"I stopped writing fic because no one engaged with it or came into my askbox to discuss it" and "I left emoji comments and sent an ask to a writer discussing their fic but never got a response even though they answer other asks" and "I get really nice comments but never know how to respond to them" are all fandom experiences that can coexist!

Birthday Cake

A/N: Suprise folks!!! *me laughing maniacally* The whole scenery for this fic somehow appeared in my head and I just COULDN’T let it slip away, so... My biggest inspo for that was @drawlfoy!! Remember her posting the fic where Draco and Reader work at McDonald’s and are total suckers in their job (arguing with the customers; preparing wrong orders; etc.)? Dee unfortunately, deleted this precious, but it’s stuck to my head ever since (lol lol, it’s the moment where Dee wants to get rid of something, but I kindly remind everyone it existed). Therefore I present to you the next Draco x Reader fic related to our fav fast-food rest. This time, however, they’re not working at the same workplace but... I'm going to stop here cuz I don't want to spoiler :P

**The second thing that triggered me to write this fic is the YouTube video I recently saw with a lady who orders the 'specials' appearing to be out of the menu list of McDonald’s, through the Drive-Through. She asked for a birthday cake, was laughed at a few times, but eventually got what she wanted. Applause for the attitude!!

About the fic (context, my bitches): ofc it’s the modern AU, non-magical world. Draco’s the worst boyfriend ever but always manages to turn things into their righteous place. 

Summary: The birthday is upcoming, and Draco is in a rush to think up an idea for a perfect gift. His ingenuity fails, however, and leaves Y/N very unsatisfied with a disaster that has been forged. 

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: my brain playing a total psycho, language, alcohol, sexual undertones/allusions to sex, Pansy being too much of her self... deal...

Tags: @drawlfoy @eltanin-malfoy

Such an unrestrained desire to strangle somebody you hadn't felt in a long time.

Really.

Today was your birthday, which you had been widely announcing for almost a whole month to people you might have accidentally forgotten about it. Having your boyfriend, Draco, on your mind in particular.

You doubted he would have the guts to omit your big day, though as repeatedly as he had done for a few years back. But something between foresight and the second sense of prevention told you to keep reminding him every day of the upcoming event, with a heap of birthday-themed emojis and uppercases in the messages.

Everything was planned out in your head: him picking you up from your house with the sharp-red cabriolet that he used only for special occasions; him driving the two of you to the fanciest restaurant he could find in town; him bestowing you with a nice-looking, golden necklace or a different piece of jewelry you had been suggestively pointing out in the store's exhibition; him booking up a hotel room for you two to celebrate.

Either way, that was much beyond your expectations, as it turned out. And now you were sitting in the front yard of your house, waiting for him to show up.

'If he was going to at all.' This thought invaded your mind for the last hour, try as might to subdue it. An hour you had been sitting tight, hoping it was only a delay caused by a traffic jam or other irrational explanation he could come up with. But you were deceiving yourself, you eventually presumed -- you had been checking up your phone every one minute, only to see if any message notification popped up on the screen, other than birthday wishes from friends who actually cared for you.

2.02pm: Nothing.

2.03pm: Susan 'Happy birthday bitch!'

2.04pm: Instagram notif. (Someone liked your photo, which you had posted before leaving your room, posing in front of the mirror in the best cocktail dress you could find in the wardrobe.)

2.05pm: Nothing yet again.

2.06pm: Still... Peace and quiet.

"Fuck it...Enough," you muttered under your breath, an annoying disillusionment falling like a heavy mile stone on your chest. Tears suddenly started sprinkling in your eyes at the regret, and you were very reluctant to admit that your friends were right -- Draco Malfoy was an egoistic, negligent, self-absorbed pri--

"Hi." You heard the raspy, panting voice says. "Sorry for the delay."

You blinked slowly, stupidly. You raised your head to assure yourself it was him. That his expression actually corresponded to his words and showed some kind of remorse for standing you up. But no... There he was: standing in front of you, plainly confident and unashamed, with his cocky smirk provoking you to slap him.

Oh, how much you craved to slap him right now. "Where to the fuck have you been?"

"I've tried to pick this up," he explained, simultaneously lifting up the paper bag he'd been carrying in his hand. The big, exclaiming letters 'McDonald's' with the brand's logo were printed on its exterior, and it was fully stuffed with something inside.

Not quite comprehending, you furrowed. You attempted to hide the venom in your voice, but somehow it found its way to leak out. "Couldn't you do that in advance?"

"Nope..." It was his turn to furrow, looking almost shocked with the question. And thanks to all those years of your relationship, you knew it was his piss-poor estimation of time taking over. "It was a last-minute surprise."

"Sounds like it," you commented irritably. "What's that?"

"Your birthday present, sunshine," he drawled happily, ignoring your remark. He sounded positively delighted and satisfied with himself at surprising you with that because he saw a slight crease of shock painting on your forehead. "Here you go."

You took his deposit out of his grasp, still quite unsure. What if his gift would only make a situation worse? Can it get any worse with Draco's total lack of tact? Yes. But it was only one way to find out.

Without even stealing a second glance at him, you ripped off all of the packaging that had been folded around, protecting the contents. You tried to do it carefully and without any impact of emotions revealing the way you felt inside, but your hands were shaking with rage, and you couldn't quite contain yourself. You had been highly aware you shouldn't have expected much from him, but still...

You wondered if the universe was playing against you.

There was a moment of tense silence as you struggled to deal with all the wrappings. Rather unfortunately, you wished you hadn't put so much effort in opening your so-called 'gift' because as you finally did, it only angered you more, seeing as the disappointment laughs at your face. And yes, as a matter of fact, the universe was against you today...

"Are you kidding me?" you asked in disbelief, fury reappearing in your eyes. "A birthday cake?! From McDonald's?" Ugly, little cake with the creepiest smiley face of a clown. It wasn't even fresh, you realized, when you smelled it and felt a musty reek of a freezer, it probably had been kept in. A confusing sense of sadness in your chest couldn't reach any higher at this point.

"Don't you like it?" he asked, detecting the wrath in your eyes. At that, you felt the dumbest urge to laugh and never stop. "I thought it'd be something original."

"Oh, I love it," you said sarcastically, a faint voice of hope telling you it was only a very bad joke was still lingering in your head. But it wasn't a joke.

"It's not just--" He struggled to form a coherent sentence. "I've been asking Blaise and Theo about any ideas. I told them, what you had said to me -- 'you didn't want anything fancy.' So we decided it's... something."

"Of course I didn't tell you I want anything, you dolt!" Your voice raised up almost two octaves, and the pulse sped up so fast it entailed a headache along. A neighbor from the opposite garden who was watering the flowers looked at you, startled, and eyes widened your exasperated tone. You didn’t care. "It's how it works: you don't tell other people you expect them to buy something!"

"But I'm your boyfriend. You shouldn't -- er-- feel uncomfortable to tell..."

"Exactly! As my boyfriend, you should have known!"

"Well... I didn't. If that's what's bothering you, we can...we can..."

"Stop." Listening to him and his pathetic excuses was the last thing you were going to do now. "What – why would you even – " You sputtered out, unable to process or express exactly what you were feeling. There was definitely anger and indignation. Curiosity, for another, as to why Draco would even fall for such foolish and ill-considered idea, and -- to the top of it -- hope it would make a good fit. And possibly, the last and most satisfying part, was the wicked impulse to throw the cake directly into his arrogant face, letting him taste his own medicine he had been serving you for years on each failed birthday.

"You know, for once, you could pay more effort and try doing something nice for me," you told him firmly, deflating to calm down your buzzing nerves.

"I've been tr--"

"Do you realize how much it costs me to pretend to be happy when you forget about me? Last year, I organized a big-ass party for your birthday, inviting over all of your friends and buying the best booze I could find to celebrate it properly," you said harshly and pretentiously, as you intended. "The best part is, you didn't even thank me." You stared at him, wringing your hands and expecting to perceive any trope of shame in his eyes. For the first time, you actually did.  

"Listen, about that--" he calmly attempted to cut off your monologue.

"No, you listen..." Did you really want what was upcoming next? Maybe it was about time. "Today, I decided I'm standing up for myself. So, for the last time, get out from my porch."

He bristled, the thunderstruck air hanging around him. "Because of the stupid cake?"

"What?! No! It's just... I feel like you don't give a damn about me anymore." Gulp formed in your throat, and the tears finally left your eyes at the consciousness of what was happening. "I think we both deserve some time."

Your eyes moved to his, and you almost wished you hadn't looked. He was watching you, with pursed lips and a pure mixture of every emotion: anger, sadness, resentment, pretension, dejection. The faintest of his flustered blushes appeared on his cheeks, and you suddenly wished you could hug him. "So you are putting us..." His finger pointed at him and you as if expecting clarification. "...on a break? Is that what it is?"

You were truly torn, to be honest. Becoming single on your birthday was the last wish you had for this day, but you felt a strong sense of adequacy and pride for building up the boundaries of tolerance. Besides, seeing as it was heading nowhere, it was only a matter of time that your relationship came to an end.  

Although, it hurt. A lot. "Yes."

You darted your eyes from him, not wanting to study his reaction in case it caused you to meltdown and jump to his embrace, apologizing endlessly for your words. You loved him. But you didn't regret what you had just said.

Something like a dry chuckle of disbelief escaped out of his mouth. "Is that what you really want?"

'No,' your thoughts prompted you instantly before you could even contemplate. 'I want you to say so many things you're never willing to say. But you don't know.'

So instead, you lied: "Yes."

All expressed, you spun around without peeking back and rushed into your room, already knowing there was no more sense in strives to make this day any better; all of it would bring only bad associations. It would be depressing, even more than it already was.

God, was it how the break-up pained? Because if so, you wanted to be deceased. The world spun suddenly, and you sank to your knees, shaking madly and doing your best to find your way back to your bed, located a few mere meters from you. Part of you felt numb, but your head was wide awake and alarming you that something in terms of a disaster had just happened. Because it did. The clutching in your chest was unbearable, and tears were dashing out of your eyes like a living waterfall, which made you bury your face in your hands. Never have you ever wanted to be so drunk before.

And so many questions rung up in your head at once.

Did you make a good decision? What if you are going to miss him, yet knowing you could never call? What about college -- are things about to get awkward?

No answers.

But you knew someone who would be able to reply to them.

With the blurred by tears vision, you struggled but managed to find your phone in the purse, and then clumsily scrolled through and tapped in your list of contacts before holding the phone to your ear.

Please answer, you begged. Please, please…

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Pansy's voice roared from the other side of a line, as always, enthusiastic.

"Pansy." You tried to sound less brokenly than you were, feeling marginally worse at the reminder of your birthday. "Is Daphne around?"

"Ouch, you're a really nasty bitch sometimes, you know. I'm not goin' to point out today, but since you didn't let me end my wishes, I'll note that for the future reference." You were sure she was grinning at the teasing, seeing as much as she liked that. Normally, you wouldn't mind, but... "How--"

"Pansy, please..." you sobbed out, almost desperate to have someone to consult and share emotions with. Daphne -- contrary to Pansy, who could be very judgy sometimes -- was someone you had especially on mind now. "I need to talk to her."

You heard her sigh; the kind of sigh she used to either prove her resignation or concern. But, as much as it surprised you, she suppressed her curiosity and, without a second word, obediently handed the phone over to Daphne. At least, that's what you assumed because you heard a pause and subdued mutters in the background.

"Y/N?" the milder tone spoke up, and you felt suddenly very strange as if submerged in water of relief; relief to hear the familiar voice. That released you from keeping a distant attitude, and yet again, a sadness washed over you, triggering a loud wail to come out of your mouth. "Y/N, is everything alright?"

"No..." you sniveled, unable to collect yourself together. "I-I... We br-brok-e up."

"You and Draco?" Daphne asked, astonishment evident.

You nodded but then remembered she couldn't see you nor read your expression. So instead, you forced your vocal cords to work again. "Mhm..."

"What happened?"

Restoring the story in your brain again, you told her everything, still tearfully but much more coherently this time. You avoided the details, briefly skipping from one utterance to another, as your conversations had gone, and you were very much thankful she didn't press for more information about the prospect of the situation. If it hadn't been her sporadic gasps or loud inhales of breath, you would have almost presumed she wasn't listening. However, she was, and as soon turned out, Pansy was as well.

"That's bananas!" Pansy shouted somewhere from the back as you had ended, and despite your gloom, you giggled quietly at her comment.

"Shush," Daphne tried to silence her, covering up the fact she had put you on the speaker. You didn't mind because you knew Pansy, who would definitely expect Daphne to cite the whole conversation if needed. But knowing Daphne as well, you could bet she flushed more than she would want to at that point. "So it all started because of the cake?"

"And the delay," you added. "But it's not just about that, obviously. It feels like... he completely stopped caring. And I don't want to be stuck in a relationship where everything is about sex and having fun only. Draco wasn't looking for a commitment, which..."

"Sucks,"ended this time Pansy unhesitatingly, who wasn't now screaming from the other part of a room but openly participating in the discussion.

"Yeah," you agreed.

"As for me, I think he might love you more than you know, Y/N." It was Daphne talking again, and she sounded positively convinced about her view as for someone who had hardly exchanged any word with Draco for the past few years. As if reading your thoughts, she continued. "I've observed you a lot. I know he might seem unemotional, but it's you who discovered him. That must require a lot of trust, you know."

You contemplated, and some of the memories and images from your first encounter run across your brain, try as might to suppress it: spotting each other at the party; binging some whisky shots together; flirty teasing; the very masculine scent of cologne; and then... more spicy recollections -- eager lips pressing against each other; against each others' necks; against other parts of the body; stripping off the clothes in the passionate haste...

Receiving a long moment of silence, Daphne took a second chance and asked. "And what's with you? Do you want to end it?"

It felt like standing before the oracle of truth. Therefore, you couldn't deny it in front of yourself. "No."

"So what're you still doing there?" commented Pansy impatiently, and you could imagine her rolling the eyes. "Get out and find him!"

She was right. You will.

XOXOXOXO

"I thought I'd find you here..."

No. Actually, you didn't. 

You had tracked Draco's phone with your own one with some help of an app that, as the two of you had established still in the relationship, would be a good idea in case of an emergency. That in itself proved to be more than helpful, believing that your argument may be pinned as something in terms of an emergency, right?

So having access to his location, you had found out he was in the park where he had taken you on the first date, shortly after dinner, to watch the sunset that, as he had described, 'was a typical cliche from every romantic movie.'

But you had fallen for that. So much.

You hadn't been aware the place had actually some meaning for him until now, and that... God, that he had even remembered it. Time showed, however, that it indeed did, to which your heart reacted with a happy jolting. But also with a nasty sting of nostalgia following shortly after.

Yet, that only had encouraged you to make up your mind and go looking for him, which hadn't been such a difficult task per se. He was sitting on the bench, in the shade of a tree, and hiding his a little too delicate skin from the sun rays. As soon as he had heard your voice, his gray eyes flew up to see you standing a few meters away.

"What are you doing here?" was the immediate question that tumbled out of his mouth. He arched his eyebrow, and to your surprise, he didn't even look angry or sad with you. Nothing near the edge; actually, almost something like the amusement was painting on his face.

"Aren't you mad with me?" you asked intrigued, completely forgetting about his question.

He frowned. "Why would I be?" His tone was so mild that you weren't sure if he was referring to the double meaning; but then he smirked playfully and said, "Besides, I knew you were coming."

"Wha-- How?" you asked, eyes dilating a fraction, in shock.

He smirked, pointing at his phone in an explanatory manner. After a moment, you finally figured out what he meant: the app must have registered he had been tracked and that your phone was trying to find his. At this notice, you reacted with a wave of flush, suddenly regretting your previous lie. His smile only widened at your expression. "Wanna sit? It's plenty of room here."

"Mhm..." You nodded, pleased to accept his offer, and walked over to the bench, doing your best to hide the evident embarrassment on your face. You felt strange he had taken you with such ease, seeing as merely two or three hours ago, you had burst at him like a cram-full volcano of unspoken emotions.

Draco shifted a package from his side, making more space for you to sit, and it took you a moment to realize it was a McDonald's cake from earlier. Everything started from that -- a stupid, little piece of cake which stood up between...

You shook the thought away, taking a seat next to him, close enough to smell his sandalwood cologne. "You didn't answer my question," Draco reminded you. "What's so important to make you track my phone?"

"I'm sorry, okay?" You rounded your face to him, flustrated, leaning at the backrest of a bench. "That's why I came. I wanted to apologize."

"Oh... Couldn't you call?"

You sighed. "I figured you wouldn't want to talk to me after...you know... our quarrel," you said half-despondent, half-desperate, watching your feet as if it were the most interesting thing to peer at now. "I didn't mean what I said earlier."

"I know," he said. Out of nowhere, he was gently grasping your palms which forced you to look up directly into his intense gaze. His eyes were swirling like molten silver at you. "But I should be apologizing, love. I made a mistake, okay?" His hands traveled all across to your tense shoulders, squeezing them lightly. "I know I should be more... affectionate with you. And this was...dumb. A dumb mistake. With that cake. But I'll try to be better if you give it another shot."

He looked so serious that you instantly believed him. You wanted to actually, with all force of longing, which grew up too rapidly in you when he wasn't around. Draco was a fool, you could easily say. But he was your fool, which was a thing you couldn't be more proud of.

Peeking slowly in the other direction, you asked, out of the topic, "You remembered the place?"

"Of course," he puffed jokingly, smiling. "Our first date. Officially our place from then on."

"Right..." You smiled back.

Honestly, the mere fact that he had called this spot 'yours' warmed up your heart, and you felt yourself grinning at his never-before-discovered emotionality. To assure yourself you weren't the only one caring, it was all you needed to hear.

The whole moment was intense, and now, you realized, is when you should have hugged him. Kissed him. Said something back at his sincere endearment.

But instead, spotting plastic cutlery next to your 'gift', you asked, "So what's the taste of the birthday cake?"  

And you knew he had caught the subtext of your playful inquiry. And you knew that soon you would work things out again. But, as for now...

"I thought you would never ask."

XOXOXOXO

A/N: Looooooool. Such a drama-comedy, right? And I could easily say It feels like 50% Draco-x-Reader / 50% Draco-x-BirthdayCake... But whatever (2am is working like a drunken bud, folks). Happy beginning of August :)

Feels like pt 6

Niall Horan x Y/n swift

Story Masterlist

Heya! some gilmore girls references in this one! also we finally get to see her friend group with billie, olivia, conan etc.

and also im trying to build up the harry and Y/n relationship!

Enjoy! if you have any requests, my ask's is always open!

In todays episode: "the walls are what?" "LONELY OK stop treating them as though they don't have feelings"

Instagram

Ynofficial✔

Liked by Louistomlinson and 4,718,725 others

Ynofficial dawn greets my red eyes, that have been crying because JESS AND RORY DID NOT END UP TOGETHER!

comments for this post have been blocked.

Messages

group name: F is for Fucked up individuals

one direction muse- Olivia, Phineas- Finneas, Ferb- Billie, depressed- Conan, caffeine obsessed- Claudia , Stabbity- Y/n

one direction muse: Y/N Y/M/N SWIFT

one direction meme: SOMEONES ABOUT TO BE DRINKING THEIR MEALS FROM A STRAW FOR THE NEXT 6 MONTHS

Phineas: Yes that's right wake us all up cuz you have someone to confront

Ferb: Shut up finneas, its getting interesting

one direction muse: Confess!!

depressed: OK OK I CONFESS I WAS THE ONE THAT TRASHED BILLIE'S BIKE THAT DAY ON THE MUSIC VIDEO SHOOT AND FRAMED IT TO LOOK LIKE FINNEAS DID IT!

Caffeine Obsessed: what.

Ferb: IT WAS YOU!

Phineas: I KNEW I DIDNT DO IT!

Stabbity: Bro

Phineas: I mean i knew that someone did it.

depressed: I CAN FINALLY FUCKING BREATHE NOW

Ferb: Not for long, buddy

Stabbity: Please stop the word putting into sentence doing, my head is splitting apart into 456 pieces

Caffeine obsessed: oddly specific but ok

Ferb: why?

one direction muse: ILL TELL YOU WHY

Stabbity: Cuz harry thought it was a stupid idea to try irish alcohol?

one direction muse: Im not talking about the alcohol, I'm talking about a certain Irish you've been texting for the past week.

Stabbity: so...

one direction muse: LIAR!!!

Stabbity: I didn't even say anything....

one direction muse: sorry, reflex

caffeine obsessed: WAIT WHAT

Stabitty: who told you anyways?

one direction muse: Austin did

Stabbity: snitch

one direction muse: THIS IS WHAT YOU GET FOR NOT REACTING TO MY MEMES ON INSTAGRAM WITH A LAUGHING CRYING EMOJI

Stabbity: IT WAS A HAIR-DRYER JOKE! IT WASN'T EVEN FUNNY

Caffeine Obsessed: OKAY OKAY LIV YOU GOTTA STOP SPAMMING THE MEMES, I WOKE UP TO 345 RACOON MEMES TODAY, AND SECONDLY, WHAT THE FUCK!? SINCE WHEN HAVE YOU PICKED UP YOU MINISCULE LITTLE CRUSH COURAGE AND TEXTED HIM??

one direction muse: ITS NOT MY FAULT I DO NOT HAVE A HEALTHY SLEEPING SCHEDULE, SOME OF US WORK REALLY HARD TO MAKE PEOPLE SMILE WHEN THEY WAKE UP BECAUSE OF THE MEMES

Phineas: No, she looks at me every morning and smiles :)

Depressed: lmao healthy relationships, can't relate

Stabbity: ADD THE COUPLE, THEY SAID, IT WILL BE FUN, THEY SAID.

Ferb: YOU WONT CRY OR FEEL THE NEED TO HURL BY READING OUR CONVERSTATIONS THEY SAID.

Phineas: I'm seriously concerned for your mental health guys

Caffeine obsessed: OH BOO HOO , Y/N TELL US ABT NIALL!

Stabbity: No

one direction muse: What do you mean no?

Stabbity I mean no, You wanna hear it in Spanish?

Stabbity: 🔊--⚪------------------ ("noh.")

Stabbity: I can die peacefully now, my mission to this world has finished.

------------------

Real Life-

"What the hell!" Y/n huffed once again.

She had been trying to fit a pair of her shoes into her suitcase for 15 minutes now but no matter how much she pushed it in, it kept coming out.

" Y/n what are you doing?" a voice suddenly speaks. its harry.

" GAH!" Y/n shouts, not expecting him to be there in her room doorway.

" Packing? if it isn't obvious enough!" she replies to his earlier question, turning to tackle the shoe once again.

" No its looks more like trying to give yourself an aneurism"

she doesn't reply. She just keeps trying to shut the zip of the bag

"Y/n" no response

"Y/n" she huffs and goes on pushing the bag

"Y/n" She's had it with the stupid bag. She kicks it on to the floor.

"What!?" she shouts, her voice cracking. She's sure there are tears in her eyes now. She didn't cry much as a child, she had never cried in public and she wasn't going to cry, especially not in front of him.

Her next words get muffled as harry swoops her into a hug. It is taking up everything in her not to shed a single tear. He rubs her back and supports her neck.

he still gives the best hugs her inner person says.

fuck it

she says to herself and starts crying into his shoulder, letting her heart out.

That moment she felt like she had found a lost friend again.

messages

personal texts with

DeeDee: Hey

DeeDee: hi

DeeDee: hiya

DeeDee: dude

DeeDee: reply

DeeDee: bro

DeeDee: loml

DeeDee: reply

DeeDee: smelly

DeeDee: trout

DeeDee: grinch

DeeDee: reply

DeeDee: lunatic

DeeDee: filthy fish

DeeDee: old hag

DeeDee: SiGh sIgH SigH

DeeDee: Luke and Lorelai do not deserve each other

Y/n the pooh: WHAT DID YOU SAY?

DeeDee: oh good I'm not even offended that was what caught your attention

DeeDee: N e ways could you bring some paintings and pictures so that we can put them up in our new apartment. the walls are lonely

Y/n the pooh: the walls are what?

DeeDee: LONELY OK stop treating them as though they don't have feelings

Y/n the pooh: but they don't??!!??

DeeDee: YOU INSENSITIVE STONE COLD MOULD

Y/n the pooh: mold?

Y/n the pooh: Diane you need to learn how to curse

Y/n the pooh: and no bullocks doesn't count as a curse word

DeeDee: Bullocks!

Y/n the pooh: but ill bring the pictures anyways, pick out a few of your own

DeeDee: Aw angel you care about me

Y/n the pooh: Yeah only you

Y/n the pooh: don't let it go over your head

DeeDee: Also we're having a housewarming party right?

Y/n the pooh: yeah but no thanksgiving dinner feast okay!

DeeDee: B-but they're our guests! WE are the hosts! we have to serve Hors d'oeuvres and champagne and side dish and deserts

Y/n the pooh: Dee just cause your a culinary student doesn't mean ppl expect you to cook all the time

Y/n the pooh: istg your so much like Sookie from Gilmore girls

DeeDee: and you're a what jess? OMG YOU ARE

Y/n the pooh: OMG I AM!

5 Times You Posted about Him, and One Time He Posted about You | Chris Kreider

I sent an anon to @kreiderrider​ way back at the end of April for Chris’ birthday and still haven’t stopped thinking about it, so apparently I’m writing it now. also for @bobohtuzzo​ for our never-ending loop of being mean to each other with Chris gifs.

TL;DR: this is Taylor’s fault for making me a Kreider girl, and and both hers Bayan’s fault for encouraging and enabling me.

length: 2.8k words

You knew when you started dating Chris that he was not social media’s biggest fan. And that was fine. You were hardly an influencer yourself, and you were pretty sure you followed more dogs than people on Instagram. So the pictures you took of Chris– Chris being cute, Chris doing mundane things, Chris with his bitchface on– stayed firmly in a locked album on your phone.

Until one day when you were sitting on the couch, leaning against Chris while he read a book, flipping through Instagram stories on your phone. One of your friends from high school had posted a cute picture with her boyfriend, and you paused to look at it. Chris rested his chin on your shoulder to peer at your phone. 

“They’re cute,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to your shoulder. You hummed in agreement. “How come you never post about me?”

You twisted around to look at him. “First of all, how do you even know that I don’t? Second of all, you want nothing to do with any sort of social media.” 

Chris flicked your nose. “Mika tells me things. And I don’t hate social media, I just don’t really get the point of it. Who the fuck cares what I’m doing every second of the day, who I got lunch with, where I got lunch? Anyway, I don’t really mind if you post about me every once in a while. I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide our relationship just because I avoid Instagram like the plague.” Chris pressed a kiss to your forehead to punctuate his sentence. 

You settled back in against Chris, resuming your mindless scrolling, and looking forward to the first opportunity to show off your boyfriend. 

Chef Chris Chris loved to cook. Part of it came from his absolutely ridiculous diet, you knew, but he also enjoyed the quiet time that cooking gave him, a way to be productive without requiring a ton of energy. The kitchens in either of your apartments were often filled with the smell of something good, for lunches, for dinners on nights off, for a quick meal after a game. Chris rarely let you help him with anything, which was fine because you preferred to bake, and it let you watch him. 

There was something about watching Chris cook that you just adored. He would always end up so focused, a strange intensity in his eyes that resembled the look he sometimes got on the ice. But then you would say something– a stupid joke that you’d seen on the internet, a funny story from work, or a something ridiculous your dog had done that morning– and he would laugh, his eyes lighting up again, and his dimples showing. 

Tonight, Chris was standing over the stove making a risotto. You had begged him for it during a rare full weekend off at home for the Rangers, and he had finally conceded. One of your playlists was playing softly in the living room, and you were perched on a barstool at the island, your dog curled beneath your feet. You weren’t sure if he wanted to be close to you, or if he was just waiting for Chris to give him a piece of chicken. 

Chris was stirring the risotto intently, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth a little bit. You were already scrolling through your phone, so you couldn’t resist snapping a quick picture for your Instagram story, simply throwing an emoji of a chef in the corner.

You were checking the views on your story later that night and responding to the few people that had replied to it, when Chris saw your phone screen. 

“Hang on, gimme that,” he said, pausing the hockey game he was watching. “How did I not notice you take this?” He looked closer at your phone. “And how many fucking followers do you have, holy shit.”

You took your phone back, seeing that Brett Howden had asked why he didn’t get any dinner. “I got a bunch more after I started dating you,” you said. Chris looked concerned. “Don’t make that face, you dork. I don’t really care, and if I did, I could just make my account private.” 

Chris still looked a little alarmed at the number of people who had seen him cook dinner, but he turned back to the hockey game, anyway. 

Sing Us a Song There was a piano in Chris’ apartment. It was tucked away in the spare bedroom, and he avoided playing it when people were over, even when it was just the two of you. You had lamented that fact once, and Chris had said something about just wanting to spend all his time focused on you. You let it go, but that didn’t mean you weren’t dying to hear him play, especially since everyone who had could only compliment him.

It was nearly Christmas when you let yourself into Chris’ apartment with your spare key. The two of you had spent an entire weekend decorating, and the space was absolutely filled with Christmas spirit. You had been baking cookies, and you were dropping some off for Chris to bring home to Massachusetts and his family. You smiled as you heard the familiar chords of “Celebrate Me Home” echoing through the apartment. Your penchant for listening to Christmas music at all hours was beginning to rub off on Chris finally. You paused, though, when you realized that the voice drifting through the apartment was not Kenny Loggins, but Chris. 

You set the cookies and your purse down gently on a counter, kicking off your snow boots and quietly making your way through the apartment. You peered around the doorway of the spare bedroom. Chris’ back was to you, since the piano faced the windows looking out over the city, as he continued singing. You slipped your phone out of your coat pocket and began recording. You made sure to keep quiet as Chris began playing “The Christmas Song.” You stayed there for a minute longer before putting your phone away and walking into the room.

Chris jumped a little as you put your hand on his shoulder. “Your hands are freezing, Christ, Y/N. How long have you been here?”

You kissed his temple. “Sorry. Just came to drop off cookies and couldn’t resist listening to you for a while. I wish you’d sing for me more often.” Chris blushed all the way up to his ears. 

Later that night, back home and with a pie in the oven this time, you edited the videos you took a little bit and put them up on your Instagram story. You left it captionless.

Your DMs were soon filled with people commenting on how talented Chris was and begging for more videos of him. You screenshotted them all– maybe a little smugly– and sent them to Chris. All you got back was an emoji sticking its tongue out at you. 

Somewhere on a Beach There was absolutely nothing that you loved more than a good vacation. As the Rangers’ bye week approached, Chris was getting desperate to get out of the city, and you were looking forward to a week on a beach.

The Rangers won their last game before the break, and then the two of you were on a plane to Hawaii for some valuable time in the sun. Chris had found a rental with a private stretch of beach, and you both had bags full of books to read.

“Chris, you need to put on sunscreen!” you yelled as he walked across the sand, sunglasses perched on his nose and book in hand, on the first day. He had complained but let you cover him in sunscreen; he got burnt anyway. 

Mika made a crispy potato joke later that night in response to Chris’ whiny text. 

You got a couple good Instagram posts out of the vacation. One was simply pictures of you that you had made Chris take– “like a good Instagram boyfriend, babe” – plus a couple well-executed timer shots of both of you on the beach: sandy toes, sunburnt nose. The other was a small collection of photos you took of Chris throughout the week, in various positions in various chairs, all with a different book. Your favorite was the time you had caught him asleep on the beach, book still clutched precariously in his hand, mouth hanging open as he burned in the sun. I will never understand how he can read a book a day and still never run out of books, you had typed as a caption. 

Dog Lover Chris was sick. You were sure he had been fighting through shit for nearly two weeks but had been too stubborn to admit it, and he had finally hit a wall. You had caught him leaning heavily against the bathroom sink that morning, dizzy and nauseous, as he attempted to get ready for practice; it still took both you and Mika yelling at him, with more than one threat to call Quinn and/or his mother, before he agreed to stay home. 

You had forced him to at least eat a piece of toast before you let him collapse on the couch under most of the blankets you had in your apartment. You sent Mika a picture of Chris in his fever haze, zoned out while watching the morning news. 

You luckily had the day off, so you were able to stay close to your idiot boyfriend with a penchant for ignoring injury and illness. It started storming after you ate lunch, rain lashing against the windows and lightning lighting up the dark New York sky, shrouded with clouds. Chris was still slouched on one end of the couch, barely having moved all morning. You were sitting at the other end with a book, his feet in your lap and thumb idly rubbing circles on his ankle, having ignored Chris’ protests that you were going to get sick, too. 

Later, when you were making dinner, you peeked into your living room to check on Chris. He had thrown most of his blankets onto the floor, and he was sprawled out on his stomach, solidly asleep. Your dog had crawled up onto the couch with him and was laying protectively over Chris’ legs. You smiled at them before reaching for your phone to take a picture. 

First you sent it to Mika: “Sometimes I think he’s only dating me for my dog.” with an eye roll emoji. Mika laughed at that one. 

Then you posted it on your Instagram, this time with the caption everyone knows dog cuddles are the best medicine. Your replies were flooded with get-well wishes for Chris. 

Best Friends Everyone knew that Mika and Chris were pretty much inseparable, both on the ice and off of it. You and Irma had bonded over it one night, when what was supposed to be a nice double date devolved into Chris and Mika discussing the chances of various teams winning the Cup. It had only been November. 

You teased the two about their codependency, but honestly it was endearing. Mika ended up over for dinner more nights than not, and you texted him more than you texted your mom. Mika sometimes crashed movie nights at Chris’ apartment, and all three of you ended up in a tangled mess of limbs and blankets before the end of the night without fail. It was completely undeniable that Chris loved Mika, so it was inevitable that you loved Mika, too. 

The Rangers were having another outdoor practice in Central Park. You loved going to any practice, but the outdoor ones were especially fun to watch. It always seemed like half of New York showed up to watch, and the boys were always more energetic and idiotic than usual.

You hung around close to the boards behind one of the goals during practice. You got some good pictures of the boys warming up, including one particularly cute one of Artemi sticking his tongue out at you. As practice went on, you took more pictures as various Rangers sped past you. The best opportunity was when Chris scored a – frankly ridiculous, honestly – goal over Hank’s shoulder, set up perfectly by Mika. They slammed into the boards next to you in celebration, and you managed to snap a great angle of that smile Mika seemed to reserve specifically for Chris.

All of the WAGs and families were allowed onto the ice after practice ended. You carefully made your way over towards where Chris and Mika were lazily leaning against the boards near one of the benches, nearly running over tripping over Igor’s dog in the process when he ran in front of you, gleefully dragging a leash behind him. 

Chris was facing you, but he didn’t see you approach. You, however, could see the dorky grin he had aimed at Mika from where he was slouching against the wall. As you got closer, you took out your phone and snuck one more picture of the two of them.

You couldn’t resist posting those pictures of your boys. You made sure to tag Mika, adding on the caption someone tell me how I can get a boy to look at me the way Chris and Mika look at each other. 

Mika replied with an eye roll emoji and a blue heart. Irma replied with about five cry-laughing emojis. Chris just looked offended. 

His Turn Chris had managed to convince you to join him for a week in Connecticut, and you had managed to convince him to let you drive up. He grumbled about it all the way out of the city. 

You had your sunglasses on and your hair was loose around your shoulders. Chris’ phone was plugged into your aux, but he had turned on your own road trip playlist. (He complained about your taste in music most of the drive, too.) As you got closer to Connecticut, Chris rolled the windows down. Every once in a while, you glanced over at him, only to already find him watching you with a smile on his face, eyes crinkly and dimple showing. 

You were singing the words to a Taylor Swift song at the top of your lungs, laughing as the wind ripped the words from your throat and out the window, when Chris reached over and picked up your phone. You turned to look at him.

“Eyes on the road,” he scolded, still holding your now-unlocked phone. You raised an eyebrow but turned back to the highway in front of you. 

The song changed again, this time to a Queen song, and you laughed again. Chris started singing along with you, and you forgot that he had been taking a picture of you. 

Later that night, long after the sun set, you got a notification that you had been tagged in a new Instagram post, by @2kreids0. You squinted at your phone screen, confused. You were sitting out on the porch under the stars, and Chris had gone in for dessert (something still stupidly healthy– “It’s the offseason, Kreider!” you had protested) only a couple minutes before.

Still frowning a little, you tapped on the notification. A picture of yourself, with the sun in your face and hair blowing out the window, laughing, eyes bright underneath your sunglasses, filled your screen. It could only have been taken by Chris in your car earlier. You looked at the Instagram handle again.

“Hey, babe?” you called as Chris stepped back outside, trying to balance two bowls and two glasses of wine. He looked up at you. “Did you make an Instagram?” Chris blushed. You looked back at the picture, this time reading the caption below it: I’ll drive anywhere with you, just to hear you sing your favorite songs. 

Chris had moved to stand next to you, still blushing to the tips of his ears. “I might have.” You laughed, taking your glass of wine from Chris’ hand and pulling him down for a kiss. 

“I thought you didn’t see the point?” you asked.

Chris shrugged. “I didn’t. Then you started posting pictures of me all the time, and I started to understand why people share the things they love for everyone to see.” 

“You’re a sap, Kreider,” you said, all fondness. You smiled at him from behind the rim of your wine glass as he took another picture of you. “Is this what I’m like?” you asked. Chris let out a surprised laugh. 

The next morning you were tagged again by Chris. You rolled your eyes. When you opened the notification, you saw the picture from the night before, but there was also a second one, one you didn’t know Chris had taken. It was of you, of course, but you were glaring at something on your phone over your coffee mug, glasses on and hair a mess. This time he had captioned it get you a girl who can do both. 

“Christopher!” You were already beginning to regret showing him exactly how to work Instagram the night before. As you heard Chris laughing his way down the stairs, though, you thought that you could really get used to it, even if Chris probably had some revenge posts in store for you. 

“Are you ready?”

I opened my backpack for one last check. 

“Flashlights, EMF reader, laser grid, night vision camera, backup batteries...Yeah I think I’m set!” I pulled my flashlight out and closed up my bag.

“Okay, let’s go.”

We stepped out of the car and looked around. Other than the solitary dome light from the car, the abandoned yard surrounding us was a void being carried on a breeze. The branches of low-hanging trees swayed and beckoned as they danced into the shallow pool of light around us, raising the hair on the back of my neck in an instant. Despite the full moon, the tall reaches of the pines blocked off almost all of the night sky. I glanced over at Adam. He pulled his own flashlight out and clicked it on before closing the door behind him. The beacon he produced got lost up the front walkway before landing squarely on a crooked, heavily-graffitied door. I turned my light on - the equivalent of an additional match in a coal mine.

“You should start filming before we even get in.” Adam suggested. He sent his flashlight across the yard to illuminate various odds and ends. “I don’t want anyone saying we faked anything.”

“You got it.” I stuffed my flashlight away, pulled my phone out of my pocket and attached my tripod and light. No more holding a flashlight and phone at the same time for us, no sir. We were professionals now. I opened the livestream and pointed my rig at Adam. “Five seconds,” I said. He hurriedly ran a hand through his hair as he turned. After a breath, he set his regular “I’m amped to be ghost hunting” grin to his face.

“What’s up, ghoulfriends?” He asked, his focus entirely on the camera. A few of our streamers began to respond immediately. The chat box along the bottom of the screen was awash in ghost emojis and greetings. One of my many jobs was to keep an eye on the chat for any hints or tips. There was nothing there for me yet.

“I’m Adam, the creature behind the camera is Carlie, and we are here at the Angel House for our Halloween spooktacular livestream event!”

I panned away from Adam and focused on the walkway leading up to the abandoned structure. With a jerk of my head, I directed Adam to get walking. The Angel House wasn’t close enough to be in focus yet. He fell into step next to me, out of view of the camera. 

“The Angel House, so named after its late owner, Maurice Angelo, has been recommended to us multiple times. We’ve read the reports you’ve tagged us in and decided that Halloween was the best option for our investigation.” I said, filling my role as historian. “For those not in the know, Maurice Angelo died under mysterious circumstances in the early 1880s. He had no known children, and evidently left his home and grounds to the town. Now, nearly 150 years later, the Angel House sits way in the back of a conservation land. It has been unoccupied this entire time.”

As I spoke, the house began to fill the frame of my phone. What had once been a handsome Victorian manor home was now a sagging, warped building. I paused to let the viewers get the full effect of its broken windows, peeling siding, and crooked front steps. A section of wall to the far left side of the house was broken open. The front porch had a collapsed roof and broken floorboards. It was like the house itself was discouraging entry.

The chat box continued to fill as more viewers signed in to the stream. I watched for a couple seconds and smiled when one viewer posted a gif of a small girl with black pigtails.  The gif was then repeated by others, all agreeing on what the house looked like.

“They’re creepy and they’re kooky, mysterious and spooky..” I sang softly into the phone. More emojis lit up my screen. Our viewers were thrilled.

“They’re all together ooky, the Addams family!” Adam picked up the tune as we marched up the steps to the front door. He leaned forward and pushed it open on shrieking hinges. Our lights filled a cavernous foyer. Adam stepped ahead of me and I held back, careful to keep both him and the room in frame. A double staircase faced us, leading into the two opposite wings of the house. A broken, dusty chandelier hung above us. We paused again in the middle of the room, scanning the area for both the benefit of our viewers and ourselves.

“Do do do doo,” 

Adam clapped.

“Do do do doo!”

He clapped again.

“Do do do do, do do do do, do do do do,”

Someone clapped directly behind my head. I yelped and whipped around. The camera was pointed directly where I heard the sound. Adam, wisely, stayed put. This was our first piece of evidence - we didn’t want viewers thinking we were messing with them.

“What did you hear, Carlie?”

“Someone beat you to the last clap for the song, Adam.” I said. There was nothing behind us. I was staring out the open front door. My camera light bled out onto the porch, illuminating only a few feet out. Two busts sat on either side of the door on the inside along the wall. There were no additional doorways on the front wall of the house.

“Okay ghoulfriends,” Adam said. I panned slowly back around to where Adam stood. “This right here is why we wanted to do our first ever livestream at the Angel House! It seems we have a kindred spirit in here with us.” He grinned at his own pun. I provided the obligatory groan, glad to hear my voice had evened out. It’s hard to take ghost hunters seriously as is, let alone one who shrieks at the first piece of evidence. 

“The Angel House has exactly two reported deaths. The first being Mr. Angelo himself. The official report stated that he died of an undisclosed illness in his bed. The second reported death took place in 2001, on Halloween night. Exactly 19 years ago today.” 

“October 31, 2001 had the happy happenstance of having a full moon on Halloween. In fact, today is the first Halloween full moon since that night.” I added. Adam gestured to the rooms on the first floor beyond the staircases. The investigation had begun.

“On that date, local urban explorer and photographer Shawn Johnson decided to do a walkthrough of the Angel House. Now, Johnson was not a paranormal investigator. He was just a guy who loved exploring. While researching the house, we discovered his blog. The link will be posted on our page after the livestream.” Adam’s voice grew softer as we passed the staircase and walked towards an open doorway to the next room. It was a common theme for him - he started each investigation big and boisterous. When it came time for the actual investigating, he softened his tone. Something about big, empty, derelict buildings gave the same feeling as being in  a church. As though simply by talking, we were being  disruptive.

“Johnson believed that it was the unknown that made people nervous, not spirits or ghouls. So he opted for a nighttime exploration of the Angel House to prove, without question, that there was no such thing as ghosts. He wrote a preliminary blog post about it and outlined his plan for the night.” I explained. My tone matched Adam’s. 

“Unfortunately, Shawn Johnson never posted his follow up entry. He never made it out of the Angel House. His roommate woke up and checked his bedroom the next morning and found it empty. The police found Johnson in a guest bedroom on the second floor of the house, where he had died from blunt force trauma to the head. To this day, no one has found his camera.”

The chat box on the livestream was nonstop. Our fans were suggesting their own theories, expressing hope that we would find Johnson’s camera, and recommending what rooms to look in. I glanced through the thread. Nothing of relevance to the moment. 

We tiptoed over the threshold and found ourselves in a large kitchen. A cast iron stove lined one wall. The kitchen table, which at one point must have been beautiful with its intricate carvings and detail, was missing a leg and slanted to one side. Dust covered everything around us. Each step filled the air with an additional cloud. We poked through closets, looked out the windows, and opened every cabinet door. Nothing stirred. After a few more minutes of exploring. Adam signaled me to focus on him.

“So the main reason Carlie and I decided to start livestreaming was for better accountability. Believe it or not, we do read every single one of your comments and it breaks my little ghost-loving heart that you guys think we fake evidence.” Adam laid both hands over his heart and looked off into the distance, an exaggerated look of betrayal on his face. The chat box pinged with assurances in response. I grinned. 

“Whenever we investigate, we really do come alone. We don’t scope out places ahead of time, we don’t set anything up ahead of time. We do as little editing as possible, we just trim down on time to fit our investigations into a reasonable length. And to prove to you that it really just is us here, I want to direct your attention to the floor.”

I aimed the tripod down to our feet. Both of us wore heavy combat boots laced up tight. It had taken exactly one step on a rusty nail wearing Converse back in our early days to encourage safe footwear. 

“As you all can see, the floors of the Angel House have a pretty thick layer of dust. No one else is here. Every touch, every footstep, is 100% us.” Adam continued. I recorded our last few footsteps. The heavy treads of two pairs of boots, one smaller than the other, marked our way across the dilapidated kitchen.

“No activity has been found here, so it’s time for us to move on!” Adam walked back into frame. I recorded his feet for good measure, so that the viewers could see the footprints he left on the 140-year-old floors, when he stopped.

“Carlie, what the hell.”

“What?” I asked. I panned up to his face. He was looking at the floor ahead of us. I walked forward, keeping him in frame until I scanned farther up to the entryway to the kitchen. 

A third set of footsteps was clearly imprinted in the dust. It looked as though a third person had peered into the kitchen before walking away.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. 

“Come on!” Adam walked briskly toward the doorway. The third set of prints had come up from the perimeter of the foyer beyond the room. They were large, clearly men’s, but the tread did not match Adam’s in the slightest. I aimed the camera up to Adam’s face.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I think we should follow them back to their source. If there’s someone else here, that could be unsafe for us. I want to see where they came in, because we would’ve heard someone come in the front door.”

“Right.” I agreed. We left the kitchen and walked along the third set of tracks. The chat box continued to roll. A few people thought we were messing with them, because why else make a big deal of our footprints if not to set up a mysterious third set? One commenter suggested we were intentionally misdirecting them. 

“It looks like whoever this was came down from the second floor.” Adam pointed at the tracks on the side of one of the grand staircases. I aimed my camera light around the area behind us. Only our tracks followed the third. 

“I guess we should just follow it up.” I suggested. Adam nodded and took a breath. Me and our viewers watched him steel himself as he led me forward to the staircase. 

“Oh, hey, battery and service check.” I reminded him. “If it ends up being just some creepy rando I want to be able to call for help.” He pulled out his phone and checked. 

“87%, full service.” He showed his phone screen to the camera and held it as the lens adjusted to his screen’s brightness. Once the camera registered his home screen, he pulled it down and tucked his phone into his pocket. Immediately, the chat box exploded. I held up a hand to keep Adam where he was. The thread was filled with exclamations and questions.

“Adam, the viewers saw something behind you.”

“What?” He looked behind him and shouted. I rushed forward and looked where he was pointing. The third set of steps had circled back behind him and gone up the stairs. I scanned up the staircase. In my first shot of the footsteps, they had been leading down on the left side. Now there was another set of the same footprints going up the right.

“EMF, now!”

I turned away from Adam so that he could access my bag. I kept the camera level as he dug through the pockets, searching for the tiny, handheld device that read electromagnetic frequencies. In a previous video, we proved that it was not set off by either of our phones or equipment, so Adam bypassed the explanation and held it  up. The little range of lights flashed immediately from green to red.

Something was in there with us. 

“Okay ghoulfriends!” Adam said, his voice an excited whisper. “The mysterious third set of tracks starts down the staircase and it looks like they loop around the back of the foyer. Whoever is here with us must have peeked in on us in the kitchen before going around the far end and then up the stairs behind us.”

“It can’t be some random person!” I said. “Our prints are the only ones from the front door and these steps originate somewhere upstairs! Unless some homeless person floated up there we can rule that out entirely.”

“Okay, let’s go!” Adam led the way up the stairs. We walked up the middle, keeping the mysterious footprints clearly on either side of us. At the top of the stairs we looked around. The EMF reader remained staunchly red.

“If we follow the prints to our left, we’ll see where they came from. If we follow them to the right, we’ll see where they lead. What do you think, everyone? Which way should we go?”

The chats were evenly divided. The viewers erupted into an argument about what made the most sense for capturing evidence of a ghost. Some argued that seeing the source would debunk the possibility of a third person in the house with us. Many argued that if we followed to where they lead, we’d see if it was a person. Some pointed out that either way, we’d be able to figure something out through a real-life sighting or process of elimination.

“It seems like our ghouls can’t decide!” I said.

“Well, then it’s a good thing we live in the future! Extra tripod please!” Adam reached for my bag again and took out a smaller handheld tripod and light. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, set it up, and held it up. 

“If you go back to our main page, you will see that we now have two streams! Stick around with Carlie if you want to see the source, and bounce on over to me if you want to see where they’re going!” 

I watched as half of our viewers left the current chat. 

“Okay Team Carlie, are we ready?” I asked. The chat lit up. 

“And Team Adam, are we set?” Adam asked his own chat. He shot me a thumbs up.

“Then Let’s Ghoul!” we both chanted. With a little wave at each other, we both turned to our respective quests.

The left hallway was as dark and dusty as the foyer below. A few doors to my right hung open, and a few more seemed to not have doors at all. They were simply yawning expanses of darkness until my camera light passed over them. The loss of Adam’s massive presence heralded the return of the creeping feeling on the back of my neck. I felt my entire body stand at attention, took a breath, and walked into the darkness. I directed my camera down to the floor. The mysterious third set was still to my left.

“As you guys can see, the footprints are a pretty decent size.” I stomped my foot next to one of the steps. Even with my big boots on, the extra set was larger. “I’m not sure what shoes looked like in 1880, but I’m fairly certain they didn’t have running sneakers. I wonder if we’re looking at the footsteps of the late Shawn Johnson?”

Talking to the chat made me feel less alone. I read their responses and theories as I walked to the far end of the hallway. The trail led me to the last door on the left. 

It was closed.

“Now that’s weird. Look at this! The steps clearly walk out through the doorway, but the door isn’t open. Do you think whoever did this doesn’t have to worry about doors?”

I took a breath.

“I guess there’s no use delaying this, huh? Okay, ghoulfriends. Let’s do it.” 

I kept the camera focused on the doorknob as I reached forward, grasped the cold, tarnished brass, and turned. The door opened inward, dragging along the dusty floor and mussing up the footsteps. I quickly panned up and did a sweep of the room. Nothing stirred.

“It looks like we’re in a bedroom.” I whispered to the chat. “It doesn’t look grand enough to be old Mr Angelo’s bedroom. This must be a guest bedroom.” 

A section of the wall was broken open. A massive branch had long since crashed down into the bedroom, leaving its rotted corpse behind. The furniture, having been exposed to the elements for who knows how long, bowed out at odd angles after absorbing moisture from outside. An ancient broken mirror stood facing the gaping hole in the wall. The shards of glass had been scattered along the floor. 

With my scan of my surroundings complete, I panned back down to the footsteps on the floor. Debris from the broken mirror and furniture pieces obscured what had once been a clear path. I followed them around the derelict bed towards the broken section of wall, placing my steps carefully.

“I’m not sure how secure this section of the house is.” I said to the chat. A few well-wishers told me to be careful. “If I feel like there’s any chance that this floor is unstable, I’m going to go find Adam. I’m looking for ghosts, not construction projects.”

I picked my way over to the mysterious source of the footsteps. The soft, rotted branch covered it up. I placed my foot on the floor next to it and pressed.

“I’m slowly applying pressure to the floor here. I’m not hearing any creaks or groans or anything, so I think I should be good.” Confident that the floor would support me, I stepped over completely and pushed the branch with my foot. It barely moved. The footsteps were clearly coming from beneath it. I looked around and spied a dresser not far behind me. 

“Okay guys, I’m going to put you right here and see if I can move the log. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful!” 

The camera light was aimed directly where I needed to be. I carefully squatted down, placed my hands underneath the damp, rotted trunk, and heaved. The tree creaked against the remaining wall. 

“One more time, I think!” I called back to my camera. I pushed again, and with a crack, the branch broke over, exposing the floor below. 

The footsteps came from the broken wall.

“What the hell?” I looked at the section of wall. There, nestled between the interior and exterior walls, was a battered camera. 

“Oh my GOD you guys, I think I found Shawn Johnson’s missing camera! Hold on, this is insane!” I stuck my arm into the wall. The moment my fingertips met plastic, I heard a rush of footsteps behind me. 

“What the--” Something sharp hit the back of my head, and I went down.

***

The floor was cold and hard beneath me. The back of my head throbbed. I opened my eyes, but saw nothing. Terror flooded my lungs as I blinked. I waved my hand in front of my face. In the darkness, I saw the stirrings of movement. My vision was fine; it was the room that had gone dark. I groaned and pushed myself up. Nausea stabbed through me. I leaned back against the wall and waited for the feeling to pass. 

“Okay,” I whispered. “Someone else was here. They hit me. They took my phone and tripod rig.” I sat on the floor and stared around the room, willing my eyes to adjust to the blackness. Shapes gradually appeared around the room. There was the bed, the dresser that had held my camera, the broken mirror across the room. Once I was sure my eyes were as focused as they could be, I pushed myself up against the wall and eased myself up. 

Whoever hit me had done an excellent job. Standing made me aware of how out of proportion I felt - my arms and legs felt too long for my body. Could I have brain damage? Was this just leftover dizziness? I shook my hands in an attempt to change the way they felt. No luck.

“Shit.” I whispered again. I shook my head and made myself focus. I had to find Adam. We would call the police, wait in the car, and everything would be okay. A shaky plan, but a plan nonetheless. I left the room feeling asymmetrical. 

The darkness enveloped me in the hallway. I paused to listen but heard nothing. Adam’s voice was so distinct, so easy to pick out, that he couldn’t be up on the second floor anymore. I would’ve heard him even if he were doing his excited livestream whisper. I walked down the hallway, keeping my hand on the wall for support. The camera light had spoiled me; I had never known such intense darkness. If Angel House had been creepy with poor lighting, it was menacing in the dark. I kept my focus on one thing: finding Adam. Whoever blitzed me thought I was already down, so I had to assume they were otherwise preoccupied. I stared around me, hoping for a break in the darkness, when my hand left the wall and found the railing to the grand staircase.

Quickly and quietly, I stole down the staircase and looped back to the kitchen. Just before the doorway I paused and listened, hard. Not a single noise. I peered around the frame and looked in. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was an expanse of darkness. I could make out the shapes of the lopsided table and stove, but not much else.  

“Adam?” 

No answer. I kept heading forward. We had only explored a small portion of Angel House, so the rest of the building was an unknown. I had no idea what else was on the first floor. My hand trailed along the wall next to me. The far corner of the room approached, a faded picture staring back at me. As I walked nearer, the face in the picture grew larger.  I stopped and stared. The face in the picture was hard to make out in the darkness. I took another step. The face in the picture grew larger still. Panic had finally started to settle in my ribcage. I strode forward, determined. The expression in the picture matched mine. 

He had a long face, a broad nose, and dark eyes. I turned my head to get a better look. He turned with me. I shook my head. He did the same. 

It was a mirror.

“What the hell. What the hell. What the hell??” I shouted. 

My voice, his voice, echoed across the empty foyer. It didn’t matter that there was someone else in the house. It didn’t matter that someone had tried to attack me. What mattered was that, somehow, I was staring out of someone else’s eyes into someone else’s face in a mirror. He was tall and thin, though somehow familiar. I leaned against the wall, bracing my considerably larger frame on a man’s hands and stared into the mirror. I took in the bold eyebrows and stubby facial hair. 

“Shawn Johnson,” I realized. Adam and I had studied his blog. There had been exactly one picture of the photographer. While he was exploring some old church somewhere he ran into another urban explorer. They had stood, arm in arm, grinning into their camera before exploring the church together. 

The camera!

Pieces began to fall into place. Shawn Johnson had died in a second floor guest bedroom. The report we read named blunt force trauma. That would explain the head pain. Had he been murdered? Did I have to relive his last few moments because I found his camera?  Or was the ghost of Shawn Johnson trying to get me to understand something else? I dropped my hands from the wall around the mirror. Of course. The tree. The trees surrounding Angel House had swayed so easily in the breeze when Adam and I had pulled up. The branch I moved had been huge. It must have fallen into the tree, hit Shawn in the head, and knocked him out. 

So why was he here? And why was I with him? I paced in front of the mirror. Shawn hadn’t been a paranormal investigator. He was an urban explorer and photographer. He had come here to disprove the paranormal. I snorted. Before I could even begin to think of the irony of that theory, a car door slammed in the distance. 

“Adam!” I called out. Had he gone out to the car to look for me? I ran along the side wall of the foyer and stopped in front of the window. There, down the front walkway, stood Adam. He was facing someone and gesticulating at the house. A bright light shone in my direction. Adam must have gone for the police. He obviously couldn’t expect to find out that I had been possessed by the ghost of the guy we were hoping to find. He had gone for help. I smiled. This was going to be an interesting conversation. But on the bright side, I’d be able to take Adam and the cops to Shawn Johnson’s camera. 

I watched Adam fall into step with his companion. They walked up the walkway together, and I heard their voices lilting back and forth. There was no hurry in their stride. Their conversation sounded formal, informative. I pressed my - Shawn’s - face against the glass. 

Adam was walking up the walkway with a young woman, carrying a tripod. He was walking up the walkway with me. 

I watched us trek across the front porch and heard my own voice begin to sing.

We were walking up the front walkway the way we had earlier in the evening. I was watching myself film Adam as he clapped in tune to the theme song. The front door shrieked open, just as it had when I had been the one operating the camera, Adam and the other Carlie walked into the foyer. I approached us, stunned. We were staring around the foyer, panning across for shots. I came to a stop directly behind what should have been me.

“Do do do doo,” 

Adam clapped.

“Do do do doo!”

He clapped again.

“Do do do do, do do do do, do do do do,”

I clapped.

Cerebus #11 (1979)

The only weapon you need to provoke a police officer to violence is scorn.

Sorry! The above caption had nothing to do with The Cockroach's first appearance in Cerebus and everything to do with how the Omaha Police arrested peaceful protesters by claiming that they're purpose was to "attack and/or provoke police officers to violence." Also, you can tell they're already spinning and lying by adding the "and/or" so they can imply that the protesters are planning on attacking police. And, well, even if they weren't (and they did say "or"!), their other main plan was to provoke them. But of course everybody whose ability to perceive reality isn't clouded by their incessant need to defend police no matter what understands that police will abuse their power at the drop of an eye roll. They believe any slight disrespect is an excuse for a violent rebuttal. They force physical violence on people whom they have no reason to arrest simply so the person can struggle against the assault, as any normal person would do, and then claim resisting. Police should be confronted by scorn and disrespect at every turn. Only when they learn not to instantly resort to violence and threats will they deserve to not be. Welcome to my comic book and/or police review blog! Deni's "A Note from the Publisher" continues on a theme that I hadn't noticed until just now: every new issue of Cerebus now seems to be a landmark issue! It's an interesting self-promotion take that I have to admit I'd never thought of trying. "Every new Eee! Tess Ate Chai Tea review is a landmark review!" You know what else is a landmark? Places & Predators, my Cribbage-based Roller Playing Game! You don't even really need any friends to play it. Just read it like a book and enjoy it! Or play it like a Fighting Fantasy Adventure Book! Use some online Cribbage app! Figure out how to use the crib in ways the online app definitely won't let you! Oh, the reason this is a landmark issue is because more letters came in than normal! It's a hit! Deni also reveals that she'll be making the Cerebus plush toys that were advertised in previous issues and at half the price! So kudos for stealing that job from the person who originally made them! It probably wasn't anything so dramatic but what fun is going through your life defaulting to the best, most optimistic possibility in every given situation? Have some fun! Act paranoid! Purposefully misunderstand your father and scream in his face! Kick a dog! Sorry! I got carried away! I would never kick a dog unless it was attacking me. But even then, I'd be wishing I was kicking the owner who let it go off leash. The dog doesn't deserve my epic self defense tactics in its soft face. But the owner certainly does!

The basics on the origin of The Cockroach.

I didn't realize Dave came up with The Cockroach because it was gross and disgusting. I just thought it was a more clever version of a bat, keeping to the shadows, hiding, surviving, a constant annoyance to poor people. In any case, The Cockroach is the greatest parody of The Batman, hands down. Because The Batman has become such a parody of himself time and time again, you just need an absolutely Batshit insane version of him. I don't do segues so Cerebus has come to Beduin to sell the Black Blossom Lotus. Just look at all the continuity Dave Sim is giving his readers! I wonder how many comic book fans would list "continuity" as their number one favorite thing about comic books? Like, are there people who would list that above great writing or terrific art? Judging by how terrible a lot of mainstream comic books are and how rabid many of the fans, I'd suspect it was a fairly high number. Maybe 65 out of 100, Bob. Change that card! The Merchant Cerebus deals with is a kook who might just have a super secret identity. It's weird to think of the Roach as being capable of actually living an independent life! I suppose he's just barely hanging onto his sanity at this point (and, of course, only during the day). But then he comes into the mystical aura of strangeness that aardvarks apparently exude out of their buttholes and he just loses it completely. He becomes less a merchant slash superhero and more a superhero slash zombie cosplayer. Also he becomes one of the greatest characters ever created! There are like four of them in the entirety of Cerebus! The exclamation point is because I think that's an incredibly high number and not because I think it's an incredibly low number. Most comic book's protagonists never quite make it to the greatest ever! Plus I'd probably give Cerebus more than four but a lot of them are just really good parodies, satires, and slightly-off representations of characters and people who already existed. The merchant buys the Black Blossom Lotus from Cerebus for 100 gold pieces and then promptly drops it out of the window and into the Feld River.

Not only does Dave Sim come up with a bunch of memorable plots across three hundred issues, he also comes up with a lot of good Dungeons & Dragons campaign ideas.

The Merchant pays Cerebus a sack of gold and gets ready for bed as Cerebus begins to leave. Before Cerebus can even exit the hallway outside the merchant's bedroom door, Cerebus begins to hear loud ranting coming from the other side. It's a lot of hissing and threats of murder. Against his better judgment, Cerebus decides to see what's happening and gets his first look at the guy who will be a huge headache to him for the next two hundred issues or so.

One thing I like about Dave Sim is how honest he is when recounting where he came up with or stole his ideas. He gives plenty of credit for the Cockroach and his hissing to Marshall Rogers and Jules Feiffer. It's admirable because a lot of people would just figure, "It might make me look less of an artist and who's going to know anyway?!"

Just a few days ago, my old elementary school friend who was blown up in Iraq and then became a comedian playing to Christians and patriots (which I mention so you'll understand how, as a wounded veteran, he'll never be criticized by his audience and he'll never really grow as a comedian) posted a Tik Tok on Facebook that was just a film of a television set capturing the "Masked Debate" bit on Last Week Tonight with John Oliver. The clip only shows all the clips of news readers saying "masked debate" and none of Oliver's or the show's set-up. He then watermarked it with his Tik Tok name. Now all of those naive followers who can only seem to reply to his posts with the laugh/cry emoji probably think he wrote it. Better yet, they're probably mostly Trump followers who would never admit to finding that libjerk Oliver or his show funny. What's even better is that the Tik Tok has some quote along top that's watermarked with somebody else's Tik Tok name! So it looks like Bob doubly stole the bit. Man, I wish I'd joined the army and gotten blown up and then found Christ and developed an audience of uncritical naive yahoos who would wildly applaud everything I wrote! Why didn't I join the army?! Oh, that's right. Because I believed I had a future right out of high school. Well, I guess Bob is having the last laugh now! Cerebus follows Cockroach across the rooftops to find out what's going on. He eventually witnesses the Cockroach confront a man in an alley, accuse him of killing his parents, knock him out, and steal his gold. The gold part of the night helps Cerebus to ignore all of the other confusing stuff. The Cockroach doesn't gloat for long. He's off to find another victim! Cerebus witnesses him mug another guy whom he also accuses of killing his parents. He also admits to doing this for thirty years. So now Cerebus thinks the guy is crazy but also crazy rich. At the end of the night, the Cockroach returns home and drops the gold purses into a secret panel in the wall. He falls asleep, wakes up, and, when he sees Cerebus, acts as if Cerebus were just leaving. So Cerebus realizes that the merchant doesn't have any idea what the Cockroach is doing. Which means Cerebus is going to recover those gold purses before the Cockroach comes back! At the moment, Cerebus doesn't realize that he's going to be finding thirty years worth of gold purses in the merchant's walls. Can you imagine how boring the last two hundred and eighty-nine issues of Cerebus would have been if Cerebus managed to steal all of the Roach's gold?! I'm sure some of you are thinking, "It wouldn't have been any worse than the last hundred issues we did get!" Also, can you imagine how fat Cerebus would have gotten drinking tons of ale and eating loads of rich foods? I'm laughing so much just trying to picture it! Ha ha!

Eight feet of gold would make Cerebus fatter than a domesticated raccoon!

In the end, Cerebus only makes it away with three sacks of gold. But in the process, he manages to completely screw up the Roach/Merchant equilibrium that's lasted for thirty years. In trying to exploit the man's mental illness so that he'd help Cerebus move the gold, Cerebus drags the Roach personality into the daylight. From here on out, the Roach will simply be a pawn of others, susceptible to almost any second-rate demagogue (although most of the people who subsequently control the Roach are of the first rate variety). The Aardvark Comment section was two pages this issue and had this letter that I don't think was being sarcastic?

I guess I also wouldn't necessarily consider a chainmail bikini as "a disgusting costume." He's probably thinking about Power Girl.

Also, and I admit it might have been a joke, but Dave Sim reveals that Ronald Reagan is Cerebus' father. That, um, makes sense! Cerebus #11 Rating: A. I almost gave it a B+ for variety but then I remembered I just read the first appearance of the Roach. I also forgot that my ratings don't actually mean anything.

bts as fuckboys

[a/n]: inspired by @sweetersuga  | original post: x i wrote it as the perspective that you’re already close friends w them/have been with them before !!

Seokjin

he’s the funny, sarcastic one where he could be kind of mean bc he takes it a lil far

“you’re such trash you sleep with every girl”

“at least I can get someone to sleep with me”

he flashes a smile in the hall bc he KnOws iT GeTs oN YouR NeRveS

“When’s my birthday”

“January 1st bc u set off my fireworks baby”

“i am disgusted”

piggy back rides on those goddamn strong broad set of shoulders ooffff

“I’ll call you, ya?”

He never calls u bc he probably forgot too busy improvin himself

you have a streak with him and all he sends are selfies with the caption “I hope your day is as beautiful as I am (:”

He catches you staring in class one day and he’s like “take a pic, it’ll last longer babe”

And omg he ACTUALLY TELLS YOU TO TAKE A PHOTO OF HIM

so now u have a gallery full of jin and he wont let u delete them bc he thinks they’re all masterpieces you do too but youd never admit it

the only fuckboy that’s tolerable bc he’s rlly just a big goof 

“why don’t you ever have sleeves on your shirt jin”

“these shoulders are on display, honey, can’t cover up the jewels”

he’s kind of obnoxiously loud that u want to shove ur fist into his mouth to sh u t  him uP 

“dude, jimin’s hot”

“okay but so am i ??”

“ok ya youre really hot but so is jimin”

“jiMIN (Y/N) THINKS YOU’RE—-”

“–ANNOYING THANKS SEOKJIN PLS SHUT UP WHY R U STILL TALKING WOW”

“just trying to get my baby some more dick jeEZ”

Yoongi

“hey yoongs why dont we go on a date??”

“uuhhhhhh since when were we dating? lmao dont trip” 

gets a new number every 2 months bc he loves fucking w them crazy bitches too much

“sometimes you need to mess around with the ones who can bite off your dick, being risky is hot (-;”

“BEinG riSkY iS hOt ya u wont have a penis anymore at the rate you’re going”

kind of smells like a mixture of alcohol and cologne 

hand-on-ass-when-he-hugs

“let’s play a game, if u lose u have to take off ur clothes, if i lose u have to take off ur clothes”

“wait but yours stay on ?? wtf yoongi??”

“no mine will come off right after i see u naked (;”

the one to play with the ends of your skirt/dress/shirt bc it gets u so flustered and he lives seeing u flustered 

straight up Arrogantᵀᴹ at times its hot but ur so annoyed by it that u wanna knock some sense into him

wont ask for nudes but will ask to see some goods

“can i see ur tits”

“for the 4039th time, no”

“well, a man can try”

SMIRKY MC SMIRKY HERE like it just comes OUT of NOWHERE and it is OUT to ATTAC 

u dont have a snap streak w him bc it always breaks bc he replies every 3 years bc he was “busy”

but he’s always the fourth person to like your instagram posts???????

and to comment the water droplet/eye/tongue emoji combo ????

loves when u swat his hands away from gripping your thigh 

Hoseok

(i wanted to use this gif but it was so big and rectangle and didnt fit but u need to see that gif to really take in the fuckboy bc i cannot find a representation as accurate as that gif is)

always greeting you whenever he sees you

“hey babygirl”

“hoseok we just saw each other in chemistry”

“ok and????? can’t i say hi to my baby?”

“but im not”

“lmao every girl is my baby”

raises his eyebrows any time you fix your dress or your shirt

asks to borrow a pencil and never returns it

“where is my pencil hoseok”

“where is my kiss (y/n)”

“we didnt agree to that”

“well i didnt agree to give it back”

“dO u NoT kNOW whAT BoRRoW meANS”

loves to share so he shares a lot of his snacks with u

“omg i love snacks!!”

“oh baby me too” and trust me, he’s not talking about the food

has the brightest, kindest smile so it catches you off guard when he says some snarky fuckboy comment

loves physical contact !!!!! always has a hand on your back, or shoulder, or thigh, or hand, or arm

lip LICKING PARDON ME HIS TONGUE IS UNCONTROLLABLE

lets you wear his hats/jackets/hoodies bc he thinks youre sooo cute in his clothes

he walks around school with his hands in his pockets like a doUCHEBAG

catches you off guard by spinning you around with his arm around your waist 

uses the line “im a dancer” to get girls what an eyeroll

the type to drag you onto the middle of the dance floor at a club just so he could show off his skillz which are actually super bomb like even ur impress and uve seen them 308443 times

he got that sweatpants dick print 

Namjoon

changes his contact name to Daddy on your phone

Mr. Ass Man he loves ass ASS ASS ASS SO MUCH ASS BIGGEST ASS LOVER

“oh shit did you see her ass”

“look here bootylover123 stfu”

winks at you a lot in the halls 

“do you have a fucking eye problem namjoon”

“its a wink” 

“u do it so much that im beginning to think youre eye is having a spasm 

lets you copy his homework if he got a hug in return

the type to comment a peach emoji on your instagram photos even if there is no butt involved

loves when you sit on his lap 

one time there weren’t enough seats on the bus and he patted his leg for you to sit

“i know you hate standing (y/n), take a seat itll be fine”

“why can’t u be a gentleman and give up your seat for me?”

*alMOST CHOkES from LAUGHING* “me???!!! a gentleman??? wow u expect too much, just sit your big ass down on daddy’s lap or suffer standing”

buys you lunch bc he loves showing off his e x p e n s i v e w a l l e t 

he could go from having a full blown brilliant monologue as to why he exists to giggling about how your moles r arranged into the shape of a penis 

calls girls mami or ma 

asks for ass pics at like 1:32 AM 

and u send him pictures of ur elbow crease 

and he actually thinks its ur butt

BLASTS baby makin music from his car and causes a public disturbance 

has the highest count of broken beds, not bc of a high body count, but bc he actually breaks the bed everytime he sleeps w someone

Jimin

spaces out when ur wearing a low cut top bc hes too busy staring at ur cleavage 

his streak snaps are either mirror pics, his abs, mirror pic of his abs, and occasional dick pics

“wanna play 20 questions (;”

“we’ve played 20 questions like 20 times already”

“ok gr8 ill start first: will u let me hit it from the back??”

offers to netflix and chill all the time and it sux bc he actually knows all ur fav shows

ok let me reiterate, jimin knows all ur favorite anythings bc he listens to u 75% of the time bc he thinks ur voice is sexy 

will never fail to compliment you when u look good 

“damn baby, is this all for me????”

“no i just dont want to look like a hobo today”

gets super jealous when any other guys speak to u even tho hes piping down like 8 other girls 

“jimin they’re my frIENDS ur not even my bf why u tripping”

“they arent acting like theyre ur friends. i know fuckboy behavior when i see it (y/n) its my occupation, i do the same shit w girls”

“thats good then, someone else wants me too”

“not good bc ur HOT ASS IS MINE )-:”

youre saved as #1 babygirl on his phone no objections

walks into class with a new hickey in a new place every day 

he has SEX EYES u could never look him directly in the eyes bc theyre so captivating 

fucking walks like an arrogant prick down the hall and whistles when u pass 

brags about his big dick when its honestly not as exaggerated as he says 

has a picture of you in one of his shirts as his homescreen wallpaper 

Taehyung

“i wont show anyone, im not messed up like that” yea be careful w this one honey, pretty sure jungkook, hobi, yoongs, namjoon all know how ur tits look like

has the perfect innocent face where u have no idea that he’s fucking 4 other girls

always responds after 12 am and calls u at 3 am 

“tae im fucking sleeping”

“damn thats hot what else u doin??”

“hanging up on u goodbye im going to block ur number”

“pls don-”

uses the line, “i just dont think we’re compatible” on E V Ery GIRL 

offers to hangout but never follows up with it bc he’s never seen out in public with a girl unless its his momma 

“jasmine is telling everyone you gave her chlamydia, u get checked bro??”

“dont worry about it”

body count means a lot to him 

loves hugs bc he likes feeling boobs squished against him

sometimes INTENTIONALLY lowers his voice bc he KNOWS ur into that shit 

thinks youre playing hard to get when rlly u just dont care lol

“i know u want all of this, (y/n)”

“i think ur mistaken”

“right bc i want all of u (:” 

“ya tae let’s not get ur feelings mixed w mine ok thx u”

NO SUCH THING AS PERSONAL SPACE the boy is a koala and will latch onto u 

Jungkook

the biggest fuckboy of them all

has slept w almost every girl in the school and is v proud of it

“what’s your name again”

“rlly jungCOCK” 

“ok (y/n) i know ur fkcing name so can u learn mine”

u dont think he’s ever had a gf b4 bc he doesnt believe in labels OR commitment which hes pretty vocal abt 

unlike jimin, he doesnt own up to his dick pics and swears that they were “”accidents””

SCrEENsHOTS! but ur smart so ur face is NEVER in ur pics

“who’s boobs r on ur phone kook”

“yours”

“you WOULDNT DARE”

“i dont have photogenic memory (y/n) i wanted to remember those cuties without a shirt on (;”

looks too fucking good w a fresh cut that u need to avoid him in the halls or ull melt to goo

only owns white tees and timbs lmao hahahaha 

smirks when you bend down to pick something up 

that or he yells, “one more time, babe!”

“wat u doin”

“showering”

“without me!!1???” 

he’s on tinder too so once he’s done with the sampling pool at school, he can broaden his horizons 

a car enthusiast and will get offended if u dont think his rims r cool

thinks youre really hot when you yell at him or hurt his feelings 

youre his prized possession bc he actually likes talking to u but will never admit it 

has a specific nickname for u that he doesnt call his other girls bc its YOURS !! 

“hey cutie”

“hey jungCOCK”

hates the nickname jungCOCK 

An insight into Cristina’s life by C. Bonadincel

You wake up to 45 text messages from your son Máximo waiting to be answered on your phone.  Check your facebook/twitter/Instagram and you have 450 likes on the selfie you took of yourself with a caption making fun of our current President.  You want more attention though, so you take a shower, put on a shirt that whoops! accidentally lets the side of your bra show, put on 4 whole pencil’s worth of eyeliner to go from a 9.5/10 to a 10/10, and snap a quick selfie of yourself that you quickly upload to your social media accounts with some sarcastic emojis.  Maybe this one will get you 4500 likes.

Your driver takes you to the Senate in a car that cost 365,283 whole Argentinian pesos.  Before you get out you make a quick video complaining about all the injustices done to you by Federal Justice Claudio Bonadio : (  Got to keep the public talking about you! you laugh to yourself.  As you walk into the Congress building, you pass several Federal Justices on the street. They all stare at you as you pass. Most of them are actually concerned with bringing justice to the nation of Argentina and punishing its most heinous white-collar criminals.  Gross! You ignore them.  These losers spend their whole adult life jerking off to persecuting their political opponents, and they still only earn one million pesos per year—legally.

You stop to get your usual morning diet fruit salad on the way.  Have to maintain all 140 pounds of you!  The good-looking boy serves you and tries chatting you up again, but he’s too good looking, nothing like your crude, hulking son Máximo or the rotting corpse of your dead husband who it’s time to get over.  You know he’s going to ask you out one day, but you’ll end up rejecting him because you only fuck people with the last name of Kirchner.  You don’t mind the attention though.

Several men stare at your cleavage and the bruises on your leg that conveniently show through your tights as you resume your walk.  It’s so hard to be such a radiant goddess.  You enter your 106,000 pesos per year Senate job which you had to get by manipulating the voters due to being a mentally ill degenerate with no competence or leadership skills who’s thirsty for power.  You notice many of your male political opponents are there. The Senate is sexist.  Typical.  You greet all of your coworkers: Máximo’s handsome young friend from La Cámpora, Axel Kicillof your young, brilliant Chad former minister of economy, Máximo’s other handsome young friend from La Cámpora, Hot Blonde Female Senator who you’re probably fucking, and nemesis from the opposing party Vice President Gabriela Michetti (in a wheelchair, so she can’t even sit on the special throne!)  Of course the “less corrupt” political party is currently in office.  They get all the good jobs now!  But that would change.  We’re fighting to get me—I mean, us--back into power! You remember how Kim Il-Sung of North Korea is still considered the leader of the nation even after his death. Good on him, you think to yourself.

You ask the Vice President to shut up and let you speak and she immediately does so.  You cut a grape from your fruit salad in half because grapes have such a high caloric content and demand that a bottle of low-sodium mineral water be brought to your desk.  Máximo’s young Chad friends have to come over to flirt with you, so you make the entire Senate wait for you to begin your egocentric ramblings.  Then you take the floor and talk for 45 minutes about how you’re being persecuted for your beliefs and then answer another 45 texts from Máximo.  Then leader of the majority Miguel Pichetto asks to speak.  He can be so conceited sometimes thinking anyone cares what he has to say! But at least this gives you time to go to the bathroom.  You stand up and make sure to announce how unfair it is that the bathroom is so far away while you pretend to be leaving the room quietly and respectfully.  Before you know it, it’s lunchtime and you hide in your office and stuff your face with your favorite fried pig intestines so no one sees you eating anything other than fruit salad and grilled chicken.

Around 2pm another senator from your party comes and jokingly asks if you’re doing any work.  You laugh and tell him you don’t need to work to make money and smile sexily at him (because you’re talking about all your laundered money).  You spend the rest of your time in the Senate ranting on Facebook about how Federal Justice Claudio Bonadio has accused you of colluding with Iran.  What an ugly, fat son of a bitch he is!  Your post from this morning now has 450,000 likes.  You have several text messages from Máximo letting you know he wants to get dinner tonight.  So far, he’s asked for dinner 3 times and for pre-dinner drinks 4 times. You check Página|12, the one news site in the country that understands how oppressed you and other Kirchnerite policians are (but especially you).  You see an article about how Federal Justice Claudio Bonadio should be removed from the Iran case because he holds a grudge against you and is very corrupt besides. You share the article and say how hard it is for you that this competent, experienced judge is persecuting you and your family.  You get 45 likes and 45 comments agreeing with you and saying that this innocent and ruggedly handsome enforcer of the law of the land should go to hell.

After work you head back to your apartment and do 30 minutes of running on the treadmill with smoke pouring out of your ears while watching the news anchors on TV talk about your criminal behavior.  You notice your personal trainer Luciana staring at you from the weights section. She’s pretty hot, but topping you is a privilege that she has to repeatedly earn, so you put your headphones in to listen to the Gladiator soundtrack.  You wouldn’t dare take a selfie when you’re done with the treadmill, because you don’t want the public seeing what you look like with most of your eye makeup sweated off. You head off to the water cooler to drink another glass of low-sodium mineral water.  Luciana tries to make conversation with you.  She’s hot and attractively younger than you, but her last name isn’t Kirchner, so you politely make it clear that you’re not interested (today).

You already have several more likes on your reposted article about angel of justice Bonadio and more comments about how heartless he is to persecute the best president the country has ever had.  Máximo has now asked you to go out for dinner with him 6 times.  You text him 4 times and organize the night and make sure to use lots of heart emojis.  You get home and say hi to your poodle Lolita and ignore your daughter Florencia.  She’s 27 and still a vegan.  She’s always cared about the environment, stood up for the rights of dairy cows and shit like that.  Now her baby daddy dumped her because of how obsessed with soy milk and social justice she is.  Maybe if she showed some ambition like you did.  You got into politics relatively early on because the electorate noticed how charming, sexy, and honest you are.  She was always Dad’s favorite though, and never appreciated you enough before he died.  She could be such a selfish bitch sometimes.

You call your 89 year-old mom and tell her that you want to buy a new Birkin bag but don’t want to use any of the funds you’ve thoughtfully embezzled from public works projects.  She gives you 6,088,350 pesos that she earned from scamming the Post Office.  You say thank you, even though you know you don’t really need it because you recently had a net worth of 80 million USD.  You deserve it for simply being Cristina Kirchner.

You decide it’s time to meet up with Máximo.  You need protection out on the street though in case the people who have seen through your grating charisma and realize what a sexy piece of shit you really are decide to throw eggs at you again.  You text some of Máximo’s buff, Chad friends from La Cámpora to come walk with you. You take fifty selfies and a dozen videos for your YouTube channel while you’re walking down the street.  Some men who also happen to work as federal judges and prosecutors call out to you about how immoral you are, and you and your Chad posse laugh hilariously.  All these guys aren’t getting laid, right?  Like, why do they even bother?

As soon as you get to the restaurant Máximo comes to greet you and plies you with expensive wine.  You don’t really plan on staying though because you want to have a private night with your good for nothing Chad son who’s never had a job interview in his life.  You make sure to keep his handsome male friends from La Cámpora there so they can protect Máximo’s blubbery body and lack of a law degree too.

After 4 men come to talk to you and tell you they definitely don’t believe that you allegedly ordered the murder of a prosecutor who was about to accuse you of collusion with Iran, which gets them kisses on the cheek from you, you abandon the restaurant and head off down the street with Máximo.  People greet him with respect even though he has no degrees from institutions of higher learning and owns 45 SUVs purchased with stolen money.  Your Chad bodyguards get in between you and Máximo and the innocent Argentinian citizens who you proclaim to love so much who are demanding you answer for your disgraceful crimes and complete lack of disrespect for our justice system, especially learnèd and powerful Federal Justice Claudio Bonadio. Máximo takes a video of you two walking down the street while ignoring the demands of your countrymen.  You can’t stop laughing at how empowered it makes you feel to ignore this persecution.  This is great!

At home you and Máximo sit close together on your expensive imported couch and talk because literally no one matters to you other than the degenerates in your family.  Máximo tells you how he’s broken up with his latest girlfriend, just another one in a series of girls who look like a broke-ass version of you.  You tell him how you approve of this because she was a distraction—Kirchners need to stick together.  That’s why you refuse to testify in your court appearance and won’t meet Federal Justice Claudio Bonadio’s eyes when he greets you.  Some guys can be so pathetic.  Your lawyer Gregorio is texting you.  He is a pretty hot Chad and you’ve considered ****ing him to see if that will get you free legal representation and perhaps inspire him to bribe the jury (with his own money, not yours).  Your degenerate son Máximo gets jealous so you stop replying.  The only thing you love more than defrauding and deceiving an entire country while dressing like an oversexed mom is your son who always seems to get girlfriends even though he has accomplished nothing in life (certainly nothing like going to law school and becoming a Federal Justice, anyway).  You make plans to have Máximo spend the night. You ask him which of your apartment’s 5 bedrooms he’d like to sleep in and he says he wants to sleep in yours. Gregorio is still texting you but you have long since stopped replying.  Even your Chad lawyer is kind of acting like a loser right now.  You tell Máximo that of course he can sleep in your bed with you because he’s such a big strong boy who spends Mommy’s laundered money so well. He is a literally perfect Kirchner. You remember Florencia telling you that it’s weird that Máximo still likes to sleep in your bed at age 40, yet she’s the one sleeping alone tonight.  You laugh to yourself. She must be doing something wrong.  She’s obviously not worthy of the kind of love you and Máximo share.

After a night as deviant as you are, you wake up to Luciana asking if you’ll have hot girl-on-girl sex with her today, your mom sending you her fraudulent money for your new Birkin bag, and 450 comments on a leaked photo someone took of you on the treadmill saying you look good even with your 45 pounds of mascara smeared all over your face.  It’s only 9am.  Máximo brings you cake in bed and you post another article trashing the blameless silver fox Federal Justice Claudio Bonadio on all your social media profiles.  Today is going to be a good day!

Samira Wiley is modernity defined. While Elisabeth Moss, her co-star in The Handmaid’s Tale, rose to prominence in prestige television dramas such as Mad Men and The West Wing, Wiley has built a reputation almost entirely in shows made by streaming sites.

“It wasn’t a conscious decision,” says the 30-year-old over the phone, “the shows that are being written on streaming sites have surpassed anything seen on television traditionally.” After four seasons playing Poussey in Netflix’s Orange Is the New Black, she now plays Moira, an activist and lesbian – in a world in which homosexuality is punishable by torture and death – in The Handmaid’s Tale, made by US streaming site Hulu.

Both shows were game-changers. Orange Is the New Black broke new ground for myriad reasons, dealing with drug abuse, mental illness, and the experiences of bisexual, lesbian, queer and transgender women in an infinitely more complex and sophisticated way than had been seen in mainstream entertainment before. It also featured a large cast of relatively unknown actors, most of whom did not conform to the Hollywood stereotype.

“In the past, on television, the ‘ideal woman’ was thin, white and always looked perfect, the farthest thing from any woman on Orange,” says Wiley. “Now we know that audiences don’t want to see some ‘ideal woman’, they want to see women who look like themselves, or look like their friends, their aunts, their mothers, their children.” The Handmaid’s Tale, meanwhile, would likely have always found an audience, thanks to Margaret Atwood’s seminal novel on which it is based. But, given the political context in which it has aired, the dystopian programme has thrust itself into popular discourse in a way that few series have managed in recent memory. “For something to resonate in this way is just overwhelming,” Wiley agrees. “And to have it happen twice in row … that’s just unheard-of.”

Wiley grew up in Washington DC, studied drama at the prestigious Juilliard School in New York, and spent the first few years post-college working in theatre in the city (she played Maria in Love’s Labour’s Lost for the city’s Public Theater company). Her career was never something carefully planned or strategised, she says, recalling an early meeting with her agent. “I remember going to his office and frantically telling him: ‘I just want you to know that I can do anything. I will do anything,’” she laughs. “Now, I think it is important to have some discernment.”

Her close friend from Juilliard, Danielle Brooks, had already been cast as fellow inmate Taystee in OITNB when Wiley auditioned for the show’s debut season. “Orange gave me my life,” she says, emphatically. “Not just in terms of my career, but it’s also where I met my wife.” When she married Lauren Morelli, a writer on the show, earlier this year, her parents officiated (they are both pastors).

The show also dealt Wiley an unprecedented level of recognition overnight. When it launched in 2013, it was one of the first Netflix Originals. All 13 episodes were released at once, enabling audiences across the globe to binge the entire first season and connect with Poussey. “I didn’t know how to handle the success at first,” she admits. “I was scared. I had people following me home. I spent a few days not leaving the house because I couldn’t deal with it. It was a huge shock.”

Wiley’s warm, funny, empathetic portrayal of her character soon became a fan favourite. “Poussey’s the definition of a lover not a fighter, and that is what people connect to,” says Wiley. “She’s a genuinely good person and she’s looking for love in prison, in such a pure way. When we look at her, we see potential, we see hope. We feel like, when she gets out, she is going to immerse herself back in society and have some success.” Consequently, the dramatic climax of the show’s fourth season – (spoiler alert!) Poussey’s death at the hands of a prison officer exerting undue force during a peaceful protest – was one of the most shocking and pivotal plotlines thus far.

“Everyone in the prison is affected by it,” says Wiley. Indeed, season five is all about the turbulent three-day aftermath of her death. Even though Poussey’s final storyline was inspired by the recent deaths of black men – including Eric Garner and Michael Brown – at the hands of US law-enforcement officers, Wiley says that at the denouement of the episode, race “suddenly goes away”. “The other prisoners finally see Poussey as a person. Not as a member of the ghetto dorm or the black girl in that clique that they don’t talk to,” she says. “They think: ‘Oh my God, if this happened to her, then this could happen to me, too.’”

For the actors playing the scene – Wiley motionless on the floor, Brooks sobbing beside the body of her best friend – it was no less highly charged. “Danielle and I were wiping each other’s tears,” she told the Hollywood Reporter.

Her metaphorical prison in The Handmaid’s Tale is no less bleak, brutal or dehumanising: the fictitious Republic of Gilead, formerly the United States, where environmental factors have reduced the global birthrate to almost zero. The country is under military rule and fertile women have been rounded up, forced to become handmaids for the ruling elite and their barren wives. Homosexuals meanwhile are branded “gender traitors”. Her character, Moira, is, she says, “So many minorities, and she is all of the minorities that I am: she is a black, gay, woman. And the experience of walking through the world being a black, gay woman is such a specific experience. Sometimes, you can’t even talk about all of the things you go through, with that as your reality.”

In the original text by Atwood, Moira’s colour is never divulged, but the Republic of Gilead is one of white supremacy: Jewish people were given the choice of converting or leaving for Israel, and ethnic minorities have been removed and “resettled”. Bruce Miller, who adapted the story for television, tweaked that detail. “If the TV show itself is an all-white world, then you are making a racist TV show,” he reasons. “It was more interesting to me to have a world where fertility trumps everything, including race.” Moira’s colour does not prevent her from being used a sexual slave by the Commanders of the Faith, albeit in a somewhat different way to Moss’s character, Offred.

Where Poussey was a lover, Moira is most definitely a fighter. “Moira has such strength, she is such a spitball of fire, and Offred (Elisabeth Moss) is boosted just by the idea of her,” says Wiley. “She has lines like: ‘Moira wouldn’t take this shit,’ and, ‘Moira wouldn’t be like this.’ When Offred says: ‘I intend to survive,’ I think she gets that Moira is always going to survive.”

Wiley adds that she “really identified” with that. “Growing up,” she reflects, “I have been that person who pushes the envelope and is doing things that other people are not as ready to. I even think about my journey as being an out member of the LGBT community. I felt very connected to Moira in that way.”

When the show went into production in the summer of 2016, no one could have predicted that by the time it was on telly, the US would be be under an administration where the rights of women, immigrants and the LGBT community would be suddenly and dramatically, under threat.

“We started filming before the election,” notes Wiley, “and after it had happened, we realised how much more prescient it all was. I suddenly thought: ‘We’re doing something very important here, we’re doing something that needs to be done.’ “At the end of the day,” she continues, “it is just television. But if we treat television in the right way, if we treat it as art, it can elicit real conversations and real change. I have seen it happen with Orange, and now I see it happening with The Handmaid’s Tale.”

A second season of the show has already been commissioned, and since the first season ends faithful to the book, no one knows where the new material will go. But fans of the original text should take comfort that Atwood, a creative consultant on the show, will remain closely involved with its direction. Wiley admits that she was so nervous about meeting the esteemed 77-year-old author at their first team dinner that she switched places with Moss, to avoid having to speak to her. Now, however, the pair are firm friends. “If you go to my Instagram,” she says, “Margaret Atwood likes all of my pictures. She usually comments on them. It’s not like she writes in Atwood prose; they’re usually just emojis.”

She still sounds somewhat disbelieving: “I put up a picture of me kissing my wife, and she just responded with a tongue emoji.”

Dear You

You said you liked me, you would constantly say it at the most random of times or that you missed me a girl you have never meant before and how could you possible miss me? but then you explained that you missed hearing my voice, it was relaxing to hear and being able to talk to someone tell them about your day and what bothered you and having that someone not reinsure you of anything but just be there to listen with no judgment. I felt so happy like an idiot for being able to hear that and for being that person for you to talk to but you were also that person for me. For 2 years we talked one year over the comment section of each others pictures on IG and here and there over the DMs of IG then in early 2016 we talked almost everyday over the DMs on IG  and then in late February you gave me your number we talked from then on texting and calling. Somewhere around March you already said you wanted to meet but i told you how impossible that was giving the distance between us but in December last year you brought up buying my plane ticket i told you how bad id feel about that because i know it wouldnt be cheap, you didnt bring it up again after that till sometime of this year in February and i wanted to meet you so bad that i agreed to it. So we planed for March but as time got closer for me to go to where you are there was still no message about a plane ticket i grew worried and upset and you never answered my calls or texts. It was the day i was supposed to go down there and nothing nothing from you i cried to my mom for hours so upset, 23 day pass its april now and i get a DM from you over IG like you couldnt really text or call you had to DM over IG like wtf but we talked about it and i shouldve brought up my concerns and what bothered me but i didnt because i didn want to fight i didnt want to argue and like you said "its not like we're together so who am i to say whats you can and cant do" you said you liked me and that you wouldnt mind pursuing more but not with out some sort of proof that i was interested in just you and not multiple people, my proof was facing my biggest fear just for you but i guess that wasn’t proof enough and everything before or after wasn’t either. you then said "again were not together but i dont think youre that interested in me if youre openly giving everyone the same attention " but we talked some more and we had things figures out but i shouldve brought up the fact that you were doing the same giving the same open attention to many other girls, i on the other was not giving that attention like you said i was it was just some 19yr old that left comments on my pictures and my only responses back were ever " thank you, lol, okay or hahah" but yours on girls pictures were stupid kissy heart eye emojis and comments like "damn girl look at you, so beautiful, so pretty, hot" and the list goes on but i bit my tongue because like you said we weren't together and i didnt want to seem i dont know possessive, i know now i shouldve spoke up. but you called the next day asking if we could start where we left off of and i asked with us talking or me coming down there and you said with me coming down there and that same night you bought the plane ticket and everything, there really was no going back and i was so excited that i couldnt sleep at all. I thought finally im going to meet this guy whos been nothing but nice and sweet to me, who ive had nothing but great conversations with where i could just be 100% me. but throughout all of april you still continued with commenting things on other girls pictures again i didnt want to start a fight before i came down there and i had planed to say something well i was there but i didnt want to start something because well id have no wheres to go and lord knows i have anger issues. We spend 4 days together i became sure that yeah i really like this person and maybe even love a little. but when i came home everything fell apart. 2 days go bye and i dont hear from you not even a single text but yet you're on social media multiple times throughout the day and commenting dumb shit AGAIN on girls pictures. we talk on saturday and i bring it up finally and you ask why it was an issue with the 19 yr old commenting what he did on my pictures and you said well its obvious and i said no tell me and you asked why and i said tell me why it was an issue and you said well because I LIKE YOU. so i said if you like me so much why are you commenting dumb shit on girls pictures over IG and you asked "who like you really dont know and i dont remember usernames and your excuse was "well the reason i was asking who is because its probably a client"and i asked "really come on now" and you continue with "well its my job their my client its my job to make them feel pretty or beautiful"like yeah thats youre job when their in you chair not for you to do over social media and like really is it normal for you to comment on your clients half naked pictures?? come on now get real. we end the conversation that night with you saying that wed talk about it more but we never did. sunday goes bye and monday comes around i didnt hear from you  but sometime during the day you unfollow me and i get confused more than ever. here you are or were telling me you like me and everything fly me down there to meet you spend that time together and for what what reason, what was the point! days go by i dont hear from you Thursday I tell you we need to talk something serious and you tried to make me feel stupid for it but you never called and you ignored my call we dont talk till Friday when i see you liking a whole bunch of these girls pictures on IG and i mean pictures from early 2016 and late 2015 like duuuude really and then i see theres a recent post from her and just so happened that in the video shes spinning around in a chair and i notice the background, its your room and then you walked in. I call you that night pissed off and you start off with a "hey!" like every things fine and dandy and continue to say "yeah sorry i havent talked to you in a while theres been a lot going on with work i ve been really busy and i could even lose my job" and i was like "oh so busy that yet you had time to be home during the day with a girl in your room" and again you go "well who" like as if you dont know just how many girls have you had over in your room since damn man. so i tell you the usuername because well this time i remembered it and you go "well let me look that up right now" like ohhhhhh COME ON! you know exactly who stop playing dumb and then you say "well we have mutual friends in common" i told you ones that havent ment her in person dont count and so you say "well my parents were home nothing happened" i told you i was there and your parents were home and shit happened so dont give me that and then its :well if it bothers you so much ill stop talking to her" i told you im not the kind of person who tells you who you can and can not talk to but it should be common sense of what your doing is going to bother me or piss me off because here you are or were telling me you like me and everything had me come down there and you sleep with me and all that and yet here you are doing this like really?!?! you say we'll talk about it but again we dont and im just left with more questions and im more upset and you clearly knew that you just didnt and dont care. Sunday i call and call and call because we have something to discuss we talk about it as much as we can and theres nothing that can be done about it that was clearly established. So again i bring up the other issues hoping to get those cleared up more and i ask what was the point of all this and where do i stand now but all you have to say is "well i just got home and i need to go inside ill talk to you more about this" an all i can say is "and then this happens, do you really get everything i just said do you understand" you said yes and i asked really because it seems like it just went right over your head and you said it didnt that we would talk about it. but guess what we never did and i never heard from you again. its been 2 months now since you ruined me and turned my world upside down. and im now wondering just how many other girls have you done this to, how sincere were you with all you said tome, did you even really like me or was i nothing more than a 4 day fuck?..you used me. and yet i cant forget any of it, i wish i could be like you and just forget it all and forget a person like they dont exist as if it never happened. but i cant and it hurts so much to know that i cant erase you from me or my memory and i just want to go back and never agree to it to meeting you not if i knew id end up hurt again after so many years of keeping myself shut up from the world of dating or feelings and i thought i could let down my guard and allow myself to fall again and to think that a guy i told all that to that knew of how i was treated before and everything to a guy who treated me like no other who took me on my first date and i know i shouldve listened to my family i shouldve seen the signs but i thought it would all be okay but i didnt just get a life lesson or burned in the "world of love" i got something far worse. and you continue on like every things fine...im upset with me and im most of all upset with how you handled this. you thought by ignoring or avoiding me that it will go away but it wont and youve only made it worse. I just dont understand why you couldnt be the adult that you so claim to be or to be a man and just fucking be vocal about things like i told you from the very start, why couldnt you just say something like "hey you know it was great meeting you but i dont like you like i thought i did" or something, you think by ignoring or avoiding someone and playing victim that people will get the hint or that it will solve everything but it wont and it doesnt it just makes you a coward and childish. and i cant believe that after everything youve done and put me through with how youve treated me that theres a part of me that still likes you when i should hate you with everything i am but unfortunately it takes more effort to hate then it does to like and you cant just go to hating someone with the snap of your finger it unfortunately doesnt work like that...trust me ive tried.

When Ariana Grande tells you she’s going to be just fine, believe her.

The sentient cupcake with a four-octave range says as much in her bouncy new kiss-off song, “thank u, next” — a farewell letter to all the men she’s loved before. And the most recent addition to that list is her ex-fiancé, Saturday Night Live cast member Pete Davidson.

The two were in love until they weren’t.

Grande and Davidson first announced their relationship in May, shocked everyone with an engagement announcement in June, and then, in the middle of October, called the whole thing off. That’s seemingly plenty of fodder for a break-up bop, but Davidson’s post-breakup behavior added some edge to the saga.

In a promotional clip for SNL’s November 3 show, Davidson used the breakup as a punchline, facetiously proposing to that week’s musical guest, Maggie Rogers:

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Grande didn’t see the humor in the situation, revealing as much in a series of subtweets. “For somebody who claims to hate relevancy u sure love clinging to it huh,” she wrote, without mentioning Davidson. She followed up with “thank u, next” and “k, that’s the last time we do that” before ultimately deleting them all.

The SNL promo and Grande’s tweets both made headlines, as many people wondered aloud whether Davidson would further address the breakup on the show. And then, ahead of the SNL episode, Grande tweeted hints about a new album and song that would reference Davidson and the breakup:

The displeasure in Grande’s deleted tweets, along with the tease of a new song and the potential for Davidson to make more awkward jokes, amped up anticipation for SNL.

Then, 30 minutes before the episode premiered, Grande released “thank u, next.”

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But the biggest surprise was the content of the song itself. Grande’s tweets might have set everyone up to expect a thrashing laced with pettiness, but “thank u, next” was actually a pump-fake. Far from the overt diss track many expected, the song was more about finding love with in herself:

I met someone else We havin’ better discussions I know they say I move on too fast But this one gon’ last ’Cause her name is Ari And I’m so good with that.

For his part, Davidson did comment on the breakup during SNL, gracefully acknowledging Grande during the show’s Weekend Update and saying, “She’s a wonderful, strong person, and I genuinely wish her all the happiness in the world.”

Though, after Grande’s power move, Davidson’s response was an afterthought (especially after he drew backlash for jokes on another topic entirely).

The 25-year-old Grande followed up the song release with a tweet on Sunday morning, echoing the idea that she is truly grateful:

thank u ♡ for hearing me and for making me feel so not alone i truly am grateful. no matter how painful! i’m thankful and i love u. breathin visual this week too! thank u, next pic.twitter.com/Qq62vjM0gI

— Ariana Grande (@ArianaGrande) November 5, 2018

Churning out hits is what we’ve come to expect from Grande, but what makes her a remarkable pop star isn’t just that “thank u, next” is a great song but also the latest example of Grande’s toughness and grace in the face of personal tragedy.

A year and a half ago, in May 2017, a suicide bomber attacked a concert that Grande was performing in Manchester. This September, just a few months into her now-ended engagement with Davidson, Grande’s ex-boyfriend Mac Miller died of a drug overdose — and a faction of his fans blamed her for his death.

Through all of this, Grande has handled herself with grace. After the Manchester attack, she hosted a benefit concert that raised $13 million for the We Love Manchester Emergency Fund. This summer, she released an album called Sweetener, which drew raves — some critics called it the pop album of the year. After Miller’s death, she paid tribute to him in a way that felt genuine and honest:

She also honors Miller in “thank u, next” — a key reason why the song, which is the sonic equivalent of strawberry champagne, heart emojis, and bubble bath, is so illustrative of her arc as a performer. Like Grande herself, beneath its sweetness is a story of empowerment, resilience, and maturity. That’s a rarity in this age of pop culture where taking the low, petty road has been praised. And it’s what makes Grande a breath of fresh air, and an unforgettable pop star.

“Petty” has become a default setting for pop culture.

It is now commonplace for many public figures to respond to any slight or a perceived wrong by shining a spotlight on it, forming a grudge, and then dragging whoever wronged them at the next appropriate opportunity. Bonus points are available to anyone who can pull this off exclusively through the use of oblique innuendo, without naming names.

Taylor Swift has spun pettiness into some pretty successful songs, and turned her 2017 album Reputation into a scavenger hunt for mentions of all her feuds. Drake has done the same, referencing beefs at his concerts and taking shots at his rivals in songs that are seemingly written and shipped overnight. Armie Hammer insulted a journalist who dared to write a negative thinkpiece about his acting career.

Usually, these moments of pettiness are escalated and egged on by thousands of fans, who delight in watching celebrities bicker with each other.

So after Grande had expressed her displeasure at Davidson’s jokes and then teased the release of “thank u, next,” there was an anticipation that the song would reveal some less-than-flattering things about Davidson. In the end, the true surprise was how sweet it was:

Thought I’d end up with Sean But he wasn’t a match Wrote some songs about Ricky Now I listen and laugh Even almost got married And for Pete I’m so thankful Wish I could say thank you to Malcolm Cause he was an angel

Grande’s lyrics refer to four of her ex-boyfriends: Big Sean, Ricky Alvarez, Davidson, and Mac Miller. She comments on each relationship, but without any insults or low blows. Sean, for example, simply “wasn’t a match.” And no matter how ill-advised her whirlwind love affair with Davidson might have seemed to many of her fans (not least because it involved moving into a Manhattan apartment but living without forks), Grande specifically says that she’s “thankful” for him.

But it’s what she says about Miller that helps drive home the spirit of “thank u, next.” The disarming way she refers to him as Malcolm, acknowledging his death and his soul, is arguably more scintillating, tender, and newsworthy than anything about Davidson in the song.

Grande also sings about what she’s learned from each of these past relationships, and how they’ve made her a better person:

One taught me love One taught me patience And one taught me pain Now, I’m so amazing.

She doesn’t credit the love, patience, or pain to any of her exes in particular. And by the end of the chorus, it’s clear she’s ready to move on. At its core, “thank u, next” isn’t about Grande dissing her ex-boyfriends, it’s about Grande embracing herself.

This theme continues through the bridge, where Grande sings sweetly about getting married someday — something she only wants to do once:

One day I’ll walk down the aisle Holding hands with my mama I’ll be thanking my dad ’Cause she grew from the drama Only wanna do it once, real bad Gon’ make that shit last God forbid something happens Least this song is a smash

The result is the “sweetest, the sanest, and also, gloriously, the most cutting diss track of an especially cutting year” according to the Ringer’s Rob Harvilla, who argues that Grande’s maturity and cogency are what gives the song power — that in “thank u, next,” she’s showing that she doesn’t need to trash Davidson to prove that she’s better off without him.

“It’s a generosity rarely spotted these days, when it is so much more tempting to clap back with vinegar instead of honey,” Quinn Moreland wrote at Pitchfork. “The high road might not be the easiest path, but Grande offers to lead us there by her own example.”

“While Grande could’ve released a scathing track, she dropped one that was, instead, respectful and mature,” Amanda Arnold explained at The Cut.

Her fans responded immediately, replaying the song over and over. It shot up to the top of the Spotify US and Global Charts, tallying 8 million global daily plays and breaking the company’s single-day streaming record for a female artist. It made waves on Twitter, where, according to a company representative, the phrase “thank u, next” was tweeted over 1.5 million times in just a few days. Justin Bieber called it his favorite song. It even inspired a meme:

And now it’s in contention to debut at No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart.

Pop stars and the industry that creates them are salespeople. And more and more, a huge part of the sale isn’t just how a pop star looks (with some glaring exceptions, it’s difficult to find an unattractive pop star) but rather the image he or she has crafted.

Beyoncé sells a power fantasy in untouchable excellence and relentless dedication. Taylor Swift sells an underdog story, having gone a Girl Next Door type to girl squad leader to revenge monger. Lady Gaga is a creature of transformation.

And the question underneath all this imagecraft is whether we’re ever seeing the “real” version of who pop stars are versus the narrative of they’re selling.

When Beyoncé sings about Jay Z’s alleged cheating, how much of that is a measured move by a singer notorious for controlling her image, her albums, and even Anna Wintour? When Taylor Swift sings about Kanye’s crooked stage, or about a paper airplane necklace in reference to Harry Styles, is she conveying genuine feelings of revenge or longing, or have her lyrics been carefully calculated to send a specific message and appease an audience?

We could ask the same kinds of questions about Grande and her whirlwind love affair with Davidson.

Grande’s relationship with Davidson began in May, and their engagement was confirmed on June 15. The relationship seemingly materialized in the short period of time between Grande releasing two new singles — “no tears left to cry” on April 20 and “the light is coming” on June 20. Pre-orders of Sweetener began the same week that the latter song came out, five days after the couple confirmed their engagement.

Grande and Davidson’s relationship (which has since been portmanteau’d by some into “Grandson”) and the abruptness of their engagement drove interest in the album, which also contains a song named after him. And even with the dissolution of the relationship, public interest in the couple’s breakup is helping Grande sell music.

Grandson could be either the most convenient and album-friendly relationship ever, or a savvy publicity stunt.

With so much intrigue swirling, there was a question of whether Sweetener would be all about the Grandson relationship, offering more details about the inner lives of Grande and Davidson. Perhaps Sweetener was going to be fairy tale love song performed by a princess who had finally found “the one.”

But just like “thank u” turned out to be a love song from Grande to herself, what Sweetener turned out to be was an album of resilience.

Sweetener was not about Davidson but rather a glimpse into Grande’s response, at times a joyous one, to the tragedy that changed her life.

On May 22, 2017, after Grande finished performing at Manchester Arena, a suicide bomber attacked the concert, killing 22 people and injuring 59 more — a tragedy that completely eclipses her relationship with Davidson.

“It’s the absolute worst of humanity,” Grande told Time one year later, in May 2018 in an interview about Sweetener. That’s why I did my best to react the way I did. The last thing I would ever want is for my fans to see something like that happen and think it won.”

The critically lauded album was a triumph, but it’s easy to imagine how difficult it was for Grande to make and sing songs about her life in the wake of the attack.

Perhaps that’s where the undeniable, winsome appeal of Grande lies: beyond her catchy songs and in how she has consistently proved that she’s a lilliputian pop princess with the toughness of a tank.

As with any pop star, you don’t have to agree with what Grande is singing about, whether it be sex or God being a woman or both. But you can admire the guts it takes to keep singing after the rough year that she’s been through. And in “thank u, next,” when she sings about picking herself up and believing in herself after a breakup, that’s something we all want to believe in.

Original Source -> Ariana Grande’s greatest asset isn’t her amazing voice. It’s her resilience.

via The Conservative Brief

Love And Laughter - Alone Together

The team moved quickly through Snowdin, passing the local shop - stopping for brunch: three cinnamon bunnies and two bisicles - a handy inn, Sans and Papyrus' two storey house, and a library, with the word library spelt incorrectly, making small comments on the history or opinions of places. Eventually, they skipped over the fog-inhabited bridge that linked Snowdin and Waterfall.

The scenery changed from cold yet warm to tranquil yet ominous. In the Underground, names never lied, for it was absolutely brimming with falling water. Water was all over the place, streams flowing on both sides of the navy path and falling from the damp, dark ceilings into small puddles and ponds where fish and other creatures swam. 'Stars' on the ceiling (white, glowing rocks, lodged into the stone above) and small, cyan mushrooms that shone dimly, littered about the roads were the only things that lit up the dusky place as the travellers strolled through.

They soon came to one of Sans' many sentry stations. Across from it was a tall, blue flower that interested Kirsty greatly. "Hey, what's that flower thing?" she asked, standing over it. "Hey, what's that flower thing?" it echoed, mimicking every aspect of the girl's voice, causing her to leap back in confusion. "No need to be afraid." Frisk giggled. "That's just an echo flower. It echoes the last thing it heard, over and over and over." And it did just that, replaying Frisk's exact words without fail. "Really?" Kirsty stopped and thought for a moment. "So, anything I said would be copied by the flower?" "Yeah. Tell it anything: your name, your age, your thoughts, secrets, anything. It'll always repeat it." said Sans. "Cool." Kirsty remarked, moving on to the next place.

The next room held a box, left by a lovely box lover, and definitely the biggest waterfall in Waterfall, rushing down and down into the darkness. "Careful; last time I came here, there were rocks falling from that big platform above us." Frisk said, jumping into the water, splashing her companions and making them look like they'd just decided to follow in The Great Papyrus' great footsteps and showered in their clothes. "Hahaha!" "Haha! Yeah, Frisk!" cheered Chara, landing on her front as she threw herself into the stream, staring at all of the water-bound creatures going about their day, unaware of the contained danger of the threateningly close human. "Oh, Frisk!" moaned Kirsty. "Eh. It'll dry when we reach Hotland." Sans reassured her, chuckling at what a mess Frisk had made. Kirsty rolled her eyes and carefully stepped across the lively ground.

Before Sans began to shadow the newbie once again, Frisk grabbed the hood of his jacket. "Huh? Yeah, kid?" he asked, halting. "Hey, Sans. You look kind of...sleepy." Frisk grinned. "You're never sleepy. You sleep more than you make jokes, and you do make a lot of jokes. Have anything to say about that?" "Uh... I had trouble getting to sleep last night." Sans shrugged, removing Frisk's hand from his clothing and turning to start following Kirsty (who was already out of sight with Chara, the two of them having fun encountering the tall grass) again, but Frisk blocked him. "But you never have trouble sleeping. You can sleep at any place or time without trouble. Wanna explain that?" Frisk raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms triumphantly.

Sans thought for a moment on what to say next and sighed, defeated. He looked behind Frisk at where Kirsty's silhouette stood. "I couldn't stop thinking about her." he said, pointing in her direction. Frisk's eyes widened and she gasped, letting out an awfully long "Aaaaaaawwwwwwww! Sans! That's adorable! Oh my god! I'm gonna-" "Hey!" Sans protested, cutting her off. Frisk clasped her hands over her mouth. "Don't tell anyone, okay, kid? I didn't tell anyone about your crush on Papyrus, did I?" The young girl shook her head, blushing, and made a gesture as if she was zipping her mouth closed. "Good. Now, where has she wandered off to?"

Sans and Frisk went after Kirsty and Chara, who were solving the first Bridge Seed puzzle, where they had to put the Bridge Seeds in a certain pattern for a bridge to form across the water. Frisk skipped to the other side of the second flower bridge and looked at Kirsty, quickly throwing a sorry look on her face. She had devised a plan in that it took them to finish the final seed puzzle. "Aw, Kirsty, Sans, I'm so sorry." Frisk pouted. "I just remembered, I have to go to work today." "Oh." Kirsty said. Sans glared at Frisk. All she did in reply was grin and bat her eyelids innocently. "Yeah, that means it'll just be you and Sans on this little adventure." she shrugged. "Well, I'll see ya soon then." "See ya, Frisk." waved Kirsty, as Frisk ran ahead, smiling mischievously at Sans on her way out.

"Welp, I guess it's just you and me then, huh?" Sans spoke. "Yeah." Kirsty sighed, walking on.

The calming sound of flowing water filling the area with tranquility, the pair wandered on to the next room. Meanwhile, racing to the nearest water-taxi, Frisk fished around in her deep pockets for her phone and started ringing. It went to voicemail. "Sorry, darling! The fabulous Mettaton is not available at the moment, but I'd love to hear whatever it is you want to say, so just leave a message after the beep!" Beeeeeep! Frisk took a short, sharp breath, and put on a voice that made her sound "Hey, Mettaton! I'm really sorry, but I'm kind of ill. Yeah, I messed up when I was making some food last night and now I am suffering the consequences. I won't be in today; I won't be anywhere but in my bed. So sorry. See ya when I'm feeling better! Bye!" After her message was sent, she sent a text to Alphys, telling her that she was on her way to the lab and added three mischievous winking emojis on the end.

Sans and Kirsty, on the other hand, were going slower than the snails in the local snail farm (no, actually, those snails, unlike others, are not actually that slow, so you can scrap that idea immediately), enjoying the scenery: a long, dark, blue hallway, an abundance of adorning, aqua echo flowers on the ground. The plants babbled back and forth to each other, over and over, words that were once something turned into nonsensical nothingness in all the confusion. There was a sign hung on the left wall: 'WISHING ROOM', it said. The millions of sparkling stones on the dusky ceiling, Kirsty guessed, acted as stars, for them to wish upon. She and Sans both made secret, silent wishes under their breaths and hoped that none of the echo flowers had caught what they said - even though, if they were, they would've been drowned out by all of the other wishes that other people had made before them.

They continued walking in silence, reading the ancient words of the murals as they passed from room to room. The bulrushes swayed in the soft breeze as they crossed large, open wooden bridges and the tall grass was pushed aside as Kirsty thought back to when she used to play in the grass with her older sister on holidays when she was younger. Sans stopped her in the next room. "Hey," he said, half dragging her into a small room with nothing in it, "can we stop a minute? We've been walkin' for what feels like hours." "We have been walking for hours." Kirsty giggled, staring around at the calming setting, a small, tranquil haven for people who like quiet rooms, dimly lit by the glowing mushrooms and rocks. To be truthful, now that she thought about it, Sans had been behind her all the time, shuffling along slowly. He must not have liked that, moving that much, and for so long too. He sat down in the corner of the room, finding a comfy spot. "Ya know what? I'm just gonna take a little nap, if you're alright with that." Sans said, leaning his head against the wall, either not bothered at all about its dampness, or excellent at hiding it. "Oh, I don't mind." Kirsty nodded. She did mind a little bit, but she also didn't like to look rude or controlling. "Not at all."

The girl sat down beside him, legs crossed. As someone who had only napped when they were a baby, after a sleepover where she didn't do any sleeping, or when she had literally nothing else to do at that time, she didn't really like the idea of napping with Sans - who had drifted off before she knew it, sleeping so peacefully. She sat alone with her thoughts for a while, thinking about what her friends at school would be doing right now (it was a Wednesday, so they'd probably be doing P.E. and thinking about the current lesson, not her) before she realised that her companion wasn't going to wake up any time soon and she was actually a little bit sleepy herself. So, coming to the conclusion that she had no other options, she lay her head on his shoulder and soon drifted off to Dreamland too.

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