#shoutout to wild and unruly

[bitchslapblastoids]

thinking about and feeling deep gratitude for the fic authors who created works they will likely never know the full impact of. The fics that live in my mind for years on and that my brain still attaches so many associations to; that I still periodically and vividly recall specific moments from despite being years out from the fandoms of origin. Fics that have grown lives of their own within me and have practically become benchmarks in the timeline of my life. Fics I’ve returned to for comfort and escapism after destabilizing life events. Fics I’ve learned new things about the world from! Fics I can still quote passages from.

Fic authors— your story may be that fic for someone (or many someones!) out there who may not even know how to reach you anymore but who live with an imprint of your world and your characters and your love story on their psyche forever. Your headcanons may have become baked into their actual canon! Your work is a part of the fabric of their being!

Thank you fic authors with jobs thank you fic authors with kids thank you fic authors managing courseloads thank you fic authors who meticulously outline their stories for months on end thank you fic authors who do extensive research so they can worldbuild effectively thank you fic authors who love their characters so much they just have to do right by them thank you generous wonderful fic authors who do all of this for fun and for free and who leave their works up and accessible even if they themselves may have moved on thank you fic authors <3 <3 <3

[moonshapedbox]

swan shaped heart

arthur morgan x preacher’s daughter 

a/n: whew! this story is finally leaving the confines of my drafts and i’m so happy!!! it’s longer than I anticipated it would be but ultimately decided that this will be a series. longer chapter to start with to set up the storyline. extremely self indulgent bc i want a man like this. reader is pretty freaky but we’re all adults here okay sdfjkf special shoutout to @dilf-luvr-4evr who wanted me to tag her, tysm to u and to my other dear moots for hyping me up and encouraging me to write !!! ok i think that’s everything! :D

tags: reader is in her twenties, lots of fluff, hint of age gap, ton of romantic tension. no blasphemy bc i’m religious <3 hands..lots of hands (you’ll see) no smut but heavily suggestive, lots of religious themes throughout obviously, no use of y/n (I wrote in 3rd person hehe), read at ur own discretion !!!

wc: 6.5k

part one | part two

He arrived in a little town 15 minutes outside Valentine– couldn’t remember the name of it nor did he care. Hell, he didn’t know why he was riding there or what he was going to do when he did get there, but he was exhausted from casing banks and stores, or sizing up the potential jobs in the area, he needed a place to rest.

He looks up at the sky, the sun had just gone behind the mountain; he was too far from camp to head back now, there was no reason to risk being caught in any attacks from rival gangs if he were to travel during the night. The slight breeze was cool and wet, there was rain coming. He needed to find shelter–and quick.

The town hardly changed at all since he last visited 4 years ago, maybe a fresh coat of paint on the post office or the new signage on the general store–it was like time stood still. As he rode into town, there were a few people who knew him, giving him subtle nods as he rode past, others not at all. He found some lodging to stay in overnight and took inventory of his saddlebags, counting all the things he lacked. He decided it was smart to make a run. Soon enough, he secured his horses outside the general store, only buying a couple things before he left town again in the morning, enough food to last on the trip and a new pack of smokes.

He got what he needed and packed his saddlebags– when his eyes met with the church. He wondered how she was doing, what she looked like now, if she even remembered him at all—the preacher’s daughter. He heard a lot of stories about preacher’s kids; lascivious, wild and unruly. Although she was different– an honorable woman, who took everything her father taught her to heart, and tried to be her best when the Bible instructed it. Her even-tempered and friendly demeanor was like a calming balm on his aching soul. It was something so refreshing, so sweet in comparison to the life he was living. If life was a long and painful drought, then this woman was the rain– and he needed rain desperately. 

“Mr. Morgan?” a voice broke him out of his train of thought. Mr. Morgan. That voice–he’d know that voice from anywhere. He looked back and sure enough there she was, standing there with her ruffled white dress, burgundy boots with laces wound up snug against her ankles, and a dainty swan pendant necklace that adorned her neck, glimmering in the western sun. 

He inhales into a small grin, “Well, I reckon I know you from somewhere” he smirks. “How you doin’ little lady?” She squeals loudly and hurries over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a friendly embrace, “I can’t believe you’re here I thought you’d never come back,” she says, holding onto him for a moment longer before he pulls away. “Can’t have you be huggin’ me like that in the street or else people’ll think we’re sweet on each other” he jokes. She finally steps back to look at him and there’s a beat of silence, so short that if you were to exhale you’d miss it, but Arthur picks up on it. It’s awkward, in a sweet way. She looks down for a moment before looking up at him again, “Town missed you Mr. Morgan, where you been?” she asked. 

He felt guilty at the question. He’d been robbing, scheming, hurting, killing. Although he couldn’t tell her all that, she’s a preacher’s daughter. He felt so surely that if she ever found out what he did for a living she’d shun him for the rest of his life, “Uh, work mainly. You know how it is darlin’,” he replied, putting a lit cigarette up to his lips, taking a drag. 

“How long you plannin’ on stayin’ for?” she questioned, looking at his face for any clues to why he’s here. He shrugs, honestly he wasn’t planning on staying for long at all but since she’s standing right in front of him, with big glossy eyes and the hint of her sweet orange and vanilla perfume catching every now and again with the slight breeze– he couldn’t say no. 

“Not long darlin’, just for the night and then I leave in the mornin’,” he explains, that should give him enough time to visit without raising suspicions. She flashes him a melancholic smile and nods, wishing that he’d stay longer. She never got a chance to spend any time with him when he came to visit for the first time. 

Arthur Morgan–what a man, it would be an honor to get to know him behind his mysterious and aloof nature. To know what he was thinking, what he was feeling, she wanted to be the one to break his walls and scoop into his soul. Her mind starts to race with thoughts as her eyes gloss over his features: warm dark blonde hair, big blue eyes and scruffy beard–he was perfect.

He gets even more handsome than the last time I’ve seen him. He must have a girl–there’s not a woman on earth that hasn’t claimed him for herself yet. I wonder if he thinks I'm pretty…Lord, he’s so much older, so much more experienced– what am I thinking I ain’t got a chance. 

“You okay darlin’?” his voice broke her train of thought, she watched him put the cigarette back to his lips. She nods, “You was always an inquisitive one.” she teases, trying to change the subject. He raises his eyebrows and scoffs playfully, he never thought of himself as the inquisitive type. “I could say the same for you missy…’sides why’s your Daddy lettin’ you in town all by your lonesome?”

“I’m just going to get a couple things, we ran out of some food back at the house,” she explains, kicking some of the dirt on the ground with her foot. Arthur nodded slowly, he was nervous. Why was he so nervous? Words not coming to him with such ease, that beat of familiar silence encompasses the air again. She looks over at the entrance of the general store, “Well, I guess I must go now, it was nice seeing you again, Mr. Morgan.” she softly bows her head and turns away. The sight of her leaving pains him, even if it’s just for a moment. There is something stirring in Arthur. Something big and explosive —yet strangely familiar. Before he can even think about what he’s saying, he hears the words leave his mouth, “Wait– I’ll go in with ya.” he says, stamping out his cigarette and catching up beside her, “it ain’t safe… a young lil thing like you by yourself.”

She stops and looks up at his big looming figure standing next to her, “I can manage just fine Mr. Morgan, but I will not turn down your company.” She quietly thanks the Lord under her breath and enters the store with him. She greets the shopkeeper while he follows her around, making mental notes of the stuff she’s buying, looking over her shoulder for trouble so she doesn’t have to.

“Y’know Mr. Morgan, you were our hero 4 years ago…helping us round up all our missing cattle that those awful Montgomery boys stole from us.” 

Hero? A title that he rarely heard attributed to him. Her words transported him back to that time. He couldn’t believe it had already been 4 years since a trembling, fresh faced, beautiful young woman begged him to take care of some seemingly rotten men. Men that did nothing but terrorize the town by fighting, stealing, and getting into all sorts of debauchery– including looting and descrating her father’s church. As the tears ran down her soft and supple cheeks, she didn’t know that the man she was pleading to help save them from misery– was planning to rob her townsfolk and shoot them dead if needed to. A plan that would inevitably fail, all because his heart got the best of him.

He blinked back out of thought, “It was nothin’ really. It was nice spendin’ the week in only one place for once– speakin’ of them boys; they been givin’ you any trouble lately?” he exhaled, scanning over her features. “No, you must have scared them real good Mr. Morgan, ‘cause I haven’t seen them since.” she replies, checking the pears for bruises.

Of course, because he shot them dead. 

“Well…maybe they moved away.” he gestures vaguely. She smiled politely and continued to shop for the ingredients she needed. She fidgets with her swan pendant necklace and he picks up on this small habit too–trying to etch every aspect of this woman in his mind so he’ll never forget. When she had gotten all she needed, he offered to pay for her groceries. A gesture that restored her faith in man. She insisted it wasn’t necessary but Arthur paid for them anyway. As they walk back out, they loiter around the front of the store for a moment.

 “Thank you for courting me Mr. Morgan, y’know you really didn’t have to.”

“Oh sure, I wanted to, really.” he smiles softly. 

They gaze at each other for a moment before she smiles back, “It was nice seeing you again Mr. Morgan. God bless you.” 

He nods and smiles back, watching her walk away, wicker basket of groceries cradled in the crook of her arm. He sighs to himself, it was all so soft and so sweet, truthfully, he needed this. As he began walking over to his horse, thinking over the interaction, a soft ping of metal reverberated against the wood paneling on the steps. He looks down by his foot and a glimpse of something bright catches his eye, he picks it up and studies it. 

It’s her swan pendant necklace. 

“Shit…” he mumbles to himself. He looks around the building to see if he can catch up with her but it’s too late. He sighs and gives it another look over. The picture of the elegant swan on the pendant with gold trim perfectly catching the sunlight stared back at him. It was a beautiful pendant– while her family wasn’t dirt poor, he knew her folks were certainly not rich, especially given her father’s profession. There was no way she could have the money to buy this on her own–this must have been a family heirloom. He shoves it in his pocket for safekeeping.

That evening, the rainstorm he predicted was currently pounding against the glass of the window in his room. He shuts the door behind him and thuds himself down heavily on the side of the bed. He starts to rub his eyes, watery from exhaustion, with his index finger and thumbs. The events of the day weighed heavy on him, from having to stay overnight, to having to go back to camp empty handed, it was like a weight of stress was congregating in his chest. Despite all of this, the image of her stayed in the back of his mind. She looked well off and healthy, getting to see her after so long was pleasant to say the least. He sighs deeply and kicks his boots off. 

He lays on the bed, adjusting his weight to the mattress to get comfortable. He feels something in his pockets that prod at his hip, before reaching back in only to pull out the preacher’s daughter’s necklace. While he knows it’s just an object, he shares a moment with it— reminding him of its owner. Oh how pretty she looked today, like an angel. She smelled so sweet, her smile so soft, she was divine in so many ways. He thought of how the cool enamel of the pendant would touch her warm skin. His mind starts to wander, thinking about her only wearing the pendant, how it would glimmer under the low light of a bedroom, as he caresses her soft, untouched skin. Guilt stops him for a moment, and he curses himself for thinking such a thing– this was the preacher’s daughter he was thinking about. It would never work and he knows it, she’s forbidden fruit–but there’s something that courses in his veins, something that makes his mouth water for just a small bite.

He lovingly caresses the pendant with his thumb, the ghost of a smile visits his lips. Strangely enough, he found himself dreading to give it back to her. The pendant was expensive enough that he could have just sold the damn thing and went on his way–or at least that’s what Micah would insist him to do. Although he would never inflict such cruelness on this innocent daughter of the Lord. No–he didn’t want the pendant for monetary gain, all he wanted a little memento to remember her by. He closes his eyes and places the softest kiss on the enamel of the pendant before opening his eyes again. 

“The preacher’s daughter, of all women–,” he mumbles to himself, “you sure know how to pick ���em…don’t ya?” He exhales as he rolls over, before placing it on the nightstand. He stares at it once more before putting out the candle.

“Goodnight girl.”

The next morning, Arthur finds himself on her porch, the sun barely cracking the sky open. He knocks a rhythmic pattern on her front door, and clears his throat. He’s nervous–strangely enough. He sniffs a few times and clears his throat again. He looks down at his hands and takes another glance at the pendant, he’s shaking just a bit. He should have been back on the road by now, but here he was, waiting for the preacher’s daughter to answer the door. What was taking her so long? Maybe this was a sign from God that he should just leave and take the pendant with him–the door swings open, he shoves the pendant back into his pocket before she can see, her eyes widen at his presence.

“Mr. Morgan!” she smiles with bewilderment. Arthur looks her over– she’s stunning even for so early in the morning. He takes his gambler's hat off and holds it against his chest, “Morin’ little lady,” he responds, “I–uh, found something yesterday,” he reaches into his pocket and extends the pendant out in his hand, “I think it might be yours.”

She audibly gasps and places her hand on her chest before clutching the pendant, “Oh my stars, I have been looking for this everywhere I was sure it got lost forever!” she beams with excitement, “Praise God you found it! Where was it?” 

“Outside on the steps in front of the general store,” he replies. She lovingly stares at the pendant before looking back up at Arthur. She pauses and opens her mouth to say something, before closing it again. He cocks his head at her in confusion, she exhales and starts over, “You want to come in for a bit?”

Arthur grimaces and shakes his head, before exhaling, “Ah, I don’t know about that darlin’, I’ll gotta be gettin’ a move on. Besides I ain’t wanna intrude on y’all’s activities.” 

“Oh I insist! I know, Papa would love to see you,” she explains. Her father would love to see him? He mentally rolls his eyes at her naivety. While it was true that the preacher didn’t actively hate Arthur, he wasn’t fond of him either. She frowns at his disbelief that laid evident on his features, “Really Mr. Morgan! I’m serious, let me repay you for finding my necklace.” 

“Just a little bite before you go,” she smiles and sways her hips innocently. “I’m sure you’ll have a long journey back and you gotta eat, right?” 

He sighs and smiles softly in return, “Okay. I guess I do gotta eat…just as long as I ain’t intrudin’.” He shifts his weight on one hip.

“Not intrudin’ at all. Breakfast is almost ready, come on in and make yourself comfortable.” she stands by the door and watches his big and broad figure walk through the threshold, “You’ll have to forgive Papa for his temporary absence, he’s in his room finishing the last part of his sermon. so I’m afraid it’ll be just us for now.” she says, closing the door behind them as she leads him into the kitchen. He was more than okay with that. It was already nerve wracking enough sitting alone with her, he didn’t need anymore stress from her father picking him apart in his head, cataloging all the sins that he’s riddled with.

He looks around the living room as he follows her into the kitchen. The house is quaint yet congenial–just how he would imagine a pastor to live. The scent of breakfast wafting through the air was wonderful, he hadn’t had a proper meal in days. He does what she says and makes himself comfortable at the table as she returns to the stove to gently stir the contents of the pan before joining him. 

He sees the Bible open on the kitchen table, assuming she was reading it while she was cooking, “Didn’t mean to interrupt your routine,” he gestures to the table. She adjusts herself at the table and meets his eyes, “Nonsense, you’re not interrupting anything,” she picks up the Bible, and quietly continues to read, “I just like to read a little bit of scripture in the morning to get my day started. Let me finish this passage real quick.” 

Arthur didn’t mind, he sits and fidgets with his lighter for a moment. After a few beats of silence, he puts his arm on the table and leans, trying to see what she was reading on the page, “So what’s it say?” 

She giggled at his curiosity before clearing her throat, “It says, ‘Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, with all malice, and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you,’ that’s Esphesians chapter four, verse thirty-one and two.” She smiles softly. 

Arthur nods, it all sounded lovely to hear. Although bitterness, wrath, and anger was all he was filled with– he couldn’t remember the last time he felt any differently. He felt like his whole life was one big sorry situation, tired of the ache of ruminating over the things that had gone wrong, people he lost, and regrets that plagued him. He was mad at everyone and everything. In Arthur’s case, forgiveness felt like water that was just out of reach for him. The thud of her closing the Bible jostles him back into the moment, he watches her get up and place the book back on the shelf in the living room.

“Y’know, you’re good at that.” he calls out to her, adjusting himself in the chair, his hips bucking forward a tad to get comfortable.

“What. Reading?” she calls back from the living room before walking back to where he was.

“Sure. If I was guaranteed you’d be the one preachin’ then maybe I’d start goin’ to church.” he smirked.

A rosy pigment of blush spread across her cheeks, “Now Mr. Morgan, what exactly is that supposed to mean? I’ll have you know Papa has wonderful sermons.”

That’s not what he meant– her obliviousness to his gentle flirting was endearing, he chuckles to himself. “I don’t doubt it darlin’” he mindlessly fidgets with his lighter again. 

“--Hey, that’s a wonderful idea. Why don’t you come to church with me this morning?”, she inquired, “You can sit next to me the whole time.”

His eyes widened before grimacing at the idea, that really wasn’t the best move considering who he was–although she was none the wiser, “I don’t know ‘bout all that, darlin’...” He hadn’t stepped foot in church since–well since the last time he saw her 4 years ago. “Why not?” she asks innocently, her big eyes gazing back at him. “If it’s about how you’re dressed the congregation won’t mind.”

He looks down at his attire and exhales a chuckle through his nose, mentally rolling his eyes at her assumption, “It ain’t about the clothes… it’s–” he sighs in between his words, “you know church..ain’t my thing,” he rubs his jaw, thinking over how awkward it would be to sit at one of those pews. 

“How do you know if it ain’t your thing if you don’t try?” 

He scans her soft features, “I been around a lot longer than you, trust me on this.” 

She gazes back at him and nods, walking back to the stove to finish preparing breakfast. There was a significant amount of silence that unaccounted for, Arthur who usually didn’t mind the stillness of the morning, grew restless in his chair.

“So…uh..whatcha makin’?” he asked, trying to find something to talk about. 

“Biscuits and gravy” she replied, stirring the gravy in the saucepan to keep it from burning. 

“Sounds good, ain’t had biscuits and gravy in a long time,” he taps his fingers against the table rhythmically.

Arthur was never good at small talk– he wasn’t like Dutch in that respect. That man could talk his way out of a death sentence, and God did he wish he had Dutch’s silvertongue right about now. Instead, he silently watched her cook, as a warmth spread in him. She’s wearing her Sunday best– and he notices the way her dress hugged her body and her bodice cinched her beautiful figure, how concentrated she looked when she was taking the biscuits out of the wood-burning oven, it strangely felt like home. For a moment, he forgot he was some outlaw, but just a simple man in the kitchen with his beloved. 

“Mrs. Hawthorne was askin’ about you yesterday. She saw you ride into town” her voice snapped him out of his trance, he grunted an acknowledgement, “The lady who was convinced her dolls were talkin’ to her?” he replies.

“Well she– now wait there Mr. Morgan she certainly does no such thing,” she explains, “That was just a rumor.”

“Ain’t a rumor if I seen her do it,” he laughs, “Sometimes she talks back to ‘em. Gives ‘em funny voices.”

“That’s not funny Mr. Morgan,” she frowns, trying not to laugh, wooden spoon still in hand, “Besides it’s not right to gossip.” 

“What’d I say?— Oh so it’s not okay to gossip but it’s okay to laugh at her expense? I get it now…” he jokes. She turns away, hiding her face from him. He stands up and saunters over to her, “Don’t think I ain’t seein’ you fight back a laugh. You think it’s funny too.” He chuckles. She eventually bursts out in laughter, the original joke not even that funny, it was something about his tone that tickled her. Suddenly, they both erupt in big laughter together.

The atmosphere in the room is light and airy–like both of them could breathe for once. “I think the gravy is done, you wanna taste?” she asked, her voice easing from laughter into a normal speaking pattern, wiping tears with the back of her wrist. Still grinning, he nodded in response, and leaned his hip on the side of the counter. She pulls open the silverware drawer and sighs, “Oh darn, I thought I had a spoon but I guess they’re all dirty.” she shrugs and fixes the issue by innocently tapping her finger into the saucepan, holding it out for him to taste. In her mind, she thought he would have a quick taste and tell her his opinion. Oh to the contrary. 

His heart jumped at the sight of her outstretched hand, slowly but surely he wrapped his lips around her finger, licking the sauce. The pent up desire that was bubbling deep inside of him started to rise to the surface, and before he could catch what he was doing, he began to deliberately yet gently suck on her finger. The feeling of his tongue wrapping around and in between her two fingers, made her lightheaded, electricity ran through her body and caused a heat to pool in her stomach. After licking her fingers clean, he pulled away and gazed into her eyes for just a moment.

“It’s perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and slightly shaky. She gazes into his eyes for a moment, before responding with a small and trembling voice, trying to pretend she wasn’t affected. “You sure? Does it need more pepper?” 

He knew exactly what she was doing, whether she realized it or not; and he couldn’t help but find her innocent curiosity endearing. A small smile appears on his face, “I don’t know, let me taste it again.” 

A justification to have her fingers in his mouth.

Without a second thought, she taps her two fingers in the gravy again and holds them out for him, this time her hand trembles at the thought of re-experiencing the feeling. His big, calloused hand wraps around her soft wrist to steady her fingers for him. He takes them in his mouth again, gently caressing them with his tongue, silently wishing to himself that he could kiss her with this much fervor and passion. He looks into her eyes before closing them, letting out a soft groan of contentment before pulling away. “Tastes amazing.” he says, wiping the corners of his mouth with his fingers.

Her fingers miss his mouth, they feel cold and incomplete without him. She felt lightheaded and breathless. There’s that beat of silence again, but this time it's longer than before. She pants ever so slightly, and he notices, “You alright?” he smirks. 

“Fine…breakfast is ready then,” she replies, her voice trembling with this new feeling coursing through her body. It was warm and soft, unlike anything she had ever felt before, she turned away and faced the stove again, “Go sit down, I'll fix you a plate.” refusing to make eye contact with him. They finally sit down to eat, although this time it’s different. She stares at him while he eats, trying to figure out this newfound warmth pooling in her, why everything he does makes her heart race. 

“Missed your cookin’, forgot how good it was.” he says, before taking another bite. “It ain’t that good, I appreciate your kindness though.” she replies, pushing her food around with her fork. “Compared to the stuff I gotta eat, this is like society folk’s meals.” She flashes him a small smile in return, her thoughts are loud and her heart is racing, “Society folk, huh?” her voice warbles, she tries to continue the conversation, but her thoughts are clouded by him. The way he ate was almost bewitching to her, she stares at his hands and looks away trying not to get caught. Her own fingers twitch watching him take bite after bite, reminding herself of the feeling of his mouth around her.

“When you leavin’ town?” she asks, not really wanting to know the answer. The soft early morning light starts to peer through the kitchen window. The atmosphere is still, yet full of meaning. He puts the cup up to his lips to drink long enough to ponder her question, before swallowing the warm liquid and placing the cup back down. “In a couple hours, most likely. Why you askin’?”

She shrugs and continues to eat, her left hand resting on the side of her neck. Her eyes refused to meet his, scared that he might see the disappointment in them. He exhales, something is off about her, “Somethin’ botherin’ you?”. She shrugs again and stares at her food, moving it around with her fork once more, “Why you leavin’ so soon?” she asks in an exhale, worried that she might be overstepping. 

He sighs, she didn’t need to know the real answer. “Work, darlin’...I’m on a...business trip,” he gestures vaguely. She doesn’t meet his eyes purposefully, trying to hide the tears in her eyes, it wasn’t fair that he made her feel things she never felt before, only to walk out and leave her forever. She prided herself to not be one of those girls that cry over boys. She always believed there were bigger and better things to fuss over–yet here she was. But what was the crime in missing someone? “Business trip…” she repeats under her breath before clearing her throat.

“What? Do you not believe me?” Arthur scoffs incredulously.

“It’s not that…you ain’t given me a reason to think otherwise but…” she pauses, trying not to overstep. “...But what?” He crosses his arms over and leans in closer against the table, the buttons of his work shirt pulling from the broad of his chest, she can’t help but pan down for a glance, her heart rate picks up at the sight of him. He was such a man– in the best ways possible. It was in his essence, his scent, the way he walked and talked, it drove her mad— it was so heavenly it agitated her.

“I don’t know, I ain't see why you gotta hightail it outta here. It’s been 4 years since you last been here and I mean for pity’s sake you just got here–”

“--And that bothers you?” he interrupts, slightly cocking his head at her.

She stammers, “I-I mean I feel like it’s not polite–”

He scoffs loudly, “Sorry I didn’t know you looked at me and saw the pinnacle of manners,” he places the cup of coffee back down,“Tell me what’s actually goin’ on,” he was starting to get to defensive. What had she heard about him that was making her so skittish?

The bantering conversation dies down and there’s a shared, intense silence between the two of them. 

Oh. Oh.

He felt like a fool for not realizing it sooner–or more accurately making a wrong assumption about how she felt and potentially wrecking a beautiful friendship. He stares at her across the table as she continues to eat.

“You gon’ miss me when I’m gone?” he murmurs low, studying her face, his voice shattering the silence in the air. His words suspended in the air like a fruit ready to be plucked. “We’ll all miss you,” she replies softly, trying to avoid what he’s implying. He shakes his head and grunts loudly in response, “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout them... I’m talkin’ ‘bout you.”

She nods silently, before looking back up and meeting his gaze. For a moment, just a single, solitary moment–he forgot about the war raging in his mind of whether he was a bad person, or feeling like he wasn’t good enough for her. It was just him and the preacher’s daughter, sharing a meal and a loving silence. 

“Mr. Morgan–”

“You ain’t gotta be so formal with me hon, just call me Arthur.”

“Okay, Arthur, can I ask you something?”

He perks up at her statement, his curiosity giving her permission to ask. “I know you ain’t comfortable goin’ to church and I respect that,” she pauses to search for any discomfort for where the conversation was going, there was none, so she continues, “but I was wondering’ if you’d come to our annual picnic, this week. If you’re apprehensive about it being a church event– it's not. The whole town is gonna be there. It’s a town event, but I thought you'd like a bite to eat before you leave.”

He exhales and grins, “First breakfast and now a picnic? You’re really worried I'm gonna miss a meal huh?” he jokes, but she stares back at him, searching his face for an answer. His thoughts all align and he prepares to explain his reasons as to why he can’t come and that he’ll be back on the road in a couple of hours, but his words betray him, and he hears himself say something unlike him, 

“I’ll be there.” He looks at her free hand resting on the table, and gently envelops it in his.

“I’m glad, it means a lot.” she murmurs, a sparkle of joy in her eye. She stands and starts to clear the table, placing all the dishes in the sink.

There is a deep well of feeling and connection between the two of them, one could cut the chemistry with a knife. It pounds in his chest and he doesn’t know if he should act on his instincts–but dammit if he wasn’t going to at least try to do something about it.

He rises from his seat and approaches her, standing as close as he can to her. Feeling his presence, she laughs, “ain’t they ever taught you about personal space?” She looks over and he’s smiling back, but there’s a seriousness to him. She does a double take of how close he is, her smile faltering a bit, realizing he’s not kidding.

“I reckon you ain’t ever been this close to a man before, huh?” He ghosts the side of his finger against her chin. She shivers, goosebumps rise on the back of her neck and down her arms, before shaking her head.

“Why you tremblin’ doll? I ain’t gon’ hurt ya.” he murmurs. 

“I know,” she pauses, trying to find the words, “I just—never been looked at in this way before.”

He scoffs playfully, “Oh you’re more naive than I originally thought,” he looks over her face and down her body once more, “Men are definitely lookin’--  they just ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ‘cause you’re the preacher’s daughter–and they have a hell of a lot of sense to not say anythin.” he leans closer to her. 

“Well…what does that make you then?” she shifts against him.

“A fool–probably. But it ain’t stopped me from sayin’ anythin’ before,” he exhales and continues to gingerly stroke her chin, admiring her beauty. 

His voice becomes low, “You ever think ‘bout a man lovin’ on you baby?” The question vibrates in his chest. Her heart rate quickens, a beautiful shade of crimson spreads across her cheeks at the idea of something so scandalous, “Lovin’ on me?” she repeats. 

“Yeah, you know, what married people do.” 

For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to say. She often would imagine in vivid detail, what she would do if she found herself in a scenario such as this. It was essentially drilled into her mind from a young age– that a man making advances was to strictly be condemned. That her purity was to be intact for her husband and only for her husband. The script of her imagination playing in her head, she’s seen it a hundred times–”sorry sir, I’m flattered but I ain’t interested”. It’s all she had to say…although for some reason she was rendered speechless, hanging onto his every word like her life depended on it.

in this moment– in some sick and twisted game of life, it was almost as if Arthur was forcing her to pick between which sin to commit– lying: claiming to not be interested in him; when in reality, the curiosity was gnawing in the pit of her stomach, or lust: throwing caution to the wind and letting him carry her bridal style to defile her in the bedroom that she grew up in.

She decides lying would weigh less on her soul.

“Mr. Morgan this ain’t proper…it’s immoral. I-I don’t entertain thoughts like that. I ain’t got a reason to.” she denies, refusing to acknowledge something so foul. It pained her to lie, she felt the guilt starting to creep in. Arthur smirks at her response, he doesn’t buy it, although her defiance and naivety makes his own pulse quicken. “Mmph, I see. So you don’t ever think about what your wedding night would be like? To finally have a man to warm your bed? Touching you all over and keepin’ you satisfied?”

Her breath hitches at the idea, never considering that a thought so filthy could have a moral loophole; but she dismisses the thought as soon as it comes, she continues to shake her head. The improperness of the conversation and her willingness to lie starts to make her feel sick with guilt. She shouldn’t be talking like this, not with a man no less. The mix of good and bad emotions swirl in her stomach like a bittersweet concoction about to boil over. As for Arthur, that insistent attitude of hers turns him on even more, and he can’t help himself to gamble how far he could go, “Oh c’mon darlin’, not even how it would feel? To have a man take his time with you and run his hands up your–” 

He found her limit, she cuts him off before he can finish his sentence. “No Arthur!” she barks, “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore! You will not bring this–this debauchery in this house; especially with my Pa in the next room, have you no shame?!” 

He knows he should take her seriously but the way she’s yelling at him is getting him even more worked up. He laughs a hearty chuckle, “yeah for somethin’ so repulsive to ya– ya sure are flushed!”

“Stop it Arthur it’s not funny.” She frowns, the guilt washes up in her like a shoreline. This must be what Papa was warning about on Sundays, the sin that drives a person crazy, to commit crimes and all sorts of deeds all in the name of passion. Arthur was creating new emotions she had never experienced before, the only cost of receiving it was with a backing note of remorse. Although, there was a cadence to Arthur that beckoned her to his presence. Like a siren beckons the sailor out to sea–only she was the sailor.

They gaze into each other’s eyes, unwavering and raw, “Arthur,” she exhales, leaning softly into his touch. He grunts in response, gazing lovingly back at her, his index tracing down her neck, making its way down to her collarbone, the other hand resting gently on her hip. She squeaks at the sudden weight of his hands on her, newfound warmth spreading in her. He scans her face for any hesitation, when suddenly she finds the words she’s looking for.  

“I’m waitin’ til marriage…”

He figured as much. What was he even doing? He knows this already. Lightly removing his hand, his palm hovers over her hip. He treats her like glass, scared he was gonna break her if he touched her at all– what a delicate little thing gazing up at him. He blinks and clears his throat, staggering a couple steps back. “Right. I know…I don’t know what I was—I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped, miss.”

She crosses her arms and as if she is trying to warm them, her fingers finding a way to the pendant Arthur rescued for her, fidgeting with it between her fingers, “You didn’t…I’m not upset… I just– I think– it would be best for you to leave now. For both of us.” she murmurs, “I’ll give Pa your regards.” He nodded in response, pressing his lips into a fine line, “Okay” he says barely above a whisper.

“Mr. Morgan?” his heart sank at her sudden formality— a fear that he ruined everything between them began swirling behind his chest, he came to a halt at her words.

“You still coming to the picnic?” 

He stands by the backdoor, loitering around the frame, before looking back over his shoulder, he exhales and gives her a small, sad, smile, “Thank you for the meal, darlin’. It was nice seeing you again.” The door hinge squeaks before he walks outside, the sound of boots shuffling against the gravel becomes quieter and quieter before it dissipates completely. She’s left with the burn of his shadow haunting the doorframe and the ghost of his touch printed permanently on her frame.

thank u sm for reading it means so much to me truly <3 hope you all enjoyed part one !!!

[panopticonrpg]

LINDIWE'S GENERAL MEETING

With only a slight flurry of chaos - typical of any corporate meeting (or corp mtg, for short), really - @lindiwe-in-camelot's hopes for organizing some plans and structure with her colleagues truly bore some tasty fruit. With one underlying, unspoken message: they were long-term plans. For survival, but also for living. Transcript is linked in the discord server for everyone to read! The final points in summary are below under the readmore. Shoutout again to @lindiwe-in-camelot for summarizing, in-character!

OOC RESULTS - what this means for the characters:

multiple tasks and activities were established in the meeting (under readmore). Please use these character-driven ideas for your own threads and plots for the dash!

optional: groups of 3+ characters can RP task plots, planned between muns. Multi-character threads can be RP'd in private over discord, then published in full on the dash once completed! This will count towards activity (details on Oct 1st).

Meeting results (aka, plotting ideas)

communal meals - preparations and cooking. They can be prepared in large quantities using the Hub kitchen and facilities.

food inventory at the warehouse. It's a comprehensive list on a hanging clipboard for anyone to access. There's a blackboard on the wall next to it, to add any shareable fresh game, foraging, warnings, etc.

inventory list for non-food items at the warehouse

publicly available power registry list for everyone to add their name and ability

mobile phone contact exchange for inter-island texting

have a public list of dangers encountered out in the wild

conduct some map-making of the various locations

form exploration pairs/teams to investigate what's out there

build a security perimeter against roaming large animals, possibly do patrols

preparation for safety concerns & possible acts of God: weather, cruise ship's precarious position, volcano, etc

blood drive for the Medicentre's supplies

supply runs on the Odyssey to build Medicentre's supplies (and other communal supplies)

volunteers to help at the Medicentre

further investigations on the technology on the island: the cameras, generators, etc. dismantling them to see what happens

build a 'containment' (JUST CALL IT A JAIL!!!) for unruly powers

fix or replace the bridge leading to the Tower, it is broken

[geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde]

A Joy Filled Life

this is for @lexou-chan for @thewitchersecretsanta!

I hope you enjoy and happy holidays! <3

-

Pairing: Geralt/Dandelion (game setting)

-

Geralt walked into the house and froze. He blinked slowly, just to make sure that his eyes weren’t deceiving him. 

When he had left to pick up a contract just outside of Beauclair earlier that week, the house had been normal but now it was… festive? Normally Barnabas-Basil told Geralt whenever he would be doing anything to the house or the grounds but perhaps the man had just forgotten this time. 

Wreaths were hanging throughout the house, strings of garland strung up connecting them all. There were decorative hats on all his sets of display armor and mistletoe was hanging in the doorways. As Geralt looked curiously around at the decorations, he noticed a strange noise upstairs. 

This time of day, the major-domo was typically out for lunch and there was really no reason for him to be messing about upstairs. Instead of putting his weapons away as he normally would when returning home, Geralt crept slowly to the stairs, ascending as quietly as he could manage, thankful he had replaced the squeaky boards. 

As he approached the landing, he was assaulted with the scent of jasmine.

Dandelion?

Geralt peered into the guest room and sure enough, there was Dandelion. The poet was standing on a chair, stringing garland around the window. Geralt leaned on the wall and watched as his friend expertly nailed up the garland. As soon as the man had finished, Geralt pushed off of the wall and walked up behind him.

“What are you doing?” Geralt’s gruff voice was incredibly loud in the small space.

Dandelion squeaked and flailed, falling backward off the chair and directly into Geralt’s waiting arms. Geralt felt warmth flow through him at the contact with the man he hadn’t seen in so long. Dandelion’s look of shock melted, morphing into a brilliant grin as he took in Geralt’s amused face.

“Geralt! You’re finally home! I was beginning to wonder if you would miss the solstice entirely.” 

Setting Dandelion to his feet, Geralt pulled him in for a hug. “Dandelion, what are you doing here?” Geralt muttered into Dandelion’s blond curls.

Dandelion pulled back from the hug and placed a placed a hand to his chest dramatically, “What do you mean, what am I doing here? It’s the solstice! I want to spend it with my best friend, of course.”

Geralt stifled a smile, he truly did love the poet, despite the man’s dramatic ways. “Mhmm. Okay, Dandelion.”

“Truly Geralt, I am wounded you don’t believe me.”

Geralt laughed, “Come on, let’s get something to eat. It was a long journey back and I’m starved.”

The two settled in at the table and quickly dug into their meals, Dandelion regaling Geralt with tales of his and Zoltan’s latest exploits and Priscilla’s newest accomplishments. In turn, Geralt spoke of the new contacts he had made since settling in Toussaint and some of the contracts he had taken in the area. 

“So why are you here, Dandelion?” Geralt finally asked again, still suspecting an ulterior motive to the man’s visit.

The mask Dandelion always wore so carefully slipped off, making the poet seem almost… vulnerable to Geralt. It was a face Geralt wasn’t often privileged to, no one was, but one that made Geralt’s chest ache with how much trust Dandelion put in him.

Dandelion finally puffed out a breath, his eyes meeting Geralt’s, “I just… didn’t want to spend the solstice alone again and... I’ve missed you. Since you’ve settled so far south, I rarely see you. Of course, I’m happy for you Geralt, but I have missed you dearly.”

The emotion shining in Dandelion’s eyes left Geralt lost momentarily unsure of how to respond, “I’ve missed you as well, Dandelion. Truly.” And Geralt had, his years travelling with Dandelion had been nothing short of wonderful, and the man had been a steadfast friend throughout the years.

Dandelion smiled happily, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well! Lucky for you, here I am! Now, Geralt, we need a tree. The bigger the better! And we’ll need to make a trip to Beauclair as well, I’ll need enough baubles for the tree as well.”

Geralt watched the man gesticulate wildly with a small smile on his face, thankful to spend the time with Dandelion. He had nearly forgotten how endearing Dandelion’s antics could be, as well as exhausting.

It wasn’t long before Dandelion had Geralt running all over. The poet quickly found the perfect tree, insisting Geralt chop it right then and there. He then had Geralt set it up in the courtyard, right in front of the entry to the house, “Everyone will be able to enjoy it’s beauty out here, Geralt!”

And now that the tree was placed, Dandelion was ready to decorate. Dandelion pulled out the baubles he had brought with them and it didn’t take the two long to have them spaced out on the tree, shining brightly in the evening light. 

“I was right, Geralt, there aren’t enough! We’ll have to run to Beauclair.”

Geralt gave Dandelion an exasperated face, “Before you make me set off to Beauclair, maybe we should see if there’s anything left from the previous owners of the estate.”

Dandelion huffed, “Oh fine, ruin all my fun.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and stalked across the courtyard, leaving Dandelion fiddling with the placement of the baubles on the tree. It didn’t take him long to reach the door for Barnabas Basil’s small quarters. The door was open, so he knocked on the door frame and peaked inside. The man was sitting on a chair across the room, reading from a large book while humming to himself.

“Hey, BB, sorry to bother you. Are there any solstice decorations left from before I got here?”

Barnabas smiled back brilliantly, “Oh, I have been hoping you would ask!” He bounded up from his chair, and rushed out of the door past Geralt, heading to the small storage shed next to the stables. 

“I’ve put everything in here, it’s all quite organized. Will you be needing help putting it all up?” Geralt didn't think he had ever seen the major-domo quite so excited. 

“Uh… I don’t think so. But I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

Barnabas clapped excitedly, “Of course! I’d be thrilled to help; solstice is my favorite time of year.”

“Right… well I’m still not sure of the plan but I’ll make sure to let you know.”

Barnabas beamed, “Thank you! I truly appreciate it.”

Armed with the location of the decorations and news of his major-domo’s love for the holiday, Geralt headed off to find Dandelion. The poet was just where Geralt had left him, eyeing the tree critically. Geralt stopped a ways away, just taking in the sight. Dandelion was without his signature hat, his blond curls wild and unruly. His eyes were squinted as he peered at the tree but Geralt could still make out the brilliant color. The man was dressed in bright purples, his doublet open an indecent amount, chest hair peeking out. 

Other than Ciri, Geralt couldn’t think of a person he had ever felt more fond of.

Just then Dandelion’s eyes snapped to Geralt, “Geralt! I’ve got the perfect plan for finishing the tree!”

“And I had a shed full of solstice decorations-”

Dandelion’s face split into a wide smile, “Perfect! Let’s-”

“-that we can sort through tomorrow.”

Dandelion’s face fell, “But Geralt!” The poet whined.

“We have plenty of time, Dandelion.”

Dandelion huffed and crossed his arms, “Fine.”

-

Dinner was spent with laughter filling the house, Dandelion and Geralt sharing stories and tales, reminiscing over some of their old adventures.

“You know,” Dandelion said matter of factly, “you never did dance with me that night.”

Geralt snorted, “The werewolf showing up distracted me a bit.”

“Excuses!” Dandelion exclaimed, “You, my friend, still owe me a dance.”

“Okay, fine.”

Dandelion stood up and circled the table, holding out his hand to Geralt, “Let’s go.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, “Right now?”

“Yes!”

“There’s no music,” Geralt protested, standing regardless. 

Dandelion was still holding his hand out expectantly so Geralt took it with a sigh, letting Dandelion lead him to the center of the room. Dandelion wasted no time, wrapping his arms firmly around Geralt’s neck.

Geralt rolled his eyes at the man’s antics but rested his hands on Dandelion’s hips, “Are you happy now?”

Dandelion’s expression softened, “I really am. I’ve missed you something fierce, dear.”

Geralt gave a light squeeze to Dandelion’s hips, “I missed you too. It gets lonely out here sometimes. It reminds me of how lonely the Path was before I met you.”

Dandelion tightened his grip around Geralt’s neck and buried his head in Geralt’s neck, muttering a reply Geralt couldn’t understand. Geralt shivered at the brush of Dandelion’s lips against his pulse point.

Clearing his throat, Geralt asked, “What did you say?”

Dandelion pulled back slightly, just enough to be able to look up and meet Geralt’s eyes, “I could… stay? All the time, not just on holidays.”

Geralt squeezed Dandelion’s hips again, surprised, “Would you… want to?”

“If you would have me.”

Geralt nodded, overcome with emotion. He swallowed harshly, “I would like that, Dandelion.”

Dandelion continued staring in Geralt’s eyes, his hands playing with the hair at the nape of Geralt’s neck, “Can I ask you something else?”

Geralt nodded again.

“Can I kiss you?”

Geralt felt the air rush from his lungs as if he had been punched. He had never expected the question, but he couldn’t deny that he would have welcomed it for years. 

“Yes.”

Soft lips pressed to his suddenly and Geralt couldn’t help but smile into the kiss. It would be a joyful solstice, indeed. 

A joy filled life with his poet by his side.

-

Shoutout to the lovely goob squad for looking over this fic for me <3

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[mrsjadecurtiss]

A different ask! What do you think Roose actually feels about Ramsay? Just before the Red Wedding he talks very dismissively about how Ramsay could be executed for his crimes, but obviously he knows Robb's never gonna get the chance so maybe he cares more than that. But Ramsay (probably) killed precious Domeric? What does he actually feel about him and potential Walda baby(-ies)?

Thank you for your question :) I have divided my answer into points regarding the different aspects of your ask.

What do you think Roose actually feels about Ramsay?

In regards to the Roose-Ramsay relationship, some facts are important:

Roose did not raise Ramsay, and as far as we know did not interact with him in his childhood beyond the two times the miller's wife came to him after his birth. ("She was never to tell the boy who had fathered him." - Reek III, aDwD) All he knew about Ramsay was that he was his son, had his grey eyes, and was "wild and unruly" (the reason Ramsay's mom demanded a servant).

"Lord Bolton has never acknowledged the boy, so far as I know," Ser Rodrik said. "I confess, I do not know him." - Bran II, aCoK

Ramsay only came to the Dreadfort in 297AC (after Domeric died). This is extremely recent - for context, we have Dany chapters in aGoT taking place as early as 297AC, and the War of the five Kings starts at the end of 298 AC according to this timeline.

As a consequence, since Roose leaves the Dreadfort for the War of the five Kings, he assumed a paternal role for Ramsay in between 297AC and at most very early 299AC (The timeline has the battle of the green fork in January 6 and he'd need to travel to the south before that in the first place). This is only between 1-2 years depending on how early or late that year Domeric died (Shoutout to @blueagia who made me realize this timeline years ago).

Ramsay is violent and cruel, but not stupid (Roose even says he is “cunning” in Catelyn VI, aSoS). He was able to present himself as an ally to Theon in aCoK, and it stands to reason he might have given a salvagable impression to Roose at the beginning while he was testing the waters. Ned Stark is a just man who tried to execute the remote-living Jorah Mormont for slave trade; Since he never went after Ramsay, we can assume whatever Ramsay did during his time with Roose was discreet enough that word did not get to Lord Eddard, and so at the beginning Roose must have had no reason to complain too much about Ramsay's conduct either.

Eddard Stark had never had any reason to complain of the Lord of the Dreadfort, so far as Jon knew. - Jon VII, aDwD

"No tales were ever told of me. Do you think I would be sitting here if it were otherwise? Your amusements are your own, I will not chide you on that count, but you must be more discreet. A peaceful land, a quiet people. That has always been my rule. Make it yours." - Reek III, aDwD

Roose gets a legitimization for Ramsay as part of his benefit from doing the Red Wedding, showing that back then he still had an intention of keeping him as his son and heir. However, returning from the war in the south shows Roose how bad Ramsay's political decisions are when left on his own, including:

Leaving Donella Hornwood for dead, horrifically abusing Theon who is a valuable hostage and a potential ally, being unable to keep good optics and alienating his allies ("Surely you misspeak. You never slew Lord Eddard's sons, those two sweet boys we loved so well. [...] How many of our grudging friends do you imagine we'd retain if the truth were known? Only Lady Barbrey, whom you would turn into a pair of boots … " - Reek III, aDwD), abusing his wife "Arya Stark" who is beloved by their Northern allies, and more...

We see in the aDwD Theon chapters that Roose is still giving Ramsay advice and counsel (see again the Reek III quote), however he also appears to be despairing of him:

"I know." Lord Bolton sighed. "His blood is bad. He needs to be leeched. The leeches suck away the bad blood, all the rage and pain. No man can think so full of anger. Ramsay, though … his tainted blood would poison even leeches, I fear." - Reek III, aDwD

We also see in later Theon chapters that he frequently holds meetings without Ramsay:

[Roose:] "The hall is not the place for such discussions, my lords. Let us adjourn to the solar whilst my son consummates his marriage. The rest of you, remain and enjoy the food and drink." - The Prince of Winterfell, aDwD

Lord Bolton was not alone. Lady Dustin sat with him, pale-faced and severe; an iron horsehead brooch clasped Roger Ryswell's cloak; Aenys Frey stood near the fire, pinched cheeks flushed with cold.  - A Ghost in Winterfell, aDwD

[Lady Dustin said] "Roose is not pleased. Tell your bastard that." - The Turncloak, aDwD

Implying he is losing faith in his son, or otherwise does not trust him or value his input when it comes to political situations; a bad omen considering heirs like Robb usually sit with their fathers in councils.

My impression is that Roose initially adopted Ramsay as an heir for the following reasons:

- Sentimentality, since Ramsay is a son of his own blood ("I should've had the mother whipped and thrown her child down a well … but the babe did have my eyes." [...] "Now [Domeric's] bones lie beneath the Dreadfort with the bones of his brothers, who died still in the cradle, and I am left with Ramsay. Tell me, my lord … if the kinslayer is accursed, what is a father to do when one son slays another?" - Reek III aDwD). As a member of a patriarchal society, Roose was raised with the expectation that he will continue his bloodline, and so likely has the wish to be succeeded by his son.

- Practicality, since Ramsay is already an adult, so he doesn't have to raise and invest in another child for years ("That's for the best. I will not live long enough to see new sons to manhood, and boy lords are the bane of any House." - Reek III, aDwD). [Speculation: For a new son, he would also have to remarry, and both his prior wives are implied to not have liked him ("The two before her never made a sound in bed" - Reek III, aDwD) while he also doesnt speak of them with fondness - so he might also prefer to be single and raise his bastard instead of having to deal with yet another unpassionate/unloving marriage (considering he's middle aged and uncharismatic, a young new wife wouldn't be thrilled about him), until he finds a marriage that provides him a good benefit (like the Frey money + alliance).]

- The belief that, despite Ramsay being raised a peasant and having violent tendencies, it is possible to "educate him" so that he becomes a functioning member of society (see again my point about Roose counseling him). Roose possibly initially projects some of his own personality on Ramsay (Compare this meta i wrote).

During aGoT-aSoS he must have still thought Ramsay viable, which is why he has him legitimized by the crown. He has not known Ramsay closely for long; This explains why he kept him around even though he is so unfit as an heir (it takes time to fully realize that), but also explains why he is so dismissive of him, as that short time of knowing him as an adult would not make him fond of Ramsay the same way one might be fond of a child they raised.

Roose then realizes after the war, as seen in a Dance with Dragons, that Ramsay is not a fitting heir. What this means for the later books is open for now... Will he abandon Ramsay? Use him as a scapegoat? Or still try to salvage him? I personally believe he is starting to see Ramsay as a danger, and is starting to think about how to best get rid of him.

Just before the Red Wedding he talks very dismissively about how Ramsay could be executed for his crimes, but obviously he knows Robb's never gonna get the chance so maybe he cares more than that.

My belief is that Roose is fundamentally selfish and worried about his own skin. While he has the goal to establish Ramsay as a capable heir, he prioritizes his own safety and reputation. By distancing himself from Ramsay's crimes in front of the other Northmen, he can't be blamed for them; by using Ramsay as a scapegoat for Bolton crimes, he himself can wash his hands from the involvement and won't be hurt if any crimes come to light. If he keeps pointing attention at how Ramsay is wild/cruel/treacherous, then the northmen are more likely to suspect/blame Ramsay than the "peaceful" Roose. Also, even if he cared for Ramsay, he would never openly admit it because it's something that could be used against him (same reason as to why he generally keeps his emotions under wraps).

If you compare this scene from aCoK (where Ramsay is believed dead) with the scene you mentioned from aSoS, you can see that to prioritize his own safety and reputation he will sacrifice Ramsay; but he will also defend Ramsay ("Yet he is a good fighter, as cunning as he is fearless.") as long as it serves his interests, of course while still keeping an emotional distance.

One important thing about Roose is that he does not always say the things he actually thinks; When looking at his quotes it is not only important to look at what he says, but which intentions he has with his words and what effect he wants them to have on the person listening. Compare this quote by grrm:

Lord Bolton may well have all sorts of things in mind. Whether or not he would act on any of those thoughts is another matter. Roose is the sort of fellow who keeps his thoughts to himself. - SSM

But Ramsay (probably) killed precious Domeric

"Ramsay killed him. A sickness of the bowels, Maester Uthor says, but I say poison." - Roose in Reek III, aDwD

This is speculative, but I personally believe that case is not as clear-cut as it is made to look. Poisoning Domeric does not necessarily seem like Ramsay's style; i often see people in fandom suspect that his mother is actually the culprit. I personally suspect the first Reek of killing Domeric - we know he once stole perfume, meaning he knows his way around the castle, and he also got looked at by a maester implying he might know the maester’s chamber where poisons could be kept. He has ample reason to hate Roose, who let him live with the pigs and had him whipped and later sent him to live with Ramsay, but also seems to have interest in improving Ramsay's status ("She made him, her and Reek, always whispering in his ear about his rights." - Reek III aDwD). He is also known to be inseperable from Ramsay, so if Ramsay went to meet Domeric, Reek would come with him.

Either way it could be that Roose just didnt initially believe Ramsay killed Domeric since it looked like he died from sickness, and only later changed his mind on this issue - note that Barbrey Dustin, whom he is implied to have regularly spent time with shortly before the quote about Ramsay killing Domeric, seems to be a believer that Ramsay was the murderer, so she might be the one who convinced Roose; And maybe Ramsay's bad conduct during the time of the war aided to make Roose believe her. Changing his mind on this could influence his decision on what to do with Ramsay come the Winds of Winter.

Or alternatively, if we’re keeping closer to the text, he just thought the positives of keeping Ramsay outweigh the negatives of him being a kinslayer; however it seems odd that Roose, who is so worried about his safety, would adopt a man if his first act he knows of was this treacherous and dangerous. Then again he frequently verbally states that he does not see Ramsay as a threat, which can be read in different ways depending on if you take it as a literal statement or as a tool to enact dominance over his dangerous son.

"All you have I gave you. You would do well to remember that, bastard.” [...]

“I know what he said. You're to spy on me and keep his secrets." Bolton chuckled. "As if he had secrets. Sour Alyn, Luton, Skinner, and the rest, where does he think they came from? Can he truly believe they are his men?"  - Reek III, aDwD

What does he actually feel about him and potential Walda baby(-ies)?

I think he would like to have a son that continues his values and manages to be a capable heir to continue the Bolton line. Domeric was the ideal son, talented and competent, and Roose invested a lot of time and money in giving him a great education. Now that Domeric died and all of this is down the drain, and Roose himself isn't getting any younger, he wants to have a new heir in a way that's the most convenient for him. It appears to me like he is currently weighing the positives of each option (Ramsay or new Baby), and it might even be that he has already come to a decision, considering how he is starting to grow frustrated with Ramsay.

"I have become oddly fond of my fat little wife. [...] Ramsay will kill [all the sons she bears me], of course. That's for the best. I will not live long enough to see new sons to manhood, and boy lords are the bane of any House." - Reek III, aDwD

In line with my earlier point about Roose’ words also being about the effect and not just the message, I believe the line about him being ok with Ramsay killing his sons might be very calculated towards the fact that Roose knows Theon is to report everything he hears back to Ramsay. If Ramsay hears this, he is placated, because it confirms that he is still the main Bolton heir - which means that he does not have to think about harming Lady Walda (because the sons are no threat to his position), and he does not have to think about harming Roose (because he just has to wait until he can succeed him).

Of course all of this post is based off the first five books, so the interpretation may change once the next book comes out or through a different reading of the lines.

[holdthosebees]

La Belle Dame

Rating: T Pairing: John/Martin, pre-slashish. Background Melanie/Georgie. Summary: No powers, drag queen AU. In which John’s ex-girlfriend drags him to a charity show, and he has an awkward encounter with one of the queens.

A/N: A procrastination oneshot that I wrote while not working on any of my many, many WIPs. Shoutout to @jinxedlucky, who helped me workshop this idea and then told me not to work on it until I finish something else, and who was right. Also--Martin’s drag name, and the title, both come from the Keats poem La Belle Dame Sans Merci. 

The drag queen on stage had glitter in her beard and the most impressive biceps John had ever seen. The red sequins on her skintight dress shimmered as she walked up and down the edge of the crowd, mic cord trailing behind her, as she reached out to regulars, all winks. Georgie tapped John’s shoulder; he had to lean in to hear her, her hair brushing against his ear.

“That’s Sasha’s friend,” she said. “Tim. The one I was telling you about.” 

John nodded. He’d been struggling to keep track of all of people in Georgie’s new social circle, her girlfriend’s friends and their friends who were all supposed to be his friends by some sort of mathematical transference. The drag queen on stage tapped the mic, and grinned. Her lips were very red. 

“Ladies, gentlemen, monsters, everyone else,” she said, pitching her voice low. “Welcome... to Eastbenders!” 

There were a few half-hearted cheers. 

“Oh, come on, you can do better than that. Anyway, for the virgins in the audience, all our queens are local and all our proceeds will go to providing shelter and services to trans youth.” Another pause for cheers, more enthusiastic this time. “If you have any questions, ask comrade Sasha over there in the booth. Wave to the people, Sasha!”

John had met Sasha a few times over drinks. She seemed a very sensible person, unlike Georgie’s new girlfriend Melanie, who hated him on sight. He resolved to go and find her after the event, and maybe donate a bit. That was why he was here, after all; the charity.

“And the rest of you old slags, go say hello anyway. I promise you she’s very friendly.” The queen punctuated her sentence with a slow roll of her hips and a leer. John scowled down at his ginger ale, and ignored Georgie’s knowing look. She wasn’t going to tell him to lighten up, because she knew that he’d just roll his eyes in response, and she didn’t need to, because he knews she was thinking it. 

It was just that this, the lewd jokes for the sake of lewd jokes, the self-conscious decadence, it was very much not John’s scene. He didn’t have anything against it, exactly; he just found it childish, and strange, and there was something profoundly alienating about it besides. If it were up to him he’d be at home, reading, or putting a few more hours in on the project he was supposed to have in by Monday, somehow, although Elias clearly didn’t understand how long database work actually took.

But it was for charity, Georgie had said, and it had been ages since he’d been out and around, and he wasn’t going to meet anyone new if he just sat around moping. To which he had responded that he didn't feel the need to meet anyone new, and she’d looked at him with her eyes so knowingly sad, tinged with an insufferable pity. And so here he was, crammed into an uncomfortable booth in a dim bar, watching a man in a dress with a wig as tall as his head and heels you could punch through metal sheeting with croon into a cheap microphone.

“I am your host for the evening, Kinky Spice--” someone in the back booed. The queen sighed exaggeratedly. “Fine, you caught me. I’m your host, Kim Morningwoodburn--” More booing, and scattered laughter. “Tough crowd! I’ll deal with you later, you naughty audience members you. I am, cross my heart, your host, Diana Explosion, and I’m here to ask you to welcome in our first performer, the bizarre, the incomparable Honey Wilde!” 

The lights dimmed, and turned blue. The crowd applauded as flog began to slip in from the corner of the stage, creeping across the floor. The music started, something slow and electronic. John was intrigued despite himself. 

Honey Wilde slunk slowly out of the shadows. Her shoulders were hunched, and she moved with a slow lurch. Her straight black wig hung in front of her face, like a creature from a Japanese horror movie. The lights flickered out. 

When they turned back on, she was standing at the edge of the stage, arms spread wide. She was tall, even without the heels; with them, she towered. Her hair was back, revealing a beautifully painted face; even John, who didn’t see the point of this sort of thing, had to admire the artistry. She was wearing a black gown of some sort of matte material, and black opera gloves. And on them, marching up her arms and around the curve of her bodice, curled around her throat--spiders. Huge, plastic spiders. And in her right hand, which she stretched out to the audience, slowly walking across her palm--

“Don’t worry,” she said, in a husky stage whisper. She stroked the back of the tarantula with one finger. “She won’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.” She snapped her teeth, and then smiled, looking suddenly self-conscious. Diana Explosion wolf-whistled. John shuddered. He looked around, plotting an escape route. When he looked back at the stage, Honey’s eyes were on him. 

“If one of you could please do me a favor,” she said. “Tell the silver fox in the back row that I bite, too.” 

John’s face burned. Georgie jostled him with her shoulder. 

“He’s twenty-five,” she yelled back. The crowd laughed. Honey Wild ducked her head, and when she looked back, her smile was crooked. 

“I suppose being with you has aged him prematurely, has it?” she said. Georgie laughed. John didn’t. The tarantula walked slowly along Honey Wilde’s palm.

“Only a joke,” she said. “Don’t let it... eat at you.” 

Diana Explosion jeered. Honey shrugged. The gesture was strangely sheepish; it didn’t belong to the person in the gown and the dark red lipstick. Then the music shifted abruptly, pitched eerily up, and the performance began.

It seemed to be some sort of performance art, with slow techno interspersed with half-song stanzas of Keats’ Ode to a Nightingale. What that had to do with spiders, John couldn’t say. He stopped paying attention. As the queen lurched and undulated across the stage, John stared down at his drink and thought angry, vague thoughts about pointless, fatuous entertainment and pretentious artists and men who thought that having a cock counted as a political statement. The next number featured a queen in a ridiculous harlequin costume and some kind of calliope remix, and John ignored Georgie’s worried glances and insistent nudges and pulled out his phone. 

When the break came, he slid past her and went out the side for a cigarette. It was a cool night; he stood with his back to the brick wall and looked up a the sliver of orange-grey sky above the buildings. He breathed in, felt nicotine fill his lungs, allowed himself a moment to relax.

The door swung open. The man who emerged was tall and trying not to be. He had unruly brown hair that seemed pressed down on one side, and was wearing a jumper, ripped shorts, and fishnets. There was a grey smudge of hastily removed eyeliner around his eyes.  “Oh,” he said. “Sorry. Hello. Mind if I share the alley for a bit?”

John shrugged. He offered the man his pack of cigarettes--might as well be polite--but was turned down. 

“It’s just--need to get some air, you know? Decompress. I always get a bit jittery after a number. Can barely hold my hands straight, ha.”

“Hm,” John said. 

“I don’t know how Tim does it. Of course, can’t hurt that he’s just like that all the time, I mean. It’s not really work for him, he just puts on a dress and goes out there, does his thing. Stuff really comes natural to him, you know?” 

“I suppose,” John said. 

“Sorry--you’re probably trying to relax, and here I am, talking your ear off.” The man ran his fingers through his hair, making it even more untidy, and looked down. There was a flush creeping up the side of his neck. “I, um. I’ll be out of your hair in a second, I promise. Just, while I’m here, I wanted to apologize.”

John raised an eyebrow. 

“If I crossed some sort of line,” the man went on, as though that explained something. “I mean, it’s what most people are here for, to be honest, someone to flirt with and be mean to them, but you seemed sort of uncomfortable? So. Sorry about that. It’s just, I don’t really do this that often anymore, I’m only here because Tim made me, and for the charity. So I’m out of practice with the back and forth, is all.” 

John squinted at him. The lighting was different; so was his posture, the shape of his face without makeup. But no, he recognized him now. 

“You’re Honey Wilde,” he said. “The one with the tarantula.” 

“Oh! Yes. Sorry. Not right now, I mean, right now I’m Martin. But yeah, that’s me.” Martin gave an awkward little wave. John took a deep drag on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. 

“It’s fine,” he said. “Are you sure? You seem sort of...”

“It’s fine,” John said again, more firmly. Martin’s smile was pained. He had dimples, John noticed; they were slightly asymmetrical, the right one deeper than the left. 

“Well that’s--good. I’m glad.” They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Martin kept looking at John, and then away; after a moment, John realized that he was being checked out.  

He considered this. Martin wasn’t bad looking, as far as John could tell. He seemed nice enough. The apology had seemed genuine. And there was a part of John, a vicious, petty corner of his heart, that enjoyed the thought of leaving Georgie in the bar to go home with a virtual stranger. 

“I’m sorry if it’s a step,” Martin said slowly, “but you don’t really seem to be enjoying yourself? Did your girlfriend drag you along, or something?”

“Ex girlfriend,” John said shortly. Martin’s eyes went wide.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, I’m--that makes it worse, doesn’t it. I’m sorry.”

Of course, there were the negatives. Sex with someone he knew well was just as likely to be uncomfortable and awkward as it was pleasurable; with a stranger, the risk was doubled. Martin seemed courteous, but he still might take it personally when John asked him not to touch him, or have weird kinks, or just expect John to be more into it than he could possibly be and come to his own conclusions when John inevitably wasn’t. 

John watched Martin run a broad hand through his hair again, and decided that it wasn’t worth it. 

“It’s--it’s fine,” he said, shrugging. “It was a long time ago. She has a girlfriend now, actually, who’s working behind the bar.” 

“That’s--Oh, you mean Melanie? That’s Melanie’s Georgie?” Martin smiled, more genuinely this time. “Melanie won’t shut up about her. They seem sweet.”

“I don’t know if sweet is the word I would use to describe Melanie King,” John said. “But yes. They do seem to suit each other, don’t they.” 

“Yeah.” There was something wistful in the way Martin said it, and a little sad. They looked at each other. John felt an unpleasant roll of anxiety; this was it, this was the moment when Martin would make a move, and John would say no, and they’d both go back inside feeling uncomfortable and awkward. 

But Martin just pushed off from the wall and looked back at the door and said, strangely tentative, “Well, it was good to meet you. I should get back in. I’m not performing any more, thank god, but I don’t want to miss the second act. I’ll, uh, see you around, yeah?” 

John blinked at him. 

“Right,” he said. Martin flashed him a quick smile, and then opened the door. Through it, John could hear Diana Explosion, calling out, “--your seats, my lovely monsters, let’s get this show back on the road.” Then Martin was gone, the door closed behind him, and John was alone.

He took another deep drag on his cigarette. His phone buzzed, a text from Georgie, asking him where he was. He muted his phone and put it back in his pocket. Not yet. Soon, but not yet. 

[relnhart]

Tagged by @li-bot-art

—    bold  all   physical   traits   that   apply   to   your   muse.

eyes (general):   large  /   small   /   narrow   /   sharp  /   squinty   /   round   /   wide-set   /   close-set   /   deep-set  /   sunken   /   bulging   /   protruding   /   wide  /   hooded   /   heavy-lidded   /   bright /  feverish  /  sparkling  /   glittering  /   flecked   /   dull   /   bleary   /   rheumy   /   cloudy   /   red-rimmed   /   beady   /  bird-like  /   cat-like   /   jewel-like   /   steely   /   hard   /  long lashes   /  sweeping eyelashes   /   thick eyelashes

eyes (color):   chestnut   /   chocolate brown  /   cocoa brown   /   coffee brown   /   mocha   /   mahogany   /   sepia   /   sienna brown   /   mink brown   /   copper   /   amber   /   cognac   /  whiskey   /   brandy   /   honey   /    tawny   /   topaz   /   hazel   /   obsidian   /   onyx   /   coal   /   raven   /   midnight   /   sky blue   /   sunny blue   /   cornflower blue   /   steel blue   /   ice blue   /   arctic blue   /   glacial blue   /   crystal blue   /   cerulean   /   electric blue   /   azure   /   lake blue   /   aquamarine   /   turquoise   /   denim blue   /   slate blue   /   slate gray   /   storm blue   /   amethyst  /   storm gray   /   silver   /   silver gray   /   chrome   /   platinum   /  white /  pewter   /   smoky gray   /   ash gray   /   concrete gray   /   dove gray   /   shark gray   /   fog gray   /   gunmetal gray   /   olive  /   emerald  /   peridot  /   a loud green  /  leaf green   /   moss green   /   soft pink   /   seafoam   /  damaged (white/blood flecked) ((ruby / hetochromia))

eyebrows:   arched  /   straight   /   plucked  /   sparse   /   trim   /   dark   /   faint   /   thin   / thick   /   unruly   /   bushy   /   heavy / defined

skin (general): lined /   wrinkled  /   seamed   /   leathery   /   sagging   /   drooping   /   loose   /  clear  /   smooth  /   silken   /   satiny  /   fine-grained   /  dry  /   flaky   /   partially scaly   /  delicate   /   thin   /   translucent   /   luminescent   /   baby-soft    /   small pores   /   large pores   /   glowing   /   dewy   /   dull   /   velvety /   fuzzy   /   rough   /   farmer’s tan   /   mottled   /   dimpled   /   doughy   /   firm   /   freckled   /   pimply   /   pockmarked   /   blemished   /   pitted   /   scarred   /   bruised   /   veined   /   scratched   /   sunburned   /  weather-beaten  /   raw   /   tattooed

skin (color):     amber   /   bronze   /   cinnamon   /   copper   /   brown  /  dark brown   /   deep brown   /   ebony   /  dark honey   /   golden   /   pale   /   pallid   /   pasty   /   fair  /   light   /   cream   /  alabaster   /   ivory   /   bisque   /   milk   /   porcelain  /   chalky   /   sallow   /   olive   /   peach   /   rosy   /   ruddy   /   florid   /   russet   /  tawny   /   fawn   /   dark blue /  blueish-grey

face structure:    square   /   round   /   oblong   /   oval  /   elongated   /  narrow /   heart-shaped   /   cat-like   /   wolfish   /   high forehead  /   broad forehead   /   prominent brow ridge   /   protruding brow bone   /   sharp cheekbones   /   high cheekbones   /  angular cheekbones   /   hollow cheeks   /   square jaw  /   chiseled   /   severe  /   craggy  /   soft /   jowly   /   jutting chin   /   pointed chin /   weak chin   /   receding chin   /   double chin   /   cleft chin   /   dimple in chin   /   visible adam’s apple

nose:  snub /   dainty  /   button   /   turned-up   /   long  /   broad   /   thin   / straight   /  pointed   /   crooked   /   aquiline   /   roman   /   bulbous   /   flared   /   hawk   /   strong  / sharp

mouth/lips: thin /   narrow   /   full /   lush   /   cupid’s bow /   wide   /   rosebud   /   dry   /   cracked   /   chapped    /   moist   /   glossy   /   straight teeth   /  crooked lower teeth   /   gap between teeth   /   white teeth /   yellowed teeth   /   braces   /   overbite   /   underbite   /  dimples   /  

facial hair: clean-shaven   /   smooth-shaven  /   beard   /   neckbeard   /   goatee   /  moustache   /   sideburns   /   mutton-chop sideburns   /   stubble   /   a few days’ growth of beard   /   five o’ clock shadow  /

hair (general): long   /   short  /   shoulder-length   /   loose   /   limp   /   dull   /   shiny   /  glossy /   sleek  /   smooth /   luminous  /   lustrous   /   spiky /   stringy    /   shaggy   /   tangled   /   messy    /   windblown (often)   /   unkempt   /   straggly   /  neatly combed  /   parted   /   slicked down   /   tied back   /  slicked back   /   cropped   /   clipped   /   buzzed   /   buzz cut   /  curly   /   bushy  / wavy /  straight  /   lanky   /   dry   /   oily   /   greasy   /  layers   /  corkscrews /   spirals   /   ringlets   /   braids   /   dreadlocks   /   widow’s peak   /   bald   /   shaved   /   comb-over   /  thick   /   luxuriant   /   voluminous   /   full  /   wild   /   untamed   /   bouncy  /   fine   /   thinning

hair (color):  black   /   Green-black  /   jet black   /   raven   /   ebony   /   inky black   /   midnight   /   sable  /   salt and pepper   /   silver   /   silver gray   /   charcoal gray   /   steel gray   /   white   /   snow-white  /   brown   /   brunette   /   chocolate brown   /   coffee brown   /   ash brown   /   brown sugar   /   nut brown   /   caramel   /   tawny brown   /   toffee brown   /   red   /   ginger   /   auburn   /   copper   /   strawberry blonde   /   butterscotch   /   honey   /   wheat   /   blonde   /   golden   /   sandy blond   /   flaxen   /   fair-haired   /   bleached   /  platinum (( steel blue / highlighted ))

body type: too tall  / tall  /  average height  /   short  /   petite   /  fits in a locker  /  compact   /   big   /   large   /   burly   /   beefy   /   bulky   /   brawny   /   barrel-chested   /   heavy   /   heavy-set   /   fat   /   overweight   /   obese   /   flabby   /   chunky   /  getting closer to chubby /   pudgy   /   pot-bellied   /   portly   /   thick   /   stout   /   lush   /   plush   /   full-figured   /   ample   /   rounded   /  voluptuous   /   curvy  /   hourglass (SE please)  /   plump   /   soft   /   leggy /   long-legged  /  gangling   /   lanky   /   coltish   /   lissome   /   willowy   /   lithe   /  lean   /   slim   /   slender   /   trim  /   thin   /   skinny   /   emaciated   /   gaunt   /   bony   /   spare   /   solid   /   stocky   /   wiry   /   rangy   /   sinewy   /   stringy  /   ropy   /   sturdy   /   strapping   /   powerful   /   hulking   / fit  /   athletic  /   toned   /   muscular   /   chiseled   /   taut   /   ripped  /   herculean   /   broad-shouldered   /   sloping shoulders   /   bowlegged

hands:  delicate   /   small   /   large   /   square   /   sturdy  /   strong   /   smooth  /   rough  /   calloused   /   elegant   /   plump   /   stubby fingers   /   long fingers   /  crooked   /  gloved   /   ragged nails   /   grimy fingernails   /   ink-stained / burned

Fun stuff for me to think about. I’ve had the description in my head for awhile now and never really had an opportunity to put it into words. So thanks a bunch for the tag @li-bot-art.

As for any random headcanons that never could fit into 14 itself, well. . . Genetics-wise Reinhart has 3 traits that have carried over throughout the generations of the Blanegard line. Their pupils have small white slits above and below them, which get filled in when a Blanegard taps into the Blood of the dragon, either though training to harness it, or become consumed by it via extreme duress. this gives them a more draconic appearance when doing so. The other being a natural second tone in their hair color, in his case it’s black and dark green, Possibly one of the side effects from Allagan genetic engineering done to his ancestors in Azys Lla. 

The last trait is a Runic Scar-like birthmark emblazoned somewhere on their body. In Reinhart’s case, it’s in the palm of his left hand. The birthmark gives a slight burning feeling to Reinhart while he is tapping into his inner dragon blood.

He has a couple of serious injury scars, one being from defending one of the ranch chocobos from a Coerl when he was 15. He managed to kill it mostly due being able to make use out of the echo forethought ability, But still had sustained a grievous injury from it’s claw on his right shoulder. The skin is slightly deformed due to the muscle never having healed properly. The other being a slash across his chest sustained from his fight against the Nidhogg possessed Estinien. 

He doesn’t take pride in his scars and is a little self conscious about them. Generally preferring to wear a top while swimming to hide them. He doesn’t always follow a good diet and sometimes forgets to eat, He’s a fan of Steaks, cheeses and bread, but was taught to always make sure to have something healthy to go with it. Recently he’s taken a liking to Kugane and Doman Sushi dishes and rice. This has ended up causing him to be a bit more on the slimmer side in conjunction with some training he does from time to time by himself.

His previous occupation was a farmhand and apprentice blacksmith, so his hands are pretty worn from the work that entailed. He sometimes bites his nails when bored and can’t go anywhere. Also another shoutout to @emilyplaysgames Hope this gives you a good read! ^-^

it’s 4 am and I must sleep now  (- w -)

Tagging: @anim0k @emilyplaysgames

[niall-official]

challenge: do every even number to the question thing 👀💖

I’m gonna put this under a read more (I hope it works!) bc this is long af

2. Favorite Take Me Home song?Uhh probably I Would but only bc I’m partial to songs that any member of McFly writes (and 3 of 4 wrote on that song!) OKAY WAIT ETA on my iPhone it doesn’t show Truly Madly Deeply on that album idk why but just KNOW I’d die for that song

4. Favorite FOUR song?Trying to pick I can narrow it down to No Control & Stockholm Syndrome

6. Favorite song not on an album?I’m not even gonna lie, back in like 2012 I listened to Na Na Na constantly lmao ALSO HOME

8. Favorite solo album?Niall’s but that’s kinda obvious

10. Favorite boy pairing? (ex. narry, lilo, etc.)Uhh probably larry & niam, but lilo reminds me so much of me and one of my friends so I’ve got a soft spot for that too

12. Favorite lyrics from a solo song?The entirety of Slow Hands tbh !! Call me whatever you want but I have gone hard to that song every single time I’ve heard it since May 4th, 2017

14. Favorite solo music video?I’ll be honest I don’t watch a ton of music videos but I do remember watching On the Loose so I’m gonna just say that lmao

16. Have you seen any of them solo? If so, where?I’ve seen Niall twice (both times in Chicago, once during Flicker Sessions & then again during Flicker World Tour) and Harry twice (in Detroit & Chicago)

18. What do you love about this fandom?The friends I’ve made !!! Not many of my irl friends care about 1D (though some tolerate listening to me rant about stuff, shoutout to my husband & to my sister who will ask about stuff lmao)

20. What is your favorite fanfiction you’ve read?WILD AND UNRULY !!!!!!!!!!!!

22. Which tour movie is your favorite?I’ve got such a soft spot for the UAN tour dvd bc I bought it and watched it alone, but I had typed up my commentary as I was watching it so I could send it to my best friend lmao I was v odd but it was a funny commentary, I wish I could find it but it was on my old tumblr 

24. Which X-Factor performance was your favorite?I literally have no idea only bc TXF stuff is so cringey to me and I didn’t watch them on it 

26. Worst memory of the band?The hiatus sorry not sorry

28. Ideal reunion tour - setlist. (List 15 songs from any album solo or 1D)Holy shit this isn’t gonna be easy !!!!!1. What a Feeling2. No Control3. Slow Hands4. Miss You5. Familiar6. Medicine 7. Kiwi8. Stockholm Syndrome9. Truly Madly Deeply 10. What Makes You Beautiful11. Temporary Fix12. Home13. Strong14. Happily15. Midnight MemoriesThis was literally so hard and if you asked me tomorrow I’d probably change most of my answers but What a Feeling will always be number one !!!

30. Have you made friends through the band (other than people online)?Other than people online ?!? What ?!? That’s basically all I’ve made lmao

32. If the boys could collab with anyone, who would it be?Hmmmm I’m not sure! 

34. If they return, what is your ideal sound for their 6th album?I want songs similar to What a Feeling and No Control just back to back for 20 tracks