#<- sick ass ship name

[final-milf-ratchet]

Hello hear me out. Fusing a bunch of good ships.

Dreadwing x Optimus x Ultra Magnus x Predaking

Local married trucks each get a boyfriend after convincing them to switch sides. Soon enough it turns into a full polycule.

Local ex decepticons have no idea how it happened but they are NOT going to complain. They're both very possessive and protective of their big-hearted boyfriends.

Ooooooooooo this is good!!!!!!! Ultra Magnus and Optimus have been together for a long time, but have been separated cause of the war... :( Optimus isn't even sure if his husband is alive :(((

Optimus does manage to convince Dreadwing to join the autobots this time around, well, not 'join' them so much as become a neutral who lives with them. He'll have a greater chance to avenge skyquake with the autobots help after all. It's a mess, it takes forever for everyone to even start to get along but Optimus is just happy it worked. And maybe happy he gets to spend more time with Dreadwing... He didn't expect to like the former decepticon as much as he does. They get close, really really close...

(ironically enough I think Dreadwing and Arcee are chill with each other compared to everyone else just because they both bond over wanting to rip Starscream's face off. It's the little things that bring people together ❤️)

And then Ultra Magnus arrives on earth! Drama! Jealously!! Action- nah I'm kidding I think they get along pretty well. Optimus and dreadwing haven't really figured out their feelings yet, but Optimus and Ultra Magnus have a long talk about Dreadwing and I think they've always had a very loving free relationship ❤️❤️

Also I think Dreadwing and Ultra Magnus would just get along in general. In a non war au they should be friends!

And then, during the fight with Predaking, Ultra Magnus gets taken. Dreadwing's showing up tipped the scales for the autobots but Predaking still wants answers! He needs someone to answer for his kin needlessly dying!!! And that's how he finds out it was the cons who caused it. Drama! Horror!!! Romance!!!!!!! Wait- romance!?!? 😳😳😳😳

Anyways they have a thing™ going on and Ultra Magnus manages to clumsly convince Predaking to return to the autobots with him.

The bed situation in the autobot base is dire 😭 4 of the biggest guys wanna share a bed and that is NOT an option, they don't have enough room, truly tragic.....sometimes of course they want to sleep one on one, including a few memorably times Ultra and Optimus wanted to sleep together and Predaking and Dreadwing had to curl up together ('had to' acting like they didn't willingly curl up together they just didn't want to admit it)

Aughhhh it's all so cute... Good ending for all...

[sxmplychxrry]

i think he might love his wife

you can barely see the coloring I did on goob but whatever I suppose ,,.💔

[clevercorvidae]

WAIT THE LAPTOP PASSWORD BEING STANFORD IS CANON?????? I THOUGHT THAT WAS JUST A FANDOM WIDE FANON THING WTF??? GAY ASS INVENTOR

[siflooping]

sifloopisa in a Loooperrrrrr Isa au has so much comedic potential. like loop trying to get isa to finally fucking tell sif he likes them by saying shit like "that traveler of yours is pretty cute, if you don't confess to him maybe i will~~~", in what is a HILARIOUS inside joke with an audience of exclusively themselves. but at some point it stops being slash j................ many such cases!

[rwby-confess]

This is to remind everyone I'm a jackass.. as per usual.

I think a lot the times when talking about Rwby ships we get a bit too heated over a topic. Take me for instance, I fucking despise white rose as a ship, and I'll admit when talking about it I tend to be rather meanspirited. Now from my perspective (I.e. someone who has seen thorns harass people who ship other Ruby and Weiss ships as well as just in general treating their ship as if it's the only one that should happen.. if we are discussing thorns trust me there are plenty of normal white rose fans.. I hope) you could theoretically justify my hatred for this ship even ignoring the fans (i.e. the ship feeling bland, contrived and predictable most of the time)

However that doesn't excuse the fact I tend to be a douche when discussing it and dismiss it a lot of times.

While the ship isn't for me that doesn't mean I get to be mean when discussing it.. and that also applies to the rest of us. A lot of the shipping part of the fandom tends to bicker over which ship should happen (i.e. Bmblb vs blacksun which is just.. so fucking annoying) which I can understand, we all wanna see our favorite ship happen.. but I think we also kinda need to just agree to disagree on which ship should happen because that's the best way to atleast ease a lot of the tension in this fandom. Because if we don't? We wind up like cannon seeker, the wasps, thorns, crusaders (toxic white knight fans) and every other bastard under the sun.

Now is this sounding preachy as fuck? Oh hell yeah! Especially since this is leaving my lips. But I do feel like someone should say this.. unfortunately it's coming from this fandom's arrogant bastard aka me.

Anyway that's all. I apologize I probably already sent this to you confess, I just want to get this outta the brainbox.

Have a good day everyone

Confession #850

[glowsticcc]

day 5- rose/thorns

admittedly i still haven’t gotten around to watching cleo or lizzie’s last life but their aesthetic was really cute and this was really fun to draw :3

@mcyt-yuri-week @ayyyyysexual

[glassofoj-twitter]

Chaos and Kindness

[yourlocalderp]

aboutta become the biggest hater rn who tf was the bitchass who changed the aventurine x dr ratio ship name to the blandest possible combination ever known as "ratiorine" because the moment i saw it as its ship name i knew we've lost everything as a society we lost RATURINE.

[rainy-matcha]

casino cups fandom STOP calling them devildice the cooler and objectively better ship name is snake eyes!!!

[doctordoombignaturals]

hello holpol nation🏃

[looks-at-you]

watching rens 3rd life pov and. they really are just like that huh

[birdyisthewordyy]

Hiyayaya, I leik ur work >< I hope it's alr if u can do my request ^^

An au where Pony Express shuts down and the crew finds better things to do with their life rather than being in that stupid shitty company— and then some random ass afternoon they randomly see the reader, doing the most mundane things like just shopping or eating food. And yk it's kinda weird seeing them after a few years!

Yes, I need some crew x readers

a/n: OH MY GODDDD I LOVE THIS ASK SO MUCHHH YES?? I’m literally foaming at the mouth

Tulpar Crew x Ex coworker! Reader

Curly

You were never exactly close with Curly on board

You were a little intimidated by him

He liked you though

He thought you were very competent

So when he sees you 3 years after Pony Express kicks the bucket, he’s more than happy

Walks in and shouts your name with no shame

Sits down across from you and chats it up

You talk about mundane things like life on the Tulpar, your families, life since Pony Express disbanded, and so on

He gets roped into the conversation

And your eyes

And the way you talk

“Let’s do this again sometime, yeah?”

Cue weekly meetings

Jimmy

Jimmy despised Pony Express

You were just another person who he had to deal with

So when he sees you walking down the street, he doesn’t try to get your attention by any means

Puts his head down and hands in his pockets

Doesn’t help

You see him

“Jimmy?! Hey!”

You run over and say hi enthusiastically

Like you missed him or some shit

He doesn’t hold up his end of the conversation…like at all

“Yeah, yeah. Uh huh.”

You talk about how you didn’t like Pony Express either

You hug him when you go

He doesn’t like how it makes his chest feel tight and weird

Swansea

A lot like Jimmy, but this time he has an actual reason to hate Pony Express

He’s grown to hate it over the years and was thankful when it finally shut down

But it raises the question: where does he go from here?

Applies for a lot of bodyguards jobs and the like

Finds you working at a club he applied to be the bouncer for

In a less than ideal waitress uniform

Doesn’t stare though

He’s a gentleman

Or is he? Wink

He and you don’t talk but you recognize each other

And give each other “Good to see you” glances

He liked you on the ship

You were one of the few people who knew how to do anything

So it’s always to see a… you

Daisuke

Daisuke��

He went back to living off his parents

Just for a bit, he swears

He finds himself going out more to fun places

Imagine his surprise when he sees you at this amusement park out of town he’s visiting

“(Name)? (Name)!”

Runs right up to you

You walk with him and talk about life

Actually you don’t really talk much about Pony Express

Despite that being how you met

He knew that you had more to you

He wanted to know!

Tries to win those rigged games to impress you

Buys you cotton candy

You come home with him and you watch a movie

End up crashing on the floor

He missed his buddy

Anya

Anya gets sick a lot (again I am projecting)

Funny enough she has to go to the doctor a lot

Nurse seeing a nurse

And that nurse happens to be you

You were both nurses in Pony Express’s crew, but while she was assigned to the Tulpar, you got a different ship

She knew your name though

You take her vitals and give good small talk

You have to draw her blood

She hates this

But you’re damn good with a butterfly needle

She doesn’t feel a thing

She likes how you talk her through it

Makes her feel safer

You exchange numbers and promise to get a coffee together sometime

She leaves with a smile on her face for once

And antibiotics because she’s got another virus

Poor Anya

[ronnykins-needshelp]

i read an unusual amount of social media fis for 3 am but hey cumplane idea:

Whenever shen yuan goes on his rants either in the comments or in forum post or hey even twitter! Shang Qinghua pulls the imfamous " You want to fuck me so bad bro it makes you look stupid " and when Shen yuan rants personally to him he doesnt respond,

and he responds with the same thing in almost every single one of Cucumbers posts.

the fandom becomes WILD.

speculation over the whole ordeal leads to shippers, which leads the the creation of the ship name " cumplane ", which leads the discord servers and forums specifically for the ship, which leads to RPF, which leads to fujoshis/fudanshis coming in to discuss the whole orodeal aswell, making PIDW even more famous.

Shen yuan unforutently founds out about this fandom a couple months after it blew up, [ entirely his fault, he ignored the shippers and called them trolls.

after he makes publiic posts fuming over this ship

" Guys first of all IM NOT GAY, I'm STRAIGHT. even IF I were gay I ould never GET GAY with the hack author who writes like a 2nd grader!! "

Peerless cucumber anlylists [ which there is a few of them ], dissect the post and called it " being delusion to himself " as his typing patterns were never this informal before.

fanart is starting to pop up and its PISSING cucumber so much. Why is he always pictured like a cat?? and Airplane is either pictured like a hamster or luo binghe/ that's illegal!! [ he has saved the fanart with luo binghe on them and has a special folder for them which he will never admit he has. ].

this goes on for awhile as that fandom becomes more popular and the fanfic community is celebrating 5k fics which is insane because this was founded a year ago.

so what dooes airplane shooting towards the sky think of this?

he thinks that fucking his biggest anti fan is a good idea

though he finds Peerless cucumbers rants quite entertaining, at times -- especially when he's struggling financially -- he wishes to shut his digital mouth up.

hes seen this from the beginning, as he is a fan of the fandom of his book.

he has seen MANY of the fics and has definetly fapped to them imagining that cucumber bro was actually there doing as the words said.

his favorite fics are him he is the top, pounding into him. which happily his fans are into the too.

he loves how the community depicts them both and absolety laughs his ass off at the airplane cucumber memes

he even took the time to buy a cumplane phone charm for his phone.

it all comes to head when the end of a promising arc is just papapa. Shang QInghua was frustrated with having to cut out most of the arc because his apartments rent had went up and by no means can afford it now unless he gets straight into the papapa.

and Shen yuan litterly ruined it for him even more.

with his rant in the comments Airplane did not infact copy-paste the same phrase but instead said,

" ok YOU CAN:BB UP show me you have the balls to actually fight me irl!! "

" Alright bet. "

and he proceeded to get dmed by cucumber the date and location, which wouldn't be a surprise bc Peerless cucumber never backs down on a bet!

the cumplane community is going bat shit crazy of this single interaction, they haven't gotten any material from the official people until now and its a breakthrough.

they did end up in a coffee shop, well at each other like a divorced couple, get kicked out of said coffee shop. shen yuan, embaressed by the fact offered to shang qinghua that they go to his apartment because " cleary, these streets arent built to handle my hate. "

which airplane would burst out luaghing and they would agree some more while driving to his place.

when inside Shen yuan and shang qinghua get into a little tussle and when yuan loses miserably because of his twink sick ass self versus the tale and muscular [ don't ask why shen yuan knows, and he's also confused by this fact ]

Shang qinghua has one arm against him as tto not crack one of his weak bones -- plus he can watch Shen Yuan squirm -- and pulls out his phone. which still have the cumplane charm on it.

when cucumber turns and accedentally see the charm he freezes, airplane wondering why he stopped struggling looks where he's looking and feezes too.

then they hate fuck about it as they tried to assert dominance in which shang qinghua won in, and he also teases him for all the cumplane fanart on his wall [ which was intentionally left there ]. in the morning with a grumpy shen yuan totally fucked out, shang qinghua takes a picture of them both and posts it with the headline;

" Guess the peerless cucumber is not so peerless anymore "

[rcmclachlan]

Joining the 8x16 spec fic party. MCD warning!

+

Red Over Red

Buck/Tommy

Summary: Ships not under command identify themselves by showing two all-around red lights, one above the other.

Read on AO3

+

It takes Tommy maybe two minutes tops to do a post-flight check. It's so routine at this point in his career that he could do it in his sleep if someone would let him, but ever since Nico accidentally trafficked elephant tusks to Sacramento two years ago, napping in the cockpit has been strictly forbidden.

He's just about to take a look at the alignment of the skids when he hears his name. He turns to see Dana coming over. The blankness to her expression isn't what gives him pause, because that's just her face, but the fact that she's jogging.

Tommy's worked with Dana for eight years now and she has never moved at anything but a deliberate, sedate glide, no matter the situation. He once saw her stroll through the collapsing hallway of a building that was being actively consumed by a five-alarm fire like she was taking a leisurely hike through the Cucamonga.

As she hauls ass across the tarmac, he sees Dana's normally perfect finger waves are completely disheveled, and that fills him with more dread than anything this job or Afghanistan could possibly throw at him. She has her phone in her hand.

The moment she comes to a stop in front of him, her expression shifts to something resembling mild distress, which means that either half of L.A. was just sucked into an open fault line, or—

For a second, he thinks the klaxons are going off, or someone set off the fire alarm in the main hangar, because there's a high-pitched ringing in his ears that is trying to worm its way down into his vagus nerve and make him puke. Everything goes fuzzy, then slowly the knob turns until clarity comes back. He's bent at the waist, hands gripping his thighs, and Dana's the only thing keeping him from toppling over. Dizziness has him in a half nelson.

"Head between your knees, Kinard," she instructs quietly. "That's it."

He thinks about standing in line at DJ's Smoke Shop & Market weeks ago, bouncing on his heels while waiting for the guy in front of him to finish picking his lottery tickets, and trying to remember his nonna's recipe for home fries. The bottle of Prosecco he'd grabbed on a whim had been burning a hole through the basket and was probably cooking the eggs he was going to drop $13 on, but he couldn't stop looking at it. All he wanted to do was pop the cork and pour it into a pair of flute glasses he'd probably have to locate and unpack. Which sounded like a lot of work when it would be so much easier to simply pour the champagne into Evan's mouth and drink it off his tongue.

He thinks about Evan looking him in the eye and declaring he didn't need to feel anything for the people he slept with.

He thinks about living in a world where Evan Buckley isn't.

"Say it," Tommy chokes out, clenching his jaw against the sour crackle deep in the bone. He's going to be sick. He's going to— "You have to say it."

Dana places a gentle hand on his back. "It wasn't him, Kinard. Not him. Buckley's fine."

Sinuses burning, Tommy drops his head back down and takes a shuddering breath, nodding. Not him. Not him.

The thought of Evan dying, of Evan being dead and gone and higher than even Tommy can fly, slips every time it tries to catch a foothold in his brain. He refuses to even entertain it. This is a man who's survived being crushed by a rig, a tsunami, a pulmonary embolism, a lightning strike, among other things, and is still hungry for anything the universe might throw at him. And despite its best efforts, the universe is never going to get Evan to flinch first.

Clearing his throat, he ducks away from Dana and wipes his cheek with his shoulder. Their flight suits are polyester, so the evidence of this will dry fast. She won't say a word to anyone else.

"Who was it?" It comes out like it's being dragged over broken glass and he coughs to try and clear out the clog. "Oh god, it wasn't—it wasn't Howie, was it? Hen?"

When Dana doesn't answer, he looks up to find she's just holding out her phone to him.

Edmundo Diaz 03:51

He watches the duration of the call tick on, then squints at Dana. "Why do you have Eddie's number?"

"Is that the question you want to ask right now?" she asks, like she didn't politely goad Eddie into nearly putting his fist through a wall the last time they were in the same room.

Off kilter and still a bit dizzy, Tommy straightens up and takes the phone.

"Eddie? Who was it?"

He takes a deep breath in and holds it.

+

Despite the AirOps hangar being at least three times its size, the 118 station has always been larger than life. When Gerrard was in charge, every day it felt like walking into the gaping maw of some primordial beast, swallowed whole to be slowly digested, burned away over the course of a shift, until it spat him out just so he could do it again the next day. That he kept going back says more about him than it does about Gerrard.

The slew of interim captains they were saddled with after Gerrard felt like intermission, like they were just waiting for the second act to start. From the moment he stepped out of the rig and slapped a twenty into the pot to bank on his own odds, Captain Nash was there to stay. And he tamed that hateful creature enough that Tommy was able to leave every shift completely intact. 

Tommy stands on the sidewalk outside the bay and stares at the closed doors. When Tommy had been there, Bobby refused to close them.

"I don't like the look of a closed door. I don't like what it implies," Bobby had said when Tommy awkwardly asked about it. "I want everyone to know they're welcome here, day or night. I want them to know it's safe for them to be here. The doors stay open. Captain's orders."

Swallowing, he walks over to the regular entrance and lets himself in.

Normally you can hear the crew shouting and laughing from half a block away, and there are always people milling about, doing chores, fixing things, coming outside to shoot the shit with passersby. Tommy always loved the sound of it. He loved how tight-knit they all were, but also how willing they were to bring someone new into the fold. The handful of times he picked Evan up after his shift, Tommy would end up talking to at least four different people, which would always eat into their date nights. They had to cancel a reservation once, but it felt worth it just to be able to walk back to his truck with that warmth in his chest, with his cheeks aching from smiling and laughing so much. Evan never complained. If anything, he was happy to stay there a little longer himself.

Now the bay is so silent that Tommy can hear the racing of his own heart. Anyone else would think the place had been deserted.

As he walks past the parked rigs, he spies a few people from B-shift. Ravi has Moore wrapped up in his arms and is resting his chin on top of her head. Hoang is wiping down a hose coupling with jerky, inefficient movements, breaking away to dab at her cheeks with the cloth.

Ravi looks up and his soft gaze sharpens the second it lands on Tommy. This must be what a deer feels like right before the truck hits.

After a moment, he gives him a nod, which makes Moore's head bob a little, then tilts his chin toward the administrative offices.

Shaky, Tommy nods in thanks and heads in that direction.

With every step, the world gets a little grayer, a little darker, and he feels a bit like the prince in Sleeping Beauty, hacking away at endless, twisting brambles that are doing everything they can to slow his momentum.

It feels like he's been fighting for a year without a single moment's rest by the time he makes it to the admin section. When he sees who's hanging outside the office with NASH on the door like a guard dog, texting on his phone, Tommy wishes he'd taken a moment to catch his breath.

He must make a noise or something, because Eddie jerks like he's been startled awake and claps eyes on Tommy. Pocketing his phone, Eddie peels away from the wall he'd been trying to sink into to offer his hand to Tommy like nothing's changed between them.

"Thanks for coming," Eddie says, quiet, almost choked. It sounds like he even means it. "I wasn't sure—"

Tommy can't bear to hear the rest of that, so he takes Eddie's hand in his own and pulls him in for a quick hug. "Of course I came. Of course. Don't thank me for—there was never..." He takes a breath, steps back, and tries again. "H-How are you holding up, man?"

"About as well as you'd expect," Eddie says with a damp chuckle. He drops his head and heaves a sigh that Tommy can feel in his own lungs. "I'm grateful I was already here. The way I feel and probably look right now? They'd never have let me on the plane."

Tommy doesn't remember how he navigated Sea-Tac after his dad died. He honestly can't believe Jet Blue let him board, either.

"Has anyone heard...?" He doesn't know how to finish the thought, but luckily Eddie's always been perceptive. He was always on Tommy's wavelength.

"Not yet. Athena ID'd the b—" Eddie bites off the sentence suddenly and swallows the rest of it down. Tommy can taste the rot in the word anyway. "She confirmed it was him."

Tommy closes his eyes and tries not to think about the unshakeable Athena Grant pulling the white sheet off the love of her life.

He clears his throat. "Where are... where are Hen and Howie?"

"Hen went with Athena," Eddie says. "She left hours ago, so who knows. Chim's... Chim couldn't stay. He couldn't... it's worse for him, you know? He's been here the longest."

The idea of the 118 without Bobby is almost too much to bear, but the 118 without Howie Han makes Tommy want to rip his own throat out. 

"And... and where's..." Tommy clenches his jaw, then relaxes it deliberately. "Where is he, Eddie?"

Eddie answers by rapping a gentle fist against the wall he'd been standing against. Bobby's office.

"He's been in there for a while," Eddie murmurs, blinking rapidly at the ceiling. "Athena called him a while ago and he's been in there ever since. He won't come out. I tried to get him to eat something, but..."

Eddie shakes his head, then shrugs. His shoulders drop like someone cut his strings.

"And you think I...?" Tommy hates himself for even asking, because this isn't about him. He wishes he could grab the words out of the air and stuff them back down his throat, but they float away like clouds.

Thankfully, Eddie doesn't call him a selfish fuck. Instead, he musters up a little smile as he mockingly says, "I don't think, I know. So try to forget you're a fucking idiot and just get in there, would you?"

Huffing a laugh, because damn. Despite everything, including the low-grade jealousy that he can't seem to treat no matter how much he tries, he really missed this asshole.

Tommy reaches out to squeeze Eddie's shoulder, then he steps around him to get to the door.

It brings him up short. The door is closed. The bay doors are one thing, but Bobby's office door was never shut. It makes him a little nauseated just looking at the way it doesn't quite line up with the frame.

Through the window, he sees Evan, and his heart breaks at the way his body curves in on itself, hunched over Bobby's desk like an animal trying to hide a wound. A renaissance painter couldn't have captured such despair. Heartbreak of the Favored Son, oil on canvas.

Tommy has no idea what kind of reception is waiting for him on the other side of this door, but Eddie seems sure Tommy won't be turned away. He wouldn't have called Tommy if he thought it'd be for nothing.

"He needs you, man," Eddie had said on the phone.

He takes a deep breath in and holds it, and opens the door.

Almost immediately, Evan lifts his head, like he can tell who it is by the way the knob turns, and his expression is such a miserable mix of relief and devastation that Tommy doesn't stop to second guess himself. He doesn't need to. By the time he gets around the desk, Evan's already throwing himself into Tommy's arms.

"You're here," Evan sobs, clutching at him like he's afraid Tommy might disappear. There will be bruises everywhere he touches Tommy come morning. "Oh thank god, you're here. T-Tommy—"

"I'm here and I'm not going anywhere," Tommy whispers frantically into his hair, tightening his arms. "I've got you. Evan, baby, I've got you."

A tiny voice in the back of his mind hisses at him to close the door so no one else can see this, but he ignores it in favor of holding Evan tight enough that their bodies might soon start to merge together.

There are only open doors here. Captain's orders.

[lynbels]

ONLY WHEN HE WANTS ME ୨ৎ 이희승

pairing 이희승 x reader

୨ৎ synopsis: you navigate the emotional wreckage of a toxic relationship, where fleeting tenderness masks control, and survival means staying quiet. ✉️ 7265 - tw. manipulate, toxic, abusive relationship, reader is stubborn, unprotected sex, hair pulling, praising, dirty talk, kissing, skin-ship, abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, violence, body image / weight related comments, self-worth issues, physical intimidation, implied sexual coercion, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional abuse, burnout/emotional exhaust, verbal abuse

📝 is this supposed to be a Drabble account? Yes. Did I just write a whole ass story? Yes. ‼️ i do NOT think of heeseung like this at all. I’m just really angry today and wrote this.

Dont like it? Dont read it. mdni

The apartment was supposed to be a fresh start.

You’d been together for a year — long enough to know his rhythms, to crave his presence, to think moving in was the natural next step. When Heeseung had smiled at you over takeout containers and said, “Let’s get a place together,” it felt like everything you’d wanted was finally aligning.

You didn’t expect it to fall apart so fast.

It started with the little things. The way he’d stop answering your texts when he was out. The way his tone would shift when you asked simple questions, like you were interrogating him. He used to call you babe every time he walked through the door — now you’d be lucky if he looked up from his phone.

The boxes were barely unpacked before the silences started stretching longer. His moods changed like weather — some mornings, he’d kiss your shoulder and whisper how lucky he was; other nights, he’d barely speak to you at all. But when he touched you, it was like he flipped a switch. He knew exactly how to make your body react — and maybe that’s why you let him.

Because when you questioned him — even gently — it never went well.

“You’re overthinking,” he said once, brushing you off with a hand on your thigh and a smirk that made your chest tighten instead of flutter. “You know I’m busy. Don’t be clingy.”

You hated that word. Clingy.

But you started believing it. Heeseung had a way of making everything feel like your fault. If he was distant, it was because you were too much. If he pulled away, it was because you were “suffocating him.” And when you tried to talk about how you felt, he’d laugh and say, “Don’t ruin what we have with your insecurities.”

Some nights, he didn’t come home. Said he fell asleep at a friend’s, or stayed late at the studio — even though there were no messages, no missed calls, no proof. And when you asked why he didn’t tell you, he shrugged like it didn’t matter.

“Why are you so obsessed with keeping tabs on me?”

“I live here too, you know. This isn’t your place to control.”

“Are you seriously crying right now?”

You started sleeping on the far edge of the bed.

You stopped bringing up how cold he’d gotten, how he only seemed to show affection when he wanted something — when he wanted you. You didn’t know how to explain the feeling in your gut, the sick twist that came every time he touched you with lips that felt too familiar, too practiced.

Because the truth was sinking in slowly, like water through cracks in the floor.

You were in love with someone who only loved you when it was convenient.

Heeseung never touched you the way he used to—not in the soft, reverent way that made you feel adored. Not anymore.

Now, it was late at night when he suddenly needed you. When he’d come home hours after midnight, smelling faintly of liquor and something else you didn’t want to name, and find you lying in bed, half-asleep, still waiting. Always waiting.

His voice would be low, rough. “Take this off,” he’d mutter, tugging at your shirt like it offended him just by existing.

And you’d let him.

Because it was the only time he really looked at you. The only time he saw you—eyes heavy, hands urgent, whispering things against your skin that made you feel wanted, even if just for a moment. Even if it wasn’t real.

When he was inside you, his hands gripping your waist like you were something he owned, it was the closest thing to love he ever gave you anymore.

He’d say your name like a curse, like a prayer, like he needed you to breathe.

And you’d believe him, just for a second.

Because in that moment—underneath him, beneath the weight of his body and his lies—you could almost pretend you meant something to him.

His hands are on you before you can speak, tugging your shorts down roughly, not caring where they land. He kisses you like he’s punishing you for something, all teeth and desperation, his fingers digging into your skin as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You arch into him automatically, your body trained to respond to his touch no matter how hollow it feels now. His palm slides between your legs, and you’re already wet—because this is the only version of him that feels like he wants you. The only time he pulls you close instead of pushing you away.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your neck, his voice low and wrecked. “Always so ready for me.”

You don’t answer. You just spread your legs wider when he pushes two fingers inside you, curling them in that way he knows drives you insane. Your hips move without thinking, chasing friction, chasing anything.

He watches you with a smug glint in his eyes, but there’s hunger underneath it—something darker, something hollow.

“Is this what you want?” he breathes, pulling his fingers out and replacing them with the thick press of his cock. “This is all you ever want from me, right?”

You bite your lip as he thrusts into you in one hard stroke, making the mattress creak beneath you. You want to tell him no, that it’s not all you want. But your body betrays you, moaning before your mouth can form words.

He fucks you hard, fast, like he’s trying to erase every fight, every silence, every cold shoulder. His grip bruises, his pace relentless, and when you come around him, shaking and breathless, he groans like you’re his salvation.

But when it’s over, he rolls off without a word.

And just like that—you’re back to feeling like nothing.

The next morning, it was like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t let him use your body as a way to feel needed. Like you hadn’t clung to his touch just to feel something real for once.

He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t say good morning. He just rolled out of bed, scratching the back of his neck, yawning as if your body wasn’t still sore from the night before. He didn’t even glance at you as he pulled a hoodie over his head.

“You gonna make coffee or what?” he mumbled, already halfway out the room.

You pushed yourself up slowly, skin still warm from where he’d held you, still aching in the places he’d gripped too tight. You didn’t say anything. You never really did. Just pulled on a shirt and padded into the kitchen, filling the kettle, grinding the beans. Hoping that maybe, maybe, today would be different.

But when you handed him his mug, he barely looked at you before taking a sip and grimacing.

“Did you forget how to make coffee?” he scoffed, setting it down hard on the table. “Tastes like shit.”

You swallowed hard, staring at the steam curling off the surface. “Sorry. I’ll make another—”

“Forget it,” he cut in, already unlocking his phone, thumbs scrolling. “You’re not even good at simple shit.”

It was always like that. A good night followed by a cruel morning.

He’d leave his laundry in a pile by the door and when you didn’t wash it fast enough, he’d say, “What do you even do all day?”

He’d ask you to grab his charger, his keys, his jacket, and then scoff if you didn’t move fast enough—“Useless,” under his breath like it was your name.

He’d call you clingy when you asked for his attention and cold when you didn’t. No answer was ever right. No version of you ever enough.

Some days, he’d come home and act like nothing was wrong, ruffle your hair, tell you to sit on his lap like things were normal. He’d bury his face in your neck, call you his girl, tell you he missed you. You’d want so badly to believe it—but the next day, you’d be back to chasing after his warmth like it was something you had to earn.

Like the love he gave you came with terms and conditions.

“Hey, clean up your mess before you leave,” he’d call when you were already late, pointing at the dishes he left on the table. “And don’t forget to call my dry cleaner. You said you’d do that yesterday, but like always…”

He didn’t even finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Because by now, the silence said everything.

Because by now, you already believed it.

It started small.

A shove when you stood in front of the door during an argument. Not hard—just enough to move you, to make you stumble back a little. He didn’t apologize. Just glared at you like you had pushed him, like your presence alone was an offense.

You told yourself it was the heat of the moment. That he didn’t mean it. That it wasn’t that bad.

But it didn’t stop there.

The second time, it was your wrist. You’d touched his arm when he tried to walk away mid-fight, desperate to make him stay, to make him hear you. He turned so fast you barely saw it coming—his fingers wrapped tight around your wrist, squeezing hard enough to make you cry out.

“Don’t touch me when I’m fucking pissed,” he spat, shoving your arm away like it disgusted him.

You cradled your wrist for hours afterward, hiding the red marks from yourself. From him. From the mirror.

And the next morning, he acted like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t left bruises on your skin. Like your silence wasn’t screaming.

Eventually, it became routine.

A slap to your thigh when you said something he didn’t like. A harsh grip on your chin when you looked away during another lecture about how “you don’t listen.” Sometimes he’d grab your arms too tightly, slam a door too close to your face, throw your phone across the room so hard it cracked the screen. You flinched so often it became muscle memory.

But he never hit you in the face.

He knew better.

After every time, he’d either pretend it hadn’t happened, or twist it in his favor.

“You made me do that.”

“Why do you push me like this?”

“You know how I get when you don’t shut up.”

And sometimes—sometimes—he’d hold you after, breathing hard like he was the one who had been hurt. Like you had made him fall apart.

“I don’t wanna be like this,” he’d whisper into your hair. “But you make me crazy, baby. You make it so fucking hard to be good.”

And you’d cry quietly in his arms, because for a moment, it felt like he cared.

Even if he only held you after he broke you.

Sometimes, when you were standing at the stove—barefoot, hair tied up, mind somewhere between recipes and the silence he left in his wake—he’d come up behind you without a sound.

His hands would slide around your waist, chest pressed to your back like he belonged there, like he hadn’t just ignored you all morning.

You’d barely have time to react before one of his hands slipped under your shirt, fingers cold and greedy as they cupped your breast.

“Missed these,” he’d murmur against your neck, voice low and lazy, like he was complimenting something he owned.

You’d stiffen for a second, spatula still in your hand, heat rising from the pan in front of you—but then his thumb would brush over your nipple, slow and deliberate, and your body would betray you all over again.

He’d groan when you arched into him, one hand squeezing possessively as his other dragged your shirt up just enough to expose your skin.

“You’re always so warm,” he’d whisper, mouth trailing over your shoulder, voice coated in that honeyed filth that made your knees weak. “Can’t even let you cook in peace, huh?”

You never said anything. You didn’t trust your voice. Not when part of you ached for it—ached to be touched, to be wanted, even if only for a few seconds.

Even if he’d walk away a minute later, without tasting a bite of what you’d made. Even if he’d leave you flustered and alone in the kitchen again—like he only ever came close to remind you he could.

You barely had time to flip the stove off before he turned you around, lips crashing onto yours with a hunger that felt more like control than affection. He kissed you like he was starving, like claiming your mouth would make up for all the ways he ignored you, belittled you, pushed you away.

Then he spun you again, pressing you forward until your hips met the cool edge of the kitchen counter. His hands were already tugging your shorts down, rough and impatient, knuckles brushing against your thighs as he exposed you piece by piece.

“You knew what you were doing,” he muttered, yanking your shirt up and bunching it at your waist. “Walking around like this, teasing me.”

You opened your mouth to protest—to remind him that you hadn’t done anything—but then he was pressing against you, hard and ready, lining himself up behind you with a low groan.

His hand slid around to your chest again, squeezing your breast harshly, fingers pinching your nipple as he thrust into you in one deep, brutal stroke.

The counter dug into your stomach, but you barely felt it over the stretch of him inside you, the obscene sound of skin on skin echoing in the quiet kitchen.

“This is what you’re good for,” he grunted, thrusts sharp and punishing. “Bending over like this—letting me take you however I want.”

You whimpered, fists clenched on the cold counter as he fucked you harder, faster, one hand gripping your waist while the other stayed under your shirt, still groping your chest like he owned every inch of you.

And maybe he did.

Because no matter how cold he was, how cruel his words felt—your body still responded. Still melted under his touch. Still craved this. Craved him.

Even when you hated yourself for it.

Even when the only time he held you like you mattered… was when he was breaking you in half.

You flinched when he reached for the remote. When he stood up too fast from the couch. When he walked into the room and his footsteps were just a little too heavy.

It wasn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it was barely noticeable—a twitch of your shoulders, a quick breath caught in your throat, a subtle step back like you needed space even when he wasn’t touching you. But your body reacted before your mind could reason with it. Like it was protecting you before you had the chance to lie to yourself again.

He noticed.

“You always act like I’m gonna hit you,” he said one night, annoyed, tossing his phone on the bed like you were the one ruining the mood. “You’re so fucking dramatic.”

But he didn’t say it like he cared. He said it like it was inconvenient for him. Like your fear was an insult.

And maybe it was—to the version of himself he pretended to be. The sweet-talking boyfriend who made people laugh in public. The one who said “I love you” with the same mouth that spit venom in private. The one who told you to stop crying because it made him feel guilty—not because it hurt him to see you in pain, but because he didn’t want to feel like the bad guy.

You started moving differently around him. Quieter. Smaller. You’d stay in the kitchen a little longer so you wouldn’t have to pass by him in the hallway. You folded laundry in the bathroom with the door locked, even when he wasn’t home.

Sometimes, when he walked behind you, your body would tense without you meaning to. And when his hand brushed your arm or your lower back, you’d suck in a breath before you could stop it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he’d snap. “You’re acting like I’m a monster.”

But the worst part wasn’t what he said.

The worst part was that you started to believe maybe it really was you. Maybe you were overreacting. Too sensitive. Too much. Maybe you were the problem after all.

So you said nothing.

And your silence became just another thing he used against you.

When he wanted something, he’d change—like flipping a switch.

His voice would soften, just a little. He’d smile at you like he used to, the curve of his lips so familiar it made your chest ache. He’d touch you gently, like he hadn’t been cold for days, like he hadn’t made you flinch just yesterday.

“Babe,” he’d say, dragging out the word like a melody, like it still meant something. “You’re so good to me, you know that?”

Sometimes he’d kiss your cheek, fingers brushing your waist as he leaned in. Ask you to cook something he liked. Grab him something from the store. Pick up his clothes. Cover for him when someone called. Always followed by a “thank you, baby” that sounded sweet enough to make you forget.

And for a moment, you’d feel warm. Needed. Like maybe things were getting better. Like maybe he was trying.

So you’d do what he asked. Even if it hurt. Even if you knew better.

But as soon as it was done—food on the table, his plans covered, favor finished—he’d pull away again. No more soft voice. No more hands on your waist. No more babe.

Just silence. Or worse, indifference.

He’d barely look up from his phone when you spoke. Would answer you in clipped, flat words. You could ask him something and wait two minutes for a response, only for him to say, “What? I wasn’t listening.”

And it would hit you again—hard, cold, cruel.

The warmth had only been a tactic. A tool. A way to get what he wanted.

Because Heeseung only ever touched you, smiled at you, softened for you… when he needed something. And the rest of the time, you were just there. Convenient. Quiet. Useful.

Until you weren’t.

You were exhausted—mentally, emotionally, physically. The kind of tired that clung to your bones and made your limbs feel too heavy to move. You hadn’t slept properly in days, hadn’t had a full meal that wasn’t made for someone else, hadn’t taken a breath that didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

The apartment was quiet. Heavy. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, mind blank, heart numb. You didn’t even hear him come in until the mattress dipped beside you.

His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you toward him, and you froze.

“Don’t,” you said quietly, voice thin and cracked. “Not right now.”

But he didn’t let go.

He leaned in, lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. “You’re always tired lately,” he murmured, like it was a joke. Like he hadn’t made you this way.

“I said stop,” you whispered, a little firmer this time, your hand coming up to push at his chest—but his mouth was already on yours, kissing you like he needed something, like he was desperate to feel in control again.

You pulled away, shaking your head. “Heeseung, I’m serious. I can’t. I’m tired.”

But he kissed you again.

And again.

Soft at first. Then deeper. More insistent. Like if he kissed you hard enough, you’d forget how empty you felt. How hollowed out you were. How much you wanted to scream.

You kept saying no, kept pushing at his chest, but his hands were on your thighs now, slipping beneath your clothes like your exhaustion didn’t matter. Like your boundaries were just noise.

“Baby,” he breathed against your skin. “I need you. Just let me, okay? Just… let me feel you.”

And you hated it—hated how your body still reacted, how your breath still hitched, how even now, a part of you wanted to be wanted. Even like this. Even when it hurt.

But you were tired. So, so tired.

And when his mouth trailed lower and his hands gripped tighter, all you could do was close your eyes and disappear.

It was supposed to be a calm afternoon. You had cleaned the apartment twice over, made tea, even laid out the snacks Heeseung liked—trying, always trying, to make everything perfect when his parents came by.

His mom was sweet, warm, always polite. His dad quieter, reserved but kind enough. They sat on the couch, talking casually about nothing, the kind of conversation you didn’t need to force. And for a moment, things felt almost normal.

Until Heeseung couldn’t find his watch.

He walked into the living room, jaw already clenched, tone sharp like glass. “Where the fuck did you put it?”

You blinked, confused. “I—I didn’t touch it. I think you left it in the bathroom last night.”

“No,” he snapped, cutting you off before you could finish. “You always move my shit and never put it back. Is it that hard to just leave things alone?”

Your heart dropped. Heat rushed to your face—his parents were right there. Watching. His mom’s smile faltered instantly, her brow furrowing, her eyes darting between the two of you.

“Heeseung,” she said quietly, firmly, “don’t talk to her like that.”

He paused, lips parted, clearly not expecting to be corrected—especially not by his mother.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” she continued, voice gentle but edged with something protective. “I’m sure the watch will turn up. But don’t raise your voice like that, not in front of us—and not to her.”

Heeseung didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked away, jaw flexing like he wanted to argue but knew better. He muttered something under his breath and walked off, footsteps heavy down the hall.

You stood there, frozen. Embarrassed. Small.

His mom turned to you, her expression softening as she reached for your hand.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” she said quietly, “but you don’t deserve that, sweetheart. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you do.”

And you smiled back, weakly.

Because what were you supposed to say?

She didn’t know this was just a glimpse. That what she saw today was nothing compared to what happened when no one else was watching.

You were in the kitchen, hands submerged in warm, soapy water, rinsing off plates from the visit—silent, focused, trying to steady your breathing. The sound of the faucet running helped drown out the quiet tension still hanging in the air from earlier. You scrubbed a plate harder than necessary, the ceramic squeaking under your grip.

Behind you, out in the hallway, you heard footsteps. Soft. Measured.

It was Heeseung’s dad.

He approached his son cautiously, hands in his pockets, glancing over his shoulder toward you, his voice low so you wouldn’t hear. But the apartment was small. And everything felt loud when the rest of your world was quiet.

“Is she okay?” he asked gently.

Heeseung didn’t answer right away.

“I mean it, son. She looks… thin. Too thin. She’s lost weight, hasn’t she?”

You froze for just a second, the dish slipping slightly in your grip. But you kept your eyes down, kept scrubbing. You didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to feel it. Not when your ribs had started to show in the mirror. Not when your favorite jeans hung off your hips now. Not when you only ate when you remembered, which wasn’t often.

Heeseung just sighed. “She’s fine. She’s just been tired. Busy or whatever.”

“Busy with what?” his dad asked, voice more serious now. “She barely talks. She doesn’t look like she’s sleeping. You snap at her like she’s not even—”

“She’s sensitive,” Heeseung cut in, brushing it off. “She takes everything personally. I can’t say anything without her acting like I hate her.”

Your chest tightened. You blinked back the sting in your eyes and scrubbed harder.

Because it was easier to blame yourself than to admit the truth. That maybe you were too sensitive. That maybe if you just smiled more, talked less, didn’t overthink things, he wouldn’t get so angry. Wouldn’t lose his patience. Wouldn’t look at you like you were a burden instead of a person.

You rinsed the plate off, stacked it carefully with the others, and started on the next.

You told yourself it was your fault.

Because if it wasn’t, then what was left?

Just the ugly truth you weren’t ready to face.

As soon as the door closed behind his parents, the apartment fell into silence again. That heavy, thick kind that made it hard to breathe. You were still in the kitchen, wiping down the counter for the third time, just to have something to do with your hands. Something to make you feel useful.

Heeseung walked in slowly, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes dragging over you in that way that always made your stomach turn.

“You made it weird,” he said flatly. “You couldn’t just act normal for a few hours?”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t do anything…”

He scoffed. “Yeah? Then why did my dad pull me aside asking if you were okay? Saying you looked sick? That you’ve lost too much weight?”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer. “Are you trying to make me look bad? Is that it?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“Look at you,” he sneered, eyes scanning you like you were something broken. “You’re barely eating anymore. Your face is sunken in. You think that’s attractive? You think people don’t notice?”

You shrank back instinctively, pressing your back to the counter, but he was already moving toward the fridge.

“Sit,” he ordered, yanking it open and grabbing whatever he could reach—leftovers, a carton of juice, snacks you’d forgotten were even in there. “Sit down and eat something. Right now.”

You hesitated.

He dropped the food on the table with a loud clatter. “I said sit.”

So you did.

And he sat across from you, arms folded, eyes locked on your every move like you were some kind of test he was determined to pass. Or punish.

You took a bite. Then another. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. You weren’t even hungry—but he didn’t care. He just kept watching, tapping his fingers against the table, jaw clenched.

“Keep going,” he said coldly. “All of it.”

By the time you were done, your stomach was cramping. You felt sick, too full, like your body was rejecting every bite. But you didn’t complain. You couldn’t.

Because deep down, you knew it wasn’t about food. It was never about food.

It was about control. About proving that he still had it. That you were still his to shape, to break, to rebuild however he pleased.

It was almost midnight when you heard the front door slam.

You froze on the couch, phone still in your hand, heart already picking up speed. You knew that sound—the stagger in his steps, the keys dropping to the floor, the heavy exhale as he stumbled into the apartment reeking of alcohol and bad decisions.

Heeseung was drunk. Again.

You stood up slowly, cautiously, peeking down the hallway just as he turned the corner, bottle still in his hand, eyes hazy but sharp. Mean.

“There you are,” he slurred, a twisted smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sitting around like some bored little housewife. You waiting up for me or just keeping the couch warm?”

“I was just watching something,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “You’re late.”

He scoffed. “Oh, so now you care where I go?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you meant it,” he snapped, taking a few stumbling steps forward. “You always mean something with your quiet little attitude. Always so fucking passive. So fake.”

Your mouth opened to defend yourself, but he didn’t give you the chance.

In one sudden motion, he hurled the half-empty bottle across the room.

It hit the wall two inches beside your head—shattering, spraying glass and cheap liquor across the floor. You jumped back with a scream, hands flying up to cover your face, body instinctively curling in on itself.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Heeseung just stood there, breathing hard, staring at the wall like it was your fault it didn’t hit you.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Your hands were shaking, your chest tight with fear that you were trying so hard to hide. You looked at the broken glass, then at him.

He didn’t apologize.

Didn’t move toward you.

Didn’t even look sorry.

He just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, muttered something you couldn’t catch, and walked past you like nothing had happened.

Like nearly hurting you was a passing inconvenience.

Like you were a ghost in your own home.

You stood frozen for a moment, the sound of the bottle shattering still ringing in your ears. It wasn’t until you shifted your weight—just slightly—that you felt it. A sharp sting, sudden and deep, biting into your calf like fire.

You gasped, instinctively lifting your leg, only to see a thin sliver of red trailing down your skin, glinting glass buried in the cut. Tiny shards were scattered across the floor, catching the light in jagged reflections. One of them had found its way to you.

You reached down with trembling hands, trying to brush the smaller pieces away, but the pain pulsed harder with every touch. Blood smeared under your fingers as you hissed through your teeth, blinking fast to keep from crying.

Heeseung didn’t turn around.

Didn’t look back.

You could hear him in the bathroom, the sink running, cabinet doors slamming. Like it hadn’t happened. Like he didn’t care. Like the sight of you bleeding was beneath his attention.

You limped toward the hallway, teeth clenched, heart hammering. The cut wasn’t deep, but it hurt. And worse—it reminded you of how close it had been. Of how easily it could’ve hit your face, your head. Of how this wasn’t the first time something had been thrown at you… just the first time it actually landed.

And still, you said nothing.

Because somehow, it always turned into your fault. Somehow, you always ended up cleaning the mess—both the blood on your skin and the damage he left behind.

Alone.

The next morning, sunlight crept through the thin curtains, soft and quiet—too gentle for a space that had been filled with so much violence just hours before.

You were still curled on the edge of the bed, facing the wall, your leg wrapped in gauze from the sparse first-aid kit in the bathroom. Sleep had come in waves—light, broken, haunted by the sound of glass shattering and the sharp pain that came with it.

Heeseung stirred beside you.

You felt it before you heard anything—his weight shifting on the mattress, the faint rustle of sheets. Then a long exhale. Then stillness.

A moment passed before his hand reached for your shoulder.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice hoarse from the night before. “…You awake?”

You didn’t answer.

He moved closer, his arm brushing yours, his touch hesitant—careful, like he knew he’d gone too far.

“About last night,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was drunk. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You stared at the wall.

“I—I didn’t know the bottle was gonna…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “I didn’t mean to throw it at you.”

You finally turned your head, slowly, meeting his eyes for the first time since it happened.

“There’s glass in my leg,” you said flatly.

His face crumpled, like guilt only just started to reach him. “Fuck,” he breathed, reaching for your hand, but you pulled away.

“I cleaned it myself,” you added.

“I know,” he whispered. “I saw. I was—I was going to help, I just—” He cut himself off again, frustration flashing briefly in his eyes before guilt took its place.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said, softer now. “I was drunk, but that’s not an excuse. I know that.”

You didn’t respond. Because you’d heard this version of him before—the remorseful morning-after version. The soft voice, the reaching hands, the guilt that never lasted longer than it took for you to forgive him.

He leaned in closer. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll take care of you today, yeah? You don’t have to do anything. Just rest.”

You turned back toward the wall, slowly.

And said nothing.

He stayed quiet for a while after that, like he was waiting—for you to nod, to speak, to accept the apology and let him slip back into the rhythm he always did. Sweet words, gentle hands, just enough softness to make you question everything that had happened before.

But you didn’t give him that this time.

You lay there, unmoving, eyes fixed on a crack in the wall you hadn’t noticed until now. Small. Thin. But deep.

Eventually, he got up, shuffling out of the room. You heard the sound of cabinets opening in the kitchen. The soft clink of a glass, the fridge door. The hum of the kettle heating up water.

He was trying.

Or pretending.

You finally pulled yourself out of bed an hour later, body stiff and sore. The gauze on your leg was already stained a dull pink. You winced as you moved, but you didn’t say a word when you found him in the kitchen, setting out a mug of tea and a plate of toast like he could erase what happened with breakfast.

He glanced up at you, eyes searching your face. “I made your favorite.”

You nodded once, mechanically. “Thanks.”

You sat. Ate a bite out of obligation, not hunger.

Heeseung watched you the whole time, barely touching his own food.

“I’m gonna fix this,” he said suddenly, like he meant it. “I don’t want to be that guy. I just—things get too much sometimes, and I don’t know how to deal with it. But I’m gonna change. I swear.”

You nodded again. Just a little.

Because you wanted to believe him.

But deep down, something in you had already gone quiet. Detached.

Like that crack in the wall.

Small, at first.

But deep That night, the apartment was dim and still

That night, he left the bedroom door open.

That alone felt like something. After a week of making you sleep on the couch—no matter how cold it got, no matter how much your leg ached, no matter how small your voice had gotten when you asked if you could come back in—he finally said, “You can sleep here tonight.”

Not I want you to.

Not I miss you.

Just you can.

You stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, unsure. You could still hear the echo of his voice from nights before—Go. Sleep on the couch. I don’t wanna see your face. The way he’d slammed the door in your face, the way he didn’t even flinch when he heard you crying through the walls.

But your body was tired. And your leg still throbbed.

So you climbed in slowly, careful not to take up too much space, careful not to brush against him. You lay on your side, back to him, the sheets feeling unfamiliar even though this had once been your place, too.

After a few minutes, the bed shifted. You felt his arm slide across your waist, tentative, like he was checking how far you’d let him go.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled against your neck. Like it was a compliment. Like it meant something.

You didn’t answer. Just closed your eyes and tried not to tense up under his touch.

He pulled you closer.

And for a second, it felt like you were his again.

But not because he loved you.

Because he let you.

You woke up before him.

The room was dim, soft grey light filtering through the curtains. His arm was still draped over your waist, heavy, like a reminder. Your body ached—not just from the weight of him beside you, but from everything you’d been carrying alone.

You lay still, afraid to move. Not because he was asleep, but because you didn’t know which version of him you’d wake.

The one who whispered apologies and kissed your shoulder like he couldn’t bear to lose you?

Or the one who threw bottles and made you clean up your own blood?

You shifted gently, trying to slide out from under his arm. But the moment you moved, he stirred.

“Where you going?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“I was just gonna go wash up,” you whispered.

He tightened his grip for a second, pulling you back in without opening his eyes. “Stay.”

You hesitated. “I’ll come back.”

He sighed, lips brushing your neck. “You always say that.”

And then he let go.

In the bathroom, you looked at yourself in the mirror. There was a faint bruise on your collarbone—fingers, probably. Your leg was stiff, the cut angry and red, the gauze already needing to be changed. You looked pale. Smaller. Like someone you barely recognized.

But you cleaned yourself up anyway.

Made breakfast.

Waited.

Heeseung came out an hour later, yawning, shirtless, acting like everything was fine. Like last night hadn’t happened. Like the week on the couch didn’t matter.

He kissed your temple.

“You sleep okay?”

You nodded.

Because it was easier.

Because fighting never fixed anything.

Because even when he hurt you, you still wanted to be something he didn’t throw away.

That day passed slowly, thick with silence that neither of you tried to fill.

Heeseung left for a few hours—said he was meeting a friend, but didn’t say who, and you didn’t ask. You just nodded, gave a faint smile, and watched the door close behind him. The apartment felt heavier once he was gone, like his absence still left pressure in the air.

You wandered from room to room. Picked things up just to put them back down. Cleaned the same spot on the counter twice. Folded clothes you’d already folded.

When he finally came home, it was almost dark.

He didn’t say much—just tossed his jacket on the couch and walked past you, muttering a low “hey” that didn’t land like a greeting. You stayed in the kitchen, pretending to scroll through your phone.

Later, when the lights were off and the sheets pulled up, he reached for you again. Just like the night before.

Familiar hands on your hips, pulling you close. His breath warm against your neck.

“Missed this,” he murmured, voice low, like it meant something. Like it erased the couch. The glass. The blood.

You didn’t say anything.

Because saying no never worked.

Because saying yes didn’t feel right either.

So you just stayed still and let him take what he needed, waiting for it to be over. Waiting for morning. Waiting for a version of him that might not come back.

And afterward, when he fell asleep with his arm around your waist like nothing was broken, you stared at the ceiling.

Eyes wide open.

Still waiting.

Heeseung came home later than usual.

The door clicked open with that familiar rattle of his keys, and you glanced up from where you were sitting on the couch, legs pulled to your chest. You didn’t say anything—just watched him toe off his shoes, shrug off his jacket, and drop his bag on the floor like always.

He looked tired. Or maybe just bored.

“Hey,” he said, not really looking at you. “You eat?”

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

He walked past you, heading straight to the kitchen. You heard the fridge open, then close. A few seconds passed before his voice floated back toward you.

“There’s nothing made?”

You hesitated. “I was waiting for you.”

He sighed loud enough for you to hear it. “You were home all day and couldn’t throw something together?”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket. “I wasn’t feeling great.”

He walked back in, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Just blank.

“You’re always tired lately,” he said. “Always saying you don’t feel good, but you still expect me to come home and cook for both of us?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He raised a brow. “Well, you sure didn’t offer.”

You pushed the blanket aside and stood, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’ll make something now.”

He didn’t say thank you. Just dropped onto the couch where you’d been sitting and turned on the TV, like that was the end of it.

In the kitchen, you moved on autopilot—pulling out rice, eggs, vegetables. Something fast. Something he liked. The ache in your leg from the healing cut flared up every time you shifted your weight, but you didn’t let it slow you down.

Not tonight.

You stirred quietly, keeping an ear on the volume of the TV, on the way he shifted behind you. Part of you still flinched at loud sounds. At movement. But tonight was calm. Tense, but calm.

And that was good enough.

Because sometimes, good enough meant surviving.

The sound of the pan sizzling filled the small kitchen, and you focused on it—on the rhythm of chopping, the smell of garlic in the air, the steady motion of stirring. It was something to do. Something simple. Something safe.

Heeseung didn’t say much from the living room. Occasionally he’d laugh at something on the TV or scroll through his phone, but otherwise, it was quiet. You weren’t sure if that was better or worse.

By the time you plated the food, your hands were a little shaky, not from effort, but from the weight of everything else—his mood, the tension, the lingering bruise just below your collarbone that you’d had to cover up earlier.

You set the plate in front of him on the coffee table. He didn’t look up.

“Thanks,” he muttered, already reaching for a fork.

You made your own plate and sat at the far end of the couch, knees drawn up, eyes flicking between the food and the screen. You weren’t hungry. Not really. But eating made it feel more normal.

Halfway through, he looked over at you.

“Why’d you put so much salt in this?” he asked.

Your stomach dropped a little. “I didn’t mean to. Sorry.”

He took another bite, chewing slowly, and shrugged. “Whatever. It’s fine.”

You nodded, forcing yourself to eat more.

A few minutes passed in silence before he spoke again.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Maybe we should get out of the apartment this weekend. Do something.”

You blinked. That was… unexpected.

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just go somewhere. You’ve been off lately. Kinda checked out.”

Your mouth felt dry. “I’ve just been tired.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe you need to shake it off. You don’t talk to me anymore, you barely look at me unless I touch you—” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re not… mad at me or something, are you?”

You looked down at your plate. “No.”

“Good,” he said, nodding like that settled it. “’Cause I hate when you do that silent treatment shit. It’s manipulative.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded again.

You wanted to say I’m not trying to be silent. I’m just scared to say the wrong thing.

But instead, you just finished eating. Quietly.

Because the last thing you wanted was to give him a reason to be anything but calm tonight.

want longer fanfics like these? Check out @shy9-29

[son-of-lunadeyis]

various stupid riptide headcanons

chip owns a pair of sunglasses that he thought was really cool, but can't wear them when anyone is around because they instantly get stolen by someone and by the time he gets them back, wearing them is pointless. it's a different person each time

gillion has a low pain tolerance when it comes to small things like piercings and needles. jay had to hold his hand while chip gave him his piercings after he joined the crew

jay isn't afraid of bugs but she really doesn't like them on/around her. chip knows this and whenever they're docked he catches crickets and similar bugs to show her .. and then throw at her

chip has chronic nosebleeds

jay gets emotionally attached to prototypes of her creations, and thus there's a bunch of them laying around because she feels bad taking them apart or throwing them out. gillion has given every single one of them a name

jay invents glow in the dark stars and puts them all over the inside of the captains room and over ollie's area in the kitchen. they stay even after ollie isn't on the ship anymore + his new room had plenty of them

gillion occasionally mixes up underwater movements vs in air movements and will sometimes fucking beef it because he forgets he can't swim in the air

ollie made friendship bracelets for him and old man earl while he was being taught to weave hats and each of the captains had the exact same response despite finding out at separate times; "can you make me one??" (he did)

once when drunk, drey started talking about those little fish that eat the dead cells off your skin and how it would feel great on his feet after all these years, and gillion just stared at him in horror the whole time

chip cannot do a handstand. he constantly tries anyways

gillion can do a surprising amount of acrobatics but whenever he tries to do them in any useful sense, they fail miserably (he can do a sick backflip though)

gillion has markings that emit a low amount of light that will flash in certain patterns to show certain meanings/cues. it took him a few weeks to figure out that jay and chip couldn't read these and weren't ignoring him on purpose. he once mentioned this offhandedly and they spent the rest of the night making a little book of what each one means. jay's favourite is "i love you/i feel safe here" and chip's favourite is "this is exciting".

chip inexplicably knows a few songs that are only in celestial and often finds himself humming them. when he tries to sing them on purpose he gets tongue tied and forgets what comes next, and he can't think of what the words mean

when jay and kira were younger and kira's horn started growing in, they kept roughhousing too much and kira had to put a soft tip on her horn to stop stabbing jay. jay couldn't look at her without laughing for weeks

chip knows how to dance and is actually really good at it but he gets embarrassed about this fact and will often mess up on purpose (fancy footwork ass mf)

gillion loves wildflowers! they remind him of the coral reefs back home in the undersea

chip does all the piercings given on the boat himself and always has. ollie spent weeks trying to convince chip to give him piercings after he heard him say he got his first one around his age

queen stomps whenever she gets upset and frequently is seen tapping their foot. he also frequently jumps around when excited

both gillion and queen get the zoomies

on colder nights, gryffon can be found at the bottom of a cuddle pile in the kitchen. if asked how this started he'll claim ollie cuddled up to him one night and everyone joined, but really it was because the kid shivering and Gryffon pulled him over to warm him up

chip can bake but cannot cook

jay can cook but cannot bake

gillion needs to be supervised in the kitchen at all times (but cooks surprisingly well)

gillion keeps trying to show chip and jay childhood certain games from the undersea but they can't quite seem to get the hang of it. he taught ollie one that doesn't require swimming and ollie said he was going to teach kids back on zero how to play too

gillion is the moon, jay is the sun and chip is the stars. im sorry i don't make the rules

jay snorts when she laughs too hard, chip wheezes and gillion clicks like a dolphin

when they were young teens reuben tried to teach chip how to flirt with a girl he had been crushing on ... it led to the two boys getting their faces smacked together by the girls father

chip has a slight lisp that's gotten better as he's gotten older, but sometimes it's more obvious

primordial (at least, the kind that tritons speak) was invented underwater and sounds very eloquent as opposed to the way it sounds in the air.

chip frequently cuts his own hair when it gets in the way, and only recently allowed the others to trim it when it grew out again