#either as a result of him threatening Copper's loved ones and finally pushing Copper over the line to kill in order to protect

[cyanide-latte]

fffffffsssssss every day I forget about one particular TWST OC I have until @simons-twsted-children @inmateofthemind or @ramshacklerumble remind me he exists.

[vodkassassin]

cucumberplane with sqh defending/comforting sqq instead of the other way around (badass!sqh?)

Someone asked for a FIERCE son???

This one is a little long, at just about over 4k

Warnings: gore, graphic depictions of violence ;3

—

Shang Qinghua is scared.

There’s been plenty of instances, especially in this new life of his, where he has been in fear for his life. Every instance feels like it’s the worst one, in the time that it is happening. In the moment, when his heart seems to freeze, beating so quickly it’s almost like he can’t even hear it in the blood that rushes by his ears. When his breath stutters to a stop, and his stomach drops so sharply that it feels like it’s dug itself deep into the mantle of the earth.

In the moment, when it feels like he’s never been this scared in either of his lives.

Like a cornered animal, pinned down against cold stone marble floors, this snarling demon’s clawed hand encircling his throat with just barely enough pressure to make breathing something difficult. The cold, sharp point of a spear digging ever-so gently into his gut, just to remind him that it’s there.

“I’ll carve out each and every one of your bones,” the demon is crooning into his ear, fingers flexing against his jugular, just barely. “They will make excellent jewelry, a badge of great honor. A boast at how the revered and powerful Peak Lord Shang was felled by my hands.”

Revered? Shang Qinghua has absolutely no idea where this dipshit idiot got his information, but clearly his broker had decided it would be a good laugh to lead him around by the nose, because he is so far off the mark.

It’s far more like Shang Qinghua is barely tolerated. Kept around for his work ethic and quick results. But revered? No.

And powerful? Okay, in order to be a peak lord, Shang Qinghua had to meet certain expectations. There are prerequisites for becoming the successor of your Shizun in Cang Qiong. However, there are twelve peaks, and despite being ranked number four out of all of them, the peak lord of An Ding is hardly considered powerful.

This demon has it all wrong. But! Here he is, spear and claws cutting into Shang Qinghua’s skin, threatening his life.

Usually, Shang Qinghua has precautions in place for this very circumstance. There are so many exits he could have taken before this. Back up plans, routes to temporary safety. Hell, just calling for Mobei Jun gets the job done in a flash, half the time.

Okay, more than half.

But. However. Shang Qinghua had made certain oversights. Because he never, in any of those precautions, accounted for the additional presence of his bro. Shen Qingqiu, who is curled up against the wall across the room, pale and unmoving, blood dripping steadily from a gash in his head.

And so, like a cornered animal would, Shang Qinghua bares his teeth.

It should have been a warning, but the demon just laughs.

“Don’t pretend to be brave now, little cultivator,” he chuckles.

The hand on Shang Qinghua’s throat loosens, before removing itself completely so that those long, wickedly sharp claws can trail up the soft skin underneath his jaw. They press down as they go, just enough that Shang Qinghua can feel droplets of blood start trickling down his neck. The demon traces up his cheek with two claws, gently, and croons.

“I never imagined a small thing like you to be the infamous Lord Shang,” the demal continues. “I really did expect someone at least a little taller. But, small is fun, too! You gave me a good hunt, little one, so at least you lived up to some of the rumors.”

Any other day, Shang Qinghua would really love to know what the demons of the North say about him. Really. He’s dying of curiosity, about as much as he’s certain he doesn’t actually want to know.

It doesn’t matter right now, though. If there’s anything that Shang Qinghua is guaranteed to be able to work with, it's being underestimated.

“But, the chase is over now. This one wins, and Lord Shang loses.”

With that, the demon plunges the spear into Shang Qinghua’s stomach.

It’s cold, going in. Terrifying, knowing that there’s something ripping into you. The feeling as your body reacts to a foreign object’s invasion. Not quite at the conclusion that it should hurt, yet. Just… shock.

There’s a brief period of time before the shock makes it hard to move, though. Shang Qinghua knows, from experience, almost exactly how long it will take for his body to realize it’s suppose to be in pain. He has a precious few moments, and his teeth are still bared.

Shang Qinghua has been waiting. He’s good at that. He’s patient. He’s spent most of his life waiting for one thing or another. For plans to come to fruition, for schemes to set. For pieces to fall into place so that he can pull his strings. For this demon to finish his dumbass, dramatic monologue, and make the final blow.

Shang Qinghua is quick — he always has been. At the moment the spearhead enters his flesh, he’s already wriggled an arm forward and grabbed it by the shaft, just below where the demon holds it.

The demon makes a surprised noise when Shang Qinghua uses his grip to pull himself further onto the weapon. It’s the last sound he makes, beyond a wheeze of shock as Shang Qinghua jerks forward into his space and latches his jaw around the demal’s throat.

He sinks his teeth into flesh. It tastes salty. He can feel the point of the spear exiting his back, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He clamps down as hard as he can and thrashes his head to the side and then back again.

The skin under his teeth breaks open. Bloods splurts out, dribbling in rivulets down his chin, and Shang Qinghua bites down even further. Something long and sinewy, stretched like a tube, bursts between his molars, coming apart over his tongue.

The demon collapses, falling away from where he’d been straddling Shang Qinghua’s legs. He crashes to the ground with wide, unseeing eyes, soft gurgles erupting from the demal’s mutilated neck before the sound dies out completely, and Shang Qinghua is left lying there on the cold marble floor, a spear protruding from his midsection.

He stares up at the ceiling, hyper aware of the shock that’s finally settling into his limbs. There’s copper and salt cloying in his mouth. He’s never been a fan of rare steaks, and this is even worse. He feels, distantly, as if he’s going to throw up. But, not now. Maybe in a little bit, after the shock wears off and the pain sets in.

Shang Qinghua experimentally tries to wiggle his toes. He succeeds, and so he moves on to the muscles in his arms, working at them until they contract and retract in the way he wants them to. He lifts up one arm, shakily, and carefully grabs the shaft of the spear that he’s currently impaled upon. He can feel the spearhead pressing uncomfortably against his back, from where it’s exited the wound.

He can’t just pull it out the way that it came in, like he wants to. It will catch, and drag against already torn flesh. The backside of the spearhead is serrated. It will just make it worse.

He has to snap the spear head off before pulling the shaft out.

But, it’s not like a shoddy spear, with a stone head and a wooden shaft. This is a well-crafted weapon, without any seams to serve as a weak point. The spearhead is carved of the same strong metal as the shaft. This was forged by a master weaponsmith, with demonic spells carved elegantly into the detailing.

Shang Qinghua isn’t going to be able to break it with regular, Qi-enhanced strength. He can’t start healing himself until he removes the spear, either. And he can’t push the spear all the way through, since the opposite end is an oddly shaped hilt. Bulky. That would do worse damage than the serrated spearhead.

He’s kind of… stuck. Shang Qinghua isn’t entirely sure how to get the spear out of himself without making it worse. He’ll have to wait until help arrives.

However, he might just bleed out before then!

And, across the room, though his head wound has sluggishly ceased its bleeding, his best friend is still unconscious.

This is fun. Exciting! A real puzzle to solve.

Hey, System!

[System remains in standby mode during all cutscenes.]

What the fuck is that suppose to mean? Cutscenes? There’s never been cutscenes! This is just another shitty excuse not to help!

I hate you.

[System remains in standby mode during all cutscenes.]

Shang Qinghua groans, and carefully begins to maneuver himself onto his side.

The pain hits. Thankfully not all at once. It comes in increments, so Shang Qinghua is able to sit up and get his legs underneath him before it really starts making a nuisance of itself, but it does come.

It hurts, dammit. He’s had worse, of course, but it still hurts like a bitch, and there’s a hazy blackness encroaching on the very edges of Shang Qinghua’s vision that won’t go away no matter how many times he blinks.

He shoves the pain to the back of his mind and focuses on standing. It’s an arduous process, but he manages it, and he’s by Shen Qingqiu’s side within thirty seconds of almost drunken stumbling.

Shang Qinghua is very mindful of the spear that still impales him as he kneels in a controlled collapse beside his best friend. He angles his chest away from the other man so the heavy end of the spear points downwards and away from them both. He lifts a visibly shaking hand to Shen Qingqiu’s brow and begins channeling qi into him.

Just because he can’t heal himself with the spear still in him, doesn’t mean he can’t heal his buddy.

It’s a short process. He’s no healer, but he and Mu Qingfang are — close, and Shang Qinghua has learned a thing or two from the very best that their sect has to offer. Shen Qingqiu’s eyes are fluttering open within minutes.

“Ow,” the man murmurs, raising a hand to his most-likely aching skull. It lands to cover Shang Qinghua’s, fingers momentarily intertwining with his, and Shen Qingqiu straightens up from where he has slumped against the wall to look over at him.

“What hit me?” he groans, confusion cinching his brow.

Shang Qinghua sucks in a slow, controlled breath. The pain is hammering at his senses insistently, but he shoves it to the back of his mind again. It’s an ongoing battle, like trying to fight off a jumping dog with boundless energy when you’re going off two hours of sleep and are short three cup of coffee. And you have a migraine that makes every single one of your joints feel like there’s a knife stuck in them.

It’s a very specific metaphor. Which might not be a metaphor, but more of an correlation to that one time he’d been roped into dogsitting for his older brother.

That didn’t necessarily hurt as bad as this, per say, but it was like, similarly annoying?

To… being impaled?

Right.

It takes a few moments, Shang Qinghua still focused on channeling his qi, but Shen Qingqiu eventually becomes coherent enough to recall how exactly he’d ended up like this, and he pins him with a sharp look of examination. Which quickly turns to pale-faced horror.

“Airplane!” Shen Qingqiu hisses, eyes wide and terrified. “Airplane, stop! Why are you — why are you healing me? You have a fucking spear sticking out of you, oh my fucking god—!”

They quickly switch positions. Suddenly, Shang Qinghua is the one on the ground, with a panicked Shen Qingqiu leaning over him, hands hovering above the spear but not quite touching it, uncertainty warring with fear on the man’s face. No fan to hide the expression, this time.

Amusement and fondness twists up in Shang Qinghua’s gut, mingling with the internal bleeding that he is most certainly experiencing. He reaches up a hand to clumsily pay at his bro’s face.

“Peerless,” he breathes out. He can feel a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Bro, you’re so pretty…. I did so, so good…. character descriptions absolutely flawless....”

“Great, you’re delirious.” Shen Qingqiu huffs out, trying to sound annoyed. There’s still that note of fear in there, though, that can’t be mistaken. “Airplane, pull yourself together. How the fuck am I suppose to get this out of you? I need you sober, man.”

“Drunk on paiiin,” Shang Qinghua giggles out in a singsong, and his bro pulls a face.

“That sounds so wrong. Don’t say that. Instead, tell me how to— to unimpale you? Maybe? Airplane?”

Shang Qinghua tilts his head back. Cold marble presses against his crown. It’s soothing, kinda. He feels like he’s burning up with a fever. The slight chill is… nice. He closes his eyes.

“Fuck,” Shen Qingqiu says. A hand lands on his shoulder and gives him a very light shake. “Don’t fall asleep. Don’t fucking fall asleep! Airplane, please.”

Right.

Shang Qinghua sucks in another slow, careful breath, and forces his eyes open. He fights past the haziness that’s trying to cover his vision, and locks eyes with his martial brother and best friend. Shen Qingqiu looks terrified, eyes wide and damp around the edges.

Awww, he does care!

Shaking the thought away, he reaches out with one hand and slaps his palm against the shaft of the spear. The vibrations travel down its length and into Shang Qinghua, and his entire torso alights with fresh, white hot pain. He stiffens and smothers a cry.

“Shit! Airplane, what the fuck?! Stop!”

He ignores Shen Qingqiu. Shang Qinghua is more awake now, which is exactly what he was going for.

“Bro,” he says. It comes out breathless, more of a wheeze. “We can’t break the spear with normal cultivation.”

“Then how the fuck—?!”

“No, no. Listen. You can’t break it with normal cultivation. It needs an elemental touch, and I’m not about to electrocute myself to death again.”

Shen Qingqiu pauses, staring down at him. He blinks.

“But,” Shen Qingqiu says, realization alighting in his eyes. His bro is so clever. “I don’t have a lightning element. Mine is earth.”

“Yep! Bro.”

“Airplane?”

Shang Qinghua swings out his arm and slaps it against Shen Qingqiu’s chest, turning his hand to grab the front of his bro’s robes. He uses his grip to haul himself up into a sitting position, leaning in to speak directly into the other man’s ear.

“Bro, disintegrate the spear. Like, I am begging you here. It fucking hurts.”

Shen Qingqiu leaned back in order to stare at him. After a few seconds, he shakes his head roughly, eyes wide.

“R—Right!” He says, and reaches out to curl his fingers hesitantly around the spear shaft. His other arm has curled protectively around the small of Shang Qinghua’s back, helping to hold him up as his strength quickly drains away from him.

“Right. Um, just… give me a second. I’m not… um, I’m not really good with elemental techniques….”

“Take your time,” Shang Qinghua says sincerely, before blacking out into his bro’s shoulder.

—

“Hey, Airplane?”

Shang Qinghua glances up from the door of the throne room that they’ve summarily been trapped inside of.

It was a beautiful scheme of their opponent, truly. Using the defenses of the wards that are intended to protect against them. Setting up a grand distraction in the form of a false invasion, drawing away the guards and his king to the frontlines of the battle. Meanwhile, Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu were trapped within the seat of power of the palace the very moment that the wards had initiated the total lockdown.

Nothing goes in, nothing goes out.

It’s a complete, absolute protection — but it can’t do anything to protect them from someone already inside the wards themselves, and subsequently had cut them off from any back up in the form of a teleporting demon king, as not even Mobei Jun himself can break through the ancient wards of his own ancestors.

It was a severe oversight. He’ll have to rectify it immediately, once this is all taken care of and finished.

Loopholes being taken advantage of in such creative ways! Shang Qinghua would be so very impressed, if only they weren’t his wards being made a mockery of.

He looks over at his bro, to find Shen Qingqiu staring down at the corpse of their attacker with an odd look on his face.

Really, Shang Qinghua is kind of embarrassed. For both of them! They could have taken this guy, working together. Neither of them are slackers in the power department, and Shen Qingqiu in particular inherited a pretty strong body to begin with, that he has since only made more powerful. Shang Qinghua himself is, while not exactly super impressive, certainly nothing to sniff at. After all, he is a peak lord, too.

Together, they should have been able to take this guy.

Too bad the dipshit demon had foreseen that, and had worked in the element of surprise. It really had been too quick. Strike down the more powerful of them first, and fight the lesser head on. Shen Qingqiu is unconscious against the wall, and Shang Qinghua is fast, but apparently not fast enough.

Seriously. It’s embarrassing.

“Yeah, bro?”

“Did you….” Shen Qingqiu looks up from the body, glancing at the bloodied mess that is the front of Shang Qinghua’s robes. He points a finger at him, and looks back down at the corpse in clear befuddlement. “Did you, uh…. Um, how exactly did you kill this guy?”

Shang Qinghua pauses his work with the wards. They’re a true beast, really, and he’s gonna need his bro’s help anyway. It’ll take more than just him to dismantle the lockdown. He stands up and wanders over to stare down at the corpse as well.

It’s a fucking mess. The corpse had drained out of the neck until there wasn’t any more blood to bleed, resulting in a massive puddle of deep crimson that has expanded a good five feet in diameter around the demon’s body. The body itself is pale in death, an ashy green color that has become mottled in places due to the absence of blood. The eyes are still open, staring sightlessly at nothing, and the face still bears a slightly slack expression of shock.

It’s disturbing to look at, sure, but they’ve both seen worse. Shang Qinghua is a little confused about why his bro seems so uneasy.

“Uh,” he says, head tilted to the side in thought. “Well, he stabbed me…. hm. Oh! Yeah, so I kinda, like, used the spear to pull him closer so I could, y’know,” Shang Qinghua snaps his teeth in a theatric grimace, and gives his head a slight jerk to the side.

He then smiles brightly at his friend, who is staring at him with an expression he can’t really describe.

“And, yeah,” he finishes, lamely.

“There’s blood,” Shen Qingqiu says. “In your teeth.”

“Hm,” Shang Qinghua frowns. He runs his tongue or his teeth, and grimaces for real at the tacky feeling that coats them. Not even going to mention the taste. “Can blood stain, like, bone? Teeth are bone. Do you think it’ll stain?”

“Airplane, did you rip out that guy’s throat with your teeth?”

Shang Qinghua frowns at his friend. “Um, yeah? Didn’t I just say that?”

“Haha, you did.” Shen Qingqiu gives a strange laugh. It sounds a little hysterical. “You actually did.”

Shang Qinghua watches in bewilderment as the other man spins on his heel and takes a few steps away from him. His steps bring him closer to the corpse. He stops just shy of his feet kicking into it and stares down at it for a long few moments that feel like they stretch into minutes.

Then, Shen Qingqiu shakes his head slowly, and walks back over to him.

“That’s so fucking metal, bro,” he says, finally. “Like, I’m both terrified and very, very impressed.”

“Oh.” Shang Qinghua says. He runs his fingers through the back of his hair self-consciously, feeling at where the strands have come loose from his bun. “Thanks. Listen, I’m gonna need a hand with the wards. They can only be unlocked from the inside, and usually I’d be able to just do it myself, but I’m almost spent, dude. Like, I need a fucking nap, as soon as possible. Imma need your qi.”

“Sure, what little I can give of it. I used up a lot on that medical technique for your, uh, impalement. I’m no doctor, man.” Shen Qingqiu shrugs. He casts one last vaguely incredulous glance between Shang Qinghua and the demon’s corpse, before following him over to the two, large and imposing throne room doors.

They’re swinging them open about fifteen minutes later, and both of them are forced to duck out of the way as a barrage of deadly sharp icicles comes raining down almost upon their heads.

Shang Qinghua grabs his best friend by the arm and flings him back, raising his other arm up into the air to snap his fingers. He winces at how the movement pulls at his still incredibly sore injury. Thankfully, he’d managed to heel it enough that the wound itself has closed, but he’s pretty sure he’s still got some internal bleeding going on in there.

There’s a light shimmer in the air before them, barely visible, as his qi condenses into a weak physical barrier. Most of the icicles shatter upon contact with it, but some make it through, and Shang Qinghua tugs his increasingly drowsy martial brother out of the line of fire.

Ah, head wounds are so annoying. Guess he’ll have to drag Shen-ge with him to see Qingfang, after all.

“My king!” He shouts, and then raises his voice as another volley of icicles begins to form from the moisture in the air. Being in the cold north, there’s plenty of it. “Mobei Jun! Stop! It’s us!”

The icicles pause, and then fall to the floor, shattering into thousands of tiny shards of ice that immediately begin to melt into the floor. There’s no time to appreciate the built-in clean up function born from his beautiful world building skills, however, as a large figure comes striding across the outer hall toward them, intent in every single step.

As soon as Mobei Jun and the retinue of guards spot the two peak lords, they fall to an abrupt stop. The guards all exchange glances, but it’s difficult to make out their expressions underneath the helmets of ice. His king, barefaced as always, looks a little surprised. Not much, of course, but his eyes are a little wider than usual.

“Shang Qinghua,” Mobei Jun says, and then stops.

“Yes, my king?”

There’s a long strength of silence. Shang Qinghua frowns and turns to his friend, only to find Shen Qingqiu staring at him as well. His fan flutters in front of his face, having appeared out of absolutely nowhere — seriously, does the man keep spares in a qiankun space? — and the eyes that peer over it at him look distinctly amused.

“Shang-ge,” he says, mirth coating every word.

“What?”

Shen Qingqiu watches him for a moment, and then snickers.

“Shen-ge, what?”

“You look like you just ripped someone’s throat out.” Shen Qingqiu comments idly.

Annoyed, Shang Qinghua reaches up and rubs the back of his sleeve across his mouth. He scowls at his bro. “That’s because I just did? Why are you laughing at me?”

Someone coughs. It sounds like one of the guards. Another hurriedly shushes the one, and all the demons in the hall are very still and very silent. It’s kind of eerie, actually. Mobei Jun is still staring at him, too.

Is it because Shang Qinghua has made such a mess? He will clean it up, your majesty, he promises!

“What did it taste like?” Shen Qingqiu suddenly wonders aloud, watching him inquisitively, and Shang Qinghua rounds on him with a sigh of exasperation.

“Gross.” He says firmly. He wipes his sleeve over his mouth once more, for good measure. Blood flakes off of his chin, and he makes a face. “Disgusting. I’m never doing that again. Ugh.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan flutters, and his friend laughs at him.

“Shang Qinghua.” Mobei Jun says, this time more firmly.

He turns toward his king and folds his hands out in front of him, bowing just slightly enough to show respect. “My king, this one will have the mess cleaned up, do not worry. However, both this one and his martial brother require the assistance of our fellow peak lord after such an ordeal, so if your Majesty would allow us….”

Mobei Jun’s haze sharpens, and he takes a step forward. Always one to read in between the lines of what is being said, he demands answers. “You are hurt?”

“This one was impaled. Healed now, but likely requires further treatment just in case. Brother Shen has a head wound that I would like for our sect doctor to look at.”

“I’m fine,” Shen Qingqiu says, annoyed.

He sways slightly to the side, righting himself before Shang Qinghua can reach out to steady him, and gives him an impervious look when he tries to set his hand on the man’s arm anyway.

Shang Qinghua rolls his eyes. “Sure, as Shen-ge says. Would you like to tell Qingfang, or should I?”

Shen Qingqiu glares at him.

He turns back to Mobei Jun, who has taken a few steps to the side and is trying to peer around them for a glimpse at the mess on the throne room floor. Shang Qinghua steps in front of him, blocking the view.

His king narrows his eyes at him, and Shang Qinghua swallows down the usual nervousness that tries to crawl up his throat at the look. He is tired, he’s got a headache, his qi levels are at rock bottom, he’d just been impaled, and Shang Qinghua thinks he deserves a fucking nap, okay?

He summons up a polite smile and gives his king another bow. “If my king permits it…?” He hedges once again.

Mobei Jun glowers at him for a couple more long moments, the line of demonic guardsmen at his back unrelenting and immovable.

“The invasion force at the gates,” his king says slowly, eyes once again going to the throne room just beyond their little rendezvous point here. “It was only a bluff?”

“Yes, my king.”

“And the assassin?”

“Dead, my king.”

“.... Hmph.”

Well, Shang Qinghua has no idea what that sound means.

Mobei Jun stares at him some more, before finally nodding his head once. “This king will take you to Qian Cao.”

Shang Qinghua beams at the man. “That would be amazing! Many thanks, my king!”

Mobei Jun lets out a huff and pivots on his heel to face the contingent of guardsdemals instead, his back shown to them.

From Shang Qinghua’s shoulder, Shen Qingqiu quietly snorts into his fan.

“Gather a cleaning crew for both the battlefield and the throne room,” Mobei Jun barks out, and the guards scatter.

He turns back to face the two peak lords, and holds out one arm, not even looking at them.

Shang Qinghua wraps one arm around his bro’s waist. From how unsteady Shen Qingqiu still is, he doesn’t really trust the man to hold on for the entire trip. And falling off mid-teleportation is definitely not fun. Shang Qinghua can attest to that.

Mobei Jun is scowling when he reaches out and sets his arm into the crook of the king’s elbow, but he steps into the teleportation before Shang Qinghua can even consider asking him what’s wrong.

[dontshootmespence]

Supernatural AU: Episode 4 - Devoid

Part 1

For the first time in weeks, Jenna could breathe. The incessant oppressive drowning feeling that accompanied seeing your child in any kind of pain had finally left, dissipating as his smile returned; she and Gavin weren’t fighting about how to help him anymore. Everything was okay again.

At the end of the day all she wanted was for her family to be happy and with the nightmares gone from Thomas’ restful hours, they had that back again. As she flitted about the kitchen, dancing to glorious 90s boy-band music, Gavin walked up behind her grateful to see her happy again. This past month had been very difficult for them. 

“How’s he doing?” Gavin asked, his lips curling upward into a sleepy smile. At first, she didn’t notice, almost screaming when she finally caught sight of him. “Sorry,” he laughed. Between Thomas’ nightmares and his own work schedule, he’d been exhausted lately, as had she. “Those vitamins helping?” He’d scoffed at the idea that they’d do anything to help their son, but she insisted it would help and Thomas was doing better, so who was he to question the results?

Since Thomas had come to their room screaming about being chased by a monster in the night, Jenna had been trying anything and everything she could think of to help her little boy banish his bad dreams. After readying Thomas’ pills for the week, she turned to her husband and laughed. “Well, I don’t think it’s really the vitamins,” she said under her breath, not wanting Thomas to accidentally hear her, “So much as the placebo effect. Either way, he said he hasn’t had the nightmare in about four days.” Which was saying something because it had been raging almost every night for a month; it had been keeping him up, making him fall asleep in class and therefore interrupting his school work. He was afraid to turn corners even when he was awake for fear the monster would finally grab him. “I took care of it,” she continued, the smile fading from her face for a moment.  “No need to worry anymore.”

“My wife, the miracle worker,” Gavin replied proudly. “You coming to bed soon?”

She kissed her husband’s cheek and told him she’d be right there as soon as she gave Thomas his vitamins and tucked him in for the night. Ever the worrier, she wanted to make sure he was truly okay even though he’d willingly gone into his room tonight.

As she tentatively opened his door, fearing she’d see him shaking up against the wall, she took a cleansing breath. Thomas had a smile on his face again and he was already waiting in bed, tired after a long day of school and play, instead of sitting in the corner of his room, shaking and petrified to get under the covers. He was staring up at the ceiling where the star and moon stickers clung tightly so he could see the universe no matter whether he was inside or out. If Jenna would allow him, Thomas would sleep out under the stars every night. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hey, sweetpea,” she replied. “Feeling okay?”

Thomas nodded and reached out for the vitamins he was more than happy to take if they rid his brain of the bad dreams. He was eight years old; he didn’t want to be sleeping in his mom and dad’s bedroom every night, but he couldn’t help it when that monster lurked behind every corner of his brain.

Tall and slender and covered in bloodshot eyes that pierced into his soul, it wouldn’t leave him be, threatening to eat him and his mom and dad if he screamed, its voice sending shockwave after shockwave up his spine, like ice on a hot summer day. Thomas shook his head, banishing the evil, beady-eyed monster from his waking thoughts so he could swallow his vitamins. “Yea, mom. I’m good. Just sleepy.”

“Okay, then have sweet dreams baby.” Jenna pulled the covers up around her son’s tiny body. “Dad and I will be in our room if you need us.”

Yawning, he pulled the covers around himself, sheltering himself from the chill in the air and smiled. “I’ll be okay, Mom.”

After placing a kiss on his forehead, Jenna left the room and went to join her husband. Within minutes, the exhausted parents were asleep in a dreamland of their very own, where life was content. They had been dying to go on vacation for years and had been discussing the possibility with Gavin’s extra hours at work.

Meanwhile, Thomas tossed and turned for a while. He got what his mom called a second wind, but it didn’t last long and after about 30 minutes he was drifting off to sleep himself.

He hadn’t seen the monster for a few days, so when his brain conjured up a picture of the beach, waves licking at the shoreline as he and his friends made sand castles, he relaxed into his bed.

Heavy footsteps resounded against the confines of the darkness, its body closing in on the place it had been called to visit: ready, hungry, but wary. Night after night, it did as the woman with the soft voice had asked and rid her son of what plagued him, but the nightmares seemed to be gone and it wanted more…

-

They’d stayed with Bobby for the week while they sought out a case and attempted to figure out where to look for John next. “It’s been dry for a week,” Dean said exasperatedly. He was sitting on the couch, scratching at his elbow, eyes heavy from boredom, fingers still caked with motor oil. When they weren’t watching TV, he was working on Baby. Sam had been pretty quiet most of the week with the exception of watching football, which had never really been his thing, but it brought them all a sense of normalcy so he stuck to it. Bobbie was pretty sure he was in his own head most of the time, but besides that and sports he had his head deep in any and every book on Bobby’s shelves. “And the trail has gone cold for Dad, so what are we supposed to be doing. I feel like shit is going on, but it’s just under the radar so we don’t know about it. Baby is purring and ready to go. I need something.”

He was probably right unfortunately. Unless God decided that he wanted to actually show up and do something and had struck all of the supernatural bullshit from the Earth over the course of the past week, then it was in fact happening under the radar.

Before Bobbie could say anything, a call came in on one of her uncle’s phones. It was actually the one for him and not one of the many law enforcement personas he held in order to help them with cases. “Bobby Singer,” he said upon answering, his eyes immediately darting between all three children. “John, where have you been?” 

The copper taste of blood in her mouth made Bobbie unclench the bite hold she had on her tongue. He was alive…and okay…and hadn’t called. “Gimme the phone,” she mouthed, but her Uncle dodged out of the way.

“What the hell?” Sam exclaimed, pushing his hair out from in front of his eyes. “He’s okay?!”

“Why the hell haven’t you called?” Dean screamed. His eyes were full to the brim with tears. They’d called for weeks without any answer from him and now he calls out of nowhere and it’s Bobby instead of one of them.

Bobby tried to get them to shut up, but when the Winchester siblings wanted answers there was no holding them back. With fire in each step, Bobbie grabbed the phone from her uncle and screamed into the phone. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

John hesitated on the other end, like he was truly hoping to not have to have this conversation over the phone, but then he spoke, his voice so soft that Bobbie almost forgot how pissed she was. Almost being the operative word. “Hey B.”

“Hey? Hey is what you have to say? Dean and I have been calling for weeks. Sam is with us now. He’s been calling you for weeks. We’ve left messages. We’ve tried every phone you own and you just call now? Are you serious?” Bobbie could feel her blood boiling in her veins. Sam looked about the same and Dean, well Dean just looked devastated. “Do you have any idea what not hearing from you has been doing to us?” They’d lost sleep. She and Sam had been getting headaches more often. Dean was drowning his sorrows in booze more than usual.

John was be lucky he wasn’t here right now because if he was, she would’ve been hitting the ever-loving crap out of him. “I needed to get answers for us, Bobbie. For all of us.”

“Answers?”

“About Mom.”

“It’s been over 20 years!” She screeched, suppressing the urge to throw the phone across the room. “You’ve never disappeared and not answered our calls before!” Not for this long, maybe a couple days at a time, but it had been nearly six weeks

Dean’s expression had turned from distraught to livid and Sam was on the edge, storming toward Bobbie to rip the phone from her hand. “While you were off chasing a two-decades old mystery, my girlfriend was killed by the same fucking thing! And you were nowhere to be found.” He practically threw the phone in Bobbie’s direction, slamming the door open to the auto lot outside so he could blow off some steam.

“Bravo, Father of the Year. Not here for your kids…again.” When was enough enough? When was it time to let go of the past and focus on the now?

He stammered his apologies but she wasn’t having it and neither was Dean. He screamed again loud enough so John could hear. “Why did you even call?”

“I have a case I need you three to look into while I’m doing this.”

“Oh, the vendetta, right,” she spat sarcastically. “What is the case?”

“I got a call from a friend of a friend that there’s been a string of child suicides in Montana. I’ll send Bobby the coordinates.”

“What makes you think it’s our kind of job?” She asked. She was so tired of this conversation. All she wanted to do right now was to go outside to one of the used, beat up cars and beat the living shit out of it.

His voice was laden with guilt as he explained that all of the children had been under the age of 10, had been ridiculously happy and bright-eyed and within weeks they’d turned into almost zombies, walking around and eating and drinking and going through the motions for the hell of it without any real drive. “I have nothing to go on but my gut, but all of the children being under 10 makes me think it’s something we might be able to handle.”

“Were any of the children bullied?” Bobbie asked. She was numb now, turning around to see that Dean had left, undoubtedly off to find Sam. 

“No. That was the first thing I asked. All popular, well-adjusted kids.”

Wonder what that was like.

John noticed the hesitation and smoothed over it. “Please, Bobbie. While I’m doing this, please look into this for me.” As much as she wanted to punch him right now, if he had a gut feeling, they needed to follow it. He was rarely wrong about this kind of thing.

“Fine. Go do whatever the hell it is you’re doing and your kids will take care of themselves. Not like we’re not used to it by now.” When she slammed the phone down, the first hot tears slipped down her cheeks.

“You okay?” Bobby asked, his gruff voice the only thing holding her together.

She shook her head and turned defeated to walk outside. He meant well, but the question, like her, was tired. “No, Bobby. I’m really not.”

-

Outside, she saw Sam taking a crowbar to an old car on Bobby’s lot. Dean threw in a hit for good measure and once she arrived Bobbie snapped the crowbar away and got in a few hits of her own. “You all feeling better now?” Bobby asked. It was tough love time.

“No.” They all said simultaneously.

Sam huffed and puffed wanting nothing more than to go back to bed. “What did he say?”

“What you heard,” Bobbie mumbled. “And then that he thought there was a job in Montana.”

After Bobbie told them what he’d said, Dean shrugged. “It could be an us thing. It could be nothing, but I was getting antsy before and now I’m pissed and need to refocus.”

“So you wanna go?” Bobbie asked.

“No…but yes. If I sit around here, especially after that call, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Bobbie was pretty sure all of their brains were already mush.

They finally all cooled off enough to the point of thinking rationally and went back inside to grab everything they’d strewn about Bobby’s place over the course of the past week. “Call me if you need anything okay?” He asked as he kissed her forehead before passing her a piece of paper with the coordinates they needed.

“We will,” she smiled sadly.

Dean relented and let her drive. As she hopped in the driver’s seat, Sam and Dean gave Bobby hugs goodbye, holding on just a little tighter than they had before. Hopefully they wouldn’t need Bobby’s help, considering he helped a range of hunters across the United States with his various personas, but if they needed him, Bobbie knew he’d be there.

@remember-me-forever-silent-angel @gaylemonshark  @marveldivergentouatdctvfangirl @lalirang @averagekansan @addsomesalt @stusbunker @sebba-hiddles @fanfictionrecommendations-com @hoppy519 @thatwrestlingfan91 @extremeobsessions101 @spence-imagines @bettercallsabs @whaaatthefuuuuck @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked @your-imagination-runs-wild @cryinglots @steggy01 @gigilame @sedulous-mind @a-unique-girls-heaven @just-antiyou @rmmalta @original-criminal-fanfics @ties-n-suits @veroinnumera @eurusholmmes @fanficienjoyedreading @astridstark13​ @ties-n-suits​ @demonlover87​ @kennybud​ @shittyafblogwnopoint​ @pleasantlyfadingpeace​ @bulldozed88 @a-gir1-has-n0-name​

[emletish-fish]

Worst Prisoner rambly notes!

Lovely readers,

In these notes I'll ramble about Aang and Zuko's relationship, birthdays in ATLA, the northern lights, and Pakku's growth.

So this chapter was a little more serious, but I hope you all enjoyed it anyway.

Aang is actually under a huge amount of pressure in the seige of the Northern Water Tribe.  He's twelve, he's only just started water-bending. He's struggling with the Avatar state. Yet everyone expects him just to solve the problem.

But jeez, it's a huge ask for the poor kid.  Look at him, he’s so nervous!

I just wanted Aang to have someone he could confide in about how much his responsibilities freak him out. It's a little awkward for him to tell Sokka and Katara, because they had a very obvious vested interest in the outcome.  I think he would choose to confide these things in Zuko. 

I just think he would be a good listener for Aang's struggles. He encourages Aang to be more honest about his fears and responsibilities, and Aang in turn, feels like there is someone who is listening to him non-judgmentally. Aang is a massive people-pleaser who has a hard time saying things he knows people won’t like, but he isn’t as worried about that with Zuko.  Developing more honest communication can only be a good thing for Aang’s growth. 

Also, I just love their friendship, okay!

So ATLA takes place nearly over a year. I reckon everyone would have had a birthday at some point during ATLA. Sokka's was in the autumn, so he'll have to wait until after the comet.  I think Katara, Zuko, Aang and Toph would have been born in their corresponding season. Powerful earthbenders are born in spring. Powerful firebenders are born in summer (though I think Zuko's birthday is late summer – for reasons I'll get into if I ever get around to writing season 3). Katara is born in mid-winter, the time for badass waterbenders.

I ascribe to the theory that Air Nomads engaged in big procreating solstice festivals* – but the result would be everyone would be born around the same time. This time would be around the autumn equinox. So I think the Air nomads would probably celebrate everyone's birthdays in a two-week long festival.

*Imagine Zuko's surprise when he finally steels himself to have “the talk” with Aang, only to find out group sex/orgies is what Aang perceives as normal.

I think the Water Tribes wouldn't do extravagant presents, as they are people of limited resources. Instead they would give practical gifts, and honour each year with a practical gift that the child would need, up until they reach the age of adulthood. I think these gifts would be gender segregated, eg hunting stuff for the boys, and housework stuff for the girls.  So Katara gets her bone needles.

I think the Fire Nation would probably do birthday candles and individual gifts.  We see when he is dating Mai that Zuko, other faults aside, is actually quite a generous boyfriend. Some of this comes from him being in a position of wealth and opulence during the relationship, but I also think generosity is in his nature. Zuko was willing to give that knife to a kid he had only just met when he had next to nothing, just so Lee would feel safe. It doesn't feel like a stretch that he would try to give the knife to Katara. I think he would have lost track of time a little bit, hence his surprise that her birthday is so soon.

He gives it to her because it's her birthday and he wants to give her something nice. But it really is the only thing his got. This would be one of the moments where the loss of his status would really bother him, because he really doesn't have two coppers to rub together at this point. He's a prince with a generous nature who can't spoil his girlfriend on her birthday, and that's gotta suck. 

He just wants to do nice things for her. So he gives her a metaphorical piece of himself.

He also has an ulterior motive for giving the knife to her. He wants to know someone will tell his Uncle what happened to him, just in case.  He doesn't want to just disappear on Iroh the way his mum disappeared on him. (He is confident that no matter what goes down, Katara is going to live through sheer stubbornness. He knows what a badass his girlfriend is). The movement of the armada has made Zuko re-examine how precarious his position is, when previously he had been lulled into a false sense of well-being because he was getting' some.

I think Zuko would be in a more pessimistic frame of mind after having to write to his dad and the realisation that he's on a ticking clock before he's deemed no longer useful.  The request for a letter to his dad would have thrown him. Zuko would realise for the first time that he doesn't really have anything to say to his father; I mean anything that he would feel safe saying to his father.  He can communicate quite freely with his Uncle, but he has never been able to talk to his father.

The northern lights are great! But I didn't want to call them that in this fic because I think they would happen in the south as well, just like we get the Aurora Australis sometimes. So I called them spirit-lights instead. I think this would have been a particularly amazing display.  There are heaps of legends regarding the northern lights, but red is consistently interpreted as foretelling war and death.

Tui has been watching this whole time, and been very entertained.  I haven't said anything was a metaphor for their love for a while, so I'll say it here. The fish are a metaphor for their love! I just really enjoy the balance, the push and pull, that was present in Zutara. They pushed each other to grow into better people. They pulled each other forward, and pulled each other up when the other was down. They grounded each other, supported each other and understood each other.   Rather than being locked into stagnant roles, one giver and one taker, they had such a beautiful balance between them.

So the Frozen Pit is quite dark and spooky – and the origin of all cannibalistic rumours! Pakku's thought back  when the Gaang first arrived about how glad he was that the tribe no longer imprisoned people was in reference to this place. The Northern Water Tribe has always been very unwelcoming to foreigners.  I think that there is always a dark side to isolationist policies that dehumanises “other” people.  In a war-torn world, full of refugees, (who are willing to walk across deserts, and other life threatening geographical obstacles) the Northern Water Tribe is actually an ideal refuge. Yet no one tries it. I think there was a very strong good reason for that.

So Pakku is not very supportive of Katara's relationship with Zuko here, but I honestly don't think he would be.  They had to be explicitly forbidden from one another by someone, and Pakku was my guy for that! The Northern Water Tribe has had a policy of isolation for over 80 years. That does not make it the most welcoming place for an inter-racial relationship.

I think Pakku would be tolerant of people from other nations and feel compassion for them (eg. his deep regret about the frozen pit).  However he does not want any foreigners marrying into his tribe/family. His threat against Zuko isn't anything personal. He doesn't have a problem with Zuko per-see, but he certainly has a problem with Katara dating outside the tribes, especially someone who is “the enemy”. Like all white-lotus, Pakku is working towards maintaining balance, but I think he would see that balance as everyone staying in their own nations, rather than mixing. (Hey-hey, kinda like Bryke in the comics!)  

Pakku is incredibly set in his ways and very inflexible in his thinking. He was willing to make sure Aang was never able to master either water-bending or the Avatar state just so he could maintain an extremely sexist custom and belief in male superiority.

He let Katara learn waterbending for very personal reasons, but he didn't let any other girls learn did he? The lead up to war would have been a great time for that sweeping change in gender roles, with women being taught to fight based on sheer practicality. There is a very real threat coming and logically, everyone knowing basic self defence would have been beneficial. But we don't see that.

I think Pakku developed a personal attachment to Katara, and she did make him question some of his values. However, shifting perceptions of a man that age takes a lot, and Katara's got other shit to do. Pakku is going to have to do some of the growing on his own, and he is also going to have to have a solid mistake to learn from – rather than some nebulous realisation of the fact that he has been a dick to women for sixty years.  

Pakku is very controlling here. He is used to being listened to and getting  his own way. I think now that Pakku sees Katara as family, he would feel entitled to a say in who she dates. He honestly thinks he's doing the right thing, to “protect her from herself” here, and that is part of the problem.  It does come from a place of love, but there is a hell of a lot of rigid ideas about gender and relationships in that place too.  

Next chapter: Everything will change when the Fire Nation attacks!

[fcllencngels]

Moratorium

A Yuri!!! on Ice fic

A moratorium is a delay or suspension of an activity.

You never judge a book by it's cover. You never judge a person by their personality And when Yuri moves to Russia, he sees so much of Yurio that he hadn't expected at all

Read on AO3

TW: Suicide excerpt from Crime and Punishment

The first time Yuri meets Yurio Plisetsky, he’s met with a scowl and a ferocity no one would expect from a fifteen year old. But no one should be judged based on first impressions, the same way that books should not be judged by their cover. For far more important things lie on the inside than on the outside.

The first time Yuri sees Yurio at Victor’s-no their house, he’s met with the same trademark scowl and a slamming door as he looks up from his spot on the couch. With his blonde hair wicked back in a ponytail, he looks sharper, but for some reason, something is…off. It’s the same aura he felt when Yurio kicked him on his birthday, seconds after he gave him a present.

It’s vulnerability.

“Where the fuck is Victor?” He asks, and Yuri turns back to his phone, silently contemplating how much harsher Yurio makes Victor’s name with his quick tongue.

“Hey Yurio.” He calls back, and he hears a huff of annoyance from behind him. The teenager made his way to the bookshelf, his fingers disrupting the carefully aligned books, their spines littered with Russian that Yuri can barely understand and English that he can. “He’s in the shower, I’m sure he’ll be out soon.”

Yurio selects a book from the shelf, muttering something about pigs and fucking, his agile fingers opening the book to a page before a dark look overtook his face.

He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of the house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them, wrapped in a grey soldier’s coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his head. He cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigaïlov. His face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both, Svidrigaïlov and Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes without speaking. At last it struck Achilles as irregular for a man not drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying a word.

‘What do you want here?’ he said, without moving or changing his position.

‘Nothing, brother, good morning,’ answered Svidrigaïlov.

‘This isn’t the place.’

‘I am going to foreign parts, brother.’

‘To foreign parts?’

‘To America.’

‘America.’

Svidrigaïlov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his eyebrows.

‘I say, this is not the place for such jokes!’

‘Why shouldn’t it be the place?’

‘Because it isn’t.’

‘Well, brother, I don’t mind that. It’s a good place. When you are asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America.’

He put the revolver to his right temple.

‘You can’t do it here, it’s not the place,’ cried Achilles, rousing himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.

Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger.

“Svidrigailov pulled the trigger.” Yurio read out loud, and a silence overtakes the room. It’s as if time was frozen, focused on the next thing that could possibly happen.

“It must be terrible to die alone.” he says, his voice impossibly soft, and Yuri looks up, just in time to see the same vulnerability fill the boy’s body up, uncertainty setting itself in his bones.

“What was that Yurio?” Yuri asks, and he’s met with a sharp glare. If he didn’t know better, he would have never assumed that Yurio has composed himself in a half second.

“It’s disgusting in English.” He says with a bitter finality, dropping the book on the floor just as Victor emerges from their bedroom, his hair sparkling from the sunlight.

“Yurio!” he says, his mouth transforming into that beautiful heart shape as he walked over to hug the young skater. Yurio quickly evades his grasp, thin arms crossing as he stares at his elder.

“That’s not my name.” He points at the clock, annoyance written over his face. “You promised you’d be at the rink by seven.” Yurio says accusingly. Victor glances at the time, before shrugging.

“It’s not too late now!” he declared, glancing at the book sprawled on the ground. He gives Yurio a pointed look, but it’s too late, the messy blonde head is already half way to the door.

Victor gives him a hurried kiss before rushing out of the door, and Yuri is left with only the Yurio’s shouts as a solid goodbye.

Standing up, he moves to pick up the fallen book, and pauses as he stares at the text in front of him.

It’s Russian.

The first time Yuri sees Yurio smiling, he’s in a restaurant, nothing admirable compared to the city all around them, but he’s staring at the person across from him with a passion that Yuri recognizes every time he sees his reflection in Victor’s eyes.

In the moment, he’s high off of love, Victor’s present glittering on his finger, and he had never thought of it twice.

The first time Yuri sees Yurio filled with raw unfiltered passion is that afternoon as he stepped into the skating rink. It’s second nature for him to watch from behind the stands as Yurio begins his routine, preparing for one of the biggest days of his life.

Otabek stands off to the side of the ice, and Yuri smiles at him in acknowledgement before music is blasted in his ears.

The surprise overtakes him, and he vaguely thinks ‘This must be Victor’s idea’ before he sees Yurio. For who else could incorporate something so surprising?

Yurio is a fifteen year old, a boy of firsts, and in their relationship, Yuri sometimes forgets that he’s an artist. Not one who stands still in front of a stretched piece of paper in front of him for hours, for that would be a waste of talent.

Yurio paints in emotions, writes in his movements, and the pure, untainted talent in his bones takes Yuri’s breath away, even as the ridiculous music plays in the background. But the music is no longer ridiculous as Yurio moves; instead it wraps around him like a blanket, becoming his shield and his weapon as he leaps across the ice.

And no longer does Yuri think that this routine could possibly be Victor’s idea because he has seen Yurio perform when the ideas of others were shoved down his throat for him to swallow and spit back out in front of hundreds of people.

That looks rehearsed, that beats records.

But the Yurio in front of him harnesses something else that turns his performance heavenly, and no longer is Yurio the fairy in petite looking outfits, but he is a god, using his emotions to cut into the ice harshly, a monster who knows how to use the powers that he had been gifted with.

His skates spray ice as he veers around the edge of the ice, and the spray of frozen water behind him should seem exaggerated, but it takes the breath out of Yuri’s lungs as he watches the sweaty, golden haired god approach his other half.

A dark haired soldier takes his hand, and while Yurio is heavenly and light, Otabek is the soldier, someone dark but forceful, the perfect complement to Yurio’s performance.

A smile takes Yurio’s lips, and the two continue the routine.

The first time Yuri sees Yurio surprised is at the Grand Prix finals, and he’s seated beside Yakov and Lilia, and his mouth had fallen open as he stared at the score on the screen and the voice announced that he had broken five time champion Victor Nikiforov’s record.

At the time, Yuri had been too preoccupied with his own need to win that he had barely noticed how much it had affected Yurio.

The first time that Yuri understands Yurio’s life is that evening as the group moved to Yurio’s house, greeted by his grandpa.

When Yuri steps though the door, Victor grasping his hand, he’s met with the scent of something fried and something all too familiar.

“They make katsudon in Russia?” he asks, only to be met face to face with a man that could rival Yakov’s solidarity.

Yurio pushes between the couple’s arms, with Otabek behind them, before jumping into his grandfather’s arms. Separately, the pair are stubborn and fierce, but Yuri watches in fascination as they exchange loving glances, and soft murmurs of Russian before glancing back at their company.

“You know Victor and beka. That’s Victor’s pig fiancé.” Yurio says. After brief introductions, the group disperses among the small living space. With the door shut behind them, Yuri is surprised on how cozy the living space is. Compared to Victor’s space, this was a closet.

“We can probably look around. Yurio and his grandpa will probably chat for a while.” Victor says.

Pushing open a door, Yuri jumps back as a blitz of fur runs past him, escaping from what Yuri could only surmise as Yurio’s room. A tall bookshelf lined one of the walls, filled with textbooks and reading that Yuri would suspect was far more advanced than any 15 year old would read. His bed was propped up on its frame, close to the ceiling to accommodate the desk underneath it.

The walls were blank, except for the carefully scribbled rules and various techniques written on long sheets of paper.

“This is Yurio’s room?” Yuri asks, almost in astonishment. “I would have imagined that it was…more dramatic.”

“You haven’t opened his closet yet.” Victor laughed. “He likes keeping the space open to practice. He doesn’t stay here too often either, since Yakov and Lilia have him practicing all the time.” Victor replies comfortably. “The books are because he doesn’t have the time to go to school. It’s what makes him Russia’s best skater. He puts everything in to get the results he’s expected to get.”

“What do his parents say? Even I went to college in America while skating.”

Victor stayed silent, his confirmation the only thing Yuri needed.

“Oh.”

“His grandfather is the only family he has. That’s why everyone in the rink is so protective of him.”

With only a look at Victor’s face, Yuri understands. It explains Yakov’s rebuking personality, harsh but never threatening; Lilia’s nitpicking, making sure he had eaten, and eating with him when Yurio hadn’t; Mila and her over bursting energy, and every single other person on the Russian skating team.

It explained the reason why Yurio had wanted Victor back, not only to choreograph his performance, but for more. It explains Yurio’s anger, and the reason he had beaten Victor’s record, as if to erase him, out of his life, out of history, and the anger he had shown Yuri.

“You guys became the family he didn’t have. And I took you away from him.”

The first time Yuri had ever seen Yurio truly filled with childlike happiness was his birthday. Yuri had been missing home, had been uncertain, and his night had improved simply through the well thought efforts of a fifteen year old.

At the time, he had found it odd, but now, he knew so much more.

The first time Yuri truly understand Yurio is that night, as he stands outside in the cold.

It seems to always be cold in Russia, colder than it ever is in Japan, even in the most northern reaches. But there’s something magical about it, the way his breath transforms into a frosty cloud, and the way the snow always decorates the ground in beautiful, messy puddles.

But that is how Russia is. Cold and beautiful. But even within it, Yuri has found the most beautiful things tucked away, whether it be the flowers fighting nature, or the people forcing themselves through life, dressed in parkas and other apparel he wouldn’t see anywhere else.

And after learning so much, that’s what Yurio is.

Cold and beautiful, with his shoulder length hair and angelic movements. His words could cut the most experienced to pieces, and his actions could tear nations apart.

But that wasn’t all. He was still a teenager, one thrown roughly into the world with barely anyone to support him. But under all the pressure, he shined, emerging as the gold medalist at the Grand Prix Finals in his senior debut.

Under all that pressure, he had found his way in the world, he had found a family, and he had found someone he loved.

It was all too obvious for the ones that knew him, Yuri thought. He had been blind to not see it before. There was no other way to interpret the way Yurio marched into the rink, Otabek’s hand firmly clasping his shoulder as he evaded an attack from Mila and ignored Yakov’s rebuking.

Chuckling to himself, he turned and looked back as Victor stepped out the door as well, and met Yurio’s gaze through the door. For someone so young, he had experienced too much, but everything had sculpted him to be what the world wanted.

Yuri only hoped he could be what he wanted himself to be.