#and there are so many of these assertions that really underestimate uh. the fact that kids know how to talk.

[heedra]

honestly i think my biggest pet peeve bar none, especially when it comes to talking about media and social media, is when ppl who clearly spend a minimal amount of time around kids (particularly little time listening to how they talk to each other and to adults they actually trust) critique something by adamantly asserting that kids of a certain age group 'wouldn't talk like that/say things that complex' when they absolutely fucking would and youd know this, if, again, you knew kids at all

[primevein]

The Prime of His Youth: Book III: Prometheus' Gift: Ch34: Matrony

Knockout finished his ministration with Shockwave's arm. He stood up and Shockwave moved it a bit.

"Just be careful with." Knockout stated, "It still has a lot of healing to do."

"I must say, I'm impressed." Ratchet stated, "Your records hardly show any arm replacements."

"That's because most Decepticons are embarassed by it." Knockout stated.

"It is illogical." Shockwave stated.

"Except for the fact any weakness can get you to lose all of the respect you gained." Knockout said to him, and Shockwave just gazed at him. "Speaking from personal history, of course." Shockwave still just gazed at him. "So, how does it feel to be on the winning team?" Knockout asked. Shockwave again just stared him. "It turns out, they do things differently. You know, there isn't a constant threat of death for the slightest mistake."

"That is - illogical." Shockwave stated, "Without threat of repercussions, how can anything be accomplished?"

Ratchet scoffed, "Just because you don't have someone threatening to rip out your spark chambre every time you fail, doesn't mean there isn't consequences." Shockwave just stared at him.

"Well, your arm seems to be intact. Just take it easy, so says doctor." Knockout said to Shockwave.

"My knowledge far exceeds your own." Shockwave simply stated, as he stood up.

"Humans have a saying," Ratcher stated, "a doctor who treats himself has a fool for a patient."

"That is - logical." Shockwave distantly stated, and turned to walk away.

"I am rather impressed." Ratchet said to Knockout. "It seems like I underestimated you."

Knockout shyly looked at him.

* * *

Japheth pulled up to his house in New Kalis. He opened his driver-side flap. A dollform Arcee clambered out. Japheth then transformed. The two walked up to the doors that opened up for him. The two stopped, turning to look at Carron nervously pointing her carronade at them. Once she realized her mistake she quickly lowered her weapons, deathly afraid.

"Good job." Japheth stated, and she looked.

"Your job is to protect everyone." Arcee added.

"Are you not upset that I aimed my weapon at you?" she nervously asked.

"I guess you were never properly trained." Arcee sardonically stated. "You see someone come up, point your weapon at them, advance one to be recognized, ask how many are coming in, count everyone. Not that the War is going on, anymore, but you are literally here to keep the other fembots safe."

"I hope that includes me." June warmly said as she walked down the stairs.

"June!" Arcee excitedly said, and walked over to her. They hugged as soon as they got close enough to do so.

"You did a good job." Japheth said to Carron, "Though you'll learn to keep your cool when doing so. We don't you to shoot someone accidentally."

"Yes, Sir!" she exclaimed.

"Worst case scenario," Arcelia said from behind him. He turned around to see Arcelia and Roxana there, "Roxie can patch them up." she said with a smile. Roxana quickly rushed over into his arms for a hug. Arcelia was disappointed she had not thought of it first and quickly rushed over, hugging Japheth around Roxana.

Once the hug was complete, he started to look around. The walls were... brighter. It wasn't plaster and paint, but they definitely seemed brighter.

"Cybertron doesn't really understand aesthetics." June said from beside him, only to be quickly lifted up for a powerful hug. He then put her back down, "You think you were get tired of little old me."

"Well, you are little," Japheth said, patting her on the head, "Not as old as you used to be."

"I am still your mother, thank you very much." she asserted.

"I could stop hugging you." Japheth stated.

"You wouldn't?" June accusingly asked him.

"I don't know?" he asked with fake contemplation.

"Hey, I made it through your moody teenage years where you're too afraid to hug your mother." June accusingly said to him.

"Uh-huh?" he dismissively asked.

"I demand the hugs I am due as your mother!" she shouted. Before she realized it she had once again been picked up into a hug. He put her down and she vascillated between a smile and annoyance.

"He played you." Arcee said to June.

"He played me into getting hugs." June said, "Which I'm not going to give up. You girls don't know what it's like when your son goes through the phase when he won't hug his mother."

"None of us could know." Sirenia said as she walked down the stairs.

"Now that everyone's here, let's head to Caminus." Japheth stated.

"After we finish hugging." Arcee stated.

"After we finish hugging." Japheth stated.

"Home is where the heart is?" Sirenia asked.

"Well - yes." Japheth stated, "But I want to recruit."

* * *

Japheth stood before the Forgefire Parliament, with all of the seats filled. The same Centurions as last time. He knew this wasn't tradition, but maybe an adaptation to his ever changing whims. "Before we start," he uttered, "next time I call a Parliament, I don't want to see the same Centurions. I know I might be calling Parliaments a lot more than you are used to."

"We're not complaining!" a femme screamed from the gallery.

"But," he said, and paused for a moment, "I know that you WANT the Parliament to always be changing. You don't want individuals to have vested powers for Ronnacycles. Like on Cybertron." He uttered, and a palpable fear filled the Parliament. He then looked over to Sirenia, "How long are Caminoan years?"

"Days are about 1.13 times the days on Terra,"

"I was wondering about that." Japheth stated.

"About 378 days in a year." Sirenia continued.

Japheth looked back over the Parliament, "New Centurions at least once a year."

"If a Parliament is called," the Mistress of Flame stated, "all in favour?" she asked, and all of the Centurions but Michaela raised their hands, "Motion passes. We have to admit, we have gotten a little complacent."

"He does change things every Megacycle or two." Tethys stated.

"Is that why you called us?" Windblade augustly asked.

"Hm?" Japheth asked, "No, I'm here to recruit."

"Recruit?" Amalthea curiously asked

"Cybertron is going to find me a ship to track down the lost colonies, and I was looking for?.." he asked, and hundreds of hands were raised. It seemed to be between 1/4 and 1/3 of all femmes present. He audibly sighed, "I can't take all of you!" he shouted, and most of the hands were dropped. One of them was his mother, in the gallery with the others, "Mom!?" he called.

"What?!" June asked, "That sounds like fun!"

"You are my?.."

"I can't expect special treatment!" she replied, and he sighed.

"We'll start interviews. Arcelia will be in charge. Everyone, please make sure you list where you want to do it. The point of the interview is to prove your are NECESSARY for my crew. I know Caminoans are not used to competition, but we don't really have much choice, here." he stated.

* * *

The group was sitting around the seating in their house, "Ciel, I want to make sure we have time to watch a movie or two."

"And cuddle." Arcee added.

"And cuddle." Japheth stated. He then looked at June, "Alright, if you don't want special treatment, why do I NEED you on the ship?"

June scowled at him.

"You brought this on yourself, June." Arcee said to her.

"I suppose I did?" June asked. She looked distant for a moment as she thought this over. When she looked back in his eyes with a lot more confidence, "How many Cybertronians know anything about treating Humans?" she confidently asked.

"Knockout and Ratchet." Sirenia said. June gave her a shocked, accusing gaze. Sirenia then looked at Japheth with shock and worry, "Does this mean I'll have to..."

"You get special treatment." Japheth firmly said to her, and she let out a sigh of relief.

"Then why don't?.." June asked.

"It was your idea." Arcee said with glee, and June sighed. "Come on, June, this is your son. If you can't convince him, how could anyone else?"

June thought for a moment, until something occured to her, "Because I told you to." she firmly, confidently said, but Japheth was completely unmoved. She furled her brow as she thought about it more, "Because I asked you?"

"That would work." Japheth stated.

She smiled for moment until it occured to her, "Would?"

"You're the one who didn't want special treatment." Arcee chided her. June looked around, and saw bright smiles on everyone's faces.

"Then I might have to do it myself." Japheth stated.

"Do what?" Arcee asked.

"Give her an official position in my court." Japheth said with a bright smile, and he looked his mother over.

"Oh, adviser!" June added.

"Hmm?" Japheth asked, "Ciel is already my procurator." He thought about it for a moment, "How about diplomat?"

"I don't know if I'm that good?.." June asked. "You are so good at it, yourself."

"You're not making this easy." Japheth said with a bright smile, and she seemed flustered. He paused for a moment to let her stay flustered, "Matron?" he asked.

She dropped her head backwards, "After all that, that's what?.."

"You saying you don't want it?" Arceed asked her.

"I didn't say that." June uttered.

[leiakenobi]

Can you elaborate on your thoughts on fanon Poe? Not that I disagree, I might just not know enough about the fanon of his character to have a strong opinion. His canon gets iffy too though in like the ninth episode (with like the drug running? I didn’t actually watch that one though 😬)

Ooh yes for sure, I'd be happy to elaborate!

Right off the bat, I want to say that I do believe there's always going to be some variation in how people read characters. I'm certainly not under the illusion that my approach to Poe will be everyone's cup of tea, nor do I expect that everyone's reading of Poe should be to my liking. None of this is me trying to regulate how fandom should read him; it's just what motivates me to write him the way that I do, and also to some degree what motivates me to not... really... read much Poe fic.

Since you mentioned it specifically, I'll also say that I tend to flat-out ignore the spice runner backstory they give him in TROS, partially because it's uh racist and partially because dude already got another backstory in the extended canon, making Poe's story one of a million things JJ retconned just for funsies. (I do not have a particularly favorable view of that movie.)

But I think regardless of whether you take the spice runner backstory into account, my feelings about his fanon characterization remain the same.

Essentially, it comes down to the fact that canon tells us Poe is confident, assertive, maybe a little bit reckless, but also incredibly compassionate. He's affectionate toward the people he loves, and he cares so much about the fate of the galaxy both on a large and small scale. And a lot of fanon interpretations -- especially but not limited to reader-inserts -- turn that into a character who's seductive, possessive, and aggressive.

As far as canon justification goes, I'd say his dynamic with Holdo comes the closest to supporting that reading, particularly the things she says to him in their first conversation. (The whole bit about knowing "plenty of trigger-happy flyboys like [Poe]" and him liking to think of himself as charming and dangerous.) I'm personally skeptical about the usefulness of any of this dialogue to tell us about Poe, because a big part of Poe and Holdo's dynamic is that both of them are underestimating one another in their interactions. If anything, I think it's more useful in telling us that he's not just another "trigger-happy flyboy": because both Poe and Holdo are more than meets the eye.

The other thing about it, which is what makes me feel quite so strongly about Poe's fanon interpretation (and many other Oscar characters tbh) compared with other characters I'm invested in, is that characterizing Poe as seductive, possessive, and aggressive... starts to veer toward stereotypes and racism pretty dang fast. Which is not to say that everyone who approaches Poe that way is doing so because of Oscar's ethnicity, but I've seen it happen often enough in fanon interpretations of his character that I tread lightly whenever it starts to look like it might be a possibility.

[violetsmoak]

Philtatos [4/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47615902

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire–for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there’s more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #gods in disguise #secrets #shield #undying love

First Chapter

Author's Note(s): This one's a little less polished since my computer decided to eat half the chapter and I had to rewrite it in a hurry, but I'll fix it later.

________________________________________________________________

How does this even happen?

It’s tempting for Tim to let his head fall against the computer console in his frustration.

A week in, and nothing. No reports of random people wandering around with a bow and arrows, none of his underworld contacts have mentioned anything showing up at on the black-market or at illegal auctions. It’s as if Eros’ diviners have vanished into thin air.

That he’s frustrated is putting it lightly.

Adding to that is the fact he hasn’t seen or heard from Jason in the same amount of time. The other vigilante finally appears to have found the tracer Tim stuck on him and sent it on a trip to the Gotham City dump. It’s both a relief, because it means he’s acting like himself, and a disappointment, because it means he’s still resistant to Tim’s help.

Apparently when he asserted the Red Hood would eventually reach out to him, he underestimated the exact amount of stubborn that is Jason Todd. He’d come to Eros about something, as Tim discovered when checking his now blank security feeds; the Olympian wouldn’t say what, instead complaining about rude capes and the obstinacy of men.

Tim scowls at the dot pixel pattern of static where the footage of their meeting should be, trying to get his emotions under control. He’s annoyed, because Eros is annoying, but also because Jason managed to not only get into his apartment undetected, but down into the Nest.

Yes, he knows Jason is a lot smarter than he pretends to be, but it’s a dart to his pride because he thought he was being clever.

He’s also worried, since something upset Jason enough to come here in the first place. And he’s hurt because he’d chosen to speak to the winged appetite that compromised him to begin with instead of the one person trying to help him right now.

He waited until I wasn’t around to come here. And Eros won’t say what they talked about.

Mostly to be contrary.

As for the reports coming in from the authorities cleaning up after the Red Hood in the past few days, his take-downs are edging toward the worse side of brutal once again.

Something must be going on. If he’s being affected, though, wouldn’t he not have the interest to keep on with his usual activities?

It’s been an almost physical effort not to approach Jason once again, to plead with him to just accept help for once.

Versions of that plan have never worked for Bruce or Dick—or, well, any Bat, really—so Tim doubts it will work for him.

It’s why he now forces his focus back onto Eros’ case, as futile as it’s been. He knows he’s has more difficult cases, but this one feels like it’s intentionally trying to frustrate him in a way even the Riddler’s games never have.

You’d think people carrying around a bow and arrows would be pretty easy to find, but apparently not.

The Olympian is irritating, even as he answers Tim’s questions. His story hasn’t changed from when he first told it—a trip to Amsterdam that didn’t go as planned, and then a desperate hunt throughout all the cities where Tim tracked thefts.

So far, everything lines up with the investigation Tim was running before and offers no new information.

“Are your diviners like you?” Tim asks, considering the giant map on his computer screen; a red line drags across the Atlantic Ocean, connecting locations on the bordering continents. “I mean, will they not turn up on CCTV or other security devices?”

It would explain why he hasn’t found anything yet.

“Nah, that’s just me,” Eros tells him as he flips through a gossip rag. “I have to make the conscious decision to not show up on camera. It’s a strain on my abilities.” He sighs, putting down the magazine. “I used to be able to go completely invisible in the good old days. Back when people truly believed in us.”

“And now you just, what, mess with imaging frequencies?”

“Pfft—Glorified camouflage.”

“Considering government reliance on facial recognition software, you’re still able to ghost the system. That’s something.”

“Don’t patronize,” Eros grumbles. Then he tilts his head as something occurs to him. “Although, now that you mention it, they can change forms.”

Tim stills. “…What.”

“Yes, to make them less conspicuous. You don’t think I wander around with a bow and arrows all the time, do you? Outside of a Renaissance fair that sort of thing catches the wrong kind of attention—”

“Why the hell didn’t you say this before?” Tim hisses, fingers itching with conflicting impulses to tear at his hair or punch the Olympian in the face. Luckily for the well-being of all parties involved there’s a thick sheet of bulletproof glass between them.

“Uh, one, you didn’t ask. Two, I’m the only one who knows how to change their form, so I didn’t think it was an issue,” Eros replies, ticking options off his fingers.

Tim takes a deep breath through his nose and releases it. “If you want me to solve your case and get your property back, you have to tell me all the information. Even if it seems insignificant.”

“Well I know that now,” Eros huffs; at Tim’s continued unimpressed expression, he rolls his eyes stands up. “Fine! Mea culpa. What do you want to know?”

“What forms can your diviners take?”

“Since they were forged to be divine weapons, they have to conform to their purpose. So they can only be reshaped into other weapons.”

“Any weapon? Knives? Brass knuckles? Mace?”

“In theory?” Eros answers, and then looks curious. “Actually, that’s an interesting concept. I might try those out when I get them back.”

His attention span is possible worse than Bart’s.

“Focus—what form were they in when you were in Amsterdam?” There’s no footage of that, because apparently that café valued customer privacy over possible security issues.

“Well, I’d just finished watching a James Bond marathon, so I was inspired. I made them into these sweet, gold-plated .45 calibre revolvers. Single shot, custom-design, monogrammed.”

And another breath…

“Which you didn’t think to mention.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was that important?”

“Yes, it was important! How am I supposed to help you find your diviners when you have me looking for a bow and arrows, and they’ve basically become the Golden Gun?!”

“Guns. Plural.” Eros corrects reasonably. “And you’re a detective. It’s what you do. I already said I don’t tell you how to do your job.”

Tim’s heard that love is blind; it turns out love is also an idiot.

With monumental effort, he lets it go; he’ll revisit the shape-changing weapons on his own time. There’s other information he needs. “Back to the theft, though—is there anyone you were with at the time, anyone who might have witnessed what happened?”

“I was with a lot of people that night. And it’s not like those people are going to a pot café to pay attention, if you know what I mean?”

“Not really.”

“Well, that’s not surprising. You don’t strike me as the fun one.”

Tim rolls his eyes at the dig, “What about other Olympians?”

“What about them?”

“Could they have stolen it from you?”

“In theory, but I would have noticed. And then booked it in another direction.”

“You don’t get along with your family?”

“Do you?”

“It’s…complicated.”

“It always is.”

“What about your wife?”

Eros tenses, expression going unnaturally blank. “What?”

“I started doing a bit of research on you,” Tim explains, studying the sudden change in demeanour. “Just the basics. But the most popular story about you has to do with your wife, Psy—”

“Dead,” Eros cuts him off, abrupt.

“But I thought she became an immortal goddess?”

“How many times do I have to explain that the stories don’t get everything right?” Eros sneers. “She’s dead. Point final.”

The message in his voice and eyes is for Tim to drop it; even as his curiosity grows, filing the information into his mental dossier of the Olympian, Tim can recognize a painful topic.

He lets it go. For now.

“So, no one was around? The coffeeshop, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Eros groans, body language easing out of it’s rigidity once more. He winds his fingers into his hair. “There was a pair of identical twins from Sweden that looked like walking Alps, and by the Styx did I want to climb those.”

“Gross.”

“And then there was the clingy redhead, the hot waiter with the manbun, one total MILF relieving her glory days—I don’t know, okay? There were a lot of people!”

Tim leans back in his chair, carding his fingers together. “What exactly is a god of love doing getting stoned in Amsterdam, anyhow?”

“Hey, I don’t judge your life choices.”

“I’m not judging, I’m just—curious. You’re not human, you can go wherever you want, do whatever you want, without being tracked—can probably influence people to get whatever you want. And you decide to gorge yourself on pot brownies in a glorified basement?”

“You might not understand this, but sometimes it’s nice to go somewhere and forget for a little while,” Eros drawls.

Actually, I get that more than you imagine…

“That’s unexpected,” Tim offers. “Considering who you are, you’d think you’d be happier."

"When has��love ever been synonymous with happy?" Eros challenges. “You know that better than most, right?”

“I’m fine. I’m living with it.”

“Not talking about your walking Alp, darlin’. I mean the loss you’ve gone through.” The Olympian is studying him now. “I can see the scars left over from every person you let into your heart and who left you. The boy you loved, your parents, your best friends, your father figure…and it’s not just death I’m sensing. You’ve had things taken from you, things you loved more than anything, just wrenched away.”

“My entire life has burnt down! Again! I don’t call this ‘okay’, Dick.”

“You have to understand—”

“Oh, are you still here?”

“What Earth are we on that you choose him over me?”

Even after all this time, it hurts.

He is uncomfortable at the reminder of blacker times, some fresher in his mind than others. He still has moments when his mind is trapped back in the days after losing Robin, after his father’s death, when he gets stuck in those memories and can barely get out of bed. It’s like sleep paralysis, except he’s awake, and it usually takes Dick dropping by his place unannounced or Alfred phoning him to remind him not to miss upcoming family dinners, to get him out of it again.

To remind him it’s in the past and can’t hurt him anymore.

But now, this latest thing with Jason has more than just the potential to hurt, it’s practically a certainty. In fact, Tim wonders if Jason being cursed to desire him isn’t just the universe continuing its general theme of dumping on him.

“I don’t need a replay, I was there,” Tim says stiffly, and decides he needs a break from Eros for a little while. In about three hours he has to get up and go to work, something he’d rather skip, but the old guard on the Board of Directors is getting up to their usual bullshit and he can’t skip the meetings today.

The rest of the week continues in the same trying fashion. When he isn’t working the case, going through hours of footage from various airports, train stations and other checkpoints for a sign of someone carrying any weapons this time, he’s at WE fighting a bunch of old, fiscal conservatives trying to undercut employee wages. Neither initiative seems to be going anywhere.

On the sixth night since the warehouse fight, Tim is running on very little fuel, to the point his judgement is starting to waver. He’s weighing the pros and cons of checking in on Jason again. He thinks he could probably manage it without him noticing this time. But then, Eros is taking one of his rare (and much appreciated) food-coma naps, which means some valuable quiet time for him to think.

The main computer chooses that point to blink to life with a message from the Tower, and Tim’s stomach leaps with hope that Cassie has something for him.

Except it’s not her that grins down at him.

“Superboy? Where’s Cassie?”

His best friend makes a face. “Ouch, not even a ‘hello’?”

“Sorry, just a bit stressed,” Tim groans. Apparently his exhaustion has brought him past the point of basic etiquette. He needs another Red Bull. “Hi.”

“You sound so enthusiastic,” Connor deadpans. “Anyway, Cassie’s gone to see her Mom in Gateway City. She said she’d be back soon.”

Tim nods. That makes sense, considering Dr. Sandsmark’s knowledge of Ancient Greek artifacts and mythology; he feels stupid for not thinking to contact her before.

“Hey Rob!” Bart shoves his face into the frame. “When are you coming back?”

“Might be a little while. I got side-tracked with a case here that’s, uh, time sensitive.”

“Sucks.”

“While you’re here, can I get some of those bars of yours?”

He thinks Batburger is about to offer him and endorsement deal.

“Are you pulling another case where you’re too lazy to get up and eat? Dude, we talked about that.”

“Also, those bars are gross.”

“Of course they’re gross to you, you’re used to homemade Kansas awesomeness that fills you up if you just look at it.”

“They’re not for me,” Tim interrupts. “It’s for a…actually—” There’s no other way to see it. “He’s my prisoner.”

His friends look impressed.

“Damn, Rob, are you going Dark Side on us?”

“Ooh, do they have cookies?”

“Ha, hah. And even if I was, everyone else has already done it, I’m due. But no, the guy’s a glorified witness, with the metabolism like a Speedster.”

“So, hell on the grocery bills,” Connor says with a nod.

Tim’s comm buzzes, the line from his cellphone; against the backdrop of his mask, Cassie’s number pops up.

“Gimme a sec, incoming call,” he says, and patches into the line. “Hey—”

“Everything he said is true,” Cassie interrupts before he can finish the sentence. “Eros, I mean. People infected by his blood only get worse unless treated—think the Henry VIII, the Manson family, or John Hinckley Jr before they were cured.”

Tim recognizes all of those names. “Wait, but they all lived afterward.”

“They were the ones who got cured. Other’s haven’t been so lucky. Medea killed her own children and set her ex’s new girlfriend on fire.”

The blood rushes from his face. “What?”

“I mean, all those people had severe issues before they got infected, which might be a factor, but if your victim already has trouble controlling their emotions…”

Cassie trails off.

It’s like the bottom has dropped out of his stomach. “How long?”

“Two weeks, give or take. It depends on the mind frame of the victim.”

A very real, visceral fury spreads throughout Tim’s body, anger on Jason’s behalf and at the spoiled godling that’s watching all this unfold like it’s one of his TV dramas.

“…Thanks, Cassie,” he manages to croak. “Call you later.”

He hangs up.

“Are you okay?” Connor asks; on screen, his body becomes more tense in response to Tim’s expression.

“I have to go,” Tim replies, tipping his cowl over his head.

“Need help?” Bart asks. “You know we can be there in less than three hours if you do. Two if we’re really booking.”

Tim considers, then shakes his head. “I—we should be able to handle this.” Bruce is never happy when metas show up without his permission, even when they’re saving the collective asses of the Family. “But I’ll keep you posted. If there is anything, I’ll contact you right away.”

“Good luck,” Connor says, still concerned.

“Thanks,” Tim replies, ending the call.

I think I’m definitely going to need it.

⁂

The sun beats down on him from its zenith, and he can feel his arms burning. The air is hot and humid, carrying with it the taste of the sea he usually associates with the Mediterranean, yet he’s still sweating in his linen tunic.

In his hands—browner than he’s used to, scarred but in a different way than he expects—he carries a wreath of laurel leaves, woven together with fine gold thread. In front of him, a giant mound rises out of the earth, grass and wildflowers covering it, rippling lazily in the wind. At its base, a thick column of aged marble, already falling into disrepair.

He should see about having that fixed before they head for Sardis.

Jason takes a few steps forward, kneeling to place the wreath at the base of the column; despite the heat, a chill moves up his spine as he presses his hand to the earth, clutching a handful of dry soil and bringing it to his lips.

“It is my privilege to stand at the hall of your rest, Honored Forefather,” he murmurs. “And know that I will do your blood proud.”

The words are less flowery than anything the priests and governors might come up with, but the sentiment remains just as genuine.

Glancing to his right, he sees a similar column several yards away, and another man is kneeling there with his own wreath. It takes him a moment before he recognises him.

Tim.

Except—he’s different: his hair is longer, skin darker than Jason can ever remember seeing, because Tim is supposed to be a pasty-faced nerd. He’s also wearing a red tunic and lace up sandals, and his features are much more relaxed than Jason is used to. No dark circles beneath his closed eyes. He mouths words that are lost in the breeze.

Jason’s own gaze falls there for a moment, taking in the flushed colour of his lips. Something at the back of his mind chides him for looking, but it’s lost within a burgeoning warmth in his chest.

He’s lucky to have him here, someone as faithful and intelligent and honest—

Eyes blinking open, Tim notices him watching; his mouth tilts upward in amusement, and Jason’s heart seems to beat faster. The smaller man straightens up, leaving his offering behind him and wanders over, movements as smooth as a cat. And—

No, this isn’t a good idea, he’s supposed to be avoiding him, right? He can’t remember why, but—

“What are you thinking of?” Tim asks softly. “You’re supposed to be making sacrifices to your ancestor’s memory, not staring at your liegeman.” He adopts a severe expression. “It’s distracting me from being appropriately solemn.”

Jason shrugs, fond smile on his own face.

“He was happy, when he lived,” he says, nodding at the column where he knelt before. “And fortunate in finding a faithful companion, and a great poet to sing of his deeds after his death.”

“You say that as if you have neither,” Tim snorts.

“There are no more poets of merit to speak of my deeds. Everything is lost to the logical, pedantic record of history.”

“And there’s the sense of drama I was waiting for,” Tim deadpans. “You could always write the histories yourself.”

“Hah! You would say something like that. Always planning, aren’t you?”

“Well, someone has to.”

Jason rolls his eyes, and gestures with his hand that Tim should follow him. They amble down a grassy footpath, returning to the level ground where their horses wait for them. There are guards spread out around them, close enough to help if something should happen but far enough away, they can’t hear what’s said.

He approaches the massive black Thessalian, absently patting the ox-head brand on its haunch with one hand while his other reaches to detach a large cloth-wrapped package from his saddlebags.

Tim appears curious when Jason hands it to him.

“I made sacrifice at the temple this morning before we rode out and left them with one of my finest sets of armour,” he explains. “They insisted it was too much and that I should take something in return. This called to me.”

Tim opens the bundle, eyebrows raising at the bronze shield that gleams in the sun.

“It was found in the ruins of the great city herself after the battle. It made me think of you.”

“Oh?” Tim watches him from beneath hooded eyes, a delicate colour blooming across the bridge of his nose. “You think of me as a shield?”

“I think of you as my shield,” he corrects seriously. “I will always be a sword. I can’t be anything else, or others would see it as weakness. But you…you protect everything that I am, even from myself. You throw your own needs and wants to the dirt to raise up mine. You weather the anger of men who believe themselves to be greater. For my sake.”

Tim appears struck mute at this, clutching the shield to his body as he stares at Jason with shining eyes. His mouth parts several times, as if he’s trying to figure out what to say, and once again Jason’s gaze falls upon his lips.

Tim shoots a darting glance at the guards near them, and something like frustration passes across his features, mixing with calculation.

And then he’s grinning that sharp grin again, and Jason’s stomach flips pleasantly as it fixes on him. Tim sets the shield to one side with careful reverence and takes a step forward until their faces are within inches of one another.

Jason licks his lips, expectation weighing heavily on him, and waits for Tim to break the silence.

“I think we should run a race.”

Which...was not the response he was expecting. Jason blinks at the non sequitur. “What?”

“In the old style,” the younger man continues, setting the shield on the ground and backing away. He’s reaching for the belt of his tunic, eyes sparking with mischief and something else. “To honour our ancestors, of course.”

“Of course,” Jason agrees, and reaches for him, but Tim dances out of his way.

“Ah, no! You’re entirely to dressed for that.”

He’s jogging backwards now, and Jason laughs, reaching again for him, “Get back here—”

“You’ll have to catch me—”

“Hood!”

Jason gives a full-body jerk, dragged out of his reverie by a voice that is no longer laughing, but tense.

“Red Hood!”

The world returns to him, gritty and smelling like rancid trash and smoke. There are several bodies at his feet and the smell of blood in the air; he hears groaning, so he knows they’re alive. That should be a relief, somehow, except he’s distracted.

There’s someone standing in front of him, the height and build familiar, it could be him, except the eyes are wrong and he’s younger and—

Not him. Nothing like him.

For a beat Jason is irritated when he realises the person in front of him is not Tim, because he was sure he just heard him. On the heel of that annoyance is the realisation that he’s looming over a kid that can’t be more than a few years older than Damian, who’s staring at him with unbridled terror, pressing himself into the walls of the alley.

New kid on the corner. Johns were harassing him, so I taught them a lesson, but then…

Jason’s hand lingers in front of his face, inches away, fingers curved like they intend to brush the boy’s jawline.

Realisation hits at what he must look like, what the teenager must think, and it’s soon followed by disgust because he knows the motivation behind his current position. He pulls back, staring down at his hands in horror.

What the hell did I almost do?

“Hood, look at me,” Tim says, only it’s the Red Robin voice, growled from the shadows, and it sends a shiver up Jason’s spine.

He immediately turns to face him.

The nameless teen take off at a run, but that’s not important; what’s important is that Tim is here, barely three feet away. He moves to close the distance, posture open and soothing, and Jason is already relaxing in response, twitching to reach toward Tim’s outstretched hand.

And…no.

He should not be relaxing. He should not be reaching out or touching Tim in any way because—

Because…

It’s hard to think why, but then he remembers.

Because it’s not him who wants to, it’s the infection. And he might do something worse.

Jason’s entire body seizes up again, and he stumbles backward.

“Hood, it’s okay,” Tim says in a placating whisper. “I’m going to help you. I promise.”

And Jason wants to, he really does. Wants to just go with him, maybe let himself fall against his body in exhaustion, because Tim might be small but he’s strong and could hold him up and—

“Back off!” Jason snaps, both to himself and to Tim, who jerks as if he’s been slapped. The sight helps ground him a bit more. “You are the lastperson I should be around right now.”

“Ja—”

“No!”

He takes off. Doesn’t bother with shooting a line into the air—his hands are shaking too much for that—and just runs. He knows this place better than the other vigilante ever will, knows how to disappear even when being pursued by a Bat.

And right now, he needs to disappear.

Grotty buildings and dark alleys fly by him as he crashes through the backways.

This is better, just one foot in front of the other. The icy air in his lungs is painful, but the good kind—distracting. Waking him from whatever funk he was in.

What the hell was that before? A dream?

But he was awake. And since when are dreams, or even hallucinations, so cohesive? Sequential? He knows it happened like he was living it, though he can’t remember exactly anymore. The details are drifting away like sand grasped too tightly in a fist, but he remembers feelings. Warmth. Safety. Laughter.

And Tim smiling at him; everything else is hazy, but he remembers that detail without difficulty.

Jason’s stomach lurches, torn between something fond and possessive, and the sense of disgust crouching at the back of his mind and spreading through his body the more he thinks about it.

He has to stay away—from Tim, from anyone who looks like him. Just until he can figure out a fix (or hell, even afterward, just to be sure). No, wait, he can’t figure it out. It would involve investigation, chasing down leads, probably running into—

No. Better barricade himself in somewhere. Take himself out of the equation.

Tim will be fine to figure this out on his own—he said he was trying to help, which means he’s aware of what’s going on with Jason. Which, yes, is mortifying, but also a comfort, because he trusts the younger man to figure it out.

He wonders for a moment if that’s because of the growing fascination, and then decides it’s not. Even before, he’s had an inexplicable amount of faith in Tim’s abilities to plan and get results.

It’s why he wanted him to be his Robin.

Why he still wants—

“Damn it!” Jason growls, stopping for a moment to breathe and then to punch the nearest wall in frustration.

The comm in his ear buzzes to life.

“Red Hood?”

Not Tim, but Oracle.

“Tell me you found something,” he orders, trying to get his mounting panic under control.

“Not yet. I’ve got a lead that looks promising, but still waiting on confirmation,” Oracle replies. There’s a pause, and then when she speaks again, it’s without the voice synthesizer. “Tim told me what’s going on.”

Shame hits him. “Of course he did.”

“We want to help you, Jason. This isn’t something you have to go through on your own.”

“Tell me that the next time you get shot up with Olympian blood that makes you fixate on Huntress or Clayface or someone. I just need somewhere to ride this out—”

“I can think of somewhere that would be well-equipped.”

The Cave.

“No.”

“Now isn’t the time for your pride. If you really don’t want to hurt someone—to hurt Tim. Again. Your best bet is to get B’s help.”

The kicker is, Jason knows she’s right. And he’s off his game enough that all of his usual arguments and complaints and resentments just don’t seem to register. All that he can focus on right now is Tim—and wanting to do everything he can to stop obsessing over him.

To stop wanting him, wanting to touch and taste and—

“Damn it,” his says again, but this time it’s whispered, almost defeated.

Bruce is the only one Jason knows that will do anything in his power to stop him from becoming exactly the kind of monster he’s been fighting his whole life. Even if it means throwing him in Arkham until whatever is driving him insane gets fixed.

And even if it doesn’t…

He’ll lock me up and throw away the key to keep me from hurting Tim. And I’d let him.

“He’s enroute to you now,” Barbara says.

“Is the demon brat with him?”

“Yes.”

He remembers the terrified expression on the nameless teenager’s face as he reached out to him.

“Keep him away. I don’t…know what I might do.”

Barbara’s silence is heavy, and Jason feels a wave of disgust with himself rush over him.

“I’ve told B to send Robin to rendezvous with Red Robin,” she says, and it’s Oracle’s voice again. “He’ll be there in five minutes. Try not to bolt.”

It’s the longest five minutes of his life.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

[honeylikewords]

I know I have no right to do this because I haven't even seen the film yet but --

It was his fault. All of it. It was his fault for being too cocky, it was his fault for dragging God into this, and his fault for being born at all.

But Clyde had been so sure – just so sure – that if he prayed hard enough, that God would give them a baby girl. He’d worked his brain into overtime, perfecting the image of the little angel in his mind’s eye. She looked nothing like him (he didn’t want her to look anything like his sorry ass), but she looked every bit of divine as her momma.

Her sparkling eyes, her smooth skin, her perfect everything. But, most importantly, she wouldn’t have her pathetic pappy’s curse. Really, though, in his mind, the fact that she wouldn’t have the curse would’ve been reason enough for her to better resemble her mother.

The certainty that Clyde had earned God’s favor enough to assure that his first born would be a girl had been enough to keep the two of you from revealing the baby’s gender. Or, rather, it had been enough for Clyde to abstain from confirmation. You simply went along with it, though you occasionally did gently remind him that the world was filled with possibilities. You made sure to obtain gender-neutral colors for clothes and the bedroom “just in case.”

He’d been cocky. So confident that he had won out for the second time in his life (the first time being you). And for that, God was punishing him. The curse dropped back down not only upon himself, but his newborn son as well.

The moment of joy brought on by the infant’s first cries was instantly dampened by the doctor’s own cry: “Congratulations: It’s a boy!” The small, tired sound of pure happiness that you had released didn’t fall upon Clyde’s ears. For regardless of all the noises going on in the present – your small sobs of relief, the beeping of the hospital machinery, the doctors’ footsteps pattering around the room, and his son’s whimpers from the cold and bright lights – Clyde wasn’t present enough to hear any of it. He was far off in a place where time was inconsistent.

He was in the past, where he, as a Logan boy, was getting bullied and ridiculed, constantly getting screwed over by some unseen force of nature and his own damn self. He was in the present, in a blank space where all that he could hear, all that he could think, was “Logan boy! Logan boy! Unlucky Logan boy!” And then he was in the future, seeing his poor, cursed child reliving all of his mistakes and then some, disdaining his father for leaving only something so awful to inherit and wishing he’d never been brought into creation.

The nurses assumed that the gulp he’d made, followed by the trembling of his lips and watering of his eyes had been fatherly pride. After all, he had a child now. A son. And a big boy, at that, weighing in at 8 lbs and 6 oz. He was, to say the least, quite healthy.

The baby also appeared to be quite loving, as the moment he was placed into your arms, his crying stopped and his sobs calmed down into small, body-shaking hiccups.

“Oh!” you breathed, whipping Clyde back into the present – the real present. In this one, you were tearing up at the sight of the blanketed thing in your arms. “Oh, Clyde,” your voice cracked with tears. “He’s beautiful!”

Clyde wouldn’t know. He didn’t want to look down. He didn’t want to look down and see himself, both literally and metaphorically. To see an unfortunate child, both in luck and looks.

“… Clyde,” your voice sounded so soft. Probably because you were tired after such a long labor. “Clyde, look at your son.” You almost sounded as though you were pleading. Clyde was never one to ignore your requests. No matter how painful.

The tearing up from shame made for a shuttering inhale as he looked down to meet his poor child.

His features were round and pink, not too defined being that he wasn’t even five minutes old. He looked upset, but his calm breathing suggested otherwise. And the thick, black mop already developing on his little head suggested that he already was taking on Clyde’s attributes. Just a pinkish gumwad with a poof of black wisps and an upset expression.

He was the most beautiful thing Clyde had ever dared to look it.

A small “oh” managed to slip out from behind the lump in Clyde’s throat. You smiled tiredly by his side.

“Come on, honey, you gotta hold him,” you said, lifting the big baby up and closer to his daddy. Clyde didn’t mean to move so suddenly; all he had meant to do was move away from his own child.

“Uh, I –” he started before giving up. You lowered your arms, brows furrowing slightly. Clyde could see a hint of disappointment on your face. He sighed. “I jus’ … I don’t wanna hurt ‘em. He’s so tiny …”

But in admitting such, it appeared that Clyde had hurt you. The expression you now wore held so much surprise and pain – for him. He was a father now, and still all he could think about (or fear about) was his lack of luck and how it may cause him to do awful things, no matter what he’d intended or didn’t intend to do.

“Clyde,” you spoke quietly. “He’s your son. Nothing’s gonna happen to him, I promise.” He didn’t seem convinced, still stiff as a board as he hesitantly eyeballed the blanketed blob. You bit your lip. “How about … How about I hold him with one hand, and you hold him with the other –”

“My arm might pop off and he’ll drop.”

“It will not,” you asserted sternly. And that was that. After all, Clyde could never easily say no to you or turn you down. He made sure to lean in close enough to you so that there were no gaps between you, himself, or the bed. He fought to keep from thinking about the millions of ways the bed could collapse or how he could unintentionally hurt the baby. Even as you slowly maneuvered the child into a position between the two of you, Clyde had his doubts.

The weight was pretty light, especially considering how thick of a man Clyde was. It was actually almost comedically enjoyable, based on what he could feel. Every so often, the slumbering angel would jolt (“It’s just him getting used to his nerves, don’t worry about it,” the doctors had advised moments earlier). But even more often, he would release a tiny exhale that sounded like a sigh. One big enough to rumble through his tiny body. Often accompanied by his tiny tongue smacking against his lips.

He had Clyde’s hair, but Clyde wanted to believe that he also had your ears. But the very small, barely noticeable dot underneath his closed right eye suggested a mole. One of Clyde’s. The first thought that came to mind, much to Clyde’s own surprise, was not so much how worried he was about his son inheriting his appearance, but that the placement of said mole suggested that he’d grow up to be a pretty boy.

“See?” he heard you whisper beside him. “Nothin’ to it. You’re a natural.” Clyde offered you half of a smile when the baby shuddered and wriggled slightly. Out of his own protective instincts, Clyde couldn’t stop himself from raising his other arm to place it as further support on the child’s back. The wriggling stopped almost instantaneously. The angling at which Clyde was now hunched felt awkward. Out of reflex, he sat upright, taking the baby with him, but not your arm. It had long since returned back to your side, your eyes now capturing every movement of your husband in this moment.

“A natural,” you whispered once again. Your smile didn’t falter even for an instant when Clyde looked between you and his child. It was only when his son’s head began to shift ever so slightly that he stopped and landed firmly on the being in his arms.

His eyes stared right back into his own. They were smaller, purer, and so filled with love and unaware of the meaning of the word “loneliness” or of life’s hardships, but there was no second-guessing about it: They were Clyde’s eyes. And they had never been so beautiful to Clyde before now.

This was the thing that triggered Clyde inside. Indeed, having yet another Logan boy did put him in the mindset of having a child repeat his own life. But the catch was, now he had a daddy who was going to assure that nothing went wrong. This second chance, but better.

Once again, Clyde returned into the scape where time was skewed: He saw the past where he could have fixed things, he saw the future where his son, all handsome and beloved, was the first real lucky Logan to walk the county and, eventually, the world. But for now, he just needed to see the present. The present where you, tired from many hours of pain and discomfort, were catching up on your well-deserved rest. The present where he, a sorry S.O.B., was being graced by the presence of his small but beautiful family that he’d made for himself.

The present where Clyde Logan, as he stared down at the beautiful, tiny creature staring right back at him, wordlessly communicated how much love he felt for the newborn.

It was in this present that he would assure that future he was seeing. Starting with assuring that no harm would ever come upon his child. Not ever. Curse be damned.

Because if there was one thing a curse should never underestimate, it would be the boundlessness of one’s love for their family.

i sneakily pulled my phone out and checked my inbox inbetween classes today and when i saw this, i gASPED. i couldn’t put my phone down, not even when a girl started asking me about my disabilities accommodations. i had to keep reading.

and then i started crying.

i am SO in love with this story and i love you and i love, love, love clyde. i ended up actually doing a sketch of clyde and his baby son and i started crying more at his sweet face and i just,,, let me write a reply to this that’s actually interesting to read oh goodness

clyde logan is the unluckiest logan of all. his momma may have up and died and his daddy may have been a no-good sack of rancid rat meat, and maybe his aunt lost that winning lotto ticket and maybe his uncle got electrocuted, but clyde? clyde’s had it the worst of all of them.

nearly every part of clyde logan’s life has been cursed from beginning to end. there’s only been one bright spot, one success: his wife.

she was the thing that convinced him the curse was over, in some way. he had to be cleansed of the curse, surely, if such a beautiful thing would fall into his lap like this. he can’t be cursed if such wonder and goodness exists within arm’s reach. 

but part of him is terrified that maybe the curse is just dormant and waiting to strike the next generation, a viper in the grass. so when he finds out that his miracle girl, his curse breaker, his one victory, is pregnant with his child, the combination of fear and joy is IMMENSE.

but holding his son, he strokes his cheek and stares at him and sees that this must be the first child born in the logan lineage that hasn’t got the curse. there can be nothing, nothing at all in his beautiful, perfect little boy, that’s cursed. and if there is?

he, clyde caleb logan, will do everything he can to protect his boy. because there’s one thing that’s been missing in the logan line: love.

no fathers loved their children. none of them cared to protect their offspring; they were too busy lamenting their own losses and scourging the name logan for their misfortune. they forgot to protect their sons, and maybe, if they had, the curse would’ve died off. maybe it wouldn’t have been as powerful if they’d been able to  find it in their hearts to live on in kindness, curse or no.

so he’s gonna love. he’s gonna love his wife, his son. he’s gonna love jimmy and mellie and his niece and everyone he can, because love is more important than any number of lost arms, electrocutions, or jail sentences. love will win out.

he kisses his son’s brow and cries, soft and tender, into the dark, downy hairs that crown his baby’s head. that’s his baby. that’s his little angel, an angel descended from the most beautiful, angelic woman in the world. and clyde’s part of that world, now. he’s blessed.

so curse or no, he’s got it all. everything.

and he won’t give it up.