Paradoxically, people who get angry at the "Was Brandon stupid?" (by going to where the Mad King was and Rhaegar and Lyanna had no reason to be, "conveniently" straight to his expected death in those circumstances) would be validated in such criticism being misplaced against him in the case that Brandon genuinely believed so with good reason by being lied to in such specific terms about whatever information came to him from the spot of Lyanna's disappearance.
The paradox comes from such crowd's wish to exonorate and pity Brandon, but not Lyanna, hence sticking in that dead end. Quite the contrary, the whole purpose of the outrage is solely to incriminate Lyanna - and of course Rhaegar.
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Back at it again with my Danny is mom coded au’s, but this time it’s because of Clockwork that he suddenly has a whole ass teenage kid.
Clockwork had been bored or maybe he was playing a game against an opponent, or even lost a bet, whatever it was, he stepped in right as Jason was searching for his biological mother.
The DNA that would have registered itself as one Sheila Haywood, confirming Jason’s mother, glitched a terrible green across the screens of the batcomputer.
In those few moments of chaos Jason’s heart beat rapidly as he tried to figure out why the computer wasn’t working, wondering if his only chance to find his mom — his blood mom — would never find success.
Then as suddenly as things went wrong the DNA settled and pinged.
Jason watched, his chest tight, as one Danny C. Works, formerly Danny Fenton appeared onto the big screen.
Danny looked a lot like Jason, short cut black hair more straight than the subtle curls of Jason’s own; deep blue eyes, tired in a way that spoke of long days and nights, but with a warm happiness that made the familiar smile — the one Jason would see on himself every time he looked into the mirror — even more striking.
Jason didn’t linger too long on the male identifying gender, nor the fact his mom leaned more towards a masculine name or clothing.
There were plenty of male to female, and female to male leaning individuals that lived in Crime Alley. He had seen it enough to not even bat an eye at it, even now. After all, in Gotham you minded your business least you find yourself in business you can’t leave.
On a different monitor information of Danny C. Works piled for Jason to quickly browse through.
Danny was a senior engineer, no intimate relationships, and with no close connections to family outside of the tentative calls from Jasmine Fenton.
Danny was estranged from Jack and Madeline Fenton, a falling out that had occurred just a little before Danny’s high school graduation. If Jason calculated it correctly that would have been — around the season Jason himself would have been born.
Okay, so no grandparents then but I might have a maybe aunt. Jason scrolled further and stilled.
Twin toddlers: Dante and Danielle Works.
Jason had baby siblings.
He doesn’t let the sting of younger siblings consume him, doesn’t allow the whispering thoughts of why he had been given up when his younger siblings had been kept and so very obviously loved.
Jason took deep breathes, he didn’t have time to linger here. He had a family to get to, and a family he would get to.
It took almost all night to reach, the starlight night sky slowly and surely fading into cloudy wine as the sun rose, but Jason made it.
And when the door opened to his hesitant but firm knock, Jason was unable to speak. His mom — dad, maybe? Did they want to be mom or dad? — stood in the doorway, brows furrowed in confusion.
It was when Danny spoke his vigilante name did Jason only just realize that he was still dressed to the nine’s in his Robin costume.
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masc!reader x price
The air is freezing on the hill that you and Price had decided to climb up an hour ago when there was still a tiny slither of light left in the sky. You're wrapped up not-very-warm in tactical gloves and your usual everyday clothes, maybe a little generously with one jacket shared between you. But hey, it makes for a perfect excuse to sit down on the damp grass once you reach the peak, huddled together like two cold penguins.
Stars litter the darkness above the hill, and you're high enough to see out for miles. You rest your cheek on the top of John's beanie, holding his head to your chest and his hands in your own. He cuddles into you closer, pressing his lips to your palms every so often.
"Can see the whole city from up here," you murmur, kissing his forehead and gazing out over Liverpool as he does the same. Your Captain hums, eyes flicking to you for a moment.
"Look out for my nana's house." You glance at him, then giving him a gentle squeeze, reply, voice a little quieter and understanding.
"'Course I will, sweetheart."
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Finding myself reflecting on what is often the public’s incorrect understanding of mine and Sigurd’s relationship.
So many people (often cis men) see me with a big, often excited dog and love to talk down to me because they perceive the situation as less controlled or “under one’s thumb” as they expect/desire their own dogs to be (which is often complete shut down control).
In reality Sigurd is the most difficult dog I own. He is aloof, incredibly intelligent, very low biddability, and requires a very specific and curated relationship to do ANYTHING for you. He knows his size and he is in excellent shape. If he wanted to truly drag me and do what he wanted on a walk he would. He does to anybody that’s not me, including Mr D who he will often nip and manipulate to get his way. I am the only one that’s ever been able to get this dog to do work in my hands, be it sports or obedience. These men that negatively “joke” on my lack of control while my dog stands by my side and listens when I hold him back from his excitement would have no idea what to do with him. He would baffle them.
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