#Short Form

[princess--af]

my thank you - a.s

thought I would try something new. I don't write short-form often; only if I can't think of how to extend something. i finished ACOTAR in a stupidly short amount of time and am making my way through TOG and CC... woe be my love life.

"I feel like our roles should be reversed," you groaned, tightening your grip on the sheets when he slipped a third finger inside of you, the feeling of his scars delicious against your most sensitive areas. "You should be the one on your back."

"This is what I want as my thank you." Azriel was hovering above you, free hand cupping your cheek, forcing your gaze back to his every time you threw your head back in pleasure. "Keep those pretty eyes on me, hmm? Can you do that for me?"

You nodded, fighting the urge to squeeze your eyes shut when he slithered down your body, nipping at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs when he had finally positioned himself between your legs. "Keep watching, my love."

Azriel's gaze held yours, the beautiful hazel that you love almost invisible with his blown out pupils. The male winked at you before his tongue darted out to collect the wetness that was steadily dripping from you, tongue catching on the rim of your already stuffed hole. "This is my new favourite place to be," Azriel groaned, eyes flicking from your wide ones to your pussy, watching you pulse around his fingers, sucking them in greedily when he threatening to pull out even slightly. "Gods, you're perfect."

You let out a breathy laugh which quickly turned into a moan when he turned his attention to your neglected clit, rolling the sensitive bundle of nerves between his plush lips.

"Fuck Azriel, you're going to be the death of me," you sighed, untangling one of your hands from the sheets to run your fingers through his hair, pulling roughly when he moaned against you, the vibrations sending delightful tingles through your core. "If you keep doing that, I'm gonna come."

"You say that like its not what I want," he mumbled against you, teeth scraping ever so slightly against your clit and making your toes curl. "I want you to come so many times that you forget your own name. All I want you to remember is the feeling that only I can give you."

[alittlecreecher-blog]

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆Change⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

A/N- I recommend the song Change by Big Thief.

Hope.

It had led him into danger too many times to remember. Across planets and galaxies, walking the tightrope between freedom or death.

It had, eventually, led him to her.

After everything he had done, with all he had lost.

He stumbles onto the platform, the pain from his wound blurring the edges of his vision. The only thing in focus was Jyn, standing in front of Krennic, a man who had taken so much from each of them. Pulling the trigger had never been easier.

She rushes forward, stepping over his body, pulling the lever to transmit everything they had fought so hard for.

The robotic voice above sounded out like an angel.

“Transmitting…transmitting…”

Had he ever felt so conflicted before? To see her smiling at him, to know they had succeeded? To balance that with the worry that anything could go wrong?

She stumbles, limping, her eyes trained on him. Under his shirt, his wound pulsed painfully as he held the blaster on Krennic, and it wasn’t until she had reached him that he dropped his arm and took hold of her. Relief, evident on her face, dropped as quickly as it had come. Turning alight by her rage, she pushed forward towards the man who had taken her entire childhood from her. Everything she had ever craved. Her father, a home, stability. But he knew that whatever she could do in these final moments, it wouldn't quiet the pain within her, so he didn't let go. Instead, gripping tighter to her small wrist.

“Hey! Leave it, leave it!”

He pulled her near, watching as the emotions played out over her face. He had felt this pain before, knew how it could swallow you whole if you let it.

“That’s it, that's it. Let’s go.”

He hoped that above them, someone had received the plans. That this final fight for everything he had ever believed in did not go unnoticed.

“Do you think anybody's listening?” he asked, as they struggled to walk. Their arms wrapped around each other to balance their weight.

She grips his wrist firmly, holding him against her, as she trudges forward. He isn't even looking where he's going, though, only seeing her. She huffs, lips taunt in thought, and then smiles.

“I do… someone's out there.”

They reach the door, and it slides open with a beep.

“Come on,” she urged.

Time slows as they lean against each other, their bodies supporting each other's weight. They had done it, and even if just for a moment, hope had won within him. The thrum of relief shared in the space between them, the weight of their connection. Is this what the force felt like? This pulling and pushing, alive in the very breaths he struggles to take? Gods, she is beautiful.

Does he have the time to think like this? Before dying, does he have enough time to admire her? Her green eyes, the crook of her nose, and the curl of her lashes.

Had he known, in some way, he would die like this? At the end of an unsanctioned mission, thoughts of rebellion on his mind. He had always let himself become involved, riding the ship until it crashed, like any pilot would. To say he was dragged along would be a disservice to every choice that had led him into this burning moment.

He thinks about the blaster scar on his shoulder and the force healer as her cryptic words glaze over his mind. Did he complete what he was supposed to? Did he carry enough? Atone for all the times he had been a coward?

They stare at each other as the elevator slowly takes them down, their noses only inches apart. She smells like blaster residue and sweat. Her lashes are wet with tears, and sparkling in her hair are small pieces of glass. As the mechanical doors slide open, the pieces catch the light like stardust.

Stardust.

He thinks of her father sadly, of his fond name for her. He wonders how she would’ve reacted to hearing the many nicknames Maarva gave him as a child. Does she drink? Talk in her sleep? He’d like to dance with her, in a darkened bar with lively music. Or maybe she'd like to sleep late and wake to the heavy rain he had become so accustomed to on Yavin. He thinks of how many parts of her he doesn’t know as they walk across the sand, dropping close enough to the water to hear the whisper of the waves.

The horizon is coming to greet them. A fiery wall devouring everything in its way.

Luthen was right, as much as it pains him to admit that. It was better to burn brightly than not at all. This would be a good show. Let the galaxy watch them burn, add their name to the long list of Imperial sacrifices. Kenari, Ferrix, Aldhani, Ghorman, Jedha. They would be remembered.

The sand is warm and soft under his palm. He struggles to take a breath in the thick air, heating by the second. With the sun hitting her, she looks like an angel. Her hair full of stars.

“Your father would've been proud of you, Jyn.”

He means it. It’s freeing not to tell a lie. To not have to worry about layers of information, interwoven into everything he says.

She smiles, weaving their fingers together.

Jyn

The thrumming aligns. The doors open between their minds, and he can feel, suddenly in a familiar ancient way, that he knows her. That he has always known her. Like he has always known rain or sunshine. Didn't he laugh with her as a child? Cry with her, abandoned and alone again? When his mother was taken from him, wasn’t it her soul that coiled around his? He knew her now like a friend, a sister, a lover. He doesn't take his eyes off of her, scared to lose or waste a second of his final moments.

She reaches across to him, and finally, his arms have found their home around her shoulders.

Tucked against him, he speaks to her in Kenari, soft and firm.

“Eu itt estou vaquik… eu itt estou vaquik… ”

(“I am with you…I am with you…”)

His heart is beating so heavily he can feel it through her chest. The explosion is deafening now, and as he squeezes his eyes shut against her neck, he can feel the force humming around them.

He feels only a flash of the burning before everything is swallowed by the infinite.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

When Cassian opens his eyes, the beach is gone. The wall of fire is replaced by peaceful rain, and the air is breezy and cool. The hammock swings just like his own at the base. Yet, he knows instinctively that this isn’t Yavin, that everything that had occurred had already passed, and he was safe. He was remembered; he felt it in the force surrounding him. From behind him, a voice speaks from a doorway.

“Glad to see you’re awake, Kassa… You did so well, my little fox.”

Maarva’s voice was young, free of pain, and strong. And when he turned, he saw her, the woman he had only ever seen through a child's eyes. His mother, in her red dress, was smiling at the door of a home he hadn't seen in years.

“Mama?”

Her last words to him, carried through Brasso, had been held tightly to his heart for years. And now… she was here, in front of him, arms wide.

“You carried on so well, Kassa, come inside for dinner.”

Laughter seeps out of the warm doorway, and without fear, Cassian entered knowing he would be home inside.

When people had spoken to him about death, he had never thrown in an opinion on what lay afterwards. Melshi didn’t believe in the force at all. Brasso thought they all reincarnated, swapping lives until everyone had felt every experience. But Bix had always believed in a heaven with no suffering.

Of course, she would be right. She always was.

Dinner was filling in a way it hadn't been in years, and the room was warm with body heat and laughter, his father clasping his shoulder firmly with pride over his many stories. His sister smiled beside him, her hand wrapped around his birth mother's. No longer was he alone over his meal; his grief had been left at the door like a heavy coat.

And when they had eaten their fill, he had rolled up his sleeves to wash each dish in the warm water. Each plate is like a prayer answered.

Gently, his mother ushered him off to the side and out a side door under the cover of the canopy, leaving the small house behind him. She smiled, soft tears rimming her eyes, and kissed his hand, slowly dropping it as he walked forward. There was no feeling of loneliness here, no thick barbed wire around his throat, no ache in his shoulder. As he walked, the sound of his family laughing guided him forward.

The rain pattered around him, the trees thickly lining the walkway, two moons shining brightly above. As the sound of home began to fade, he began to hear the sound of booming laughter rise.

Melshi was leaning back in his chair, the purple wine in his glass sloshing onto the floor, tiles sprayed across the table. Brasso turned from the corner, a cold bottle in his hand that he raised, winking at Cassian.

Around him, familiar faces, many he recognized from his last days. Individually, he made eye contact as he walked past the villa. Some smiled, others raised their glasses. He was looking for someone, and he knew that here, there was no rush. Later, he would challenge Melshi to a round of dominoes. He would drink amongst friends and reminisce about escapades gone by.

As his walk continued, he listened to the bugs sing around him, and the gentle rain slowed to a stop. The covered walkway ramped down onto a beach, and the purple sky above was covered in stars, none of which he recognized.

She would be here soon enough; all he had to do was walk, and when she was ready, like no time had passed at all, they would be together.

The sand under his toes was light and cool, and he slowed sometimes to pick up the beautiful shells hiding in the tide. He stopped to admire the waves as they curled into themselves and then released.

“Do you always wait for me?”

The voice behind him was hers, smooth and strong. His Jyn.

Here, the force was strong enough to see, like the bioluminescence of the waves or the magnetic fields of the sky, and he watched as soft colors danced around them as they gathered closer. Smiling as he responds.

“I think that I do… You seemed familiar before, but now… now I am certain. You are known to me.”

She is close enough now to press her forehead to his chest, feel the resonant beat of his heart.

“You are known to me, too, Cassian.”

Their souls were intertwined, an unknown number of lives prevailed before them, and in each, they orbited each other. The tension they had felt, the trust they had exchanged, it all made perfect sense now.

Wrapping his arms around her, he pressed his lips to her forehead. Letting himself truly hold her was like a balm to his soul. It allowed the pain of the beach, of their short lives, to wash over him like a wave, and then, with the pull of the force, leave him with a sense of understanding. In their next life, he would see her again, maybe even have more time; they were tied together. Forever balancing the forces around them. But for now, while they were here in this plane of in-between, he wanted to make up for lost time. He had known her soul for so long, but his mind, what he knew of her story, was strictly bound to his past life. They'd had such little time before. She speaks before he can form a sentence.

“I’ve missed you.”

He laughs. Laughs until tears fall down his face, and are gently brushed aside by her soft hands.

“I have missed you, too, Stardust.”

Until they are returned to the wheel of life again, they talk, and sleep, and listen.

Just as they have in between every life before.

He discovers how she got the small scar across her forehead (she had gotten into a bar fight at 17, had her face slammed against the table). That she loves to dance, but doesn't know how. He reveals what life was like in the prison on Narkina 5. What his favorite food is (Kaadu skewers).

The time spent moves infinitely fast, but only feels as long as they wish it.

Friends, family, enemies, and lovers. Cassian knows now how the strings of force connect them all. And as he lies next to her, he hopes for many things.

He hopes to have more time with her in his next life.

He hopes that Jyn's father will get the chance to see his daughter grow up.

He hopes he will live in an age of peace, and that if he must fight again, that Jyn would stand beside him.

The list continues as he drifts to sleep.

Heaven's plane is a force-filled cocoon, a rest for the soul's journey in between. What happens in a second will continue into an eternity. All that is, has been, and will be.

The wheel will turn, different souls in different skins, struggles rehashed until every lesson is learned and balance is achieved.

Heaven for Cassian is his mother's library, his father's presence, and his friends gathered in laughter over drinks and games that last through the night.

Heaven is Jyn’s warm embrace and casual conversation, the answers to every question freely given. It's the force, balanced and welcoming, for everyone to enjoy.

Heaven is hope.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

AN- Hi! I am incredibly depressed about not being able to watch Andor anymore, and I'm having a resurgence of the JynCassian ship, so this is that.

For the moments I wanted Cassian to speak Kenari, I just kind of made it up, I couldn't find anything that helped me with direct translations, so after some research, I found out Kenari is a blend of Portuguese, Spanish, and Hungarian (Magyar). Just kinda blended phrases with that in mind.

This is my first fic, so please don't burn me at the stake, I just want them to have some peace and happiness after all he sacrificed.

[forcefem-octahedron]

i need someone to forcefem me, and then i forcefem them, and then we cuddle :3

[wikipediayuri]

[hiimakward]

Oh god oh fuck oh no

[silly-goobr]

Yeah shortform content is destroying my attention span and subscription based online services are bad or whatever but idc honestly. I’m just a girl trying to be happy and survive and have fun with my friends and stuff

[gothcroissant]

that time that I told the CEO of youtube that short form video was ruining my life.

[lysenfeu]

Devil in the Details •Part 1•

Captain John Price is pushed to extreme lengths to make up for his massive failure in the field.

Rating: Mature

Eventual John Price x F!Reader

1.1k Words, Slow Burn, Drabble/Short Form Writing

CW: Angst, Grief, Dark themes, Mentions of death, Supernatural

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The mission was a catastrophic failure. Everything went wrong and John made it home by the skin of teeth, barely alive and the only one left. The boys, his boys, were gone. He knows it should have been him, not them. He should have been dead and buried in that desert and his boys gotten home safe. They didn't deserve this ending, they had so much more to live for. But not anymore, their promising careers and futures were cut short because of him.

The brass put him on leave, didn't even ask him about it. Just ordered him off base for a few weeks, doubled it when he wouldn't put the whiskey bottle down long enough to make it into his office. He fucked it up and now he's stuck here without them. Broken and alone, haunted by ghosts of the men he let down and lost.

He won't accept it.

Can't accept it. There needs to be a way he can fix this. To turn back time, bring them back, whatever it takes. His duty wasn't really to the military, it was to his team. And as long as he still lives, that duty will remain.

There must be a way.

So he spends his time reading and researching. Trying to find a way to solve this problem. That's what he does best, solve problems. And what's three bodies in the ground if not a fucking problem? He latches on to anything he can, no matter how farfetched, that promises him salvation. He chases thin threads of information, whispers of rituals and summonings, things that grant wishes at a cost.

Finally, he gets restless and goes out hunting. Trawling occult shops, new age bookstores, antique dealers, anywhere that might have more information or the tools he needs. He ends up in places he shouldn't, asking questions he really shouldn't. He's mostly met with concerned glances and cautious half-answers. But the shopkeepers politely dodging his requests for more and more obscure and dark texts doesn't deter him in the least. Eventually, some indulge him. Tell him fanciful tales of beings with immense power, ones that have control over life and death. Creatures that can grant him his deepest desires, for a price.

He knows what he needs to do.

One day, he gets lucky in a little pawn shop a town or two over, with a flair for the spooky and macabre. The owner found the book in a box of junk they sourced from an auctioned-off storage locker. It was stuffed between fake crystals and low-quality bone jewellery, the lot worth almost nothing. The owner thinks it's just a prop, a total fake like the rest, but they knew Price was willing to pay for this type of thing so they gave him a call. John's there in less than an hour. He opens it, thumbs through a few pages and cracks a smile for the first time in weeks. He thinks this might have the answers he needs.

With a plain, unassuming cover of simple brown leather and various stains (he's very much hoping are tea) on a number of the pages, the whole book is scrawled top to bottom and front to back with messy handwriting in a variety of inks. Drawings break up the text, sketches of different plants and flowers mixed with carefully labelled diagrams showing various shapes and runes in different configurations. There has to be something of value here.

The pawn shop owner is getting antsy about his purchase, so with a strong poker face and some pointed mentions of military discounts, he deftly haggles his way through the transaction and rushes home with his new acquisition.

He flies into his study the moment he arrives and dives into the book. It's well-preserved and filled with notes, John quickly learns the author has a fondness for herbs. After a hundred pages of interesting but not quite useful information, and about a dozen too many sketches of different stalks of mugwort, he's falling back into that despondent mood that seems to increase by the day, the smile long since dropped from his weary face. He's nearly done flipping through the entire thing when something catches his eye. Right at the end of the book, there's a nearly empty page. It contains only a single detailed sketch and a handful of words in blood-red ink.

His heart starts to race as he stares down at the images. A picture of a circle sits in the middle of the page, containing a twelve-pointed star with several tiny smaller symbols on each point. Some are easy to decipher, there's a sun, moon and skull drawn quite clearly. A dagger and a scroll, perhaps that one might be fire or a very odd-shaped leaf, sitting next to a set of horns. The rest are just scribbles to him and he frowns at the unfamiliar pictures.

There's one image larger than the others sitting in the dead centre of the star that he easily recognizes as a set of scales. There's something about them that makes him stay and linger, unable to pull his gaze away. He brushes a hand over the ink and a tingle runs down his spine. The scales glitter faintly under his touch, trying to draw him in, and he suddenly knows what he needs to do.

A small smile finally returns to his face.

This is it.

This is how he'll get them back.

Adrenaline is pumping through his veins as he pushes himself up from his chair and races to gather supplies. He pays no mind to the text at the very bottom of the page, too eager and overwhelmed by his discovery of the ritual circle to take heed of the single sentence in large block letters.

“DANGEROUS - DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SUMMON”

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(Part 2)

[crypt-exe]

The gentleness of caring

Event: Angstpril 2025 by @chaos-company Prompt: Day 2—Chronic Pain Fandom: Boku No Hero Academia | My Hero Academia Ship: Bakugou Katsuki x Todoroki Shouto | TodoBaku Rating: T Tags: Reincarnation AU, dreams of previous life, chronic pain, domesticity Beta: @sysiumblue

The nightmare that Katsuki had was familiar, but so much worse than usual. Dark views of someone that looked surprisingly like him in a tight shirt and cargo pants and fighting someone a lot bigger than himself. And then, he felt the heat prickle through his veins, before the big boom that he could feel in his wrists. The bones felt like shattering, but they were kept together by a sheer force of will from his body.

Those dreams are how he tries to explain away his wrist problems in day-to-day life, because no doctor could ever find an answer. Nobody knew why he’d be feeling the pain that he was.

He felt a shift in the sheets next to him a few seconds before Shouto’s head popped out from under the mountains of blankets he swears he needs. His eyes immediately fell to where Katsuki was massaging his right wrist. The dreams always made the pain more pronounced.

Without saying anything, Shouto gave him a kiss on his temple before climbing out of bed. Katsuki knew that it was to get all the creams, tapes and guards he always adorned Katsuki with to survive throughout the day.

They didn’t need words for this ritual anymore, Katsuki just hoped he could probably show his appreciation for Shouto the way the love of his life deserved it. But, that brought up the pod of guilt Katsuki always felt after the dreams. He couldn’t tell Shouto. That they always fought. Almost to the point of death. How Katsuki had died at some point.

That even less than lovers, they were sworn to be enemies by trade.

Shouto padded back into the room in his too-big pajamas, and sat cross-legged next to Bakugou. It took him back to when they were just in High School with Shouto in front of his books in the very same position. Tongue sticking out in concentration. 

And Katsuki’s chest squeezed knowing that Shouto put the same effort into his care as he did into his studies, his work, everything that had ever been important to him.

Shouto gingerly took Katsuki’s right wrist into his hands and started methodically massaging the inside with deep heat cream before putting on a compression band, securing the wrist guard and fastening it to where he knew Katsuki found it comfortable. With his left wrist, Shouto used sports tape to tape out a makeshift guard. After each turn, Shouto placed little kisses on Katsuki’s wrists; the warmth felt like it would burst out of his chest. He couldn’t care about the position they were in, or the fact that Shouto felt insecure about morning breath most days. Katsuki took Shouto’s face into his hands, letting his thumbs trace out his husband’s face under his own calloused fingers and finally pulled Shouto close enough to kiss him.

Shouto gasped in surprise, before pushing back into Katsuki, and when they pulled back, Shouto had a light flush spreading over his cheeks.

“Good morning, icy.” Katsuki’s voice was still gravelly with sleep and Shouto only sighed and leaned his forehead on Katsuki’s shoulder, drawing closer and relaxed in Katsuki’s embrace.

Yeah, Katsuki didn’t care what happened in the dreams, because they didn’t include this. And this, right here, was everything he wanted from the life he was living. 

[therosehunter]

Tentative Ties & Tea

“He has a right to be peeved at all of us, to be honest. I just feel…very blessed to be here, back home, in the Spring Court. I can’t ever undo everything, but I’m trying. All of us are.”

Feyre glanced out at the field beyond them and her eyes zoned out. Her fingers twitched at her side. Where Rhysand’s voice used to control her, now there was just nothing but a deep gray silence. A tiny tug on her skirt brought her back to the moment and she glanced down at Nyx, whom Tamlin had shapeshifted to resemble her, not his bastard father. An echo of a smile traced her lips. “At least there is some proof that darkness fades…”

@springcourthighlady

[ruthwritesalot]

The Adventures of Randy the Roast Chicken: The Pickle Jar

PSA: This story has been translated from German. If you speak German, I'd recommend you read the original

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“RANDY!” yells Hans.

I run to the kitchen. Standing there is Hans, in front of an open cabinet door, looking horrified.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, concerned.

“My pickle jar is gone!”

“FUCK.”

Hans’ pickle jar is holy to him. It was gifted to him by his ex soccer coach from his teenage years. Yes, Hans played soccer when he was a teenager. He was that kind of guy. Luckily he stopped because he had a lightbulb moment and realized soccer sucks. Still, the pickle jar has always stayed incredibly important to him because he had a crush on his coach at the time, and the dude gave it to him while crying and explained that he’d spent months making it himself.

“Are you sure it’s gone?” I ask as sensitively as I can.

“YES.”

“FUCK.”

We spend the rest of the day going through the whole apartment, but the pickle jar really is gone.

“Someone must have stolen it!” Hans says despairingly when it starts getting dark outside.

“But what kind of person would steal a pickle jar? What kind of person would steal a pickle jar out of our apartment?”

“No idea, but we’ve been living here for a year, and I still get the feeling, that there’s so many things I don’t know about roast chickens. Maybe they love pickle jars! Or maybe it’s not even a general roast chicken thing, maybe one specific roast chicken just desperately wanted this specific pickle jar!”

I sigh. “Yeah, you’re right. Okay, we have to try and remember what chickens have been in our apartment lately.”

We spend all night making a list. It ends up containing many of our friends, which is why we agree not to tell the story to any of our friends just yet. We take the list and make our way to the roast police. The roast police isn’t like the police that humans know of. The main difference is the fact that they always treat every roast chicken, no matter if they’re perpetrator or victim, roast chicken or roost chicken, with roast chicken rights.

Wie strike up a conversation with a roast officer, who tells us she’ll investigate everyone on our list. Naturally, we come along.

The first doorbell we ring is Lola’s.

“Where were you yesterday evening between six and seven o’clock?” Roast Officer Kay asks.

“What?” asks Lola. “The fuck is going on here? Randy, what happened?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you. We both promised to keep our mouths shut,” I explain.

Lola rolls her eyes. “I swear, I really don’t know why I’m friends with you two. I was at home, watching a movie.”

Kay makes a note of this.

“Do you have any more questions? If so, please hurry,” Lola adds.

“I do, actually. Have you ever stolen a pickle jar?” asks Kay.

“Um… no?”

“Okay.” Kay writes down another note and then turns to Hans and me. “Who’s next on the list?”

I get it from my pocket. “Maya.”

“Vamos a la Maya.”

“Vamos a la Maya.”

We march on.

Maya is in her garden.

“Hey Hans, Randy, Kay,” she calls to us.

“You already know Kay?” Hans asks.

“Nah, but Kay’s name is on the uniform.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot.”

“Maya, where were you yesterday evening between seven and eight o’clock?” Kay asks.

“I was out with my group,” Maya explains.

“Your group?” asks Kay.

“Yeah,” answers Maya.

“What kind of group?”

“Just like, my group.”

“And what were you doing with the group?”

“Hot girl shit.”

“Hot girl shit?”

“Yeah, we always do hot girl shit. Every Wednesday at seven thirty.”

“Ah, I understand.” Kay makes a note of this. “Can we perhaps talk to someone from your group so to get a confirmation of your story?”

“Sure, I’ll call Johanna.” Maya holds her phone to her ear for half a minute before putting it down. “She can’t right now, she’s doing hot girl shit.”

“And the others?”

“Them too.”

“Okay.”

Next we go to Klaus. He opens the door and stares at us. We stare back. The thing about Klaus is that you could spend hours looking into his eyes. If there’s anyone for who the sentence ‘the eyes are the window to the soul’ is actually true, then it’s Klaus.

“Um… can we maybe have a look around?” Kay finally asks.

Klaus stares at us. We stare back.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says and moves aside.

We go inside. We look around. The pickle jar is nowhere to be seen.

“Klaus, did you steal a pickle jar from Hans?” asks Kay.

“Nope,” answers Klaus.

We go back outside.

Hans is very sad.

“It’ll be okay, we’ll find your pickle jar. I promise,” I try to comfort him.

“But what if we don’t find it? It’s the only thing I have left from my coach?”

“We’ll find it, even if we have to search the entire roast universe,” says Kay. “I’m an expert in things like this, and I almost always find the things I’m searching for.”

Hans looks at Kay with a dash of hope in his eyes. “Really?”

“Really,” says Kay and smiles.

We head to Margaret. The door is open so we just go inside. She’s sitting at the table in front of a Bunsen burner. And over the Bunsen burner…

“My pickle jar!” Hans yells and tries to pick it up, but burns himself in the process. “FUCK! MARGARET, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING WITH MY PICKLE JAR AND A BUNSEN BURNER?”

“I wanted to see if it would melt,” she answers all chill.

Hans looks like he’d like to have her beheaded. “MELTS? MELTS? YOU WANTED TO MELT MY PICKLE JAR?”

“Okay so it wasn’t really about your pickle jar, it was about a pickle jar. I’ve melted lemon jars, orange jars, apple jars, mango jars, zucchini jars, blueberry jars, tomato jars, lime jars, banana jars, raspberry jars, cherry jars, bean jars, corn jars, carrot jars, pepper jars, mushroom jars, potato jars, blue cabbage jars, salad jars, cauliflower jars, red cabbage jars, broccoli jars, spinach jars, chard jars, clementine jars and pea jars before, but never a pickle jar. They’re really hard to find for some reason. That’s why I was so excited when I saw one at your place.”

Footnote: In the German language there are two names for red cabbage: Rotkohl in Northern Germany and Blaukraut in Southern Germany. The reasons for the different names is that the ground in these areas has a different pH value, causing the plant to be either red or green. In the story, this has been translated as Margaret speaking of blue cabbage and of red cabbage. They are, however, exactly the same thing.

“AND YOU JUST-“

“Hans,” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Come on, there’s no point.”

I take a potholder and pick up the pickle jar, then Hans and I head home and Kay goes back to work.

The pickle jar has now been put in an absolutely secure glass display case in our kitchen. If the glass gets broken or something, an alarm goes off. Hans is very happy with this, because he can now always keep his soccer coach who he had a strange relationship with in mind. And I’m happy because Hans is happy.

[v-dah]

parasite that spreads itself through kissing. the host's thumb is under your chin, tilting it upwards to meet its mouth, other hand around your waist, strong enough to crush but delicate enough to hold. you are not strong enough to fight, its grip around your waist too strong. there's no asking, and the host's lips are on yours, long long long tongue forcing its way into your mouth, warmth and slick down your throat.

you feel the walls of your throat instinctually closing, gagging, trying to force the intrusion out. there's sweet saliva being fed to you, pumped down your throat with dizzying efficiency. until there's no more gagging, no more struggling, just the pleasant buzz of utility and purpose. you are part of a whole. before, you were a lone puzzle piece. the host's hands around you recede, its tongue gently slides back up your throat, disappears, and you almost miss its presence inside you. but you know there are important things to do now, like showing everyone else how wonderful it can feel to submit.

[forcefem-octahedron]

notice: you're trespassing on my blog

*taps the sign*

"TRESPASSERS WILL BE ENSNARED"

:3 ?

you do realize that i'm a giant octahedral estrogen pill, right? if you ensnare me, i'll dissolve myself and you'll be souped up on our most potent feminizing hormones~

[wrenqreed]

CORIOLIS BONUS 2

Moscow January 11th, 1964 Solomon Marie’s body was found today. It washed up in the harbor last night, ridden with Lacrima Vitreous, enough that she was nearly unrecognizable. She still had her bracelet, though; the Harbormaster recognized it easily enough that he could alert the Usher before the clean-rot went too far, or the death made it to the papers. I find myself sitting in front of the lamp, penning this with my finest ink, uncertain why I bother trying. You haven’t responded in eight moons, not even to Miska, much less Julian or I. I’d long stopped asking our patron what you do with those late nights in Berlin, and each time I suggest a visit to House Brandenberg I am swiftly shut down. Julian knew long before I did that you were gone. Though I don’t wish to speak for him, he used to cry out about your abandonment over dining every night; I’ve kept the porcelain from the plates he smashed over our arguments, in case they hold some of his calor incursus. But now, I only see him staring at the water, and I realize that none of this was ever a fight between us, but one against you. In other words, I am unsure why I’m writing this letter. ‘I wish for forgiveness.’ You would give me none, and I know that. ‘I am angry.’ Perhaps, but it still isn’t right. I’ve torn apart three letters already and I still cannot find the right words, though I can feel them squirming through the burrows of my soul. I’ve concluded that this will be my last letter, even if I am aware Julian and Miska have both stopped writing already. I think the only reason I ever did was because, if I stopped, it’d feel like the end. You would be gone forever and there’d be no recourse. Even our patron could not change the past; I know they would if it were possible. This is my goodbye. As I’m sure you’ve noticed by this point in the letter, I’m enclosing my last shipment of oshadhi, hand-picked and stained with my unique calor. There will be no more liqueur-life grown in our home, not unless Miska takes up the art. This is to say, I am going West. I think I shall look for a new start in some place small. Small enough that, unless I were hunted to the end of Coriolis, I could never be found. I am not sure where I will go yet, but I am certain that I’ll know the place once I fall upon it. Julian made mention of moving westward, too, perhaps to the northern side of the Americas, and perhaps I shall join him temporarily. Goodbye, Solomon. I fear what has happened to you ever since you passed through the Threshold, but I am finally reckoning with the fact that I will never know. Burn this letter once you are done with it. Lelie

[cherryralts]

Albums I Love: Three Cheers For Disappointment

New post is up! Albums I Love: Three Cheers For Disappointment

What a first (and last) statement! I’m a huge sucker for ska music. If you were to force me to listen to one genre of music for the rest of my life I’d be bumping third wave with no issues until my heart stopped; but if there’s one album that’s stolen mine, it’s this one. The brainchild of Jeff Rosenstock and his band of Long Island buddies, The Arrogant Sons of Bitches were known primarily for…

[mournings0ul]

So who else migrated back to tumblr?