hiræth

#POPPYvariants: Most likely to be either a Playboy Bunny or the first female president. Everyone's convinced she is insane, a witch or both. Hopeless romantic and blind. A grade A loser but no one has to know that! One day she will grow wings.

pt. i.

The restroom is quiet. In the wrong way.

Yaoyao sits on the edge of the closed toilet lid, hands folded uselessly on her lap and shoulders sloped inward as if her body was trying to apologize for existing. Blood keeps coming from her bruised nose— not fast, nor dramatic anymore, but it was enough to stain everything. 

It slips over trembling lips, dots the porcelain beneath, and darkens the towel Poppy is pressing gently to her face.

And Poppy doesn’t speak.

She is moving like someone underwater— careful and slow, with hands automatic rather than intentional. She rinses the bloodied cloth, folds it, then presses it again.

Her fingers are warm, reverent even, but there is a distance to her. A hollow quiet that wasn’t there before. It isn't cruelty. It isn't even anger.

It is something worse: the fragile numbness of shock.

She doesn’t look at Yaoyao for a very long time, and when she does, usually just to instruct her to move, it feels like being seen through glass.

From the other room, voices bleed through the walls in fractured syllables. Raised and muffled. There’s a crash, then nothing.

It’s the sound of a world rearranging itself.

Yaoyao flinches at every noise. Poppy doesn’t react at all.

Suddenly, the blonde feels devastatingly young. Seventeen and small and pathetic and terrified and cornered by her own consequences.

Guilt settles in her chest like a second heart: heavy, unrelenting, and overwhelming. She thinks of Kaia's troubled eyes, of Nari’s demanding presence, of the way everything spiraled because she chose— dared to choose herself.

Only because she hadn’t thought of them.

The weight of it presses down on her chest— ribcage, heart, and all, until breathing feels optional.

Poppy finally lifts her gaze.

Her eyes are sharp, holding something unreadable within them. Fear, maybe, or calculation, or the quiet horror of realization.

When she speaks, it is barely a sound at all.

“Did you?”

Two words. No accusation. No comfort. Just the question, naked and trembling between them.

Yaoyao’s breath stutters.

The truth rushes forward, sharp and unwieldy.

Yes, I did. Yes, I broke our promise. Yes, I lit the match.

But truth is never a single thing.

It splinters. It bends. And Yaoyao has learned, too early and too well, how to live in the spaces between its shapes.

Liar is too simple of a word, and liar implies intent. Survivor fits closer, though even that feels borrowed.

Being a child is the truest thing she knows how to be.

“Poppy, I didn't think this would happen,” she whispers, and it is honest in the way that matters. Tears stream down bruised cheeks before she can stop them. “I just… I couldn't keep pretending anymore. You— you get me, right?” Her voice folds in on itself. “I thought if someone knew— other than us, Vivi, him— it would stop. That she would stop. I thought I was being helpful, I–I swear...”

Poppy listens.

Her face remains unreadable, and that scares Yaoyao more than anything else.

It isn’t because she thinks Poppy doesn’t believe her.

It’s worse than that.

Poppy has always been the one who understands without asking, who feels without needing things spelled out. 

Poppy thinks. Poppy connects dots quietly until they form a shape you can’t unsee. That stillness on her face isn’t anger… it’s comprehension slowly settling in.

And Yaoyao realizes, with a hollow drop in her chest, that Poppy is seeing all of it.

Not just the fear. Not just the bruises. 

But the choice.

“I didn't name her,” Yaoyao adds, desperate now, words and tears spilling faster. “I swear. I didn't say who. They, the people who found the pictures— they came to that conclusion themselves. I— I was protecting me—” 

The slip makes her flinch.

“—us,” she corrects, quickly, too quickly, like patching a crack before anyone notices the fault line.

There is a pause. A fragile, terrifying pause.

Poppy’s brows knit, just slightly. 

Not in accusation. In thought.

“…Us?” she echoes, quietly.

The word lands wrong.

Yaoyao’s breath stutters. Shame curls hot and sharp and ugly beneath her ribs, because she knows what Poppy heard in that pause— the way us arrived like an afterthought, like a shelter thrown up at the last second. 

Not a lie, exactly. Just… a softer version of the truth.

She had been protecting Poppy. She had been protecting Kaia. Of course she had! And she would do it again. She would burn for them if she had to!

But she had been protecting herself the most.

And that, somehow, feels worse to admit.

“I didn't mean it like that,” Yaoyao whispers, voice cracking open. “I wasn't trying to hide behind you or Kaoru, I swear.” she swallows, eyes burning and throat aching. “I just… I couldn't. Not anymore… I needed someone to hear us. To see it before it was too late. I thought if it was out there, even a little, it would finally stop! That it would force things to change. That Vivi would finally hear us.”

Her hands curl in her lap, small and shaking.

“I didn’t pull you in to save myself,” she adds, quieter now, almost pleading. “I— I just didn’t know how… to keep standing by myself…”

Because Yaoyao isn’t cruel. 

She isn’t evil. She isn’t heartless.

She’s just a kid who learned early that survival sometimes means letting the truth wear someone else’s shape. Not because you want to hurt them, not to sacrifice them, but because you can’t bear to be crushed alone.

Poppy doesn’t interrupt.

And somehow, that might be the kindest thing of all.

The noise outside spikes once more— a sharp edge of a sound— and then collapses into a silence so complete it rings loudly within the restroom. 

Something inside Yaoyao trembles. 

Her shoulders immediately fold inward, and her hands clutch at fabric like a child bracing for an impact she knows is coming.

Poppy moves.

She steps forward and pulls the younger girl into her arms, sudden and sure, as if hesitation might mean losing her altogether. 

And the moment contact is made, Yaoyao breaks. The sound that leaves her is raw, stripped of pride and restraint, and she buries her face into Poppy’s shoulder as sobs tear free.

Poppy holds her, and her body is trembling, too. Pressed close— not away from the truth, but with it— and still, her grip never loosens.

Yaoyao cries until the guilt inside her twists into something without a name. She doesn’t know if she did the right thing. She doesn’t know if this makes her brave or selfish, unforgivable or foolish. She doesn’t know if Kaia hates her now, or if disappointment might hurt even more than hatred ever could.

She only knows this: the hands holding her now are real.

They are steady, unbroken, and untouched by the violence itself— and that makes it worse.

Poppy didn’t cross the line. She didn’t push. She didn’t choose. She only understood.

Understanding has always been the way Poppy hurts without meaning to.

Maybe this is love— holy and romantic and painfully mundane all at once.

Or maybe it is the cage she helped build without meaning to.

But Yaoyao clings to it, because in this moment, it is the only thing keeping her from disappearing entirely.

pt. ii.

The stylist room is too quiet for how much it has already taken from her.

It’s quiet in that curated way, really. Mirrors too clean, the air faintly sweet with citrus and heat, and Yaoyao sits alone beneath a halo of warm lights, skin still humming faintly from hours of careful hands and whispered adjustments. 

The stylist had stepped out— “five minutes,” she’d said, like five minutes isn’t a lifetime when your pulse is already humming. Yaoyao lifts her hands to her collarbone, her jawline, her cheeks—- fingers hovering uselessly as she adjusts nothing at all, just grounding herself in the fact that she is here. That this is happening.

She smooths the fabric at her waist for the third time, even though nothing is wrong. The rose gold dress moves like it knows her, and it feels exquisite in a way that makes her hyperaware of her own pulse.

There’s a pause as she lingers in front of the mirror, fingertips tracing the fabric. 

She hesitates.

Then, she looks up.

She doesn’t quite recognize the person looking back.

Alone, she feels exposed. Too soft and too real.

Selfish and foolish. All the seams visible.

Then she smiles at herself.

It settles onto her face like something practiced, something learned. The girl in the mirror sharpens, lifts, and becomes luminous. Beautiful. Elegant. 

So Yvan— so Yvanna Liu that it almost feels inevitable that she would be loved, chosen, recognized, and perhaps, awarded. 

It's strange how easily she could step into that version of herself— adored and untouchable— and how quickly the room believes it.

There’s a knock at the door.

It wasn’t sharp. Not efficient. Hesitant, almost.

Yaoyao turns. “Yeah?”

The door opens slowly and Poppy steps inside, and for a moment, the room seems to recalibrate around her.

Yaoyao even forgets to breathe. 

It isn’t because Poppy looks different. It's because she looks… here. 

Beautiful, undeniably so, but grounded. Solid, composed, and unmistakably real. Dark fabric falling clean against her frame, hair smoothed back, makeup kept simple but beautiful.

Nothing about her asks to be stared at, and yet she’s impossible to miss; the kind of beauty that doesn’t reach for attention because it already knows it has it.

She looks like someone who knows exactly where she’s standing, even if she hasn’t moved much at all.

Yaoyao’s face lights up instantly.

“Oh my god—” it bursts out of her before she could stop it, a laugh catching in her throat. “You made it!”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. 

Instead, she crosses the room in a rush of silk and bare feet and excitement, arms already lifting. Poppy barely has time to brace before she collides against her, wrapping herself around her with a soft, breathless sound, like she’s been holding this joy in for too long.

Poppy exhales— a quiet and surprised sound, and then her arms come up, firm and familiar, folding around Yaoyao’s back. 

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. 

Her smile pressed warm and real against Yaoyao’s temple.

“I didn't think you’d actually make it!” Yaoyao blurts, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes bright and a little too shiny. “You’ve been impossible to reach, it’s not even funny! Our tiktok streak ended, Hwayoung. It ended!” she says, voice tipping dramatically. “And for a good minute, too! I thought you actually killed yourself like you kept telling Kaia you will—”

“Oh, shut up,” Poppy says, amused, soft. Then, inevitably, “Hi to you too.”

Yaoyao laughs, breathless, and then suddenly stills, like she’s remembered something vital, something she’s been holding in since the door opened.

“Wait. Wait— look!”

She steps back, already lifting the skirt of her dress, excitement bubbling over before she can contain it. She spins once, then again, the rose gold fabric catching the light and blooming outward, alive and fluid and unmistakably hers.

“She made this for me,” Yaoyao says, already reaching for the skirt again, breathless, laughter threaded through every word. “Selene Chow— remember her? China trip? The hotel lobby where Kaia got lost for like forty minutes?” She laughs, not waiting for an answer. “She made this just for me!”

She turns a little, angling herself toward the brunette, fingers skimming the fabric as if inviting her to see it properly. “Do you see the cut? Here— and the way it moves when I do this—”

She lifts the skirt just enough for the fabric to catch the light, then lets it fall, watching it settle with something like awe.

“It feels like it knows me,” she adds, softer now, almost incredulous. Then her grin snaps back into place, bright and daring. “Like I could float! I look like the real-life Glinda, if I may dare— just without the puff!”

She stops in front of the other, arms spread just a little, waiting like a child presenting something precious and asking to be seen.

For the first time since she walked in, Poppy laughs. It's quiet, soft, and real.

But her laughter settles. 

Not abruptly. Not awkwardly. It was just… enough to leave space behind it.

Yaoyao’s arms lower on their own because the room feels different now— fuller, heavier, like the air has learned something… new? old? 

Rotten?

She looks at Poppy. She really looks at her… standing there so close, and something inside her tightens.

It isn’t stage fright. It isn't doubt.

It’s recognition.

Alone, Yaoyao is at her most exposed. All the pretending stripped away, no one to perform for but herself. With others, she knows how to become something brighter and louder. Someone easier to love and adore.

With Poppy, however… it’s not the same.

Poppy knows the girl behind the bright smile. The one who learned how to shine because it was safer than being seen, and that knowledge presses close, gentle and unrelenting, and Yaoyao feels small in a way that isn’t painful, just terrifyingly honest.

The silence stretches.

Then Poppy moves.

And the blonde thinks of it now. 

Standing here in silk and light, beautiful and steady and ready to be adored, because Poppy reaches for her the same way she always has.

Poppy steps closer and lifts a hand, fingers brushing a loose strand near her temple. She smooths it back with careful precision, like it matters. Like she matters. 

“You’ve got a curl escaping,” she murmurs, soft. 

She tucks it back with the same easy familiarity she’s always had, like this moment exists outside of time and consequence.

Then, her attention drifts to the dress, to a barely-there crease near the waist, and she fixes that too, slow and methodical, as if this moment is no different from any other.

As if they have not been standing on the edge of something enormous for years.

Yaoyao feels it hit her then. Sharply and quietly.

The blood. Narissa’s screams. Kaia’s empty gaze. 

The restroom. The way Poppy’s hands had moved back then… rinsing cloth, pressing gently, never rushing, never recoiling. The way she had taken care of the mess without asking or demanding for more. How she’d stayed when staying meant knowing too much.

It's the same hands now.

Clean, steady, and familiar.

Back then, Poppy had fixed her face while the world broke apart on the other side of a door because of her. Now, she fixes her hair before the world opens up and applauds for her. The distance between those two moments feels impossible, and yet— here they are.

Yaoyao swallows.

She realizes, suddenly, that this is when she feels the smallest. Not when she’s alone. Not when she’s onstage. Not under the lights.

Right here.

Because Poppy saw her before the wings, before the applause, before the way everyone decided she was easy to love. Poppy remembers the blood and the shaking hands and the way Yaoyao learned how to lie without ever feeling like one.

Poppy steps back just enough to look at her work, her hands lingering for half a second too long at the other’s shoulders.

“There,” she murmurs, quiet and sure. “Perfect.”

Yaoyao almost laughs at that. Almost cries.

Perfect, she thinks. After everything.

But Poppy is smiling at her now, like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like she isn’t carrying the weight for all of them. 

Like she hasn’t stayed behind so the rest could move forward.

And something in Yaoyao settles.

Because this— this small, careful tending is how Poppy has always loved them. Not loudly, not visibly, but completely.

This settles in too deep, too fast.

Yaoyao doesn’t say anything. She just steps forward and folds herself into Poppy again, slower this time— more careful, like she’s asking for permission. 

This hug isn't a celebration. It's refuge.

Poppy stiffens for half a second— not in refusal, but in recognition, and then her arms come up, holding the blonde the way she always has. Like she knows exactly what this costs her. Like she’s choosing it anyway.

Yaoyao feels it then, sharp and aching, the weight Poppy carries so she—they can keep moving. The way she stayed when everything turned ugly. The way loving them seems to have anchored her in place while the rest of them were allowed to rise.

Guilt curls low in Yaoyao's chest. It was ugly and tender all at once.

Poppy exhales, and then gently pulls back, just enough to look at her.

Both hands come up to cup Yaoyao’s face, thumbs warm against her cheeks, grounding her whether she needed it or not. Poppy's expression is soft, but there’s something painful in it too— knowledge, maybe. The kind that never really leaves.

“Hey,” she says, low and careful, like she’s speaking to the part of Yaoyao that still shakes. Then, quieter, unwavering, "I'm proud of you.”

It lands wrong.

It lands heavy.

Yaoyao’s throat tightens, because pride is the one thing she doesn’t know how to accept from her. 

Because Poppy should be angry. She should be distant. She should be somewhere else, choosing herself for once.

And maybe she is angry. 

Not in the way anger looks when it’s loud or sharp, but in the way it settles into the body after years of holding things together— in the quiet recalculations, the softened edges, the way she carries herself like someone who has learned exactly how much she can afford to feel, and no more.

But she’s still here.

Still loving her—them with hands that know too much and ask for nothing in return.

Because if there is anger in her, it lives alongside love, braided so tightly with responsibility and care that it can no longer exist without it.

Yaoyao nods, a small and broken motion. Happiness and guilt tangle together until she can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

She presses her hands over Poppy's wrists, holding them there, as if afraid she might disappear.

And for a moment… Yaoyao lets herself be held as she is, wings and blood and hope and all, knowing full well that this love is both her salvation and the quiet weight she may never stop carrying.

i think the one ppl kinda get away with hating and calling a dozen is kaia, and i think it all comes from the idea that her vocals are “weak”. and they’re really not that weak! her voice is soft and fairy-like (imagine sabrina carpenter meets joy), she carries a tune nicely and her breathing is actually pretty impressive! the thing is, she’s in a group with two great vocalists, so next to yaoyao and poppy her voice can sound weaker. but miss kaoru is not a dozen: she’s a good performer and super entertaining to watch, her rapping is pretty good, she writes well, and she dances nicely despite not having a dancer position. i think the whole “kaia is a dozen” thing started around mid-hiraeth because she had voice cracks here and there while her members did them nicely, but her solo made everyone realize she’s definitely not the dozen ppl made her out to be. to me, kaia is that one idol everyone thinks of when someone mentions the perfect idol, actually. :) aside of the murder ofc.

the second one ppl sometimes call a dozen is poppy. she was supposed to be the ace! the perfect one! so she was untouchable at the beginning— she could dance, sing, produce, act, model, everything! but over time she just stopped putting energy bc she’s exhausted and depressed and like… she’s not gonna pour the tiny bit of energy she has into something she doesn’t enjoy unless she’s being threatened backstage or literally just took a bunch of meds or is getting paid lmaooo 🤷 what poppy lacks is energy, and everyone constantly compares her to her younger “hungry” self. and even when she performs well to the point of being complimented left and right, ppl will always find something to complain about. like, think jennie! but unlike jennie, poppy doesn’t get away with it and actually gets scolded bad for not being as “perfect” as vivi wants her to be. still, she is a strong vocalist and a great dancer and a producer who genuinely loves creating music for and with her friends. just give her meds, let her take her naps, and she will be back to work i promise

now if someone calls yaoyao a dozen they’re either trolling or asking to be pointed and laughed at because yaoyao is a star!!! they’re a very strong vocalist and their performances are insane both as an idol and as an actress: like this is an oscar winner, helloooooooooo did yall like yaoyao in wicked part 2?! 😋 but they do lack in dancing and get critiqued a lot for being kind of stiff… and since they’re taller than the other two they can look a bit off. but they get away with it bc that’s THE vocalist babey! and they’ve even admitted that if the choreo is too much they’ll literally stop and hit an unnecessary but pretty high note just to survive lmaooo

ahhh yes! i actually do have a few aus where i kind of see TsukiHeejinNingning!hiraeth. the first au that come to me was the fullmetal alchemist au: they’re very young there, like in their early twenties i believe?, so my brain immediately went to them instead of imagining them as the younger versions of their og fcs because, like i said in that one post on main, sometimes i think a lot about those three! there’s also the “what if” au, where hiraeth are much younger, they have just debuted and although very similar to the original plotline, i think they don’t have that much respect for ~the cycle~ they are in. 

and then there’s the kimetsu no yaiba au, but hear me out… i know this is an anime but the anime-like versions of poppy and yaoyao have that heejin and ningning air for some reason so my mind went down that route and it’s been impossible to imagine them as anyone else but them. also, heejin having that cute wavy short hair made me even more delusional because poppy canonically has that hairstyle… like no matter the au she will always end up with short wavy hair ☝️ 

i think kaia’s the one i don’t really imagine as anyone other than sana… just because i really like the idea of her being the oldest out of the three and i think sana is the perfect kaoru fc choice ever! but when it comes to her younger self or the aus where she is a shrine maiden, i do picture tsuki, like her akb48 era version specifically. same thing with my witch au that i’ve been playing around for funsies, where they’re just starting their journey into magic and kaia is the cutie patootie hexing people for fun and 10 dollars  ^_____^

this is an alternate fullmetal world where the elrics do exist,  it’s just that they never committed the taboo and are probably having a very nice life with trisha!  instead,  the title of  “the kids who broke the law of equivalent exchange and live with the fallout”  belongs to the sillies  :)  the canon world still stands as there’s the military,  roy mustang  (mymanmymanmyman),  father,  and the homunculi,  but the main characters of the canon story change.

basically,  poppy and kaia,  young alchemists driven by grief and love,  attempt to bring back their best friend yaoyao through human transmutation.  in the process,  poppy loses her voice,  kaia her heartbeat,  and yaoyao returns not as herself but as an homunculus:  half-familiar,  half-wrong,  an anomaly who desperately clings to the love they have for her,  but not for her.  marked as taboo alchemists,  the girls immediately become fugitives,  hence them always running and covering their tracks,  haunted by their sin and hunted both by the state and by the homunculi who see yaoyao as an anomaly.

basically a story of a messy,  tragic,  unholy family bound by love,  guilt,  and the consequences of defying nature.  the living proof of how grief can twist into sin and how that sin demands to be carried.h

act i.

the plot. the sillies grew up together on the edges of central, daughters of modest families. kaia was calm, methodical, and had a gift for finding symbolic patterns in everything. poppy was rather loud, bright, and endlessly curious about alchemy theory. yaoyao wasn’t an alchemist. she just couldn’t sit through equations without getting bored or bothering the girls to entertain her! but she was the one who usually kept them grounded, the one who always cheered their successes, and the one scolding them every time they mentioned the state alchemist program. she’d laugh and shake her head, “you’ll never be dogs of the military. as long as i’m alive, i will not let you!” she was their moral compass and their heart.

the death. it wasn’t fair. yaoyao had no part in the military’s endless wars, but the chaos spilled into their town like wildfire. one moment she was there, laughing, tugging on their wrists, and the next, she was down. a stray bullet tore through the street, a fragment of metal tore through stone, smoke curling into the air. she wasn’t a soldier nor a target. she was just… there. they remember the way yaoyao tried to smile, her final attempt to make it okay, even as her eyes dimmed, and then she was gone. no long farewell, no words, no chance to hold her warmth close. just a sudden, brutal tearing from the world. the world didn’t stop ofc it never did, and that was the moment they broke. the moment they swore the world would not have her. and so, they tried to bring their anchor back.

the taboo. poppy and kaia decide to bring her back. and in their grief, their brilliance and intelligence turns into arrogance, and so they attempt human transmutation. the cost is that poppy loses her voice, the very thing that gave her alchemy rhythm, and kaia loses her heartbeat, the way to live and of her studies in living anatomy. the result is that yaoyao is reborn, but not as she was. she was reborn as an homunculus that looks and sounds like her, and remembers just enough to twist the knife in their hearts.

military discovery. roy mustang confronts them. they’re young adults nearing their mid twenties, broken, clutching their creation like guilty children with blood on their hands. roy is furious but… sensible. he lets them escape, knowing their existence may be useful in the future. they become fugitives overnight.

act ii.

their life. they are always moving and hiding their tracks. kaia never sleeps deeply anymore because her body doesn’t follow human rhythms anymore. poppy aches to speak, to laugh again, to scream, but writes everything down instead. they both parent yaoyao and fight her at the same time.

yaoyao’s duality. although more innocent compared to the other homunculus, she is rather cruel. she taunts them for their failure, and for how badly they want her back. but the way she leans her head on poppy’s shoulder, the way she teases kaia, and her laugh? in these moments she almost feels real, like their yaoyao. and she may start of as proud, but she ends up desperately wanting their love, but they can’t really give it because she is not her.

reputation: rumors spread ofc. there are two taboo alchemists and the monster they created. the military hunts them as criminals, and father’s homunculi want to capture yaoyao, because she is not of his design. she is dangerous precisely because she exists outside the system.

internal fractures: kaia wants detachment, to treat yaoyao as what she is: a mistake, but poppy can’t help but protect her (she already lost her once, she refuses to lose her again).

act iii.

father’s plan: he needs perfect homunculi tied to philosopher’s stones. yaoyao, born from grief and love rather than his hand, is a flaw in his plans. a variable/anomaly that shouldn’t exist. she is both a threat and an opportunity.

roy’s return: he crosses their path again. he knows they are criminals, but he needs them now. he forces a tense alliance, treating them less like allies and more like weapons to be aimed, but he keeps them protected for now.

doubts: kaia begins to think the only way forward is to destroy yaoyao and to end her suffering, to sever her connection to father. poppy refuses. her whole body rebels at the thought to the point of throwing objects to express her anger.

yaoyao’s break: torn between her homunculus instincts (violence, mockery, and manipulation) and her desperate yearning for the love both kaia and poppy have for her, but not her, she becomes unstable. she lashes out at enemies, at them, at herself. sometimes she is their ally, sometimes their executioner.

act iv.

final act? father’s plan is almost complete and yaoyao is lured toward him, tempted with the promise of power and of belonging, but she resists this. not for humanity’s sake, but because she wants poppy and kaia’s love, and she wants to love them, too.

the confrontation? poppy and kaia face yaoyao at her most unstable, her most dangerous. they need to choose between destroying her, ending their sin once and for all, or keep her, and damn themselves to forever carry this ghost of a friend who will never truly be theirs.

the cost? either choice is unbearable because if she dies, they lose yaoyao all over again. if she lives, they condemn themselves to carry the weight of their taboo forever and this time they won’t be able to flee.

the end? ██████████████████████████████████

theme.

grief makes monsters of us all.

poppy lost her voice (her flame and expression), kaia her heartbeat (her rhythm and grounding), and yaoyao her humanity. together they form a broken trinity.

they are not villains or heroes. they are just three girls bound by love, guilt, and the consequences of sin, running from a world that has no place for them.

kaia.   the  “al”  figure,  the  hollow  alchemist.

kaoru grew up in a small, quiet town with a sickly mother and a father who left when she was barely old enough to remember. the one thing he left behind was a shelf of old alchemy texts, yellowed and dust-heavy. kaia found them young, tracing the glyphs with her little fingers, wondering if any answers could be hidden in the lines. she carried that fascination with her into girlhood, clutching at the promises those books whispered, that if you just studied enough, understood enough, you could rewrite the world itself!

poppy became her closest partner in that pursuit. together, they studied obsessively, not under a master, but through trial, error, curiosity, and fascination. no one was there to hammer in the taboo, to burn into them that human transmutation is incredibly forbidden. they were passionate, curious, mischievous, and reckless. where poppy burned with voice and flame, kaia was quiet precision, connecting symbols and anatomy into strange patterns.

when yaoyao died, grief hollowed her out, and the books that once looked like a game became a weapon when she and poppy broke the ultimate law, and kaia lost her heartbeat.

kaia’s alchemy became tied to her loss. her strength has always been in living transmutation (things such as anatomy, body structure, etc). she dismantles and rebuilds with uncanny precision, reading people like blueprints. she also works with an eerie calm, as though nothing in her chest could quicken or shake. her touch is surgical, her creations efficient and elegant, but they lack warmth.

her stillness unnerves those who have crossed paths with her. in battle, she doesn’t flinch or falter. her precision comes from the fact that adrenaline never clouds her since her body is beyond it. literally.

how is she alive because she has no heartbeath. literally. her blood no longer circulates with a natural pump. instead, an alchemic tether keeps it moving sluggishly. her body is pale and cold to the touch. her lips often look faintly blue, the reason why she loves to carry pink colored lipsticks. when she sits still for too long, she looks like a corpse in meditation.

physical. she can’t regulate temperature well, meaning that heat and cold overwhelm her quickly. she bruises easily and also faints if she pushes too hard. alcohol also sits heavy in her body.

appearance. her veins stand faintly visible under her skin. her hands are always cool and her chest is unnervingly still. pressing an ear to her would reveal silence (something that yaoyao does a lot).

emotional/existential weight. kaia’s emotions feel muted. no racing pulse when she’s scared, no flutter of a heart when she laughs, no ache in her chest when she cries. it’s like a wall sits between her and the world. she sometimes wonders if she’s truly alive or just an alchemic puppet that never finished dying.

people often ask if she’s okay, unsettled by her presence enough. those strangers who have had a long conversation with her get creeped out when they realize she has no pulse.

poppy, already silenced by her own loss, scribbles constant notes to kaia (sit down, you look pale, don’t faint on me) as though keeping kaia upright is a sacred duty. they guard each other fiercely, their losses mirrored but different.

yaoyao, the homunculus, teases her a lot. “you can’t even feel your chest ache when you cry anymore, can you? what kind of human are you now?” kaia endures it with her eerie serenity, but the words sting when she did it for her, but not really her.

her heartbeat was the symbol of everything in her life (fear, love, grief, life itself). losing it means she can’t “feel alive” in the same way. her calm is no longer chosen but forced, and her serenity is a prison. she walks the world like a ghost in her own skin, half-spirit, half-woman, still moving forward because poppy needs her, and because yaoyao haunts them both.

she hates her hollowness but wears serenity like a crown.

poppy.   the  “ed”  figure,  the  mute  alchemist.

poppy grew up with her parents only briefly, at least just long enough to remember warmth, music, and the safety of being loved. when they died young, she was welcomed into the hiiragis’ home with open arms. when kaia became more present in her life, it was like the world cracked open. kaia’s fascination with alchemy was soulful and philosophical, something poppy latched onto. suddenly her own curiosity had a mirror and a companion, someone who treated her mind like a fire instead of a nuisance. yaoyao followed soon after into their friendship. the three of them became inseparable, feeding each other’s lives with joy and possibility.

poppy also used to sing. very softly, like she was afraid someone would take it away from her. lullabies at sleepovers, teasing verses she’d invent to make them laugh when things were getting too serious. yaoyao loved her voice most of all, always egging her on to sing more. kaia, secretly, loved it too, but said less. that voice was poppy’s proof that she was alive and that she could reach others.

the backlash of their sin burned her throat raw, like fire lived in it. she survived, but the price was absolute silence. now she can’t sing anymore, can’t shout, can barely whisper without pain.

voice = selfhood. poppy may have been the most reserved out of the three, but she had always been sharp-tongued, quick to laugh, and quick to snarl. her voice was her sword and shield. now she can’t wield it.

voice = intimacy. all the moments she used to share with her friends (humming lullabies, whispering jokes, saying “i love you” or "i will kill you" in silly whispers) have been stolen from her. she can’t reach them the same way anymore.

voice = grief. when you are mourning you want to scream. poppy can’t. all her rage, guilt, pain has to stay bottled or get thrown into physical gestures. so her silence becomes its own cage.

secondary loss, trembling hands. alchemy requires precision and control and her hands usually betray her with that. sometimes they’re steady, but sometimes they tremble like strings pulled too tight. a perfectionist trapped inside a flawed body.

it adds insult to injury because not only can she not speak, but sometimes she can’t even write cleanly enough to express herself.

communication. with notebooks, chalkboards, sharp hand gestures, and facial expressions. when she’s angry, she’ll slam chalk against a board or throw a cup instead of shouting. her silence becomes violent.

intimacy. kaia notices it most, how poppy wants to whisper reassurance but can’t, how her laughter cracks into broken sounds. kaia reads her touch now instead of her words.

isolation. people underestimate her constantly. they just aassume she’s passive, lesser, and forgettable. she hates it. inside she’s still fire, but trapped under quiet ash. sometimes she believes what's said about her.

symbolism. poppy is the girl who cannot cry out. silenced by her sin. the one whose grief is so heavy it stole her scream.

dynamic with kaia. kaia has no heartbeat, poppy has no voice. they become mirrors of absence. their friendship (and love) is now stitched together with silence, scribbled notes, and glances that last too long. they learn to read what others can’t, aka the flick of a hand, the shift of breath, the quirk of an eyebrow, and more. it’s intimate in its own broken way.

dynamic with yaoyao. the cruelest part is that yaoyao adored her voice, loved her songs and the way she talked. now yaoyao-the-homunculus mocks her silence kinda, but also clings harder in the quiet moments when she leans against her shoulder. yaoyao’s love for her voice, gone forever, because of what they tried to do to bring her back.

poppy is fire with no sound. she moves through the world violently, with gestures instead of words, with chalkboard threats instead of speeches. she burns but can’t roar and because she was once so alive, sooo loud, the silence feels like a grave.

yaoyao.   the  “winry”  figure,  the  homunculus.

before the sin, yaoyao was warmth and motion, the kind of girl who filled space without even trying. as a florist’s daughter, she spent her childhood surrounded by petals and sunlight, her hands usually dusty with soil and pollen. she loved to dance barefoot in courtyards, humming silly songs that even made kaia and poppy pause in their obsessive alchemy studies.

she wasn’t an alchemist because equations bored her and it was too difficult for her, but she was their anchor and their heartbeat outside the dusty books. she laughed endlessly, teased mercilessly, hugged fiercely, and dragged kaia and poppy into every game and festival in town. poppy adored her shameless joy and kaia loved her reckless light. basically, she was their moral compass, their cheerleader, their number one fan, and their heart.

when they tried to bring her back after her sudden and unfair death, she returned, but wrong. she was way too perfect, too sharp, and too hollow. her smile quiet didn’t reach her eyes and her laughter echoed like metal on glass. she knew their names before they spoke, but when kaia called her yaoyao, she tilted her head and asked, “is that who i am?”

she didn’t have an official homunculus name, but she became something akin to desire. the craving to be and do more, but also to be whole and loved, to be what she once was.

fragments of her former self lingered (a laugh here, a half-remembered song there, movements that recalled her dancing in the courtyard, her warm smiles) but those shards were fractured and painful. she couldn’t fully remember, couldn’t fully feel, couldn’t fully belong to what they yearned for.

sometimes, glimpses of the old her break through, like a gesture, a phrase, or a fleeting softness, but those moments devastate poppy and haunt kaia.

she doesn’t see herself as a villain or as a bad guy because, well, she didn’t ask to be born like this. she’s rather innocent, but also messy, unpredictable, blunt, and very morally grey coded. sometimes, she lashes out, mocks, and even hurts them, but beneath it all is a desperate need to be loved as she is.

she is unstable unlike the other homunculi tied to father’s plan, born from grief and human love. she is not a perfect design, so she is both dangerous and vital.

every moment with her is a test: love, guilt, fear, and grief tangled together, because kaia and poppy can’t let go of the fragments of the friend they lost when she's right there. and beneath her sublte mockery, yaoyao desperately clings to the thought that they will love her the way they loved the old her. she wants that love, like she literally aches for it, and she longs (somewhere deep inside) to share it with them fully.

yaoyao is the sun that no longer warms fully and the light fractured by human grief and forbidden ambition. she embodies grief, heartbreak and danger, she’s the living proof of poppy and kaia’s sin. she is their impossible responsibility, their ghost, their child of grief, and above all, their reminder that love and guilt can create something both beautiful and monstrous.

Mirrors lined every surface around her. The walls, the ceiling, even the floor, each one catching her reflection in fractured glimpses, as if it was trying to piece together something that was already whole. She looked like a ghost trapped in a jewel box: too poised, too beautiful, too still, wearing black velvet like a shadow and gloves the color of a prayer said too late.

She looked divine.

Kaia always did.

Her face was relaxed— calm, but it was the kind of calm that didn’t come naturally. The kind you earn, slowly, through silence and obedience. Soft-lashed, high-boned,and a rosy mouth resting in a gentle curve of nothing. She looked like the kind of woman who never bled, who had never sinned, who had never broken. Someone who was born already sacred.

FLOOR 3. FLOOR 4.

The elevator began to move, and something in her shifted.

Just slightly, not visibly. Not to the many reflections of herself, at least. 

Inside her body, something pulled tight, like a thread catching on bone. Her ankle ached in the same place it always did after difficult performances and long days, a low pulse of pain that had never fully healed. She shifted her weight by a fraction. Just an adjustment. Not because it hurt, but because it reminded her.

Her shoulder rolled back, and there was a soft pop.

And just like that, she heard it again. That sharp, sick sound. Not hers. Hers. Cartilage collapsing, bone striking panel, wet breath and screaming metal and tears. That awful, brittle crack that kept echoing in her skull, no matter how long it had been since the first time she heard it and made it happen.

It didn't haunt her. At least, not exactly… but it stayed, like the taste of iron on the back of her tongue.

The sound of bone breaking had been delicate. Almost musical.

She thought about that more often than she should… how it didn’t even sound like violence. It sounded like an ending. Like the final snap of something old, rotten, and overdue.

Something that needed to be destroyed.

And it had been, by her dainty, calm hands.

And wasn’t it strange, how she could still stand here while that sound followed her like a lullaby?

There was no remorse. Not guilt.

Just the memory of music.

FLOOR 5.

She didn’t blink. She didn’t even breathe differently, but her jaw locked, ever so slightly. Inside her gloves, her fingers curled once and then stilled.

Her gaze lifted to the mirror.

A thousand versions of herself stared back at her. Each one identical, each one flawless. Not a hair out of place. Not a smear, not a tremble, not a single mistake. It was just her: divine, composed, and untouched. She was beautiful in the way glass is beautiful before it shatters.

She stared at them, and for a moment she couldn’t tell which one was real. They all looked… perfect. Human. Her. 

Except the one she felt twisting through her veins.

The one pulsing behind her ribs.

The one no mirror could show, but she knew was there. Watching, grinning, and taunting her. Every single day.

She looked away. 

FLOOR 6. FLOOR 7.

The air felt too thick now. It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold, either. It was just there, like a weight pressing gently against her skin and throat, urging her to feel whole. 

She breathed through it. Shallow and controlled, just like she was taught and instructed every time the screams, the cries, the beggings were too loud, but that wasn’t enough to stop her stomach from turning. Not sharply, at least not enough to disturb the surface. Just a slow, sinking churn that settled beneath her sternum like a secret. It was acid-sweet and impossible to name.

She could still feel the blood. Not on her hands— those were currently gloved in red, covered, pristine clean, and stiff, but beneath the skin. Threaded through her muscles and veins. Nested in her spine, savoring it in her taste buds.

The universe had jokes, she thought. Red gloves. A clean elevator. Soft music playing through the speakers, something orchestral, slow, and beautiful.

A stage, always. Even in moments like this.

Especially in moments like this.

The corner of her lips barely lifted.

“Funny.”

FLOOR 8.

Her fingers twitched again. Once. The satin sighed under the strain. Twice. 

She didn’t look down.

Instead, she kept watching herself because the mirrors didn’t lie. At least not technically. They showed her what everyone else saw. The number one girl in the world, Hiiragi Kaia— a vision, a muse, the girl on the radio, the woman in the billboards, the angel of summer, untouchable. 

But the truth was quieter.

The truth sat deep in her chest, behind the calm musings and the kind smiles. It spoke only when she was alone like this, inside places that moved too slow to ignore. It said: You did it. You made it.

But it also said: You killed her. You made it.

FLOOR 9.

But nothing showed. Nothing ever did. 

Her lips remained soft, and her expression remained unbothered. There was no grief in her eyes. There was no rage, no fear. Not even regret. Not anymore.

Just distance.

Just the long, cold calm of someone who had done what needed to be done, then buried the rest beneath silk and smiles.

FLOOR 10.

The elevator started slowing down, and her gaze shifted to the center of the mirrored doors and held her own stare.

And then the bell rang.

FLOOR 11.

With that single sound, her face changed.

Not dramatically. Not like a mask falling.

But precisely.

Her lashes lifted. Her mouth softened, just barely, enough to suggest warmth, but not enough to prove it. The tension in her fingers melted, and her spine straightened. She became grace incarnate. Glowing, serene, soft in all the right places. Human, just barely.

The doors opened.

She stepped out like she was gliding, like there was nothing behind her but silence and floral perfume. Like her heart had never screamed, like her hands had never broken anything human, like the mirrors hadn’t seen it all.

The doors closed again.

And inside, her reflection lingered. 

Still staring. 

Still smiling. 

Still haunted.

And underneath it all, still rotting.

"The History of Itzara" DRAFT: Written by Hiiragi Kaoru

The Itzara Region is a land of contradictions. It is breathtaking in beauty but ruthless in survival. Often called the heart of legends, it's a place where the myths of ancient civilizations and the presence of Pokémon are inseparably interlaced together. Here, volcanic mountains pierce the sky, rivers run through sacred valleys, and jungle ruins whisper the stories of gods and heroes. In Itzara, battles are not merely sport: they are survival, tradition, and ritual all at once.

Long ago, Itzara was home to advanced civilizations whose astronomers looked up to the heavens and whose warriors honored divine Pokémon in rites of sun, moon, and storm. They built temples aligned with the stars, where trainers and Pokémon stood side by side as guardians of balance. Legends speak of a Feathered Serpent who descended in times of harmony, a Solar Eagle who carried the sun on its wings, and a Moon Jaguar who prowled the night sky. These deities, it was said, kept the world in motion, ensuring that destruction and renewal remained in balance.

But history in Itzara was never without blood. Ancient records etched into stone tablets and cave murals tell of rival sects who summoned destructive serpents of fire and rain, demanding sacrifices to keep famine or flood at bay. Wars were waged over which Pokémon’s power should rule the land. This cycle of devotion, conflict, and renewal became part of Itzara’s very identity.

When these civilizations declined, the region entered a long period of quiet. It became known as a tranquil refuge, a place where meteor showers painted the skies, where forests regrew over abandoned temples, and where retired scientists and travelers from other regions found peace. Over generations, Itzara opened its arms to all outsiders. Settlers from every corner of the world were drawn to its valleys, warm coasts, and the promise of coexistence. For many families, including those of foreign origin, Itzara was a land where one could start anew, and so communities became diverse, blending traditions into something uniquely Itzaran.

This peace lasted centuries. In time, as Itzara’s population grew, its people started looking to formalize their traditions of battle. A League was established atop the highest peak of the region, a place once sacred to the old Lorekeeper, where the Feathered Serpent was said to descend. Like Alola’s trials, Itzara’s first League was not meant as spectacle, but as a celebration of culture, strength, and unity. Gym leaders rose to prominence, trainers journeyed the region to prove themselves, and at the summit a Champion, twenty two years old Xavier Solari, was crowned.

But for the past decade, there has only been one Champion. Under his "reign" and the death of the oldest Lorekeeper, the world of Itzara began to shift slowly. Wild Pokémon turned violent, lashing out at trainers and travelers without warning. Strange distortions kept toring up open the sky, spilling Ultra Beasts into forests and mountains. More and more trainers went to the authorities with desperate claims— that their partners had been stolen, or that they were suddenly… different. Hard-eyed. Wrathful. Some even turned on their own trainers with fatal results.

The League hardened in response. Gyms grew harsher, trials more brutal, as if to prepare every challenger for the nightmare lurking beyond the safe zones. And yet, to outsiders, Itzara gleams like a jewel. Festivals continue to flourish, temples are still standing, traditions are still celebrated, and the League is admired across the world as the pinnacle of strength. Foreign scholars and travelers speak of Itzara’s beauty and culture in awe, never glimpsing the shadow beneath. Its people, too, live under the glittering story they are told— that all is well, everything is being investigated, and that the Champion is leading them into greatness.

The illusion holds because it is carefully crafted. State-controlled media glorifies the Champion as a savior, while tragedies are rewritten as accidents or buried in silence. Law enforcement are well-paid to conceal what truly happens beyond city walls, and above all, cultural pride blinds the people themselves: to question the League is to question Itzara’s honor, its beauty, its very soul.

But the murals of the ancients tell another story. The deities, it was said, kept the world in motion, ensuring that destruction and renewal remained in balance. Their silence now is a warning. The balance has been broken, and in that silence, something darker has taken root.

Behind the admiration, behind the spectacle, lies a truth almost no one dares to whisper: that Itzara’s glory is built on fear, violence, and the silenced voices of those who tried to resist.

heavily based and inspired on the mesoamerican era and its mythology  (temples, sun/moon/serpent deities, cycles of conflict and renewal)  and méxico  (geography,  biomes,  the culture and traditions,  syncretism,  the history of refuge and cultural blending,  corruption and organized crimes and the fact people outside méxico and even my own people can't see it or they just pretend they can't see lmao,  and quetzalcoatl)  ^__^  

i was also inspired by canon plots such as the shadow pokemon project and regions such as hoenn,  sinnoh/hisui,  alola,  and orre.  i really wanted to explore the idea of a champion who’s not some big evil final boss because basically it’s the whole elite league,  but someone driven by pride and obsession because he has this kind of mentality that is like: “if i became the champion here,  then my people must be just like me.  they must be strong enough.  or i'll make them strong enough.”  so the league and the region itself becomes this machine of pressure,  trials,  and survival to shape them into what he believes they should be.  :) 

but yeah.  basically the “plot” of my au is that yaoyao starts finding the truths of shadow pokémon mostly by herself after stumbling across a shadow togepi, and through casual, innocent questions,  she slowly uncovers more.  eventually that leads her to kaia and poppy,  and then a bunch of other ppl who get drawn into the bigger picture  ^___^  the story is basically all of them quietly researching,  chasing threads,  dealing with shady shit,  protecting pokémon,  exposing corruption,  and sometimes actually kicking ass but ofc they are not doing it alone because there are a lot of npc characters involved too:  other gym leaders,  the last lorekeeper,  my made up legendaries,  even vivi and communitybestie are part of it lmaooooooo

"The History of Itzara: The Pokémon League" DRAFT: Written by Hiiragi Kaoru

The Itzara League is unlike any other in the Pokémon world. Where most regions present their Leagues as symbols of unity, sport, and tradition, Itzara’s is more like a government— a shadow state ruled by its Champion and his chosen Elite Four. On paper, the Gym Leaders and the Elite Four form one organization. But in truth, they are two halves at odds. Gym Leaders serve their communities directly: they are protectors, mentors, and trial-givers. They follow the Champion’s laws outwardly, but many whisper of their doubts behind doors and to those who seek to battle the Champion. Too many unexplained deaths, too many missing Pokémon, too many laws passed to benefit the Champion’s circle. They cannot prove anything, but they fight harder than any other region’s leaders, because they know that to defy the League openly is to sign their death warrant. The Elite Four, by contrast, are the Champion’s inner council, his weapons and his hands. They hold power over Itzara’s politics, economy, and even culture. Each is feared in their own right, not just for their strength in battle, but for the influence they hold beyond it. Together, they make the League a machine— one that looks beautiful from afar, but is built on blood, manipulation, and shadows.

pokémon  professor/specialist,  shrine  maiden,  shadow  pokémon  researcher.  twenty  eight  years  old.  sinnoh  native,  itzara  resident.  specializes  in  ghost  type  pokémon  and  in  nosing  into  things  best  left  alone.  known  for  her  gentle,  calm  and  charismatic  presence;  for  her  affinity  with  ghost  pokémon  and  the  paranormal.  her  team  consists  of  gengar,  decidueye,  chandelure,  lopunny,  milotic,  and  alolan  vulpix.

although a sinnoh native, kaia grew up in the older, rural parts of itzara where nature and tradition was and continues to breathe.  

when she was a child, she was a curious, respectful but very mischievous shrine maiden tasked with tending to ruins and spiritual spaces because paranormal activity wasn’t as active when she was in charge. it was here where she met her first pokémon, a playful gastly who tried to make her and her friends laugh when they ventured too deep into one of the ruins. obviously, it scared the fuck out of everyone and they fled crying and screaming. everyone except kaia, of course, who laughed, played and entertained it until her parents came looking for her. that gastly later became her lifelong companion, the gengar that usually lurks behind her with the sinister smile kaia wishes she could own.

a year or two ago, she became a trainer when she found a rowlet near one of the temples she was tending. she didn’t try to capture or control it, instead she just sat quietly beneath the tree and ate her snacks as it silently observed her, and after a while the rowlet calmly flied down to perch on her shoulder and nuzzle her cheek with its beak, basically accepting her. that rowlet is now a decidueye, and if gengar is her shadow, decidueye is her guardian. 

once gathering the regions’ medals, she rose quickly through the ranks and became a respected gym leader specializing in ghost-types. she wasn’t just strong in battle, she also taught tactics, reading opponents, and creative strategy. she was a mentor figure to many up-and-coming trainers, and it didn’t help the fact that kaia was both very nice and very very pretty, so… 

however, she’s no longer part of the league. she’s currently an educator, but not an actual professor. she focuses on teaching battle theory, pokémon-human psychology, and understanding how culture and history shape strategy. she’s also known as someone who is always researching something.

she started poking into league politics, shadow pokémon rumors, and found traces of organized crime activity because she wanted to gather information for her latest research.  itzara wasn’t like this before,  why is everything so brutal now?  in her research, she wrote harmless-looking papers on folklore, ruin history, and ghost psychology, but in her analysis there were patterns that, to the right eyes, hinted at corruption in itzara. she didn’t even realize what she was piecing together until the accusations came— that she had been spotted in ruins at odd hours! visiting shadow activity sites! even speaking with people who later came under investigation! 

to law enforcement and on paper, her whereabouts were very suspicious. in reality, she was just gathering material for her writing! chasing old myths! and asking questions that, by chance, brushed too close to truths she wasn’t meant to touch, but how was she supposed to know that! once, she asked something in a seminar, a casual and innocent question about unusual trainer networks, that made at least one official stiffen in his seat. 

her removal from the league was never official, just a quiet exit. there was no public scandal nor a courtroom scene nor a you’re fired! moment, just a pushing-out that left everyone else creating their own version of the truth. to itzarans, she just “took a step back” and to her, it felt like being edged out of a conversation she wasn’t even aware she’d joined! she couldn’t deny the evidence against her, aka the records placing her in the wrong places, even if she knew the reasons behind them were harmless. so she accepted it and retreated to her shrine, taking her post at the training school instead.

she’s one of the few people actively connecting the dots when it comes to itzara but sadly, the league is aware of this, hence her being quietly monitored by law enforcements and the league itself. however, her calm life and steady routines convince most that she’s no longer a threat, but the eyes never vanish entirely. sometimes they drift, leaving just enough space for her to slip back into asking, connecting, gathering and writing.

personality-wise, kaia is the same (kind, calm, sly) just add the fact that she carries some kind of supernatural awareness that makes her sense when something is wrong before anyone speaks and that she is kinda creepy tbh 🤷

psychic  gym  leader,  medic/scientist,  shadow  pokémon  researcher.  twenty  nine  years  old.  itzara  native  and  resident.  specializes  in  fairy  and  psychic  type  pokémon  and  in  the  medical  and  engineering  field.  known  for  her  fatigued  yet  morally  grounded  presence;  commanding  her  team  through  psychic  bonds.  her  team  consists  of  gardevoir,  primarina,  vileplume,  espeon,  absol,  and  volcarona.

poppy grew up in the shadow of her father’s legacy. he was once a renowned psychic-type gym leader, respected for his intelligence, sharp mind, and powerful team through itzara, but when he spoke out against certain league decisions (basically, he started questioning the rise of aggression in pokémon and the methods used to “cure” them), his health declined almost overnight and to this day, no one knows how such a healthy man had such an ending. whether coincidence or consequence, he was forced into retirement, leaving the gym to his then seventeen years old daughter, who hesitantly stepped up with her just evolved gardevoir at her side. 

her bond with gardevoir is an unshakable thing since poppy was a child. she basically grew up with it, first as a ralts who echoed her thoughts before she could even speak them out loud. gardevoir has been her anchor ever since: protecting her in battle, reminding her through telepathy when she forgets to rest or take her medicine, and always present like a second conscience. alongside it are espeon, once an eevee gifted by her father, and primarina, given to her as a popplio by the local professor who thought “poppy and popplio” was too funny to resist. those three form the heart of her personal team, with vileplume, absol, and volcarona completing the circle of empathy and judgment she commands through psychic bonds.

her mother, meanwhile, runs the solari sanctuary: a public home for pokémon care and rehabilitation, a place marketed as a safe haven for those harmed by the many threats of itzara. but beneath its wholesome and glittery image, the sanctuary has ties to organized crime poppy hasn’t fully uncovered, even though she is the president’s daughter and even worked there once #nepobaby however, instead of being allowed a central role there, she was quietly placed in her own clinic near the main city. officially to lead as head medic, unofficially to keep her separate from the sanctuary’s inner workings. it kinda leaves her in a strange place tbh, close enough to seem complicit, but too far to know the truth.

in her clinic, poppy does whatever she wants. she accepts the league’s medicines when they’re delivered, then sets them aside and brews her own formulas instead with alterations that heal pokémon faster, restore their strength more gently, and sometimes mend wounds the official meds couldn’t handle. when asked why her patients recover quicker, she only shrugs and offers a dry, “i guess i just have a good hand.” everyone accepts it, though the truth is that she doesn’t trust the league’s medicine at all. her constant partner in this is a porygon-z the engineers at the solari sanctuary dismissed outright, but poppy thought differently. basically a case of “porygon2 may be theirs but you are mine!” 

as a gym leader, poppy isn’t beloved the way her father and some of her peers are. she radiates fatigue and disinterest, looking challengers dead in the eye with the expression of someone who doesn’t like them and doesn’t care if they know it. her battles are precise, elegant, and unrelenting, but her presence is unnerving. she doesn’t hide her boredom, doesn’t fake kindness, and yet, trainers leave with the uneasy sense that she saw more than what she said, that she judged them in ways they’ll never understand.

though she rarely speaks against the league, she watches everything and notices things. she remembers kaia’s quiet removal from the league, her father’s sudden health decline, the way injured pokémon sometimes arrive at her clinic in states that no ordinary accident could explain. she suspects the league is behind it all but knows how quickly they silence anybody who speaks up. so she waits and observes and keeps her theories close, her research quiet, her purifying chamber a secret, her notes disguised as harmless studies from what she gathered from kaia’s research and conversations with her, and even the little her father told her before his death. she works not only to heal pokémon but to soften their hearts, a goal she knows the league would never approve of.

at twenty-nine, poppy carries the exhaustion of someone who has lived too many lives at once: daughter of a fallen gym leader, medic for a region drowning in corruption, heir to a sanctuary she doesn’t trust, and reluctant figurehead of a gym she never asked to inherit. she is calm, morally grounded, but unsettling in her quiet refusal to play the part expected of her.

influencer,  kind  of  a  celebrity,  pokémon trainer,  shadow  pokémon  researcher.  twenty  seven  years  old.  hoenn  native,  itzara  resident.  specializes  in  fairy  and  fighting  type  pokémon.  known  for  their  bright  personality,  social  media  presence,  stylish  battles,  and  strong  bonds  with  pokémon.  pokémon  team  consists  of  altaria,  lucario,  arcanine,  rockruff,  bewear,  tinkaton,  and  although  she  doesn’t  send  her  to  battle,  a  shadow  togepi.

yaoyao is a hoenn native that made a name for herself not in the league, but in contests. before being a trainer, she was an idol—  famous, flashy, radiant, the kind of idol whose altaria stole every spotlight. altaria wasn’t just her contest partner, she was her first true rival in battle as a kid, too. yaoyao still remembers spilling a bag of berries as a child and having to fight the then wild swablu over them 😭 somehow, they became inseparable after none of them won because the then stufful ate all of the berries when they were distracted. that bond, both playful and stubborn, carried through every contest and every performance, until altaria became not just her partner but her signature.

her lucario, on the other hand, has always been her constant companion. he was the first pokémon she ever hatched herself from an egg she was taking care of, and from the start, he followed her everywhere, let it be training, performing, or traveling around the world. if altaria is her showstopper, lucario is her anchor.

yaoyao eventually retired from contests and that kind of public life, but not because she lost interest, but because she wanted to see the world! she wandered through regions, posting her travels and photography, sharing stories, and her social media only grew bigger with every post. everywhere she went, people knew her. when the media mogul of itzara, someone who is part of the elite four, realized how much influence she had within social media, he invited her to visit and stay as long as she wanted. she arrived ready to be the shining face of the region, to inspire trainers, to spread joy, to show the world how amazing and perfect itzara was. she sold that image effortlessly with her styled battles, her streams, fan interactions, and mentoring the next generation of trainers. everyone loved her, and she loved seeing the light in their eyes.

but then she found the togepi.

it was small, trembling, heart closed tight, and every time she held it, her own chest ached. at first, she assumed it had been injured by wild pokémon, nothing more, but as she started asking questions (quietly, carefully) she realized the truth: that this wasn’t an accident. the pokémon had been hurt by humans, by shadow activity, by manipulation, by things no one wanted/refused to talk about. every question she asked, every careful conversation she had, made her understand how much she had unknowingly been selling—  a perfect, rose colored, idealized image of a region that was quietly rotting in the shadows. 

it was that shadow togepi that made her start seeing through the performance. she didn’t stop working completely (streams, battles, appearances still happened, and they were still perfect) but behind the smile, she was noticing and connecting dots the wrong people didn’t want her to. quietly, she pulled at threads, investigated without drawing attention, watched without raising suspicion. everyone still saw the radiant former idol, the perfect face of itzara, but no one suspected how much she was piecing together.

and in the process, she basically told kaia and poppy to get the fuck up too!! she wanted to heal her togepi, yes, that’s her baby i can not stress this enough, but she also wanted to make sure nothing like this could happen again. the injustice lit a fire in her because there was a lot going on in itzara, but she learned to hide it behind her usual charm and warmth. she wasn’t just a pretty and happy face, she was a force and a catalyst, too, someone quietly shaking the system without anyone realizing it.

of reason, of spirit, of desire is a kimetsu no yaiba au where i shamelessly throw my sillies into the world of one of my many hyperfixations,  while also taking the space for me to deepen the development of my favorite canon characters,  such as the shinazugawa brothers,  tanjiro,  and many more!!  this au explores grief,  self-acceptance,  duty,  found family,  trauma,  the hurting,  the healing,  the loving,  and the quiet but aching beauty of choosing to live anyway.  while set within the canon timeline up through the hashira training arc and stopping before everyone is sent to hell to defeat muzan because i really wanted to do some more development,  a few changes have been made here and there such as the characters' ages being aged up!

the name/au is inspired by plato’s theory of the soul!  basically,  his belief that the soul is divided into three parts  (reason  (poppy),  spirit  (yaoyao),  and desire  (kaia))  which is very hiraeth coded even in another universe,  don’t you think?  ^___^  he saw harmony between them as the mark of a just human being and imbalance as the root of chaos.  this theory has always been in hiraeth’s moodboard and since i’m also exploring themes such as healing,  identity,  grief,  and self-acceptance,  it felt only natural to add one of their many inspos into this au. 

also,  yes…  yes!!!!!!!  i wanted my girls to kiss my favorite characters obviously but that’s just a plus  😂  #KaiaSanemiAreRealToMe!!!!!!!!  most of what i’m going to dump here is going to be copy pasted from the og docs so enjoy!  :)

kaia’s  visual  inspiration:  holo,  nicole,  navia

name. hiiragi kaoru

alias. kaia, the soul of the corps, the mourning flower, ghost girl, fox

her birth name was kaoru, meaning fragrance, purity, and tradition. it was the name of a shrine maiden, a daughter of the small hiiragi bloodline. her parents chose it with care, and her sister used to sing it. it belonged to someone gentle, sacred, and whole. but after the demon destroyed her village at the age of thirteen, kaoru felt like a name she no longer deserved.

when the kakushi asked her name, she said kaia. not to forget, but to survive. kaia was who learned to fight. who bore the grief. who found her way through blood and ash. she didn’t reject her past or what had happened to her village, her shrine, and her family, she just couldn’t carry it by name anymore.

kaoru still lives in her heart, though. she loves it, even if it hurts to hear it. only those she truly trusts get to say it, those who don’t mourn her.

relation(s). himejima gyomei (former master), kocho shinobu, agatsuma zenitsu, kim poppy, shinazugawa sanemi

affiliation. the hiiragi clan, demon slayers corp.

occupation. hashira, shrine maiden. 

breathing style. soul breathing, created by her, derived by water breathing. 

gyomei knew she wouldn’t stay on the stone breathing path.

he accepted her as a tsuguko not to pass on his technique, but to mentor her spirit and help her find her own breath. 

soul breathing isn’t a derivative of stone but her time with gyomei gave her the emotional discipline and inner strength to forge her own style with his teachings anchoring it.

once a sacred exorcism swordplay meant to guide spirits to peace, it is now wielded to drag demons into the afterlife by force. she moves silently, almost like a ghost. her swordplay is calm and ceremonial but heavy with grief and rage. her presence feels like a funeral rite: beautiful, quiet, and haunting. 

she's an offensive, speed-based fighter whose soul literally carries the dead with her.

once named kaoru, hiiragi kaia was born to be the final shrine maiden of her bloodline. raised deep in the mountains, she tended to the sacred sanctuary of her village, guiding spirits and performing rites meant to keep the world in balance. she was never meant to wield a blade, only prayer, dance, flowers, and silk.

but when a demon with rainbow eyes razed her home, kaia survived. not because she fought, but because she ran, as her older sister commanded. afterward, she wrapped everybody she could find in silk, fingers torn and bleeding by the end. when the sun rose, she began walking, aimless and half-dead, until she was found by a demon slayer and begged to be recruited and trained.

gyomei himejima took her in. not to pass on his breathing style, but to steady her. he saw something fragile but unyielding in her. she changed her name to kaia, a quieter form of “kaoru,” choosing to carry her past not as a name but as a shadow. her soul breathing (once an elegant, sacred sword dance meant to guide spirits to peace) became something else entirely: a weapon to drag demons into the afterlife by force.

she moves like a ghost. she’s silent, fast, and unreadable. her swordplay is calm and ceremonial, but laced with unbearable grief and fury. her presence feels like a funeral rite: beautiful, but quiet, and she fights fast since her soul quite literally carries the weight of the dead with her.

though she is known for her gentle, rather maternal and calm presence, there’s something very strange in her stillness! something unknowable that unsettles the reckless. and yet, when she chooses to be playful, there’s a glint in her eyes that makes people think of a fox, or an orange cat in the sun, all warmth and cleverness and hidden claws.

kaia became a hashira after killing fifty demons as a kinoe, not out of vengeance but out of duty. she still searches for the rainbow-eyed demon that destroyed her home. but quietly, always quietly because she fights not for herself, but for the ones who no longer can.

one.

he heard the footsteps before he saw her. soft. slow. unfittingly light. he turned with a sharp scowl, ready to snap at whatever fool thought it was a good idea to stroll into an active demon zone like it was a festival path. and there she stood. a girl— short, wide-eyed beneath the fog, white sleeves soaked at the hem and hands clasped behind her back. she smiled at him like he hadn’t just glared knives into her, and the first thing she said was, “you must be shinazugawa sanemi?”  he blinked. “are you lost?” he barked, voice sharp like flint.  she tilted her head. then, she shook her head. “no.” “then what are you doing here?”  her lips quirked. “i was assigned to support you tonight.” support. her? he looked her up and down, eyes trailing over the slight build, the soft edges, the way she stood like she didn’t know what danger meant. her voice was too gentle. her smile was wrong. she didn’t reek of steel or fire or anger— just lilacs and rain and whatever damned patience she had for smiling at a man like him. “they sent you?” he scoffed, stepping forward, tone low and cutting. “you’re softer than rice paper. you’ll be dead before nightfall.” she didn’t flinch. didn’t lose the smile, either, as she tilted her head.  “then i’ll just have to prove you wrong.” he clenched his jaw. the audacity.

two.

“they’re not vermin. they’re holy foxes! and they remember people, you know.” he crossed his arms. “they remember who feeds them. not the same thing.” “no,” she said lightly, “but they also remember who scared them off with a sword once.” he stiffened. kaia only turned, lashes low, and smiled at him. “you’re lucky they’re forgiving.” he grunted and glanced toward the trees, where a few of the braver foxes had started creeping forward, their white paws silent against the moss. one paused to sniff the edge of her robe before darting closer to the bowl she’d set beside her. kaia looked up at him again. “come feed them with me.” sanemi made a face like she’d asked him to chew glass. “not happening.” “just a little,” she coaxed. “it’s tradition. shrine visitors who feed the foxes are said to receive a lot of blessings.” “i don't need shit.” she tilted her head. “you’re not scared, are you?” “of what? tiny gods in tiny fur coats?” “mm,” she said, lashes fluttering as she smiled. “you didn’t say that when you met me.” he froze. she knew exactly what she was doing. that slow, deliberate blink of hers. the way her lips curled, just a little smug. the way her voice went gentle and low, like she was telling a secret to someone she trusted not to run with it. “i wasn’t scared of you,” he muttered. “no,” she said, softly, “you were just mad at me for being a thorn at your side.” he rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

quick  note:  kaia is the reason why i even threw them into the kny world.  why?  because i thought she would be amazing at ragebaiting sanemi into liking her back LMAOOOO 😂 i’ve gone down different routes when it comes to her,  such as an au where she’s just a shrine maiden who was saved by him and another one where she is still gyomei’s tsuguko,  but yeah it all goes back to her and sanemi smacking lips and him being ragebaited by her because they are meant to be and well i did create this au to make them kiss #RealLove

poppy’s  visual  inspiration:  raiden shogun,  tamayo,  columbina

name. kim hwayoung

alias. poppy, flower girl, blossom

ethnicity. korean

traveled to japan as a child under the guise of becoming a dance apprentice, a cultural performer program backed by upper-class sponsors. during the taisho era, japan was opening more trade and cultural channels with korea (then under japanese rule), so it wouldn’t be uncommon for a young, gifted korean dancer to be “brought over” as part of cultural showcases or entertainment for the nobility, so…

relation(s). rengoku family, tomioka giyuu, kocho shinobu, kamado tanjiro, himejima gyomei

affiliation. rengoku family, demon slayers corp.

occupation. demon slayer, kinoe rank.

breathing style. bloom breathing, created by her, inspired by flame and flower breathing. 

her breathing style is a deadly, graceful sword style inspired by flowers' life cycles blooming on fire: basically growth, beauty, and decay. every form is like a garden in motion, beautiful and sharp, almost like a dance. she’s an offensive/agility/stamina-heavy fighter and rarely defends herself, which leads to frequent injuries and suicidal gossips. her swordplay has flower breathing roots but includes custom flame-based forms as tribute to what the rengokus taught her.

born as kim hwayoung, poppy grew up in japan after relocating from korea as a child through a cultural exchange. under the guise of becoming a dance apprentice in a performer program backed by upper-class sponsors, she and her parents settled in a district known for entertainment and arts. her family had little, but they had each other, at least until the night her father went into the woods to find herbs for her fever and never came back.

no one could explain his disappearance. only later did they learn what killed him: a demon.

the grief shattered her mother. rage, sorrow, and desperation twisted into cruelty, and soon hwayoung’s home became a quiet hell. her mother’s hands, once gentle, turned violent. her dancing was still demanded, but now it was for older, leering guests. hwayoung shrank inside herself, small and unreadable, but became used to it. 

then came the night her mother returned twitching, glassy-eyed and snarling, freshly attacked by a demon. hwayoung didn't scream. she just grabbed the nearest hairpin and started killing something that wasn’t her mother. again and again. no hesitation. no regret. not even when her mother cried out her name.

she was still at it when the then flame hashira, shinjuro rengoku, found her.

instead of abandoning her, he brought her to kagaya ubuyashiki. he renamed her poppy, after the red flowers that bloom in blood-disturbed earth, and the oldest rengoku raised her as his ward. she trained alongside his oldest son, the sun to her moon, and eventually became his tsuguko when the former flame hashira gave up on his position as hashira. they shared a bond that ran deep, and when he died, part of her died too.

her breathing style is a haunting blend of flower and flame, each form mimicking a flower’s life cycle. her movements are fast, agile, and relentless, often compared to a blooming garden devouring itself. she rarely defends herself, choosing to push forward even through injury. her self-endangering style led to rumors of suicidal tendencies, but she never responds to them.

personality-wise, poppy is quiet and unreadable. kind hearted but distant, emotionally absent unless she trusts you. her expressions are faint, her humor dry and strange, and her loyalty, once earned, is unshakable. she’s closest to kaia, and has a quiet understanding with shinobu, giyuu, and gyomei.

under her beauty and grace lies something wounded and watchful. people think her softness is fragility, but really, it’s what’s left after surviving things no one should. kyojuro brought her back to life once, with warmth and purpose. now, even in grief, she keeps going. slowly, steadily. blooming still.

one.

training became routine. the clang of wooden swords, the bark of shinjuro’s commands, the rhythm of breath and motion. cicadas wailed through the trees, the air thick with summer heat. poppy moved like a ghost still, but there was something different now in the young girl. something beginning to stir beneath her silence. she started watching him. not all at once. not obviously. but during their sparring drills, or when shinjuro had them practicing strikes on separate ends of the courtyard, her eyes would drift. her footwork would falter. her stance would pause for half a second too long. kyojuro noticed. not because he was trying to, but because her gaze felt like sunlight on his skin. quiet. questioning. a little shy. and he liked it. his swordplay grew bolder. not to show off, never that, but to lift her eyes, to make her wonder. he started offering more smiles when they passed each other. short greetings. little waves. when she didn’t respond, he didn’t take it to heart. but he saw the way her fingers loosened at her sleeves when he got close. he noticed when she stopped flinching at his laughter. one morning, mid-swing, he caught her watching again: mouth parted just slightly, eyes wide, like he’d done something impossible. he nearly missed his target. and then, later that afternoon, when they were fetching water from the well, her voice cracked the silence for the very first time. soft. almost like she wasn’t sure it was allowed. “… you are good, kyojuro.” he turned. froze. he didn’t say anything at first, just stared at her like the sky had opened above them, like she’d pulled sunlight from her throat and handed it to him with both hands. his whole face lit up. “you said my name!” he practically shouted, voice bright with glee. she startled. her shoulders tensed, her eyes flicking downward again. but when he beamed, wide and warm and so, so proud, something about her posture shifted. not entirely relaxed. not yet. but her hands weren’t curled so tightly anymore. “thank you,” he said, suddenly gentle, his voice like crackling firewood. “what you said. it made me really happy.” she didn’t answer. but she nodded.

two.

it happens at dawn. the sky is still pink with sleep, dew still clinging to every leaf, and the morning air stings her skin in the softest way. her lungs still burn sometimes. her legs ache just standing. but today, she doesn’t care. today, she wants to try. the courtyard of the butterfly mansion is quiet, save for the rustling of wind-chimes and birdsong. most of the estate is still asleep, but poppy, wrapped in layers to brace against the cool, pale morning, walks barefoot onto the stone with nothing but her breath, her scars, and the sword she hasn’t touched in over three months. it’s not her newest blade. it’s the one she used during the fight. the one they pulled from her near-lifeless body, but no longer stained with blood. someone had cleaned it, polished it, and placed it at the foot of her bed like a promise: when you’re ready. her fingers tremble as she bends to pick it up. steel meets skin. cold and familiar. weighty. comforting. terrifying. her grip falters. her arms shake. she’s not sure if her body remembers how to do this anymore. but she lifts it anyway. the breath she takes in is steady, but the breath she exhales is cracked, but full of something old. something hers. slowly, she steps into the first motion. the sword cuts air with a faint whisper. not as clean as it once was, not as quick, but real. the second movement is tighter. painful. her ribs scream at the twist of her torso, but she doesn’t stop. she closes her eyes and lets muscle memory take over. her breathing is uneven, her footwork is off, and tears bite at her eyes. not from emotion, but from the cruel, ugly truth that her body is not what it once was. she hates it. she hates how weak she feels. you should’ve died, her body whispers. you should’ve died back there.

quick  note:  originally,  kyojuro was supposed to stay dead in my au  (hence the crossed out phrase and the last piece)  and,  yeah!  i did write about her dealing with her grief and her eventually finding comfort in friendships she didn’t think she needed and in herself, but there was just sooooo much potential with her and kyojuro that i had to push my og plan to the side and give them a different route where he actually lives after the mugen train arc  😩  everything above this was written when i already was set on my og idea,  where everything stays canon and kyojuro did die,  but just know i’m actively stuck in a route where she is still his tsuguko and another one that is her dealing with grief and blooming  :p  also know that she’s somewhere out there making giyuu stutter……….. 

yaoyao’s  visual  inspiration:  jahoda,  tsukino usagi,  himiko toga

name. liu yaoyao

alias. double yao, ribbon rat (from inosuke), little star (from uzui), flying nuisance (from uzui. lovingly.), spider-man (hell yeah), yvan (stage name) 

ethnicity. chinese

she came to japan as a child performer with her family's traveling chinese circus, the cirque yaoguang. during the taisho era, cultural exchange between east asian countries was quietly flourishing, especially in port cities and noble circles eager for foreign entertainment. the cirque yaoguang, known for their breathtaking acrobatics, fire dances, and silk aerials, was invited to tour parts of japan as part of a sponsored showcase.

yaoyao was their youngest performer, a tightrope prodigy who danced through the air like she was born to it.

they weren’t wealthy, but they loved what they did. theirs was a life of color, music, and movement.

she saw japan not as a destination but as another stop. another sky to dance under.

relation(s). tengen uzui, shinazugawa genya, kamado tanjiro, kamado nezuko, agatsuma zenitzu, hashibira inosuke, tsuyuri kanao, kocho shinobu

affiliation. the cirque yaoguang, demon slayers corp.

occupation. demon slayer, hinoe rank

breathing style. frost breathing. it’s a self-developed style yaoyao’s still perfecting. it carries echoes of sound breathing, the first style she ever witnessed, but where sound disrupts, frost stills. elegant, relentless, and deceptively quiet, it suits her aerial form: every spin, flip, and slash is timed like a falling snowflake. it’s hers alone, shaped by instinct and the need to keep moving even when everything burns.

due to the fact that she's still perfecting her style breathing, using it scorches from the inside out, freezing her core until it aches like burning ice. her finger tips often betray her struggle despite her smiles, usually paling to near-white, and tingling as if the frost is claiming them first. she rarely uses her breathing because of this, though she does when it's necessary.

she fights like an acrobat, all flips, swings, and midair twists, using rooftops and trees like a stage. 

her style blends speed, stamina, and flexibility, with fast offense and unpredictable movement that keeps demons off-balance. but she gets hurt often because yaoyao is both reckless and bold. 

she does stupid brave shit constantly, dives into danger headfirst, and laughs through the pain. she’s been impaled, concussed, stabbed, and still finds a way to get up. the butterfly mansion has a special futon just for her, and kocho shinobu knew her by name way before the boy with the earrings was known.

born yaoyao to a nomadic chinese circus family, she grew up on silk ropes, tightropes, fire dances, and laughter. her family performed across coastal asia and parts of japan, known for their daring aerial stunts and theatrical pageantry. it was during one of these tours that a demon attack tore through their troupe, leaving yaoyao the sole survivor. she lived because she ran, climbed, and leapt between burning tents, armed with nothing but a knife and a rope. tengen uzui found her collapsed under a ruined rig. after being found by him, she was given a choice, to keep running or to fight. she chose to fight. what else could she do, anyway?

now a hinoe-ranked demon slayer, yaoyao is a whirlwind of motion and light, known as much for her dazzling acrobatics and frost breathing as for her easy, warm smile that somehow cuts through the cold of her breathing style. she uses her theatrics (the loud talk, the dramatic flips, the unpredictable moves, her friendly personality) not just as a fighting technique but as a shield, a way to hide the fear underneath. deep down, yaoyao struggles with what it really means to stay somewhere, to hold on, and that uncertainty fuels her restless energy and reckless bravery. she’s fiercely loyal and bold, often getting hurt because she throws herself headfirst into danger, laughing through the pain to keep the fear at bay.

everyone in the corps knows her, or at least remembers her— the girl with the strawberry blonde hair braided into wild buns and decorated with mismatched ribbons and trinkets, the one whose frost breathing flows like frozen silk but whose heart is warm enough to light up a room.

yaoyao’s bravado is a mask, but it’s also her strength. it's a bright thread woven from loss, courage, and the hope that maybe, someday, she’ll figure out what it means to truly stay.

one.

they don’t call her a tsuguko. not really. not when she hasn’t passed final selection, not when she’s still in borrowed clothes and patched slippers, not when she keeps getting handed off like she’s a problem to be solved, like a troublesome cat, not a student to be trained. “too dramatic,” someone mutters. “too small,” says another. “too stubborn,” adds a third, as if that seals it. she hears it all. she always does. but she never leaves. no matter how many times she’s dismissed, she shows up the next morning with her hair pulled back too tight, cheeks flushed from effort, fists clenched like she can will her body into strength. she eats too little and moves too fast and tries too hard. but she tries. gods, she tries. sometimes, when she thinks no one’s looking, she scales the training pines barefoot and hangs upside down from a high branch, breath held, arms spread. just to remind herself what it felt like to fly. one morning, after yet another sparring session where her opponent refused to take her seriously (mocking her stance, her height, the way she moved like she was dancing not fighting), she scales the nearest tree mid-match, pushes off the top branch, and lands in a perfect aerial twist… directly on the boy’s head. the crack of him collapsing echoes through the courtyard. everyone freezes. tengen uzui bursts out laughing. “she’s not impossible,” he says as she scrambles up to perch on the dojo’s roof, squatting like a feral cat with a bloodied lip, a triumphant grin, and a booming laugh. “she’s just loud.” the others stare like she’s feral. but tengen sees something else. he sees a girl with soot in her hair and fire in her bones. a girl who never cries when she’s told to leave, only when no one’s looking. a girl with rope scars around her wrists and a starburst scar beneath her eye, who sleeps with a blade tucked under her pillow, who still sometimes wakes screaming in mandarin no one else understands. he sees her now—perched in the morning sun, sweat glistening on her brow, defiant and proud and still so small. “yaoyao,” he calls, stepping into the ring. “you wanna train or fly today?” she peers down, nose scrunched, eyes gleaming. “why not both?”

two.

he heard the shift of the demon’s weight. he did not hear the girl. fwip—THWUMP. something dropped from the trees. fast. a blur of motion, silk and muscle twisting midair. she landed hard on the demon’s back, blade flashing silver. one clean slice. a shriek ripped the silence. the demon’s head hit the moss with a soft thud. tanjiro didn’t move. he blinked. the girl stood there in a crouch, cream colored haori half-loose around her shoulders, blade still humming in her hand. she looked over her shoulder with a crooked little smile. “hi,” she said, light and unbothered. tanjiro stared. she rose in one fluid motion, flipped her sword onto her back. “wasn’t trying to steal it,” she added, nodding to the corpse. “it just… got in my way.” only then did he place her. those eyes. light-blue and starlit. full of stars. she was there. at the start of all this. three days ago. the girl by the wisteria trees, too small for her blade, but grinning anyway. “…it's fine,” he murmured. she grinned, like they were old friends meeting on the street. “i'm yaoyao.” he straightened, surprised by how solid that name felt now. “kamado tanjiro.” her grin widened just a touch. “nice to meet you again, tanjiro.” then she turned—already slipping into motion again, steps light and quick. but just before vanishing into the trees, she tossed something over her shoulder: “when we get out of here, we should make a shirt. ‘i survived the final selection and all i got was this bloody haori.’ you in?” tanjiro opened his mouth, but she was already gone, disappearing like smoke through the branches. he stood there for a moment, sword still in hand. “…what just happened,” he said softly.

three.

he finished cleaning the wound in silence. his knuckles grazed her waist once, and he pulled back like he’d touched fire. she didn’t move. just blinked slow, then leaned back on her hands, breath soft in her throat. the fire outside the window crackled. somewhere down the hall, someone laughed too loud. “they’re talking about you,” she murmured, almost absently. “the rookies. said you snapped on that guy. said you got protective.” “stupid.” “i think it’s cute.” his head snapped up. she smiled. not teasing, just tired and honest. “you care, genya.” “yeah, well,” he said, looking away. “you’re annoying.” “so you’ve told me,” she said, stretching out on the mat with a slow, pained exhale. “like, six hundred times.” “seven hundred.” “oh noooooo.” he didn’t move. just watched her for a moment longer. the firelight danced across her cheeks. her hair was loose again, a few strands sticking to her forehead. her little bell-tipped drawstrings swayed faintly with each breath. “get some sleep,” he said gruffly. “shadow.” she was already drifting when she answered, voice slurred by exhaustion. “you too, watchdog.” and maybe it meant nothing. and maybe it meant everything.