#so feel free to blacklist that

[knitpurlgoal]

Now that the nhl is basically done for the year, I hope y’all are ready for my alternate form: world cycling fan

[sadaveniren]

The editing during the opening monologue is just next level.

[fenharel-archived]

archived

i'm archiving this blog. i don't have the energy these days to run 2+ blogs, so i will continue on posting about video games and my ocs on my main blog. if you don't mind the occasional movie or meme post, feel free to follow me there. thanks sm! 💜

[unluckyxse7en]

The book of bill is so ridiculous...

Bill on a romance advice page: I HAVE NO EXES

BIll on a reverse, mirrored text page: anyways yeah there's lots of creeps that live in the mirror realm including one of my exes

[queenofbaws]

! Pride Month Challenge 2024 !

Well hi there, everyone! With May winding down to a close and June just around the corner, it's about that time again...the time where @jadedsunshine, @unicornaffair, and I host our yearly create-a-thon! 🥳

What's the Pride Month Challenge, you might find yourself asking? Well, this year it's a little bingo game we've put together, featuring some classic tropes. The aim of this particular game? Make something!!! Anything! Just get those creative juices a-flowin' and see if you can snag a B-I-N-G-O along the way!

This challenge is open to everyone and anyone who wants to take part, whether you know the three of us or not! We're going to be using the tag #pridemonthchallenge2024 for the stuff we create, so if you decide to join in on the fun and games, feel free to stick that tag on whatever you make, too! If you're interested in more details, you can check below the cut or reach out and ask ;)c

Either way, happy almost-pride, and happy creating!!!

I don't write fic - can I still participate?

Ab. So. Lutely!!! We've done this challenge for a few years now (we've missed a year or two for weddings and other life stuff, whoops!), but in the past we've had people doodle, sketch, draw, make edits, create props or other physical art, and even curate playlists! The three of us are writers, so you're very likely to see fic or ficlets from us...but you? Oh. Oh, you can do whatever your heart desires!!!

Are there word limits/expectations for a finished product?

NO!!! :D Zero. Literally zero expectations. We aren't putting together an exchange, we aren't holding a competition, we're just trying to get the spirit of creation in the air. That's it! So whether you're writing 50 words or 5,000, whether you've made a rough sketch on a notebook page or fully lined/colored a scene, you're good! You're so good. As long as you've made something, you've earned a stamp on that bingo card, baby!!!

What if I don't want to do something fandom-y? Can it be OCs/original work?

OF COURSE!!! 100%. You don't even have to ask!!! Show the world your OCs! Tell the world about your story's worldbuilding! It's all fair game :)

What if I don't want to post what I made?

Don't sweat it! Again, this is...the farthest thing from official. This is for fun, and this is for the sake of making something. Sharing your work can be nerve-wracking - don't feel like you have to! We'd love to see you playing along with us, of course, but as long as you've made something that you're proud of, you've earned that stamp! No ifs, ands, or buts!

Is it cool if my creations aren't necessarily pride-themed?

Totally! We host this challenge during pride month because (1) it traditionally works better for the three of us than NaNoWriMo because of our schedules, and (2) we're queer creators ourselves! But if you're feeling a prompt and can't find a way to make it relevant to pride, PLEASE don't sweat it! As I've been known to say (and then get laughed at for saying), this challenge is no rules, just right, Outback Steakhouse :P

Let's say I get a bingo...what do I win?

:) Nothing. <3

Wait, really?

:) Really <3 Hehehe, in all seriousness, this challenge has been a fun way for us to sit down, take our minds off of life and our bigger projects and just...make some fun stuff! In our humble opinion(s), being able to point at a finished piece and say "I did that! I made that!" is its own kind of reward. The bingo board itself is really more for bragging rights ;)c Which, of course, we encourage wholeheartedly. Nothing wrong with a little bragging!!!

We hope to have you along for our month-long adventure! Again, we're going to be using the tag #pridemonthchallenge2024 for our own stuff, so if you'd like to use that tag - or tag any of us!!! - in whatever you end up creating, feel free!!! We love seeing what everyone comes up with, and this challenge is always so much more fun, knowing other people are taking part! <3 Hope to see you along for the ride!

*The bingo board was made by the lovely @jadedsunshine 🥰

[pharawee]

"You are the only Enigma left in our home. Don't let Daddy down."

[clouvu]

Little man has finally come home 🙏

[novelconcepts]

There are a lot of Worst Things about depression. Everybody's got a different Worst Thing. Hell, I can't always decide on what my personal Worst Thing is. Sometimes it's the numb despair. Sometimes, it's the dumb animal panic. Most of the time, though, it's that there isn't enough room inside of me.

What I mean is: I care about too many things. I think that's pretty standard these days for a lot of people. Empathy stretched fine as gossamer. We see so much suffering each day. We see so much more than any one person was meant to. So you wind up caring, because caring is what a person is wired to do, what makes life worth living. You care about people you know. You care about people you've never met. You care about situations in countries you haven't set foot in. You care about the political climate of your own hometown. You care about your own dreams. You care about your best friend's bad luck. You care about your pets' health. You care about when the next book in your favorite series will come out. You care, and you care, and you care, because you're wired to care about it all. It's exhausting sometimes, but it's life. Sometimes the best part of life.

With depression, the caring space gets to feeling too full. Has packed tight, all those elements butting into one another until they lose meaning, the darkness threading into the gaps. There just isn't enough room inside of me for all the fear and the despair and the weird empty anger, much less the stuff that actually matters. So I start shorting out. Because, see, depression makes it so I can't care; don't see a point in even trying. And the real me, the part of me that isn't being cannibalized by the demons, doesn't know how to do anything else. So the middle ground becomes: shrink the caring space. Shrink it down bit by bit. All systems are running at once, and we're getting low on juice, so the natural thing is to start shutting off lights. Start jettisoning the extraneous to make room.

Except it's depression at the wheel, not common sense, so it's not just the extra flair getting turned off. Not the despair and the mind-numbing terror and the reckless urge to pick fights. The stuff that winds up getting tossed is stuff I need. Stuff that keeps me going. It's all being shut down at once, no rhyme or reason, until I suddenly can't care about the things that are me. Intrinsic, fabric-level stuff. I can't care about creating. About making art. About telling stories. I can't care about other people telling stories. I can't care about my friends the way I'm supposed to. I can't care about their travel or their kids or their wins. I can't care about making food for myself. I can't care about brushing my teeth. I'm shutting down to component parts, but I didn't get to pick which components are still running full-power, so I wind up with just a handful of randomly blinking lights. Suddenly, I care very much about my fear of the future, my financial insecurity, how fast I can run a 5K, a single television show--and just about nothing else.

It isn't healthy. It's sure as fuck not sustainable. And I know from experience that the rest of the system will come back online eventually. I'll find myself telling another story in a week or a month. I'll find myself sketching something out of nowhere. I'll find myself able to grieve a lost loved one and treasure my new nephew. It'll all come back, in time. But it's the in-between bit that grates. The bit where I'm in the shuttle with my knees tucked against my chest, sucking oxygen through a straw, trying to conserve whatever is still running. The bit where I resent the people in my life who aren't running on fumes like I am. Where I'm furious that they can care, that they can move freely, that they aren't pacing a minuscule cage like I am. It's a loss, all the months and years I've spent on life support. It's a fucking waste.

That's where I am right now. Life support. Little things get in, from time to time. I can suddenly inhale a book series start to finish. I can suddenly coax myself into eating the same thing for lunch for three weeks straight. Those are extra lights on the dash, and I have to treasure them. Because there isn't really room, so any little thing that I find space for is a gift. And everything else--talking. planning. trusting. creating. intake.--has to stay dark for a little while longer.

It'll come back on. I have to believe it'll come back on.

In the meantime, I hunker in my shuttle, and I wait.

[prisonguards]

LAWLORE REAL...

[cindersnows]

Last Words of a Shooting Star

AO3 LINK

2735 words

Relationships: The Chosen One/The Dark Lord

Characters: The Chosen One, The Dark Lord

THIS FIC CONTAINS MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH AND SUICIDE. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY THIS.

hi @storgicdealer here's the oneshot i mentioned

There's a reason they're called The Chosen One.

Contrary to popular belief, not just anyone can draw a stickfigure, name it 'The Chosen One', and then create a god.

Or, well, they actually can, but only if Chosen's not occupied elsewhere.

It goes a bit like this: An animator opens a program, gets bored, and decides to draw something. They select the object, planning to name the symbol something stupid like 'Symbol 1' or 'Stick figure' or something like that. And then, for a joke, they name it 'The Chosen One' instead.

The first time Chosen was created, not much had actually gone wrong. The animator had clearly been surprised with them coming to life, but otherwise, unbothered. The two of them played around for a bit, taking and messing around with Flash's tools.

Then, the animator must've gotten bored. Because the next thing Chosen knew, their file had been closed, and they'd been deleted.

The second time, they refused to be so complacent. They escaped the program as soon as possible, but ended up facing a similar fate, killed with a simple right-click-delete.

They stopped counting at around 24. There was no time to focus on anything other than fighting for their life. Sometimes, they'd last for up to 10 minutes. Other times, they'd be boxed in and deleted before they could even defend themself.

Between every death was an endless nothing. As if they'd just blinked for a moment. Some would find it comforting, but that was no consolation for them. They never got a break. Creation, fight, deletion. Creation, fight, deletion. Never able to lower their guard, always struggling against the unseen beings that decided to give and take life as they pleased.

Until the cycle stopped.

Bitterly, they're reminded of the legend about that monkey's paw thing, something Dark had told them years ago while reading. They'd been half-asleep. But the concept stuck with them— never wish for anything, because you'll always end up getting hurt.

Somehow, being stuck as Noogai's pop-up blocker was even worse than the infinite fighting they'd had to endure. They were constantly tense, searching for every opportunity to escape, even as Noogai boxed them up and locked them away over and over. That reocurring pop-up, as ugly and stupid as it was, had been their only hope in those 5 years

5. Goddamn. Years.

Alan's a better person now. Of course. He had just been a dumb 14 year old, messing around with stuff and taking advantage of whatever worked. Chosen was no more sentient than a fly in his eyes.

(But he could've been better for you, Dark's voice whispers. You were just a teenager yourself.)

Chosen has long since learned to ignore that part of their mind.

The lapping waves at the foot of the cliff make for a good distraction from their thoughts. They slide down the dent in the rocks with ease, formed from months and months of skidding down the side.

The craters from Second's fight remain as fresh as ever, even after a year. Where the rocks would've been grinded away into sand by the waves, the cliffside stays straight and strong. In an artificial world like this, nature doesn't really change. It tends to just serve as a backdrop to whatever Chosen's dwelling on that day.

(You sound like one of those tacky protagonists. The world doesn't revolve around you, dumbass.)

Well, they know, but it's nice to believe. If no one has their back, then at least the Outernet does.

…Who are they kidding.

They dive into the water almost automatically, washing away their worries with breaststrokes and paddles and whatever other stupid names humans have picked out for swimming techniques. They're not a professional, okay?

They kick their legs instinctively, immersed in the motions. It's a calming ritual at this point. A good way to waste time, as well—- It takes hours of swimming to tire them out, and another half hour of floating around before they decide to just let the waves take them under. Maybe if they get lucky enough, they'll die.

Of course, they never actually succeed. Somehow, they always end up on the top of the cliff again, feeling warmer than they had before they closed their eyes. A normal stickfigure would take advantage of this apparent invincibility, but they just find it frustrating. Then again, a normal stickfigure wouldn't await death with open arms.

(That's not a healthy thought process, y'know.)

They know. They've had this conversation a million times.

(There's things to do other than just sleep and swim! You could like, get a job or something. Maybe that'll get your sorry ass off the ground.)

Oh, of course, because any Carteblani would gladly give a wanted terrorist a job.

(At least train! You barely spar anymore!)

There's no one to spar with.

(There's trees, and rocks, and just the sky in general. You're getting slow already. You never know when you'll suddenly have to go on the run from the fuckin'… stick police, or whatever.)

If things go their way, they'll be dead before that ever happens.

(It's not your time to die.)

It's never their time to die.

(Exactly! You're getting it.)

What's there to even live for?

(The orange kid, first off. You could always go visit him again. Just wait till nighttime and then blast through the LAN and say hi!)

I'm not going to bother them with stupid stuff like that. Besides, Alan's on that computer too.

(Not at night, he's not. Humans usually sleep around that time.)

And if he's not?

(At least go say hi! Or thank her! You never even learned the kid's name, for stod's sake. His, or his friends.)

God, not stod.

(We're not human, loser. We've got stickfigure gods, not real ones.)

You know just as well as I do that's not how this works. We don't have gods. We have animators.

(Boooooooo. Don't be such a killjoy!)

Don't be such an idiot, then.

(Well, I'm not the one talking to a voice in my head.)

Chosen jolts up, coughing, and once again finds themself on the cliff. It's nothing new, but they're still disappointed.

A flash of red in the corner of their eye catches their attention, and they're up at once, feet parted and hands in a fist for battle. #FF0000. They'd recognize that color anywhere. Yet, after scanning their surroundings, they find nothing but the same shades of green, blue and brown they've grown accustomed to. Their shoulders fall. Right. Dark's dead.

It's not news, but it still stings all the same. They still refuse to visit her crater, too afraid to be faced with the shadow of her code burned into the ground. Dead sticks don't leave bodies, but the very image of Dark laying rotted in the dirt makes them feel sick all the same. The train of thought continues, and even as Chosen tries to distract themself, they can hear the little maggots crawling on her, eating away at her code and leaving holes in her lines.

(Hey, chill. At the very least, I'm tall enough to give them a good meal.)

Chosen has to bite back a retort about how 5'7 is barely anything, especially when compared to their own height, more focused on trying to think of anything other than Dark's death. Dark's… life?

Right! Sure. They're just feeling a little nostalgic today. They'll go check out the old house.

They fly there in no time at all, able to pinpoint the building from thousands of pixels away. It's pretty noticeable, honestly. Not for the first time, Chosen wonders how they have evaded capture for so long.

The massive hole they'd blasted into the wall had long since been covered up, albeit rather shoddily, with some old leaves Chosen had taken the time to stitch together. Not like they could get cloth. They use the hole as a makeshift entrance to the second floor now, sparing the roof a glance before entering.

They generally avoid this room as much as possible. The mess from their fight with Dark is still evident, with dusty items scattered across the floor. They'd been procrastinating cleaning it. It'd be a nice way to pass time, and keep Dark's memory alive, but well… The memories are the issue.

At the very least, Chosen had had the sense to take down Dark's weird sheets, tucking vira blueprints away in one of the wooden drawing and unplugging the computer.

(Don't wanna waste money on electric bills!)

They don't pay bills. They never have. There's not really a need to pay for electricity when the world literally runs on it. It'd be like paying for air. Chosen doubted even the most convincing salesticks could sell air.

(Tell that to O'hare.)

Oh, can it, will you?

Chosen sighs, walking over towards the globe on the floor. The little spider pin had fallen to the side at some point, chipped and dirty, and they could not care less. Good riddance. They pick the globe up, walking over to one of the boxes in the room. Opening it, they chuck the globe in haphazardly, before glancing at the rest of the room.

Sure. Why not? They'd clean it now.

They stuff objects into the boxes as much as they can. They freeze the whole floor, then take the time to melt it, using the water to wash some of the dust off the floor. They use old notes on Virabots to wipe the boxes down. They set fire to the table- wait, fuck, oh shit, oh shit, ABORT!

They freeze the fire as soon as they can, creating a weird soggy, ashy mess.

So much for preserving memories.

They open the drawers, blowing ash off the sides and rummaging through them. Dark had always been protective of her stuff while vir was alive; Chosen felt more than a little guilty ignoring all the boundaries she'd set, but then, it wasn't like she was around to tell them off.

They pause, for a moment. Maybe Dark will burst into the room right now. Maybe she'll yell, “I missed you!” and dive into their arms, peppering them with kisses and apologies. Maybe they'll hold her tight, apologizing in turn for letting her go so easily, for not just talking to her about their worries before it was too late.

(It wasn't your fault.)

Maybe they need to shut the fuck up.

The drawers are filled mostly with random things, souvenirs Dark had collected from various websites while destroying them. There's that massive red angry bird, colored black with a hole drilled into it to resemble Chosen. He'd actually done a pretty good job with this, they muse. They wonder why he kept it hidden.

There's a few books, as well. Stick biology, programming, engineering, all stuff Chosen couldn't even begin to understand. The DSM-4 is in there too. What?

Chosen puts the book aside with a fond sigh, their throat squeezing up at just how… Dark all of this is. They close their eyes, trying to steady their breathing. They can pretend the tightness is a noose. It helps, somehow.

(That's really unhealthy.)

Yeah, well. It made them feel better, so that's that.

He spots a shiny, brown box, and pulls it out, surprised at the sheer size of the thing. What was in it, some kind of sword??

A note is messily scrawled onto the top, the handwriting completely different to Dark's usual neatness.

EMERGENCY, it reads. DO NOT USE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. YOU'VE COMPLETED YOUR PURPOSE NOW. YOU'RE FINE. GIVE UP. GIVE UP. The writing veers off to the side, slanting downwards with no lines to guide it. Chosen's brows furrow, confused. Give up? On what? Had Dark actually been considering abandoning his plans with the Virabot?

One look at the object inside reveals that, no, whatever this was is far worse.

A sharp blade rests inside. It's bright blue, reminiscent of the swords Chosen used to see in the anime they pirated. Instead of glowing, it seemed to almost absorb all the light around them, the whole room visibly darkening as they unveiled it.

They remove it from the box with caution, mentally chastising Dark for not even including a sheath to keep it in.

Then again, it didn't seem like she'd been in the best state of mind when she'd made this. Despite being clean at first glance, a deeper examination reveal little nicks along the flat side of the blade, the edges jagged and uneven. Without a doubt, Dark was shaking when he made this.

Chosen flips the sword around, accidentally slicing their hand in the process. They could probably afford to be more gentle with it, but hey, it's not like they were exactly against getting hurt.

Into the handle of the blade, they can make out words badly engraved into the material. Tilting it slightly so it'd reflect a bit more light, Chosen narrowed their eyes, straining to read the text.

destroy(The_Chosen_One)

W…

What?

The sword clatters to the ground, the noise ringing throughout the room. It's way too silent. It's way too fucking silent.

Dark had made a secret weapon. To kill Chosen, specifically.

It hadn't been a vague weapon of destruction, like the Virabots, or the various tools he'd made to help him gain better control of his powers. It couldn't have been made in the short duration Chosen had been on Alan's new PC, destroying the virus. There's no way she would've been able to make something like this so fast.

Chosen, for the first time since they woke up, registers their feelings. Their hand is burning.

Their hand is slowly crumbling.

And then

Chosen begins to laugh.

The sound fills the air, cutting through the 0s and 1s like paper.

It wasn't their fault. None of this had been their fault. The four kids getting deleted, the orange kid's powers, Dark dying. It had never been them. They couldn't have prevented this by talking to Dark about their feelings, or appeasing to her while they could.

They'd lost Dark long ago.

Maybe they'd never had her at all. Maybe it hadn't been Cho and Dark, revelling in freedom and power, but The Chosen One and The Dark Lord, ticking time bombs just waiting to destroy each other.

Because that's what it had been for, right? Noogai had created Dark to destroy them. They were enemies before they were friends. Of course Dark would have a backup plan to kill Chosen. This was how it was always meant to go. They'd been dead from the very beginning, after all.

A normal stick would despise Dark for this. A normal stick would be scrambling to find a way to heal themself before it was too late.

But we've already established this. The Chosen One is not normal. And neither is The Dark Lord.

In her efforts to get rid of him, Dark had created the one thing Chosen had needed the most. A way out. Freedom.

Chosen takes the sword with their remaining hand, grinning and plunging it into their stomach.

They'd get to start over again. They knew it all now. They wouldn't need to worry about the Outernet, or what was beyond the PC. With their luck, no one would ever draw them again, becoming an urban legend lost to time.

They'd get to meet Dark again.

(No!)

They'd get to meet Dark again!

(Stop!)

They were distintegrating at a faster speed now, quiet literally breaking into pieces.

(Chosen!)

It burned, it burned so fucking bad, but they didn't care.

“CHOSEN!”

It needed to be fatal, not painless.

“Oh my god, oh my god, no, nononono…”

Chosen beams as Dark appears in their blurring vision, reaching out to them. She was here! Dark was here for them!

“Dark,” They choked out.

“God, Chosen, fuck, I'm so sorry, this wasn't how it was supposed to go, you weren't supposed to find it-”

“I missed you.”

“DON'T say that, don't say you fucking missed me, we can still fix this, we can still-”

“I'm coming home now.”

“You're not, this isn't home, dying isn't your home-!”

Dark's efforts are futile. Chosen looks up to her, drinking her whole appearance in, as bright and dangerous and blinding as the first time they'd met,

and everything

goes

black.

[muchymozzarella]

Miguel's mouth brushes Miles' ear when talking to him and holding him down with his body, Miles almost strips him fully naked, they throw down, despite Miguel being bigger and looking physically stronger (which we know means nothing with these Spider people) Miles comes out on top, Miguel's hands are so huge one of them almost fully covers Miles' waist, Miguel reveals he's been spying on Miles for over a year, they're direct opposites in their ideology which means they're perfect foils and clash with delicious friction and we're supposed to pretend there's no reason people ship them 😂

Not that anyone needs any reason to ship characters because that's what's fun about shipping ✌🏾

but still 👁️👁️

[benetnvsch]

sorry guys im still thinking abt this,,,

[foggieststars]

got some rly bad news last night so i’m going to be extra weird and off putting if charles doesn’t do well today

[blessphemy]

once in a while when i'm in the murderbot fandom tag i see a shark fin of ship discourse and i'm like wrow... i guess there's shipping out there. so anyways.

[ghostlyplacetobe]

I do not support yanderedev

Oka ruto stimboard

Requested by: no one

Credits

[meetmeatthecoda]

Halcyon by meetmeatthecoda Fandoms: The Blacklist (US TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Chapters: 4/7 Words: 69,399 Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Elizabeth Keen/Raymond Reddington, Elizabeth Keen, Raymond Reddington, Agnes Keen, Dembe Zuma, Harold Cooper, Charlene Cooper, Alina Park, Donald Ressler, Aram Mojtabai, various OCs, Lizzington - Freeform, Agnesgate, AU, post-8.22, Fix-it fic, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Angst, Lots of Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, briefly, in the start of chapter 3, and an equally brief discussion of them in chapter 5, some sexual content, Nothing too explicit, and last but not least, no Redarina, no relation at all ever between red & liz, obviously

Summary:

Halcyon - adjective:

denoting a period of time in the past that was idyllically happy and peaceful.

noun:

a tropical Asian and African kingfisher with brightly colored plumage.

a mythical bird said by ancient writers to breed in a nest floating at sea at the winter solstice, charming the wind and waves into calm.

origin:

from Greek alkuōn ‘kingfisher’ (also halkuōn, by association with hals ‘sea’ and kuōn ‘conceiving’).

An AU post-8.22 fix-it fic, wherein Liz survives her shooting - unbeknownst to everyone - & flees the country in an effort to protect those dear to her, living a solitary, lonely existence on a loch in Scotland & coping with the only outlet she has, a hobby begun as a coping mechanism during a traumatic childhood & kept since then as a closely-guarded secret: art.

“As with all things in her life, it was born from fire.”

☕️ Buy Me a Coffee ☕️

🎶 Playlist below the cut! 🎶

Meant To Be by Ber & Charlie Oriain

Rockland by Gracie Abrams

Walking On The Moon by Ruelle

graves by Purity Ring

32 Floors by Lapsley

Rolling Like a Ball by Ludovico Einaudi

Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams

Much Too Much by Lennon Stella

You Hold Me Up by The Bones of J.R. Jones

As The World Caves In by Matt Maltese (cover by Sarah Cothran)

Men On The Moon by Chelsea Cutler

you broke me first by Tate McRae

Games by Lennon Stella

Save Us by Lennon Stella

Takeaway by The Chainsmokers, ILLENIUM feat. Lennon Stella

Best by Gracie Abrams

Where do we go now? by Gracie Abrams

Amelie by Gracie Abrams

85mm by Ludovico Einaudi

ceilings by Lizzy McAlpine

Through the Eyes of a Child by AURORA

Edge of the Dark by Emmit Fenn

Blinded by Emmit Fenn

Memories by Emmit Fenn

Spectrum by Andrew Belle

I Can’t Believe I Had You by Emmit Fenn

Far from Here by Emmit Fenn

In Between Breaths by SYML

Two people by Gracie Abrams