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When Jamil opens the door to his bedroom and finds you on his bed, he has to ask himself if he was dreaming. The sight of you reclining against the headboard with a book in hand, your form illuminated by the golden glow of his overhead lanterns made you appear so ethereal, so angelic that he had to wonder if the heat had gotten to him and he was witnessing a mirage.
You look so peaceful, so at ease with the way you were engrossed with your novel with the way the sides of your lips quirked upwards the way they always did whenever you get to a part you particularly liked. He hates to get in the way of your happiness, but the weariness of a day of running after Kalim, a day where he spent the majority of it away from you, crashes into him and the urge craving to have you against him was to powerful to quell even if he wanted to - not that he would ever want to.
So he silently strides up to you, plucks your book out of your hands, and engulfs you in his arms, his body lying over yours and his head resting on your shoulder. He breathes in your calming scent as you gasp in surprise, “Jamil?!”
“Hello, my diamond,” he greets, lifting his head and sitting up so that he can see your face in all its beauty. He ended up straddling you, with both of his knees on either side of your hips and a hand cupping your face with his thumb stroking your cheek, “it’s been so long.”
“I saw you at lunch,” you pointed out, lightly giggling at the unhidden longing that was present in his whining. He lets out a deep, pleased hum when you lean into his touch and nuzzle your face into his palm.
“The time we spent was nowhere near enough,” he sighs, “with the laundry list of duties I had to take care of, I only had the thought of you to get me through the day.”
“You were thinking of me?” You smile, a pale pink blush blooms on your cheeks as you tilt your head in confusion.
“Of course I do,” he states, “you are the place my mind goes to when I’m trying to seek relief.”
“Jamil!” you whisper-yell, your eyes wide open as you gawk at him, your face growing hotter and redder as you weakly slap his shoulder, “you can’t just say stuff like that without warning!”
Oh, how he adored you. You were the only person who would even think about treating him like this. Who would let him get as close to you as this.
Whenever you find yourself wrapped up in the coils of the viper, you are never once fearful of his fangs, of the way he could very easily have you at his mercy. The students of Scarabia, who are far more powerful than you in terms of magical ability, still spend their days walking on eggshells around him. Yes, they do treat him amiably and are always willing to offer their assistance or a smile, but there is still that underlying trepidation - that whisper of a threat that roams the halls that he could strip them of their wills yet again if he so pleases - that makes them unable to meet his eyes. Yet you, otherworldly yet unmagical you, you had quite possibly been one of the handful who bared the brunt of his overblot, who only had your wits to protect you during his unrelenting attacks and objectively came out looking the worst at the end of it, with scrapes, bruises and blood marring skin that should only be treated with the softest of touches - and yet you always looked him in the eyes during every conversation. Never once did he ever sense even a sliver of fear when he’s around you, nor did he discern any hesitation in your behaviour.
Not that you didn’t have your own secrets. He was certain that, as genuine as you are with your words and actions, you have a side to you that you keep hidden - and he swore to be worthy enough for you to reveal it, for you to think of him deserving enough to carry your heart the same way he handed you his. And reveal it you did. The day you showed him your true heart - the inner turmoil you kept locked up and safely hidden from everyone, the anguish you felt at having been stripped from your home, friends and family and the terrifying uncertainty of the future - was the day his love for you bloomed into complete and unyielding devotion. He’d do anything for you. He’d walk through burning coals and scorching sands if it would make you smile.
It’s times like this when he feels his perfectly crafted self-control slip - when that neutral mask of uninterested stoicism cascades down like rushing water, leaving only his true, unapologetic self bare to you and you only. He’s never felt more powerful when he has you in his arms. When the girl who is the object of desire of the entire school willingly comes to him and trusts him and blesses him. He’s seen countless others trail after you, doing everything in their power to earn your affection but your eyes only look at him, your love only belongs to him. Whilst it’s true that you do hand out genuine, heartfelt praise to anyone and everyone as naturally as you do breathing, he’s the only one who receives such sweet words with adoring hugs and kisses (except Grim - but it’s universal knowledge that you consider that troublesome feline your son so he bears no ill feelings about that. For now). You’ve given him strength, passion and power like nothing ever has, and a reason to look forward to the future instead of relying on his unattainable daydreams of freely travelling the world.
“How strange you are, prefect,” Jamil muses, “normally I cannot bear having my things taken from me. Yet you come in and shamelessly steal my heart and instead of trying to get it back, I find myself on my knees begging you to take more and more of me, until you own so much of me that no one can call you one person and me another.
“Jamil, stop saying such nonsense,” you tell him, your face a heated scarlet, as you ducked your head and lovingly muttering ‘silver-tongued serpent’ under your breath.
“What nonsense do you speak of, my diamond?” he smirks, not allowing you to hide that face he loved so much. He holds your chin and guides it back upwards so that he can take in your ruffled visage and drink the vision of your breathtaking countenance like a man who had been deprived of water days. As smooth as he was on the outside, he was internally bursting with laughter at how adorably flustered you were and preening at how all of these expressions were reserved for him and him alone, “every word I speak to you is the truth. You are the only one who I only speak the truth to.”
And wasn’t that just another truth. Everyone else who he has curried the favour of has been a victim to his meaningless flattery. They were charmed by the flowers of his words, completely naive to the serpent under them. But he could never be untruthful to you. Not only because would you be able to distinguish his hollow praise -
(“It’s easy to tell,” you once said to him, “the difference between when something tells you pretty words because they want to make you happy or because you being happy is the only emotion they can bare to see on you.”)
- but also because the idea of lying to you, of manipulating you like he did to those before you, feels so foreign and wrong. Even his automatic reaction of “I’m fine” whenever someone asks him how he is makes him feel a modicum of guilt when you give him that amused smile and raised eyebrow of ‘you and I both know that I don’t believe you’.
Sorcerer, give him strength. He loves you so deeply he has no idea what to do. Logically, he should at least be slightly unnerved by the fact that you have so much power over him but all he can feel is utter bliss and total euphoria.
And he revels in it.
“Would you like to receive another truth, my diamond?,” he leans closer to you, his words an alluring whisper, “there was a time when I cursed the sun for shining so brightly every morning and waking me up to remind of the miserable existence I was cursed with but now all I feel for it is pity knowing that no matter how bright it shines nor how much warmth it gives to sustain life, it’s supposed ‘magnificence’ could never compare to the smiles I receive from you. Not it nor any other star in the sky. You’ve enslaved my heart, my mind, body and soul and have chained me up in shackles I could never want to escape from.”
Your only reply is to push yourself forwards so that your lips press perfectly into his. He immediately wraps a steady hand around the back of your neck and pushes himself deeper, cradling your cheek with his other hand just so that he can get as close to you as possible, every involuntary sound you make hypnotising him and making him hungrier for more. When he starts to press kisses down the slope of your neck, you realise that you would not be getting back to your book any time soon.
And later, after having persuaded you to spend the night in his room, he caresses your sleeping face, admiring the designs that adorn your body that were created by moonlight dancing through the patterns of his wooden mashrabiya windows. And it is there where he presses his lips to your forehead and whispers thanks to the universe for giving him the only master he would happily serve.