「Karasu」

Darkness claimed you, a merciful void swallowing the pain, the humiliation, the hot flood of his seed still sloshing deep inside.

When consciousness clawed its way back, it was to a world of unnatural softness. Silk sheets, cool and whisper light, cradled your battered body like a lover's embrace, dyed a deep midnight blue that shimmered faintly in the dim light. They clung to your sweat damp skin, tangling around your legs as you stirred. Above, the ceiling arched into vaulted heights, adorned with intricate gold leaf molding that swirled like frozen smoke— opulence screaming old money.

Floor to ceiling windows stretched along one wall, heavy gauzy curtains diffusing the faint glow of distant city lights twinkling like fallen stars on the hills beyond. This wasn't some dorm or hideout.

This was his bedroom, in the infamous Ravenscroft mansion— a sprawling fortress of marble and glass perched on private acres, whispered about in university halls as the lair of the untouchable elite.

Your body was a map of ruin.

Every muscle screamed in protest as you tried to shift, a deep, pulsing throb radiating from your ass where your rim felt swollen and raw, still clenched tight around the ghostly memory of his cum trapped inside. Fresh slick oozed traitorously down your inner thighs, warm and sticky, mingling with the crusted remnants of blood from your first brutal taking. Your wrists burned with purple bruises shaped like his fingers, a perfect imprint of restraint. Your neck throbbed under a constellation of bite marks—red, raised welts that pulsed with your heartbeat.

The air hung heavy, saturated with the musky aftermath of sex. Salt-sweat tang, the sharp bite of cum, and overpowering him— Dylan's Alpha pheromones, thick and heady like smoked oak and dark spice, invading your lungs, stirring your suppressed heat into a treacherous low simmer.

Panic hit like a freight train slamming brakes. Heart jackhammering, you bolted upright. Only for your legs to buckle instantly, jelly weak from the ordeal. You collapsed back with a whimper, hands instinctively clutching the sheets to your nakedness, thighs slicking further as your hole clenched emptily.

"Fuck... this isn't real... this can't be..."

The words rasped out hoarse, throat raw from screams you barely remembered.

The heavy oak door— carved with subtle cresting moons —swung open with a soft click, hinges oiled to perfection. Dylan strode in like he owned the world— which, in his orbit, he did. Casual as sin in low slung gray sweats that hugged the sharp V of his hips, fabric tented obscenely by the bulge of his. Shirtless, his body was a sculpted masterpiece.

His gold eyes— sharp as a tiger watching from the shadows framed by thick lashes —lit with a mix of satisfaction and something dangerously soft as they landed on you awake. But underneath simmered raw possessiveness, a predator's gleam. In one hand, a silver tray gleamed: sliced strawberries glistening ruby-red, a creamy yogurt parfait swirled with honey and granola, a chilled glass of electrolyte drink fizzing faintly, ice cubes clinking.

"Hey, pet," he drawled, voice low and smooth like velvet over gravel, laced with that arrogant lilt.

"Slept like the dead. Six hours straight— your heat knocked you flat after I knotted you senseless." He set the tray on a side table carved from rare ebony, inlaid with mother-of-pearl that caught the light like stars. The scent of fresh fruit wafted over, clashing absurdly with the room's sex-stink.

Pet? Rage ignited through the terror, a spark in your chest. "You kidnapped me, you fucking psycho!"

You scrambled back against the headboard, sheets bunching around your waist, exposing your thighs smeared with evidence of him. "Let me go! Right now! People will start notice, and they'll come looking!"

He chuckled, low and dark, sinking onto the bed's edge too close— his muscular thigh brushing yours through the thin silk. The contact was electric, a zing racing up your spine, your traitorous Omega body responding with a fresh gush of slick that you prayed he couldn't smell over his own musk. But those nostrils flared subtly, eyes darkening a fraction. "Who exactly, little moon? Your broke-ass dorm mates who barely glance your way? Professors who see you as just another quota-filler Beta scholarship case?"

His large hand lifted, fingers ghosting feather-light along your jaw, calluses rough from whatever Alpha sports he dominated. He tilted your chin up firmly, forcing your gaze to lock with his— intense, unblinking. His voice dropped to a husky murmur, breath warm against your skin. "I handled everything. Fake dropout note slipped into admin systems with 'family emergency, back home.' Your shitty dorm room? Cleared out, boxes in my storage vault downstairs. Phone? Smashed to bits and dumped in the river. No traces, no trails. You're a ghost now. My ghost."

Hot tears pricked your eyes, spilling over despite your clenched jaw. The reality crashed down— your forged papers, your suppressants stash, your fragile shot at normalcy— all vaporized.

"This is kidnapping. Assault. Rape. You'll rot in prison for this, Dylan! Alphas aren't above the law!"

"Rape?" His smirk was slow, wicked, full lips curling as his thumb swiped a tear from your cheek— almost tender, the touch sending shivers you hated. "Nah. Your slick drenched my cock, that tight little ass clenched down like it never wanted me out. Gripped my knot like a vice, milking every drop."

He snatched your wrist in one fluid motion, lifting it to eye level. The crescent moon mark glowed faintly under his stare, and he leaned in, lips brushing the sensitive skin soft as a whisper. His tongue flicked out deliberate— hot, wet lap over the etched lines —drawing a gasp from you as unwanted heat flared straight to your core. "This mark? It sang to me from day one. Called my Alpha instincts screaming. You're mine now."

You jerked your arm back hard, but his grip held—not crushing, but unyielding iron wrapped in silk.

"Don't fucking touch me!"

Voice cracked on a sob, body trembling under the weight of his proximity, pheromones thickening the air like fog, making your head spin.

That grip shifted seamless, hauling you effortlessly into his lap like you weighed nothing. You squirmed wild— elbows jabbing, legs kicking —but it was futile against his bulk, thighs straddling his hips, feeling the swift harden of his cock pressing thick and insistent against your bare ass through his sweats.

"Fight all you want, little moon," he growled, arms banding around your waist, one hand splaying possessive over your lower back, fingers dipping dangerously close to your cleft.

"You're not leaving this room. Hell, not leaving this bed till I say. Ever." His pheromones flooded deliberate now— dense, intoxicating wave crashing over you, dizzying your senses, forcing your slick weeping copiously to soak his sweats.

"I've always wanted this perfect ass since the first time I caught your scent leaking through that Beta facade. Bullying you? Shoving you in halls, spilling shit on your notes? Kept you close without full on claiming you right there. Drove me insane watching you pretend. But you threatening to leave, to vanish from my sight? That snapped the last thread. You're staying. Getting bred. Filled till you swell with my pups."

The word bred hit like ice water, obsession twisting his words into something vile, madness.

"You're sick! Get the fuck off me!" You thrashed harder, nails raking his shoulders, drawing thin red lines that only made his pupils blow wide, cock throbbing hotter against you.

He laughed then— deep, dark rumble vibrating through his chest into yours —free hand snatching a fat strawberry from the tray, dipping it slow into the yogurt parfait till it dripped creamy white.

"Eat up, pet. You'll need the strength for what's coming." He brought it to your lips, pressing insistent.

You turned your head, spitting defiance. "Fuck your food!"

Yogurt smeared your chin instead.

Undeterred, his eyes gleamed challenge.

"Stubborn. I like it."

He persisted— gentle insistence morphing coercive, free hand stroking your thigh soothing circles while the strawberry nudged again. Bite by bite, he fed you— fingers lingering on your lips, thumb swiping yogurt from the corner of your mouth, pushing it back in. The sweetness clashed with bile in your throat, stomach churning from force and fear, but exhaustion won. You swallowed mechanically, flavors bursting: tart berry, cool cream, honey's floral note.

He praised soft, "Good boy" wiping your mouth with his thumb, sucking it clean himself with a groan.

Hours dragged in tense standoff, sun arcing across the room, shadows lengthening. Dylan doted relentless: drawing a steaming bath in the en-suite marble tub, scented with lavender oils that clung to your skin like his touch; toweling you dry with careful hands, kneading salve into bruises while spinning tales of his "lonely" Alpha life— empty mansions, fake friends, no one real till you. You stayed silent, plotting every rattle of the window latch, every gap in his gaze for escape. But he watched like a hawk, body heat a constant cage.

Dusk bled crimson through curtains, heat cresting merciless— skin fever flush, breaths shallow, your hole aching empty, clenching on nothing, cock half hard and leaking pre-cum onto your belly. Dylan sensed it instantly, nostrils flaring, eyes darkening to forest depths. He rose fluid, stripping you slow— almost reverent ritual. Sheets peeled away inch by inch, exposing trembling limbs, bite marked neck, the purple finger prints on hips.

His lips mapped every bruise— soft kisses that burned like brands, tongue soothing welts, teeth grazing just shy of pain. "Beautiful like this," he murmured against your collarbone, voice wrecked with hunger. "All marked by me. My Omega."

"No— Dylan, please..." Your voice cracked desperate, hands shoving weak at his chest—solid as oak —but he only hummed, laying you back on piled pillows, knees nudged wide.

Cool air kissed your puffy rim, still tender-swollen from previously, slick glistening obscene. His sweats hit floor. Cock sprang free— heavy, flushed deep red, veined thick along the length, easily ten inches curving slight up, head weeping clear pre-cum in fat beads. Balls hung heavy, drawn tight with need.

"No— NO! STOP! I can't... please.... no... can't take it anymore..."

Protest dissolved whimper as he knelt between thighs, thumbs spreading your cheeks wide, exposing everything. Hot breath fanned your hole first— then tongue, flat lap from taint to rim, burrowing insistent. You keened, back arching off silk.

"You will, pet. Gonna make it good." Inch by agonizing inch, he sank fingers in— two thick digits scissoring your slick walls, curling ruthless to graze prostate. Sparks exploded, cock jerking untouched, but pain lingered at edges. He worked you open deliberate— third finger stretching burn, tongue lapping where fingers couldn't reach, slurping slick like nectar.

"Taste yourself on me," he growled, pulling free to shove fingers past your lips— salty-sweet tang flooding your mouth as you gagged helpless.

Prepped enough for him?

Cockhead nudged your rim— blunt pressure, then pop —breaching slow, velvet vice sucking him deeper. He groaned guttural, inching forward. "Fuuuck, so goddamn tight still. Gripping like velvet fist."

Halfway, pause— letting you adjust, shallow rocks grinding prostate sparks.

Full hilt now, pubes tickling your ass, the obscene bulge reforming low belly— outline of his thickness distorting skin. "Look," he rasped, palm pressing flat. Your own cock twitched at sight, pre beading navel.

Tears streamed silent as traitorous pleasure coiled tight— hate warring bliss. "S-stop... I hate it... pull out... please... "

Hips snapped experimental— once, testing —wet schlick echoing, balls tapping your ass soft. Brutality built gradual: glides lengthening, pace quickening to piston rhythm, desk-fuck savagery returning refined. He hooked your legs over broad shoulders, folding you near double—gravity aiding each downward plunge, cockhead hitting your womb deeply.

Wet slaps filled room, skin-on-skin symphony, balls smacking heavy, slick frothing white at base.

"Begged so pretty in that classroom," he panted, sweat beading his temple, abs flexing hypnotic.

"Do it again. Beg for my knot." Free hand wrapped your leaking cock— stroking rough sync to thrusts, thumb smearing pre over head.

"N-no! Get—ahh—off!"

Words fractured moans, body arching involuntary, ass clenching rhythmic around him. Pressure built nuclear— his knot swelling base, kissing your rim teasing. One brutal snap— pop —knot breaching, inflating full inside, locking seamless. Stretch burned exquisite agony, tying you together, his weight pinning as orgasm ripped him.

Cum erupted floods— first spurt scalding your walls, second bloating deep, pulse after thick pulse painting insides white till belly distended slight, sloshing faint with movement.

"Good boy," he rocked gentle through it, knot grinding prostate sparks, forcing your own climax— cock spurting ropes across your chest, ass milking him greedy. "Locked full. Feel it? My seed taking root."

Knot throbbed hour plus. 45 minutes exact by his watch glance— him nuzzling neck, licking gland fresh bites. Deflated slow, schlurp pull-free obscene, cum-slick deluge pouring from gaping hole. He fetched toy quick— thick silicone plug, flared base jeweled sapphire —shoving past rim with twist, sealing mess. "Keep my pups brewing overnight. No wasting."

You curled, face buried in pillows, body quaking sobs as depression seeped cold— freedom not just shattered, but ground to dust under his heel. His hand stroked back soothing, oblivious—or uncaring—to the void swallowing you whole.

Drive you home, he said.

"Is this what you wanted?" you breath against his lips, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “To make me indebted to you?”

The kiss was agonizingly light. Your fingers tightened around his blonde locks to pull him closer. He let out a sharp, jagged exhale against your mouth, a sound of surrender that didn't match the way his body crowded yours against the leather seat.

The kiss eventually deepened, turning from a hesitant touch into something fierce and desperate, fueled by the years he had spent having to watch you move forward without him from the shadows.

“No.” He pulled away momentarily to reply. “I just wanted you to realize that you need me,” your hot breaths mixed together, ragged and heavy. “That your life falls apart if I don’t get a say in it.”

Then he crashed your lips together once more. His tongue swiped against your lower lip, a silent demand you immediately met by parting your lips together to grant him the access he desperately needed.

His hand slid down to find the small of your back, pressing you into him. His tongue moved with a rhythmic, possessive drive that left you lightheaded. Your other hand tugged at his collar, prompting him to pull away and let you catch your breath.

And while you were doing that, Eirian placed a hand against your chest to slowly lower you onto the leather seat. The backseat was a little cramped for the both of you to move freely, but that wasn’t one of Eirian’s concerns right now.

His hands slowly trailed down your torso with a gentle touch, as if a slightly harder press would make you break. They rest on your inner thigh, and with a gentle push he parted them to fill the gap in between.

Eirian leaned down to rest his cheek on your right thigh, lilac eyes gazing up at you with a look that screamed devotion. His hand wrapped around one of your wrist, a thumb gently caressing your wrist which caused you to tense up slightly. It was the same hand he snapped out of place before you left.

Instead, he gently pulled your wrist towards his lips and planted a gentle kiss against your skin. “I’m sorry,” he murmured an apology, sensing the way you tensed in his grip.

Wordlessly, he led your fingers to rest on his head, brushing against his hair as he worked on undoing your belt.

The sound of the zipper coming down was obscenely loud in the confined space, followed by the hush sound of fabric being pushed down to pool at your thighs as Eirian pushed them down just enough for your dick to spring to life.

His breathing hitched as he took in the sight of your hard cock, violet eyes dilating with desire as his thumb swiped experimentally across your bare cock, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had gathered at the tip.

He leaned down, hesitating for just a fraction of a second before his lips finally made contact with the tip of your cock, soon sealing themselves around your shaft which caused you to tighten your grip on his hair and throw your head back.

The initial suck was gentle, deliberately so, which somehow made it worse as the head of your cock hit the back of his throat, his tongue immediately swirling up along the sensitive underside while your fingers maintained a firm grip on his hair.

Eirian angled his head slightly sideways, drowning in every groan you managed to suppress. It was overwhelming, Eirian bobbed rhythmically with increasing enthusiasm. He'd clearly practiced this fantasy in his head more than he’d like to admit.

The way he worked with his mouth was addicting. His other hand pumped through the areas his mouth wasn’t able to reach; wet, obscene sounds against your heated skin. His violet eyes flicked up to yours for a brief, burning your expressions into his memory.

As soon as you finished, Eirian made sure to plunge himself deeply down your length, not wasting a single drop of your cum as he finally freed his mouth, lips connected to your tip by a trail of his own saliva and a thin string of your load. You slowly removed your hand from his blonde locks and slid them down to cup his cheek where he leaned into your touch and slightly parted his lips to show you that he took all of you. Not a single wasted drop.

Satisfied with your attention on him, Eirian moved away to pull your shirt up, revealing more of your bare torso.

“Say ahh.”

“A—“ he stuffed the fabric of your shirt past your parted lips to hold it up and muffle your moans at the same time.

Eirian shifted his hips up from where they'd been settled between your legs so that his own erection pressed against your thigh through the fabric still covering him. But that was soon gone too, leaving his throbbing cock to slap against your thigh.

His cock was pressing directly against your entrance now, head already slick with pre-cum as though preparing itself to push past the tight ring of muscle on your rim.

And fuck, he looked desperate. The sweet controlled worship from a while ago was entirely replaced by something hungry and erratic.

Eirian’s hips bucked against yours as he finally buried himself inside you with one thrust, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough that there would be bruises later. He felt your walls tighten around him, making him melt; making you melt.

He felt your nails digging onto his shoulders, pausing to let your insides adjust to his size.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he consoled you gently, a hand slowly guiding one of yours that dug through his skin to rest against his cheek. He nuzzled himself against the palm of your hand, eyes watching as tears cascaded down your cheeks from the burning sensation of being stretched out and filled. “You’re okay. You’re doing amazing.”

Then he moved, slowly and sensually. He stayed attentive with each twitch of your body and your fingers on his cheek as he thrusted his hips, pulling out with only the head of his cock left inside of you before slamming back down.

He felt your fingers curl against his cheek as your body jolted from the sudden sensation, it made you see stars.

Seeing that you no longer seemed to be in pain, Eirian finally gained the courage to maintain a constant pace that eventually grew faster and needy with each passing second that you showed him a positive reaction. You could hear him muttering curses under his breath, telling you how good you felt around his cock.

He kept one hand wrapped around yours throughout the entire thing, connecting his lips with yours at one point as he felt himself nearing his climax. You had already finished before him, cum painting both your abdomens white with your own release.

Eirian's entire body went rigid, his spine arching as his cock swelled even thicker inside of you. A strangled sound tore from his throat, something between a whimper and a groan.

Hot spurts of cum flooded into your already-stretched hole that made your entire body shudder at the sudden feeling of warmth inside you.

Eirian's head fell back, throat exposed as it bobbed when he swallowed thickly. His orgasm continued, seemingly endless as he emptied himself completely inside of you.

The wet sound of his cum filling your tight hole was obscene, proof of finally letting himself claim you after all those years.

The childhood from your memories ended at your parents’ funeral. Moving in with your grandparents meant a new town, a new school, and a distance that pulled you away from Eirian and everything familiar, your shared childhood becoming a distant memory.

The day of your departure still stuck with you like a mental scar.

Boxes were stacked outside your house as you waited with your grandparents for the moving truck to arrive.

You stayed in the living room, sitting on the edge of the couch, swinging both your legs anxiously. The motion was small and constant, an action made to distract yourself from your own thoughts.

This was going to be a big change, and despite your confidence in being able to settle in just fine, you still couldn’t help but feel nervous.

The knock came in the middle of your leg-swinging, loud enough to punch through the quiet. Not like the soft, cautious knocks of a stranger, it was sharper. Impatient.

Your grandmother answered the door to reveal Eirian standing on the porch.

His eyes found you immediately. They always did.

He greeted your grandparents politely as soon as he stepped inside, but it was clear that the main purpose of his visit was you with the way his gaze on your form never wavered even as he exchanged greetings with your grandparents.

He paused in front of you, eyes half-lidded as they stared at your own. You catch a glint of something behind their softness. Not fear. Not sadness. You couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

“Hey,” you decide to break the silence, afraid that he’d end up staring at you the entire time until it was time for you to leave.

The glint disappeared as soon as your voice snapped him out of his trance. He hastily greeted you back, fingers fidgeting with something in his hands as you two exchanged a light conversation.

Then he drops a question.

“Could we maybe go look at your room?” he started, glancing toward the hallway. “One last time?”

Something whispered in the back of your mind to reject the suggestion, but the guilt of turning down one of his last requests got the best of you. And your bedroom was one of your hangout spots besides his backyard, so prohibiting him from seeing it one last time would simply be cruel of you.

So you agreed.

Your bedroom door was half open, half empty. The bed was stripped leaving only the bedframe, the closet bare without your clothes in them, and the floor had pale squares where furniture used to sit.

It looked strange without the little pieces that made it yours.

“Everything’s gone,” you heard him whisper, lips tugged into a small frown. Then he turned to you. “Do you really have to go?”

You noticed the boy’s sad expression, your instincts immediately telling you to comfort him. “I’ll still visit from time to time.” You tried to keep your tone light, not wanting your last moments together to hold a lonely atmosphere.

Eirian blinked.

Once.

Twice.

I don’t believe you.

Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out, holding it out to you with both hands; the gesture familiar. Too familiar.

His eyes caught sight of the slight flinch on your shoulders.

Because the first thing your mind recalled was a faint memory. It saw blood, feathers stuck to his wrist, and the ragged edges where wings were supposed to be.

He watched your face, eyes bright with focus, as if he was studying a reaction he wanted to keep.

“Do you like it?” He asked, knowing damn well what was going on inside your head the moment your eyes landed on the item in his hands; a toy bird completely made out of plastic. Its wings were hinged so they could flap if you pressed a button under its stomach.

Your hands stiffen, watching as he placed the toy onto your palm and secured it there by placing a hand on top of it.

“You know,” he started. Gone was the sad expression on his face, replaced by repressed anger hidden behind a calm smile.

“It’s hard,” his gaze flicked to the toy bird in your hands, then back to you, as if the object was only a stand-in for something else. “to keep something that can fly away at any time.”

Then, without warning, he snapped one of the toy bird’s wings with a sharp crack. Clean.

You jolted at the sound and instinctively tried to take the toy away from his grasp in an attempt to save it, but Eirian’s other hand grabbed your wrist to hold it in place before you could.

Then he snapped the other wing. The toy bird rested in your shaking palm, wingless and ruined.

“There,” he says, proud of his work. “I fixed it.”

“Let go.” You try to pull away from his grip, his hand still wrapped around your wrist.

Not painfully. Not yet.

Just enough to stop you.

You tugged harder.

His grip tightened in response, twice the force, a quiet warning disguised as persistence. His thumb pressed into the inside of your wrist like a mark.

Then you hear it–

‘Crack!’

“Woa!”

A startled voice snapped you out of your trance, dragging you back to the present. Your breath hitched, and the world sharpened.

The lights, the noise, the smell of coffee, the clatter of cups.

The plastic container in your hand had crumpled under your grip. A jagged crack split the side, and coffee dribbled down your fingers onto the counter.

With a disappointed hiss, you disposed of the cup in a nearby trashcan. “Sorry! I’ll make you a new one.”

It had been years since you'd last seen your childhood friend, let alone hear any news about him.

Since then, misfortune seemed to follow you wherever you went.

It started when you stepped into your first year of freshman year at a new school after moving in with your grandparents

Invitations were nowhere near existent. Group chats went silent when you typed. You learned to sit alone without making it obvious you’d been left there.

You told yourself that you didn’t need anyone anyway, something you’d cling onto to make the sting of rejection hurt less. After graduation, you thought it would all stop and that you’d finally be able to live your life to the fullest.

Oh, how wrong you were.

Workplaces rejected your applications even after interviews that went well. The feedback was always positive, right up until the final email.

‘We’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.’ their email would read.

And on the rare occasions you did get hired, you never lasted long. A month, maybe two, before something goes wrong that you couldn’t explain: a complaint, a mismatch, a manager suddenly deciding that you weren’t a good fit for the position.

Hell, even your love life felt rigged. First dates that ended with warm smiles and promises to meet again, only for your messages to go unanswered the next day. Partners who seemed close to you one week and strangely distant the next, as if they’d heard something that rewrote you in their mind.

Breakups were always with vague explanations. You stopped trying to ask what changed, because no clear answers ever came.

So you kept your head down. Took what jobs you could. Stayed independent in the way you’d always been.

Luckily, your current job as a barista at a local cafe has been treating you well so far. Too well.

Perhaps the years of enduring misfortune made you guarded that way.

The first time you noticed it, you didn’t suspect a thing. Instead, you called it pure luck. As if the universe finally saw through your misfortune and decided to switch up for once.

It was the dead middle of your shift, the café’s air thick with the smell of brewed coffee and steamed milk. Your feet ached in that familiar, dull way that made the world feel slightly tilted.

“I’m so tired,” You’d mutter to yourself while wiping the counter, and you meant it as a private complaint, nothing more.

By the end of the day, there was a sudden change in your schedule.

“Hey,” you said to your manager as you clocked out, keeping your tone casual. “Did you move my closing shift?”

She didn’t bother to look up from the tablet in her arms. “Yeah. You’re on mornings starting tomorrow.”

Your brows knit together in confusion. “Why? I didn’t ask for that.”

She finally glanced up, expression stiff, a touch too polite. “Someone recommended it.”

“Who?”

“Too many questions.”

You forced a small laugh. “Okay,” you said, and let it go.

You should have felt relieved. It meant more sleep, more time to check on your grandparents, fewer nights walking home alone. It was the kind of change people would get on their knees and beg for.

Instead, a prickling unease crawled up your spine.

That night, you got home and found your grandmother in the living room, holding a paper bag with a pharmacy logo you didn’t recognize.

“Oh,” she said, smiling. “Your medicine came early.”

“Mine?”

“Your grandfather’s heart medication. The one the clinic said might take another week. But a delivery man came. Very respectful. He said it was all taken care of.”

“Who paid for it?”

She hesitated. “He didn’t say.”

You stared at the bag until the letters blurred. You don’t remember paying for anything to get delivered. Or maybe you’ve simply forgotten about it.

The next morning, you walked into your workplace and found a new espresso machine sitting where the old one had been sputtering and coughing for months.

“What is that?” you asked, blinking at it like it might be a hallucination.

The barista beside you whistled. “The new owner sent it.”

“New owner?”

She nodded, excited. “Apparently he hates seeing employees struggle with broken equipment. Isn’t that sweet?”

Sweet.

The word sat wrong in your mouth, but you tried to ignore it.

Then good things happened more often to be called a coincidence.

Small problems stopped reaching you. They died before they could become yours.

You mentioned, offhand, that the storage room door jammed sometimes. The next day, it swung open smoothly, a brand-new hinge gleaming like it had always belonged there.

Then there was your coworker. Mara. She wasn’t outright cruel, just had a bit of an attitude problem.

Every instruction from you was treated as an insult by her. She’d yell whenever you tried to correct her, and every mistake on the counter somehow became your fault.

You stayed silent because you were used to dealing with this kind of treatment in the workplace.

The next day, Mara didn’t come in, and the day after that. On the third day, your manager cleared her throat while you were preparing to open.

“Mara’s been transferred.”

You froze with a milk jug in your hands. “Transferred where?”

“Different branch.”

“Why?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she replied quickly. “Owner’s order.”

Owner.

It was always the new owner behind these things.

When you finally stepped out into the late afternoon, the sun was bright. Not a sight you were used to since you were used to working the closing shift.

You walked past the alley beside the cafe.

“Walking home?” The new voice came from the side, mild and warm.

You stopped.

Eirian stood near the building’s shadow, hands in his pockets, expression composed as if he’d just stepped out for fresh air and happened to find you.

You froze at the sight of your childhood friend, and it felt like his presence clicked everything into place

“.. Did you transfer Mara?” That was the first thing you blurted out.

Eirian blinked once, as if surprised by the directness, then he mustered out a small laugh.

“Not even a ‘hi’?” He asked.

You weren’t sure if it was because you haven’t seen him in so long, but his vibe felt completely different to the one you remembered in your childhood. He looked more.. compose. No longer avoiding eye contact or fidgeting.

He sighed gently at your silence. “I simply want to keep my employees in check, I’d be a bad employer otherwise.”

You felt a sense of unease at the sight of Eirian, especially now that you’ve linked all the good things that had recently happened to you back to him. Although, it didn’t harm you in any way.

“Were you also the one who delivered the medicine?” Another question. How cold.

As an only child, your parents would often tell you that you’d need to handle things by yourself someday, so you might as well start learning young. Independence, they called it. A skill you’d be thanking them later in life for.

Grownups loved to praise you. Always commenting on how you were ‘too mature for your age’.

Back then, you took it as a compliment.

But if the line between independence and pushing people away trying to help you blurs, could you still consider it as something positive?

Eirian hated it. Hated that you lived without leaning; hated that you gave so freely to others but treated help like a bag of snakes.

“Come on, Ei!” you’d exclaim, grabbing the cuff of his sleeve and tugging him away from the fence where he lingered like a timid animal. “You’re not allergic to fun, you know.”

He would blink at you, cheeks pink. You could barely hear him speak up with how soft his voice was. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You won’t be,” you reassured him, lifting his hand and waving it like a flag.

The other kids would wave at you two with cheerful smiles and all would turn out well. Everything turned out fine when you were around.

“See? You’re fitting in nicely,” you’d cheer him on as you two ran across the playground, hand-in-hand, running away from the tagger with echoing laughter. Eirian’s cheeks flushed red. Either from the warmth of your hands in his or from all the running you two had to do.

His parents often praised you for being able to bring their son out of his shell while Eirian watched you with quiet attention; a silent interest. 

“I want to be like you,” he murmured one time as you two were resting in his backyard, backs against the grassy ground.

You were too occupied with scanning the clouds for shapes to notice his gaze on you. His eyes were soft, wide and sincere, as if he was staring at the most interesting piece of artwork in a museum. “You’re so.. free.”

You laughed as you rolled onto your stomach and rested your chin on the palm of your hand, gaze now meeting his.

“I’m sure you’ll learn at your own pace, Ei.” You reach out a hand to ruffle his blonde hair, making his pale skin flush a light shade of pink.

Eirian looked up to you more than he should, his gazes lingering longer than usual.

There were moments he stared a little too much with a glint in his eyes. Like he was memorizing the parts of you that made other people feel safe.

And sometimes, when you weren’t looking, something in him would shift.

His small hands would catch the back of your shirt, fingers tightening as if he meant to yank you back, or tear something loose. Then he’d blink, snapping out of his trance. His eyes would sting with glossy, pitiful tears, apologizing in a voice so soft it made you feel like you did something wrong.

It worked like a charm. You couldn’t stay mad at him. Not at Ei.

“What do you have there?” You asked one afternoon, peering over his shoulder.

You had come over to play with Eirian as usual, deciding to surprise him by not letting him know that you were coming.

But he seemed to have a bigger surprise for you.

Eirian quickly turned as soon as he heard your voice, offering his hands out towards you where he held a small creature. A small, brown-feathered bird. 

He smiled widely, but the gesture was not reciprocated.

Instead he was met with your horrified expression, a gasp trapped behind your palms as you slapped them over your mouth, staring at the dead creature in his blood-stained hands with wide eyes.

It was unmoving; dead.

The bird’s wings were missing. Not tucked, not folded, missing.

From the ragged edges and the dark smears of red on Eirian’s hands, it wasn’t too hard to put two and two together.

“What’s wrong?” Eirian asked, his voice small, like he has yet to understand what he just did wrong.

Eirian stood there with his arms still extended, the dead bird extended towards you like a gift. Blood clung to his knuckles; a bloodied feather on his wrist. “Look, it reminded me of you.”

Your hands stay clamped over your mouth. Then you force them to lower slowly despite the slight tremble in them, your expression morphing into practiced stillness. Your parents’ voices echoed in your head. All those years of ‘handle it yourself’ masked the tremble in your voice as you spoke.

“I…” Your voice broke slightly, high-pitched, which you fixed by clearing your throat to make your tone firmer. “Ei. Where did you find that?”

Eirian’s smile wavers, but steadies again when he hears you say his nickname, eyes round and earnest.

“By the fence,” he says calmly. “It wouldn’t let me get close, so I wanted to fix it.”

Fix it, he says.

The words that escaped from the young boy’s lips landed wrong, but you kept your face neutral. You didn’t want him to feel like he did something wrong, he’d cry for sure.

Instead, you tried to convince yourself that this was normal. Yeah.. kids break things all the time.

“Okay,” you swallow carefully, stammering. “Okay. So um, you… you shouldn’t treat animals like that.” You glance at the bird’s torn body, but force your eyes back up to his face, because if you look down again you might completely lose your composure.

Eirian blinks slowly. “Like what?”

How could you possibly explain that what he did was wrong without setting him off?

Unable to construct the right words, you opted to change the subject. “You’re hurt,” you say gently, as if the blood in his hands were his own and not the small creature’s. “Your hands. Did the bird scratch you?”

“It didn’t scratch,” he says, calm and unfazed like the bird was the bothersome one. “It just wouldn’t stay still.”

You nod your head silently in response, as though it made sense for a bird to be blamed for resisting.

“Maybe it was scared,” you tried to offer an explanation, but it felt absurd to have to explain fear to someone holding a mutilated creature.

Eirian shifted the bird in his hands, cradling it carefully, almost tenderly. But the tenderness didn’t make it any better, it only made it worse. It was like watching someone pet a knife.

“I wasn't trying to scare it,” He muttered slowly, sadness lacing his tone. “I wanted to help it, but it wouldn’t cooperate.”

“So,” you trail off, trying to make sense of the boy’s reasoning, “you tried to help it by hurting it?”

Eirian tilted his head, as if the word hurt didn’t fit the description he had in mind. “I stopped it from running away,” he corrected softly. “So it would have to let me help it.”

“It reminds me of you,” he repeats his earlier statement, as if he was hoping that saying that would make you feel better. “Because it was small.”

You stiffen, brows furrowed together in confusion. “I’m not small.”

Eirian’s eyes widen, a tiny, apologetic sound escaping him. He uses it often whenever he realizes that he’d made a social mistake.

“I didn’t mean it like that ! I mean you’re… you’re always helping things that are weaker, is all.” His wide lilac colored eyes stare up at you with reverence. He said it so earnestly that it almost sounds like a compliment.  “I wanted to do the same.”

“Okay, uhm..” you say carefully. You really didn’t want to hear any more of his reasoning. It was only making you withdraw further.

For the second time, you divert the topic away from the bird, seizing the opportunity to step forward and gently guide his wrists downward so the bird was no longer in your line of sight.  

“We should really get you cleaned up before your mom sees you in this state.” You try not to touch the blood as you were pushing his hands down.

Eirian watched you closely, eyes tracking your every move, as if your composure was something he wanted to keep intact. Like a toy he didn’t want broken.

The quiet stretched on. Then his lower lip trembles, and panic spikes through you because you could already see the tears coming.

So you move first.

You reach out and ruffle his hair. “It’s okay, It’s okay!” you say with false enthusiasm. “We’ll just clean it up, alright?”

The tears pause. His eyes stay glossy, but they don’t spill. He leans into the touch just slightly, like a cat accepting a hand.

“Okay,” he whispers, fighting back a smile from twitching onto his lips.

Good. Comfort him, just like you always do.

You keep your voice gentle to avoid setting him off further. “Let’s go to the bathroom. Wash your hands. Then we can bury the birdie outside.”

Eirian’s fingers curl around the bird a little tighter, as if you’ve suggested taking away a prize. “Bury?” he echoed. “But I brought it for you. It's a gift.”

Your throat tightens, but you smile anyway. “That’s sweet,” you lied through your teeth, because lying was apparently easier than watching him fall apart. “But If we bury it, it can.. it can rest.”

You guide him toward the hallway, careful not to look too closely at what he’s holding. And while you lead him to the sink, you keep repeating excuses inside your head, layering them like bandages.

He’s just a kid.

You scrub his hands under warm water until the red becomes pink, then disappears, swirling down the drain like it never existed. Eirian watched the water as if it’s fascinating, glancing at your hands that glided through his soapy ones from time to time.

He didn’t mean it.

When you dry his fingers, he doesn’t pull away.

He wanted to impress you.

He looks up at you with that soft, devoted stare, and for a second your stomach goes hollow, because his expression isn’t guilty.

It was pleased.

As if you’ve just proven something to him.

You’ve just shown him exactly how far he can go and still be forgiven.

It’s a one-time thing.

The summer before your first year of high school was when everything split. The air smelled like rain that couldn’t decide whether to fall.

You were dressed in all black, grief painting your expression as people moved around you in cautious circles. Someone tried to hug you, and you surprisingly let them, shoulders stiffening at the unfamiliar gesture. Another person offered you water and you accepted it, swallowed, thanked them, then set the cup down without shaking.

You didn’t cry. Not once. 

Eirian stood beside his parents, hands clasped together in front of him. His expression was composed into a gentle and sorrowful one, carrying with him a careful softness because he had watched people reward his softness his whole life.

But his attention was fixated on you, sharp and hungry beneath the mask.

You looked so vulnerable, so unguarded in a way he’d never been allowed to see before because of your stubborn will to appear strong and handle everything yourself. There was something raw behind your eyes. It was like seeing a crack in the wall you effortlessly built around yourself.

And it made his pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with grief.

He waited for the crowd around you to slowly disperse before making his move. As soon as you were alone, Eirian finally made his move.

He detached himself from his parents’ side to approach your black-clad form, still wearing the same gentle, sorrowful expression he held throughout the entire funeral service.

“Hey,” he said softly after he settled by your side, gracing you with his presence. He had grown taller over the years, now towering a few inches over you.

You turn towards your friend and meet his gaze, mustering up a small smile to greet him back. “Hey..”

Eirian’s breath hitched as soon as your gazes met. Vulnerability suited you so well.

Clearing his throat, Eirian fought against whatever emotion was bubbling up inside of him as he continued the conversation.  “How are you feeling?”

“I’m.. okay.” You answered, short and brief.

You held his gaze, unblinking, and for a second he saw it clearly inside your tired eyes: pain disguised as politeness, like you were trying to swallow it all down. Forgotten and ignored.

Eirian’s chest went tight with something like satisfaction.

There it was. That's what he was looking forward to the moment your parents' death was announced.

He'd reach for it with words first, because words were safer than his hands that had caused nothing but destruction so far.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he murmured. “Not with me.”

He expected you to falter. To exhale. To lean even a little towards him.

To let him become necessary.

Instead, you did what you always did.

You took the pain, placed it behind a smile, and locked the door.

“Thank you,” you say, yet it felt distant. “But I’m fine.. really.”

It should have been expected. You’d already refused him before, but in smaller ways like brushing off his concern and waving him away with that calm confidence that made everyone else admire you and made him feel invisible.

But this time was different. He was close enough to taste the moment where you might finally stop flying and let him hold you.

Yet you still chose the sky.

Something hot and sharp flared in his chest. Every part of him was screaming at him to insist. To reach out and force everything out of you either way.

Instead, he smiled. “Of course,” he replied. “I know you’re strong.”

It sounded like praise, but it was not.

You nod once in acknowledgement, already turning away, already walking back into the crowd beside your grandparents. Eirian could only watch from a distance as you slip away from his grasp once more.

Something in him settled into place with cold clarity He felt the first real, blooming anger of his life.

Not at the rejection. At you.

At the way you could be shattered, but still refuse his help; at the way you made vulnerability look like a door he wasn’t allowed to open.

And as the crowd of mourning people swallowed you again, Eirian returned to his parents' side. His smile remained gentle, eyes kind to anyone who looked his way.

Only inside his thoughts, where no one could peer into, did he think about wings; how easy it was for something to escape if it could still fly.

Oh, how stubborn freedom was.