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batmanlovesnirvana · 1 month ago

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— ‘our love still remains.’

BRUCE WAYNE X FEM!READER

ONE SHOT | angst, death, murder, depression, drugs, suicidal thoughts.

synopsis : A year had passed since you died, but grief lingered, clinging to Bruce like the ash of a fire long extinguished.

A/N : This was inspired by this haunting scene between Thomas Shelby and Grace’s ghost. It’s one of my favorite moments—so raw and emotional—and I couldn’t help but feel it resonates deeply with Bruce. The weight of grief, love, and unresolved pain feels like a perfect fit for his character.

English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes!

WAYNE MANOR had never seemed so empty.

A place once filled with quiet purpose, with the steady rhythm of lives intertwined, was now a mausoleum—a tomb for memories that Bruce could neither escape nor embrace.

You had been dead for a year, and with you, everything human in him had begun to rot.

He was barely functional. No. That wasn't right. He wasn't functional at all.

A ghost of himself wandered these halls, sat in these rooms, wore his skin, but it wasn't him.

Not anymore.

The fire in the study crackled weakly, but its warmth never reached him. It flickered, casting trembling shadows on the dark oak walls, as if mocking his inability to burn with anything but guilt.

Bruce sat hunched in his chair, his head low, his shirt disheveled and sleeves rolled up.

The man who had once stood as Gotham's unshakable guardian, a force of sheer will, was now a fractured thing.

His eyes, sunken and bloodshot, stared into the flames, but they saw nothing. He didn't need to see. He had already memorized the way the world looked without you in it.

The decanter of whiskey shimmered in the firelight, its amber liquid untouched at his side. He had never been one to drink—not before. But since you'd been gone, nothing was the same.

Tonight, though, the glass remained full. Not yet. Not for this.

He couldn't dull the edges of this particular torment. He had to feel it, let it pull him under, heavy and unrelenting, like a stone tethered to his chest, dragging him to the depths.

His hand hovered over the glass, fingers curling tightly around it, the tension in his knuckles sharp and pale. The tremor wasn't from the cold but from the brutal weight of his own restraint. His mind hissed its merciless refrain, over and over, unyielding:

It should've been me. Not you.

Me. Not you.

The glass gave way with a brittle snap, the shards biting into his palm, the sound cutting through the suffocating quiet like a scream. He didn't flinch. The brief sting was insignificant, a pale shadow of the raw, festering wound buried deep within—a wound that time had refused to heal, a wound that still bled.

He craves the burn. Craves the searing pain, the consuming fire that might finally match the inferno raging inside him—the fire that could never touch you the way it's devoured him.

The night presses close, suffocating and merciless, but he doesn't move.

He doesn't patrol. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat.

He simply exists, caught in the liminal space where grief and guilt coil around each other, tightening like a noose. Waiting—for the silence to break, for the weight to crush him, for something, anything, to drag him back from the edge of this endless void.

The door sighed as it swung open, the faint creak swallowed by the oppressive stillness.

Alfred entered, a silver tray balanced in his steady hands, its polished surface catching the flickering glow of the fire. Every movement was deliberate, quiet, as though the room itself demanded reverence. He set the tray down with a soft clink, his weathered face composed, but his eyes—sharp and searching—betrayed the concern he could no longer contain.

"Master Wayne..." His voice was soft, hesitant, like stepping onto fragile ground.

Bruce didn't stir. His gaze remained fixed on the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes like ghosts of battles fought and lost.

Undeterred, Alfred took a step closer, his measured footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. "I thought you might need something to eat. It's been... some time." His tone was calm, but beneath it lay a quiet plea.

The silence stretched, vast and unyielding. Bruce remained a statue, motionless, unhearing—or perhaps unwilling to hear.

Alfred lingered, his hands clasped behind his back. He studied the man slumped in the chair, once an unshakable force—a sentinel against the darkness, a man who bore the weight of Gotham like it was his birthright.

But now?

Now, he was something hollow.

A shadow consumed by grief, its edges blurred, its substance eaten away until nothing but silence remained.

"No patrol tonight, then?" Alfred asked, though he already knew the answer.

Bruce's hands trembled faintly—not from the cold, nor from the blood still drying on his knuckles—but from something far deeper, raw and unrelenting.

The old butler sighed.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a small glass vial and placed it on the tray with deliberate care. The gesture was quiet, pointed—a subtle admonition wrapped in concern.

"I'm worried, sir," Alfred said, his voice thick with the weight of restrained emotion. "About the medicine. You've been relying on it too much."

Bruce's eyes flicked to the vial, his fingers curling involuntarily, but his lips remained sealed.

His gaze turned distant, unfocused, as though he were retreating into some unreachable corner of his mind. The flicker of firelight played across his expression, but it gave nothing away. The silence, though, spoke volumes.

The fire crackled softly, its warmth feeble against the icy void that seemed to envelop the room.

"She wouldn't want this," Alfred ventured at last, his voice trembling at the edges. The words came haltingly, heavy with pain. Saying them was a struggle; even he found it difficult to speak of her. "I know it's hard, but—"

But he faltered.

What could he say to a man who had lost so much? To a man who believed the one constant in his life—the one light in his endless night—had slipped from his grasp because of him? What comfort could Alfred offer someone who carried the unbearable weight of guilt and grief and punished himself for it, day after day?

Not even the ever-thoughtful Alfred had answers for that.

He lingered for a moment longer, his weathered gaze heavy with unspoken worry, before letting out a quiet, resigned sigh. Stepping back, he retreated as softly as he'd entered, unwilling to disturb the fragile stillness any further.

The door closed behind him with a muted click, leaving Bruce alone once more in the oppressive quiet, the firelight casting shadows that danced like ghosts around the room.

Bruce didn't move. The tray remained untouched, its polished surface glinting dully in the flickering firelight. The room seemed colder somehow, emptier, as though the flames themselves were losing the will to fight against the encroaching dark.

The silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating.

His hand moved slowly, hesitantly, reaching for the vial. His fingers trembled as they closed around the cool glass, the faint quiver betraying the storm raging beneath his impassive exterior. He held it up, watching the liquid swirl under the amber glow of the fire. For a moment, he hesitated—then tipped his head back, letting the bitter contents slide down his throat in one unbroken motion.

The burn was sharp. Familiar. Almost comforting.

But it fixed nothing.

The ache inside him remained, raw and unrelenting. He stayed rooted to the chair, unable to move, the weight of his grief pinning him down. His eyes drifted to the shards of glass scattered across the carpet, their jagged edges catching the firelight like cruel reflections of his fractured soul.

With a sudden, violent motion, he hurled the empty vial into the flames. It shattered on impact, the fire greedily consuming the fragments until nothing remained.

His head dropped into his hands, shoulders curling inward as though trying to shield himself from the crushing weight of everything he couldn't escape. The room fell silent again, save for the crackle of the fire, each ember rising like a ghost of what once was.

And then, it happened. Just as it always did.

The impossible.

You appeared.

Bruce's cold, detached eyes flickered, his breath hitching as the warmth of an illusion—one he neither welcomed nor could let go—took shape before him.

You were perched on the edge of the canopy seat by the window, your silk pajamas catching the soft firelight in a way that felt achingly real. One leg was tucked beneath you, the other dangling lazily, your toes grazing the rug in that familiar way that sent a sharp pang through his chest.

Your hair spilled loose around your shoulders, soft and untamed, just as it had on those stolen nights when dawn would catch you both mid-conversation, the rest of the world forgotten.

And then there was the smile. That quiet, tender smile—the one that had unraveled him every time, breaking through walls he hadn't even realized he'd built.

The billionaire swallowed hard, his voice hoarse when he finally spoke. "What now?"

Bruce's bitter smile wavered as you tilted your head, amusement flickering in your eyes like embers in the fire.

"What am I, a genie?" you teased, your voice light but carrying an undercurrent of something deeper, something unspoken. Your gaze darted to the flames, where the shattered remnants of the vial had disappeared. "Summoning me with your little bottle of dope?"

His laugh was dry, almost inaudible. "I take it for the pain," he murmured, the words heavy, fragile, as if they might shatter under the weight of his grief. His eyes found yours, softening in a way that made him feel utterly exposed. "To keep warm."

You moved then, gliding across the room with that effortless grace he had memorized, your bare feet soundless against the carpet. He stiffened when he felt your fingers ghost across his shoulder—a touch too warm, too tender to be real. Yet he didn't pull away.

"Is that what it's for?" you asked, your voice wrapping around him like a balm for a wound that would never heal. "The warmth?"

Bruce closed his eyes, his head dipping forward slightly as if trying to catch just a moment more of the phantom sensation. "The warmth," he echoed, his voice breaking. "All this time..."

You moved again, slipping into the space beside him on the couch, your presence as vivid as the firelight dancing in his peripheral vision.

He turned toward you, and for the briefest, most treacherous moment, it felt real—your scent, your nearness, the way you looked at him like you could see straight through to his soul.

He leaned in, his breath catching as he inhaled the memory of you, his eyes fluttering shut in the desperate hope that he could hold on just a little longer. Just a little longer.

But deep down, he knew.

It wasn't real.

It never was.

The realization struck like a knife twisting in his chest, but he clung to the illusion all the same. He would take anything—anything—to feel you again, even if it was a cruel lie conjured by his own fractured mind.

To touch you. To kiss you. To lose himself in you, the only solace he had ever known.

Since your death, there had been no one else. No empty arms, no fleeting connections. He didn't want anyone else. Couldn't. It was always you. It would always be you.

"I know," you whispered, your hand brushing his cheek in a gesture so gentle, it nearly broke him. His breath hitched, a tear slipping free.

"Our love still remains," you said, your words a quiet promise in the suffocating silence.

And you were right.

Because no matter who tried to step into his life, none of them could ever compare to you.

Bruce's head bowed, his shoulders trembling as he pressed his forehead to the illusion of your hand.

He didn't speak, didn't dare. He let the hallucination linger, let it fill the gaping void inside him for as long as it would. When it faded—and it always did—the cold would return, and he would be alone once more.

They lingered in that fragile silence, heavy with the weight of unsaid words, the room echoing with everything neither could bear to voice.

At last, you broke it, your tone steady yet tender. "But you have to listen, Bruce. To the voices you hear. To what they're telling you."

His brow furrowed deeply, his eyes squeezing shut as if to block out everything but you. "There's too much to do," he whispered, his voice trembling, breaking under the strain. His breath hitched unevenly. "The kids... the city... it never stops."

When he finally opened his eyes, they met yours, glassy and filled with unshed tears. "I need to say goodbye," he confessed, his voice a raw whisper, hoarse and fractured.

He rubbed his face with trembling hands, weary to his bones. "I need to sleep... just for a little while."

Your hands cradled his face again, grounding him in the moment, as real to him as the warmth of the fire. "Then think, Bruce," you urged, your voice a mix of unwavering love and quiet strength. "Think about what I would tell you. About what you need to do."

A tear slipped down his cheek, his body trembling as he leaned into the phantom touch. He tried to form words, but they came out as fractured pieces of his anguish. "It's too much... I can't... I should've..."

His voice cracked and faltered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've protected you. I should've saved you."

"You don't need to apologize," you said softly, your voice cutting through his despair like a light in the dark. "I was never angry with you, Bruce. I never could be."

His chest clenched painfully, a fresh wave of tears spilling free. "But I failed you," he choked out, his voice barely audible.

"You didn't fail me," you replied, your words sharp yet soothing. "But you're failing yourself."

You moved in closer, kneeling in front of him, your hands lifting his face so his eyes met yours.

There was a love in your gaze that steadied him, but also something more—a heaviness, a truth he couldn't yet name. "This isn't the way, Bruce. I won't let you destroy yourself like this."

His grief overtook him, his entire frame trembling with the force of it. "I can't let go," he admitted, his voice breaking as fresh sobs racked his body. "Not of you. Not yet."

Your smile returned, soft and filled with sadness. "Then let go of the pain," you said gently. "Let go of the guilt. Let go of the past. I'm here, but I can't stay. Not like this. Not while you're lost in the dark."

His heart shattered again, the pieces cutting deeper, but he couldn't deny the truth in your words.

"Please," he whispered, his voice raw, pleading, desperate. "Please don't leave me. I can't do this alone."

But you were already slipping away, your warmth dissipating like smoke, fading from his grasp.

He reached out, his hands trembling, but there was nothing there—nothing to hold onto. The room grew colder, your presence vanishing into the shadows, leaving him alone in the silence.

The fire crackled softly, its flames flickering weakly against the oppressive darkness. The emptiness of the room settled over him, pressing down with a weight he couldn't bear.

"I'll never let go," he whispered, his voice fragile, a shattered promise he knew he could never keep.

But you were gone. And the silence consumed everything.

Bruce's hand lingered on his cheek, still warm from where you'd touched him, but it too began to cool, slipping away too quickly.

Long moments passed before his voice cracked through the stillness, breaking the silence like glass. "I'll think," he murmured into the void. "I promise."

Even as the words left his lips, they felt empty—hollow echoes in a room full of nothing.

As hollow as the man who spoke them.

go check [ TU’BURNI (Bruce Wayne fic) ]

Little thing while I write the next chapters of TU’BURNI :)

I’ve been considering publishing one of my Tommy Shelby fics, so if anyone’s interested, please lmk.

#bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne headcanon #bruce wayne #batman #the batman #dc comics #the batman 2022 #dc movies #bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne x you #oneshot #battinson #batfleck #bale!batman x reader #gotham

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the-lavender-clown · 9 days ago

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TEAM DELTA TIME!!!

Mèng Yáo “Mona Lisa” Sun

Other names: D2-01,

Mutant Chinese Giant Salamander

Mona Lisa is the leader of Team Delta. She was kidnapped and mutated at the age of 12 just a couple months before Donnie and Raph. She would see them as well as Leo and Mikey in passing at the facility as they each got check ups and tests done in “the lab” but never had more interaction than that.

She has a very nonchalant yet playful personality. She loves to poke fun at people (especially Usagi) and tease them in subtle ways. She’s also very serious however, especially on missions and when it comes to her team’s safety and success. She has immense control over her reaction and emotions which leads her to be very good at keeping a cool head and coming up with plans in the heat of battle. Despite this she has a fire of passion deep in her and if she loses control the fire easily turns into an inferno that can be very difficult to put out.

Hiroshi Usagi/Usagi Hiroshi ( 飛呂士ウサギ / ウサギ飛呂士 ) (prefers to be referred to by family name Usagi)

Other names: D1-02, hero (by Mondo),

Mutant Snowshoe Hare

Usagi second in command of Team Delta and was originally up for consideration to be their leader but was beat out by Mona. He was kidnapped and mutated into a snowshoe hare at the age of 11 and is a year older than Mona.

He has a very serious, no nonsense, and slightly grumpy attitude and can be easily irritated if he believes someone to not be taking a situation seriously. This is due to his belief in strict self discipline and duty to those he’s meant to protect, whether that be his team or humanity as a whole. He wants deeply to do what he believes is morally right and make the adults in his life proud. Despite this he occasionally does let his guard down to indulge in humor or relax in the presence of his friends/family. There is a tension between him and Mona from his belief that he failed in being good enough to lead their team as he is the only “__1” mutant to not be selected to be leader for his designated group. He is constantly trying to make up for whatever perceived flaws he displayed in his testing.

Venus de Milo

Other names: DH3-03, Vee, Vivi,

Mutant hybrid White-Lipped Tree Frog Kemp’s Ridley Sea Turtle

Venus is third in command of Team Delta. She was mutated at the age of 6 into a hybrid white-lipped tree frog kemp’s ridley sea turtle and is the only hybrid mutant to ever survive, even if it was just barely. Due to complications in her mutation she is a quadruple amputee and has prosthetics for all four limbs designed personally by her “guardian” Draxum.

Venus has a very calm and private disposition. She is also very guarded and slow to trust; very few people have even heard her talk. When you do earn her trust however she is fiercely loyal and protective.

Jason Rist

Other names: D4-04, Mondo Gecko/Mondo (preferred name), MG (himself), Mon, Dodo

Mutant Turquoise Dwarf Gecko

Mondo is the fourth and last in command of Team Delta. He was mutated into a turquoise dwarf gecko at the age of 8.

He remembers much of his life before mutation however he wasn’t fond of that life or his old family and tho he knows it’s messed up he believes that being mutated was one of the best things to happen to him if it meant it brought he and his teammates/family together. Mondo has a very laid back and chill personality. He’s very go with the flow and works best with little to no plan and lots of room to improvise. His jokester personality can be quite frustrating to deal with but he just wants to make those he cares about smile and relax whenever they can. He’d do anything for them when it comes down to it, even get serious.

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hjbirthdaywishes · 6 months ago

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June 19, 2024

Happy 46 Birthday to Zoe Saldaña.

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in1-nutshell · 11 months ago

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Hello! I was just babysitting a friends toddler a while ago. He was four and already LOVED transformers. He expecially loved Bumblebee, and got this mini figure of a Bumblebee (I forgot what version unfortunately) that he thinks is like a guardian angel that can chase away nightmares and monsters and even turn him into a transformer one day as well! And this was SOO cute! So may I request a scenario of G1, TFP, TFA, as well as ROTB Bumblebee meeting a human equivalent of a sparkling that absolutely ADORED him and think he can do anything? Who even claims when he grows up he wants to be a transformer too just like Bee and fight alongside him one day?

All of this... so CUTE! First time I'm doing a multi version of the same character, so hopefully this turns out good! If this isn't what you wanted please let me know!

Hope you enjoy!

Human Buddy the Toddler wanting to be like Bumblebee

SFW, Platonic, Human reader

G1, TFP, TFA, ROTB

Bumblebee is flustered by the toddler wanting to be just like him when they grow up.

He makes them an honorary Autobot.

He chuckles to himself when they tell him about their dream of actually becoming a Cybertronain like him.

“Is that what you really want?”--Bumblebee

“Yeah! You’re so cool and, and you transforming is cool!”--Buddy

“Well, just don’t let Wheeljack or Grampa Sparkplug find out.”--Bumblebee

“Why?”--Buddy

Flashbacks to Autobot Spike incident.

“Trust me, you’re much better off being yourself.”--Bumblebee

“Really?”--Buddy

“Of course! Now let’s go see what the others are doing.”--Bumblebee

When he hears them talking about fighting alongside him, he tries to distract them with telling them about all the better ways of fighting the Decepitcons as a human.

This usually works and they get fixated on other things for the time being.

He does keep a close eye on the toddler in case they do try and go outside of the base or near Wheeljacks lab.

Gets Chip, Carly, Spike and Sparkplug to help better understand the dangers of being a bot and being out in the field.

Occasionally bringing in a guest bot… that’s fit to tell things to them.

“That should be that last speaker. Thanks again Blaster.”--Bumblebee

“No probs Bee! It was fun to talk to the little one.”--Blaster

“Yeah—wait why is the door still closed? I thought that was the last speaker.”--Bumblebee

“Oh, yeah I let Red in there. He said he wanted to have a short talk with Tiny.”--Spike

“Red… Red who—”--Blaster

“Spike, did you let Red Alert in the room?”--Bumblebee

“Yeah?”--Spike

“Oh Primus!”--Blaster

Blaster trying to open the door.

“Red! They’re too young! Open the door!”--Blaster

“You can’t make me! They are never too young to learn about safety protocols.”—Red Alert

“But not ALL of them!”--Bumblebee

“I will call Inferno if you don’t open the door in the next 10 seconds.”--Blaster

“Its okay Mr. Bumblebee! Mr. Blaster! Mr. Red Alert is teaching me how to lock a lock! It’s so cool! It’s like I’m in a spy movie!”--Buddy

“No, not cool, not cool! Someone get Inferno!”--Bumblebee

TFP

Bee, like G1, is a bit flustered that they want to be just like him when they grow up.

When they mention about actually wanting to be a bot, he humors them a bit.

“Beep bop bep? (So you think you got what it talks to be a big bot?)”--Bumblebee

“Yes!”--Buddy

“Bop boop bep beep bep bop.(But being a big bot means that you can’t help Miko color anymore.)”--Bumblebee

“… I’ll think about it.”--Buddy

But he is immediately against them going out to fight.

He’ll highlight all the things they can do that he can’t do, that he needs their help to be able to do it. Buddy changes their mind… for now.

Bumblebee needs their help, so they are going to help him!

He is now on the lookout in case tiny decides to pull a Miko.

Teams up with Raf to explain why they can’t run head first into danger.

Bumblebee looking over to see Buddy and Miko ‘playing’ a video game with Raf and Jack.

“Hey Bee! Mind giving me a help with the cart for a second? I forgot to attached the cart but I’m already in vehicle form…”--Bulkhead

“Beep! (sure!)”--Bumblebee

Bumblebee attaches a cart to Bulkhead.

“Thanks!”--Bulkhead

Bulkhead driving with the cart into the groundbridge.

Bee waving goodbye before looking back at the kids.

Miko and Buddy are nowhere to be seen.

“Bop, bep beep bep? (Raf, where’s Miko and Buddy?)”--Bumblebee

“Oh, they went to get some soda’s in the other room.”--Raf

Bee’s com link sounds.

“Bep? (Hello?)”--Bumblebee

“I am so sorry…”--Bulkhead

“Bep? (what?)”--Bumbleee

“Hi Mr. Bumblebee! I’m with Mr. Bulkhead and Miko! The caves are so pretty here!”--Buddy

“…”--Bumblebee

“Bee?”--Bulkhead

Sports car transforming noises intensifies.

TFA

Bumblebee lives for the attention and absolutely hypes them up too.

They want to be like him when they grow up. Of course, who else wouldn’t want to be this? The fastest thing on 4 wheels is a great honor.

They actually want to be a bot? Okay, maybe not bot bot but technorganic is still new.

Maybe Buddy might be one too, there is only one way to find out!

“Bumblebee did you bring the circuit—What in the Allspark are you doing!”--Ratchet

Buddy on a high shelf with a helmet on while Bumblebee is at the bottom of the shelf with a pillow.

“Hi Mr. Ratchet! I’m gonna try and fly like Sari! Bumblebee is helping me!”--Buddy

“Oh, is that right? Well as soon as you’re on the ground I need to have a word with Bumblebee.”--Ratchet

“Why?”--Buddy

“Because… the grownups need to talk.”--Ratchet

Ratchet looking at Bumblebee with the ‘I will throw my wrenches at you when they are gone’.

Actually, fight by his side? He puts a stop there.

He tries to reason with them a little bit, mainly pointing out that they could get really hurt and then he would be very sad.

He is surprised that this has worked for a long time.

Teams up with the rest of the team and Sari to explain to Buddy about not going out into dangerous places yet.

Yet.

“C’mon you two it’s time to show everyone your costume!”--Ratchet

“… You promise not to laugh?”--Buddy

“Of course, not now come out we got some trick or treating to get too! You don’t want to best candy to get eaten.”--Bumblebee

“It’s okay I’ll come out with Buddy.”--Sari

“Okay on the count of three… two… one… go!”--Optimus

Sari coming out in her modified Optimus Prime costume with Buddy holding her hand with a homemade Bumblebee costume.

“Aww! Look at that love the color you two! Hey Bumblebee, what do—”--Bulkhead

Bumblebee trying so hard not to cry.

“Are you crying?”--Bulkhead

“N—no”--Bumblebee

“I did after my hero Bumblebee!”--Buddy

Bumblebee is now trying to hold back a full-on sob.

“You sure you’re not crying?”--Prowl

ROTB

Bee is warmed when he hears that the little one looks up to him like that.

It is nice to hear someone say that.

“Bumblebee! Bumblebee!”--Buddy

Bumblebee looking at them waving.

“Look what I drew today!”--Buddy

Bumblebee looking at a picture of him and Buddy holding hands with ‘My Hero!’ written in blue crayon.

“Do you like it? It’s yours!”--Buddy

Bumblebee gently holding Buddy in his servo giving a hug while whirling happy tunes.

When Buddy talks about wanting to be a real bot, he explains as simply as he can that right now it isn’t possible.

Yet there is still hope.

Fighting by his side is completely out of the question. He is not letting them anywhere near the fight if he can help it.

Will have a spark attack if he sees that they stowed away.

Bumblebee has to get help from Noah and Kris so Buddy can understand why it’s dangerous to stowaway.

“But I want to go too!”--Buddy

“So do I Buddy but things can get really bad out there.”--Kris

“And you can’t stowaway in cars. That’s a bad thing to do.”--Noah

“But Mirage said that you tried to carjack him when you two met. I’m pretty sure that that’s even more illegal.”--Buddy

Bee laughing through his radio with Mirage while Kirs is trying to hold it in.

“… Mirage you’re not babysitting them for the next month.”--Noah

#transformers x reader #maccadam #tfp #tfp x reader #transformers g1 #g1 x platonic reader #human buddy #tfa x platonic reader #tfa x reader #transformers rotb #g1 bumblebee #tfp bumblebee x platonic reader #tfa bumblebee #rotb bumblebee

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yoonkinii · 24 days ago

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Echos of Desire

Pairing(s): Choso Kamo x Reader

FantasyAU!, Guardian!Choso, Royalty!Reader

Part 1

Synopsis: Choso is one of the few to possess abilities that transcend human limits. His family was taken away from him and he was given to serve the king. He was trained in nothing else but to kill and follow orders. He was a man made weapon. His name whispered in fear- the kingdom's boogeyman. He hates it though. Hates how his freedom was ripped from his hands. Hates how his ‘gift’ is more like a curse. He is offered a deal he can’t deny- transport the princess to safety in a neighboring kingdom. The only problem is, she’s the daughter of the man that took everything from him and she is being hunted down by unknown forces.

Warning(s): character death, self loathe, burning alive, mentions of abuse, mention of death, blood. (if I am missing any. Please let me know)

Note(s): as I deal with college finals, I have not been able to write for my Sukuna AU. I felt bad and had the first part sitting in my files so I chose to share it. You will notice that in this story, there are mentions of abilities and skills that are in JJK but are changed to suit the story plot.

No one talks about how the stench of burning flesh can be so unnervingly similar to roasted meat. The thought alone churns Choso’s stomach as his face is ground into the dirt, his tear-blurred eyes forced open to witness his home devoured by flames. Every crackling ember, every surge of heat feels like an accusation. He doesn’t look away though, though the sight tears at his soul. He deserves this torment- it’s his fault.

He should have fled the moment the cursed mark marred his face, carving a jagged path across the bridge of his nose and spreading like a sinister brand. They warned him to leave, told him what would happen, but he stayed. Why? Because he was selfish. Because he clung to a fragile hope, a desperate dream that he could stay with his mother and brother a little longer.

Now their screams haunt him, slicing through the crackling fire. The agony in their voices etches itself into his very being, a scar that will never heal. His fault. All his fault.

The grip on his head tightens, rough fingers yanking his hair until he’s forced to look up. Through the haze of pain and tears, Choso meets the gaze of the man who orchestrated his ruin, the king’s general, Lu.

Lu is a vision of ruthless efficiency, his reputation as blood-soaked as the battlefield itself. His silver eyes, cold and unnatural, pierce through Choso like a blade. His grizzled features speak of age, but nothing about him suggests weakness. Even the streaks of gray in his slicked -back hair only add to the aura of relenting brutality. The deadliest man in the realm, staring down at him like a predator savoring its prey.

Choso meets the general’s eyes, unable to stop his quivering lips and the sobs that shakes his shoulders. The general tuts his lips, suddenly releasing Choso. Choso falls limply into the dirt, curling in on himself as he cries and cries. He cries until it hurts, until the general says something to another and walks away, until he dry heaves out cries, until the flames die down and all that remains is the ash in the air.

Choso’s lips tremble as sobs wrack his body. He can’t stop them, no matter how much he wishes to. The general clicks his tongue in disdain before abruptly letting go, letting Choso crumple to the ground like a discarded rag.

Curled into himself, Choso cries until his chest burns, until his voice is reduced to raw, aching gasps. He cries as the general mutters orders to someone unseen and strides away, as the inferno that consumed his life finally dies down, leaving nothing but as and ruin in its wake.

“Come on, kid.”

The voice, female and startling gentle, cuts through the oppressive silence. Choso’s bloodshot eyes flutter open, squirting against the harsh brilliance of the rising sun.

Before him stood a woman whose weather face seemed to carry the weight of a thousand stores. Her sharp brown eyes, set beneath furrowed brows, scrutinized Choso with an intensity that made him feel as if she could see through to his very soul. Her tan skin, toughened by years of hardship and streaked with crisscrossing scars on her face and knuckles, was framed by well-worn leather armor. Her dark, untamed hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, though rebellious strands curled free, softening her otherwise severe appearance.

“You’ve cried enough. It won’t bring them back. All you can do now is move forward,” she said, her voice roughened by years of barking commands and enduring countless battles. It carried a measured tone, steady as a ship braving stormy seas. Though she appeared to be the same age as his mother, her demeanor was anything but nurturing - her presence was as unyielding as iron.

“Follow.”

She didn’t glance back to see if he obeyed, confident that he would. Her boots crunched against the dirt path as she strode toward the dense forest ahead. The sound of Choso stumbling to his feet confirmed her certainty. Without protest, he trailed behind, his tattered clothing clinging to his thin frame, his bare feet scraping against the rough ground - another mark of this abrupt, harrowing awakening that murdered his family.

For a while, the only sounds were the soft rustling of leaves and the distant melody of early morning birds. Then Choso broke the silence, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

“Who are you? Where are we going?

She didn’t pause or turn, but her keen ears caught the words. “My friends call me Shara, but you will call me ‘ma’am’. We’re going to a palace that will shape you into what you were meant to become.”

Her answered stirred unease in Choso, but he hesitated to press further. Something about her presence made him reluctant to question her. Still, curiosity gnawed at him, and after a few moments, he couldn’t stop the strained words from slipping out.

“What am I?”

His voice trembled, raw from the grief and cries that had hollowed him out.

Shara finally glanced over her shoulder, her scarred face unreadable. “A weapon.”

“Are you listening, Kid?”

“I’m always listening ma’am,” Choso replied, his voice steady but low.

Shara scoffed, leaning back into the creaking wooden seat of the carriage. Choso shifted uncomfortably. It was his first time riding in one, and the enclosed space made him uneasy. He couldn’t keep an eye on his surroundings or listen for the out-of-place sounds that might signal danger.

“Sure you are,” Shara mused, her tone laced with skepticism. She was more than just his mentor - she was the one who had taken him in after the fire razed his life to ash when he was ten. Albeit, she was most likely instructed to take him in. Thirteen years had passed since then, but the scars of that night still clung to him like a second skin. They didn’t fade; they lingered, shadowing him in waking hours and haunting him in dreams.

Most nights, he woke drenched in sweat, the bitter taste of ask still fresh on his tongue. On the nights he didn’t sleep, he trained relentlessly - pushing his body to exhaustion, carving discipline into his muscles until it became second nature. Until it felt as permanent as the sins etched onto his soul.

“Repeat what I just said,” Shara commanded, her arms crossed tightly against her chest.

Choso tore his gaze from the window and met her unyielding stare. She hadn’t changed much over the years. Her gaze was as sharp as the day he’d first seen her, her voice as firm and unwavering. The only visible differences were the silver streaks threading through her dark hair and the faint lines creasing her weathered face.

“I am to escort the princess to the kingdom of Vatish via a route prepared by the king’s advisors,” Choso recited with precision. “Upon delivering her safely, my services to the crown will be terminated - permanently.”

“You understand what that means?” Shara’s eyes narrowed, her finger tapping rhythmically against her bicep as she studied him.

“It means after this, I’ll no longer be bound to the crown,” he replied, his voice calm but weighted with finality.

She hummed softly, a sound of approval as she nodded. “Do you accept?”

“Did I ever have a choice?”

“Good.”

The carriage fell into silence once more. Choso turned his attention back to the window, watching the tree blur past in a haze of green and brown. He supposed he should relax, maybe even enjoy the ride - but he couldn’t, years of relentless training had hardened him beyond comfort. His body, forged into a weapon, was always tense, always braced for battle. Relaxation was a luxury he no longer remembered how to afford.

“Didn’t I tell you to cut your hair?” Shara’s voice sliced through the quiet like a blade.

“I did,” he replied, not bothering to look away from the passing landscape.

“Oh, really? What’d you cut it with? Your teeth? It’s still long?”

Absentmindedly, Choso’s fingers drifted to his hair. The black locks fell to his nape, and a few rebellious strands often slipped into his vision. He couldn’t deny it got in the way sometimes, but the thought of cutting it shorter rarely crossed his mind.

“It grew,” he muttered.

Shara’s laughter rolled through the carriage, deep and loud, like a crash of distant thunder. When it subsided, she let out a sigh and leaned slightly to peer out the same window as Choso.

“You’re lucky the king is merciful enough not to kill you for looking like some wild animal.”

“Truly merciful,” Choso replied without thinking, his tone dripping with sarcasm. A scornful look twisted his face as the words left his lips.

The carriage slowed to a halt before a sweeping staircase of polished stone, flanked by guards who stood like statues, their gazes as sharp as their weapons. Choso felt the weight of their eyes, trained and unyielding, tracking his every move as he stepped out. His black fighting leathers, thick enough to ward off the biting wind yet supple enough not to hinder his movement, creaked softled with the effort. It was a rare sight to see him in anything else, even during the fleeting moments when he attempted to sleep.

The hair on Choso's neck stood on end at the eyes trailing after him. One glance casted at Shara showed that she was not bothered by the eyes, if she was then she didn’t show. Shara and Choso were met with a castle attendant, a wordless exchange happening between his mentor and the attendant before they were led through the castle.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled under the scrutiny. A quick glance at Shara revealed her usual calm demeanor, unshaken by the piercing stares. If she felt the tension, she gave no indication. Without a word, a castle attendant approached, exchanging a subtle nod with Shara before motioning for them to follow.

As they were led into the castle, Choso’s gaze flitted restlessly. He cataloged everything - the twists and turns of the corridors, the placement of each window, the number of doors lining the walls. Years ago, such a task would have overwhelmed him, but not it was instinctual, each detail committed to memory with ease.

The castle’s interior was stark yet imposing. Ornate stone walls rose on either side, their austerity broken only by the blood-red carpets that stretched across the floor. THe absence of frivolous decor gave the space an air of cold efficiency, every inch designed to intimidate rather than comfort.

Ahead, two massive, intricately carved wooden doors creaked open by guards, revealing the castle’s main hall. Choso’s footsteps echoed faintly against the flagstone floor as his eyes took in the towering stone walls, adorned with heavy tapestries. Each one depicted the kingdom’s bloody history - scenes of conquest, kneeling enemies, and wars won through sheer brutality. He looked away, the oppressive imagery stirring unease in his chest.

The soaring ceiling drew his gaze upward, a masterpiece of vaulted arches painted with frescoes. Even here, the scenes spoke of violence: victorious kings, battlefields littered with the fallen, and rivers of crimson streaking the skies. Shafts of golden light poured in through high, arched windows, softening the grim narrative etched into the hall.

At the far end, a dais of white marble steps elevated the throne - a striking symbol of the kingdom’s might. Forged of deep mahogany, the throne’s high back was carved with the kingdom’s crests, its armrest shaped into snarling lions frozen mid-roar. The maroon velvet cushioning glinted faintly in the light, as though even the throne itself basked in authority.

A crimson carpet with golden thread stretched the length of the hall, guiding the eye to the footsteps of the foot of the throne. Guards stood rigid along the walls, their halberds gripped so tightly their knuckles shone white. The air was thick with tension, a palpable miz of nerves and uncertainty as Shara and Choso took their place before the throne.

The heavy silence deepened as another set of guards entered the room. Unlike those stationed along the walls, these men moved with a hardened precision that sent a chill through Choso’s veins. Their faces, lined and unyielding, spoke of brutal training and unrelenting discipline. THey took their places, three on either side of the throne, their presence amplifying the oppressive atmosphere.

Choso’s stomach churned as he watched the man he despised most stride into the room.

As the king entered, a profound silence blanketed the room. The air grew heavy, suffused with the weight of authority and history, as though the stones themselves acknowledge his power. Each of his measured steps reverberated through the vast chamber, a reminder of dominance etched into every corner. Ascending the dais with unhurried grace, the king seated himself on the throne, and the room seemed to collectively hold its breath, awaiting his command.

But it was not the king who spoke first.

Shara, ever swift, dropped to one knee, her movement fluid and precise. Choso followed a heartbeat later, lowering his head as her voice rang out with unwavering conviction.

“All praise the mighty sun of the kingdom.”

The guards responded in perfect synchronization, slamming the butts of their halberds against the marble floor. The sharp, rhythmic sound echoed twice, its force reverberating through Choso’s chest. They froze in that posture, returning to their statue-like stance.

Each passing second gnawed at Choso, his chest tightening with suppressed annoyance. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe deeply, Shara’s lessons repeating like a mantra in his mind: Diminish it. Emotions are humanity’s worst weakness. You do not feel. You are not human.

He wasn’t human- not anymore. He was a tool, forged for the kingdom’s will, his humanity burned away alongside his home, his family, and his hope.

“You may rise,” the king’s voice finally broke the silence, deep, and commanding.

Choso and Shara stood, Shara’s posture unwavering, while Choso’s eyes shifted to the man seated on the throne. His lips pressed into a thin line as he studied the king. The monarch’s lips curved into a knowing smile, faint wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, a picture of composed authority.

“It’s good to see you, Shara. You’ve been away for quite some time,” the king said, his tone smooth yet laced with an undercurrent of power.

Shara inclined her head, her voice noticeably softer than the one she reserved for her scolding of Choso. “Indeed, my king. Training your soldiers is no small task.”

Soldiers. The word grated against Choso’s nerves, though he willed himself to remain motionless. Not people, not citizens - just soldiers. Children torn from their families, molded into weapons through the harsh hands of death and submission. His jaw tightened, but his gaze remained fixed on the wall behind the king, a single act of restraint in a room heavy with unspoken tension.

Then, something white caught his attention.

Standing beside the king was a figure, still as stone but coiled like a predator ready to strike. Arms rested at his sides, but his posture betrayed his readiness. What struck Choso most were the bandages covering the man’s eyes, pristine and stark against his skin. Choso felt his brow furrow, confusion threading through his thoughts. Why was he blindfolded? How could a man seemingly devoid of sight carry such as air of awareness?

The figure’s lips curved into a smirk, almost as if he could sense - no, see - Choso’s inquisitive gaze. Embarrassed by his own curiosity. Choso quickly averted his eyes, fixing them once more on the wall, though the image of the smirking man lingered in his mind.

The king hums at Shara’s response, a casual nod indicating her answer sufficed - for now. Choso’s stomach tightened as the monarch’s sharp gaze shifted to him, scrutinizing every inch as though peeling back his lawyers for weakness or deceit. A single wave of the king’s hand broke the tension.

“This is him? Your best soldier?”

“Yes, my king,” Shara replied confidently, her hand settling on Choso’s shoulder like a claim of ownership. “His drive is unmatched. His skills surpass even my most seasoned warriors.”

The king’s eyes narrowed, probing Choso for signs of falsehood in Shara’s words. The room hung in silence until a faint smile tugged at the corner of the king’s mouth, more a predator’s curl than an expression of approval.

“That so?” he drawled. “Do tell - what is his gift?”

Choso exchanged a brief glance with Shara. Her silent nod was the only encouragement he needed before she stepped back, relinquishing the stage. Without a word, Choso moved with practiced ease, his hand darting to his forearm to unsheathe a dagger hidden within his leather sleeve.

The blade was slender, unassuming, crafted for precision rather than carnage. Its edge glinted under the light as Choso drew it across his palm. A sharp sting bloomed, but he didn’t flinch. The first dorp of crimson appeared, and with it, a subtle shift began.

The mark on his face - a single line running across the bridge of his nose - morphed, elongating and multiplying. Two lines extended from his brows, curving down to the corners of his mouth, their pointed tips adding an air of menace. The original line grew thinner and sharper, dividing his features like an ominous sigil.

All eyes in the room fixed on the blood pooling in his palm. Yet, before it could drip to the floor, it stopped, hovering midair as if caught by invisible threads. With a flick of his wrist, the liquid twisted and contorted, bubbling before stretching into a blade of solid crimson.

The weapon shifted again, reshaping into a halberd, its deadly edges gleaming. The halberd dissolved, reforming as an arrow, then fractured into countless droplets that spiraled upwards like a violent rainstorm suspended in time. The blood hovered, then shifted once more, transforming into countless razor-sharp needles.

Without hesitation, Choso releases them.

The room tensed as the needles descended, slicing through the air with lethal precision - only to dissipate a hair’s breadth from the onlookers. The blood lost its form, splattering harmlessly onto the marble floor in crimson pools. Despite the harmless finale, unease rippled through the guards. They shifted on their feet, knuckles whitening in their weapons.

The king leaned forward slightly, his grin widening. He regarded Choso as though he were a rare and fascinating beast, the amusement in his expression tainted by something darker. Choso finally met the gaze of the man who had unraveled his life, and for a fleeting moment during his display, he considered letting the blades find their mark. Just for a moment.

But that feeling passed, and the blood was reduced to harmless stains on the polished floor.

From the corner of his eye, Choso caught the smirk of the white-haired figure standing near the throne. Though his eyes were obscured by pristine bandages, the man’s grin felt as though it pierced directly through Choso’s defenses. Choso forced himself to look away, his gaze landing on Shara.

Her expression was not one of pride in him, but her creation - a jewel she had honed, shaped, and perfected.

“My, my,” the king mused, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. He clapped slowly, the sound echoing mockingly in the chamber. “Where has someone like you been hiding all this time? And how considerate of you not to paint the room red - it would’ve been…unfortunate for you.”

The threat was as clear as the gleam in his cold eyes. Choso stiffened but said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line as the king’s attention shifted back to Shara, who now stood proudly at his side, her posture rigid and expectant.

“He’s perfect.”

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