#dellet-writings

Apparently in Twisted Wonderland, they took their ‘Princess and the Frog’ mythology pretty seriously, that it became a viable solution to bloopers like these. In the lucky scenario that you had two people who…mutually held feelings for each other in the same room.

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try!”

“Now, hold on a second—”

“As long as the two of you are okay with it, that is—I’ll go and give you some privacy!” And Kalim’s left you alone, somehow with Jamil cradled in your hands once again, tail looped loosely around your wrist.

There’s only one other person you’ve made your feelings known to and you can’t believe he told his not-friend about that.

“…Now who was it that said they wanted to keep ‘us’ lowkey?” you muse aloud. Jamil can only give one useless, embarrassed flail in your hold.

The afternoon goes by slowly. You rest against the side of Jamil’s bed, switching between your homework and a trashy YA novel. Meanwhile Jamil remains curled up in a blanket nest. At some point, he pokes his head out from under the mess, watches the way your expression scrunches up as you work through a difficult question, the way your eyes widen in surprise at an unexpected plot beat, the way your focus drifts towards him and a smile blooms across your cheeks, rinse and repeat.

(Try as he might, Jamil can’t stop the dismay from eating at him when he remembered the discomfort that crossed your features before Kalim left you both alone. As if you couldn’t stomach the thought of putting your lips on a creature like him.)

If you still held some resentment over the things he did over the winter break, he’d understand. But with the gentle looks you were giving him…

He couldn’t make sense of it. Yet selfishly, he chases after your touch. For the meager affirmation that your feelings for him were true.

As if reading the storm of thoughts brewing in his mind, you run an apologetic finger along the top of his head.

“…Sorry, I want to be able to help more but…I don’t know what I’d do if it wouldn’t work.” You’ve paused reading, using your homework as a makeshift bookmark for your novel. Your gaze is trained onto an unremarkable patch of his bedsheets. Self-doubt colors each of your words, makes your voice smaller and smaller until he has to strain his ears, until he has to raise his gaze to see the bitter resignment smeared across your face.

“I suppose I’d hate myself forever, for keeping you from finding your…special person.” Though your lips raise into a half-hearted smile, it does little to undo the self-derision of your quiet admission.

How could you, the one who confessed first, also be so quick to take it back? How could you say—no, even let yourself think of such a possibility? Indignation blazes through Jamil. There was being mindful of things not going one’s way and then there was entertaining the idea what was impossible.

Though…he’s probably one to talk, as someone who was led by doubt, by bracing himself for the worst-case scenario. It didn’t dull the pain by much when things went wrong. But he found solace in remembering that at least he had the sense to not leap forwards wholeheartedly.

(You were supposed to be different. You were supposed to be his better half, braver and a little more idealistic.)

“I’ll be right here, though. I won’t leave you alone…I can do that much, I think.” You lean forwards and rest your cheek against your arm. Your other palm hovers a few inches above Jamil, as if reflexively wanting to soothe…

Before deciding against that entirely and dropping back to your side.

What a rotten situation to be in, he thinks as he watches you doze off. Thankfully with it being a minor potion accident, by the time evening rolls around, he’s back to normal.

You were in for a surprise, jolting awake at the sound of the magic wearing off.

“Oh, shit—sorry!” You’re quick to turn around and throw him a fresh set of clothes to change into.

(Well, you have to reach back into his closet to pull out a pair of his dorm uniform’s pants after grabbing two undershirts by accident.)

“I’m done.” Hearing Jamil’s voice sends relief through you. “You can uncover your eyes now.”

On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t have rambled about your unsureness towards the transience of your relationship. There’s a restrained edge to Jamil’s voice, unlike the usual soft fondness he addressed you with.

Hesitantly, your palm lowers. “Are you sure? Usually you take five minutes just for the hair—”

You don’t expect to be pulled into a sudden kiss, his hand fisted in the front of your shirt tugging you close. A touch of lips more heated than the previous kisses you’ve shared.

Insistent, fervent, almost…desperate.

Starved of air, you’re the first to pull back. Jamil’s hand cups your nape, doesn’t let you escape—would the word ‘trapped’ be apt to describe your position? Even if you’re not that unpleased to be where you are right now?—Ah…he must have really been pissed off, hearing you blab like that.

If this is his demand for you to shut the hell up with those stupid words, even your mind could go completely still. Just following his lead, just letting him swallow up all those stupid thoughts that your stupid brain decided to conjure.

“—mm!” Pain blooms from your lower lip. Your fingers touch the area and come away clean, fortunately no drops of red. “Ow?!”

“How do you think I felt listening to all of that?” When your head turns to the side, his fingers grasp your chin. “No really, enlighten me.”

“I didn’t mean…I wasn’t trying to—” All you have are excuses, fragments of thoughts that made sense in the moment, in the ice of panic at Kalim’s suggestion.

How could you not freeze up? Wouldn’t it be disappointing to have some capricious whim of magic decide that the feelings you held weren’t true enough? And wouldn’t your attempt be an insult to Jamil? To have the universe remind him once more of what was supposed to be his destiny?

At your silence, Jamil’s frustration ebbs. “I don’t need to find anyone else.” His voice softens, and briefly, instead of the glint of steel that his gaze holds, you find raw vulnerability. “Not when I have you.”

The pad of his thumb traces the curve of your jaw—tender and apologetic—stopping just short of where he nipped. The gesture speaks louder than the scream of your unwanted thoughts.

But it terrifies you too, to be chosen. To believe that he will choose you, so long as he knew that you felt the same.

Still, you find the courage to utter a quiet “okay” in response. And when your lips meet once more—

This time, it is of your own volition.

(Of course, your penance doesn’t stop at just one shy and piddly kiss. Jamil demands more, keeps you tugged close, refuses to let go of you—not even for adjusting your position. And when you call him ‘needy,’ he only gives you an unimpressed frown. Magic of true love be damned, there was nothing more powerful than the plain assurance contained in these gestures of affection.)

a/n: it’s always a silly drabble scenario that ends up spiraling out of control shaking my smh at myself, at least this time it got me to break my x reader hiatus? hii long time no reader insert, i feel super out of practice writing rome ants but you know what we ball, i have other wips that i want Out of my wips folder. title credits go to this song! (well, for this i was specifically thinking of this cover)

the jamil writing taglist: @viperwhispered @bibi-cha @scint1llat3 @sillystr1ngs @warriorpacifist

@pzlqpibz @mama-m1na @chloemari-e @twinkastic

Jamil Viper is a worrywart through and through.

As much as he channels disappointment through his words and expression.

"You can't attend afternoon classes in that state."

"It's just History and a free study period, I can handle that much!"

Sure, you didn't look very convincing with a snot-filled handkerchief held to your nose. But at least you were standing upright on your two feet, a feat that most sick people wouldn't be able to manage!

Before you can breeze past him, Jamil grabs the back of your blazer, spins you around to press a hand against your forehead. He tsks. "You're burning up. I thought so."

Go ahead, dig your heels in and make a scene, it won't stop him from dragging you to the infirmary. Jamil's making sure that you're getting sent back to rest at your dorm. ("You won't get penalized for your absences if you let them give you the damn doctor's note!")

But while your friends were on their way, he supposes he has no choice but to keep you company (and make sure you don't sneak back to class. Seriously, what kind of school did you come from that made you think it was okay to ignore the fact that you were sick?)

So here you are, resting in one of the infirmary's free beds with Jamil watching you like a hawk.

Awkward is an understatement. He looks like he's seething. He looks like he's cursing you for adding your sickness onto his juggling act of obligations.

"I was telling you I could walk—"

"Sure, and then you'd push yourself into an even worse fever. I'm not moving." Psh, it's not even a full-blown one yet. Look at the exciting back-and-forth you were sharing. Wait, now that he mentions it, your throat was feeling weirdly dry.

"…Not even if I need a glass of water?"

Jamil watches you down half the glass. "Your lack of self-care is appalling."

(Why does it feel that part of that remark is directed at himself? Maybe you could squeeze out some embarrassing anecdotes from Kalim once you've recovered.)

When the conversation lulls, that you can't do anything else but give in to your fatigue. Even though you feel extra sweaty and gross in your uniform, you doze off mid-sentence. You feel the press of his palm against your forehead a second time, could almost hear Jamil muttering to himself, something about your fever rising.

For a moment, he's gone. And then nice, cool relief atop your forehead. "…did I fall asleep? What was I talking about—"

"Calm down, I won't leave you alone." His fingers brush the stray strands of hair from your face. "Keep resting. I'll wake you up when your friends get here."

(Kinda mortifying that he could sense that you really didn't want be alone in such a state. Or, maybe it was comforting that he immediately understood that sentiment?)

"Could you talk about something—anything? At least until I fall asleep again?"

Jamil gives you a look, it's not quite admonishing, but whatever iota of fondness you see disappears as he sighs, "all right."

He barely makes it through his first anecdote—something about his roommate accidentally enchanting the school's plants, which then attempted to migrate from the botanical gardens—when you slip back into a comfy nap.

Your fever lowers to a slightly more manageable temperature when Grim and co. arrive at the infirmary. By then, your group parts ways.

With his own whirlwind of a daily schedule, Jamil doesn't visit you that much at Ramshackle. (And that's probably for the best, so he won't catch what you have.)

But you do receive a container of chicken soup and a pack of over-the-counter meds to help manage your symptoms. (And it's not much of a note, but he does send you a text about not overexerting yourself. That hypocrite.)

Maybe it's the mix of spices warming you up with each spoonful, or you could dare to hope that it was made with love a certain vice housewarden's wishes for your speedy recovery.

Trey Clover is the most experienced at playing caretaker.

But did you really want to rope in the busiest person at Heartslabyul?

Just kidding, he's the vice housewarden. He can easily get an extra set of hands to take the burden off. (See: The rest of Heartslabyul)

Ace and Deuce get the brunt of the extra work, of course, being your classmates. Your missed homework, copies of lecture notes, and a smidge of the current classroom drama. (Guess what Ace contributed 👀)

If you think for even a second that Trey is here to provide a brief heavenly respite amidst your sickness, you would be sorely mistaken.

When you felt you've had enough of the same bland sickfood, you once asked Cater to smuggle your favorite sugary drink from the school vending machine during their next care package delivery.

Instead you get a passive aggressive sermon about not impeding your body's healing, and of course, salt in the wound (read: Trey asking if you really wanted to endanger your dental health too.)

Whatever happened to Cater, you didn't know. You could only hope that whatever consequences* he received, that they were fair to the poor guy.

*He'll be fine, especially since he's got Split Card.

Trey is ruthless. Nothing will get him to bend the rules of your recovery regimen. (And maybe the fact that he's diligent about wearing a mask makes him look more intimidating than usual.)

He's had to take care of his little siblings when they were sick. He's basically immune to any and all complaints and tactics (especially puppy eyes).

You're partway through a bowl of savory porridge (not the best texture when you're dealing with post-nasal drip, but the toppings were yummy) when you set the spoon down. It clinks defeatedly against the rim of the ceramic, drawing Trey's attention.

"What's wrong? You've only got half of the serving left."

"…'m not hungry anymore." It's tiring, being confined to your bed and bathroom for the past few days. And when you think that you're well enough to return to work, your symptoms return with a vengeance.

"Don't—Don't get out of bed, what do you need?"

"I need to catch up on homework or do something instead of wasting time—"

"You and Riddle are surprisingly similar." He probably wanted to use a different word. Trey sighs, equal parts fond and exasperated. "Let me try something first."

He casts Doodle Suit and you look at him questioningly. "Just try a spoonful," he says.

"But what if it doesn't work?" For a moment, you wonder if you can really make it to complete recovery.

"Then we'll figure something out. But you need to eat something alongside taking the medicine."

Wow, very comforting bedside manner 🙄 Without the support of his baked confections, Trey is so matter-of-fact that it's like talking to a brick wall.

Begrudgingly, you taste a scoop of the prestidigitated porridge and—

"It tastes weird. What did you change it into?" A laugh bubbles up from you.

"What? I could've sworn I made it taste like…" Of course he'd try to change it into your current sweet craving.

You try another spoonful, which is challenging not because of your lack of appetite, but rather in trying not to spit it out from laughter.

"It's so weird." Still, you manage to finish the entire bowl. "Man, I can't wait to go back to sampling your Unbirthday tarts."

At your change in demeanor, Trey barely slumps with relief. "Well, focus on getting better first."

He isn't the best with comforting words, but the next time he visits, you're treated to some tea with a generous amount of honey. With the caveat that you can only have one (1) cup per day.

And of course, he's persistent in reminding you to brush your teeth afterwards.

Ruggie Bucchi, opportunist that he is, becomes a frequent visitor.

"Y'didn't give Grim enough for your meds."

"Oh shit, how much do I owe you?"

"Just by five thaumarks, buuut I can let it slide if—"

Of course you knew that any extra help wouldn't come for free.

Whatever comfort meal he can throw together, he's leaving Ramshackle with two Tupperwares for himself.

He'll inflate expenses by a thaumark or two, just to pocket for himself.

Speaking of Grim, you've become very familiar with his complaints about following Ruggie around.

"My paws are numb from zipping back and forth around campus…"

"Henchman, he's doing all this extra work for pocket change. Pocket change!"

"He refuses to even waste gas for the stove! I can't be confined to the kitchen forever, henchman! You gotta get better!"

And you were trying! But this was the sort of sickness that could only get better with rest. Which is to say, something that couldn't be rushed.

Not that Ruggie's trying to hurry you along your healing. He seems perfectly happy with this current setup.

"Hm? Worried about me catching what you have? I'm tougher than some common cold, Prefect." It's either he wears a mask or you're getting the ghosts to throw him out.

Sure, he punctuates every similar remark with his trademark hissing laugh, but it was impossible to catch a light nap with how often he came into your room.

(It was as if he was making absolutely sure that your sickness wouldn't take a turn for the worse.)

You've taken to shrugging off your blanket every few minutes just to savor the feeling of getting tucked back in. A fitting exchange, since he freely toted Grim around campus.

"Prefe~ct, are you ever gonna use this pack of egg drop soup?" Ruggie shakes the packet, as if that would further entice your lack of an appetite.

The thought of being spoonfed crosses your mind briefly. "Why not? Better it gets used up instead of waiting until its expiration date."

"See, I told you that you've gotta stop hoarding your food." He grins. "Give me fifteen minutes."

Ten minutes later, Ruggie's got half of the pot's contents stashed away in a Tupperware cooling on your dining room table, while your own bowl was going cold atop your bedside nightstand.

"Don't you have Spelldrive training? Or some…part-time shift?"

"Nope, not really." Well, he deflected that really quickly. "I'm not that much of a workaholic."

Negotiating with Crowley was basically pulling teeth. "Must be nice, being able to shirk your work."

"Even I know not to push myself past my limits," Ruggie tsks at you. "And stop stalling, you're wasting your soup."

He even added some vegetables alongside the broth, making it more filling than if you were to cook it by yourself.

"Did you have to look after the neighborhood kids when they got sick?"

"Sometimes, yeah. 'Sides, it earns me free food and extra favors." The smile on his face is more devious than of genuine fondness.

"What a role model you are, teaching the children some quid pro quo."

"Well, you can't be picky with your opportunities." Ruggie shrugs. "Speaking of which, you should stop picking at your food. That's only two scoops."

"Two? I bet you could unhinge your jaw and finish the entire pot in two gulps."

His expression turns serious for a second. "I might just do it if you let your soup freeze over."

What was supposed to be an amused huff turned into you scrambling for a tissue to wipe away the glob of mucus that escaped your nose.

That gets Ruggie to break character, dissolving into wheezing laughter.

(You're not sure if Ruggie saw in you some resemblance to the kids back in his hometown, but you don't mind the ribbing. If it meant not having to see him get all worried pensive over you.)

Rook Hunt is more enamored than dependable. He's capable, but at the cost of…well…

You'd have to forgive him for being so enthralled with the progression of your recovery.

Now that you're well enough to catch up on some light chores and studying. Boy, are you glad to be out of bed.

"Bonjour, mon Trickster!"

"GAH!"

He scales the outer wall of your dorm once, and he decides to use that route for each subsequent visit. Of course.

"Rook, can you please use the front door next time?"

"Désolés, I was in a hurry," he says, with a smile too bright to be considered apologetic. "You are looking healthier today."

"You say that every time you visit."

Thankfully, he seems too busy shaking out the extra foliage and dirt from his hat out your window to notice your frown.

"This is from us at Pomefiore, Vil and Epel wanted you to have something hearty." And he somehow produces a steaming container from…his sleeve?

Did the Pomefiore dorm uniform have pockets? Or was he using some kind of spatial magic?

"Oh, sure, we can have breakfast before I get to work."

What you don't expect is him pressing the back of his ungloved hand against your forehead, then the side of your neck.

"Your hardworking spirit is very admirable, Trickster, but you should take care to not exert yourself too much."

"My work is piling up. If you're so worried about me getting sick again, then help me out for a bit."

At least he's willing to help with the chores. Admittedly, your strength wasn't completely back to a 100% but having Rook's assistance made the busywork go by more smoothly.

(Of course, you have to treat him to some cheap coffee after cleaning half of the Ramshackle lounge.)

The next morning, you're feeling…off—not quite unwell to be considered sick, more of a general sense of discomfort. The kind that precedes a full blown fever.

"Are you still intent on working today? Perhaps it would be better for you to rest today," Rook suggests after checking your temperature again.

And go back to twiddling your thumbs idly? Stuck with staring at the peeling wallpaper of your bedroom? Hell no.

"I need the lounge to be clean or I'll go mad if I spend the day in bed again."

This time you get winded even more quickly, that you have to entrust the last of the heavy work to Rook.

"Thanks for that, I'll get started on dinner."

"Just a moment, Trickster. You are shaking like a newborn fawn." His palm rests on your shoulder. "You can hold onto my arm."

"Thanks, but no thanks." You brush off his hand. Big mistake, the moment you cross the lounge, your vision goes sideways.

Once your head clears up, you realize you're leaning heavily against Rook's side. "Huh."

His expression is creased with frustration as he surveys your condition. Whatever he mutters under his breath is too quiet to hear, but you're sure he's blaming himself.

(You're also feeling a twinge of regret.)

"…could you at least help me to bed? And heat up some of that leftover stew you brought?"

Come the next day, one of the Ramshackle ghosts brings in a basket. You easily surmise this was from Pomefiore.

Reading the note—it reads more like a novella than a 'get well soon' card, especially with contrite flourishes that were obviously in Rook's handwriting—it turns out that the vice housewarden was banned from visiting you in Ramshackle, as consequence for inadvertently sending you back into a fever.

There's another container of that stew, some fruit (probably from Epel), and a different brand of fever medication, probably the better ones that would've eaten a hole through your meager savings.

(You set the note, the backs of your hands and the cardstock slightly dampened in several places. And you pop one pill of the gifted medicine.)

For all of his suspicious motives, Jade Leech is suprisingly capable.

Was this a good thing during the worst of your relapse? Who knows.

He's omnipresent, but he isn't overbearing. He keeps things nicely professional and doesn't seem to be rummaging through your things. (Good, because you gave Grim the go-ahead to blast singe him if he did.)

Is it eerie how well he can preempt when you need water or a new box of tissues? Maybe. But on the bright side, you won't have to worry about burning through your clean laundry.

(Surely Octavinelle would collect their debt after you've made a full recovery, right? Right?? NO—)

It's another day of feeling miserable in bed. Food sounds the furthest appealing thing at the moment, you want to sleep the day away but your miserable hour of sleep is making you buzz with stale energy.

Enter Jade Leech with an unassuming food container. But, it looks appetizing enough that you can tolerate one more meal in bed.

"Is this chicken noodle soup?"

"Pastina is similar, though food from the Coral Sea doesn't tend to be served piping hot. Please, eat to your heart's content."

Your suspicion melts away at that first spoonful. "It's actually pretty good…!"

"You wound me with your doubt, prefect." So he says with a wide smile hidden behind his facemask.

In between bites of your food, Jade is more than happy to tell you about his recent hikes for the Mountain Lovers Club. (<-This was a moment of weakness, obviously. You're so cooped up you'll take his anecdotes to inspire imagining being out and about.)

Until halfway through finishing the soup, your stomach gurgles. Very uncomfortably.

"…Is something wrong?" His eyes are still crinkled into crescents.

Before you can speak, you clamp a hand over your mouth to keep your meal from spilling onto your bed.

That spurs the vice housewarden to help you to the bathroom.

So Jade basically gave you an emetic. You're cussing him out in between retches, and the bastard has the audacity to chuckle demurely while holding your hair back.

"What the fuck did you give me?" Not a question, a threat. "What is it really?"

"It is a simple home remedy made with local ingredients. I promise you that I did not make any adjustments to the recipe." Another wave of that "soup" splatters into the toilet bowl, and you're glaring at him through the burn of tears in your eyes. "Though I suppose you might be intolerant to one of the components, as you are someone who lives on land," he muses.

(If you listened closely, there might've been a note of something akin to sadistic scientific thrill.)

Strangely enough, it seems to have flushed out the worst of the bug in your system. You can stomach real food now.

(This is where Jade reveals his actual gift from Octavinelle, your usual order at the Mostro Lounge. You're glad to be able to have something that wasn't some stew or soup.)

"Hm, the color has returned to your features," he notes, his face a smidge too close for comfort. "Hopefully with another night of rest, your sickness will clear up for good."

"It better or I'm marching over to Octavinelle and turning you into sashimi." The splatter of vomit on the side of your cheek makes you look more pitiful than threatening. "And you better not include that takeout on my tab."

"Oh dear." At least Jade indulges you with his best approximation of a fearful response. (Which was more akin to an ingenuine smile inviting you to do your worst.)

But he does keep the teasing to a minimum when he helps you back to bed, though. Not that you're willing to forgive him that quickly.

The next time Jade visits, he's under heavy surveillance by Grim and the Ramshackle ghosts.

I lied, Lilia Vanrouge is actually the most experienced caretaker among the vice housewardens.

Unlike Rook who camps outside your dorm, Lilia freely teleports in and out of Ramshackle. All you have as a warning are the little green sparks of light—not that dissimilar to Malleus' own teleportation magic—and the pop! that accompanies Lilia's appearing in your room.

"Good evening, prefect. I hope I'm not disturbing your rest."

"Eh, this sickness has been disturbing me for about a week now." You punctuate that by blowing your nose into a well-loved hanky.

(Well-loved, in that it hasn't left your hand since the past week.)

You're especially not used to being alone and idle. With each day you remain sick means burdening your friends again.

Lilia tsks to himself. "First things first, let's get you changed out of those clothes." Your cabinet opens and a newly-laundered set floats over to your bed. He starts pulling your sweaty shirt off.

"Wait, just let me go to the bathroom—"

Despite his appearance, Lilia's stronger than he appears. You're only able to resist his grip since he was being careful of accidentally tearing the fabric.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, prefect. I've changed Malleus' and Silver's clothes. Oh and Sebek's, as well." As if he was merely talking about the weather.

"At least let me turn around…!"

Lilia swats at your shoulder. "Enough of that now." The gesture was more surprising than painful, eventually you give in to your fate.

He wipes your back dry before helping you slip on a new sweater atop your new clothes.

"And why don't we air out your room? The night isn't too cold." As he says that, you hear the windows of the second floor all swing open.

A cool breeze flows through your bedroom, and combined with the fresh change of clothes, your general feeling of shittiness dissipates.

Thanks to Sebek and Silver's intervention, you're spared from Lilia's rendition of ginseng chicken soup. Not that you can smell or taste much of it, but free food is free food. And Lilia's company is…sorely welcome alright.

"—and then, right as we were about to have that picnic, what do you know? It's suddenly raining! Malleus wasn't too pleased with that, and some spring rain turned into a little thunderstorm. Of course, Sebek and Silver—loyal friends that they are—insisted on pushing through. You can guess what happened the next day."

"…they got sick?"

"All three of them!" Lilia hoots with laughter. "Snot dripping onto the floor, fevers hot enough to hardboil an egg, oh, and you shouldn't underestimate the young heir's magic even he's ill. You couldn't tell if he would spew fire or ice until—"

(It's enviable that he has so many stories. Was he getting tired of talking to fill the silence?)

You readjust your resting position. From this angle against the glow of your lamp, he looks wearier than cherubic.

"Another cup of tea?" he asks.

"I'm fine. Shouldn't you be back at Diasomnia by now? It's past curfew."

"The dorm is in capable hands, even with my absence. Though I noticed that your other student is nowhere in the vicinity."

Of course you asked your friends if Grim could sleep over somewhere else instead. You didn't want him to become sick like you.

Flick! Lilia's fingers connect with the side of your ear. "Haven't I told you, enough of that?"

You rub at the sting. "It's practical…!"

"…really, you young'uns like to make things more difficult for yourselves." He shakes his head.

He reaches over to cover you more properly with your blanket. "There is no shame in wanting company as you recover. Nor is it a debt for us to visit and assist you."

"Okay." You blame your tears and sniffles on the soup and your sickness.

(The next day Grim comes back, accompanied with the rest of Diasomnia. Your lonely feverish thoughts were no longer your sole company.)

a/n: this was for ME the sick binch (like after not getting sick during the pandemic, these past times i've gotten sick were the Absolute Worst) and being sick when i'm supposed to be productive? goodbye🗿 this was also written for me as someone who's allergic to being doted on. hopefully this'll rewire my brain or smth who knows (kinda ironic that the people doing the doting are the more overworked peeps in the twst cast). not super confident about how i characterized everyone aside from jamil, this being my first time writing them but it's whatever! this is preparation for in case i wanna take a break from writing jamimi flex my writing muscles🤧 big thanks to @jessamine-rose for sharing ur fresh eyes and keeping my impostor syndrome at bay💕

the jamil writing taglist: @viperwhispered @bibi-cha @scint1llat3 @sillystr1ngs @pzlqpibz

@warriorpacifist @chloemari-e @mama-m1na

"I'm sorry, I know. You can lean on me, just." It's hard not to let the guilt and concern seep into your voice. Your heart aches at seeing him pushed to this point of succumbing to fatigue.

Despite his grumbling, Jamil gives you his hand while using the other to push himself upright. His arm curls around your waist as he leans against you. "Could you also...my hair, too...?"

Under most circumstances, Jamil's hair is a part of himself that he doesn't allow anyone to touch. He may have (eventually) opened his heart to you and other prospects he'd initially brushed off as too idealistic. But his hair was—has been, still is—one of his few outlets for personal expression, something he could flaunt without consequence.

When you think of hair as a person's crowning glory, Jamil is the walking embodiment of that adage.

And in a way, it also stands as a tangible reminder that he persisted in spite of the tragedy that his life of subservience was meant to be—that he transcended it, even.

To lay a hand on his hair felt like you were disrespecting that, just a little bit.

He has to repeat the question, knuckles brushing against the skin of your hip as you unclasp his necklace. Something of a petulant noise comes from his throat.

"Oh, uh, sure. I'll do that." To say you were nervous was an understatement.

"…leave them…on the nightstand…" The I'll have to wear them again anyways goes unsaid.

"Okay. Hold onto me," you murmur, thumb stroking against his cheek in apology before you start unwinding the intricate braids.

It's not the comfiest position, having one of his arms wrapped around your waist, cheek pressed against your side, and you in a half-standing-half-sitting position against the edge of the mattress as you work. You have to go based off touch alone. You didn't want to further disturb his rest by switching on the bedside lamp.

The moment is still, seconds inching into minutes as you find the end of the braid, and work your way up, make sure that they don’t get tangled, that you don’t pull on his scalp. It almost feels meditative.

You’re broken out of your reverie by Jamil tugging on your sweater. “…wipes.”

“…Wipes?” It takes a few more moments for you to piece together what he’s asking for. “Oh. Hold on…” Another uncomfortable stretch of your arm and you hand him the pack of makeup wipes from the drawer.

Interspersed amid the crinkles of the plastic pack, Jamil’s hair ornaments clink together as you set them atop the nightstand.

“…’m done.”

The tips of his fingers are cool against your skin as you take the used wipes from him. Your mind drifts as you go back to unwinding his (third? Damn, you already lost count) braid.

How young was he when he had to start waking up at the crack of dawn? When he had to learn to get dressed on his own? When he had to present himself without flaw as someone who served under the Asim family?

How young was he when he had to start sleeping by himself?

(You're past getting angry at Jamil's circumstances. Wasn’t it better to make the most out of the stolen moments that you could share with him? It didn’t stop your heart from aching each time, though.)

"Sorry I'm undoing them really slowly. Don't wanna hurt you by accident."

"...'s nice that you're gentle," he says. And you feel the press of his lips against your side. "You're too good to me."

You can't tell the rest of what he's saying under his breath, but you catch a few terms of endearment he's used for you in his mother tongue.

Assuming they are, you’ve been too shy to ask.

"Well, this—this sort of thing should be expected of a—" you stammer, words getting knotted in your throat, it never gets easier to admit it aloud. "...of a significant other..."

Your meager reply earns you a second kiss that sends warmth surging through your frame.

(Oh, you don’t know what you’d do if he were fully lucid.)

Your fingers comb through the loose strands, smoothing them out one last time. "Okay, I'm done. You can lie back down now."

What you don't expect is Jamil's grip to tighten around you. "...I want to stay like this." And you hear a little quiet huff. How can a gesture be both out of character and so utterly Jamil at the same time? It’s so cute that it makes your heart want to explode out of your ribcage. You could paint the walls red with your affection for him.

"Yeah, no. Let's stay in a position that won't give you pain in the morning." Your palm pats his back, apologetic. And you move to get back into bed with him—

“…I have so much to do tomorrow…” He sounds so tired.

What was the right thing to say in a situation where words could do nothing for him? Your thumb idly stroked the back of his hand as you turned the question over and over in your head.

Maybe words couldn’t do much, but it didn’t hurt to say something that was true. Something that would go forgotten in the midst of one’s stresses, if left unsaid.

“I’m here for you,” you say quietly after pressing a kiss against the top of his head.

a/n: i was gonna just post this unbeta'd as a drabble, but then it got long and then i started looking for those scarabia character art references to double check if i was understanding jamil's hair right 🤧ouhh dont you love it when ur research spirals out of control? thank you @jessamine-rose for sparing ur fresh eyes😭💕 edit: AAHHHH FORGOR TO CREDIT THE TITLE, RIPPED THAT BAD BOY FROM THIS SONG

the jamil writing taglist: @viperwhispered @bibi-cha @scint1llat3 @sillystr1ngs @warriorpacifist

@pzlqpibz @mama-m1na @chloemari-e

taglist: @viperwhispered @bibi-cha @scint1llat3 @moonyasnow @mama-m1na

@sillystr1ngs @pzlqpibz @warriorpacifist @chloemari-e

the jamil writing taglist: @viperwhispered @twstgo @crystallizsch @mama-m1na

@sillystr1ngs @pzlqpibz @warriorpacifist

tagging my fellow jamilnatics: @viperwhispered @twstgo @crystallizsch @jessamine-rose @just-a-little-silly

Being a magical girl means toting around two innocuous round plushies of your familiars to class.

With your new double life, you get two new companions following you around. It means bearing Kalim’s excited chattering as you take notes, dealing with Jamil’s snide teasing as your classmates point out your new bag charms.

What you don’t expect is to see the two of them sitting in your living room the next morning, clad in your school’s uniform.

“Good mor—oof!” Your book bag collides with Kalim’s chest and you use the momentum to drag him and Jamil by the elbow out of your house, ignoring your dad’s concerned calls with a loud “I’m heading out!”

You didn’t get the memo that being able to transform was part of their repertoire as magical familiars, but you should’ve expected this. Between Kalim’s thousand-kilowatt smile and Jamil’s calculating gaze, you very much prefer them as small round plushies.

(It’s strange that your schoolmates and teachers don’t question the two new additions to the class, but you appreciate that your cover wasn’t blown with this curveball. You suspect it might have to do with the red glow in Jamil’s eyes. You decide to question them at the end of the class day.)

“It’d be better if one of you stayed as a plushie.”

“Then that means it would be Jamil since he’s better at keeping attention off of us.”

“By that logic, they’re talking about you, Kalim.” Is it you or is that a hint of a smile on Jamil’s lips?

“Oh.” Kalim’s expression falls into a pout. “But I like attending classes with you!”

He probably wouldn’t like it as much during exams week. “I wouldn’t be able to keep a low profile if people noticed you…guys following me around.”

“Aw, I guess so…Thanks for treating us to ice cream, though!”

You offer to buy them another one, just to make their one and only day at school special. You start heading towards another freezer, there’s a special lottery on these soda popsicles.

Jamil’s attention turns toward the counter. He’d been eyeing the person at the cashier. “Wait, something seems—” 

And that’s all the warning he can give before a group of wraiths crashes through the convenience store wall. Ending up in a sprawled mess of tangled limbs was not ideal. It’s settled, you definitely preferred them in their plushie forms.

Being a magical girl means getting woken up by Kalim in the middle of the night to patrol the city.

As a hand-sized plush ball, he’s already pretty strong. But under the cover of night, he can shed his disguise and drag accompany you around to see you deliver justice to evildoers. 

Your drowsiness fades away as you leap from rooftop to rooftop, dispatching fledgeling wraiths hiding in narrow alleyways, stopping drunken confrontations, watching over lone pedestrians traversing through seedier parts of the city.

“There’s another one, it’s a low-ranking wraith!”

“I’ve got it!” Magic gathers around your weapon, bathing it in golden light as you swing and cleave the monster into two.

It didn’t even get a fighting chance to writhe or fight back. All it can do is dissipate into nothing.

Which is for the best.

“That was so quick!” Kalim bounds over to you as your weapon fades out of view. “You’re getting better and better at fighting!”

“Well, you did say it was a weak one…” You tug at the collar of your outfit. His praise feels like staring into the glare of the sun, straight on. “I’m probably not that much better than those other magical girls before me.”

“Still! It doesn’t make you any less amazing—Are you hurt anywhere?” Kalim starts looking you over for any injuries that he might have missed.

Too close. “Not a scratch. Come on, let’s head home.”

Though you should’ve expected things would go sideways at some point, that the night would bring untold horrors instead of passing peacefully. In a mix of your carelessness and Kalim’s overexcitement, an avian-like wraith appears and catches you both offguard, talons closing around his midsection and carrying him into the sky, each powerful beat of its wings taking him farther and farther away from you.

Adrenaline surges through you and the asphalt of the sidewalk cracks underneath your soles as you leap to the sky in pursuit. “Kalim!” Just before you can close the distance, he screams at you to get back, making you falter. A long shadow whips through the air—a prehensile tail of sorts—preventing you from approaching. 

Switching tactics, you aim for its wings. Better to bring it to the ground.

(Miraculously, Kalim got the cue to turn into his plushie form to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. You manage to catch him before the both of you crash. Though, Kalim’s awed gushing was probably going to give you a sunburn.)

Being a magical girl means Jamil takes your healthcare into his own hands, sometimes.

“It’s the sleep deprivation.”

“No, it’s not.” A coughing fit strikes you at that moment, betraying the extent of your sickness.

“It’s because you’re overexerting yourself with your ‘nightly escapades.’”

“Fine—so what if I am? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? To protect helpless people day and night?”

“Obviously, not at the cost of your own wellbeing!”

You didn’t think you would ever end up in this kind of situation, being yelled at by a floating plush ball while confined to your bed of messy blankets and used tissues.

The angry heat in your face is making your headache worse, makes you see gray for a moment before you could fire back.

“...I’m sorry,” you spit without an ounce of penance.

Jamil sighs. “Well. There’s no use in pressing the matter any further.” Just before he disappears, he tells you to get some rest.

Easier said than done.

The minutes inch by agonizingly slow. Your room is so silent, magnifying the buzz of your own thoughts. Up until this point, your life became a whirlwind of academics, extracurriculars, and fighting evil monsters. But at this moment of standstill, you can’t help but come to the realization that he was right. With your rashness, you basically incapacitated yourself. Sure, your familiars were also capable magic users. Sure, they could hold off wraiths from doing any major damage, but the thought that this entire situation could have been avoided, that this was entirely your fault—

A tear slips down your cheek, then more and more, until you’re quietly sobbing, frustrated, into your palms.

The mattress of your bed dips with the added weight of another person. “Mom—”

Jamil shushes you. “Drink this first.” You hear the rustle of plastic—did he go to the pharmacy?—and feel him press two tablets into your hand. As you swallow them, he hands you a glass of water. His other hand rests against your sweat-covered back, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin. 

(It is a stark contrast to his rough words from earlier.)

“I thought you…” They probably had other magical fighters to watch over, didn’t they?

It’s probably the fever messing with your senses, but there’s an uncharacteristic softness in Jamil’s voice. “Shh. No more of that, now.”

“...then why?” Were you really the only one?

“Just focus on getting better.” 

“But—”

“Your mom’s making soup for dinner, she will come to check on you in an hour. I’ll stay with you until then. Rest.” 

His words are not enough to placate your worries fully, but there’s a soft glow of red in his irises that makes you acquiesce and close your eyes, all while clutching onto Jamil’s wrist.

Being a magical girl means thinking up new ways to explain your many conversations “to yourself.”

Your parents are easy, it’s just the angst of youth. But your siblings are a little more difficult to convince. In addition to your moments of listlessness, they can hear your frantic back and forth pacing and the thump of you throwing your plushies against the paper-thin walls of your room. It can only mean one thing—

“Get out! I’m not having romance issues!” You slam the door behind your sibling’s cackles.

Your familiars remain still, seated on your bed until the sound of footsteps is sufficiently out of earshot.

“Are you really seeing someone?” Kalim pipes up.

“No!” You bury your face into your hands. “I—How would I have the time for that?”

“Besides,” Jamil chimes in, “we’re the only ones who’ve been accompanying them. Unless—”

Your body moves of its own accord, snatching Jamil with both hands and giving him a threatening squeeze, an unspoken ‘don’t you dare finish that sentence’ left hanging in mid-air.

When he stays quiet, your death grip lightens up. Just a little bit. A heavy exhale leaves your frame. “Look, for all that we’ve gone through—”

(A part of you is hesitant to admit it but, having gained them as new companions made your journey as a magical girl feel less daunting. You felt safe knowing that you could rely on them to watch your back, in spite of the close calls you’ve had. 

As for whether or not you’d started looking at them differently, well, you’d need more time to think on it. There. End of conversation.)

“I guess… I’m glad I met you. The both of you,” you finished lamely.

The silence that followed was deafening. For once, you’d wished their plushie forms could emote more instead of giving you that placid smile. 

With a pop! and shower of golden sparks, Kalim’s arms close around you in a tight hug. A bright grin splitting his cheeks. “I’m happy we’re friends too!”

“Stop squeezing me!” Jamil grits out.

Being a magical girl means double checking your word choice, especially for any quips and retorts.

The first time you transformed, you commented offhandedly about your footwear and Jamil made a little adjustment to your attire. 

With a snap of his fingers, a golden bangle clasps around your ankle. Lightweight, no doubt it would look beautiful when the light hits it at the right angle, but—

A frown pulls at your lips.

“Would you like another one? Just for some…symmetry,” Jamil suggests. 

You decide better against responding to that. 

“Think of it as a gift from me and Kalim.”

Was this something they bestowed to every magical fighter they took under their wing? “...Some gift this is.”

“Relax, you still have three wishes left. I won’t trick you into wasting them.”

Well, that diminished most of your initial doubt. “How can I be sure of that?” you question.

Jamil’s head tilts to the side, appraising you with an eerily-observant gaze. “All you have to do is ask. Anything that your heart desires, anything your mind can conceive.” 

You don’t like how his eyes are trained on you, making you feel small. You pick at an imaginary speck of dirt on your top, straighten out the already-impeccable fabric.

A thick silence falls over the both of you.

“...Will you—will you both ask me if I’m sure, before granting my wish?” It’s such a stupid thing to worry about, to fuss over the intricacies of your arrangement as Magical Girl and Familiar.

“Of course.” Jamil gives you a smile. “Shall we head to where Kalim is?”

“Yeah.” Your weapon appears in your hand with a flash of gold. “Let’s destroy that wraith’s nest.”

(More than desires you want fulfilled, there are anxieties you want quelled, fears you want silenced. Miracles to the myriad of unfortunate catastrophes that plagued your home—the flawed world that you lived in. So what if you contained untold power at your fingertips? You were only one person tasked with the protection of hundreds. At the peak of your distress—in the midst of sirens and flashing lights—you call for Jamil and utter your first wish through choked sobs.)

Being a magical girl means not relying on your powers, sometimes.

The trapped kitten gives another pitiful wail, thrashing against your grip as you clamber down the tree. In holding onto it tightly, you earn a set of angry-red scratch marks along the backs of your hands before reaching solid ground. The kitten bounds away with a final hiss.

“Why didn’t you transform?” Kalim asks.

You shrug, running a finger over one of the scratches. “I guess it’s ’cause I didn’t wanna mess up the outfit.”

“What do you mean?”

Bashful, your gaze ducks to your shoes, worn from years of use but sturdily hanging on. “It’s just, lately, the wraiths have been getting more and more powerful. And I…” Feel weak? Pressured? Alright, maybe you were still hung up over leaving a little crater at a major intersection, but it was either that or letting the ursine wraith lay waste to the nearby shopping center. There wasn’t any time to dwell on those shortcomings.

(But your mind liked to circle back to it. Was there any more you could do? Why couldn’t you do more?)

They warned you about this, that at some point, you would end up facing more destructive wraiths. That you would have to choose among innocents.

He takes your injured hands. “You can always make a wish.” Kalim’s healing magic washes over you, cool and gentle, like a stream of water. You watch the scratches slowly close up until they become nothing more than a set of faint white lines. “That’s what me and Jamil are for.”

“That’s true…”

“Anything you want.” Kalim repeats. “I’ll make it happen.”

It’s those simple words— and the sight of him cradling your hands in his palms—that grant you the courage to speak your next words, your second wish.

Being a magical girl means weighing your soul against the lives of people, friends and strangers alike.

“Come on, you have to get up.” Tears are streaming down Kalim’s cheeks, his hands hover by your prone and bloodied form, unsure of which wounds to heal.

Wearily, you gaze cranes upwards as if every bit of movement caused pain throughout your body.

Jamil has witnessed this scenario a thousand times. He keeps a stoic face. “Are you just going to let them destroy everything?”

“...I can’t let them…”

“You’re hurting yourself! Jamil, you have to do something!”

“It’s not my choice to make.”

When in the face of an unstoppable threat—a horde of chimeran wraiths that will lay waste to your home, will you make that final third wish and trust in them?

Jamil knows how you’ll answer. Rather than using them as quick and easy schemes, your first two wishes were—in some way—made for the good of others around you. For someone who won’t even know or care about that small bit of kindness. At the core of every human is a desperate self-preservation instinct that pushes them to make a final wish. And like clockwork, you will follow like the rest of the magical girls that they created. It’s a strategy that has benefited him and Kalim. And he has been fervently waiting for this moment, for a powerful one like you to—

“I’m...not giving up…!”

Or not? 

His lips curl into a smile. “Then give them hell.”

They can wait this out. Compared to their infinite lifespan, your emotional fortitude was only a drop in the ocean.

A sigh leaves you. You click on a higher setting, angle the vibrator against a spot that has your thighs trembling. Your free hand plays with one of your nipples. You’re past fantasizing about phantom sensations and honeyed words.

For a brief moment, you think of firm and callused hands holding you down. Long silky hair brushing against your heated skin. Perceptive gray eyes drinking in your every reaction and the way you arched yourself for more stimulation. They are the last coherent thoughts that flicker through your synapses before your mind is overrun by the singular desire to rut until you come your brains out.

Sadly, the universe does not believe in the sanctity of your alone time.

The vibrations abruptly cut off.

This can’t be happening.

Not even left teetering on the delicious cusp of release, you’re dropped back into your body. Nerves hyperaware of each silicon inch of the toy as you pull it out of you. You click the button multiple times, confirming the worst—

“Stupid batteries. Fucking useless…” Similar curses strung together fall from your lips. You slip on a graphic tee and head to the bathroom, carrying the toy in one hand. 

Your phone powers on as you sit on the toilet, the device buzzes with the simultaneous arrival of message notifications. The sound is a mockery of your interrupted alone time.

Maybe you could rub one out in the shower… That thought will probably become more appealing in about fifteen minutes.

Your eyes catch the first line of a text preview that makes a cold pit open up in your stomach.

J. Viper: I am going to lose my mind. I’ve had it with…

Reading the full text doesn’t ease your worries. There isn’t any more of that dulled neediness tugging at the back of your mind. Your hands move automatically, dumping your cleaned toy and unused towel on your bed’s mattress. While slipping on the first set of bottoms you could reach for, you fire off a reply—Hey don’t say that and other similar placating messages—then pick up your discarded blazer off the floor before finally leaving your room.

[...]

“You’ve been making that face for a while now.”

“What face?” You ask, feigning obliviousness as you keep your attention focused on the electric kettle.

Maybe there was one exception to your need for alone time. Fitting, that it would be one of the few confidants you made in this place.

Never mind about the last thirty minutes before this moment. Like a switch, you’re back to being a dutiful errand-runner, a sympathetic listening ear.

(Once, Jamil called you one of the few other sensible people on Sages’ Island and you have yet to stop riding the high of that moment.)

“Like my being here is making you uncomfortable.”

No shit, Sherlock. Feeling his sharp gaze on top of the sensation of your clothes chafing against your oversensitive skin was uncomfy as fuck. “Look man, I could give you a mug of tea or we can open a new can of worms. I suggest you take the tea.” You lean back against the counter top and tug the end of your blazer a bit more protectively around you.

His lips press together in a thin line. “I can see myself out. Thank you for the offer, though.”

The sound of boiling water reaches its apex. In that split-second, you backtrack. “Wait—I’m sorry, I’m just, I was busy.” Your hand readjusts the pair of pajama pants you hastily threw on, index finger dipping just a fraction of an inch beneath the waistband. Your eyes don’t miss the way his gaze follows the movement of your wrist before it returns to rest itself atop the counter. “I’m not…uncomfy because you’re here. I was just nervous and—and I thought I could serve you tea instead of bothering you with my…current predicament.”

“Oh.” Very eloquent, you’d say the same thing if the positions were reversed.

“So, could we focus on you first? Over a cup of tea, as friends?”

The kettle finally calms down, announcing the newly-boiled water with a loud Clack! of its switch.

Jamil doesn’t immediately respond, scrutinizing you with an emotion you can’t parse. Until it settles onto one of faint interest. “We can have tea later.” He stands up and walks over to you, placing a hand on your waist. “Right now, I think we can both use some stress relief. If…you’ll have me, that is.”

“Really? I hear it’s better to talk things out though. Not that I wouldn’t be open to that second thing….” Your hand lays itself atop his.

“Oh, I’m sure this will be better for the both of—” He pauses, runs his fingertips along the expanse of your lower navel a second time to confirm. “—no underwear?”

Your cheeks warm. “Yes, shut up. I actually got worried for you—ah ah ah! No touching yet!” You slip out of his hold. “Give me five minutes to clean up or something, my room’s a mess.”

Jamil doesn’t let you escape so easily, arms coiling around your middle, your back against his chest. Close enough for him to mutter against your ear in a low voice. “There’s no point to that if we’re going to make a mess in the end.”

(And it’s unfair how the implication—the invitation hidden underneath that—stokes the fire in your gut anew, almost makes you ruin the set of bottoms you threw on.)

Any restraint either of you carried snaps once the lock to your room twists shut. Jamil tugs you close to him, pulling you into a fervent kiss. Once you shrug off your blazer, his hands slip under the hem of your t-shirt, teasing at the sensitive skin of your waist, hiking higher and higher—damn.

“Bed first,” you demand once you pull yourself free. You aren’t panting—you try to convince yourself—though one of your hands is fisted in the front of his hoodie. When he sits on your mattress, you get pulled straight into his lap. His fingers hook against the waistband of your pants, sliding them down to bare your thighs.

Basically, confirming what he already knew. Felt, rather. Your hips buck against his palm as he cups your groin.

“How long were you at it?” There’s a sly smirk pulling at his lip, like he’s pleased to have you and your need for pleasure resting in his hand. All for him to control.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you huff. “I was already—ngh—washing up when you messaged.”

His smile doesn’t abate. A finger slips into your entrance. “And you couldn’t find the time to properly dress yourself? I’m flattered.”

You’re about to fire off another retort, but the digit curls infuriatingly into a come-hither gesture, slowly rubbing against your inner walls. What leaves your throat instead is a soft, needy noise. “Come on, you’re gonna make me come too fast…”

“So?” And he keeps that irritatingly steady pace. Letting the pleasure in your lower stomach build and build, until you’re shaking from exertion. “Go ahead, then.”

“Mmgh, I want—”

“More? How greedy of you.” Another finger joins the first one, a delicious stretch against your insides combined with each thrust of his wrist.

“No, fuck….wait, I mean—” Words longer than two syllables were suddenly harder to manage. “—you, what about you…?”

“...Me?” 

Maybe, just maybe, your insistence on having mutual reciprocation was biting you in the ass, you’re right on the edge of sweet release. Just one more stroke against that bundle of nerves inside of you, or maybe if you just clenched down hard enough—

“...You’re too considerate, really. To someone like me.”

His words are soft, barely heard over your mounting need. Your insides throb in time with the beat of your heart. But your voice can only manage a dismayed whine when Jamil’s fingers pull out of you.

(That you’re still on the cusp of an orgasm is another thing, but it helps to have your head clearing up a bit.)

“Don’t look at me like that,” he chides you, palms caressing the sides of your thighs. But the smile on his features tells you that he’s drinking in your hazy gaze, simply endeared at how you were reduced to neediness just from his touch. “You wouldn’t want this to end too quickly, would you?”

…he has a point. Your tongue wets your lower lip. “Lose the hoodie then, so—so we can continue.” One of your hands reaches for the hem of his top.

It’s no secret that you find Jamil Viper attractive. Hell, the way he carries himself suggests that even he knows it himself. At least sneaking a few glances gave you some plausible deniability. But in baring just a sliver of his midriff, you might as well have broadcasted the very thought.

Better to get that sorted out before getting him inside of you, right?

Your eyes trace the toned lines of his stomach, the lithe muscles of his arms, the way his loose ponytail hung artfully against his shoulder. Off his hoodie goes, joining your discarded pajama pants and blazer. 

“Easy, there.” The way he drawls your name has your stomach flipping somersaults. 

“I guess you look fine.” You could burn a hole through him with how hard you were staring.

“Mhm, sure.” A warm palm cups the back of your neck, guiding you into an open-mouthed kiss. Tongue swiping against your bottom lip, pulling a surprised moan from you.

What else can you do but melt into it?

Even though the two of you were urged on by fervent need, there’s an undercurrent of tenderness—something more delicate than your mutual pent-upness—with each graze of your skin against his. You could barely hold a candle to Jamil’s seemingly-innate grace and sensuality, yet he meets each of your tentative touches without pulling away, as if insistent to keep your hands on him too. To keep at least some point of contact on you as much as possible. Your hand dips beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, to palm at his hardening dick.

You’re rewarded with a languid roll of his hips. The painful yet pleasurable scrape of his canine against your lip. That needy sound bubbling up from his throat, only to be swallowed up with another feverish kiss.

You could live in this moment forever.

Until you fall back against the mattress and feel the shaft of your forgotten vibrator digging painfully into the small of your back.

“Ow!”

Jamil’s palm soothes against the pained area. “Are you alright?” 

(You could’ve sworn you felt his clothed erection twitch at the sound you made.)

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you grunt, fumbling blindly for the culprit. Guess you forgot to put it back in your nightstand’s drawer.

Well, you were in a hurry.

Jamil eyes the discarded toy in your hand. “That shade of purple is…a choice.” Yet he accepts it when you pass it to him, telling him to compare it to his own.

Which earns you a flustered huff, no trace of genuine malice in the look he gives you.

“It matches the school colors, doesn’t it? Go, Night Ravens, go…or something…?”

“That is not how the cheer goes.” Your grin widens at the scowl sent in your direction, though his eyes are soft with fond exasperation. “Hand me that.”

 “The lube?” And that too.

Oh, forget your room, you were the mess all along.

(You sneak just a glance at his groin, he’s still sporting a half-erection, so hooray..? There may yet be hope for getting dicked down? Maybe you should have asked him to remove those first…)

“What else?” And he pours a copious amount onto the toy. Drawing your gaze to the way he curls his fingers around the shaft of the thing, how he gives it a slow and obscene pump to coat it with lube, sending a rush of heat through your frame.

“The batteries died, it’s useless.” Still, you spread your legs as he presses the slicked-up tip against your entrance.

Jamil keeps a hand on your knee, eases the vibrator in slowly—even though you’ve been more than sufficiently stretched out with his fingers. “Don’t need it to vibrate to fuck you.” 

Well, there wasn’t much arguing against that logic. “Then, please…please…!”

He adjusts his grip on the base of the toy, accidentally clicks the button as his pace quickens.

What you don’t expect is the sudden pulse of vibrations against your core, you’d snap your legs shut from surprise if Jamil wasn’t keeping you lightly pinned down.

“Mm, that was a nice sound…” The smile on his face is evil. 

“Oh, motherfucker, don’t tell me you’ve got—” Your words taper off into an embarrassingly loud whimper as he presses the vibrator against that sensitive bundle of nerves.

Who’d have thought the thing kept one final spurt of energy, if not to spite you?

“Would you look at that? It still works.” The pressure doesn’t let up, in fact, he’s meeting each desperate buck of your hips, making sure that each thrust brings you closer and closer to that peak you’ve been aching for. 

Your own coherence, on the other hand, is nowhere to be found. A choked sob falls from you, and your abdomen clenches, and—

“That’s right, just let go,” Jamil croons.

In those few moments, the batteries of your vibrator truly and finally breathe their last. It doesn’t stop Jamil from prolonging your release with gentle thrusts. You’re lost in the waves of your orgasm, each motion pulling a high-pitched keen from your throat when it tips into overstimulation. Vaguely, you’re aware of the sparks of pleasure radiating up your frame, the feeling of his free hand interlacing your fingers together.

You didn’t know the touch of another person could also feel so grounding.

“Mmgh…don’t pull it out yet.”

“I wasn’t going to. You’re holding onto it really tightly.” Jamil gives the vibrator a little tap which makes you squirm away from him.

You’re past embarrassment though, letting the sorely-craved happy hormones flow through you. Your nerves have calmed down just enough to pull out the used toy. This time, eliciting a pleased sigh from you.

This time you make sure to set it aside properly.

“...you’re quite the treasure, do you know that?”

There he goes with another of those quiet remarks, making your cheeks burn. “If you said that a while ago, I was too busy coming to hear it.”

“I said, you’re hopeless.” 

“Nooo, say it one more time, at least!”

“Don’t be insufferable.” Even as he says that, Jamil lets you clamber into his lap to cuddle against his chest.

“So…”

“Hm?”

You trail a suggestive palm against his inner thigh. “...would you want me to use my mouth or…”

Surprise flickers over Jamil’s expression, eyes widening for a fraction of a second. “Ready to go again this quickly?” But there was no denying the amusement coloring his voice.

It takes a bit of maneuvering for you to remove your t-shirt. “Well, you haven’t had your fill of stress relief yet.” Jamil’s palms steady themselves on your waist as you properly straddle him.

Were you basically propositioning him to use you as he saw fit? Maybe.

“I’m afraid I’m quite the insatiable type,” Jamil utters, leaning close to you, breath fanning across your lips. Maybe he means it as a warning, you know this reflex. You were guilty of it too, sometimes.

But if he could still look at you with such warmth and tenderness, sentiments you could easily reflect back onto him, then—

“That makes two of us.”

a/n: icb jamil just dodged the impending heart-to-heart talk and just wanted the spicy smuttenings 😤 like that'll stop me from writing more angst and hurt/comfort scenarios. anyways i hope this was an enjoyable read! thanks @jessamine-rose for betaing this with your (slightly less) sleep deprived eyes, your assistance makes editing so much less stressful. to all my readers, thanks for enjoying my silly writing, i hope to bring more this coming 2025!

tagging: @viperwhispered @twstgo @just-a-little-silly @bakedgrape @mama-m1na

@cataclyysmiic (hehe i think ull also enjoy this) @sillystr1ngs @scint1llat3