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“Potato!”
Vil Schoenheit was hot on your heels.
“Come here this instance!”
Or you could say he was chasing you in heels.
“Why are you running, prefect?” the housewarden asked, glaring daggers at your back.
“I'm not!”
You were—just not literally.
You were speed walking down the hall of Night Raven College praying housewarden Riddle would rescue you with some kind of random irregularity to get you out of the current predicament.
“You should be honored that I offered to do your makeup!”
“I don't need it!”
“Who would turn down the chance of getting your makeup by the Vil Schoenheit?”
“I know, right? She's so lucky.”
You heard whispers as you passed by your fellow students.
Shut up! I can't even think of being that close to him.
Your mind played a picture of Vil’s angelic face closing in on yours.
His hands on my cheeks—eyes on my lips.
You halted in your steps, flushed at the thought.
It isn't like that! Vil's a professional, and besides, I'm not even his type.
“I’ll be borrowing this,” a hand clasped the back of your shoulder firmly but not hard enough to hurt. “No more running, it is unfitting and not beautiful at all for someone of my prestige.”
You snorted.
He's such a drama queen.
The dorm leader of Pomefiore.
You recognised his signature perfume.
The soft aroma of roses and jasmine wrapped in silk, a fragrance of royalty; it suited him perfectly.
“Uh,” you dragged out, gaze flickering around for an escape.
“Why the resistance?” Vil raised a perfect brow. “This isn't like you. Well, you are rather skittish and clumsy, but I didn't think you'd be so opposed.”
“God made me beautiful just the way I am,” you declared, folding your arms in defiance.
You didn't always believe it, but you were trying to see yourself in a kinder light. And if the Bible taught you something, it's that you were precious in God's sight. Something you couldn't fully fathom yet, but thought was sweet and hard to believe at times.
“I did not say He didn't—”
Vil rubbed his temples as if talking to you were a chore.
You bit back a snicker.
You liked to annoy the housewarden from time to time.
It was one of your many hobbies.
A love language of sorts.
Vil didn't believe in what you did, but he was respectful about your belief in a Creator and once told you, “I think it's beautiful to have faith in someone greater than yourself or... to have faith at all.”
You were cornered.
“I would like to test a new look on you,” the third-year pulled his phone out and opened Magicam to show you a picture of what he meant “I'd like a test dummy.”
“That figures,” you sighed, and allowed yourself to slump.
“Posture straight, prefect. No slouching.”
You automatically jerked up in position at the command.
“Hey! If I'm doing this, I'm doing it my way.”
“In your dreams, potato,” he sassed, hooking his arm around yours to lead you to Pomefiore dormitory. “Let's go.”
I knew he'd catch me.
That thought made warmth spread in your chest.
You and Vil have grown much closer after his Overblot.
You were glad you could be a friend and source of support to him alongside Rook and Espel.
Having your makeup done wasn't as bad as you made it out to be.
You were just as much of a drama queen as Vil was.
But he wasn't stupid.
The eighteen-year-old noticed you were anxious, a little shy even.
Vil knew your tells.
Maybe it was in the way you fiddled with your fingers or how you rambled more than usual.
The housewarden didn't brush it off.
His violet eyes softened like blooming lilacs in spring.
“I know you don't normally do this, so… thank you, and you're welcome.”
It was almost unnerving to hear him be nice, but it was so him—because Vil wasn't what people thought.
The blonde was kind and lovely to behold but he could definitely be arrogant, and a little snarky when he wanted to be.
Vil Schoenheit wasn't afraid to speak his mind.
He had a sharp way with words sometimes but he never meant any harm by it—usually.
It was all about self improvement to him.
Vil wasn't the villain some made him out to be.
You knew that better than anyone.
You were his potato, after all.
“Sure,” you peered at him through dark, curled eyelashes—freshly coated with mascara. “And hey, thanks for making me look pretty.”
“I didn't do anything but bring out what was already there,” Vil mused, confidently. “If anything, your God did the most work by creating you,” he smirked. “What was it you told me once? Oh right, your scripture says you’re fearfully and wonderfully made.”
Your heart skipped a beat.
You didn't know he paid such close attention to you, but he did.
“I think that's true,” Vil smiled.
A real smile curved on his glossy lips.
Small, not flashy.
Just the right amount.
Wait, what! He thinks I'm—that me, no way!
You were having a bit of a breakdown, mentally.
What does that—what does he mean by that?
Vil rolled his eyes as if he could hear the loud alarm bells going off inside your mind.
“Don't overthink it, potato,” the third-year chided with a click of his tongue. “Just say, thank you, Vil, you're the fairest of them all.”
“Thank you, Vil,” you mimicked like a true dummy in the flesh, “you’re the fairest of them all.”
What am I even doing!?
He looked proud of himself.
When does he not?
“Now say Vil’s my favorite housewarden,” he tested out. “And Pomefiore is superior.”
“No,” came your immediate response, and he almost looked dejected.
“You're no fun.”
You giggled and gave him a dopey grin.
You hoped your eyes didn't have stars in them because looking at Vil had that effect on you.
He was careful and meticulous when applying the cosmetics to your face, like a sculptor working on their beloved art project.
It was a good experience—one you were glad Vil pushed you into.
His hands, the brush, his touch—you liked it.
A lot.
“I was… nervous. I think that's why I ran away,” you confessed, suddenly overcome with embarrassment. Your rosy coloured lips pulled in a pout unconsciously. “That was so dumb. Who would turn away the chance of getting their makeup done by you!”
He gave you a look that screamed, ‘I know.’
Instead of a retort, Vil cupped your cheek for a moment, examining your countenance. Then he tilted your chin up with his thumb and forefinger and hummed in delight, satisfied with his work. “It's part of your charm. Consider me charmed, prefect.”
You swallowed, melting on his soft, luscious bed at the words.
“Um,” you stared, blinking mindlessly. “Did you know the human body is made up of 60% water?”
“Fascinating,” Vil said breathed out, sounding surprised.
The third-year plopped down right next to you with a hand propped under his chin, gazing at you as if he were truly amazed.
He was not.
He was amused.
You knew this.
The light streaming through his window made his perfectly styled blonde, and purple streaked hair glisten like silk drapings over his shoulders.
“Tell me more.”
Butterflies filled your stomach.
A beat of silent anticipation followed.
“In that case…” you paused, thinking of another fact to blurt out. “Did you know the inventor of the Pringles can is buried in one?”
At that, Vil chuckled.
It felt like a prize.
You couldn't help but join in, shoulders bumping, arms brushing as you shared each other's personal space.
“What are Pringles?” Vil asked, sobering up. “I've never heard of it.”
Your grin dropped.
This guy.
Shaking your head, you eyed the Reader for their take.
I might have to reconsider my opinions now.
“I wish I could take you to my universe,” you said, glancing at your lap wistfully. “That way I could show you so many new and unique experiences. The same way you did for me!”
A weight of homesickness blanketed over you as you remembered your home.
Your vision blurred but you blinked it away.
Vil's hand found its way into yours.
This touch was startling at first but warm; you welcomed it. His slender fingers wrapped around yours in a gentle, comforting squeeze.
“You already give me plenty of new and unique experiences, dearest.”
“Thanks, Vil,” you mumbled, feeling emotional. “You're my favorite.”
He brought your hand to his mouth for a kiss. “Of course I am, it's only natural.”
“Oh,” you blushed, mind racing a mile a minute again. “Right.”
Lord, I think I'm in love.