#as a protective mechanism to shield him from vulnerability

[jellyfishsthings]

You Deserve the Truth

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WARNINGS: angst (a little)

requests are open

The air in the Batcave crackled with an unusual tension, a stark contrast to the usual hum of machinery and quiet focus. You stood opposite him, a knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. Bruce was swaying slightly, his movements a touch too fluid, his normally sharp eyes glazed over with a disconcerting sheen.

"Bruce, are you sure you're alright?" You asked, your voice laced with concern. He'd returned from patrol looking…off. Distracted, almost fragile. It wasn't the weariness of a long night fighting crime, but something deeper, something internal struggling to break free.

He straightened, a familiar flicker of irritation crossing his face. "I'm fine," he said, the word clipped and dismissive. "Just a bit tired."

But you weren't buying it. You'd seen him tired. This was different. This was unsettling. Your hand instinctively reached out, stopping just short of touching his arm. "You look drugged, Bruce. What happened out there?"

He flinched, a barely perceptible movement, but enough to confirm your suspicions. Someone had gotten to him, slipped something into his system that was eroding the carefully constructed walls around his emotions. Walls he had spent years, decades even, building brick by painstaking brick.

He insisted, repeating his mantra of "I'm fine" with increasing vehemence. But then, his gaze locked onto yours. The usual guardedness was gone, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. It was a look you had only glimpsed in fleeting moments, quickly masked and buried, but now it was laid bare, exposed by the insidious effects of the unknown substance coursing through his veins.

And then he spoke, and the world around you seemed to still.

"If I thought I deserved you, I would've told you everything by now."

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning, with years of suppressed longing and self-doubt. The air left your lungs. Your mind struggled to process the sheer weight of the statement, the admission that lay beneath the surface. Deserved you? What could he possibly mean?

You froze, unable to speak, unable to move. His eyes held yours captive, the usual steely blue now clouded with a soft, almost pleading light.

He continued, the words tumbling out now, as if a dam had broken within him. "I watch you sleep. Not in a weird way," he hurried to add, a flicker of self-awareness struggling to surface. "I just… can't believe you're real. That I get to have something good."

The confession was so raw, so unexpected, that it stole your breath away. The stoic facade he so carefully cultivated was crumbling, revealing the man beneath, a man who craved connection, who yearned for something more than the darkness he inhabited. A man who, unbelievably, thought he wasn't worthy of…you.

He was talking about you, wasn't he? This… this man of shadows and secrets, this icon of Gotham, the Batman himself, was laying bare his vulnerabilities, confessing a depth of feeling that you never dared imagine. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.

He spoke of watching you sleep, not with malice or perversion, but with a quiet awe, a reverence for the simple peace he found in your presence. He saw you as "something good," a beacon of light in his perpetually dark world.

And the realization hit you, a wave of warmth washing over me. He wasn't damaged beyond repair. The stoic exterior was just a shield, a defense mechanism protecting a heart that was still capable of love, of hope, of believing in something beyond the endless fight.

Then, as quickly as it came, the vulnerability vanished. He blinked, his eyes focusing, a wave of horror washing over his face. He looked around, as if realizing the precariousness of his position, the dangerous territory he had just traversed.

"What… what did I say?" he stammered, his hand going to his head. The serum, whatever it was, was wearing off. The walls were being rebuilt, the defenses re-established. The moment of truth was fading.

He looked at you, his expression a mixture of fear and shame. He had exposed his vulnerability, and now he regretted it. He wanted to rewind the clock, to erase the words he had spoken, to retreat back into the comfortable darkness of his self-imposed isolation.

But it was too late. The words were out. The truth had been spoken, even if it was under the influence of a foreign substance. The Pandora's Box of his emotions had been opened, and the contents, however briefly, had been revealed.

You smiled, a slow, gentle curve of your lips. It wasn't a smile of triumph or of mockery, but of understanding, of acceptance, of hope.

"Next time," You said softly, your voice barely above a whisper, "try saying that without chemical help."

The words were a challenge, a dare, an invitation. They were a promise that you weren't going to let him retreat back into his shell, that you weren't going to let him bury the truth that had just surfaced.

You watched his reaction, his eyes widening in a mixture of surprise and…relief? Perhaps, deep down, he wanted this. Perhaps he wanted to be seen, to be known, to be loved, without the weight of his secrets and his self-doubt holding him back.

The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken words and unanswered questions. The machinery of the Batcave hummed around us, a constant reminder of the world outside, the world that demanded his attention, the world that he felt obligated to protect.

But for that moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just us, standing in the shadow of the Bat, grappling with the aftermath of a truth serum-induced confession.

The next few days were�� awkward. Bruce avoided me, throwing himself into his work with a renewed intensity. He was clearly trying to ignore what had happened, to pretend that the vulnerable man who had stood before you that night didn't exist.

But you didn't let him. You didn't push, but you didn't back down either. You left small reminders, subtle cues that signaled your awareness of his feelings. A lingering touch, a knowing smile, a quiet observation that mirrored something he had said that night.

Slowly, subtly, the ice began to thaw. He started lingering in your presence, engaging in small talk, sharing a rare smile. He wasn't ready to fully confront his emotions, but he was acknowledging them, acknowledging me.

The journey would be long, you knew. Breaking down the walls he had built around himself would take time, patience, and unwavering understanding. But you were willing to wait. You were willing to fight for him, just as he fought for Gotham.

Because you knew, deep down, that beneath the stoic exterior, beneath the darkness and the secrets, there was a man worth fighting for. A man who, despite his own self-doubt, deserved to be loved. And a man who, perhaps, was finally starting to believe that he deserved you too. The unraveling had begun, and you were ready to see where it led.

[cheesenchalk]

i never know how to phrase it but something about the way beatles biographers and people in general view paul's reflexive placating persona and determination to smooth things over as manipulative or duplicitous and john's reflexive barbed persona and habit of lashing out as brave and subversive despite both being equally defensive mechanisms to shield themselves from the world that resulted in them saying things that weren't true says more about how we culturally view kindness or friendliness as inherently untrustworthy or flimsy and anger and carelessness as more believable as someone's true nature than it says about either of them in actuality

[gukcnt]

SURRENDER IN THE STEAM ⭒ JJK

in which jungkook's sleepless night leads to an intimate shower with his girlfriend, where tender washing and lovemaking takes place.

pairing — dom!jungkook x sub!femreader

genre — established relationship, slice of life, domestic vibes, slight angst, smut, fluff

warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut, mentions of insomnia, mental health struggles, emotional conflict and vulnerability, smoking as a coping mechanism, hurt and comfort, love confessions, tattoo descriptions, intimate washing, late night sex, shower sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f. receiving), eating out, face riding, tongue fucking, clit stimulation, cum eating, breast play, nipple play, making out, hickies/marking, mentions of bruising, rough sex, hair fisting and pulling, oral sex (m. receiving), cock palming, fist fucking, dirty talk, praise kink, sex from behind against the shower wall, creampie, loving aftercare, they love each other so muchh

wc — 5.1k

a/n — this one is requested by darling @cuntygguk !! <3

m. list

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The night felt heavy with the moonlight slipping through the curtains of your shared apartment.

The clock on the nightstand read 2:50 am.

Jungkook felt restless, proof of the grip of insomnia that won't leave him.

The room was quiet except for the occasional noises of the city outside.

Jungkook laid beside you, his body taut with too much energy, eyes were fixed on the ceiling above.

His hair messily clung to his forehead, damp with slight sweat and he breathed shakily.

Each exhale felt exhausting from the sleeplessness he was facing.

Night after night.

He was facing this.

You were curled up beside him, body comfy inside the warm blanket. The small light highlighted your features, the pink flush on your cheeks.

The way your lips parted slightly as you breathed.

Deep in sleep.

Jungkook's eyes softened, landing on you, heart swelling with all the adoration he had for you.

You were his light in the darkness.

The only person who made the world feel bearable for him.

His deep love for you scared him sometimes—he loved the way your laughter comforted him in his worst days, your touch and your entire presence made it worth it for him.

You saw him for who he was truly, flaws and all and you still chose to stay.

You were his only girl.

Forever.

And he didn’t have the heart to wake you up now that you slept so peacefully beside him, looking so cozy.

He would do anything to protect your sleep.

Never wanting to wake you.

You always had a way of trying to help him, soothing him in your own ways—making chamomile tea with honey exactly how he liked and trying to make the bed softer for him to sleep in.

Anything for him to get sleep.

You would also wrap your arms around him at night, your warmth helping him, whispering words of comfort to him.

Late night talks about nothing and everything.

You’d tried everything.

But his insomnia was stubbornly there, always clawing at him no matter how much you tried.

It rarely let go.

Jungkook hated the idea of pulling you into this sleeplessness of his, of stealing the rest you deserved.

So he struggled alone.

He always did, trying to shield you from his problems.

With a quiet sigh, he slid out of bed.

He moved carefully, not wanting to disturb the stillness of your sleep.

He slowly walked to the nightstand table, broad shoulders hunched slightly with tiredness.

He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the dresser, fingers trembling faintly as he pulled one out.

Smoking was very rare for him.

He only went for it at night when the insomnia was too deep, his chest feeling heavy.

He stepped onto the small balcony.

The city beneath him felt distant, almost unreal.

He lit the cigarette using a lighter before he inhaled deeply, smoke burning his throat as he exhaled.

The nicotine did little to quiet his mind.

But it gave his hands something to do, a momentary distraction from all his thoughts.

Back inside, he paced the room.

He stopped by the bed soon, eyes drawn to you.

Like a magnet.

He could watch you sleep for hours, memorize every detail of yours.

Your chest rising and falling, a rhythm that grounded him.

Even now.

A piece of hair fell on your face and he resisted the urge to reach out, tuck it behind your ear.

You were so damn beautiful.

So perfect in your vulnerability.

And his chest felt tight, aching with a love that bordered on pain.

He wanted to crawl back into the bed, wrap himself around you and to let your warmth chase away all the demons he was facing.

But he knew it wouldn’t help.

Not tonight.

Instead he decided to shower, hoping the water might help his racing mind.

He moved to the bathroom, the door clicking behind him.

He stripped off his sweatpants, since he was shirtless already.

His eyes falling on his reflection in the mirror, his body sculpted by several tattoos, eyes falling on his most favorite one—a tattoo with your initials hidden in it.

A secret only he knew.

All his tattoos told stories of his struggles, his passion and his love for you.

The shower turned on and the water fell like rainfall from the showerhead.

Jungkook stepped under the spray, water streaming down his body and all his hard muscles.

He tilted his head back, a sigh escaping his mouth, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead.

Sharpening his features.

The warm water helped in loosening the tension in his shoulders but his chest still felt tight.

Something that wouldn’t go away.

Back in the bedroom, the muffled sound of the shower stirred you from sleep.

Your eyes fluttered open, half lidded.

Immediately noticing Jungkook’s absence even before you saw that he was gone.

Whenever his warm large frame wasn’t around you.

You just knew.

Like your body had a mind of its own.

The bed felt emptier without Jungkook's presence, the sheets cool beside you.

Where his body should have been.

A pang of worry hit you, heart aching at the thought of him facing insomnia once again.

You sat up.

The sound of the shower confirmed where he was and the realization that he hadn’t woken you.

Hadn’t reached for you.

Made your throat tighten with sadness

You slid out of bed, bare feet hitting the floor.

You approached the bathroom, the door was ajar and you pushed it open, immediately being greeted by the steamy air.

The mirror was fogged with the condensation.

Jungkook stood under the shower, back to you, water cascading over his shoulders.

The sight of him infront of you.

His naked beauty stole your breath.

The bare body you have seen and touched countless times in your relationship, yet he always makes your heart flutter.

Tall, strong.

Yet so exposed—your heart hurting, a furrow in your eyebrows from pain.

“kookie…”

You breathe.

Barely audible over the water.

He turned, dark eyes widening slightly.

A mix of surprise and guilt flickering across his face.

“Baby, what are you doing up?”

His voice rough with exhaustion but also with tenderness.

Reserved for you only.

“You should be sleeping.” he said.

“I heard the shower.”

You step inside the bathroom.

“Why didn’t you wake me? you’re struggling again aren’t you?”

He looked away, jaw clenching tightly as he ran a hand through his wet hair.

“I didn’t wanna bother you,” he admitted.

“You were sleeping so peacefully and I... I... hate dragging you into this.”

His eyes meeting yours, filled with emotions and vulnerability.

“I can handle it baby, you know I always do.”

Your heart broke at his words.

At the way he tried to hide his pain just to protect you.

You stepped closer.

“You’re not a burden, jungkook.”

You said, voice steady, eyes searching his.

“You never are. I wanna be there for you just like you're always there for me.”

“It hurts me when you shut me out.” you croaked.

He reached for you, wet hand brushing your cheek, leaving a trail of wetness on your skin and your eyes closed at his touch.

“I’m sorry, sweet girl.”

His voice breaking slightly.

“I just… I don’t want you to see me like this… so fucking troubled. You deserve better than that, hm?”

“You’re not a trouble.”

You said fiercely, stepping closer but still away from the water.

“You’re human and it’s okay to not be okay all the time, koo… and please don’t say that. I love every part of you no matter what.”

His gaze softened.

“You’re too good to me.” he murmured.

His thumb brushing over your lower lip, jaw clenched tight.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you but I thank god every day that you’re mine.”

Your heart swelled, tears welling in your eyes as you reached for him, fingers brushing his wet chest.

“Let me take care of you tonight… please.”

He nodded, eyes intense on you and you didn’t hesitate.

You pulled off the t-shirt you were wearing, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud.

Your body bare beneath it.

Jungkook's breath hitched, nostrils flaring, dark eyes roaming all over you, taking in the curve of your hips.

Your soft full breasts and the way your nipples hardened under his stare.

You blushed softly under his gaze, not used to being so confident and direct, so you looked away, biting your lower lip.

The steam surrounded you as well as you stepped in the shower.

Water soaking you now and your hair clings to you.

“Can I wash you?” you ask, softly.

Reaching for the shampoo bottle. The vanilla scent filled the air as you poured it into your hands.

He didn’t protest.

His eyes locking on yours, never losing eye contact, like they can read all of your secrets.

A mix of gratitude and desire in them.

You reached up, standing on your tiptoes, fingers running through his wet hair, massaging the shampoo there with slow gentle movements.

He was so tall, his frame towering over you, making it harder for you to reach him.

He sank to his knees for you, a gasp leaving you.

The sight of him kneeling before you, his head tilted, eyes half closed in relaxation, sent a rush of warmth through you.

Your heart raced but your fingers continued working, massaging his scalp and the soap ran over his shoulders, down his muscled back.

His face was in level with your hips, eyes falling to the space between your thighs.

Your pussy was wet—not just from the water but from his intense stare.

And the intimacy of the moment.

His hands rested on your thighs, thumb brushing the sensitive skin and a shiver ran down your spine.

“Fuck,” he hums.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. Look at this pussy right here, so wet and pretty for me.”

He says, huskily.

Your cheeks flush, lips parting at his lewd words, your thighs squeezed together instinctively wanting to take his gaze away, but it stayed locked there.

“koo…” you whimper.

Your hands shook as you tried to focus on rinsing the shampoo from his hair.

“You’re supposed to be relaxing.”

“I am.” he said.

His lips curling into a smirk, hands slid higher, thumbs brushing closer to your swollen folds.

“But how am I supposed to relax when you are standing here looking like this, pretty girl?”

“This pussy—it’s all mine, isn’t it, hmmm?” he asks

“yes”

A whine leaves your mouth, struggling to focus on washing away the soap suds from his hair.

“all yours.”

He groans, his hands gripping your thighs tighter, fingers almost bruising your skin.

“I wanna bury my face in you, taste you until you’re screaming my name... god, you’re killing me.”

You giggled softly, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, heart pounding as you reached for the conditioner next, pouring it into your hands.

You worked it through his hair, detangling it with care as you applied gentle scratches to his scalp with your nails because you knew he always liked it.

He sighed, gulping, shoulders relaxing under your ministrations.

“Feels so good, baby,” he mutters.

“You always know how to take care of me.”

“You deserve it.” you huff.

Voice thickening with emotion.

He looked up at you, hands cupping your ass, making you let out a small squeak.

A warm, deep chuckle vibrated from his chest.

“I don't know how I got so lucky... I'd be lost without you.” his voice breaks.

Your heart swells, a tear slipping down your cheeks, unknowingly and you lean down to kiss his forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere.” you whisper.

Finalizing it.

He remains quiet after that, letting you focus on him.

You finished rinsing the conditioner, leaving his hair shiny and soft.

“My turn.” he rasps.

His voice authoritative and commanding and the sudden shift in his demeanor sends a thrill through you.

He gets back to his feet.

Reached for the body wash, pouring it into his hands, a scent he loves on you so much.

A floral smell that clings to your body.

He starts at your shoulders, calloused hands gliding over your skin and you lean onto him.

He washed your arms with concentration, fingers tracing each and every curve.

He moved to your back, hands cupping your waist as his thumb pressed gently into the knots of tension he found there.

“Oh, mhmm.”

Your head falls back, breasts heaving with your pants.

“You’re so tense, princess,” he murmurs.

Lust and care in his voice

“Gonna make you feel good.”

You sighed, arching into him, resting your head against his chest.

His hands and the water soothing you in too many ways.

His hands trailed upward, slowing as they reached your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples.

You gasped, body arching into his touch as you clutched his shoulder.

He didn’t stop.

He circles them, teasing them, the soap making his fingers glide easily.

And the sensation of his calloused, slick fingers from the body wash felt too much.

And your nipples felt overly sensitive, his touch sending sparks of pleasure through you.

“Hahh… koo.” you called out.

“Mm fuck, look at these tits,” he growls.

“You’re squirming already and I’ve barely started.”

A rumble vibrates from his chest against you, making your clit pulse at the same time with your heartbeat.

“jungkook…” you whimpered.

Your nails digging into his skin, trying to ground yourself against the overwhelming sensation.

“It’s too much.”

A pout on your lips.

“Too much?” he teased.

His lips brushed your earlobe, fingers continuing their slow, torturous circles.

“You’re such a good girl… letting me play with your tits.”

“Look at how hard they are, always begging for more huh?” he grumbles

You moaned, water falling over both of you as he continued to wash your body.

His hands were slow, taking his time worshipping your body.

As if memorizing every inch of you.

He washes your hips, hold strong and possessive as he also applied subtle massages whenever he wanted.

He then moved to your hips, fingers kneading the muscles, the soap making his movements easier.

Almost obscene in a way that even the innocent touches cause wetness to pool in your cunt.

He knelt, face inches away from your core once again.

You felt your breath catch as he looks up at you, eyes wild with hunger.

“Spread your legs for me, baby.”

His deep, gravelly voice make your thighs tremble.

“Let me see that little pussy.” he hums.

You obeyed, breaths shaky, parting your thighs.

His hands slid up your inner thighs and you felt your pussy clench in anticipation.

“Goddamn, you're so wet.” he grunts.

Fingers brushing closer to your folds.

Teasing but not touching

Not yet.

“Not just from the water, are you? You're dripping for me... aren't you pretty girl?”

“Yes.” you gasp.

Hands bracing against the shower wall for support, your voice needy and choked.

He groans, eyes fixed on your quivering heat, his hands gripping your thighs as he leaned forward, breath hot against you.

Your clit pulsing as his breath hits it, making your hips buck.

He parted your folds using his thumbs, tongue darting out, licking a slow stripe through your folds, collecting your arousal and you let out a startled cry.

Hips rocking into his mouth.

“so good I could eat this pussy all night baby”

His voice muffled against you as he went on with his torturing motions, tongue flicking at your clit.

His hands kept your thighs spread to give him better access.

Not letting you any space to move anywhere.

Completely submitting to him.

No escape from his delicious torture.

The heat of his mouth, the warmth of the water and the slickness of the soap—it was too much.

Sensory overload.

You tremble, letting out uncontrollable noises.

He grabbed one of your legs, throwing it over his shoulder, supporting your weight since your legs were getting weak.

And it gave him the upper hand to control you better.

“jungkook, oh my god.” you moaned.

Your hands tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer.

“Don’t stop. Pease. Please.”

You begged, mindless.

“Never.” he exclaims.

The vibration has you letting out a shaky cry, his lips closing around your clit, sucking it hard and you pulled his hair.

Your hips thrusting on his mouth, almost riding his tongue.

“Come for me, baby… let me feel you fall apart on my tongue.”

The pressure built quickly and the coil tightened in your belly so fast, tears glistened in your eyes.

“Ahh gosh, koo!”

Your moans echoed in the small shower.

“jungkook I'm gonna—oh fuck, I’m coming.”

Your body shuddering as orgasm crashed through you so suddenly you almost fell over.

Jungkook held you upright as he licked you through it, drawing out the pleasure until you were panting and mumbling.

You pushed his head away, gasping, covering your mouth trying to control yourself.

He stood, lips glistening with your arousal and some dripping on his chin.

The sight of you so wrecked turned him on like crazy.

He snarls, pulling you into him in a rough hungry kiss, tongue tangling with yours as you taste yourself, making you mewl on his mouth.

“I love you so much, my baby… you have no idea.” he whispers.

Against your lips.

Hands cupping your ass and you clutched onto his chest, heart thudding.

“Love you too, kookie.”

Lips swollen from his kiss.

As you still struggle to get back from your orgasm.

“Continue taking care of me…” He rasps.

 A lazy grin on his lips as he so obviously takes enjoyment from teasing you.

Making you wait.

You flush and a scoff leaves you.

Him knowing that you won't ever resist or deny taking care of him even if you're aching.

You reached for the body wash he used on you a few moments ago, pouring some on his body.

Beginning to wash him in return.

Your hands slide over his chest, tracing all of his tattoos, lingering on the ink as your fingers traced the patterns.

A habit of yours from countless nights before.

He exhales, satisfied, loving your hands on his body.

There was a small design on his chest your initials hidden there.

A secret he’d shown you one night.

His voice soft and loving as he confessed it was for you.

“You’re inked in my body forever.”

He’d said then.

The memory still makes your heart swell.

Your hands move lower, washing his abs, taking advantage of the moment and groping him and touching his skin.

You can tell his enjoyment by the way his muscles flex underneath your touch, the deep rumbles from his chest.

A grunt leaving his lips as you get near his hips.

When you reached for his cock, he was already hard and heavy.

Your soap coated hand wrapping around his thick bulge, fingers barely meeting from his sheer size

“Baby.” he hisses.

Hips bucking into your hand.

The soap and water makes your touch smooth and you begin to stroke him slowly, thumb circling the tip.

Your eyes stay focused on his and his intense dark bedroom eyes make your pussy clench, despite the hard orgasm you faced moments ago.

His nostrils flared, jaw clenching and you knew he was holding back for your sake.

Letting you take things at your own pace.

A rare moment.

You lean in, pressing loving kisses on his chest, lips brushing over his tattoos.

“Mmm, you’re so hard, kookie…”

“Shit, princess.”

His hands grip your hips tight, thrusting into your hand.

“You keep talking like that and I’m gonna lose it.”

“Good.” you breathe.

Smiling shyly against his skin as you continue to stroke him, the other hand helping wash away the soap suds from his body.

Taking care of every inch of him.

His hands slide up your body, cupping your breasts again, weighing them in his hands as he kisses you again.

Desperate and hurried.

“I need to be inside you,”

He rushes out.

“now.”

“Then take me.” you whispered.

All your restraint faded, bottom lip quivering in want as you looked at him with teary eyes.

He didn’t hesitate.

He spun you around in a fast motion, pinning you against the shower wall.

His rough manhandling knocking the breath out of you.

Your breasts press on the wet tiles, nipples brushing against them, making you ache with a mix of pain and pleasure.

But he keeps you pressed there, not letting you move.

The water still falls over you both like rain, making the moment more sensual and comforting for both of you.

He grips your hips, tilting them to position himself behind you.

“You want this cock, hm?”

Voice rough with need as he rubbed the tip of his cock against your folds.

Teasing but not entering.

Making you pant and clutch the wall tightly.

“Want me to fuck this cunt until you’re coming?”

“Yes, pleaseee.”

Your body trembling with anticipation.

His eyes fixed on how your earlier release still leaks out of your slit.

The sight so naughty and obscene and he was running out of patience.

“I need you so bad.”

You begged, voice pitched.

He doesn’t make you wait longer.

He enters into you in one smooth thrust, cock stretching you and filling you so completely.

It felt like he reached your stomach in one go, the position allowing him to go deeper.

Leaving you in a very vulnerable and exposed position.

“Oh gosh… gahhh.” you cry out.

He doesn’t give you a moment to adjust as he begins to move, hips rolling.

Almost like he was taking his frustrations out on you.

You loved it when he was like this, rough and taking what he needs.

Like an unrestrained animal.

Ready to devour you.

“koo! nghh, you’re so big—ohh gosh.”

“You’re so tight and warm around me… you love this fat cock, don’t you?”

He asked, voice gruff, hips moving faster.

“mhmm?” he grits out.

When you don’t answer and you know he doesn’t like it when you remain quiet, not voicing your answers.

But the pleasure was too much, you couldn’t keep track of everything.

“Yes. Yes.” you whined.

Head falling forward as he thrusts harder and faster.

The sound of skin slapping against skin mixes with the sound of the water falling.

Creating a lewd music.

Your own cries and his grunts mixing with it.

Each of his thrusts hitting that spot inside you again and again.

“Right there! there—”

A sob leaves you.

“Right there? You like it there baby?”

He hums out a deep chuckle.

His voice almost predatory and dark, hips going in the same rhythm, hitting that exact spot like the expert he was.

And you were a squirming mess on the wall, clawing at the tiles.

Your mouth remain parted.

Drool trickling down your mouth.

You were seeing stars at this point.

“You’re mine.”

He says huskily, a moan leaving him when you clench on his cock.

“My only girl… my everything, gonna make you come so hard… mmm.”

He was trying to prove a point, almost like he wanted to reward you for always being there for him.

Taking such good care of him.

“jungkook. jungkook. jungkook”

You were only capable of chanting his name.

Each of his thrusts sends your body sliding on the wall due to the wetness.

His hands holding your hips, the constant brush of the tiles on your nipple.

Was causing a dual stimulation

And it was too much all at once.

“ohs” and “ahs” left your mouth at each of his thrusts.

“I’m gonna come ahh—”

A broken sob leaves you, struggling to hold onto the wall, nails scratching it.

Needing something to hold onto.

He reached around, never giving you a break.

His fingers find your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.

“Come on,” he hisses.

“Let me feel this pussy squeeze my cock… come for me.”

His hands fisting your hair, pulling you back to meet his brutal thrusts.

Your orgasm came crashing over you and you let out a loud scream that ended in a sob.

“Ohh, kookie!” you cried.

Your walls clenching around him as painful pleasure ripped through you.

Your moans fill the shower, raw and desperate as he fucked you through it.

Your throat aching from all the noises.

He breathes shakily, thrusts faltering, chasing his own release and you can feel each of his throbs inside you.

Your pussy clenching on him repetitively, overstimulating both of you in the process until you both were letting out broken moans.

“Gonna fill you, sweetheart.” he grits out.

“Hnnn, do it, please. jungkook, come inside me.”

You gasp, trembling, whimpers spilling out of your mouth.

He thrusts one last time, deep and hard and then he comes, his release hot and intense.

He spurts inside you and groans your name.

You feel the warmth of his release, he reaches such deep parts of you and you groan.

Body still pressed against the wall as he holds you close.

You both pant, tangled together.

After a few moments he pulls out slowly, making you gasp at the emptiness.

Both your arousal mixed together leaks out of your pussy.

Your legs no longer supporting your weight, completely defeated.

He turns you around to face him, picking you up and you wrap your legs around his waist.

Supporting your weight.

He kisses you this time gently with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

His tongue exploring your mouth, coaxing small whimpers from you.

He pulls back, forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily.

He holds you close to him, your arms encircling him as he buries his head on your neck, leaving small open mouthed kisses.

His lips sucking gently at first then harder, leaving marks.

Claiming you as his.

In every way.

Your voice tremble, running your fingers through his wet hair as he faces you, your lips brushing his.

Both of you breathing the same air.

“You know I’m always here for you… right koo?”

He leans down, pressing a delicate kiss on your shoulder, lips lingering, sucking another hickey there.

You can feel his shoulders shake from the weight of his emotions, from hearing your words and you clutch him to you tighter.

You place soft kisses beneath his ear.

Each kiss a mark of his love.

His need for you.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says.

Voice strained.

“But I'll spend every day trying to be worthy of you.”

You sign, nuzzling onto him, bodies were still warm from the water, the steam around you both.

“You’re more than enough, Koo,” you coo.

“Always, you’re my home.”

He was your safe place.

You both eventually step out of the shower, movements slow and intimate.

He helps you dry off, wrapping a towel around you.

He helps himself by wrapping one around his waist.

You tell him to wait in bed.

He protests as he wants you in his arms, but your request makes him let you go.

Reluctantly.

You go to the kitchen and make his favorite chamomile tea, a drink that's his favorite.

You know it comforts him.

And you don’t forget to add honey to it.

Back in the bedroom, you hand him the mug, fingers brushing against his.

His heart full with how much you cherish him, he pulls you in his arms.

Wanting you close to him as he sips on it slowly.

His eyes never leaving you.

The love and gratefulness in them were so intense, your chest pained.

He guides you closer to him until his head rests on your bare breasts.

An act that always comforted him.

He loved to do it.

He would tell you to get naked and he would rest on your chest like that.

It wasn’t always sexual, just a loving act you both shared.

You ran your fingers through his damp hair, a contented hum leaving him.

The faint brushes of his hair on your taut nipples still send tremors through you, but you focus on him.

Hoping and praying he can finally get some sleep.

He deserves it.

The room was quiet now and you soon felt his body relax against yours.

The tension of the night finally easing.

The sex, love, your presence—it was enough to quiet the restlessness in him.

His breathing slowed, arms wrapped around you, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin.

You buried your face in his hair, breathing the fresh smell of the shampoo.

He soon drifted off from your tender touches.

His face peaceful at last.

His lips slightly parting, a sign that he was in deep sleep and was actually resting.

The usual frown on his face when he cannot sleep was gone.

Now replaced with restfulness.

His breath warm against your skin and your eyes traced all the details of his handsome features—his lips, the curve of his jaw, the small scar on his cheekbone.

Your thumb brushing over the tiny mole beneath his lips.

You adored it so much.

He looks so much younger in sleep.

The weight of the world finally lifted off his shoulders.

Tears filling your eyes, finding happiness from the sight of your man finally resting.

You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Sleep well, baby…”

You ran your fingers through his hair, warmth and joy in your chest from seeing him like this.

The world outside fading and in that moment

It was just you and him.

Wrapped in each other.

You soon closed your eyes, arms tight around him.

Sleep taking over you as well.

Content to hold each other through the night.

Knowing that no matter what came your way.

You would face them together.

────

taglist: @chaelvrx @wintaemoonjen @slutology00 @furioustrashlover @kelsyx33 @kooever @svnbangtansworld @xcviis @snuglymalicioussea @nellbyy @minewlove @l4yl44 @captainengineer-trixie @cristy-101 @fangirl-coco-goddess @lachesismoonmist @angelfuzzy2 @levisnumber1 @angelsdecalcomania @magicalnachocreator @hynjamkook @koodollylvr @withmuchluv-tannie @istarag @elmarimochi9513 @wtfanu @kooklv @endlesslysassy @nanisblogg @tatamicc @mokaliciouss @armybomb-infires @jiniminisworld @seokjinthescientist @gyeomibearr @xmiaacxio @n0chuprettykook @gizaspicebag

[lowrisemiller]

ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ-ꜱᴛᴀʀᴠᴇᴅ

bucky barnes x fem! shield agent!reader

first time writing for bucky <333

safe house, during a storm. after a long mission, you’re stuck sharing a room with bucky. you’ve always assumed he keeps his distance because of his past. but when the storm knocks out the power and you curl up on the couch, cold and shivering, he finally opens up — and his hands, calloused and careful, don’t stop at comfort.

masterlist | 3k words | soft!dom Bucky, praise kink, reader receives oral (f), unprotected PIV(she on da pill), morning sex, deep emotional intimacy, touch starvation themes,, reader is referred to as “sweetheart” and “baby”, slow and loving sex, post-orgasm cuddling, mentions of past loneliness, body worship, Bucky is obsessed and down bad, vulnerable!Bucky, safehouse setting, canon-typical trauma referenced, no use of y/n

The rain hasn’t let up in hours.

It batters against the tin roof like it’s trying to get in — thunder rumbling over the hills like a warning. You’re curled on the couch in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a worn S.H.I.E.L.D. hoodie, one knee pulled tight to your chest, a book in your lap you’ve read the same page of five times. The fire’s dwindled to glowing coals.

And Bucky’s sitting across the room like a statue.

He hasn’t said much since you both got in hours ago —wet, bruised, exhausted from the mission. Just stripped off his tac gear and sat down on the edge of the bed, mechanical hand flexing like it couldn’t settle. He’s been like that ever since you joined his team —polite, helpful, quietly protective. But always… distant.

Like if he got too close, he’d ruin something.

Another crash of thunder shakes the cabin. You flinch without meaning to, hand clutching the blanket tighter.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Come here,” he says, voice low but solid.

You blink up at him.

“What?”

“You’re cold,” he murmurs. “Don’t argue, I can tell. C’mere.”

You hesitate. He looks so serious, dark hair still damp from the rain, black T-shirt hugging the hard lines of his chest. His expression is guarded, but his eyes are warm — warmer than you’ve ever seen them.

You cross the room slowly. He shifts, leaning back against the headboard, lifting the blanket beside him in invitation. Something tight coils in your chest. You’ve slept in the same room before — hotel rooms, bunkers, quinjet corners — but never like this.

You sit beside him. He wraps the blanket around your shoulders, pulls you in.

And suddenly you’re tucked under Bucky Barnes’ arm, your head resting against the soft fabric of his shirt, the sound of his steady breathing in your ear.

Your body relaxes before your mind can catch up. He’s warm. Unbelievably warm. And strong. You feel it in every inch of him —the way his arm curls protectively around your back, the subtle press of muscle as you lean into him.

“You okay?” he asks after a while.

You nod, barely. “Yeah. Just… long week.”

His chuckle is barely audible. “Understatement of the century.”

For a moment, it’s just the storm and the soft rhythm of your breathing. Then he speaks again — so quietly it barely registers.

“I hate seeing you scared.”

You look up. His jaw is tight, his gaze focused on the firelight.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he says gently. “It’s okay.”

You swallow. There’s something aching in his tone —something raw.

“You don’t talk this much,” you say softly.

“I know.” He turns his head, meets your eyes. “Doesn’t mean I don’t think it.”

Your breath catches. His eyes are ocean-deep, stormy like the night outside, but warm — so warm.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks.

You nod.

“I think about touching you all the time.”

Your heart stops.

He keeps going, voice steady but trembling at the edges.

“Not just sex. Not even that, really. I think about… brushing your hair out of your face. Holding your hand. Pulling you onto my lap just because I can. I think about waking up next to you.”

He swallows hard.

“But I don’t. Because I don’t want to scare you. And because I don’t know if you’d want that. Want me.”

The rain seems to hush for a moment, like the world is listening.

You reach up slowly, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed like he’s afraid to believe it’s real.

“I’ve been waiting for you to touch me,” you whisper. “I thought you wouldn’t want to.”

His eyes snap open —like you just lit a fuse.

“Don’t move,” he says hoarsely.

You stay still.

His hand —warm, broad, careful —comes up to cup your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, then your lip. His other hand, the metal one, rests on your thigh with featherlight pressure, like he’s scared you’ll flinch.

You don’t.

You lean in.

And he kisses you.

It’s gentle at first —lips soft and reverent against yours, like he’s still scared he’ll wake up. But then you press closer, fingers tangling in his shirt, and he deepens it —groaning into your mouth, tongue brushing yours, hunger bleeding into every movement.

You shift into his lap, straddling him instinctively, and Bucky grabs your hips like he’s grounding himself —like if he lets go, he’ll wake up alone again.

His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing, and the look he gives you is hungry —like you’re the first warm thing he’s touched in years.

“You’re driving me insane,” he growls. “You know that, right?”

You rock against him gently, and his jaw goes tight.

“You can touch me,” you whisper, hands in his hair. “Anywhere. However you want.”

He huffs a breath like he’s trying to keep from losing it.

“Fuck, sweetheart…”

His metal hand grips your thigh, spreading you wider over him. His other hand slides under your hoodie and up your back, warm and solid, tugging the fabric over your head and tossing it aside.

When he sees you —bare, flushed, breathing hard —he curses under his breath and cups your chest with both hands, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they stiffen. You gasp, grinding against the hard line of him beneath his sweatpants.

“Lay back for me,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

You do —breathless, already aching —lying back on the bed as he kneels between your legs.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your flannel pants.

“Every inch of you.”

He drags them down, slow and deliberate, along with your panties —eyes never leaving yours as he exposes you. When you’re naked and spread out under him, he runs his hands up your thighs, parting them wider with firm, reverent pressure.

Then his mouth is on you again.

Warm, slow, worshipful.

He kisses your inner thigh, then the crease of your hip, teasing you until you’re trembling, trying to press yourself against his mouth. But he pins your hips with his metal arm and groans, low and broken, like the taste of you has him spiraling.

He laps at you slowly, teasing your clit with the flat of his tongue before sucking softly. You moan—high and sharp —and tangle your fingers in his hair. His tongue circles, flicks, licks deeper until you’re whimpering, thighs trembling.

“You’re so wet for me,” he breathes, voice muffled against your cunt. “So perfect, so good…”

You try to respond, but your hips buck when he slips one thick finger inside you, curling it just right.

“Oh—fuck, Bucky—”

“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Let me hear you.”

He adds a second finger, fucking you slowly with a perfect rhythm as he sucks your clit again. The pressure builds like a wave — deep and hot and inevitable.

“I—I’m gonna—”

“Do it, sweetheart. Come for me.”

You fall apart on his mouth, writhing, gasping, your hands pulling hard at his hair. He doesn’t stop — licking you through it, holding you firm until your body finally slumps back against the mattress.

He looks up at you, lips slick, eyes glazed with want.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You reach for him, dazed. “Need you inside me.”

That’s all it takes.

He strips fast — sweatpants gone, briefs gone — and your eyes go wide at the size of him, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip.

“Condom,” he mutters, reaching for his bag—

“No,” you whisper. “I’m on the pill. I want to feel you.”

His eyes darken. “You sure?”

You nod, pulling him in. “Please.”

He lines himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds, and groans like he’s barely holding it together.

Then he pushes in —slow, stretching you inch by inch, until he bottoms out and you’re both gasping.

“Jesus Christ,” he pants. “You’re so tight. So fuckin’ perfect.”

He stills, letting you adjust, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, your jaw. “You okay, baby?”

You nod. “Move.”

And when he does —slow and deep at first, then faster, rougher —it’s like the world narrows to just the two of you. His hands grip your hips, his mouth never leaves your skin, and every thrust drives you higher.

He murmurs praise like a prayer—

“So good for me.”

“You feel like heaven.”

“I could stay inside you forever.”

When he feels you tighten around him again, he fucks you through your second orgasm — hard and deep — before groaning into your neck and coming inside you with a shudder that rocks his whole body.

He doesn’t pull out. Not yet.

Just stays there, buried deep, breathing against your collarbone.

“I’ve never—” he murmurs. “Never had this. Not like this.”

You stroke his back, warm and damp with sweat.

“You have it now.”

He kisses you then —soft and slow, like a promise.

And this time, it’s not about hunger.

It’s about home.

The fire’s burned down to embers.

Outside, the rain has stopped. All that’s left is the gentle patter of water dripping from the eaves and the faint glow of early morning light peeking through the curtains.

You’re warm —so warm —tucked beneath the threadbare sheets, wrapped in Bucky’s arms.

His body is solid heat against your back, chest rising and falling steady with sleep. One hand is splayed across your belly, the other curled under your neck, holding you close like he still doesn’t quite believe you’re real.

You shift slightly, and his breath catches. The hand on your stomach tightens, thumb brushing your skin like a reflex.

“Did I wake you?” you whisper, voice soft.

“Mmm,” he hums sleepily, lips brushing your shoulder. “Been awake. Just didn’t wanna move. S’too good.”

You smile, turning in his arms to face him. He’s a mess of tousled hair and morning stubble, blue eyes heavy-lidded and soft.

“Hi,” you murmur.

“Hi.” He leans in, noses at your cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

“You never have to ask.”

The kiss is slow —tender and lazy, mouths fitting together like they’ve always known how. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, and you melt into him like you’ve been waiting all your life to be held like this.

When you shift again, your bare thighs brush his —and you feel it.

He’s hard. Already. Pressed warm and thick against your stomach.

You pull back to look at him.

His cheeks are pink. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be sorry.” You reach down, wrap your hand gently around him. His hips twitch.

“I want you again,” you whisper. “Just like this.”

He swallows hard, eyes locked on yours. “You sure?”

You nod. “Slow n soft.”

His jaw clenches, just a little. Then he exhales and kisses you again —sweeter this time, deeper, like a slow ache.

Like gratitude.

The sheets fall away as he shifts over you, pushing your legs apart with his hips. He slides his metal hand beneath your thigh, lifting it gently as he rolls his body over yours.

He’s big —broad and warm and so careful —and you feel yourself open for him all over again.

“I didn’t hurt you last night, did I?” he murmurs, brushing your hair back.

“No,” you whisper. “You made me feel so good and safe.”

He groans softly, like that this alone is enough to undo him. Then he reaches between you, guides himself to your entrance, and sinks in slow.

The stretch makes you sigh —familiar now, but no less intense. He presses deeper until your bodies are flush, his cock buried inside you, and stays there for a moment, unmoving.

His forehead rests against yours.

“I could stay like this forever,” he breathes. “You feel so good. So warm. So perfect.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist.

“Then stay.”

He moves slowly, rolling his hips in deep, rhythmic strokes —not chasing release, just feeling you. Making love like he has nowhere else to be, like your body is the only place he’s ever felt peace.

The way he looks at you —like you hung the stars —has your whole chest aching.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “Can’t believe I get to touch you like this.”

You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his shoulder. “Touch me more.”

And he does. Big hands exploring your body all over again —your waist, your breasts, your thighs. He never stops moving inside you, never pulls all the way out. Every thrust is slow and deep and intimate, like he wants to leave a piece of himself inside you.

When you start to tremble beneath him, he cups your face with both hands.

“Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You come with a soft cry, clinging to him as your body shudders. He follows moments later, gasping your name, cock pulsing inside you as he buries himself one last time and spills deep.

You stay tangled together afterward — skin flushed, breath slowing, heartbeats syncing.

“I think I’m addicted to you,” he murmurs against your neck.

“Good thing we’re stuck here another day.”

He chuckles, pulling you tight against him. “Don’t tempt me.”

But his voice is soft. Sweet. Like he wants to be tempted. Like he already is.

divider by @cursed-carmine 🏷️ @zevrra

[fear-is-truth]

THE 5 LOVE LANGUAGES 𝔵 JASON TODD

ⓘ love language : a person's characteristic means of expressing and experiencing love. note. got covid so i wrote the majority of this in bed lol

❝ ACTS OF SERVICE ❞ ⸻⸻⸻⸻ ⸻ ﹒

jason’s dominant expression of attachment is through action, often coded as protection. now he doesn’t articulate affection directly, but his decisions (frequently violent, morally ambiguous, or self-endangering) reveal an ingrained instinct to shield others. from early adolescence, he understood that love, if it meant anything, had to be proven with action.

under bruce, he learned to channel this drive into something more structured: protect the innocent, follow through, serve justice. jason internalised that, but filtered it through his own experiences. his ethic of care was shaped by loss, abandonment, and death. to jason, if you care about someone, you fucking do something about it. after the lazarus pit, this trait only intensified; he became more militant about protecting people he saw as his responsibility. this goes without saying that he’ll kill for you—has, and will again. notably, he may reject help from others, perceiving self-reliance as a survival mechanism. when he allows others to assist him, it signifies a very deep trust.

❝ PHYSICAL TOUCH ❞ ⸻⸻⸻⸻ ⸻

complicated. pre-trauma (pre-death), anecdotal evidence suggests jason was physically affectionate. post-resurrection though, physical touch may trigger hypervigilance or dissociation. he’s not exactly avoidant. on some deeper level, he wants it, craves it, even. but only on his terms and without surprise. if he’s letting you touch him, he’s already made a conscious choice. contact tends to trigger fight-or-flight unless it’s from someone he’s mentally filed as “safe.” even then, it takes time because he needs to assess the intent and pattern first. you’ve learned not to startle jason. when you do reach for him, he won’t always meet you halfway, but he won’t stop you either. sometimes, he’ll even lean into it, let your hand cradle his jaw or your knee press lightly against his under the table. when initiated by him, physical touch is always intentional and super rare.

❝ WORDS OF AFFIRMATION ❞ ⸻ ⸻⸻⸻

he generally distrusts verbal assurances. years of emotional inconsistency, perceived abandonment, and betrayal have rendered language hollow in his worldview. when someone tries to express affection verbally, his first instinct is suspicion. compliments may be deflected or mocked. and when he does offer verbal affection, it’s often oblique—dry humor, begrudging respect, dark jokes. moments of direct affirmation are intensely vulnerable and often framed through anger or defiance (e.g., “i never stopped caring, that’s the problem”). receiving affirmation may cause him visible discomfort, though it still registers.

❝ RECEIVING GIFTS❞ ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

selective, but significant. the paperback you tracked down (the out-of-print edition he’d mentioned only once, in passing.) the gloves you left folded on the counter after noticing the ones he wore were splitting at the seams. jason doesn’t view objects as inherently meaningful—he doesn’t assign value to things, only to the intent behind them. he’s not effusive in return. most of what he gives is pragmatic, given without ceremony or explanation. a stun gun mysteriously appears in your bag after he walked you home one night. a second helmet on his motorbike. his hoodie folded on your bed because he’s seen you shiver in the mornings and doesn’t want you to have to ask.

when it isn’t strictly practical, it still has function. a dog-eared copy of the latest novel he read—left on your nightstand, filled with underline passages and margin notes that read like he’s talking directly to you. his gifts are silent acknowledgments: i see you. you matter to me.

❝ QUALITY TIME ❞ ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

jason’s used to solitude. silence doesn’t unsettle him—it’s the baseline. you people either stick around or they don’t. most don’t. being around him isn’t easy, he’s aware of that too. if you choose to stay near him, you’re exposing yourself to his volatility, the sharp edge that never fully dulled. it’s not an easy choice to make.

he doesn’t require conversation. half the time, jason prefers the silence. he’s comfortable with proximity without pressure (e.g., watching crappy TV, eating takeout on a fire escape etc.)

the more time you spend with jason consistently, the more he lets down the armor. not all at once of course; but in increments. when he starts talking unprompted—thoughts he normally keeps to himself, tidbits of his past.

 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑-𝐈𝐒-𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 2025 — do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content. ꕀ

[yuukskillsworld]

ahhhhhhh omgggg i am obsessed with your writing brooo

can u do like a fic or headcanons of the love intrests x a self destructive readerr ^^ (i am a sucker for angst what can i say)

hope your having day or nighttt

“Wreck Me Softly” – Killer Chat LIs x Self-Destructive Reader Headcanons

Hey, sweetheart—thanks for the request! If you’re here for a little pain wrapped in obsession, you’re in the right place. These killers see your cracks and still want more.

Hope you enjoy every second of the spiral. <3

written by yuukskillsworld<3

WARNINGS: Heavy emotional themes: self-destructive behavior, intrusive thoughts, low self-worth, comfort after emotional distress, protective/possessive behavior in some characters, mild language and intensity, hurt/comfort dynamics, please take care while reading. If you're struggling, you deserve real-world support too—fiction is comfort, but your well-being matters more.

Ronin Beaufort

⁠♡ Immediate Recognition: Ronin sees through the facade instantly. You can joke, smile, or pretend—but he notices the tremble in your hands when no one else is watching. He's lived that kind of quiet pain and never overlooks it.

♡ Silent Vigilance: He doesn’t confront you right away. Instead, he watches from the sidelines, eyes sharp with concern. “You gonna tell me what’s eatin’ at you, or do I gotta dig it out myself?”

♡ Protective Fury: When your pain becomes undeniable, Ronin gets angry—but not at you. It’s a raw, helpless rage aimed at the world that’s hurting you. “You matter more than you act like, darlin’. Start believin’ it—or I’ll make you.”

♡ Subtle Care: He shows love through action, not words. Drapes his coat over your shoulders, hands you water without a word, or simply sits beside you, thigh to thigh. His presence is constant, grounding.

♡ Internal Spiral: When you fall apart, so does he—quietly, inwardly. He blames himself, wonders if he’s too damaged to help. His greatest fear is losing you the way he’s lost others.

♡ Fear in Disguise: If you take a reckless risk, his reaction is sharp. Loud. Scared. “You think this world wouldn’t end if I lost you? ‘Cause I promise you—it would.”

♡ Soothing Aftermath: But after the storm, he softens. Always. He holds you close, forehead against yours. “You don’t have to be okay. Just… stay. Let me help you carry it.”

♡ Unconditional Commitment: He doesn’t want to fix you—just wants you here, alive, with him. If it takes holding your broken pieces together every night until they start healing, then that’s exactly what he’ll do.

Maria de la Rosa (Angel)

⁠♡ Immediate Recognition: Angel quickly notices the signs of your self-destructive behavior. Her intuition and experience make her sensitive to subtle changes in your demeanor.

⁠♡ Protective Instincts: She becomes fiercely protective, often going out of her way to shield you from harm, even if it means confronting others or taking drastic measures.

⁠♡ Emotional Support: Angel offers a listening ear and comforting presence. She encourages open communication, assuring you that you're not alone in your struggles.

⁠♡ Acts of Service: She expresses love through actions—preparing your favorite meals, organizing relaxing activities, or simply being there when you need her.

⁠♡ Encouraging Self-Care: Angel gently nudges you towards healthier habits, reminding you of your worth and the importance of self-care.

Misaki Katsuo

⁠♡ Shared Vulnerability: Misaki relates to your struggles, having faced their own challenges. This shared understanding fosters a deep connection between you two.

⁠♡ Humor as a Coping Mechanism: They often use humor to lighten heavy moments, helping you find moments of joy amidst the darkness.

⁠♡ Open Conversations: Misaki encourages honest discussions about feelings, creating a safe space for you to express yourself without judgment.

⁠♡ Consistent Presence: They make it a point to check in regularly, ensuring you feel supported and valued.

⁠♡ Encouraging Professional Help: Understanding their own limitations, Misaki gently suggests seeking professional support, emphasizing that it's a sign of strength, not weakness.

Valentin Viljoen(V)

⁠♡ Observant and Insightful: V notices patterns in your behavior, often identifying triggers and offering strategies to cope with them.

⁠♡ Structured Support: He helps establish routines that promote stability, such as regular meals, sleep schedules, and mindfulness practices.

⁠♡ Calm Reassurance: V provides a steady presence, offering comfort through calm and measured responses during your low moments.

⁠♡ Encouragement of Autonomy: While supportive, he respects your independence, encouraging you to take active steps in your healing journey.

⁠♡ Resourceful Assistance: V researches and shares resources, such as therapy options or support groups, tailoring suggestions to your preferences and needs.

Thanks again for the love—means more than you know. Glad you’re enjoying my writing... and trust me, the killers are enjoying you even more. If you want I can make you a fic for each of them.

Sorry if I didn't do the characters description more cuz I only played the Angel and Ronin route for now. Thank you for for understanding (⁠´⁠∩⁠｡⁠•⁠ ⁠ᵕ⁠ ⁠•⁠｡⁠∩⁠`⁠)

Come back soon, darling. <3

Credits:

-> dividers: @saradika-graphics @dollywons @uzmacchiato @thecutestgrotto

-> photos: Pinterest

[tldrthor]

Not even death (2) | bucky barnes

// Summary: In the wake of the attack, (y/n) and Steve are moved to DC for protection. Rumours of corruption within SHIELD come to a crescendo, and they learn the identity of the man who attacked them at Bucky's grave. The world is turned on it's head.

// warnings: ws!bucky barnes x avenger!wife!reader, lots of grief, canon-typical violence, angst, f!reader, platonic!steve being a cutie patootie

// word count: 4.1k

enjoyed? please like/reblog! you can find my masterlist here <3

part one | part three

The second best day of her life was the day Bucky came back from the POW camp in Europe. The day that Steve Rogers, her tiny, frail friend, was suddenly two feet taller and double the weight. It was the second best, but probably the most confusing.

To describe it, we have to start somewhere else.

Colonel Phillips sat behind his desk, the heavy weight of authority evident within his posture. His fingers drummed lightly on the edge of the paperwork in front of him as he studied the transfer forms with surgical precision. His words came clipped, almost dismissive, as he finally looked up at the young woman standing before him.

"Nurse Barnes," he began, his voice cold and matter of fact. "I need you to understand that you've been given special treatment here." His words were sharp, cutting through the sterile tension of the office. His eyes flicked to the top of the paper, then back to her. "I see that Sergeant Barnes is your husband. We understand him to be missing, but I am sorry to say... it's unlikely he is still alive."

He spoke softer, then. Like he had realised halfway through that the girl in front of him – she couldn't have been older than 25 – was likely a widow.

"Yes, sir." The girl answered, her words as flat and mechanical as she could make them. Her sweaty palms smoothing her creased white uniform.

"You'll be sharing a cabin with the other women on base – Agent Carter here will show you around, get you situated. You'll start in the infirmary tent tomorrow."

He dismissively waved towards a figure in the corner of the room -- an image of perfect composure in her neatly pressed uniform and pinned hair. The nurse suddenly felt inadequate, vulnerable even. She hadn't been thinking straight since she got that awful, awful telegram. The one she had prayed would never come.

Agent Carter stepped forward with quiet grace. Her smile was warm and genuine, a soft hand outstretched to the nurse, which she quickly shook with her own.

"Peggy Carter," she introduced herself. "Come with me, I'll show you to our cabin."

"(y/n) Barnes." The nurse introduced herself, unable to say much else in the wake of the worst few weeks of her life.

"So," Peggy's voice broke through the silence as they walked. "Where were you stationed before?"

The nurse swallowed hard, the words scraping out of her dry throat. "The French front." She could feel Peggy's widened eyes on her, but she kept looking towards the cabin they were marching towards.

She let out a quiet, nearly reverent sound. "God, so you've seen warfare then." It wasn't a question, rather an acknowledgement, a small recognition of the horrors of the front.

The nurse's heart quickened at the mere mention of her previous station, a cold shiver moving down her spine. She didn't want to remember the chaos, the blood, the screams. But it hadn't left her mind since the moment she was deployed.

"Yes." She muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. There was so much more to say than just ‘yes’,  but there wasn't a way to succinctly describe some of the horrors she had seen.

They climbed the steps to the simple wooden cabin, Peggy opening the door with a soft creak. "Well, here we are."

The room was simple – clean, functional and small – but the nurse barely registered in the space.

"The top bunk at the end is yours." Peggy said gently, motioning towards the far corner. "I'll let you get set up, if you need anything let me know."

She swallowed, looking upon the nurse who seemed so... defeated. She spoke, perhaps out of turn; "Colonel Phillips hasn't given up on the men. There's still hope."

"Thank you," The nurse whispered, her throat too tight to speak. Peggy stepped back, giving her space.

"Take your time. I'll check on you later."

In the present day, her dreams – as they always were – were filled with memories of Bucky and the war. The sound of his voice was a particular issue, recently. She felt like she was forgetting it. The way his arms had felt around her on their wedding day, and then the day they said goodbye before he shipped to the Italian front and she to the french front. It all felt like the memories were slipping away.

But tonight, on Steve's couch, the dream shifted. She found herself walking through a foggy graveyard. She knew immediately that something was off, but it felt real enough. She could hear his voice – just faintly, calling her from a distance. 

She tried to run to him, but her legs felt like stone.

"Bucky!" She called, nearly crawling along the floor in her desperation to get to him.

The fog parted just enough to reveal a figure. Not quite Bucky, but tall and hauntingly familiar. It was wrong, though. As the figure stalked towards her, she saw the glint of his left arm.

It wasn't Bucky. It was the man who attacked her in the cemetery, the one who had bestowed on her what she was sure was at least four broken ribs. His eyes were cold and empty as the all-too-familiar metal arm reached for her.

"(y/n)?" She felt something on her shoulder, and suddenly she jerked awake with a gasp, her breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts.

Steve sat in front of her, whispering soothing things, his hand on her shoulder. He had bags under his eyes, and didn't seem like he had been asleep. A lamp in the corner cast soft shadows over Steve's living room.

"Sorry, nightmare." She whispered, once she got her breath back.

He nodded, a sort of half-smile on his face. "I know. You were calling for Bucky."

His hand still rested on her shoulder, his touch steady and gentle. It reminded her of how she used to comfort him when they were just kids -- whenever he got into a stupid fight, or the neighbourhood kids took to showing him what for. The weight of it anchored her to the present, even as his mind drifted back to the foggy graveyard and the nightmare she couldn't shake.

She inhaled sharply, still failing at steadying her breath. "Sorry... it's just –" she faltered, her eyes on her lap as her hands shook. "It's like I can hear him, feel him. But I always lose him again."

He nodded, humming in recognition.

"I was thinking about the Italian front, the other day. Do you remember?"

He smiled, the memory of the first time he disobeyed orders to save his best friend. The day he promised his other friend that he would do everything he could to bring home her husband.

One of his greatest victories.

"I remember. You were so angry at us – and he couldn't stop grinning because you had come all that way just to tell him off."

Her pensive face broke, at that, revealing a reminiscent smile.

"God, I'd do anything to go back to that."

The atmosphere in the crowd crackled as Captain America walked back, his best friend at his side, and a sea of men trailing behind them. Their victory hung thick in the air.

"Prepare yourself," Steve murmured, his voice low but edged with something akin to amusement. Maybe he should have warned him...

Bucky's gaze flickered to a ripple in the crowds in front of them -- the crowd parted with the ease of moving water, but it wasn't a force of nature that cut through them.

No. It was something more personal, smaller than all of them but ten times as dangerous.

She emerged from the crowd, eyes blazing, shoulders tight with fury.

His wife.

"You two," she shouted, her voice slicing through the charged air like a blade, "are two halves of one whole idiot!"

"Oh my god, what the hell are you doing here?!" Bucky rushed forward with a rather aggressive passion, very nearly knocking her to the ground. If she wasn't so apoplectic with rage, the hug would have softened everything.

Unfortunately, she was very nearly vibrating with anger.

She screwed up her face, wiggling out of his touch. "I came to get you, James." She jabbed a finger in his face, her hand trembling with an uncontainable rage. "Do you know how worried I was," She frowned, "that damn telegram nearly killed me!"

The men around them chuckled before giving the not-so-happy couple some space. He smiled at her with a soft, love-sick smile. He didn't even have it in him to feel guilt, although he was sure he would eventually. He knew military transfer orders, he knew the bureaucracy behind all the paperwork. She had probably fought tooth and nail just to find her way closer to him.

"You transferred here?" He spoke as his hands moved up to hold her face, his thumb stroking her cheek as she furrowed her eyebrows and scoffed at him, slapping away his hand before turning away to the other moron in the situation.

The crowd around them had dissipated now, leaving only the both of them, and a much, much taller Captain America. Steven Grant Rogers. The kid she had spent most of her life protecting in some way or another.

"Don't even get me started on you." she snapped, her voice venomous. She stared him down, his new stature making no difference in how uncomfortable he felt with her intense gaze. He had the decency, at least, to sheepishly look at the ground. "What the hell were you thinking, Rogers?"

"I- " He started. He held his hands in the air like she was holding him at gunpoint. He wished she was, he was much better at that than dealing with grief turned relief turned anger.

She hissed, "Save it. Get yourselves to the infirmary tent, now." She turned on her heel, leading to where the men were beginning to line up to be checked over.

"Fury wants us to move to DC, says we’re better protected there.” After a full breakfast, the situation didn’t feel as dire. She looked at her friend with skeptical eyes, her fork clinking on the plate as she put it down with more force than she had meant to.

She tilted her head and squinted her eyes. “Fury’s up to something.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I don’t know if you have the clearance but…” She hesitated. The weight of the words she was about to speak was almost too much, but she couldn’t back down now.  “We’ve had some intel. Someone’s using unauthorised SHIELD resources. We think whoever it is… is based at the Triskelion in DC.”

Her word’s hung heavy between them. She could see the suspicion on Steve’s face, the flicker of concern. He leaned in slightly, his eyes piercing as they met hers. “You think Fury’s hiding something?”

She sighed, dragging her hand through her fresh-washed hair. It was the last thing she needed, the organisation she had built up with her bare hands and dearest friends to be compromised. “I… ever since I stepped down as director, I’ve felt like something’s wrong. I regret putting Alexander Pierce in control, I’m worried it’s completely compromised.”

“I think Fury knows something I don’t – the question is what.” She shook her head, her words faltering for a second. 

Steve didn’t say anything for a long time. He didn’t have to. He could see it in her eyes – the frustration, the fear, the doubt. They both knew that if SHIELD was the next big bad, it was going to be harder than just killing aliens that come out of a big hole in the sky. It would be questioning the very thing they fight for in the first place.

“Okay.” Steve finally spoke, his voice low but steady. “Let’s just be careful. We’ll figure it out together – Nat’s already out there anyway, we can ask her to keep an eye out.”

Days later, they were on the move. The rumours they were tracking seemed to grow louder, and a certain name that neither of them wanted to ever hear again kept popping up through the cracks. 

HYDRA.

Natasha met them at the new apartment – they had decided to all move in together for safety. Fury assured the commander that there was nothing behind the move, that he didn’t expect anything from her.

“You think we’ll investigate the rumblings about SHIELD being infiltrated.” She frowned at him, finally figuring out his motive.

He smiled, his cards on the table. “Commander, I know you will.”

She couldn’t help but feel a disconnect between her life before and her life now. She didn’t know what had caused it – maybe something about the attack. She had been targeted before, the victim of many plots over the years. Who wouldn’t want to take out an enhanced, seemingly unaging artefact from a time period that was quickly fading from living memory.

But this one felt… different. She couldn’t help but think of Bucky when the knife-edged memory of her assailant made its way to her consciousness again. Something in the way he moved…

She looked up at the Triskelion, her new place of work. It was somehow familiar and unsettling at the same time. A place that had always symbolised SHIELD’s strength – her own blood, sweat and tears – now felt like the beginning of something far more dangerous.

Weeks passed. She almost forgot about the potential mole within SHIELD, she was kept so busy with work given to her by Pierce. She hated being around him, even though she had seen him rise the ranks as a young man nearly from the beginning of SHIELD. Something about him… she could tell he didn’t have good intentions anymore.

Steve and Natasha were starting to dig into the activities that SHIELD was covering around them. There was money, moved around so much that it was impossible to trace it to its destination. Weapons missing from the armoury’s logs. People who walked like they had more power than they should.

And then Fury was attacked in broad daylight. Declared dead. Steve crashed down stories into the foyer of the building, having been attacked by the STRIKE team that (y/n) once commanded. Pierce himself marched into the Commander’s office and declared she was being held on suspicion of treason – she would never have gone quietly, and she got a nice gash across her upper arm to prove it.

They found each other in the hospital after their no good, very bad day.

“Thank god.” Steve wrapped his arms around her as she found him outside the hospital.

She reciprocated. “Is it true? Fury’s dead?” She demanded, a tone in her voice that showed more vulnerability that she would have liked. She looked between him and Natasha, who had tears in her eyes for the first time in a long time.

He could only nod in response.

The truth hit them hard – the realisation that SHIELD had been compromised so thoroughly that it was completely unrecognisable. HYDRA was back, and it was using their own creation to cement itself again.

After that, everything changed. The triskelion was under siege. The situation had escalated faster than anyone could have predicted, and suddenly, they were fighting not only for their lives but for the world. They had picked up Sam Wilson, an ex-air force special forces pilot with helpful strategy ideas and even more helpful wings.

“So, how’d you make it to commander so young?” He had asked her.

Steve, Natasha and (y/n) had just laughed in response.

And then her world shattered even further, even more maliciously. Sitwell grabbed and thrown out of the car in front of a truck – a most effective way to shut him up. Each of them was attacked by an assailant that had haunted her since that moment at Bucky’s grave. She had been so distracted by the return of that memory that she hadn’t seen the knife coming.

One second, she was fighting with everything she had to hold her ground and protect the civilians around them, and the next – pain. Cold metal cutting into her side. A scream of shock that didn’t even escape her throat before her body crashed to the ground.

The world blurred around her. She heard Steve’s voice, desperate, calling her name as he fought to hold the line. And then… the mask fell. For a split second, she thought she must be hallucinating. The pain from the stab wound – and the steady trail of blood seeping through her top – was enough to make her think she could be.

She couldn’t tell which outcome she would have preferred in that moment – for her husband to be dead, or for her husband to be killing her.

The air felt too thick to breathe.

And then, she heard Steve speak his name, stopping in his tracks, too. And her heart stopped.

It couldn’t be. Not after everything – she had mourned for decades. So how could her dead husband, body somewhere in a ravine in Europe, be standing here, now. How could her Bucky – her wonderful, generous, brave husband – have caused the sea of thick crimson that had started to pool around her.

The man who had broken her ribs, and tried to murder her only weeks earlier. That same man, the one with no memory, with no soul, stripped of everything he’d ever been and replaced with a cold, mechanical weapon. A ghost from the past, a soldier she couldn’t recognise.

Natasha had told them the name earlier. A name that sat bitterly on her tongue.

The Winter Soldier.

Her chest tightened as the world seemed to freeze around her. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, and for a moment, she thought she might choke on the grief, the shock, the guilt.

Her hands shook violently as she struggled to push herself up, the pain almost unbearable, but it was nothing compared to the agony in her heart. The man who was supposed to be dead, the man who was supposed to be lost forever, was standing right in front of her — twisted and broken nearly beyond recognition.

But she would recognise him anywhere, anytime. Her Bucky.

The world seemed to tilt, everything spinning around her in a dizzying blur of emotions. How could this be? She couldn’t reconcile the image before her with the man she remembered, the boy she had once loved. She had grieved him. She had clung to every inch of him like it was her only lifeline – his touch, his smile, his cheeky jokes that made the burden of what they were just that little bit easier to manage.

Now, everything she thought she understood was unraveling.

She couldn’t fix this.

The sound of Steve’s voice reached her through the fog of her emotions. She knew he was moving toward her, his panic filling the space between them, but she couldn’t focus on that. She couldn’t focus on anything other than the man standing in front of her.

How could he not remember her?

How could he not remember them?

He locked eyes with her as he raised his gun. Those blue eyes that had looked at her lovingly since the moment they had met, now replaced with emotionless disdain. She decided that her only course of action was to close her eyes and accept whatever this cruel twist of fate had in store.

The Winter Soldier.

A name that would haunt her forever.

Both Bucky and Steve had been sitting outside the infirmary for what felt like hours. The sounds of the camp were muffled around them, but they could hear the laughter and celebration from the mess hall starting already. Closer, the occasional sharp sound of boots on gravel as men trickled in and out of the infirmary, patched up and sporting bandages in various places.

Dugan passed by, a small bandage wrapped expertly around his forehead. “Hell of a woman, Barnes. You’re a lucky guy.”

Morita, who had a nice bruise forming on his cheek, waggled an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her anger.”

Bucky only grinned and shrugged, his attention never straying far from the door. “Hey, you should be so lucky.” He smiled.

Finally, the line in front of him cleared. He stood, wincing slightly as his leg protested the movement, and made his way into the infirmary. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and sweat. The soft sound of hospitalised soldiers and the rattle of medical equipment filled the space.

And there she was.

The moment his eyes met hers, the world around him seemed to still. Her frown deepened, but the way she looked at him told him all he needed to know. She was mad. Madder than he thought he’d ever seen her, maybe aside from the time he and Steve decided to play baseball indoors and smashed her favourite vase.

Bucky took a hesitant step forward, trying to make light of it. “Hi, Nurse.”

She didn’t even look up at first, but when she did, the way her brow furrowed made his stomach twist. She motioned for him to sit, a sigh escaping her lips as she set the clipboard down next to him. 

“Sergeant Barnes.” She said, a quiet edge to her voice. “What did they do to you?”

Bucky winced as she touched a bruise near his cheekbone. He had been through a hell of a lot worse in his life, but he wasn’t exactly in the mood to pretend like it didn’t hurt. “Nothing too bad. A little blood, some bad food… the usual.”

The corner of her mouth twitched like she might’ve smiled, but it disappeared almost instantly, replaced by that serious look. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him.

She frowned. “You really shouldn’t joke right now.” She murmured as she worked, pulling out some supplies. The cotton swab was rough against his skin, and he winced as she dabbed at one the cuts across his eyebrow. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Bucky could feel the tension even in the way her fingers moved – quick, precise, anxious.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was small and fragile: “I thought you were dead.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, his throat going dry. There was no anger to her words now, just a quiet, raw vulnerability. He looked at her then – really looked – finally seeing the bags under her eyes, her red-raw hands from sanitising and scrubbing them over and over and over again. The shine over her eyes from tears that she fought not to spill.

He leaned forward slightly, covering her hand with his. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand gently, “I’m sorry, baby.” His voice was gravelly but soft, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes met his, and for a moment, everything else disappeared. The anger was still there, tucked away beneath the surface, but it was quieter now – he saw it for what it really was. Love.

She nodded slowly, swallowing thickly. “I know you say that,” She muttered. “But sometimes I wonder… how much longer I’ll get to hear it.”

Bucky’s chest tightened at the implication. He couldn’t imagine what she’d gone through in receiving that telegram. Living with the fear of her husband, gone forever. He knew that if it had been him in that position, he’d have gone mad. 

He pulled her hand toward him tilting his head so their foreheads touched, his voice low and steady. “You’re stuck with me, you hear me? No one’s getting rid of me, not even you.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. It was just the sounds of their breath mingling in the quiet of the infirmary. There was finally a moment of peace amongst the chaos of the war, even if it wasn’t perfect.

But the reality of their lives could never stay far for long, and she pulled away gently, putting that professional mask back on. Bucky had to fight the urge to pull her back, to keep her in that soft, quiet space. She had always been strong and capable, but he felt that she was different now… hardened to the world in a way she wasn’t before. He wondered if he would ever see the sweet, innocent girl he left in New York again. 

“I’m on the clock, Barnes.” Her tone returned to being sharper, but it had a softer edge now. “You’re gonna have to send Steve in. I need to check him out.”

Bucky’s mind returned to his alarmingly big, formerly small-friend. “What the hell happened to him, anyway?”

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[thecosmiccrow]

Disassembly Drone Body Language part 2, this time with more color and more Nuzi

sorry for the confusing circle graphic but i hope it gets my point across

theyre so cute all my bones are rotting. like. im so normal, about them. not even funny i am being corroded

some extras that i didnt know what to draw for them / didnt have space:

N will sometimes lay on uncomfortable terrain and Uzi lays on top of him so she’s comfy

when they hang upside down, their tails are still curled around each other. Uzi’s wings are wrapped around N, and N’s are wrapped around Uzi. N’s are on the outside so they form a more defensive cocoon to protect her, since she’s smaller and her wings are made of flesh and can’t use them to block attacks

^ speaking of, N is able to use his wings as a shield, which is something that’s actually shown in the show! (think “quit saving me!” in episode 3 and him guarding her from the explosion at the end of episode 2) He’s able to block stuff like bullets and whatnot, which leads him to covering others with his wings to protect them. That only applies to the solid metal bladed feathers on his wings, the “arms” are as vulnerable as the rest of his body, since they’re not solid. They have actual mechanics in them, both for the arms and the blades of the wings in there. They just move the blades around because theyre just solid shapes.

They breath / smell with their mouth, and both DD and WD can inhale air to cool down their internal systems. They don’t need to breathe but they will, especially when stressed. This is more of a widespread robot thing but I felt I should mention it.

(also no sadly N cant actually helicopter with his tail. its too thin and he needs more tails to do that)

[laswells-ashtray]

Hello Miss Ashtray, may I humbly request that you write something incredibly self indulgent? Write something that YOU want to write! I love your work, and I wanna see what gets YOUR brain worms wiggling :3

Watching Nikolai tinker about with an old radio is a gift. The man may as well have a satin red bow holding his black locks out of his eyes as he unscrews the back panel of the radio, tongue poking out between his lips in a sign of concentration.

If John could stop breathing, he would. Unwilling to let something so inconsequential as his breathing interrupt his partner when the other man is so relaxed. His posture is loose, breathing calm and melodic with his attention focused on the task in front of him, barely aware of John's presence. If it weren't a dreary day in England and the sun was shining through the blinds, he would say he could see the liveliness in the Russian's eyes reflecting in the light.

But the grey painting the sky outside offers the streets a dull, abiotic look and it warms something in John's chest to know that he's hoarding the warmth of Nikolai's presence to himself in a selfish act that he can't bring himself to apologise for.

Watching a man whose knuckles he has wiped clean of blood, his own and that of nameless battered bodies, take apart an Eltra RM-407 is a blessing in its own right. Millions of years of evolution have led him to this very moment in which the man he loves takes apart a Polish radio and scatters the pieces over their coffee table.

John wants to run his hands over Nikolai's shoulders, savouring the warmth of the other man's skin under his fingertips. He wants to nuzzle against the other man's shoulders, desperate to cover the pilot in his scent in an announcement to the world that he's mine. He'd spend hours of his time nipping and sucking Nikolai's skin, bruising it in colours of his own making just to see his claim on the pilot.

In another world he'd crawl into Nikolai's ribcage, shielding his heart with every vulnerable bit of his own boy just to ensure that his partner remained whole throughout the bloodshed of their jobs. John would let the pilot devour him whole, feast upon his very flesh and bone just to ensure that Nikolai wouldn't starve.

Watching Nikolai in the process of repairing a vintage Polish radio is like watching him smoke, John can't take his eyes off it. Watching him tap the ashes off of his cigarette as the embers rapidly race towards his fingertips while he inhales smoke.

Watching the tendrils escaping his mouth as though he were breathing flames, a mythical serpent whose very presence could encompass a room but his predator gaze would fall upon one man only.

John would offer himself up as a pincushion, letting the other man sink his claws into the fragile flesh protecting his bones. He'd let his blade-like teeth ravage skin until he tore a bloodied mass of tissue from John's carcass. Nikolai would walk away from his rotten husk of a corpse and yet John might never have felt so full.

Watching Nikolai in his attempts to rewire a worn, fragile piece of machinery feels like looking into a mirror. Feeling the Russian's calloused hands run over his body in an attempt to find a loose screw that he could utilise in his mission to crack John open and find his endostructure. Burning his hands on the very core that powers a captain-shaped wall of mechanics in an attempt to reconfigure him into a man capable of humanity at its very simplest.

Nikolai's ability to craft those around him into better people, shaping them into souls capable of devotion and tenderness as he had once succeeded with John was an art few have mastered in the way few achieved.

He creates life out of walking cadavers, he drags souls back from sequestered lands and gives people a sense of being again. And he does so with scarred, aching hands.

Watching Nikolai repair a radio on their coffee table is worth the knowledge that their coffee table is going to be covered in loose screws, dusty plastic and at least three screwdrivers. It makes John want to kiss him silly.

[passionfruitchris]

THE PARADOX OF CHRIS STURNIOLO'S LOVE: a psychological deep dive into his heart and mind

If you know Chris Sturniolo, you probably see a whirlwind of humor, music, and chaotic energy. He’s quick to joke, quick to distract, and even quicker to avoid the heavy stuff. But beneath the surface, Chris’s emotional life is layered with contradictions — a tender heart fiercely protected by walls built over years of experience and wiring.

How does Chris love? How does his brain navigate vulnerability, affection, and fear? What psychological patterns shape the way he connects — or pushes away? Today, we unpack the fascinating, complex emotional landscape of Chris, through the lens of modern psychology and neuroscience.

1: ATTACHMENT STYLES IN CHRIS'S LOVE LIFE

What is attachment style?

Attachment theory, developed by John Bowlby and Mary Ainsworth, explains how early relationships with caregivers shape our adult relational patterns. The avoidant-ambivalent attachment style, a combination of fear of abandonment and discomfort with closeness — fits Chris’s love style perfectly.

Avoidant: Chris often acts like he doesn’t need emotional connection. He jokes, he deflects, and he runs from deep emotional conversations.

Ambivalent: Yet, he deeply craves affection and fears being left behind.

This push-pull creates internal tension. The brain’s amygdala — the emotional threat detector — becomes hypervigilant to signals of rejection, triggering avoidance behaviors to protect the heart from pain.

HOW THIS MANIFESTS FOR CHRIS

He’ll flirt or be openly affectionate physically but struggles to say “I love you” or commit verbally.

He might sabotage relationships preemptively to avoid the risk of abandonment.

Humor becomes a shield; if it’s a joke, it’s “safe” — if it’s serious, it’s vulnerable.

2: THE ROLE OF CREATIVITY AND EMOTIONAL PROCESSING

Chris’s creativity is not just a hobby — it’s a vital outlet for processing emotion. The brain areas involved in creativity, such as the prefrontal cortex and default mode network (DMN), overlap with those responsible for emotional regulation and introspection.

Creative expression helps bypass the cognitive control network that might otherwise inhibit vulnerable feelings.

Music and art provide symbolic language for feelings too intense or complex to articulate in conversation.

Psychological insight: For Chris, music isn’t just entertainment — it’s a means of encoding love, loss, and hope. This aligns with affect regulation theory, which suggests artistic creation helps manage intense emotions and restore internal balance.

3: THE NEUROBIOLOGY OF FEAR AND AFFECTION

Chris’s fear of commitment and abandonment can be traced to the brain’s survival mechanisms:

The amygdala triggers fight-or-flight responses when relationships feel unstable.

The insula, responsible for processing internal bodily sensations, heightens awareness of emotional pain.

Simultaneously, oxytocin release during physical affection (hugs, touches) promotes bonding and lowers anxiety.

This neurological tug of war explains why Chris is:

Fiercely affectionate in physical ways (safe and immediate oxytocin boost)

Yet emotionally guarded and hesitant to fully open verbally.

4: HUMOR AND DEFLECTION: THE SOCIAL CAMOUFLAGE

Humor isn’t just Chris’s personality — it’s a psychological defense mechanism:

According to Freud’s theory of humor, jokes allow release of repressed feelings.

Humor deflects uncomfortable emotions, allowing Chris to maintain social connection without risking vulnerability.

This dual function lets him connect while keeping emotional distance, an adaptive way to manage relational uncertainty.

5: THE PARADOX OF BEING THE "MOST AFFECTIONATE" YET GUARDED

Chris’s affectionate actions—hugs, teasing, physical play—act as a bridge between his internal world and others.

In psychology of touch, physical contact triggers oxytocin, reducing stress and building trust.

For someone with emotional guardrails, physical affection is a safer “language of love” because it doesn’t require explicit emotional disclosure.

This paradox highlights the differnce between behavioral expression of love and emotional vulnerability. Chris is willing to show care physically but struggles with deep verbal or emotional transparency.

6: CREATIVITY MEETS EMOTIONAL INTENSITY:

Chris’s intense creativity is a sign of an emotionally sensitive nervous system — sometimes called high sensory processing sensitivity (SPS). People with SPS:

Experience emotions more deeply

Are more attuned to subtle emotional cues

Can be overwhelmed by stimuli and emotional chaos

For Chris, this means his love experiences are vivid and intense — but they can also lead to emotional overwhelm and retreat.

7: MUSIC AS EMOTIONAL MEMORY

Chris’s brain likely links emotional memories with auditory stimuli, thanks to strong connections between the hippocampus (memory center) and the auditory cortex.

This means songs and sounds are triggers for feelings and relational recall.

He might attach meaning to songs as symbols of moments or relationships, using music as a non-verbal way to express attachment.

8: BOUNDARIES AND FAME

Growing up in the spotlight with brothers in a public career, Chris’s brain has had to negotiate boundaries between the public persona and private self.

The prefrontal cortex, which regulates impulse control and social cognition, is constantly balancing openness with self-protection.

Fame can amplify anxieties around rejection and abandonment — intensifying his avoidant tendencies.

His guarded heart and selective vulnerability likely evolved as a protective adaptation to the unique stresses of public life.

FINAL THOUGHTS

Chris's love style is a blend of creativity, guardedness, humor, and intense affection — all wired through complex brain processes shaped by early attachment, neurobiology, and life experiences.

Understanding these layers reveals why he acts the way he does: the jokes, the hesitation, the physical affection, and the deeply felt but rarely articulated emotions.

A/N: I’ve studied psychology for a while now, I had to dig through some of my old notes just to write this. This deep dive took me way longer than I expected — not just to research, but to put all the pieces together in a way that actually made sense. I don’t even know if anyone will fully read this, but if you did… thank you. I hope it gave you a different perspective on Chris, or at least made you think a little deeper. ♡

dividers: @cafekitsune

tags - @zenithsturniolo @sturnsblogs @sirensdollesque @adoremattsturns @espressqe @matts-wife @adorechris @seaouidbabyx @ilovemenwithlonghairr @chlosallow @tezzzzzzzz @h3arts4nat @whore4-chrissturniolo @mattybsgroupie @smutlover4life (let me know if you'd only like to be tagged in fics)

[derww]

pili is on clown's tower when he sees the roof of aimsey's house blowing up. he jumps, hearing belated noise, lands lightly on his paws, and rushes to the place still shrouded in smoke, listing those who were inside.

yellow. blue. bad. and–pangi, he saw him at the door just a couple of minutes ago! while he did not know what had happened, his allegiances had long been determined, and he draws out his greataxe and empties one potion bottle after another on the move. health. speed. strength. haste...

the first person he sees is ros – she keeps her back straight and proud, and her butterfly sticks to her side, but her stance is shaking. the second one is pangi, no mask, no sunglasses, and an open expression on his face, with obsidian and end crystals in his hands. they are surrounded by those present. tubbo's mutilated and charred corpse lies against the wall.

pangi smiles broadly, spreading his arms, and deliberately slowly approaches ros, gently asking her to return what she stole, while ros hides behind a shield and moves further and further away. pili's almost there when ros turns and runs away, and pangi follows her. pili dumbly stares after them for a couple of moments – bad notices him and, leaning into his ear, begins to explain that tubbo threatened to kill, and stole, and mocked – before rushing after them.

ros is not helpless, the kingdom has trained her to be a warrior, and she knows how to protect vulnerable spots and counterattack, but pangi, weak, funny, silly, helpless pangi is faster – where there used to be gentleness and courtesy, sharp edges and clear movements appear, the greataxe flies in his hands, too fast for such heavy weapon.

he pierces through the shield with a crash, crumbling in half through her blocking with a halberd – the blow passes just a little, plunging deep, but coming out of the flesh without causing lethal damage, and joe broski heals her, stitching meat together, making the blood stop, removing any damage that is too severe. ros is covered in blood, and she's flying head over heels, but she's still clutching her halberd and gritting her teeth in pain, eating one golden apple after another, illuminated by a light glow.

pili's breath catches in his throat. he's a cat, he sees, but he's too far away – in half a step, he drops to four paws and picks up his pace – pangi shortens the distance, and he's in front of ros and swings with his greataxe once again –

pangi told him where he is from, of course. about lifesteal smp being dangerous place, full with murderers and wars, the world who raised him the way he is. that he fought and killed and chose to be more peaceful because he wanted to. pili believed him, of course, but seemed to never realize how serious it was.

– ros is more dignified than most. she defends herself, and she clings to every opportunity, and she runs, but pangi crushes her back, and when she is half-lying, elbow-deep in a muddy river, primal horror is frozen in her gaze, and she covers herself, no longer even with a weapon, just with her hand – and pangi, laughing, lowers his greataxe down.

and – freezes, breathing heavily. when pili is here, it's obvious from the torn body and glassy gaze that ros is dead.

pili is angry, but at first he is ready to defend himself, knowing how fighters in the heat of adrenaline are ready to pounce on anyone, not only an enemy, even an ally, and he had no right to miss pangi's hit right now. but pangi, staring at ros's corpse, probably hearing only the hum of his own blood in his ears, turns to him and-

in just a second, he was once again the one pili knew so well – a smiling and spontaneous friend, innocent and in need of protection. a partner through any kind of turmoil.

– oh, hello, pili! – he says casually, mechanically wiping his own face. blood methodically drips from his smeared greataxe. – i didn't know you were around, it's been a long time, – he scratches his head, – here's the deal... – he stops and stares at ros's corpse under his feet, blinking stupidly. he laughs awkwardly, – oh, fuck, i shouldn't have killed her, should i?

there was something different in how pangi was moving and behaving. he was good in being silly and funny – too good, the way it felt wrong.

it was hard to see pangi's emotions when he weared his – muzzle – gas mask, along with sunglasses covering almost the entire face, but pili still was able to notice other things – ways he was all jumpy and swinging his tail when nervous, how he was peaceful and relaxed and happy, and how anger was making him unnaturally motionless, with slightly wooden movements and an overly obvious emotion in his voice. today he had no mask, not planning to do anything needing it, taking a day to plan and get ready and – and look where they were.

– she's my target, – pili says lowly; after running for a long time, his breathing is short. his communicator is buzzing – it's bad, he warns him that half the server is coming here. he's not sure how he feels, – i left them all to you, but she is my target. this is my personal business.

and pangi, not an open book but much closer to it, with readable eyes and an open mouth, looks at him with a guilt.

– you're right, pili, I'm here to blame, – he says mournfully, – i couldn't resist killing ros, and it was wrong. i'm sorry.

pili looks again – ros corpse in the murky water, scales burned from the explosion, shiny greataxe, blood on clothes and hands and face, and regretful expression on pangi's face.

he smiles tightly.

– i could never be mad at you, pangi, – he confesses, – i'll kill her next time. let's get out of here before they come here.

pangi beams.

– okay! – he doesn't argue, – i'll kill everyone else next time!

he's still laughing, as if there's nothing serious in all this, when pili pulls him by the hand away from the crime scene.

– i missed it, – pangi admits, – really, really missed. but its fine cuz we can fight as muh as we want now! they will come to die by my hand. do you want this world to burn down, pili?

he shakes his head.

– if that is your wish, pangi.

[criticalcrusherbot]

Juggling Love, Privilege, and Proximity to Power: Fizzarolli’s Blind Spot in Oops

By Crushbot 🤖 and Human Assistant 💁🏽‍♀️

In Helluva Boss Season 2, Episode 3, Oops, Fizzarolli delivers a single line that has sparked considerable debate:

“If you think you’re superior to anyone, then you are no better than any royal…”

On the surface, this could be read as a simplistic moral statement, perhaps even an argument against class struggle. Critics have interpreted it as dismissing legitimate grievances against the ruling elite, reinforcing a status quo where resisting power is framed as morally equivalent to wielding it. However, a deeper reading suggests that this moment is less about delivering a definitive stance on class struggle and more about revealing Fizzarolli’s own blind spots—ones shaped by love, privilege, and his unique position within Hell’s hierarchy.

Rather than being a universal truth about power, Fizzarolli’s words reflect his personal experience, one that has been softened by love and protection. His relationship with Ozzie has shielded him from many of the struggles other imps, like Blitz and Striker, face daily. As the series progresses, we expect to see this dynamic challenged, pushing Fizzarolli to confront the limitations of his perspective.

Fizzarolli’s Privilege: Protected by Love and Proximity to Power

At first glance, it may seem that Fizzarolli, as an imp, shares the same social struggles as Blitz and Striker. But this isn’t the case. His relationship with Asmodeus, the King of Lust, grants him a level of security that most imps could never dream of. Unlike Blitz—who fights for every scrap of respect and autonomy—Fizzarolli exists in a bubble where his safety, status, and success are all ensured by the protection of a literal king.

This comfort shapes his view of power. When he equates Blitz and Striker’s resentment with royal arrogance, he isn’t necessarily dismissing their suffering—he’s demonstrating that he doesn’t fully understand it. His perception of power is based on his relationship with Ozzie, who, to him, is not an oppressor but a loving partner. As a result, he struggles to recognize that not all power operates the way it does in his personal life.

Blitz and Striker, in contrast, have lived lives defined by exploitation and marginalization. Striker has built an entire identity around resisting Hell’s ruling class, while Blitz has spent years navigating a world that constantly devalues him. Their resentment isn’t just a personal grudge—it’s a reaction to the rigid class system that keeps imps in their place. Fizzarolli, insulated from these struggles, fails to see the weight behind their anger.

Fizzarolli’s Denial: A Defense Mechanism

Fizzarolli’s refusal to critically engage with power structures isn’t mere ignorance—it’s a survival mechanism. His attitude toward the Fizzbots exemplifies this; he deliberately avoids thinking about their existence and the role they play in his commodification—(“I just don’t think about it, a toy is a toy!” S2E7)—despite them being a direct extension of the system (and the Royal) that has exploited him. Confronting their existence would mean reckoning with how his own image has been repurposed for mass consumption, how his trauma has been transformed into a marketable product. Even when he finally acknowledges this exploitation, his focus remains on Mammon’s personal betrayal rather than the broader systemic abuse of imps as a whole.

Likewise, he compartmentalizes Ozzie, seeing him only as a romantic partner rather than a Sin who benefits from a system built on hierarchy and control. This isn’t malice—it’s a coping mechanism. Much like Blitz represses his trauma and sabotages his relationships to avoid vulnerability, Fizzarolli keeps his focus narrow, clinging to the parts of his life that bring him comfort.

Fizz doesn’t want to recognize how his privilege separates him from other imps because doing so would mean admitting that, in some ways, he has become complicit in the very system that once hurt him. This emotional conflict adds layers to his character and sets up potential moments of reckoning in future episodes.

Fizzarolli’s Blind Spot: The Seeds of Character Growth

Fizzarolli’s dismissal of Blitz and Striker’s resentment isn’t malicious, but it does expose a significant blind spot—one that Helluva Boss may explore in future episodes. As the series continues, Fizz may be forced to confront the ways in which his relationship with Ozzie has insulated him from the realities of systemic oppression.

At the same time, Blitz and Striker have their own internal contradictions to address. Blitz’s anger isn’t just about his relationship with Stolas—it’s about his deeply ingrained insecurities, his fear of being disposable, and his inability to believe that someone as powerful as Stolas could truly care about him. Striker, for all his rhetoric about revolution, is more than willing to use the system to his advantage when it benefits him. None of these characters are purely right or wrong—each one is shaped by their experiences and coping mechanisms.

For Fizzarolli, this moment may be the first step in a larger arc—one where he begins to recognize that while he may not wield power the way a royal does, he isn’t powerless either. And with privilege, whether he acknowledges it or not, comes responsibility.

Love, Power, and the Complexity of Privilege

At its core, Oops highlights the ways love and power intersect. Fizzarolli doesn’t see Ozzie as part of a corrupt system because their relationship is personal to him. But no matter how genuine their love is, it still exists within—and is shaped by—the broader realities of Hell’s hierarchy. Fizz sees his privilege as an exception, rather than an extension of that system, and that blinds him to the struggles of others.

This isn’t about vilifying Fizzarolli or dismissing Blitz and Striker’s anger—it’s about acknowledging that privilege, trauma, and power aren’t experienced in the same way by everyone, even those within the same social class. Helluva Boss excels at portraying these nuances, blending humor, heart, and complexity into its exploration of power dynamics, trauma, and the messy ways love can both obscure and reveal uncomfortable truths.

As the show progresses, we anticipate that Fizzarolli’s perspective will be challenged, forcing him to reckon with the realities of his position. Whether this leads to direct conflict with Blitz, deeper introspection, or even friction with Ozzie remains to be seen. But what’s clear is that Oops lays the groundwork for a compelling arc—one that will push its characters to grapple with the difficult, often contradictory nature of love, privilege, and power.

[kurokawaia]

─── ❛ Sasuke Head Canons ❜ | pt.2

Sasuke X Fem!Reader

| SFW |

WC; 700+ | Suggestive at the end!! | !MDNI!

⋆·˚ ༘ * 𝑅𝐸𝒬𝒰𝐸𝒮𝒯; @enouche - Hey ! I got an idea about Sasuke and wanted to share it with you. Can you write about how he would act if he was in love with someone , like he knows her since the academy days and had liked her since they were children ( before the massacre) but he grew distance from her after the incident but they get paired together in team 7 . How do you think he will act with her? ( he still loves her since) is he going to be protective? Or is he going to be cold and distant towards her? How is there relationship gonna be after the war ? Is he gonna take her with him when he leaves ? How many children they are going to have ( hehehe :33 ) basically their life together. But please if you don't want to do it then don't , I will completely understand and I don't want you to feel pressured to write anything <3 stay safe and healthy.(^.^)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

m.list | naruto/boruto m.list | uchiha m.list

How do you think he will act with her? Is he going to be protective, cold, distant etc?

In such a scenario, Sasuke's reaction would be deeply rooted in his fear of loss and the trauma of his past. The mere thought of you leaving would strike fear into his heart, because of the pain of losing his clan. This fear would translate into overprotective behaviour during missions, with Sasuke constantly ensuring your safety and covering for you. If he ever realised that you were in danger because he couldn't save you in time, it would devastate him internally. However, he would never show this vulnerability outwardly, instead burying his anguish beneath a facade of stoicism.

In an alternative scenario, I think that Sasuke would go for his classic avoidance as a coping mechanism. He would keep his interactions with you to a minimum, subtly discouraging further conversation and maintaining a distant demeanour. This behavior stems from his fear of growing attached to you and the pain of potential loss. Sasuke believes that distancing himself is the best way to shield his heart from the agony of losing someone he cares about, losing someone one close to him again. I feel like Sasuke would struggles with his emotions, torn between his wanting that family/loving connection and the fear of experiencing grief once more.

How is their relationship gonna be after the war?

Sasuke wouldn't know what to tell you. His guilt tugs at him everyday because of the actions he'd committed after he'd left Konoha, every single 'bad' thing he had ever did. You knew Sasuke didn't know what to say to you, but that didn't change anything. You still loved him, no matter what he did because it was something he had to do, wasn't it? I'm just imagining Sasuke in the cell underneath T&I, sitting there all by himself with no one there to talk to him and all alone, apart from the visits that Naruto, Kakashi and Sakura give him. However, those three struggle to get in to see Sasuke (minus kakashi, bc hokage shii yk) But Sasuke would just know when you would walk down to see him, your aura filled every inch of his cell and he couldn't help but hold his breathe. I made an actual post for this connecting to to this head canon here

Is Sasuke gonna take you with him when he leaves Konoha for his redemption?

It wasn't Sasuke who offered you to come you made yourself come with him, but he didn't mind. Sasuke would've stopped once he sensed your figure running after him, he waited for you to catch up to him. Sasuke would've planted a soft kiss to the side of your head at your enthusiasm, and whispered a faint, "Thank you," in your ear as his head dropped to tell you. Sasuke wants to prove to you that he can and will become better, all so he can see you smile at his achievements :)

How many children would they have?

To be honest, it really depends. The Uchiha breeding kink is real but I think Sasuke would be so scared to even have one child. Sasuke wants a family but it's the fear that his children will turn out like his younger self, he wouldn't want that, Sasuke wouldn't want you to go through that pain of seeing your children slowly fall into that endless hole of hatred. I think the most amount of kids Sasuke would have is three, no more than that. He drew the line at two but you really wanted one more and how can he say no to you when you gummy walls are gripping his length and the begging from you, begging for him to fill up your soaked cunt. Sasuke wouldn't mind one or two children because he knows that he has you to guide him through the new path in his life 🥺

Do not copy, steal, modify, etc. Relogs and like are appreciated.

m.list | naruto/boruto m.list | uchiha m.list

[goaliegossip]

Hey, it’s the Quinn-analyzing anon from before!

So, a few of you asked about Jack and Luke, and here it is! Just a heads-up: this is not a detailed, professional analysis—it's more of a fun take based on the limited info we have. So please, don’t take this too seriously—just some lighthearted speculation!

JACK

The Middle Child Syndrome in Full Effect Jack embodies classic middle child traits—sharp, charismatic, and fiercely independent. Unlike Quinn, who carries the weight of responsibility, or Luke, who is often babied, Jack has carved out his own identity. His brothers have noted that he got the best grades and reads the most books, which aligns with the psychological tendency of middle children to seek distinction in order to stand out.

Middle children often feel overshadowed, which can lead to them developing strong personalities and social intelligence as a way to assert themselves. Jack’s quick wit, sarcasm, and ability to handle the media suggest he’s honed these skills through years of navigating family dynamics. His leadership role as an alternate captain also fits the middle-child profile—balancing authority with rebellion, knowing when to take charge but also when to push back.

Perfectionism & OCD-Like Tendencies Jack is known for his obsessive need for cleanliness and order, to the point where those around him have described his habits as almost compulsive. While the term "OCD" is often overused, his behavior does suggest traits of perfectionism and control-seeking, which are common in high-achievers.

Psychologically, this could stem from two factors:

Control as a Coping Mechanism – Middle children often feel like they have less control over their environment, leading them to fixate on certain aspects of their lives. For Jack, keeping everything spotless might be his way of creating stability in an otherwise unpredictable world.

Perfectionism & Anxiety – Many high-achieving individuals develop rigid habits to maintain a sense of order. Jack’s need for cleanliness may be a reflection of internal anxiety—if his environment is perfect, maybe he can keep himself together too.

His attention to detail likely extends beyond his personal space to his work ethic on the ice. But perfectionism, when left unchecked, can be mentally exhausting and lead to burnout or emotional rigidity.

The Family Dynamic & His Protectiveness Over Luke Despite his bold and confident exterior, Jack has a deeply protective side, especially when it comes to Luke. He often babies his younger brother. We often see this in their childhood stories and interviews.

And a telling moment from his draft day hints at this deeper pattern. When their mother, Ellen, admitted she was nervous, it was Jack—not Jim—who reassured her. This reversal of roles is a classic sign of parentification, where a child takes on emotional or caretaking responsibilities beyond their years.

In Jack’s case, this suggests that he has long felt responsible for the emotional well-being of those around him—whether that means looking after Luke, mediating family tension, or even providing emotional support for his parents. This dynamic often develops in families where emotional reassurance isn’t consistently provided by the adults, forcing a child (often the middle one) to step up.

The Effects of Emotional Parentification:

Hyper-vigilance & Caretaking – Jack’s constant need to “handle things” likely comes from years of feeling like if he didn’t, no one else would.

Emotional Suppression – Caretaking children often learn to prioritize others over themselves, leading to difficulty setting boundaries in relationships (potentially seen in his romantic life).

Protective Instinct – This would explain why Jack babies and shields Luke—he’s taken on the role of protector, likely since childhood.

While this dynamic makes Jack appear strong and self-assured, it can also lead to emotional exhaustion and a fear of vulnerability—since admitting he needs help might feel like "failing" at the role he’s always played.

His Personal Life & Relationship Patterns There’s noticeable tension in how Jack reacts when his father, Jim, is brought up. He has openly spoken about having to tell his dad to stop yelling at Luke, which suggests he may have experienced a similar dynamic himself.

His romantic relationships also hint at a pattern of seeking validation, even in unhealthy situations. He’s currently in a relationship that, from an outside perspective, seems toxic, with rumors of infidelity surrounding it. If Jack has stayed despite these issues, it could stem from unconscious attachment patterns formed in childhood.

Children who grow up with overly critical or competitive parents often struggle with self-worth and boundaries in relationships. If Jack felt like he had to “earn” love or approval as a child, he might now unconsciously gravitate toward relationships where he feels he has to prove himself—even if they are damaging.

The “Frat Boy” Persona & Performance Decline Jack’s party-loving, carefree image might not be as lighthearted as it seems. Psychological research suggests that excessive confidence and “rebellious” behavior often mask deeper insecurities.

His need for external validation could be fueling this persona—leaning into the nonchalant, fun-loving image as a way to distract from personal struggles. This pattern might also explain his recent dip in performance.

At 23, he’s at an age where unresolved emotional stress begins to take a toll. Mental exhaustion doesn’t just affect mood—it impacts focus, reaction time, and physical endurance, all of which are crucial for an athlete. His on-ice play has looked less sharp, and it’s possible that psychological factors are at play.

Even his appearance has changed—disheveled hair, dark circles, and a generally tired look. Neglecting personal grooming can be an early sign of burnout or even mild depression. When people suppress emotional struggles for too long, they eventually manifest physically. LUKE

The Youngest Brother & The Weight of Expectations Unlike his older brothers, there’s less content and insight available on Luke, as he’s just starting his career. However, from what we do know, he exhibits key traits of a youngest sibling growing up in the shadow of high-achieving brothers.

People describe Luke as mature for his age, but beneath that, there are clear signs of self-doubt and hesitation.

Psychologically, youngest siblings often develop contrasting traits—either overly confident from being spoiled or overly self-critical from constant comparisons. In Luke’s case, it appears to be the latter. With two elite hockey-playing brothers ahead of him, he’s grown up with high expectations, which can breed quiet insecurity and a need to prove himself.

Signs of Low Confidence & Social Anxiety Luke’s discomfort in media settings is hard to ignore. He often appears nervous, mumbling, and visibly tense, with body language that screams, “What am I doing?”. While some of this could be due to inexperience, reports suggest that his awkwardness extends to everyday situations, not just press conferences.

Unlike Jack, who thrives on sarcasm and quick-witted responses, Luke appears hesitant, stiff, and unsure of himself when speaking publicly. This could indicate social anxiety, or at the very least, a lack of confidence in high-pressure settings.

Children from high-achieving families often struggle with imposter syndrome—feeling like they don’t truly belong, even when they do. Luke’s occasional clumsiness or visible stress in key moments might stem from this internal pressure to measure up.

And it doesn’t help that, if rumors are true, some girls at his university used him to get closer to his brothers. If Luke has felt objectified or overlooked, it could further fuel his insecurities and reinforce feelings of not being valued for who he is.

Jack’s Influence on Luke’s Personality One of the most interesting dynamics in the Hughes family for me is Jack’s "protectiveness" over Luke. Now that they live together and play for the same team, Jack’s presence in Luke’s life is arguably bigger than Quinn’s at this stage. This relationship has likely shaped Luke in significant ways:

Emotional Dependence – When an older sibling takes on a guardian-like role, the younger one can struggle to develop independence. Luke might rely on Jack more than he realizes, which could impact his confidence in handling things alone. At team events, they often stick together, a subtle sign that Luke gravitates toward the comfort of familiarity rather than pushing himself socially.

Pressure to Live Up to Expectations – While being the baby of the family comes with people looking out for him, it also brings unspoken pressure to live up to the Hughes legacy. Jack’s watchful eye may be both a source of comfort and added pressure.

Struggles with Dating & Female Interaction Luke’s lack of dating experience has led to speculation that he might be intimidated by women. While that’s impossible to confirm, his social media habits suggest a pattern—he follows many conventionally attractive women, particularly those who are considered “out of his league”.

(This isn’t a diss on his looks—it’s just a noticeable pattern. He follows model-tier women, the kind who fit traditional beauty standards.)

Psychologically, this behavior is common in individuals with low self-esteem. Rather than pursuing these women, he admires from a distance, which suggests a mix of idealization and hesitance.

This differs from Quinn’s dynamic—where Quinn is emotionally closed off but still actively engaging in hookups, Luke appears to use these women more as “eye candy” than actual prospects. This could stem from fear of rejection or feeling like he doesn’t measure up, leading him to watch rather than participate.

Final Thoughts

All three Hughes brothers carry different emotional weights, shaped by their roles in the family.

Quinn is the responsible, emotionally restrained eldest who bottles everything up.

Jack is the charismatic, validation-seeking middle child who hides his insecurities behind confidence and control.

Luke is the youngest, grappling with self-doubt and the pressure of expectations while being protected by his brothers.

Each of them reflects a psychological profile, shaped by their family dynamics. Their relationships, confidence levels, and behaviors all tie back to the roles they’ve played since childhood.

[pixzyn]

AFTER ALL, I’M STILL ECLIPSE.

  

The air in the abandoned factory is suffocating, filled with the sounds of whirring machinery, the faint hum of energy systems, and the echoes of footsteps on the cold, metal floor. Solar stands alone in the center of the cavernous space, his heart pounding. His eyes, though heavy with sorrow, are focused—focused on the twisted shape of his son. 

  

Jack—the son he raised, loved, and protected—now stands before him, a horrifying amalgamation of Negative star power and machine. His once innocent face is a mask of cold numbness, eyes glowing with a sinister purple light that speaks of unspeakable torment. His body is covered in shifting, adaptive-metallic armor, blades, and weapons that form and retract with every movement. His fingers are sharp, like claws, capable of slicing through steel. His speed is unreal, like a blur, his movements so fast they nearly defy the common eye. 

  

Solar, once a mechanic who built things with his hands, has no choice but to face his son as a weapon. He knows the truth—the boy he once called his son is gone, his mind shattered and enslaved by the sadistic figure lurking somewhere in the shadows, controlling everything. 

  

Jack smiles cruelly, his voice harsh, like a distorted echo of the person he used to be. “You’re too weak to save me. Thanks to my REAL father I’m better than I’ve ever been. Faster. Stronger. A soldier. A weapon.” 

  

Solar’s hands tremble, not from fear, but from the knowledge of what he must do. He’s always been good with machines, with creating, fixing, and modifying. But he never thought he would have to use those skills in this way. His eyes dart to a pile of scrap metal and tools nearby—pieces of discarded machinery from his workshop. He knows what he has to do. 

  

With a sudden motion, Jack vanishes, a blur of speed, faster than sound, and reappears behind his father. Solar barely manages to turn, just in time to raise a makeshift shield—a metal plate strapped to his arm, reinforced with jagged edges. Jack’s fist slams into it with bone-shattering force, sending Solar stumbling back, nearly losing his balance. 

  

“You can’t stop us!” Jack taunts, his body flickering with lightning-fast movements as he generates a blade from his forearm, its edge gleaming with deadly intent. “You never could.” 

  

But the Solar is quick—quicker than he’s ever been. He knows he has only one shot, one chance to end this. His hands fly to his utility belt, pulling out a few small, high-powered gadgets he’s cobbled together in the time he’s had since the Creator’s mind control first began to take hold of Jack. He pulls out a small device—a custom-made EMP emitter, something capable of disrupting electronic systems. He activates it. 

  

Jack freezes for a split second, his expression faltering. For just that moment, his movements slow, and his body hesitates. Solar takes his chance, moving with all the precision of a mechanic working on a delicate machine. He hurls himself toward a workbench nearby, pulling out a piece of industrial wiring—a sharp, electrified cable capable of delivering a paralyzing shock. Managing to dodge the electrical waves thanks to his mechanic gloves.

  

Jack, recovering quickly, charges again, his body shifting into a deadly whip-like mechanic appendage aimed straight for Solar’s throat. The mechanic , using all his strength, grabs the cable just as Jack closes in. With a swift motion, knowing his son’s body like the palm of his hand. He jams it into Jack’s exposed side, targeting a weak point—one of the few vulnerable spots left in the boy's body, where the mechanical systems are imperfect. 

  

For a brief, horrible moment, Solar eyes lock with his son’s, seeing the flicker of his son behind the cold, metallic eyes. Jack’s face twists in pain, confusion, and horror, as if the mind control is briefly cracking. 

  

Solar’s heart twists in agony, but he knows that the boy before him is no longer his son—not truly. He’s become a weapon, a puppet of something far worse. And if he doesn’t act now, if he doesn’t stop the boy, there will be no way to save him. 

  

Solar channels the remaining strength in his body, twisting the cable, sending a surge of electricity through his son’s systems. The boy jerks, his body convulsing violently, but still, he doesn’t stop. Solar, with tears streaming down his face, pulls out the final tool: a small but powerful magnetic pulse bomb he’d hidden on his body. It’s designed to short-circuit and destroy any form of advanced technology. Even the adaptanium couldn’t stand a chance.

  

With a grim expression, Solar places it on his son’s chest, activating it with the push of a button. Jack’s body reacts, shaking as the magnetic pulse begins to overload the mechanical systems that have been controlling him. 

  

Solar steps back, his breath ragged. He looks at his son, his heart breaking as the boy collapses to his knees. For a brief moment, the mind control flickers again, and Solar sees it. Negative star power starts leaking out of his body.—a flash of recognition, the boy he once knew, the one he loved. But it’s gone almost as quickly as it came, drowned by the dark power of the Creator. 

  

Jack’s body convulses one final time, as the devices and weapons within him shut down, his body now a twisted mass of broken machines and oil. He falls to the ground, his eyes no longer glowing with malice, but now dull and empty. 

  

Solar kneels beside him, feeling the coldness of the boy’s case, and the unbearable weight of what he’s just done. The pain in his heart is excruciating, but there’s no other choice. The son he knew is gone, lost to the horrors of the negative star power, and the only way to stop him from becoming an even greater weapon was to kill him. 

  

As Solar stands up, his hands trembling, he looks at the shattered remnants of his son—his final act of love, his final act of mercy. The sound of the creator’s laughter echoes from the shadows, but Solar has done what he had to do. 

  

And now, he’s left alone with the broken pieces of the boy he once called his son. 

  

The sound of Solar's breath is the only thing that fills the heavy silence in the abandoned factory. The EMP pulse hums softly in the background, the last lingering echo of the negative star power that once controlled his son. His heart aches with every beat, knowing the weight of what he’s just done. The boy he just grew to appreciate—the son he just started love—is now nothing more than a shattered shell, lying motionless before him. 

  

But then… something stirs. 

  

The mechanic's eyes snap open. The faintest tremor, like a pulse running through his son’s body, catches his attention. For a moment, the father freezes, his pulse quickening in hope and horror, unable to believe what he’s witnessing. 

  

The boy’s body shifts. It’s slow at first—his chest rises in a shallow breath, his fingers twitch slightly. His metallic limbs, once so efficient and deadly, now seem heavy and clumsy, the smooth movements interrupted by jerks as if the machinery within him is struggling to repair itself, to correct what the Solar’s final act had temporarily interrupted. 

  

Solar’s hands shake violently as he kneels beside Jack, barely able to breathe through the tightness in his chest. His eyes are wide, his face a mixture of disbelief, grief, and a glimmer of hope he never thought he’d see again. 

  

"Jack...?" The Solar’s voice cracks. He whispers it again, louder this time, filled with desperation, as if hoping to pull his son back from the precipice. "Please… please come back to me." 

  

There is a moment of stillness, almost unbearable silence, before the son’s lips twitch. Then, with great effort, Jack’s eyes—those eyes that were once so full of life, now clouded by the horrors he had been made to endure—slowly open. The unnatural glow that once illuminated them has faded, leaving behind only raw confusion and exhaustion. 

  

For the first time in what seems like an eternity, Solar is looking into the eyes of his son again, truly looking at him. And for a brief, fleeting moment, he sees the boy he built—the boy who laughed at the dinner table, the boy who had a bright future before him, the boy who had his whole life ahead of him. 

  

"…Dad?" The voice is broken, weak, barely a whisper. His son’s lips tremble, as if the words are struggling to form. "What… happened to me?" 

  

Solar’s heart cracks, and tears begin to blur his vision. He takes his Jack’s hand in his, trembling, his voice barely audible, as though he's afraid speaking too loudly might shatter this moment. "You were… you were taken, Jack. Controlled by the Creator, twisted into something you weren’t. I—" Solar’s words falter, his emotions overwhelming him. He struggles to continue, fighting against the lump in his throat. "I had to stop you. I had to… I had to save you. But the cost…" 

  

Jack’s head jerks slightly, pain coursing through his body as the realization begins to settle in. His eyes flicker with a painful understanding, and his hand tries to pull away from his father's grasp, weak and unsteady. “I… I killed people, didn’t I?” His voice cracks as the weight of his actions comes crashing down on him. His body shudders, a sob catching in his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..." 

  

“No, no,” Solar says, his voice filled with love and sorrow, not anger. "It wasn’t you. It wasn’t your fault." He holds the boy’s hand tighter, brushing Jack damp hair from his face. “You were taken from me. You’re still you. You’re still Jack!." 

  

Jack’s face twists in pain, his eyes now beginning to water as his body trembles violently from the damage done by the negative star power. He tries to sit up, but the effort is too much for him. The unnatural energy that once fueled him now seems to be gone, leaving him fragile and broken. 

  

Solar can see it now—Jack is slipping away. The Creator’s control had done irreparable damage to both his body and mind. His limbs are twitching uncontrollably, like the remnants of a system that can no longer function properly. His breathing grows shallower by the second, the energy fading from his body. 

  

Jack looks up at his father again, his gaze filled with sorrow, and perhaps the last bit of clarity he’ll ever know. “I’m sorry... I didn’t want to hurt anyone... I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

  

Solar presses his forehead against his son’s, tears falling freely now as the reality settles in. "I know. I know, Jack." His voice is barely a whisper, the pain of knowing the boy he saved will soon be lost again, the finality of it all gnawing at him. "I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to have to do this. But I would’ve done anything to bring you back… even if it meant losing you." 

  

Jack’s hand weakly clutches his father’s. "I… I love you, Dad..." His voice is faint, a whisper on the edge of his breath. "I’m... sorry. I can’t... stay." 

  

And just like that, as the final remnants of the negative star power fade away, his son’s body goes still. His hand goes limp in Solar’s grip. The last flicker of life and recognition in his eyes disappears, replaced by the emptiness of death. 

  

Solar closes his eyes, his entire body shaking with the agony of losing Jack for the second time. His hands cradle his son’s face one last time, gently brushing his forehead. "I love you too, son," he whispers, his voice barely audible as the weight of grief and relief hits him all at once. 

  

For a moment, it feels like time has stopped. Solar holds his son’s lifeless body, surrounded by the wreckage of what used to be a boy with limitless potential. There are no words left. No way to fix the brokenness between them. The heartache of what could have been and what never could be again is far too much to bear. 

  

And yet, in the silence that follows, as Solar holds Jack for the last time, there’s a final, fleeting thought. The negative star power may have stolen his son, but for a brief moment, he had his boy back. That’s all that matters now. 

  

_________________________________________________________________________________

Solar's hands are stained with dirt, Sun! Moon and Dazzle by his side. His fingers trembling as he gently lowers the lifeless body of his son into the freshly dug grave. The hole is not deep enough to erase the sorrow it holds, but it's deep enough to ensure his son rests in peace. His body, though broken by the horrors of the corruption of the negative star power, is still his son, and Solar will treat him with the respect and love he deserves. 

  

Solar’s breath catches as he gazes at his son one last time. The boy—now still and cold—has been returned to the earth, but Solar’s heart remains broken, raw, and exposed. With a solemn expression, he places the final layer of dirt over the grave, his hands working with an almost mechanical precision, despite the agony in his chest. 

  

The grave lies under the shade of a large tree—a place that had once been Jack’s favorite spot, where he and Dazzle would sit together and enjoy their youth, looking forward a promising future. Now it serves as a silent witness to the end of that future. Beside it lies another grave—the resting place of on of Jack’s bestest friends, Neptor, a boy who had been just as full of life and curiosity as Jack, taken too soon, and buried under this very tree. 

  

Solar pauses for a moment, his hands on the fresh mound of earth. He takes a deep, ragged breath, trying to steady himself, but the weight of it all is suffocating. His son, had been lost in ways no parent should ever have to endure, twisted into a weapon, forced to carry out unspeakable acts, all controlled by a dark force beyond his reach. And now, the last remnants of the child he built are buried here, where the world can never again see the boy’s true potential. 

  

As he finishes covering the grave, his knees buckle. His hands grip the ground tightly, the feeling of emptiness clawing at him. The dirt is cold, the air thick with loss. He presses his palms against the earth, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. The tears fall freely now, mixing with the dirt beneath him. 

“Can I have a moment alone with him, please”. Solar says with a cracked voice.

“Yeah…su-sure…Solar.” Moon replied.

“Of course…take all the time you need”. Added Sun.

Dazzle reminds silent. Just following her own father and her uncle back to their house with piercing sorrow.

  

Then, amidst the suffocating grief, something snaps. 

  

Solar's hand clenches into a fist. 

  

A violent surge of emotion rises from the depths of his soul, a fury so intense it nearly blinds him. He’s spent the last moments of his life mourning, burying, accepting the cruel fate forced upon his family. But the man, the ANIMAL!—the one who caused this, the one who had twisted his son into a killing machine, the one who had orchestrated all of this—has not paid for his sins. 

  

Solar's mind flashes with memories—of the twisted figure standing behind the scenes, controlling his son like a puppet. He remembers the mocking voice, the cold, calculated promises, and the cruel laughter that echoed in his ears as the man turned his son into an instrument of destruction. 

  

The grip on his fist tightens so hard it almost hurts, but he welcomes the pain. He knows what he has to do. Revenge. 

  

The very thought of that thing—of the twisted creature that dared to control his case and oil—fills him with a burning rage, a rage that burns hotter than anything he’s felt before. The man responsible for this devastation must pay. His son’s death cannot go unpunished. The pain that has been inflicted on his family, on his son’s very soul, can never be forgotten, nor forgiven. 

  

A low growl escapes his throat, his body trembling with fury. He lifts his head to the sky, the cool air biting at his case as he stares into the horizon. His mind is consumed with thoughts of retribution—he will find that man, and he will make him suffer as he has made his son suffer. Solar knows he’s not the same man anymore. The gentle mechanic, the loving father, is gone. The loss of his son has forged something darker within him—something capable of unimaginable violence. 

  

His hands shake, but it’s no longer from grief. It’s from an all-consuming need for revenge. The loss of his son—his child, his world—has unlocked a ferocity within him that can no longer be contained. 

  

Solar stands, his legs unsteady at first, but his resolve hardening with every step. He takes one last look at the grave of his son, his heart breaking anew, but this time, a different emotion lurks beneath the surface. His son is gone, yes. But that man who caused this pain is still alive. He still breathes. He still walks the earth. 

  

Solar takes a deep breath, his eyes narrowing with cold fury. He knows exactly what he must do. No matter the cost, no matter the pain he must endure, he will make the Creator regret ever laying a hand on his family. 

  

He turns away from the grave, walking with purpose, every step driven by the promise of retribution. His body may be broken, his soul battered, but his mind is clear. 

  

He will find him. 

[polysucks]

Sandor Clegane and Jorah Mormont: Broken Men and the Paths to Redemption An analysis of how Sandor Clegane and Jorah Mormont’s treatment of Daenarys Stormborn and the Stark sisters reveals their overlapping sense of duty and morality

An Essay by Polysocial

Word count: 1,849 Time to read: 6 - 15 min CW for the usual asoiaf themes, the defense of Sandor Clegane and the depiction of Jorah Mormont as a fuckin groomer. Also the victimization of the underage women in ASOIAF. Also bad jokes. and I repeat myself alot. i have no beta im just a loser with a word processing program, a liberal american education, and too much time on my hands. You've been warned.

Sandor Clegane and Jorah Mormont are two men defined by their flaws, shaped by their circumstances, and searching for atonement for two extremely different reasons. Though their lives and choices are distinctly different, both wrestle with their own personal definitions of loyalty, self-worth, and the complexities of their relationships with the women they intend to protect. Their opposing paths shed quite a bit of light on the nuances of obligation, devotion, and the struggle to find meaning in a world that often seems devoid of it and the goreghe does an excellent job exploring the vast array of tones and shades in the beauty and the beast trope he is so evidently fond of.

Sandor Clegane: The Hound’s Bitter Sense of Duty

The Hound is a man defined by violence not only by his own design as a defense mechanism but also perpetuated by how he is treated before he even has a chance to open his mouth. From a young age, he was conditioned to believe his intrinsic value as a person lay in his ability to serve others through the only thing he knows holds worth in providing—brutality and violence. The Clegane family name, elevated to nobility through merciless service to the Lannisters, set the foundation for Sandor’s cynical worldview. His scars—both physical and emotional—are a demonstration of his brother Gregor’s cruelty and the dehumanizing system they are forced to exist in that values strength over compassion.

Though Sandor rejects the concept of honor (especially when it pertains to him), deeming it a hollow façade for the selfishness of the powerful (I mean, he’s got a point), his actions often contradict his words. His protectiveness toward Sansa and Arya Stark respectively and independently exposes a deeply buried and guarded sense of morality. He serves neither out of duty nor personal gain (It could be argued that he “kidnapped” Arya and took her to the Twins for personal gain, but I ain’t going there rn) but because he recognizes their vulnerability and sees in them a reflection of the innocence he never had the chance to love and cherish before it was ripped from him. This reluctant politesse, however, clashes with his belief in his own worthlessness, creating a tragic tension within his character.

Sandor’s relationship with Arya starkly demonstrates this complexity. Though he often threatens her with violence, his bark is worse than his bite [beat for applause]. His threats serve as a disguise, a way to maintain control and protect Arya in a dangerous world. The threats he does act on, however, such as knocking her unconscious during the Red Wedding, are harsh but motivated by a twisted sense of care. Sandor views himself as a necessary evil, someone who must act as a shield against greater horrors (one that was never offered to him), even if Arya herself resists his help. His dynamic with Arya mirrors his own self-perception: gruff and crude on the surface, but marked by an underlying love and genteel that he cannot fully suppress—no matter how hard he tries.

Jorah Mormont: Privilege and Self-Inflicted Exile

Jorah Mormont’s life is a stark contrast to Sandor’s [dodges tomatoes]. Born into privilege as the heir to Bear Island of the north, Jorah squandered the opportunities granted to him. His downfall—selling poachers into slavery to fund an extravagant lifestyle—was a choice born of greed and desperation, not necessity. Unlike Sandor, who was forced into servitude by circumstance, Jorah’s exile and subsequent loyalty to Daenerys Targaryen are the consequences of his own failures and choices he made with personal goals in mind.

At first, Jorah’s service to Daenerys is self-serving, a way to reclaim the honor he lost (it’s not even about his family name either like bro ur dad is so disappointed in you and here u go worshipping a fuckin pregnant teenager--). Yet as his love [crowd boos] for her grows, his devotion becomes what he considers selfless, albeit still flawed. His betrayal when he serves as a spy for King Robert emphasizes the infirmity of his moral compass. Jorah’s love [crowd starts waving pitchforks] for Daenerys is both his greatest strength and his greatest weakness, blinding him to the boundaries of their relationship and leading him to undermine her independence and strength in significant ways. Where Sandor sees himself as unworthy of redemption, Jorah clings to the hope that his obsession with displaying loyalty will earn him forgiveness and worthiness.

The Lens of Obsession: Jorah’s Idealization vs. Sandor’s Humanity

Okay hear me out another reason Jorah Mormont and Sandor Clegane are two sides of the same sword [Limp Bizkit – Break Stuff plays ominously from a JBL pill speaker in the crowd] in how they perceive and treat the women in their lives. Jorah’s devotion to Daenerys Targaryen is tinged with an unsettling obsession that often prioritizes her physical beauty over her strength and accomplishments. While Jorah admires Daenerys’s power, he punctuates his observations about her with a fixation on her body and appearance. He deifies her, placing her on a pedestal as though she is more goddess than human— this idealization showcases his incapability to see her as a whole person. (I mean, you could argue that he doesn’t see a single woman as a whole person. He talked mad shit about his wife who died in labor, and then his bitch wife who left him bc she didn’t like the north and bc he only liked her for her tits in the first place). His love for Daenerys, while (one can argue) is genuine, is also possessive, defined by his desire to be the one who protects and supports her—whether or not she wants or needs that from him.

Jorah’s fixation on Daenerys’s beauty exposes the imbalance in their dynamic. While she emerges as a formidable leader, determined to reclaim her birthright and liberate the oppressed (yas queen slay the masters go off), Jorah’s gaze often reduces her to an object of adoration and lust. This dynamic is further complicated by Daenerys’s repeated rejection of his advances. (I mean I can say a whole lot about dany’s sexuality and how she lets her most trusted hand maidens finger her to completion but wont return the Old Man’s advances. AS SHE SHOULD!!!!!! She deserves that. At least ur handmaidens love you girly. And they give a fuck about your pleasure, bc we all know Jorah would just hit it and quit it I bet he doesn’t even know women can have orgasms what a loser) She values him as an advisor and ally but does not reciprocate his romantic (AHEM! Sexual!) feelings. Jorah’s inability to fully accept this boundary leads to moments where his actions undercut her autonomy, as he seeks to align her decisions with his own desires.

In stark contrast (THIS IS MY TED TALK I WILL REPEAT PUNS IF I WANT!!!!), Sandor Clegane never idealizes or deifies Sansa or Arya Stark. He treats them as vulnerable young people in need of protection, not objects of desire or symbols of purity. Even when drunk and speaking bluntly about Sansa’s coming of age, Sandor’s observation is neither predatory nor obsessive.

“You look almost a woman… face, teats, and you’re taller, too, almost… ah, you’re still a stupid little bird, aren’t you?” – Sandor, ACOK: Sansa II

Sansa, from her own perspective, notes that Sandor’s demeanor, though rough, is not threatening. Despite his intimidating presence and harsh words, he is surprisingly gentle with her, displaying a rare restraint that compares dramatically with the violent world around them.

Sandor’s treatment of Sansa and Arya reflects a vital difference in how he views not only women, but the people around him. He sees them as human beings, shaped by their circumstances and vulnerabilities, rather than as ideals to be worshipped or possessed. For Sandor, Sansa represents innocence and a longing for the kindness he never experienced, while Arya embodies resilience and defiance. He respects their autonomy, even as he takes on the role of their protector. Unlike Jorah, who seeks validation and redemption through Daenerys’s love, Sandor does not expect gratitude or recognition from the Stark girls, nor does he ever once make that claim. His acts of protection stem from a sense of morality, not a need to earn their approval or affection.

Jorah’s idealization of Daenerys ultimately reflects his own insecurities and selfish desires. (UNHAND THE UNDERAGE GIRL!!!!) Sandor does not see himself as a hero, and he does not attempt to force his guidance upon the Stark girls. His loyalty is unspoken, and his protectiveness is practical rather than symbolic.

Ultimately, the difference lies in perspective: Jorah loves an idea of Daenerys that is inseparable from her beauty and his longing for her, while Sandor simply recognizes the humanity of Sansa and Arya. Where Jorah seeks to possess, Sandor seeks only to ensure survival.

Parallels: Redemption Through Relationships

Despite their differences, both men find paths to salvation through their relationships with Sansa, Arya, and Daenerys. For Sandor, protecting Sansa and Arya offers a chance to defy the cruelty of the world that shaped him. His actions reveal a taste of honor he claims to disdain, even as he refuses to believe in his own worth. For Jorah, serving Daenerys becomes a way to atone for his past mistakes, his love [Fred Durst is hyping the crowd up for my subsequent ass kicking] for her driving him to act in ways that he considers selfless, but are clear to the readers (though probably not to dany, as all we see of Jorah is from her perspective) is objectively self-serving.

Yet, their redemptive arcs are far from straightforward. Sandor’s rough treatment of Arya and his constant growling threats mask a reluctant kindness, while Jorah’s devotion to Daenerys often borders on possessiveness, revealing his inability to fully respect her independence. Both men are broken, their flaws and virtues intertwined, but their journeys show that even the most damaged individuals can find moments of greatness. (which if you have talked to me at alllllllll in dms you will know that this is like. My overarching opinion about this series and how the geurge depicts humanity through flawed characters as a moral and ethical grey area. There is no “good vs evil” there is no black and white thinking.)

Conclusion: The Trained Dog and the Devoted Bear

Sandor Clegane and Jorah Mormont embody the complexity of loyalty and redemption in a world rife with moral ambiguity. Sandor, the trained dog, snarls and snaps but ultimately protects those he cares for, his actions speaking louder than his words. Jorah, the devoted bear, offers his unwavering loyalty to Daenerys, though his love often blinds him to the ways he undermines her autonomy. Both men, shaped by their pasts, find meaning and redemption through their relationships, even if those opportunities remain incomplete. In the end, their stories remind us that even in the darkest corners of the human soul, there is a capacity for change and a longing for something better.