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fireworks over the sand dunes, my hand in yours || jamil viper

he's not really in the mood to celebrate, considering he's the one who ran himself ragged organising the entire thing, but seeing the fireworks with you? that's something he won't miss.

a/n: ugh i haven't written jamil in centuries i don't even know if this is gonna be good, but he won't leave my brain rn so here goes- also I wrote this for @merotwst's contest but couldn't get it out in time >:( and then kept moving accounts but I do be tagging you anyway, mero!!

p.s. jamil fell into elephant shit at some point before the fic started and he's very upset about that but we love him even at his stinkiest (it stinks like hell btw)

word count: does it matter bc we get kissies from jamil- nvm, it's 1,354 words

if there was anything beyond 'fucking exhausted' that could be used to describe himself right now, jamil would use it without hesitation. because really, who wants to be sweaty, definitely smelling like an elephant's behind and spices, and aching all over? not him. not by choice.

and he needs a shower before you get here- oh sevens you're here and he smells horrible-

and he doesn't miss the way your nose wrinkles just a little bit at the way he smells before sighing, chuckling and smiling, all in that exact order. what part of him smelling like elephant shit makes you happy.

"you definitely need a shower," you smile as you come closer and tuck his loose hair behind his ears.

"i was going to take one before you arrived," he murmurs gently, distancing himself from you. "you're early though."

"thought i'd help out a little, considering kalim," you respond earnestly, and although that's been your reasoning for so long, it still manages to catch him off guard. "thank god i arrived when i did, though, you really need a break. go ahead and take as much time as you need, okay? trust me, stinky stuff really sets in your skin and they won't leave without a good soak and scrubbing yourself of, like, four layers of skin."

"alright," jamil sighs, knowing that once you'd set your mind to give him a break, you'd do anything possible- legal, illegal or a concerningly secret third thing- to make sure he took it. "just make sure that arham and arifa don't sneak into the kitchen, would you? they've already had enough snacks. and tell kalim that he needs to go over to the pavilion and meet lady asim to make sure there's enough private space for the ladies, and also her highness safah will be attending and she's allergic to-"

"jamil," you cut him, a steady and uncalloused hand on his bicep. "we'll be fine. go take a break, love. i remember you keeping a written list of things to do somewhere- is it on you? or is it in the kitchen like in scarabia?"

"it's on a hook in the kitchen," jamil answers you, caught unaware about how you noticed that after only a month of dating. kalim, having grown up with him, hadn't ever noticed the list.

no, he shouldn't be comparing kalim to you. that does you and your effort a disservice.

"then i'll check the list out, and figure things out. and i need keep specifically arham, arifa and kalim out of the kitchen, right?"

"yes."

"alright. take your time, and do not let me see out until you've gotten rid of the elephant smell," you warn, finger wagging comically as you walk out of the room.

jamil walks into the shower and scrubs himself clean, and wow, to remove the stench it really felt like he was peeling off layers of skin. not even najma's strongly scented soaps did anything to coat the smell radiating off of him.

as jamil exits the shower after almost- wait, 35 minutes?!- of showering, he finds himself waling past the bath reserved for kalim, filled with hot water but empty, the lights switched off.

ugh, he didn't even come to shower? jamil sighs with annoyance as he switches on an overhead light with bated breath, waiting for someone, anyone, another servant, master al-asim himself-

but no one comes.

jamil steps gingerly into the water, not before laying a towel near where he would exit to hide his footprints, and he sighs, the hot water surrounding him doing so much better than the shower at relaxing his aching muscles. and as usual, his thoughts turn back to you.

what might you be doing now, while picking up his slack? might you be tending to lady asim, as frail as she is? might you be running after kalim like he does on the daily, reminding him of who to meet and who to greet and who to bow down to like he does? or might you be in the kitchen in the middle of curious and excitable children, one on your hip as you stir the broth?

jamil dives into the water at the last image, because what the actual fuck was that. what in the world. no, no, no, no, no. it's too early for that, wayyyyy too early for that. he's only 17, and he'd be servant forever, and-

but would you want that? would you want that with him one day?

jamil blinks stuff out of his eyes (no they're not tears, ew disgusting, why would he cry, he would never cry over having a domestic life with the person he loves, no no no no no) as he gets up, wrapping a towel around himself and silently exiting the bath, making sure no water droplets are found anywhere near.

jamil dresses himself quickly and exits his room, but finds himself with nothing to do, per se- the event was in full swing, and all the al-asims were attending, the men and kalim and his father in the main building while lady asim and his mother and najma and the women sat outside in the summer wind, debating family and other issues over tea.

you're nowhere to be found, of course. perhaps you're somewhere else?

um no. no, you're not. where the hell did you go? (idk make smth up here you're the fucking protagonist i can't do everything for you can i- no wait actually i must.) jamil sighs as he unlocks his phone and dials your number, waiting for you to pick up the call.

"hey jamil!" you chirp, the harsh desert wind heard over your voice clearly. "i'm out here near the oasis!"

"why are you there?" it's a dumb question

trekking up a sand dune (after trekking through a ton of sand), jamil finds you sitting alone on a blanket, the wind blowing your hair messily, giving your tired face some respite.

"hey, jamil!" you smile and wave, and jamil remembers what he imagined in the bath, flushing and taking a few steps backward. "jamil?"

"h-hey, [name]." ew ew ew why stuttering WHY WHY WHY

"come on over here, i snuck some food out hehehe."

"hmm. i wonder why." jamil comments as he sits down next to you, reaching towards the basket in between the two of you for a snack, pulling out a falafel wrap that was still warm and smelt divine.

"i figured you'd be hungry! that way, you can eat and relax as much as you like. lady asim also told me about a nice spot for the fireworks, but there'll be people there, so i thought about coming out here instead."

"good idea, it really is packed to the brim there. kalim's father loves to entertain people, so everyone's mother and uncle tries to get into his good graces during this period- so that they receive an invite."

"poor kalim, he has to deal with weirdos the entire night, when we're out here enjoying the view and a singular falafel wrap."

"how dare you insult how fast i eat my food."

"you eat slower than a snail."

"at least i don't inhale my food like a vacuum cleaner. why am i in love with a vacuum cleaner, i wonder."

"in love?"

"i-" jamil pauses, the wrap an inch away from his mouth as he tries to form an answer- something around the lines of i was kidding, just kidding, i'm too busy for love, too deep into servitude for love- but in the end chooses to say nothing, physically wiliting as he waits for a response.

"well, i had thought so, but then i started noticing a lot of things you did for me. thanks for the mid-meal confession though," you chuckle warmly as the breeze blows gently once again, and jamil doesn't stop you as you take his calloused hands in yours and kiss his hands and palms gently, smiling chuckling after every kiss.

he doesn't say anything when the first picture he has of his lover is under a beautiful array of fireworks either.

tagging @bakedgrape and @inkybloom-luv [esp. inky bc i know she could use the pick-me-up]

Hi! I’ve been thinking about this for awhile.

Imagine Astarion walking in to see his s/o, only to see them on their knees groaning and looking uncomftarble, because of Haarlep and his promise. ”Everytime I make love with your body, you will know.”

Maybe Astarion could like try to comfort s/o through one of those times? Not in a sexual way, just doing his best to show that he’s there, maybe throwing a comment to distract them ”pretend it’s me.”

If you’re uncomftarble with this you can ignore it! Have a nice day/night!😊

I used they/them pronouns for Haarlep when applicable because the Narrator refers to them this way

References and dialogue taken from a scene in the game, transcribed by yours truly

Warnings: rape/non-con elements, swearing, crying, reference to victim blaming, references to past trauma/abuse

Word Count: 1,031

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It comes on like a violent shiver. You can feel hands all over you, tracing up and down your legs and chest, but you’re all alone in your tent. You try to ignore it, focus on a book or something. Anything. But it’s overwhelming. Haarlep is using your body to pleasure someone else and you can feel it all. Maybe for Raphael it was incredible - another layer of pleasure to heighten the experience. To you, it’s violating.

You curl into yourself, tugging your knees to your chest as you sit on the floor, and hiding your face from the lamp light. If you could curl up tight enough, maybe you could block it all out. It’s a useless attempt. You know nothing can stop it.

“Darling, you’re going to miss… Shit.” Astarion rushes to your side, the flap of the tent shutting out the rest of the world. He’s not sure if he should touch you, where he should touch you. But you’re shaking, and whimpering, and he wants more than anything to help. “Can I touch you?”

You lift your face from your knees, nodding as a groan tears from your throat. It should feel good, but it doesn’t. You want to squirm and dive into water and roll in the dirt - anything to get rid of the ghostly hands on your skin.

He wraps his arms around your shoulders and tugs you into him. His touch is more solid. He’s not a phantom taking pleasure in your image. You sigh with how real he feels. He brushes his fingers through your hair. “It’s the incubus, isn’t it?” he whispers by your ear. You nod and grab onto his arm. Your hands are trembling. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

“I can feel it, Astarion,” you gasp. You press your face into his chest. “Everything. Hands, just, all over me.” You can’t bear to speak out loud what else you feel. He can tell when your legs press tightly together.

“Tell me what I can do to help.”

Your mind is blank. You can’t think. You don’t know. You squirm closer to him and he draws your body into his lap, pressing his cheek to your head. He tries to be more firm in his touches. He scratches lightly at your scalp, tugs gently at the hairs at the nape of your neck. His hand runs up and down your arm, stopping only to press his fingertips against different locations that follow no consistent pattern. He can feel your tears against his skin, and he wishes more than anything to have killed that creature when they had the chance.

“Keep talking,” you whimper. A violent chill forces its way down your spine and you groan against his skin to avoid being too loud. He can’t imagine what the others would think or say.

When this happened before, it was in public. You couldn’t avoid it then, couldn’t rush somewhere private away from public eyes, and they scolded you. Told you to be quiet, teased you about liking it. It made his blood boil just thinking about it. It hadn’t been this bad then - the sound you made wasn’t out of disgust or discomfort.

“I know what it’s like to lose control over your own body. It’s a wretched thing.”

“I may as well just try to enjoy it.”

“I thought the same, once. It didn’t last. I know what’s done is done - you made your vow. But I’m sorry all the same.”

“Please,” you cry. “Please talk to me.”

He hushes you gently, pressing a soft kiss to your head. “It’s going to be okay, my dear. You’re going to get through this. And once these damn tadpoles are out of our heads, we’re marching right back to Avernus and killing that bastard.”

You chuckle, weak and wet, but it’s better than hearing you suffer. “Promise?”

“Do you even have to ask? I’d march down there tomorrow if we could.” He moves his hand from your arm to your leg. He rubs circles into your thigh with his thumb, applying various amounts of pressure as he does. Quietly, unsure, he whispers into your hair, “Can you pretend it’s me?”

He’s not sure if he wants you to, truthfully. But he’s willing to carry that weight if it means easing your suffering. It’s a sentimental thought, but it doesn’t last long as you shake your head. “They don’t touch me like you do.” There’s an edge of teasing in your voice, trying to make it a joke, but it doesn’t quite land.

“Good.” He wants to say something more, but nothing comes to mind. He’s almost… proud. Definitely possessive. If that incubus and whoever they're bedding now doesn’t know how to touch you in all the ways you enjoy, then Astarion won’t feel bad when he touches you. He would hate to ruin intimacy for you because Haarlep touches you the same way.

Your legs shake and you hold onto him desperately, wrapping an arm around him to dig your fingers into his back. You try not to dig too deep, try not to hurt him, even in your torture. It breaks his heart. A sound bubbles in the back of your throat, agonized and lewd. With just one touch of your hand to his cheek, he knows precisely what you’re asking for, and he captures your mouth with his own. It’s not romantic or sweet. It’s teeth clashing and swallowing every loud noise that would be louder if he pulled away. It’s offering you a final comfort as Haarlep desecrates you.

As your legs stop shaking, the phantom touches on your body fading, you kiss him softer, until you feel safe enough to pull away. You don’t hide your face again; you press your forehead to his. Your cheeks are flushed and stained with tears. He continues to play with your hair as he wipes them away.

“Thank you,” you whisper. A sob rises from your chest. “I’m sorry.”

He shushes you, pressing kisses to your cheeks and wrapping his arms around you. “It’s okay, my love. You’re okay. It’s not your fault. It will never be your fault. You’re okay.”

---

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