#the humble cranberry

[clownboybebop]

Those sick fucks at Ocean Spray will mix anything with a cranberry

[madeleinesophiathewhitewitch]

My 2024 Samhain Alter

[punk-pins]

Just remembered I have blueberry-cranberry juice in the back seat of my car this is incredible

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All In 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power imbalance, low self esteem, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you meet a mysterious man on a night out with your sister. (petite!reader)

based on the winning option for this poll

Characters: casino owner!Bucky Barnes

Note: told myself to slow down, didn't.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s your first time wearing that skirt. You’ve had it in your closet for two years. At least. You’re not really a skirt person but it’s cute. The floral on black with the zipper up the front. It drapes nicely enough though you’re not used to wearing anything so short. You have a trusty pair of shorts on just in case. 

You don’t go out either. Definitely not to places like this. You keep an arm across your middle, gripping your other as the hordes of people make you dizzy. The shining gold accoutrement of the decor along with the waft of low music over the noise of tables and voices add to your vertigo. 

The casino is busy and bright and loud. You stay close to your sister as she leads you across the carpet; ivory with golden curliques patterned across them. You’re no gambler either but you’re not there to play cards.  

“I think it’s upstairs,” Roxie says as she looks at the tickets in her hand. “Gala Room B.” 

“Oh, right,” you murmur and smile at her, “what’s the band again?” 

“Don’t worry about it the tickets were free,” she chirps as you look up at her. You feel even more a child beside her; your height often adds to your inferiority complex. Historically, you think, those characteristics have been often intertwined. 

“No, but--” 

“You need to get out of mom’s place more,” she chides, “I could’ve brought Katie instead, but I chose you, sis.” 

“I know, er, thanks,” you run your hand up to your shoulder and rub it nervously. 

“Show doesn’t start for another hour. Let’s get a drink,” she insists and turns, strutting towards the long bar at the other side of the grand space. You trail after her, shrinking down even further. She turns back to you as she leans on a tall stool, “what d’ya want?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t really...” 

“I know, it’s one drink, how about a vodka-cran?” She suggests, “you love cranberry.” 

“Um, sure, if you think that’s good.” 

She sighs and rolls her eyes. She’s the wild one, not you. You know you bore her and since your parents’ divorce, years ago, you haven’t really hung out together. She went with your dad and you with your mom, since then, it’s all been a bit fuzzy. 

She orders as you stand back, not wanting to get in the way of the people all around you. You lean back, rocking nervously as you glance around. You feel underdressed as you see women in cocktail dresses and men in suits. Even your sister is a stark contrast to your overly casual attire; your favourite purple cardigan and the skirt you’ve never worn. 

Your eyes scan the room, admiring the golden sconces of bulbs that resemble candelabras and the gilt trim all along the wall. The more you look around, the less you belong. You don’t even know why you said yes. Well, your mom pushed you into it. Just like your sister, she keeps saying you need to get out more. 

You rub your lips together and feel around your small tassled purse. It’s used, like most of your things. The thrift store is as much as your mom can afford and you still haven’t found a solid job. You worked at the grocery for a summer before they laid off half of you then did a one-day stint at a polling centre for the last municipal election. Even if you wanted to go out, you don’t have the money for it. 

You pull out your chapstick and smear it around your chafed lips as you sway back the other direction. You stop short as you nearly slam into another body and you stumble out of the way of the man in his black-and-white suit. Embarrassment creeps hotly up your cheeks and you cap your lip balm and stand out of his path. 

He’s taller than you. Well, everyone is. But to you, he seems huge. His suit is finely tailored to his figure though his hair seems to clash with the refined style. It’s almost to his collar but neatly parted, a shank falling forward to frame his sharp cheekbone. His square jaw is trimmed thickly with a dark beard, peppered with strands of silver and patch along the dimple of his chin. You’ve never seen anything as blue as his eyes, they are almost inhumanly vivid. 

“Sorry, doll,” he touches your arm as he passes and smirks, swiftly turning his sights ahead of him. 

You gulp as your shoulder hits someone else. You spin to face your sister as she offers you a glass. You take the red concoction with the short black straw sticking out over the ice cubes. You thank her as the chill seeps into your hand. 

“Oof, look at him,” she leans to watch after the man in his dark suit, “damn.” You frown and look in the other direction. She scoffs and nudges you, “come on. That guy is totally stunning. Even you can see that.” 

“I don’t wanna gawk at him,” you mutter, “he’s a stranger.” 

“Oh, whatever, not like he’d notice,” she snips. 

You scrunch up your lip and tuck your chapstick away as you peer toward the man. He goes up to a table, sliding in next to a taller woman with honey-blond hair and a shimmery dress. He rests his hand along her lower back as he chatters to her and the rest of the players around the leather trim. 

“Sheesh, he’s fine,” she puts a twang on the last word, “mmph. If I wasn’t with Tom...” 

“Right,” you look down at the drink and sip from the straw. You make a face and cough. 

“It’s not that strong,” she slaps your back, “don’t be dramatic.” 

“I know,” you clear your throat, “I just wasn’t expecting the taste.” 

“Let’s go upstairs,” she points above. 

“Uh, okay,” you agree to her sudden diversion. You suppose you really are boring. 

You follow her up the curved stairs and along the railing that overlooks the lower casino room. Arched windows let in the night and the glow of the facade. You lean on the polished wood and peer down at the first floor; it looks even more resplendent from there. You sister puts her elbow on the railing as she looks around. 

“We could stick around after, lose some money,” she says. 

“I don’t... mom only gave me a twenty and I owe you for the drink.” 

“Pfft, whatever, I’ll spot ya. Tom gave me some extra with the tickets,” she trills, “it’ll be fun. Play some black jack. It’ll be an experience. You could say you’ve actually done something.” 

You smile, closed-lipped and tight. She isn’t wrong. It’s your first concert, for some cover band, and your first time at a casino. It’s not an exaggeration to say this is the height of your life experience. 

Your eyes wander down and meet another pair. You wince. It’s that same man. He walks towards you, a certain swagger in his stride. As he peers up at you, his cheeks dimple and he winks. You wrinkle your brow and look behind you. When you turn back, he’s gone. Right, you’re imagining things. 

Roxie slurps as her straw turns hollow. She’s already drained her cocktail, meanwhile you’ve barely taken a sip. She stirs the ice and hums. 

“Wait here, I’m gonna get a refill,” she raises her glass. 

“Oh, I can come with you--” 

“Nah, just stand here,” she insists. “You’ll just slow me down.” 

“Sure, uh, okay.” 

You curl your shoulders inward as she walks away. Great. All alone. You avoid looking anywhere but your glass. You face the railing again and balance your drink on it. It’s not bad, tarter than you’re used to and a little burny.  

You play with the black bracelet around your wrist, the band they stuck around it when they scanned your ID at the door. You suppose it’s a good idea but they wouldn’t be letting kids in here, would they? Oh yeah, the hotel is attached. 

As a kid, you never went on vacations like that. No hotels, no casinos, no shows. It seems like Roxie is catching up on all of that and you’re just there. The world is so much scarier when it’s all a mystery to you. 

“Excuse me,” a deep voice startles you. You ignore it, thinking it’s merely a passerby, “miss?” 

There’s a tap on your shoulder and you barely save your cocktail from spilling over the edge. You clutch the glass with both hands and face the stranger. It’s that same man, with the suit and the long hair and the oceanic eyes. Something about him is familiar beyond your few earlier glances. 

“I think you dropped this?” He holds up a chip with a golden 100 on it. You blink and shake your head. 

“No,” you scrape out of your throat, “I don’t-- I didn’t--” 

“I swear I saw it fall out of your bag,” he looks down at your purse. 

“Really, I’m not... I don’t gamble.” 

“Ah, well, if it’s just hanging around, might as well use it, huh?” He keeps his hand out, “maybe it’s your lucky day.” 

“I couldn’t. If someone lost it...” your voice doesn’t want to go and he leans in to hear you, adding to the heat spreading through your chest. Is it the alcohol or him? 

“You’re sweet, keep it,” he shoves the chip toward you. 

“Please, I... I... can’t...” you wipe a hand on your skirt and clutch the fabric. 

“Doll, I can’t hear you,” he says as he grabs your hand and dislodges it from your skirt, “here.” 

He presses the chip into your palm. You stare at his tie then look down at the white chip with gold detailing. His hand brushes yours before he rescinds his touch. 

“Erm...” you murmur dumbly and shake your head. 

“My treat,” he growls. 

“But...” 

“Like the skirt, by the way,” he surprises you as he pinches a fold, “cute on you.” 

Just as quickly as he appeared, he strides away, leaving you blankly staring after him. His broad shoulders move beyond a thick marble pillar as you hold up your drink and the chip. You just look between them. 

“Hey,” Roxie approaches again, “oh, what’s that?” 

“A chip...” you state plainly. 

“Duh, I know. Where’d you get it?” 

You look at the floor. Would she even believe you? “The floor.” 

“Ooo,” she plucks it from your fingers, “awesome, “now we’re definitely having some fun tonight.” 

“Rox,” you swallow and look up at her, “we should hand it in. It’s a lot of money. If someone lost it--” 

“If they lost it, they can afford it,” she bobs her neck as she speaks, “live a little,” she sneers and taps your glass, “and finish your drink. Maybe that’ll loosen you up.” 

You nod and recede into yourself, cradling the glass again with both hands. You put your lips to the straw and drink until you can’t anymore. She gulps straight from the brim of her glass and sighs, wiggling as she peers around. 

“I almost don’t even want to see these old men play music,” she snickers as she takes in the expanse of tables flashing lights. 

“Oh?” 

“Relax, we’re going to see the show. You’re a horrible liar and mom will see right through you,” she sneers, “besides, I told her I wouldn’t get you in too much trouble.” 

[ozzgin]

Do you only write Hannibal lecter or do you also write for NBC Hannibal?

Yandere! Hannibal x Reader: The Grand Meal

Gather around for a short story in the spirit of Thanksgiving. You have been invited by Hannibal Lecter to a celebratory dinner, although unexpectedly barren of other guests. He will be entertaining you this evening, carefully describing each dish as he battles his own inner turmoil. (For extra immersion, I suggest listening to Bach's 'Sheep May Safely Graze')

Warning: Cannibalism and detailed gore. I'd advise against reading if you're squeamish. 

[Horror Masterlist]

He politely aids you in removing your coat, folds it over his forearm, and steps aside, expectantly. You glance at him, somewhat confused.

"Your bag, if I may."

"Oh, I...I was planning to bring it with me. I have my phone in it and all the essentials." you stutter, unsure.

Uh huh. Your etiquette seems to be lacking in certain areas. Nothing that cannot be chiseled. 

"You won't be needing it, I assure you." he extends his hand out, waiting. 

You hesitantly place the dark leather Pochette into his fingers. Hannibal has always been rather particular when it comes to decorum. You wouldn't want to upset him, especially given his generous invite to his Thanksgiving celebration. He'd heard your complaint of being alone during the holidays and he encouraged you to join him instead.

As you hurry behind him down the spacious hallway, you quietly marvel at the expensive, tasteful paintings sporadically adorning the walls. 

"I suspected they might be to your liking." He briefly peeks back at you with a faint smile on his lips. 

The heavy wooden doors creak open and your nostrils are quickly overwhelmed by the tempting smell of intricate dishes. You narrow your eyes, taking in the flavors. Once you finally look ahead, you notice that the table, although neatly decorated, consists only of two seats that have been prepared for dining. Two opposing seats, causing the whole setup to seem of ridiculous length. 

"Pardon my intrusion, but is anyone else attending?" You cannot contain your curiosity.

"Oh, no.  Not really." Hannibal pulls your chair outwards before departing to his own designated place. "It's you and me. Does that bother you?"

"I suppose it's cozier this way." You brush it aside with a chuckle. Better than being alone, you tell yourself.

He nods in agreement before settling down. He takes a moment to examine the table, confirming that everything is indeed in its proper place. A final, satisfied incline of his head.

"Allow me to introduce today's dishes. I don't want to keep you waiting for too long." He says as he remembers your earlier little gesture of delight. "It's a little bit of a scattered theme, if I am to be honest with you. I've drawn my inspiration from varied cuisines."

"I can see. How exciting!" You swiftly scan over the diverse plates, enthusiastic and hungry.

"The main course is over there. Balsamic-glazed oven baked ribs. I recommend a drizzle of cranberry sauce to go with it."

As he points to the dish, he can almost hear the dry crack of the bone. Abruptly, he's been taken back to the previous night, to his humble slaughter room - the meat needs to be fresh after all. Shears cut through the ribs with little resistance. The blades go around the thoracic cavity, contouring the ribcage. Once a proper opening has been made, he firmly grasps each side of the ribcage and nonchalantly lifts the bone flap, resting it over the face. 

Wait. He quickly digs through the skin and fat that had been shoved aside with the carcass, searching for the face of the victim. It's you. How delectable and surprising that you've wandered into such a recollection. Well, not quite a surprise that you've invaded his memories; from the very moment he met you he's been plagued by this indecent idea: How would you look on the dissecting table?

His musings are interrupted by the sizzle of the sparkling wine he's currently pouring in your glass. He finds himself back at the dining table, together with his favorite guest. You graciously thank him, and as he gazes over your features, he can't help but continue this game of imagination he's just spontaneously devised. Whoever had been carefully served for this occasion will be temporarily replaced during the theatrical retelling by you. And what a fine actor you'll be, even though you're not aware of it.

Alright, one must start from the beginning. He traces the edge of the autopsy table and inspects the drain just below your feet. He wouldn't want an incident. Would you be mortified if you'd learn your secretions and discharges leaked and clotted against the sieve? Don't worry, you'll be spared of such scenarios. He'd never willingly embarrass you like that. He softly presses the scalpel against your bare skin, going under each breast and stopping at the pubic bone. Now to trim the thick layers of fat sticking to the dermis. You're not making much of a mess, but then again it's a dream within his idle mind. A mischievous grin takes over his expression once he witnesses his clean work. The segments of skin detach smoothly, revealing your glistening, bloated organs. 

He already went over the ribs. That part has been covered. What comes next? His eyes rest on the most obvious: your intestines. Which reminds him...

"This one is a Middle Eastern dish. Stuffed intestines. You gently cut the membrane, like this." He demonstrates on a separate plate. "Don't worry about seeing some additional blood. Naturally there are many capillaries irrigating the walls, so you might open them up in the process. It quickly seeps into the mixture and adds a bit of a stagnant flavor to it, but it's merely noticeable."

You swallow dryly.

Back to the original matters. He searches for his scissors and cuts along the attachment tissue smoothly. Once the bowels have been freed, he fondles them into his hands, cupping them into place, and hurries to the nearby counter. The entrails collapse and spread onto the marble surface, like mischievous tentacles. He languidly eyes them. Do organs resemble their owner? Absurd question, really. Do they reflect one's health - that much is indubitable. Yet he can't help feeling that if presented with an endless row of viscera, he could, without hesitation, point and state which ones are yours. It's a mysterious confidence whose source he cannot pinpoint. You've always captivated him. Just when he thinks he's had you like an open book, you slip and slither between his fingers. Fitting.

What is it about you that preoccupies his mind to such degree? He turns back to the table and scans the remaining options. Your intelligence? The tool drawer opens and his fingers linger over the saw and skull chisel. Perhaps. But there's more to it, really. His analytical, rational self craves for more than what it can grasp. And what it lacks, well...

He pinches the visceral fascia and lifts the translucent membrane, with the same delicacy of unveiling a young bride, and reveals your heart, cold and still. There it is, the answer to everything. A transect to the vena cava near the diaphragm and the organ has been separated from the rest of the body. An angel with clipped wings. Holding it like this, he can almost discern the faintest throb, the fibrous muscle pressing into his skin. 

"And this?"

He purses his lips, taken aback by his own rudeness. Has he been zoning out in plain sight?

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"The dish, I mean."

He follows the direction of your stretched out index. Ah.

"Heart stuffed with mushroom duxelle. Old English classic with a twist." 

"You sound like a professional chef", you respond as you laugh. "Is there anything you can't do?"

Is there? He considers it. Right before his revelation was discontinued by your inquiry - absolutely not your fault, the ill manners were his - he was wondering if he possesses the capacity to love you. He definitely prefers you over all of the people he's encountered in his life, and your behavior and way of thinking never ceases to make him curious. Yet love is a conclusion he cannot asses with certainty. 

He had hoped a vivisectionist approach would offer him concrete data, palpable reasoning, but his journey only reinforced that some concepts must be tested outside of pure introspection. Or, as one would describe it colloquially, he has to take the bull by its horns. 

"By the way, what meat is this?" You have arranged yourself a platter with a little bit of everything, and just finished chewing a hearty bite. "Ox or something? It's very tender."

If Hannibal is to embark on his expedition of human feelings, he needs to reflect on his choices carefully. Or does he? Hmm. His methodical tactics are what caused this impasse in the first place. 

One can afford to give in, every now and then. How will you react to his self indulgence? He rests his head on the back of his intertwined hands and stares at you with a determined look. 

"Human."

[marigold-hills]

Oh I am so jumping in here.

Can you give us a dreamy summer wolfstar first kiss/get together, but put it in YOUR nostalgic summer. Like whatever that means for you. Where are they? What are they eating/drinking? What is the air like? The lighting? The smells and sounds?

I humbly bow before your altar take my compliments on your prose and pacing and metaphors as my offering 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

Hey! Loved this ask. It completely run away from me. Hope you enjoy it! (Also you said altar and offering and well. Those words clearly stayed with me.)

It’s wine and bread, a fancy cheese selection from Tesco’s. A little plastic pot of olives. No blanket, because they’re not tourists and don’t mind a bit of sand as seasoning.

The storm is coming in.

They can see it, across the vastness of water, darkening the horizon and stretching through the sky like spilled ink.

Recreating exactly how it was the first time, years ago:

Remus had said there’s a storm tonight. We should go and watch it.

On the beach? Sirius had asked, a bit bewildered. The wind was already picking up, and the logistics of sitting out in the open during a downpour didn’t enamour him.

Remus, undeterred, prepared a backpack. I know a place, he said, we’ll be hidden from the rain. Trust me?

And Sirius did: with his life, with his time. Followed him off the main promenade and across the dunes until they reached a hidden spot of sand: a bay, of sorts, with a railway bridge backed into the cliff side. The arches of its support beams only faced open towards the water, secluded otherwise by brick and clay.

“Used to come here with da, when I was a kid,” Remus told him: “there are fossils in the clay if you know where to look. Come out after heavy rain best, maybe we’ll find something tomorrow.”

They set up under one of the arches. Remus built a stone circle at the mouth of it, stacked it with sticks and driftwood he’d collected on their way. Set a crumpled wad of receipts from his pocket on fire and used it as kindling.

“Impressing me with your caveman skills here, Moony.” Sirius had known, of course, that wild streak within Remus, seen it shine through sometimes when he let his guard down, but this was something new. Large hands stoking the flame as it slowly engulfed the given wood, eyes alight with its reflection. Sirius felt a pull at his navel like a fishhook: handle me like this, the pull said.

He’d made a mistake, maybe, following Moony back to his parents’ house for the summer after their graduation. A miscalculation of how much he could stand watching him, in the summer heat, with sea breeze curling his hair.

Red wine, a couple paper cups. Sirius didn’t like it then yet: not like he pretended to, and it was a cheap bottle from the middle shelf. The aftertaste was sharp, it stayed on his tongue and the insides of his cheeks - dry, clinging.

Cheeses Remus had cut into cubes. Pungent Stilton with dark blue veins, Brie, white skin coating the creamy interior, fruity Wensleydale filled with cranberries.

They sat side by side by the fire as the storm hit. The rain a heavy curtain in front of them, the wind making their fire dance erratically. Sirius had never seen it like this, surprised by the intensity of the smell of salt in the air. Despite the cover, a thin mist of spray hit his face when the wind blew just right.

Remus had made him a canapé of sorts, spread a chutney on a finger-torn piece of sourdough and topped it with the Stilton. He ate it in one bite. Asked for another, just like it, the taste round and warming, somehow.

“It’s the chutney,” Remus said. “There’s chilli in it. Try an olive.”

A new thing, this, being presented with food like offerings. Remus watched each bite Sirius took with an intent, as if they were eating something rare and costly. Like this, with the storm above them and the fire in Moony’s eyes, Sirius felt each mouth full was something precious, something to be cherished. A worship, and he wasn’t sure if he was the god being praised or the offering on the altar.

They’d almost finished the bottle when Remus asked want to swim? With such wonderful abandon that Sirius didn’t even hesitate. Yes, he said, and they took off their trousers and shirts and walked hand in hand into the water.

The first crack of thunder rang out when they were knee deep. Remus laughed, free and loud like a curlew, head thrown back into the falling rain. The sky turned white with the lightning and Sirius thought it’s you, that needs to be worshipped.

Moments like this, though, something Sirius didn’t know: it’s too easy, for thoughts to be said aloud.

Remus turned to him like a trap closing. “Is that right?”

��You look like a god of the sea.”

(Another break of thunder, a wave sweeping into them, rough with the storm but soft like a touch.)

Remus took his hand, pulled him further into the water. There were raindrops caught in his eyelashes, and Sirius realised I’m close enough to touch them. He did, shaky fingers, as lighting lit them up. The water made Remus’ curls heavy and darker, sat on his skin in a fine sheen. “I want to lay you out onto the sand,” Sirius thought-said, “trace the path of every raindrop.”

“You’ll be at it for hours.”

“As long as you’ll let me.”

The first time they kissed, Remus tasted like salt.

NOTES:

I feel compelled to point out: everyone. Please don’t drink and swim! Don’t swim in the storm! Especially not in the sea.

I don’t know how I didn’t realise before you’re the person who wrote The Homecoming of Sirius Black??? I LOVED it. Honestly the fact that you enjoy my writing feels like such a massive compliment.

[ettle]

Every time I see someone type cranboo instead of c!ranboo... I think of the humble cranberry...

[clockwayswrites]

Clock!!! Love your stuff, it's always so interesting and fun to read.

So about the 'Fic I'm not Writing'...... What would the rest of Team Phantom think on everything? They worried at all? Jazz I can see being worried, comes with being the big sister. Is Val part of the team, or she still not very trustful of Phantom?

How you have a happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate it!!

Aw thank you thank you! I'm still endlessly glad and humbled that people enjoy my stuff~

Aaaaaah HUM. I think Tucker is a little worried about Danny getting wrapped up in vigi stuff again but also totally nerding out about it at the same time. Sam is fondly exasperated I think. They are BOTH confused about why Danny needs to woo Jason and Red Hood separately. Sam probably pokes Danny a little more about that.

Jazz... ngl, Danny is probably keeping the full story from Jazz, as you sometimes have to do as a little sibling! So I think Jazz knows that Danny is dating Jason... and that's all. She'd have a lot to say about it, especially Danny treating Jason and RH as two different people, but she has to find out about it first!

Val, well. Hum. So most of the senior year knew by the end, so I'm sure Val knows. In this one though... I think when she went off to college she worked really hard to just move on from everything because she realized how obsessive she was being. I don't think she's really in the group like some other stories.

And thank you! I'm having a solo holiday this year, but going to make some cranberry pumpkin bread! If I have the energy at least. Hope you have a nice day too!

[soaps-mohawk]

oh my GOD. you were not kidding when you said that the end was good. it is genuinely one of the most beautiful things i think i have ever had the privilege of reading. the repetition makes your head spin, and it's such a cinematic thing to envision. you get to feel the determination to survive and prevail along with 'mega. something inside of her is so hard-wired to push on, like her soul refuses to give in. thank you for giving her a spirit than can't quite be quelled. you are absolutely extraordinary!!

anyways, about the rest of the chapter... i'm sensing that little spark between dr keller and ashley 😉 that was very cute!! also, the cow bit definitely did make me laugh. and that other anon got me thinking; somebody must've helped or at least noticed 'mega on her trek — but i'm so glad that she's by the sea, and that john remembered how she'd told him about it. he's still her alpha, still her lover, and i think that's so profoundly beautiful, despite the fact the bonds are fraying. i hope johnny gets a good hug soon, and that kyle is treated like absolute royalty for his efforts 😭 he genuinely is the best boy. john needs a cigarette and a cold cranberry juice, in my humble experience. simon deserves a proper cuddle. i bet scruffing her scared the shit out of him ☹️

anyways, how are you?? writing this on the walk to the field and hoping the horses aren't covered in mud 🙏 i hope all is well, pook!! lots and lots of love 💞

- 🪐

Aww thank you!!! Yeah, I'm very proud of that part and how it turned out. Really speaks volumes of where she is mentally and even physically. She's not going to give up despite the pain and exhaustion, and there's such a relief there too once she realized where she was. Literally made me cry writing it ngl.

Hehe...Dr. Keller and Ashley....perhaps 👀

They all are trying so hard and they all need a good pack snuggle in a big nest. Babies deserve a break. Price really does need a cigar though 😂 he'd stoop low enough to smoke a cigarette I think.

I'm alright. Adjusting to working again and the toll that takes mentally and physically. Hope the horses weren't all muddy (since this is getting answered late) 💚

[jamdoughnutmagician]

A Cut Above The Rest

Mechanic!Eddie x Fem!Haidresser!Reader

Tricks and Treats and Everything In-between (Part 7)

Summary:You and Robin make your way to Steve's Halloween party where you make some new friends, and are joined by an unexpexted guest.

Word Count:2, 515 (a little longer than usual, but trust me it's worth it)

<- Previous Part Next Part ->

Masterlist Series Masterlist

“Stop fussing with it, you look hot, trust me.” Robin chastised as you began pulling at the fabric of your black velvet dress.  You had chosen to dress up as Morticia for Steve’s Halloween party, and whilst you had felt good in the dress at first, the body-hugging material suddenly felt all-too constricting against your skin as you made your way to Steve's place.

"That's easy for you to say, you're not wearing a skin-tight velvet prison." You whined, pulling at your dress once more. 

Robin’s costume was quite the stark contrast to yours. She was wearing an oversized orange turtleneck sweater and a pleated red skirt that fanned out just above her knees, a pair of black rimmed glasses sat perched on her nose.

"I felt like it just made sense, y'know? I mean, there's no way that Velma wasn't a lesbian, right?" She laughs as she links her arm in yours, both of you making your way up to the grand steps of Steve’s house.

You knock your knuckles against the door, only for it to fling open with Steve standing there, smiling broadly. He’s wearing a dark brown bomber jacket that’s decorated with various patches thrown over a white t-shirt. A silver chain of dog-tags around his neck and a pair of black aviator sunglasses hang from the shirt’s collar. There’s a faint sound of some music and muffled laughter and chatter coming from behind him, the party already getting under-way. 

“Good evening ladies! Welcome to my humble abode.” he says grandly with a smirk. “Come on in!”

“Yeah, yeah, alright, Maverick. Where’s the drinks?” Robin teases as she gently pushes Steve aside in search of alcohol.

You step your way through the hallway and take a second to marvel at the enormity of the house, with high ceilings, and ornately patterned wallpaper. 

You turn your eyes to Steve, your eyebrows knitted together.

“I don’t mean to be rude when I say this, but I thought you lived in a small apartment downtown? How come you’ve got this whole house to yourself?” you ask, gesturing openly to the sprawling nature of the house you find yourself in.

“Parent’s house. Dad’s away on one of his usual business trips, mom doesn’t trust him not to let his hands wander, so I get this whole house to myself for a few days.” 

“..and what better way to enjoy all this than with a massive party, right?” you lead.

“You got that right” he chuckles, nudging his elbow into your arm with a smirk. “Come on in.”

You follow Steve into the spacious living area where sure enough there are already a whole bunch of people mixing and mingling. You scan your eyes over to see where Robin is, shaking your head with a smile when you see that she’s already made her way over to Vickie, the red-head from the bar, who's coincidently dressed up as Daphne, in a purple mini-dress and pink tights. 

You feel a bit out of place for a moment, until a girl with bouncy brown curls dressed up in a Wonder-Woman costume comes up to you to hand you a plastic red cup with some kind of drink in it. It’s Nancy Wheeler, you recognise her from your school years, you never really talked to her much, your circle of friends never seeming to intersect.

“It’s from the punch bowl, it’s just cranberry juice, lemonade and just a splash of vodka” she says listing off the ingredients. 

You smile politely, thanking her as you take the cup from her hands and take a sip. The sweet, fruity concoction is just the thing you need to settle your nerves.

“I haven’t seen you since high-school” she smiles warmly. “Where have you been hiding?”

“Oh I moved away after high school, went to college in Chicago and lived there for about 10 years.” You omit the fact that your lying, cheating ex-boyfriend was the reason for your return to your hometown.

Nancy nods, with a smile, quickly moving on. “How about I introduce you to some people?”

You walk with her over to a group of younger looking kids, they couldn’t be much older than sixteen. All of them dressed in their own unique costumes. The group are standing around talking to two older boys, one with shaggy sandy-blonde hair, the other with very long dark hair, falling down around by his waist.

“..And that, my little spooky friends, is why pineapple is the best pizza topping” says the boy with the long hair. He’s dressed in casual clothing, the only effort he’d seemed to have made towards any kind of halloween costume was a fake knife on a headband and a few streaks of red paint drawn on his forehead. 

A sea of groans and fake gags sound out from the rest of the group.

“Hey I’m just saying, don’t knock it, till you’ve tried it.” he says defensively holding his hands up.

"Everyone, this Y/N," You wave awkwardly, before Nancy continues to introduce the rest of the group. "That's my younger brother, Mike," She says pointing to a young boy who also seems to be unenthusiastic about dressing up for Halloween, with a vague attempt being made by a Batman t-shirt.

"This is my boyfriend, Jonathan," he offers his hand to you, and you accept it, with a shake.

"..And that's his friend, Argyle." Nancy continues. 

"And then these are all Mike's friends from school." Nancy explains, gesturing to the remaining kids in the group, each one introducing themselves in turn.

"So, Steve told me you were out on a date with Eddie last week?" Nancy pipes up with a smile playing at her lips.

"News travels fast around here, huh?" You huff.

"Oh so you're the pretty girl that Eddie was so excited to go on a date with!" Dustin butts in.

"Dude!" Lucas gently elbows him in the ribs, narrowing his eyes at his friend's choice of words.

"What? He was! I've never seen him so goo-goo over anybody before!" Dustin defends.

"..And how do you know Eddie?" You ask the curly-haired boy.

"He's our DM." Jonathan's brother, Will speaks up.

"He’s the best DM there is out there!" Dustin cheers, speaking very highly of Eddie’s dungeon master skills.

Just as you begin to slip into easy and comfortable conversation with your new found group of friends your attention is diverted by a loud voice shouting over the noise of the other party-goers.

In strolls Eddie, a case of beer tucked under his arm and a certain level of swagger to his gait.

He's gone all out for his Halloween costume. His long dark curls flowing from underneath a skull and crossbones bandana tied around his head, and a dark leather waistcoat layered over a loose-fitting white shirt, the deep neckline of the shirt peeking open enough to reveal a slight glimpse of the demon tattoo on his chest. A dark smudge of black eyeliner runs across his lower lashline, making his already dark brown eyes look even more intense. The rogue pirate really was a good look on him.

“Here you go, Harrington, these are for you” he nods, dropping the case of beer in Steve’s arms, before making a beeline for you. 

“Cara Mia, Mon Cher” Eddie says seductively, giving his best Gomez Addams impression, as he takes your hand in his, placing a kiss on the back of your hand. “You look beautiful.”

You preen under his affections before coughing slightly, alerting him to the presence of the rest of the group.  Eddie smiles before coming to stand next to you, wasting no time in slinging his arm around your shoulder to bring you close to him.

“So, Dustin was just telling me how you’re the best dungeon master that they’ve ever had.” You say to Eddie.

“Yeah, well, when I saw this bunch of lost and lonely little sheepies, who looked like they needed a helping hand, so that’s where I stepped up.”  he answers proudly. “These kids are gonna be the future of Hellfire.” he smiles, playfully ruffling his hand through Dustin’s hair.

You talk with everyone for a little while longer, learning how Steve was throwing this party as a last hurrah before some of the teenagers went off to college, and how Nancy was going off to California to live closer to Jonathan after getting a journalism internship at The San Francisco Chronicle.

Just as you’re talking, your attention is diverted by a change in the music. The sounds of The Cranberries’ ‘Dreams’ filtering through the stereo’s speakers.

“Eddie!!” you jump up excitedly, tugging on his shirt’s sleeve. “They’re playing my favourite song! Come dance with me! Please!” you plead, batting your eyelashes and giving him your best puppy-dog eyes.

“Oh, alright” he smiles as he rolls his eyes, allowing you to pull him towards the makeshift dance floor in the centre of the grand living room where there are already a few people dancing.    

"That is a man in love if ever I saw it, my dudes" Argyle said to the group as you whisked Eddie off, the both of you smiling brightly at each other.

You waste no time in dancing to the song, letting your hips sway and shoulders rock to the music. Eddie stands close to you, unsure of himself, his dancing skills were certainly not something that he was known for.

You notice his hesitancy, and are quick to take both his hands in yours and place them on the curve of your hips, 

 ..I know I’ve felt like this before, but now I’m feeling it even more..

You let him take his time, stepping in time with him to the beat of the music. Your eyes look into his, admiring the way they sparkle in the glow of the colourful, decorative Halloween lights.

..And now I tell you openly, you have my heart so don’t hurt me..

This quiet moment between you just felt all so natural, like you were the only two people in the room, the only thing grounding you to reality is the touch of his hands on your hips. Holding you so gently as though he was frightened you were going to break.

..A totally amazing mind, so understanding and so kind. You’re everything to me..

Eddie’s confidence grows as you dance together. Everyone else fades into the background. It’s just you, him and the music.

..And oh, my dreams. It’s never quite as it seems, ‘cause you’re a dream to me..

The song finishes and you’re both standing so close, with his hands holding their place on your hips. There’s a beat of silence between you both as Eddie’s eyes quickly flick down to your lips. He leans down to you, almost as if he’s going to kiss you, before he pulls away shyly as if he wasn’t sure that you wanted him as much as he did you.

There’s a slight awkward tension in the air for a brief moment before you break the silence.

“Thanks for the dance, Eddie. I’m going to get a drink”

Eddie nods, giving you an affectionate hug, watching you make your way into the kitchen, desperately hoping that he hadn’t just ruined his chances with you.

You grab yourself a cup from the table and begin ladling a few scoops from the punch bowl into your cup. 

The atmosphere in the kitchen suddenly feels eerily quiet. A chill rattles through as you feel a presence caging you against the granite worktops of kitchen island.

“Y’know, you are not an easy girl to track down, Y/n” A voice rasps out with a sinister chuckle.  A man in a dark t-shirt, jeans and a Friday The 13th hockey mask towers over you.

You watch as the man reveals his face to you. It’s Jacob. You’d left him, broken up with him, fleeing your apartment with tears in your eyes and it wasn’t enough for him.

“How did you find me?” you stutter out.

“There aren’t many places you can hide, Princess.” the pet-name sending an unpleasant shiver down your spine. “Hawkins is only a small town, you know that.” he taunts. “Started asking around. Tommy Hagan said he saw you in The Hideout a few days ago, gave him a few dollars and he gave you up right away. Said I could find you here, and look at that, he was right.” he says smugly, flashing you a smirking grin. “All it took was some dumb dollar-store Halloween costume and I slipped right in without anybody noticing.” 

“What do you want from me, huh?” you fight. You were not about to let him intimidate you, not after how he treated you.

“Want from you? I don’t want anything from you, but you are coming back to Chicago with me. You’ve had your fun, hiding away from me with your little friends, but where are they now, huh?” he continues to taunt you, pressing you further into the kitchen’s granite worktops, his hand wrapping around your arm in a bruising grip.

“Hey, dickhead!” You hear a voice shout from behind Jacob. “What d’ya think you’re doing huh?” It’s Eddie. He lays his hand harshly on Jacob’s shoulder, putting himself between you and your ex-boyfriend.

“You get a kick out of making girls feel small and vulnerable, huh?” Eddie says, glaring at Jacob with an intense stare.

“Oh I see how it is, you like her, don’t you pal.” Jacob retorts, poking his finger into Eddie’s chest.

Eddie flicks Jacob’s hand away.

“Don’t touch me. And I ain’t your pal, dickhead.” Eddie gravels out, the tension between the two men rising.

“You know what, freak?” Jacob flashes his Cheshire cat-like grin once more. “You can keep her. She was a lousy lay anyway.” he sniggers.

That was it. Eddie had had enough. The tension between the two men had reached a boiling point. Eddie pulls his fist back before launching it forward straight into Jacob’s nose with a crack.

Jacob stumbles back with the force of the collision, clutching his hands to his bloody nose.

“If anyone’s the freak it’s you, asshole.” Eddie spits down at Jacob, shaking his fist loose after hitting him so hard.

With all the commotion going on Steve rushes into the kitchen in a panic.

“Steve, this unwanted guest needs throwing out if you ask me.” Eddie says, nodding his head down to where Jacob sat still clutching at his nose.

Steve flicks his eyes over to you, when you give him a reassuring nod of your head, your eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Steve grabs Jacob by the scruff of his shirt and yanks him up to his feet, before dragging him out of his house.

Eddie turns to you immediately, checking you over to see if you’re alright.

“He didn’t try anything, did he?” Eddie worries.

“Eddie I’m okay, I just want to go, if that’s alright?” you say shakily.

“Come here, my van’s out there, we can leave right now, don’t you worry.” Eddie reassures you.

@penguinsandpotterheads @slutty-thevampireslayer @xxhellfiregirlxx @mmunson86 @avalon-wolf @ali-r3n @jesssssmaybankk

[elusivecagedmockingbird]

High

[seokjin x reader] [1.3k+ angst, smut; male masturbation, ‼️ allusions of addiction]

Now That We Don't Talk | Not In The Same Way | Not Warriors

I hope you think of me highly When you're with someone else

-

Seokjin didn't mean to be so invested in the news. He only turned the television on as background noise in his eerily silent apartment.

But seeing your live interview aired on the channel has him sitting on the couch, listening intently to every word you say; waiting for the cameras to pan on your face.

You were always beautiful, but lately, you've been radiant.

He wonders if it has anything to do with your new relationship.

Or maybe just being finally rid of him.

He knows the last months of your relationship weren't smooth-sailing. Truth is, he was lost during those times—often blacked out. He was living high on the celebrity life. He faked his confidence during parties until he no longer had to—of course, with the aid of alcohol and something more.

If only he stayed with you on those nights and rejected the invites when he knew it was getting too much, too fast.

But everything was so new and captivating to him. And he was still an impressionable human being, he wouldn't deny that. Always curious and goes out of his way to dissolve the tension—in the end, everything backfired.

In the worst possible way.

Seokjin's ears perk up at the mention of his name. The host referencing your humble beginnings.

'Oh. Seokjin-ssi and I are pursuing different roles in the industry, I believe. But yes, if a project with him is offered, I would love to work with him. I'm always in awe of his films and regard him highly as an actor.'

At this, his head hangs low and lets out a bitter smile.

He hopes you were telling the truth. He hopes you truly and still think of him highly. Though he's sure if you meet again, he wouldn't be greeted with eyes staring back at him with glimmer and hope, like he could hang the moon if you asked him to. He hopes you remember him when he was at his best and not the Seokjin you left.

And if he happens to be the topic of discussion between you and your lover, he hopes you talk about him like a fond memory.

Moreso, he hopes you still defend him to your friends. They didn't exactly hide how they feel towards him the last time they met at a red carpet event. It was just days after your breakup.

He knew he still had you then. It was because he still had you wrapped around his finger that he thought he would never lose you despite him falling off the wagon again and again and again.

He remembers the spiteful words hurled at him as they tore a tipsy you from his arms. Their words fell on his deaf ears back then and now he gives himself a hard time for not listening. He remains guilty over a lot of things that happened that night. But he will never regret the brief moment he shared with you.

You two are sneaking off from the show like old times, escaping to a room booked under a made-up person, and just spending the remainder of the night in each other's company.

Seokjin slowly palms himself as he closes his eyes at the vivid memory. Every skin he kissed and nipped was so soft—your fragrance so intoxicating, but he thinks that could've just been your pheromones. You were always sweet. He licks his lips at the remembrance of your arousal flowing into his tongue. His wet tongue prodding your warm tight walls.

He wouldn't admit it out loud, but you were the reason he always bought cranberry juice—the taste is likened to your clit.

Throwing his head back in the headrest with a groan, Seokjin pulls his sweatpants down to his pants to free his touch-starved cock. He spits on his palm and strokes his member up and down, up and down, all while thinking how you felt that night.

He almost goes soft at the thought that another man held you now; another man feeling you up, making love to you, whispering sweet nothings as you both reach ecstasy.

Does your new lover know how feral you go with a soft nip to your clit? Or how you want your thighs spanked when you're nearing your climax? Can your boyfriend make you cum twice with just his fingers? And when you release, does he know when to pull you in for a kiss—swallowing your whimpers and in return, his tongue would deliver whispered declarations of love.

Seokjin sighs out your name and speeds up his hands on his dick. In a lustful haze, he thinks he can almost taste you. He must be going crazy because he also thinks he heard you whisper in his ear.

I love you, Jin

And that unravels him—toes curling and hips bucking upwards. His cock spurts out strings of cum that landed on his fist and pubic. If you were here, you would lick him clean as if his arousal tasted like your favorite ice cream.

He closes his eyes and imagines you—kneeled infront of him, tongue out and flat for him to clean his cock on. He continues to tug at his cock, milking himself dry.

Fuck. He feels like a pervert fantasizing about an ex girlfriend. Seokjin hadn't been in relationships a lot, but you remain to be the only one who reverts him to his hormonal teenage boy phase. He truly lucked out on you.

Clearing out his lewd thoughts, he thanks whatever god or spirit exists that allows him to keep his thoughts to himself.

-

This is the fourth time his call goes straight to your voicemail.

He wonders if you ever listen to the messages he left. It was probably for the best if you ignored it. Most messages were drunken pleas and booty calls. But this time, he's not calling to bother you, he swears.

Out of all the people who got hurt from his carelessness, you were the one who shouldn’t have and yet came out crushed and wounded.

Seokjin stands in the empty complex—what used to be filled with love and the epitome of home is now barren and cold. He almost cries again at the thought that the next time he comes back here, you won't be welcoming him home. Hell, even the scent on your pillow had faded away. You made sure to clear out all of your things from what once was your shared home, obliterating any shred of evidence that you lived together.

There was a time he gave in to his weakness—he bought a bottle of your perfume and sprayed it in every room. Sadly, it never smelled the same. It lacked you. He baked the same cookies you fed him on your free days, but it never tasted as sweet as yours.

In the middle of the room, Seokjin wades in his sea of regret.

His grip on the phone tightens. He rings you again. One last time, he bargains. Please answer just this once.

It goes to your voicemail.

Clearing his throat, Seokjin wonders how to fit his words within a 30-second recording. This is the last time he could call you in a long time. So, he tries.

"Y/N, it's J-ji-. It's Seokjin. I just really needed you to know that I'm sorry," he chokes. He quickly breathes air into his lungs so as not to lose a second. "I'm going to be away for a while. My agency's putting me in a care center. A-and I want to do this, too. I'm going to get better, I promise. Y/N, you know I still lo-"

Beep

Seokjin swallows the remaining words. It's probably for the best that he was cut off. You were already with someone else.

He can't help feeling bitter and jealous. But he also knows he gave up his right to do something about it the moment he walked away, and you were a saint to tolerate him for so long.

Resignation is the least he could do.

-

[mychlapci]

the humble cranberry wine + cheese spread + berries combo remains undefeated

[akwolfgrl]

LFT PART 38

Sanji wound down the street, hands full of bags. He may have gone a little overboard while shopping. He wore a new shirt the Nami had insisted he get. It had multiple colored fishes all over it, a favorite of the new shirts he had. None of the fishes were realistic but they were still cute.

Sanji wandered over to the fish market checking if there was anything he hadn't already spotted when he noticed a large crowd. He slid through the crowd of people stopping at the front as some fishermen discussed their catch.

“Amazing, that's an elephant bluefin tuna!”

“That's right it probably got mixed in from the south sea, I caught it with a pole and line.”

“A pole and line? No way get outta here!” People laughed but Sanji had tuned the other men out.

“Elephant bluefin tuna,” Sanji would pay whatever the price to get that fish. He remembered looking at it in his second favorite book when he was younger with Zeff. He of course had packed that book and kept it in the galley. The fish was absolutely beautiful, its dark blue scale and silver underbelly, the two tusks coming up from about its large lips, and its long athena. “How much for the fish!” Sanji called out, stepping forward.

“Ahh, what parts of it are you looking to buy?” The fishermen who caught the fish asked.

“All of it, I can take it apart myself. I'll use every part of that beautiful fish,” he gushes excitedly.

“Ahh are you a cook?”

“Chef, I used to work at the Baratie,” he states offhandedly, trying to show pride but still remain humble.

“That fish shaped place, I knew I recognized ya! Love that place's great food and there's alway a fight to watch. I'll tell ya what I'll give you a good deal.”

He had so many ideas buzzing around in his brain. Such a good quality of fish could be eaten raw or cooked. He could make stock from its bones, soup from the head, he was dying to try the bone marrow or spinal jelly.

“Fantastic!”

“Yah if you want we can deliver it to your boat of want? I've got plenty more to look at, at my booth if you'll follow me,” he offered.

“That would be great actually.”

“That's a big ass fish,” Zoro's voice came outta nowhere right next to his ear.

“Shit!” Sanji jumped; he had been so focused on his new fish that he didn't hear him arrive. “When did you get here?” Sanji asked him.

“I noticed you drooling over that big ass fish and came over around the time that guy said he recognized you,” Zoro replied, shrugging slightly to cover a chuckle. “So what are you even gonna make with it?”

“Well I have lots of plans, for today I need to see who all had lunch and see how much sushi I should make, this is a great quality fish so it can be eaten raw. Then of course I want to extract the spinel jelly, I've heard it's delicious,” Sanji was eager to talk about his plans as they walked to the fishermen's booth.

“I like sushi, Luffy and I already had lunch, but we all know Luffy could eat more,”

“How did you pay for it?”

“Some guy in a cloak paid for us, I've just had the best of luck today,” Zoro gave his blond man once over and smirked. “I'm hoping that luck continues tonight.”

“Hmmm,” Sanji pretended he had to think about it, but he too was looking forward to tonight. “I'll tell you what, help me with the dishes and maybe you will,” Sanji began to browse the selection picking out what he wanted.

“I'll also have to think about that, might interrupt my nap time,” Zoro taunted back, only causing Sanji to huff and roll his eyes.

“You and your naps, Marimo,” Sanji handed over the money for his purchases. “Our ship is the Going Merry; its figurehead is shaped like a sheep, pier 40.”

“Do you like alcohol? My wife makes mead and I have some for sale,” the man offers with a gentle smile at the pair.

“Got anything that's not sweet?” Zoro asked.

“Yah, this strawberry one is pretty dry, also a Ginger Matcha Mead, and a Cranberry Mead,” he offers.

“I'll take them all,” Zoro also paid for his mead, happy to not only have two new swords to tame and some hopefully good homemade mead with his (hopefully) boyfriend. “Ready to go curly?”

“Yah, should we find the others?”

“All right,” he states with a shrug. As they turn to go, Zoro brushes his fingertips against Sanji’s, the cook barely keeping their hands touching in some form. It made Zoro’s chest feel warm, everything was going good for him right now.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Give Thanks

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, familial judgement/bullying, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your mother invites a lonely coworker to Thanksgiving, a bit too lonely.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: this is the second of my autumn fics as decided by all of you!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

The smell of nutmeg hits you as you enter the house. That and the garble of voices. You take your time as you unlace your boots, keeping your jacket on as the rack is already overflowing with the like. You mentally ready yourself to face your famiiy and their annual judging panel. 

You peek into the front room as you keep a firm hold of the boxed pies you grabbed from your favourite bakery in the city. You promised dessert and you brought it. You'll put them down before you wade in the deep end. 

You enter the kitchen, rehearsing your greeting for your mother, but you're met with a stranger's back. He stands at the counter, scraping cranberry sauce from a saucepan into a serving dish. His brown hair is combed back neatly, though you can only see the ends from your vantage, and he wears a pressed shirt too white for the task at hand. 

You hesitate. Where the heck is your mom? You can't see the man's face but you can tell he's a bit too young for her. Or so you would assume. He could be a cousin's boyfriend and yet he might be a bit above that. 

"Um, hi," you say as you approach the end of the island counter, well away from him, "I'm looking for my mom." 

"Your mom? Doris?" He wonders. 

"Yeah," you answer as you set the pies on the counter. "I know I'm a little late..." 

"She just went to grab something from the cellar," he explains. "I'm Andy--" 

"There she is," your mom sweeps in with her seasonal gravy dish. "Mm, I knew you'd bring store bought." 

"They're from a local bakery." 

"You never did like being in the kitchen," she reprimands. "Oh, Andrew, that looks perfect. Not too runny." 

You glance at the man. This strange man draws praise from her like honey from a comb, whereas you find the task as easy as squeezing juice from a stone. You let it roll off your back like you have for years. 

"I got pumpkin, apple crumble, and some pecan. They usually sell out of that." You say. 

"Ooh, pecan," the man, Andy, says. 

"Oh, Andrew, my younger daughter," your mother introduces you as an afterthought as she goes to wash the gravy boat, "The typist." 

"Typist? Mom, I'm an admin assistant," you counter. "I guess it doesn't matter." 

"Just her, I'm afraid," she shuts off the faucet. "And her pies. No grandkids from her yet." 

You see that this year is going to be just like the last. You're better off facing the rabble of aunts and uncles waiting for you in the front room. Heck, the kids' table might be the place for you. 

"Thirty this year," your mother adds. 

You force a tight-lipped smile. When you were a kid, it was your grades or the stubborn bit of hair at the back of your head or that your sister, Tia, did it better. Now you're an adult, it's your lack of ambition or lack of kids. You don't think you lack the former and you don't really want the latter. Life is what it is. You have a job that pays your bills and you don't need to add to your cost of living. 

"I work with your mom." He offers. You look at him again. 

He’s tall, blue-eyed, distinguished. He’s older but carries it well enough. The thin lines around his eyes only add to his looks, and his thick beard further defines his jaw. 

"Oh, the law firm?" 

"He's a new partner," your mother preens. "Oh, he gave your brother some good advice too. Hopefully he can move out of that public office soon enough." 

Right, Rodney does everything right. He got into law, just like your mother told him too, and he has a pretty house and a pretty wife and three spoiled brats. Tia only has the one and a husband who works out of town every weekend. They're real grown-ups but to you, growing up seems boring. 

Your life isn't glamourous. You do diamond art or catch-up on the last issue of your favourite comic when you're not too tired. You get takeout once a week, otherwise you put the ready-made meals in the microwave and eat it in front of the television. It's not special but it's your life. 

"Public defenders do a service to the community," Andy says. "I did it for twenty years. It's not bad work. He can move up." 

"Mm, and yet you moved to a private firm," your mother challenges him. 

"Maybe you should be partner," he chortles at her playfully as he wipes his hands on the tails of the borrowed apron tied around his torso. 

"My mom makes really good stuffing," you say, "I'm sure you'll enjoy it, even if you're not home for the holiday." You drag your feet along the tile, "I'm going to say hello to Auntie Toya." 

"Good luck. She's in one of her moods," your mother tuts. "Must be menopause." 

You leave before she can aim another snipe in your direction. She can't help but let the bullets fly and see where they hit. It might be thanksgiving, but you're struggling to find much to be grateful for. 

🍂

"Mandy has a Christmas recital. I'll be sending the invite in the family chat," Tia, your sister, proclaims. "If you can make it, she'd be so happy, huh, sweetie?" 

She pets behind her daughter's ear and makes her giggle. Every awes and cooes at the little girl. Just like when your sister was her age, she's the princess of the family. 

"I can try to bring the kids," Rodney says. "We're thinking to get Kelly into dance next year. I need to get used to those things." 

Everyone laughs. You're not very amused. You're happy the kids have hobbies, that they are doing interesting things, but you just don't care that much. Still, your happy to be able to fade into the background. 

"I'm sure your sister can make it," your mother says, bring you back into the universe, "she doesn't have anything else going on." 

Your eyes dart back and forth. Your mouth is full of potatoes. You gulp painfully. 

"I can set the date aside. I still have some vacation left," you choke out. You can't make up an excuse with a whole audience to call you out. 

You sink back into silence as Tia goes on about the show. They're doing The Nutcracker. Oh joy. You were never a fan. Why can't they do something fun, like The Grinch? 

"Don't think I'm included in that invite," Andrew says under his breath from your left shoulder. As the two loners at the table, you're put together. "Kinda awkward." 

He chuckles, trying to ease the tension. You shift and hide your embarrassment. You forgot there was a complete stranger here to witness your judgement. 

"Right, well... I'm sure you have enough going on," you say. 

"I'm sure you do too," he pokes at the yams. "Kids keep you busy but life is already hectic." 

"Sure," you agree dully. You don't want to be rude. "you have kids?" 

"One. A son. Grown. He went to his girlfriend's for the holiday and his mom... is not in town." 

"Bad timing," you take another bite of potatoes. Maybe next year you can come down with a timely case of the flu. 

"Don't be silly. She doesn't have a boyfriend. We'd all know," your mother trills with laughter. You pop your head up as the hairs on your neck tingle. You know she means you before you even catch her gaze. "It'd be such an achievement, she'd have to shout it from the rooftops." 

You lost track of the conversation and you're not sure how you became the butt of the joke, but you're tired. It's supposed to be a day for family but it just feels like you're being cast out of yours. You put your fork down. 

"I'm going to clear my plate. Think I had too big a snack on the drive here," you stand, gritting back your irritation. "As usual, stuffing's delicious." 

You get up and make your way along the table. The silence is dense. Oh well. If they want to make this painful, you can do the same. 

You go to the kitchen and find a container. You scrape your leftovers into it and shake your head. You suppose you are behind. You're thirty years old. Next year you'll be thirty-one and her chiding will be even louder. The ticking of the clock will only ger worse as the years go by. 

"You're right, stuffing's good," Andy says. 

You wince and glance over your shoulder. "Uh, yeah. Like I said, think my eyes were bigger than my stomach." 

He comes up next to you and rinses off his plate, "well, I think my stomach would be turning too after that." 

"It's whatever," you shrug. 

"Thirty isn't old. You got time," he says. 

"Thanks," you reply tersely. 

"Not that it's any of my business." 

You're silent. It isn't but you're not going to be rude enough to say that out loud. Unlike the rest of your family, you can keep your thoughts to yourself. They might think you're immature because you're not living behind a white picket fence, but at least you don't act like a teenager. 

"It's better to take your time. You know, you rush into big decisions and you can't undo them. They don't always turn the way people promise," he says. "You follow that road map, take one wrong turn and you're wife's spending Thanksgiving with her 'work husband' at a hotel." He opens the dishwasher and wedges his plate between the metal, "Work husband, secret boyfriend, you know..." 

You're struck by the revelation. You can hear the tension in his voice. The hurt, the anger. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," you utter dumbly. 

"You're sorry? She isn't," he reaches for your plate and rinses it next. "I'm not telling you because I want you to feel bad for me. I guess I'm trying to commiserate. It could be worse." He adds your plate to the washer, "you're doing nothing wrong. Being alone means you have choices. Being tied to someone... you have obligations." 

"Yeah, sounds about right," you say. "Well, thanks. Not to benefit off your pain but yeah." You put the lid on the tupperware and sidle along to put it in the fridge, "I think I'm going to get some fresh air. Getting a bit overcrowded in here." 

"A little," he agrees. 

You leave and hold your breath until you get to the front door. Who knew the stranger at the table would be the only one to make you feel welcome? 

You grab your coat from the guest room and push your feet into your boots at the front door. You go outside into the brisk air. It's actually nice. Refreshing almost. 

You sit on the porch bench. In the colder months, it's rarely used. It hasn't snowed yet but the frost glistening on the grass is foreboding. 

You tuck your hands into your sleeves and look along the street. The other houses with yellow windows, glowing with the warmth and shadow of happy families. This time of year has only ever been stressful to you. You're never a part of the fun, you're usually the source of it. 

The front door opens and you fight to keep your unease under wraps. You don't need your mom lecturing you. Again. Or Tia telling you not to be jealous. Whatever happens is always your fault. 

"Whew, it's cold," Andy's voice eases your nerves as it assures you it isn't who you fear. 

"Yep, I don't mind. It's the only thin I like about this time of year." 

"Really?" He nears and sits on the other end of the bench. "I'm a summer person, I guess. Used to be we'd go to some resort for New Years." He says. 

"Sounds nice," you say. 

"I know. I'm moaning about a luxury," he scoffs, "trust me, I get it. I got it all, what do I got to whine about?" 

"I wouldn't say that. You never know what people have going on." 

"Nope," he agrees and rubs his hands together. He's quiet as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs. He bends and unbends his fingers as he examines them then sits up again. "Brrr. Only good thing about this weather, snuggle weather." 

He laughs. You try to. It's an awkward joke. 

"Maybe I should get a cat," he suggests. 

"Maybe," you clutch your hands tight. You should go inside. You know he's being nice but he's ruined the moment. 

Your teeth chatter as you take a deep breath of the late autumn air. Just a little longer before you go back. You close your eyes. 

The bench creaks and you think he's getting up. He must get the hint. Instead, as you open your eyes, you feel a weight across your shoulders. You flinch and peek at him from the corner of your eye. 

"You're shivering," he says. 

You look at him then back to the road. You should pull away but you can't. It feels mean. 

"God, my hands are so cold," he grips your shoulder as he puts his other hand on your thigh. 

"Woah," you catch his thick fingers. 

"Come on, let's get warmed up," he breaks through your resistance and rubs your leg. 

"Alright, I don't know what you think--" 

"What's so wrong about it? Like trains passing through the night. My wife's cheating, you're single, we could have some fun," he purrs as he holds you against him. 

"Um, no thanks," you grab his fingers again. "I'm flattered but--" 

"Shh, shh," he peels his hand away from your leg, once more evading your grasp, and grabs your chin. "Your mom told me all about it. How you can't get a date--" 

"That's not--" you latch onto his wrist, "stop, please, Andy." 

"Come on," he turns your head and nuzzles your nose with his, "I'm so fucking lonely. My wife hasn't touched me in over a year." 

"Your wife-- Andy," you hiss. 

"Just kiss me, please? That's all I want. Just a little affection. To feel wanted." 

"You're-- stop. Let go of me," you try to dislodge his hold on you. He's too strong.  

He tilts his head and presses his lips to yours. You murmur and slep his chest with your other hands. He hooks his arm around you as he angles you toward him. You writhe and bite his lip. 

He gasps and pulls back, keeping you locked in his embrace, "listen, sweetheart, you wanna play hard-to-get," he squeezes your jaw until you whimper, "what's mom gonna think when she catches you all over her married coworker?" 

"No, that's not--" 

"I'm sure she'll believe you," he snarls and slides his hand down to your throat. 

"Why..." you croak. 

"Baby, please, it's not a bad thing," he moves you with him as he edges off the bench. He turns, one arm still around you, his other hand locked onto your neck. He bends and forces you onto your back as he settles over you. "I'm going to make you feel just as good as you make me feel." 

You wriggle and whine. What he says is just as scary as what he hasn't said. He'll make you feel as good as you do him, or as bad.

[brian-in-finance]

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Sinead O'Connor at her home in County Wicklow, Republic of Ireland in 2012. David Corio/Redferns/Getty Images

Caitríona Balfe, Michael Stipe and more pay tribute to Sinéad O’Connor

On Wednesday, as the news of Sinéad O’Connor’s death broke, many celebrities took to social media to pay tribute to the music icon.

As reported by Irish broadcaster RTE earlier in the day, O’Connor’s death was confirmed by a family statement. No cause of death was immediately available.

“I hope you are at peace,” actor Caitríona Balfe wrote on her Instagram page, adding “and with your baby boy. Thank you for sharing your soul with us and soothing us with your incredible voice beautiful Sinéad.”

O’Connor contributed her vocals to the opening credits of Season 7 of acclaimed series “Outlander,” in which Balfe stars. The actor’s mention of O’Connor’s “baby boy” was in reference to the singer’s son Shane, who died by suicide at age 17 in 2022.

Michael Stipe, famed REM singer-songwriter, simply wrote on Instagram aongside a photo of him with O’Connor that “there are no words.” Stipe has spoken about how much he was influenced by O’Connor, telling the Washington Post in a 2020 interview that “so many people have lifted from her, from me to Miley Cyrus. She’s one of our great, living icons.”

Belinda Carlisle, lead vocalist of the all-girls 80s rock band The Go-Gos, wrote “may she find peace now. Forever loved,” on her Twitter page on Wednesday, while singer-songwriter Melissa Etheridge wrote on her page that news of O’Connor’s death “is such a tragedy.”

“What a loss. She was haunted all her life. What a talent,” Etheridge continued. “I remember my first Grammy show meeting this small shy Irish girl.”

The Cranberries – who lost their lead singer, the Irishwoman Dolores O’Riordan, in 2018 – shared a tribute on their official Instagram account, writing that they “are shocked and saddened to hear of Sinead’s sudden passing. We have all been big fans for many years. Our thoughts are with her family.”

Shirley Manson, lead singer of Garbage, posted in honor of O’Connor to the band’s Instagram page, writing, “I’m heartbroken.”

“This disgusting world broke her and kept on breaking her. Godspeed dear fragile dove,” the post continued. “Thank you for all the beauty and all the wise teachings you offered up to us. I wish you nothing but peace and I will love you for all of time.”

O’Connor’s contemporary Annie Lennox shared a poem in the late singer’s memory on her Instagram, beginning it with, “You bared your soul… | Shared your brilliance | Through exquisite artistry”.

Oscar-winner Jamie Lee Curtis penned a lengthy tribute to O’Connor on her Instagram page, saying, “I once heard Sìnead (sic) sing acapella in an empty chapel in Ireland. It was under construction at the private home of our host. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“I loved her. Her music. Her life,” Curtis added, going on to reminisce about the time she spent with O’Connor at a music festival.

“Sixth Sense” actor Toni Collette also shared a personal memory with O’Connor, writing on Instagram, “I was lucky enough to hang out with her a few times in my twenties. On one occasion we all sang in the hills of Wicklow in Eire. I sang a Jane Siberry song and Sinead then asked/encouraged me to sing one of my own. Can you imagine the terror? The intimidation? The thrill?!”

“She was so talented, so generous, humble, resilient, courageous and true,” Collette continued. “What a voice. What a force. My heart breaks.”

Beyond those in the arts, O’Connor’s impact was felt in her home country of Ireland.

“What Ireland has lost at such a relatively young age is one of our greatest and most gifted composers, songwriters and performers of recent decades, one who had a unique talent and extraordinary connection with her audience, all of whom held such love and warmth for her,” Irish president Michael D. Higgins said in a statement sent to CNN.

“May her spirit find the peace she sought in so many different ways,” his statement concluded.

CNN

Remember… you bared your soul… shared your brilliance through exquisite artistry. — Annie Lennox

[thesinglesjukebox]

POST MALONE FT. BLAKE SHELTON - "POUR ME A DRINK"

In a red solo cup, perhaps?

[3.22]

Ian Mathers: Barring a couple of minor signifiers this does not sound like country music; it sounds like the theme music for the most excruciatingly boring sitcom the "golden age" of ad-supported network TV ever produced. [0]

Taylor Alatorre: I don't know why Post would risk nationwide schadenfreude by carping about a close Cowboys loss, only to forgo regional specificity in the very next line by mentioning I-65 instead of I-45. I guess the thinking is that Texas pride doesn't sell as well as a denuded Southern or heartland identity -- except that Beyoncé and Miranda Lambert exist, and Twisters managed to spin box office gold out of its Oklahoma mythmaking. I stand by my prediction that F-1 Trillion was not going to be a Kid Rock re-enactment, because Kid, like him or not, never laid himself under the Nashville hydraulic press to this extent. In his heart, Post has to know that this isn't the only way, that real country boys are out here doing collabs not only with out-the-mud rappers, but with Underoath and A Day to Remember and the meme dude from Attack Attack!, that the stars were aligned for this project to be something other than replacement-level. His overriding desire to Become Product leaves all such options greyed out, which, under a more generous light, could be viewed as the self-sublimating act of a humble pre-Renaissance artisan. Ego death in the service of the ultimate tailgate, sponsored by Raising Cane's. [4]

Will Adams: If the prominent Bud Light placement in the video isn't evidence enough of this song's hollow center, consider how the cynicism in both Post's and Blake's performances is already apparent even before the dozens of bowl halftime shows they will undoubtedly be booked to play this at. [2]

Al Varela: Guess I should have expected that Post Malone's foray into country music would just be a trojan horse for Nashville to pitch their usual fare to a mainstream audience. I'd be more irritated if I didn't begrudgingly really like this. A lively fiddle and sweeping organ alongside Post Malone's expert chorus craftsmanship is an easy way to win me over with even the most generic country radio slop. Blake Shelton and Post Malone have like, no chemistry together but you know what they sound good on the hook so I wouldn't turn down that drink from either of them. [7]

Nortey Dowuona: It's good to see some, just, well,  know their place. On an unrelated note, where is my cranberry canape? [0]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: To my great regret, I must note that I was unfair to Morgan Wallen a few months ago. As I heard it — nearly every time I went outside this summer, all up and down the west coast — "I Had Some Help" grew on me, an unwanted song of the summer affixing itself like a parasite to the various systems of my mind. I cannot be quite convinced that it's good but I likewise cannot be made to hate it; the strange chemistry between Post's reedy, saintly fuck-up and Wallen's honking misanthrope turns the song into a diptych far more compelling than originally intended. Case in point: Blake Shelton absolutely does not have the juice here, sounding for all the world like someone's uncle doing karaoke to a Blake Shelton song. Without an interesting foil, the entire Post Malone country enterprise capsizes; the guy seems pleasant enough but as he ambles through these verses my patience for his schtick erodes quickly. [3]

Alfred Soto: When Miranda Lambert made the grisly mistake of thinking she could spend her life with Blake Shelton, his glass-eyed mien gave the game away. She had married a streetlight that would never know the pleasure of a dog pissing on him. In this standard it's-5 o'clock-somewhere thumper he makes Post Malone sound like George Jones. [4]

Jel Bugle: A straightforward country song about typical country music things -- drinking and travelling about, drinking too much, and the need for another drink. A kind of escapism. [6]

Katherine St. Asaph: I cannot imagine this playing anywhere that alcohol is served. [3]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]