#handle with aplomb

[gideonthefirst]

💌 :~)

hi ave!! this is very specific but i really respect how despite people occasionally being huge assholes about it i’ve never noticed you to change or mask your natural writing/speaking register; it’s genuinely both comforting and refreshing to follow someone who talks the way you do when expressing opinions and analysis without feeling the need to water it down or suchlike. i think it rules academic-tone-autism forever and ever

[words-writ-in-starlight]

honestly my mother was a huge champ about her eight-year-old asking to be bought an unabridged edition of the Odyssey for a birthday present, and then she was an equally huge champ about reading her eight-year-old the unabridged Odyssey as a bedtime story and pausing every four lines to define something for me, and let me just say that I have fucking TREASURED the opportunity to reverse that old tradition by more or less forcing her to sit on my couch and listen to Epic and pause it every four lines for my dissertation

[firebirdsdaughter]

Something that occurred to me this time…

… Is that Eliot deliberately brings Hardison w/ him to confront Moreau the first time. He tells Nate that he and Hardison will do it (don't worry, I also Love Hardison taking the moment to be like 'hey, are you okay?' bc those two usually express themselves through bickering so much that it clearly telegraphs just how off Eliot is being that Hardison is dropping the usual banter to be serious).

Which for one thing, says something about Eliot's confidence in Hardison in general, but also, like… Yes, Parker's probably not the choice for that introduction, it's not her style, but Nate or Sophie could also have played the part. He could have tried to go alone. But he pulls Hardison.

Obviously he's not trying to put Hardison in danger, he makes it quite clear in all other scenarios that he does not tolerate Hardison in danger (visual cues in The Gone Fishin' Job my beloveds), the others are well aware of the fact that he's Done Some Shit and are equally unaware of his connection to Moreau. And to be honest, I can't pinpoint an exact reason why I think he might have done it, chosen Hardison to be the one who finds out first. Maybe he suspected Moreau would underestimate Hardison, making him safer (relatively, if course), then someone like Nate or Sophie. Maybe he thought it would be best to have Hardison's tech skills as back up. Maybe he thought Hardison would roll w/ the punches the best. Maybe he just wanted Hardison there for morale.

I don't know, but it's a moment that didn't really occur to me the first time, but I think is actually quite meaningful in a more emotional way.

[flarebean]

something about japan's culture makes me want to learn the language because hey, they're nice to customers. i want to be nice back. i want to learn the language so i can be nice back and inconvenience them less through the language barrier guessing game. i probably won't make friends there just as a tourist, because i don't think it's in their culture to talk to random people on the street or in the convenience store, but even so! it is enough that people are kind through ingrained politeness, no?

[themaidenofwords]

Cool Words:

Aplomb (n)-- self-confidence or assurance-- especially when in a demanding situation.

[lostintransist]

Secrets Are For Grown Ups | Part 4

Mama MacTavish has arrived! Find part 1 here.

CW: None, this chaper.

Waiting for Nyla MacTavish turned into one of the longest bouts of anxiety you had ever experienced. Regret was not quite the word you would use for offering to pick her up from the airport, but it was close. Cousin levels of close, if not siblings.

It had taken her a week to arrange her life enough in Scotland to leave it behind for a time. Neither of you knew how long that would be but you happily offered to pay the outrageous amount to fly her here and home. She had been so kind when you could finally wrangle her into a phone call.

She had handled the news of an unexpected grandson with great aplomb. The offer to fly her out and host her in your home so she could meet the boys had taken flustered her though. You exchanged phone numbers and coordinated her flights and pickup time from the airport. Any cake decorating order you had for today had been prepped as far as it could before you left for the airport.

John, who stayed in the spare room next to yours, had walked out the door as you did.

“Heading to talk to Johnny and Simon. I’ll probably spend the rest of the day with them.” He studies your concerned face, hands wringing your keys between your fingers. “I will text when I will be back so you know whether to lock the door or not.”

“Thanks, John. And thank you again for coming so fast.” A lump forms in your throat as you think of how you would have handled this situation without him.

They deserved answers, were owed them. That didn’t mean you could face them alone.

John had shown up less than two days after you called and offered him a spare room to come and play negotiator between you and his former men. Seeing him again unlocked all the thoughts you had pushed away all those years ago, thoughts about him, Gaz, Roach, Simon, Johnny.

God. Those would be thoughts to discuss in therapy. You would also need to discuss the flutter of attraction that scared the shit out of you when John smiled at you from beyond your front door.

The boys, Jace and Mac, were at school and would be for a while yet. Fighting your way into the airport you cursed the signage that led you to make the loop three times until you could pull into the correct lane for parking. Having never parked at the airport before you were focused on finding the right gate and parking somewhere you would remember.

You managed to get twenty steps away from your car when you remembered you could take a photo of the number/letter combo near your car as to avoid getting lost. Huffing a sigh you turn and trudge back, snapping the photo you need before hurrying off into the liminal hell that all airports were.

You and Nyla had decided to fly her in through New York, giving her a chance to deboard and stretch her legs after the hours-long flight. The shorter flights were easier to schedule though she did have to change airlines once. Every time you saw her plane land you fired off a text asking how it was and if she had found her next gate.

Not a big texter, Johnny’s mom. She replied with one-word answers.

Johnny loved to chat, it surprised you a bit that he must have gotten that trait from his father.

There is no designated waiting space to sit near the luggage claim. You know the idea is ‘get your shit and get out’ but this is the only place to wait for someone arriving and frankly it would feel considerate to offer some seating options. You were spiraling. You knew it but seating arrangements, or lack thereof, in a high-traffic place like the airport seemed a more tackle-able issue than the Tarturus-sized pit in your center.

A new stream of people started to trickle in from beyond the TSA access point. Nyla’s plane had landed nearly thirty minutes ago. When you finally spot her the acid in your stomach jumps. Swallowing back the attempted jailbreak you wave. She is shorter than you expected. Johnny didn’t have too much height on you but Nyla stood eye to eye with you.

She wore the age of her years well. Nyla hugged you with a warmth you craved in any motherly figure. Fighting off tears you hug her back.

“Thank you for calling me lass. Now let’s get home and meet those bairns.” She pulled back from the hug, hands still holding your back.

Johnny got his blue eyes from her. The color brightened by the tears rimming her lashes caught you. She steps back to look for her luggage, you trail behind.

“They are at school for a few more hours but let’s get you settled. They know that a grandma they haven’t met yet is coming. John Price has already arrived.”

The look she sends over your shoulder tells you nothing of her thoughts but has you tucking your lips between your teeth.

“You’re expecting a fight from my boys?” She lifts a large suitcase from the carousel.

Rushing forward you offer to take it from her. Nyla holds you back with a stare that would put any grandmother in the area to shame. She lifts an arm to indicate you should lead the way. Working your way back to the parking structure you answer her question.

“I don’t know what to expect from them.” You shrug and fold your arms across your chest, “John said he had talked to them and they are willing to wait to talk about the whole situation until you arrive.”

“Ah, I am to keep my John in line,” she nods sagely.

You trip over nothing. That thought hadn’t occurred to you. Johnny was more of a hothead, and having his mom here would prevent him from getting too in the weeds of his emotions, at least in your house.

Nyla waits as you right yourself and continue to walk. She offers you a smile brimming with kindness as you glance at her.

The air changes as you step into the parking structure, crisper and coated in gasoline.

“Would you like to know about them? My boys?”

At her nod, you start your nervous babbling. You boys were your proudest achievement.

“They know about you, that you are coming and you are their grandmother. They know that my late husband, Larsen is their dad, but that he didn’t help create them.”

You catch the confusion that flashes across her face as you turn to look at a pillar not seeing the color or number/letter combo you need.

“Larsen and I were clear even from the beginning that the boys are ours but they needed to know and have room for meeting their biological fathers if that ever arose.”

“Ah, wise of you. Most would lie and deny the boys the room for anyone more.”

Seeing the right combo your chest and butt hole relax. Yours and Nyla’s footsteps echo out under the cars filling the vast space.

“I know, but I got lied to a lot as a kid and it ruined a lot of good opportunities for me. Larsen knew that and agreed that they wouldn’t think it was odd until they were old enough for someone to point it out and by then they could ask questions and get answers.” Stopping at the back of your car you pop the trunk. “This is me.”

Once the luggage and the people are settled you start the drive home, tales about the boys from infancy to yesterday fill the car with laughter and a growing shared love. You knew Nyla would love and claim both boys despite only being blood to one. She already felt like good people to you.

The boys took to her as if she had always been around. They fluttered around showing off their lego sets and their homework and their room. They shared the largest room in the house. You and Larsen had set that up when they were born along with a cot to split the care of them in the night. While Nyla settled spectacularly into the role of grandmother, Nan as she asked to be called, you missed Larsen with a fierceness that shocked you.

A text from John pulled you from missing your best friend. He would be home after the boys went to bed. John had also been surprisingly good with the boys, taking to their constant chatter and insistence to play with a smile.

Firing off a text of thanks you settle back into the chaos unfolding before you. Mac had taken one look at Nan Nyla and the gift of legos she brought and handed her a bag and an instruction book to help him and Jace build the Jurrasic Park set.

Part 5

Secrets Masterlist | Masterlist

@love-kha1 @bdbdhshhs @vmaxis @splaterparty0-0 @momowhoo @talia-the-gemini @redkarmakai @aethelwyneleigh27 @asexualbuthorny

[dilatorywriting]

59 Leona, it'd take a lot for him to admit but he would say it eventually. (Also I know you'd recognize me but I'm shy, so anon it is)

Gender Neutral Reader x Leona Kingscholar Word Count: 1.5k

Prompt 59: "People like me aren’t supposed to have someone like you, I think fate was being harsh on you."

[EVENT MASTERLIST]

You are nice, and you are stupid. And those things aren’t mutually exclusive.

Sometimes you’re nice because you’re stupid, and sometimes you do stupid things because you’re too nice for your own stupid, stupid good. And it drives Leona half insane.

Which it shouldn’t, because nice, stupid people like you are just as annoying as his brother. Goody-two-shoes with buttoned vests and sparkly, star-shaped stickers on their term papers.

“Did you remember your homework?”

Leona flicked his tail in your face and you scrunched your nose over your notebook.

“Well?”

“Of course I remembered,” he scoffed, lazing back against the roots of one of his favorite trees. This spot used to be so much quieter, so much more peaceful, before you decided to trail after him like a duck quacking for its mother.

“Did you do the homework?” you clarified, and Leona rolled his eyes.

You sighed and starting ruffling around in your bookbag. “I brought a spare copy of the worksheet. You’re going to drive Ruggie insane, y’know. If he winds up stuck with you for another year because you failed for not turning in assignments.”

“Yeah. Sure. Another three-hundred-and-sixty-five days to rifle through my wallet. Worst news of his life.”

You huffed good naturedly and handed him the sheet of crisp, white copy paper and a pen. “Get to work, Kingscholar.”

“Oh?” he drawled, closing his eyes and settling back, loose limbed and all long, lean leisure, against the tree trunk. Clearly ready for an afternoon snooze. “Make me.”

You sighed again and reached over to flick your own well-used pen against his ear. It twitched under your fingers—soft, and tufted. The finest of the pale, tan fur brushing up against your fingertips. “Fine. Be that way. See if I bring you lunch tomorrow.”

“You will,” he scoffed.

“Yeah,” you sighed, sounding resigned and foolishly fond. “I probably will.”

See? Stupid. So easy to manipulate. So willing to let yourself be squashed under his clawed thumb. It was a wonder you’d managed to survive in this school at all. Nevertheless by clinging onto the coattails of someone like him. He’d never made anyone’s existence easier a day in his life, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now, just because you were too soft-hearted and slow to see a looming predator for what it was.

“Just give me that stupid fucking paper,” he snapped, sitting upright and swatting away your poking pen with a sneer. You laughed into your palms like a secret—bright, and merry, and dumb as a fucking rock.

“Whatever you say, Leona.”

.

.

You’d handled his Overblot with a strange sort of aplomb that at first Leona had attributed to perhaps a lingering, hidden confidence that he’d just never bothered to unearth. You were just some herbivore, and even the littlest rabbits could bite back when you put them in a corner. But then he’d come to the decision that that easy conviction was just another symptom of your rampant stupidity.

“I know you guys don’t want to hurt me, or any of us. Not really,” you shrugged around a wad of cotton—the blood dripping from your nose slowly drying up to a tacky, sticky dribble. Leona gaped at you outright.

That was your grand explanation. For why you’d been so eager to charge forward when he’d collapsed in a pool of inky nightmares and self-loathing. And the very same reason apparently thatyou’d felt so comfortable rushing forward to treat Azul Ashengrotto’s blubbering, hysterical, breakdown with the same urgency.

“That octo-prick would have ripped you in half,” he sneered, fingers twitching a nervous rhythm against his palms as he watched the nurse wrap another layer or bandages around your head.

You shrugged. “Not on purpose.”

You were going to give him an aneurism.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he snarled, ignoring the horrible, twisty thing curling like bile through his chest. “And I’m not going to bother paying for some self-sacrificing idiot’s funeral.”

Another shrug.

“That’s alright,” you hummed, a soft sort of crooked smile on your mouth. “Would’ve been a waste of money anyways.”

Leona didn’t talk to you for a week after that. Surely because your stupidity had reached such a fever pitch that it was no doubt contagious, and he needed to protect his far superior and more valuable brain. Not because the image of you smiling and nodding along to his declarations that he wouldn’t put the effort into mourning your death had soured something so deep in his gut that he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to scrape it out.

.

.

When he received a letter from home asking him to return for some shitty coronation nonsense for his equally shitty brother, Leona had debated just skipping it outright. Who was going to stop him? You?

Well. Yes, apparently.

“It sounds important,” you hummed, peering over his shoulder at the neat, formal scrawl of the summons. “You should go.”

He snorted. “I don’t want to be there, they don’t want me to be there. What’s the point.”

You frowned, brow crinkling in the middle.

“Well, that’s not true,” you said, perplexed. “They wouldn’t write to you if that was the case.”

Leona snorted, eyes darting away to glare bitterly off into the corner. “Not like they have a choice.”

“Well then you don’t have a choice either,” you argued, firm. “I’ll go with you. See? It says you can have a plus one. You can camp out in your fancy, princey, bedroom. And I can siphon you snacks from the fancy, princey hors d'oeuvres tables. That way we both win. You get to be a reclusive asshole and rub the fact that that you still went in everyone’s faces, and I can get access to some tasty, royal food that I’ll probably never be able to afford again for the rest of my life.”

“Should’ve known you’d be like Ruggie—only using me for the free food,” he sighed, melodramatic and obviously put on.

“Well, also because I thought you could use the emotional support,” you added, a touch too soft and far too genuine. “But I didn’t think you wanted to hear that bit.”

“You’re right,” he scoffed, turning onto his side to hide the strange, miserable heat pricking at his skin. “Don’t ever say corny shit like that again.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” you grinned, flicking at his ear, and Leona added another mental tab to his never-ending list of reasons that you were really far too brainless to keep functioning at all.

.

.

You were nice, and you were stupid. And Seven, he wanted to be anywhere but here.

“My brother hasn’t ever brought someone to one of these events before,” Falena had said, to your face. Idiot to idiot communication.  

“I didn’t give him much of an option,” you’d chirped, perfectly pleasant. “I don’t think he wants me anywhere near here, to be fair. Or around him in general. But I’m like a cockroach. Can’t get rid of me.”

And Falena had laughed. Because he was terrible. And said, “I’m sure he must care about you very much, little cockroach.”

And then because you were more terrible, you laughed back and said very assuredly, “Oh, not at all.”

Which was—was—

“Do you really think that?” he snapped, once the two of you were alone. And you blinked back at him with wide, owlish eyes.

“Think what?”

Think at all,he wanted to sneer, but just glared silently and bitterly into the middle distance—fighting the nonsensical, irritated swishing of his tail.

But you just kept staring at him. Like he was the moron here. Which was unacceptable.

“Look,” he frowned, sharp and miserable. “I get it. People like me aren’t supposed to have someone like you. Whatever gods exist out there were playing a shitty fucking joke on you when they dropped you in my lap. But you’re stuck with me. So stop—” he bit out, fighting that awful, twisty thing in his gut that never seemed to fully go away. “Stop talking like I can’t stand you.”

“…oh,” you mumbled, whisper quiet—that wide, startled gaze flicking away in embarrassment. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he echoed, sharp, and you snorted a laugh that seemed to surprise even you.

“You’re stuck with me too then, y’know,” you said after a long moment. “Even when I make you grumpy.”

“You don’t make me grumpy. I am grumpy. You make me—” he cut off quick, eyes darting away petulantly and an absolutely unfair heat rising along his cheekbones.  

“Itchy,” you piped in, and he gaped at you in shock.

“What?”

“You know,” you shrugged, awkward, and reached up to wiggle your fingers. “Cockroach. Many legs. Squirming. Itchy.”

“Never say any of those words again.”

You laughed into your palm—inelegant and a touch too loud. Leona felt his lips quirk.

“Thank you,” you said after a moment, once your giggles were a bit more under control. And leaned forward quick as a whip to press a nervous peck against his cheek. “For being kind to me.”

Kind.

Leona reached up to press a hand against the too-warm skin with a terrible, unfamiliar sensation in his head not unlike the fuzzy, white drone of TV static. And a horrible thought managed to filter its way through the floating, buzzing sensation curling through the whole of him.

Oh, fuck. It is contagious.

.

.

[frownyalfred]

Tbh, the trinity? Diana's the king (master general, trained from birth to lead, level head, handles external affairs with grace and aplomb, inspires loyalty), Clark's the queen (handles internal affairs, reads people and situations well, friendly face of the trio, inspires loyalty, works well on his own, better when supporting others), while Bruce is the spy master/royal advisor (quiet, bad with people but good at reading them, tactical mastermind (Diana is too, but letting Bruce focus on tactics means she can focus on leading and managing her people), loyal beyond words, and works best from the background, where he arrange things and people to best suit his goals, and protect and serve those he's loyal to- his family, Clark, Diana, and then those he protects as a matter of principle.).

Exactly. Diana takes the lead because that's who she is as a person. Clark shares that lead because of a sense of duty to humanity. And Bruce stands behind them both in the shadows, because he will only step out of them if they need him. All three of them are vital parts to the whole they've formed.

[casquecest]

Snape is denied the Order of Merlin, and he is handling it with much grace and aplomb.

[novaursa]

Between Pride and Fire (matters of the realm)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: royals

- Next part: lion's den

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

From The Testimony of Mushroom, corroborated by Grand Maester Mellos in The Histories of the Dragon’s Heirs

The aftermath of the ill-fated wedding of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon left scars that stretched far beyond the stone walls of the Red Keep. What was meant to be a celebration of unity between House Targaryen and Velaryon descended into a night of blood and horror, and the ripples of that chaos were felt throughout the realm. Though the Septon’s final words bound Rhaenyra and Laenor in marriage, no feast nor dance could wash away the stain of Ser Criston Cole’s brutal slaying of Ser Joffrey Lonmouth.

The following morning brought a hush over King’s Landing. Gone were the sounds of trumpets and revelry, replaced instead by whispered rumors that passed like fire through dry grass. Lords muttered behind closed doors, and the smallfolk spun tales of what had occurred within the Red Keep’s great hall. Some claimed it was jealousy that drove Criston Cole into such madness. Others whispered of darker schemes—of secrets unveiled and grudges laid bare. What all could agree on, however, was that nothing would ever be the same again.

Amidst the wreckage of this chaos, Lord Jason Lannister and his Targaryen wife, Princess Y/N, emerged as figures of enviable stability. Where the royal family seemed fractured and fragile, the golden lions of the West stood tall and untouchable, their crimson cloaks as vivid as blood amongst the rubble.

In truth, it is said that Jason Lannister handled the scandalous events of the wedding with the same smug aplomb that defined him. Grand Maester Mellos noted in his letters that Jason “laughed when others wept, as if the bloodshed were no more troubling than spilled wine.” Mushroom, however, provides a far more colorful description, claiming that Jason whispered to his wife as they departed the chaos of the great hall: “This was a wedding for the histories, my dragon—though I do think our lion slaying made for better sport.”

The princess, by contrast, was said to have been troubled. Mushroom claims she remained quiet and pale throughout the night, tending to her twins, Leona and Loren, in the privacy of their chambers while Jason drank deeply and regaled his kin with tales of the absurdity he had witnessed. “My lady soothed babes while her lion roared,” Mushroom writes, “and so it is with all marriages—a woman tends to what matters while a man tends to his pride.”

Yet while others looked upon the aftermath with despair, the Lannisters only seemed to shine brighter. In the days following the wedding, it was Jason and Y/N who took to the streets of King’s Landing to present themselves—her silver hair and his golden crown of curls appearing like twin beams of light amidst the gloom. The smallfolk cheered for them as though they were the ones newly wed, and they cooed over the twins, Leona and Loren, as if the babes themselves were proof that unity could still exist in the realm.

“The king’s first grandchildren,” Jason boasted loudly in the marketplace, clutching a goblet of wine as he stood before the people. Mushroom claims that Y/N chastised her husband for flaunting the twins so openly, fearing what enemies such displays might invite. “They are children, Jason, not trophies,” she is said to have told him. Yet Jason only grinned and replied, “All Lannisters are trophies, wife. Even the cubs.”

It was in this way that Lord Jason and Princess Y/N presented an image of strength when others faltered. While King Viserys withdrew further into his chambers—his health seeming to wane with each passing day—and Queen Alicent surrounded herself with her father’s allies, the Lannisters stood as a spectacle of gold and crimson, untarnished by scandal.

Mushroom, of course, cannot resist adding his usual crudeness to their story. He claims that Jason’s cheer during the day was matched only by his ardor at night. “The Rock’s lion roared as loudly in bed as he did in the streets,” Mushroom writes salaciously, “and if the princess protested, no soul ever heard it. One might think that bloodshed stirred the man’s appetites, for it is said that Jason and his dragon wife scarce left their chambers save to parade the babes like kings at a tourney.”

Whether or not such claims hold any truth is impossible to say, for Mushroom’s accounts are ever prone to exaggeration. Grand Maester Mellos writes only that the princess “remained attentive to her children and dutiful to her husband, keeping her composure where many others faltered.” Yet even he could not deny the sharp contrast between the turmoil within the Red Keep and the Lannisters’ public display of unity.

It is worth noting, too, that the princess did not forget her sister. Rhaenyra, secluded with Laenor in the wake of the tragedy, is said to have received a quiet visit from Y/N in the days following the wedding. No records remain of their conversation, but Mushroom insists he overheard whispers through the keyhole, where Y/N reassured Rhaenyra that “the world may tear at you, but you will endure.”

Jason, meanwhile, paid little mind to such solemn affairs. Mushroom claims that when questioned about the wedding’s bloodshed, Jason merely laughed and said, “The realm would be dull without a bit of chaos. A Lannister thrives in it.”

And so it was that while King Viserys aged before the eyes of the court, and while Rhaenyra and Laenor retreated into their uneasy marriage, Lord Jason Lannister and Princess Y/N stood like a beacon amidst the gathering storm. Mushroom, ever the cynic, described it best: “When the world shakes and dragons roar, the lions stand tall—but make no mistake, my lords, even lions cannot see when the ground is crumbling beneath their paws.”

For now, though, the realm looked upon Jason and Y/N as a shining example—a marriage of fire and gold that burned brighter in the shadows cast by others’ failings. The twins, Leona and Loren, were called “the hope of the Rock” by the smallfolk of the Westerlands, and wherever the Lannisters walked, the world watched.

Yet even as their star rose, the events of Rhaenyra’s wedding left a scar upon the realm—a scar that would fester in the years to come. And while Jason laughed and Y/N stood strong, the first cracks in the foundation had already begun to form.

King Viserys sat slouched in a cushioned chair at the head of a large table, his crown tilted slightly askew as though it weighed far too much. The king looked every bit as weary as he had in the days following Rhaenyra's wedding, though his smile remained warm and genuine as he listened to Laenor Velaryon recount some jest or tale of his youth.

Jason Lannister reclined comfortably in his chair, legs stretched out, a goblet of wine lazily balanced in one hand. He had been summoned to join the king this morning, alongside Ser Laenor, for reasons that were as yet unclear. Jason, of course, never missed an opportunity to enjoy royal company—or to make his presence felt.

Leaning back, Jason smirked at Laenor as the young Velaryon finished his story, his laughter ringing easily through the otherwise quiet chamber. “So let me see if I’ve heard this correctly,” Jason said, his voice dripping with amusement. “You dove headfirst into the harbor after your brother dared you… and were fished out naked before half the ships of Driftmark?”

Laenor grinned, his silver hair catching the sunlight as he shrugged. “What can I say, Lord Jason? I was young and bold, and the water seemed warm enough at the time.”

Viserys barked a laugh, clapping his hand against the armrest of his chair, though the effort seemed to take more energy than it once might have. “Ah, youth,” he said fondly, shaking his head. “If only we could live those days again.”

Jason chuckled softly, raising his goblet toward Laenor. “You’ve spirit, Velaryon. That much, I can respect.”

Across the room, Otto Hightower stood like a shadow, his hands clasped neatly at his waist, though his sharp eyes never stopped watching. His presence was like a cold draft in the otherwise warm chamber, lingering silently but impossible to ignore. His gaze flitted toward Jason every now and again—side glances sharp as a dagger—as though measuring every word that fell from the Lord of Casterly Rock’s mouth.

Jason, for his part, paid him no mind. Or rather, he pretended not to notice.

After a lull in conversation, Otto stepped forward slightly, clearing his throat with deliberate softness. “Your Grace,” he said, though his eyes lingered on Jason, “the matters of the realm wait for no man—even those of noble station.”

Viserys waved a hand, though it lacked its usual vigor. “What matters, Otto? Let us have peace in this room for once. There are no councils here today.”

Otto smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes. “Of course, Your Grace.” He turned his gaze fully to Jason now, his tone clipped and polite. “Lord Jason, it is a pleasure to see you still in our halls. Though I must admit… it has been nearly a week since the wedding festivities came to an end. I imagine your people in the Westerlands must miss you greatly by now.”

Jason did not so much as blink, though his smirk sharpened like a blade’s edge as he tilted his goblet, swirling the wine idly. “How kind of you to concern yourself with my duties, Lord Hand,” he said, his tone almost lazy. “But my bannermen are capable. I trust my family is managing affairs in my absence without issue.”

Otto’s smile remained fixed, though his fingers tightened slightly where they rested at his waist. “And yet,” he continued, voice smooth as silk, “I would not wish to keep the Lord of Casterly Rock from the lands he serves so dutifully. Surely your family will be eager to return to the Westerlands soon?”

Jason glanced at Otto from the corner of his eye, the glint of amusement never leaving his face. “In time,” he replied smoothly, sipping his wine. “The king has graciously offered us his hospitality, and it would be rude to leave too soon, don’t you think?”

Viserys, oblivious to the subtle tension in the air, let out a faint chuckle. “Jason is right, Otto. Let them stay a while longer. It’s not every day I have the pleasure of my grandchildren’s company.”

Jason smiled broadly at that, clearly pleased to hear Viserys mention the twins. “Aye, Your Grace. It warms my heart to know the king takes such joy in their presence. Leona and Loren have grown fond of their grandsire already.”

Otto’s expression flickered ever so slightly at the mention of the twins. “Yes, no doubt,” he murmured, though his tone was laced with something unreadable.

Laenor, who had remained quiet throughout this exchange, cleared his throat with a small grin. “Lord Jason, I suspect you’ll find it hard to leave the capital if King Viserys has his way. The man seems to adore your children almost as much as you do.”

Jason turned toward Laenor, his easy grin returning as he raised his goblet. “Who could blame him? The twins are the pride of the West.” He turned back to Otto with a faintly pointed look. “You might even say they shine brighter than gold.”

The jab was subtle, but Otto caught it. His expression remained neutral, though his gaze lingered on Jason for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Gold fades, my lord,” Otto replied softly. “But the realm endures.”

Jason laughed, though there was little warmth in it. “Wise words, Lord Hand. I’ll be sure to remember them.”

Viserys, sensing none of the tension now thickening in the room, exhaled heavily and leaned back into his chair. “Enough of this talk. Otto, there will be time for matters of duty later. Let us enjoy what peace we can.”

Otto inclined his head, though he cast one final glance at Jason before stepping back into the shadows. Jason, ever unbothered, leaned closer to you as the king settled into a half-doze, murmuring softly near your ear.

“Do you see how he watches me, wife? Like a cat watching a mouse that refuses to scurry.”

You offered him a sidelong look, keeping your voice low. “And what does that make you, my lord?”

Jason grinned, his confidence unshaken. “The mouse who knows the cat can’t catch him.”

You shook your head faintly, though you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Perhaps you should not push him so.”

Jason shrugged, leaning back in his chair with that infuriating air of ease. “Otto Hightower cannot push me from King’s Landing any sooner than I wish to leave it. Besides,” he added, casting a glance toward the king, “I’ll take my leave when it suits me—and when the king tires of spoiling my children.”

“Let us hope that day comes quietly,” you murmured, though even you could sense that the quiet days were already beginning to dwindle.

Jason only smirked, lifting his goblet to his lips once more, as though the game he played was his alone to win.

The city of King's Landing hummed with life beneath the early afternoon sun, its sprawling streets teeming with vendors hawking their wares, children darting between carts, and common folk bustling about their daily routines. The smells of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh bread mingled in the air with less savory scents—a testament to the chaotic beauty of the capital. Today, however, the market had something far grander to behold.

Jason Lannister strode through the heart of the city like a king on progress, flanked by his retinue. His cloak swirled behind him with every step, and his pride shone brighter than any coin in the city. At his side walked you, composed and regal. The twins, Leona and Loren, were nestled securely in your arms and the arms of a trusted wet nurse, swaddled in soft crimson silks embroidered with golden lions and dragons.

A royal escort preceded you, knights of the City Watch with their gleaming golden cloaks clearing a path through the crowd while banners of House Targaryen and House Lannister fluttered proudly overhead. Behind you, Jason’s Lannister men and retainers marched in formation, their polished armor catching the sun and dazzling the gawking crowd. What began as an ordinary market day had now become a spectacle—and Jason, ever the lion, relished it.

“Lord Jason Lannister! Princess Y/N!” came the cries from vendors and citizens alike as you passed. A ripple of excitement spread through the market as more people pushed forward, eager for a glimpse of the king’s first grandchildren.

Jason, of course, was all smiles, nodding graciously to the crowd and pausing now and then to lift his hand in greeting. “Good folk of King’s Landing!” he called at one point, his voice carrying like a man born to be heard. “The pride of the West greets you! A fine day, is it not?”

You shot him a look, though amusement tugged at your lips. “Must you parade us so boldly?” you murmured, adjusting the swaddled babe in your arms. Leona, bright-eyed even in her infancy, squirmed softly against you.

“Of course,” Jason replied smoothly, glancing sidelong at you with a grin. “How else will they know that Lannisters walk among them? Besides,” he added, gesturing toward the crowd, “they should see the king’s first grandchildren—let them remember this day.”

“And when they curse us for blocking their stalls?” you teased lightly, though you could not deny the awe on the faces of the smallfolk as they caught sight of the twins. Women gasped and cooed, children shrieked in delight, and men whispered to one another as they craned their necks for a better view.

“If they curse us, it’ll be through tears of joy,” Jason replied with a wink.

The market sprawled open before you, the crowd parting wherever the gold-cloaked guards marched. Jason paused at a particularly loud stall, where a vendor was shouting about the finest Dornish silk. The merchant, an older man with a grizzled beard, nearly dropped his bolts of fabric when Jason stopped before him.

“Silk from Dorne, you say?” Jason asked with mock scrutiny, his grin lazy. “And what makes it finer than the silks worn by my lady wife?”

The merchant blinked rapidly, his mouth hanging open before he stammered, “I-It’s the finest, m’lord—truly! Soft as the morning mist and strong as dragon’s wings!”

Jason glanced back at you with a smug grin. “Shall we compare, wife?” he teased, though his voice carried enough weight to send the merchant into a sputtering fit.

You rolled your eyes, shifting Leona in your arms as the wet nurse beside you held Loren securely. “Lord Jason, if you mean to torment every vendor in the market, we’ll be here till sundown.”

“Perhaps I’m a generous man, parading my coin,” Jason replied with a wink, though he tossed the merchant a gold dragon for his trouble before strolling on, shoulders back and chin high.

The procession wound its way through stalls of fruit, fish, and fine jewelry, with Jason greeting strangers like long-lost friends and showing no signs of humility. Children gawked as the twins passed, their small faces pressed to the edges of the crowd. A small girl, no older than six, tugged at her mother’s skirts and pointed.

“Is it true?” she whispered loudly. “Are they dragons?”

Jason heard and turned, crouching low enough to address the girl directly, his green eyes gleaming with mischief. “Dragons and lions both, little one,” he said with a conspiratorial grin. “Fire and gold, brought together.”

The girl’s eyes widened as she clutched her mother’s hand tightly. “They’re magic,” she breathed.

Jason straightened, glancing toward you with a faint smirk. “Did you hear that, wife? Magic. I knew it.”

“Enough of your games, Jason,” you murmured, though you could not suppress the faint smile on your lips. The twins were beginning to fuss now, little Loren letting out a high-pitched wail that cut through the air. The wet nurse bobbed him gently, but Jason was undeterred.

“Ah, the boy has lungs,” Jason said proudly, as though Loren’s cries were a testament to Lannister strength. “A roar, like his father.”

“And if you don’t let them rest soon,” you replied pointedly, “they’ll roar loud enough to scatter this entire market.”

Jason gave you a good-natured grin before turning to his men. “We’ll head back to the keep,” he announced, waving a hand lazily. “But not before they know they’ve seen the future of the realm.”

As the procession wound its way back toward the gates of the Red Keep, the streets of King’s Landing seemed to buzz with renewed life. Jason Lannister’s “spectacle,” as you had called it, had done its job. The people stared in awe, whispered about the silver-haired babes who would grow to inherit power, and cheered as you passed.

Jason, of course, was entirely unbothered by the extravagance of it all. He slowed his steps as you reached the shadow of the keep, casting a look at you, smug and satisfied. “There,” he said softly, gesturing toward the lingering crowd still watching your departure. “The first of many days when our children will be remembered.”

You shook your head faintly, though your voice held none of the fire your words implied. “You’ll make them into legend before they can even walk.”

Jason laughed softly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of silver hair behind your ear. “Why not? Let them shine, wife. They are Lannisters and Targaryens both—and worth every cheer.”

As the gates closed behind you and the streets faded into distant hums of noise, you sighed softly, looking down at Leona as she stirred in your arms. “Just try not to make a habit of turning every outing into a parade.”

Jason smirked, his hand brushing yours as you walked. “No promises.”

The sun hung low in the sky, bathing the Red Keep’s sprawling courtyards in its light as the day waned. In the quieter corner of the gardens, two figures stood near a marble bench beneath the shade of an old elm. Jason Lannister, ever confident, leaned lazily against the tree’s trunk, a small goblet dangling loosely from his fingers. His younger twin, Tyland Lannister, stood rigid as ever, hands clasped neatly behind his back, his sharp green eyes scanning the courtyard with watchful intent.

The soft rustle of leaves filled the silence, punctuated only by the distant calls of servants tending the grounds and the faint hum of the city beyond the walls. For once, Jason seemed content to remain quiet, taking a slow sip from his cup as Tyland studied him with a frown.

“You’re too comfortable here,” Tyland said finally, his voice low but firm, cutting through the late afternoon stillness.

Jason glanced at him sidelong, lifting a brow. “And why shouldn’t I be? The king himself welcomed us. The court admires us, my children are the first of Viserys’s grandchildren—tell me, brother, where is the harm in that?”

Tyland exhaled softly through his nose, as though he’d expected Jason’s reply. “Because not everyone admires us, Jason. Some see your pride as a threat, and you do little to dissuade them.”

Jason smirked, pushing himself off the tree trunk to stand straight. “The Hightowers, you mean,” he said, his voice edged with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’ve come all this way to warn me of Otto Hightower. The man’s shadow might loom over the king, but I’m hardly frightened of it.”

“You should be,” Tyland shot back sharply, his tone laced with frustration. He stepped closer, his boots crunching faintly over the gravel. “Otto is not blind to your games, Jason. Nor is Alicent. You parade your wife and children through the city as if you were already king’s heir. You act as though you have nothing to lose, and that arrogance will make you enemies.”

Jason tilted his head slightly, studying his brother with a flicker of curiosity. “And since when have you been so cautious, Tyland? It’s unlike you to sound so… measured.”

Tyland’s jaw tightened, though he kept his composure. “I am cautious because someone in this family needs to be. I’ve seen the way Otto Hightower watches you—and your wife. The man is no fool. He knows the king favors the princess, but that favor extends to you now, too, by marriage and blood. The twins, Jason.” Tyland’s voice dropped lower, as though he feared the words might carry. “They are Targaryen by their mother, but to the Hightowers, they are lions sitting too close to the throne.”

Jason let out a short, dismissive laugh, though the sound held little mirth. “Lions are always close to thrones, brother. That is where we belong.”

“Not in King’s Landing,” Tyland snapped, his patience fraying. “Not here, not now. The Hightowers are careful, deliberate, and they will see every golden thread in this keep as a noose around their necks.”

Jason’s smirk faded just slightly, though he masked it with another sip of wine. “You worry too much, Tyland. Otto can scheme all he likes, but Viserys is no fool. The man loves his daughter, and by extension, he loves me and our family. Us. Do you truly think the Hightowers can undo that with mere whispers?”

Tyland’s expression hardened, his sharp features shadowed by the waning light. “Whispers are all it takes when the right ears hear them. Alicent and her brood will not sit idle while you charm the court into loving you. Mark me, brother—when the queen smiles at you, it is not kindness. It is a measuring look.”

Jason fell silent at that, his gaze narrowing slightly as he studied Tyland. The truth of the words sank in, though he would never admit it aloud. “And what would you have me do?” Jason asked finally, his voice softer now, though his pride still lingered. “Pack my family off to Casterly Rock with our tails between our legs? Run, so Otto Hightower can preen in victory?”

“I would have you be smart, Jason,” Tyland replied firmly. “This is not Casterly Rock. Here, lions are not kings—they are guests. Tread carefully. Do not give the Hightowers reason to fear you more than they already do.”

Jason glanced away briefly, his gaze sweeping across the quiet garden as he weighed his brother’s words. He loathed the idea of playing meek, of hiding the strength he so openly wore, but he could not deny the truth in Tyland’s warning. The Red Keep was no place for complacency, not with so many eyes watching.

Finally, Jason turned back to Tyland with a faint sigh, though his smirk returned—smaller this time, quieter. “Fine. I’ll play the part of a humble lord if it will ease your mind. I’ll even refrain from parading my children through the streets like trophies.”

Tyland arched a brow, unimpressed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Jason chuckled softly, clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder as he passed him, his voice light despite the lingering tension. “Come now, Tyland. Where’s your faith in me?”

“I have faith,” Tyland replied dryly, watching him go. “Just not in your restraint.”

As Jason strolled back toward the keep, his confident stride unbroken, Tyland lingered beneath the elm tree, his expression clouded with thought. He had spoken his warning, but whether Jason would heed it—or whether it was already too late—remained to be seen. The game was changing in the Red Keep, and as ever, the lions of the West walked a fine line between power and peril.

The faint sounds of the Red Keep—servants bustling in distant halls, the distant clang of swords from the training yard—faded as Jason entered in your shared chambers, shutting the heavy door behind him with a muted thud.

You sat curled on the chaise near the hearth, a book resting lightly in your lap, though you didn’t appear to be reading it. The soft glow of the fire illuminated your silver hair and the delicate lines of your face, though there was an unmistakable weariness to your features—a weariness that Jason caught immediately.

“Brooding again, wife?” Jason’s voice broke the quiet, his tone light as ever, though he studied you carefully as he stepped deeper into the room. He shrugged off his crimson cloak, letting it pool on the bench near the door before he approached you.

You looked up at him, arching an eyebrow with faint amusement. “I think brooding is your word for thinking, Jason.”

“Perhaps,” Jason admitted, dropping heavily into the armchair across from you with a dramatic sigh. “But I find thinking far less productive than brooding. Brooding invites company. Thinking only invites headaches.”

You smirked faintly, though you said nothing as you marked your page and set the book aside. Jason stretched out his long legs, his boots scuffing against the edge of the hearth. For a long moment, the two of you sat in a companionable silence, the fire crackling softly between you.

At last, Jason spoke again, his tone quieter this time. “And how did you spend your afternoon, my dragon?”

You shifted slightly, smoothing your skirts as you regarded him. “With Rhaenyra,” you said simply. “She needed company, I think. This place weighs on her.”

Jason hummed faintly, his expression unreadable. “I imagine it does,” he said after a moment. “There’s no peace here—not for her, and certainly not for us.”

You tilted your head slightly, catching the edge in his voice. “What did Tyland say to you?”

Jason’s gaze flicked to yours, though his smirk returned almost immediately. “What makes you think he said anything?”

“Because I know you,” you replied, your voice calm but certain. “And Tyland always looks like he’s swallowed a lemon when he’s giving you advice.”

Jason laughed softly at that, leaning his head back against the chair as his smirk widened. “You know me too well, wife. Tyland, ever the solemn twin, has warned me of Otto Hightower’s lingering stares. Apparently, we are a threat.”

You frowned, your brow creasing slightly. “A threat?”

Jason waved a hand dismissively, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t let it trouble you. The Hand has seen a golden lion where there is only a loyal son-in-law and devoted husband.”

You gave him a pointed look, though you didn’t press him further. “You should listen to Tyland, Jason. The Hightowers are dangerous, and Otto plays his games well.”

Jason let out a mock groan, as though exhausted by the topic already. “Enough of the Hightowers. I’ve no interest in talking about dour old men when I have my lovely wife before me.” He pushed himself up from the chair, crossing the room with that familiar easy grace.

You watched him warily as he approached, his green eyes glinting with mischief, though you couldn’t entirely suppress the smile threatening to form. “What are you doing?”

Jason crouched before you, resting his hands lightly on your knees, his expression deceptively innocent. “Admiring you, of course. Can a man not look upon his wife and marvel at his good fortune?”

You arched an eyebrow, though you felt the heat rise faintly in your cheeks. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you married me,” Jason quipped smoothly, his grin widening. His hands slid slowly up your thighs, his touch deliberate and teasing as he leaned closer. “Are you regretting it now?”

You shot him a look, though your voice held no real bite. “Not yet. But you’re testing me.”

Jason chuckled, the sound low and warm as he brushed his lips against your knuckles. “Testing you? No, my dragon. I’m simply reminding you of how much you adore me.”

You scoffed lightly, though your breath hitched as his hand trailed further, fingers curling just slightly around your waist. “Always an arrogant ass,” you murmured, though your voice softened.

Jason’s smirk turned roguish as he leaned in, his mouth hovering just above yours. “And yet, you can’t resist me,” he whispered. “Admit it.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could, Jason closed the space between you, his lips claiming yours in a kiss that stole whatever argument you might have made. He kissed you slowly, deliberately, as though savoring every second. His hands found your waist, tugging you closer until you were pulled against him, your book and thoughts forgotten entirely.

When he pulled back, just slightly, he grinned down at you, his face far too pleased with itself. “See? You’ve no defense against me.”

You exhaled, your heart pounding despite yourself. “You are being ridiculous, Jason.”

“Ridiculous and charming,” he corrected, leaning in to brush his lips against your jawline, his voice soft and teasing. “The perfect combination.”

You shivered slightly as his lips trailed along your neck, his hands sliding up to tangle in the silk of your gown. “And too arrogant for your own good,” you repeated, though the words came out breathless.

“And yet here you are,” Jason murmured, his voice a low rumble against your skin. “Married to me, alone with me, and very soon, in bed with me.”

You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic as you allowed yourself to lean into his touch. “You shameless man.”

“I am. Completely,” Jason agreed, pulling you to your feet with one fluid motion. His hands lingered at your waist as he turned you, his breath warm against your ear. “And if I recall, you love that about me.”

Before you could argue, Jason spun you toward the bed, his hands finding the ties at the back of your gown. He tugged gently, loosening the silk as he pressed another kiss to your shoulder. “Let me spoil you tonight, wife,” he whispered. “Let me remind you that we are far from those shadows and games.”

You turned your head slightly, looking at him over your shoulder, your expression softening as you finally let out a sigh. “Fine, my lord. But only if you promise me you’ll behave tomorrow.”

Jason laughed quietly, his grin wicked as he leaned in, pressing his lips to your bare shoulder. “No promises, my fierce dragon.”

As Jason’s deft fingers worked the ties of your gown, the silk slid from your shoulders in a whisper, pooling in a soft heap at your feet. The cool air of the chamber kissed your bare skin, raising a shiver along your spine, though it was quickly replaced by the heat of Jason’s hands. He traced slow, deliberate lines down your back, his touch reverent and maddening all at once.

“You’ve missed this,” Jason murmured against your neck, his breath hot as his lips brushed just beneath your ear. His hands found your waist, pulling you back flush against him, and you could feel the strength of his body pressed against yours. “Don’t deny it.”

You turned in his arms, your bare skin catching the glow of the firelight as you faced him. “And if I said I hadn’t missed it?” you teased, your voice soft but edged with challenge.

Jason’s green eyes gleamed with that infuriating confidence as his hands slid lower, curling possessively over your hips. “Then I’d call you a liar,” he replied, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. “Because I’ve missed you, my dragon. More than I can bear.”

The admission, so soft and unexpected, sent warmth blooming in your chest. Jason Lannister, smug and untouchable to the world, stood before you with his walls lowered—for you, and you alone.

You pulled him closer, your fingers working at the fastenings of his doublet with practiced ease. “Then perhaps you should spend less time parading through markets and more time here, with me.”

Jason laughed softly against your lips, though there was a hunger beneath it now, his hands growing bolder as he lifted you slightly. “The markets are nothing compared to this,” he murmured, his voice roughened by desire. “Compared to you.”

With a final tug, his tunic fell away, revealing the expanse of his chest. The firelight played over the golden skin, highlighting the lines of muscle and the faint scars earned from years of training and pride. You ran your hands over his skin, savoring the warmth and the way his breath hitched under your touch.

“You’re staring,” Jason teased, though his voice was hoarse, his gaze dark with longing.

You smirked faintly, your fingers trailing down his abdomen. “Perhaps I missed you too.”

Jason’s hands slid over your thighs, gripping just above your knees as he lowered himself, pressing kisses to the delicate curve of your hip. “Say it,” he murmured between each kiss, his voice a low rumble. “Say you missed me.”

Your breath caught as he nipped softly at the sensitive skin just below your ribs. “Jason—”

“Say it,” he repeated, his green eyes flickering up to meet yours, his lips still trailing fire along your skin.

You exhaled shakily, your fingers tangling in his curls as you gave in. “I missed you.”

The words seemed to light something in him. Jason surged upward, his lips claiming yours with sudden, ferocious need. He lifted you easily into his arms, carrying you the short distance to the bed and laying you down against the soft furs with a gentleness that belied the hunger in his movements.

He knelt above you for a moment, taking you in—your silver hair spilling across the pillows, the firelight turning your skin brilliant, your chest rising and falling as you waited for him. His gaze softened slightly, the usual arrogance replaced by something deeper, something almost tender.

“You are a sight,” Jason whispered, his voice thick with reverence. “The gods themselves would weep to see you.”

You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Then come here, my lion. Before I lose my patience.”

Jason grinned, leaning down until his body hovered just above yours. “Impatient, are we? I’ve hardly begun, wife.”

His lips found yours again, slow and teasing at first, before he deepened the kiss, his hands wandering across your body with unhurried possession. He kissed down your neck, your collarbone, until his mouth found your breast, his tongue flicking softly over the sensitive skin. Your back arched beneath him as you gasped his name, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

Jason growled softly against your skin, his voice thick with satisfaction. “There’s my fierce dragon.”

His lips traveled lower, kissing and nipping at every inch of you until you were writhing beneath him, your breaths coming in shallow pants. When you could take no more, you pulled him up by his hair, claiming his lips in a fierce kiss before rolling him onto his back with surprising strength.

Jason let out a startled laugh as you straddled him, his hands instinctively finding your hips. “Oh, you’ve wanted this for a while, haven’t you?” he teased breathlessly, though his voice broke slightly as you sank onto him, his fingers tightening against your skin.

Your breath caught, your body shivering as you adjusted to him. “Quiet, Jason,” you murmured, leaning forward until your lips brushed his ear. “Or I’ll make you beg.”

Jason groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding up to grip your waist as you began to move. “Then beg I will,” he gasped, his voice raw. “If it means you’ll never stop.”

The world around you faded as you moved together, the rhythm of your bodies unashamed and wild. Jason’s hands roamed your body, worshipping you as though he might never touch you again. Your name fell from his lips like a prayer, a litany of reverence and longing that filled the space between each gasp and moan.

When he sat up, wrapping his arms tightly around you, your bodies pressed flush together, his forehead rested against yours as he whispered fiercely, “I love you, Y/N. By the gods, I love you.”

The confession sent you spiraling closer to the edge, your hands tangling in his hair as you gasped against his lips, “I love you too, Jason. Always.”

With a final surge, you both shattered together, your cries mingling as the world fell away, leaving only the two of you in the aftermath of your shared storm.

Jason collapsed back against the furs, pulling you down with him, his arms still wrapped securely around you as though he would never let you go. His breath came ragged, his curls damp with sweat, but his grin—soft and content—remained unshakable.

“Now tell me,” he murmured, brushing a strand of silver hair from your face. “Wasn’t that better than brooding?”

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his chest, your voice a sleepy murmur. “It always is.”

Jason hummed contentedly, pulling the furs up around you both as he settled against the pillows. “Good. Because I intend to keep you here for a long, long while, my dragon.”

And as you lay together in the flickering firelight, your bodies tangled and hearts still racing, you allowed yourself to believe—if only for tonight—that the shadows of the Red Keep would never reach you. Not here, not in Jason’s arms.

The great chamber, once a place of solemnity and power, now buzzed faintly with anxiety as lords and retainers gathered in pockets of conversation. Banners of House Targaryen hung heavy from the rafters, their dragons coiling in silent vigilance, while the Iron Throne loomed in the center, cold and sharp as ever.

At the far end of the room, Jason Lannister stood in the center of a small circle of crimson-cloaked retainers from House Lannister. Their polished armor shining in the morning light, each lion sigil stark against the deep red of their cloaks. Jason, of course, stood at the center of it all, utterly at ease. He leaned casually on one hip, his smirk firmly in place as he nodded in faux politeness to whatever Lord Jasper Wylde was droning on about.

“—and with the Crown’s coffers dwindling,” Wylde concluded dourly, “prudence must be taken, my lord. These expenditures cannot continue unchecked.”

Jason tilted his head, a hint of boredom flickering in his green eyes. “Ah, but where would the joy of the realm go, Wylde, if the king stopped spending? No feasts, no tourneys—what a miserable place Westeros would become.” He waved a hand lazily, as though swatting at a fly. “We’re all the poorer for it.”

“Some more than others,” muttered Wylde, though Jason had already stopped listening, his attention shifting as the doors to the chamber groaned open.

Prince Daemon Targaryen swept into the room with all the casual arrogance of a man who had long stopped caring for pleasantries. His presence immediately drew whispers from the assembled lords, their gazes flickering warily toward the Rogue Prince. Clad in black leather, his silver hair falling loose over his shoulders, Daemon strode forward like a shadow cut from firelight. Behind him, the doors slammed shut with a thunderous echo.

Jason’s smile widened faintly as he spotted Daemon heading in his direction, the prince’s gaze sharp and unmistakably amused. The murmurs around them quieted as Daemon stopped just short of Jason’s circle, his dark violet eyes glinting with something that might have been humor.

“Well,” Daemon drawled, his voice a silken purr that carried through the chamber, “if it isn’t the lion of Casterly Rock, still lingering in a dragon’s court.”

Jason turned smoothly, inclining his head in a show of mock respect. “Prince Daemon,” he greeted, his voice light but edged with wit. “To what do I owe the honor of your company? Surely you didn’t come all this way to admire my cloak.”

Daemon smirked faintly, folding his arms across his chest. “I came because the whispers of your presence refuse to die down, Lord Jason. Some might wonder if you’re here to take root in King’s Landing.”

Jason chuckled, unbothered. “And why shouldn’t I? The king himself has extended his hospitality, and my wife and children are most welcome here. Is it so strange that I enjoy the company of my royal kin?”

“Strange? No.” Daemon tilted his head, a sardonic smile curling at the corner of his lips. “Amusing? Very.”

Behind Jason, his brother Tyland shifted uncomfortably, though he kept silent. Jason, ever unflappable, only grinned. “I’m glad I amuse you, Prince Daemon. The court could use more laughter.”

“Laughter,” Daemon repeated, his tone laced with mockery. “Otto Hightower must be beside himself with joy to have you here.”

At the mention of the Hand, Jason’s grin sharpened. “I believe the Hand is a man of great patience, Prince Daemon. Surely my lingering presence does not trouble him. I am, after all, only a devoted husband and proud father of the king’s grandchildren.”

Daemon let out a soft, dark chuckle, his violet eyes narrowing slightly. “Careful, lion. The Hightowers are not known for their humor. I would hate to see Otto lose his temper.”

Jason shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “If he does, I’ll offer him a Lannister coin to soothe his nerves. A man like Otto values coin more than laughter, wouldn’t you agree?”

The corner of Daemon’s mouth twitched as though he were holding back a laugh. “You’ve a dangerous tongue, Lord Jason. Perhaps I’ve misjudged you—I thought the lions roared only when provoked.”

Jason inclined his head slightly, his voice dropping just enough that only Daemon could hear. “Only when it suits us, my prince.”

The tension between them stayed for a moment, though it was not born of hostility. Daemon’s sharp gaze lingered on Jason, as though weighing him, before the Rogue Prince let out a soft snort of amusement. “You’ll be trouble yet,” he said, though there was something almost approving in his tone. “I’ll enjoy watching Otto squirm over you.”

“You’ll have front-row seats, I’m sure,” Jason replied smoothly, the two men sharing a knowing look.

Before Daemon could respond, a sharp voice broke through the growing quiet.

“Prince Daemon. Lord Jason.”

Both men turned to find Otto Hightower approaching with all the grace of a vulture circling its prey. His expression was carefully neutral, though his sharp eyes flickered with thinly veiled annoyance as they settled on Jason.

“My lord,” Otto said, his tone clipped, “I wonder how it is you find so much time to linger in our halls. Surely the Westerlands require your attention?”

Jason smiled—pleasant and unbothered. “Ah, Lord Hand, I was just telling Prince Daemon how generous the king has been in extending his hospitality to my family. It would be most ungrateful of me to leave too soon.”

Otto’s jaw tightened slightly, though his composure remained intact. “Generosity is a virtue, my lord, but it is easily taken advantage of.”

Jason’s smile didn’t falter, though his green eyes glittered with something sharper. “I assure you, Lord Otto, I take only what is offered. Nothing more.”

Daemon, watching the exchange like a cat watching two dogs squabble, leaned closer to Jason. “Careful, Lannister,” he murmured just loud enough for Otto to hear. “The Hand might mistake your charm for ambition.”

Otto’s gaze flickered toward Daemon, his expression icy. “Prince Daemon, your concern for the realm is, as always, commendable.”

Jason let out a soft laugh, clearly enjoying the exchange. “I’m flattered by your interest in my affairs, Lord Otto, but I assure you—I have no ambition beyond enjoying the company of my wife and children.”

“Of course,” Otto replied coldly. “May it remain so.”

With a final glance between Jason and Daemon, the Hand turned on his heel and strode back toward the throne, leaving the two men in his wake.

Jason watched him go, his smirk firmly in place. “Charming, isn’t he?”

Daemon huffed a quiet laugh, his violet eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’ll give him a fit before this is done.”

“Let him fret,” Jason replied smoothly, straightening his crimson cloak. “It does him good to remember the lions are watching.”

Daemon tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m beginning to think I misjudged you, Lannister.”

“Good,” Jason replied, grinning as he turned toward his retainers. “Let them all keep guessing.”

And as the chamber’s murmur swelled once more, Jason Lannister stood tall amidst the dragons and shadows, a lion who would not be cowed—much to the dismay of those who watched.

A warm breeze fluttered the silken curtains, carrying with it the faint hum of the city beyond the walls. Inside, the quiet of the room was broken only by the soft coos of the twins and the rustle of the nursemaid’s skirts as she moved about with quiet efficiency.

You sat near the center of the room in a cushioned chair, a babe cradled in each arm. Leona’s tiny fingers were wrapped around the edge of your gown as she blinked up at you with curious eyes. Beside you, Loren dozed with a furrowed brow, his small chest rising and falling steadily as the morning’s warmth lulled him to sleep.

Rhaenyra stood just inside the doorway, her presence as silent as the shadows she brought with her. Her gown, simple yet elegant, pooled lightly at her feet, the faintest glimmer of pearls lining the bodice. She watched you with a carefully neutral expression, her violet gaze lingering first on the twins and then on you as you murmured softly to Leona.

“You must stop grabbing at my gown,” you said quietly to the little girl, though your voice held no true chastisement. “One day, you’ll have gowns of your own, stitched with dragons and lions both. But for now, you must be patient, little one.”

Leona gurgled in response, her tiny grip tightening stubbornly, as though determined to prove she already possessed a lion’s pride. You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers over her soft hair as Loren let out a small sigh in his sleep.

Rhaenyra’s voice broke the silence, soft and tentative. “You’re very good with them.”

Your head lifted, surprised to find her standing there. Her tone was not unkind, but there was a strange hesitation to her words—as though she were unsure of herself.

“They’re babes,” you replied gently, though your gaze held hers for a moment longer than necessary. “They demand little more than patience.”

Rhaenyra stepped further into the room, her hands clasped loosely before her as she approached. “Patience is not something I possess in abundance.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “I recall.”

The words hung between you like a bridge half-built, both of you waiting to see whether the other would step forward to cross it. Rhaenyra finally moved to sit in the chair opposite you, her gaze flickering briefly to Loren before returning to you.

“They have your hair,” she observed, her voice quieter now. “Leona, especially.”

“And Jason’s stubbornness,” you added, glancing down at the girl still gripping your gown with surprising tenacity. “I’m afraid they’ve inherited the worst of both of us.”

Rhaenyra’s lips quirked faintly, though her expression soon softened as her gaze lingered on Loren’s sleeping form. “They are beautiful,” she said after a moment. “The first dragons born to the realm since… well, since us.”

There was a note of something unreadable in her voice—nostalgia, perhaps, or longing. You looked up, studying her carefully. “You sound as though that troubles you.”

Rhaenyra shook her head slightly, though her gaze didn’t meet yours. “It does not trouble me. It only… makes me think.” She paused, the hesitation returning to her voice. “Of what people will say. What they will expect.”

You shifted slightly in your chair, adjusting Loren’s position as you replied. “What people say has never stopped you before, sister.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes met yours then, sharp and searching. “Perhaps it should have.”

The words surprised you, though you masked it quickly. “You don’t mean that.”

Rhaenyra exhaled softly, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I don’t know what I mean anymore.” She paused before adding, almost reluctantly, “You’ve always been better at this than I.”

“At what?” you asked gently.

“At… being what they want,” Rhaenyra replied, her tone tinged with something that sounded like envy. “A wife. A mother. A princess who doesn’t stray too far from her place.” Her eyes lifted to meet yours again, and the truth of her words lay bare. “They look at you and see everything they wish I could be.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by Leona’s quiet babbling and the soft sound of the nursemaid tending to the blankets nearby. You held Rhaenyra’s gaze, searching for the right words.

“I am not what they wish me to be,” you said finally, your voice steady but quiet. “Nor have I ever been. Do you think they truly love me for who I am, Rhaenyra? The people love what they see—a perfect marriage, perfect babes, a union of that everybody supports. But it’s all illusion.” You paused, brushing your thumb over Loren’s tiny hand. “You know as well as I do that illusions are not so easily kept.”

Rhaenyra looked away, her jaw tightening as she absorbed your words. “You make it look so simple.”

“It is not simple,” you said softly. “It never has been. But I chose this path, as you chose yours.”

“And mine feels heavier,” Rhaenyra murmured, her voice faint.

You regarded her carefully, sensing the cracks beneath her carefully maintained facade. “Your path was never meant to be light, Rhaenyra. You will be queen someday, and queens carry the weight of the realm on their shoulders.”

“And what if I stumble?” she whispered, almost to herself. “What if I fall?”

“Then you will rise again,” you replied firmly, your gaze unyielding. “You are a Targaryen, sister. It is what we do.”

Rhaenyra looked at you then, truly looked at you, and for the first time in days, something softened between you. The distance that had lingered—unspoken but present—seemed to ease ever so slightly. She nodded once, her lips pressing into a faint, almost reluctant smile.

“You would make a fine queen,” she said, though her tone held no bitterness this time.

“And you will be a better one,” you replied, offering her a small, genuine smile.

Rhaenyra seemed to consider your words for a moment before she leaned forward slightly, her gaze drifting to Leona, who was now sucking on her tiny fist. “May I hold her?”

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Of course.”

Carefully, you handed Leona to Rhaenyra, who cradled the babe with surprising gentleness. The little girl blinked up at her aunt, cooing softly as Rhaenyra traced a finger along her delicate cheek.

“She’s fierce,” Rhaenyra murmured, her voice quiet but fond. “I can see it in her eyes.”

“Just like you,” you replied softly, watching the two of them with something that felt like hope.

Rhaenyra glanced up, her smile small but real this time. “Perhaps.”

And for the first time in what felt like too long, the silence between you wasn’t awkward—it was comforting. The cracks between sisters were not yet healed, but they were mending. One soft moment at a time.

From The Testimony of Mushroom, corroborated in part by Grand Maester Mellos and court records, as recorded in The Histories of the Dragon’s Heirs

Three moons after the ill-fated wedding of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon, the golden lions of the West departed King’s Landing. Lord Jason Lannister, his wife, Princess Y/N, and their twin babes, Leona and Loren, took leave of the Red Keep amidst great fanfare, accompanied by a grand retinue of Lannister knights, bannermen, and retainers. Their banners, adorned with roaring lions, snapped in the breeze as they made their way through the capital, a sight as impressive as it was final.

It is said that the mood within the Red Keep on that morning was somber, weighed down by the unspoken truths no one dared name aloud. King Viserys I, whose health had begun to falter visibly in those days, stood at the gates of the keep with his remaining strength, watching his daughter’s family prepare for their journey westward. Mushroom, ever a creature of dramatic embellishment, claims that tears streamed openly down the king’s cheeks as he embraced his grandchildren for the last time.

"The king wept like a man broken," Mushroom writes, "his great hands trembling as he cradled the babes—one silver-haired dragon, the other emerald-eyed as a lion’s cub. He kissed both upon their brows and clutched at his daughter’s hands as though he meant to anchor her to King’s Landing forever. ‘You must write to me,’ the king pleaded, his voice weak. ‘Tell me when the child comes.’”

For it was true, according to Grand Maester Mellos’s accounts, that Princess Y/N was once again with child—an unexpected but not unwelcome revelation that had caused much murmuring within the court. Mushroom, in his usual crude candor, claims that Jason Lannister was adamant that “no child of his would first draw breath beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne.” Whether this was a remark made in jest or in earnest cannot be determined, but Jason’s swift preparations for their departure following the announcement left many to speculate.

It was not only the king who was affected by the Lannisters’ leave-taking. Princess Rhaenyra, whose relationship with her sister had been marked by coolness since the events of her wedding, was said to have watched the procession in stony silence from her chambers high above the courtyard. Mushroom, who ever claims to be where he should not, reports that Rhaenyra said nothing as the last Lannister banner disappeared from view, but her handmaidens noted the tension in her shoulders and the faint crease of her brow. “Perhaps,” Mushroom muses, “she regretted letting her sister go—for once gone, the princess of lions and dragons would be far beyond the reach of her whispers.”

The Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower, watched the departure with far less sentimentality. The Hand had grown increasingly wary of Lord Jason’s presence in King’s Landing, seeing in him a lion too bold and too loved by the king. His swift departure—though ostensibly amicable—was seen by many as a quiet victory for Otto, who had long worked to reclaim control of the court’s increasingly volatile politics.

As for Jason himself, Grand Maester Mellos writes that the Lord of Casterly Rock wore a face of supreme satisfaction as he escorted his family through the gates of the Red Keep. The man’s pride had not dimmed in the slightest since his arrival moons earlier, and he departed King’s Landing as he had entered it—with confidence, grandeur, and an unshakable air of triumph.

Mushroom, however, paints a different picture of Jason Lannister’s parting. “The lion was no fool,” he writes. “He knew the game in the Red Keep had changed, and he would not allow his wife or babes to be pieces upon the board. His laughter may have echoed through the halls, but I saw him that morning, whispering in his lady’s ear as she held their son. There was steel beneath his smiles, and a man who wears his pride so boldly knows when to retreat.”

What cannot be denied is the impression the Lannisters left behind. The smallfolk of King’s Landing gathered to watch their departure, crowding the streets and calling out blessings for the twins, whose silver hair had become the subject of many songs and stories. Women tossed flowers into the path of their carriages, while men waved banners and shouted cheers for “the lions and dragons of the West.”

It is said that the departure left an emptiness in the Red Keep that even King Viserys’s courtiers could not ignore. The king himself withdrew to his chambers more often in the days that followed, his health waning as his spirits seemed to diminish without the presence of his grandchildren. Mushroom claims that he heard the king sigh heavily during a council meeting weeks later, muttering, “The Rock is far, and my halls are silent.”

In the moons to come, the absence of Lord Jason and his family would be felt keenly as tensions in King’s Landing deepened. The king’s failing health, the ever-growing influence of the Hightowers, and the lingering shadows of the past all threatened to boil over. And yet, from the Westerlands, news would arrive that Princess Y/N Lannister—beloved daughter of King Viserys and proud lady of Casterly Rock—had given birth to a third child. Mushroom, always fond of theatrics, claims that Jason Lannister toasted the babe’s arrival with a goblet in hand, declaring:

"Born of fire, the West’s future grows brighter still."

What cannot be denied is this: while the Red Keep festered with whispers and schemes, the lions of the West had returned to their den—strong, unshaken, and with the future firmly in their grasp.

[siswritesyanderes]

i mightve asked this before, in which case go ahead and ignore this lmao. which characters would be the best vs worst when handling an autistic darling?

Oooh, this is a cool question! I would say it depends on the particular symptoms the person has, so I'll go over some symptoms and which yanderes would respond best vs. worst.

avoidance of eye-contact

Obviously, shy, autistic, or autistic-coded yanderes would work really well with this (and other) symptom(s). Your Donatello's, your Newt's, arguably your Peter Parker's. Also, yanderes who are able to sense when their darling's attention is on them supernaturally or just out of sheer social aplomb. Elves, for example, would be great with someone who doesn't like eye contact, because their body language conventions differ as a result of being able to communicate mentally.

Roxanne Wolf would be distinctly bad for this, based on her need for attention as demonstrated in Help Wanted 2. But she's also not beyond reason when it matters, as we've seen in Ruin DLC, so I'm sure communicating about it is on the table.

sensory reactivity

Okay, I think Dr. Strange would very specifically be bad for this, because his movies are all swirling kaleidoscopes of magic that would definitely be sensory overload in real life, and I have mentioned before that I don't see him as a considerate yandere. If anything, he might enjoy inducing sensory overload for the express purposes of making his darling require comfort, care, and isolation from others.

On the other hand, and maybe a weird pull for this, but Zafrina from Twilight would be great. Alec, too. Both have powers that would be super helpful when darling is overwhelmed.

Druig is able to just make everyone nearby shut up, which he would employ liberally.

food sensitivity/pickiness

Yanderes who enjoy cooking could go both ways on this. I could see some being offended by negative feedback and some taking it as being gifted with the challenge of meeting their darling's standards. Teruteru from Danganronpa and Esme from Twilight would both probably be good about receiving feedback and making changes. Super eager to please. Esme more so than Teruteru; he might get offended at first.

Rich and royal yanderes would delight in someone picky. They would love to be able to send food back with new, highly specific orders because darling doesn't like grapes with soft spots. Your Tony Stark's, your Byakuya Togami's, your Toph Beifong's, your Coriolanus Snow's.

Ralph from DBH would be a problem. He has a very weak grasp on what humans eat and a very high sensitivity to negative feedback. (Wait, he's just like me...)

resistance to changes in routine

This one would be a problem for yanderes who feel a need to go on adventures and trips with their darling. Which isn't necessarily the same as adventurous yanderes. Some adventurous yanderes might enjoy the idea of their darling staying behind at home keeping to a comfortable routine. But the ones who want their darling along on the adventure would be problematic. The Doctor, for example. Especially Eleven; he gets bored easily.

Whereas I think a lot of superheroes would like the idea of keeping their darling sequestered away, living predictably and comfortably. Clark Kent, Steve Rogers, Druig...The only catch is that some of them (Druig) would probably be a bit condescending about it.

I think Daycare Attendant would be great for routine. Coloring time, snack time, naptime, same time every day, sign them up! Also condescending, but they genuinely can't help it because it's how they're programmed.

Technically, Phineas and Ferb keep to a very specific routine, albeit a pretty tiring/potentially overwhelming one.

sorting things

This would be great for the disorganized genius character type. A Bruce Banner, if you will. An organized genius probably already has a system and might have trouble with someone sorting things differently than they have them. A distinctly slovenly character probably wouldn't mind either way.

hyperfixation

Yo, Queen from Deltarune would be the best for this. She would create an inescapable palace of the thing darling likes. Swatch and the Swatchlings would be involved.

stimming

There might be a problem if the yandere is easily distracted and needs to focus on something else. The main one I can think of who fits that description is Percy Jackson. That's not a distaste thing; just a pragmatic issue. Yanderes who experience sensory overload might also have an issue with it. My first thought was Queen Elsa.

On the other hand, Leo Valdez would love to make little stim toys for his darling. Donatello, too.

[tiktaalic]

Hi guys. I have opinions on the medium of fanfiction. Would you like to hear them? Okay ^_^ yay ^_^

I think the whole oh so you think people should be CENSORED? Kneejerk reaction is wuiteeeee silly when like. In my opinion it’s an exceedingly normal opinion to see a fan fiction tackle Sensitive Subjects with all the aplomb of a high school freshman. And go. Well I don’t think this is good. Things can be done well but often they’re not. Due to the nature of the beast + numbers game. And me personally if I want to read something nuanced on heavy topics I don’t go. I know. I should look at ao3 first. I go. Probably I will stick to published awarded authors. Ive read books that have handled abuse and assault etc etc badly and I also think they’re stupid. Just like I think overwrought fanfiction is stupid. But I would never say this ON someone’s fanfiction because I too was once 14 years old writing insensitively about painful topics. And I believe the best in everyone so I assume every bad fanfiction is written by a 14 year old and I would never dim their sparkle. There’s another prong to this which is that conversations about Everything are so heavily identity focused - I don’t like this book but it’s by a queer author who is clearly working through something, I don’t like this movie but the writer has talked extensively about how it was shaped by her experience of sexual assault, etc. n I do think the solution is to uncouple morality from taste. Possible to hold the simultaneous truths of “I think this thing is stupid and bad and weird” with “it clearly helped someone to write what is essentially a public diary entry, and it helped other people to read it” and “fanfiction as a whole does not move the meter on good/evil in the world even a little bit”.

[therealslimshakespeare]

i love this 🥹 i think there’s moments where she’ll find herself slipping into certain habits she had with him and benny just so gently helps her reframe all that. even something as simple as oh can/ should i wear this in like a nervous way. u know?

IM SO SOFT FOR BENNY HEALING THESE PARTS OF HER!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Tell me more 😞😞😞😞😞

Oh fuck I’ve got such thoughts but so few words that capture the vibe I want. But here’s the deal:

Benny is so utterly secure. In himself, in his place and in his attitude to others. Outside influences, war horrors, mood swings, these things he handles with aplomb that comes from how beautifully grounded this man is. Humble but confidant in the most lovely synchrony. And due to this his outlook on the world is measured, fair and while a bit stark sometimes due to, well, life being stark sometimes, it is favorable in ways that others are shifty and belittling.

And I swear, he has an aura he casts with this. Quiet but potent, with just enough wisecracking and sass to keep it sharp. So, Benny Demarco’s opinion of you can very quickly and effortlessly influence your opinion of yourself.

Ask Gale, ask Jack, ask Maureen.

Ask Lu, who not only feels most herself with him but finds herself articulated by him in ways she never expected -and often without a single word spoken

[too-antigonish]

Carol Thursday impresses the hell out of me.

Cousin Joan stands her up in a strange town at the last minute…

...but boy does this girl know how to land on her feet.

She handles monumentally awkward moments with aplomb...

Whether it's meeting Jim Strange the morning after with her perky "Hi!"

Or walking in to find a surprise Morse in front of her epically embarrassing dad.*

*Bonus points for doing it while wearing pink bows and a frilly nightgown.

Carol is also kind.

When her forced date with Morse just seems to be getting worse and worse, she doesn’t get angry. Instead she offers to let him off the hook without telling anyone.

It’s enough to lead him to rethink his own actions and take her to the Roxy for an evening she will probably remember all of her life.

Carol goes after what she wants.

She doesn’t hesitate to make eyes at movie star Jason Curwen. In only a matter of seconds, she’s distracted him from the beautiful Veronique.

By the time the evening has turned to murder, they’re obviously a couple.

And finally, when it comes time to say her farewells to Morse, Carol is really the only woman we've ever seen him with who chooses to leave him with kind words.

She thanks him sweetly for the "memorable" evening at the Roxy and as for their night together, she says, “It wasn't a mistake. Not everything has to be more than it is.”

@astridcontramundum in her fantastic piece a while ago on Jim Strange has a bit about shipping Carol with Strange. Yes! Yes! Yes!

Strange and Joan were doomed from the start—not because they were bad people—but because they would always bring out the worst in each other. Strange and Carol would have brought out the best.

[sky-kiss]

Let's imagine a situation in which Tav meets Mephistopheles (with Raphael alive). How will Raphael react if Tav likes his “ardently loved” father? One more thing. It would be funny if it was Mephistopheles who left a review of Tav’s frostbitten body in Haarlep’s letter. 3/5 isn't too bad.

A/N: Lemme try. Any ficlets completed this week are likely going to be short. It’s vacation week!

_____

It is not a familial competition or distaste that motivates the Lord of the Eighth. 

The wayward bastard is beneath his notice half the time, an irritant the other, but only rarely registers as his son. Mephistopheles rests his chin in his palm, gaze flicking over the cambion and to the mortal at his side. They require no introduction, though the chamberlain lists their venerable titles with aplomb. 

The Hero of Baldur’s Gate. What a delight. 

And Raphael preens, keeping this new trophy close, boasting of their achievements as if they were his own. He wears his stolen crown with neither shame nor self-awareness, head held high and deaf to the court’s snickering. 

Oh, they are too aware of this Great Hero. 

Haarlep had been all too eager to demonstrate every one of the form’s secrets, parading them nude through the streets of Mephistar. And while its heated air was a balm compared to Cania’s natural cold, while it was enough to soothe any devil, they shivered. By the time they’d reached the palace steps, their naked form was badly wind-burned. Frostbite kissed at their fingertips, their toes, blood trickling down their calves—a debased little beast. A hero brought low. It’d been a treat. 

The Archduke chuckled, eyes flicking over them again. There had been a certain pettiness to his decision to take the little creature. Raphael venerated them but had yet to taste them. Mephistopheles drank deeply. He’d sated himself in their little body, watching it shiver, convulse, break, trying to accept him. The incubus had staggered away after; lips curled back in a bloodied sneer, which had also satisfied him. 

But they are here now in truth, staring up at his son in naked adoration, and it strikes Mephistopheles as such delicious low-hanging fruit. Should he not have a taste? He, the Lord, second only to Asmodeus?

Mephistopheles stands from his throne, arms held wide as he goes to meet them. Raphael’s eyes narrow, but his toy remains unphased, holding their hand out to greet him. The archwizard takes it, bowing low and pressing his lips to their knuckles. 

“Such a charming creature. It seems a waste of your talents to dally with my spawn.” 

“Not in the least. Raphael has proven very worthwhile.”

“If you will excuse us, Cold Lord.”

“I will not. Where are your manners, boy? An introduction.” 

“You chamberlain handled as much.” 

Oh, foolish little pet. They take a step nearer. Mephistopheles offers his arm, and they take it. “Be civil, Raphael. Your father is trying.” 

A critical mistake, little dove. 

[ragnarokhound]

for the au ask game—dimension or time travel au? 👀

For the AU ask game!

Ohhh this kind of au is always so fun because there's literally infinite directions to take this OwO the question for me becomes what would be the most fun/interesting time or sideways universe to send them (and if only one goes back in time, or both of them 👀) or what alternate reality would it be the most galvanizing for them to see... 👀

Oh. I know. I'm still in my cups over saltwateroracle AKA @n1ightw1ng's Arkham Knight Jason dimension hopping au so...

Five fun facts from a dimension hopping au I'd write:

Your choice of comics verse Jason and Tim who don't get along, enemies to coworkers style. But ala The Long Way Home (excellent fic btw everyone who cares about Jason and Tim's relationship whether romantic or platonic please go read it) they get warped together to Arkhamverse and don't realize it. At first.

Separately, they meet their arkhamverse counterparts. Jason nearly get blown up by Arkham Knight Jason, Tim has no idea what to make of his double being married? To? Babs? They meet back up and go 'you thought YOUR double was weird'

'you thought your double was weird, wait til you get a load of fucking BRUCE.' 'Is the batmobile? A tank??' Jason gets very sus of the 'suppressive rounds' Arkham Bruce fires at the mercenaries. Tim gets very sus of the whole ass people he's got stashed away at the batcave lmao

Arkham Bruce is running on such severely fucked up fumes that it makes them actively miss their own Bruce back home. They help him with rounding up Riddler and Scarecrow and with handling the thorny Arkham Knight problem, but absolutely are going to get betrayed 'for their own good' (or because Bruce doesn't trust them) eventually. So they find themselves leaning more and more on each other as the only familiar and trustworthy face in this fucked up dark clown maze version of Gotham

Things end better because of their influence than in the game (something something cure for jokerism something something Arkham Knight Jason gets catharsis/reconciliation and a shock blanket and some soup) and they get themselves home ASAP and everything 100% goes back to normal and they definitely will not be talking about how Tim totally kissed Jason when they thought they were going to die at the end there, nuh uh, no way, Tim has very important debriefings to write byyyye--

(Bonus fun fact: Bruce is very confused but ultimately accepts the out-of-the-blue check ins/hugs he receives from Tim and Jason with aplomb. He reads Tim's report and goes 'Ah. Yes, dimension hopping will do that to a motherfucker'. He can't follow-up with either of them though, for some reason they've both gone dark for a week. Together. At the same safehouse. Hm. Better to leave that one alone, he thinks.)