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fangdokja · 28 days ago

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His affection is a slow poison—sweet, deadly, and inevitable.

❤︎ Synopsis. In a love that teeters between devotion and obsession, escape is futile—his jealousy isn’t just possessive, it’s a consuming force that leaves no room for freedom. With each calculated act, he dismantles your world, ensuring you’ll always belong to him, body and soul.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Baizhu x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Itto x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Kazuha x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Lyney x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. Heart's Chains - Part 3

♡ Word Count. 4,223

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non con, psychological manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non con kissing and touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats, drugging, removal of rivals

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.

♡ A/N. Low-key wanted to make Itto a mean dom. Dumb yanderes are so difficult to write. I cry. Next to any ISTJ yandere, dumb yanderes are second hardest.

♡ Baizhu – The Alchemist’s Poison.

Baizhu’s smile, a sickly sweet balm, cloaked the sharp intent glinting behind his eyes. “Life, my precious flower,” he murmured, his voice soft yet suffocating, “is much too frail to entrust to anyone but me. Your delicate hands were never meant to bear its burdens. Allow me—only me—to carry them for you.”

His words wrapped around you like silk, tightening, fraying your resolve into ribbons of compliance. At first, you had convinced yourself his devotion was genuine—a healer’s oath steeped in compassion. Protector, savior, guardian—he wore these roles as if born to them. But beneath the guise of benevolence lurked a darker truth, insidious and inescapable: his care was a tether, his love a poison.

Baizhu’s jealousy was not a roaring inferno. It crept, unseen, like a toxin leeching into your veins. Slowly, methodically, it burrowed into every crevice of your existence. His presence was a parasitic vine, wrapping tighter with every passing day, strangling the independence you once held dear.

“You shouldn’t be walking so much,” he chided, golden eyes alight with feigned concern. “Your condition is far too delicate. Let me carry you. It’s for your own good.”

Before you could protest, his arms enveloped you, a cage of bone and sinew disguised as comfort. His touch was firm yet tender, his embrace perfumed with the faint, omnipresent scent of medicinal herbs. It was a paradox—gentle yet unyielding, a mirror of his love. Resistance melted under his grasp, and you allowed him to carry you, unaware that each small acquiescence forged another link in the chains binding you to him.

He didn’t need shackles of steel. His care sufficed.

Every bite of food, every sip of water passed through his meticulous hands. Initially, this vigilance seemed thoughtful, an extension of his role as your healer. But soon, you began to notice the peculiar intensity in his gaze. His fingers lingered on the rim of your cup; his lips curved in a fleeting smile as fatigue claimed your body after every meal.

“I’ve perfected the balance of your medicines,” he explained one evening, his tone that of a patient tutor. “You wouldn’t want to disrupt such a delicate equilibrium, would you, my flower?”

His golden eyes gleamed with a quiet, unnerving conviction. You nodded, your will eroding under the weight of his unrelenting care. After all, who else could understand the intricacies of your fragile condition? Who else could safeguard your life? His words became gospel, seeping into your thoughts until you could no longer distinguish them from your own.

The world beyond his reach began to wither. Friends drifted away, their once-familiar faces blurred by distance and neglect. When you asked why they no longer visited, Baizhu’s expression remained serene, his explanation a dagger wrapped in velvet.

“Their presence was too disruptive,” he said, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Your health is paramount. I simply told them the truth—only I know how to care for you properly.”

But the truth, like blood from a deep wound, eventually bled through the fabric of his lies. Friends who lingered too long fell ill with strange, inexplicable ailments. Their messages grew cryptic, laced with unspoken warnings, before ceasing entirely. The patterns became undeniable: his love was a scalpel, precise and unrelenting, excising anything that threatened his hold over you.

“Why would you question me, my sweet?” he murmured one night, his voice a silken noose tightening around your sanity. “Why would you need anyone else when I am here? Devoted to you in every conceivable way. I love you more than they ever could.”

His words clung to you, heavy and inescapable. His love was a sanctuary that felt like a tomb, gilded with care but suffused with suffocation. His golden gaze consumed you, twin suns burning with an intensity that brooked no dissent. When his lips brushed the curve of your neck, it wasn’t affection you felt but possession, his breath a ghostly claim against your skin.

“You belong to me,” he whispered, his tone as unyielding as his touch. “You always have. No one else deserves the honor of protecting someone as precious as you.”

Nights became a battleground of silence and shadows. You’d wake to find him seated beside your bed, his gaze fixed on you with an unreadable intensity. His fingers traced the pulse at your throat, the curve of your cheek, as though memorizing the fragility of your existence.

“Your heart beats because I will it,” he’d murmur, each word sinking into your skin like thorns. “Every breath you take is my gift. Don’t squander it, my dear.”

You wanted to scream, to claw at the suffocating vines of his obsession. But your body betrayed you, weakened by his tinctures, his “cures,” his meticulous control. You were a bird in a gilded cage, your wings clipped by the very hands that professed to shelter you.

———

One day, your curiosity betrayed you, leading you to his forbidden study. The air was thick with the acrid scent of dried herbs and volatile chemicals. Shelves groaned under the weight of ominous vials and weathered tomes. On the desk lay an open journal, its pages filled with meticulous observations—each breath you took, each flicker of pain, each moment of weakness—all cataloged in his precise, clinical handwriting.

Sketches of your anatomy adorned the pages, grotesquely detailed and annotated with chilling precision. One depicted your ribcage flayed open, each bone meticulously labeled, accompanied by notes speculating on the exact placement of your heart during moments of heightened stress. Diagrams of your organs, veins, and skeletal structure were paired with notes on your diet, your habits, your vulnerabilities.

“I’ve ensured your survival against impossible odds,” his voice broke the silence, calm but carrying a razor-sharp edge. You turned to find him standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable. “Every sacrifice I’ve made, every choice, has always been for you. Surely, you understand that, my little flower?”

He approached with measured steps, his smile a blade slicing through your fragile resolve. The journal snapped shut in his hands, but its contents remained burned into your mind—a testament to the depth of his obsession. His fingers ghosted over your arm, his touch light but laden with menace.

“You’re safe with me,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. “Safer than you could ever be anywhere else in this world. Remember that. No one will ever cherish you as I do.”

In that moment, the truth crystallized: there was no escape. Baizhu’s love was a labyrinth of his own design, each twist and turn leading back to him. His care was both poison and sustenance, ensuring your survival while tethering you to his will. His arms encircled you, pulling you into an embrace that felt less like comfort and more like a shroud.

“You are mine,” he murmured, his voice a lullaby of finality. “Entirely, irrevocably, eternally mine.”

And as his golden eyes bored into yours, you felt the weight of his words settle over you like a funeral pall. You were his. Completely, inescapably his.

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♡ Itto – The Oni’s Claim.

The shadows of Hanamizaka stretched long and jagged, clawing at the cobblestone streets as the fading sunlight dipped below the horizon. A lone figure loomed in the suffocating dusk, his massive silhouette swallowing the narrow alleyway where you stood frozen. His horns glinted faintly in the dim light, sharp as blades and crowned with streaks of crimson that mirrored the sinister hues of his piercing gaze. Arataki Itto’s wild grin was plastered across his face, but it carried none of its usual warmth; it twisted instead into something feral, manic—a predator’s grin.

"Found ya," he breathed, his voice a low, throaty rasp that slithered into your ears like the scrape of steel against stone. His towering frame blocked out the world behind him, reducing your field of vision to his imposing presence alone. The air seemed to curdle in his wake, thickening like poison, as his heavy footsteps reverberated closer.

Panic rooted you in place, yet your heart pounded furiously against your ribs, desperate to flee. His molten eyes bore into you, their molten hue shifting between desperate adoration and something darker, something ravenous.

"Why…" he began, his tone suddenly trembling, cracking under the weight of unspoken anguish, "why do you keep trying to run from me? Don’t you know what that does to me?"

He stepped forward, the cobblestones groaning under his boots, and you flinched, instinctively pressing yourself against the cold, unyielding wall at your back. He stopped mere inches away, his massive hands hovering on either side of your head, boxing you in. His claws scraped faintly against the stone, a sound that sent shivers racing down your spine. When he leaned in, his breath was hot against your skin, tinged with the faint metallic tang of his desperation.

"Do you think they’ll protect you?" he whispered, his voice low and almost tender, though laced with an undercurrent of menace. "The Tenryou Commission? Those guys? They don’t even know you like I do. They don’t see the real you." His head tilted slightly, his grin softening but never losing its sharp edges. "I see you. I’ve always seen you. And you… you’re mine."

A trembling hand reached up, calloused fingers brushing against your cheek. His touch was reverent, almost gentle, but it left a burning trail that seared into your skin. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Every instinct screamed to fight back, to scream, but his sheer presence crushed you under its weight.

"I don’t blame you for being scared," he murmured, his voice softening into a low rumble that was no less terrifying. "I know I’m… a lot. I’ve got all this strength, all this power, and it’s overwhelming sometimes, isn’t it? But I’d never hurt you. Never. You’re too precious. Too perfect." His hand trailed down, clawed fingers ghosting over your jawline, your throat, before resting possessively on your shoulder. The weight of it felt suffocating, as if he was branding you with his very essence.

"You don’t have to run anymore," he continued, his tone softening into a chilling mockery of comfort. "I’ve taken care of everything. No one can take you from me now. Not Kujou Sara, not the Tenryou Commission, not anyone. They can’t… they won’t."

His grin faltered for a fraction of a second, and in its place flickered a raw, unguarded desperation.

"You don’t understand what you mean to me, do you?" His voice broke, trembling with something that might have been love if it weren’t so twisted, so wrong. "You’re the only thing keeping me together. Without you, I… I…" His hand tightened around your shoulder, and you whimpered involuntarily. The sound seemed to snap him out of whatever abyss he was spiraling into, and he grinned again, wide and wild and utterly unhinged.

"I’d go mad without you," he said, almost laughing, though the sound was hollow. "I’d tear this whole city apart if it meant keeping you safe. Keeping you with me. You get that, right?"

When you didn’t respond, his eyes darkened, the faint ember of vulnerability extinguished by an all-consuming need. His hands shot to your waist, yanking you forward against his chest in a vice-like grip. You gasped, struggling instinctively, but it only made him tighten his hold, his grin stretching impossibly wider.

"Ah, don’t do that," he murmured, almost playfully, though his voice had a razor-sharp edge. "You’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep squirming. And I… well, I can’t let that happen, can I?"

His claws dug faintly into your sides, not enough to draw blood but enough to remind you of the danger you were in. His gaze roamed over your face, his expression softening into something almost tender. But there was nothing tender about the way he held you, caging you in his strength, his warmth, his madness.

"We’re gonna be so happy together," he said, his voice dipping into a low, sing-song cadence that made your stomach churn. "Just you and me, forever. Doesn’t that sound nice?"

When you didn’t answer, he sighed, pressing his forehead against yours. His horns grazed your hair, and you felt their weight, their sharpness, as they loomed over you like a shadow of inevitability.

"You don’t have to say anything," he whispered, his tone softening into something almost gentle, though it sent ice coursing through your veins. "I already know. I can feel it. Deep down, you belong to me. Just like I belong to you."

As his lips ghosted over your temple, your pulse thundered in your ears. His grip on you tightened, as if afraid you’d disappear if he let go for even a second. His breath hitched, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion.

"I’ll never let you go," he said, his words a promise and a threat all at once. "Never."

And in that moment, you realized the truth—there was no escape. Not from him. Not from this. Not from the suffocating, inescapable web of his obsession.

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♡ Kazuha – The Whispering Wind.

Even the gentlest breeze seemed to falter when Kazuha spoke, as if the air itself dared not trespass against his claim on you. His voice, soft and melodic, carried an unyielding finality, each word a thread that tightened around your chest, making it harder to breathe.

“Even the wind,” he began, crimson eyes gleaming like embers against the dim light, “knowing no master, bends to my will when it concerns you. You are my tether, my anchor, and I would cleave the heavens themselves before I let you drift away.”

His words hung heavy in the air, suffocating in their weight. The stillness surrounding him was not peaceful; it was the predatory calm before the kill. There was no fury in his tone, no tremor of rage. His jealousy was a silent beast, deliberate and methodical, stalking its prey with unrelenting precision.

Kazuha stepped closer, his movements so measured and fluid they resembled the fall of cherry blossoms—graceful, yet foreboding. The faint tang of iron clung to him, mingling with the briny scent of the sea that perpetually lingered in his wake. Each step brought with it the unspoken threat of his presence, an oppressive reminder of your captivity.

“You wander,” he murmured, his voice tinged with melancholy, as if lamenting a betrayal. “As though you believe the world beyond me has something to offer you. But every gust, every whisper of the wind, carries my name to you. You are bound to me, no matter where you run.”

His hand lifted, calloused fingers brushing your cheek with a tenderness that felt cruel in its juxtaposition to the suffocating atmosphere. The touch lingered, deliberate, each stroke of his thumb against your jawline a silent claim. The gentleness in his touch was an illusion, a prelude to the iron grip that could follow in an instant.

“Do not ask what became of them,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin, yet his words chilling. “The others who thought themselves worthy of your attention. They were obstacles, transient and disposable. You, however…” He paused, his gaze sharpening, the crimson of his eyes darkening like blood pooling beneath the surface. “You are eternal. My eternal.”

The room felt impossibly small, the air thick with the scent of copper and salt. Kazuha’s crimson gaze pinned you in place, dissecting you with an intimacy that felt invasive, wrong. His love was a maelstrom, a grotesque melody of devotion and madness that promised no escape. His blade, an extension of himself, was ever at the ready—not in open threat, but as a silent promise. The memory of screams and the wet, sickening sound of flesh yielding to steel lingered in the air like an unseen specter, a testament to his resolve.

When he spoke again, his voice was a velvet thread, soft and lethal. “You are the ink to my poetry, the essence of every verse I compose. Without you, my existence is meaningless. Do you see? Do you understand, my darling?”

You tried to step back, but his hands caught your face, his grip firm yet deceptively gentle. The dried blood on his fingers flaked off as he cradled your cheeks, the grotesque contrast of his tenderness and violence making your stomach churn. His touch was reverent, as if handling something sacred, yet the possessiveness in his gaze left no room for doubt. You were not a person to him; you were an artifact, a treasure, something to be hoarded and kept.

“Even if you begged the wind to carry you away,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, “it would betray you. The wind knows its master, just as you do. And you… you belong here. In my arms. Where you are both loved and safe.”

But safety was a fragile veneer, cracked by the weight of his obsession. His hands slid lower, tracing the curve of your neck, his touch precise and clinical, like a surgeon mapping his incision points. The pressure was calculated, just shy of discomfort, a silent reminder of his control. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and sickeningly intimate, as he continued his whispered declarations.

“The world conspires to take you from me,” he said, his tone softening, though the words carried the weight of a threat. “But I will not falter. I will carve away every threat, every obstacle. For you are the stillness within my tempest, the tether that binds me to this wretched existence.”

His crimson eyes softened, but the tenderness only made the madness within them more evident. His adoration was suffocating, a noose tightening around your throat. His kisses, ghosting over your skin, felt like brands, each one marking you as his. He handled you as if you were porcelain, fragile and irreplaceable, yet his gentleness carried an undercurrent of violence—a promise of what would happen if you dared to shatter his delusions.

“A caged bird still sings,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a ghost of a kiss. “And your melody belongs to me.”

In the dim light, his blade gleamed faintly at his side, a silent reminder of the chaos he was capable of unleashing. His crimson gaze bore into yours, unrelenting and invasive, as if peering into the very marrow of your soul. The room grew colder, the air thick with unspoken promises and unrelenting devotion. You were trapped, not by walls, but by the suffocating weight of his love, a love that promised no escape, no freedom.

The wind, once your ally, had turned traitor. And you… you were a bird with broken wings, bound to a love that would never set you free.

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♡ Lyney – The Illusionist’s Trap.

He doesn’t let you see it—not at first, not when the stage lights cast their golden glow on his smile and the audience’s applause thunders like a heartbeat in the hollow theater. To them, he’s nothing more than a charming illusionist, the kind of man who bends reality with the flick of a wrist and the curl of his lips. But you’ve learned to see past the curtain, haven’t you? You’ve glimpsed the darkness that coils behind his playful eyes—a shadow that only ever seems to rise when someone steps too close to you.

“Ah, mon amour,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over your ear as his fingers skim your wrist. “You’re the most precious part of my act. Do you think I’d ever let anyone ruin our performance?”

The words sound sweet, harmless, but the grip on your hand tightens just enough to send a chill down your spine. His smile doesn’t falter, not even as his gaze cuts across the room to the unfortunate soul who dared to look at you too long.

And that’s where the nightmare begins.

He doesn’t confront them outright; that wouldn’t do. No, his is a meticulous art, a silent war fought with whispers and invisible threads. The next morning, the admirer finds their belongings missing, their reputation tarnished by secrets they’d never breathed aloud. A scandal breaks. Their face pales in confusion, their voice trembling as they try to explain what cannot be explained.

It’s almost poetic, how quickly they fall apart. Like a magic trick they never saw coming.

And he’s always there, his arms slipping around your waist when the world feels unsteady, his voice low and soothing as he whispers, “What terrible luck they must have had. But don’t worry, ma chérie. I’ll keep you safe from such misfortune.”

You want to believe him. You try to convince yourself that the horrors swirling around you are coincidences, but it’s hard to ignore the glint in his eyes, the way his lips curl when he sees your unease. It’s as though he’s savoring every moment of your confusion, feeding off the fear he pretends not to notice.

One night, you confront him—or you try to. The words stick in your throat as he tilts his head, amusement flickering across his features like candlelight.

“Do you think I’m cruel?” he asks, his voice soft, almost tender. “Everything I do, I do for you. They looked at you like they had the right to dream. I merely reminded them of their place.��

You can’t respond. You’re too caught up in the way his fingers brush your cheek, his touch featherlight but suffocating all the same. His smile never wavers, even as his words twist like a knife in your chest.

“Do you know what scares me?” he continues, his tone darkening. “The thought of losing you. Of watching someone else steal the magic we’ve created together. Tell me you understand, ma chérie. Tell me you’d never betray me.”

The room feels colder, the air thinner. His hands linger on your shoulders, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles that feel less like comfort and more like chains.

“Say it,” he presses, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Say you love me. Louder this time.”

When you hesitate, his grip tightens. The gentleness fades from his expression, replaced by something darker, hungrier.

“Do you need a reminder?” he asks, his smile sharpening. “It’s easy to forget, I suppose, with all these distractions. Perhaps I should show you just how deeply I care for you… and how easily I can remove anything that stands in our way.”

The next day, another admirer vanishes. This time, the disappearance isn’t quiet. Blood stains the cobblestones near the market, crimson streaks smeared across the street like grotesque brushstrokes. People whisper of a beast, a shadow that moves too quickly to see. And yet, when you turn to him, his expression remains serene, his hands steady as he adjusts the cuffs of his coat.

“Tragic, isn’t it?” he says, his tone almost pitying. “But some people just can’t resist playing with fire.”

You don’t ask him what he means. You don’t dare.

Instead, you let him pull you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a way that feels both protective and imprisoning. His lips brush your temple, his voice a murmur that seems to echo in your skull.

“We’re a perfect pair, you and I,” he says, his breath warm against your skin. “Like magic and illusion. One cannot exist without the other. And without me, my love, your world would crumble.”

The worst part is… he’s right.

His presence has become a constant, a thread woven into every corner of your life. He’s there when you wake, when you sleep, when you dream. His voice lingers in your thoughts, his touch a phantom that never fades. And as much as you want to pull away, you can’t deny the truth that’s buried deep within your chest:

You’ve fallen for the illusion.

But illusions, as he’s so fond of reminding you, are not meant to be escaped. They’re meant to be lived, cherished, and—if necessary—enforced.

“You’ll never leave me,” he promises, his voice as smooth as silk. “Not because you can’t, but because you won’t. Isn’t that right, ma chérie?”

And as his lips curve into that familiar, devastating smile, you realize he’s not asking. He’s telling you.

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batmanlovesnirvana · 2 months 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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rayshippouuchiha · 6 months ago

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Okay but in the fem tsuna that accidentally becomes a assassin with class 3e

That would be such a great crossover au!

Also would her guardians change, would she have multiple for each element? Takeshi would probably learn more off of her lol.

But! Does Tsuna do the same thing that nagisa does? Is it a snake or lioness? Or lion?

I do think she'd end up with different guardians for the simple fact that by the time Reborn shows up she's not only been through everything with E Class but she's become the class baby/princess. So you best believe that these gremlins she spent that year with (who spent the year learning and growing in the dim, flickering light of her sealed flames that eventually became an inferno) have kept her tucked close in their lives.

I could possibly see her ending up with multiples for each element, with E Class being a bit older and having their own lives too before canon catches up to Tsuna.

I do think she'd be more aligned to Nagisa's snake style than anything lion-related by the end, just given the nature of their training and what she's been through. Or maybe she is something cat-like but more subtle in nature than canon.

#End Class Princess AU #RayRambles #KHR #AssClass #assassination classroom #katekyo hitman reborn

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hjbirthdaywishes · 7 months ago

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June 19, 2024

Happy 46 Birthday to Zoe Saldaña.

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3m1lth34rt1st · 1 month ago

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DISCLAIMER BEFORE THE POST!

I created Chaos and the gang BEFORE the "how long a toon can boost" post came out. I only figured it out in the middle of making them, and did.. not have the energy to think them over again.

And with that over, the actual art.

Autism kicked in..

@fizzyboy the creator of Dandy's Wasteland. Awesome AU buddy.

my friends, og creators of 2 of the characters <3

@passport-guardian-benrey original creator of Inferno

@beetlesockss original creator of Leviathan

#emil posts #emil art!!#dandys world #dandy's world au #dandy's wasteland #dandy's world oc #art #my art

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thesirenisles · 12 days ago

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Sirens, The 12th House, and Biblical Texts

“And the women of the angels who went astray will become sirens.”

-1 Enoch 19:1

Academic disclaimer: Quotes used are translations and may differ per translated version.

Siren History

Most know the tales of dangerously seductive mermaids luring sailors to the depths for a watery demise or winged beasts with talons perched on the beach shore singing haunting tunes. But, there is quite a bit more to this story.

Siren lore and mythology has been most commonly associated with the Greco-Roman origins. Within the literature and mythology, the first mention of sirens is attributed to Book 12 of Homer's "Odyssey", composed around 8th century BCE. They are a central antagonist along the journey of the protagonist.

Homer's description of Sirens (Odyssey 12.50-54): "There are two rocks, and the sirens sit on them, and their voices are lovely to hear, but they are evil in their hearts. Their faces are like those of women, but their bodies are like those of birds."

Siren's depicted with a fish or mermaid's tail come up later:

(Conrad Gessner, Historiae Animalium, 1551): "The Sirens are said to be a kind of fish-like creature with the upper part of a woman and the lower part a fish's tail…"

It is worth mentioning that Siren-like myths did exist within Egypt as well.

Tales of creatures like "The Red Sea Siren", also called "The Siren of the Nile" or "El Naddaha" are not as well documented, of course. (History is written and kept by those in power). But, they do exist.

Below is an account stating Pharaoh Djoser famously kept one of these sirens as a novelty or for guest entertainment in his royal court in 2654 BC. They were ferocious and widely feared creatures, more fierce than even the Nile crocodiles.

The Metamorphoses

But, how were these creatures made?

We get a more descriptive take on the actual transformation of the Sirens in Italian author, Ovid's, Metamorphoses (8 C.E.)

Transformation into Birds (Metamorphoses 14. 776–779): "But when Persephone was married to Pluto, and the gods, in jealousy, turned them into birds, they were given wings and claws, and from that time on, they began to sing their luring song."

In this text, we are shown that this is a divine punishment of some sort dished out by a divine being. There is another tale quite similar.

The Abyss: Biblical Texts

Sirens come up again in Dante's "Divine Comedy", although this time, we see mention of the word "Abyss".

The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri (early 14th century):“In that abyss, we are twofold creatures; we have the shape of women but the behavior of sirens…” (Dante, Inferno, Canto XIX)

The use of the word "abyss" is very interesting here.

Here's why:

The texts of our current Holy Bible are said to have quite a few missing books, including some found among the Dead Sea Scrolls.

A very important one being:

"The Book of Enoch"

This book tells of creatures and beings beyond our Earthly conception, but it is not considered fiction. Among the mentioned, are a group of fallen angels: Watchers.

The Watchers, a sort of guardian, were drawn to the beauty of the human women. Against the word of God, it is said the angels mated with these beautiful women.

They created a half human, half angel race called Nephilim. This "Unholy Union" was disrespect in the eyes of the divine.

The Watchers, the Nephilim, and the women were all punished for their parts in the disgrace.

🪽The Nephilim were destroyed in a great flood.

This is where the mention of deep waters come in. Similar to the great flood and Noah's Arc etc. We have God unleashing powerful waters as punishment.

🪽The Watchers are said to have been imprisoned in Tartarus or "The Abyss".

Tartarus can symbolically connote to hell, the depths, or even the abyss. In Greek mythology, this is said to be even lower than Hades' Underworld and the prison of the Titans.

Tartarus itself is very similar to the description of "The Abyss". It is described as a dark, desolate watery grave for fallen Angels. A bottomless wasteland of mystery and even judgement.

It is often considered a most heinous section of the underworld, reserved for powerful beings. Not many mortals make it here, unless they did something really out of the norm to infuriate the Gods.

You have probably seen another depiction of "The Watchers" in "Noah" (2014). In the film, they were also fallen angels, punished for descending to help humanity. Their bodies were imprisoned in rocks (Earth element) to diminish their divinity.

🪽The women who mated with the angels were cursed to become mermaids or "sirens".

Similar to the Greek texts, we see another mention of divine punishment dished out and causing the metamorphosis of the women known as sirens:

1 And Uriel said to me: 'Here shall stand the angels who have united with women, and their spirits, taking many different forms, are corrupting mankind and leading them astray to worship demons as gods. Here they shall remain until the day of the great judgment when they will be judged and brought to an end. 2 And the women of the angels who went astray will become sirens.' 3 And I, Enoch, alone saw the vision, the ends of all things: and no man shall see as I have seen.

12th House Symbolism

The themes mentioned within these texts add and highlight so much symbolism to the 12th house, often depicted as the Primordial Waters.

It is the final house of completion, maybe even the symbolism for the Great Flood that was to come... ending what was and simultaneously creating something new in the 1st house.

Traditional vs Modern Astrology

🧜🏾‍♀️Traditional tends to have a more negative take on the 12th house with it representing isolation, hidden enemies, self-undoing and hidden weaknesses, spiritual growth, and even karma.

🧜🏿‍♂️Modern astrology 12th house themes focuses on the unconscious mind, spirituality, past trauma healing, psychic abilities, and endings or transitions.

However, we can notice all of these themes within the texts mentioned:

The primordial waters are symbolic of endings and transitions within the book of Enoch.

Within these primordial waters or "Hell", the angels and sirens are in a state of isolation, forever doomed to relive their past trauma, enduring eternal punishment as their karma for their own choices or self-undoing.

We see the sirens who are hidden enemies and lure men to their own self-undoing, utilizing their hidden weaknesses. Their unconscious mind is the weakness, playing into the theme of illusions.

Odysseus' Response (Odyssey 12.44-46): "But they were deceiving me, for they sang to me with a voice so sweet…"

The psychic abilities, intuition, and spiritual side of this can be seen as well:

The Sirens' Song (Odyssey 12.39-42): "Come here, Odysseus! … All you who are alive, come and listen to us. We know everything that happens on the face of the earth. … We know all things that will be, and all things that have been."

In the odyssey, the protagonist's spiritual strength is tested and he must endure the sirens call while guiding his crew to safety.

Conclusion

The story of Pisces in the context of Aquarius and Capricorn is quite interesting. You have the death of Osiris in Capricorn, his bottom half symbolically replaced with a fish upon resurrection by Isis. The fish of the Nile are said to have eaten his genitals and thus, become apart of him.

Aquarius is pouring the waters of knowledge and perhaps, the great flood. Pisces or Neptune is the king of the depths, maybe the elevated form of Osiris / Saturn? His death and rebirth? He even carries a trident, which can be compared to the pitchfork of the Devil... and is said to be trapped in Tartarus himself.

You have Isis who is depicted in many forms among different cultures, including with wings and as a mermaid.

The theories here are endless. I genuinely enjoyed diving into this mythology and literature when I began to notice the similarities here. The story continues.

Thank you for reading!

Check out my blog for more mythology and astrology posts!

@thesirenisles | masterlist

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the-lavender-clown · 1 month 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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giallofever2 · 2 years ago

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1980/81

L’altro Inferno

AKA …

English The Other Hell

Cymraeg L'altro Inferno

français L'Autre Enfer

русский Другой ад

Release date

22 January 1981 (Italy)

Registi: Bruno Mattei, Claudio Fragasso

Music by Goblin

The film passed Italian censors on July 23, 1980.

The Other Hell was distributed in Italy on 22 January 1981.

Mattei spoke about being influenced by what he described as "Argento's concepts" on the film but that the film was not "an absolute copy of Inferno".

According to Rome's Public Cinematographic Register, filming began on October 23, 1979, and continued through October and November when very little about Argento's film was known except its title and some stills from the set.

It was given a belated limited theatrical run in the United States as Guardian of Hell by Film Concept Group on 13 September 1985.

The film has been released on home video by Vestron Home Video as The Other Hell with an 88-minute running time

#laltroinferno #theotherhell #brunomattei #claudiofragasso #carlodemejo #giallofever #italianhorror #italiangiallo #gialloallitaliana #horrormovies #giallomovies #gialloitaliano #giallofilm #giallodrama #italianhorrorfilms #italianhorrormovies #spaghettigiallo #filmhorror #spaghettihorror #giallohorror #giallo #italianactress #horror #gialli #italianactor #filmhorreur #italiancinema #italiancrimefilm #italiancrimemovies #goblin

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in1-nutshell · 1 year 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

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