Happily Under-After

Vil insisted on Yuu staying in one of Pomfiore’s empty rooms over the next few days until ‘he could convince Crowley to take proper countermeasures against unwanted visitors,’ but Yuu suspected that he just wanted to keep her close. That, of course, he mildly denied when asked, but even she could admit that she didn’t want a repeat of Neige’s visit.

Sure, he was unlikely to try anything again, but the fans didn’t know that—at least, that was Vil’s argument.

When he at last relented in letting her return, Ramshackle looked…different.

No—fortified.

The ivy-covered relic of a dorm had gained polished windows with mirror-like sheen (flame-proof, Rook helpfully announced), a new front door that looked capable of withstanding a siege (mob-proof, per Vil’s very expensive specifications), and some charming yet mildly threatening hedges that actively repelled loitering crowds. Purple roses and thorns the length of her hand decorated the bushes, looking potently and very familiarly threatening.

“Right,” Yuu breathed, staying as far away from the things as possible. “What’s the point of dating a famous master of poisons if you’re not afraid to invite people for tea?”

Vil joined her at the gate a few footsteps later, pulling a suitcase of ‘palatable’ clothing behind him.

“Did you…make some changes?” she asked incredulously.

“I did,” Vil said, sweeping in with his usual grace, though he wore a sweatshirt that looked suspiciously borrowed from her laundry. “You're not living in a cracked teacup anymore. If people want to stalk you, they’ll at least have to knock.”

“They’ll need siege equipment,” she answered, shaking her head.

“That’s the general idea, yes,” Vil hummed happily.

“You turned my haunted Victorian fixer-upper into a panic room.”

“I turned your haunted Victorian fixer-upper into my haunted Victorian fixer-upper,” he corrected.

“And the ghosts let you?”

He gestured. “I am exceotionally persuasive.”

“Remind me, why aren’t you living in a poison-fortress, too?”

He gave her one of his signature that-should-be-patently-obvious-potato-but-I-suppose-I’ll-spell-it-out looks.

“Because Pomfiore is actually structured like a stone castle, and because I, unlike some potatoes present, have defensive magic.”

“Am I ever going to stop being ‘potato’ to you?” she blurted.

Vil tapped his side thoughtfully, pausing even longer in the walkway while Epel struggled at the car with the other two suitcases—considerably larger than the one Vil had.

“Force of habit…but, perhaps when you decide to stop looking like one.”

She rolled her eyes. “Have I ever told you how charming you are?”

Grinning with the mischief of the actual evil queen, he put his arm around both of her shoulders, and tugged her within an inch of his face.

“No. You haven’t. But maybe you would like to tell the man who just renovated your building, housed you, and outfitted you with clothing that isn’t falling off your person exactly how charming he is?”

Yuu didn’t flinch, but her shoulders tensed slightly beneath his perfectly manicured grip her breath catching at the sudden closeness—and the scent of whatever absurdly expensive product was making his skin glow like bottled moonlight. Patently unfair play, is what that was.

She twisted her neck slightly, arching a brow.

“Oh?” she drawled. “And here I thought you were doing all that out of the kindness of your cold, glittering heart.”

Vil’s smile grew wider—and somehow sharper. “Kindness is for fairytales and first-years. What I offer is investment.” He gave her a once-over that was both fond and exasperated. “And I do expect a return.”

“In the form of compliments?” she asked with an innocent smile.

“In the form of truths,” he purred, tightening his arm around her just slightly, like he was daring her to wriggle away. “You could start by admitting you’re not nearly as indifferent to me as you pretend.”

She tilted her head. “You’re charming, Vil. I’m swaying on my feet. You’re the sunshine in my day.”

Behind them, Epel let out a frustrated grunt as one of the suitcases thunked against the car door. “A little help would be real charming right now!”

Vil didn’t look away. “Your poetry leaves a lot to be desired.”

“I’ll take lessons from Rook at the first opportunity,” she promised with a sweet little smile.

Vil groaned, and let his head fall onto his shoulder. “Don’t.”

“Your request is my command!” she sing-songed.

“If only that were true…” he muttered into her neck.

“Are you two gonna just stand there all day?” Epel grumbled, when the prince of poetry himself popped his head out of the car, and leapt to Epel’s aid.

It took Rook all of three seconds to wrestle the luggage from the trunk and tote them up the walkway.

“Shall we walk together, mes amis?” he chirped with the cheer of a man who wasn’t carrying his weight in designer…stuff.

Epel trudged behind, looking equal parts relieved and begrudging. Vil went ahead with Rook, apparently already full of extra instructions.

“Unbelievable," Epel muttered beside Yuu, arms crossed and surly. “I still can't believe you're actually dating Vil Schoenheit.”

“Trust me,” she said dryly, “no one is more surprised than me.”

“Speak for yourself,” came Rook’s cheerful purr as he leaned against the fence, returning just as fast as he’d gone. “It was plain to see! I predicted it weeks ago! And I found just the lucky charm to push it all forward.” He flourished a matching tiny glittering scale from his pocket like a card trick. “Tell me, ma belle! Was Baptiste’s blessing as lucky as promised?”

Yuu tapped the scale around her neck, which she had carefully coated in scent-free nail polish before turning into jewelry. “It was…hang on.”

Suddenly, several of the details of last week weren’t lining up.

“Rook…” Yuu turned her attention on him with maximum levels of suspicion. “Just how….emergency was this last hunting trip?”

All of that drama. All of that scandal, and Rook…was smelling fishy of a different sort.

Yuu sensed a setup.

Of all the nerve…

“Ah, l'amour!” Rook sighed dramatically, clutching the scale, and dodging her question entirely. “It cannot be avoided. Only accepted.”

He gave her a wink so full of cheek that she briefly, very briefly, sympathised with Vil for wanting an anti-cheek clause in his contracts.

She vowed on the spot to ask Vil’s help in getting even later.

When she and Epel walked into Ramshackle, the interior was…better than the outside.

“Vil, this is gorgeous,” she cried, this time genuinely impressed.

Somehow, in the span of two days, Vil had managed to replace the floors, the walls, the roof, and the furnishings. The kitchen had been furnished with appliances—the kind that ran on electricity. The stairs no longer had holes in them. The couches in the livingroom were downright sultry in the plush way they’d been padded.

Across the hall, where Rook was toting the cases upstairs, he made smug eye contact with Vil.

“Later,” Vil hissed.

Rook stopped on the stairwell.

“Fine. You were right. Well done. Go on.”

Rook ascended to the next floor, humming smugly.

“Did you two…have some sort of bet?” Epel asked from behind Yuu.

“Rook seemed to think that you would be more receptive to the furnishings than to a perfectly genetically customized species of rose,” Vil said, openly pouting.

Yuu and Epel shared a long look.

“The roses are extremely impressive,” Yuu placated. “But, if you recall, potatoes are clumsy, and its better to fall onto couches than a bush.”

“Something that will be remedied soon,” Vil promised darkly.

Epel almost looked sympathetic. Almost.

“Hiiii, all!” Cater greeted in his singiest-way from the doorway. He popped in from around the corner with iced coffee and a phone in hand. “Those roses are insane background material. Really top-class. How’d you get em’ to show up overnight!?”

“Finally, someone who sees the aesthetic,” Vil grumbled under hsi breath.

“Grim’s on his way soon,” Cater continued cheerfully. “I was gonna bring him with, but he was helping Trey finish the cake at the unbirthday party.”

“Grim learned to bake?” Yuu gasped.

Trey had managed the impossible.

“He likes to flambee. And sear. And crisp?” Cater shrugged. “Trey liked the assistance.”

“Grim is baking. Someone wake me up, now I know this isn’t real.”

“And the roses didn’t make you wonder that?” Vil reiterated, back to his perfect, very elegant pout. “Meet me upstairs in a moment, Yuu. I’m having a word with Rook.”

With that, Vil placed a quick kiss on her cheek, and went after his Vice-Housewarden.

Cater’s eyes bugged so hard he didn’t even reach for his phone’s camera button.

“Girl. You are literally living the dream. Secret romance with a celebrity heartthrob? Full castle upgrade? Flirty fights and long stares during galas? I’m obsessed.”

“You missed the part where I almost died,” she replied, deadpan.

“Right, right,” Cater said, nodding. “But aesthetic.”

“Obsessed is the word,” Epel grumbled, taking a seat on one of the plush couches now that he was no longer under Vil’s scrutiny.

Epel had been happy for her when she’d moved into pomfiore. He’d been even happier now that Vil was in a consistently better mood, but there was still an edge of both suspicion and camaraderie that let Yuu know that if anything ever happened, Epel would be the kind of guy to help her out. Probably.

Stolen novel; please report.

Ever the efficient one, Rook descended to collect Epel in a matter of moments, a handful of rose-thorns in one hand, and looking, if possible, even more smug. He and Epel left through the garden with swift and poetic bowing.

“Ah, Pomfiore,” Cater breathed, watching them go.

“Pomfiore,” Yuu agreed. “Feel free to scope out the fridge for anything you’d like Cater. I’m going to go and make sure the guys didn’t leave anything too flammable upstairs…”

Cater shot her a knowing look (that was completely undeserved, thank you very much) but sauntered off to the kitchen anyway, leaving Yuu free to go and find Vil.

She would have wondered how he knew which bedroom was hers if Rook hadn’t just been there with him.

“No…no…” she heard him muttering behind the door.

“Vil? Vil, what are you—”

She entered the room to find that it had been outfitted similarly to the downstairs. Her bed had been…entirely replaced. Possibly burned. Her closet had been expanded—because of course it had—and there was new wallpaper on the walls. All in all, it seemed that care had been taken not to change her personal space too much, but that there were some items that the Pomfiore trio had deemed unfit for existence.

“And this…what in the name of everything that is radiant—”

Vil was holding up a pair of her leggings. Then a few shirts. Then, her underwear—and threw them all in the trash.

Yuu cleared her throat. Clearly some lines needed to be drawn.

“I liked that shirt,” she said sternly—they would get to the private affects in a minute—“Just because it had a few holes—”

Vil’s attention snapped up to her with the territorial irritation of a wounded animal.

“Am I going to have to civilize you like some trash-dwelling gremlin? It had more holes than fabric. It was air with thread garnish.”

“Clearly, you’re missing out on an opportunity, then,” she tried to tease, but he wasn’t having it.

“And see what? These?” He held up yet another pair of her unmentionables. The bland ones. The ones that looked like they’d lost a fight with a racoon—probably her best pair.

Face immediately aflame with anger—and a little embarrassment that she would never admit to—she snatched it out of his hand and hit him with it.

“Am I going to have to civilize you like some overgrown magpie who thinks lace is a personality trait?” she snapped, giving him another swat with the offending garment for emphasis.

Vil recoiled with mock horror, though his smirk was entirely too pleased. “The violence. That shirt was a glorified dishrag—and so is that.” He nodded at her hand.

“We are not discussing my underwear choices,” she said firmly, spinning around and pointing a sharp finger at him. “That is a line, Vil. A line. Mark it.”

Vil, utterly unbothered, held up the fabric like it was an exotic sea creature he’d just discovered. “Too late. This line is sheer. Literally. I can see through it.”

She lunged, but he was already dancing backward like a smug little prince of pettiness.

“Put it down!” she barked.

He held it high. “Not until you admit this is at least partially my influence.”

“My underwear predates your meddling!”

“It looks like it predates the school, darling.”

“Vil!”

He gave her a look of pure delight, then finally—finally—tossed it gently back onto the pile. “Fine. I’ll leave your questionable lingerie choices in peace. For now. But only because I believe in second chances. Even for your drawer of tragic delicates.”

She huffed, face pink, arms crossed. “You are the absolute worst.”

He stepped forward again, closing the distance between them with theatrical menace. “And yet here you are—living in my building, wearing my clothes, breathing my perfectly curated air. What a villain I am.”

“You’re not a villain, per se…”

He leaned in, flashing that actor’s smile, dazzling and full of sin. “Oh? Then what am I?”

She huffed, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Trouble. Now, thank you very much, my charming trouble, but I’ve got the rest of this. You—just sit.”

“And enjoy the show? With pleasure.” Vil kicked himself back on her brand new comforter with ease while she shoved the last of her clothes—wrinkled, mismatched, questionably folded—into the drawer and slammed it shut with more force than necessary.

Vil, now comfortably lounging sideways on her bed like he owned the air in the room, propped himself up on one elbow and gave a long, theatrical sigh.

“You know, for someone so defensive about her underclothes, you fold them like they’ve wronged you.”

She glanced over—and then away before he could start gloating about her reaction to him lying on her bed.

Could someone practice looking seductive while lying on plain student furnishings? Perhaps there was some sort of superstar workshop for distracting poor girlfriends doing laundry? To be fair, if there was, then Vil probably taught it…

“Keep talking and I’ll hang them out the window with a sign that says ‘styled by Vil Schoenheit,’” she deflected.

“That would be a fun picture to have…”

She threw a pillow at him. He caught it, laughing softly, and didn’t throw it back.

Eventually, she came to him, like he knew she would. She sat on the edge of the bed, back to him. He watched her shoulders rise and fall—he let the silence stretch just long enough before breaking it, speaking a little softer as he reached for her shoulder, trying to coax her back into him.

“Are you actually angry with me for…” He gestured vaguely at the room.

Sighing, she leaned back into his touch, knowing that if she looked, she would find him looking equal parts sexy and smug.

“No…” It was then that she noticed the purple roses on her nightstand. Dethorned in the name of clumsiness, and her smile returned—just a little.

Vil’s arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer.

“I admit I… didn’t expect it to feel that personal.”

He stiffened behind her. “It wasn’t meant to hurt,” he said carefully.

“I recognize that this is you helping,” she said. “And, whether it’s invasive or not, that doesn’t change that I chose you.” She tapped the arm around her. “My fault.”

Vil shrugged behind her, but she could feel his grin curling into the back of her neck.

“All in the name of love.” He caught her hand gently, holding it just long enough to be annoying.

She twisted in his arms to see his face, and found that she had been entirely correct. He radiated smugness like a cornfield in chernobyl, and close on the heels of that sentiment was him looking, well, perfect as usual. Perfect, focused, and extremely pleased that she’d made it easier for whatever he was scheming.

“I do love the roses, by the way. Absolutely brilliant of you. Well done.”

Vil, who was in the middle of reaching through her hair, froze, scoffing.

“The roses?”

Oh, so now he was irritated that she liked the roses…

She laughed, leaning forward enough to give him a placating kiss that…did not placate him at all.

It had only been a few days, so she wasn’t yet used to the boldness of being allowed to kiss his jawline, but despite his irritation, he let her as she explained:

“I’ll never see them without thinking of you. Poisonous, your signature color, genius work of art. Absolutely beautiful.”

“Welcome in your room?” he teased, not all of the irritation gone from him, but it was certainly fading.

“Dethorned. On good behavior.”

Vil let out a soft, amused sound—half sigh, half growl—as her lips skimmed the edge of his jaw again. He tilted his head just slightly, giving her better access, even while pretending to be above it all.

“Good behavior,” he repeated, his fingers tightening gently in her hair. “Darling, you don’t keep roses for their behavior.”

She hummed into his neck, completely enthralled still that he reacted this way to her.

“No, you keep them because they’re dramatic, high-maintenance, and make your enemies bleed when handled improperly.”

He leaned forward before she could blink, brushing his mouth along her throat in a deliberate, silken threat of a kiss.

“I’d be offended if I weren’t so flattered,” he said against her skin.

She shivered—but didn’t stop him.

His hands moved, one settling on her waist with just enough pressure to make her feel how little space there was left between them.

“Tell me, when you think of me—roses or otherwise—do you think of thorns… or the bloom?”

“They tend to come as a package,” she hummed.

He chuckled darkly and kissed the corner of her mouth—soft, then sharper.

“Good. Because I’d hate for you to pretend you didn’t like the pain a little.”

She gasped—not because of his words, but because his mouth was suddenly there, hot and hungry and far more serious than before. Vil didn’t do anything halfway, and apparently kissing her was no exception. Once more, he tasted like something expensive and forbidden, and kissed like he had no intention of ever leaving. One hand tangled in her hair again, the other sliding along the curve of her waist, trailing sparks with every movement.

The arm already around her was poised and ready when he flipped her to lie underneath him, and he did it so quickly that her head spun, not registering her new position until she felt his nails raking at the hem of her shirt, his fingers splaying over the inch of skin that he’d exposed there. It was only an inch, and she was already sighing and reaching for his shirt.

She dragged it from his beltline, just high enough to let her feel more of him.

He groaned into her mouth—low, wrecked, gorgeous—and kissed her harder. She nipped at his bottom lip in retaliation, and he laughed against her, the sound dark and dangerous and thrilled.

“If this is what roses get me—” His mouth found her neck, teeth grazing along a sensitive vein. “—I’ll send you a garden.”

“You did,” she reminded breathlessly.

While he was far enough to distract, she pushed his chest back from her. Surprised, he let her, only mildly disappointed—until she flipped him back onto her pillow.

He blinked up at her, flushed and half-lidded. “This is new.”

When she bent down, he kissed her again, rougher, unafraid to drag her down to him. He let out a sound—somewhere between a groan and a laugh—and leaned up to kiss her again, this time deeper, filthier, all tongue and teeth and the drag of silk and skin.

Her thighs straddled his hips, knees pressed into the mattress, and for once, he wasn’t posing or performing. He was wrecked already—flushed and hungry, hands dragging up her back beneath the hem of her shirt like he needed to memorize how she felt. His hand slid up her thigh beneath her shorts, fingers splaying possessively over her skin, not shy now. She rocked against him just enough to feel him fully—hard, willing, and absolutely done pretending.

He exhaled hard. His hands gripped her hips firmly, and held her back.

“Yuu,” he rasped.

“Mm?” she hummed into his mouth.

He groaned, as though it physically pained him to pull away the few inches that he did.

“I’m not saying no…someday. However, for now, we may need to draw some lines until…until we have something more permanent in place.”

She blinked at him, the pulse in her ears still loud enough to drown out reason.

“Listen, Yuu,” he said, pupils dilated, he swallowed hard. “Oh dear… this isn’t the moment for this, I know, but it needs to be said.”

There was a long beat of silence while they both pulled themselves together, but eventually, Yuu registered properly that he was serious, and pulled back.

Slowly, breathing deeply, she untangled herself from him, but didn’t go far, tucking herself under his arm instead to listen.

“So very many of my colleagues…they rush,” he explained, as though picking through every word. “They fling themselves casually into situations that flare and distract and burn. And every single one of them don’t last. They end up heartbroken, and then cold, and then jaded. Always Yuu. It is a cold and lonely thing to witness.”

Yuu sighed into him. “So, you’re proposing—”

“Well, not yet,” he interrupted cheekily. “Come now, it’s only been a couple of weeks—”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Yuu chuffed. “You’re proposing that we draw a few more lines?”

He sighed dramatically, seriousness returning to the moment. “Exactly that. Levity aside, I do want to do this right, Yuu. These things typically have rules for reasons that have nothing to do with stigma.”

“I support it,” she said stiffly.

He shifted at her side. “You do? Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’re amenable to that request. I have seen your underwear drawer—”

She immediately swiped the pillow from beneath his head and began beating him with it.

“That. Has. Nothing. To. Do. With. ANYTHING.”

She knew that she was being laughed at, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t AMPLY deserve it.

“Fine. I don’t have to support. I could storm out right now, and go and live in Heartslabyul in Cater’s room. Or Diasomnia…Actually, I take it back! I bet Neige has a spare room somewhere—”

Tossing off her pillow attack like it was nothing, he dragged her back into him with a firmness that she couldn’t fight. His lips traced her jawline, featherlight now, a cruel contrast to the way his hands pulled her flush to him.

“I only meant that I’m grateful,” he said smoothly, covering up his offenses with cologne and distraction. “And that I appreciate you….and that I don’t intend to lose you. And may I say that this is how you express compliments to someone you love, instead of the pillows and beatings with hideous shirts.”

“Anything for you, princess,” she promised sweetly.

He tsked sharply. “I’m not sure why I bother.”

“You did choose me,” she pointed out.

In response, he held her tighter, and let the wordless moment stretch.

“Don’t wait too long,” she requested softly. Not that she wouldn’t wait…but weeks were already starting to feel like years.

“Just because I am known for my unending patience—”

She snorted into his shoulder.

“—I do not intend to leave you waiting long.”

She looked up into his face. He looked maddeningly serene.

“You’re enjoying this, then?”

“I’m enjoying the lack of disasters, your wardrobe excepting.” He looked at her. Really looked. “You’re happy.”

It wasn’t a question.

Yuu hesitated—then smiled. “I really am.”