#Crystal Du Bois

[kawaiigirl14]

[thy-cocoa-doth-grow-cold]

Fav trope is when a character who's very clearly a Bad Person loses their memory and with that becomes a Good Person because it proves that their nature was always kind and their former self was just a product of a horrible environment

[theshadyrodian]

just to let you all know, summer whelan is bisexual. alex du plessis is bisexual. misty is queer. angel is not straight. are you really going to sit here and tell me that crystal brooks is not queer coded!! that xav is straight!! because i do not believe you. i do not believe that yves and phoenix are not two queers in a relationship.

they are all fruity. argue with a wall

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 1: Ares, God Of War]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.7k

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Let’s begin with a definition.

Disaster is a noun derived from Ancient Greek: dus, a prefix meaning “bad,” and aster, or “star.” In the time when humans worshipped Zeus and Hera, Hephaestus and Aphrodite, it was believed that tragedies resulted from the inauspicious positioning of celestial bodies: a volcano erupts because of Jupiter, a returning comet brings with it a flood. There is a certain helplessness inherent in this mythology. There is predestined suffering that lies in wait until all the jewels of the sky have malignantly aligned.

Have you ever met someone who made you ache to change the stars?

~~~~~~~~~~

Gunshots explode through the lobby of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, Florida; you feel the wind of the bullets as they clip by, fragmented metallic rage. Aemond is on the marble floor, blood pouring down his face, blood all over the white shirt beneath his navy blue suit jacket when you rip it open, tearing a button loose. He’s reaching for you through the jostling and the screams, leaving crimson handprints on your mint green dress. And you think: He just won the Florida primary. He’s not supposed to die. He’s supposed to be the president.

“What happened?” Aemond murmurs, his right eye dazed and only half-open; the left has vanished beneath a cloudburst of gore. Perhaps ten yards away, people have caught the assailant and pinned him against one of the vast Venetian windows until the police arrive. They’re roaring at him in red-faced fury, their closed fists strike his ribs and his cheekbones, their knuckles paint him scarlet and indigo.

“You’re alright, you’re alright.” You brace both palms over the maroon stain spreading rapidly across Aemond’s chest and press down as hard as you can. Your fingers are drenched in seconds, warm fading life. He’s bleeding to death. You shriek through the turmoil: “Criston?!”

“Is he okay?” Aemond asks faintly. He means the baby; you’re six months pregnant with his first child, his greatest treasure, his Atlantis, his Holy Grail. Aemond has already decided that it’s a boy. Sometimes you fear what will happen if he’s wrong.

“Yes, honey, the baby’s fine, don’t worry. Criston!”

Aegon is here instead, sweating out rum and ruin like he always is, hair too long, veins full of pills, colliding with you and pawing at his dying brother with untrustworthy hands. “Aemond?!”

You shove Aegon away, splattering him with blood. “Get back, he needs air!”

“Where’s he shot?! Let me see—”

“I told you to get back!”

“Goddammit, you don’t own him! He’s mine too!”

Criston has battled his way to you and is yanking Aegon back by the collar of his frayed olive green army jacket, stolen from Daeron when he visited home after basic training, a uniform of embittered revolution worn by a man who’s never fought for anything. “Aegon, make sure someone’s called for an ambulance, then meet the paramedics at the door and help them find us.”

“But—”

“Go!” Criston yells, and Aegon scrambles to his feet and is lost within the crowd. You can hear Otto bellowing at journalists and hotel employees to make space for the fallen senator; there are flashes of cameras and prayers shouted aloud. Above your head are crystal chandeliers and a vaulted ceiling hand-painted by 75 Italian artists in the 1920s; swimming in your skull are visions of Jackie Kennedy in the pink suit filthy with her husband’s brains. It’s just before midnight on Tuesday, May 28th. Upstairs in their oceanfront Imperial Suites, nannies will be shaking awake the absent adults of the Targaryen dynasty, who retired with the children before Aemond made his victory speech in the hotel ballroom: Alicent, Helaena, Fosco, Mimi.

Criston’s hands—larger, stronger—replace yours over the gushing wound in Aemond’s chest. What did the bullet hit? His lung, his heart? He’s not speaking anymore, his right eye is closed. His bloodied hands rest open and empty on the floor. “Criston, he’s dying,” you sob.

“No he’s not. We’re not going to let him.”

“What’s the closest hospital?”

“Good Samaritan is just across the bridge on the mainland.” It’s Criston’s job to know these things, though he had been thinking of you when he plotted his meticulous notes in his day planner: in case you eat a bad cheeseburger, or trip on the stairs, or catch the flu and start burning up with fever. Aemond worries about the baby. Aegon has five children, Helaena has three, and Aemond will feel that he has been robbed of something if he does not swiftly procure a family of his own. He needs you on the campaign trail, but still, he worries.

Across the lobby, the police have arrived to arrest the aspiring assassin. He puts up a fight when they try to handcuff him and earns a nightstick to the gut, an elbow to the nose. He is choking on his own blood. Perhaps he is drowning in it. Good, you think.

“Don’t kill him!” Otto booms at the officers. “I want him alive for trial! I want him to ride the lighting up in Raiford, you keep that son of a bitch alive!”

“Aemond?” You thread your fingers through his blood-soaked hair. What happened to his left eye? Is it somewhere underneath all that carnage, or is it gone? “Please wake up. Please stay with me. We need you. The baby and I need you.”

“He’s going to live,” Criston promises, both hands still clamped over the bullet wound to slow the hemorrhaging.

“Aemond, please…” How can he be the president with only one eye?

An old woman in a yellow striped skirt suit is lumbering close with a homemade prayer rope clenched in her fist. “A komboskini for the senator!” For his last rites. For his soul.

“He doesn’t need it!” Criston says. “He’s not dying! No one is dying tonight!”

Still, you take the komboskini from the lady, each of the 100 knots a prayer unspoken. She is a devotee of Aemond, and you must show her gratitude. “Efcharistó, aderfí. O Theós na se evlogeí.” They are some of the few Greek words you’ve mastered; you’ve used them often since Aemond announced that he was running for president. Thank you, sister. God bless you.

The paramedics arrive, splitting the crowd like a laceration, white uniforms and a stretcher to ferry Aemond away. People are wailing, cursing, swearing vengeance. Aegon has returned and is peering down at Aemond with those large, glassy, muddled eyes, afraid to ask. “Is he…is he still…?”

“He has a pulse,” Criston replies. He helps the paramedics drag Aemond onto the stretcher and strap him to it. Your husband’s shirt is now drenched in red like garnet, like cinnabar, like the poppies that commemorate the boys butchered in World War I, like the wasted blood being spilled in Vietnam, men reduced to memory. “Good Samaritan?” Criston confirms with the paramedics.

“Yes sir,” the most senior one agrees. And then to you, with great deference, with compassion that transcends what somebody can harbor for strangers: “Ma’am, there’s a place for you if you want it.”

“I do,” you say, tear-streaked face, hands bathed in blood. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

The ambulance is idling outside the main entranceway of the hotel. Criston grasps your hand to steady you as you step up into the back, and you take a seat on the red leather bench beside the stretcher. The paramedics are placing IVs, holding an oxygen mask to Aemond’s face, muttering urgently into their radio, abbreviations and code words you can’t understand, a secret language of organic calamities. High above the stars are crystalline and radiant in a clear sky. In your own chest—unshredded by metal, unpierced by rage—your intact heart is pounding.

The lead paramedic turns to you again and says: “We can fit one more person.”

It’s your decision. You are the senator’s wife; you were supposed to be the next first lady of the United States. You look through the ambulance’s open doors. Aegon stares back expectantly, his hair falling in his face, his arms thrown wide, petulant, combative, useless, drunk. “Criston.”

“Bitch!” Aegon hisses at you as Criston climbs into the vehicle. The doors slam shut, the engine rumbles, the siren squeals as the ambulance races westbound on Breakers Row towards County Road, which connects with Flagler Memorial Bridge and the mainland.

Through the rear window you watch Aegon as he stands in the white-gold hotel luminescence, becoming smaller and smaller until he vanishes, and all you can see are streetlights, and all you can smell is blood.

~~~~~~~~~~

Every story needs its cast of characters. Here are the major players in the summer of 1968.

President Lyndon Baines Johnson is in the White House watching the clocks tick towards November 5th, when his successor will be ordained. He has chosen not to seek reelection. Since his ascension upon Kennedy’s assassination in 1963, Johnson’s domestic focus has been unprecedented civil rights legislation and his War On Poverty, yet what has infected the media like blood poisoning is the war in Vietnam. On the television are napalm bombs incinerating Vietnamese peasants, caskets draped with American flags, riots being beaten down by police, college students torching draft cards and chanting “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” Now the president is sick in body, in spirit, in heart, and this is not a metaphor: he suffered a near-fatal cardiac arrest in 1955 and another shortly after John F. Kennedy was murdered in Dallas, Texas. He will die almost exactly four years after leaving office. Had he sought another term, he would have been unlikely to survive it. The public eye is something like a snake bite; it sinks its fangs in and you hope the venom burns clean before it can curse you with clots or hemorrhages or paralysis, before it can drown you in the dark waters of infamy.

In the void left by President Johnson’s surrender, four factions have emerged within the Democratic Party. The old guard—the same labor unions, congressmen, and local political machines who have steered the platform since the days of Franklin D. Roosvelt’s New Deal—has flocked to current Vice President Hubert Humphrey. Humphrey is competent yet uninspiring, a mid-fifties Midwesterner who flinches at the unpolished fury of antiwar protests and sedately lectures Black Power activists on the dangers of “reverse racism.” He is not a threat. He is a sheep in sheep’s clothing, and this is the time for wolves.

Senator Eugene McCarthy of Minnesota is unapologetically opposed to the Vietnam War, a moral crusader, a reluctant warrior, a man who wears his lack of taste for the presidency like a badge of honor. He feels compelled to run, but he does not crave it. He thinks this makes him a saint; but Joan of Arc was burned at the stake and Saint Lawrence was roasted alive. Like Halloween candy plunked into a child’s neon orange plastic pumpkin, McCarthy has collected his own coalition, college students and posh urbanites who believe themselves to be the future of the Democratic Party. In 2016, people will conjure McCarthy’s ghost when drawing comparisons to a controversial left-wing senator from Vermont named Bernie Sanders.

If McCarthy is the future and Humphrey is the past, then former governor of Alabama George Wallace is downright archaic. He is the candidate of choice for Southern white supremacists, averse to Republicans since Lincoln and still reverent of Depression-era New Deal programs that kept them from starving to death. Wallace is best known for his promise of “segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever,” and pledges to end the chaos that has besieged America through strict law and order. Provided he loses the Democratic primary, Wallace plans to run in the general election as an Independent, hoping to peel away enough support from the major party candidates to force the House of Representatives to declare the winner and then leverage his votes to negotiate an end to federal desegregation efforts in the South. His devoted wife Lurleen just died of uterine cancer, a diagnosis which Wallace kept hidden from her for years; doctors are in the habit of informing husbands of their wives’ ailments and giving them carte blanche control over the treatment plan, which unfortunately in Lurleen’s case was nothing. She was 41 years old.

In his short-lived castle of red corridors like the marrow rivers of bones, President Johnson hides from the hippies who jeer and spit; Humphrey frowns at them, McCarthy tries to appease them, Wallace says the only four-letter words they don’t know are “w-o-r-k” and “s-o-a-p.” But Aemond climbs down from podiums to meet them like old friends. He is young, only 36. He has a brother serving in the swamps of Vietnam. He is focused, determined, insatiable; he devours every scrap of news that is printed about him and writes his speeches by hand. As the self-admitted runt of the Targaryen family, Aemond knows what it is like to be underestimated. He wants a better America, and he wants to be the president, and he wants these things in equal, relentless measure, each fueling the other until these ambitions become inseparable. He has grown up hearing slurs against Greeks and consequently has no tolerance for discrimination, which he contends is antithetical to the American Dream. He attends civil rights marches in labyrinthian cities, antiwar protests on college campuses, union meetings in coal mining towns of West Virginia and Kentucky and Wyoming, music festivals crowded with long unwashed hair and braless women, fundraisers flush with the deep pockets of the Northeastern elite. Aemond’s coalition grows each day, bleeding away strength from his rivals like a Medieval surgeon. Their flesh turns cold and anemic, while Aemond’s heart pumps scalding torrents of blood.

If Aemond wins the Democratic primary at the convention in August, his opponent will almost certainly be the Republican frontrunner Richard Nixon of California. Nixon wants the White House just as badly, and he’s much smarter than he looks. He was Eisenhower’s vice president for eight years in the 1950s and lost to the ill-fated John F. Kennedy in 1960 by a whisker; some say he did not lose at all, but instead was cheated out of 100,000 votes by Kennedy’s mafia connections in Chicago. But with the Democrats divided and their incumbent president floundering, Nixon’s timing has never been better. He was once a poor boy with two dead brothers who earned a scholarship to Duke Law. Now he will become whoever he needs to be to win the presidency of the United States.

1968 is the year of wolves. The fangs are sharp, and the bellies ache with hunger.

~~~~~~~~~~

A local deli has opened early and sent sandwiches to Good Samaritan Medical Center for the family and friends of the senator from New Jersey: ham and Swiss, cucumber and cream cheese, tuna salad, egg salad, pimento cheese, BLTs, Cubans. The lobby is filling up with bouquets of flowers and handwritten notes. You pace and count the knots of the komboskini over and over again as you wait; Aemond has been in surgery for hours. The nurses periodically bring you Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate, scalding watered-down sweetness to distract you from the fact that some surgeon is currently rooting around inside your husband’s ribcage.

Alicent—a convert to the Greek Orthodox faith just as you are, though far more zealous, far more sincere if you dared to admit it—is pleading for God to save her son as she clasps her own prayer rope. Helaena is seated beside her, eerily calm. Helaena’s husband Fosco is wandering around boredly and inflicting small talk upon the nurses, ogling out the third-story windows, playing with his red Duncan yo-yo. Otto is making a series of calls using one of the phones at the nurses’ station. Criston is there too, leaning over the countertop and speaking with Otto in low conspiratorial whispers.

Aegon is sitting alone and glaring at you. He takes a rattling bottle of pills—prescriptions that doctors are too afraid not to write for him when he asks—out of a pocket on the front of his green army jacket, spotted like a leopard with your bloody handprints. He opens the amber-colored, cylindrical container and pours two, no, three tiny white tablets into his palm. He tosses them into his mouth and washes them down with a swallow of his own mediocre hot chocolate, still glaring. You ignore him.

“How could this have happened?” Mimi says again from where she’s slumped in her chair. Aegon’s wife has a Snow White sort of beauty, but with a perpetual ruddiness in her nose and cheeks from the gin she sips constantly. You suppose it would make anyone a drunk, being married to a man like that. Her maiden name was Marina Marceline Leroux, but everyone has always called her Mimi, even the press on the rare occasions when she makes an appearance. Her children—Orion, Spiro, Violeta, Thaddeus, and little Cosmo, only five years old—are all back at the Breakers Hotel with the nannies, the same as Helaena’s. Mimi blubbers to nobody in particular: “How…? Who…? Who would want to hurt Aemond…?”

Someone needs to sober her up. You fetch a BLT off the platter of sandwiches and offer it to her. “Here. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry. Who on earth could be hungry at a time like this? I’m absolutely nauseated, I’ll never want food again—”

“Mimi, eat the sandwich.”

“Fine, fine,” she slurs morosely, then takes an unenthusiastic bite. She listens to you, all the women do. They listen to you, and you listen to Aemond, and the circle is closed and complete.

Criston is walking over now. You turn to him, needing good news, bad news, any news. “It was a Wallace supporter,” Criston says. From his seat, Aegon is watching Criston with his slow drugged gaze, listening intently. “Some bell pepper farmer from up by Jacksonville.”

“He’s been taken to the local jail for holding?” you ask, and then add: “Alive?”

“Yeah, and he already has a record. Assault and battery. His brother-in-law is apparently a Grand Dragon in the Klan.”

“What the hell is a Grand Dragon?”

“Well, it’s higher than a Goblin, but not as illustrious as an Imperial Wizard, does that answer your question?”

“Perfectly.” You smile at Criston, a pained, wry smile. He returns it and places a palm over your belly. You are still wearing the mint green dress Aemond picked out for you this morning, before he won the Florida primary, before he was shot twice by the disciple of a political adversary and laid at death’s doorstep. You are still covered in your husband’s blood.

“You’re feeling alright?” Then Criston smirks, knowing how ridiculous he must sound. “You know. All things considered.”

“We’re both fine. The baby’s moving around, I can feel it.”

“You can feel him, you mean,” Criston teases, knowing Aemond’s preoccupation with his unborn son; but you can’t bring yourself to appreciate the joke.

Aegon says to you suddenly: “How the fuck did you let this happen?”

“What?” you answer, stunned.

Aegon stands and approaches, lurching, raging. “You always have to be right beside him, in the photographs, in the headlines, in the soundbites, but you let some psychopath run up and shoot him? Twice?!”

“I thought he just wanted to shake Aemond’s hand, or maybe get a quote for an article—”

“You didn’t notice the gun?!”

“Aegon, sit down,” Criston orders.

“It happened in seconds,” you say. “You think you would have done better? You and your Valium, and your Librium, and your Percodan? You think your reaction time would have been so superior to mine?”

“Please,” Alicent moans, mopping tears from her pink cheeks with a handkerchief. “Please, don’t fight, not now…”

“We are all friends here,” Fosco adds in his thick Italian accent, yo-yoing by a window.

“You want to be the first lady so bad but you can’t handle it!” Aegon shouts, his voice echoing through the lobby. “You’re not some prodigy, you don’t have all the answers, you’re just a girl who stitched yourself to Aemond and then you let him get shot, he’s being operated on right now, maybe he’s even dying, and you still act like you’re so fucking perfect—”

“You’re mad because you know that everybody here is thinking the same thing,” you tell Aegon, cold and cruel. “That if someone had to get killed tonight it should have been you.”

Aegon’s mouth drops open; he stares at you with that slippery, opaque, stoned woundedness, pathetic, infuriating, illogically childish. Everyone else pretends they haven’t heard you. Alicent sniffles into her handkerchief. Fosco begins humming I Want To Hold Your Hand. Mimi chews sluggishly on her BLT. From the nurses’ station, Otto says, holding the phone to his chest: “It’s George Wallace. He’s calling for Aemond’s wife.” Then he waits to see if you’ll agree to take it.

Of course you will. You have to. You are acting in your husband’s stead. You go to the nurses’ station and grab the handset when Otto passes it to you. “This is Mrs. Targaryen.”

“Ma’am, I just wanted to offer you my sincerest condolences.” He has a pronounced drawl, born and raised in what he has praised as the Great Anglo-Saxon Southland. You animal, you think. You braindead bigot. “I do hope the senator makes a hasty recovery. I sure would like to beat him at the ballot box, but I have no stomach for anarchy. An act like this is repugnant to me, as it should be to any red-blooded American.”

“It was one of yours, do you know that?” you say, dripping venom. “One of your hateful ghouls.”

“I have no such knowledge. But if the shooter does turn out to be a supporter of my campaign, I disavow him utterly. He deserves a nice long sit in Old Sparky and then to meet his maker.”

“You inspire men to commit violence, and then you renounce them when they spill blood. I’m still wearing my husband’s. It’s on my hands, it’s on my dress, and I will not absolve you of blame. You are a gardener of discord. You grow it like roses or wheat. You tend to it until it blooms.” Otto is studying you, bushy eyebrows raised. “If you’d truly like to repent, perhaps dropping out of the Democratic primary would be a good start. And then you could find something useful to do, like drowning yourself.”

From whatever office he’s currently lounging comfortably in, his shoes kicked up on the desk, Wallace chuckles. “Aemond is very fortunate to have as ardent a defender as you, my dear.”

“Yes, a devoted wife is such a treasure. It’s a shame you killed yours.”

“Ma’am, once again, I just wanted to express how terribly sorry I am for your family’s hardship. I would never wish for an incident like this—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be emboldening white supremacists then!” You slam the phone as you hang up.

Otto looks at you. He says: “Did it go well?”

The heavy double doors leading to the operating theater swing open, and a surgeon steps through them, still drying his hands with a dark blue towel. He has changed his scrubs and washed his skin, but you notice a spot he missed: a fleck of half-dried blood up by his temple. That’s Aemond, you think. That’s a piece of him.

Everyone rushes to gather around the doctor, even Mimi; she lists like a ship taking on water as she walks, gnawing at all that remains of her BLT, just a sliver of white toast crust.

“The senator is alive,” the doctor says, and Alicent cries out in relief. Criston rests a palm on her shoulder. “But we could not save the eye.”

“He’s half-blind?” you ask. There’s never been a half-blind president. There’s never been a Greek one either. And the only reason this is stuck in your mind is because you know it will consume Aemond’s.

The doctor nods. “We had to remove it. The bullet that struck Senator Targaryen in the head, fortunately, was more of a graze. It ricocheted off his skull and didn’t cause any trauma to the brain, but his eye was…” He hesitates, trying to find a more polite word than shredded, macerated, pulverized. “Destroyed.”

“You stopped the bleeding?” Aegon says, astonished. “He’s okay? He’s really okay?”

“The second bullet pierced the thoracic cavity and was lodged less than an inch from his heart. He was very lucky. We repaired the damage to the best of our ability, and I am optimistic that the senator will make a full recovery. He’s resting comfortably now, but he should be awake soon.”

“Oh, thank God,” Alicent says, glistening dark eyes raised to heaven. The salient points gathered, Fosco wanders off again, his yo-yo dangling from its string.

Otto asks: “When can he resume campaigning?”

The doctor is caught off-guard; it takes him a moment to answer. “That will depend on the senator’s stamina as he regains his strength. If he chooses to stay in the race at all.”

Otto scoffs. “Of course he’ll stay in. This is what he lives for. You really can’t give me a ballpark figure?”

The doctor is determinately impassive. “I would estimate a month or two before he can withstand the rigors of the campaign trail again.”

“California is June 4th,” Otto recalls, counting off dates on his fingers. “Illinois is the 11th, New York is the 18th…”

“Look, there are people outside!” Fosco announces excitedly as he peers through one of the windows. “Hello! Hello everybody!”

“Fosco, you idiot, stop waving,” Otto snaps. “Go sit down.”

“But they are cheering.”

“Not for you.”

Fosco, somewhat deflated, grabs an egg salad sandwich off the platter and plops into a chair to eat it. He’s dressed in a green plaid sport coat and tight white trousers, very chic, very European. You’ve never been able to imagine Fosco and Helaena being passionately romantic with each other. They’re both a bit too doll-like for that, closer to Barbie and Ken than flesh and blood, blank stares and vague ambitions.

“Someone should talk to them,” Alicent says softly. She means the crowd that is forming in front of the hospital: journalists, cops, local politicians, mutilated veterans, college kids, farmers, fishermen, women and children, the future and the past. Everyone turns to look at you.

“I’ll do it,” you volunteer. You will, you must. Aemond could have chosen a hundred similarly suited women to be his wife, but he chose you, and when he did your vows became a blood oath.

Criston accompanies you downstairs to where the crowd has gathered just outside the front entrance of Good Samaritan Medical Center. The night air is warm and humid, the stars bright. You had thought of so many things to tell these people as you’d stood in the elevator as it descended, but now your mind is empty, fearful. There are photographers with blinding camera flashes and apostles waiting with famished eyes. From the depths of injustice and poverty and war, they have come to pay their respects to the man they believe is destined to save not just themselves but their world. What should I say? What would Aemond want me to say?

“I am very pleased to share with you all that Senator Targaryen is out of surgery and regaining his strength.”

There are cheers and applause and prayers; you are still clutching the komboskini that the old woman gave you in the lobby of the Breakers Hotel. You see more prayer ropes in this flock, and rosaries too, Bibles and dog tags, copies of The Autobiography of Malcolm X and Joanne Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem.

“We would like to thank you for your heartfelt support. Aemond and I are so very grateful, and he is looking forward to being back on the campaign trail soon.”

More clapping and whistling, and then the crowd waits. You aren’t sure what they want to hear as you stand in the glow of the hospital luminance; your hands are trembling wildly, so you clasp them together as you hold the komboskini. Criston glances over at you, concerned. You settle on the truth.

“The man who tried to kill my husband tonight is a supporter of former Alabama governor George Wallace and an avowed white supremacist. Any ideology that advocates for violence and prejudice is a threat to our bodies, our nation, and our souls. We will not surrender to it, not even when our lives are in jeopardy. We will not concede that hope for a better world is lost. We will press ever onward with the knowledge that God is on our side, and that the future of this country is worth fighting for.”

You are bathed in flashbulb lightning; your ears ring with the thunder of the applause. You are shaking hands now, nodding, beaming, Criston following you like a shadow as you move through the congregation. You stop to listen to a middle-aged woman in a floral dress who wants to give you marriage advice: never get bossy, don’t become selfish, remember that you are his safe harbor in the storms of life. It is your job to gift her your momentary veneration. You have beauty, but she has wisdom; or at least, that is the bargain that has been struck, that is the presumption everyone agrees upon. She must have some advantage over you, otherwise the decades she has spent in service of her parents and husband and children have been wasted, she has carved away pieces of herself to feed hungry mouths until she vanished like the doomed nymph Echo. In return, she tries not to envy you too much, not to dismiss you as foolish or frivolous or lustful. Sometimes you think that women are filled with such vicious, relentless self-loathing that it feels good to direct it at someone else for a while, to pick apart another body, to tally up the deficits of her spirit.

“Aemond is so lucky to have you,” the woman says. You can barely hear her over the roar of the crowd.

And you smile as you dutifully reply: “I think it’s the other way around.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There is a television mounted on the wall in Aemond’s room. The news coverage, the volume turned way down low, oscillates between his own near-assassination and the stalled peace talks in Paris. Representatives of the United States and North Vietnam cannot agree, and so each day more body bags are flown home to return the bones of the nation’s sons and fathers to Missouri, Alabama, Idaho, Maine, Wisconsin, Maryland, Arizona, California, New Jersey, everywhere else. Someone has to end it. Aemond will end it.

“I dreamed I won Florida,” your husband mumbles, and that’s how you know he’s awake, here in a hospital bed and wearing IVs like strings of Christmas lights around a pine tree.

“You did,” you tell him, gently smoothing back his hair from his forehead. His left eye—where his left eye used to be—is bandaged; his words are soft and labored. “Humphrey was second. Wallace got third. But you won. And you’re going to be okay.”

“McCarthy?”

“It seems you’re devouring his coalition.”

Aemond’s lips slowly curl into a grin, triumphant. “It is God’s will.” And this is what he always says. It is God’s will that he survives, it is God’s will that he wins the presidency, it is God’s will that you give him sons.

“Yes,” you agree, lifting his right hand to kiss his knuckles. Then you press the komboskini you’re still carrying into his weak grasp. It means more to Aemond than it does to you. “Yes it is.”

Aemond sinks into unconsciousness again, morphine and dreams that blur with reality. There will be pain soon, and plenty of it, but he is free from that impending truth for now. You rise from your chair to tell the rest of the family that Aemond is beginning to wake up. Alicent and Criston will want to speak with him.

When you open the door, Aegon is standing there: an eavesdropper, a trespasser. He glares at you with his large wet ocean-blue eyes, hazy with pills, glinting with resentment. Reluctantly, you step aside to let him in. Aegon wobbles as he passes you and has to grab onto the doorframe to steady himself, scrabbling like a trapped animal.

“You’re a disaster,” you say, caustic like acid, biting, repulsed.

Aegon whirls and jabs his index finger against your chest, bloodstained mint green wool bouclé by Chanel. “You’re a vessel. You’re a cow. And one day he’ll be done with you.”

You feel something hitting you like a bullet, cracking ribs, piercing lungs, tearing muscles and ligaments. Your lips have parted, but you can’t fathom words. Aegon has said many things to you—bitter things, belittling things, things in mixed company, things when you’re alone—but never this. For the first time since you met him two years ago, he has won one of your sparring matches. He has the upper hand. He has wounded you.

Aegon can see this, certainly. But he doesn’t seem pleased with himself. He looks a little shellshocked, like he can’t quite believe he said the words, like maybe if given the chance again he wouldn’t take it. But the moment is over now, and you can’t get time back, it is a thread that unspools until every inch is gone, spent, tangled in a thousand webs.

Aegon staggers into the hospital room. You flee from it. Out in the lobby the phone at the nurses’ station is ringing again. They’ll all be calling now to give their requisite sympathies. Humphrey counsels prudence, McCarthy prays for peace, LBJ offers the empathy of someone who has felt the cold gaze of Death in his own doorway, Nixon praises Aemond’s resilience and quotes the ancient philosopher Seneca: “There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.”

[meanbossart]

please don't ever apologise for turning asks into detailed retellings, I LOVE this about your blog!! And I love to know more about Drow. It's also hysterical to me knowing he kept Gale in the party despite all of this. Just to torture each other more.

The actual question is, what did Drow decide to do about the Emperor/Orpheus situation? Did he care at all?

HAHAHAH I'm glad! I've kinda decided to start working on my writing skills this year, and this blog plus the fic has been a massive help in doing that. So really, I have to thank you guys for all the thoughtful questions and for humoring me in general!

(SPOILERS AHEAD, OBVIOUSLY)

And boy lol so the Emperor reveal would have been a Massive shock to DU Drow's system, naturally up until that point he had been casting all the blame for his troubles on the absolute and the mindflayer race by extension, and the bone-headed guy he is, it mattered very little what the Emperor had done for him up until that point - It didn't change what he was, and most of all it didn't change that DU drow felt like he had been made a fool, especially after he so vehemently bought into his false form and trickery.

So the moment all the cards were on the table he began antagonizing the emperor 100% of the time, and would have killed him if his own life wasn't on the line. So the best next thing he found he could do to heal his ego was free Orpheus.

And with the way the game is written, and especially if you don't have lae'zel in your party, that is an absolutely stupid decision that requires one to gamble their lives just the same as they would have by sticking with the Emperor; but this guy is a massive, prideful Idiot and he only wanted to feel a sliver of vindication.

So, he betrays the Emperor (and buddy there's no way you didn't see It coming, DU drow would have made his intentions crystal clear with his attitude), freed Orpheus, and made Orpheus turn into a mindflayer without a second thought, because like Hell that he's gonna do it. Not the IDEAL choice since in the end he had to switch one mindflayer for another, but at least this one owed his life to him, and not the other way around.

So it's to no one's surprise that passing the final battle and the destruction of the brain, DU Drow happily obliged when Orpheus requested that he be put him down for good. I think that despite all of his character growth, his denying Bhaal, and the killing of the Absolute, that choice and moment really had be contemplating his motivations to do everything he had done so far, and concluding that with or without the Urge he was never going to be a pillar of morality. He's no power hungry psychopath but he is an asshole.

[thegrimreaperisanerd]

HARRY DU BOIS: The END TIMES are COMING! I was a *fool* to want to bring children into this wretched world! A world where love and play exists only for the upper classes! Yet another thing that'll *NEVER* trickle down! But as we are vaporised my rage will crystalize my atoms into a solid form long enough to hear you ALL die with me! I WILL OUTLIVE YOU *AND* YOUR BASTARD LOVE!

KIM KITSURAGI: (O-O¬)

[pompadourpink]

Les virelangues

Seize chaises sèchent - Sixteen chairs are drying

Le petit chat chassait les souris qui sont sous les coussins - The little cat chased the mice that are under the cushions

Didon dîna dit-t-on du dos dodu d’un dodu dindon - Dido dined, or so they say, on the plump back of a plump turkey 

Si six scies scient six cyprès, six scies scient six cyprès - If six saws saw six cypresses, six saws saw six cypresses

Choisis 600 chouchous et si ces 600 chouchous sont chouettes, choisis-en 600 autres - Choose 600 scrunchies and if those 600 scrunchies are nice, choose 600 more

Piano, panier, panier, piano - piano, basket, basket, piano

Un pâtissier qui pâtissait chez un tapissier qui tapissait, demanda un jour au tapissier qui tapissait : vaut-il mieux pâtisser chez un tapissier qui tapisse ou tapisser chez un pâtissier qui pâtisse ? - A pastry chef who was baking at an upholsterer who upholstered's once asked the upholsterer who upholstered: Is it better to bake for an upholsterer who upholders or to uphold for a pastry chef who bakes?

Les chaussettes de l'archiduchesse sont-elles sèches ou archisèches ? - Are the archduchess's socks dry or very dry?

Tu t'entêtes à tout tenter, tu t'uses et tu te tues à tant t'entêter - You persist in trying everything, you wear yourself out and kill yourself by being so stubborn

Trois ogres ocre griment trois autres ogres d’encre ocre - Three ochre ogres scratch three other ogres with ochre ink

Trois tristes tigres trônaient dans un arbre qui trônait au milieu d'un trianon - Three sad tigers were seated in a tree that was seated in the middle of a trianon

Ah ! pourquoi Pépita, sans répit, m'épies-tu ? Dans les bois Pépita, pourquoi te tapis-tu ? Tu m'épies sans pitié, c'est piteux de m'épier ! - Ah, why do you spy on me, Pepita, without respite? In the woods, Pepita, why do you lurk? You spy on me without mercy, it's pitiful to spy on me!

Un chasseur sachant chasser sans son chien est un chasseur qui chasse sans chien mais qui chasse quand même - A hunter who knows how to hunt without his dog is a hunter who hunts without a dog but who still hunts

Si vous voulez vous venger, rendez-vous vite - If you want to get revenge, surrender quickly

Douze douches douces - Twelve sweet showers

Je veux et j'exige les joyaux de ces jolis et joyeux oiseaux jasant - I want and demand the gems of these pretty and cheerful chattering birds 

Étant sorti sans parapluie, il m'eût plus plu qu'il plût plus tôt - Having gone out without an umbrella, I would have liked it better if it had rained earlier

Satan montant des cendres s’attend à descendre mon thé. Sentant mon thé, je monte. Satan m’entendant monter, redescend cendres et mon thé, mais Satan s’étend, et cendres et mon thé descendent - Satan rising from the ashes expects to down my tea. Smelling my tea, I go upstairs. Satan hearing me coming upstairs, brings down ashes and my tea, but Satan extends, and ashes and my tea come down

Fait faire à Fabien fourbe et fautif force farces fausses et fantasques - Makes the deceitful and faulty Fabien play many false and fantastic pranks

Le cri du cygne qui crissait dans le cristal des cris d'oiseaux qui crissaient - The cry of the swan that was screeching in the crystal of the cries of birds that were screeching

Seize jacinthes jaunes sèchent dans seize sachets sales - Sixteen yellow hyacinths are drying in sixteen dirty bags

Un généreux déjeuner régénérerait des généraux dégénérés - A generous lunch would regenerate degenerate generals

Le chaton qui chassait le chat qui chassait la souris qui chassait le rat qui mangeait du fromage - The kitten who chased the cat who chased the mouse who chased the rat who ate cheese

Movie: Les demoiselle de Rochefort - Jacques Demy, 1967

[cinegeek237]

Horror is Queer

Horror has always had queer creators behind and infront of it.

F.W. Murnau directed Nosferatu (1922)

James Whale directed Frankenstein (1931), The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), The Invisible Man (1933), The Old Dark House (1932).

Clive Barker is a well known horror writer, I know Stephen King isn't the only one shocking. He's also directed some of his own work, notably, Hellraiser (1987), Nightbreed (1990), and Lord of Illusions (1995).

Kevin Williamson is the creator of Dawson's Creek, as well as, the screenwriter of Scream (1996), I Know What You Did Last Summer (1997), The Faculty (1998), and Sick (2022). He also did a treatment for and produced Halloween: H20 (1998).

Don Mancini is responsible for the Child's Play/Chucky franchise. He also wrote the screenplay for Dweller Celler (1998).

Eliva is a goth, camp, queen, ICON! She's a horror host, and lifestyle.

Christopher Landon wrote the screenplays for Disturbia (2007), Paranormal Activity 2, 3, 4, Next of Kin, and the Marked Ones which he also directed. He wrote and directed Scouts Guide to Zombie Apocalypse (2015), Happy Death Day (2017) and it's sequel (2019), Freaky (2020), oh and he's slated to direct Scream 7!

Bryan Fuller was the showrunner of NBC's Hannibal and is now working on the Friday the 13th prequel series, Crystal Lake.

Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstien.

Daphne Du Maurier wrote Rebecca and a short story that would become The Birds. Hitchcock was clearly a fan.

Joel Schumacher directed The Lost Boys. Meanwhile Tom Holland made Fright Night which might be the queerest vampire movie ever made... huh.

Gus Van Sant... well he directed the Psycho remake... so that happened...

Carter Smith directed Ruins (2008), Swallowed (2022), The Passenger (2023), and a few others. OH and Swallowed has Mark Patton from Nightmare On Elm Street II: Freddy's Revenge.

I'm sure I missed some.

Then you get into some phenomenal actors...

[cosettepontmercys]

hi friends!! i've gotten a few asks / messages about book recommendations for the new septembers readathon so i figured i'd list some here! i tried to do a range of genres & mix up YA/adult + tried to fit the autumny september vibes where i could! if anyone wants more specific recs, feel free to send me a message 🤍

a book about witches: the very secret society of irregular witches by sangu mandanna, the witch haven by sasha peyton smith, the nature of witches by rachel griffin

a murder mystery: tita rosie's kitchen mystery series by mia p. manansala, queen of the tiles by hanna alkaf, miss aldridge regrets by louise hare

a book that takes place at a private school/boarding school: every heart a doorway by seanan mcguire, if you could see the sun by ann liang, a lesson in vengeance by victoria lee

a creepy or horror book: house of hollow by krystal sutherland, the gathering dark: an anthology of folk horror, our wives under the sea by julia armfield

a book that takes place in september: answered here!

a short story collection: eternally yours, toil & trouble: 15 tales of women & witchcraft, in these hallowed halls: a dark academia anthology

a gothic novel (classic or contemporary): a dowry of blood by s.t. gibson, all the dead lie down by kyrie mccauley, wuthering heights by emily brontë

an autumnal romance: the dead romantics by ashley poston, the ex hex by erin sterling, the night circus by erin morgenstern

a book about a haunted house: mexican gothic by silvia moreno-garcia, the haunting of hill house by shirley jackson

a book about vampires: court of the undying seasons by a.m. strickland, house of hunger by alexis henderson

a cozy fantasy: legends and lattes by travis baldree, the undertaking of hart and mercy by megan bannen, half a soul by olivia atwater, emily wilde's encyclopaedia of faeries by heather fawcett

a classic / retelling: little thieves by margaret owen, a wish in the dark by christina soontornvat, enter the body by joy mccullough

a new release (published this september): you again by kate goldbeck, the wake-up call by beth o'leary, cleat cute by meryl wilsner, a study in drowning by ava reid, if i have to be haunted by miranda sun

an autumnal classic: anne of green gables by l.m. montgomery, rebecca by daphne du maurier, northanger abbey by jane austen

a dark academia book: babel by r.f. kuang, these violent delights by micah nemerever, ace of spades by faridah àbíké-íyímídé

a graphic novel: the tea dragon society by kay o'neill, the witch boy by molly ostertag, check please by ngozi ukazu, heavy vinyl by nina vakueva & carly usdin, cheer up: love and pompoms by crystal frasier & val wise, displacement by kiku hughes

[25origami]

More to the Showdown?

Let's be honest here: there's 10 Danceverses. Each Danceverse SHOULD have held their own competitions to decide what performers are going to represent their Danceverse in the Showdown. I refuse to believe only 5 Danceverses were involved in holding competitions, and I certainly don't think from each of those 5 Danceverses, they were the only routines that competed and just moved on unopposed...

So that got me thinking: What are some routines that seem like they could have been performers that were competing for their Danceverse's contest to see who moves on to the Showdown, but maybe didn't win? And what are some other Danceverses that had potential performances like this and just didn't move on to the Showdown to represent at all, but could have?

Dancity

Even though I headcanon the Showdown to have been held IN Dancity, I still think some groups or performers from there could have potentially signed up to compete!

First and foremost, All About Us!

I'm Not Here To Make Friends DEFINITELY gave off actual-performance vibes, it could have been a serious contender for Dancity to represent in the Showdown!

I'm Outta Love! She's a star and she clearly knows it! Definitely another fine performance that could have competed to represent Dancity.

Stop Movin' is SO fun and it gives off all the vibes of Dancity to me! Another perfect routine that could have competed to be Dancity's representative!

Next Danceverse up?

Wasterra

Say My Name Extreme Version, they even LOOK like they're dancing in the Showdown arena! I would say those boys were a REALLY close second place to the Bill Family for representing Wasterra.

Magenta Riddim... weird as it might seem, I think this totally could have been competing to represent Wasterra in the Showdown!

Boom Boom! This one just FELT very professional and Showdown-worthy...

Next up for Danceverses?

Eternyx

Monster SCREAMS Showdown-performance. It's already mostly the official choreography from the music video, not to mention it just LOOKS plain awesome.

Everybody (Backstreet's Back) is SUCH a Showdown group, I swear-

DDU DU DDU DU is one of those routines I thought wasn't all that cool at first, but the more I did it, the more I thought it was awesome and could actually have totally represented Eternyx!

Swish Swish, because how could we forget these legends? They're stars, they know it, and they would have SO competed for the Eternyx finals to represent their Danceverse.

Next Danceverse?

Sun Horizon

I Like It... THIS CREW seriously could have represented Sun Horizon. I guess the crowds just favored Estrella and her partners a little more...

Now we're on to a Danceverse I was QUITE surprised wasn't present in the Showdown again...

Cyberfunk

Jopping Extreme Version... there's NO WAY these guys weren't at least slightly considered for the competition in the Showdown!

And finally, a Danceverse where we could have gotten some other competitors against Crystal for representation in the Showdown...

Melosia Realms

Lean On. HECK YES! This one has been one of my favorite Melosia routines for a WHILE, it could have totally been a contender for representing the Realms!

Buttons, because HOW could these ladies not have been the stars of their own show that they might have signed up to compete as well? I really hope you guys enjoyed my idea for some other routines that could have been competitors for the Showdown!

[kawaiigirl14]

[transparentgentlemenmarker]

Thonet créateur de la chaise n° 14 en 1859. Vendue en kit c'est quoi ???

Bien vu c'est bien la chaise de bistrot

La chaise n° 14 de la firme Thonet, créée par Michael Thonet en 1853, est un jalon précoce de la modernité. Elle date de 1859, mais Thonet avait déjà exposé des modèles sous le Crystal Palace à l’exposition universelle de Londres en 1851* et à l’exposition universelle de Paris en 1855 (où elle remporta un franc succès qui permit à la firme d’accroître considérablement ses commandes à l’exportation). D’abord artisanale, la production de Thonet s’industrialise à partir de 1857. La n°14 est la plus connue et la plus vendue des chaises Thonet mais fait partie d’un catalogue complet comprenant des chaises, des fauteuils, et des bancs offrant diverses variations dans la forme des accotoirs et des dossiers. Le petit mobilier de la firme Thonet est le fruit d’une double innovation un procédé de fabrication basé sur le cintrage du bois à la vapeur et une conception en un petit nombre de pièces détachées, qui facilitent son transport

[fortuna9]

EXPLAINING MY 2010S DR MORE!

☆ Nicknames I have: Barbie, Bunny, Ellie, Ali

☆ Most popular songs: Cruel Summer, DDU-DU DDU-DU, Run away with me, Genie, Something like a party, Shooting Star, b2b heartbeat, Vroom Vroom, Tattoo, Boom Clap etc

☆ I'm the face of Thierry Mugler

☆ Other endorsements: Mattel, Sanrio, Sailor Moon, Nintendo, Toidoki, Dolls Kill, Versace, H&M, Jeremy Scott for Moschino, Blumarine

☆ I have a reality tv show that runs from 2010-2016 (so ages 15-21) (I also scripted that it won't be too hectic so I can have decent teenage years)

☆ I also am THAT girl, the it-girl to end all it-girls it's so serious

☆ There will be a Barbie doll line made inspired by me, and I will also have a cameo in the Barbie movie dressed as one of those dolls (the meta of it all)

☆ I also have cameos in movies I'm on the soundtrack for (Catching Fire, Dork Diaries, Percy Jackson and The Titan's Curse, The Great Gatsby, Barbie etc.)

☆ I also scripted that the Percy Jackson movies weren't dookie and that Dork Diaries got 3 films.

☆ I want to live that Nikki Maxwell lifestyle, so I also go to North Hampton Hills (on scholarship), I won Valentine's Sweetheart, I won an Ice Skating competition, I ran my school's newspaper's advice column, I write in my diary a lot.

☆ My rise to stardom came from my win on a talent show in 2009/2010 (the timeline here is a bit wonky)

☆ Songs I covered: Together again, Halo, Love Story, Just Dance, Umbrella, Fantasy, Loverboy

☆ Original songs I performed: Message in a bottle, Enchanted, I AM, Teenage Dream

☆ I stole Barbie's entire house from Life in the Dreamhouse zxncaskl I just scripted that no-one questions my endless closet (Elektra Crystal...yeah of course we don't know when her closet ends...makes sense)

☆ I scripted 6 albums so far (7 if you include the songs from the talents show). I scripted a trilogy (2010-2014), UTOPIA (2019), and The Phantom Pulse duology (2022). I'll post about them soon!

☆ I have two singles (Really Bad Boy released in 2016 and DDU-DU DDU-DU released in 2017). I also have a few songs I did for ads specifically (Peek-a-boo for a Halloween themed pizza commercial, Speed Drive for a Barbie ad and ICONIC for a Nike ad)

☆ I also did the soundtrack for a Nintendo game I scripted in (Odyssey), released in 2021.

☆ I'm considered the best performer of my generation.

☆ I had a mega tour from 2015-2017, bigger than the Eras tour. It was a cultural phenomenom, and the demand lead to the tour being extended.

☆ I also scripted that I know everyone's secrets cause I don't want anyone playing with me I will END your career.

☆ Still questioning if I should script young coriolanus in...I could write style about him...save me blonde tom blyth...save me..

Anyways that's all for today, that's for tuning in, you're shifting today, hope you know ♡

[queermtl]

QUEER MTL : quoi faire en janvier 2024 / QUEER MTL THINGS TO DO: January 2024

La nouvelle année commence, et avec elle, une toute nouvelle saison de plaisir queer! Ce mois-ci, Montréal propose une foule d’événements, de soirées et d’expériences uniques qui font briller toutes les nuances de l’arc-en-ciel LGBTQ+. Entre prestations drag et activités communautaires, festivals bien en vue et événements underground, voici notre sélection des choses les plus gaies à faire dans la ville. Pour rester à l’affût de tout ajout, suivez QueerMTL sur Instagram, Twitter, Facebook et Tumblr! Vous présentez un événement? Écrivez-nous!

It’s time for a new year to begin, and with it comes a whole new season of queer fun! This month, Montréal is stuffed to the brim with events, parties and unique experiences painted in all the colours of the LGBTQ+ rainbow. From drag to community, circuit to underground, here’s some of our picks for the best LGBTQ+ things to do in the city. For further announcements, including those not announced at time of publication, follow QueerMTL on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook and Tumblr! Got an event coming up? DM it our way!

LEGEND

🎥 Cinema 👑 Drag 🥳 Parties 🎶 Concert ✊ Activism 🏳️‍⚧️ Trans 🏳️‍🌈 Community 😆 Comedy 🎭 Performance 💪 Sports and Dance 👯‍♀️ Dance 🎤 Karaoke 🎨 Arts 📚 Literary / Educational 👠 Ballroom / Vogue

Mercredi 3 janvier / Wednesday, January 3 👑 Full Gisèle : Après-Noël avec Gisèle Lullaby, Marla Deer, Bobépine, Velma Jones et Kelly Torrieli, Cabaret Mado

🎨 Drink & Draw par @Hommehomo, Bar Le Cocktail

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives gaies du Québec, en commémoration des 40 ans des Archives gaies du Québec

Jeudi 4 janvier / Thursday, January 4 👑 Soirée King with George Édouard Baron des bois du matin and Cismon Genderfuck, Bar Le Cocktail

👑 Girls’ Night Out : Dancing Queen with Krystella Fame, Kiara, Démone Lastrange and Misty Waterfalls, Cabaret Mado

👑  Canada’s Drag Race Season 4 Viewing Party with Uma Gahd, Bar Le Cocktail

🎨 Art Battle Montréal, Bar La Shop

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Vendredi 5 janvier / Friday, January 5 👑 Vendredi Fou with Michel Dorion, Bar Le Cocktail

👑 Mado Reçoit with Mado Lamotte, Nana, Jimmy Moore, Celes, Démone Lastrange and Victoria de Rockwell, Cabaret Mado

🤠 Club Bolo—Danse Country Montréal meet on Fridays at the Association sportive et communautaire du Centre-Sud

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Samedi 6 janvier / Saturday, January 6 👑 Drôles de Drags with Miss Butterfly, Ciathanight, Crystal Starz or Emma Déjàvu in rotation, Bar Le Cocktail

👑 Mado Reçoit with Mado Lamotte, Nana, Jimmy Moore, Celes, Démone Lastrange and Victoria de Rockwell, Cabaret Mado

😂 The 2nd Annual Quiz Master Brian Montréal Trivia Championships with Quiz Master Brian, Burgundy Lion

🎤 Bareoke: Strip Karaoke, Café Cléopatra

🥳 Queen & Queer’s call for beginner and emerging DJs to spin at their upcoming club nights closes today. See here for details. 

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Dimanche 7 janvier / Sunday, January 7 👑 Dimanche Show with Michel Dorion, Bar Le Cocktail

👑 Le Tracy Show with Tracy Trash, Marla Deer, Niko Lubie, Ruby Doll and Bobépine, Cabaret Mado

Lundi 8 janvier / Monday, January 8 👑 Ego Trip : Bonne Féte Walter with Walter Ego, Pétula Claque, Jay Show, Ruby Doll, RV Métal, Rock Bière and Fay Miss, Cabaret Mado

Mardi 9 janvier / Tuesday, January 9 👑 Full Gisèle : Star Académie with Gisèle Lullaby, Pétula Claque, Serge La Drag, Crystal Starz, Misty Waterfalls and Eden Ashes, Cabaret Mado

🎶 Plaid with Automatisme, Théâtre Fairmount

😆 Stand Up St. Henri Open Mic focusing on women, non-binary, queer and allied comedians, Impro Montréal

Mercredi 10 janvier / Wednesday, January 10 👑 4 Queens Pour Nous with Venus, Denim, Aurora Matrix and Kiara, Cabaret Mado

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Jeudi 11 janvier / Thursday, January 11 🎭 Cabaret Queer with Tracy Trash, Justin Jackson, Tina Leon, Crystal Starz, Eva Lou Rhinelander & Ilse Baryshnikov, Fabien L’Amour and Sasha Baga, Cabaret Mado

👑  Canada’s Drag Race Season 4 Viewing Party with Uma Gahd, Bar Le Cocktail

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Vendredi 12 janvier / Friday, January 12 🥳 Cerise Noire goth night with Shillelagh Jones and Elizabeth Leslie, Bar NDQ

👑 Vendredi Fou with Michel Dorion, Bar Le Cocktail

👑 Mado Reçoit with Mado Lamotte, Nana, Kiara, Lana Dalida and Kitana, Cabaret Mado

🏳️‍🌈 Spring Into Action 2024: Outrage, call for submissions closes today, QPIRG | GRIP McGill

🤠 Club Bolo—Danse Country Montréal meet on Fridays at the Association sportive et communautaire du Centre-Sud

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Samedi 13 janvier / Saturday, January 13 📚 The Violet Hour Book Club reads Leila Marshy’s The Philistine, Archives gaies du Québec

👑 Drôles de Drags with Miss Butterfly, Ciathanight, Crystal Starz or Emma Déjàvu in rotation, Bar Le Cocktail

👑 Mado Reçoit with Mado Lamotte, Nana, Kiara, Lana Dalida and Kitana, Cabaret Mado

🏳️‍🌈 Montréal Women’s Club: Intro to Dating + Brunch, Montréal Women’s Club

👯 Tango/Salsa Queer holds lessons every Saturday, visit queertangomtl.com for information or contact tango.queer@hotmail.com or call +1 (514) 709-4678 for prices and signup information, Espaces des Arts

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Dimanche 14 janvier / Sunday, January 14 👑 Bonne fête Chouchoune with Michel Dorion and Crystal Starz, Bar Le Cocktail

👑 Le Tracy Show with Tracy Trash, Pétula Claque, Sasha Baga, Lulu Shade and Robin Brutal, Cabaret Mado

Lundi 15 janvier / Monday, January 15 👑 Bière et Métal with Foxy Lexxi Brown and Fabien L’Amour, Cabaret Mado

Mardi 16 janvier / Tuesday, January 16 💪 PWHL Montreal—Season 2023-2024, Place Bell

👑 Full Gisèle : Mean Girls with Gisèle Lullaby, Pétula Claque, Sasha Baga, Lulu Shade, Lady Guidoune and Démone LaStrange, Cabaret Mado

😆 Stand Up St. Henri Open Mic focusing on women, non-binary, queer and allied comedians, Impro Montréal

Mercredi 17 janvier / Wednesday, January 17 👑 La fabuleuse guerre des pouces! with Jessie Précieuse, Victoire de Rockwell, Kelly Torrieli and Kitana, Cabaret Mado

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Jeudi 18 janvier / Thursday, January 18 🎶 Madonna: The Celebration Tour with Bob the Drag Queen, Centre Bell

👑 Sashalicious : F*ck les Résolutions with Sasha Baga, Kelly Torrieli, Kitana and Miss Daniels Vyxen, Cabaret Mado 

👑  Canada’s Drag Race Season 4 Viewing Party with Uma Gahd, Bar Le Cocktail

😆 Music Trivia with Quiz Master Brian, MainLine Theatre

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Vendredi 19 janvier / Friday, January 19 😆 Nataly Aukar: My Turn to Talk, Le Studio TD

👑 Vendredi Fou with Michel Dorion, Bar Le Cocktail

👑 Mado Reçoit with Mado Lamotte, Cabaret Mado

🤠 Club Bolo—Danse Country Montréal meet on Fridays at the Association sportive et communautaire du Centre-Sud

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Samedi 20 janvier / Saturday, January 20 🎶 Madonna: The Celebration Tour with Bob the Drag Queen, Centre Bell

🥳 MPU: Truth or Dare | Édition Spéciale Madonna with Jimmy Moore, Casquivano, Aizysse Baga, DJ Jeffany and Frantastik, Le Belmont

🎶 Fleece with Sorry Girls, La Sala Rossa

👑 Drôles de Drags with Miss Butterfly, Ciathanight, Crystal Starz or Emma Déjàvu in rotation, Bar Le Cocktail

🎤 Bareoke: Strip Karaoke, Café Cléopatra

👑 Jimmy Moore personnifie Madonna: The Blond Ambition Tour, Cabaret Mado

👑 Mado Reçoit with Mado Lamotte, Cabaret Mado

👯 Tango/Salsa Queer holds lessons every Saturday, visit queertangomtl.com for information or contact tango.queer@hotmail.com or call +1 (514) 709-4678 for prices and signup information, Espaces des Arts

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Dimanche 21 janvier / Sunday, January 21 👑 Dimanche Show with Michel Dorion, Bar Le Cocktail

👑 Le Tracy Show with Tracy Trash, Lady Boom Boom, Marla Deer, Peggy Sue, Derek Wood and Kiara, Cabaret Mado

Lundi 22 janvier / Monday, January 22 👑 Shade Like Winters with Lulu Shade, Sarah Winters, Ad’Horrible, Démone LaStrange and Amy Thyst, Cabaret Mado

Mardi 23 janvier / Tuesday, January 23 👑 Full Gisèle : Madonna with Gisèle Lullaby, Lady Boom Boom, Tracy Trash, Marla Deer and Ruby Doll, Cabaret Mado

🎶 L’Rain with Yves Jarvis, Bar Le Ritz PDB

😆 Stand Up St. Henri Open Mic focusing on women, non-binary, queer and allied comedians, Impro Montréal

Mercredi 24 janvier / Wednesday, January 24 👑 Sitcom Bonanza featuring The Nanny, Friends, Will & Grace and others starring the artists of Cabaret Mado, Cabaret Mado

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Jeudi 25 janvier / Thursday, January 25 👑 Trashilaz : Next Generation with Aizysse Baga and judges Lady Boom Boom and Gina Gates, Cabaret Mado

🎶 Alicia Moffet with Pelch, Théâtre Desjardins

👑  Canada’s Drag Race Season 4 Viewing Party with Uma Gahd, Bar Le Cocktail

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Vendredi 26 janvier / Friday, January 26 👑 Vendredi Fou with Michel Dorion, Bar Le Cocktail

👑 Mado Reçoit with Mado Lamotte, Cabaret Mado

🤠 Club Bolo—Danse Country Montréal meet on Fridays at the Association sportive et communautaire du Centre-Sud

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Samedi 27 janvier / Saturday, January 27 💪 PWHL Montreal—Season 2023-2024, Place Bell

🥳 ZMAGRYA with Manalou, Zina and Mokro, Ctrllab

🥳 NPC Rave with D. Blavatsky, MonsieurMadam, Casa Kobrae, Palladium, Technique Nado and more, 257 rue St-Ferdinand

👑 Drôles de Drags with Miss Butterfly, Ciathanight, Crystal Starz or Emma Déjàvu in rotation, Bar Le Cocktail

👑 Mado Reçoit with Mado Lamotte, Cabaret Mado

👑 Jimmy Moore personnifie Taylor Swift, Cabaret Mado

🏳️‍🌈 Atelier : Devenir parent (personnes trans ou non-binaires), Coalition des familles LGBT+ (CFLGBT+)

👯 Tango/Salsa Queer holds lessons every Saturday, visit queertangomtl.com for information or contact tango.queer@hotmail.com or call +1 (514) 709-4678 for prices and signup information, Espaces des Arts

🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

Dimanche 28 janvier / Sunday, January 28 😆 A Very Pretentious Comedy Show #13—he/him edition with Ash Davis, Serag Meletian, Walter Lyng, Matt Shury, Tony McIntyre, Tash Naved, Andrew Khoury, Joe Comedian and music from Ronnie Piano, Café La Lingo Verte

👑 Dimanche Show with Michel Dorion, Bar Le Cocktail

👑 Le Tracy Show with Tracy Trash, Pétula Claque, Lana Dalida, Krystella Fame and Misty Waterfalls, Cabaret Mado

Mardi 30 janvier / Tuesday, January 30 👑 Full Gisèle : Bond Drag 007 with Gisèle Lullaby, Prudence, Victoire de Rockwell, Kiara and Celes, Cabaret Mado

😆 Stand Up St. Henri Open Mic focusing on women, non-binary, queer and allied comedians, Impro Montréal

Mercredi 31 janvier / Wednesday, January 31 🏳️‍🌈 FAG QC* : 40 ans, 40 invité.es, 40 propositions tirées des Fonds des Archives Gaies du Québec, commemorating 40 years of the AGQ, Archives gaies du Québec

OTHERS / AUTRES

🏐 Les Ratons-Chasseurs (Montréal’s LGBTA dodgeball group) holds regular events. Keep an eye on their Facebook for upcoming opportunities to join in and play. 

🕹Montréal Gaymers hosts regular gatherings including board game nights and gaming gatherings. Check their Facebook for what’s next!

🏃🏾Join the Out-Run run and workout club for people relating to the queer / sapphic experience. Details on their Instagram!

🐦 Bird lovers should keep their eye on Queer Birders' regularly scheduled birdwatching events and excursions. Join the Facebook group and get those binoculars at the ready.

👠 Twice a month on every second Tuesday, Bring It! hosts an OTA night of ballroom and vogue with commentator and DJ. Follow their Instagram for dates and details.

[ani-untitled]

subject/s: ateez yeosang & wooyoung (platonic) & hongjoong (platonic) + non reader oc

genre: mafia!au, angst

word count: 6,414

synopsis: There is no one that does not know Yeosang, the infamous district leader for the Baemjari Clan, the organization responsible for one of the main criminal networks that snakes its way through the city of Utopia.  He is famous for his coldhearted and ruthless demeanor towards all but the members of his own clan, specifically his childhood friends Wooyoung and Yunhee.  When a deadly explosion in the district costs Yunhee’s life, Yeosang and Wooyoung set out to find those responsible for her death.

author’s note: this is my first fic that i've posted on tumblr so please be kind, i'm very new to all of this haha.

this is also part of the ATEEZ Year of the Villain collab with @sanjoongie / @toikiii / @bobateastay / @flurrys-creativity / @defwoodz / @horizonmoonfics . click on their @’s to access and read their stories too !  

this is very loosely based on organized crime and doesn’t refer to any particular group or organization

warning/s: violence, cursing, mentions of drug abuse, child abuse, character death, angst

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a cold winter night when Yeosang met them.  He had slumped against the brick wall of an apartment complex, unable to move further due to the biting cold gnawing on the exposed flesh of his hands and face.  Barely able to feel his toes anymore, his threadbare clothes having long ago given up trying to protect him from the freezing wind whipping around his thin body, Yeosang waited to die.  

And then a touch on his shoulder, Yeosang had been so tired he could barely lift his head to see who was there.  A young girl, swallowed up in layers of clothing, reached out to him, her wool mittened hand a purple beacon of hope in the icy white surroundings of Utopia in the dead of winter.  Another figure stood behind her, slightly taller, a boy around Yeosang’s age.  He supported Yeosang who could barely walk until they reached a warmly lit building, guarded by two stocky, broadly built men.  They looked down at the three children and waved them in without a word.  

Yeosang was instantly dazzled by the golden light that bathed the room, it bounced off the crystal chandelier that hung in the center of all of the opulence that surrounded it.  There were large couches with maroon velvety cushions settled deep in their mahogany frames, and marble topped tables that offered a place for the golden trays of refreshments that glimmered invitingly, enticing Yeosang to look inside.  

“Where am I?” was what Yeosang was about to ask when he was interrupted.

A low and calm voice came from behind him and Yeosang whirled around, staring up at a slim middle aged man with long curly black hair.  He looked at Yeosang not like all of the other adults in his life had, with disgust, with annoyance, or with pity.  There was a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes.  This man found Yeosang interesting.  

“What is your name, son?”  

He asked, reaching out to touch Yeosang’s shoulder.  And wrapping around his pale forearm, was a tattoo of a snake.  

-

Cold water splashed onto Yeosang’s hands as he dipped them into the deep metal sink of an apartment that was not his.  He stared down thoughtfully until the red completely disappeared, swirling down the drain.  Patting his hands dry on the dish towel hanging on one of the kitchen drawers, he turned around.  

The man who owned the apartment was slumped on his own not so white anymore rug, the baseball bat he had swung at Yeosang’s head just a couple minutes ago dripping red and laying uselessly on the marble floor.  Yeosang’s henchmen finished dumping out the contents of the desk drawers and one of them wordlessly handed his boss the flash drive that they had come for.  Slipping the flash drive into the hidden pocket of his trench coat, Yeosang nodded at his henchmen and they picked up the man, dumping him in his living room chair.  Then one of them pulled out a phone and held it up to his ear.

“Yes, hello operator, I’d like to report an emergency.  A man in the Eden Villa complex on the 14th floor has been badly injured, please send an ambulance to come pick him up.”

Yeosang walked quietly past the man slumped over in the chair, stopping in the doorway to say, “I’ll be seeing you again, Mr. Choi.  Always a pleasure.”

The man did not respond.

Yeosang left the apartment with his line of men in tow and entered the elevator.   He pulled out the flash drive and slid his finger over the metal, a small feeling of satisfaction bubbling in his chest.  It was a small victory for the Baemjari whenever they had the chance to put the people in the community in their place.  Mr. Choi, as useful as a casino owner could be, had been getting belligerent, trying to slip more and more money from the pockets of the clan into his own.  That could never do.  It wasn’t even about money at that point, the Leader had said, it was about respect.  

“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you as they say,” he had said in that all too familiar soft and warm voice as he thumbed the blade of his trusty knife.  Yeosang had been sent on this mission personally, as he was one of the Leader’s right hand men, in charge of the district where the casino was located.  He didn’t get the opportunity to do these types of things much anymore, since his domain, the Black Cat district, had been subjugated long ago due to the work of himself and his friends Wooyoung and Yunhee.  

It was an additional benefit that the Utopian police force had been completely absorbed into the Baemjari’s influence.  Now everything was going almost too smoothly for the Clan, except for the occasional skirmish with lesser Clans that still struggled to hold onto what power and influence they had left.

When he first started to climb the ranks of the Baemjari, Yeosang had never imagined that he would surpass both Yunhee and Wooyoung but the Leader had had different ideas.  For one reason or another, he had pinpointed Yeosang as a future leader shortly after he had joined.  There was some kind of potential that the Leader AND his friends had seen in him that Yeosang had not realized until later.

 Now Yeosang a clan official, with Wooyoung and Yunhee as his right hand companions, was responsible for carrying out the will of Baemjari in the bustling Black Cat district of Utopia.  Wooyoung had slapped him hard on the back when the news of his best friends’ promotion had been announced, wrapping him in a warm tight hug.  

“I knew it, I knew you could do it.” 

Yunhee had hugged him tightly as well, her petite and muscular frame almost crushing him with affection.  When she pulled away, they all put their hands together, admiring the identical snake tattoos that adorned their left hands.  Symbols of their loyalty to a clan that had saved them all from certain death.  Shitty foster systems, shittier parents, and absolute fuckhead foster parents had all led them to each other.  Yeosang remembered the look in Yunhee’s eyes too well as she looked at them both, a mixture of pride, happiness, and the slightest hint of worry. 

 She never let go of the image she had of them when they were little, always having to tug them to their feet when he collapsed during fighting exercises, sneaking Yeosang her own study guides for the rigorous economic exams the clan held regularly for their young recruits. All three had been responsible for preserving each other’s sanity for many years of their teenage existence.  But it was especially Yunhee that was always looking out for him.  Often Wooyoung had too many of his own problems and would retreat into his own self doubt.  Yunhee was a lighthouse in the storm of their chaotic criminal careers, always having been someone he could look to for guidance.

“Why?” He had asked Yunhee one time as they lay down on the rooftop of the clan headquarters.

“Why what?”

“Why do you help me so much?”

Yunhee laughed. 

“Well, first of all, Wooyoung is beyond all help.  That would be a waste of time.  Second of all…”

She turned to him, resting on her side and poked him in the arm.

“Because I believe in you.”

-

(10 years ago…) 

That iron tang had become too familiar, it lingered in Yeosang’s mouth as he stared at the scene in front of him.  A man lay unconscious and bloodied on the floor, the result of their first mission gone horribly wrong.  Yeosang looked over and saw Wooyoung nearby, panting, sweat dripping off his forehead and a large bruise forming on his cheek.  A hand brushed against his back and there was Yunhee, mostly unharmed except a bruise wrapping around her neck.  Yeosang leaned on her as he spat out the blood in his mouth, coughing a bit in the process.  His lungs had taken a bit of a beating this time for sure.  Their superior Jung was standing over the body of the man, a look of distaste on his stony face.  That expression turned to the three newbies as he stepped over the body and left the store.  They followed him in a hurry, Yunhee sparing a worried glance at the woman cowering in the corner of the store.

Yeosang clutched the money in his hand, looking for the bag to shove it in.  Their first mission together, and went to shit too fast.  The convenience store owner’s son had had little trouble beating up a couple of preteens, and it was only due to their superior Jung that they were able to escape without more injuries.  Wooyoung wiped the blood from his cracked lip, his hand wavering near his left side, likely trying to feel for a new injury forming on his torso.  His face was pale, clearly the whole ordeal had shaken him up.

“Well, at least we got the money.”  Yeosang tried to cheer up his friends.

Yunhee shook her head, her face was somber as she looked through the door of the convenience store.

“They looked like they needed that money…way more than the Clan does.”

Yeosang’s mind flashed to the terrified look on the woman’s face when they came in, immediately spotting the snake tattoos that wrapped around each of the three’s left hand.  The money had been thrown on the counter before they even opened their mouths.  It would’ve been a walk in the park for their first job except her son came in, cursing them out as he swung his large fists at their faces.  After a scuffle, it had gone bad really fast.  Before Yeosang could blink, the man had Yunhee in a chokehold, lifting her off of the ground.  Then just as fast, Jung had intervened, beating the man unconscious in a matter of seconds.  

Yunhee was right though, the woman and her son certainly weren’t well off.  That much was obvious from the dilapidated state of the store on the outside. It was in sore need of a paint job, shingles hanging by a single nail from the roof, and a large crack across the sliding glass door.  Weeds had overtaken the flowerbeds and had begun to weave their way around the building itself.  

“Yunhee,” Jung placed a firm hand on her shoulder.  “You remember where you and your friends were before this, before the Clan.”

Yunhee nodded, her eyes leaving the store hesitantly to look up at her superior.

“The Clan comes first.  When the Clan comes first, it will work out for all of us.  We look out for our own.  Then the rest will follow.”

-

(Present day…) There was a buzz in Yeosang’s trench coat pocket, probably Wooyoung calling him.  It was around the standard time that he forwarded to him the updates for all of the happenings in his side of the district. Yeosang picked up the phone

“Wooyoung.”

“Ey ey ey,” Wooyoung’s familiar greeting made Yeosang shake his head, feeling embarrassed for his best friend.

“Do you have to do that every damn time?”

“Yes yes yes,” came the cheeky reply.

Yeosang sighed.  “Any relevant updates?”

“You mean you don’t want to hear what I had for breakfast? I actually went to Auntie Jo-”

“Nope, don’t care.”

“Well then…. not really?”

“I should just stop asking you to update me everyday if there is nothing good to update me about.”  Yeosang grumbled.

“Well…actually.”  Wooyoung’s tone seemed a bit more serious than before.  Even a bit hesitant.  “I want to talk about something in person with you and Yunhee, maybe tomorrow night?”

Yeosang shrugged, even though Wooyoung couldn’t see him.

“Sure, just tell me where and when.”

“Great!”  I’ll text you both when I figure it out but it’ll be in our usual spot.  I gotta go now, I’ll talk to you later.”  

“Sure, talk to you later.”

Just as he was about to put his phone away, it buzzed again. It must be Wooyoung forgetting to tell him about some silly anecdote that was tacked onto his otherwise uneventful day. 

He’d been getting involved with people outside the Clan again.  It rubbed Yeosang the wrong way that Wooyoung seemed to have more fun with them than with any of the Clan gatherings that they attended.  Yeosang had resolved rather grumpily that it was due to jealousy on his part rather than any real dislike for Wooyoung’s new friends.  Most of them were just normal shopkeepers, officer workers but one of them was a brand new police officer by the name of Hongjoong.  

Similarly to the whole of the Utopian police, Hongjoong worked very amiably with the Baemjari which is how he and Wooyoung had met.  Now the two talked almost every single day and even had lunch once a week.  One day Wooyoung even invited Yeosang and Yunhee to join them and Yunhee, never the type to say no to a chance to meet new people, had agreed rather enthusiastically.  Yeosang was a different story.  Chalk it up to the shitty past that Yeosang had had but he had no interest in bonding with outsiders, even outsiders that were in his pocket.  Wooyoung had never stopped asking him anyway and so Yeosang was surprised to see it was Yunhee’s number instead that flashed onto his phone.  

She wasn’t due to call him for another hour, though her calling early was not specifically unusual.  He spoke quietly.  His men turned away from him, giving him as much privacy as one could have in an elevator, checking their phones or pretending to listen to whatever communications were going on in their earpieces..  

“Yunhee, what’s up?”

The voice on the other line was familiar but laced with tension.

“Bombs.  In Sector 1.  I don’t have a lot of time.”

Yeosang felt the blood drain out of his face when he heard the tremor at the end of her words.

“I’m coming.”  He replied, struggling to keep his own voice from shaking.  “You get the hell out of there please, don’t-

“I’m not leaving until I get everyone out”, she cut him off sharply.  “You know me, Yeosang.  Please just, can you stay on the line?”

“Of course,” Yeosang replied shakily. “I’m not leaving you for one second.”

-

“You know I’m going to ask you again,” Yeosang teased as he and Yunhee walked home that night.  He was tempted to poke the large bruise that was forming on her cheek but knew that she would definitely do the same damn thing back if she ever got the chance.  Instead he playfully linked arms with her, knowing that she was too tired to jerk away from him.

“Don’t ask then,” she grumbled, her other hand reaching up to feel her cheek.  

Yeosang sighed, his joking attitude fading.  This was the third time in just a couple weeks that she got into a fight trying to defend the kids around their age that had already thrown their whole life into a cycle of drug and alcohol abuse.

“Why do you even bother to help them?  They never learn, doing the same old shit over and over again, the assholes targeting the same people over and over again.  That girl today wasn’t even grateful, she looked at us like we were damn freaks.”

Yunhee paused and sighed.

“I mean we did beat the shit out of four kids that got like three years and two feet on us.  Call me a dumbass if you want but-”

“Yeah I already do that.”

She punched his shoulder.

“I just can’t stand by and watch them get bullied.  Not for something that we’re basically responsible for.”

Yeosang frowned.  

“We’re not responsible though.  The Baemjari only sell drugs to adult dealers, it’s not our problem if they pawn it off to kids our age that are dumb enough to go looking for it.”

“You know it’s not that simple,” Yunhee sighed.  “I just…I don’t know.”

He tousled her hair fondly.

“Hey, I got your back.  If you want to beat up those assholes again, you got me as back up. Woo and I both. We got your back.”

-

Car horns blared as Yeosang’s car shot through traffic, weaving and bobbing, stop lights be damned.  He could feel his hands trembling as he gripped the steering wheel harder.  Yunhee’s voice was soft and comforting in his ear as she conversed with the Sector 1 residents, doing her best not to frighten them as she guided them outside. 

Sector 1 was a financially booming complex, but its success was not due to trendy new cafes and bistros but to the multitude of well established family businesses that had been housed there for decades.  It had far surpassed just being a front for the Baemjari practices, all which happened in the office levels above, it was a hidden gem in the Black Cat district full of amazing food, homemade goods, and a tight knit but welcoming community. 

Whoever had placed that bomb couldn’t have not known that its victims would be families and elderly couples, not just the Baemjari.  This sentiment didn’t mean much to Yeosang, but to Yunhee,  it was another home outside of the clan.

In the background further, he could hear the sound of the fire alarm that she had undoubtedly pulled to get people out faster. It took everything in his power to not scream at her to just leave.  He wanted to beg, to plead, grovel, anything.  

“Yunhee,” was all he could say.  

Yeosang could hear a slight pause in her conversation before she continued.  A beeping sound alerted him to one of his men calling in.  He cursed.

“I’ll be right back, Yunhee.”

He switched to the other call.

“Give me something.  You better have a fucking name.  Who planted the bomb?  Where are they?”

There was silence on the other side for a second before Yeosang’s subordinate finally spoke.

“We have a couple leads, nothing concrete.  I’m sorry, Kang.”  

Yeosang cursed again.

“Send me whatever you have.”

He switched his call back to Yunhee.

“Yunhee?”

There was only the sound of the alarm.

“Are you there?  Talk to me goddamnit, don’t stop talking.”

More silence.

“Yunhee!”

Finally her voice.

“I’m here.”

Yeosang’s relief was immediately replaced with dread when he heard the tremor in her voice.

“Yunhee, what’s wrong?  Did you get out?  Are you okay?”

“I can’t find him.”  She whispered.  “I have to go back in.”

“What do you mean?”  Yeosang grew frantic, his eyes darted to the mapping on his phone.  “I’m almost there, Yunhee what the fuck is going on?  Why can’t you leave?”

“I got most of them out but I can’t find one of them.  I can’t leave until I find him.  He’s just a little kid, he got lost I-”

“Yunhee, I’m coming.  Don’t you fucking give up, please for the love of God.”  Yeosang begged her, his throat beginning to choke up.

“I don’t have enough time, I’m sorry Yeosang…I’m sorry I have to go back-

Yeosang’s car shot into a tunnel just then and the call faltered before dying completely.  He cursed loudly and slammed the gas pedal even harder.  Once he left the tunnel, he tried to call Yunhee again but she didn’t pick up. 

Again and no response.  

Again. 

And again. 

Then a loud explosion, and the whole Black Cat district shuddered as the Sector 1 complex collapsed.

-

The Sector 1 complex was now a pile of smoking debris and small fires that had not yet been extinguished by the rescue crew that were still struggling to make it through all of the rubble.  Yunhee must’ve had one of the clan members call them before the buidling even collapse.  Yeosang spotted a couple familiar faces talking intently to some of the police officers gesturing wildly as they tried to explain what was going on.  The residents that had made it out in time were huddled in groups near ambulances, watching fearfully as the police and firefighters picked through the collapsed building, looking for survivors.  Yeosang grabbed at the yellow tape blocking off the area and tossed it aside. He could tell that some of the crew didn’t recognize him and they approached him quickly, beginning to explain that he couldn’t be back here.  

They were stopped dead in their tracks when he flashed his right hand and their eyes rested upon the serpent tattoo.  Furthermore he slid his trenchcoat aside to reveal the metallic sheen of the gun holstered on his belt. 

“Get the fuck out of my way.”  

They scattered like cockroaches and those that didn’t were immediately shoved aside.   As they backed away, staring at him, he wondered if they noticed how shaky his hand was.  Yeosang kept moving quickly towards the smoking building until he heard the loud honking of a familiar car and whirled around.  Wooyoung leapt out of the car and, flashing his hand and gun, also pushed his way to Yeosang.  He noticed immediately that Wooyoung was shaking, his eyes crazed as he scanned the remains up and down.  

“Yunhee?  Did she get out? What the fuck is going on?!”

Yeosang swallowed, trying to control the fear that leaked into his voice.  

“I don’t know, the call died when the building collapsed, “ he managed to get out.  “We need to get inside somehow.”

Wooyoung ripped a couple of gas masks out of the hands of the firefighters and handed one to Yeosang.  He gripped his best friend’s shoulder tightly for a second, meeting his eyes before moving towards the scene.  Yeosang felt a bit of comfort as he watched Wooyoung push his way inside, knowing that he understood and felt every single bit of pain that his best friend was going through.

The amount of smoke and air pollutants inside was almost overwhelming and Yeosang forced himself through its fog, looking desperately for any sign of his best friend.  He called her name as much as he could, trying to maintain his own breathing.  Wooyoung did the same as he overturned pieces of furniture, remnants of many livelihoods that had been lost in that explosion.  As they continued to search inside, it became harder and harder to breathe.  Yeosang grabbed onto Wooyoung, gritting his teeth as he tried to regulate his breathing.  

“We need to move faster.  She could be farther inside the rubble.”

Wooyoung didn’t even look back at him but continued to help them both move through the debris.  As time passed Yeosang became more and more panicked at the idea that maybe they wouldn’t be able to find her, maybe Yunhee had died all the way down at the bottom.  He gripped Wooyoung’s hand even tighter and Wooyoung squeezed back.

“We’ll find her, she’s fine, we just need to get to her and take her to the hospital and-

He didn’t finish his sentence and they continued on in silence.  For a couple hours, they searched and many others joined them, having taken care of the other survivors who they already rescued.  

“Fuck.”  Wooyoung let go of Yeosang’s hand to rub his face.  When he looked back at Yeosang, his familiar features were smothered with ash and soot from his dirty glove.  “I…I don’t know where she could be.  God….  There’s so many places to look.”

In that moment as Wooyoung sat there, Yeosang continued to search, tearing away sections of debris with his bare hands, until his hand hovered over human skin.  

“Here!”

Yeosang began to fling the debris aside frantically, trying to uncover more of the person that lay trapped inside.  But he stopped when he noticed a familiar tattoo adorning the back of her left hand.  

“Oh god…” Wooyoung whispered.

-

(10 years ago…)

When the bullet pierced the man’s skin, Wooyoung could feel his knees collapse from under him.  He crumpled to the floor, watching the man he had just killed slump over in front of him, blood pooling from the hole in his forehead.  The gun that had just been held tightly in both of his hands, he let slide to the floor as he stared at the man and then at nothing.  The skirmish between the clans slowly ended around him as their enemies were forced to flee lest they be downed as well.  As their enemies scrambled away, Yunhee and Yeosang ran up to Wooyoung who was still on his knees, his eyes glazed over.  

“Are you okay?”  Yunhee began to check him all over for gunshot wounds and other injuries while Yeosang felt for the pulse of the man that lay in front of them.

“Dead.”  Was all that Wooyoung could manage.  He wanted to throw up.  He wanted to cry.  He wanted to do something.  But he couldn’t move.  Yunhee pulled him into a hug and he could feel her tears wet his shoulder as she rubbed his back.

“It’s okay, Wooyoung it’s okay.  I’m so sorry…”

“You didn’t have a choice,” Yeosang stood over the two, his eyes never leaving the body on the floor.  “I remember when I…killed for the first time. “And I’d do it over and over again, if it means keeping both of you safe.” 

Wooyoung’s stomach twisted as he realized that he didn’t know if he could do the same.  

-

The sun had completely disappeared from the sky as Yeosang stepped out of his car.  Moonlight flashed against the metal of Yeosang’s gun as he held it on his side against his leather overcoat.  He stared at the warehouse that loomed in front of him, inside was the bastard who murdered his best friend.  Yeosang pulled the hood over his head to conceal his bright platinum blonde hair and began to move closer.  There was not a sign of life in sight as he had ordered his men to leave the warehouse.  This was his revenge to take alone.  

The warehouse door was barely open, a crack of light streaming through.  It was ice cold, an unforgiving light that held no warmth for anyone that it happened to touch.  That single light dangled in the middle of the warehouse as Yeosang slipped inside and moved down the side corridor quickly.  He pulled out his small flashlight and turned it on just low enough that he could see in the dark.  Finally he came upon the room that his enemy was in and he tucked the flashlight away, replacing it in his hand with the knife that was always tucked in his boot.  

The man was handcuffed and zip tied to a chair, knocked unconscious with a bag over his head.  As Yeosang approached him, the desire to spill this man’s blood coursed aggressively through his whole body.  He lifted the bag from the man’s head and awakened him with a slice across his left arm.  The man’s eyes shot open, his body tensing up as he saw Yeosang before him.  He stifled a grimace as he looked at the cut and instead looked at Yeosang straight in the eye.

“We finally meet.”  

Kim Hongjoong. A police officer.  A mass murderer.  Yunhee’s killer.  Wooyoung’s friend.

Yeosang sliced through the skin of Hongjoong’s wrist and watched the blood stream down his arm, dripping onto the concrete floor.  He wiped the knife off on the man’s own clothes, and Hongjoong cursed at him.  Then it was Yeosang’s fist connecting with the bastard’s jaw, a satisfying crunch signifying that he had surely punched out a tooth.  The blood began to dribble out of Hongjoong's lips too and yet he stared at Yeosang defiantly, not a single cry or groan of pain.  

Still yet, Yeosang could hear his heaving breaths, and was sickly amused at the fact that Hongjoong was trying to hide his pain from him.  

“Brave fucker,” he sneered, as he grabbed Hongjoong by the face and suddenly they were only centimeters apart.  “So much strength, so much restraint. And yet you try to bomb a residential complex, with dozens of innocents still inside?”

Hongjoong averted his eyes, and Yeosang felt him grit his teeth.  The comment indeed got to him then.  Yeosang dropped his face and backed away, slipping his gun out of its holster.  He slowly began to load the bullets into the chamber, his eyes never leaving his victim.

“Do you know who you killed?  Do you know why I’m here?”  He asked.  “It’s not for all of those children you murdered…and all of those good hardworking honest business owners, for shame.”  

Yeosang cocked the gun.

“I don’t care about any of those little shits.” 

He moved over to the man, pushing the gun barrel down his neck, letting the ice cold metal slide across the man’s blood slicked skin.  

“You killed my family.”

Visions of Yunhee flashed through Yeosang’s mind at that moment and his throat choked up.  He slashed at Hongjoong with his knife, his hands shaking so bad that he almost dropped the weapon afterwards.  

“My.

fucking.

family.”  

With each words he sliced a new gash on Hongjoong’s face.  The bastard hissed in pain, his hands writhing as he struggled to free himself.  

“And what about you?”  Hongjoong snarled.  “Do you think I did this because I didn’t lose anything?  I’m not a goddamn psychopath like you Clan bastards.  You took something from me too.”

Yeosang had done his research.  Hongjoong’s older sister had gotten involved with the Baemjari when he was still just a kid.  She’d gotten addicted to some of the many drugs that the Clan facilitated throughout the city and overdosed a couple years after.  Now Hongjoong was a police officer hell bent on making the Clan pay.  Some sick kind of vengeance.

“I know all about your goddamn sister.”  Yeosang snapped.  “And your revenge is you kill more of your “innocent” people then?”  

He spat in his face, pointing the gun again at Hongjoong’s forehead.  “Don’t pretend to be above me.”

Hongjoong bristled, hatred burning in his eyes.

“Fuck off.  Just kill me already.”

Suddenly the door flew open and there was Wooyoung.  His eyes darted back and forth, quickly analyzing the situation before him.

“What the hell is going on?”  He demanded, pushing his way in between the two and shoving Yeosang’s gun away from Hongjoong’s face.  

“Get out of the way.”  Yeosang pointed the gun again at Hongjoong over Wooyoung’s shoulder.  “This friend of yours killed Yunhee.”

A look of understanding dawned upon Wooyoung’s features and he grimaced.  Gently, he reached for Yeosang’s gun.

“Let’s, let’s talk about this, Yeosang, please.”

Yeosang backed away, confused, his grip tightening on his gun.  He could feel his stomach begin to knot as if he knew subconsciously that something was not right.

“Then you tell me, Wooyoung, why you didn’t kill him yourself just now.  HE KILLED YUNHEE he-"

“I know."  Wooyoung stared straight into Yeosang’s eyes as he moved closer to his friend, his hands raised.   "I know.”

“T-Then why??”

“I need him, Yeosang.”  It was as if he could barely get the words out.  “I need him…alive.”

“The fuck you do,”  Yeosang sputtered in disbelief, the nausea churning his stomach continuing to worsen.  He looked into his best friends eyes desperately, searching for some reasoning that he could understand.  “What the hell is going on?  Didn’t you hear me?”

“I…I’m working with him.  I left the Clan, Yeosang.”

Yeosang’s head began to spin but he only held the gun closer to his body, recoiling away from his friend approaching him.  

“What….what do you mean?”

He could see real pain in Wooyoung’s eyes then.  Real anguish.

“I couldn’t do it anymore.  All of this shit, we have to do as Clan members.  I can’t do it.  Do you know…how many people we actually kill, Yeosang?”

Wooyoung began to pace the room, his hands reaching up to aggressively rake through his hair and across his arms in a painful anxiety. 

“Not just in clan skirmishes, not just stupid rich fucks that get tired of dealing with us.  Parents….husbands…wives…daughters… sons.  We kill kids, Yeosang.  Just not with our own guns, with our bare hands.  I’ve…killed so many children…orphaned so many more with this drug trade that I’ve been helping run for over a decade now.”

He pointed at Hongjoong in the chair, his whole body visibly shaking.

“We left him an orphan too, Yeosang.  I couldn’t stand it.”  Wooyoung forced the word out as if it was agonizing to let go.  “I can’t live with myself like that anymore.”  

In a swift move, Wooyoung had grabbed onto Yeosang’s arm, staring up into his eyes despairingly.

“Don’t you understand?  Please…please let him go.  I never knew he thought he would do this. We’ll figure it out together. Just let him go for now and we can be done with this.”

This couldn’t be happening.  Wooyoung…siding with the man who killed Yunhee…his best friend….his family.

Yeosang snapped, ripping his arm away from Wooyoung.  He stalked over to Hongjoong and dug his fingers into his throat, clutching him in a vice grip.  

“What part of this don’t you fucking understand,” he screamed back at Wooyoung, his eyes wild.  “HE KILLED OUR BEST FRIEND.  HE KILLED OUR FAMILY.  THIS FUCKING PSYCHO.  WHY ARE YOU DEFENDING-”

He was cut off by Wooyoung backhanding him across the face, knocking him to the floor and causing him to almost lose grip of his gun.

“Get a hold of yourself,” Wooyoung stood over him, his face twisted sickeningly with agony and desperation as he tried to convince Yeosang of his side.  “He might’ve messed up but he’s the only one that can help us, he’s part of the force, together we can convince more people to turn against the Clan we can-”

He was interrupted with the sound of a gunshot ringing in the air.   

-

(12 years ago…)

“Are you sure it’s him?”

Wooyoung slid his arm around Yeosang’s waist gently, letting the other boy lean his head against his as they looked at the body that lay before them in the city morgue.  Yunhee, who was also nearby, squeezed Yeosang’s hand, a look of concern distorting her usual cheerful face.  

“Yeah it is him.”

Although the decomposition of the body had already been progressing for a couple days, Yeosang could never mistake the face of his abuser.  His former foster father lay very much dead on the table. A member of the Clan had found him stuffed in a dumpster as they were doing their rounds in the district.  

When asked what the reason would possibly be for his death, the Clan member mentioned that he had likely gotten into a scuffle during a non Clan related drug deal gone wrong. Judging from the knife wounds that were plentiful all over his grotesque body, it wouldn’t be an inaccurate guess.  

Yeosang had been first hand exposed to his former “father”’s penchant for many of the drugs that made their way around the Black Cat district.  After all, the money that they had received from the government for their care of Yeosang and his fellow “siblings” had certainly not been used for anything like food, clothing, and other necessary supplies for raising six children.  Instead all he received from his foster parents was the most simple of meals: rice and sometimes kimchi or an overcooked hunk of meat.  Maybe bread one day.  Maybe a piece of candy one day for each kid if his foster mother didn’t use all of the money for a new dress for herself.  And what he received from his foster father were just beatings, brutal slaps or punches if he dared try to stand up for himself.  The best nights were when he was out for so long with his friends, that Yeosang didn’t see his father for the whole day until he stumbled in sometime the next evening, too hungover and drugged up to do anything but fall asleep on the couch.

Therefore, looking at this useless bastard’s dead body didn’t particularly spark any feelings of sadness in Yeosang.  Instead he pulled Yunhee close as well, rubbing her shoulder.  She looked up at him to make sure he was okay and smiled when she saw not a single hint of regret or sorrow in his familiar brown eyes.  Then all three of the friends made their way out of the morgue and into the waiting arms of their real family.

-

Wooyoung whirled around and cursed, all of the hope he had had before draining in an instant.  Behind them both, Hongjoong slumped down into the chair, gasping as blood streamed down from a gaping wound in his neck.  Yeosang clutched the gun and struggled to his feet, his cheek throbbed from a bruise that was almost surely forming from Wooyoung’s hand.  He stared, unfeelingly, at the dying man in front of him while Wooyoung desperately tried to stop the bleeding, pressing his hands against the wound.  Wooyoung yelled and screamed but his words were left a mystery to both men: Yeosang who moved to them both slowly in a trance and Hongjoong whose eyes were wide open with shock, blood dribbling from his lips.  

Quicker than Wooyoung could even comprehend, the life completely drained from Hongjoong’s eyes and his limbs that had been tensed up with shock, fell limp against the chair.  

Wooyoung whirled around.

“Yeosang, what the fuck did you just do?!”

Then he looked in front of him in horror to see that the gun was now pointed at his own chest.  

“Yeosang, what-”

Another gunshot and this time it was Wooyoung on the floor, gulping air as he clutched at the red that quickly began to stain his coat.  Yeosang stood over him, staring silently, his eyes glazed over.

“Why…”  He uttered only this as he looked at his best friend.  Tears began to fall silently from his eyes as he looked back and forth between Hongjoong and Wooyoung. 

Suddenly Yeosang shuddered.  “Yunhee…I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”

He let the gun fall to the floor.  Yeosang looked at Wooyoung one last time.  “I’m sorry.”  Was all he said before he turned around and walked away.  As his footsteps receded, Wooyoung slid to the floor, letting himself rest on the freezing concrete floor.  He closed his eyes, the pain slowly becoming a distant memory, as he waited to die.  

[steely-eyedmissileman]

The Vampire Diaries, Ep. 1x06

Lost Girls

by some arguments, every girl in this show is a lost girl.

we begin with a historical flashback. i love historical flashbacks (in supernatural shows and otherwise). the best episode of late seasons teen wolf is undoubtedly the bete du gevaudan episode in season five. not only does it bring back crystal reed in a more satisfying role, it takes place entirely in eighteenth century france. many of the best moments of buffy take place in this past. taking the viewer to the past allows us to see how these characters became themselves. seeing the start explains the end.

i was very excited to see the historical flashbacks, and i will talk about the content of them, but i must first say 'holy historical inaccuracy, batman!' no one ever dressed like any of these people. also, stefan is wearing the stupidest coat i've ever seen. it look terrible! it's a bit unnerving how bad it is.

okay, so it's virginia in eighteen sixty four. they were always going to be confederates. which begs the question, why not just make it eighteen forty four or eighteen eighty four or something? why do we have to see damon in a confederate uniform? yeah, he's not very committed to the confederate cause or whatever, but they own slaves, and he's in the army. and i'm supposed to like these people?! i'm supposed to root for the former confederate and slave owner? i'm supposed to want him to get his happy ending. no thank you. and i am fucking sure the show isn't going to discuss this. if they do, it will be unsubtle and terrible. save me, please.

my final flashback thought: katherine has big darla vibes. the scene where she turns stefan is so reminiscent of angel's siring in becoming (part one). i think buffy did it better, but i am always happy to see more unhinged, evil vampire women. let's hope katherine gets to skip at least one darla plot line...

to tie the flashbacks in to the rest of the episode: is katherine a lost girl? i certainly think so. she's lost in a different way than the present day girls on the show. katherine is not a girl who is lost. she has lost being a girl. instead of girl, she is monster. she looks like a girl and should be a girl. however, she is only monster made flesh, evil in a beautiful mask. she has lost girlhood.

this also leads to the realization that stefan's obsession with elena is largely mommy issues. (at least his initial obsession.) damon fits this too. they are both into her because she reminds them of the woman who made them, of their some-kind-of-mother. katherine is not their biological mother, but she is their mother in the ways that matter most after over a century.

now on to the obvious lost girl: vicki. i've had some pretty bad stuff to say about the writing of vicki in previous episodes—that has not changed. vicki continues to have no agency. she is certainly lost, lost in her life. she has nothing to live for (except drugs). she has nothing to do, no one to love. everything she does feels more like a dart thrown at a wall than an intentional choice. she has been kidnapped by damon, she has been drugged by damon. she has been killed by damon. (i have to admit that the conversation immediately before he killed her was wonderful. damon is so out of touch with reality and the ways that humans normally conduct themselves are nearly in a different reality from his actions.) at none of those points did she have anything to do with the decisions being made about her body.

even when she kills news boy (yay!), that's not her doing. she is merely answering the whims of her body, not consciously choosing what to do. this entire plot line is a war over vicki's body, and how to react to her becoming a vampire. the one person who is not consulted on this is vicki. it's a proxy war for damon and stefan, not a place to listen to and help vicki. they don't ask what she wants, don't think about her as a character who can drive her own narrative, just a pawn in their fucked up family games.

the montage of her and damon was deeply funny. for one thing, damon dancing on the ceiling is one of the funniest things i've ever seen in my life. despite reports to the contrary, it absolutely belongs in the same category as 'cocaptains.' also we heard twenty one guns by green day, a song i love! i also knew the song immediately before it, but not the name. luckily my girlfriend could tell me it was enjoy the silence by depeche mode.

before we get to the end of the episode, let's discuss: will i ever care about jeremy even a little bit? signs point to no. like vicki, he is not a character, just a problem for elena to solve. (more on jeremy in the next episode.)

also, fashion: of the two thousand nine variety. stefan is wearing a boring ass blue shirt because he's a boring ass blue shirt kind of guy. it's less flattering than the leather jacket, but it's also more him. why is elena's hair always straighter than a piece of paper? even several hours after she must have done her hair. also why does she wear that horrible leather jacket? it's just so bad!

also, where was bonnie?

now, the last scene: elena breaks up with stefan. then she goes inside and sinks to the floor, sobbing. he stands outside the door, looking constipated sad. sad music that is entirely too loud plays over the sobbing. it somewhat undercuts the mood. i predict they will get back together in ~three episodes. the end.