each dorm’s worst offender in the panty stealing category.
pairings: female! jamil viper x female reader; female! rook hunt x female reader.
content warnings: yandere, horror-adjacent, adult content, unsanitary actions (nothing too extreme, within what the title suggests), stalking, gaslighting. all twst students are of age.
divider source: mieluno.
part one. part two. part three.
scarabia: jamil viper.
it didn’t feel right.
the feeling, you knew, was irrational. you were a guest, you needed a change of clothes, and it would be a breach of hospitality to let you do your own laundry. the explanations made sense, they did. yet, as the residents of the dorm were drifting off into their much-needed sleep, you remained awake. despite the sound reasoning, conveyed by a smooth, gentle voice, you were anxious.
somehow, the laundry matter unsettled you more than your current status as a captive did.
the latter was horrible, but manageable. predictable, even. tomorrow, you would go through a grueling training regimen. the day after tomorrow, you would go through it again. again, and again, until the last day of the winter holidays. then, the campus would open its mirrors to let in the rest of the student body, and the curse would be lifted. you didn’t imagine you’d have much interest in coming back to scarabia afterward. this would be it, for you. thanks for the delectable cuisine. now, let’s pretend we don’t know each other, okay?
you didn’t think this would work for the former. for the rest of your time in this college, you’d have to look jamil in the eye—charcoal gray, embers of an undefined something flickering within—and know that, at some point, she had gone through your laundry. dirty laundry, specifically. sweat-soaked and shrugged off carelessly the moment you’d gotten into the shower. too relieved to be paranoid and too exhausted to think too hard about the ghost absence and the washing machine duties, you were told to leave everything in the laundry basket—so you did.
you were regretting it now. uncharitably (and unrealistically), your mind pulled up the images of her examining your underwear, passing judgement on questionable stains and general shabbiness. however ludicrous the idea itself, you couldn’t get it out of your mind. you were stuck, hands twiddling nervously with the hem of your new pajamas, brief interactions with jamil playing out on a loop. a rhythmic knocking on the door, followed by a request to come in. the steady weight of her palm on your back, leading you to the showers. a concise enumeration of the items: a towel, a toothbrush, a tiny tube of toothpaste, and a pair of sleeping clothes. then, the panties.
well, she didn’t call them that. undergarments. a polite, neutral word, strangely unfitting for a thing so intimate. although your hygienic worries were swiftly dispelled (asim family could afford to offer care packages to the heir’s guests—a claim backed by ample evidence, as toured by you earlier that day), other concerns lingered. putting on the clothes, you’d found the comfortable fit unsettling: how did she know your size? the plain white fabric held no imprints, yet you could practically sense where her hands had touched the material. a phantom hold over your hips. a vision of long, thin fingers with short, carefully trimmed nails came to mind. worryingly, you could remember them perfectly.
so, no. it didn’t feel right. her kindness and her consideration, her attentiveness to your needs and her ability to convince you of anything. despite the physical comforts, you were distraught. moonlight seeping through the bars of your enclosure, you wished you were more of a prisoner—ragged and rough—than a pet, pretty ribbons for a silky collar. a peaceful sleep in your own sweaty clothes wouldn’t have left you feeling this dirty.
…unbeknownst to you, a restless heart wasn’t a problem for you alone that night.
the way your mouth—hanging half-open, pearly teeth glistening dimly in its warm, wet cavity—snapped shut obediently the moment you got your answer, her command, was heavy on jamil’s mind. so was how vulnerable you looked in agreeing to leave your belongings behind, how fragile. you could sense the wrongness. the invasiveness, the unfairness.
nonetheless, the pliant, malleable you let her in.
fingertips tracing the sleek-coated lining, she knew she wouldn’t give them back. if you’d gathered your courage to ask about your panties, she’d lie—she’d been doing a lot of that lately. she’d believed it better to throw the underwear out; she didn’t want to intrude by doing anything to it, but, as an asim family servant, she also couldn’t leave it in your possession; she hopes that the new pair, bound to turn into pairs as you stay for the winter break, is adequate compensation.
how easy. laughter brimming in her throat and eyes clouded with anticipation, for once in her life, jamil viper didn’t care to hold back.
pomefiore: rook hunt.
you missed feeling safe.
reasonable enough, you supposed. being severed from your home, no yellow brick road to follow and no magical shoes to click for a swift return, generally wasn’t conducive to the feeling of safety. neither were the ghost-inhabited dormitories, the coffin carriages, and the near-death experiences with talented yet emotionally unstable mages. plenty of good explanations for your anxiety, overall.
still, you could swear that this was something else entirely.
take hair, for example. do most people count the hair strands they shed? stuck to the clothes, left on the pillows, pulled out by the brush. there are many routes for your hair to take after it’s reached the end of its life, and none of them concern the average person—none of them concerned you—beyond the routine. it took a random idle thought to alarm you: when was the last time you’d done anything to the shower drain? weeks? months? fuck. it’d been such a while that the shitty old pipe was bound to be clogged.
it wasn’t, of course. it was just fine, and continued being just fine after you’d intentionally put off its cleaning.
wrappers disappeared, so did the empty bottles. you were inclined to ignore this as well, at first. if your decrepit house had found a way of self-cleaning, its evolution was in your favor.
then, you’d picked up on the selectivity. the bottles you’d pour liquids out of, be it the stock for the soup or a cleaning detergent, remained right where you’d left them, while the ones you’d drink out of, an imprint of your lips smudged over the rim, would vanish. you’d stumbled into this realization accidentally: after a movie night, your cup remained put, remnants of soda sloshing in sluggishly, and the dummy duo’s cans, crushed loudly in a loserly coolness measuring contest, lay scattered on the carpet; the bottle you’d sipped out of, previously cradled in your palm, was gone.
you didn’t remember putting it down. one moment, you were nodding off, worry over the drink spill drowned out by the tranquil tide of the dream, and the next you were startled awake, hands empty and stomach knotted.
it wasn’t a big deal, really. you’d tried very hard to convince yourself of this.
nevertheless, after one of the many sleepless nights, the deprivation had gotten to you: while peeling an apple, the knife had slipped, slashing through the palm. you didn’t feel the pain, not immediately. it was not until the blood had poured out, splashing all over the counter, that your eyes had welled up with tears. an hour later, miserable and cradling the injury gingerly, you weren’t looking forward to cleaning up your mess.
you didn’t have to, in the end. there was no sign of your little kitchen tragedy. the table was spotless. the knife gleamed wetly, as if coated in water—or saliva. was your cut stinging any less, you would have thought the whole incident a figment of your imagination. why it was coming up with something so horrible, you couldn’t tell.
the boiling point—as in, the point at which your blood had boiled, vision hazy with anger—was reached on an average evening. the night prior, you’d had an accident. you’d underestimated your flow and, as a consequence, your poor panties were beyond saving. since throwing them out felt like a bad idea even at the best of times, you’d decided to burn them. ramshackle’s amenities rarely came in handy, so you intended to savor your ritualistic panty burning: a good book, a sweet drink, and a fire-filled hearth.
all you needed were some more twigs—you were running low on the firewood. having stashed the garment at the bottom of the dorm’s firewood basket, you went out to complete your quest.
you weren’t worried, because there was no precedent for worrying about this. after throwing the last of the sticks into the fire, you didn’t hesitate in picking up the pair of panties. and they were a pair of panties, all right. just not your panties. the look of the distinctly different, unblemished underwear filled your veins with ice.
once you’d defrosted, you hurled the thing into the fire and promptly descended into hysteria.
according to ace and deuce, you sounded paranoid. well, you weren’t stupid. you knew you sounded paranoid. but it was difficult to talk about something this abnormal normally. how could you explain that, after that night, you kept noticing the gaze? not a person and not the eyes. the gaze itself, pinning you down as you went about your day.
you’d stayed at heartslabyul temporarily, a local lunatic taken in kindly under a promise of obedience; however, even there, hiding under the covers with one or the other girlfriend, you didn’t feel unobserved. it was lurking, always. you’d taken to sleeping with your back to the wall, eyes trained on the nearest entrance. your dreams were full of slick sclera and pulsating pupils.
obviously, you had to go back at some point. a week was fine; two was stretching it. as your refuge was rounding up to a month, it was time to go home.
that evening, preparing for the inevitable, you almost hoped it would come, a sailor or a mermaid lured in to the shore by the guiding beam of the lighthouse. you didn’t think you could bear to keep living like this. fingers curled over the handle of the kitchen knife, you were exhausted.
…in a way, your wish did come true.
feathery hair strands tickled your skin as soft lips closed over yours. a calloused hand, cupping your chin gently.
Having orufrey thoughts again (who's surprised) and thinking about how Olruggio's plan works so perfectly because he knows just how kind Qifrey is. I mean he started crying when a kid he didn't even consider his friend got hurt because of him. And obviously Olruggio knows better than anyone else how truly kind Qifrey is once you get past the colder exterior (although Mr. Self Deprecation himself doesn't seem to think so)
So obviously his plan to psychologically torture him for life was to make Qifrey, his softhearted crybaby of a best friend who hates nothing more than seeing his loved ones get hurt, repeatedly violate him in a way that is so specific and personal to Qifrey (he knows exactly the kind of pain that comes with having wiped memories), without even having the opportunity to properly apologize.
And Olruggio already knows he'll forgive Qifrey every time no matter what, so Qifrey won't be be able to escape the cycle by means of Olruggio feeling upset or violated and leaving his side. And with the promise and all, that leaves Qifrey with no out to all this.
So um yeah. Anyway. Olruggio you have one fucked up mind (affectionate). This is why you never combine a savior complex, martyr complex (he definitely got one of those from the survivors guilt), and an absolute genius child because that's how you get diabolical shit like this.
