Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air in Volcano Rock City was a thick, oppressive blanket, heavy with the scent of sulfur and the perpetual hum of magma beneath the surface. For anyone else, the scorching heat might offer a measure of comfort, a balm against the world’s chill. But for Riff, Queen Barb’s most trusted confidant, it did little to quell the icy grip of dread twisting in his gut. His usual beanie was pulled low, attempting to conceal the frantic energy in his eyes, while his long, untamed black hair seemed to mirror the wild disarray of his thoughts. His fingers, adorned with worn fingerless gloves, fidgeted incessantly, a subconscious ballet of anxiety.

Despite the infernal heat, a cold sweat plastered his white tee to his skin, rendering it practically transparent. His sleeveless jean jacket, usually a defiant statement, hung unbuttoned, offering no solace. His short tail, a barometer of his inner turmoil, swayed with a frantic, uncharacteristic speed, a blur against the stark volcanic landscape. This wasn't merely a walk; it was a gauntlet.

Floyd, his partner and the slightly older, more composed of the two, had given him what seemed like a simple, straightforward task: gather his brothers, deliver the news, and bring them back to him. Easy, right? Easier said than done, Riff knew. He swallowed hard, the metallic taste of fear coating his tongue. He had a gnawing suspicion that Floyd’s brothers, the famous quintet whose harmonies once resonated across every Troll's kingdom, held little affection for him. He could feel their scrutinizing gazes, even when they weren't directly looking at him.

John Dory, the eldest of the legendary siblings, was, of course, fiercely protective of the second youngest. His posture was impeccably straight, his vest buttoned just so, a faint frown often creasing his brow as if the very air around him wasn’t organized to his satisfaction. His gaze, sharp and assessing, missed nothing, a testament to his meticulous nature, and Riff felt perpetually under its microscope. Bruce, the next in line, hardly seemed to acknowledge Riff's presence at all, but Riff rationalized that it was probably due to the sheer volume of his own family responsibilities – thirteen kids could certainly absorb most of one’s attention.

And then there was Clay. Clay, whose world often revolved around very specific, deeply held convictions, had made his feelings abundantly clear. He didn’t exactly warm to the idea of his closest brother, Floyd, being married, especially to someone Clay considered "still young." Riff had bristled at that. He wasn't that young, certainly old enough for serious commitments and to be standing on his own two feet. He was perfectly capable of handling responsibilities. But Clay’s unique perspective, delivered with an almost blunt honesty that sometimes bypassed social niceties, was hard to argue with.

Branch… Riff didn't even want to start with Branch. The quietest of the brothers, and the youngest of the famed quintet, Branch’s perpetually guarded demeanor offered no clues as to his true feelings, which somehow made him the most intimidating. Floyd had messaged his siblings to meet Riff outside a specific storefront in Volcano Rock City. The instructions had been clear, the purpose unspoken but heavy in the air.

As he approached the designated spot, Riff’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. There they were: the four brothers, a formidable, silent wall of anticipation. John Dory stood with his arms crossed, a picture of contained impatience. Bruce leaned casually against a support beam, his eyes scanning the crowds with a practiced calm. Clay stood a little apart, his gaze fixed on something Riff couldn't see, his expression unreadable. And Branch, ever stoic, simply regarded Riff with an unblinking, analytical stare.

Riff swallowed, the lump in his throat making speech nearly impossible. He forced himself to walk up to them, each step feeling like an eternity. The moment he was within earshot, the questions began, a volley of interrogations that further frayed his already taut nerves.

"So, what's so urgent, Riff?" John Dory's voice, though calm, held an edge of demand. "Floyd made it sound important."

Bruce pushed off the beam. "Yeah, I had to find a sitter for a dozen of my kids. This better be good."

Clay’s gaze finally settled on Riff, intense and direct. "Floyd knows I have my schedule. He wouldn't interrupt it for just anything."

Branch merely raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge that spoke volumes.

Riff’s mind raced, his carefully rehearsed words dissolving into a chaotic jumble. He stammered, trying to find a starting point, trying to phrase the momentous news in a way that wouldn’t immediately ignite outrage. He opened his mouth, a desperate gasp for air before the plunge, just as he heard a familiar, booming laugh cut through the ambient city noise.

"Riff! There you are, buddy!"

His blood ran cold. Queen Barb. And not alone. Poppy and Viva, their bright, effervescent forms a stark contrast to the volcanic landscape, were right behind her. Great. Just great. More people. More witnesses. More pressure.

Barb, Queen of the Hard Rock Trolls and Riff’s chief advisor in all matters, clapped a hand on his shoulder – a playful, but powerful, blow that made him wince. "What's the big secret, huh? Spill it already!"

The arrival of the Queens shattered Riff's precarious composure. The carefully constructed plan for a private, sensitive reveal evaporated in the face of this unexpected audience. His tongue, suddenly untied by sheer panic, worked faster than his brain.

"Floyd and I are expecting!" he blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. "He's carrying our egg!"

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the crackle of distant lava flow. It stretched for what felt like an eternity, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, as if a dam had burst, the quiet shattered.

"AAAHHHH!" Poppy shrieked, her eyes wide with delight, immediately jumping up and down, pulling Viva into a celebratory hug. Viva, equally ecstatic, joined her, bouncing on the balls of her feet, an infectious joy radiating from her.

Queen Barb, ever the pragmatist with a mischievous streak, grinned, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across her face. "Well, what do you know, Riff?" she teased, delivering another, softer slap to his back. "Looks like you finally got lucky, huh?"

Riff managed a weak, embarrassed smile, his cheeks burning. He risked a glance up at the four brothers, bracing for their reaction. The sight that met his eyes sent a fresh wave of ice through him. Their faces, uniformly, were a mask of utter outrage. John Dory’s jaw was clenched, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. Bruce had straightened up fully, his arms now rigid by his sides, his expression one of incredulous disbelief. Clay, whose processing of the world often revolved around very specific, deeply held convictions, looked genuinely bewildered, as if Riff had just violated some fundamental universal law. And Branch, for the first time, had allowed a flicker of raw, unadulterated fury to break through his usual stoicism.

The celebration of the sisters faded into the background. All Riff could hear was the sudden, ominous quiet from the brothers, a silence that promised a storm far more volatile than any erupted volcano. He had delivered the news. Now, it was time to face the seismic fallout.

The air crackled with a static tension, thick and suffocating, as four distinct voices, once celebrated for their seamless harmony, now fractured into a cacophony of accusations. John Dory, Bruce, Clay, and Branch, a quartet whose shared history on stages across the realms was etched into the very fabric of their beings, stood amassed before Riff, their faces contorted with a bewildering blend of fury, disbelief, and something akin to betrayal.

“How could you be so utterly stupid?!” John Dory’s voice, usually a beacon of confident leadership, was strained, raw with incredulity. His hand ran through his meticulously styled hair, a gesture of pure, unadulterated stress.

Bruce, his broad frame tense, added his booming voice to the chorus. “How could you even consider doing that with our brother? Do you have any idea what this means?!” His concern, deeply rooted in the primal protectiveness of kinship, eclipsed all other emotions.

Clay, typically the most composed, was uncharacteristically agitated, his words coming out in a rapid-fire torrent. “And what about support? How do you two plan to support yourselves? Do you have a contingency plan for the substantial financial and logistical demands that come with an impending arrival? Have you factored in the necessary changes to living arrangements, dietary requirements, and the long-term commitment required for healthy development?” His questions, though factual, were laced with a desperate edge, a frantic attempt to inject order into an escalating chaos.

Branch, quieter than his older siblings but no less intense, simply stared, his gaze fixed on Riff with an almost unnerving intensity, a silent judgment that spoke volumes. The younger brother’s tightly wound posture suggested a coiled spring, ready to snap.

Riff, caught in the direct line of this verbal assault, felt the weight of their collective anger press down on him. His normally vibrant spirit flickered, dimming under the onslaught. He instinctively retreated a step, his shoulders hunching, eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and hurt. The overwhelming surge of their animosity was a physical force, threatening to knock the wind right out of him. He struggled to find his voice, to articulate the joyous, miraculous truth that had sent their brother Floyd’s heart soaring. But the words seemed to catch in his throat, suffocated by the deluge of their fury.

Just as the pressure became unbearable, a shadow fell over the enraged quartet. The palpable shift in the atmosphere registered before any of them even looked up. Queen Barb, a majestic and formidable presence, had materialized between Riff and his furious accusers. Her vibrant mohawk seemed to bristle with an almost electric energy, and her eyes, usually alight with mischievous glint, was narrowed to a dangerous slit. The glare she fixed upon the brothers was so sharp, so utterly piercing, that it felt like a physical blow. It was a silent, powerful command, demanding immediate cessation of hostilities. And, to their credit, it worked. The four brothers, mid-sentence, mid-shout, froze. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by Riff’s ragged breathing.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Poppy interjected, sweeping an arm out as if to encompass the entire scene. “What is all this shouting about? This should be amazing news! Riff and Floyd are expecting! Can you believe it?!” Her voice was a sunshine burst, utterly at odds with the recent tempest.

Viva chimed in, equally effusive. “Exactly! This is huge! You should be happy for them! For your brother, Floyd!” Her tone was genuinely bewildered by their reaction, utterly unable to comprehend the negativity.

Their words, coupled with Barb’s continued silent, unwavering stare, began to chip away at the brothers’ hardened resolve. John Dory, the initial aggressor, was the first to visibly deflate. A profound sigh escaped him, a sound heavy with weariness and contemplation. He ran a hand over his face, then slowly backed off, letting his shoulders slump. His earlier outburst, while intense, was also rooted in a deep-seated protectiveness, a characteristic that often manifested as overplanning and overreacting. He thought of his own bustling life, a vibrant tapestry woven with the laughter and demands of five boisterous children he shared with his husband, Hickory, who was currently back home, patiently managing their brood within the rolling confines of Rhonda. The thought of adding another life, another layer of complexity, to anyone’s existence — especially one of his own — brought a wave of sympathetic exhaustion.

Bruce, watching John Dory, finally lowered his gaze, his formidable frame seeming to soften. “It’s not easy,” he muttered, his voice dropping to a more conversational, albeit still gravelly, tone. He spoke from profound experience, his own sprawling family testament to the beautiful, bewildering chaos of parenthood. Thirteen children had taught him that while joy was boundless, so too were the challenges and the sheer, unending effort. His initial anger, like John Dory’s, began to recede, replaced by a more pragmatic, weary understanding.

Clay, however, remained absorbed in the factual implications. His body language, while less aggressive, still conveyed a certain rigidity, a need to process the information logically. “The nutritional requirements during the gestation period will be paramount,” he stated, his voice a clear, almost academic tone, distinct from the emotional resonance of his brothers. “Floyd will need increased caloric intake, balanced macronutrients, and specific vitamin supplementation. We also need to consider the appropriate temperature and humidity for the incubation environment, along with potential developmental milestones and common health considerations. The average gestation period for our species is approximately…” He continued to list, oblivious to the continued tension in the room, finding comfort in the quantifiable aspects of the situation. His unique way of processing the world, focusing on the tangible and the logical, presented a stark contrast to the raw emotions that had just consumed his siblings.

Branch, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, observing Riff with an unreadable intensity, finally shifted his gaze. His eyes flickered between Riff’s retreating form and Barb’s protective stance, then to his brothers, each grappling with their own complex emotions. He was thinking, always thinking, trying to connect the dots, to understand the deeper currents beneath the surface of this startling news.

Riff, sensing a slight opening, a momentary lull in the storm, took a deep breath. His voice, when it came, was soft, almost a whisper, yet it cut through the lingering tension. “Floyd… Floyd wants you to go see him,” he said, his eyes pleading for understanding, for a cessation of this hostility. He knew how much this meant to Floyd, how eager he was to share this joy with his family.

Poppy and Viva, ever the cheerful sisters, immediately seized on the new information. Their initial shock at the brothers’ reaction melted away, replaced by renewed excitement. “He wants us to see him?!” Poppy squealed, clapping her hands together. “Oh my goodness, this is amazing! We have to go right now!”

Viva echoed her, a delighted shriek escaping her lips. “Yes! We can decorate! And help plan! This is going to be the best baby shower ever!” Their immediate, effervescent joy was like a cleansing rain after the thunder.

And so, the journey back to Floyd’s house began. The path, once traversed with boisterous energy and shared songs, now felt charged with an unspoken weight. Queen Barb, true to her imposing nature, maintained her protective position, walking deliberately between Riff and the four brothers. Her presence was a silent, unwavering shield, a clear message that further aggression would not be tolerated.

The brothers, though quieter, still carried the residue of their anger. John Dory walked with a thoughtful frown, likely already mentally cataloging the myriad details of this unexpected development, his mind a whirlwind of contingency plans he knew he now had to formulate. Bruce, his face etched with a weary resignation, periodically glanced at Riff, a complex mix of lingering skepticism and burgeoning acceptance in his eyes. Clay continued to vocalize facts, occasionally posing a logistical query to no one in particular, lost in his own structured assessment of the situation. And Branch, ever the quiet observer, continued to watch Riff, his expression still unreadable, but the sharp edges of his earlier judgment seemed to have softened, replaced by a deeper contemplation of what this news truly meant for their family, for the intricate, often turbulent, legacy they had built together.

The initial shock had begun to wear off, replaced by the daunting reality of the unexpected future. For a family whose lives had once been defined by precise harmonies and planned performances, this unplanned overture was a challenge unlike any they had faced. The melody of their lives was about to change, a new rhythm about to be introduced, and whether they would embrace it or resist it remained the unspoken question lingering in the charged silence, echoing along the path towards Floyd’s door.

The tranquil hum of a quiet Saturday afternoon shattered into a cacophony of exuberant sound as the front door of Floyd and Riff’s home burst open. First through the threshold, John Dory, behind him, Bruce, then came Clay, and finally, Branch. Their collective presence filled the entryway, a vibrant echo of their past as a celebrated musical group, a force that had once captivated crowds with their harmonious energy and undeniable stage presence.

Right on their heels, Poppy and Viva, equally effervescent, skipped in, their faces alight with anticipation. Their wide smiles spoke volumes, a silent chorus of congratulations aimed squarely at Floyd. The air thrummed with their collective excitement, a palpable wave of good intentions that, unfortunately, threatened to overwhelm the delicate peace of the household.

Riff, who had been quietly enjoying the rare calm, suddenly found himself caught in the eye of this celebratory storm. His usually composed features tightened with a silent plea. He gestured subtly, trying to convey the delicate situation, the words lodging in his throat, refusing to form a coherent warning. Floyd, his beloved husband, was deep in a well-deserved nap, and Riff desperately wanted to protect that tranquility. The sheer force of the invading party, however, made his quiet attempts futile.

Just as Riff felt the rising tide of his frustration, a commanding presence emerged from the lively chaos. Barb seemed to perceive Riff’s silent struggle with an almost telepathic precision. She moved with an effortless grace that belied her powerful aura, stepping directly into the path of the encroaching group. With a sharp snap of her fingers, the room, miraculously, fell silent. All eyes, from the boisterous brothers to the beaming sisters, turned to her, their anticipation momentarily suspended. Barb’s gaze was direct, her expression unamused by their boisterousness. She then raised a hand to her lips, making a distinct closing zipper motion, a clear, unspoken instruction for quiet. The message was unmistakable: silence, and respect for the peace of the home.

Once she had their undivided attention, Barb’s gaze softened, turning to Riff. Her voice, usually a powerful instrument, was lowered to a hushed murmur, imbued with a quiet concern that surprised even the brothers. "Where is he, Riff?" she asked, her voice a balm to the sudden quiet. Relieved to finally be understood, Riff silently pointed towards a room nestled further back in the house, a sanctuary of rest.

The transformation was immediate and remarkable. The boisterous energy that had filled the entryway dissipated, replaced by a shared sense of hushed reverence. John Dory, usually the one to meticulously plan and execute, moved with an almost uncharacteristic quietness, his inherent need for order manifesting in a careful, deliberate pace. Bruce, ever the gentle giant, padded softly, his large frame making scarcely a sound. Even Branch, usually prone to youthful exuberance, seemed to understand the solemnity of the moment, tiptoeing with a newfound caution. Clay, who often preferred a measured distance in social interactions, walked with an almost rigid stillness, his movements precise and economical. Poppy and Viva, their earlier effervescence now subdued, followed behind, their smiles replaced by expressions of gentle anticipation.

They reached the door, its wooden surface warm under Barb’s careful touch as she eased it open, slowly, allowing just enough space to peer inside. The sight that greeted them was a serene tableau. Floyd lay comfortably in the center of his canopy bed, the drapes of soft fabric creating a private, dreamlike space. He was utterly snuggled, a veritable nest of blankets and pillows enveloping him in a cocoon of comfort. His breathing was soft and even, a picture of undisturbed repose. The soft glow of the room cast a gentle light on his face, highlighting the peaceful curve of his lips, the relaxed set of his brow.

Poppy and Viva, still standing close to the doorway, exchanged wide-eyed, silent gazes, their hands flying to their mouths to stifle their delighted squeals. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated "fangirling," a shared female excitement that transcended words. Poppy, unable to contain her joy, discreetly clung to her girlfriend’s arm, her grip light but insistent. Barb, though outwardly unamused by the overt display of adoration, subtly tightened her arm around Poppy’s waist, a small, practical gesture of affection that was perhaps more profound than any gushing. Viva, mirroring her sister’s reaction, instinctively reached out and clutched Clay’s arm, her fingers curling around his bicep. Clay, usually reserved and particular about personal space, stiffened noticeably at the unexpected contact, though a faint blush crept up his neck, betraying a flicker of unexpected warmth.

It was Riff who finally broke the spell, moving with the quiet grace of someone deeply attuned to his partner’s rhythms. He approached the bed, his movements tender and deliberate, and knelt beside the sleeping form. With the lightest touch, he gently brushed a strand of hair from Floyd’s forehead, then whispered his name, a soft lullaby of a sound. Floyd stirred, a soft sigh escaping his lips. He blinked slowly, his eyes fluttering open as he stretched languidly, a soft yawn escaping past his lips. His gaze, still hazy with sleep, drifted across the room, gradually focusing on the assembled group. His initial confusion gave way to a soft smile, a genuine warmth spreading across his features as he took in the sight of his brothers and friends.

Before he could even fully awaken, the dam broke. The brothers, their initial quietude forgotten in their urgent concern, quickly bombarded him. John Dory, ever the one to take charge, stepped forward, his voice laced with an almost frantic energy. "Floyd! Are you okay? How are you feeling?" Bruce, his face etched with worry, added, "We were so worried! Why would you be so irresponsible? Why wouldn't you... you know... take precautions to prevent having an egg?" Clay, with his characteristic directness, cut to the chase, "It was unexpected. You didn't mention this. We were unprepared." Even Branch, his young voice tinged with a blend of concern and adolescent bluntness, chimed in, "Yeah, Floyd! I thought you were more careful than that!" The questions came thick and fast, a torrent of well-meaning but utterly misplaced concern, accusation, and, underlying it all, a deep, if clumsily expressed, love.

Floyd’s eyes, which had widened slightly in confusion, narrowed. The loving smile faded, replaced by an expression of growing annoyance. He pushed himself up, leaning against the headboard, his voice firm despite the lingering sleepiness. "Hold on! All of you, just shut it!" He took a deep, steadying breath, his gaze sweeping over his brothers, holding each of their eyes for a moment. "Firstly," he began, his voice calm but undeniably authoritative, "I’m perfectly fine. Secondly, I’m old enough to make my own decisions, thank you very much." He then looked pointedly at Riff, a soft warmth returning to his eyes. "And thirdly, Riff and I have been talking about this for a while. A long while, actually. And if anyone was 'irresponsible,' it was probably me for pushing the idea in the first place." A soft, knowing smile touched his lips as he looked at Riff, who returned the gaze with an affectionate shrug.

The brothers’ faces, which had been a study in various shades of concern and accusation, now collectively flushed with a deep, mortified guilt. John Dory looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. Bruce shifted uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. Clay’s direct gaze wavered, and Branch suddenly found the pattern on the duvet fascinating. The air, which had been thick with their misplaced worry, now hung heavy with their embarrassment.

Seizing the sudden vacuum of sound, Poppy and Viva, their earlier "fangirling" now shifting into full-blown celebratory mode, swooped in. "Oh my gosh, Floyd!" Poppy exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. "Are you guys gonna have a baby shower? We absolutely have to plan it! It’ll be the best shower ever!" Viva, equally enthusiastic, chimed in, "And do you need any help setting up a nursery? Because I have so many ideas! Or a future babysitter? Because I am totally available!" Their voices, now unrestrained, filled the room with joyous plans and hopeful future questions.

Floyd, watching the rapid shift from accusatory worry to exuberant planning, felt a warmth spread through him. The initial annoyance melted away, replaced by a profound sense of love and amusement. He looked from his contrite brothers to his excitedly planning friends, then to Riff, who was smiling softly at the beautiful chaos they had created. A soft, genuine laugh escaped Floyd’s lips, a sound of pure contentment that promised a future filled with joy, family, and perhaps, just a little more well-intentioned pandemonium.

It was Poppy and Viva who broke the delightful tension, voices rising in unison: "Can we see the egg?!" Their eyes, wide with excitement, were fixed on Floyd. A soft smile touched Floyd’s lips, his gaze instinctively flicking to Riff, a silent question passing between them. Riff, ever composed, offered a simple, reassuring nod.

With a gentle hand, Floyd carefully parted the vibrant strands of his hair, revealing the treasure nestled within: a small, lavender-colored egg, from which a few wisps of burgundy hair already peeked out. A collective gasp of pure delight filled the room before Poppy and Viva erupted in soft squeals, their hands clasped over their mouths in sheer joy.

The brothers registered their own unique forms of happiness. John Dory, always one for order and heartfelt sentiment, smiled softly, a genuine warmth radiating from him as he stepped forward to offer his congratulations to the beaming pair. Bruce, ever the supportive elder, mirrored his brother's sentiment, his smile wide and open as he also extended his heartfelt good wishes.

Standing beside his beloved Viva, Clay offered his approval in his characteristically thoughtful manner, a quiet but firm nod conveying his full support and happiness for Floyd. Even Branch, the self-proclaimed grump of the family, couldn't completely hide his genuine emotion. With a sigh that feigned exasperation but betrayed a deep affection, he looked at Floyd and admitted, "I’m happy for you, alright."

The moment, brimming with new beginnings, called for celebration. Poppy, ever the enthusiast, clapped her hands together, her eyes sparkling with an idea. “We should celebrate this news!” she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with excitement. “A party!” The idea was met with enthusiastic agreement from the majority of those present, a collective affirmation that this new chapter, this tiny addition to their diverse family, deserved nothing less than a grand, joyous occasion. The stage was set for another unforgettable moment in their vibrant, musical lives.

Chapter Text

Floyd woke up, stretching softly in the sheets. The morning light, filtered through the vibrant, almost-living foliage that formed their window, cast a dappled glow across the cozy haven. He exhaled slowly, a soft, contented sigh escaping him as he turned to his side. There, sprawled in a position that Floyd often questioned if it was even remotely comfortable, lay Riff, sound asleep. His untamed black hair, currently a wild halo around his head, seemed to defy gravity, a perfect reflection of his vibrant, sometimes chaotic, spirit.

Floyd laughed softly, a low, melodic sound that seemed to hum in the quiet air. He carefully sat up, his movements fluid and gentle, so as not to disturb the profound peace of the moment. Reaching a paw up, he felt through the thick, soft strands of his own hair, his digits meticulously separating the barrier of hair that served as a cradle. A soft smile broadened on his face as he gazed upon the delicate, lavender-hued form nestled within, tiny burgundy hairs already peeking out at the top, a promise of the future. He allowed his hair to secure this precious cargo once more, a silent vow of protection, before he carefully leaned back, cuddling into his husband's side.

A soft hum vibrated in Floyd’s chest, a tune of pure affection, as he held Riff close. His paws, tender and knowing, began to trace every feature on his husband's sleeping face. The sharp, angular lines of his jaw, the gentle curve of his nose, the soft, unsuspecting pout of his lips. Riff’s formidable mane, usually swept back or tied, fell wildly over his eyes, obscuring them. With a loving touch, Floyd's paws pushed the dark strands away, revealing the full expanse of Riff’s face, softened by sleep. Riff, a force of nature when awake, seemed so utterly vulnerable and trusting in this quiet morning light. Floyd’s own long, flowing tail, iridescent with the colors of the dawn, swayed gently behind him, a rhythmic counterpoint to the quiet breathing in the room.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Riff began to stir. A soft groan escaped him as he shifted, his eyes fluttering open to meet the loving gaze of the one who illuminated his world. A wide, languid smile spread across his face as he saw Floyd, the love of his life, framed against the soft morning glow. With a sleepy murmur of contentment, he snuggled deeper into Floyd’s embrace, his own short tail, a blunt, powerful appendage compared to Floyd’s graceful sweep, beginning a slow, happy wag.

Each troll kingdom, as was common knowledge, was home to different types of trolls, each with their own unique culture, music, and way of life. But beyond the superficial differences, trolls also varied significantly in their anatomy. The distinctions between Riff, a Rock Troll, and Floyd, a Pop Troll, were a testament to this inherent diversity. Rock Trolls, like Riff, were naturally very tall, their frames built for power and presence. Their teeth were sharper, more pronounced, hinting at a primal strength, and their tails were notably shorter, stubbier, almost like a gargoyle, designed perhaps for balance in their more dynamic movements. Floyd, by contrast, was shorter, more lithe. He possessed only two canines, a subtle feature that spoke of a different lineage, and his tail was remarkably long, expressive, and almost prehensile, capable of conveying a symphony of emotions with a single flick. These differences, once perceived as chasms, had become charming facets of their shared existence, a testament to the fact that love truly knew no bounds, no matter how disparate the origins.

Floyd smiled, a warmth spreading through him that transcended the physical. “Good morning, my love,” he whispered, his voice a soft melody in the stillness.

Riff’s grip tightened around him, pulling him even closer. “Morning, Felly,” he mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep, a sound that Floyd found endlessly endearing. Then, in a tone laced with concern, he asked, "Is our little echo okay?"

Floyd’s heart swelled with tenderness. Riff, despite his outward toughness and fiery persona, possessed a profound gentleness, especially when it came to the precious presence nestled within Floyd’s hair. “Perfectly fine, my dear,” Floyd assured him, his paw moving instinctively to brush over the area where their shared future rested, a silent blessing. “Sound asleep, I imagine, dreaming of rock anthems and pop ballads, perhaps.”

The thought of their child, already a blend of their disparate worlds, brought a renewed wave of joy. Floyd, with a few more cycles around the sun than Riff, often found himself observing the boundless energy of his younger husband with a quiet amusement and deep affection. Riff, barely out of his foundational years, still possessed an exhilarating, almost impulsive spirit, a willingness to charge headfirst into life’s adventures. Floyd, in his own rhythm, brought a steady anchor, a calm understanding that grounded Riff without ever dimming his fire. Their ages, though never explicitly discussed, were simply another layer in the beautiful tapestry of their connection – a youthful exuberance meeting a guiding serenity.

The couple remained in their warm embrace, content in the quiet intimacy of their shared space. The world outside could be a whirlwind of responsibilities and noise, but here, in their bed, was a sanctuary built on mutual understanding and profound love. Floyd’s fingers continued their gentle exploration of Riff’s face, tracing the lines that deepened when he laughed, the faint scar above his eyebrow from a particularly energetic stage dive. He remembered the first time he had seen Riff perform, a raw, untamed force on stage, commanding an audience with every riff and roar. It had been an electrifying experience, unlike anything he, a Pop Troll by nature, had ever witnessed. It was a stark contrast to his performances, which were often meticulously choreographed, filled with harmony and softer melodies. Yet, beneath the thunderous exterior, Floyd had glimpsed a depth, a passion that resonated with his soul. He had felt an undeniable pull, a magnetic force drawing these two seemingly opposite worlds together.

Riff, in turn, began to entwine his fingers in Floyd’s long, silky hair, his touch surprisingly deft for someone of his stature. He loved the feel of Floyd’s hair, a soft contrast to his own wild mane, and the implicit knowledge of the precious cargo it cradled. He often wondered about their little one, about the blend of Rock and Pop that would emerge, the unique sound they would bring to the world. Would they inherit Floyd’s melodic grace or Riff’s thunderous power? Or perhaps, as was most likely, something entirely new, a harmony of both, a blend of their different anatomies and spirits.

The journey to this moment hadn't been without its share of raised eyebrows and whispered doubts. A Pop Troll and a Rock Troll, together, and now with a budding family? It was an anomaly, a bridge between worlds many had thought uncrossable. Yet, they had proven them all wrong. Their bond was forged not in conformity, but in the celebration of their differences, in the unwavering respect for each other’s unique essence. Floyd admired Riff’s unwavering loyalty, his fierce protection, and his unexpected bursts of tenderness. Riff adored Floyd’s quiet strength, his boundless empathy, and the way his melodies could soothe even the most turbulent parts of his spirit.

The small, delicate life nestled in Floyd’s hair was a living testament to their love, a future echoing the very harmony they embodied. They knew there would be challenges, questions of identity, perhaps even moments of feeling caught between two worlds. But they also knew they would face them together, just as they had faced everything else. They would teach their child the vibrant history of Pop, the intricate harmonies, the power of a perfect hook. And Riff would introduce them to the visceral thrill of Rock, the freedom of raw expression, the catharsis of a thundering beat. It would be a childhood steeped in a rich tapestry of sound, a truly unique upbringing.

As the sun climbed higher, casting warmer hues into their room, Floyd tightened his embrace, burying his face in Riff’s neck. The scent of ozone and something uniquely Riff – a mix of drum oil and forest after a storm – filled his senses, grounding him. He felt Riff’s arm wrap more securely around his waist, pulling him even closer, their bodies fitting together like perfectly matched puzzle pieces despite their anatomical variations. The gentle thrum of the new life in his hair was a constant, comforting reminder of the incredible journey they were on.

“You know,” Riff murmured, his voice still low with sleep, “I dreamt about them last night.”

Floyd pulled back slightly, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Oh? What did you dream?"

Riff chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through Floyd’s chest. “Just… a tiny roar. And then a perfect little harmony. Like a lullaby, but with a guitar solo.” He squeezed Floyd gently. “Can't wait to meet the little noise maker.”

Floyd smiled, a profound sense of peace settling over him. He pressed a soft kiss to Riff’s forehead, his heart overflowing.

The first slivers of dawn, soft and hesitant, painted the bedroom in muted pastels as Floyd stirred. He sighed, a sound of contentment mingled with the gentle pull of responsibility, as he carefully untangled himself from Riff’s long limbs. His partner, a human embodiment of a comfortable tangle, groaned in protest, a sleepy murmur escaping his lips. "Where are you going?" Riff mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, eyes still reluctantly closed.

Floyd chuckled softly, a low rumble that vibrated through Riff’s chest. He carefully slipped out of bed, the plush carpet a gentle cushion beneath his feet. Moving with an almost practiced grace, he began to gather his clothes from the nearby dresser – a comfortable tunic in a deep sapphire, his favorite patterned vest, trousers that allowed for easy movement. As he dressed, his voice a soothing morning hum, he explained, “Poppy and Viva have a shopping expedition planned for today. They insisted I join them.”

Riff, who had now propped himself up on an elbow, his hair a glorious, wild halo around his head, leaned forward, a hopeful glint in his eye. “Can I tag along?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep but laced with his characteristic innocent eagerness.

Floyd paused, his fingers hovering over the buttons of his vest. He walked back to the bed, the mattress dipping slightly as he knelt beside Riff, who had now shifted to sit at the very edge, pulling Floyd gently between his long legs. Riff’s hands settled comfortably on Floyd’s waist, a familiar, possessive warmth. Floyd leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the top of Riff’s head, the messy, dark hair soft beneath his lips. “They specifically wanted me today, love,” he explained gently, his thumbs tracing lazy circles on Riff’s jaw. “It’s a ‘Floyd’s day out with the girls’ kind of thing, apparently.”

Riff’s shoulders slumped just a fraction, a pout forming on his lips. He was in that vibrant stage of young adulthood where he was truly establishing his own rhythms and interests, yet he still reveled in the comfort of constant companionship, especially Floyd’s. Floyd, a little more seasoned in the ebb and flow of social dynamics, anticipated this. “But,” he continued, drawing a soft, reassuring line up Riff’s arm, “Barb volunteered to spend the day with you. She said she was probably going to get a new tattoo.”

The mention of Barb and a tattoo shop instantly perked Riff up. His eyes widened, and the pout transformed into a thoughtful hum. “A new tattoo, huh?” he mused, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Metal, I guess that sounds… pretty cool, actually.” He leaned back, reluctantly releasing Floyd, though his eyes followed every movement as Floyd finished getting dressed. “Now I’m hungry,” Riff mumbled, his stomach letting out a surprisingly loud grumble.

Floyd laughed softly, a light, melodic sound that filled the quiet room. “Of course, you are, my dear.” He made his way to their shared kitchen, the familiar scent of wood and fresh herbs filling the air. Riff followed, a lean, lithe shadow, not bothering to get dressed beyond his comfortable white tee and boxers. He was all gangly limbs and boundless energy, even in the early morning, like a spring still unwinding.

Floyd began to prepare a simple breakfast – fluffy berry pancakes and fresh fruit. As he turned to grab a mixing bowl, Riff, without a word, reached over him, his long arm stretching effortlessly into the cabinet above Floyd’s head for a protein bar. Floyd stifled a sigh, a familiar mixture of fondness and mild concern swirling within him. Riff had a metabolism that seemed to defy gravity, burning through calories at an alarming rate. He was lithe, almost too skinny sometimes, a fact that occasionally pricked at Floyd’s protective instincts, though he knew pushing the issue would only lead to a playful wrestling match and Riff’s insistent assurance that he was “just naturally like this, babe.” He decided, as he always did, not to push it. Instead, he simply made sure to load Riff’s plate generously.

Soon, the aroma of warm berries and maple syrup filled the kitchen. Floyd served them both, the plates piled high. They settled at their small, sun-drenched table, chatting idly about their plans for the day, the morning news scroll, and a funny dream Riff remembered. Their conversation was a comfortable rhythm, punctuated by the clink of forks and soft laughter.

Just as they were finishing, a series of loud, insistent knocks echoed through their home. Riff, ever eager, pushed back his chair and strode to the door, pulling it open with a flourish. He was practically shoved aside as Poppy and Viva, a vibrant whirlwind of glitter and enthusiasm, barged in. “Floyd! Hurry! We need to go, like, yesterday!” Poppy exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with uncontainable excitement. Viva, equally energetic, nodded vigorously, already pulling at Floyd’s arm as he rose from the table.

Riff stood to the side, adjusting his tee, as Barb sauntered in behind the two queenly figures, a cool, laid-back vibe accompanying her. “Morning, Riff,” she greeted, a slight smirk playing on her lips as she watched Poppy’s antics.

“Morning, Barb,” Riff replied, a wide grin spreading across his face. He and Barb immediately fell into easy small talk, their conversations often revolving around music, wild tour stories, and the general rock-and-roll chaos they both adored. It was a different energy than his quiet mornings with Floyd, but equally comforting in its own way.

Floyd took another hasty bite of pancake, his eyes twinkling with amusement at his friends’ impatience. He quickly rinsed his plate in the sink, taking a moment to discreetly adjust his hair, which was styled carefully to protect a particularly sensitive area near the crown – a new, almost unconscious habit born of a profound, nascent tenderness. He walked over to Riff, who was now fully engaged in a debate with Barb about the merits of different tattoo ink colors. Leaning in, Floyd pressed another soft kiss to Riff’s temple, a silent promise of reunion later. “Have fun, you two,” he murmured against his skin.

Poppy, not one to be outdone, bounced over to Barb and gave her a quick, effusive hug. “You and Riff have fun at the tattoo shop!” she chirped, her voice already fading as she practically dragged Floyd out the door. “We’ll be back before you know it!”

The door clicked shut, leaving Riff and Barb in the sudden, quiet wake of the whirlwind. Riff chuckled, shaking his head. “Never a dull moment, huh?”

As the day truly unfurled, Floyd found himself swept into the vibrant current of Poppy and Viva’s shopping adventure. They dove headfirst into the bustling Trollstopia markets. First, a stop at “Groove Galore,” a boutique specializing in sound-activated fashion, where they debated the merits of iridescent fabrics that shimmered with every bass drop. Floyd, radiating a quiet, gentle maturity, found himself trying on a surprisingly vibrant, sequined jacket under Poppy’s enthusiastic encouragement, a soft, protective hand unconsciously rising to his hair as he twisted to see the back. The jacket was fun, but something about its weight didn’t quite feel right, and he opted instead for a softer, more flowing tunic that allowed him to move with a comfortable, careful ease. He felt a newfound, subtle protective instinct that guided his choices.

Next, they ventured into “Riff’s Records & Relics,” (no relation to his Riff, though the owner was a distant cousin), a treasure trove of vintage instruments and obscure musical artifacts. Poppy found a rare, miniature glockenspiel she absolutely had to have, while Viva became engrossed in a collection of ancient sheet music. Floyd browsed the shelves, a gentle smile playing on his lips, enjoying the lively chatter and the simple pleasure of friendship. He found himself occasionally touching the particular, carefully styled section of his hair, a faint, almost imperceptible glow seeming to emanate from it, visible only if one looked very closely, and even then, easily dismissed as a trick of the light. He felt a quiet, internal hum, a warmth that had settled deep within him recently, a constant, comforting presence.

Meanwhile, Riff and Barb’s day took a distinctly different turn. They wandered through the grungier, edgier side of Trollstopia, the air thick with the buzzing hum of tattoo needles and the scent of antiseptic. “Ink & Resonance” was Barb’s usual spot, a den of artistic expression where body art was a revered craft. Riff, ever fascinated by the intricate designs and daring choices, watched in rapt attention as Barb discussed her latest idea – a snarling, stylized guitar head, wreathed in flames, for her upper arm.

“You thinking of getting one, too, little bro?” Barb teased, noticing Riff’s intense gaze. Despite the slight age gap, their bond was built on mutual respect and a shared love for loud music and bold statements, a natural camaraderie that transcended years.

Riff grinned, running a hand through his wild hair. “Maybe,” he mused, his fingers tracing an imaginary design on his arm. “Something small, though. Maybe a little sound wave, or a tiny guitar pick…” He was still finding his footing, still exploring his own identity, a vibrant, energetic creature just beginning to fully unfurl his potential, much like a young sapling reaching for the sun. He ended up getting a small, almost imperceptible musical note tattooed just behind his ear, a spontaneous decision that made him feel just a little bit more rebellious, a little bit more himself. He felt a surge of youthful exhilaration, a tiny, permanent declaration of his artistic soul. But his next words were something Barb hadn't expected. "Might be a small name....maybe a piercing as well..."

                                                                               ----------------------------------------------

As the evening progressed, the cool air carrying the faint scent of ink and lingering shopping store scent, both groups made their way back to Riff's and Floyd's shared home. The cozy bungalow, bathed in the soft glow of porch lights, felt like a welcoming haven after the day's events. Floyd's group was first to make it, their laughter echoing softly as they shed jackets and kicked off shoes in the entryway, a comfortable hum settling over the living room. A few minutes later, the familiar jingle of keys announced the arrival of Riff and Barb.

Almost before they were fully inside, Poppy, practically bouncing off the walls with an infectious energy, surged forward. "Barb! Barb! Let me see it! Let me see it!" she practically squealed, eyes wide with anticipation. Barb, ever the showoff and clearly basking in the attention, grinned broadly. With a dramatic flourish, she flexed her right arm, the muscles rippling under her leather jacket sleeve, to proudly display her brand-new tattoo. It was a boldly rendered guitar head, complete with intricate tuning pegs, surrounded by vibrant, swirling flames of orange and red, perfectly situated on her bicep. The ink was still fresh, a testament to her adventurous spirit.

"Looks nice, Barb. suits you to a T," Floyd smiled warmly, his voice soft with approval as he instinctively leaned into Riff, clinging to his husband's arm. Riff, in turn, wrapped an arm around Floyd's waist, pulling him closer, a silent gesture of affection and security.

Barb smirked, her eyes glinting mischievously as she leaned casually against Riff’s side, nudging him playfully with her elbow. "Why don't you show him your tattoo, lover boy?" she teased, her voice a low, knowing purr. The playful jab caused an immediate, deep flush to creep up Riff's neck and spread across his cheeks. He muttered something inaudible and instinctively pulled his dark beanie even lower over his forehead, as if to hide.

Floyd tilted his head, his brow furrowing in gentle confusion. "Huh? What's she talking about, honey?" he asked, his voice laced with mild curiosity.

With a sheepish sigh and a significant amount of coaxing from Barb and the insistent, excited stares of Poppy and Viva, Riff hesitantly lifted the hem of his worn band t-shirt. Just under the swell of his left pec, nestled discreetly, was a small, elegant tattoo. Floyd's eyes, previously alight with casual curiosity, widened dramatically, fixing on the fresh ink. His breath hitched. It was a single word, rendered in a familiar, graceful cursive: Floyd. His own name, painstakingly replicated in his own distinctive handwriting.

A collective gasp, followed by excited squeals, erupted from Poppy and Viva. "Oh my god, Riff!" Poppy shrieked, clapping her hands together. Viva leaned into her, whispering conspiratorially, "That's so romantic! Goals, seriously!"

Floyd burst into a soft, disbelieving laugh, his own face flushing a rosy pink that mirrored Riff’s earlier blush. He gently traced the outline of the tattooed name with a tender claw. "How did you even get my signature?" he asked, still chuckling, utterly charmed by the gesture.

Riff rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze fixed on the floor, mumbling in a voice barely above a whisper. "Our marriage certificate... I just... copied it."

Floyd sighed, a soft, fond sound of pure affection, before nudging his husband playfully with his hip. "You goof..." he murmured, his voice thick with love, a warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the lingering heat of the day.

When the others finally departed, leaving the cherished couple in the comfortable quiet of their home, a different kind of peace settled in. Riff, still buzzing with the day’s energy, immediately launched into a detailed account of Barb’s tattoo process, his voice animated, his hands gesturing wildly. Floyd listened, a soft smile on his face, occasionally interjecting with a gentle question or a warm hum of understanding. He reached out, his fingers lightly smoothing Riff’s hair, then lingering on the spot where the tiny tattoo now rested, a fresh mark of Riff’s burgeoning individuality.

Later, as the stars began to pepper the darkening sky, they settled onto their plush sofa, close enough that their fur brushed. Floyd leaned his head against Riff’s shoulder, the familiar weight of his head and the comforting presence of his special, carefully hidden secret a warm, steady beat in his chest. Riff, in turn, wrapped a protective arm around Floyd, pulling him closer, murmuring softly about how good it was to be home, their shared space filled with the quiet hum of contentment, a day well-spent, and the unspoken promise of many more to come.