#stilt legged fly

[dustytrinkets]

A small friend to keep me company.

Taken April 7, 2024. 04:06 P.M.

- M.

[alcnfr]

A Stilt-Legged Fly (Calobatina geometra)...

[jupiterswasphouse]

[PHOTO TAKEN: MAY 18TH, 2023 | Image ID: A photo of a black, red, brown, yellow and white stilt-legged fly on a green leaf, holding out its front legs /End ID.]

[adamcsnv]

Stilt legged fly

[sincerely-sofie]

we welcome you to unite! (just don't pick speedster thats my role 😤😤😤)

My friend this image is the penultimate reason I finally downloaded Pokemon Unite. You have given me a gift I will not soon forget. Thank you.

[stllmnstr]

every fragile thing

pairing: park sunghoon x f reader

genre: enemies to lovers, figure skating au, college/university au

word count: 12.3k

warnings: alcohol consumption, jealousy, non graphic descriptions/depictions of injuries, use of the american (usa) university system, a kiss or five

soundtrack: get him back! / brutal / jealousy, jealousy / good 4 u / the grudge / bad idea right? / drivers license - olivia rodrigo

After an ankle injury lands you in mandated physical therapy sessions instead of on the ice where you should be training for nationals, you're absolutely certain you must be the most frustrated, emotionally volatile figure skater on the planet. Park Sunghoon proves you wrong.

or,

every fragile thing has one of two choices: become stronger or shatter into a million pieces.

note: hi hello yes this is me on a new blog with the same name. I deleted my old one and wasn't sure if I planned on remaking/reposting but here we are! if you've read this before, then I hope you enjoy just as much this time around. and if you haven't, I hope you love figure skater sunghoon just as much as I do! happy reading ♡

Silence. One word, two syllables. A fairly straightforward term with a meaning that can be easily deduced from a quick scan of its Merriam-Webster definition. 

But unlike many words, silence is one that’s typically learned through experience. Through stilted moments, pregnant pauses, dreamlike moments in the dead of night while the world around you is at a standstill. 

In the moments just before the music starts, when it feels as if the audience around you is holding their breath. And you stand at the center of it all, blades of your tightly laced skates against ice, chest rising and falling in time with your heartbeat, mind spinning with possibility. In those moments, your long trained muscles take over, following the memory of countless repetitions as your body prepares to do what it knows best. 

There’s a question in that silence. One that’s asked with baited breath. 

Will I land this skill? Will I go home with a medal around my neck, cold weight a familiar comfort against my skin? Will this be my best performance yet? Will they love it? Love me?

That, as you’ve come to learn, is your favorite kind of silence. The kind that’s filled with endless possibility, with the promise of something beautiful or disastrous or some odd mix of the two to come. 

The feeling of freedom, of flying as blade cuts through ice, as your body defies gravity with every jump, every spin. 

But that is very much not the kind of silence that greets you where Dr. Min eyes you warily over the top of his pristine clipboard, a crease forming between his dark eyebrows. Frowning, he glances at the paper once more before returning his gaze to you. 

“You’re sure you’ve been resting? No weight on the fracture at all?”

It takes a good chunk of your willpower not to roll your eyes. Mostly because you’re lying through your teeth, but who’s keeping track? 

“Yes, I’m sure.” Gesturing to the thick black boot the lower part of your left leg and foot have been imprisoned in for the better part of a month, you add, “This thing’s still coming off in two weeks, right?”

Two weeks is pushing it, but you’ve done more with less. Two weeks puts you exactly three months out from regionals, which gives you exactly ninety-one days to pull together the most jaw dropping program you or the judges have ever seen. One that’s certain to land you on the podium and secure a spot at nationals. 

Once again, you thank your lucky stars for Coach Lee. She’s been with you since you were still struggling to lace your own skates, and there’s no one else you’d trust to have you ready for regionals in such a short time frame. No one else you’d bet your fate on like this. 

“That was our original time frame, yes…” Dr. Min trails off, avoiding your gaze in a way that has your stomach dropping unpleasantly. 

“And we’ll be sticking to it, I’m sure.” You hate the way the end of your phrase turns up like a question. 

Dr. Min sighs. “Look, ___, our original time frame was ambitious to begin with, and I hate to tell you this, but your ankle is not healing as well as we’d hoped. Fractures don’t heal overnight, and the best thing for you right now is rest.” 

The argument is already forming on your tongue. “But—”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not trying to ruin your life, ___. Truly. I’m saying this to you as the parent of an athlete and a former athlete myself. Pushing yourself now will only lead to reinjury in the future and will also very likely shorten your career. Your ankle needs to heal before you skate on it again. It needs to heal before you so much as put weight on it. And you need to let it heal completely.” The sincerity in his voice is hard to stomach when he says, “Believe me when I tell you that you’ll regret it for the rest of life if you don’t.”

And logically, you know he’s right. Know that this will be nothing but a minor setback if you allow it to run its course. If you follow his advice to rest and heal. But skating has never been something you’ve done with the logical parts of yourself. And Dr. Min doesn’t get it. You tell him as much. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do. Regionals are in less than four months, and—”

“I hear you. Believe me, I do. But this is your third year of university, which means you have another shot at nationals next year. If you push it and try to skate before you’re ready, you may very well lose that chance too.”

“So I’m supposed to do what? Sit around and do nothing until my ankle decides to cooperate?” Even voicing the possibility has you suppressing a grimace. 

But Dr. Min has different thoughts. “Yes. That is exactly what you need to do.”

You don’t avert your gaze. Neither does he. Finally, after a moment, he sighs. “My recommendation at this point is still rest, but—”

“But?” Your excitement is impossible to contain fully. 

Dr. Min levels you with a cautionary look over his clipboard. “But, if you’re going to do anything, our athletics department does also run a physical therapy program, which I think could be beneficial. It would help to retain flexibility, mobility, and agility in the areas of your leg that support your ankle. It could help get you back on the ice faster and maintain the leg strength you’ve built. There’s a group session that runs on Tuesday afternoons—”

“Yes,” you nod, not bothering to hear the end of his statement. “Yes, I’ll do that.”

“I… okay.” As much as you want to hate him for it, Dr. Min has a point. And while you doubt physical therapy will be anywhere near as grueling as your usual workouts, it sounds a hell of a lot better than doing nothing. 

…

You’ve never liked hospitals. The odd juxtaposition of white, lifeless sterility and a culmination of some of life’s most painful moments has always left an unpleasant taste on your tongue. 

It’s one that has you double checking the address Dr. Min forwarded to you as you enter the oddly cheerful building that is apparently home to a renowned athletics physical therapy facility. Despite the medical purpose, there’s a distinct liveliness that envelops the space. 

The woman at reception informs you that this is indeed the right building and the session you’re attending has just begun in the room to your left. 

Pausing at the door, you’re struck with a sudden timidness. A physical therapy group for athletes will obviously be filled with, well, athletes. And although you can’t speak too harshly on that particular subsect of people, being one yourself, they can be intimidating. It must be the competitiveness, you think. The drive to push, succeed, win that gives off such a distinct aura.

Steeling yourself with one last breath, you remind yourself that’s why you’re here. To get back to that version of you that has everyone else feeling a little shier. That version of you that eats, breathes, and sleeps with ice skates laced on your feet and visions of the top of a podium driving your every decision. 

With determination straightening your brow, you push open the door. 

And immediately find yourself grateful for the mental preparation as three heads snap in your direction.  

Hitching your bag up an inch on your shoulder, you try not to melt under the sudden awkwardness. Thankfully, one of them is better at breaking ice than you.

“Hi,” the boy closest to you is the first to fill the silence. He’s all smiles where he gives you a friendly wave, moving a stray hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head as he tells you, “I’m Jungwon.”

You offer your name in return, trying on a smile to match his friendliness. You have a feeling it comes more naturally to him than it ever will to you, though. 

Regardless, he offers an equally cheerful, “Nice to meet you.” Glancing over to where the second boy is moving through a series of stretches, Jungwon makes eye contact, silently telling him he’s up next. 

Even mid-stretch, he acquiesces. “I’m Niki,” the second boy follows. 

“And I’m Jake.” The last boy doesn’t need any prompting from Jungwon. Nodding towards the walking boot that covers the bottom half of your left leg, he glances at a similar one that he wears on his own. “Looks like we’re twins. Tore up my achilles pretty bad in my last soccer match,” he explains. “What about you?”

“Fractured my ankle,” you return, a rueful smile dragging your lips up. “Figure skater.”

“Ah, man.” Jungwon winces. “That sucks.”

You shrug, forcing a nonchalance you don’t feel. “No worse than a busted achilles.” 

“That’s cool that you skate though,” Jake offers. “Kind of a funny coincidence, actually. There’s another—”

Whatever it is, he doesn’t get to finish the thought. At that moment, the door opens again, this time revealing a middle aged woman in a white physician’s coat. Her name tag reads Dr. Kim, and she introduces herself as such to you. 

“Looks like everyone’s here, including our new members.” She gives another cursory nod in your direction. “Welcome again.” Glancing around, the instructor pauses. “Oh, wait. Except for—”

“I’m here, I’m here.” For the second time in the span of a minute, the door behind you opens. You don’t miss the glance that passes between Niki and Jake. You turn to face the new arrival, but his back is to you as he sets his bag down and begins the process of switching his shoes. 

The way the new member enters with a dismissive wave of his hand and lack of proper greeting has you thinking tardiness is not an uncommon trait of his. Even from behind, you can feel the waves of arrogance he exudes. That seems to align more with your preconceived notions of athletes. 

Studying him for another second, a sinking feeling of dread begins to build in the pit of your stomach. Long, dark hair. Unnaturally graceful movements, even if all he’s doing is digging through his bag. Tall stature, broad shoulders, long legs. 

An athlete’s build through and through. Perfectly suited for the ice. 

“Great.” Despite the statement, Dr. Kim’s tone is flat. “Well, we were just getting started and introducing ourselves since we have someone new joining us today.”

“Hi,” he offers, still fixated on his bag, yet to offer as much as a glance in your direction. If anything, it only serves as a confirmation of his identity. “I’m—” You don’t even need to hear him say it. 

“Sunghoon?”

At that, he does finally look up. 

Gaze locking with yours, a moment of confusion is quickly replaced by a furrow in his brow, the slight downturn of his lips. He’s not thrilled to see you either. 

A beat passes. 

Two. 

Neither of you break eye contact. 

The silence extends to the point of discomfort for all four onlookers, each of them hesitant to break the tension that’s rising by the second. 

Finally, Dr. Kim takes a knife to the tension. “Do you two know each other?” 

Park Sunghoon. Renowned figure skater at your rival university. Someone with such a natural knack for carving lines through ice that whispers of prodigy have been shadowing his footsteps since the minute he put them on a rink. 

Someone with his head so far up his own ass you’re not sure how he can see half the time, much less keep his hair looking so perfect. 

Oh, you know him alright. 

“___?”

And it would seem he remembers you as well. 

It also answers Dr. Kim’s question well enough. 

“Ah, good.” It sounds like a question, like she’s hoping your acquaintance will be a positive thing instead of a disaster. You don’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. “The figure skating community is tight knit, I suppose.”

You suppress a scoff. That’s one word for it, you guess. 

You remember when it felt that way to you, too. Before tight knit became too small. Back before university, when it felt like it was you and Park Sunghoon against the world, instead of against each other. Back when the two of you didn’t skate for opposing teams but instead were members of the same club. A time when you took the ice together, skated as partners until he—

You force your thoughts to stop in their tracks. Your blood pressure has spiked enough in the last few days, and thinking back on long days spent with Park Sunghoon will only send it skyrocketing again. 

If anything, you’ll use this opportunity to practice perfecting your poker face for when you inevitably run into him at future competitions. 

And future competitions means you need a healed ankle, not a bruised ego. And certainly not an unpleasant trip down memory lane. 

Turning away from Sunghoon, you’re the first one to answer when Dr. Kim asks if you’re ready to get started. 

“Yes,” you tell her, determination written across your brow, in the set of your shoulders, and perhaps most noticeably, in the way you avoid Sunghoon’s wandering gaze for the next two hours. 

…

Without the rink, days are quick to meld into one another. It may be concerning, considering that you still have a set schedule of classes and homework to follow, but your life has revolved around training for so long that it’s hard to tell Mondays from Wednesdays without a set practice schedule. 

Thankfully, you do still make it back to the clinic at the right time on the right day, this time for another session with Dr. Kim and your fellow band of broken athletes. 

Including him. 

Aside from the glaringly obvious exception, you’re not as bothered at the thought of returning as you feared you might be. 

Jungwon, Niki, and Jake have proven themself pleasant enough company, and Dr. Kim seems to have built an understanding of how difficult it is to be forcibly removed from the sport you love. As such, she’s one of the least aggravating medical professionals you’ve spent time around. 

“Hey,” Niki greets when you arrive. “Did you have a good weekend?”

You shrug. “Good enough. Mostly just catching up on homework.” Setting your bag down and switching out your shoes, you join him on the mat, beginning the series of warm-up stretches Dr. Kim instructed you through last week. “What about you?”

“Not too bad. I got some good news from my doctor, actually.” He switches legs in his stretch, and you’re almost envious of his flexibility. He’s a dancer, and an exceedingly good one at that. One with an unfortunate knee injury at the moment. “My x-rays are looking a lot better. He thinks I might be able to start easing back into regular use by next month.” 

“That’s great,” you smile, even as a pang of jealousy stabs somewhere near your gut. “I’m really happy for you, Niki.” 

“A month still feels like forever, though, doesn’t it?” He sighs. “I can’t remember the last time I was out of the studio for this long.” 

Jungwon slides down onto the mat next to you, joining in on the stretch routine. “Consider yourself lucky, man. They told me at my last check-up that I probably won’t be able to do any jumping or kicks again for at least three months even though the fracture is already mostly healed.” He shakes his head. “No jumping or kicking,” he echoes, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You know, things that are super easy to avoid in taekwondo.”

“If it’s any consolation, I just got told that I’m gonna have to sit out of regionals this year. Which means I’ll have no way of qualifying for nationals.” You wonder how many times you’ll have to admit that particular reality to yourself before the sting starts to fade. 

“That sucks.” Jake agrees, coming down to the mat and occupying the spot next to Niki. “I’ll probably have to sit for this entire season, too. I love my team, but it’s so frustrating watching them play when I know I could be an asset on the field.”

“That’s true.” You’re struck by a sudden wave of sympathy. “At least skating is an individual sport, so the only person I have to disappoint is myself.” 

“Speaking of skating,” Jungwon sounds hesitant as he approaches the subject. “Do you and Sunghoon, uh…” he pauses for a moment in search of a neutral way of framing the unmistakable tension that surfaced the last time he saw the two of you together. “Do you two know each other?”

Grimacing internally, you suppose an explanation was bound to be solicited after your icy reunion. “We skate for rival universities.” Your gaze fixes on a spot on the ground. “And before college we used to, uh, we used to skate for the same club.”

The three boys share a glance. It’s hardly an explanation for the venom you said his name with but before they can press you further, the subject in question enters the room. 

Again, he takes his time setting his bag down, getting his things ready. This time, he also pulls out an obnoxiously big pair of headphones, secures them over his ears before he bothers to turn around. Despite the fact that all three boys offer him friendly smiles and waves, he returns the gesture only with a tight smile, making his way to the mat on the opposite side of the room before he begins his stretch routine.

It’s a message that rings loud and clear. A frown passes between Jake, Jungwon, and Niki. It’s obvious to you, then, that you’re the reason he chose to set himself up as far away as physically possible. 

So be it, you think, letting the slight roll right off of you. It’s not the first time he’s given you the cold shoulder for something he plays an equal part in, and you doubt it will be the last. 

Besides, it will only make your sessions pass by quicker, if the burden of avoiding gazes and minimizing interactions falls on his shoulders instead of yours.

With nothing but a shrug, you adjust slightly, ensuring that the only view he has of you is of your back. 

…

It’s a pattern that continues as physical therapy sessions start to become a regular routine in your week. Sunghoon, with his apparent disdain for anyone’s time but his own, is always the last to arrive. He also continues his habit of picking the spot in the room furthest away from you. 

Despite the fact that you’d like to chalk it up to his social ineptitude alone, that explanation doesn’t track. Although there’s still a certain aura of aloofness that follows where he goes, it’s too often that you see him smiling at a joke cracked by Jake or sharing easy conversations with Jungwon and Niki.  

Hell, he even interacts with Dr. Kim with a level of warmth you didn’t know was possible coming from him. If there’s any disdain in their conversations, he directs it all towards his right wrist. It’s why he’s here, you assume. Encased in a brace similar to the one you wear on your left ankle, his right forearm seems to be the reason for his attendance. 

It’s hard to not be envious. While a wrist injury is nothing to scoff at, it doesn’t necessarily keep you off the ice. Not in the same way a fractured ankle does. 

Refocusing your thoughts, you push the boy across the room firmly out of mind as Dr. Kim helps adjust you into the next stretch.

“How about now?” Dr. Kim pushes your spine a fraction of an inch further, pressure light but demanding. Before, this much flexibility would have been an easy request of your body, but lack of use has your muscles feeling tight. “Any tightness or pain?”

“No.” The bead of sweat on your brow begs to differ, as does the way the negation slipped through gritted teeth. 

But you’re frustrated. Annoyed at the progress you’ve lost, at the new limits of your body, at the way you feel like a stranger in your own skin. 

Across the room, you miss the flicker of annoyance that flits over Sunghoon’s features. Headphones on as always, you imagine you’re nothing more than a blip on his radar, a pesky intruder that’s easily ignored as long as he has his back to you. 

“Hm,” Dr. Kim muses. “You’ve retained more flexibility than I expected.” She offers you a smile. “That’s a good thing, a sign of a quick recovery.”

You suppress a grimace. It should be a good thing. You should be recovering quickly. If only you could get your stupid body to cooperate. 

Stealing another glance at the boy across the room, you can’t help the way a small burst of rage bubbles in your stomach. Prodigy. Why does he always get to be the anomaly, the exception to the rule? His injury is already less severe than yours, and he’s probably recovering quickly, too. Without even having to fake it.

Easing you out of the stretch, Dr. Kim jots down a quick note. “I’ll have Dr. Min run another x-ray at your next visit.” Nodding towards your ankle, she adds, “I think there’s a good chance that things are looking a lot better, and updated x-rays will help guide our next sessions.” She pauses for a minute. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself or get your hopes up, but I think we might be able to start putting some weight back on it soon. Start getting it stronger again.” 

You’re hesitant to let your excitement grow too much. But it would be a lie if you weren’t already counting the days until your next visit with Dr. Min in your head. “Thank you,” you tell her. “I’ll hope those x-rays come back looking good, then.”

“Me too,” she smiles. “I’ll see you next week, then. Hopefully with good news.”

You nod, returning her smile before heading to the door to gather your things. Jungwon catches you on your way out. 

“Hey, ___, hold on a sec.” When you turn back towards him, he tells you, “The rest of us are gonna grab lunch at a place nearby, if you want to join.”

Your uncertainty must write itself across your features, because he’s quick to add, “Don’t worry. Sunghoon won’t be there. He’s got a class right after this.”

Slightly embarrassed by the way he read you so easily, you nod. “Sure. Lunch sounds good.” Despite their friendliness with Sunghoon, you’ve come to like the three of them. And it’s been far too long since you broke up the monotony of class, homework, and medical appointments with something as simple as lunch with friends. 

And as long as he’s not there, you imagine it will be nothing but pleasant. 

It doesn’t take long for them to prove you wrong. 

Niki barely lets you get one bite in before he asks, “So, what exactly happened between you two?” Even without the name, the question is obvious. 

Still, after choking on the sip of water you’d been taking, you answer, “Who?”

Jake just gives you a look. 

You sigh. “Like I said, we used to skate for the same club. We, uh, never really got along, I guess.” Avoiding eye contact, you add, “And now we skate for rival schools. I suppose it’s only natural to not like each other.”

Niki doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, that sounds made up.”

Jungwon swallows his bite, parts his lips like he has something to say. Internally, you heave a sigh of relief. If any of the three of them spare you, you have a feeling it would be him. “I mean, it does seem like something else must have happened.”

Or not. 

“You don’t have to tell us,” he adds. “But it’s just… I mean, the two of you can’t even look at each other.”

Sighing, you suppose the circumstances do look odd from the outside. “There was… an incident. Back when we used to skate together.”

“What?” Jake asks. “Did he steal your skates right before a show or something?” 

“No, no.” You shake your head. “It happened on the ice, actually. During a program.”

“Wait,” Niki interrupts. “You said you used to skate together. Do you mean like, as partners?”

The guilt on your face says it all. 

“No way.” Jake says. 

Jungwon’s eyes grow bigger. “What did he do?”

“Yeah,” Niki turns to face you fully. “Wouldn’t being his partner be a good thing? At least on the ice, I mean. I know he can be a little insufferable, but isn’t he some sort of prodigy—”

“Prodigy, my ass.” You’re so sick of that goddamn word. “Wasn’t a prodigy when he dropped me in the middle of our program at junior nationals, was he?”

The way all three or their jaws drop in unison is almost worth the admission. 

But the thing is, he was. No accusatory fingers pointed in his direction after it happened. No one blamed prodigy Park Sunghoon for the mishap. 

No, it was decided fair and square by the jury of public opinion that the mistake was entirely your fault, your burden to bear. And it’s not like you were immune to the criticism. Whispers followed where you went. And you always, always managed to hear them. 

Maybe if you’d trained a little harder, completed the second rotation a little sooner, the skill would have gone off without a hitch, they mused. Hell, maybe if you’d stuck to your diet a little better, those last two pounds would have spelled the difference between a perfect landing and your ass on frozen ground, program music still crescendoing as onlookers watched with horrified fascination.

“Oh,” Jungwon grimaces. 

“That’s rough,” Niki agrees. 

And they don’t even know the worst of it. Don’t know that back then, at fifteen, you’d had a giant, soul crushing, earth shattering, massive crush on your skating partner. That you searched for his approval just as eagerly as you’d sought out your coach’s. 

That you’d squeezed in as many extra practice sessions as physically possible for five months leading up to the routine just to make sure you were as close to flawless as possible, just to make sure you were chosen to be his partner on the ice. 

That you giggled, giggled, when you saw the matching costumes the two of you would wear for the first time. 

That you followed where he went with long sighs and lovesick eyes. That you looked forward to the grueling hours you spent on the ice with him, turning perfection into something even greater. 

That your heart skipped a beat every time you ran through your program, every time he caught you with sure hands and a strong grip. 

That Park Sunghoon never made a mistake, never let you fall, not once. 

Not until a spotlight was spinning dreams into reality and you were already anticipating the secret smiles you’d share with matching gold medals around your necks. 

Not until it all shattered in a single moment. 

It was cold, as you laid there on the ice, sprawled out and unable to move from the sudden shock of it all. Luckily, you’d avoided any critical injuries. You had staggered off the ice with nothing but some bad bruising, the worst of it staining your ego and your heart. 

And after it all, no matter how many times you passed him on your way to the locker room, shared the ice with him, or searched for the gaze he pointedly avoided across the room, Park Sunghoon never uttered the two words that just might have made you forgive it all. 

Instead of an apology or even the decency of an explanation, you got a cold shoulder and a lost friendship you were too confused by to mourn. 

In the end, you’d decided to turn it all into a blessing in a very thorough disguise. From that moment onwards, all of your time on the ice was dedicated to you and you alone. Never would you let anything but the sheer strength of your own will, your own goals, motivate you to become better, faster, stronger. 

And you found that victory tasted even sweeter, when the full weight of it could rest on your shoulders alone. When no one could whisper behind their palms that the only reason you stood on the podium was a prodigy of a partner. 

So fine. Park Sunghoon didn’t owe you shit. Not an apology, an explanation, or even a second glance. 

And if he was a prodigy, an ice prince or whatever stupid title he’d earned alongside his medals, well, you’d just have to be even better.

But now, sitting across from new friends with a fractured ankle and a ruined shot at medalling this year, a quiet part of you admits for the first time that maybe, just maybe, part of that resolve is nothing but spite in disguise. Part of the anger you’ve clung to for so long isn’t directed at him, but at yourself. 

That it was embarrassing to fall in front of a crowd, yes, but it was also humiliating to know that he was hearing all those little comments about your inferiority too. To realize that his silence meant he probably agreed. That you were a liability of a partner, unequal in both skill and importance. That he could move on from the incident, from you, completely unscathed. 

That your little crush was entirely one-sided, just like the respect and admiration you’d once felt for him. 

You stare at the half-eaten lunch in front of you, appetite suddenly completely gone. 

“What a coincidence that the two of you ended up injured at the same time,” Jake muses. 

“And in the same physical therapy group.” Jungwon nods. 

“Yeah,” you echo hollowly. “What a coincidence.”

…

When Park Sunghoon speaks to you for the first time in five years, it’s completely by accident.

As the weeks have continued on, you’ve fallen into a perfect routine during your shared physical therapy sessions. A routine of avoidance, ignorance, and as much space between the two of you as physically possible. It’s become so easy that the two of you navigate it with the kind of grace only two elite figure skaters could ever manage. 

If anything, it’s more awkward for the other members of your session than it is for the two of you. Jungwon, Jake, Niki, and Dr. Kim are the ones suffering as they try to stay friendly with both of you without icing out the other. 

It must be why he doesn’t even bother to check who it is that’s standing right next to him as he reaches for his bag on the shelf near the front door at the end of another session. Must be why he says it in a voice so casual you don’t think it’s him at first. “How pissed do you think Dr. Kim will be if I’m late again next week?”

Even though the voice doesn’t quite fit, you half expect to see Jake standing next to you when you turn to the side. 

Sunghoon realizes his mistake at the exact same second you do. You watch as shock flickers across his features, quickly replaced by something guarded, unreadable. Just as completely closed off to you as always. 

It pisses you off, the way he’s so utterly and completely unaffected by you. The way he can brush you off as easily as a piece of dust. Insignificant. Unimportant. Unwanted. It has you freeing the reins on comments you should bite back instead. 

“Hard to say.” Ice and resentment drip from every syllable. “Then again, I’m surprised you care about what she thinks. Doesn’t seem like something that would bother you.”

That at least earns you some of his emotion. Another bout of shock crosses his face before it shifts to confusion and falls finally to anger. You can see it in the furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw. The flare of heat in his eyes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

If he falls to anger, you’ll rise above it. At least on the outside. There’s no accounting for the way your gut twists in rage. Still, you offer him a smile that’s almost as fake as it is sickeningly sweet. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out if you spend enough time thinking about it.” It’s patronizing, and intentionally so. You hope it annoys him enough to keep him up tonight. 

Reaching for the front door, you take your exit first. The hallways of this building have become familiar over the weeks. Even with anger clouding your vision and a bad ankle, you trace a steady path to the parking lot. You’re halfway to your car when the sound of your name stops you in your tracks. 

You freeze for a moment, turning the sound of it over in your brain, stuck on the way it almost sounds like a plea, a prayer coming from his lips. The sound of footsteps draws nearer. They fall quickly, as if he’s running. Your indecision still renders you immobile. 

“Hold on a second. Did I… Did I do something to upset you?”

If you thought you were angry before, you’re surely seeing red now. How dare he. 

Spinning around, you only hope you sound as outraged as you feel. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“What? No.” His brow furrows. “I mean, I know our schools are technically rivals and all, but we haven’t really seen each other in years.”

“Right, because you’ve been so sunny and welcoming since I joined the group.”

“I was giving you space. You practically bolted like a scared cat when you saw it was me.” He runs a hand through his hair. You hate the way it falls perfectly back into place. And you hate the way he looks so good doing it. “But clearly you’ve got something against me.”

The audacity, the sheer, utter audacity. There’s no trace of humor when you say, “You’re hilarious, really.” And there’s no room for debate when you turn away from him again, continuing to walk towards your car. 

“Wait,” he tries, but it falls on deaf ears. “God, ___, would you just hold on for a second, I—”

You turn. To do what, you’re not entirely sure. But before you can decide, the grip he has on his car keys loosens, the fingers of his right hand less dexterous than usual thanks to his arm brace. He still has his reflexes though. With his other hand, he manages to stop them from falling completely. 

“Better take care of that.” You jerk your chin to where he awkwardly fumbles with his keyring, trying to find a better grip. “Wouldn’t want to drop those too.”

His gaze snaps to you, eyes wide, mouth slightly slackened. The keys fall from his grasp, metal clinking delicately on the pavement. A million questions swim across his features, none of which you’ll give the grace of answering. 

Instead, you turn around once more. You make it all the way to your car, all the way out of the parking lot, all the way home. 

And he never says your name once. 

…

The following Tuesday, you are the last one of the group to arrive. And while you would usually never pass up the opportunity to best Sunghoon at anything, including being the latest arrival, competition is not the reason for your tardiness. 

It’s avoidance. That, and the fact that you had to spend eleven minutes giving yourself a pep talk in the car before you could work up the nerve to approach the front doors of the clinic. In the end, it’s a glance down at the boot on your left foot that does it. You’ve let Sunghoon ruin your chance at a gold medal once, and you’ll be damned if you let him do it again. 

Besides, your last visit with Dr. Min was a good one. Your ankle hasn’t healed quite as much as Dr. Kim suspected, but progress is progress, and you’re making plenty of it, according to your most recent x-rays. 

You enter the session with an apology for Dr. Kim and concentrated efforts to not let your gaze wander to the back corner of the room as you make your way over to where Jake and Jungwon sit. Starting your stretches, you assume Niki is over with Sunghoon, but you can’t work up the nerve to confirm that. 

Despite her initial annoyance at your tardiness, Dr. Kim is equally pleased at your latest x-ray results and gives you the green light to switch out the resistance bands you’ve been using for the next level up. Just as you’re reaching for the set of red bands on the shelf next to the treadmills, a set of obnoxiously smooth hands gets there first. 

Turning to Sunghoon with narrowed eyes, you grab the end of the band set he just snatched out from under you, eyes ablaze. 

The little fucker has the gall to roll his eyes. “What are you doing?”

You yank on the band. He doesn’t even flinch, grip steady. “I’m trying to follow Dr. Kim’s instructions,” you inform, tone flat. 

This time when you yank again, he yanks back. Much to your annoyance, he’s able to exert enough force to have you stumbling forward. “You’re trying to provoke me.”

“And it’s working,” Niki whispers to Jake and Jungwon in the back corner of the room. Dr. Kim just shakes her head. 

“Just take the green bands,” Sunghoon suggests. 

“They don’t have enough resistance. I need these ones,” you argue. “Why don’t you take the green ones?”

“Pretty sure if one of us takes the lighter bands, it should be you.” Sunghoon tightens his grip. “Or are you seriously trying to claim that you’re stronger than me right now?”

“I’m using them for my legs, you absolute jackass. Which are definitely stronger than your forearms.”

Sunghoon cocks a brow. “Should we put money on it?”

“You are such a dick. Dr. Kim literally—”

“Has another set of red bands,” the woman in question interrupts. She levels the two of you with an exasperated look as she holds them out in front of her. “There’s another set of every color on the equipment shelf next to the door.”

“Oh, right,” you nod, pulling back a little on your end of the band before you release it, just to hear the small cry Sunghoon lets out when it snaps against the skin of his good wrist. “Thanks.”

And the satisfaction that comes from completing your usual number of reps with a higher resistance is almost as gratifying as when you see Sunghoon rubbing at the still reddened skin on his left wrist as you pack up to leave for the day. 

“Those two are gonna kill each other,” Jungwon tells Jake and Niki as the three of them walk to their cars, brow creasing in concern. 

“Or something,” Jake agrees. 

Niki hoists his bag up on his shoulder. “My money’s on ___.”

A contemplative look passes between Jake and Jungwon before they nod in unison, “Yeah.”

…

You’re in the middle of passing a medicine ball back and forth with Jake the following week when he asks, “Are your school’s finals next week too?”

And although it’s hard to believe, first semester is already drawing to an end as the days get shorter and assignments get longer. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’m up to my ass in essays right now.”

“Same,” Jake agrees. “Sometimes it makes me wonder how I do it when I’m training, too.” Although you agree, a pang of jealousy is the only thing his words inspire. Of the skaters on your team that are preparing to compete as you speak. That have already choreographed their routines and selected their music and are spending every waking moment perfecting each and every detail of their program. 

It’s hard. It’s brutal. You’d be the first to admit that. But you miss it all the same, so much it hurts. 

A moment passes before he continues. “Well, anyway, Jungwon, Niki, and I were thinking that since none of us are training right now, we should celebrate the end of the semester like everyone else does.”

You arch a brow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“Right, sorry,” he apologizes. “Consider this your formal invitation to get absolutely shitfaced with us next Friday.”

The laugh that bubbles in your throat is so unexpected you can’t quite bite it back. While you have your fair share of good, old-fashioned fun, he’s right. Every other semester, you’ve celebrated the end of finals season with a cup of hot tea and an early night in bed. Traded one source of stress for another as you woke up bright and early the next day to hit the ice. 

You send him a smile, tossing the medicine ball back in his direction. “Count me in.”

…

The following Friday night finds you double-checking the address on your phone before tentatively knocking on the front door of what you hope is Jake’s apartment. In the middle of the university district across the city from your own, you can’t say you’re familiar with any of the buildings outside of the athletic complex, which you’ve only ever visited for a handful of competitions. It strikes you then that this is also the university Sunghoon attends. And, stomach dropping, that you never actually asked who all would be attending tonight.

Before you have the chance to spin on your heel and high-tail it down the stairs you just climbed, the door swings open. It’s not Jake. 

“Oh,” you mumble. The boy who opened the door is not Jake, but he is very much attractive. “Sorry. I’m looking for Jake Sim’s apartment.” Your voice turns up at the end like a question. 

“You’re in the right place,” he smiles, and it’s gorgeous. “I’m Heeseung, Jake’s roommate. You must be ___.” He opens the door wider, allowing you space. “Come on in.”

“That’s me.” You offer him a grateful smile as you enter, hanging your coat and sliding your shoes off. 

The interior is surprisingly sophisticated, for a college boy’s apartment. It’s clean, for starters, and as you follow Heeseung down the hallway towards the kitchen, you can’t help but be impressed by their choice in decor. 

“Help yourself to anything.” Heeseung gestures to the impressive spread of snacks on the table. “But first, can I get you something to drink?”

“Um…” Your lack of alcohol-related knowledge is apparent, and the uncertainty must be obvious, because Heeseung just smiles again. 

“I’ve got you.” There’s an undertone of something in his words. Something playful, something bordering on flirty. But it’s too subtle to tell for sure, and you’re not one to bet on losing odds. He reaches for a glass and a handful of ice cubes. “Do you like fruity flavors?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “That sounds good.” Besides, it’s been a minute since you’ve been well and truly flirted with at a college party by a boy that looks like he could spell trouble in his sleep. This could be fun, you think.  

Glancing towards the adjacent living room, you notice the usual familiar faces. Jake and Niki are sitting on the couch while Jungwon chats with a pair of boys you don’t recognize. Eyes tracing the perimeter, you feel your shoulders tense when they land on a familiar silhouette. Sunghoon has his back to you, but his identity is just as unmistakable as it was on your first day of physical therapy. Like Jungwon, he’s talking to another person you don’t know. 

Oh, well. It’s too late to back out now and too early to make an exit. If you and Sunghoon can coexist in a room once a week without starting too many fires, you’re sure you’ll manage to get through tonight just fine. 

Heeseung hands you a full glass. It’s cold where it meets your fingertips. 

“Should we join them?” He inclines his head toward the living room and you nod. 

Following in his footsteps, you wave a quick greeting to Jake before taking a seat next to Heeseung, enough space between you and Sunghoon for you to relax slightly.

“How do you and Jake know each other?” You ask, searching for something to fill the silence, to keep the conversation flowing. “Do you play soccer together?”

Heeseung shakes his head. “No, we’ve been friends since elementary school. But I am on the basketball team, which helps. I feel like student athletes just kind of get each other, you know?”

You do know, and you tell him as much. The crazy schedule, the unwavering commitment. It’s much easier to explain to someone that’s living through the exact same thing. 

“Speaking of which, you’re a figure skater, right? For the university across town.”

You arch a brow. “I’m surprised Jake told you so much about you.”

“Not nearly enough,” he flirts, and this time it’s blatant. 

You take another sip of your drink with upturned lips, weighing a response on your tongue. Before you can decide how many cards you’d like to show, you make eye contact across the room with the one person you were hoping to avoid. 

Sunghoon looks equally—scratch that—even more displeased to see you. Jawline so taught you could cut your finger on it and lips drawn in a straight line, he’s pissed where he locks eyes with you from his seat. Sunghoon is the one to avert his eyes first. Throwing back whatever’s in his cup, he slices through the moment of tension with a knife. 

If Heeseung notices the way your breath splutters, he doesn’t comment. Thankfully, Jungwon chooses the next moment to say his hellos and introduce you to the boys you hadn’t recognized earlier. 

“Sunoo,” he nods towards the boy he’d been sitting with earlier, who offers a friendly greeting. “And that’s Jay, over by Sunghoon. And you’ve already met Heeseung.”

“And you all go to school here?”

“Yeah,” Jungwon nods. “Jay and I live together, and Sunoo is Niki’s roommate.”

“You’re deep in enemy territory,” Heeseung elbows you lightly, teasing. “What are we gonna do with you?”

You lift your now empty glass towards him, grinning. “Get me another drink, hopefully.”

Sending you a wink, he takes the glass from your outstretched hand before standing from the couch. “On it.” You watch his back retreat into the kitchen, oblivious of the second one that follows it a handful of moments later. 

Jay, as it turns out, is not an athlete, but does play guitar for a local  band your friend has been raving to you about for ages. He’s already promising you two sets of complimentary tickets to every one of their upcoming shows by the time you realize Heeseung’s been gone for a while. Too long. 

Excusing yourself, you head toward the kitchen. And it’s just your luck that you find the person you’ve spent the evening avoiding, instead of the one you’re searching for. Even with the buzz of your first drink fading rapidly, your inhibitions are feeling low. 

Sunghoon barely has the chance to register your presence before you’re laying out accusations. 

“I know you don’t like me, but do you really have to spend the whole night glaring at me like that? In front of everyone?”

Sunghoon’s shoulders tense, a confirmation that he hears you, but he says nothing. Instead, he just swallows the remainder of his drink in one large gulp. His eyes are still flaring, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think you did something to piss him off. 

But it’s just like him, to avoid conversations he doesn’t want to have with the end of another drink. To treat you like someone not even worthy of a response. You don’t know why you expected anything different. Scoffing, you notice the full drink sitting on the counter. Heeseung must have had the chance to refill it before disappearing. 

You move to step around Sunghoon and reach for it when he finally says, “I’m not glaring at you.”

The gaze you level him with is incredulous. “Do you think I’m stupid? I have eyes—”

“For all I know you are stupid!” Sunghoon sighs, drags an open palm down the length of his face. “I mean, are you really gonna let some guy you just met pour your drinks all night?”

“Heeseung?” You’re confused why all of his rage seems to be directed towards something so insignificant. “He’s Jake’s roommate”

“And a complete stranger to you.”

It’s infuriating, the way he assumes his opinion should hold any weight in your life. The way he thinks he has any say in your decisions. “So should I avoid all the food now too?” You’re being petty now for the sake of it. “I mean, since you’ve been in here unsupervised for quite a while now.” You take another step towards your drink and he moves, blocking your path with his body. 

When you look up, you find his eyes already trained on you, and there’s no ice in them now. Just pure, unadulterated heat. Fire. Flames that lick the base of your spine. “You’re so fucking agitating, you know that?”

“I’m agitating?” You take another step forward, hoping the proximity will force him away. It doesn’t. If anything, he leans into it. Into you. 

You reach for the drink again. This time, he stops you himself. Fingers of his unrestricted hand wrapping around your wrist.

“Yeah.” His words are low, voice a caress even as it drips venom. You feel his breath ghost across your cheekbone. “Real fucking agitating.”

Your eyes are still locked on his, and you search them for a hint of something coherent, something that makes sense. Every bone in your body drawn taught, it’s as if muscle memory reverts you to the last moment you were like this, the last moment he held you this close, body entwined with his own in a familiar embrace. Your wrist slackens in his grasp. 

Last time, he dropped you. Sent you scattering across ice until the only thing you could taste was the bitterness of defeat and the sharp sting of humiliation. 

Last time, he let you fall. 

You have no idea what he’ll do now. 

In the end, it’s the sound of approaching footsteps that has the two of you springing apart, your wrist falling from his grip. In the scramble, you remember your original target. 

Despite the long melted ice, this drink feels even cooler in your grip, a stark contrast to the simmering heat just beneath your skin. 

When Heeseung enters, he’s tucking his phone into his pocket with an apologetic look. “Sorry, I had to take a call. My brother gets chatty at the worst times.” Nodding to your hand, he smiles, “You found your drink.” 

“Yeah, I did.” You take a step closer to the living room, closer to Heeseung. Further from Sunghoon. 

Glancing between the two of you, there’s a hint of uncertainty when Heeseung asks if you want to rejoin the others in the living room. 

You put his worries to ease and your questions to rest when you agree easily, not even bothering to give Sunghoon a second thought. 

You do seek his gaze one last time, though, before you follow Heeseung back to the party. Looking directly at him, you raise your glass in a mock toast. Without breaking eye contact, you bring the cup to your lips, swallowing half the drink in one long sip. When you do finally turn away, it’s to find the empty seat next to Heeseung. 

The rest of the evening passes in a pleasant blur, trading stories and laughs with the people around you while Heeseung keeps the seat at your side warm. Sunghoon does you the favor of disappearing from sight after your stand off in the kitchen.

It’s easy to relax into the company of everyone else, so much so that you don’t see Sunoo until you’re running right into him, the contents of his cup saturating the front of your shirt. 

It’s a problem Heeseung is quick to solve, and the gray hoodie he offers you is cozier than any of your own with a scent that’s almost addicting. 

He’s sweet, you think. Sweet and charming and forward in all of the right ways. It’s solidified when he offers to join you on the porch when you tell him you’re stepping outside for some fresh air. It’s cemented when he accepts your refusal with nothing but a smile and the request that you “come back quick.”

Stepping outside, it takes you a moment to realize that you’re not alone. It would appear that your earlier assumption that Sunghoon must have gone back to his place was wrong. There’s no drink in his hand, but the way he sways with the gentle midnight breeze makes you think he’s still working through everything he downed earlier. 

Silently, you glance up at the cloudless night sky, at the way the stars seem to wrap around you. Gaze returning to Sunghoon’s back, you suppose the simplest course of action would be to leave before he realizes you’re here. You turn to do just that, to make good on your promise to Heesung, when the sound of your name stops you in your tracks. 

Or at least, you think that’s what he says. It’s hard to tell, with the way his syllables and sounds slur together. Turning back towards him, you find him already looking at you. He repeats your name, and this time around, it’s a bit clearer. 

His eyes trace a downward line from your face to your change in clothes. Something in his face crumples, withers. 

“‘M sorry,” he slurs, words not lining up quite right through the inebriation. 

“What?”

“That day.” The sudden onset of sincerity in his tone makes him seem more sober than he is. “I should have caught you.”

The stars in the sky suddenly don’t seem so far away. You must have heard him wrong. A crease forms between your eyebrows, eyes scanning over his features. They’re laid open in their honesty, no trace of deception. 

“I wanted to catch you. I tried to.” He sighs. “Was my fault.”

“I…” You search for words, for the vindication you’d always imagined you’d feel at his admission. In its absence, you find only confusion and an odd pang of regret. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. 

“Sorry for what? Why are you bringing that up?”

He just shakes his head, eyes falling to his feet. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. Like a broken record. His pain is wrapped up in there too, trapped in a loop time has never quite let it escape. 

When you return to the party, it’s with a jumbled excuse of needing to check on a pet cat you don’t have. 

In the haste of it all, you forget to so much as exchange numbers with Heeseung. But you do find the time to pull Jake aside on your way out the door, to make sure that he helps Sunghoon get home safe. 

…

The next morning greets you with a pounding headache and an unfamiliar hoodie draped over the back of your desk chair. It takes a moment of searching through hazy memories before recollection of that particular string of events finds you. 

With a sigh, you head out in search of water and Advil, sending Jake a quick message that you’ll stop by his apartment later to return Heeseung’s hoodie. 

Even a handful of hours later, you can’t decide if you hope Heeseung is home or not. It’s a Saturday afternoon after a long night, so you figure the odds are high. But you still can’t pinpoint whether that feeling in your gut is excitement or dread. 

In an effort to delay the inevitable, you take a detour before visiting Jake’s apartment again. Your rival university’s sports complex is just as nice as you remember it, large, pristine buildings that hold everything an athletics department could dream of. Fondly, you remember the first time you skated in this stadium, back in middle school. It had felt so big, then, so special, to be skating for such a large crowd. 

It felt even more special to be sharing the ice with someone who put dreams in your head and butterflies in your stomach. Still fairly new to pair skating, the two of you had put on a program with a less than favorable amount of deduction. 

But still. It was yours. It was special. It was shared. 

You wonder if he knew then, that one day he would be the reigning king of this very same rink. 

Probably, you think. Park Sunghoon never had the habit of letting things feel impossible. 

Looking down at the boot on your foot, you miss it, all of it, all at once. The late nights. The early mornings. The bruises and cuts and aching muscles. The determination after defeat. The elation after glory. The feeling of flying every time blade touches ice. 

The sign posted next to the stadium is an advertisement, a reminder, of the upcoming regional championships. There’s a pang of loss, a moment of grief, for your program that will have to wait for next year. 

But your x-rays are coming back better every time, and Dr. Kim is sure you’ll be back on the ice by the time spring comes. 

For the first time in a long time, you think it’ll be okay. You know you’ll be okay.  

In front of you, the stadium door opens, and you realize you’re standing right in front of the exit. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, quickly moving to get out of the way, but then you take a closer look. “Coach Kang?” you ask, just as she says your name with the same air of disbelief. 

It’s an odd feeling of synchronicity, to stumble into your childhood skating coach just as you’re reminiscing on the past. 

“It’s been so long,” she beams, pulling you in for a warm hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting a friend. What about you?”

“Coaches’ meeting,” she explains. “Trying to see if I can get some of my junior skaters in to watch a few practices before regionals.” Nudging you with her shoulder, she adds, “speaking of which, how’s your program coming along? Are you getting excited?”

You shake your head. “I’m actually off the ice for this one.” Glancing down, you lift your booted foot in explanation. “Ankle fracture has me out for the rest of the season.”

“Oh, no.” Coach Kang places a consolatory hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry. That has to be so hard.”

“It’s okay, actually.” You don’t know who’s more surprised, her at your admission, or you at the fact that you actually mean it. “Everything is healing up nicely, so I’m looking forward to an even better program next year.” 

“Well look at you, all grown up.” She smiles. “I can say that thirteen-year-old you would not have had such a good attitude about it. Honestly, I’m surprised a fracture was enough to stop you. You were always so stubborn about things. You and Sunghoon.” She lets out a short laugh as your shoulders tense at the mention of him. “I was just thinking about you two the other day, actually. We had a skater fracture his tailbone and argue until he was blue in the face that he still wanted to compete.” Shaking her head, she adds, “It reminded me of that time Sunghoon insisted on skating even though he’d just sprained his wrist.” She shakes her head again, releases a small laugh. “Never could keep you two off the ice.”

It all checks out, the stubbornness, the determination even when it was stupid. But you’re hung up on one detail. You’re sure you could list every one of Sunghoon’s skating injuries just as thoroughly as he could. But before the current one, you can’t recall any wrist injuries. “What? When did he sprain his wrist?” 

Coach Kang waves her hand flippantly, like the sinking feeling in your gut isn’t intensifying with every passing moment, like she isn’t about to confirm a realization you’re already dreading. “Oh, you remember. It was just a few days before nationals that one year.”

That one year. She skirts around it, for your sake probably. But you know exactly what she means, when she’s referring to. 

And suddenly, you’re falling through air again, plummeting towards ice as a hand makes a desperate attempt to catch you. As sheer will alone is no match for injury weakened bones and ligaments and muscles. As you’re sliding across frozen ground and he’s gripping his wrist with pain on his face and terror in his eyes. 

As your head spins, spots clouding your vision from the force of the impact. Before the world goes black, your eyes search for him. 

And in those last few moments of consciousness, you watch as his mouth moves to form words you can’t hear. 

“I’m sorry.”

…

Raising your fist, you pound at the door again. One, two, three times. At this rate, your knuckles will be bloody before you get a response. 

But before you can start your assault on the wood in front of you again, the door swings open slowly, revealing a familiar frame. 

“You absolute idiot.”

“Well hello to you too.” Rubbing at his eyes, you appear to have just woken him from a nap. If his head is feeling anything like yours was this morning, you almost feel sorry. 

But there are more pressing matters at hand. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“That I’m an idiot? Probably not.”

“That you sprained your wrist three days before nationals? That you skated anyway? That you attempted to catch a person quite literally spinning through the air with a wrist injury?”

A beat of silence passes. 

And then another. 

Sunghoon suddenly looks wide awake. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. What the hell were you thinking?” There’s fire in your eyes, an anger that’s directed towards him but not in the ways he’s used to. 

He pauses for a moment, eyes searching your features for another beat. Finally, he sighs. “Would you have let me skate if I did?”

It’s not the answer you expect. And it’s just like him, to answer a question with one of his own. “I… what?”

“You heard me.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “Would you have let me get on the ice if you knew I was hurt?”

And what is it, him and his habit of asking ridiculous questions like they don’t have obvious answers. “What kind of question is that? Of course not. No one in their right mind would have let you do that program with a wrist sprain, much less your partner. And I love Coach Kang, but I’m about to file a negligence suit against her, because what the hell kind of—”

“Stop talking.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” he grimaces, and you’re still getting used to the way apologies sound on his lips. “That came out wrong. What I was trying to say was that you… Well, I… I mean…” He trails off for the third time, casts a tentative look at the way your eyebrows only raise higher and higher every time he stops a train of thought in its tracks. His gaze falls down, somewhere between your nose and chin. An exhale passes through parted lips. Something in his resolve slips. “Oh, fuck it.”

And then he’s kissing you. 

Lips against lips and hands in your hair. It’s messy and awkward, and you can’t quite get the timing right. 

Sunghoon pulls back a fraction of an inch, catching his breath and letting you do the same. 

“What are you doing?”

There’s heat in his eyes and fondness too, a soft sort of expression that only melts further every time he looks at you. But now there’s anxiety in the mix, a crippling fear that he’s misjudged everything entirely, done something horribly wrong. 

“I’m sorry.” Before today, you could count his apologies on one hand. Now, you’re running out of fingers. “Did you not want—”

This time, it’s you that pulls him down, hands lacing around the nape of his neck, exhaling a soft sigh against parted lips that sends his mind spinning. 

And it’s only the second time, but it’s already better. Already a natural rhythm that the two of you seem to fall into with a little more grace. 

The expanse of his door is cold against your back when Sunghoon pulls you into his apartment with his good hand, and he’s a quick study. Attempt number three is an even greater improvement as hands search for new skin to discover and things start to fall into place, one at a time. 

Reaching for Heeseung’s forgotten hoodie, Sunghoon breaks the kiss only to toss it somewhere outside your current plane of existence. In this moment, you exist only within the space the two of you occupy, everything else an afterthought. 

And you have the feeling attempt number four will be your best yet. 

…

epilogue

“Are you ever gonna join me or do I just have to stay out here looking stupid forever?”

You don’t even take a moment to consider. “The second one.”

“Come on,” Sunghoon pleads, skating back towards you where you remain planted firmly to the bench on the perimeter of the rink. He moves towards you with a grace that used to inspire a raging, stomping green monster of envy. Now, you just admire the way he cuts across the ice with the agility of a dancer. “It’s fun out here, I promise.”

Avoiding his gaze, you let your eyes fall to your feet instead. They’re already laced up in your favorite pair of skates, black boot all but forgotten since you had it removed at your last visit to Dr. Min’s office. Since he gave you the green light to return to the thing you love most. 

You had been ecstatic then. Brimming with so much extra energy Sunghoon had to physically intervene to prevent you from accidentally knocking over an elderly lady on your way out of the hospital. But now, with the opportunity you’ve been dreaming of for long, hard months at your fingertips, something in you hesitates. 

Sunghoon says your name, and suddenly he’s serious. “This is all you’ve been talking about for months.” Sliding down onto his knees in front of you, you’re suddenly at eye level. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He casts a doubtful glance. “Really, I just…” It’s hard, to speak your fears into existence, to let them take flight. Even if the boy in front of you makes it a little easier. “What if it’s not what I imagined?”

It’s a million little worries wrapped up in one. What if your ankle isn’t the same? What if it’s never the same? What if you’re not as good as you were? What if you’re not good enough? 

Sunghoon hears them all, and puts them to rest with a smile, a gentle touch as he rests his forehead against yours. “You and that big brain. Always worrying about the wrong things.”

“Hey! I—”

“It won’t be what you imagined.” He draws back a few inches, and your eyes have nowhere to land but on his own. “It will be different. It will feel weird, and your legs will feel wobbly, your muscles will feel weak, and your ankle might give out.”

Your lips flatten into a thin line. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re doing a terrible job.”

Sunghoon just pinches your cheeks together, forcing your lips to purse. “So you’ll show up. Over and over again. Every day until your skates start to feel like a second pair of feet and the ice starts to feel like home again. Until your ankle and your muscles and your stamina are all built back up, in a way that’s different from before but will feel familiar before you know it.” He presses a single, delicate kiss to the tip of your nose. “Until I’m dragging you off the ice instead of onto it, because your boyfriend needs attention and is feeling a little jealous of all the time you’re spending here instead of with him.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so needy. It’s gross.”

Sunghoon only smiles. “Only for you.”

This time, when he gets back on his feet and extends a hand, you take it. You follow him onto the ice and headfirst towards your insecurities feeling a little bit like a newborn deer, a bike without its training wheels. 

He laughs when you stumble and brushes hair out of your face when you pout. 

After an hour, you’re already feeling more solid than before. After two, that feeling of flying is starting to return. 

It’s somewhere just before hour three when Sunghoon says, “Remember how I told you earlier that you’re worrying about the wrong things?”

“Yeah.” You drag the word out slowly, not liking the hint of deviousness in his sudden grin. 

“This is what I was talking about. Instead of worrying about getting back on the ice, you should be worrying about how long it will take you to be able to beat me on a lap around the rink.”

“You absolute asshole. I fractured my ankle!”

Already halfway around the rink, Sunghoon just laughs. 

…

outtake—five years ago. 

Sunghoon’s vision is blurry. It’s a terrible combination of things—the exhilaration of the spotlight, the pain in his wrist, the grief of an egregious error. The sudden onset of tears that sting in the corners of his eyes and fall without his permission. 

Despite all of it, he finds his way back to his dressing room. Choking back a sob, he reaches for the glass of water he’d left out earlier. It tastes acidic on his tongue, burns like regret on the way down. 

Stupid, he was so stupid. His hands tangle in his hair. He wants to pull it out. Wants to scream until his throat is raw and he can’t anymore. 

It was a terrible enough decision to gamble his own fate on an unhealed injury, but as the reality of the situation comes crashing down around him, he realizes he’s done something much worse. 

Eyes open, eyes closed. It doesn’t matter. All he can see is you, sprawled out on ice, limbs bent unnaturally, eyes dazed at the impact. 

The unexpected impact. Because you trusted him. You trusted him so much that of course you’d never considered what you would do if his hands failed, if his wrist gave out. If he decided to risk your program, your fate, you, all on a whim, on an inflated sense of self-importance and a lack of regard for the injury he was so certain he could power through. 

He couldn’t imagine it, three days ago. Telling you that he was injured, that he couldn’t skate the program. He couldn’t imagine watching as the features he bashfully considered so, painfully pretty twisted into disappointment. Into anger. 

So he turned his shame into resolve, into determination. One that allowed him to catch you with a fractured wrist in every practice run, every time, except for the time that mattered. Biting back grimaces and cries of pain all for the fool’s hope of seeing you smile in a few days’ time, a gold medal around your neck. 

Instead, he got to see you spinning through the air, slipping through his fingers, landing with a sickening thud. He wants to ask what hospital they took you to, wants to ignore the pain in his wrist a little longer and run there himself, just to make sure that you’re okay.

But then he imagines the way you’ll look at him when you see him. The way all that disappointment and anger he’d wanted to avoid so desperately will surely be all you have to offer him. 

He understands. He does. He wouldn’t want to see him either. 

Turning away from the mirror, he tucks away his shame for the future. But that only leaves his gaze landing on the bouquet of flowers sitting on the table. The one he’d spent nearly an hour agonizing over, the one his mother had assured him a dozen times you would love. The one he made sure had all of your favorite colors. 

He snuck his own favorite in there too, in hopes of what exactly he can’t be sure, but he knows he likes the way they look together—your favorite color and the deep blue irises that represent his own. 

It seems to stupid now. After everything, after this, he can’t imagine you want his flowers, and even less his favorite color. He can’t imagine that you want anything to do with him. 

So he doesn’t seek you out. Not in the hospital that day, not when you’re cleared to practice and back on the ice again, not when chance has the two of you colliding five years later. 

Not until he watches you walk away from him with all that anger and resentment and disappointment he’s been so avoiding for so long. Not until it strikes him in the face and he realizes that he can’t live with it, can’t let bygones be bygones and hope time and the absence of him in your life have healed you for the better when it still hurts to even look at you. 

On a dressing room table, five years in the past, a bouquet of flowers wilts. 

And Sunghoon learns that with love and patience and a little bit of sunlight, beautiful things, even the fragile ones, bloom when you water them.

.....

note: thank you for reading! as always, comments, reblogs, and asks are very much appreciated :D

[princessfbi]

Tommy’s arms are warm as they wrap around Buck. + bucktommy

Tommy’s arms were warm as they wrapped around Buck. Warm and big.

Buck was still getting used to that. Big arms that could wrap around his waist and still have room to tighten. Big chest for him to curl up against and pillow his head. Big hands.

God, Tommy’s hands were huge.

A stubbled cheek scratched against his own before a soft kiss pressed into the column of his throat. Buck melted against the warmth, folding into Tommy as the bed dipped with their weight. Buck let out a noise from the back of his throat as he slid into Tommy's lap.

“You’re okay,” Tommy reminded him. Reminded him because Buck had asked him to. Something he should’ve done before the first time he slept over. But Buck had been foolishly hoping that they had gone away.

He hadn’t had a nightmare in the first two months of dating Tommy. They had started staying over after the first month. Tommy still took things slow— painfully slow if anyone asked a hot and bothered Buck when all he wanted was to feel Tommy toss him around a bit and then kiss him until he couldn’t see straight— but sharing space between each other had felt as natural as breathing. A hooked ankle under the table. A hand held in the car. A lean into each other’s weight while Buck inhaled the masculine scent that still sent a shockwave through Buck’s system. It’d been easy to feel safe and unguarded around one another to fall asleep in bed together.

Two months in and Buck had thought— stupidly— that they were gone. That every night would involve him curled up on Tommy’s chest or Tommy pressed to his back or Tommy’s head pillowed on his bicep while he clung to Buck’s waist. That every night would be perfect. Untainted.

Then the first nightmare came. It’d been an ugly, gnarly twisted monster of a thing. One that made Buck’s skin slick with a cold sweat and the oxygen trapped in his lungs. Seeing Tommy’s freaked out expression while he held Buck’s hand through a panic attack that sent him flying to the bathroom to puke had been almost worse than the nightmare itself.

Guilt and embarrassment had eaten away at his already frayed nerves. Tommy had sat down beside him on the too cold tile and rubbed his back while Buck retched. Then Tommy did the only thing he could do in that situation.

“What can I do?” He had asked.

“You’re okay, baby. Just breathe,” Tommy whispered into Buck’s skin, a firm but gentle hand rubbing across his sternum.

“Remind me I’m okay. That it’s— it’s not real.” Buck had said with his cheeks burning with humiliation and his eyes pointed down at his lap. Tommy had curled two fingers under his chin and tipped his eyes back up.

“Eddie’s fine. He’s at home. He’s okay,” Tommy said over and over again.

Buck must have been talking in his sleep. It was the only explanation for how Tommy knew that Buck’s nightmare had tasted like copper. That the ground had shook beneath his feet, making it impossible to get to his friend as he bled out on the pavement. How he’d reached and reached, screaming his name as something dragged him further and further away. His throat was raw from screaming when Eddie’s head and lulled in his direction but there hadn’t been a face. Just a sheen filter over a lifeless expression that would’ve broken Buck.

Tommy pressed his big palm flat over Buck’s racing heart and pulled Buck further into his lap, scooping up Buck’s legs so he could hold him fully.

“He’s okay. You’re okay. It was just a bad dream.” Tommy murmured into his hair as Buck curled his fists into Tommy’s sleep shirt.

“Sorry…” Buck croaked because even through the haze of the lingering panic still choking him, he could see how late... or rather early it was and Tommy had a shift.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Tommy said, tightening his hold around Buck until the pressure started to ease away the tight ball of tension in Buck’s chest. “Just breathe for me.”

Buck breathed and it was stilted and ragged but it was real. Real and warm like Tommy curled around him.

It helped. It helped more than Buck could possibly say.

[crevicedwelling]

micropezid stilt-legged fly, Malaysia.

these jaunty ichneumon-mimicking flies are a common sight in Southeast Asia, but I never got tired of their antics.

[irisintheafterglow]

my social media has been filled with nothing but candid videos of hot guys playing scare actors so... happy halloween from scare actor!suguru

cw: mentions of eating and sweets, swearing

"god, i'm so tired. this is so tiring," an exhausted voice mutters from next to you on the wooden bench. the other side creaks from their weight, but you don't bother looking up at who it is. probably some guy must have lost his group of friends in the crowds, you figure. continuing to stare at your phone, the constant screams of terrified parkgoers slip in one ear and out of the other.

"mhmm. you can say that again," you reply with equal unamusement. you couldn't guess how long it'd been since your friends left you in favor of experiencing a particularly gory maze, one that you weren't interested in braving the headache for. it was just loud, the entire place, and the orange strobe lights casting ominous shadows in the fog was enough sensory overload for a lifetime. you continue scrolling mindlessly through your phone, spotting a lanky clown performer on stilts out of the corner of your eye. "not enjoying the spooky festivities?"

"i'm here on a dare, unfortunately." you can hear the frown in his voice and he lets out a long sigh.

"yikes. some friends you've got."

"tell me about it. what're you doing here by yourself?"

"waiting for some friends to get out of that one gory maze by the drop ride," you answer absentmindedly, entranced by a funny video of a husky fitting through a hole in a fence.

"blood king's palace?" damn. must be a frequent flier if he knows the mazes so well.

"yeah, i think so."

"i've got a friend working that one. maybe he'll run into your friends." it makes you smile, imagining your friends shrieking bloody murder while you snack on a purple sprinkle-covered funnel cake.

"i'm just here for the sweet stuff, i won't lie to you-holy fuck!" your attempt at a casual joke turns into a yelp of pure shock as you finally look up at the stranger on the other side of the bench. white-hot adrenaline shoots into your veins and it takes all of your willpower not to flee at that moment. you thought you were going to see just some other loser with an obnoxiously bright lanyard. instead, you're met with a skull-faced, sharp-jawed, man-bunned dreamboat that begins apologizing profusely for frightening you. after a few moments of steadying your breath with a hand over your heart, you take a good look at the intricate face makeup and note how enticing he looked in all leather. "next time, let me know before i look up that you're one of the scarers, yeah?" he chuckles sheepishly in stark contrast to his menacing appearance.

"sorry about that. i can get you that sweet stuff you mentioned with my discount." he pauses, dark eyes flicking across the passing visitors like he's looking for someone. "give me a sec; i'll be right back," he instructs before blasting off from the bench with a startling burst of speed. his knees slide across the ground first and sparks fly from the friction of the kneepads with the concrete. a terrified group of teenage girls make a run for it, only to be stopped by the same clown stilt-walker you saw earlier. before you know it, he's strolling back over to you with his hands in his pockets like nothing had happened, a few strands of stray hair the only evidence that he moved at all. "back to what i was saying," he continues and you laugh at the irony. "you feeling a candy apple or funnel cake? i can get both, if you want."

"you're gonna buy something for a total stranger?"

"if it means i can start over and meet you without the scary face paint, then yeah," he shrugs a lean shoulder and you fight the urge to drool. "i'm suguru, by the way." when you introduce yourself in response, he murmurs your name like he was committing it to memory. feeling your phone vibrate on your leg, you swear under your breath when you see the notification from your friends saying they'd finished the maze. part of you wanted to tell them to just leave you so you could keep talking to the handsome scare actor, but you knew they still wanted to spend the rest of the night with you.

"can i take you up on that funnel cake another night? my friends just left that vampire palace thing," you say regretfully, holding up the message for him to see.

"sure thing. can i walk you over there? i'll make sure no one bothers you, scarer or otherwise." his tongue dances over a sharp canine and you have to swallow thickly before answering.

"yeah," you agree quietly, heart pounding even louder than the lilting organ music. he smiles at you in relief and your brain short-circuits. "i'd like that."

for the next seven-something minutes while you walk across the park to find your friends, suguru slips next to you like a bodyguard, momentarily disappearing to scare some unsuspecting guests but always returning to your side. he walks with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, waltzing down the paths with you and leading you down shortcuts that seemed too frightening to brave alone. most surprisingly, the other scarers steer clear of you when you're with him. a brunette scarer with short hair in a tattered victorian gown calls after suguru teasingly when she sees him escorting you and the self-assured smirk that appears on his face was enough to make you pass out.

"can you tell your friends you're making a detour?" his question becomes rhetorical when you have no choice but to follow him as he beelines for the nearest funnel cake stand. he cuts the line and approaches the pick-up window; an unamused man with plastered-down blonde hair eyes him warily, scowling when suguru whispers something in his ear. other guests stare at him in awe but he only seems to focus on you, explaining something about working at the park with all of his friends, including the emo kid at the fryer. after a few minutes, his mouth quirks in that arrogant smile again when he nods toward the fresh purple-sprinkled funnel cake sliding across the counter. "alright, detour over. let's go find your friends."

you don't notice the phone number written on the napkin until after he's already disappeared into the fog, but he's determined to see you more than just during halloween.

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[apsciencebydan]

Day 11 of my 2023 favorites: Finding an Extremely Rare Bug, Then Finding More of Them, and Watching Them Have #BugSex

I sighted the one, got one pic*, & it disappeared. Learned it was Micropeza producta, a rare stilt-legged fly. Had to go back out and find more, of course. Photographed them having sex. For science!

*I actually lost almost the entire batch of shots from that day, only a half dozen or so were able to be recovered from the memory card. One of them was this shot, from which an expert was able to identify the creature. Fortuitous.

[scarlettaagni]

Nocturnal Subroutines

Everyone was standing before him, far away. All the Autobots in a neat curved line, though unable to be distinguished, in a dusty pink desert with a black sky. A raised edge marks a divide.

Servos reached out from underneath the vision, with grasping digits. Starscream stumbled forward with desperation. An uneven and stilted gait as if he were learning to walk.

“Help—” he couldn't tell if he was thinking it or managing to say it aloud. “I thought you…”

A constricting sensation in his ventilation, and distant panting. He needed them. Someone, anyone. He needed someone else like he needed air.

As they allowed him to come closer, their cold gazes from equally cold blue eyes were visible. They even narrowed. There was judgment in them.

This made the jet stop in his tracks. The yearning for companionship became pleading and questioning.

“Why won’t you let me—? What did I do? What did I do?!”

Not a word was said, just sneers and cliquey looks. They stood as if about to turn around and leave him.

The un-earth roared from beneath them and the two halves parted. A yawning abyss grew to split the parties, Starscream’s half sinking as the Autobots’ rose. He stumbled, but they stood still as if he were overreacting.

Finally, they approached him, if only to peer over the edge of the growing cliffside. There was impartial curiosity, like how one watches a flying insect in the distance.

They were similarly disgusted.

“Stop looking at me like that! I didn’t do anything!” he cried. “Don’t look down on me… stop looking at me… I don’t know what I did, I—”

He collapsed to his knees and doubled over as if the pain were physical. Arms wrapped around him to protect from the cold. Some gazes seemed to hold concern, but it brought no comfort.

They never meant it. They would never do anything about it even if they did. He didn’t understand these feelings, but they were felt, and felt strongly.

He cupped his face in his hands, bowing.

“Stop pitying me. Don’t pity me. Don’t…”

He reached out once more, a wilting hand nowhere near what he craved. Another curled a fist atop his spark.

It felt like he was falling.

“Why are you all just standing there?!”

Some wry smiles, a familiar smirk. Even the placid stares.

Nobody came down for him.

Stop looking down on me… stop looking down on me… stop looking down on me… stop looking down on me…

A horrible creaking came from his limbs. How dare he try to reach out? He held his arms out before him and saw their sorry condition. They sloughed off at the elbow before he could say “cosmic rust”.

The pain was numb and far away, as if they had already died and merely broke off. Still, he gasped and choked.

His hands were sullied, so they must be destroyed. While Starscream nudged his cybernetic stubs at them, they writhed unnaturally and threw themselves into the deadly valley.

It was cold. So cold.

The jet struggled to right himself without his arms and turned to meet a brutal maelstrom. A haze of white and rolling dunes of snow lay before him.

Something in the distance, disappeared further along.

He chased it. He sought it.

A monstrous shadow, who seemed to drift in and out of view in the distance’s frosty barrier.

“What—who are you?!” he yelled, voice lost to the wind.

Starscream had to find it. Every electron in his spark pulled him forward. He knew he must find it, but could not conceive why.

It was always ahead of him, and he would lose sight.

“Come back to me! Please!” he hurled with a foreign desperation, voice fraying.

He teased Starscream. Always on the precipice of being caught up to, and vanishing without a trace. A whisper of a person, as uncertain as a promise.

Anachronistic arms reached from past the vision once more. Yes… this was when his hands were not sullied.

A name the Seeker didn’t know escaped his own lips. It, too, disappeared in the wind.

Wildly shuffling through the snow, his foot hooked onto something and he tripped. Starscream fell facedown and curled painfully. His right leg buckled in a wrong way. The lining of his ventilation pipe was stripped. Smears of energon stained the snow he laid in.

He threw himself onto his aft, dizzily looking up. He was standing there. No features other than his size to make out… but he appeared… displeased.

Nobody came down for him.

Starscream couldn’t go on. It felt like his mind was being pulled apart in different directions. His optics deliriously circled around as he idly thought to check what he tripped on.

He brushed the airy precipitation away, eventually hitting metal.

A massive dead face with cold blue eyes smiled at him.

“ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴍᴇ.”

The shriek emitted from the display traveled to the real Starscream, who shot upright as the mind circuit uncoupled itself.

[kedreeva]

Regarding your post about how big Bug’s toes are, is there a way to tell how big Peafowl will end up growing before they’re mature, like with measuring bits of the leg on a horse or the size of a puppy’s paws?

Nope! You can kind of compare between hatch mates if you have them (like Io was fucking gigantic by the time he was 3 months old), and you can get a pretty good idea by the time they are 8-12 months (comparing Helios to his father as a yearling). Feed when they're very little matters a lot; if they are well fed with good protein when they're little, they tend to grow out bigger as adults. But genetics help. What you want to look for early, more than size, is shape; is the skull shape looking good, are the legs long and strong, is the neck long and unkinked, are they strong enough to carry their wings up, do they carry their tail high, are they growing in strong color early?

I've seen a LOT of people argue about giving peachicks a lot of protein when they're little. People will say it twists their legs because their muscles or tendons grow faster than the other (it varies which people say, "muscles grow faster than their tendons" or "tendons grow faster than muscles" or even that their bones grow faster than whatever). But in my experience, it's not a problem with the protein level. It's a problem with the space those people provide their babies, as well as a problem with a) what KIND of protein and b) ratio of protein to fat.

Most people are feeding only dry chow to their babies. This is... okay. But peachicks prefer moist foods, as anyone that's ever put water in some chow can tell you. So they'll EAT a dry chow but they won't eat a LOT of it, they'll eat the minimum to not die, and so even though the chow may be "nutritionally complete" (and that's another can of worms on its own), they don't get enough of it to grow to their potential. Most dry chows also get their protein from soy or corn, neither of which should make up a peafowl's primary protein source. We make do with what we can get for now, but it would be a LOT better if they were to make a peafowl chow that had fish/krill meal as a base for protein instead. I've heard of a few breeders offering krill oil in wet mash, and how much nicer it makes the colors on their birds, which doesn't surprise me. Fish oil is likely an essential to their diet in the wild- and hilariously (sadly) a lot of owners will straight up and vehemently tell you peafowl don't eat fish... despite direct evidence to the contrary in wild observations. Yes those long leggies help wade through tall grasses, but you don't see pheasants or quail on stilts. Even turkeys don't have the long legs of peafowl.

It's because peafowl are out there doing this:

But I'm rambling. The point is, a lot of people underfeed their birds on less than ideal proteins to make up for not providing them enough space to run and fly, things they NEED to be able to do to grow properly. This makes it very difficult to judge what size a bird will be as an adult and, in addition, hard to judge what size offspring they will throw. But even under good circumstances, most of the time it's just wait and see.

[jupiterswasphouse]

[VIDEO AND PHOTO TAKEN: MAY 15TH, 2023 | Video and Image IDs: A video and four photos of a dark multi-colored (metallic blue, red, black, white, and orange) stilt-legged fly, waving its front legs around. In the video it is standing on a green leaf of a small plant, while in the photos it is standing on a rough grey concrete brick /End ID.]

I've never seen this kind of fly before! Apparently, the reason why it's waving its front legs around like that is because it's trying to mimic the antenna motions of a wasp, as a defense mechanism! Another interesting instance of a bug saying "Don't fuck with me" by way of dance,,,

[formulaes5]

let me go (let me go down)

"I could totally suck you off right now," Seb slurs through the cotton wool in his mouth, grinning and dribbling blood from the corner of his mouth and down his chin, "I'm like a machine, Mark." “Oookay Sebster, let's get you tucked back into bed huh?” Or, Seb gets his wisdom teeth out and wakes up high off his ass on anaesthetic, absolutely determined to make it Mark's problem.

☆ 2k, T, ao3 ☆

Mark sat awkwardly next to the bed in a private hospital room, perched on the edge of a frightfully uncomfortable chair with a book balanced precariously on his knee, stuck into the important task of trying to work out what the hell to do with his legs. If he stretched them out he ran out of space, and if he crossed them over each other for too long it was uncomfortable and he would just have to switch anyway.

Seb’s mother had been meant to fly in from Germany to stay at Seb’s house in Switzerland with him for a few days while he recovered from having his wisdom teeth removed after months of “meaning to get around to it”, finally being convinced (read: forced) by the terrifying combined force of his mother and Mark to get it done in the winter break when he would have time to recover without interruption. Fortunately for Mark, she had cancelled her trip at the last moment due to unavoidable scheduling conflicts, leaving the sole responsibility of making sure Seb didn’t do anything too stupid or strenuous on Mark. For a variety of reasons, Mark was quite happy with this sudden change of plans; first and foremost being that he genuinely enjoyed looking after Seb. He enjoyed making Seb breakfast and washing his hair in the shower and waving farewell to hoodies that Seb had decided looked better on his side of the wardrobe, as well as all the other shit that was generally considered to be lame and soppy that Mark secretly loved with a passion. Sue him, he was still going to pull Seb’s chair out for him and tell him he looked beautiful. The second reason was that he rightfully found Sebastian’s mother to be slightly terrifying in the way that only the mother of your much younger boyfriend could be, and having her hovering over his shoulder watching him like a hawk would have inevitably come with the potential of making things incredibly stilted and awkward.

He looked over at the occupant of the only bed in the room. Seb was completely dead to the world, his blond hair laid out in a halo around his head on the pillow. Reaching out to gently stroke a lock of soft blond hair off Seb’s forehead, he smiled as Seb reacted subconsciously to the touch with a little snuffle. At the risk of sounding like a creep, Mark had always thought that Seb looked gorgeous in his sleep, one round cheek often squished into Mark’s chest and his lovely pink lips slightly parted. Due to his natural tendency to wake earlier than Seb – who had never woken up on time for anything in his life – he often got a front row seat to his adorable little snuffles and nonsensical mumbling, finding them to be rather unreasonably charming. 

Mark was probably going soft, he thought to himself as he watched his boyfriend sleep, but ultimately he couldn’t really bring himself to care. Not when he got to have Seb in exchange. Seb who was constantly burrowing his head into Mark’s chest in his sleep, Seb who was funny and sweet and caring, and only occasionally insane. Seb who was slowly opening his eyes, groaning as he came to.

“Hey there sweetheart, back with us?”

“Hwuaah??” Seb groaned eloquently, reaching up to rub blearily at his eyes, taking stock of the situation as his vision swam into clarity. He was in a hospital bed and his jaw hurt like a motherfucker. He felt dazed and confused and like his head was full of bees. He liked bees. “Did they take my teeth?” he asked worriedly. He was sure this was something to do with his teeth.

Mark huffed a laugh, “Yep, all gone now.” he replied, watching as Seb scrunched his face up adorably.

Seb looked up in confusion; Mark was here! Hang on… Why was Mark here? What possible reason could his Red Bull Racing teammate have to be in his hospital room waiting for him to wake up? Was Christian here too? Maybe Rocky or Britta? He had no fucking clue why they would be here, but surely if Mark was here then there was an increased likelihood of the others being here as well. He looked around the room for whoever Mark was calling sweetheart, only to come face to face with exactly nobody. They were the only people in the room, unless everybody was crowded behind the door off to the side that he was assuming was a bathroom. He eyed the door suspiciously, mentally picturing a gaggle of Red Bull employees piled into the bathroom in standard clown car fashion. He hoped Doctor Marko wasn’t there.

“Wer ist… Sweetheart?” he mumbled, not entirely sure what was going on but quite liking the idea that maybe it was him that Mark was calling sweetheart. A nice pipe dream if nothing else.

“That’d be you, mate.”

What? He was sweetheart? Were they together? Maybe he had forgotten something? He should probably check.

English, Seb thought to himself determinedly, “Whoah… are- are you… are we dating?”

“Yup,” replied mark, popping the P happily and wondering exactly how stupid the dental anaesthetic had made his boyfriend. 

Seb looks absolutely shocked, blue eyes opened wide, “Have… have we,” he trails off, blushing hard, “have we kissed?” 

“Yeah mate, once or twice” Mark laughs, really struggling to hold it together at this point. 

Seb is stunned. Speechless. He feels like he just won the fucking lottery. He also feels tired and disoriented and his jaw is aching something awful, but Mark Fucking Webber is sitting next to his hospital bed telling him that they’re dating. Seb is Elated. Somehow he had managed to bag Mark Webber. He had bagged Notorious Cheekbones and Jawline Guy, Mark Webber. He did that. Holy shit. 

“So I can just kiss you? Like in real life?” Seb is flabbergasted. “Oh mein gott…”

Mark sets his book aside and gets up from his awful chair bemusedly. If he’s totally honest, this is the funniest thing Seb has ever done and he’s loving every minute of it. He sits down on the bed, deciding to tactfully ignore the way Seb goes very quiet and attempts to check his breath by exhaling heavily into his hand, slightly impeded by the amount of blood soaked cotton wool shoved into his mouth. He leans over and places a gentle kiss high up on Seb’s bright red cheek, mindful of Seb’s very recent surgery and trying to avoid hurting him by accident.

Seb melts. 

After he recovers from the life changing occasion of getting a kiss from his boyfriend, he moves to sit up, trying to get a better view of Mark, more specifically to watch the muscles of his neck and the line of his jaw as he tilts his head back to take a drink of water. The way his adam’s apple bobs in his throat should probably be illegal, because in combination with his stubble, vaguely rumpled hair, and soft blue t-shirt, Seb is feeling things. 

“Wait…” All of a sudden he has an absolutely burning question to ask, and if it doesn’t get answered now, Seb doesn’t think that he should be liable for anything that happens as a result of his unsated curiosity.

Mark is already mentally preparing himself for something endearingly ridiculous or just downright stupid to come pouring out of Sebastian’s mouth. Whatever it is he’s sure it will be interesting at least. He decides to risk a reply. “Yeah?”

This should be good. He would totally be telling Jenson all about this.

Seb leans in closer, blushing beet red before managing to rush out, “do we… dowehavesex?” in a hissed whisper behind his hand, which was entirely unnecessary in a room with only two people in it, but Seb clearly wasn’t at a point of recovery where his critical thinking skills had kicked back in yet.

Mark is blushing now too as he responds in the affirmative, deciding maybe this particular aspect of the conversation could conveniently not make its way to Jenson, actually. This is one of the most ridiculous situations Mark has been in lately – perhaps even ever – but it’s nonetheless a great ego boost to have Seb loose lipped and blushing about their relationship. He’s always been confident that Seb found him attractive, but the way that he’s staring at him with barely concealed elation and wonder is a nice confirmation.

The positive response has kicked Sebastian’s flailing brain into overdrive, he’s actually dating his teammate, Mark Webber. Mark Webber who he had always had a big embarrassing crush on, and apparently they have sex, which is normal for a couple. Obviously. Of course they have sex. Is it good sex? Should he ask? No – obviously it’s good sex; Seb doesn’t have bad sex, he wouldn’t put up with anything less. He should do something cool, maybe say something, he thinks offhandedly. He should say something smooth to really make Mark like him, though surely Mark liked him if he was dating him. Seb thought he was pretty likeable, not to mention pretty cute. He decided that he was going to say something really smooth, just in case Mark needed some gentle encouragement. Just say something cool. Easy.

"I could totally suck you off right now," Seb slurred through the cotton wool in his mouth, grinning and dribbling blood from the corner of his mouth and down his chin, "I'm like a machine, Mark."

Mark has never had to fight so hard not to laugh in his entire fucking life. He’s definitely just snorted some water out of his nose in reaction to that awfully timed yet incredibly confident statement. Trust Seb to come out of wisdom teeth removal surgery and immediately start talking about sucking dick. He’s insatiable, the little monster. But he’s Mark’s little monster, so he should probably nip this one in the bud before it gets out of hand.

“Oookay Sebster, let's get you tucked back into bed huh?”

“No, I could!” Seb protests. 

Mark loses the battle with his own amusement and bursts out laughing. This was absolutely priceless. Seb, from where he’s sat in bed high on residual anaesthetic, doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about.

“Why are you laughing at me Mark? I could totally suck your dick right now!” Seb boasts. He doesn’t understand why Mark is laughing, he was cool with that, right?

“Look Seb, as fetching as you look in your backless hospital gown right now, that is the worst idea I’ve ever heard in my entire life, and you’ve had some fucking shockers.”

“Oh bitte Mark,” Seb whines, turning the full force of his big blue eyes onto Mark, “please?”

This was fucking hilarious, thought Mark as he gently pressed at Seb’s chest, trying to encourage him to lie back down. He had gone into this knowing that anaesthetic could sometimes make people say things they normally wouldn’t. He could certainly attest to having been a bit strange when he got his out, but that had manifested as him repeatedly telling his older sister that he loved her as she helped him into the backseat of the car, not professing his dick sucking skills for the world to hear, thank God for small mercies.

“C’mon Seb, lie back down,” Mark encouraged, really hoping that the nurse wouldn’t choose this moment to come bustling into the room to check on her patient. “Attaboy.”

“Spoilsport,” Seb huffed from the bed, having lost his battle with gravity and Mark, as well as the separate, but equally important battle he had been fighting with tiredness. He was determined to grumble about it nevertheless. He continued to make his displeasure known, insisting repeatedly “I’m not even tired, actually,” and “You’re no fun”. The message was only slightly undermined by the multiple yawns Seb was letting loose, as well as the soft smile on his face as he gazed up at Mark with wonder in his eyes.

Mark picked Seb’s hand up gently from on top of the hospital blanket, stroking his thumb across his knuckles a few times before moving his head downward to place a kiss on the back of it, Seb practically purring in response.

“I s’pose we can pencil it in for two weeks from now if you really insist on scheduling it though.”

“Shut up.”

“Love you too Sweetheart, sleep well now.”

[lupine-trees]

e·ther

/ˈēTHər/ noun

the clear sky; the upper regions of air beyond the clouds

late Middle English: from Old French, or via Latin from Greek aithēr ‘upper air’, from the base of aithein ‘burn, shine’.

[an airy, august not-so-micro fic, inspired by @drarrymicrofic nonetheless. for the prompt “ethereal.”~]

word count: 988

After the end, they all believe Harry comes back tired. Exhausted, war-struck, sleepless and dazed.

Everyone but Draco. Who watches and catches the glistening edges of him, who notices that his eyes aren’t empty, not hollow, just away.

He finds him at the quidditch pitch, that ramshackle final school year, day after day after day after day. He’s difficult to find there on account of how difficult he is to spot; that is, he is a spot, a near-indiscernible speck, a dust mote, broomstick wayward, skyward, cloud-bound, high.

For weeks, Draco peeks from beneath the bleachers, catching glimpses against the grey Scottish sky. Then for months, he clambers up them and reads, novels (Dickens, Austen, Woolf— yes, he quite likes Woolf), keeping Harry carefully in his periphery.

It happens every day, weather conditions be damned. Draco never catches him on the ascent, never sees him mount his broom, and wonders how long he’s flying (how long he can fly, and how high, and why, and— tangentially— how he is passing any of his classes). Harry sees him there, or knows, he must know, but he never says— never stops, never asks, never breathes a word to Draco.

The year rolls over and away, and they graduate. (Draco assumes Harry graduates— he isn’t at the ceremony, but they call his name, because of course.)

Draco goes to Wiltshire, the Manor, home, as it were. He spends long, muggy days in the gardens, wandering the footpaths and the outer meadows, circling the fountains and the pond, weaving through the orchard (a relief— birdsong, and the low hum of bees, something other than the echoing silence).

He reads and reads and delays the inevitable (work— some menial Ministry job, likely, once he acquiesces to applying— overworked & unsalaried & embarrassingly, he will love it anyway, but for now, a summer: slow, waiting).

It’s the first of August when he appears, broomstick in hand, standing stiff on the Manor steps. He doesn’t look tired now, just itchy, achy, combustible. He fiddles with the zipper of his windbreaker as Draco opens the door.

“Happy birthday,” Draco says, because it was, or, well, because he hopes it was, anyway.

“Do you want to go flying?” Harry answers.

“Oh,” Draco says, stilted, his arms crossed carefully over his middle. “I haven’t been. Not since—” He gestures vaguely at Harry.

Harry stops fidgeting. “Okay,” he says, “Alright,” and turns to go.

“I can watch! If you— if you want to fly. Here. It’s good for it. Or anyway, it used to be. So.”

Harry looks at him, those eyes an inquisition, an invasion, and Draco feels the warmth under his collar licking up towards his ears.

Harry nods, and turns, and for the first time, Draco sees him lift off. A careless leg thrown swift across the broomstick, an intuitive tilt that lifts him, zipping away before his tatty canvas sneaker ever even touches the ground. Something in Draco’s chest catches at the sight (never mind he’s seen it a hundred times over, and even this before, technically, Harry in red, himself in green, slinging upwards with the goal of winning, of being better— but that wasn’t this).

Harry flies like a creature born with wings. Like something made for it.

So, he flies. And Draco reads (The Metamorphosis, Kafka, devastating & remarkable). Day in, and out, and August slips away.

Harry flies like he’s trying to get somewhere. High above the Manor, above ancient treetops, sometimes above the clouds. There are days he breaks across the sky, like lightning. There are days he carves lazy circles through the atmosphere. And there are days he just… sits there. Floating. Suspended.

Draco takes to bringing along fruit. Apples, peaches, plums, which they eat, when Harry lands, sticky-fingered and dusky and quiet (What are you doing now school’s done? Have you been back to Diagon? Are you staying at Grimmauld? Are you staying here? How are your friends? How is your mother? Don’t you get tired of flying? Don’t you get tired of not?).

On the last day of August, Harry tries again.

“Do you want to come with me?”

Draco swallows. And breathes.

“I—” He breathes and breathes and breathes.

Harry nods, extends a hand. “Come with me.”

“Okay,” Draco says.

Harry throws his leg over the broom and holds it steady as Draco clambers on behind him.

“Hold on,” Harry murmurs, and Draco places tentative hands at his sides, the warm skin underneath sticking to the threadbare T-shirt. Harry takes his hands, pulls Draco forward, in, wrapping his arms firmly around his middle.

“Hold on,” he repeats, something light in his tone.

And then: flight, fast. Their feet leave the ground, and Draco can’t help but hold him then, his face tucked into his shoulder, eyes nearly shut against the onslaught of air, sharp and crisp against his face, cool against the summer heat of his skin.

They lift and lift and lift, and Draco isn’t very sure he’s breathing at all, the world falling away beneath them. And then it happens: something in the air shifts, clears, lifts, shimmers. The sky, too bright to be blue, too air to be sky, opens around them. It’s impossible not to breathe, to drink it in. They stop. Draco gasps at the sudden stillness, swallows in mouthfuls of, of—

“It’s—” he says, blinking, hands at Harry’s stomach. He leans back, looks around: there’s nothing here, but it’s a good nothing, a full nothing. Sky and sky and sky. It shines. It burns. He laughs, tension uncoiling in his chest, then breathes out, settling against the solid plane of Harry’s back. “It’s really something,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. It’s really something.

When they land, the world isn’t different, except in the small ways that it is. September lays before them, not summer, but something, and there is time, still and plenty, for fruit and reading and flying.

[miasmaghoul]

Miasmaaaaa

Lil prompty prompt

Mountain has Dew and Rain in cute lil dresses; cleaning up around the den with vibes in em and well... if they cum or even spill they gotta lick it allllll up and then start over geheeueuehe

-☘️

Forcedfem also ft. Aether because I liked it that way!

"What, uh...what's going on in here?"

Aether really doesn't have to ask, but his brain needs a minute to comprehend. To ensure he's not dreaming. Surely he must be, surely he can't possibly be seeing -

"Exactly what it looks like," Mountain rumbles from where he sits on one of the common room sofas, legs crossed. He pats the cushion next to him. "Come enjoy the show, hmm?"

Aether swallows hard, nodding slow as he shuffles towards the couch, eyes still stuck on the...well, show is an appropriate way to put it. He palms himself through his jeans absentmindedly as he sits, lips parted and eyes wide.

Dewdrop is kneeling in front of the fireplace, scrubbing at soot-stained stone with shaking hands. His hair hangs over his shoulder, obscuring his face, but every time he draws his brush back Aether catches glimpses of red cheeks and glassy eyes. He's breathing heavily, stilted, biting his lip. Aether's eyes are caught on the way the skin-tight...he supposed it could technically be called a dress, rides up his thighs. The dress is bright red, a little slip of a thing that clings everywhere. Dew's nipples poke through the slinky fabric, his little dick hard and tenting the front. There's a wet spot there that makes Aether groan and throb in his pants.

Rain is standing nearby, facing away from them, swaying as he mops a small section of floor by the window. His legs are visibly shaking, his shoulders drawn and the muscles in his back taut. His dress is another silky shift, but this time in pale blue.

"Like what you see?" Mountain rumbles, and Aether nods. Palms himself again, fattening up nicely against his thigh. He glances over at Mountain and sees that the earth ghoul is in the same boat, straining against his zipper.

"I appreciate the view, but I can't help but wonder what I've walked in on," Aether mutters, eyes sliding along the curve of Dew's ass. He wants so badly to call the little ghoul over, to shove his head under that skirt and lick him into his mouth. To hear all the pretty little sounds Dew makes for him when Aether takes him to the root.

"Just a little fun," Mountain says, watching Rain twitch when he bends to rinse the mop. Aether watches too, the motion making one of Rain's shoulder straps slip off.

"How did you convince them to do this?" He murmurs, attention flicking back to Dew when the fire ghoul gives a shuddering sigh that could almost be called a moan.

"Positive reinforcement." Mountain grins, holding up a pair of small remotes. "Isn't that right, girls?"

They both nod but don't speak, and Mountain tuts. He clicks a button on each remote, soft buzzing fills the air, and the sounds that pour from the ghouls before them have Aether nearly creaming himself. He gives himself a firm squeeze as Mountain does the same, both groaning.

"Tell Aether the rules, sweet peas."

Dew cants his head, tosses his hair back and the look on his face is pure sin. Rain turns to face them and looks much the same, red and dazed, lips slick with drool. The wet spot at the front of Rain's dress is much more pronounced, surrounded by streaks and little drips. Ah, water ghouls. Aether is fully hard against his own leg, throbbing.

"W-we, uh," Rain starts, voice thin. He sounds lost, frail in the best way. "We have to clean. Have to clean up everything we're told. Make it sparkle." He nods to himself, looking to Mountain for approval. There's sweat beading at Rain's temples, dark curls clinging to pale skin.

"Very good," Mountain hums, clicking one of the remotes again and the buzzing intensifies. Rain collapses to his knees with a shout, hand flying to his crotch. "What else?"

"No messes," Dew pants, staring at Aether with unfocused eyes. He looks farther gone than Rain. Sounds it too, voice flat and absent in a way that tells Aether they've been at this for a while. "No messes or we...we have to start over."

Dewdrop cries out as Mountain clicks the other remote, a pattern of buzzes audible from his direction. He rests his forehead on the stone of the hearth, teeth clenched. Aether can see the way his cock twitches as Dew rolls his hips into nothing.

"That's right," Mountain croons, tilting his head and watching the pair of them squirm.

"Messes?" Aether breathes, fully rubbing at himself now. He has a feeling he knows what that means, but -

"They aren't allowed to cum, or to drip on the floor." Mountain sets the remotes next to him, content to watch Dew rut into the air and Rain struggle not to collapse. "My poor little lilypad has been mopping that spot for...how many time is this, princess?"

"F-four," Rain gasps, and Aether watches a new spot soak into the fabric stretched over his dick.

"All because she just can't stop leaking." Mountain fixes Aether with a lascivious smile. "Such a shame too, since my girls aren't getting what they want until they're finished."

Dewdrop and Rain both let out sobs at that, looking at Mountain with sad eyes. Aether watches Mountain spread his legs and unzip, freeing his thick, stiff cock from the confines of his pants. It sways in the air, wet at the tip and desperate for a hole to fuck. He gives himself a slow stroke and lets out a dramatic moan, dropping his head against the back of the couch. Rain looks like he really might cry, and Dew has shifted to sit on his heels, grinding against the vibrating plug like a wanton whore. It suits him.

"Is that so?" Aether murmurs, a cruel little smile curling the corners of his lips. "Fascinating. Should we give them something extra to work for?"

Mountain smiles at him and nods, and Aether wastes no time in freeing his cock. He sighs at the coolness of the air against his heated skin, thumbing over the slick head. He lets out a groan and stares directly at Dewdrop, whose mouth has dropped open. His tongue lolls out, the little ghoul drooling onto his own chest.

"Don't make a mess," Aether teases, wrapping his fingers around the base and slapping his cock against his thigh. "If you do you'll never get your mouth on me, babygirl."

Dew's tears start slipping down his cheeks unbidden, and behind him Rain wails, hips hitching forward as he stares at Mountain in blown-out adoration. That wet spot spreads and Aether swears he can hear the way Rain's cum drips onto the stone floor.

Mountain laughs.

"So cute when you're out of control. Now lick it up and start again."

He turns up the vibrations and then Rain is crying too.

Aether thinks he could get used to this.