipation.

his eyes drift to the hardened cock hanging between your furry thighs, your balls heavy and ready to be emptied, and your dilated pupils say everything else. hungry. savage. predatory.

show time.

laios turns his heel and bolts away from you. you let out a low growl as you lower your body, place your palms on the ground, and dart after your mate like a wolf chasing its prey. with your increased speed and stamina, laios only ran off ten feet before he was tackled. he gasps when his chest hits the ground.

he’s still as a rock when he feels your claws grip onto his cape. he glances up behind at you in false terror. your razor sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight as you grin devilishly at him.

“what’s a pretty thing like you doing in my woods? don’t you know better than to go inside someone’s home unannounced? naughty boy…~” you said mischievously, you suddenly flip laios on his back, making him squeak in surprise. you could clearly see the raging boner tenting his skirt, a tiny wet spot growing from where his twitching cock spilled pre. he quickly closed his legs to block your view, cheeks blooming in red.

“i believe that rude intruders—” you effortlessly push his legs apart and teared his skirt to shreds, laios cried out in embarrassment as now all he had to cover his privates was his satin panties, “should be punished.”

laios eyes tear up as he pleads, “i-i didn’t know this forest belonged to you. please have mercy!” you laugh cruelly as you lean down to lick his salty tears away. his belly twitches from where your claw rests above his waistband before tearing his panties in two as well. now he’s completely vulnerable beneath your gaze, his cock laying uselessly against his stomach.

“you really are adorable, naively believing you’ll go scott free by saying a simple please.” you flip laios on his chest once again, raising his ass in the air with your palms on his waist, as if he weight nothing. laios grows unbelievably harder. he wishes he had superhuman abilities like you. you were so strong and powerful and cool and hot— GODS he wanted you to take him already. he freezes when he feels your throbbing cock against his ass.

he wanted to be used for all he’s worth, filled to the brim with hot cum, he loved how your knots forced his hole to stretch out in order to pop inside, oh he loved you so so much—

laios sobbed when he felt the tip of your cock prod his well lubed hole, one of your hands left his waist to roughly press against his back so that only his ass was up, obediently presenting to you like a bitch in heat. he felt your labored breaths against the back of his neck as you growled out, “you’re mine, pretty thing.”

laios claws at the dirt below him as he felt you slip inside him inch after glorious inch. he yelped when the head of your cock nuzzled right against his prostate. you knew laios was ready to start, so you didn’t bother with waiting to begin.

you started with a quick but rough pace that left laios moaning helplessly at the great pleasure you gave him. pulling out a few inches before slamming into your mates tight hole, balls slapping wetly against laios’ ass as pre drips from his cock and makes a puddle of whiteish liquid on the dirt. without warning, laios cums. his body halting abruptly as his climax washes over his body, his eyes roll back when you don’t cease your thrust. overstimulation prodding at his nerves like the head of your cock hitting his prostate at every thrust.

you pull your head back to listen for anyone nearby, thankfully you don’t. probably because the only thing your senses can focus on is laios. your fingers brushing his hair, your nose overwhelmed with the smell of sex and sweat, laios loud moans and whimpers filling the silence of the forest, your eyes hyper focused on the sight of your pelvis lewdly slapping against his ass. nobody else mattered at that moment but him. your gorgeous laios.

you groan when laios tightened around you, your pace faltering as you felt your belly grow hot and your knot thickening at the base of your cock. laios’ toes curl when he feels your knot catch on the rim of his asshole, a pure euphoric smile overtaking his features as pleasured tears fill his eyes.

“i’m close, i’m gonna fill you up. would’cha like that, pretty thing?” you managed to ask, laios frantically nods his head in a ‘yes’ motion as he grinds against your growing knot. “yes yes, please do it! i-i’m gonna—” white pleasure crashes into him again just as your knot pops past his abused rim, locking you inside him as ropes of warm cum fill him until he felt full and hot. Laios’ legs give up holding his weight as he laid weightlessly on the ground, your palms are the only reason why his ass is in the air. your balls clench for the last time, finally releasing all you had into him before going flaccid.

laios whines when you attempt to pull out, streams of your cum leaking out of him. “nooo, stay inside. you feel so warm, so good— hah-” laios pleads, desperately grinding against the base of your cock, trying to find your knot to plug him up again. you chuckle under your breath, you should’ve known one round wouldn’t be enough to satisfy your mate.

laios whimpers when he feels your cock slowly harden inside his loose hole.

a/n: I’M BAAAAACK ⁉️ hope you enjoyed :)

[astraystayyh]

La déchirure 

You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief you’ve always known.

pairing: figure skater!hyunjin x ballerina!reader.

genre: angst. slowwww burn. heavy and recurrent grief. healing.

warnings: mc has a bad relationship with her parents. grief is a prominent theme here so please be aware. some allusions to sex but no smut. description of injuries.

word count: 21.8k

author’s note: heyyyy…. haven’t posted anything in 3 months i feel so shy AJNSJD i say this about every fic but this fic is truly my baby it took me so long to get it done and i poured my heart into it. so please if you enjoyed reading pls pls pls let me know. it means the world and more to me. happyyy reading!!! also thanks to @hyunverse for indulging all my brainrots about this fic i LOVE YOU

Your bare soles are bleeding across the graveyard. You don’t remember when your sandals slipped away from your feet, nor when your body decided to bring you here, heels scratched from the tiny rocks littering the ground.

But the pain doesn’t register in your brain, not yet. You’re only paying attention to the last name written on the tombstone— your last name, to be exact. 

Right now, more than ever, you wished your first name was engraved beside it too. 

You’ve memorized this graveyard like the back of your hand, know what sound the tree branches make during spring— gently swaying, like a melancholic flute, aching because flowers refuse to bloom upon them. And during winter too— even sadder, angrier, perhaps to mimic the sound of the souls left alone in the graves to fend off the cold.

Though you’ve never approached this tombstone before. You always remained a few feet back, each time your parents brought you to your late sister’s grave— every Sunday, for the past eighteen years of your existence, without fault. 

You don’t know the person they’re mourning.

You don’t know the person they wish to mold you after. 

Somehow, in a sick twist of fate, the course of your existence was set in stone before you could draw your first breath into this universe. 

She looks just like her sister, your mom whispered in awe, tears brimming in her waterline as she beheld you close to her bare chest. 

That is what your grandmother recalls about your birth, the rejoice of you being an exact copy of your sister’s features. There was nothing in her, in everyone’s memory about you. Everything orbited around your sister, the way the planets chase after the sun. You were, after all, born to replace the void she left behind. 

You sometimes wonder, is your physique the first setting stone of your pain? Had your hair been lighter, darker than hers, your lips smaller, plumper, would your parents be forced to look at you, behold you for who you are, learn to love you for who you would be? 

The question first popped into your brain at age five— maybe less intricate, a feeling that pressed against your ribcage: your parents don’t love you a lot, do they? You are now eighteen, the question has yet to desert you. 

You’ve always been aware of this reality— there are more pictures of your sister than of you in your house. Your parents always spoke of her, the perfect little girl, whisked away by a terrible sickness, at age seven. 

And she loved ballet. 

So, you had to love ballet too.

You weren’t given a choice, per se. At age four, you were thrust into a ballet class with little oblivious girls; just like you. Flushed cheeks and glossy eyes as you all tried to follow the teacher’s instruction. It wasn’t easy, it never got easier, year after year, only more challenging, only harder on your body.

Bigger bruises, sprained ankles from time to time, you’ve lost count of the injuries this art has inflicted upon your body. But thankfully, you ended up loving it too. You loved how graceful it made you feel, how the music seemed to whisk you away to an enchanting world, how the applause roared each time you came first in a competition, all eyes on you alone. 

Or so you hoped, you prayed. You wished to dance better, harder until all your parents could see was you. Not the daughter that came before you.

It was hard to admit at times, certainly something you never said out loud. But surely, yes, you were jealous of your deceased sister.

How could you not be when it seemed like you were competing with a ghost, someone whose absence weighed more than your presence?

Snippets of your life flash before your eyes as you stare at her grave. Pirouette, arabesque, plié, tendu— those are words engraved within your mind, ones you breathe in more than oxygen. You hear them in the voice of your ballet instructor, Jihyo. She’s a woman in her forties, though she looks older from the harsh lines framing her face. 

Her voice is high-pitched, her hair always tied back in a sleek bun you’re sure pains her brain, her words are harsh each time she corrects your posture.

And she’s the only person who believes in you.

She’s not nice, she has made you cry more times than you can count. So, you knew when she leveled her eyes to yours when you were nine, when she told you, “I see something magical in you”— that she was telling the truth. 

You wanted to prove her right, because for once, someone saw something in you, not in a ghost, not in ground-up bones.

In you.

You feel an uncontained anger swell within you, waves of relentless hurt swarming you as you fall to your knees.

You worked hard. You worked so hard. Between classes and ballet practice, the days strung you by like a puppet and sometimes you didn’t have enough time to breathe. 

Your entire life revolved around ballet. spin, point well, adjust your posture, you can’t stop now. Suddenly it’s two a.m. and you only get four hours of sleep before your classes begin. You didn’t have time to socialize with your peers, to have a crush on the sweet guy in your maths class, to giggle at an arcade with your friends. Soon after you were in your ballet class, even more spins, points, arabesque. 

But all of your exhaustion dissipated today. All of it seemed okay, for the first time in your existence, perhaps, the breath that escaped your chest wasn’t heavy. It was light, it was airy, it was one that yearned for the next, for the days that will follow, tinted with happiness, for once.

“I got into Julliard” 

That is what you told your parents an hour ago, voice brimming with uncontainable happiness, tears dripping down your eyes in an uncontrollable flow. 

Your mother’s eyes became teary in an instant. You thought the past was past you now. You’ll forgive eighteen years of coming second in your mother’s heart. Surely, she will only see you now.

But then her eyes set on the portrait of your sister on the wall, her tone desolate when she whispered—“she would have loved Julliard too.”

You don’t remember what happened after that. What curse escaped your mouth from the years of barely contained bitterness, when everything lashed out like venomous poison on your parents. 

You remember screaming, lots of it, something breaking too, you don’t recall if it is you who threw the vase or your father. The latter seemed more plausible— he was always bound to these sudden bouts of anger. Effects of grief, consequences of your sister’s absence. Her, yet again, poisoning your life. 

You remember feeling like a stranger in your home, a nobody, someone they’d kill in an instant to bring her back.

It was no longer a feeling, though. It was a fact. Your father cemented it loud and clear for you— “I wish she never died so you would’ve never been born.”

A pin-drop silence followed. Your father was always bound to bouts of anger, you knew that. He always regretted it afterward too, just like he felt in that instant, scrambling to apologize, to cup your cheek and say he didn’t mean it.

For how long has this thought festered in his brain, taken root in his veins, and flashed before his eyes each time he looked at you?

For how long did your parents wish you were dead instead? 

You don’t remember how you got to the graveyard. You don’t recall when it started pouring heavily on you. You only register the rain because the earth is wet as you clench it between your fists, as you punch the ground under which your sister is buried. 

You are crying, sobbing, a hysterical mess, you don’t know what you’re yelling, who you’re calling out for, what you’re trying to achieve by punching her grave. 

Unearthing her body and burying yours there instead, perhaps.

“What are you doing?” a stranger’s voice startles you, cutting through the fog in your mind like a thunderbolt. 

You don’t reply, simply turning around to look at the man standing a mere inches away from you.

“Do you know her or are you just desecrating her grave?” he asks calmly, as he brings a pink umbrella over your head. You realize that you’re drenched from head to toe, your feeble pajama does nothing to fight off the cold filtering between the fabric and your skin. 

You are freezing. You fear there is no place warm enough for your soul, not anymore.

“She’s my late sister,” you say, voice raw, scratched like a broken record. 

“She died young,” he says, looking at the dates engraved on the tombstone. 

You feel so horrible, for a millisecond. 

She was only seven. 

Her grave is too small compared to your body. 

But the anger quickly comes back to blind you. You invite it into your heart, push away the sadness and welcome the rage instead. It is the only thing comforting you in that instant.

“Did she do something to you?” he asks, his voice contrasting nicely against the heavy shatter of rain. It reminds you of the intro of your ballet music, soothing. 

“No,” you admit, a bit shamefully. But all sense of guilt dissipates at his next question— “then wouldn’t she be sad seeing you do this?” 

“What about MY sadness? MY anger?” you shout, lips trembling like the branches above your head. the storm picks up with your rising voice, the rain’s pitter-patter mimics the chaos inside your brain.

He remains silent and you can barely grasp the expression on his face, concealed by the umbrella’s shadows. You imagine that this conversation must have bored him, so you turn around yet again, your heart pounding angrily against your skin. 

But then, he kneels beside you, his umbrella completely discarded. You don’t dare to tilt your face towards him, so you simply stare ahead, your breath caught in your throat— what is he thinking of your most vulnerable state?

“I am rage,” he says, his voice permeating your being softly, the storm seems to calm down too to follow the ebb of his voice. “It means I am alive, or better, I am life, according to Armand, a modern art painter. You are alive today, and you get to be angry. That’s not something anyone here can enjoy,” he points out, taking a fleeting glance at the graves surrounding you. 

“You get to do something with that anger. But this, this won’t cure it.” 

He’s young, roughly your age it seems, but he speaks as if he beholds a wisdom beyond his years. You wonder what he went through to understand rage doesn’t fix anything. You wonder if he has ever been this angry, too. 

Did he move past it? Or did he drown the anger deep within the wells of his soul so he wouldn’t confront its ugly face? 

The question roams in your head as you watch him place a bouquet of red lilies atop the grave. You didn’t even notice the flowers at first, your view was too distorted by tears to grasp anything beautiful. 

“You’ll catch a cold,” the guy points out, smiling at you, or at least attempting to since the grin doesn’t reach his eyes. His words come out slower, as if weighed down by a sadness only he can feel. 

He is in a graveyard after all, the flowers were meant for someone else than you. 

“Wait here,” he says, quickly getting up and jogging out of the graveyard. 

What a silly request, you think, it’s not like you would dare move. Your feet are aching and you have nowhere else to go. 

He returns a few minutes later, a hoodie in his hands that he promptly pulls over your head. The warm fabric engulfs you in a cloud of roses and musk. “I tried to warm it up with the car’s heating,” he says sheepishly, and you blink slowly at his kindness, a pink tint blooming across your cheeks. 

“Thank you.” 

His eyes fleet to your bare, bleeding feet, and you fidget in place, trapped by a bout of embarrassment. 

“I have spare shoes in my car. Do you want me to drive you home?” His voice is gentle, as if speaking to a wounded animal, too bruised by the hands of humans. Tears spring to your eyes once more, you wish the earth could crack open and swallow you whole. 

“I don’t want to burden you.” 

“You won’t,” he says, and as if sensing your hesitation, he adds, “I promise. Leaving you here is what would burden me.”

You are very tired as he drives you to your place. You speak once when you ask him if he wasn’t there to visit someone, he says that it’s okay, he can come back tomorrow. 

You only dare look at him at the last red light before you arrive at your address. He’s beautiful, black strands sticking to his forehead, a tiny pout pulling his rosy lips forward. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, contrasting beautifully with the mole on his cheek. Then, by his jaw. Another at the beginning of his neck. You wonder if he has a map of ebony stars trailing down his chest.

You don’t know why this stranger instills such safety in you. Why would you rather stay in his car than set foot into your house once more. You dread what will await you behind those doors, you don’t think your heart could handle another tear at its tender flesh. 

You don’t think you could handle looking at your parents and only seeing strangers. 

But you know this safety has something to do with the way he placed the lilies atop the grave; as if it beheld someone dear to his heart and not a stranger. How he made sure you got home safely, how he didn’t seem to care that you dirtied his front seat and the carpet below your feet. 

He looks like a good person. 

You wish to tell your good news to a good person. 

“I got into Julliard,” you quickly let out as soon as he parks. You don’t allow yourself time to regret your confession. 

A breathtaking smile overtakes his face, the thunderstorm outside pales before the sun shining in his features. 

“Really?” he asks cheerfully, and you nod, a tiny smile painting across your lips. “Mm. Really.”

“That’s amazing!” his grin further widens, his eyes disappearing into two lovely moon crescents. “I know I’m just a stranger but, I'm proud of you,” his voice softens, “I mean it. I hope you’re proud of yourself too.” 

It takes you a few seconds to answer, you wish to bask further in the sound of his voice, to store his words into your memory, to revisit his kindness on nights that are too cold. 

This was all you’ve ever wanted to hear. 

“Thank you,” you smile softly. A moment of silence passes, you find yourself missing this stranger before you even leave his car. You wish to carry a piece of his memory within you, a souvenir of who he is— “I'm Yn, by the way.” 

“Yn,” he repeats, his voice tender. “Nice to meet you, Yn. I’m Hyunjin.” 

Four years later.

“You need to work on your landing more, but the rest is good.”

“Thanks, coach.” Hyunjin gives Jihyoun, his lifelong mentor, a thumbs-up as he loosens the laces of his ice skates. A dull ache is throbbing through his legs, like the faint buzz of bees circling roses. 

His body is weary, every muscle reminding him of the sheer effort he’s poured into perfecting his routine for the upcoming figure skating competition— the most important one of his life, by far.

“Are you leaving now?” Jihyoun’s voice pierces the delicate silence and Hyunjin nods, resting his head against the cold concrete wall. “Just gonna take a breather.”

“I’ll head out then,” Jihyoun says, patting his back gently, “make sure you get some rest.”

Hyunjin waits till his coach is far out the corridor to release a relieved breath. A familiar silence wraps around the ice rink like a comforting cloak, the stillness sits beside Hyunjin like an old friend. It is here, amid the soft hum of machines and the chill of the rink that Hyunjin feels most like himself. 

A few minutes trickle by, slow and silent. An uncomfortable feeling nudges at Hyunjin’s rib as he remains as still as a statue; he knows he’s on a losing bet to make time stretch forth, hoping that the sun outside will pause in its descent— a few more moments before the darkness completely sets in Seoul. Because the night will surely string along with it the next day, and the next day is one Hyunjin isn’t ready to face. 

When does he ever? 

But the sun always sets and rises once more, even if you dont wish for it to. 

With a sigh, Hyunjin grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He makes his way to the vending machine upstairs, in the dimly lit corner near the dance studio. He drops a few coins into the slot, punching the number for his usual drink. But it gets stuck—of course. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his forehead against the cold glass before frustratedly kicking the machine.

“I am rage,” a voice suddenly teases from behind.

Hyunjin is quick to distance himself from the machine, startled, and admittedly, very embarrassed. His shame morphs to surprise when he sees you standing there. 

Your lips curve into a gentle smile, and your eyes sparkle with quiet amusement— that light, however, dims slightly when he doesn’t immediately respond.

It takes all of Hyunjin’s will to act like he doesn’t recognize you.

“You get to do something with your anger, but this won’t cure it.” You quote, your voice softer now. “You know, you told me this, near the graveyard…” You point vaguely behind you, each word growing quieter as if you’re no longer sure if that scene was real or a figment of your imagination.

Hyunjin nods in recognition, and you relax, the tension lifting from your shoulders.

“Miss Julliard,” he murmurs, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. Your grin brightens at his words and Hyunjin notices faint smile lines tracing your lips and eyes. It seems as if you’ve laughed quite often for the past four years. The thought brings him a strange sense of comfort.

“What did the vending machine do to deserve this?” you ask, tilting your head with playful curiosity.

“Stole my money,” Hyunjin mutters.

“You’ve got to hit the side when that happens.” You show him, tapping the machine with an experienced hand. His drink clatters down, and he shoots you a thankful grin as he bends to retrieve it.

In those brief seconds, with his head bowed, Hyunjin begs his heart to slow its frantic beating. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask once he stands.

“I’m an ice skater,” he says, and your eyes widen with genuine surprise.

“Really? That’s amazing!”

“Yeah… I guess it is. Are you back from Julliard?” His voice is softer now, more tentative, reminiscent of the day you met. 

“For a little while. Just a few months. This studio—” you glance around, “—it’s where I used to train before I went away.”

“I see,” Hyunjin nods, “I train upstairs, in the ice rink. Because I’m an ice skater,” he repeats, before closing his eyes in embarrassment as your giggles spill forth. No shit Hyunjin.

“I’ll see you around then,” he quickly mutters, eager to end the conversation, before turning around and hurrying away. 

He’s almost by the stairs when your voice calls out his name, urgent, pressing.

“Hyunjin!”

His body freezes before his mind orders it to—he’s not the only one who remembers, then. 

“Did you eat dinner?” you shout, a little out of breath.

“No,” he admits.

“There’s a place nearby that makes the best kimchi stew. Want to go?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It’s my treat.” Your smile has slightly dimmed, and you’re unconsciously scratching the skin by your nails. Even from afar, Hyunjin can discern a shadow looming in your eyes, a plea unspoken. 

“Are you lonely?” Hyunjin’s question comes out before he can stop it, blunt and raw. He’s always been honest, maybe too honest for his own good. Time has taught him that every moment matters, that each second slips away faster than you expect, and that it’s better to speak the truth before it comes back to poison you. 

Your smile falters. “I just… don’t want to go home. not yet,” you confess quietly.

“So you’re using me?” he teases, leaning back against the wall with a smirk. You roll your eyes, muttering “Never mind” under your breath as you start to turn away.

“Fine,” he sighs, pushing off the wall. “But I’m craving sushi.”

…

Hyunjin’s eyes are more worn than the last time you’ve seen him. 

Four years ago, they were puffy, soft with exhaustion, their brown dulled like the last flower clinging to life as fall sets in. But now, the lights have gone out completely, like a bloom crushed underfoot, its color bleeding into the cracks of the pavement.

You steal glances at him between spoonfuls of kimchi jjigae (he silently followed you to your restaurant), watching for any sign of recognition. But he doesn’t seem to remember your name, nor the day at the graveyard as much as you do.

The thought strips you of embarrassment and clothes you in sadness instead.  

Hyunjin has written your name into his diary more times than he’d care to admit, even less so to you. 

He has always walked this earth alone, a stranger even to his own emotions, especially his grief— no one understood how his mother’s death consumed him whole.  

It is true that only one body was laid to the ground many years ago. But Hyunjin’s soul followed hers into the ground when he was just fourteen. 

His sadness made sense to his teachers, his classmates, and even the distant relatives who only came around occasionally. But no one grasped the depth of his anger—at the universe for taking his mother when he was still a child, at the illness that wore down her bones, at himself, mostly, for still breathing when she no longer could.

That rage had devoured him, tore through his flesh with its canine teeth. He only saw its reflection once—when he met you.

Hyunjin didn’t know who or what you were mourning that day at the graveyard. But he remembers your screams on his way to his mother’s grave, raw and stripped down to the marrow. It was as if he had stumbled upon his younger self, begging his mother to dig through the earth and hug his frail body once more, just once more. 

“How long have you been skating ?” you ask suddenly, your gaze flickering over his face. He blinks slowly, as if to bring his consciousness back to the present moment. 

“Since i was a kid, nearly two decades now,” he says. 

“Do you like it?” it is a harmless question, a natural succession of the one that came before it. But nothing was ever that simple with Hyunjin, because ice skating reminded him of his mother, and his mother was the wound that had yet to stop bleeding. 

“I do, I really do,” he speaks softly, a fragile smile curling his lips. He waits till you both finish the first bottle of soju to ask— how have you been? and it’s your turn to frown slightly. He notices the tightening of your fist around the spoon, the subtle tremor in your hand. You, too, carry an ever bleeding wound.

“I’m okay.”

The next question slips from him without thought, “are you still as angry?”

You remain silent for a few seconds, holding his gaze as the question settles between you. His cheeks flush, and he almost apologizes for his bluntness, but then you speak.

“Was I ever angry? I think I was just very sad.” 

Snippets of a younger Hyunjin flash through his mind. The numerous brawls he got in with his classmates, the way he pushed away anyone who tried to show him kindness— He was all thorns, keeping others from reaching the tender petals beneath.

Tears spring in his eyes, unbidden, and he bites his lower lip. He understands what you mean perfectly, you understand what he feels perfectly too. 

“I feel as if my heart is too tired now to bear such big anger,” you say with a smile. “Have you worn out yet? That’s what I’d like to ask.” 

“Aren’t you afraid of the answer?” he pauses, adding in a quiet whisper, “I am.” 

The chandelier above dances across his glossy eyes. You’ve never been optimistic—life hasn’t allowed you that luxury. But a small part of you wants to offer Hyunjin hope, to breathe life back into his weary heart, even though you no longer believe in hope yourself.

But no words of reassurance come. So instead, you offer something much simpler, much more realistic. “Let’s ask it another time, then,” you smile, pouring each other a new round of drinks. You quickly down three shots before laying your head on the table. 

“Are you sleeping?” Hyunjin asks with a quiet laugh, the sound light, like a melody played softly on piano keys.

“It’s fine,” you wave a hand in the air. “The owner knows me. He’ll wake me when it’s time to close.”

Both of you are running from home, or what’s left of it. Hyunjin watches you, your face softened by fleeting peace, so different from the grief he’s etched into his memories.

Far more beautiful, too.

“Then wake me up, too,” he sighs, resting his head beside yours.

His eyelids close instantly, lulled to a nice sleep by the buzz of the fridge and the soft hum of your breathing.

Many minutes pass by— quiet and uninterrupted. Hyunjin finds that the next day has come much slower in your company. 

…

The first time you saw Hyunjin figure skating, you were drawn like a moth to a flame to the music echoing from the ice rink.

You recognized the swelling violin of Can You Hear the Music, and paused by the entrance, torn between stepping in and turning back. What if it wasn’t Hyunjin? Worse, what if it was, and he didn’t wish to see you?

Still, your feet betrayed your hesitation, inching forward. You stood at the door, watching in quiet awe as Hyunjin leaped into the air, spinning with perfect grace. He landed effortlessly on one foot, the other extended behind him in a flawless arc.

The lights danced over his body, his flowing white blouse trailing his movements like a siren’s voice pulling in sailors. His black hair floated weightlessly with each spin, strands resting delicately against his forehead.

For the past four years, you had struggled to feel human. The world tasted bland, as if your heart had lost its ability to savor anything. You were afraid you’d lost the capacity to be amazed—by sunsets, by poignant art that once moved you to tears. So you chased after beauty, desperate for the feelings it could still stir in you, a fragile reminder of your humanity.

But watching Hyunjin skate— that gripped your heart more than anything else had in years.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” a voice startles you and you turn quickly, caught off guard by a man standing beside you, a bottle of water in hand and a kind smile on his face.

“Yes, he is,” you reply quietly.

“I’m Jihyoun, Hyunjin’s coach,” he introduced himself, extending a firm hand.

“Yn,” you hesitated, glancing at Hyunjin, who was still absorbed in his performance. “An acquaintance.”

Jihyoun nodded, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. You followed suit, unable to tear your gaze away from Hyunjin as he spun, cradling his chest as if holding a memory close, his body lowering toward the ground in a quiet ache. It was a pain you knew all too well.

As the music softened, Hyunjin stilled, closing his eyes, taking a moment to catch his breath. You were about to slip away, retreating like a shadow escaping the light, but Jihyoun would have found you weird, perhaps he’d think you were a stalker. So, you remained there. 

“Hey, coach,” Hyunjin waved, skating toward you both. Anxiety flickered in your chest like a match that refused to light up—you regretted coming now. You had shared a meal just days ago, but Hyunjin hadn’t asked for your name, nor did he seem to remember it. Maybe you held onto his memory more warmly than he held onto yours.

“Miss Julliard,” Hyunjin greeted with a soft smile as his eyes landed on you, and just like that, your worries dissolved like sugar in hot tea.

“Julliard? That’s impressive,” Jihyoun whistled, but you shook your head. You often forgot how prestigious your school was—perhaps because no one ever celebrated your acceptance in it.

No one, except Hyunjin.

“Have you eaten?” Hyunjin asked, gliding to the edge of the rink, his blouse clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.

“No,” you shook your head. He nodded nonchalantly.

“I’m craving kimchi jiggae again,” he tipped his chin towards you, “we can go again, if you’d like.”

“Sure, I’d like that,” you grinned.

“Okay. Wait for me.”

… 

Hyunjin’s routine has always been quite simple. 

He’d work out in the morning, the rest of his day lost in practice, his nights reserved for painting or reading, sometimes pouring his thoughts onto paper. It was a life untouched by turbulence, a pattern he rarely swayed from— until you wove yourself into it.

For the past two weeks, you always came to see Hyunjin at the end of his practice. Some nights you’d go eat dinner at your usual spot; sometimes you’d simply buy a drink and find a quiet refuge on the rooftop, watching the city lights twinkle beneath the stars.

There was a strange sense of comfort, he had found, in two bruised souls sitting with one another— an unspoken understanding of what your tongues had often failed to express.

But you hadn’t come to see him in two days.

It’s past one a.m. when Hyunjin finally exits the practice building. He pauses outside, turning back to see that the lights are still on in the dance studio. 

He hopes it is you dancing there. 

With a faint sigh, he takes the stairs two at a time, not wanting to dwell on the fact that, for the very first time in a while, Hyunjin, the ever lonely man, is seeking someone else’s presence. 

When Hyunjin pushes open the studio door, he finds you sitting on the floor, knees tucked to your chest. Your tutu encircles you the way petals would hug a stem— layers of soft tulle in pale pink, contrasting delicately against your sheer tights and pointe shoes.

You appear just like the water lily he sketched only yesterday—soft pastels and an unmatched delicateness. His cheeks flush at the comparison, and, in a hurried attempt to leave, he fumbles, catching his shirt on the doorknob and bumping into the door. 

He’s frozen in place, wincing when you call out his name in surprise. Does he have to embarrass himself each time he’s around you? 

He turns slowly, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face. “Miss Julliard,” he waves, and you grin in return, your eyes warm, “What are you doing here?”

The words are lost on him as you run over to him, stopping mere inches away from his figure. His fingers twitch for his sketchbook, a sudden urge seizes him to draw you.

“You didn’t come by yesterday so I came to see you,” he explains, voice soft like a summer breeze. 

Your grin brightens like the sun. “Ah, did you miss me?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes playfully, walking past you to sit on the floor. 

Did he miss you? no he didn’t, but his heart did ache, just a little, at your absence.

“Why did you look so defeated sitting on the ground?” he asks instead of replying, leaning against the mirrored wall.

You sigh, taking your place across from him, “practicing this dance is so hard, I got sick of it.” 

He nods, understanding the frustration that stems from being a perfectionist, always chasing ideals in your work.

“You know what helps me? Performing to a song I love. Reminds me what I love about the sport.”

You hum, before a mischievous glint sparks in your eyes. “There is this one song.. From a barbie movie.”

He blinks in surprise, laughing as you dash for your phone.

“Barbie?”

“Yes! The 12 dancing princesses. My mom made me watch it to convince me to take up ballet.” 

“Is that so?” he grins, placing his chin atop his palm. 

“Yeah, she wanted me to follow my sister’s footsteps,” you say, and he thinks back to the small grave you were both kneeling next to. “I wonder if I wouldn’t have become a ballerina if I didn’t watch it,” you muse, before clearing your throat.

“Anyways,” you force a smile on your face, as a whimsical melody streams through the loud speakers. Your grin turns childlike as you stand onto pointe, your raised foot grazing the knee of your supporting leg. 

You glide across the floor as if you are floating, your tutu catching the soft glow of the studio light. Your leaps are as light as air, and you slide to Hyunjin grabbing his hand to pull him up, drawing him into your orbit. 

You laugh, spinning around him, your movements fluid and free, yet your arms frame your figure with a rehearsed prouesse. He can’t help but laugh with you, the warmth of your presence filling the room, the music wrapping around you both like a spell. 

You’re a blur of pink and light, you appear like an angel dancing to the tune of childhood memories.

As the song reaches its end, you twirl one last time before bowing gracefully. Hyunjin claps, the sound echoing in the quiet studio.

“I haven’t danced to that in years,” you say, catching your breath. “I probably looked ridiculous.”

He shakes his head, his voice steady and sincere. “I think ballet would’ve found you anyway. It’s like you were born for it.”

Hyunjin is used to the cold bite of the ice rink, that is where he feels most like himself. But he is somehow drawn to the warmth of this particular studio—no, not just the studio. It’s the warmth you bring, the way your smile lights up the space at his words, that makes him feel, for the first time in a long while, that he could have a friend. That he doesn’t need to walk down the path of life alone.

…

You’re lingering at the doorstep of your home, keys gripped like a lifeline in your trembling fingers. It always takes you three heartbeats to open the door—one to shut your eyes, two to fill your lungs with air, and three to prepare for the tidal wave of hurt waiting on the other side.

You push the door open and slip inside, peeling off your shoes like a shadow trying to leave no trace. With each step, the house pulls you in, a black hole swallowing the warmth that once flickered in your veins, devouring any trace of light.

Dinner with Hyunjin still burns faintly in your chest, like the lingering heat of a fireplace after the flames have died. He makes you laugh a lot, because he’s clumsy, and a peculiar fan of weird debates. You had just spent an hour discussing whether humans have two buttcheeks or simply one.

But you wither down inside this home, your joy punctured like a balloon drifting too close to the sun.

The walls have permeated your sadness, they echo the killing sentence your father cast into your heart four years ago, a wound that festers no matter how much time has passed.

Hyunjin asked you a few days ago why you were back to Seoul. You told him you were competing in the Seoul International Ballet Competition, and he said that he was preparing for the Olympics selection. He then laughed, saying how strange it was that after a month of seeing each other every day, it was only now that you’d shared this. 

You tried to laugh with him, but the sound felt like a stone sinking in your throat. Guilt gnawed at you, not because it was a lie, but because it wasn’t the whole truth. The ballet may have brought you back, but something else called you home. 

At times you wonder if you had made the right call by answering it.

“You’re home,” your mother’s voice cuts through the quiet as you enter the kitchen. You nod, humming absentmindedly. 

“I made pasta, it’s in the oven. And I bought that drink you like,” she says, but her words are too sweet, too forced—like the artificial flavor of apple in fizzy drinks. 

“Thanks,” you whisper, barely loud enough to carry the word across to her.

“I’ll grab it for you,” she says, moving toward the fridge. But when she opens it, her hands falter, hovering over empty shelves. “That’s strange… I could’ve sworn I put it here.” You grip the counter tighter as she flits from cabinet to cabinet, her search growing frantic. 

“It’s fine, I’m not thirsty,” you murmur, but she continues, finally pulling open the dishwasher.

“Ah, silly me,” she says softly, retrieving the can with trembling hands. You keep your eyes low, unwilling to meet hers. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice as fragile as a cracked vase, “I forget so much these days.” 

And just like that, she slips out of the kitchen, leaving behind a gaping hole in your chest that threatens to swallow you whole.  

You hate it when she forgets in front of you, because it shatters the illusion. You see her now, as something frail, crumbling under the weight of time. Her mind, like a worn-out book, is losing pages faster than you can salvage them.

And the cruelest part is that it forces you to forgive her—to hold her in the softness of your heart, knowing that one day she’ll forget who you are entirely.

But has she ever known who you were to begin with? Has she ever dared to ask? 

Has she ever cared to? 

… 

The first time Hyunjin spoke about his mother, you were both lying on the grass underneath a starry night.

You had been rambling about a specific bagel from New York that you missed, while he hummed absentmindedly, his thoughts entangled in memories like marionettes tugged by invisible strings from the past.

He hadn’t meant to ignore you; so when you turned to him, playful mischief dancing on your lips—“Are you listening to me?”—he could only offer a sheepish grin in response. 

“What’s on your mind?” you asked, and he bit his lip, worry knitting his brow. 

Hyunjin had never had anyone to speak to about his mother; her memory resided in the pages of his diary, the strokes of his paintings, the rhythm of his dances—never out loud, never to another soul.

But he suddenly felt an insatiable urge to speak of her; thorns pricking his throat, his skin growing feverish as he fought to form the words he longed to speak. 

“What’s wrong?” you pressed, your tone shifting to one of concern. He thought you wouldn’t mind if he shared her memory, but what he would even say? There was so much to talk about, so much he admired, so much he missed.

“My mom…” he started, his voice tentative. He had your full attention now, he could tell by the way you fully turned around to look at him. “She used to make the best kimchi stew,” he confessed, closing his eyes in slight embarrassment. Is this really what he decided to speak about? 

Still, he pushed through. “She made it for me whenever I was sick. I don’t attach it to bad memories because it was delicious, and I could feel that she made it out of love, out of concern.” He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. “I hadn’t eaten it at all since she passed away. I couldn’t bring myself to. Until you took me to that restaurant.”

His eyes glistened as they settled on you, “So thank you for taking me there. I think you would have liked her kimchi stew.”

Your eyes widened slightly, dewdrops brimming in your waterline before you smiled softly. “I’m sure I would’ve.” 

He cleared his throat, somehow emboldened by the tenderness of your gaze. He thought that her memory would be safe within the confines of your mind. He thought that he wouldn’t mind sharing her with you. “She was the best figure skater I’ve ever seen.”

“Was she? Is she the one who inspired you to become an ice skater?” you asked, curiosity lighting up your expression. He nodded eagerly. “Yes, she was graceful with her moves; it felt as if she floated atop the ice. The media dubbed her the best figure skater of her generation,” he spoke, pride swelling within him as he noticed the admiration in your expression.

“It was always just her and me, so I’d stay late into the night watching her practice. That was my favorite pastime. She’d always buy me the food I wanted afterward, as a thank you.”

“She sounds like a good mother,” you said, and your words morphed into fingers pressing on his tender bruises. 

“She was. She is.” 

“Tell me more,” you smiled, and so he talked, and talked and talked. He shared everything he could recall: their weekly picnics beneath cherry trees, birthday candles they’d blow out together, the medals she dedicated to him, and her silly jokes that had once filled their home with laughter. 

He spoke of her kindness, her joy that lingered even until her last breath, the love that she beheld for this life and her art, and him. He didn’t mention her illness; it was a mere passing moment, never defining her, never stripping her from the passion that bound her atoms together. 

When he finished, he found his cheeks damp with tears, but his heart felt lighter than it had in years. The air around you was sweeter, for once, it wasn’t fourteen-year-old Hyunjin weeping over the memory of his mother. The ache had softened.

His last words hung in the air, echoing softly in the stillness of the empty park. You didn’t speak; instead, you gently placed your palm atop his. 

It is his very soul that twitched at your touch. 

“What are you doing?” he asked breathlessly, a foolish question, perhaps. 

Your reply was even more obvious, simpler.

“Comforting you.”

“I…” he hesitated, eyes darting furiously over your face, then your hand resting upon his, then your eyes once more, watching him patiently, leaving him the space to retract his hand or intertwine your fingers with his. 

“I’m scared,” he finally admitted, the shadows of his fears looming large. It terrified him even more to utter such words, yet he knew you wouldn’t use them against him; you understood what it felt like to be deprived of comfort— somehow that only saddened him even more.

“What if… What if I forget the coldness of her fingers wrapped around mine?” 

“Your mom loved you, Hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hand to feel warm.” 

Something shifted within his heart, atoms rearranging themselves to spell out a simple truth for Hyunjin— your mom would want you to be happy. 

He nodded, willing his fingers to slip in the empty spaces between your fingers. You squeezed his hand—once, twice, thrice—each pulse a silent invitation for your warmth to seep through his veins, to permeate his bones and sink into his heart. 

He could get used to this, he thought. He wants to get used to your warmth, he realizes.

What does that mean? 

…

Hyunjin has always known who he was, memorized to heart the architecture of his personality. 

He knew he loved art, that he found solace in learning about artists past who, like him, seemed to have sculpted their solitude into something lasting.

He knew he loved painting, he knew he hated egg plants, he knew he’d rather die than not achieve his mother’s dream, for him. 

But something within him was shifting—unraveling. 

His eyes are drawn to the entrance of the ice rink, like a compass needle to true north. His neck craned almost instinctively as the clock looms over 11 p.m.— the time you usually come by to the studio. 

“Don’t worry, she’ll drop by,” Jihyon’s voice cut through his trance. Hyunjin startled, his cheeks blooming with the soft pink of a rising dawn.

“What are you talking about?” he mumbled, but Jihyon only grinned knowingly. 

“Miss Julliard,” his coach teased. Was he that obvious? Did you notice it too? 

That nickname clung to you both since the first time he uttered it near the vending machine. You never corrected him, never offered your real name, and he never asked—though he knew it well. He had thought of you often over these past four years, wondered if you had been well, wondered if you had ever moved on or if you still carried the anger, the heartbreak as if it were your own spine.

He felt guilty that he had found comfort in your pain all these nights past. 

Did that make Hyunjin selfish? Or lonely? 

“Don’t stay up too late,” Jihyon said as he waved goodbye.

“Don’t worry about me.” 

Jihyon lingered by the door, as if wishing to say something else, but he simply sighed before leaving.

It feels odd now for Hyunjin to stand in the stillness of the ice rink, feeling like a hollow shell without you. The quiet is no longer familiar, nor comforting, not when he’s grown accustomed to your giggles spilling all over the place. 

What does it mean, he wondered, when the heart learns to beat to the rhythm of someone else’s presence? When the mind begins to archive every detail, every smile, everything that the other person has ever loved?

Like clockwork you jog into the studio, waving at Hyunjin from afar. He skates over to you, leaning against the railing as he smiles, it is natural for him to smile at you.

“How was practice?” you asked, and he shot you a thumbs-up, his fingers drumming against the railing.

“Isn’t your competition next week?” you ask and he nods, “Can I come watch then?” you say and his heart stutters at your request.

“You can, if you want to, if you don’t it’s okay too, you actually don’t have to,” he mumbles, his words rushing out, until you pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him 

“I’ll be there, I have to make sure everyone cheers for you when you win,” you grin, self-assuredly, as if you have never doubted that he’ll qualify for the Olympics. 

His heart grows limp at your words, his limbs losing their strength as your finger lingers upon his lips. He gently grabs your hand, moving it away, goosebumps rippling across his skin at how soft your wrist feels.

This isn’t normal. 

“Should I bring pom poms? Actually, should I make them from scratch? What’s your favorite color?” 

“Will you actually come?” he whispers. Hyunjin has never had anyone cheering for him in his competitions, except for his coach, but he was obligated to do so, in a way. He doesn’t remember what it feels like to smile at someone in the stands anticipating your win. 

Somewhat, you sense the gravity of hyunjin’s question, the vulnerability it entails, one he doesn’t try to hide. He has never attempted to hide his emotions from you, now that he thinks about it.

“Of course I will,” your voice softens, your playfulness melting away. “I promise. I…” you point your pinky to him and he chuckles quietly, “I pinky promise.” 

You kiss your thumb pad and signal for him to do the same, he shakes his head before following your lead, pressing both your thumb pads together. 

“There, sealed forever.” 

You quiet down, before giggling for a reason that eludes you both. 

“Have you ever tried ice skating?” he suddenly asks and you nod, “I know how to skate, but not how to do all those fancy spins of yours.” 

“Do you want to try?” he smiles and you lighten up, “Actually? What if I fall?” 

“I’ll be there to catch you.”

A few moments later, you were both on the ice, Hyunjin spinning around you as you found your balance. “This feels so different from ballet,” you chuckle and he grins, “do you like it?”

“Yeah, i do.”

“Come here,” he beckons, reaching for your hand, and you don’t hesitate, your fingers intertwining with his as he leads you across the rink. 

Can you hear the music starts playing on the loud speakers and Hyunjin laughs, turning around to look at you.

“I’m scared,” you giggle happily and he shakes his head, “Let go of your fears and hold on to me.”

And then, without warning, he spins you, the motion sending your hair flying around you like wings unfurling in the wind. he’s spurred by the emotions this song alone can bestow on him. Can you hear the music?, it asks. Yes, he can, now more than ever, is his answer.

He wraps a secured arm around your waist, lifting you off the ground as he traces wide circles on the ice. Your laughter can be heard over the music, shouts of exhilaration ripping through you as you lift your leg to a ninety degree, as if doing ballet on ice. 

He twirls with you in his arms, as the music hits its crescendo, before finally putting you down, his arm still around you, your chests almost brushing against one another.

You’re so close, closer than you’ve ever been, Hyunjin can decipher the specks of light in your eyes, can hear the booming sound of your heartbeat in his chest. Your hand wraps around his bicep as you catch your breath, and Hyunjin is wrapped in a cocoon of your scent. 

He doesn’t wish to break free, he wants to remain in the chrysalis woven by the notes of your perfume. 

It’s a few hours later, Hyunjin laid on his bed, a pillow tightly pressed to his face. He wasn’t a stranger to late-night thoughts strung along by the twilight, but he had never thought before of this—of your lips, how soft they looked inches away from his, how it’d feel to press them on yours, to move slowly, tentatively, and then ravenously, hungrily, achingly.

“Fuck,” he mutters, further burying himself under his covers. Hyunjin wasn’t accustomed to these kinds of thoughts, he had never pursued someone, never had the time nor the energy to do so. Never had anyone grab his attention, in the first place.

Until you.

“Do I like her?” he murmurs to no one but himself, before shaking his head forcefully. “Go to sleep, Hyunjin,” he mutters, willing his eyes to shut closed, sewed so tightly together images of you cannot slip through his eyelids.

But to no avail.

He groans, kicking the covers off before heading to his desk. There, he opens his diary, grabbing a pen as if to write a new entry. But his fingers itch for the buried notebook from four years ago, the one he eyes from the corner of his eye.

He sighs softly before digging it out of its place, his fingers expertly going to his entry the night he came back from the graveyard. The night you met.

He remembers coming home slightly distraught after dropping you off, he had lingered by the door a bit, hearing echoing screams, a door being slammed, then an eerie silence once more.

Hyunjin had been too immersed in his pain to afford absorbing others’ sadness. A sponge that is too saturated, unable to welcome the woes of any other being.

But you had managed to crack through his defenses, frayed yourself a passage through the small gaps forgotten, shed sunlight on parts of himself he had thought were rotten, lost beyond salvation.

He felt an excruciating sadness for you, for your anger, for your sadness, for the way it consumed you whole, because he knew what would follow—when a body burns up, all that is left after is ashes, scattered everywhere, mingling with specks of dust, meaningless, a heart that serves no purpose anymore.

He never told you, he is unsure if he ever would, but it was the fourth anniversary of his mother’s death when he met you. He had planned to spend the night in a willowing state of sadness, an incapacitating one that didn’t allow for his limbs to move, similar to the first anniversary, then the second, then the third.

But he had spent the rest of it sketching your tearful eyes as you looked up at him, as you cowered away from his words, as you relaxed in his car.

That is the image he finds in his diary entry. But now that he thinks about it, he didn’t skillfully depict the moles scattered on your face, the crease near your eyes, or the way your hair reflects the sun’s light. He didn’t capture the arch of your eyebrow or the way beauty seems to reside in every nook and cranny of your face, seems to pour out of your pores like the sun brushing against a waterfall the way timid lovers do—magical, beautiful.

He sees you in a whole different light, now.

Hyunjin runs a tired hand through his hair, before grabbing his sketchbook. In the hours that ensued, in which he tried to do your beauty justice, erasing and retracing the shape of you time and time again, numerous questions ran through his mind, racing against time to find answers.

Does he like you? No, too simplistic of a question, too dim to encapsulate what knowing you feels like.

Is his soul drawn to yours?

Perhaps. Yes. Most definitely, his heart whispered.

Would he be a fool if he ever confessed it to you?

It is his mind that answered then. A bit forcefully, in fear, in warning: yes, a thousand times yes.

…

There are places in your parent’s house that you always stray from, the way oil stirs away from water. One, the vicinity of their bedroom, two, the living room— the ones in which you are most likely to stumble upon them. Three, the attic, in which you will most likely brush against ghosts from the past.

But somehow you found yourself exactly there, tonight. 

It's 10 p.m. The sun has long sunk below Seoul’s horizon, leaving behind a sky awash in an exquisitely deep blue, so inviting you almost wish to disappear into it. Today was your rest day, no dance studio, no late night escapades with Hyunjin.

You find yourself missing his giggles and how they would linger in your mind long after you part ways.

The attic is still, the floorboards creaking beneath the weight of your feet as you fumble for a light switch, your hand sweeping along the dusty wall. It flickers on, weak and golden, and you squint as the air, thick with age, coats your lungs. 

Old furniture crowds the room, remnants of a life you left behind four years ago. You’re surprised they kept your bed untouched in your room, one last string tying them to your memory.

Your eyes sweep over old paintings, broken suitcases, and wooden shelves, a hand mixer—useless now. And then, you see it, the reason you climbed here. 

Your mother had once mentioned a box, in passing, filled with things your sister wanted to leave for you. Your mother wasn’t pregnant with you at the time nor did she intend to, but she’d entertain the idea to make her favorite girl happy. 

You kneel and pull the box to your lap, the cardboard soft and weathered under your fingers.

“She was so kind,” your mother had said, too many glasses of wine in her system, her words loose and unguarded. “She gave up her favorite toys for you, before you were even born.” You never asked why they were never passed on, deep down you already knew the answer. She never deemed you worthy of having them. 

Inside, you find a small doll with golden hair and big glassy blue eyes, its pink dress dotted with strawberries, a swan hairpin missing some crystals, and tiny, delicate ballerina shoes, pale pink, unused, small—so small. 

And then, a note. 

Your heart stumbles, the bile rising fast to your throat as you grip the worn paper in your hands. 

Your sister had always been a myth, a memory passed down to you by your parents. An elusive figure you have only seen in photographs, until now. 

You’ve never had words that she addressed to you. 

The paper crinkles as you unfold it. You can somehow hear the rush of hot blood in your veins—uncomfortable, deafening. 

The words blur together as your eyes skim over the paper. You catch fragments— to my future sister—then something about how she wants to play with you, urging you to hurry, come quickly, before I break all my toys.

Your vision wavers, the small, careful handwriting barely legible through the haze. I left you my favorite doll and hairpin. So simple. So kind. I also left you my new ballet shoes. You don’t have to like ballet but if you do that would be awesome.

I would love to dance ballet with you.

The note crumples in your hand as your heart lurches, body jolted upright as if struck by lightning. You stumble out of the attic, discarding the box as the walls close in on you. They press, like the past, against your ribcage until you feel like you might suffocate.

You’ve carried resentment like a stone in your chest, a tide pulled by the moon, ever present, ever rising. You resented her because her memory haunted you, grew larger than life as you did. But she never asked for that. She was just a child, a seven-year-old who loved you before you even existed.

How horrible are you? 

Guilt is bitter on your tongue, sour as acid, and you swallow hard against it, tasting the metallic tang of regret. You don’t think as you barge into your parent’s room, blinded by feelings too entangled like vines to tell apart. 

“What’s wrong?” your mother asks, sitting in a bed too big for her alone. You throw the crumpled note at her. 

“Why did you never give me this?” you demand, and her eyes widen as she skims the lines, a sheen glazing her pupils. 

“I…” she stammers, and you laugh—a hollow, jagged sound—as your hands press against your forehead, fingers digging into the migraine feeding off your pain.

“You know I hated her, right? I– I hated a child, my sister because I never felt loved by you,” you choke, voice fracturing, “how– my god how pathetic is that?” 

“i’ve always loved you,” she says, voice tentative. but it is too meek of a reply, too hollow before the depths of your abandonment. 

“I’ve never, NEVER felt once loved by you! YOU made me feel as if I was competing with a ghost. She wasn’t here but she was everywhere and I was never enough to fill her shoes!” 

“I was a grieving mother!” she yells, standing up to face you, her face flushed and her hands trembling. “Do you know how terrible it feels to lower your child into the ground? Do you know how horrible I felt covering her grave when she was scared of the dark, when she hated the cold? She–” her voice cracks like fragile glass, unraveling as tears spill over her face, “She kept telling me that she didn’t want to leave us, that she didn’t want to die. How am I—“ She sobs, the sound raw, torn, “how am I supposed to forget my baby’s last breath? how am i supposed to be a perfect mother to you when I couldn’t protect her?” 

“i never wanted a perfect mother.” you murmur, eyes shutting tight, chest heaving with hiccuped breaths. “I never said you had to forget her. But I was right here. I was alive. I was breathing, hurting, waiting for you to see me, to love me.” Your voice breaks, you sound like your seven years old self and you hate that. “Did I mean so little to you?”

You smile sadly before her silence, your shoulders dropping low. You are too tired for an offense, too tired to tear down her defenses. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t always a good child. I’m sorry that sometimes I threw tantrums. I’m sorry for all the ways I failed you. I know I’m not perfect. I hurt, I stumble, I make mistakes. I am filled with resentment. I choke with it, and sometimes I hurt others too. But I try. I always try to make things right. And I apologize if I do.” 

Silence thickens between you both like browned sugar, though this moment is anything but sweet. You remain quiet, hoping for your salvation to come in the form of two words, two simple words— I’m sorry—that is all it would take to soothe your heart a little. 

You wait, and wait, and more seconds pass as the silence stretches longer and your mother refuses to meet your eyes. And slowly, slowly the hope withers within you. You know she isn’t apologizing tonight. Maybe not ever.

“Forget it.” you whisper as you leave the room and hurriedly walk out of the house. You need something strong, something to burn away the ache, something to scald the memory from your bones, to forget.

It’s nearly midnight when Hyunjin finally steps out of the training building. The air is crisp, cool against his flushed skin, but his relief is short-lived as his eyes land on Sohee, the owner of the kimchi jjigae place nearby, hovering by the entrance. 

Hyunjin’s frown deepens—something feels off. 

“Ah, hyunjin,” the fifty something quickly jogs up to him. “The security guard told me you still hadn’t left.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Yn has been drinking for the past hours, she looks.. Sad. And I’m worried she can’t get home safely.” Sohee’s tone sets off the alarm in Hyunjin’s mind. 

His worry tightens into a knot in his chest as he steps into the narrow restaurant. His eyes immediately fall on you—your cheek pressed against the table, five empty soju bottles scattered around you

He crouches in front of you, his heart twisting as he takes in the dried streaks of tears on your cheeks. What happened?

“Hey,” he whispers gently, afraid to jolt you awake. You stir, blinking groggily, trying to piece together your surroundings.

“Hyunjin,” you breathe, barely a whisper, and his heart softens at the sound. He nods, offering you a small smile, though concern darkens his eyes. “What’s wrong, hm?”

His words unlock something deep inside you, and your face crumbles like a porcelain vase breaking apart. The tears come swiftly, welling in your eyes until they spill over, your lower lip trembling like fragile branches in a storm.

“I’m a—I’m a horrible person,” you choke out between sobs, your voice trembling as much as your body. Your eyes squeeze shut as your shoulders quake, and Hyunjin’s hands move instinctively, gently covering your tightly clenched fists.

“No, you’re not,” he murmurs, his voice soft and steady, as if trying to hold you together with his words alone.

But you shake your head fiercely, a sob tearing from your throat, raw and unrestrained. “I’m a horrible sister,” you manage to whisper, your words barely audible as you wipe at your eyes, only for the tears to fall faster, harder.

Hyunjin watches you break, his heart aching with every tear that slips down your face. He feels weird, feverish, as if your pain has somewhat transferred to his heart. He glances at Sohee, who quietly steps out of the restaurant, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, dim light.

With a soft sigh, Hyunjin gently cups your face in his hands, his palms warm against your tear-streaked cheeks. His thumbs trace slow, soothing circles across your skin.

“You didn’t even get to be a sister, how could you be a horrible one?” 

“I hated her for so long when all she wanted was to dance with me. I hated a child for so long, I’m a-a horrible person.” 

Hyunjin tentatively licks his lips, thoughts jumbled in his mind like wires. His heart is beating so fast as he wraps an arm around your back, bringing your face to the crook of his neck. You seem to melt in his embrace, tension loosening off of your back as he gently pats your spine. 

“I don’t think you hated your sister. You hated how your parents treated you. Those are two different things.”

Your tears are unceasing, trickling down his skin as you sob more and more. He doesn’t mind the dampening of his shirt, he would never mind a lot of things when it comes to you.

“Humans aren’t straightforward lines, we bend and twist and stray from our paths because our hearts are too frail and sometimes we carry emotions too heavy for us to bear. Sometimes we are pushed to feel certain things when we’ve never wanted to go through them.”

He never stops patting your back gently, his hand traveling from the top of your hair to the base of your spine. “A bad person does not worry about being a bad person. I’m sure your sister knows you love her. You have nothing to feel horrible about.”

Your tears are unyielding and Hyunjin feels as if it isn’t enough— to press your body to his hoping the rhythm of his heart would calm down yours, to think of words of his own doing to soothe your pain. He has not had to comfort anyone in so long, he doesn’t know how to stop your ache. He wishes he could soak your sorrow into his heart instead— he’s used to it, he can handle your pain and his, at once.

He’s racking his mind furiously for things to comfort you. In his memory he stumbles upon the poem of Mary Oliver that has held his hand in the dark.

“Would you like to hear my favorite poem?” he asks, in a whisper.

He feels you nodding against his chest, and he peels himself away from you, painfully, like removing a bandaid from a wound that has yet to scab.

Hyunjin’s eyes are wide and glossy as he peers into yours, as he looks beyond your irises and gazes at your soul, as he recites to you, with a steady voice like a current that doesn’t fall prey to the hazards of storms— “You do not have to be good.” He smiles softly. “You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.” The verb strikes you like a thunderbolt. “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”

It passes him like a vision, a flash of white that blinds him, him holding your cheeks but without tears, him cupping your face, in the mornings and in the nights, because it is you his soft clueless flesh aches to love.

It’s gone as quick as it came, his words come out much slower, much more disoriented as he continues— “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.”

“I want to tell you,” you hiccup, your cheeks are all rosy, delicate red veins protruding the white of your eyes. Your lips are all swollen from how hard you bit them to muffle your sobs.

“I will listen,” he reassures. Hyunjin stays true to his words. He drives you to his place, there, atop his couch, lit by a flower shaped lamp casting warm shadows on you both; you felt safe, a vanilla tea in hand, to talk, to tell Hyunjin everything, how you felt and how lonely, excruciatingly lonely you have been for the past years.

And he listens, he listens well, nodding, holding your hand when it shakes, wiping your tears when they slip from your face.

You feel a sense of gratitude swell in your heart, as if a hundred tulips bloomed in your chest at once. You feel safe talking about your biggest fears to Hyunjin, handing him your heart on an open palm, bruised, bleeding. He would wrap it in a gauze for you, he would keep it safe till you can heal it once more.

You doze in and off sleep on the couch, you can feel Hyunjin placing a warm blanket atop you. You swear he sat by your side for a long while, his hand gently patting your hair and threading through your locks.

You resisted the urge to pull his hand, to beg him to climb near you on the couch and have him encapsulate you in his hold once more. It would be too much for him to bear. Too much of you to ask. Too hard for you to handle a no.

Because even in your drunken state, with a heart weighed down by alcohol and ten thousand stones of grief, when Hyunjin cupped your cheeks in his larger, warmer hands, when he peered into your soul with his brown glimmering eyes, when it looked as if he could mirror your pain, as if he could understand the guilt, as if he could hold your hand through the grief— for one second, for a fleeting instant, it was all forgotten. 

The grief became a simple myth in your mind, a distant memory, something you could brush away as a bad dream slipping away with the march of time; simply because he was there for you through it.

… 

Hyunjin is beautiful.

This isn’t new knowledge for you, per se. You've known it from the moment your eyes met his, through a veil of relentless rain and the sting of unshed tears. Even then, you recognized it—he was the most beautiful human you’d ever seen. 

But somehow, you’ve managed to tuck this knowledge away, placed it in a forgotten recess of your mind. You had found other things to like about Hyunjin, things that wouldn’t be weird for a friend to admire— and Hyunjin made that an easy feat for you. 

You enjoyed the poems, all the ones he’d recite to you from time to time. You loved watching people’s eyes turn to behold him, and him unaware of this magnetic aura coating his porcelain skin. You felt warm hearing his bright and unrestrained giggles, seeing traces of happiness carved into his eyes, watching his lips stretch into a wide grin that seemed to swallow the world whole. 

But there are moments when it’s harder to forget. Like now—when Hyunjin stands before you, slipping on the finishing touches of his performance outfit. His sky-blue top clings to his frame, bedazzled with pearls and diamonds that cascade like teardrops, swooping around his small waist and hugging his broad shoulders. The fabric melts into his black pants, carving his silhouette like a chiseled statue.

There are only ten minutes left before his turn on stage. Last night, over quiet spoonfuls of miso soup, Hyunjin told you to please stay backstage with him, his voice so soft it felt like a secret only meant for you. And how could you refuse? Hyunjin wanted you close—Hyunjin asked for you.

He is nervous, you can tell by the slight tremble of his hands as he struggles with his earring, the delicate hoop slipping from his grasp. It falls, and before you know it, you’ve stepped forward, picking it up, your fingers steady as you help him clasp it into place. 

His gaze is heavy on you, and your heart beats a little too fast. You avoid meeting his eyes—he’s too close, too vulnerable of a setting for you.

You finish, stepping back, but Hyunjin’s hand finds your wrist, gently tugging you close again. He doesn’t let go, his fingers playing with the hem of your sleeve. He bites his lip, lets go of the plush flesh before biting it once more, then he confesses. “i’m scared.” 

Your fingers find his wrist, settle above his wildly beating pulse, a small part of you selfishly wishes it is because of your proximity. Your thumb gently swipes across his soft skin as you say, “you’ll do amazing. I’m sure of it.”

He nods, though something flickers in his eyes, something unsaid that lingers between you. He swallows it down, offering you a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll see you after.”

“Okay,” you grin back, “I’ll see you with a gold medal.” 

You’ve seen this choreography countless times before, memorized every twist, every subtle motion of his body. But watching him perform, under the harsh, burning lights, is like witnessing something new. 

Hyunjin moves with a grace that defies reason, a dancer molded by the music, his body bending to its rhythm, his face crumbling as the music swells. 

Hyunjin glides around as if he is one with the ice, he glows, like the sun on stage, mesmerizing, dipping low with the music and soaring high with its rhythm. Your hand is on your chest as you watch him deliver the killing move, a deep dip, head thrown back, his body a perfect arch on his knees. 

He finishes, under the roaring applause of everyone around. You’re first to stand on your feet and the entire arena follows, giving Hyunjin the standing ovation he deserves, the only one of the night. He bows deeply, a hand on his heart as he soaks in the praise. 

You feel like throwing up as you anxiously await the results to show up on the screen. One minute of silence passes by, then, you see it. His name comes in first. 

Hyunjin won. Hyunjin qualified for the Olympics.

He’s already skating towards you, and you’re moving, rushing down to meet him. You wrap him in a tight hug, feeling his chest rise and fall with quick breaths.

“How was it?” he asks, laughter bubbling in his voice. You find it to be such a silly question. 

How could he be anything but extraordinary?

“You fucking did it, Hyunjin,” you say, the words leaving you in a rush. He tips his head back, laughing, his happiness so pure it aches. You reluctantly pull away from him as Jihyoun comes to congratulate him, pulling him too for a hug.

“Proud of you son,” he says and you can see Hyunjin’s eyes well up with tears. you wish you could kiss them away, the tears and the sadness, will it to desert his heart, kiss his smile and happiness, learn the taste of his joys and sorrows. 

Oh god. 

The thoughts submerge you like you’re doused in gasoline, and being near Hyunjin is the crickling match that will set you on fire.

“There’s an afterparty to celebrate the man of the hour,” Jihyoun grins, patting Hyunjin’s back in a fatherly manner. You can feel the pull of the crowd, people waiting to shower him with well-deserved praise, like waves gathering to meet the shore.

“Are you coming?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft as his gaze lingers on you. You hesitate, and he pouts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “I want you to come, please.”

“Okay,” you smile, though your feet are already inching away. “But I left my phone at home. I’ll go get it and come back.” That is the truth, or maybe just a shadow of it.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Hyunjin, ever the considerate one. His kindness cuts deeper than he knows, a dull blade slicing against your fragile skin. You hate how you pull his thoughtfulness to somewhere tainted with shadows. You hate how your mind cannot accept that someone could care for you. What if he pities you, still? It asks. What if he only sees you as the selfish girl sobbing at her sister’s grave? 

How could someone like Hyunjin, radiant as the sun pay attention to a mere rock floating in space, aimless, too unimportant to even be given a name? 

“No, it’s a quick drive. Enjoy your moment.” You flash a smile, hoping it covers the tremor in your voice. You quickly slip away before Hyunjin can notice, your pace quickening as his brow furrows behind you.

You’ve never dared to truly like someone. The harsh truth is that people like you, who were born sipping grief in their mother’s womb, only end up accustomed to its metallic tang on their tongues.

You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief you’ve always known. 

It’s been thirty minutes since you left and Hyunjin’s eyes keep drifting toward the door, pulled by some invisible force. Jihyoun is talking, excitedly introducing him to someone new, someone important from the sound of it. He hears snippets of the conversation— Switzerland, the best coaching center, a guaranteed win, but the words are distant, like murmurs underwater. 

His mind is a whirlwind of paranoid thoughts as Hyunjin redoes the calculations: it was supposed to be a fifteen minute errand, at most. Where are you?

His heart feels tethered to a storm as he steps out, muttering a feeble excuse to Jihyoun, feet moving before his brain catches up. The air feels heavy like trying to inhale metal, only to end up crushed from all sides.

He searches the parking lot, scanning the faces mingling there, but he finds no sign of you. His feet keep moving, driven by instinct, by a chilling feeling pulling at his heart, desperate to glimpse you.

Then he sees it—flashing lights up ahead. His world dims as he watches a man on the phone, gesturing frantically toward a car. A car that’s all too familiar. Yours, crumpled like a piece of paper, flipped on its side, crashed against a tree. 

A loud ringing floods his ears akin to the buzzing of a hundred angry bees, at once. His legs buckle, his hand slamming against a nearby car for balance, but it feels like the earth beneath him is giving way. His eyes squeeze shut, his back turning away from the wreck. Not again.

Please, not again.

His throat burns with bile, and it feels like nails are clawing at his chest, ripping his skin open and exposing his heart. It’s pounding wildly, erratically, like it’s trying to escape the cage of his ribs and splatter on his feet. 

He can’t turn around—he’s too afraid of what he’ll see. But he has to. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his vision spotted with white as he stumbles forward. He taps the man’s arm. He struggles to find his voice as if it were never his to begin within. “Did someone get out of the car?” he whispers, broken, pleading. The man shakes his head.

Hyunjin rushes to the window, desperate to find you, to see you breathing, but the glass is tinted, hiding whatever lies inside. Without thinking, he throws his fist against the window. Once. Twice. Again. And again. His skin splits, blood dripping down his knuckles, but he can’t stop. He pounds the glass until it shatters, only to find nothing within.

“Hyunjin?” A voice, so achingly familiar, cuts through the haze. He spins around, breathless, and there you are—limping, disheveled, but alive. You’re breathing.

In an instant, he’s in front of you, his eyes wide, frantic, searching yours as if they behold the answer to every fear, every prayer he has ever uttered. His hand trembles as it cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, needing to feel your warmth. His gaze flickers over your body, checking for any trace of life-threatening injury, his heart lodged in his throat.

“Are you okay?” His voice is raw, stripped bare.

“I am,” you reply, and your words are his salvation. A sigh shudders out of him, pulled from the deepest parts of his soul, as if he’s been drowning and you’ve finally pulled him to the surface.

He falls to his knees, palms pressing into the ground. Tears spill from his eyes, hot and heavy, streaking down his face like rain in a storm. You kneel beside him, and his arms instinctively wrap around you, pulling you close. 

His fingers weave through your hair, pressing you to him, needing to feel you, needing to know you’re real. His body trembles as he buries his face in your hair, his tears soaking through your shirt, inhaling your scent, grounding himself in you.

“Yn,” he breathes, your name the only thing that could express the magnitude of his relief. He holds you tighter, the words tumbling out like a prayer, “I thought I lost you. My god, I thought I lost you.”

It takes a while for you to process his words, to understand the scale of his fear at the thought of losing you. Those are foreign notions for you, a sight you never thought you’d grasp one day. A sight you never deemed yourself deserving of. 

“You’d care this much if I died?” Your voice is a whisper, small, uncertain.

Hyunjin’s bloodied hand smooths your hair, his eyes red, chest heaving. “Yn, I…” He squeezes his eyes shut, voice breaking. “Yn, please don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry,” your lower lip quivers at the sight of his tears, somehow seeing him sob leads to your own unraveling, as if your emotions are tied by one red string. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to worry you,” you apologize, you the forgotten one, the ghost in your own home, apologizing because for once, your absence did hurt someone, because for once someone would miss you if you were ever gone.

Hours later, you’re in Hyunjin’s home, tucked into the safety of his bed. You’d refused to call your parents, not wanting them to know what had happened, how close their wish had become reality. 

The ambulance had taken you both to the hospital, where they patched Hyunjin’s wounds and checked you for a concussion. You repeated, over and over, like a broken record— “The brakes stopped working, and I jumped out of the car.” Hyunjin spoke for you when you grew tired.

“How are you feeling, Yn?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft, as he hovers over your figure. Your name sounds sweeter from his lips. It sounds as if it was always his to pronounce. 

“I’m okay. I’m sorry I ruined your night.” Your apology is quiet, but he shakes his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your eyes shut closed as his lips caress your skin, as if wanting to drown out all the other senses, useless, needing to focus solely on his touch. 

“If you’re okay, that’s all that matters to me.”

He goes to leave, but you catch his hand. You don’t overthink your next words, you think you’re long past that when it comes to him. “You called me by my name. I thought you didn’t remember it.”

“I never forgot,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve known who you were since the moment I saw you. I… I thought about you a lot for the past four years, Yn. I think about you now too,” a pause, “for different reasons. Sweeter reasons.”

He remembered. He has come to know you and he still thinks of you.

“Me too,” you smile softly, “I think about you so much it feels as if you’re all I’ve ever known,” you confess breathlessly. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and his do the same.

Before you can think, you’re standing on your tiptoes, your lips resting on his, unmoving, driven by a desire so raw it blinded you.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” You pull away, stumbling back.

But his hands find your waist, pulling you back. “Can I do that again, Yn?” His voice is soft, and you nod, dazed. How could you ever refuse him?

His mouth returns to yours, slow and deliberate, like a melody reuniting with its refrain. Sweetness spills from his lips onto yours, a blend of honey and wildflowers and something that is entirely his. His breath surrounds you, intoxicating, pulling you into a world where all you wish is to melt into him, to slip beneath his skin and flow through his veins. 

Fireworks bloom behind your eyelids, explosions of colors you’ve never seen before, as if the universe itself has unraveled in the space between you both. His hands cradle your face, thumbs tracing circles along your cheeks that send a thousand butterflies flapping their wings throughout your being. Your fingers weave into the silk of his hair, a breath of relief escaping you as you touch him the way you’ve longed for. 

You’re still kissing him and yet you already ache to do it again, again and again, till you forgive the world every cruelty it has inflicted into you, if it allows you to hold his warmth a little longer, to keep your sun cupped between your palms. 

“Is this what happiness feels like?” he murmurs against your lips, a smile threading between your breaths, your teeth grazing his in the closeness. You laugh softly, your foreheads touching softly, “I think it is. It tastes so sweet.”

“Mm, I think I need to taste it again, to make sure,” he teases, his lips finding yours once more, playful and hungry. Time loses its meaning, minutes slipping away like sand grains between your fingers. By the time you part, your heart has memorized the rhythm of his breath and the weight of his lips upon yours, as familiar now as your own pulse.

… 

“So, how do we do this?”

Your laughter echoes softly down the corridor. Hyunjin has you pinned against the wall near the skating rink, his right hand braced above your head, the other hovering over your waist—yet, it’s that mere sliver of air between his fingers and your skin that ignites a wildfire within you, burning bright with longing.

“Wouldn’t it be strange if we just walked in, holding hands? I mean, Jihyoun knows me, but…” Your voice drifts away like chimney smoke, dissolving into the background of Hyunjin’s thoughts. He’s no longer listening—he’s observing. Memorizing. His gaze skillfully captures every curve, every shadow of your face, as if this is the last dawn he’ll ever witness. As if, by morning, he’ll be blind, and this moment is his only chance to engrave you into his memory.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, his voice soft, almost reverent. Your words falter, fading like the final notes of a song only he remembers. He leans in, his lips brushing your cheek with a tenderness that paints your skin crimson red. 

He smirks, satisfied by the effect—perhaps, he thinks, that is how the sun feels as it kisses the horizon goodnight, leaving the sky a blushing mess. 

“You were saying?” he teases, and you roll your eyes, pretending to be exasperated. “I was saying that it would be—“ But his lips find yours once more, plucking the words from your tongue like petals from a flower. 

In the dim glow of the corridor, the world around you fades to an afterthought. It feels as though you exist only for this, only for him— to kiss and to be kissed by Hyunjin.

“Finally!” Jihyoun’s voice shatters the moment, ringing out like a bell, pulling you both apart. “Thank you for kissing him, Yn. Now he’ll stop with the longing stares at the door.”

“What stares?” you laugh, the sound bubbling sweetly up your throat. Hyunjin scratches the nape of his neck, shrugging innocently when your eyes meet, as if he has no idea what Jihyoun is talking about (though he knows all too well).

Hyunjin catches his coach’s eye over your shoulder, a wide smile tugging at his lips. Jihyoun once told him that he seems to bloom around you, like a flower starved of sunlight, finally nourished. The thought warms him—knowing that the people closest to him feel your presence like a balm to his soul. His mother would have loved you too, he’s certain of it.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Hyunjin whispers later, as you’re leaving the practice building, his arm draped over your shoulder, yours wrapped around his waist. Natural. Familiar. Like two rivers flowing into one.

“I don’t have anything of mine there,” you pout, and Hyunjin stops, cupping your cheek, his nose grazing yours in a gesture so tender it makes your heart float within your ribcage. “That’s part of my secret plan—to get you in my clothes.”

“Oh, what a very secretive plan,” you giggle, stealing a quick kiss. “And what would we do tonight?” 

“Sleep together.” You raise an eyebrow, and he shakes his head, flushing crimson. “I mean—sleep, actual sleep, not that I wouldn’t want to make love to you,” Your laughter rings out, as his forehead finds its hiding place against your shoulder, embarrassed. “I just want to hold you close. That’s all.”

Your sweet Hyunjin.

“I want that too, Hyune.”

Hyunjin has never been much of a writer, his forté has always been to express himself with his body, spell out words out of the movement of his limbs. It is more evident as he opens the door to his apartment, with you trailing behind. As he looks at both your shoes sitting side by side near the entrance, your accessories resting next to his in the bathroom. 

He lacks the words to explain how right, how natural it feels for him to have you in his space, for you to fill it with the music of your voice and the fragrance of your perfume. As if it has always been his reality, to walk home with you, to watch you slip into his clothes, to brush his teeth next to you, to lay atop the bed with your warm eyes staring at him instead of a cold wall. 

“Do you believe in fate?” you suddenly ask, your thumb trailing alongside his neck, pausing right where his pulse beats. He has never been aware of the weight of life against his skin until he knew you. 

“I never did, I didn’t want to believe in something pre-written for me. Wouldn’t that confine who I am, who I could be?” he muses and you nod softly, inching closer to him. “But somewhat,” he trails off, lifting your hand to his mouth, peepering the sweetest kisses alongside your palm and wrist, like dewdrops caressing leaves. “I believe in it now, because of you.” 

“I think I was meant to find you that day in the graveyard. I think what I feel for you is too grand to be a pure coincidence,” he confesses. 

“And what do you feel for me?” you ask, your voice soft, curious. 

Hyunjin doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gently twirls a strand of your hair away from your eyes, before tucking it behind the cuff of your ear. He presses his forehead to yours, like two pages of a book meeting one another, then he exhales slowly, like a man who has found peace after a lifetime of searching. 

And in a way, he has. He can stop looking frantically for something that would stitch his soul up, he has found you, now. 

“I used to resent hearing my own heartbeat. At times it felt like a punishment, because existing felt like a chore. I wanted the sound to quiet down, I didn’t want to hear anything, nor feel anything anymore.” 

“But now,” he pulls you closer, your legs intertwining with his, like roots seeking comfort in one another, “it’s reassuring to hear, because it means there is still life within me to love you in it.”

Love. The word has long felt like a thorn ingrained into your skin. You have always recoiled from it, less from repulse and more in fear— if the people who were put on this earth to love you, didn’t, then weren’t you meant to remain unloved for the rest of your life? 

But looking at Hyunjin now, at the way the word rests gently on his lips, rolls off his tongue with such ease, with such certainty, you don’t want to run.

You want to stay. 

It is when Hyunjin traces maps along your skin with his lips, as you drift down the constellations of moles on his chest, as you find yourself lost within everything that makes up his being— his scent, his sounds, the weight of him pressed against you— that you find your words to reply, to breathe your first I love you to him. 

And in that confession, another realization comes, though this one is bitter, sour, like a chilling premonition: if Hyunjin were ever to leave, what would be left of you after? 

…

Hyunjin has never been fond of the concept of time, minutes seemed to march differently when it came to him— seconds stretching out like thin threads, nights unraveling in restless turns, sleep plucked right off from his eyelids. 

But with you, time softened, as the hours spun forward, swift and gentle. Around you, Hyunjin no longer felt the weight of passing days on his heart. 

Hyunjin didn’t feel the two months of happiness you bestowed upon him slipping from his grasp. 

He was lost, adrift in the gentle tides of your being—swept by the melody of your laughter, cradled by the softness of your curves. He often wondered if he was deserving of this happiness, yet never lingered long enough to find an answer. He selfishly accepted the joy you gifted him, for once. 

Your belongings filled the empty nooks of his apartment gradually, corner by corner—your satin pajamas settling just above his plaid ones, your skincare nestled near his on the bathroom shelf, your favorite mug clinking against his in the dishwasher. 

In some way, it mirrored how you’d seeped into him, like sunlight breaking through the longest of nights— threads of the sun illuminating what was once lost to darkness. 

He’d steady your chin to help with your mascara, your doe eyes looking up into his. You’d brush his hair, pressing gentle kisses along his shoulder blades. He’d do your laundry. You’d make his coffee each morning. He’d brew your tea each night.

You didn’t have much time to talk during the day, both of you engrossed in the practice of your respective arts. Yet, the knowledge that you were just a floor above him, close if he ever wished to see you, was enough to soothe his heart.

It was at night that you bared yourselves to each other, in ways that went beyond the tender grip of his hands on your waist, or the slow trail of your fingers down the curve of his back.

In the hush of the twilight, you’d unfold softly, revealing the hidden layers within—you’d share your dreams and hopes, and the moments that shaped you, letting the fragments of your pasts settle in the safety between you both. 

“I think I know my purpose now,” you whispered one night, and he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “What is it?” 

“I think I kept ballet at a distance because loving it felt like surrendering to my parents’ dreams, like I’d be becoming what they always wanted me to be.” You paused, your voice a little softer, a little braver. “But I do love it, Hyunjin. I want to be the best at it. I want to honor my sister through it.” 

His gaze softened, as a tender smile blossomed in his lips. “You already do.”

Some nights were less sweet, tangled with heavy grief and unshed tears, yet it felt easier to walk through them if you were there holding his hand. 

“Would you go into her room with me?” he asked quietly one night, his gaze locked on his mother’s bedroom, its door sealed for a decade. He had never dared to enter it once more, afraid it would further cement the notion that she was gone.

That truth felt easier to confront with you near.

“Of course,” you replied softly. “Whatever you need.”

The room was just as he remembered, only stuffier with dust and heartache. Time hung in the air, dense and unmoving, clutching at her last moments alive, unwilling to let go. 

He looked to the bed, and he could almost see the shape of her there, frail and thin, her clothes too loose over a body worn out with sickness.

You held him close, steadying him as he took in each familiar corner: their photos framed with gold on the desk, her countless medals hung on the wall, her perfume and hairbrush untouched on the vanity, her rings resting in a small seashell container.

He walked slowly to the vanity, his fingers reaching for the ring he had loved most—a thin band of gold, crowned with a small emerald, dulled by time. Gently, he wiped away the dust with his shirt, before turning to you and slipping it onto your finger.

“Keep it,” he whispered. “It will live again through you.”

In the days that followed, you helped him breathe light and air into the room once more, sweeping dust from the framed certificates and photographs, polishing the medals until they shimmered as they once had. You washed the linens and her clothes, packing them carefully for a donation to cancer wards—something he never found the courage to do, until now.

Grief no longer felt like a knife lodged into his heart, its metal rusting with the passing of time. He saw its true face now—a soft ache, a quiet longing, a thicket of thorns that can only grow from the roots of love.

Your voice floated in his mind that night, echoing like the bells of a long standing cathedral. “your mom loved you, hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hands to be warm”— would want you to be happy.

Happiness swept into Hyunjin like an endless, gnawing hunger—an insatiable ache that demanded to be fed. He was ravenous for joy, longing to sink his teeth into it, dip his tongue into its sweetness and let it spill all over him. 

When an exoneree tastes freedom after decades of longing, it is the small breeze, the waves lapping hungrily at his bare feet that make his heart twitch. So it was with Hyunjin: the small joys swelled within his ribcage, vast and boundless. His heart strained against his chest, eager to burst free and feel it all. 

Somehow, Hyunjin’s biggest joy came from watching you dance— the principal dancer of your competition team. Whenever he had a break, he’d choose to slip away from the ice rink and climb the stairs at a hurried speed, slip into the dancing studio and sit in the corner. 

There, he’d watch you, leading the group of dancers you’ll perform with. You stood in the center, beckoning the attention of everyone around. Beautiful, so beautiful.

How foolish of him it was to try to deny it. How foolish of him to think that there was any outcome but to fall for you.

You always caught his eye across the mirror, your face breaking out in a wide grin, as you waved shyly at him, the strictness melting off your features and morphing into something warm. He felt special in a way, to be the sole recipient of such a breathtaking smile. He felt as if he could write hundreds of poems about that alone. 

That smile feels even more precious as you stand on stage at the Seoul International ballet competition, seconds before the light would turn on and you’d begin dancing. In the split second of darkness, it is him your eyes sought after in the crowd, it is him you wink at, before switching into your professional mode.

You aren’t as nervous as he expected you to be. Somehow your facade only slipped when five minutes before the stage you beckoned hyunjin in for a hug. “Do you need anything?” he asked as he kissed your temple softly, tightening his hold on you.

“I just need to hug you for a minute. It helps me calm down.” 

Hyunjin had always known you were a stellar ballerina. You were humble with your achievements, speaking of your art as if you don’t have years of practice to attest to your expertise, as if you hadn’t gotten acclaims nationally and internationally.

Still, seeing you on stage made a different pride bloom in his heart. You are the rightful star of the night, the swan of ballet as the media had dubbed you— delicate with your movements, spreading your arms like the unfurling of their feathers, spinning delicately into the air with a grace that made his breath catch in his throat. You were mesmerizing. 

You didn’t simply move, or dance, that would be too simplistic to encapsulate how you breathed life into this art. Into him. 

And it is hyunjin’s arms that you run into, scurrying down the stage steps, an overflowing bouquet in your right hand and a gleaming trophy held tightly in the other. 

“You won, my love,” he shouts, ecstatic as you throw your arms around his neck, as he cradles your waist, spinning you around like how he always orbits around you. 

He puts you down, leaning in to kiss you with no second thought, your eyes closed as you savor one another, as your lips move as if commanded by the stars, to part only to meet again, and again. Till your cheeks are both flushed and all he can taste is the strawberry in your lip tint. 

Your eyes lock on his, your pupils widening till they swallow your irises, mirroring your breathtaking grin. Hyunjin felt as if the sun had left the sky and lodged within his chest.

But what Hyunjin failed to understand is that, for souls like his, happiness is only a fleeting passenger. Even then, it isn’t meant to be swallowed whole; it is to be eaten bite by bite, back hunched, hidden from the harsh glare of the universe. Perhaps this is the price he pays for defying the sadness that shadows him—his own eager canines sinking into joy, ultimately tearing it apart.

…

“I think I’ll go to Switzerland.”

It takes a few seconds for Hyunjin’s words to settle into your mind, for the syllables to unfurl slowly, like a wave gathering its strength before inevitably crashing on the shore. 

Once, Hyunjin had spoken of a figure skating center in Switzerland, one that Jihyoun praised endlessly—the pinnacle for skaters reaching toward gold.

“Will you go?” you’d asked, and he’d only shrugged. “I’m thinking about it.” The conversation had dissolved then, lost in the press of his body against yours, in the paths his fingers traced down your stomach— dizzying enough to make you forget the sound of your own name.

But you should have known—some things cannot be buried beneath the covers. They always resurface, haunting, inevitable.

You draw in a deep breath, your gaze settling on your congratulatory bouquet. The flowers have started to wither now, despite the sugar cube Hyunjin dropped in the water. 

Were they a trigger for the slow withering of your relationship, too? Did the fall of that first petal set the course for your own undoing?

“Okay,” you nod, biting your lip anxiously. “When will you go?”

“In three days. Or else I’ll miss the deadline to join.”

Oh.

You remain silent, feeling as though barbed wire coils around your throat, each metal spike pressing deep into your flesh. He steps closer, his warm hands cradling your cheeks. It takes you a few seconds to meet his gaze.

You suddenly imagine a life untouched by him. The thought fills you with a horrible urge to weep.

“I know it’s sudden,” he murmurs, voice low, “I tried to delay it as long as I could, but Jihyoun kept insisting, saying it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I don’t want you to feel abandoned.” 

You shake your head, as if to push that thought away, as if the notion itself is meaningless.

“I’ve always known we wouldn’t stay in the same place forever. I have to go back to Juilliard soon, too. I just… never thought it would happen this fast.” You sigh softly, a tender smile slipping across your face as you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks. “But you’re meant for grand things, Hyunjin. If Switzerland is where you’ll find them, then I couldn’t be happier for you.”

“I love you,” he whispers, his nose brushing against yours, a gentle, aching gesture. “We’ll make it work, right?”

He searches your eyes, pleading, his brows drawn into a worried knot.

“Of course, we will.”

It is the first time you lie to Hyunjin. 

“I love you,” he repeats, gripping your waist and lifting you onto the counter.

“I’ve only known love thanks to you,” you murmur. That much is true.

Hyunjin kisses you with hunger, his hand tangled in your hair, his body moving with a fierce rhythm—passion and love dripping from each one of his touches, each one of his spilled i love you’s between broken whimpers and moans. 

He loves you tonight like he has something to prove. As if his fingertips must be etched upon your skin, as if his name should be the one carved deep within you, the one found if you were split open to your soul.

Lying against his bare chest, you feel his breath rise and fall beneath you, the tip of his fingers sketching aimlessly upon your skin. Yet, you sense as if there is already a rift between you both. As if the news of his living has seeped between your bodies— the distance has already laid its claim, separating you both.

… 

You’re back in New York, slipping into the rhythm of your classes like a puzzle piece wedged into place, not quite fitting, yet you force it to. You spend each waking moment practicing your final dance at Juilliard—The Sleeping Beauty—the ballet that will close this chapter of your life.

Your apartment has remained unchanged; the conversations with your classmates are as futile as ever. And your heart still pulses, aches for Seoul, for the warmth you found there, in Hyunjin.

Winter settles in, snow gathering in quiet drifts along the streets. Two languid months slip by, time dragging its feet, as if too wishing to remain right where you left Hyunjin. You lose yourself in the pursuit of a perfect performance. And yet, the praise of your professors and peers no longer fills you as it once did.

It all feels hollow, empty, when you can’t remember the last time you and Hyunjin spoke, actually spoke, the way you used to.

You’d already seen this scene unfold in your mind the day he broke the news—more vividly still as he walked away in the airport. You had known the first few days would be good—frequent calls and texts, sharing the smallest details of his new life and of your familiar one.

But then, the silence would settle in, as it has. Because you and Hyunjin are both perfectionists. Because without your art, both of you are left with nothing but shadows of yourselves— hollow shells calling out in agony to what truly pleases your souls. 

You’re afraid to say it out loud, but Hyunjin’s face is blurring in your memory, details softening as though sketched by an impressionist’s brush. All that remains clear are the shadows under his eyes on your last video call, dark circles carved deep into his soft skin, his exhaustion bleeding through the screen as he struggled to stay awake for you.

There is no one to blame, and somehow, that only hurts you even more. You could sacrifice your hours of practice, and so could he. But then the guilt would come, ravenous, gnawing at your soul. And guilt is a hungry being, soon enough it won’t be satiated by you. Soon enough it will turn to your love for Hyunjin. 

And you couldn’t afford that. 

You miss him most on days like this, when nothing seems right from the moment you open your eyes. The city’s chill feels sharper, as though mocking you, reminding you of the warmth you left behind.

The wind bites as you step into the night, wandering aimlessly, your feet carrying you to nowhere in particular. Tears hover at the edge of your lashes, but you refuse to let them fall.

There’s no grace in the way you don’t allow yourself to cry, no mercy in how you hold yourself together. You've always been a performer, haven’t you? Even your pain feels like a scene you must perfect. Is it tragic enough? Does it carve deep enough to justify being felt?

You bite your lip, numb fingers pulling out your phone. You type out Hyunjin’s contact— my love. Your last message to him was two days ago.

With a sigh, you press call. He answers on the final ring.

“Hi, my angel,” he says, a bit breathless. Probably mid-training.

You force a smile, hoping he won’t hear the tremble in your voice. “Hi, baby. Practicing?”

“Yeah.” He hums. “Are you outside?”

“Im going for a walk.” Your voice quiets as the lump in your throat tightens, a chain wrapping around your words, binding you.

“Are you okay, my love?” he asks gently, and you nod though he can’t see.

“I am,” you lie. “I just miss you.” The confession slips out before you can stop it, and the weight of it crushes you. You miss him so much it’s killing you.

“I miss you too,” he says softly. You feel like throwing up. You have to make it quick before your courage betrays you. 

“I think we should end things,” you say quickly, biting down so hard on your lip that blood beads up, sharp and metallic on your tongue— just like your words.

“What?” he whispers, and you hear his faint apologies, the rustle as he moves to someplace quieter, someplace where you can break his heart without an audience.

“Why do you want this? Don’t you love me anymore?” His voice is small, fragile, and you feel the tears welling in your eyelids, but not yet.

“You know there’s no one I love but you,” you say, drawing in a breath that doesn’t wish to be trapped by you. “But we’re both so busy it barely feels like we’re together anymore.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, baby, I’ll try to text more, I promise. I’ll cut back on my training for you, I’ll—.”

“You know I’d never ask that of you.” You cut him off, smiling sadly and he falls quiet.

You see him then, in a haze of memory—Hyunjin’s head resting in your lap, your fingers lost in his hair. You hear his voice again, soft and raw, “My mom’s last wish for me was to win that gold medal. I’m terrified of letting her down. Just thinking about it—” He’d let out a humorless laugh. “She isn’t here, and yet I still feel this debt to her. Isn’t that strange?”

You know it well—the pain of failing those you love, even those who don’t love you back.

“Your mom wanted you to win that medal, didn’t she?” you say softly. “I would never come between you and that.” A pause. “But doesn’t it hurt more to wait for a message that never comes?”

“I…” he stammers, a sniffle slipping through the phone, and it nearly undoes you.

“Yn, I- you know that I love you.”

And in that instant, you know he understands. It’s because Hyunjin understands that you love him.

“I love you too, my Hyune.”

“Then don’t say this,” he chokes out, “say something cruel—something that’ll make it easier not to miss you so much when you’re gone.”

You can hear him crying, and the sound permanently breaks a rib within your heart. It sounds so raw, so painful that you wish to abandon everything and run to him. Had life not been this harsh to you, perhaps you would. Perhaps you’d have enough courage to believe that love can suffice for everything. 

“I came back to Seoul because my mother was sick. I thought…maybe it would bring us close again. But I think now that I came back just to meet you, Hyunjin.” His name falters, slipping from your lips in a stuttered breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking, “thank you for making me happy.”

The call ends, and you fall to your knees in the snow, finally surrendering to the grief tearing through you. Sobs wrack your body, raw and relentless, so fierce it feels as if your heart might just stop, as if you’ve become nothing but an ache, a bruised, throbbing mass of memories, pulsing with each thought of him.

Is this enough for you? you want to scream at whatever cruel hand pulling the strings of your fate. Has my suffering finally paid the debt of my existence— for both me and him? 

… 

You’ve come to understand that the expanse of human emotions is boundless, as vast and unknowable as the space that holds the universe. And with each passing day, it feels as if another star dies within you, its light dimming slowly, far from rebirth.

You once thought your heart had grown accustomed to grief—your life spent in mourning: parents you wished you had, love you wished had dared, even just once, to find you.

But mourning the happiness Hyunjin brought is something else. It’s a different kind of ache, not like the eruption of a volcano that fades into a quiet resigning. This pain lingers, dull and relentless, day after day, a wound that refuses to close, a pulse that never stills.

It has been a month since your fateful call. Hyunjin first sent you a bouquet of white roses, with a note nestled within—To the one who made me find love again, I will love you until my last breath.

You didn’t reply, but Hyunjin kept sending bouquets, each one arriving with a message that tore at your heart a little more than the last. I am thinking about you often; please think of me, too. As if you could do anything but that. If I am to exist in only one place, let it be in your mind.

You’ve hung each note on the fridge, their words staring back at you every morning as you make your coffee, exactly the way Hyunjin likes it.

Sometimes, you’d let the water run, overflowing in the coffee maker as you read his words again and again. Then, you’d catch a glimpse of your own distorted reflection on the water’s surface, wondering what it would feel like to drown in the sea, to let the liquid fill your lungs and wash over you.

But you never let the thought linger too long, chasing it away with the hum of a song. You know it will only lead you somewhere scary.

After three, maybe four months, the bouquets eventually stopped arriving. Hyunjin had surely grown tired of your silence.

The heart is no rigid thing; it doesn’t stay frozen in one place. It stretches and contracts, bleeds, then patches itself together again. But you hadn’t done much to heal it—truthfully, you hadn’t believed you deserved to feel good once more.

Then month five came, and there was no time left to dwell on anything. A strange relief, you thought, for a mind like yours, that never quite stops turning, even in sleep. Graduation loomed on the horizon, and you were terrified of your efforts going to waste, of them somehow never being enough to set you apart.

But one night, your professor placed her hand on your shoulder, her gaze warm as it met yours. Suddenly, you felt seven years old again. “I think you could be this generation’s prima ballerina assoluta, she said—absolute first ballerina, the best of the best. 

“Really?” you whispered, hardly breathing, and she nodded. “Yes, if you keep going this way, you will be.”

You thought about calling Hyunjin to share the news, but quickly brushed the thought aside. Instead, you spent the night picturing his reaction. It was pathetic, maybe, but you liked to believe he would’ve said he was proud of you, called you angel, kissed the tip of your nose, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. You fell asleep with his words murmured on your lips, as if they’d been real.

Month six rolled in, then seven. You had been keeping tabs on Hyunjin’s name as the Olympics approached. There has been news of him wanting to attempt a quadruple axel spin— forty-four years after the triple one. An automatic win, some would say.

You knew that if anyone could do it would be hyunjin.

You wondered if he too read the articles released about your performances. Did he smile at them, his sweet dimple surging forth? Or did your name sting him, like droplets of acid falling into an open wound? 

Month eight arrived, genuine joy weaving into your life once more. You took your final bow on the polished stage of Juilliard, the roaring applause ringing in your ears for days to come. You had the highest performance score of the history of the institution. Your professor’s eyes then searched yours— “where do you see yourself now? where would you feel happiest?”

Hyunjin’s arms. You almost said. Barely holding yourself. 

“I don’t know. I think I’ll try at operas. I want to perform the white swan there.”

“Then go to opéra garnier in Paris. I have a friend there. Talk to him, feel it out.”

You had almost kissed her cheek right there and then. Not only because the Opéra Garnier had been your childhood dream but because now, Paris was where the Olympics would be held.

You now had an excuse to be there. 

You kept looking for Hyunjin in every monument you visited. In the hush of night by the Louvre, along the quiet flow of the Seine, in the gentle strokes of Monet’s paintings at Musée de l’Orangerie. What would you do if you met him on a random street in Paris?

Thankfully, or unfortunately, you still hadn’t decided, you never had to find out. You didn’t see him.

It is the men’s singles day at the figure skating Olympics, and somehow, you feel more nervous than in all your own performances combined. You’re seated close to the ice, close enough to feel the chill radiating from it, close enough to capture every detail of the performances.

Then Hyunjin steps onto the ice. If not for your seat, you might have collapsed, your knees a mass of useless ground bones. 

He’s dazzling—achingly, excruciatingly beautiful. His hair falls longer now, delicate strands brushing his forehead like a prince out of a fairytale. His outfit is pure white, adorned with emerald diamonds cascading like droplets of light. Instinctively, you reach for the emerald ring on your finger too. 

Your gaze follows him everywhere, drinking in the sight of him tipping his head back in laughter, his nose crinkling as he talks to Jihyoun, every stretch, every step, every quiet act of his being. 

He was still as lovely, still as beautiful as you have always known him. 

You wonder if he’s thinking of you, too, as his eyes flutter shut before his music begins. What image knits behind his eyelids in that instant?

It has always been his face for you. 

The air buzzes with anticipation, thick with belief and doubt alike as everyone knows what Hyunjin is attempting tonight. All eyes follow him as he skates, tracing wide circles across the ice, bending low to the ground, spinning in perfect arcs.

Then, he launches into the air.

The seconds seem to trickle by as slowly as blood droplets rushing to a dying heart. You see it— one spin, planets orbiting around the sun, aching to inch closer to the warmth. 

Two spins— seconds marching forward to catch up with the next ones in a ticking clock. 

Your breath freezes in your throat, your hands grip the chair so much your knuckles turn as white as the roses hyunjin sent you after you parted ways.

Three spins— fireflies dancing around the light, drawn to it like milky stars.

And then he does it.

His fourth and final spin— your heart orbiting around Hyunjin as he achieves his dream, as he breaks the world record he long yearned for.

You fall back in your seat, a rush of relief loosening the tension in your body as the crowd erupts into thunderous applause. Unbelievable is the word on everyone’s mouths. 

But not on yours.

Your Hyunjin did it, like you knew he would. 

Tears gather in your eyes as he stares at the scoreboard, his gaze fixed, waiting, breath held alongside every other skater. 

Hyunjin’s name comes first. 

He collapses to his knees, the weight of his victory pressing down his body, finally breaking him open. Jihyoun rushes over, cradling him, shaking him, laughing, “You did it, Hyunjin! You did it, son!” The tears won’t stop rushing down your face; they have a life of their own now.

You watch as Hyunjin circles the audience, waving at the crowd cheering his name. He drifts closer to your section, his eyes scanning the sea of faces until, finally, he finds yours. 

The world stills, you force the earth to stop spinning to have this one moment with Hyunjin. You lock onto his gaze, holding it, savoring the way his lips form your name.

Then, as if pulled by a force greater than either of you, he climbs over the stands, moving swiftly across the seats until he reaches you. In an instant, his arms are around you, his head buried in the crook of your neck. “Yn, I…” he chokes, and you nod, whispering, “I know. You did it, Hyunjin.”

“I did it, Yn,” he echoes, his voice trembling. He pulls back to look at you, his hands resting on your shoulders, both oblivious to the flash of cameras, the seas of people flocking around you. 

No one here could ever understand what this moment means to him. No one but him—and you.

As he takes his place on the podium, tears shimmer in Hyunjin’s eyes akin to the reflection of the sun across the sea. He bites his lip, struggling to hold it together as the bronze and silver medals are awarded. Then the official steps forward, gold medal in hand. Hyunjin extends his shaking hands, watching as the ribbon drapes over his head, at long last. 

Suddenly, the past eight months of heartache are justified. You would endure it all again, twice over, if it led to Hyunjin having this moment. 

“Miss Juilliard,” Hyunjin says softly as he meets you by the door. He had asked Jihyoun to tell you to wait for him. Jihyoun seemed happy to see you once more. 

Hyunjin is different now than he was twenty minutes ago, when he threw himself into your arms, overcome by emotions too vast to name. Now, he stands before you, more composed, more guarded, though his gaze remains tender. He’s never been able to hide his eyes from you.

“Congratulations on your win,” you say.

“Congratulations on your graduation.”

He knows.

In that moment, you see it all—the two paths unfurling before you. You could smile at him and he would smile back. Then you would part ways. And you would meet again, in a ceremony of some kind. And he would have grown only more beautiful, and the ache would have not softened. And his loving gaze would set on someone else but you.

Or, you could speak now.

“I made some tiramisu back at my Airbnb,” you say, your voice tentative. “Would you like some?”

Hyunjin’s shoulders stiffen, a debate flickering in his eyes. Then he exhales softly. “Of course.”

You sit side by side in the uber. His phone keeps lighting up with congratulatory messages until he switches it off.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling the need to break the silence. He tenses beside you.

“For what?”

“For stealing you away.”

His shoulders relax. “Don’t apologize. I wanted to come.”

The apartment you rented is small—studio-sized, really, but near Montmartre, where you’ve loved taking nightly walks by Sacré Coeur. Hyunjin slips off his shoes, placing them next to yours by the door.

For a moment, you both pause, staring at the sight of your shoes, side by side, once more.

He clears his throat as you gesture for him to make himself comfortable. He moves to the window, gazing at the city below, while you retrieve two plates, carefully setting a slice of tiramisu on each.

“Thank you,” he says softly when you hand him his plate. But neither of you takes a bite. It’s as if opening your mouth would lead to a torrent of words escaping, ones neither of you can contain. 

He yields first.

“You came,” he whispers, glancing over at you.

“I couldn’t miss seeing you win.”

“I missed you,” he says, biting his lip. Hyunjin has always been honest, especially when it comes to you. “It hurt a lot to miss you, Yn.”

“I’m here tonight.” 

Your words settle into the air as the hum of the world outside fades away. Hyunjin’s gaze, sharp and knowing, meets yours—those piercing eyes that have always stripped away your defenses, reading between the lines of your every unspoken thought.

He holds your gaze for a beat too long, and you fumble for your fork, needing something—anything—to diffuse the weight of what lingers in the silence between you.

Then, suddenly, his lips meet yours.

Kissing Hyunjin again feels like breathing in after being starved of air, like a cool breeze caressing your skin on a scorching day. A shiver spreads through you as he gently lowers you onto the couch, his body a pressing weight above you. Your hands find their way to his back, moving with the instinctive ease of muscle memory, while he kisses you with the fierce urgency of someone who’s finally tasted salvation. 

You wish to never part from him. You wish for your body to liquefy and morph into the hot rush of blood within his veins— anything so you wouldn’t have to part from him once more. You don’t think you can handle it. You don’t think you can lose Hyunjin again. You know you can’t.

When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed a soft pink, like fresh dahlias, his eyes glossy and filled with something unspeakable as they trace over your face. “Tell me, Yn,” he breathes, “do you still love me? I need to know, please. It’s been tearing me apart.”

“I love you,” you say, with every bit of honesty you can muster. “I loved you before I even knew what love is, and I will love you, Hyunjin. Whether you are near or not. I will always love you.”

A breathtaking smile unfolds across his face, warm enough to thaw every frozen corner of your heart, to make decades of loneliness melt away. You would endure it all again, face the heartbreak and the grief. Fall at your sister’s grave and repent once more. You’d do it all if it means your path will cross with Hyunjin.

“I was always ever yours to love.” 

Epilogue. 

Hyunjin has always felt as if he has lived many lifetimes at once. Like a serpent, shedding its skin, he had lost parts of his being in various places. Some he managed to retrieve, others not. He had a lot to learn, overwhelmed by certain things past. His thoughts weren’t always kind. His hands didn’t always sweep gently against his skin. 

But on days like those, you were there to love him. He had learned and unlearned many things with you. Hyunjin had found that love wasn’t a sharp emotion, it didn’t slice away at the heart, it didn’t puncture. There were no sharp edges when it came to you. Even if he lost you along the way, he would round up a corner and find you there. 

And he did. Hyunjin found you, even when you didn’t wish to be found. You scurried from place to place, set foot into Paris to Seoul, Alexandria and New York. The distance lessened then widened. But it never tore you apart once more. Your souls were satiated in a way. You could rest side by side now. 

And you did, as you settled in Seoul, decades down the road. Where both you and Hyunjin built a new training center. Figure skaters on the first floor, ballerinas on the second. The days passed by in happiness, laughter and giggles. There was no curse. No punishment. Not anymore. 

You are in a graveyard once more. You watch as Hyunjin sweeps the name atop the tombstone gently. Prima ballerina assoluta, he reads, the swan of my heart. His weathered hands shake as they clutch a bouquet of fresh red lilies, and your heart still aches at the sight. 

It is late at night at the graveyard, the branches are still humming to one another, like a melancholic flute. You understand now that they speak to the buried ones. “Not so long now,” they reassure, “your loved ones will follow.”

You believe them, and you will wait. For now, you’ll find solace in the red lilies sitting atop your grave. 

They are now meant for you, at long last. 

[ellecdc]

Not So Surprising After All

Remus Lupin x fem!reader following Surprise! We're Making Love [1.3k words]

CW: a sort of epilogue to Surprise! We're Making Love but can be read as a stand alone, no plot at all - just vibes, pure fluff

Remus isn’t sure exactly how this all started for him. 

One minute he was on his (figurative) knees, apologising for turning whatever this was between the two of you into love, and silently begging you not to leave. 

And the next minute…

Remus stepped out of the cottage and breathed in the sea air, blinking against the sun still fairly high in the sky. He could see the faint outline of his parents cottage on the crest of the hill in the distance. A stone and wood dwelling surrounded by a few out buildings, the grass dotted by sheep, and the landscape pockmarked by their gardens enclosed in simple wooden fences; Hope’s floral and Lyall’s vegetable. The image made Remus smile. 

Foregoing shoes, Remus stepped off the stone path in front of his door towards the side of the property; running his hands across the tallest plants and flowers in the gardens that a life lived with the likes of Hope Lupin prepared Remus to help tend to as the grass flattened beneath his feet.

There was a well worn trail carved through the too long grass leading down a small hill; so worn that there were places that grass gave way to earth and stone, but the route was so practised by Remus that - even in his barefoot state - he knew where to step in order to avoid the rocks in the path. 

“You ought to clear the path, Cariad,” his mother had scolded him once, “make the journey easier for the two of you.” 

But the two of you were very familiar with journey’s being anything but easy, though no less worth it. The risk of acupuncture by way of old red sandstone or carboniferous limestone formations that could be found along the Welsh coast was more than worth the end result. 

The end result came into Remus’ view as he watched where the worn path through the grass and heather disappeared between the trees and shrubs.

He could hear the stream trickling and babbling along the rocky Welsh terrain before the clearing permeated his view; for as rocky and rough the terrain on this edge of the property tended to be, relief could be found under a grand willow tree about ten feet from the streams edge that the two of you frequented regularly. 

Two small, clumsily made wooden chairs called the clearing home with a side table settled comfortably between them. Remus had strung some fairy lights through the branches of the willow, as well as down some of the long vines that hung below it.

And on the other side of the willow - hanging almost directly above the stream's edge - a white fabric hammock swayed in the gentle breeze.

It was cosy. It was quaint. It was home. 

“I had a feeling I’d find you down here.” He said as a way to announce his presence; your head popping up from the hammock when you shot Remus a beaming smile which you treacherously covered with the top of your book. 

“Were you looking for me?” You asked as he made his way over to you, pulling the edge of the hammock away so he could see you better.

“I’m always looking for you.” Remus teased before leaning forward for a kiss that you readily accepted before offering him two more of your own.

“I’m never very far.”

Remus hummed in acknowledgement as he folded his lips over his teeth, relishing in the feeling of you on his lips for as long as he could. “I like that about you.”

“That I’m easily accessible?” You giggled. 

“That you’re always close by, you minx.”

You had your damned book covering your mouth again, but Remus could see your smile turn soft by the crinkling around your eyes.

“How are the boys?” You asked then, referring to the floo call Remus just had with Sirius, James, and Peter. The boys would have loved to catch up with you as well - Remus had told you as much - but you were determined to provide them some privacy and left the cottage to Remus.

Looking around at your refuge, he thought perhaps your motives weren’t as selfless as you made them out to be. 

“They’re good. They miss you.” He responded, causing you to snort a laugh.

“I’m sure they’re just dying without me.” 

“They are!” Remus insisted. “Sirius told me that he was trying to brew a polyjuice potion, and Regulus insisted on watching but refused to help him at all. Ended up at St. Mungo’s for three days afterwards, and Regulus laughed so hard he passed out; ended up in the bed beside him for the night.”

“Oh, Reg.” You sighed.

“Sirius said, and I quote, ‘Trouble would never have let that happen to me’.”

You let out a long suffering sigh accompanied by a dramatic eye roll - both of which Remus could tell were entirely for show. “He’s right, I wouldn’t.”

“What happened to you, L/N?” Remus taunted then. “You used to be cool.” 

You scoffed in faux offence before smacking him with your paperback. “I became a Lupin, is what, you cheeky bastard.” 

Remus roughly grabbed either side of your face to press a searing kiss to your lips, humming into it when he felt you break out in a smile. “That’s right. My apologies, Mrs. Lupin.” 

You rolled your eyes, but Remus could tell he’d flustered you when you tried to hide behind your book again.

“They want to come out for the next moon. The boys, that is.” Remus continued. 

“Yeah?” You murmured then, book falling away from your face once again and Remus’ heart stuttered at how happy and hopeful you sounded on Remus’ behalf.

“Yeah; they wanted to make sure that was okay with you first, though. James said he doesn’t want to ‘bother the missus’ if it’s not a good time. Sirius said ‘I don’t care if it bothers her for shit, tell her to stock up on ice cream, I’ll bring the face masks’ and then Pete looked very uncomfortable and seconded James’ earlier sentiments.”

“Of course they can come; that’ll be good, yeah? Like the old days?” 

Remus wondered if you didn't look slightly insecure by that sentiment. “Well, perhaps not like the old days. You’ll be there, yeah?”

You made a face like you were going to decline, but Remus beat you to it. “I should warn you, Sirius said he ‘wouldn’t come if Trouble’s not there because Moony does not behave well for the rest of us anymore’.” 

“Is that so?” You laughed, eyebrows almost to your hairline as you looked at Remus incredulously. 

“‘Fraid so.” Remus agreed quickly. “So…what do you say? Gonna get the pack back together?” 

You pursed your lips in a way that Remus knew was you trying not to smile as you pretended to consider it. “Okay. But Sirius has to sleep in the dog bed.”

Remus let out an uncharacteristic bark of laughter that had become relatively characteristic of him in the years since the two of you graduated Hogwarts and he brought you home to his parents. 

After the chaos that was your childhood, something about your soul wholly unclenched here in the rugged Welsh terrain, and you found that you simply couldn’t imagine yourself living your life anywhere else.

And Remus? Well, Remus couldn’t imagine himself anywhere without you, so he had no problem going back to his roots. In fact, he found that the coastal Welsh countryside had never felt more like home.

[vacayisland]

Could I request Floyd with a heavy metal/rock troll who almost always has an bass guitar at their side and plays extremely loud, metal music? Could they also just generally be viewed as sardonic and teasing, often teasing others and calling them things like "doll", or "darling", but if someone did they to them then they would go red?

Thank you!

@!; Get used to it, Doll. Floyd / Rock troll! Reader

"Tag list"! @storydays @chamille-trash @valvalentine69 @starzwithapen @ykvlanq @apieceofcathair3 @kitthefanfickat @cyb3r-st4r

ꨄ︎. When Floyd told his brothers he was introducing them to his lover, none of the brothers (expect Branch) would have ever bet that they would end up at Rock Hollow (home of the rock trolls in the Pop Troll). Nevertheless, none of them expected Floyd to be such a frequenter at Rock Hollow that one too many Rock Trolls knew him by name! "Floyd, buddy. Come here for a second." One Rock troll would shout towards the group, a snicker on their face. Floyd only would glance over and wave them off, explaining how he needed to find Prima/Primo with a slight flush on his cheeks. And before he could even get teased, Branch noticed how Floyd covered the side of his face, "Oooh, watch out boys, the Prima/Primo's lover is here! Clear the way, clear the way!"

ꨄ︎. Safe to say that Floyd's brothers didn't expect this at all, especially since Floyd tended to have more sensitive ears than the rest (though Branch's was by far the most sensitive after the years of isolation he had to endure). Everything was just so loud and chaotic and in your face, even JD had to shuffle towards the group despite having been curious about this whole place at first.

ꨄ︎. Floyd grew ever so nervous the further they trekked into Rock Hollow and didn't find you, as he knew how noisy it tended to be inside the Hallow and he didn't want to put his brothers up to that for nothing. After all, after all the time he's spent in here, he's more accustomed to the noise. His brothers? They were not. (expect Branch) "Right Floyd, are you sure they're here?" JD shouted over the music, covering one of his ears to drown it out. Meanwhile in the back, Clay was questioning Branch as to why he wasn't bothered by the music. "Yeah! I'm sorry, they're-" Floyd fumbled over his words, trying to peak over the crowd of rockers. Yet he didn't have to search for long as he heard an all too familiar guitar riff scream over the speakers of the center stage.

ꨄ︎. To say his brothers had to run to keep up with Floyd was an understatement, they had to sprint and dodge and duck and weave around other rock trolls to catch up with Floyd (who hadn't even realized he took off sprinting towards the main stage). When they managed to finally catch up with him, they found Floyd stood off to the left wing talking to two other rock trolls.

ꨄ︎. "Ha! Buddy, better late then never." A Troll Branch recognized as Val patted Branch on the shoulder, flashing him a grin as Demo nodded in agreement. He went on to explain how, who the brothers guessed was Floyd's lover, was getting all nervous thinking he wasn't going to come as promise. Demo even made a playful jab, "They were about to bail the sound check!" With a small chuckle, which got him a playful punch from Val in return. "What? I'm just saying that would have been really bad." And as Floyd chatted with the two, with the brothers standing awkwardly to the side (unsure what to do with themselves), Branch got curious about who this mystery Troll everyone called Prima/Primo was. Maybe Poppy was rubbing off him in a bad way... but nevertheless, he's heard that name around the village before and he was sure Poppy had invited them here for some sort of reason (he had heard her also gushing about them). So naturally he was a little more curious than the rest.

ꨄ︎. "Well, you see I had to get my brothers in line and-" Floyd would explain, hoping that Val and Demo would understand the situation that led up to him being late. Especially since you had been the one to tell him to bring his brothers over if they wouldn't let him leave without them (mostly JD's fault). And while he was explaining, Floyd's voice slowly trailed off as he watched Branch tip-toe around Val and Demo to get a peak of the stage. And for some reason all the nerves of his family meeting you had shot right back through his veins as Branch paused in astonishment. Confused, Val would wave a hand in front of Floyd's, now nervously frozen, face as Demo glance behind him. But, it was no use: "FLOYD?!" Branch had figured out who you were.

ꨄ︎. And well that's when sound check came to a complete halt as you had heard Floyd's name being echoed over the speakers (surprisingly because usually you couldn't even hear demo). In your (silent) excitement about Floyd finally getting here, you didn't notice the way your guitar pick slashed over your guitar strings, causing a god awful sound to ring through the speakers (thank god Demo had cut that off early, because JD swore that might actually give him early hearing loss if it continued longer than the three seconds it had!).

ꨄ︎. "Doll, you finally made it!" You would shout from the center of stage, swinging your guitar to the side and jumping off the small rosed platform you stood on. Despite the excitement Floyd saw in your eyes, you played it suave and walked over to him; Slinging your arm around his shoulders and giving him a peck on the forehead. A giddy smile wobbled it's way onto Floyd's face, though he crossed his arms and shot you a teasing look up, "You thought I would miss your soundcheck, Darlin'? Sour judgement on your part really." No one missed the way you would look away, letting out a cough to clear your throat and misdirect the fact that there was a blush creeping on your face. Val and Demo were used to this, the teasing way of your twos relationship and the fact that you could never hold a straight face at Floyd's sassiness. Sometimes, Val even joked that Floyd wore the pants in the relationship (which you tried to heavily deny until Floyd would call for you and you trailed off like a puppy.) "Right, is anyone going to explain to us how the fuck this happened?!" Branch cut the two of you off just as Floyd gave your hand a kiss, drawing both of your attention back to the four other brothers. Clay stood next to Branch, equally as confused, "How did you manage to get with the guitarist of DSOTM?!"

ꨄ︎. Safe to say, it was kind of a long story on how you and Floyd met. Funny enough it was during both of your solo careers, after Floyd left Brozone (and before he got captured) and before you joined Dark Side of the Moon (which is quiet a mouth full so it got shortened to DSOTM). "Basically, the short end of it, was that I was on tour," You would start as everyone had gathered on the stage, sitting around the raised platform in some sort of semi-circle like it was kindergarten story time. You and Floyd sat on the raised platform, "And my manger said I needed some vocal lessons and I told him to piss off and find me some. "I wasn't going to waste my time searching for an instructor, and to be fairly quant with all of you I had no idea how to even start lookin'. Apparently, you just look through newspapers." You would shrug, smiling as you wrapped your arm around Floyd's waist again. You would fail to notice the way Branch scrunched his nose in slight distaste at the fact you constantly were holding Floyd. Floyd didn't seem to mind to, as he placed his hand on top of yours, "Well his manager saw my add in the paper and called me... and it kind of was professional at first until they invited me out for coffee and we kind of clicked." "Right, but where as that twat when you were captured Floyd?" Branch blurted out, crossing his arms. There was a pause on the room for a moment. Val even paused in eating her order-in lunch to look over at Branch in slight shock, "Oh shit."

ꨄ︎. You and Branch have issues now; Floyd and Val had to physically restrain you after Branch's comment as you kept yelling about how you would beat him up (Floyd was sure you weren't going to actually do it because he kept telling you don't but Demo wasn't taking any chances, the stage just got cleaned!). Demo called Poppy to come get Branch and Floyd, after the whole event, stood there wondering what the hell had just happened.

ꨄ︎. "I can't believe your brother called me a twat!"

ꨄ︎. "I don't know whether to be shocked... or if I expected this."

Master list | Home Page (can Y'all tell I have fun creating discourse in the brothers family with lovers? It's funny to me)

.ᐟ this work is published and owned by @vacayisland. please do not plagiarize, copy, or steal this work; like, reblogs, and saves are appreciated :D

[thatbennybee]

ChordStriker!AU Q&A

I'm doing a bit of a Q&A about my ChordStriker!AU on insta after sharing this teaser WIP, so I figured I'd present some of the questions here! (Feel free to ask more btw!)

↓↓↓

Rock!Poppy

Q: "Is Poppy's family (Peppy & Viva) still with her since the Bergens didn't attack them?"

A: Peppy is with her, but he is confused/in mental decline like canon King Thrash was. Viva is missing. Poppy was old enough to remember her.

Q: "Will Viva play somewhat of a role in this AU?"

A: Yes, she's had a much bigger impact on Poppy's life, even till this day even though she's been missing for many years now. Poppy has never stopped looking for her.

Q: "Is King Peppy still a liar in your AU?"

A: Nah, he's normal. Sometimes hating him with my entire being is hard, so he gets to be a good dad this time. He's just not all there mentally so Poppy is more like his caretaker now.

Q: "Poppy's relationships don't last long because she gets bored... So how long is Branch going to last?"

A: The Rat Pack (Snack Pack) is wondering the same thing, but Poppy's never used the bf/gf/partner labels before meeting him which is strange... 👀

Q: "Does Poppy still party?"

A: She's a total party animal! Her parties are even more intense than a Pop Troll party since Rock Trolls are pretty extreme. LOL

---

Pop!Barb (Barbie)

Q: "What does Barb look like?"

A: For now, this is her design, it might change once I have time to draw her digitally.

Q: "Does this mean Barb has to go through the events of Trolls 1?"

A: Nope, Barb never befriends Bridget because they have never met. They have found a way to remain undetected in the forest. (Thanks to Branch’s constant nagging about safety)

Q: "How does Barb's gang look? Is there any significant differences in their dynamics?"

A: I haven't had time to finish them all, but here's some of them for now. There's more members of The Lunch Rush, but this is all I have for now!

Val Thundershock → Valentina Wondershock.

Only Queen Barbie calls her Val. She is very optimistic & loves to sing & dance! She's Barbie’s right-hand troll, BFFL & knows everything about her. They have a very... "close" relationship. ;] She's a popstar who's managed by Demo and loves to help make Pop Village a happier place.

Riff

He's a university student studying to be an engineer. He's very soft spoken, doesn't like to make a fuss and is probably the nicest guy around. He's quite close to Barbie and sees her as an older sister. He's actually on friendly terms with Branch. His favorite treat is lollipops. 🍭

Carol

But you can call her Carrie! Everyone does. She's a bit of a diva, loves to look good & dull things bore her. She will ignore anything that doesn't catch her eye, even trolls. Best to be looking your very best!

Sid Fret

Just call him Sid, no need to be so formal. He is every trolls dream guy and he knows it! He's a great roller derby racer and loves the attention trolls give him. Sure, he's a little self-absorbed, but he's a very loyal friend.

Demo

Not much has changed about Demo. He's perfect as he is <3 He's just a little more excitable & cutesy than before. He cares about Valentina a lot & they are very close friends.

Petra

She is the blueprint, she's the moment, she's everything. A model, actress, singer, you name it, she can do it. She's perfect... Who doesn't want to be her?

---

Branch

Q: "How different is Branch in this AU vs canon Branch?"

A: He is the same Branch essentially, just without the development he gains at the end of Trolls 1 & so-on. None of it occurred, so he is still grey, miserable & a recluse. He helped Barb to come up with a plan to keep everyone safe after nagging & warning her for ages, but after that, he returned to his bunker & is still not well-liked by the village.

Q: "Does she know Branch's whole past? If she does, what was her reaction?"

A: Not sure if you meant Barb or Poppy, so I'll answer for both. Barb—no. I don't think she'd ever find out, and she's also not the type to ask. Their personalities clash a bit too much, she stays out of his way like he asks her to.

For Poppy—I think it would come up naturally in conversation after a while when Branch feels more comfortable sharing. Poppy isn't the type to pry, but makes it clear that it's out of understanding, not a lack of caring. She can tell that he is closed off for a reason. She relates to that. I think she'd be beyond pissed once he told her, though.

Q: "Will Branch's brothers be in this?"

A: Yes, but Floyd will be getting the bigger role this time.

Q: "How quickly does Branch fall for Poppy? I'm sure the answer is yes, but is he happy?"

A: I'd say he's quite guarded in the beginning. He is cautious around her for the first few weeks, but he starts to come around once he picks up on Poppy being emotionally guarded herself.

Things move quickly once their walls come down around each other, & a mutual understanding is there. Poppy fell for him first. (At least, that's what Branch lets her believe, as it was love at first sight for him, but he'd never tell her that; she'd get a big head about it.)

[miamooooo]

can you write josh and reader being absolute freaks? freaks as in they love consensual non con😭😭

i was thinking of josh being a creep and stalking reader (and yes reader knows, she just pretends not to) and it ends with them having rough sex.

please it is totally fine if you are not comfortable with the whole idea ☺️🙏🏼, i will still read whatever u come up with!

genuinely didn't know if i wanted to write this in headcanon format or not so i’m sorry if it seems like its constantly switching up 😭 regardless though, i hope you enjoy!!

(warnings): nsfw, reader has female anatomy, cnc, fear play, knife play(?), stalking, physical aggression, reader is wearing a skirt, josh is creepy and mean asf, power imbalance, choking/gagging

when josh brought you to his parents’ secluded mountain for a weekend, you knew he was being absolutely serious when he told you to be prepared. you already knew the rules, because everything had already been discussed. he gave you the loose script and you both set up clear boundaries… but he didn’t tell you everything, obviously.. because where’s the fun in that?

he only tells you that he won’t go easy on you, and to be prepared.

so that’s what you were doing — cautiously walking through the secluded area in the woods, footsteps light and reluctant. josh didn’t tell you where he’d be, he wanted your reactions to be completely authentic when he popped out. the only knowledge of his presence was the red graffiti on an abandoned wooden sign that read: i’m watching you.

that was all you were getting from him. you were excited, but you couldn’t show how much you were enjoying it. you had to play your role perfectly.

josh was careful to stay out of sight, but he made sure that you could hear every occasional faint crunch of a leaf beneath his boots. the sounds weren’t loud, but it was purposeful and enough to make you feel on edge, and that’s exactly what he wanted.

he creepily watched you behind a tree, his eyes perversely travelling down to your legs and the way your short skirt swayed as you timidly wandered further through the trail ahead, and he couldn’t help but get slightly impatient with his own game. he was softly palming himself through his jeans, thinking about how easy it could’ve been for him to sneak up behind you in that moment and take you right against a tree, but he wanted to wait a little longer. he was so eager to already have his way with you.

your small and trembling voice and the way you clutched your hands up to your chest as you called his name was all josh needed to hear before he’s giving you the signal to run; the loud snap of a branch, that at first, caught you off guard, before you remembered that he was in fact starting to chase you.

you’re bolting through the woods, heart pounding so hard as you hear him right behind you. and when you turn around to see how far you are from josh, you trip over a rock.. or a branch… or maybe your own feet. you weren’t sure because that was the least of your worries.

you were in so much pain from the tiny pieces of gravel and sticks digging into your skin, but you’re barely able to process it because josh was right behind you, towering over your disheveled figure.

you’re so quick to try and scramble to your feet, panicked huffs coming from the depths of your chest, but it’s too late. he’s already kneeling down behind you, pinning your front to the ground and holding your arms behind your back so you couldn’t fight him — as if you really even could… or wanted to.

“oh man… you’re in for it now, sweetheart.”

josh thought you looked so pretty when you were all panicked and out of breath and completely vulnerable for him. his cock was already twitching in his pants at the sight of you, enjoying the way you whimpered and whined in protest.

“get off of me..!” you shakily cried out, though your words lacked the firmness that you intended. truthfully, you were so turned on, your panties soaking wet from how roughly josh was handling you in the dirt.

“relax, hon. it’ll be quick.” he shushes you, holding a firm hand on the small of your back to hold you in place as he pulled out a heavy-duty pocket knife with his other one.

he teases you so much, loving the way your body stiffened when he dragged the blade up the back of your thigh, flipping your skirt up and trailing it over the curve of your ass, softly pressing the sharp tip into your skin. it was enough to make you frantically gasp out, making you believe that he was actually gonna cut you. and he’s laughing softly to himself, enjoying how helpless you were.

he removed the knife from your skin, cutting your panties open so he’s got full access to you.. and to his surprise, you're already extremely wet.

josh was so impressed with you. he thought you looked so cute trembling and protesting out to him, even though the wetness between your legs told a different story. and of course he points it out, because he liked seeing you embarrassed and flustered.

“you sure you want me to stop, baby? looks like you’re enjoying yourself..” he teased you as he unbuckled his pants, pulling them down low enough to free his already hard and leaking cock.

once he's positioned properly behind you, he's lining himself up to your entrance, gathering a wad of spit in his mouth before letting it dribble between your cheeks and down your hole.. not that you needed it anyway.

when josh gets ready to fuck you, he’s so mean. he barely gives you time to adjust before he’s already plowing inside of you. his cock is buried so deep, hips slamming forward, balls slapping against your puffy clit while your pussy made the filthiest, squelching noises.

josh didn’t even care about the uncomfortable position you were in either; back arched wildly, ass in the air, one of his hands pressing the side of your face into the dirty ground, while the other held your hip firmly so he’s able to steadily pound into you. he didn’t care about all of your whining about how badly your knees dug into the hard ground to the point where you were sure to have cuts and bruises after. he didn't care because if you really wanted to, you could’ve said your safe word.

“mmh, it hurts? then say the word, baby.”

he’s huffing and groaning, getting off at the sight of you struggling; watching the way tears were starting to clump up in your pretty lashes from the pain, how you struggled to keep your eyes from rolling into the back of your head after each thrust, or the way you tried to form a coherent sentence, constantly alternating between whether you wanted him to ‘slow down’ or ‘don’t stop.’ and josh really wanted to tease you, but he’s so distracted by the way your pussy spasmed and squeezed tightly around his cock.

“mmph, fuck.. josh!” you whined out, ready to give him another vague and slurred command again, but he’s instantly shushing you, removing his hand from the side of your face, to roughly shove his fingers in your mouth until their hitting the back of your throat.

“you can take it, honey. you wanted this, right? hm?”

you didn't need to say anything out loud for josh to know that this was exactly what you wanted. your eyes were rolling, saliva trickling down his hand as you sucked and gagged around his fingers, desperately pushing your hips back to meet his hard thrusts. he’s so obsessed with the way your ass hits his lower abdomen with every backward push of your hips. “f-fuck, yeah.. that’s it...”

your thighs were trembling as you got closer to your orgasm and josh noticed it immediately. he pulls his fingers from your mouth, wrapping his arm around your front to move it in between your legs, his saliva-coated fingers immediately finding your clit. he circled over the swollen bud, applying enough pressure to where you’re gasping out strangled moans of “yeah yeah yeah..!”

“c’mon, honey,” he urges, lightly tapping his fingers on your clit to see you jolt and gasp out some more. “i know you wanna cum.”

he’s groaning and clenching his jaw to suppress the growing moans in his throat as he watches you shake and cry and cream all over his cock, and it only makes him start to fuck you harder. “ffuck, yes- take it sweetheart. take every fucking inch.”

[bluetooththereptile]

Can I request a part 2 for His Mother (Yandere Damian Wayne x naga reader x Yandere Bruce Wayne)🙏🙏🙏

Yes! For sure you can!

( English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in the following text.)

Note: this oneshot is continuation of this fic.

Tw: mentions of drugs

The faint scent of soaked wood was in the air, and your den's condition was stimulated so well that if it wasn't for the walls around you, you'd feel at home. Minus the sunlight of course, and a fresh breeze, the air made you feel weak and sleepy and its scent was sort of sweet on your tongue, as if it was spring already and the flower petals were in the air. Every day, all you did as time passed was either spent sleeping or taking care of the little one who unlike you was extremely energetic, cooing and babbling as she crawled around with her tiny hands, still not old enough to learn how to crawl with her tail. She could be a menace and a little angel at the same time, crawling on top of a few branches and then jumping down onto you, giggling, which was her favorite pastime that left you alert most of the time to her presence. Lately, a few teeth had grown into her mouth and she had started to nibble on things, including your tail, and feeding her with your hands had turned into a challenge. Now that you looked around, you could see her bite marks on the plants around you. That little thing had explored the whole invisible cage so many times that you'd wondered if she had learned to crawl on the walls as well...it wasn't that unlikely of her.

Speaking of the devil...

Lulu's head popped up from under the water as she splashed the water around her "Mama, mama!" She reached out for you, and you slowly reached out and took the baby in your arms, she could breathe underwater unlike you, which meant her parents were water-based Nagas. Handling her wasn't easy, but it was for a few hours before they came along. Bruce and your boy, Damian. They somehow knew how to handle both you and little LuLu, or as they called her, Lucy.

You looked down at the cooing baby in your arms, smiling softly, Lulu was pure white, her large eyes having a red hue to them, you thought the poor thing was sick for not having a color to her scales or little puffs of hair, not knowing that she was a very rare albino, oh how many nights you had spent on worrying about her health not noticing that she was chubbier than most of baby Nagas you had seen, which meant she was quiet healthy.

As you held the baby, she nuzzled into your chest, liking the fabric of your topwear. Bruce would provide you with them, and not much to your liking, he'd take it off or put it on you himself. Lulu's tail wrapped around your arm as you rocked her, watching her play with the tip of your tail, poking it with her chubby fingers. You let out a soft sigh of irritation as she reached for the tip and started playing with it, you didn't know when you found that abandoned egg you'd end up like this, you were mateless and young, without much experience, you didn't know how to handle the baby, and she didn't help you with handling her either...well, except Damian, at least he'd listen. Your mouth turned downwards, remembering that he was the reason you were now captive. Poor you, you didn't have much luck in both parenting and mating...well, as for mating, Bruce still tried to woo you, you could easily deduce that, but how did he know of Naga culture and their ways of courting, you weren't sure.

Lulu squirmed out of your arms and swam into the shallow pond, splashing around as she swam to the other side of it, you sighed again, too tired to follow her around. "Lulu...honey come back" You tried to take her attention, but she was already on her way to creating chaos once more. You relax your upper body on the warm sands close to the pond, and your lower half rests in the water, soaking in. Today none of them came along, were they unwell? The thought made you feel bad, both with the image of them being sick and your thought of caring about them made you feel bad. You couldn't deny you worried about them as well, but...Were you being tamed like a beast? Never! You wouldn't allow that!

You were too busy rubbing your temple as you let your thoughts circle in your mind like a swarm of irritating flies, to notice the door of your gilded cage opening. Damian and Jon's heads popped in, noticing that you were far away from their side of the cage they let out a sigh of relief. Knowing you, if it wasn't for the sedatives you'd be charging at them already. You looked at the two humans entering slowly, struggling with blinking to keep your eyes open, you rested your head on top of your hand, watching them walk to Lulu, who was already crawling toward them.

"Dami! Dami!" Lulu squealed with excitement as she spotted Damian, her chubby cheeks flushed with the struggle of crawling faster to her brother. Damian smiled at the little one and bent down and picked her up, her giggles filling the air. You smiled softly at the scene, looking at how Damian's one snake-like eye's iris widened at the sight of his sister, a sign that he loved her.

You hummed his name under your breath, remembering the time you had to put your special balm on his wounds, made out of your blood and a few different herbs, unknowingly giving him some sort of mutation, making him gain some snake-like features. How precious he was when he held onto you tightly, seeking comfort, fever haunting his body because of the infection in his blood. You wanted to be mad at him for bringing that man, Bruce, to take you away from your swamp, but you couldn't, he was your boy.

When Damian turned around to take Lulu away you felt a little surge of panic rush into your reptilian heart, where was he taking Lulu? "W-wait-!" You were too slow and the boy and his friend had left with the little one, leaving you there, filling your heart with worry. You moved into the pond, getting closer to the door of the cage, you knew you couldn't move past the invisible walls of it, naturally you didn't know of glasses, thinking of them as invisible walls, you didn't know how to move past them, but you still tried. You moved your hand and slammed it on the door of your confinement with the remnants of your energy in a struggle to make it open, you knew it would be in vain, but you still did so, but much to your surprise, the invisible door opened, letting clean air come into your cage, you could see a different light coming from there...oh?...oh...OH!

....

"Just be quick, I need to put Lucy back with Mom..." Damian told Jon as he put Lulu in the little tub to keep her from crawling around. The baby Naga was a little distraught by the unfamiliar nature of her surroundings, her small fist tightly holding onto Damian's finger. Jon moved closer, with a few little dresses that his mother had tailored for little Lucy. "My mom said they are water resistant," Jon said with his proud smile and helped put the dress on top of Lulu's body, she giggled as her head popped out of the neckline of the little pink dress, finding it amusing that Damian tried to pull her little arms into the holes of the sleeveless dress, to her everything seemed like a game.

"If you want to take pictures, I have a camera you know" Dick appeared behind the two young boys startling them slightly. Jon nodded enthusiastically, while Damian huffed "Let me at least tidy up her hair". He said as he ran his fingers into her white messy locks. "Say cheese!" Dick spoke as he used a rattle to gain Lulu's attention as he held the camera, chuckling slightly as Lulu looked up at him with a large smile, her few teeth shining. The picture of the Naga in her cute dress was taken with a bright flash from the camera. The bright light made a huge shadow behind them appear on the wall the three humans tensed up visibly, turning around slowly, their eyes widening in shock.

....

"E-easy, Y/N..." Bruce groaned out as your tail made another circle around his legs, tightening around them not so gently. You were on top of him, your hands holding him as you glared down at him with your snake eyes. You had crawled out of your cage and since you weren't inhaling sedatives, you were gaining back your strength, so you had startled Bruce on his seat in the bat cave.

You looked down at the man you had pinned to his seat, unconsciously moving your hand to trace the different parts of his face, you were too focused on his blue eyes that you didn't notice his hand move to push a button, it'd give you an electric shock to stop you from doing something reckless, but his hand paused as he watched you lay slowly on top of him, trying to get some warmth from his body. "Mate..." the word came out of your mouth in a whisper, you had realized that struggling was futile, Bruce was the alpha predator of your chain of family, and you should submit to feel happier, he knew how to handle Lulu and Damian and seemed to like you, even now that Lulu was away from you she seemed happy enough, so why resist?

"Mine..." you added, making Bruce smile nervously, something that he had thought would happen with force, now had happened easily. His hand moved away from the button to caress your hair, chuckling slightly as he heard Lulu's voice as Damian approached them with her in his arms "Mama! Mama!" Her voice echoed in the cave, promising a new future in a much different world for you with your new family.

[metalheads-trash-bin]

Hello everyone! My name is Toby, I’m a beginner writer and love to make shit uber realistic for readers. Here’s all the info about my stuff!

Note: I will never abandon a fic but there are times in which I will take long breaks depending on the fandom’s toxicity. If it was abandoned there would be a completion mark on the fic. (Aka 20/? Turning onto 20/20.)

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Key:

Ships

Notices

Warnings

Fandoms

Baseline importance

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So far I have three fanfics, a fourth is on the way.

All of my fics will be linked down below! They are wips, so please be patient. Each has their own schedule so make sure to read!

Most fanfics will have nsfw, and I don’t mean the basic “stick penis in hole” shit. I mean detailed, loving, and non vanilla nsfw.

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MEMOIR OF A SNAIL:

I’ve been absolutely loving this series, and so I wanted to focus on my favorite pairing from it: Gilbert/Ben Appleby. It talks about Gilbert’s trauma, his guilt about what happened, and how his relationship with Ben ends up after saving him from the orchard. This fanfic will be updated whenever I please as having a set schedule will lead to burnout.

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TROLLS:

The first one is my all time fav: Fliff! It goes into Floyd’s trauma, his healing, and realistic dynamics between the characters. This fanfic will be updated when i please, it used to be updated every day but that’s not survivable long term for me ^^

The second one is Breek! Creek is in no way infantilized in this fanfic. I look at things in a psychological aspect and make damn well sure he’s not babygirlified. This fic goes into Creek’s trauma, Branch’s trauma, allll the trauma, a bunch of healing, and a little bit of angst. It’s updated whenever I feel, but it won’t be abandoned!

The third one is John Dory x Reader! In this it talks about JD’s trauma, some headcanons of his diagnostics, and a bunch of intimate stuff and heart to heart stuff. He is not glamorized in this fic, instead he’s recovering and in therapy. He also has a smallll teeny weeny alcohol issue, but he’s in therapy for that as well! The reader is a trans male, fat L if you can’t handle that. <3 It’s updated whenever I feel just like the Breek fic, but it won’t be abandoned or rarely touched!

The fics are interconnected, so if you see a ship or lore that’s in one of them, assume it’ll be mentioned or involved in the other!

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CREEPYPASTA:

I am currently working on ideas for a rework of a Jeff x reader fic I read. It had a really nice plot but the execution was absolutely horrendous + it was abandoned. I’ll type more info as I update!

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Where else you can contact me or see my content:

Insta: _.metalheads.trash.bin._

Twitter: _mhs_trash_bin_

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And with that…

!!Release the hounds!!

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TROLLS:

Summary:

Floyd is forced into therapy after Branch takes him to his annual checkup since he's staying with him.

Branch's reason for sending him being that he notices Floyd's facade of "being fine" and totally not traumatized even toward a doctor. This leads to him sitting in therapy, which in turn gives him homework. Whats the first assignment you ask?

Making friends besides your brothers and Poppy.

Who better than Barb, the queen of rock, as a starting point??

Summary:

It was the last few weeks of fall, Branch heading to the forest to get the final harvest for the season. There were rumors of an animal lurking around the farm, he didn't realize that that animal was a familiar face.

Summary:

You're a metal/rock troll starting a new life in Pop Village. During one of your bonding activities with Branch, you notice a large creature in the meadow.

Why not pay the owner a visit??

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CREEPYPASTA:

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MEMOIR OF A SNAIL:

Summary:

Gilbert can't mentally bury his thoughts of the only boy who cared about him any longer. Gracie convinces him to go to therapy to finally confront his demons. From there, Gilbert comes up with a plan to save his other half from the hell of the orchard.

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PS. I have a shit ton of playlists on Spotify of ships, characters, and more! Check em out down below~

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Enjoy! <3

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[sharp-silver4795]

The Creepypasta’s Worst Injuries

I get some inspo from “HC Prompt” posts and that’s what I got going on rn!

⚠️DISCLAIMERS⚠️

BLOOD: Mentions of injuries (ofc), graphic details in some of them, and just blood. Weapons will be mentioned, including guns.

INJURY: the situation is explained and can be a lil uncomfortable- but idk. Severe injury or explicit imagery.

SOURCE: Some of these are product of self harm, betrayal, attempted murder, abuse, general assault, or common causes of death.

ALL SENSITIVE TOPICS WILL BE MARKED AHEAD OF IT!!!

Mild Mention > Detailed > Extreme Details > Sensitive Content

Proxy Behavior miscellaneous

Details of how the injury happened. Jumping, defenselessness, detail of scars and the origin of them. Extreme detail of how the injuries occurred, attempted murder, Marble Hornets Spoilers, ig? Car accidents/injuries

Wilson, Zechariah, Neon Spike, and Rogue will not be included. They’re too sheltered smh 🤦

Kat Hunter: he once got shot 7 times by a few police officers. The other proxies came to his rescue.

Kate the Chaser: once got cornered by Bloody Angel and Scarecrow. She ended up bloodied due to being scratched, hacked at, stabbed, and all sorts of things. The most prominent ones were on her face and thigh. Bloody Angel had kept grabbing her legs to keep her from getting away. Bloody Angel has claws. Scarecrow has gloves very similar to that of Rouge and clawed down Kate’s face. Kate’s face was exposed in the first place because she got hot and couldn’t breathe, so she was jumped basically.

Brian/Hoodie: Fell from a two story building… duh

Tim/Masky: got into a tussle with Alex…

Ticci Toby: Car accident. Even though he didn’t feel the physical pain.

Depression

graphic/horrific death, freak accidents, Self harm, attempted suicide, Religious stuff/demons, mourning

Nathan the Nobody: Masky rocked his shit.

BEN Drowned: accidentally electrocuted himself and couldn’t stop glitching and getting bent and twisted

Eyeless Jack: he does by biting his own tail and literally exploding his organs-

Clockwork: she got skewered, but somehow survived.

Jeff, Jane, and Nina the Killer: burned alive ofc

Puppeteer: Liu wears a rosary to remember his mother…

Liu Woods: when he was alive, he used scissors to cut at his shoulders and chest. He cut at his arms, legs, and abdomen as well. He nearly bled out in his bathroom.

Zero: she stabbed herself with glass shards cuz she had a mental breakdown

Kagekao: purposely ran into oncoming traffic.

This is what happens when you mess with kids

severe injury/free amputation

Jason the Toymaker: kid ripped out a ton of his hair and made his head bleed

Laughing Jack: got his arms cut off somehow- they grew back tho

Laughing Jill: a parent hit her upside the head and her own chainsaw went through her chest and abdomen

Clumsy Bitches

Mutilation, stupidity , how the fuck did they survive this shit? segments of body being removed and explicit injury mention(?), Experiments, self inflicted injury

Ani the Wight: existing in summer heat

Chess Master: boinked his head, tripped, and landed on the grass… off of a 10m tall tree

Candy Pop: fell off a building. He’s clumsy.

Bloody Painter: he jumped off a building and landed safely, then stepped on a bear trap. How does that even happen?!

Bloody Angel: her whole thing is that she got mutelated into a monseter by a crazy circus… do the math.

X-Virus: while working on a project and it exploded in his face. So, he now has giant burn scars on his face, neck, and chest.

Judge Angels: Rouge kicked her ass and she has claw-like gloves. She ended up with scars on her face for a long while.

Scarecrow: Hoodie once cut her in half with a tree branch.

Doll Maker: Stabbed himself in the eye

Divider Creds: Sister Lucifer; adorneswithlight

Header Creds: ME!!!

[brights-place]

hiii!! could i request platonic brozone with a sibling reader who makes "kawaii metal" music (kind of like babymetal, if u wna look into it!)

basically they were the overlooked one of the siblings, weren't in brozone and when they all split up reader took their leave and began make metal/rock music !! maybe they reconnected with branch during the world tour and have kept in contact since? they didnt go on the adventure to save floyd (werent there for the wedding) but just the shinanigans that ensue when everyone is back together? angst with a fluff ending maybe?

Brozone with an Kawaii Metal! Sibling

Pairing: Brozone X S/O (Platonic)

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Swearing

A/N: OKAY I LOVE BABY METAL I VIBE TO IT SOMETIMES! DUDE ITS SO COOL AND THEIR OUTFITS ARE SO AMAZING! also I didn't highlight who was speaking cause I wrote this at 2:00am so sorry honey!

Your E/c eyes darted around the room after the mishap of what had happened on the Brozone stage every single do of your siblings were fighting except for branch who you quickly covered his ears before you shouted at them to stop which they didn’t listen at all bringing you into the argument aswell causing you tog get mad.

It was known in the family that you were overlooked for being the only girl and not the best singer or dancer like your brothers or any other pop troll so you were mainly shunned to the side. You were close to cursing out John Dory but was cut off by the male leaving the pod with an grappling hook while Clays and Bruce separated aswell as Your eyes glared at the three who had left to their rooms before glancing towards Floyd who gave the tow an guilty look as You scoffed leaving the pod to take breath of fresh air. Floyd stepped out before sitting beside you on the tree branch you were sitting on frowning as Floyd spoke "(name...)" you glanced behind him as he placed an hand on your shoulder "Take care of branch..." Your eyes glanced towards him "You better come back cause I'll be leaving soon" Floyd nodded slowly as you stood up and entered the pod hugging Branch who was confused before Branch whispered to you "are they coming back?" You glanced towards Branch and towards your grandma rosie puff who sighed "Yeah... it normal to happen" grandma rosie puff said walking over joining the hug as days later grandma rosie puff panicked when realizing They ACUTALLY LEFT. For the past years you helped your family before you had to go when branch was just 9 years old when you told him you were leaving he hugged you as you left the pod thanking grandma rosie and told Branch goodbye. How long had it been? 17? years since you left while it was 20 years for your Older brothers...

You stood on a stage with a bright smile as you moved around singing the lights focusing on you and your outfit which was a mix of bright and cheerful colors, with lots of pink and purple hues. Black accents are used to create a bold contrast.

The top was a crop top with lace up details on the sides, and it's in a pastel pink tone. The sleeves have loose ruffles to create a playful vibe. The skirt has a high waisted design, and is in a dark purple hue. It has several layers of ruffles, and is cut in a tiered shape yet there were slight metal like designs for example the spikes around the girls wrists and her studded belt that was held with her skirt.

You soon posed finishing your song panting looking into the crowd to see branch who stood beside a pink girl troll and Queen Barb as you squealed seeing the girl “Barbie-chan!” You teased tackling Barb in a hug as she groaned you still rembering the nickname you gave her when you caught her singing barbie in the middle of the night before glancing to Poppy nodding towards her in a greeting as she squealed "Hi! Im poppy! Barb has told us so much bout you! this is my boyfriend-" you caught Poppy off with speaking up "branch..." you teared up slightly covering your mouth as branch stared at you with wide eyes "(name)" You walked over cupping his face "You've grown so much little bro" you hugged him tightly as Poppy stared with wide eyes confused "YOU HAVE A SISTER?!" "It isn't that big of a deal-" "IT IS! OMG I HAVEN'T MET YOU! THIS IS SO AMAZING!" Poppy squealed hugging you again as you laughed patting Poppy is back "Its good to know someone took care of him when We- I was gone" You said making eye contact with branch who gave a weak smile towards you as you gave a sad look.

He filled you in what you missed and you cried but soon you reconnected next thing you knew a few months later you got sick so you couldn’t attend Bridgette and king gristles wedding but told branch and poppy to scrapbook it for you which poppy agreed to so much while branch hugged you goodbye.

You were informed by Barb, the others that Poppy and branch were on adventure which you were sad about but loved for them to bond more cause you what’s dot be an Auntie so bad!

Currently you were on stage jamming out singing at Volcano rock city branch saying he has to show me while poppy shouted that it was a surprise for you which you were excited about. While you were on stage your dress bouncing where you danced around singing as Trolls who enjoyed your ‘baby metal’ themed singing along as a group of five trolls stared at you on your stage with shock well 4/5 since branch was cheering

You made eye contact with him raising your Handel wave at your younger brother before freezing entirely when seeing four others that had left you with branch and grandma a bubbling feeling rising in your chest your grip on troubled tightening as you finished the song before leaving stage heading into your dressing room holding your head in your hands

You stood in front of your dressing room mirror panting as your heart raced slightly. You'd just been singing on stage when you noticed out of the corner of your eye you'd seen your OTHER four brothers in the crowd. They'd left you and Branch all those years ago, and now here they were watching you perform. As you stumbled into the dressing room, your head was swirling with a mix of emotions. You could feel the anger and hurt rising up in your chest, threatening to boil over.

As you sit in the dressing room your mind churns with conflicting emotions. Part of you wanted to burst out and confront them right then and there to demand explanations and reparations for leaving you and Branch behind for you to be the one with your grandomther to take care of him but another part of you hesitated... It had been twenty long years since you'd last seen them and a lot had changed. Perhaps they had also grown and matured and there was a chance for reconciliation and forgiveness.

A shaky breath past your lips for a moment as you hesitantly stepped out of the dressing room you were greeted by your older four siblings who stood waiting. Your eyes widened at their stances they looked nervous and guilty avoiding eye contact as they shuffled their feet awkwardly mostly John Dory as you took a moment to eye them silently as you were taking note of the slight changes in their appearances and demeanor. John Dory had slighter blue skin then back then when you were young his forest green hair with black eyebrows, his eyes are cyan and black, and a purple indigo nose. He wears this shirt in his torso, a brown and white plush collared vest with brown polka dots on his collars, green ripped shorts, and he is barefoot. His fingerless glove is brown, and a pair of goggles with magenta lenses and a lime green frame. The others changed alot to Spruce had the same slighter blue skin. Lucious purple hair with eyebrows, his eyes are black, and a purple nose. He is seen wearing his shirt with a black and white feather necklace around his neck, a black and white short-sleeved open jacket with scales on it, white roped shorts Clay's pale teal skin was normal yet now he had lime green hair that are from dark teal eyebrows his eyes are blue, and a blue nose. He wears a dark green romper with a green diamond and white outlines, lime green and white stripes bracelets. While your last brother floyd looked away making slight eyecontact with you as you paused pursing your lips for a slight moment Floyd was the last to stare at and how much he had changed from back in the day same skin tone as the rest and his usual dark magenta pink hair and eyebrows, his eyes are purple, and wears a black pearl earring on his right ear. Half of his hair is twisted around his head and partly covers the left side of his face. He is shirtless and has black ripped shorts and a large belt-buckle wrapped around his waist You stared at them you felt out of place when branch grinned motioning you to step forward as you eyed them before speaking "What are you doing here?" you questioned crossing your arms defensively as you surveyed your other siblings as branch patted your shoulder.

The four of them averted their gazes awkwardly shifting their weight and avoiding eye contact. John Dory in particular looked the most guilty he seemed to be struggling to find the right words to say. "We wanted to talk," he finally blurted out, his eyes darting up to meet yours before quickly looking away again. You hesitantly nodded, your arms still crossed tightly across your chest. Your eyes flicked between the four of them, taking in their nervous expressions. "Go on" you said gesturing for them to speak voice steady but cold. "Talk" Before you knew it your older brothers were hugging you babbling apologies as you panicked slightly as branch also felt awkward when wrapped around in the group hug with you as you paused "WHOA WHOA! Chill out!" You said scratching your cheek nervously. Maybe you might have missed them abit... your older brothers were the best... yet you still held them leaving you against them proudly now being able to do things to them in return which caused you and Branch to cause some chaos

reblogs + comments are appreciated ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

©brights-place 2023 — do not repost on another platform, copy, translate or edit my works! if you fit my DNI list please don't interact

[bugcreditcard]

Law grunted, dangling above the water in the grip of a man ten times his size. If only he hadn't been so distracted by what happened this morning, these nobodies wouldn't have been an issue.

The early morning had been cold. The sun barely peeked through the tall outlines of Swallow’s signature snow-covered pine trees, casting lazy shadows in the dawn. Law rubbed his hands together letting his hotter breadth warm up his chilly fingers for a second before continuing on to his destination. He had left the mittens Wolf gave him behind. They were slightly too big for him and he wanted full dexterity of his fingers. When he got there, it would be brighter out anyways.

He was off earlier than normal to an isolated lake that he had found during one of his explorations mapping out the terrain of Swallow Island. Isolation meant no people, and no people meant it was a perfect place to practice the boundaries of his Op-Op-no-mi powers.

His powers were something that he was still getting used to, not quite sure where the 'theoretically' possible became the actually ‘now’ possible. He knew already that he could use them to heal once-thought incurable illnesses, his own body a constant reminder of that fact, but it also seemed to aid in fights as well. It would be around a month since he had used the devil fruit’s powers to save his new roommate, an anxious polar bear mink by the name of Bepo, from being poached by two eggheaded wanna-be hunters. The two young adults waving their guns around, cruelly boasting about their valuable catch had him rubbed the wrong way even before he saw the polar bear on the ground. Law was glad they never saw those shambled rocks until it was too late.

(And he would never be unprepared again.)

A few minutes of walking later and he was here. He approached the edge of the shore, his attention quickly caught upon a struggling trout that had somehow made its way onto land. As luck would have it, there was also a crab desperately hanging onto it (no doubt it's dinner gone wrong) that had managed to be flipped onto its back. At the time, it seemed to be a waste to not utilize the situation to perform some experiments. For what he had in mind to test, he would be needing two 'test subjects' after all.

Quickly he walked a few paces around to make sure there wasn't anyone in the vicinity. Pine trees enclosed a small area where land met the frigid lake that hadn’t quite frozen over yet, several smaller channels branching off, snaking their way farther into the land and probably the ocean. The lake was too small to set up fishing boats and it was far up enough in the mountain to make any sort of trek here not worth it. Satisfied, his hand moved to hover over the fish and crab, a small familiar blue encapsulating it. His brow furrowed in concentration. Attention pinpoint focused, his fingers twitched slightly and with a (admittedly) satisfying pop, the lower ends of the crab and fish switched places, slotting into place without any bleeding or seemingly outward complications.

"Holy fuck did you see that!"

"Shhhhhh!" Followed by a quick splash that had Law paranoidly whipping his head around. He stood up, hand clenched into his fist, heart hammering loudly in his chest.

The Crab-Fish and Fish-Crab wiggled uselessly on the ground below.

There was no one around. No one moved across the treeline and the lake was barren, lazy ripples scattering across the surface from the wind. Who saw him? Law took several steps back, his eyes darting around. Was it Doflamingo? "Hey." Law started off before raising his voice in anxiety and anger "HEY! Show yourself!"

There was no answer.

With an urgency that Law refused to say was paranoia, Law scooped the proof of his actions into his bag and broke into a sprint into the treeline. If it was Doflamingo he would have already been dead, Law chanted under his breath - the thought did little to settle his beating heart. Wolf’s house, yeah he would be safe there for now: he could pull himself together and form a plan there.

Continued here: In the beginning there was me and you (and you)

[lixxen]

Idk how well text posts do on Trolls Tumblr, but I have so many thoughts rn and want to talk about feral Branch details.

Feral Branch HC:

Branch has fur, claws on both his feet and hands, his ears move like a cat, and he can see better in the dark

"Feral Trolls" are gray trolls who have adapted from being away from others. Trolls have a built in instinct that recognizes strength in numbers. You see this with rainbow trolls being able to change their colors/auras, and all trolls being able to manipulate their hair. Gray trolls cannot change their aura, but they are around others so they can stay normal

But isolated gray trolls biologically change due to them not being around others. This happens over years, and not automatic. Once a troll changes like this, they cannot undo it. So this is why Branch cannot go back to "normal" physically, even tho he isn't gray and around others

(there's also a psychological/self actualization part. Gray trolls tend to see themselves as the problem and rainbow trolls end up more likely to becoming "feral" looking due to their ability to change their aspects.)

All genres have feral trolls, all presenting differently. Rock and pop are the most similar since they are the two physically closest looks wise

Normal trolls are omnivores, but eat more plants since their digestive systems and body needs focus more on plants. Feral trolls need more meat, but are still omnivorses

If I can get psychological, a lot of their "feral tendencies" are actually just trauma responses and bad socialization issues due to isolation. A lot of responses are stemmed from fear and anger, so lashing out/growling/swiping at others is normally out of fear or response. Plus having to survive in the wild, y'know?

Okay. Done with that part, let's get into Branch!

Branch likes to be in trees and high ground. It comes from living in a pod in the troll tree, but he lives in the bunker because it's safer. So you'll find him in trees normally because he likes being high

Branch normally hibernates during the winter, but ever since he met Poppy he stopped hibernating. This makes him horribly grumpy during the snow season

Not shown: Branch loving his ears to be scratched. Her more sensitive than normal and he loves them being pet. He also loves to lay on top of people. It comes from the need of warmth and him thinking that others need warmth.

He wouldn't lick others, since they don't have fur. But if he's around other feral trolls he'd definitely lick them.

His parents were both half rock and half pop trolls. They both looked like rainbow pop trolls, and the rock parent (dad) did not live in the troll tree. Grandma Rosiepuff was the maternal grandmother and a pop troll

The parents names were Briar and Melody

Branch has the need to burrow all the time. It comes from years in the bunker and from hiding from danger in the earlier years. You will see him burried in someone's bed probably.

Branch is really good at math and science once he starts learning and back into the village. It comes naturally to him. He wants to be a pod architect because it comes naturally to him

Clay and Bruce follow the same thing, where Clay really likes accounting and Bruce loves to run business.

Floyd is the best at performing, with JD behind him. JD though is actually really good at taking care of others and survival. Surprisingly JD can garden and keep a ton of plants alive to feed himself.

Branch and Clay are autistic with different levels of support needed. Branch needs less support while Clay needs more. Thought I'd mention this.

Clay and Viva were best friends before the Troll Tree attack. The others did not know this. Viva and JD are the ones that helped Clay learn better coping mechanisms when the band started to sour

Branch is more sensitive to sound and light. He hates fireworks and doesn't like to be touched unless he knows the person

Ablaze is the one who mainly is teaching Branch coping mechanisms for his PTSD. Poppy is his support throughout everything, but she doesn't know how to help someone heal.

Branch mandates Kismet group cuddles. This dude it touched starved and they’re the only ones he is comfortable like that other than Poppy

Even after Branch is able to speak again, as he was nonverbal when he met Poppy and by Trolls 2 he is speaking again, he prefers to be quiet and doesn't talk as much. It is simply preference at this point

Branch likes to interlock his tail with Poppy's when they're not touching, but close enough :)

I might do more later, but I am about to go into work :)

[empressgeekt]

Trolls - Burning Branches AU part 1

Or alternate title, I have now been sucked down the sudden black hole that is this fandom and now the troll plot bunnies are running ramped around my Fanfic farm, because the creators of this franchise has added my weakness...Sibling relationships... Now I have plans for a two story saga in this fandom of which I wouldn't have glanced at with interest at all a month ago.

Well, that's enough rambling, Time to get into the meat of the fic plot.

So, while browsing on Ao3 I noticed that there was this Rock!Branch au, where Branch is separated from the pop-trolls as a kid and ends up being raised by Barb and Thrash of the Rock Trolls. I love this concept, more then some relatives of mine. But I want to put a little spin on it. I've been a big fan of amnesia/memory loss fics, and I noticed there was a lack of them in this fandom.

Brozone breaks up and Grandma dies like in canon, same old same old. However, in this AU Branch is forced to leave the Troll Tree as a kid, because there is a larger sigmatism about trolls who went grey. The Trolls are very clear that they want nothing to do with Branch. They are all already living with death at their door step and they don't need a grey child to constantly break the false image of happy paradise that the adults try to maintain in the Tree to keep themselves sane. Branch, with nothing else left for him in the tree, packs up and tries to leave to find his brothers, though he does worry if they would even want him now that he was grey.

After successfully escaping the town, (the bergens don't notice if a small troll vanishes in the middle of the night, they didn't notice the whole village packing up), Branch spends a terrifying night in the woods. Running away from what are "predator's" in the eyes of a small child. Until he accidentally, stumbles in the a wormhole. The wormhole sucks Branch away from, Pop territory to the outskirts of the Rock badlands. But in this new hot volcanic he is still far from safe. (I'm adding that their are harsh powerful dragons that roam around the Rock trolls territory, as there has to be some type of reason behind they turned their own music and instruments in the to energy weapons while the other tribes didn't. Not to mention the active volcanic activity everywhere!) While running away from some of these actual predators and dangerous lava pools, Branch gets shoved over a cliffside, and falls into one of the few rivers nearby. In the raging rapids, the little troll strikes his head against the rocky river bed. Knocking him out.

Meanwhile, Still-King Thrash is leading an expedition to the river to fetch water for the people of Volcano Rock City. Being the very soft and caring Father he is, once he sees a small child floating in the river he jumps in without a second thought, and pulls the child to the shore. He leaves the expedition in the hands of another Troll and brings the some how still alive child back to the City and into the care of a capable doctor. While waiting to hear if Branch will live, Thrash goes through the little sack the kid had with him. There's enough evidence for the king of rock to come to the conclusion that Branch was running away, and needless to say Thrash is furious. Who would be so cruel that dared to make a child in his kingdom feel so scared and unwelcomed that they would run away! (at this point due to Branch's greyness and the high emotions of the situation Thrash hasn't realized Branch is from Pop yet, not that it would matter in the long run he's still ticked off).

Eventually, the doctor (an old friend of Thrash's whom they have a deep trust between, I haven't named them yet), calls Thrash in. Thrash finds Branch unconscious on the medical bed with his head bandaged. The doctor tells Thrash that's its a miracle that Branch is even alive, but it would take a bigger one for the child to wake up. The underneath the blood of the wound was a skull fracture and possible brain damage. Then he mentions it would probably be better if Branch never woke up, and further explains Branch's nature as a pop troll, and his greyness. Thrash takes this information in with a sad heart. Stigma against pop was still running high in the Rock kingdom, despite Thrash wanting to believe his people could spare their bias to care for a wounded child, he knows that no foster family would take a pop troll in. He asks the Doctor to keep quiet about Branch, and that if the boy would wake up Thrash would take him in himself. He goes home and hugs Barb after an exhausting day, and asks her if she was open to having a little brother.

After a few weeks, Branch wakes up, but he has no memory of anything. Not his name. Not where he's from. Not how he got there. At this point the medical staff that were allowed to know about him, have taken to calling him Charcoal, or Char, after his perfectly black and shiny hair, and it just kind of stuck after that. Thrash has taken to visiting Branch, even before the boy was conscious, quickly growing fond over the boy and until he'd recovered enough to be taken to the royal cavern. Barb takes to having Char around very well. Having a younger sibling, gives her something to put her protectiveness towards. Thrash makes and announcement, claiming Char as his own to Rock, and putting the boy as second in-line for the throne.

Still it isn't all cupcakes and rainbows with Char in his new home. He has lasting effected form his head injury in the form of migraines and fainting spells. The child is plagued by nightmares, of Giants coming to eat him and old ladies. They frighten him so much he draws and designs traps and bunkers to keep himself safe. Some of the designs Thrash actually considers building in case of emergency. Music brings him to tears if it's too loud or sudden, or if Barb asked him to sing-along. His room is sound proofed, and he has a pair of headphones to block things out if needed. Thrash also finds that his new adoptive son, is far more book-smart then him or Barb, the rarely used Rock library becomes Char's second home. The child become well educated in History, engineering, math, sciences and politics.

It would take two years before, Barb managed to talk Char into coming to her music practice, where the kid learns that music is more then just noise that makes him feel scared/unsafe. Seeing the weapon music can be, something he can learn to protect himself with, Char becomes hooked on the idea of learning it. Too everyone's surprise, it comes to boy like second nature, and his voice is like that of an angel's.

Eighteen years pass, and Branch grows up to be, Prince Char, second born son to Thrash King of Rock. He's a known expert with a guitar, both as an instrument and a weapon, his reputation is that of a eerily smart and organized strategist, who is loyal to his family and people to a fault and ruthlessly protective. With Thrash's health, both physical and mental, in rapid decline, Barb is forced to take on the mantel of Queen earlier then she wanted, but this time she has a brother to lean on as an advisor. Which is a good thing, because between the two of them Char is a much better planner.

Pressure is turned up on the royal rock siblings, when an unexpected earthquake destroys the farmlands that feeds the city. Sure, volcanic soil can been great for growing plants, but rivers of lava and giant fresh trenches don't help at all. Barb flies off the handle, and begins to panic in quiet about what she needs to do to protect the people of Rock, while Char looks into historical records to see if the past king ever had to deal with issues like this. Eventually he stumbles on the knowledge that during ancient times if one of the tribes was in trouble they would call upon their sister tribes for aid.

"Oh that's great advise your books have, let's ask for help from our sworn enemies!" Barb would exclaim, "Wait...the other tribes! If they lasted as long as we did, then they must have resources! But they wouldn't help us...not unless they were just like us. We could use our string to convert..."

"Barb! I'm going to stop you right now. First one our string isn't powerful enough to over-write someone's genre, believe me I looked into it-"

"But if we get all the strings..."

"You mean steal them?"

"Yah!"

"No, if we were to fail that would only sour relations between genres further and our people would still be starving. We'd be better off forging an alliance with a tribe, rather then wasting already limited resources conquering one."

"URGH! Why are you always right....So, alliance...that's our best plan?"

"Currently yes."

"With people that hate us! Are we sure we can't conquer them?"

"Barb, were trying to make a harmony. You can't make harmony with everyone using the same voice. They all need to be different, and they all can't be forced into something they they aren't or it all falls apart."

"Whoa, that's deep. Where'd ya learn that?"

"I-I don't know...but the point still stands we need to befriend another tribe not conquer one!"

"Okay, so how do we do that?"

"Well, apparently theirs more ways then one, all of them include paper work, so leave that to me, but one of them we actually have a unique opportunity to ally with."

"Oh? And how do we take advantage of this unique opportunity?"

"You're not going to like this...but we use me..."

Branch would go on to explain his plan to ally the Rock kingdom with the Pop trolls...through an Arranged Marriage between him and the Pop princess. Barb hates it, especially after all the pop trolls did to her brother when he was young, but she can't argue the logic. The pop trolls live in a forest rich with food and plant life, and water sources. However, they have zero defenses other then how deep they live in the forest. (how he knows all of this Branch has no idea) If the alliance managed to go through, the Rock trolls could get the needed food supplies, and the Pop trolls could gain the knowledge of how to use musical weaponry.

Barb still hates it, it feels like her little brother is throwing away his future. But Char assures her that he's okay with it, and that it's his turn to take on the burden of the crown he supposed to wear. As a bio-pop troll the possibility of an heir from the alliance marriage is higher then if they use a random Rock citizen, and as Rock Prince that will give more creditably to the pleads of their people to Pop. He tells Barb to just take care of Dad when he's gone and that they always have debbie to talk to each other through letters.

So they send a message to Pop Village...requesting to consider the marriage.

At Pop village, Poppy is busy with her new duties as a fresh coronated Queen, caring for the village needs and further establishing peaceful relations with the Bergens after the fall of Chef. When the message reaches her, delivered Via Debbie and Biggie, Peppy tries to take it from her before she cane read it. And then she demands that he Explain why she just got a proposal in a letter from a Rock Prince?

Peppy reluctantly explains the history of the Tribes, and how some times they would form alliances between the genres by wedding members of the royal families together to ensure peace. He makes it very clear that He doesn't want Poppy to even think of answering the Rock trolls even if to decline the proposal, but she fights back saying hat this might be their only chance for peace between the genres for years to come if its taken this long for them to reach out this time. Peppy then tries to argue that if Poppy were to accept the proposal that she would have to marry this prince, this stranger, and he never wanted that to happen to her. He knows Poppy is queen now and he can't order her to do anything, but he asks her to think about this before making any kind of decision.

Poppy needless to say, deeply contemplates the proposal. She wants to help reunite the tribes, but bonding herself to a stranger she never met was a daunting thing. She talks with Cooper and Bridget who are surprisingly helpful with everything, and decides that she'll accept the proposal with the condition that she and her future groom have the chance to meet and get to know each other before the wedding.

Barb and Char readily accept the condition, and calculate that they can give one month of courtship before the Rock kingdom is without food. They respond back to Poppy, and tell them that Char and a few others would arrive in Pop Village a few days after she would receive the letter that confirmed the betrothal.

Char arrives at Pop Village with much fanfare from his travel companions, but shushes them quickly and addresses Poppy and Peppy in a polite manner. Poppy is kind of thrown off by how grey her future husband is, not that she shows it. Char is just as shocked about how bright and colorful she is.

The romance is awkward at first. The cultural differences get in the way sometimes. But eventually a connection is formed. Char learns to feed off of Poppy's energy and Poppy learns that there's more to this grey prince then gloom. With the wedding scheduled for the end of the month, Poppy decides to introduce Char to her BFF Bridget.

Needless to say, it doesn't go well.

Char's underlaying trauma comes back in a panic attack and flashback upon seeing the Troll Tree and bergens. The memory of his Grandmother's demise suddenly becoming clear as day in his mind. In the panic he accidently fires his guitar at Grisle and Bridget, with makes Poppy panic and angry at him. So he runs off into the woods.

Bridget and Poppy end up having a heart to heart where Bridget says that Char looked scared. Having heard about how Char was acutualy a pop-troll and was adopted into the royal family, Poppy connects the dots rather quickly. Realizing that Char used to live in the Troll Tree but didn't escape with the others. the whole visit was triggering for him.

She runs back to Pop Village looking forh im, only to find that Queen Barb had arrived to help set up the wedding, and she wants to know where her Brother is. Poppy blurts out what happened while trying to defuse the situation, and that only serves to rile Barb up further. Until Poppy snaps, yellling at Barb that they need to go looking for Char not fight here! This impresses Barb into agreeing.

Poppy finds him and they end up having a heart to heart, and confessing...

The wedding goes on as planned. On the neutral ground of the Troll Tree, allowing Char to visit his late Grandmother's home for the first time in twenty years.

All seems well...Until one John Dory screams, "Stop the Wedding!"

...

I will post part two in a separate post because this is long!

Part two, and Part three

Edit: The prolog for this fic, which is basically Char's child hood is now posted on Ao3. Link

[brozonesimp]

BroZone vs Creek: Who is Worse?

Technically, Creek, but many say BroZone is worse. I understand most who have hatred toward BroZone abandonment issues, but Creek will always be worse, at least in my book. Why, you may ask? Well, first, let’s focus on what BroZone—as a collective—did.

What BroZone Did

BroZone was a boy band back in the day, who consisted of five members, all of whom were brothers: John Dory, Spruce (who now goes by Bruce), Clay, Floyd, and Branch (stage name Bitty B.) BroZone was a very popular boy band, and John Dory was a perfectionist at most.

John gave his fans false hope of performing the “Perfect Family Harmony,” a mere myth of something that is so powerful, it can shatter diamonds. He also told his family that if they aren’t perfect, they’re nothing. They performed for their fans, and they did as suspected: they failed. Yes, they almost succeeded, but didn’t in the end.

From this incident, the band broke up one by one and left, leaving baby Branch alone to raise his grandma, until she got eaten. This left Branch alone, and he had to raise himself.

Timeskip to when all are older, and the first one to find Branch is John Dory, so that they can save Floyd. However, John didn’t know that Branch was still alive, only having found out from when he (and Poppy) saved the world from the rock apocalypse. John got a card from Bruce, meaning they still stay in touch somewhat.

Clay moved in with Viva, Poppy’s long lost sister, and we have no idea about Floyd, save for being kidnapped. But when they went to recruit the brothers, all did not hesitate (Bruce did somewhat) to go help save Floyd.

They fought after John pressured them to be perfect again, and Branch left them this time, but to go save Floyd alone. Branch also mentioned that their grandma got eaten and he was alone, and they looked instantly guilty and worried about him. In the end, they all reunited and made up.

In short: they fought, but they made up in the end. They care about one another despite what happened.

Now, let’s focus on what Creek did.

What Creek Did

To save himself from not getting eaten, Creek revealed to Chef—a Bergen—where the other pop trolls were. He showed no remorse; in the show, he sort of felt bad, but was mostly arrogant and manipulative.

What’s important to note here is that, by giving away where all of the trolls were, he endangered countless trolls from elders to babies, all for his own selfish sake. He simply shrugged after ringing Poppy’s bell—the bell that indicated that she returned home safely—and showed no remorse when the trolls were captured.

So, Who is Worse?

From this logic, Creek is the worst of the two parties mentioned. He endangered several trolls for his own sake, and all BroZone did was have a sibling fight.

Creek will always remain the worst in this argument, and if you have anything to add, please do so.

[thatbennybee]

What's probably the dumbest and most in character thing (Chord Striker Pop Troll) Barb can say towards Branch or Poppy or the others times in general? Mostly asking this question with the one art (on twitter) you did of her saying "you don't really want him" about Branch and Poppy looking get to go back to prison. Thank one really stuck with me. Your so good with facial expression on your art❤💚💚💜💙🥰😍😍🤩

She honestly says too many unintentionally rude things tbh 💀 it's kind of how I characterize her!! She's a lot less naïve in the way that canon Poppy was and is instead more naïve from parroting her dad's mindset and opinions. She is told that Pop trolls tend to be a bit absentminded and she ends up belittling them by accident because she views herself as smarter than most trolls bc King Thrash says so.

Her mindset kind of goes unchecked because Pop Trolls are easy to please and honestly just don't even realize they're being belittled anyways because they believe that Barb often knows what's best for them.

It's why Branch and Barb don't get along very well, Branch feels belittled by her and hates feeling like he's being given handouts or that he's a charity case. When Branch rejects her suggestions and offers to him, she often unintentionally says things that would kind of hurt to anyone privy to what's being implied.

She'd likely say something offensive about rock culture or Poppy’s personality based off of the biased knowledge of rock trolls from her dad.

Here would be an example of something she'd say to Branch:

"Branch, I know you're just feeling a bit shy and confused. You're not used to the way we do things because you're really different from the rest of us, I get it! I'm just trying to help make it easier for you! :)"

But that could feel really belittling because it's implying not only that Branch is being treated like a weirdo, but also because it implies that he isn't capable or smart enough to help himself. Then, at the same time, he knows Barb is being earnest when she says it & everyone around him would make him feel like he was wrong for refusing. That is really confusing for him.

That's how Barb makes him feel; confused and often conflicted. I kind of liked canon Barb's characterization of being a bit passive aggressive, a bit wild and being knowledgeable, yet incredibly ignorant at the same time.

I wanted to keep that trait in Barb the same way that Poppy is still well liked, often remains in good spirits and wants to help others.

[temyteabag]

🔥Ablaze - from Kismet

I loved Kismet! even if they apeared like, 4 mins. I would like to write something about this fellas but first I think I need to put some more personality so let's start with Ablaze.

I think Ablaze would have like a Pop-Punk vibe (I drew him while I was lisenning to this playlist "it's not a phase, mom. it's a lifestyle" || Pop Punk Playlist of sinpai https://youtu.be/Wp_VrvtGjqE?si=KUtVonJOiF3Izf8q and I was like, "yeah, this can fit him")

I have this head-canon that his parent could have come from the Rock territory and ended up in the Troll Tree but was picked up for not being like the rest of the Trolls in the tree, alas, leaving Ablaze orphaned or smth like that.

I think that he could like the energy drinks like gatorate or monster and maybe have a thing for smoking.

I also have this idea of him being the guitarrist of the band and the oldest member and I'm still trying to figure out more little details for his persona.

Also, I'll stick on my head canon of Ablaze being, if not a Rock Troll, at least half Rock, so like, a Pop-Rock Troll based on this point of his trivia in the Trolls Trollpedia:

In the Spanish dub of Trolls Band Together, Ablaze said "¡Qué se arme el rock and roll!" roughly translating to "Let the rock and roll happen!/Let's make rock and roll happen!" or "Let's create rock and roll!/Let rock and roll be put together!" so he's basically saying, "Let's rock and roll", which could hint to him being a Rock Troll. If this is to be true, then we can assume Branch joined Ablaze and Kismet after Trolls World Tour.

Also just a little something, in the drawing I tried to put some more color into Ablaze's hair and it ended up having a lot of blues and turquoise colors, but I promise is a pale yellow, orange, a red-magenta and a more reddish purple.