#alber x reader

[sunandflame]

The Quiet Burn

A storm leaves more than broken branches in its wake. When you find a wounded man with wings and a fire that burns just beneath his skin, you should leave him to fate. Instead, you bring him home.

Warnings: slow-burn, hurt/comfort, soft angst, emotional vulnerability, injury and medical trauma, mention of past genocide and cultural erasure (past trauma)

Word Count: 8500~

Pairing: King (Alber) x Reader

crossposted on AO3

set after the big fight between Zoro and King in Wano Kuni

The storm had passed by morning, but the land still held its breath.

Pale sunlight filters through scattered clouds, casting a glistening sheen across the drenched forest canopy. Birds call cautiously, their voices tentative. The wind refuses to stir. The storm’s fury stole much of the night’s warmth, leaving behind a hush that clings to the trees like a secret.

You step out onto your porch barefoot, cradling a mug of steeped herbs in your palms. The wood beneath your feet is damp and cool, slick with rainwater. Your hawk, perches on the railing, feathers fluffed. He gives a low, uneasy cry.

“I know,” you murmur, brushing your fingers gently across his speckled wings. “It feels… off today.”

The unease had taken root in your stomach long before dawn. It wasn’t just the storm. Something else lingers in the air—like the forest is keeping something it shouldn't have caught.

Your cottage sits a little ways off from the village, tucked near the edge of a long clearing that stretches into the trees. You prefer it that way. With the hawks, the wind, and the silence, you never truly feel alone. People from the village often call you strange—“the bird person” or “the healer who talks to feathers.” You don’t mind. You’ve never needed their understanding.

You hawk screeches again—sharper this time. Urgent.

Your eyes snap up, following his gaze across the clearing. There—just beyond the tall reeds—something dark and still lies in the grass. Your breath catches.

It wasn’t there yesterday.

You set your mug down with care and reach into your satchel for your hunting knife. The handle is familiar, grounding. Your hawk launches into the sky above you, circling tighter and tighter as you descend the porch steps and step into the damp grass, heart beginning to race. The closer you got, the more you realized how massive the figure was. Not a beast. Not entirely.

A man.

Or something like a man.

He lies on his back, wings sprawled like broken sails across the grass. The storm has muddied his white hair and streaked his face with dirt and blood. His chest rises in shallow, uneven breaths, and what remains of his armor is scorched, torn, barely clinging to him.

You freeze a few feet away.

It’s the wings that unnerve you most. Massive. Charcoal black. Folded awkwardly beneath him, the right one severed halfway through—ragged, as if torn by a blade. Not bird wings—too thick, too powerful. Your hawks have nothing like these. But you’ve tended feathers before. Mended cracked bones. Pulled barbed arrows from avian muscle. This… this isn’t beyond you.

Still, your instincts scream caution.

Power clings to him, even unconscious. His jaw is sharp, worn by battle. His body—colossal, towering over six meters—is littered with deep gashes, carved through skin and muscle like the aftermath of war. No burns, but the wounds are brutal. One massive slash splits the center of his torso, raw and ugly, still weeping blood that soaks into the earth beneath him. Whoever he is, he’s been through hell.

And yet here he is. Fallen. Alone.

Dead?

No. You see it. The flutter of his lashes. The faint twitch of his jaw. He’s alive—barely.

You should go to the village. You should tell someone.

But you don’t move.

Instead, you kneel beside him. Brush the rain-matted hair from his brow. His skin is hot—blistering, almost. Fever. It spreads through him like wildfire.

“You’re going to die if I leave you here,” you whisper, your voice barely your own. “But if I bring you home…”

Your gaze drops to his hand. Large. Calloused. A killer’s hand.

“…Don’t make me regret this.”

It takes everything you have—a rope harness, every ounce of your strength, and the stubborn might of your giant cart-pulling boar—to haul him to the back of the cottage. The rain-softened earth makes it just possible to drag his massive body onto the wooden sled without scraping him to death. Even so, your arms burn, your legs ache, and your back throbs with every step. Overhead, your hawk wheels anxiously, shrieking at intervals whenever you stray too close to one of the charred wings.

“I’m trying,” you snap through gritted teeth at your hawk. “He’s not one of you.”

Back at the cottage, you waste no time.

You start with the armor—what's left of it. Leather, not metal, but no less difficult. You saw through buckled straps, wedge tools beneath warped fastenings, and peel away layers stiff with dried blood and dirt. It’s a grueling, grimy process. When at last the pieces fall aside, the full scope of his injuries becomes horribly clear. Deep lacerations carve across his abdomen. Skin along his ribcage is split open, clawed raw. No burns, but the cuts are brutal—especially the wide, angry gash cleaving the center of his torso. His right wing is worse. Half of it’s gone, the remaining span frayed and bloodied, torn by something impossibly sharp.

Then comes the clothing—what little of it hasn’t already been ripped away. It clings to him, soaked in blood and earth. You don’t hesitate. There’s no modesty left to preserve, not with how close he hovers to death. You strip him to the skin and lay him out beside the hearth. He’s far too massive for your curing table, and the wings make it impossible regardless. Even unconscious, they twitch and lift like they remember the fight. The ruined one shudders once before falling still.

You move to the washbasin, soak a cloth in warm water, and kneel beside him. As you clean away the blood and filth, your hands pause on his chest—scarred, solid, and powerful. There’s no softness here. Every inch of him speaks of violence, of survival. Of pain.

A fighter’s body.

A monster’s body.

“What happened to you…” you murmur, more to yourself than him.

You stitch what you can, hands steady despite the weight dragging at your limbs. You wrap his ribs with practiced care, layering clean cloth over deep, angry wounds. Then you turn to your shelf for the ingredients—ground moss, honey, dried herbs. You mix them into a thick poultice and press it gently into the worst of the open cuts. You watch for any reaction. A flinch. A breath. Anything. But he doesn’t move.

When it comes to the wings, you fall back on your falconry training. You stretch the tendons carefully, check the joints, dab ointment along the places where the skin is raw and bleeding. The left wing still holds its full shape. Swollen, stiff—probably sprained, but not broken. You splint it with narrow slats from your firewood pile, binding it just tightly enough to support the joint.

The right wing is another matter. Half of it is gone, the remaining edge torn and jagged. Blood mats the feathers. You clean it as best you can, wincing at the sight of torn muscle, frayed tendon. There’s no fixing what’s lost—but you stabilize what remains, working in tense silence, as if the wing itself might cry out.

Time blurs. Hours slip past in silence.

By the time you finish, the sun is low, streaking the trees in gold and crimson. He’s still unconscious. Still breathing. Slower now. Deeper. His face is relaxed, but unreadable—serene in a way that doesn’t match the ruin of his body. He looks less like a man than something ancient brought low. A god cast from the sky.

You sink down beside him, every part of you aching.

“I don’t know who you are,” you whisper. “But you’re not just a man.”

Your fingers brush the edge of his wing. A subtle twitch answers you—instinctive. Warning or pain, you don’t know.

“Please don’t kill me when you wake up.”

That night, you keep a knife within reach and drag your cot into the main room to stay close. Your hawk refuses to come inside, choosing instead to perch on the rooftop like a silent, watchful sentinel. Your giant boar settles near the door, snorting softly in his sleep, tusks twitching with dreams of the forest.

You dream of fire.

Of massive wings blotting out the sky.

Of glowing red eyes, blazing with fury.

You jolt awake in the early hours, heart pounding, the candle beside you guttering low. He’s murmuring—words you can’t quite catch, too slurred, too foreign. You sit up slowly, gaze drifting to the enormous form sprawled across your floor. His brow is furrowed, sweat beading across skin that still looks deathly pale beneath the firelight. One of his wings shifts faintly, a twitch more instinct than thought.

He’s massive—easily more than three times your height—and even curled half-conscious, he takes up the entire length of the hearth and beyond. You rise, the top of your head barely reaching the edge of one folded shoulder as you move beside him. You wring a cloth in cool water and press it gently to his forehead.

“You’re safe,” you whisper, though the words feel fragile, uncertain even in your own mouth.

You still don’t know what he is.

But for now, he’s yours to save.

Your sleep was restless. The quiet of the cottage had been broken by a low murmur, deep and slurred, like a wounded beast trying to speak through a dream. You’d frozen in your cot, listening. At first, you thought it might be the wind or your imagination—but the sound persisted. Rough. Labored. Real.

You rose, heart already beating faster, and crossed the small room to where he lay. The candle had burned low, casting long shadows across the massive shape stretched on your floor. You’d done what you could—bandaged his wounds, cleaned the blood from his skin, tried to stabilize the damage. But he was still a mystery. Still dangerous.

Still alive.

You dipped the cloth again in cool water, wrung it out with trembling fingers, and moved to kneel beside his enormous form. You had to reach up just to press the cloth to his forehead. Even lying down, he towered over you—his body broad and massive, limbs heavy with coiled muscle, wings sprawled and shifting faintly in his troubled sleep. One of them twitched now, reacting to whatever nightmare still held him captive.

Then, suddenly, his breath hitched. His lips parted.

And his eyes opened.

You stilled. The candlelight caught the red of his irises—startling and sharp. His gaze was unfocused at first, clouded with confusion, his breathing shallow and uneven. His chest—large enough to serve as a table—rose and fell with quiet strain. For a heartbeat, he didn’t seem to see you.

Then, something in him shifted.

Without warning, his hand moved.

Not fast—just sudden. Massive fingers, large enough to span your entire torso, swept through the space between you. You had no time to react before his hand closed around your arm—not your wrist, not your forearm, but your entire arm, engulfing it from elbow to shoulder in one crushing grasp.

You gasped, body locking up. It didn’t hurt yet—but it could. One wrong squeeze, one flicker of instinct, and your bones would shatter like brittle wood. He could tear you in half without trying. The raw force of him was terrifying.

But you didn’t scream. You didn’t yank away.

You looked at him—really looked—and saw the flicker of something in his eyes. Not rage. Not even clarity. Confusion. Pain. Instinct.

“Stop,” you whispered, voice barely above breath. “You’re hurt. Stay still.”

His gaze snapped to your face. His grip tightened just a fraction, a warning—or maybe a test. Your skin burned beneath his touch, not from pain but from the overwhelming presence of him. You were so small beside him, so fragile. It wasn’t a fight. It never could be.

His breathing hitched again. His pupils dilated. He was trying to understand what you were—what this moment was. Threat? Help? A trap?

"Who..." The word came out raw, like stone dragging across stone. His voice was deep—so deep it vibrated through your bones. “Where am I?”

“You’re in my home,” you said carefully. “I found you near the cliffs. You were dying.”

His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing in suspicion. His massive hand didn’t let you go, but the tension in it eased—slightly. The pressure remained, but the threat receded. Barely.

“Why?” he rasped. “Why help me?”

You swallowed. You could barely move under his grip, but you met his gaze steadily. “Because you were bleeding. Alone. I couldn’t walk away.”

He stared at you for a long moment. As if weighing your words. As if trying to decide whether or not you were lying. Whether your kindness had some hidden edge.

Then, with a grunt of frustration, he shifted—and immediately gasped, pain lancing through his side. His wings jerked, half-unfolding before curling again in tight agony.

You reached up, placing your free hand against his chest, trying to steady him. “Don’t move. You’ll make it worse.”

He growled softly—not at you, but at himself. His other arm moved again, this time slower, and his grip around your arm loosened until your skin was merely resting against his palm, not trapped by it.

“I don’t need your pity,” he muttered, voice cracking at the edges.

“This isn’t pity,” you answered, your hand still pressed to the broad expanse of his chest. “It’s help.”

For the first time, his eyes softened—just slightly. The fury in them dulled, giving way to something quieter. Exhaustion, maybe. Or disbelief. You could see the toll the wounds were taking on him—his strength strained, his pride bruised, his mind fogged with pain.

“I’ll leave when I can walk,” he said gruffly.

You nodded. “Then heal first.”

His hand finally fell away from your arm, fingers twitching faintly as if unsure whether to release you completely. You stayed where you were, not moving, not flinching. Just watching him.

He turned his face away and you were not pushing him. Not needing to. 

Because, in that moment, you knew he wouldn’t be going anywhere just yet. 

Not until he had healed. 

And not until his fight with himself was over.

The days passed slowly but not quietly.

Though he had not spoken much since waking, his presence filled every corner of the cottage. When he wasn’t resting, he sat like a storm contained in the shape of a man—silent, immovable, never sleeping deeply, and always watching. Watching you.

He didn’t ask for anything. Didn't thank you, either. But he hadn’t tried to leave, nor had he lashed out again. That alone told you more than words could.

You could feel his suspicion—constant, humming just under his skin like the heat that shimmered from his body. He didn’t ask you if you'd contacted anyone. But you could tell he thought it. He didn’t trust you. Not really.

You didn’t blame him. He was powerful, yes, but also hunted. You could see it in the way he bristled when he heard movement beyond the trees. In the way he always sat with his back to the wall. And in the way he looked at you like you might be the knife at his throat.

Still, you said nothing. You didn’t know who he was, or what he had done. You only knew that someone had tried to destroy him—and failed.

His wounds healed faster than you expected. Much faster. The bruises that had bloomed along his ribs faded from purple to a dull gold within two days. The deep gashes, especially the long, angry one slashed across the center of his torso, had begun to seal shut with new, unnervingly smooth skin. What should’ve taken weeks had become days. Even the worst of it—those brutal, carved-open slices down his side—had reduced to pink seams by the fourth sunrise.

He never asked why you were helping him. Never spoke. But every day, you brought him food, clean water, and fresh bandages. Every day, you checked to see if he was still breathing.

Today, he was sitting upright for the first time.

You found him outside, perched on the edge of the heavy bench just beyond your back room. A thick blanket hung loosely around his shoulders, barely enough to drape across the breadth of him. His enormous body was hunched forward slightly, chin low, hair tangled over his face, and behind him—those massive wings rested in heavy silence, low and sloped like they were carrying a weight of their own. One wing sagged more than the other. Half of it was gone, the edge ragged, sliced clean through. The feathers were still streaked faintly with old blood.

You paused in the doorway, clean bandages cradled in your hands.

He didn’t look at you, but you could feel it—he knew you were there.

“I want to check your bandages,” you said softly, approaching him with slow, careful steps.

He didn’t reply. But he didn’t stop you either. That was enough.

You circled behind him, your fingers brushing against the slope of his shoulder as you passed. His body was coiled, tense beneath the blanket, muscles bunched beneath skin that radiated heat. Still wary. Still prepared to fight, even now.

“You’re healing well,” you murmured, beginning to unwind the old wrap at his ribs. “Faster than you should be.”

He remained silent. Only the wind replied, carrying the distant cry of your hawks overhead.

When the bandage came away, your breath caught. The skin beneath had sealed more than it had any right to. A thin, pale scar marked the deepest part of the gash across his torso, but the surrounding tissue looked firm, strong. You glanced up at him, frowning.

“This… isn’t normal,” you said. “You’re not like other men, are you?”

Still nothing. His jaw shifted slightly, clenched tight.

Your gaze dropped to his wings again. Immense, dark, and torn. You’d worked with injured birds all your life, knew how easily feathers could be ruined—especially in violence. And this wasn’t just injury. This was mutilation.

“May I…” your voice faltered, quieter now. “Check them? Your wings. I don’t know if anything’s broken.”

He didn’t speak. But slowly, his wings shifted. Not fully—just enough. Just enough for you to step behind him, to kneel at his back.

You swallowed. Your heart beat harder.

He was huge. Towering. Even seated, he loomed over you, his presence so massive it seemed to blot out everything else. The wings themselves were wide as trees, broad and once-glorious, now draped low like a fallen banner. The broken one hung wrong. Lifeless.

You reached out with both hands, reverent.

Your fingers brushed the edge of the intact wing first—glossy feathers beneath your touch, some still matted with dried blood, others dull at the tips. He didn’t flinch. But you felt it—the stillness. Too still. The kind that masked tension.

You moved carefully, gently skimming along the long curve of the wing, seeking fractures or tears. You’d done this before with hawks, with owls and eagles. But this was different. These wings weren’t meant just for flight. They were born for battle. Weapons.

“Does this hurt?” you asked quietly, fingers testing the joint where wing met his back.

No answer.

But his shoulder tensed.

You slowed. Softened your touch. Your thumbs brushed along the inner span of the wing where the feathers thinned. Here, they were softer. Shorter. Almost like down.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, misreading his silence as pain. “I’ll be gentle.”

You didn’t see his jaw tighten.

You didn’t see his hands curl into fists.

Because it wasn’t pain.

It was something far worse.

No one had ever touched his wings like this. Not gently. Not with care. His wings had always been scars—reminders of what he was. Reasons to be feared. Hated. They had made him a target.

And now they were in your hands.

And your hands were soft.

You kept working, unaware of the storm your touch stirred inside him. You brushed gently over the broken wing, stopping where the feathers ended in a jagged line. Your hand lingered, uncertain. Your other hand moved to soothe along the inner arc of the intact wing, careful, slow. Your fingers ghosted across the place where flesh met bone, warm against skin that had only ever known steel and fire.

That was where he finally broke.

His breath came out hard through his nose. His wings jerked back slightly—just enough to pull away.

You looked up, startled. “Did I hurt you—?”

He turned. Not fast, but deliberately.

His massive frame loomed as he twisted on the bench, catching your arm in his hand before you could fully retreat.

His grip was firm but not cruel. 

And his voice, when it came, was low. Quiet. Controlled.

“Enough.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes locked on yours—not angry. Not harsh.

But something else. Something deeper. Something pulled too taut.

You couldn’t move. Not under that gaze. Not when his hand was wrapped around your arm like you were made of glass and he wasn’t sure what would happen if he squeezed just a little too hard.

“I didn’t mean to—” you began, voice shaking.

His fingers loosened.

“I know.”

That was all he said.

But it was the first thing he’d given you freely. Without suspicion. Without warning.

Just truth.

Your heart beat fast in your chest, unsure whether to speak again. Unsure whether to run or stay. You swallowed thickly, unsure where the sudden heat in your face came from.

He released your wrist completely and turned away again, wings folding low and tight to his back, as if trying to conceal them from your eyes.

It wasn’t pain that made him so tense.

It was you.

He sat on the bench long after you'd gone.

The scent of your touch still lingered in his feathers.

It unsettled him. More than the wounds. More than the memories of Wano burning beneath Kaido’s fall.

He could handle pain. Pain was familiar. Pain made sense.

But this?

The way your fingers moved across his wings—careful, gentle, even reverent—he hadn't known how to brace for that. He could have handled cruelty. Coldness. Indifference. He’d known all of that before.

But you’d touched him like he was not a weapon. Not a monster. Not a beast.

Like he was something worth saving.

And it made something shift inside him. Something dangerous.

He gritted his teeth and forced his body still. But his jaw still ached from how tight he'd held it, and the skin on his back—where your hands had moved—still burned in a way that had nothing to do with healing.

He’d snapped before he could stop himself. Turned and grabbed your arm. Said enough.

But it hadn’t been enough.

You hadn’t looked at him with fear. You’d looked at him with concern.

He hated that. Hated that it made his chest feel tighter than any wound had.

Worse, he hated the truth clawing at the back of his mind: That you had done nothing wrong.

You hadn’t pried. You hadn’t asked him who he was, what he had done, or where the scars came from. You hadn't even reacted when you realized he wasn’t human.

You'd simply said: “Does it hurt?”

No. It didn’t hurt.

Not the way you thought it did.

It was worse.

The next morning, the air was cooler. The storm had passed. Sunlight crept between the trees, catching on dew-heavy leaves. You carried the bandages and warm broth carefully, unsure if you would be welcomed—or turned away again.

You hadn’t slept much.

You’d thought about the way he’d grabbed your arm, the feel of his fingers around your skin. His voice, low and tight, like he’d been struggling against something—something not entirely pain.

You still didn’t know what he was. But you were beginning to understand what he wasn’t.

He wasn’t heartless.

He wasn’t just muscle and fury.

He was…something else.

You approached slowly, stepping around the back of your cottage.

He was already awake, seated where you’d left him, elbows braced on his knees. The blanket had fallen around his waist. His chest—broad and strong and no longer bandaged—was bare to the morning air. His wings rested still behind him, folded but not tight. Their shape no longer defensive.

He heard you approach. You stopped a few steps away, uncertain.

“I brought food,” you said quietly. “And fresh wraps. Just in case.”

He didn’t look at you. But he said: “You’re not afraid of me.”

It wasn’t a question. Still, you answered, cautious. “Should I be?”

He was silent for a long moment. Then: “Yes.”

That should have made you step back. But instead, you found yourself moving closer, as if drawn by the very thing that should have warned you away.

You set the bowl down beside him, resting the bandages beside it.

“I don’t know who you are,” you said gently, not sitting just yet. “But you haven’t given me a reason to be afraid.”

He turned his head slightly, eyes dark under his brow. His voice, when it came again, was quieter.

“That may change.”

You studied him. His expression was unreadable, carved in stone—but there was a sliver of something in his voice. Something uncertain. Almost…regretful.

“I’m not trying to dig into your past,” you said softly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

You hesitated.

“But I think… even the worst people carry names.”

He went still. Utterly still. You thought you’d crossed a line. But then, slowly, painfully, as if the words themselves were foreign to him, he said:

“…Alber.”

You blinked.

It wasn’t the kind of name you expected. It felt…simple. Almost gentle, in contrast to everything about him.

You repeated it softly, “Alber.”

The moment you said it, he twitched. Not in pain. But like he hadn’t heard it aloud in years.

“That was your name?” you asked carefully.

“Is.” His jaw flexed again. “I just haven’t used it… in a long time.”

You sat down beside him slowly, letting the silence stretch between you like something sacred.

He didn’t move away.

“You don’t have to share anything else,” you said, after a beat. “But… thank you. For trusting me with that.”

His gaze dropped to the bowl of broth at his feet.

“I didn’t do it for trust.”

You tilted your head. “Then why?”

He looked at you then. His eyes—deep and endless, like scorched ruby—met yours fully.

And for the first time, there was something vulnerable in them.

“I don’t know.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Not when he quietly walks past you to reach the top shelf you’ve been straining for. Not when he steadies the roof beam you’ve been hammering with a slightly-too-small mallet. Not even when he carries in firewood with one arm still bandaged and the other covered in a white gauze.

He does these things like it’s instinct. Silent. Efficient. Like his hands never knew anything but how to lift, brace, carry.

You pretend not to notice at first. You say thank you, and he grunts. Never quite looks you in the eye. But you notice anyway.

You notice how quiet the air has become with him around. Not cold—but thick. Heavy with presence. He moves like a shadow across the ground, too large to vanish but somehow never making a sound unless he wants to.

And still, despite the scars, despite the sheer magnitude of him… you find yourself watching him more than you mean to.

One afternoon, you're sitting on the back step, tending to some of the salves you make from mountain herbs. He's kneeling beside the garden box—unasked—repairing the broken wooden side with a large stone placed to brace it.

You glance over.

The sunlight hits his skin. Golden-brown, smooth and glowing faintly, as though warmed from within. It brings out the pale silver-white in his hair—so stark, it looks almost like moonlight threaded through midnight silk.

You swallow.

You’ve seen him shirtless for weeks now—he’s never made an effort to hide his body, but he’s never flaunted it either. His form is carved in muscle and quiet power, every line of him made for war, yet still, somehow, unbearably human. His wings rest loosely at his back, relaxed but always watchful, like great sentinels folded in sleep. The feathers darken near the top, rich as obsidian, and fade into a faint dusting of ash at the edges, as though brushed by an ancient fire. One wing—his right—is severed partway through, the break jagged and cruel, but even so… the beauty remains. Even damaged, even incomplete, the wings hold a terrible, aching majesty. As if nothing in this world could ever truly dim them.

And then you see it.

The flame.

Small. Flickering. A steady burn just above his back, right between his wings. It hadn't been there before. Not when he collapsed in the storm. Not when you first tended him.

But now… it glows. A quiet ember, a flickering pulse of life.

You don’t mean to stare. But something in your chest tightens at the sight of it.

“...Does it burn you?”

The question slips from your lips before you can stop it. He stiffens slightly, his hand pausing over the makeshift repair. You catch it. The hesitation. He doesn’t look at you, not right away. 

Then, with a low voice, roughened by old wounds and older memories, he answers:

“No.”

You wait.

He straightens slowly, towering even from a kneeling position. The flame moves with him, a ghost of fire that dances with his breath.

You should stop. But your curiosity won’t.

“What is it?”

He’s silent again.

You expect the silence to stretch forever. That he’ll deflect. Grunt. Walk away.

But instead, he looks at you. Really looks. Those red eyes catch yours, unreadable, rimmed with something old. Wary. And then—his voice is lower than before, barely audible.

“It’s power.”

Your lips part, but he goes on before you can speak.

“When it’s gone… I’m vulnerable. Weakest. When it’s burning, I can fight. Heal. Survive.”

You stare at the flickering fire. It's so small. So contained. You expected something more dramatic. But there it is—just a soft flame on a man who could crush mountains.

“So…” you begin gently, not wanting to overstep. “It’s a part of you.”

He looks away.

“It is me.”

You blink. And realize that’s as much as you’ll get. Maybe more than he meant to say.

“Does it ever hurt?” you ask.

He exhales through his nose. “Only when I lose it.”

Your heart tugs.

You glance back at his wings. The feathers still look slightly ruffled from your earlier inspection. You haven’t dared touch them again—not since he snapped and held your arm. But you do want to help. Even if he doesn’t ask. Especially because he doesn’t ask.

So you say softly, “If it ever fades again… I’ll help you get it back.”

His head turns sharply. He watches you like he doesn’t understand. Like no one’s ever offered that before.

You mean it.

Even if you don’t know what he is, or what it means.

You mean it.

He looks away, jaw tense. Then mutters something that you only catch because the air is so still.

“…That’s not a promise you should make.”

But he doesn’t stop you when you bring him fresh bandages that evening. He doesn’t pull away when you sit close again to check the healing scars across his torso. And though he says nothing… You see his flame burn just a little brighter.

It’s strange.

Not that he’s still here—but that it feels normal now.

You don’t even remember when it shifted. There was no moment, no grand decision. Just the quiet, steady rhythm of days, and Alber not leaving.

He was supposed to go.

The moment his wounds closed, the moment that ember on his back roared into fire again—you expected him to rise, take to the sky, and vanish like a storm never meant to stay.

But he didn’t.

He lingers.

At first, it was excuses. Silent ones, built of things unsaid. He didn’t want to push the healing. He’d wait until the wing felt stronger. Until the weather was clearer.

But then the days passed.

And he was still here.

Helping.

He’s still mostly silent, but you’ve learned to read his movements. When he shifts behind you and grabs the too-heavy crate you’re stubbornly trying to drag across the yard. When he lifts the basket of water jugs and carries them without a sound. When you try to hang something above the doorframe, and you feel his shadow, hear the creak of floorboards, and he reaches up behind you—effortless, tall—and presses the nail into the wood.

He always watches you for a moment after. Never long enough to be caught. But long enough that you feel it. You don’t say anything.

You just smile more. Talk more. You tell him about the village—how you only go down once a week, how the old man who sells eggs always overcharges, and how the girl at the herbal shop gives you dried lavender for free if you compliment her braids.

He listens.

Never interrupts.

Sometimes you wonder if he likes the sound of your voice, or if he’s just letting you fill the space he refuses to.

You call him Alber, and it always makes him pause. Like he hasn’t heard his name in years. Like it doesn’t belong to him anymore. But he lets you say it. Every time.

“Alber, can you hand me that jar?”

He doesn’t speak. Just passes it over.

“Alber, you shouldn’t be carrying that with your side still wrapped—”

He walks past you, carrying the entire basket of firewood like it weighs nothing.

You click your tongue behind him and mutter under your breath. “Stubborn bird.”

You’re not sure, but you think he smirks.

That evening, the cottage is warm, and the fire crackles low in the hearth. The scent of dried herbs and simmered broth still lingers in the air, and you’re sitting at the small wooden table, organizing dried petals into small jars.

You glance toward the open back door, where he sits outside on the wide wooden steps—his wings relaxed, flame steady between them. Not glowing too brightly, but not low either. Balanced. Like he’s finally resting.

You watch him a moment too long. Noticing the way the firelight reflects against his skin. The strange softness in his posture. How little of that towering presence remains when he thinks no one’s watching.

He was supposed to be gone by now.

But he’s here.

Your fingers brush over one of the empty jars, and without looking away, you speak.

“You know you don’t have to keep helping me, right?”

He doesn’t respond at first. Then, finally, his voice carries—low and even.

“I know.”

You pause. That’s it. Just two words. But they settle somewhere in your chest. You blink, looking down at the petals in your hand. Smile a little.

He knows.

And yet… he’s still here.

Still staying.

Still choosing this quiet rhythm of simple days and murmured thanks and silence shared between one who speaks too much and one who speaks too little.

“Good,” you murmur under your breath. “Because I think I’d miss you if you left.”

There’s no reply.

But when you glance out the door again, you see him still there—wing feathers catching the light, flame burning steady. And you swear. For just a moment. That fire burns a little warmer.

The rain tapped gently against the roof that night, soft as whispers, threading through the silence of the little house. You’d both spent the day mending—he fixed a beam above the porch that had cracked in the last storm, and you had spent the afternoon drying herbs, humming as you worked.

Now it was night again, and you were both in the main room—he by the hearth, as always, seated with his knees bent slightly, massive frame tucked in as best as it could fit in your small world. His wings were folded but loose, and his flame burned quietly at his back. Steady. Warm.

You sat across from him, legs curled beneath you, a mug cradled in your hands. You hadn’t spoken in a while. Sometimes you talked for hours—mostly you—but sometimes there were nights like this, when his presence filled the room more than words ever could.

Your eyes drifted to the low glow behind him. The flame.

You remembered what he told you, the day you first asked.“It’s power. When it’s gone… I’m vulnerable. Weakest. When it’s burning, I can fight. Heal. Survive.”

He hadn’t said it with fear. Just fact. But even then, the words had struck you like a quiet storm.

You stared at the flame now. The way it flickered, calm and alive. A part of him. A heartbeat.

And yet, there was something you had never dared to ask after all this time. You had spent countless hours together—talking, sometimes in long stretches that wandered like the wind, sometimes just sitting in silence—but always together. Still, this question had never found its way out.

“Alber?” you said softly.

He looked up from the fire. His name, spoken by you, always made him pause. Like it didn’t belong to him anymore. Like it did, but only here.

You hesitated. Your voice felt small. “Can I… ask you something else? Something I should’ve asked before, but didn’t know how.” 

He didn’t speak—just gave a slow nod.

You swallowed. “Your people… What happened to them?”

There was a long pause. So quiet you could hear the tick of the hearthwood shifting. For a moment, you wondered if he would answer at all. Then he inhaled slowly, as though choosing not whether to speak, but how much.

“They were hunted,” he said at last. “Erased.”

Your breath caught.

“I’m the last,” he continued, voice rough and low. “There was a time when we flew over the Red Line. When our flame was a symbol. A warning. But they couldn’t allow it. They feared what we were. So they killed us.”

You felt the words settle in your chest, heavy and hollow. Something cold crept into your stomach, but you moved before it could root there. Quietly, instinctively, you shifted forward on your tiptoes and reached out.

Your hand pressed to his chest—over the place where his heart beat, steadily, so warm your fingers tingled with it. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “You shouldn’t have had to carry all of that alone.”

His gaze met yours. There was something unreadable in it—something held back not out of distrust, but survival. You wondered if anyone had ever touched him like this before—not in battle, not in reverence, not in fear—but in simple care.

Your other hand rose slowly. You traced the edge of the tattoo that stretched over one side of his face—olive-branch-like, dark against his deep brown skin. A mark of his heritage. Of what was lost.

Your fingers moved gently along the curve of it, down toward his jaw, where your hand rested at last. Your thumb grazed the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

You didn’t even realize you were smiling until you saw him looking at you—not with guarded distance, but something softer. Something open.

Your smile was small, instinctive. Full of the love you hadn’t known had already bloomed in you.

He blinked once. And then, without a word, he placed his hand over yours. It dwarfed it in size, warm and calloused. But the way he leaned into your touch… it was not guarded. It was not calculated.

It was an answer.

His forehead came to rest gently against yours, your breath mingling. His flame flickered behind him, and for a moment it felt like the world had stilled.

You both stayed like that, not needing anything else. No kiss. No confession. Just the closeness, the quiet, and the understanding.

You closed your eyes. Felt the heat of him. The truth of him. And something inside you settled—like a seed planted long ago had just bloomed.

And he—Alber—closed his eyes too.

Not because he was afraid.

But because here, in your presence, he finally felt safe enough to.

The days passed slowly after that night. But something had changed—not in the loud, world-shifting way of storms or falling stars. No, it was quieter than that. Softer.

Like the way you’d find him already starting the fire in the early morning before you were even fully awake. Or how he’d linger in the doorframe as you spoke about herbs or wind or memories, silent but steady, his presence a kind of answer. When he passed by, he walked a little closer. And when you brushed against him by accident, he didn’t move away.

Sometimes you’d find your mugs side by side on the windowsill, his massive hands carefully washing both even though you only asked him once.

You began calling it ours—the house, the porch, the garden—even though you hadn’t realized you were saying it aloud.

He never corrected you.

He still said little, still watched you with that unreadable gaze that only softened when you weren’t looking. But there were moments.

Moments where your hand would linger too long against his shoulder as you passed him tools. Moments where he stood behind you as you reached high for something in the pantry, only for him to easily take it down and place it gently in your hands, his fingers brushing yours.

And always, always, the flame at his back burned low and steady. Never dimmed. Never absent. He never spoke of it again.

But you remembered. “When it’s gone—I’m weakest.”

And here, it never left him.

Sometimes in the evening, you both sat on the edge of the porch and watched the sky shift colors together. You never spoke during those moments. He never tried to leave.

One such evening, the air was thick with the scent of pine and smoke. You sat beside him, your knees barely brushing. The sky blushed pink and orange. He had braided back part of his hair that morning, half done and uneven, and you laughed softly as you reached to fix it.

He stilled—but didn’t stop you. And when you finished, his head dipped slightly, enough to acknowledge it.

Later, inside, he reached out and took the bowl from your hands before you could lift it. “Too heavy,” he said, gruffly. But his touch was careful. Gentle. You smiled.

“You always know,” you murmured. “Even when I don’t ask.”

Alber said nothing. But when you turned, he was watching you again—eyes not hard, not distant, but almost… wondering.

That night, sleep came easily. For both of you. Separate beds, yes. Separate rooms. But the distance between you had never felt smaller.

Days later you were standing in the garden again, barefoot in the morning dew. He stood a short distance away, wings half-spread in the rising sun. His skin caught the light. The flame danced gently, casting small glimmers against his white hair.

You watched him quietly and said without thinking, “You look like someone who never belonged to the world. But maybe… the world never deserved you.”

He turned to you. His eyes softened. He didn’t reply. But he walked toward you. Stopped just close enough to feel his heat. And, with an impossible gentleness, he brushed a strand of hair from your face.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. It was enough.

This was love—but not the loud kind, not the kind declared with desperate kisses or promises shouted into wind.

This was love like roots growing underground. Love like warmth beside you when the world was cold. Love like hands that didn’t have to touch to be felt.

You didn’t say I love you.

He didn’t either.

But every moment after that—every silent gesture, every gaze, every shared cup of tea or moment on the porch—was the answer.

And neither of you asked again.

The day had been simple.

You’d baked bread, stirred soup, and trimmed the overgrown rosemary outside the door. Alber had helped you bring in the firewood, holding the entire bundle under one arm while you carried kindling with both hands. Later, you found one of your hawks perched near the open window, and when it wouldn’t fly to you, he coaxed it down with a single silent gesture, offering it his wrist.

It shocked you—how gently the bird responded to him. How easily he could be calm, grounded. Even graceful.

He didn’t speak much, as usual. But he was there, quietly moving through your day as if he belonged in it.

And somehow… he did.

That night, the wind picked up. The soft creak of branches brushing the windows lulled you toward sleep. For a little while, it was quiet.

But then— The dream came. A memory. A storm. Cold fingers of fear gripping your throat.

You woke up with a start.

You don’t even remember what it was exactly—only the sense of falling, of being alone, of something dark at your heels. Your hands were cold. Your skin clammy. The cottage felt too small, the night too deep.

You pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders, but it didn’t help. Something inside you still trembled.

You didn’t want to cry. You didn’t want to talk. But more than anything, you didn’t want to be alone.

Quietly, you pushed the bedroom door open.

He was in the main room, seated near the cold hearth, his massive frame cast in silhouette by the dim orange glow of the fireplace’s dying embers. You could see the outline of his wings—one vast and whole, the other cruelly halved, ending in a jagged line where feathers once extended. Still, they arched behind him with quiet strength, shadows stretching along the floor like sleeping beasts. His shoulders rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. Awake. Unmoving. Like a sentinel carved from shadow, waiting for dawn to come.

You stood there a moment, unsure. He didn’t move—but you felt him notice you. When your drowsy eyes met his, he didn’t ask. He didn’t speak. He simply shifted slightly—just enough to make room at his side.

An invitation.

You moved toward him without a word, your bare feet soft against the old wooden floor. He didn’t look at you, but you felt him register your presence—his breathing didn’t change, and still, you knew. When you sat beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, it settled something deep inside you. The tremble in your chest faded. Not completely. But enough to breathe again.

You didn’t speak—not about the nightmare, not about the dark.

But you were there.

Together.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting its final glow across the room. The silence between you was easy, quiet like snowfall. You leaned gently against his side—his ribs were well above your head, but you found a place just beneath them where your weight could rest. His skin was hot, like hearthstone, like something ancient made of fire and stillness and strength.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

And slowly, slowly… your breathing evened out. Your eyes closed.

He looked down, his crimson gaze catching the faint rise and fall of your form. You were so small against him—barely reaching his thigh when standing, and now curled like a sleeping bird beside a giant. The tension that had haunted your features melted, replaced by something soft and drowsy. Your fingers twitched faintly in your lap. Your lashes fluttered.

You’d fallen asleep against him.

He hadn’t meant to stay this long. Hadn’t meant to let you this close.

When he healed, he was supposed to go—far from this quiet place, far from you. It was safer that way. Cleaner. A ghost of a dead race had no right to a peaceful life.

But… He remembered your voice. The way you’d laughed that morning, flour on your cheeks, your words unafraid. The way you said his name—Alber—as though it still meant something. You looked at him not with fear, not with reverence, but with steady, open calm.

And once, softly, like an afterthought, you’d said:

“I think I’d miss you if you left.”

He hadn’t answered then. But now, with your sleeping form tucked against his side, he understood.

He’d miss you, too. More than he was ready to admit.

His jaw tightened. He should move. He should wake you. Should leave before the thought of staying became something dangerous.

But…

His massive hand shifted with a care that didn’t match its size. Slowly, so slowly, he slipped one arm beneath your legs and the other behind your back. You stirred faintly, murmuring something incoherent—but you didn’t wake. Gently, reverently, he lifted you into his arms.

You fit against his chest like something fragile. So small. So warm.

He cradled you there, against the beat of his heart.

And then—his wing moved.

The left one, still whole and strong. Feathers rustled quietly as he unfurled it, drawing it close around you. It curved over your body like a shelter, like a blanket of living flame. He tucked you in gently, wrapping you against him as though you were something to guard. Something to keep warm.

Your hand, half-asleep, moved again—fingers brushing his chest, settling just above the place where the fire lived in him. And even in dreams, you whispered:

“You’ve always felt… safe to me.”

His breath hitched.

You didn’t wake.

But he didn’t move.

For a long moment, he simply held you. Felt the weight of you against his chest. Your breath feathered warmly along his collarbone. His fingers, calloused and battle-worn, traced lightly along your spine, slow and cautious.

And then—your eyes opened. Barely. Still fogged with sleep. You looked up at him in the dark. And with no hesitation, no rush, you reached up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

It was gentle. Small. A quiet thing.

His eyes widened slightly—not in fear, but awe. As if surprised by the delicacy of it. He didn’t move, didn’t chase it. He let it happen, felt it fully, let it echo in the silence between you. His lips stayed still beneath yours, but something in his chest… shifted.

When it ended, you rested your head against him again, your body limp with trust. He exhaled slowly, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he let himself rest.

The fire behind the hearth faded to glowing embers. The wind whispered low at the windows. And in that quiet cabin, far from ships and soldiers and the shattered sky of his homeland, a Lunarian sat in silence—his halved right wing lowered at his side, and his left curled around the only person who ever looked at him and simply saw Alber.

A soft exhale escaped him—almost like a laugh, but quieter.

Maybe… maybe this was the life the gods had in mind for him after all.

No throne. No battles. No title.

Just this.

Just warmth.

Just peace.

Just you.

[sh4nksslvt]

Hot Springs, Hot Tempers

You and King accidentally end up in the same secluded hot spring. Cue awkward tension, steamy misunderstandings, and fluffy chaos.

King X gn! reader | ONE SHOT

tags: fluff, sfw, king being bad at flirting(?), ooc king, post-battle

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe

word count: 1.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

You had no idea the hot spring was co-ed.

Okay, to be fair, the old innkeeper had mumbled something about the “blessed harmony of nature,” but you’d tuned her out while ogling the steaming bath behind her. After all, after days of dodging explosions, clashing with marines, and nearly getting cooked alive by Kaido’s fire breath (which—honestly—should be illegal), you were in desperate need of a hot soak.

So, in you went.

Alone. Glorious. Gloriously alone. Or so you thought.

You sunk into the mineral-rich waters with a satisfied moan, stretching out your limbs like a boiled noodle.

“Finally,” you sighed. “Peace.”

And that’s exactly when you heard it—the sound of something massive stepping through the entrance behind you.

You froze mid-soak. Slowly turned your head.

And there he was.

King.

All 20-foot-something of him, broad shoulders covered in black scales and steam, towering at the threshold with his helmet already off, wings folded behind him like a damn mythical creature who forgot how personal space works.

He stopped, towel hanging over his shoulder, completely stone-faced as your eyes met.

“Oh no,” you said flatly, water sloshing around you.

King blinked. “...This is the private spring, isn’t it?”

You shot up, half-submerged. “I thought this was the solo spring!”

“You thought wrong.”

“You’re the one barging in here like some half-naked goth dragon!”

“I’m wearing a towel.”

“Barely!”

An awkward silence settled like fog on the water.

Then you noticed it—King’s expression faltering ever so slightly, as though realizing he had, in fact, just crashed a very vulnerable soak session.

“I’ll leave,” he muttered, turning on his heel with all the grace of a man who never once had to care about bathing etiquette.

“No, wait—ugh. Don’t.” You sighed, flopping back against the smooth rock ledge. “It’s fine. Let’s just pretend we’re two strangers in an awkward commercial.”

King paused. “A what?”

“Never mind.”

He stepped forward, water rippling violently with every heavy-footed motion, and settled into the far end of the spring. The opposite end. The farthest possible distance between you and his very large, very shirtless self.

Great. Now you had to pretend you weren’t occasionally glancing at his shoulders.

To be fair, you tried not to. But he was right there. With skin that shimmered like obsidian under the moonlight and muscles that made Greek statues look like soggy breadsticks.

And then he caught you looking.

You quickly looked away.

“I wasn’t—uh—I mean, nice... wings?” you blurted out.

His eyebrow raised. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

You groaned and covered your face. “I’m under pressure, okay?! You’re like—intimidating hot.”

King blinked. His cheeks, you could swear, colored faintly at the edges.

“Don’t call me hot.”

“Well don’t show up shirtless, glistening with steam like some overworked fanfic trope.”

A beat.

“…What’s a fanfic?”

“Forget it.”

Another silence.

Then, out of nowhere, King spoke. “I didn’t know you used hot springs.”

You side-eyed him. “I didn’t know you bathed.”

“I’m not a savage.”

“Well, jury’s still out.”

King huffed, turning his face slightly. For someone who once split a marine ship in two with his boot, he looked incredibly put out by your teasing. Almost pouty.

You smirked.

“Well, since we’re stuck here together… might as well enjoy it,” you said, leaning back against the stone and letting the warm water lull your muscles.

King tilted his head. “You’re not going to try anything stupid?”

“What, like seducing you with my wrinkly prune fingers?” you held up your soaked hands.

“…Yes.”

You snorted. “Please, you’d combust before anything happened.”

He grunted. “Fair.”

A few more moments passed. You dared peek again.

He was leaning back, steam coiling around his broad frame like silk, wings shifting with every subtle motion. You noticed he had a faint scar running along his collarbone—jagged, healed-over, and oddly… human.

“You have a scar,” you said before you could stop yourself.

King opened one eye lazily. “Observation. Noted.”

“No, I mean… I didn’t think Lunarians could scar.”

He was quiet for a beat. “I got it before the flame. Before I could heal.”

“Oh,” you murmured, eyes softening.

The mood quieted.

But then you, unable to help yourself, added: “...So you were a clumsy kid.”

He side-eyed you. “I fell from a sky cliff. That’s not clumsy. That’s survival.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m sure you looked very majestic doing it.”

“I did.”

You both cracked a small laugh. A real laugh.

And then—

SPLOOSH!

A wild monkey cannonballed into the spring.

You screamed. King leapt halfway out of the water with his wings flared.

“WHAT IN—?!”

The monkey screeched, flopped onto a rock, and began casually bathing itself with a smug little expression.

“…Are you serious?” you muttered.

King glared at the monkey. “It’s staring at me.”

You nudged closer. “Probably impressed by your wingspan.”

“Or your screaming.”

“Excuse me! That was a war cry of surprise.”

“I thought it was a kettle exploding.”

“You—!”

You were cut off by the monkey stealing your towel.

It yanked it from the side, chattered triumphantly, and bolted into the woods.

“HEY!!”

King, somehow, did not move to help. In fact, he looked… amused?

“Don’t you dare laugh,” you warned.

His lips twitched. “Consider it karma for calling me a ‘goth dragon’.”

You groaned and sank deeper into the water. “I’m gonna have to air dry now like a soggy noodle.”

“You’ll survive,” King said, voice warm with uncharacteristic amusement.

You both sat in steamy silence for a bit longer, the earlier tension melting with the mist.

After a few minutes, King shifted closer. Not much—just a foot or two. But it was enough to make your heart stutter.

“...You come here often?” he asked, in the most unintentionally awkward tone imaginable.

You blinked.

“…Are you hitting on me?”

“No,” he said too quickly.

You raised a brow. “That was absolutely a pickup line.”

“It was not.”

“You literally just asked, ‘do you come here often?’ in a secluded hot spring.”

“…Coincidence.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

Then—you burst out laughing.

“I can’t believe this. You’re terrible at flirting.”

King flushed. “I’m not trying to flirt.”

“Oh, no, of course not. That towel drop earlier was just an accident too, huh?”

“That was gravity’s fault.”

You giggled so hard you slipped slightly under the water, splashing like a drunk dolphin.

And then—you felt his hand.

Gentle. Large. Holding your elbow to steady you.

You froze.

He looked surprised at himself too, eyes wide like he hadn’t meant to do that.

But he didn’t pull away.

“…Thanks,” you mumbled, suddenly very aware of the fact that your face was burning hotter than the water.

King’s gaze softened. Just slightly.

“You’re welcome.”

You both stayed like that, too long, too close. Until—

“HEY!!” someone called in the distance. “Is the spring free yet?!”

It was Queen.

You and King jumped apart like teenagers caught making out behind the gym.

“I should go,” you said.

“Yes. Right.”

You stood up, realized you still didn’t have a towel, and groaned.

King turned his back with a surprising amount of respect. “Take mine.”

“…Wait, seriously?”

“You’ll catch a cold,” he muttered, ears slightly red.

You wrapped it around yourself, stunned silent for once.

As you left the spring, water dripping and heart racing, you dared glance back at King—still chest-deep in steam, gaze lowered, face unreadable.

But there was a faint curl to his lips. Almost like a smile.

You didn’t know what that meant. But you did know one thing:

You were definitely coming back to this spring.

And next time, you might just forget to bring a towel again.

[rea-grimm]

The king of the hell

You were already a sculptor at school and as soon as you got your training you became a sculpture restorer. You worked in castles and sometimes clients would bring you statues that needed repair. You made your own sculptures, but only when you had time and an idea that was worthwhile. 

But now you wanted to get to work repairing a statue that had been brought in a few days ago. It was an ancient statue that, to everyone's surprise, retained all its limbs. Actually, it was relatively well preserved, as it had been found recently in a cave that had been used as a temple to the god of the underworld. Or so they told you. 

The scientists had already completely excavated it, and now they wanted you to return it to its former glory. The statue was overgrown with moss, and a piece had been chipped off here and there, nothing you couldn't handle. 

You walked into your studio, where in the middle of it, on a heavy pedestal, was a black marble statue, several metres high, covered with a white sheet to keep the dust from falling on it. To reach the top of the statue, you had to take a stepladder.

You took the sheet off the statue and sat on the ladder for a while, looking at this unique piece of art. You've always admired how in ancient times they could make statues that looked like sleeping people.

You were struck by several things at once with this statue. For a statue of a god or king, the figure had almost angelic wings and his face was covered in a strange mask. The crown placed on his head looked like spikes and behind the wings you first thought it was a halo but then you realized it was fire. 

You stepped down from the ladder and many questions ran through your head as you looked. Was it the king of the underworld? What if it was an angel first. A reference to the Bible? What could be hiding under the mask? 

You were walking around the statue when you noticed the strange text on the base. It was quite illegible. You wiped it carefully with a rag and thought it said a name. But you had trouble deciphering it, even with the alphabet of the language the scientists had given you. So you'd know what font was used and not accidentally change it. 

There were other strange words next to the name that made no sense to you. You ran your hand over them and read them aloud to yourself. To your surprise, the letters glowed with a fiery light. 

Everything around you went dark and all you could see was the fire writing that grew and formed a circle around you. You had no idea what to do when the ground caved in beneath your feet and you began to fall. 

You screamed at the top of your lungs, your eyes closed in fear. You had no idea how long you fell, but you finally landed on the smooth cold floor. 

When you opened your eyes, you looked around as you had no idea where you were. You'd been in the apartment below you before, and it looked decidedly different. 

You were now in a large room of black marble. There were torches on columns at the sides, illuminating the room. You felt like you were in a palace. 

You turned around to take in the entire room when your eyes fell on a massive black and silver throne, upon which sat a man who looked like a reanimated version of the statue you were supposed to be repairing. 

Dressed all in black, with a white shirt, a black mask covering his face and a silver crown on his head. Large black wings stuck out of his back and a bright flame burned behind his head like a halo. Did you hit your head and this was just a dream? 

Only his eyes were visible through the mask. Eyes with a look so cold it chilled you. And though you must have caught him off guard, he didn't show it. The king strained to look at you. 

"What are you doing here? No mortal is allowed here," he said sternly. 

"Where am I?" You asked, still not knowing if it was real or a dream. 

"The underworld. Realm of the dead," he replied bluntly, as if it were obvious. 

"Realm of the dead?" You asked, rather to yourself, before looking back up at the king. "And how do I get back?" You asked. 

"You must prove your worth. You have to earn it. But you are no warrior who can beat me in a fight..." he said, measuring you with his gaze. "Perhaps another quest to prove yourself..."

He said, resting his chin before looking at you again. You got the impression he was trying to think of something equally difficult, if not more so. 

"I'll take you back to the world of the living if you can guess my name," he finally said in a confident voice, as he was sure it was an impossible task for a mortal.

For everyone thought he was Hades, Anubis, Pluto, Ah Puch, Mictlantecuhtli, Apophis, or even Hel or Kali and others. And those who had formerly honored him with the proper name were long ago in his realm, as were all mentions of him. 

"What? How should I know?" You were taken completely by surprise. 

"Is that your answer?" He asked you sternly, and you were sure he grinned beneath his mask. 

"No," you quickly shook your head. You rubbed your chin, wondering what his name might be. 

The first names you thought of were Hades and Pluto. But you had a feeling it wouldn't be that easy. Instead, you remembered the letters on the base of the statue.

You closed your eyes and focused on the text. King... son of Luna... Alber... and then there was text you didn't understand. Finally, you decided to try your luck. 

"Is that Alber?" you asked, and you saw his wings twitch in surprise.

"How did you find out?" He asked sternly, but you could still hear some surprise in his voice. 

"It was written on the base of the statue I'm repairing," you explained. 

King measured you with his gaze before finally rising from his throne and deciding to make good on his word. After all, you had fulfilled his challenge, and as King, he kept his word. Besides, he was interested in what his particular statue was. Until now, he thought time had buried and destroyed them all. 

As promised, the King escorted you back to the world of the living, specifically back to your studio. King was actually a little surprised at how much the world of the living had changed from the last time he'd seen it.

He'd heard the deceased speak of their time, but never paid much attention. Most of these things were quite trivial to life in the underworld. 

He looked around and noticed the damaged statue that had gotten you into the underworld and made you know his real name. Once he had seen enough in his opinion, King vanished without a word. 

Ever since that incident, you've archly avoided the inscription on the statue during the repairs. You didn't want to accidentally go back to the underworld.

Though a part of you was becoming more and more interested in what was hiding under the dark mask that gave room only for his eyes. Plus, you wondered what lay beneath the stern surface. 

You had no idea what exactly it was, but as you thought more and more about the king, it was only unexpectedly that you touched the letters on the pedestal, which lit up again and sent you to the underworld. 

The King was in the midst of insulting a few servants who listened to him with their heads down and just nodded when you appeared. Just as you hit the ground, the eyes of the entire room turned to you.

You smiled nervously and waved. You could clearly see in his stance that he wasn't happy to see you there again and immediately ordered everyone to leave. 

King didn't understand why you were there and he certainly wasn't happy about it. He cursed at you, threatened you and immediately wanted you sent away.

Before he could do so, however, you bombarded him with the questions you had for him that had been gnawing at your mind since the first time you met him. 

When you did, you got the impression he'd rather throw you to the lions or drown you in the River Styx. He even tried to grab you by the throat, but at this point the height difference played in your favor and you slipped easily under his feet. However, when he finally caught you, and to your surprise acknowledged that you weren't a bad distraction at all, he sent you back up. 

These encounters were becoming something of a regular occurrence, with the king slowly ceasing to banish you and rather looking forward to seeing you brighten up his ordinary and almost monotonous days in the underworld. You had no idea how, but gradually you fell into sync. 

The King kept you mostly as his little secret, as he had a certain reputation that he wasn't about to tarnish with any dalliance with a living mortal. He wasn't going to show anyone if he had a good side buried deep inside him. A good side that you were slowly getting to. 

One day that looked exactly like the one before in the underworld, and you couldn't tell if it was day or night, King took you for a walk. That was mostly because you kept pestering him with questions about what it was like outside the castle walls. 

The main reason the King refused to let you out was because once a mortal touched the land of the underworld, they could no longer return to the world of the living.

However, the marble floor of the castle didn't apply, which was actually fortunate for you, or you would have been stuck there from the start. 

Another reason was his reputation, where as mentioned he didn't want to be seen with a mortal in the underworld. You couldn't even imagine the commotion he said it would cause. 

Eventually, however, you convinced him and he agreed to a little walk. Before you set off, however, he gave you a small silver tiara to disguise you and hide your origins. It disguised your mortal origins. 

You reached the main gate of the castle when, without any warning, the King took you around the waist like a rag doll and sat you on his shoulder. You were very daring, but you never dreamed of this. 

You walked out like that and everyone who saw you got out of the way. You felt like you were at a carnival, and you almost fell off his shoulder as you looked around and took in all the impressions. The underworld may have seemed monotonous, but there was still plenty for you to see. Everything there looked completely different.

It was a relatively short walk, however, as King had long strides that took you to a lonely hill where a single tree towered, its blossoms and leaves reminding you of the northern lights, flickering in the wind. 

There was a large picnic blanket spread out right under the tree, with a plate of fresh sashimi that King had had brought to you from the mortal world. Food from the underworld was subject to the same rules as the land. 

You thought you'd finally see his face, but he refused to eat. He said it was his favorite food, but he refused to let anyone see him out of the corner of their eye without his mask. And even though you were the only one eating that day, you enjoyed it. 

As you sat there, you realized how cold a place the underworld actually was. There was no sun shining anywhere, so there was nothing to keep the place warm. You started to shiver slightly under the tree, but you didn't want to say anything. You didn't want to appear weak.

You were sitting next to King when his wings moved and suddenly you had one wing resting on your shoulder, like a blanket thrown over you. His feathers, though black as night, were soft as fluff and pleasantly warm. 

You were about to thank him when he took you around the waist and sat you on his lap. His wings then completely enveloped you like a nice feather bed. 

You were putting the finishing touches on the statue when the lights in the room dimmed and a fiery portal appeared on the floor. You heard only the rustle of feathers before Alber appeared in the studio. 

Truthfully, you hadn't expected this, as you had only visited him so far, and this was the second time he had been to your home. King walked over to you, greeting you as his gaze fell on the statue. It had been almost perfectly repaired since your first meeting, and only a few details were left to be tweaked.  He walked around it, giving you a moment for a job well done.

"I have to admit, it doesn't look bad. Almost as good as it was thousands of years ago," he said, looking at you. "Maybe... maybe you could adjust my mask," he added, and you got the impression he meant the mask on the statue. 

You nodded in annoyance at that, since you didn't like being told to get to work. You had no idea, however, that King had closed all the windows and doors in the room so that not an inch of sunlight could penetrate. 

After making sure you couldn't see in, he took off his mask, revealing snow-white hair, tanned skin, and a tattoo around his left eye that resembled an olive branch. You couldn't take your eyes off him and felt like your chin had involuntarily dropped. 

Alber saw your reaction and grinned smugly. He saw how you couldn't take your big eyes off him and what a shock it was to you. You couldn't even form a sentence. 

He walked over to you and got down on one knee. Before you could ask him what he wanted to do, he took your cheeks and kissed you. At that moment, you thought your heart would leap out of your chest and you closed your eyes in sheer bliss as it reminded you of the dreams you had of him now and then. 

"I can't tell you how long I've wanted to do this. I feel like even though I don't want to, you mean more and more to me," he whispered as he finally pulled away slightly. His hands were still on your cheeks, his forehead resting against yours. At that moment, you ran out of words.

One Piece Masterlist

[tscamver]

kaeya bday art

[sinsofnivan]

Oh my gosh I love your works !! If you’re taking requests still could you pleaseeee give us some more Wesker!! Something possessive if you could! xx

haunted.

it's undeniable that a part of wesker is human. he cares. he yearns. he feels. above all else, he loves. he loves you—his precious darling—who he would do everything and anything for. who belongs to him as he belonged to you. everything he does, it's for you. after all, you're his to take care of, to protect, to keep, to watch.

there's an occasional intrusive thought that you'd leave, that someone could just take you away from him. it didn't bother him, at first. it shouldn't. but the thought—no, fear—worms its way into his head. haunts him awake. and it didn't help when you took a spontaneous trip home, meeting with your old friends.

love is selfish. wesker realizes that now. because he'll never share, never share you with anyone. but you wouldn't leave, right? you belonged to him. why would you leave him, when he was a god that knelt to you?

⟡

"a, albert—," you tugged on his hair, groaning as his monstrous tongue grazed that spongy bud in your cunt, nose grinding against your clit every so often. his built arms are wrapped around your body, keeping you still. it was hard to stay upright, not when this amount of pleasure coursed through you. it made your knees weak, made you whimper as he tongue-fucked your pussy.

his sunglasses are abandoned, recklessly tossed off somewhere, so wesker could see you clearly. his usual slit pupils are dilated—dilated with lust and love as he watches you crumble before him.

he could hardly feel the fatigue pooling in his knees—that wasn’t his concern now. you were. reminding you what he could give you & what you have was. spit’s dribbling down his chin messily, smearing alongside your inner thighs; you're his. nobody else could have you, could taste you.

his tongue kept grazing on that spongy spot in that pretty pussy—he didn't even need to try. wesker just knew your body more than you knew yours. "mm," he groaned, brushing his nose against your clit. you only grind against his face pathetically. fuck, you tasted and smelled so good. his cock's aching in his pants.

another brush of his wet, tendril-like muscle and you're coming undone; squealing as your juices begin to squirt on his face. wesker's brows furrow together, drinking all of it up. he can't help himself, stroking the bulge in his pants. fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—he needs you, he needs you now. your knees buckle beneath you, but that's okay, wesker's strong enough to hold you up.

you could hear just how wet you are, even with your loud, echoing moans. wesker helps you ride your high, and fuck, your vision's blurring, and your irises are receding to the back of your sockets, grip tightening on his locks again.

it hurts how you tug on his hair, but wesker doesn't really care; tongue retracting as it slowly slid out from your aching cunt. "do you feel good, my love?" you can barely process his question amidst your pleasure-fuddled brain. this is how wesker wants you. docile 'n dependent on him.

"do you feel good, my love?"

he repeats so deceivingly sweet, rubbing circles on your sensitive clit. "h, haaah—y, yes," you finally answer, hips twitching as he slowly stroked your sensitive clit. "nobody else can give this to you." switching to his thumb, you squealed when he began to practically vigorously rub your puffy clit. "a, albert—!" "right?" "yes! yesyesyes! j, jus' stop r, rubbin' it, 'm sensiti—ooh—♡!?"

you squealed when wesker takes the sensitive nub in between his fingers, pinching so unkindly 'nd coaxing out more whimpers from you. "yes— yes, o, only you c, can—hnnnggh—can m, make me feel good!" "that's iiiiit, darling. let it aaaall out." his tongue's nicely lapping on your clit again, tryin' to milk out another orgasm from you.

"albert—albeeeert, fuck! fuckfuckfuck!" another suckle of his lips, and you're spraying him everywhere, again. wesker hates to waste a drop, but whatever. he'll drink all of you. you're trembling. spit beading from the edges of your lips. starting from your inner thighs, wesker starts to kiss his way up 'til his lips are on yours; a hand wrapped around your throat as he devoured your mouth.

only you could bring this out from wesker, give into the urges that he used to suppress; tongue possessively filling your mouth as it trails down to your throat. “mph—hnn!” you weakly wrapped your arms around him.

it’s instinct for wesker to hold your body, caressing your thighs ‘nd resting nicely on your ass—and it’s instinct for him to grope 'nd knead your curvaceous rear. when you part, there’s strings of spit clinging on both your lips.

"beg me to fuck you,"

"please,"

"ah-ah. i know y'can do better than that,"

"pl, please, albe—s, sir. fuck me. stretch my cunt out. i need your cock . . . "

you beg so so prettily, 'specially when your waterline's glistenin' with salty tears, 'specially when you're palming his bulge so desperately.

"y'wanna get fucked by me, pretty pup?"

"mhm! mhm. please, please, i need your cock. pleaseeeee,"

⟡

it’s sudden—you barely even remember—but you’re pinned beneath him, back pressed against the expensive leather of your couch, your legs nicely resting atop your boyfriend’s shoulders, and his cock buried deep in your creamy cunt.

with the prep he's given you, it was just so easy for him to fuck you, to pound you mercilessly again ‘n again ‘n again 'til your toes curled, balls always smacking against your ass everytime he's pelvis-to-pelvis with you. you always looked so delicious, being wrecked like this—mm, you sounded fucking delicious too.

“ahn—h, haaah, feels g, goooood!” you sobbed, leaving crimson crescents into his skin. “you’re mine,” wesker whispers in your ear, continuing to slam into you so inhumanely you can barely think, or breathe. not when your knees are pressed against your chest. "yours—'m yours!" all you could do was whimper, lay 'n take it while he used your leaking cunt. "gooood fucking girl," and oh, how you clenched around him with just his praise . . the pleasure was beyond addicting.

wesker knows you're meant for him. only for him.

because he loved breaking you, and in turn, you loved being broken by him. "you don't need anyone else, do you?" "no! no, a, albert! just yoooou . . ♡," the urge to just creampie you right there and then was high, but he needed you to see you undone, completely and utterly.

it's not surprising that wesker can still pick up his pace, roughly pounding you into the cushions. his cries mix with yours, his orgasm coming dangerously, dangerously quick. "you'll be mine forever," wesker watches your fucked out state, watches you mindlessly nod and agree. "f, fuh—f, forever, promiseeee—♡!" he grinned.

"yeah? you p, promise, baby?"

"uh-huuuuuh—♡!"

"you'll be marrying me. take my name—, oh, fuck."

each brutal thrust of his hips sent you closer n closer to your orgasm, and you squealed when the tip's nicely kissing that right spot. "right there? cumming, darling?" you barely respond, squealing as you squirt on his cock with your legs completely shaking as you cried out.

"'m cumming—oh my god, albert—fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuuuuuck—!"

it's exactly what wesker needs to send him completely over the edge, to fill that womb with thick, fertile cum; he buries himself deep into you, nudging your cervix with the crown of his cock. wesker crashes his lips on yours, you whine when he began to fill your throat, too. he seems pleased when he feels you instinctively suckle on his tongue.

he's cumming absolutely lots, flooding your cunt 'til it leaked from you. it's okay, he'll finger it back in you later, like what good girls like you deserve. for now, he's busying himself with stuffing your throat full.

you're absolutely weak and breathless when he pulls his tongue away, licking your jaw and lapping up the sweat that glistened on your skin. "h, haah . . hnn . . " you pant, mind broken and spent. wesker, as gently and as carefully as he could, lowered your legs, letting it rest on his sides. you're both covered in sweat, and he interlaces his fingers with yours. his other hand caressed your face, a thumb rubbing your flushed cheek.

"next month. we'll have our own wedding, have our own house and island, be on our honeymoon . . "

"w, what?"

"you'll be mine forever. you're mrs. wesker now,"

you should protest—fight back, anything—but instead it only comes out as a broken whimper, especially when he starts to move his hips again.

though, some traitorous part of you doesn't even want to say no . .

end.

[rabbittwist]

子羊

𝘕𝘚𝘍𝘞

𝘔𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛 / 𝘈𝘭𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵 𝘞𝘦𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘳

Aʟʙᴇʀᴛ Wᴇsᴋᴇʀ x Rᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

WARNING [NO AFTERCARE, domination, worshipping, choking, degrading, praise, missionary, mouth covering, fearplay(?), VERY long drabble w/ marination]

You couldn't get enough of the plush pillows your head laid between with each rest, the deep crimson of their covers matching the gigantic silk comforter that swallowed you whole. Your sleep was always tender on nights of no stress or rapid thoughts, and, even then, you never felt a wink tired after you woke up.

Slowly but surely you became conscious, your eyes eventually cracking open and meeting with the slick alarm clock that screamed 17:30 in neon red. You pulled yourself upright against the ridiculous pile of pillows, blinking away your sleepiness as you untucked your legs from the blankets and swung them to your slippers at the side of the bed. Stretching up to reach the ceiling, you hear the center of your chest crack in with your shoulders as you put your feet into your slides.

They softly pattered against the wood floors as you went out of your room and down the hall, the bottom of your shirt caressing the middle of your thighs with every step forward. You knew where you were heading, what turn to take to get to the stairs, and even which staircase to use to get to where you wanted to go even faster. You frequented this home more than your own at this rate, getting a call every 2 weeks to confirm availability for your cleaning services at the same time, same dates, same hours.

Every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday⎯ your fingers slid against the banister that encircled the stairs⎯ and Friday were mandatory for you to show, while weekends⎯ you reached the top of the stairs and began to descend down⎯ you had to be on call. You were paid handsomely for being openly available during the weekends despite sometimes not having to show, and you couldn't be more grateful for a job that paid you as well as this. You thought that this gig would be a scam, a dud, a total waste of your interest, until you were paid for Monday. Then Tuesday. Then the weekend arrived, and you were stacked to the brim full of money⎯ money that you were not going allow to be put into someone else's pockets. Though, as you thought more about it, it comes together as to why the owner of such a home would pay as much; professional cleaners deserve a professionals' salary, especially when cleaning a house this large.

Your feet hit the floor and you were off towards the kitchen, your fuzzy slippers slightly dragging on the floor boards from their heft. You began to buy nicer items as your time spent with this job grew longer, up to the span of almost a year. The slippers you wore at this very second were, in fact, a splurge purchase from a brand you've been eyeing since you saw their popular furry boots, but could never afford.

You got to the dining room, the entrance of the kitchen just in sight when you turn to face the long dining table. You ate here⎯ you pass by a seat that sat under the wall mount of a large stag, its antlers stretching towards the ceiling like a tree growing for the sun⎯ whenever duty called, the long hours of the day passing by with every harsh scrub to the grout between tiles. You were cautious at first, when the owner's assistant informed you of your duties and boundaries of working in this house; you could cook food, eat at the dining table, use whatever you needed from select spaces. But soon, those boundaries shrunk, the assistant saying the owner was offering for you to use the furniture to subdue your aching muscles, use the showers and baths to ensure the water runs properly⎯ to even go as far as to want you to increase your availability for overnight stays, stating the beds needed to be used to keep the dust away.

Eventually, as the half year mark arrived, you finally met the owner of the manor. It caught you off guard when you saw a large shadow fall in front of your view of the bookshelf you were giving much needed attention to, your duster tensing in your hand as your grip threatened to snap it. When you turned to face your boss, your hold on your tool did not falter, and instead tightened to the point you swear you heard it cracking under your fingers. He had a dominant, overpowering atmosphere plaguing the room with his arrival, his demeaning gaze nailing you through his black sunglasses as he eyed you once over. He knew your were uneasy, he could practically smell the stench of your nervousness, and it was apparent to you with the way his gaze remained unwavering, like he was observing you, seeing how you would react to his sudden appearance. You could feel his eyes sink in to your face, then your hair, then your uniform, and finally, your eyes; you could feel them being drawn to stare, and never turn away, as if your very soul was being bound to submit through your sea of color. In reality, he knew what you looked like, his cameras across the manor watching your every move the moment you drove just ever slightly close to the property (eventually as you settled in with working for him, he would send one of his assistants to go pick you up and take you home in one of those sleek black cars you knew cost a fortune).

⎯ Soon, you turned to the kitchen and froze, your eyes skimming the sudden view of your boss who was leaned over the sink and washing the dishes. His usual uniform was gone, and in its stead, he had his casual white dress shirt on, it noticeably hugging his back and biceps like a perfectly fitted glove⎯ his sleeves were rolled up in an oddly meticulous way, you noticed⎯ with nice iron pressed pants and matching black dress shoes. His hair looked disheveled, just enough to where you could tell he ran his fingers through it in what few could recognize as irritation.

You felt sick, your face paling and your hands clamping onto the bottom of your shirt⎯ shit, your shirt. You looked down at what you were wearing and felt completely defeated, your chest feeling the snake of shame wrap itself around your beating heart to the point you truly felt it pause a beat. To top it all off⎯ you looked back up to view him once again⎯ he was doing the dishes. Your job.

What made the shame ever so slightly surrender, however, was the fact that your boss himself had told you if you ever felt the need to, use the guest room to rest. That's what you did, so perhaps he would excuse this first time instance?

You blink, and you realize you've been staring longer than you should be. You clamp onto your shirt one last time, letting it absorb any possible sweat, and relax your anxious expression before plastering on a soft, awkward looking smile.

"Good afternoon, Mister Wesker."

There was a pause in the air that felt as long as a year, yet was but a second, the sound of running water and the scrubbing of dishes being the only thing making noise. You cringed internally at the silence, half tempted escape while you still could, but you knew you would land yourself in a deep grave if you attempted such a thing.

"It took you long enough to address me."

You flinched when his voice cut through the air like a knife to butter. Your smile was wiped clean and your eyes dodged to the floor, the malice in his voice evident, even if it was but a small amount, "I apologize for that, sir. I was unsure if I was in the appropriate clothing to greet you."

Wesker didn't get home till late at night, compared to the regular 9-to-5 job, and when you were working, you were meant to greet him at the door and have the house spotless. Him arriving early is a first⎯ a once in a blue moon occurrence, if you will. You always follow the rules and have things ready for his arrival, his expected time varying between 9 PM to even 7 AM, and on late nights like those, you're either driven home, or allowed to spend the night; vigorous hard work is rewarded with a luxury bed.

He placed the last dish into the dishwasher and dried his hands on the rag placed to the side, his voice running through the room, "Dishes left in the sink, waiting to be cleaned, and you're sleeping upstairs."

Your hairs begin to stand, his a-matter-of-fact manner of speaking tipping you off, "I apologize sir, I did not expect you to be home this early.."

"I hire a cleaner to clean, and yet I find my hands taking over your occupation." Wesker folds the towel and sets it in its spot.

Before you could answer, he turns around, his ungloved hand running through his hair to home one of the blond hairs that laid slightly out of place.

"However," He crosses his arms, his watch glinting in an almost taunting way at you, "I don't mind touching with my humanity every so often."

You felt a weird sensation at his words⎯ you could sense something was out of touch with him the moment you had met Wesker, and the way he spoke about humans or humanity as if he were a higher being never sat well with you. Perhaps it was because he was rich, or perhaps it was because of his work being important to the people of the world, as he has told you before many times.

"Regardless. I pay you an extraordinary amount of money that any sane person would dream of, even kill for."

You stand in silence, clasping your hands over one another at your stomach as he continues on, "Have I allowed your rules to be too laxed? Or, perhaps I've spoiled you to the point of lower standards."

"No, Mister Wesker." You answer, "I just needed rest."

He eyes your attire, "I can see that, little lamb."

Your eyes widen, knowing you're in deep now, and you unconsciously pinch the hem of your shirt. Somehow, you work up the courage to bring your eyes up to give him the respect he deserves, but you grow the regret it as you catch his light hazel eyes peeking above his glasses staring at you in a way that screams you fucked up.

You breathe out your nose and let your shoulders drop.

"𝘖𝘩 𝘨𝘰𝘥.."

Wesker had shoved you against his office desk, fear coursing through your veins as your heart beat with the strength of an oil rig. You felt the world spin and your brain run oddly cold and fuzzy, every pump of blood feeling harder than the next as your back was pressed onto the mahogany table.

"Your punishment has been long overdue, lamb. Don't think I haven't noticed how you've been slacking off." He tensely spoke.

"I haven't been, Mister Wesker! I swear⎯!"

You froze as his hands slide just below your shirt and pull your shorts to your ankles, "Do not swear to me when being dishonest. The only thing it will do is get you into deeper trouble."

Your gut dropped to your feet as his fingers glid under the straps of your panties, your head beginning to go dizzy as you felt every vein flow faster and faster through your body. Slowly, his fingers curled around the hem and began to pull down, down, down.. You could barely breathe as every bit of air lumped together in the back of your throat, the muscles in your neck twitching when it became too much, then to implode with your heart and release all together just to start over in an endless cycle.

Yet, with the very fear that bled into your bones, striking every limb, muscle⎯ and you had the audacity to find pleasure in the pit of fright. You always have.

He firmly shot you a glare, "Eyes on me."

Your eyes snapped up towards Wesker, "Keep your eyes on my hands."

You did as he instructed, moving your gaze to his hands as they went down to grasp his belt. The veins that bulged and rooted themselves throughout the back of his hands and up his arms were noticeable, delightful; they intricately wrapped around each hand and slithered up his forearms, his left arm having a vein that slid itself down to the knuckle of his middle finger. You watched as he meticulously unbuckled his belt, the straps coming undone before he unbuttoned and carefully pulled down his zipper.

"Excited for your punishment, aren't you?"

He snapped you out of your daze, and yet your eyes stayed glued on his hands as he pulled down his pants just enough to allow his covered bulge to rest outside the opened zipper. You felt hot, and you knew you were the kin of a blooming cherry red with how tingly you felt all over your face.

"Punishments are supposed to be⎯" Wesker grabbed you by your throat in one swift motion, a short audible gasp passing through you, "hurtful. So why, my dear, do you seem to be enjoying this?"

You have the look of pure ecstasy on your face, your eyes trailing up his veiny forearm, then his toe-curlingly thick bicep, as you imagine the type of punishment you would receive by his hand.

".. Because I deserve it, sir." You quietly respond.

A smile of wicked entertainment spreads across his lips, "Of course you would be blissful from that. You should be grateful I'm even bothered to put a woman as disobedient as you in your place.."

With a squeeze from his hand around your neck, he released you and brought it to the slit of his boxers, "'You know what to say, girl."

The curl of his voice sent an ache between your thighs, desperation making a home in your brain and heart, maybe even your very soul with each second that passed. Embarrassment ran wild for you, your eyes averting to the corner of his office.

Just as fast as you pulled your eyes away, his hand shot out and grabbed your chin, your lips puckering and eyes snapping to him.

"Don't look away from me, you pathetic lamb."

The flash of aggression in his voice made your insides clench and spill to the desk, your thighs instinctively closing together. Wesker took a pause, then turned your head slightly to the right, and then the left, your eyes never once leaving his face.

"I have to say, you are quite the specimen.." He mused, turning your face back towards him.

"And those eyes of yours.. So expressive. Especially when I.."

His free hand slowly grasps the band of his boxers and tugs down, a veiny cock hitting his stomach before curving downwards from its heavy girth. Your pupils blow out and your eyes widen as they flash down to his pulsing dick that, to you, felt like it was gazing back with a thick bead of sheer white fluid gathering at the tip, almost as if it was tempting you to make a move.

You felt the grip on your chin tighten, your lips now in a full pucker as you feel his eyes pierce through your sockets.

Wesker's eyebrows furrow, "Oh yes.. Just like that."

He paused, "⎯ Now, are you ready for your punishment, little lamb?"

You look up at him, and give a short nod, your thighs spreading to allow his own to rest in between. You watch his cock glide under your shirt and rest on your lower stomach, the shape of it molded against your clothing to the point you could see its pulsating motion; there was even a streak of dampness where the tip had caressed your clothing.

Wesker let you go, only to quickly grab you by your neck with one hand, and the back of one thigh with the other to spread you farther apart. His thick tip drew back from under your clothes then aimed down, pressing into your clit and pushing against your weak spot before sliding down between your slick folds. When it caught on your hole, he pushed the head of his cock into your tight mess, watching as it settled in akin to a lollipop sinking between your sweet lips.

You felt your insides twitch around the tip, only a second spared for you to adjust, until he made sure you remembered that this was a punishment, not a favor. Wesker slammed his full, thick cock all the way in till you could feel his lower stomach pressed against your clit, and the head kissing⎯ no, bullying your cervix.

Before you could cry out, he moved his hand from your throat to cover your mouth in a firm hold.

"Remember, little lamb, this is your punishment, and I am not holding back."

Wesker snarled at you, pulling his hips back and snapping them back into your thighs. You moaned through his palm, your hands coming up to grab his wrist and dig your nails in just enough to sting. You could feel every ridge, every thick vein of his cock as he was beginning to plunge harshly into your mushy pussy, his hips getting into a violent rhythm as he painfully began to ravage your hole.

"Dear god, lamb⎯," He clenched his teeth and sharply sucked in air, "oooo..⎯ despite all of your nonsense, you have a delectable cunt I can't seem to stop craving for.."

You closed your eyes and whined behind his hand, his cock hitting one spot that just felt so painful yet indescribably good, as he vigorously made sure to sink his entire length into every quick, deep thrust. In a flash, he gripped your cheeks once again, your lips set agonizingly in an 'O' shape with his rough grab.

He snapped at you, "Do NOT close your eyes while I'm fucking you stupid, whore."

You flinched at that word; whore. It shook you deeply, sentimentally as tears brimmed your eyes in shame.

"You're nothing but a little cock whore to me.. -𝘴𝘩𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘱 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘱 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘩- A stupid toy for me to fuck and use."

You felt your tears roll down your cheeks, your face beaming red and your mouth letting out sickly pleasured noises as your cunt plaps over and over again against his heavy balls. He was mean, so very mean today, and yet you, the sick attention seeking girl you are, reveled in his words, your pussy clenching on his length.

He breathes heavy, "With a body like this, I expected it to be tainted long before me, little lamb. You should be grateful I was the one that let you see stars."

Wesker groaned a soft fuck, before letting your face go and slamming his hand onto the table, his brutality causing him to falter as he felt his balls fill up from the fast pace he set for you. You cried and moaned and whined with each passing second, the constant bullying of his cock hitting your cervix filling you with bliss, and yet, you were constantly battered out of it when he would thrust hard and cause a light pain to ripple through your womb; you honestly thought it was him being rough and creating a bruised spot, but you soon realized it was the pure force of his hips that caused the tip to break through ever so slightly into your womb.

Your eyes began to roll back, your legs beginning to shake as you laid your hands next to your head and took all he was giving you.

"You do so good taking me, little lamb⎯ fuck." Wesker's face tensed as he leaned his face down to the side of your head, grabbing his sunglasses and ripping them off his face.

He pinned his glasses down beneath his hand as he placed it back where he had slammed it before, his reality slipping through his fingers with every pound inside of you, and every bead of sweat that glimmered against his skin. He would never admit it, never, and he finds it impossible he even has such a mindset about you, but⎯ he slides the hand he held the back of your thigh with under your shirt towards your waist and squeezes⎯ you are perfect. Wesker finds it absurd he could even imagine someone like you would intrigue him, and at first, you were like any other maid he had hired in the past, but as he watched you through the cameras, there was something peculiar. Something that screamed at him that you were significant. Worthy.

And yet, with such thoughts, he could not shake the addiction he had for staring at you, talking to you, touching you, fucking you. You had him wrapped around your finger, and you would never know. To him, you were his goddess on earth, and he loathed that fact. To have thoughts of someone like you being compared to that of a god, before himself, ate at him alive. But he contently drowned in the thoughts of you like that of a sacrifice. You took him over. Sinfully, and absolutely.

He plunged forcefully back and forth into your wetness, Wesker groaning through clenched teeth as your moaning and whining sent him into a frenzy. He was close.

You grabbed onto his shirt towards his collar and cried, "Wesker!"

That completely unraveled him.

With one abusive thrust, he shoved the tip of his cock past your cervix and fed your womb full of all he had to offer. You let out a shaky moan as you felt his hot seed spill into your hungry hole, your walls convulsing with intent to suck him empty.

He did one last hard snap into you before letting it sit, then slowly pulling out. He stood straight and looked at your sex, seeing it fully agape from where he had let himself take you. Not a drop leaking out.

"You were starving for my seed that bad, huh." Wesker spoke, but it felt like it was directed to your puffy cunt more so than yourself.

You slowly closed your eyes, your body completely shutting down as he let you go and placed his sunglasses back on. Wesker eyed you once more, lust breaking through into his brain as he watched your chest rise and fall, and your pussy slowly adjusting to being without him⎯ but, he needed to get back to work. You heard him fixing himself up before going behind the desk and opening a drawer, soon closing it and setting something on the desk behind your head.

With a sigh and a comb through his hair, he went to the door and spoke as coldly as his usual self, "Clean yourself up and finish with the house, Miss (L/n). While you're at it, clean up the mess on my desk. I don't want your excrement ruining my mahogany table."

And with that, he left, shutting the door behind him and leaving you there to pick up after yourselves. That quick exit really hit your heart sore; he didn't even bat an eye at you, or help you pick up yourself. Fresh tears brimmed your eyes in shame, but you sat up and gained your balance when you stood on your feet to slide your panties and shorts back up.

You wiped your tears away and took a moment to process. Wesker never left you without aftercare, even if it was chopped when he would caress you in comfort, or intently helped you cum your soreness away. This really enforced the fact that this was a punishment. And you hated it. Which was a part of his plan.

You recall that he had taken something out of his desk, and you turned, seeing a leather red necklace box sitting with a note that had Lamb written on it. You stepped around the table and picked up the note, turning the clearly expensive card around and reading what was wrote in cursive.

𝑫𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅.

⎯ 𝑾𝒆𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒓

Wow, how nice. You bitterly thought, placing the note next to the box before picking it up. When you opened it, your sourness and sorrow washed away, a golden necklace sitting in black silk. It was a thin chain that had golden omamori shaped tag with what you could tell as Kanji engraved vertically on the small pendant.

子羊

Kohitsuji..

Your cheeks felt warm as you slid your hand under the pendant and lifted it closer to your face. You had been practicing reading Kanji and speaking Japanese for some of Wesker's important peoples that would visit the manor every now and then for a meeting, and it seemed to have really paid off.

Lamb.

You smiled and took the necklace, putting it around your neck when you faced the mirror by the door. Your heart was bursting with happiness, and it showed as you flaunted the necklace off to yourself. Until you remembered you had a mess to clean.

You turned towards the table and saw the mess you had made, some of it even leaking down the front... How embarrassing.

Post usages Fᴏɴᴛs ᴜsᴇᴅ; Mᴀᴛʜ Iᴛᴀʟɪᴄ • Mᴀᴛʜ Sᴀɴs • Mᴀᴛʜ Sᴀɴs Iᴛᴀʟɪᴄ.

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Imagine King catching feelings for you

Kaido: ah, there he is, King this is the new navigator for the main ship

King: [eyes you in disinterest] I see

You: hello, I look forward to working with you.

King: I'm sure you do.

You: [ignores his rude comment]

Kaido: would you show them around the ship for me?

King: I suppose

You: [opens the door and gestures to it] Lead the way handsome.

King: [looks at you in surprise]

During a dinner

King: [sees you're not touching your sashimi plate]

You: [notices him looking] Do you like sashimi?

King: ... Yes

You: I'm a tad full at the moment to eat mine, could I get your help with it?

King: [wastes no time taking the platter from you] I take it you don't like sashimi?

You: it's not that, I'm just not in the mood for it.

King: [can't tell if you're lying] Good, because I don't know if I can work with someone who doesn't like sashimi.

You: but it would mean more for you.

King: [pauses because he didn't think of it that way before] ... So you're going to give me all your sashimi from now on?

You: [smiles at him] Maybe, if you've been a good boy.

King: [feels unfamiliar emotions stir within him]

After that dinner

You: [goes to King's rooms] King?... King, Kaido wanted me to deliver this course log to you to review for tomorrow... Huh, I'll just leave it on his desk with a note.

King: [exits the shower with just a towel and sees you kneeling on his desk chair and scribbling something down]

You: [turns around to see him trying to duck into another room] King? Is that you?

King: [freezes, knowing he's been seen]

You: wow, I've never seen you without your mask, [realizes this is a breach of his privacy, so you should your eyes] Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to look, I promise I won't say anything to anyone.

King: [grabs his sword and stands over you]

You: [looks up when you hear the blade slide out of the sheath]

King: [feels dread and guilt fill his chest when he sees the look of terror in your eyes]

You: why?

King: I can't let you leave now that you know what I am, the government can't know that I'm still alive. I won't ever go back to being someone else's lab rat.

You: I understand. [Lowers your head in acceptance]

King: [can't bring himself to kill you, so he throws it down] damn it all, get out of my chair.

You: [scrabbles out, and silently watches him sit down and make a call using his den den mushi]

King: Kaido, the new navigator knows

Kaido: ehh? I just got them, do you know how hard it is to find a decent navigator and you're telling me you already killed the brand-new one!

King: I haven't killed them.

Kaido: They escaped you, are they at least wounded?

King: [gets comfortable in his chair] No, they're standing right before me.

You: [had a perfect view of his thighs and the v of his hips peaking out of the towel, and now you can see up his towel, so you look away]

Kaido: what's the hold-up?

King: [sees you looking away, so he leans forward, takes your jaw in his hand, and makes you look at him] We can't afford to lose our only navigator while out at sea. I want to keep them by my side in the meantime.

Kaido: [can tell he's not hearing the full truth] ... As long as it doesn't interfere with their duties, you can do whatever you want with them.

King: thank you

Kaido: now good night [hangs up]

King: [puts down the receiver, and runs his thumb over your lips] ... If you try to leave my sight, I will kill you without hesitation. You will stay by my side, and do everything I say. I do not tolerate disobedience, do you understand me? [Gently shakes you to get his point across]

You: [feels tears well up in your eyes]

King: [feels guilty] I'll have servants bring your things, you'll sleep here, with me, from now on... I'm not doing this to punish you, I'm doing this for my own safety, and because I don't want to kill you.

You: [sniffles] I understand

King: [can hear your distress in your voice and it makes him feel sick] Through that door is the bathroom, go bathe while I make a few calls.

You: [slinks into the other room]

King: [calls the kitchens to deliver your favorite desserts, and calls the servant quarters to have them bring your stuff to his quarters]

After your shower

You: [exits the bathroom wearing a clean kimono]

King: [lounging on the couch, in front of a rather impressive spread of sweets] Your things have been moved into your new room.

You: I'm getting a room all to myself?

King: no, you'll be sleeping with me, I need to know where you are at all times

You: we'll be sharing a bed?!

King: yes, now please help yourself to these sweets, I did order them for you.

You: you did, why? [Goes directly for your favorite dessert]

King: You were distressed, and this was the only way I could think of to help you feel better... Your distress is understandable, I know this isn't ideal for you, being practically chained to my side... And while I can't let you go, I just wanted you to know that... I don't want you to worry or be afraid of me, because I'm not going to hurt you. I can't risk going back to what I was before Kaido, I won't go back to it.

You: ... You mentioned the government earlier, I take it you were held captive by them.

King: yes, it's why I wear the mask.

You: [can see him practically squirming in his seat] Really? And here I was thinking you wore it because it was a fetish.

King: well it is, but it's not the sole reason I wear it.

You: Sasaki owes me 800 Berry then.

King: you people were betting on me?

You: to be fair we bet on everything, there's not a lot to do on a boat in the middle of the ocean.

King: [sighs dramatically] That's true, but back to the topic at hand, I usually kill people for finding out what I am.

You: but not me, what makes me so special?

King: I don't know.

You: [ruminates for a moment] How did seeing me distressed make you feel?

King: uncomfortable, guilty, I dunno? I just didn't like it.

You: hmm I see, so you don't want to kill me, seeing me upset disturbs you, and you have anxiety if I am out of your sight.

King: believe whatever you want about my reasoning, it changes nothing.

You: ... One final question

King: [rolls his eyes, and crosses his arms] Fine, final question.

You: when you were on the call with Kaido, why did you make me look at you?

King: I didn't like that you were looking away.

You: I see.

King: ... Why did you look away?

You: I could see up your towel.

King: How much did you see?

You: some of your balls, and most of your shaft.

King: [feels arousal and embarrassment well up in him] Are you finished with your food?

You: I believe so.

King: come, I'll show you the bedroom.

You: [follows him and takes it in] Why are there no lights?

King: because it's time for bed [gets settled in bed when he notices you haven't moved] are you coming or are you sleeping on the floor?

You: that bed doesn't look like it'll fit both of us?

King: [rolls his eyes, grabs your arm, and pulls you into the bed up on his chest.] It's just fine, relax and go to sleep, I won't do anything.

You: [rests your weight on him and struggles to get comfortable]

King: [agitated because you're so close to him and he's experiencing new emotions he didn't know he had] Would you stop fidgetingñ

You: I'm trying to get comfortable and avoid kicking you in your dick!

King: [realizes how aroused he is by having you so close] tsk, do it quickly.

The next morning

King:[wakes up empty-handed, panics, and looks around until he sees you]

You: [asleep on his wing, face nuzzled into his down feathers, and has handfuls of his flight feathers.]

King: [mental cogs slide into place and he realizes he's in love with you] Oh fuck [sits up]

You:[awakens with a shriek when the surface below is yanked out from under you]

King: [sits up on the side of the bed with his hands covering his face]

You: [pushes your upper half up onto your palms as you twist to look over at him] What's going on?

King: [ looks over to see you half asleep, messy-haired, and your kimono had loosened in your sleep and was now only closed over your lap and under the obi belt, giving him an eyeful of your shoulders, the center of your chest, and from mid-thigh down]

You: it's like five in the morning, what's going on? [Reaches out and pulls on his feathers]

King: nothing, go back to sleep.

You: [doesn't need to be told twice, and plops back down and wiggles back into a comfortable position]

Bout a week later

King: [has so much pent-up tension he's basically a walking time bomb that everyone avoids]

Kaido: what have you been doing to him to make him so cranky?

You: I have absolutely no clue.

Kaido: well you better do something about it before he snaps and burns down my ship.

You: [ goes to King's room to find him tensed up and hunched over his desk] Kaido wants me to do something.

King: what now?

You: he wants me to fix whatever I've been doing to make you so cranky.

King: [scoffs] You haven't done anything.

You: [climbs into his lap, straddles his thighs, and cups his cheeks] And that might be what I'm doing wrong.

King: [relaxes at the softness in your voice, but pulls your hands away from his mask] This is my problem to deal with.

You: can I please help, I'll do anything.

King: anything?

You: [nods] anything

King: [wraps his hands around your hips, and pushes you down so you're seated on his lap]

You: [feels the heat rolling off the erection trapped in his pants] Oh my

King: [guides your body to gently rock against him] You said you'd do anything, and it's your fault it's like this. Don't you think you should take responsibility?

You: [huffs, but puts your back into grinding down on him] It's been days since I moved in, why didn't you tell me sooner?

King: I was already keeping you captive, [Grunts and starts to pant as he tilts his hips up to get more friction] It felt like I would've been pressuring you into something non-consensual.

You: I see [slows your movements to a halt]

King: [huffs and bucks his hips in frustration, pulling on your hips to get you to move again] Don't fucking stop, please.

You: [goes slow] Tell me, is this just lust?

King: [desperate] It can be anything you want it to be, please I just want you.

You: is this all you want? My body?

King: I'll take whatever you give me, but I'll always want more. I'm so fucking greedy for you. I want it all, I want the sashimi you don't like. I want fun evenings out, and restless nights in with you, only to be followed by quiet passionate mornings with you. I want you to look at only me, smile at only me, to fuck only me. I'll take whatever you give, just please give me this, [Presses his thumbs into the softness on your belly] even if it's only this once.

You: you're in love with me?

King: [slumps pathetically into his chair in defeat, and looks at the ceiling] Fuck ... Yes, I am. I am in love with you, and spending every night with you pressed against me has made me insatiable.

You: [giggles]

King: [flips you off]

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[married-to-google-translater]

Yandere moriaty reacting to reader taking them to a private place and telling them to close their eyes, once they close their eyes reader gives them a kiss on the cheek before running away, Reader has a longtime crush on yandere (reader doesn't know about yanderes obsession), but is really shy so they did the kiss as a confession.

U didin't say what characters so I chooce them. I write this for Yandere Albert and William

Yandere Albert Moriarty

Albert would probably know about your little crush.

He would have done a proper background check.

Sometimes being an M16 agent would be useful.

And he still gets reports about you…

As well as your "weird" behavior.

It wouldn't take him long to realize that you had a crush on him…

Because he happens to be the person you spend most of your time with.

Albert doesn't want other people around you.

Btw don't ask what Albert must have done to get the M16 to watch you.

It's better not to know some things.

Albert would be excited to see what you have for him.

Maybe you would confess.

He would be hopeful.

And Albert would be right.

But he certainly wouldn't be waiting for your kiss.

His "charming" exterior would indeed crack.

Albert would freeze.

And when he comes back you're already gone.

This would be the happiest day of Albert's life.

He would like to find you quickly so you can "discuss" this.

You don't know it yet, but your life is about to change a lot.

Yandere William James Moriarty

William would be smart.

But even he wouldn't have expected this.

You would have spent some time together.

But you weren't that close.

However, the time you spent together was enough for you to develop a crush.

The next time you see each other pull William aside and kiss him.

William would be very surprised.

But he wouldn't complain.

William would enjoy the feel of your lips on his.

He wouldn't let you run away.

Never again.

William would grab your hand and pull you back.

After that you would have a conversation…

And you would decide to start dating.

William would already be planning your wedding.

He would also plan how to bribe your parents.

Oh yeah and plans to keep you with him.

So so so many plans.

William's brain would really go into overdrive.

[imlovewithpixels]

"The rose in the imperial palace"

- Yandere! WMMAP x Fem!Reader platonic Claude and Felix

Athanasia couldn't believe her eyes. Her father kept that abandoned puppy grimace as he was being ignored by that young woman who had not even greeted them properly. Who dared? Where had she come from? And why did everyone call her "Obelia's rose"? or Where (Y/n) Robaine will make sure to make the most of her second life and try to forget her tragic past, but fate seems to keep bothering her.

(( Remember that my ask are OPEN - Spanish or English, please ASK ME ANYTHING, tALK TO ME AND LEAVE A COMENT IF YOU LIKE UU))

 My first language is not English, so I apologize for any grammatical error.

Her voice did not come out of her throat and her scream was quickly drowned in blood.

She didn't understand, she couldn't do it.

Why?

She trusted him, loved him so much, and was so glad to have been called by him.

If she had known this was how it would end, maybe she wouldn't have let her mother slap her that morning, and perhaps she wouldn't have ignored the maids who laughed at her as she walked by and cast a spell on them.

Perhaps she would not have spent so many years studying so hard and perfecting her manners and knowledge.

She would have tried to escape her duties every chance she got instead of standing submissively by her father's side, eager for a simple crumb of affection.

She would have done so many things

she thought as she weakly hugged her belly and fell to her knees with no strength to support her poor body.

Maybe she should have accepted her master's proposal and run away with him.

No, maybe she should have just hugged him that morning instead of saying a cold goodbye as usual.

He would surely make fun of how delusional she had just been.

A hand grabbed her face roughly, she felt his nails in her cheeks and raised her face to meet his gaze.

The mana in her body was draining drastically, she could feel it. It was sliding painfully through her veins to merge with another's, draining her more with every second.

On this occasion, and for the first time, she allowed herself to hold her fiancé's gaze as she felt her breath catch.

She could recognize some more apathy in those eyes, perhaps disgust, perhaps resentment, or perhaps some pity.

But she no longer cared.

With the last remaining effort, she raised her bloody hand to caress his.

She smiled radiantly and honestly, as never before.

- Go to hell, your majesty. - The dumbfounded look on her face that received her words was worth it and if she could, she would have laughed.

Death looked more and more beautiful, a lethargy that would tuck her in at last.

Eternal, calm, and hers.

- ¡...! - She heard the door open abruptly and her name being called.

She could not even focus her blurred vision on that voice.

She had been let go and her face crashed to the floor.

Then everything went black.

════════════════════════════════════ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　 ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Tea and cookies could be smelled from far away.

Felix pulled the chair aside for her to sit down, while her father was already there waiting.

Athanasia smiled happily at him and immediately took the chocolate cake to eat.

Her heart was at ease, unaware that in less than a year she would be fourteen. The novel would truly begin.

But she had made it, she had changed her destiny and had her father's favor to survive what lay ahead.

She was the imperial princess of Obelia and that allowed her to eat as cheerfully as she did now.

There was nothing she liked more than having tea with Claude.

- You look as if you haven't eaten in days. - The emperor mentioned, resting his cheek on his hand and looking at his daughter with some amusement. The younger girl's cheeks colored and she formed a tender pout that made Felix laugh.

- It's just that cake always tastes better when I'm with Dad. - the heiress replied playfully.

Claude nodded in agreement and continued drinking from his cup.

They were a family, small and happy.

If she had Claude, Felix, and Lily on her side, nothing could go wrong.

He knew there was nothing in this empire that his father couldn't get her and that filled her with satisfaction.

Her little delight was halted when she noticed some maids approaching with hurried steps towards where they were. Lily ran after them and frowned.

Felix was the first to notice these unexpected visitors and approached them discreetly, they began to whisper things to him that Athanasia could not hear, but it was a bad thing.

Her nanny looked more and more worried.

- Wh-what? Where is she? - She heard him speak to the crimson knight.

- Felix. - Claude called him in a tired tone, but curious. - What's the matter that you can't keep your mouth shut? -

The maids backed away in fright and Lily stretched out her hand towards the red-haired man, but he only walked quickly towards his blond friend with an expression that Athanasia couldn't explain.

Something was not right.

Felix was smiling openly, but he looked nervous and his eyes looked worriedly towards his emperador.

- (Y/n)... - He mentioned softly.

The blond opened his eyes and quickly lowered his cup, which rattled loudly against the table.

Athanasia did not identify that name.

- Your Majesty, my (Y/n) is back. - The knight clarified, unable to contain his emotion, and then bowed to the emperor in a way that Athy had never seen him do before. - Please let me receive her! -

Claude looks at him silently with a conflicted expression, and, although Athanasia did not realize it, a hint of fear in his jeweled eyes.

- Bring her. - he ordered finally.

Felix looked at him dumbfounded.

- Jim order you to bring that rose back to where it belongs. - His voice sounded firm and the two adults stared at each other for a few moments.

Felix nodded and began to walk towards the palace entrance. Claude stood up and wordlessly followed him.

Athanasia just watched as the two adults left her all alone and repeated the name in her head.

- (Y/n)... - Not recognizing it left a terrible taste in her mouth and, awkwardly, she also got up, following her father.

════════════════════════════════════ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　 ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The first thing you saw after death was ...nothing.

Everything was a blur for the first few weeks and as soon as you were born, you were greeted by red and orange spots, which only added to your confusion.

Your barely formed ears were tormented with screams and cries, terror and sobs that made you cry again.

Everything was cold, your body naked and still stained with blood.

Where was your death? Were you in hell and had this been your punishment?

May God himself come down at that moment and explain to you why you were still alive.

Your mind could not process much of her first day in that new body, you only knew that in a moment everything went quiet, and your body went from being exposed to being wrapped in a blanket and in someone's arms.

You felt slept

Tired of crying so much.

You were so weak that she could not perceive the imperial mana in the room.

════════════════════════════════════ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　 ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

- This way, Lady Robane. - Several maids guided you into the castle to your discomfort.

You didn't want to go back to that place and were tempted to go straight home.

But you wanted to see him, needed to see him at once, or your heart would not take it.

The maids were kind and treated you with respect, you could recognize several faces among them and they made small talk as they walked through the imperial palace.

Several offered to carry the luggage and asked you about Atlanta.

All of you arrived at the entrance to the main palace and you could make out some figures there.

Your heart leaped with joy at the sight.

Athanasia could make out a figure in the distance, pursued by several maids. The first thing she spotted was fluffy reddish hair.

It was a young girl of her age, you walked with elegance and perfect posture while maintaining an infectious smile as she spoke with the maids who escorted you.

The dress you wore was simple, compared to hers, but that only seemed to highlight your kind aura.

Your chubby, freckled cheeks looked as if they had been kissed by the sun.

Your flame hair danced with every step you took and your gentle gaze was as clear as the sky, a soft blue.

Something clicked in the blonde's head.

- "She's Felix's relative, of course. I have nothing to worry about" - She thought, even if that didn't explain why almost all the maids in the palace seemed to recognize and treat you so well, or Lily's clear dislike for you.

Or how her father seemed to freeze as soon as he saw your eyes from afar, he was anxious and seemed to want to say something, but his lips didn't respond.

And as if in slow motion, you seemed to recognize the presence of the three of them. And, slowly, remove a simple ring from your middle finger.

Athanasia could not process this and took a few steps back, Lily held her behind her, stroking her back.

(Y/n) Robane had the imperial jewels in her eyes and they sparkled at the sight.

Claude walked a few steps toward your body.

You smiled excitedly and without any etiquette, began to run towards them, stretching out your arms.

The emperor opens his arms, ready to receive you.

Horrifying Athanasia.

- No! - She broke away from Lily, moved by the terror of what that might mean, and stretched her arm out behind her father's back.

But when she wrapped her thin arms stubbornly around him, she did not perceive the weight of the intruder against Claude.

You ran, and without a single glance at the Jim, stretched out your arms toward Felix.

Felix was so absorbed in seeing you again, that he did not notice his friend's action and only welcomed you gladly.

- Daddy! - You squealed happily as his arms enveloped your body.

Laughing softly, realizing that you were crying.

Felix cradled your cheeks and wiped his tears, then kissed your forehead.

- (Y/n), my heart, you don't know how happy I am to see you. Why didn't you send a letter to your father, young lady? - Happy, touched by his daughter, he lifted you into the air and spun around with you, listening to your laugh.

He hadn't seen you since autumn break, but the trip to Atlanta was tedious and he could only spend a week at his offspring's side.

For him, it felt like decades of not seeing you.

Having you back in the palace was incredibly nostalgic and he couldn't help but kiss your face too, making you laugh at the tickling.

You were taller, prettier, more beautiful, more everything.

His little daughter was an imperial treasure.

The only rose in the garden.

You just enjoyed being pampered by your father. Feeling dizzy and even crying from emotion, but that wasn't something new.

Finally, after being gone to study for so long, you would be able to see him every day like, in your childhood, the two of them would move to the Robaine state and could live peacefully together.

You were so excited and happy that almost forgot the little problem behind you.

Both blondes saw the scene differently.

Athanasia fixed her eyes on that fraternal display that she had never seen before in her life, so much affection, so much tenderness.

It was strange for her to see, and she was still frustrated that she had no answers.

Claudie just looked blank at having misunderstood your approach and then being completely ignored.

Both of their expressions darkened a little.

Jealousy.

-" (Y/n)...that girl who is getting so much love right now, where did she come from? How dare she ignore my father? Does she even have the manners not to greet someone from the imperial family?" -

On the other hand, Claude's anger only made him take a step toward the redheads, but when he came across your jewels, he didn't dare to take another one.

Felix noticed the atmosphere and let go of his little girl.

You looked sideways at the blonde.

- So she is Athanasia..." - you thought, staring at her, and smiled a little lost when you saw the frown that the princess was trying to hide with another fake smile.

Finally, you decided to look at Claude again.

- (Y/n) ...- He tried to call her by that nickname she had used so long ago.

- His majesty, the Jim, demanded my presence, I would like to know what matter is so urgent as to prevent me from going home after such an exhausting trip. - You spoke with such hostility that Athanasia thought her father would have you beheaded at once.

But the great and dreaded Jim had the pitiful expression of a scolded child.

What was going on?

- Honey, the emperor wanted to see you, all this time he has sent you thousands of letters and gifts. You didn't answer any of them, isn't it fair that he is happy for your return to the capital? - Felix tried to appease you, fearful because whenever he defended the blond, he earned a reprimand from his daughter.

And you fulminate him with a look.

Why was Felix still defending that asshole? Your father was too good for this world, and for that half-baked emperor, no doubt.

But there was no point in getting angry if you two would soon be in a carriage far from this palace.

You softened your gaze and turned it back to Jim and his daughter.

- But it seems that this is not the time for me to be here. - You clarified, looking at Athanasia and then at her father.

Only at that moment, Felix seemed to recognize again the presence of the princess.

- Nonsense. - Claude declared, and turned to the maids - Set the tea table right now, and get everything ready again immediately. -

- B-but papa, we were... - Athanasia tried to speak.

- And make sure it's exactly as it was before. -

The maids nodded and got down to business.

"Lemon pie" "Lavender tea" "Egg sandwiches"

Athanasia began to listen, surprised that several of the foods had never been served to her before and no one had asked her if it was to her taste.

Your mouth watered and smiled openly with hunger.

Claude smiled at her and the young blonde coughed uncomfortably, noticing his slip. She held his arm happily and walked with him into the inner garden.

- "I can't refuse the free food. That would be rude." - You thought simply.

Not knowing that he would later regret agreeing to it.

After all, the prettiest rose should belong to this garden.

I HAD THIS IN MY PC SINCE 2 YEARS AGO, i dont know if i wanna continue, but have all the ideas written down so...if you wanna know more, my ask are open. probably continue it with headcannons, imagines or some lil oneshots Thanks for reading <3

[destinationtrekk]

not there yet

Wesker doesn't realize he's in a love story until he's nearly too late.

1.3k, BSAA reader, RE5 Wesker, Ada Wong my love, whump, hurt/comfort, he gives you T-Virus because that's his love language, friends to enemies to ?????, he shoots you (out of love), he's probably ooc (don't care!)

a/n: all my fics are cross posted to my ao3

-> masterlist

-> not there yet on ao3

64.media.tumblr.com

You had not wanted to be in Africa, now or ever, but Chris had a certain way of pouting that made you agree to anything he asked. The sight of Wesker was not so much a surprise as it was a relief. Your team had been tracking him for ages, and to stumble upon him here of all places was a cruel gift.

Now, as his dark form stood above you, his pistol pointed at your head, you wanted to smile around the pain that tore through you. His long coat billowed around his legs, and you saw the glow of his eyes behind his glasses, one of the lenses cracked, and you wondered if he had even noticed it through all the commotion.

You smiled sadly at him, "W-Wait, Al..."

He scowled as you used his silly nickname, one only you could get away with, a sickly sweet melody to his ears. You looked down at your abdomen, your hand doing a poor job of stemming the blood flowing out of a stab wound on your hip. You were starting to feel sick - despite your job, you never did get used to seeing that much blood.

He grit out a quiet, "What is it?" between his teeth, and you turned your head back toward him. You smiled again, feeling blood begin to drip down your forehead. "Do you remember the night we got drunk in your office? and you had to drive me home because I could barely stand," You couldn't help but laugh softly, the sound turning into a violent cough and blood splattering across your lap.

He looked disgusted for a moment, and then his expression froze. He clenched his jaw, and you took a moment to memorize his face. He shook his head like it would clear his memories and looked at you darkly. "This isn't a love story, dearheart."

You smirked, head falling back against the rubble you were splayed across. "Yeah it is, Wes'," You murmured weakly, starting to gag against the blood climbing your throat, "We just haven't got there yet."

He looked heartbroken for half a second, and then his hand tightened on the trigger. You prepared for a mercy shot, but in a split second, his arm shifted and you felt excruciating pain ripping through your thigh. You never got used to the bullet wounds, either. You couldn't scream, short on air, but you felt the muscle spasm, warm liquid beginning to pool under your leg, joining the rest of the bloody mess.

The room began to swim as he turned to walk away, his shoulders hunched and steps slow. "Couldn't even make the kill, could you?" You taunted after him, playful even in death. Your vision started to go, spots flickering, and your last sight was his pause to turn his head and give you one last, devastated glance over his shoulder

-

Low voices voices roused you awake, or to some nauseating semblance of it. Immediately next was rippling pain across your stomach and legs, a steady ache building behind your eyes. It took a few seconds, and nearly all your energy, but you cracked your eyes open and groaned. Cold, wet arms were holding you against a firm chest, and your head lolled around as you tried to get a look around. You made out a long, dim hallway through your blurred vision, and a slim woman walking ahead, a familiar red dress practically painted on her.

 You managed to roll your head around to look at who was holding you, and your lips twitched into a weak smile. Wesker, his face covered in blood and dirt and his glasses missing, had you in his arms. The acrid tang of blood was coating his clothes, and you felt the sticky warmth of it against your cheek as you collapsed your head against his chest. You felt more than heard his sharp inhale, and coughed out some semblance of a laugh before you whined in pain. "Told you," You slurred, voice weak and thick with pain. You started to drift off again when you heard his low voice, sounding much more urgent than before, and then you were gone again.

-

Their voices were much louder when you came around this time, and the pain had subsided considerably. All you felt now were dull aches pulsating through your abdomen, and a weak throb in your leg where his bullet had ripped through. You felt odd, like you were seeing, or rather hearing, the world in high definition for the first time.

"She should be awake by now," a low, rumbling voice on the left, followed by a much lighter tone. "You nearly beat her to death, Albert. These things take time."

You tried to swallow, but it turned into a rough choke as you felt thick blood coating your throat, dried into a sickly coalescence now. The voices picked up in urgency, metal clanging together around you before you attempted a deep breathing, realizing something was shoved down your throat. You choked again, eyes snapping open, as you reached up, desperately clawing at your neck like you could tear though and clear the airway yourself.

Nearly immediately, the oxygen tube was out of your mouth and you began to cough roughly. Warm hands pulled your fingers away from your neck and held them still while you took deep, trembling breaths. Wesker was standing above you, sans glasses with his glowing eyes narrowed in... concern? You couldn't tell, too busy trying to breathe through the shock. Ada Wong was looking at you as well, her expression much more worried than his. You laughed without humor and looked at both of them blearily, letting your head fall back against the table with a dull thud. "Knew it," You managed to whisper, voice hoarse and quiet. "Couldn't let me go."

Wesker growled a warning sound and looked at Ada, who promptly left the room. His hands were still on your wrist, holding your arm still against the cold metal table. "Shut up," he grit between his teeth. "This changes nothing. I could hardly leave you to die when you could be so useful to me."

You rolled your eyes and flinched at the sharp flare it sent your head. His grip tightened on you, before he let go all together, your skin cold where his warm hands had been. "You nearly did it though - beat me to death, I mean." You rasped, throat too sore for much else.

He reached behind him, grabbing a water bottle. He quickly opened it and helped you take a few sips, a scowl still staining his face. "Not so much a love story now, is it?"

You grinned and coughed wetly, turning away from him until you caught your breath. "Told you we weren't there yet, didn't I?"

You didn't so much care about what came next, only that you were here, with him. His hair was ruffled, likely from running his hands through it in worry, as he was apt to do. Your eyes roamed his torso, noting his bruised collarbones, exposed by the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. When you met his gaze again, he looked something near shameful.

"It'll take a few more days for the virus to do its work, but you'll be fine." He murmured, uncharacteristically soft. You frowned at him, and then noted the syringe in his lap like he had dropped it mindlessly. Your expression fell, and you slowly locked eyes on him again.

"I'm not sorry." A twinge of remorse coated his lie. "I need you alive, because - you're useful. That's it."

You raised your head enough to find his hand again, weakly intertwining your bloody fingers with his. A myriad of confusing emotions swelled in your chest, but all you could focus on was the warmth of his palm, dried blood flaking off your skin onto his. "Then I'll be useful. Hated the BSAA anyway."

The look he gave you then was raw, his eyes wide as he searched your face. All you could do was smile tiredly, and close your eyes again. His other hand wrapped around where your fingers were twisted together, and you heard him finally let out a sigh of relief.

[sunandflame]

Alber "King" MODERN AU: Government Experiment Survivor | Underground Fighter

Alber, who was taken from an orphanage at just 3 years old, labeled "unclaimed" and selected for a government experiment that erased his identity before it ever formed.

Alber, whose childhood was replaced with laboratories and locked rooms, trained like a weapon and shaped through years of genetic editing and violent physical conditioning.

Alber, whose body was designed to endure what others could not — with muscle density beyond normal, reinforced bones, suppressed empathy, and a nervous system that learned to silence pain before it could reach his brain.

Alber, the most successful prototype they ever created — silent, obedient, inhumanly resilient — until he disappeared at 17 during a transport blackout, killing two handlers and vanishing into smoke and silence.

Alber, who no longer existed in any system, who gave himself a new name — King — not as a title, but as a shield. A way to hide in plain sight while the government still hunted ghosts.

King, who stands at 2 meters tall — that’s 6 feet 7 inches of broad, quiet mass. A man built like a fortress, with a presence that fills any room he walks into, even when he says nothing at all.

King, who fights in illegal underground circuits, cash-only, off-grid, nameless — known only by bruised mouths and broken ribs.

King, whose reputation carries further than his voice ever has: undefeated, silent, merciless. A myth in the flesh. Rumors say he doesn’t feel pain. No one knows where he goes after the match ends.

King, who moves like he’s still being watched. Who fights with brutal efficiency — a fusion of military kill-strikes and raw street brawling. There is no waste in his motion, only intent.

King, whose back is carved with a massive black wings tattoo — spanning shoulder to hip, inked with precision and grief. A monument to what he was supposed to be, and what they tried to take.

King, who lives above a junkyard in an abandoned apartment, walls stained with oil and silence. A mattress on the floor. Taped-over mirrors. A punching bag swinging like a pendulum in a room that never changes.

King, who eats the same meals. Who trains every morning. Who fixes bikes and cars for cash and does side security at a bar where no one makes eye contact.

King, who doesn’t let anyone close. Who doesn’t speak unless it matters. Who makes every word feel like a loaded gun.

King, whose body is all survival but whose soul still flickers behind burned-out eyes. Who isn’t cruel — just disconnected. Emotionally shut down, because nothing inside him was ever allowed to grow.

King, who watches the door even when it’s locked. Who never sleeps through the night. Who wakes up mid-fight, fists clenched, breath caught in a memory that doesn’t belong to this world.

King, who carries phantom pain and names he doesn’t say out loud. Who remembers the screaming, the silence, the training rooms painted red.

You, who didn’t flinch when he walked in bloodied and silent. Who didn’t ask for explanations. Who didn’t treat him like a threat — or a myth.

You, who spoke to him gently. Who handed him a clean towel. Who called him by name like it wasn’t something stolen.

You, who kept showing up. Who never pried, never demanded. Who looked at him like he was human, not haunted.

He never thought he could want. Not anything real. Not softness. Not warmth. Not you.

He doesn’t know how to touch gently, but he learns. Slowly. With still hands and shallow breath. He learns to stay when everything in him says run.

He tries to keep you away. Puts up walls that don’t speak, closes doors that never truly lock. You find your way in anyway. And that’s what terrifies him most — not that you’ll leave. But that you’ll stay. And someone will find you. And someone will hurt you. And it will be because of him.

[akilleromen]

This is how I view Sanji and Zoro shippers. (I’ve seen the fics).



[norel-ravenclaw]

My One Piece Character Writing List // Other concepts for character lists. (Some will be by groups, others will get sections written for each individual character. Not spoiler free!)

Primary Set:

Shanks - Ace - Smoker - Law - Vivi - Luffy - Zoro - Nami - Sanji - Usopp - Robin - Franky - Corazon - Marco - Aokiji Kuzan - Sabo

Villains Set:

Mihawk - Sir Crocodile - Buggy - Katakuri - Doflamingo - King/Alber - Eustass Kid - Killer - Rob Lucci - Basil Hawkins - Kalifa (CP9) - Bartolomeo - Caesar - Sakazuki Akainu - Kizaru Borsalino - Kuro of the Black Cat Pirates - Eneru God of Lightning

Secondary Set:

Koby - Reiju Vinsmoke - Ben Beckman - Iceberg - X Drake - Perona - Brook - Jinbe - Viola of Dressrossa - Fujitora Issho (blind admiral) - Madam Shyarly - Silvers Rayleigh - Kuma - Okiku of Wano - Whitebeard - Hongo, Dr. of the Red Hair Pirates

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ideas:

- Reader gets amnesia and your lover has to get you back ((add Kaya))

- Improper use of Devil Fruit * Powers ((Sanji - if he had them)) * Haki * Tools

- Magic makes you think they’re your lover for a day/week. Or them towards you.

- AUs -> • Prince(ss) reader • Masked vigilante reader • Gods AU

- Arranged marriage (and variations) / Fake relationship

- Nympho reader

- Tracing tattoos and scars ((Nojiko))

- Where to kiss them to make them melt

- Comfort sex

- Stranded together

- Who fits into the Dark Indulgence series - kidnapper, hero, on the run

- Realities of devil fruits ((Robin bruises))

- Sexiest scenes of each character ((KID GENTLY RUNNING HIS FINGERS OVER HIS SHIP, funny Lucci talking to himself teasing))

- Pic posts with gowns or rings to match them. Aesthetic boards? ((add Chopper, Rebecca, Uta, Yamato, Kyros, Big Mom, Kaido, Roger))

[rea-grimm]

Masterlist One Piece

............. Zoro ............. Luffy ............ Sanji ..........

................ Ace .................. Law ............... Kid ..........

... Mihawk ...... Shanks ...... Buggy ... Crocodile

Sabo

Sleep Protector

Fire Gryphon Sabo

Alber/King of the Wildfire

King of the underworld

Marco

Phoenix Harpy

Sleep Protector

Rob Lucci

Rob Lucci x Shapeshifter Reader

Art

Dragon riders Masterlist

Sleep Protector Masterlist

A.I. Bots - character.ai

[tscamver]

trauma

[whateverthese2havetournament]

2024 Roster Announcement

Alright, let's get this show on the road.

You all gave me plenty to work with, and though time has passed, I haven't forgotten. I have utilized what I believe to be an unbiased system of sorting relevant entries to the top, and I have a list of 32 and 16 for both the "Men's Division" and "Women's Division".

The Men's Division, in no particular order:

Archie and Maxie, Pokemon

Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck, Looney Tunes

Professor Pierre Aronnax and Captain Nemo, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

Sicard and Emmanilain, Final Fantasy XIV

Alber Wesker and Chris Redfield, Resident Evil

Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid, Criminal Minds

Suguru Geto and Satorou Gojo, Jujutsu Kaisen

Luffy and Zoro, One Piece

Kotetsu T. "Wild Tiger" Kaburagi and Barnaby "Bunny" Brooks Jr., Tiger and Bunny

Yoichi & Kudou, My Hero Academia

Elim Garak and Julian Bashir, Star Trek

Dale Cooper and Harry S. Truman, Twin Peaks

Naruto Uzumaki and Sasuke Uchiha

Composer and Orpheus, Identity V

Eddie Brock and his Symbiote, Venom

Cheng Xiaoshi and Lu Guang, Link Click

Keith and Lance, Voltron

Optimus Prime and Megatron, Transformers

Newt Geiszler and Hermann Gottleib, Pacific Rim

Kim Dokja & Yoo Joonghyuk, Omniscient Reader

Sam and Max

Officer Bailey and That Other Guard, Ghost Trick

Steven Stone and Wallace, Pokemon

Medic and Heavy, Team Fortress 2

Basil and Sunny, OMORI

Ike and Soren, Fire Emblem Path of Radiance

Professor X and Magneto, X-Men

Mercutio and Benvolio, Shakespeare

Stanley and the Narrator, The Stanley Parable

Junkrat and Roadhog, Overwatch

Merlin and Arthur, Merlin

Jessie and James, Pokemon

And the Women's

Madoka Kaname and Akemi Homura, Madoka Magica

Azula, Mai and Ty Lee, Avatar: The Last Airbender

Alice 'Daisy' Tonner and Basira Hussain, The Magnus Archives

Sable Ward and Mikaela Reid, Dead by Daylight

Mina Harker née Murray and Lucy Westenra, Dracula

Xena and Gabrielle, Xena: Warrior Princess

Falin Touden and Marcille Donato, Delicious in Dungeon

Emma Swan and Regina Mills, Once Upon a Time

Ruby Rose and Penny Polendina, RWBY

Milly Thompson and Meryl Stryfe, Trigun

Daphne Blake and Velma Dinkley, Scooby Doo

Vriska Serket and Terezi Pyrope, Homestuck

Kimura Seiko and Andoh Ruruka, Danganronpa 3

Lucia and Elincia, Fire Emblem Path of Radiance

Yuri and Natuski, Doki Doki Literature Club

Lyn and Florina, Fire Emblem the Blazing Blade

Wowie, what an all-star cast! Videogames, comics, movies, anime, cartoons, classic literature, and more.

So, I'm going to aim to get the ball rolling, let's say October 14th. I'll start with Men's Round 1, then the following week do Women's Round 1, and so on. I will post the actual brackets a bit closer to that date.

In the meantime! If anyone would like to submit any propaganda, images, complaints, objections, or what have you, the ask box will remain open. I know last time had a pretty rocky start, but I am wise for the experience, and I think this time 'round will be even better.