#jaeger-21

[ohayopoko]

BITCH MY FUCKIN HEART

[neellscapsule]

My Heart — Part Nine . . . The End.

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly.

word count | 8k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13. conner looks 22 as well.

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942 @lilyalone @aixaingela @lettucel0ver @time-shardz @pix-stuff @galaxypurplerose @cupid73 @theproblemisthattimnotfictional @vanessa-boo @timebomb1101 @chemicalwindexbottle @chiizuluvr @ihavenomuse @mat5u0 @thismessyshe @lovebug-apple @myjumper @angwlart @esposadomd @nisarelle @mrmacwaffles @mazixxss @ememgl @naomi-xxi @bbmgirll @ash0-0ley @rowan-no-rizzz @hearts4mica @sillyheartmoonnyx @crumbs-and-covers @nininehaaa @ironsaladwitch @c4xcocoa @keyllsbk @welpthisisboring @redkarmakai @yuyuzi-ling @91-kya @mat5u0 @nymphzy0 @jeshomie @keysmashstuff @imsomniaccorner @rowan-no-rizzz @xoxoangellll @oliviaewl @dandelion-delusion @wendee-go @funtimekoda14 @serendippindots @tweetybomb @wejwjjwe @hikary-jaeger @thatbitchanna27 @daimond6166

previous.

You return to New York with a retinue at your back—a parade of shadows you didn’t expect to follow you this far. It’s supposed to be your space, your life, your carefully constructed distance, but now it feels like the Wayne family is pouring through the cracks you didn’t realize you’d left open.

Your family is here.

Bruce had come, all sharp lines and heavier silences than you remembered. Dick had smiled too wide, tried too hard to fill every room with light, masking the shadows that lived under his eyes. Jason had hovered, stubborn and protective, and Tim… well, Tim still looked at you like you’d committed treason by breathing the same air as his best friend. Barbara, Cass, Duke, Steph—they’d all been there, crowding your doorstep, pushing inside, unraveling your sanctuary with the sheer force of their presence.

And Damian…

Damian had declared—publicly, firmly—that he was staying. His room, his bed, his claim. You hadn’t even tried to argue. Your apartment wasn’t exactly sprawling, but he was small enough to wedge himself into your world without breaking too much of it. And maybe—maybe—a part of you didn’t hate the idea.

The residence feels different now.

It’s still yours—the same chipped paint on the edges of the window frames, the same haphazard collection of canvases stacked against the walls, the same smell of turpentine and coffee and the faintest trace of jasmine from the old diffuser a friend brought you months ago—but it isn’t quiet anymore. Not entirely.

But now, for the first time since you landed back in New York, you’re alone.

It feels wrong.

The studio is quiet. The soft hum of the radiator rattling through the old pipes, the faint noise of cars several stories down, but no voices, no questions, no lingering, overbearing gaze pressing into your spine.

Your hands shake a little when you set the canvas upright.

You paint. You don’t think—you never think when it’s like this. You drag the colors across the surface with sharp, desperate movements. 

One.

The brush moves almost without your conscious input. Long, messy strokes. Anger simmering beneath your skin, spilling onto the canvas in shades of red and gray. The lines are harsh, uneven, frayed at the edges. It looks like tension incarnate.

Two.

Blues now. Icy, muted. The shape of absence. The shape of your father’s empty chair at every school event. The shadow of missed calls. The echo of unopened letters. The unsent postcards you used to keep in a drawer, waiting for a reply that never came.

Three.

The colors shift. Something warmer. The brush slows. Your breathing evens out, just a little. It’s strange — your chest still aches, but the anger, the twisting, bitter knot, starts unraveling. Because they’re here. Finally. Because after all the years of feeling like a forgotten afterthought in a mansion of legends, they showed up.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

Four.

You’re not sure what you’re painting anymore. A house? A cage? Maybe both. The walls are crooked, the windows sealed. There’s no door.

Five.

You taste salt. You don’t remember crying. It’s just there now, the tears slipping down your chin, your mouth pressed in a line so tight you think it might splinter. The colors bleed into each other. Your hands shake. You keep going.

And by the sixth—you break.

Your fingers slip from the brush. You stagger back, chest heaving, the edges of the room blurring faintly.

Water. You need water.

The sink’s old, the faucet creaking as you twist it on, but the water’s cold and biting against your wrists. You lean on the counter, palms flat, breathing hard. The mirror above the sink reflects your face: flushed, tired, eyes wide and lost in a way that shouldn’t belong to you—not anymore. Not after everything.

But it’s there. It’s still there.

You stare at yourself like you’re a stranger. Maybe you are.

It’s… suffocating, in a way. The weight of them. The knowledge that they’re finally here, finally orbiting your world the way you’ve begged—screamed, cried—for them to do for years. You’ve sent invitations. Letters. Paintings, poems, melodies scribbled into the margins of postcards. You’ve watched the mailbox stay empty. You’ve watched birthdays and openings and every quiet milestone pass with nothing but silence from Gotham.

And now? Now they crowd you. They stake claims. They act like they belong here, as if they never missed a single moment.

You grip the counter, knuckles pale. Your vision prickles at the edges.

It feels like drowning in syrup. Sweet, warm, sticky nostalgia choking your lungs. You’ve spent so long angry—so long building walls and spitting venom through cracked teeth—that you don’t know how to breathe with the weight of their love pressing into your ribs.

They love you. In their twisted, broken way. It doesn’t erase the neglect. It doesn’t fill the years of absence. But it’s there. Tangled in Jason’s scowls, in Dick’s forced brightness, in Damian’s possessive cling, in Bruce’s silence.

You’ve finally gotten what you wanted. And you don’t know what the hell to do with it.

You close your eyes, exhaling through your nose, shoulders tight. The studio smells like paint thinner and frustration. You want to rage—to rip the canvas apart, to shout, to throw every brush across the room—but you don’t. You can’t.

You’ve mastered the art of being quiet, of painting your grief into soft colors and wide-eyed portraits. You don’t know how to scream anymore. You barely know how to breathe.

The water runs until it goes cold.

You dry your hands.

You look at the sixth painting.

And you wonder—bitter, hopeful, exhausted—if any of this will ever be enough.

“Is this what you wanted?” you whisper to no one, voice cracking, raw.

Because it is. And it isn’t.

It feels like finally touching the sun, only to blister your skin in the process.

The anger, the sadness, the strange, hollow fullness of it all churns inside you like a storm that doesn’t know where to settle. You’ve dreamt of this — having them here, the weight of their presence anchoring you — and now that you do, the reality feels jagged. Messy. Complicated.

Your family is here.

You should feel joy, shouldn’t you? Shouldn’t you be grateful? Shouldn’t this be the moment where everything falls into place, where the gnawing ache finally quiets?

But it isn’t.

Instead, it’s like swallowing glass.

A knock rattles the door. You freeze, shoulders tensing, scrubbing your face quickly.

Damian’s voice filters through, flat and unimpressed. “You’ve been in there for two hours.”

You blink. Two hours? Already?

“I’m fine,” you call back, voice rough.

There’s a pause. Then, quieter: “We’re getting dinner. Father insists you come.”

Of course he does. Bruce Wayne, master of subtle emotional entrapment.

You drag a hand through your hair, sighing. “Give me five minutes.”

Silence. Then: “Five minutes.”

His footsteps retreat. You sit there for a moment longer, staring at the canvases. They stare back — ugly, beautiful, raw. A mirror to the mess inside you.

You think about all those years. The birthdays with no cake. The phone that never rang. The Gotham skyline, distant and untouchable.

And now? They’re here. Loud, chaotic, flawed — but here.

Your chest tightens. You want to scream. You want to laugh. You want to paint a thousand more canvases just to claw this feeling out of your ribs.

Instead, you stand.

You rinse your hands, wipe your face, and step out of the sanctuary.

The apartment feels different now. The faint murmur of your brothers’ voices. The weight of Bruce’s presence. The quiet hum of family — imperfect, complicated, but here.

It terrifies you.

And, for the first time in years, it makes you feel whole.

You don't go to them at first. It takes one glance at your father to know that the family is going to a luxurious place where you have to dress up, and while you don't consider yourself a fashion icon, you surely think a shirt with paint stains and loose pants are not something to go out in New York.

You linger by the door to your room, peeking out just enough to catch the full, inconvenient sight of Bruce Wayne in a black tailored suit, perfectly pressed shirt, silver cufflinks, and that unnerving, quiet authority he carries like a second skin. Behind him, Tim adjusts his tie in the mirror by the entryway, Jason is tugging on a dark jacket that looks expensive enough to pay your rent twice over, and Damian—well, Damian looks like he just walked out of a catalogue shoot for "dangerous rich heir with a sharp jawline and an even sharper stare."

This isn’t a pizza joint down the block. It isn’t one of your cheap, corner diners that smells like grease and broken dreams. No. This is a Wayne dinner. Which means luxury. Which means cameras outside. Which means you need to look presentable — or at least, presentable enough not to embarrass the empire of silence and meticulous appearances your father has spent a lifetime building.

You pull back into your room like you've been burned.

There’s no universe where you show up to that dinner looking like you’ve been trapped in a studio for three days straight—which, to be fair, you practically have been.

You glance down at your clothes: oversized paint-stained t-shirt that was probably black once, now an abstract explosion of reds, greens, and accidental smears of white acrylic. Your loose pants are comfortable, sure, but the splatters of cerulean blue on the thigh definitely ruin the "effortless New York chic" vibe.

“Absolutely not,” you mutter to yourself.

You sigh, stretching your arms overhead, feeling the stiffness of hours spent painting settle in your muscles. You deserve this. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself as you rummage through the wardrobe, pulling out the one outfit you packed that could pass as "luxurious dinner in the city" appropriate.

The dress is simple but elegant—a deep, dark shade of emerald that catches the light just right. It’s sleeveless, with a subtle neckline, the fabric smooth and cool against your skin. You pair it with black heels, a form of torture you endure for the sake of family theatrics, and a pearl necklace that glimmers faintly when it catches the light.

You glance at yourself in the mirror. For a moment, you don’t even recognize the person staring back—the subtle shimmer on your eyelids, the dark green fabric draped over your frame, the quiet strength in your posture. You look…pretty. Presentable. Maybe even like you belong in the Wayne family, if you squint.

But your eyes—they’re still yours. Still carrying the wary, restless gleam of someone not entirely sure where they fit in this puzzle.

Or where they will end.

The car downstairs is sleek, black, tinted. Of course it is. You pile in, shoulders pressed against unfamiliar silk and wool and expensive perfume. The city bleeds past the windows — glittering, sharp, alive. You watch it, nerves coiling under your ribs.

The restaurant is nestled in the Upper East Side, discreet and dripping in wealth. The kind of place with no visible menu, where reservations are whispered and last names open doors. You’ve passed by it before — always at a distance, head down, pretending it wasn’t built for people like you.

People like you, born in golden cribs.

Funny how quickly that changes.

The doorman greets your father by name. You’re ushered inside, through tall glass doors and into a space that looks more like an art exhibit than a restaurant. Minimalist, clean lines, soft gold lighting, tables spaced far apart. Privacy, wealth, exclusivity — it drips from the walls.

You’re hyper-aware of the eyes. Not many, but enough. People recognize Bruce Wayne. They recognize them. You feel them linger on you, curious, calculating.

The host — polished and professional — leads you to a private table near the window, the skyline glittering like broken diamonds beyond the glass.

Jason follows, tall and unfairly smug, his tie loosened just enough to piss off Bruce but still pass inspection. He bumps his shoulder lightly into yours as you fall into step beside him.

“Bet you never thought we’d all sit down for dinner without breaking something,” he mutters, smirking.

“I still don’t think that,” you shoot back.

Barbara, elegant and sharp, catches up on Jason’s other side, eyes sparkling behind her glasses. “It’s a fifty-fifty shot, honestly,” she says, adjusting her purse under her arm. “But hey, at least we’ll look good doing it.”

You settle into your chair, Damian to your right, Jason to your left. Dick, Barbara, Duke, Tim — all scattering around the table. Steph immediately starts rearranging silverware, much to Cass’s amusement.

Conversations spark around you — casual, easy. Dick is recounting some story about Blüdhaven. Tim and Steph bicker, Duke laughs. It should feel suffocating. And maybe it does, a little. But there’s a strange fullness, too.

“Are we… allowed to be here?” you ask under your breath, unable to stop yourself.

Jason snorts. “Allowed? Half the people in this room probably owe Bruce money.”

Damian glares at him. “We own this place.”

Steph raises her hand. “Translation: eat whatever you want. Bruce already paid for it.”

The menus arrive — sleek, heavy things with embossed gold lettering. The wine list alone is thicker than some of the novels on your bookshelf. You flip through it, searching for a wine sweet enough to dull your feelings. 

Jason leans into your ear. “They’ve got some ridiculous Wagyu dish that costs more than Dick’s first car.”

Dick raises his glass across the table, his cheeks flushed from laughter and wine. “Worth every penny of that car, by the way.”

Damian’s already calling over the sommelier with the confidence of a middle-aged divorcee.

“Are you going to order something you can’t pronounce?” Jason asks, his right arm extended to let his hand rest on your seat.

“I can pronounce it,” Damian snaps. “You just lack culture.”

Jason sips from his water glass like it’s liquor. “You think ketchup is spicy.”

Damian narrows his eyes. “I was eight.”

“You’re still eight.”

“I’m thirteen.”

“Exactly.”

You lean back, watching the argument spiral with a kind of morbid amusement. The way Damian squares his shoulders. The way Jason pokes just enough to rile him without getting kicked. It’s like watching a very sophisticated zoo exhibit. Tim glances over and grins. “Ten bucks says Damian tries to stab him with a steak knife before dessert.”

“Twenty says Jason lets him,” Duke mutters.

“I heard that,” Bruce says calmly. No one responds. Because he did.

The appetizers come out on white plates with intricate garnishes. There are things you recognize and things you’re pretty sure are just edible art. Cass pokes at a miniature beet flower with the tip of her fork. Steph sighs dramatically. “If I wanted to eat flowers, I’d go graze in Central Park.”

“It’s actually delicious,” Cass says, and you pause — not at the words, but at the softness of her voice. The way she nudges the plate toward you, encouraging. “Try it.”

You do. And it is good. Sweet and sharp and unexpectedly real.

Somewhere between the soup course and the main, Dick starts talking about a circus memory. About a winter night, frost in the air and sawdust in his lungs, and the way the lights looked from the trapeze. Everyone quiets to listen. Even Damian.

You watch your father across the table. His profile is clean, his jaw tense, but his eyes are soft. He’s not interrupting. He’s not checking his watch. He’s listening.

You remember being seven and crawling into his lap while Alfred read bedtime stories. You remember painting his nails with your glitter polish while he took a call. You remember birthday mornings where he made pancakes — badly — and let you eat as many as you wanted.

You remember before.

Before things got harder. Before Gotham swallowed everything soft. Before the mission became more important than the girl who used to beg him to braid her hair.

You shake the thought off. Focus on now.

Now, Bruce is nodding. Now, Jason is cracking a joke about elephants. Now, Cass is smiling at something Barbara murmured. Now, you are here.

The main course arrives in a flurry of waitstaff and cloche lids. Your duck is perfect. Crispy skin, delicate sauce. Jason steals a bite without asking.

“Hey—”

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was talking.”

“Exactly.”

You flick a piece of arugula at him. It lands in his lap. He looks offended, like you’ve just insulted his mother.

Bruce raises a brow. “Do I need to separate you two?”

Jason leans back. “Nah, she’ll behave. She knows I’m the favorite.”

You scoff. “Of who? The IRS?”

“Of Alfred. Duh.”

Everyone makes some kind of noise at that. Groans, laughs, one or two absolutely nots. You catch Duke giving you a commiserating nod. Across the table, Barbara’s smile is quiet but proud. Like she’s watching something finally click into place.

Dessert is a whole production. Gold-dusted mousse, handmade truffles, chocolate domes that melt when sauce is poured over them. Damian tries to pretend he’s too mature to enjoy it, but the way he devours his lavender macaron cake says otherwise. You and Steph share a lemon tart. Cass eats two éclairs and looks completely innocent about it.

The conversation shifts. From mission debriefs to movie nights. From patrol schedules to “Remember when Alfred caught Tim sleepwalking in full armor?”

Tim groans. “That only happened once.”

“Twice,” Dick corrects.

“Three times,” Bruce says, deadpan. Everyone stares.

He sips his espresso. “Alfred keeps notes.”

It shouldn’t work, all of this. All these jagged edges, all these broken pieces. You don’t fit perfectly. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But there’s space at the table. There’s warmth in the noise. There’s a hand on your chair, a smirk at your side, a bite of food shared over low laughter.

You glance out at the skyline. At Gotham stretched out in stars and shadows. At the glittering mess of it all.

Jason bumps your shoulder again. “You okay?”

You look at him. At all of them. At this ridiculous, chaotic, absurd family.

“Yeah,” you say. And mean it. “I’m okay.”

You are so not okay. 

You stare into the mirror, not recognizing your own eyes. They're wide. Haunted. Somewhere between panic and paralysis. You blink twice, trying to center yourself. Behind you, the muffled murmurs of the crowd seep through the greenroom walls like an eerie tide swelling against your spine.

Ms. Morley stands beside you, her clipboard hugged tightly to her chest like a life raft. Her perfectly ironed suit doesn’t wrinkle even as she leans in, trying not to break her usual mask of corporate calm. “You don’t have to be perfect,” she says softly, but with urgency, like she’s rehearsed this with other artists before you. “You just need to tell them the truth. Why you made this work. What it means to you.”

You inhale through your nose. Exhale through your mouth. Repeat. You try to picture the pieces out there, scattered through the gallery like memories cast in bronze and color. Some are towering metal sculptures that twist into impossible, aching forms. Others are soft pastel sketches on raw canvas, lines so light they look like they’re breathing. All of them yours.

Your name is on the walls. Your name is on the brochure. Your name is on everyone’s lips tonight. It terrifies you.

You glance at her face, that tired but unshakable expression she always wears when she’s protecting you from something — usually yourself. Her heels click closer on the concrete floor, and she exhales as if your nerves are contagious.

“Is it the speech? Or the crowd? Or the fact your entire goddamn family is in there like a royal tribunal?” she asks, folding her arms.

“Yes,” you say simply.

“Okay. Great. That narrows it down.”

Ms. Morley softens, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Hey. You’ve done the work. You bled on these canvases. You rebuilt that damn bust five times because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You—”

You look at her with red-rimmed eyes, but she doesn’t let you crumble.

“You did it anyway,” she finishes. “So tonight, you talk. Then you breathe.”

You nod.

Ms. Morley nods, stepping aside as the assistant with the earpiece gives her a thumbs-up from the door. She holds out the small notecard with your speech on it. You don’t take it.

“I’ve got it memorized,” you say, although your voice sounds suspiciously like a lie.

She smiles faintly. “That’s my terrified genius.”

Showtime.

The hallway to the stage is narrow, like the throat of something ancient and hungry. Every step echoes. You wish you could vanish into one of your paintings. That oil-slick sky in the corner piece, the one where the child floats on a sea of stars. That’s where you’d go. That’s where you’re safe.

But instead, you walk.

The gallery lights dim slightly, a signal. The soft instrumental music hushes. A spotlight blooms on the small, elevated stage tucked into the main hall. It’s intimate, all black velvet and steel, with one slender microphone at the center. The crowd hushes in an elegant ripple of silk and murmurs. Champagne flutes are lowered. Heads turn. All eyes fall on you.

You step into the light.

There are hundreds of them. Maybe more. Gotham’s elite, with their practiced poise and pearl necklaces. A few familiar faces from the art world—critics, curators, buyers. Journalists with pens poised. You even catch sight of Lucius Fox in the back, nodding encouragingly. And near the middle, arms crossed, sharply dressed, is Bruce Wayne himself, your father.

He doesn’t smile. He watches.

Beside him, Jason leans on the back wall, arms crossed, but he’s there, and if he didn't want to be, he wouldn't. Tim’s already recording. Damian’s fidgeting with something in his hands, probably a small blade. And Dick... Dick gives you the smallest thumbs-up imaginable. It’s not much, but it helps. They’re here. All of them. You didn’t even ask them to come.

And behind them, just at the edge of the crowd, hands clasped behind his back, is Alfred.

Your breath catches.

The old butler stands straight, like he always does. His eyes find yours through the haze and lights. You feel the weight of everything about to come out of your mouth, and that look—steady, proud, knowing—grounds you.

You step up to the mic.

Silence.

“Hi,” you begin, and your voice trembles. You clear your throat. “I… I’m not used to speaking like this. Not in front of so many people. Not about this.”

There’s a quiet chuckle in the crowd. You grip the sides of the podium tighter.

“I started working on this collection two years ago. At the time, I didn’t know it was a collection. I was just making pieces to survive. Some of you might know what that’s like. When things happen and you can’t process them through words, so you make something instead. You bleed it out in color or metal or ink.”

You pause, forcing your hands to loosen their grip.

“There are pieces in here that I hope no one ever fully understands. Because they’re not made to be understood. They’re made to be felt. They’re… moments. Snapshots of grief. Of joy. Of confusion. Of rage. Sometimes, of love. Not always the soft kind. I didn’t make these pieces to be pretty. I made them to be true. And truth isn’t always clean.”

A murmur. Someone near the front tilts their head.

“I didn’t grow up with a paintbrush in my hand,” you continue. “I wasn’t supposed to be an artist. I wasn’t supposed to be… anything, really. But life has a funny way of breaking you down until you have no choice but to rebuild yourself with whatever tools you’ve got.”

You find Bruce’s gaze again. He doesn’t flinch.

“I rebuilt with this. Every brushstroke is a piece of me I didn’t know I still had. Every sculpture is a scream I couldn’t say out loud. Every canvas holds a silence I had to sit with. You don’t need to know the stories behind each one. You might find your own in them. That’s the beauty of art. It transforms pain. It doesn't fix it, but it reshapes it into something survivable.”

You see someone wipe a tear in the back. You don’t let yourself follow their example.

“I want to thank my manager, Ms. Morley,” you say, forcing a smile in her direction. She beams like it’s lighting her from within. “She took a chance on me when all I had was a half-burned sketchbook and a stubborn refusal to give up.”

A laugh ripples through the audience. Ms. Morley shakes her head, pretending to scold you.

“And finally,” you say, voice lower now, almost a whisper. “I want to thank the man who taught me how to polish silver without leaving fingerprints. Who told me that tea must steep with patience. Who ironed my first suit for my first failed gallery showing. Who never once let me forget that grace is not weakness, and kindness is not naïve.”

You lock eyes with Alfred.

“He taught me that art doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful. And that silence, when offered with love, can speak louder than any applause.”

Alfred doesn’t move. But you see the smallest motion at the corner of his mouth. A twitch. A smile, just for you.

You inhale sharply and smile, stepping back.

“Thank you for coming. I hope… I hope you see something tonight that makes you feel less alone.”

Applause. First polite. Then full-bodied. The room swells with it.

You bow your head, retreating from the mic. Ms. Morley catches you by the arm the moment you step offstage.

“You did it,” she whispers.

“I didn’t cry,” you whisper back, almost laughing.

“Barely.”

The next hour passes in a golden blur. People approach. Ask questions. Compliment your work. Some ask about the price of certain pieces. You answer as best as you can, though you feel untethered, like you’re floating through the room on some thread of adrenaline and disbelief.

You walk past your sculpture titled Inheritance—a cold, jagged structure with warm lights blooming inside it like something trying to survive. You pass your triptych Shadowplay, a series of paintings in black and crimson, detailing a figure growing through anguish.

People keep talking. You nod, you smile, you breathe.

And then, when the crowd parts just right, you find yourself face-to-face with Alfred.

“Hey,” you say, softly.

He bows slightly. “You did well, Master Y/N.”

“Did I?”

He lifts his brow. “You moved the room. That is more than well.”

“I was scared.”

“Good. It means it mattered.”

You smile, sudden and unguarded.

“I made a piece for you,” you admit. “It’s not labeled. But it’s yours. It’s the one tucked into the corner. The small oil canvas. The window with the light coming through.”

He doesn’t react much. But he knows exactly which one you mean.

“I thought I recognized the wallpaper,” he murmurs.

You laugh, finally letting the sound out.

And for a moment, just a moment, the noise of the crowd fades. The gallery disappears. You’re not the artist with critics at your door. You’re not the speaker who survived the spotlight. You’re just you, standing with the man who taught you how to be.

And that—more than the applause, more than the art—is what finally, truly makes you okay.

Then, just like that, the rest of your world pours in. 

First is Dick, all bright smile and chest-high posture, practically beaming like he’s hosting you at the ball of the century.

“Birdie!” His voice is drowned in joy, but you catch every note. He sweeps you into a hug that cradles you against his chest, warm and protective. You laugh into his jacket.

“You were unbelievable,” he says. “Literally took my breath away.”

You pat his back. “You think so?”

He nods, eyes shining. “I’ve never been prouder.”

Then Jason slips in, all nonchalance and swagger, but his arm loops around your waist before you can stop him. His breath warms your ear.

“Nicely done, sis,” he murmurs sharply, but pride pulses in his tone like an electric current. He’s too cool to gush, but you feel it in his grip. “Damn good.”

Next is Barbara—your sister in every way but blood—and she hugs you tight, chin on your shoulder. She sniffs lightly, steadying you with her strength.

“You were radiant,” she says in that soft, steady voice that’s held you through data crashes and heartaches alike. “True to yourself. It showed.”

Then Cass stands beside her, quiet and intense, eyes scanning every detail—your smile lines, your bright eyes. She offers a quiet nod, fingers brushing yours gently, and then she lifts your hand to her lips. 

Duke trails behind Steph, energetic and wide-eyed. He pulls you aside. “You have, like, a literal vision,” he gushes. “The lighting, the textures—your sculptures, your paintings—they breathe. They breathe you.”

You let yourself smile at him, and then Tim’s voice joins the fray. “So, uh… are we allowed to buy stuff, or is it all being reserved by billionaires and snobby curators?”

“Only if you pay double,” you quip.

“Triple if you ask dumb questions,” Steph adds, poking her head around his shoulder. Her ponytail is bright, bouncing, as she grins and pulls you into a side hug. “Your stuff’s gorgeous, by the way. Like, stupid gorgeous. I almost cried. And I never cry at art.”

You cried at Up.”

“That was different! That dog could talk!”

And then—finally, inevitably—Damian.

He stands a few feet behind the others, arms crossed, dressed to the nines in a blazer he clearly didn’t pick out himself. His expression is unreadable, but his jaw is tight. His brows are low.

“Tt. Your oil technique is subpar in areas, but the emotional structure of your visual narrative is…” He looks away, scowls. “Acceptable. Also, I counted seven cats hidden across your work.”

You blink. Then you grin.

“I’ll take it.”

“Don’t get used to compliments,” he mutters. But his eyes flicker to you again, and there’s something soft beneath all that prickly pride.

He showed up. They all did.

And it hits you.

They showed up.

Not as soldiers. Not as vigilantes. Not even as shadows lurking behind glass and secrets. They came as your family.

You’re not sure when your eyes start to sting, but Barbara notices first.

“Hey, hey—don’t ruin your eyeliner,” she murmurs, reaching for a napkin from the table.

“It’s waterproof,” you manage. “Mostly.”

Dick wraps an arm around your shoulders. “You made it. You did it.”

Jason leans in. “And you didn’t throw up on anyone. That’s what we call a full win.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a weight to their presence you didn’t realize you’d needed. They don’t fix the ache in your ribs. They don’t erase the doubt still whispering from the corners of the gallery. But they anchor you. And right now, that’s more than enough.

Steph loops her arm through yours and starts pulling you toward one of the exhibits.

“Okay, walk me through it. I want the full tour. From the artist herself.”

You hesitate. “I didn’t— I wasn’t planning on—”

“Y/N,” Dick says. “We all came for you. Not just the art.”

You bite your lip. The words stick in your throat. But you nod.

And so you begin.

You take them through the first gallery wall. You describe the piece you did the summer after the accident. The one with the bent metal and the streaks of crimson in the background that you swore weren’t blood, even though they were. Jason stands in front of it a long time.

You show them the portrait of the fire escape in Gotham Heights. The one you slept on after a fight with Bruce. The one where the city looks more alive than you did that night. Tim notices the crack in the glass that you left in on purpose. He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell he knows why it’s there.

You walk them to the centerpiece. The sculpture in the center of the gallery, made from melted car parts and broken glass and concrete. It’s ugly. Raw. Loud. And it pulses with something inside you that never healed quite right.

Cass kneels beside it, eyes tracing every angle. When she looks up at you, there are no words. Just understanding.

And finally, you bring them to the corner.

The painting. Alfred’s painting.

It’s small. Quiet. A single window, streaked with light. The wallpaper is faded. The dust motes are brushed in with silver.

“It’s the study,” Barbara breathes.

You nod.

No one touches it.

No one needs to.

“I didn’t know where I belonged,” you say, voice soft, “so I painted the only place I ever felt safe.”

No one says anything.

Until Steph—light, gentle—says, “You belong here. With us. You always have.”

You look down.

It’s hard to believe. Still. Even after everything.

But maybe… maybe the cracks are where the light gets in.

Dick nudges you. “You hungry? Because I saw them setting up trays in the back and I swear I smelled those little spinach puffs you like.”

You blink, startled. “You remembered that?”

“Of course I did,” he says, grinning. “I’m observant. It’s my whole thing.”

Jason drapes an arm over your shoulders. “C’mon, baby bird. Let’s get you a puff pastry and a drink before you pass out from all this emotional vulnerability.”

You groan. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he says, smug, “here I am. Still your favorite.”

“You’re not even in my top three.”

He is. You just don't say it to him because you know how smug he can get. 

The gallery has mostly cleared out now, still as full as before, though. The buzz has quieted into a low hum. Someone has started loading up wine glasses into crates near the back, and the lights are softer now—dimmed just enough that the whole space feels less like a spotlight and more like a memory.

You’re still buzzing, the adrenaline not fully gone, but dulled. Your head feels full and quiet at the same time, your body just beginning to register the weight of the day, the night, the entire everything of it.

Jason’s hand slips off your shoulder when Steph pulls him away, teasing him about a bet she made with Duke over how long he’d last in a “fancy adult gallery space without breaking something or someone.” He kisses the side of your head anyway, mumbles something about bribery with sugar, and leaves you standing in the soft hush of the nearly-empty room.

You smile weakly at their bickering. But it doesn’t last.

Because that’s when you see him. Finally. Standing alone, in the arch of the far hallway. His silhouette sharp and familiar and… immovable. Bruce.

He’s half in shadow, watching you the way he watches rooftops—like he’s waiting for something to fall. Like he’s bracing for the worst, even now. Even here.

He hasn’t approached. Not once during the entire event. You noticed. Of course you did. You always notice. And now, with most of the audience moving around and the family momentarily distracted, there’s nothing left between you but space. Space and years and the unspoken.

You take a breath and cross it.

Finally, when you’re close enough that you can feel the weight of his presence in your sternum, Bruce says, softly:

“Your mother would’ve loved this.”

You stop.

Of all the things he could’ve said. Of all the impossible, delicate things wrapped in that sentence.

You look up at him. “Do you think so?”

“I know so.”

His voice is steady. Unflinching. But it holds something rare. Not steel. Not command.

Memory.

“She liked painting as well.”

Something twists in your chest.

You don’t know how to talk to him most days. Not without sharp edges. Not without the underlying why weren’t you there when I needed you vibrating underneath everything. But tonight—maybe just for tonight—you want to try.

“I didn’t know you’d come,” you say.

He blinks. Slowly. “I wasn’t sure if I should.”

Your breath hitches.

“You’re my dad,” you say. “Why wouldn’t you?”

He glances down. Not guilty. Not ashamed. But honest.

“Because I haven’t earned the right,” he replies. “Not yet.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted him to admit, and somehow, it still doesn’t make the hurt easier to hold.

You exhale shakily. “You know, I think some part of me made this whole gallery just to prove something to you.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He listens.

“I don’t even know what. That I’m more than just… the daughter you forgot to look at when the city needed saving. That I could matter. That I could be loud in a room and no one would want to silence me. That I could show pain without it meaning I failed.”

You’re not crying, not really. But your voice shakes. And that feels worse somehow.

Bruce nods once. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“Well,” you snap, suddenly, bitterly, “I did. For a long time.”

The silence that follows is jagged.

It hurts, to say it out loud. But you have to.

He takes it. He doesn’t deflect. He just stands there, chest rising slowly, like he’s breathing around rubble.

“I know,” he says.

You look at him. You want to hate him for how still he is. How composed.

But then he speaks again.

“I know I was absent. Not just physically. Emotionally. I was watching you grow up from behind a wall I built myself.”

Your hands are clenched at your sides.

He goes on.

“I convinced myself it was for your protection. That I had to keep everything sharp away from you. That if I just… kept enough distance, you wouldn’t be stained by what I’ve become. But I was wrong.”

You bite your lip, hard.

“You left me alone,” you whisper. “I didn’t want perfection. I just wanted you.”

“I know,” he says again, and this time, his voice cracks on it.

You turn away. Only a little. Just enough to breathe without drowning.

He waits. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t step closer. But he doesn’t leave either.

“I used to think maybe I didn’t try hard enough,” you admit, brokenly. “To reach you. Like I should’ve learned to speak your language sooner.”

“I should have learned yours,” he answers.

You look at him then, startled.

“I should’ve seen you,” he says. “Not as a project. Not as a risk. Just… as you.”

The silence stretches. This time, not jagged.

Just heavy. Sacred.

You inhale. “Do you even know how much I wanted you to come tonight?”

“I came,” he says. “And I didn’t leave.”

You blink, and finally—finally—the tears fall.

You don’t sob. You just… weep. Quiet and raw. The kind of tears you’ve been swallowing down since you were ten and decided he’d never really be yours.

And Bruce—your father, your impossible, unreachable father—he steps forward.

Slow. Careful.

Then his arms follow, keeping you against his chest, hugging you. Your tears stain his shirt, but neither of you care. 

“I am so proud. So proud, kid.” 

“You don't have to be,” you say, voice trembling. “You didn’t have to come. I know this isn’t—this isn’t what you trained me for. It’s not a mission. It’s not Gotham. It’s not even about—”

“You matter,” he says, cutting you off, and it lands like a weight. “You matter to me. Always.”

You blink too fast. “It doesn’t always feel that way.”

“I know,” he says again. And this time, his voice breaks a little on the word. “That’s my fault.”

You feel it—sharp and unrelenting. The grief of a little girl who learned too young that silence could feel like abandonment. That protection could come without warmth. That love didn’t always feel safe.

“I painted our house,” you say, voice trembling now. “I painted your shadow in the doorway. I painted the hallway outside your office. The gloves you left on the table. The cracked tile in the cave. I didn’t even realize how many pieces had pieces of you until I hung them all.”

“I noticed,” he whispers.

“I didn’t want to be angry,” you confess. “But I was. I am. Because I didn’t know how to reach you. And I still don’t. I spent years trying to be good enough—loud enough—worthy enough. And it never felt like it mattered.”

The tears fall full now, silently and unstoppable, and before you can stop yourself, you whisper the thing you’ve carried like glass in your throat:

“I needed you.”

It cracks the air.

It cracks him.

“I’m here,” he says, voice rough,  pressing you even harder against him. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve said it sooner. I should’ve made you feel it.”

“I didn’t know if you loved me,” you confess, because now that the dam is broken, everything’s spilling out. “Not really. Not beyond utility.”

He pulls back, just enough to cup your face.

His eyes are red too.

“I love you more than anything,” he says, voice hoarse. “Not because of what you can do. Not because of what you survived. But because you’re you. You’re brilliant. You’re brave. And you’re mine. Nothing you could ever do would change that.”

It’s too much and not enough, and exactly what you’ve always needed.

You throw your arms around him again and bury your face in his shoulder.

This time, he doesn’t let go.

“I am proud of you,” he says, low and steady. “Not because of the art. Not because of the gallery. Because you let yourself be seen.”

“I was so scared,” you whisper. “I was terrified.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “It means it mattered.”

You laugh through the tears—wet, embarrassed, but real.

“That’s what Alfred said.”

“Smart man.”

And, somewhere across the gallery, your siblings are watching. Quietly. Not interfering.

“About time,” Steph murmurs, arms folded tightly around herself, like she’s scared the moment might vanish if she moves too fast.

Jason exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night, like your breakdown was the one thing none of them could punch their way through. Like it was worse than any bloodbath he’s ever walked into because this? This was you hurting, and he couldn’t fix it.

Barbara smiles faintly, eyes shining in the low golden light. She wipes under her eye with the back of her hand, her voice thick when she says, “She needed that. She needed him.”

Cass tilts her head slightly, her gaze never leaving your figure crumpled against Bruce’s shoulder. There’s no envy, no bitterness in her expression. Just pure, resolute knowing. Like the truth of you—your presence, your survival, your belonging—has finally locked into place, and she’s memorizing the weight of it.

And Dick—steady, centered Dick, with his arms crossed like he’s trying to hold the whole world together—says it like a quiet vow: “That’s our sister.”

He doesn’t mean it as a statement of fact.

He means it as a warning.

A promise.

The kind that no one will ever be allowed to challenge again.

Because now that the floodgates have opened—now that they’ve seen it, felt it, watched you sob into Bruce’s shoulder with the kind of grief that rewrites a lifetime—they realize something terrifying:

They almost lost you.

Not physically. Not in the way they’ve lost others.

But emotionally. Spiritually.

You were slipping through their fingers in slow motion and none of them realized how deep the silence went. How far down you’d buried your need just to make room for everyone else’s.

They’d seen you laugh. They’d seen you fight. They’d seen you bleed and stitch yourself up like it was just part of the job.

But none of them had really seen the part of you that believed you had to do it alone.

And now that they’ve seen it?

They won’t let it happen again.

You’re theirs. Fiercely. Permanently. Claimed in the way only family can claim something: with protective instincts sharpened into steel, and love so messy it bruises.

You’ll never be alone again.

They’ll make sure of it.

EXTRA

The gallery is still humming with life when you slip away.

There’s a dull throb in your temples—the aftershocks of vulnerability, of holding too much for too long and finally letting it go. You’ve been hugged, touched, praised, cried on, and nearly abducted by your siblings. You love them, you do. But right now, you need a moment of solitude before someone else decides you need to join a group hug pyramid or give an impromptu second speech.

You slip out through the velvet ropes and climb the stairs two at a time, your dress catching on the wood trim as you ascend. The second floor is quieter—reserved for staff and private storage, plus a small, rarely used bathroom tucked near the old office space. You push the door open and flick the light on.

The mirror greets you with the image of someone who looks like they survived a storm. Your eyes are rimmed red, mascara smudged faintly at the corners. But there’s something else there too—something softer. A peace trying to form, even if it hasn’t taken shape yet.

You splash cold water on your face and take a deep breath.

You’re drying your hands on a paper towel when you hear the creak of the old wood outside the door.

A knock follows.

Then his voice, low and familiar and warm in a way that unspools something inside you.

“Hey. You in there, beautiful?”

You open the door. And there he is.

Conner Kent. Wearing a black button-up rolled at the sleeves, his hair still tousled like he flew here without bothering to fix it. His boots are scuffed, his smile boyish, and his eyes—blue and endless—lock onto yours like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You lean against the doorframe, heartbeat hiccupping in your chest.

He whistles softly. “Damn. You look like a walking masterpiece.”

You roll your eyes, heat blooming in your cheeks. “Are you seriously flirting with me next to a bathroom?”

“Oh, I’d flirt with you next to a dumpster if it meant I got to see you smile like that.”

“Smooth.”

“Super smooth,” he says, stepping closer.

You don’t move back.

You don’t want to.

“I saw the show,” he says, tone shifting gently. “I stayed quiet. Watched from the mezzanine for most of it. You were…” He exhales, eyes sweeping over you like you’re still a little unreal. “You were breathtaking. Not just the art. You. Standing up there, being so raw, so you. I don’t think I’ve ever been that proud of someone in my entire life.”

Something flickers in your chest. That weird mixture of disbelief and want. Because being seen like this—being held emotionally when you’re not hiding—is still new. Still dangerous.

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not.” He steps into your space fully now. “Y/N, I’ve literally stared down galactic-level threats. I’ve punched through dimensions. But I’ve never been as moved as I was tonight.”

You laugh a little, soft and breathy. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“No,” he says, suddenly serious. “I’m not. You’re incredible. You feel like something I didn’t know I was missing until I found you.”

You freeze a little at that.

He notices. He always does. But he doesn’t apologize for it.

He just takes your hands, fingers curling around yours like he’s anchoring you back to the ground.

“And I know tonight was big,” he says. “And that your family just had a whole emotional breakthrough. I’m not trying to crash the moment.”

“You’re not crashing anything,” you whisper.

His smile returns, slower this time. More intimate. “Good.”

His hands drift up, one tracing your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. You don’t realize you’re leaning into him until his forehead touches yours.

“I wanted to kiss you the second I saw you tonight,” he murmurs.

You grin, a little unsteady. “Then what stopped you?”

“Didn’t want to smudge your lipstick.”

You laugh—and it bubbles out of you so freely, so purely, that even you blink at the sound. You feel weightless for a moment. Giddy.

“That’s considerate,” you say.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “But I’m out of excuses now.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not greedy.

It’s full of warmth and promise. The kind of kiss that doesn’t demand, but offers. Like he’s asking if he can be your home, even just for tonight.

You melt into it, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt as he draws you closer. His other hand slips around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest.

You giggle against his mouth when your back hits the wall beside the bathroom door.

“Sorry,” he whispers, pressing another kiss to your jaw, then your neck. “Got a little carried away.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You sure?” he murmurs, lips ghosting along your skin. “Because I’m starting to think I might want to steal you.”

Your breath catches. “Steal me?”

“Borrow. Kidnap. Fly away with. Whatever feels the most romantic.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting—”

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, grinning like he has a secret. “The night’s not over. And I know a rooftop above the clouds with a view of the whole city. No noise. No people. Just the moon and you and me.”

You blink. “Conner…”

“You deserve to breathe after tonight. You deserve a break. Let me give you one.”

It’s reckless. It’s impulsive.

It’s him.

And it’s the most tempting thing you’ve ever heard.

You glance down at the noise still echoing from below—voices, laughter, applause. Your family is probably waiting for you by now. Tim’s probably trying to track your phone. Damian is definitely threatening to break into your location services. You should go back.

But…

You look back at him. And the pull is too strong.

“Okay,” you say. “Take me away.”

His grin turns boyish again, almost disbelieving.

“Really?”

“Really.”

He kisses you once more—quick, excited—then scoops you up with zero warning. You shriek, laughing, arms looping around his neck.

“You’re insane,” you tell him.

“I prefer spontaneous.”

[puma-riki]

No One Noticed...

Synopsis: You've never seemed to make friends well. Sure, you had people you knew and were well acquainted with, but no one ever seemed to get closer to you or want to. You think that no one notices you and you'll continue the rest of your college years alone like all the years before. Except Ni-ki notices just about everything you do.

Pairing: Nishimura Riki x Fem! Reader

Genre: Fluff, Humor (or attempts at), slight angst, smau + written parts, idiots to lovers, university au

Warnings: consistent cursing, kms/kys jokes [Subject to change every chapter]

Characters: Enhypen (all), Eunchae (lesserafim),Keeho, Soul, (P1Harmony)

Status: Ongoing (Start: 092124)

Taglist (open!): @bee-the-loser @iaintseggsy @channieismylove @yangjungwonnie @luluvhs @nikiswifiee @kingofthekards @skepvids @sammie217 @sh0dor1 @sirens-dreams @starfallia @polarisjisung @minhosimthings @mochiwonz @jiiyen @strawberrieswithchocolateo3o @ritzy-dream-boy @roseangelxfuma @sugarikiz @stvrriki @eczlipse @ddolleri @dangerousgardenchild @roarr-ki @rikidaze @rinoosformstellation @domfikeluva @b0os-jellfyfish @wensurr @melancholy-z @brinethebean @sol3chu @luvjichang @aerijns @bananna-12 @jungwonsjellies @sumzysworld @right-person-wrong-time @rikikiynikilcykiki @pjselee @maniluvzyou @jungwonswife-real @annybah @flaminghotyourmom @vvenusoncasual @pookalicious-hq @jaykehoonist @raven-odyssey @rodelalaland @planetmarlowe @joonsprettygf @cherryangel-coke @wintereals

Comment on any chapter from No One Noticed... saying you want to be added to the taglist!! or send me an ask !! | bold could not be tagged :c

Do Not Pay Attention To Timestamps!! | Images Used Are Meant To Be Used As References

------------------------------------------------------------

Profiles | [Gooners] [Children + Keeho]

01. Quick!! what's a characteristic of water!!

02. I STILL GOT THEM DIGITSS😋😋

03. Existential dread + written

04. HAPPY WEDNESDAY GUYS‼️‼️ + written

05. INCOMING RANT‼️‼️🗣🗣

06. THE VOICES

07. chat does she want me yes or no⁉️🙏

08. OPERATION RIKI[NAME]/P

09. No One Tried, No One But You + written (wc:5.7k)

10. The bum line

11. IM THE BEST ACTUALLY

12. I wasn't cut out for being a boy dad anyway

13. Feeling a disturbance in the force rn

14. I WANT MY DUO.

15. ...SURELY NOT

16. 𝖎 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖈𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚… + written (wc:2.9k)

↳ Bonus : riki[name] out???

17. mama a wisp of essence behind you

18. May a man like Nishimura Riki find me in this life

19. LVL 10 BADDIE AT REGISTER

20. my coworker be losing her mind

21. eunchae my newest opp

22. banned for getting eaten up on the tl

23. Ooouuuu Turn It Awf

24. What The Hell

25. Jarvis, Jerk it a lil

26. Jarvis, What other guys is she talking to

27. Good Luck, Babe! + Written (wc: 2.7k)

28. Yearn like a good boy

29. My Barbie Senses Are Tingling

30. We're All Fucked

31. Can You Quit Your Job

32. I’m Gonna Eat Him + Written (wc: 3.5k)

33. I Miss My Family + Written (wc: 8.0k+)

34. Do You Promise 💔

35. Sorry I Got Nervous

36. Wtf is His Problem

37. REF DO SOMETHING

38. No More Pretty?

39. Wedding In June

40. But For What...

41. She Loves Me. She Loves Me Not

42. On My Eren Jaeger Shi

43. Call me

44.

45.

+ more coming soon...!

[shiorihyugawrites]

The Devil's Bride - Completed

Aurora Jaeger, Eren's long-lost childhood friend, was taken from him when they were children. After years of suffering under Marleyan control, Aurora is reunited with Eren while he’s undercover in Marley, igniting a bond neither of them expected. Despite her gentle nature, Aurora breaks her vow of pacifism to save Eren’s life, solidifying their deep connection. Secretly married before the Raid on Liberio, Aurora is swept into Eren's world of chaos and destruction. As the Scouts learn of her existence, tensions rise on the airship home. Mikasa’s heart shatters, and Levi demands answers. And Eren will stop at nothing to protect the only light left in his dark world—his bride, Aurora.

In this journey of love, loyalty, and war, Aurora must reconcile her innocent heart with the brutal reality of the man she loves, while Eren faces the truth of what he’s become. (Eren x OC)

Moodboard

What Aurora Looks Like

Sequel | The Devil In Your Eyes

Table Of Contents:

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 |

14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 |

24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65

Masterlist | Patreon

Note: I'm four chapters ahead on Patreon :)

[truly-neutral]

Din/Luke Pacific Rim AU pt.5

Even tho this is a continuation of an AU it was also my gift for the @stardads DinLuke Secret Santa! I was so hype to get Pacific rim AU for a prompt!! Hope yall had a good holiday season and enjoy this update!

Little excerpt from the wip under the cut.

Din stepped out of the helicopter to sheets of rain pouring down on him. He raised a hand to try and block the water from his eyes to little success. He watched as Ahsoka jogged down the landing pad towards two figures and thought it was best to follow suit. 

Before he could get a good look at anyone an umbrella was shoved into his hand, which solved the rain problem at least. That found him face to face with two figures, one he recognized and one he didn’t. 

“This is Marshal Skywalker, though I’m sure you already know that,” Ahsoka said. Din took the Marshal’s proffered hand and shook it quickly. 

“Hello sir, it’s been a while,” Din stumbled out. Skywalker was just as intimidating as he remembered. Tall, burn scars on his neck, and intense eyes that spoke of years of experience in the k-war. 

“Glad you could join us. You’re a hard man to find Djarin.” 

“That was the point,” Din blurted out before he could think better. The only thing that seemed to save him was Ahsoka’s small chuckle at the comment.

“Mr. Djarin, this is Luke, he’s in charge of the Mark Three restoration program.” The other figure stepped forward from his place behind the Marshal. Din recognized him from the news coverage Grogu made him watch, but he was much different in person. On TV he was easy, almost cocky smiles and casual postures. Here, he was stern, with a military stiffness to his shoulders. He stared up at Din with bright blue eyes, not unlike the color of Kaiju Blue. 

Din found himself intrigued by the pilot, the difference between him on the TV and now. It wasn't just his demeanor either, sure he looked charming in interviews, but even with his hard stare, and his blonde hair matted down by the humidity, he was striking. He looked almost too soft to be a pilot, the only thing betraying his profession was the small scar on his upper lip. He was also young, couldn't be much older than 21 if Din had to guess. He certainly hadn't been a pilot back when Din had been, which also betrayed his age beyond his looks. 

“He personally handpicked the list of your potential co-pilots,” Marshal Skywalker continued. 

“Wait, I thought you were a pilot. Why are you doing restoration?” Din asked. The glare that earned him from Luke was chilling. He opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the Marshal. 

“With Red Five destroyed and his co-pilot out of commission, Ranger Skywalker has been reassigned.” At that, Luke’s glare shifted towards the Marshal but it was carefully ignored. 

“How about we go inside before we discuss anything further,” Ahsoka suggested. No one could really argue with that, so they all headed through the thick metal doors into the Shatterdome. 

As they entered, Luke grabbed Din’s umbrella and placed it in a bucket near the door. With a lurch the large elevator they had stepped into began its descent. 

“Ranger Skywalker?” Din said, gaining Luke’s attention. “You’re related to the Marshal?” 

“He’s my father,” Luke answered. His voice was tight, a slight furrow to his brow left over from whatever had slighted him before. Din wasn’t too surprised, most pilots were proud. If Luke had been grounded due to his Jaeger being out of commission he probably took that as a slight against his abilities. 

“I heard Red Five was out of commission last month,” Grogu had been inconsolable after hearing about the destruction of his favorite Jaeger. “I didn’t know it was piloted by the Marshal’s son.”

“We try to keep it out of the media,” Luke explained. “Not really a secret, but there’s no reason to advertise it either. Makes both our jobs easier.” Din caught the pained expression on the Marshal’s face from the corner of his eye. But as soon as it was there it was gone and the Marshal spoke up again. 

“First we’ll give you a tour of the facility and then Ranger Skywalker will show you to your Jaeger. First thing in the morning we’ll find you your co-pilot.” 

“Marshal, you’re aware that I’m not drift compatible with most pilots, right?” Din inquired. It had been something nagging at the back of his head since he’d agreed to this mess. He wanted to keep Grogu safe, no matter how much he dreaded getting back into a Jaeger, but if he couldn’t even find a co-pilot this would all be for nothing. 

“You’re the only Mark Three pilot left, it’s our best bet to have you in Razor Crest for this mission,” the Marshal explained. 

“Wait, you restored the Crest?” Din looked from the Marshal to Ahsoka. 

“Whoops, did I forget to mention that?” Ahsoka said with a poorly masked smile. 

Din was a bit unsure how to feel. He’d spent his best years in the Crest back in the day, but it had also been the site of his greatest failure. Before he could fall down that train of thought something else caught him up.

“Hold on, what mission? No one has told me exactly what’s happening here.” Before he could get a response the elevator doors opened and everyone was shuffling out. As they approached two heavy metal doors a worker moved to a lever to open them. With loud creaks the doors shifted to the side revealing the center of the Shatterdome.

[enretrogue]

𝗙𝗘𝗕𝗥𝗨𝗔𝗥𝗬 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰 𝗙𝗜𝗖 𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗦

༝༚༝༚ = Black/POC Works ⎢ 24’ Fic Rec M.List

ATTACK ON TITAN:

Multi-Character 

Window Shopping (Connie Springer +. Ryomen Sukuna) — @chrollohearttags ༝༚༝༚

Threesome (Connie Springer + Onyankopon) — @merakidoll ༝༚༝༚

Tryna Threeway With His Roomie (Jean Kirstein + Connie Springer) — @honeybleed

On Valentine’s Day (Jean Kirstein +Porco Galliard) — @shepnicolo

Double Penetration (Reiner Braun + Zeke Jaeger) — @nekomacheercaptain

Double the Fun (Eren Jaeger + Reiner Braun) — @daisynik7

Drift King (Eren Jaeger + Ryomen Sukuna) — @s-sugustar ༝༚༝༚

Connie Springer

“Make It Fit”!Connie — @nysrage ༝༚༝༚

Midnight Snack — ^ ༝༚༝༚

Messages w/ Bestfriend!Connie — @morgluvsconnie ༝༚༝༚

When Connie First Saw You, He Knew You Were The One — ^ ༝༚༝༚

24/7 — @ayeyolooo ༝༚༝༚

He Fucks the Attitude Out of You — @kyunzin ༝༚༝༚

Let Me Get A Taste — ^ ༝༚༝༚

Connie Meets Y/N’s Doggy — @cindol ༝༚༝༚

Ears Pierced — @rissouu ༝༚༝༚

Some Help — @nininikki ༝༚༝༚

Soft Thug ⎢ Part 2 — @klipkillakai ༝༚༝༚

Forgotten — @spliffymae

Nobody Else, Nothing Else — @rrenzwrld ༝༚༝༚

Eren Jaeger (Yeager)

Happy Valentine’s Day, Daddy! — @merakidoll ༝༚༝༚

Jean Kirstein (Kirschtein)

Plug!Jean — @rissouu ༝༚༝༚

Texts w/ Plug!Jean — ^ ༝༚༝༚

I’m Thinkin’ Bout Wifin’ You — ^ ༝༚༝༚

Late Night Drives — @jeanboyjean

All Mine — @planeteroticaaa

The Way Things Go — @plutoccult

Someday — @kingkonoha

Jean Covering His Ears — @shunsuis

DILF!Jean — @jeankirsteinsgrlfrnd

Stupid Gifts and a New Milestone — @sleepingpillscosmos

Now Playing At The Video Store — @mochimooon

Onyankopon

4 Your Eyes Only — @nysrage ༝༚༝༚

The House Party — ^ ༝༚༝༚

Rollin’ To Love — ^ ༝༚༝༚

Just Me Loving You — @s-sugustar ༝༚༝༚

Mutuals — @anucalor ༝༚༝༚

Smutty Blurb — @katsukis-lilbunnywhore ༝༚༝༚

Reiner Braun

Tutoring Jock!Reiner — @mommypieck

Reiner Fucking Your Wrist — ^

Headpats, please? — @erwinsmithsmissingleftarm

NSFW Alphabet — ^

Eye Contact — @love-fictional-ppl

Gingerbread Sweet — @amywritesthings

Sugar Daddy Reiner — @agusrkive

BLEACH:

Multi-Character:

Bleach Men Taking Your Baby to the Grocery Store HCs (Kensei, Renji, Byakuya, Grimmjow, Ichigo) — @dreadsuitsamus

Byakuya Kuchiki

Bella Notte — @sashi-ya

Valentine’s Event — @actuallysaiyan

“Unwanted” Matrimony” — @tojiscumdumpster ༝༚༝༚

Renji Abarai

Knockout — @tojiscumdumpster ༝༚༝༚

THE GRAY MAN:

Court Gentry/Sierra Six

He a Creature — @ryanclutched

Alone Together — @ken-dom

NARUTO:

Multi-Character

“Thank you for the flowers” Prank (Naruto, Sasuke, Shikamaru, Kakashi) — @kingkonoha

Out of My Mind ⎢ Ch. 2 ⎢ Ch. 3 ⎢ Ch. 4 (Neji Hyuga + Shikamaru Nara) — @hyuganejiswife

Shikamaru Nara

One Night — @kingkonoha

Boy’s Night — @galaxychaos78

Kinktober Day 21: Squirting — @actuallysaiyan

Shikamaru w/ a Busty Reader HCs — @chocolatetheoristcloud

Night In — @jodrawssmut

Alone — @nanamimizz

[marlog-5]

Sonadow pacific rim AU

Some shit my gf and I came up with on a long road trip in an attempt to distract me from how bad I had to pee

Tails is both newt and Herman, he lied about it age to get the job and joined when he was like 16, he’s now 21 but has a permanent baby face and is never allowed into bars.

Sonic is known for having solo piloted a jaeger for a little bit but no one has any details on how that happened. He can also drift well with anyone in a practice run of a drift mostly because he’s kinda playing around, but when he gets serious he thinks too fast for anyone to keep up with. Except for shadow.

Now I’m a monster fucker, so inline with the black arms part of shadow, pacific rim shadow will have gotten kiju blue poisoning and then experimented on by some G.U.N. Parallel and now he’s ass has some kiju powers. He’s good at training new recruits and he and Sonic have the same practice fight with the bo staff moment that Raleigh and mako have. Unfortunately due to the trauma and the “‘keep everyone at arms length” disease that shadow has a hard time in the drift. Sonic ends up being compatible with him because Sonic is also compartmentalizing the fuck out of his own back story so like hell he’s gonna get nosey with shadows. He only cares about who shadow is right now.

Shadow right now is also carrying some secrets and /those/ Sonic will pry in to with reckless and wild abandon.

Through the drift he stars picking up on the alien parts of shadow and since shadow won’t tell him he goes to tails. Tails has been curious about drifting with a kiju brain and Sonic is just Icarus-coded enough to give it a try. Low and behold the alien vibes that he gets in the drift with shadow are the same as the kiju brain, but he can’t accurately report to tails the data that tails wants so now the three of them are on a mission to visit hanable chow (played by rouge) in Hong Kong and get a more in tact brain so tails can do the drift.

While stumbling through the streets of Hong Kong shadow and Sonic chill at a bar and attempt a heart to heart about the alien shit. (Shadow still doesn’t know that Sonic has started putting the pieces together and while Sonic still doesn’t want to pry about the past he’s having trouble finding a way to not bring it up as he questions the now)

Enter Sonic’s original drift partner.

In the original Raleigh has a brother, in the AU this character can either be played by manic or scourge (or silver is you want but I’m going with scourge). Originally on decently good terms scourge and Sonic were drift partners, during one particular attack scourge got assumedly eaten by the kiju. Sonic believes his brother died, meanwhile scourge is taken back to the precursors (kiju over lords) and they winter soldier his ass. Scourge is sent back to earth, decently unaware of what all the kiju did to him or why they sent him back to earth, all he knows is now he’s got these sick ass powers and a burning need to kill Sonic.

They meet at the bar and Sonic starts having a very reasonable panic attack. A fight breaks out. Sonic is NOT giving it his all because he does low key blame himself for what happened and he really would just like to talk to his brother again. Sonic goes down. Shadow steps in. The last thing Sonic sees before he blacks out is shadow glowing in the same way scourge is as he takes over the fight.

[driftwithme]

Have you ever thought about how fearless Mako is portrayed?

She dyes her hair the color of kaijus blood.

She looked at a jaeger with PLASMA CASTERS and decided to add CHAIN SWORDS.

Mako saw it to criticize Raleigh Becket's skills to his face and then proceeded to defeat him, proving she was not all talk. She bites.

She's 21-22 years old and she's already acting like Pentecost secretary/advisor.

Her first drop was a fucking double event and she found a way to slay a kaiju almost on space.

While she claimed revenge on her parents.

Every other pilot around her has been doing that for years now. They are brave by experience and before that they were brave because they had to be, okay?

Mako Mori is Stacker Pentecost's child and like him, she's the most fearless motherfucker ever on that movie and any kaiju should tremble in fear if she appears on battle. Neither Stacker nor Mako has mercy. They are bad in the head, capable of anything to exterminate those aliens. Insane !!!!!

Although for me, the best part is that they are also human. Mako is afraid of disappointing her adoptive dad, she is afraid of reliving her traumas, she's hopeful and vulnerable too. Pentecost hides his weakness because he doesn't want others to think him incapable of doing his job or pity him. He is a man who loves his daughter A LOT and fears losing her. He doesn't want to see her hurt.

Mako is such a freaking good character. C'mon.

[synthapostate]

@lastdaysofwar, Day 21: Downtime/Jacket (Hermann Gottlieb/Newton Geiszler)

It isn’t unusual for various systems in the Shatterdome to break down. Their staff includes some of the most skilled technicians in the world, but their focus is necessarily on the jaegers and on LOCCENT systems, so when the air conditioning is on the fritz, it simply isn’t a priority.

If it had simply stopped blowing cool air, Hermann supposes, it wouldn’t be so bad. The lab would become uncomfortably warm, he and Newton would bring out their desk fans, Newton would whinge on a bit about the sweat interfering with his hair gel, but they would survive. But, as it happens, a failure somewhere down the line means the damn thing is going full blast, shooting icy cold air from the vent directly above Hermann’s chalkboards. There’s nowhere he can work on his equations that’s out of the line of fire, and he can’t be certain in this lighting but he thinks his fingers might be turning blue, so he’s been forced to retreat to the marginally less frigid territory of his desk, where he’s reduced to working with pencil and paper.

Even Newton, who is never cold, has wrapped himself in a blanket on the couch to watch some insipid action movie on his tablet. Never before has Hermann regretted a lack of samples for the biologist to study, but today he feels a stab of something uncomfortably like jealousy at the sight of his colleague, at loose ends, snuggled into what he childishly refers to as a “cozy burrito.”

“You should come watch this with me,” Newton calls, his eyes never leaving the screen. Hermann stiffens.

“I’m working. You may be familiar with the concept.”

“Working on what, man? When’s the last time you even got any new data?”

“I’m a mathematician, Newton. Not all of us have to wait around for fresh tissue samples before we can get anything done.”

“Whatever, nerd.” He finally looks over at Hermann, teasing smirk dropping into a frown. “You’re freezing,” he accuses.

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” Newton pauses his movie. “I can’t even hear the explosions over your stupid chattering teeth. Why don’t you go get that big-ass parka and an ugly sweater?”

“It’s July.” A lightweight blazer is more than adequate for the weather outside.

“Buddy, it’s not July in here. I’m making coffee. You want some?”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Newton wanders over to the coffee machine, and Hermann tries to get back to work. He has no time for Dr. Geiszler’s nonsense.

He’s having some difficulty focusing, but that’s no one’s business but his own. It’s simply a matter of willpower. Tuning out external distractions. He’s honed that ability over the years sharing his workspace with Newton, but today he can’t seem to make himself unaware of his colleague creeping up behind him.

Creeping with a distinct purpose, Hermann suspects, as he listens to the not at all quiet thump of Newton’s boot leather across the metal floor. The man thinks he’s so subtle. Hermann braces himself for whatever prank is about to befall him.

But whatever he’s expecting, it’s not for Newton’s leather jacket to suddenly drop down over his head.

“Newton?”

“You’re. Cold!” Newton insists, and runs away back to the coffee maker.

Hermann pulls the jacket away from his face and turns to glare at his colleague.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Making coffee,” Newton says.

“Why…” Hermann lets the jacket fall from his head to his shoulders, then reluctantly pulls it forward so that, while not exactly wearing it, he’s wrapped up inside. It is warmer this way. How embarrassing.

“You could always go up to the roof to warm up,” Newton suggests as he pours two cups of coffee.

“I told you, I’m working. And I do not need to warm up.”

He expects Newton to call his bluff and demand the jacket back, but the man just shakes his head and holds out one of the coffee cups until Hermann, with a sigh, comes over and takes it.

“Thank you, Newton,” he grumbles. The coffee is too hot to drink yet, but the steam wafting up into his face is quite pleasant.

“S’just a jacket,” Newton says.

“Thank you for the coffee.” They make each other coffee all the time, nothing noteworthy about it. It is not an unusually kind gesture from a man who usually has little to offer beyond relentless mockery. There is nothing confusing about a cup of coffee, and therefore Hermann will not be forced, for the sake of his own emotional stability, to pretend it hasn’t happened.

“How come you won’t put your arms in the sleeves?” Newton asks. “What’s the matter, afraid you’ll look too cool and ruin your reputation?”

Hermann takes a sip of coffee, then tries very hard not to let on that he’s burned his tongue.

“Hey, you know what’s even warmer than a jacket? My blanket,” Newton says, wriggling his shoulders within his cocoon.

“I know it’s warm. It’s my blanket,” Hermann snaps.

“Whatever, you left it lying around. Free real estate.” Newton gestures magnanimously toward the couch. “Come watch a movie with me and I’ll share it with you.”

“Mm…What movie? Who’s in it?”

“You know that guy who played Hellboy?”

“No.” Why on earth would he know who that is?

“Man, you don’t know anything good. There’s vampires,” Newton urges. “You like vampires, right?”

“No.” He does, a bit, but it doesn’t do to appear too eager.

“Come sit on the damn couch, Hermann.” Newton takes a gulp of coffee, and barely restrains himself from spitting it out. “Ah fuuuuuuuck it’s hot!”

“Yes, Newton. Hot coffee is hot.”

“Coffee indeed hot,” Newton says, as if that’s something significant.

“As you say,” Hermann agrees, because he loses nothing by it. Newton grins and punches Hermann’s shoulder, which seems to be a friendly gesture, so Hermann doesn’t retaliate.

“Come on, Hermann. Sit. Be warm. Watch the vampires explode. Enjoy your downtime for once.”

“I don’t have downtime,” Hermann protests.

“You have plenty of downtime. Sit with me. Watch. Exploding vampires, Hermann. Exploding vampires.“

“Very well, Newton, show me the exploding vampires.” It isn’t as if he can think straight under these conditions anyway.

They settle on the couch together with their coffee, the blanket spread over their laps and the tablet propped where they can both see it. Newton doesn’t ask for his jacket back, so Hermann keeps that on as well.

It’s really quite nice, having…downtime, Hermann decides, as he begins to relax and their shoulders come into contact, followed by elbows, and then Newton’s knee swings over to bump against his. Five minutes into the movie, they’re leaning against each other, temperature troubles forgotten, and, yes, it’s very nice indeed.

Dr. Geiszler may well be the first person who has ever encouraged Hermann to do anything other than work. He does not resent the demands being made on him, not with the fate of the world on the line, but it is not the worst thing in the world, being given an excuse to stop. He can’t allow himself to get used to this sort of thing, but just for a little while, he’ll enjoy his moment of peace.

Peace, and exploding vampires.

[mnaog]

how many people in the PR universe got into arguments with their parents that started like “there is a 21-year-old out there fighting off the kaiju head-on no matter the hour to defend the world, yet you can’t even-”

high schoolers around the world let out a collective groan the day a 16-year-old Chuck Hansen became a jaeger pilot because it gave their parents someone else to compare them to

[badpanini]

absolutely NOBODY asked for this, but i happened across this clip of jackson publick as the monarch doing pentecost’s monologue from pacific rim and i blacked out and wrote down my ramblings about a crossover. this series is so good for a pacific rim au because there are SO many iconic duos and variety in character relationships:

okay so obviously hank and dean drift compatible, from the beginning to the very end. would be especially compelling for a hank + dean copilot situation with their season 6 onwards selves.

dermott and hank could also pilot a jaeger together but they wouldn’t be as good as if hank and dean did i think, because hank and dean balance each other out more while dermott and hank are sort of enablers of each others behavior and therefore not as aligned.

rusty and jj would be drift compatible in theory but they would fight and bicker and be HORRIBLE at piloting a jaeger because rusty would want to take control and fuck everything up but jj would like actually know what he was doing. and they would fight. so they have the neural link but they just suck at copiloting. also they could make their own jaeger, with jj taking over most of the project because he actually gets shit done while entrusting rusty to do some things for it (perhaps the shielding systems like palaemon) but he sucks at it and then it fails mid battle and they bicker more. they would probably name it some stupid shit like V.A.L.O.R. (venture aegis lethal offense robot) (yes i came up with that on the spot).

pete and billy drift compatible ooobbbbviously. could be some interesting “getting into each others brains/memories” shit there if you consider a link before billy remembered how he lost his hand.

THE MONARCH AND DR MRS OF COOOURSE. they would be so good at piloting a jaeger they would kick ass. the monarch would like have his own jaeger made specifically for himself and he would have a bunch of stupid shit built into it (e.g. ACID MAGNET!). dr mrs would be the level logical ‘chessplayer’ type pilot while the monarch has the energy and impulsivity for the actual combat.

21 and 24 would tooootally be drift compatible but 24 would NOT want to be a jaeger pilot he would be like “duuude im not doing this we’re gonna die” and 21 would be like “dude are you kidding?!! we are SO doing this!! this is fucking awesome i’ve DREAMED of doing something like this!!” and he would be over enthusiastic and clumsy with piloting, partially because 24 isnt feeling it at first but after going for a test run he would totally start loving it. they wouldn’t be great but they’d end up successful in combat in an unintentional way.

to coincide with the events of the season 3 finale, they could have a “raleigh and yancy” moment that makes 21 averse from piloting for a while. he would blame himself for what happened and vow to train hardcore before ever stepping foot in a jaeger again.

the monarch, dr mrs, and 21 would 100% triple pilot (like crimson typhoon) and KICK CRAZY ASSSSS!!!!!! 21 would make them name it some shit like vice royal and it would have deployable wings that slice and stun projectiles and arm daggers like 21’s (and like striker eureka!). it would be that mustard yellow with the visor area of the head resembling bug eyes and the accents would be black and that horrifically bright magenta color.

during the blue morpho arc, the monarch and 21 could pilot a rogue unknown jaeger (like obsidian fury) and “vigilante” around while trying to keep their identity intact.

watch and ward would copilot a guild standard enforcer type jaeger, all black and uniformly made, with red accents and hella tech shit.

brock would be the only person to pilot a jaeger by himself without any repercussions on his health. unfortunately, it does take a lot out of him to do so in terms of exhaustion so he can only pilot in small bursts- but he beats the fuck DOWN for those short deployments. all of the OSI’s top agents are ‘trained’ to be drift compatible with each other but for the most part they just sit in the chair and make sure brock stays stable because he’s usually all they need to secure a situation.

let us not forget THE TRIAD!!!! they would definitely have a triple pilot thing as well, and orpheus would INSIST that they could pilot a “mech” - (i’m thinking, a golem-like husk made of rock/earth?) - all though MAGIC only, and it would take a lot of focus. orpheus would take the helm in terms of magic and actually powering the “jaeger” and making it move, al would be in control of magic projectiles and jefferson would do all the melee combat.

the concept of red mantle and dragoon copiloting is very funny to me so they can be a part of this too.

PLEASE feel free to add, to disagree, to suggest, ANYTHING!!! i may or may not doodle some of these ..

and if you read this far.. i love you, thank you.. we are kindred spirits

[arsenicalbronze]

mako mori's age was something i was puzzling over while rewatching the movie, after the clear timeline of raleigh's age given in the opening monologue

Based on the information in the film, Raleigh is around 27 years old: age 15 when the first kaiju landed in san francisco, age 22 seven years later when he and yancy fight knifehead, and approximately 27 in 2025 when he meets Mako Mori

Mako's age is a little more nebulous. Her canonical age is given on the wiki as 22, which would have made her 13 when Pentecost defeated Onibaba in 2016. However, Mana Ashida, who played little Mako, was 8 years old at the time of filming. While age and appearance is not an exact science, particularly for children, based on her appearance and behavior in the flashback, I would find it hard to believe she was older than 10, which would make Mako at most 20 or 21 in the film.

Based on how young Mako appears in the flashback and the date given for the battle with Onibaba, I would hazard that Mako Mori is likely somewhere between age 19 and 21 when she pilots Gipsy Danger. That tracks with both her respectful/deferential relationship with Stacker and his reluctance to allow her to pilot a Jaeger, as well as her intense focus on getting revenge for her family; as well as adds an interesting perspective to her goodbye with Stacker where he passes the responsibility on to her.

TL;DR based on the film, Mako Mori is likely somewhere between 19 and 21 years old at the time she piloted Gypsy Danger and saved the world at great personal cost. In effect, the end of the kaiju war was also the end of her life with Stacker and the Shatterdome, as well as what remained of her childhood.

[metaltango-rookie]

MORE PACIFIC RIM ANGST MWAHAHA

So Chuck Hansen (born 2003) is 16 when he enlists into the Jaeger Academy in 2019.

The breach is closed in January of 2025, when He's 21. So from the age of 16 his life has basically revolved around the piloting Jaeger's and fighting Kaiju, until his death at 21 years old.

I wonder if Scott and Herc were originally going to pilot together or if he hadn't of basically flunked out of the Academy would the two brother's pilot Stiker Eureka instead of Herc and Chuck. I'm not saying it would if been better or even plausible.

Oooh, I wonder how much Herc wished he done things differently when Chuck died or wishing he was piloting aside his son one final time instead of the Apocalypse finally being over and him being stuck without the two people that mattered most to him. His wife and son, no doubt the two people he fought the kaiju for.

After all there's very few worse feelings then outliving your own child, especially because they fought side by side and shared a mental link for years. I bet both of them wished they died fighting together, but they wasn't how fate turned out.

[leabeesworld]

ETERNAL SUNSHINE. JK.

details.

Childhood; You grew up in east Texas (Newton, same for Jean), you don't have a sister or brother, you're an only child. Your parents are divorced and you live with your mother and your father has custody 2 weekends a month. You didn't have many friends tbh, your only real friend was Jean.

University; You were accepted to UCLA, You are in boarding school for the moment because rent for an external apartment is too expensive, you’re in cinematography, you have a small job alongside your studies to pay your tuition fees, the job in question is in a cinema, you are in charge of reception and a little cleaning etc.. (the works of the other characters will be explained during the story) You do hip hop dancing, you like reading and photography, you also like to write in notebooks about anything.

Now, informations about the other characters and their studies plus sports/hobbies.

Sasha Braus;

your roommate (fav girl idc)

20 years old and in 'journalism' (snores like a grown ass man good luck💖) does commercial dancing and loves to eat (who's surprised?)

Connie Springer;

20 years old and Eren roommate with Armin, in 'fitness instruction', also does hip hop dancing plus is on the basketball team.

Jean Kirstein;

2o years old and Marco's roommate, in 'cinematography and art' (😏😏😏) (idk if you can actually do both but idc it's my ff i do whatever i want) is on the university basketball team, goes to the gym and plays electric guitar plus piano.

Eren Jaeger;

20 years old, Connie and Armin roommate, in 'music business' is also on the university basketball team, goes to the gym and plays electric guitar.

Armin Arlert;

20 years old, roommate of Eren and Connie, in 'data science', is in the swimming club.

Mikasa Ackerman;

20 years old and Pieck's roommate, in 'paralegal studies', is in athletics, specializing in the 200m.

Marco Bolt;

20 years old and Jean's roommate, in 'pre-medical and general science studies', doesn't do sports but sometimes plays basketball with Jean for fun.

Pieck Finger;

21 years old and Mikasa's roommate, in 'journalism', also does commercial dancing and smokes weed (sorry not sorry)

Reiner Braun;

21 years old, Bertholt's roommate, in 'finance', is on the American football team and goes to the gym.

Porco Gaillard;

20 years old, lives alone in his own loft, in 'marketing', is in the football club.

Annie Leohnart;

20 years old, has no roommate, in 'personal financial planning', does Thai boxing but outside of the university.

Bertholt Hoover;

21 years old, Reiner's roommate, in 'business fundamentals', doesn't do sports but takes piano lessons.

Ymir;

21 years old, lives with Historia in a appartement in Los Angeles (LET'S GO LESBIANS) in 'marketing', does kick boxing, plays drums. (hear me out)

Historia Reiss;

20 years old, lives with Ymir, in 'accounting', does classical dance and commercial dance.

El.

[prpfz]

🌊 hi! i’m sending out a little search for 21+ partners who would be interested in writing attack on titan. right now, my muse is the highest for canon-verse or canon-divergent plots, but i’m also open to discussing aus! i’d prefer to write canon x canon ships (listed below).

ideally, i’d prefer to write over discord, but am willing to discuss other platforms. dead dove and omegaverse themes are also things im willing to explore! my writing style is literate/adv. and i would like to match with people who are similar! i love sharing art, headcanons, playlists, etc for our characters / ships, and am pretty relaxed about how often replies come.

below are some ships (my preferred role is bold, no bold = no preference) i’d love to explore (feel free to also like this post if you’re interested in other ships / rare pairs—i love to branch out):

- eren jaeger x reiner braun

- reiner braun x bertholdt hoover

- armin arlert x eren jaeger

- jean kirstein x armin arlert

please like this and i’ll reach out ! ⚔️

give a like and anon will get back to you

[legend-of-zelda-voices]

Compilation Post

Chiyuki Miura

Chiyuki Miura is the next in-game voice actress!

First Role as Zelda: Echoes of Wisdom

Other LoZ Roles: (None)

Main LU character: Echoes of Wisdom Zelda/Echo/etc. (Very unlikely to appear in LU unless you merge her with Legend's Zelda (Fable), but some people still make fanmade versions inspired by LU with various names)

Alternate LU Voice for: Legend's Zelda (Fable)

Some characters with the same voice:

Faye Jaeger, Founder Ymir, Abel Reiss (Attack on Titan), Hana Shimura (My Hero Academia), Jena (Epic Seven), Onion (Pokémon Journeys), Nonomi Izayoi (Blue Archive), Young N (Pokémon Evolutions short), Wassily (Pluto), Towa Hiura ("Ippon" Again!)

...

In the game:

Echoes of Wisdom

Original Post

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Speaking

Towa Hiura from "Ippon" Again!

She speaks throughout the entire video, but some times are 0:00, 0:08, 0:16, 0:38, 0:57, 1:14, 1:17, 1:26, and 2:39.

Original Post

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Anna from The Slugma-Powered Home

Video with English captions here if they don't show up on Tumblr.

Anna is the little girl.

Some times are 0:24, 0:58, 1:16, 1:29, 1:55, 2:02, 2:05, 2:14, 2:29, 2:37, 2:49, 2:53, 3:20, 3:35, 4:12, 4:26, 4:34, 4:46, 5:09, and 5:24.

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Onion from Pokémon Journeys

He speaks throughout the entire video, but some times are 0:00, 0:07, 0:11, 0:15, 0:19, 0:26, 0:30, 0:36, 0:40, 1:00, 1:20, 1:58, 2:09, 2:28, 2:45, 2:55, 3:25, 3:32, 3:37, 3:47, 3:57, 4:17, and 4:28.

Original Post

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Nonomi Izayoi from Blue Archive

Video with English captions here if they don't show up on Tumblr.

She speaks throughout the entire video, but some times are 0:00, 0:08, and 0:16.

Original Post

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Voice Samples from Chiyuki Miura

Free Talk at 0:00, Dialogue 1 at 0:45, Dialogue 2 at 1:11, Dialogue 3 at 1:36, Dialogue 4 at 2:05, Dialogue 5 at 2:29, Dialogue 6 at 3:08, Dialogue 7 at 3:36, Dialogue 8 at 4:00, Dialogue 9 at 4:33, Dialogue 10 at 5:02, Narration 1 at 5:21, Narration 2 at 5:50, Narration 3 at 6:27, and Narration 4 at 6:57.

Original Post

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Singing

"Ippon Michi" from "Ippon" Again

Translated title: "A Straight Path"

This song is for the character Towa Hiura.

Original Post with Lyrics

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"Seishun no Archive" from Blue Archive

Translated title: "Archive of Youth"

This song is for the character Nonomi Izayoi and several others.

Original Post with Lyrics

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"Mahiru no Sora no Tsuki" from Blue Archive

Translated title: "Moon in a Midday Sky"

This song is for the character Nonomi Izayoi and several others.

Original Post with Lyrics

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