#genuinely is there something wrong in my brain

[peachesofteal]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: withdrawal of care and death of an infant in NICU setting

Tess was a rodeo queen.

She could answer “what do you do for a living?” with “I’m a professional barrel racer.”  She had the ribbons and the trophies and the money to prove it.

It’s where the farm came from, all the earnings. She and Liam had big dreams, a legacy, a plan. They had it all, and you had travel nursing contracts, vacations to the BVI, and long nights you only remember half of. Every time you came home, worked a few months in the ED here before skipping out again, she had a new title, a new sponsorship, or a new project. And there was pressure. So much of it.

“If you come home for good you can stay in the house with us. Blue misses you.” The swing’s metal chain creaks as you push off with the toe of your boot. Life is so different here. It’s slower. Sweeter. Dustier. Still, it’s hard to look at everything you grew up with and say you want it back.

“I’m too young to settle down.”

“We’re ten months apart!” You snicker, and she chucks one of the strawberries from the bowl at you. “You could build a house on the land if you wanted.”

“Yeah, with all my house building money?” Build a house. It sounds so… domestic.

“Maybe if you stopped taking vacations everywhere you’d have something left over.”

“So sorry I’m living my life.” It’s a dig and you both know what you mean, but she’ll still bite.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You don’t mean to hurt her. You don’t like hurting her, but she expects something from you, something you can’t give. At least not right now.

“You didn’t leave Tess. You stayed here, bought land thirty minutes from where we grew up. I mean, you did it better for sure. You’re barrel racing like you always dreamed but… I didn’t want it. You can’t fault me for that.” She wipes her hands across her thighs as she stands, smears strawberry seeds across her jeans and shakes her head. Conversation over.

“Let me know when you’re ready to grow up.” You let it go. It’s not worth the fight.

“You’re not going to win you know.” She pauses in the door way, and flashes you that know it all smile over her shoulder.

“Don’t I always though?”

Jokes on you. She won in the end.

“Thanks so much, I really appreciate it. Anything I can do to return the favor, I’ve got you.”

“Do you have pictures?” Isa gives you a kind smile. Her interest warms you, and you nod, pulling your phone out to scroll through the too many photos of Riley you took this morning at her first day of school, smiling big with a missing front tooth. “She’s precious.”

“Yeah. She’s something. First day of third grade, crazy.” Keona slows in front of you with Doctor Riley right behind her, and there’s a confused wrinkle marring her brow.

“I didn’t know you had a kid. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh I… it didn’t come up I guess.” Lie. There were so many times you could have brought Riley up, but you dodged or ignored each one. You glance up and what a surprise… Doctor Riley is staring at you, studying like he’s picking you apart in his brain. Key looks genuinely hurt though and guilt twists your heart. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been a little stressed and so focused on learning.” She nods, and you think she’s going to push it but you’re saved by an alarm, all of you taking off at the sound.

Saved was the wrong sentiment.

You weren’t saved from a conversation by this, this moment. This moment is hell.

“She’ll breathe on her own for a little while after we take the tube out, and you can hold her.” Doctor Riley tells the parents softly. Ryan and Alexa. They’ve been here for weeks, watching Rosie fade while holding out hope. So much hope. You’re devastated for them.

“Do you want to sit down?” You’ve already turned off all the sounds, anything that beeps or dings or blares, and disconnected all the leads, the lines. The only thing left is the vent.

“How long will she… how long will it be?” Ryan’s voice is broken. Shattered.

“We can’t know. Not long.” Doctor Riley looks to you, to where you’re waiting to flip the power, and then he’ll pull the tube. “Are you ready?”

“No.” Alexa sobs, shaking in the rocking chair she’s been sitting in since they got here, but Ryan nods, gives the go ahead.

“Okay.” You do it fast, as fast as you can. It’s like ripping off a bandaid, and you don’t want them to see it, don’t want them to remember the sound of the machine powering down. Doctor Riley frees her from the tube and gently lifts her to pass her to Ryan, cradling her head, supporting her neck and her little body, all of her so small in his arms, so fragile.

“Thank you Daisy.” He’s giving you permission to bolt, but you stand stuck to the floor. It feels wrong to run, it feels like you’re bailing on them, on Rosie.

So you don’t.

You pull her blanket out of the crib and tuck it around where she’s now resting in Alexa’s arms. It’s hand knit by Rosie’s grandmother, pink and yellow, little elephants artfully woven across the bottom, and once you’re done, you turn on the soft lamp behind the chair, angling so it’s not harsh but still enough they can see every little detail of their daughter’s face. So they can memorize her, every little wisp of her hair, the curve of her nose, each tiny delicate eyelash.

And then you leave.

You don’t run from the room. You keep your spine straight, chin lifted. You don’t stop at the nurses station, where Isa and Key are waiting to comfort you as they promised they would be. You don’t stop at the break room, or the bathroom or the empty call rooms. You keep walking, down the end of the hall until you reach the double doors and burst through them into the sun.

You breathe as deep as you can, and hold it. You hold it until you can’t anymore, and then do it again. And again. You try to burn them from your mind, Alexa’s face, Rosie’s weak little cry, but it’s no use. You hate this place. You hate it. You hold your breath again, this time longer, long enough until you start to feel like you might die. It’s better, it’s worse, so you do it again. You’re holding your breath against burning lungs when the doors bang open.

“Daisy.” He’s never said your name like that before. It’s not harsh or acidic or impatient. It’s the opposite. You hate that too.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” It’s said on the exhale released from your sternum, an explosive rush of air punching free from your mouth.

“Take as long as you need.” You don’t answer because you’re too busy patching up the cracks, focusing on breathing in and holding it again, controlling it. You block him out, which is why you don’t realize right away that he’s now standing in front of you, close enough you can see the stitching on the sleeve of his scrubs. “These moments are hard. It’s okay if it affects you, it should affect you. It’s okay to let it out.” You keep your eyes fixed on his chest. Focused.

“I know.” The control is unwavering. Unrelenting. You are a machine. And for good measure, you offer a succinct nod and smile. See? I’m fine.

“There’s no shame in-”

“I know, Doctor Riley. Thank you.” You cut him off, dismiss him. Or try to.

“Daisy.” This fucking man. Something about him is trying to shred your control. Make you weak.

“I’m fine.”

“Let’s go inside.” A minuscule flicker of need ignites in your soul. It begs you to listen, to trust, let the control slip, let go, just for a second. You close your eyes and dangle over the abyss.

If you fell, would someone catch you?

Would he?

It’s a sweet dream, a lovely fantasy. But not for you.

“I’m due for my break actually, so I’m probably going to go down to the cafeteria. Can you let Key know?”

“Daisy,” he murmurs, wraps your name in velvet. “Look at me.” You do it in defiance, to get him off your back. You don’t even know why he’s out here in the first place. What does he care? He hates you. You take a breath, hold it, and meet his eyes, surprised when you don’t see the usual anger or irritation. There’s something else in them instead, something tender and understanding, concerned. “You took great care of Rosie and her parents. They-” No.

“Doctor Riley. I’m on my break. It’s my personal time. If we need to speak about work, we can do it once I’m back.”  The muscle in his cheek flutters as the masseter flexes. The average PSI of the human jaw is around one hundred and twenty. His must be triple that.

“If that’s what you want.” The words are cold. Back to baseline, squashing that tiny blossom of need.

Good.

“That’s what I want.”

[juicykvnture]

GOT YOUR NUMBER!

Dick Grayson x fem!reader

tags: AFAB reader, college AU, pathetic!DickGrayson, he’s a literal gooner I’m sorry.

a/n: say hello to DICK (literally.)

wc: 1.7k | masterlist

Dick Grayson always had a chronic case of golden boy-ism for which there was no cure. Everyone ever literally loved him, his floor a graveyard of bras left behind by various hookups - until he met you that is. And to his complete and utter dismay, his condition has evolved into something far worse - far more embarrassing.

Let’s face it, he’s always been a self proclaimed babe magnet - and the worst part? There isn’t a soul on campus who could possibly deny such compelling evidence.

He’s always had it easy when it comes to people - maybe it’s his natural charisma, maybe it’s the fact he’s got an ass you could bounce a quarter off of - who knows?

That’s exactly why he felt absolutely mortified when you didn’t immediately drop to your knees at the sight of him.

In all seriousness, the poor guy was genuinely concerned! Had he lost his touch or had he stumbled across someone totally immune?

You didn’t open your legs, never mind your damn heart!

He felt stupid for a while - following you around like a literal lapdog. It got so severe to the point that everyone in the frat took the literal piss out of him.

But he was committed.

Well, maybe that’s just an overly polite, politically correct way of saying he was down bad - absolutely completely and utterly whipped.

He was convinced, utterly convinced without a shadow of a doubt that he’d get with you by the end of the year.

And when you finally decided to give him the time of day? Summer break hit.

He had one singular proper opportunity to ask you out, but due to a severely inebriated Wally West and a keg stand gone wrong.. he missed his chance.

His one saving grace? The fact that he managed to get your number.

He felt awkward texting you at first. He’s always been great at reading people in real life - face to face. But through a screen? Not his forte.

Over time, the two of you got closer.

He was so unbelievably relieved when he realised you’re more comfortable over text. It dawned on him that maybe.. you never even hated him! Maybe you just rather keep to yourself in social situations - yeah, that checks out.

It’s not like you two are exclusive, nothing of the sort. Hell, he hasn’t even been able to pull himself together and ask you out.

It’s fine. He’ll just settle on texts from you and scrolling through your social media a little bit more often than is considered normal.

He’ll ask you out.. eventually.

One glance at the clock has him shifting uncomfortably on his bed, hands clasped over his chest to resist the urge to text you - again.

It’s like the fifth night of this in a row. It’s pathetic he needs to leave you alone. He’ll come off too strong, he’ll scare you away. He can’t have that.

He just wants to text you a photo of the bulge in his sweatpants so bad - it’s not even funny.

Maybe you’ll laugh at him for that, maybe you’ll call him pathetic.

Maybe he’ll like it.

Dick huffs and moves on the bed, trying to get comfortable. But the friction sends a spark of heat straight to his gut, making his cock twitch and throb in his pants.

“F-fuck, get outta my brain..” He curses under his breath, shifting again, except he doesn’t move away. He presses his palm against his length, letting out a strangled whimper.

His eyes fall shut and he thinks about your hands in his hair, your thighs caging his head, your body pinning him down.

He grunts, squeezing himself through his pants.

Calling you is out of the question. No way in hell he’d be able to hold a coherent conversation with you - he’s never been subtle, one word from you especially in that sleepy voice and he’d probably start stroking his cock on the spot.

Dick likes you, genuinely.

He wants to take you out on dates, he’d do anything for you to just drag him around the mall or something - anything to make you happy.

But the other part of him just wants to fuck you so bad, it’s genuinely embarrassing. It’s rotting his brain - he can’t think of anything else.

Porn doesn’t even do it for him anymore.

It’s late. He knows it is, he knows you’re either asleep or up watching something late - hopefully one of the movies he recommended, maybe you’re thinking about him? He hopes so.

Come to think of it, you two did end up watching a movie together at one point a couple of weeks ago - a chance encounter. It was a whole big thing planned and all of your other friends seemed to have bailed.

He remembers it like yesterday. It was some cheap horror flick - not like he was too invested in the plot anyway, his eyes taking in the sight of your tits in that crop top rather than the psycho killer on screen.

He couldn’t tell you what the plot was, genuinely. He wasn’t paying attention. But it must’ve been scary, to you anyway.

Considering how you squealed and hid in his neck at a jump-scare.

The thought of it has him staring at the ceiling, fingers curling into the waistband of his sweats as he struggles with himself to not let it slide down any further.

You were just so scared, hands flying to catch his arm so hard your nails left little dents in his skin.

It made him so embarrassingly hard.

He was quick to drape the blanket over his lap just in time, though. But he couldn’t act normal after that. Not when you smelled so nice as you all but curled up beside him, not when you literally marked him up, albeit by accident.

He offered you some pathetic excuse that night, acting like he ate too much candy and had to get sick when in reality he was hiding in your bathroom rubbing one out, cock slapping up against his abs as he bit down on his t-shirt to not whine like a bitch.

And if you squeal like that when you’re scared, he’s literally aching to know what other sounds you can make.

“Shit,” he can’t take it anymore, free hand clumsily reaching for his phone and heading straight for your instagram.

You don’t even post anything remotely sexual. It’s silly shit. It’s so you - random photos from your weekends, cute desserts you ate, pretty skies, dumb little pictures of you and your friends.

But what you posted yesterday has his eyes wide open, cock twitching painfully in his hand.

You went to the beach. Of course you fucking did.

He’d normally like the post and leave you some cheesy little comment. But he can’t.

There isn’t a single word to say, not a single thought in his brain other than you in a fucking swimsuit, water dripping down your shoulders.

Dick’s brain is a mess. His thoughts are fucked, running rampant.

His fingers fumble with his pants, shoving his waistband lower and — fuck, the relief almost makes him dizzy. He wraps a hand around himself and his hips lift off the mattress with a gasp, his lips falling open around a silent moan.

”Shitt—” he slurs, cock throbbing in his grasp. He keeps his hand around the base, squeezing hard.

But it’s nothing like what he imagines your hands and your mouth or your pussy to be like— it’s not warm, not enough. So he spits into his hand and starts pumping, head falling back against the pillows with a thump.

He grips himself tighter, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he swipes back to your messages, staring at those photos just isn’t good for his heart - he’ll cum so embarrassingly fast if he looks at them a second longer.

His eyes are half lidded, thumb clumsily dragging over his screen - texting one-handed isn’t exactly easy.

His brain is blank, chest heaving. He doesn’t even know what to say to you.

“Cmonnnn,” another muffled whine, his finger hits the call button - hips stuttering up into his hand as he tries to control himself.

The second the call goes through, he panics - scrambling to hang up and tossing his phone back somewhere on the bed.

He can’t take it. He’s not sure where that sudden burst of confidence came from. He can’t have you knowing he’s a total fucking loser, yet alone a literal gooner.

God, he’s pathetic.

His hips buck into his hand, breath coming out in uneven bursts as he tries to muffle the pathetic little gasps and moans.

“Shit, shit, - f-fuck,” his skin is hot, flushed and sweaty, and his mind is a mess of half-formed thoughts about you but he can’t do anything other than ache for you.

He could have anyone he wants. He doesn’t care - they’re not you.

“Fuck — Ah!”

His breath hitches in his chest when he lets his other hand wrap around his cock too, pumping slowly, precum beading up at the tip.

“God, fuck, I need you so bad,” his hands pick up speed, one squeezing the base of his length and the other grazing over the head. His thumb rubs over his slit and he inhales sharply, his hips bucking.

“N-need to fuck you, please,” he thinks he’s lost the plot, brain melting out his ears with his eyes all glassy as he thinks about you - his cheeks flushed, his hair a mess, probably drooling at this point.

He can’t stop. Not even if he wanted to.

“Shitttt- you’re gonna make me cum n’you’re not even here-”

It feels like it’s been forever, he’s had to switch hands a few times, back arching up off of the mattress.

The rational part of him is guilty. He genuinely does like you. He should be texting you planning little dates and shit - not panting like a bitch in heat as he pumps his cock till he’s shooting blanks.

He can imagine you so fucking clearly it’s insane. God, it’s like he can almost hear you moaning right now like you’re there with him.

Okay, he needs to text you.

He lifts his head again, adams apple bobbing in his throat as he fumbles to reach for his phone.

His screen is lit up. Has been for the last while.

His lips part, his heart stops.

“Dick?” you croak from the other end of the line, your own words muffled.

“You still there?”

a/n: …oops!

as always thank u for reading!!

Dick Grayson m.list

[stlllle]

Headcanons: What It’s Like Dating Choi Su-bong (Thanos)

Content: angst, possessiveness, protective façade, soft moments and a very peculiar sense of humor.

Author's notes:

"I like to think that being in a relationship with Thanos would feel like this. Am I wrong? Maybe. Do I care? Not at all! (Honestly, everything I post is just silly little daydreams from my head 😛)

Anyway, if this made you smile, feel free to check out my masterlist! And if you ever feel like it, my requests are open too 🙂 (just don’t forget to read the rules before sending something!)

Masterlist –[link]

---

In the beginning:

He’s not easy to get close to. The kind of guy who’s always watching his back, guarded, intimidating without even trying.

You’d have to push a few times, tease him, start random conversations. He’ll pretend not to care… but he does.

Once he realizes you’re genuinely into him — not out of pity, not for gain — he starts to lower his walls.

Your first kiss happens after a stupid argument, where he grabs your wrist, mutters “Fuck, you drive me insane” and crashes his lips to yours without a warning.

---

His personality in the relationship:

Jealous. Very. The kind of jealousy that doesn’t show in tantrums but simmers under the surface, and if some other guy dares to look at you, his brain is already listing 50 ways to end him.

He’s not the type to say “I love you” all the time, but he shows it: fixing your coat, buying your favorite snack without a word, or pulling you close while walking through the streets.

His humor is dark, sarcastic. He’ll call you names affectionately just to get a reaction.

He hates showing weakness — but when you’re alone, he melts.

---

Private moments:

Loves spooning when you sleep together, but you better never mention it to anyone.

When you’re anxious or upset, he doesn’t know how to comfort with words. So he just sits next to you, holds your hand, runs his fingers through your hair in silence.

Low-key affectionate gestures — like stroking your palm with his thumb when no one’s watching.

His kisses are possessive, always like he’s trying to brand you, needing to prove you’re his.

---

Things he does but won’t admit:

Keeps your pictures saved on his phone.

Watches you sleep and sometimes smiles, but if you catch him, he’ll turn away and grumble “Stop staring, fuck.”

Gets irrationally angry when you’re hurt or sick, like he could protect you from the entire world.

Secretly imagines a future — a small house, just the two of you away from everyone.

---

If someone messes with you:

This man turns into a storm.

It doesn’t matter if it’s verbal or physical, he’ll deal with it immediately.

His glare alone is enough to make people shut up, but if needed, he’ll get physical.

And afterward, he’ll scold you too, like: “Are you insane? Don’t get involved with assholes like that!” — while checking if you’re okay.

---

If you fight:

He’s stubborn and hot-headed.

Will say harsh things in the heat of the moment and regret it hours later.

The type to apologize without words, showing up with your favorite snack or putting on your favorite movie, sitting next to you until you give in.

If you cry, he breaks immediately and feels like shit.

---

In the end:

Loving Choi Su-bong isn’t easy. He’s rough, aggressive, proud. But he’s the kind of man who’d protect what’s his until the very end.

Deep down, all he wants is a safe place to exist — and you become that place.

He’s chaos and home at the same time.

📖🔥 NSFW Headcanons: What It’s Like to Fuck Choi Su-bong (Thanos)

Content: explicit language, rough sex, possessiveness, jealousy, marking, light choking, dirty talk, unprotected sex, primal vibes, rough aftercare.

⚠️ Warning: This is explicit smut content. If you're underage or uncomfortable with possessive and rough themes, skip this one.

---

The Build-Up:

He’s not the type for romantic candlelight setups. Most of the time, it starts with tension — heavy looks, sharp words, a fight, or jealousy.

--

He loves when you snap back at him, it gets him hard instantly.

That “don’t fucking talk to me like that” turns into “come here and say that again” real fast.

--

He’ll corner you against a wall, one hand on your jaw, voice low and dangerous:

“Say it again. I fucking dare you.”

--

And you both know where it’s headed.

---

The Sex:

Rough. Desperate. Unapologetic.

He fucks like it’s a war — like he needs to leave you shaking, marked up and ruined so you’ll remember who owns you.

Loves hair pulling. Neck biting. Pushing you down onto the mattress and taking what he wants.

His favorite thing? Making you beg. Doesn’t care how tough you act, he’ll break you down, whispering in your ear:

“Look at you, begging for my cock. Knew you’d fold for me.”

Low, growled moans and filthy words in your ear.

---

Favorite Positions:

Doggystyle, no question.

Loves gripping your hips so hard it leaves bruises, pulling you back against him, watching the way your ass bounces with every thrust.

Also loves you riding him — watching you take him, controlling the pace, hands on your waist, murmuring “That’s it, baby. Take it like a good girl.”

On rare nights when he’s softer (but still possessive), missionary. Holding your face, staring into your eyes while he fucks you deep.

---

Jealousy and Marking:

If someone flirts with you? You’re not walking straight the next day.

Will bite, suck, and scratch you until you’re covered in marks — shoulders, thighs, neck, inner thighs.

And he makes you show them off.

“Pull your shirt down. Let them see who you belong to.”

Possessive growls when you moan his name. Nothing makes him come harder than hearing you scream “Su-bong” while falling apart for him.

---

Aftercare (His Way):

He’s not good with words but takes care of you.

Gets you water, cleans you up, holds you close afterward, even if he pretends it’s nothing.

Runs his rough hand through your hair, brushes kisses on your temple.

Grumbles if you say you’re sore, but secretly loves it.

“Told you to be careful, brat.” — while pulling you tighter against him.

---

Extra:

Obsessed with cumming inside you.

“You’re mine. All of you. Inside and out.”

Gets harder when you talk dirty back — it triggers something primal in him.

Will absolutely fuck you against a wall, in a car, wherever. He doesn’t care.

If you ever tease him in public, expect to be wrecked the moment you’re alone.

---

[waynes-multiverse]

God, gimme all the Mark Meachum content, no matter how angsty 🙏😍

I absolutely loved the whole concept of this! You chose such a clever and creative way to show the development of their story through the passing of seasons. And again, the aesthetics are beautiful, friend! 🌸☀️🍁❄️

“Yeah, but you like your man all wild and caveman-like,” he said mischievously.

You shook your head, but you still couldn’t stop yourself from smiling.

“Only when he fucks me,” you said. A cheeky challenge in your eyes.

Her answer took me tf out! Loved her bold sass 😏🔥

But the Captain—your father—insisted that Mark take a break.

Oh, interesting! Also ballsy of Mark to date his boss’ daughter. Let’s hope he doesn’t screw it up 🤞🙈

The summer sun glinted off a modest stone. Your sister told him not to overthink it. Just get the classic square cut. But his instincts told him to go with something called a “cushion,” like the sales lady said at Jared’s.

I’m getting a queasy feeling in my stomach…

I genuinely already love them! Their little beach day in Santa Cruz was so cute 🥹 (and my love for Cali is never ending, too) But my heart hurts so much because I think I can guess where this is going. WHY ALEX 😫

You were alone with your father when he died. All you could do was hold his hand.

Poor reader! Hard enough when a parent is dying, but even worse when you have to watch them go 🥺 (And so close to the wedding as well! Truly can understand her pain that her father didn’t get to walk her down the aisle anymore 😭)

Now, all Mark could do was hold you. But he had to blink past a sharp pain, almost like a sudden migraine. Aftershocks reverberated through his skull, radiating from the right to the left.

Uh oh…

(I had to lmao)

“Mark, you need to go to the doctor. You’ve gone through three bottles of Advil. That’s not normal.”

“Look, I told you already. I’m fine.”

Men… lol

We’ve had this discussion before with your headcanons about men and doctors/being sick. I think we can add Mark to that list 😂

“Wow," you said. "She couldn’t have found a skimpier dress to check out the church. Who’s she trying to impress? The pastor’s already married.”

Dear God, the sister’s already a lot 🙈 You better ain’t trying to impress your sister’s fiancé, girl…

Your raw, broken grief when you watched your father waste away from the absolute monument of a man he’d been.

How was Mark supposed to level your world too?

The fact her father died just months before from cancer just adds such a nice and angsty layer to this whole story. Of course Mark wouldn’t want her to go through that again after he’d witnessed how the sickness and death of her father affected her. And I do understand where he’s coming from when he essentially doesn’t want to tie her to a “dead man walking,” but man, does it break my heart. It’s such a hard situation for both.

Ultimately, he should’ve involved her in the decision, though. The choice should be hers if she can handle it or not, if she wants out etc.

He needed to find you.

Somehow, he made it to the elevator by himself. Third floor. Room 304, 305, 306. Fuck. Was it 309?

Jesus fucking Christ, that makes it even sadder and more messed up 😭 (I do love your brain for this masterpiece of cruelty)

But man, the fact he legit was so drunk that he stumbled into the wrong room and was basically taken advantage of in this state by her sister?! I hope the bitch burns in hell, seriously 😅

It’s been my headcanon as well that he probably cheated on Melinda with Rachel to give her an “easy out” after finding out his diagnosis, but in my opinion, it’s even worse than actually cheating on her because he’s a stupid, selfish ass because it would’ve meant he never really love her to begin with. But doing that shit to someone you genuinely love is messed up 🙈

But I love how you took that mini plot line and put your own spin on it. Especially for this story, I prefer Mark accidentally stumbling into Rachel’s room, and Rachel taking advantage of him. If he’d done it on purpose to “free” reader, I would’ve murdered him. After losing their father, it would’ve been so cruel of him to tear their family apart in the wake of it, so I’m glad you went a different way here. Not sure I could’ve forgiven the other thing 🫣

Can’t wait to jump straight into Part 2! I can totally see the song fitting for the aftermath of this 😎💜💜💜

DOWNGRADE

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: There it was. The beginning of the end, and neither of you saw it coming.

AN: Ahhh here we go! For the first time ever, Mark Meachum! Obviously I’m still learning this guy as a character, but this idea grabbed me and wouldn’t let me go. Thanks so much, @luci-in-trenchcoats for choosing this color prompt for the 5K Follower Celebration!

Word Count: 1.2K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff, implied smut, and rom-com vibes, until the angst sets in (lol). Medical diagnoses, implied cheating

Spring

Mark set two mugs of coffee on his nightstand to free up his hands. He had to cut wide swaths through the bedsheets to reach you. As usual, you were a tangle of limbs and frizzy hair.

“Jesus, what’d you do here, woman?” he said, lips tugging at a smile when he heard your muffled giggle.

Eventually he unearthed your head and found your sleepy smile. You squinted at the sun glaring through the window behind him. It backlit that look of fond amusement on his face.

You clawed half-blind at the front of his shirt and pulled him down to you. He lost his footing and grunted as he fell, just barely catching himself from crushing you. Your laugh rang in his ear and forced a chest-shaking rumble out of him too.

You freed your own arms from the warm nest you created, just to take his face in your hands. Your thumbs caressed along the coarse edges of his beard.

“Getting scraggly, baby,” you remarked.

“Yeah, but you like your man all wild and caveman-like,” he said mischievously.

You shook your head, but you still couldn’t stop yourself from smiling.

“Only when he fucks me,” you said. A cheeky challenge in your eyes.

Mark’s brows popped high, his devilish grin showing teeth. It didn’t matter how long you’d been his, you still managed to keep him on the ropes.

“Well, he does aim to please.”

Summer

The sound of your laugh was like sweltering sunshine in his chest. After the wave finished dunking you both, you swept the salty sting of the ocean out of your eyes and clung to his shoulders in the water.

Santa Cruz agreed with you. It shone down on your glistening skin and caught in your eyes. You both needed this—taking a beat, just the two of you.

Finally, Mark had allowed himself to take some time off. He was reluctant at first, workhorse that he was. But the Captain—your father—insisted that Mark take a break. Wrapping up a triple homicide after four months of legwork, getting to see that motherfucker be denied bail until trial, and giving the victims’ families a sense of relief that the killer was off the streets was a decided win.

“You’ve got someone waiting for you,” the Captain reminded him. “Don’t take that for granted.”

Mark grabbed your left hand and pressed a kiss into your palm. He felt the coolness of metal against his lips. It reminded him to turn your hand over.

“Whoa!” He closed his eyes and playfully looked away as if he was being blinded. “Who gave you that fucking rock?”

The summer sun glinted off a modest stone. Your sister told him not to overthink it. Just get the classic square cut. But his instincts told him to go with something called a “cushion,” like the sales lady said at Jared’s.

Mark knew he made the right choice when you gasped, covering your mouth with shaky hands, your eyes filling with tears when you met his slightly nervous ones.

Now, you just laughed in his face. “Oh, nobody really. Just the love of my life.”

His smile quirked, even though his heart was double-timing.

“You’re so fuckin’ cheesy.”

“But you love it, though.”

(That day, you both spent an extra hour looking for the ring when it somehow slipped off your finger and fell into the sand.)

Fall

“I’m just saying, sweetheart,” Mark said, his tone deep and gentle while he steadied you in his arms. “Maybe it’s best we put off the wedding, just a few months. It’s a lot coming at you right now.”

You shook your head, covering your mouth with trembling fingers.

“No,” you said eventually, but your words faltered along with your unsteady breaths in between. “No, he wouldn’t have wanted that. I just wish he, uh…could be there.”

You were a pillar of a woman, but no one could fault you for falling apart. Your father had been a lifelong smoker. He quit ten years ago, but it still caught up to him in his sixties, a severe case of COPD that he’d been trying to hide for months. It eventually withered him down to weeks of degeneration in a hospital bed, relying on oxygen masks that could no longer sustain him.

Your mother and sister had left the room for just half an hour to grab some coffee. You stayed behind.

You were alone with your father when he died. All you could do was hold his hand.

Now, all Mark could do was hold you. But he had to blink past a sharp pain, almost like a sudden migraine. Aftershocks reverberated through his skull, radiating from the right to the left.

He’d been dealing with less intense versions of the feeling for a month, but this time, it was like a small shiv between the eyes. It took him enough by surprise that it forced a grunt out of him, making him grimace and blink hard.

You picked your head up from his chest and met him with tearful eyes, frowning in concern.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah,” Mark said. “Just a little headache.”

Winter

“Mark, you need to go to the doctor. You’ve gone through three bottles of Advil. That’s not normal.”

“Look, I told you already. I’m fine.”

“Yeah. That’s really convincing.”

“…Look, that’s Rachel pulling up. You ready to go?”

 You looked out the windows near the front door and saw your sister walking up the driveway. You blinked, like you both could and couldn't believe what you were seeing.

“Wow," you said. "She couldn’t have found a skimpier dress to check out the church. Who’s she trying to impress? The pastor’s already married.”

Mark snorted in amusement, but something soon occurred to him.

“Didn’t you tell me she and her boyfriend just broke up or something?”

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with it?”

He shrugged. “Eh, I don’t know. She’s probably just looking for attention.”

You sighed. You loved your younger sister, but there were times when you wished she’d just grow up a little.

One appointment with Mark’s primary doctor led him to the oncologist. His entire inner world was leveled with just two words:

Glioblastoma Multiforme.

Two words he couldn’t say to you.

It all rang between his ears…

The excitement in your voice when you told him how your last fitting went for the dress.

Faces he’d put behind bars. Years he’d scraped and clawed his way through bureaucratic bullshit, standing his ground against officers with more power than him, but never as much heart.

Your raw, broken grief when you watched your father waste away from the absolute monument of a man he’d been.

How was Mark supposed to level your world too?

He kept it all inside. And like the master of improv he was, he faked enthusiasm for a joint bachelor-bachelorette weekend.

One late night. One fifth of whiskey at the hotel bar turned into numbers he stopped counting—until the Captain reminded him.

You’ve got someone waiting for you. Don’t take that for granted.

He needed to find you.

Somehow, he made it to the elevator by himself. Third floor. Room 304, 305, 306. Fuck. Was it 309?

The door opened, and his addled fucking brain thought it was you at first. She almost had your eyes, if just half the sincerity of your smile.

Rachel welcomed him in and shut the door. He stumbled at the threshold, and she stopped him from falling completely onto the floral-patterned carpet.

“Oh my God, Mark. You okay?”

No. And he knew he wasn’t ever gonna be okay.

But her hands were warm, carving sensuous paths under his leather jacket without him realizing.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

AN: 🫣 I know, I know - I'm sorry it's not my usual happy ending. 💔 But! I am working on a second part to this for @waynes-multiverse, who also requested Mark Meachum for the 5K Celebration...though that one's gonna be even angstier than this one loll 😅 (but maaaybe with a kind of happy ending?)

In the meantime, what did you think of this drabble? Don't you wish we could've stayed in Summer? ❤️‍🩹

Read Part 2: Catastrophic Blues

Summary: Nine months isn’t as long as it sounds. When you run into your ex-fiancé at a bar, he finds out what you've become. You find out the truth.

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Add yourself to my Tag Lists ⟡ Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on. ❤️

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Mark Meachum Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Tag List:

I haven't built out the Mark Meachum tag list just yet, but he's now available on my Tag List form, for anyone who wants to add themselves.

For this post, I'll just include the Dean Winchester tag list and some others who I think are interested in Mark Meachum. Next round, I'll only tag people who want in on the tag list.

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl @globetrotter28

@midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@rizlowwritessortof @k-slla @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @nancymcl

@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@stoneyggirl2 @cheynovak @jollyhunter @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @jessjad @kmc1989 @siampie

@masked-lost-girl @spnbabe67 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005

@impala-dreamer @spnaquakindgdom @my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @bettystonewell

@bleuatlas @podiumackles @samslvrgirl

[rotting-ink]

I love your writing so much that I'm lowkey contemplating to perform craniotopy to see how your brain works how it's able to come up with such tasty wording

AH! I’ll tell you!!! No opening up the nog!

I genuinely think since my first language was German for ages, it’s affected the way I lay out my sentences for one. So many times the testers have to correct the lay out of a sentence and I still gently fuck around.

The other thing is that I’ve been reading like no one’s business since I was 8. I’m originally from South Africa so I spent all my times outside, swimming and playing and didn’t enjoy books- then the moment we moved to the UK? Bitch look outside, you can’t go out there. We also don’t have our PlayStation or video games and a lack of movies for the first couple of months so I just read everything I could. I skipped several reading levels ahead and was reading Pride and Prejudice at 10 years old and understanding it. Ever since then I’m a fiend for books. Legitimately today I bought four books and no groceries because who the fuck needs to eat when you can read. All that and I’ve been writing since I was 9. God my earlier stories were so bad but the longest break I ever took from writing was like… a year? Two years? Who knows. But I never stopped scribbing. Help me, my hands are crying for help

Lastly is that I always want to write like my favourite books. Which so happen to be translated from Spanish. Shadow of the wind, house of spirits, angels game, monstrilio? Dude my favourite books ever are always either written by Spanish or Mexican authors, I’m so sad I will never reach their level. Genuinely do yourself a favour and read Shadow of the Wind and House of Spirits. House of spirits is so near and dear to me, that my copy is so battered ans it still makes me cry. It’s so beautiful and I’d love to just.. fucking eat it. These writers have the most beautiful prose and the best stories that are so…. SO!!! Realistic? But also entrenched in some sort of magic most of the time. Sad people, angry people, very horny people, sweet people. Monstrolio is one of my all time favourites and I always recommend it to friends.

But also ngl add in the fact I own so many junji Ito books that there is something wrong with me. Soichi I love you

ANYWAY! NO SKULL CRACKING!!

[medicineinside]

📚 How I Study German with Lingoda (online school)

I’ve been learning German with Lingoda, and over time I’ve created a strategy that really works for my brain — not just to pass lessons, but to actually understand and remember what I’m learning.

⸻

🌟 Before I Start a New Chapter

I always begin with vocab prep.

I go through all the lessons in the chapter and collect vocabulary.

→ I sort the words into topics (e.g. food, visiting doctor, holidays)

→ I use Notion to build vocab lists — with lots of emojis to help my brain make visual connections 🧠💡

→ This way, I already feel familiar with the words before they come up in class

⸻

📖 Before Each Class

I check the lesson material ahead of time.

If there’s any new grammar topic, I:

→ add it to my “Grammar” page in Notion

→ summarize the rules

→ add color + emojis + tables 😂

It takes a few minutes, but it helps me feel less lost when class starts.

🧠 Flashcards for Grammar

Some grammar topics are hard. So I…

→ Create flashcards for the tricky ones

→ Color-code and categorize them in a flashcard box

→ This makes it super easy to find the rule I need — even during class

⸻

✏️ During Class

I keep my notes minimal — I focus mostly on writing down:

→ new words

→ expressions I’ve never heard

→ corrections the teacher gives

If I say something wrong, I repeat it correctly right away. This helps me remember faster — like mental muscle memory

⸻

🧹 After Class = My Favorite Part

Once class is over, I take all my messy notes and plug them into my vocab & grammar pages.

Everything goes back into my chapter master list, which helps me track what I’ve actually learned.

It’s like cleaning up after a mental storm — and it helps me own the content.

📝 Disclaimer

This post is not an ad or collaboration with Lingoda.

I’m currently studying German through this platform and genuinely enjoy the structure it gives me — though, like with any method, there are both pros and cons.

I just wanted to share what’s working for me right now 💬✨

[cookiedough77]

thinking about neurodivergent lukadrien

[starseongs]

walking to work thinking about hongjoong fangs

[gretagator]

Hi

[mwolf0epsilon]

The Unlucky Tug's season 13 & Hero of the Rails Retrospective video got me thinking about Spencer... As a character we really don't have much on him do we? (Which is ironically fitting since he's a private engine)

Come to think of it, most of what we know of Spencer are a handful of crumbs you can count off your fingers (that he's proud of being a speedster, that he enjoys his work as a private engine, that he's not overly fond of Sodor's engines, etc...), and just a few personality traits you can parse from watching how he interacts with others (which often amounts to him being a pompous jerk who cares more about his status than actually behaving in a way that upholds that status with grace). Other than that, we don't really know who he is or what he did before he became the Duke and Duchess of Boxford's privately owned engine...

Sure, he's an A4 Pacific but... Is he meant to be a specific one?

Every engine in the railway series and the tv shows has a proper basis one can refer to. Even if some of them are fictional members of a specific line of engines or heavily altered (Gordon as his class's imperfect but no less endearing prototype, Edward being a surviving member of his class despite all of the Larger Seagulls having been scrapped in actuality, James being a custom fleshed out in the series, and Henry being a personification of one class configuration being rebuilt into another, etc...the list is never ending here!) they still have a concrete basis you can look at and equate them to.

With that in mind... Is Spencer supposed to be one of the Silvers? The first batch of A4s that pulled the Silver Jubelee and didn't escape scrapping? If so, is he meant to be a fifth fictional member of the Silvers or is he actually one of them under a new identity?

I've seen the latter idea being toyed with a lot (and I do vibe with it because second chances at life freaking slap as a character arc!), but the former idea... The one where maybe he's a secret fifth member that was never really in prominence compared to his older siblings (overlooked and ignored)... It also does seem fitting doesn't it?

Especially considering none of his fellow Silvers survived.

What I'm getting at, is that Spencer strikes me as someone who's deeply insecure to the point he'll latch onto what he thinks is his (his status for example), and protects it with such jealous ferocity that it makes him a very difficult engine to get along with.

If he were one of the Silvers who somehow miraculously got bought by the Duke and Duchess of Boxford when he was going to be scrapped, it definitely makes sense why he tries to seem like he's more than he really is. Making himself out to be important would ensure he continues to remain useful enough that he won't see the cutter's torch so soon...

But it also makes him a potentially very unstable and volatile individual if he gets it in his funnel that someone is threatening his position/existence. Literally anything minor can be blown out of proportion. Including something as harmless as a cheeky little tank engine trying to show him up, and humiliating him in front of his lifeline...

Because trying to get a fellow steam engine scrapped due to a wounded ego is DEFINITELY a disproportional response to his petty squabble with Thomas. And his later reaction when Hiro rescues him shows this too. If Spencer were that much of a jerk that he is all for getting someone else scrapped, he wouldn't have changed his mind so easily.

Spencer's lack of a backstory not only bothers me, it also makes his behavior all that much more interesting to study under a microscope... Just what did he go through that THAT was the only way he thought was appropriate to get back at Thomas? Especially when later it becomes very apparent he didn't mean it...

Who were you Spencer? What did you see?

[vaguely-concerned]

there's a self-help/mental health adjacent post that's going around and it seems to be really helpful for a lot of people which is very good. I also personally hate it with all my fucking heart

[canines-crown]

Slowly starting to think that perhaps those relatively unimportant things that happened like a year ago were actually quite scarring.

Like I really didn't think it was a big deal?? But then my therapist went "oh yeah no that's actually cyber bullying. No wonder you're traumatized"

Cyber bullying?? Traumatized??

I thought she was exaggerating but the more i reflect on those times the worse I feel, and the more... Off it all becomes. I'm scared that I'm spreading misinformation on what happened, but I genuinely believe that's just what that person conditioned me to think?? I was basically taught to always defend them no matter what.

Sorry for the really vague venting I'm just...???? Confused and scared??

[panthermouthh]

A podcaster I listen to just spent an episode describing what his neurodivergent burnout is like for him, and it’s the first time someone’s experience has actually really resonated with me. It affirming and concerning lol

[crescenthistory]

when people warned me that london is a disruptive city to live in, i assumed they meant it’s a loud and bustling city, NOT that strangers will ring on your doorbell literally every day

[telesodalite]

Thinking about KrokFire...

Thinking about them sparring in the cargohold, because it's a long trip, and cabin fever is setting in, and Misfire is gonna pop a gasket if he doesn't do something about it soon, since flying in open space gets real boring real fast, and it's making everyone a little nervous, but Krok has time to kill, and maybe, quietly, he's also two steps away from doing something stupid just to feel alive again after cruising around pointlessly, mindlessly, endlessly, for so so long... (It's barely been a month)

And sure, Misfire is a terrible sparring partner. He has no technique, no concept of proper balance, or an inkling of how to use the weight of his own frame. He rushes headfirst like he's more bull than fighter jet, he talks too much, he spits, he bites, and he can't stand losing. But, in a roundabout way, it almost makes him the perfect partner in Krok's eyes.

Crankcase won't spar, "can't" he claims flatly, gesturing at the gaping hole in his helm, but Krok can respect his want for distance. That occasional flash of fear and frozen unease in Crankcase's visor in close combat doesn't go over his head. He knows that look. He gets it. He won't push.

Fulcrum... well, a streetlight might be a tougher fight, or at least it would stay up longer and complain less. So much for a once respectable officer of the empire. What was Deathsaurus' command thinking promoting anyone without any actual combat training? It would almost be pathetic if Fulcrum didn't find a way to put the vitriol of thrown fists into his words instead. Now there was some swears Krok hadn't heard in a couple millennia, it would be inspiring if it wasn't his own spark Fulcrum had been damning to the pits and back through a bloody nose.

Spinister? Now Spinister was a good fighter, a better fighter, Krok wasn't so prideful to deny that truth. He'd tasted the dust of the cargohold floor enough to know it was a definitive fact. But Spinister held back, he was careful, he matched Krok's pace, his movements, he held himself defensively, any attack was quick, simple, and merely restraining. It was less a fight, and more a waiting game until Krok finally gave up, and that... well, that did sting a bit.

But Misfire? Misfire was a different beast all together. Sure Krok could dance circles around the flier all day, but it wasn't totally effortless work, he had to stay sharp, Misfire was so predictably unpredictable, he kept him thinking, moving, on his toes, and maybe it felt good to sidestep another stupid headfirst charge, easily grabbing and swinging Misfire around by his arm, so unbalanced all Krok had to do was let him go, and the weight of his own frame would send him careening into the crates stacked around them.

Most days, Misfire would give up by then, pull himself off the pile of overturned cargo with no small amount of burning shame and frustration, as he avoided Krok's optics and stormed off into the bowels of the ship before Krok could say something to ease the sting of losing again and again. Misfire didn't want his apologies though, and even as a pang of guilt ate at him over it, Krok knew he'd be back eventually.

But today, too pent-up and bored to quit now, Misfire pushed himself back onto his feet and charged back in again, and again, and again.

And Krok moved with him again, and again, and again. It was almost repetitive, but lively enough that he could feel the energon pumping through his head, a thrumming beat in his audials that reminds him of deafening battlefields and roaring stadiums, and oh, he'd missed this feeling, the adrenaline, the movement, more so than he thought he did.

Maybe it's the overconfidence that gets him then, or the memories pulling him out of the present, but Misfire's fist suddenly comes slamming down into his mask, and for a moment everything becomes a blur, until he finds himself on the floor, clutching at the shattered metal falling from his face in disbelief.

Faintly he can feel the twinge of broken mesh, of pain pinching dully across scarred flickering sensors, and maybe it's the adrenaline that pulls a suprised and breathy laugh out of him as he stares down at the pieces in his hand.

Maybe it's also the disbelief, the sudden shock at being struck hard enough to break his mask, by Misfire of all mechs. Or maybe he's cracked his helm, finally snapping something important deep in his processor, some vital function that kept him sane all these years.

Either way, an old familiar buzz of heady energy fills his chest, loosening his joints and straightening his struts as he stands back up, brushing off the broken remains of his mask as he stares back at Misfire, barefaced and bleeding and amused as the flier's optics go bright and wide.

And all Misfire can do for a moment is stand there, wide-eyed and breathless, his own adrenaline filled frame and hammering processor still trying to make sense of the broken plating of his knuckles and the energon trickling down Krok's scarred lips.

But connections are made, and it's a panicked realization at first, a cold dread, a 'ohhhhh fuck oh primus I fucked up I'm dead I'm so fucking dead-!' sort of feeling, as Krok's marred face breaks into an energon stained grin. But then there's another feeling, growing somewhere underneath the panic, a sudden curl of heat in his chest, a flush of pride, conviction, a sort of frenzied joy at the sight of broken mesh and fresh energon, and another rush of hot anticipation as Krok began to move again, circling, waiting, an unspoken question in the air as he rolls his shoulders back and flexes his hands.

And Misfire answers eagerly, suprising himself almost as he charges foward again, wanting more of that feeling, wanting to win again.

It's not really sparring past this point, and somewhere in the back of their minds they both know that. Every strike, every kick, every punch, it's all thoughtless instinct, each clash of plating, and bite of denta, and scrape of fingertips, is part of a mad dash for victory in the gladiator pit of scrap and debris they've built around themselves.

Of course, it can't last forever. They're no real gladiators, no phase-sixers, no primes, and movements get sluggish, vents rattle and wheeze as coolant pumps reach their limits, and building condensation slides powerless punches right off of scuffed metal and mesh.

Even like this though, worn out and bleeding from more scrapes than he had half a mind to count, Krok is still better, and Misfire is still predictable, and it's no great feat to sweep his legs out from beneath him, landing him flat on the floor, wings spread out and chestplate heaving.

Overworked joints sharply protest as he goes to pin the flier down bodily, and finally Krok faces the fact he has to consider how to end this, so he might let his own beaten frame finally still for a moment to breathe.

But as Krok catches one flailing arm in his grip, scoffing at the desperation, still goading Misfire on even as he tries to end this, a hand stubbornly catches his throat, but stops before it can truly squeeze.

And once more they're not really moving, just staring, watching, but it's less wired and tense now, rather, its shaky, a little unfocused, as exhaustion filters out in heaving puffs of hot air between their frames.

Someone's plating is rattling, Krok isn't sure if it's his own or Misfire's, but the cost of adrenaline is painfully noticeable now. His grip loosens on Misfire's arms, and the idea of total victory is less sweet as his cables begin to ache throughout his inner-framework.

But Misfire's hand slides up to catch his jaw before he can lean back and relent to a truce, and he's pulling him closer, and Krok starts to push him off, call it quits before either of them breaks something past repair, but a flash of energon on Misfire lips catches his eye, and that hadn't been there a moment ago?

Before he can even begin to ask what that was supposed to mean, Misfire is pulling him down again, angling his helm upwards to feverishly meet his lips half-way.

Although the mesh of Misfire's face was throughly bruised and scuffed, Krok had frustratingly failed to return the favor of a busted lip. So, it had to be his own, smeared across Misfire's face at some point in the scuffle, it shouldn't have been interesting in the slightest, but Krok's processor was hazy, slow, and his optics trailed Misfire's glossa as he licked his lips and made an odd curious sound.

And maybe it was a stupid move to make so impulsively, one he'd regret making probably, but still too caught up in the waning heated high of the fight, Misfire figured he could worry about losing such a hard-earned battle later. Right now, this seemed far better than actually winning, and the taste of Krok's energon felt like a victory and reward nonetheless.

Bracing himself as Misfire wriggled his other hand free to splay out over his thigh, holding him desperately against his frame as he tried pulling him even closer, Krok considered the heat dispersion warnings flickering distractingly in his peripheral, and the very noticeable strain on his back and legs, even his arms.

It's not a great position to be in right now, after all they've done already. He'll regret it, he knows he will, his body will make sure of it, if Spinister doesn't first.

But then Misfire's glossa is sliding against the jagged edges of his teeth, and he's making hoarse little pathetic noises into Krok's mouth that stoke some sort of ego at having the flier so desperate beneath him, and Misfire's hands are warm and heavy over aching plating and seams, and really, on second thought, after weeks of boredom, why the hell not?

They've got nowhere to be.

[aingeal98]

You would think that since Bruce and Cass's morals are so aligned I'd be rooting for Bruce in his confrontations against Jason but you'd be wrong. If it's Cass vs Jason I'm team Cass she has the moral high ground and I like her more. If it's Bruce vs Jason neither of them fully have the moral high ground even though technically Bruce and Cass's codes are quite similar. Because unlike Cass Bruce has been used as a mouthpiece by multiple right wing writers and also just plain bad writers to the point that you have to ignore a LOT to simplify his morals down to "Killing bad." Like yeah if Jason's going around murdering people I'm rooting for say, Cass or Dick to take him down. With lots of angst and challenging their codes and making sure everyone has a bad time. But Bruce is just such an asshole and yeah, bad person, in so many other ways. (You can ignore the comics where he's horrible if you want but they exist and there have been so, so many of them it's a consistent character trait post Jason's death. And it's never character assassinating him for anyone else, he's always presented as the Protagonist even when he's going through his edgy punch the kids moments. Which sucks but that's what DC chose.)

And also Jason was sacrificed for Bruce's pain and meant to just stay dead and smeared to let Bruce get the angst without the bad dad allegations so hell yeah son. Come back to life and torment your father. Be more than just a costume in a cave. Just get better comics and better fans because when you're not fighting Bruce you've been Lobdell's pet for so long that most casual readers associate you with his godawful writing right after the UTRH movie.