#dellet-writings

[diodellet]

Advanced Happy Valentine’s Day, bestie!! For your event, can I pls request Capitano #9, Pantalone #13, and Dottore #20?? I’ll let you decide if you want to attack me with sugar or spice (*´꒳`*)

💌Capitano + Prompt #9 ("When I am with you I am real." (x)

Some days, you find yourself reminiscing about your past. The time before you were brought to Snezhnaya. Those days felt no different from the fairytales you liked to immerse yourself in, at times unpleasant to remember, but ultimately, just a dream. A mere memory. And isn’t that a good thing? To leave your lonely past behind?

Unbeknownst to you, the Captain finds himself caught off-kilter in the precious idyllic moments that he shares with you. The rare light of your smile is warm, a ray of sunlight gently erasing any trace of the ever-present ice that permeated Snezhnaya. And isn’t that a good thing too? To be reminded of his own fallibility as a human, as a man with a cherished lover? No amount of prestige, no title, nor victory could hold as much weight as the simple joy of being able to return to your side.

You’re currently seated in his lap, reading a newly purchased anthology of classic Fontaine fairytales, artfully translated into Snezhnayan. Capitano has one arm around your waist, he has already reached the end of the page. He estimates that you’ll turn to the next one in a few more moments. Or you could just ask him to help you translate that difficult paragraph.

But he won’t overstep.

“...Poor girl,” you whisper, flipping the page and adjusting your hold on the book.

“Why do you say that?” Capitano asks,

“...Isn’t it obvious? She died, cold and hungry. It’s pitiful.” And in that response, there is a note of self-derision.

He can’t disagree with that observation. “That is how she appears to onlookers in the end.” Capitano’s free hand encompasses yours as he helps you hold up the book. “Though one cannot disregard her joy in her final moments, however fleeting it was.” 

Was it so wrong to linger in—no, to savor—this dreamlike reality?

You’re silent for a while, hand resting limply in his. Until he feels your fingertips skim the lines of his palm before loosely entangling with his. “I suppose one cannot.”

💌Pantalone + Prompt #13 ("If soulmates do exist, they’re not found, they’re made."(x) ++mild spice (of the body worship variety) if you squint

It should be a marker of praise, it should make you feel pleased to hear passersby and acquaintances and business associates praising you as the Regrator’s wife. 

And you do, you muster a gracious smile in response. Press yourself against Pantalone’s side and hope that the rest of your body language doesn’t give away the pinprick of nervousness that passes through you.

They sounded just like when you first got engaged. Devoid of well-wishes, a mere platitude.

Your husband is the epitome of grace and propriety, effortlessly redirecting the conversation to the hosts. Asking about their recent vacation and laughing politely at the same anecdotes they’ve rehashed for the third time. 

(Yours, in comparison, sounds weak, strained, fake.)

You feel the slightest reassuring squeeze against your hand. There’s a flicker of something gentle in Pantalone’s gaze as he glances over at you and that’s enough for you to recenter yourself.

It is in the safety of your home that you can let yourself breathe. Only in his touch do you find solace as his partner. It doesn’t matter whether or not you’re completely bare in his company. When he lays his ungloved palms against your body, the buzz of your thoughts and the holes in your memories all fade away.

An amused smile quirks at Pantalone’s lips as he pulls away from the tender kiss you share. You apologize out of reflex.

His expression softens. “No, no need for that, my dear. I was merely… surprised with your sudden affection.”

“You… you’re not mad about a while ago?” 

Pantalone hushes you, stopping your self-admonishment. “The event is already over. You do not have to worry about it anymore.” The rough, callused skin of his hands sends a shiver through your frame. “Will you let me reward you?” he asks.

At your small nod, his touch drifts lower.

Yes, all that mattered was entrusting yourself to him.

💌Dottore + Prompt #20 ("They say we are asleep until we fall in love."(x)

Alongside the lantern’s light, there are fireflies dotting the landscape and edge of the water’s surface. Right in front of you is a Nilotpala Lotus in full bloom under the moonlight. This specimen isn’t as large as its neighbors, but there’s something in the gentle glow that it emits…

“You were supposed to return ten minutes ago.” A sharp voice calls from behind you.

“Gah!” In your surprise, your pencil drops into the water. Shame coating your expression, you turn to face Dottore. Whatever excuse you had prepared dies in your throat. 

“...Well?” He isn’t donning his Fatui mask. 

“I already completed my other objectives…” And you got a bit nostalgic on the way back to the lab. Which was half-true, surprisingly. Returning to the rainforests of Sumeru ended up becoming more pleasant than you expected.

“...Hm. I did not think you would be so keen on revisiting Nilotpala lotuses.” Dottore muses, somehow your sketchpad had transferred into his hands.

“Hey—those aren’t finished!” And even as you protest, your superior easily dodges your attempts to grab it back. “They’re just some useless doodles!”

At that, Dottore lightly taps the back of your sketchpad against the top of your head. “I will be the judge of that, my dear assistant.”

This felt no different from the all-nighters you used to spend with Zandik. Trailing after him like a dog as he marked your notes, inevitably submitting to the call of the night and letting him hear out your worries, and of course, the brief moment of complete lucidity, fatigue siphoned from your bones, feeling like you were the sole inhabitants of the world.

“Your attention to detail is exquisite,” he remarks in a soft voice, lightly tracing the lines of your sketch with a finger, careful not to smudge the graphite.

Your annoyance wanes, leaving warmth in its absence. “Thanks…” You glance back at the blossom, small but humming with light. An insignificant, inconsequential part of nature, yet utterly free and alive.

You’ve never been more glad to bear witness.

a/n: AHIHI HAPPY VALENTINES DAY BESTIE!! i hope i did the darlings and the fatchooey harbingers justice with dis meager writing, augh... u jus had to pick the prompts that were most free to interpret 🥴🥴 (thus i have chosen to attack with sugar and spice HA!)

[ketavinsky]

kind of want to make a dungeon meshi self insert because i know i would be the best and most volatile fuckshit looneytunes rules dungeon lord ever. "oughhhh everything dies and changes it's the nature of the living" babygirl you cant even grasp. the issues that i harbour

[meow-and-ink-demon]

RULES OF 62 DAYS WITH MEOW!!

CAN YOU PLS REBLOG? I WANT TO HAVE AT LEAST FEW PEOPLE JOIN IT!!

(WAS SUPPOSED TO DO IT ON FRIDAY BUT WHATEVER)

Hello!! Welcome to 62 days with Meow challenge!! Here I tell you the rules and some story of it:

Meow and the Ink Machine was my own fangame from Bendy. But with more years it becomes my own story! Just didn't chage the name :I

62 Days with Meow - small challenge of mine :)

IT WILL START IN MONDAY!! (18 September)

What is it? Something like Ink Demonth!! But with little different rulles:

there are really 62 days. But don't worry! To get the price - do only 20 of them! You can do more, of course!!

How to do that? Use your immagination!! Draw, write, sing, create - it's your time to make your brain go into world of dreams!! Use my characters like yours!!

The challenge end 9 NOVEMBER!! You have like TWO WHOLE MONTHS TO DO IT!!!!! So don't be stressed

As I said - you can choose only 20 of them. That means you can mix the days of course! Don't have to start with 1 then 2 then 3 - you can go like 1, 20, 54, 3, 9...

if you know Bendy, it will be easier for you, because MATIM is insipired on this game. So - you can do cute things, BUT YOU CAN ALSO TURN YOUR DRAWING INTO HORROR!!

THE MOST IMMPORTANT RULES - if you do your drawing, tag me. If I reblog that means I saw it!!

Easy rules? Easy!!

The days will be on monday, WITH CHARACTERS THAT ARE IN MEOW AND THE INK MACHINE!!! On monday the challenge also starts!!!

You can't do 20 of them? Well, don't be ashamed! I will be VERY VERY VERY VERY happy if you at least do one!! I'm not very popular, and that you join would means to me that you appreciate hard work I do!!

MATIM was my own fangame of Bendy, but I do it more original, so I can pround say - this is ONLY INSPIRED ON BENDY

Characters, story - it's all by me!!

MATIM was created when I had 8 years

That means I couldn't be yet that creative to even make original name :/

But now, when I'm some kind of "teen", I don't want to change it anymore.

My young me created it, work on it a lot

So why should I change it? :3

Yes, so cartoon about Meow and her friends was in TV in 1935

Meow is a black kitten that lives in Mango Town. Her friends are: Bone, Mangle and Raven - main characters of the cartoon!

1967 - The year of Meow and the Ink Machine happening

After accident Susan Coral come back to the studio, where she disscovered, that is not the same anymore

1972 - Meow and the Forgotten Memories. Something like BATDR but in Meow version. Of course story and characters - me.

When creating MATIM I also LOVED FNAF. For real. So I added characters I liked!

Mangle and Lolbit are from FNAF, but since I don't want to look like I copy - I'm thinking about delleting Lolbit and change Mangle look and name

Catmint is an animatronic, I was just inspired on FNAF while making her

As I said - I make MATIM when I was 8

Now when I'm older I DON'T WANT TO CHANGE IT, EVEN IF IT LOOK LIKE I JUST COPY WHOLE GAME, OKAY??

So... I will be very EXCITED if you join! Even if you make it in Picrew, I will feel like someone really see how hard I work :)

I don't force you

Just ask - can you please reblog?

Thank you for reading friend <3

The days, characters and start of challenge - ON MONDAY (18 september)

[hikari-writes]

hi hika babie!! 48 and 50? 🥰🤍 - raeyn @wanderynn

Aaaaaaa raeynnnn 🥺🥺🥺 thank u for asking! Uhm lesse,,

48. What is your favorite sentence that you’ve used in a fanfic?

This is a pretty old one, but i rlly LOVE

" It wasn't until you found yourself knocking aggressively on Aizawa's room at the teacher's lounge and clutching at your chest, did the weight of the situation finally dawned upon you. "

From my oneshot Best Friend -Kirishima Eijirou x reader

I still love that sentence cause it just gave that sense of,, yo that's so sudden, like that sentence is being delivered in such a calm and composed manner but it's actually written to show how grave the situation that's happening (its okay if u dong understand lmao) im just proud that i was able to actually wrote that kinda sentenve

50. Can we get a teaser for an upcoming chapter?

Sure! Here u go, its for the crush contact name hc actually,

“That’s quite a name you put for my contact number.”

This time, YOU’RE the one who were frozen in your place.

*insert surprised pikachu face*

“I-- Excuse me, what????”

Ask me a question from this post!

Hope you have a lovely day raeyn kith kith <333

[diodellet]

no, i'd rather pretend (jamil viper x gn!reader)

summary: It was so easy to pretend that you weren't also drowning. content warnings: -reader is an unreliable narrator -reader is yuu -self-deprecating, mean inner thoughts (80% ventfic, 20% comfort) ++unbeta'd all mistakes are mine. word count: 1.4k words

It was one of those days. Where everything felt too much.

Sure you could cope with it, carry on as if nothing was bothering you. Let all the little inconveniences wash off of you. After all, you couldn’t overblot. You were the Ramshackle Prefect, damn it. A long time ago, you were given the title of beast tamer and that made you believe that nothing could even come close to bothering you.

Sometimes though, it meant needing a few moments—maybe minutes to cry—alone to gather yourself.

Which, you couldn’t really get in NRC.

“I wish you would lean on us though.” Jamil’s voice, albeit low enough to give the sense of discretion, sounds far away. But you know that he’s crouched by you. 

“No… I can’t do that, I’m already dead weight to you all.” Your arms pull tighter around your knees, trying to compress your frame into something smaller than it actually was.

Most of all, you had no excuse to be throwing around words and thoughts you’d kept hidden like knives to pierce your opponents. Things that you thought once hidden, would remain hidden and eventually be pushed out of your memory.

It doesn’t work like that however. Unpleasant things liked to bubble to the surface, especially during one’s most vulnerable moments.

“Can you please leave… I’m already troubling you all by being like this…” Please let me fix myself. I can’t put myself back together like this.

You curl up further into yourself, pressing your face into your knees, bone against your eyesockets in a vain attempt to stifle the outcry of your pain.

All it does is make a pitiful sob heave from you once before cutting off abruptly. You feel a brush of fingertips against the back of your hand, damp from the futility of stopping your emotional fit. And with a gentle tug, your hand comes away—away from shrinking into yourself, away from reflexively hiding the worst of yourself—only to feel his fingers lace together with yours, not one bit bothered by the traces of your tears.

“You once mentioned that this comforted you.” And in the touch of his skin to yours, your first instinct is to yank yourself away.

You did bring it up once offhandedly, when you were sentimental about things you used to be able to do back home, when you were still a stone’s throw away from your friends and family. But his discomfort was understandable, as much as he spent time at the side of someone who wore their heart on their sleeve, not everyone who brandished their emotions did so in the same way. For a moment, his hold tightens, almost afraid that if he let go, then it would mean losing you to whatever it was that was eating you from the inside.

“You also told me once that burdens were meant to be shared.”

Hearing that come back to you—a thing you said in the heat of the moment, somewhere in the aftermath of his overblot—sends a new wave of tears spilling from you.

With those words, a dam breaks and you’re unable to clamp down on any more of your cries.

“But you already have enough on your plate…” you choke out between broken sobs.

Compared to everything he had gone through, your troubles were insignificant. Shallow, even. A meaner part of your mind cuts into you. If you could somehow muster the ability to throw words to ward off someone, then you weren’t actually helpless. You were using your pain to pretend, so you could catch them off guard. So you could eventually drive them away. That was why you were letting him see you like this, right? So he’d see you at your ugly and rotten core, so he’d know to turn around and leave you behind, right?

“Not right now, I don’t have much weighing me down. See?” And his grip shifts to hold your hand more firmly.

“...Are you sure you’re not just saying that? Just to make me stop?” It was fine if he was, as much as you were given comfort in the past, a part of you was dimly aware that the gentleness you were given as a kid was a disguised plea to stop being so immature. That fact of life carried you throughout your years. That everyone has it worse than you, that your problems aren’t all that bad in the first place, you just had to vocalize what was wrong because deep down, you already knew what needed fixing.

And that was the problem right now, wasn’t it? That instead of the big picture explanation you readily had, all you had were sharpened barbs of emotion to pierce yourself and others with.

“I’m not just saying that,” he counters. As measured as his words are, you can feel a faint tremble in his hand as it holds yours. “I… used to think you were. Just saying things, I mean.”

“I probably was.” You were bad with silence after all. Silence was difficult, because it wasn’t actually a total loss of sound, it was having every minute sensation amplified to a deafening degree, being able to hear what was unspoken.

“You weren’t wrong though.” Jamil says, “it took me a while to realize that.”

Does he mean witnessing the other overblots too? The ugly aftermaths of each one that he was privy to? You couldn’t remember exactly what happened during each one or the exact people who were there with you, only bits and pieces of those moments were locked away in a place much deeper than what your memory could hold.

Maybe the only way you could remember was from the bits that spilled out. The bits that mixed together with your ugly insides.

“But… you don’t have to be here.”

“I know, but you don’t have to deal with this on your own either.”

“...Did I also tell you that shit?”

“...Maybe.”

“God, tell me to shut up next time.” At your groan, you hear an amused laugh from him. Like he’s glad that the roles were reversed in his favor. 

There wouldn’t be enough words to describe how much you hated being this vulnerable. Yet not even a fraction of those words could even begin to encapsulate how secure you felt at the same time. All you can do is feel the calmness slowly take over your insides.

“I tried. But you wouldn’t stop.” You can still hear the bitter smile in Jamil’s voice, a pinprick of his true feelings in spite of what was meant to be a playful jab.

“...I’m sorry.”

“No—I’m glad you didn’t.”

And it’s those words that stop your train of thought in its tracks. And you tentatively lift your head to peer at him.

He meets your gaze, and there’s a note of something unbelievably tender, that you wish you looked up before this moment. Jamil Viper was good at hiding his emotions, good at dressing up his words with honey and sincerity.

“Hey,” he says. Like he wasn’t just sitting with you and holding your hand through the worst of your emotions.

“Why…” your voice cracks, “why would you tell me all of this?” Or rather, what you mean to say was, why stay with you when you weren't feeling like yourself?

You supposed that it was so easy to talk, to let observations and promises flow from you without abandon. It was easy being the unbothered party, deflecting any and all cause of concern. It was so easy to pretend that you weren’t also drowning.

“I wouldn’t have said all of that if I didn’t mean it.”

“But…”

And there, you see a falter in his expression, a slight frown forming on his lips. “Don’t make me say it all again.” His gaze momentarily breaks from yours as his free hand comes up to adjust the hood of his dorm uniform.

Ironically, it’s what dispels the last of your doubt.

“Not even one more time?”

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m leaving.” Yet even as Jamil says that, he still hasn’t let go of you.

“...Can you stay for a little bit longer?” And was it okay for you to open up a little bit more? Was he okay with hearing from you? Hearing about these useless worries and feelings that swallowed you up?

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And with the warmth surrounding your hand, a lifeline in your sea of emotions, maybe you could believe that.

a.n. i'll fix this after i've had a moment to sleep. i wrote this on a whim while i was going through shit (i still kind of am... but i'm doing better). omake

[diodellet]

Hiya big fan of your work so I’m zooming to send this in!! Can I ask for prompt 15 with jamil and azul+reader with a poly spin to it?

In which jamil and reader are ranting abt azul as a way to cope with the absurd reality that they both having a crush on azul (azul overhearing them begrudgingly accepting their fate lmfao)

💌Jamil Viper and Azul Ashengrotto (poly) + Prompt #15 (Ranting about how insufferable they are, but your friend thinks knows otherwise. Bonus points if the subject of your conversation overhears Everything.)

Flight Class was brutal.

Well, that was to be expected with a musclehead like Coach Vargas. But there was just something about today that got under Azul’s skin more than it usually would have. Specifically, two sets of eyes burning holes into his back as he painstakingly trudged through the aerial drills.

On a different day, he would have taken your and Jamil’s attention as a positive sign towards roping either of you into a contract with him, but today? The unreadable looks on your faces, coupled with what he knew were snide remarks shared between the two of you… it all affected him more than he could brush it off.

Though, what could he do about it? Nothing, really. That was the frustrating part. 

Azul had bigger—no, more important things to worry about. He should forget about it. He approached the shed where the rest of the flight brooms were kept.

“—so obvious.”

“Excuse me, you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him either.”

“It’s because his form is dreadful.”

Speak of the devil. What a cruel set of circumstances Azul has found himself in. His better instincts bring him to hide and eavesdrop.

“Suuure. The one day that he doesn’t bother recruiting you into Octavinelle, and you’re almost worried, you mother hen.”

“Please, Azul’s flying is an accident waiting to happen. And who’ll be responsible for coaching him when that happens?”

“Oh? So why do you look excited at that?”

“I’m not. It’s burdensome.”

“Incorrigible as he is, you’d have to admit he’s…quite the looker when he’s not blabbing away.”

Did Azul hear that correctly?

Jamil doesn’t say anything—probably doesn’t have a rebuttal prepared, his silence could almost pass for begrudging agreement.

“Ha. I knew it, you’re just as bad as me. Can I have a drink from that, by the way?”

“...You should have bought your own.”

No, Azul won’t reveal the fact that he overheard the two of you just yet. He decides to leave his hiding spot, plaster on an oblivious facade as he puts his broom away, interrupting the tail-end of your conversation.

(For now, he can revel in your spittake-turned-coughing-fit and Jamil’s panicked expression.)

a/n: BIBI.... U FLATTER ME... M'BLUSHINGH... i realized very quickly that a drabble wouldnt be enough words to put a resolution to the scenario but lets face it...... i think these three are meant to stew in their feelings for each other until they cant ignore the tension anymore 🤧🤧NE WAYS happy valentines oomfie, thank u for sending in a request 💕💕

[diodellet]

walking lie detector (platonic hcs ft. the angels)

Summary: "It's no use trying to lie to an angel, we see right through it." (Luke, Ruri Tunes 8-4). This is what lying to the angels looks like and how it makes them feel. content warnings: -the relationship depicted for all three angels in this set of hcs is platonic -implied threats of physical violence towards you, the reader. word count: 1.08k words

Luke

When you lie to him, his face scrunches up immediately. Like he tasted something sour or smelled something bad.

Insert 🎶Why the fuck you lyin’, Why you always lyin’🎶 Kidz Bop Ver. here

Which causes two reactions in you: 1) it makes your heart squeeze from how adorable it makes him look and 2) it makes your stomach sink in guilt

Because he was the first one who told you that lying to an angel is pointless.

To Luke, hearing you lie feels like a sunny day suddenly becoming overcast. It feels like unfurling a piece of fabric and immediately spotting a dark stain on it. Either the fact that he’s a young angel or the fact that he used to work directly under Michael could be the reason why his lie detector senses are so strong.

More than that, it feels sort of like tinnitus, a ringing in his ears that tells him what you were saying was wrong. 

Not that it physically hurts, but for an angel as transparent as Luke, his reaction to the sensation would immediately show on his face.

No matter who’s around, he’ll immediately call you out.

If you double down on your fib, he’ll get annoyed and tell you off (🎶Hmmm oh my god, Stop fuckin lyin’!🎶)

To the others (especially the demon brothers), it’s kind of funny seeing you being lectured by a young angel.

(But what really hurts is afterwards, when he sulks and ignores you for lying to him. Or worse, when he talks to a third person in the room to pass messages to you even if you’re right there.)

“Solomon, could you ask them to pass me the TV remote?” “Simeon, will you tell them that we’ll be dismissed late tomorrow?”

—and so on, all while sending huffy glances in your direction. (No! He doesn’t feel guilty about getting angry, he’s waiting for you to apologize and own up to your mistake.)

If you backtrack and admit the truth (the correct decision), he’ll still admonish you for still lying in the first place but he’ll bounce back to his usual excitable self.

Raphael

His face doesn’t show it, but he knows.

(If he had his wings out, it’s a whole different story. They’re the best mood/reaction guide.)

(Correction: If you are a soul brave enough to stare at Raphael’s resting bitch face while lying to him, you can see his brows furrow juuust a teensy bit more than usual.)

Lying is futile. Give it up, you amateur fibber.

He’s just like Luke lmao, #2 in Immediately Calling You Out™️

But the interesting part for Raphael is that the sensation depends on the degree of the lie you told.

If it’s a little white lie or if you’re gently skirting around the subject, then it feels like a faint shiver down his back. Similar to the slight chill from a nighttime breeze, the brief moment before you get static shock. It is a slightly bothersome sensation, but one that isn’t a complete hindrance.

“Why did you say that? You’re completely free for the entire weekend.” “Hm? Then just say that you want to rest at home, it’s not that difficult.”

(Being honest and dealing with the consequences is fucking hard, Raphael!)

However, if it’s an outright denial of the truth, then it feels like a hollow pang in his chest. It’s similar to the scent of ozone right before lightning strikes.

Except there’s no lightning, just his nerves standing on edge, that moment of complete vigilance stretching on and on until Raphael knows for sure that he’s facing the complete truth.

And Raphael will get the truth out of you.

Either by pestering you repeatedly or threatening you, you don’t get to choose. The correct answer was that you shouldn’t have lied to Michael’s errand boy in the first place.

Not that he’ll run you through with a spear, he’s working to fix his use of violence as a crutch.

It’s just that divine beings as a whole have either remained pitifully gullible or developed unhealthy coping methods in response to being taken advantage of.

And Raphael refuses to have the wool pulled over his eyes again.

Simeon

Maybe it’s because he’s been around Lucifer and the other demons for longer, but he’s pretty unbothered at being lied to.

Don’t worry, he won’t call you out for it. A part of him is aware that you don’t have to bare all your intentions, and additionally, different factors can affect how much you’d want to share with him. It’s as simple as that.

(But he will take note and remember this for later. And it’s only fair that he uses his own methods in revealing the truth, is it not?)

Just like Raphael, he’s a pro at hiding the fact that he knows.

He could just go, “Oh, okay!” and pair it with an innocent smile. And if you’re easily affected by your guilty conscience like me, that simple acceptance is enough to push you into admitting the truth.

(And oh how he loves catching you red-handed.)

“So, would you mind telling me why you were at Madam Devian’s with Beelzebub? I seem to recall that you had remedial lessons.” “Oh, I won’t tell Lucifer, I can imagine how that would turn out. Just… try not to hide that from me next time, alright?”

Also, depending on how big of a lie you’re telling him, the sensations also differ for Simeon.

White lies feel ticklish, that’s why they’re so amusing to Simeon. That’s why his first reaction is to fucking smile in the face of a lie. Like, he knows Luke told you that angels can see through dishonesty but you’re still trying and it’s so endearing.

Sidenote: for some reason, Simeon tends to feel them along his upper arms and shoulder area. 

More serious falsehoods feel worse. Sort of like a hot itch under his skin. Something vile and gross bubbling under the surface. Something threatening to claw itself out.

But he could count the number of times that has happened to him on one hand and he plans on keeping it that way.

All in all, the occasional white lie to Simeon isn’t a big deal so long as the truth eventually comes out. He trusts you, after all.

If anyone would have told him how horrible it was to lie to a loved one, it still wouldn’t be enough to prepare him for the burden of hiding his sins.

A/N: I'd first like to thank @jessamine-rose for betaing this short spontaneous draft😭thanks girl ur dabest betareader😭as someone who's too weak to progress through the main story of obey me and as someone who knows 0% of raphael's charac litrally everyth i know is from ms. maam jessamine, i wasn't able to do my usual amount of research. but as long as the writing's bearable enough to read then thats good enough for me ig huhuhuu in other news, im thinking of writing a 2nd part to this but in a romantic💕💕 context with simeon and raphael (because OF COURSE my brain would have taken this revelation in That™️ direction) but it won't be posted any time soon, i only have scraps of a scene in mind so far, soo ig this won't be the end-end of me milking this wonderful angel lorebit

[diodellet]

say what you mean (jamil viper x gn!reader)

being gifted with wit sadly means that the banter comes with a small dose of overthinking (or: where your chattiness goes past its extended welcome in the bedroom and jamil puts a stop to it) content warnings: -assume that everything is negotiated and consensual in this fic -more suggestive things and tension than actual action ++established relationship banter, hints at a reversible dynamic between reader and jamil, all that fun physical tension and badly-hidden neediness word count: 724 words minors do not interact

Jamil considered using his unique magic on you, for about… five seconds.

He was supposed to be in control at the moment, yet even while you were pinned underneath him, you could still muster a cheeky grin with swollen lips. Your hands rested on his hips, fingers teasing at the waistband of his shorts. The insistent heat from your palms was one that he would have gladly basked in. 

Until you decided to speak up.

“So? What next?”

A sigh left his lips, partly fond, mostly exasperated. “You could stand to be a bit more patient, you know.” His hands met yours, interlacing your fingers together.

“Ah, but I can’t stand any more waiting.” You feigned a whine, your groin lightly canting against his. "Come on, get on with it already…”

If he let go of your hands to cup your cheeks, he was sure that the skin would also be warm, thoroughly heated from embarrassment despite your rebuttals.

“Patience,” he repeats. “Besides, isn’t foreplay your favorite part?” 

Case in point, when taking the reins, you had an equal penchant for teasing him with your words and your hands until frustration won out over his self-control.

“Between five hours of foreplay and feeling too sore to sit tomorrow morning, I’ll take the latter, thanks.” You shifted underneath him, another impatient nudge against his own arousal.

There wasn’t any malice in your exchange, rather, it was a song and dance the both of you partook in. Behind light-hearted quips and teasing remarks, you hid an almost-inhuman libido. He noticed that levity and charm were a sort of defense that kept you from being fully vulnerable during these moments with him.

Luckily for you, Jamil preferred to take his time taking apart these weak defenses of yours. With the right words whispered in a low voice against your ear, by giving you a knowing glance with half-lidded eyes, without even touching you, he could wipe that mischievous expression off your face. He could render you speechless, pliant—no, that was too passive. Too similar to when you were under the effects of Snake Whisper.

“‘Too sore to sit,’ you say? I can arrange for that.” And he pinned your arms above your head, pressing them against the mattress.

“O-oh, you’re okay with that, uh, I was actually joking, I wasn’t serious—”

“I heard you loud and clear.” Jamil shifted his grip to hold both of your wrists with one hand, giving you a warning squeeze when you try to wiggle out of his grasp.

At that sensation, a weak plaintive noise escaped your throat. The helpless sound made his cock twitch.

“Wait, wait, Jamil, wait, I wasn’t…really…”

“Hm? What was that?” 

Your gaze turned to the side, the only kind of movement you could muster from the position you were in. Jamil only caught the tail-end of what you were mumbling. 

“Do you mind repeating that?”

“...I said.” You drew in a short breath before meeting his eyes. “Are you sure about… this? With me?”

What.

“Are you seriously worrying about that right now?” 

“I-I don’t know, it was a spur of the moment thing, I was just—I was probably saying things before I could process it, maybe, I don’t know…”

Your rambling was going to kill his mood at this point. He pushed up the hem of your pullover to bare your chest. “Enough of that. Open your mouth.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything bad by it, really! It’s just tha—mmph!” The thick fabric hushed the rest of the words spilling from you. 

A pleased hum left Jamil’s throat. His free hand caressed the curve of your cheek, the skin alight with warmth. “There, isn’t that much better?”

Now silenced, you could only nod. You could have spat out the makeshift gag if you wanted to, but since you didn’t that meant you still held an inkling of trust for Jamil.

“Just let me take care of this, alright?” His touch moved down to your torso, fingertips resting against your sternum.

Desperation was a better look on you. A fitting expression as the reins of control returned to him. To hear you and to have you aching for him to bring you to release… Now, that was a really pleasant thought.

And he didn’t even have to use magic at all.

half-inspired by this kawoshin art i saw and my brain spitballed the rest of it. thanks @jessamine-rose for gracing this draft with fresh eyes, i feel so much calmer knowing someone else is also being KO'd by pretty guy since it's that time of year, i'm gonna be posting a bunch of smut with my next uploads. and guess who wanted to be the first ferson to be written about 🙄🙄 (and to think i have at least 2 more?? smut drafts with jamil?? seriously he's never letting me go i hate it here /j) a bunch of them are more written out than just half-baked outlines so... YEH hopefully ill have smth to post during october!! tagging my fellow jamilnatics heehoo: @viperwhispered @kaechannn @mochimiyaas @anxiously-sidequesting @twstgo

[diodellet]

*runs in after seeing your valentine's event*

Hi, @viperwhispered from my main here. Naturally I gotta ask for Jamil, there's a few prompts there I'd like to see but let's go with number 2.

I'm okay with whatever rating you think makes sense.

She/her female reader who has long hair, wears glasses, often wears dresses, and is generally quite level / calm. And I suppose for drabble length that's quite enough detail already (basically uhh I may be slightly self-inserting here).

Hope you have fun with the requests, and happy Valentine's!

💌Jamil Viper + Prompt #2 (Their thumb stroking the back of your knuckles)

Nothing really could overtake Jamil’s habit for discretion as Kalim’s personal attendant. Add your (godsend of a) reserved nature to the mix, and you can’t really blame him for feeling the slightest bit regretful at the end of your date. 

Though that all seemed to change when night fell.

Your pace was slow as you walked back to your dorm. He had no doubt that your legs were sore from walking the whole day, but you would probably wave off his concern if he brought it up. 

“...Are you cold?” 

“A little bit, but we’re almost home so…” Case in point. “...oh.” Your free hand smooths itself against the skirt of your dress, a minute sign of being flustered.

Just for once, maybe being upfront was the better choice. 

“Make sure to bring a jacket next time.”

“I will, I just didn’t think we’d be out the whole day.” A short yawn leaves your throat. Your shoulder lightly knocks against his. 

So he savors the feeling of your hand in his, the fact that he won’t have to hide even a subtle display of affection. His thumb strokes across the back of your hand, willing whatever meager amount of warmth he could into your skin.

All you have for company is the faint glow of the stars, the crunch of grass under your shoes, and the calm dark of night.

Eventually, the lights of the Ramshackle Dormitory come into view. The worn-out bulb casts a yellow glow over the shabby porch, wood creaking as you make your way to the door.

In two steps, the day would end—and there’s something deeply unfair about how humans aren’t designed to function for all twenty-four hours—which meant returning to the status quo that dictated most of his life once again.

…On second thought, Jamil realizes he can’t really end the day on that note.

Before you can say your goodbyes, his hand closes around your elbow, tugging you closer to him. Your house keys fall to the ground with a clatter. Surprise flickers over your expression for a second, before you melt into the sudden kiss. The press of your glasses against Jamil's cheek will leave a mark, but that doesn’t stop him from drawing it out.

For just one more second, another minute or two, he’ll allow himself to be selfish for just a little bit longer.

a/n: AAA HAPPY VALENTINES TO U TOO NER!!! honestly this prompt is so jamil-coded i didnt realize it until after seeing ur req asldjfsldf this was supes fun to write i hope u enjoyed reading this 🤧💕💕

[diodellet]

alone time (simeon x gn!reader)

i finally got simeon's first memory ssr, his paws 2 UR, but i couldnt scrounge up enough DV to pull for his dia de los muertos UR… honestly who decided to keep giving him UR cards?? content warning for stuff under the cut: -drugging (it's kinda ambiguous aka: this could be read as an accident or intentional, but it's still drugging) -non-consensual somnophilia, non-consensual sex (i mean even if the reader does have feelings for him, they didn't explicitly consent to being touched.) ++lots of foreplay and jealous pining, body worship and praise, some dacryphilia, and morally gray simeon word count 2.2k words minors don't interact

He tells himself that it was a mistake. That he just accidentally grabbed the same herbal tea as that one night when you slept over in Purgatory Hall. But he couldn't just throw out an entire pot of tea, could he?

He had to admit though, seeing you struggle to fight off drowsiness, seeing you blink and rub at your eyes to stay focused on the conversation, seeing you try to—but ultimately fail at—stifling your yawns. It was endearing.

And besides, this kind of tea wasn't a sleeping draught. Nothing at all like the kind that Lucifer would use to treat his chronic insomnia. No, it was a relaxant, making the drinker more aware of their exhaustion, more receptive to the idea of rest and recuperation.

That meant you were more tired than you let on.

"...sorry, Simeon. I—" The enth yawn interrupted your sentence, "—I think I need to rest my eyes..." Moving your empty teacup aside, you propped your elbow up against the armrest, leaning your chin into your palm. But your efforts to stay awake were to no avail, you soon realized. "...On second thought, I didn't realize I was so sleepy..." Your words slowed to a snail's pace, before you fell silent. Your eyes slid shut.

"Just let me put these away for a moment. I'll walk you back," he reassured you with a soft smile gracing his lips.

Your voice came out muffled from how you were resting your head. "...thanks..." you hummed.

He rose from his seat to take the used teacups and teapot to the kitchen area. When he returned, you were still in the same position you fell asleep in. It didn't look comfortable, especially not for your neck.

He took a step closer to you, brushing the tips of his fingers against your shoulder. Noticing the slow rise and fall of your chest, he hesitated before trying to wake you. Should he instead let you rest for a little longer, he wondered.

Well, more than that, he couldn't just leave you lying like that.

He called your name softly, "sorry, let me help you get more comfortable..." Taking a seat next to you, he gently pulled you up into a sitting position. One hand supported your shoulder and the other your midsection. Your back rested against his chest. Your head lolled against him now that you were fully asleep. His hand rose to card his gloved fingers through the unruly locks of your hair, tracing the curve of your ear, following the line of your jaw, then finally coming to stop just shy of your lips—

He laid you out on the sofa, making sure to keep your head propped up against one of the throw pillows. Now that your legs were stretched out, you wouldn't end up painfully sore once you woke up from your nap.

(Or he could have just awoken you normally. Watched you stir back into lucidity, watched you blink up at him with bleary eyes before taking his hand and letting him walk you back to the House of Lamentation. Maybe you would have leaned against him and asked if the both of you could take your time, slowed your stride and let this time together stretch on for as long as it could. You hardly ever took the initiative to be upfront with him, always a little shaky or anxious when in his company.)

Despite your shy and reserved nature, he could remember multiple times where you've shown that you were anything but that: a time when he wasn't sure if you had changed your cologne or your soap. When asked about it, you hid a sheepish expression behind your hand and said it was a gift from Asmodeus. There were several times where you've shared granola bars, sandwiches (that he made for you), crackers, sweets (made by Luke) all sorts of snacks with Beelzebub and Belphegor. There were plenty of times where Mammon and Lucifer got to have you to themselves, easily calling you to their side or making plans with you out of the blue. Even when it came to mundane conversation, you would always bring up book recommendations from Satan or mention something from a TV series that Leviathan's been following.

Rarely ever did he get to see you like this. He always made sure to keep a respectable amount of distance between you two. He had seen the way the demon brothers would glare anyone who stepped too close to you, who put themselves too far into your personal bubble. But for some...unknown—maybe, divine or even mystical—reason, the both of you would find yourselves together like this. Close to each other with no demon brothers, nor that sorcerer, and especially not that young angel around to interrupt. Now was the perfect chance for him to leave his own mark on you, wasn't it?

A small groan escaped your lips and your brows furrowed, disturbing the peaceful expression on your features. Simeon stiffened, his hold tightening on you for a fraction of a second. He should stop, he should stop doing this right now—

His breath hitched. "A-ah...sorry I—"

You shifted, almost nuzzling against him. Through the thin barrier of your clothes, the heat from your body felt like a brand against his skin and yet he didn't want to let go of you. His hands slipped underneath your shirt, mapping out the soft flesh of your midriff, rising higher to splay his fingers over where your heart was. He could feel his pulse thumping wildly in his chest, while your own was steady.

"...Mm...Belphie... too hot..." you mumbled, pulling away. Or well, you would have, if you weren't caged in Simeon's arms.

His earlier alarm morphed into something uglier. Something more twisted, something downright possessive.

That wasn't right. You were supposed to be calling his name.

His hand cupped your chest, he marveled at how it fit into his palm. His fingers stroked and teased your nipple erect. Gently tugging at it and rolling it between the digits. Simeon gauged your expression, how your jaw tightened and your body tensed up. A shuddering moan escaped your lips, but you remained unconscious. How he wanted to map out every inch of your skin, to worship your body with his hands and mouth.

Maybe you weren't completely unconscious, your body was aware of these sensations and it was reacting to him, to his touch. Welcoming him.

Burying his face into the crook of your neck, he breathed in your scent once again.

His pants grew tight, he couldn't ignore his building arousal anymore. Pushing the hem of your shirt up, he pressed his lips to your sternum, the base of your ribcage, slowly rising to wrap his lips around your nipple and laving it with his tongue. His other hand doesn't stop toying with the other nub. From his ministrations, your breathing quickened and your cheeks flushed, the color spreading down to your neck.

He needed to stop now before it got too much, before you woke up but—

You were pushing against him for more, rutting your hips against him.

He pulled away and released the nub, now shiny with spit and red from stimulation. One of your hands is fisted in the fabric of the sofa cushions. Your expression has given way to a small frown. But the most important thing was that you were still unconscious.

God, he wanted more of you. He couldn't just stop now.

The exhale that escaped his lips did little to relieve his rising guilt. And furthermore in spite of that, he was painfully hard. He unbuttoned his pants and moved to free his cock before stopping in his tracks. His gloves—he clumsily yanked them off and tossed them in the direction of the coffee table. Now without the barrier of the fabric separating him from you, the contact of his bare skin against you set his nerves alight. He pressed his palm against your stomach, digging his fingers in and soaking up every bit of warmth radiating from your skin.

His other hand wrapped around his erection, stroking up and down. he bit back a groan at the welcome friction. His pace quickened, his arousal spilled onto the skin just below your navel.

What would it feel like inside you? He doubted you would feel anything less than divine around him. If you were awake, what kind of expression would you be making right now? Would you be staring at him or would you be peeking at him through the gaps of your fingers? Or were you the more impatient type, equally desperate to touch him while whining for more?

Either way, the sight of you under him was breathtaking. You were breathtaking.

"...hm...?" Simeon froze at the sound of the questioning hum that left your lips. His clean hand slapped over his mouth, did he say that last part aloud? His body continued to betray his baser instincts despite his mortification. The tip of his cock continued to leak, creating a small pool of arousal on your skin.

His pulse thundered in his ears as he waited to see if you continued to stir. When you didn't, before his guilt could fully stop him—

He already pulled your pants down and lined his cock up to your entrance. A hushed litany of apologies spilled from his lips, but he couldn't make do with just his hand. But he wouldn't penetrate you fully, no, he didn't want to hurt you, he just...

...needed a little more.

He couldn't hold back the low moan that rumbled from his chest as he pushed into your entrance. Your walls, albeit relaxed, still clenched tightly around him. One of his hands settled onto your waist and the other braced against the spot beside your head. Puffs of your breath met the skin of his inner wrist, warm and steady, occasionally hitching as he brushed against—what he presumed to be—your sensitive spots. His gaze lowered to where the two of you were connected.

Mesmerized, he wondered if you could fit more of him.

"Ngh..." A quiet curse left his lips. The thought was too lewd to imagine, he paused and let the spike of arousal pass before he continued to slide into you. When at least less than half of his cock was inside you, he would pull out and repeat the process again. Gentle, careful, methodical, in spite of his growing impatience. With slow and shallow thrusts, he was eventually met with little resistance.

You were doing so well, opening up for him while continuing to suck him back into your warmth. Quiet praises mixed with moans escaped from him. He moved to brush the messy strands of hair out of your face to gaze at your expression. Could you come just from this? Was there a chance of you both being able to come together like this?

You stirred at the touch, his hand moved to your cheek and he let his thumb rest on your bottom lip—

Your eyes fluttered open and you blinked up at him. "Huh... Simeon...?"

Drawn out of his languor, he yanked his hand away as if burned. "Ah...this...this isn't what it looks like—" His sentences were fragmented. Scattered. Disjointed.

You moved to sit up before you froze, slowly becoming aware of the sensation beneath your hips. "W-what's...happeni—" Your words cut off with a gasp. You tightened even more around his cock. His fingers dug into your waist, leaving marks.

Try as he might, he couldn't respond. His eyes squeezed shut at the sudden overwhelming tightness that engulfed him. He couldn't stop from sinking deeper into you.

You pushed at his shoulder, limbs still heavy with sleep. "Wait...s-stop...!" Your breathing hitched for a second time. "Simeon...please stop—" Your words tapered off into a pained whine as his dick brushed against your inner walls. Your hand clutched at his wrist, nails digging into his skin.

Lethargy still clung to you. The gesture didn't hurt a single bit, only leaving faint crescent-shaped imprints.

The desperate note in your words brought him to meet your gaze. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes. His hand came up to brush them away before pushing you back down against the sofa. He briefly pulled out of you, he was close—so close to coming. "I'm sorry, please bear with me..." His lips brushed against the pulse point of your inner wrist in an apologetic gesture.

Your eyes widened in realization and you shook your head. "N-no, it won't fit, it won't fit—" You squirmed in his hold. "Please don't, please—I promise I won't tell anyone about this..." Your voice grew thick, more tears streamed down your cheeks.

Your pleas fell on deaf ears as his hand slid down your waist to hook against the back of your knee, curling your leg around his waist. The tip of his dick rubbed against your hole, making you reflexively twitch at the sensation.

He leaned closer to you, pressing his forehead against yours. "It'll feel good, I promise," he reassured you gently before lacing your fingers together with his.

confession: as I was writing the fuckening part... unholy suddenly came on. is it a coincidence or--

[diodellet]

Hihi Lili here, this is the first time I’m requesting something on here/ I'm not used to tumblr very much TT so i’m sorry in advance if I get anything wrong!!

For the valentine’s event would it be okay to ask for 1. w/ Jamil :3 and have she/her pronouns? As for a descriptors the only thing I really have for that is long black hair and warm brown skin if that’s alright :>

Also I just wanted to mention too, I absolutely love your writing especially the way you write Jamil it’s so so so good omg

💌Jamil Viper + Prompt #1 (“It feels… good to be around you.”)

The simple admission catches you both offguard, spills out into the dim silence of Jamil’s bedroom like moonlight.

You look up from your lap to meet his gaze in the mirror. He’s partway through fixing your hair into two braids, with the first completed one resting over your left shoulder. You can faintly detect the lingering fragrance of the hair oil that he applied beforehand. 

“I’m sorry?” Your pulse thrums erratic in your ribcage.

He clears his throat, but it does little to diminish the embarrassment in his voice. “Please forget I said that.” 

“No, no I didn’t mean to—I like being around you too…!” You turn to face him properly but he puts a stop to that action with a free hand planted atop your head, keeping your gaze pointed towards the mirror.

“Let—let me finish first.”

“...okay.” And you keep your head still, your nerves hyperaware of his touch and each gentle tug as he continues the braid.

“I didn’t mean to let that slip out, but I’ve been thinking about…this for a while now.”

Of course, there wasn’t any denying the fact that the two of you were in some kind of relationship, something deeper than friends but not as exclusive as boyfriend and girlfriend. Nevermind marriage, that was completely out of the question. Yet even something as amorphous as soulmates has crossed your mind more than once.

“And I realized that this hasn’t—that I haven’t—been fair to you. Especially if I keep being careless.”

Maybe that was part of the problem, that until this point, the both of you were careful not to disturb what you’d kept unspoken. That you merely followed his lead, folding yourself neatly along the boundaries that guided his life. That you left yourselves susceptible to moments of sudden openness.

“So you don’t have to keep playing along, I’ll understand.”

With a final twist of the hair band, his fingertips brush against your shoulders before pulling away.

Before he moves out of reach, your hand closes around his. “Jamil. ”

His expression is one of practiced calmness, but there’s a tinge of vulnerability in his irises that tears at you. “Yes?”

“Never put words into my mouth again.” And you grab him by the front of his shirt to pull him in for a kiss to punctuate that statement. If he got the wrong idea from that, well.

a/n: aaaaa ur too kind lili 🤧💕💕don't worry, ur doing absolutely gucci!! (belated) happy valentines!! thanks for sending in a request ahahahaha i think i got a little bit carried away with this one oops, either way i hope u enjoyed reading this💕💕

[diodellet]

the kindest place to place a kiss (jamil viper x gn!reader)

@mochimiyaas tagged me in this post and now i am double-buried under these Gushy Gooey Feelings and thought of uno reversing jamil (ignore that last tag...life came up and hit me in the face with a metal bat that's my only reason for posting this late *punts my impostor syndrome across the ocean*) content warnings: light descriptions of kitchen injuries ++lots of loving and physical affection, established relationship shenaniganery. mildly unbeta'd all mistakes are mine. word count: 1.06k words

Jamil Viper was indifferent to pain. Getting splattered by cooking oil, handling hot pans and plates, getting nicked by knives, these were only the usual occurrences that came with working in the kitchen. A fraction of what constituted his daily life. 

It could be said he was indifferent to anything and everything less than pain. The life he led had no room for such. 

Not to say that he held pride for his position in life, but he was (unwillingly) secure in the knowledge of what he had.

That was what he thought, before you tumbled into his life.

It started slowly, with little gestures of concern: helping out here and there with chores, stealing Kalim away when Jamil’s patience was about to boil over, offering a pack of medicated pain-relief patches. Little things that he wasn’t expecting to receive.

(Maybe it was the way that you were attuned to him—the things he would brush over in favor of his other obligations—that these feelings started developing.)

One good turn deserves another, doesn’t it? 

He made sure to return these gestures, under the guise of offering a helping hand. (Jamil doesn’t mention aloud how it almost felt natural to work side-by-side with you.)

People just sort of…assumed you were already together. So it wasn’t really a surprise when the both of you decided to make the relationship official. 

Which was good, the both of you were already left to your own discretion. Save for the initial embarrassment that came with breaking the news, it was good.

Nothing much changed, outwardly. You saw each other whenever your schedules allowed for it (usually at Scarabia).

The most important thing was being able to spend time together. To share in these brief idle moments where the both of you weren’t busy with your responsibilities for the day.

That doesn’t mean he was free of those—little insecurities—worming their way into his thoughts.

He asks you, “doesn’t it get boring, being with me?” Waiting for Jamil to finish cleaning up, to finish making his final checks around the dorm.

“No, not at all.” You shake your head, before adding, “I’d be fine as long as I get to see you.”

Jamil ignores how that simple admission makes his heart skip a beat. Playing off his fluster with a roll of his eyes. “So you’d be fine with exchanging greetings and moving on for the rest of your day? That’s nice to know.”

Your expression doesn’t change. Though you take a few seconds to formulate a response. “I suppose I’d be fine, I mean—I don’t want to get in the way of your work,” you say.

“Though I would… miss you terribly,” you add as an afterthought. And you have the audacity to sound bashful.

The only reaction you would notice is the brief moment his eyes widen in surprise and the reflexive twitch of his hand itching to tug on the drawstrings of his hoodie.

Okay, maybe that was his cue to stop fussing over work for today. 

Quality time together was different in the privacy of Jamil’s room. At least, in here, he felt free enough to be less guarded. To hold you close and to return your affections in full.

(For just a moment, he was free to shed his facade as a retainer.)

One thing to know about Jamil Viper: he is touch-starved.

Grown up too fast, taught to care for another over himself, resigned to his fate—no matter how much he rationalized it, these long-ingrained thoughts would reach a point where it became overwhelming.

So when you welcome him into your arms, whenever you sit close together, or when he lets you undo his braids, it all melts away with your touch.

When you ask him for help with a difficult problem in your coursework, he is absolutely draping himself over you and leaning against your shoulder.

When there’s soft music playing in the background, he is absolutely resting his hands on your waist as you sway in time with the beat.

And when you’re staying over for the night (an increasing occurrence), he’s absolutely trapping hugging you in his arms.

(Or just hug him instead. He won’t admit it aloud, but he likes the feeling of security that being the little spoon brings.)

It’s almost… strange how calm his thoughts run when you’re cuddled against him, resting your head against the top of his chest.

Tentatively, Jamil reaches a hand out. The tips of his fingers grazing against the curve of your cheek. At the contact, you meet his eyes. Wide, anticipating, trusting.

He lightly pinches the skin in between his fingers. It's irritatingly endearing how you watch him with that look.

The gesture elicits a short laugh from you and you lean into his palm. The action reminds him of an affectionate cat.

But it’s this—the gentle press of your lips against his skin, a gesture so light and faint—that it sets his nerves alight, that it makes his heart somersault.

“What are you doing?” Code for: why are you suddenly being this bold?

“Nothing, I just…love your hands,” you reply without missing a beat. 

Your next kiss is pressed against the back of Jamil’s fingers, atop another faint scar. “They’re pretty. Like you,” you say, while cradling his hand in your palms.

“Flatterer.” But he makes no move to pull away from you.

Instead of growing shy, you press another kiss to his inner wrist. “It’s true though. Every part of you is pretty.”

Jamil doesn’t know what to say in response. He’s watching you, trying not to shiver as you tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear.

A gentle kiss to his neck, the side of his jaw, atop his nose, against his cheek, the corner of his mouth—

Is this what you’re holding yourself back from, whenever you saw each other during the day?

You never ran out of heartfelt praises, but hearing them—whispered softly into his skin, accompanied with your earnest gaze—was a different matter altogether.

(It’s nice to have someone put away his doubts.)

But don’t think that Jamil would take all of this lying down.

The moment you meet his lips, he’s cupping the back of your head, savoring the surprised noise you make and drawing out the kiss for longer.

After all, it’s only fair that he gets to be affectionate with you too, right?

A/N: lowkey got a bit paranoid to throw this ramble in a reblog so i decided to improv a bit and make this its own post HUHUHUHU NE WAY the key takeaway here is that jamil viper should be the little spoon more!! he deserves to be held!!!!! aaagh!!!! i have one more draft to chip away at.... let's hope i get to post it during this month....(or next month knowing how my uni sched is getting a bit more busy) 🥴🥴title is from this song, hahaha help i have too many feelings. tagging my fellow jamil simp hi lods hihi😇😇: @merotwst

[diodellet]

disillusionment (gn!reader x lyney)

Summary: It takes an anonymous bouquet for you to realize that Lyney's avoidance was a flimsy illusion, showing more of the parts of himself he sought to hide. So, you resolve to dispel the smoke and mirrors. (aka: Lyney avoids you but leaves gifts, Lynette pulls an intervention, and you coax Lyney into letting go of his facade to fall apart in your arms. Extra emphasis on that last part.) Content warnings: -Slight spoilers to Lyney/Lynette's backstory in Act 1 of the Fontaine Archon Quest. -Dominant!reader, submissive!Lyney (slight D/S dynamics, assume that everything has been negotiated+is consensual between the charas.) ++Established relationship, a bit of plot and emotions before the smut proper (sorry), makeouts, frottage, giving handjobs and oral+anal fingering (to Lyney), overstimulation, hickeys and gratuitous marking, skinship, disheveled and whiny Lyney word count: 2.8k words minors do not interact

Flowers don’t do anything for you. The cloying scent of the elaborate bouquet—Romaritime, Pluie, and Lumidouce, mournful shades of blue clustered around pale petals—resting in front of your hotel room’s door only made your head spin. A closer look doesn’t reveal any clue from the sender, only intensifying your discomfort.

So you go and ask the front desk about it. Sure enough, they politely dodge the question, cite some reason for confidentiality, and deflect by telling you about their cafe’s special for the day. Your initial guess was further confirmed. 

At least, he kept this attempt at reaching out simple. You almost expected sparklers to go off and doves to burst forth when you reached for the bouquets.

(Deep down, a part of you wanted Lyney to approach and explain everything. Not this shoddy attempt to save face, while refusing to show his own to you.)

To willing passerby, to apologetic hotel staff, you give away the flowers. And the remainder, you leave on an empty windowsill, in the waistband of a display mannequin, alongside unsold newspapers in their racks.

They’d only be a waste if you kept them in your room, after all. Flowers looked better in the sun, or in the hands of a person who was as bright and colorful as them. 

Your mind drifts to violet eyes and a charming smile.

Just before you head off to the Aquabus Main Station, your ears catch the sound of fluttering cloth followed by quiet, rapid footfalls in the opposite direction. 

[...]

You liked doing your recreational reading in places tucked away from most of the foot traffic. Today, you sat on a bench just outside of Vasari Passage. Faint conversation and music from the nearby shops combined with the sound of flowing water from the numerous fountains served as your ambient noise. It was relaxing.

(Or as close to “relaxing” as you could get. You’d been stuck on this chapter for days now.)

What you didn’t expect was for Lynette to actually march her brother over to you the next day. Thankfully, there aren’t any Gardemeks to witness the sight.

"Talk. The both of you.” 

“Lynette!” His eyes meet yours and he glances away to admonish his sister.

To which her usual impassivity forms into a frown. “No. You’ve been moping at home and during rehearsals.”

“I’m not moping. I just—Anyway,” Lyney clears his throat, turning to you. “We’ll leave you to your mystery novel.” A smile, faintly apologetic, graces his lips.

A perfect display of his stage persona.

You don’t like how he says your name, none of the familiarity and fondness that you thought he held for you. Treating you as if you were another face in the crowd. A name to be remembered only for the duration of the trick.

Lynette’s frown deepens. “No. I’ll be helping Freminet later. Don’t come with me.”

“Surely, an extra pair of hands would still be appreciated—”

“No.” For a split second, her ears fold backwards. “Talk to them,” she presses. 

“Lynette, my dear sister—” His smile strains.

“No. End of conversation.”

Before she leaves, Lynette spares you a glance over her shoulder, that cold frown still resting on her features. She opens her mouth as if to speak, before deciding against it and continuing to walk away, all while ignoring Lyney’s calls for her.

But the look—the matching plea and threat—in her eyes speaks enough. 

Now alone with Lyney, you fold the corner of the current page into a dog’s ear, before closing the book and holding it at your side.

Without his steadfast assistant by his side, the cracks in Lyney’s persona reveal themselves bit by bit. You can see the gears turning in his head, trying to conjure a way to somehow salvage the scene.

Out of a habit to comfort, you almost reach for his hand with your free one, before catching yourself. Instead, you call his name.

“Will you walk me back?” You almost called Hotel Debord ‘home,’ another careless slip of the tongue. God, you were no better than Lyney.

He hesitates briefly before replying, “of… of course.”

Eventually, the both of you fall into step with each other. The pleasant idle conversation follows quickly after. It is another habit the both of you can’t seem to break from.

[...]

“Minimalist as ever, I see,” Lyney muses after a quick glance around the room.

“I didn’t throw them away.” You close the door behind him. “If I kept them, they would’ve wilted here. Unappreciated.”

“Oh.” He sounds surprised. “I was under the impression that you were—that they were not to your liking.” 

You were angry. Emphasis on ‘were.’

No, you weren’t angry when you found out that he and Lynette had ties to the House of Hearth. Even after growing close with him, you learned that the man carried two secrets for every heartfelt confession he shared with you.

(What mattered most was that you had each other’s trust. That you would protect each other and your loved ones as best you could, right?)

Ironically, that promise would become the very source of your current frustration.

The admission comes out relatively easily. “I’m not mad.” Your fingers graze against his wrist and Lyney flinches—pulls away from your touch.

“You have every right to be, though. Anyone would be. ” The usual brightness in Lyney’s expression dims, his voice grows uncharacteristically serious. Was this what he looked like during the trial at Opera Epiclese?

But you reason, “anyone can see that you’ve been anxious.” Try as you might to control yourself, hurt creeps into your tone. “Yet at the same time, you avoid me.”

Were you just another untrustworthy person to him? Another head to entertain?

Lyney exhales, before asking you in a low voice, “would you be willing to associate with someone—anyone from the Fatui?”

The true accusation runs underneath those words, an undercurrent of disgust directed at himself. Would you be willing to be tied to someone like me?

“Yes! That doesn’t matter to me—” 

“This isn’t a joke.” His voice sounds more doubtful, almost hostile. He finally says your name, and to hear the word in that cold, flat tone…

It sends a painful pang through your ribs.

“I am serious, Lyney! I know that you and your siblings are kind and good. And for a moment, you made Fontaine almost feel like a home, but I—”

Maybe it’s the way that you’re holding onto him, or maybe it’s the building desperation in your voice, that you see something in his facade break.

“...I know that I don’t deserve to know everything, but at least let me be there by your side. Please.”

You don’t know how much more you can take of being a spectator.

“Forgive me,” he utters quietly and ducks his gaze. It seems your words were able to reach him. He takes one of your hands and cradles it close to his chest, a tender yet apologetic gesture. “I can’t…share everything yet. I’ll need time.” 

“I know.” Your eyes feel damp, but your heart feels a little bit lighter. “I can wait.”

Your palm slowly unfurls, laying itself flat against Lyney’s chest. Contrary to his controlled demeanor at the moment, his pulse is racing. All because of your words and your touch. Mentioning it aloud would probably make it worse for him, so you pull him into an awkward embrace with your free hand until his head is nestled into the crook of your neck.

You feel Lyney mumble something against your clothed collarbone. Whether it is an apology or a quiet “thank you,” you aren’t sure. You merely steady your own breathing until his evens out to match yours.

“...I missed you.”

Lyney’s return of your embrace tightens around your frame. He doesn’t say anything in response to your words. Endearing as Lyney is in this moment, it is only behind closed doors that he lets himself fall apart. Sometimes, you have to be the one to bring him to that point.

And, well, the both of you could use a change in conversation.

“You know, I think that was the first time I had ever seen Lynette so… emotional.”

“Lynette isn’t emotionless, she—she was just frustrated at my foolishness.”

“To be fair, I share some of the blame with you. I should apologize to her as well.” As you mention that, your free hand removes Lyney’s hat to place it atop a nearby dresser. Then you undo his little braid, feel the soft strands of blond hair give and flow against your fingers. “Perhaps she would prefer a small gift, would you know of any new tea blends she’s been looking for?”

Your fingers gently card through the light-colored locks, sliding down to cup Lyney’s cheek. At that, Lyney finally raises his gaze to meet your eyes. His lips are pulled into a small pout. “Must we talk about her—about this now?” Jealousy edges into his voice despite his attempts to reign it in.

“Why, can’t I have you both as my favorites?”

“Th-that’s…that would be unfair.” His cheeks flush red.

You can’t help the little amused laugh from escaping. “I’m kidding, I’m equally fond of you and your siblings.”

Your laughter only grows in response to Lyney’s groan. You feel his hands slip under the hem of your top, moving to tease at the small of your back. His touch elicits a shudder from you, sending an excited tingle up your spine. The rest of your teasing remarks go forgotten in the wake of the heat pooling in your lower stomach.

“Will you get on the bed please?” The request is coupled with a gentle press of your fingertips against his chest.

Lyney obeys and takes a seat on your mattress, pulling you onto his lap. At your surprised gasp, he takes the opportunity to seal your mouths together, stealing more little moans and noises from you until you are starved of air.

He looks better like this. With that stupid hat set aside, blond hair undone and messily falling over his features, and of course, the rosy hue decorating his cheeks as you bring his lips to yours again and again.

You undo the ribbon holding his scarf together, drag the tips of your nails against his nape, savor the little surprised gasp and slip your tongue into his mouth, bring him closer when he flinches away and drink in the needy sound that escapes his throat.

Without any of his magic tricks and flashy persona, none of the extra flourish that he usually carried himself with, Lyney’s demeanor is instead replaced with an uncharacteristic vulnerability in his eyes, fervently searching you for approval or disgust. No longer the wrongly-convicted Fatuus, no longer the dazzling magician.

Just Lyney.

Eventually, the both of you pull apart, breathing heavily. 

“Well, that was… something.” You shift, adjusting your position to properly straddle him. “I didn’t expect you to be the jealous sort.”

You watch his throat bob as he gathers his words. “I—You were the one who started it…”

Even as he says that, Lyney’s gaze is fixated on how your groin is resting against his clothed erection, maybe imagining what it would look like if you were both fully unclothed, what it would look like inside of you, to see your hips meld together before moving in tandem.

“I can’t stop myself if you keep giving me such priceless reactions.” In this position, you were now the sole performer capturing his attention.

“Ah ah ah—” Your fingers catch on the edge of his glove, stretching out the fabric and pulling his hand away from touching your waist. “Take these off first.”

He clumsily yanks them off and tosses them aside, as he does so, you start undoing the buttons of his top, bit by bit revealing the lithe muscles of his shoulders and arms.

(You forget that in addition to performing for his magic shows with Lynette, Lyney has worked on covert missions for the Fatui. Hell, he’s proficient with a bow and arrow, of course he would have something for your eyes to appreciate.)

A soft curse falls from your lips. “I really missed this.” Leaning forward, you press a kiss against his collarbone. “You’re really breathtaking, you know?” you say, before suckling at the skin.

“A-ah, hnn…” His palms hesitantly find their place on your hips as you leave more blooming red marks along his chest. The warmth of a Pyro visionholder is incomparable to any other source of heat. Completely dispelling any of the cold loneliness you were left with from the past few days.

“Can I…” you trail off, letting the light scrape of your teeth continue your question. Though Lyney didn’t let you leave too many conspicuous marks, you hoped this would be the rare exception. 

He nods shakily. “As long as—” His voice wavers when your lips return to his chest. “—it’s n-not too high, please.” 

In your newfound excitement, you tear a pained whine from Lyney as you leave another hickey atop his heart. It’s the loudest noise he’s made so far. 

(Though a part of you feels he can be much, much louder than that.)

“Just let it out, Lyney. I want to hear all of it.” Your thumb strokes at his hipbone before you take a pert nipple into your mouth.

As you continue your ministrations, Lyney’s control slips more and more. Stifled noises turn into soft moans, which then turn into desperate calls of your name, all coupled with staccato thrusts against your groin. Taking that cue, you free his cock from the confines of his shorts.

“Don’t stop, please—please, I’m close…” The look in Lyney’s gaze is hazy, overtaken with his building pleasure. No more sign of his worries and burdens, just him mindlessly fucking into your fist.

A copious amount of precum had been leaking from his tip, slicking your hand. “I know, I know, I’m not stopping.” Your thumb brushes over the slit of his cock, drawing out a choked sob from Lyney. You feel him twitch before his seed spills all over your palm. 

It doesn’t stop you from continuing milking his release until he starts shaking from oversensitivity.

All he had to do was to feel good and you would take care of the rest. You were only getting started, after all.

[...]

“I-I can’t come anymore, I c-can’t—” Lyney squirms in your grasp. 

Momentarily pulling off of his cock, you say, “You can do it, just one more, Lyney.” With those words, your fingers—which are buried deep inside of him—continue prodding at his prostate, each nudge making his hips cant up uselessly against empty air. 

“N-no, I really can’t anymo—ah!” His protest tips into a high-pitched moan as you deliver another jab to the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

“Yes you can, you’re almost there." Your tongue catches a bead of precum and you take him into your mouth once more. Unable to formulate any more coherent sentences, the only sounds that leave Lyney are half-formed words and needy, desperate noises. All he can do is writhe and thrust up into the heat of your mouth. Feel your tongue tease at the sensitive head of his cock in tandem with your fingers nestled inside, until you manage to wring out a weak spurt of come.

Swallowing, you sit back, wiping at your mouth with the back of your wrist. Your other hand rests atop Lyney’s thigh, thumb idly stroking at the skin.

A warm, comfortable silence falls over the both of you.

“You…were relentless, my dear.” Lyney says as he catches his breath. The use of the pet name isn’t lost on you. Guess he was finally back to his usual self.

You brush aside the damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead. His makeup is smudged with a mix of sweat and tears. “Was it too much?” you ask, genuine concern coloring your voice.

He shakes his head. At the touch of your palm against his cheek, his eyes slip closed. “It felt good, thank you.” 

The simple admission makes your heart skip a beat. He doesn’t know that he has you so utterly and completely wrapped around his finger, that every little thing he did was making you forget your habit of distance. 

Your clothes and his are completely strewn all over the room, you can't remember if his stockings were still left intact. He should have extra pairs, right? 

“Come on, we have to get cleaned up.”

Lyney makes a move to sit up, but stops. “I…” he trails off, before gathering the courage to meet your gaze. “...Can’t move…”

If he kept giving you that helpless look, you were probably going to hike his legs over your shoulders and—No, focus! You push those thoughts out of your mind, set them aside for later. There would be ample time to continue where you left off.

“Sorry about that.” Despite the apologetic tone in your voice, a sly smile pulls at your lips. “Want me to carry you?”

“I can stand!” Lyney flushes an indignant shade of red.

Who needs flowers when the mark of your affection blooms so beautifully on his skin?

A/N: FUCKKKK iTS FINALLY FINISHED auGH I AM FINALLY FREE OF THE MAGIC MAN! i didn't expect to be this endeared to this guy at all, but oh well here we are, putting a lot of complicated emotions and hurt/comfort into what was supposed to be a pwp fic oops (i've been working on this since august can u tell i'm at the end of my rope?🥴🥴) thanks again @jessamine-rose for betaing the beginning of the fic, i would've gone crazy without her helpful input💕💕 i hope you enjoyed reading my meager offering to the cutie pie lyney agenda 🤧i love clowning on him, it has become my new mission to fluster him to the point of incoherence i--(gets hit with a shovel) ANYWAYS, dont be afraid to rb ++holler in the tags, i treasure each and every comment💕💕

[diodellet]

no, i'd rather pretend: omake

(jamil viper x g/n reader, just plain comfort and shameless self-indulgence. i'm not saying that every emotional moment has to end in happiness/laughter but i like to think that it's still worth finding levity in most situations alongside trying to move forward.) link to the fic if u'd like context

When your emotions have calmed down, you spend a few more minutes together with Jamil. A comfortable silence falling over the both of you.

Until you chose to stand. No you don't ask for help, because at least standing on your own two feet, that you can do.

Cue ✨TV static✨ shooting up your legs.

"Oh...wait, wait a minute. Give me a sec."

"You're having pins and needles, aren't you?"

"...N, No I'm not...No, don't do that!" Your protests go unheard as Jamil lightly nudges the side of your leg with his foot.

You screech and brace one hand against the wall, stumbling away from Jamil with an awkward hobble.

You shoot him a (pitiful attempt at a) withering glare. "I told you to give me a sec!"

In place of his tender gaze is a mischievous grin. "I would have helped you up... if you told me," Jamil says through barely-restrained snickers.

You can only frown at him in response, which sends him further along his laughing fit. Figures, you should've expected this. There truly was no letting your guard down around this guy.

He apologizes and offers to make you a pick-me-up snack in the kitchens.

But you can't let him off the hook just yet. A half-baked revenge plan forms in your mind.

When he takes your hand once again, you feign stumbling forwards a second time, letting him catch the full weight of your body with a grunt.

"Ha! Karma!"

"I could just drop you, you know?"

"Ah, but you wouldn't! ...would you?"

Just when things lightened up, doubt always found a way to worm itself into your words. It sucked.

"Do I even need to answer that?" His finger prods against your forehead. "Come on."

(Besides, having his pinky linked with yours as you follow him to the kitchen was enough to quiet that thought.)

[diodellet]

💘dio's mini-valentine's day event!!!💘

Confessing your love is hard and spelling out your feelings is harder. Worry not, lovestruck reader, at least there are a myriad of other ways to show your affection!

Rules💌

I’ll be taking requests through my askbox. I’ll accept a maximum of 15 asks, please monitor this post’s notes to see how many slots are left.

You don’t need to be a follower to join, but at least be 17+

One request per person, I’d like everyone to have a fair chance to send something in. (Requests sent by mutuals will still be included in the case if I reach the maximum number of asks!)

Up to 3 characters can be included in a request, each drabble will be up to 200-300 words.

In terms of rating, I will default to Teen and Up Audiences. I won’t go full-on NSFW, but if the requester wants a bit of spice, I will only go up to Mature (in AO3 terms, references to the deed but not explicit depiction).

If requesters want, they can also specify the reader’s gender and pronouns in the ask++give some descriptors. Otherwise, I will default to gender-neutral readers and little to no descriptions of their physical characteristics.

(^^In relation to this rule, I won’t accept overly-detailed reader characters, OCs, or character name!reader i.e. Shimizu Kiyoko!Reader.)

Please be kind and patient, I’m not the fastest writer, but nobody appreciates being rushed++spammed to speed up on the requests.

With that out of the way, the fandom and prompt list can be found under the cut!

Fandoms💌

Obey Me (Demon brothers and the side characters, except for Luke) 

Genshin Impact (Everyone except characters who use the chibi model)

Twisted Wonderland (NRC students only, except Ortho and Grim)

Prompts💌

“It feels… good to be around you.”

Their thumb stroking the back of your knuckles.

Seeing them in your dreams, being too flustered to face them in real life.

“I’ll never be this happy again.” (x)

“...Why did I have to fall for someone like you?” “Hm? Did you say something?” “No—I didn’t say anything!”

“We can take it slowly. I’ve got you, alright?”

Opening their arms for a hug upon seeing how exhausted you are.

Sharing a room and doing different things in companionable silence.

“When I am with you I am real.” (x)

Talking with them for hours about anything and everything, not even feeling the time pass.

“Dude, you’re so red.”

Sharing playful banter and inside jokes, but everyone thinks you hate each other.

“If soulmates do exist, they’re not found, they’re made.” (x)

Spending five more minutes together in bed before getting up.

Ranting about how insufferable they are, but your friend thinks knows otherwise. (Bonus points if the subject of your conversation overhears Everything)

“Hey, I got you these.” “Oh, thanks! What’s the special occasion?”

Placing sticky notes with little messages on their belongings.

Making you laugh so hard your stomach hurts

“Is it weird that I already miss you?”

“They say we are asleep until we fall in love.” (x)

credits to: The Great Comet, 36 Questions, and The Good Place for the lyric/quote prompts

[diodellet]

i think i've found a place for us (jamil viper x gn!reader)

lovingly strapping jamil into a rollercoaster ride along the full emotional spectrum😇😇 fic title is from this song content warnings: -reader is yuu/ramshackle prefect -mix of jp and en terms -post-Book 4 OB (references to master-servant relationships, assassinations) -self-deprecating thoughts (references to symptoms of depression) ++this fic is hurt/comfort, whatever issues kalim and jamil have, it's probably mentioned here word count: 3.4k words

This was now Jamil's... fourth day of staying at the Ramshackle dorm. And even though he spent most of the time drifting in and out of sleep, he could make a list of all the inconveniences that came with temporarily living in the once-abandoned dorm. Mold, dust, cobwebs—those were only the first of many entries on his list.

It was far from the quiet, secluded place he initially pegged it as. The building would creak and groan as its living residents moved from room to room. At the peak of midnight, bits and pieces of the ghosts' conversations would travel through the walls, up the floorboards, mix with the sound of the wind outside.

That didn't mean it was completely unbearable.

Whenever you thought that you were alone, you would fill the silence with song. More humming and mumbled syllables than audible lyrics, but still melodious and pleasant to listen to.

"I didn't know you sang." Jamil's voice is rough with sleep.

You spin around to see him, eyes widening in surprise. “You! Should be sleeping!”

"I… think I've had enough." 

If anything, he’s spent too much time asleep for the past few days, dealing with more lingering headaches instead of feeling rested and energized. He sits up, turns his gaze to an interesting patch of clawed up wood on the bedframe left uncovered by your mattress. Grim's doing.

"...did I—do you want anything? I could run over to Sam's or the cafeteria?"

"No, no thank you." It wasn’t that he couldn’t stomach the thought of food, but it was along the lines of not really feeling up to it.

He’s been feeling an awful lot of nothing lately. It was as if everything—all the rage, the resentment, everything that had festered within his being—disappeared with the Blot.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” All that remained now was the shadow of his Overblot. The lingering discomfort, the hushed whispers from the students, the vision of ink coating his fingers.

“Just…” He shakes his head. “...Go back to what you were doing.” The words spill out. Clipped, taut. A demand—no, a plea for you to leave it at that.

He doesn’t miss the way you flinch. “Okay.” You nod, and slowly turn back to your textbook. Slip the other earphone back on and spin your pen in between your fingers.

(The reflexive ‘sorry’ catches in his throat, a few seconds too late for it to be used.)

Jamil lies back down, staring up at the ceiling. The hour ticks by, rays of the afternoon light slowly dimming. He shuts his eyes again, but doesn’t let himself doze off.

The scratch of your pen stops. “...hello?” Jamil turns to rest on his other side so that he’s not looking at you or your work desk. “He’s still here, yes… what about Kalim?”

Even if you lower your voice, it doesn’t stop his ears from picking up on the conversation. The same way that his sleep never tips too far into deep unconsciousness.

“I see… I’ll try asking him about that later.” You fall silent again, listening to the person on the other end. “...Are you guys holding up alright? On top of your…usual stuff?”

He suspects it might be someone from Octavinelle, maybe Jade or Azul. 

The chair legs squeak against the floor. “...If it does get to be too much, please tell me. I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll visit Scarabia tomorrow or—” The sentence dies in your throat.

Another pause elapses before you give a resigned sigh. “Alright, sorry, I-I’ll leave it to you…thank you.” Something clatters on your desk, probably your phone.

“...Okay, dinner. What to make…” You mutter to yourself, clicking on the desk lamp. Your footsteps travel to the other side of the room to undo the curtains.

He continues to feign sleep, remaining still as you switch on the lamp at the bedside table. The mattress dips with your weight as you lean over to pull up the blanket so that it covers his shoulder.

The first day that he arrived at Ramshackle was in the middle of a snowy night. An otherwise normal interaction with Kalim escalated into a heated argument. And then the dorm leader insisted on doing something by himself, which steered the conversation into doing away with their opposing statuses and then…like his Overblot, Jamil couldn’t remember the exact specifics of what happened.

Only a persistent gnawing at his temples, red-hot flashes obscuring his vision, his hands haphazardly gathering his things. Not a single one of his dormmates stopped him, quickly moving out of his way or fearfully standing to the side. Kalim's voice calling out for him was the last thing Jamil heard before he stepped through the mirror.

Somehow, his feet brought him to the once-abandoned dormitory. His shoulder was protesting under the weight of his gym bag. The wind bit into the exposed parts of his face, his hoodie did little to protect him from the cold. The gate was locked, of course. But just before he turned on his heel to return to Scarabia, one of the Ramshackle ghosts appeared and unlocked the gate for him.

Everything else was a blur after that. He was just…numb. And tired. Pliant to letting you peel off his snow-covered outerwear and replacing it with a thick blanket. Another ghost pushed a warm mug of tea into his hands. He couldn’t fall asleep though, not with Grim sitting next to him by the fireplace and whining about being woken up. 

“—just let me call back in the morning, he’s…no, he’s not hurt, he’s fine.” You were on the phone, cradling it against your shoulder as you laid his hoodie on the back of a chair. “Okay, bye.”

Jamil didn’t feel alright. If he didn’t upend his family’s carefully-built legacy with his betrayal and Overblot, then he single-handedly sent it to its downfall by running away from Scarabia, away from his charge.

“I…should go back…” he mumbled, moving to stand up. He set the tea aside, the drink was untouched. His fingers had warmed enough at this point. The blanket fell to the floor. “Kalim…”

“Will be fine,” you cut him off, gripping him by his shoulders. “He’s got the rest of Scarabia with him. You’re…not okay.”

Those words stung. He shrugged off your hold. “It doesn’t matter, I have to go.” He needed to stop acting like a child. Go back to what he was meant to do.

“Jamil, I’m not letting you walk in the snow. If you really want to go back, then at least…” Your expression, pained with concern, then softened with your voice. “...at least wait for the weather to calm down by next morning. Please.”

“...Next morning. I’m leaving,” he conceded.

He didn’t leave when morning arrived. When he awoke, it was already afternoon. He was covered in two new blankets and Grim was curled up against his legs.

At the foot of your bed, resting beside his gym bag, were two overstuffed suitcases. Kalim’s handiwork.

Save for the light emanating from the desk lamps, the rest of your room is shrouded in darkness. Shadows stretch across the walls, the floorboards, the edge of your bed, seemingly dripping with ink.

He scrubs a palm over his face. The room returns to normal—no, it's always been normal. He's the one with problems. To solve and to shoulder, those were the only courses of action he could take. And to say that he was merely shouldering all these burdens would discount the resourcefulness he honed from a young age. 

But then to be denied both options with your interference—you, Kalim, and that Octavinelle trio—to have you all meddle a second time, it should have sent him into a rage again. Maybe it would have warranted a second Overblot, but he was. Just. So.

Tired.

He pulls himself out of your bed and goes down to the kitchen.

You were at the stove, finishing up a batch of pasta and serving it on a plate. One of the Ramshackle ghosts was carrying Grim in its arms. Maybe to keep him from jumping onto the countertop and sneaking a few bites. Atop the small dining table, an upbeat tune played from your phone, it sounded like something from a musical. The scene in front of him was nice, but dinner was tuna carbonara. And for the past four days, his meals consisted of fish. Not even shellfish, just some iteration of canned fish. Tuna, sardines, mackerel, salmon, maybe shrimp if Grim was up for the "variety."

Jamil can’t complain, he won’t complain. He’s not a picky eater by any means, but even he had his limits when it came to eating processed food. In his mind, he decided that he would have to take over kitchen duties. Tomorrow. He can only manage helping with cleanup.

(For now, even as an outsider, he can enjoy the shred of normalcy that the shared meal brings.)

You spend one more hour at your desk, going through your winter break homework. Steadily and methodically finishing one subject at a time. Your foot taps against the floor, in time with the music playing through your earphones.

“...Done!” You sigh in relief, stretching your arms above your head. “Will you still need the lights, Jamil?” You turn to look at him.

One of his own textbooks laid open on the bed, little lecture notes and annotations neatly written along the margins. His homework was already completed a day before the holidays started. But, he decided he could redo some of them, make an attempt to earn a higher grade.

“We can stop holding back on account of our social status.”

Jamil feels a twinge at his left temple. He closes the book, leaving a pencil in between the pages as a makeshift bookmark, then sets it at the foot of the bed. “No, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.” There’s an urge to make himself small, invisible to your concern. Which he knows is just basic courtesy as a host—as the head of the Ramshackle Dormitory. 

“Alright. Good night, Jamil.” A click, then darkness. 

That would make this the fourth night spent away from Scarabia. Another night of resting in two hour intervals. Of waiting for sleep to claim him before his racing thoughts consumed him. He calls your name. 

It’s surprisingly easy to, now that the lights are off. “You should be sleeping in your own bed.” 

“...But I can’t just let you sleep on the sofa. It’ll be a killer on your back.” The sound of your footsteps slows to a stop, floorboards creaking with the motion. “The both of us are fine sleeping downstairs.”

“Isn’t he a restless sleeper?” 

“Nope, he sleeps like a baby.”

At that remark, somewhere from the first floor, the sound of rapid footfalls could faintly be heard. Coupled with the fire-monster’s trademark cackle.

“Well, that is, when he gets tired enough.”

The both of you lapse into silence, listening to Grim tear through the first floor hallways. The sound of the ghosts playfully taunting him.

You mutter quietly to yourself, “yeah, he’ll tire himself out in a bit. Hopefully.” The floorboards creak again, you’re probably leaning against the doorframe. “Does the noise bother you?’

“No, not really…” The Scarabia dorm was unnervingly quiet in the days after his Overblot. It was as if there were eyes on him, breaths held in anticipation. Watching and waiting for his next misstep. Nighttime wasn’t any easier. Whenever he'd jolt awake, he would stifle any screams or cries with his pillow, wait for the terror to run its course, count the hours until sunrise. “It’s just—”

There’s a faraway crash and the sound of Grim cursing, a chorus of ghostly laughter in response.

“Never mind, I misspoke. It’s…” Stupid. Jamil quickly dismisses your concern. “You should go check on him.” He turns his back to the doorway.

But you don’t leave. The sound of your footsteps approaches your bed. “Grim’ll be fine. I’m… more worried about you. Could you scoot over?”

“It’s your bed.” He tamps the embarrassment down, forces irritation into his words. Nonetheless letting you climb into the spot next to him. The mattress dips with your weight added to it.

Your own response was bashful. “I know, but…” you pause, thinking of your next words. “Grim and the ghosts… noticed that you were having… nightmares.”

“They’ll pass.” He’s dealt with worse.

“...You’re not wrong for feeling these things,” you say, voice low. As if speaking any louder would disturb the other residents of the dorm.

"How could you still say that…” A lump forms in his throat.  “...after…"

"After everything?” 

It doesn’t feel right to hear you cut to the heart of it. His words spill into the darkness of your bedroom. "After throwing you and Grim into the desert, keeping you against your will—"

"Hey, we were glad to get out of the cold for a little bit."

At his silence, you let out a quiet laugh.

"...I mean it though. It wasn't all bad." Your fingertips press against the side of his arm, apologetic.

He doesn’t… shy away from the contact, but he remains still. Staring up at the ceiling. “You could’ve died.”

Your touch withdraws. “I can say the same to you."

"Wouldn't that have been better? What use is there for an insubordinate servant?” Jamil thinks back to the attempts made on Kalim’s life. Investigations were made into the other staff. Into esteemed guests, renowned politicians, prospective and longtime business partners. Through it all, only the Viper household remained clean.

And it just had to be him, the person closest to Kalim, who tarnished that steadfast loyalty. He’s seen what happened to assassins who were caught. 

(There’s a certain irony in having to spill blood for the protection of another.)

"Don't…don't say that. Kalim doesn’t think of you like that…"

But he still treats Jamil like one. “He thinks the world of everyone he meets. Even those who’ve wronged him.”

“...sure, maybe he’s a bit naive—” That was an understatement, Jamil thinks to himself. Dense, ignorant, stupid were more fitting. “—but he really does see you as one of his closest friends.”

“What do you know?” he counters. What could you say that he hasn't already heard?

“Kalim’s not stupid. He genuinely trusted—he still trusts you in spite of what happened.”

And wasn’t that the most irritating part? That he was still being showered in empty kindness and praise by Kalim? That in the end, he would have to be held accountable for something as careless as losing control of himself?

“It isn’t that simple.” Frustration laces the way he says your name. “Put yourself in my shoes for a second—”

“I am…I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s my duty, to Kalim’s family and my own.” God, he was sick of hearing the dorm leader’s drivel about friendship, but to hear himself repeating his parents’ own words to you was painful.

“That’s true, but you’re not…”

There’s a familiar heat building at the base of Jamil’s throat, an ugly mix of shame, embarrassment. “His title and status as the Asim heir takes priority, and I have to make sure that he doesn’t die before that happens—”

“But you were just a kid!” Your voice rises to a furious whisper before falling, quiet and trembling. “...you were just…a kid… and you shouldn’t have had to bear that on your own for so long…And then to be expected to carry on as if nothing happened…”

Jamil should be angry at hearing another shed tears for him. Expressing the emotions that should’ve been his. Only one other person has done that in front of him, and that misplaced kindness sent him further along the route to his eventual Overblot.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t but—” Despite your apology, the thickness in your voice doesn’t let up. "Still…! Who just tells their own child to ‘lose thrice’?"

The anger that he has carefully nursed doesn’t rear its head. Maybe it really did disappear with the dispelling of his Overblot. Or maybe it’s because you didn’t face him with the fear that his dormmates held.

“How do you know that?” His question is met with your silence. With the curtains drawn closed, only faint slivers of moonlight creep into your bedroom, scarcely enough to reveal the shape of your figure beside him. Jamil’s hand reaches out tentatively—the back of your hand is damp—before withdrawing altogether. 

“...When I fell into the Blot ink, I could hear them…and I saw you. When you were younger.” 

He could remember the ink pouring into every orifice. “Then you…” If it went on for any longer, it would have drowned him, then consumed his magic, then his body and then—

“Yeah, then I managed to pull you out.” 

“But you weren’t in the infirmary.” 

“...Fourth time’s the charm, I guess.”

“Did…that happen with the others?”

“Yeah. With Riddle. And Leona, and Azul. I don’t know why it happens." You shift, the sound of your clothes rustling against the bed covers as you move closer to him. Your shoulder lightly nudges his. “The first time it happened, no one else knew what I was talking about.”

“Tell that to the livestream of my conversation with Azul.”

“But they didn’t broadcast it… it was just a speaker call. For the rest of the dorm to hear.”

Jamil sits up. “What.” He was supposed to know about this? Those Octavinelle fuckers.

“I…I thought—oh, I guess they didn’t tell you, I’m sorry—”

His stunned silence is broken with a laugh, bubbling from his throat and building into sharp, hysterical laughter. He feels warm, burns with embarrassment, because of course it wasn’t a livestream. And why was he feeling a hint of relief at that revelation?

His palms press against his eye sockets. To his ears, the sound is foreign, but he can feel the exertion in his throat. Feel his breathing quicken, the start of a sob which he chokes down.

It takes him a few more moments to register the tears flowing down his cheeks. His outburst dies as quickly as it erupted. His chest hurts at the feeling of stifling his cries, to keep them from escaping.

God, he feels dumb.

You sit up, pull him into your arms. Let him cry against your shoulder, rub a soothing hand against his back. You don’t say anything, but the tender gesture speaks enough.

By the time his emotions have calmed down, his head aches with a dull pain. The all-too familiar sensation of exhaustion seeps into him. 

“Will… you ever talk to Kalim?” you ask. Your own expression was stricken with tear tracks, from sharing in a fraction of his pain.

“Of course I have to eventually.” He sighs, lying back down and you follow. “...I have no choice.”

“You don’t have to…force yourself to though.” You reach forwards, gently wiping away his tears with your thumbs. And he lets you. “If you still need time, you can stay here… To rest and recuperate.”

Paradoxically, it’s in the words of a stranger—(did you count as an acquaintance though? Acquaintances didn’t just spoon each other though, they didn’t just tangle their legs together while sharing the same bed)—that he finds a pinprick of solace.

And sure, you could call it that. ‘Rest.’

But to Jamil, this was stagnation. He couldn’t just keep mooching off your hospitality, blindly trusting in Kalim’s resolve to change. He couldn’t let himself stay indebted for this long. 

“I can’t just stay here for the holidays.  But…thank you.” 

Once winter break ends, what would he do? How should he go about repairing his social standing in the dorm? With the rest of the student body? 

What’s the next move?

He doesn’t even realize that he’s fallen asleep. Rest comes to him, gentle and peaceful.

When early morning arrives, Jamil gives himself five minutes. Five minutes of sitting in the rare calmness of his mind, of listening to your slow even breathing, of being encased in between the warmth of the blankets and your body heat. Comfortable, protected, safe in your arms.

Then he extricates himself from your hold. At the motion, you make a weak sound of protest, blindly reaching after him. Your fingers brush against the hem of Jamil’s shirt. He catches your wrist, gently sets your arm down on the mattress. Then he pulls the edge of the blanket over you to keep you warm and goes to get ready for the day.

Since he was planning on making breakfast, he’d first have to check if the school store had anything available.

(A part of him is grateful that Kalim packed a scarf.)

A/N: originally this started as a scene of jamil being the lazy one for once and trying to keep u in bed with him. i just wanted to write cuddles (read: the intended kissies were somehow lost along the way. i am still sobbing crying weeping and calling for them to come back home) but aaa its finally done, one of my persistent brainworms is freed!! and more have taken its place help id like to credit @jessamine-rose for betaing this fic, thank u ms maam twst veteran💕💕 wcidfy ch3 will take a bit more time to be written. so im gonna chip away at other wips (shorter oneshots) as i try to get the main beats down. it would take a miracle for it to be posted soon, so id probably expect chapter 3 in (late) june. anyway, i hope u enjoyed reading this, don't be afraid to rb and holler in the tags!! i treasure each and every comment!! taglist (ig i have one of these now?): @merotwst