Attack On Titan Drawing Novels & Stories

He yawned, still blinking at her like an owl. Whitney’s tension cracked at the edges, yet she knelt, brushing his hair back. “I’m here now.” He nodded solemnly, as if that solved everything in the universe, he held up a folded paper from behind his back. “What’s that?” she asked. “A drawing,” he mumbled. “For you.” She unfolded it, revealing a crooked house, two boys badly drawn but smiling, and a tall woman with ridiculous silver hair that swooped like a superhero cape.

"It's settled, then. You will have our protection and a place to stay during your time in Black Creek." As their meeting finally came to an end, I couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder at the walls adorned with drawings and paintings. The images depicted wolves in various forms, some in fierce battle stances, and others in moments of tranquility. But what struck me the most were the drawings that seemed eerily familiar. I walked closer to one of them, my heart quickening as I realized that the wolf in the drawing was striking a fighting stance that mirrored one I had often used. It was as if the artist had captured my movements with uncanny precision.

I scrambled to cover the drawing with my arms, my heart thundering. “Relax, Picasso,” Luca grinned. “You’re not in trouble.” Kael stepped in last, silently scanning the room. His eyes dropped to the paper under my hand. “Dude,” River said, brushing past me and yanking the drawing into the light before I could stop him. “This is insane. Who is this?” I went stiff. “It’s… just a character I made up.” Luca tilted his head. “A made up girl?” “She looks real though,” Alexander said, his voice low. “Too real.”

I froze at the door, my pulse hammering. Rita. My children. Ashton. And none of them even realized how out of place this was. Ashton glanced up then, and his eyes caught mine. For a second, his expression was unreadable, caught between different emotions, like amusement, caution, and something softer. He looked back down at Kate’s drawing. It was crude, childlike, full of mismatched colors. But clear enough: five little figures, hand-in-hand. A woman with long hair. A tall man with broad shoulders.

"You promised, remember? Back before all of this started." Rowan hesitated, old vulnerability crossing his features, before finally handing the book over. Aurelia paged through carefully rendered landscapes — mountain ranges she didn't recognize, quiet forest clearings, a handful of rough portrait studies that included, she realized with a soft jolt, an unmistakable sketch of her own face, drawn with measured, tender attention to detail. "When did you draw this?" "The night after the summit attack," he admitted, color rising in his cheeks. "I couldn't stop thinking about you. Drawing helped me process it, I think. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to keep looking at your face a little longer.

Cord drew a diagram on the stone floor of the sanctuary courtyard using a piece of white chalk. It was not a map of the territory. It was a schematic of a gear. Silas and his senior wolves stood around it, watching the system-builder. They were still nursing the physical and psychological wounds of the morning’s failed charge.

“I drawed this for Miwella!” Mirella leaned closer, her eyes wide. “Wow!” she exclaimed with theatrical awe, taking the drawing. It was a bit scribbled, with lines overlapping and colors outside the borders. But amidst the wild pinks and greens, was clearly a giant flower with a happy sun in the corner. “This is a really pretty drawing,” Kaliyah added sincerely, smiling at Lani. The little girl beamed and swayed from side to side proudly. Then she tilted her head, staring up at Kaliyah.

At the bottom, in a child's careful handwriting, was a signature: "Anna." But it wasn't the signature that made my blood freeze. It was the rest of the drawing. Because where the house should have been peaceful and happy, there were angry red and orange scribbles covering half the paper. Fire. The drawing showed fire consuming the house, the stick figures, everything. And in the corner, barely visible, was another figure. This one was watching the fire, standing apart from the destruction. Waiting. I dropped the drawing like it had burned me. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely fold it back up and return it to the drawer. But the image was seared into my brain now, impossible to fo

"All their fights are about me." My stomach dropped. "What do you mean?" I asked gently. She sniffled, reaching for something stuffed in her backpack on the nightstand. Her diary. She opened it with shaking hands and turned it toward me. My breath caught. The page was filled with a drawing—beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. Dark, swirling lines. Two large figures on opposite sides, shouting, their faces twisted in anger. And in the middle— A small girl. Curled in on herself. Alone in the chaos.

As I bent down to pick it up, I realised it had fallen open to a specific page. The illustration staring back at me held me in place like a beast with its claws in my chest. It was a drawing of a monster with long, dried-up black hair, claw-like nails, and prominent fangs. Below the drawing was a single red drop of blood, as if it were dripping from the fangs. I narrowed my eyes, trying to decipher the ancient, jagged writing that surrounded the drawing: