Archive of Our Own ^beta

No one derails Vil quite like Rook.

He’s long since learned to deal with all types (excitable fans, overbearing producers, obnoxious peers) with the grace and aplomb to rival even the most experienced industry professionals, but something about Rook throws him off, keeps him on his toes, in a way no one else ever has.

Rook’s persistence isn’t something to be taken lightly, Vil learns quickly. He finds himself glancing around warily every time he takes a seat on a bench in the courtyard, wondering which bush or shadow Rook is going to emerge from this time. 

Here’s the thing: at a certain point, the wariness turns to curiosity, to anticipation, a shift so gradual and natural Vil doesn’t even notice until it’s too late.

Too late for what? a voice inside his head that sounds suspiciously like Rook’s asks, and though Vil refuses to give it an answer, he knows. He may have never felt this way before, but he’s seen it portrayed countless times in films, on the stage, even acted it himself—though no amount of performance could have prepared him for the exquisite ache of its reality.

At least, Vil thinks—thinks, and the fact that his confidence wavers for even a moment tells him how much this means to him, how much it will devastate him if he’s wrong—it’s not just him who’s aching for it.

Even more than Rook’s long-winded (but always fascinating, always surprisingly insightful) monologues, even more than his pointed questions and observations, these are the moments that throw Vil off the most: the moments when Rook goes quiet, just observing in a way that makes Vil flush even as he gazes right back. Vil’s used to being watched, has made a career of it, yet something about the way Rook looks at him in these moments makes him want to run and hide, makes him want to bask it even more: a mess of contradictions, just like everything else about him, about them.

The first time Rook insists on walking Vil back to his dorm, Vil tries to dissuade him. “There’s no need for you to—” but Rook won’t hear any of it, determined to accompany him all the way to the dorm’s front gate. Even as they approach the entrance, though, Vil finds—he doesn’t want to go inside, doesn’t want to part ways quite yet. He steps deliberately off to the side instead, not bothering to look back to see if Rook is following, knowing he surely is. He doesn’t know what’s come over him, what he’s thinking, except—he knows precisely what, the blood in his veins thrumming with anticipation, his heartbeat pounding in his throat.

He only turns to Rook once they’ve rounded a corner, lingering in the shadows of Pomefiore’s foliage, away from any potential prying eyes. There’s a smile tugging at Rook’s lips, his eyes darker than Vil has seen them yet; he holds back a shiver as Rook steps closer, close enough that Vil longs to reach out and touch. He keeps his hands to himself, determined not to be the first to give in, to deny the desire building in him until he no longer can.

Vil always knew Rook would make the first move. He just didn’t think Rook would ask permission. He should’ve known better, he thinks, after: Rook’s appearance may be unkempt, his nature and sense of tact nothing short of beastly at times, yet somehow, his manner is anything but.

Rook’s gaze is molten fire as it settles on Vil’s lips; when he speaks, his voice is low, darkly dazzling, striking right to the heart of Vil’s weakness. “May I drink the poison from your lips?”

Vil scoffs to cover his surprise. “You strike me as the type to simply take what you want.”

“Non,” Rook murmurs. “What matters most is what you want, this time…my queen,” and Vil’s heart stutters in his chest. He’s flustered, fumbling for words; can’t believe Rook has managed to get under his skin like this, can’t believe how much he likes it in spite of himself. “Why don’t you show me what it is you think I want?” Vil manages at last, and Rook’s canines gleam in the moment before he leans in to take.

It’s not Vil’s first kiss. He’s kissed and been kissed onstage more times than he’s bothered to count, night after night; those kisses may have been real, but only within the worlds created by the theater, a professional, artistic obligation, nothing more.

This, on the other hand? This might be the most real Vil has ever felt. Rook’s lips on his, and he knows it’s him Rook is kissing, not any of his characters, not someone invented for an audience, for a role—Vil Schoenheit, with all of his flaws and strengths and beauty, a beauty he knows Rook sees, understands, better than anyone else ever has.

Rook kisses him until he can’t breathe, and still Vil never wants it to end; chases after him when he pulls away, and he takes no small amount of pride in the fact that Rook isn’t unaffected either. He’s panting a little, the color high in his freckled cheeks, and what strikes Vil the most is that he’s speechless, unable to say anything but Vil’s name as he leans in once more.

Vil meets him halfway, lips already parted, pulling Rook deeper into the shadows as he traces Rook’s tongue with his own.

It takes a long time—too long, the shadows growing deeper and darker around them, the moon risen high in the sky above, curfew no doubt approaching, if not already long past—for them to part, Vil holding Rook at arm’s length even as he aches to pull him close once more. Rook’s lips are red and shining from Vil’s kisses, cheeks still flushed, hair even messier than usual where Vil’s hands had sunk into it. He’s beautiful in a wild, uninhibited way, and Vil wants to look at him, be looked at by him, forever.

He forces himself to look away, let go, knowing that if he keeps his hands on him any longer, he won’t be able to hold back. He reaches for his handheld mirror instead, fixing his lip gloss, knowing full well that it’s useless: there’s no way they’re parting for the night without him kissing Rook at least once more.

“Did I guess correctly?” Rook asks cheekily, his eyes never leaving Vil. Vil just scoffs, as though he’s not still trying to catch his breath, not still trying to calm his racing heart. “What do you think?”

Now that he’s had it once, he knows—he’ll never be able to go back again.

Rook just grins, knowing, and steps forward to wrap an arm around Vil’s waist, drawing him close once more.

—

Things escalate quickly, after that first kiss. Moments stolen in empty corridors, in secluded corners of the library, in the woods outside the mirror chamber, their hands on each other until they have to part ways, return to their respective dorms; it’s a wonder they haven’t gotten caught, reckless as they are. Vil knows better, knows that being discovered will spell disaster, yet the remaining fragments of his rationality simply can’t hold a candle to the thrill of Rook’s hands on the small of his back, lips on his neck, shaping themselves around his name like it’s a prayer, or perhaps a promise.

Still, as much as Rook may want to ruin him—and as much as Vil may want to let him—he has no desire to tarnish Vil’s reputation, nor to interfere with his professional ambitions. He’s always attuned to their surroundings, even when Vil has nearly lost himself in the taste of Rook’s tongue, the press of their hips; always pulls away from Vil moments before another soul rounds the corner, putting just enough space between them to evade any suspicion. In those moments, though Vil would never admit it, Rook’s acting skills nearly put his own to shame. 

Still, as grateful as Vil is for it—he wants Rook to lose himself, too. Wants to see how deep his devotion runs, how wild he can truly be; wants to see Rook give in to every urge that leaves his fingers trembling each time he tears himself away, wants to let Rook take him apart with those very same hands. The thought of it sets Vil’s heart racing with trepidation and anticipation in equal measure, just like every time they’ve nearly been caught, every time he’s had to watch Rook walk away. What would happen if he stayed? If he stopped holding back, damning the consequences and them both? It’s a wild, fleeting thought, one that would never—should never—come to fruition, but that it even crosses Vil’s mind is evidence of just how far gone he truly is.

Weeks pass, months, and every day Vil finds himself slipping further. He’s distracted in ways he’s never been, making foolish decisions he never would have entertained before—like staying out in the November chill with Rook, arguing over the merits of Jacques Demy’s work, until snowflakes drifted down around them, sticking to Rook’s freckled nose, Vil’s long lashes. They’d both come down with colds the following day: even more heated than their conversation were the kisses they’d exchanged before going their separate ways, but what Vil’s manager doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

Cruel as it is, a part of Vil is glad that Rook is sick as well. Glad that he isn’t quite as invulnerable as he sometimes seems, but more importantly, glad that he isn’t in any shape to come check up on Vil. Nose running, no makeup, hair a greasy wreck: Vil can hardly bear his roommates seeing him like this, let alone the thought of Rook seeing him like this. Rook is well aware of how much work Vil puts into his appearance, but being aware of it and seeing him anything less than perfectly put together are two different things entirely.

Vil returns to class the following week, though an ache still lingers in his chest; he worries he hasn’t fully recovered, but has no intention of staying cooped up in bed any longer. He turns the corner as he approaches his classroom—and stops in his tracks, recognizing at a glance the familiar figure lingering outside his classroom door.

He recovers quickly enough, his eyes never leaving Rook’s as he strides the rest of the way down the corridor, coming to a halt in front of him. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, doing his best to keep his tone casual. “You’re feeling better now, I hope?”

“Mm,” Rook confirms. “I wanted to be sure you were, too.”

“Much,” Vil says, and as the word leaves his lips, he realizes: the ache in his chest is gone. It was nothing more than his desire to see Rook again, after hardly a few days apart.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Vil,” Rook says, emerald eyes glittering, and Vil wants to kiss him until they both forget their names. 

“You too,” is all he says instead.

The realization is humiliating, damning, being so devastatingly into this boy with his ragged clothes and sunburnt cheeks and tangled hair, who on the surface is the opposite of everything Vil strives for, and yet. And yet, as Rook’s fingers brush ever so subtly against his own as he steps past Vil to return to his own classroom—Vil can’t bring himself to want it any other way.

—

“We’re gonna go off-campus to study this weekend,” Vil’s roommate says later that week, and the gears in Vil’s head start to turn immediately. “You wanna come?”

“I’ll stay here,” Vil says. “I need to catch up on what I missed, and there’s no reason I should be holding you all back.” A study session. Right. That’s what he should do, particularly with exams fast approaching, but—an opportunity like this doesn’t present itself often. He knows full well the implications of inviting Rook over when his roommates are out, knows precisely how little studying will take place if he asks him over under the guise of such circumstances. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.

He lasts an hour before texting Rook.

Rook responds within seconds. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Two days later, Vil is descending the stairs to meet Rook at the entrance to the Pomefiore dorm. It’s far from Rook’s first time there—the woods just outside can attest to how many clandestine meetings the two have had beneath their branches—but it’s his first time crossing the threshold. He marvels at their surroundings as he steps through the door, and Vil catches himself smiling as he watches him. “A bit different from Savanaclaw, I’d imagine.”

Rook nods. “They both have their charm, to be sure, but this…is magnificent.” As he speaks, his eyes drift from Pomefiore’s ornate ceilings to Vil’s face, and the look of awe doesn’t lessen in the slightest. Vil lets him look his fill—though it’s not enough, it’s never enough—before he turns on his heel, beckoning for Rook to follow. “This way.”

There’s no need for secrecy, yet still Vil finds himself praying they’ll avoid any of his seniors or classmates along the way. There’s nothing wrong with inviting a friend over to study, he knows full well, and yet—

—Rook’s gloved hand clasps his own, and Vil turns to him in shock. He almost tugs himself free out of habit, but something in Rook’s expression, in the strength of his grip, gives him pause. Rook raises a finger to his lips and tugs Vil down the nearest hallway, ducking into an alcove just out of sight—and as they do so, Vil hears another group pass by, right where they had been only moments before. He’d been so tangled up in his thoughts he hadn’t even noticed them, and he fixes Rook with a look, eyebrows raised. Rook just gives him an enigmatic smile in return, fingers still wrapped around Vil’s.

Once the group is gone, Rook peers out from their hiding spot to verify that the coast is clear. He turns his attention back to Vil, finally answering the question he hadn’t dared voice aloud. “You wanted to avoid being seen, isn’t that right, mon cherie?”

Vil feels the color rise in his cheeks. Once again, he’s fully aware what the desire for secrecy implies. He doesn’t bother trying to deny it; Rook, after all, will see right through him. “Was I so obvious?”

“Only because I know you so well.” Rook raises Vil’s hand to his lips. “There’s something thrilling about a secret rendezvous, isn’t there? Of course,” he amends, “I’m only here to study.” He’s giving Vil the out, pressing a lingering kiss to his fingers before—regretfully—letting him go. “Our path should be clear now. Lead the way, my dear Vil.”

Vil nods and turns to go, before hesitating, glancing around at their surroundings and back at Rook, suspicious. “How did you know this alcove was here? Familiar with the layout of Pomefiore, are we?”

Rook’s smile doesn’t budge, his lips sealed. Vil heaves a sigh of exasperation, deciding perhaps this is one of those Rook eccentricities that’s better to not ask too many questions about, before exiting the alcove, Rook trailing after him eagerly.

They reach Vil’s room without incident, and as the door clicks shut behind them, the atmosphere seems to shift: all excuses and illusions stripped away, leaving behind only a tension fragile enough to shatter with a single breath. Vil turns to face Rook, and their eyes lock for an instant that ticks by like a lifetime—

—and then Rook’s bag hits the floor with a thud, and they’re wrapped up in one another before either of them even knows who made the first move. It doesn’t matter, when it’s clear this is all they’ve been waiting for, kissing like they’ve been starving for it, leaving a trail of clothing strewn across the floor in their wake as Vil leads Rook to his bed, pulling him down on top of him.

All the ways in which Vil had wanted to touch Rook, he gives in to them now. Buries his hands in his hair, tangled and messy as it is; drags his nails down his back, drawing a hiss from his lips; wraps his legs around his waist, slotting their hips together shamelessly. Rook’s fingers wind into Vil’s hair in turn, gripping just this side of too hard; his kisses are on the verge of bites, teeth tugging at Vil’s lower lip, and all Vil can think is finally. Finally, Rook’s no longer handling him like a porcelain doll, something to be treated with care—the gloves are off, both literally and figuratively. Vil’s lost track of the number of times he’s held Rook at arm’s length, reminding him I’m not going to break, feeling the rapid tempo of Rook’s pulse under his touch and knowing, knowing that he’s holding himself back, barely contained desire vibrating just beneath the surface.

He’s starting to understand: if Rook had let himself give in, neither of them would have been able to stop.

Rook’s hands slip down to undo Vil’s buttons in rapid succession; he’d lost his own shirt before they’d even made it to the bed, and he works to rid Vil of his now, fingers rough but deft as they slip inside, pushing the shirt from his shoulders. Vil breaks their kiss just long enough to shrug it the rest of the way off and cast it aside, sending up a silent apology to the designers for such disrespectful treatment, before pulling Rook back down against him. He wraps an arm around his shoulders, marveling at how warm he is, bare chest pressed to bare chest. The weight of Rook’s body atop his own is overwhelming, made all the more consuming by how hard he is already, how big he is, even through too many remaining layers of clothing. Vil’s felt it before (a few hurried, unfinished handjobs, rutting desperately against one another in darkened corners)—but never quite like this. He fumbles with Rook’s belt, getting it undone and his pants pushed past his hips; Rook kicks them off the rest of the way and makes quick work of Vil’s in turn, leaving them both bare but for that final layer, Rook’s cock tenting his boxers, Vil’s straining in his lace briefs.

Before Vil can capture Rook’s lips in another kiss, Rook presses a hand to his chest, holding him in place, taking advantage of the moment to just look. He drinks it in: the vision spread out beneath him, gazing back at him with a hunger fierce enough to mirror his own. He lifts his hand only once he’s confident Vil won’t move, fingers tracing the curve of his waist instead, thumbs brushing across his peaked nipples, the jut of his collarbone. Rook’s hands drift lower, to Vil’s navel, down to his thighs, all the while avoiding the place begging for his touch the most. Vil’s briefs leave little to the imagination, elaborate lace patterns in the deepest shade of royal purple clinging to the outline of his cock: Rook watches with satisfaction as Vil arches into his touch before leaning down to let his lips and teeth follow the same path as his hands. He puts his mouth on every inch of bare skin that he can reach, or tries to; it’s not long before Vil’s patience runs thin, his legs wrapping around Rook’s waist to pull him in until their hips are flush once more.

Vil tugs Rook down to nip at the skin beneath his ear, savoring the shudder that passes through him and the way Rook’s grip on him tightens. He should be wary of bruises, he knows, but the moment Rook’s fingers hook into the waistband of his briefs, the thought vanishes as quickly as it came. The earlier tension has returned, the realization that if they go any further, there will be no turning back.

“We should,” Vil starts, stops. “We should be studying.”

“Oui,” Rook agrees, making no move to encourage him either way. His thumbs stroke softly, steadily across the dip of Vil's hips, his hands’ steady cadence a soothing counterpoint to the thundering of Vil's heart. Rook isn't letting him go but isn't holding him in place, either, and they both know that it’s Vil making the choice to let Rook stay, Vil who can’t bring himself to push Rook away. Rook, after all, is an expert at reading body language, and everything in Vil’s is screaming at him not to stop.

Vil tries again. “We should—” He can barely get the word out, swallowing around it thickly. “Stop.” Rook's fingers go still, and Vil's head spins. He's saying all the lines he thinks he should, and they both know he doesn't mean a single one. It's unquestionably his worst performance yet.

“If that’s what you want,” Rook murmurs, giving him another chance, an opportunity to turn his act around. Rook’s always been able to tell when his heart isn’t in a performance, when he’s following the script as he’s been instructed rather than as his heart desires. “I’ll stop. But I need you to tell me, Vil.” As Rook speaks, he leans down, hesitating a breath away from Vil’s neck—and when he closes the remaining distance Vil can feel it, the barest imprint of teeth against his skin. He doesn’t have to say it, knows that Rook knows as well as he does (no marks), but even just the hint of it, possessive, longing, has Vil wanting to let him.

“Tell me what it is you want, my queen,” Rook says, lips brushing Vil’s neck as he speaks, sending sparks down his spine. Vil’s reminded of their first kiss, Rook’s smoldering gaze, breath indistinguishable from his own—what matters most is what you want. If he lets this continue, Vil will make either his biggest mistake or the best decision of his life. He knows this, has known this from the start, and yet—he’s still not sure which is which.

But he knows beyond a doubt what he wants.

“You,” he breathes, giving in, sinking his fingers into Rook’s hair and dragging him up to his lips, kissing him until they’re both gasping for air. “Again,” Rook begs when they pull apart, his composure finally shattered, and Vil loves the way it makes him feel, to see Rook so undone, so desperate, pleading to hear the words fall from Vil’s lips once more.

He indulges him. “I want you, Rook. All of you. Everything you can give me,” and then Rook’s lips are back on Vil’s. There’s no performance in Vil’s declaration this time, no script to follow: just Rook kissing the unadorned truth from the tip of his tongue. Vil’s arms wrap around Rook’s neck, legs bracketing his hips, as Rook’s hands dig bruises into Vil’s waist. It’s like they can’t get close enough, and by the time they part once more, there’s not a stitch of clothing left between them.

It’s Vil’s turn to stare. He’d known Rook was big, but this—this is more than he’d anticipated. He swallows around the desire and the trepidation building within him, tearing his gaze away to fumble for his magical pen. He pauses when he notices Rook doing the same and their eyes lock, grins unfurling across their faces in unison. They’d had the same thought, neither of them wanting to be parted from the other for even a moment.

Vil uses his pen to lock the door as Rook magics his bag over to the side of the bed, reaching inside to pull out condoms and lube. “I presumed you might not have these,” he explains, raising a foil packet, and Vil flushes. Rook had presumed correctly: Vil could hardly go out and buy them, as recognizable as he is, and having them in his possession in a shared room was a potential recipe for disaster. Lube, certainly—he’s a teenage boy, not a saint—but condoms, absolutely not. “Of course, we can go without,” Rook offers, brushing a kiss across Vil’s cheek, “But given our limited time, I thought you might prefer things this way.”

“This time,” Vil agrees. As maddeningly tempting as the thought of Rook bare inside him is, the part of him still clinging to reason knows that clean-up will be easier, knows that it’s the right choice, given the circumstances.

The smile Rook gives him is radiant, and Vil gazes up at him, brow knit, baffled at his reaction. “What?”

“‘This time,’” Rook repeats, and Vil realizes as the words leave his lips: “That implies a next time.”

Vil leans up just enough to bite at Rook’s jaw: Rook may be forbidden from leaving marks on him, but Vil has no such constraints. “Only if you fuck me well enough to earn it.”

Rook’s eyes shine as he sits back on his heels, hands settling on Vil’s thighs, his thumbs tracing indecipherable yet deliberate patterns across Vil’s skin as he coaxes his legs apart. “Your wish is my command.” He reaches for the lube, coating his fingers and tossing it aside before returning his attention to Vil. He spreads Vil’s legs wider, using his thumb to part his cheeks—and then pauses, his eyes going wide. “Vil…did you…”

Only Rook would be able to make him blush twice in as many minutes. Vil steadfastly disregards the heat he can feel rising in his face, replying, “An actor is always prepared for every eventuality.” (“I knew we wouldn’t have much time,” he doesn’t say. “I wanted to feel you inside me for as long as possible,” he doesn’t say. It feels too much like a confession, even now, with Rook’s gaze on him like he’s something to be worshipped, or perhaps something to be devoured.)

Rook presses forward anyway, middle and index fingers sinking into Vil with ease. After seeing how big Rook is, Vil can hardly object to the additional prep: he’s still not entirely sure that Rook will fit, though he’s nothing if not determined. Rook’s fingers are thicker than his own, rougher, and it’s so much harder to ignore the ache of his cock between his legs with someone else touching him, stirring with the anticipation of what’s to come.

“Did you just use your fingers?” Rook asks, pushing his own deeper; Vil draws a shaky breath, nods. As with condoms, being caught with toys could be scandalous for someone in his position, and with roommates, it’s not worth the risk. Rook shuts his eyes for just a moment, imagining it: those flawless hands holding himself open, sinking inside, hurried but thorough as he’d prepared himself, awaiting Rook’s arrival. “You must let me watch next time.” He opens his eyes, shifts the angle of his wrist, thrusts his fingers in once more—and this time, Vil gasps, his back arching off the bed. Rook’s eyes glitter, his lips curling into a smirk that speaks volumes without a single word: Ah. There it is.

“W—when we have more time,” Vil finally responds, still catching his breath, as Rook withdraws his fingers. “Right now—”

Rook silences him with a kiss. “I know, my queen. I know.” Despite his earlier moment of desperation, he still seems so unaffected, so nonchalant, that it’s almost infuriating, but as he rolls the condom down his length, coats his cock in lube, Vil notes with satisfaction—he’s trembling.

At long last, Rook’s cock is positioned at Vil’s entrance, Vil’s grip tight on Rook’s waist in an attempt to keep his hands still—but even through his nerves, he has one last request for Rook to indulge. “Wait,” he says, and Rook freezes, eyes wide. “Kiss me,” Vil asks, demands, and Rook’s momentary expression of concern melts into something sweeter and darker at once.

“Here?” he asks cheekily as he presses a kiss to Vil’s forehead. “Here?” His lips fall upon Vil’s cheek. “...here?” He kisses Vil’s neck, and just as Vil is about to drag him precisely where he wants him, Rook murmurs, “Or perhaps…here?” and their lips meet just as Rook pushes in, their moans caught in the space between, connected by their breath and body heat and a certainty that runs bone-deep: this, here, is precisely where they’re meant to be.

Rook’s hardly halfway inside when he stills, draws back, Vil’s fingers trembling with the strength of their grip on his hips. I’m not going to break, he’s told Rook countless times, but now the words catch in his throat; this once, he doesn’t mind Rook taking it slow. This might be what breaks him, after all, but knowing that it’s Rook taking him apart, the only one outside himself he’d trust to put the pieces back together again: all he wants to do is cling tighter, draw him deeper.

It takes a few thrusts for Vil to adjust, for Rook to finally bottom out within him; with their hips flush, both of them are breathing hard, Rook barely holding himself back. His hips rock ever so slightly, shallow thrusts keeping him deep inside Vil like there’s nowhere he’d rather be. “Would that I could have taken my time undressing you, preparing you like you deserve,” he says, voice low, “But Vil, you feel…exquisite,” he finishes, and Vil burns. He pulls Rook down for another kiss, deep and slow, his tongue between Rook’s lips, his heart in Rook’s hands.

“Show me,” Vil says when he breaks the kiss, his tone leaving no room for argument, his arms wrapped around Rook’s neck. “Show me how I make you feel.” He can say it now. “I’m not going to break.”

Rook grins, sliding a hand beneath Vil to rest against the small of his back. “As you wish.” He pulls back, fucks into Vil properly—and this time, he doesn’t stop. So hard, so deep, that Vil can feel each thrust in the back of his throat, the moans spilling from his lips before he can even think to hold them back. Vil’s hips arch up with the pressure of Rook’s hand on his back, meeting him thrust for thrust, gasping as the angle of Rook’s cock inside him shifts.

Vil feels so full and Rook is so big, not just inside him but everywhere: surrounding him, body blanketing his own, his warmth and his strength and the way he can’t take his eyes off Vil, not even for a second. Vil bites his lip, raises a hand to his mouth to muffle the noises he’s making, but Rook’s having none of it. He shoves Vil’s hand aside and pins it to the bed, kissing the whimpers from his tongue instead, stealing his voice and his sanity at once, and still Vil never wants it to end.

He’s acutely aware that Rook hasn’t touched his cock once, neglected and leaking against his stomach. It’s for the best, Vil knows, not daring to think how quickly he would come if touched directly—but as soon as he thinks it, Rook’s hand is there, entwined fingers disentangling from his to wrap around Vil’s cock instead. “I could spend hours worshipping this part of you alone, roi du poison,” Rook admits, and—it should sound ridiculous. It shouldn’t make Vil ache with desire, shouldn’t make his cock pulse in Rook’s grasp, shouldn’t bring him dangerously close to the edge—

—but it's Rook, so of course should means nothing at all. Not when he’s known every way to dismantle Vil since the day they met; since long before, most likely, and the thought makes Vil shudder, makes him pull Rook closer, legs wrapped around his waist to urge him deeper still.

Rook’s strokes on his cock are as unrelenting as his thrusts, and Vil knows precisely what he’s doing: he’s determined to make Vil come first, wants to see what he looks like as he falls apart. The competitive devil on Vil’s shoulder whispers to him to take it as a challenge, to make Rook come first; the angel who basks in adoration begs him to give in, to let Rook ruin him for everyone and everything else.

But then again, why should he have to choose? The least he can do is pull Rook over the edge with him.

Vil’s perfectly manicured nails leave scratches down Rook’s back, his perpetually bruised, blemished arms; Rook hisses and fucks into him harder, but still his touch on Vil’s cock doesn’t falter. Rook’s not loud in this, Vil is finding (somewhat surprisingly, though perhaps not: the hunter in him knows how to cover his tracks, how to coax the sweetest sounds from his prey while suppressing his own), so every noise Vil manages to draw from him feels like a reward in and of itself. It makes his own noises feel all the more mortifying by contrast, but he lets Rook hear them now, past caring who else might be listening. He’s too far gone to keep himself quiet and Rook’s too far gone to muffle his noises with his mouth; perhaps he should’ve cast a soundproofing spell over the room, but that thought won’t occur to him until much, much later. He’d never anticipated this, never thought that Rook would have him past the point of sagacity, of self-preservation, but then again, he knows full well, has known all along: 

No one derails him quite like Rook.

Vil’s the first to come after all, drawn relentlessly over the edge by the twist of Rook’s wrist, the pressure of his cock against his prostate, every thrust reaching deeper than he’d realized possible. A moan spills from Vil’s lips as his come spills over Rook’s fingers, cock pulsing in his grip; he reaches blindly for Rook’s wrist, overstimulated, overwhelmed, as Rook fucks him through it, unable to hold back or take his eyes off Vil. His own noises grow louder, harder to bite back: the way Vil tightens around him is one thing, but the way he looks is entirely another. The world may be familiar with Vil Schoenheit’s beauty, but they’ve never seen him like this. Never seen how stunning he is as he comes, lips parted, eyes shining before fluttering shut, the color high in his cheeks.

No one else has seen him like this. Only Rook.

Vil’s still trembling as he raises a hand to brush across Rook’s freckled cheek, murmuring his name like it’s the only word he knows, the only one he remembers in the afterglow. That’s what does it, Rook moaning long and low as his hips still, pressed flush to Vil’s, as deep as he can get—still not deep enough, Vil thinks selfishly, hungrily, wanting to feel Rook raw inside of him, filling him up, dripping down his thighs. It’s so unlike him, craving any sort of mess, yet through the haze of desire, Vil can’t think of anything more beautiful than being painted with the evidence of Rook’s devotion, inside and out. Rook was right—they don’t have time for it, not now—but he’s certain beyond a doubt now that there will be a next time, and countless more after that. It’s as clear as it was since their first kiss, perhaps even moreso: now that they’ve had it, there’s no going back.

“Every time,” Rook starts, stops, still catching his breath. “Every time I think you can’t possibly be more beautiful, you prove me wrong.” He lifts a shaking hand to brush Vil’s hair, damp with sweat, out of his face, staring at him like he’s a revelation. He’s at a loss, his usual penchant for poetry eluding him in the face of beauty bordering on the divine. He lets his actions do the talking instead, leaning down to kiss Vil deeply, hoping Vil can feel it in the thrum of his pulse, can taste it on his tongue: every word left unspoken, praise and promises and everything in between. Dismantled, derailed: it isn’t just Vil who’s taken off-guard, whose defenses are destroyed a little more with each passing day.

Vil’s arms come up to wind around Rook’s neck, holding him close, kissing him back just as deep and slow, and Rook knows he knows.

Rook has yet to pull out, neither of them wanting to part from the other just yet. It’s only once Vil feels Rook’s cock start to stir within him once more—and his own react with interest—that he breaks their kiss, his grip on Rook’s arms non-negotiable, all too aware that they don’t have time for another round. “You may be fine with lazing about in our own filth like this, but I need to clean myself up. I shudder to think what a lost cause my makeup must be…”

“You’re a vision, beautiful Vil,” Rook tells him, smart enough not to comment on the fact that Vil seemed more than fine with it a moment ago. “Something tells me you’re not the most objective audience right now, Rook,” Vil responds, shifting his hips only half-deliberately and biting back a moan. The smirk hovering over Rook’s lips is indication enough that he has every intention of ignoring Vil and leaning down to kiss him once more—but a moment later it’s vanished, his gaze whipping toward the door instead, expression suddenly serious.

Vil knows that look. He pushes at Rook’s arm again, and this time, Rook goes without complaint. He pulls out quickly, unceremoniously; neither of them has time to mourn the loss, the quiet afterglow replaced with alarm instead. “How much time do we have?” Vil hisses as he reaches for his magical pen; Rook already has his in hand as he responds, “They’re not on this floor yet. Coming up the stairs.”

Not for the first time, Vil thanks the heavens for Rook’s frighteningly acute senses. The two of them throw themselves together as quickly as they can with the assistance of magic, gathering up their scattered clothes and belongings at record speed. By the time Vil’s approaching roommates are within (his) earshot, Rook is fully dressed, if even more disheveled than usual; Vil is at least decent, though he would disagree with that assessment. “How are you going to—” Vil starts to ask—with his roommates down the hall, the door is no longer an option for escape—but Rook just nods toward the window as he slips his boots on. Vil stares at him. “We’re on the third floor!” he stage-whispers, bewildered, but Rook just smiles and leans in to kiss him: quick, dirty, devastating. “I’ll be fine, mon cherie,” he reassures him, voice low, grabbing his bag and crossing to the window. He gets it open, steps through, and at the sound of voices just outside the door, Vil knows he has no choice but to trust him. 

“Huh? It’s locked,” he hears one of his roommates say; Rook sends Vil a wink, a flying kiss, and disappears from view. There’s the sound of a key in the lock, and the door swings open just as Vil shuts his eyes, willing his racing heart to slow even as he breathes deep and steady in a perfect imitation of sleep. It may be the easy way out, but he supposes it’s the oldest trick in the book for a reason.

“Hey, Vil,” the same voice as a moment before starts to say, greeting him cheerfully, before catching sight of him, voice dropping immediately to a whisper. “Oh, shit, I didn’t realize—” He freezes as Vil mumbles a little in his ‘sleep,’ rolling over so that he’s facing toward the window, listening as the two of them converse in hushed tones:

“He doesn’t usually take naps, does he?”

“He was sick last week…maybe he’s still recovering? But why is the window open?”

Vil goes very still.

“It’s freezing out there. That can’t be good for him,” his roommate continues, crossing the room to shut it. Only once he’s stepped away from the window can Vil breathe again, knowing Rook must have managed to slip out of sight. “Let’s go hang out in the lounge instead.”

“We could just wake him up and see if he wants to—”

“Do you wanna be responsible for disturbing the supermodel’s beauty sleep? You know how he gets.”

His other roommate reluctantly agrees, and as quickly as they’d arrived, they’re gone again. Vil lets out a sigh of relief and regret once he’s sure they’re gone—if only Rook had lingered, hidden away in the wardrobe or under his bed—and reaches for his phone. One new notification blinks back at him, the simplest of messages: no words, just the heart emoji with an arrow through it.

Vil shakes his head and reacts to the message with a heart of his own. It’s enough, for now, to know that Rook made his escape, presumably made it back to the ground safely. If anyone could manage it, Vil knows, it’s Rook, with his startling strength and his skill for getting in and out of places unseen. It’s something that should probably give Vil pause, but he can’t help but be impressed instead. I’m so far gone, he realizes, not for the first time, not for the hundredth—but this time, the thought brings him nothing but warmth.

As the adrenaline finally wears off, it occurs to Vil that he’s drained. A bone-deep exhaustion, the emptiness he hadn’t had time to feel when Rook first pulled out: it all sinks in now, his eyes slipping shut against his better judgment. He needs to get up, to shower, but his bed is so warm with the remnants of their body heat, and his sheets smell like Rook…surely a moment longer can’t hurt.

When Vil blinks awake a few hours later, the room has grown dark around him. His immediate thought is one of horror, lamenting what his skin will be like in the coming days after falling asleep in such a state—but beneath that is a guilty pleasure he’ll never admit to, a secret satisfaction that Rook managed to relax him to such a point. He shifts, stretches, reveling in the unfamiliar ache that spreads through him, pulling back the covers to gaze down at himself. He knows his own body well, has spent countless hours training it, perfecting it, making it a weapon for him to use—yet now it feels so foreign to him, despite looking much the same. The visible differences are wholly temporary (his own come long since dried on his stomach, bruises in the pattern of Rook’s fingerprints decorating his thighs), but Rook’s touch has unlocked, ignited something within him. A desire he didn’t realize could run so deep, a greed that’s both selfish and selfless at once: to let Rook give him the world, or perhaps to conquer and rule it alongside him. He’d never entertained the latter as a possibility—in spite of, or perhaps because of, his own beauty, confidence, determination—but it seems it remains true now, as irrefutable as the day they met: no one derails him quite like Rook.

Vil should be upset at the evidence of their liaison lingering on his skin, he knows, but he can’t deny that he likes the physical reminder, bruises on his hips to match the ones on his heart, marks that he wants to keep pressing his fingers into, wants Rook to keep pressing his fingers into, over and over again. As Vil sits up, finally relinquishing the warmth of his bed, only one thought crosses his mind: from now on, he hopes they’ll never be apart long enough for them to fade.