#the unpainted door

[asoftepiloguemylove]

Sylvia Plath "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath" / Anne Sexton, "The Sickness Unto Death" / Simon Stålenhag / Sylvia Plath "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath" / Friedrich Wilhelm Theodor Heyser "Ophelia" / Louise Glück, “The Unpainted Door" / Max Ginsburg "War Pieta" / Mahmoud Darwish "Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut, 1982" / August Friedrich Albrecht Schenck "Anguish" / Sylvia Plath "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath"

[random-poetry-account]

[crazystonergirl]

“I remember my childhood as a long wish to be elsewhere.”

— Louise Glück, Unpainted Door

[emo-nordegraf]

PUSSY MAGNET

[wholenessblooming]

unpainted door by louise glück

[nintendocrowbro]

MMMMMMM CUT WOOD

THE HOME DEPOT LUMBER AREA SMELL

*SOUNDS OF SNORTING SAWDUST*

[fumrell]

The whip is insane in Pacific Drive right now

[photoncatcher]

Nikon D610; 1/500; F/5.6; ISO 100; 18mm

25/05/2024

[mybigjacket]

Louise Glück, “Unpainted Door” Poems 1962-2012 / Ingmar Bergman, Bergman On Bergman interviews with Stig Bjorkman, Torsten Manns and Jonas Sima / Moonlight 2016 dir. Barry Jenkins / Fiona Apple, Second Bite interview by Craig McLean, The Guardian / Eighth Grade 2018 dir. Bo Burnham / Norman Rockwell, Little Girl Looking Downstairs at Christmas Party / Anne Carson, “The Anthropology of Water” in Plainwater

[babypudge]

🍼🪞Mirror on the Ceiling🪞🍼

The house was impressive, despite still being under construction. Exactly why it was suggested as the venue for your second date was unclear, but you assumed it was just a power play - she was older, wealthy and probably trying to compensate for the age gap by flaunting a little. She needn't have, you'd been smitten from the first glance across the bar.

Entering a half-finished bedroom on the first floor, you couldn't help but notice something unusual - there was a giant mirror installed on the ceiling.

"Wait... is that so you can watch yourself in bed?" you smirked and pointed an accusing finger in her direction, feeling confident that this being the first stop on the tour was an extremely unsubtle way of flirting.

"Its so YOU can watch yourself in bed." came the winking reply, along with a playful one-finger bop on the nose on that seemed to emphasize her seniority over you, "I guess you could call this a "playroom" of sorts. Maybe you'd like to be my little boy-toy, hmmm?"

You couldn't believe it - the walls were unpainted, the floor was unfinished and the en suite bathroom lacked any hint of where the toilet would go - but there was already a mirror on the ceiling. Sure, it was a little weird, but at least you knew she wasn't uptight about sex.

All the same, with no furniture or carpet in the house, the night ended with nothing more than a peck on the cheek. Days become weeks, weeks became months, the relationship was getting serious, but somehow the house was nearly finished without you having gotten past second base.

"Don't worry, baby, you'll be seeing a lot of yourself in that mirror once the furniture gets delivered." was enough to keep you going. It became a little game between the two of you - so much so that you didn't think twice about being "forbidden" from entering the house during the final weeks of construction.

When the day of the house warming party eventually came, you were so excited that the mythic playroom was finally within reach.

"There's my little darling!" seemed like an unusual greeting to receive as you met your new love at the front door, but you didn't really think much of it. Nor did you think much about the glass of red wine you were handed being so bitter, despite otherwise tasting exactly like plain grape juice - you never really drank wine anyhow, so you marked it down to inexperience. A little alcohol always helped you mingle at parties, so you drank greedily as you stepped into the foyer.

The house was full of people you didn't know, but you recognized a couple you'd been on a few double dates with over in the living room. They were in a small group looking through a pile of something, but you couldn't get a good look at exactly what. Whatever it was, it seemed to be getting an odd mixture of reactions that ranged from "Aww, so adorable!" to "Uh oh!" - almost all of them followed by an smattering of laughter from everyone.

You assumed they must be going through material samples for something in the house that wasn't finished yet, it certainly looked like cloth of some sort, but it was too far away to be sure.

"Come over here, there's somebody special you need to meet!" she said, grabbing your hand and leading you into the kitchen.

"Heeey! There he is!" came an unexpectedly warm greeting from a man you'd never seen before. He was the "silver fox" type, and in many ways he reminded you of your new girlfriend. You assumed he must be her brother and did your best to act casual, despite a sudden feeling of light headedness.

"You know, honey, I wasn't so sure about this at first - but you were right, this house already feels more like a home with our little guy in it. He really is adorable..." the man reached out and gently stroked your face. You tried to recoil from his hand, but your reaction time was so delayed that he'd already finished before you could move a muscle. Everything felt strange and your brain was swimming in confused thoughts.

The man gently removed the nearly empty wine glass from your hand and put on an exaggerated look on concern. "Uh-oh, who gave the baby glass? C'mon tiger, give that to papa, its not safe for a munchkin like you. Let's get that into a baba - then you can make the rest of your nummy grape juice go all-gone for Mommy and Daddy, okay?"

You tried to ask what was going on, but the words just wouldn't come out - whatever was in that wine was working fast. Your eyes darted over to your "girlfriend" who seemed to be glowing with joy over the situation in front of her.

"You see, I told you that you'd be a natural at this, sweetheart. He isn't even settled into the nursery yet and you're already acting like an adoring father" she said, giving the man a peck on the cheek.

"Just remember, I'm only changing the wet diapers." he smirked.

"We'll see about that..." she chided "but speaking of which, we really should get our lil' lamb into his Huggies - the guy I got this stuff from warned me that people tend to loose control once they're knocked out. It's a little sad that baby will miss out on his first dirty diaper, but I'm sure everyone will take plenty of pictures for him to see later - besides, there'll be a LOT more where that came from!"

You gathered up all your remaining strength to try and run, but you didn't get more than a few steps out of the kitchen before collapsing onto the carpet. Crawling on all fours, you could see the front door and tried to move towards it.

"Ooooh, look, he's crawling! Where're ya' goin' tiger? Is my rugrat exploring his new home?" the man called after you with a surprisingly genuine parental tone. "Okay, everyone, we're ready to start the baby shower!"

Guests from all over the house converged in the front room, blocking your path to the door. They didn't seem to pay much attention to your plight - a few took pictures, a few cooed and pinched your cheeks, but nobody seemed to share your confusion.

Shortly before losing consciousness, you felt yourself being rolled onto a soft pad on the floor and your pants being unbuckled. Somebody placed something in your mouth and you couldn't seem to spit it out - you felt something cold and damp against your skin, then something soft being pulled between your legs, then another, and another. The sound of tape and the crinkle of plastic seemed to be coming from miles away as you finally succumbed to sleep.

When you awoke, all you could see was yourself strapped down in a giant crib, wearing a thick diaper, plastic pants and a onesie. It took a moment for it all to sink in, but you eventually accepted that this was no dream. Just as promised - you'd be getting a lot of time in the playroom, you were nothing more than her little boy-toy, and you'd be spending countless hours watching yourself in the mirror on the ceiling.

[asoftepiloguemylove]

i never grew up with you and you're not my waiting room

Marjane Satrapi Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood / unknown / Clementine von Radics / Clementine von Radics / image (unknown) quote (Richard Siken Crush) / Louise Glück from Unpainted Door, "Poems 1962-2012" / unknown / image (unknown) quote (Phoebe Bridgers Moon Song)

i. Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood

[ "What is childhood like? It's a little like dying, a little like being born. Which is to say, it's nothing you can remember, but you know there was blood." ]

ii. unknown

[ Floating cutout of a wolf on a black background. Text surrounds the image. "NOTHING WILL BE LEFT OF ME / BUT A MEMORY / BUT EVEN THAT WILL DIE OFF TOO" ]

iii. Clementine von Radics

[ "Every time a man yells / you are seven years old again / and he is packing that suitcase / once more. Picking you up by the neck, / teaching you obedience. To be soft, / like the belly of a fish / exposed to a knife." ]

iv. Clementine von Radics

[ "When I imagine myself I am barely there." ]

v. Richard Siken, Crush

[ The background image is of two black men standing face to face. The man of the left holds the back of the man on the right's head. They are posed intimately with their foreheads touching. The words are cut out like a collage and placed in the middle of the image. "he / touches / you, / like a / prayer / for which / no / words / exist, / and you / feel / your heart / taking / root / in your / body, / like / you've / discovered / something / you didn't / even / have / a name / for." ]

vi. Louise Glück, Unpainted Door

[ Screenshot of a tumblr post from @/weltenwellen "I remember my childhood as a long wish to be elsewhere." Louise Glück from "Unpainted Door", Poems 1962-2012 ]

vii. unknown

[ "You can never leave home. / You take it with you no matter where you go. Home is between your teeth, under your fingernails, in the hair follicles, in your smile, in the ride of your hips, in the passage of your breasts." ]

viii. Phoebe Bridgers, Moon Song

[ Edited collage. The background image is of a teenage boy laying on a pile of books while his dog lays with it's chin on his neck. The words are cut on paper at the top and bottom of the image. There are silver stars sporadically placed on the image. "so i will wait for the next time you want me / like a dog with a bird at your door" ]

[princessbrunette]

walking in on gooner step bro rage jerking himself off with your panties

˖⁺‧₊🍥𝜗𝜚

you weren’t aware that rafe was even home, which is why you shocked to walk into your bedroom to find the back of your step brother, stood with his feet apart at your dresser.

you freeze, eyes wide and doe like as your lips part, coming to grips with what you were actually seeing. small groans and huffs of exertion leave him, as his arm flexes with each quick pump of his fist around his cock. he was jerking off, it was clear as day — but the next question that lingered your mind was why in your bedroom? it was only then you notice the fabric laid open on top of the dresser at his crotch-height — a pair of used panties that had been snatched from the basin.

you suddenly stumble forward like you can’t control yourself, marching over to his side in humiliation at the fact he was even seeing your lightly used underwear, splayed open in daylight. there’s a moment where he simply turns his head, lips still parted in concentration and continues to pump.

“rafe… wh — what are you doing?” you stress, and he only licks his lips. you go to snatch the panties away from him, but as you lean forward to do so he grabs you — overpowering you easily to slam you down onto the dresser in a bent over position. “rafe!” you squeal, your breath hitching in your throat as you fight him for a moment.

with his free hand, he yanks your arm behind your lower back, keeping you still. briefly, he unhands his cock to yank up your skirt. “you’re right, what am i doing huh? using these panties when i got a live subject right infront’a me. spread ‘em baby i gotta big fuckin’ load comin’.” he drawls, nasally and perverted as he kicks your legs open — aiming his tip at the growing wet patch of your panties, occasionally brushing his tip against where your hole would be.

you whine, knees buckling — barely even caring that the bedroom door was still wide open, a straight shot into the room from the hallway to any on lookers. as he groans, coming up on his orgasm — you ooze into your panties, soon feeling him bust hot ropes onto the fabric, seeping through to caress your puffy, sticky folds as he holds you down. “fuckfuckfuck—fucking shit—” he grunts, the tight grip around your comparably frail wrist burning your skin making you wince tearfully — letting your step-brother empty himself on your covered pussy and bare ass cheeks.

he eventually stills, catching his breath. “god damn.” he pants before admiring his work, loosening his grip on your wrist to slap the side of your ass that he left unpainted before pulling your skirt back down, sure to stain the inside material. he lets you go, and you stand up shakily to watch him stuff himself back into his pants, eyeing you over. “good shit baby. gonna keep our little secret right?” he licks his lips, zipping up his zipper with a little shuffle of his feet. you’re without words, so you simply nod.

at your compliance, he drops you a kiss on the forehead before swaggering off to the door. “s’what i like to hear.”

˖⁺‧₊🍥𝜗𝜚

[1800titz]

HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.

WC: 6.6K

slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency

Clay is innately erotic. 

Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second. 

Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night. 

It’s a cute shop. 

Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort. 

Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery. 

He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.

Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.

“Hello.”

His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.  

“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him. 

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue. 

“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.

The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote. 

“Oh, I’m just looking.” 

The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge. 

“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”

Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples. 

“I think—�� the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.” 

She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.

It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.

“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.” 

He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there. 

“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.” 

He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?” 

The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.” 

One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?” 

Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.” 

Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment. 

Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.” 

Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence. 

“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.” 

Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.

She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels. 

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“ 

“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.” 

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink. 

“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.” 

It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space. 

He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy. 

“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.” 

The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate. 

“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.” 

Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin. 

“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.” 

The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.

She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s. 

Yeah. 

Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay. 

“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.” 

“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.

Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work. 

“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue. 

Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs. 

“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length. 

She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt. 

“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”

Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.

“Take your bracelet off for me.” 

The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”

But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me. 

It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows. 

“Right. Thanks— thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off. 

She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up. 

“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“

Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again. 

“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders. 

Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more. 

“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”

Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones. 

“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”

The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior. 

“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”

Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child. 

“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.” 

He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs. 

“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together. 

As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider. 

Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it. 

“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert. 

Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top. 

“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.” 

Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together. 

“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.” 

The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.” 

She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic. 

“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.” 

She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes. 

“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things. 

“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.” 

“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?” 

He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.” 

“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece. 

“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.” 

As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?” 

Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.” 

“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“

If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin. 

“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”

Y/N swallows.

“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?” 

“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.” 

“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.” 

“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.” 

A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.” 

This is The Turning Point. 

And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—

But then it clicked. 

“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.” 

Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both. 

For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash. 

“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from. 

The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.” 

Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?” 

“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”

His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?” 

Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.” 

Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling. 

“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting. 

Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.” 

Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed. 

“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.” 

Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.” 

“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.” 

“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her. 

Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it. 

“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?” 

“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”

Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.” 

Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights. 

“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”

Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.” 

All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time. 

Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres. 

She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay. 

“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with. 

Christ. 

“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands. 

Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face. 

“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.” 

The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again. 

“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.” 

Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features. 

She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.” 

“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.” 

Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation. 

“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.” 

“Thank you. What now?” 

“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.” 

Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse. 

She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?” 

Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.” 

The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?” 

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“

Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet. 

“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging. 

The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?” 

Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.” 

“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.

The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.  

Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Beach day with König

CW: 18+ only, protected p in v sex in a semi-public place, size kink, friends to lovers, possessive but slightly emotionally unavailable König

König wants to take you to the beach one day. He has water and some munch already packed, along with a bottle of sunscreen, and he's looking illegally hot there at your door with one of those rare smiles on his face.

You like to think he's reserved his smiles just for you, but the truth is you never know if König is flirting with you without knowing it, or if he's deliberately teasing you and making your heart ache. You can't get to the bottom of who this mysterious Austrian giant truly is, but you know he likes to spend time with you. That must count for something, right…?

You have to go to the same stall to change because there's a shortage of free changing rooms; it's the most beautiful day so of course everyone else is at the beach too.

You only need to grab your swimwear and towel, but you want to add your share to the beach picnic and so you quickly shove the last of the blueberry muffins you baked yesterday into a tupperware box. You almost melt on the spot when König says you have to feed them to him because his hands will soon be covered in sunscreen. Someone has to make sure you don't burn in the sun, oder nichts?

You've done all kinds of shit together but König has never seen you naked. You try to keep it cool – it's okay: you're both adults, it's no big deal. Friends can share the same changing room, and König has always been the perfect gentleman when it comes to these things.

It's just that you wouldn't mind if his eyes wandered a little... You know you wouldn't blame him for that, if he didn't blame you for taking a peek.

A little peek never hurt anyone, but you never knew what it would cost you. You never knew you'd end up against the stall wall with him inside you.

The reserved gentleman you used to know is completely gone. König tears the condom package open with his teeth and rolls the plastic protection on with no shame whatsoever. Trojan Magnum thin, you manage to catch as the torn package ends up somewhere on the floor of the changing room. You can't believe he came here prepared…

You wonder where his usual shyness went when he too cheated on his promise not to look when you change. You wonder where the polite, considerate man went when König presents himself to you, fully naked, uncut and huge.

You're barely able to nod when he bluntly asks if you want to fuck.

The shy, awkward recruit is nowhere to be seen as König raises you against the rough, unpainted boards and spreads your thighs. The sounds of strain and exertion mainly come from him sliding his cock into you, not from him having to carry your full weight.

You always thought your first time with König – if such a thing ever came – would be something more traditional, more romantic. You always thought it'd be a Netflix & chill kind of moment. This guy has taken you out to have a chaste little meal or to see some stupid movie, for weeks and weeks now. König has the most awful taste in films, but you've endured, just like you've endured his monologues about knives and sniping. König has offered you his huge sweater when you were cold, he's has entertained your need to read poems to him, just as bravely as you have entertained his silly ramblings about yet another Böker knife. You have done a million pranks to the other recruits together. Everyone at the barracks is sick of your stupid inside jokes, everyone says you two are the worst. The 'big goblin' and the 'small goblin', they call you apparently...

Close friends don't fuck like wild animals inside a changing room, you think while he rails you as controlled and muffled as he can – you fear what would happen to you, not to talk of the poor stall, if König was allowed to fuck you to his hearts and dicks content. You never knew the socially awkward but intense sniper candidate would take you to a beach and then ask if you want to fuck. On your worst days you've swallowed tears along with the shy question of would he ever want to be more than just friends.

The only time König ever touched you was when he allowed you to try his favourite rifle. The only time you ever kissed him was after your date nights, and even then it was just a quick peck on the cheek. You were never quite sure if you were just close friends with König.

You almost lose it when he grunts into your neck how he's wanted to do this for a long time. Wanted to fuck you, or fuck a woman against a changing room wall, you don't know, but you hold on to his sweaty neck as best as you can. You have to bite his shoulder to prevent loud, long-held cries from coming out. It only makes König more unhinged, though: you sinking your teeth in him like that.

Now he's infiltrating you with the passion of a man about to die if he doesn't get some pussy. Or like a dog, finally allowed to rut a female in heat. If you two were the only people here, he would probably sound like an animal, too. You know you would.

"When we... When we get back, I'll fuck you properly. Long, and hard. Hm?"

"Y–yes," you whisper on his skin – you don't know if you've ever been this flustered. You fear everyone on the beach will know what you've been doing just from how dumb you will look after this. The bite marks on König's shoulder are enough to tell people that your "close friend" is good at more than just shooting a gun.

When you cum, you sound like a widow sobbing at a funeral; when he cums, he sounds like he's dying from a stab wound. You both sound like two people trying to muffle their sorrow instead of trying to fuck their brains out.

And he won't let you down even when he's done with you. He won't let you down, not even as you squirm and whimper in his hold.

"You're mine now, right?" He pants into your ear while covered in a thin sheen of sweat. It's far from any kind of gentlemanly behavior, that low, possessive growl. Your eyes brim with tears – you like him too much when he's spontaneous and a bit crazy like this. You could fall in love with a man like König.

"I always was," you whisper, and he finally puts you down, content with everything you just gave him. You swear you just heard a soft, pleased rumble rising from that broad chest… But some part of that stoic, reserved soldier you know from the skills training and movie nights makes an appearance when you put your swimwear on. König is perfectly in control while you, in turn, are feeling awkward and completely flushed. At least there's no cum running down your thighs as you prepare for your day at the beach...

And who knew König would be so whiny? The condom you used is full as hell, and he has nowhere to put it because there's no trash can in the stall. He grunts as you try to hold in your laughter — he overall looks like he would prefer it if condoms disappeared from the face of the earth entirely so he could feel you without the plastic barrier in between. You giggle when you watch him smuggle it into the nearest trash after wrapping it inside a paper towel.

You spend the rest of the day at the beach, looking like you're the first people who have just discovered love and the fine art of fucking. He can't take his eyes off you, and you can't take his eyes off him. You play in the water, not as friends, but as lovers. Some elderly lady comes to scold you and says there are children here at the beach. You have your legs wrapped around König underwater, and your arms around his neck above: there's nothing lewd going on. But König grows red, all the way from the neck up. That's when you know he has probably never taken a woman in a public place; sometimes you wonder if he has ever taken a woman at all. The big Austrian sniper-to-be remains a mystery as he brings you some ice cream like the gentleman he is, then licks it off from your fingers like a starved dog. He's hot and cold, and confident and shy, feral and distant all in one day.

"You're mine now... All mine."

He "fucks you properly" when you get back, making your whole apartment smell of sex and desperation. And he says it again... That you belong to him. He says it with a shattered, hungry stare, both fragile and frightening.

[recluselecter]

Card Spring

gambit x nonverbal! reader

WARNINGS: gender neutral reader, extreme spoilers for episode 2, badly written dialogue for Remy, grief, the reader goes nonverbal, not proofread, complete fluff, self indulgent, I needed comfort.

SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT!!!!

After Storm leaves, a nonverbal reader sticks to their room, playing with old cards she’d given them. Gambit decides to teach them some tricks to try to cheer them up.

My eyes focus solely on the cards in my hands. The red and black letters and numbers flash as I try to spring them from one hand to the other. At least one always finds its way on my blanket. My legs crossed, they fall into the space in my lap, semi-contained until a knock forces me out of my daze. The cards fly from my hands, scattering on the mattress and falling to the floor. I sniffle, climbing down desperately to gather them as quickly as I can. The door opens as I find my favorite card, one that Remy had painted. The Ace of Hearts is painted over, the black paint hiding the original art. A bright red heart is centered, an anarchy symbol in the middle. I tucked it into the deck silently, my chest tightening as I find the Ace of Spades, the one Ororo had painted. The light blue is combined with white lightning that intersects to create an ‘A’. Her line work was made up of words she wanted to convey to me. She spoke of our friendship, our sibling-hood, the reasons why she gave me the deck. Tears fell for the fourth time that day when I saw the card.

The Ace of Clubs and the Ace of Diamonds both lay on the bed, unpainted. Logan and Rogue were supposed to paint theirs, but never got around to it. Logan’s had a thin white base coat, the letters still seen through the first and only coat. He’d gotten bored, and got up and left Remy, Ororo, and I at the table where we were painting. 

“Cher?” Remy’s voice shocked me out of my thoughts. I looked up, finding him in my doorway, a concerned look on his face. He must’ve saw my red and puffy eyes, and decided to enter. I finished gathering my cards, and nestled myself back into the nest of blankets I’d made. He sat down on the edge of my bed tenderly, his usual joking demeanor gone. “Jean says you’re not talkin’?” I didn’t look at him, instead opting to try to spring the cards again. I tried with my hands closer than before, being more careful to not let them fall. I still failed.

“Like that nonverbal thing you was talkin’ about?” He tilted his head, trying to see my reaction. I nodded, semi-successfully springing in the meantime. I lost a few cards, but not nearly as many as the previous attempts. Remy’s eyes fell to my hands, recognizing the deck immediately. He watched me struggle for a minute before scooting closer to me. He used some spare blankets to make himself a nest, and leaned in to watch my “technique.”

“Mon ami, what is this hand doing?” He sighed, pointing at my left hand. I demonstrated how I was catching the cards with the hand, and he shook his head. “You want your pinky out like this,” he stuck out his own hand, showing how he would hold the deck himself. “That way, the cards can’t fall out your hand.”

When I tried the way he showed me, I lost less cards. I smiled a little, testing the new hold. After a minute, he nodded. “Good! Now, that other hand? Needs work.” He pulled his own deck from his pocket, explaining how to hold the cards so that there was air between each card, making it easier to make each individual card spring on it’s own. “This makes the cards not go all choppy. Makes it smooth!” I nodded, observing his hands closely. 

Half an hour passed, and my tears were dry, and I had a decent deck spring under my belt. I smiled at Remy, and he grinned back. “On the road to becomin’ me!” He went quiet for a minute, watching me practice before he spoke up.

"It's gonna be okay." He said quietly. "We're gonna get 'er back." I looked down at my cards, nodding sullenly. "She's gonna be okay." I wiped my tears away and sniffed. She would want me to be strong about this. Remy smiled when I tucked my cards into their box and removed myself from my nest.

"You want some beignets?" He grinned when I nodded, and threw his arm around my shoulder. As he led me out of my room, I tucked my deck into my pocket, deciding to use it as a reminder of who I was fighting for in the battles to come.

[pomefioredove]

Noble Bell ; Book Two, Part I ; The Knight of The Sun

what if you were sent to Noble Bell College instead?

type of post: series characters: rollo, original characters (pierrot, bou, phoenix, clodio) additional info: reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu and has a canon yuu personality, I edited this ONCE and it took an hour I'm not doing that again. if there are mistakes that's my bad word count: 8.1k HELP ME

prologue | the king of truands, 1 | the king of truands, 2 | the knight of the sun, 1 |

Chapter One

The lingering warmth of summer had long kissed the noble City of Flowers good-bye, leaving nothing but the white sun as a reminder of what had once been. The north bell tower became colder, the sun-stained banners on the stone walls of the school became duller, and you were left to your silence and solemnity.

From your place in the bell tower, Fleur City became your closest friend, your confidant, your only color in the white light that poured through the windows of the tower, every cloudy morning. It rained. Your curiosity led you higher and higher, closer to heaven and further away from the people on earth, up to the stone statues, abandoned by time and speckled by moss and weather, up to the bells, to the fingerprints and breath left on the noble bronze. Away from the lives of the students, the city, the fishermen and bakers, where on foggy mornings (and it was often foggy), it was only you, the bells, the gargoyles, and the clouds which separated you from the earth and its people. 

There was evidence of life in this place. The fingerprints on the bells, empty wine bottles, wood shavings you seem to find everywhere, no matter how much you sweep and dust and organize and try to make a home of this place. You found a wooden ladle and a bejeweled dagger wedged behind a door, once. You use the ladle as a door jamb and the dagger to open letters from the school, which never seem to stop coming. They pour in like the rain, each addressed in neat, orderly handwriting, signed by your professors and your headmaster and your student council. 

Almost all are about your temperament. Your behavior. Unorderly, they say. No matter how straight you stand, your shoulders are never back far enough, your chin is never held high enough. 

Some are about your classes and grades. Some come from Clodio LeFou, the self-named “King of Truands”, who has taken you as a penpal against your will. Some are simple weather reports to warn you of coming storms, signed by Vice President Bou de Neige. You keep those. You’re not sure why, but you do. 

Three weeks flow over you like the cold water of the Soleil. You become less of a visitor, and more of a roommate to whomever lived in the bell tower last. Still not a student. Never quite a student. 

But you have the company of the bells. The gargoyles. The city, from above its roofs and heads, from heaven. Your mysterious roommate, and their wine bottles, their wood shavings, their ladles and daggers. 

It’s the only place where you don’t feel unwelcome. Where you don’t feel abnormal. It’s home, in a melancholic sense, because you are alone there. 

Some days, in the late of September, when the sun still held your hand and warmed you, you think that you could stay there forever. Where there are no sneers or whispers, no looks of disgust, no eyes that follow you. 

But you can’t. 

“Watch your head, dearest!” 

You miraculously avoid the trio of stilt walkers carrying a long wooden beam between them just to crash into Clodio LeFou, who, mercifully, catches you before you can bruise your tailbone as well as your ego. 

“Sorry,”

The young gentleman, hair pulled back into two artfully messy pigtails, eyes hidden but impish grin still striking under the unfeeling white of an unpainted carnival mask, brushes off your shoulders, and pats you twice on the head.

“Where’s your mind at today, hm?”

The Miracle Court, buried six feet deep beneath the well-mannered people of Fleur City, is unusually alive today, even with the smell of death only a breath away. “Students” of the makeshift dorm are carrying banners, painting wood, sewing costumes, and chatting amongst themselves with an excitement that makes your existence above ground seem dull. There’s life here; completely unlike the stillness of your bell tower.

It had been but a month since you unceremoniously stumbled into orientation and became an unwelcome guest of the college, and an unwilling guest of the Miracle Court. The hours of waiting for home stretched into days, and then into weeks, although every minute still felt like an eternity. The classes were near impossible to keep up with, even with Pierrot, who, both endearingly and annoyingly, seems entirely disinterested in helping you. 

“I like you more when you’re you, not them,” he says.

It would be a romantic sentiment if the cream-colored letters holding your grades, like a captive in rope, didn’t send a shiver down your spine. 

You find yourself strangely grateful for Clodio, who, despite his eccentric passion for la scène and his disregard for the rules and rigidity of Noble Bell College, is more intelligent than anyone else you’ve met thus far. 

“What’s going on here?”

“Mystère , you do not know? Has no one the decency!” he gasps, holding a hand over his chest as if his heart had been struck by an arrow. Dramatic as ever. “Pierrot! Where is Monsieur Philosophie?”

His voice becomes higher with each echo across the imposing walls and vaulted ceiling of the Miracle Court. As if on cue, a loud crash follows, and then Pierrot Gregoire comes stumbling out of what was presumably once a stage prop, but is now an inconveniently placed pile of wood. 

“Here! What is the problem? Has anyone a question about the script?”

Perhaps you wouldn’t say it aloud, but Pierrot has become a warm familiarity to you. The time you’re apart- that is, as soon as classes end and before they begin again- can feel like an eternity. He isn’t allowed in the bell tower. You’ve received several angry letters from a certain Vice President Bou de Neige about having him there. 

“Worry not, your script is so derivative and simple, a circus monkey could understand it! Our mystère would only like a proper welcome!” Clo smiles merrily and slings an arm around a very grumpy Pierrot’s shoulder. 

“Oh, I didn’t-”

“Nonsense,” he cuts you off. “As a part of our court, you are a part of our stage. Pierrot! Show our mystère around, would you?”

Pierrot, sour about his script, takes your hand and pulls you away from the eccentric thespian. “Pretentious, demanding, tone-deaf…” he grumbles to himself. 

“What’s going on here?” your question echoes quietly, coming back to you in the same voice.

“Ah,” Pierrot says, turning over his shoulder to you with wide eyes. “I forgot you were here… we’re making preparations for Topsy-Turvy fest… which, of course, you wouldn’t know. It’s a Fleur City festival. Noble Bell provides much of the entertainment: music, dancing, singing, acting, puppet shows…”

“Puppet shows?”

He sighs. “Clodio insists. He says he would much rather spend time with the “bright-eyed children” than us dull scholars,”

“Right…” you mutter, watching a trio of students dressed as dogs practice cartwheels around each other.

“I will, of course, be writing and directing a one-act of my own creation,” A proud smile suddenly pulls at the corners of his lips. “It will be performed first, as per tradition.”

“Only to get it over with!” Clodio’s voice carries from somewhere behind you. Pierrot’s smile immediately drops. 

“Anyway,” he says, back to his grumpy disposition. “I’ve taken a historical inspiration, and adapted a famous Fleur City folk story. In the spirit of the festivities, I’d like it to be… interactive, for the audience. That’s where you come in.”

You’re suddenly very aware of your place on the floor and the feeling of your feet in your too-tight school shoes. You turn to him, your eyes widened. There are many things about Pierrot to appreciate, and his impressive ability to talk about his interests for hours on end, providing ample, comfortable background noise, is one of them. It’s unlike him to surprise you.

“What?”

Pierrot forces a smile. “N-now, I know you haven’t had the most pleasant experience with the students of Noble Bell College-”

“That’s an understatement,” 

“But you won’t be alone!” he says, setting his hand on the small of your back and ushering you to a corner strung with curtains and beads. “You’ve met Jolie, haven’t you?”

An emerald green curtain parts and a person you’ve certainly never met, nor seen before, peers out. You think you surely would have remembered. Jolie is not only a girl, but a child. 

“Who- ah, Pierrot,” her voice is warm but strained with accent. “Your friend?”

She’s not much taller than you, and can’t be any older than thirteen years old, but even aside from that, she looks like no one else you’d seen here. Her hair is short, white and streaked with gray, her eyes golden, and she’s wearing a…

Her eyes narrow at Pierrot. “Why are you not in your dorm uniform? Clodio says-”

“HUSH! He hasn’t said anything, I don’t think he’s noticed yet. And I want to keep it that way, thank you!” he whispers. “And- yes, this is them.”

“Took you long enough,” and that familiar scratchy voice is followed by Hugo, who comes out of the tent to twirl around Jolie’s legs like a cat. She kneels to scratch his head, giving you silence and the opportunity to look at Pierrot with a devilish grin. 

“Dorm uniform?” You ask. “You mean that?”

Jolie, even shorter now as she kneels beneath the two of you, is dressed in a very, very colorful tunic, clearly sewn out of old flags and banners in a gold-and-emerald checkered pattern, with a gold-colored undershirt and tights. It’s quite unlike the somber and dark school uniform of Noble Bell, and the dull color palette of the city. 

He sighs, his arms crossed. “Mine is in gold and red, actually,”

“Clodio’s has purple!” Jolie chimes. “But he’s in costume now. We’re rehearsing.”

You just barely manage to withhold a snicker. Luckily for Pierrot (or perhaps unluckily, because you’re certainly going to remind him later), Jolie’s change of subject saves him from his tight, tunic’d fate.

“For Topsy-Turvy Fest?”

“Yes,” Pierrot grumbles. “...Which is why we’re here. Jolie will be helping with the play.”

The girl smiles, exuding a warmth that once again reminds you she is not a student of Noble Bell. It was as if the summer sun had retired from the sky and become a person, now under the streets of Fleur City, wearing a dorm uniform made of scraps and shoes a size too large for her. 

She couldn’t have fit in any less if she tried. 

Watching her joke with Pierrot, smile at him with a sort of familiarity and warmth that you yourself had not felt in months, makes something without a name twist in your stomach. Here, the smell of baking bread is not enough to cover the stench of death. 

“Then what will I be doing?” 

Pierrot’s eyes, dull in Noble Bell’s dark uniform but alight with life and breath nonetheless, brighten, becoming a luminous emerald when he looks at you. It’s as if he’s been waiting all his life to tell you this.

“You will be Jolie’s assistant,” 

...Anticlimactic.

But thoughtful, nonetheless. Pierrot is, perhaps, more empathetic than even he himself knows. As much is apparent from the soft look he gives you, his back turned to Jolie as she plays with your goat and his voice but a whisper. 

“I don’t want to give you any more trouble than you’ve already had,” he says. “Clo will demand your participation no matter what. At least, in this way, I can keep you close to me.”

Pierrot isn’t the sort of brave that leads uprisings or searches for adventure. He isn’t really brave at all. But he’s offering you what he can: kindness. Which is invaluable to you now. 

You nod. “I’ll do my best,”

He deserves as much, you think. A flicker of warmth makes Pierrot’s face glow for but a second, and he smiles. 

“Thank you. And worry not- you’ll only be chaperoning,”

You share his smile. His pride can be deathly contagious, sometimes. “Should I be worried about that?”

Pierrot peers over his shoulder to look at the girl, who seems far more interested in playing with Hugo than “rehearsing”. 

“It’s not uncommon to see children here. I’ve had my own concerns, but it’s Clodio’s call, and he can’t seem to stop himself from adopting every lonely child he finds,” Pierrot says. “Better in here than on the streets, at least.”

Or in the bell tower, you think, and then just as soon drown that thought. “I suppose, when you put it like that, it’s smart,”

The playwright turns back to you with another smile. “Of course. I said it, after all. Now, let’s talk about your costume…”

Chapter Two

If he were allowed in the bell tower, Pierrot could have written a novel about the differences between your home and the Miracle Court.

Mornings are always quiet. The sound of rain comes before the sound of humans, their walking, breathing, shouting and bartering and laughing on the streets below, living the life one can’t help but dream of. To belong somewhere. 

Today, there is no rain. 

You wake to the gray of morning pressing its foggy hands against your windows, asking to be let into your tower and into your lungs. The air is sharp, the glass frosted over with cold, and you’re shivering before you’re even out of bed. For once, you’re grateful for the stifling, heavy Noble Bell uniform; it’s better than your blankets on mornings like these. 

Once dressed and no longer at risk of hypothermia, you begin your morning trek to greet the bells and the gargoyles and the city. It’s a journey in itself, but you can’t seem to stop yourself from doing it. It’s become a compulsion. 

Much has changed since you came here. 

The bells are cold and stiff with frost. There are icicles hanging from every wooden beam and rafter. 

It’s only the second of October, but you have to brush a thick layer of snow off the gargoyles this morning. You’re suddenly quite grateful that neither you nor Pierrot are sleeping in La Tombe anymore. You’d be dead before sunrise. 

Fleur City looks warm, despite the snow blanketing the roofs and streets. Candle and firelight pour out of every window and open doorway, small children waddle around each other in snug coats and boots that were likely meant for winter, not October, and are thus much too big for their small feet. The wind carries a smell of cinnamon and butter from a bakery across the Soleil. 

It’s almost beautiful. 

And then you have to walk to class in snow up to your ankles, and suddenly it’s no longer so charming. 

“Rough weather,” you sit next to Pierrot in Astrology, brushing snow off the shoulders of your uniform just as you had done to the gargoyles that very morning. 

Pierrot, who had again been hunched over his paper, likely writing something that had nothing to do with the class agenda on the board, glances up at you.

“Yes. It doesn’t usually snow so early,”

“I figured not. I’d have gotten a letter about it, if it did,” you say. Pierrot looks confused for a moment (as he so often does), and then lights up. 

“Oh, I have something for you,” 

You raise an eyebrow, watching him awkwardly crawl under the table, hit his head as he tried to come back, and then hand you a folded piece of paper. 

“From Jolie. She insisted I deliver, since you and Clo have no classes together,” he says. “She can be quite scary when she wants to be…”

You roll your eyes and open the letter. It’s a drawing of you in the Miracle Court dorm uniform. Gold, and a fiery orange. 

“...Interesting choice,” you say, taking in each meticulously placed detail and design note, in a different language. “But nice. You’ll have to thank her for me.”

“I’m not a messenger, you know…” he grumbles, and then sighs. “But very well.”

You run your thumb over the rich color of it. “How does a child like this end up in a place like that?”

Pierrot dabs his quill back into his inkwell and does nothing with it. Habit, you suppose. “Clo has mentioned that the family came to Fleur City a few months ago. Father always working, no mother, no siblings, and her language proficiency is not good enough to enroll her in school. So, we tutor her at the Court,”

You blink. “...Ah… I see. I couldn’t even tell she wasn’t fluent,”

“She’s come quite a ways. As much as I cannot stand his tastes, I admit that Clodio is an adequate tutor,” 

“And what’s his story?” 

“Pardon?”

You lean against the thick wooden desk on your elbow. “I mean, he’s been writing to me for weeks, and I barely know anything about him,”

“No one does,” He shrugs. “He’s rather mysterious, and I think he prefers it that way. We’re not even sure of his real name. It’s said that he lost his parents some time ago, but I can’t say when or how.”

“He’s smart enough to be going here, though,”

“That he is,” Pierrot says. “We were accepted in the same scholarship program. Just three of us. But he has the sense to keep his dislike of the institute rules to himself.”

“Heh. Unlike you,”

He smiles slightly. “Unlike me,” 

The large doors open behind you and Madame Jean-Marie, an old, gray-frocked professor, comes in whacking her cane against any feet not firmly planted under a desk. You and Pierrot both fall silent. 

She takes a seat and loudly clears the mucus from her throat, a grating, unpleasant sound that makes everyone sit up straighter. 

“Now. I am well aware of our unfortunate weather. Do not ask me about it. Do not mumble about it. This hour is not for the affairs of the city. Astrology is a science, not a superstition, so I will have no talk of fortune or misfortune here. Am I understood?”

The class hums, and you give Pierrot a confused look. He refuses to meet your eyes, staring down at the ink dripping from his quill. 

“Good. Begin, then. Pages one-thousand and sixty!”

Pierrot still won’t look at you, though he’s the only one. When you finally turn back to the front of the room, everyone is staring right at you. Everyone. Some only give glances before burying their noses in their textbooks, some outright glare. 

It’s uncomfortable. 

Madame Jean-Marie falls asleep in her chair, as per usual, and the room remains silent. The sound of quills scratching on paper is not as melodious as it usually is, but dissonant, broken by the silences the scholars take when they turn to look at you. Each time the wind blows against the window, each shiver that goes down a spine. 

It lasts for an eternity. The sound of the noon bells could not have come soon enough, and as soon as you’re permitted to stand, you practically drag Pierrot out of the lecture hall by the scruff of his neck. 

“What was that?”

Pierrot laughs, nervously. “What was what?”

“Seriously?”

Even now, standing in the hall, you’re being stared at. Glared at. The whispers are suffocating. Pierrot looks like he’d much rather be in the gallows, now. 

“It’s alright, Gregoire,” a cold voice says from behind you, making Pierrot jump. “And calm yourself. You’ll pop a blood vessel.”

You turn to see Vice President Bou de Neige, his arms crossed over his broad chest, hair pulled behind his shoulders. “I will escort them for today,”

“But-”

“Dismissed,” he says, and puts a firm hand on your shoulder. He guides you away from your poor friend without so much as a smile. 

At least the other students don’t stare when you’re with him. 

“What’s going on?” you ask. 

“Ignore them,” his tone is sharp, demanding. “It’s nothing but superstition. Old wives’ tales.”

He glares at a few dawdling first years, and his hold on your shoulder tightens. 

“What does that have to do with me?”

Bou scoffs. “It’s nothing to concern yourself over. An early winter is regarded by the people of Fleur City as “bad luck”. They think you’ve caused it.”

Unlike Pierrot, who concerns himself far too much with protecting your feelings, Bou de Neige has no problem with pulling the rug out from under you. 

“Excuse me?”

“You are unusual, yes?” he says. “Chaotic. You don’t belong here. They believe you’re causing misfortune. It’s nothing but talk based on centuries’ old superstition. Ignore them.”

He stops you in front of a heavy wooden door, that of your next class, and finally lets go of your shoulder. 

“And if you should need help… Do not ask Gregoire. Come to me,”

Chapter Three

You need to get out. 

You’re not sure where, or how, but you need to get out of here. The bell tower feels suffocating. Smaller. The school is a prison. A beautiful one, but a prison nonetheless. 

Bou’s words meant nothing to you. You wouldn’t have gone to anyone if you needed help, not here. The stares and whispers and sneers and shoves of the students, even of the teachers, would keep you firmly in place, your nice school shoes fused with the tiled floor. 

You just need an afternoon off. Alone. 

That word feels heavy now. Pierrot had once said something to you about the mightiness of the written word, but he never said how to wield it. You would continue letting the other, smarter, better students slash into you until you bled out. You had no other choice. 

And so, you left. Just for the afternoon. For a pastry or juice or something else good with the meek allowance that comes in envelopes signed in the headmaster’s handwriting. 

Anything. 

You had been out of the school before, with Pierrot, once with Clo to get some flour, and so you at least know the way to your favorite spots. 

If you don’t draw attention to yourself, if you pull up the hood of your uniform and act like a Noble Bell student, you can pretend, if only for a fleeting moment, that you belong here. People won’t stare, or sneer, or gossip. Vendors will try to get you to buy their fish and flowers and desserts. Parents with babies will smile at you. 

It’s an illusion, but one you need. Being cooped up inside Noble Bell forever would lead you to madness. 

Your cafe of choice is, mercifully, still open despite the snow. It’s busy inside, selling hot chocolate and coffee for the cold weather, but you don’t mind. The less attention on you, the better. You’re out on the street within minutes, walking aimlessly with a treat in hand and no desire to return to your bell tower before dark. 

It’s funny, you think. For all the insistence that Fleur City is a safe, modern place, you’re warned about going out after dark by everyone you speak to. 

You wonder what else people are lying about. 

You’re thinking of a good place to sit when you hear someone shouting, and it draws you closer. Not out of curiosity, but out of familiarity. That voice…

Outside of an empty bakery and a dark boutique, you see two boys in Noble Bell uniform. They must be first years, judging from their baby faces and their unfamiliarity. You’ve never seen them before, though. Then who-

Something moves on the ground. You hadn’t noticed them before, because their hair is the same color as the snow, and they’re much smaller than the boys. Something in your chest tightens. 

“Hey- get away! Back off!” You shout without thinking, pushing between them and helping Jolie out of the snow. She’s shivering, but not bleeding. You can settle for that. 

The two boys turn to you wide-eyed, but the fear of this unknown mediator turns to something smug when they see that you’re not so unknown after all. 

“It’s them,” one says to the other. “The magicless one. What’re you gonna do, huh?” he shouts back.

You have no answer for that. You shouldn’t have shouted. You should’ve found someone- de Neige or Pierrot or anyone-

The second boy, smaller than the first, follows his lead. “Y-yeah! Mind your own business!”

“You know we could kill you if we wanted to. And you couldn’t even do anything, could you?”

“G-go hide in your tower!”

“Monster!”

“Monster!”

The first takes a step closer, and then the snow stops. The clouds vanish, and sunlight pours over all of you. 

But it’s not sunlight. It’s magic. And it’s still snowing. 

“And what’s going on here?”

The boys fall silent. You look behind yourself, but Jolie is gone, a set of shoeprints in the snow leading away from you. Smart kid. 

You look back. The boys are quiet, stuck in place. “N-nothing, Monsieur Bussiere,” the second one says. 

Phoenix Bussiere scoffs. He’s got that stupid smile on his face again, and his hands on his hips.

“Now, don’t think that just because we’re not on campus, I won’t arrest you. I’m sure President Flamme would be beside himself if he lost the chance to punish you accordingly,”

The two shake their heads. “We didn’t do anything! We were just talking!”

“Lying is a vice, you know,” he chuckles as if he’d said something clever. “I better not catch you two picking fights again. Now, get out of here.”

The boys run off like they’d gotten their tails stepped on, leaving you and Phoenix alone. He smirks. 

“We meet again. You have a way of finding trouble, you know,”

More like trouble has a way of finding you. But oh, well. 

You’re in no place to be ungrateful, after all, he just saved you. Again. It’s just that stupid cocky look he gets… 

“Can I escort you back to campus? Ahem, I mean… may I?”

His one-liners are awful. But you suppose humoring him is the least you could do. He holds out an arm, which you ignore, and you awkwardly walk side-by-side instead. The setting sun casts an orange glow over the city, like fire.

The wind and weather picks up, blowing around you in thick swirls of snow and ice. You have nothing to say. Today has been pretty terrible. And very, very exhausting. You’re not looking forward to how cold the bell tower will be tonight…

You feel something around your shoulders, and you turn sharply to see Phoenix putting his cloak around you. “What are you doing?”

“I’m… being chivalrous,” he says, obviously trying not to smile. He seems very pleased with himself. “It suits me, doesn’t it?”

Ugh. “Sure,”

“You can keep it, if you want. It looks good on you,”

You wouldn’t like to admit it, but with the night ahead, you sort of need it. “...Aren’t these uniform pieces super expensive?”

Phoenix shrugs. 

“My mom will just buy me a new one. I’ll say I lost it,” 

He doesn’t seem particularly worried about that. Or about… Anything, really. The most you’ve seen him care was months ago, when you went still and silent like an idiot because you thought something was following you under the city. He had practically carried you out. 

“Your mom is nice,” you mutter. You don’t know what else to say, really. 

Phoenix scratches his chin, looking ahead with disinterest. “She’s alright. She really wants me to do well here, so she’ll do whatever if I say it’s for class.”

“Doesn’t your dad care?”

“He doesn’t talk much,”

Another silence. You cross one of the bridges back to the school, and he kicks a chunk of ice across the stone path. You can’t stand the quiet. Not with him, of all people. It’s… weird. It’s unlike him. 

“Thank you for the coat,” 

“Hm? Oh, no problem,” he says. “I’m housewarden of La Ville, you know. Knight of the Sun. Chivalry and all that.” 

He says it as if you know what any of that means. You’ll ask Pierrot tomorrow. 

Chapter Four

“Places, everyone, places!”

You look up from your outfit. You’ve been picking at the scratchy fabric all morning. What was this made out of, flour sacks?

It’s nothing like what Jolie had designed for you. No, of course not, because life can’t be easy for you. They just had to run out of gold fabric for the jester outfit everyone else has, and put you in something you’re pretty sure Clodio found floating at the top of the Soleil instead. 

It’s stylish, in a depressing sort of way. 

You adjust the headpiece one final time before the curtain to your changing tent splits at the seams and Pierrot falls in, landing on his rear (and a table… and a vase). Hugo climbs over him with a sigh. 

“Can’t take him anywhere,”

You shake your head. This may be miserable, but at least there’s free entertainment. “Hey, you two. Ready?”

Pierrot gets up, shaking the rope he tripped on off his foot. He’s in uniform today, the red and gold standing out brilliantly against his eyes. Say what you will about the man himself, but Clo knows his way around a stage outfit. 

“As I’ll ever be,” he sighs, brushing shards of porcelain vase off his tights. 

Despite the costumes, the tents and flags and banners, the stage at one end of the courtyard, today is not the Topsy Turvy fest. It’s only a Friday in late October, just after classes, and it’s only a rehearsal. A… test screening of sorts. 

“Don’t be nervous. It’s only for the students,” Pierrot says, perhaps more to himself than to you. “The public won’t see it until the festival itself.”

“The students are what I’m nervous about,” you mutter. 

Hugo eats a flower from the once-was vase off the floor. “You’ll be fine. You don’t even have any lines,”

“Exactly,” Pierrot says. “All you have to do is select some volunteers from the audience to go on stage. You won’t say a word.”

The reassurance feels hollow. You go back to picking at your costume, obviously still grumpy about… well, everything. 

Hugo bleats, and then talks through a mouthful of daisies. “You can’t hide in that bell tower forever, you know,”

“Hugo!” Pierrot scolds. 

“What? Someone has to say it. No one wants to stay cooped up in there forever. Topsy Turvy fest is fun!”

He hums, and scratches his chin. “Mmm… Well, it is an educational experience. Plays, performances, folk music…”

“I was thinking more about the food, but yeah,”

“Oh, of course. The regional cheeses,”

“Mmm,”

“Guys,” you interrupt, drawing their attention back to you. “Let’s just do this.”

Chapter Five

There's more of an audience than you would have liked. 

You watch the students talk and laugh and shout for the play to start from the thin sliver between the curtains, silky and blue, the only thing that separates you from them. 

“See anyone you recognize?” Clo asks, putting the finishing touches on the actors’ costumes behind you. 

You shake your head. “No. Pierrot is backstage, and I don’t see Bou de Neige or Phoenix Bussiere,”

“Ehehe, I’m not surprised. The student council president has a notorious dislike for these events, so they’re likely with him,” he rolls his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. “Blind devotion. Isn’t it beautiful?”

You don’t have a response for that. You’re still trying to decide if performing to an audience of strangers is better or worse than to friends. 

Well, sort of friends. 

Acquaintances. 

People you know. 

“Places! Places, everyone!” Clodio shouts, ushering the actors into their spots. Jolie appears at your side, and you force yourself not to panic. 

The music starts. The curtains split open, the dark blue giving way to the gray sky. You stand where you were told to stand, letting the play go on without much care or attention. You’re not listening for anything but your cue. 

How much easier this would have been if you were anywhere but here…

The crowd murmurs and cheers and sings along and seems to be engaging just fine with Pierrot’s “derivative and simple” script, which gives you some assurance. Perhaps, if they’re enjoying the play, they won’t even notice it’s you on stage. 

“And here it is- the moment you’ve been waiting for!” Jolie recites each word with care, a delicacy to pronounce everything correctly, though she likely doesn’t know what she’s actually saying. 

“Now, it’s time to crown the king!”

The actors dance around, swirling in circles that you’d be dizzy watching, if you were in the audience and not here. Jolie calls for volunteers, and you hurry to the edge of the stage, reaching out a hand to the more outgoing people in the crowd. It’s not difficult, but not without some awkwardness. 

Hand after hand, student after student as you move down the stage in a line, waiting for the end of your part with practiced patience. You’re not even watching. 

You were almost done when it happened. 

Of course, you hadn’t been looking. You simply reached into the moving crowd, waiting for a taker, and felt a cold, dry hand slip into yours, almost making you shiver. You could have sworn, feeling that hand in your own, that familiar sense of dread that had been following you for months, in long, quiet halls, in dark places, under the school itself, was with you. 

You force yourself to shake off the feeling, and you help the owner of the hand on stage. 

And then everything goes quiet. 

The music stops. The crowd becomes as still and quiet as the school’s statues. Even the actors have lost character, staring at you with widened eyes, horror etched into their features. 

The owner of this hand has not let go yet. He keeps your hand in his, close to him, his emerald eyes drawn to the touch. 

It’s as if time has stopped. No one speaks. Nothing moves, except for the chest of this boy, which rises and falls with each breath. His fingers twitch, and he tightens his grip around your hand, turning it over so he can see your palm. There’s something familiar about the gesture. A feeling which has no name. 

And then, all at once, he lets go, practically pushing you away from himself, and leaves, clutching his robes in the hand that held yours as he descends the stairs of the stage and vanishes into the school. 

It begins to snow. 

The clouds, darker and thicker, now, breathe wintry death over the courtyard, turning everyone’s heads to the heavens. 

And then hell breaks loose. 

“Get off the stage!”

“Get them out of here!”

“Out!”

“They don’t belong here!”

“Get out of our school!”

“Demon!”

“Monster!”

The crowd pulses, pressing towards the stage like the waves of an angry sea, lapping at your feet. You stumble backwards and nearly crash into the actor behind you, but someone grabs your wrist and keeps you upright. 

“Come with me,”

In a blur of anger and spitting and hissing and shouting, it’s dark again. You’re inside the main building, your home, your prison, under the rich purple and yellows and reds of the stained glass. 

And there’s Phoenix, a beam of light in the dark, pulling you to a standstill by the doors. 

“You’ll be safe. They can’t bother you in here,” he says, releasing your wrist and taking a step back to give you some air. “Are you alright?”

You say nothing. You don’t know. You don’t know anything. And you certainly can’t keep pretending like you do. 

Phoenix looks like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth, he breathes, and then he closes it again. He holds out a hand, and then withdraws it. His blue eyes are darker in the low light of the building. You’re much closer here. Has he always had freckles? That scar over his lip? 

“...I’ll inform Monsieur Diacre of what happened,” 

“That won’t be necessary,” someone calls out from the dark. You both turn, eyes following the tiled floor, the carved columns, the art on the wall, and Bou de Neige comes out of the shadows. 

“I sent word as soon as I was told. This will be dealt with. Bussiere, you are dismissed,”

Phoenix doesn’t look like he wants to leave. “But-”

“You are dismissed,” the vice president repeats himself, his voice colder and sharper than before. Phoenix still hesitates, his mouth open again, glancing to you, then to Bou, and then he closes his mouth and leaves. 

The both of you watch him go, and only when he is gone, does Bou speak. 

“You caused quite a commotion today,”

You look away from him. You know that. Of course you know that. 

de Neige leans closer, trying to meet your eyes again. “You’re not in trouble,”

You have nothing to say to him. To any of them. He’s not an idiot, he knows this. But there’s still something in his expression, the wideness of his eyes, crinkle of his nose, maybe, that’s not unhappy, or cold, or harsh. 

And then he looks away again. 

“I know what you did for that girl. Jolie,”

Your bitter expression breaks instantly, and he holds a hand out to silence you before you can even speak. 

“She and I live in the same part of the city,” he answers your question for you. “I visit my mother every weekend."

This is, perhaps, the most you’d ever heard him talk about himself. When you speak, your voice is softer than you’d meant it to be. “You…”

“Most of the students of Noble Bell College are not here on scholarship. They will never have to worry about not having heat in the winter. Or not knowing when their next meal will be. They purchase their uniforms from boutiques in town, so their mother won’t spend every night for months sewing it for them,” he turns over a side of his cloak as he speaks, running his thumb over the fabric. 

You don’t know what to say. You watch him fidget with his cloak, and then let go of it, his hands going still. 

“Thank you for helping her,” he says. “No one else would have.”

You can suddenly feel the anger, the resentment, the bitterness you’d been holding down for so long, smothering under your foot, under you too-tight, too-perfect shoes like the embers of a fire, swelling in your chest. 

“What do they have against people who are different, anyway?”

Bou looks at you, his eyes softened, but melancholy all the same.

“You can’t right all of the wrongs in the world on your own. I know. I’ve been trying for years,”

You shake your head and look away again, refusing to answer that. He’s right. You know he is. But you don’t want him to be. You want Fleur City, Noble Bell College, to be the modern, safe, perfect place that everyone says it is. You want to believe. 

But you can’t. 

de Neige sighs, and he looks away again. This building; outside of its classrooms and lecture halls, outside of its libraries and crypts, is a museum. A moment of time. The vaulted ceilings, the paintings and statues, the stained glass, the wooden doors, the stone walls, even the bodies inside it, the few students lingering about, trying not to stare at the two of you as they walk the nave, are sacred. 

This is a school. A place of education. Of science. But it wasn’t always that. And you can feel it. You’re sure everyone can. This is a home of scholars who believe that forgoing the past will right it, forgetting their wrongs, burying them under the tiles, smothering them like the flames of a fire, will save them. That absolution comes from repression. 

This place is a grave, and yet it is more alive than it ever has been. 

“You know,” Bou says, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Here, in this very building, students, with… respect, may ask for things. It’s only a tradition, it doesn’t mean anything. Just a way to calm the nerves before exams... But miracles have happened in stranger places.”

You glance at him, and he smiles weakly. It’s a strange look on him. “Maybe it’s true that no one out there can help. But there might be something in here that can,”

He lets go of your shoulder and leaves you there, standing against one of the stone walls of the school, in a quiet, dark room, full of people that are dead and ideas that are more alive than they should be. 

This is ridiculous. 

And yet, you lean against the wall, and you look at the statues, the paintings, the windows. You ask yourself what you’re doing here, and why. You know no one can hear you, and there’s nothing here. Nothing you can see. 

The wind howls outside, beating against the windows and rattling the iron bound doors, and yet it’s warm inside. The chandeliers are lit with candles, casting a golden glow over the floor. You shouldn’t be here, you know. You should have left the second de Neige was out the door. But here you are, anyway. 

The name you have in your mind, what you speak to, is entirely yours to keep. Perhaps it’s nothing at all. Perhaps it’s only yourself. You want to feel as if everything is going to be okay, even if it’s not. 

That's all you can ask for.

“I know I’m only me, and I shouldn’t be here,” you start, only a murmur. “Still, I see this place, and wonder if you’ve been outcasted, too.”

A few students pass you by with their own wants, again trying not to stare at you, you, the magicless student, the misfortune. You’re quiet until they’ve gone. 

“I don’t want anything. I can get by, but I know so many less lucky than I… someone has to help the outcasts, we look for you still. Please help the outcasts, or nobody will,”

The snow has calmed outside, the clouds giving way to the sun, now setting in the west, which reaches its hands through the large windows and colors everything in purples, pinks, yellows, reds and blues. It’s more color than you’d ever seen on Noble Bell campus, and you spend a moment just standing in its light. 

The air feels clearer here. You drink in the sun’s light until the clouds pass over it again, leaving you with nothing but dark, and the feeling of eyes on you. 

You turn around quickly just to see a candelabra crashing to the ground and a flash of black and purple. Somehow, you know just who it is. 

“Wait!”

You call out, running towards the door he’d disappeared into. You follow a narrow flight of stairs, spiraling higher and higher towards the heavens, the twin sister of your home, the southern bell tower. 

You can hear the sound of shoes scuffing on stone ahead of you. The footsteps are quick and lithe, each with precision, as if he’d been up here a million times before.

“Wait, I just want to talk to you!” You shout, coming to a wooden landing, and stopping at a short, rickety set of steps. 

“I’m sorry, if I’d known who you were, I never would’ve pulled you onto… stage.”

Crowning over the steps, at the precipice of the bell tower, is the biggest, most beautiful bell you’ve ever seen in your entire life. It dwarfs the bells you’d become so familiar with, and, quite frankly, no amount of words could do it justice. 

“...Who are you?” you whisper to it, still only halfway over the last step, stuck in place. 

“The Bell of Salvation,” 

Out from behind the bell, like a shy child behind the legs of its mother, he appears. His emerald eyes meet yours for but a moment, lingering, drinking in the sight of you, before he looks away again. 

“The heart of Noble Bell College. Its namesake. Its magic,” he says, looking at the bell with reverence, as if it were something holy. You suppose it is. “I am its keeper.” 

You finish your step, now standing on even ground with him. “You…”

And he looks at you, something not quite hostile, but not quite trusting, either, in his eye. 

“I am Rollo Flamme. Student council president of Noble Bell College,”

You hold onto a wooden beam, as if you might get blown away. You had never been so high up in your own bell tower. “We haven’t met before,”

Rollo stares you down, his emerald eyes lowered, as if he’s waiting for something. When nothing comes, he looks away again. 

“I suppose we haven’t. I apologize for not formally introducing myself. I’ve been… quite busy,” 

“That’s alright,” you say, daring to step a little closer. He looks unsure of you, as if he’s afraid. Or perhaps you make him nervous. But what a silly thought that is…

“I take it you’ve been enjoying your time here?”

Small talk. Not exactly what you’d been looking for after having a breakdown and then chasing him up a bell tower. 

He takes your silence as an answer. “It must be taxing, living amongst mages. I understand,”

You lean against the beam, watching him. His mannerisms, his expression, the way his back is straightened, his head held high. It’s rigid. Unnatural. It’s the perfect image of a Noble Bell student, nonetheless. Proud. Emotionless. Polite. 

“Do you?”

You hadn’t meant for that to come out the way it did. Rollo’s eyes widen, his arms fall to his sides, and he says nothing. He just looks at you. Your question lingers in the air, making it heavy with unspoken things. 

“Yes. I do,” 

The setting sun paints the sky with reds and oranges, colors too bright and too violent for a moment like this. It’s quiet. And cold. You look at him again. 

“I'm a monster here,”

Again, you hadn’t meant for it to sound that way. You were only reciting what people had been calling you, treating you as, since you stepped foot on this little island at the heart of the city. Rollo doesn’t take it as such. 

“Come with me,” he says, and you follow. 

Your hands curl around the wooden banister that separates you and him from the sky at the edge of the bell tower. You can see far over the city, the river, glimmering in the light of the setting sun, and the sky, purple and orange and yellow and blue, sparkling with stars, alight with color and life not unlike the window you’d been standing under earlier. 

You exhale, your breath visible in the chill. “It’s beautiful,”

“I think so as well,” Rollo says, though he’s looking at you, not the sky. “I come here when I want to be alone.”

“I could stay here forever,”

“You could,” 

You’re drawn back to him, and he returns your gaze. His hair, white, but tinted dark purple from the light of the sky, flutters around his face in the wind. The ribbon of his hat is stuck over his shoulder, and his robes are tousled. The cold has turned his pale face a little pink. He looks… unkempt, almost. Nothing like one would expect from the student council president of a place like this. It’s almost comforting. 

“I can’t,” you finally say, looking at your hands, dry and cracked from the cold wind. “I don’t belong here. I’m a monster, remember?”

Rollo finally lets his eyes rest on the island, the river, and the city beyond. The sky is dark now, purple with early evening. 

“You’re not,”

“How can you say that?” you ask, leaning against the banister. “Everyone loves you. They all talk about how great you are. You’re respected. You’re admired. You belong here…”

For whatever reason, that seems to strike a nerve with him. His nose wrinkles and lips go tight, as if he’d tasted something sour, and he turns to face you fully. 

“I don’t care for what they think. You’re not a monster,” he says. 

His conviction, the look in his eyes, dark yet warm like the dying embers of a fire, forces your silence. And yet, he says nothing more. He, again, stares at the city, but there’s something different in him now. Something secret. Something bitter. Even you can feel it. He parts his lips again, breathing in the cold air, his brow still knotted with frustration. 

“And perhaps they’re wrong about the both of us.”

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