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Rook walked through the halls, his gait as silent as it always was, stopping every few seconds to admire the beauty of Pomefiore’s halls. Alas, he could not linger- Vil was waiting for him, after all.
It had been a scant few days since Rook’s official transfer to Pomefiore and he had yet to truly settle. His new dormates were… wary of him, to say the least and he stuck out like a sore thumb with his messily cut hair and unpolished appearance. In fact, he had yet to even wear the dorm uniform, his appearance considered too disgraceful to wear such an elegant garment. Even so, Rook yearned for the day he could stand amount his elegant fellows with pride, and truly declare himself a member of Pomefiore. But beautiful, wonderful Vil had promised to help him- to make him beautiful.
And his, Rook’s mind supplied. Remembering his selfish request was enough to make him go red in the cheeks, blushing up a storm. What a thing to ask! How shameless! And yet Vil had taken it all in stride, looking down on him affectionately, even granting him such a blessing as a kiss. It was more than Rook could have asked for, even in his wildest dreams. So far, there had only been slight modifications to Rook’s routine- Vil had wanted time to prepare his plan for Rook, to cultivate the image of who he would mold Rook into.
The thought of Vil gave him a spring in his quiet steps that he carried all the way to the man in question’s door. “Lovely Vil! I have arrived!” He announced at the door, well aware of how Vil despised Rook’s “appearing act” that had made him scream when they had first met. Alas, the act of walking without sound was long since drilled into his very being- why, he doesn’t think he could walk any other way no matter what he does!
“Come in, and shut the door behind you.” Vil instructed in his usual dulcet tones from behind the intricately carved door. Rook couldn’t even try to hide his excitement, eagerly opening the door and shutting it behind him. Vil, of course, was gorgeous, as a direct product of his hard work. He had slept well last night, his skin glowing from all the effort he puts into it. His eyeshadow brought out his eyes wonderfully, making them seem all the more vibrant; Rook was sure he hadn’t seen Vil in that brand before, a new purchase perhaps? His hair was immaculate, not a single split end to be seen. Truly, Vil was in top form today!
He was sitting on the plush violet seat in front of the grand mirror as he usually was for their “lessons”. However, today had a new addition: a full length mirror, wreathed in gold branches and carved corvids.
“Rook, come here.” Vil called and Rook was at his side in an instant. The sensation of Vil asking for him was novel and wonderful, it made his eager heart go aflutter like a bird’s wings. Gently, tenderly, Vil positioned him so that Rook was standing in front of the full length mirror. “I,” Vil began to announce, “have figured out what I shall make of you.”
Rook’s heart was beating in his ears like a drum, all too aware from his hunter’s training of how close Vil was to him, hands on his neck and shoulders to hold him in place. Vil touched him so softly, nothing like the harsh pushes and shoves (affectionate as they occasionally were) from Savannaclaw. Rook was a hunter- he was not a man of elegance or mercy and to be treated like he was, well, it was a totally foreign sensation to him. And yet, he could not help but yearn for more of it- Vil’s measured, deliberate touches and his piercing, analyzing gaze.
“Rook, do you know of the story of the Fairest Queen’s hunter?” Vil asked, caressing his face as the pair gazed into the mirror. Truthfully, looking upon his own visage typically caused him some level of discomfort and embarrassment; he was well aware the he was not a good looking man. Compared to Vil… it was like placing an ugly pebble next to a glittering diamond. And yet Vil looked at him like he was worth something, like he was valuable. And Rook… well, he trusted Vil. If he said that he would make him beautiful (and his) then Rook believed it would be so.
“Oui, it was one of my favourite tales as a child.” And indeed, it was. As a hunter himself, he had loved hearing about the loyal hunter who served the Queen. He, who was loyal in all aspects, even to his heart. He, who could stand at the Queen’s side with confidence, even though he was but a blood soaked hunter. It was, and is, his dream to be like that man.
“Just as I aspire to be as beautiful as the Fairest Queen, I shall make you in the image of the Faithful Hunter.” Vil declared in a tone that allowed no arguments. Not that Rook would ever try, of course.
To be the hunter to Vil’s Queen… oh, how he longed for it. And here was beautiful Vil, declaring that it shall be so. Without exaggeration, this might be the best day of his life… apart from, perhaps, the day where he first saw that faithful play.
“To serve you as a huntsman… I would be honoured, Vil… non, Mon Roi!” Rook answered, his body light as a feather. In the mirror, he could see his own eyes light up in joy and Vil sport a lovely grin.
“It’s good that you’re so enthusiastic.” Vil said with note of pride as he angled Rook’s head to and fro in the mirror. “Now strip.”
Quoi?! It was as though his brain had been doused abruptly in cold water. In the mirror, he could see himself gaping like a hooked fish. Stripping?! “Je… um… ah-“ Rook stammered, face flushed to a deep rouge.
“I need to see your body to know what I shall do with it, Rook. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Vil ordered, one hand going to Rook’s waist, tugging on his shirt. With a gulp, Rook tried to steady his breathing and tugged up the edges of his shirt, shrugging to over his head, all too aware of his one man audience. Rook was rather muscular, and felt no shame about his physique, but his scars… they were unsightly. Seized by the cold grip of fear, Rook simply couldn’t bear to meet his own gaze in the mirror, to view his ugly gashes reflected back at him.
But Vil took him by the chin, gently but firmly pulling his gaze back, forcing him to see himself in the mirror. His body was muscled from his training, well defined with very little fat (and he could practically hear his former dorm mates teasing him for not eating more- he’s never really had much of an appetite) and speckled with freckles. His skin was deeply scarred, a plethora of gashes of various ages laid deep in his skin, marring it. The sight of such violent marks made him want to flinch, but Vil ran his hand over Rook’s abdomen without a single sign of disgust, before ducking down and plating a kiss to the crook of his neck, making Rook turn a spectacular shade of crimson.
“Like I thought, you have a good figure.” Vil said as he pried Rook’s gloves off, not a single moment of hesitation in his movements. Rook shut his eyes, terrified of Cher Vil’s reaction to the wreck that was his hands.
He knew his hands were ugly things, even further scarred than his body to such a point that they were mostly scar tissue, his nails cut so short there was scarcely any white to be seen, tooth marks and calluses all over his palms. And even more so, he knew how strict Vil was about taking care of one’s hands. The sight of Vil chastising him or judging him… well, it would still be beautiful, no doubt, but Rook’s heart would not be able to bear it. Not now, not like this. And yet he could feel Vil’s deft fingers gently holding his hands, humming as he ran his fingers over Rook’s own.
“You have no reason to be afraid, Rook. I’m not going to judge you, not when you’ve laid yourself out like this.” And Rook… there was something about Vil’s words, the way they opened his heart and settled into his mind that made him want to believe Vil.
Hesitantly, he opens his eyes. Vil is standing next to him, smiling at Rook. “Rook, it’s okay.”
“I believe you, Mon Roi.” And he did. He truly did.
“I shall make you beautiful, will I not?” Vil said, cupping his chin.
“O-oui.” Rook agreed, trying to ignore how his blush was spreading down his neck, painting his chest in red and pink hues. Evidently, Vil had noticed, smirking at the sight.
“And…” Vil’s voice went low, almost a purr, “I declared I shall make you mine, did I not?”
“Oui, Mon Roi du Poison.” Rook said, doing his utmost to keep the wavering from his voice.
“King of poison?” Vil replied, nose wrinkling as he made an expression that looked like a cross between a sneer and a smirk, an expression that Rook had learnt to associate with amusement. “Am I to feel insulted?”
“Most certainly not! Ce n’est pas my intention! I was merely complimenting your skill in potion making!” Rook declared as Vil directed him to turn around with his hands, humming and huffing as he inspected Rook’s body.
“Sit.” Vil ordered, Rook obeying and takings a seat on the bench-like furniture before him. Vil swiftly departed, returning in a second with what looked like a smock. “For our first step, I shall tame the bird’s nest that is your hair.”
“Oh, Merci beaucoup!” Rook replied as Vil placed the smock around his neck and bare chest, lifting his hair so it would not become stuck. With the grace of a practiced artisan, Vil took a pair of silver toned scissors and placed it nearby.
Rook could feel his body tensing at the sight of a blade so close to his body, acutely aware of its position relative to himself. Truthfully, he had never had his hair cut by another before, too paranoid from his hunter’s training to let a stranger place a blade so close to his neck.
Thankfully, Vil decided to start with a comb, gently brushing the knots and (rather embarrassingly) leaves out of his hair. He was unfailingly delicate, even when he had to pull harshly to remove the knots. He was so, so kind with his hands, so gentle. Rook failed to recall the last time someone had touched him so delicately, like he was something fragile. Even his family, while they did love him, they didn’t touch him like he was someone valuable and delicate. Like he was a work of art.
It was so calming to be touched like that, all Rook could do was lean into Vil’s touch. It felt nothing like the quick, yanking brushing he did to himself when the knots became too much to handle. His muscles began to relax, the anxiety of the nearby blade forgotten. Softly, Vil worked the last of the knots out before running his fingers through it.
“Your hair is very thick, and very fine…” He commented, inspecting Rook with his discerning gaze.
“Is that a good thing…?” Rook asked, his voice only slightly above a whisper from where he had essentially melted into Vil’s touch.
“Yes, it means there’s a lot I can do with it.” Vil said, holding up various strands. Rook could practically hear the gears in Vil’s head turning as he considers all the possibilities. “How do you feel about a bob? Sharp, elegant, easy to maintain.”
“I trust your judgment!” Rook declared, even as his own thoughts raced through his mind.
“No, no, I want to hear your thoughts.” Vil said, once again cupping Rook’s chin and causing him to go pomegranate red in the face, feeling the warmth of his own blood rush down to his neck and chest. It seemed like his king got a kick out of Rook’s profuse blushing from the way he smiled at the sight, and went out of his way to keep making him flush.
“Well, I happen to like it! I believe it will look magnifique! Especially in contrast to your own slightly wavy locks- if you’ll pardon my forwardness, it would look great at your side. Also, it does sound practical enough for my hunting…” Rook commented in return. It gratified him to hear how much Vil valued his opinion, and it made his heart beat just a little faster.
With a satisfied smile, Vil reached for the scissors, and Rook tried and failed to suppress the urge to flinch away. “Désolé, désolé!” Rook apologized, only for the same thing to happen again. And again. And… again. By the fourth attempt, Rook was shivering in fear and Vil had become somewhat cross.
“Rook.” Vil said, his very name sounding like chastisement from Vil’s stern voice.
“Je suis… Mon Roi, I am… unused to having others hold a blade so close to my neck. It… unsettles me.” Rook explained as he eyed the blades, already feeling goose flesh form on his arms in fear. Part of him wished to leave, to run away, and it took more effort than he would like to sit still.
“You trust me?” Vil asked, though they both knew the answer.
“Of course, Mon Roi.” Rook replied promptly. If he did not trust Vil with his very being, he would not be in this chair.
“With even your very life?” Continued Vil, easing the pair of blades just before his neck, not even an inch from the vulnerable skin. Everything in Rook’s body was telling him to run, to flee, but he remained still. He could see the fear in his own reflection- and it was not who he wanted to be. He did not want to be a hunter who feared his king. He wanted… he wanted to trust Vil.
“Oui.” Rook whispered, and Vil took his first cut, even as Rook did his utmost to suppress his shivering. Strand after strand of his hair fell and fell and fell, blanketing the floor as Vil set to work. He used his hands to position Rook as he needed, tilting his head up and down as necessary. It was… calming. Even as his instincts told him to fear Vil, he could not bring himself to leave. He has chosen the beautiful, hard working man as his king and he would stand by that decision.
He watched patiently as Vil shaped him to his standards, leaving him with a sharp bob in lieu of his messy locks, split ends done away with, his hair brushed so that it shone like spun gold. The cut framed his face and accentuated his cheekbones nicely, falling to just below his chin. Vil had managed to take his mess of a haircut and create art from it.
He looked… nice.
“So, what do you think?” Asked Vil, his voice smug with the confidence that he had done perfectly.
“Beauté!” Rook cried out. “100 points to you, Mon Roi du Poison!”
Vil lead him up from his seat by the hand, leading him over to the sink, where he removed the smock and brushed away the stray hairs. Once they had cleaned up the fallen hairs, it was simply the two of them (Rook still shirtless and gloveless) alone in Vil’s room. Once again being led over to the mirror, Vil inspected his handwork, examining Rook from every possible angle.
“I’ll still have to give you a regime to take care of yourself hair and repair the dryness, but at least it’s not quite a bird’s nest anymore.” Vil said, finally satisfied with his work.
“Only thanks to you, Mon Roi.” Rook replied, receiving a slight flush and a smile from Vil in response. Grinning, Rook planted a kiss on Vil’s cheek in thanks.
With the rare competitiveness that Rook always felt blessed to see a glimpse of, Vil gently but firmly grabbed him but the chin and kissed him in the lips with such force and intensity that Rook was left throwing his arms around Vil’s shoulders to stay standing.
It was a little uncomfortable given their height difference (not helped by Vil’s high heels) that forced Rook to crane his head upwards, but he wouldn’t trade such pleasure for the world.
With an immaculately manicured hand, Vil ran his fingers through Rook’s hair, and he could feel the other grin into their kiss.
And Rook had never felt more beautiful.