#now off to snooze (matulog na po tau gudnyt palalavus q [malandi])

[merotwst]

DIODELLET GAGO KAAAAAAAAA SHET SARAP PANAGINIP KO NGAYONG GABI THIS IS MY FAVORITE FROM YOU EVER AND IT JUST FLEW LIKE A DOVE AND MADE ITS LOVELY LITTLE NEST IN MY HEART IM SO IN LOVE WITH THE WAY U WROTE EVERYTHING FUCK IM IN TEARS

uso pa ba ang harana? (jamil viper x gn!reader)

translation: is serenading still in style? me to jamil: oh ur a dancer? WEH DI NGA... DANCE AROUND THIS!!! *throws out long-distance pining and crippling shyness* content warnings: light desc of bleeding and finger injuries ++otherwise, enjoy some yearning and mild romantic tension, this work is mildly unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine. word count: 842 words

“You won’t form calluses if you just force yourself to practice.”

“I know! But—ow!” You can feel tears spring to your eyes at the sensation of the tape being pulled off. Risking a glance, you see spots of red gathering on the tip of your index finger.

“No buts.” His hold on your wrist tightens, keeping you from flinching away.

You grumble, “...you said you were going to be gentle.”

“I am. Stop being a baby.” Jamil continues to peel off the masking tape you wrapped around your fingertips. His words are admonishing, but for the most part, he seems to be taking care not to further aggravate the injury. “You could have avoided this altogether if you taped your fingers before you practiced.” 

He’s not looking at you, focused on peeling away the tape that covered your right hand’s ring finger. That one was hurting the most, so of course, it had the most tape wrapped around it. 

You sigh, bracing for the incoming pain. “I just want it to be perfect, if not perfect then…at least—” The tape comes off. “—ugh, that one looks horrible.”

At least, Cater had the foresight to help you replace the guitar’s strings before you started practicing. No risks of tetanus here! (Or at least, you hoped so.)

“It doesn’t seem infected at least,” Jamil observes before instructing you to wash off the blood at the infirmary’s sink area. After returning to him, you let him treat the wounds properly.

You try not to think about how your hand was about to start sweating. Or how you can barely feel the sting of the antiseptic, the light dab of the cotton over the wound.

(Because as much as he was cutting with his words, Jamil Viper’s actions betrayed his hidden gentle side.)

“You were saying about ‘wanting it to be perfect’?” 

“Not perfect,” you correct him, “It should at least be on beat and in tune with no slipup of the lyrics.”

“So basically, perfect,” he concludes.

“...I guess, yeah.” Your resigned response pulls a quiet, amused laugh from him.

(Who wouldn’t want to sing perfectly when serenading someone? How else would your feelings reach them, if not through a perfect performance?)

“You do know that the Pop Music Club doesn’t really perform, right?” 

You knew, but you needed to borrow a guitar from some place. “It’s not—I’m not going to be performing with them, I just…” 

“You just…?”

“...I have something I want to…tell someone something…through a song…” You shrug, shoulders helplessly rising with the motion. “And I just, really want this song to be good for hi—for them.”

The expression of fond exasperation disappears from Jamil. “Ah, I see.” Replaced with the usual mask of indifference he wore. It does little to hide his soured mood. He continues treating your other hand in silence. 

Does he think that you were talking about someone else? No, you misspoke—

The words feel like lead in your throat. Refusing to come out, or if they did, they’d tumble messily along with your heart and the other feelings you’ve tried (and failed) to keep under wraps. 

“There, done.” 

“Thank you.” His handiwork is neat, without any protrusions from the band-aids. But completed with the cold efficiency that he did everything else.

You might as well rip off the metaphorical band-aid while you were at it.

“Would you… I mean—after my fingers've healed up… and whenever you’re not too busy…would you be willing to listen to the song…?”

He pieces everything together, much too quickly for your liking. But you can't look away from his expression, because your bandaged hand was still resting on his palm. (And more than that, you needed to know even if he was going to say no, because what would be the point of you practicing the damn song in the first place?)

Instead Jamil’s eyes light up with mirth, his lips curving into a smirk. The kind of expression he makes when there’s no one around to watch him. 

(But you know of it, because you spend too much time looking at him.)

And to have it directed at you—it does terrible, terrible things to your heart.

“What if I asked you to give me a short demonstration right now?” Jamil asks, the smile growing on his face. Bright, contagious excitement barely restrained in his irises. His fingers are enclosed around your wrist again, you can’t escape.

He’s so close. Your gaze quickly turns away to your other bandaged hand as you weakly stammer a response, “But…what about my hands?” Your cheeks feel warm, too warm. 

(Because a part of you knows very well that you would fold, if it was for him.)

Laughter freely spills from him. This sight—this moment, coupled with the golden light of the afternoon sun filtering through the infirmary’s windows, you’re completely entranced by it.

“I was kidding, I can wait,” Jamil reassures you. His features soften into a rare smile. “I’m rooting for you.”

A/N: i'll leave the actual song up to yalls imagination (or not, click link if u dare). i gotta confess that the moment i saw jamil i--🥴wanted to serenade him🥴 IT IZ EMBARRASSING BUT HUHU THE FEELING PERSISTS.... EVEN UNTIL NOW.... i got sidetracked from my current wip (HMM sino kaya may kasalanan dyan HMMMMM 🐍) and ive still got one more jamil wip in the works and im tryna muster the courage to finish it. these next uploads might be on the shorter end, but yee i hope you enjoyed reading this. dont be afraid to rb and holler in the tags ahaha💕💕 tagging my fellow simps😇😇: @merotwst @mochimiyaas