month-worth

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I’m at the @alamocitycomiccon and met @kelkeyy who showed me her (almost) months worth of #MerMay drawings! This is how you do it folks! Nice to meet you Kelsey. #mermay2017 #alamocitycomiccon (at Henry B. Gonzalez Convention Center)

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so I was talking with @gitwrecked about the Space Dad mentality and how rare it is that Shiro gets to have fun like the other Paladins do. A lot of fic and art either assume Shiro’s the responsible character, or leave him out completely while all the Paladins are having fun - and that’s always bugged me, a bit. Shiro so rarely gets a chance to play those games, or make mistakes, or be smol, or be taken care of in any way. In fandom, Shiro’s almost always the Responsible One, whether that’s in charge of the team, assisting with the team’s personal affairs/relationship woes Via the giving of Dad Advice, etc. etc. Even the mentality that back at the Garrison Shiro must’ve been tight-laced, Perfect, and Always Responsible is just…it doesn’t make sense, to me. Considering everything he’s been through, can’t our Shiro be allowed some fun?

Shiro would’ve been a COMPLETE troublemaker back at the Garrison. Hardworking and dedicated, sure, but once he proved himself and climbed up the ranks, so to speak? Kid could get away with ANYTHING. Nobody can keep a straight face quite like Shiro. Nobody knows why there’s always one particular flight-bike returned with just a bit less fuel than the others, nope, no sir. No, nobody knows how the doors to the hangars were left unlocked and a trio of cows slipped in last night. Nope, definitely not. Shirogane? Nope, definitely not involved. What kind of person would think that of Innocent, Responsible Shiro?

Shiro gets away with a lot of stuff like this. Matt only eggs him on, the little troublemaker. The two of them would make SUCH a pair, wreaking havoc, always messing things up, and the worst part is Iverson can NEVER PROVE IT. If Matt has even half the hacking skills of Pidge? Nothing would be safe. The rosters? Weird how Shiro and Matt are always in the same classes. Any type of list? Funny that the mess hall’s serving chocolate cake for dinner for the fourth night in a row, how odd. The simulators? 

Dear lord, the simulators.

Fake missions. Weird Easter Eggs left behind in mission logs, so the freshmen are running these simulations and that’s definitely a duck that just flew past us, sir, how is a duck faster than this ship? Weird loopholes, one set of canyons that definitely loops you back to the beginning just after you exit. Missions with heavy-loss scenarios that light up at the end with a huge message saying APRIL FOOL’S. Just messing with everyone.

[Iverson: WHO LET HOLT INTO THE SIMULATOR PROGRAMMING?
Matt, deadpan, as the newbies running the simulation have to fly through a series of caves in a mountain that looks suspiciously like a nose (only access point is through the nostril): It’s my computer programming final, sir. 
Iverson, who didn’t check all the course syllabi: Shirogane, is this true?
Shiro, without batting an eye: Yes sir.]

In addition to the ability to lie their way out of every inquisition, Matt and Shiro are pretty clever at this. They don’t have to lie often because they don’t get caught. They’re extremely cautious, planning tricks weeks or months in advance, well worth taking the time to pull it off well and cover our tracks than it is to get caught and give up the whole game. (I’m not saying they were Weasleys of the Garrison, but.) 

I wonder if this is also one of the reasons Lance looks up to Shiro so much. Picture one night a very young and impressionable Lance sneaking out of his dorm after hours, trying to get a level up by gaining just one extra peek at the simulators (poor bab wants so badly to be fighter class), and in so doing caught the rarest of rare events: Shiro, sneaking out of the simulator programming room.

And Lance doesn’t mean to, but he stumbles right into a trashcan and makes a huge clatter and Shiro’s head whips up and the two of them just stare at each other. Lance’s heart is going a mile a minute, he’s going to get in trouble, that’s Takashi Shirogane, the straight-A Perfect Responsible Top Of His Class Pilot - 

Shiro draws breath. Lance winces, waiting for the reprimand.

“Can you keep a secret?” Shiro asks, and winks.

“Uh,” stutters Lance, floored.

And then the next day Lance is watching the simulator runs with his class, but for whatever reason the Simulator’s infected with some sort of weird bug. Anytime anyone fails at any part of the program the screen rains down confetti on them. Forgot to buckle your seatbelt? CONFETTI. Effed up that landing? CONFETTI. Turning to hurl into the main gearbox- 

“Shirogane,” Iverson growls, “Did you program this run?”

“Must be a glitch, sir,” Shiro says, completely straight-faced.

And Lance is a goner.

Hogwarts 8th year:

So McGonagall announces a surprise mock-NEWT in class one day and everyone is super stressing out and Harry accidentally snaps his quill because ‘are you shitting me, NEWTs are two months away, dammit.’

And then he can’t find a spare quill anywhere in his bag and next to him Ron looks like he might burst into tears and on the table across the aisle on his other side Hermione is vigorously bunching up her hair into a top knot while reciting every Transfiguration theory they’d learnt in the past five months under her breath, her expression fierce as fuck, and just looking at her makes Harry even more nervous because what the fuck was she murmuring about Trans-Species Transformations, had they even covered that?! 

But McGonagall is already coming around handing out their tests and so he turns to Malfoy who’s sitting in front of him trying to cram in five months worth of notes in thirty seconds and taps him on the shoulder with a desperate, “Baby, you got an extra quill on you?” and Malfoy simply nods before feverishly rummaging through his bag and producing a slightly ruffled eagle feather quill and handing it over with a harassed, “Here, love”, before going back to tearing through his notes.

And then Harry hears an odd squeaking sound and turns to find Ron looking at him like he’d spontaneously turned into a giant spider and it’s only then he becomes aware of his exchange with his (still secret) boyfriend. Ron genuinely looks like he’s about to faint and Draco seems none the wiser as he accepts the test from McGonagall with trembling hands.

Ron makes a strangled choking sound up at McGonagall who sighs exasperatedly as she hands Harry and Ron their tests, “Now Mr. Weasley, do pull yourself together. Today’s results won’t count for your final grade.”

And honestly Harry can’t deal with any of this now because hell he loves Draco and doesn’t care what anyone says and why do mock-NEWTs even exist, like the actual ones weren’t bad enough and Ron is still staring at him in horror and Harry just grits out a, “We’re in love, mate, alright? Now close your mouth and fucking breathe before you faint and also, did we cover Trans-Species yet?” To which Ron just croaks out a, “I don’t know anything anymore, I need to lie down.”

Redemption // Jeon Jungkook

-

the prompt: Jungkook scenario when your pregnant unplan baby he finds the test when you get home he starts yelling, blaming you throwing things,tells you to gtfo of his life with the baby saying fucked up things. So you leave Korea 3 year later you come back with your daughter and you guys see each other again he tries to win you back angst beginning but fluff ending?

words: 8942

category: heavy angst + fluff ending

author note: it’s time to see how good destinee’s character development skills are. also y/n didn’t leave, jungkook did. hope that’s okay. im so proud of myself for writing this?? I didn’t give up and I’m glad i didn’t. anyway, this took forever to write you can literally see my writing improve as you keep reading its kind of funny anyway let’s go!

- destinee

Originally posted by sugutie

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Just little LDR things:

  • Napping at odd hours with your phone clutched in your hand so you’ll wake up when your boyfriend messages you “good morning”
  • Describing the best hypothetical cuddling scenarios in graphic detail
  • “Kiss me” “I just did”
  • Arranging pillows on your bed so you can pretend to fall asleep next to him
  • That horrible feeling in your heart when the call drops and you can’t hear his voice anymore
  • The breathless feeling you get when he buys the tickets to come see you (and every time you remember he’s coming)
  • Memorizing timezone conversion charts
  • Trying to pack months’ worth of romantic frustration into a few days
  • Knowing how good you’d look in his clothes but not being able to steal them because he’s so far away
  • The moments after you end a conversation so one of you can sleep or go to class and everything suddenly feels a little empty

yellowgoingblue  asked:

“i work at a little market/store and u came up to the register with a candy bar but didn’t have enough money to pay for the entire thing. but don’t worry, i got you, fam” au: I saw this and my mind screamed, "ANDREIL".

ok i combined both of these and neither is fully what you asked for but i hope you like it anyway!!!


It’s hot the way only New Jersey gets hot, America’s swampy asshole, thick damp air under an impermeable layer of smog, the sun mocking him from where it hangs between a few grey clouds that indicate but don’t promise an upcoming rain.

Neil’s jog is taking much, much longer than usual thanks to an unbearable amount of traffic. It doesn’t help that he’s had to reroute himself to get some British candy bar from the one Wawa that—without explanation—carries British candy bars.

He gets there eventually, eight miles away from his apartment and so fully dehydrated that he’s questioning how the fuck he’s going to make it back. Wawa is, as always, an oasis: refrigerators line the walls, and within them, blissfully, is cold water. He grabs a bottle and drinks half of it in the aisle before even going on the search for the Mars Bar.

The candy aisle has nothing, just mostly-depleted cardboard boxes of Snickers and Twix. The international section is mainly Latin American and Asian goods, and then, crammed between coconut water and Goya goods, a box of Mars Bars.

Like the boxes in the candy aisle, it’s empty.

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Clean up after your dog.

I live in a very nice condominium complex in a pretty decently sized city in the South. I managed to buy a unit at the ripe age of 23, after making a pretty penny in the stock market - making me easily the youngest person in the complex.

The units are one building with 4 condos per unit, each is two stories with a balcony for each bedroom and for the downstairs area. Not very important, but I want to paint a mental picture here.

The outside of my condo, when it comes to lawn space, is VERY small. I’m talking like a patch of grass no larger than most individual blocks of sidewalk.

About a couple of months ago, this woman moved in a few units over with a large boxer. Having two large dogs myself, I was happy to see more big dogs in the area (most the people around here have little foofy dogs).

One day, I walked outside to see a large pile of dog shit and this lady hastily walking away. I called out kindly - “excuse me ma'am, please clean up after your dog”. She looked back, gave me a sour look, and continued walking away.

Okay, whatever, no big deal. I’ll give her a freebie this time so I cleaned up after her and threw it away trying to be a good neighbor.

I want to mention now that I’ve REALLY tried to go above and beyond the neighborly call of duty - as I said earlier, in the youngest here and I want to make it clear to my neighbors that I’m not just some spoiled little bastard that is going to make their lives hell. I sweep my older neighbors porches, swap recipes and have even babysat one of their grandchildren. I do my best to be a good neighbor, it’s just how I was raised.

However, this lady hit a sore spot. I let the first one slide, but this happened FIVE MORE TIMES IN THE SAME WEEK. Finally I confronted her and said “ma'am, I’m sick of cleaning your dogs shit and stepping around it every day. Please clean it up.”

I shit you not, and I wish I was exaggerating. She looked me right in the eye and said “I paid for a condo too, I’ll leave my shit wherever I want”. She then briskly walked off while I stood in shock.

Finally, I snapped. So I began to save every piece of shit that dumb bitch left in front of my house for around two straight months. I had a HEFTY GARBAGE BAG FULL OF IT (imagine what you use to clean leaves up in, it was that big). I won’t lie, I threw quite a bit of my own dog’s excrement in there for good measure. I mean come on, just her dog wasn’t going to cover the amount needed. That bag was F*CKING. HEAVY.

(where I stored it: Great question actually. All the condo units have individual cellars for storage. I stored it down there until I was ready to make my move. I probably should have mentioned that so you all wouldn’t think I’m some psycho dog-shit hoarder who has a closet full of feces.)

Yes, it smelled like shit every time I opened the damn door to add to the pile. It took an immense amount of patience and gagging to pull this off - but it was well worth it.

I waited until 4 am on Monday morning before I walked up to her condo and dumped that bag right on her small tiny condo lawn. It was worth every second of patience.

Sure enough, come 7 am there’s a bang on my door - and it’s my lovely neighbor.

“You need to come f*cking clean this shit up RIGHT NOW!” - she screamed in my face.

I smiled “sorry ma'am, I paid for a condo here too. I’ll leave my shit wherever I want.”

In short - Lady kept leaving dog poop on my lawn, so I saved it all and dumped about 2 months worth on hers.

updated:

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I Got You On My Mind [Part 4]

Jungkook Soulmate AU (Angst)

[Part One] | Previous Part | Part Four | Next Part

Summary: After your memory loss, adjusting back to normal life has been difficult. Luckily, Jungkook is always there for you. Still, something seems off about him, and you just can’t understand why.

Word count: 2k words

Originally posted by jungxook

“Oh yeah, I’m being discharged tomorrow,” you told Jungkook, who was pushing your wheelchair through the hospital. He insisted that you needed a change of scenery. “My parents are going to pick me up and drive me back to my apartment.”

“I-I guess it’s too early for the ‘meet the parents’ thing, right?” Jungkook stammered, uncharacteristically nervous. “Unless you want me to. Like, I don’t mind if–”

“Chill, Jungkook,” you laughed, cutting his off his rambling. “I think they’re more worried about my brain damage than any soulmate business.”

“The doctors said you’ll recover your memories though, right?” Jungkook asked, worry lining his words. “Your memory loss won’t be permanent or recurring?”

“They said my memories will come back slowly,” you replied, shrugging your shoulders nonchalantly. “But most of the time, the memories will have to be triggered by something. They also told me I might have short-term memory issues for the next little while.”

“That seriously sucks,” Jungkook said. “If you need any help with anything, just let me know. I don’t really know how I’d be useful, but don’t hesitate.”

“We’re not in the same department,” you snorted, turning to peer up at your soulmate who was both familiar and foreign in this instant. “This is gonna make school so difficult. I’ve forgotten nearly three months worth of content!”

“Maybe take the semester off?” Jungkook suggested. “Amnesia is a pretty valid reason. Have you talked at all to the university?”

“No,” you groaned, sinking into the wheelchair. “I don’t want to think about responsibilities right now. Just marvelling in the fact I’m still alive and kicking.”

A silence fell between you and Jungkook as he pushed you through a more crowded area of the hospital. You noticed a few younger visitors visibly gape at Jungkook, then glare at you jealously as you rolled by.

You agreed with them–how was Jungkook so damn good-looking? You hit the soulmate jackpot, for sure. Still, even if he looked different, you didn’t doubt that you would like him just the same.

“You know, it’s pretty crazy,” you blurted out unthinkingly. “I’ve been talking to you my entire life, and I always thought meeting you would feel like meeting an old friend. But honestly, you’re a total mystery to me right now. Maybe it’s because of the memory loss, or maybe other people feel this way, too.”

“No, I know what you mean,” Jungkook responded quietly, trying to figure out how to express his thoughts properly. “It’s just…we have an idea of who our soulmate is in our heads. When they’re not exactly that person, it’s kind of confusing.”

“And I’m sure there’s a lot of stuff we still don’t know about each other,” you agreed. “Honestly, I tried to make myself seem a lot better than I am.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jungkook laughed, though it sounded a bit off. You brushed it off as embarrassment. “Didn’t want to disappoint you.”

You turned your head and looked up into Jungkook’s eyes. “You couldn’t have disappointed me Jungkook, really. I’m just happy to finally meet you,” you replied, giving him a small smile. “And it’s kinda paradoxical, isn’t it? Disliking your own soulmate. Weren’t we, like, made to like each other?”

“I guess,” Jungkook said, staring ahead unwaveringly. He pushed you down another hallway, which led to the cafeteria. You only knew because of the wafting smell of hearty food was growing stronger by the second. “But nothing’s ever that simple.”

“Don’t I know it,” you sighed, laughing a little in spite of yourself. You turned the corner into the bustling cafeteria, the noise of the crowds deafening compared to the near-silent, depressing halls of the hospital.

“Want to grab something to eat?” Jungkook asked, the heaviness of your conversation vanishing before you could even blink. “I was going to grab something for myself, too.”

“Sure, I’ll have whatever you’re having,” you agreed. Out of habit, you reached down to pat your pockets for your wallet. “Oh shit, I don’t have any money on me. Don’t worry about it, then.”

“It’s cool, it’ll be my treat,” Jungkook said. When you turned to look at him, he was giving you a lopsided smile.

“Then, is this our first date?” you asked cheekily, delighting in the way Jungkook’s cheek burned. You never expected that a guy like Jungkook, with this terrible fuckboy persona, would be so easily flustered.

“If you want it to be, sure,” Jungkook answered, coughing into his hand awkwardly. You just laughed, and Jungkook pushed you forward wordlessly.


Life at home after getting discharged made staying in the hospital seem like an amusement park. After being sentenced to bedrest by your parents–and having Jieun enforce it with an iron fist–you spent your days bored out of your mind.

In only one week, you had binge-watched three shows, reread all of your course notes (and they didn’t help you remember anything), and read more manga that you had ever read before in your entire life.

You were positively itching to get outside and do something, but what bothered you the most was that you hadn’t talked to Jungkook since your “first date.” When you had gotten home, you jumped to charge your dead phone, which miraculously hadn’t been destroyed in the accident. But when the device finally charged, you soon realized that you had no way of contacting Jungkook.

For some reason, his phone number wasn’t saved in your contacts. Even though Jungkook had said you had met before, apparently you hadn’t exchanged numbers. That seemed very strange to you.

When you asked Jieun about it, she just shrugged the question off. She said your situation was a bit complicated, but that she’d have to leave it up to you and Jungkook. But Jieun did say that she would mention it to him when she saw him at school next.

Sighing, you reached for your phone beside you. It was still early in the morning. Time had lost all meaning to you, since you spent every moment of the day trapped in your apartment. A bit bitterly, you watched your friends’ Snapchat stories and longed to return to normal daily life.

Suddenly, your phone began buzzing. You dropped it in surprise, and it landed on your nose. The impact stung, and you cursed, reaching clumsily for the phone. You saw an unflattering picture of Jieun illuminate the screen. Eventually, you were able to answer.

“Hey, what’s up?” you asked, rubbing your hand against your sore nose.

“Y/N, I’m so fucking stupid!” Jieun practically screamed. Wincing, you held your phone away from your ear. “I know you shouldn’t be moving around, but I need you to come to the university right now. I’m working on a group project that’s due in two hours and a bunch of our files got corrupted. I have some stuff backed up on my laptop, which I left at home like an idiot!”

“Don’t worry, I can bring it to you,” you reassured quickly. “I won’t fall into traffic on the way there. It’s like a ten minute walk, so don’t worry.”

“Just don’t strain yourself, okay?” Jieun ordered, the panic still evident in her voice. “Don’t go to quickly and look both ways!”

“Hey, only I can make fun of myself,” you quipped, pulling yourself out from underneath the covers. “I’ll be over soon, I just need to get dressed.”

“Okay, see you soon. Thank you so much, Y/N,” Jieun said, and the both of you said your goodbyes before you disconnected the call.

You glanced down at your pyjama bottoms and at the thick cast over your right leg. Changing pants would be a battle for another day. Unsteadily, you stood up and balanced your weight on your unbroken leg. You reached for the crutches leaning against the wall beside you and tucked them underneath your arms.

As quickly as you could (which was not very quick), you had thrown on a clean shirt and a jacket. Your hair was a mess, so you shoved on a beanie to disguise the tangled frizz. With Jieun’s securely laptop in your backpack, you began the trek to school. Suddenly, the journey seemed incredibly long.


When you finally arrived on campus, you were panting lightly and sweating. You made your way into the music building, relatively unfamiliar with its layout. You detached yourself from one of your crutches and reached into your pocket for your phone. Quickly you sent Jieun a text letting you know you were here.

There were a few benches in the foyer, so once you hobbled over to them, you set your bag down lightly and placed your crutches against the benches. Flopping down, you discreetly tried to massage your sore armpits.

But you were glad to finally be out of the apartment. The fresh air made you feel infinitely better.

“Y/N?” a familiar voice called. Your head whipped around in the direction of the voice. Jungkook a few meters away from you, looking as dark and intimidating as ever. His wide-eyed expression kind of ruined the image though. “What are you doing here?”

“Jieun forgot her laptop at home,” you replied, pointing to the backpack at your feet, as Jungkook made his way toward you.

“Shouldn’t you be at home?” he questioned, stopping when he was standing in front of you. You craned your neck to at him properly. “Is it okay for you to be walking around so soon?”

“Please, don’t get started on that,” you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut. “My parents and Jieun are unbearable. I’ve been lying in bed doing nothing all week.”

“You know, that honestly sounds like heaven,” Jungkook joked. “I’m so swamped right now. I haven’t slept in days.”

You inspected Jungkook more closely. His eyes were ringed by purplish dark circles, but they were hardly noticeable. How unfair–he always looked good.

“Hey, why haven’t you talked to me all week?” you asked suddenly, narrowing your eyes at Jungkook suspiciously.

“I was meaning to call or text or something, but I don’t have your number,” Jungkook answered sheepishly, scratching the nape of his neck awkwardly. “Didn’t know how to ask for it, since you haven’t been around campus lately.”

“Why’s that, though?” you continued, glancing down at your feet. “I mean–you said we met before. Why didn’t we keep in contact?”

“W-well, we did meet, but it wasn’t a proper conversation,” Jungkook explained stutteringly. “It wasn’t under the most normal circumstances, but–”

“Y/N!” Jieun’s loud voice suddenly interrupted. She burst into the foyer, looking absolutely frazzled. Her hair was a mess, her eyes were bloodshot, and you were pretty sure there were coffee stains on her shirt. “Thank god!”

Your friend ran over to you and practically dove for your backpack. She grabbed her laptop and hugged it tightly against her chest.

“Thank you so much. I’m so sorry I made you come all the way here,” Jieun cried, sounding frantic still. “Are you okay? Sore anywhere? Go home right away, okay? You need to rest. And please don’t tell your parents!”

“Oh my god, I’m fine Jieun,” you whined. “I think I can handle walking for, like, two minutes.”

“I just don’t want anything to happen!” Jieun insisted, stomping her foot childishly. “We’re speeding up the recovery process by being extra careful!”

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. Go work on your project and try not to fail.”

“I will,” Jieun replied. “I’ll bring dinner on my way home.” She turned, only spotting Jungkook for the first time. Her eyes narrowed and she frowned slightly. “Jungkook.”

“Jieun,” he replied, just as shortly.

You looked between the two of them, wondering why there was so much tension. It looked like they were having a silent conversation, and you hated not knowing what was going on. You had the suspicion they were hiding something from you–but for the life of you, you couldn’t figure out what, exactly.

Eventually, Jieun just nodded and strode away, leaving Jungkook with a tight expression. Visibly, you could see Jungkook try to shake away the tension, his jaw unclenching. When he turned back to you, his features were schooled.

“Give me your phone,” Jungkook said, reaching out his hand and smiling softly. “I’ll add my number.”

- Girl in Luv

Okay, so this one was a bit filler-y. Originally I had planned to make this one angsty too, but I figured you guys could use the respite. Also, it would have been like 4k words and it’s like 2:30AM and this girl needs to sleep. Anyway, stay tuned!! Thanks as always for reading, and I hope you all enjoyed. Your replies and reblogs/tags are so cute I read them all 💛💛💛💛

anonymous asked:

Hey Judy! How did ya loose ya money to get ya wifi back? I'll try to commission ya real soon.

My mom and my stepdad were unfortunately very short on funds and had been unable to pay the bill for a little while. There was 2 months worth of payment needed and without going into specifics, it WAS more than I was expecting. However, since an internet connection is basically required for me to be able to do the shit that gets me paid what little I get paid anyway, I thought I would chip in and help get the bill paid for now while everything is kinda working to get back on its feet.

This, unfortunately, meant dipping into my savings I had been building up for a few months. And dipping into MOST of it. All-in-all, I don’t regret it of course, and it wasn’t something that was ASKED of me. I offered. So I’m not too upset about it. Just a little bit of a bummer that it took such a huge chunk out of it.

With that being said, I’m already on my way to building it back up to what it once was and hopefully i’ll be back in good shape soon. If anyone is feeling generous and would like to help out, I can use whatever help I can get.

I’m offering voice commissions, open indefinitely, and I’m willing to record anything from personal messages, character lines, impressions, and anything in between that I decide I’m comfortable with. You can see details at http://knittinggiantbeanies.tumblr.com/commissions

And if you’re willing to help on more of a recurring level, and get some potentially cool little bonuses to go along with it, I also have a Patreon and really every contribution means so much to me. It can be as little as a dollar a month! https://www.patreon.com/KnittingGiantBeanies

Lost Track of Time

|| Pt. 1 || Pt. 2 || Pt. 3

Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: You were mad, but he was out of patience 

Word Count: 1526

Warning: eh, not really a warning…that is unless you hate the F-bomb and other kinds of curse words.

Originally posted by shishikookie

You were fuming. Here you were, dressed in a stunning gown that you knew he would love and holding a boxed Rolex that you were going to gift him. You had waited for him in the fancy 5-star restaurant where you had gotten a reservation, a reservation that took you at least eight months worth of pay to save up for. But here you were, back in your shared apartment at 1 am in the morning waiting for your boyfriend of two years to come home. Yes, he had stood you up.

You would have understood if he had called you or messaged you. Hell, you would have understood if he sent a freaking messenger pigeon to send you a letter telling you why he couldn’t make it. But guess what you didn’t receive? Any sort of indication from Jungkook on where he was or why he didn’t come. 

On the couch you fiddled around with your phone tossing it up and catching it over and over again, waiting for a phone call or text message from him. Instead of the blaring sound of your ringtone or a notification indicating a message, you heard something else: the opening of the front door. He was home. 

Jungkook crept in and quietly removed his shoes since he thought that you would be most likely to be asleep by now. That’s why he was so surprised to find you awake in the middle of the night sitting on the couch wearing a long gown. 

“Oh, jagi. I thought you were asleep.” You shook your head and scoffed in disbelief.

“Don’t tell me that you don’t know why I’m awake right now, Jeon Jungkook.” He shifted when he heard you refer to him by his full name. You never used his full name unless you were angry. 

If he wasn’t so tired he would have asked you what was wrong. If he wasn’t so tired he would be doing his aegyo to cheer you up. If he wasn’t so tired he wouldn’t be picking a fight with you. 

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Laundry Day

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 506

A/N: This was written in the early hours of the morning with no sleep during the night. It was me trying to prove to @mysupernaturalfics I can word in english when tired af! So, so sorry to anyone deciding to read this one.

You looked around the the laundry room letting out a loud sigh. Just how many black t-shirts and flannel button ups could two guys own? Not to mention just how were they wearing any socks and underwear when you clearly had a month worth for each of your Bunker-mates stabled neatly on top of the dryer.

Where they hell had they kept all of this when they had lived on the road for so many years? Or was it really possible for them to have collected all of this in 3 years? But seriously how? You never saw the boys shop.

You promptly rolled your eyes in annoyance as you emptied another load of flannel and jeans from the washer into the dryer.. Yet another pile of clean socks had landed on the floor between your feet and you let out a loud growl before yelling as loud as you could.

“Seriously guys! You need to start washing your own damn clothes!”

“Hey,” Sam’s voice sounded from the library, “we wash your clothes all the time.”

“No, you don’t,” you mumbled, knowing that Dean had once in awhile, but you were sure that Sam had no idea how to even work the machines.

You grabbed one of Dean’s flannel shirts, effectively making it ricochet and hit you square in the face, one of the sleeve buttons hitting you in the eyes. It didn’t hurt half as bad as your loud whining noise suggested, but you were feeling sorry for yourself as it was.

Dean appeared in the door as on cue, carefully peeking in to check on you. “You okay in here, sweetheart?”

“No, your flannel attacked me,” you pouted, glaring at your boyfriend in the door, who was doing his very best not to laugh.

“My shirt did what now?” he inquired with a smirk, making you whine again.

“It’s not funny, Dean. I am probably getting a black eye now,” you sulked as Dean walked towards you.

“How is it you can gank 4 werewolves solo but my shirts defeats you?” Dean smirked, making you even more furious. You all but stomped your foot in the ground but before you had time to come up with a snarky comeback the shirt was being pulled from your hands.

“Hey,” you protested when Dean tossed it back in the basket with the still dirty clothes, “I already washed that.”

“Yeah? Being washed twice will be the punishment for hitting my girl in the face,” Dean smiled playfully at you making you giggle when he started peppering kisses all over your face.

You squealed, halfheartedly hitting his chest as he swept you off your feet, bridal style into his arms, “I am not done, Dean.”

“We are taking a break. I got some sheets we can dirty up and I promise you I’ll help you clean them later,” Dean winked at you, making you hide your face against his neck, giggling as Sam’s voice sounded from the library yet again.

“Do not mix that with my clothes!”    

Keep reading

  • The Fosters Writers: Let's drag 6 months worth of tv time over the course of 4 years.
  • Also The Fosters Writers: Okay that was fun, now let's have everything happen all at once on the same day in one of the season finales.

a victuri fic rec: part two! ( ´ ▽ ` )ノ♡ 

part one (x)

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You’re My Favorite

In honor of H’s 23 birthday, enjoy this little one shot! :) 

Plot: What to get to the man who has everything?

Warnings: None. 

Three weeks to H’s Birthday:

“Baby,” Harry groaned exasperation. His eyes rolled back and he let his head drop for a moment, appearing to be completely and utterly done with the subject I had been bugging him with for a few hours now as well as over the past days.

Harry’s birthday present.

And still, he was being close to no help. His eyes met mine and I whined, wanting him to take me seriously, because even though we (admittedly) had been discussing this topic a bit too long now, he somehow still didn’t understand my point.
Birthdays were something I took very seriously, especially Harry’s. It was the first time for me to celebrate his birthday with him given that our relationship was only a few months old and all I wanted was him to be showered with love and spoiled silly. I wanted to make him happy.
Planning his day wasn’t the problem, it was easy. I would spend the night before with him, mainly so I could make sure him being spoiled would start early in the morning already (breakfast in bed, maybe some sex) but most of all I wanted to stay with him because I knew how Harry didn’t like having to sleep and wake up alone. It made my heart ache a little bit and fall even more in love with his sensitive and gentle soul and so I liked the idea of him not having to do that on his birthday, too.
Later, we would have lunch with his mother, sister and step-father so we would be able to exchange gifts quietly and just in the presence of his immediate family. Harry absolutely adored them and I knew he’d love being able to be with just his family for a while, before his friends would join us for a dinner at his favorite restaurant. It was a simple plan and wouldn’t entail too many surprises for him, but I knew that would be what Harry enjoyed most. All of his life was always extravagant and a big deal, so I imagined him having simple family time would be just what he’d need.
What had been giving me a headache for a while now was the most difficult question I’d ever had to ask myself. What makes a good present to a person who could buy the world?

“You are so difficult sometimes,” I argued quietly, nudging Harry’s hip with my own.

We were standing in my tiny kitchen and cooking dinner together, well, less cooking and more arguing about his upcoming birthday. The pans were still empty and the table wasn’t set either. Three weeks. I had three weeks left to get him the perfect present and I was absolutely clueless.

Harry laughed. “Says the one who’s been worrying herself silly over a present for a birthday who’s almost a month away.”  

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe I just shouldn’t get you anything then. If I’m just being silly.”

My body turned and I went to reach for two wine glasses, almost dropping them when Harry startled me by wrapping both of his arms around my waist. His chest hit my back and I squealed when his head buried itself into my neck, releasing puffs of hot breath, making me squeal.

“You wouldn’t do that,” he murmured quietly, sounding like a little boy who’d been denied… well, his birthday present.

“Oh wouldn’t I, Styles?” I giggled, squeezing his wrists through the thick material of his grey jumper.

He shook his head, lips ghosting over my skin and I relaxed into him. “Don’t think you would.”

And of course I wouldn’t. But I really was lost. In my imagination, I could see his face lighting up with that beautiful smile of his and his pretty eyes would sparkle in surprise and happiness. I wanted that image to be reality, had seen him wear the expression on other occasions before and I wanted to be the reason why he wore it on his birthday. And the one bloody thing needed for that to happen was missing. An idea.

Two weeks to H’s Birthday:

In my desperate situation I’d called up the only person I could think of, who knew Harry better than anybody else did. His mother. Anne and I were sat in a small cafe just around the corner of where Harry lived. I held my mug of hot chocolate tightly and listened eagerly to the stories Anne had to tell, all of them involving a much younger version of Harry. Anne waved her hands in the air, mimicking Harry’s desperate attempt of rollerblading and I laughed out loud.

“He sounds like he was an incredibly clumsy child,” I giggled.

“Oh he was,” Anne smiled with a nod, “Still is, really. You’ve seen how he used to stumble around on stage. Even broke his foot once, the silly boy.”

“Oh right, I forgot about that!”

Anne chuckled and kindly offered me some of her cookie, which I happily accepted.

“So,” she began, handing me a piece of her desert, “I’m sure there’s a other reason behind you summoning me, other then hearing stories you can mock my son with later.”

I laughed gently and nodded. “Though, I could listed to those stories all day, I did call because I have a problem I was hoping you could help me with.”

A small frown took over Anne’s kind features and she set down her cup. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing too serious,” I quickly assured, not wanting her to worry, “It’s going to sound silly to you, I’m sure. But I just can’t come up with a good idea for a gift for Harry.”

My eyes met hers and I sensed that she was about to ask if I was kidding, because of course it sounded stupid to anyone else, and so I carried on quickly.

“His birthday, is coming closer and closer and I can’t figure out what to get him! That man has everything and if he doesn’t, then he buys it the next day. And even when I finally find something he hasn’t seen before but would love, it costs so much more than what I have! It’s so frustrating ‘cause all I want is to make him happy and surprise him with something nice but I can’t even get him something as simple as clothing! He came around with a cardigan just yesterday that cost £5000! I don’t even own anything that expensive! That piece of clothing he loves, is worth two months of my rent.”

Anne bit her lower lip, her expression serious again and I sighed. I felt so whiny and like an uncreative child, but I really was at my wit’s end.

“It’s the first birthday I get to spend with him and I’m going to fail him completely.”

My eyes lowered to my mug and I tapped the porcelain lightly, feeling defeated.

“Sweetheart,” Anne said kindly, “Harry will love whatever it is you get him. He adores you.”

A small smiled tugged at my lips and I blushed at her words. “I don’t want him to like it simply 'cause it’s from me, though.”

I raised the cup of chocolate to my lips and took a sip, then decided to just come clean with my greatest worry.

“The women he’s been with before me,” I began quietly, avoiding Anne’s patient gaze, “were rich enough to get him the world. What if he realizes that I’m just not… I don’t know. Suitable for his standards?”

The worry sounded stupid when it’d come to my mind the first time, but it’d stayed. Kendall Jenner, the last girl Harry had been involved with before me, was probably just as, if not even richer than he was himself. Same counted for Taylor Swift. They could go wherever he wanted to go, dress just as expensively and rent entire venues for him to host his party. Me? I had to scrap anything I had together every single month so I could afford my tiny apartment in London. Harry of course was aware that I couldn’t afford the same lifestyle as he had, but sometimes, especially when he came around with a £5000 cardigan, I wondered if he was aware how much money he actually had compared to what ordinary people earned.
When I dared looking at Anne again, she surprised me by wearing a bright smile. Both of her hands reached over the table and she took hold of my own, squeezing my fingers in a comforting gesture.

“Him thinking you aren’t suitable for him is absolutely and a hundred percent impossible, Y/N. Believe me.”

“You think so?” I asked timidly.

She nodded, still smiling confidently.

“The women Harry was with in the past,” she shook her head, pausing for a moment, then she continued, “were lovely, sure. But they never stayed around long. They never mattered to him as much as you do. He never brought one home, only introduced them casually over a dinner or sometimes not at all. Trust me, sweetheart, you are the first one he’s let get close to his heart and I can see it every day. You might not notice it because you’ve never seen him without it, but since you’re in his life, there’s an extra sparkle in his eyes and his smile is just a tiny little bit wider. He told me he’s been getting more sleep and that he even learned how to cook. That’s your influence on him, I know that. You’re taking care of him and that means the world. So trust me on this, you give him enough of what he couldn’t get himself every day. No birthday present could ever make you a failure to him.”

“Oh, Anne,” I almost squealed, blinking away the tears forming in my eyes. I squeezed her fingers in return and sniffled, trying to calm my rapidly beating heart.

She squeezed my hands once more and just like her son, her comforting aura was enough to ease me.

“And besides,” she continued in a giggle, “if he thinks I’m getting him anything even remotely close to £5000, he’s gone mad.”

H’s Birthday:

My lips lingered on the warm skin of Harry’s cheek and I giggled when I felt his smile beneath my lips. Harry’s hand found mine on his knee and he interlocked our fingers, humming quietly in appreciation. I could hear Gemma snicker at our interaction and I pressed another kiss to his jaw, then I withdrew. Harry’s eyes found mine and I could read his surprise in them. Normally I wasn’t as touchy feely with him when his family was around, but today I couldn’t help myself. My Harry was officially 23 years old. I couldn’t believe it.
We were sat on the couch in Harry’s living room, Gemma, Anne, Robing, Harry and me. There was cake and coffee on the small table along with the presents we’d bought for him. So far, the day had gone neatly and after the chat I had had with Anne, I felt confident about my choice of present, too.
Harry seemed so happy, relaxed and like he was enjoying himself. Just like I had intended to do, I’d been showering him with love all day long, waking him up with kisses and embracing him every few minutes. For breakfast I’d made him pancakes, bacon and eggs, making sure that the only healthy thing he got was a smoothie. And the sex well, had been mind-blowing.  
I squeezed Harry’s fingers tightly and blushed when he pressed his lips to my own cheek for a moment, as he wasn’t too much into PDA himself either, then he turned to engage in the conversation his family was leading.

“Harry,” Robing began, “I know you’re not a kid anymore, but do you want me to initiate that it’s time for you to get your presents?”

“That would be great,” Harry laughed, letting his arm rest around my waist in a loose hold.

I smiled at him lovingly and felt my stomach flutter when Harry pulled me even closer into his side, sharing his warmth with me. How did he always smell so good?
The first present he opened was Gemma’s. He let go of me and got up to hug her in thanks and joked about how it was the exact same thing he’d been thinking of getting her only weeks ago and she giggled, muttering a “liar” under her breath. Next came Anne and Robin’s present, then came mine. My fingers itched and I swallowed. Though I wasn’t worried about Harry not liking my present, I was very eager to see the excited expression on his face.

“S'big,” Harry said, giving me an impressed glance when he picked up the box I’d wrapped neatly with blue wrapping paper.

He carefully began to pull at it with care as if the paper wasn’t actually meant to be ripped apart and I giggled, resting one of my hands on his shoulder to squeeze it. He was so adorable.
Once finished, he began to tap the cartoon box as if expecting a noise and I giggled at his comedic and silly behavior. Anne shook her head at him but the smile plastered on her face was a big enough sign that she was just as delighted to be here with her son as I was. With careful fingers Harry continued to open the box and my heart squeezed when he smiled instantly.
Since I hadn’t been able to decide on one present for him, I’d gotten him several.
The first item Harry revealed was a bottle of massage oil, his favorite with the soft smell of almond mixed with vanilla. I’d remembered the many evenings where I’d found him on his couch, face a grimace of pain and exhaustion where he claimed nothing could ease and soothe him better than my fingers massaging his tense muscles. Though I was tired on most night when I came home after a long day, I’d always given in. Seeing Harry unhappy was enough of a persuasion to make me help him.

“For when your back is acting up again,” I murmured quietly, allowing my hand to run down Harry’s back in a soothing gesture, “Won’t even complain about it, I promise.”

He chuckled and nodded, setting the bottle to the side before sticking his hand back into the box in search for the next item I’d gotten him.

“Oh I wanted to get that one myself!” Gemma exclaimed when Harry held up the navy blue nail polish.

“Do you think I can pull this color off?” Harry asked me, a smile on his face. “S'a bit flashy, don’t you think?”

“It’s blue, Harry,” I laughed, “Pink would be flashy. And of course you and pull this off. There’s nothing you couldn’t, really.”

The next and last item Harry pulled out of the box was a small journal, similar to the one he already owned.

“I saw yours is almost full,” I explained when Harry smiled at the new journal.

It had the same leather cover as his other one did and since he’d decorated it with small stickers and words, I’d allowed myself to leave my own small message to him. A tiny inscription saying you’re my favorite right at the bottom of the right corner. I’d scraped it into the leather, making it a permanent decoration so he’d have something to remind him of me when we were forced to be apart.

Harry actually blushed when his thumb stroke over the words and he momentarily leaned into my side. My heart hammered in my chest.

“Open it,” I whispered quietly.

He glanced at me briefly, then he opened it slowly. At first he didn’t see it, but once he turned some of the pages he noticed that some of them were already used. And once he began to read what I’d written, he teared up. The grin on his face grew, revealing his loveably dimples and his widened.

“Y/N,” Harry sighed and shook his head.

His fingers kept on running over the paper and he swallowed visibly. He looked as if he found it difficult to believe what his eyes were reading and one of his hands found mine.

“What?” Anne asked, leaning up so she could catch a peek as well.

“They’re just some notes about us,” I explained.

But they weren’t really, not just some notes. I’d filled the pages with small texts and short sentences, all of them about Harry and me. They were tiny stories about us, remembering our first kiss, the one we’d shared standing on Jack’s balcony while all of our friends were celebrating and partying indoors. The second paragraph I wrote about how I’d felt when I’d first met Harry, how excited I’d been and how I hadn’t stopped thinking of him since then. I even admitted that I’d fallen a tiny bit in love with him already.
Harry’s eyes were still teary when he read a few more pages, then he closed the book.

“I love it.”

The words were whispered to the journal, his head held low. His hands clenched around the item and he sniffled noisily. My fingers squeezed his hand and I pressed another kiss to his arm. This was better than having wearing a wide grin. The present, one that I’d gotten him for a reasonable price, had actually made him speechless.

“I’m glad, Harry,” I giggled.

Hope you enjoyed it! Thank you to every single one of you who takes the time to read my one shots! I’m so excited and happy about every note I get. 

Rest of what I wrote: 

http://harryimaginedstories.tumblr.com/post/144920695218/masterlist

Why Taylor Swift Is The Greatest Living Songwriter (Under 60) Taylor

I recently found myself at a BMI Awards dinner where the song publishing rights organization was handing out some career achievement awards, the first of which went to the classic ‘60s team of Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil. And then they gave one to Taylor Swift, in one of those cases where they have to name the award to the person it’s being given to because it feels a little too uncomfortable to give the standard “lifetime” award to someone in her 20s. In her speech, Swift gave props to her elders: “I first wanted to say to Cynthia Weil, to Barry Mann, and to Carole King, you, the Brill Building, your legacy, are the reason we do what we do. Many of us in this room can’t dream of accomplishing what you guys have accomplished.”

Except she already has. And (heresy alert!) more. Swift is a rightful heir to the Brill Building tradition, with all the mastery of pop craftsmanship that entails, but she’s also the finest contemporary inheritor we have to the confessional singer/songwriter throne. She’s Barry Mann and Bruce Springsteen, together in one silver metallic mini dress-wearing package. That’s why I say Taylor Swift is our greatest living songwriter—under-60 division, just to be safe. But I digress.

I am glad I’m alive in the prime era of Taylor Swift the same way I felt glad to be alive in the half-century of Dylan and Springsteen and The Beatles and Costello. I’ve leaned forward into my first listens to 1989 and Red the same way I thirsted for the on-sale moments of The River and Nebraska and Imperial Bedroom and Time Out of Mind. These are the moments — all too infrequent in the 2010s, if you’re a recovering rock snob — that you live for as a music fan and especially singer/songwriter aficionado: the opening of a magazine you subscribe to, in which the editor-publisher has promised to bleed onto every page in some fashion. You look forward to admiring the craft and you want to know that you’ve been handed the next six months’ or year’s worth of earworms all at once. But most of all you want to feel you’re about to make that passionate connection with a deep-feeler who knows you better than your own best excuse for a best friend.

Where Swift is most like the great confessional rock writers, and least like the Brill Building set, is in her propensity to fill her songs with seemingly stray details. If you’re writing by the books, you learn early on not to include random asides that throw listeners out of the commonality of the lyric. But Springsteen, Dylan, Costello, et al. have faith that, whatever is lost in relatability by including something specifically autobiographical is a gain for fans who know that that weird minutiae confirms the rest of the emotions as authentic. When Swift interrupts Out of the Woods to mention “Twenty stitches in a hospital room/Remember when you hit the brakes too soon,” that’s about as un-Brill as Bruce talking about Crazy Janey and Greaser Lake. But the specificity of the bridge makes the universality of chorus more meaningful, even if the unstable relationship you’re being reminded of by the song didn’t involve a visit to the ER. It may seem peculiar to the 21st century that we can confirm who the significant others in Swift’s songs are by picking out lyrical details about eye colors or fire signs or scarves and checking them against her exes. But is finding out whether All Too Well was about Jake or Harry that terribly different than the thrill of figuring out whether Dylan’s It Ain’t Me, Babe was about Suzi or Joan, but with Google taking the place of waiting years for a biography?

The position that Swift is Actually Quite Awesome is not nearly as controversial among the older white guy set than it would have been a few years ago. You only get a B for courage now, not the former A, if you speak up at a cocktail party and say, “No, I don’t mean it’s good for what it is, or she’s a positive role model for my daughter or a gateway drug to Courtney Barnett, I mean she is truly the shit.” (Crickets may still ensue, mind you, if no longer outright shaming.) You can attribute this in part to Ryan Adams, whose album-length cover version of '1989’ did a fairly excellent job of indie-splaining Swift to people who only needed to hear that her songs could be rearranged in the styles of The Smiths and Elliott Smith to sign off on her. As much as I enjoy Adams’ '1989’, it falls just a little short as reinvention, or revelation: You kind of sense him wanting to get credit for being the first to discover that Swift’s frothiest sounding songs all have minor chords and melancholy under the Max Martin-ization. The real problem with Adams’ interpretations—which is not a fatal problem, given how good Wildest Dreams sounds as an R.E.M. song—is that he doesn’t really have that much use for the words, given how uninterested he is in emphasizing particular words or phrases and how he throws away some of the best lines. (To be fair, this is pretty much Adams’ approach toward his own lyrics, too.) Not that with Swift the lyrics are everything, when she has such a gift for melodic delights and surprises… but, yeah, the words are kind of everything.

Going back to Swift’s 2006 self-titled debut now, it sounds a little primitive, in retrospect. Which is fine: “primitivist” is exactly what you’d expect or hope for from a girl who released at 16 an album of songs she’d mostly written at 14 and 15. No one should sound 30 as a teenager, unless she’s Fiona Apple. (Hearing Apple’s eloquent teen jadedness when she was a freshman artist felt as impressive and spooky as Captain Howdy’s voice coming out of Regan MacNeil’s mouth.) At the time, it was a widely held assumption that co-writer Liz Rose was the brains of the operation. But you couldn’t help but notice that the best song on the album, Our Song, was a solo Swift composition, penned before she had access to the best song editors Music Row could offer. It sounded utterly conversational , establishing Swift’s knack for writing in complete sentences in a way that sounds completely diaristic and completely musical. It embraced both metaphor (“Our song is the slamming screen door”) and the meta (being one of those songs that is self-conscious about how it is, in fact, a song). It was winsome, guileless, and juvenile—in the best way—on top of being freakily expert for a song written by an underclassman for a school talent show.


Two years later (Swift’s follow-up albums have always been two years later, up until now), she came up with Fearless, which was so much more accomplished that it won her the Grammy for Album of Year, the first time that’d been accomplished by a record made by a teenager. But looking back at it now, you can see it was the only time she ever really marked time, stylistically, as a record-maker. The breakthrough that mattered was 2010’s Speak Now, which was her first real “pop album” (at least for those of us who pay attention to content and not the officially mandated tropes that insisted that honor belongs to '1989’). Just this once, she wrote the entire album by herself, in a rather deliberate F-you to everyone who figured she’d been propped up by Nashville pros. Similar auteurist turns by pop and country artists with points to prove have not always gone so spectacularly but Swift used the opportunity not just to defend but to diversify, as great writers and investors will. This DIY show of tour-de-force ran the gauntlet of effervescent girl-group pop (the title song), Evanescence goth-rock (Haunted), cheerful neo-bluegrass (Mean), girl-on-mean-girl pop-punk (Better Than Revenge), and even a token transitional single in the country-folk style of the first two albums (Mine).

'1989’ is the masterpiece of her career so far
'Speak Now’ also incidentally included the most searing, stark, boldly confessional song by a major artist since John Lennon’s Cold Turkey. (Hyperbole intended.) This was Dear John, a slow, epic-length missive to a love-'em-young-and-leave-'em type that was jaw-dropping in its vulnerability and rage. Never mind the lucky stroke that apparently had the rock star who used and discarded Swift being a guy really named John; Swift does like her literalism, so she probably wouldn’t written a public dear-John letter to a Tom, Dick, or (even) Harry. It’s a ballad that creates the illusion of the artist having vomited onto the page—for those of us who like that sort of thing—but actually belies a severe level of craft beneath the bile. The song rises to an emotional victory, as Swift goes from paying witness to “all the girls that you’ve run dry (that) have tired, lifeless eyes 'cause you’ve burned them out” to being the one who “took your matches before fire could catch me, so don’t look now: I’m shining like fireworks over your sad, empty town.” Compare this to the other great fireworks song of 2010, Katy Perry’s, and there is simply no pyromaniacal contest.


With 'Red’ another couple of years later, she bid a fond F-you to her own previous F-you and reintroduced co-writers to her stable, now adding Max Martin and Shellback as collaborators on a choice trio of songs, as if to say: I dare you to knock this block off. Aside from the handful of tracks with those guys, though, 'Red’ felt more like a classic singer/songwriter album than anything she’d done before or certainly since. It was all about lost love, and hardly for the first time, but now Swift was jettisoning her “better than revenge” approach to achieving payback in song and taking equal responsibility for relational failures, and it was all very sensitive and self-examining and enlightened. So when I got my first listen to the determinedly frothier '1989’ a couple of years still later, I lamented the loss of the previous album’s hard-fought breakthroughs in songwriting maturity.

Lamented it for about two minutes, that is. '1989’ is the masterpiece of her career, so far, and that’s not withstanding the thick gloss of candy coating that covered the whole endeavor now that Martin was fully on board as guiding executive producer as well as hands-on guy on about half the tracks. The meme favored by some critics, that Swift had sold out on us with all this interference by the reigning kings of the pop machinery—and after all we’d done to defend her as an artiste!—was misguided even by the usual standards of stick-up-one’s-ass bias and entitlement. It may seem counter-intuitive, for those of us who usually live and die by singer/songwriter yardsticks, to say that '1989’ is Swift’s most mature album, when there is barely a guitar anywhere in earshot for the singer’s tears to fall upon. But as it turns out, it is possible to talk intelligently, walk in rhythm, and chew bubblegum at the same time.

Yes, '1989’ is a less outrightly emotional album than any of its predecessors. Swift herself has said it’s the first time she wasn’t writing in the wake of a heartache. And that’s part of what makes the album so seasoned and smart. If all the previous albums were her “breakup album,” '1989’ is her maybe-we-are-ever-getting-back-together album. It’s about being just a little bit rueful about past relationships—in a less world-ending, drama queen-y fashion than the take-no-prisoners approach that admittedly made a lot of us fall for her in the first place – and largely about that impulse to reconnect, even as you sit by the phone and consider what a terrible idea that would be. She’s thinking back on a breakup that wasn’t that traumatic (possibly one with Harry Styles, if we’re to take the cheeky title of Style literally), and considering every negative and possible angle to rekindling an old flame. As a result, a lot of the songs on '1989’ are about mixed emotions, which are by and large the hardest kind to write.

She understands more brilliantly the power of dynamics — that even the most grandiose song can benefit by suddenly getting completely naked for 40 seconds.

And here is where we quote another great pop writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald, who famously said: “The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.” Swift is showing us that first-rate intelligence when she encapsulates the divisions we all experience as we find the good and bad in people, lovers and otherwise: “You always knew how to push my buttons/You give me everything and nothing.” “Ten months sober, I must admit/Just because you’re clean don’t mean you don’t miss it.” “This love is good, this love is bad/This love is alive, back from the dead.” As the CEO of her own corporation, Swift has had a lot of time to think about risk/reward ratios. Grappling with that in matters of love is part of her giftedness and increasing talent as a writer.

I think again of the congratulations Ryan Adams got for bringing out the sadder emotional undercurrents in '1989’’s material. He deserves some of it, but it’s not as if Swift didn’t make that a fairly easy discovery. Bad Blood is the most blatantly confectionary song on '1989,’ with a sing-song-y quality of the chorus makes you think Avril Lavigne, if you’re making comparisons. But would Avril, or any other pop star you can bring to mind, have interrupted the beats and chants for a lengthy, virtually a cappella bridge that brings the mood down with its warnings about bullet holes and living with ghosts? It’s akin to the hyper-produced song on her previous album, I Knew You Were Trouble, where Swift puts an end to all the dubstep to very quietly wonder, almost sotto voce, whether the object of her affections ever loved her, the other girl, “or anyone.” In the big beat era, she understands more brilliantly the power of dynamics—that even the most grandiose song can benefit by suddenly getting completely naked for 40 seconds.

Blank Space, meanwhile, shows Swift to have under-heralded skills as maybe the greatest comedy writer since Eminem. As probably everyone who wasn’t completely divorced from pop culture in 2015 knows, Swift wrote it as a sort of spoof of her own image as a serial romancer (which is to say, a girl known for dating about half as many partners as a typical guy her age). When she says she’s got a blank space “and I’ll write your name,” it’s understood that she means she’ll write an excoriating song about the dude later on—she’s in on that joke. But amid the nearly Randy Newman-esque humor and exaggeration, there’s a real undercurrent of pain and possible self-knowledge. The time limits that come up in lines like “I can make the bad guys good for a weekend” and “Find out what you want/Be that girl for a month” don’t sound like they’re being played strictly for ironic laughs.

She is maybe the greatest comedy writer since Eminem.

Is she a spokeswoman for a generation? You might be on thin ice using that kind of phraseology for someone who spends so little time writing outside of the relational realm. But Swift does have an understanding of impermanence that seems uniquely millennial. She’s talked about how she looks at the length of her parents’ marriage and no longer takes it as a given she’ll find a lifetime partnership, which would probably come as a surprise to the younger Swift who wrote Love Story. But she finds a haunting beauty in what we might call planned obsolescence. “Wildest Dreams” pulls off the particularly tricky time-traveling feat of looking ahead to a future in which you’re looking back to the past… and of being intensely sexy and rueful at the same time. “You’ll see me in hindsight, tangled up with you all night, burning it down,” she sings. “Someday when you leave me, I bet these memories follow you around.” That moment when you’re in the heat of passion, leaving your body just long enough to realize you’ll be nostalgic for it someday? If you’ve ever experienced it, you probably never thought somebody would nail it in a song.

Not that you have to be a millennial to be capable of considering how things are likely to end even in the midst of everything going right. I was trying to remember what song the future-nostalgia of “Wildest Dreams” reminded me of, in some weird, roundabout way, and then it came to me: Dylan’s You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go. It’s maybe heretical to compare the bard with this girl from the north country, but not so heretical to say: Great minds wistfully think alike. And we should all feel a little lonely if either of them ditched us.

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JoAnn Fabrics Money-Saving Tip!

Many of you are doubtless already aware of this, but I’ve noticed that not every JoAnn store has these on obvious display, so in case you haven’t seen them…

JoAnn sells project calendars that have a monthly coupon for some amount of money off a purchase. These calendars usually retail for $10, but now that it’s February, they’re marked down to $2.49!

A couple days ago I was buying close to $70 worth of fabric for my ACEN costume, and I saw that the February coupon was for $30 off a $75 purchase. I added two spools of thread to bring the order up to $75, bought a calendar for $2.49, then turned around and used the $30 coupon on the fabric and thread. I saved around $27 after the cost of the calendar, and I still have ten months’ worth of coupons to use.

The best part: Unlike the regular 40% off coupons, the calendar discounts work on regular and sale-priced items!

Look for these calendars near the cutting counter and the store checkout, or ask an employee if you don’t see them. If you’re making a big purchase, they can really save you a lot of money!