content warnings: yandere, adult content, sex under the influence (detailed description), implied stalking, obsession, and imprisonment. power imbalance. all twst students are of age.
word count: 5k.
divider source: chrisssiren.
kalim (you are here). silver.
she stood out.
you didn’t remember much from the entrance ceremony, too caught up in the horrors of the coffin, the beast, and the fire, but you could recall her clearly: head thrown back in laughter, eyes closed in delight, the hood of the robe sliding off to reveal a shock of ashen hair.
she didn’t fit in with the funereal theme of the chamber. while other strangers seemed to you every bit the cultist executioners—all pompous, pretentious faces and cold, calculated movements, she looked more like a sacrificial lamb: should things not work out with you, the giggling girl, you thought, would be the next target, her beautiful neck already bared for the knife.
in the end, the ominous ceremony required little of you but a glance into the mirror.
no blood spilled, no tears shed. forget your morbid fantasies—a brief look, and it was over: worthlessness reaffirmed, you were guided into your newfound domicile.
although the warping walls and the frail floors seemed less of a threat than the dark room full of strangers, their impact on your morale was instantaneous. swaddled in the scratchy sheets and breathing in the dust, your dreams were full of draughts.
for long, long weeks, those would be the only dreams.
when you met her again, laughter ringing as raucously as it did the first time around, she didn’t recognize you.
a quick introduction and a firm handshake later, you were wondering in earnest whether she did get dropped in by mistake. sitting next to her second-in-command, the woman who had previously gone unnoticed by you due to the mundanity of her demeanor, kalim looked even more out of place than before. too lively, too eager, too honest. too oblivious, too gullible, too foolish. walking away from the duo, you were certain—that kalim ended up here was nothing short of a miracle.
the miracle, as it turned out, was of a practical nature.
the lights in her light-heartedness and light-headedness were preserved through the most exclusive magic of all—money.
kalim, the eldest daughter of family asim, was set to inherit a behemoth of a dynasty. whether she fit in was of no concern: the walls themselves would rearrange for her, much less the people.
no wonder she’d ended up a housewarden.
as she led you on the tour of the dorm, a careless stir of the hand opening the door to the treasury, riches piled high enough to bury you, it became clear—kalim could do anything, have anything. that, you supposed, was the real distinction. although students of this academy came from privileged backgrounds, they were largely dissatisfied. starving for attention, praise, recognition. always lacking, always yearning.
not her: looking at her, basked gloriously in the golden light, you were sure there was nothing left for her to desire. the whole world was already at her fingertips.
you felt small; then, covetous, as hungry as the students of this academy tend to be—since the opportunity presented itself, your next meal begging to be eaten, you were going go leech off, shamelessly, and you were going to feel good about it.
if she was so kind as to extend a helping hand, wiry arms hauling you up the magical carpet, you’d take it. dignity, you knew already, wouldn’t keep you warm.
her palm, sliding innocuously off your shoulder and unto your waist, might.
it helped that she made it so easy. the mood swings, the memory loss—appealing to somebody this destabilized didn’t take much work; really, all you had to do was be there, and, seeing as you were temporarily imprisoned in the desert paradise, this too was hardly a hurdle.
you’d hit a jackpot with your brief escape, then an even bigger one with the revelation of the culprit.
shivering on the outskirts of the realm, body seizing up in tremors and limbs sore from the impact of the fall, you could barely register the physical discomfort: kalim’s eyes, pale lashes clumped with the weight of her tears, irises the vulnerable red of the crushed berry, were impossible to look away from.
fingers brushing wet strands off her forehead, you had no doubts that, with the traitor punished and the problem resolved, you’d become a welcome guest in scarabia. dragged against the current, slimy skin slipping out from under your hands, forceful stream battering your thighs, you were blinded by the brightness of your future.
a welcome guest become you did.
jewelry tuckered on carelessly with all the innocence of a child, neither interested in nor caring about propriety or moderation, you’d hear a jingle—a lucky warning of her approach. then, the sound of your name, cutting through the campus: one last chance of preparing for the inevitable impact, of hiding and escaping, of closing your heart and your ears to the call.
the world is wide enough. run away now, and you may never be found.
you didn’t do that, of course. no. you gave in to your pied piper, allowing her to lead you—away from the worries and into the bliss. that was the plan all along, wasn’t it?
that’s how you ended up here, on the pillows of the scarabian lounge, a chalice in your hand and a drink burning your throat.
had it been any warmer, you’d go back—that’s what you promised yourself, again and again, with every other feast stretching deep into the night, your body too exhausted to carry itself back. equally predictably, go back you never did.
this night was no different.
wine coursing through you like a magical elixir, you were too relaxed to move. leaning back on the cushions, you watched the twisting of the bodies, limbs swaying to the rhythm, the thrusting of the fingers, palms caressing the instruments, and the disapproving stillness of one completely insufferable wet blanket.
said wet blanket raised her brow, turning her head to you in what you first imagined was a reaction to your stare; a moment later, it registered that it wasn’t you she was looking at—no, the primary source of jamil’s disapproval had finally completed her rounds and was back, familiar weight crushing into you.
this had grown into a routine, too. though kalim was far too active to keep up with, busy dancing and singing and joking and listening and offering a shoulder to cry on and holding up the hair of another way-too-drunk freshie, she’d take time to circle back to you, always. as if magnetized, capable of handling only so much distance before getting drawn back by the invisible tether, she would return, this story or another on the tip of her tongue.
you wondered if jamil was jealous. from the looks she’d been giving you both, you were pretty sure she’d love having kalim revolve around her instead.
certainly, it’d make the job of wet-blanketing that much more convenient.
“…but i have no idea how it works!”
your stream of thoughts interrupted, you could only frown in confusion, “what?”
“the ring! it’s supposed to find your “diamond in the rough”. says so in the legend. i got no clue how, though!”
trust kalim to treat a historical artifact like a plastic toy from a kids’ meal.
it didn’t annoy as much as it would have before: when you are swimming in gold, what difference does a drop make? however magical that drop may be, its value is naturally diminished by the sheer abundance.
absent-minded, your hands found their way to hers.
first, tracing the ovals of the nails. short and even, with no chance of causing any accidents. you’d never walked in on jamil cutting her nails (and oiling them—or whatever one was supposed to do to get such a perfectly polished surface), but you suspected that this was the arrangement: if kalim couldn’t handle the knives, could she handle the scissors?
probably not.
next, turning them around to peek at the palms. equally spotless skin. soft, supple. unmarred by the manual labor. no scratches, despite her general recklessness, and no bruises. the only sign of ruggedness observed in the creases of the skin, rough and irregular, like somebody’d gotten interrupted in the process of etching them into the surface.
a clear stretch of a life line, then a pause. another short stretch, followed by another pause. on and off, on and off.
you had to wonder whether this was a morse code of sorts. a message to someone who could read fates.
not you, then.
your fingertips had climbed up, twirling with her ring-studded fingers. neither large nor small, accessories sliding up and down before catching on her knuckles. your private game of tetris. or maybe snakes and ladders?
ever responsive to the touch, kalim lit up, “ooooh, i know! wanna see it? you might figure it out!”
a switch to a firm hold on your hand suggested that, like it or not, the course of action had been decided for you. alright. since she thought you’d love it, what was the harm in trying to?
you let yourself be dragged up.
“sure.”
after the stuffiness of the lounge, weaving through the bodies to find the exit, the corridors felt downright deserted. the emptiness made you strangely melancholic: though you could still hear the music, with kalim the only person in front of you, leading the way, it felt as if you were the last two survivors in the world. ghosts of the past behind, uncertainty of the future ahead.
by the time you’d reached her room, which, logically, had to have taken no more than a couple of minutes, a century had passed.
exhausted, you’d leaned against the bedpost, once again assuming the position of the passive viewer—the space around you wobbled and trembled, making mere standing seem like a strenuous prospect.
you shouldn’t have drunk so much. you could sense the tentative tentacles of the headache, prodding the crevices of your brain to find a weak spot to settle into.
impressively, kalim did not look affected. sifting through the jewelry on her bedside table, she seemed just as steady as she did hours ago. high alcohol tolerance?
maybe you could ask her for a tip.
“kalim?” now that had come out much whinier than you’d intended.
she must have thought so too, because, rather than respond over the shoulder, she turned around, attentive, “what’s up?”
“how come you’re not drunk?”
for a moment, a complicated look crossed her face. it’d happen sometimes. expressions you couldn’t decode, emotions you didn’t recognize. there one second, gone the other. back to the norm—a soothing light radiating off her features, coating everything in molasses so thick it’d take a rescue team to excavate what’s buried under.
whatever it was, you didn’t get to hear an answer. on her way to you, she’d stepped on the carpet, got rightfully tripped up by its bristling, and ended up toppling both of you onto the mattress.
“sorry, sorry! you okay?”
her breath tickled your skin.
you must have made a funny face, because, instead of waiting for a response, she’d burst out laughing, earrings swaying with every movement.
it entranced you—to and fro, to and fro, a rhythmical rocking of her jewelry and a rhythmical rocking of her knee, restless between your thighs. light pressure, but pressure still. a reminder that you have a body.
thoughtlessly, you’d reached out to her earring. trapped between your fingers, it stilled, kalim growing motionless in tandem.
you didn’t know what you’d do before you did it: tracing the shape of her ear, then her jaw, hand cupping a smooth cheek, and, finally, falling down, weary. she followed the movement, lips coming down to rest on yours. beckoning you to let her in, wetness to wetness.
it made sense. since you were taking advantage of her already, why not go the extra step? let her take care of you in this, too. let her make you feel better.
fingers tangled up in smooth, short strands, so pleasant to tug at, you couldn’t find any reason to refuse.
on your neck, briefly, petting the notch between your collarbones, sensing the gasp with her fingertips before tasting it through the kiss; down your chest, simply holding on for a moment, your heart burning up in anticipation as she massages your skin, nipples hardening; resting one hand on your stomach, another slipping under, fondling the puffiness of the folds; fingers smearing the slick between your lower lips, dipping in shallowly, just to try, “okay?”; then, more, stretching her digits in you, caressing from within, the heel of her palm pressing up against the soft swell of your clit.
again, and again, the mounting of the pressure weighing you down into a release.
it sneaks up on you quickly enough that you’re unsure if you can, if it’s not too much too soon, but the wave spreads, a tremble licking down your limbs.
you let go of any lingering apprehension. if that’s what she wants, then she can coax it out of you, too.
she doesn’t slow down until you moan in protest—okay, now it’s too much—and, as she brings her hand up to her lips, her rings gleam with your slick.
when she leans away, sitting up on the edge of the bed, you sigh. moonlight trickling in between the pillars of the balcony, she looks unusually ethereal. hair tousled, mouth glistening, shirt half shrugged off, buttons undone hastily to reveal the slopes of her breasts. yes, you’d like a final, most audacious steal. a bite. a taste. a lick. anything.
just more.
as if reading your thoughts—or your body, kalim hooks her fingers under the waistband, tugging your clothes down, and slips to the ground.
bared, the coolness of the night air, combined with the loss of her over you, pricks at your skin. only for a moment—then, her arms, entwined with your legs, pull you closer. one thigh held by her hand, another propped up on the shoulder, you are spread open.
the warmth of her breath setting your nerves alight, she laps up the mess her fingers made.
vivid eyes—the scalding red of the firelotus—looking up at you, it finally dawns that this won’t be the end either. not with kalim’s generosity and definitely not with her lack of measure.
embarrassingly, the thought alone is enough to send a shiver down your spine.
her breath reverberates through you as she laughs in response.
it’s almost worth the morning after.
you wake up slowly and torturously, sunlight coating your face in heat. it takes you more than a few minutes to remember who you are: limbs entangled, half of your body numb from the weight on top of it, you struggle to distinguish where you end and the not-you begins. the sweat on your skin has dried down, leaving you tacky; the weird angle of the pillow has left you with a crick in your neck.
your day is off to a shit start.
you groan. you try to get up. you realize that doing so without waking kalim up is impossible and that you are also completely naked, save for the thin blanket. the blanket. which wasn’t there when you fell asleep, and which kalim wouldn’t have climbed out to fetch. multiple horrible implications hitting you simultaneously, your mood sours further.
something hard cuts into your back. you have to wonder whether this is your karmic punishment.
startled by your squirming, kalim blinks awake just in time to see you dig out a ring, its brilliantly blue diamond the source of your pain.
a yawn, hands rubbing at her sleep-laden eyes, “ah! so THAT’s where it was. sorry.”
right. the ring. which is what you came here to see.
nonplussed, if very obviously disoriented by her sudden awakening, she takes the priceless relic away—good riddance—before fashioning the damn thing on your ring finger. it slides on effortlessly. turning your hand around to take a peek, kalim’s features brighten in elation.
“oh, it fits! means it’s yours then!”
you can’t find the words to convey the inappropriate message this would be sending to literally everyone else. you also can’t find the words to reject it, because, really, the only thing on the tip of your tongue is, “my hangover is killing me”.
she snorts and then, as if energized by your complaint, rolls back, stretching the stiffness out of her body before getting up.
though physical exertion feels like animal cruelty in your current state, you give in to getting dragged along, incentivized by one extremely seductive promise of the shower.
and food, you note, hearing her stomach grumble loudly. you should probably get some food.
once thoroughly washed up and drying off kalim’s hair with a towel, you think it might just work out alright. whether it’s the effect of perfectly warm water or the comforting hold of equally warm arms around you, the night before feels less like a mistake and more like a mishap.
yes, you should have been smarter than that. yes, you shouldn’t have fucked around with your sole source of security. yes. that’s all true.
...however.
you’ve been so lonely for so long. how were you supposed to refuse? how could you have restrained yourself?
besides, with how kalim is, all intimate touches and thoughtless proximity, you are surely not the only one she’s slept with. doubly so since she is a charismatic heiress in a female-only college. as long as you can keep it on the low, nothing has to change. let some other charity case take your place while you retreat into your shadows, once again an uninvolved observer in the dance of scarabian life.
it’s going to be alright.
your self-soothing illusions are shattered when, in the middle of your breakfast and with jamil glaring holes into you, she leans in for a kiss.
a gesture you have never seen her replicate with anyone else. a gesture that’s not some culturally specific proclamation of platonic love, if the disgust on jamil’s shell-shocked face is anything to go by. a gesture that, together with the ring on your finger, suggests a much higher level of intimacy than what one would have with their one-night stand.
for the rest of the way, you’re full of wishes.
you wish she’d kept it private; you wish you were oblivious to the side-eyes her dormmates keep throwing at you; you wish you’d have a moment or two to yourself, to review your actions and plan out some better ones.
you don’t wish it hadn’t happened—not yet, but you wish it happened differently.
when the skies darken, the first suggestion of the nighttime fluttering in, you are frustrated enough to feign a headache. you’re unwell, you need to sleep it off, good night. no, she can’t help you, sorry. yes, you’re going to be okay tomorrow.
it’s not entirely a lie, since you are still feeling the consequences of your reckless drinking; however, it is more of a lie than you’ve told kalim before. it eats at your conscience and alarms your senses. lying in the guestroom-turned-your-room, you are unsettled.
you ignore the knock at the door—doubtlessly, should you open it, you’ll be showered with another kind gesture, another sweet gift—and bury your face into the pillow. waiting for her to leave, for you to fall asleep, for a better day to come.
monday comes, alright, but it doesn’t get better. although trein’s droning is a welcome change from kalim’s chattering, it’s somehow less long-winded than usual, passing by so quickly you already miss it the moment the bell rings.
your break, typically spent munching in solitude at the cafeteria, is cut short by a joyful call: here! come here! jamil’s made extra! let’s share!
you don’t have a reason to refuse, so you don’t. you eat, and you talk, familiar arms hanging around your waist akin to an ornate accessory.
delicious spread turns to ashes in your mouth when you realize how complicated covert avoidance will get there, on a tiny island amid an endless stretch of water.
you are proven right when your paths cross during a shared sports lesson, her gaze following your stretching form from above—a red-eyed magpie, lured in by the clink of the gold chain. then, again, after classes, running into you on her way to the library: come on, let’s study together! jamil’s great at explaining, so you’ll learn a lot too!
if there is one beacon of light in this situation, it’s that your lecturer seems even more annoyed with the new arrangement than you are.
unfortunately, that only makes her more vicious.
your homework struggled out—you are a good pup, as crewel would say—and your head hanging low in exhaustion, you don’t find it in yourself to resist the pull of kalim’s hand. you wind up in scarabia, as you always do.
admittedly, she doesn’t try to touch you invasively. the intention of respecting your boundaries is there. it’s the comprehension of what constitutes invasiveness that’s not.
since it’s not unusual for her tackle you down in a hug or rest her head on your shoulder, a soothing scent enveloping you in an embrace, her actions can’t be some novel method of tormenting you. they aren’t intended to agitate you—to make you feel wrong. they are meant to feel how they felt two days ago: unpresumptuous, intense yet ultimately harmless. kalimlike.
except, with the added context of those same hands under your shirt, that same head nestled between your thighs, they are suggestive. they are intimate. rather than coming off as another act of benign extraversion, her touches reinforce what you’ve begun suspecting yesterday: that you are in love, now. or, at least, you should be.
if the weekdays are an agony, the weekends are hell.
partially tipsy and completely fed up with your own melancholy, you get the urge to give in. rationally, you understand how lowly that would be, how crude—using somebody who is in love with you for a thrill of a physical release. it would also be stupid: can’t tell a person they’ve got it wrong after fucking around with them repeatedly, can you?
but you want to. lying on her bed, locks of feathery hair under your hands shimmering like nacre, you have to resist becoming the worst version of yourself—which would also be, coincidentally, the least miserable version of you.
no, you don’t give in. you fall asleep, the rhythm of her quiet snoring lulling you in.
you stop drinking, too. pathetically, you have to stop drinking. otherwise, wet kisses littering your jawline, you might just let it be.
your life turns into a game of cat-and-mouse. as it turns out, as far as you are concerned, she makes for an outstanding feline. since you’ve only ever run to her—never away, you haven’t had the chance to learn how complicated escaping her is. somehow, maddeningly, she has her hand on your pulse. there on your way to the lessons, there on your break. there on your way back, there to tuck you in bed.
you suspect she’s letting you squirrel away sometimes.
for enrichment. or maybe in hopes of raising your spirits?
in any case, she’s wrong. moments away make you painfully aware of how freeing not having her by your side is. they make you realize that, no matter how hard she tries, approach changing every other day, there’s nothing she can fix. there isn’t a problem to resolve, a cause to throw her money at.
you just don’t want to see her. that’s all.
the spring has flown in weeks ago, its charitable wings enveloping your derelict dorm in bloom, and you want to go back. you can live through the summer there, rains quick and warm enough to withstand, heat drying up the moldy wetness of the planks. it’s not luxurious, but it’s yours. as “yours” as anything in this world can be.
the ring on your finger twinkling accusingly, you know you should break it off.
the problem is, you have been trying to break it off for weeks. she doesn’t get the hint. avoiding her doesn’t work; neither does getting snarky. any normal person would have gotten sick of your whining, your moodiness, your disquiet. anyone, bar her.
kalim shrugs it off. unless you tell her directly, she’ll keep shrugging it off forever.
despite knowing that, you skulk around mutely, words stuck in your throat. it takes a while for you to consider talking honestly to her; it takes even longer to plan out your speech. you chicken out at the last minute, you laugh your concerns off.
you postpone it until the morning’s turned into an afternoon, afternoon’s grown into an evening, and the evening has become a night.
curled up on the bed, you can’t look her in the face. ever the coward, you choose to speak to her back, tan arms hard at work in brushing out the magical carpet. it twists around giddily. like a dog, when you scratch it in the right spot.
“i don’t think this is working out.”
you expect a pause. maybe an exaggerated cry, a confused “hm?”. an angry tirade, a disappointed sigh. something emotional, something intense.
instead, her response is relaxed. unbothered.
“it is working out. i thought i’d have to ask jamil for help, but it’s back to looking good after a bit of brushing.”
right. no other choice. the tough way out it is.
“that’s not what i’m talking about. i mean us, the two of us. i think we need more space.”
this doesn’t startle her either. each syllable in tandem with the wide strokes of her hand, she goes on, “yeah, the dorm’s a bit stuffy. wanna go for a stroll? or, no, actually,” putting the brush to the side, she gestures to the edge of the bed, languid, “come here. help out with the carpet, okay? it’ll take us for a flight in return, funny little thing.”
you don’t want to listen to the rest of her misdirections, and you don’t want to look at the carpet—or her. you’d like to get it over with, however unpleasant. you’d like to be done.
“i mean it. i can’t do this anymore. i think i should leave.”
the forcefulness of your determination must come through, because she does freeze then.
as she turns around to look at you, her voice is calm, if flat, “but where would you go? you don’t have a home, and you’re bad at being on your own.”
her eyes are hard. not malicious and not even cruel—only hard. akin to the garnet: beautiful and precious, but impenetrable. solid. strong enough to use abrasively. you wonder how you’ve never noticed before.
your face falls.
without missing a beat, kalim scoots over to you. arms extended for an embrace, lips placed firmly against your cheek. the perfect image of reassurance.
you don’t feel reassured, though. you feel scared. her hold is overwhelming, one hand cradling your back, while the other rests on the top of your head. forcing you to crouch, forcing you to lean on her. forcing you to give in.
for the first time since meeting her, you feel like a child. you have to force yourself not to cry.
she can tell, of course. “aww, c’mon. don’t be like that”, her fingers smooth down your hair, palm sliding down to the back of your neck, “we can figure it out, alright?”
there is nothing left to say. defeated, you slump down, face buried into the crook of her neck. with your ear pressed against her throat, you can hear her heartbeat. it’s steady.
“you don’t have to worry. at home, there is lots of space. we can go out whenever we want, we can splash around in the park. my mom is really sweet, and my siblings are super fun to play with. everyone’s gonna love you.”
your heart sinks.
what was the date, again? your exams will be over in a couple of days, you know that much. does that mean that the holidays begin in… a week? two weeks? no concrete plans for the summer, you didn’t care to keep track of time. what was the point? whether your conversation worked out well or not, you were going to stay here, on campus.
maybe you should have. kept track of time, hurried up with your break-up. then you wouldn’t have to learn about it like this.
at last, the dam breaks. tears run down your face, salty streaks leaking down her collarbones, disappearing into her cleavage. you can’t wipe them without acknowledging the full scale of your loss. you let them go.
she doesn’t make fun of you for this. with what would indeed be a perfect placation for a kid, she suggests, “would you like to pack your luggage yourself?”
***
the day of, you hide in the treasure chamber. you’ll be found, obviously. however, if only for a handful of minutes, you’d like to avert your eyes from the truth. you’d like to pretend that it’s fine. that you’re fine.
not a great choice of location for that. what you are reminded of instead is your first proper meeting. you felt small then; you feel smaller now, crouching down in hopes of going unnoticed. the mountains of treasure are tall enough to bury you.
maybe that should be your next plan—disappearing into the ocean of jewels, drowning under the waves of gold.
...you were wrong to think she’d want nothing more. what is she, an angel? devoid of desire, numb to her needs.
no. a jingle in the distance suggests that, contrary to your past fantasies, kalim is very real. she is coming here now, flesh and blood, as human as ever. and humans have no limit to their greed, no sense of satiation. they aren’t that noble.
hand on the handle of the treasury, neither is she.
