#'whether that west was won or lost in the end you have to decide for yourself'

[snekdood]

spirit unironically touched on colonialism so fuckin well.

[iangullugher]

get to know me meme: animated movies [1/5] ↳ spirit stallion of the cimarron

The story that I want to tell you cannot be found in a book. They say that the history of the west was written from the saddle of a horse, but it's never been told from the heart of one. Not till now. I was born here, in this place that would come to be called the Old West. But, to my kind, the land was ageless. It had no beginning and no end, no boundary between earth and sky. Like the wind and the buffalo, we belonged here, we would always belong here. They say the mustang is the spirit of the West. Whether that west was won or lost in the end, you'll have to decide for yourself, but the story I want to tell you is true. I was there and I remember. I remember the sun, the sky, and the wind calling my name in a time when we ran free. I'll never forget the sound and the feeling of running together. The hoof beats were many, but our hearts were one.

[keywestlou]

RUSSIA HAS GRADUATED…..USING RAPE AS A WEAPON IN UKRAINE

RUSSIA HAS GRADUATED…..USING RAPE AS A WEAPON IN UKRAINE - https://keywestlou.com/russia-has-graduated-using-rape-as-a-weapon-in-ukraine/Russia has graduated. Now using rape as a weapon in Ukraine. Disgusting, degenerate sexual abuse. An article in today's Daily Beast by Tara Chandra laid it out: "The increasingly desperate Russia military is using coordinated, brutal sexual assault to demoralize the Ukrainian people." The article suggested: "The U.S. and its allies need to act." Systematic campaigns of rape and torture were spelled out. An 11 year old boy raped in front of his mother, the boy no longer speaks. An 83 year old woman raped in her home who is still recovering. An 11 month old baby who died while being raped. Nine year old triplets raped and 11 month old baby sodomized with a candlestick in front of the mother. Adult males being sodomized. The author blames the lack of action to under reporting. Chandra believes the U.S. and others would react if the wrongs were to be revealed. I can recall a time when elderly parents moved in with their children. Increasingly not the case any longer. Nearly 26 million Americans age 50 or older live by themselves. More than any time in our nation's history. Turkeys still with us. Left overs time. Yesterday, Sloan brought me some left overs from her Thanksgiving table. Enough for 3 meals. Delicious! She then remained and we worked for a couple of hours. Jean and Joe Thornton return in the next few days. Jean emailed me yesterday from her Birmingham home where she cooked for the family Thursday that she was bringing with her left over turkey, stuffing, etc. for me. Love the ladies! A Thanksgiving turkey story I would like to share. I never had turkey till I was 10-12 years old. I suspect, though I am not sure, turkeys were expensive at the time. The late 1930's forward. We were poor. Chickens rather than turkeys on the table. Thanksgiving was at my grandmother's. Two large chickens. I recall they were referred to as capons. Capons were castrated. Neutered to improve the quality of the flesh for eating purposes. I recall the capons were moist, tender and flavorful. I have no older Italians to ask whether I am correct capons were cheaper than turkeys and eaten for that reason. I am an older Italian now and the issue never came up in my mind till I decided to write about capons today. Perhaps Al Cotoia or Bob Marks would know. Let me hear from you guys if you do. Truer words not spoken. Those by Marilyn Monroe re keeping warm on a cold night: "A career is wonderful, but you can't curl up with it on a cold night." I missed all the Syracuse fun/action yesterday. The basketball game against Bryant was at 4. Not televised and I don't enjoy streaming on the computer. The football game against Boston College at 7. I ended up forgetting and took a nap instead. The basketball game first. Syracuse lost 73-72. I'm getting nervous. Last year all over again? The action was during the basketball game. Ended up in a rout with both teams on the floor. Players from both teams ejected as well as two assistant Syracuse coaches. The scenario got better. Boeheim and the Bryant coach had words after the game. Seems some of the Bryant players left the floor at the end of the game without shaking hands. Boeheim did not like the Bryant coach's words in general to him as well as re the Bryant players who walked off without shaking hands. I watched the video of the encounter as well as Boeheim's explanation in the post game. I have known Boeheim since the late 1970's. Friends. The man is by the book. The perfect gentleman in every regard. I accept Boeheim's rendition that the Bryant coach was out of hand and insulting to him. Glad we won the football game. Beat Boston College 32-23. Syracuse's season record 7-5. Disgraceful since we won the first 6 games and then lost 5 in a row. My game plan tonight is to go out. Key West's First Methodist Church is presenting its annual rendition of The Messiah at 7. Enjoy your Sunday!

[necarion]

The hero not only got to the end of the story, he got to the end happier and haler than he'd ever feared. He got to play Cincinnatus and rise to the occasion and then set down his burdens when he wanted to. The never-healing wound in his side was even healed (in a way). Rand got to leave his injuries behind.

This is in decided contrast to Frodo who was destroyed by his journey. Frodo never belonged in the new world due to the injury that would never fade. He could never truly feel warmth or happiness at what he had done. To an extent, him leaving to the West was a surrender to inevitability. Yes, he has a reward, but it's a sad one.

And this is an interesting contrast with the two war veterans. Tolkien had characters who were beaten down and never again able to recover what they had lost. The old world was gone and this was tragic, and this is reflected in the characters. Jordan said that you can indeed go home. It might not be the same as it was when you left, but it may be better. Your injuries do not have to define you, and you have a choice whether to set down the burdens of the war.

Rand won, and now doesn't have to save the world anymore. He doesn't hold its burdens alone, and knows he doesn't need to.

He's left it in very capable hands!

wheel of time really said here are three women who at the end of the narrative will be thriving, each of them confident in themselves and positioned to direct the affairs of the world. oh and the protagonist? the hero? the chosen one, the prophesied? he's gonna fuck off into obscurity

[simoneashley]

The story that I want to tell you cannot be found in a book. They say that the history of the west was written from the saddle of a horse, but it's never been told from the heart of one. Not till now. I was born here, in this place that would come to be called the Old West. But, to my kind, the land was ageless. It had no beginning and no end, no boundary between earth and sky. Like the wind and the buffalo grass, we belonged here, we would always belong here. They say the mustang is the spirit of the West. Whether that west was won or lost in the end, you'll have to decide for yourself, but the story I want to tell you is true. I was there and I remember. I remember the sun, the sky, and the wind calling my name in a time when wild horses ran free.

SPIRIT: STALLION OF THE CIMARRON (2002) dir. Kelly Asbury and Lorna Cook

[justeunefillalambda]

"The story i want to tell you cannot be found in a book. They say that the history of the west was written from the saddle of a horse, but it's never been told from the heart of one. Not till now. I was born here, in this place that would come to be called the Old West. But, to my kind, the land was ageless. It had no beginning and no end, no boundary between earth and sky. Like the wind and the buffalo, we belonged here, we would always belong here. They say the mustang is the spirit of the West. Whether that west was won or lost in the end, you'll have to decide for yourself, but the story I want to tell you is true. I was there and I remember. I remember the sun, the sky, and the wind calling my name in a time when we ran free. I'll never forget the sound and the feeling of running together. The hoof beats were many, but out hearts were one".

[x-lulu]

lu’s watchlist in 2021 - spirit, stallion of the cimarron ↳ the story I want to tell you cannot be found in a book. they say that the history of the west was written from the saddle of a horse, but it’s never been told from the heart of one. not till now. I was born here, in this place that would come to be called the old west. but, to my kind, the land was ageless. it had no beginning and no end, no boundary between earth and sky. like the wind and the buffalo, we belonged here, we would always belong here. they say the mustang is the spirit of the west. whether that west was won or lost in the end, you’ll have to decide for yourself, but the story I want to tell you is true. I was there and I remember. I remember the sun, the sky, and the wind calling my name in a time when we ran free. I’ll never forget the sound and the feeling of running together. the hoof beats were many, but our hearts were one

[runawaycarouselhorse]

[background music, English audio.]

The original Spirit could not be "broken," tamed, saddled, and ridden—his full name (given by humans, we never know if the horses give each other names as we understand them), given to him by his Lakota friend, Little Creek, at the very end is "Spirit Who Cannot Be Broken."

He allows Little Creek to ride him, on his own terms, in times of need, but Spirit is wild, through and through.

I can only be glad this Spirit is just his son... with the same name (note he has a white line, his father, the movie Spirit, does not—the meme caught that detail too.)

Seeing his son race a train, when it caused so much suffering to Spirit and the stolen horses who belonged to Little Creek's village... the way Spirit used to race a bald eagle... man.

The whole movie is beautiful, somber, inspiring, but also bittersweet because of the ultimate loss, which one horse couldn't really tell.

"They say the mustang is the spirit of the West. Whether that west was won or lost in the end, you'll have to decide for yourself, but the story I want to tell you is true. I was there and I remember. I remember the sun, the sky, and the wind calling my name in a time when wild horses ran free..."

Also, some worthwhile reading:

Spirit reboot feels like a hatecrime

....yeah

But the figures are cute ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

AGOT: Eddard VII (Chapter 30)

Eddard Stark looked at his face, and wondered if it had been for his sake that the boy had died. Slain by a Lannister bannerman before Ned could speak to him; could that be mere happenstance? He supposed he would never know.    

I pick happenstance. Gregor being Gregor.

At the end of A Storm of Swords we learned that Jon Arryn was poisoned by Lysa at the instigation of Littlefinger, but who ordered the death of Ser Hugh of the Vale? Cersei? Littlefinger?

It could very well have been either of the two, that's for you to decide. But, it could also just have been a Gregor thing. He's a murderous brute, and really needs no reason to kill someone. - GRRM

+.+

Drink and stay quiet, the king is talking. I swear to you, I was never so alive as when I was winning this throne, or so dead as now that I've won it.

Oop, Daenerys again. Alive while winning the throne, dead 😉 once she’s won it.

+.+

Oh, Cersei is lovely to look at, truly, but cold … the way she guards her cunt, you'd think she had all the gold of Casterly Rock between her legs.

Cersei wields her weapon offensively and defensively.

+.+

"Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once, I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that's what I was made for. The sellsword king, how the singers would love me. You know what stops me? The thought of Joffrey on the throne, with Cersei standing behind him whispering in his ear. My son. How could I have made a son like that, Ned?"

"He's only a boy," Ned said awkwardly. He had small liking for Prince Joffrey, but he could hear the pain in Robert's voice.

WHY IS YOUR DAUGHTER STILL BETROTHED TO HIM?

+.+

You never could lie for love nor honor, Ned Stark.

Well.

+.+

This was the boy he had grown up with, he thought; this was the Robert Baratheon he'd known and loved. If he could prove that the Lannisters were behind the attack on Bran, prove that they had murdered Jon Arryn, this man would listen. Then Cersei would fall, and the Kingslayer with her, and if Lord Tywin dared to rouse the west, Robert would smash him as he had smashed Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident. He could see it all so clearly.    

And they say Sansa is naive, lol.

+.+

Sansa said, "I knew the Hound would win."    

In life, the monsters win, she told herself.

+.+

When the Knight of Flowers made his entrance, a murmur ran through the crowd, and he heard Sansa's fervent whisper, "Oh, he's so beautiful."

x

The boy from Highgarden did something with his legs, and his horse pranced sideways, nimble as a dancer. Sansa clutched at his arm. "Father, don't let Ser Gregor hurt him," she said. Ned saw she was wearing the rose that Ser Loras had given her yesterday. Jory had told him about that as well.    

Baby girl has lost self-control.

+.+

"I'm sore all over," Arya reported happily, proudly displaying a huge purple bruise on her leg.         

"You must be a terrible dancer," Sansa said doubtfully.    

Bwahaha.

+.+

He took out the dagger and studied it. Littlefinger's blade, won by Tyrion Lannister in a tourney wager, sent to slay Bran in his sleep.

Ned? Hello? Are you there? Remember earlier today? Remember when Jaime Lannister lost? You don’t remember, do you?

"A pity the Imp is not here with us," Lord Renly said. "I should have won twice as much."  

+.+

The dagger, Bran's fall, all of it was linked somehow to the murder of Jon Arryn, he could feel it in his gut

Your gut is worthless.

+.+

Cersei could not have been pleased by her lord husband's by-blows, yet in the end it mattered little whether the king had one bastard or a hundred. Law and custom gave the baseborn few rights. Gendry, the girl in the Vale, the boy at Storm's End, none of them could threaten Robert's trueborn children …    

That depends, has anyone checked Robert’s will?

Catelyn I promise you, it’s going to be okay.

+.+

"How did you get past my other guards?" Ned asked. Porther and Cayn had been posted outside the tower, and Alyn on the stairs.         

"The Red Keep has ways known only to ghosts and spiders." Varys smiled apologetically.

Varys survives the attack of the Red Keep, confirmed.

+.+

"She forbade him to fight, in front of his brother, his knights, and half the court. Tell me truly, do you know any surer way to force King Robert into the melee? I ask you."    

Ah yes, this makes more sense. Silly stumpy.

+.+

Amidst all that chaos, with horses screaming and bones breaking and Thoros of Myr waving that absurd firesword of his

Varys must have the utmost respect for Stannis Baratheon, lol.

+.+

"After the deed was done, the slayer would be beside himself with grief. I can almost hear him weeping. So sad. Yet no doubt the gracious and compassionate widow would take pity, lift the poor unfortunate to his feet, and bless him with a gentle kiss of forgiveness. Good King Joffrey would have no choice but to pardon him." The eunuch stroked his cheek. "Or perhaps Cersei would let Ser Ilyn strike off his head. Less risk for the Lannisters that way, though quite an unpleasant surprise for their little friend."    

Look, more foreshadowing I hate.

+.+

"His brothers hate the Lannisters, true enough, but hating the queen and loving the king are not quite the same thing, are they? Ser Barristan loves his honor, Grand Maester Pycelle loves his office, and Littlefinger loves Littlefinger."   

Littlefinger loves Littlefinger, Ned.

Littlefinger loves Littlefinger, Ned.

+.+

Of these seven, only Ser Barristan Selmy is made of the true steel, and Selmy is old.

And stupid. Don’t forget stupid.

+.+

He was at the door when Ned called, "Varys," The eunuch turned back. "How did Jon Arryn die?"                 

"I wondered when you would get around to that."

"Tell me."         

"The tears of Lys, they call it. A rare and costly thing, clear and sweet as water, and it leaves no trace. I begged Lord Arryn to use a taster, in this very room I begged him, but he would not hear of it. Only one who was less than a man would even think of such a thing, he told me."    

The tears of Lysa!

He knows the exact poison that was used, despite it not leaving a trace.

A wise man might ask himself how he discovered that, and when. Before it happened? While Jon Arryn was dying? ...Ned?

+.+

Ned had to know the rest. "Who gave him the poison?" "Some dear sweet friend who often shared meat and mead with him, no doubt. Oh, but which one? There were many such. Lord Arryn was a kindly, trusting man." The eunuch sighed. "There was one boy. All he was, he owed Jon Arryn, but when the widow fled to the Eyrie with her household, he stayed in King's Landing and prospered. It always gladdens my heart to see the young rise in the world."

Littlefinger.

+.+

"He must have cut a gallant figure in the tourney, him in his bright new armor, with those crescent moons on his cloak. A pity he died so untimely, before you could talk to him …"    

Intentional misdirection. Naughty Varys.

+.+

"Why? Why now? Jon Arryn had been Hand for fourteen years. What was he doing that they had to kill him?"                 

"Asking questions," Varys said, slipping out the door.

Ned, you’re asking questions.

Not good questions, but you’re asking them.

Final thoughts:

I’d like to think I know this story decently well, but even I’m finding it challenging keeping track of what Littlefinger and Varys know, and what they don’t.

-> return to menu <-

[witcher-trash]

Weekly Witcher Fic Recs 3

(I have a lot this week haha) All Your Life (lambert-centric, angst, complete, mature, 1k) Lambert is a parrot. Lambert is a parrot and it’s eating him alive. Lambert is a parrot and there is nothing he can do about it.

Cat in the bag (aiden/coën/lambert, complete, mature, 15k) Aiden gives a cheeky little grin. “I’ll write down the recipe for you once we’ve survived this entire mess.” “If we survive.” Lambert sighs as he shrugs his shirt back on. Their plan does have a reasonable chance of success, true, but the risk is still substantial and a lot of it depends on factors he can’t really control. “We will.” Coën radiates the same optimism and calmness that he displays in the face of almost every adverse situation, something that Lambert has come to rely on more than he sometimes likes to admit. “Well, let’s see it this way – if it goes wrong there is a good chance that all of us will be dead, so not much to worry over, no?” Aiden adds cheerfully. * Coën and Lambert take a contract to protect a king from assassination. A straightforward contract, really - until it turns out that one of the supposed assassins, a Cat School witcher, has decided to go rogue. Now, the three of them have to figure out whether they can trust each other and how to keep both themselves and the king from getting killed.

Crimes Against Gwent (lambert&geralt, complete, teen and up, 2k) Lambert leaps from his chair at the dining table so forcefully that it topples backwards with a loud clatter, and quickly rounds the table to tackle Geralt, bowling him over without any regard to their surroundings. Geralt’s chair tips back with the both of them in it, creaking and then slamming to the wooden floor. The two of them tumble backwards, rolling onto the plush rug in the living room as they grapple with each other. Geralt has the audacity to laugh, full-bellied and genuinely happy, and it makes Lambert squawk indignantly. The older witcher shoots Lambert a grin and Lambert lunges again. or, Geralt “cheats” at gwent.

Following the Thread (aiden/lambert, wip, 25k, explicit) Lambert thinks Aiden is dead, and killing Jad Karadin is just the final step in that journey. That is, until the truth comes running him down. Aiden is very much alive, he's just missing, and Lambert will do anything to find him and to set things right. If they happen to fall in love along the way, no one is complaining.

Hug a Witcher Day (geraskier, complete, teen and up, 14k) Jaskier writes a new song ‘Hug a Witcher Day.’ It gains insane popularity and Geralt finds himself hugged by random strangers on one particular day every year. He doesn’t mind the hugs. And yet, He realizes that Jaskier has never hugged him. Not on that day, not ever. Oh, but Jaskier looks like he gives great hugs. What can a witcher do to get one from his bard?

Leave You Behind (eskel/lambert, complete, explicit, 2k) “I won’t leave you behind, i promise.” He sounded so sincere. Lambert took a deep breath and nodded, steeling himself for Eskel’s inevitable departure. He’d take the lands to the south this year while Lambert headed west. Neither were sure what Geralt would be doing - perhaps he’d be too distracted by destiny to make much of a dent in outstanding contracts at all. ++ It’d taken decades for the two of them to finally get together. And now that Lambert finally had him, he wasn’t sure he could let go

Living Like This (geraskier, teen and up, wip, 9k) Based off of the ‘Robber: *wakes me gently* ‘You live like this?’’ meme. Geralt is a single father, jobless and down on his luck. One night, a masked man breaks in to his apartment meaning to steal from him only to find that there is nothing there to take…

Love is an Ongoing Process – series (geraskier, mature, wip, 40k) Netflix Canon-related Geraskier falling in love over the years series. It has all the following tropes: Bed Sharing, Geralt Apologizes, Geraskier Slow Burn, Witchers Senses and Pining. Divided in one-shots in a series instead of chapters in a single fic in an attempt to prevent myself from writing too much.

my dearest love, i'm not done yet (jaskier/yennefer, complete, mature, 5k) It's a funny thing, really. A last memory. As if every memory before that counts for nothing, as if that last one will define a love of a life. As if she would love him less if she saw him in agony. As if her heart wasn't already given away and thrown aside with the most violent way. As if the sound of the bottle shattering on the floor wouldn't wail in her ears forever. or A death for a life, a potion and four days. Yennefer wishes it was that simple.

number one wiener eater (aiden/lambert, complete, 8k, explicit) When Lambert loses the hot dog eating contest that he’s won for the past three years in a row, there’s nothing he would love more than to find who beat him and punch them in the face. Unfortunately, he was too busy throwing up to know who the winner was. All he knows is that he’s kind of maybe in love with the guy who held his hair while he puked.

Sometimes I Can See the Wounds (geralt/eskel, complete, teen and up, complete, 3k) Eskel is wounded in a hunt, and no one in the three towns he passes on his way back to Kaer Morhen will give him aid. He arrives at the keep in bad shape. Geralt has a bit of a breakdown about it. This is very soft with a soft ending.

The Alchemist. (aiden/lambert, complete, teen and up, 3k) "This person is known only as ‘the Alchemist’ and neither I, nor any of my associates, have been able to gather any more information on him. I require someone to locate this person and… dispose of the problem.” In which, Lambert is offered a contract and finds what he thought he'd lost forever. Written for the Save A Witcher Bingo! The prompt was secret identity.

There Must be More to Life. But What? And Why? (iorveth/roche, mature wip, 2k) The universe is bound and determined to make Vernon Roche enjoy retirement, even if it means forcing his hand in the matter.

Three Bells, Each With a Separate Sound (aiden/lambert/voltehre, complete, explicit, 30k) In a dank cave in the Blue Mountains, a stripling just barely past the cusp of manhood looks up at a cyclops looming over him and raises his arm in a futile effort to ward off the massive hand as it swings towards him. On the banks of a river, hundreds of miles and precisely five decades later, to the day and the hour and the ticking second, a man raises his hand to deflect the arrow hissing towards him and knows he’s going to be too slow. Both of them have the exact same thought as their deaths approach: Lambert is never going to forgive me.

Tired Of Chasing Ghosts - series (arnaghad/erland of larvik, guxart/keldar/vesemir, wip, explicit, 18k) "A feast," Erland replies. "A revel." Any and every joyful memory from Skellige he harbours involves some kind of celebrational drinking. If it could tie together wind-whittled seamen and -women that mistake insults for proclamations of affection, it can tie together this young collection of witchers. "A revel... with dancing?" Arnaghad sounds pensive, but underneath that, Erland can hear the first inklings of ideas sprouting to life. "Yes." "Alzur-" "Doesn't give a shit," Erland cuts in. "And neither does Cosimo." Only then does he step back to give Arnaghad the space to ponder. "Think about it. Find me after dinner in the stables." In which: Erland wants to make a home out of Morgraig and Arnaghad makes an exception. A song you know's begun - series (geraskier, wip, 200k+, mature) Jaskier wasn't exactly sure what he had expected Kaer Morhen to be like but the keep was everything and nothing like it. The place was a dichotomy. Magnificent and sad in equal measures in its derelict state. Silent but full of noise. Cold yet filled with warmth. But most importantly, it was Geralt's home. Seeing him so relaxed, the sharpest edges rounded down with the knowledge of being safe and surrounded by his family was a beautiful sight to behold. Jaskier wished he too would relearn what safety felt like.

[kookie-doughs]

Y/N L/N AND THE HALFBLOODS

Percy Jackson X Reader

-Y/N L/N met Percy Jackson and everything is now ruined.

Chapter 22: Then It Ended

As soon as we came, Annabeth ang Grover tackled me. We were the first heroes to return alive to Half-Blood Hill since Luke, so of course everybody treated us as if we'd won some reality-TV contest. According to camp tradition, we wore laurel wreaths to a big feast prepared in our honor, then led a procession down to the bonfire, where we got to burn the burial shrouds our cabins had made for us in our absence.

Annabeth's shroud was so beautiful—gray silk with embroidered owls— Percy told her it seemed a shame not to bury her in it. She punched him and told him to shut up. Percy being the son of Poseidon, he didn't have any cabin mates, so the Ares cabin had volunteered to make his shroud. They'd taken an old bedsheet and painted smiley faces with X'ed-out eyes around the border, and the word LOSER painted really big in the middle.

As I was still unclaimed, Hermes cabin had made me one. (Just... IDK go crazy with your shroud IG) It was fun to burn. As Apollo's cabin led the sing-along and passed out s'mores, Percy and I was surrounded by my Hermes cabinmates, Annabeth's friends from Athena, and Grover's satyr buddies, who were admiring the brand-new searcher's license he'd received from the Council of Cloven Elders. The council had called Grover's performance on the quest "Brave to the point of indigestion. Horns-and-whiskers above anything we have seen in the past." The only ones not in a party mood were Clarisse and her cabinmates, whose poisonous looks told me they'd never forgive us for disgracing their dad. That was okay with me. Even Dionysus's welcome-home speech wasn't enough to dampen my spirits. "Yes, yes, so the little brats didn't get themselves killed and now they'll have an even bigger head. Well, huzzah for that. In other announcements, there will be no canoe races this Saturday...." Going back to the cabin I finally had time to talk to Luke. Who just expressed his relief of me being fine, and how he was scared when Annabeth told everyone about me. No wonder everyone was so shocked seeing me come back with Percy. On the Fourth of July, the whole camp gathered at the beach for a fireworks display by cabin nine. Being Hephaestus's kids, they weren't going to settle for a few lame red-white-and-blue explosions. They'd anchored a barge offshore and loaded it with rockets the size of Patriot missiles. According to Annabeth, who'd seen the show before, the blasts would be sequenced so tightly they'd look like frames of animation across the sky. The finale was supposed to be a couple of hundred-foot-tall Spartan warriors who would crackle to life above the ocean, fight a battle, then explode into a million colors. As Annabeth, Percy and I were spreading a picnic blanket, Grover showed up to tell us good-bye. He was dressed in his usual jeans and T-shirt and sneakers, but in the last few weeks he'd started to look older, almost high-school age. His goatee had gotten thicker. He'd put on weight. His horns had grown at least an inch, so he now had to wear his rasta cap all the time to pass as human. "I'm off," he said. "I just came to say ... well, you know." I tried to feel happy for him. After all, it wasn't every day a satyr got permission to go look for the great god Pan. But it was hard saying good-bye. I'd only known Grover a year, yet he was my oldest friend. Annabeth and I gave him a hug. She told him to keep his fake feet on. I asked him where he was going to search first. "Kind of a secret," he said, looking embarrassed. "I wish you could come with me, guys, but humans and Pan ..." "We understand," Annabeth said. "You got enough tin cans for the trip?" "Yeah." "And you remembered your reed pipes?" "Jeez, Annabeth," he grumbled. "You're like an old mama goat." But he didn't really sound annoyed. He gripped his walking stick and slung a backpack over his shoulder. He looked like any hitchhiker you might see on an American highway. "Well," he said, "wish me luck." He gave Annabeth and I another hug. He clapped Percy on the shoulder, then headed back through the dunes. Fireworks exploded to life overhead: Hercules killing the Nemean lion, Artemis chasing the boar, George Washington (who, by the way, was a son of Athena) crossing the Delaware. "Hey, Grover," Percy called. He turned at the edge of the woods. "Wherever you're going—I hope they make good enchiladas." Grover grinned, and then he was gone, the trees closing around him. "We'll see him again," Annabeth said. July passed. I spent my daysplanning out strategies with Luke for capture-the-flag and making alliances with the other cabins to keep the banner out of Ares's hands. I got to the top of the climbing wall for the first time without getting scorched by lava. From time to time, Percy and I would walk past the Big House, he'd glance up at the attic windows, and think about the Oracle.

I tried to convince him that its prophecy had come to completion. "You shall go west, and face the god who has turned." "Been there, done that—even though the traitor god had turned out to be Ares rather than Hades." "You shall find what was stolen, and see it safe returned." "Check. One master bolt delivered. One helm of darkness back on Hades." "You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend." Percy recited. "Ares had pretended to be our friend, then betrayed us. That must be what the Oracle meant.... Or maybe Nereid?"

"And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end." He sighed. "I had failed to save my mom and lost you..."

"So why are you still uneasy?" The last night of the summer session came all too quickly. The campers had one last meal together. We burned part of our dinner for the gods. At the bonfire, the senior counselors awarded the end-of-summer beads. Percy and I got our own leather necklace, and when I saw the bead for my first summer. The design was pitch black, with a sea-green trident shimmering in the center.

"This is so beautiful..." I smiled to Percy. "The choice was unanimous," Luke announced. "This bead commemorates the first Son of the Sea God at this camp, and the quest he undertook into the darkest part of the Underworld to stop a war!" The entire camp got to their feet and cheered. Even Ares's cabin felt obliged to stand. Athena's cabin steered Annabeth to the front so she could share in the applause. I'm not sure I'd ever felt as happy or sad as I did at that moment. I'd finally found a family, people who cared about me and thought I'd done something right. And in the morning, most of them would be leaving for the year. * * * The next morning, Luke called me. He gave me a paper, telling me to fill it out, and asked me to meet him as soon as I could. I knew Dionysus must've filled it out, because he stubbornly insisted on getting my name wrong: Dear (WRONG NAME) , If you intend to stay at Camp Half-Blood year-round, you must inform the Big House by noon today. If you do not announce your intentions, we will assume you have vacated your cabin or died a horrible death. Cleaning harpies will begin work at sundown. They will be authorized to eat any unregistered campers. All personal articles left behind will be incinerated in the lava pit. Have a nice day! Mr. D (Dionysus) Camp Director, Olympian Council #12 That's another thing about ADHD. Deadlines just aren't real to me until I'm staring one in the face. Summer was over, and I still don't know what to do. I had no where to go to. The only option I had was Percy's or maybe Hades was not joking about inviting me back to the Underworld. Sighing I decided to just meet Luke before filling it for second opinions. The campgrounds were mostly deserted, shimmering in the August heat. All the campers were in their cabins packing up, or running around with brooms and mops, getting ready for final inspection. Argus was helping some of the Aphrodite kids haul their Gucci suitcases and makeup kits over the hill, where the camp's shuttle bus would be waiting to take them to the airport. I was walking around looking for Luke. I jumped when I felt someone tap me from behind. I instinctively unsheathed my knife and turned only to see Luke with his hands raised.

"Whoa! Calm down just me." He laughed.

"Kinda weird seeing someone laugh at a knife pointed at them." I smirked sheathing my knife.

"I only laugh since its you." He smiled and ruffled my hair. "Are you done with everything?"

"Not really. I don't know whether to leave or not yet. That's why I came. Help me?" I asked him.

He turned to me and to the forest. "How about you hear me out about something... important and private... then decide?" He gestured towards the forest.

"Not planning on killing me are you?" I squinted at him.

He gasped. "Not you. Never. I would never hurt you."

I let him lead me to a shrouded area of the forest.

"How serious is this thing that you can't let anyone see? I am blindly trusting you here Luke." I laughed nervously. But when he didn't reply I felt something was off. "Luke, okay this isn't cool. How deep into the forest do we have to go?"

"Y/N remember when you said... You want to be the person I trust...? How you promised to help me?"

"Luke?" He took my hand and pulled me sharply. I winced at how hard he pulled me. "That hurts! Let me go!"

He snapped back and let go of my wrist. "I-I'm sorry... Y/N..."

As much as I knew I had to leave, I couldn't I was worried about him. I reluctantly placed a hand on his shoulder. "What's happening?"

"I did it..." I said and sat on the ground. "I swear I didn't mean to get you hurt. But, I confess to everything. I  stole bolt and helm, I summoned the hound, I gave Percy the cursed shoes... And just now, I tried to kill Percy Jackson." He looked at me with empty eyes.

I shot up and looked at him in emotions I couldn't put in words. "W-Wh---" I wanted to leave and check on Percy. But once again, seeing him right now... I need to stay with him. "Why are you telling me this...?"

"Join me... please?" his voice was weak. He sounded vulnerable. "Let's serve my Lord together..."

"L-Luke... no. I-I can't do that!" I took his shoulder, "Y-You should stay with me instead. How about that, huh? L-Let's explain to Chiron and the others... come on please. I could help you!"

Nothing was working.

"Come with me..." He muttered.

"Luke, I won't join you. You have to change your mind. You can't do this."

"I can't change my mind."

"I can help you with that? How about you go with me huh? I could spend all my time doing this and that. Please, just change your mind."

He didn't reply for a while until he whispered, "Promise me."

"Promise you what?"

"You'll stay with me."

"What? Luke I wo--"

"You won't join... Just...don't stay here for the year... and stay with me."

"I-If I stay with you... what would that mean?"

"Yo-You... might change my mind."

"I'll go." I replied with no hesitation. "I'll leave camp for the year. And I'll find my parent to prove to you that Gods and Goddess aren't all bad. We'll find my parent together."

"I do my lord's bidding--"

"You can still do it. If you want to. But whatever happens... stays only between us. I'll stay with you until I change your mind. And I'll bring you back to camp."

"I would never do anything to ruin your trust in me." He knelt down. It was kinda awkward but hey... "I need you."

Worry not hero. We shall stay.

"Please..."

We'll meet again. Wait for us, we shall join you soon. Now leave.

I had no idea what happened since when I came to Luke was gone and there was no sign of him anywhere. How were we going to st---

We will meet him once we leave. Now go as our hero needs us.

I suddenly remembered Percy's state that Luke had told me about. So I ran. I ran to the Big House

***

Percy finally opened his eyes. He was propped up in bed in the sickroom of the Big House, his right hand bandaged like a club. Argus stood guard in the corner. Annabeth and I sat next to Percy, I was holding his nectar glass and she was dabbing a washcloth on his forehead.

"Here we are again," Percy said. "You idiot," Annabeth said, "You were green and turning gray when we found you. If it weren't for Chiron's healing..." "Now, now," Chiron's voice said. "Percy's constitution deserves some of the credit." He was sitting near the foot of the bed in human form. His lower half was magically compacted into the wheelchair, his upper half dressed in a coat and tie. He smiled, but his face looked weary and pale, the way it did when he'd been up all night grading Latin papers. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "Like my insides have been frozen, then microwaved." "Apt, considering that was pit scorpion venom. Now you must tell me, if you can, exactly what happened." Between sips of nectar, he told them the story.

I bit my lip trying to keep what happened between Luke and I private. It was a risky move that would not be approved by anyone after all. The room was quiet for a long time. "I can't believe that Luke..." Annabeth's voice faltered. Her expression turned angry and sad. "Yes. Yes, I can believe it. May the gods curse him.... He was never the same after his quest."

Percy was looking at me as if checking what was my reaction to his story. "This must be reported to Olympus," Chiron murmured. "I will go at once." "Luke is out there right now," Percy said. "I have to go after him." Chiron shook his head. "No, Percy. The gods—" "Won't even talk about Kronos," Percy snapped. "Zeus declared the matter closed!" "Percy, I know this is hard. But you must not rush out for vengeance. You aren't ready." "Chiron... your prophecy from the Oracle... it was about Kronos, wasn't it? Was I in it? Y/N? And Annabeth?" Chiron glanced nervously at the ceiling. "Percy, it isn't my place—" "You've been ordered not to talk to me about it, haven't you?" His eyes were sympathetic, but sad. "You will be a great hero, child. I will do my best to prepare you. But if I'm right about the path ahead of you..." Thunder boomed overhead, rattling the windows. "All right!" Chiron shouted. "Fine!" He sighed in frustration. "The gods have their reasons, Percy. Knowing too much of your future is never a good thing." "We can't just sit back and do nothing," He said. "We will not sit back," Chiron promised. "But you must be careful. Kronos wants you to come unraveled. He wants your life disrupted, your thoughts clouded with fear and anger. Do not give him what he wants. Train patiently. Your time will come." "Assuming I live that long." Chiron put his hand on Percy's ankle. "You'll have to trust me, Percy. You will live. But first you must decide your path for the coming year. I cannot tell you the right choice...." I got the feeling that he had a very definite opinion, and it was taking all his willpower not to advise me. "But you must decide whether to stay at Camp Half-Blood year-round, or return to the mortal world for seventh grade and be a summer camper. Think on that. When I get back from Olympus, you must tell me your decision." "I'll be back as soon as I can," Chiron promised. "Argus will watch over you." He glanced at Annabeth. "Oh, and, my dear... whenever you're ready, they're here." "Who's here?" Percy asked. Nobody answered. Chiron rolled himself out of the room. I heard the wheels of his chair clunk carefully down the front steps, two at a time. Annabeth studied the floor. "What's wrong?" Percy asked her. "Nothing. I ... just took your advice about something. You ... um ... need anything?" "Yeah. Help me up. I want to go outside." "Percy, that isn't a good idea." Percy slid his legs out of bed. Annabeth and I caught him before he could crumple to the floor.

I said, "I told you ..." "I'm fine," He insisted.

He managed a step forward. Then another, still leaning heavily on me. Argus followed us outside, but he kept his distance. By the time we reached the porch, his face was beaded with sweat. But we had managed to make it all the way to the railing. It was dusk. The camp looked completely deserted. The cabins were dark and the volleyball pit silent. No canoes cut the surface of the lake. Beyond the woods and the strawberry fields, the Long Island Sound glittered in the last light of the sun. "What are you going to do?" Annabeth asked us. "I don't know." Percy replied. "I got the feeling Chiron wanted me to stay year-round, to put in more individual training time, but I'm not sure that's what I want. I also don't want to leave you both with Clarisse only." Annabeth pursed her lips, then said quietly, "I'm going home for the year, Percy." He stared at her. "You mean, to your dad's?" She pointed toward the crest of Half-Blood Hill. Next to Thalia's pine tree, at the very edge of the camp's magical boundaries, a family stood silhouetted—two little children, a woman, and a tall man with blond hair. They seemed to be waiting. The man was holding a backpack that looked like the one Annabeth had gotten from Waterland in Denver. "I wrote him a letter when we got back," Annabeth said. "Just like you suggested. I told him... I was sorry. I'd come home for the school year if he still wanted me. He wrote back immediately. We decided... we'd give it another try." "That took guts." She pursed her lips. "You won't try anything stupid during the school year, will you? At least ... not without sending me an Iris-message? Both of you?" Percy managed a smile. "I won't go looking for trouble. I usually don't have to."

"You already know my plans."

"When I get back next summer," she said, "we'll hunt down Luke. We'll ask for a quest, but if we don't get approval, we'll sneak off and do it anyway. Agreed?" "Sounds like a plan worthy of Athena."

She held out her hand. Percy shook it. She gave me a hug. "Take care, Seaweed Brain," Annabeth told Percy. "Keep your eyes open."

"You too, Wise Girl."

Then turned to me, "Good luck on your own quest Droopy."

"Of course Peabody." We watched her walk up the hill and join her family. She gave her father an awkward hug and looked back at the valley one last time. She touched Thalia's pine tree, then allowed herself to be lead over the crest and into the mortal world. "I made my decision." Percy said. "What's yours?"

"I'll be leaving camp... I'm going to look for my parent..." He looked at me in shock. "I'll be back next summer," I promised him. "I'll survive until then."

"Alone?"

I smiled at him.

"Don't you want to stay with us? Mom said---"

"I want to find my parent. I need to. I'll be fine Percy."

I helped Percy to his cabin so he could pack and went to mine. To my surprise I see a middle-aged man with an athletic figure slim and fit with salt-and-pepper hair, and a very familiar sly grin. He had bags at his foot.

"Delivery for Y/N L/N."

"Uhm..."

"Hermes." He said.

I froze and looked at him with wide eyes.

"Personally packed. As a thank you for what you're about to do." He smiled softly and handed me the bags.

"H-Huh...?"

"For helping Luke."

"I..."

Don't forget her mail!

Ooh! And tell her to bring us snacks next time we meet since it'll be often now!

No it wouldn't be often! She'll be with Luke!

"Both of you keep quiet." Pulling out a mail he handed it to me. "Luke... prayed to me telling me about your plan. He asked me to help you. I don't know what or why he did it. But I know he'll change thanks to you. So do guide him."

"Sorry you lost me at the talking air..." I blinked.

Hermes laughed and showed a caduceus. "It's just George and Martha."

"Hi?"

Hello!

Hi

"I just wanted to let you know. No god or goddess could see you. No matter how hard they tried. So your secrets.. are really secrets. Good luck on your travel."

Next time we meet you should have snacks.

Then he vanished.

Staring at the letter on my hand, I was stunned seeing it was from... my mom and dad.

Sweetie,

You've made quite a friend here.

-Mom and Dad.

I immediately knew where to look. I hurriedly took my bags not bothering to check the contents. I ran to Percy's cabin and helped him out so we could leave.

Percy got a cab and looked at me worriedly.

"I'll write you. Stay safe Arthur Curry." I ruffled his hair and watched him go.

I didn't know where to go so I just went to the first secluded area I saw.

"You have more stuffs than when you arrived." I heard someone behind me.

"You prayed to your dad. I hope he knows how to pack." I sighed turning to him. Turning around I barely made out Luke from the few days I last saw him. "You okay?"

"Do you know where to look first?"

Call upon our hound.

I whistled, I don't know why. But when I did, D/N came out of the blue. Luke looked at me and my dear dog, who was probably bigger than the hound he'd summon back then. "How do feel about L.A?" I said riding on D/N and making space behind me for Luke.

~~~END OF BOOK 1~~~

Previous | Book 1 Masterlist | Series Masterlist

END OF BOOK ONE!!! THANK YOU FOR READING YLATHB I HOPE YOU ENJOY!! I'LL PUBLISH BOOK 2 WHEN I'M DONE OR EVEN AT LEAST HAVE WRITTEN 5 CHAPTERS OF THE BOOK 2 ;))

I HOPE TO SEE YOU NEXT TIME!!!

Taglist?

@gayer-than-the-gayest-gay @the-natureofme @booknerd-3000 @katara720 @ynfics

[firingmyheadcannons]

How the Young Justice Boys would react: to you smiling at them (as a team member)

- Notes: These take place just before season 2, when you’re just friends/teammates.

Kaldur’ahm/Aqualad

- You were on your way to the zeta tubes to go home after a mission. It had been a long one and everyone was sore and tired.

- You said your goodbyes and placed your hand on the scanner. As the tube started up you glanced behind you and caught Kaldurs eye. The computer read out your name and you smiled at him quickly before passing through.

- On the outside he would be very professional and smile back politely then continue what he was doing, but inside he would be arguing with himself whether you were just being kind or if you had feelings for him too.

- It would definitely keep him up at night.

Liam Harper/Red Arrow

- You two had teamed up to bring in a rogue Cadmus Scientist. He had been doing illegal experiments and had been on the run for years.

- After you took the criminal down and handed him over to the cops, you flashed Red Arrow a smile before disappearing into the night.

- He barely caught it but it made him freeze to the spot. He was still heartbroken after Jade had left him but he realized that maybe, just maybe, he could have a chance with you.

- For the first time in a while he smiled all the way home.

Conner Kent/Superboy

- The team was training in the mountain together when you got a call from your mentor that you were needed in the field. You rushed off but not before flashing Superboy a small smile.

- He was so distracted by you that Wally got in a direct hit and threw him on his back.

- He laughed it off as Wally celebrated and they continued training, but everyone could tell he wasn’t focused anymore

- He had only recently broken up with Miss Martian and didn’t know if he was ready for another relationship yet, but maybe someday.

Wally West/Kid Flash

- He and Artemis had just broken up and he was devastated. She had decided to leave the team and go to college, but he just couldn’t leave his friends behind. You and the other members of the team were gathered at the mountain trying to cheer him up.

- Right now you were all on the couch playing Mario Kart. Just as you were about to cross the finish line Wally blue shelled you and won the game. Even though you lost you still flashed him a congratulatory smile.

- Time froze and all he could see was you. He thought you were absolutely gorgeous but was certain he’d never have a chance with you, but maybe he was wrong.

- He was still heartbroken but he realized it wasn’t the end of the world. Who knows? Maybe he’d get another chance at love someday.

Dick Grayson/Nightwing

- You were visiting Dick at his new apartment in Bludhaven. It had been awhile since you had seen each other and you were just hanging out and catching up, going over some new case files you were struggling with.

- Suddenly an alert sounded telling you a bank was being robbed a few blocks away. Your eyes locked and you instantly ran into the bathroom to change into your costume (you always brought it with you).

- When you got to the bank you waited just long enough to give Nightwing a smile before jumping into the action. Dick couldn’t help but smile too and followed right behind you without hesitation.

- It may not have been much but it meant the world to Dick that with everything going on you were still happy to be by his side. Things may be changing but the bond you two have never will.

[seventeengoingunder-archive]

spirit stallion of the cimarron really said whether that West was won or lost in the end you’ll have to decide for yourself, had a whole scene with buffalo, showed building the railways as negative, had a literal bald eagle lead the character to freedom away from the colonizers, is one of the only animated movies to have a villian that isn’t a racist caricature, fat or any other characteristic that sets them apart as “other”, ended on a bittersweet note showing that if you love something you have to let it go and they turned it into a horse girl (derogatory) movie i am going to lose my fucking mind

[river-bottom-nightmare]

Happy Birthday Whelm!

@detectivedamian  your birthday gift is a damijon ficlet. enjoy.

For the life of him, Jon couldn’t really understand why Damian liked football. Jon himself had grown up with the game, playing with Clark and Kon. Clark had laughed loud and bright as he tossed the ball around in the farm. Kon had challenged Jon to a high-stakes game that combined four different games using the football in the air. (Jon suspected Kon’s game was secretly a training exercise. The guy had been spending too much time around Tim.) He was on the team in middle school, and he’d been the captain of the high school team for the past three years. The training, the drills, the thrill of the game, the feeling of team: these were things that Jon lived for. Other than fighting, nothing else quite made his blood sing. 

But Damian? Jon had never expected Damian to take to it the way he did. Damian had scoffed at most American traditions and values, insulted people to their face, and complained about the school system enough times that Jon had the lecture memorized. (He was ahead in almost every class due to Damian’s passive-aggressive tutoring, though, so he’s not exactly complaining.) 

Maybe it was the strategy behind it, the different plays and plans Coach had lined up. Tim was the best at that kind of stuff, Jon knew that firsthand, but most people seemed to forget Damian had been trained in strategy and war games in the league. And “war games” was exactly how Damian seem to take this. Ever since Jon had let Damian watch one of his football practices and Damian had stopped the team in the middle of a play to plot out three different holes in their offense, Damian had practically become an honorary team member. Unless it was calculated, the team hadn’t lost a single game. And Damian was determined to keep it that way.

Tonight, just before the final game of the season, Jon’s team was facing off against Central City. (Which? How did they even get to finals in the first place? Central was known for their all-star track team, spanning generations of Allens and Wests, but football? That was a new one.) Damian had given the coach a particularly loathesome glare, and the other team looked terrified without even starting the game. Sometimes Jon forgot how scary Damian was, but it situations like this, it was useful. They had their game plan mapped out, Damian had given each one of them a talking to, Johansson don’t you dare leave your place, Zizka we’ve been running drills so don’t lose your speed, Williamson stop hesitating, you’re on offense for a reason. 

Jon had come up to him cheekily and asked what he needed to do. Damian had raised an eyebrow and said “Don’t suck as much as you usually do, Kent.” His lips were in a half smirk, though, and his tongue curled viciously around Jon’s last name and Jon had to swallow and take a step back.

Regardless, here they were. The big game. Either they won this, and Jon left senior year a happy man, or Damian would never ever let him live it down. There was really only one option here. Jon made eye contact with Damian, who nodded, once. Then, the whistle blew and the game was on.

Things were going good. No, that’s an understatement, things were going great. They ripped apart the opposing team’s strategy like paper, leaving the shredded pieces on the ground as they went through play after successful play. Jon could practically feel the other team’s hopelessness, could taste the sweet, sweet victory in the air. Halftime came and Jon’s team was soaring high. Don’t get overconfident, Damian warned them, but a proud grin was tugging at the edge of his lips. 

The third quarter is when it all went wrong. Williamson went down, hard. Jon heard the crack from across the field, and hoped the injury wasn’t too bad as he chased after the ball, desperate to keep it out of enemy hands. It was too late, though, the other team was in possession. He could feel Damian’s furious scowl, see his dad’s worried eyes fixed on the game even as his mom shouted in Central’s general direction. The third quarter ticked by, losing most of the ground they had gained.

The fourth and final quarter came, the team abiding by Damian’s quickly thought out plan, hesitantly regaining their footing. But it was too little, too late. They weren’t going to make it. The clock swallowed up seconds, and Central gained the lead, though Jon’s team clawed and fought their way to make sure it was only by a little. There were thirteen seconds left on the clock, and Central was 5 points ahead. The play was at the far end of the field.

The only way for them to win was for someone to run across most of the length of the field and score a touchdown. And as the ball came hurtling towards Jon, time slowed down, and he contemplated doing just that.

He could make it, he knew he could make it. A touch of superspeed, a hint of strength when pushing the other players out of the way, and they’d win the game. And Jon was only using his own talents, right? But that felt wrong, it felt so wrong. It felt like cheating. Abruptly, Jon remembered all the drills Damian had put him through, for both football and hero-ing, how he had told Jon you can’t always rely on your powers. He remembered the determination in every line of Damian’s body, whether it was in the sidelines of one of Jon’s games or standing back-to-back with Superboy as Robin, facing down impossible odds yet again. Damian had trained him for this. He had trained for this. He could do this.

Jon dropped his invulnerability, tapped out of his strength, tapped out of his superspeed. Time returned to normal. This was it.

The ball flew into Jon’s outstretched hands like it was meant to be there, and the minute it made contact, Jon took off running. Feet pounding the grass, heartbeat thumping in his ears, the bright lights overlooking the fields. Jon ducked and weaved through the other players, pushing himself to go faster, faster. The people in the stands were building up a roar. The clock was ticking down. He just ran and ran and ran until-

Jon crossed the end zone line and slammed the football on the ground with every bit of normal strength he had. The buzzer went off: time was up, the scores were in.

They won the game.

The crowd was bursting up and cheering. Jon could hear his mom’s screams, his dad’s wolf whistles. The team crowded around Jon, yelling and jumping, their faces overflowing with joy as they clustered around him. Coach had the trophy, and he held it above his head, pumping it up and down, whooping his pleasure. He handed it over to Jon, and wow. It felt solid, heavy, almost unreal. Jon held it up so everyone on the team could put their hand around it. 

Then, for some reason the crowd around Jon parted. Jon was confused, because there was practically nothing that could separate the team at a time like this. Then he looked up, and understood. Damian stood there, a wild and reckless grin on his face, and Jon’s breath caught. He was wearing Jon’s football jacket, the fabric clinging to his shoulders over his tight black turtleneck and proclaiming a statement as bold as night. He walked over to Jon, confident and sure, and looked up at Jon, pride in his eyes.

“You won.”

“Yeah, we did.” Jon’s voice was breathless.

Damian’s grin widened. “Congratulations.”

And then he was pulling Jon in for a kiss, hard and fierce and unforgiving. Startling for just a second, Jon drew Damian in, surprised but pleased when he came willingly. He kissed back with the same passion that had his feet pounding the ground, the same fervor that had his blood singing all throughout the game, reveling in the feeling of Damian pulling him to the ground, biting his lips, claiming him.

He drew back and gasped in air, wide-eyed and lighter than air, as the whoops and catcalls of the team around him filtered into Jon’s brain.

“I-you, you kissed me.”

“You deserved it.” Something in Damian’s tone let Jon knew that Damian knew. He knew what Jon was thinking on the field, knew he was about to use his powers, and knew that he ultimately decided against it. He knew that Jon put every ounce of his determination to win this game by himself, and Damian was proud.

Yeah, football brought out the best in Jon. And maybe that was why Damian enjoyed it so much.

This was cheesy as FUCK oh my GOD. I have no knowledge of how football works, don’t hold it against me. Once again, happy birthday Whelm! tag list: @birdy-bat-writes @anothertimdrakestan @comicsandhoney @yesboopityboop @dangerduckjpeg @thebatsandbirdsofgotham @astroherogirl @subtleappreciation

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

What drove this country crazy after the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon on 9/11? Was it how vulnerable we had been shown to be, that a group of 19 men armed with nothing more than box-cutters could bring the entire country to a halt? Was it that the attack was aimed primarily against innocent civilians, with nearly 3,000 killed at the Twin Towers alone? Was it that with the 19 hijackers dead in the suicidal attacks, we didn't seem to have anyone to retaliate against?  Was it that we had no grasp whatsoever on understanding why our country, the freest and most democratic ever, was hated so much that they would attack us?

I remember how disconnected things felt for days, even weeks, after the attacks. Travelers outside the country didn't have a way to get home because flights had been canceled. People stranded in cities they were visiting within the country couldn't find cars to rent, there were so many trying to get home. Everyone seemed to feel a need to gather with families and friends and hunker down, as if another attack could come at any moment.

The country's leadership was frozen, stunned. Remember the photos of George W. Bush as an aide leaned over his shoulder and whispered the news into his ear? He was the president of the United States, and he looked scared to death. In fact, he was rushed from the school he was visiting in Florida to Air Force One, and his plane took off on what amounted to a flight to nowhere as his administration tried to pull itself together and decide how they would respond. It wasn't until hours later that Air Force One landed at Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana and Bush hurriedly addressed the press in a windowless conference room, vowing to "hunt down and punish those responsible for these cowardly acts." Three days would pass before the president was flown to New York to appear atop the rubble of the World Trade Center at what became known as Ground Zero to take a bullhorn and make the pledge that would launch the country on a trajectory that has yet to change: "I can hear you!" he shouted to the workers at the site, "The rest of the world hears you! And the people — and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon!"

A collective madness ensued. A great scrambling began to protect us against … well, against what? Box-cutters first and foremost, it seemed, as a new regime of inspections began at airports everywhere. The initial panic over the hijacked flights would lead to the establishment of the Transportation Security Administration and the Department of Homeland Security, a kind of domestic department of defense which proceeded to put us on what amounted to a wartime footing within our own country that persists even today. How many times have you had to throw a set of fingernail clippers into a bin at airport security because a TSA agent was defending us from terrorism? How about removing your shoes because a lone lunatic made an unsuccessful attempt to blow up an airplane with a "shoe bomb"?

The entire paranoid regimen under which we still live 20 years later grew out of a supposed "war on terror" begun after 9/11 that has never ended. It took a decade to find and kill the actual terrorist who ordered the attacks on 9/11, but in the meantime two shooting wars were launched, only one of which had even the slightest connection to the terrorists who attacked us. There was an elemental problem: The war on terror wasn't against an enemy, it was against an idea, and ideas don't die when you hit them with bombs and bullets.

And so, without a readily definable enemy who could be seen and shot and killed and defeated, which is what wars are usually for, lies were substituted. We were buried with lies, and not just any lies. They had to justify the movement of hundreds of thousands of troops and the expenditure of trillions of dollars in treasure and the loss of thousands more American lives than died on 9/11 and countless more lives — enemies, civilians and, my goodness gracious, even a few real flesh and blood terrorists.

Sept. 11, 2001, was when the Big Lie was born. Or should we say, Big Lies, because they came fast and furious. By now they are known to be so completely without any basis in reality, so wholly bogus, that they hardly bear recounting. Weapons of mass destruction? Connections between Iraq and its government and leaders and the terrorists who attacked us on 9/11? Ha!

And then came new Big Lies to support the earlier Big Lies: that we were "winning" the war on terror. How many times were we reassured that all those lives and all those dollars were not being pissed away for nothing? How many times were we reassured that we were rebuilding the countries that hadn't needed rebuilding until we attacked them? How many times were we told of the miraculous training of the Iraqi and Afghan armies? They even invented a new word that I never learned in the classes I took in military history at West Point, a word to describe the magic bullet that was going to win both wars: the surge. If only we sent 10,000 or 20,000 or 30,000 or 50,000 more troops, we could  win the mythical war on terror.

"Shock and awe" was a lie. "Taking Baghdad was a lie. The army of Iraq just went away. The "surge," each and every one of them, was a lie. "Winning" was a lie, every single time the word was used. Every. Single. Time. The Afghan army was a lie. It didn't even bother surrendering to the Taliban. It just went … poof. The Afghan "government" was a lie. It too went poof. The Iraqi government is a lie. Everything we have done to win the war on terror for two decades, 20 long years, has been a lie. We wasted trillions of dollars that could have been spent to, I don't know, feed hungry children in Arkansas? Pay for health care for poor families? Send kids to college? Reduce our dependence on fossil fuels and save our planet?

We wasted all those lives, American and Afghan and Iraqi and German and Australian and Polish and every other soldier from every other NATO country who died fighting "terror." And we killed hundreds of thousands of Afghan and Iraqi people for nothing.

For nothing.

The biggest Big Lie of them all was that it had meaning, that we accomplished something, that we somehow won the war on terror. Terror hasn't gone away. Hell, we're growing it ourselves now, right here at home.

I'll tell you another war we lost, maybe even a bigger and more important war than the war on terror. We lost the war on truth. And we were warned. Oh yes, we were warned. Take Donald Trump's first Big Lie right after 9/11 as just one example. He claimed — I hope you're sitting down for this — that he could see from his office window in Trump Tower crowds of Muslims across the Hudson River, several miles away, on the roofs of buildings in Jersey City, cheering as the World Trade Center fell.

Remember that one? It was such a patently outrageous lie that it zoomed right past without anyone noticing as the rest of the Big Lies hit one after another.

But Trump got away with it, and he learned from it. Oh, yes. He learned how the Big Lie worked. He learned from watching Bush get away with lying about WMDs, and he learned from the Big Lies that we were winning in Iraq and Afghanistan. So he started trying out other Big Lies of his own, like the one about how Barack Obama wasn't a citizen of the United States, that he had a fake birth certificate, that he was a "secret Muslim." Remember when Trump was all over the TV for days and days claiming that he had sent detectives to Hawaii? All we had to do was wait and he was going to reveal the "truth" about Obama.

He got away with his "birther" Big Lie, and he learned something that he has used ever since, something that helped him drive us into the ditch of the pandemic he lied about for a year, something that has helped him transform an entire political party, the Republican Party, from one of two normal political parties in this country into an authoritarian cult.

He learned that if he told Big Lies that were big enough, and if he repeated them enough times, that he could get away with it, just like Bush got away with lying about WMDs to get us into Iraq. And his party, the Republican Party, learned right along with him. Look at what they are doing right this minute about the insurrection he incited against the Congress of the United States in his naked attempt to overturn the election he lost. Donald Trump and the Republican Party are on a campaign to deny that it happened. They are trying to make a case that it wasn't Trump supporters who attacked the Capitol, it was somebody else, and those who were arrested are political prisoners facing false charges … and on and on and on.

The legacy 9/11 has left us is that there is no common set of facts we can agree on about anything: Not about the COVID pandemic and masks and vaccines; not about the climate change that has killed hundreds and left town after town burned to the ground or under water and destroyed by tornadoes and hurricanes. We cannot agree that votes counted amount to elections won or lost.  We cannot even agree on the common good of vaccines that will save us, that science is worth studying, that learned experts are worth listening to.

The lies that followed 9/11 have torn us apart as a nation and put our democracy in peril. That's our legacy: Lies are now considered by an entire political party to be legitimate political currency. A man who has told so many lies we have lost count of them is now a legitimate political figure supported for the highest office of the land by one of our two political parties.

Lies began tearing us apart after the attacks on 9/11, and we have not regained our footing as a nation. The question hanging over us now is whether we ever will.

Lucian Truscott

[skarsgard-daydreams]

New Frontiers

Description: When Eric heads West, he encourages Pam to try a new flavor.

Warnings: smoking, alcohol, references to sex

Note: Thank you @stevesharrlngtons and @scxrsgxrd for helping me brainstorm this little drabble.

Tombstone, 1909

The spurs on Eric's leather boots clinked on the hardwood floor as he pushed through the swinging doors and entered the saloon. Smoke and grit hung in the air, mixed with the pungent aroma of sweat and arousal coming from the upper floor. He reached for the brim of his black hat automatically but stopped short of taking it off, recalling that real cowboys always kept their hats on. Eric glanced over his shoulder and took his companion's delicate white hand in his.

"Shall we?" he asked her.

Pam smiled.

Soon they were three hands deep at a poker table crowded with drunken men trying to win back their money from the reigning ice queen. Eric sat beside her, puffing on a cigarette experimentally and wondering how humans managed to smoke and breathe at the same time. Usually, Pam would have set her eyes on one of the male admirers seated at the table by now, but tonight she routed them with ruthless cunning as biting words dripped from her pretty pink lips. She was putting on a show, he realized, and it wasn't for his benefit.

Eric leaned back in his chair and glanced down at his cards. Two pair. He could tell by the way that Pam was smirking she had something good in her hand. The sharp scent of ale and perspiration at the table told him that the men did not. Every now and then, he caught Pam’s cold gaze flickering toward a working girl who had come downstairs. She sat perched on a barstool, her own dark eyes seeking out her next client in the dim light of the bar. Her auburn hair was curled into loose ringlets that fell over her bare shoulders and her chest was flushed with color from her last encounter. She would do nicely.

An impulse washed over the young woman’s mind as clearly as if Eric had beckoned her toward him with a crook of his fingers. She made her way across the bar, weaving past the other patrons. He rose out of his seat when she approached and pulled out the chair in a smooth motion, gesturing for her to take his place at the table.

“Join us,” he said.

The girl hesitated. His accent sounded foreign in her ears, the soft consonant at the end of the phrase buzzing on his tongue. She noted the fine fabric of his coat and the gold inlaid on the grip of the revolver hanging at his side. “I think the stakes might be too rich for my blood, sir,” she said.

Eric grinned slowly. He guided her into the seat and stooped low as he slipped his cards into her hand. “Not when you’re playing with house money,” he murmured in her ear. He could feel a shiver run down her spine. “Keep your eyes on the blonde,” he added. “She’s the devil in a dress.”

He straightened up and lifted the cigarette to his lips with a quick wink toward his progeny, who was staring at him with mild curiosity as she tried to work out what game he was playing. Eric took a slow drag and rested his free hand lightly on the girl’s shoulder. He brushed his thumb over her smooth skin when it was her turn and silently willed her to raise.

By the time Eric was dealing the sixth hand, Pam had amassed half the wealth in the bar and the number of gentleman challengers had dwindled to two. The girl was seated between the pair of vampires. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip as she studied the cards she was dealt, determined not to lose any more of Eric’s money. Pam’s fangs suddenly descended. She fanned out her cards and raised them to cover her mouth.

Eric smirked. “Another drink for the lady,” he told someone standing behind him. Whether they worked at the bar or not, he knew they would do what he commanded.

Soon cups were filled all around the table. Pam’s fangs had retracted, but she seemed flustered now, unable to concentrate. Eric watched her out of the corner of his eye and decided to end the round quickly. One by one, the onlookers dispersed, and the two other gentlemen folded, leaving the two vampires alone with the girl. Pam narrowed her eyes into an accusatory glare and raised her bet. “You scared them away,” she said.

Eric hummed in disagreement. “Not all of them,” he said, stretching his arm across the girl’s shoulders. Someone started to play a ragtime song on the upright piano in the corner of the bar. “Call.”

“Well, that’s fine for you,” Pam drawled. “But what about me?”

The girl glanced between the two of them, suddenly aware that they were playing a different game than the one they had been playing before. She looked down at her cards as Eric gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“This delectable little thing is for you, Pamela,” he said casually. He leaned over and took a look at her cards. A straight flush. “Oooo,” Eric said, his voice lilting with approval. “Lucky girl.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she raised her bet.

Pam's brow arched severely. “If you’re expecting two for the price of one, Eric, you are sorely mistaken,” she snapped. She pushed the money she’d won so far that night into the pot in the center of the table. “All in.”

Eric chuckled. “Beautiful as you both may be,” he said, “I’m not interested.” He tossed his cards on the table with a flick of his wrist, discarding a royal flush. It was his turn to show off. Both of the women at the table were staring at him in disbelief.

“You’re kidding,” Pam said. 

He suddenly compelled the girl to go all in as well. “Since when do I ‘kid’ about sex?” he asked, repeating the word she used, which was a novelty to him. “Cards on the table.”

Pam lowered her hand slowly. Full house. She had lost, but not to him. The girl’s heartbeat quickened. “Collect your payment, pet,” Eric told her. He rose from the table and lit another cigarette. “And show my Pamela a good time.”

For once in her life, Pam seemed speechless. She looked at the girl, her pupils dilating as she stared at the flush of color in her cheeks. “What about you?” she asked Eric distractedly.

Eric’s gaze flickered toward the handsome cowboy behind the bar. He adjusted his own hat, a wry smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I find myself craving a different flavor.”

@stevesharrlngtons @scxrsgxrd @skrsgardspam @lihikainanea @hausofobsession @dreamtherapy @grandpa-sweaters