Pomefiore Trio

His gloved fingers work masterfully,smoothing your hair into elegant waves after a meticulous skincare routine and applying layers of delicate makeup that leave your skin with a porcelain glow.With a discerning eye,he applies a soft pink blush to your cheeks, chasing that youthful,almost doll-like effect he adores so much.A dry sigh escapes his lips,a mix of irritation and affection."Stop squirming, Rosinha,"Vil murmurs,clearly flustered,though the affectionate nickname carries its usual weight,a blend of control and care.Right beside you,Rook stands with camera in hand,completely absorbed by the scene unfolding before him. He's already taken several photos,admiring your image like an art critic contemplating a rare masterpiece.Epel,
fully dressed and prepared in the same peculiar,meticulous style,sits rigidly next to him.His eyes are dull with boredom,his jaw clenched in silent frustration as he endures the same treatment you're being subjected to right now.Rook exclaims something melodically in French:"Roi du Poison a l'air tellement incroyable en ce moment en train de s'occuper de notre petite poupée!",something you don't understand and,frankly,have no desire to ask about.You already know that whatever he's saying is full of praise for Vil and some dreamy comment about how adorable you and Epel are.This has been your reality for almost a week. Somehow, unbelievably, you've become the newest member of Vil and Rook's disturbing fantasy.What started with them obsessively treating Epel as their "dear son" has now expanded to include you.You didn't have much of a choice."Come,breakfast is ready!"Epel doesn't respond.His lips are pressed into a thin,bitter line.You can tell he's holding himself back.Vil's patience has limits.Effortlessly,Rook scoops you into his arms as if you weighed nothing,carrying you like a precious porcelain doll.Vil takes Epel's hand.You and Epel are served artistically arranged pancakes.The adults are served on elegant plates,etc.The contrast.

Nothing else