#irrevocably devastating

[profalseidols]

"I'd always felt lonely, even before. This was a new feeling, like.. a terror, that I'd always be alone now. And then, as I got older, that feeling just solidified. Just a knot, here, all the time. And then losing them, it just got tangled up with all the other stuff about being gay, and just feeling like the future doesn't matter. Does that make sense?"

All of Us Strangers (2023) dir. Andrew Haigh

[karizipan]

🦐🦐🦐

[azalea-skies]

One last hear me out before I go to bed: Phainon as rät by Penelope Scott

[krismatic]

wow i've never had a hyperfixation die this fast

[jamiethebee]

Fully caught up on the manga (minus spoilers for the last chapter) and..... Ya know what maybe I am a villain stan because I just.... Don't trust that anything really changes in society. Everyone outside of heroes, when given speaking parts, seems to indicate that they'll step in or do something in order to protect themselves - not out of any sense of responsibility or community, but to safeguard their lives in case the other person ends up a villain. Or maybe I'm just pessimistic? But we've seen irl time and again that this ending attitude doesn't work. Doesn't have change. Certainly not long lasting change. I really really wanted to finish the series still liking Deku but throughout the fight, every cut back to someone other than Deku, talking about his heart and how good he was and how much he was doing to fight for the person - and the cut back is just "punch". He never responded to Shigaraki's words. He never engaged with the man himself. And at the end of the day, I feel more trust in Uraraka. More trust that she'll actually work on saving people's hearts. And she's back in construction work like her parents. And of course the camera dies and no one sees Toga's heart. Because how dare anyone think a villain could be a person (paraphrased that one interview guy).

I really really wanted to end this manga happy with it. I'm not stupid enough to conflate the reality of the story with fandom. I'm not. I really wanted to enjoy it for what it is. But when they directly ask "how do we fix villains being made" the answer is "you don't. We can't" and ???? That's supposed to be what the manga was working towards this whole time? I - .....

[supmaww]

just saw a post about the player's backup characters (a very necessary thing to have when playing in a system like call of cthulhu) and I realized how attached I am to them all. I forgot about how easily they could all die. I would be so upset my goodness, I truly want to see their stories through. expect for tony. I think I accepted his death 3 episodes ago. he can go

[dearru]

do u guys know that one song by doja cat that goes “like fortnite ima need ur skin.” that’s what inspired this. hope u enjoy. | mlist

imagine you, an aspiring singer, starting to date the wildly influential streamer, kodzuken. you two are the definition of a picture perfect couple, and you start to make lots of content together. as a result, your career begins to take off, and kenma’s content grows in popularity,

everything’s great— until it isn’t. the relationship ends up crashing and burning in an embarrassingly public breakup.

people are devastated. video essays are made. diehard fans even claim the split is the equivalent of “parents divorcing.”

it’s a whole ordeal.

but as time passes, the wounds heal. and in true internet fashion, it becomes old news. some people still whisper about how they believe you two are soulmates, but for the most part, kenma’s chat and your comment section don’t get flooded with invasive questions about whether you two will get back together anymore.

fast forward to two years or so after the breakup, you and kenma end up growing in your respective careers. his several business ventures have grown exponentially, and you’re now selling out stadiums.

kenma doesn’t stream as much as he used to when you two were together, but he chalks it up to having to juggle so many different commitments now. fans speculate as to whether or not that’s the true reason, but as a collective, they agree that they’ll take whatever content they can get from the elusive creator.

despite not streaming as frequently, kenma still likes to indulge his audience every once in a while by hopping online. normally, he likes to decide what to play, but every once in a while, he’ll let chat decide.

tonight is one of those nights.

on a whim, he gives in to requests for him to boot up fortnite— an old favorite of his— for the first time in months.

big mistake.

the second he opens the once beloved game, he gets jumpscared by something that even his worst nightmares couldn’t have fathomed.

you.

everywhere.

to his horror, and the chat’s delight, he finds that you’ve become the poster child for fortnite’s newest campaign. your face is on the menu screen, banners of you flash in bright colors, and you’re plastered everywhere in the item shop.

they say men are constantly haunted by the ghost of their first love, and in a cruel twist of fate, it’s a saying that has become ironically true for kenma as he realizes that epic games has made you into a fucking skin.

he debates the consequences of throwing his pc into a wall, but his screen flashes with an overly excitable chat faster than he can make a decision. old fans are freaking out, new gen fans are wondering what all the fuss is about, and someone donates just to type “YOU’RE FUCKED.”

kenma has half the mind to laugh as the notification illuminates his face because he knows the donor is right.

he’s not an idiot. he knows that you’re popular now, but to be so famous that you have your own skin? he’s in absolute disbelief. there’s no way the universe hates him this much. it’s bad enough that you’re on every headline and radio station. now you’re in his favorite video game?!?!

he is so unbelievably, irrevocably fucked.

—a/n: i think that kenma’s viewers are evil and they all band together and emote on kenma with ur skin whenever they see him online.

—a/n #2: has anyone written abt this concept before. pls lmk. i would love to read it bc i giggled so hard when the thought popped in my head HAHAHA.

—a/n #3: guys i don’t play fortnite, watch streamers, or write for kenma at all so pls don’t hate on me ok thx love u

[desos-records]

suddenly struck with thoughts about the devastating concept of Jason Todd

because he was good. because he had a bleeding heart despite every reason not to. he loved school and was good at it. he was the first to be adopted, with little pretense of guardianship. he did everything he could to be a perfect Robin and live up to an impossible ideal. he only ever wanted Bruce and Dick to like him.

because he met Bruce in the same place and on the same day that Bruce's parents died--the single defining moment of Batman's existence. and he made Batman laugh. he hit the Dark Knight, Terror of Gotham, with a tire iron. he wasn't afraid of the man who turned fear into a weapon.

because he couldn't save his mother from herself, but he tried. because he was too good not to try and save the woman who gave him up. too good to play the Joker's game. the crowbar didn't kill him, the bomb did. he died knowing he wouldn't make it and tried anyway. he died a hero.

because other Robins have died, but none of them put an irrevocable tear in the mythos of Batman. because Jason Todd always dies, in every universe. he dies for the sins of his father. he was put to death by popular vote, sacrificed by the crowd. doomed by the narrative and doomed by the audience. the boy who only ever tried to prove he was good enough--wasn't good enough.

because he has every reason to be angry. because he didn't ask to be murdered, didn't ask to be brought back, and when he did everyone acted like he was better off dead. Bruce tried to kill him and nearly succeeded. he's blamed for his own death and blamed for his resurrection. he can never come home because the house is haunted by his own ghost.

because he's been the hero, the victim, and the villain. because his family and his writers and his universe don't know what to make of him. they don't know how to look his tragedy in the eye. and how can you?

it hurts to look at the hero who cannot be good enough, the victim who will only ever be angry, the villain who can sometimes be right. the audience hates to feel complicit and, in this exceptional case, they are.

[maeveandark]

Shy Tentacle Monster x F!Reader

18+, MDNI cw: somnophilia, noncon themes, voyeurism, stalking, a light sprinkling of yandere, coming inside/breeding, tentacle sex

The timid tentacle monster that lived under your bed shamefully had to admit to himself that he was in over his head. Instead of having his way with you like most other confident tentacle monsters would, your inconspicuous roommate instead had spent the better part of the last year agonizing over how he was going to introduce himself to you--without frightening you of course.

From the moment he'd first slipped through the cracks of your humble abode and laid eyes on you he'd fallen completely and irrevocably head over heels (metaphorically, considering he didn't have neither a head nor heels) in love with you. He'd never seen a human as pretty as you before, never felt his eight hearts race quite so fast or his tentacles twitch quite so eagerly as you walked past him, wrapped in a bath towel and yapping away on your phone, completely unaware of his presence in the shadows.

Your timid tentacle monster vividly remembered that he had to remind himself how to breathe, so completely enchanted he was by you on that day. Once he managed to collect himself and settle under one of the loose floorboards beneath your bed he set his mind to work. Should he wait for you to fall asleep, then slip his tentacles under the covers and explore you to his hearts' content? No, he didn't want to touch you without your permission. Then perhaps he could gently coax you awake, and politely ask if he could help make you feel good? No, you'd surely scream at him and kick him out the door sooner than he could say, "Hello!" Not to mention he'd be devastated if you ended up being scared of him.

So instead, your timid tentacle monster resorted to just watching you, learning all about your little quirks, your hobbies, and your flaws. Every little thing that made you you, he treasured and with each passing day your tentacle monster found himself falling deeper and deeper in love.

Of course, he didn't just want to be some creep living under your floorboards. Shy though he was, your tentacle monster loved you and had a tendency to show his devotion through acts of service. On cold nights he always made sure that you were tucked in warmly beneath the covers. Sometimes he'd even be so bold as to help you with little household chores, smiling to himself at your adorably confused expression.

"Huh, I don't remember taking out the trash."

However, despite the domestic bliss your gentle monster had carefully crafted, there were some nights that had proven to be nothing short of awful. Nights where you'd bring home strange men and let them touch you--let them fuck you.

Your monster hated those nights, he'd curl in on himself as pangs of venomous jealously coursed through his every appendage. It was painful listening to the phony sounds of pleasure you made. He knew what you really sounded like when you were feeling good, so why did you put on such a mind boggling performance for someone who was so undeserving?

And then on one particular night, your timid tentacle monster couldn't take it anymore. He patiently waited for your nameless partner to leave, for you to collapse on your squeaky mattress with a frustrated sigh and doze off before he made his move.

With each an every one of his hearts working in overdrive, your faint-hearted tentacle monster mustered up his courage and slowly slipped his long, slippery appendages under your covers.

He had to repress a deep groan when his tentacles finally came into contact with your skin. Fuck, you felt--and tasted--better than he could ever imagine possible. What a tragedy that you had wasted your time and pleasure on those men, whose clumsy fingers and cloddish cocks couldn't even hope to bring you even a fraction of the pleasure that he could.

After all, he knew you better than anyone.

Your monster relished in your dreamy sigh as his tentacles caressed every inch of your body, coating you in his warm slick as he stimulated every part of you to his satisfaction. He did not dare touch your pussy, not until you were a writhing, mewling mess begging to be filled.

The first orgasm he gave you had come from a mere brush of one of his suckers against your clit. The second from gently stretching your sweet pussy out on three of his thickest tentacles. And the third he'd mercilessly brought crashing down on you both as he frantically fucked and filled your womb with his hot load. He didn't stop thrusting, couldn't help himself from stuffing his seed even deeper inside, until he heard your pitiful whine for relief.

Your tentacle monster had finally thoroughly fucked and bred you, just like a proper monster should. But, as he slipped himself out of you he couldn't help but feel a little guilty. But that feeling immediately subsided when he felt your fingers playfully wrap around one of his tentacles.

"Took you long enough." You softly chuckled.

[malfoysanctuary]

Sovereign of My Heart

Theodore Nott x Reader

Summary: He’s ruthless with words, unbothered by the world, and crowned with a superiority only he could wear like armor, but around you, Theodore Nott is all reckless devotion and quiet adoration. Loving him is like loving a storm, dangerous, all-consuming, but utterly, irrevocably beautiful.

There were few things Theodore Nott cared about in this world.

His black ink quill, sharpened like a dagger, moving lazily across parchment. The precise art of making someone cry from a single, sarcastic comment. And you.

Mostly you.

At first, it was subtle—the glances when he thought you weren’t looking, the way he gravitated toward the seat beside you even when the room was full. His friends teased him mercilessly, calling him whipped under their breath. Theo only answered them with a slow, impassive blink that said say another word and die.

Today was no different.

You sat cross-legged on the grass near the Black Lake, finishing an essay for Potions. Theo was sprawled beside you, an arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily twirling his wand between his fingers. His tie was undone, shirt slightly rumpled, and he wore the air of a king surveying a kingdom far beneath him.

“Tell me again why you think Felix Felicis is unethical?” you asked, chewing your lip thoughtfully.

Theo smirked, the slow, dangerous kind that always made your stomach flip. “Because it’s cheating, darling. You should know—I don't need luck to get what I want."

His gaze flicked to you pointedly. You pretended not to notice how his fingers stilled on his wand.

You shoved his shoulder lightly. "You're unbearable."

"And yet," he drawled, voice like molasses, "you’re still here. Fascinating."

You rolled your eyes, trying (and failing) not to smile. Theo noticed, of course. He always noticed. Every twitch of your lips, every glance, every heartbeat that stuttered in your chest because of him.

When you bent over your essay again, he leaned up on one elbow, studying you openly, shamelessly, as if you were something rare he was entitled to admire.

There was a sharp cry from across the lake—Pansy Parkinson, whining loudly at Draco about something. Theo’s eyes didn’t even flicker toward the sound.

Instead, he muttered, almost to himself, "Pathetic."

"Be nice," you teased, scribbling a line of notes.

"Why?" Theo said, deadpan. "They're exhausting. You, on the other hand—" He let his voice trail off deliberately, watching the way your cheeks pinked. "You're the only decent thing about this cesspool."

You lifted your head, laughing. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you’re naive if you think I'm joking," he said simply.

The thing about Theo wasn’t that he loved softly. He didn’t. He loved the way he did everything else—with deliberate, searing intensity. There was no hiding it, no masking it. It was in the way he stood too close, how his scathing remarks melted into almost reverent affection when they were aimed at you.

Theo loved shamelessly.

It was terrifying.

It was beautiful.

You packed your things as the sun dipped lower, golden streaks lighting up the lake. Theo watched you in that unbothered way of his, but you caught the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you.

Finally, he stood and offered a hand.

You took it without thinking.

His fingers closed around yours—long, calloused, unyielding—and for a second, the whole world faded into something simple and bright.

You stepped closer, so close you could see the faint freckles dusted across his sharp cheekbones, the careless tumble of dark hair over his forehead.

"You're staring," you murmured, breath catching.

"And?" he said, tilting his head like he dared you to call him out.

You shook your head fondly. Theo Nott had never cared about rules. He only cared about you.

Suddenly, his mouth curved in a slow, devastating grin—the one that always preceded some cutting comment that would destroy anyone else in his path.

"You're lucky you're pretty," he said smoothly. "Otherwise, I'd have crushed your spirit by now like I do everyone else's."

You laughed out loud, stepping into his chest without hesitation. His arms came around you immediately, fitting you against him like you were the one thing he'd protect in a world he otherwise found utterly worthless.

"You’re awful," you whispered into the soft cotton of his shirt.

He pressed a kiss into the crown of your head. "For everyone else," he murmured. "Never for you."

And that was the terrifying truth.

In a world Theo ruled with sharpened words and a superiority complex he wore like a second skin, you were the exception. You were the axis he spun on.

Everyone could see it—the way his eyes softened for you, the way he became almost reckless in his devotion. His protectiveness wasn't loud. It was brutal in its quietness.

Later that evening, you walked back to the castle, hand in hand. Several people stared—whispered.

Theo didn't blink.

He only lifted his chin higher, daring anyone to say a single thing.

No one did. They wouldn’t dare.

Because Theodore Nott didn’t fall for anyone. And everyone knew—he’d fallen for you so completely, he hadn’t even tried to catch himself.

[thebibliosphere]

In case you were wondering how deep down the Batfam fixation hole I am, it's something I've actually been talking about in therapy a lot.

Not like, in a worried way, more just when my therapist asks me what I'm doing in my downtime, my answer always used to be either "sleeping" or "I don't have downtime. I have too much work to do."

Now my answer is "playing my Batman game" or "watching Batman show/reading comics/writing unhinged Batman x Muppet fanfic."

And my therapist is delighted. She's fucking ecstatic. She's like, "You have interests again!" and I'm like !!!! Because here's the thing.

Almost dying in 2019 kinda irrevocably fucked up my brain, like, a lot. Like a lot, a lot. And I've been grieving over that for the last few years as well as recovering from the physical aspects of it. And to cope with it, I threw myself into work even though I wasn't physically or mentally well enough, and that made everything worse, and well, if you've been here, you know.

My brain has not been kind to me for a long time. It still isn't. But I do the work. I do multiple types of therapy a week. I piece myself back together on the daily and try to remember what it means to be human and not just this numb static void that sometimes sounds like shrieking if you listen too closely.

And then randomly, a few months ago a friend bought me Gotham Knights on Steam, and it was like a light turned back on. The engine that'd been refusing to turn over for years suddenly sputtered back to life, and something in my brain went, "Hey, I remember this... this is fun?"

And then I started tentatively searching the tags here on Tumblr, and yeah, actually. I remember this. I remember enjoying this. I can dip my toes into this. This is safe. This is a childhood interest from Before the almost-dying-trauma. And besides, it won't get in the way of my work. This isn't going to consume me. Nothing consumes me like it used to. I'm too broken for that.

Except, haha, jokes on me because, for some fucking reason, Brucie fucking Wayne and his gaggle of chaotic crime-fighting children is what reached into my brain, picked up my trauma, and started shaking it loose like a category 7 earthquake.

I actually laughed about that with my therapist a few weeks ago. Of all characters, of all pieces of media, it's Batman that's helping me process a significant chunk of my emotional trauma in a healthy way.

The most emotionally constipated vigilante in superhero existence, and I'm weeping like a child every time I get an achievement in Gotham Knights, and it says some bullshit like this:

ID: a purple steam achievement icon that says: He'd Be So Proud Of You. Reach the maximum level as any member of the Batman Family. 6.3% of players have this achievement. /end ID.

(for context, Batman is dead in this game, and you are playing as his emotionally devastated children trying to keep it together. Wailing, gnashing, crying, throwing up etc, etc.)

And my therapist, who has sat with me through EMDR sessions and a multitude of other shit designed to rewire your brain, just shrugs and says, "Sometimes we need to externalize our emotions through safe media. For you, right now, that safety is Batman having a relationship with the Muppets."

And like... okay, yeah. I'll take the win on that one.

[pandorasstars]

when dorcas and marlene start to feel like they’ll make it to the end of a fic but the author pulls a ‘there was a landmine-‘

when barty and evan start to feel like they’ll make it to the end of a fic but the author pulls an ‘i’m really sorry we only got to love each other for three seconds’

when james and regulus start to feel like they’ll make it to the end of a fic but the author pulls a ‘one star gone from existence. a devastating thing to witness. an irrevocable thing to lose.’

when sirius and remus start to feel like they’ll make it to the end of a fic but the author pulls an ‘after all that waiting, they hadn’t had very long at all, at the end.’

[rabbitinashell]

Capitano in the Sheets – A Study in Control, Silence, and Brutal Devotion

this one is on a laptop, so there are some changes

Capitano is not a man of many words. But he doesn’t need them—his presence alone speaks volumes. The weight of his silence is suffocating in the best way, thick with authority, tension, and a promise you can feel in your bones: You’re his. Entirely. Irrevocably.

1. Quiet Dominance That Consumes the Room

He doesn’t demand submission with loud commands or flashy gestures—he expects it. And somehow, you give it willingly. A single look from behind that mask is enough to still your breath, your body, your thoughts. The kind of control that doesn’t shout—it presses down, slowly, inexorably, until you don’t even realize you’ve surrendered.

He doesn’t have to say “on your knees.” You’re already there.

2. Touch Measured Like a Weapon

Capitano doesn’t touch you until he knows you’re ready to fall apart. And when he does? Every movement is deliberate, like he’s mapping your breaking points with the same precision he uses on the battlefield. His gloves might stay on—or maybe he removes them in slow silence, letting you feel the full weight of what’s about to happen.

“Brace yourself,” is the only warning you get—and it’s not nearly enough.

3. Patience That Feels Like Torment

He can be relentless. He can be brutal. But the cruelest part? His patience. He waits—for you to beg, for your voice to crack, for your defiance to crumble. Capitano watches you squirm, unravel, and come undone beneath him with cold fascination and unwavering control.

You break yourself just trying to earn his approval. And when you finally do? The reward is overwhelming.

4. Masked, Still, and Watching Every Second

There’s something devastating about the fact that you never see his face. Not when he touches you. Not when he pushes you further than you thought possible. Not even when your voice is shaking and your body’s limp with exhaustion. He remains composed—unmoving, collected, and impossibly focused on you.

You can’t see his expression—but you know he’s watching every single reaction, cataloging them, owning them.

5. Possessiveness That Burns Slow and Deep

Capitano may not say much, but when he finally speaks? His words cut straight to the bone.

“You are mine.” That’s all it takes. One sentence, low and final, delivered when you’re too weak to argue. And the terrifying part? You want to be.

Aftercare: Silent, Devoted, Absolute

He doesn't coddle. He doesn't soften. But his actions are unmistakable: pulling you close, holding you steady, adjusting your position so you're comfortable. When he wraps his arms around you, it's not affection—it's claiming.

You sleep wrapped in warmth and silence, his hand resting firmly on your waist like a brand.

Final Verdict: Capitano is the quiet storm—calculated, consuming, and impossible to escape.

You don’t just give yourself to him. He takes you. And you’re grateful he did.

[dxrlingluv]

So uhhhhhh

Apollo with siren!reader who's mad at him because he agreed to release Odysseus so easily?👉👈

(maybe the reader can grow human legs like ariel too, but too traumatized to swim in the ocean again for sometimes lol)

Not so sunny now, is it?

A/N : I have been feeling very sad lately so Angst for everyone. Apollo art is from Gigi.

WARNING : Fem!Siren!Reader, Angst with no comfort.

Word Count : 2.7k

The salt spray felt like a cruel mockery against your skin, each droplet a phantom echo of the waves that had once carried your sisters' laughter. Now, those waves only whispered of their screams, their terror, their silence. Odysseus. The name was a venomous serpent coiling in your heart, its fangs dripping with the ichor of your stolen family. He was miles away, trapped on Calypso's isle, yet his shadow stretched even here, to the gleaming halls of Olympus.

You had come seeking solace, a sliver of justice, your grief a tempestuous sea crashing against the shores of divine indifference. And Apollo... oh, Apollo. Your Apollo. His light had once been a beacon, a warmth that promised understanding, a shared passion, a love that transcended the boundaries of god and siren. You had clung to that hope, a drowning mariner to a piece of driftwood, because he was your driftwood, your guiding star.

Then came the moment that shattered everything.

Athena, her voice echoing with the authority of wisdom and the weight of a long-held alliance, stood before the assembled gods. Odysseus was not present, a prisoner of a different kind on a distant shore, but his fate was being debated nonetheless. Athena, ever his champion, spoke as if he were there, her words a shield around him. "He was trying to escape a terrible fate himself," she reasoned, her gaze sweeping across the divine council, finally settling with particular weight on Apollo. "They were trying to do him worse, all he did was reimburse them. Now they thread with caution first, to live another day and sing another verse."

Your breath hitched. Sing another verse? Your sisters, whose songs were the very essence of their souls, whose melodies could lure gods and mortals alike, would never sing another note. Their verses were brutally, irrevocably silenced. And this... this was their justice? To be a cautionary tale for a butcher, a man whose freedom was being argued for by a goddess while he remained leagues away, oblivious to the pain his actions had sown here?

Your gaze flew to Apollo, pleading, desperate. Your Apollo. Surely, he, the god of music, of poetry, of truth, would see the obscenity of it. Surely, his light would pierce through Athena's cold, calculated defense of her absent favorite. He knew your song. He knew them.

But then he spoke, his voice, usually so resonant with passion for you, now carrying a detached finality that chilled you to the bone. "If that's true," he declared, his eyes not meeting yours, seemingly looking past you to some distant horizon where Odysseus's plight perhaps seemed more pressing than the fresh graves of your kin, "release him." The words were a decree, a divine judgment that sealed your despair.

The words struck you with the force of a physical blow. The golden light of his presence seemed to dim, to curdle into something suffocating. Betrayal, cold and sharp, pierced through the already gaping wound of your grief. It was a pain so profound it stole your voice, the very tool of your power and your lament, the voice he claimed to cherish above all others.

He hadn't even looked at you. He hadn't seen the devastation in your eyes, or perhaps he had, and it simply hadn't mattered. Your sisters, your kin, your loss, your song... dismissed. Weighed against the convenience of a mortal hero—a hero not even present to account for his deeds—and found wanting. By him.

The world tilted. The marble floors of Olympus felt like sinking sand beneath your feet. You wanted to scream, to unleash a torrent of sound so potent it would crack the very foundations of this place, force them to acknowledge the sacrilege. But all that emerged was a choked gasp, a sound more broken than any dirge.

He had ordered Odysseus's release, a pardon granted in absentia. The man who had slaughtered your family, who had stolen their voices, would eventually walk free, his path smoothed by the gods themselves, orchestrated by Athena's unwavering advocacy and sealed by Apollo's decree. And Apollo, your Apollo, the sun god who you had foolishly, naively, believed loved you, might understand the sanctity of a song, had been the one to effectively unlock his chains from afar.

The warmth you once felt in his presence was gone, replaced by an icy desolation. His light no longer offered comfort; it burned, searing your already raw wounds, illuminating the depths of his betrayal. How could he, who cherished music above all, condone the silencing of such unique, irreplaceable songs? How could he, who had held you in his arms, who had whispered promises of forever, stand by as the murderer of your sisters was exonerated through such a detached, impersonal judgment?

The word "love" felt like ash in your mouth. Had any of it been real? Or were you just another fleeting amusement, your siren nature a curiosity, easily discarded when it became inconvenient, or when the pleas of a more favored goddess held more sway? You remembered the stolen moments, the secret trysts in hidden coves, the way his golden eyes had seemed to devour you whole. Lies? All lies?

You turned, stumbling away from the golden hall, from the gods, from him. The vibrant colors of Olympus seemed garish, offensive to your mourning. Each step was an agony, not just for the loss of your sisters, but for the death of a trust you hadn't realized you'd so completely given. You had given him your heart, your soul, your voice. And he had thrown it away.

A strange, aching magic had bloomed within you amidst the chaos of your grief – the ability to walk on land, your powerful tail traded for unsteady human legs. It was a cruel irony. You had gained a world, yet lost your own. The ocean, once your sanctuary, your home, the very blood in your veins, now felt like a vast, watery grave. The thought of submerging yourself, of feeling those currents that once cradled you, now brought only a fresh wave of terror, the phantom sensation of your sisters' final struggles. You were a creature of the deep, marooned on the shore, your true form a reminder of all you had lost, your new one a constant, aching vulnerability. And he knew what you sacrificed.

This new, fragile body only amplified the sting of Apollo's betrayal. When you were a siren, powerful and feared, his indifference might have been a slight. But now, as this... thing, this half-formed creature caught between two worlds and belonging to neither, his dismissal felt like a condemnation. He had not only abandoned your grief, but he had abandoned you, in this strange, terrifying new existence, an existence you embraced for him.

The sea called to you, its voice a mournful echo of your own silenced song. But you couldn't answer. The waves that once promised freedom now whispered of drowning, of loss, of the cold, dark depths where your sisters lay. You were trapped on the land, with legs that felt alien and a heart shattered by a god's careless words. His betrayal was not just a wound; it was a chain, binding you to this dry, desolate earth, far from the solace of your true home, a home you were now too terrified to reclaim. And the sun, his sun, beat down relentlessly, a constant, burning reminder of the light that had failed you.

The days bled into a monotonous cycle of grief and fear. You haunted the edges of the land, your new, clumsy legs a constant reminder of your stolen home and your profound loss. The sun, his sun, felt like a personal affront, each ray a golden barb picking at your wounds. You avoided places where his influence was strongest, where his worshipers gathered, but Olympus was vast, and the gods, infuriatingly, were everywhere.

It was on a desolate stretch of coastline, where jagged rocks wept into a turbulent sea – a sea you could no longer bear to touch – that you saw him. Apollo, radiant and serene, was observing the crash of waves against the shore, a lyre held loosely in his hand, as if contemplating a new melody. The sight of him, so peaceful while your world was a maelstrom of agony, ignited a fury so potent it momentarily eclipsed your fear. He looked as if he hadn't a care in the world.

This was it. The dam of your carefully contained anguish finally broke.

"You!" The word tore from your throat, raw and hoarse, no longer the melodious call of a siren, but the jagged cry of a wounded animal.

Apollo turned, his golden eyes, usually so warm when he looked at you, widening slightly in surprise before settling into a look of placid inquiry. "An unexpected encounter," he said, his voice as smooth and unmarred as polished marble. "What troubles you, little siren?"

Little siren? The casual endearment, once a spark of your affection, now felt like a diminutive insult, a dismissal of the enormity of your pain.

"What troubles me?" you echoed, a hysterical laugh bubbling in your chest. You stalked towards him, your steps uneven on the rocky terrain, each movement a testament to your unnatural state. "My sisters are dead! Slaughtered! Their songs silenced forever by the man you deemed fit to release!"

His brow furrowed, a flicker of something – annoyance? Pity? – crossing his perfect features. "The judgment concerning Odysseus was complex. Athena presented a compelling case. Justice, in the eyes of the gods, is not always simple vengeance."

"Justice?" you shrieked, the sound sharp enough to make the gulls startled into flight. "You call that justice? He butchered them! He ripped their voices from the world! And you, the god of music, of song, my Apollo, you nodded and agreed! Were their lives, their art, so worthless to you? Was I so worthless to you?" Your voice began to tremble, not just with rage, but with the burgeoning power that grief had twisted within you. The air around you grew heavy, charged with an unseen energy.

"Their loss is regrettable," Apollo stated, his tone still maddeningly calm, though a sliver of divine power now underscored his words, a subtle warning. "But mortal lives are fleeting. Odysseus acted to preserve his own, and the lives of his men. It was a harsh necessity of their world."

"A harsh necessity?" Tears streamed down your face, hot and furious. "They were not warriors, Apollo! They were singers! They were my family! Your family, if you had truly cared for me!" You gestured wildly towards the churning ocean. "That sea, the one you gaze at so placidly, it's their grave! And I... I can't even return to it! I walk this cursed land on legs I never asked for, terrified of the only home I've ever known, because of him! Because of you! Because I loved you!"

A low thrum began to emanate from you, the air vibrating with unsung, grief-stricken notes. It wasn't a song of luring, but of pure, unadulterated pain, a sound that could shatter stone and soul. "Did you ever care? Was any of it real? Or was I just another melody to you, easily forgotten when a more powerful voice, like Athena's, called your attention? Was I just a pretty song, a fleeting fancy, a siren to be used and discarded?"

Apollo's golden aura intensified, a defensive shimmer against the rising tide of your anguish. "You presume too much, Y/N. My decisions are not made on whims or fleeting affections. There are balances to maintain, cosmic scales you cannot comprehend. You were...more than that."

"Balances?" you spat, the word tasting like poison. "Is that what my sisters were? Weights on a scale? Easily tipped and discarded? Is that what I was? A balance? A cosmic thing?" The grief-fueled power surged. Small pebbles around your feet began to tremble. The waves behind Apollo seemed to recoil slightly, their roar momentarily subdued by the dissonant chord of your despair. "You speak of comprehension, but you comprehend nothing of this! This pain! This betrayal! You spoke of love, of forever! What was that? Another fleeting balance?"

You raised a trembling hand, pointing it at him. "You, who claims to cherish every note, every verse! You let their symphony be silenced and then sanctioned their murderer's freedom! You are a hypocrite, Apollo! A false god of a stolen art! A liar! You are my liar."

For the first time, a true fissure appeared in his divine composure. His eyes narrowed, and the golden light around him blazed, no longer just defensive, but radiating a dangerous heat. "Be wary of your words, Y/N. Grief does not grant you license to insult the divine. Especially not after everything we shared." His voice was no longer smooth; it held the rumble of distant thunder, the promise of a storm. The lyre in his hand seemed to hum with suppressed power.

"Or what?" you challenged, reckless in your agony. "Will you strike me down too? Add another silenced voice to your tally? Is that your divine justice? Is that how you repay love?"

The air crackled between you, your raw, untamed siren grief clashing against his controlled, immense divine power. It wasn't a physical fight, but a battle of wills, of sorrow against detachment, of mortal agony against immortal decree. His light pressed against you, heavy and suffocating, trying to quell the storm of your emotions. Your pain pushed back, a tidal wave of despair threatening to engulf everything.

But you knew, even as you raged, that this was a fight you couldn't win. He was a god. You were... broken. And he was the one who broke you.

The energy receded from you, leaving you gasping, trembling, and utterly spent. The brief, furious strength drained away, replaced by a desolation so profound it felt like the bottom of the coldest, darkest ocean trench.

Apollo's light softened, the harsh edges of his anger fading, replaced by a complex mix of emotions. He saw you standing there, broken and trembling, the raw grief etched on your face, and a pang of regret pierced through his divine composure. He realized, with a sickening lurch, the full weight of his words, the casual cruelty with which he had dismissed your pain.

He wanted to reach out to you, to pull you close and offer comfort, to whisper apologies and try to mend the shattered pieces of your heart. He wanted to explain, to justify, to make you understand the impossible choices he faced, the cosmic forces that bound him. He wanted to tell you that you were more than a song, more than a fleeting fancy, that his feelings for you were real, and deep, and enduring.

But pride, that ancient, unyielding pride that defined him as a god, held him captive. He couldn't bring himself to fully retract his words, to admit he was wrong, to show such vulnerability before a creature of the sea. He feared that any attempt at comfort would be misconstrued, that it would diminish his authority, his divine image. He was a god, and gods did not grovel, did not beg for forgiveness.

And so, he settled for a hollow, distant tone. "Your grief is a tempest, siren. But it blinds you. You are being irrational. There is nothing more to be said."

He turned his back on you, the golden radiance of his form a stark contrast to the gray desolation of the shore, and your heart. He began to walk away, leaving you there, on your unsteady legs, with the ghosts of your sisters and the fresh, gaping wound of his final, dismissive words. He left, and a part of him, the part that truly loved you, wept.

The fight was over. And you had lost more than you thought possible. He hadn't just let Odysseus go. He had, in that moment, let you go too. The chasm between you was no longer just a matter of differing perspectives; it was an unbridgeable abyss, carved by his indifference and your shattered heart. The angst wasn't just a feeling anymore; it was the very air you breathed, cold, sharp, and unending. The love you thought you had was dead, and he, in his pride, had killed it.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

I burn for you..

pairing: anthony bridgerton x F! reader

The storm outside raged with a ferocity that shook the very foundation of Bridgerton House, but it paled in comparison to the tempest that had erupted within. The echoes of raised voices lingered in the grand hallways, an unmistakable testament to the quarrel that had unfolded between Viscount Anthony Bridgerton and his beloved wife, Y/N.

The argument had begun as a simple misunderstanding, but as words were flung like arrows, sharp and unrelenting, it escalated into a torrent of accusations and hurt. You had accused him of his absence, of his relentless dedication to duty overshadowing his devotion to you. He, in turn, had bristled at the implication, his pride stung, his temper unleashed.

When the final words had been spoken, Anthony had stormed from the house, the sound of the door slamming reverberating like thunder. You had retreated to your chambers, tears streaming down your cheeks, your heart heavy with regret and sorrow.

Hours passed, the silence of the house broken only by the patter of rain against the windows. Anthony, drenched from the storm and burdened with the weight of his actions, finally returned. His brothers’ words had echoed in his mind during his aimless wandering: “You are a fool, Anthony, if you let your pride destroy what you hold most dear.”

With purpose renewed, he ascended the staircase, each step bringing him closer to the woman who held his heart. He paused at the door to your chamber, his hand hovering over the latch. Summoning his courage, he pushed it open, the sight that met his eyes stealing the breath from his lungs.

You sat by the fire, your figure curled in on itself, your knees drawn up as you stared into the flames. Your hair fell in soft waves about your shoulders, and the glow of the firelight highlighted the tracks of tears upon your cheeks. The sight was both beautiful and devastating, and Anthony’s chest tightened with a guilt so profound it nearly overwhelmed him.

You turned at the sound of the door, your eyes widening slightly before narrowing in guarded defense. “Have you come to continue our quarrel, my lord?” you asked, your tone sharp, though it lacked the strength it had carried earlier.

Anthony closed the door behind him, his hand lingering on the latch before he crossed the room. “No, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice unsteady. “I have come to beg your forgiveness.”

You blinked, your composure faltering. “Forgiveness?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “For I have wronged you in ways I cannot begin to atone for. I allowed my pride to speak where my heart should have led. I have been blind to your needs, deaf to your pleas. And for that, I am sorry.”

Tears welled in your eyes once more, and you turned your face away, unwilling to let him see the extent of your pain. “Words are easy, Anthony. Actions speak louder, and yours have been”

“Abominable,” he interrupted, his tone firm yet filled with self-reproach. He dropped to his knees before you, his hands reaching for yours. “I know. And yet, despite my unworthiness, I must tell you something I have held within me for far too long.”

His hands trembled as they clasped yours, his gaze searching your face. “I love you, Y/N,” he confessed, the words tumbling from his lips like a floodgate opening. “I love you more than I love the very air I breathe. You are my heart, my anchor, my everything. Without you, I am but a hollow man.”

The breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding at his words. “Anthony…”

“I know I do not deserve your forgiveness,” he continued, his voice cracking. “But I cannot live another moment without telling you how deeply, how irrevocably I adore you.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks, and you shook your head. “You are a fool, Anthony Bridgerton,” you whispered, though your voice held no malice. “But you are my fool. And I love you, despite everything.”

A sound escaped him—a mix of relief and joy—as he surged to his feet, pulling you into his arms. His lips met yours in a kiss so fervent, so consuming, it left you breathless. His hands cradled your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears as his lips moved against yours with a desperation that spoke of his fear of losing you.

The kiss deepened, his arms tightening around your waist as though to meld you to him. Your hands found their way into his hair, tugging gently as he groaned, his control slipping. His lips left yours only to trail along your jawline, down the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“You are my everything,” he murmured between kisses. “My light, my love, my very soul. I shall spend the rest of my days proving it to you.”

You clung to him, your heart swelling with love and forgiveness as he carried you to the bed. The firelight bathed the room in a warm glow, the storm outside now a distant memory. As he laid you down and hovered above you, his eyes locked with yours, filled with adoration and reverence.

“I love you,” he whispered again, his voice a vow.

“And I love you,” you replied, your hands framing his face as you pulled him down for another kiss.

That night, the love you shared burned brighter than the fire, stronger than the storm, binding your hearts together anew. In his arms, you found solace, and in yours, he found redemption. Together, you were unshakable, your love as enduring as the dawn that broke over Bridgerton House.

[bullet-prooflove]

The Choice: John Shen x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1987 @miraclesabound @cannonindeez @fadeinsol @nommingonfood

Prequel to:

Dick Pics - You and John discuss your dating life in the ambulance bay during a rare shift break.

Brunch - John refuses to give up when you miss brunch with him.

Silly Little Boys (NSFW) - John's not like the other men you've been with.

In The Summer - You discover John's secret.

Tiger, Tiger - John reveals the truth between his engagement and his history.

Jack - John's mother opens up old wounds by giving John a copy of your DCFS file.

Bare (NSFW) - John and you commit to each other in a special way.

The Shirt - Jack realises that you're wearing a boyfriend shirt.

Tradition - Mrs Shen makes a decision regarding the wedding.

John, you are the only one who seems to care.

Don’t let them kill you too. - Michael

Those were the final words John’s brother texts him before he shoots himself in a house that’s about to be repossessed by the bank. John had been asleep, face down in a medical textbook at the time, dreaming of the day he graduated.

It had been his other brother Edward’s frantic knocking that had awoken him, the consistent pounding on the door of the apartment he shared with a roommate because he refused to take his parent’s handouts.

It’s him that identifies Michael’s body. His parents refuse to come because of the shame and Edward can’t bring himself to look. His sister Li is on her honeymoon, visiting her husband’s parents in Hong Kong.

There’s a strange disconnect when you see the dead body of someone you love, their soul is gone and there’s just this vessel left, an empty husk of the person they used to be.

It isn’t until he gets home four hours later that he sees the message. He understands in that moment that it wasn’t the bankruptcy that killed Michael or losing his house. It was their parents, the unrelenting pressure they put upon his shoulders to be the perfect son.

Don’t let them kill you too…

The words echo in his head as he stares down at the message from his father a year later. There’s no pleasantries just the sentence “John, we need to discuss your future.”

John doesn’t have the emotional bandwidth for this, not on the anniversary of his brother’s death. He’s too distraught, too exhausted, too wrung out from the feelings that arise when he thinks of Michael alone in that house, gun in his hand.

It’s why he’s standing on a bridge the night before the deadline date for his residency choices, staring down at the inky black water as it swirls below him.

All he needs to do is make a decision on his specialty but he’s paralysed because what he wants is not what his parent’s want and he’s not sure he has the strength to deny them.

Surgery at Johns Hopkins, his parents’ choice.

Or Emergency Medicine, where his heart lies.

It should be simple but it’s not because he’s become the golden boy in Michael’s absence. He’s become the one that’s carrying the family name. When they introduce him it’s as ‘our youngest John, the one that’s going to be a surgeon’ not ‘John the doctor’.

Nothing is ever good enough for them, he realises, he will never be good enough for them and that’s when he almost does it, he almost jumps.

But Michael’s words are back and he can’t do that to Edward and Li, he can’t add to their devastation, he can’t leave them on their earth alone, trapped underneath his parents thumb. He has to lead by example, break tradition, buck the trend.

His heart his hammering against his ribcage when he steps down off the railing, his feet hitting the concrete. His phone is still clasped in his hand, his father’s message still on that screen, summoning him.

“Fuck it.” He says, drawing back his arm and hauling it as far as he can into the river. It makes a satisfying plop when it hits the water and the relief he feels...

It’s the first time he can breathe in decades.

That night he submits his first choice for his residency and in March his life irrevocably changes forever.

Congratulations you’ve been matched!

Institution Name: Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital.

Program Name: Emergency Medicine.

Applicant Name: John Shen

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