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trappolia · 2 months

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BEAUTIFUL BOY (OH, WHAT ENVY) ── vil schoenheit + gn!reader, 588

"beautiful boy."

praise whispered by millions across the lands who have bore witness to his likeness in fashion magazines, movies, plays, commercials ─ it all echoed in your mind like a mantra; a religion to bring you down to your knees, to surrender all material possessions and then some, maybe a limb or an eye or a heart.

such weakness was easy when it came to vil schoenheit; as cruel as he may be, giving you that coy smile upholding such arrogance, befitting of some beloved prince.

"tell me something i don't know," he mused, dragging his fingers through the nonexistent knots in his hair. fair-haired prince, dipped in lavender and ambrosia.

you could, maybe. tell him something he doesn't know, that is. you, at the very least, knew vil in a manner that bordered on intimacy. the younger students called him cold and sharp, like the bitter chill of a mid-winter afternoon, but you could say with suspicious certainty that he was cold in a literal sense, the prim digits of his fingers freezing enough to send shivers down your spine when he tucked a wayward strand back behind your ear. and there was also those things you classified as "other"; such things that even the hunter's eye could not surmise. blissful sighs against your collarbone, sweet lips against the apples of your cheeks, the flush of his cheeks, ears and chest (not from the cold).

in those moments, you could almost think you loved him more than you envied him.

almost.

in retrospect, you were indeed in love with him. or some odd, twisted semblance of the world; warped by comments on social media, hollered jeers of the paparazzi and whispers immortalised in the ink of magazines and the digital world of news articles and gossip blogs. it was easy to love vil as a fan, as an admirer; not so much when you were alike in dignity and pride, held on the same pedestal by the same bloodthirsty others that sought your blood, sweat and tears. for someone of your standings, it was all the more difficult to see each other eye to eye, to perhaps witness something in that unfiltered, unbidden gaze of the other and have everything collapse around you.

and yet─

"i think i do love you," you whispered, arms wrapped around his slim torso, he was laid out beneath you, reminiscent of a renaissance painting or an old photoshoot he'd done months ago, and it was perhaps a trick of your eye when you caught his ribs flutter against pale skin, like a jump of a pulse, a butterfly's wings against the crumpled white linen.

vil dared to smile, and instead of his ribs (cage to his heart, wretched thing that was) you were drawn to the shine of his hair in the lamplight, that twinkle in his eye. "you think i don't know that?"

"do you?" you exhaled, holding him like a lover would. or should?

"hm," vil's sharp, prim fingers (cold, cold, cold) grasped your jaw and tilted his mouth upwards to yours, velvet lips pushing against your chapped ones, and you belatedly thought that this was how he did it, how he put you under his spell and made you forget your envy, your bitter jealousy, in favour of whatever you called this ─ and then there was a quick brush of tongue, and you were bleeding to death in his arms, the world collapsing around you.

oh.

you'd forgotten that this was how people fall in love.

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