#issues are issues and need dealing with but not like this

[magicalgirlava]

TW: vent, illness, chronic illness

This! Coming from someone who usually cannot leave the house due to chronic illness and suspected autoimmune diseases and when doing so needing excessive preparations and medications, and a mobility aid.......it's really difficult to be seen in this world which chooses to blind themselves to things they don't want to see.

The fact two years ago I used to be a healthy 16 year old girl..and all of sudden I just fell ill with no warning. None whatsoever.. they don't want to see because they then have to accept that this could happen to them without warning. All they had in their life before. Just gone. Gone.

I had to rebuild everything piece by painstaking piece. But it's not the same anymore. But the bricks are less durable and I'm missing pieces.

I can't even eat what I want anymore because my body mistakes it for poison. No gluten, diary, soya, eggs, peas, peanuts.

Many things I suddenly can't eat anymore. My diet can't even be balanced anymore. I'm not getting vital nutrients because I'm in pain whenever I try to eat. Or even drink. And don't get me started on the fatigue seeping into my bones.

All at the grand age of 18- having started at 16

And some still have the nerve to call us lazy.

And I just have to deal with it.

And that's why we need more representation of those who have lost so much and cannot mask these issues. The ones who are visible yet unseen. I'm pleading for you all to pay attention to the suffering of those people. And understand that literally anyone without warning could become like me.

If you are struggling with something similar or just in general my heart goes out to you.

You are not a burden or lazy. You didn't choose this. You do not deserve pain.

We have to stand to be seen- metaphorically. Because some days and even everyday for some... We can barely or not even stand.

But we have our voices. Words are power, silence is subjugation, or in some cases a statement.

But we need to fight. Running will just tire us more..in the long run it's worse to run than to fight.

If you cannot fight then cheer.

We are all so closely connected and need to start utilising our strength as a united group of people.

Bless you all with strength endowed.

This disability pride month I'm BEGGING you to acknowledge and care about the people in this community who often fly under the radar when it comes to positivity and information. People who require equipment to live, like ventilators, pacemakers, and feeding tubes. People who are bedbound. People with visible differences. People who have disabilities caused by things like substance abuse, overdose, or self harm. People with conditions so rare that they've never met someone who has the same one. People who need full time care and have to have help to use social media.

If you want to support the community, that means supporting all of the community. Disability pride means being proud of every last one of us, and making sure everyone feels heard. Make sure to amplify the voices of those who need it this month, and ideally for the rest of the year too.

[evandorkin]

On Depression

I get messages from some folks about my work helping them get through some difficult times, and I'm almost always asked not to respond to them publicly. I am a goofus and I haven't figured out how to message folks privately, but I don't like to not reply, even if folks say it's okay to not respond. Briefly, as someone who has been dealing with their own anxiety and depression issues my entire life, I am thankful if my work provides any sort of relief or distraction or solace to anyone wrestling with the same things. I have been in therapy three times in my adult life, my current therapist, who I have been seeing steadily for about six years, has done a lot for me in helping me deal with my emotional situation. I am also on medication. Therapy can be expensive and hard for some people, it can also be frustrating to not connect with a particular therapist. It's not a magic bullet, the same goes for medication, more or less. I've discussed my anxiety and depression sometimes in my comics, most openly in Dork #7, which is partially about a breakdown I had in the late 90s. I still deal with the same issues. Before I got back to therapy years ago I went through a very horrible time and at one point tried to harm myself -- fortunately, I'm inept with knots and all I did was collapse on the floor. I also used a helpline one night where I was spiraling badly and it helped me get through it before I could do anything drastic. I'm currently dealing with a bad bout of depression but I'm able to push through it, knowing it can and will end at some point, and I want to be here to take advantage of that when it happens. I want to stay curious about what happens next, I want to be here for those I feel responsible for, for my friends and family, my readers, my cat, Winky. I want to make more comics, read more comics, see things, maybe go places if life allows. Some days I can barely get out of bed, but that doesn't happen as often as it used to. If I wasn't here I wouldn't know about all of you out there enjoying the Eltingville Club, and get to answer your questions. If you are feeling like you don't want to be here, please consider using one of these helplines, or turning to someone who can help, or seek treatment. Anything other than trying to stick it out alone and risk spiraling. We are not at our healthiest when we are depressed, which I know sounds obvious, but it's why we should never make important decisions about our lives when depression has us in its grip.

Again, I'm not a therapist or mental health professional, just a fellow traveler. Here's two lifeline numbers if anyone needs them. Take care of yourselves out there.

[lost-in-thoughts03]

NEXT TO YOU || YANDERE! INHUN

Part l

" I'll be standing right next to you, right next to you."

Summary: The aftermath of everything. Promises that are soon to be built. A silent plea that no one can hear, but when you get close, it sounds louder than a man screaming in your ear. Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, DARK, AU, POLYAMORY RELATIONSHIP, SEASON 3 SPOILER, heavy angst, heavy tension, obsession, possessive, yandere behavior, violence, gore, secrets, gun violence, killings, power imbalance, major character deaths, manipulation, betrayal, explicit content, matured language, consensual deals, sadistic behavior, trauma, mental health issues, self loathing, guilt, erotic, ownership, kissing, cockwarming, overstimulation, worshipping, praising, riding, thigh riding, oral (F), PiV, unprotected, deep, slow, hard, dirty talk, markings, older men x younger woman (LEGAL), soft-dom! Gi-hun, dom! In-ho/Young-il

Yandere! InHun x Reader

Words: 12.8k

The air outside the bathroom was colder—quieter. The chaos from the lights-out massacre had been wiped clean with eerie precision.

No blood.

No bodies.

Just the sterile, hollow silence of survival.

Gi-hun and Young-il had you nestled between them, each man supporting a side of your limp body. Your legs still ached, your core sore and used, but your chest felt strangely full. Safe, for now. Cherished. Even in this place.

They led you slowly to one of the lower bunks. The mattress was thin and lumpy, but to your aching body, it felt like a throne. Gi-hun tucked a blanket around you like a gentle brother, while Young-il knelt at the foot of the bed, removing your shoes for you with silent care. His fingers brushed your ankles, lingering—protective, tender.

You smiled faintly, trying not to melt under their hovering concern.

" You two are babying me." You whispered.

“ You deserve it.” Gi-hun replied softly.

“ You’re ours.”

But the warmth shifted as soon as Young-il looked up at Gi-hun, his expression sharpening.

“ Do you still want to go through with it?” He asked, voice low, eyes narrowing slightly.

“ The rebellion.”

Gi-hun’s entire posture changed. The smile disappeared from his face. His hand on your arm tensed.

“ Yes.” He said firmly.

“ This is the only way. If we don’t make a move now, they’ll keep killing us off one by one. Like dogs.”

Young-il leaned back against the bunk frame, jaw tight.

“ You know it’s suicide, right?” He said.

“ The guards aren’t just watching. They’re trained. They’ll shoot every single one of those players if they smell even a flicker of rebellion. It’ll be a bloodbath before you even reach the gates.”

Gi-hun stood slowly, eyes blazing. “ Then what? We just sit and rot in their maze? Die game after game, while they bet money and laugh behind those cameras?”

Young-il stared at him for a long, tense moment—then dragged a frustrated hand down his face.

“ Fuck.” He exhaled sharply.

“ You never change.”

“ So you’re in?” Gi-hun asked.

A beat.

Then a reluctant nod.

“ I’m in.”

You watched them from the bed, your chest tightening with dread. You knew what this meant—what they were willing to risk. You pushed yourself upright, ignoring the dull ache in your thighs.

“ Then I’m going too.”

They both snapped their heads toward you like whiplash.

“ No!”

Their voices rang out in sync, stern and sharp—so sudden, so instinctive, it made you blink.

Gi-hun came to your side instantly, his hand cupping your cheek. “ You just went through hell. Your body needs to rest. Please.”

Young-il stepped closer, crossing his arms, his expression back to stoic command. “ This isn’t your fight—not yet. If something happens to you out there, I swear I’ll rip every guard in this place apart, myself.”

“ But I can help.” You whispered.

“ No.” Gi-hun said firmly.

“ You help us by staying safe.”

Young-il softened, brushing his fingers along your jaw.

“ You’re the only thing we have left in this place that feels human. Don’t throw yourself into the fire unless we absolutely can’t stop it.”

You looked between them—your protectors, your lovers, your chaos—and saw it in their eyes. Fear. Not of death…but of losing you.

So, with a heavy heart, you nodded.

“ Just come back to me. Both of you.”

Gi-hun kissed your forehead gently. “ We will.”

Young-il brushed his thumb against your lips. “ I swear it.”

But behind their touches—behind their promises—was something else neither of them said aloud. Because even they knew…

In this game, promises were rarely kept.

And survivors?

Even rarer.

…

The cold, artificial hum of the facility buzzed faintly through the walls like a lullaby for the damned. Inside the dim bunkroom, silence had finally settled—heavy and unnatural, like a blanket too thick to breathe under. Almost every player was asleep, scattered across the metal bunks like corpses after battle. Exhausted. Spent. Dreaming, maybe, if they dared.

On the bottom bunk, you lay curled into Gi-hun’s chest, both of you fast asleep. His arm draped protectively over your waist, his breath warm against your temple, the rise and fall of his chest calming the ache in your body. You looked peaceful there, tucked between shadows and safety.

But Young-il hadn’t slept.

He sat on the edge of the bunk in silence for a long while, eyes fixed on the far wall as the weight of every move, every secret, every hidden loyalty spun through his thoughts. His body still hummed with tension—not from lust, not from adrenaline…

But from the burden of control.

His eyes flicked across the room one last time.

The players were out cold.

Perfect.

With quiet, practiced steps, Young-il rose from the bunk and slipped out into the darkened corridor. He passed the cracked door of the storage closet, a guard post, a blinking surveillance camera. None of it registered anymore.

He walked the halls like they belonged to him.

Because they did.

At the far end of the hall, nearly invisible behind a maintenance panel, he pressed a concealed switch. A thin seam in the wall hissed open—revealing a narrow, shadowed passage lit by low red emergency lights.

The secret hallway. Inside, a Square guard stood waiting—rigid, masked, prepared. Young-il didn’t waste time.

“ Stick to the plan.” He said, his voice quiet but cold.

“ The rebellion needs to go exactly as discussed. Let them believe they have a shot. We’ll use that chaos.”

The guard nodded once. But Young-il wasn’t finished.

“ One more thing...” He said darkly, stepping closer.

“ Player 327.”

The guard straightened at the number—your number.

“ If anyone—anyone—touches her…” Young-il hissed.

“ If one of your men even looks at her the wrong way…I will burn this entire facility to the ground with them still in it.”

The threat wasn’t a bluff.

It was a promise.

“ She’s not to be touched. She’s not to be harmed. If other players threaten her, you eliminate them. Quietly. Immediately.”

The guard nodded, unfazed but respectful. “ Understood, sir.”

Young-il narrowed his eyes, holding the silence for a beat longer—making sure the weight of his words sank deep. Then he stepped back.

“ Good. Dismissed.”

The guard saluted, turned, and disappeared down the corridor. Young-il stood there for a moment longer, alone with the red light washing over his face, shadows dancing along the walls. His mask—the one you didn’t see—had slipped back on.

Cold.

Strategic.

Ruthless.

But the moment he stepped back into the bunk room, the tension in his shoulders fell again. His eyes found you instantly, curled against Gi-hun’s chest like you belonged there—like a rare flower blooming in the middle of a wasteland.

He sat on the floor near the bed, back resting against the cold steel of your bunk. His head tilted back, his eyes closing slowly. He whispered under his breath, just loud enough for no one to hear.

“ Don’t ever make me choose between this game and you…”

Then the world went still again, and the master of the game—

Fell asleep on the floor, just another man trying to hold onto something real.

…

The bunk room was no longer just a cage—it had become a war zone. The air was filled with the echoing cracks of gunfire, the shouts of resistance, and the desperate stomping of boots as the rebellion unfolded right in front of your eyes.

The silence that once defined fear had shattered into pure chaos. You pressed your back against the cold steel of one of the bunks, curled behind it, arms hugging your knees as you peered out—just enough to see everything.

And what you saw made your breath catch.

Gi-hun and Young-il, side by side like fire and ice, were moving with frightening precision. Dae-ho and Jun-bae, flanking either side, worked like gears in a well-oiled machine. This wasn’t random violence—this was a strategic strike, planned down to the second.

Gi-hun rushed low, sliding behind an overturned supply crate and yanking a rifle from a fallen Triangle guard. He tossed it over the floor in a perfect arc—right into Jun-bae’s hands, who caught it without missing a beat and fired into the upper walkway, taking out a guard before he could alert others.

Your breath hitched when Square turned his rifle on Gi-hun from behind—but before a shot could fire, Young-il appeared like a ghost and slammed into the man from the side.

The sound of bones cracking made you flinch, your hands flying to your mouth. Young-il’s fist drove up beneath the guard’s chin, knocking the helmet clear off before twisting the rifle from his arms in one fluid motion.

He moved like someone who knew violence. Not just knew it—mastered it. He dropped the guard and spun, returning fire across the room with such dead-on accuracy that it made the soldiers scatter.

That wasn’t luck.

It was training.

You stared, heart pounding.

“ Who the hell is he…?” You whispered to yourself, barely able to breathe.

Blood sprayed across the floor. Screams rang out—players who got caught in the crossfire or guards trying to regain control. Some players had joined the fight, emboldened by the uprising. Others cowered in corners, praying for it to be over.

You were one of the latter. Not because you were afraid of the rebellion…

But because you were afraid of losing them.

Gunfire rattled again, and you shrieked as a bullet whizzed past your bunk and embedded itself in the steel. You ducked lower, clutching your knees. Your heart was beating out of rhythm, wild and panicked.

Still, you dared another glance. Gi-hun was bleeding—his shoulder grazed, staining his white undershirt red—but he was still moving, still smiling through the pain.

Young-il’s eyes found him immediately, and he snapped, “ Left flank! Now!”

Gi-hun nodded, sliding across the floor again, gun raised. He fired two perfect shots that sent a pair of guards crumpling near the emergency doors.

Dae-ho threw a smoke grenade he’d snatched from the guards’ belt earlier, clouding the area in a thick white haze.

“ This is our chance!” Jun-bae shouted through the smoke.

“ Go!”

Your heart pounded in your ears. The smoke covered the room like a ghostly fog, and silhouettes danced in the haze—some screaming, some fighting, some falling. You gripped the metal frame of the bunk and whispered to yourself again, as tears brimmed in your eyes:

“ Please…let this work.”

Because this wasn’t just about rebellion.

This wasn’t just about escaping the game.

This was about four men—your men—willing to put their lives on the line so people like you could live.

Heroes in hell.

And you could do nothing…but pray they would survive the flames they set.

…

The chaos was deafening. Screams of desperation, gunfire echoing off the steel walls, the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground—everything blended into a hellish symphony. Blood painted the once-sterile tiles in thick crimson streaks, and the air reeked of iron and smoke.

The rebellion had erupted like a ticking time bomb, and now, all that was left was ruin.

Gi-hun was dragged back into the bunk room, his feet dragging, eyes glassy. His shirt was torn and stained, not with his own blood, but Jun-bae's. His lips trembled slightly, but he said nothing. He simply let them throw him onto the floor like another broken thing.

You stumbled forward, trying to reach him.

" Gi-hun…" You whispered, kneeling beside him.

" Hey…you're alive. You're okay…"

He didn’t answer. His chest rose and fell, but his eyes were staring past you—at something that wasn’t there. The Gi-hun you knew was gone. Something inside him died the moment

Young-il and Jun-bae fell to the ground, executed like dogs in front of him. His plan, their rebellion—it all fell apart in minutes.

The speaker wailed overhead. “ Fourth game: Keys and Knives.”

Panic set in. You turned toward the entrance just in time to see the bunk doors sliding open again. Screams echoed from the halls. It had begun.

You ran.

The lights flickered violently as shadows lunged around every corner. You heard players shouting, chasing, laughing maniacally.

No allies. No friends.

Just survival.

Your breathing was ragged as you tried to weave through the carnage. You didn’t even see him coming. A player from the red team leapt from behind a crate and drove a knife into your thigh.

You cried out, falling hard. Blood soaked your pants, warm and fast. He grinned like a feral animal as he pulled the blade out, but you kicked at him with your good leg, scrambling away as he lunged again.

Limping, stumbling, crying—you forced yourself forward, dragging your weight through corridors of madness. You could barely see through the pain.

Until you found a room.

You slammed the door shut behind you, locking it with shaking fingers. The silence inside was surreal, like stepping out of a warzone into a crypt. You slid down against the door, one hand gripping your thigh.

The wound pulsed with searing pain. Blood poured through your fingers. Whimpers escaped your mouth. You bit down hard to silence them. You couldn't cry. Not now.

Then you heard it.

A soft hiss.

Your eyes darted around in confusion—until you saw it. A silver canister rolling across the floor, spewing white fog.

Tear gas.

" No, no, no—"

You coughed, the sting clawing at your throat. Your limbs grew heavy. Your vision swam. Your body slumped over, twitching once.

The world turned black.

…

A jolt tore through your body as your senses came back like a slap to the face. Your limbs ached. Your wrists and ankles throbbed—tightly bound to a cold metal chair.

The pain in your thigh was sharper now, pulsing with every heartbeat. You tried to scream, but your mouth was stuffed, a thick cloth gag muffling your voice.

Everything was black. Not darkness—blindness.

A blindfold.

You struggled, muscles straining against the restraints, but all it did was worse the pain. Your breathing grew fast and shallow, panic creeping in.

Then…footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Purposeful.

Your body tensed, stilling in fright.

The presence was undeniable—someone was here. Close. Watching. A distorted, mechanical voice broke the silence.

“ You shouldn’t be so reckless and stupid.”

You flinched. The voice wasn’t loud, but it was cold and direct—synthetic, like filtered through a voice changer.

“ You’re lucky I pulled you out before they gutted you like the others.”

You groaned behind the gag, shaking your head, wriggling weakly. Your thigh burned when you moved.

“ Stop moving.” His voice carried a warning now.

“ I’m going to clean the wound.”

Your heart pounded. You wanted to scream, to curse, to demand to know who the hell he was. But all you could do was groan, the cloth soaking up your breath.

You tried to push words past the gag—muffled protests. Something like “ How can I trust you?”

He seemed to understand you anyway.

“ Trust?” He said with a short, amused exhale.

“ I don’t care if you trust me. I’m not doing this because you asked. I’m doing it so you don’t fucking die from infection. Though frankly, if you keep squirming, maybe I should’ve left you bleeding.”

You grunted—defiant even in fear. With as much strength as you could muster, you muttered weakly through the gag, " I don’t need your help."

He chuckled.

Then pain exploded from your thigh.

You screamed behind the gag as he pressed his thumb—hard—into the torn flesh, forcing pressure onto the wound. You convulsed from the searing pain.

“ Still think you don’t need help?” He snapped.

“ You’re so goddamn stubborn. Always putting yourself in danger. Always acting like you’re invincible.”

Your body slumped, tears springing to your blindfolded eyes. You heard him sigh. Then you felt fingers near your cheek, and the cloth was pulled free from your mouth. Your lungs filled sharply with air.

“ What the fuck was that for?!” You rasped.

“ Why?! Why the fuck did you save me?! Why do you care?! You could’ve just let me bleed out like a fucking dog!”

There was a pause.

Then the voice answered, low and tight. “ You’re crazy.”

A small breath, like a scoff. “ Did you ever ask me if I was going to let you die?”

You froze. The question hit harder than you expected. The tremor in your voice cracked through.

“ Who are you…?” You whispered under your breath, teeth clenched.

“ Who the fuck are you?”

Silence.

A few heartbeats passed before the mechanical voice spoke again.

“ I can’t tell you that.” He said simply.

“ Not in this game. Not to any player.”

Then the sound of a chair scraping…retreating footsteps…a lock clicking into place. You were left in the dark, bleeding, trembling—but somehow, no longer alone.

…

The hiss of the door broke the dead silence again.

You stiffened.

Same footsteps—steady, deliberate, hauntingly familiar. Your breath hitched as instinct warred with reason. Every sound he made dug deeper into your frayed nerves. He was back.

You jerked slightly as you felt your injured leg lifted with eerie gentleness. A hiss escaped your lips when fresh pain lanced through your thigh.

“ Fuck—” You groaned, trembling.

His gloved hands worked silently, cleaning and rewrapping your wound. But it wasn’t just what he did—it was how he did it. There was care there. Precision. A certain touch that made your breath catch.

Someone’s held you like that before. Not just someone—one of two men.

Your mind raced.

Young-il…

But he’s dead. Gi-hun told you with his own shattered voice. You saw the body.

Gi-hun? No. He was broken. Traumatized. Hollowed out. It couldn’t be him…could it?

Who the fuck was this man?

Then his voice, distorted but calm, cut through your spiraling thoughts.

“ You’re going to stay here for a while.” He said.

“ You’re off the grid. The players think you’re dead.”

You flinched hard.

“ What…?” You breathed. “ Dead…?”

Anger surged up from the pit of your gut like fire.

“ You bastard!” You cried out, thrashing despite the restraints, the pain, the fear.

“ This is your fault! All of it! You could’ve stopped this—you should’ve saved them! You should’ve saved him!”

Your voice broke, thick with emotion. Tears streaked down your cheeks beneath the blindfold. You heard the soft creak of movement—then felt it.

A finger under your chin.

Lifting.

Your whole body tensed.

That touch.

Not cold. Not foreign.

Familiar.

Your lips trembled. You wanted to scream his name—either of them. But neither made sense. Neither could be here.

“ I’m not apologizing.” He said coolly, thumb brushing your jaw.

“ It’s my job to clean the mess. To keep this place from burning to the ground.”

He paused. His voice dipped lower, almost like a confession.

“ But this time…I want to be selfish.”

You stopped breathing for a moment.

“ I want to keep you.”

“ No one’s going to hurt you here. Not while I’m around.”

You froze, your mouth trembling. Then you snapped.

“ I don’t want you!” You spat through clenched teeth.

“ I want Gi-hun! I want Young-il! Not you, you fucking coward hiding behind a voice changer!”

Silence. Then he chuckled—soft, deep, laced with something maddeningly warm.

“ You’re still so damn stubborn.” He murmured, the pad of his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

Your heart thundered in your chest. He held your chin gently but firmly, voice dipping into something more intimate.

“ Soon…” He whispered.

“ You’ll know who I am.”

Another pause. His fingers lingered on your skin.

“ But not yet.”

…

Another set of footsteps echoed through the cold room—lighter, quicker, and undeniably different.

A woman.

You tensed as she approached. You heard no voice modulator, no distortion—just a flat, professional tone.

“ He sent me to change your clothes.”

You clenched your jaw. “ Tell him I’m not interested.”

She paused. “ It wasn’t a request. It was his order.”

That name again. Him.

She added sharply, “ And if you plan to fight back, I won’t hesitate to force you into the uniform the Frontman gave.”

Frontman…?

Your heart skipped. “ Who the fuck is the Frontman?”

No answer. Just silence. You sighed through your nose, defeated. What else could you do?

“ Fine…” You muttered, tilting your head forward.

The guard stepped closer. Her gloved hands worked swiftly and efficiently, stripping your blood-stained top and pants with clinical detachment. The chill of the room kissed your skin, making you shiver as she dressed you in the new clothes.

“ They’re long-sleeved. Black.” She said as she buttoned up the top. “ Trousers, too. Looks like the servers here. But yours—”

You felt her pause, then tighten the fabric slightly at your arm.

“ Yours has a blue stripe on the left sleeve. Means you’re above them. That you’re…his.”

You froze. “ His?”

She adjusted the collar with a firm tug. You tried to turn toward her, blindfold still robbing you of sight.

“ Who is he?”

“ I don’t know.” She answered quickly—too quickly.

“ And even if I did, I love my life. I don’t want to die.”

You bit your lip as frustration and dread pooled in your gut. She gave you one final adjustment—then a small retouch on your hair, tucking strands behind your ear as if preparing you for display.

Then her voice lowered, almost like pity. “ You should stop asking questions you’re not meant to know. Especially in a place like this.”

With that, she turned and left. The door hissed shut. You sat there, blindfolded and bound, dressed like property.

Like something owned.

…

The door hissed open once more. His footsteps—slow, heavy, certain—echoed like they always did. That same presence that made your skin crawl and your blood betrayed you.

You didn’t flinch this time. You were exhausted, pissed, and done pretending to play along.

“ Why do you keep doing this?” You asked, voice dry, defiant beneath the blindfold.

“ Why me?”

His voice came through the modulator again—smooth, cruelly amused.

“ Because I own you.”

You barked out a hollow laugh. “ That’s rich.” You scoffed.

“ Hate to disappoint you, but I’m already taken—twice. I’ve got two men who already own me, body and soul. I’ve got no space left for a sick fucker like you.”

He chuckled at that. That mocking, low rumble that made your skin bristle.

“ Oh?” He said lightly, circling you.

“ That’s right. Young-il and Gi-hun.” His tone curled around their names like poison.

“ Both of them, huh? The martyr and the mad dog.”

You tensed as he stepped closer. His voice dipped—curious now, taunting.

“ Tell me then…”

A pause.

“ Which one fucks you better?”

Your whole body jolted in fury. “ Fuck you—”

He cut you off with a laugh that echoed too loud in the small room. You felt him crouch in front of you, hand sliding to your chin again, gripping just enough to remind you who was in control.

“ Come on…” He whispered.

“ Those two were so obsessed with you they made an agreement just to share your tight little body. Didn’t they?”

You gritted your teeth. His breath was hot against your skin, and even through the distortion of the voice, it felt like a ghost crawling across your neck.

“ You remember the bathroom, don’t you?” His fingers traced along your jaw.

“ I told them to make sure no CCTVs were on when the three of you got dirty in there.”

“ Shut up!” You snapped, violently twisting your head away.

He laughed again, darker this time. “ That temper.”

You suddenly felt his hand press flat against your stomach. You gasped, your breath catching in your throat.

“ I can still feel it in you.” He murmured, voice lowering into something like an animal.

“ Like their ghosts never left.” He leaned closer, his mask grazing your skin. Then it settled against the crook of your neck.

He breathed in. Deep. Slow.

A low purring hum vibrated in your ear—predatory, intimate, possessive.

You trembled. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong. And yet—familiar. His touch. His scent. That fucking purr in your ear…

Your chest rose and fell erratically. You didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t. But your mind clawed at the idea.

Young-il is dead…right?

Or did he fake it? Did he crawl back in through this mask and claim you from the shadows?

You were choking on confusion, rage, and fear. And the man—this masked monster—only chuckled.

He knew.

He knew you were starting to recognize him.

And he was going to make damn sure you questioned every part of your reality until the truth crushed you.

The air between you thickened, heavy with tension and a charge neither of you dared to speak aloud. You felt his breath trailing down your neck, warm through the fabric of his mask, making your skin prickle with unwanted need.

Your thighs tightened out of instinct—then flinched in pain from the still-healing wound.

He noticed.

“ Still tender.” He murmured in that distorted voice, not moving back.

“ But not enough to stop that body of yours from reacting.”

You hated him. God, you hated him. But your body didn’t know how to lie when his touch felt that familiar. His fingers brushed along your waist, grazing the curve of your hip, slow and deliberate. You sucked in a breath as the tips of his gloves slid just under the hem of the black uniform top he’d dressed you in earlier.

“ You say you belong to them.” He said, his tone laced with something darker now—possessive, dangerous, hungry.

“ But they’re not here now, are they?”

You felt him rise, his body now towering over yours. He leaned in close, so close the edge of the cold mask met the warmth of your cheek. His gloved hand slowly trailed down the front of your torso, over your ribs, pressing slightly above your navel again.

Your back arched involuntarily.

He chuckled, low and intimate.

“ You still feel like mine.”

You snapped at him, voice breathless but angry. “ You’re sick. You don’t get to do this—”

“ But I am doing this.” He interrupted calmly, his hand now moving between your thighs, not touching where you throbbed, but close—so close you could cry.

“ And you’re letting me.”

You shook your head, eyes burning behind the blindfold, lips trembling. “ You’re not him…You can’t be him.”

“ Why?” He purred, lips barely grazing your jaw.

“ Because he died?”

“ Because he loved me.” You shot back.

“ And this? This is twisted.”

He didn’t flinch. He only whispered darker, closer, voices no longer masked by distance or hesitation.

“ Maybe love looks different when it’s forced into hiding.”

His hand pressed firmer now, your breath catching, thighs instinctively parting. He moved slowly, savoring your reactions, exploring the edges of your resistance like a man who knew you too intimately to be a stranger.

Your heart pounded.

Your body betrayed you.

He leaned down again, his mask pressing into your cheek as his gloved hand gripped your jaw gently but firmly.

“ When I take this mask off…” He murmured into your ear, voice lower now, richer—like the modulator was slipping.

“ I wonder if you’ll beg me to stay or curse my name.”

You whimpered.

Because part of you already knew the answer.

You jolted as the ropes around your wrists and ankles gave way, slackening without warning. Before you could even process the shift, strong arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you swiftly—firmly—into a straddle position.

Onto him.

You gasped, your knees on either side of his thighs, your body pressing down against a hard bulge beneath you that made your breath hitch in your throat.

The blindfold was still secured, and the disorientation made your senses spike.

“ W-What the f—” You started, voice trembling.

His large hands slid down your back, keeping you seated against him with unrelenting pressure. One palm curved possessively over your lower back, the other rested between your shoulder blades, controlling every subtle move. He didn’t let you go. He only leaned in, his masked face grazing your ear as he whispered.

“ Tell me…” He purred, voice thick with hunger.

“ Does any of this feel familiar to you?”

You shivered. His breath sent tingles through your spine.

“ Do you know who I am yet?” He asked again, slower now, dragging each word.

“ Can you feel the connection?”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it.

“ I don’t know.” You said softly, breath catching as his fingers gripped your hips.

“ I…I don’t…”

He laughed—a low, throaty sound that rumbled in his chest against yours. It made your core clench.

“ You’re such a liar.” He said with dark amusement.

“ Your body remembers, even if your head wants to play dumb.”

He rocked his hips just slightly up into you, letting you feel the full, thick length of him beneath the layers of clothing.

You gasped sharply, biting back a sound.

His grip on you tightened.

“ I want you.” He murmured, teeth grazing the curve of your jaw through the mask.

“ I missed you. Missed how you sounded…tasted…felt when you writhed under me.”

You whimpered against your will, the heat between your legs throbbing with every word he breathed into your skin.

“ But not yet.” He said, pulling back enough to control himself—barely. “ Not all the way.”

He brushed his gloved fingers up your spine slowly.

“ I’ve got a surprise for you.”

You tried to catch your breath. “ A…surprise?”

He nodded, dragging your body tighter against him.

“ Still in the making.” He whispered.

“ Or maybe…on the way.”

You stilled, the meaning sinking in slowly, but he didn’t give you time to process.

“ This…” He whispered against your throat.

“ Is just a warm-up.”

And then he rolled his hips again, slower this time, groaning low as he kept you in place, as if trying to remind your body—and maybe his—that this connection ran deeper than either of you could admit.

Because whatever twisted, haunting thing he had become…

Your body knew him. And he was going to make sure you never forgot it.

Your breath was shallow, chest rising and falling as you sat straddled over his lap, legs trembling slightly against the firm press of his thighs. His hands never left your body—one resting on your hip like a brand, the other roaming slowly, possessively up your spine.

You could feel his restraint unraveling with every breath. But what you didn’t realize—what made your pulse thunder in your ears—was that he had already removed the mask.

You were still blindfolded. Vulnerable. Unaware. And he was watching you now. Truly watching you with his bare eyes.

No distortion.

No barrier.

When he leaned in this time, the cold metal of the mask didn’t touch your skin. It was warm. Bare. His lips—real and familiar—brushed your collarbone.

You gasped at the contact, startled at how real it suddenly felt.

Then he bit you.

Not hard enough to wound, but deep enough to mark.

You cried out, hips jerking against him as your nails instinctively dug into his shoulders.

The bite landed just below your neck, exactly where your nerves fired the strongest. Your thighs clenched around his waist as he licked the sore spot, soothing it.

You knew that move.

That exact move.

Only one man ever learned your body like that.

Only one man could draw that sound from your throat with one bite.

" Y–Young-il…?" You whispered, voice cracking in disbelief as your lips trembled.

Your body locked up, the tension exploding through you. Your heart pounded like a drumbeat of dread.

No.

No…it can’t be.

Your mind swirled, rejecting the thought—but your body? Your body knew.

The way he grabbed the back of your neck. The way his tongue trailed a slow line from your shoulder to your jaw. The way his hips lifted in a rhythm that felt like memory burning back into your bones.

“ Still don’t know who I am?” He whispered hotly into your ear. No voice modulator now—just him.

You whimpered, head shaking, lips quivering. “ No…no, it can’t be—”

He chuckled darkly, lips brushing your earlobe.

“ You already know, baby.” He growled, hand sliding under your shirt now, palm spreading wide across your bare back.

“ Your body gave me away a long time ago.”

You sucked in a breath, spine arching as his hand dipped lower, fingers pressing between the curve of your ass, guiding you to grind down harder against him.

He groaned when your core made full contact—heat against heat.

“ God, you still fit me like a fucking drug.” He muttered.

“ How the fuck did I live without this?”

You couldn’t breathe. Your nails dragged down his chest, desperate and confused. If this was real—if Young-il was truly the one beneath you, maskless, alive…

Then that meant the man who ruined the rebellion, who orchestrated the chaos, who sat behind the curtain pulling strings—

Was him.

And your heart broke and burned at the same time.

Because you didn’t know if you wanted to scream at him…

Or beg him to never stop touching you.

Your fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt—no, his uniform, his disguise—desperate to find something solid as your entire world tipped sideways.

His mouth was everywhere now—your neck, your collarbone, the dip of your throat. His lips trailed heat; his tongue soothed each bitten mark; his teeth claimed the rest. You arched into him involuntarily, your senses drowning in the overwhelming weight of him.

His hands slid under your top, warm and rough, palms skating up the sides of your waist until he reached your breasts. You gasped as he cupped them, thumbs brushing over your already aching peaks through the fabric of your bra.

" You’re shaking." He whispered against your skin, lips moving against the shell of your ear.

" Why?"

“ Because if you’re really him…” You whispered brokenly.

“ I don’t know if I want to fight you…or fall apart in your hands.”

He groaned—a low, guttural sound that came from deep in his chest.

“ I want both.” He confessed, voice raw.

“ I want you to be angry. I want you to beg. I want you mine again.”

He pushed your top up, exposing your breasts to the cool air. His mouth closed around a nipple without hesitation, warm and wet and possessive. You cried out, hips grinding down on the hard line of his arousal through his pants.

You could feel how badly he wanted you.

You could feel how much he remembered.

The moment his hands slid down, gripping your hips again, he guided you into a slow, maddening rhythm against him—grinding, dragging, teasing. You could feel the thick pressure of him beneath the thin barrier of your clothes.

Every drag of your core against him was friction and heat, soaked in memory and twisted desire.

“ Feel that?” He growled, hands bruising your hips. “ That’s what you’ve been missing.”

You whimpered, hands tangling in his hair—God, you knew that hair—pulling his head back just enough so your blindfolded face tilted toward his.

“ If you’re really him...” You whispered, panting.

“ Take my blindfold off.”

He froze for just a moment. Then he leaned in, his lips brushing yours without fully kissing.

“ Not yet.” He said, voice thick with restraint.

“ You’ll see me when you’re ready.”

“ Fuck you.” You snapped breathlessly.

He smirked. “ That’s the plan.”

One hand reached between you, slipping into the waistband of your trousers. You gasped, legs trembling as his fingers found your slick heat, sliding through the mess you’d made just from grinding on him.

“ So wet already.” He murmured, voice dark with satisfaction.

“ And I haven’t even given you half of what I want yet.”

He circled your clit once—slow, cruel—and you bucked into his hand, unable to stop yourself.

“ I missed this.” He groaned.

“ The way you melt. The way your body begs when your mouth won’t.”

You sobbed out a moan as he slipped a finger inside you, thick and knowing. Then another. Pumping slowly, curving exactly where he knew you would fall apart.

Only one man ever knew you like this.

And as your orgasm built hard and fast in your belly, you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

He was Young-il.

Alive. Obsessive. Changed.

And now, the Frontman.

And there was no going back.

Your body was on fire—skin slick, heart pounding, thighs trembling around his hips. His fingers inside you moved with maddening precision, dragging out whimpers you tried and failed to silence.

You were falling apart on his lap, blindfolded and exposed, your body betraying every protest still clinging to your thoughts. And then he groaned—deep, guttural—as if the sound was ripped from his chest.

“ How do you think Gi-hun would react?” He rasped, voice barely human.

“ If he knew it was me—” He curled his fingers inside you, hard.

“ The one making you come undone like this?”

Your breath shattered. His words hit you like a slap of cold water and a hot shiver at once. He didn’t stop. His thumb moved against your clit with ruthless rhythm as he fucked you with his fingers, jaw clenched tight, breath hot against your ear.

“ He got more time with you. More nights. More kisses. More of you.” He thrust harder.

“ And what did I get?” He hissed.

“ A rebellion. A bullet storm. Your fucking blood on the floor while I stood behind that mask and watched.”

You cried out—because he was right. Because the guilt twisted in your gut even as your pleasure reached a peak so intense it blurred everything else.

“ I watched everything.” He whispered darkly.

“ I watched him hold you. Kiss you. Fuck you.” He groaned again, this time against your shoulder, biting down just enough to make you arch.

“ And now, I’m done watching.” He pulled his fingers from you—slick and warm—only to bring them to your lips.

“ Open.” He ordered.

You hesitated, panting.

He slid two fingers past your lips, and your tongue instinctively wrapped around the taste of yourself. He groaned again, as if that small act unraveled something primal in him.

“ Fuck, that mouth…” He hissed.

One hand grabbed the back of your neck, pulling your face flush to his. His lips grazed yours, not quite kissing, letting you feel his breath tremble against your skin. No mask. Just him.

“ I’m not following the fucking deal anymore.” He growled.

“ No more agreements. No more rules.”

His hand shoved down the waistband of his pants, freeing himself. Thick, hard, throbbing. You felt it—hot against your soaked entrance as he lifted you slightly, lining himself up.

“ You’re mine tonight.” He breathed.

“ Let him have his quiet days. I’ll take the nights you moan so loud it echoes through this entire fucking floor.”

And then—

He sank into you.

Thick. Deep. Slow.

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, your body stretched and filled in a way no one else could ever recreate.

Only him.

Only Young-il.

His jaw clenched as he bottomed out, hips grinding upward, holding you there, pulsing deep inside.

“ This…” He whispered, possessive and raw.

“ Is what I fucking missed.” He thrust again—harder.

“ And I’m not letting it go again.”

And with every deep, claiming stroke, he made you forget what side of the war you were on…

Because right now, the only battle happening was under your skin.

Your moans echoed in the dim, sealed room, each one pulled from you like a confession you hadn’t meant to make. Every thrust of his hips sent waves of heat crashing through your spine, building higher, faster—his grip unrelenting, his pace firm and deliberate, like he was taking back every second he'd lost in the shadows.

You couldn’t see him.

But you could feel him—every inch.

And it was him.

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you down hard onto him, again and again, each thrust deeper, angrier, needier than the last. His breath hitched every time your bodies met, low curses escaping him as you clenched around him.

" Fuck, you’re still tight.” He grunted, voice raw in your ear.

“ Still fucking made for me.”

You whimpered, head tilting back, the blindfold soaked with heat and sweat. His lips pressed to your throat, open-mouthed kisses trailing along your pulse point, nipping just hard enough to make you shudder.

Then he moved again—his hips rising with a new rhythm, not rushed, but punishing, driving into you like he needed to carve himself into your memory.

“ You feel that?” He growled, thrusting up so deep it made your breath catch. “ That’s mine. You always were. You still are.”

You cried out his name—not meaning to, but it ripped from your chest like it had been waiting there all this time. It slipped out in a gasp between ragged moans, and that was when he lost it.

He gripped your jaw, forcing your face toward him.

“ No blindfold.” He whispered, voice trembling with restraint. “ Not when you say my name like that.”

You felt him reach up, and a moment later the cloth slipped away—light rushing in, but it was his eyes that stole your breath.

No mask.

No filters.

Just him.

Young-il.

His hair was messy, damp with sweat. His lips were red, parted, jaw tight with lust and emotion. His eyes—those eyes—burned into yours with everything he couldn’t say, everything he never got the chance to.

“ Say it again…” He whispered, thrusting up into you, deep and slow.

You choked on a moan. “ Y-Young-il—”

His hands grabbed your waist and he stood, lifted you, still deep inside. Your arms wrapped around his neck instinctively as he carried you across the room, pressing you back against the cold wall.

Your head fell to his shoulder, nails dragging down his back as he started thrusting into you again, harder, rougher, the new angle making you cry out.

“ You think Gi-hun could ever fuck you like this?” He snarled, voice low and full of resentment.

“ Think he ever made you scream like I did?”

“ Stop—” You gasped, trying to resist, trying to think—but you couldn’t.

Because he knew exactly where to press, how to stroke, how to tear you apart piece by piece and rebuild you in his rhythm.

Every grind of his hips knocked the air from your lungs.

You were unraveling. Your legs trembled as you clenched tighter around him, his pace ruthless, desperate, punishing.

“ You’re gonna come for me.” He growled.

“ And you’re gonna look me in the eyes when you do.”

And you did.

Right there—your forehead pressed to his, your eyes wide and brimming, your body shattering as he thrust through your orgasm, not stopping, not letting you fall.

He kissed you then.

No warning.

Not masked. Not distorted.

Just him.

Raw. Real. Consuming.

And even if everything was wrong—even if he was the enemy—your heart broke with how right it felt.

His lips stayed on yours even as your body convulsed from the aftershocks, trembling against the cold wall and his burning skin. The kiss was messy, breathless—more possession than passion, but still so achingly familiar it hurt.

Young-il groaned against your mouth, swallowing your whimpers as he kept moving inside you—slower now, deeper.

Like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Like he couldn’t.

You were both drenched in sweat, your limbs wrapped tightly around him, your nails still marking his shoulders, his back. He pulled back only slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard, his dark eyes locked into yours with a kind of desperate intensity you hadn’t seen in so long.

“ You feel that?” He rasped, his voice stripped of all bravado now, raw with something else—something aching.

“ That’s not just sex. That’s me remembering you.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, heart crashing against your ribs.

“ Remembering…?”

His hand moved to cradle the back of your head, gentle now. Tender.

“ Every moan. Every breath. The way you clench when I look at you like this.” His hips moved again, slower, grinding deep into your core. You gasped.

“ That’s what they couldn’t have.” He murmured.

“ That part of you that only I knew how to reach.”

Your lip trembled. “ Why didn’t you tell me you were alive?”

“ Because I wasn’t.” He answered bitterly. “ Not until now.”

His eyes searched for yours, voice tightening. “ They made me the Frontman. Gave me power I didn’t ask for. And the moment I accepted it, I knew I had to give you up. Watch you with Gi-hun. Pretend I didn’t want you.”

You shook your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “ So you just…watched?”

He nodded slowly. “ Every fucking night. Every time he touched you, every time he held you when you cried. I let him…because it was safer than ruining you with who I’d become.”

He pulled out slowly, still holding you. You winced slightly at the loss, and he cursed under his breath, gently setting your feet on the ground but not letting go.

“ I didn’t bring you here to hurt you.” He whispered, brushing sweat-matted hair from your face.

“ I brought you here because if I had to spend one more night pretending you weren’t mine, I was going to burn this place to the ground.”

Your lip quivered. “ But you lied to me.”

“ I had to.”

“ You let me grieve for you.”

“ I fucking grieved you too.” He snapped, jaw clenched.

“ Every night. Every time I heard your voice echo through this place and couldn’t answer.”

The silence hung thick between you. You looked at him—at Young-il, not the Frontman, not the mask—and for the first time, saw the man beneath the monster.

“ I don’t know how to forgive you.” You whispered, voice breaking.

He leaned in, eyes soft and dark. “ I’m not asking for forgiveness.”

His hand slipped between your thighs again, and you gasped, grabbing his forearm.

“ I’m asking for one more night.” He breathed, lips brushing yours.

“ Before you decide whether you’ll leave me…or stay in hell with me.”

And with your body still aching and your soul torn in two—you weren’t sure what scared you more:

That you might walk away.

Or that you wouldn’t.

The room had fallen into a thick silence, broken only by the ragged rhythm of your breathing and the occasional tremble of your limbs still recovering from the intensity he’d dragged you through.

Young-il was quiet too—eerily still, watching you with dark, unreadable eyes. His hand never left your waist, thumb drawing slow, absent circles into your damp skin.

The bare light in the room cast shadows over the sharp lines of his face, no longer hidden behind a mask. No secrets now. Not between your legs, not between your hearts.

And yet—everything was still a fucking mess.

You shifted slightly on unsteady legs, and he caught you instantly, strong arms tightening around your waist like he wasn’t ready to let you go. Not even an inch.

“ Stay.” He murmured, his voice no longer demanding, but something else—pleading.

You blinked at him. " Young-il…"

“ I’m not done.” He said, lower now, a quiet rasp.

“ I don’t want you to move. Just…stay. Just like this.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he was guiding you back down onto him—slowly, carefully—his hands on your thighs, his chest pressed against yours.

You gasped softly as his length filled you again, slow and steady, no urgency this time—just heat and pressure and a claim so deep it made your breath shudder in your lungs. There was no thrust, no friction—just the feel of him inside you, deep and full and still.

You were cockwarming him.

And it was so much worse than fucking.

Because now it was real.

His arms wrapped around you from behind as he sat down, pulling you into his lap, your back pressed to his chest. You could feel every slow breath he took, every slight twitch of his cock buried deep inside you, keeping you there—anchored.

“ You feel that?” He whispered, lips grazing your shoulder.

“ That’s how close I need you right now.”

You swallowed hard. “ We can’t stay like this.”

“ We are staying like this.”

His hand cupped your breast gently, thumb brushing over your nipple as you shifted on instinct, but his other hand gripped your thigh and stilled you.

“ No.” He said, firmer now.

“ Don’t move. I don’t want to fuck you right now. I just want to be inside you.”

The intimacy of it hit you like a wave—being filled without movement, locked together, his breath against your ear, his cock pulsing softly inside your aching walls.

You tried to steady your voice. “ You…missed this?”

“ I missed you.”

A pause.

“ I missed being where I belonged.”

Your eyes welled, heart torn and burning.

You wanted to hate him.

You wanted to love him.

You didn’t know which was winning.

“ You should’ve told me you were alive.” You whispered.

His lips brushed your neck again. “ Would it have changed anything?”

You didn’t answer. Because you weren’t sure if you’d walk away from him now, even if you could.

You stayed still.

Silent.

Wrapped in his arms.

Wrapped around him.

And the most dangerous part?

You didn’t want to let go.

You were still seated on his lap—full of him, filled to the hilt, your walls wrapped tight around his cock. The silence between you should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.

Because your body wouldn’t stop feeling. Every breath made you twitch around him. Every twitch made him pulse inside you. And every pulsing throb sent heat spiraling low into your belly, sharp and unbearable.

It wasn’t enough.

And it was too much.

You whimpered softly, shifting slightly, and his grip on your hips tightened immediately.

“ I said don’t move.” He murmured into your ear. His voice was different now—low and rough and barely holding together.

“ I—I can’t.” You breathed, chest heaving.

“ I’m…I’m too full, I can’t think—”

He smirked darkly, lips brushing the edge of your jaw. “ Good.”

His hips bucked up once, slow but deep, making you cry out and arch back into his chest.

“ That’s what I want. I want you to be dizzy. Ruined.”

You gasped as he began to move inside you—not fast, not rough, but deep, dragging himself out just to the tip before sliding all the way back in again.

Every stroke was deliberate.

Controlled.

Merciless.

“ You’re already sensitive.” He rasped. “ Already wrung out.”

His hand dipped between your thighs, fingers stroking your swollen clit with cruel softness. Your whole body jerked, legs trembling violently against his.

“ Y–Young-il, please—”

“ You came already.” He said, thrusting again, deep and slow.

“ And now you’re going to come again. Until you can’t even remember why you hated me.”

He rolled your clit in tight circles while rocking into you with brutal rhythm, letting you feel every inch of him stretch your already spent walls. You clutched at his wrists, overwhelmed, hips bucking helplessly in his lap.

“ Too much.” You cried out, but he only groaned, voice vibrating against your neck.

“ You can take it.” He growled. “ You always could.”

Your body locked down hard around him, another orgasm crashing into you like a wave—sharp, violent—and your scream echoed in the sealed room as you collapsed against his chest.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept going.

“ You feel that?” He hissed, thrusting faster now, your cunt pulsing around him uncontrollably.

“ You’re milking my cock, baby. Starving for it.”

Your moans were incoherent now, your fingers clawing into his arms as your legs spasmed around his waist. You didn’t know if you were begging for more or for mercy.

And he didn’t care.

“ Third one.” He whispered darkly.

“ I want your third. I want you shaking so hard you scream my name and forget him.”

You couldn’t stop it.

Couldn’t fight it.

Because the way he moved—the way he knew every broken piece of you—made it impossible.

Another wave of pleasure surged up your spine. You sobbed his name, your back arching, vision gone white. And all he did was pull you tighter, bury himself deeper, and whisper, breathless and wrecked:

“ You were always mine.”

Your body was wrecked—raw from back-to-back orgasms, your thighs trembling, your breath ragged as you collapsed against him. But he didn’t let you fall far. His arms stayed firm around you, chest rising against your back as he cradled you…for a moment.

Then his voice, low and rough in your ear.

“ Get back up.”

You barely registered the words. “ W-what…?”

He reached up, tugging the blindfold back down over your eyes. You gasped softly as the darkness swallowed you again. Your senses sharpened. Your skin tingles. Every brush of fabric, every drop of sweat, every shift in the air—it all felt louder.

“ Ride me.” He ordered, voice husky with control barely held.

Your breath caught.

“ I—I can’t see—”

“ You don’t need to see.” He growled.

“ You feel me, don’t you?”

You did. God, you did. He was still buried inside you, thick and hard, twitching with need as he waited—taunted—beneath you.

“ Move.”

Your hands instinctively braced against his chest, your knees weakly adjusting on either side of his hips. You were still trembling, your cunt slick and sensitive as you slowly lifted your hips—just enough for the cool air to kiss your overstimulated folds.

He groaned low as you began to sink down again, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you once more.

“ Just like that.” He rasped. “ Nice and slow. Let me feel every part of you.”

Your head tilted back, a moan breaking free of your lips. Riding him blind made everything more intense—his cock dragging along every spot that made your body jolt, your nerves raw and exposed with every grind of your hips.

He didn’t touch you.

He let you work.

And it drove you crazy.

“ You don’t need Gi-hun.” He said between clenched teeth as you bounced gently, circling your hips on him.

“ Not when you’re this fucking perfect for me.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders as you moved harder, your thighs slapping against his lap, the wet sound obscene, echoing in the room. You were breathing like you were drowning, crying out every time he hit too deep—but never slowing down.

He growled again. “ You feel that?”

You nodded, panting. “ Y-yes—fuck, I feel all of it—”

“ That’s what being owned feels like.”

You moaned brokenly, your climax spiraling again, your walls fluttering around him as you moved faster—losing yourself.

He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around your back, chest flush to yours. Still blindfolded, you could only feel his mouth ghosting against your ear.

“ Come for me again.” He growled, thrusting up hard from beneath you.

“ Now.”

And you shattered—again. With his name ripped from your throat, body clenching so hard around him it dragged a curse from his lips as he spilled inside you, deep and hot.

You collapsed against him, blindfold still on, vision still dark. But you didn’t need to see.

You knew exactly where you were.

And exactly who had you now.

…

You were still wrapped around him, your body limp and trembling from the overwhelming intensity, but Young-il made no move to pull out. He stayed buried deep inside you, your walls still hugging him tightly, even as your muscles twitched with exhaustion.

The room was thick with heat, the kind that clung to your skin like smoke after a fire.

He didn’t speak.

Not yet.

His hand slowly ran down your spine, grounding you in the silence. Your cheek rested on his shoulder, your breath warming his skin as you finally broke the quiet.

“ Why…?” Your voice was small, hoarse.

“ Why did you have to betray them? Gi-hun…Jun-bae…everyone.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, his hand slid to the back of your head, fingers curling in your hair. Then he pulled back just enough to reach up and untie the blindfold.

The world returned in a blur, but your eyes only focused on one thing: him.

Young-il. Fully unmasked. No distortion. No lies in his face—only the exhaustion of a man who had done too much for too long. He cupped your cheeks gently, thumbs brushing the heat of your skin, still flushed from everything you’d just shared.

“ I did it to stop him.” He finally said, voice raw.

“ Gi-hun was going to burn the whole place down. I tried to talk to him—I did. But he wouldn’t listen. So I infiltrated his team. Became a player. Got close. Learned every plan he whispered when he thought no one was listening.”

You stared at him, the ache in your chest nearly worse than the one between your thighs.

“ And Jun-bae?” You whispered.

“ You let him die.”

Young-il’s jaw clenched. He looked away for a second—just one—but it was enough to see the regret flash behind his eyes.

“ I didn’t mean to.” He said.

“ That wasn’t part of it. I never wanted Jun-bae to be caught in it—but it was either him or everything collapsing at that moment. I had to make a choice. A choice that would remind Gi-hun exactly what this place demands.”

His hands tightened on your waist as if grounding himself—grounding you.

“ His sacrifice meant something.” Young-il muttered.

“ But if Gi-hun kept going…none of it would’ve mattered.”

You bit your lip, eyes stinging. “ So all of it…the pact between us three—was that even real? Or was I just the easiest way to manipulate him?”

His reaction was immediate. His grip hardened, and his eyes snapped to yours, blazing.

“ The fucking pact was real.” He hissed.

“ Don’t you dare say it wasn’t.”

You flinched at the sharpness in his voice—but you saw the desperation behind it. The pain.

“ I never used you.” He growled.

“ I never would. What I felt—what I feel—for you? It’s real. The only real thing in this hell.”

You stared at him, throat tight, breath shaking.

“ Then why share it with me?” You whispered.

“ Why do you even agree with that?”

His brows furrowed. He looked down at you, helpless and fierce all at once.

“ I’m not the kind of man who shares.” He said lowly.

“ I don’t like it. I hate it. I want you for myself.”

He leaned in, forehead pressing to yours.

“ But Gi-hun…he had you first. And when I saw the way he looked at you, the way you held him after everything…I couldn’t take that from him. I couldn’t break that.”

His voice cracked as he spoke, confession unraveling from his chest like a wound he couldn’t stitch back up.

“ So I did the one thing I never thought I would.”

A pause. A breath.

“ I shared you. For him.”

You felt his cock still throbbing inside you, but this wasn’t just physical anymore. This was everything. Every line blurred. Every emotion turned raw.

“ You could’ve taken me.” You whispered.

“ You had the power to lock me away.”

“ I still do.” He murmured.

“ But I won’t.”

His hand came up to your face again, gentle now. Loving.

“ Because what I want from you…can’t be taken. It has to be given.”

And in that moment, with your body wrapped around him and your heart tangled in everything he was—you didn’t know whether you wanted to run from him…

Or fall even deeper.

You stayed seated on his lap, still joined, his warmth surrounding you—but there was a coldness now, not in his touch, but inside your chest. A hollow ache that even the most desperate intimacy couldn’t fill.

Your arms trembled as you pressed both hands against his chest, holding him there—not to pull him close, but to keep space between your words and his breath.

“ I don’t know what to feel anymore…” you said, voice shaking.

“ You were someone who mattered to me. And you betrayed me.”

His hands flexed on your hips, but he said nothing.

“ I didn’t just lose you once.” You whispered.

“ I mourned you.”

He swallowed hard, his jaw twitching.

“ When they announced your number through the speaker…” Your voice cracked.

“ I broke. I thought you died fighting beside us. I thought you were gone. But all along…”

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes, tears pooling under your lashes.

“ You were the one mastering the game.”

His breath hitched, barely audible.

You shook your head slowly. “ I don’t know if I believe anything anymore. Not the pact. Not your promises. Not even… this.” Your fingers curled into his chest.

He moved to speak, but you cut him off, the words tumbling now—raw and painful and desperate.

“ Gi-hun blames himself every single day. He told me that maybe if he had done things differently, Jun-bae would still be alive. That you would still be alive.”

Young-il’s gaze faltered.

You continued, the words trembling. “ He just wanted to save people. To stop the killing. To end this madness. And you—”

You met his eyes now, your own wide with devastation. “ You made him suffer for it.”

“ I didn’t want to—”

“ He thought you were his friend.” You choked out.

“ Inside of this hell, he trusted you. And you used that to break him.”

The silence that followed felt like the loudest thing you’d ever heard. Young-il’s lips parted slightly. His brows pulled together, pain blooming across his features—but there was no denial on his face.

No excuses left.

Only regret.

His voice came out hoarse, barely holding together. “ I didn’t mean for it to happen like that…”

“ But it did.” You said, your voice soft but final.

The ache between your legs from what you just shared was nothing compared to the ache in your heart. What was once desire, closeness, craving—had turned into something too tangled to name.

You were still wrapped around him.

Still filled by him.

And yet…so impossibly far away.

Your fingers curled tighter against his chest, heart thudding so violently it felt like your ribs would shatter. You stared at him, eyes wide, disbelief spreading through you like ice.

“ I want to go back.” You said firmly, the tears still drying on your cheeks.

“ I want to help Gi-hun…I need to be there for him. For everyone. I want to fight for something that still makes sense.”

Young-il didn’t speak immediately. His eyes lowered to your lips, then your throat, as if memorizing the last peaceful second he might have with you.

“ You can’t go back.” He finally said.

“ You’ve already been eliminated. Your file was closed when I pulled you out.”

Your stomach dropped. “ Then open it again. I don’t care what rules you’ve set—I want back in.”

“ I can’t.” He said again, this time more steel behind his voice.

“ You’re not going back into that arena.”

You stared at him in confusion until he said the next part.

“ I’ve already replaced you.”

You blinked, silent.

He didn’t stop.

“ I entered the baby—Player 222’s daughter—into the game. She now carries her mother’s number and slot.”

The world tilted.

You didn’t breathe. You didn’t blink. You just stared.

“ You…what?”

Young-il’s expression didn’t shift. No smirk. No cruelty. Just a cold, hardened mask—bare and emotionless.

“ It was the most strategic move. It creates tension. High drama. And it was requested by the VIPs.” He explained, voice robotic.

“ They want something unthinkable this time. Something that blurs the line between horror and spectacle.”

“ No.” You whispered.

“ No—you’re joking.”

But his silence told you everything. He meant it.

Your voice rose, cracking. “ She’s a baby! She can’t even walk, she can’t fucking speak! You threw an infant into your goddamn arena just to entertain sick monsters?!”

He didn’t flinch.

You snapped.

Your fists came down hard against his chest, again and again, tears streaming as you hit him.

“ You’re sick. You’re fucking sick! She doesn’t even know what death is! And you just—” Your breath caught as sobs took over.

“ You just put her fucking life on a kill list! For a twist?!”

He didn’t stop you.

He took every hit.

Every curse. Every sob.

Until your strength gave out, and you collapsed against him, your face buried in his shoulder, trembling and broken. And only then—only then—did his arms wrap around you, holding you so tightly it hurt.

“ I had to.” He whispered.

“ There’s no more room for weakness. I’m keeping you alive. That baby…that twist…it’s what brought you your freedom.”

You thrashed in his arms weakly. “ Don’t you fucking justify this.”

You pulled back, glaring up at him, your voice filled with venom.

“ You’re not a savior.” You spat.

“ You’re a monster. A merciless, heartless monster.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

His arms stayed wrapped around you, unmoving like steel bands—unrelenting and suffocating. You could feel his breath on your temple, steady but shallow, as if he was trying to stay composed.

You didn’t return the hold.

You just existed in it.

Numb.

Your throat burned from screaming. Your fists ached from striking him. But none of it compared to the hollow in your chest.

The echoing realization that the man who once touched you like you were his salvation…had now become the very thing you needed saving from. You pulled back slowly, forcing his arms to drop. He let you go, reluctantly.

Your voice was hoarse, broken. “ There’s no mercy left in you, is there?”

His eyes met yours—cold, unreadable, but glinting with something else. Guilt. Buried so deep it only flickered.

“ Mercy doesn’t work here.” He said quietly.

“ Mercy gets you killed.”

You stepped away from him, your legs still trembling, his release still inside you—his touch still clinging to your skin like poison. You hated it. Hated that you felt everything and still didn’t know how to make it stop.

“ That baby…” You whispered, voice trembling.

“ Doesn’t even know her mother is dead.”

Young-il didn’t answer.

“ She doesn’t know what pain is yet. What fear is. What this is. And you…you just threw her into a game where people rip each other apart to survive.”

“ I won’t let her die.” He said quietly.

“ I had to put her in—but I’ll keep her safe.”

You laughed bitterly through the tears. “ You can’t protect someone you’ve already used.”

He flinched.

“ I thought you died for something.” You added, shaking your head.

“ But all this time, you were just climbing higher. Building this throne out of corpses.”

His silence was worse than denial.

“ I don’t know who you are anymore.” You said.

“ And I don’t think I want to.”

He stepped forward slightly. “ You do know me.”

“ No.” You said, stepping back, your voice barely above a whisper.

“ I knew Young-il. I don’t know the man standing in front of me now.”

He stared at you, chest rising and falling slowly. “ Would you rather I let them kill you? Let them drag you into the Keys and Knives game and leave your body rotting like the others?”

“ I would’ve rather died fighting.” You snapped.

“ Than live knowing an innocent child was sacrificed in my place.”

That hit him.

You saw it.

But he didn’t say anything. Because there was nothing left he could say. The silence stretched. Cold. Final. And in that silence…the line between you and him became something too wide to cross again.

You peeled yourself off him, your body screaming in protest—raw, used, aching from more than just the physical. But you didn’t care.

You reached for your clothes with shaking hands, pulling on the black sleeves and trousers he had ordered for you, even though they felt like shackles now.

You were still dripping with him, your thighs slick and unsteady, your core throbbing with the echo of his presence inside you.

And you hated it.

You hated him.

He watched you silently, chest rising and falling, eyes dark but unreadable again—like he was slipping the mask back on even without the leather and steel.

But you were already speaking before he could.

“ I don’t care if I’m bleeding or broken right now.” You said through clenched teeth.

“ What I can’t endure is the man in front of me—who’s so far gone that he’d toss a baby into a bloodbath just to keep rich bastards entertained.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

“ All of us here are still human.” You hissed.

“ But you? I don’t know what you are anymore. Maybe a demon wearing the face of the man I once trusted.”

His nostrils flared.

His fists clenched.

“ You proved it.” You said, louder now.

“ You deserve to rot in this place. Because you chose the darkness. You had chances to leave—you had options—but you stayed because you loved the power too much to walk away.”

“ Shut up.” He growled lowly.

“ No.” You snapped.

“ You’re addicted to control. You could’ve been the one to destroy this place from the inside. You were closer than any of us! But you built your kingdom on corpses instead. You chose this.”

That’s when it happened.

He snapped.

“ You think this is what I fucking wanted?” He barked, stepping forward.

“ You think it’s that fucking easy? You think I asked to be the villain?”

You didn’t move.

He kept going, voice rising, rage bubbling under years of silence and control.

“ I had a life out there. A name. A mother. A little brother. A home. And one fucking game stole all of it from me.”

His hand slammed against the wall, making you flinch despite yourself.

“ I didn’t start this!” He roared.

“ I was you! I was a player! I was terrified and hungry and desperate—and no one came for me!”

You swallowed hard, your voice softer, but sharp. “ So that gave you the right to become the monster that hurt you?”

He froze.

The air was thick. Heavy. The silence is unbearable. You stepped closer, just one pace, eyes burning into his.

“ You say you're a victim…then why are you doing to others what they did to you? Why are you punishing Gi-hun for trying to break the cycle you couldn’t?”

He looked at you, and for the first time, you saw it.

Not power.

Not cruelty.

But grief.

Loneliness.

Guilt that had festered so long, it had turned into armor.

“ I saw myself in him.” Young-il finally said, his voice quiet now. Hoarse.

“ That’s why I gave him chances. That’s why I watched instead of killing him. Because I wanted to believe—maybe…maybe he’d prove me wrong. That someone could still win without becoming what I became.”

Your throat tightened. You stared at him.

“ And now?” You asked.

His shoulders slumped. His voice cracked. “ Now I know…he’s too late. We all are.”

But you stepped back. And in that distance, both of you finally saw the truth.

Maybe he was a victim once.

But now?

Now he was the architect of other people's ruin.

The tension between you cracked like a whip. Young-il’s jaw was clenched, but his voice came out with chilling clarity as he stepped forward.

“ Gi-hun will come here.”

You froze.

“ I’ll give him one last chance.” He continued, eyes narrowing.

“ To win the game. To end it faster. And when he arrives…” He tilted his head slightly, eyes burning into yours.

“ I’ll reveal myself.”

You stared at him, horror swelling like bile in your throat.

“ You’re so fucking sick.” You spat, breath shaking.

He smirked bitterly. “ I am sick. Twisted. Rotten. All of it. I know.”

Your voice rose. “ Then take me back into the game. Let me play. Let me help Gi-hun before he walks right into whatever trap you're setting.”

But Young-il only scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter.

“ Why?” He snapped.

“ Why do you always push yourself into danger for him? Why is it always Gi-hun this, Gi-hun that? His name's the only one that ever fucking leaves your mouth!”

You didn’t hesitate.

“ Because right now, he’s my priority.” Your voice shook with fury.

“ Because Gi-hun, despite his mistakes, remains honest. Despite this fucked-up world, he still chooses to be kind. He still believes in something good.”

“ And I don’t?” Young-il growled, stepping closer.

“ You stopped trying!” You shouted back.

“ You chose the system. You became the very monster you used to fight.”

He stared at you, silent. Breathing hard. A flicker of something breaking behind his eyes.

“ I won’t let you go back in.” He said, low and fierce.

“ Not again. I’ve already seen enough blood. I won’t watch you die in the hands of those greedy fucks.”

You moved toward him, furious. “ It’s not your choice!”

That’s when it happened.

He snapped again.

“ Don’t you get it?!” He shouted, voice nearly shattering.

“ I did all of this—for you! Every fucking deal I made, every move I orchestrated—I burned myself just to keep you safe!”

You froze. Your chest ached. But he wasn’t done.

“ I don’t care about the game anymore.” He said, voice breaking now.

“ I don’t care about the power. I don’t care about the mask. If you die—if you leave me too—I won’t have anything. Not even myself.”

His breath caught, and he stepped forward slowly, his hand trembling as it hovered near your cheek.

“ You are the last life I could ever have again. I know I’m a monster—but even monsters love.”

Your lips trembled.

“ And I swore…” He whispered.

“ No matter what it took…I’d protect you.” His voice cracked.

“ As long as it fucking takes.”

The silence afterward was deafening.

But your heart wasn’t still.

It was torn.

The room was so quiet, you could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. His words hung heavy between you, thick with desperation, pain, and a kind of love so distorted, it almost didn’t feel like love at all.

You stared at Young-il—his chest heaving, his hand still hovering near your face, his eyes glassy and wild like a man on the edge of something irreversible.

“ I love you.” He said again, barely above a whisper, as if repeating it would make it more real.

But you didn’t move.

You didn’t lean in.

You didn’t speak right away.

Because your heart was breaking for what he was…and for everything he could’ve been.

“ You say you love me…” You finally said, voice quiet but unwavering.

“ But what you’re doing…this isn’t love, Young-il.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

“ This is fear. This is control. This is you holding onto me like I’m the only thing keeping you from drowning, while you're the one pulling us both under.”

You took a shaky step back, breaking the invisible thread of warmth between your bodies.

“ You didn’t save me.” You continued.

“ You stole my right to choose. You put a baby in that arena. You used Gi-hun’s loyalty. You’ve made every decision as if you were protecting me—but really, you were protecting yourself from losing me.”

“ Because you’re all I have!” He snapped, voice shaking now.

“ You think I’m proud of what I’ve done? Of who I became? I hate this place! I hate what it made me! But I don’t know how to stop anymore. I only know how to survive.”

Your throat tightened.

“ And I only know how to fight.” You whispered.

“ That’s why I want to go back. To help Gi-hun, to try to make things right—even if it’s impossible.”

He stepped toward you again, but slower this time. Wary. Breaking.

“ I don’t want to lose you.” He said.

“ If you go back, I can’t protect you anymore.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but your voice didn’t waver.

“ Then let me go. And if you really love me, trust me to choose the fight I believe in.”

Young-il stared at you for a long time, as if he were memorizing the lines of your face, knowing this moment might change everything.

Then, quietly…his hand dropped to his side.

His gaze lowered.

And he said nothing.

Because in the end, even he knew—

Love, twisted by fear, isn't enough to cage you.

…

The sharp hiss of the chamber door sliding open cut through the room like a blade. You turned instinctively, still reeling from the emotional storm with Young-il, just as one of the Square-masked guards stepped in with stiff posture.

“ Frontman…” The guard said formally.

“ Player 456 is outside. He’s waiting for you.”

Young-il exhaled slowly—almost tiredly—as if bracing himself. The quiet sound of his breath was louder than anything else. He turned away from you, crossed to a nearby table, and reached for the heavy, black mask—the one you knew all too well.

The symbol of fear.

Power.

Secrecy.

With a calmness that didn’t match the storm beneath his surface, he slipped the mask back over his face, sealing himself away once again.

The man you knew—the man you once loved—vanished behind the smooth, inhuman steel.

“ Let him in.” He ordered the guard, voice now distorted through the built-in modulator. Controlled. Cold.

The guard bowed slightly and stepped back out to fulfill the command. Before the door could shut again, Young-il turned to you. He moved to his cabinet and retrieved something small—sleek and dark.

A mask.

Not like his. Not a symbol of command. But a concealment tool—a smooth, curved faceplate with no expression and no markings. A mask made to erase identity.

He crossed the room in long strides and extended it toward you.

“ Put this on.” He said firmly.

“ Now.”

You hesitated only a moment before taking it, fingers brushing against his gloved hand briefly. It felt colder than it used to.

“ What for?” You asked softly, barely audible under the edge of tension.

“ I need you to stay out of sight.” He said.

“ Gi-hun can’t know you’re here—not yet. I’ll bring you forward when the time is right.”

You held the mask for a second longer. Then, silently, you slid it over your face.

It locked into place with a quiet click, and the world dimmed, your peripheral vision reduced, your breathing slightly muffled. But your identity…completely gone.

He stepped back and pointed to the far corner of the chamber, where the shadows were deepest.

“ Go…” He said.

“ Wait there. Do not make a sound. Not until I call you.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to say something—anything—but you were tired. Not just in your body, but in your soul. So, you nodded silently and moved as he commanded, disappearing into the darkened corner.

The door hissed open again.

You could hear the familiar footsteps.

Gi-hun’s voice.

And your heart twisted violently inside your chest.

Two men.

Two fates.

And now…you were a ghost between them.

Author's Note: This is the second half of the story. This would be the final post, but this application has a limitation, so there will be a third or fourth part (depending on whether Tumblr cuts me again). This story has a lot of long parts hehe. That's all, thanks for the patience everyone. Love you all! 🫶🏻 The story is a little dark. Anyone who feels uncomfortable reading this is welcome to ignore this story. Please read the warnings before reading this story if you are under the age of 18. All of the events in this story are fictional. The red flags mentioned in this story are not something I would tolerate in real life. READ WITH RESPONSIBILITY.

Tags: @frontwomann @valarie028 @ilovehwanginho @maah-sama @callmespacecat @madzzz0797 @sylviavf @yourpersonalcuckcake @jeongyukook

Part 3 soon...

[callsign-swan]

Operation: Damsel

You, Bob's civilian girlfriend who hates everything to do with the New Avengers, get pulled into training him.

Warnings: thunderbolts being shitty

The Thunderbolts, or New Avengers, depending on who you asked, had a problem. More specifically, Valentina had a problem. More specifically than that, Valentina had a problem with Bob.

It wasn't just Bob. He wasn't the issue, per say. No, it was his fear of heights.

The man could fly, but he hated heights when he was in the Bob headspace. It left him pretty much useless.

In the Sentry headspace, he was pretty much perfect. It was just whether he wanted to help or not. And after he was in the Sentry headspace, Void was inevitable.

They'd learnt to deal with Void by now. They found a room to hold him, one he couldn't get out of, one he couldn't hurt people in. A room designed to hold Wanda Maximoff, but now it held him.

So, yeah, it would have been easier if they had Bob to help them.

They'd tried time and time again to get Bob into the air. Each time, he'd freaked out, panicked, and couldn't do it. Just once he'd passed out, crumpled to the floor.

They needed a new approach.

That was where you came into it. You, Bob's girlfriend. Yelena knew the most about you, listened as he went on and on about you.

Yelena knew where you lived. She'd put it together through the stories Bob told about you. You and your dog. She'd seen the two of you through your apartment window, dog stretched across your lap as Bob idly stroked his fur.

You seemed nice, but that didn't mean she trusted you.

(Yelena had come to trust you. After a good few weeks of stalking Bob to watch your dates together, she came to trust you. It didn't seem to matter to her that Bob was an adult man who was allowed to have his own life).

You didn't expect two women in pretty cool, if not slightly strange, combat gear. You tightened your grip on your dog's lead as they looked you up and down.

"You're Bob's girl?" The darker haired one asked.

Your dog stood between your legs, your way of protecting him. "I might be," you said stiffly.

The blonde looked towards her companion. She looked back at you. "We're his.... colleagues?" She tried, but it didn't sound right on her tongue. "Roommates? Friends?"

"You're on Bob's team," you pieced together.

They nodded. "That's why we're here," the blonde said. She quickly introduced herself and shook your hand. Her eyes flicked down to your dog, the german shepherd with his head tipped to the side, who couldn't look menacing if he tried.

"We need Bob to fly," Yelena said, getting right to it. "But Bob is terrified of heights."

This, you knew. You'd taken him to the roof of your apartment building before, to see the stars. And that was fine, until you tried to take him to sit on the ledge. "Nope," he'd said immediately, holding you tight so you couldn't fall over the ledge and die.

It took you a minute to register what Yelena had said. "Bob's going on missions?" You asked, a certain edge to your voice. "Why the hell is Bob going on missions?"

Ava furrowed her brows at you. "Because he's needed?" She said, like it was obvious.

"Is he needed, or is the Sentry needed? And I know you both know what happens after the Sentry." Your chest seemed to be heaving as you looked at them. "I can't believe you guys are taking Bob on missions! Why the fuck are you taking Bob on missions?"

At your raised voice, your dog started barking. You tightened your grip on his lead, pulling him back to your side.

Yelena took a breath. "What we need you for makes sure that we don't need to call on the Sentry," she said. "And not calling on the Sentry-"

"-protects Bob from Void," you finished.

"Exactly."

So, you agreed to do it.

That was how you ended up in a plane, the back end open for you to jump out of. Bob was beside you, blindfolded. He had no idea that you were there, but he had to know what was going on.

When they got to where they wanted to be, Yelena pulled you to your feet. You stood at the open end of the plane, waited for Bob.

He was pulled to his feet. "We need you to jump, Bob," John Walker said, hand on the back of his blindfold. Not yet pulling it off.

His body was visible trembling. "I can't," he said. "Walker, I can't."

Yelena repositioned you at the the very edge of the opening. She held your shirt and leaned you back. Either Bob was going to save you, or the other guy was going to make an appearance and kill them all.

Walker pulled off Bons blindfold. Before he could register just how high up he was, Yelena let go of you.

There was something incredible and terrifying about free falling through the air. Blue surrounded you, above and below you. You couldn't work out what was up and what was down.

Just falling.

Falling.

Falling.

You closed your eyes. What if Bob didn't save you? What if you plunged into the icy waters below? Someone would rescue you before hypothermia set in, right. And, if they didn't, who would look after your dog? Surely Bob would.

Arms. Big strong and familiar. They wrapped around you and slowed your fall.

But then you weren't falling. No, you were going up. You opened your eyes to look at the man holding you.

Bob, your Bob. His eyes were blue and he looked like he was panicking. Yeah, he was definitely your Bob.

"Bobert," you whispered, but he couldn't hear you over the roar of the wind.

"Nope," he managed as you wrapped your arms around his neck. "Let me concentrate on getting you to safety."

"Bobert," you said again as he got closer to the plain. "You're flying."

His flying seemed to slow. "I'm..." But then he looked down. "Oh fuck."

It was slow at first, but then all at once you were falling. "Bob!" You cried, keeping a tight grip on him. His chest seemed to be heaving, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

You slapped his cheeks. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to get his attention. "Come on, Bob, honey. Save me!" You cried.

His eyes flew open. So close to the water, you were about to feel its icy bite.

But then, you were in the air again. "I got you," Bob said, his mouth dry. "I-I." You didn't drop, not yet.

To take his mind off of it, you kissed him. Bob's eyes went wide before he closed them and let his instincts take over.

[tyrannosaurus-trainwreck]

It's generally a good idea to be mindful of your painkiller use, but divorcing it from morality or worth is good for you and probably makes John Calvin's ghost super-mad which is awesome in and of itself.

Read the label

Some OTC remedies, especially cold & flu stuff, have multiple types of painkiller in them and can affect how frequently you should be taking additional pills.

Some painkillers don't play well with things you may be already taking (other meds), certain conditions (if you already have liver or kidney issues), or things you want to take in the near future (alcohol). Make sure you're picking one that will help you without messing anything else up.

Some painkillers are way better for specific things, so picking the right one means it will work better and faster and you suffer less.

Some painkillers last way longer than others, so if you did something that you're likely to still be feeling in 12 hours instead of something that will probably go away in 3-4 hours, do yourself a favor and take the 12-hour painkiller. Set a timer so that you know when you can take the next dose if you're still in pain instead of just trying to remember and then maybe having to wait longer to be sure and safe.

Physical dependency

Some painkillers are habit-forming, which is undesirable if you only need it for a short period or intermittently, because then you have to deal with the discomfort of tapering off or quitting.

If the thing you're dealing with is chronic and you're not coming off anything for a really long time/ever, you can cross that bridge when and if you come to it. Your main concern is making sure that you don't become too habituated because you want it to keep working to control your pain without saddling you with too many unwanted and uncomfortable side effects, like GI issues.

Prevention

If you find yourself reaching for painkillers a lot without a known chronic issue, it can be worth it to figure out how to prevent the pain in the first place, if you can. If you can keep yourself from hitting the "Wow, I feel like garbage!" stage to begin with, that saves you the hour of gritting your teeth and waiting for the tylenol to kick in.

Sometimes this means setting alarms on your phone reminding you to drink a glass of water and have some protein before you wind up with a blazing headache. Sometimes this means setting alerts on a weather app to let you know there's a storm front coming in and you should take an anti-inflammatory before it feels like your joints are stuffed with gravel instead of after.

It might also mean getting glasses that are better at filtering out blue light to prevent eye-strain or doing exercises or stretches to help with your posture. Maybe you've got unknown dietary allergens that are giving you a constant low level of inflammation that makes you more vulnerable to painful flare-ups from aggravating factors like stress or lack of sleep. Maybe you have an undiagnosed chronic issue and there are better things for managing it than OTC meds.

It's important to keep in mind that all of this is with the goal of preventing pain and suffering. If you catch yourself thinking "Well, if I'd just taken a break from the computer and done some stretches an hour ago, I wouldn't need the painkiller," that's the John Calvin talking. Take the painkiller.

i must take painkillers. painkillers are the pain killer

[theobservatory]

｡⁠☆Brain Fog｡⁠.ﾟ⁠+⁠ 

☆Clark x reader

☆Cw: no pronouns, no use of y/n, memory issues, dissociation(?), complete self projection from the author

Dating Clark is the easiest thing you have ever done. He's doting, attentive, kind, and gorgeous. For the first time in your life it seems you've landed a 10/10. Sure, we all have our flaws, but Clarks seem almost miniscule compared to people you've dated in the past. It feels good, maybe a little embarrassing, to be known and cared for like he does for you.

You try your best to return the favor whenever you can. That's the only hard part about your relationship. You don't think Clark's caught on, not that you're hiding your less than efficient brain from him, but you'd also rather not point it out.

Currently Clark is standing beside your desk. He's leaned against the wall in your home office/guest bedroom, chatting and watching you work. He knows you're only half paying attention, just wanting to be in your presence in whatever way possible at the moment.

You're not sure when you completely stopped hearing what he said. When his soft voice turned into muddled droning that you can't quite parse out. It must've been the same time your brain started feeling like lead, when the paper you've been typing started to become gibberish.

Clark notices the moment you stop typing. He's smiling at first, ready to steal your attention for the rest of the day, until he sees your face. His smile pulls into concern.

"You okay?"

"Yeah- sorry, I'm alright. Creative juices just stopped flowing I guess."

More like it was washed away in a river. Every time you try to read the words your brain becomes static, and anything you try to type falls through your fingers before it can reach the page. You glare at your computer screen.

"I need a break." You sigh.

"Good. It was getting lonely talking to myself over here."

You snort. "Shut up Clark."

You probably should've sat down and explained your memory problems to Clark in this moment, he gave you the perfect opening to do it. But no, you brushed it off like you always do, because it didn't seem like that big of a deal. A little brain fog is normal when you work a high stress job like you do.

Still, this didn't become apparent to you until around a week later, when Clark had stayed over.

It's not strange for you to wake up and not know where you are, even when you wake up in your own bedroom. You're so used to it you don't even bat an eye when you sit up dazed and confused. Clark, ever the attentive lover, does though. He notices immediately that something is off.

"Darlin'?"

You look at him cluelessly. You have no clue where you are, and you don't know who this man is. He seems awfully familiar with you, he is sleeping in bed with you, and he doesn't seem nefarious. You're sure you'd know if he was, even though in this moment you don't know anything.

"I don't know where I am." You say flatly.

You don't ask for help, because you don't need it. Nothing is familiar to you, but you feel like you know it anyway. Even Clark's large hand on your forehead only feels like a distant piece of a memory, even though he's right here.

"You feeling okay?"

You shrug, and slide out of bed. Clark follows on your heels like a herding dog.

It's not until you step out of your bedroom and into the rest of your apartment that everything rushes back. It's like a bulb in your brain ticks on, shedding light on all your memories. You also haven't forgotten that a very concerned Clark is hovering over your back as you stand in the middle of your living room.

"Darlin'?" He asks again.

"I'm okay." You groan, embarrassed. "Sorry that was a whole- thing. I don't know. Sorry for worrying you."

"Thing?"

So you start to talk. You explain how you lapse in memory pretty frequently. You explain how he saw it for the first time in your office last week. You explain how it seemed to pop up out of nowhere one day, and you've been dealing with it long enough that it doesn't stress you out anymore. It's just a part of your life now.

Clark is clearly not satisfied by your explanation.

"So you've never gone to the doctor for it, even once?"

"No. I don't know how to explain what I feel. It's not like it happens outside my own house very often, so I figured it's fine."

You don't mention the multiple times you've completely forgotten where your house is, as well as your address, and had to ask a friend for help. Bringing it up wouldn't be very indicative of your point.

Clark's jaw drops. "You don't even want to find out what's wrong?"

"It's not a big deal."

"N-Not a big deal? 'Not a big deal' she says."

"It really isn't. I'm managing it, just leave it alone, okay?"

He doesn't bring it up again, but his eyes trail you until he goes home. They're big and blue and sad. It makes you feel a little guilty, almost guilty enough to let him stay another night, but you feel like you've been scrutinized enough for a few days.

After this he somehow becomes even more aware of you. He seems to always notice when the fog slips in, even before you do. He treats you like normal, and explains things if you ask questions. It's nice. You even prefer this new arrangement over him ignoring it entirely.

One day, when he was back over at your apartment, really only staying for dinner, but half the time when he says that he ends up spending the night. You felt the fog come over your mind, sluggish and blurry. You were in the middle of cooking, which you should know, the stove is on, there's a pan in your hand, you can smell the food cooking, but you can't seem to figure out what you're doing.

Clark, as of sensing something wrong, is behind you in a second. His arms wrap around you from behind, and he rests his chin on your head. You can feel low vibrations of his chest as he talks.

"You doing okay?"

"I can't remember what I'm doing."

You know it's obvious. You know you should be able to connect the dots, but you're lost. It's like you can't even begin to figure out what you're looking at, despite standing in your own kitchen.

"That's okay." He kisses your cheek, and lifts you onto the counter. "I'll take it from here."

The pan is removed from your hands and you're content to watch your boyfriend shuffle around your kitchen. The longer you sit there, the more that comes back to you, but you're still content to just watch. Clark's doing a good job, he looks in his element, domestic. It's good. You feel good.

Normally after a lapse like that you'd be scrambling to salvage your burned pans, or trying to force your brain back on track. Now though, you feel safe enough to take it slow, to let yourself come back on your own. That's something you've never had before.

For a moment, you're stuck staring at your boyfriend. Your vision shortens to only focus on him. The way his back muscles move, his slightly wavy hair, his fingers gripping your pan. You feel so overtaken with adoration that it suffocates you.

"Clark?" You call.

"Mhm?"

"I love you."

His eyes flick away from the stove to focus on you. His pupils seem to swell, much larger and faster than any humans would- like a cat's eye. His whole face softens and his shoulders go slack with it, like the weight of the world has dropped off them.

"I love you too." He plants a kiss on your forehead, and turns back to the food, slightly more relaxed than before.

Hey guys, does anyone know what the fuck is wrong with me /hj. But like dead ass. One time I completely forgot where I was in my bathroom while I was washing my hands and for the life of me couldn't figure out why TF the sink water was running, despite my hands being covered in soap.

I have a burn on my arm from grabbing a pizza pan with oven mitts on, but mid action forgot how to hold the pan and just fucking held it and let it burn me and I couldn't figure out why my arm hurt.

Don't get me started with how hard writing can be for me. Dear. God. This is complete self projection, I need this man NOW.

｡⁠☆Requests Open

[starrlighttheestud1]

The violence that is heavily and often perpetrated against studs and mascs sickens me. For the last few days my TikTok fyp has been loaded with response videos to the guy who made a video saying it’s “Bodyslam A Stud Day” countless of my stud and femme mutuals have been saying that videos like that promote violence and hate crimes against studs and that if needed studs will defend themselves. Well as they always do, misogynistic, lesbophobic men have been in the comment sections of these videos trying to frame the trend as “just a joke” and creating bullshit hypotheticals and fairytales trying to justify being able to beat up studs all in the name of “You wanna be men so bad, so were going to treat you like men” infuriates me. I often discuss this issue with both cishet and non cishet friends and family about how many bigoted cishets view studs as “its” and like an alien-like third gender. We are viewed as ugly and mentally unwell dykes “cosplaying” as men, too masculine to ever be considered women until it fits their lesbophobic rhetoric we then get viewed as “lost” women who need to be “reminded” of our place within the patriarchy, that we should be feminized and “factory reset” aka corrective raped straight. When you factor in fatphobia, colorism, and transphobia it’s a lethal combo that many black queer women deal with online and IRL. I want to remind my fellow studs, androgynous presenting women, transmacs, gnc, and femmes that despite whatever hateful, sickening comments we get in public or online, we are amazing beings who have mastered the skill of living in duality (masculine and feminine) don’t change yourself, don’t allow disrespect, continue to take up space, and if absolutely necessary take up arms and defend the humanity of yourself and other members of our community. After all, we’re all we’ve got!

[transfemme-shelterdog]

I have a bit (a lot) of a porn addiction and I've been hating the way it makes me feel and the guilt of getting off to things that shouldn't be arousing to me (like shit that negatively affects me mentally) so I've been trying to break the addiction. I decided to see what resources might be available on Tumblr because seeing other peoples' stories is more helpful to me than reading an article that rehashes the same shit every other article does for the 27th time.

Every. Single. Post. Is tagged with some variation of "radfem safe" or "terfs interact" or something. Like why???? I want to find NORMAL people sharing their success stories or what worked for them. I don't want to be bombarded with "men are evil, porn is evil, this is all trans peoples' fault" (somehow??? Idk how its trans peoples' fault but according to them it is).

Like I get the porn industry is misogynistic and pedophilic and lots of those "actors" dont want to be there/are forced. But I already know all this. Its one of the reasons I'd like to step away. So it'd be so cool if people could just tell me how to do that??? I dont need radfems telling me to kill myself because I saw a boob online once. Like jfc. They also only focus on women in porn and how women are always the victims but I usually watch gay male stuff or just solo male stuff. So everything they're saying is even more useless than usual. Like are some of these men not victims too?? Apparently not to them. Which is insane.

There's a significant overlap between anti-porn feminism, and radical feminism.

Both deal with issues of black and white thinking that doesn't allow for any nuance. Are some people exploited? Sure. That's capitalism.

Is me posting pics of my tits on Tumblr an indication that I'm being exploited? No. I do it because I want to. But radfems think that *all* porn is bad. Which is a ridiculous assertion.

I have very mixed feelings on the concept of "porn addiction" as a woman who had Christmas ruined by my mother breaking my father's ribs (not an exaggeration, he got xrays and the hospital said they were broken) because she found out he liked looking at porn here and there, and it almost lead to their divorce because of his "addiction".

So, as a person who has heard all about porn "addiction" from my parents, the only advice I can give you is that you're gonna have a hard time finding resources that either aren't "Porn is evil" or "Looking at porn taints your soul and makes it so you'll never have sex again, so turn to Jesus".

If you truly think you have an addiction (you're neglecting your daily duties and responsibilities, and putting yourself in financial trouble because of porn), treat it like any addiction and when the urges arise, work on a hobby. That's what alcoholics do. They wanna drink? They hit the gym, or go do woodworking.

Occupy your time with other things, and you'll be too busy to jerk off.

[kick-a-long]

Mamdani being mayor or nyc. Obviously he’s an antisemite, he’s less obviously (but still convincingly) pro terrorism, but these things are not what primary voters cared about. They wanted a socialist to come in and make the quality of life cheaper and better as their gift to the poor who didn’t vote for mamdani. /S

Why would the poor not vote in droves for mamdani’s magical market model to fix all their woes? Because it’s bullshit. And not even the populous slam dunk of blame rich Jew lawyers, Jew bankers, Jew landlords and Jew bosses is enough to convince them otherwise.

First, mamdani has a vanishingly small chance of getting anywhere with any of his promises. He’s a baby in politics who knows no one of consequence and has no favors to trade.

Second, every promise he’s made would have the opposite of its promised outcome:

Set up free grocery stores? They will be a nightmare to run and stock (and frankly will be the target of scalpers who will just go in and buy up the subsidized products and sell them around town at market price with fake products mixed in.) they will fuck with the bodaga system, which is the local small business markets, as unlicensed resellers expand throughout the city and won’t need to contend with inspections and reputation of a brick and mortar store. They will get seriously hurt, they were already on life support and being kept alive by selling skunk weed and illegal vapes.

Freeze rents? The point is to bring rent down right? Well rent is high because landlords don’t want to deal with tenants or repair costs keeping old housing off the market and more importantly developers don’t want to lose money do there’s no new houses going up. You effectively tell the owners of houses not to rent them and the makers of new houses not to build in nyc.

Congrats 🎉 rich intellectual people! You tried punishing “non intellectual rich people” but only managed to further punish poor people and immigrants!! Fuck you!

It’s the same story with all his bullshit promises. This isn’t even considering how complicated keeping nyc running is. He’s absolutely not qualified to do that. Literally just getting the garbage taken out and the parks safe and open to everyone is spectacularly hard let alone the current gathering storms of nyc’s failing prisons, subways (which are controlled by the state not the city), terrorism prevention, water pipes, gas lines, highways like the BQE, legal cases, tax base, and budget.

I hate him for being a Jew hating terrorism promoting knob of shit. I also understand enough economics to know he’s at best going to do nothing, either way running the city into the ground by neglecting to addressing existential issues that are close to breaking point.

If you need to vote for a socialist, for the love of god please make sure they aren’t the kind who thinks setting their bed on fire in the middle of winter is a good way to save on gas heating.

[readingismyhobby24]

It always hurts so much when the people who are supposed to care about you the most just....don't. but they say they do and yet it just doesn't feel like it. And I wish it didn't affect me as much as it does, but it really does and I don't know what to do about it. I've put EVERYTHING I have into them when I wished I would have put it into something else. Something that would have had an actual positive outcome in the end. I want to live my life and not have to CONSTANTLY fear about messing up.

( more venting is in the tags)

[julietcpulet]

i still keep seeing people use "maomao can't say no to jinshi" as an excuse to justify why jinshi is a predator and maomao a victim and they use his outrageous actions in LN 8 + maomao's response to his confession in LN 7 (his words were essentially a command when spoken out loud)

and it boggles me because????? at this point maomao KNOWS who jinshi is??? she knows he is kind and he would never order her death and would never trap her in a cage so why are these people still under some delusion that maomao THINKS she has no choice but to accept jinshi's words when literally the very start of the story maomao has done nothing but disrespect and refuse to listen to him. why now of all times do people bring up his princely commands when it comes to his pursuit for maomao?

is maomao lying to herself and these people just happen to fall for it as well? she can't say no because of their time period, but she's done worse things than saying "no" to a prince. why bring up the issue now? i just get so shell shocked with these people that i find it hard to respond.

I get the frustration. Basically, I believe this point always comes back to a general need to make one person the oppressor and the other the oppressed. Apothecary Diaries isn’t that simple of a narrative, however. Both characters are shown to have struggles, difficulties and things they must overcome. Neither is completely in control or has the power at any given time. The point being that power is often in the eye of the beholder. While Jinshi may have the power in the eyes of society, it’s clear that in his eyes Maomao is often in control and he would do almost anything to help and make her life better if possible.

As such these moments you mention are worth expanding on to show how there's much more context to them that adds to the importance of the moments themselves and why the overall power imbalance argument falls flat.

The LN 7 moment - Regarding what happens with Jinshi supposedly using a commanding tone when saying he would make Maomao his wife, both he and her start off this conversation overtired from dealing with everything surrounding the supposed poisoning of the shrine maiden. They’re both at their limit so for once actually manage to have a somewhat sincere conversation due to not having their usual inhibitions since they’re fatigued. He gets exasperated at her evading him again so makes a comment about Luomen which riles her up considering she’s just disagreed with him which doesn’t happen often.

Maomao’s ears started ringing. Jinshi was tired; she knew that. He had nowhere to vent his frustrations, and he had a great many frustrations to vent, and on top of that he was suffering from lack of sleep. Any other time, he might have taken more care. Might have known not to say what he said. Yet said it he had. - Today she’d had that rarest of things, a difference of opinion with her father. Jinshi had seized on it. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who was tired. Maomao hadn’t been sleeping so well herself. And at last she exploded.

This is where Maomao shows a rare moment of confronting Jinshi with her own feelings and provokes him first. As usual though she’s still off base acting like he needs to come out and clearly state what he wants like it’s not clear considering she does already know.

“You’re forever telling me I need to use my words, Master Jinshi, but are you in any position to criticize? Everything you say to me, everything you do, it’s like it’s calculated to save you from ever having to actually say what you mean! - Well, in my opinion, he could have avoided all that heartbreak if he’d told the woman how he felt. Clearly, unequivocally, so that she knew where they stood. It was the least he could have done!”

But aside that point, Maomao is the one who initiated here and Jinshi is in no way forceful in saying what he does, he’s simply responding to her insinuation that he’s not honest about what he wants.

He got up off the bed and stared down at Maomao. Shit. Now I’ve done it. She’d given him a piece of her mind, and he was about to give her one back. “So I should be clear, should I? Unequivocal? I should say what I mean? If I did, would you actually listen to me? Is that what you’re telling me? I’m going to hold you to that! Right this minute. I’ll say it all. Don’t plug your ears—listen to me!”

Even Maomao knows she started it by initiating this conversation, by pushing him when they both needed sleep. She admits at the beginning that Jinshi’s personality doesn’t lend towards him goading her for a fight usually or being the one to say rude things. It’s her prodding that brings him to say this out in the open. So the imbalance here is on Jinshi’s side. Where he had been working towards Maomao becoming his wife without saying so to her directly. Both of them knowing but neither saying, it’s actually Maomao who gets him to state it directly and then acts as if he’s at fault when in reality she’s the one who caused the conversation to escalate. She’s the one telling a Prince to define their relationship and he’s the one who says he will protect her by waiting until he can find a way to assuage her fears.

Finally he managed, “Now listen to me, y—I mean, Maomao! Listen close! I am going to make you my wife!” - “Be that as it may, you’re right that with things as they stand, making you my wife could only harm you. Neither of us wants that.” - “For you, I will remove every obstacle that keeps us apart. One day. Just know that.” - “I won’t let what you fear come to pass. I swear it.”

Him saying he wants to make her his wife is a way of phrasing, not meant to be that he will literally “make” her but that he intends for her to become his wife in the future, which is clear by his following words about the timing not being right because it would cause harm. In the end Maomao is the more confrontational of the two and Jinshi is the one who reveals his heart is still focused on her and what’s best for her in the end even if it means patiently waiting.

The LN 8 branding - The moment where Jinshi brands himself had as much to do with Jinshi and his being removed from succession as it did with his relationship with Maomao. It’s a heated scene with several players involved but all can see that Maomao was actually pivotal in finally moving Jinshi to take action where before he had become somewhat passive in removing himself as the successor to the throne. As pointed out by Gyokuyou:

Gyokuyou, however, only gave her a pitying look and shook her head. “Maomao, I think you’re half responsible for this.”

Maomao is what finally gave Jinshi the catalyst and in many ways the bravery to want to finally declare in no uncertain terms that he does not want to be Emperor. By falling in love with her and then having her express a fear of becoming Gyokuyou’s enemy, this led to Jinshi finding a way to both calm her fears and separate himself from the throne. Maomao had felt she could not deny Gyokuyou when she was being prsssured into returning as her lady-in-waiting so Jinshi taking it upon himself to brand himself as basically her slave and declare he is not her enemy while at the same time wanting Maomao as his wife is a line in the sand.

Jinshi looked at her. “Empress, I know you were hoping Maomao could be your serving woman forever, but perhaps I could ask you to relinquish that dream. Now that I have this mark, I can’t let just anyone see my body.” - “My wife will have to be a woman I can trust implicitly.”

He’s putting himself between Maomao and Gyokuyou, in this case using his power to protect her and keep her from being in the difficult position of refusing a friend and the current Empress, both precarious situations he knows she does not want to be in. Ironically this whole scene also shows us how Maomao can feel towards royalty when they push forward their true personalities. Jinshi came into that moment willing to endure even more than a direct punch to the face but it’s Maomao who feels fear and out of control watching the Emperor be enraged towards him.

There was a clatter so loud it shook the large table, and Maomao felt her hair stand on end. Some meat buns rolled off a plate. The source of the shaking? The Emperor, who had pounded the table with his fist. His expression, usually genial, if noncommittal, was a mask of anger. Please don’t!

People’s comments about Maomao being dragged into the situation because Jinshi puts her under his arm near the end of the scene and she expresses her discomfort are merely misunderstanding Maomao’s supreme discomfort at interacting with royalty at all. Again, it’s not her aversion to Jinshi personally, it’s status that scares her. But this whole moment is about Jinshi starting the path to eliminating that obstacle between them entirely. As we can see when he burns himself, Maomao could care less then about who is in the room and their dispirate level of status.

There was only one thing for Maomao to do. The extremely high temperature of the burn prevented much bleeding, but it was still red and swollen. She doused her handkerchief in cold water and pressed it against Jinshi’s side. She looked around the room, searching desperately for oil and beeswax, and anything that could treat a burn. Angry that she had no tools to work with, she took an expensive-looking bowl off the shelf and started crushing the oil and beeswax together. She didn’t care if the bowl broke or the spoon shattered. She didn’t have time to care.

She’s solely focused on Jinshi, almost radiating a panic to treat him. So any arguments that she was begging to leave or was unable to are untrue if you understand that Maomao’s actions betray her true feelings of the situation which is her subconscious concern for Jinshi. To drive the point home, when they’re left alone, Jinshi is frustrated that Maomao will not even then acknowledge part of why he did what he did, yet he allows her to press him still, despite him being the one in immense pain with a severe burn.

“Shut up and let me treat you. Sir.” Jinshi stuck out his lower lip. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, you know.” “Well, that’s not my problem; I’m an apothecary. Let me do my work.” On this point, she wouldn’t budge. It had been Jinshi’s show earlier, but she wasn’t going to let him push her around now.

And Maomao proves she has no trouble bossing him around when she flicks him on the forehead and tells him to shut up, both things she wouldn’t do if she truly cared about status. She’s the one who comes to the conclusion he likely thought this through and then acted, willing to accept what came of it. Also saying that like her he would fight back against his circumstances, showing that her lack of fighting back against Jinshi proves she doesn’t feel the need to because this situation with him isn’t something she is truly opposed to despite her inconsistent protesting.

I sure as hell wouldn’t have put up with it. Neither, it seemed, would Jinshi. Just like Maomao, he would fight back, try to escape. But unlike Maomao, he would do more than simply let his emotions run away with him, let his feelings dictate his actions. He was a person who thought things through, and at the end of all his thinking, he had come to a most Jinshi-like conclusion—and had acted on it.

Power Imbalance - The status issue gets brought up with Maomao and Jinshi most frequently due to a modern view of how people think relationships work. Girlboss mentality and wanting men and women to share the same roles has led to the idea that if a man has any kind of power or status more than a woman he must therefore be abusing it to hurt her. There’s no room for the thought that a male character could be written with proper characteristics of a future husband that uses his strength, power and protective instincts to do what is best for those in his care, namely the woman he loves.

For Jinshi and Maomao, the power imbalance issue is non-existent between them as far as they’re concerned. Although it may exist in the world of the novel and historically in the context they live in, Maomao and Jinshi have broken this dynamic repeatedly since they met and both are comfortable with it. As I’ve shown with both moments above and there are even more in the novels, often Maomao is the one who ends up in “control” so to speak because Jinshi, although having the outward societal power, hands Maomao control in the relationship because he values and respects her opinion. He doesn’t diminish what she says, who she is or what she wants. In fact he spends much time and effort trying to work towards goals that will honor her.

People who claim that there is a power imbalance have not seen that although Jinshi is earnestly pursuing Maomao and trying to achieve the best way for them to be together, if that doesn’t happen he is also willing to let her go instead of subjecting her to the palace life. On the opposite side Maomao has been given opportunities to leave Jinshi and instead has chosen to take whatever comes and make the best of the situation. She also understands that Jinshi has no interest in the status he has so the idea he would use it against her to manipulate her is not within his personality.

Maomao was fully aware that Jinshi saw his own status as nothing more than a burden.

Thinking that she’s merely being dragged along isn’t understanding her as a strong-willed person who wouldn’t allow anyone else to take her anywhere unless she wanted to be there. And Jinshi has proven himself worthy of her trust so much so that he’s one of the only people she’s able to break decorum with, be quirky around and speak her mind to. Their relationship is not about imbalance but about two people who use their individual strengths and talents to complement the other and find the perfect balance.

In the end some people just don’t want to look past the surface level of a story and read the nuance to see the beauty beneath. This causes a lot of misunderstandings in the narrative and of the characters as a whole. Apothecary Diaries has characters that are realistic, flawed and take time to grow through making mistakes and learning. That’s what makes it interesting but it means you can’t instantly be offended about one scene until you’ve looked and seen if that part might have more complexity to it. Overall though my best advice is if these haters are too bothersome, just pass on by their posts and enjoy the lovely Jinmao content where people lift them up. After all, that’s the best way to promote what’s best about the story if we enjoy it is to also promote others who are sharing it. Hope this answer helps you and thanks again for the question! 💕

[engineersamuel]

Danny sighed as He felt another summoning, at least this new one was More Professional. reaching out in front of his Desk And tearing open a small Pin prick sized hole in The fabric of reality Danny Looked to see who was summoning him. Seeing a group of people, some in Suits, Others talking, and the Fucking hellblazer Of all people. Danny groaned and Stood up, stepping around the desk and Opening a Full portal and stepping through. Constantine Did not expect The king of the dead to Answer the summoning so quickly, Nor did He expect The King of the dead to Ignore the summoning completely and Open a portal Four feet to the left of the Summoning circle He had prepared. Looking up at the King of the dead was like looking into The cosmos, a Cape of the Stars Flowing without wind behind The king of the dead, With a crown of Dark black ice and a Ring that Looked not to far off from a Lantern's ring, if it was Made by an Emo. "Ah, Mighty King of the Dead, We Seek to ask a few questions from you-" Constantine asked, Being cut off as The King of the dead spoke. "Before you speak any further hellblazer, I Need to say, Your a Pain in the fucking ass. Do you know how much Paperwork I have? I'm up to my neck in damn Soul Contracts because of your fuckery," No one quite expected the formal Kingly speak to drop off a cliff For a Pissed off Miswesterner's speaking Pattern to take over and berate Constantine. Zatanna Stepped forward, Moving in front of Constantine And Speaking up right as The King of the Dead took a Non Needed breath. "uh, G-great Phantom, Keeper of balance, Please, we only want to talk about the Cultist Summonings that Have happened this past few months. You have been answering them and we Would just like to Know what your doing with the Cultists?" Zatanna kept a calm level of eye contact with The King of the dead, and was hopping to defuse the situation before it got worse. "mh... Fine," The King of the Dead Huffed, Almost like an annoyed teen, then letting the Kingly persona Drape over him with ease. "Yes i have been Answering the summons, Most Of the cultists you speak of have been dealt with. Most of the crazy ones that is." "the First month of summons Were... the same, Demands of Immortality, Cleansing the world, A few Smaller ones Performed for More minor reasons. But I don't want to spend the rest of my Eternity dealing with whiny Cultists. So I made a Domain for them. Those who want to 'cleanse' the world are sent there, A dreamworld that Molds to their whims, So they may experiance the Hell they want to Bring." "as for those Demanding Immortality? I Remove their souls from Their bodies and Place them into A Prison in the Infinite realms, Once I deem the time right they will be released as Subjects of The Infinite realms." The Ghost king waited for a Moment, Allowing batman to speak up when the caped crusader walked to stand In front of him. "Why are you doing this? what do you have to gain from Answering the Summons?" The ghost king Sighed, taking a moment as he Pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because you all can't deal with the crazies. I found a way to deal with them, They do not die. They are not ended. They are dealt with. If you have an issue, then Stuff it. You don't have A hundred summons a day do you? I Made a way to deal with each of them in the best way i could, And Look at what its done." "Now there are no more Crazies For you all to deal with. Those who have More than a few screws Tightened down are Thinking through what they Really want to try with me." The ghost king turned, walking back towards the Open portal he entered through, turning back for a moment To say, "And Constantine, No more soul Contracts, I already have a Majority of your soul, so I swear on Clockwork's name if you Make any damn more i will drag you to the ghost zone myself and let Fright Knight use you as a Sparing partner for a few thousand years." The ghost

Deal or No Deal

Danny, after he became Ghost King, was often summoned. After a time he got tired of the constant ‘cleanse the world’ and ‘give me immortality’ summons. At first he always refused them, as he had no need to kill when all would become his subjects eventually anyway. Then he thought of a plan which would hopefully change things.

So, using his domain as the Ancient of Space he created the Existing Prison. It was a world that only he had access to, that kept all who stayed in it existing until he released them. He used his power to slip plenty of warnings about the price of asking a protector for things not in his domain. Then he started to accept the immortality askers deal. He would kill their mortal forms and place their soul into the new cage. They could continue to exist for as long as they wanted. He would decide when to release their soul to their chosen afterlife on a case by case basis.

As for the world cleansers, he created another world for that, in combination with Nocturn and Clockwork. It was a shifting world. Those placed inside would be in a waking dream. They would get everything they wanted while living out the remainder of their mortal life span. The dream they lived was shaped by Clockwork’s time ability. If their desired cleansing made the world end then they would live through the nightmare.

He had quickly noticed a difference in the amount of summonings after he started his new policy. It seems removing all the crazies made a marked difference. The ones that paid attention to his warning got to continue as is, and those who didn’t were removed so as not to cause anymore trouble. It actually helped fulfill his Protection Obsession.

Then he met the Justice League. Having to explain that just because he was The Benevolent King didn’t mean he wouldn’t remove problems was a headache.

[glitradora]

the lead up to the start of the og afair goes crazy.

They've known eachother for two weeks. They have both been eyefucking for that whole time. They both thought the other was straight for most of that time.

Robert told Aaron more about his daddy issues (masked as Lawrence issues but still) after speaking to him twice than he did to most people in his life.

Aaron never once falters at the fake Boss Voice Robert uses (and this is like a top 3 reason Robert wants to fuck him) then 5 days in Robert finds out Aaron can and will throw him around and manhandle him (top 2 reason)

Day before it happens Aaron invites Robert on a pseudo date that Robert turns down and then gets jealous at next morning. Ya know because Aaron (a dude he's known for 15 days!) went out for drinks anyways without him.

Rob goes home - gets acused of cheating by his fiance again and decides actually you know what if i got the reputation already WHY NOT (he's been sleeping with her sister behind her back the whole time).

Then he drives to the middle of some country road and CALLS HIS LITTLE SISTER TO HOOK HIM UP WITH AARONS NUMBER.

Aaron, not about to be out crazied, gets a text from an unknown number saying it's Rob and he drops everything on his DAY OFF just to go to him. as fast as possible.

they then both pretend this is all about a car like idiots for like 20 mintues.

They kiss - they almost fuck in the middle of the road in broad sunlight - Robert freaks out.

The episode makes you think it's because he's kissing a man (it's not - we know he's done this before)

In reality it's because holy fuck is he catching feeliNGS?!

Robert goes home and fucks his fiance in the living room even thought they live with her father and 14 year old son

It works so badly at making him forget Aaron he GETS DRESSED RIGHT AWAY just so he can go find Aaron

He waits around the Garage, Aaron's place of work, until the last client leaves.

"you're really starting to annoy me now" "yea likewise"

They fuck in the back of a strangers car - THEY FUCK IN THE BACK OF A STRANGERS CAR

"I'm straight and she doesn't need to know everything about me"

They go back to the pub Aaron sees Robert with Chrissie and immediately hates it. He's so so so jealous. Poor guy. He can't deal with it even slightly. Like 10 minutes before he told Robert it was a one time thing

Robert immidiatly goes home for Round 2 with Chrissie (SIR please drink some water my god)

Episode ends with Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive playing in the background.

I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face I should have changed that stupid lock I should have made you leave your key If I'd have known for just one second you'd be back to bother me

[sillysweetpotato]

★𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒖𝒑 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔.

꒰ pairing: bf,park sunghoon x gf,reader ꒱

꒰ genre: fluff, angst ꒱

꒰ warnings: daddy issues hoonie, venting, kiss, comforting ꒱

꒰ word count: 569꒱

꒰ note: this is my first fic here, hope y'all like it.꒱

It’s almost 1AM when you hear the knock. Not loud, just three short raps, the kind only someone who knows your rhythm would use.

You’re in pajamas, wrapped in a blanket, eye makeup smudged because you forgot to take it off earlier. You open the door. There he is. Park Sunghoon, your boyfriend of 6 months now. Black hoodie, hair messy, eyes heavy. No smile.

“Babe, what happened?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just walks past you like it’s his place, toes off his shoes with lazy precision, and drops onto your couch like gravity’s been too much lately.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles. “It was too quiet.”

You blink.“You live alone.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

You stand there, holding the door like an idiot, heart doing that annoying flip thing.He glances at you, finally,eyes soft, mouth flat.

“You gonna close the door or let mosquitoes in?”

You shut it. Toss him the spare blanket. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t have to.

Then without saying anything else, you walk up to him and sit besides him.

"I hate when people whom I share everything with don't do the same." You muttered, flatly.

"I thought you only shared everything with me?"

"Exactly."

This earned a mirthless chuckle from him and he ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture you had always found hot.

"It's your dad again, isn't it?"

For a moment, neither of you added to that question, until he finally decided to.

"Yeah. It's just- i, i can never be what he wants me to be. I can never be the perfect son who's a doctor, the son he anticipates to meet, the son who makes him proud, the son he can brag about... it's all just too much for me. I just want to be somewhere peacefully. With you. With them. Oh, how i wish I could wake up someday without the weight of expectations already making me dizzy. And i- i feel so pathetic. I know it's your midterms. I know that you are busy. And yet I had the audacity to come here and talk to you. And no, it's not because you say the right things or anything like that, it's because whatever you do seems right to me at the moment, like, you're listening to me so nicely. I feel so heard, so seen. Everything feels right when you give me those eyes. I know I'm weird. And trust me, I am sorry that I'm like this I really a-"

That was it, before he knew, you two were already kissing each other.

"Hoonie, what do you think a perfect son is? A doctor? No. I'm sure he just wants you to be successful. And comeon, we both know it. With your talents and deals from the industry, you will be an idol in no time after graduation. So just be a little patient. Your dreams are not running away anywhere. They were always yours and will always be yours and yours only. So cherish them and be patient with them, they take time to come true. Till them, you can continue being the perfect boyfriend instead of the perfect son."

You kissed his shoulder softly before resting your head there again.

"Ofcourse, I was right when I thought that this was where I needed to come."

You giggled and he rested his head on yours gently.

[aventurineswife]

Hellooo 👋

May I request any of your OCs that you'd like + Aventurine and Ratio with a reader with severe anger issues? So basically reader had a rough couple of days which resulted in them just isolating themselves in a room to cool off alone with some work (not the best way to get rid of anger, but it works for them). The character doesn't know about this rough patch and comes home about a few minutes after reader isolates themselves. They try entering the room where reader is, resulting in them having a book thrown at them + the reader tells them to get out. Fast forward their next meeting where, in an awkward atmosphere, the reader tries to apologize. 🫶

“Scream, Then Stay”

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Auron (OC) x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Fallout, Post-Angst Reconciliation, Established Relationship, Comfort After Conflict, Soft Men Being Soft, Supportive Partners, Throwing Objects as Emotional Coping, Gentle Apologies.

Warnings: Emotional outbursts, Implicit stress/mental fatigue, Minor aggression (throwing objects, shouting), Mentions of burnout/overwhelm, Implied past trauma or chronic stress (non-graphic).

A/N: I have too many OCs who could've worked well with this req 😭🙏, but I went with the one who suited it the most. Feel free to ask about Auron if you'd like!

You locked the study door, drawing the blackout curtains. The room plunged into the kind of stillness only familiar to someone who needed silence to not snap.

You had just opened your laptop when you heard the front door open.

“Darling, I’m home! Did the market rally while I was gone or—”

BAM. Aventurine nearly got hit by a flying pen holder the moment he tried opening the study door.

“GET. OUT.”

“…Oh.” His voice, for once, lost its theatrics.

He backed away, murmuring something under his breath about “hostile takeovers.”

He didn’t try the door again. Just slipped a folded card underneath that read:

‘Don’t worry, I’ll hedge my bets elsewhere for now. Call me when the market’s less volatile.’

Later, you found him sprawled across the couch, still in full IPC regalia, tophat still perched on his head.

“I, uh…” you began awkwardly. “Wasn’t personal. Just had a really crap few days and exploded.”

“Exploded? Darling, that was investor panic in physical form.”

You winced. “I’m really sorry.”

Aventurine gave you a long look before patting the couch beside him.

You sat.

“…You did dent my pride a little,” he said, feigning a pout. “I haven’t dodged a projectile that fast since the Penacony roulette incident.”

You snorted.

“But,” he said more softly, brushing his fingers across your hand, “next time, just say ‘I’m pissed off and need space.’ I won’t gamble on your mood then.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Deal?”

“Only if I get a kiss as collateral.”

The air was thick with shadow, the kind that curled at the edges of furniture and clung to silence like a second skin. Auron’s footsteps echoed softly as he entered the dim apartment. Something felt off—no soft greeting, no snarky comment from the kitchen. Just... silence.

He found the bedroom door shut, unusual for you. And locked.

“Darling?” he tried, voice dipped in a velvet tone of concern.

No answer.

He touched the handle again.

Click. The door unlatched from the inside—but only to open slightly. A book came flying out like a guided missile.

He caught it midair, eyebrows lifting at the force.

“Get out!” your voice cracked from the other side. Hoarse. Angry. Raw.

The door slammed.

Auron stood there for a long moment, thumbing the spine of the book. A well-worn journal. He could still smell your scent on the pages.

He didn’t knock again. Just left a soft whisper of shadow curling by the door—an echo of him saying: “Alright... but I’m here.”

Later, you found him reclining on the balcony, legs propped up on the edge of a chair, flame flickering lazily between his fingers.

You cleared your throat.

He looked up, eyes gold and unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “For the book. And the yelling. And the being a complete rage-goblin.”

Auron tilted his head, gaze softening. “Did you throw that book at me, or the world?”

“...What?”

“Because if it was me, I probably deserved it. But if it was the world—” he leaned forward, “—I’ll help you set it on fire.”

You blinked. Then cracked a breathy laugh.

He stood, walked to you, and cupped your jaw.

“Next time you want to scream, scream at me. Or near me. Or just let me listen.”

“…You’re not mad?”

“I’ve done worse with poetry anthologies,” he smirked.

Ratio stepped into your shared home, removing his gloves with precise movements. The moment he reached your study, however, he was greeted by—

Whack!

A hardcover on metaphysics narrowly missed his face.

“Leave me alone!” you shouted.

He paused, inspecting the cover. Volume VII of the Veritas Anthology.

“Hmm. At least you chose a book with weight.”

He didn’t force the conversation. Just left you alone with your storm.

Later, you approached him in the library, where he was rearranging scrolls by date and relevance.

“I, um… owe you an apology. For trying to knock you out with your favorite book.”

Ratio didn’t look up. “Volume VII is not my favorite. But I accept the apology.”

You hesitated.

He finally glanced at you, his expression unreadable.

“I’ve deduced you had a series of unpleasant experiences. Likely stress-related. You’re not a volatile person by nature.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Only to those who know you intimately.” He paused, then added, “But I would prefer verbal warnings next time over bibliographic projectiles.”

You smiled faintly. “Duly noted, Doctor.”

He handed you the very book you’d thrown. “Next time you feel rage—throw this at a target dummy. Or at me, if it helps. I can analyze the angle of impact for emotional depth.”

“…You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you remain.” His voice, quiet and warm, carried more apology than your own.

[seewetter]

If we take a step back, we can see that fantasy can have a broad definition that includes things like surrealism or a narrower definition in which describing a fantastical setting whose characteristics remain mostly stable throughout the story is expected.

If someone is writing something that is stream-of-consciousness imaginative or highly abstract, dreamlike, then I don't necessarily expect the author to deal with ramifications of the setting (though it's totally possible, and possibly quite interesting, if someone writes about slavery and textiles in a dreamlike or disconnected way!)

If the story is set in a concrete setting, then our discussion gets complicated:

Part of the reason it gets complicated is that fantasy authors are products of their environment. That is to say that some fantasy writers will make things like slavery a topic of their writing even if they don't draw connections to economic specifics if slavery is a topic that matters to them, while other fantasy writers won't address the likely existence of slavery even if the textile industry in their world looks glaringly like something that would be built on a slave economy.

The reality is that the reason writers should do research on questions like these is because it's (a) morally right to do so and (b) people who want to see this topic addressed will appreciate it.

In my experience, the outcome of fantasy writing advice like Tough Guide to Fantasyland, where racism and misogyny are not confronted as ethical issues but instead purely taken issue with as boring stereotypes and cliches leads to people finding feminist ideas or anti-racist ideas "cliche" after a while. And I would say the same applies to describing ethically dubious writing as badly crafted -- it doesn't encourage people to actively think about how to avoid take ethical responsibility in their writing, instead it gives them the impression that certain things are "badly crafted" and then they proceed to mess up elsewhere.

I would also say that the OP (warthogreporter) describes an approach to worldbuilding that I think isn't simply "obsession".

Okay, look: I agree that obsessive worldbuilding, worldbuilding that takes someone years, is an unrelated hobby to writing. Tolkien is admired for it, but most fantasy authors, even the most successful and beloved ones, don't go that route and save themselves a lot of trouble and a lot of wasted time.

But warthogreporter is describing something more fundamental: to construct an entertaining story, I mainly need to have a few ideas that excite me enough that I'm willing to write about them. To what degree do these ideas need fleshing out? Well, I wouldn't think in degrees, I would think about specific outcomes: is your climactic finale interesting and does it have something to say? Do your characters tie into this fantasy you have of your world -- do they have goals that fit this environment? And do you have some good ideas (or some intriguing language or details) to sell specific events that happen as your story picks up steam? If this is a story with lots of magic battles, it makes sense to figure out how to keep the magic interesting: who or what (creature or circumstance or physical/metaphysical limitation) prevents magic from instantly ending a magic battle? What strategies do the participants in these battles have to think about? Are there things they can run out of throughout the battle?

I say this because the finale is going to leave a final and lasting impression, the goals are what allows a story to move forward (because people without goals tend to be passive, while people with goals tend to do stuff) and events are what keeps things interesting throughout.

Additionally, you can obviously come up with other fun ideas and pepper them throughout. Maybe you love languages so you're going to design vocabularies or writing systems. Maybe you love beasts so you come up with new creatures and creative behaviours.

But a lot of fantasy writers don't think much about how their finale or character goals or events work and instead prefer to think of their fantasy world as a sort of simulation that runs in the background. They don't have languages because they love languages, they have languages because it's "the thing to do". They don't spend time on geography because this is a story about climbing dangerous mountains, they spend time on geography because "it has to work". It doesn't matter if they're obsessed with it or spend much time on it, their fundamental understanding of why things may matter misses the mark.

When I was young, I played a game called Guild Wars Prophecies. I loved the worldbuilding, for reasons I misunderstood. For example: I thought that this world was better than, say, World of Warcraft, because "it has two dwarven factions instead of one" and that this made the world more fleshed out than a single dwarven faction. But this is nonsense: what I was reacting to was that this is a game where your character, recently having become a refugee and escaping horrific disaster is crossing dwarven lands to get to a southern country -- but crossing the dwarf territories is deeply difficult, because the dwarves are in a civil war, North versus South, on the issue of slavery (the north is against slavery and tries to protect you and other refugees from the slavers). In other words, the worldbuilding works not because it is innovative or detailed or realistic or fleshed out (I think you can guess which civil war they shamelessly used for parts in their story) but instead, because the game placed the audience into the mind of a character trying to flee a country to get to freedom and confronts that character with slavers who could take that freedom away...and forces that character to move ever-closer to slaver territory to leave all the horrors behind. The dwarves are interesting because they impact character (and player) goals and because events are taking place...the dwarves aren't just showing you their dead, abandoned mine filled with goblins and they aren't just showing you their flintlock weapons or whatever else dwarves often do. They are at war, and this big event generates countless side quests, where the anti-slaver dwarves hire you for scouting or sabotage jobs or rescue missions.

A lot of worldbuilding advice for TTRPGs like D&D has to include "geography, agriculture, economics, or any other logistics" because the players are trying to understand where they are and where they can go and how long it will take (local geography), need to know the basic lingo to do trade with NPCs, like what is the currency called (economics) and what is on the menu in the tavern, what can we order (agriculture) and other logistics questions (what hierarchies are there in this society, what customs and religious and arcane lore must we know).

Now obviously this goes off the rails quickly as people start suggesting figuring out how bread is made in this society instead of relying on cliches to focus on the main things your game (or story) needs to tackle. If your story is about breadmaking or you want to try some interesting ideas so you look into some stuff, great. But a lot of people seem to think that this will make or break the high bar of quality they want for their story/game/world. They don't realize that describing breadmaking (or ricecakemaking) in detail is like describing all the leaves on a tree so that you have described the tree well. Tolkien, of course, had worldbuilding notes on all leaves in Fangorn forest... No, he didn't.

I say this as someone who wants to see more fantasy worlds with excessively large pantheons and fantasy worlds bursting with weird details. I say this as someone who isn't trying to sell people on a lack of creativity or a stale world. Also I can appreciate that some people put their geography or physics degrees to use to flesh out fantasy worlds in really compelling ways. Like of course I want to read about the story where magic portals being common means that foreign threats can come from within the borders of a country so the big empire has little independent countries within its borders that act as politically neutral buffer states. But that doesn't mean I would appreciate it if fantasy authors got criticized for having portals but ignoring this "reality".

As mentioned above, when it comes to issues of ethics, that's a whole different question. There, criticism is more than fair, but it just isn't necessarily criticism about "lacking research skills" and instead criticism of a lacking engagement with the kind of historic responsibility that underlies not only the act of writing as a real-world activity, but also just being a human being and doing the right thing.

My stance is that if you're a young and/or beginner fantasy writer, you need to stay far away from online fantasy discourse because it will get you obsessing over shit that does not actually matter to anyone other than online nitpickers.

If someone can't read one of the foundational works of fantasy about the importance of seemingly insignificant persons because the map has unrealistic geography, that's actually a them problem. You don't need to research geography, agriculture, economics, or any other logistics so that everything is realistic, you need to tell a story.