#titans towe au

[vulnonapix1234]

The lack of cursed Tim Drake stories/aus is honestly unbelievable.

He grew up in a house full of Archeological findings, mostly alone without any adult supervision.

Anyway. I have one that isn't as angsty as it could be, in which he doesn't get cursed out of maliciously, but because of kindness.

The curse was held in a wolf statue and gifted him the ability to turn into one. But only if his emotions get out of hand. Be it happiness, fear, or anger.

So he trained himself to control his emotions, as his wolf side was quite handy for his bird-watching hobby.

(He also ends up with quite the resting bitch face because of this. It also helped him a lot as Robin)

But he also needs to shift from time to time or else he'll get... a bit irrational.

Then he becomes Robin and Bruce, the best detective in the world, has no idea about his true nature.

The only people that know are Alfred, Cass, and Jason.

Alfred found out on one of his "check ins" With Tim. He used to visit him daily with an nice lunch packet to make sure he was alright and the first time he did, Tim was so surprised that he spawned tail and puppy ears.

Cass is his cuddle buddy. They are like siblings and love each other. Tim is also aware that someone must know. For case of emergency.

Jason wanted to cripple his replacement and got body checked by an overgrown puppy. Like Tim got so happy that his packmate was still alive that he couldn't control himself. The shook was enough to snap him out of the pit madness

(Jason: does dad know?

Tim: dad?

Jason: I meant Bruce.

Tim: ew. That's my boss.)

The rest of the batfamily doesn't know, but is still influenced by his ferral wild side.

Mostly Damian. Because Tim can't take this tiny Puppy seriously. He is a baby and part of his Pack. Tim also doesn't get that he is trying to murder him. He seriously thinks that Damian is initiating play fights and he, as a good big brother, indulges in it. These playfights are actually pretty good for Damian.

It helps with his murderous tendencies and it became more playing than fighting quickly.

These Play Fights help a lot with stress and anxiety for the both of them.

Dick isn't aware that they are playing. He seriously thinks that they dislike each other as if Tim wouldn't pull Damian into Bruces' bed whenever they had a bad patrol.

Also, his relationship with dick is a lot more open.

He gets that he sounded like a lunatic. He understands that Damian is the new pack puppy that needs to be watched 24/7.

But he also knows that his big brother loves him a lot and that he gives the best hugs. He loves him with all his heart and trusts him with his life.

Tim is protective of Duke. He is still new to the pack and the villigate life. That he patrols all alone gives him a lot of anxiety and he often follows him in wolf form. Duke thinks that he is a lost stray and always has some jerky for him.

The only person that Tim has a bit of a problem is Bruce. Because he is eternally torn between "this is a work relationship and he is my boss" and "Papa who gives me loving head pats". It's a real struggle for him.

[mariabtsos]

Unsinkable ||j.jk|| Chapter 9

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Description: The 1910s are the peak of passenger ships, it was also the peak of classism, Jungkook is a third class immigrant from Korea, and you are a first class “prisoner” not wanting to go back to a life of strict standards. Once you meet Jungkook, life seems worth living, but when tragedy strikes, will you guys make it out to live the life you planned?

Genre: One-shot, Titanic AU, poor/artist!JK x rich!f reader, angst, fluff, very slight smut, forbidden love.

Warnings: ANGST, major character death, descriptions of drowning or being stuck underwater, mentions of coma and it's effect (Brain Death wasn't discovered until 1968), ending of life supporting measures, grief, amputation of a limb.

AN: This is the second to last chapter, next one will be the final one, it will include a source list with excellent channels and educational sources for you to inform yourself about the Titanic and how everything played out according to history if you are not aware of the actual story, even if the 1997 film is somewhat accurate, there's things it got wrong that even I didn't know until my research for this story.

Word Count: 1.7K+

Thank goodness both Yoongi and Jungkook were being sent to the same hospital, Taehyung and Jimin arrived an hour or so after you, you made sure to give their names to the nurses so they could come see you, since you had to be admitted due to your knee, and the horrible frostbite on your nose and fingers.

You’d been put in the same ambulance as Jungkook, and although you were so happy to see him, his state made your heart shrivel up. His eyes were shut, and he looked so pale, you could still see some little spots of frost on his hair. He was still breathing from what you could tell, and you wondered if he could still hear you.

You tried reaching for his hand but the EMT stopped you, explaining that they had to take his temperature and then wrap him up in wool blankets, given how cold he was to the touch. All you could do was talk to him.

“We made it, Jungkook! We're almost at the hospital, you just have to hold on for a little longer,” you felt yourself tear up, why had this happened this way? You were supposed to be running off together right now, with Jimin, Taehyung, and Chris in tow. How had it all gone so wrong?

You were separated once you made it to the hospital, they had to take him for some tests and you to get your knee and ribs taken care of. The pain was unbearable, you hadn't realized how bad your knee was hurt until they set it back in place, then again, the doctors said that you had just reached normal temperature. Maybe you were too cold and too worried about Jungkook to care.

You were given crutches and pain meds and sent on your way, the hospital needed the beds.

“Ynie?” You saw Taehyung standing in the waiting room, tears in his eyes. You were so grateful they had made it to the hospital, and you didn't hesitate to give him a hug.

“Tae, thank goodness you're here!” He hugged you tightly, and soon after Jimin hugged you as well, the baby in his arms was now swaddled and had a little beanie, “did they tell you when Jungkook might be waking up?” the latter asked as you pulled away, you simply shook your head.

“I hope it's soon, did you guys see Yoongi? Is he okay?”

“We know he's awake, and we know he was screaming, but so were a lot of other folks,” Jimin answered. It was like he called on something, all of the sudden more screaming was heard. It wasn't just victims in pain anymore.

You saw a woman with one of her children down on her knees screaming. A bigger family hugging a pair of small children, a man quietly sobbing in the corner, and so many others. You were so lucky to still be alive, to have the one you love still be alive. You felt horrible for all of them.

“That big family over there, aren't those Martha's kids?” Jimin nudged Taehyung, who immediately made his way to them, followed quickly by Jimin.

You watched as they talked to them all, the kids immediately hugging Tae’s legs, his face contorted a bit as he kneeled down to be at the children's level, they hugged him tightly. You realized quickly that their mom probably begged for someone to take them up to the lifeboats, or maybe she'd managed to get there before they launched and she put them in there first?

Did you see her floating body when you were in the water with Jungkook? Had she been one of the first screams to dull down, or one of the last ones along with you? You assumed it was the latter, you hoped that's what it was and not that their other family had to come get them because they had no one else left.

Taehyung and Jimin sat quietly next to you in the waiting room, the dread you felt was unbearable, almost like the same dread you felt just a five days ago, when you boarded the ship that was now thousands of feet underwater, you wondered if there were alive toward the end, and you shivered at how horrifying, dark and lonely that must’ve been, going down with a ship and seeing nothing but darkness during your final moments.

You shuddered.

After what felt like hours to you, a doctor finally came out “Relatives of Jungkook Jeon?” The man called, he butchered your lover's name so horribly, but you didn't care at the moment, you stood up faster than your brain could realize and Taehyung ended up having to hold you up since you forgot your crutches.

“I'm his wife, is he okay? Can we go see him? Will he be discharged soon?” your mouth was moving faster than ever as you asked the questions.

“Mrs Jeon…” the doctor took a deep breath, you'd seen the look he was giving you before, you and your mother got that look when your father passed away. You started breaking down. “We did all we could but he seems to be in a deep comatose state and he can't breathe on his own,” he explained. You felt your knees buckle under you.

“Do you want us to stop life saving measures?”

How can this be? You both made it, you both got taken out of the water, he made it to a hospital. Why was that not enough? Why did his life have to end? You couldn't go on without him, you could go on, you were supposed to run off together.

“Mrs. Jeon?”

How could they ask you such a thing? You weren't going to kill the one you loved, who would do that? Surely there was something they could do, Jungkook would pull through, he was going to come back to you and they would have to, they were doctors afterall, if they couldn't save Jungkook then who could they save?

You suddenly felt faint, and all you heard Taehyung and Jimin yelling your name.

Where am I?

That was your first thought as you floated through the bright void you found yourself in. It wasn't like that for long, morphing into what seemed to be Jungkook’s hospital room.

“Hey darling,” hearing his voice made your knees buckle again. You turned and ran toward him, he was awake and smiling, you jumped into his arms and he hugged you tightly.

“What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here,” you were confused.

“What do you mean? We're supposed to leave together?”

Your lover sighed, the pain in his eyes was something you hated seeing. “This is my stop darling, I won't be able to join you,” he explained, and you felt yourself break all over again, “Remember what I said in the water? You need to live, make each day count, and one day we’ll meet again okay?” he held your face in his hands, “it’s okay to let me go, just don’t let them bury me okay, my body being in one place forever is not like me at all,” he wiped the tears streaming down your face.

“I’ll never let go, I will live for both of us Kook,” you bid farewell tearfully as his hospital room door opened. At the last second you felt him pull you, giving you one last kiss before what felt like a gust of wind pushed you out of the room.

And then you woke up.

You were still on the ground, Taehyung was holding you and the doctor was checking your pupils with a small light, “Are you okay? You scared us half to death, Yn!” Jimin sounded frustrated but relieved, you attempted to get up, but the doctor and Taehyung held you down, encouraging you to do so slowly.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered as they helped you up, Jimin handed you your crutches, and the doctor placed his hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay Mrs. Jeon, I’m sorry that I couldn’t give you better news, I’ll let you think about it and you can let one of the nurses know what you’d like, and they’ll let me know.”

Once he was gone you let Jimin and Taehyung know about what had happened, about your…dream? That’s what it had to have been. You told them what Jungkook told you and they were nothing but supportive, letting you know that whatever decision you made they’d be by your side. So you decided to let him go. It wasn’t the easiest decision, and the last few minutes of Jungkook’s life were the most painful you had ever felt in your short 18 years of life. You sobbed as they listened for a heartbeat or for any breathing. “Nurse, let it be on record, time of death is 20:25,” he put his supplies back into his coat pockets, “I’m very sorry for your loss Mrs. Jeon.”

Taehyung held you and Jimin rubbed your back, as he had his baby in his arms, you sobbed until your head hurt. The only good thing about this was that Yoongi did pull through, his right leg had to be amputated due to how broken it was and the damage the frostbite had done to it. It was a few more weeks before he was fully discharged, and thankfully a lot of first class passengers had come together to get accommodations for less fortunate survivors, Ms. Molly ended up finding Tae and Jimin, and you hid behind a pillar with Yoongi, who begged to not be seen by anyone you knew, whilst they spoke.

“Have any of you seen Yn? Or Jungkook?” she asked with a concerned look on her face. “We think they died in the water,” Taehyung sounded somber. You peeked to see the woman who had been so motherly to you, for a split second you thought she caught a glimpse of you.

“Oh…” the older woman’s voice shook, “well, I’ll give you this, I had set it aside for Jungkook, he was a wonderful young man and he deserved a better start here, you should be getting checks as well shortly with some compensation and Mr. Ismay has arranged for transportation for you and…anyone else who traveled with you,” she said a little louder. She whispered a last take care of her, before she walked away. They did end up getting $950 each, totalling a good $1900. You all set to travel up to northern New York, you wanted life away from the busy city for now, but you will ensure to live life to the fullest. For yourself and for Jungkook.

[hazel-of-sodor]

Day 28 A-Morro Castle

Day 28 A-Art of Communication

Other Stories

Other Days

‘S.O.S. S.O.S. this is S.S. Morro Castle, to any ship in range, I have a fire on board, please respond, my coordinates are…”

The stricken American liner called out desperately into the storm. She could feel the fire within her, spreading largely unimpeded by her crew, even as she was buffeted by the gale around her. They still had her heading into the wind for Siren’s sake!

‘S.O.S. S.O…’

‘R.M.S. Titanic calling to Morro Castle, I’m headed your way, twenty minutes out.’

Morro wanted to sob with relief, she had feared her distress calls would go unheeded in the storm, instead the Siren’s champion was in range.

‘Thank you! My crew have no idea what to do, my Captain passed away last night and my chief officer…he doesn't know what to do.’

The other liner was silent for a moment, ‘then take over.’

‘I…’

‘the lives of your crew and passengers are in the balance,’ the White Star Liner said firmly, but not unkindly, ‘you have to take control.’

Morro hesitated then nodded, ‘Okay, but I'm not sure…’

‘I’ll help.’

‘Thank you.’

Morro forced her rudder over, turning away from the wind, “All available crew,” she called out, “report to fire fighting stations. All passengers, report to the boat deck.”

She forced her fire doors around the fire closed, “Remain calm, R.M.S. Titanic is on her way, and expected to arrive within twenty minutes.”

She felt her crew respond, rushing to their stations even as her passengers mustered by the lifeboats, but still the fire spread. Just as she was losing hope, she heard deep whistles from behind. 

Titanic had arrived, the great Olympic class liner towering over the smaller ship. The older ship threw lines with experienced ease, pulling the younger liner close. Crew with fire fighting equipment lined her top deck.

 “Wait…Now!” The liner roared, and her crew jumped down to the Morro’s decks, unhooking themselves from their safety lines and racing off to join the fight against the fire. Slowly, but surely the fire was contained. Foot by foot, room by room the two crews fought the fire back, even as Morro's passengers were transferred to the larger ship. The larger ship had placed herself to shield Morro Castle from the worst of the wind, looming alongside, a massive wall of steel and light. Slowly other ships responded, their crews helping extinguish the fire and transfer Morro’s Passengers.

Dawn finally broke, and with it the storm. The morning light saw the stricken liner being towed into New York Harbor by the White Star Liner. Tugs raced up to take the two ships under tow.

“You did good, young Lass.” Titanic said, stretching. On a ship as large as her, Morro suspected that the watching humans might have noticed the movement.

“I don't feel like it,” Morro admitted quietly, “I feel like I just burned while you took over.”

“You got your crew, passengers, and yourself home.” The Olympic class said seriously “that is all anyone can ask of you. You took over when it became clear your crew didn't know what to do, and were able to let someone else take over when they needed to. I’ve seen far worse performances during far better situations during my time.”

The great liner shrugged, “some days are hell.” She said bluntly, “you can’t change that. All you can do is wait them out.”

The lead tug whistled, and they began pulling the older liner away.

“Thank you!” Morro called out, “I wouldn't have made it without you.”

Titanic chuckled, “of course little one.”

A/N: Hello Loves! This takes place in 1934, shortly before Titanic and her sisters would be purchased by the Soodor Star Line. IRL no is certain even to this day why Morro Castle caught ablaze, but at least in this AU she was saved. Love Y'all!

[wheels-of-despair]

Live A Little | A Worth It AU | Ralph Penbury x You | Masterlist

In This Edition: You arrive on the Titanic and make some new friends! Words: 2.3k

You did a lot of living over the next few months.

You and your aunt had become inseparable. You visited landmarks and museums, shopped in the best shops and slept on the most comfortable mattresses, ate the most scrumptious food and drank life-altering wine. You told her things you'd never told anyone.

Most ladies had to travel with maids in tow, for assisting with womanly things like corsets and hair styling, but you and your aunt made do with just the two of you. You wished on more than one occasion that she'd been your mother. But if she had been, this trip might not have happened. And it truly was the adventure of a lifetime that she'd promised you.

However, you were on the final leg of it. You were homeward bound, and would soon have to face the reality of your mother and the fiancé you'd practically begged to allow you to go on this trip.

But not for another week.

You had one more week to figure out your entire life… or set it aside and allow yourself to enjoy the largest and most luxurious ocean liner to ever set sail: The RMS Titanic.

You and Aunt Molly ended a wonderful stay in Paris by boarding a train bound for Cherbourg. You stared out the window and silently watched France pass you by while pondering your future. Would you ever make it back here again?

When you arrived at the harbor, you boarded a small vessel that would ferry you to the massive ship you had yet to set eyes on - for she had encountered a delay of some sort and was late to arrive - and waited on it for nearly an hour before the ship finally came into view.

You could hardly believe your eyes. How could something so massive stay afloat? It seemed to defy the laws of physics. And unsinkable? Perhaps the laws of God, too. The thought was intimidating, but the excitement of the other passengers waiting to board her was infectious. This was going to be amazing. An experience you'd remember for a lifetime. You couldn't wait to see what she looked like inside.

Until you arrived at the narrow gangway that led from your tiny toy-sized boat to an open door in the biggest hunk of iron that had ever managed to float.

"Just don't look down, miss," a smiling member of the crew had told you as he reached out to help you step onto the plank. Just like the pirate stories, you thought to yourself. You gulped and bravely walked forward through your panic, trying to ignore the choppy sea in the harbor below.

You made it across, as did Aunt Molly, and a steward escorted you to your cabin. The room was much smaller than the hotels you'd been staying in, but it was cute and the beds were comfortable. There were two beds, a sofa, a writing desk, and a washbasin. The ladies' lavatory was just down the hall. What more could a girl want?

After all of today's traveling, you had half a mind to just fall into your brand new bed and sleep 'til morning, but your aunt wouldn't hear of it. "You can sleep when you get home!" she'd argued, shoving you in the direction of the lavatory to freshen up.

Titanic's arrival in Cherbourg had been behind schedule, so you didn't have time to change for dinner. You'd been wearing coats when you arrived, and hadn't seen anyone on this ship before, so you didn't think anyone would know the difference. Not changing before dinner felt almost scandalous, like keeping a secret or getting away with something wicked.

You'd made it to the dining saloon just in time. You and your aunt were seated at a table with a few other people you'd never met. Molly was quite the conversationalist, so you let her steer it while you focused on the food. Each course was better than the last, and by the time dessert was served, you were grateful to your aunt for thwarting your attempt to crawl into bed and sleep the evening away.

You surveyed the room after the plates had disappeared from the table and found that the men were retreating to the smoking room, and a flock of young ladies were exiting through the main door.

"Why don't you go join the other young folks?" your aunt asked, as if she could read your mind. "You've been keeping an old lady company for ages, you ought to spend some time with people your own age."

"Actually, I thought I might just go--" She cut you off with a look, knowing you were going to try and weasel out of social interaction.

"My niece went to meet some of the other young ladies in the lounge on A-Deck," a woman in a green dress at the next table supplied helpfully. "I'm sure they'd love to have you!"

Molly stared you down.

"Thank you, that sounds lovely." You forced a smile and stood, discarding your napkin and discreetly inspecting your dress for crumbs. You exited the dining saloon and started your ascent up the grand staircase. Slowly. You wanted to soak in all the exquisite details. Not because you'd rather go to bed than talk to people.

As you neared your destination, a young woman in a slinky dress and a lot of jewelry chatting on the stairs in front of you laughed loudly and turned… but her long dress caught beneath her heel, and she slipped. She shrieked and flailed wildly, and you instinctively reached out to catch her.

Mercifully, when she fell backward into you, your backside collided with the banister and stabilized you, rather than sending you both tumbling down the stairs. You helped her stand again, then glanced down the stairs with a breath of relief. It was a long way down.

"Are you alright?" you asked.

"I told that damned seamstress that the hem was too long!" she complained in a posh British accent, angrily jerking her dress up past her ankles. The friend she'd been talking to reached out to straighten her necklace. When the girl finally looked down at you from the step above, she asked, "Who are you? Why haven't I seen you before?"

You introduced yourself and explained that you'd just gotten on at Cherbourg.

"Are you looking for a bit of romance on your trip?" the girl winked.

"No," you smiled.

"Oh?" she pouted. "Why not?"

"I'm engaged," you admitted, a bit reluctantly.

The two women looked you up and down, making you feel like you were back in school and had offended the popular girls somehow.

"Come to the lounge with us," the flaily one said, turning without waiting for an acceptance. You hesitated, but followed the pair. That's where you were going anyway, after all. As you entered the lounge, you realized that they hadn't told you their names.

The girls led you to a circle of other young ladies, all stunningly beautiful and looking as though they'd stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. They'd lugged - or had stewards lug - a ring of chairs around a tiny table.

"Darlings! I've just a had a near-death experience! Meet my savior!"

Your flaily friend introduced you and dramatically dropped into a chair. Her friend took a seat too, and patted the seat next to her. You joined the circle, albeit cautiously. This could never happen at home.

You weren't the richest, or the prettiest, or the funniest. Once upon a time, you'd had opinions, and questions, and thoughts of your own… things that a girl of your age was not supposed to have. After years of being silenced, ignored, and excluded, you'd finally just stopped trying. But perhaps it might be fun to try and blend in for a while? It's not like you'd ever see these girls again after the ship docked.

You sat there and observed as the girls talked amongst themselves. They all seemed quite intent on watching the women filing into the room. Some of them stopped at the door and spoke to a girl in a purple dress who looked to be signing them up for something in her notebook. After a while, she came to your circle.

"Alright, Victoria, we're all sorted," she said conspirationally to the flaily one. You made a mental note of her name. The girls started scanning the room, and not knowing what else to do, you copied them.

"What are we sorted for?" you whispered to the girl next to you, when you couldn't stand the suspense anymore.

"See the boy in that god-awful gold jacket?" You quickly locate him, sipping something bubbly at a table on the other side of the room. His leg jiggled on the floor, and he dribbled a little of his drink down his chin and tried to quickly wipe it away. "That's Victoria's brother, Ralph. He's been irritating her since they left for Southhampton, and she's had enough. So she's made a game out of keeping him busy."

"What kind of game?" you ask quietly.

"A fun one, for us!" Victoria grins from a few chairs away. You hadn't realized she'd been listening. "We've signed on a herd of slags, and if they can't keep him busy, I may have to throw him overboard!"

The girls around you laugh, and you smile awkwardly. Had she not been trying to recruit you to the herd of slags just a few minutes ago? After you'd saved her from falling down the stairs?

Music begins to play in the lounge, and the occupants of several distant tables rise at once. You jerk your head in their direction in surprise, and watch the girls descend on the boy in the gold jacket. He goes red, but seems to enjoy the attention. A man, being asked to dance by a flock of first-class women? He must be in Heaven.

"Alright, that should keep him - and them - occupied for the rest of the night. Alright, place your bets!"

The girl with the notebook turns to a fresh page, readies her pen, and looks up expectantly. The circle starts speaking all at once:

"Blue dress and dumpy bum!"

"Mole Girl!"

"The one in her grandmother's clothes!"

"Frizzy hair and big nose!"

"The one who looks… she's not actually pregnant, is she?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Her, then."

"The one wearing the curtains from her stateroom!"

"Even Ralph would say no to a ginger, wouldn't he?"

All the girls snicker, and you feel like you've missed something.

"Alright, who's your pick?" the girl with the notebook asks, pen poised.

"It's alright," you smile, trying to wave her off.

"You have to pick someone!" Victoria insists.

"What are we betting on?"

"The last girl to dance with Ralph has to go down below and kiss someone from steerage," Victoria says, like you've been part of this group for more than a few minutes. "If you pick the loser, you get to pick a peasant for her to snog tomorrow!" Laughter erupts from the table, and although part of you feels like you've made a huge mistake… you scan the contenders and utter, "pink frilly dress."

Your racehorse is recorded, and Victoria snaps her fingers to get the attention of a steward. "Drinks!" she demands.

This isn't generally the kind of thing you enjoy, but this whole trip has been about experiencing new things. Why shouldn't you finally connect with people your own age? This is what they do for fun. This is how normal young people spend time; drinking and laughing and dancing the night away. (The constant flow of flavored liqueurs helps considerably.)

Still, something didn't feel quite right. But you pushed the feelings aside and listened to stories about humiliating mothers and annoying brothers and the best places to shop for lingerie. When the conversation became dull, you found your eyes wandering. There were so many details in this room to take in. So many fascinating people sharing this amazing journey across the Atlantic with you.

Victoria's brother had a new partner for every dance. The girls playing the game surrounded him after each song ended, hoping to be next, and he appeared to be having the time of his life. He laughed and smiled and treated each girl as if she were the only one in the room. You almost envied them.

Georgina - the girl with the notebook - had matched the bets with the names of the girls participating, and was checking them off as they danced with him. The last girl from the list to dance with Ralph was a blonde girl with a codename of Curtains, on account of the strange pattern on her dress. Georgina announced the loser as she circled the name, and the table erupted into laughter once more. She'd been Jane's pick, who was delighted.

The poor boy, who had had been dancing nonstop for hours, finally got to take a breather when Curtains returned to her table. He guzzled a drink and sat alone at a table looking exhausted. It's not easy being rich and desirable, you suppose.

By the time he'd caught his breath, it was nearly eleven o'clock, and the lounge was closing for the night. You said goodnight to your new friends, found your way back to your room - miraculously, without having to ask a steward for directions - and smiled as you went inside your cabin and began preparing for bed.

[teakookssi]

Before I Leave You [Eren/Levi x Reader FF]

[ full story can be found here or here ]

[Overview & prologue]

➺ pairing: levi ackerman/eren jeager x fem!reader 

➺content: mafia au, crime, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, angst, lol so much angst

➺warnings: YO. SHIT. IS. DARK. violence, blood, strong language, guns/weapons, and illegal activities are all mentioned but hey, that’s attack on titan for you, so if you can handle that, you can handle this (: 

chapter 10: crime & punishment

“Well, if it isn’t my wayward daughter,” Ymir says to you in greeting, his deep voice rumbling against the quiet night as he comes to stand in front of you. “Finally found your way back home, I see.”

You turn your head away petulantly, jaw clenched. His tone is mocking, trying to provoke you. Wanting to get you to admit you messed up. That the sole reason he is here is because you disobeyed him and are incapable of handling things on your own.

You have too much pride to admit to such a thing, but your father is not one to let you off the hook so easily. 

His hand is cold and rough as he tilts your face to his.

Piercing sapphire eyes stare down at you, pinning you in place. You're not surprised by the lack of warmth or the hint of danger you find in them. But there’s a chilling intensity to them, reminding you of the deep, vast ocean in the middle of winter. 

You fear you will drown in them.

“You’ve been out playing past your bedtime, darling,” Ymir chides in a fatherly tone while subtly glancing over your features for any signs of damage. When he finds none, his devilish smile grows wider, revealing his sharp canines. “We can’t have that now, can we?” 

As he says this, two of your father’s men appear behind him and reach out over you to rudely yank Eren from your side.

Naturally, Eren panics and calls to you for help, but you do well to neither react nor turn back to look at him. Not when your father is watching you as closely as he is. Either way, you don’t need to look behind you to know they’ve dragged Eren up the stairs to your front porch and roughly shoved him inside your house to wait for judgment.

You let them all do as they please without protest, but the same cannot be said regarding your father, and you pull away from his hold with open resentment. 

Ymir blinks, his hand hanging momentarily in the air as he acknowledges your little tantrum, but his calm demeanor remains unchanged and he drops his hand shortly after. He then straightens and beckons you forward with a crooked smile. “Come, now. We have much to discuss.”

Taking the lead, he follows his men's footsteps in the direction of your front door with the menacing grace that would make even the fiercest animal bow down to him. You throw Levi one last deadly glare in his direction before begrudgingly following after your father. 

There is no hiding how much you don’t want him here. Ymir's presence for you is degrading and belittling. Reminding you that in comparison to him, you are still nothing more than an overindulged child who had been handed guns and knives to play with like toys. And that no matter what you do, you are incapable of inflicting any real damage or bring about any real change to the family business unless he willed it first. 

But your sullen attitude doesn't seem to faze your father. Rather, he seems to find it all the more inviting—much to your great displeasure.

Making your way inside with the rest of your circle in tow, you catch sight of Eren sitting nervously in the foyer as two of your father’s men stand over him, keeping him in place. You feel his gaze on you as you walk past, but you don’t spare him a single glance. One of your father’s men stands waiting for you outside your study a few doors down, which is where you assume your father has taken station, so you head straight towards it.

You take a deep breath and exhale sharply before stepping inside. When you finally do, his guard closes the door behind you with a deafening click that leaves the room in eerie silence. The room itself is a mixture of leather chairs, fine furniture, and wooden floors—not much unlike the rest of your house—while the lamps in the room turn the lighting dim, and a warm rich yellow hue.

Your father stands near the far right of the room by your desk with his back to you, pouring himself a drink from your stash of liquor. 

As you anxiously await for him to address you first, you deliberate the best way to approach this. If you want things to play out in your favor, you need to play your cards right. You can’t afford for him to know the truth about what really happened to you this morning or all your plans involving Erwin will be ruined.

After taking a shot of his drink, Ymir places his empty glass back on the table next to your bottles of liquor, and you brace yourself.

“I thought I taught you better than to let yourself fall prey to your enemies,” your father finally says, keeping his back to you. His tone is nonchalant, but you can hear the familiar edge in his voice that tells you he is very much upset. 

“I didn’t fall prey to anything,” you reply back curtly, trying to match his casual tone, but a note of irritation remains present in your voice. “I chose to run away.”

He glimpses over his shoulder at you with a raised eyebrow. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

“It’s the truth,” you tell him sharply. “I left of my own free will.”

Your father hums in thought before slowly turning to face you. His expression still calm, but skeptical. “Then why do your people tell a different story?”

You roll your eyes with a sharp sigh, not missing a beat. “Because they only ever know what I need them to know.” You wave a dismissive hand in the air. “It’s a nuisance having to explain to them every little thing I do.”

Ymir studies you closely for a moment longer before pouring himself another drink and taking it back with him to sit at your desk. “They say you were in poor condition this morning,” he informs you, leaning back in his chair. “That you were struggling to even walk. You were advised against going out in such a state, but you refused to listen.” 

Under his hard, stern gaze —were you anyone else— you would have bent down to his will right then and there. But you were not like everyone else. And if you didn’t want things to get worse for you, you could not be the one to cave in first. 

You offer your father a tight lip smile. “Right, well as you can see…” You gesture to your fully composed self before pulling out the leather chair facing your desk to sit across from him. “I can put on quite a show.”

But your father remains unconvinced. He reaches for his drink on the desk and takes a swing at it. “Historia insists otherwise.”

“Does she now?” you mutter dryly as he goes on, leaning back in your chair.

“She claims she saw you lying on the floor in my office. Unconscious. That that’s how that boy was able to kidnap you.”

Your siren gaze locks onto him like an iron snare. “That boy was just doing as I said. I was the one who told him to make Historia believe he was taking me back here. I made him persuade her not to tell anyone so we wouldn’t be followed.”

A flicker of barely controlled fury crosses your father's face as his steely eyes narrow on you. “You left unprotected and without notice.” Slowly, he rises to his feet and leans over the desk in front of you with a low growl. “Why?” 

It takes all your willpower to hold your ground and keep your leisurely posture from shifting under his scathing look.

You shrug halfheartedly. “I was…” you start to say before trailing off as something catches your eye over your father’s shoulder, making you pause as your blood runs cold with dread. 

The dead girl in the white bloody dress stands behind your father, haunting you as if she'd never left at all.  

Your eyes nervously flicker back to your father. Did he catch the wave of panic and fear that ran through you just now? You can’t read his expression, but if he did notice something, you needed to make it seem like it had all just been a trick of the eye and not you accidentally revealing how mentally unstable you really are. 

Your father keeps staring at you, waiting. 

“I was bored,” you finally answer him, hoping your voice doesn't betray how on edge you are. 

“You were bored,” Ymir repeats flatly. He looks almost insulted that that’s the best excuse you can come up with for him. Still, he nods with a click of his tongue, and with eyes downcast in thought, stands to circle around the desk before you. 

“I’ve tasked you to maintain order within this business while I secure our future in this world,” Ymir says with a scowl, his voice deep and rough. He points to the door behind you—to the world outside. “This sector is your playground. Crime gangs, your playthings. That should be more than enough to keep you entertained.” His scowl deepens as he leans forward, gripping the sides of your chair and caging you in his arms. “What more could you possibly want?”

His close proximity has you inhaling his familiar scent—a strong mixture of whiskey, cigarettes, and sandalwood cologne that overwhelms your senses. But his words momentarily still your demons, allowing your mind to refocus as he reminds you of your ultimate goal. 

“You know what I want.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Is that why you left that little message for Erwin with that journalist’s wife?”

Your eyes gleam against the light. Hitch. 

Oh, that woman had done most beautifully. After you'd left Marlow’s household, you’d had Sasha stay behind —keeping herself to the shadows — to make sure Hitch delivered your message to Erwin as she promised she would in accordance to the deal she’d made with you. According to Sasha, Hitch did in fact wait with her sleeping daughter in her arms, in the middle of the bloodbath you and your people left behind until Erwin showed up. When Erwin finally arrived less than a half hour later, he offered Hitch and her daughter protection, as you knew he would. But much to his surprise, and your extreme delight, she out front denied him.

“You can’t protect anyone,” Hitch had spat at him before placing a blank white envelope in front of him. “The daughter of Ymir sends her regards.”

Inside the envelope was a sheet of paper with two sentences: I win. Your move. Which Sasha had assured you he’d read because he then crumpled the paper in his hands and left.

Admittedly, it had been a bold move. You had gambled it all on the love of a mother for her child, but Hitch was a smart woman. Allowing Marlow to side with Erwin had lost her her husband. She would not make the same mistake twice and risk losing her daughter the same way.

Your father's grip on the sides of your leather chair tighten as he notes the smug look on your face, bringing you back to the present. “Proud, are we?” 

But you bristle at his tone and jump to your feet, scraping the chair behind you. “I did what was necessary!” you snap back at him unapologetically, pointing at his chest. “To protect your reputation. As you told me to do.”

Ymir’s patience wears out. 

“No.” In one swift movement, Ymir reaches for your extended arm and pulls you in towards him, making you collide against his chest. “You acted out of foolishness,” he growls at you with bared teeth. “To prove a point. To put yourself on the playing field—without even thinking about the consequences. Of the delicate situation you would have put us in if things ended up getting traced back to you.”

But your father doesn’t have a firm enough hold on you. Fueled by your own anger, you easily twist free from his grip and shove him back, even though he hardly moves an inch. 

“I was careful!” you cry out with indignation. “Have you so little faith in me you think I would risk everything unless I knew the outcome with absolute certainty?” You shake your head, bitter. “You and Levi are the bloody same.”

You turn on your heels and march for the door, having had enough of his scolding.

“We are not finished,” your father says brusquely just as your hand closes on the door handle. 

You pause, hearing the warning in his tone. For a brief second, you contemplate leaving regardless, but you know it’ll just make things worse for you in the end. Reluctantly and through clenched teeth, you let your hand fall away. 

“Sit down.”

Your hands curl into fists at your side, hating the way he speaks to you. So you remain standing where you are, refusing to face him.

Ymir scoffs at your defiance as you hear him light a cigarette behind you. “I give you a small taste of power and you think yourself untouchable. But all you’ve done is prove to me you are not ready for any of it, no matter how strong or skilled you think you are.” Disappointment is laced in his voice as he blows out a smoke and adds, “Levi was right about you. You’ve grown far too impetuous and way too bloody fearless.”

Your eyes widen, enraged. “Levi?!” 

You turn and stride across the room to where your father now sits regally behind your desk, a cigarette in between his fingers. 

“Levi doesn’t know shit about me.” Not anymore. Not how he used to. “But of course, go ahead. Take his word over mine. Like you always do. What do I care.”

A small smile commandeers your father’s lips as he exhales a puff of smoke. “Oh, I don’t need to take his word for it. You’ve seen to that yourself.”

Your eyes narrow dangerously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gives you a pointed look. “This isn’t the first time you have deliberately put yourself at risk for the sake of getting what you want.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” you exclaim, exasperated. “I was never in any danger! Despite what you and Levi believe, I’m not helpless. I’m not weak. I don’t need to be protected. I can take care of myself. That’s what you trained me for all these years, isn’t it?”

Ymir's features harden. “I raised you the way I did so that I wouldn’t have to worry over you.” Your eyes follow his right hand as he moves it across the desk to tap the end of his cigarette on an ashtray. “But your actions as of late are rather concerning. I was willing to let it go, but now we have you disappearing for hours, acting recklessly and without reason.”

You shake your head and look away, frustrated. This was rendering futile. No matter what you said, your father wasn't going to believe any of it. 

“For the time being,” he goes on to add, “I want you home. Where you will be heavily monitored.”

You tense. “What?”

But Ymir continues. “You will have no control over the business. Nor will your little circle of misfits toys be obeying your every whim. They will be under orders to not let you leave the house.”

“For how long?” you ask through clenched teeth. 

Ymir shrugs and puts out his cigarette on the ashtray. “Until Levi sees fit.”

You close your eyes and exhale sharply. That manipulating son of a bitch! Nevertheless, you reign in your temper and throw the traitorous bastard to the back of your mind. You would deal with him soon enough. 

Flashing your eyes open, you focus all of your energy on your father. “This is fucking bullshit!” you tell him reproachfully. “How is any of this fair? I only did what you would’ve done.”

Ymir fixes you with a gaze dark and hard as coal. “And I need you to be better.” 

With an air of finality, he directs his attention away from you. “Call in Mr. Yeager,” Ymir orders aloud across the room to one of the guards stationed outside the door. 

You stiffen nervously as your gaze shifts to the door and then back to your father. “Why?”

Your father’s tone grows mild. “He has an interesting last name. Yeager. Don’t you think? Not very common.” But the evaluating look in your father's eye tells you he’s scheming, and you’re left feeling uneasy. He then slides his gaze over to you with a tilt of his head. “But perhaps more intriguing is this odd fascination he has for you that everyone keeps telling me about.”

Your jaw sets. “I’ve already looked into him. I told you, he’s harmless.”

Ymir raises an eyebrow. “You surprise me, daughter. Since when do you start letting your guard down around people that isn’t us?”

You scoff incredulously. “Are you serious? You’ve met the guy. You can’t seriously think he is capable of any ulterior motives—”

Your father cuts you off with a dangerous glare. “That boy did not come out of nowhere without reason and fall helplessly into your lap just to let himself be groomed by you. A wolf dressed in wool is still a wolf.”

You both slide your gaze to the door as you hear footsteps approach from the other side.

“But who knows?” your father muses ominously from behind your desk. “If he survives, we might make something out of him yet.”

You frown. If he survives?

Before you can ask anything further, the door swings open and Eren steps inside.

— 

“Mr. Eren Yeager,” Ymir says in way of greeting to the nervous looking young man making his way across the room towards him. “Take a seat.”

Eren wisely does as he’s told and sits across from your father in the same chair you had been sitting in moments before. His green eyes flick over to where you stand behind your father’s chair, but a look of indifference is all you greet him with and he flinches, disheartened.

Your father observes this exchange quietly before drawing Eren’s attention away from you. 

“You seem to be playing quite the hero for my daughter lately,” Ymir begins calmly, almost pleasantly. “Always coming to her rescue. Obeying her every whim. Giving in to her little tantrums…”

Eren promptly shakes his head. “Sir, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble—”

Ymir raises a hand to gently cut him off with a tight lip smile, sliding his icy gaze over to you. “Listening to her will always lead to trouble, I assure you.” 

You grimace and lean back against the bookshelf behind you with arms crossed, unamused.

“But…” Ymir reverts his focus back to Eren and gives him a knowing smile. “Something tells me you already know that.”

Eren doesn’t miss a beat. “I only wanted to help her,” he swears, throwing a glance at you.

But this is as much patience as Ymir is willing to offer because though his demeanor remains calm, your father's voice grows hard as steel. “You helped put her life at risk. At any given moment she was away from her guards, she could have been captured, held for ransom. Murdered. You could have led her into a trap. Betrayed her.”

Eren looks appalled. “I would never—” He turns to you for help, but your cold expression tells him not to expect anything from you so he hastily turns back to your father. “I would never do anything to hurt her.”

Ymir raises an eyebrow dubiously. “I’ve heard better lies spoken from lesser men. My wealth and success is no secret, Mr. Yeager. And people are capable of monstrous things if it means a chance at getting their hands on it.”

But this only causes Eren to withdraw back slightly in his seat, understanding clouding his expression as Eren confirms where, or rather whom, it is you’ve picked up your vindictive attitude and negative view towards the world. 

Sensing this change in him, you watch him carefully as his hands curl into fists in his lap, thinking he might give in. But then he steals a sideways glance in your direction and says pointedly, “Not all humans are monsters.”

You scowl, taking this as an invitation to come out and play.

“No,” you tell Eren none too kindly. “They’re worse.” You cock your head to the side, cruelness dripping from your voice as Eren stares back at you warily the closer you step towards him. “But not you, right? You’re the exception?”

You sense your father observing you closely from behind, wondering where you're going with this. Unaware that Eren’s words had been addressed to you and your morally grey decisions.

Your eyes narrow as you go on to say to Eren with open disdain, “In comparison to us, you’re a bloody saint, right?” 

Eren looks pained. “Anya, please—”

You cut him off and throw Ymir a wry smile over your shoulder. “How blessed are we, Father, to have a holy angel in our midst?”

But Ymir simply raises an eyebrow at you, unimpressed. As if to say, “Are you finished?” 

Lips pressed, you make an exaggerated gesture towards Eren, replying silently, “He's all yours.” 

You leave them to serve yourself a much needed drink, all the while scanning the room for any signs of that ghastly ghost of a girl. But the girl in the stained dress has remained absent ever since Eren first stepped into the room. 

You refrain from dwelling on that fact. 

Twirling the drink in your hand, you observe from afar as Ymir rises from his seat to make his way around your desk, forcing Eren’s attention back on him. He lights another cigarette in the process. 

“Mr. Yeager,” Ymir says, taking a seat at the edge of the desk in front of Eren and gesturing lazily in your direction. “Considering my daughter is standing here alive and well, I am willing to overlook today’s incident. But if this happens again, and I find you in the center of it, I promise I will not be as forgiving. So for your own sake, I advise you to keep your distance from her.”

Eren blinks up at your father in alarm, not at all expecting to hear such an order. “You want me to…?” Eren trails off as his head turns and his eyes slowly make their way across the room to where you stand. 

Your jaw clenches as you struggle to keep it together because that devastated look on his face is affecting you far more than you care to admit. So when Eren finds you taking in his reaction, you briskly turn away and walk off to the other side of the room, feeling unsteady. 

But that does little to stop him. Without thinking, Eren starts to get up, intent on reaching you to make you change your mind. Probably thinking this is a request you made that you wanted your father to fulfill. “Anya—”

Your father, however, keeps him seated, a heavy hand clasped firmly on Eren's shoulder.

“Looking after my daughter isn’t what you were hired for, Mr. Yeager,” your father reminds him coolly. “There’s no need for you to concern yourself over her.” 

And yet, despite your father’s warning undertone, Eren grows unresponsive, eyes lost in thought as he stares blankly at an invisible spot on the floor in front of him. 

Ymir cocks his head at him curiously before giving Eren's shoulder a firm shake. “Eren.” At his name, Eren slowly blinks to attention, signaling your father to press forward. “All I need from you is to keep working that charming smile of yours on my business partners and keep my company profiting.” He then gives Eren's shoulder a tight squeeze. “Fair enough?”

When Eren makes no further protest, Ymir starts to walk away to prepare himself another drink, thinking this is the end of the conversation. But Eren is far too still for your liking. And you fear the things going through his head as he then says to your father, “With all due respect, sir, but I can’t do that.”

Cold dread roots you in place as your father stops short a few feet away from your table of drinks. He stands unmoving for the longest of seconds, his back facing both you and Eren as you anxiously wait for him to respond.

Finally, Ymir gives the slightest tilt over his shoulder. “What was that now?” he asks Eren politely. 

But even with his back to you, you can hear the smile stretched on your father’s lips, and you realize this must be what your father has been goading Eren towards this whole time. 

“Stop,” you find yourself warning Eren as you try to cross the room towards him in urgent strides. “Stop talking. Now.”

But your father turns before you can reach Eren and Ymir raises a hand in your direction. That’s all he needs to do to stop you in your tracks. 

“Please continue, Mr. Yeager,” Ymir prompts, regarding Eren with a dark look in his eye that confirms your suspicions over this mysterious ploy of his. “You can’t do what exactly?”

Eren swallows nervously, but he locks eyes with your father nonetheless. “You want me to keep my distance from your daughter because you don’t trust me.” He nods once in agreement, his tone mild. “That’s fair, but…” He shakes his head with a clenched jaw. “I also can't turn my back on her.” His voice suddenly hardens, turns angry. “I won’t. Not when I know that every day her life is at risk. That the reason she’s always in danger and needs to be protected in the first place is because of the kind of businesses you run behind closed doors.” 

You slam your drink on the table beside you and lunge for Eren before your father can react. 

“Are you mad?!” you demand Eren vehemently, trying to play the role of the loyal daughter coming to her father’s defense. “You dare accuse my father—”

“Now, hold on, darling,” Ymir cuts you off, stepping in your path before you can properly get your hands on Eren. “I’d like to hear more about what Mr. Yeager has to say about the matter.”

You steal a nervous glance up at your father who keeps an arm around your middle to keep you in place. Ymir’s focus, however, never strays from Eren. 

“Why?” you demand, haughty. “He clearly has no idea what he’s talking about.”

Eren's gaze cuts to you sharply. “I know enough!” he snaps back at you, refusing to be blindsided. “I know that people walk the other way when they see any of you walking down the street. I see their fear. And I know what happens to those that threaten your family.”

You fight back a grimace, thinking now he’s really done it, as a sinister smile begins to creep up across your father's lips.

“You speak of things that can get you killed,” Ymir tells Eren before leaving your side to approach him the way a wolf sizes up its prey before going in for the kill.

Sensing his impending doom, Eren rushes to explain, “Because I think you’re making a mistake.”

“A mistake?” 

“Yes.” 

You don't miss the way Eren passes saliva down his throat as Ymir’s six foot three figure closes the gap between them. But despite your father's height tactic—which you know he enjoys exploiting to intimidate and exert his dominance over his enemies—Eren doesn’t back down. 

His voice remains steady as he tells your father, “I think I can be of better use to you if I remain by her side.”

You tsk in contempt so as to intervene. “As what? My guard dog?” You bark out a laugh. “Please. You have no survival skills whatsoever. You can’t protect anyone.”

Eren manages to look slightly smug as he turns to face you. “I saved you once before, didn’t I? I can easily do it again.”

That earns him a harsh scowl from you. “You acted out of stupidity, not skill.”

He lets out an irritated half laugh. “Then where were the rest of your ‘skilled’ guards when you needed them? I wouldn’t have had to jump in and save you if they had been doing their job in the first place.” 

Before you can argue back, Eren turns to Ymir. “Sir, her friends are too loyal to her to go against her. If she gives the word, they’ll let her do whatever she wants, even when they know it poses a threat to her life. Just look at what happened today. They let her leave the house this morning when she was struggling to even walk!”

You scoff in disbelief, your blood boiling as you sense yourself losing further control of the situation. Because what the hell was happening right now? Was this how Eren was planning on securing his bet with you? By sabotaging your relationships and forcing his way into your life so you had no way of escaping him or his moral influences? 

You turn on your father angrily, expecting him to put an end to this and back you up, only for you to find him standing a few feet away, busy pouring himself the drink Eren had interrupted him from preparing earlier before. 

“Father!” you cry out impatiently, demanding his attention. “Are you seriously going to let him keep talking about this? Tell him to fuck off already!”

“Well, actually, darling…” 

Ymir takes a languid drink of his liquor, the ice in his drink clinking against the glass with each slow and calculated step he makes back to his seat behind your desk. 

“He has a point.”

You stare at your father for a long moment, dumbfounded, before your eyes drift back to Eren and you slowly start to connect the dots. 

You shake your head, marching towards your father. “No. Absolutely not. That’s not why I brought him here!” You lean over the desk standing in between you and him. “His image is supposed to remain clean. If he’s seen in places he’s not supposed to be, working with people who—”

Ymir cuts you off with a wave. “That’s the least of my concern.” He leans back on his chair to evaluate Eren carefully from where he stands behind you. “What I want to know is just how far he’s willing to go to protect you.”

“As far as it takes,” Eren promptly answers, stepping forward. “Whatever she needs from me, I’ll do it.”

Your shoulders sag and you close your eyes in defeat as his response rewards Eren with a wicked grin from your father. “You would die for her?”

“Yes.”

Ymir raises an eyebrow. “Even…kill for her?”

A small noise of hesitation, like a strangled breath, escapes Eren's throat, snapping your eyes open. You twist towards him, noting his prolonged silence. 

Only for you to find he’s already looking at you. 

You try to look away, not wanting to get caught in those bright green eyes of his, but your body won’t cooperate. The way he’s looking at you is unnerving. Like he’s able to see past all your jagged edges and metal armor into the weary soul buried within.

Perhaps he can, because his eyes do not leave you as he answers your father with vast conviction, “If it meant saving her life, yes.”

You falter, breaking free from his gaze, as you feel something heavy unfurl in your stomach, and it takes you a moment to understand it's guilt. To hear that Eren would allow himself to be corrupted for your sake…

Your father laughs, deeply amused. “What deep devotion you spark in the hearts of men, Anya! Such bravery!” 

His words cause you to flinch, but Ymir doesn't seem to notice. “You reckon he'd still feel the same way,” your father questions, “if I told him of all the countless hearts you’ve collected and buried deep underground?” You freeze, the color draining from your face as Ymir adds, “Of all the blood and death that follows wherever you go?”

You watch Eren’s expression fall, turn woeful, as he lowers his gaze to the floor, unable to look at you anymore.  

“You did not know, did you?” Ymir asks Eren cruelly. “Of the murderous little creature she really is.” 

Not wanting to hear Eren’s answer, you turn to your father angrily. “What is even the point of this? He’s not actually going to take part in—”

Eren cuts you off. “It doesn't matter,” he says tersely, trying to force himself to believe what he's saying, that he really doesn't care. And yet, he cannot control the unsteadiness you hear in his voice. Or the troubled look displayed across his face, expressing how much he’s struggling to override his moral code. 

Your father notices it too. “Oh?” he asks Eren curiously. “It doesn’t, now?” 

You try to step in, wanting to put an end to this. “Father—” 

But Ymir is far from finished. With Eren still positioned on the opposite side of your desk from Ymir, your father leans towards him in his chair with keen fascination. 

“Then you think someone like her—” He gestures to you standing to his right with an open hand. “—someone of her nature… is worth signing away your life for?” 

Against your better judgement, you steal a glance over at Eren anxiously, awaiting his response. 

He wouldn't agree to this. He couldn’t. Because despite what your father believes, Eren is very much aware of the kind of monster you are. You’ve killed in front of him, threatened his life countless of times. Plus, the only reason he told your father he knew what happened to people who betrayed your family was no thanks to you. Eren was distraught after learning what you’d done to Marlow. He wouldn't stake his life for someone capable of something like that. You were sure of it. 

And yet…

Eren straightens, squares his shoulders. “She’s important to you, Sir,” Eren answers your father evenly, staring him down. “So, yes.” His eyes then lock with yours. “I believe she’s worth protecting.”

You stare at Eren in shock, completely taken aback, until you glimpse over at your father smiling up at him. As if what Eren said is exactly what he wanted to hear. 

You turn away, feeling sick. 

Ymir proceeds, oblivious to your growing restlessness. “Very well, Mr. Yeager. If you are so highly familiar with the framework of my organization, then you must know that if you do this, and you pledge your loyalty to us, there will be no going back.” With his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, Ymir claps his hands together like a businessman ready to seal a deal. “Do you understand that?” 

Eren nods earnestly. “I have nothing left to lose.” 

Your father glimpses over Eren's shoulder to where you stand glaring at him and Eren from afar, quietly seething. “Then you have your work cut out for you.” 

Eren remains undeterred as he starts towards you expectantly, eyes glistening with joy. In his mind, he thinks he's won. Your father has granted him the permission and freedom to remain closer to you, which is what he wanted. 

But you instantly draw back, maintaining your distance. 

Eren halts, confused, and you ball your hands into fists at your sides. Hating how completely unaware he is of the triumphant grin plastered across your father's face behind him. Of the conniving plan your father surely has in store for him that will most likely cost him his life.

You shake your head at Eren with a look that’s equal parts pity and disappointment. “You’ve just made the worst mistake of your life.”

Before he can ask you anything more, you turn on your heels and storm out of the room. Overwhelmed with how trapped and powerless you feel. Because you can't shake off the reality of what's just happened. Of how, out of the three of you standing in that room, the only person walking out of there victorious here tonight was your father.  

—

As you walk out of your study, the two guards standing outside the door join Eren and your father inside. 

Not expecting your father to call you back in, but wanting to create distance between him incase he does, you make your way out of the hallway. As you try to slip away undetected, you catch a glimpse of your cadre waiting for you in the living room, looking concerned. But it's not them you're on the hunt for. You need to regain some sense of control again, and to face them now will only serve as a reminder that you in fact are not. 

Unfortunately, Mikasa spots you first before you get the chance to make your getaway. “Anya! What happened?” she asks, coming to join you in the hallway. “Is everything alright?”

But it appears the events of tonight have begun to mess with your mind because all it takes is Mikasa’s Ackerman blood and resembling grey eyes to have you seeing Levi instead. The hallucination lasts only seconds, but it's enough to trigger you. 

Mikasa draws back as your siren eyes, red with irritation, zero in on her. But it's too late for her now. 

“Is everything alright?” you repeat dryly, taking predatory steps towards her. “Yeah, everything’s bloody brilliant! No thanks to your stupid cousin. It was him, wasn't it? He went running off to my father like a bloody snitch and exaggerated everything to make him come down here and investigate.” You reach out and yank her collar to pull her towards you. “Do you have any idea what this has cost me?”

Nimble footsteps sound behind you that might otherwise have gone unheard of if your senses weren’t as sharp and highly trained as they were. 

“So then what would you have had us do?” Comes Sasha’s fiery retort. “Twiddle our thumbs and do nothing?”

You release Mikasa from your hold as you slide your attention over to Sasha and the rest of your circle who have followed behind her into the hallway. 

Sasha faces you with arms crossed and a deep scowl on her face. “We thought the worst. You were gone for hours, and with no word from you—”

“That’s the fucking problem!” you exclaim in frustration. “Why? Why do you all suddenly doubt me? I always say I’m fine, don’t I? That I’ve got everything under control. But no one fucking listens to me!”

Connie bristles, stepping forward. “If you had just let us know you were leaving—let anyone know where you were really going—this wouldn't have happened!”

Your eyes pierce him like daggers. “If I had wanted you to know, I would have told you.”

“Anya,” Jean calls to you softly then, surprising you with the amount of hurt you hear in his voice.

Still, you turn to him irritably, expecting more retaliation. But when you find nothing but weariness on his face, his eyes soft and pleading, you feel like someone has suddenly doused you in a bucket of ice, cooling you down instantly. 

“How can you still not trust us?” Jean asks you with a level of pain that ruins you. “We’ve been by your side for years. We do everything you ask. We don’t question you because we trust you. We will do anything for you, just as you've done for us.”

“You don't have to keep everything all to yourself,” Mikasa adds gently beside a remorseful looking Historia. “Let us carry the burden of your sins with you.”

For the briefest second, your anger and frustrations subside as your heart caves in to them, and it's like you can finally breathe again. 

The bond you share with these people is a strange, but powerful one. Before you met them, you'd always carried with you this inexplicable sensation. Like you were searching for something, or someone, and that feeling never fully went away. It wasn't until you finally crossed paths and laid eyes on them that you knew with absolute certainty they were the ones you were searching for, the ones you were meant to find. 

But the moment is cut too short. 

From the corner of your eye, you catch sight of your father's men begin to approach your circle from down the hall. And with a clenched jaw, you stifle down the blinding rage that burns within you as you’re forced to watch them round up your people and start shoving them out the front door.

“Oi! What are you doing? Get off!” your cadre protest in alarm as you lean against a pillar near the front entrance, needing to see them off in a seemingly unbothered fashion. 

“Oh, but haven't you heard?” you inform your cadre mildly amidst their confusion, folding your arms across your chest to keep your hands from drawing out your weapons and attacking your father's men. “My father has relieved you all of my command. You don't take orders from me anymore.” 

Their stunned expressions is the last thing you see before your father's guards slam the door in their faces. Once they station themselves at the door, they finally turn to face you. One of them gives you a wolfish grin. 

“Off to bed, princess,” he says mockingly. “You’re under curfew now.” 

But your deadpan gaze wipes their stupid grins clean off their faces as they catch a glimpse of the danger lurking within, reminding them that you are not someone to be taken lightly. Something your father had failed to do. 

Ymir was free to take everything away from you as he pleased. Everything, except your cadre. For better or worse, they had chained themselves to you. They were yours to keep and protect and command as you willed. Your father could not have them.

“Tell my father,” you say to his guards darkly, “if he thinks I’m going to take this all quietly, he is sorely mistaken.” 

Leaving them to their post, you head upstairs in search of the man responsible for causing all this mess. You had seen Levi come inside with everyone else so you knew he was somewhere inside the house. The rooms you'd walked past in the hallway downstairs were all empty so you’re safe to assume he’s in his room upstairs. 

As you climb the last set of stairs and round the corner leading to his bedroom, you can feel the fatigue of this day begin to catch up to you, urging you to turn back and rest. But the level of rage burning inside you was overflowing. It needed an outlet, and you were about to give it one. 

[faerunsbest]

Strange Choices

soo remember how i said i really like arranged marriage au's?

well i did it again

but with astarion

Cazadors plan was strange, but also so was the city and it grew stranger yet. Steel titans patrolling the streets had halted their outings. These titans that didn't sleep, didn't eat, didn't tire and seemed not to have a notable blind spot. Astarion stood in line with his siblings, listening. Though from the corner of his eye, he could still see the healing scars of a moment that nearly ended Petras. Cazadors voice droned, sickly and strangely sweet. The others had eyes wide with a thrill Astarion couldn't share in. something nagged at the back of his head, sank deep in the pit of his stomach. This was as all things do, going to end badly.

The plan as he understood it was to find another simpler, more streamlined way to bring bodies in, to spread Cazadors reach. It needed to be worthwhile but quick.

A few well placed weddings simple quick things and he immediately had his teeth in the wealthiest in the city. Immediately he would have access to secrets and passages, he would have a way around those watchers.

After that he needed one more thing, a place out of sight to bring it all together.

Each spawn would be assigned a spouse, they would worm their way into the families in whatever way worked best and take everything. As a reward for all this he would allow them to feed on that spouse. not quite freedom but... close enough.

Cazador leaned over Leon first, whispering in his ear. Where to go, what to do and how to do it. He left in the finest attire he'd worn in years, feigning confidence as he strolled out into the night. next up, Dalyria and Violet. Were it not for the scar healing on his face, Petras would have been next.

A day then a week and Cazador bristled at every movement until the day They all came back with delirious spouses in tow. The massive double doors opened one more time, this time Yousen and Aurelia dragged along another one.

A woman with steel blue skin, long pink hair dark in the shade but bright as tulips as moonlight flitted across it. She glowered, sagging with exhaustion and apparently some form of concussion. Cazador smiled down at her

"You're the one in the old chapel?"

"It's a monastery you cuck-"

Astarion tried not to smile as she hissed through her teeth, Cazador stepped closer to her pausing only when she spat.

" Yousen, take her -to her chambers. We can deal with her later."

Not moments later the door burst open revealing an absolutely furious looking nobleman, an older man with frazzled blond hair. He stood outraged in the doorway marching forward and pointed at Yousen and his…guest.

“Get your filthy hands off my WIFE!”

Cazador raised an eyebrow before smiling slyly at the man.

“I believe you are mistaken-”

Before anything could be said she whipped her arm away from Yousen and yelled.

“WHO ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT - I KNOW ITS NOT BE YOU UPPER CRUST FUCK!”

He marched over not seeming to notice the filth around them, focused entirely on her.

“Now woman I have been more than patient with you and your nonsense but THIS is quite enough! You’ve been seen on your way here like some harlot-”

She put her hands on her hips and looked around.

“You are a deeply troubled man if that's what you think is happening here.”

The man marched toward Cazador and almost yelled.

“Why have you brought her here?”

“To be married of course- as she’s not registered anywhere as anyone's wife at this time. I intended to fix that of course.”

The man gasped, hand on his chest as he stepped back. Now he looked around in horror at the people and the place.

“She would sooner eat rats than be trapped in this hovel with any of you! You are NOT telling me she is here to marry THAT!?”

He looked at Yousen in disgust,the woman in question marched up and swiped a rat that had been scuttling across the filth laden tile.

“You’re right I’m here for that one-”

She thumbed over her should at Astarion who simply smiled at the intruder. They watched as she bit the rat, ripped its head off with her teeth and spat it at the man.

“So, that enough for ya? Cause I dont wanna hear shit from you ever again.”

He seemed frozen in place, horrified at the small speckle of rat blood across his face. She tossed its body at her feet and turned around to leer at Astarion.

“Husband, show me my chambers.”

As the pair marched off down the hall they could hear the man cursing in hysterics as he seemed to near run out of the place.

“That was my only chance to get out wasn’t it?”

“Yes it was darling but what a show that was- Now I for one applaud you.”

“What are the chances I have a window?”

“None at all darling… none at all.”

[letiel]

Shelter - Destiny AU

The bell behind the statue of Lord Jolder harbored the soft echo of Kai’s breath on every slow exhale. It amplified the shuffle of his boots on chilled stone. Each sigh carried to its mighty crown, expanded into an ethereal weight before settling back onto his beleaguered shoulders.

It was hard to tell how long he had been there, as still as the statues, emulating their eternal, silent vigil. The braziers were as cold as they had been for a century. Even for the sake of shelter, ceremony and respect kept Kai in the dark. This was a holy place, every bit a mausoleum as it was a temple, dedicated to the greats who came before, in whose footsteps Kai had been trained. Even if he hadn’t met them himself, their stories and memories were a lifeline to his tired soul.

He hadn’t known where else to go.

Sitting in silence, mourning in quiet contemplation… lost.

Erebus had said nothing since they left, however long ago that may have been. The Ghost needed its own alone time to gather its thoughts, process its feelings. They hadn’t agreed on the decision Kai had made, and in the wake of tragedy, Erebus was having a hard time finding the right words for its Guardian.

Kai didn’t react when the creak of the mountain rent the air, the mighty stone doors of the sanctuary opening like a maw in the mountainside. A glow from the hallway warmed the space, spreading the light of the distant sun to terracotta and gravestone. He didn’t react when he heard the heavy footsteps, nor the pitter patter of paw pads in the dust. The sound echoed around the circular chamber, danced with the carvings, and played with the bells.

He only looked up from his daze when a nose sniffed along his boots, his knees, and then his face. The wolf’s amber eyes were an island of color in a dull place, surrounded by gray fur. It curiously licked his face and he slowly reached up to run his fingers through the dense fur of its ruff. It licked him again and then lost interest, moving on as a beam of white, artificial light swept along his balcony shelter and settled on his face.

Kai squinted and held a hand up to protect his eyes. His hood protected one but the other strained to see the offending party. The light apologetically lowered to the floor beside him, and his eyes adjusted with a few blinks.

Lord Saladin, Kai’s former mentor, towered above him, watching Kai from behind his helmet’s visor. He was a relic himself, one of two Iron Lords that remained and the keeper of Felwinter Peak. They studied each other in silence, wallowing in the weight of their mutual exhaustion, the understanding of near immortal suffering, and the absence of pity.

Kai wasn’t sure what Saladin saw looking down at him. He wasn’t sure what the Titan thought nor how he wanted to feel being perceived without his Mark or heavy armor. Was there life left to see in his eyes? Was he as ashen and empty as he felt deep in his chest?

The legend shifted the weight of his machine gun so he could kneel and put a hand on Kai’s shoulder reassuringly. He squeezed once, stood, and then walked on with his pack in tow.

The minutes passed, and then the darkness of the mountain settled in once more. Silence fell like snow on the peaks. The soft ring of the bells stilled.

And Kai was, once more, alone.

He took a deep breath and felt the lingering of Saladin’s touch on his shoulder, a point of warmth in frozen stillness.

And time resumed its endless march towards healing.

[scorchrend]

HEAR ME OUT i keep thinking about (heavy sv spoilers check readmore)

ok so like. hear me out. what if. AI Arven.

so the prof is off makin themself an assistant already. boom, knowledge programming stuff added. time to add the voice bank and (ding) its a voicemail from arven! and its like Please mail me back and the prof is like Hooooly shit. and Boom ai arven.

prof dies around 1 year before sv in this au so its like. the arven is 1 year younger than current arven due to no updates anymore

so getting into contact with director clavell probably uses email. no call. sends fabricated identification stuff as proof, sends over research findings etc to not be sussed out but then the mc comes in with the 'raidon and hes like email Hey. Put me through to that kid. I need to discuss something. Let's call. and the mc is like damn. prof cant even video call!

and its like this throughout the game. except ai arven is probably less cryptic abt it. blah blah same or greater knowledge than the prof but arven personality. well. as much personality that can be extrapolated from voicemails and emails and texts

but come the 5th titan battle and ur with og arven and the call comes and is like. we need to talk. come to area zero. still no camera. arven is like Wtf what Voice. i need to find out. are you coming little buddy. yea.

THENN TOWARDS THE END AT THE FAREWELL ai arven wouldnt want to go to either the past or the future so i have 3 ideas.

and then bla bla area zero trip mostly the same until boom open the zero lab and the paradox pokemon out but out comes the.. prof??? NO TIME TO TALK. STOP THE POKEMON. then the rest plays same except the whole gang is present and arven is like What the fuck wheres professor (alias here) and ai arven is like Nawh thats me sorry buddy. anyways we need to destroy this time machine.

suck it up and go time travel idiot. for the good of paldea

explode himself. goodbye. sayonara.

actually fuck this (explodes the time machine. there is now a crater in the crater.) ok haha im chill now lets go (the group walks out with an extra arven in tow)

yeah thats it

edit: as of rn his alias is "olive" but may be subject to change. tagging ai arven shit under "assistant professor olive" like its his full name LMFAOO

[amywritesthings]

I think I would legit read anything you write. Levi, Armin, Erwin, Eren, you name it. Do you have any other books in the works after Press 4 is done?

Thank you, wow!! This makes me so happy. Admittedly I never thought I'd be writing any AOT fics outside of silver underground, so the fact that people seem to dig my modern AUs really opens up a window of ideas!

I guess I can list out the names of people I have potential ideas for? These are wips or in my phone notes for 'upcoming stories'.

ARMIN

I'm working on outlining a summer vacation romcom (4-5 parts?) where Armin is at the Jaeger shore house and he has a summer romance with a girl he meets for the week. Very reverse Grease, where Armin's the Sandy and the reader is much less reserved.

A modern college au revolving Titan Fraternity. It’s a super complicated ‘Armin really likes reader but Eren also likes her but only because he really wants to get into Titan frat but she secretly likes Armin who doesn't want to step on anyone's toes’ – messy fun. I actually teased it here in a drabble called 'did i cross a line' !!

Sweet Nothing - a long AOT-based fic following Armin in the cadets with reader and watching them grow up through the war. Slow burn, very sweet and angsty.

A polycule fic... possibly Armin/Eren/Reader? Maybe Armin/Mikasa/Reader? Maybe Armin/Jean/Reader?

ANNIE

I can't believe I've never written wlw on this blog, but now that I know my audience loves my Annie, I'd love to give her her own little shining fic! I'd love to do a 'coming back to your hometown of Marley' fic where you ~yearned for your best childhood friend but you weren't brave enough to act on it until you were an adult.

LEVI

A short romcom inspired by the Wedding Destination movie where Reader & Levi both show up for Hange’s wedding stag as two miserable little shits who hate weddings - and each other, but misery loves company (dun dun dunnnn) -- this could also work for an Erwin fic, too, but I'm not really an Erwin girlie

A modern retelling / twist for silver underground (you guys all know about this one tho, that's still tbd)

EREN

A short series similar to 10 Things I Hate About You or like a romantic 90s comedy where the reader and Eren are fake dating to get Grisha off of Eren’s back (and subsequently reader’s back) and you know how the trope goes.

NON-AOT ANIME IDEAS

jujutsu kaisen: tokyo homecoming is still a longfic i'd like to do for satoru gojo. (teen friends turned colleagues, enemies to lovers)

jujutsu kaisen: i plan to continue operation battlepass where choso kamo falls in love with someone's voice (ha!) over xbox playing games with yuuji and his online buddies, so yuuji takes it upon himself to find her with megumi and nobara in tow. you can read part one here!

wind breaker: an 'uptown girl' inspired fic where umemiya has a secret girlfriend none of the boys know about because she's from a well to-do family and he's definitely not, very sweet west side story esque story with furin boy shenanigans.

my hero academia: a fake dating as pro heroes for publicity fic, tbd on who it would be for (probably bakugo? since i think he'd need the most PR help for good will points. but also toshinori bc that is my honey booboo babe)

[hrodvitnon]

Here's a little fun(?) scenario for you.

The setting: we've got an alternate timeline where the Titan attacks on Hawaii, Vegas and San Francisco in 2014 never happened. In the 2020s, the Titans are still more or less asleep, the public is still none the wiser to monsters being real, and Monarch is still in its dusty, "retreaux" aesthetic from the 2014 film and Kong: Skull Island. Also, Joe Brody is still alive and he's been a Monarch operative for years.

Then Monarch and the world are thrown into global calamity which sets fire to the masquerade, when multiple active Titans spontaneously appear around the world, both familiar and not familiar.

None of these Titans are the ones native to THEIR world: it's a bunch of Titans from various alternate Abraxasverse universes that have all been summoned to this universe, and they begin gathering into two factions.

On the Hero/Protector faction, we've got:

Abraxas/Monster X from Abraxas canon

Godzilla from the Genocide Route future timeline

Mechagodzilla from the Unpossessed!Mechagodzilla universe, with his world's Ren in tow

Biollante!Madison from the Biollante!Maddie universe

Weredragon!Vivienne from the Dragon AU

And the bad guys are:

Five-headed Ghidorah (Ichi, Ni, San, Vivienne as Shi, Madison as Go) from the Shi AU's Go Timeline

Ni-Emma Russell hybrid creature from the Shi AU post-epilogue

Rodan from the Apex Wins universe (this version of Rodan is covered in scars and very embittered from what an Apex-led humanity did to him and the other Titans for years, which makes him even more susceptible to Go!Ghidorah's enthralling than he already was)

Oh, cool! Interesting that Genocide Route Goji's on the protector side, but considering canonically he's attuned enough to the Earth that he can probably recognize this is not his world that any thoughts of nuking humanity will be stalled, especially considering what the opposition is. Go Timeline Ghidorah (most of them anyway) might realize the potential slaughters that come with them finding a way to control multiverse travel.

Monster X/Abraxas, Bio!Maddie and Dragon Vivi I figure will all understandably be confused and horrified by the implications going on (to say nothing of the enemy faction); maybe Dragon Vivienne is especially scared because something like Go Timeline Ghidorah could very easily kill her, which could lead to an almost Rurouni Kenshin-styled "I can't die! Someone I love is waiting for me!"

But regardless of what happens we all know who will save the day: Joe Brody!

[zyukan]

Wouldn’t it be funny if in a Reverse!Robins AU, the adoption order is still the same.

Dick, 9, just lost his parents was taken in as Bruce Wayne first adoptee. Now here is where things get a little more. Sketchy.

Maybe a year into getting Dick and having Robin, Bruce stumbles across Jason, aged 13 and decides to take him in as well as per the usual storyline. But now that Dick’s the younger brother, he’s not too psyched about getting an older brother, especially one who looks like would be a replacement. This would create tension between the boys, but since Jason is older, he makes the first move and probably put in effort to get to know Dick better and would also be more tolerant of course. He’d probably also be hyper-vigilant against Bruce for the first couple of days since he’s seen things on the streets and rich men don’t take in young boys so easily, with no strings attached.

Dick warms up to him eventually, and they become great friends. Of course, soon enough Jason is clamouring to join the crusade, and cites that since ROBIN is so much younger, shouldn’t Jason also be allowed to help? Batman capitulates as per usual and thus comes in Hood cuz he let Robin name him and Dick wanted matching names. Get it? “Robin” and “Hood”. XD

Dick still starts the Teen Titans, while Jason mostly sticks to himself, going on occasional missions with the titans and stuff. The team finds it hilarious how Robin bosses his big brother around cuz he’s “more experienced”.

A few years pass and Dick is now 12, Jason is 15, when 19-year-old Tim Drake knocks on their door and starts talking about Owls of all things and how they’re gearing up to kidnap Dick to be their “Gray Son” whatever that means. Batman is put on alert, Dick is benched/sent to the Teen Titans. Tim starts laying out all the evidence and it’s as they are finishing up the arrests that Batman offers (ofc he knew Tim’s home life but since he’s technically legal, can’t really do anything about it), to let Tim stay at the manor for the foreseeable future. Tim rejects it, but eventually, over time and Dick’s persistent curiosity, Tim starts spending time at the manor and now Dick has 2 older brothers. Tim becomes maybe Drake? Idk but he’d probably more a tech specialist rather than fighting front lines since he’s had less time to learn how to fight, even if he’s taken a few self-defence classes when he was younger.

Of course, another couple years, Dick is 14, Jason is 17, Tim is 21, and suddenly Bruce is confronted with his 23-year-old biological son, Damian Wayne, who’s been on the run from the League of Assassins for the past two years and had managed to finally reach Gotham where the league would not be able to touch him. And in tow, is Cassandra, who is 18, and had helped him escape. They met as teens and both decided that the assassin life wasn’t for them. It took a years of planning but they managed to escape and reach the Bat. Damian, on principle, hates both Tim and Jason for usurping his rightful place. He wants to hate dick, but dick reminds him of all the small animals he had taken care of and then had to ruthlessly dispose of so he has a soft spot for Dick; Dick, of course, takes ruthless advantage of this and acclimated Damian to surprise hugs and the like very quickly. Cassandra takes a while more, but with her expertise in body language, she trusts them much quicker than Damian did.

Dick is so smugly satisfied that now he has so many older siblings to boss around since he’s still the “most experienced” in the vigilante business…

Might continue this thread, but pls someone, write me a fic of this idea. I’m begging. If not I might have to resort to feeding myself… TnT

[dankusner]

BIG LITTLE

THE FIRST TIME I saw Big Little, I was sitting at the Au Bon Pain on Newbury Street reading manuscripts for my college internship.

He rolled past on his way somewhere like a 1953 Mercedes-Benz Ponton.

I say this not because I know anything about cars, but because after some Googling, it's the model that most closely captures the uniquely distributed bulk of his boxy body — the impossible curves of his torso that looked like inflated steel, the art deco arcs of his traps and pecs that stretched his shirt, the generous shelf of his epic butt.

Big Little was a short, stout, auspiciously swole Atlas of a man, and he carried his amplitude wim the waddling gait of a gorilla, his thick arms flared out and resting atop cushiony lats that tested the stretch of his polo, his eyes fixed in a steely forward glare, determined to never be the one looking.

Such a spectacle was Big Little's body that it seemed to tow its own gravity behind it, slowing time through the seized attentions of a wake of rubberneckers who turned to watch him pass like a parade float.

I was one of them.

Up until mis moment I had known Big Little only by his screen name on several of the burgeoning selection of gay dating websites springing up in the late 1990s and early 2000s.

I'd spotted him on Bear41 1, an online hub geared specifically toward the "bear" subculture of bigger, hairier, and purportedly more masculine gay men, and on BigMuscleBears.com, a far more rigidly curated platform for semi-separatist "musclebears" (for whom size matters on multiple levels).

And I'd only known his body as a suite of scruffy JPEGs — a snap of him at a pool party, coyly peeking through his Oakley sunglasses over his pumped trap; a supple black-and-white studio shot, Big Little twisting and flexing like a young Sandow; the requisite perspective shot from the viewer's hypothetical knees, a furrow-browed Big Little glaring disdainfully down over the massive crag of his chest.

His were the first pictures I ever dragged into a misleadingly titled folder on my shitty Compaq.  

But here he was, materialized before me as a mountain of muscle.

Seeing him in three full dimensions was somethjng else entirely.

Since starting college, I'd joined a gym — a fusty Gold's in the shadow of Fenway Park — but working out alone sucked.

I hated the bony body that followed me around in the mirror, and I felt relentlessly defeated by my own igno­rance of what I was supposed to do.

(It would be another three years or so before You Tube and its deluge of virtual trainers would arrive.)  

I found myself returning solely to pantomime exercise while stealing clumsy glances at the reliable crew of titans that assembled there each morning.

They were a trusty trio of bodybuilders in full throwback regalia: baggy zebra-print Zubaz tucked into red high-tops reserved for gym use; neon shredders (i.e., T-shirts reduced to torso-baring rags) and string tanks emblazoned with flexing avatars of other gyms; headbands and du-rags and knee wraps and wrist straps.

They stalked the dumbbell area, guarding benches and spotting each other, chugging gulps of bright pink pre-workout formulas from repurposed gallon jugs (meant to give lifters a high-octane kick of caffeination before exercising).

I watched them from what felt like a safe distance, trying to piece their routines together into something I understood, but it was like learning a language from across the room.

Hence my awed silence when Big Little rolled by — an event I soon realized took place every weekday afternoon while I was reading manu­scripts at the Au Bon Pain, and which kept me faithful to my internship.

l claimed a sidewalk table each day simply for the promise of the passing of his celestial body-and the brute force of his indifference. 

The second place I saw Big Little he was for sale: Contestant #11 at the New England Bears’ Bachelor Auction at the 119.

Unmarked and tucked behind Boston Garden, the 119 was the only gay bar i felt remotely

comfortable dragging my barely decloseted body into.

At twenty-three, I moved through these spaces like a ghost, visible only to a select few who didn't require me to have a built body which, at the 119, was exactly nobody.

The bar was teeming with men in Bruins hats, leather vests, and stonewashed jeans.

Big Little took the stage to wild applause, a last-minute entry to the auction.

He’d grown and tightly cropped a little goatee that seemed to function in tandem with a precisely selected trucker cap.

He was shirtless, the wedge of his torso in stark contrast to the more amply bellied bachelor contestants and regulars, their guts and fur an ostensible fuck-you to the dominant glossy muscleboy mold of 1990s gay culture.

Some have speculated that bear culrure fully emerged in the 1980s as a bodily response to the AIDS crisis — the big, burly body appearing as a tacit assurance of health.

Others credit its origins to a broader reclamation of traditional masculinity by gay men who didn't align with the stereotypically feminine tropes associated with gay life, or who sought to actively subvert the heterosexual monopoly on muscularity.

The aesthetically specific dress-coded "Leather and Levi's" bars that gained popularity through the 1980s evolved into an intricate global network of bear and leather clubs and organizations, complete with chapters and bylaws.

Imagine a much sluttier Elks.

It was this fraternal aspect of beardom that made me feel-even as a terrified, trembling baby gay — that even I could find a place with its extensive taxonomy of subcategories.

By the 119's presiding "bear" standards, and in the nomenclature of capital-B Bear culture, I was somewhere between a "cub" and an "otter," but barely much of either.

On the auction block of the stage, Big Little was visibly bigger that he been had the last time I'd spotted him just a few weeks prior.

His pecs were more pert, his nipples almost comically conic, the meat of his arms more articulated.

The top edge of a fresh jockstrap artfully peeked over the waistband of his Silver Tabs — a discontinued cut that, I'd come to learn, were the only Levi's capable of accommodating his ass.

He tried to restrain a smile as the men around me held up bills and hollered bids.

He waved appreciatively as he earned the night's highest price (a hundred something) and the winner claimed a dinner date with him-along with the responsibility of covering whatever overage the gift , certificate inevitably wouldn't.

He slid a hand behind my head and guided me into the huddle of a deep, scratchy kiss that tasted like the wet iron of his sweat and the synthetic coconut of his sunscreen.

"Need a ride home?''

Big Little's brownstone studio apartment, where he took me instead, was like a diorama of his multitudes.

The lace curtains in his bay windows were light enough to dance in a breeze, but were also, I would learn, heavy with symbolism — tattered battle flags from a repressive Irish Catholic upbringing that had pushed him into silent excellence and enduring suffering.

An Ivy League-trained architect, he filled his modest parlor with bulky Victorian furnishings and its walls with large framed lithographs — antique maps of Rome, detailed studies of various palazzi, even some of his own drawings of the sturdy Colonial homes that were his specialty.

The floor, meanwhile, was strewn with damp tank tops and threadbare jockstraps from his twice-daily workouts.

Big Little loved donning the roughneck regalia of the guys who had probably pushed him around as a kid in Worcester in the 1980s, appropriating their shredder Ts, branded bandanas, and tacky sunglasses.

His kitchen was cluttered with funky-smelling shaker cups left unrinsed from his thrice-daily protein shakes.

The fridge had nothing but a Brita, a gallon of milk, some pizza, and a few fresh vials of Trenbolone neatly lined up in the butter caddy.

The most prominent feature of the apartment were the mirrors.

A full-length was propped against a wall, facing a lushly upholstered chaise; another leaned on the opposite wall by the bed, the headboard of which, I discovered as he threw me on the mattress, was a mirror too.

At first I imagined this array was part of a sensible strategy to acid an illusory dimension of grandeur to the tight space of his studio. But within a few minutes of him crawling on top of me, I realized that the mirror was where Big Little actually lived.

Sex with Big Little was, in fact, an elaborately staged performance complete with sets, costumes, lines, and the unbroken attention of his reflection, an audience of one.

While I was blissfully buried under his 175 pounds, which he liked to rest on top of me as dead weight until I had to "tap out," he'd watch the scene in the mirror.

("Am I crushing you with my weight?" he'd ask, out of caution for my sake and confirmation for his.)

Or he'd sit up, straddle me at the waist, and flex for his own admiration, my slim arms reaching up, pale references for him to gauge

the swell of his own.

Or he'd hold me by the back of the neck and drag my face around his body like a gym towel.

Or he'd stand us both up and pose us in the standing mirror in the living room:

"Look how fucking tiny you are compared to me," he'd say.

"You ever think a big fuck like me would pick you up?"

"No."

I remember a little crease cracking his brow when I said that, as though he'd spotted someone else in our reflection, but only for a second.

"That's right, you didn't."

The next few dozen times I saw Big Little were split pretty evenly between eating, lifting, and fucking.

Sometimes he wanted a companion to watch him clean the plates of the breakfast special at Mike's, where piles of salty thick-cut ham came atop an oversized heap of home fries and extra eggs.

The act of eating for Big Little was intended as a public spectacle, an intentional distraction for his fellow diners, a display of his animal appetite.

(And I'm certain he savored the irony of his comparably waify brunch date, barely able to finish my western omelet.)

Other times, Big Little wanted me to tag along to the gym with him.

In exchange for him playing coach, I'd snap shirtless beefcake shots of him under the good light when he was sufficiently shiny and the basement barbell room was empty.

Other times he just wanted to hook up, which felt less like sex than an essential component of his workout — a posing performance, proof of his pump.

We'd fuck to Bach and he'd flex as he finished, hardening into marble for a moment, striking a classical pose for the headboard.

Or we'd fuck to Bowie, "Boys Keep Swinging" on repeat:

Life is a pop of the cherry / When you're a boy.

"Don't you love being a boy?" he'd say, mashing my head into the pillow and glaring at himself.

He took to texting me video clips from You Tube — his new addiction of off-season bodybuilders posing in their gym mirrors, deep into their "bulking phases," the curves of their bodies plumped and pumped.

"WANT," he'd offer as caption, with the understanding that "want" was used in the most general and all-encompassing sense.

Or he'd send me videos of himself working out, glossy with sweat, doing sets of heavy shrugs, his traps as big as softballs, the column of his neck compressing like a pack of hot dogs on the back of his head.

The gym would always be pumping some awful peak-hour club anthem, but he'd have his earbuds in and an iPod shuffle clipped to the strap of his tank top, blasting angsty misspelled mid-aughts nu metal like Korn and Staind.

Every time I saw Big Little, he looked bigger and I felt smaller.

One time he summoned me to his apartment a few days shy of Halloween to see the makings of his costume.

He'd shaved his head and trimmed his beard down to a little mustache, its tips tapered into waxy curlicue.

He'd found a vintage one-piece swimsuit that he'd slashed into a singlet and that strained to contain his nearly 300 pounds.

He'd even fashioned a stunt chain for breaking as a party trick.

He was, all at once, Sandow and Schwarzenegger, Atlas and Cutler, the Farnese Hercules and some anonymous a·ick from one ofTom's orgasmic sketches — a body built from generations of archetypes, bursting at the seams.

And while Big Little was the rugby player, after a while our encounters started to leave me feeling more like the prop: the , 50-pound weakling volunteering for the kicked sand of semi-regular sex so that the bully could feel bigger.

And, to be clear, this wasn't a dynamic I resisted — I'd fib to my boss at the office where I worked and cross town in the middle of a busy workday to experience the thrill ride of Big Little's body for a few fleeting minutes, fortified by an unconscious assurance that I wasn't entirely powerless in the arrangement.

Our bodies gave each other fleeting flashes of meaning.

It was only through me that Big Little could see himself.

(And only wiith my assistance that he could reach Im ass with the needle.)

I was too young to understand how deeply Big Little suffered from body dysmorphia.

Too young to even know what it was — or that a germ of it was starting to glaze my own eyes as well, would keep me for year, from seeing my body as it really was.

It's almost impossible to find meaningfully accurate estimates of the number of men who suffer from muscle dysmorphia — though it's possible to triangulate an idea based on other metrics.

An estimated one in fifty Americans, regardless of gender, experience general symptom, of body dysmorphic disorder (a diagnosis introduced to the DSM Ill-R in 1987).

Another study found that 22 percent of men aged eighteen to

twenty-four reported muscularity-oriented disordered eating.

(Not for nothing, muscle dysmorphia is often referred to inside and outside of muscle-building communities as "bigorexia.")

Men, already more prone than women to avoid seeking help for mental health issues, are extremely unlikely to self-identify as dysmorphic, especially given the Internet's illusion of consensus that men should be as big as possible, as strong as possible, as soon as possible.

Though he hardly ever spoke the words aloud, Big Little displayed all of the symptoms of muscle dysphoria — and seemed to indulge them as guilty pleasures.

Missed workouts and disruptions to his gym regimen drove him into fits of rage and resentment, often triggering mood swings that could arc through months — a symptom of his dysphoria, but also the by-product of the stack of steroids he was cycling.

Big Little would train through injuries and sickness.

He'd miss parties and skip dinners with friends if either impinged on the sanctity of his workout schedule.

The simplest of plans were wholly dictated by the state of his post-gym pump.

Big Little was obsessed with men who made him feel tiny: bodybuilders like Cutler, Dorian Yates, and Lee Haney and wrestlers like Goldberg, Big E Langston, and Ryback.

Their mere existence on the same earth confirmed within Big Little a sense of insignificance that fueled a rage he kept stoked like a furnace.

He was desperate to be the biggest man at every gym he went to — and if he wasn't, he found a different gym.

He mistrusted compliments, convinced they were disingenuous and designed to subtly mock him.

But more than the perceived disdain from others, what weighed most heavily on Big Little was his own pain.

One time when we were wrestling around, I somehow managed to pin him by the arms and he howled in terror and threw me off.

After we'd caught our breath, he confided that he'd been sexually assaulted, held down by a member of a rival rugby team who'd only befriended him for a steroid hookup.

It was part of why he gave up the sport shortly after I saw him in uniform at the park, part of why he vanished into the depths of the weight room, part of why he was coming up on 310 pounds and finding it hard to breathe.

"No one is ever going to make me that small again," he once told me in a text message.

The last time I talked to Big Little he had just come from a stay at the hospital after a hypoglycemic episode and feeling flutters in his heart.

It had been a few years since we'd last seen each other.

I'd gotten hitched to my husband and we'd moved to Texas.

But Big Little and I still kept tabs on each other, him offering compliments on pieces I continued to write for the Boston Globe and me offering reassurance that he continued to look large in his social media pics.

He said he was most relieved to be out of the hospital because it meant he could resume his cycle of Tren, Dianobol, and growth hormone in time for summer.

"Starting tomorrow," he texted, "WOOHOO!"

This was accomp:rnicd by a picrure of him in the hospital, his shaven body splitting a hospital johnny, his torso a tangle of white wires and electrodes.

His enthusiasm was a put-on.

The truth is he was drained.

His pooI of architectural clients had started to dry up.

He could no longer afford the membership at his gym and someone had stolen his $300 Dave Draper squat bar from the storage closet where he'd kept it ostensibly locked away.

No one was messaging him back on the apps.

"Why bother going to the gym and expending a huge amount of time and pain if you're never going to hook up with another guy?" he texted me once in the middle of the night.

"Rhetorical question."

He started working the door as a bouncer at the gay bar down the street, stocking his fridge with sandwiches on the brink of expiration foraged from the 7-Eleven on his walk home from work.

He stopped going to the bars, the clubs, Happy Hour, Tea Dance, and Bear Week.

He topped having sex.

("I'm as chaste as the maidens of Dionysus," he remarked.)

He started getting sick and eating like shit, pigging out on Oreos, Chinese takeout, McDonald's, diner breakfasts, cookies, potato chips, and boxed protein drinks he'd buy in bulk from BJ's.

He'd been in and out of the hospital, his doctors repeatedly, warning, him about the pressure his growing layers of hard visceral fat were putting on his internal organs.

But the bad fat was, to him, the "sexy fat," and no doctor could reach him.

They could barely examine him — his arms were too big for the blood pressure cuffs, his neck was too big for immobilization collar, his ass was too big for the 2XL surgical scrubs. One one visit,

the doctors declined to give him a turn in the "special" MRI reserved for professional athletes and "really big guys," which he took as insult to injury.  

Deprived of his former body — which now drooped here, sagged there and betrayed his weakening grip on his self-control — Big Little consid­ered himself irrevocably relegated to D-list status in the local gay scene.

A novelty past its prime like a punctured parade float.

An "old never-was."  

He'd send me photos of the men who used to invite him to parties but no longer did, and screenshots of the radio silence he'd receive in response to his texts.

Men who had once lusted after him, watched him from afar, or pursued him at the bars had since defriended him on Facebook, unfollowed him on lnstagram, unliked his photos, blocked his number.  

"I will never be even a shadow of these men," he texted me.

"Perhaps I'm just mourning my death as an attractive man, an object of desire or even envy. Perhaps I don't know what my life will be without those things."  

Like Hercules, who built his myth upon the atonement he served for crises he created, Big Little wielded his rejection like a bludgeon, bore the burden of his body like a punishment.  

I would tell him over and over that he was still impossible not to notice, that he was never not the biggest guy in the room, that he was a tank, but because he was, my praise would ping off his thick shell.

He couldn't see himself in the mirror — still a handsome, broad-shouldered, thickl-armed bull of a man.

He couldn't hear himself described.

He could only feel trapped in his own inadequacy, constantly exposed by his own imperfection.  

"I am about to spend over $5,000 on steroids, growth hormones, IGF-3, and Insulin," he texted me.

"Putting order in tomorrow. I hope this finally makes me big. I hate my body."

This hatred of his body went beyond some cosmetic fixation.

From the time when he was a beanpole teenager to his adult categorization of "muscledaddy," Big Little felt captive in his body — a windowless prison that was starting to collapse.  

"I'd rather be big and dead than emaciated and alive. LOL. :-)"  

A week later, I got the call from a munial friend that he had dropped dead of a massive heart attack in the parking lot of a bar.

I read our last conversation over and over, hoping for a different result.

"I don't want to die, or become really sick ... but WHO am I gonna be if l lose what little size I have? It's existential. ... Either way I cease to BE." 

It's been five years since he died, and I still see Big Little all the time.  

Sometimes snippets of video that strayed from his phone make their  way to mine — a friend sent me a clip he found of Big filming himself eating  at Mike's, our former breakfast spot.

The camera is sitting where I used to be, my former space at the table overtaken by extra sides of potatoes  and bacon.

He's got the harn special and he's groaning with satisfaction as  he clears his plate by the overloaded forkful, gulping his water and coffee, chomping on a side of onion rings and loudly belching— likely a video made for one of his "encouragers," members of a gay fetish subculture of  "gainers" who now and then sent him donations in exchange for documen­tation of his many feedings.  

Sometimes those old photos I snapped of hi1n during our workouts  together find their way back to me through my feed, posted to various muscle admirer accounts on Instagram.

But like my own memories of Big  Little and his body, they've been warped.  

Passed down through the years from one muscle-worship Tumblr  account to the next on Twitter, reposted to pornsites, admirer hubs, and  "gainer" websites, Big Little's body has been digitally morphed and dis­torted beyond the humanly possible.

Sometimes an amateur artist uses his pics as templates for elaborate fantasy scenes.

There's one where he's rendered as a giant, smirking down at the camera and flexing as he stomps  a crumbling city block in white spandex leggings.

There's another from the perspective of a human-sized man standing at his feet, Big peering down hungrily, eyeing the viewer as a snack.  

But most of the time when I see pics of Big Little now, his body has  been clumsily inflated by amateur Photoshoppers.

The morphers thicken his neck and his wrists (both of which he loathed), they widen his belly  and chest, they beef up his thighs and add bulging calves.

A friend recently texted me a morph they'd found of Big perched on the edge of his bed.  

He's mean-mugging for the camera and sporting an extra fifty or sixty  virtual pounds of Photoshopped mass.

He's also flaunting an admittedly impressive but unconvincing ten-inch dick, dragged and dropped from  w some anonymous porn star and hanging between his plumped-up thighs.

"He would not have wanted this," my friend wrote. 

I wasn't so sure.

I still don't know if Big Little died from his consump­tion of fantasy, or from fantasy's consumption of him.

Like his screen name, it was probably both at once.

My favorite way to remember Big Little is through the animated GIFs of him that still circulate online — scruffy little snatches of the gym videos he had faithfully posted, now trimmed and looped by well-known admirers to capture him squatting a barbell or squeezing out a set of cable flys into perpetuity.

He looks happy, forever pumped, never at rest, finally at peace. 

[dearvitya]

YOI Fic Recs (Part 2)

Look through part 1 here!

Unsinkable (29k): Victor is a wealthy heir with a lonely soul. Yuuri is a poor dancer with a tender heart. The deck of the Titanic might be a very romantic place to meet your one true love, but it's not exactly a fortuitous one. [Titanic AU]

all the wrong turns (48k): After his disastrous Grand Prix Final, Katsuki Yuuri decides to try to be the first skater to land a quad axel in competition. It’s a secret from everyone, except the mysterious text correspondent who appeared in his phone contacts as “Poodle” following the Sochi GPF.

when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes pleasure (19k): Yuuri felt his body grow cold at the name; he had known a Mr. Nikiforov, once upon a time.

Five years after the implosion of their acquaintance, Mr. Viktor Nikiforov returns to —shire society, bringing in tow a young cousin. Mr. Katsuki must navigate these once-familiar waters without giving further offense, all while keeping his own heart firmly protected. [A Persuasion AU]

Love in Exile (99k): Once a well know ballet dancer in St. Petersburg, Victor Nikiforov finds himself exiled to Sakhalin Island as a political convict in 1881. As a man sentenced to katorga he will never return to European Russia or his life on the stage. Known as the "Edge of the World," his life on Sakhalin could not be further from the life he once knew. Strange circumstances lead his path to cross that of a young Japanese man, one of the very few still living on the island. Katsuki Yuuri leads a life of exile of a different kind, one that is largely self-imposed. Drawn to each other, despite their differences, something slowly begins to grow between them. When a narrowly avoided tragedy leaves them stranded together for a long, cold Sakhalin winter, they are challenged to face what their relationship really means, and what future it could possibly have.

Smooth Runs the Waters (3k): Inspector Yuuri Katsuki comes to Hillsborough Hall to investigate a murder most foul and its two primary suspects: newly widowed Victor Nikiforov and his younger brother Yuri Plisetsky. 

The Other Side of Sunset (325k): 1874, Wyoming Territory: Yuuri Katsuki Taylor has got his future planned…mostly. Learn how to manage his adoptive parents’ ranch, and inherit it when he’s older. Get married and have kids (someday – not now). And most of all, carry on riding his horse with Phichit and the other ranch hands on the open range and in the mountains. But when he meets Victor Nikiforov, the striking and talented new master horseman at the neighboring ranch – and is treated to a show of his Cossack-style trick riding – his world will never be the same again…

A tale of love, loss, grief, redemption, and second (and third) chances, set in the Old West. [Cowboys AU]

Like a River to the Sea (41k): Gifts from the gods can come in strange wrappings. They can also be mixed blessings, as Victor will discover in time.Living alone on the island of Fleves, near Athens, the last thing Victor expects as he combs the beach one morning is a peculiar treasure that appears seemingly from nowhere in the shape of a handsome young dark-haired man... [Greek mythology AU]

pick lilacs for the passing time (68k): A spark flares up inside him, the vestige of some part of himself he thought long buried now resurfacing to—what, haunt him? And then he realizes. I want to dance with him, Yuuri thinks.

In which the outlandish prodigy Victor Nikiforov hits Yuuri’s life like a whirlwind after he transfers to a prestigious ballet conservatory in Moscow, two grumpy teenagers learn to be friends, and Mila’s Straight Girl CrushTM might not be so straight after all.

for better, for worse (18k): Yakov quirks an eyebrow. “Vitya, we are not having some grand ceremony."

“It doesn’t have to be grand! But the registration office? Signing some papers? Where is the romance in that?”

or: The Trials and Tribulations of Viktor Nikiforov, Six-Time World Champion and Wedding Planner Extraordinaire.

in the woods somewhere (32k): One evening in late autumn, Yuuri goes out to collect firewood. He returns with a man instead. (Viktor, Yuuri, and the end of isolation.)

The Death of Koschei the Deathless (39k): They tell tale of heroes, of men that slay monsters, and defy fate itself. Yuuri Katsuki is no hero. He's just a failed wizard trying to keep his shop afloat. This is the story of how Yuuri Katsuki fell in love with Viktor Nikiforov, and in doing so conquered death.

For the Record (10k): FOR THE RECORD by Viktor Nikiforov 

What it takes to craft an Olympic Champion, and what it takes to be one.

Or: Viktor Nikiforov, sports journalist and retired figure skater, interviews Olympic Champion Yuuri Katsuki for an exclusive piece.

Happiness Writes White (37k): Yuuri falls asleep after his first day in St. Petersburg and wakes up in a strange hospital room. To his dismay, the last year of skating has all been a dream simulation designed to wake him from a long coma. Viktor Nikiforov is, in fact, not a figure skater at all, but the creator of the program, and this real world Viktor is nothing like the one he knows.

and you knew what it was (he is in love) (204k): Here's what's normal for Katsuki Yuuri: playing Quidditch, practicing spells, keeping to himself.

Here's what's not normal for Katsuki Yuuri: transferring to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in his fourth year and getting to know his idol, International Quidditch Star Viktor Nikiforov. 

But maybe there's a reason they say love is the greatest magic of all. [Harry Potter AU]

All Our Yesterdays (1M): York, England, 2120: Yuuri Katsuki is a dime-a-dozen techie, spending his days doing routine repairs at the university. He hangs out with his friend Phichit, goes for a drink, watches holograms. It’s an existence – but is it a life?

Crowood Castle, Yorkshire, 1392: As the son of a baron, Sir Victor Nikiforov makes judgements where lives hang in the balance. As a knight, he must sometimes end them. It’s what he was born to do – but what of the heavy burden on his soul? Death is all too commonplace, while life and love remain elusive.

When a brilliant scientist goes rogue, journeying to the Middle Ages with the world’s first time machine, Yuuri is stunned to be called on as the last hope of preventing her from changing history. After an abrupt departure, he lands at Crowood Castle disguised as an enemy of the Nikiforovs, Sir Justin le Savage – and will need to act the part if he is to survive. It’s a tall order for someone who can barely tell the back end of a horse from the front. But if Ailis, in her own disguise, discovers who he is, his mission will end in a blaze of laser-gun fire. He must not give his real identity away, even to the beguiling knight he’s falling in love with…

[ladyofpandemonium]

Perfect Drink

Attack on Titan | Shingeki No Kyoujin Barista!Levi x Reader Coffee shop AU—fluff, cRaCk Prompt: “my friend swears that you can pick the perfect drink for anyone but I’m skeptical because there’s no way you can look at someone and just know their order - and of course, you nail my drink!”

Impossible! 

That was Sabrina’s first thought past the astonishment parting her lips, eyes wide as she looked at the spiced hot chocolate perfectly placed in the center of the table mat with brownies. Not only did Levi absolutely nail her drink, he even nailed the brownies. There was no way he could do both!

A laser-sharp glance full of suspicion was cast in your direction as Sabrina looked between you and the seemingly half-amused barista. “Y/N, you had to have told him!”

“Nope and the brownies are for me, actually.” You replied, eyes glimmering in amusement as you slid the plate towards yourself before Levi had the chance to place everyone’s order in front of them. While Sabrina attempted to intimidate you into saying you had indeed told Levi her order, you shrugged and bit into your brownie with your fork. When one of Levi’s co-workers gave her a ‘told-you-so’ look, she turned to Levi. He was clearly amused by this; you could read it in his slate eyes. 

“My friend,” Sabrina points at you, “swears that you can pick the perfect drink for anyone but I’m skeptical because there is no way you can look at someone and just know their order —” She pauses to look at her drink again as if to make sure it was still there and exactly what she’d order before meeting Levi’s eyes again, “And of course, you nail my drink!”

For the record, you had never told Levi Sabrina’s drink just like no one had told him yours the day you stumbled into The Scouts’ one drizzly Sunday afternoon, tired and looking for an iced mint tea with something sweet to satisfy your craving sweet tooth. You had first been caught off guard by Levi’s appearance from the back door of the cafeteria; he was trying his black apron behind his back as he took his place behind the counter, giving you a quick once over. You had only picked a blueberry cheesecake for yourself when he interrupted you with the exact order you had thought of while looking at the menu. 

Needless to say, your jaw hit the floor like a bag of flour as you stuttered out a ‘Yes, um, thank you’, intimidated by Levi’s stare. He drew you to the cafeteria again; you were curious if he could guess your drink right once more. And, he did so down to the cinnamon in it. The same occurrence came about when you visited a third time and that was how you came to be a regular at the store. 

By now, Levi was used to you coming into the café, smiling that knowing smile of yours and watching him brew your drink. However, this was the first time you brought company—a few friends of yours who claimed your encounters with Levi were coincidental only to be proven wrong. 

An instrumental tune vibrated through the cozy air as Levi’s lips barely curled upwards, eyes meeting yours as you continued to chew on your brownie. He looked from you to Sabrina, then back, “I suppose you should trust your friend a little more, then.”

With that, he placed the others’ order in front of them, picking up the tray and returning behind the counter to attend to more customers, guessing each of their drinks. 

You had asked how he did it one night when it was only you and a few other customers. It was around closing time then, and Levi had picked your spoon from the saucer, swirling it in your cups once before meeting your eyes and telling you it was magic. Normally, you’d crack a smile or a chuckle at the idea, but he had said it with such solemnity lining his voice, you would have believed him had you not known better.

So, when you left with your friends in tow, you left him a sizeable tip like you always did—only this time Sabrina had her own tips to leave for Levi to find.

Part II

[cyndalyssa]

And Now, A Bunch of Doodles Nobody Asked For

It’s mainly me dabbling with dumb ideas for that AU my Orko redesign resides in, along with some other silly stuff that probably doesn’t align with MOTU canon, but that’s a mess that gives me a headache so I’m doing what I want.

*insert tragic event that probably killed Orko’s parents here*

“I’m the only family he has left, so I better take darn good care of him.”

(In case you’re wondering, Montork does have facial hair at this point, it’s just not long enough for him to show it without exposing his face.)

I dunno, the idea of Montork teaching a class with a baby Orko in tow is cute and funny to me. 

Baby Orko learns how to float. 

One of Orko’s first magic lessons. 

(Montork’s glorious beard has finally arrived, and hey, I figured the small child Orko in this AU oughta look like the original. :3

Man, I wish I had doodled more growing up pics for this, there’d be more of a theme here than just my random doodles. So, uh... the following is kinda random.)

Hey, look, I have an Adam design for this AU. Now if only I could draw a good He-Man...

Sometimes one just wants to draw Orko being awesome. 

An attempt to, um, Trollanize some magic users from other cartoons I like. Raven from Teen Titans, Morgana Macawber from Darkwing Duck, and Twilight Sparkle from My Little Pony.  

Also, Darkwing Duck translates really well into being a Trollan! I think I want to try the other Darkwing characters (well, besides Morgana, I already did her) sometime. 

I drew this at work and had it at my register while I was ringing up customer items (oh, yeah, I was moved to cashiering... I doodle a bit between customers and nobody seems to mind), and a couple of girls saw it, recognized him as a character one’s sister liked, and then took a picture to show said sister. That was amusing and actually kind of flattering. 

He grumpy.

And here’s Dree Elle in this ‘verse!

Oracle designs--Ancient Oracle on the left, and an older Orko on the right

In my ‘verse, I think of “Oracle” being the title of highest honor for the Trollans, the most powerful and the wisest of Trollan mages. I guess I sort of think of it as kind of like the Avatar from you know exactly what show.  

I’m not a fan of ancient Oracle and Orko being one and the same (unless we bring reincarnation into this, but let’s try not to make it too much like the Avatar) (also I don’t want a time displaced Orko, he’s already dimension displaced, give him a break!), so in my ‘verse they’re two separate people separated by thousands of years, with Orko eventually proving himself worthy to carry the title himself (after a lot of stumbling, but getting back up each time he falls). 

Not sure what I want ancient Oracle’s real name to be...

In this universe, this is how Orko and Dree Elle’s first meeting goes: Evil Horde invades Eternia, Adam and a bunch of other Masters are captured (by pre-reformed Adora and her Horde crew no less), and Orko, who had escaped, is tasked with bringing Adam’s sword to him so He-Man can save the day. He looks around the main... base? ship? whatever--dodging the baddies’ sight until he stumbles into a room where, to his surprise, they’ve got a Trollan prisoner, kept around because she’s apparently useful. And of course, he’s smitten.

Dree Elle thinks she’s hallucinating at first, because... come on, Orko the Great, who apparently died several years ago, coming to her rescue? He quickly proves that he is the real deal by breaking her out, and then continues his mission to get the sword to Adam until at least Adam is free (but Adam ends up flying out a window along with Adora (where sibling bonding time and Adora’s wake-up call happens) and now Orko is captured and Dree is back to square one). 

At the end they’re saved by She-Ra. 

Just thinking of that one episode where Orko saves He-Man by zapping Sh’Gora with lightning, and then reimagining that moment for this ‘verse. 

(I want to do more redraws of Orko’s awesome moments.)

Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like if Orko turned out to be descended from the Unnamed One (how many generations are between them, I dunno, depends on how you think Trollans age).

It’d probably be a bit more dramatic than this, but let me be silly. 

And now, back to Orko’s favorite uncle...

So, context for this is that it’s extremely difficult to get in or out of Trolla because the magical barriers between dimensions are particularly thick around that area, enough that it takes the Sorceress a while to even make contact with the place. So, everyone on Trolla thinks Orko’s dead from his encounter with a cosmic storm, and Orko’s unable to let his uncle know that he’s all right.

Since Trollan years are different from Eternian years, nobody really knows when Orko’s birthday is (“It’s the first day of Remmus!” “...I’m sorry, I don’t know when that is.”), so they settle for the day he arrived... which Orko’s all right with, but he really wishes his new friends could celebrate his actual birthday. This particular year, however, his birthday on the Trollan calendar and his Arrival to Eternia anniversary land on the same day, he’s super excited, and the others recognize this and decide to make it really special. Of course while they’re preparing a big party for him, Orko goes to occupy himself elsewhere, and ends up wrecking the marketplace with a potato while telling a story about Uncle Montork.

He goes off alone in shame, Adam finds him and comforts him, Orko vents about his frustrations and admits that his one birthday wish is to see his uncle again, cue Skeletor shenanigan and He-Man stopping him and Orko managing to help out... and then the Sorceress calls in, saying she has a birthday present for Orko. 

So, she reveals that she has made contact with Trolla, and specifically asked for Montork. And so, the above comic happens (Adam is there, offscreen but he’s really happy for Orko in this moment; I like to think that Man-At-Arms is there too), and uncle and nephew converse through the screen for a couple hours until Orko has to leave to attend the party everyone prepared for him. The Sorceress promises to have this contact be a regular thing, and perhaps someday Orko can be able to go home. 

Of course, at this point, Orko is already thinking of Eternia as a home, especially evident in how many people love him and prepared and/or attended the party (which was a great time).

They still deserve a reunion hug though. 

M’kay, those are the wild, kind of unorganized thoughts and doodles I’m willing to share today. I wonder how long it’ll take people to eat me alive. 

[jayvikbrainrot]

I have no clue if you like other peoples au ideas, but I’ve had an arcane/Jayvik au for the longest time. This is a long message btw.

Basically, Piltover gives Zaun their independance years earlier, like before the Vander/Silco betrayal, but also basically stops Zaunites from coming into Piltover. This changes a few things. For example, Vander and Silco no longer fight each other, the kids never get to Jayces apartment, and Viktor never goes to the academy. Because of this, and Viktor’s character, he kind of lives with Singed or in the library until he’s 14, where he encounters the kids, maybe helps them with an injury (he knows from reading or his own injuries) and gets adopted into the last drop. He becomes the sort of mechanic/doctor of the main area in Zaun, and because it’s impossible for me to do angst, he can make augmentations, although they are lesser quality. He gets 4 younger siblings and two dads who show him how to interact with the barons and be better at politics/public speaking.

Meanwhile, in Piltover, they basically lost all they labour and, when one of them finds Jayce’s experiments, skip over the whole ‘illegal’ part because, for the city of progress, they aren’t really progressing, but Jayce can’t figure out this one problem with Hextech. In an effort, they print pages of the calculations in newspapers and ask anyone who can understand them to come forward to the counsel. No one in Piltover can, but once it leaks to Zaun, Vander and co realise that, yeah, the super smart guy who’s basically been giving them healthcare and also revolutionised the industrial industry could probably do it. Just the first meeting being Jayce and the council seeing this small, scrawny Zaunite completely fix their problem while subtly insulting them, Jayce immediately wants him on the project, refuses any other appointments, that’s it for him. Also, more Zaunite Viktor, (possibly tattooed? Fashion?) is my jam.

Ahhhh yeah!!! Oh I love this, yes please send me things lol!

Yes I honestly love the AU's that have Viktor mentoring Powder which feels like would fit right in here. Heck even Vi could teach him some self defensive moves.

If we're really talking about Viktor making improvements, I feel like I read somewhere that Viktor started out making air filters for Zaun factories? Not sure how canon that is but I like that idea, it's possible that without Piltover, Viktor, Vander, and Silco go through and make sweeping changes to how these factories operate and Silco starts renegotiating contracts. Which could get Piltover's attention. I mean could you imagine some sort of gala where titans of industry are invited. Vander has his hellion kids in tow for getting free food, and Silco and Viktor walk in, Silco sees Jayce across the room, whispers something to Viktor behind his hand and they both laugh.

And Jayce watches all this and just Kill Bill Sirens. XDDD

Also yes Viktor TATTOOS I would go feral!

(Also I never reallllly talk about this because this is a Jayvik blog, but I would love to see Viktor and Silco interact. I really think he would foster Viktor's talents and teach him how to take charge of a room. Like I can't imagine in canon Silco's eye doesn't have some degree of blindness or light sensitivity, but like the way he wields himself makes you feel that he no weaknesses. Just a hyper confident Viktor would be a force to be reckoned with.)