#And of course they have to frame it like that because if they didn't the clear domestic violence would be put into question

[paimonthearchivist2]

except for the fact that this "framing" is not mine. read the third (fourth? i cant be fucked checking) reblog and you'll see that this framing was in fact provided to me as the actual explanation behind the "pro-communists" in the original post, sparking my original point. also, im a fucking trans woman myself and "you guys" 1. is not misgendering in any sense, that is not remotely what those words mean in that order and 2. you could've just. said "i dont like being referred to by 'you guys'" and got an apology, but instead you decided to be smug and wrong instead. my apologies for being an asshole during this argument however, i just got told i should die by somebody on this same post making just about the same style of argument so i was understandably pretty salty when people kept taking my words and twisting them. and I don't disagree that orwell was an anti-communist snitch, remotely; this argument only happened because snitching on "pro-communists" while entirely a plausible thing for him to do does not exactly reconcile with his time in Catalonia, and i wanted a source for that and was promptly told it was specifically marxist-leninists (which is completely in character, had the original post been specific i wouldn't have even questioned it. although that is an (unrelated) issue in and of itself) and i made a comment about how the original post probably should have been more specific and said it was marxist-leninists because that is both an extremely important piece of context and also makes it sound completely like orwellian behaviour, in the sense I'd literally be surprised if he didn't do that. but of course the human psyche somehow can't handle mild criticism, so you decided to spend some hour in total making a dumb argument because i said you should have been more specific. still not as bad as the other one who told me they hope i die, of course, so what do i care.

It's called Orwellian because George Orwell wrote a snitch list of people he thought unsuited to working for a propaganda arm of the UK government because he thought they were pro-communist, anti-white, or had homosexual tendencies,

[itstheghostofmypast]

Missed Me?

Husband Choi Jongho x (F)Reader

Summary: Just a grown man missing his wife.

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 1K

Est. Read Time: 5 min

Warnings: None

Rating: SFW

Networks: @cromernet @k-labels @illusionnet

Banner: @cafekitsune

A/N: I was gonna write Yunho's part today, but I dreamt about this and woke up sad- now ya'll gonna feel as delusional as I did.

Your body jerked awake at the sudden warmth, a shaky gasp breaking past your lips as you struggled against the newcomer but you felt him pull you closer mumbling in a hushed voice, “It’s me…sheesh, stop watching those crime documentaries”, causing you to huff in annoyance. You felt your tsundere man wrapping his leg around yours, and drape an arm across your waist, pulling you even closer, his nose buried in your neck, almost wanting you to become one.

“Jjong.” a faint whisper floated in the silence of the night, followed by a cracked hum. The soft cotton enveloping the two of you began to burn up, only for your tired mind to mentally begin the countdown for when your lover would toss it off both of you, using his body heat to keep the two of you warm instead- didn’t even need to count to ten, six seconds in and he had kicked it of the two of you, and much like usual the duvet landed on its usual place, the ground- you’d berate him for this again in the morning, like every morning, but right now something else was on your mind.

It wasn't often, moments like these were often rushed, the nervous touches, fleeting kisses, the gentle but swift caress of his fingers- physical touch was something Jongho was still afraid to use, regardless of how long the two of you had been together for, regardless of how long the two of you had been married for. Much like his emotions, he would keep the physical affection to a minimum. 

For the initial part of the relationship, back in college, you wondered if he was even interested in you, other than that initial confession there was no real intimate indication of his feelings towards you, for quite a while. To some extent you had considered ending the relationship all and all, assuming he perhaps was not comfortable with you, perhaps you did not meet his expectations of an ideal partner, perhaps you two were still too young.

However, when the moment came you lost your nerve, especially when he gave you that sincere smile, his eyes crinkling and twirling like stars, all because you two had crossed your 6-month mark of being together, as he handed you a silly little gift, a polaroid of you two in a small bear keychain frame. That night, for some reason, you had begun to notice the little things about Choi Jongho, how he'd open the door for you but also ask for a payment, often an ‘Oh thank you, what a nice man you are’, how he'd end up pouring water for you even before you'd ask, how when you'd be walking towards the car or even to the restaurant you'd feel the gentle weight of his warm jacket, then see him trudging ahead mumbling to himself, “Why not wear a coat when it's cold?!” 

Let's not forget the time you were cursing yourself for assuming ‘I can do it in one night’ during exam season, causing you to panic too, crying and memorising simultaneously. That very night someone magically appeared at your door, breaking into the girl's dorm, didn't matter to you though, especially when you were enveloped in a bear hug as soon as he saw your teary-eyed face. That night you realised Jongho was very much capable of giving great hugs and of course, a more physical kind of intimacy with him heavily depended on the situation. If it were you who required attention, he'd gently hold you, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, letting you cling onto him- but when he'd cling onto you, that would be a whole other story.

Choi Jongho was a clingy man, especially when he missed you. Something you figured out when you met him post-winter break, having him cling onto you at every opportunity he got, whether it be holding your hand while you were reading or giving you an endless back hug while you were cooking- and you’d be lying if you were to say that was not your favourite kind of Jongho. The kind of Jongho you got to be with on your wedding night, chuckling at the sound of him whining about how he still couldn’t believe this was true and you being you, you never let a single moment go to waste, teasing him about his clinginess whilst clinging back to your baby bear. 

“Missed me Jjong?” Your sleep lusted voice tickled his ears, causing him to huff out in annoyance, causing the bed to tremor, the blanket being pulled up against you as he shifted, turning you around, much to your pleasure, and squeezing you closer. You chuckled at his childish antics, hugging him back, tucking your head under his chin, your hand pressed against his chest, feeling his warm, beating heart, “I missed you too baby bear…” with that you closed your eyes, it was difficult not to when he was so warm, so comfortable, so tender with you. Jongho glanced down to find your smiling face, it was funny how you were asleep, causing him to let out a sigh of relief. He knew the next morning he’d wake up to you nagging at him, yes, you had told him doing overtime would just tire him out more and he had ignored you, claiming you didn’t know any better. Incorrect, you knew too much for your own good, you knew him too much for his own good- and it terrified him, it terrified him how you could read through his facade of macho-ness, understand how he was feeling by just the way he breathed, sense his insecurities by the simplest of touches. Worse of all, you figured out how he preferred lounging around with you rather than going to work. 

Gently wrapping his fingers around your wrist he pulled your arm across his chest to have you hug him as he did the same with his arm, subconsciously giving you a light squeeze, before burying his nose in your hair, taking in the familiar scent of your shampoo, calming down his nerves, simultaneously having his heart slam against his chest like a machine gun, somewhat afraid that the thumping would wake you up- little did baby bear know that the melody of his tender heart and warmth of his caring being was lulling you to a deeper, more peaceful state of sleep you’ve ever experienced. 

[rafeysbangs]

lachesism , rafe cameron ( series ) 08

pairing ; brother's!bsf!rafe x kook!female!reader

content ; mdni !! outerbanks au, eventual smut, angst, violence, underage drinking, family issues, substance abuse, s/a.

summary ; rafe cameron is everything you can’t stand; reckless, infuriating, and too self-assured for his own good. as your brother’s best friend, he’s always been a constant presence, one you’ve done your best to ignore. but the tension between you has always simmered just beneath the surface, sharp and impossible to ignore. you’ve spent years resisting his pull, refusing to give him the satisfaction. but in a world where lines blur and control slips away, you’re forced to face the truth: rafe cameron isn’t so easy to hate after all.

status ; ongoing .ᐟ

✺ navigation ; 007. 008. 009.

EIGHT, hidden heat.

YOU HADN'T SEEN RAFE IN A DAY.

you'd walked home alone after the kiss, your head spinning with questions and confusion. everything felt tangled, like a thread you couldn't quite unravel.

rafe had treated you like shit for two years, relentless teasing, cutting remarks, and a coldness you couldn't make sense of. you couldn't even pinpoint when exactly it had started, just that it had blindsided you, leaving you annoyed and secretly hurt. you used to lie awake, wondering what you'd done to deserve it. now, after what he'd said, it all made sense.

but that didn't make it okay.

he'd been horrible to you because he liked you? because he couldn't handle his feelings? the whole thing made your blood boil. how selfish could he be?

you sat on the back porch, earbuds in, music playing low as you painted your toenails. the summer heat pressed down on you, thick and heavy, matching the weight of your thoughts. you focused on the brush in your hand, trying to keep cool, trying not to let your anger take over completely.

"hey," carter's voice cut through your music as he stepped outside.

you pulled out one earbud and glanced up. "yeah?"

"topper, kelce, and ruthie are coming over in a bit. you should get cora to come too," he said, leaning against the doorframe. "we're just gonna hang out, drink a little. it's gonna be hot as hell today."

you nodded, forcing a small smile. "sure, sounds good." you pulled out your phone and sent cora a quick text.

carter was already halfway back inside when you called after him, "is rafe still around?"

he glanced over his shoulder with a shrug. "yeah, somewhere." then he disappeared into the house.

you sighed, a heavy weight settling in your chest. of course he was still here. you'd been dreading the moment you'd have to face each other again, and now it seemed inevitable.

you stared down at your half-painted toes, exhaling slowly. "great," you muttered to yourself, the word dripping with sarcasm. the impossible confrontation was just around the corner, whether you were ready for it or not.

you exhaled sharply, setting the tiny brush back into the bottle of polish with a deliberate slowness, your mind churning. confronting rafe felt like trying to unravel a storm- messy, unpredictable, and exhausting. you weren't ready to see him yet, but it seemed the universe had other plans. you glanced out at the yard, the heat shimmering over the lawn, wishing it would all melt away, including your feelings.

cora replied to your text almost immediately, promising to head over soon. you forced a smile at your phone and stood up, inspecting your freshly painted toes. you couldn't sit here and stew in your thoughts forever.

the sound of carter laughing inside carried through the open door, and you caught snippets of his voice mingled with another- deeper, unmistakable. rafe. your stomach twisted.

you grabbed the half-empty polish bottle and made your way inside, hoping to slip past unnoticed. the kitchen was alive with the faint clinking of glasses and carter rummaging through the fridge. rafe leaned against the counter, his broad frame backlit by the sunlight streaming through the window. he wasn't wearing a shirt - again - just gym shorts slung low on his hips. you faltered for a moment, your heart betraying you with its sudden, uneven rhythm.

he noticed you immediately. his gaze flickering to you as you crossed the room, and you tried not to notice how his expression softened just slightly. "hey," he said, his voice low and hesitant.

you didn't meet his eyes. "hi," you murmured, opening a cupboard and pretending to look for something.

carter, oblivious, turned around holding a case of beers. "tossing these in the cooler. topper should be here in twenty." he breezed past them, the screen door slamming shut behind him.

the silence left in his wake was deafening. you could feel rafe watching you, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore.

"are we just... not gonna talk about it?" his voice broke through the quiet.

you turned around slowly, your arms crossed. "what's there to talk about, rafe?"

he straightened, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. "don't do that. don't act like nothing happened."

"fine," you said, leaning back against the counter, your voice sharper than you intended. "what do you want me to say? that i'm not angry? that i don't feel completely blindsided by the fact you've spent years treating me like shit because you have a thing for me? because, honestly, rafe, i don't even know where to start with that."

he winced but didn't back down. "i know i fucked up, okay? i know i don't deserve... any of this." he gestured vaguely toward you, his voice tight. "but i told you because i couldn't keep pretending i didn't feel the way i do."

your chest tightened. you wanted to yell at him, to tell him how unfair it was, but the words stuck in your throat. "you could've handled it differently," you said quietly, your anger ebbing into something softer, more painful. "you didn't have to be so cruel."

rafe stepped closer, his hand brushing the edge of the counter. "i know." he paused, his voice faltering.

you glanced at him then, really looked at him. his blue eyes were clouded with guilt, his shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact. he looked so unsure, so unlike the cocky, self-assured rafe you were used to. it threw you off balance.

before you could respond, the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway broke the moment. voices carried through the open window; topper, kelce, and ruthie, loud and boisterous as ever.

you pushed off the counter and walked toward the back door, needing air, needing space. "we're not done with this," you said over your shoulder, your voice steadier than you felt.

rafe didn't follow you. he just stood there, watching you go, the weight of everything unsaid lingering between them.

you darted upstairs, your heart pounding with a strange mix of nerves and defiance. you rummaged through your drawers, pulling out a bikini. if you were going to spend the day dealing with ruthie's little comments and rafe's confusing intensity, you'd do it on your terms. you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, brushing your hair out quickly before slicking on a layer of sunscreen and then lip balm.

your phone buzzed. cora was two minutes away. thank god. you let out a small sigh of relief, grabbed your sunglasses, and headed downstairs to meet the chaos.

the kitchen was a flurry of voices and movement when you walked in. topper and kelce greeted you enthusiastically, topper pulling you into a quick hug while kelce gave you a fist bump. ruthie hovered nearby, offering a tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach your eyes before trailing after topper like a shadow. you bit back an eye roll.

the group made their way down to the pool, arms full of coolers, towels, and cups. the sun blazed overhead, casting sharp, golden light over everything. you were halfway to setting up your spot when rafe came strolling down behind carter, carrying two cases of beer on each arm like it was nothing. his swim trunks hung low on his hips—too low—and he wore a grin that was equal parts cocky and carefree. your breath hitched for half a second, though you quickly busied yourself with unpacking your things.

cora arrived moments later, saving you from spiralling into your own head. "finally," you said, pulling your best friend into a hug.

"always here," cora replied with a grin, holding up a tote bag filled with sunscreen, snacks, and what looked like an entire bottle of tequila.

you claimed a couple of loungers near the pool's edge, chatting as you set your stuff down. you slipped off your cover-up, feeling the sun warm your skin instantly. you slid your legs into the water, the coolness a welcome contrast to the heat, and leaned back on your hands as you let yourself relax, at least a little.

your gaze flicked toward rafe before you could stop it. he was across the pool, standing near the cooler, and his eyes were already on you. but this time, he didn't look away. he didn't even try to hide it. his gaze was piercing, unwavering, and undeniably bold, the hint of a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. your stomach did a strange flip, but you quickly forced your focus back to cora, who was already cracking jokes about ruthie's extravagant poolside outfit.

soon, everyone settled into the rhythm of the afternoon. the speaker pumped out upbeat music, beers were cracked open, and laughter echoed around the pool. topper and kelce started an overly competitive game of pool volleyball, and ruthie made a show of lounging on a float, her perfectly manicured hand trailing lazily through the water.

you stayed on the edge with cora, chatting and occasionally letting your feet splash in the pool. but every now and then, you could feel it, rafe's gaze on you like a magnet. it wasn't just the usual glance or fleeting look; it was charged, intentional, like he was daring you to acknowledge it.

you refused to give him the satisfaction, at least not yet. instead, you turned to cora, a grin playing on your lips. "so, tequila shots by the pool later?"

"is that even a question?" cora shot back, raising her sunglasses with a smirk.

you laughed, the sound light and unbothered, even as you felt the weight of rafe's attention lingering like the heat in the air.

the afternoon unfolded lazily, the sun beating down as the group alternated between the pool and the loungers. topper and kelce's volleyball game turned into a chaotic mess of rules no one followed, ruthie kept taking dramatic selfies with the pool in the background, and cora made sure your drink was never empty.

you did your best to relax, to let yourself melt into the carefree energy around you. but it was hard, especially when rafe kept finding ways to pull your attention. a joke tossed too loudly, his laughter cutting through the music, the way he casually leaned against the pool's edge when he wasn't in the water, his sharp gaze finding you through the crowd. it was infuriating.

cora noticed too, leaning close to murmur, "why does rafe keep staring at you?"

you rolled her eyes, pretending not to care. "he's just... being rafe."

cora snorted. "rafe doesn't just look at people like that. he's trying to get your attention."

"well, it's working," you muttered, taking a long sip of your drink.

not long after, rafe made his move. the volleyball game had dissolved completely, and most of the group was lounging in or around the pool. you were sitting on the edge, your feet still dangling in the water, when he swam up to you.

"you're awfully quiet," he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

you glanced down at him, your expression neutral. "maybe i just don't have anything to say."

he rested his arms on the edge of the pool, looking up at you with that maddening, unreadable expression. "you always have something to say."

your lips pressed into a thin line. "not to you."

his smirk faltered, but only for a second. "still mad, huh?"

"mm, you think?" you shot back, your voice sharper than you intended.

rafe sighed, leaning his forehead against his arm for a moment before looking back up at you. "whatever. i'm trying to be better."

"trying?" you scoffed, pulling your legs out of the water and standing. "trying would've been not treating me like shit for two years. trying would've been telling me the truth before-" you cut yourself off, shaking your head. "forget it."

then cora called out from the pool, "tequila shot time!"

you tore your gaze away from rafe, your pulse racing. "coming!" you called back.

rafe's eyes stayed on you as you walked away.

you sauntered over to where cora stood, your best friend holding out a shot glass with a mischievous grin. your own smile widened as your fingers brushed in the exchange. "cheers," cora said, her voice light and teasing, and you nodded before you both tipped their heads back in unison. the burn of the liquor was sharp and immediate, but you barely flinched, laughing as you set the empty glasses on the table.

the evening had taken on a golden glow, the fairy lights strung above the pool casting soft halos over everything. the music was louder now, bass thumping in time with the pulse in your temples. laughter echoed through the backyard, a mix of drunken banter and the occasional off-key singing. you had lost count of how many drinks you'd had, the edges of your world blurring pleasantly as you sank into one of the lounge chairs, tilting your head back to let the breeze cool your flushed skin.

cora was off giggling with kelce and carter, their voices floating across the yard, while topper and ruthie bickered yet again, their argument punctuated by topper's exaggerated sighs and ruthie's pointed glares. you let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head at their endless drama.

after a moment, you stood, the ground beneath your feet feeling just a little unsteady. the thought of water tugged at you like a lifeline, and you nodded to yourself, mumbling something incoherent as you made your way back toward the house. the warmth of the night followed you inside, the air cooler in the kitchen but still heavy with the scent of sunscreen and spilled beer.

you poured yourself a glass of water, the cold liquid a welcome relief against your palm. lifting it to your lips, you turned, only to feel an unmistakable presence close behind you.

rafe.

you froze for half a second before meeting his eyes, his grin lazy and self-assured. he looked impossibly relaxed, leaning against the counter like he hadn't a care in the world. but there was something about the way he was watching you, intense, piercing, that made your pulse quicken.

"thirsty?" he asked, his voice low and teasing.

"clearly," you replied, taking a sip to steady yourself. your cheeks warmed under his gaze, though you refused to let it show.

his hands found your arms, fingertips grazing lightly over your skin as he stepped closer. his touch sent a shiver racing down your spine despite the heat.

"you're trouble," you said softly, unable to stop the small giggle that escaped your lips. you hated how easily he got to you, how effortlessly he unraveled the walls you tried so hard to keep up.

"maybe," he said, his breath warm and tinged with the strong scent of alcohol. 

you tried to summon some kind of retort, something to wipe that smug grin off his face, but your thoughts scattered the moment his eyes dropped to your lips. suddenly, the glass in your hand felt too heavy, the space between them too small.

and yet, you didn't move away.

you leaned back against the counter, clutching the cool glass of water in your hand as rafe stepped closer, his presence almost magnetic. his grin was lopsided, a mix of mischief and something softer, more vulnerable, that made your stomach flip.

"you're avoiding me," he said, his voice low and teasing, though his eyes searched yours like he was looking for something you weren't sure you could give.

"maybe i am," you said lightly, your lips curling into a small smirk. the alcohol in your system giving you the courage to challenge him, even as your heart thudded against your ribs.

his hands slid up your arms, slow and deliberate, leaving trails of warmth in their wake. "you're not very good at it," he murmured.

you laughed softly, shaking your head. "you're annoying."

he leaned in, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, his voice dropping even lower. "yeah, but you like it."

your breath hitched, and you took a step back, needing the space to think clearly, though the counter at her back kept you trapped. "you're drunk," you said, though your voice lacked conviction.

he tilted his head, studying you. "so are you."

you bit your lip, trying to find the right words, but they felt tangled in your chest. "what do you want, rafe?"

his grin faltered, replaced by something deeper, something raw. "you," he said simply, the word heavy with meaning. 

the room felt impossibly small, the air thick between them. your pulse thundered in your ears, and you couldn't look away from him, couldn't ignore the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

"you make it sound so simple," you whispered.

he laughed softly, the sound almost bitter.

your fingers tightened around the glass, your resolve wavering. you wanted to let yourself believe him, to believe that he could be better, that you could be something. but the weight of the past still lingered, tugging at the edges of your mind.

"rafe..." your voice cracked, and you hated how uncertain you sounded.

he stepped even closer, his hands settling on the counter on either side of you, boxing you in without touching you. "tell me to back off, and i will. i swear. but if you want me to stop, you have to mean it."

you stared at him, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. every part of you screamed at you to push him away, to protect yourself from the storm that was rafe cameron. but you couldn't. you didn't want to.

instead, you set the glass down on the counter, your movements deliberate. your gaze locked with his, and you leaned up just enough to press your lips to his, slow and certain.

the kiss was nothing like the first. it wasn't hurried or impulsive. it was deliberate, a choice. your hands slid up his chest, and he groaned softly against your mouth, his hands finding your waist like they belonged there.

for a moment, the world melted away. there was no past, no pain, no anger, just the two of you, tangled together in the quiet chaos of your emotions.

you kept waiting for him to pull away, or you to, but you didn't. the kisses were getting more intense, more hungry. you couldn't help how your arms clung around his neck, how his hands fit so perfectly at the small of your back. 

soon you were turning around, walking side ways up the stairs as you grasped onto each other, as if you'd let go, you'd never touch again. you suddenly had nothing else in your head, only rafe. rafe. rafe. 

you pulled away as you both fell back onto something, your bed, you were in your room. you were kissing rafe cameron, in your bedroom, on your bed. you kicked the door closed and pressed your lips against his again. 

his weight steady but not overwhelming. the room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the warm glow of the fairy lights strung up around your window and the salt lamp on your bedside. your heart was racing, your breath catching in your throat as his lips moved against your, deliberate yet full of hunger. his hand slid up your side, fingers brushing the bottom of your bikini top as if asking for silent permission.

your hands tangled in his hair as he pressed closer, your body responding instinctively to his. it was a strange thing, this mix of familiarity and newness; years of knowing each other, clashing and caring, culminating in this uncharted territory.

when his hands slipped under your bikini top, you arched into him. his skin was warm, the faint scent of salt and summer clinging to him. he let out a soft groan as your hands ran down his chest, your touch light but full of purpose.

"you drive me insane, you know that?" he murmured against your neck, his lips grazing your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

your bikini top flew to the floor, and he paused for a moment, his eyes roaming over you like you were something sacred. it made your heart ache in the best way, the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

things escalated naturally, their movements full of a delicate, shared urgency. your bottoms joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

"don't worry, i'm on birth control" you interrupted gently, your voice steady. your lips brushed his, and your words came out in a tense whisper. 

something about those words made him lose any remaining control. his kisses deepened, his hands roamed with a newfound confidence, and together, you fell into the moment, letting everything else fade away.

"you're fuckin' killing me right now." he groaned, taking one of your tits in his hand again. you arched into him, reaching to palm him through his pants. resting his head in the curve of your neck, rafe licked over your nipple, his tongue running over the sensitive spot of your flesh. you moaned, the sound making his cock stir. 

you continued stroking him through his pants, his lips finding yours before he slipped his freehand down her body. you whimpered before you felt his middle and ring fingers dip between your folds. "fuckk, you're soaked.." he grazed her clit, your body jolting in pure pleasure.

rafe slid his fingers down to your entrance, before gliding his them back up to your sensitive bundle of nerves, admiring the way your eyebrows knitted together in pleasure, your lips wet with his spit.

despite his fingers working on you mercilessly, you felt so bare, wanting nothing more than to feel the stretch of his cock. "rafe. i want you inside of me." you looked deeply at him, "please fuck me." grunting at your words, rafe gave you a nod.

rafe moved them backward, sat up against your headboard before pulling you back down on his lap. you kissed him, grinding on his cock. rafe wrapped an arm around your waist, lifting you up as you reached down and lined him up with your entrance. making sure you were looking at his face, rafe lowered you slowly, both of you moaning as you sunk down on his length.

you felt so warm and tight wrapped around him, both of you shuddering once he filled you completely. "fuck, rafe you're so big" you whimpered, wrapping your arms around his neck tightly. 

"look at me," he suddenly said, you breathed deeply but locked your gaze on his. "you're mine now, okay? you're mine." his possessive tone made you shudder, you nearly doubled over from the pleasure. 

"look, i need you to know that i'm sorry about the way i treated you before. because the way i'm gonna fuck you? you just might forget." she was about to question what he meant when he wrapped his arms around you tightly and started thrusting into you from below, your lips parting as a yell ripped itself from your throat. 

"oh my, fuck!" you cried, rafe smirked to himself. "the dick that good?" you buried your face in his chest, biting down on your bottom lip as his pelvis smacked the bottoms of your ass.

rafe was brutal, his tip kissing your cervix every so often as he moved his hips. "ugh fuck, your dick is so good" you cried, holding onto him tightly. he groaned and gazed up at you. he continued like this, leaving open mouth kisses along your shoulder.

he then laid you down, throwing each leg over his shoulder before slamming back into you again. with rafe pounding into you like nothing could stop him, and his fingers now rubbing your clit, it wasn't long before you were a whining mess, both you and rafe kissing as your orgasm hit you, stealing your breath away. rafe came twice, then doubling over.

when it was over, you lay tangled together, heaving. 

rafe chuckled, pulling you closer without a word. 

your heart was still racing, trying to steady your breathing and your thoughts. you couldn't believe what had just happened, and where. the faint thump of music from the pool below felt like a distant echo of reality, pulling you back to the present. your cheeks burned as the realisation hit: carter could never know. ever.

you glanced over at rafe, who was now sitting on the edge of your bed, his tousled hair falling over his forehead, his trademark smirk firmly in place. he was entirely too pleased with himself.

"he'll murder both of us," you whispered, covering her mouth as if that would somehow muffle the guilt clawing at your chest. you quickly grabbed your bikini top and started putting it back on. 

rafe rolled his eyes, leaning back lazily like this was all some big joke. "please. i could take carter in a fight."

you shot him a glare, standing up and hastily adjusting your bikini straps. "this isn't about who can fight who, rafe. this is about me not wanting to live through the fallout of carter finding out his best friend and sister-" you gestured vaguely between them, "-did... whatever this is."

his smirk only widened, his eyes darkening as he looked you up and down. "whatever this is?" he repeated, his voice dripping with mischief. "sounds like you're already trying to forget it."

you groaned, grabbing a scrunchie from your nightstand to tie your hair back. "i don't have time for your ego right now. i need to pee, and you need to act like you were doing something that wasn't me."

rafe chuckled, standing and stretching leisurely as if the weight of their secret hadn't hit him yet. "fine. but for the record, i'm going to miss the view." he threw you one last mischievous grin before heading into the guest room across the hall, muttering something about packing his things.

you rolled your eyes and pulled your bikini bottoms up, muttering curses under your breath as you headed into the bathroom. you turned the lock, stared at your reflection for a long moment, and exhaled. "what the fuck just happened?" you whispered to yourself, splashing cold water on your face.

when you emerged a few minutes later, freshly composed, cora's voice drifted up from the hallway. you froze for a second, quickly throwing on your most nonchalant expression.

cora and carter appeared outside your room, the latter looking mildly suspicious. "hey," cora chirped, stepping inside. "where've you been? we were looking for you."

"oh, just needed water and the bathroom," you lied smoothly, shrugging as you stumbled over a little, really selling the drunk pee lie. you were grateful cora was terrible at detecting lies because carter's eyes lingered on you for just a beat too long.

the sound of the toilet flushing across the hall made all three of them glance over. a moment later, rafe stepped out, his face annoyingly calm, like he hadn't just been breaking every bro code in existence.

"oh hey," cora said, her tone neutral but slightly puzzled.

"what were you doing?" carter asked, narrowing his eyes slightly at rafe.

"packing," rafe said easily, motioning toward the guest room. "gotta head back to tanneyhill soon, remember?"

carter didn't look entirely convinced, but his suspicion seemed to fade when he said, "well, there are s'mores out back. let's go before topper eats all the chocolate."

you forced a grin, and cora clapped her hands excitedly as they all made their way downstairs. rafe's arm brushed yours on the way, and you felt a rush of heat crawl up your neck, which you desperately tried to hide by falling into step with cora.

as you stepped back out into the warm evening, the fairy lights twinkling overhead and laughter ringing out from the poolside, you glanced over at rafe. he caught her eye for the briefest moment, his smirk subdued but still present, a secret written plainly across his face.

you looked away quickly, swallowing hard. you didn't know what you'd gotten yourself into, but one thing was clear. this was only the beginning.

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[squarebracketsmileyface]

if it's not too much trouble, can we get a lil sneaky peek of what Jesse looks like in art form? we have a 'preview' of Birdie, so i'm keen to see our darling lil guy (again, only if you want to/it's not a particularly time-consuming task) aaaa

YOU CAN INDEED (featuring a whole new art style I accidentally absorbed. I fucking created it for Soap in my COD fic so I could draw things as him, and now it's just my fucking art style kill me)

Also closeups under the thingy because I wanna talk about this art and some general lil headcanon bits more, it took me 9 and a half hours to finish this and I genuinely love it so much. I loved the entire process.

This drawing made me love Jesse as much as I love Birdie now, I think. I'm such a visual person and without a visual on Jesse I liked him conceptually but I didn't really care about him like I do Birdie. Now I love him. I adore him. He's so small and so round and look at him standing on his bubba's knees like a big boy, Brian's barely holding him up at all, really, he's definitely doing it allllllll by himself :D

SO

Brian has rainbow spoke covers on his chair, because he works with young kids, of course he's gonna make his chair fun. I also like to think that he lets them put stickers on the outsides of his mud guards too. Also the fun yellow pushrim covers and wheelchair frame

Jesse has a lazy eye :D (featuring his exceptionally circular face and silly surprised baby eyebrows)

Brian's chipped nail polish. He teaches kids sport for a living, especially climbing, of course his nail polish is going to be super chipped all the time. He's a dad too, so he doesn't have a huge amount of time to do his nails every time they start chipping. (Also the wedding band :] )

Birdie's drawing again, because it's still so fucking cute to me. With Jesse at like very little baby age in this drawing, Birdie would be somewhere around 13 I think? So just getting into "Daaaaaaad you're embarrassing meeeeeee!" era with that doodle

The family photos on the wall, including Lark! :D

Also, finally, the wrinkles on Brian's face :D he's a guy in his fourties who spent at LEAST like five years solid living through hell in the woods (I like to think it was longer than that, like, when Alex 'killed him' was when he started living as hoodie in the woods, so honestly probably a good bit longer than just the five years of documented MH that we got), and then once that was over, he had to learn to live with the stress of a spinal cord injury while also dealing with the survivors guilt of losing the only people he knew still on the same day as he lost the use of his legs.

Also a broken nose that never got put right before it healed, because with him fighting Alex all those times, there's no way he didn't come out without at least one broken nose.

And, of course, his silly cowboy mustache (he gives Jesse horsey rides on his wheelchair and Jesse wears a cowboy hat which is FAR too big for him. It's the cutest thing Tim and Lark have ever seen)

[moregraceful]

anyway before i got extremo derailed tonight, i was reading neon's curated collection of quotes from a russian interview with klim kostin and it got me wondering if any nhl teams keep chaplains on staff. considering this is the league where they will not even provide translators or language teachers like 95% of the time, i wasn't expecting them to, but cursory research turned up hockey ministries international which appears to pair local christian church pastors with junior, minor, and major leagues and call it chaplaincy even though everything on their website feels like youth pastor jock version. also found this very interesting if christian-focused athletic article from 2019 about the roles of faith in the nhl which mentions 23 nhl teams having a chaplain on staff. but the entire framing around the hmi program and chaplains in the nhl seemed to be around christianity? which admittedly i have only experienced chaplaincy in relation to hospice or extreme crisis situations so maybe single-faith focused chaplaincy is more standard when people aren't like imminently dying.

all of which of course gave me one million more questions while i was doing the dishes. like -- inclusitivity 101 but if they hired chaplains with interfaith training at all levels would they start seeing more religiously and culturally diverse players. and was also wondering if, even though hmi claims to be non-denominational, what kinds of outreach they do for orthodox players like kostin (i assume) or vasilevskiy (mentioned in the article) because none of the language on their website felt ecumenical. and also what kind of spiritual care they offer players in player assistance -- i feel like it's not uncommon to hear about goalies finding religion and coming out of player assistance concurrently. and also the number of goalies themselves who are christian, which was particularly interesting to me, as in the article, most of the ones who self-identified didn't come to faith until adulthood or were deeply on the pro-league career track. i also think about like--like what are the ahl (or echl/sphl) chaplains doing for the players who were raised with prosperity gospel and the various threads associated with that

and these are all very fascinating trains of thought for me to chase bc i love thinking about how faith impacts our lives broadly and in my little hobbies specifically but what i kept getting stuck on is if the framing around spiritual care in the nhl is all christianity, who is providing spiritual care at each stop for nazem kadri, who is a practicing muslim

[pretty-weird-ideas]

Episode Seven and White Tears

The trial's allegory is not just a lynching, it is a lynching for a Black person entering a relationship with a respected White man, and proceeding to leave him. It's not a murder case, as seen through the show, there's actually very little emphasis on the murder in the episode in regards to Louis. The emphasis is on his "seduction", his "ungiving nature", and "refusing to give his body". It is a public humiliation and lynching for turning a respected white man down. The crime isn't hurting Lestat, it's hurting his feelings.

Lestat doesn't speak to the audience about the pain of his throat being slit. He speaks of loneliness, the audience chants and jeers about how cheating was justified if Louis isn't putting out. Santiago isn't talking about the murder, he's talking about how much of a sexual deviant Louis is the second he is introduced. The show is telling us what's important to the case, and what language hurt and stuck out to Louis the most. The deciding factor in the eyes of the audience, the story that Sam and Santiago are trying to tell, is that the crime is heinous because Louis turned down Lestat.

The audience isn't mad about the murder, they're mad about Lestat's emotions, they're mad about the betrayal, and they are mad that Louis and Claudia didn't put up with things. The case built against the two of them isn't based on violence, it's based on white tears. Louis isn't called a monster for slitting Lestat's throat, the audience member calls him a monster for turning down Lestat's advances.

The show is clear that the trial isn't really about the murder, it is about Louis not "giving enough" for Lestat. It's about Louis asking Lestat to turn Claudia and literally bargaining his happiness where he literally gets on his knees and says "I'll be happy for you, I will never leave you if you do this for me". It's never been about the murder, it's quite literally just shaming Louis for not "loving a good man who might be abusive".

At the end of the day, the trial as framed and written by Sam is building a case off of Lestat's tears, not actual physical harm.

Like my skin is crawling but also the show is so chilling with how it portrayed the "He's a good man so hold your tongue and endure! Lest you read as ungrateful".

Anyways someone take the laptop from me before this becomes my life.

[irenespring]

After my latest fic chapter I feel compelled to remind people who have never read the SGE books that Clarissa Dovey (whose ideology and behavior I did not alter) is supposed to be a good guy. She is the benevolent, motherly mentor figure. We are supposed to like her very much.

In related news: The School for Good and Evil is the single largest case of authorial "oh shit I forgot all my world building when it came time to do the story framing" I have ever seen in all of media.

[iveneverbeenmorestressedinmylife]

Every time i stumble upon another "omg Manfred Von Karma was a good father!!!!!1!1!1!" post i kinda want to scream? Like are we all talking about the same man.

[crossbackpoke-check]

Sat politely ankles crossed hands folded please say you have more thoughts about the DC deweys. Lazarus pit cold-eyed stare pristine and bloodthirsty anyway I would love to hear any further thoughts if you have the time + energy + motivation

how i imagine you waiting for me to re-read the resurrection of ra’s al-ghul and hush vol. 1+2:

ALRIGHT. in no particular order, thoughts about the dc deweys

connor fits very well into the mold of a talia al-ghul for me; chip on his shoulder, femme fatale, deadly and precise. he’s not the loudest but he’s got a dry wit that’ll cut you!

“why is connor an al-ghul at all and not batman” well first of all he’s already got the water connection, i’m gonna go dip him into the lake a couple hours north of the pas to make him incredibly long-lived, rejuvenated and beautiful

second of all i want him to be a questionable villain/antihero because he looks evil in those pictures but like beautiful evil. you see him at a multi-million dollar soirée and he’s bored of being there wearing his “heritage” beads and jewels he originally had from a thousand years ago. he and his assassins are only here to murder the head of state who’s planning to lay a pipeline through ancestral grounds

rip brandon duhaime i simply cannot imagine you as any kind of batman. lacks the gravitas, too much of a yapper, loves his wife too much. i curse thee to be green arrow if you’re in this narrative at all

assuming connor stays with toronto, would LOVE to think about toronto as one of the sites of the lazarus pit for many reasons

(a brief aside here to say that for me personally this is interesting if connor goes to winnipeg because i think they suit him better, he’s a manitoba boy, but re: the chip on his shoulder, he’s NOT a manitoba boy. he’s from the pas and very proud of it)

a) the amount of ‘toronto is the center of the universe’ hockey creation myths i can play with & birth/rebirth/reincarnation. if you WANT to feel unhinged trying to blend hockey and comics is an ice rink not just a pool of water?

b) mr. cathal kelly i love your works!!! toronto eats its young!!! thinking about this very literally in the sense of the resurrection arc where players come to toronto and are sacrificed, give up their body, their skill, in service of the demon’s head, and lose themselves.

c) we see echos of the same narratives and styles over and over again—if i can hop over to the flyers for a second, there is of course the curse of the *8s (18 richards, 28 claude, 48 danny b, 68 nolan, 88 lindros) but ALSO the danny brière -> tk -> morgan frost celly chain. every generation a resurrection, emerging clean and new from the pit

can you just briefly hold my hand and imagine wayne gretzky as an evil ra’s al-ghul wanting to possess a new body. gretzky i’m sorry to malign you and i know you never played in toronto but you are the best player in my head to fit the idea, i’m open to other suggestions

coming BACK to green arrow dewey (i did not re-watch arrow or re-read those comics sorry) connor could also be black canary, who takes a brief dip into the lazarus pit (toronto) before getting married to oliver. i do like that narrative but because we were talking about pristine and cold-blooded i figured connor dewar head of the league of assassins was more what you were after

now that i’ve gotten through world building… choose your own adventure narratives?

hockey-ish au: connor chosen as a host for the Next One. i think the lineage of the great one -> next one -> next next one -> next one up of gretzky -> crosby -> mcdavid -> bedard is taken, BUT i can imagine that the league of old boys all have the same intentions. connor gets sent to toronto unknowingly being prepped to get body-snatched by ???? and brandon duhaime of course accidentally stumbles on the plot and they have to fight to stop it

connor assassinating people :) snapshot of the head of the league of assassins delegating which major world events they’re going to change today. would love his shark face from the gifset to have blood spattered across it, ideally.

version 1 as head of the league of assassins: brandon is one of his assassins, big strong bodyguard type. devoted to him, would lay down his life, perfectly designed for connor (lady shiva/cassandra cain-ish). connor orders for something to be done and brandon does it there for him then gently wipes the blood off his face and apologizes for being careless and getting him messy.

version 2 as head of the league of assassins: an actual plot where connor aims to assassinate SOMEONE but brandon gets in the way. they meet at odds as their respective roles (hero, leader of a crime syndicate) but are magnetically drawn together as their alter egos. eventually brandon puts together the pieces of the Big Evil and manages to (legally!-ish as much as vigilante-ism can be legal) take it down and the ending panels show a tentative friendship and recognition of potential shared goals

also, jaromir jágr is immortal. don’t know if this is relevant OR related but he is. personal hot spring lazarus pit?

um. thanks for coming to my 1.5k ted talk (including tags). what a way to moritz seider lore drop that i DID grow up a comic book nerd, lmao. thank you so much for enabling me <3 i'll be here all week thinking about which teams would get what rings in a blackest night au

[gammija]

i love s4, and im enjoying listening to it with the magaday, but i forgot it would also lead to the worst thing: seeing people interpret media differently than me on the internet OTL

[keeps-ache]

i need more object-head OCs. it's So imperative to my health

[leatherbookmark]

hongjoong's cutest outfit in the thanxx mv

[bitchfitch]

For all the teething I've been doing on Pavo and Esti i haven't been able to like, actually write any thing for them recently mostly because I've been Busy.

But also because I'm snapping between like 3 ideas for them at terminal velocity and haven't been able to actually get anything written for them and it's like having pumas bouncing around my skull at mach fuck as though theyre house cats at 2 am when you're trying to sleep,

[star-ocean-peahen]

After watching Cinderella (the original animated movie, which was my favorite as a child), it strikes me how it solves many common problems people have with this fairy tale. Like:

Why did they try to identify the mystery girl using her shoe size? Because the bullheaded king's only clue to her identity was the shoe the Grand Duke picked up off the steps.

Why didn't the prince recognize her by her face? Because his father wouldn't involve him in the process at all, and wasn't the one going around trying to find her.

Why did the prince want to marry a lady he only met that night? Because his father was going to force him to marry someone, and he genuinely liked this woman.

Why did Cinderella want to marry a man she only met that night? Because marriage was her best and most secure way to freedom. Fucked up, but you can't say it's unrealistic for the setting of a fairy tale. She also genuinely liked him.

If they're using the slipper to find her, wouldn't it be more sensible to search for the person with the other slipper? Yes. The King is purposefully nonsensical and the Duke is purposefully terrified enough of him to carry out his orders to the letter. Furthermore, they end up doing that in the end anyway, because the Duke's glass slipper is shattered, and Cinderella brings out the one she has to prove her identity.

Why didn't the stepmother and stepsisters recognize Cinderella at the ball? Because they were dancing too far away, and then left the party to dance in private, which was possible because the King wanted very badly for his son to hit it off with someone and tried to arrange the best conditions for that to happen.

Why didn't Cinderella save herself? Because in real life, abuse victims should not have to shoulder that responsibility, and usually can't. In real life, you need and deserve an external support system. Asking for help, in this kind of situation, is very important. She is saved by others because she is loved. Because she is not alone. Because she has friends who love her, and want her to be happy and safe and free. Because in real life, people who want to help someone who is suffering are like the mice. We can't pull out miracle solutions, but we can provide companionship and if we're in the right place at the right time, we can help the person find a better life.

Why didn't the fairy godmother save Cinderella from her abusive household, or try to help her sooner? Because she's magic, and magic can't solve your problems. Quote: "Like all dreams, well, I'm afraid it can't last forever." This (and Cinderella's dream of going to the ball) is a metaphor for pleasurable things in bad circumstances. An ice cream won't get rid of your depression, but it will provide you with momentary happiness to bolster you, as well as the reminder that happiness in general is still possible for you. Cinderella doesn't want to go to the ball so she can get away from her stepmother and stepsisters, or so she can meet someone to marry and leave with. She wants to go to the ball to remind herself that she can still have things she wants. That her desires matter. This is important because the movie does a very good job of illustrating Lady Tremaine's subtle abuse tactics, all of which invisibly press the message that Cinderella doesn't matter. While going to the ball and fulfilling her dreams may not be a victory in the material sense, it is still a victory against Lady Tremaine's efforts.

Why is Cinderella's choice to be kind and obedient framed as a good thing, when you are not obligated to be kind to your abuser? This one walks a very fine line, but I think the movie still makes it make sense. Lady Tremaine never acknowledges her cruelty. She always frames her punishments of Cinderella as Cinderella's fault. Cinderella is interrupting, Cinderella is shirking her duties, Cinderella is playing vicious practical jokes. Cinderella is still a member of the family, of course she can go to the ball, provided she meet these impossible conditions. Lady Tremaine's tactics are designed to make Cinderella feel like she must always be in the wrong and her stepmother must always be in the right. If Cinderella calls her stepmother out on her cruelty, or attempts to fight back, Lady Tremaine can frame that as Cinderella being ungrateful, cruel, broken, evil, etc. If Cinderella responds to her stepmother's cruelty defiantly (in the way she's justified to), she's not taking control out of Lady Tremaine's hands. Disobedience can be spun back into her stepmother's control. She wants Cinderella to be angry and sad and show how much she's hurting. So since Cinderella is adapting to her situation, she chooses to be kind. Not only because she naturally wants to be and it's part of her personality, but because it is a form of defiance in its own way, and it allows her to keep a reminder of her agency and value. Her choice to be kind is her chance to keep her own narrative alive: she is not obeying because her stepmother wants her to and she has to do what her stepmother does, but because she wants to. It's a small distinction, but one that makes all the difference in terms of keeping her hope and identity. (Fuck, I wrote a whole paragraph about how this doesn't mean you can't be angry at people who hurt you or that you need to be kind to deserve help, and then deleted it by accident. Uh. Try again.) Expressing anger and pain is an important part of regaining autonomy and healing. Although it is commendable to be kind while you are suffering, it is NOT required for you to get help or be worthy of help. If Cinderella's recovery was explored beyond "happily ever after" she would need to let herself be angry and sad to heal. Cinderella is not only kind because it comes naturally to her, but because it's her defense against the abuse she's suffering. Everyone's story and experiences are different, and one does not invalidate the other.

Bonus round for answers that aren't part of the movie:

Why didn't Cinderella run away? Where would she go? Genuinely, in hundreds-of-years-ago France, where would she go if she snuck out of the window with a change of clothes? With her step-family, she's miserable and abused, but she's fed, clothed, and in no danger of dying or being taken advantage of by anyone other than her stepmother and stepsisters. Even if she escapes and manages to find financial security, her stepmother might be able to find her and get her back.

Why didn't Cinderella burn the house down with them inside it/slit their throats in the night/poison their food/etc.? Because that's a revenge fantasy, and this story is a fantasy about being saved. There's nothing wrong with making Cinderella into a revenge fantasy. That's perfectly fine, as long as you acknowledge that the other type of fantasy is also a valid interpretation. (I mean, the original fairy tale features the stepsisters getting their feet mutilated and all three of them getting their eyes pecked out, so go for it.)

Why isn't Cinderella more proactive in general? Because she's a child who has been abused for the back half of her life, who has had to be focused on survival because. you know. she's an abused kid.

How did she dance in glass slippers? Gotta agree with you there man, that's weird.

[backpackingspace]

okay so post epic odyssey where odysseus and Penelope have surfaced from their room finally and he and diomedes are catching up I'm imagining the conversation going something like this

Odysseus: so then I gave up being merciful and became the monster.

Diomedes:....you tried being merciful?

Odysseus: Yes?

Diomedes: you did? You tried being a good merciful person? You?

Odysseus: Yah okay fuck off it was polties dying wish. I had to try.

Diomedes:.....90% of the war crimes in the Trojan war were suggested, planned out, and carried out by you. We literally stoned to death the guy you had a personal grudge against. We framed him for treason and stoned him to death. 70% of why Athena liked you was because she thought she knew all the ways to kill someone and then you'd suggest something insane and I'd see her taking notes. You literally gave Ajex a psyoctic break just being yourself.

Odysseus: shut up

Diomedes: I'm not wrong. Did you tell Penelope about your attempt to be a good person?

Odysseus: What? Of course I did. I told her everything.

Diomedes: did she laugh?

Odysseus:...shut up that's not the point

Diomedes: she did didn't she!!!

Odysseus: ANYWAY eurylochus wasn't appreciative of my return to monsterhood and he started causing problems so I

Diomedes: killed him? Yah saw that coming. No shit. I'm so shocked.

[prokopetz]

Something that pops up in my notes from time to time is folks thinking I'm being excessively kind in my criticisms of Dungeons & Dragons, and I'm going to spin this off into a separate thread to address that without putting anyone on the spot.

First, if your own critique of Dungeons & Dragons is rooted in the idea that it's the Worst Game Ever, that speaks more to the limits of your experience than it does to anything else. Dungeons & Dragons in any of its iterations is far from the worst the tabletop roleplaying hobby has to offer – like, you have no fucking idea!

Second, I tend to be even-handed in my discussion of D&D's rules because, fundamentally, the rules are not the problem – or, at least, not the principal cause of the problem.

In many ways, the indie RPG sphere has never escaped the spectre of Ron Edwards, sternly pronouncing that the mechanical process of playing traditional RPGs causes actual, physical brain damage, and that this brain damage is responsible for the bad behaviour we often observe at the table. We don't say it that way anymore, but on some level a lot of us indie RPG designers still kind of believe it.

This is understandable. As game designers, we're naturally inclined to think of problems at the table as game design problems. When we see a problematic culture of play, our impulse is to frame it as something which emerges from the text of the game, and which can therefore be mitigated by repairing the text of the game.

Confronted with the obvious toxicity of certain facets of D&D's culture of play, we go combing through its text, looking for something – some formalism, some structure, some piece of rules technology – which we can point to and say: "this is it; this is where the brain-worms live."

The trouble is, this is not in fact where the brain-worms live. Certainly, the text of a game, particularly a very popular one, can have some influence on the game's surrounding culture of play, but that text is in turn a reflection of the culture of play in which it was written. The Player's Handbook isn't an SCP object, spewing infectious infohazards everywhere when you crack open the cover – hell, I'd go so far as to say that many of the problems of D&D's culture of play operate in spite of the game's text, not because of it!

Basically, what I'm saying is that I don't see any contradiction between being the sort of pretentious knob who writes one-page indie RPGs about gay catgirls talking about their feelings (which I am), and speaking favourably about this or that piece of rules tech from whatever flavour of Dungeons & Dragons is in favour this week (which I do), because I recognise that you can't game-design your way out of a problem you didn't game-design your way into.

The fact that one of the biggest problems facing the tabletop roleplaying hobby is something that can't be repaired by fucking around with dice-rolling procedures is a bitter pill to swallow for a lot of indie game designers, and I won't say I wasn't resistant to it myself, but it's something that's both useful and necessary to accept.

(None of this means that the text of Dungeons & Dragons in any of its incarnations is beyond criticism on other grounds, of course, and I've never been shy about highlighting those criticisms where they're warranted. The only way you're gonna arrive at the conclusion that I'm some sort of D&D apologist is if you're starting from the presumption that The Real Problem Is The Rules.)