vviipers

[vviipers]

Farming For Heroes

Introduction: You’re the new farmer in Hateno Village, looking to start a new life away from the hustle and bustle of the big city. Your farm doesn’t look like much now, but with some proper care, and perhaps some help from your fellow villagers, it’ll be up and running smoothly in no time! Spend your days tending to crops, taking care of your animals, and talking to a wide cast of friendly villagers all eager to make your acquaintance!

Of course, there’s more than just farming to do in your new home. Take a trip to the mines to dig up rare artifacts, or adventure into the Hylian wilds to fight monsters for loot. And never be afraid to go it alone- a select group of villagers are more than happy to accompany you wherever your adventures might take you!

Inspirations:

-Rune Factory

-Stardew Valley

-Harvest Moon

-Story of Seasons

-Field of Mystria

General Notes: Hateno Village itself would be based off the version we see in BotW. You can grow all manner of fruit and vegetable, as for the animals, I’ve always loved games where you can go into the wild and tame the animals yourself (specifically thinking about Harvest Moon: One World and Rune Factory). Mining would be pretty similar to Stardew Valley/ FoM- all in one mine that you have to progress down with a few checkpoints for ease of access. Combat would be a bit more prevalent, like it is in Rune Factory or the Wilderness Map in SV. Of course, you wouldn’t have to fight alone. Like in RF, you can befriend certain villagers (*cough* the Chain *cough*) and request for them to join you on your adventures. They’ll watch your back, help you collect materials, and might occasionally do small Events with you to help deepen their bond.

Writing Notes: I think the best way to write this would be to do one main storyline with vague hints of romance with other characters but mostly focusing on plot points, then several separate (smaller) storylines following heart events and maybe the occasional intimate moment with each ‘bachelor’, so they can all get their time to shine. Then maybe an extra one for a poly option?

[vviipers]

Character Sheets

(more to be added later)

Sky

The local carpenter, a sleepy young man who completes his jobs… eventually. You can often find him napping just about anywhere, even on his feet! A romantic at heart, you won’t regret getting to know this loveable young man.

Birthday: Spring 10

Family: None

Weapons: Broadswords, Whips, Claws

Style: Combo Connoisseur (Often starts combo chains while fighting)

Favorite Items: Wood, Pumpkin Soup (“Reminds me of home”), Feathers

Least Favorite Items: Poultry (“Why would you think I would like this?”), weeds, Spicy food

Four

The local blacksmith who always seems to be everywhere at once. He has a special penchant for weapons, and is happy to assist you in making whatever you need.

Birthday: Fall 21

Family: Smith (Grandpa)

Weapons: Broadswords, Magic Wands, War Hammers and Bow and Arrows

Style: Well-Rounded (Performs well no matter where you put him in the lineup)

Favorite Items: Metal Ores, Magic Stones, Four Leafed Clovers (“They’re good luck!), Coffee

Least Favorite Items: ocean forageables, trash, deserts (“Too sweet for my taste.”)

Time

this man runs the other farm in town alongside Twilight, mostly focused on cultivating crops and the like. He’s experienced (Read: Old) so if you need any tips or tricks, he’s the guy that you want to talk to.

Birthday: Summer 4

Family: None

Weapons: Longswords, Claws, War Hammers

Style: Heavy Hitter (He’s a bit slower but his attacks hit that much harder)

Favorite Items: Any Vegetable, Lon Lon Milk (“Better than any alcohol”), Elderflower

Least Favorite Items: Bitter recipes, soggy newspaper (“What am I supposed to do with this?”) moon dust (“…”)

Wind

An aspiring fisherman who makes deliveries from Lurelin Village and who can even ferry you down there. He’s a very nice young man, inquisitive, and always ready to lend a helping hand.

Birthday: Summer 19

Family: Aryll (Sister), ‘Granny’ (Grandma)

Weapons: Longswords, War Hammers, Clubs

Style: Sleight (Because of his smaller size, he can sneak attack enemies easier, and can even nick some of their items if he’s lucky)

Favorite Items: Elixir Soup (“You could never make it like my Grandma, but this is pretty close.”), Ocean Forageables, Fish

Least Favorite Items: Spicy foods, vegetables (“What’s a sailors least favorite vegetable? Leeks!”), egg shells (“Are you trying to curse me?”)

NON ROMANCEABLE

Legend

The curator of the local museum. He claims all of his attractions were stolen by a man in a bunny hood. A little standoffish at first, but knowledgeable beyond his years.

Birthday: Spring 25

Family: Fable (Sister)

Weapons: All Weapons

Style: Veteran (Capable of wielding all weapons with high dexterity)

Favorite Items: Hibiscus(“Reminds me of somebody… Thank you.”), artifacts, apples

Least Favorite Items: rabbits foot (“Where did you get this? It’s disgusting.”), Mermaid Scale, Goddess Statue Figurine (“I swear it’s like she’s looking at me…”)

Hyrule

The town's healer. He’s a little sassy at times, but is always very helpful and never gives up. Unfortunately, his cooking leaves a lot to be desired…

Birthday: Fall 8

Family: None

Weapons: Broadsword, boomerang, magic wands

Style: Magic and Mayhem (Has innate magical abilities that don’t need a conduit to activate.)

Favorite Items: deserts, herbs, Honey (“I’d say it’s for tea, but I might just eat it like this…”)

Least Favorite Items: Fairy Wings (“That’s sickening.”), bitter foods, Trash

Twilight

Runs the other farm in town alongside Time, focused on raising the animals there. He’s strong and fiercely loyal to his loved ones. He’s best friends with the town chef, so you can often find him hanging around the local tavern.

Birthday: Winter 7

Family: None

Weapons: Broadsword, Ball and Chain, Claws

Style: Wolf Hunter (Attacks animal-adjacent monsters with more ferocity)

Favorite Items: Pumpkin Soup, Goat-related products, Onyx (“I hear these can make openings to dark worlds. Probably just superstition, but it’s a fun thought.”)

Least Favorite Items: Bitter foods, Perfumes (“The smell is too strong.”), Wolfsbane

Warriors

The village's main protector, previously a knight of Hyrule who retired after the Great War. He’s known to be a bit of a womanizer, but he isn’t known to go out with people since coming to Hateno. What could be the source of these unfounded rumors?

Birthday: Winter 26

Family: Linkle (Sister[?])

Weapons: All Weapons

Style: Leader (Often at the front of the party, dealing decisive blows and commanding the rest of the party)

Favorite Items: Spicy foods, Armor Polish (“So shiny I can see myself!”), Any armor/ weapon (“I can add this to my collection.”)

Least Favorite Items: Trash, monster guts, Crystal Ball (“You had this? …You weren’t watching people through it, right?”)

Wild

An amnesiac man who somehow made his way to Hateno and decided to open a tavern. Despite his memory loss, he’s a natural in the kitchen, and even the stranger sounding recipes turn out excellent.

Birthday: unknown, presumed Fall 13

Family: None

Weapons: Broadswords, Bow and Arrows, Spears

Style: Wild (Often unpredictable in his attacks, either unleashing impossible combos or falling flat on his face)

Favorite Items: Edible forageables, Silent Princess (“It’s familiar, somehow”), Hearty Soup

Least Favorite Items: Wolf Pelt (“That's not funny.”) [Cant think of anything else rn]

Universal Loves: Goddess Plume, Master Sword, Hylian Shield

Exceptions

Legend- Goddess Plume (“More burdens to bear.”)

Universal Hates: Hyrule’s Cooking, Failed Dishes

Exceptions

Wild- Hyrule’s cooking/ Failed Dishes (“It’s okay to fail, as long as you don’t give up.”)

Legend- Hyrule’s Cooking (“Hyrule made this?… Do you think he’d be mad if I displayed it under ‘worlds most deadliest poison’?”)

[vviipers]

705 words. (linked universe) time/gender-neutral! reader.

"That's a new one."

There's a heaving sigh that leaves Link's lungs, hand running up and down your calf, as his head leans against your thigh. He'd nearly fallen asleep as your hands worked through the individual strands of his hair. How could he not?

Making your way through each tress had become a habit if not a ritual for you both. The white hairs that lined his hairline had become more prevalent the longer your adventure went on, the longer he had to carry the Deity's mask in the satchel on his hip. He'd only realized the gradual change when you pointed it out during a night away from the others, fingers carding through his hair when your eyes caught on the way it shimmered in the moonlight.

You'd joked that it made him look like a silver fox and he'd scoffed before shutting you up with a kiss. It was later in the night when you got to explore the full extent of his greying, his head laid in your lap with your legs tangled with his arms.

He'd released that same heavy sigh when you counted thirteen strands, barely noticeable to those without eagle eyes or his ever-perceptive lover.

"It looks good," you hum as you comb the hairs back into the rest. Curling in to press a gentle peck on his lips, your hands slide down his face to stroke along the apples of his cheek. "You look good."

Link leans into your touch as he forces his eye open, letting it bore into your own with each pass of your thumbs as they work their way down to the corner of his lips.

"I should dye it," he speaks after a dramatically long pause. Paying no mind to the way your brows furrow and fingers push his cheeks together in argument he continues with "or pluck it. The boys will bother me about it for months."

Shaking your head as his lips busy themselves with kissing at the pads of your fingers. "You shouldn't. It's fine, it's pretty, it blends in. I like it." Wrenching a hand back to his hair, you wind a silver strand around your finger. A gentle pull gets him on his knees facing you with a quiet groan, palms heavy on the outsides of your thighs as he now presses his lips together whatever inch of skin available.

Leaning back as he further rises, you continue waxing poetic with each kiss he presses to your neck and chin. "It reminds me of Lake Hylia, our Lake Hylia; the way light catches in the ripples. Of the clouds covering the sun in Gerudo Valley too. The blond mixes with the silver well, doesn't make you look old."

Link pulls away ever-so-slightly, a brow raised as he peers up at you. "I am old."

"You're well-aged," you counter. "Like wine."

"Wine?"

You hum, back finally hitting the mattress as your arms loop around his neck. "Wine," you repeat without making an effort to further explain, pulling him down atop you. "I like the way it looks. The boys'll respect you more with it, lets them know what a real man is."

Another groan leaves Link, this time of amusement while his face buries itself in the crook of your neck. His hands rub along your hips, working their way up to your sides once then twice before turning so you're on top. "The day they think I'm a real man is the day I pass."

"Don't say that." The pout on your face greatly contrasts the smile on his. Pulling away when he leans in to kiss you, your head finds itself resting against his chest. The beating of his heart pounds against your cheek as your eyes lull closed from the familiar rhythm. "They love you," you say, interrupted by a yawn. "I love you."

Letting out a huff, Link fixes the blanket over your shoulders. His hand finds purchase on the curve of your skull, craning his until he's able instead press his lips against your crown. "I love you too," he quietly muses, fingers weaving their way into your hair so his nails can gingerly scratch against your scalp.

[vviipers]

Mission: Emotionally Compromised || Jamil Viper

Jamil’s greatest failure as a spy? Falling head over heels for the person he was meant to destroy.

this one is for @chocolatebearstrawberry who made the divider i use here!! i love you <3

As the CEO of one of the most powerful tech companies in the world, you’ve always prided yourself on two things: your razor-sharp business acumen and your ability to sniff out deception from a mile away.

Your competitors, on the other hand, have prided themselves on one thing: trying (and failing) to steal your technology.

For years, you’ve played a high-stakes game of corporate cat and mouse, batting away industrial spies like a bored housecat knocking expensive wine glasses off the counter. You’ve watched billion-dollar corporations sink millions into elaborate heists, only for their agents to fail spectacularly. Frankly, it's getting a little embarrassing for them.

But now, thanks to the untimely departure of your longtime secretary (who swears their early retirement has nothing to do with being bribed into luxury exile), you suddenly have a vacancy.

And judging by the pile of applicants currently waiting in the lobby, every single one of them is a spy.

The Parade of Intelligence Failures™:

First up is Agent Steve (probably not his real name), whose résumé is written in Comic Sans and lists "lockpicking" under "special skills." When you ask him about his previous administrative experience, he stares at you blankly for three full seconds before blurting out, "I can type… very fast?"

Next is Ms. Definitely-Not-Wearing-a-Wire, who keeps touching her ear like she’s communicating with someone. Midway through the interview, you distinctly hear a whisper from her earpiece: "Ask about the security systems."

Then there’s Tech Bro #5, who brings a USB drive and, while maintaining full eye contact with you, tries to plug it into your computer. Your computer. The one sitting on your desk. Right in front of you.

By the time Mr. Fake-ID Falls Out of His Wallet stumbles in, you’re fighting the overwhelming urge to launch yourself out the nearest window.

This is getting pathetic.

You’ve sat through twenty interviews of barely competent corporate espionage, and you’re ready to set up a PowerPoint presentation titled, "How To Spy Without Immediately Getting Caught: A Workshop For Morons."

Do they think you built a billion-dollar empire by being stupid? Do they think your years of fending off corporate espionage haven’t honed your bullshit detector into a finely tuned death laser?

You start debating whether to just hire a golden retriever and call it a day—at least dogs have loyalty.

And then he walks in.

Enter: Jamil Viper.

The moment he steps into your office, you know this one is different.

For one thing, his résumé isn’t riddled with typos or hilariously obvious red flags. His credentials? Flawless. His demeanor? Polished and professional, with just the right amount of charm—not so much that it feels like he’s trying to butter you up, but just enough that you actually want to keep talking to him.

And his entrance exam? He aces it. Perfectly.

Too perfectly.

There is no way in hell that someone this competent just happens to be looking for a secretary position. You know he’s a spy.

But unlike the human disasters before him, Jamil Viper is actually good at his job.

And if someone is going to try and infiltrate your company, wouldn’t you rather it be someone who at least has the decency to be competent about it?

You lean back in your chair, watching him carefully as he sits across from you, his expression unreadable. You wonder how many layers of deception he’s hiding behind that composed facade.

Slowly, a smile creeps onto your lips.

This could be fun.

Because if Jamil Viper thinks he’s going to outmaneuver you, then clearly, no one has warned him that you love playing with fire.

You slide the contract across the desk, extending your hand.

"Congratulations, Mr. Viper," you say, amusement dancing in your voice. "Welcome to the company."

His fingers are warm when they clasp yours in a firm shake. His gaze, sharp and assessing, lingers for just a second too long.

And just like that, you hire a spy to be your personal assistant.

This is either the smartest or the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.

And honestly? You can’t wait to find out which.

Jamil has never questioned his assignments before. His role has always been straightforward—he is given a task, he completes it with precision, and he collects his payment. There is no room for personal involvement, no need for unnecessary complications.

This particular job should have been no different. His directive was clear: infiltrate one of the most formidable tech companies in the industry, assume the role of a secretary, gain the CEO’s trust, retrieve the necessary proprietary data, and exit without raising suspicion.

A simple, methodical process. He estimated it would take no more than a month, perhaps two if the CEO proved particularly cautious.

However, the moment he steps into your office, Jamil recognizes that this assignment will not proceed according to the standard operational model.

You are perceptive. That much is clear from the outset. Your interview questions are sharp, carefully constructed to gauge more than just his administrative skills. You are watching him—not just listening, but studying, assessing. There is a calculating glint in your eyes that suggests you have already categorized him in some way, and he does not yet know whether that categorization is in his favor.

Then comes the moment that shifts the trajectory of his expectations entirely.

You lean back in your chair, fingers steepled as you regard him with an almost amused expression. "So, Mr. Viper," you say, voice laced with something close to mischief, "are you a spy?"

The question is absurd in its directness, yet the casual way you pose it makes it clear that you are not expecting a confession—you are testing him. A lesser operative might have faltered, might have hesitated for the fraction of a second that would betray uncertainty. Jamil, however, meets your gaze evenly, offering a measured smile.

"If I were," he replies smoothly, "would I admit it?"

You laugh—not a dismissive scoff, but an actual, entertained laugh, as if you are thoroughly enjoying this game. And that is what makes Jamil's stomach twist slightly. Because he is beginning to suspect that you already know.

The contract slides across the desk, a silent challenge. He watches as you extend your hand, the motion deliberate, expectant.

He has been in the industry long enough to recognize a trap when he sees one. And yet, despite every internal alarm warning him to be cautious, he shakes your hand.

He has taken on countless assignments in his career, but this time is different.

This time, he is not just infiltrating a company. He is stepping into a game.

And for the first time in his life, Jamil wonders if he is the one being played.

Jamil Viper is, quite frankly, the best thing that has ever happened to you.

You have run this company for years, clawed your way to the top with sheer wit and willpower, and in all that time, you have never known peace. Your life has been a never-ending cycle of fires to put out, idiotic employees making mistakes, and backstabbing business partners who think “compromise” means “stealing your ideas and pretending it was a collaborative effort.”

But then Jamil arrives.

Jamil, with his quiet efficiency and terrifying competence. Jamil, who doesn’t ask you to repeat yourself because he actually listens the first time. Jamil, who doesn’t need reminders because he remembers everything, down to how you like your coffee and which pens mysteriously go missing when your CFO visits.

For the first time in your career, you are leaving work at a reasonable hour.

You actually saw the sunset yesterday. The sunset. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve seen anything but the dim glow of your office lights at midnight? You don’t. You’re afraid to check.

Your skin? Clear.

Your inbox? Organized.

Your sleep schedule? Still questionable, but at least now it’s due to personal choices and not business emergencies.

You are so overcome with gratitude that you nearly burst into tears when you realize you no longer have to threaten your vendors personally because Jamil handles it all with a few well-placed emails.

He is better than any assistant you have ever had. Possibly better than some of your business partners. Hell, at this rate, you wouldn't be surprised if he could run the company better than you.

Which is exactly why you can’t afford to let him go.

You know why he’s here. You are not naïve. He is undoubtedly a spy, sent to steal your technology, your secrets, your life's work. But the problem is that he is too good. You cannot afford to lose him.

So, you make a decision.

You will convert him to your side.

It’s not just about protecting your company anymore. No, this has become personal. Jamil Viper is yours now. He just doesn’t know it yet.

The numbers didn’t make sense.

You were good at numbers. Numbers were the only thing in this world that didn’t lie. Numbers were solid, unyielding, completely immune to human deception. And yet.

Your CFO had to be skimming. You’d suspected it for a while—no one bought that many first-class flights for “business conferences” that didn’t exist—but now that you finally had the time to actually dig into the company’s finances, you could feel it in your bones. There was money missing. Not a lot at once, just enough that a lazier CEO wouldn’t notice.

But you noticed. And now, sitting in your dark office, practically feral with frustration, you were going to find it.

Jamil peeks into your office, and you see his brows furrow in irritation. He steps inside without invitation, eyes flicking to your desk, to the stacks of papers, to you, hunched over and pulling at your hair like a mad scientist on the brink of discovery.

“…Why are you still here?” His voice is level, but you detect the judgment beneath it. “I made sure your schedule was clear. You should have been home by five.”

You make a vague, distressed sound—somewhere between a whimper and the dying gasp of an overworked CEO. “I have a mouse to hunt,” you say, still frantically flipping through documents. “A very cunning mouse.”

Jamil, to his credit, does not roll his eyes. He does, however, step forward and pluck the file from your grasp before you can protest. His sharp eyes scan the pages, his fingers flipping through them with practiced ease.

You watch as his expression shifts into something thoughtful, his lips pursing slightly, his brows furrowing in deep concentration. You can see his mind working.

Jamil is infuriatingly intelligent. He always has been. You knew it the moment he walked into your office for his interview and answered every question with precision so perfect it was almost suspicious.

But this—this is something else. His eyes flick from one line to another, scanning, calculating, searching.

And then it hits you.

His hair.

His stupidly perfect, annoyingly silky, meticulously styled hair.

The way it’s always just slightly different every day. Some days it’s neater, tied back with care. Some days it’s looser, like he didn’t have time to properly tame it. Some days it’s so perfect it looks effortless, which means it probably took him ages to get it like that.

Your brain connects the dots.

Your CFO’s expenses had fluctuations that made no sense at first glance. But what if—what if the embezzlement wasn’t consistent? What if he only siphoned money on certain days—days when he needed to make the numbers look normal, like a fluctuation in operational costs?

Like how Jamil’s hair was slightly different depending on how rushed he was in the morning.

Your eyes widen. You grab Jamil’s arm.

“It’s the payroll processing days,” you say, the revelation clicking together. “The numbers don’t match on payroll weeks because he’s hiding them within the irregular adjustments! He’s only stealing when payroll is being processed because that’s when the accounts fluctuate naturally.”

Jamil blinks, then looks back at the files, and you see it—the exact moment he finds the irregularity, the way his eyes sharpen, the way the corner of his lips twitch in mild irritation.

“…Huh,” he says, flipping back to double-check.

You beam at him. “Jamil, I could kiss you.”

He does not react, but his ears turn slightly red. He hands the file back. “Don’t. Just fire your CFO.”

“Oh, I will.” You grin, stretching your arms behind your head. “And then I’m going to have so much fun ruining his career.”

Jamil gives you a look. You pretend not to see it.

Jamil has worked for a lot of powerful people before. He’s seen how they act—detached, ruthless, calculating. People who don’t say thank you unless there’s an audience, people who treat loyalty as a transaction rather than a virtue, people who see their employees as numbers on a spreadsheet rather than human beings.

And then there’s you.

You, who smile at every single employee as if they’re the most interesting person in the world.

You, who face betrayals with an easy grin, as if it’s just another puzzle to solve.

You, who refuse to be jaded, as if the sheer weight of your responsibilities isn’t trying to crush you every single day.

Jamil has worked as a secretary before, long enough to know that this is not normal. It’s not normal for a CEO to approve leave requests without question, to cover all medical expenses without a fight, to sit down at the employee cafeteria and listen to people’s grievances like a normal person.

It’s definitely not normal for you to turn to him at the end of a long, grueling day—after uncovering a massive embezzlement scandal in your own company—and say, “Let’s get dinner. My treat.”

Jamil expects a high-end restaurant. The kind of place where the portions are offensively small, the food is questionably pretentious, and the bill alone could sustain an entire household for a month. The kind of place where people like you—people with power, people with money—go to flaunt their superiority.

Instead, you take him to a tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant run by an elderly couple who clearly know you on a first-name basis.

“Ah, welcome back!” the old woman greets you warmly, eyes flicking to Jamil with curiosity. “And who’s this? A date?”

Jamil chokes on air.

You laugh—loudly—and wave off the comment. “Nah, just my secretary! He helped me catch a mouse today.”

Jamil doesn’t bother correcting you.

The menu is scrawled in barely legible handwriting on a whiteboard near the counter. You order the greasiest, most artery-clogging meal he’s ever seen in his life. Jamil orders something safer, something that won’t take five years off his lifespan.

When the food arrives, you practically vibrate in your seat, taking a bite with the enthusiasm of a child eating their first piece of candy.

Jamil stares at you in mild horror. “You eat this every day?”

You grin, already halfway through your meal. “Yeah.”

Jamil doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

But he eats. He eats, and he listens to you ramble about ridiculous workplace rumors, and he watches you laugh so hard you snort when you make a terrible joke.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, Jamil finds himself laughing too.

Not because your joke is funny—because it isn’t. It’s awful, actually.

But maybe because your eyes shine too brightly in the dim light.

Maybe because you seem so human right now, so painfully, vividly human.

Maybe because he knows he’ll have to leave you behind soon, and yet here he is, eating unhealthy food and smiling at you.

Jamil has never questioned his jobs before. He gets paid, he gets the work done. Simple.

So why does it feel so different this time?

Jamil has worked for some eccentric people before. Billionaires with more money than sense, CEOs who thought meditation on top of a glass skyscraper would give them divine insight, a director who once insisted that his morning coffee had to be stirred exactly 72 times counterclockwise or the stock market would crash. He’s seen it all. Or so he thought.

And then there was you.

You were a genius, of course. No one could deny that. You had single-handedly revolutionized an entire industry and kept your technology locked down so tightly that even the best corporate spies had walked away empty-handed.

But you were also—how to put this nicely?—completely, utterly unhinged. Eccentric was too mild a word. You were like a mad scientist and a particularly stubborn golden retriever had been fused together in a tragic yet strangely effective laboratory accident.

Jamil has had a front-row seat to your absurdity for months now, but today? Today takes the cake.

He enters the office expecting chaos, but he still isn't prepared to see a bouncy castle taking up the center of the room. It is massive. Garish. A primary-colored monstrosity that clashes violently with the sleek, modern aesthetic of your office. It is also, for some reason, fully inflated.

Jamil watches as you bounce in deep concentration, your tie undone, your shoes discarded somewhere in the corner. Your movements are precise, like each jump is a carefully calibrated equation.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dare I ask?”

You pause mid-bounce, floating for a second in the air like some kind of enlightened acrobat before landing gracefully and turning to him with a grin. “I needed to think.”

“…So naturally, you brought a bouncy castle.”

“Of course.” You wave a hand, as if this should be obvious. “Sometimes, when my brain gets stuck, I just need a little kinetic stimulation. You know, shake up the neurons.” You jump again, flailing slightly before catching yourself. “It’s like—have you ever had a word on the tip of your tongue, and then you do something completely different and suddenly it comes to you? Same concept. Except instead of drinking water or taking a walk, I jump on an inflatable castle like a responsible adult.”

Jamil stares. His headache is already forming. “You’re going to break your neck.”

“Nope! Tested the weight limits. We’re good.” You bounce again, then stop abruptly, eyes widening. Your entire posture shifts, shoulders straightening, expression sharpening. You scramble off the castle, grab a nearby notebook, and start writing furiously.

Jamil watches, baffled, as you tear through an entire page with equations and diagrams, the kind of thing that would take a normal person weeks to conceptualize. And then you stop, beaming like a kid who just cracked open a piñata full of gold.

“I GOT IT,” you declare, spinning the notebook around as if Jamil has the clearance—or the desire—to understand whatever ridiculous breakthrough you just had. “This is going to make everything ten times more efficient! Jamil, this is genius.”

Jamil, who has not slept properly in three days because of this mission, who has already accepted that this job is going to either kill him or make him reconsider every life decision he has ever made, just sighs. “Great. So was the bouncy castle necessary?”

You turn back to him, eyes bright, smile wider than he’s ever seen. “Absolutely.”

And the worst part? The part that truly makes him question if he’s losing his mind?

He almost believes you.

Meetings like this made you wonder if you could get away with legally replacing the entire board with three possums in a trench coat. These relics in overpriced suits had two working brain cells between them, and one was currently occupied with nursing last night’s hangover.

They thought that their decades of mismanaging money somehow gave them wisdom. You would almost find it impressive, the way they clung to their illusion of relevance, if it weren’t so unbearably tedious.

You could fire them all, of course. You could clear this room in five minutes, clean house with a snap of your fingers, but you had held back out of sheer pity. They were close to retirement—one foot in the grave and the other on a luxury cruise.

Let them ride out their last few years clutching their outdated business strategies and egos. It wasn’t like they actually did anything.

But today? Today, you were at your limit.

Jamil was standing behind you, stone-faced, but you could tell he wanted to be anywhere else. His exhaustion mirrored your own. You’d been sitting here for an hour while they droned on about numbers they clearly didn’t understand.

Internally, you begged for something—anything—to spontaneously combust just so you’d have an excuse to leave. A small fire? A sudden, mysterious blackout? A divine intervention from the heavens themselves?

And then, as if the universe had heard you and decided to throw you a different kind of entertainment, one of them made a mistake. A grave mistake.

“—not that it matters to someone like you,” one of the old fossils sneered, voice soaked in condescension. “You just sit there and look pretty. Maybe that’s why you keep your secretary around—eye candy to brighten your day, hm?”

Silence.

Jamil felt the shift before he saw it. The room, which had been filled with the usual underhanded comments and the shuffling of papers, went utterly still. The air thickened, tension snapping tight like a bowstring.

You moved, slow and deliberate, sitting up from your languid position and resting your elbows on the table. Then, with a sharp crack that echoed through the room, you slammed your hand against the polished wood. Jamil was pretty sure he saw the surface splinter.

And then, you smiled.

“Say,” you said, your voice honey-sweet, “how’s your son’s wedding prep going?”

The man blinked, startled by the sudden shift in topic. “Uh—fine?”

“That’s wonderful.” You laced your fingers together, tilting your head like a benevolent ruler addressing a particularly stupid peasant. “I hope he has a strong savings account. And you, too, for that matter.”

His confusion deepened. “Why would—?”

“Because as of right now, every single one of you is fired.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You stood, straightening your sleeves, your expression as calm as if you’d just commented on the weather. The rest of the board gaped at you, struggling to process what had just happened.

“Pack your things,” you continued, tone still sickeningly pleasant. “Security will escort you out. Your pensions will remain untouched—I’m not a monster—but your presence is no longer required. Effective immediately.”

Then, without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and strolled out of the room.

Jamil took a moment to savor the stunned expressions, the way the old man who had made the comment looked like he was trying to compute his own downfall in real time. He had seen you be cunning, eccentric, absurd, even, but this was the first time he had seen you wield your power properly. It was—

Well.

He wasn’t about to admit it was impressive.

Or flattering.

Not even as he followed you out the door, suppressing the smallest, most insufferable urge to smile.

You’re good at reading people. That’s what makes you such a good CEO. You can tell when a business partner is about to backstab you. You can spot a bad deal from a mile away. You figured out your CFO was embezzling money based on a hunch and a particularly sleepless night.

So why the hell can’t you figure out what’s going on with Jamil right now?

Your day is over. Your work is done. You’re walking out of the building, feeling suspiciously well-rested for once, because Jamil is the best damn secretary you’ve ever had.

And there he is.

Standing near the exit, very much still here, despite having clocked out hours ago.

You stop. Blink. “Jamil? What are you doing here?”

He startles like you caught him committing a felony.

Which, honestly, makes you even more confused.

Jamil is the picture of composure in any situation. He could talk his way out of a hostage negotiation, probably. He could charm a boardroom full of old, corporate sharks into agreeing with his terms.

And yet, right now, he looks like he wants to evaporate.

You tilt your head. “What’s up? You good?”

Jamil scowls like you’ve offended his ancestors. And then, without meeting your gaze, he thrusts a box at you.

"Eat properly," he grumbles. "Heaven knows you can afford it."

And then he turns on his heel and almost sprints out of the building.

You stare at his retreating figure. Then you stare at the box in your hands.

What just happened.

You consider yourself a genius. You built an empire with your own two hands. You have patents worth billions. You have business rivals who would kill to know what goes on in your head.

And yet, this one interaction has you completely, utterly lost.

It’s only when you get home that you actually open the box.

Inside is a clearly homemade meal. Balanced, nutritious, and suspiciously catered to your exact tastes.

You crouch down. Laugh a little.

And then you pull out your phone.

You: thank you <3

Meanwhile, In Jamil’s car:

He hears the message notification. Opens it. Sees your text.

And immediately slams his forehead into the steering wheel.

The honk that follows is so obnoxiously loud that a street cat outside lets out an ungodly scream and scrambles away like it just witnessed a murder.

Jamil exhales sharply. He grips the wheel like it personally wronged him.

You’re going to be the death of him.

Jamil does not get sick.

It is a fact as ironclad as his ability to keep a secret, as certain as the sun rising in the east and setting behind your ridiculous office where you concoct new ways to stress him out.

Jamil does not get sick because sickness is a weakness—an opening in his otherwise airtight, bulletproof existence.

And yet.

Here he is.

Dying. Absolutely, irredeemably, spectacularly dying.

His body betrays him completely, weighed down by a fever that could probably fry an egg on his forehead. Every muscle aches as if he has been tossed into a meat grinder, his throat is raw, and his head is a battlefield of pain and regret.

He barely manages to lift his phone and call you, the only person who needs to know why he’s breaking protocol and skipping work for the first time in his entire life.

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

And then—

“Jamil! What’s up?”

Too loud. Why are you always so loud? He winces, nearly drops his phone on his face.

“I… I can’t come in today.” His voice is hoarse, unrecognizable. Disgusting. He clears his throat, which only makes it worse. “I’m sick.”

There is a long, stunned silence.

Then, very, very slowly—

“You’re what?”

Jamil closes his eyes. He does not have the strength for this conversation.

“Sick,” he repeats, barely suppressing the urge to just fade out of existence right then and there.

Another pause. Then, in a tone that is so soft he almost doesn’t recognize it coming from you—

“…Oh.”

Something about the way you say it makes his stomach twist—though that could also be the fever.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” you say, genuinely concerned. “Rest, drink water, and if you need anything—”

He does not hear the rest.

Because he blacks out.

Jamil is sick.

Jamil, your unshakable, hyper-competent, borderline immortal assistant—the man who somehow pulls miracles out of thin air while looking vaguely unimpressed—is sick.

You expected betrayals, corporate espionage, elaborate counter-strategies in your ongoing war to get him on your side.

You did not expect this.

And worse—he sounded awful.

Not just tired. Not just mildly inconvenienced.

You sit at your desk for approximately three minutes, trying to convince yourself that it’s fine, that Jamil is a grown man who can take care of himself.

Then you Google “how to care for a sick employee” and make the deeply logical decision to immediately drop everything and go check on him yourself.

Which is how you end up outside his apartment, ringing the doorbell like a maniac.

There is no response.

You ring again. And again.

Nothing.

A small, horrible thought creeps in. What if he passed out? What if he hit his head? What if he—

Just as you're about to kick down the door in a move that would absolutely get you arrested, it creaks open.

And Jamil is standing there.

Barely.

He looks terrible.

His usual sharp, careful composure? Gone. His hair is an absolute wreck, his eyes are dazed, and his entire body is actively betraying him by swaying on his feet like a tragic willow in a storm.

You are horrified.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, stepping forward before he can literally collapse. “Jamil, you look—”

Like death. Like the very concept of suffering incarnate.

But you do not say this out loud, because you are a good person.

Instead, you step into his space and grab him before he keels over.

“You’re burning up,” you mutter, steadying him. “When was the last time you ate?”

Jamil blinks at you very slowly, like his brain is buffering at dial-up speeds.

“…Food?”

That is not an answer.

You curse under your breath and haul him back inside, which is a feat of great strength because he is all lean muscle and fever deadweight.

How did this happen? Why did this happen? Who let this happen?

Oh. Right. Him.

Jamil is going to die.

Not from the fever, no. That would be merciful.

He is going to die from sheer embarrassment because you—his boss, his greatest headache, his most infuriating problem—are here, in his apartment, fussing over him like some kind of divine punishment.

He barely registers you pulling out a thermometer and shoving it into his mouth with all the grace of someone who has never done this before.

The numbers blink back at you ominously.

“You’re burning up,” you mutter. “Okay, I’m ordering soup. And you are not moving until you eat something.”

Jamil tries to protest. He does.

But then you press a cool towel against his forehead, and—

Oh.

Oh, that is nice.

His body betrays him once again by relaxing into your touch.

By the time the soup arrives, he is too weak to even lift the spoon properly.

So you—without hesitation, without a single ounce of normal human shame—just feed him.

Like a child.

Like he is some helpless, pathetic creature.

Which, okay, maybe right now, he is.

But still. This is humiliating.

It is also the best soup he has ever had in his life.

Jamil finally falls back asleep.

And you sit there, staring at his peaceful, fever-flushed face, wondering how the hell this became your life.

You were supposed to be running a company, not playing nurse to your best-paid spy.

You should not care this much.

And yet.

You check his temperature again. Still high, but better.

You sigh, raking a hand through your hair, and grab your phone.

“Okay,” you mutter into the receiver, pacing the room. “But what do I do if he wakes up and refuses to rest?”

A pause.

Your voice drops, quieter. “Yeah, I know. I just don’t want him to push himself again.”

Behind you, Jamil shifts.

You do not notice.

But he notices you.

Your hair is mussed, your usual sharp, teasing grin replaced with something softer.

You look worried. For him.

Jamil stares, something twisting in his chest.

Oh.

Oh, he is so incredibly doomed.

You always knew Jamil was a spy. That much was obvious.

The way he answered every question perfectly in his interview? Suspicious.

The way he executed his tasks with military precision? Suspicious.

The way he didn’t try to subtly flirt with you or brown-nose like all the other incompetent spies before him? Extremely suspicious.

But he was competent. So stupidly, ridiculously competent. And you’d rather keep an enemy that made your life easier than deal with another incompetent fool.

Besides, you like playing with fire. So you decided to see how far you could push him.

So tonight, you left your office unlocked. Oh no. What a terrible mistake. If only someone didn’t sneak in and steal your files.

And to make things more interesting, you left some semi-important files open on your computer. Documents that looked serious enough to be tempting but wouldn’t actually do much damage if leaked.

Right before you left, you made sure to sigh dramatically in front of Jamil and say, “Ugh, these files have been keeping me up at night. I sure hope they don’t get leaked or anything.”

Then, you went to your surveillance setup, made yourself some popcorn, and watched.

Because of course Jamil was going to take the bait.

And sure enough, there he was.

You watch as he sits down at your desk. Silent. Focused. The very picture of efficiency.

You lean forward as he navigates to the files. Click. Click. Scroll. His fingers hover over the copy button.

And then—

He just… stops.

Your eyebrows shoot up. Oh?

Jamil stares at the screen like it personally insulted his honor. His fingers twitch over the keyboard, hesitating.

Your interest piques. He should’ve copied them by now. He’s supposed to be a professional, isn’t he?

He clicks out of the important files.

Your jaw nearly drops. What.

He clicks out. He clicks out. He actively chooses not to take anything of worth.

Instead, you watch as he scrolls past all the confidential reports—

—bypasses all the juicy, corporate secrets—

—ignores all the schematics—

—and copies a single folder labeled “raccoons_for_a_rainy_day.zip.”

You almost choke on your popcorn.

Jamil pauses. Stares at the screen for a long, long moment.

Then, as if committing a terrible crime, he ejects the USB, tucks it away, and swiftly leaves your office.

You sit there, stunned.

Because out of everything in your company’s database, out of all the valuable information he could’ve stolen—

He took your emergency raccoon meme collection.

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then, slowly, a grin spreads across your face.

Oh. Oh, this is delightful.

You knew you were converting him to your side, but this? This is proof.

Jamil, the competent, efficient, dangerously intelligent spy, had a perfect chance to complete his mission. And instead of betraying you, he chose to betray his employer instead.

For you.

How flattering.

You had dealt with a lot of strange things in your life. A lot. But this? This was definitely one of the stupidest.

Your old secretary—the one who took a bribe and fled like a rat from a sinking ship—was currently sitting in front of you, begging for her job back. Why? Who the hell knew. You had been certain that the bribe she took would have lasted her a few years, maybe even bought her a cute little vacation somewhere far away, but apparently, money couldn’t buy wisdom. Or, in her case, common sense.

You leaned back in your chair, fingers steepled together, watching her ramble through increasingly desperate justifications. I’ve changed. I’ve grown. I’ve learned from my mistakes. You doubted it.

Jamil stood beside you, completely unreadable, but you knew him well enough by now to recognize the signs of his barely contained fury. His shoulders were stiff, his posture rigid, and—most damning of all—his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

Oh, interesting.

Obviously, you weren’t rehiring her. She wasn’t even ten percent as competent as Jamil, and unlike her, Jamil wasn’t stupid enough to take a bribe when you were the one offering him far more than money. But this? This was a perfect opportunity to test something.

So you sighed, long and dramatic, before rubbing your temples as if this decision physically pained you. “I’ll consider it,” you said finally. “I’ll call you back once I’ve made my decision.”

Her face lit up, all eager gratitude, and she left the office with a bounce in her step.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you stood, intending to grab a file from your cabinet—but you didn’t get far.

Because Jamil blocked your path.

You blinked at him, more amused than anything, but your amusement flickered into something softer when you saw his face.

He looked wrecked.

Not in an angry way, not even in a controlled, simmering fury. No—this was something else entirely. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to find some sort of answer, his breath slightly uneven, his expression utterly betrayed. He looked like you had punched him in the gut.

You had seen Jamil irritated, seen him exasperated, seen him indulge in rare moments of smugness when his plans went exactly as intended. But this? This raw emotion spilling out of him like a dam breaking—this was new. And you couldn’t stop the way your heartbeat stuttered at the sight.

“Why?” His voice came out hoarse, like he barely trusted himself to speak. “Why would you… Why would you even consider hiring her back?”

You tilted your head, keeping your voice light. “Why does it bother you so much?”

Jamil’s mouth opened—then snapped shut. You could practically see his thoughts racing, running too fast for him to catch up, but something cracked inside of him, because once he started speaking, he couldn’t stop.

“Did I mess up?” he demanded, voice sharper than he probably intended. “Was I not good enough? Did I do something wrong? Why would you—” He cut himself off, exhaling shakily, his hands twitching at his sides like he desperately wanted to reach for you. “You know she isn’t competent. You know she isn’t better than me.”

You hummed, tilting your head in faux thoughtfulness. “Of course, I’ll give you a different position,” you mused. “No need to worry about job security.”

Jamil broke.

Before you could even register the movement, he grabbed you.

His hands found your face, his fingers curling against your skin like he needed to ground himself, like he needed to prove something—and then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was desperate, burning with frustration and something deeper, something so much more vulnerable than you had ever expected from him.

And then, hypothesis proven, you kissed him back.

For a moment, you simply blinked.

Jamil pulls away like he just touched something scalding, his breath uneven, his eyes wide with something close to terror. You watch as realization sets in—his own actions hitting him all at once, like a dam finally bursting and drowning him in the consequences of his own emotions.

“I—” His voice is hoarse, almost shaky, but he’s trying to regain control, trying to salvage something, anything. “I’m not who you think I am.” He says it like a confession, like a last-ditch effort to make you see reason, to make you step back and realize that you shouldn’t want him, that you shouldn’t choose him. “I was hired to—”

“My dear, sweet spy,” you interrupt, voice dripping with amused affection, “won’t you be mine?”

Jamil freezes.

You can see the exact second it dawns on him. The way his expression shifts from confused horror to pure, unfiltered disbelief. You knew. You always knew. Of course you did. He should’ve realized it sooner. You were too sharp, too perceptive, too you to have been in the dark about something so crucial.

And yet, here you were. Choosing him anyway.

His lips twitch. His shoulders shake. And then, he laughs.

Not a small chuckle, not a bitter scoff, but a real laugh, something rare and unguarded, something so genuinely light that it catches even him off guard. He laughs so hard that he nearly doubles over, his forehead dropping against yours as he exhales shakily, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

You feel his breath ghost against your skin, feel the warmth of him so close, and yet, there is no hesitation anymore, no careful, measured distance.

He shakes his head, still breathless from laughing, and when he finally meets your gaze, his expression is something unreadable, something painfully soft.

And this time, when he kisses you, there’s no fear left.

“…Fine,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m yours.”

You wake up to the warmth of an arm draped over your waist, the steady rise and fall of a familiar chest behind you. It’s a rare thing—to wake before Jamil. He’s always been the early riser between you, slipping out of bed before the sun has even had the chance to settle into the sky. But today, for the first time in two years, you’re the one watching him sleep.

Two years since his terrified confession. Two years since you pulled him into the kind of love neither of you had ever expected to find. Two years of whispered promises, stolen kisses, and a loyalty that runs deeper than any mission, deeper than any past betrayal.

The early morning light filters in through the curtains, soft and golden, catching on the matching rings on your fingers. A quiet proof of what you’ve built together. The sight makes something tender settle in your chest, and you press a kiss to his forehead, gentle and lingering.

Jamil stirs, brow furrowing for just a moment before he instinctively pulls you closer, his grip tightening around your waist. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, voice thick with sleep as he murmurs, “Why’re you awake so early…?”

You smile, carding your fingers through his hair as you whisper, “Go back to sleep.”

And as the warmth of him lulls you back into slumber, a thought drifts lazily through your mind—

"You sleep too," he grumbles, but it’s lazy, half-hearted. You can already feel his breath evening out, his body relaxing against yours once more. You keep stroking his hair, slow and rhythmic, feeling the last bits of tension melt from his frame.

Maybe playing with fire was the smartest move you ever made.

Masterlist

[vviipers]

leona kingscholar/reader. gender-neutral reader. ~700 words. there's one (1) line of dialogue in this entire thing.

there's a sleeping lion between your legs the second your hands touch his mane.

leona's head bobs and sways every time you comb your hands through the tangled locks and you're not sure if it's because he's actually asleep or because he's chasing your touch.

(you know full and well it's the latter.)

ruggie pops in and out of the room periodically to pull out leona's uniform and ensure he hasn't dragged you back into the bed. he's snickering and you can tell he's considering doing something for blackmail, but he's quick to talk himself out of it and leave with a wave.

leona's hair is softer than the first time you touched it. it's easier to comb through and braid since that time octavinelle tried to swindle ramshackle, weaving through your fingers like delicately grown grass with the occasional hiccup.

he takes better care of his hair nowadays, even if he does force you to do most (if not all) the work. better wording would be he's more willing to care for it, but you've been told of the effort he puts into a routine when you're not available.

(even if he denies it and says ruggie's a liar, you'd have to be blind to not see the amount of product littering his bathroom.)

admittedly, you were most thankful when he started braiding and tying his hair up at night. you remember how he'd squeeze your thigh or bite his hand whenever you'd try to untangle and style it after getting him up.

leona's tail swats your foot when you accidentally rake a hand over his ear, his teeth lightly scraping against the knee he laid his head on. a silent warning that you're quick to acknowledge by rubbing around the ear before smoothing the hair again.

your fingers glide through his hair as you braid it. he's compliant when it comes to not leaning into the way you pull and stroke to make sure no strand is too loose, a quiet, rumbling noise leaving him whenever you do.

when tapping and gentle shakes don't work, you have to stop touching him entirely for him to barely wake. his chin is sharp on your thigh when he finally turns his head, eyes trying hard as they might to glare at you through his tiredness.

a hand combing through the hair that frames his face gets him to turn until he can angle his head up at you properly. he lays his head down once you start planning where to start the first braid and all you're able to focus on is the way the waves of his hair have become defined coils.

they bounce back every time you pull a strand into the braid and you can confidently say it's the most fun you've had doing anyone's hair.

you have to press the braid between his lips to keep it from unraveling. his nose sniffs because he can feel a few stray strands tickle it, but he doesn't spit it out when you do gymnastics to reach the closest hair tie.

(there were at least thirteen scattered somewhere between the sheets. you think some of them snapped during the day and finally fell when he collapsed in bed, though there was also the possibility he just tugged them off when he settled down for the day.)

(that'd explain why all of them had strands of hair impossibly wound around them.)

muscle memory kicks in when you tap his head onto the other leg and start the second braid. taking the other tie and wrapping it around it, you wonder if he'll drag you back into bed or get dressed enough to drag you to one of his favorite spots.

while the thought of escaping to get yourself ready for the day is tempting, you know he'll only hold tight at refuse to let you go.

you're not sure why you didn't expect him to wrap an arm around each thigh, holding you in place after an unfortunate twitch. his eyes open as wide as they can like some sort of threat and the only answer you give him is a peck on the forehead.

"we have to get going," you hum, thumb rubbing against the apple of his cheek. his grip tightens and you're on the floor before you know it.

he's holding your head against his chest like he's protecting you from the dust on the ground and all you're thinking about is how you have to go through the entire process a third time.

[vviipers]

a painted white rose, still so red

in which ace has seen you in his dreams too many times.

SUMMARY: it should not be his unique magic at all. it couldn't be. for whatever sick joke this was, ace has come to known you before anything has happened. he swears he has been here before, said these same words, and moved through these same sequences. if such was true, then the last thing he would ever want to see was you entering diasomnia for lilia's party.

PAIRINGS: ace trappola x fem reader

WARNINGS: prefect dies multiple times, angst, time-loop au, book 7 spoilers

He swore that you were crushed under the Red Tyrant’s heels before his very eyes. 

Ace still remembers that image of your horror-stricken expression before it all went dark, the way your hand was outstretched to him in a desperate attempt to be saved. Of course, he does recall reaching out towards you as well, fingers barely touching as the splatter of ink splashed across his face. You couldn’t have known Riddle’s strength. After all, you did come from another world beyond the mirrors. If Ace hadn’t provoked him with that punch, maybe you would have lived then.

And yet, you sit across from him sipping tea beside the very queen that took your life. Both of you were laughing too, and whatever remnants of the tyrant remained in Riddle, were merely washed away. The scent of ink is gone from his nose, replaced by the faintest scent of cakes and teas. You were alive and well today, as you were yesterday, and the day before that.

“Ace?” 

He snapped out of his trance, only to meet your concerned gaze. You tilted your head at him with a small smile. “You’re going to spill your tea.” Alarmed by the sensation of hot droplets falling on his trousers, the redhead hissed and patted away the heat. Everything is alright once he sees your smile, followed by that mischievous gaze that you rarely held for him. You were always much more careful after all, it was no wonder that Ace and Deuce were often under your watch. Scowling at your amused smile, Ace ran a hand through his hair and reached out towards you, pinching your cheek slightly while Riddle was not looking. His spirits had returned as he heard a childish whine leave your lips, manifesting as a slight curl of his lip.

“Yeah, yeah. Kinda hard to laugh like that, don’t you think?” You pout at him and take a quick glance at Riddle, almost tempted to tattle until a hedgehog finds its way into your hands.

It was only a dream, and you were still there.

A few nights later, he dreamt of your sullen expression fading away into sand. Akin to a stone sculpture, your body was frozen in time. Save for your head, you glare at someone with utter defiance and anger. Your wrist clutched by a clawed figure, you screech and screech until your throat is reduced to dry particles that soon faded into the air. Ace couldn’t hear a single thing that was leaving your mouth, but he does watch as you face him with frightened eyes. Along with that dirty tornado behind you, you were no longer where you stood and Ace found himself screaming in the fray. How he wished that he had the power to knock that blotted lion into the dirt, make him know what it is like to disappear from existence with a single touch of a hand. Ace gets closer and closer, pen aimed at those white fangs until he is back in his room with sunlight blinding his sight.

All it took were a few minutes to call you, and find relief in the fact that you were in your potions class and he was late. It was only a dream, and you were only there.

There was a certain point when he had a certain feeling that told him to not associate with the Octanivelle Housewarden. Something very sinister was hiding underneath those piles of contracts sitting at his desk, and Great Sevens, did Ace regret ever signing those contracts. Hiding away his shame and that slight tinge of paranoia, he could only sheepishly smile at your disapproving expression when he comes to admit that he enlisted Azul's help to cheat for the upcoming exam. Everything should have been alright, and you would have saved the day with the wits that got you out of the toughest of spots.

But when Ace swears he heard your spine snap in two when Azul's tentacles had squeezed around you so tight, the world had ended then. You looked so peaceful with your head lulling with the water currents, eyes shut as if you were asleep. You wouldn't hear Ace's gurgling screech through the water anyways.

And yet, you did.

"Ace! Ace! Wake up!" A hand clutching at his chest, Ace staggered awake with a frightened expression. His vision began to unblur, returning him to Crewel's classroom, eyes fixated on him, and most importantly, a very irritated Crewel. "Napping again, are we, Trappola?" Ace couldn't even gather the nerve to give a witty retort as he faces you from across the room. Your expression held concern, even worry.

Gritting his teeth, the frazzled redhead stood from his desk, muttering an apology before he left the room. Later, he tells you to get out of his head with a slight shove before retreating to Heartslabyul.

Ace found it extremely difficult to look at the Octanivelle Housewarden in the eye without fighting the urge to lunge at him.

It was only a dream, and you were still here.

Sometimes, the daydreams invade Ace’s mind more than he would have liked. There are days when he pauses midconversation as pictures play out in his head. 

They are not always so frightening. Suddenly, he knows how to dance without ever having to practice. Who would’ve known that he was decent at singing too? No one recalls those nights spent in your dorm, that beautiful show put on with the help of the Pomefiore students. He knows that you spend some nights with the Prince of Briar Valley on the Ramshackle Dorm’s rooftop when the moon is out, but you never told him a thing about these escapades. He knows about the mouse in the mirror of your shared bedroom. He knows that you like to have your hand held when Grim is nowhere to be found. He knows your smile and laughter in ways that no other student did, only when they were directed at him. All these hints of knowledge, and yet he knew before you even told him about any of them.

For all that it was worth, it appeared that you weren’t the magicless student that everyone believed you to be.

And Ace wished that you were nothing more than a magicless student. If only you weren't so sacrificing and kind to him, to Deuce, to Riddle, to almost every single person you have met. Stupid prefect, why can't you just save yourself instead of trying to save others?

He ponders on the question as he stares at your bored expression, fixated on the rackety ceiling of the Ramshackle dorm. Ace finds himself on one side of your creaking mattress, digging crescent marks onto his skin. Grim's snores were far away onto that little loveseat, and Ace knows that he won't be waking from his deep slumber. His heart ached and hung desperately from his ribcage as he watched you shift and sigh.

Ace feared that if he dreamed, it would be of nothing good.

"Ace, you're weirding me out." With a confused blink, Ace furrowed his eyebrows as you turned to face him with a concerned expression. "I know that the winter break is coming up, but don't you think you're acting a bit too clingy?"

"—ack!?" Choking on air, Ace's eyes widened at your accusation before he sat up, misplaced offense written all over his face. You continued to stare at him, seemingly unfazed by the thought. "You are acting clingy! You've been coming over for the past three weeks, and Riddle tells me that you haven't done anything to avoid your own dorm as of late."

Finally, both of you are seated upwards. You couldn't help but feel his leg align next to yours, his foot subconsciously playing with your own. Ace does everything he could to avoid looking you in the eye, prompting himself to turn away with a bitten lip. "I'm not being clingy. Don't get your hopes so high, prefect." You don't react to the way he spits out those words in such an abrasive tone. Instead you smirk at him, shaking your head as you lightly knocked your head against the wall.

"Aww, are you going to miss me when you go back home? I didn't know you cared about me that much, Ace."

"I don't! Shut up!" Ace's shout was shrunken down to a whisper as you both eyed Grim who happened to stir in his sleep. With a strained sigh, Ace scowled and nudged your shoulder with a harsh finger. "You don't get it, prefect. This is your fault." He clenched his jaw at the way you looked at him with such offense, but yet so softly as if you understood. "How is this my fault? I don't remember asking you to be my shadow." You whispered. Ace hates how he knows that you're smiling despite how dark it is. He has seen that smile and heard that voice together in those false memories that haunt him at night.

Clicking his tongue, Ace yanked your shoulder downwards back to the mattress. Forcibly tucking the blanket in, he sneered at you in annoyance. "You can't talk. You're the one talking to a weird stranger in the middle of the night. If Deuce and I never caught him that one time—" He paused and sighed before cutting that conversation short. Cheeks dusted pink, he grabbed the blankets and turned his back on your figure.

"Forget it. I'm gonna tap out now."

Ace is grateful that you never push him too much whenever he acted out like this. You do ask, and share your curiosities from time to time, often asking 'why'. This was an occurrence in which you let him be, only letting out that hum he had grown so accustomed to hearing in the day and night.

Feeling your calf brush against his, Ace stilled as his heart was flooded with relief and embarrassment. He shouldn't be thinking much about the idea of sharing a bed with you. It's no different from sharing a bed with a friend. No one can tell him why he feels both erratic and at peace when he feels your warm skin against his. He hates it. He hates every single bit of it. He hates you. He hates how you haunt his dreams. He hates how you haunt him in the day. He hates how you can never leave his head, and hates that—

"Ace?" His heart clenches once more at your sleepy murmur. He has yet to turn around and face you. "Yeah?"

"Thanks for keeping me company, but I can take care of myself! I can handle everything."

Of course, you could handle everything. Who do you think protects you? Who do you think has this weird ability to see the future and fix it before it ever happens?!

Ace remains silent, staring into the shadows as he attempted to force himself to sleep. Everything would be fine tonight. He won't let anything happen to you, not while you continue to haunt his dreams.

That night, he dances into a poisonous fog and with a prefect decaying in his arms.

That morning, he wakes up holding you a bit closer than he would've wanted to. It is only a dream, and you are still here.

It was snowing when he finally questions why he cared so much.

He should have trusted his gut when something was screaming at him to stay. He should have known something was wrong when all he dreamt of was sand piling up in a container.

Stay.

Stay.

Stay.

Perhaps if he dreamt a bit longer while he was at the college, it might have been enough to make him stay. Only when he was thousands of kilometers away from you, did he finally get the final piece of those dreams of sand.

He prays to the Seven that this was not a cruel joke. You only ever seem to die right in front of him in his dreams. By this point, he believes you are in Scarabia and he wants nothing more than to knock that vice-housewarden down to a peg. At least, that is what he tells himself.

Ace would not be able to handle the idea of you being buried alive in sand.

He still cannot stomach the thought, even now as you fidget on the bench. You are seated closely to him, thick puffy jackets touching as snow continued to flutter down. Deuce had taken Grim to the cafeteria to fill their stomachs. You did not expect Ace to tell you to follow him. Of all the things he could have said, "We need to talk," was the last thing you ever imagined him saying.

Your cheeks are flushed pink, and you cannot tell whether it is because of the weather or if it was over your own thoughts. Ace is too quiet, and just as always, he was avoiding eye contact with you again.

"How is your arm?"

"My arm is doing better. Jamil's overblot episode left a bit of a bruise, but other than that, it's healing."

"That's good."

Silence once more fills the air, save for the winds rustling through the pine trees and the sound of Ace's sharp breaths. You could only watch as his blank expression warps into one of heartbreak as he continued to stare blankly into the distance. His breath continues to shudder and hitch, and you swear it is anxiety as he begins to wince and whimper.

And suddenly, he blinks and he returns to you.

Whatever bravado he had in confronting you was broken down. Your heart ached at Ace's pained expression as he faced you. With a quick shake of his head, he rose to his feet and began walking away.

Concerned, you returned on your feet and gave chase as his steps hastened. "Ace, what's wrong?!" He cannot bear to hear you. He should have found relief in hearing your voice, but he doesn't want to hear. He needs you out of his head, out of his mind, and out of his head. He needs you close, in sight, in his ears, in his mind, and in his heart where he can lock you away forever.

"Ace, wait!" You panted out, reaching your hand out to grab at his scarf. Instead, all you feel is the slip of your toes against ice and you could only prepare to hit those cold shards on the ground— but you don't.

Cold calloused hands grip tightly onto your elbows, keeping you upright as you struggle to regain footing. As you allowed your pounding heart to calm in your chest, you catch a glimpse of Ace's angered expression. "Prefect, you need to be careful!" To your own surprise, your eyes flare with defiance as you pulled yourself out of his grip. "Okay, what's the matter with you, Ace? You've been acting weird since the start of the year." Eyebrows furrowed, you crossed your arms and gritted your teeth. "I think you're being too much. I'm not some glass figure that breaks so easily."

Something inside Ace snaps. In his frustration, his hands lunge out for you once more. Fingers were tightly latched against your elbow, not too harshly, however. He leans in closely to your face, red with exhaustion and exasperation. "Prefect, are you dumb?! This is the fourth overblot you survived and you still think you're invincible?!" Before you could reply, Ace let out a frustrated groan in an attempt to silence you. "What makes you think you can survive a fifth, sixth, or seventh?"

You paused, almost shocked by how Ace's voice seemed to crack at the end of his sentence. Only then, finally you listen and you still. Ace remained fixated on your face, torn between his angered expression and one of heartbreak.

Without warning, his arms wrapped themselves around your body. One arm across your shoulders, the other around your waist, and it is his head that is laid on your shoulder. You couldn’t see his obscured expression this way, but judging by the quietness in his voice, it was anything but insincere. “We can run away. We still have time to run before we even get those invitations to that Diasomnia farewell party.” He takes a moment to realize that he did sound insane. Perhaps you simply thought that this was just another one of his spontaneous ideas for mischief, evoking a dry sigh from your lips. Did you even understand what he was trying to tell you? Deep down, however, the rare gentleness in his tone told you otherwise.

“Ace, what are you—”

You felt his grip on you tighten, seemingly afraid of letting you go in fear that he will never have this chance again. In your melancholy, your hands hesitantly crept up to his forearm, squeezing weakly. “If we get Deuce in on this too, we can take those blastcycles and get the hell out of this island. You won’t have to deal with another Overblot ever again.”

And Ace knows that happy endings exist, and they are not obtained without sacrifice. He thinks about the many times you had to sacrifice your life for even a page of that hopeful fantasy that nobody dies, and it nearly breaks him. The boy didn’t want to think any further of how much more you will have to suffer these mundane motions to achieve the ending you wanted. He had only half a mind with not enough memories to make clear judgements, and yet—

“Ace,”

Had it not been for his attempts to keep himself from caving into his emotions, he would have begged and pleaded at your feet. Even so, he was thankful that the snow continued to fall violently to obscure your vision. You did not have to look at him to know what pained him, however.

He hates the way you hum so nonchalantly, betraying all the other versions of you that have died before his eyes, betraying the seemingly hundreds of you that never woke up from that sleeping spell. Ace already knows you are smiling, just as you have in his dreams. It is that damn smile that kills him.

It was that stupid smile of yours that screamed of nothing but acceptance.

“Don’t you think we’ve already tried that before?”

.

.

.

.

.

.

As Malleus lulls the school to sleep, Ace makes an effort to crawl to your resting body. He fights and fights against the inevitable spell, taking the time to glare at the stunned fae as he pulls himself on the carpet with his nails, all to reach you. Ace never stops glaring as he curls himself against your back, holding you so close to him. Just as sleep finally took over, he buried himself into your hair, the loveliest place to die.

He wonders if you are dreaming right now.

Ace wonders if he ever gets to rescue you in your dreams, as he regrets he could not rescue you from this one.

[vviipers]

Jamil Viper

Jamil found a strange comfort in the prefect. It was like a breath of fresh air, a clean slate. Before his overblot, he stuck to the shadows and did his due diligence as a servant. After, he could be much more real, but at the cost of everyone looking at him with scrutiny and suspicion. It wasn’t like that with her. She didn’t see a servant or the fool who overblotted. She just saw him.

Others noticed it before even Jamil himself did. Waiting outside her classroom so they could walk together. Carrying stacks of books in the library so she can study. Spending breaks at the Ramshackle dorm helping her fix the place up. It was subtle things like that, that showed how much affection he held for the Prefect. At first.

“You’re spoiling me here.” She held the container of food with reverence.

“I have to make food for Kalim anyway,” Jamil explains. “And he eats a different amount everyday. I never know when I’m going to have leftovers.” He sounds exasperated just talking about his charge.

“This is a lot,” she notes. “Wanna come in and share? Wasn’t there another movie you wanted us to watch?” Already pushing inside her dorm and leading, she didn’t even bother to see if Jamil was following.

He was.

[vviipers]

880 words. (loz: tp) malo, talo, beth, colin & fem! reader. (loz: tp) mentioned link/fem! reader.

"C'mon down, Miss Priss!"

The nickname was cute and the children's Ordanian drawl would have made you bow in any other situation, but you were more than happy sitting on the porch of Link's home as you flipped through your book.

It'd rained all day long for three days. While today had lightened up to a simple spring shower, the ground was still soaked through until it became mud. You'd gotten the displeasure of watching several villagers slip and slide as they traveled between Ordon and Ordona's spring, most of which involved the children. While you were morally obligated, you hated making the trek down the ladder and into the mud whenever you heard a yelp.

"She's made outta crystal, y'know! Those city folk weren't meant for down here!"

They were right. It was a miracle you even survived your first few months of living in the village. You never minded helping around the farm or doing some yard work for the ladies, but that was the extent of outdoor work you did.

It wasn't that you were completely useless. The guilt of sitting pretty at home would guilt you the same way it did in Castletown.

Germs were gross. Your research (and overall feeling of ick after touching something dirty) had taught you as much. It's what made you made you so good at your job.

"Maybe when the grass comes back," you gently try to placate them. The comment makes them look down at the mud to fact-check you, Talo stomping and jumping around to shove the remaining blades down. "I'm always here if you have a boo-boo, though!"

"Boo-boo," Malo mimics, rubbing his thumb against his lips before sucking it into his mouth. Even without your grimace, he's quick to spit it out after discovering the mud covering it made it less appetizing. "Blegh! What's that?"

Beth shakes her head in disapproval and looks up from the drawing she and Colin are currently coloring. There's a pile of them carefully arranged around the porch, most held in your lap so they don't spill out from under the protection of the umbrella. "It's a cut, isn't it?"

You nod and she brushes hair over her shoulder in pride. A giggle leaves her when you brush a stray from over her ear, crying that it was ticklish.

She was your student, used loosely, so of course she picked up on the strange words you used in your day-to-day. If you thought back hard enough, you could remember the way she looked when you offhandedly repeated a few sayings she'd never heard.

(If you thought even further, you could recall the way Beth glared at you when Link had brought you to Kakariko. She'd hated you even more when all was said and done, pulling you aside and giving you empty threats when he'd formerly introduced you as his lover.)

(You'd never taken her seriously. It had taken some time, but she quickly warmed up after you cared for her while her parents visited Castletown for a week.)

Something in the conversation makes Colin perk up, leaning off of his stomach and onto his side. "Missus," he starts before adding your name, brows furrowed as he tries remembering if he was supposed to use it or miss. "Can you bring us some more stuff you keep in that box? Link 'n' Fado keep using it all."

It's not a shocking bit of information. In the year and a half you've known Link, he's been more than risky in all his endeavors. It's only natural he'd find a way to get himself hurt herding goats, collecting cuckoos, and harvesting pumpkins.

"Of course," you hum, slipping your bookmark between the pages and folding it closed. Standing, you gesture for Talo and Malo to come up the ladder and ignore the way they stomp their feet in argument. "You all must be hungry, right? Beth, why don't you help Colin make a new kit— pack it full— and I can make you all something to eat."

That gets the boys to lighten up, Talo helping Malo clamber up the ladder before following close on his tail. They shed their jackets and dirty pants, donning the shorts beneath while rubbing their stomachs as though starved.

"Can you make those soup 'n' sandwiches you make when we're sick? The red one that you can put the cheesy ones in!" Colin's suggestion is one all the kids agree with, stopping by the fireplace to warm their hands before scattering.

It takes you a moment to figure out what he's talking about, taking until you finish washing your hands to clarify. "Tomato soup and melted cheese?"

"Yeah! That!" Malo hisses and pushes his chair away from the fire once he gets too hot too fast, wrapping the blanket he snagged from the recliner tightly around his shoulders. "And that juice too!"

"Maybe," you laugh, retrieving the ingredients from the newly installed cooler. "Any last requests for my royal highnesses?"

There's a few more thrown into the air, a couple in your ear and the other from the basement. You don't think you had anything to bake their sweet-tooth cravings, but you're sure the rainy day would be enough to make you all creative.

[vviipers]

600 words. (twst) najma viper & fem! reader. (twst) jamil viper/fem! reader. companion piece.

Najma's hand was firm in yours.

You know she notices how clammy it felt and how often it seemed to shake, yet she says nothing. She gives you a squeeze when she pulls away, turning you around to adjust your outfit for the last, finishing touches— a nervous habit of hers.

Despite how light and airy your dress was, the golden jewelry that decorated your body felt like shackles. You desperately wanted to fidget and twist the rows of bangles, twirl the earrings away the pieces of hair it nearly caught, and yank off the necklaces that were supposed to be layered across your neck and shoulders.

You felt tacky.

"You look beautiful," Najma hums in a quiet voice, wiping away a speck of stray eye powder from your red-tinted lids. She squints to better make sure the golden flecks she artfully placed atop were still present and subtle. "The best I've made you look all year, if you ask me."

A year, that's right.

It's been twelve months since Najma and Jamil came to serve on you hand and foot— eleven since she'd caught onto the fact you fancied her brother.

She gets a little loose-lipped when tired, so it's also been a month since she'd finally confessed Jamil was just as interested in you.

With the way she gasped and flipped herself away from you, it was impossible to forget the memory. It's the most embarrassed you've seen her.

You hadn't talked about it since.

Najma's hands twitch at their sides when she gives you a once-over a final time. She's kneading the sheer fabric of her equally beautiful (but less tacky and extravagant) dress between her knuckles when her eyes catch on your lips.

"You're pouting."

You nod and bring her into a hug when the voices through the overly large double doors seem to grow louder. "I hate this," you answer in an airy voice, smoothing down a strand of hair that refuses to lie down in the back of her head.

You're careful to not catch the rings that decorate your fingers on anything of hers, instead using the only one left bare.

Najma looks out a breath that shakes her. "I do too."

Forcing herself to pull away, dabs at her eyes when the clink of a glass resounds through the doors. You can hear your aunt begin saying her thanks to everyone who came shortly after the chatter and music dies down.

"I'll be following you around, okay?" She sounds like she's comforting herself more than you. "Jamil'll be stationed near whatever entryway you're near, right?"

From the side, you hear Jamil let out an affirmative hum.

His mind is elsewhere, even if his eyes were trained sternly on the two of you. A year's worth of watching him bloom into something more social told you that.

You have half the heart to ask him where he is. The other, more logical half knows you have to separate.

"If you need anything," Najma adds, bringing your attention back to her with a steady hold on your arms, "and I mean it, you know how to call us."

You did. They'd taught you more than enough signs (both verbal and physical) for just about every situation that could arise— even the sillier ones.

The next hug you bring her into is short, interrupted by your cue to enter.

Najma scrambles through one of the many servant passageways and Jamil passes by you to swing the doors open.

The hand he slides awkwardly across your back is to flatten out your top.

You're sure of it.

[vviipers]

what if?

I just know they'd get along in childhood. Voices in my head told me that.

Oasis Maker V.S. The King's Roar.

I am impressed how Leona and Kalim are polar opposites in everything, even in signature spells. Like life and death. As Oasis Maker brings life with its water to the lifeless sands, so King's Roar takes the life away from any being it touches by turning it into the sand.

Anyway - besties. Though I believe Jamil would still try to avoid Leona because of his noble birth.

[vviipers]

Hiiii I just wanted to say that I love the way you draw Leona and your headcanons about him as a baby are soooooo good <3 he’s so kibty

Thank you for your wonderful art of him!!!

spicy kitten he is. I found more sketches though🫡

(this last sketch is one of the "what if scaraduo and Leona met in childhood" post but I couldn't add more media in there)

[vviipers]

im so sorry for commenting on a post that's like 5 months old but i just want to say that your kalim-leona-childhood-friends post has lived in my head rent-free the DAY i saw it, i love it sm and especially the last frame where they're stacked on top of eachother like :O :T and it makes me want to grab their faces and rough them up (affectionately)

raghsbfahsd they're so adorable and your art makes them look so soft like hugging a big marshmallow and all i want to say is that even though i don't do art, you would definitely be one of my inspirations if i did, ur style is so lovely :DDD

THANK YOUU 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼 it's still a surprise to me that this post had an impact on so many people, but I am glad about it! I love them and they have potential.

have a bit more of sketches before I forget they exist!

time flies!

[vviipers]

930 words. (twst) cheka kingscholar & fem! reader. (twst) leona kingscholar/fem! reader.

The apartment next door was finally leased out.

It was a man and his son, both lion beastmen and from the capital of Afterglow Savanna if their accents were anything to go by.

It wasn't uncommon to run into the boy (literally), Cheka, when leaving your appointment in the morning. You'd sit on the stairs of the complex with him as he waited for his bus to show, just to make sure he wasn't completely alone.

You hadn't meant to get as attached to him as you did.

He was a sweetheart, hugging you before running off to join his friends on the school bus. It was always a short ten minutes that you spent with him, mostly filled with him telling you what he did the day prior or watching Mousey-Toons on your phone.

Cheka had even taken to adding missus in front of your name whenever calling your attention, even after the dozens of times you've corrected him. He'd especially loved to tack it on whenever you let him inside during the colder months with his enthusiastic thank yous, kicking his legs back and forth as he nursed on a cup of pink lemonade once settled.

You'd asked about his father one day. You're curious about why you've only ever seen him once in a blue moon and the only thing he responds with is furrowed brows and flattened ears.

"The man you live with," you clarify, hands moving around your head as you describe him. "Scar over his eye? Long hair? A little mean looking?"

That makes Cheka laugh and you have to take glass from him so it doesn't slip out of his hands. "That's Unca Leona! He's my unca! He sleeps a lot." He scrunches his hands once he's finished speaking, gulping down the remaining drink with a self-satisfying sigh as he sets the cup down with a clink.

"Your uncle?"

He doesn't look at you like you're stupid when you ask, nodding enthusiastically while reaching for his hazelnut spread sandwich. "Yeah," he answers with a cheek full of it.

The alarm on your phone goes off and Cheka is getting up from his chair as per your routine. You put his bag on one shoulder and your own on the other, following him out the door while he continues to bite at his sandwich. He hugs your legs once you're close enough to the bus, running halfway up the steps before he remembers his bookbag and runs back to retrieve it with a giggle.

When he gets home from school, he visits and stays over for a few hours until his uncle knocks either on your door or your shared living room wall. Sometimes he doesn't leave, only opening the door and returning with a bag full of takeout.

You always return the favor by sending Cheka over with the amount printed on the receipt. Eventually, they start coming without them and you have to do the extra work to find the approximate price.

(You've started ignoring the envelopes of money Cheka tries giving you in the mornings too. He always lights up after you tell him to put whatever's inside in his piggy bank and save up for that block set he wants for his birthday.)

(You'll ignore that same set you have sitting in the back of your closet.)

It's not a shock when he— Leona— comes knocking on your door during winter break. He's shoving an envelope in your hand and turning away before you can quite keep up.

"Stop," he starts after you grab onto his wrist. He doesn't snatch it away, but you do drop it. His voice is raspy, but you don't know if it's natural or from him just waking up. "Payin' me back."

You squint and force the envelope back into his hand. You don't like how thick it feels. "If you're not taking the money, then at least put it towards Cheka."

In the few months you've known the boy, you've taken enough notes to recognize his more subtle body language, even if he wore his emotions openly on his face.

His uncle is no different regardless of his subtlety.

"His parents 'n' I already give 'im more than enough."

"Then a little more wouldn't hurt."

Leona closes his eyes. Whether it's because he's growing frustrated at your stubbornness or trying to come up with another argument, you also don't know. "He's gonna get spoiled. I don't wanna have'ta raise a brat."

"He's fine so far." You step away when he holds the envelope out, giving him your sweetest smile when he extends his arm further. "Maybe a rainy day fund then?"

"Don't need it."

"Neither do I."

Whatever game of hot potato and cat-and-mouse is ended by a gasp from Cheka. "Unca!" He's running his way up to Leona and has jumped into his arms, practically purring. "Are we going out today? Is missus," he mispronounces your name again and you've given up on correcting him, "coming?"

Leona closes his eyes again and lets out a heaving breath. You don't say anything in case it ruins the rest of his day.

"If," he yawns, cutting himself off while he shifts Cheka to his hip, "she wants. We'll use what's in here."

When Cheka turns to look at you, his big eyes make it impossible to say no.

"If you'll have me," you hum, huffing out a laugh when he practically jumps into your arms.

You ignore the hand Leona swipes down his face, squeezing Cheka back equally as tight when he throws his arms around your neck.

[vviipers]

1.1k words. (twst) najma viper & fem! reader. (twst) jamil viper/fem! reader.

He was a gift from the esteemed Asim family.

When he and his sister bowed before you and your advisor, his sellers had labeled them both as "anything you could ever want in a human; a cook, a knight, and," you'd stopped listening around then.

You were dismissed before you could properly meet them.

Najma, the younger sister, was assigned to be by your side. Morning, afternoon, and throughout the night, she'd quickly grown comfortable talking your ear off whenever prompted— she'd even do so whenever when you were turning in for the night, animatedly telling you stories from her hometown while you both curled up in your overly large bed.

(It was important to call them stories and not tales. She always had that glint in her eye that just screamed she was reminiscing on happy memories. There was the widest grin on her face even as sleep tried keeping her grip tight, limbs just barely containing themselves from kicking out.)

Najma Viper was a breath of fresh air in such a suffocating palace. Day in, day out, learning how to be prim and proper for when you were inevitably married off to some far-off prince for political reasons; she was a much-wanted change in your monotonous routine.

If Najma was the splash of color in your life, Jamil was a small grey dot that blended in with all else in your life.

He was as quiet as a mouse— or more fittingly a predator waiting to strike. Had Najma not greeted him in that always discreet, always equally silent way she did, you wouldn't have known whenever he was watching from around a corner or inside a shadow.

Jamil was also assigned to you. Not as closely as Najma, but he was always there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The closest thing you could compare him to was a knight, even if he never dressed in the suits and uniforms others did. He kept his weapons concealed, his hands flat against his thighs, but he never seemed to tire. He could fight as well as Najma could— if not better— but he'd never show as much if he didn't need to.

When he joined you and Najma on your inevitable escapades, he'd always trail a distance behind you. Always quiet, never participating in conversation unless he was saying it was time to return home. It was easy to forget he was there if he wasn't breathing down your neck, looming over your shoulder when Najma's threats weren't enough.

You thought he had evil eyes. A chance glance over your shoulder during one of those adventures told you as much.

There was always a stormy cloud swarming itself around his equally grey irises. You told Najma you thought as much as she helped you prepare for a festival. He had stormy eyes that were ready to pelt the world with rain, sleet, and hail at a moment's notice while she held heavy mist within hers.

She had laughed and asked if she held that same evil within hers.

You shook your head and puckered your lips when she pinched your cheeks together, keeping your head still so she could apply a muted crimson shade of lipstick. A sweetheart through and through is what you told her once she let you go.

You don't hold a proper conversation with Jamil until Najma falls ill from poison on your plate.

You're brushing strands of hair from her sweat-slicked forward when he enters the guest bedroom just across from yours.

It's the room she'd been assigned when she first joined, but it's uncomfortably bare aside from the essentials; all of her personal items finding home alongside yours at your insistence. In the short month they've lived in the palace, her belongings have managed to take up as much space as yours.

Jamil jumps at the opportunity to do something with his hands when she wakes briefly. She asked for a quilt to be removed and a cardigan (one of yours, of course. She loved them because she thought the outrageous price of them made them feel better), tossing and turning within the bed until you placed a chilled towel on her forehead and neck

He'd darted off quickly before returning with a sheepish look. You told him you'd retrieve the cardigan if he took care of the blankets. It takes you less time than you spend to find her favorite, shifting foot-to-foot outside of the cracked door to give them a moment alone.

It's the gentlest you'd ever seen him. Fluffing her pillow, holding her head up as he keeps hold of the water cup— it's hard not to think it's an entirely different person standing at Najma's side.

"You can stay with her," you say in a quiet voice. It was a demand more than an offer, holding the cardigan out as you approach. Jamil wordlessly helps Najma sit up, holding her steady as you slip her arms through the sleeves.

As he lays her back down, there's a deep frown worrying itself on his lips. It's worse than usual. Less filled with disappointment or annoyance and more wary. "I can't," he says, equally as soft.

You want to roll your eyes as you round the bed to pull the curtains closed. Najma relaxes further into the mattress as the light decreases, hand sweaty around yours when she reaches out to hold it. "You will."

When he opens his mouth, you cut him off with a wave and gesture for him to sit. He does, keeping his side to you as he carefully watches Najma's face. "I'll file it as an official leave of absence. There's nothing you'll need to concern yourself with other than your combined health."

You'd both left it at that.

It took two and a half weeks for Najma to get back on her feet.

During those two and a half weeks, you'd think you could say you bonded with Jamil.

He begrudgingly switched shifts with you when it came to watching over her. Moments in your day that were supposed to be used for studying were instead spent pulling away hair and wiping down dirty faces while he left for the market to buy medicine and light foods.

Pulling conversation with Jamil was like pulling teeth. If it weren't for Najma, you're sure you'd still only know his first and last name.

Najma snickers when you tell her what you've noticed. It's in her last days of recovery and you tell her of how he's a control freak, how you saw him dance because she was homesick, and how, for the first time in the short time you've known them, you finally saw him with an expression that wasn't excessively stressed.

"You like him," she hums in a sing-song voice while you card your fingers through her hair. A giggle leaves her when you gently knock your fingers against her scalp to get her to stop. "You like him and he's the reason you've been shelving marriage proposals!"

You do, and he was— but it's not as though you were going to act on anything.