#it snowed here all day leave me alone with my dumpster flames

[andy-clutterbuck]

9x03 | Warning Signs

[timelordthirteen]

In All Things 13/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit (eventually)

Summary: A Rumbelle arranged marriage AU.

Chapter Summary: Gold, Belle, and Bae travel to Avonlea, but the homecoming is not what Belle had hoped for.

Notes: So I’m a lying liar who lies. I wanted this chapter to be so much longer, and then I ended up spending much of my day cleaning the dumpster that my house had become. There’s a whole other part of this chapter that unfortunately will have to wait until tomorrow. So sorry. For the 31 Days prompt #15: friends.

[AO3]

Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

Belle sat back on the bed in her old room and sighed.

The trip from Thornhill to Avonlea seemed to take less time than the reverse trip had just six weeks ago. The landscape was blanketed in snow of varying thickness, and passing through the forest in the daytime, with the sunlight glittered off the ice on the tree branches, was quite enjoyable. She hadn’t had the chance to appreciate all the beauty during the first trip, as much of it had passed in near darkness, and she was far too busy feeling awkward and terrified at the same time. The sun setting as they approached Avonlea, bathing it in an orange and pink glow, took her breath away, and for a moment she felt a pang of homesickness.

Baeden had fallen asleep for the last hour, having been roused earlier than usual that morning. He was still tired from the excitement of his birthday besides, and when he slumped over against Gold’s arm, Belle couldn’t hold back a smile. Neither could Gold, and they spoke softly for the rest of the journey, when they spoke at all. She watched the two of them whenever she had the chance, admiring the closeness they seemed to share, and wishing that her own father was not so distant to her now.

They arrived just before six, and Belle immediately went to see her father, anxious to settle her mind about his letter. Except the steward, a man named Milton that Belle had never quite trusted or been comfortable around, stopped her. He told her that Maurice was resting, not to be disturbed. The news upset Belle, and she began to insist that she be allowed to see him, until Gold intervened.

He suggested they all wait until morning when clearer, less hungry and tired heads might prevail. She had to admit that he was right, but now that she was sitting in her old room, she found she was still irritated about the whole thing. No one would have kept her from her father before now, she was sure of it, and it raised her suspicions even more.

Exhaling, she pushed to her feet and walked over to the fireplace to add two more logs. She liked the room warmer to help her fall asleep, and right now she felt too nervous to even try, even as the heat from the fire felt searing through her nightgown.

There was a knock at the door as she was pacing in front of the hearth, and she snatched her robe off her bed on the way to answer it. For a brief second she hoped that maybe her father had heard she had arrived and came to see her, but as she crossed the robe over her chest and tied the ribbon at her waist, she knew that was probably unlikely. For all she knew Milton had imprisoned her father in his room like a villain in one of her novels.

Belle opened the door a crack, her eyes going wide in surprise when she saw who had come to her door so late.

“Cameron.” Belle stepped back, opening the door further.

“Belle,” Gold said softly, glancing down the corridor briefly to see if anyone else was up and about, before meeting her gaze. “My apologies in coming to see you so late, but you were quite upset earlier, and -”

He paused and fiddled with his cane, noticing suddenly that she was in her nightdress and robe, which were both a soft blue fabric edged in ivory lace. They crossed over her chest, low, leaving a large swath of creamy skin exposed, broken only by her hair laying over her right shoulder in a thick braid wound with a yellow ribbon at the end.

“And?”

Her eyebrows lifted at him, and he shook himself. “And, uh, I wanted to see if you were feeling better.”

She gave him a small smile and stepped back into her room, folding her arms around her middle. “Not really.”

Gold hesitated for a moment, and then followed her into the room, letting the door ease closed behind him. He had to remind himself there was nothing untoward about them being in the same bedroom together, in fact most would have assumed them to be sharing space since they were married. They’d accepted separate bedrooms when they arrived, which wasn’t out of the norm, but if anyone knew where he was now, they wouldn’t think anything of it. Except every evening he said goodnight to her in the hallway, and watched her walk the opposite direction to her room.

“What’s bothering you?” he asked finally.

“I’ve never had anyone keep me from seeing my father,” she said. “Ever. Not even when the King came here and they were in council together.”

Gold was taken aback and gave her a wide-eyed look.

“I was eight,” she continued, starting to smile, “and I barged in unannounced, and Papa scooped me up, and asked me what I needed. Just like that. He completely ignored the King, to talk to me first.”

He chuckled at that, and shook his head. “I’m sure King George was furious.”

She shrugged and turned away from him, holding out her hands towards the fire. “I didn’t care. But now it’s - it’s all so different. We haven’t been that close since...”

My mother died, she didn’t say, but Gold knew what she’d omitted. The young Lady Collette had died just after her thirtieth birthday. Belle would have been ten or eleven at the time, much older than Baeden when his mother had left, old enough to have tinged all her memories with grief. He swallowed hard and squeezed the handle of his cane.

“Your mother.”

She nodded and looked back at him over her shoulder. “Y-yes. That was a turning point for us, for everything around here, really.”

Gold stepped closer, coming up just behind her as the urge rose up in him to reach out and try to comfort her, but he wasn’t sure she would want that from him.

Belle sniffed loudly and looked down at her hands as she fiddled with the end of the ribbon around her waist. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

“For letting me come here to check on things. For understanding why I needed to.” Then she turned around and put her hands over his where they were folded on the handle of his cane. “And for looking in on me. For caring.”

Her face tipped up to look at him, and he was startled by how near she was, how it would take nothing at all to touch his lips to hers. The thought was so shocking that he stepped away, needing to put space between them before he grossly overstepped and did something they would both regret.

“It’s - it’s no matter.” He quickly turned and walked to the door, stopping with his hand on the wood. “If you like,” he started, “in the morning I could speak to the steward. Milton?” Belle nodded and bit her lip. “I could tell him I have business to discuss with Lord Maurice, I doubt very much that he would refuse me.”

She smiled and shook her head, taking a few steps forward and tugging on her robe where it crossed low over her chest. “Thank you, again, but no. If he refuses me again in the morning, then I will deal with it.”

Gold’s head tilted. “We will deal with it. You’re not alone in this, yes?”

A strange expression came over her face for a moment, and then she nodded. “Yes.”

He pulled open the door, and stood in it as he looked back at her. “Goodnight, Belle.”

“Goodnight.”

After Gold left, Belle laid there for some time, watching the flames of the fire flicker and dance.

Her mind refused to calm enough to let her fall asleep, switching between worrying for her father and worrying for Gold. Whatever was wrong with him, whatever had upset Bae, was still there. It was the reason he needed his cane sometimes, and while there was nothing wrong with that, it bothered her that she didn’t know what ailed him, or if it was the reason he seemed to want a wife who wasn’t a wife.

There was also the fact that she was home, but not. Somehow, in the short time she had left, she’d become a stranger here, in the one place that had always been comfortable. Her mother’s passing had been a turning point, not only in her life, but in her relationship with her father. They remained close from the outside, but the truth of it was that neither of them could quite get passed it. It was the elephant in the room every day, looking at each other all the while knowing someone was missing.It was as though time was marked in two halves, before and after.

She was an outsider in Thornhill and a stranger in Avonlea, the woman who belonged nowhere.

Her face felt tense and she rolled onto her back, pressing her hands to her eyes as they began to burn with tears. She took a deep breath, and stared up at the canopy over her bed. The funny thing was, that of the two places she was suspended between, the one she seemed to want to go back to the most was Thornhill. It had beautiful gardens and walking paths, her book room, and it had - friends.

Belle wiped at her eyes, her fingers coming away wet. She wasn’t sure when it happened, but in the last few weeks she’d gone from feeling all alone to feeling like she was becoming part of something, that she was welcomed by Jefferson and Bae, and even Gold, into the little family they had made. Maybe her life was being further divided into before she was married, and after, where the after seemed strangely brighter and more hopeful.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Home for Christmas

A/N: Oops. This was supposed to post yesterday. (and it’s barely posting today.) Guess we’re a day behind? Guess this means extended Christmas? Guess in the final days of 2019 I still can’t stick to a schedule. Oh well. Some things never change, while others...do. Here’s the one and only Ryan request for Day 8 of the 12 Days of Christmas Fics. I asked @something-tofightfor​ and @its-my-little-dumpster-fire​ for input on whether this should be past Ryan or future Ryan, and this was the response I got- @something-tofightfor​ : future. @its-my-little-dumpster-fire​ : past ‘cause I like to be difficult. So I cheated and did both. Anywho, this is related to Passing Through.  

Word Count: 2,183

Prompt from: @its-my-little-dumpster-fire​

“Did you eat all those cookies?” 

“Is that mistletoe? You know it’s poisonous, right?” 

When you woke up on Christmas morning, the red and and black tartan blanket had been pulled up to your chin, the multi-colored quilt tucked around your toes. It was chilly in the attic-turned-guest room. Taylor’s husband Dean had been meaning to bolster the insulation and seal the drafty windows, but as they seemed to every year, the holidays simply came up too soon for him to get the work done in time. You and Ryan both understood of course, assuring Taylor that you’d both spent much colder nights, and complimenting Dean on the amount of work he had been able to do on the house in the short time that they’d owned it. They’d made the move from Georgia up to a small suburb outside of Pittsburgh only two months prior, and somehow they’d made it suitable to host most of the Brenners for Christmas (Patrick was spending the holiday with his new girlfriend Natalie and her family down in Texas, and Tommy had gotten work out on a wind farm in Kansas, the holiday overtime too good to turn down.)  

Extra blankets and a space heater had been brought up to get you through your stay, but even without them you would have been fine. You were never cold when Ryan’s arms were around you, your back against his chest, his steady heartbeat lulling you to sleep. But when you opened your eyes and rolled over, he wasn’t there. Hmm. You peeled back the double layer of blankets and dropped your legs over the side of the bed, toes wiggling into your waiting moccasins. The rushing sound of water moving through the pipes met your ears as soon you were on your feet, and you guessed that he’d gone down a floor to use the bathroom. You folded the blankets and reached for the forest green thermal shirt that Ryan had worn the day before, pulling it over your head and pushing your arms through the too-long sleeves. With a yawn, you combed your fingernails through your hair, twisting it up into a knot, before leaving the attic to quietly head downstairs.    

You padded down the creaky steps, the soft leather soles of your slippers tapping on the hardwood. Reaching the first floor, you turned into the family room. The fire was crackling with more life than it would be had it been left alone since last night, so you knew someone had come down to stoke it. You’d wanted to be up first, get coffee going and start breakfast as a way to thank your hosts. You strained your ears listening for any signs of life, hearing only the snapping and popping of the flames, the muffled sounds of snores, and the shuttering pipes upstairs.  It’s still quiet down here… maybe whoever it was went back to bed. 

Passing the tree, laden with homemade ornaments spanning decades, your heart warmed more than it had from the fire. Mason jar lids and popsicles sticks, pipe cleaners and painted macaroni adorned the branches, illuminated by bright bulbs in every color. Aunt Holly had brought the box of Christmas memories up from Georgia with her as a surprise for the bunch of them. The night before, once everyone had settled in, you all gathered around the tree to add to the few decorations that Taylor and Dean had already hung. You sat on the floor by the fireplace leaning against Ryan’s chest as the box was unpacked, listening intently to the stories behind each and every one of the decorations, imagining smaller versions of the Brenners painstakingly glueing and glittering pieces of construction paper around Holly’s kitchen table. Your fingers brushed over a clothespin that had been painted brown with messy brushstrokes, pipe cleaners bent and twisted to look like antlers, and a red pom pom stuck on as a nose.

 “That’s one’a mine”, he told you as you watched Taylor’s 5 year old daughter agonize over the perfect spot on the tree. “Made it for Aunt Holly for Christmas the year she took me in.” He spoke in your ear, right arm draped over your shoulder, rough fingers tracing gentle, soothing patterns on your left bicep. “S’nice to see this stuff again.” 

You turned your head, leaning it back against his shoulder to look up at him. The flickering firelight danced in his eyes as they met yours. You’d been together for two years, but the feeling that you got when that happened hadn’t changed except to grow stronger. You smiled, reaching across your body for his hand and linking it with your own. “I bet it is,” you said. “I’m glad I get to see all of this, too.” You dragged your nose over the spot where his neck sloped into his shoulder before pressing your lips to the exposed skin over the collar of his shirt. You felt him swallow and heard a happy little hum come from deep in his soul. 

Ryan tightened the arm he had around you, eliminating any remaining space between your bodies. His lips found a spot near the crest of your cheek, scratchy beard tickling you as he spoke. “You’re the only one I wanna share it with, Junebug.” You closed your eyes, a fullness in your chest that no one but Ryan could put there. He smiled as he kissed your cheek. “The only one I ever wanna share it with.” 

“Ryan,” his name twirled off your tongue, dancing, light as a feather, to the skipped beat of your heart. You looked around the room, laughter and the smell of nutmeg filling the air as Zach and Jimmy regaled Dean with the infamous sunburn story. Holly was helping Cheyenne hang a wreath made of mis-matched buttons near the top of the tree while Jimmy chased a much-too-hyper Evan around the room. This is home, you thought, even though it wasn’t for either of you. 

“Evan Jacob Bingham!” Taylor’s voice cut through the merriment, all 5 foot three of her small frame suddenly stern as she stuck both hands on her hips. 

“Uh oh,” Ryan said in a low voice, causing you to snicker.

All eyes turned to Evan, his sandy hair hanging from his head as Fitz held him upside down by the ankles. Little green eyes widening to saucers, his face flushed scarlet as he took in his mother’s expression. 

“Did you eat all of those cookies?!” She demanded, gesturing to the plate on the counter that now suspiciously only held crumbs. 

Fitz righted the child, setting him back on the ground and ruffling his hair. He leaned over to hover over Evan’s shoulder. “Better fess up, kid. ‘Member, Santa’s watchin’. Lyin’ won’t do you any favors.”  

You laughed to yourself, feeling warm all over again as your fingers left the little clothespin Rudolph. Stepping into the kitchen, you busied yourself with the coffee can, measuring scoops of the nutty grounds and dumping them into one of the leftover filters that you’d used to make paper snowflakes with Taylor’s kids the night before. More ornaments for next year’s tree. You secured the lid on the can, giving it a smack to make sure it was sealed tight, when a peel of laughter hit your ears. It was muffled slightly, and followed by a deeper, fuller chuckle that you couldn’t mistake if you tried. Ryan. Setting your task aside, you moved the curtains over the sink just in time to see Ryan hoisting Cheyenne and Evan, one under each arm, up to place the hat atop the head of the most perfectly constructed snowman you’d ever seen, a grin broke out on your face and your hand came up to your mouth. There you are, Ryan Brenner. 

You watched the three of them admire their handiwork as the coffee pot bubbled and steamed to life somewhere behind you, before you saw Ryan toss his head in the direction of the house, telling them it was time to go back inside. The kids turned and immediately ran towards the back door, wobbling like penguins in their snow boots. When Ryan turned, his eyes went straight to the window, a wide smile brightening his face. Above his beard his cheeks and nose were bright red from the cold, a puff of vapor forming as he let out a breath. Raising one hand, he waved to you, and you wiggled your fingers over the cuff of his shirt to wave back, biting your bottom lip. 

The door banged open and Cheyenne and Evan burst inside, stomping clumps of white onto the mat and yanking the zippers of their jackets open. “We made a snowman!” Evan said, turning to you as though he knew you’d be there to receive the news. 

“I see!” you said, pointing out the window. “A very nice one, too.” Cheyenne’s arm was stuck in her sleeve, her little eyebrows furrowing in frustration. You stooped down next to her to pull her free. “Did you name him?” 

“Uh huh,” the little girl smiled at you as she sat down to take her boots off. “Frosty, like in the song.” 

“That’s a perfect name,” you said, recalling the afternoon before yesterday, when Ryan and Jimmy had played a bunch of kid friendly Christmas songs to keep the kids out of Taylor’s hair while you helped her and Aunt Holly with some of the baking. 

The door opened again, a rush of cold air blowing in as Ryan stepped inside. “‘Mornin’, bug,” he said, eyes bright and wide awake from the icy temperature. He removed his hat, his long hair askew. Morning, Ryan.  “Merry Christmas.” He wiped his boots off before bending down to undo the laces, tattooed fingers working nimbly once they were free of his gloves. You rose back to your full height as he took a step to close the distance.. 

You felt the cold coming off of him but still only wanted him closer. “Merry Christmas, Ryan.” You raked your fingers through his hair and behind his ear.  “You three were up ealy,” you said, eyes never leaving his. 

He shrugged with a grin. “Frosty i’nt gonna build himself,” he said before turning to his accomplices. “Right guys?” 

“Right!” They answered in unison. 

“Right.” He turned back to you. This man. 

“Right.” You agreed, nodding as your smile turned into a laugh. You draped both arms over his shoulders, twirling the curl at the nape of his neck around your finger as you leaned into him. “Why don’t you go get warmed up,” you suggested, and I’ll get some breakfast started and-”

“Is that mistletoe?” Evan was staring at the two of you, pointing to the bundle of greenery hanging in the doorway above your heads. You hadn’t seen it before, nor had you realized that you’d gotten as close to him as you had, or that he’d placed both of his frozen hands on your hips. It is. “You know it’s poisonous, right?” He asked, matter of factly. 

You and Ryan looked at each other before bursting into a laugh that had you collapsing into the frosty fabric of his coat, his hands rubbing slowly up and down your back as you both looked back up at one another. “That so?” Ryan asked, Evan nodding emphatically. “And who told you that, your mama?” 

“Yeah,” came Taylor’s voice from the kitchen doorway, the lights from the tree glowing on her rounded cheeks. “Sound familiar, Ry?” She quirked an eyebrow as Evan and Cheyenne scrambled passed her, one on either side. She touched both of their sandy-haired heads as they headed upstairs to change into warm clothes. 

Ryan laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “It might sound a little familiar.” 

“That’s what he told me,” Taylor answered your question before you could ask it. “When we were kids, and I was a young, hopelessly romantic seven year old pining her pigtails off for Bobby Hartshorne, sayin’ that I hoped I got to kiss’m under the mistletoe. And then here comes Ryan,” she gestured with mock annoyance at her closest cousin who grinned mischievously. “Tellin’ me kissin’ is gross and mistletoe is poison.” 

“I did say that,” he admitted with a chuckle. 

“How romantic of you, Ry,” you said, barely keeping the smirk from your face. 

“Well,” Taylor clapped him on the shoulder before smiling at you. “Glad to see that some things change.” She winked and then headed over to help herself to the coffee you’d made. 

Without taking his eyes from yours, he spoke quietly and pulled you closer. “Rules are rules,” he said, nose brushing yours before you felt his lips steal the breath from your lungs. “Poison or not.” His fingers flexed around your hips as your hands found their way over his jawbone and up into his hair. 

The kiss was quick but you felt it all throughout your bones. “Love you, Ryan,” you told him, knocking your nose against his again. “Let’s get some coffee, huh?” 

.

.

.

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @obscurilicious @lexxierave @thesumofmychoices @songtoyou @ymariejp @breanime @gollyderek @traeumerinwitzhelden @malionnes @elanor-of-imladris

please let me know if you would like to be added or removed! 

[jafndaegur]

The Blood Sacrifice’s True Ugly

“Broken migrant, knife through heel—sing your praise so hell can hear. Where did you come from? The strange, we walk, the touch we feel…Could you find a way to love us all? Don’t wake up.” – Coheed & Cambria

Day Two @mmangstweek . I’m definitely trying to NOT turn this into a Jumin x MC fic rofl. I’m failing miserably. A LOT of triggers in this one, i’m sorrry. With a character whose power is blood sacrifice you can’t expect this to be a happy story until the end…maybe.

Triggers: Bodily harm (both self and from others)

MC’s father hid her eyes behind his hands. Beneath her knees where she had collapsed in front of her mother—she felt the thick and sticky liquid that smelt too much like iron. Her father clutched her closer and his shoulders trembled as he pulled her against his chest. He wouldn’t let her look. And that was okay. It wasn’t too long after that she forgot her mother’s face, and her mother’s name. She didn’t know why; she tried to think of all the good times, all her favorite moments with the woman, but all she could see was an empty face as blank as a wiped chalkboard.

From then on, her father dressed her in a surplus of thick, long clothes. From turtlenecks and gloves to long sock and trousers, not an inch of her wasn’t covered up in some form or capacity. The only place she was allowed visible was her face. He told her it was unlikely for her to bleed there. “Such a pretty face shouldn’t be hidden”, he smiled sadly.

He must’ve been traumatized, she figured. The death of her mother too much for him. He didn’t want to risk her getting hurt. So she stayed careful. Stayed cautious.

The times with him were fond.

He loved walking in the park on the days that were warm. Not an afternoon during the summer, the spring, and the fall were wasted inside. He would pick her up from school, and he would park at a nearby convenience store. Together, they would walk in, and he would buy a coffee and she a soda; he’d purchase dinner from there too, a pair of sandwiches or a couple of hotdogs—whichever was cheaper. From there they would walk down the sidewalk to the local park. Her father was a man of few words, and she was fine with that. Someone like him didn’t need to speak much to show what was on his mind. So she would skip along side him and tell him about her day at school, about the few friends she’d made, about her favorite book that she’d read. He would smile. And she would smile back.

As she grew older, however, her steps became a little less light. He never changed: the same stride, the same tired glance, the same expectations of her to stay covered up. The same old walks in the same old park.

But she changed.

When she entered high school, she figured he was a prude—after all, that was what her classmates called her because of her dress and certainly her wardrobe was not her decision.

The one time she’d mentioned it to him, she said she would like to wear a sun dress, his characteristic passive look had warped. His brow knitted and his lip curled. His eyes stormed. His jaw clenched. “Absolutely not MC”. She had never heard him so frustrated; so scared. For the moment she would apologize and leave it alone. Afterall, he’d never done wrong by her before.

Winter tumbled in harshly during the near tail end of her senior year in high school. They didn’t go outside for walks. She wanted to leave. For once she wanted to leave the house and do whatever she wanted. But with the snow-in came a surprising amount of stern behavior from him. He didn’t let her leave. Normally she did the errands; now he did. Normally she went for the groceries. He would take the car out and return within the hour with whatever they needed for the week. More and more often, he hovered. “Ice is dangerous”, MC. She started to sit and stare out the window, wondering what would happen if she just left. “You could slip and fall, MC”. She stopped wearing her socks, and wore stockings and skirts instead of pants. “What would happen if you hurt yourself”? His stare was less endearing and more crazed.

It was evening. She remembered it like that. The sun crested itself just barely above a hill hollowed of any trees or brush. Rid of anything she might scrape herself on. She was gazing out the kitchen window while she was grating the vegetables for their dinner that evening.

He ranted to her about how he disapproved of her going outside without her gloves on.

Brow twitched, she scraped a carrot harder against the grater. Her father growled on about how it was irresponsible of her to go without anything protecting her fingers. She snapped, whipped around, and sliced the side of her palm against the sharp little edges of the kitchen utensil.

“God, I wish you’d just leave me alone!”

MOBILE USERS HERE IS WHERE, THE TW KICKS IN. FOR WHATEVER REASON, MOBILE IS NOT KEEPING THE “KEEP READING” LINK

His expression into hurt, and his big brown eyes widened. Hands fell to the side and he stuttered. His eyes lowered and noticed the slice on her hand, shiny red blood trickling down her wrist.

Her father’s eyes widened, he yelped with a cracked voice and reached out suddenly . “MC—”

Then he was gone.

There was no flash or snap or brush of magic. Just one moment he was there. And the next he wasn’t.

At first she thought it was a joke, or something to make her feel bad. She waited for him to go home. Upstairs, she wrapped her hand with gauze after applying a little bit of disinfectant. He didn’t come home. Took a shower, put on pajamas, made apology hot chocolate. She even did some of her homework, but by the time the clock read three am, and her father wasn’t home—she could only hope that he’d gone to cool off from the argument. In her mind she couldn’t remember the last time they’d gotten into a fight. Perhaps he thought that they both needed a little bit of time. He’d be back in the morning, she told herself.

He did not come home the next morning.

She waited for a day. Then two. On the third day, she looked through obituaries, her emails, the news, anything to tell her if he had died or gone missing. She called the police on the fifth day. She told them he was missing—they told her he was not.

Her father never came home again.

MC stopped going to school. She worked a job, but never made the money to keep the house. Although somehow the bills were always paid and on time. She didn’t know why her father was staying away, if he was clearly alive and well.

At the time, she wondered why he would listen to such a simple wish.

But that was her second encounter with Blood Sacrifice.

Later in her life, since she didn’t have the finalized education higher than middle school, MC had resorted to some…undesirable jobs. After one night with a man, he’d accidentally cut her thigh with his belt buckle. He’d been purring in her ear as he was leaving about how he wished she would give him another hour. She’d been done for the night. But her body seized as he apologized profusely for the injury. Her own limbs worked against her—wrapping her arms around his neck, and pulling him closer as she told him she’d give him another hour if he paid for it—he was ecstatic, the bleeding gash forgotten.

Her third encounter with Blood Sacrifice.

MC found more and more people somehow figured out about her power. Someone stabbed her in the bicep with an ice scraper, they wished for money to pay off a loan-shark’s loan. Another person tore her lip while they were kissing her, they wished for their wife’s undying love so they wouldn’t have to keep seeing MC. Bit by bit, her body became a bit more tore up as she gave more and more of her wishes away. She’d tried to stab herself too, right above her collar-bone. She wished to see her father again, for him to sweep her away so she could cry against her chest and tell him she was so sorry for stupid words during an even more stupid argument.

Shortly after that wish, as she hobbled through her home city, she discovered two things. While she’d been living in an alley the past few years, in the sheltered shadow of a dumpster—more and more people like her had appeared. They were called Oddities; people with strange mutations and powers of all sorts, just like characters from old time comic books and superhero movies.

The second thing she discovered, was her father. It was fall, and she’d been close to that local grocery store they’d frequented so much—it was the first time since his disappearance. A church had been built behind there. That was new. She snuck in, through the back, hoping she could find loose bulletins she could use as mats for her bed. Instead she found a wall of cremated people. Her father’s name among the dozens.

She smiled. He really had just left her alone.

Life after that was blurry. She collapsed at the wall of burned bodies. Her vision swam. Who knew how many days it’d been since she fell there. A flash of golden hair as bright as flames, and brilliant green eyes just as warm as frozen jade. A tender hand around her wrist, pulling her—a Savior from death or a Sentencer to life…

And then nothing.

MC shrieked as she sat up. An IV had been strapped to her arm and a heart monitor beeped pleasantly next to her. In front of her, with his hand recoiling from her temple, was the crazy ghost in the suit from earlier. Except this time he wasn’t a specter. His fingers had left a warm graze angst her head.

She seethed, knowing perfectly well what happened. “You. Read. My. Memories.”

“I,” he paused, as if considering what to say be for narrowing his grey eyes and setting his expression as blank as snow. “I did. They were as open as a journal entry. Thank you for your cooperation.”

She searched for anything to cut herself on—she was going to kill him.  

[another-chorus-girl]

‘Ghosts of Phantoms past’ An Erik House drabble

So this is in part a “Christmas Carol” parody and a request for @sparklyerik especially. Like my other Erik house drabbles this is not necessarily in the canon so you don’t have to read this to know what’s going on in the story-however I still would appreciate if you’d read it :)

Merry Christmas!

Everywhere the eye could see was coated in a blanket of snow. In the city lights gimmered and twinkled, carols of old were sung on this winter's night. Even within the house, where several masked masters of music, Christmas' effect on everyone was infectious. All throughout the house, everyone seemed quite harmoniously at ease.

All but one that is.

Erik was more than happy keeping himself shut in. Not that anyone would bother with him. Each passing day he felt the ever more alone and rejected. Even despite the others efforts to raise his spirits. And Christmas, a time spent with family and companions felt all the more sickening to him, a harsh reminder that he was alone.

"You realise you especially are more than welcome to join us?" Crawford suggested to him that Christmas Eve. "We all know what it's like, you don't need to shut yourself away."

"While touching, that's quite easy for you to say." Erik scowled, barely looking up from his latest composition penned in messy red handwriting. "There's hardly a moment of solitude on your floor. Barely anyone pays me mind with you and your boys present."

Crawford paused, "Is this about Christine?"

"Let's not discuss her."

"Sarah said she tried to get here, but the storm outside was just too-"

"Enough!" Erik raised his voice, his temper flaring. "Not even Christine wants to see me, she needn't have her friends make up some lie to feed me."

"Monsieur please-"

"Just go. I'd rather immerse myself in my work."

With a sigh, the older Merik nodded not wanting to push too hard.

Going up the steps to the main floor, his mismatch eyes gave a warning glare to Gerik, whom coming down the stairwell nearly ran right into him.

"Now what?!" Erik growled, slamming his hands down in frustration on the keys in front of him that moaned in a bellowed protest.

Though a little nervously Gerik smiled, "Just wanted to bring you something a thank you and to say Merry Christmas."

"What reason have you to be merry?

"What right have you to be so dismal?" Gerik smirked, understanding that the older man could be get into such sour moods, but in the very least attempted to lighten his spirit.

Erik raised a brow behind his mask at the parcel in Gerik's black gloved hand that he nudged closer to him.

"I appreciate all you've been doing for me," The film adapted man said, "So much that I've been writing a new score, and I wanted you to be the first to read it. We could go up to the main parlour? Destler is suppose to have it's use right now but he and Winslow are out. And what with it being Christmas-"

"Humbug to this whole nonsensical season."

Gerik frowned, "Christmas a humbug? You don't mean that."

"Not tonight boy," Erik grumbled. "You should just go and join the others. Keep Christmas in your own way and let me keep it in mine."

"But you don't seem to keep it."

"Let me leave it alone then. Much good has it ever done you." Gerik nodded, "In the past I have regarded it as just that. But this year, Christmas being a kind, charitable time, I feel like I'm actually a part of it for once."

The film adapted man smiled noting to himself his pleasant surprise that Kerik-while pretended to be just as cynical about the whole holiday shoved an intricately wrapped box into his hands just moments ago upstairs. Gerik was puzzled by Erik's sneer. He was never this cross

"Is something the matter?"

"Like you should care? Why should anybody?"

He frowned, "We wouldn't be here without you."

Erik shook his head, "What recognition do I get for it? I'm just lost in obscurity, just like the ghostly facade I've taken."

Gerik looked down at his boots, Erik heaved a heavy sigh.

"Please. Please I don't want to argue with you. Your gesture is kind, but I need to be left alone. I'm rather use to it."

"Is there no way of changing your mind?" Gerik called one last time, concerned for his mentor."

Erik shooed Gerik off with the wave of a skeletal hand, "Good afternoon."

The world had looked past him and let his story be lost to the ages. He had no interest in enjoying any sort of festivity feeling unwanted and irrelevant.  

--

Having spent the remainder of the evening composing, Erik leaned back. Returning to reality his energy felt drained. Rest and sustenance he even still neglected. Tonight however, he felt this pull for both. Perhaps something as basic as a bowl of porridge and just a few hours rest was the break he needed and then he could continue. Perhaps by the time he awoke and began his music once more, this trivial holiday would be over. The masked man hated the reminder of how alone and unappreciated he felt about his existence. -- Erik's head shot up hearing something behind him. Whipping around, he saw no one. Shaking his head, he dismissed it as nothing more than a rat scuttle. While Kerik's feline was an outstanding mouser snuffing out many stray vermin, some unfortunately slipped inside the house from time to time-likely coming from Jerik's dumpster.

Resting his head back down he just barely felt the hand that hesitantly reached out and touched his shoulder. Tired glowing eyes opened at half mast.

He stared back at a pair of dark grey eyes behind a cloth mask.

"Lerik? What is the meaning of this?" Erik questioned, the opposite man not even phased that he was not wearing a mask to conceal his death's head like appearance.

He could see Lerik begin making hand gestures and shook his head.

"Oh for the love of Faust write it down!" Erik scowled. He was unwelcoming to Lerik, but he and Crawford knew well to schedule their meetings well in advance. And certainly not at midnight-granted at this time the men would be composing rather than resting. 

But rather than reach for a piece of parchment he shook his head, as Erik noted he could hear a muffled noise escape Lerik from behind the mask.

Erik blinked, was Lerik trying to speak? How was that possible.

"I mastered pantomime, but do know how to communicate," A low voice uttered from beneath the cloth.

Erik's eyes were wide in surprise, "You've never spoken...I must be hallucinating."

"You do not believe in me? Why do you doubt your senses?"

"Because the littlest thing can affect them, I don't doubt you exist but this cannot possibly be real."

Lerik merely clasped his hands together and stared down with him.

Erik spoke cautiously, "Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?"

"Man of worldly mind do you believe in me or not?" Lerik sounded rather impatient.

"I do....I must. I cannot remain ignorant." This didn't feel like some poor excuse for trickery, what reason would he even have to do so.

"Then hear me monsieur, for my time is nearly gone."

"Tell me then?"

"Tonight, you will be haunted by three spirits"

"Spirits? Is this a jest?" Erik snorted, despite seeing this strange occurrence was still sceptical

"Expect the first, when the bell tolls one."

Erik shook his head, "The Opera Ghost being haunted by spirits of his own? Now really that's just-"

But when he turned back to face Lerik, he was nowhere to be seen. Erik was left alone in the dark.

--

The house was deftly silent, the clock chime signifying it was exactly one o'clock. Erik's brow furrowed hearing the chime. He was by nature a very light sleeper, but still rather groggy as he awoke. Slouching up to a sitting position in the coffin, his golden eyes glanced around, piercing the darkness.

He scoffed, "Spirits, absolute nonsense."

But as he began to sink back down into the silk lining, he noticed a light out of the corner of his eye.

The light was coming from the next room.

"Really now," Erik growled, getting out of the coffin and made for the sitting room. Wrapping a deep red robe over his nightwear, and making good to reapply his mask, the recluse skulked down to the main room. He found the light source to be one of the candelabras.  

But no one was in the room.

Removing the black mask-lacking a proper mouthpiece-Erik reached for the candelabra, blowing out the tiny flames when he heard steps. 

Slamming the candle holder down he placed his mask back on and sprinted toward the steps. They sounded as though they came from the stairwell and were going up.

"Kerik if this is more of your tomfoolery I will string you up by-" Erik exclaimed, not necessarily caring whom he woke on the first floor. But his threat was cut short noticing the parlour's fireplace was lit.

But more so whom was hovering their hands over the fire for sought out warmth.

"Y-You..." Erik mumbled, hardly believing what or whom he saw.

The man, much shorter and with a healthier build to the skeletal man, turned noticing him. Well dressed in a grey suit, his hair slightly curled but well kept as was his moustache, smiled back at Erik. His glasses seem to gleam in the fire's light.

"Been quite awhile hasn't it?" Leroux noted.

"I don't understand." Erik was puzzled and his mouth would appear agape similarly to a fish if he were not wearing his mask. "Gaston, how can you? You're-?"

"Quite a lovely home you've made for yourself here. But really my boy it's absolutely freezing in here."

"How and why are you here?" Erik asked, "You died over a hundred years ago."

"A hundred and ten actually, but I appreciate you've been keeping track."

"I don't understand how this can be?"

Glancing up at the grandfather clock adjacent from his, Leroux nodded, "It's one o'clock on the dot. I'm here for you Erik."

"So you're some sort of ghost?"

Leroux laughed, "Must sound quite funny coming from you, yes? I'm a ghost of the past of sorts I suppose."

"Long past?"

"Well your past that is."

The man held a hand out, "Come along,"

Erik's golden eyes stared from the offered hand to Gaston's dark eyes.

"Where are we going?" He asked.

"Back," He answered.

Erik heaved a hard sigh, not liking the idea of uncertainty. But in this man he always put trust in. Upon taking Leroux's hand Erik gasped feeling a swirling sensation overcome him, as if he were being violently spun around.

Opening his glowing eyes they were no longer in the dimly lit parlour, or the house for that matter.

Erik gaped upon seeing the angelic statues of gilt copper and bronze atop Palais Garnier rooftop. He walked towards the edge, overlooking the busy Parisian streets, people looking more like ants from where they stood going about their lives.

"I'm home?" He said no louder than a whisper.

Gaston nodded, "In a manner of speaking."

Leading them down from the roof, Erik soon heard more sounds. Music.

He stopped, tugging on Gaston's sleeve. "Wait, someone will see us. No one need discover me."

"Trust me son, we're certainly out of sight." Gesturing for the skeletal man to follow, Erik did so as they came up to a door leading into one of the private boxes.

"Does any of this look familiar?" Leroux asked, pushing his glasses up.

"Of course it does," Erik couldn't help but say as-a-matter-of-factly. "This is after all MY private box."

Stepping into Box 5, his golden eyes glanced down at the stage before them.

He remembered this performance. While it wasn't a particular favourite, Erik had no scathing problem with the opera.

But still he remembered this day all too well. The screams and sounds of panic gave way as the counterweights fell toward the fourth tier seats.

"One dead and several others injured because of that," Erik mused, "I remember"

"Calm before the storm, hm?" Leroux noted, "The chandelier itself you brought down would do even more damage."

The scene seemed to melt away as Parisian's fled or scrambled to find help.

"Now where are we?" Erik paused, "Wait a moment I know where."

He could see a familiar black and grey cloaked figure seated by an organ, playing his life's work.

Lerik barely registered Mary's advance on him from behind. But his head shot up, a look of horror on his now revealed face, his skin tight and nose sunken in. Several screams and gasps were heard all around them as people whom could not see or acknowledge Erik or Gaston ran passed. Others who ran in as opposed to out tended to the frightened women whom had fainted at the grotesque sight before they're eyes.

"And still the world fears my face," Erik grimaced. "As if anyone could possibly show me anything but disgust."

Leroux shook his head. "I think you assume too quickly. The world constantly revolves and changes. " Reaching into his pocket, he glanced down at the watch in his hand.

"Speaking of time, it seems mine is running short."

Erik turned, his normally cold glaring eyes filling with sorrow and regret.

"Gaston forgive me. I'm a poor excuse for being your last legacy."

Shaking his head, the journalist disagreed.

"I wouldn't say that at all son," Leroux smiled, "My other works wouldn't have even been picked up had it not been for you."

"But no one bothered with me for so long."

"Your story is one that the masses were not ready for right away. It just took them some time to come around." Patting Erik's shoulder Leroux walked past. 

"Just remember what I said when the next chime comes around."

In a swirling haze, Erik glanced back around for any sign of Gaston. But the long since passed journalist was gone and the masked man was alone in his chambers.

--

The clock chimed once more. Erik was unroused by this ring.

Rather what caused his eyes to pop open was the bellow of a pipe organ.

"By Apollo! What the hell is happening?!" Erik yelled, getting up and sprinting into his sitting room.

It was his organ being played no doubt, catching sight of the culprit whom had their back to him.

Erik scowled, noting the slick wig and multi ranging tones of blue and gold on the man's evening robe.

"Whichever one you are," He started, unsure which Merik he was talking to, "I don't know why you feel the need to play down here when you have a perfectly fine set upstairs. But I will give you to the count of dix to remove yourself from my room monsieur."

Turning around, Erik was puzzled to see it was Karimloo. What business exactly did the two have?

The West End Merik nodded. "You must have expected Crawford right? You two talk more than you would with me. But I suppose while he contributes to this that the ghost of your present must be a modern face. Or at least my good half."

Erik narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean my present?"

Standing up, Karimloo approached him, both men almost at equal standing height.

"Take my arm, I'll show you." The Merik said.

Erik shook his head, "This is insane."

Karimloo sighed, "Just touch my robe, you'll see."

"Fine fine then." Thin, bony hands grasped Karimloo's clothed wrist. Erik shut his eyes tight feeling that whirling sensation again, trying to will it away. But like last time the feeling quickly left as it began.

Looking around, Erik noted they were on a busy street, this time around however the people passing by-and through them for that matter-were of more modern dress.

"Now where are we?" He asked.

"London, on Haymarket to be precise," Glancing around. "I think I'm a little underdressed."

As Karimloo removed his robe, revealing his impeccable tailcoat suit, Erik looked around.

"Why?"

"We should go inside first, we're already late."

Leading them in, Erik's gaze softened.

"I know where we are now..." He mused, the two men entering the dark auditorium where hundreds of seats were absolutely filled.

"Looks like we'll have to stand," Karimloo observed.

The orchestra became louder and the tune changing ever so slightly as candles rose and two figures sailed into view on a gondola.

"And in this labyrinth, where night is blind.

The Phantom of the Opera is there/here, inside your/my mind!"

Erik smiled, watching the soprano be lifted up out of the boat.

"Your present is quite extensive as you can see." Karimloo indicated.

Erik felt as though his ears were deceiving him. The more he listened, the more the voice seemed to change.

He had seen and heard Crawford playing the organ just a moment ago, but the tenor's tune had changed. This time he could swear he heard Jones now. But once more it changed again, it seemed to be every Merik all at once after the other. Karrie, Wilkinson, Carpenter, Joback. All different, but still one and the same.

"Over thirty one years worth of voices for your music." Karimloo smiled. "And just listen."

Erik felt the thunderous applause rumble all around him, beating against his ears like drums. The theatre melted away but looked quite similar to the one they were standing in.

More voices as the Meriks' of Broadway sang. The skeletal man could hear Panaro, Lewis, Gaines, and even more. It seemed to be every time he blinked it was a new face-so to speak-and another powerful voice, most tenor but even those that were baritone. The music of the night coming to life before Erik's eyes and ears.

"It seems my time is over now. The opera is done, the last notes have been played." He heard Karimloo say, but turning to where he heard the Merik's voice he saw no one. Hearing only a light chuckle fade away into the wind.

--

Erik looked around, wondering just where he'd gone. While the chill of the cold was not something he was easily susceptible to. But given it was the dead of winter's night and he was adorned in his nightwear alone left him in fending off the bitter cold wind.

Turning around, he felt that invasive feeling that the masked man was being watched. Turning, Erik was met with a cloaked figure standing mere steps away, slowly walking closer to him.

Erik snorted, "Trying to be a regular Don Juan with that cloak Karimloo?"

But the figure didn't answer him and simply stood before him. Behind the full mask he raised a brow, something didn't feel the same. It wasn't Karimloo under the hood whoever this was was taller-and seemed tower even over him.

And there was a feeling of uncertainty about this figure. As if they foretold something yet to come.

"Who are you?" He asked "You're here for me as well arn't you?"

The black hooded figure said nothing. It raised a hand for him to take.

Erik had been use to how this works well enough by now. But he felt unnerved taking this spectral beings hand-it was cold as ice even more so than his own waxy skin.

The feeling spinning and tumbling overcame him once more. Erik opened his golden eyes to another city street. More busy people, living day to day lives. It looked as though they were in Paris again, but certainly not the 1880s again.

"Spirit?" Erik asked, not certain if this truly was a ghost or not. "Where have you taken us?"

The cloaked figure gestured to a theatre house. Not quite as extravagant as Palais Garnier but with a similar air of sophistication.

Erik blinked looking up at the listing with a familiar poster attached.

'Fantôme de l'Opéra Sièges disponibles pour la performance de ce soir Aujourd'hui à 2h30 et à 7h30'

He shook his head, "I don't understand. There was a fire and it-"

He turned, "What year is it spirit?"

This had to be further on in the future. What else had happened?

The figure tugged on his arm, pulling Erik back. The venue and place changing once again.

"I think it's going to be good!" He heard one voice say. He and his cloaked companion were standing just outside another theatre, although this facility was much more digital and domestic.

Behind the corner Erik eavesdropped on the conversation.

"I don't know, you saw what they did with the Mummy." Another voice said unconvinced.

"They made up for that though! The first one is always a flop. And I mean it's going to be more like the original story!"

"So not the half mask? Maybe Universal really is giving us what we want."

From around the corner he could hear a clicking noise. Peering over-his dark dress and mask still concealing him in the shadows-Erik spied one of the girls holding one of those 'smartphone' contraptions.

'So excited to see Phantom on the big screen again! <3' He could see the post read on the illuminated screen.

"What are they on about?" Turning to the hooded figure he asked. "Is this really possible? This future can't possibly be? After all this time I'm still remembered?"

Still silent, Erik clenched his fists and finally his hands flew up to the hood. "Who are you?!"

But lifting it, Erik found himself staring back at another full mask similar to his own, piercing golden eyes staring right into his. But he could tell nothing more about this masked stranger.

His vision felt blurred, the affects of all this too overwhelming for his aged heart as Erik felt his knees go weak.

--

With a start Erik rose from his coffin, a bony hand clenched over his chest. He panted for breath, a cold sweat racked his body. Looking around, he was in his basement dwelling. Nothing was out of place, no intrusive guests.

Was it real? Was it all a dream?

Creeping upstairs, so perplexed at the night that may or may not have happened, he nearly ran into the child playing chase with Soot through the parlour.

"Oh! I'm sorry sir!" Gustauve apologised. Mr. Y came wheeling around the corner.

"Gustauve! You should be more-" He paused noticing Erik's presence. "I'm sorry about him Monsieur Fantome, a careless accident?"

But rather than stare daggers at he and the boy as expected, the golden glow of his eyes softened, smiling from behind the full mask.

"Easily forgiven. Tell me something, what day is today?"

"Today?" Y asked back.

"It's Christmas Day!" Gustauve chirped in happily.

"Christmas Day, the spirits did it all in one night?" Erik mumbled, "Though of course they can. They can do anything they like. Erik should have expected as much"

"Monsieur? Are you quite alright?" The boy asked puzzled

Erik smiled behind his mask at Gustauve gesturing to Mr.Y, "A delightful child you have there,"

Stunned, Y actually blinked. "Are you sure you're not feeling unwell?"

"On the contrary, feeling in exceptionally good health today." Walking past them, Erik made his way upstairs.

Only halfway up the stairs and he could hear the carols being sung in the Meriks parlour.

"O holy night the stars are brightly shining It is the night of our dear Savior's birth Long lay the world in sin and error pining Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth"

Erik slinked in around the corner, Cherik and Jones seated together on one of the sofas gaped seeing him enter silently.

Panaro faltered in tune spying him as well, a few of the other also bumbling with their notes. 

Turning to the disturbance, Crawford's mismatch eyes blinked.

"Monsieur?" He asked, "I had thought after yesterday that-"

But Erik shook his head. "If...If you'll have me I'd love to join you for today?"

The older Merik laughed, trying to keep it down so as it did not come off as a cackle-attempting to kick the old habit.

"If we'll have you? Of course! It would be an honour. Although I suppose if you'd rather not a carol we can-"

"Nonsense! Continue please," He urged. He glanced back at the doorway, noticing Gerik walk through. "I'll join in with you all in a moment."

As the Meriks' picked up where they left off, he tapped Gerik on the back. The film adapted man was shocked to say the least.

"I didn't expect to see you here?" Gerik asked.

Erik held out for him sheet music.

"It's quite a lovely piece. Daresay I'm rather proud that in a way I helped you compose this." Erik nodded to him.

Gerik's shoulders sank and he smiled, touched that he'd finally crafted something worthy of Erik's ear.

The full masked man gestured to the organ bench. "Care to listen?"

Nodding eagerly the two sat down, Erik's poised long fingers pressing gentle upon the keys. The parlour falling into eventual silence as they listened, glancing over their shoulders the Meriks' easily picked up on the tune and began to sing.

Erik let a smile grace his thin lips, he turned hearing a light clap behind him. He felt as those his eyes deceived him, seeing a bob of long blonde hair and glee filled eyes as deep blue as the ocean.

"Christine?" He asked, feeling as though he could weep.

"The storm last night cleared up," She smiled, "Sierra asked Fraser if they stop my way and retrieve me on the way here. I'm so sorry if you were upset that I could not come last night, I so wanted to."

He clasped her delicate small hand in his, leaning his head against her fingers he felt himself shaken.

“My dear,” He asked, “If it’s not too much, could you sing?”

Christine’s kind smile gleamed from ear to ear on her kind face, “I would be delighted to.”

In the midst of such blissful harmony, Erik didn't quite feel so alone.

Here we go!

-Throughout the story I scattered and paraphrased some lines and quotes from “A Christmas Carol” naturally. 

-Lon Chaney parents were both deaf and due to this he was raised learning the art of pantomime

- The original incident that inspired the chandelier crash in Gaston Leroux’s novel and the adaptations following this was during a performance of the opera Helle' at the Palais Garnier in 1896 when two counterweights for the chandelier fell and collapsed onto the fourth row, killing one woman and injuring several others.

-When Lon Chaney’s film was shown to audience members for the first time, it was reported that patrons were screaming, running out of the theatre and fainting at the sight of the deformity upon the Phantom being unmasked.

-Mary of course being Mary Philbin, Lerik’s Christine in the 1925 film. 

-in October 2017 ALW’s PotO was suppose to be performed at the Mogador theatre in Paris, but due to a fire it was sadly cancelled and never performed. 

-The reference to Phantom on the big screen is to the unmade film by Universal Studios, as they are attempted to create a cinematic ‘Dark Universe’ for the classic movie monsters including the Phantom of the Opera. ‘The Mummy’ is the first instalment already released starring Tom Cruise but so far is a cinematic flop and leaving the question of whether or not a reboot movie of Phantom will still happen.  

-Moreso a tidbit, several previous Phantom actors including Jones, Crawford, and Panaro just to name a few have recorded their own versions of ‘O Holy Night’ sung.

[kitten1618x]

GoT Afterthoughts 7x07 The Dragon and The Wolf (Jonsa Edition) SPOILERS

So here we are -the finale. I’d like to bitch about how badly we’ve been ripped off by D&D, but I don’t want to be repetitive. lol We begin our episode outside the walls of Kings Landing. It looks like the Unsullied have abandoned Casterly Rock for a display of power and muscle, and are quickly joined by the Dothriaki -whooping and hollering in a most obnoxious way (I truly dislike them). Jamie and Bronn watch from atop the ramparts for some lively “cock banter”, ya know, since D&D are epic writers and such. Side note: I love how they slowed down Dany’s theme song here. At least the musical score is never disappointing. We get a nice aerial shot of Euron’s huge fleet, as what’s left of Dany’s sails towards KL. Jon, ever a Northerner, is NOT impressed with KL.  Stay true to your roots, Jonny boy. Suspiciously (not really), Dany is absent. Gee … I wonder if she’s planning on a flamboyant dragon-styled entrance? The Hound goes below deck to check if Bones is resting comfortably. The box is quiet -must have been that Dramamine they gave him to counter his seasickness. Nope -he’s awake, and clearly feels their hospitality leaves something to be desired. Side note: I wonder if Jon inquiring how many people live in KL is a foreshadowing of a future disaster there? Remember that there are casks of Dragon fire buried everywhere beneath the city. I’m almost positive that will come into play next season. We jump quickly to Cersei in the Red Keep who’s been informed that Dany isn’t with her entourage. How much you wanna bet that Cersei’s thinking the same exact thing I wrote above? She informs Ser Gregor that if anything goes wrong, he’s to kill the silver haired bitch first, then her brother and then the bastard who calls himself King. Now we’re back with the entourage, and we get a bit of a history lesson about the dragon pit ruins, and Jorah says something I perceived to be very important (as well as synonymous of Dany and her conquering Targ ancestors): Jorah: Dragons don’t understand the difference between what’s theirs and what isn’t. Land, livestock, children. CONQUERORS! We learn how over time, with entrapment, the dragons withered away to nothing, small as dogs. This particular part didn’t serve any purpose, other than to reunite the original brotp3, Pod, Bronn and Tyrion. We see that they all still have a fondness for each other -and perhaps a foreshadowing that Bronn will be switching allegiance soon. The Hound and Brienne also have a surprisingly friendly reunion, as they bond over their adopted daughter, Arya. I’m glad they brought her up, and I’m so very excited to see a Hound/Stark girls reunion next season! So, we’re in the Dragon Pit now, and truthfully -this entire 20 minute scene was utter garbage, and I’m pretty pissed that they wasted nearly the entire finale on this flaming dumpster, tbh. Clegane bowl is coming. Cersei is annoyed with Dany’s theatrical entrance (and truthfully, the extra-ness of it all was kind of lame). I guess it was necessary to put Drogon in the dragon pit? But when he flew away, let’s be honest -his wings would have sent those canopies hurling away and knocked everyone on their asses, too. Euron’s a dick. Tyrion attempts to open the floor for Jon, Cersei is her usual snarky, skeptical and extra self (I fucking love her), and finally Sandor releases Bones, and ……  the Dramamine must have kicked in? Time for a jump scare! Bones charges Cersei and is yanked back just in time. The Hound cuts him in half, but he keeps on coming until Jon does his sales pitch demonstration (how sad do you think Kit was that they made him do this terrible scene?) of fire and dragon glass (thanks Davos, for your assistance). Euron peaces out -all but throwing up deuces upon his hasty exit, but not before propositioning Dany. Cersei agrees to the truce -tell me honestly -did you all REALLY believe her? She suddenly became so reasonable, which is schiesty as hell, if you ask me. She throws some shade at Dany, and asks Jon to stay neutral. Cersei specifically evokes the honorable Ned Starks name, insinuating that she can trust the son to be as honorable as daddy dearest. Did this jump out at any of you? Because of course Cersei does know that Ned was honorable -yet, she also knows that he had forsaken that very honor in the end, for his daughters -at the request of Sansa (per Cersei) to save his life (and probably hers) which was all for naught because Joffrey was a cunt, as Sandor would say -but you get the point to this clunky run-on sentence, right? And not only that, but he LIED to everyone, and especially the people he loved and cared about (his wife, best friend, family) to save the life of his nephew -and he went to his grave with that secret. So what am I saying? Honorable Ned wasn’t above lying for the greater good, or to protect the ones he loved. Does that put some things in perspective for you? Back to our story (however shitty it is for the time being) Jon declines. Choosing this moment to back Dany, and again “figuratively” bending the knee to her -this time publicly.   Side note: Dany’s face in this moment. She’s so smitten with Jon. Cersei basically tells everyone to fuck off, and exits stage left. Brienne attempts to slap some sense into Jamie, uttering two words that stop him dead in his tracks: FUCK LOYALTY. This isn’t about honor and following whomever you’re loyal to -it’s about humanity. Did she appeal to his better side? Methinks so. Now everyone takes the time to belittle Jon for doing the very thing that they haggled him about for the entire season. But Tyrion the KING of bad ideas this season, has yet another -he’ll go talk to Cersei alone. He magically warps to the Red Keep, somehow making it through the city and the castle without being murdered for the hefty price on his head, but …. that D&D logic, tho. He and Jamie say “goodbye” one idiot to another (hey, you guys said it -not me), and as foreboding music drones in the background, the standoff begins. But, so I guess that Jamie and Tyrion decided to let bygones be bygones? And to one of my favorite scenes of the episode -my God, Lena and Peter SLAYED THIS SCENE! After the accusations fly, Tyrion tells Cersei to have him killed -the Mountain reaches for his sword and begins to unsheath it, but the order is never given. Cersei looks torn. Perhaps she isn’t as heartless as she tries to portray? Perhaps a tiny part of her does have affection for her little brother? Or maybe she just doesn’t want anymore Lannisters to die? I’m not entirely sure of her motivations, but she certainly looked gorgeous in this scene, though. After Tyrion collects himself (and likely wishes for a clean pair of shorts), he downs a goblet of wine and pours his sister a cup. We know now that he does regret killing his father (despite deserving it), and that Tyrion really doesn’t want to see the end of his family. Is he lying? Doubtful. He loved her children as she did (except for Satan incarnate, Joffrey). He realizes that Cersei is once again pregnant, and somehow appeals to her better senses …. And I’m just here SCREAMING at the TV: why do you all believe her??? This is Cersei -the son Tywin always wanted -but with a vagina (oh, the irony)!! We jump back to the Dragon Pit where Jon is back to brooding as he shuffles through some dragon bones. He lets his disappointment in the turn of events known, as Dany decides to join him. She tells him she respects what he did (is that what we’re calling it now? did ya’ll see her face when he announced his allegiance with her? It’s cool Dany -I “respect” Jon snow sometimes when my hubby isn’t around, too 😂) and then begins telling him how the end of the Dragons is what really spelled the end of her house. The dragons made them extraordinary -without them, they are just like everyone else. (BINGO). This leads to Jon complimenting her -she’s not like everyone else and her family hasn’t seen its end because she’s still here. Dany follows up that she can’t have children -in case you missed that last episode Jon, when she said the Dragons are the only children she’ll ever have, and then you nodded your understanding when she point blank asked you if you understood. Remember? Oh, are you just double checking? Okay my son, carry on …. *So this is important: J: Who told you that? D: The witch that murdered my husband. J: Did it occur to you she might not have been a reliable source of information? (Because clearly it’s occurring to Jon). D: You were right from the beginning. If I’d had trusted you everything would be different. J: So what now? D: I can’t forget what I saw north of the wall, and I can’t pretend that Cersei won’t take back half the country the moment I march north. So -let’s do a bit of reading between the lines here, shall we? What we know now: Dany fully trusts Jon, when she didn’t before. When Jon asks her “what now?” It’s pretty clear that he’s unsure whether or not he can trust her to prioritize the NK and his army over Cersei and the Iron Throne. And her answer lets him know that he’s in the right with his suspicions. J: It appears Tyrion’s assessment was correct, we’re fucked. You sure are, Jon. Better think of something quick -because apparently just “bending the knee” may not be sufficient -and you do need those dragons and army. As if by cue, Tyrion returns -Cersei and her entourage in tow and she agrees to help and delivers one of the most epic lines of the evening: “perhaps you’ll remember that I chose to help with no promises or assurances from any of you.” YOU LIE LIKE A RUG CERSEI, BUT SLAY YOU UNAPOLOGETIC BITCH -I LOVE YOU!! Now I want to ask if ANY of you caught the look that passed between Jon and Tyrion here? Admittedly, I didn’t on my first watch -but it’s plain as day. Remember it -I’ll return to it later, because I actually think it may be important. Now we take a ravens POV, flying through the heavy snow towards Winterfell. Sansa sits irritatedly tapping her message from Jon on her desk. She’s not happy about the news she’s received. Seems like Jon finally decided to write home and let her know he bent the knee. You broke up with the North in a text message? Really Jon?   Little Finger does what he’s always done -acts like he’s on everyone’s side while sewing his seeds of doubt and dissension. For those of you who were waiting for the crypt scene payoff: here it was … While discussing Jon’s “reasons” for doing this, he drops the bomb that the Dragon Queen is rumored to be very beautiful. Why? My guess is he’s wondering if Sansa has the same subconscious affections for Jon that he displayed in the crypts. S: what does that have to do with anything? LF: Jon is young and unmarried, Daenerys is young and unmarried. S: you think he wants to marry her? (the thought obv never occurred to her, due to her reaction). LF: An alliance makes sense. Together they’d be difficult to defeat. He was named KitN, he can be unnamed. S: Even if I wanted to (she doesn’t) Arya would never go for it. Shut down AGAIN, LF -Sansa isn’t going to turn on Jon. So, he switches gears back to Arya, thinking that’s the key to driving a wedge between her and Jon and setting the crown on Sansa’s head -get Arya out of the way. He continues his little mind game, encouraging Sansa to play along, and by the scenes end, we’re made to believe she’s fallen for it and is on board. Really -unbeknownst to him, he just planted the solution to Jon’s birthright situation in her lap (when it’s revealed). Unite the North and South by marriage -together they’d be difficult to defeat …. hello Jonsa season 8! And we’ve warped back to Dragonstone. They’re planning their strategy to head to Winterfell. Jon suggests that they sail together, and Jorah thinks Dany would be safer flying Drogon. Of course because she’s hot on Jon -she’ll take his suggestion -especially since we ALL KNOW the Northerners will NEVER see her as an ally. But she’s all: I’m going north to save them, not conquer them. 😏 So many nervous glances here amongst all the men … The meetings over, and Theon catches Jon and Davos as they pass through the throne room (anyone else curious about what they may have been talking about?). Okay, and OMG, another important conversation with so much hidden in the narrative! (I may paraphrase a bit here) T: What you did in KL, you could have lied to Cersei about bending the knee to Daenerys. You risked everything to tell an enemy the truth. But …did he? J: We went down there to make peace, and it seems to me we need to be honest with each other, if we’re going to fight together. See above. T: You’ve always known what was right. Even when we were all young and stupid. Every step you take  …it was always the right step. J: It’s not. It may seem that way from the outside, but I promise you it’s not true. I’ve done plenty things I regret. T: Not compared to me you haven’t. Clearly, he’s referring to betraying the Starks. J: No. Not compared to you. Clearly he has no intention of betraying his family like Theon did -although I do believe he intends to betray someone. T: I always wanted to do the right thing. Yada yada. It always seemed like their was …an impossible choice I had to make. Stark or Greyjoy. Confirmation here. Jon’s angry. He’s angry that Theon betrayed their father -who although may not have been his true father, he treated him like a son-better than Theon’s own father -sound familiar? J: Our father was more a father to you than your own father ever was. T: He was. J: And you betrayed him, betrayed his memory. T: I did. J: But you never lost it. He’s a part of you, just like he’s a part of me. Jon may as well be having this conversation with himself next season! Well - at least parts of it. T: But the things I’ve done … J: Its not my place to forgive you for all of it. But what I can forgive, I do. You don’t need to choose. You’re a Greyjoy and you’re a Stark. *I love this little nugget, because I feel like it gives credence to my Wars of the Roses meta theory -that Jon will combine both sides of his heritage/houses into one. Although, the deeper meaning behind it, is he’s allowed to be both without betraying the other. And …. he will always be a Stark. The conversation continues with Theon explaining that Yara tried to save him -she needs him now. And Jon gives Theon his blessing to go get his sister: “So why you still talking to me.” This scene with Jon was truly beautiful, with true healing quality for Theon. A little bit of old Theon emerges when he doesn’t stand down to one of Yara’s men and takes a hell of a beating (damn, he really is a Stark -can’t keep my babies down!) and succeeds in rallying the men behind him. Not for him -for Yara! We return to Winterfell where a very forlorn Sansa stands upon the ramparts in her and Jon’s “spot”. Is she thinking of him? I believe so -but that might just be my pesky shipping goggles. Sophie Turner has looked exceptionally beautiful this season -like bewitchingly so. She’s always been lovely -but damn. Shaking off her sadness: my skin has gone from porcelain, to ivory, to steel -she steels herself for what must be done, and orders the guard to have her sister brought to the Great Hall. We flash to the Great Hall. Arya is escorted in, as Sansa and Bran sit like they’re about to judge her. Arya and LF share a “fuck you” stare, and Arya asks Sansa if she “really wants to do this?” Sansa replies that honor demands it, and after Arya’s “get on with it”, Sansa rattles off charges, and then flips the script on LF, leveling the charges on him. Haha! He blinked so hard, I thought he was about to fall over! As Sansa annihilates him with charges, he stumbles with excuses, but all 3 Starklings gangbang his ass, and he’s done for. Using his own lessons and words against him -the student has surpassed the teacher. “I am a slow learner, it’s true -but I learn.” SAVAGE. MY QUEEN IS SAVAGE. And with a nod of Sansa’s head, and despite his resorting to crying and begging, Arya slits his throat before he even realizes what hit him. For all his scheming, what was his legacy …? I would have liked to see him go out with a bit more fight -but maybe that’s the point. BY THE WAY -I WANT FUCKING RECEIPTS!! I TOLD YOU ALL MY GIRLS WERE PLAYING HIM!!   To the Starks, who fought to make it back to Winterfell and each other -family is everything. They’re a united front. We jump back to KL for the last time this season. Jamie is going over battle plans with the Lannister soldiers. Cersei dismisses them and asks Jamie what he’s doing- he tells her that he’s planning his expedition north. Cersei resorts to her usual cruelty: “you really are the stupidest Lannister.” She tells him it was all a ruse, and Jamie’s not happy about this. After accusing him of conspiring against her and telling him that Euron didn’t really tuck tail and run, but instead went to pick up the mercenaries she purchased with the help of the Iron Bank, Jamie finally grows a pair! He pledged to ride north and he intends to. Cersei’s last bit of treachery is FINALLY the straw that broke the camels back! Cersei threatens his life -reminiscent of her earlier scene with Tyrion. Jamie calls her bluff, and again she doesn’t act on it. And as our hero leaves for the North, Winter has finally arrived at KL. (Told you better things were in store for my Golden boy … can he really be TPTWP?)!! We head back to Winterfell -Sam and Gilly have arrived and Sam seeks out Bran. Not gonna lie -this part confused me a bit, because I thought Bran was all knowing ….yet, he asks Sam WHY he’s come to Winterfell. Also -it’s Sam who informs him that Jon isn’t a bastard. Also -why has Bran told this to Sam, and not his sisters? Unless he has? And we just haven’t seen it? Like the Starks conspiring against LF? Makes me wonder of the other things that may have happened offscreen this season, too …. Bran does what he does and goes back in time to witness Lyanna and Rhaegar’s marriage -Roberts Rebellion was built on a lie. Jon’s real name is (barf) Aegon Targaryen, and he’s never been a bastard -he’s the TRUE heir to the Iron Throne -all of this over boatbang, sucking all the romance out of the coupling and painting it in an ominous light -just as I suspected. Remember when I told you all that CONTEXT was everything, and that there was a reason we found out about Jon’s parentage prior to boatbang -and the reasoning behind overlapping R/L’s wedding wasn’t to depict this EPIC romance, but to instead imply incestuous overtones and foreshadow the future Targbowl? Yep. That’s about it in a nutshell. But, more about boatbang towards the end -as well as my suspicions … We return back to Winterfell, where our Starkling sisters are perched upon the ramparts. Here they confirm their bond, both understanding the true strength of the other, and that despite each others quirks -they love one another and will take care of each other ….just as their father would have wanted. “When the Snows fall and the White Winds Blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”  Despite their losses, the Starks are a pack, and they will endure. Lastly, we shoot to Eastwatch, where everyone’s favorite ginger is perched atop the lookout post -probably daydreaming of Brienne. A horn blows as the NK’s army has finally reached the wall. Viserion, gorgeous blue eyes shining soars through the air with the NK on his back, and shooting flames to match his eyes -the wall begins to crumble. We see people getting caught up in the destruction -hopefully not Tormund, because I’ll fucking riot, as the wall falls and the dead march forward into Westeros. Winter is here. Okay, so back to boatbang. Aside from the basics I outlined above -let’s break the scene down. Jon stands before Dany’s door. His expression is troubled. He heaves a heavy sigh, then he lifts his hand to knock on the door -yet he hesitates before actually knocking. Why? After Dany bids him entrance, Jon closes the door and we see Tyrion emerge from around the corner. Unless he’s been stalking Jon -he has perfect timing. Why is this? Could it be that Jon was just with Tyrion? Could that look they shared at the Dragon Pit mean something? Could Jon be the means as to which  Varys suggested Tyrion find a way to make Dany listen? Tyrion’s expression doesn’t look like jealousy to me -he looks concerned, worried even. Has he conspired against his queen, knowing how smitten she is with Jon, to stay the course and maybe feels guilty because he knows she’s falling for Jon and he’s playing her? Have secret discussions been going on offscreen, like with the Starks, only to be revealed later? You’ve kind of gotta wonder this season … Look, whether or not you subscribe to the undercover lover theory or not, you’ve got to admit that there’s been a lot of oddness surrounding this rushed romance. Two episodes ago, Jon was ready to hightail it out of Dragonstone and never look back (and he didn’t, although Jorah did), and we’re suddenly supposed to believe he’s smitten? I guess If I shipped them, I’d want to believe that -but what about Jon’s odd behavior? The fact that while Dany has literally poured her heart out to him, yet he’s managed to share absolutely NOTHING personal with her is a HUGE damn red flag to me. Not.One.Damn.Thing. Could he be attracted to her? Sure. She’s quite beautiful and he’s not blind, but it seems that D&D have been hiding little clues within the narrative -they’ve also managed to successfully sabotage this relationship before it even got off the ground -with the parent reveal last season. The way I see it, is we’ve got a strong case here, and a 50/50 chance that this is all for show and Jon’s actually LISTENED to Sansa -that he’s being smarter than father and Robb, that he’s NOT a Northern fool -and he REALLY does know how to play the game. All this talk of Ned, and honor? OR, he is truly a damn fool and Jon Snow really does know nothing …. I just can’t stand by this. If I’m wrong, fine -but everything screams at me that that Jon knows Cersei was lying, or just doesn’t trust she’ll follow through. Jon knows that  once Dany figures that out, she’ll probably want to go back south with her dragons and armies -pledging himself to her clearly didn’t work (as witnessed by her words at the Dragon Pit) -but clearly she’s smitten with him …he’s seen her heart eyes. What’s a sure-fire way to get her to commit to the war and assisting the North in fighting? Why, committing to her man, of course. So, back to analyzing the sex scene. There was no lead up -no first kiss, no tender caresses -just a closed door and then BAM two naked (damn Kit, daaayum!) people. Dany seems to have taken the aggressive stance on top. Jon  flips her into missionary, and before he thrusts, STOPS -again, like at the door, he’s hesitating as he looks down at Dany, regretful -like he’s not sure he should do this -NOT because he doesn’t want her (he IS a man, after all), but because he’s feeling guilty about what he’s about to do (to her), as she stares up at him all dreamy-eyed and awestruck, and he doesn’t feel the same way. Make no mistake that I do believe he likes her as a person, but love is not reciprocated here. He heaves yet another heavy sigh, with this same haunted expression, and then pants as he steels himself to go on -seemingly forcing himself to continue, squeezing his eyes shut as he kisses her. All I heard in my head was Arya saying “get on with it”. This was not romantic epic love. Jon didn’t look at Dany like she hung the moon. We’ve all seen the way he’s looked at Sansa -

Vs. a very intimate moment with the woman he “supposedly” has fallen for?

Nope. I may be wrong about undercover lover, but I think that there was so much more than meets the eye here. Buckle up babies -we survived season 7 and boatbang. Season 8 is ours and Jonsa is STILL endgame. It is known. 😘