overtaken-stream

[overtaken-stream]

SOO GOOOD OH MY😍😍😍 THEY'RE SO ADORABLE

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 days 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.

[overtaken-stream]

Can we mayhaps have domestic / fatherhood hcs for Ashito, Akutsu, and Fukuda ❤️

An overly affectionate father to one energetic boy.

Fukuda, as a coach, introduced football to his son quite early in life. If his son decides to join Esperion, he’ll treat him just like any other player on the team. But off the field? That’s a different story.

He and his son share a great relationship— one where the son feels comfortable enough to confide in him, even about topics he isn’t ready or willing to discuss with you. Fukuda’s light-hearted demeanor plays a huge role in their bond, as his son relies heavily on his expressions before and during their conversations. Knowing when to be serious and when to crack a joke is one of Fukuda’s greatest strengths. He lives for the shared laughter between you and his son.

Like any parent, he gets angry when his son behaves unruly, rude, or unnecessarily dismissive. You’re not a fan of disciplining— and truth be told, neither is he— but the responsibility usually falls on him. Your son is unusually unsettled each time, because Fukuda’s anger isn’t loud or harsh. Instead, the frustration shows in his lips, his words, his body language, and his eyes— not in his tone or volume. It’s intimidating not only to his own child but to other kids as well. It’s all too effective.

Fukuda tries to be present for every milestone in his son’s life. However, his career often holds him back, causing him to miss some of his child’s most important moments— ever since infancy, and always unwillingly. His heart sinks every time he remembers, guilt rising like a lump in his throat. In this aspect of fatherhood, he carries deep disappointment in himself.

His mother plays a big role in his life, so most family advice comes from her—and sometimes Hana.

Nozomi is your child’s favorite uncle to hang out with; his silent and strict demeanor is a breath of fresh air, full of quiet determination. Like father, like son.

And you can bet your son is practically chained at the hip to Shiba’s children.

There was—and will never be— a match that makes him as antsy as when his daughter was born. She grew up to become a mini version of him, much more naive and oblivious to her surroundings than he ever was at her age. He's pround of that accomplishment.

The path to fatherhood has been a difficult one for Akutsu. His insecurity about it weighs heavily on him, and in some twisted way, he views this anxiety as shameful. Yet that same heavy anxiety drives him to become better than he was before. This— family— is a commitment, and a lifelong one at that.

He encourages his daughter in everything, still wearing the calm, still expression he’s known for, even when his intentions are tender and full of love. It’s a common sight to see him lying on his back on the couch while his daughter massages his face, small hands softly slapping his cheeks as she giggles.

She’s his biggest fan, shaking like a leaf every time her father’s face appears on the TV screen. It doesn’t matter that he’s right there playing with her— seeing him on TV in that Senior Esperion shirt sparks an excitement like no other.

This naturally develops into obvious favoritism toward your daughter—which doesn’t really upset you. How could you be upset when your child, born from both of your love, clearly adores and loves her father? Still, it can get a little annoying when she refuses to let you hand-feed her and insists that only Akutsu can do it. The same goes for baths and restroom breaks— “Otou-san! Otou-san!” she calls out, ignoring your help even with her kindergarten projects. Of course, Akutsu never keeps her waiting for long.

They look so cute together— her small form curled up on his lap, her colorful dress contrasting with his dark wardrobe, adorable as ever. He patiently helps her use her chopsticks.

He’s a moody father, but one very much loved by his only child.

Having grown up with an older brother, Ashito always planned to have two children—and he didn’t disappoint.

Ashito has two lovely girls. The younger one inherited beautiful straight hair that reminds him of their mother, while the older one has his thick curls. Both share their mother’s dark black hair and his warm brown eyes. The rest of their traits, of course, come from you.

Though both girls are spoiled, they’re far from rotten. Ashito is determined to raise them with the respect he wished he’d had as a teenager. Despite his demanding career as a professional footballer, he makes it a point to be fully present in their lives.

He doesn’t have a favorite—and he makes that clear through his actions. He gives his love equally, knowing how important it is that both of his daughters feel seen, heard, and adored. Whether it’s practicing penalty kicks with one or playing dress-up tea parties with the other, Ashito makes sure to divide his time and attention evenly, never letting either feel left behind.

He’s the dad who turns their backyard into a mini training ground, patiently teaching them to dribble and kick— even if it means multiple missed shots and giggles. On rainy days, he’s the one building blanket forts and acting out silly stories that have the girls laughing until their cheeks hurt. When homework time comes, he’s there with a calm voice and a steady hand, helping solve math problems or listening to their dreams and worries, even if he did have bad grades.

Bedtime is sacred— Ashito never misses the chance to tuck them in, brushing strands away from their foreheads and whispering how proud he is. He’s the dad who lets them sneak into his room for midnight cuddles, reminding them that no matter how busy life gets, they’re his whole world.

His discipline on the field translates into patience and guidance at home, teaching his daughters the value of hard work, humility, and kindness— all wrapped up in endless hugs and bedtime kisses.

He doesn't have a favorite and makes a point of giving his love equally to both.

[overtaken-stream]

I have some drawings of King without the mask but they need more time in the oven. I can't fuck up a beautiful man like that.

[overtaken-stream]

Can you do ashito dating / romantic headcanons. Can you also include how soccer impacts their relationship

Ashito Aoi Dating Headcanons

Thank you, Anon, for giving me so many Ao Ashi requests💙

It took Ashito a while to realize your feelings for him. His oblivious nature proved to be quite an obstacle for anyone who wished to be his partner. You knew well that football occupied more than half his mind, so it didn’t come as a surprise.

You might’ve fallen first, but he fell harder as the years passed. Still, before your relationship reached that point—back when you were still just friends—you had to deal with a lot of “quarrels” about football. Most of them involved you commenting on his obsessive behavior, and Ashito defending his actions. He had always struggled with this ever since you were kids—pushing you or anyone else away days before a match, like he was drowning in anticipation. The issue only became more evident after he entered Esperion. His passion for his interests always seemed to hurt someone in subtle ways. That’s why you always felt anxious, your feelings following his excitement. However, his way of handling those situations has definitely improved since Funabashi. You don’t exactly know what went down—you weren’t there to see it—but you appreciate it all the same. Ashito’s excitement has felt much healthier ever since.

Dating Ashito would be really sweet. Just like his playstyle, he’s there when you need him most—supporting you, patting your back, or even giving you a pep talk. (He’s making up for all the mistakes he made while you spent your time chasing after him. Not that you need to know that.) His encouragement ranges from surprisingly insightful life advice you’d never expect from someone like him to downright obnoxious naïveté. It’s mind-blowing how he can say something genuinely helpful while stuffing his face with food, magical even.

Ashito gets flustered easily. it doesn't matter how long you've been together. The only effectionate gestures he got used to are: holding your hands & you kissing his cheek. It's especially funny if you do the mentioned (and more intimate gestures) in public. His face gets hot, hands clummy as his comicly wide eyes glance down at you for a moment, cheeks flaming pink. "You could've warned me first..."

It's unlike him to be so shy. Maybe that's why you can't stop doing it.

In private, however? It's a completely different story. Ashito can't keep his hands to himself. He always has to be touching you, patting your cheeks, braiding your hair, rubbing your thighs, or your shoulders, putting his head on your lap, and many more.

Almost like a cat or an overly excited dog.

Ashito is a foodie. He loves food, and the older he gets, the more he's drawn to cooking—not as much as football, but a fair amount. He eventually becomes pretty good at it, using you as his guinea pig to test the flavors he’s experimenting with, all while wearing an innocent grin, impatient to hear your feedback. Somewhere along the way, cooking becomes his love language— something he does for you, his mom, his brother, his teammates, or anyone else. But no one ever compares to the euphoria he experiences when you bat your pretty lashes and compliment him with words similar to honey, dripping out of your mouth.

Ashito is not at all possessive. He knows you inside and out—your quirks, your silences, the way you shift your weight when you're hiding something, the way your eyes light up when you're passionate. He trusts you with his life, not because he has to, but because it feels as natural as breathing. If he could, he’d offer you his beating heart— no hesitation— just to let you feel, even for a second, how deeply he loves you. The only thing stopping him is the very human need to survive. But in his own way, every look, every word of encouragement, every quiet moment he spends with you, is a piece of that heart freely given.

He only ever looks your way. Even after he turns pro, even with fans chanting his name and reporters vying for his attention, his eyes never wander. The spotlight, the flashing cameras, the pretty interviewers with perfect smiles—it all fades into background noise the moment he sees you. He barely hears their questions, barely registers the chaos around him, because you’re standing just a few steps away. And in that moment, nothing else matters. Not the fame, not the team— just you, always you and your combined future.

Ashito is never stingy with his money. He’s not flashy or careless either—he just doesn’t see the point in holding back when it comes to the people he loves. The second you two move into your own place together, he might as well hand you his salary card, no questions asked. “Just take it,” he’d say with that boyish grin, like trusting you with his finances is the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t care about numbers or budgets as long as you're happy and the fridge is stocked. To him, it’s not about money—it’s about building a life with you, and he’s all in.

Horrible sleeper. He doesn't just turn underneath the blankets. He kicks. Hard. So you better brace yourself for some unintentional tackles because good luck getting away from a pro athlete that has a nasty habit of grabbing and not letting go in his sleep.

[overtaken-stream]

I love this page, especially the blue that pronounces the characters. However, Ashito's hair is the best part of this for me 🩵

Ao ashi chapter 201 coloring | they're laughing...

DON’T REPOST | NO ROBAR | DON’T STEAL

Art made by yugo kobayashi, coloring made by me

Tw: Ryo_Zeroswim

Ig: Ryo_Zeroswim

[overtaken-stream]

I haven't really gotten to akutsu yet, when does his character start developing? He interests me 😍

His development is slow, but i'd say that switch happens after the funabashi match/even before that. HOWEVER, his character development pops off during/after the Aomori, all the way up to Barcelona match(current arc)

Although if you're reading the manga very carefully, you can see how he gradually changed way earlier😏

[overtaken-stream]

I was waiting until requests open but I got the greenlight from you. Please, mayhaps anything for akutsu. Maybe romance hcs?

Akutsu Nagisa Romance Headcanons

I had so much fun with this oml, i love LOVE him so much, peak man peak character peak peak peak <3

It is no secret that Akutsu's focused on football and his achievements regarding the sport. That's why it takes a lot of time for him to catch feelings for somebody and an even longer time for him to do something about it. He wouldn't want any distractions from his goal because at the end of the day, Akutsu has always been alone with nothing but football by his side.

The only way I can see him entering a relationship kinda early (in his first year) is with childhood friends to lovers troupe, and even then, his main focus is still on football, in his first year he had to prove to everyone that he was worthy of playing in Esperion, so he often practiced on the field or dissected his teammate's plays in his dorm, that's why I believe that at that time period he would unintentionally distance himself. If you live far away, it would be very hard to meet each other— which works in Akutsu's favor. However, he doesn't forget about you. Even though his texts may be dry, oftentimes, it's Akutsu who messages you first, Informing you of the match's result or just keeping you posted about his life while asking about yours.

If you meet him during his first year as a student, expect a real-life slow burn that lasts for years. I'm talking about curious glances that linger a second too long on both sides, being the only form of acknowledgment for the entire first year. Your relationship doesn’t begin until the third year, with a very chill confession— him asking you out on a date to a place he knows you'll like (bakery, a restaurant, picnic at the park, he isn't picky if you're not).

Love— or a relationship, is not meant to change/fix someone into a whole other human, it's supposed to bring out the better side of both partners. If he feels comfortable around you, the sient changes can be felt by those around him. It's overly subtle and not at all notable, but those who know him are quick to catch on.

He’s not a romantic individual, and he’s definitely not the biggest fan of public displays of affection—but he never stops you from being yourself. Of course, that doesn’t mean he lets you do whatever you want. If your teasing crosses a line or your affection becomes a bit too theatrical in public, he'll give you a quiet look or a subtle, muttered “enough.” Not cold, not harsh—just firm in that way he always is. But in private? That’s where the walls lower, if only slightly. That’s where you get the rare, quiet affection: a steady hand on your back, the way he says your name a little softer, or the small smirk he tries to hide when you make him laugh. It's not grand, but it's real—and it’s him.

Akutsu values his privacy—fiercely. The longer he can keep you hidden from extras, the better. He tries, of course, but it doesn’t take long for him to slip up. Kuribayashi is the first to find out, completely by accident, stumbling upon the two of you sitting side-by-side at an izakaya, quietly sharing a meal. No PDA, nothing suspicious—just proximity that’s a little too natural. Kuribayashi doesn’t say anything at first, just raises an eyebrow, but the look on Akutsu’s face is enough to confirm everything.

I'd like to imagine that at the start of your relationship, Akutsu was stiff—painfully awkward with physical affection beyond simple hand-holding. Not cold, just unsure. The kind of guy who would overthink where to place his hand on your shoulder, or freeze up the second you leaned against him, like his brain short-circuited. It's not uncomfort, it's the total opposite, because never did he thought that he'd be someone's romantic partner, or that someone would chose him to settle with. That hesitation never quite disappeared. Even as the years pass, and the relationship matures, that little quirk follows him into adulthood. The difference now is that he likes it—quiet, intimate touch. And while he still occasionally freezes when you surprise him with a hug or press a kiss behind his ear, there’s this unmistakable softness to him afterward. It’s almost adorable, the way he tries to play it cool when he’s clearly melting from the love.

Unlike his younger self in first year, the older Akutsu becomes a man of few words. He lets his actions speak for him. He’s not one for grand declarations or flowery language—but you never doubt how he feels. It’s in the way he massages your feet while the two of you lounge on the sofa, eyes on the TV, half-watching something neither of you are really paying attention to, just enjoying the silence of a shared day off. It’s in the way he’ll go out of his way to pick up that dessert you’ve been into lately, or bring home a meal you casually mentioned in passing, he doesn't need words to hold your waist in the bed, fingers gingerly petting the skin under him, keeping you awake with the ticklish feeling.

He doesn’t say, "I love you." Not often, anyway. But when he hands you your favorite drink without a word, or nudges your leg under the table just to make sure you're still there, you hear it loud and clear.

His upbringing turned him into a bit of a clean freak—someone who finds comfort in routine and order. He often insists on doing the chores around the house, even when it's technically your turn. Not because he doesn’t trust you, or thinks you can’t do it, but because somewhere along the line, cleaning became something calming for him. A ritual. A way to steady himself when everything else, especially his career, feels like it's slipping through his fingers. You’ve offered to help, tried joining him in the middle of it more than once, but you quickly learn—this is his space. His quiet. He doesn’t push you away, but you can tell: he’s most at peace when he’s scrubbing counters in silence, sleeves rolled up, mind somewhere distant. And in those moments, oddly enough, he looks content. Especially when he's cleaning beside you— Akutsu is on cloud nine.

He only has eyes for you. At the beginning of the relationship, though, he’s cautious— always. You’d never catch him stealing glances now and then, since he makes sure he's not looking never for too long. He’d turn away quickly, like staring too long might give something away, like someone might notice and start asking questions he’s not ready to answer. He likes you— more than he knows how to admit— but he doesn’t want the whole world to know just yet.

That logic, however, begins to shift.

Because one day, his sharp, observant eyes catch you staring at him. And instead of looking back or calling you out, he does something entirely unexpected: he pretends not to notice. Keeps his posture relaxed, his gaze fixed ahead— but something about the slight curve at the corner of his mouth gives him away. He knows. And he likes it. From that point on, he never minds being watched—by you, at least. It's like your eyes on him become a quiet reassurance, and he makes no effort to hide the way he carries himself a little differently when he knows you’re looking.

The only exception is football. When he’s on the field, everything else fades—his vision narrows, his focus razor-sharp. In those moments, not even you can distract him. His world compresses into movement, strategy, the ball at his feet and the pulse of the game in his veins. He doesn't glance at the sidelines, doesn't search the stands. It’s not personal—it’s just who he is when he plays.

But during halftime, when the adrenaline settles just enough and he’s catching his breath, that’s when he looks. Just once. He finds you in the crowd, his eyes scanning instinctively until they land on you. He never waves, never smiles, but there's something in that brief glance— like a tether, like he's silently saying "You’re here. I see you." And then he’s gone again, swallowed back up by the game. But that flicker of recognition lingers, warming you from the inside out.

Although later, when you two have been with each other for more than a couple of years, he becomes too careless in his stares, a shameless man— he is, staring at your body like a starved man who had never seen another of its kind. So what that you call him out on it? You do the same.

His loyalty runs deep, unshakable. Once he's yours, he’s only yours. No wandering eyes, no mixed signals. He doesn't need to prove it with big declarations; it shows in everything he does. In how he speaks about you— rarely, but with reverence. In how he turns down attention from others without hesitation. In how, no matter where he is, it’s you he thinks about when the noise dies down.

And though he’s never been one for public affection, there’s one thing he can’t resist— you, kissing him. The second your warm lips meet his, it’s over. That contact pulls him out of his own head like nothing else. Like a drug, like air after suffocating. It doesn’t matter if it’s behind closed doors or in a quiet corner of a nearly empty street— if you kiss him, he lets it happen. He wants it to happen. The taste of you is his undoing, every single time. And no matter how composed he tries to stay, no matter how much he avoids attention, you’re the one indulgence he’ll never deny himself.

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Do you take nsfw requests for slam dunk or aoashi? Or do characters have to have a Canon timeskip

i wirte for both, however time skip would be better since not all characters are of age in Canon

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Have you watched daiya no ace?

Not yet, though I've been wanting to for a while now

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And for ashito too?

Yep!! I write for all characters from Ao ashi

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Ootomo and Asari beef is so enjoyable to watch

LOOK AT MY BABIES PARTYING TOGETHER!!!

OTOMO’S SHIRT GET UP IS HILARIOUS!

Little kuroda is so cute tooo

Bonus:

Obviously takeshima said something about togashi being a party pooper or so, and that hurt togashi’s ego so of course he wouldn’t prove him right. Love how tachibana is the mediator here

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I'm so geeked for aoashi! It's so underrated 😭

ME TOO PLEASE I BEG SOMEONE TO REQUEST SOMETHING ANYTHING UGH IM SO THIRSTY FOR CONTENT

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ABOUT TIME

AO ASHI - Season 2 Officially Announced for 2026!

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AO ASHI ANIME SEASON 2 CONFIRMED‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

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I love your theme

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I lied im only gonna post more recent drawings

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hello! i hope you’re having a great day, i was just going to generally ask for a fluff fic of sakuragi since he’s my absolute favorite ever. Honestly there’s no specific plot i’m asking just a sakuragi fic and it’s okay if you can’t do it!! take your time have an amazing day ^_^

Not the Last Time

Sakuragi Hanamichi x GN!Reader

You can not convince me that he isn't the cutest dork in Slam Dunk. I hope you enjoy this and have a great day, too! ^_^

Warning: kiss 💋

Hanamichi had never been in a girl’s room before. He’d never even imagined being in a relationship where he’d get to step inside her house—let alone, her safe haven, filled with every trinket and treasure she held dear. Yet here he was, his black socks pressed against the floor. Does this mean you like him, too?

—Wait, what was he thinking? Of course you did! You’d been dating for two solid months and three days.

He sits on your bed—your bed, the one you sleep in every night—legs now crossed, back straight against the headboard as you settle comfortably in front of him. Hanamichi feels his cheeks ignite as you bravely stare into his irises. He fights the urge to avoid your gaze and loses.

Your stiff posture—mirroring his—melts at the sight of his obvious shyness, shoulders shaking with laughter that fills his ears. The sound sends his heart fluttering against his ribs, wild as a caged bird, beating wings that only a true love’s kiss could still. Kiss—

Kiss.

If Hanamichi’s face was pink before, it’s crimson now—scorching under the heat of your laughter as you glance up at him, breathless and grinning at his cost.

"You're so adorable, Hanamichi-kun."

The way his name curls around your lips—soft between breaths—sends a jolt through him, scratching at some desperate, hidden part of his mind. His chest tightens; his fingers twitch against the bedsheets. Outside, he’s a statue-still as one can be. Inside? A wildfire. If he didn't know any better, he'd say he's having a fever. Then comes the honorific, harsh on your tongue and completely unfit. It acts as cold water to cool the tall teen down. A pathetic whimper, slips from his mouth.

He'll make sure you only call him by his name after this.

"You ready?" You ask.

A hum of agreement resounds throughout the room. He knows this, knows how he should move, and what angle to lean in, but it's different in practice because the movies didn't carry the weight of reality, they didn't feel the tension in the air that Hanamichi's currently experiencing or the emotions going through his mind.

He watches you close your eyes, hands clenching your blanket below as you stay rooted, waiting for him and Hanamichi— he can hear his heartbeat in his ears, banging against his ribcage and loudly making his nervousness known to the world. He has a tiny suspicion that you notice it, too. He's thankful you don't point it out. Otherwise, he might pass away on the spot.

Apparently, he takes too long since you're the first to lean forward. Hanamichi's shoulders freeze up as your lips lightly grace his closed ones, and he completely squeezes his eyes shut once you fully lay your warmth onto him, similar to two puzzle pieces that are cut perfectly to fit one another, completing him, he realizes that Hanamichi has been walking half-a-man his whole life. Hanamichi takes in the much needed oxygen while your noses touch, your warm breath flowing pleasantly against his face. Sakuragi loosens the grip on his sweatpants. It's nothing explicit and not like he expected it to be!

His cheeks are still warm as the chaste kiss ends, all too short for his liking.

He only opens his eyes when you pull away from him, smiling up at his face like you didn't make the tingling sensation under his skin that much more prominent.

"How does it feel?" You ask, voice shaky and airy, face almost the same shade of red as him. It's comforting to know that you're not judging, just asking— it soothes his tense form, wills him into a state of relaxation and satisfaction.

Hanamichi can get used to this.

"Like heaven." He answers, hand coming up to rub his flushed neck. Can you even distinguish where his neck ends and hair starts?

You giggle at his words, but it doesn't last long. However, the comfortable silence doesn't stay for long either, because the next time both of your eyes lock—

"Wanna do it again?" You say, and he can only nod up and down in a heartbeat.