#Not beholden to any authority and careless with her things.

[beebfreeb]

points at you is Prismata perhaps inspired by wandersong design wise

Yeas 😊

[mysteriouslytransparentwombat]

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[imhereforbvcky]

Fear

Summary: When Bucky is out, someone comes for him in the home you share and you must defend yourself. Problem is, you’re no hero and you don’t know if you can morally compartmentalize like one.

Warnings: A decent amount of violence, fairly graphic about it. I just read horror for book club, I’m sorry.

Word Count: 2345

Author’s Note: I shit you not this was a headcanon request (Overcoming A Fear) from TWO Christmases ago. I am such a request slug. I’m sorry it took me so long but it truly did give me a little inspiration jolt so I stashed it away to write a whole thing.

Your hands trembled around the cold steel and your muscles had begun to burn with the weight of your outstretched arms

While your heart raced and your eyes darted frantic paths over the stranger sauntering slowly across the living room, he seemed… at ease; this intruder in your home.

He fixed the barrel of his own handgun in your direction with practiced stability and smiled at the steady dip yours had taken. Your inexperience screamed your vulnerability with every move.

“You can put that down now,” he purred. His gaze dropped for one measured moment to the gun in your hands.

In the same instant you corrected your drooping aim. It wouldn’t be long before the barrel dipped again. That inexperience was now a burning ache in your shoulders.

“Think I'll hold onto it,” you spat back anyway.

“It won't help. I know who you are.”

“I'm nobody,” you answered honestly. There was nothing you could offer him, no information, no skill, nothing worth saving. Why wouldn’t he just leave?

“Exactly. It’s too late. You missed your chance.” That smile would haunt you for months. You knew it would. But you couldn't stop the trembling or the sick lurching in your gut each time he stepped closer. You couldn't pull the damn trigger.

You were fear personified, in all her pitiful, self-sabotaging agony.

“You're just some nurse,” he nearly laughed, stepping ever closer as your back pressed against the bookcase. “Some fool who can't hold a gun properly. A shivering fraud who's never made a real threat much less followed through on one. No matter how often he makes you practice holding that SIG.”

Whoever he was, he’d read you like a book.

Bucky didn’t like surprises. And very little could surprise him.

There was absolutely nothing in his life now that he didn’t prepare for. It was more than careful, more than training. Some might call it a compulsion, but that wasn’t quite it. His need for control grounded him in more ways than one. It allowed him to operate again in a world that had, over decades, stripped him of all autonomy.

When the two of you finally decided you’d get a place together, it happened slowly. Small, cautious, calculated steps. Prepared.

It had started with the most thorough apartment search in real estate history. Eventually, when he was good and ready, the search ended with more precautions.

To you, the security system was a comfort. But the escape plans were a nuisance. And you’d thoroughly rolled your eyes when he first took you to the indoor shooting range, just to show you how to handle some of the weapons he kept around the house. You’d questioned if this was really necessary?

But it gave him some peace and goddamn if he didn’t deserve a little.

So you did as he asked. You learned how to hold and load and fire and clean each weapon. Not with any measure of precision or with the level of care he committed to the task. But it was enough, he’d hoped. It would be enough to keep you safe until help arrived if anything happened. Until he could get there or until someone heard gunfire and called the police.

He had you practice often. You were careful and you tried, for his sake. But you weren’t Bucky or Natasha, or anyone else he worked with.

Not everyone is accustomed to death. Most people haven’t seen war up close, and even fewer have seen it like Bucky had.

Of course, he’d prepared you the best he could.

“When you pull a gun on someone, you’re escalating the situation to the absolute brink,” he warned. “You’d better be prepared to pull that trigger.”

Even then, in the safety of a secure shooting range with the heavy steel laid out on the table between you and someone you trusted and loved, you’d wondered if you’d ever truly be prepared to carry that burden.

“Get out of my flat.” You tried to sound firm, direct. The words didn’t give you as much strength as you’d hoped.

“Can’t.” The intruder shrugged. “I always complete my assignments. And this one,” he paused and gestured widely at the room. The sharp hiss of his ripstop nylon jacket cut through the room like a knife.  “…well, Sergeant Barnes, is due home any minute. Isn’t he?”

He glanced at his watch with all the casual disregard of a man completely in control. It seemed almost carless, but you knew better. This man who made every step look effortless would make a shot through your skull with equal ease. Not one glance was careless.

You also knew you should have taken your shot. The most frustrating part wasn’t the threat. It was that he was right. You wanted nothing more than to wipe that bored look from his face, but he was right. You were a nurse. Not an action hero. Not a match for him. Not even a wild card.

He owned the room because you couldn’t take the damn shot.

Hurting others wasn’t in your nature. Killing someone was inconceivable, even in defense.

You were a nurse for gods sake. You’d made a career out of getting your hands dirty to help and to heal. Now, here in the face of such violence, such fear, you felt powerless. Beholden to your damn bleeding heart.

It was one thing to promise Bucky that your safety came first. It was one thing to know how; to know in your head what to do. Actually doing it, was a whole different beast.

After you shot him, you pondered whether your triage instincts would kick in. Would you press your hands to the wound and try to save the man you’d killed? Become drenched in the blood you yourself had drawn?

Your hands trembled with the fear of it; with the weight of your indecision. Every passing second wound the tension in your chest ever tighter.

You held the gun aloft, never breaking your quivering aim. All the while knowing…

There was no way you would take the shot.

“He’ll kill you.” You hated how soft your voice sounded now. How dry, how thin. How scared.

“I don’t think so.” This stranger laughed. Perfect teeth baring white, far too close now. His eyes gleamed with something like… Like that excited glint children have when they first lay eyes on their birthday cake carried out on a platter. “I have you.”

Every muscle in your body thrummed in fear. He was far too close. How could you let him corner you like this? If you pried your aching fingers from Bucky’s handgun and stretch them out, you could touch him. Your fingertips would brush this stranger’s chest. This man who made threats with a smile on his face and a laugh in his voice.

He shouldn’t be so close.

“In wh-what way?” you demanded, forcing more voice than air with the second attempt at the word. “I have a gun to your chest.”

There was no stopping the fear now as its icy fingers gripped at the base of your neck and sent a shiver down your spine. He’d closed the distance at your lightest of threats. The words, he knew, were hollow.

The tip of your handgun now pressed into his chest and he wrapped careful, practiced hands around the barrel, steadying your ever reluctant aim. His grin never faltered. He never second guessed a single step. Prepared.

Your eyelids fluttered closed for a fraction of a second, overwhelmed with the weight of your fear and of your failure to just pull the goddamn trigger. Even in the face of your own death and an all-consuming fear, you couldn’t compartmentalize your morals like this. All you could do was remind yourself to keep breathing. Just… keep breathing.

With that one swift step he’d made the truth clear. That gun might as well be a water pistol.

“For shock value, honey,” he whispered.

In one rapid sweep, he shoved the barrel of the gun down toward the floor at his side and stepped too close for you to even try to raise I between you. The hand not on your gun had snapped up behind your head and yanked at a fistful of hair.

You cried out in pain and surprise. Your body reacted immediately.

Reactions are without thought, without predication or care. No preparation.

Bucky hated reactions.

Not one second of this followed the safety protocol he’d laid out for you when you bought this place together.

At the pain burning across your scalp your body curled inward; contracted in every way. The fear gave way and your knees buckled. Your body drew itself close and you crouched low, trying to escape the pain. Your hands flew to the source of the pain, and clenched. Helpless, reactionary.

Without meaning to, your finger eased back on that damn trigger.

There was a thundering pop and a flash of light. The stinging burn of gunpowder and smoke filled your nostrils in an instant and there was… relief.

The pain on your head was gone and something wet trickled down the back of your neck.

In different circumstances you might’ve have guessed it was a bug on your skin. But no, the steady drip moved in a clear path. It was warm.

The ringing in your ears from the gun in your hand had ensured you didn’t hear the heavy thud or the rasp of the ripstop nylon as the stranger’s body crumpled to the floor beside you.

The wall was awash in a spray of deep red.

Your gaze flashed to the gun in your hands, still hot from the explosion it had channeled half a second earlier.

The back door boomed as it burst open and slammed against the wall and you flinched with a scream. Bucky barreled inside until he slid on his knees in front of you.

The primal fear began to subside and build into something bigger. A  tidal wave of horror and  regret  crashed through you. It screamed that you had failed; that this would happen again and you would not survive.

Carefully, Bucky curled his hands around your shoulders and looked over you with quick, searching eyes. Always cautious. Always prepared. He assessed for injuries and found none.

“It’s okay,” he repeated over and over, “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

He did, however, find the fear swelling in your eyes, trembling in your hands as you shoved the gun into his lap.

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, “I didn’t mean to! I couldn’t do it, and I… and I--! I didn’t mean to--” Your hands frantically shoved at the weapon with open palms like it was poison, stinging your flesh with each contact until he lifted the revolver and set it behind him.

“Hey,” he soothed when you dropped your face to his shoulder, tears soaking his shirt. “You did nothing wrong, you hear me?”

“But everything you told me to do… I couldn’t…” It all came out in muffled incoherent cries. Disorganized and soggy. Your brain seemed to be operating in the same chaos; drenched in adrenaline.

“It’s alright,” he shushed you. “Those are tools to buy you time, darlin’. And they did. I don’t expect you to take down the world. That’s my job.”

Your sobs eased to a heavy sniffle as you tipped your head up to look at his worried face. His hands smoothed over your hair. You always complained when he did that, but just now… it was the most comforting feeling in the world. And the small hook of a smile banished the noise raging in your head.

“Did you have to hit my bonsai, though?” his sharp concerned eyes glinted with the prospect of a chuckle from you.  “I know you don’t think it goes with the rest of the house but, damn.”

“What?” you asked, brows knit together as you leaned your head to peer around his shoulder at the spot his carefully pruned bonsai always occupied.

He worked on that plant when he needed to focus on something outside himself; something that required dexterity and attention. It was growth and life that he could have a part of cultivating, not a mission, not destructive, not pain.

Now the shrub’s main shoot had splintered and cracked. The poor plant lay bent and ruined over the end table by the window.

“But I thought I--?”

His grin broke into a soft chuckle. You felt it beneath your palms, still wrapped tightly around his ribs. Your eyes still remained glued to the hole your bullet had ruptured in the plaster behind the plant.

“I couldn’t do that again if I tried,” you mumbled.

As the adrenaline faded and realization began to settle, you turned down to the man… the body beside you.

Before your scattered gaze made it to the mess he’d made, Bucky’s hand closed around your chin and gently turned your face the opposite direction, to the back window. The one by the door he’d burst through, and the hole in the glass. It was about an inch wide and the glass splintered and cracked around it.

He’d fired a shot of his own but unlike yours, it was no accident. And Bucky never missed.

“I told you, I’ve got you.”

Turns out, Bucky knew exactly the type of person he had. He’d recognized that you were unaccustomed to violence and he craved that normalcy. He could see that you were a healer, and embraced the safety of your trust on the days when he woke up wounded. You valued life over fear, and it had given him hope when, once, the world had felt dark and hostile.

Bucky had been a warrior for as long as he could remember. Even in the times he couldn’t remember, he’d been a warrior. Now over 100 years old, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes had had more than enough of soldiers, of people who do what it takes without fear or regret.

He loved you for many reasons, not least of which was because you would always be afraid to pull the trigger.

Will reblog with tags.

[moonlitgleek]

Don't you think you're making elia too submissive by having her be solely a victim of rhaegar? If you like her than you should want her to have some culpability in rhaegar's plans as it'd give her agency. She was a viper she must've played the game too. If she hadn't then why would she be staying in King's landing. I think she saw the importance of his actions and agreed to handle aerys In his absence. If it turns out that she encouraged him to take another consort it'd give her a spine, no?

I do not see the correlation between being a victim and being submissive, neither do I think that only submissive people can get victimized. Not only does this fundamentally misunderstands how trauma, abuse and power dynamics work, but it implicitly puts blame on the victim in a roundabout way. It ascribes negatively-coded attributes to victims and derails the conversation to be about some idealized standard for how a victim should behave so that they wouldn’t be victims. It puts the responsibility of the prevention of the abuser’s actions on the abused which heavily overlaps with the dichotomy of good victim/bad victim. I really, really hate that argument in all its shapes and forms, regardless of how it’s being used and who it’s being used with.

As far as agency goes, I understand fandom’s need for Elia to have some kind of agency in her story and I share the frustration that so far she has been mostly used as a plot device in a male character’s story. I just don’t think that arguing that Elia was “culpable” (wth?!) in Rhaegar’s actions accomplishes that. The very act used to supposedly give Elia agency actually diminishes her character on both personal and political fronts. It is built on a bizarre belief that Elia must have believed in the prophecy and in Rhaegar’s quest. But no one seems to give me any logical explanation to why she’d do that all while ignoring that this baseless assumption inadvertently implies that people think that Elia believed in the prophecy simply because Rhaegar did. The idea that Elia supported Rhaegar’s action is based on a frankly perplexing dismissal of history (this is about Lyanna but 1 and 2 apply to Elia as well) and politics which in turns implies that Elia was either weirdly apolitical or weirdly ignorant. Why would Elia endanger herself and her children like? Because reasons.

I don’t see how having Elia’s character solely revolve around the primacy of Rhaegar’s opinions and wants gives her agency.I don’t see how turning Elia into a person who mindlessly parroted Rhaegar’s beliefs and careless singleminded pursuit of the prophecy right into a civil war gives her agency. I guess I find it more productive for arguments of Elia’s agency for us to treat her as a person with her own mind and her own set of beliefs that’s not reliant on what her husband believed. I like to think she had the agency to have thoughts and opinions that are not blindly reflective of Rhaegar’s.

Or Oberyn’s for that matter since his example is often what drives theories that Elia was fine with Rhaegar absconding with Lyanna. Because Elia was a viper and she played the game. Except 1) she wasn’t. Oberyn is the Red Viper. Elia is a separate person from him. The conflation of the two and of their personalities and opinions are a facet of the stereotyping of Dornish culture that treats Elia as beholden to Oberyn’s actions and outlook as if Oberyn is the Representative of Dornish Culture. But Elia is her own person. I don’t know why this is a radical statement in fandom.2) the game that you are adamant that Elia was playing is actually what makes me reject the idea that Elia supported Rhaegar’s affair with Lyanna. History, politics, danger to her children and everything I’ve honestly talked ad nauseam about to the point where I’ve grown tired of it.

Too, I question how it came to be that having a spine became tied to Elia “encouraging” Rhaegar to have an affair, not only for the reasons listed above that fly in the face of that but also…. are we now acting like acceptance of adultery is a baseline for “having a spine”? Why is it that Elia, contrary to all the women in Westeros, needs to not simply accept but welcome being cheated on to prove vigorousness or proactivity? How does it give Elia a spine to passively accept public humiliation, become a willing participant in a situation that has historically proven perilous to half-Dornish monarchs, and support and “encourage” her own political authority being compromised for no reason whatsoever? Do you honestly think that’s logical? That’s playing the game to you? For Elia to go against her own interests and that of her children’s by supporting Rhaegar taking a highborn mistress with the explicit purpose of having a child on her. As if the Blackfyre rebellions weren’t a thing. As if that’s proof that she had a spine.

Frankly anon, I’m scratching my head over the contradiction in your message. You act like saying that Elia was a victim of Rhaegar makes her submissive, but seem to argue that her passively accepting an insult after another to enthusiastically make way to Rhaegar absconding with another woman is the epitome of agency and proactive behavior. She is a capable political actor and a partner in Rhaegar’s plans that she goes to King’s Landing to stave off Aerys, but also an ignorant woman who saw nothing wrong with being put in danger alongside her children for the sake of the prophecy. She is a viper, except when she is being happily cheated on. She is playing the game, except when she is enthusiasticallyinviting a huge political risk to her doorstep. She is culpable in Rhaegar’s actions because she has a spine, except when she doesn’t care about being needlessly humiliated in public. Pick a person, please. This is giving me whiplash.

[blueraith]

Some folks still need to learn how to constructively comment

Wish I could say that I’ve been writing Chapter... 12(? Legit, I don’t often remember the chapter numbers outside of the Google doc) since posting Chapter 11 (we’re just gonna assume I know where the fuck I’m at in my own story, okay? Give me this).

But that would be a bald faced lie.

(Mostly because of my sister’s graduation and all the family visiting and the concurrent back injury I was suffering. Really kills the writing mood when you can’t sit up properly to type.)

This is going under a read more, because this incident Vexed Me To The Max(TM) and triggered a Rant of Epic Proportions(TM).

But graduation has been over, and my back has been feeling great. What really kept me a bit down since all that was over and done with is that very morning I’m feeling better, I see that I have two comments on the 100 fic I’ve put on indefinite hiatus. Yeah, it’s not an active story, but I still care about it, and I’ve been thinking about it recently. So, in short. I still care about it a hell of a lot. Hell, I care about everything that I write. I’ve written fanfiction at what’s nearing 10 years now, but nothing has erased the fact that putting yourself out there in the public eye takes a hell of a lot of effort and, sure, a smidgen of courage and confidence.

Well, this lovely commenter told me that my word count was way too high, that I was slowing my story down, and that they skipped to the last chapter (from Chapter 2, they skipped 6 chapters of ongoing character development, an ensemble cast, Ark politics, and canon fix-its) “40k words and [Clarke’s] still not on the ground yet??”

This is me paraphrasing both comments. I deleted them with extreme prejudice from the fic because I wasn’t leaving that kind of useless bullshit on my work after it effectively ruined my mood for, like, four days.

Why was it bullshit? Well, for one thing taking the average word count per chapter, it’s only a little over 5k words per chapter. Look. I balance out my word counts very carefully for each story that I write. This fic has a longer than average word count compared to my more recent stuff (which is around 4k per chapter) because of all the fuckin shit I was pulling off in this particular fic. Reworking canon to better explain why the Arkers were resistent to the radiation on the ground while having the superior blood that the Mountain Men wanted without putting them up in their shitty space station for thousand of years that evolution would have actually required them to have gone through to be remotely realistic.

Jake’s alive in this fic because I don’t like dead characters shaping character development on a pre-canon basis. Personally, I dislike orphan/parental loss storylines before the specific original work has even started. I get that orphans exist in real life. But YA media has a disproportionate amount of dead parents. Eh. I wanted to do something different. So, this means there’s an entire extra character in the story that I have to write and develop.

Diana Allers actually matters in day to day Ark life instead of just showing up and nearly murdering everyone because she’s a selfish bitch for little to no reason other than to make Abby’s already pretty damn full storyline even more packed than it already was. (Seriously, why didn’t they develop Allers more? She’s lazily implemented in canon, and I hate it. Lord only knows I enjoyed Abby and Raven’s plotlines far more in several places of Season 1 rather than Bellamy’s Manpain Adventures Lite Before He Turns Into A Complete And Utter Psychopath Later On In The Series).

Jaha is far more competent and slimey than he is in the show, rather than being a foolish man who is barely toddering along in the plot towards something useful.

Abby and Jake are at odds because Jake technically betrays Clarke and allows her to get arrested in the beginning of the story. They adopt Raven in the interim and they’re all awkwardly trying to free Clarke while pretending that Jake and Abby aren’t having marital problems. Well, Jake and Abby are pretending, Raven is as blunt as she usually is and just calls shit like she sees it.

Ensemble cast. There’s literally a tag on this story that tells you all that “This Story Is Literally About Everyone.”

So.

Yeah.

Clarke’s not on the fucking ground yet. But you wouldn’t know that, would you? Having skipped past 6 chapters.

Is 5k really that long? I wouldn’t know, personally when I read a longfic, I go into it knowing that the chapters might be long as fuck because I know that I’m reading a fic that could literally take me through several days and I read pretty damn fast. Not that 40k words is really all that much when you’re rewriting a TV show using all the characters who already exist in canon and then getting into their thoughts and motivations because that is literally what books do, this isn’t a screenplay, I wouldn’t be caught dead writing one because I despise them. Sorry, but you’re getting the full range of thoughts and emotions of everyone involved. I know, that’s just awful, getting hours and hours of content for free, but god forbid the plot doesn’t run on your timetable.

But that’s really the crux of this rant, isn’t it? NEVER complain about word counts, people. Too short? Who the fuck cares? The author could be just beginning their writing careers, so to speak. Word counts of any significance takes practice, first of all. So, not only could they might or might not have the required experience to write longer chapters, they may not even want to. And that’s fine. Because they do this FOR FREE.

Same thing with longer chapters. Are you really going to come at me, nearly a year after I’ve written and posted this work, complaining about word count, as though there’s even a remote chance that I’m going to go back and edit down all of that time and effort I put into that work to satisfy your fragile reading stamina?

Pfffffffffft.

I mean, this is funny to me in some regard because I’m over here wondering just what would be a good length for this person. Part of the reason my chapters tend to be at least 4k words long is because that’s generally where I can get a comfortable amount of character interaction, introspective thought, and plot moving forward. All three of those things matter to me when writing chapters. I hate reading too short works (and no, I don’t tell these authors this. I read what they give me and just deal with it because they’re entertaining me for free) and it’s little more than characters just trading dialogue with each other. I want to know what they are thinking about as well. I want a bit of narration. I’m reading something from a specific character’s point of view, and I want that chapter to ooze the personality of that character.

These are all the things I keep in mind when I write to my word count goals, personally. Doing it in less than 3k words might be possible, but it would sure as hell be annoying.

But most of all, it just irritated the fuck out of me. Like I’ve said multiple times in this rant. I do this for free. I don’t expect you guys to know this, but in order to get these substantial updates when I can manage to actually feel well enough to write and get them published, it takes me EIGHT TO TWELVE HOURS of sitting in front of a computer screen to have a chapter finished. On a good day. Yes. Most of the chapters I put out are done in one day, in one block, and I’m often up until 5 AM finishing something up. I have severe ADHD. Sometimes it is a chore to get shit put on a page because I can’t sit down and focus my thoughts enough to sound even coherent. Sometimes I have issues keeping up with what the beginning of a long sentence was about and I have to constantly keep up with what the fuck I’m even talking about in any given thought.

So, you have an author with a severe executive function disorder attempting to concentrate hard enough to get her own thoughts in character for each and every character that is featured in any given story while attempting to resist even the most mundane distractions while desperately hoping she’s going to hit a period of hyperfocus long enough to get substantial work down, but if that happens she’ll probably forget to eat because she’s on a writing binge that goes on with actual significant work for a period of several hours.

I love writing, despite the challenges I have to deal with in order just to get it done. I love most of the comments that I receive. I’m coming off a period of extreme depression from some family issues I was dealing with. My skin is rather thin at the moment and that irritated the fuck out of me, but those two comments knocked more wind out of my sails that I really wanted them to, and that bugs me even more.

But I am more experienced in fic writing than probably your average person. This commenter pissed me the fuck off, but I’ve moved past this, it’s hardly shattered my motivation to write forever.

But a careless commenter could easily do that to someone just getting into fanfiction. And it makes me wonder just how often this happens everyday, every hour, when entitled, spoiled people who think their needs are more important than the author doing this FOR FREE decide to voice their terrible opinions on their works. I love my readers, I don’t hold myself beholden to them, but they are extraordinarily important to me. Plot, pacing, and character development are all my own when I write because first and foremost, I write for myself. It’s a hobby that I clearly have to work very hard at to even be remotely successful at, and taking anyone else’s standards into account is never going to happen when I have to live up to my own already very high expectations. But I do keep y’all in mind when I’m devoting my time, energy, and effort in. The chapter lengths I have partly exist to make up for the wait times I inevitably have between each release. I very much know that I am sporadic and inconsistent when updating. So, when I do, I want to have something that isn’t just a whisper in the wind when it finally cycles to the top of the AO3 listing.

I know there are inevitably readers who didn’t like my content, or do think my stuff is too long. That’s fine. But don’t come into my space and give me two comments that were effectively “TL;DR” and expect that not to be a slap in the face. Because it is. I have wonder if the fandom kids today even know the kind of slap backs this sort of thing would have gotten in LiveJournal.

But, never mind that. I’m a big girl, I took some petty revenge in deleting that bullshit from my boards and then setting the fic to moderated mode, but what I would like anyone who decides to read through what is actually a long winded post (all my rants are, admittedly) to learn is that you are not reading professional work. You are not reading work that has been paid for. You are not reading work that has been professionally edited. I’m not saying that you can’t have standards for fic, lord knows I have many, but I don’t go into an author’s work and leave shitty comments. Never. Constructive criticism on fanfiction keeps the author’s time in mind, their skill level over what they’re actually capable of, and whether or not they’re even open to criticism. Some authors don’t even want your advice. They just want to know that you liked it. And if you don’t, just don’t say anything. I’m not quite that fragile personally, when someone is giving me useful criticism that can be used to actually improve my quality of writing, but I will freely admit that clearly I have a sore spot about comments addressing word counts.

Get out of here with that shit.

In short. If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.

[mysteriouslytransparentwombat]

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