#ASHE SLOW JAM PLAYLIST

[blueywrites]

new skin

The diner’s signature dish: Fresh-baked soft pretzel knots with sweet Georgia peach jam, topped with bitter trauma. Recipe includes a dash of pining, a sprinkle of faith, and a generous heap of healing love.

Linecook!Eddie x Waitress!Reader. 60s Diner. Slow Burn.

Follows canon, except Eddie lives, and Vecna is defeated after causing the 'earthquake'. This is written in second person 'x reader' format, but you've been given a name. The name and nicknames that appear throughout the story are listed below; use the InteractiveFics extension to replace them if you'd like!

full name: emmaline louise. nicknames: emma, emmy

series content warnings -> eventual sexual content (18+), fem!reader, plussized!reader, fatphobia, domestic violence, domestic abuse, miscarriage/pregnancy, discussions of suicidal ideation, significant religious themes, found family, hurt/comfort, slow burn, angst with a happy ending

chapter content warnings -> 18+ for mature themes. mentions of blood, numerous Christian religious references, disordered eating habits, anxiety, references to emotional abuse and manipulation, body image issues, internalized fatphobia

one: an empty room (10.3k) | next | masterlist | playlist | AO3

You surrounded me

and my windows are breaking

Something is rotten inside of me

I have to find it and

cut it out

House Song — Searows

It was a mortal man who drove you away but divine providence that guided you to Hawkins.

You’d been dropping off the key to your motel room when you saw it: a cockeyed paper pamphlet in the dusty wooden holder mounted beneath the counter. Stuffed beside “Indiana Caverns” and “The World’s Largest Ball of Paint,” it advertised a place where fissures had unfurled like the spindly legs of a spider, all radiating out from the center square. ‘Visit the town that hosts the gates of Hell,’ it read. You knew the town couldn’t really host the gate of Hell because Hell is a lake of fire and not a crack in the earth, though even the thought made a chill of foreboding shudder through you. Still, as you gazed at the name written in big red letters across the faded paper, you rolled it around in your mouth, seeing how it felt against your molars and exploring the way it tasted on your tongue.

Hawkins.

You’d expected bitterness. Ash and fire and brimstone, if the leaflet was to be believed. Instead, Hawkins tasted of pine, of sweet corn, and drugstore laundry powder. And that was odd, certainly. But maybe odd was what you needed— something wholly unfamiliar, nerve-wracking in its foreignness but peaceful in the knowledge that, if nothing else, you know he would never expect you to escape to somewhere like this. 

You’d been cutting a path from your home in Georgia due north, aimless and wandering, restless like a frightened prey animal consumed with nothing but thoughts of flee, flee, flee. The instinct had brought you from parking lot to roadside fuel-pump to motel six day after day, bouncing as the stacks in the cashbox wedged beneath the passenger seat began to dwindle. A pawn shop helped resupply your reserves, and your ring finger was lighter for it, but the running is beginning to wear on you. And there's just something about the taste of Hawkins lingering in your mouth, yeasty like wheat and clean in a way you haven’t felt since the day after Christmas when the bleeding began.

Your fingertips twitch before you snatch up the folded paper from the holder, spilling out into the gray of early morning. You cut a path back to the crack of warm light leaking from your room, where you’d wedged a stone against the metal edge of the door to prop it open. You slip inside one last time before you depart. 

There isn’t much to gather. Inside, there's just a musty floral bedspread and a side table with a bolted-down lamp. You flick the switch, leaving the room cold and dark in preparation for your departure. Your few personal belongings are already packed away in the car waiting outside, and it’s with a sense of familiar shame twanging at your heartstrings that you duck back into the tiny tiled room nestled in the corner of the bedroom. The pamphlet crinkles as you fold it and slip it into your coat pocket, freeing your hands to do what they will. 

This place is just one in a long line of stark rooms, transient nests that shelter you briefly as you flee. It's what made you think you were aimless and wandering, but you weren’t. Not really. 

During your flight from Georgia, you’d stopped in Lexington, Kentucky. And when you drove on, you could have, just as easily, chosen to go northeast, toward Columbus, perhaps curving over toward western Pennsylvania. But you decided to go northwest instead, dipping into the southern edge of Indiana, avoiding Cincinnati and its choked smog until you nestled into fields and farms again. It was divine providence that guided you that way, that bid you stop at this motel for the night, that helps you now discern the notes of flavor you hadn’t noticed back in the office as the leaflet crinkles in your coat pocket. Because beneath the unfamiliar— pine and corn and laundry powder— there is the familiar musk of fresh hay, mown on a sweet summer morning by your pa as soft whinnies huff from the stable. It warms you, though the January wind cuts through to the bone as you scurry back out of the motel room and let the door thump closed behind you. Your eyes dart for lookers-on, though the sting of self-consciousness isn’t quite as acute now as the first few times you’d waddled to the pastel blue Lincoln and fumbled the back door open with laden hands.

When you found that pamphlet and chose Hawkins, Indiana, as your final nesting place, God was calling you home. You will know that in the end, but you don’t know it now. Now, you’re just a scared girl carrying toilet paper, satchets of soap, and tiny bottles of mouthwash in your fists, pilfered from yet another temporary room. They tumble to join the pile of stolen treasures in the backseat, right beside the pillow from Tennessee and the scratchy blanket from Kentucky.

You've known since you were small that you aren’t a lamb— only Jesus is the lamb. Still, you'd hoped you are a sheep, pure and white, close to Him. Yet it turns out you’ve been wrong all this time. It turns out you're just a dirty, thieving crow, poking your beak in the dirt to search for shiny things to sustain you. As you stare at the pile of your baubles, the shame tugs again at your heartstrings, clawing up to settle heavily in the base of your throat. Thick like the beginnings of tears.  

You slam the back door and climb into the driver’s seat, sitting motionlessly for a long moment as you speak with your Father. You've always talked to God as long as you can remember but never had your prayers been so consistent as they've been this past week. First the waiting. Then the bleeding. Then the forsaking. Then the stealing. In all, you ask the same.

Please, Father. Forgive me.

 You pull the leaflet from your coat pocket, unfolding it carefully, avoiding the inflammatory language about gates and fissures as you search until you spot the tiny map and the star in its center that demarks the location of Hawkins. The instructions say that, from the south, you should take route four-thirty-one to route three north. 

Your aimless crawling has suddenly gained a clear direction; with it, your prayers shift for the moment. A hymn comes to mind, and you close your eyes as its melody plays in your head: Lead me, guide me, along the way. For if you leave me, I will not stray. Lord, let me walk each day with thee.

“Lead me,” you sing, a breath of a whisper as your eyes open. “Oh Lord, lead me.”

Beside your Lincoln, a businessman is loading his trunk into the passenger seat of his station wagon.

You crank down your window hastily, resting your fingers against the doorframe as you peek out without making a sound; working yourself up to speak with this strange man takes some effort. He has just closed the door and is about to cross around the front bumper when your voice finally comes, timorous but sweet as Georgia peaches. “Excuse me, sir,” you say, brows tipping as he turns to you. “Do you happen to know the way to route four-thirty-one from here?”

The cloud cover never wanes as you meander along the highways that lead to Hawkins. Even as the hour deepens to late afternoon, there is no glow of warmth from the sun; only cold bright grayness follows you as your gas gauge edges toward a quarter-tank, and you pull off to find a gas station and something to fill your aching stomach. You shade your eyes as you stand beside the pump and squint across the street, gaze catching on a familiar mascot: a swirl of hair like a dollop of black whipped cream and the red suspenders of Frisch’s Big Boy. The sight promises cheap food which will almost certainly be filling enough for your single midday meal.

The place isn’t overwhelmingly busy inside, but you still need to wait by the empty hostess stand before you’re taken to your seat. Against the long smudged window, shiny stickers and little childish baubles crowd the twenty-five cent machines, but your interest lies in the considerably more drab newspaper dispenser beside those colorful globes. You aren’t quite at your destination yet, but you’re close enough that local ads will likely provide you with a taste of your chosen home before you reach it. You purchase one quickly, wedging the newspaper under your arm and jumping almost guiltily when the hostess returns and finally chirps a greeting at you. You feel as if you’ve done something wrong as you trail after her, though as she hands you a menu and leaves you with a pleasant smile, she implies nothing of the sort.

You don’t spend long perusing the menu before you make up your mind. You order with a soft voice as the waitress scratches across her pad, promising to bring your orange juice and coffee in a jiffy. “Thank y’ma’am,” you say, small with your hands folded one over the other in your lap. 

You wait eagerly, stomach rumbling in earnest now that it knows your meal is well on the way. If you had to choose one type of food to eat for the rest of your life, breakfast would surely be it. A smile plays on your lips, and your mouth wells up with wanting as you picture it: crispy fried potatoes, eggs any which way, fluffy sweet milk waffles, cream of wheat with maple syrup and cinnamon. That one’s mama’s favorite. Pa’s is country fried steak, with a crunchy crust but tender and pink inside. Paul’s is—

You hedge from the thought, skipping quickly along to yours: dense, crumbly biscuits and thick, well-seasoned gravy, with little savory bits of sausage mixed in. They hadn’t had that here, so you ordered the pancakes and sausage links with a side of over-easy eggs, plus the coffee and orange juice. You’d gotten into the habit of eating once a day, mostly because it was easier to eat one big meal than try to stop for several smaller ones. That means that, as you sit there waiting, the scents of the kitchen and the clinking of silverware quickly become a dizzying reminder of your hunger, one that necessitates a distraction. So you spread the newspaper out against the table, turning each page slowly as you scan for the town that tastes of fresh laundry and hay.

You spot it once you reach the classifieds. It’s in an ad blazoned with one bold word across the top: vacancy. Forest Hills Trailer Park, the paper reads. Ready-to-move-in trailers, spacious for singles and small families. Just a five-minute drive from downtown Hawkins. In tiny font, tiny enough that you need to scrunch your nose and draw your face close to the paper to read it, the ad remarks, No background check or references required. First month’s rent plus deposit due at lease signing.

Forest Hills Trailer Park will clearly be a far cry from what you’ve left behind, but it checks all the necessary boxes, especially the most important ones.

You fold the newspaper, creasing it carefully with your fingernails before tearing bit by bit along that manufactured edge until the advertisement comes free. You’ve just carefully deposited the clipping into your pocket as the food comes, steaming and succulent, making your mouth instantly water. 

“How’s it look?” Your waitress asks as if you aren’t itching to pounce on the plate the second she goes away, devouring your sustenance like a starved animal.

“Looks great,” you assure her, tiny and sweet and small and docile. “Thank you so much.”

But even once she leaves you to it, your manners forbid you from such a thing. You keep your elbows off the table and cut the pancakes with little even saws of your knife, spearing each square daintily with your fork before raising it to your lips. You eat your meal as if everyone around you is watching, even though no one is.

When your waitress returns with a refill for your coffee, you ask her for directions to Hawkins. For the first time, her eyes rove over you, taking in the winter coat you haven’t removed and the glinting silver cross at the base of your throat that peeks above the collar of your starchy dress. She squints at you and asks, “What, ya visitin’ family?”

When you don’t reply, she gestures with the coffee pot. “Take thirty-five west and keep drivin’ ‘til you reach the barn with the cow out front. Then turn left there. Y’can’t miss it.”

The ‘cow out front’ turns out to be a cow statue, bigger than any real cow you’ve ever seen and certainly not one you could miss, as she said. You slow and turn left, finally abandoning the highway for a scenic road lined with pine trees that stand like silent sentinels as you carefully guide your vehicle along the road to… 

Home.

Your new home.

Now that it feels so imminent— this decision you’ve made to build your nest at the feet of the supposed ‘gate of hell’— doubt begins to creep in, freezing at the edges of your ribs and creeping toward your center. You’ve driven more than twelve hours from your origin-place, and America is vast— so vast— with more motels than stars you can count across the expanse of the sky on a clear summer’s night. 

And you’ve set your mind on this place because you saw it in a pamphlet? 

Your fingers tremble as you pass tree after tree, branch after branch, leaf after leaf, a sea of unending forest stretching to enclose you and the road you follow. Might as well’ve spun myself around at the treeline, pointed a finger, and started walking, you think to yourself, the leather of the wheel creaking under your wringing hands. It is one thing to run aimlessly; it is quite another to plop yourself down the same way.

'Trust in the LORD with all your heart; and lean not unto your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct your paths.'

“Proverbs,” you whisper, your trembling beginning to subside with each exhaled word that passes through your lips. “Chapter three, verses five and six.” The fingers of one hand unpeel from the steering wheel to clasp instead around the silver at your throat. And by the time your fingers have warmed the metal, your doubt has calmed, and a sign on the right interrupts the treeline, declaring you’ve arrived. 

Hawkins, Indiana. The forest gives way to typical small-town life, though the evidence of what occurred here almost three years ago is still evident in the divots of scarred earth now frosted over with ice, like sharp gauze packing a wound. Some buildings are in permanent disrepair— collapsed, crumbled, roofs caved in, wood and brick sinking into the earth like sinew and bone, partially covered over by hairy weeds that expose the steady march of time. But as you drive slowly toward the center of town, where is rebuilt is teeming with small-town life, not unlike the place you’ve come from. As the sun begins to wane, warm lights slowly blink on inside cozy split-levels and ranches to take its place. Wives welcome husbands home from work before sitting down for supper; children are called in from the streets as mothers stand in breezeways, dropping bikes to be left abandoned in the frosty grass until tomorrow. Despite the present bleak midwinter and the past tragedy that befell them, life goes on for the people of Hawkins, Indiana. That fact conjures a sense of peace as you wander through, searching idly for Kerley— the road that leads to the trailer park. This is the place described as hosting the gate of hell? As you pass bare cornfields and sleepy suburban streets, Hawkins feels so far from it that your earlier fear seems suddenly silly.

You meander the town in your pastel blue Lincoln until you happen upon Kerley Street. By the time you finally reach the turnoff for Forest Hills Trailer Park, the black of night has fallen like a curtain over the vague rectangular structures that crowd beyond the gravel entrance. Your headlights swing and illuminate a slapdash sign that designates the land manager’s residence, and you’re relieved to see a vague glow seeping through the crack below the door and between the curtains, persistent despite the clear attempts to keep it concealed from the outside world. You park the car and hold onto the doorframe as you emerge onto gravel, which you waver over in your low heels until you reach the stairs at the base of the porch. There’s a cracked flowerpot on the bottom step, but instead of the husks of flowers you expect, it’s loaded with cigarette butts, decaying in layers of paper and used nicotine. 

You stare at the door for a moment before announcing yourself. You’re nervous to be confronted with the unfamiliar person beyond; foreboding clenches in your chest, but it can’t be helped. A rap of your knuckles conjures the man who’d tried so valiantly to hide that he was home. His shirt is dirty, his pants sag, and his shave isn’t close to even; he eyes you wearily as you stand on his stoop. “Locked out?” he asks dully, and you flounder a moment before replying, swallowing to wet your throat and hope your voice stays steady. 

“I don’t live here,” you say, “but… I’m lookin’ to. That is, I saw in the paper you had vacancies—” You shove your hand in your coat pocket and pull out the newspaper clipping, passing it over. The man surveys the ad perfunctorily, one bushy brow quirked. The toothpick between his teeth bobs as he plays with it, his eyes sliding to you as you ask hesitantly, “...Do you still have vacancies?” 

His chuckle comes so fast it’s startling. The sound is raspy, like he needs to clear his throat. “‘Course I have vacancies.” He pulls the toothpick from between his lips, flicking it heedlessly away. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

When you shake your head, he jerks his toward the doorway spilling light across the porch. “Come on, then. Let’s get this done.”

You forget his name almost as soon as he tells you, but your land manager seems nice enough. Brusque, sure, but harmless as you sign the papers and pay for the first month’s rent. He waives the deposit— literally waves your words away like irritating wings are fluttering near his ear— and explains, “Place is mostly unfurnished, but you got a bed at least.” 

You can’t do anything but stand there stock still as he tells you your house number— seven— and drops the key into your open palm. “Don’t bother callin’ me f’somethin’ breaks. I’m useless at plumbin’ and ‘lectrical. You’ll need to call someone in the profession.” You curl your fingers over cold metal, and the grooves of the key bite your palm as he wags a finger at you. “Y’lose your key, it’ll cost you a fiver to replace.” He waits until you’ve nodded enough to satisfy him, and then he sends you on your way, closing himself away again. The light leaking from the crevices is extinguished by the time you reach your car door.

You guide your car carefully along the gravel path, driving past darkened trailers, past a red dome made of bars and a picnic table, past a trailer with a caved-in roof you stare at as you pass. A great crack churned up the porch floorboards, and between them now sprout tall, dry, brittle grass made feeble by winter’s bite. There's a streetlight nearby, but it's broken; the moonlight that plays on the dilapidated structure makes you shiver. Still, there isn’t much time to react before you’re at your place. Your trailer is a carbon copy of the well-kept rectangular box beside it, except the other has a chain-link fenced-in yard at the front. A clothesline denotes the edge of your side yard from your neighbors’. 

As you cut the engine, the world goes quiet. You sit in the stillness, and for a moment, there’s just you, your car, and your new home beyond a scraggly dirt yard.

You think of the other places you’d called home before your temporary motel rooms. You think first of your childhood home, and your mouth fills with peaches, with the hollowness of piano keys and the rich dirt from under the wraparound porch. You think of that tall white house, where your delighted shrieks echoed through warm wood hallways as you ran out the back door toward the stables beyond. Your clumsy fingers had carved your name over your bedroom door in elementary scrawl. Pa’d been so angry when you did that, but he relented and ruffled your hair in the end, shaking his head. He always was too fond of you.

Then you think of the home you could call your own— not your parents’, but yours. Yours and Paul’s. Stately, proud, with more of a brick landing than a porch leading up to the dark oak door. Inside are gauzy curtains and rich wallpaper; plump pillows line the couches just so, and the servers display decorative crystal. As you remember, your mouth fills with powdered sugar and water lilies, the gloss of fine china and the silk of ruffled bed skirts. But there’s metal on the back of your tongue, the copper acrid and biting as it overwhelms the rest. You shudder a breath, breaking from your recollections to finally emerge from the car and face your newest home.

In the moonlight, you can see that it also has a porch, but it’s sagging. You mount its stairs, and they’re rickety, creaking under your heels. Inside, when the screen door cracks back into place behind you, the interior of number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park feels like a void of stillness. The light switch flickers erratically before coming to life when you nudge it with your fingertip as if it hasn’t been called to do its job for quite some time. A long narrow hallway directly across from you leads into darkness, with a living room on your right and a kitchen on your left. All of what you can see is empty aside from a thick layer of dust coating the window frames, which are cracked with dried paint, the drips of sloppy workmanship forever preserved in lacquer. There’s mildew growing at the corner of the wall in the living room, and you hesitate to explore it further, opting to head left instead.

At the threshold of the front door, you’d landed on a filthy, matted-down rug. You clack forward with hesitant steps as if afraid to disturb anything, as if this is someone else’s place, not yours. When you edge into the kitchen, cautiously pulling open the refrigerator door, the cold air leaking from inside is reassuring. But when it suddenly kicks and rattles as if sick or angry, the sound makes you tense and jerk away quickly. It’s empty in this room, too— every drawer and cabinet is barren when you tug them open, aside from the dried corpses of flies mounded in a strange pile on the linoleum in front of the kitchen sink. At least the land manager said there’s a bed. Vague unease begins to well in your chest; you hurry down that dark, narrow hallway, flicking the switch as you pass, but nothing changes. The light does not come on. In the back room, the bed is nothing more than the vague lump of a mattress, lonely on the floor. 

The screen door snaps closed behind you as you rush back down the rickety porch stairs. When faced with the choice, you elect to wrap yourself in your scratchy Kentucky blanket, your winter coat, and some extra socks to sleep in the Lincoln despite the bleak midwinter.

Because number seven Forest Hills Trailer Park trips off your tongue; it doesn’t taste like home.

The sun streams cheery light through the windshield, and you wake at just after six, mouth dry as cotton weeds. Your back and neck are sore, cricked from their position against the headrest all night, and the muscles spasm when you stir. You rub your bleary eyes clear, holding your palms against your lashes as if reluctant to remove them and see the state of your new home as it was last night. Eventually, you relent; in the light of day, you peek again at the worn trailer with its gray siding, faded and covered with moss at the concrete base, that rickety porch, and the dull brass knocker concealed behind the screen door… 

You take a moment to consider but can’t decide if it’s any better in the light of day.

With a handful of your stolen toiletries, you venture back inside, and the screen door makes you jump as it snaps closed while you’re standing closeby. Your heart hammers, blood rushing in your ears, and you chastise yourself lightly once it calms. I have to remember to lower the door closed, otherwise people’re gonna get mad with me making such a racket in the morning. 

A quick glance past that closed door you hadn’t explored yesterday reveals that the bathroom is in a bad state, so you avoid it aside from what’s necessary. You brush your teeth at the kitchen sink, setting the toiletries— tiny bottles and sachets of soap— in a carefully-laid line along the side, conscientiously avoiding the pile of flies near the toes of your kitten heels. With minty freshness on your breath, you feel finally awake, and it’s clear what your first order of business should be: getting this place spic and span. No use living in a pigsty, as mama would say.

You take a moment to survey the trailer more carefully, walking in circles around the living room, the kitchen, and the singular bedroom as you peek into nooks and crannies and compile a mental list of the supplies you’ll need. You move gingerly as if you still do not want to disturb this place, though it’s not quite as foreboding as it was last night. 

It’s just an empty box, after all.

You don’t bother unloading the rest of your meager belongings before driving into town for your cleaning supplies and other essentials: bedding and bath towels and cooking utensils and furniture to provide you with somewhere to sit and eat. It hits you then, as the ranches and yards subside into businesses and parking lots, how little you truly have. How much you’d relied on others before, how much you’d taken for granted.

Downtown Hawkins in the daytime is a bustle of quaint activity. The streets aren’t overly crowded because the town is not overly populated, but you can take your time perusing the shops you drive past. And you do— your eyes scan them almost desperately as you try to stamp down on the feeling rising inside that writhes in the pit of your stomach. A video store. An arcade. A laundromat. None of use to you right now, though the laundromat has you thinking of the dress you’re wearing, the way it pinches your arms and pulls tight around your stomach as you drive. You’d managed to ignore the feeling during your flight, but now—gasping and huffing on the comedown as you stop running, and with the enormity of your situation looming before you— the writhing is spreading from your stomach to your chest, pressing outward as if you’ll burst, and the wardrobe you’ve been wearing for months now is finally beginning to suffocate you.

Seeing the thrift store feels like a gust of fresh air has been breathed directly into your lungs, and you don’t even need to ponder it before parking and throwing the car door open to access the backseat. After all, there is no reason to endure any longer; no one is stopping you now. So you dump the contents of your two trash bags onto the Lincoln’s backseat and the remnants of your old life spill over onto the floor. Almost detachedly, you sort the contents into ‘keep’ and ‘sell’ piles; you keep your undergarments and pantyhose and shoes, and you stuff all the dresses— all their linen and gauze and luxurious cotton, all their structured hems and nipped waists and darted busts— into the trash bags to be sold.

If the employee behind the counter is surprised to see the quality of the items you’re selling, more suited to a department than a thrift store, he doesn’t show it. Calmly, you pull out each dress, laying the fabric out carefully before you slide it over the counter towards him. As the garments emerge from your trash bags, their associated occasions flash in your mind. The yellow gingham you’d often wear when visiting family. The pink peony was often seen in your kitchen, protected by an apron covered in flour. The blue linen, one of your old favorites, makes you think of Sunday mass. All get passed to the man on the other side of the counter, all but one that sticks in your memory, left laid against the bedspread back in Georgia. 

The man examines each dress and punches staccato numbers into a calculator with the eraser of his number two pencil until they’re all gone from you, and in their place is a wad of bills you can use to shop for a new wardrobe.

If the employee behind the counter finds it strange that you’ve sold your department store dresses to buy thrift store ones, he doesn’t show it.

Gathering your replacements doesn’t take long because you know exactly what you want. Your new wardrobe should be modest and comfortable, comprised of a practical assortment of casual dresses and cardigans, a couple of nicer frocks for your Sunday best, and some loungewear for the house, including a bathrobe that makes your cheeks burn when it slides across the counter toward that same employee from before. After making your purchases, you carry the plastic bag into the dressing room, slipping behind the velvet curtain and pulling one casual dress out at random.

You rip down the tiny zipper on the starchy dress you've been wearing since yesterday, and the release of pressure is bliss. Though the cotton of your new dress is a little scratchier than what you’d been wearing before, you don’t hesitate in kicking the old fabric aside before gazing at yourself in the mottled thrift store mirror. 

The new dress buttons up past your decolletage. It’s almost long enough to skim your ankles, and it is at least one size too big, maybe two. It looks more fitting for a forty-year-old than your twenty-one years; some might even call it frumpy. But it’s what you want.

Because when you think about the clothes you’d been wearing— think about how, over the last year, your breasts and hips and thighs and stomach had gradually broadened, softened, begun to press uncomfortably against the fabric even after your mother had let out the seams as far as they could go— frumpy doesn’t compare with what you’d experienced.

You remember the sympathy in Paul’s tawny brow as he stared down at you. ‘No, Buttercup, I’m sorry. Think of it as an incentive,’ he’d said kindly when you’d asked for an allowance to purchase bigger clothes. ‘I’m just trying to help you.’ You remember how the ladies in town could see the way the beautifully tailored dresses, once so flattering, now bulged and bunched around the heft of your changing body, especially around your midsection. And you knew, though they were always too polite to say it, that when you gathered with them after church or ran into them at the grocery store, they couldn’t help but glance at your tummy and wonder if you were pregnant. But you weren’t pregnant. You were just…

Fat.

The reflection in the mirror suddenly doesn’t feel like you. That’s not your soft jaw; those aren’t your round cheeks. Your dress wouldn’t balloon so far outward over your breasts and stomach, and your thighs wouldn’t rub together because that isn’t you. But those are your eyes, and your hair, and your lips and fingers. And when you twist to look at your backside, so does she; when you smooth your palms over your ample hips, she does too. So she must be you.

You just wish she wasn’t.

You pull your attention from your body and focus instead on your dress, trying to detach from that knowledge again. The important part is that this dress doesn’t restrict or cling or reveal any unsavory lumps and bumps, and that’s what you want. You pull on some woolen stockings and a loose cardigan since it is still January, and after sliding on your low heels once again, you leave the thrift store behind.

You can run from that dressing room— can slip back into your car, load the new plastic bag into the backseat and coax the engine to life— but you cannot run from your feelings. And seeing yourself in the mirror has left you hollow and wanting, exposing the void inside that begs to be filled in that familiar way, the way you’ve grown used to over the last year. Your kitchen at home may be bare, but from beyond your windshield, you can see what will help you fill it. There’s a bright spot down the road and across the way in the lot beside the general store.

Miss Daisy’s Diner.

As you leave your purchases behind in the car, your eyes glaze over the help wanted sign written in beautiful script in the diner window; you’re more focused on filling that hollow place inside you. And inside Miss Daisy’s Diner is more than enough to satisfy the ache.

There isn’t just the promise of good food waiting for you at Miss Daisy’s. There’s the scent of grease and salt on the air, sure, but there’s something else there too. Something that beckons you forward, light and almost ticklish, like the heat of panting breath, the softness of a furry ear dragging under your chin to the tip until it flicks off. Before you know it, you’ve taken two steps forward, and a waitress in a swish of skirts and a flick of her manicured nails has plucked a single menu from the stand.

“One?” she asks, chipper as you nod. “Booth or table?”

“Table,” you answer, and she leads you to one. 

She leaves you with the menu, but you don’t yet look at it, consumed by the crowded atmosphere around you. The restaurant seems almost suspended in time with its black and white tiled floor, the retro-patterned tabletops, the chrome, the beveled glass windows, the teal and white booths and chairs that squeak with vinyl when you adjust in your seat. The walls are loaded with pictures and posters, memorabilia of the 50s and 60s: Coca-Cola bottles, old cars, Elvis and Marilyn, novelty signs advertising products for cents on the dollar. The effect is charming, made even more so when you realize that each table, including yours, is decorated with a white daisy in a glass of water. Somehow, the interior of this restaurant feels jubilant and comforting, like the bright joy of Easter, even though it’s January. Maybe that has something to do with how full it is— though it’s around ten o’clock on a Thursday, the place is no less than three-quarters full.

“Hey there, dear. You decide what you want yet?”

The croak interrupts your reminiscing, and you startle upon seeing a different woman than the one who’d brought you here— older, with gray hair coiffed into a beehive and pink lipstick crackled on her lips. “Oh!” You are immediately repentant. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry. I haven’t looked yet.”

The woman snorts, but it’s all in good humor. “Ma’am,” she echoes you, though where yours was respectful, hers is slightly sardonic. “No need to go reminding me I’m old, dear.” You crackle with nerves, but she grins at you with slightly yellowed teeth. “I’ll come back when you’re ready. Just flag me down, all right?”

You manage a nod, nerves easing as she taps the table with her wrinkled hand and leaves you to it.

The menu is not overly vast, but it takes some time to decide what will fill that void you feel, what you’re really yearning for. In the end, you settle on a Reuben sandwich with french fries and a chocolate milkshake. Though all the waitresses are dressed the same here to fit the theme, you’re grateful for your waitress’s distinctive beehive as you catch her attention, peeking at the nametag she has pinned to the right of her collar when she arrives. ‘Sherry,’ it reads, and oddly, there’s a little doodle of a shamrock beside it which looks to be drawn on in permanent marker.

“Comin’ right up, sweetie,” she promises you.

“Thank you, m—” you swallow the ‘ma’am,’ and Sherry’s smile widens as she wags a finger at you.

“Watch it, you; I heard that,” she says, her voice a croaking tease. “Don’t you start.”

You giggle, and when she leaves you again, it isn’t just the promise of food that makes you feel better.

The sandwich comes quicker than you expected, considering how busy it is, and it's delicious: creamy Russian dressing, salty corned beef and mild Swiss sliced thin, piled together with tart sauerkraut. The outside of the bread is grilled crisp and not too greasy, and the fries are hot and crunchy, a perfect balance with the thick, sweet coldness of your milkshake. It’s perfect; you couldn’t have asked for more.

As you eat, you watch the waitresses flit about in their matching yellow dresses with white collars, aprons, and cuffs, gathering behind the bar counter when not visiting their tables or pushing through the swinging doors to the kitchen. You watch them laugh and chat with one another, and it pricks at something familiar inside you. It’s been years now, but you still remember what it feels like to flit from table to table, to smile and serve, to share in that camaraderie behind the bar, though the place where you’d done it was nothing like this. 

Once you’ve thoroughly cleaned your plate, Sherry stops by again just as the jukebox kicks on to play Baby I’m Yours by Barbara Louis.

“How was it?” she asks, and you tell her it was very good. “Any room for more?” She follows up, eyeing your empty plate, and there’s a sudden hot flash of shame, a moment where you think she might turn wolfish. But her tone and expression remain nothing but sincere, so it wanes. Still, you hedge on an answer, deliberating whether to accept the offer.

She notices your hesitation and perks her brows, coaxing, “We’ve got a mean pecan pie.” A little encouraging smile plays on her crackled lips. “Sounds like that might be right up your alley, judging by your accent.”

It is true— you love pecan pie. And that void was lessened by your meal but not quite filled. So you accept, and Sherry brings you the slice.

And you think maybe this is what does it— this slice of pecan pie. The crust all golden brown, the pecans placed so carefully on top, the filling gooey but not falling into a gelatinous heap upon the plate. Your sandwich had been so good, and your milkshake, too, and this, now— this just looks so good.

You take a bite of the mean pecan pie, and it is not good.

You chew slowly, nose scrunched, brow furrowed just slightly. It’s not… horrible. But it’s not good. Certainly not as good as the pecan pie at home.

Miss Daisy’s Diner is so inviting inside, suspended in time, straight out of the glossy world of dreams. The chrome is shiny, the teal booths pleasant, and each table is adorned with a single daisy. The doo-wop of the jukebox mixes with the hum of conversation; the waitresses in their yellow dresses laugh with patrons as they fill up their coffee mugs and emerge from those swinging doors with plates loaded with delicious food. But the pie isn’t delicious, and you would hazard a guess, as you crane your neck to peek at the display of cakes and muffins beneath the far end of the bar, that the rest of their baked goods are the same way: good-looking under the lights, but nothing compared to what you’re used to.

Nothing compared to what you can do.

'Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.'

When Sherry stops by the table to ask if she can get you anything else, your reply comes swift and easy. “I saw the sign in your window. Are y’all still hiring?”

It’s a quick affair, becoming a waitress at Miss Daisy’s Diner. 

When you ask that question, Sherry’s brows flash, but she sits across from you right away, crossing her legs smartly as she asks you a series of quick questions. You used to work at the restaurant in a country club back home, and though it’s been a few years now, you know how to answer them all sufficiently. That kind of knowledge— the knowledge you gain from experience— never really leaves you. When you finish, she looks at you discerningly before shrugging. “Well, y’seem alright to me. Just wait here. I’ll get Willy.” She pauses half out of her chair as if a thought has just occurred to her. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Emma,” you tell her, and despite the croak of her lungs, your name flows like molasses off Sherry’s tongue when she repeats it back to you.

Willy is the owner of Miss Daisy’s Diner, and he looks nothing like the ‘Miss Daisy’ pictured on the menu. Where she appears crisp and plucky, Willy is doughy and lax. You learn that there is no real Miss Daisy, though Willy jokes, "All my chickadees here are Miss Daisy. That’s why they dress alike." He doesn’t even interview you after learning Sherry already talked to you; apparently, that’s good enough for him. Instead, he just rambles about scheduling, uniforms, and payroll, speaking in slow circles that loop back and around again until Sherry cuts him off.

“I’ll get her up to speed, Willy,” she says, and his face splits with a lazy smile. 

“Sher’ll get you trained up,” he concludes as if it was his idea.

He begins to turn from the table, and you pipe up before he can leave. “When can I start?” 

Willy shrugs lazily, looking towards his employee. “Tomorrow?” he offers, and Sherry concurs, and that is that.

When you leave Miss Daisy’s Diner, your Lincoln is parked down the street where you left it, the white plastic bag of your new clothes visible through the backseat window. When you get in, your pillow and blanket are beside you, reminding you of the lumpy mattress and the pile of dead flies that need to be tidied. Your original goal for the day still looms ahead.

But, God, you aren’t complaining. You swear it. Because Hawkins is a refuge, and you have a job, and the bleeding finally stopped this morning. And there’s security in the first chore you’ve decided to begin your new life with. You’re intimately acquainted with mopping, dusting, and scrubbing, having learned to clean well in the last three years. While you don’t particularly enjoy it, there’s comfort in making something dirty into something clean. By tomorrow, your trailer will no longer be a pigsty, and maybe you’ll sleep in your bed tonight. Tomorrow, you get to go back to Miss Daisy’s Diner, back to Sherry and the jukebox and the flowers on the tables, and maybe you’ll be laughing behind the bar this time.

‘For I know the thoughts that I think concerning you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you the end that you wait for.’

Thank you, Father.

In the few days following your first day in Hawkins, you learn many things. You learn that the daisies on the tables of Miss Daisy’s Diner are made of fabric and wire, and the water is dried glue. You learn that Willy— given name Wilbur— might own the place, but the girls run it. You learn that the coffee maker sometimes doesn’t spit out water unless you smack it hard and that you won’t get a shiny nametag to match the others until Willy orders one from a special shop, which may take a while. You learn that the yellow dresses and aprons might look cute, but they aren’t all that comfortable, though Sherry kindly accommodated your request for the largest size she could get. It's not quite as big as the dresses you'd picked for yourself, but she did her best.

Still, these cracks in the facade of Miss Daisy’s don’t make it any less charming to you. The pace is hectic, and though each restaurant has its own way of doing things, you fall back into that ebb and flow quickly with the help of all the girls, who don’t hesitate to welcome you into the herd. That’s another thing that helps— the waitresses are all kind and helpful, though more curious about you than you’d prefer, sniffing at your hair and shoes when you aren't looking. It becomes apparent very quickly that they’re all the same: goats who bleat at one another across the floor and nibble at the strings of one another’s aprons in friendly affection, yours included. You aren’t quite one of them, but they don’t seem to notice.

You can’t hide your accent, of course, so they know you're not from around here. There’s always that awareness in a small town— even your tables ask you about it. You remain vague about your past, reserved but polite with your coworkers and charming with your customers, treating them with hospitality just like mama raised you. The beatitudes guide your manner: meek and humble, righteous and merciful, pure of heart and generous. A peacemaker, bringing harmony to those around you. 

It’s almost enough to make you think you might have white wool after all, though you can’t quite shake the raven feathers that shudder when you return home to your nest with its barren sticks and its piles of stolen trinkets you gathered on your flight to Hawkins. That’s why you spend as much time as you can at work, soothed by the dulcet tones of the jukebox as you flit from table to bar to kitchen and back again until all begins to feel familiar and comforting.

Safe.

By the end of your first week, you’ve also grown accustomed to the back of the house. Even the sight of Harry, the line cook, begins to comfort you. He is large, broad-shouldered and thick, but his movements are measured and gentle, set with a pace that speaks assurance that things will get done when they get done. In fact, his movements are so predictable that every time you shuffle through the swinging doors into the kitchen at the start of your shift, you anticipate the repetitive sound of his thick bull hands scraping the spatula slow and even as he works the cooktop. 

So the sight that greets you now as you catch the door from Sherry is quite jarring. 

Before the cooktop stands a man who is both shorter and thinner than Harry but somehow far more imposing. He’s angular and jagged, frenetic in his movements: booted foot tapping tile, elbow jutting sharp as he jerks the spatula, a wild mess of curls shaking as his head bobs exaggeratedly. And the sound of the kitchen isn’t at all soothing in his presence. There’s some kind of tinny howling coming from him, some unholy noise that nearly makes you halt at the threshold of the swinging doors before you realize it’s coming from underneath his hair and not from him, exactly. You quickly spot the thin cord running down to the tape player clipped to his tight dark pants, though the handkerchief swaying at his hip— old and spilling loose threads, black and white and emblemed with eerie skulls— has your nerves kicking up again just as quickly.

Sherry’s voice is hoarse from smoke and age but, to your surprise, not filled with even a hint of the same nerves as she greets the man. “Afternoon, Ed,” she says, sounding almost fond as she shouts to be heard above the music. 

Almost instantly, the headphones are jerked down to hang around his neck, and when the man spins abruptly from the cooktop to face you both, your chest clenches again. His voice is brash and warm, mouth split wide to flash his eyeteeth as his gaze finds your coworker quickly. “Afternoon, Sher,” he says, mimicking her fond inflection, a teasing grin dimpling the corner of his plush pink lips. “How’s my best girl?”

Your eyes quickly dart from him to Sherry and then back, face frozen so as not to reveal your reaction: a mixture of wariness and confusion since he looks almost thirty years younger than her. Sherry just rolls her eyes and purses her lips, which are crackled with deep pink lipstick. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all your best girl, aren’t we, Eddie?” It’s said with long-suffering sarcasm like this exchange is akin to slipping on an old pair of shoes— worn in and comfortably molded to one’s foot. 

The man, Eddie, doesn’t reply, though his smile does widen. Sherry nods your way but addresses him. “This is the new girl. Be nice,” she warns, wagging a gnarled finger.

“Whaddya mean, Sher? I’m always nice.” Eddie huffs through his nose, showily stretching his arms above his head and holding his clothed elbows as his eyes slide to you. Yours dip to the dark stains beneath his pits, the evidence of his toil and sweat that begs the question of why he’d be wearing long sleeves if he’s that hot. “Hello, new girl,” he says lightly, and his voice hums like there’s a secret joke he’s holding back from laughing at.

The cock of his hip, the sharpness of his limbs, the narrowness of his waist where the apron is tied hastily, the stretch of his ribcage against the dirty long-sleeved shirt, the tilt of his lips— it hits you suddenly what he is, just as suddenly as you’d realized that Sherry and the girls are bleating goats and Harry is a gentle bull.

This man is a coyote.

Suddenly, that feeling of safety is threatened. What else could explain that rush of tingling awareness pricking up your neck when he acknowledges your presence, if not the fear that a predator is near?

Instinct drives a prey animal when confronted in such a way. You’ve seen it yourself back at home: hens clucking and skittering in the dirt when they sense a fox, horses swaying uneasily in their stalls when a wolf prowls the woods beyond the paddock. And like a prey animal, your body can either freeze or flee. It chooses the latter. 

You squeak out some semblance of a greeting— even fear can’t entirely overwhelm the graces you’ve been taught— and hurry around Sherry to duck into Willy’s office. You want to close the door, to wedge a physical barrier between yourself and those dark eyes and flashing white teeth, but you resist the urge knowing Sherry will be coming in right behind you, and the gesture is not only futile but potentially rude. 

You’re tying your apron when she enters, and she catches your eyes immediately when you look up. Sherry purses her lips at the sight of your flushed cheeks and wide eyes; she chuckles, but there’s an edge of sympathy. “Oh, come on now, dear," she consoles you. “Eddie might look some type of way, but he doesn’t bite.” Her wrinkled eyes soften as she regards you, the tease in her voice gentling as she adds, “He’s a good boy.”

You force a smile, but her assurances can’t dispel the goosebumps prickling along your flesh. They don’t calm your trembling fingers as they slip your notepad into your white apron, smoothing along scratchy cotton afterward as if attempting to press out the bulge it makes against the front of your body. Your body whispers danger and your mind does, too. And if the spirit guides the flesh, then you know you feel this way for a reason. 

Sherry’s platitudes are no match for instinct and belief.

After your initial spook, your shift progresses much the same as any other. You greet your tables, fetch them drinks, faithfully record their orders, deliver their plates, ask them if they need ketchup or hot sauce, chit-chat just a tad, drop the check, and bid them ‘have a good day now,’ parting with a smile. Your voice doesn’t even waver when you push open those double doors; your call of ‘corner’ is sweet and stable, less tremulous than how you began earlier this week. The only time fear squeezes your chest is when you must clip up your tickets. Because that means you’ll have to approach the coyote, draw near to his jagged elbows, those dark, angular legs, and the abundance of curls that cling damply to the edges of his pale jaw and conceal his expression from your view. At least facing Eddie’s back or side is considerably easier than his front; luckily, he’s so thoroughly occupied by the cooktop that he doesn’t acknowledge you before you scamper off. Your fear becomes a predictable wave: with each step toward him, your chest tightens, and with each step away, you feel the clench begin to ease. 

You’ve just swung returned to the floor, loose and nearly chipper, when Samantha hurries over, holding a loaded plate, her ponytail and yellow skirts swishing as she skids to a stop before you. “Emma! There you are.” She beams brightly, and the words huff out of her as if just the sight of you is a relief. It makes you feel warm inside, and that warmth blooms in the smile you answer her with before asking, 

“Is that mine?” 

You look down at the plate as she nods, noting that the steak has just barely been cut on the corner, not even all the way through. “It’s from table four. She wants it cooked a little more. More like medium-well,” she explains, and you take the plate without a thought.

“Sure thing,” you say, and it isn’t until you’ve pushed back through those swinging doors into the kitchen that you realize what this task will require.

Your throat dries as you approach Eddie, eyes darting over the white of his shirt, how the fabric has gone somewhat translucent where it sticks to the planes of his back. His shoulders roll as he stretches to the side to reach a hoagie roll without moving his feet, which still tap along with the rhythm coming from the headphones slung around his neck. The sound of howling has since subsided to resonant thumping and the faint melody of some screeching instrument, which grows clearer as you edge closer with your plate. 

Closer and closer still you draw until you can detect the faint scent of sour sweat, pungent smoke, and something earthy as the coyote turns his head back to the cooktop, still oblivious to your presence. You halt then, feet sticking as your clenched chest whispers that you’ve come close enough. Eddie continues to load chopped beef, peppers, and onions into the hoagie roll, and you hover some steps away until his chin happens to edge left, and he catches you in his peripheral.

His long eyelashes flick up as his gaze flashes to you, eyebrows jerking in mild acknowledgment, mouth soft and slack. The eye contact makes you hasty; you push out your voice and plate together, squeaking, “Can you cook this more? …Please?” You tack the pleasantry on, nudging your elbows forward as if urging him to take the plate as quickly as possible.

You want him to take the plate, but still, you must resist a flinch when his hand outstretches to receive it from you. His palm is broad, with callouses dotting along the meatiest sections, and his fingers are long and ruddy at the tips. Your breath hitches at the sight of his hand’s approach, but all Eddie does is grasp the plate. As soon as his fingers close around its edge, you snatch yours back toward the safety of your body. “Thank you,” you say, and you hazard a glance at his face.

A dimple forms on Eddie’s cheek as he grins, and his voice is warm and brash when he meets your eye and replies, “For you, sweetness? Anytime.”

And then he winks, a quick flash of those long lashes to conceal a sparkling brown iris. 

Such a small thing, really, to say and to do. Thrown just as casually as a smile for a stranger who holds the door for you, just a brief moment of banter between coworkers as they cross paths in the diner kitchen. 

But the swell of emotion Eddie’s words and wink conjures within you is not a small thing. You jerk away from him, a fierce spasm of your muscles to match the fist of fear that seizes you tightly and shakes you until you’re left trembling. The feeling is visible all over your body— in the tightening of your arms against your middle, the shrinking of your shoulders, the blanching of your face, the quiver of your lower lip, the widening of your wet eyes.

The sudden violence of your reaction clearly shocks him. Instantly, Eddie’s spine straightens, and his face falls. Those dark eyes go wide to match yours, confusion sinking into ruefulness as your back begins to bow— feet planted but spine arching, upper body inching back as if your only desire is to get away from him. All the warm brashness in his voice has deflated as he stutters, “Look, I– I was just— I’m—”

Had he gotten it out, would it have been an apology? An explanation? Would it have put you at ease, unclenched that feeling inside? Who’s to say. Because desperate to repair, to stop your backward flight, Eddie reaches out a hand toward you again. Soft, palm upturned, fingers slack. An entreaty to stay and let him fix things. Suddenly and acutely, your wrist aches at the approach of his palm; with that shock of pain, your freeze finally turns to flight.

In a burst of white and yellow, you skitter and spin toward the swinging doors, leaving your predator behind.

It’s a temporary balm, of course. You cannot avoid the coyote in the kitchen forever. After all, you have a steak to retrieve. This is your responsibility, and though the temptation to ask Samantha to fetch it for you is there, you know it would be wrong to give in to that impulse.

Out of the kitchen, in the front of the house, Miss Daisy’s Diner carries on as if nothing has happened. All is calm; all is bright. You hear the familiar clinking of utensils against ceramic, the swish of yellow skirts and the squeak of sneakers, the bleating of the girls mixed with the crackly doo-wop of the jukebox. Someone has put on Try Me by James Brown, and you whisper the words along with him as you shake off the tension like feathers ruffling to wick off water. ‘Try me,’ ‘hold me,’ ‘need you,’ you sing, the words repeating over and over like the lazy spin of a record on the turnstile. The slow beat eases you back into the rhythm of the floor as you steal precious minutes before you must return to the kitchen.

When you can delay it no longer, you edge back through those doors, breathing slowly to keep yourself from turning away as you anticipate the sight of his body, angular and jagged, coiled tight. But the slope of the coyote’s shoulders is low, and the frenetic swaying of his hips is still now. The howling has quieted, and the jerking of his spatula is slow, slow like Harry’s, which you’re used to. It helps to ease your cautious steps as you reach him, stopping a short distance away. You can see that the plate of your steak is prepared for you to retrieve it, resting on the counter just on the other side of him.

It doesn’t take as long for Eddie to notice you this time, and your chest threatens to clench when his chin turns your way. You try to push out a reminder of what you need. “C-can you—”

Eddie doesn’t make you ask. “Yeah,” he interrupts, “No problem.” 

The three words do not sound angry or sad; they do not sound like much of anything, really. His mouth does not open wide to say them. Instead, his white teeth hide behind his pink lips as he passes you the plate with no other words exchanged between you. And as soon as you receive it, Eddie turns his face away.

Each successive visit to the kitchen that afternoon proves the truth of the matter. Since that first encounter, the coyote’s tail has since been tucked between his legs. The points of his teeth have been filed, and with them, over the course of those hours, your fear of his bite finally begins to ease.

So why, then, does your wrist still ache? 

chapter two: I'll be seeing you is coming soon.

taglist: @emma77645 @ashlynnkennedy @luna-munson83 @micheledawn1975 @gaysludge @hazydespair @ebaylee422 @thebrookemunson @a-time-for-wolvess @lightmelikeamatch @live-love-be-unique @daleyeahson @bexreadstoomuch @devilinthepalemoonlite @screaming-blue-bagel @mcueveryday @ethereal27cereal @vintagehellfire @razzeith @josephquinncore

@h-ness1944 - not taggable

[nachosncheeze]

Fanfic Writer Ask Game

📚 & 🏷️

📚 Is there a fanfic or fanfic writer you recommend?

Definitely! It depends on what you are looking for, so here's a few of my faves in a couple different categories:

***Edit: I'm adding a cut bc it's just occurred to me to mention, anyone new who's not done the series but is seeing this - I do have a spoiler-safe fics list that Scotti and I were working on at one point, so if there's a specific season you're looking for, but not wanting to know what twists come after (or if you're looking for fic for a specific episode or event), feel free to inbox me and I'll send some links. :)

Below this cut there are descriptions that spoil all sorts of things, so.....***

For Jeller, everything by @indelibleevidence is outstanding. I'm gonna start out saying probably a majority of it has passages that are NSFW so if you're a minor or not into that, tread lightly. I'm currently revisiting Remember to Forgive, which has late-season 3 Weller suffering amnesia that takes him mentally back to early season 2; you know, when he couldn't stand to be in the same room as his wife. The angst! It's a fave and totally my jam, I could probably quote it. Torture Without You is... well. Read it. Amazing. I'm a big Remi fan, and here you will also find one of our two Reller champions: the Damaged Goods series is so dark (also very NSFW) but soooo good.

@idealisticrealism is another that everyone should definitely read, imo. The Fire is basically my favorite one-shot ever, and she's our other Reller champion - as complete AUs go I can not possibly overstate my love for From the Ashes and Into Flames. I could literally quote them both to you.

@gypsyscarfwoman is responsible for my other favorite one-shot, Nothing Can Come Between Us, which is Jeller after season 2, but from Sarah Weller's POV. It's just a tiny bit angsty but fluffy and sweet. I love the way she describes the interactions between Jeller as viewed by a concerned third party. There's also Shelter From Your Storm, which is another season 2 AU except that post compound raid there's legitimate concern Nas might throw Jane under the bus and let the CIA have her, so Weller fake marries her to legitimize and protect her.

@ladyriot recently did a lovely retelling of s2 but as a Jane/Patterson slow burn. The way they low key agonize over each other is tragic, but the ending is so sweet without being completely saccharine, and it's definitely worth a look.

I haven't read much Zapatterson but @narvaldetierra is actively writing them. I read Remembers from September and No Good Deed Goes Unpunished a while ago, and I'm excited to reread them soon and then keep working through this ship 😁

Dylan Cruca is worth checking out if you want a bit of season 2/3 Jeller canon divergence/extra scenes, or Jeller/Reller AUs - I thought their post-season 1 AU ended up being a particularly interesting twist - but they're not for everyone.

I could go on but I'll end with one that's basically the fic equivalent to a playlist of Sad Songs to Sob To: Silence Speaks by lochness20, in which Jane's black site escape attempt fails, and when they find her, she is in a REALLY bad state. Warning that it's pretty dark and brutal and tw for suicidal thoughts and an eventual very graphic murder.

🏷 Is there a tag you like to search for when looking for fanfics to read?

I don't really look for specific tags; it's not a huge fandom so there's not a ton of room to be choosy. I can say that straight whump isn't my thing, nor is pure domestic stuff, and I generally steer clear of pregnancy/kidfic unless there's some other compelling plot alongside the kids. I guess I basically love angst most of all 😍

Thank you for the ask!! :D It's always fun to revisit some faves. 💕

I'm trying to find my mojo and inspiration to start creating again, and I find these memes are a really good exercise to think critically about my ideas and hopefully get the juices flowing. If anyone else is curious, please check here and consider sending me an ask!

I've also recently done a WIP ask meme, which you can find here if you'd like a peek at what I've been working on before the words left me. :)

[slowjamgoddessalicialacy]

Winki's Theme

[thequibblah]

hi so i'm looking for some new music to listen to and i thought you could help because you have great taste!

if this helps, i'll tell you what i normally listen to, which is very basic & basically the same few artists over and over lol

- mostly just taylor swift, she makes up 70+% of my listening probably haha and if i had to pick a favorite genre of hers it would be the folkmore style

- some other pop, like olivia rodrigo and conan gray and lorde & some doja cat but i'm not a huge fan of doja's lyrics

- lyrics are really big for me, so is having a pretty voice and nice melodies

- i love your playlists but the old songs are usually not my style (there's been some though that i really like, ty for that !! <3)

- ceremonials is my favorite florence album

- liability is my favorite lorde song

no problem if u don't want to!

OH i basically recommend things for a living so why not music, eh?

so. what i'm getting from this is that you have three big listening buckets: soft acoustic and indie pop and just plain old pop. so i will divide my recs by those broad genres! i too prefer singable music so i will try to lay off on especially dissonant artists, or mark them as such so you can be prepared (LOL)

acoustic/folksy (i'll admit i am a big indie pop girl so this stuff will be a bit sparser)

phoebe bridgers — admittedly she is more alt-rocky, but see garden song, savior complex, moon song, graceland too, prayer in open D

waxahatchee — can't do much (GOD THIS SONG), lilacs, st. cloud

lucy dacus — also more alt-rocky, but here r some softer jams: hot & heavy, christine, green eyes, red face (a jily song)

anything by first aid kit! start with stay gold and the lion's roar

hozier — i feel like most people on the internet have listened to SOME hozier but check out wasteland, baby! (i tried to pick individual songs and ended up listing most of the album LOL)

kacey musgraves — another artist you've probably listened to already, but try golden hour

brittany howard — stay high must be the sweetest song in existence, and basically all of her album jaime

arlo parks — the whole album but especially caroline, hurt, and black dog

lake street dive — i can change, good kisser (a mary song if i've ever heard one), and i adore their hall & oates cover!

anya marina — this whole album has had me by the throat since like 2013

lucius — just the whole album wildewoman, h/t @figg-anon for putting me onto this!

idk what tf genre fiona apple is but try her out as well!

artists i listen to less of but are in this vein: the lumineers, bon iver, vance joy

u know i had to rec some old people shit (LOLLLL), so in this vein, joni mitchell, heart, judee sills, emmylou harris, joan baez, vashti bunyan

one-off songs you might like: hold you now by vampire weekend, big wheel by samia, i eat boys by chloe moriondo, strawberry blond by mitski (i worship at the altar of mitski but she might not be your speed haha), like i used to (acoustic) by sharon van etten & angel olsen, body by julia jacklin, jackie onassis by sammy rae and the friends, cowgirl bebop by HANA

indie pop BELOVED

maggie rogers — ok i cannot recommend this higher like if u like lorde and conan gray drop everything now and mainline maggie's brilliant debut album

HAIM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! — they've got poppier songs like want you back and more mellow songs like summer girl, but honestly i would just recommend a deep dive because they have a pretty surprising breadth within their own alt-rock/pop niche

caroline polachek — can sometimes get way out n weird in the pop sense but so hot you're hurting my feelings is a very listenable pop standard (also it's so funny she's such a clever lyricist also this is irrelevant here but she sounds amazing live), also love look at me now and her cover of breathless

charli xcx is more experimental pop but would rec trying out warm (FT HAIM!!!), blame it on your love (FT LIZZO!!), and official

rina sawayama — technically her album is all sorts of genres but especially XS, comme des garcons, paradisin', bad friend, and tokyo love hotel

orla gartland is a lil softer and i love more like you, oh GOD, and did it to myself

king princess — especially cheap queen, 1950, holy, but basically all of cheap queen

more one-offs: kansas by ashe, comeback by CRJ (full paean in her honour to come in the pop section), i am a big fan of other people covering the bleachers (LOL) especially rollercoaster by charli xcx and i wanna get better by tinashe (full tinashe praise to come too), saturdays by twin shadow (FT HAIM!!!), the kiss of venus and 3 nights by dominic fike (also his interlude on halsey's album), aute cuture and milionària by rosalía, young lover by st. vincent (i love her but again might not be for u haha), good days by sza, backyard boy by claire rosinkranz, slow dancing by aly & aj, hot sugar by glass animals

if ur down to try out something weird witchy and cool, kate bush is like the originator of 9 billion pop and rock genres and hounds of love is a masterpiece

pure pop (we can split hairs on what makes pure pop LOL but basically everything here is based on ur enjoyment of doja)

carly rae jepsen — ok if u haven't listened to her non-radio-hits u may be like "what?? call me maybe lady???" to which i say YES, especially window, stay away, no drug like me, and too much

victoria monet — this may or may not be a selling point to you, but victoria is a frequent ariana grande collaborator and you can absolutely hear it in her music (see also: the mattress spring background noises in dive JUST like they are in positions...), and i love experience, go there with you, and we might even be falling in love, and why not throw in her ariana grande collab monopoly

magdalena bay — how to get physical which i am destined, nay, contractually bound, to put in a jily modern AU someday, killshot, stop & go

tinashe — basically ALL of her new album!!! SO good. i also love rascal (superstar), esther, and old jams like company (and i JUST found out she has a chaka khan cover!)

chloe x halle have the most angelic vocals in the world

this might sound actually demented because WHO hasn't heard love on the brain but rly... go give ANTI a re-listen...

tove lo — especially are u gonna tell her, mateo, and jacques

WAIT I FORGOT TO SAY ROBYN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! EVERY ROBYN SONG!!!!!!!

for that throwback poppy sound u may as well go real throwback KJAHKJA and check out donna summer!

one-offs: right to it by louis the child n ashe, serial lover by kehlani (also more by her but im getting lazy now kdjfhgk), missed calls by max n hayley kiyoko, peppers and onions by tierra whack, idk who hasnt heard this song but circles by meg, todo de ti by rauw alejandro (the way i wanted this to be song of the summer so bad ;___;)

hope you enjoy and pls come back and tell me if you really liked any of these!!!! xoxo

[vannahfanfics]

Hewwo!! So I found this Rarepair heaven, and absoLUTELY fell in love with it! So much so that I decided to request something for the first time ever! I'm sorry if you're not taking requests right now, its totally fine if you ignore this forever, but...but..would you mind doing a BakuJirou fic? It could be about anything and everything, but I really need some BakuJirou fluff to blow my mind right about now! Thanks in advance!!

Ahhh, thank you for the praise, Anon! Thank you for your patience; here is your BakuJiro story, and I hope you like it enough to request again sometime!

Urban Harmony

The rain drummed rhythmically against the sloped roof of the bus stop booth. Through lidded eyes, Kyoka watched the water stream down the frosted glass sides; the sparse light played across the running water, making rippling ribbons of white dance across her form. They frolicked over the cozy fabric of her knitted gray sweater before jumping down to the denim of her ripped skinny jeans before diving down to her Converse, where puddles of rainwater were beginning to accumulate from the day’s torrential downpour. 

Most people would enjoy the pattering of the rain, the squeaking of the tires against wet tar, and the humming of the car engines blending into a strangely soothing urban harmony. However, Kyoka preferred her own soundtrack to her daily grind; her earbuds were nestled snugly into her ears pumping heady rock music into the canals. She bobbed her head to the beat, mostly oblivious to the people trudging by clutching their umbrellas and splashing the puddles with their rain boots. Sheltering from the rain while listening to her favorite music had a certain catharsis to it, one that was making Kyoka sleepy and slightly wishing for time to stop for just a little while. 

The harsh scrape of sneaker soles against wet concrete rose above her music, prompting her to tear her gaze away from the hypnotizing waterfall-like stream of rain cascading down the glass wall of the bus stop. A boy was trudging toward her, his arms buried in his hoodie pockets and his head hunched down. A backpack rustled on his back, looking laden with books. He lacked an umbrella, so the rain beat down upon him with a fury, soaking the red fabric of his jacket a deep maroon. As he glanced up, she could see vermilion eyes peeking out below sodden ash-gray bangs. 

They were more mesmerizing than the falling rain, and her heart fluttered. 

“This seat taken?” he grunted, speaking loudly to overpower her earbuds. Kyoka shook her head firmly and slid to the side of the bench to give him more room, or maybe to push herself as far away as she could from his intimidating aura. The boy plopped down on the bench and dropped his book bag on a dry patch of concrete with a weary sigh, leaning back and stretching out his legs just enough to not be obnoxious. As he tipped his head over the back of the bench, Kyoka watched the rise and fall of his breaths with pinkening cheeks, swearing she could see the muscles rippling beneath the fabric. 

“Fuck,” the boy groaned, not aware that Kyoka had turned down her music to listen to him. “Shoulda checked the weather forecast today… I’m gonna be pissed if my textbooks are soaked.” He leaned forward to unzip his bag and rifle through it, checking their condition. Kyoka curiously craned her head to peek, growing impressed when she spotted large law textbooks in the gloom of the back. She jerked when he abruptly zipped the backpack shut and tossed a glare at her, his red eyes flashing. It wasn’t malicious, though— more like amused. 

“Nosy, aren’tcha?” 

Kyoka ignored the barb to swiftly reply, “You study law?” 

“That’s right,” the stranger said as he reclined back against the bench, nestling one arm behind his head while the other fished in his pocket for his phone. “I’m a first-year at the university down the way,” he explained with a nod of his head in the direction from which he’d come. “My apartment is pretty far, though, so I have to wait for this goddamn bus.” Kyoka snickered at his brusqueness, watching in curiosity as he unspooled his earbuds from around the phone and shoved one deep into his ear. He left the other dangling, implying that he was at least mildly interested in her. She decided to oblige his silent invitation. 

“I go to that university too. I study music.” 

“In theory or in practice?” 

“Practice. I’m a singer and guitarist.” 

He whistled appreciatively, his red eyes flickering to her for a moment before looking back down at his screen. He pressed a button, then frowned, jabbing at the screen with his thumb. He then ripped the earbuds out with a growl. 

“Pieces of shit… They’ve gone and died on me,” he muttered, squinting at the earbuds as he held them up. He flung them into the nearby trashcan and flopped back against the bench, radiating irritation. Kyoka fidgeted next to him, a blush rising to her cheeks alongside a ridiculous idea, but her tongue ended up acting on it anyway. 

“Um… The bus is gonna be a while, so… You could share my earbuds if you like,” she offered meekly. The red-eyed boy glanced at her critically, looking her up and down to study her as if she were suspicious. After a second of contemplation, he shrugged and scooched closer to her; as their legs brushed, Kyoka’s face grew a whole shade darker. Her fingers trembled as she pulled the earbud out of her ear and held it out to him. She hoped he couldn’t feel her quivering when their fingers touched for the briefest second as he took it and jammed it into his ear. Kyoka switched her earbud to the opposite ear before pulling up her music playlist, leaning in to show him her phone screen. 

“I’m not sure what kind of music you like, but, you’re welcome to look.” 

He wordlessly took her phone to scroll through the options, eventually settling on a soft rock song. Kyoka took her cellphone back and held it to her chest as the music began to slow from the tiny speakers, accented by the pounding of the rain in her opposite ear and the silence growing between them. 

“You’ve got good taste,” he remarked after a minute. She looked up with a slight gasp to see him staring out at the road, eyes lidded as he watched the cars trundle by. “So, what do you want to do with your degree, Earbuds?” he asked, looking out of the corners of his eyes at her. She flushed at the sudden nickname and squirmed in her seat, gaze dropping. 

“My mother and father are both retired musicians who own a record label and instrument design company. I’d like to become a performer myself, but if that doesn’t work out, I can take over the business.” 

“Well, at least you’ve got a back-up plan. You look too smart to be some starry-eyed girl who swears she’s gonna be the next big thing,” he smirked, and Kyoka smiled thinly, unsure if it was a compliment or an insult. Sensing what she was about to ask, he smugly puffed out his chest and announced, “I’m studying law to be a prosecutor. One day I’m gonna become the most famous and feared attorney in all of Japan.” 

“You’re the one who sounds like a starry-eyed girl dreaming of being the next big thing,” Kyoka laughed, making the boy look at her with an indignant chuff. As she snickered, holding her curled finger up to her lips, the tension slowly melted from his body. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, crossing his arms and looking back at the road. “Laugh all ya want, but it’s the truth, Earbuds.” Looking at him, at his confident posture and cocksure smirk, she could believe it. He seemed like the type of guy to chase down his dream and wrestle it into submission no matter how many obstacles were thrown in his path. 

“Kyoka,” she corrected him after a bit of silence, making him look at her with a raised eyebrow. “My name is Kyoka.” 

“That so, Earbuds?” Kyoka had to smile at his complete indifference and insistence upon calling her the nickname. She liked the familiarity of it, though they were no more than strangers who’d met at the bus stop. “My name’s Katsuki Bakugo. Nice to meet you, or whatever small talk bullshit you’d like me to spout.” Kyoka giggled; he really was an asshole but in the most charming way. He was doing it on purpose, too, based on the smirk dancing over his lips. 

“I’m not into small talk,” she said with a small smirk of her own. “I much prefer the rain.” Katsuki snorted, then leaned his head back against the bench to stare out into the street. The both of them watched the rain pour from the heavens, soaking up into the sparse bits of grass lining the sidewalks to flood the soil into little lakes. It slicked the road, causing the car tires to squeal and fling water as the vehicles trundled down the road. Passersby scurried along hoping to escape the deluge before it got worse, the lucky ones huddled underneath umbrellas or clad in rain jackets. The rain drummed in the background of the soft rock drifting out of her earbuds, peaceful and soothing. 

She found her eyes drifting to Katsuki. His vermilion eyes were lidded as he stared out into the street, and his cut jawline shone with the rain still drying on his skin. His ash blond hair was clumped and poofy from being under his wet hood. He looked roguish, but handsomely so, and it made Kyoka’s heart pound. She gripped her phone tight, but insodoing she accidentally brushed her thumb across the screen and skipped the song. 

“Yo, what the fuck?” Katsuki griped, making her jump. “I was listening to that.” 

“S-sorry.” 

Katsuki peered at her with scrupulous eyes, making her squirm uncomfortably. 

“Come on, Earbuds. I’m not that intimidating, am I?” he asked with a huff. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and cheeks in his hands. Kyoka flushed in embarrassment, wiggling a little on the seat. 

“It’s not that, necessarily,” she said and chewed on the inside of her cheek as she ruminated on asking him for his phone number. I mean, he’s a handsome guy! I’m single, he… might be single, she debated. Kyoka hadn’t hadn’t dated much, as no boys had ever really caught her eye, but Katsuki just… felt right. Deciding there was no time besides the present, she quickly forced out, “It’s just that you’re really nice-looking, ya know? That unnerves a girl.” 

Katsuki stared owlishly at her for a second, surprised by her admission. Then, a wicked smirk spread across his lips, his ego skyrocketing at the compliment. 

“Oh? Aren’t you forward?” he chuckled. His wet clothes squeaked a little as he slowly straightened up. While maintaining eye contact with the blushing Kyoka, he reached out to take her phone with her. She could only watch, heart thumping, while he put his contact information into her phone. “Lucky for you, I like that in a girl, so I’ll humor you,” he said while continuing to smile smugly. He all but flopped her phone back into her hands, but she was so high-strung and stunned that her fingers only twitched a little around it. 

He then looked out into the street as headlights spilled around the corner, refracting on the water and making the street look like it was covered by glittering diamonds. Finally recovering some neuron function, Kyoka realized that it was the bus. Katsuki looked back to her, smirking. 

“So, you mind sharing your earbuds with me a little while longer? Least you can do, considering I’m probably gonna take you on a date,” he said playfully. Kyoka’s cheeks lit up like Christmas lights, hot and cherry-red. Still, she nodded meekly, not wishing to abandon Katsuki’s company just yet. The rain would continue to fall for a while yet, after all…

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[perpetually-anxious]

🎵 supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

🎵 Playlist: send me a word and I'll give you a song from my spotify for every letter.

I'd first like to say that I can't fucking stand you (affectionate), had to give me the longest goddamn word you could think of. 😂😂

I hope you appreciate my efforts 🧡

S - Slow Hand by Conway Twitty

U - Using by RITUAL feat. Emily Warren

P - Pony by Ginuwine

E - Everyday Is A Winding Road by Sheryl Crow

R - Russian Roulette by Rihanna

C - Can't Fight the Moonlight by LeAnn Rimes

A - Afire Love by Ed Sheeran

L - Lights Up by Harry Styles

I - idontwannabeyouanymore by Billie Eilish

F - Fuck With Myself by BANKS

R - Renee's Song by Bazzi

A - Ashes of Eden by Breaking Benjamin

G - Ghost by Zoe Wees

I - If You Could See Me Now by The Script

L - Lemon by N.E.R.D feat. Drake, Rihanna

I - I Always Wanna Die (Sometimes) by The 1975

S - Summer Love by Chelsea Cutler

T - Thick and Thin by LANY

I - It Wasn't Me by Shaggy feat. Rik Rok

C - Cold by Boy In Space

E - El Perdón by Nicky Jam feat. Enrique Iglesias

X - XO by John Mayer

P - Preacher Man by THE DRIVER ERA

I - I Miss You, I'm Sorry by Gracie Abrams

A - Adam's Song by blink-182

L - Lovers by Anna of the North

I - Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls

D - Daylily by Movements

O - Once Bitten Twice Shy by Great White

C - California Dreamin' by The Mamas & The Papas

I- Innocent by Our Lady Peace

O - Obvious (Remix) by UTAH feat. CHPTRS

U - Unfair by 6lack feat. Love Renaissance (LVRN)

S - Slide by H.E.R. feat. Y.G

Help me celebrate 300!

[kindahoping4forever]

14 (yes bc you can't just expect me to no re-ask this) and 24 :)

😁 Fair enough, Blanca. I suppose I can give you one more peek 🧐 (I'm hoping to finish writing today and have it up either tomorrow or Monday! 👀)

14. Share a few sentences of what you’re currently working on?

He beams at you for a beat before leaning in to meet you in a kiss that starts slow, sweet and joyous, the two of you smiling through it, but it inevitably deepens and along with it, the emotions involved. You can’t ignore how good he tastes, the contented hums that catch in his throat, the heat you feel radiating from his skin; you get as close as you can but it’s simply not close enough and without giving it a second thought, you start climbing over the center console to straddle him.

You curse under your breath, bracing yourself on his shoulders as you make the switch. Ash pulls away, first to help you across and then to giggle wildly as your foot nudges the stereo volume, cranking the volume of whatever playlist was playing quietly a moment ago.

“If you wanted some make out jams, you could’ve just told me,” he cracks, barely getting out his joke before guffawing loudly at it.

You shake your head at him, trying to get comfortable on top of him in the small seat. “The irony that such a sexy car has so little room to fool around in it,” you lament cheekily.

Writing Ask Game

[salt-warrior]

WHEN EARTH TURNS TO ASHES

Masterlist

Chapter Two: Angel of Hell

The crisp happy music thrummed in a chirpy harmony through Kai's ears. A smile lit his face as he opened his eyes and gently turned off his alarm clock. The smile remained as he turned on his favorite rock playlist and practically danced around his shared apartment, and allowing his hips to sway to the music. He even managed to smile as he read the morning news off his phone and ate his favorite breakfast of Cocoa Puffs.

It's not as though Kaito Crown was always happy; he just normally was. He loved going to school at the nearby university. He had aced all his business classes, due to the fact he had been trained since birth to overtake Beijing Empire. He was close with his dad and loved working with him. His life was great— no, it was perfect.

Kai had been raised in wealth; his father was the most proclaimed business man throughout the entire world. His mother had been a fashion icon that outshone all others. Kai himself was loved and known by everyone. The fact that he was smart and handsome didn't help his case.

A moan escaped the nearby room, and Kai laughed as he watched his best friend stumble out of his room and into the kitchen. Kai had known Carswell Thorne since they were in the first grade. Both came from well known families and had attended the same private academy in California.

"Did you rest well, Sleeping Beauty?" Kai raised an eyebrow. Thorne threw a laser beam glare back.

"Have you ever considered turning the music down? It's only seven in the morning for stars sake, and not all of us are morning people," Thorne retorted, plunking down in the seat across from Kai with his cup of coffee.

"Well, I'm sorry that you're cranky. Are you fighting with Kate again?"

Thorne tensed up at Kai's words. "Oh," Kai sighed. "I'm sorry, Thorne."

"It's alright, Crown." Thorne smiled, tight lipped. "It was bound to happen eventually. It's just like my father said: I'm 'toxic' when it comes to relationships," he air-quoted with a scowl, and Kai grinned at him.

"Hey, you've kept me around for what— sixteen years?" Thorne rolled his eyes at Kai's words.

"Yeah, that's only because I can't seem to get rid of you, no matter how bad of a friend I am."

Kai stood from his seat, placing his bowl in the empty sink. "Cheer up, little toxin. You'll find love eventually." Kai picked up his backpack and began to walk out the door, just as Thorne called out to him.

"How'd your date go last night, since we're talking about my sad love life."

"Oh, you know," Kai shrugged, wrapping a scarf around his neck. It really wasn't that cold, as Thorne like to remind him, but Kai was a wimp. "She was nice— really nice, but not the one. Redheads aren't exactly my type."

Kai had a great record in school. He was great at making friends. He was seemingly the most outgoing person alive, but he could never seem to get a girlfriend. It wasn't like he didn't have dozens of girls stalking him and wanting to go out with him. He just had never found one that understood him.

"Don't worry, mate," Thorne bowed in front of him, looking goofy in his plaid robe. "You'll find her someday."

***

The December weather had brought ice to the roads, causing Kai to change his regular course to school to a backroad, but Kai was having a blast as he drove he path while belting "Sweet Caroline" at the top of his lungs. He was right behind a really old and rusty Chevrolet Cavalier the color of dirt and waiting for the light to turn green.

Finally it did, and the old Chevy began to move forward. Kai waited a second, before following behind it, not wanting any surprises from the piece of junk. The drive was nice and breezy, and Kai hardly hit any ice. The song changed, and on came Hit Me With Your Best Shot by Pat Benetar.

Kai sang along, enjoying the chorus. He loved listening to songs in his car. He thrived off the feeling of singing until his lungs burned, but his father had told him at a young age that he sounded like a dying peacock when he sang so he only belted out melodies when he was alone.

The chorus was playing a final time when, out of the blue, a red sports car slammed into the old Chevy. The crack of sound that cut through the air was deafening. Time seemed to slow down and Kai watched in horror as the Chevy in front of him tried to stop sliding. Tried so hard, but was no match for the ice and propulsion.

Kai slammed on his brakes, and came to a complete stop just in time to watch the dirt colored car fall off the road and roll down the hill. It tumbled for what seemed like a lifetime, and Kai wondered if whoever was in there would live. He finally understood the expression "watching a slow-motion car crash." It was terrifying.

An eternity later, the car came to a stop at the bottom of the slope. The red sports car had stayed on the road, but was crunched in the front. Kai got out of his car, and walked over to the red car, ears ringing.

The drivers side was a wreck, but the woman sitting there was alive. She had dark auburn hair, and a tearstained face. Her entire body was shaking horribly and her door was jammed. The airbag was deflating, and Kai could tell the lady was crying though he couldn't quite hear her. All the noise had become one high pitched note that seemed to forever echo throughout his head.

Kai walked around the car to the passenger's side. The door opened easily, and Kai began speaking to the woman. He motioned for her to climb out of her vehicle, before anything else happened, and she complied.

Everything seemed so easy. Sure, this woman was in shock but she was still able to get out of her car by herself. Kai had just pulled out his phone to call the police when a spark of light caught the corner of his eye.

Kai practically threw his phone at the red car woman in his haste to run down the hill. How could he be so stupid? Obviously the car that had rolled down a hill would need help first. Kai mentally cursed himself for his idiocy.

Kai threw himself down the diagonal slope in a sprint, attempting to get to to the old car. He ignored the cries of the woman behind him, even as she screamed and wailed. The flames had started small, but were quickly climbing across the surface of the old rust-bucket, the color brighter than normal flames. Kai could see that there was only one person in the car, but he couldn't tell if it was a male or female. They weren't screaming, which frightened Kai. Maybe they were unconscious, or maybe he was too late to save them.

The hill wasn't necessarily long, but it seemed so as Kai raced down at top speed. Flames danced farther along the car, and Kai had the sickening feeling that they were eating the driver alive.

Finally Kai reached the car. It was rolled onto the driver's side, so he knew he would have to get in through the passenger's side again. Kai tried to open the door, but it was jammed.

Cursing, Kai looked at the ground. He had his pocket knife with him, having been told from his boy scout master to “always be prepared.” He couldn't use that to open the door though. Still scanning the ground, Kai's eyes landed on a rather large rock. He smiled and knew that it would work.

Kai began hammering on the window with his rock. The glass began to splinter, and the sickening feeling hit Kai. How long would it take to break the window if rolling down a hill hadn't done it? He had to get that person out of there soon, or else they would either be engulfed in flames or choke on the smoke. Kai was that person's only hope; he had to save them.

The glass seemed almost indestructible, but Kai somehow managed to shatter it all into a thousand pieces. Kai whooped with joy, and began climbing into the car.

That's when he laid eyes on her. She was beautiful, with flames surrounding her, casting a dark, protective shadow. Kai wondered if Hell had angels, and he knew that if they did, this is what they would look like. Kai internally slapped himself for thinking like that during a crisis and tried to undo her seatbelt. It was jammed.

Not even checking to see if she was conscious, he pulled out his pocket knife. The blade was prime, seeing as Kai sharpened it once a month. He wasn't a crazy survivalist, or anything, but he wanted to be prepared.

Kai began sawing through the rough material, and it was much easier than breaking the window glass, though the smoke made it impossible to breathe. The threads came undone in less than sixty seconds and Kai began to wonder if they could ever actually keep anyone safe.

Flames fluttered across his skin, but Kai kept sawing. He had to keep going, even if it meant he got a few burns. Kai knew that the girl was going to have it worse than him, and he had to save her.

The final thread snapped, and Kai grabbed the girl, before she could fall into the windshield. He tucked his knife back into his pants, and began to drag the girl's limp body away from the wreckage.

Kai climbed out backwards, trying to keep both hands on the girl. Glass cut deep into his skin and he winced. The smoke was suffocating him, and he started to panic. Gradually, he pulled his own body from the destruction, and only had the girl left. As gently as he could, Kai hauled her from the car, trying not to let the glass scrape her.

Kai tugged at the girl, and she finally became free of the Hell she had been in. The girl had her chocolate eyes open, but Kai could tell that she was drifting away. He spoke to her. Telling her to stay with him—not to go to sleep, but stay awake— stay alive. He still didn't understand why, but he needed to save her.

He felt as though his life was connected to hers, and the only way to make it complete would be to save her. Her brown eyes locked on his, staring into what must have been his soul. He yelled, wishing he knew her name.

Her lids closed, and the finality seemed to hit Kai like a bulldozer. He ran up the hill, the dying girl still in his arms. He had never run so hard in all of his life—his lungs burning from smoke and exertion.

By the time Kai had climbed to the top of the hill, he could hardly breathe. The smoke was gone, but he knew that it would stay within him for a long, long time.

The red car lady was sprawled across Kai's car, tears running down her cheeks. She was still shaking, though Kai was not surprised. He himself was in shock due to the event that had played before him.

She still had his phone in her hand, and Kai wondered if she had called the police. Kai marched straight for the woman. "Did you call the police?" Kai yelled. His hearing had come back to him, but his ears were still ringing slightly.

The woman nodded and then whimpered. She was she began sobbing hysterically, and Kai felt sympathetic. This woman had not asked for this— it was not her fault.

Kai then remembered the girl in his arms. She had also not asked for this, but look where she was. He set her down on the ground, not sure what to do.

That's when Kai caught sight of her body. She was burned along her entire left side. Her leg was charred black up to her knee, and the rest of her flesh was a raw red with angry blisters already converging.

Kai began dry heaving at the sight and had to look away. How was this girl even alive? Was she still alive? Kai dropped down on his knees and checked for a pulse. He was met by a light, slow thump, and knew they didn't have much time.

The snow on the side of the road was crisp, white and clean. Kai walked over and scooped up an arm full. He wasn't a doctor, or anything, but Kai was pretty sure that it wouldn't do any harm to try and cool her skin down.

White soon covered the charred black flesh, but Kai still felt hopeless. He wished he could do more.

About five minutes later, Kai heard sirens. He jumped up, lifting the burned girl with him. The snow had melted on her skin, and drizzled off in dark, flaking droplets.

Kai watched as the ambulances sped to a stop in front of all the wreckage. EMT's immediately jumped out of the vehicle, pulling two stretchers with them.

People rushed over to the burned girl first, pulling her away and into the first ambulance. They didn't even wait to check on her before loading her up and driving away. Kai stood, still shocked at how fast they had worked.

The rest of the attendants checked the red car lady, and pulled her onto the second stretcher. A woman came over to him, and began asking him questions. He couldn't speak. The world was going at one hundred miles an hour, and he couldn't grasp anything.

Kai fell to the ground, clutching his head, trying to get a grip, but he couldn't. The woman shouted over her shoulder, and hands lifted Kai up onto another stretcher. He began to feel dizzy, wondering where he was.

Medics rushed around him, pushing him into the ambulance. Kai smiled. He had always wanted to see the inside of one of these when he was a kid. The vehicle began to move, and Kai laughed. His eyelids began to droop, and Kai's last thought before drifting off were of the beautiful Angel of Hell.

Tag list: @cerenoya (Let me know if you want to be added!)

[crownedbyluke]

Long Road Ahead (Chapter Fifteen)

Estelle Finley has been friends with Ashton Irwin and Luke Hemmings for three years. When the boys bring her along on a jam-packed road trip to Cape Cod with the rest of the band, their adventures are just beginning. Through long hours driving, exploring cities, and hidden secrets, something more is bound to happen on this journey. How will this road trip change Estelle’s friendship with the friends she’s come to love so dearly?

Word Count: 2,560

{Chapter One} {Chapter Two} {Chapter Three} {Chapter Four}{Chapter Five} {Chapter Six} {Chapter Seven} {Chapter Eight} {Chapter Nine} {Chapter Ten} {Chapter Eleven} {Chapter Twelve} {Chapter Thirteen} {Chapter Fourteen}

The sound of my phone buzzing jolted me from my sleep. My eyes slowly adjusted to the bright sunlight shining through the windows of my room. There was a text from Luke.

L: Hey little dove. We gotta head out soon. 

E: Okay. I’ll be out in 5.

I blinked a few times, the memory of last night ebbing back into my mind.

“I love you Lu.”

He kissed me with all of the passion and love he could muster up. It felt like I had been away from home and this was the moment it was finally coming back. His hands pulled me closer, desperately grabbing as if I’d fade away. My fingers tangled in his hair, gently tugging. He let out a small moan. Before I had time to think, Luke lifted me up. I instinctively wrapped my legs around his waist. It felt slightly weird how needy we were since we had kissed already. 

“You’re mine,” he almost growled, gently dropping me onto his bed. 

I nodded in agreement, pulling him back towards me. We kept kissing for what felt like hours until Luke sat up and moved away from me. 

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“What changed between getting back and now?” he asked. 

I sighed, unsure how to phrase the thoughts that had been causing a storm inside my mind. 

“I’m tired of fighting. I want to be happy and pretending to be that perfect daughter again made me feel disgusting. I used to do that all the time before college and before I met you and Ash. It doesn’t feel right or even remotely okay anymore. I watch Mikey and Crystal all the time and they’re so happy together, and deep down I know we could be that happy too. I’ve dated plenty of guys and none of them make me feel the way you do. I just want to be with you, Luke. Is that so horrible?” I asked.

He nodded, needing a moment to process my words. I pressed a kiss to his cheek before getting up. I felt his eyes on me as I walked towards the door. 

“I want this little dove. I really do, but I’ve got to take care of some stuff first okay?” he asked as I reached for the door. 

“Take your time. I’ll wait.”

A smile came over my face. It felt easier to breathe now that everything was out in the open. I checked over my outfit in the mirror, adjusting my black crop top and green sunflower shorts. As I pulled my denim button up over my shoulders, I felt secure. Once again, it was in Luke’s hands and I was putting all of my trust in him. He was it and I just hoped he’d feel the same once he handled everything. I grabbed my stuff and headed over to his room. He opened the door a second later. 

“Good morning,” I said with a smile.

“Morning. You look beautiful as always,” he said. 

I felt my cheeks flush from the compliment. He took my bag out of my hand and gestured towards the elevator. There was a weird tension between us, not exactly sexual or nervous, but just unsure. We checked out and headed to the car. 

“Do you want to drive again?” he asked after putting our stuff in the trunk.

“No, you can.”

I climbed into the passenger seat and moved it so I could relax. Luke turned the radio on, handing me the aux chord. It was simple, but meant that he wanted me to tell him what I was thinking. I scrolled through some playlists before I found the perfect one. The soft acoustic guitar from the beginning of “Hesitate” by Jonas Brothers started to fill the car. My nerves kept me from looking over at Luke as the chorus hit. As the second verse started, he put his hand on my thigh. I glanced over still nervous and caught the goofy smile on his face. Maybe this feeling wouldn’t last, but right now, it was me and Luke in the little happy bubble of our own. 

                                                     --

Ashton was running after Calum when we pulled up. It made me wish even more that we didn’t have to leave. 

“My lady,” Luke said, opening my door for me. 

“Why thank you good sir,” I said, taking his hand to get out. 

“There they are!” Crystal yelled from the porch. 

“I brought her back in one piece as promised,” he said. 

I laughed at them, feeling grateful Crystal had us go in the first place. Ashton came running around the corner with the familiar playful smile on his face. 

“Bugs!” he cheered.

Before I was able to tell him to slow down, he was wrapping me up in one of his bear hugs. 

“Don’t break her!” Crystal yelled, now coming down the stairs.

“She’s fine!” Ashton said, releasing me and gesturing as if he was Vana White. 

“Good, because we have lots to discuss,” she said. 

“Lots and lots,” I said, smiling. 

Girl talk was much needed right now and talking about almost having sex with your best friend after being into him for three years was not exactly Ash territory. 

“Don’t keep her too long. I missed her,” he called.

“No promises!” she said. 

We sat down on the side porch in one of the bench swings I felt her watching me. 

“Spill.”

“It went well okay?” I laughed. 

Her look intensified as she analyzed my face.

“I don’t see any hickeys so clearly not that well,” she said. 

“Oh my god Crys! That didn’t happen.”

“So what did?”

“I told him about the threat from my dad and after we got back, we kissed.”

“That’s it?” she asked, sounding shocked. 

“Yes! Why are you so surprised?” I asked.

“You had post-sex glow so I was hoping things had gone extremely well,” she said with a shrug. 

My laugh rang in my own ears. I hadn’t realized that we looked so glowy. 

“Well, are you two at least together?” she asked. 

I felt a sudden unease wash over me with the question. Even I had no real answer to that one. I looked at the ocean, hoping in some way it would magically present the answer. 

“I don’t know. He said he had to figure some stuff out,” I said. 

“That’s not a no though right?” she continued.

“Right, but I don’t know what those things are.”

“I’m sure he’ll tell you once he’s done,” she said, putting a comforting arm around my shoulders.

“I hope so.”

                                                     --

LUKE’S POV

“What was the name of Estelle’s real estate agent again?” I asked, pulling out my laptop. 

“Junie. Why?” he asked. 

“If her dad can take her dream home away, I want to know why and how, and if I can prevent it,” I explained. 

Ashton looked at me with surprise. My fingers flew as I searched for the office’s number. Once I had it, I dialed without hesitation.

“Hi there. I have a few questions regarding finances on your properties,” I said once someone answered.

“Of course. How may I help?” she asked politely. 

“Once a property is purchased and finalized with a move in date, can anything happen to change that?” I asked.

“Logistically speaking, no. However, we have had instances of the bank of a client deciding to back out of mortgage financing which lead to the client scrambling to find a new one,” she said. 

“In the event of a client using a trust fund, would that change that process?” I continued.

“Most likely, no. Typically, we take trust money right away just for financial security and then we require the client to obtain a mortgage through that bank still.”

I asked a few more questions before ending the call. Ashton kept staring at me as I finished up some research. 

“What?” I asked.

“What are you trying to do?” he asked.

“Estelle worked her ass off to get that house and I don’t want that to get taken from her for wanting to be happy.”

“Dude, I’m moving in with her. I’ve got that handled,” he said. 

“What about the threat to our career?” I asked. 

“I believe our record label wouldn’t let that happen.”

“So what does he have that makes him think he could?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got our publicist on it,” he said with a wink.

It still felt like I was missing something. Maybe I was being paranoid, but the pit in my stomach told me otherwise.

                                                      --

ESTELLE’S POV

My heart was beating extremely fast, the nerves about what I was going to do sinking in. I was hovering over the call button, just waiting on the courage to call.

“Elle?” I heard Calum call from my door.

“What’s up?” I asked, tucking my phone away. 

“How’d it go yesterday?” he asked.

“Good. Tiny bit unresolved right now.”

“Are you going to be together finally then?” he continued. 

“I don’t know. I’ve gotta make a phone call though. Can we talk later?” I asked. 

He nodded, giving me a small smile. I locked the door after he left. My hesitation from before was gone, leaving me to just click my dad’s name. The ringing felt longer than normal causing my nerves to rise. 

“Estelle,” he said upon answering.

“Hello father,” I said. 

I felt my leg starting to shake, anxiety growing the longer the pauses were.

“How was your art gallery opening?” he asked. 

“It went well. Only one reporter asked me about you,” I said, getting to the point.

“And how did that go?”

“I said exactly what you wanted me to and gave her some winks so she’d write up something nice for you.”

“And how did your friend react to that?” he continued.

“He was surprised, but as you said, we’re just friends,” I said, trying to hold back the bite in my words. 

“Good.”

“Do you mind explaining why I can’t date him? I would have assumed you’d be thrilled by the press it could bring,” I said, slightly hoping to angle it better.

“We both know how you and the press interact,” he said, his tone getting sharper. 

“And we both know that I’ve gotten more mature since then. The college mistake was not entirely my fault and after that passed, I did everything you asked. I’m media trained, have my own job, and rarely ever do anything that would reflect bad on the company,” I argued. 

“Do you honestly believe the life of a musician is suited for you?” he asked, changing the subject sort of. 

“Luke is not every musician that parties all the time,” I said, gritting my teeth. 

“Really? Is that why a photo of him kissing someone who isn’t you was all over the internet five days ago?”

The memory came back full force, images swirling around as I took a deep breath. 

“He reacted badly to the news of the inability of being together because of you,” I said, digging my nails into the palm of my hand.

“What makes you believe he won’t react badly whenever something doesn’t go his way?” he pressed.

“Because we’ve been friends for three years! While you were out producing Inked and sticking your head farther up Wesley’s ass in the hope that he’ll be the promise child, I was working hard to gain my spot as a teacher. Unlike my brothers, I have listened to you and kept my head down. I am an adult now and if you can’t understand that enough to let me love who I want then you’re no better than when Mom left you,” I fired off, feeling how heavily I was breathing. 

“Estelle Rose Finley!” he yelled. 

“Harass Wes or Parker, but stop treating me like her,” I said. 

“Watch your tone,” he warned. 

“I love Luke and if I want to see what a relationship with him would be like, I can do that without needing your permission.”

“We’ll see about that,” he said, angrily before ending the call.

I took a few deep breaths to calm myself down. I hadn’t meant for the phone call to go that way or end in a big argument. My hands were shaking and there were nail marks indented on my palm. A tear fell onto my leg causing me to wipe at my cheeks. There were plenty of tears that had fallen from the anger that my father caused. It was rare for me to lash out or let him get under my skin. I felt exhausted from the conversation and it was only midday. There was a knock on my door, making me pull myself together. Ashton was standing there, concern all over his face. 

“I heard you yell. Everything okay bugs?” he asked, stepping in and gently putting his hands on my shoulders. 

“Yeah. Just another phone call with my dick of a dad.”

“Were you crying?”

“A little. I got really angry,” I explained.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“It was just about Luke. He keeps trying to control my choices when I’m an adult. It’s frustrating,” I said with a shrug. 

“I don’t mean to pry, but your mom left?” he asked hesitantly. 

“Oh, um, yeah. She left him when I was in my first year of college after the whole party incident,” I explained. 

He moved to sit on my bed, nodding as if to say go on. 

“When she found out about him threatening to move me, she lost it. I was already away for a couple months, so I didn’t know he was being mean and controlling towards her. I guess it was the final straw.”

“Where is she now?”

“She lives in England and has her own design house. We don’t really talk that much,” I said.

“And Wes and Parker?” he continued. 

“My brothers. Wes is three years older than me and Parker is two years younger.”

“You’ve never mentioned them.”

“I know and I’m sorry. My family isn’t the best at doing family stuff. They probably don’t even know I got my master’s degree,” I said with a sigh. 

“Weren’t they at your graduation?” Ashton asked, giving me a look of surprise. 

“I didn’t walk,” I replied, not meeting his stare. 

“Why?” he pushed.

“My dad didn’t want the press showing up and finding out I’m a teacher.”

“Why?”

“Doesn’t fit into the Finley legacy,” I said, quoting the exact words I was told.

“That’s ridiculous. You’re an amazing teacher. Those kids love you and you make their lives so much better. He should be proud that he has a daughter willing to do that,” he said, reaching over and wrapping his arms around me. 

“Thanks Ash,” I mumbled, returning the hug. 

His pride brought a few tears to my eyes. I had given up on searching for my father’s approval, but hearing how highly Ashton thought of my career, made it worth it. My family was awful, but at least I had friends that supported me. 

“Estelle!” Crystal yelled from what I assumed was the stairs. 

Ash and I broke apart, heading towards the landing to find out what was going on. Crystal looked nervous, almost unsettled. 

“Yeah?” I called as we headed down. 

“Um, your, uh-”

“Hello there daughter.”

A/N: I KNOW AND IT’S GONNA BE EPIC. Tell me all the feels please. 

tagged loves: @bbycal​ @emptysanity​ @floraldawg​ @cakesunflower​ @tommossoccer​

[la-paritalienne]

Hi darling, how are you? Have you heard Selena Gomez's new album “RARE”? I'd love a review from you

hi babeeee! i’m good, i hope you are too 🥰 sorry this took a while, i wrote some tags for you so you knew i was doing it, hope you saw them? another anon asked me about this album (+ a follow up question and, spoiler alert!!! i agree w your take!) so i was already quite curious. i’ve been a little busy but finally, here it is

☾

rare: omggg, from the start this is the kind of beat + sound that has me bopping immediately! it’s kind of heard and reminds me of taylor swift, especially when she vocalizes. the background music is so cute, i’m not being very technical here but that’s how i feel! i’m really liking it. i adore how she articulates it feels like before the refrain. fave lyrics: and i bet there’s somebody else out there to tell me i’m rare

8,5/10

dance again: wooooah when the beat dropssssss! this reminds me of an early 2000s song? best compliment i can give to a song basically. i love the pre-chorus and the little oooh oohs. lyrically it’s not impressive but still! fave lyrics: when i speak, my body listens

8-/10

look at her now: classic song that at first has me like meh and after a while grows on me and im like mh mh mh mh mh. let’s be real, it bangssss, although something in the metrics still sounds a little off for me?? idk. still, such a jam tbh. fave lyrics: wasn’t wrong, wasn’t right, what a thing to be human, made her more of a woman

8/10

lose you to love me: at first i felt this one was a bit too slow and whiny for me, but as i listened to it more, i got used to it and learned to appreciate it. fave lyrics: we’d always go into it blindly, i needed to lose you to find me, this dancing was killing me softly, i needed to hate you to love me

8-/10

ring: this sounddddd! so vintage!!!!! omggggg. love love love, it’s so old school and sexy, it sounds like burlesque. the words aren’t particularly poetic nor relatable (to me at least gjghjkkgk) but it sounds so fucking GOOD??? fave lyrics: i put it down, they call me up

9,5/10

vulnerable: the (pre?) chorus is my favourite part here. all in all it sounds very chill and like, a basic bop, background music but not in a bad way?? just maybe not extremely memorable, but then when she goes if i show you all my demons, that elevates the whole song and that’s the part that would drive me to listen to it again, it sounds so dreamy. fave lyrics: wrap your arms around my weakness if the only other option’s letting go

8-/10

people you know: very hypnotic, both the music and her voice, especially in the chorus. it might not be groundbreaking but it’s like… chill and easy to listen to while doing stuff, jammable, a bit repetitive but it works for the whole concept. not my fave overall, but i love the layering toward the end, when the whole sound gets a bit more complex. fave lyrics: when it was good we were on fire, now i’m breathing ashes and dust

7+/10

let me get me: WHATTTTTTT this is straight from the 90s??????? iconic!!!! no ok i love it very much, there’s something addictive about how it feels like it’s straight from another era, and the iiIIIiii and the ouUut, ah oOh, it’s like… obsession material. and a great bridge, something i’ll always appreciate in a song. fave lyrics: i’m so connected to me

10/10

crowded room: i don’t think selena would plagiarise the iconic ‘me & u’ by cassie (2006) soooo this is a homage????? wow selena truly is a 90s girl…… we have to stan. love love love this one, the falsetto part is perfection, her voice is so airy, a dream. fave lyrics: out on thin ice until you came over to break it

10/10

kinda crazy: byeeeeee i say this about every song but i’m starting to get this is whole album is very vintage sounding (the early 2000s are VINTAGE now ok??? we’re getting old), the chrous is >>>>>>, one of my faves for sure. fave lyrics: i think you’re kind of crazy, and not the good kind baby

10/10

fun: ok do i sound crazy if i say this reminds me of lorde?? or at least antonoff-produced taylor swift, especially in the reputation era (which also reminded me of lorde). the chrous is soooo lorde and when she goes fun then it’s taylor but anywayy. a good song! maybe idk, the fact that it reminds me so much of someone else’s sound makes me love it a bit less than it deserves, but i still do! fave lyrics: put a gold star on my disorder

7,5/10

cut you off: again, the chrous is swiftyyyy. a soft but empowering tune, there’s something sensual about it which i love. maybe not my fave bc it’s not like… addictive, more like chillout lounge music, i wouldn’t go crazy over it, but very nice. cool instrumental around minute 2 or so! fave lyrics: how could i confuse that shit for love?

7,5/10

a sweeter place: this one sounds cosy, if that makes sense? some part i really love, others not really, maybe my least fave at least for now, but all in all i still really like it! fave lyrics: i can’t believe i can be loud, holding hands with the darkness

7/10

☾

ok so in conclusion, WOW?? tbh i wasn’t expecting this, not that i don’t like selena bc i’ve been obsessed w some of her singles since ‘naturally’ or ‘i love you like a love song’ (good old selena gomez & the scene! not to mention ‘good for you’ like… that shit is hot) but i wasn’t prepared to something this consisently good?? like maybe i won’t listen to it on repeat for months as i do with some albums but i wouldn’t skip any song, not to mention some are true gems (and jams) that will go on my january playlist! thank you (actually, thank both my selena anons!) for having me do this, i probably would have missed this relase otherwise and that would have been a shame bc it’s pretty great

let me know what you think, if you feel like it, as usual♡

[thanksforthedinosaur]

august2019

1. baechulgi - moonlight 2. omaure - blue sky 3. distant.lo - clouds 4. xjk. - we out here 5. another silent weekend - seiyu 6. luvbird - right field daydreamer 7. rook1e - breathe slow 8. meltycanon - pretty 9. phora - on my way 10. lil nas x - old town road (remix) 11. rico nasty - time flies 12. flo milli - beef flomix 13. brooke candy - xxxtc 14. jaden - summertime in paris 15. tei shi - red light 16. savannah cristina - what you wont do 17. tash - bite back 18. gated - dig it! 19. rvrb - bad at love 20. deaton chris anthony - sonshine 21. omniboi - not on my watch 22. orancha - but thinking of you 23. blood orange - dark & handsome 24. riah - in my dreams 25. vaarwell - false promises 26. crumb - nina 27. honeymoan - gym song 28. reptaliens - sunrise, sunset 29. outer spaces - i see her face 30. chastity belt - ann's jam 31. infinity crush - drive thru 32. jay som - tenderness 33. long beard - sweetheart 34. boy scouts - expiration date 35. strange ranger - planes in front of the sun 36. yohuna - waiting 37. dude york - how it goes 38. queen of jeans - get lost 39. (sandy) alex g - hope 40. mega bog - spit in the eye of the fire king (by ash rickli) 41. florist - ocean arms 42. jesca hoop - red white and black 43. lomelda - swing (expired) 44. jenny owen youngs - vampire weeknight 45. sarah bethe nelson - weird glow 46. terry vs. tori - cascais 47. goon - black finch 48. young mammals - want you 49. niña - these nights 50. ride - future love 51. spool - blooming in the morning 52. galaxy fingers - edith six arms 53. flor - ley lines 54. blink-182 - darkside 55. the sidekicks - ode to jerry 56. insignificant other - un mensaje 57. peregrine - existential criticism 58. commander salamander - scooter 59. nerd magnet - i'm not gonna teach your boyfriend how to dance with you 60. group action - ザ・クレーター 61. cynhn - so young 62. goodbye fujiyama - チェリッシュ! 63. satoa - ためいき 64. bish - grunge world 65. peaer - don't 66. covet - glimmer (acoustic) 67. [.que] - sepia 68. akisai - speachrow 69. jeromes dream - drone before parlor violence 70. downfall of gaia - of withering violet leaves 71. poppy - voicemail 72. aurora - in bottles 73. cheeze - we're everywhere 우린 어디에나 74. she is summer - darling darling 75. asoboism - uwagaki 76. sumin - meow 77. yonyon - owl(解放) 78. kiki vivi lily - why 79. chung ha - young in love 80. kaede - anata wa to-ku 81. nuance - tomodachi 82. izumi makura - いのち 83. tiptoe. - soda pop aquarium 84. passepied - resonance 85. ghost like girlfriend - fallin' - ampm remix 86. mellow mellow - dear my star 87. night tempo - love you 88. ハレトキドキ - キスミー 89. perfume - ナナナナナイロ 90. kizuna ai - sky high 91. snail's house - galactic whisper 92. colate - stellar cruising 93. pikasonic - sunlight 94. tycho - easy 95. shaed - isou 96. magdalena bay - el dorado 97. donatachi - taste 98. ohey - garden 99. king princess - prophet 100. hayley kiyoko - i wish 101. charli xcx - gone 102. pabllo vittar - flash pose 103. liz - diamond in the dark 104. violet skies - cry for me 105. blonde maze - hold on to me 106. lo - ghost 107. cannons - shadows 108. muna - number one fan 109. aoa - a day in july 110. yseult - rodéo 111. ralph - gravity

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4ckQsYSMjaYeZQmaKm5Ypj?si=STfMxHkCTs2mV-AhbvGbuw

[sizz1ing]

Check out this playlist on @8tracks: One f i n e afternoon. by rifd.

[evergreenreviews]

Top 20 Songs of 2017

Spotify Playlist

Long post under the cut

20. ‘Laps Around A Picture Frame’ - Broadside

In my AOTY post, and throughout this year, I commended Broadside on their ability to write fun, upbeat songs, so it surprised me that ‘Laps Around A Picture Frame’, one of the album’s darker tracks, ended up making this list. This song is more interesting - both musically and lyrically - than a lot of Broadside’s other work, and it still really stands out to me as a fantastic piece of songwriting.

19. ‘There’s Nothing Holdin’ Me Back’ - Shawn Mendes

If I had any sort of shame whatsoever, Shawn Mendes would be my guilty pleasure. As it stands, I unabashedly love his music, particularly this song. It’s considerably less depressing than pretty much everything else he’s ever written, and it’s an unbelievably fun and catchy song. I dare you to listen to ‘There’s Nothing Holdin’ Me Back’ without at least tapping your foot.

18. ‘Guilty Melody’ - ROAM

ROAM has got to be one of my favourite current pop punk bands, and I remained loyal to them despite the disaster that was Backbone. That loyalty paid off because their second LP, Great Heights and Nosedives, is full to the brim with great jams, none more so than ‘Guilty Melody’. Although the two singles that came out before this one were also really good, this track was the one that restored my faith in ROAM. It’s pretty much a perfect pop punk song, with an unerringly catchy tune, solid lyricism, and a vast improvement in singing ability from both vocalists.

17. ‘The Line’ - Foo Fighters

Although Concrete and Gold was generally a disappointment, ‘The Line’ is an absolutely fantastic soft rock song. It’s super laidback and chill, the melody is simple, which to me (as someone who knows nothing about rock instrumentation) seems to complement the slightly more intricate instrumental parts, and it sounds more like Foo Fighters than anything else off this record.

16. ‘The Last Of The Real Ones’ - Fall Out Boy

While I will readily admit that I’m not the biggest fan of Fall Out Boy’s new sound, this song is brilliant. It’s a great electro-rock anthem while remaining a recognisably Fall Out Boy song. The keyboard part works perfectly under the melody, which is simultaneously very simple but also quite interesting. I also love the contrast between the anthemic chorus and comparatively relaxed verses.

15. ‘One Foot’ - Walk The Moon

After being absent for a year or so, Walk The Moon returned in September with this indie pop bop. ‘One Foot’ has all the hallmarks of a classic WTM song - it’s super upbeat and very catchy with a solid melody and instrumental and synth parts that work perfectly underneath the vocal line. While it may not be the next ‘Shut Up And Dance’, it’s a fantastic pop song and the perfect tune for Walk The Moon to return with.

14. ‘All My Friends (feat. State Champs)’ - Hoodie Allen

It may surprise you to see a hip-hop song on this list - I feel the same way - but this song is just too good not to include. While ‘All My Friends’ may not be Hoodie’s best song, the way he and State Champs manage to blend their very different sounds is incredible and works surprisingly well. From the hip-hop beat during the verses to the almost breakdown in the bridge and the build-up to the explosive last chorus, every aspect of this song ties in wonderfully with the others and creates a very interesting and very fun song.

13. ‘Scatter My Ashes Along The Coast Or Don’t’ - Seaway 

While I’d be hard pressed to pick a favourite song off Vacation, ‘Scatter My Ashes...’ would definitely be in the top three. It’s a ridiculously fun song, with some not so fun lyrics hidden under the upbeat melody and catchy riffs. It also features Caleb Shomo of Beartooth on a fantastic guest vocals spot. His voice works so well on this song and complements the Seaway boys’ perfectly, and it really just gives the track that extra boost.

12. ‘The Man’ - The Killers

I’ve never really listened to The Killers that much, and I think I only listened to this song in the first place because of Brandon Flower’s bicep in the thumbnail for the music video on YouTube. But thank god for that because ‘The Man’ very rapidly became one of my favourite songs. It’s got a lyrical theme that I’ve never seen before, as the band explores what it means to be a “man”, and it’s all laid over a funky 70s-esque disco beat with a fantastic melody.

11. ‘Hearts Don’t Break Around Here’ - Ed Sheeran 

This may be a slightly sappy choice, but I’ll admit that I love a good romantic ballad, and by God if ‘Hearts Don’t Break Around Here’ isn’t exactly that. I feel like this song didn’t get the credit it deserved and was kind of brushed aside in favour of ‘Perfect’ but from day one this was my favourite track off Divide. It’s a perfect relaxed, stripped back, typical Ed Sheeran love song with very simple instrumentation and a gorgeous vocal melody that I can’t help but sing along to.

10. ‘Bad Behavior’ - The Maine

Lovely Little Lonely is made up of wall to wall jams, and none more so than lead single ‘Bad Behavior’. It’s an irresistibly fun song, that you can’t help but dance along to, and it’s impossible not to smile when you’re listening to it. It’s an incredible pop rock song, with that alternative edge that The Maine do so well. You might worry that after 10 years they would’ve stagnated, but this song is proof that The Maine are better than they’ve ever been.

9. ‘On My Own’ - Niall Horan

On an album full of beautiful ballads and acoustic slow jams, ‘On My Own’ stands out as the most upbeat song of the lot. It’s an Irish folk influenced anthem for the happily single, about having fun by yourself when you’re young. It may not be Niall’s strongest vocal performance on Flicker, but it shows the diversity in his writing and provides a welcome interlude from all the slower songs on the album. It’s another song that you just can’t help but nod along to, and perfectly blends the style of pop rock on One Direction’s later albums and the folk and country influences of Niall’s solo work.

8. ‘Soap’ - As It Is 

This is arguably one of the most musically diverse and interesting pop punk songs of the decade. ‘Soap’ is a spooky, sinister, slightly aggressive track which is totally unexpected of As It Is. It probably wouldn’t sound out of place on a gothic horror movie soundtrack and is a fascinating take on the genre. The vocal performances from both singers are fantastic, with Patty effortlessly transitioning from the subdued verses to the almost screamed choruses. The guitars in the intro perfectly set the tone for the rest of the song, and the rumbling bass sounds incredible under everything else. ‘Soap’ is, without a doubt, the standout track from January’s okay. and possibly As It Is’ discography in general.

7. ‘Drowned In Gold’ - Boston Manor

This is a very late addition to this list, seeing as it only came out earlier this month, but in the space of 24 hours it had already pushed its way up to this position. I reviewed ‘Drowned In Gold’ when it was released, and all of the sentiments in that post still ring true today. The “choose life” lyrical structure of the verses is still one of the most interesting writing techniques I’ve heard in a while and I really can’t get over the creepy sound Boston Manor manages to create with the instruments in this track, and the musical progress they’ve made in the past year.

6. ‘Hurt’ - Trophy Eyes

This is probably the most depressing song on this list, and easily one of the most emotionally evocative. ‘Hurt’ is Trophy Eyes’ first release since their album Chemical Miracle last year, and you can tell they’ve put that year to good use with immense improvements across the board. The most noticeable improvement is John’s vocals. As far as I can remember (correct me if I’m wrong), this is the first song on which he’s only done clean vocals, and he sounds better than I ever imagined he could. ‘Hurt’ almost has a kind of stadium rock type vibe to it, and I, for one, love it.

5. ‘Praying’ - Kesha

‘Praying’ is the eagerly anticipated comeback track from beleaguered pop icon Kesha, and the perfect song to show not only how she’s progressed as an artist, but also the struggles she’s faced the past few years. The song alludes to her legal battle with her producer, but it is mostly a song about personal growth and overcoming your struggles. It’s a beautiful stripped back, piano-laden ballad which really lets Kesha’s immense vocal talent take the spotlight. ‘Praying’ is an incredibly powerful song, which has the ability to draw a huge amount of emotion from its listeners - if you haven’t cried listening to this song, you’re probably not human.

4. ‘Gone’ - Knuckle Puck 

I don’t think it’s any secret that I love Knuckle Puck, but if you’ve been following this blog for a while and read my review of Shapeshifter, it’s also no secret that I wasn’t its biggest fan. However, I absolutely adore ‘Gone’. It may just be because it was the first thing to follow the hugely disappointing Calendar Days/Indecisive release earlier this year, or it may be because it’s a brilliant song. It has attitude and a certain aggressiveness that I love. It’s got the lyricism we’ve come to know and love from KP, and it’s unbelievably catchy. The duel vocalism works amazingly on this track and the slightly dotted rhythm in the guitar riff provides another interesting layer to the instrumentation.

3. ‘Atlantic’ - Grayscale 

I can honestly say that this song has been the soundtrack to my 2017. Grayscale very quickly became one of my favourite bands this year, and their album Adornment was even my Album of the Year. ‘Atlantic’ is definitely what one could refer to as an anthem, with a powerful chorus that contrasts perfectly with the relatively chill verses and bridge. It’s a very mature sounding song, showcasing a writing ability far beyond what one would expect of such a young band, although there are a couple of very minor issues in the vocal line. But overall, this song is a brilliant piece of writing that I can imagine aging very well.

2. ‘Out Of It’ - The Story So Far

The excitement that I felt when this song dropped truly cannot be expressed in words. I still feel the same excitement every time 'Out Of It’ comes on, and I don’t think I’ve skipped it once since adding it to my playlist. It doesn’t stray too far from the classic TSSF sound, and probably wouldn’t sound out of place on The Story So Far. I love the change in rhythm between the verses and choruses, which isn’t something I’ve really seen that much in this type of music, and the punchy tune is just perfect for the attitude of the song. It’s just a shame Parker Cannon still can’t annunciate his words properly.

1. ‘In Bloom’ - Neck Deep

From the day ‘In Bloom’ was released I knew it would be in competition for my favourite song of this year. After listening to it maybe 4 or 5 times in a row, it was promptly named my favourite Neck Deep song and I stand by that decision. It’s the most musically interesting song they have released, and it’s so unique from the rest of their work. It showcases so well the improvement Ben has made in his vocal performance over the past couple of years - did anyone see that high note coming? - as well as the progress that the band has made as a whole in terms of their songwriting ability.

[musicgoonmail]

Just for a Moment

In This Edition

In this week's edition, I share thoughts on recording video content for Sunday School, what's new with my book reviews, church social media, and what's coming soon across my creative projects. 

I'm also adding a new category: Lightning Links. While my Christian-focused Recommended Reading links are available every Monday on my website, Lightning Links will be quick links on culture that I want to highlight specifically for my newsletter readers.

The month of May is here, and while the world has seemed to slow down, our own individual lives continue to move on. I want to thank you for taking the time to read my newsletters. If you ever have any prayer requests or just want to say hello, feel free to reply to this email. I would love to hear from you!

Walnut Notes: Singing at Home with Angie Jodjana

Walnut Notes: Faithful to Our Gospel Mission with Joyce Ho

Book Reviews

Playlists

Extended Play

Lightning Links

Coming Soon

Weekly Review

Walnut Notes: Singing at Home with Angie Jodjana

Angie Jodjana is a worship leader at our church, FCBC Walnut. We talk with Angie about her family leading online worship this past Sunday, and how COVID has affected her career as a piano teacher and worship leader. She also gives an encouragement for families worshiping at home, and an exhortation to worship leaders for going online. And she shares how COVID-19 has affected her own personal walk with God. Watch our interview on YouTube.

Angie is a professional, so it's always fun to talk with her and get into the details. We've been working together ever since she was a student, and it has been my privilege and pleasure to see her grow. Angie was the 4th interview for my Sunday night worship series, and you can watch the rest including Endora Pan, Matt Tong, and Ray Tay. I also spoke with Kevin Quan about youth ministry.

Walnut Notes: Faithful to Our Gospel Mission with Joyce Ho

Joyce Ho is a Sunday School teacher at FCBC Walnut. She shared a devotion with our students from Acts 20:22-24. Here is her main point: Paul’s example reminds us to be faithful to our Gospel mission even in difficult and uncertain times. Watch her devotion on YouTube.

Joyce has only been teaching Sunday School for two years. She is a great teacher and she seemed unfazed by our transition to recording Zoom devotions LIVE and online. I have a few more guest devotional teachers lined up, and then we'll have to figure out what to do next with our students in the summer.

Book Reviews

This week I reviewed 3 books from The Good Book Company: Psalms For You by Christopher Ash, Acts 1-12 For You by Albert Mohler, and Why Does God Care Who I Sleep With? by Sam Allberry.

I decided to share my first musical post on my account, and it's a one-minute piano clip of Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus. I'm happy to experiment with new musical content, and I think it's something I want to start integrating over on our FCBC Walnut Instagram.

Playlists

I'm still listening to the HSMTS soundtrack and my new favorite song is Just For A Moment. The 1975 released a new single - If You're Too Shy (Let Me Know) -- and it's an awesome 80s jam.

MUSICGOON: 10 songs I enjoyed this week.

SVRGNLA: Jess and I love these songs.

ETJ: Music that inspires my band.

DIDD: A crowd-sourced worship playlist.

TGIF: Crowd-sourced for SOLA Network.

This is FCBC Walnut: Sunday setlists.

Extended Play

We keep finding things to watch on Disney+ and this week we finished all 3 seasons of Recess and the entire run of One Day at Disney shorts. We plan to watch Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides this weekend.

The article that impacted me the most this week was When Being Heroic Means Staying at Home by Chase Replogle. It spoke to me on different levels as a nurse and as a worship leader. Here is a stinging quote: "Our stages and our carefully choreographed worship sets have become as irrelevant to this moment as our theater seating and offering baskets."

Throwback: Three Roles of a Youth Sunday School Teacher

Movie: Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides

TV: One Day at Disney

Article: When Being Heroic Means Staying at Home by Chase Replogle

Book: The Book of Ecclesiastes by Alabaster

Song: Just for a Moment from HSMTMTS

Lightning Links

Siddhant Adlakha: No Endgame in Sight: Setup as Payoff

Taylor Lorenz: Everyone is Giving Away Cash on Instagram

Vice: Unemployed Americans Are Tweeting at Celebs and Philanthropists for Help: ‘I Have Nothing To Eat’

Taylor Lorenz: High schoolers are creating yearbooks on Instagram where seniors can submit their portrait, senior quote, announce what college they’ve committed to, and reminisce abt HS memories.

Coming Soon

Pastor Hanley Liu and I will be trying something we've never done before: Recording a LIVE episode of our podcast, Walnut Commentary. Join us on Zoom, this Tuesday, May 5, from 8:30 - 9:00 PM. We will talk about online worship, preaching, and pastoring. We will also clear the air regarding an argument we had earlier this year. You can ask questions and submit prayer requests LIVE in the chat or simply reply to this email. All are welcome.

This weekend, I'll be leading an online devotion for my high school Sunday School students, and I would appreciate your prayers. I will be focusing on Psalm 84 and I'll be leading in with this question: How should I feel about not going to church?

Weekly Review

SOLA: Our Idols Are Exposed in Times of Crisis, Four Habits Not to Fall into in Online Worship, and Zacchaeus: The Sinner Who Was Seen.

Thank God it’s Friday: What Are the Spiritual Dangers of Technology? / Russell Moore: Why I Wrote Each of My Books / What Sins Disqualify a Pastor for Life? / Jesus Walked: The Selfless Pace of Christian Love

Book Review: Why Does God Care Who I Sleep With?

Book Review: Acts 1-12 For You by Albert Mohler

Book Review: Psalms for You

Walnut Notes: Faithful to Our Gospel Mission with Joyce Ho

Walnut Notes: Singing at Home with Angie Jodjana

Recommended Reading: Our Idols Are Exposed in Times of Crisis / Redeeming Loneliness During Social Distancing / How Asian Americans Connect with the Parable of the Prodigal Son / No Parent Can Prevent Suffering: Raising Children Through Pain and Loss.

[1-dollar-cd-sale-reviews]

Jon Sa Trinxa - Space Tranquil (2006)

Space Tranquil is a release by Jon Sa Trinxa, who is apparently a long-serving DJ at Ibiza according to the blurb on the back of the CD. This compilation release is described as “an eclectic mix of sun drenched Balearic beats”, which has been compiled and mixed by the man himself.

This Jon Sa Trinxa guy really put together some good summertime tunes. The album has this hazy, fumey sort of feel to it, like those days where you can see heat radiate off the pavement. There are a few standout tracks - including one of the better David Bowie covers I’ve heard - but as a collection, even without these tracks, this release would be a pretty decent tracklist for a private beach party.

Ashes to Ashes, a cover of the David Bowie track, is the first song on the listing. It’s a very understated cover, with a couple harmonising vocals - which are hit and miss - and a more empty, deliberate, sort of desolate sound to it. There’s a very bassy synth that plays during some of the song’s tensest moments, and the song’s main accompanying rhythm comes from a very subdued acoustic guitar.

It’s not perfect - I’ve only heard one David Bowie cover I like better than the original, and that’s Midge Ure’s cover of The Man Who Sold The World. The ending refrain of “My mother said/To get things done/You’d better not mess with Major Tom” is arguably the weakest part of this cover. But this is still a really good cover, and it was a surprise and a half to hear it on a compilation like this.

From there, the compilation transitions into a song called Dead Man, by someone named Nitin Sawhney - though this version was remixed by someone named Fink. This song is what sets the standard for the release - it’s a very rhythmic song, focusing on repetition of the chorus rather than on verses, backed by a steady beat and some really intriguing instrumentation that adds an engaging spark to the music. 

A lot of songs follow this sort of formula, with a heavy emphasis on swingy, mellow jams that rely heavily on bass guitar. I felt like a lot of these tracks, like Sail Into The Sun by The Funky Lowlives, give off the feeling of watching heatwaves radiate off of a hot footpath, or going on a slow crawl around town in a hot, low car. Though occasionally, you’ll get more of a hot jam that focuses on sex appeal rather than a more aesthetically hot, steamy day.

The Misterlong remix of Slowly, originally by Max Sedgley, is one of these songs - with a very steady beat to it, and the focus of the song involving “going down, slowly” with a very smooth cadence to the vocalist’s voice. This is one of the better songs on this compilation, with its excellent production and the very infectious, sultry feel that characterises the music.

Yes Boss, by Hess Is More, is in the same vein, though I’m not sure what to think of the whole package. The song has a repeated chorus by a female vocalist, and the “verses” are performed by a guy who’s urging the female singer to repeat the chorus. His verses kind of creep me out, and the song is about this female vocalists trying to give the eponymous “boss” what he likes so he can take her to “the b-part”. The chorus is hypnotising - it’s a very smooth, alluring piece of music. But I was a bit put off by the commentary from the “boss” in this scenario.

City Lights, by William Pit, is a very glitzy disco number - it came out in the eighties, but I think Disco was still going strong in Europe for a good few years after America threw a collective fit about it? Either way, it’s a very good song, with a bassline that’s funky as fuck and a chorus that takes a hit-or-miss first verse and manages to turn it into a hit retroactively. The guy has range, and his lower first verse is meant to be more of a seductive number. It justifies the rest of the song, even if the first verse caught you off-guard and might have put you off of wanting to listen to the rest of the song. This is a really great track - it’s either a disco release, or an 80′s pop hit with a big disco influence. Either way, it’s really great.

Aside from those songs, I don’t have much else to say about the compilation. There were some tracks I didn’t like, but even the issues I had were fairly minor - and out of 18 songs, I only took issue with two of them. About three quarters through my review notes, I ended up falling asleep - I slept for a solid 12 hours, and woke up feeling refreshed. That almost never happens with any media. Space Tranquil put me at ease and calmed me down to the point of getting a good night’s sleep - that should say something about how chill the whole package is.

This is a great compilation. I recommend grabbing the track listing and compiling a Youtube playlist, or tracking down a physical CD release. The jewel case comes with a dust jacket, and the whole product feels really weighty and nice. Overall, it’s a great release.

I recommend any song I specifically mentioned in this review, as well as Radio Citizen’s song “Everything”.

[whenmusicspeaksfl]

Is it wrong to expect substance from music in the alternative/punk scene?

The crap thing about becoming successful and/or genuine with a certain type of subgenre, whether it’s pop punk, post hardcore, or metalcore, is that, soon after, a lot of lyrically and musically inferior bands come out to cash in on the trend. 

Enter Makeout from Rhode Island. Formed out of the ashes of generic but musically superior post hardcore band Like Monroe, it makes sense that they’ve written with 5SOS’ Ashton Irwin and Calum Hood as Makeout sounds like a 5SOS ripoff that’s trying to be edgier. The key word is “trying”. They're about as edgy as a 13-year-old wearing eyeliner, listening to Brand New, and claiming “It’s not a phase, Mom!” 

Take the song “Secrets”. One of three singles from upcoming album “The Good Life”, there’s little to like about it other than an oddly specific but creative insult that says: “go choke on a hot dog from 7-11”. I love a good angry song as much as the next person but I can think of four songs off the top of my head that are lyrically and musically more creative than the tripe that this song is. 

The aforementioned Brand New has one of my favorites called “Seventy Times 7”, I Prevail has “Already Dead”, and Set It Off has both “Hypnotized” and “Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing”, “Seventy” has so many “holy shit, did he really just say that?” moments that you have to listen to the song 3 more times just to get the full effect. Some of my favorites include “So don't apologize. I hope you choke and die” and “So, is that what you call a getaway?/Tell me what you got away with/Cause I've seen more spine in jellyfish/I've seen more guts in 11-year-old kids/Have another drink and drive yourself home/I hope there's ice on all the roads/And you can think of me when you forget your seatbelt/And again when your head goes through the windshield/And is that what you call tact?/You're as subtle as a brick in the small of my back/So let's end this call, and end this conversation...” 

The lyrics are also self-aware: “As if it happening wasn’t enough, I gotta go and write a song to remind myself how bad it sucked”. 

There isn’t a smidge of self-awareness to find anywhere in any of the stuff I’ve heard so far from Makeout. 

“Already Dead”, “Hypnotized”, and “Wolf in...” are bound to make the listener say, “well, damn, who pissed y’all off?” with lyrics like “I’d pull the trigger but you’re already dead/if I could bring you back to life/I’d kill you again” and “Wanna add a habit and light about 30 cigarettes? (You should)/You’re only mad about the fact that I put a light to you/basically tracing paper when all we see is right through you!” and finally, “If I could kill you, I would, but it’s illegal in all 50 states. Having said that, burn. in. HELL.” 

The music in these songs also creates a foreboding atmosphere what with the hammering drums, angry vocals, and dark sounding guitars. 

“Secrets” is so inexcusably juvenile that you’d think a group of 12-15 year olds wrote it, but no, the members of Makeout are 20+. In other words, they’re old enough to know better and should know better, especially with such big names as super producer John Feldmann and Blink-182 drummer Travis Barker working with them. There’s nothing musically enjoyable about it either as it’s acoustic strumming with no variation during the whole song.  The cringefest continues for two more minutes after the hot dog line with lyrics like “...’all the money I spent on Sephora while I was on tour and you were with Kevin No more Nobu on my bill, you broke bitch” and “You blew it with your bullshit, you fucking whore/And every time I think of you I'm sick/And I bet you still think that you're the shit”. This is insultingly bad writing and it makes me angry that they exploit every bad millennial stereotype in order to be relatable: “I stayed awake watching porn on my iPhone/It's almost like I don't need you/I wish I knew it was easy as this then it wouldn't have taken me this long to leave you/Postmates me some sushi almost got me feeling human/Sugar daddy, I bet you already got a new one/I'm a do my best to make sure your life stay in ruins/And everybody knows that you're a bitch, say I won't do it.” 

This exploitation continues if you take a look at the track list for “The Good Life”: 

1. Childish 

2 Crazy

3 Lisa 

4 Ride It Out 

5 Open Minded 

6 You Can't Blame Me 

7 Clockwork 

8 Till We're Gone 

9 Salt Lake City Lyrics

10 Secrets

11 Where's My Charger 

12 Blast Off 

Their first single, “Crazy”, came to my attention when it was on my Spotify playlist, Release Radar. It’s also the only one of Makeout’s singles that won’t have you scrambling for the skip button. It’s catchy and bouncy enough to jam to if you don’t listen to the lyrics too closely. There are less cringe moments than on “Secrets”, but there’s still at least two: “You’ll be out all night then you sleep all day/Gettin' way too high, but I’m fuckin' with it anyway/Maxin’ out my cards when I just got paid/Went and crashed my car/It’s the same shit just a different day!” and “Every time you’re sexin’ me/Feel like I’m about to lose it girl you’re fuckin’ deadly...” 

“Ride It Out” is as generic as it gets when it comes to songs about dysfunctional relationships: backing vocals crooning “whoa-oh-oh”, slow, major chord opening, and equally as generic lyrics. 

Says the chorus: “Don't let this burn out/just leave your guard down Cause when I dream about you here I wanna ride it out (ride it out)/Know when you fall down/I'll have my arms out/’Cause when you're lying next to me I wanna ride it out (ride it out)...” So romantic. Every girl’s or guy’s dream words (said with extreme sarcasm): “This is basically a shitty situation but I’m too stubborn to let it go.” 

The song continues with this: “Breathe you in/The nights we shared I'd like to live again/Seemed like seconds that would never end/Can we pretend?” 

The listener is then treated to another unbelievably juvenile lyric: “Stop the clock/Draw our futures in the pavement chalk/Stretch the moments when we lock our eyes/And feel the light again...” The second and third graders I work with LOVE pavement chalk. i think that says everything. In somewhat related and hilariously ironic news, their Genius lyrics page doesn’t have a picture of the band, just a silhouette of a baby crawling on the floor. 

If you think I’m being too harsh, listen to these train wrecks for yourself and let me know: 

“Secrets” 

“Crazy” 

“Ride It Out” 

I’m also on Twitter and Instagram @ writergirlfl.