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Rook’s eyes tended to be cold. Calculated. He smiled a lot, but there was rarely that extra spark of light in his eyes that assured you his smiles were genuine. Those glistening green eyes caught every detail of the world around him, and his lithe body always pumped with adrenaline that urged him to run, to pounce, to succeed. He was a hunter to his core; he knew it, you knew it, everyone knew it.
And yet today, his eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them, trained on you and you alone.
In your haste to share the latest round of good news, of course you’d gone straight to Rook to celebrate— and of course he’d snatched you up like a precious gem and whisked you off to his dorm. You know how he is, how he celebrates, and really should have expected this.
“Ma cherie,” his voice was sugary, but filled with intent. His eyes locked with yours reflected in his floor-length circle of mirrors— before you could get lost in musings on Pomefiore’s vanity, Rook’s gloved hands landed on your hips. He pressed up against you from behind, draping his weight across your shoulders until you were sure you’d collapse, had it not been for the startling strength in his arms that kept you anchored. He nuzzled his face into your hair until his lips were pressed to the back of your ear. “Mon étoile,” he hummed, and you felt his voice more than you heard it, felt it rumble through his chest and float out of his delicate mouth.
“I’d like to do something for you.”
He held your gaze in the mirror, his eyes dark and waiting for a response; if you told him you were uninterested, then he’d vanish from your arms like smoke and apologize for even possibly making you uncomfortable.
If you agreed, though— well. Rook Hunt was unpredictable. But you couldn’t say he had ever disappointed you.
One of your shaky hands landed on Rook’s hand, still latched to your hips like a vice. You nodded at his reflection. For the first time since you’ve known him, his eyes well and truly lit up— he moved like lightning, and his strong grip vanished from your waist as he bolted around in front of you instead.
“You would look magnifique in blue,” he said, “and in purple, and in orange, and—” his voice fell off as he paused to cross the room; he effortlessly threw open the heavy doors of his wardrobe, his hands delving among the fabric like he knew just what he was looking for. He’d imagined you modeling practically everything he owned, after all. When he turned to face you again, he was grinning, his arms filled to the brim with clothes in every shade of the rainbow.
Rook’s polished high heels clicked against the bedroom floor as he paced closer, most of the clothes landing with a whumph on the couch as he tossed them aside in favor of one specific bundle of cloth. That one he set down gently, before his eyes raked up and down your body like you were a doll.
“I’m going to touch you now,” he murmured in a low voice. You just nodded again, and he took that cue; his hands reached out and easily untangled the tie of your uniform, the fabric practically whirring as he snatched it from your neck. He never stopped pacing circles around you even as he got to work— by the time your tie was off and tossed to the distance, Rook had circled around behind you and begun dragging your coat off by the shoulders, leaving you awash in the chill of his room. Before your jacket had hit the ground, he was in front of you again, deftly unfastening your blouse with the speed of someone who’s done this before.
As he reached the last button, your hands shot up and latched onto his, the only thing holding your shirt closed. You’d been caught up in his voice and his smile— hadn’t exactly thought this through before he began stripping you.
For his part, Rook stopped immediately, leaning forward to peer up at your red face from underneath his long lashes. “Voulez-vous que je m'arrête?”
You took a few deep breaths. Rook slowly straightened, his grip on your shirt loosening; he was far too strong for your own small hands to stop him as he began re-buttoning your blouse, humming tunelessly all the while. Well that’s sure not what you wanted.
“H— hang on now—” you whispered, but Rook just hummed a bit louder. He was almost done with your buttons, and in another moment you’d be fully dressed again, and his warm hands would be off you, and he’d put those fancy clothes up—
“I don’t want you to stop!”
Rook grinned. With a flick of his wrist, your shirt popped open.
The leather of his uniform’s gloves was deliciously soft against your skin, goosebumps erupting in the wake of wherever his hands trailed as he gently slipped your shirt off your shoulders.
“C'est mignon,” he hummed casually, cupping the underside of your breasts and marveling at the colors on your bra, pointedly ignoring the way you squeaked and a blush began running all the way down your neck. Then his hands moved again, the warmth of his gloves ticklish against your sides until he reached the buttons on your uniform pants— he glanced at your face one more, waiting for another nod before unfastening your pants and dragging them down your thighs. The fabric pooled around your feet, and Rook held your hands tightly to keep you balanced as you stepped out of the mess of cloth.
“Now, ma cherie,” he said, clapping his hands excitedly as he turned back to the clothes he’d draped across his sofa. You seemed to be the only one embarrassed that you were standing in your underwear. “Let’s get to work.”
When Rook turned back to you, he was holding a different outfit than the one he’d carried so gently earlier; he lifted the hanger so you could see the clothes fully and give an opinion before he dragged you into them.
Bell sleeves. A miniskirt. High heels. You nodded, and his smile got brighter.
Rook bundled the shirt up— a purple, gauzy fabric that reminded you a lot of his uniform— and let you slip your arms into the dangling sleeves; he gently pulled the rest of it over your head, catching the ends of your hair in one hand to tug it out from underneath the shirt’s collar. The neckline dipped a bit deeper than what you usually wore— he pulled on the front of the shirt until the neckline delved towards the valley between your breasts, snickering when your face went red again.
Next, Rook held open the miniskirt that’d been with the shirt; it was a deep black, and as you stepped into it, hands curled into Rook’s blond hair for balance, you couldn’t guess the fabric as he dragged it up your legs, past your thighs and over your hips. He fastened the front with the glistening silver zipper and stepped back for you to look in the mirror— purple and black and accents of silver all over. You twisted to gaze at your reflection, watching the way the long sleeves flowed lazily through the air, Rook’s eyes watching you the same way he watched his other favorite things.
“I like it, I think.”
“C’est bien,” he said, lifting up a pair of dark boots accented with the same shades of silver. “Because there’s more.”
Rook dropped the boots, and they clattered as they hit the ground; before you could ask what he was doing, he’d swooped you up in his arms like a bride, and you would’ve squealed if your voice hadn’t outright failed you. He carried you like you weighed nothing, held to his chest like a treasure, his thick cologne wafting across your senses and settling on your tongue until you were sure you’d never forget the taste.
He set you down gently on the sofa, the opposite end from where the pile of clothing rested. He hummed another empty song as he knelt in front of you, his hands busied with bunching up a set of stockings. One of his hands latched onto your heel, and he tugged your foot up far enough that he could slip the first stocking on; he dragged the nylon all the way up your leg until it settled on your thighs, and as he leaned in to adjust it properly, his loose blond hair tickled the bare skin that remained between the hosiery and the hem of your very short skirt. You shuddered when he exhaled, heat rolling across the sensitive parts of your legs until you pressed your thighs together. He chuckled at that, but nudged your legs open again so he could slip the other stocking on for you.
When those finally rested against the plush of your thighs, Rook grabbed those boots again— high-heeled and glimmering in the dorm’s Hollywood lighting. He undid the buckles as if it were natural before slipping the shoes on your feet, careful not to pinch as he refastened them and made sure the shoes fit.
The final buckle clicked into place. Rook drew himself back up to his full height, towering over you as he offered his hand; when you accepted, dropping your own hand into his open palm, he pulled you back to your feet with his surprising strength. He led you over to the circle of mirrors again; you twirled in front of your reflection, examining every detail of your new outfit.
It made you feel vaguely powerful. But you’d never tell him that.
Before you could thank Rook, he’d leaned forward to catch your attention again. “Do you have any more time? I’d like to do more for you, chaton,”
You were nodding before he’d even finished his sentence.
Rook immediately whisked you away, and then suddenly you were seated in the plush chair that lived in front of his pristine vanity. The tabletop was covered in all sorts of products that you couldn’t name on a normal day, not helped by some of the labels being in French; Rook’s gloved hand came up underneath your chin, though, tilting your face back upwards until you were staring at your reflection.
You met the mirror image of your own eyes and looked away. From the corner of your eye, you watched Rook finally peel his soft gloves off his delicate hands; before the leather had even landed on his vanity table, his dainty fingers were tangling themselves in the strands of your hair, and you nearly melted back against him.
Rook laughed softly, but continued arranging your hair, gathering bunches before mussing them up and starting all over.
You were going to be here all night.