#Rose Square Box Lid

[ferretandpangolinorigami]

Rose Square Box Lid, Square Box Base and Triangle Box Partition

by Tomoko Fuse

Origami Gift Boxes, pgs. 59, 61, 63, 65, 102

[dark-frosted-heart]

Roger Barel Main Route - Chapter 17

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this. I’m doing this for archiving purposes and you can probably find a better translation out there.

(Farewell, Roger…)

A gunshot was heard.

Red scattered before my eyes like rose petals.

—The man in the black hood who held a gun to my head fell to the ground.

(Huh…?)

One by one, the other men fell to the ground. Through the gunpowder smoke, I saw—

Kate: …Ro…ger.

Roger: Kate, you hurt…?!

Roger ran over and cupped my face in his hands. He stared at my face before running his hands along my body, checking for injuries.

Roger: Your arm’s bruised from when that guy grabbed you, but it’s not broken.

(...It really is…Roger)

Roger: …Kate?

When his eyes returned to my face, the tension within me snapped.

Kate: …Roger, Roger…

I clung to his shirt and buried my face in his thick chest.

Roger’s large hand patted my back, the warmth of it making my heart ache.

Roger: …That was scary, wasn’t it?

Kate: …It was…Ugh, I couldn’t…

Roger: That so.

His calm voice soothed my heart, and when he held me tight, I felt happy to be alive.

Nica: Ah, you lived. So, did you shoot them all? You’re a very merciless doctor, aren’t you?

(...Why is Nica)

Jude arrived after.

Roger: Look here, only missed a vital spot on one.

Nica: Ah, he’s close to death, no?

Jude used his foot to tilt the face of the man suffering from a gunshot to the leg up.

Jude: You’re gonna spill everythin’ ya know.

Man in black hood: …If I’m going to get killed anyway…

The ground instantly turned red.

(...)

The man lied motionless, as if drowning in the blood gushing from his neck.

Nica: Ah, he died before we could get him to spill anything. Too bad, we lost a valuable source of information.

Jude: …Tch, ya kill then run away by killin’ yourself. Disgusting.

Roger: …Kate, don’t look.

As I stared at the corpse in a daze, a large hand blocked my vision.

My face was pushed against Roger’s chest and I found myself being lifted up.

Roger: …Let’s go home.

All I could do was give a small nod in response as I tried to hold back the emotions rising within me.

--

After taking all the kidnapped youths back home and returning to Crown castle, Roger saw to my swelling wrist.

By my feet, Ale ate away at his reward meal.

(Why did Roger bring me back to his room and not the lab…?)

But the moment I thought that, I had my answer.

(Ah, I see…I was in a dark place just then, so he’s trying to make me feel less scared)

Roger: Oh right, Kate. See that square door on the floor there?

Kate: Square door? …Ah, there really is one!

While rubbing an ointment on my swollen wrist, he nodded over to the handle sticking up from the floor.

Roger: That’s actually a hidden door—Leads directly to the basement lab.

Kate: Wow! I didn’t know!

Roger: Wasn’t originally part of this room when Victor gave it to me. I made it.

Kate: …You made it? So you just made a hole in the floor…?

Roger: Yeah, if anyone finds out, I’m gonna get a good tongue-lashing. It’s a secret between you and me.

I couldn’t help but laugh at Roger’s own mischievous smile.

Kate: Pfft, ahaha…Geez…Just how much do you value efficiency?

Roger just smiled and, as if to shut the lid on something scary, slammed the medicine box lid shut.

Roger: …You’re finally starting to return to normal.

(Ah…I laughed…)

Roger: Alright, I’m done treating you. You should get some rest.

(I’m only able to laugh like this because of Roger’s help)

As soon as my stiff expression relaxed, I felt all the fear and anxiety slowly melt away.

…Now there’s just the guilt in my heart.

Kate: …-ry. I’m sorry, Roger…

Roger: …? I’d like to hear a “thanks”.

Kate: Sorry…

Despite what he wanted, all I could do was let out my feelings of guilt.

Roger: …Kate?

Kate: At the time…I wanted to kill them. But…My finger, it wouldn’t budge.

They were sinners who have killed, and Crown would have condemned them without any hesitation.

(...I knew that, but still hesitated to take a life)

(I was scared)

Kate: So…I ended up…

Roger: Ended up?

Kate: I ended up…making you kill those people.

Roger: …O_O

(The sin should’ve been mine to bear)

Roger: Kate, though I’ve never killed in front of you, it’s not my first time. So what you’re fretting over is— 

Kate: But…there’s no way you get used to killing people?

Roger: …

Kate: I told you I’d get strong, and I’ve been doing my best, but… But…I’m still weak…

(I couldn’t even run up to and hug Roger on that rainy day)

(I want to be able to support Roger, who’s trying to be strong, even just a little bit)

But I’m still as weak and pathetic as ever.

Roger’s always been the one supporting me.

Kate: Roger, I’m sor…

I couldn’t get the rest of my words out.

Because Roger’s lips had taken my breath away.

Kate: …Ro…Mnnn

Roger: …

When I was about to part my lips to speak, they were sealed again, entwined tongues snatching any thoughts I had away.

Before long, wet sounds could be heard from our lips.

Kate: Mnn, nn…nnn

(My mind’s gone numb…I can’t say anything…)

Anything I was about to say had melted away with the heat of the kiss.

But being hugged close to his broad chest and receiving kisses, as if telling me “that’s enough”—It felt as if all was forgiven.

When our lips finally parted, Roger’s face was so close that I could barely focus on it as I stared.

Roger: Kate, I’m glad I got there in time to shoot them.

Kate: …Huh?

Roger: I’d have to live with leaving you with a permanent scar if I let you kill someone. I’m glad you didn’t kill…Also I’m glad you’re alive, partner.

Kate: Part…ner…?

Did you just say partner? +4 +4

Don’t spoil me.

Am I still your assistant?

Kate: Did you just say partner?

Roger: Partner comes after assistant, doesn’t it?

However, I looked down, unsure if I qualified for it or not.

Roger: I know you were desperately fighting against your own fears to protect the others that got kidnapped. You stood there to protect them instead of yourself. I don’t think someone who fights for the sake of others is weak…Hence the promotion.

Kate: …

And so Roger has saved my heart again.

He allowed me to be myself and cheered me up with a smile of encouragement.

(...I was trying to not cry because I didn’t want to look weak)

Kate: …Uuuuuu

Roger: Oh, what’s up? You’re groaning.

Kate: …Huhu…

Roger: Ah…you’re trying to hold your tears back.

Kate: B-because…You’ve acknowledged me as your partner…I’ll ruin it if I cry.

Roger: Pfft…

Roger burst into laughter.

Kate: Besides, I know my crying face makes you happy.

Roger: Pfft, ahahahaha! You…You’re really…

You’re so damn cute!

The moment I was allowed to expose my weakness, the dam burst and tears spilled out.

Kate: W-waaahhh~ Roger you bully!

Roger: Ahhh, you’re crying. So cute. Pfft, haha…

As expected, Roger smirked as he stared at my face, but…he held my hand the entire time I cried.

(I said I’d never confess because I didn’t want it to be unrequited)

(But I admit it. I like Roger)

(I fell in love with this person)

Roger: When you’re done crying, let’s go out to eat. Your treat.

Kate: I’ve been promoted to partner, so you should treat me…Hic…

Roger: Alright, alright.

The next day, after having a delicious meal and beer with Roger and feeling so happy to be alive—

I visited Victor’s office to report on the incident.

--

Kate: Excuse me.

Victor: Yes, enter.

William: …

When Victor gestured for me to sit on the sofa, William, who was already sitting there, smiled at me.

Victor: First, I would like to apologize for putting you in danger.

Kate: Why are you apologizing? It’s my fault for being cautious. I’m really sorry. And thank you for saving me.

Victor nodded silently and I could see the sympathy on his face.

I was told that he sent out teams to search other locations as well when I got kidnapped.

(Everyone was worried about me…)

I bowed deeply again to express my gratitude to them.

William: Kate, with the criminals dead, your testimony will be an important lead. But speaking about it will be like digging up old wounds, so we won’t force you.

Kate: If any information I have will be of use, then I’ll tell everything I can. This is also part of my job as Fairytale Keeper.

—I told the two everything that happened.

Victor: It seems that the criminals were working for someone that wanted the bodies.

William: Your testimony has helped narrow down who they were. The criminals who kidnapped you—they’re a group of funeral directors.

Kate: A group of funeral directors?

William: As the name suggests, they’re a group of people who conduct funerals as their occupation. It seems that they realized the value of corpses, and started doing evil.

Victor: This group must be condemned. No exceptions. And now—Here lies a problem.

Victor’s cold voice caressed my cheeks as he spoke.

Victor: Just who was their employer? They were someone who instilled enough fear for them to prepare corpses and commit suicide.

William: …Fear isn’t the only method to control others, the reverse is also possible.

(The reverse…?)

I didn’t understand what William was muttering to himself.

Victor: We’ll take care of the rest as we’re already investigating it. I won't let this continue on—Absolutely not.

--

Roger turned toward the sound of the door to the basement opening.

Roger: …Ah, Kate. Just—

Alfons: Unfortunately for you, it’s Alfons, not Kate. These documents here are from Victor. At any rate… It’s quite unusual for a man with hearing as good as yours to mistake one person for another, isn’t it?

Roger: Kate’s the only one that comes down here these days.

Alfons: Speaking of, did you know? It has been almost a month since Kate has become Fairytale Keeper.

Though he knew that, some sort of surprise arose in his chest.

Roger: Yeah, it’s...already been a month. Time flies by when you get older.

Alfons: So, how is there any progress to proving that romantic love exists?

Roger: You could say that there’s still not enough research. —However, there’s one thing I noticed.

-

Another cliffhanger :D

[wmarximoff]

𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: you return home after being kicked out of college - your father is not happy, but your stepmother certainly is.

warnings (18+): smut, very light somnophilia hints, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving), stepcest, unspecified legal age-gap, mommy kink, heavy mommy issues, sizable daddy issues, drinking, smoking, praise kink, certain amounts of angst, bad parenting, breastfeeding. MINORS DNI.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 4k

A/N: and the whole writing about stepmom!Wanda thing is getting worse…

masterlist.|

༺ᱬ༻

It was a sunny late afternoon, warm on the skin underneath your clothes, when you took the lighter close to the cigarette that appeared between your parted lips and ran the surface of your thumb across the spark wheel, creating the necessary ignition for the ember to flicker and ignite the tip of that little white cylinder, which blinked like a firefly down your nose tip.

Your sense of smell captured an emanation of wholesome, sour, idle odor – an act of teenage rebellion turned into a noxious addiction. A puff of thick white smoke rose from your nostrils. Someone gave you a crooked look when you sighed in heavy smoke.

You were sitting on a wooden bench under the shade of a long-standing oak tree in the middle of the small green square of the city, which sheltered you in the shadows of its ancient branches, in the surroundings of the structure of the white wooden gazebo that could well have been there since the fifties; the small convenience stores spread all around, the people staring at you because they all knew your fate – what your return to Westview represented, the flaw in the perfect family picture.

Everyone in town knew your parents, your father and stepmother, Jarvis (Vis for those neighbors who were more superficially intimate) and Wanda, and so your name was thrown to the wind with totally disconnected intonations to the public admiration assigned to that couple, typical small-town good samaritans – you spray-painted a billboard or got caught by the sheriff drinking in front of the gas station convenience at just sixteen years old, even though you never bothered to hide your petty misdeeds in none of these cases.

It had been a week since your return, seven days had passed that very morning. The short drive back had been as quiet as it could be – a few hours, no more, objectively and adamantly quiet to the core; the well-trained ear would just catch the sound of the asphalt sliding under the well-heeled car's tires, vibrating and petulant, icy air being expelled from the air-conditioning in cold puffs against the warm skin of your face, in a swath soon under your chin.

You followed, solemnly, your tired eyes behind your heavy lids, as the melancholy houses passed by the gloomy panorama presented in that small suburban town, sweet little houses with buttery walls and windows with wide open light cotton curtains, all surrounded by meters of pointed low wooden fences standing close together in lavish, sweeping rows in front of well-trimmed green lawns and behind neat sidewalks and vibrant trees.

You weren't born in Westview , in the heart of New Jersey, but outside in the neighborhoods of that city where all the smallest details had throughout your early life were derived – at the height of your simple ten or eleven years of age, overwhelming in an air of rebellion for an orphaned child of a resigned mother and lacking the affection of a disinterested father, that was the location chosen by that man as a starting point of the unusual life of him as a newlywed, at the time, with your stepmother Wanda Maximoff, pushing for suburban life patterned within the traditionalist mold of a square box, as socially anachronistic as it gets.

Jarvis Stark was a reserved and rather austere man, after all, an old-fashioned thinker, a classic political liberal and an unyielding conservative – abandoned by his first wife with the eldest daughter he didn't know how to raise, a father of three, the breadwinner, a proud Republican voter. And you were, then, the twenty-year-old daughter, the eldest failure, who was asked to withdraw from college because your grades were worthy of nothing but shame and stoning in the public square.

So you believed that only conformism could soothe you out of your succinct attachment to the reality which you found yourself, deeply enraged and dangerously bored, somewhere on the fine line that separated these two opposite poles of mood from ego. The car swerved around a corner, your childhood home looming into view at the end of the street. Westview, always the same, never different. So you sighed, a heavy, icy sigh, lifting and lowering your chest inside the baggy shirt you'd pulled over your head hours earlier.

Sighing was the little you could do, but perhaps it could be a prudent way of expressing your discontent with the current situation around you when Jarvis parked the car in front of the family home, Wanda's well-tended rose bushes rising into the front yard in a polychromatic vortex of blood red color.

The window of your old room upstairs looked at you gloomily as if it didn't want to welcome you back – nobody did, after all. And you looked at it as if you could stone it, with all the hatred worthy of a child that no one ever wanted to harbor wrapped up inside an adult body barely rigid to the touch.

“Y/n,” your father's dictatorial voice echoed into the silence that filled the vehicle, his pale cerulean eyes behind the lenses of his thin-rimmed glasses staring only at the leather steering wheel, irises hard with fury, never turning back to your figure sitting on the bench next to him.

“Before we go in I want one thing to be clear here, Y/n. I’m not kidding. You're not a child anymore, though you're still behaving like one, and I'm not going to treat you like one. I'm going to treat you like an adult, because that's what you are now. The playtime is over. I will no longer tolerate this type of behavior on your part.”

There was a silent pause, not long enough to give you the go-ahead to come up with a response to that man in the cashmere blazer and dark turtleneck blouse, a philosophy teacher who was dissatisfied with the denial of his academic career that had confined him eternally to the position of high school teacher.

“You're going to have to grow up. Do you even understand what that means, at least? Nothing is free anymore, the world is not going to be kind to you, and neither am I. Tomorrow you will look for a job and while you are living under my roof until you can support yourself, you will have to contribute to the household expenses and follow my rules. No more drinking, smoking, being up late or loud music, all of that is over now. If you want to have a bed and food on your plate inside my house, you will do it my way. Did I made myself clear, Y/n?”

And then Jarvis looked at you with the recognition of a father thundering in the circle of his blue irises, but the kind of father who doesn't much like to acknowledge that you are the kind of child he made, that his strict upbringing backfired and culminated in an as unserviceable adult as you could be, a reactionary time bomb in all the splendor of your young-coming-of-age as irresponsible and immature as you could be.

“Did I made myself clear, Y/n?!” he repeated, because his answer was silence. Eyes staring back at him as a result of the upbringing he gave you, your icy breath misting inside the car.

“Crystal clear, Dad,” cynicism crept under your tongue, spitting bitterness between your teeth. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of taming your fury like an angry dog gagged at a muzzle – you never have before, after all.

That man stared at you for a single broken second as if he was going to stuff his tight nostrils to say anything, but he didn't, not in the way he could have said it. He just unfastened the seat belt across his broad chest and looked straight ahead again, stoic, ever so categorical and impassive.

“Fine,” said Jarvis, then already leading his long, bony right fingers to the doorknob, “And while you're here you're going to obey your mom and help her with the housework. This is an order, Y/n. I don't expect less than that.”

There was no opening for an answer as he then got out of the car and closed the door behind him with a hollow thud. Your eyes burned the back of the café-au-lait-colored blazer your father wore on his tall, skinny body with a vaguely British bearing, and a whisper that only your ears caught was said in the icy air inside the car.

“She’s not my mom...”

Stepping out of the car into the sweltering heat of a small town was an act at least fueled by the humiliation that weighed on the muscles just above your shoulder blades, your head hanging down with gravity in a vague impression of cowardice – on the contrary, however, since the poison running through your veins was of pure yellowing fury that compelled you to crease your brow. It's been a week, and you still haven't found a job, and your dad still doesn't lock eyes with you. Not that it mattered. It didn't matter, he never did before.

The afternoon sun hid behind the hills in the distance, and night fell like a veil over the small-town square. Conveniences closed their doors and you started walking. Going back to your childhood home depressed you, but you knew that in time it would stop bothering you. Going back to the childhood home where your father lived with his wife and his other children was what made an unpleasant impression on your nerves.

Especially when going up the three measly white painted wooden steps of the porch that led to the main entrance door of that family residence, with the night also coming the sloppiness worthy of a soul so enraged that only a young girl kicked from the university could contain within herself.

Your father's car wasn't in the driveway, and your younger half-brothers, the twins, were nowhere to be found or to be seen – not on the sofa in front of the television, not a single whiff of two ten-year-olds coming from upstairs. Only she was there, gracefully seated on the dark linen sofa, sipping expensive wine, as red as the roses and her fingernails and her long, glossy locks, in front of the television that was flashing some old program she liked.

Wanda Maximoff, your father's wife, your brothers' mother. A pair of eyes with emerald irises that blinked green in the low lights of the room and crossed their path with your figure standing in the doorway. There was the hint of a tentative smile that was stopped halfway when Wanda looked at you.

“Oh, hello dear, are you–” you looked at her when she did too, “Y/n?”

And something intrinsic to the red core of her soul just unraveled the complex puzzle expressed in the muscles of your face (call it maternal instinct or just taking the time to really pay attention to you), as she promptly discarded the glass of half-drunk wine onto the coffee table in front of the sofa and then leap to her feet, only to cross the living room towards you, like an angel coming to your rescue when all the world around you seems to be in pieces, crumbling and falling. Wanda always noticed you. Wanda was always there for you when no one else in the world was.

“Y/n,” her low voice called out to you, so imbued with warmth and affection, the only person to ever say your name in such a cordial and specious way that it just made you want to hear that word slip past her pearly lips again and again.

“Y/n, honey, is everything okay?” green eyes peered into you before twitching her dark brows, such a sweet expression on such a handsome face, such prominent cheekbones.

“Did you go out for a smoke? It's been a while since you left. And you didn't even let me know before... you only act like that when you're upset, honey. Is everything okay?” a complacent hand of hers reached for your fingers, holding them in a warm, gentle touch, “You know you can talk to me about anything you have in mind, Y/n.”

“I know,” you pursed your lips into a contrite line, Wanda looking into your sleepy eyes and your smell of cigarette smoke, her left thumb stroking the skin on the back of your right hand, “I know, I– I'm just... sorry, I'm... I'm just tired. I'm tired as fuck… Mama.”

“Oh, my baby,” Wanda whimpered, “It's okay, it's okay... my poor baby, Mama is here. Mama is here for you. Come here, honey.”

And then Wanda pulled you into a hug. A long hug, protecting your stepmother's body, her arms encircled around your shoulders, crimson-dyed nails caressing in soft touches the nape of your neck. Your right cheek rested against her left collarbone that poked beneath the thin white wool sweater Wanda wore across her torso. She was warm and comfortable, as only a mother could be – she smelled like a mother.

“It's fine, baby, it's fine, your dad and the boys are out. It's alright, Mama will take care of you my sweet, beautiful girl. Come on, let's go to bed. You need to relieve your stress, honey. Let Mama take care of you.”

And you were feeling her, her figure lifted against your cold body again as it always should be, roaming your nose through the warm strands of orange in a shade of red hair half auburn, the tousled strands exuding an exotic and distinctive dry shampoo scent on an invisible background of freshly applied hair dye. You in your stepmother’s arms, with a hint of cigarettes and the purest melancholy you were sinking into.

She held you as she had that first time, even a few years before that, when you staggered drunkenly down the driveway right after your high school prom night – the inside of your mouth tasted stale, wrinkled, the insides of your cheeks numb, a rudimentary bitter taste flooding the length of your pink tongue, oozing through your teeth the heat of the sly alcohol that chained you in a catatonic state of chronic sickness, numbing down your feelings.

And Wanda, like a good, worried mother never being able to bring herself to fall asleep next to her husband who was snoring in their bed upstairs, not letting her spirits cool down knowing that her eldest child was out and the clock was already past three o'clock in the morning at that point, was there waiting for you. As she had already done so much and so much more she would have to do, Wanda looked at you from the sofa when you opened the door, dragging your heels in soft steps into the house.

“Where were you?” was the first thing the low tone of voice across the room did reach your drunken ears, a pair of verdant irises burning holes in your forehead, “The deal was until midnight at the latest, Y/n. It's almost four o'clock in the morning! I was worried sick about you!”

The world around you was like being on the deck of a fishing vessel in a storm on the high seas, confused and treacherous, ready to engulf you in an eternal sullen, salty darkness. From beneath heavy lids, you glared at Wanda with brazen scorn leaking from your irises.

“Fuck you.”

“…What did you just said to me?”

There was a second of silence. You had to place a sinuous hand on the wall near the left side of your body to force yourself to continue standing during the afterglow of dawn, since, drunk as a skunk, cheeks as red as two ripe apples, eyes lost – you didn't even had an idea what you were talking about.

“Fuck you,” you repeated under your breath, the words as bitter as the alcohol pooled in the corners of your mouth cavity, “You’re not my mom.”

And you couldn't even tell why you said it, words so disloyal and tormenting, raw and piercing, that the woman older than you just didn't need to hear that night – after all, Wanda was your mother in a way, the closest you've been to one since the woman who conceived, bore, and gave birth to you decided to pack her suitcases in the car and disappear one afternoon when your father was away.

But Wanda has always been there for you from the moment her figure became a constant presence in your life. Wanda was the woman who raised you, who gave you the first taste of a sweet maternal love, so discordant and confusing for your cognition worthy of an abused animal. Wanda was the first woman you loved because she was the only person who loved you back.

“I'm sorry,” you wailed in a limp lisp, becoming aware of the sharp pain in your stepmother's vexed brows, the disappointed hesitation in the wavering green of her gaze, “I'm sorry, Wanda, it wasn't my – it wasn't my… my intention–”

“It's okay,” her voice was low, carrying a grief-stricken weight, “You're drunk and I…I overreacted– I know it's not my job, I'm just your stepmo–”

“No,” you whimpered, shaking your head, your eyes filled with tears of confusion, “No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I– I'm sorry–”

“Y/n, it’s okay–”

“No, Wanda–”

And so you crossed the room quickly on your shifted ankles, your lack of motor coordination even reminiscent of a hesitant child staggering still learning to walk – your balance was internal, vulnerable.

“Wanda...”

You cried out for her, stepping across that plush rug to under the coffee table. Your arms raised, probed by the maternal touch that you were denied so early on, everything that you were deprived of and that you only sought to drink from Wanda until the last drop. She looked at you with affection, such an unfamiliar affection, her face too close. But your drunken brain couldn't even prepare you for the soft feel of the commission of your stepmom's peach lips, still tasting faintly of minty mouthwash, against your rough mouth that tasted like cheap beer and rancid blues.

You had kissed Wanda, because your body needed to have her close on an intrinsic level, to her core, as if you wanted to hide from the world within the amenities of her womb. And she kissed you back because she loved you, she always had, absorbing you with strong arms into her motherly warmth, giving you a security that alone you could never reach.

“M-Mama...” your lips connected again, in the living room of that house where only one family lived. And you laid her back on the sofa cushions where your brothers, her children, birthed by her, spend most of their day playing video games.

“Shh, it's okay, it's okay, baby,” Wanda whispered in a love sigh, one hand stroking the alcohol-warm skin of your cheek, you on top of her on those pillows, your heart pounding in your chest, the pride of a mother looking at you through green eyes.

“Mama is here for you, my little girl.”

Wanda pulled you down for another kiss, your knee vaguely brushing the hollow of her inner thighs, skimming against the thin pajama bottoms she was wearing. You apologized softly, stroking her where you could, where your touch reached, on her tummy rolls and in every graceful stretch mark that appeared in your stepmother's bulky silhouette on top of that sofa, with the family portraits hanging on the wall next to the stairs bearing witness to what you had to do. Calling her, reaching for her, for Wanda, for Mama, one being synonymous with the other.

What you did all summer of that year when your dad was away and your brothers were at some other friend's house, on the living room couch biting a pillow and at the kitchen table with her red nails dug into the crown of your head, on your bed of freshly laundered sheets and hers too, crammed with feminine perfume and the sweet red scent of her pomegranate moisturizer – Wanda on top, you on the bottom, she all on all fours, you behind her clamoring with your hips for what was yours, with an adulterine urge to be physically inside her innards at all times.

Even back home from the first semester of college that you already knew you would not finish, during the night when Wanda snuck out of her bedroom shared with Jarvis only to ride your thigh like an animal in heat, because she had missed you so much that her body ached.

“My little girl,” she said, “Mama has missed you so, so much, I can't bear the thought of being away from you, Y/n, please don't leave me again,” and the feeling was as mutual as it could be, because you also couldn't stand spending so much time away from an affection like no other ever felt by your empty and abandoned chest. You would always seek the motherly comfort Wanda had to offer to ward off your ills and soothe your spirits.

Even returning home after the failure of a dead academic life, your stepmother would always welcome you with open arms and legs – the sharpened ridge of red-painted fingernails digging into the thin skin above your shoulder blades, crescent-shaped marks piercing your flesh, marking you as hers, the headboard bumping in impassive rhythm against the wall, you rutting into Wanda's cunt with a silicone toy she had bought solely for your amusement.

“Mama,” you spit against the gleaming sweat from Wanda's throat, your hips bumping in wet slaps that echoed off the four walls of the room, your skin sliding against each other, “Mama, I love you, I love you, Mama...”

“Mama loves you too, baby,” Wanda moaned in a broken voice, “Mama loves you too. Mama loves absolutely everything about you, my little girl.”

You thrust that fake dick down her hole with a yelp of lustful satisfaction, a deafening delight, giving your stepmother's womb a rushing sense of pleasure. It was the height of belonging – being inside her, being embraced by her walls, feeling her loosen up internally to receive you all. It didn't matter that her wedding ring, placed on that finger by your father, felt so cold behind your back.

“Mama, Mama I– I’m gonna–” you growled, your brow furrowed, your hips crashing into hers in waves, your breaths ragged and shabby, your thrusts hard and sloppy, “I'm gonna come, Mama, p-please, please, Mama, Mama– M-Mommy! Mommy, I'm gonna come in you!”

“Do it baby, do it,” she smiled, so sweet and complacent beneath you, “Let Mama see your pretty face while you come, sweetheart. Come in Mama, give me all of you.”

Your clit was sliding frantically against the harness that circled your hips, and smelling her, feeling her heat, hearing her moans, was like an explosion inside your belly. You came – hot, strong, a red electric current inside your veins, running down between your thighs.

“Mama!” a squeaky little scream broke out of you, and from that open crack in your soul, the tears flowed down your face. Hot tears that dripped all over Wanda's sternum, mixing with the beads of sweat that exuded from her pores.

“Shh, honey, it's okay, it's okay,” a hand cupping your head brought you to snuggle against her chest, Wanda's heartbeat could be heard from the position you were in, your ear pressed to her skin.

“You did a great job, baby. You've let all your stress out. Mama is so proud of you, honey,” Wanda hummed, fingertips bent stroking your hair humid with warm sweat, “Do you want Mama's milk now, my sweet girl?”

You looked up from under your lids glistening from a silent cry, into her inviting eyes, “Can I…?”

Wanda smiled, “You know you don't have to ask me, sweetheart.”

You blinked once between lashes heavy with lust and tears before looking down at your stepmother's rosy nipple, which you brought to your mouth to close your lips on the circumvallation of it, earning a satisfied groan from Wanda.

With the twins approaching ten years old, there was no longer a single drop of sweet milk to be actually sipped, but something in the comfort imbued in that very intimate action, facing two naked bodies fresh out of the animalistic mist of such a carnal act, was enough for you to do it again and again, whenever you could, whenever she let you.

“That's right baby, that's right,” Wanda's melodious voice crooned, her fingers stroking a lock of hair close to the tip of your ear.

“Mama loves you, did you know that? Mama loves you so much, Y/n. No matter what others say about you, Mama is very proud of you, baby. You are my special girl.”

It was the movement that reconnected the two of you, bringing together two fragments of a shattered whole that, when put together again, made up a complete whole within Wanda. Consuming the human instinctual act, you both merged with a momentary perfection, a holdover of lustful nature during countless lapses of comfortable affability. A new hot tear trickled from the corner of your eye.

“Mama loves you,” Wanda repeated, one hand stroking the length of your back, “Mama loves you very much, my perfect girl.”

[zerobasekazuha]

Penguin pebbling (Afab Venture x Fem reader)

Warnings: None

Genre: Fluff

Sloane wanted to show how they felt to Y/n without actually saying it. They had been close to her for quite sometime and had always passed their feelings as strong because they were best friends. Not because they might have feelings for her. It took some time to come to that realization. Mainly because they didn’t want to ruin the friendship with how their body reacted to her.

They pondered day and night in their tent on how they could make it known in their own way how they felt without saying anything. At first they considered writing notes anonymously, however that idea was quickly shot down because Y/n can recognize their handwriting quickly. They thought of a few more ideas before getting frustrated and plopping down onto the air mattress that seemed to creek under their weight.

As Sloane rested on the bed with their eyes closed and idea hit them suddenly. A great idea in which they knew Y/n would have no idea in what it meant. They could give her crystals and rocks they find in the caves on any of their excavations. They had their own small collection of keepsakes but they wouldn’t mind giving her some. They stood up and grabbed their box where they kept all their keepsakes and looked over each one.

“Rose Quartz? Nah too cliché. Moonstone? Nah she wouldn’t like that either…” Sloane mumbled to themselves as they searched over each crystal they’ve kept there. Soon after they held one in their hand which they hadn’t done research on before. It was a rose red and still had its sharper square crystal corners. They searched up the description and sure enough it was called Rhodochrosite.

Upon more research it was used to stimulate love and passion in the soul. Sloane thought about it over and decided this was the perfect one. But they couldn’t give it to her in this raw form. They wanted it to be smooth like a pebble in the photos. So they spent some of the night fixing this gemstone until it was exactly how they wanted it. They packaged it up with this tissue paper and with a leftover gift box they placed it inside. It wasn’t brand new but it would have to do.

The next morning Sloane awake promptly at 10 AM. They were out to look for Y/n. Once they found her they tried to keep composure as they handed her the gift. They didn’t say much as they just stuck out the gift box to her as to say here take it.

“Uh..thanks?” Y/n said confused with how they suddenly gave her a gift. It wasn’t her birthday or anything so seeing this was surprising to say the least. Sloane tried to hide how embarrassed they looked as she opened the lid of the gift box. She seen a smooth stone in a deeper red color. She picked it up holding it within her hand.

“Sloane this is beautiful, where did you get it?” She asked looking at them and seeing how they had their cheeks a soft red color. It could be the heat. “I made it.” They said simply trying not to stutter. “It’s a gemstone right?” She asked trying to use her own basis of knowledge she learned from them. “Yeah, I thought you would..like it.”

From then on Sloane had been giving Y/n different gemstones in different shapes and sizes. Some ranging from a smooth round pebble to the raw stone itself. This went on for the next couple of weeks. And Y/n didn’t think anything of it. She found it sweet that Sloane was giving them gemstones they found.

However as time passed Sloane got more frustrated with how Y/n wasn’t understanding. They pondered over if they should just tell her or not. Everything in their body was telling them not to do it. But they couldn’t resist it. Everyday was like torture to them. Seeing her smile and laugh, feeling her soft skin when they hugged them. They suffered. They wanted no more than to just kiss her or do anything to make her feel like she’s on top of the world.

Eventually they mustered up the courage to try and tell her. One day they got up and texted her asking if they could hang out. She replied right away pretty quickly. And here they were, waiting slightly dressed up with flowers in hand. They had a small ponytail in the back of their head. Hoping they looked good.

But when they saw her it was like time stopped. They almost couldn’t believe they were going to ask her out. As she walked closer they tried to straighten themselves up and be strong. “Sloane what’s the occasion? You’re all dressed up.” She said looking at their outfit. Their button up was ironed as best as possible and they had black slacks on. They didn’t want to look too dressed up.

“I-I just..I love you!” They said before quickly covering their mouth. They didn’t mean to say it that quickly. They had an entire heartfelt confession and it was just thrown out the window because they messed up. “W-wait no that’s not what I-“ They stopped talking when they heard Y/n laughing. Was she laughing at them? They blushed darker and looked a little upset.

“Hey I’m trying my hardest! It’s not funny!” They grumbled as they averted their eyes from her. But after she stopped laughing and gently cupped their face. She used to be taller than them when they were younger but all the sudden Sloane grew up. “I’m surprised you didn’t catch on earlier. That’s why it’s so funny.” Hearing that they were confused. What did she mean catch on earlier?

“What?” Sloane asked looking a little lost. “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed how I felt for you. I’ve always felt some kind of way. I guess it could be love.” It wasn’t that she guessed she was sure. Though she tried to ignore it. And the more she did the more she felt for them. It was like a never ending cycle.

Sloane thought it was some sick joke. Was she telling the absolute truth? They couldn’t believe it until they thought back on every interaction. She always used to look at them a little longer, or even touch them for longer than she was supposed to. Then they wrapped their arms around her and squeezed her in a bear hug.

“So we’re like dating now?” They asked letting her go after a few seconds. “No you have to actually ask me silly.” Oh right. Sloane cleared their throat and held both of her hands. They wanted this to be dramatic but sweet at the same time. Sloane looked into Y/n’s eyes and took a breath. “Y/n I wanted to ask if…you would be my girlfriend? Or if I could be your partner?” They said proud of themselves for not stuttering.

Y/n melted because of how sweet it was. She nodded with a grin on her face. “Of course Sloane.” She said before kissing their forehead. Later on that night as Sloane laid in bed they looked over the meaning of the first stone they had given her. And for a second it seemed that it was true. Or maybe it could have been a placebo. Whatever it was they felt like a weight had been removed from their shoulders. And now that they got their feelings out that’s all that mattered.

Another banger out!!! Eventually I’ll put out a smut with cowpoke venture or maybe I’ll put out a smut with ice cream venture (I brought the skin I couldn’t resist) Any second opinion is welcomed for the next one^^

[wingdingery]

ohhhh i always have requests! quite fond of lil drabble ideas: bruce teaching dick to dance and (years later when they’re together) they recreating some of their first dances, slade being the one to gift dick his first leather jacket that he still regularly wears, An Event Occurs and in the aftermath dick realizes how irreplaceable he is to bruce and just how much bruce both loves him and needs him, bruce and dick’s undercover aliases that keep getting more and more romantic over the years

In Dick’s experience, returning to his apartment after a week away and finding a mysterious box on the coffee table that was definitely not there when he left is, usually, not actually a big deal.

He’s still careful—the little Batman that lives in the back of his head would never give him a moment of peace if he wasn’t—but he’s just very aware of the fact that, nine times out of ten, the not-so-little Batman is the one breaking in and leaving little treats for him to find later, because Bruce is deathly allergic to seeing people’s reactions to his gifts in real-time.

Dick runs through the standard checks, but nothing sounds or smells off, and nothing pings as suspicious on infrared or the particulate detector. He steps closer to inspect the box. It’s rectangular, all white, and generally unremarkable except for the fact that he didn’t put it there.

Carefully, he lifts the lid. He’s expecting some kind of gear—it wouldn’t be the first time a new suit or toys showed up unannounced.

What he finds is a leather moto jacket.

He gently lifts it out of the box and stares at it, bemused. It’s very nice—genuine Italian leather by the feel of it, black with silver hardware and diagonal pockets in the shape of a V, and just his size. There’s no note of any kind, but when he sniffs the leather, he also gets a whiff of maple and gun oil—and that feels like a signature in and of itself.

Dick pulls out his phone, dials in the number from memory, and sinks into the couch as it rings. 

“Happy birthday,” Slade says when he picks up, voice low and rumbling.

Dick suppresses a smile. “You’re late.”

“I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

“You really wanna know the answer to that?”

Dick bites the inside of his cheek and fiddles with the zipper of the jacket. They’ve been getting along all right ever since they’d been forced to team up on the cruise ship from hell, but still, a little plausible deniability goes a long way, between them. “How long ‘til I find out on my own?”

“Now that depends,” Slade says, drawing out the words. “You still talking to Rose?”

Dick blinks. “You were visiting Rose?”

“Something like that.”

“She shut the door in your face,” Dick guesses.

Slade grunts. “We can meet not at her apartment.”

“And she’s moving?”

“And she’s moving.” Slade doesn’t sound particularly annoyed about it, but then again, finding people who don’t want to be found is basically his job. Dick makes a mental note to see if Rose wants a hand making her dad’s life harder.

“So why the jacket?” Dick says, running his hand over the leather. It really is nice. He wonders where Slade got it, and whether it was paid for in money or blood. He probably doesn’t want to know.

“You complained I made you ruin yours,” Slade says. “Reckon we’re square now.”

Dick raises his eyebrows, even though Slade can’t see it. “I don’t remember doing that, but if I did, it had to have been, what… seven years ago? At least?”

“I’ve got a long memory.” It sounds vaguely like a threat, in Slade’s voice, but the jacket itself seems far from one, so Dick lets it pass.

“If you’re trying to make up for that,” Dick says, “then you’re really late.”

“You’d’ve thrown it straight in the trash if I ever tried before.”

“I could still do that.”

“You won’t.”

“Well, now I have to.”

Slade scoffs. “Go ahead. Would be a waste of perfectly good leather, though.”

The desire for knowledge wins out. “Where’d you get it?”

“Made it.”

Dick pauses, uncertain he’d heard correctly. When Slade doesn’t elaborate, though, Dick echoes, uncertainly, “Made it?”

“Wintergreen helped some.”

Dick opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Made it?

“Who exactly did you think made my first few costumes?” Slade says, sounding amused. “Not all of us have your daddy’s resources.”

It’s one thing for Slade to have bought him something; Dick can explain that away as just a whim—an act of opportunity, as it were. But Slade spending the time and energy to make it himself?

That’s premeditation.

“This isn’t a birthday gift.”

“I said happy birthday, didn’t I?”

“This isn’t just a birthday gift,” Dick presses.

Slade doesn’t respond, and Dick lets the silence stretch far past the point of discomfort. Still, neither of them hangs up. Slade may be a stubborn asshole, but Dick has been trained in the art of silence-offs by the most frustratingly stoic of them all.

Dick smooths out the collar of the jacket and straightens out the arms while he waits. Now that he’s looking closer, he can tell the seams aren’t the tidy stitches of a lifelong craftsman, but it’s impressive work, all the same. Work that must have taken a hell of a lot of effort. 

Finally, Slade breaks the rhythm of quiet breathing. “Whatever it is,” he says, “it’s yours now. Throw it in the trash if you want. Or don’t. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

It has everything to do with Slade, but the fact that Slade is insisting so hard that it doesn’t is both a little funny and extremely sad. Dick can recognize a fear of rejection when he hears it. 

Dick puts a hand on top of the jacket. “It doesn’t really make sense to give me this,” he says, “if you’re never going to see me wear it.”

Slade is silent for a moment, but not as long as before. “I’ve got time,” he says, slowly, like he’s leaving space for Dick to cut him off between one word and the next. “Two weeks from now.”

“Two weeks,” Dick agrees. “I assume you don’t need the address.”

“Think I’ve got it.” Slade’s voice is dry, but lacking its usual knife-sharp edge. “See you soon, kid.”

He hangs up before Dick can respond. 

Dick smiles anyway. “See you soon.”

----

Footnote: RIP Dick's expensive jacket (this is $300 in 80s money)

[lokisgoodgirl]

Hi, boo! I have a request to make since I've been feeling icky the past few mornings due to allergies.

Loki is introduced to chocolate for the first time by reader. Bonus points for Gryffindor if there's smut involved 😉😉

I'm talking...chocolate fondue type smut..if you catch my drift 😜

Welllll since it's you, and since you have crummy allergies making you feel bad, and since I love you...buckle up baby 🍫I hope you feel better very soon! x

You asked for this.

Make me Melt

Warnings: Smuttish. w/c 500

Masterlist here

The rustle of unfamiliar foil made Loki cast a glance over his shoulder.

He did a double take.

"Another Midgardian health food, is it?" he drawled, continuing to chop carrots with methodical grace.

He could have cut that sarcasm, too.

You rolled your eyes. His playful barb recalled the time you spent trying to convince him doughnuts were peak nutrition when he caught you with a box of twelve in bed.

Smiling at the memory, you paused to enjoy the sight of his triceps flex against his t-shirt with every careful thud of the knife.

"No," you chimed, leaning on the counter and breaking off a piece of the huge bar of chocolate. Loki looked over his shoulder again, eyebrows raised. "Really?" he crooned. "Well, what's life without a little naughtiness mmm?"

The god set the blade down, spinning to face you with a carrot stick poised between his fingers. He brought it to his lips. The subsequent crunch made your pussy clench.

He chewed.

He swallowed.

"May I?" he asked, tilting his head with a smirk. You looked at the chunk of chocolate in your fingers. It had begun to melt. You could blame the primal heat steaming off Loki for that.

"I don't think you'd like it," you quipped, smiling sweetly as his eyes narrowed in warning.

You popped the square in your mouth.

In two strides, Loki had you caged against the counter-top.

He stared down at you, random strands of curl brushing against your cheeks. "We'll see about that," he breathed playfully, nudging his nose against your forehead. Like a magnet, your chin rose. His tongue grazed against your lips, impatient for entry.

You felt yourself melt into him like the chocolate warming in your mouth. A warrior woman turned putty in his ridiculously dexterous hands. Loki's tongue swept and tangled with your own. Deep, silken waves that made you lose yourself.

He was tasting it. Swallowing, before delving deeper. Wetter. More-

Loki moaned down your throat, before hoisting you onto the counter. He spread your legs, releasing a ragged gasp before mounting your mouth with his own once more. You could feel his cock pressed against your inner thigh, hard and furiously ready to do his basest will. And yours.

There was a slurp as he withdrew. You sat there, panting with your eyes closed.

"I like it," he purred, slurring quietly against your parted lips.

You heard foil rustle beside you, glancing down in a haze to see Loki's fingers rubbing seductively through the chocolate 's break-lines. You squirmed on the counter, grasping needily at his shirt.

He pressed his cock against your heat, proud brow twitching as you released a frustrated mewl of his name.

"I want more-" Loki growled. He looked down through half-lidded eyes, a wicked glint making them shine as the foiled rustled again.

"-so let's see what we can do with the rest of this, shall we?"

A/N - I might continue this with the full shebang if we think it could work - what could he have in mind?!?!The imagination boggles ;)

Not doing the whole list cos its just a lil happy sunday snack!:)

@simplyholl @wheredafandomat @glitchquake @goddessofwonderland @glitchquake @skymoonandstardust @ladyofthestayingpower @gigglingtiggerv2 @marygoddessofmischief @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @presidentlokis-hornyhelmet @sebstanwhore @holdmytesseract @muddyorbsblr @lokikissesmyforehead @mochie85 @justjoanne242 @kikster606 @gruftiela @acidcasualties @smolvenger @litaloni @lokischambermaid @mischief2sarawr @alexakeyloveloki @thedistractedagglomeration @maple-seed

[devildom-moss]

Roses for you (4)

This had all started when you noticed a link between a book on the language of flowers you had borrowed from Satan’s room and the current lessons from your Seductive Speechcraft and Magical Potions classes.

In Seductive Speechcraft, you had just reached a section on the effectiveness of spells using non-verbal communication: enchanting glances, dance, and offerings. Meanwhile, in Magical Potions, the professor had been discussing the significance of using specific quantities when concocting potions; they had spent fifteen minutes just providing examples – including adding petals from two different flowers when using them for a love spell.

You couldn’t resist discussing the use of flower language – utilizing the type, color, and quantity of the flowers – to specify the magical intent of an offering as a form of seductive speechcraft. Asmo and Solomon listened intently. The same idea popped into both of their minds, and before you knew it, everyone was looking into color and number meanings, searching for the perfect combination to convey their feelings for you and try to put you under their spell. The only rule for their little competition to charm you? Only roses are allowed.

Will you be charmed by their attempts?

Four Roses - Satan

Word Count: +500

Nothing can do us apart

After a romantic stroll and a delightful stop at a cat café, Satan took your hand and led you up to your favorite overlook. You could see so much of the Devildom from up there, and the sight had an enchanting effect on you, making you feel simultaneously small and on top of the world. It didn’t matter how many times you came here, you rushed to the edge and stared out at the city every time.

“This night has been beautiful.” Satan took your hand again. His gaze followed yours as he stared out at the view of the Devildom night with you. The lights offered a cool glow to the city – a soft halo resting above the buildings.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “I’m glad the weather is clear tonight. The Devildom is gorgeous like this.”

You heard a soft chuckle from Satan’s direction. “That’s not quite what I meant. Tonight has been beautiful because I’ve spent it with you. . . Hey, MC, could you look at me for a second?”

You turned to meet Satan’s gaze. It seemed an impossible feat that his eyes could reflect the array of colorful lights – only absorbing the green into nothingness. Nothing could rival those emerald eyes, and it appeared that green light made no attempts to compare – too inferior to even be reflected. Satan cut your admiration short when he leaned in and left a chaste kiss on your lips. When he pulled back, he was holding a small rectangular – almost square – box.

“Where did this come from?” you questioned its sudden appearance.

“Magic.” Satan smiled. “Go on, open it.”

You took the box in your hands and carefully removed the lid to reveal four preserved roses: two lavender and two white, arranged in a checkerboard pattern.

The number of roses clicked in your head and made you smile. Satan was the romantic type who would declare that nothing could separate you through flowers. He was also the type to give you a bit more of a challenge. Lavender could mean enchantment and love at first sight – which given your past, the latter was not the case. The white wasn’t explicitly romantic, but it may be a symbol of loyalty and reverence. Furthermore, this was Satan, and you had a feeling he had chosen to gift you preserved roses to highlight the eternal and everlasting elements. All of this combined, especially the white roses, and made you think that his floral offering sounded an awful lot like –

“Oh,” you gasped, heat rising in your cheeks. This felt like a marriage proposal coming from him – in the same way that so many of his confessions did. You had captured his affection; now, Satan was devoted and enchanted, and he made it clear that his love was unwavering and unending.

“I mean it.” Satan acknowledged the recognition on your face and caressed your cheek with his thumb. “You have my heart forever.”

“I’m going to kiss you,” you warned him with a grin. Satan inched closer, but you stopped him by placing a finger over his lips, earning the smallest pout. “Not here. I’m going to take you back to my room and kiss you until you can’t think anymore, okay?”

Satan nipped at your fingertip, holding you softly between his teeth, and nodded. He was certain of the message he had sent. Nothing could unbind him from you; he wouldn’t let it happen.

Lucifer (1) | Mammon (2) | Leviathan (3) | Asmodeus (5) | Beelzebub (6) | Belphegor (7) | Diavolo (8) | Barbatos (9) | Luke (10) | Simeon (11) | Solomon (12) | Thirteen (13) | Raphael (14) | Mephistopheles (15)

[thedeviltohisangel]

apparently john was stationed at Thorpe abbots on his birthday (sept 8th), are we gonna see he and cass (and the boys) celebrate??

john's birthday at thorpe here

After consultation with @jetskijetblue I have decided this is John's birthday in 1947. The twins are 7 months old and Cass has a really special gift for him...

Cass bopped the bedroom door open with her hip, four tiny, socked feet kicking her with excitement as they laid their eyes on their father. Butter watched them intently to make sure they didn't hurt her or hurt themselves.

"Say happy birthday, daddy!" she cooed as John began to stir in the bed. Penelope began to try and twist out of her grip but John quickly sat up and grabbed the squirming bean before she could. She babbled happily at her father and reached for the cross around his neck, giving it a gentle tug before it landed in her mouth.

"Morning, princess," he said with sleep evident in his voice as Cass sat down with his prince next to him. "Morning, prince." Penelope slapped her palm to his lips and he kissed her soft skin until she giggled.

"Happy birthday, baby," Cass whispered as she leaned over to kiss him. "Your first birthday with these little gremlins!" She blew raspberries into Gale's cheeks for emphasis, the little both squealing happily at his mother's attention. Butter barked once in warning before leaping onto the foot of the bed, resting his head on Cass' feet before closing his eyes.

"Thank you, Spook." John leaned around the flailing limbs of their children to kiss her on the mouth. "Best birthday ever."

"It hasn't even started yet!" she argued. Gale dramatically flopped onto her chest with a yawn. "My sleepy boy," she mumbled into his curls.

"Maybe it can start in five more minutes," John offered, already holding Penny to his chest and soothing her back to sleep. His own eyes were drooping already as he snuggled back into his pillow.

-

After sleeping in and making his favorite breakfast, they'd gone to the park and pushed the twins on the swings before enjoying a little picnic by the river. Cass had sat far away with Butter for protection as John showed them how to feed the ducks. And then he had insisted on napping with them in the afternoon, Cass putting the finishing touches on their dinner in the peace and quiet.

"Come sit with me, Spook." The twins were sleeping quietly upstairs, Cass bargaining with Butter to keep watch while she went to have a moment alone with the birthday boy.

"Sorry there was no drinking this year." She dropped onto the front porch bench seat and shook her head when he offered his cigarette. Last year for his birthday they had gone to Manhattan. Seen Nixon and DeMarco and danced in Times Square until the sun rose.

"Didn't even miss it. Got to spend the day with my favorite people in the entire world. Nothing could mean more to me." She smiled and pulled him by his collar into a kiss.

"Now, one of your presents is underneath my clothes. Let me give you the other two first." A box appeared from behind her back and he opened it like it was the most delicate thing he had ever held. John lifted the lid to reveal a silver pocket watch. A small inscription on the back, I love you, and inside was a photo of the five Egans that Mary had taken at their Fourth of July party. "It goes with my locket," she murmured as he stared at the item in awe.

"Baby," he breathed, tugging Cass until she was straddling his lap. "This is the most beautiful...thank you." They had learned over the years that sometimes the simplest words mean the most.

"The next one. It's a bit shocking."

"Oh?" he asked as his hands slipped under her dress and made contact with her skin.

"We talk all the time about wanting more kids."

"We do."

"And how we want them to be close enough in age that they can all grow up together." He nodded but his eyebrows were showing his confusion.

"Cass, I hope you know none of these conversations are ever me trying to pressure you. Just musings and dreaming. We can have more kids whenever we are ready. Don't need to put a timeline on it."

"Well..." He kissed her chin to urge her to let it out. "I am pretty sure...well almost positive, I went to the doctor but the results aren't totally back yet-"

"When did you go to the doctor? Is everything okay?" His grip around her tightened at the information. He had had no idea.

"It's more than fine. We're having another baby. I'm pregnant." He blinked a few times but remained silent. "I know it's not even been a year since the twins but I think this is a good thing a-" The words squeaked in her throat as his palms brought her lips to his, devouring any doubt that he was not unabashedly excited for this moment.

"Another little baby," he smiled and laughed as her forehead rested against hers. "I am the luckiest man in the entire world."

"Just don't expect this kind of gift every year."

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Lady Whistledown Returns: Chapter 5

Kidnappings are generally frowned upon, but being a hostage is the strangest mix of tension, boredom, and mischief. Points will be won and lost…but who will win the game?

Need to catch up? Find previous chapters and works on AO3.

This chapter has no content warnings.

When the lid of the packing crate was next wrenched free, it was full dark, with only a few candles illuminating a grossly familiar room. A pair of footmen stood on either side of the single door and another pair guarded the window. These footmen were not the nervous, young men of eleven or twelve who were just beginning their training and careers in palace service, either. All of them were in their early thirties, if Colin was any judge, and one of them looked as though he would not be out of place in the boxing ring, squaring off against Mondrich. At a guess, his escape attempts on the road had been reported and any attempts he might make here were being preempted. 

And he desperately wanted to make an escape from this room. 

Even by candlelight, he knew it. Could still see red curls matted down with sweat spread across a white pillow and the silver flash of knife as it cut into pale flesh. Could still hear his name screamed in pain and terror. Could still feel his chest constrict as he silently begged Pen to breathe. Holding him in the room in which he had nearly lost Pen was a particular cruelty, and one he did not appreciate. 

As his heart beat a tattoo into his rib cage and his breath came hard and short, Colin wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his trousers. They came away gritty and grimy, and he grimaced. “What I wouldn’t give for a bath and a change of clothes,” he ground out. 

A fifth footman—this one a more traditional age, the boy was fourteen if he was a day—emerged from the shadows to yank the bellpull. When a maid appeared at the door a few minutes later, there was a hushed exchange, followed about three quarters of an hour later by a big copper tub, kettles of hot water, and nondescript but clean clothing. There was even a tray with a sort of one-course dinner on it. 

That was when Colin realized that he had spent the intervening time sitting ingloriously in the packing crate, desperately trying to control his breathing and racing heart, and wishing with every fiber of his being not to come in contact with this room. He hadn’t even noticed the time elapse, but now he had either to get out of the packing crate or commit to curling into a ball inside it until someone retrieved him.

Ultimately, it was no manly fortitude or particular strength of heart that made Colin climb out of the box. He desperately wished it had been, and he would almost certainly tell Anthony, Benedict, Eloise and Gregory that he had climbed out as a show of strength. But Penelope would know and understand that the real goad that got him out of that crate was a base but insurmountably strong desire to feel clean again. He had been wearing the same suit of clothes for days, and the escape attempts had not been kind to them. The miasma of his own perspiration and London’s humidity in the crate had only added to the intolerability of the layers of dirt he felt buried beneath.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t trembling as he rose, swung himself out of the crate, and began to disrobe.

Distracted by his own distress, Colin barely noted the unusually high sides of the copper tub and completely failed to see the small stepstool that would have prevented the need to bear down on the side with all his weight to swing a leg over the edge. Not minding his strength and the physics involved in copper tub construction meant that Colin tipped the tub top over teakettle, sending steaming water over his lower half and flooding the room. The footmen all yelped and somewhat inelegantly hopped from foot to foot in vain attempts to stop their shoes and stockings from being utterly ruined. The young footman by the bell pull yanked it repeatedly, so hard that it snapped in his hands.

Colin’s instinct to immediately apologize and help clean up the mess was suddenly quashed by utter fury. He would not apologize for the queen’s mind games being effective, and he would not sit meekly by as little more than a pawn. Summoning his best impressions of Cressida Cowper and Honoria Holroyd, nee Smythe-Smith, he said, “My heavens, how clumsy of me. I cannot imagine how I should have been so careless. We shall have to have another bath drawn up, of course, I cannot possibly be expected to endure this sort of deprivation!”

Swinging his arm for dramatic emphasis, Colin made sure to catch the edge of the tray of food, sending it spinning across the room in a crash of shattering crockery. That felt good. The thought was nearly a snarl in Colin’s head, but he made sure that his voice maintained the slightly higher-pitched, drawling, whiney affect that grated his teeth when debutantes deployed it.

“Oh lord and now we shall need a new—and much larger—tray of food before I waste utterly away from hunger. Surely such privation falls into the realm of cruel and unusual treatment, and I may in fact faint!” The hand dramatically thrown to his forehead covered the sharp assessment Colin made of the footmen’s reactions. The boy worried him not at all, but the bruisers’ reactions would make or break a suspicion he held. To a man, they were red-faced and clench-fisted, but none of them had moved to check him. Interesting, he thought. One more test.

Lifting the sodden heap that used to be the clean trousers between two fingers, Colin flung them towards the man who would have looked more at home in a boxing ring and allowed a shrill note to slide into his voice. “Would you look at these? I cannot possibly put them on before my new bath is drawn. Whatever shall I wear? Or am I to simply catch my death of consumption from exposure and cold?” Intending to rip down the curtains over the window the bruiser was guarding, Colin strode toward them. The fist that connected with his jaw made him see stars for a moment.

“No going near the window,” grunted the fist’s owner, looking smugly satisfied at the opportunity to use his brawn.

“Then I shall have your coat and breeches, man! And quickly too, imagine the damage to my modesty and reputation this situation is causing!” Beyond wishing to be maximally irritating, Colin could not bring himself to pull the sheets off the bed in the room to wrap up in. He might break if he had to do that.

The footman grunted derisively, but caught the eye of his companion at the window and jerked his head in fashion that clearly said, “Well, go on, then.” The other man’s face went redder than any beet Colin had ever seen in his life, but began to grudgingly shrug out of his coat.

“Absolutely not!” shrieked Colin, in an impersonation of Daphne that was so on point that had the duchess been in the room, Colin would have expected a sisterly slap. “You cannot imagine that I would fit into his coat! I shall have yours or I shall have nothing at all!” To drive home his point, Colin squared up to the man, feed just slightly wider than shoulder-width apart, fist planted firmly on hips, and chest puffed out in an exaggerated impression of a furious Anthony.

As the lead footman glared at Colin, the sound of a door opening followed by the screeches of what sounded like an army of maids at the sight of Colin’s backside added to a cacophony that Colin was genuinely surprised hadn’t already summoned an army of other servants and marines. The farcical nature of the situation made Colin grin despite himself. At the grin, the bruiser blinked, surrendering the battle nearly by accident. The fury in his eyes when he realized promised that he would make Colin pay when the time came.

“What in the name of God is going on here?” Glancing over his shoulder, Colin was shocked that the thundering evocation had come from Brimsley, a man renowned amongst the ton for his ability to leverage near-silent disdain to command a room. He prodded the sodden carpet with the toe of his shoe, producing a distinctive squish sound. A look of sheer distaste crossed his face as he took in the sopping wet floor, food, and crockery shards. Standing beside Brimsley behind a gaggle of red-faced, silently giggling maids was Worth, with one hand over his face to hide what Colin would have bet Aubrey Hall was a grin.

Brimsley’s look of disgust deepened when he glanced at Worth, but rather than excoriate Colin for his behavior, Brimsley simply ordered the maids to redraw the bath, find another set of clothing, and replace the food tray. He also sent the young footman running for additional maids to get the room put to rights before taking up a position by the door to supervise. Worth actually winked at Colin before quietly disappearing from the room.

The look that Brimsley subsequently gave Colin ought to have been a head-to-toe assessment, but it managed to remain above Colin’s neck. “May I recommend the sheets on the bed, while we wait, Mr. Bridgerton?” he asked, settling back into the quietly disdainful tone with which the entire ton was familiar.

The immediate descent of his stomach into his toes at that thought distracted Colin from the goosebumps covering his body as the water cooled on his skin.

“You may not,” drawled Colin, affecting Benedict’s casually unbothered artist mood. “However, you may light the fire.”

“I think not, Mr. Bridgerton,” said Brimsley. “I should hate to think what your sudden attack of clumsiness might develop into if we include fire in the picture.”

Colin offered Brimsley his most formal leg in response before reclining across a settee, with a strategically placed pillow to prevent the maids from collapsing from the vapors. Then, he belted his favorite bawdy German drinking songs. Certainly the maids did not speak the language, but a couple of the footmen’s mouths twitched, and Brimsley’s look of disdain deepened.

When the tub was newly filled and the maids dismissed, Colin switched to French drinking songs, and his voice resonated and bounced off the tub, echoing through the hallways at a truly insupportable hour. Within about fifteen minutes, pages from across the wing of the palace began filing through the room—ineffectually hiding their giggles at the English bawdy songs that Colin had been roundly scolded by his mother for daring to quietly whisper-sing where there was possibility that his nephews would hear them—to convey complaints of other denizens, including the princes and princesses.

Colin was particularly pleased with himself as he climbed from the tub, dressed, and proceeded to inhale the loaded tray that had been left for him. Brimsley, apparently tired of babysitting, departed, taking the army of maids, pages, and extra footmen from the room. Satiated, warm, and bored, Colin proceeded to tip the empty tub over, and banged the bottom like a drum to herald the rising sun. All four of his minders clapped hands over their ears, but otherwise moved not at all to check him.

Before Colin was bored enough to try different drum patterns, the door burst open.

Framed in the doorway was Queen Charlotte, hair still wrapped, lacking any jewels or makeup, and simply dressed in a loose, clearly well-loved banyan. “What on earth do you imagine you are about?” she snapped.

Colin stopped banging on the tub. “The rope on the bellpull snapped. However else was I to inform you that I require another meal? Although I must say, I’m shocked that you would greet a distinguished guest in such a state of undress. How very uncouth and continental of you.”

“You dare speak that way to me?” snarled Charlotte. 

Colin grinned. Grinning was a fairly common phenomenon for him, and his family could and often did identify the various grins with startling accuracy. However, the expression on his face now was a combination of sheer smugness and predatory glee that would have had Violet up nights worrying for a week, Eloise begging to be allowed in on the mischief, and Anthony reaching for the whiskey. Some of his childhood tutors would have recognized the expression. To a man, they had all seen it right after Colin found a mischief-friendly loophole in something they had said. 

“I not only dare, I revel in speaking to you and everyone else who walks through the door in such a manner. And I must graciously thank Your Majesty for the privilege, because you have made me—” Colin draped himself across a settee with languorous insouciance before casually throwing his feet up on a pouf— “untouchable.” Interlacing his fingers behind his head, Colin gestured dismissively with the toe of his boot. “Now be a dear and see about finding me a meal worth eating.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed, but she held herself as still as a marble statue for a long moment, considering. “You are correct, Mr. Bridgerton. For the moment you are untouchable. But if I may offer you a word of advice? I should consider what happens to you–and your increasingly sprawling family–if your faith in your wife is misplaced. After all, she has proven famously unable to restrain herself where her Lady Whistledown impulses are concerned.” 

Still lazily draped over the furniture, Colin snorted. “You never gave Penelope the credit she deserved.”

“And you seem to forget that she exposed young Miss Thompson’s pregnancy to stop you from marrying her, and dragged Miss Eloise’s name through the mud, to the possible ruination of your sister and your family. I see all of your wife, Mr. Bridgerton, not just the parts you fell in love with.”

“Am I getting fed or not?” snapped Colin, sitting upright and glaring at the woman who had orchestrated his kidnapping and imprisonment. 

Charlotte actually laughed. “I would not dream of starving the Bridgerton known for his prodigious appetite. Especially not after I have scored a point.” She turned on her heel and strode from the room without giving him time to answer. 

Rising, Colin paced the room for a few moments before leaning into a wall far enough away from the door or window to prevent his minders from objecting, forehead resting against his forearm. He had nothing but faith in Pen, despite the queen’s attempts to raise doubts in him. Anthony would be able to plan a way to see him released, and he and Pen could plan their next steps together. She and Anthony would find a way to get him released. He had no doubts about his wife’s and older brother’s abilities. And the sooner Pen was back in his arms, the better.

[the-fiction-witch]

11th Vampire

Media Pinnochio x Vampires

Character Lampwick

Couple Lampwick X Reader

Rating spooky

Halloween day 11

I sat on the stone fountain, watching people as they headed into their houses, Locking them up tight and turning off the lights. The whole town sat on edge tonight as darkness fell. Everyone knew what was to happen tonight but I didn't have anywhere to go so I had no choice but to face the streets. I finished my cigar and put it out on the stone fountain looking across the town darkness utterly took over. I hurried myself away trying to find somewhere to sleep for the night and keep myself safe. I found myself in the dark churchyard, the grass high littered with grey stones, I shut the gate behind me hearing it whine as I did. I made my way across the grass doing my best to stay quiet when I heard the gate whine again making me stop short- Maybe I just didn't shut it completely. I continued even if I was too nervous to breathe I kept checking behind me just in case but when I turned back to the church I saw this tall figure standing on the church roof looming over me in all black. My body went icy cold, unable to tear my eyes away, and my legs turned to jelly. The figure disappeared into the darkness, and for a moment I thought it to merely be my imagination but I heard the piercing screech of a bat, I tried to run as the bat came to attack me but it fell to the floor and the moment it touched the ground it transformed into the tall figure who cascaded the black velvet cloak to the ground to reveal them.

Wearing tall black leather riding boots laced up with red ribbon, a dress as black as night with red piped seams, a waist seemingly impossibly thin, a bustle of black and red plait at her back, a square neckline, with black spiderweb lace circular flounce sleeves covering her arms to her elbows and then from her neckline to her neck, A thick red choker around her neck with a blood red stone hung from it, black silk gloves from fingertip to elbow. Her hair was in tight curls pinned up with a long sharp blade, her skin deathly pale, with eye shadow as black as coal and lips as red as blood, She smelt of blood and roses and she bared her large bloody fangs at me. I ran as fast as I could around the various gravestones in the hope of losing her I ran to the church's heavy wooden doors but I found them locked. I banged on them as loud as I could screaming for help but people around here knew better than to open their doors on these nights. My body was slammed hard against the wooden door and I glanced to see her there smiling wickedly at me before I felt the sharp sting of pain in my neck causing my blood-curdling scream to echo across the town and I almost immediately lost consciousness.

I suddenly gasped trying to sit up but I banged my head "Oww" I complained I found myself in a small wooden box confused and panicked. I managed to slide the lid away and I sat up finding myself in a dark stone room with only a single window letting in a small ray of sunlight, I was sat in a wooden coffin dressed as I was last night, I looked around more at the high walls, stone carvings, religious items and symbols as well as a few shovels and realized where I must have been this is the crypt beside the church often used to store various church items as well as the bodies yet to be buried. What the hell! I'm not dead! I climbed out of the coffin and tried to make my way across the room "ahhh! fuck!" I complained I couldn't pass through the ray of light from the window as it felt like it burnt every inch of my skin just to be near it. Maybe I've been in here longer than I thought… I saw the black velvet cloak that the vampire girl left last night had been put here with me so I forced myself across the room even if it burnt to collect it wrapping it around myself before I headed out into the churchyard. The sun now shining it hurt my eyes to even glance at it my body felt so weak but it didn't burn so long as I kept the cloak close I saw a man with a shovel in hand digging a grave.

"Uhh Excuse me?" I asked He glanced over and his face turned white as a ghost as he saw me, before he collapsed falling into the freshly dug grave. Hu? Well, that's strange. I made my way out of the churchyard into the main town seeing as usual people busy bustling about but the moment they saw me people looked fearful, many ran inside shops and homes to get away, and women picked up their children from the square as they began to cry. What the hell's going on around here? Everyone stared and glared at me, they all looked afraid of me. I stopped a moment glancing at myself in the baker's window and I saw the cloak stood but I wasn't in it, where there was nothing. Holy fuck I'm a ghost! My clothes were in the reflection but not me? maybe I am dead. I continued to walk through unsure what do to or where to go when I saw a man come out of his shop looking directly at me as he threw a bottle at me barely missing me "Dirty Vampire! skulk off back to your crypt!" He yelled "Vampire?" I began The town then all perked up throwing things and shouting at me so I ran as fast as I could out of town stopping on the bridge for breath, I'm not a ghost… I'm a vampire. Last night she- she turned me. I guess I knew where to go then, I made my way out of town to the manor on the hill many said it was where the vampire lived but all too afraid to find out. I approached the beautiful house closed the gate with a whine and headed to the front door, I knocked but it opened for me letting me quickly head inside shutting the door I could pull off the cloak as no light came in the place lit only by fire and candles. "There you are, I was wondering then you'd get here" She chuckled at the top of the stairs in an almost skin-tight red dress her gloves gone revealing her long black nails and a glass in her hand I can only imagine was blood as the colour was perfect "What have you done to me!" "I gave you an immortal life. some would be thankful" "Thankful! you made me a monster!" "Fine, if it's that much of a problem for you I'll happily change you back. You can return to your boring life, stealing bread and sleeping under some mouldy old boat, and you can live out the rest of your short little life as a miserable human. Or you can stay here with me, have free roam of the manor, as much blood as you can drink, a room and bed all your own, and an eternity with me." she explained coming down the stairs to be beside me

"Wi-With you?" "I've been alone a long time thought it was time I… found someone to spend me time with" "And- out of everyone you picked me?" "You seemed the sweetest, and someone who needed a new life" "That's very kind of you, but the town thinks I'm a monster" "Who cares what those peasants think? They are merely our hunting grounds my sweet" She smiled offering her glass "A life, here with you? free food, board, everything I'll ever need? forever?" "Forever" "What's the catch?" "Being a monster, and sharing the room" she winked I thought about it for a good while but I took the glass and hand a long sip it tasted so good filling my body with joy and heat and when I pulled the glass away I noticed I now had the deadly fangs the same as her "What's your name anyway?" "Lampwick, and uhh you are? "Y/n, Come on I'll show you our room"

[lightdash]

@badnikbreaker​​: "Sonic!"  The hedgehog's voice rings out, cheerful and excited and impossible to miss — she speeds to his side and skids to a stop, kicking up snow as she does.  Amy's typical sweet cheerfulness is through the roof; clearly, she's excited!!  About seeing him, and about the carefully - wrapped boxes between their mittened hands.  "I wanted to get this to you soon, juuust in case you ended up traveling someplace before Christmas was done!  So — here!"  They hold out the box, cheeks flushed with cold and affection both, smile huge, rocking on their heels.  

Inside is — well, there's quite a bit.  One box is trinkets and sweets, small : homemade cookies, of course.  Homemade chocolates, too.  A few photos, to add to an older gift.  But what has Amy so excited is something else — the other, larger box.

This one is trinkets; some of it's clothes, as if he ever wears them.  More of it is pieces of memories, though.  She's heard Sonic talk, animated and more chatty than he ever is otherwise, about his travels, geography, places he's been and wants to be.  A jacket from Green Hill, the characteristic checkerboard pattern.   A small stone, rough in the way only what once was lava can be, from West Side Island.  A postcard from Soleanna.  Pressed flowers, dried but kept safe, from Kronos Island.  A baseball she'd bought from Station Square with the city's silhouette on the front — and a special, Amy - sewn heart on the back.

A necklace, made from stones from Quartz Quadrent zone in Little Planet, carved and smoothed in a careful heart.  They'd exchanged feelings before names, after all; that moment will always live on in their heart.

And more.  It's...a bit much, they're aware, even by Amy's standards.  But it had seemed right!  Some of the places Sonic has been have been frightening or dangerous, but they're all a part of him and his story — and Amy loves every bit.  They know Sonic does, too.

"You don't have to open them now!  Actually, there's a lot — it might be better to wait until you're home.  But, well — Merry Christmas, Sonic!"  Their smile goes, somehow, sweeter.  "I love you!"

     Sonic can’t be surprised when she arrives unnannounced — her ability to find him, anywhere, is an anomaly he’s long since accepted. And it’s funny, that something he once found bothersome (it was… difficult back then to appreciate the company of others) is now a source of amusement. Comfort.

    “Woah, slow down!” He’s smiling, ready to catch a box or two in the event of them falling. This is how she usually greets him; bubbly and eager, so there’s nothing particularly interesting about it… what is, however, are the presents being offered to him. ‘Shoot,’ he thinks. ‘Christmas.’ It’d snuck up on him, much like everything else since they’d left the island.

    And there’s a part of him (such a small part) that wishes the world could just… wait. Perhaps selfishly. Uncharacteristically. Sonic isn’t one for regrets, but his friends are here, making time, while he’s losing it, and — they smile at him, kind as always. He pushes the thought aside.

     Well… what’s done is done, and he should enjoy this moment instead of lingering on the ones he’s forgotten.

    “This is all for me?” He slides a thumb underneath the lid of the top box to peek inside, and is immediately greeted by the smell of sweetness. An Amy Rose speciality, no doubt; his nose twitches with delight. “Heh… leave it to you.” To make him feel loved.

    Per their suggestion, the larger box would have to wait. He doesn’t want to risk anything being damaged by the snow (a convenient way to save himself some embarrassment). And holding such a display of affection in his hands, with nothing to give in return, he feels a touch of guilt alongside gratitude. Maybe there is something he can give them. Nothing like baked goods or pressed flowers, but….

    It’s quick. The blink of an eye to anyone that isn’t them, but Amy can feel it. A closeness, a warmth, right against the side of her muzzle. A kiss. It’s chaste and tender, the first time he’s ever had his lips on her cheek, and he follows with a soft voice: “Merry Christmas, Amy.”

[calidebs]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Vintage Shabby Distressed Wooden Box Rose Floral Painted Hinged Lid Cottagecore.

[kelirina8]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Storage Box with 3D Flower Lid Square Trinket Ball Foots Holder Jewelry.

[dearcraziness]

Chapter 58.

One of the interesting important events happened on a sunny warm day. In the morning, as usual, the friends had breakfast and went to carry out their plans. Bendy and Lara were embroidering ornaments for curtains, Boris and Alice were arranging new decorations found in boxes. At lunchtime Bendy showed Lara the preparation of her favourite dishes, because she was interested in watching the process itself. The young man had an excellent taste and neatly selected sauces for dishes, the fillings consisted of excellent delicious ingredients. The water in the pot boiled, the demon poured the spaghetti into it, stirring gently. Then he sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, grated cheese, picked lettuce leaves, added balsamic sauce, sprinkled a pinch of salt and seasonings, garnished with basil leaves, sesame seeds and bean pods. The meat was in the pan, and the imp immediately added water from the kettle so wouldn't to burn, stirred the chops with a spatula to check the degree of roasting. After a while, Bendy turned over the fried pieces and, putting a plate of salad on the table, salted the noodles. Few minutes later, the cook unloaded the pasta into a colander so that all the water flowed out and followed into the washbasin, into the siphon. Breaking off a decent piece of butter with a spoon, the young man evenly distributed it throughout the pan with pasta. Then the chops ripened, and the demon, sprinkling them with spices, waited for the sound of frying to subside, then turned off the fire. The demon carefully laid out the prepared foods on plates and covered each of them with a lid; he started making dessert.

"This dish is called Minari - these are sweet rolls, but instead of rice, curd cream cheese is put in them, which is wrapped in a special thinly rolled rice dough; pieces of strawberry, banana and kiwi are placed inside... The delicacy is poured on top with chocolate and strawberry syrup and decorated with mint... I'll show you how it's done, not difficult at all..."

"Judging by the ingredients, the dessert will be delicious..."

"By all means, the main thing is to follow the recipe, not forgetting the most important and significant rules: add a pinch of love and kindness to each cooked product... However, it is better to put your soul into any activity - only in this case others will receive warmth and joy... We should share our creativity: I think the essence of life is to bring happiness to dear creatures from day to day, take care of them..."

"I suppose, it's important in any activity..."

"The dough will be ready very soon, so we'll start wrapping rolls... You probably want, too?..."

"May I try?..."

"Of course, sapphire!... First we need to wait a little..."

Bendy explained to Lara what the dough consists of and how it's made, then showed her: he rolled out the dough thinly, turned on the oven and placed a sheet of paper on a baking sheet, where he laid out the raw dough.

It took about half an hour, and the light yellow mass was still coming up in the oven: a pleasant smell and warm air spread throughout the kitchen, penetrating into the corridor and other rooms. Bendy took the red potholders and pulled out a baking sheet. It was the turn to spread the curd cheese. Bendy smeared it on the surface, put pieces of fruit, wrapped it carefully in the form of a sausage and cut it into medium-sized squares, spreading it on a plate with an ornament in the form of red and pink roses and emerald leaves and with a crimson border.

"You can make the next batch, Larry..." Bendy smiled. "I'm sure you'll do great..."

"Let's see..." the girl said. "I think the process itself is clear to me..."

"A great start, dear, a fairly uniform layer of cheese..."

"What's next?..."

"Now add some fruits..."

"Right..."

"Add a couple more things... So, it seems enough... Roll the layer into a sausage..."

"Okay... Oh..."

"Don't worry, we'll fix it..."

"I should've rolled up better..."

"It's alright, we'll turn the dough with the filling back and tamp the ingredients more tightly... Roll it up and press it slightly, love..."

"Hmm, something like... This?..."

"Exactly, well done, you succeeded!... Let me cut..."

"Let me, I'll be careful..."

"Try to divide into equal parts, starlight... Be cautious..."

"Well, I'm done..."

"Wonderful, Minari look divine and great!... Time to brew some tea..."

"Yeah, my minari are noticeably different from yours..."

"There's nothing wrong with visible differences, everything is incredible, sunshine!... Each chef has their own ideas about the appearance of dishes, and I like you showed creativity and did it your own way..."

"In fact, I tried to repeat what you cooked..."

"And your dessert turned out to be somewhat different, dear, for the better, believe me..."

"I guess so..."

"Let's have lunch, a tea party - I'll call our friends..."

Bendy came out of the kitchen and invited everyone to a meal. He set the table, put everyone a glass of water, a saucer with dessert, brewed green tea with lime, mint and apple, poured into lilac cups with small white peas. Friends ate and discussed with a smile on their face where they could go, which outfits were in fashion, which tools needed to be assembled or repaired. After they went to their rooms, and Bendy, taking the tools in his room, ran to the storage room for materials and came to Lara, where the girl was trying to assemble a Rubik's cube. The young man looked at the girl and noticed how she put the puzzle aside and looked at the notes of poems and words of songs that the sweethearts had written recently. The imp leaned over to her and asked, "Honey, seems like there's a shadow of sadness in your eyes, what happened?... Are you upset about the cube?... Don't despair, honey, you'll definitely assemble it, you've managed many times..."

"Yes, but now I can't figure it out..."

"Let me help you, Larry, I'll tell you where to start..."

"Thank you, but I'll do it myself..."

"Alright, I'm going to assemble a device for setting the temperature in the house and the humidity of the air... The frame is ready, it remains to embed the mechanisms and design a suitable shape for the future creation..."

"Great, and where will it stand?..."

"Most likely, in the corridor, or in the storage room... In order not to take up space in the living rooms..."

Bendy took a screwdriver and, with an attentive expression on his face, with a slight smile, twisted the components, soldered them together and wiped the dusty parts, trying to rake garbage on a limited small area of the table, looking back at Lara and her place and checking whether the garbage got in her direction. The girl, nevertheless, was able to assemble a Rubik's cube, which brought joy to both herself and the young man: radiant, relaxed smiles shone on both faces. At the end of the work, he checked that all the parts were located properly, squinted slightly and, after making sure that the assembly was correct, inserted the wire into the outlet. Bendy lowered a small gray box to the floor and, sitting down, bending his knees, pressed the button.

"Take a look, chamomile, it shows twenty-five degrees in our room and the humidity is sixty percent... Great for our indoor violets and monstera, but for roses, humidity is needed less, however, they bloom quite intensively, which means they are good..."

"Awesome device... We should look at the temperature and humidity in other rooms later..."

"That's right, I also plan to build in a climate regulator, but first I need to set up a pipe pressure regulator..."

"Do we have one?..."

"Of course, it stands not far from the room with shelves and toys in the form of us with you and our friends... And with cutouts depicting me..." the demon looked in the direction and frowned slightly.

"I remember they all grin so widely..." the girl answered happily.

"Do you like them?..." the young man looked at the girl in surprise. "And I'm just thinking where to define them so they don't interfere..."

"They don't bother..."

"I was going to make cardboard figures with your images, then the cardboard Bendies will have to be squeezed out... I suppose it's not bad at all, on the contrary, each cutout will have a pair... You and I look amazing both in the form of toys, in drawings, in photographs... But best of all, without a single doubt, in life... Because you impress with your unsurpassed character and incomparable appearance... I love you very much, Laurie... I adore you, dear..."

"And our conversation turned into sincere confessions again..."

"Sorry, honey, but I can't hide the feelings I have for you... You are everything to me..."

"I love you very much, too, Bendy..."

"Let me hug you, tulip..." the imp bent his body closer to his beloved, surrounding her with long caring hands, approaching her and gently and carefully pulling her to him. "It's a great gift of fate for me to be near you... Every day I'm saying a quiet thank you to the whole world for bringing us together... The exultation in the soul, the bright light in the heart don't cease to shine, to glow, but only grow stronger, radiating more and more energy... My life connected with yours together and forever... Such unimaginable strong bonds surround us on the way to peace and tranquility and give us love, faith in unshakable joy in the future... I feel you, my dear: any unrest in your soul brings sorrow and indignation in mine, even when you try to hide your emotions, I understand that from time to time certain events which arise at the stages of striving for ideals upset you... However, my perfection is you, and life with you resembles a utopian one... It's as if the books 'My beautiful and incomparable wife' and 'Once upon a Time in the purple twilight' reflect the plot of our life..."

"Dear, you also make my life fabulous, there seems to be a special magic in our souls and hearts, unshakable and independent of external circumstances..."

"You're absolutely right, strawberry, I'm grateful to you for your trust in me, for your ability to listen and understand..."

"Thank you for helping me, for supporting me, it means a lot to me..."

"I'm always nearby to cheer you up, solve your problems... By the way, isn't it time for us to go get some fresh spring air, feeling the aroma of tulips, lilies, roses and petunias blooming in the garden?..."

"I don't mind taking a walk..."

"Great, I'll also treat the forget-me-nots with fertilizers, otherwise someone chewed their leaves... And sprinkle with pest control solution... In addition, it's necessary to water decorative ivy..."

"In general, there's a lot of work..."

"Not really, I'll finish it quickly today... And then I'll definitely join you, daisy... Should I bring you magazines, a sketchbook and a pencil?..."

"Yes, please..."

"Your wish is my command..."

Bendy carefully and cautiously looked into the eyes of his beloved, hoping that she wouldn't roll her eyes at his endless touching phrases or frown, looking down, as she sometimes did. However, this didn't happen. Lara reacted positively to his words and only smiled. He beamed and, grabbing the items he was supposed to, took the imp by the hand. They went outside in different directions: Bendy - to the porch-terrace for a watering can and a wicker basket with sprayers and boxes of insect repellents, and Lara - to the fountain with marble fish, whose water were shimmering under the rays of the gentle sun; flower beds, striking in size and variety of flowers: each of them had a well-groomed the appearance was clearly built - the merit of Bendy, who spent countless amounts of time, effort and labor to create beauty and harmony with the help of plants. The young man put on yellow gardening gloves and fumbled in the ground for about half an hour, while the girl leafed through a new magazine with pages of new outfits and fashionable images for the upcoming season. Finally she got tired and decided to take a walk. Lara didn't notice how she passed the neighborhood of her friends' house, soon came to her senses and, looking at a thick perennial oak, turned back into the idyll of buds and petals, inflorescences and stems. The imp looked at the wild bluebells growing near the garden, a pleasant feeling seized her heart and soul. Suddenly she heard a noise and felt a certain figure walking behind her...

The demoness turned around: a black-and-white girl was standing quite close to the imp, her hair was of medium length, large rabbit ears hung on her head, white, black, gray hairpins were visible on them. She also had gloves with two slits and ruffles; sleeves located from the wrist to the elbow; a light dress with white inserts and ribbons on the sides, with a white border at the bottom, were fluttering in the wind and gave the impression that the girl would fly off, rise up. She was wearing black leggings in a pattern of snow-white waves, massive dark boots with a platform of charcoal colour. Her face looked like a rabbit's because of the muzzle, whiskers and nose characteristic of this type of animal. From the black eyes with the cutouts intrinsic of Black and white creatures, eyelashes of unnatural length grew, even for wizards - one on each eye. Her lips were sparkling with lipstick, her cheeks were shimmering with applied makeup. Her gaze darted from side to side through the trees and bushes, her mouth puckered.

"Hmm, she must be looking for something..." thought Lara. She approached the stranger and asked with a polite smile, "Can I help you?..."

She startled and, trying not to reveal her worries, answered, "No, you don't have to..."

"I'm sorry if I scared you..." the girl hastened to apologize. "I'm Lara, and what's your name?..."

"Bouny..." muttered the bunny.

"Nice to meet you... Since you're not busy looking for something, maybe we can take a walk in the garden?... I know everything here completely, we'll read magazines..."

"Well, I don't know what to say..."

"Don't be shy, come with me... Or perhaps you're in a hurry?..."

"No, but..."

"What is it?... You'll like it, believe me... And now the garden is especially miraculous..."

Lara pointed her hand towards the blooming flowers and the flowing fountain and looked at the splendor of nature and sculpture herself. However, Bouny was looking in a completely different direction, the one where Bendy was digging with plants, spraying them, smoothing the leaves waving in the wind. He got up from his knees and put fertilizers in bags secured with coloured clothespins, put them in a basket along with a red watering can, went to the porch, and put things back in place. Moreover, he did all this with a thoughtful but calm expression on his face: Bendy had no way to hide his kindness and care, and he didn't try. He considered sincerity and honesty important always and everywhere, under any circumstances, he remained himself, modestly performing difficult work and trying not to stand out for his merits and not attract special attention.

Nevertheless, Bouny couldn't take her eyes off him: only when Bendy moved away and almost disappeared from sight, she turned her gaze to the side and blushed slightly. She suddenly imagined how he would talk to her, ask her something, tell her...

Suddenly Lara interrupted her thoughts, looking curiously at the girl and asking, "Bouny, so you don't mind taking a walk in the garden?..."

"Is this your garden?..." she immediately blurted out.

"Yes, more precisely, mine and my friends'... For the most part, Bendy takes care of it, he's an excellent gardener... Here he is..." the imp waved in the direction of her beloved.

"Is that B-bendy?..." stammered Bouny.

"Exactly, I'll introduce you to him... We all will be friends together..."

"Of course..." the bunny smiled. "Of course we will!..."

The demoness, noticing the change in the interlocutor's face, smiled, she was touched by her desire to become Lara's friend. A lover of creativity has long dreamed of meeting new Ink creatures, especially girls, because with them she wanted to discuss changes in fashion, features in her favorite interiors, maybe discover new directions in design for herself, and just share her ideas, joy and positive energy with others. Taking Bouny's hand, Lara said, "Let's go, I think we'll have a wonderful time..."

The girls approached the young man, who at that time had already noticed their approach, then the imp, smiling, announced, "Bouny, meet Bendy - my beloved and best friend... Bendy, meet Bouny - my new friend..."

"Nice to meet you..." Bendy replied, glancing at Bouni briefly, then shifting his gaze to Lara.

Bouny wanted to say a word, but, opening her mouth slightly, at first she couldn't say anything. Gathering her courage, she smiled and said, "G-glad to meet you..."

"I'm sure we'll find suitable activities which are interesting for all of us... I'll introduce you to the others..." Lara looked at Bouny.

"O-okay, but m-maybe we'll take a walk in the garden first?..."

"Definitely..."

"Probably you'd like to sit on a bench and drink tea with peach puffs..." Bendy suggested.

"I won't refuse... Bring it, please..." Lara asked.

"This minute, I'm already coming..." the young man smiled, embracing his beloved with a warm look.

The imp went home and returned a few moments later with a tea set and desserts. He poured the tea into the cups and concluded, "Enjoy your meal... I'd be glad to stay, but I have to leave to help Boris fix the fan... See you later..."

"Bye..." Lara replied, looking at the delicious treats.

"S-see you soon..." Bouny said.

The demon left, and his precious turned to the bunny and advised, "Don't worry, all my friends are very kind and sympathetic, you will certainly like each other..."

"I hope..." muttered Bouny. "Anyway, it was great to meet Bendy..."

"Glad to hear... Despite the fact that he doesn't really like to make new acquaintances, he's quite open and sincere to many creatures..."

"I see..."

"Mmm, what excellent puffs... Bendy, as always, did his best..."

"So he baked them himself?..."

"Yes, he makes new dishes every day, he's our chef..."

"Good... He's such a great guy...,

"He has a lot of versatile talents, like everyone else in our studio... When we go into the house, you will see for yourself..."

"I heard one of your friends is Boris..."

"And our other friend is Alice... They are wonderful persons..."

[poorfarmluxuries]

His Name is Clyde

I.

The first time Clyde came to my house, we built a bomb. We were in the second grade and we had met at our Catholic school. He was Chip then -  bowl haircut and a uniform of tartan and slacks like my own, a curious habit of momentarily widening his eyes, and the entire Kiss discography on 8 track. We found an old paint can in my father's dusty and dangerous garage, filled it halfway with gasoline and then rummaged through every solvent and aerosol we could find which had a warning label on it designating it as flammable to top it off - believing that there was something scientific in our methods Chemists. Anarchists before we even knew these words. Chip had the smile of one trying to suppress a smile on his face as he read the labels of the containers, excitedly informing me he had found another to add to the mixture. Once the paint can was full, we sealed it the way I had seen my father do by tapping the lid taut with a hammer.

I carried the paint can to the alley behind the garage which was neither paved nor accessible – nothing more than a space between fenced in lots filled with cut branches and weeds. Chip followed close behind with a box of kitchen matches. We placed the can down in the center of the alley and gathered dead leaves and placed them atop the lid. Chip handed me the matches and stood back with a nervous smile on his face while I lit match after match trying to get the leaves to burn. I eventually got a small fire going and took several hurried steps backward and stood beside Chip. We watched as it smoldered, but it did not ignite. I wasn't sure what to do. Chip picked a broken brick up off the ground and handed it to me without saying a word. His smile had become maniacal. I hesitated, took aim, and hurdled the brick at the bomb.  I hit it squarely and it broke the seal of the container and erupted in the very spectacle we had sought. A ball of flame 4 feet in diameter rose into the trees. But it wasn't but a heartbeat later that our astonishment turned to kicked apart anthill ant panic. The alley, the entire length of garage, was on fire. We stood there stupid and frozen while the weight of our 2nd grade Armageddon sunk in. A few years previous my grandparents' house had burned to the ground while my brother and I slept. We had narrowly escaped. This was bad.

I began frantically trying to stamp out the flames while Chip darted back and forth, no longer smiling, unsure of what to do. “Water. Get some water”, I shouted, and he took out running up the driveway. My mother had mounted a paper cup dispenser above the water faucet at on the side of the house so that the neighborhood kids could have a drink when they were outside playing. The cups were the sort Whiskey samples are served in at the liquor store and couldn't have held more than 4 oz of liquid. This is what Chip returned with. A single 4 oz. cup of water. He threw it at our hellscape as I continued to stomp on the flames. I was incredulous. I was terrified. But “More water”, was all I could manage. There was no water hose that would reach the alley and it being the first time Chip had been to my house, he couldn't have known where any larger containers might be. So, he disappeared, and I continued to try and stamp out the flames. He returned, this time, with two 4 oz paper cups of water – one in each hand - both nearly empty as most of their contents had spilled as he sprinted down the driveway. In the end, he must have made two dozen trips between the faucet and the alley before we somehow managed to put the fire out. Once we caught our breath, we stood there laughing hysterical at  our seared and suburban ruins. It was the 80's and we had succeeded where the powers that be had failed. We had detonated the bomb.

II.

37 years later, I had scantly moved back to Texas from New York and Clyde was in Portland. I had been struggling with (but mostly surrendering to) a 20-year long relationship with heroin and found myself in the aggravated wing of the county jail. It was by no means the first time I had been locked up – in fact I knew some of the jailers by name, but for reasons I still don't completely understand myself, I was finally done. I reached out to a friend who is a licensed chemical dependency counselor and she miraculously managed to secure me funding to go to a 30-day treatment program in Austin. However, the bed wouldn't be available for another month and a half. I wrote what must have been a ten-page letter to Clyde and a number of similar letters to a handful of other close friends explaining in detail where I was at – both mentally and physically - and that I had an opportunity to go to a rehab if I could raise the money to bond out of jail. Within a matter of a couple of weeks, enough money to buy a used car was raised and Clyde, of course, was the largest donor.

It would still be a month before my bed at the rehab was ready, so I opted to remain in jail until that time, so that I wouldn't have the chance to squander my opportunity. Without my ever having to ask, Clyde sent me books by Murakami, and Salman Rushdi.. and he sent me money so that I could call him. All so that I might pass the time. There is nothing like jail to bring into focus the precariousness of time and to hope for moments that never arrive in a form that resembles the hope – when all there ever can be is already right there before us. I think Clyde, in recent years, understood this better than most of us.

When the day finally arrived for my release on bond, Clyde flew in from Portland to see me off to rehab. He might have been due to see his mother, but he chose that day to visit solely because of my situation. I was scared and vulnerable. I had never been to treatment save for a few days in detox in New York. I had no idea what it would mean to live life as an adult without the drugs. Clyde understood this as well, but said nothing of it. He didn't offer any advice or words of encouragement. He was simply there. And that was all the encouragement I needed.

37 years after we had solidified our friendship, he was still trying to put out my fires.

III.

But it wasn't all calamity. We moved to Austin immediately after graduation and when we made the trip home or went on weekend trips to the Dallas area, we would ride in the 55 Chevy he had restored with the help of Mr. Morales and his mother Carole. We would never take the straight and obvious route of I-35 but would instead take state highway 317 splitting Comanche plains, thick with thieves and as impervious as the past. Scenes dead set between some of the scariest towns in America. Wordless – the only sounds Talking Songs for Walking, Bitches Brew, Loveless, Yank Crime - we were as silent as two people can be, but we were at home... And that's how it always had been for me and Clyde. We didn't have to talk to understand each other. We collaborated in moments.

In hindsight, those many trips up and down 317, I see the choice he made in taking that meandering road as indicative of how he lived his life. He chose his own path – one that suited his sense of aesthetic, circumvented convention and banality... and he remained dedicated to it. He always knew what he wanted and as Marisa recently said to me, he always knew exactly what he needed... But he never took anything, and I believe that he never took anything for granted – least of which, his friends. For me, the grass was always greener on the other side. But for Clyde, the grass was either green or it wasn't. He did it all with style and poise, with tongue in cheek, and perfect guitar tone. He did it in a 55 Chevy.

As calm a presence as he was, he would have never dared to take himself too seriously and had a wholly unique gift for the absurd. I believe that he viewed much – or maybe most -  of what occurred in life as performance art though he would have never been so pretentious to say as much, and he was never performing. There was a time he would watch the same infomercial on television in the same time slot every night – pumping his fist in the air at his favorite lines. He would dress himself for school in dime store cowboy suits, but there was nothing hip or ironic in his attire. I think he simply saw it as how he was best suited to interact with the world.

I was an angry young man and I think Clyde, in his way, was too, but where my anger resolved itself in all manner of fairly typical self-destructive and sometimes violent behaviors, he channeled that energy into farcical, perfect acts of, at once, outrageous and unassuming defiance. That is not to say that we were Yin and Yang. Yang and Yang perhaps.

We all but forced the Catholic Church into surrender together, we drank Pepsi and collected Garfield figurines together, we skated curbs and sat on curbs drinking Slurpees together, we decorated our grip tape with paint pens - drawing Dead Kennedys and Black Flag logos... together, we worked our first jobs in the cruelty of Texas summers -  mowing grass and laying asphalt together, we made horrendous music that couldn't decide whether it was Joy Division, Firehose, or Youth Brigade together.. until we eventually made some we were both proud of. We lived together. We shared more experiences than I'll ever have time to remember.

I feel like an amputee without my friend,.. And as amputees do, I often feel a twitch from that missing limb. Several times since I last spoke to Clyde, I hear a song I like that's new to me and my immediate thought is, I have to tell Clyde about this. I just the other day passed my four-year anniversary of getting clean. I don't celebrate such things. I don't know that I said a word about it, but I wanted to tell Clyde.. and so I did. Suddenly, to the guy I never had to speak a word to be understood, I have so many things to say.

I couldn't have ever hoped for a better best friend.

[amicidomenicani]

Question Dear Father Angelo, the bodies of San Padre Pio and Saint Leopold were recently transported to Rome at the behest of the Holy Father. This event, which received a lot of publicity in the media, left me confused and disoriented. Why does the Church allow, or rather promote, the exposition of corpses or sometimes parts of corpses for veneration? Let me be clear: I understand the importance of the cult of the Saints and even relics, but wouldn’t it be the same if we buried the dead and let the faithful pray on their tombs? Folkloristic traditions aside, is it barbarism to leave the bodies exposed and, oftentimes, even mutilated (I’m thinking about the body of Saint Catherine of Siena) in order to allow them to be venerated in different parts of the world? I’ll be honest, this form of worship leaves me dumbfounded and I find it extremely difficult to comprehend. Thank you, Viola Priest’s answer Dear Viola, 1. I agree with you that the exposure of corpses isn’t pleasant. But the exposure of the bodies of the Saints, especially if they are uncorrupted, isn’t the same as the exposure of a corpse. People flooded Saint Peter’s Square not to see corpses, but to meet Padre Pio and Father Leopold. The bodies of these saints radiate something that normal corpses don’t. God is active through these bodies, which will one day rise up again and be full of His power and His glory, in the same way He was active through them when they were alive. 2. Since God keeps giving signs and operating miracles through their bodies in order to fortify the faith of the Christian people and He keeps using them to show an example of a life well lived, why shouldn’t people grow fond of the mortal spoils of a Saint? We read in Acts that, when the people found out that Paul was leaving Ephesus for good and would never be back, they brought face cloths and tissues, touched them to Paul’s body and then applied them to the sick who recovered and the evil spirts left them. “So extraordinary were the mighty deeds God accomplished at the hands of Paul that when face cloths or aprons that touched his skin were applied to the sick, their diseases left them and the evil spirits came out of them (Acts 19:11-12). 3. I would like to recall what happened when the skeletal body of Saint Dominic was exhumed. Blessed Jordan of Saxony, his first successor, who had previously been a professor at the University of Paris, testifies to what happened: “The venerable archbishop and a host of bishops and prelates are present. The devotion of numberless people from many regions is expressed. The armed troops are on hand so as not to lose the protection of this hallowed body. But the brethren are uneasy and fearful; they pray anxiously, "they have trembled for fear, where there was no fear." Perhaps the body of St. Dominic, so long a prey to rain and heat in its paltry tomb, will be swarming with vermin; perhaps its horrid stench will offend the populace and arrest their devotion to him. Not knowing what to do, they had only the recourse of abandoning themselves entirely to God. The bishops approach the tomb and the workmen take out their tools. They first remove the stone embedded in the hard cement covering the tomb. They then dig up the wooden box in which the venerable Pope Gregory, as bishop of Ostia, has buried the sacred body. From a small opening in the box a marvelous odor issues forth as soon as the stone is removed. The bystanders are struck by its fragrance, but are unable to tell what it is. The lid is removed from the box and lo! a storehouse of perfumes, a paradise of fragrances, a garden of roses, a field of lilies and violets, a hillside of sweet flowers could not match what filled the air. When the wagons make the rounds of Bologna, the city reeks with stench; but when the tomb of glorious Dominic is opened, the air is purified by a fragrance surpassing the sweetness of all aromas. The bystanders are overcome and fall in fear to the ground.

Tears inspired by God mingle with feelings of joy; fear and hope arise on the battlefield of the soul and wage marvelous war, as the fragrance continues to spread its sweetness. We were among the many who perceived the sweetness of this odor, and what we saw and sensed we are here describing. And, although we stood for a long time near the body of the Lord's herald, St. Dominic, we never grew tired of its fragrance. It was a fragrance which dispelled weariness, aroused devotion, and produced marvels. If a hand, a cincture, or anything else touched the body, it acquired an odor which lingered for some time. The body was transferred to a marble monument to be enclosed there within its own fragrance. This remarkable odor emanated from the holy body so that all could understand what a good odor of Christ rested there. The Solemn Mass was celebrated by the Archbishop. Since it was the third day of Pentecost, the Introit sung by the choir was "Receive the joy of your glory." In their joy, the brethren took these word as sounding from heaven. Trumpets blare and the countless multitude raise their candles. As they march in procession, "Blessed be Jesus Christ" is heard everywhere. This event took place in the city of Bologna on March 24, 1233, in the sixth year of the cycle, Gregory IX being Pope and Frederick II, Emperor.” (The Libellus of Jordan of Saxony, 127-129). 4. Something similar happened in Rome. The presence of the bodies of those two Saints dispelled weariness, aroused devotion, and produced marvels in those who came to see them. We can only say: fortunate those who experienced it. People – from every background – rushed there and were happy to have done so. The papers spoke of miracles that happened at the passing of Father Leopold. Those were certainly days of grace. I thank you for having inspired me to write these things. I recommend you to the Lord and bless you. Father Angelo 28 February 2017 | A Priest Answers - Liturgy and Pastoral - Liturgical Section