#Outlander Fic

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

Soften Every Edge - "Third"

The sixteenth of April arrived shrouded in gray storm clouds, as bleak as any reminder of the Battle of Culloden could be.

Five years since that fateful day. Nevermind the threat of battle that Jamie had been so sure would claim him, he’d felt at one point that the weight of keeping his loved ones and his men safe would tear him apart long before the battle even started. Five years since he’d sent Murtagh and Fergus on the path back to Lallybroch and took Claire and Faith to the stones. Had it not been for Faith tumbling to the ground just at his feet, unable to travel like her mother, this anniversary would surely have looked remarkably different, if Jamie would’ve even been alive to see it.

He did not take one second of it for granted as Claire burrowed against his chest, half-asleep and seeking his warmth. He pressed his nose to the crown of her head and breathed her in. She had come back to him. She’d crossed through war-torn Scotland when tensions with the British were still high and sailed to France, all while she carried his child, and all in the hope that their family might be restored. God, how he loved her…

[read the rest on ao3]

[theawkwardterrier]

Won't You Walk With Me (out of the mouth of this holler), chapter 1

Her classmates all think her mad. Well, perhaps they had before regardless, considering that she'd exerted firm but inexorable pressure in order to get special permission to continue her training even after she and Frank had gone to the registry office that whirlwind autumn afternoon, and that she'd chosen to attend training in the first place when she might have been living comfortably in Oxford under the wings of Uncle Lamb's former colleagues, or at least their wives. But they especially think Claire mad now when, rather than exert a similar pressure on Frank to force him to change his mind, she accepts with enthusiasm his proposal that they move to the United States — and not to a city either, but to a particularly rural area of Kentucky.

Part of that decision had been the softening in her when she'd seen Frank's excitement upon receiving the letter from his cousin — the exuberance and eagerness for exploration which has been missing from him as he taught the basic and uninspired lecture courses he had been assigned to groups of competent but equally uninspired students. Now Frank's cousin Jonathan, owner of Randall Mining Limited, was asking that Frank come and research a history of the local mine and the mining company for publication. It was an involved, independent project which would allow the sort of consultations with fellow experts and enthusiasts and deep, devoted examination of archives that Frank had always loved.

But part had also been that Claire had assumed that this would be like the travels of her childhood, that even if giving up her nursing courses just before their completion was more of a wrench than convincing Uncle Lamb to keep her out of school had ever been, she and Frank would be a team the way that she and her uncle had been. The idea of going to a new place had never frightened her, although perhaps that came more than a bit from the fact that amidst all the strangers and the unfamiliarity, there was always someone steady she could rely on, someone who sought to include her in his work and appreciated her contributions to it…someone who would always be home.

In that respect, Kentucky turns out to be a bitter disappointment.

Read more on AO3...

[lara-frasers]

For Auld Lang Syne

Here's a NYE one-shot I wrote, featuring an AU version of Jamie and Claire 🥰 I hope you like it!

You can read it here

Happy New Year! ✨🎉

[jamiemackenziefraser]

Hey— remember me?? Remember my faerie Claire and her sweet-as-a-cinnamon-roll Jamie?? Well I just posted an epilogue to All That Was Fair that I’d written years ago. Here is one last glimpse into their happily ever after!

I told you never say never ;)

[labarboteuse]

Is anyone interested in an Outlander fanfiction ? It's quite hard to find here and I’m finally currently working on one (with our delightful William Ransom). If it works, I'm thinking of doing one also about Lord John.

Please tell me ! 🥰

[whorcruxes]

The Knight and the Dragon

Claire goes on a quest, seeking vengeance for her husband Jamie’s death.

AO3

[lady-o-ren]

JUST BETWEEN LOVERS

Ao3 link (HERE)

CHAPTER NINE

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

That particular verse of poetry would sometimes whisper into my ear when I'd find myself ridiculously happy, driving a stake of fear through my chest that only a kiss could quell.  

But sometimes I needed something a great deal more forceful to assure me that I wouldn't be swept away again and wake to a life deprived of love. 

Lucky for me, I knew someone who was more than up to the challenge. He thrived on it actually. 

//

"Aye, lemme hear ye, woman. Lemme hear ye scream," growled Jamie, as he slid his calloused fingers inside me and set me spectacularly aflame.

 . . .

My heart was pounding like thunder when I came to while Jamie chuckled with a ragged smugness against my all too tender flesh that had me squirming and swatting blindly at his head. The bastard only chuckled louder, holding my body still, as he dragged his rough stubbled cheek affectionately against my straining thighs with a fiendish persistence that had me trembling with anticipation. 

All was not over it seemed.

With what little breath I had to spare I smiled and reached for Jamie, looking smug and savage between my legs.

"You arse, come here."

With one last tantalizing kiss that made me gasp and tremble, Jamie heaved himself up over me where my head was thrown back against a pillow and draped by my sex wrecked curls.

"Ye're looking a bit winded there, mo nighean donn. Should I go easier on ye?" He grinned, eyes sparkling, and pinched the tip of my breast, now a rosy sore peak.

"I take it back. You're worse than an arse, Jamie Fraser. You're a bloody tease," I said, swatting at his massive chest between breaths, without an ounce of strength.

Jamie laughed and kissed my nose, my neck, where he'd bitten me earlier. The flushed skin tingling still. 

"Maybe so," he breathed along my ear," but I ken there's nothing ye like more than having yer wretch of a husband worship ye. And I'm doing a damn good job of it, aye, Sassenach?" I arched into his hand in answer, palming at my breast, and was just about to grab him by his gorgeous curls. Those lips of his just a kiss away . . .

"But if ye want me to stop . . ." Jamie pulled away, smirking down at me.

His amusement didn't last long though. 

I dug my fingers into the hard roped muscles of his arms holding him up and locked my legs around his hips, bringing his straining hot erection to the throbbing cradle between my thighs that made his eyes go to slits and mouth to part with a tortured moan. 

"I want you to get on with it," I panted, with a roll of my hips. 

"Ye're a cruel, bossy wee thing, Sassenach," Jamie rasped, rocking hard against me, making my vision blur with each jolt of pleasure.

"I can't help it. We never got to this part. I woke up too soon the last time," I whimpered, trying to capture his mouth, but succeeded in only nipping his scruffy chin between my hands. 

Jamie stopped moving, struggling to keep his wits from unraveling and hips from thrusting home.

 "Those dreams of yers again?" He asked, staring down at me with concern.

Dreams. Glimpses of another life. Whatever force that brought me to Jamie. I didn't question it anymore. But I wanted more than anything to chase the end of what was robbed from me over a year ago. 

"The kind that makes me scream and call you lord and master," I moaned, rubbing myself against him like a damn cat in heat. "Now stuff that big prick of yours inside me or I'll do it myself."

A gleam of wild desire darkened Jamie's eyes.

"Say that last part again," he growled, grabbing the plump fullness of my bottom to maneuver me to just the right angle.

"Make me." 

Jamie bit off an expletive and sucked in a short excited breath, seeing my breasts heave with breathy anticipation as I prepared myself to be punished into well-loved and fucked submission.

But then his expression warmed with sudden tenderness when he lowered his gaze and gently laid a loving hand against the tiny swell of my belly where our child was no bigger than the tip of their father's finger. 

"Weel, I've been told ye ought to indulge expectant mothers."

My hand covered his, daylight glinting off our wedding rings, and together we shared a joyful smile that bridged our hearts together. 

No, this wasn't another dream.

This, here with Jamie, and our child growing inside me, was blissfully real. 

[samsheughan]

approving all the lovely comments on ao3 yall really making me feel seen and loved coming out of fic writing retirement i love you guys so much

[hurt-comfort-cache]

between a rock and a hard place

come get y'all outlander william hurt/comfort content!!!!

On this episode of “using my southern East Coast upbringing as an excuse to torture Outlander characters,” William gets injured from falling off rocks. Spoilers for Bees abound!

--

"Come, William," encouraged Amaranthus. "You're already damp enough from sweat; a bit of seawater won't make a difference."

Summer in Savannah was, in fact, sweltering, and William welcomed an excuse to shuck off his shoes and stockings and cool off. The sand was hot under his soles, but he reached the packed, damp sand closer to the water's edge in a few strides.

Amaranthus handed her fan to him wordlessly, then hiked up her skirts and stepped into the tide. "It's almost chilly!" she remarked.

She was right—the water was pleasantly cool around his ankles. He held out an elbow to her. "Shall we?"

They walked in the water for a while, Amaranthus pointing out the names of natural curiosities that had washed ashore. "That is a type of large algae, rather than a seaweed," she noted, bending over to inspect the indiscernible pile of wet vegetation. How a slimy heap of what looked like red ribbon was an alga, he didn't care to learn. "That is a Brachyuran."

Whatever creature lay past her extended finger, William couldn't say, nor could his brain supply the translation from Greek. "What?"

read more below the cut or read the rest on ao3!

Rather than reply, she pulled him close, much to the dismay of his quickening heartbeat. Indeed, upon closer inspection, there was a small crab nestled amongst the seaweed, fervently scuttling for a new hiding place. Its black, kernel-shaped eyes pierced the soul. "Admittedly, I am none too familiar with aquatic creatures, but this is an Atlantic ghost crab. It digs burrows in the sand and covers the top to avoid the heat."

"Fascinating." It wasn't, tell truth—he could scarcely concentrate as a strand of Amaranthus' hair, blown loose from her cap by the wind, tickled his ear as he leaned against her.

Just as soon as her dirty blonde locks had graced his face, she stood. "Come, cousin," she said, taking his elbow. "I wish to surprise Trevor with shells."

Beyond the waves, a large, brown bird—a pelican; he knew that one—swooped towards the water, its body level with the surface as it gulped ocean water. "What a beautiful creature," he marveled.

"Indeed," Amaranthus agreed. "Hold my basket, will you, cousin?"

Tucked beside her fan was a book. "Conchis Marini Americae," he read. American Seashells. "You mean to tell me you don't know them by heart?"

That made her smile. "I must confess, I am still learning. Let us practice, shall we?" She stooped to pick up a large, pear-shaped, gray shell. It was knobbed and looked not dissimilar to the cluster of large rocks nearby. She released his elbow, using her other hand to turn over the shell in her palm. It shimmered beautifully in the sunlight, waves of delicate, soft greens and purples.

He handed her the book, taking the shell as she flipped through drawings. It dwarfed her small hand, he noted, rubbing a calloused thumb along the satin interior.

"'Tis an Atlantic oyster, I think." Indeed, the shell to which she pointed in the book matched the one in hand remarkably. "Care for another?"

Obliging her, he slipped the oyster into her basket and picked up a small, triangular specimen, of which dozens more lined the shore. "To match your dress," he explained, passing her the pale orange shell.

She flipped through the pages until the correct one appeared. "A member of the genus Donax, the bean clams," she read. "A bivalve and much-loved meal of sanderlings—Trynga calidris."

The pair continued as such, Amaranthus matching shells William produced to drawings in her book, occasionally seeking his aid to compare between two similar species. How helpful he was, William was unsure, but he appreciated her leaning close and feeling her breath on his cheek all the same. When a live periwinkle snail's slick body struck an odd chord in his loins, recalling the feeling of soft flesh between a woman's legs, he knew he had to separate himself.

He cleared his throat in preamble and returned her basket, now full of lettered olives, surf clams, ark clams, cockles, and other such creatures whose names he would not recall come tomorrow. "I think I shall walk a bit deeper in the water and return the snail to its companions."

She nodded in acknowledgement, releasing his arm and allowing him to hike up his breeches to above the knee, lest the linen grow damp.

Up to his shins and ghastly petite snail in hand, he watched a group of silver minnows—did such fish live in the ocean? He hadn't a clue—dart away from the small waves he produced. The water was a greenish hue, like sea glass, and shadows from the waves dappled the undisturbed sand ahead of him. As he walked, he stirred up clouds of sand, hiding his feet from view. Very well then; he would look forward and admire the Georgian coastline instead. It seemed so different from the English shores of home, despite being the same ocean. Indeed, he had seen—and vomited into—the vast stretch of it on the ship to Newport News. Memories of the voyage would surely turn him as green as the water below, so he pushed the thought out of mind.

His mind was almost sufficiently blank when William reached a suitable embankment of rocks, dappled with small snails like the one he held. He paid no mind to the rough texture of the rocks underfoot as he plucked the snail from his palm and placed it onto a large, dark stone, black where the waves lapped at it.

Nestled between two rocks was a brilliant blue creature the size of his palm, its black eyes like drops of glass—a crab, perhaps? Something to impress Amaranthus, surely. He took a cautious step forward, foot placed on a submerged rock, and squinted for a closer look.

Noticing his shadow, the crab crawled further into the crevice such that only its eyes were visible.

"Bastard…" William muttered. No matter: He shifted his weight forwards, never breaking eye contact with the creature as he stepped forward onto a higher rock.

Just as soon as the crab's body reappeared, his foot twisted and slipped from under him, sending him flying. His breath left him as his back hit the water, knocked out of him by the impact.

He barely registered the pain in his ankle as he gasped for air, only succeeding in inhaling the brine. Oh, God. William couldn't swim. He was going to drown, wasn't he? He coughed and sputtered, limbs flailing and contacting the sandy bottom. Oh, right—he was only up to his shins when he fell. Fucking fool.

He pushed himself into a seated position, now sitting in the water, before hacking up the last of the seawater he had just inhaled. His eyes narrowed at the renewed site of the rocks, where the crab surely lurked to mock him. He swiped at the water angrily, as if perhaps he could knock the smug crab into the water. "Dammit!"

"William?" called Amaranthus from the beach. "Are you alright?"

He took a steadying breath, slightly calmer now that his lungs were rid of water. "Yes… Yes, I believe myself to be intact." He swiped damp hair away from his face, freed from his Q in the struggle. Despite the slight chill of the water that soaked him to the bone, his face felt hot with embarrassment.

He leaned forward, meaning to stand up, but even at a crouch, the weight sent searing ribbons of pain down his ankle. He collapsed back down into the water, unsure if his cry was in frustration or pain.

"What's happened?"

He gritted his teeth and lifted his leg to inspect. "It's nothing," he replied. Nothing was simultaneously bleeding steadily and growing purple, but no matter. "It seems my ankle caught on the rocks as I fell."

Expecting the pain this time and wanting not to worry Amaranthus, he stood gingerly, concentrating his weight on the undamaged leg. In comparison to being hit on the head with an ax, this was surely child's play, he reasoned. He hobbled to the beach, waving off her offer of physical support as he reached the shore. Amaranthus was not petite, but she was not tall either—and William was certainly the latter. An ankle injury was embarrassing enough without needing to lean on a young woman whose head barely reached his collarbone, ambling awkwardly on the Savannah coastline like a pair of drunkards.

"Come now, sit down, cousin," she urged, easing him onto the sand. He was probably getting seawater all over her gown; her maidservant would have his head upon their return to the house.

"Once more, I assure you that I am quite alright."

Her fair eyebrows narrowed and she knelt to inspect his foot, now bleeding freely onto the sand. He jerked his leg instinctively as she attempted to brush blood-soaked sand off his sole, barely suppressing an ungentlemanly German phrase from escaping his lips and huffing instead.

"Like that, is it?" Her eyes flicked up and met his, then she grabbed his ankle.

He let out a strangled sound, her grip shooting painful sparks up his leg. "P-please," he begged, practically panting. "Just let me put my stockings on, then we can return home."

Her grip relented, but only after a brief squeeze that made him see stars. "I suppose you're well-equipped to deal with the wrath you'll incur by bleeding all over your stockings."

He took the opportunity to heave a frustrated breath as Amaranthus retrieved the items in question. She relished his pain; he was sure of it. Curse that godforsaken crab for enabling her.

When she returned a moment later with his footwear, the matter of him being soaked in seawater was the least of his problems. The difficulties associated with putting shoes and stockings on wet skin, as it turns out, ceases to matter when one's ankle is swollen and bloody. His leg drawn closer to his chest, he was able to see the injury clearly now: His ankle had reached the size and turgidity of a small melon, and the sole of his foot, skin scratched to hell by rocks, looked no better. Nonetheless, he coaxed the appendage into a stocking—not his silk pair, fortunately—with only a few stifled grunts, lest he give Amaranthus an opportunity to dote on his injury and coddle or mock him in alternating bouts to her own satisfaction. His shoes slipped on with relative ease, though the buckle compressed his foot somewhat painfully.

Prioritizing the last shred of his dignity over physical comfort, he declined Amaranthus' proffered elbow to escort him to the cobbled street from which they could call a carriage. Each step on his injured foot was agony, equal parts stinging and shooting pain that forced all thoughts that weren't expletives from his head. He tried to steel his expression to avoid attracting attention from onlookers, but a light breeze proved that his face was cool with sweat. Fucking great.

He had no idea how much time passed before the coach arrived, too busy trying to squash his body's desire to faint to pay attention. Amaranthus had ceased making idle conversation sometime after a rushing sound filled his head, not dissimilar to the nearby crashing waves. As for the potential of his collapsing on the Savannah streets, never mind splitting his head on the cobble streets—and his skull had suffered enough since he returned to the Colonies, thank you—if he didn't die of embarrassment, Amaranthus' gleeful chidings would surely do him in.

He stumbled towards the stopped carriage, feet unsure as a new bout of pain surged over him. He put an arm in front of himself so as not to crash into the carriage, extended fingers brushing the painted wooden side. Sweet Jesus, he might vomit onto the stones below. His vision swam from the movement, but he ignored it to put a foot on the carriage step. This proved to be a mistake: The moment his good foot ceased contact with the ground, all his weight on its injured fellow, he saw white.

William collapsed onto the carriage bench, somewhat astonished he hadn't fallen facedown into the damn thing. A proper gentleman would have helped his female companion board first, but he felt his cousin would forgive him, given the circumstances. Quite frankly, he didn't particularly care if he did, so long as he made it back to Number 12, Oglethorpe Street without any bodily fluids contacting the carriage floor. He was even beyond caring about the fate that awaited him once they returned, to be nursed, pestered, and altogether treated like a feeble kitten.

With every bump and loose stone the carriage wheels caught, William gripped the side of the carriage ever harder, bracing himself against waves of pain. When his eyes were not screwed shut, he stared at the red streak creeping its way up his stocking, willing it to cease its course, lest his father—Lord John, his irritated mind corrected—send for the doctor. Lack of blood relation aside, William had seemingly inherited his Papa's nauseated distaste for having his blood let. He pushed the thought out of his mind, lest any further thoughts of his true paternity cling to the forefront of his mind like leeches.

After becoming agonizingly familiar with what seemed to be every wayward cobble in Savannah, the carriage at last reached the painted white exterior of Number 12, Oglethorpe Street.

"I'll fetch Lord John," announced Amaranthus, descending from the carriage step in a flutter of skirts.

William leaned back and closed his eyes, wood rough against his shoulder blades.

Soon after, he heard the flurrying crunch of oyster shells that lined the side streets and opened them again. Amaranthus no longer had her basket in tow and his father was missing his greatcoat. The latter stepped into the carriage, lines of worry creasing his face as his eyes searched William.

William gestured at his afflicted foot. "Caught the bugger on a rock and fell."

"So it seems," his father agreed. "Let's get you inside. Can you stand?"

He nodded as Lord John exited the carriage. He could hop the two steps to the carriage door, at least, even if the act of doing so brought yet another bout of pain as his ankle was jarred. He took his father's extended hand, the other gripping the side edge of the carriage as he braced himself to step down.

"That's it, William. Almost there."

Scarcely taller than Amaranthus and at eye level with William's shoulder, Lord John was somewhat ill-equipped to escort William inside, but he took as much of his weight as possible all the same. Still, he was unable to prevent William from crying out in pain as his injured foot reached the ground, supporting his not-inconsiderable weight for an excruciating moment.

"It's alright," said Lord John, coaxing William's arm around his shoulder in an instant. "Only a few more steps, then all will be well." William wished he could believe the man, but knew the worst had not yet begun.

Even with his father supporting most of his weight, climbing the steps sapped the last of William's ability to disguise the depth of his pain. He collapsed into the closest parlor chair with a groan, movement so ungentle that it shook the china in the cupboard and woke Trevor. Amaranthus clicked her tongue at him before vanishing upstairs to attend to her newly-wailing son. William paid her no mind, his father already lifting his leg gently onto the footstool and stripping off his shoe and stocking. He noticed himself panting as the bottom of the stocking stuck to the bloodied sole of his foot, feeling every bloodstained fiber as it separated from his skin.

He removed his waistcoat, damp with sweat and seawater alike, as his father fetched the ewer from the bedroom upstairs. He could feel Moira, the maid, behind him, likely standing in the doorjamb with confounded expressions, but he didn't bother to turn around.

Lord John descended the steps, ceramic water jug in hand. "Moira, fetch a doctor. Quickly."

William shook his head. "No, please. I beg of you; I'm fine."

Lord John scoffed. "And I'm the King of England."

He took a measured breath, then looked up. "Father, please. The limb isn't broken. Might we just bandage my ankle and be done with it?"

"God's teeth, William, have you seen that bloody mess you call an ankle? Surely some leeches for the bruising or—"

"I will not endure the torture of whatever quack physician can be plucked from the streets of Savannah." He saw his father open his mouth, but continued before the man could reply. "What's more, Father, if you allow such a man to let my blood or suffer me to leeches, you will faint."

He sighed, all too familiar with the shape of William's stubbornness. "If you insist." Lord John turned to look behind William. "Some cloth, then, to staunch the bleeding."

"And some brandy, if you please, Miss," added William before she could get far. He looked down at his ankle for the first time since he consigned its fate to his stocking. Christ, could the damn joint get any more swollen?

"As ye say, sirs." She started to leave but paused once in William's line of sight. "Shall I have Miss Crabb bring yerselves some refreshment? Ye look fit to keel over, son."

"Just the brandy," Lord John replied for him.

William groaned as she left. "Thank you. I fear I may vomit at the mere scent of a teacake."

His father smiled. "Wouldn't suit the brandy, in any case. Now, about that leg… May I clean the wound now, or would you prefer to wait until Moira returns with brandy?"

It would be best to get it over quickly, even without the soothing effect of alcohol. He gestured for his father to proceed.

Lord John wet one end of the linen cloth. "To remove the last of the sand," he explained, meeting William's eye.

It stung. Every swipe and pass of the rag was like a hot coal to his sole, and William dug his fingers into the arm of the chair to keep still as best he could, to little success.

His father muttered reassuring sentiments—that he was almost finished, that it would be done soon, that it was alright—with the same tone one would use to comfort a child Trevor's age. Still, he allowed himself to be comforted by his father's presence, and the presence of a fellow soldier at that, far preferable to being coddled and belittled by Miss Crabb, the housekeeper.

At last, his father's assault with the rag ceased. "I'm going to pour water over it now." Great.

If it was possible for the chair to have nail marks, it surely did now. Even still, clutching the sides of the chair as if it were at risk of floating away proved not to be enough to keep a groan from escaping.

"Almost done, Willie…"

He was too frustrated and exhausted from pain to take offense at being called by such a juvenile name. He hummed his acknowledgement through gritted teeth, then gasped as Lord John used the dry end of the cloth to dab the wound dry. It came away stained red, but less dramatically than his stocking, William noticed.

Moira returned with the brandy just as his father finished drying the wound with a resolute "there." She cleared her throat and handed a cup to William. The brandy stung as he inhaled its sharp scent. Perfect. "Best to take a stiff drink, son. Keep yer strength up."

He obliged her, the pleasant burn of the drink a welcome contrast to his present lower sensations.

"Good lad," she said, nodding as he took another hearty gulp. "That's the ruffle off've my oldest petticoat, sir." She handed a pile of formerly-white linen to Lord John.

"That will do nicely. Thank you, Miss." He looked at William. "Have you prepared yourself sufficiently?"

That earned his father an exhale with a note of finality.

"As you were, then." Lord John took one end of the proffered makeshift bandage in one hand, William's ankle in the other. He tried not to hiss at the sudden touch, managing to suppress it into a stiff exhale as his father wrapped the offending limb.

Whether Lord John wrapped the ankle incredibly tightly or if the ankle itself was so swollen it seemed fit to burst, William couldn't say, but the minute required for bandaging was excruciating. The pain climbed faster than he could stifle it with brandy; his leg would be squeezed painfully from all angles with no chance of reprieve until his bandages were changed the following morning. In fairness to his father, Lord John worked as quickly as possible, but German curses were uttered on both fronts.

Lord John heaved a sigh. "Nothing you can do now but wait. I assure you, though, it will heal."

"Thank you, Papa," he replied, realizing his teeth had been clenched since he had fallen off that goddamn rock and consciously relaxing his jaw. He sighed. It would heal.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment or come chat with me on Tumblr! @hurt-comfort-cache. Panicking about drowning in shallow water: like father, like son. Also, I do love David Berry, but sometimes I wish Lord John was 5’6” like in the books. Justice for short kings. The sanderling was originally described by Pallas in 1764 as Trynga alba, then 2 years later, Linnaeus designated it Charadrius calidris; today, it’s Calidris alba. References: Wells, E., Brewin, P., & Brickle, P. (2011). Intertidal and subtidal benthic seaweed diversity of South Georgia. Report for the South Georgia Heritage Trust and Joint Nature Conservation Committee Survey, 1-20. Wenner, E. L. (1985). Shrimps, Lobsters, and Crabs of the Atlantic Coast of the Eastern United States, Maine to Florida. Estuaries, 8(1), 77-77. https://doi.org/10.2307/1352125

[pseudonym-lux]

THE CAST OF LABOUR OF LOVE (ACT ONE)

AOIFE MACBETH portrayed by eleanor tomlinson

CIARAN DUNSMORE portrayed by aiden turner

LANE CRAWFORD portrayed by claire foy

PATRICK MACBETH portrayed by ewan macgregor

RYAN BLACKWOOD portrayed by nicholas hoult

CAILEAN BLACKWOOD portrayed by nicholas hoult

CLAIRE BEAUCHAMP portrayed by caitriona balfe

JAMIE FRASER portrayed by sam heughan

MURTAGH FITZGIBBONS portrayed by duncan lacroix

DOUGAL MACKENZIE portrayed by graham mctavish

GEILLIS DUNCAN portrayed by lotte verbeek

"BLACK JACK" RANDALL portrayed by tobias menzies

RUPERT MACKENZIE portrayed by grant o'rourke

ANGUS MHOR portrayed by stephen walters

JENNY MURRAY portrayed by laura donnelly

IAN MURRAY portrayed by steven cree

reading links wattpad | ao3

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

Beside the Seaside: Ch 17

Jamie rolled to his side, his breath heavy as his eyes slid shut. His hand roamed across Claire’s belly and settled on the velvety skin at her hip, tracing patterns there with his fingertips. Claire hummed softly. Even coming down from the high of their joining, he still couldn’t get enough of her. As if she’d had the same thought, his wife rolled toward him and slid one arm around his waist. With new territory of her body exposed, his hand traveled the path of her spine, up to her neck and then down to her backside. She was a gift, every time; a living, breathing, burning work of art that he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch.

She placed several gentle, unhurried kisses along his bare chest and shoulder, and a soft groan escaped him.

“Tha gaol agam ort, mo ghràidh.” The declaration slipped out, unguarded and honest — and safe in the knowledge that she wouldn’t grasp the meaning.

[read the rest on ao3]

[theawkwardterrier]

Won’t You Walk With Me (out of the mouth of this holler), epilogue

Your parents think that filmmaking is a foolish, indulgent hobby, barely realistic or understandable as that and certainly no kind of career at all. They — and by extension, you — are from good, working stock, and they can’t understand why you would choose to take the college education that they labored and saved to give you, after generations of those who counted themselves lucky to stay in the schoolroom instead of having to work, and use it to do this. A few extra literature classes than required was one thing, but more than that? Making more of those little movies of yours? they ask, with more confusion than disgust, as if you are still a child and your imagination is so unbound that they cannot keep up with your games.

If you let yourself think about it, that’s probably why you chose this topic for your final film project. You wanted something that they could understand, and strikes and union dues have been the talk of your house since the beginnings of your memory. It’s also probably why you can’t make yourself be satisfied with the material that you already have, even though you’ve interviewed plenty of old union leaders and workers from back in the day, and know that what you can put together from that footage will easily earn you a top grade from your professors.

It is why, when your advisor is invited to speak at a conference in London and offers to pay your way so that you can attend as his assistant, your only question is whether you’d be able to stay for an extra day or two — just long enough to drive up to Scotland and back to Heathrow again.

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[lara-frasers]

A fight for love and glory

Chapter 8: No Faith

You can read it here

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[pxnsneverland]

Autumn Roses | Young Ian x OC (part 1)

plot summary: As a half black half white slave in colonial North Carolina, Rose has struggled with her place in the world. After her mother's death in childbirth and finding out that the recently deceased River Run plantation master was her father, the mistress of River Run, Jocasta Cameron, took her in treating her as more of a daughter than a slave. Jocasta educated and raised Rose with no one outside the house ever being the wiser. But the arrival of Jocasta's nephew Jamie Fraser and his wife Clare threaten to turn Rose's world upside down especially when they bring along their bright haired, blue eyed nephew Ian Murray.

pairings: Young Ian x OC

fandom: Outlander

word count: 2286

warnings/notes: Hey guys! I've had this Outlander fan fiction idea for awhile and I finally put pen to paper so to speak. I hope you all enjoy it! And those of you that know me from my Elvis fan fiction, no worries. I'm still writing it and will be updating soon :) 

Chapter 1: The Fateful Meeting

               River Run was not a locale where one could expect to encounter a plethora of thrilling events. Each day followed a set routine, a carefully crafted plan. Each individual was aware of their designated position. All but myself, I presume. There wasn't much of a place for negros in North Carolina society. They were considered slaves or possessions by the affluent white individuals who possessed the financial means to acquire them. I, too, followed in the footsteps of my mother, as countless others have done before me. From the moment of my birth, I was thrust into the cruel and inhumane world of slavery. Yet, despite my lowly status, I was afforded a modicum of respect and deference that set me apart from my fellow slaves. The circumstances surrounding my birth were shrouded in mystery, as my mother had passed away during delivery. It was not until years later that I was able to uncover the identity of my father, and the reasons behind my unique position as a lighter-skinned slave who resided within the household rather than toiling in the fields alongside my peers. Upon the passing of Master Cameron, I was summoned by his wife, Jocasta Cameron, at the tender age of eight. It was then that she imparted upon me the knowledge of my origins - a child born of a man who wielded his power over his possessions. Devoid of any offspring to call her own, she developed a fondness for my company. From that moment forward, my status shifted from that of a mere slave to that of a ward, receiving a different kind of treatment. Under the veil of secrecy, within the confines of River Run's protective isolation, Mistress Cameron imparted upon me a wealth of knowledge and skills. She taught me the art of reading and writing, the importance of proper speech, the intricacies of chess, the melodies of the piano, and any other subject that she would have typically taught her own flesh and blood. Tears streamed down my face as I contemplated the plight of my brethren who toiled ceaselessly in the fields and within the confines of the main house. For I, too, was akin to them - a mere possession adorned with precious jewels. In due course, I succumbed to the monotony of everyday life, much like the masses. However, my place left much to be desired, and the apprehension of never discovering my rightful place consumed me, as if such a haven was merely a figment of my imagination.   

On a stunning autumn day, I made the decision to settle beneath the grand oak tree in my front yard. With a book in hand, I whiled away the hours in peaceful solitude. Mistress Cameron sat on the porch, accompanied by her attendant Ulysses. He was a slave who assisted her in all her endeavors, given her blindness. Despite residing in the house slave quarters, he was treated almost as well as I. However, I had been granted my own room years ago, located in a separate wing of the house, far from any visitors who might chance upon it. I sensed the unwavering gaze of Mistress Cameron upon me, despite her lack of visual confirmation. Her admiration for me was so profound that I made every effort to avoid disappointing her. With my head bowed and my lips sealed, I remained hidden as instructed. The stakes were high, for if anyone were to discover that Mistress Cameron was imparting her knowledge upon me and treating me with her customary kindness, both she and I would face certain death.

            The day was a delight, with the gentle autumn breeze causing small ripples to form along the river nearby. The season of autumn had always held a special place in my heart. The leaves underwent a stunning transformation, displaying a vibrant array of colors. The fruits of one's labor were bountifully harvested. Perhaps I could have continued to relish the moment, were it not for the gradual approach of a boat traversing the river, its sound growing ever louder. With haste, I rose from my spot and sought refuge behind the towering tree, ensuring that I remained concealed from the body of water. The boat glided past me before coming to a halt just a stone's throw away from the walkway leading up to the house. I cautiously poked my head out, curious to catch a glimpse of the unexpected visitor. Anticipating the arrival of esteemed guests at River Run, I envisioned the likes of the governor, a soldier, or a lord, among the customary high-ranking individuals who graced us with their presence. In lieu of that, my gaze fell upon a towering, robust Scottish gentleman in the prime of his life, boasting locks of hair so fiery that they appeared to ignite in the sun's rays. He gallantly assisted a slender woman, who appeared to be slightly senior to him, in disembarking from the vessel. Her hair, pinned to the back of her head, was almost as curly as mine. Her skin was as pure as freshly fallen snow, unmarred by any imperfections, unlike that of so many other women. As she emerged from the boat, her gracefulness was striking.

Mistress Jocasta had risen from her seat, bringing Ulysses along with her. She now stood before them, a smile adorning her countenance. “Jamie. Welcome to River Run.”

            Jamie respectfully nodded his head. “Auntie Jocasta.” With a gallant gesture, he removed his hat and bestowed upon her a graceful bow.

            With open arms, Mistress Jocasta welcomed him into her embrace. Accepting her invitation, he embraced her tightly, conveying through the hug the length of time that had passed since their last meeting. “Blessed be,” she whispered softly, “You’ve grown to be a giant. That’ll be the Mackenzie blood flowing through ye.”

            A soft smile graced Jamie's lips. “I was no more than a bairn when you last saw me. Had nowhere to go but up.”

            So, the individual in question was Jamie. Mistress Cameron had devoted considerable time to recounting to me the tales of her family's history in Scotland and her formative years. Jamie, the youngest son of her sister Ellen, had been a name that had reached my ears. Mistress Cameron spoke of him in a manner akin to how she conversed with Ulysses about me, as if he were her very own offspring. Finally, I had the pleasure of putting a face to the name.

             “I recall ye had a most gorgeous heid of red hair,” she remarked, “Oh, how yer mother adored you.”

            “She adored you as well. Always spoke of you wi’ love.”

            “I miss her still.”

            “As do I,” he replied. Jamie hesitated for a moment before proceeding, “Ah, Auntie, may I present my wife Claire?”

            With a confident stride, Claire advanced towards Mistress Cameron, who lowered her head in deference. A smile appeared on Claire's lips. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mistress Cameron.” Her English heritage piqued my interest slightly. The union of a Scotsman and an English woman was a rare sight indeed.

            “Oh, I hope you’ll call me Auntie, dear. We are kin after all.”

            “Of course,” Claire replied with a soft chuckle, “Auntie it is then.”

            “It’s lovely to meet you, Claire.” Mistress Cameron enveloped her upper arms with a warm embrace.

All of a sudden, a boy emerged and began to make his way up the path, catching my attention as I had not previously noticed his presence on the boat. He appeared to be no older than myself, perhaps even the same age of 16. With his lengthy blonde locks neatly tied back, his complexion, which was of a light hue, glistened with perspiration from diligently transferring their possessions from the vessel. With a wide and sincere grin, he drew near. The sight of that smile was enough to elicit a reciprocal grin from anyone who caught a glimpse of it. His striking good looks caused my heart to flutter uncontrollably, and I desperately willed it to cease its erratic beating.

            Ian. His name perfectly complemented his countenance - unassuming and charming.

            Ian clutched a bushel of wildflowers in his hands. “I’m very pleased to meet ye, Great-Aunt Jocasta.” He extended the bouquet of flowers towards her.

            “Ye’re welcome, lad.” You are most welcome, young man. I realized when she didn't take the flowers that Ian probably didn't realize she was blind. After all, he had never laid eyes on her.

            Ulysses came to the rescue, his voice a soft whisper in Mistress Cameron's ear as he spoke of the flowers that Ian had presented to her. As the realization dawned on her, her eyes widened with a sudden spark of understanding. Without hesitation, she reached out and took hold of the bushel, her fingers curling around it with a sense of purpose. “Thank you kindly, Ian. Forgive me. It is a long time since my sight had left me, though I still see shapes and shadows.”

            “I’m sorry to hear, Great-Auntie.” His countenance reflected the genuine distress he felt upon receiving the news. His kindness was palpable.

            “Oh, fear not, lad. It has been a blessing. I am now gifted with hearing that would be the envy of many a gossip, and the ability to sent truth from lies, if ye catch my meanin’.” His face lit up with a smile. Mistress Cameron spoke the truth. Throughout the duration of our acquaintance, she had consistently refused to regard her lack of sight as a hindrance. She navigated her surroundings with remarkable ease, almost as if she possessed perfect vision. Ulysses, her trusted companion, provided only sporadic assistance. I held great admiration for her actions. In that moment, a canine hastily approached Ian, positioning itself by his side with an uncontainable wag of its tail. With a joyful bark, he bid farewell to Mistress Jocasta and sprang off into the distance. “Oh goodness. Who have we there? Another acquaintance to be made.”

            With a quick movement of the eyes, Jamie stole a glance at Ian. “Young Ian’s…mongrel, Rollo. Take hold of your beast, lad.”

            With a nod, Ian chased after Rollo. No matter how hard he attempted to seize him, the dog darted beyond his grasp. A chuckle escaped my lips as I observed the comical sight of their cat-and-mouse game. Lost in my own amusement, I remained oblivious to Rollo's presence until he gently nudged the hem of my skirt from behind the tree. With a grin adorning his face, he patiently awaited my reaction. However, I found myself unable to respond. As Ian drew near, my heart nearly ceased beating, until he finally caught up to Rollo. “Rollo, you mangy beast, you can’t just go running off on Great-Auntie’s land.” He lifted his head to meet my gaze, his blue eyes widening as if he had just seen a ghost. Despite his pleasant demeanor towards Mistress Jocasta, I couldn't help but feel apprehensive about the potential harm he could inflict upon me. With a swift kick, I sent the book I had been engrossed in hurtling behind me, out of sight.

A lump had formed in my throat, impeding my breathing. Nonetheless, I persevered and managed to bow to him, my gaze fixed on the ground. “I’m sorry, Master Murray. I dinna mean to have any association with yer pet. Please forgive me.” At no other moment had I been as cognizant of the Scottish lilt that had been adopted from Mistress Cameron as I was presently.

Ian remained silent, leaving me on edge. I braced myself for any possible outcome, whether it be a physical altercation or an attack from his canine companion. My jaw tightened in anticipation. With a look of astonishment in his gaze, he uttered, “Ye’re the bonniest lass I’ve ever seen.”

My gaze was irresistibly drawn upwards, away from the ground. “What?”

Ian shook his head, as if to snap out of the current stream of consciousness that had been occupying his mind. “I’m sorry. I shouldna have been so forward. I’m Ian, Ian Murray.” In a swift motion, he grasped my hand and pressed his lips upon it with the grace of a chivalrous protagonist from a timeless tale. He bestowed upon me one of those smiles that had the power to make my heart flutter even from a distance. But now, as he stood before me, my heart was pounding so hard that it felt like it might burst out of my chest.

            As I was preparing to respond to him, my attention was diverted by the sound of my name being called out, “Rose!”

            With haste, I withdrew my hand from Ian's grip as Mistress Jocasta, accompanied by Jamie, Claire, and Ulysses, approached our vicinity. Mistress Jocasta's countenance betrayed a hint of displeasure, yet it was overshadowed by an air of apprehension. “I thought I told you to stay out of sight when we have company.”

            With a subtle movement, I placed my hands behind my back. “I was, Mistress Cameron, but Rollo…he found me…”

            “It was my fault, Great-Anutie,” Ian interjected, “I should have caught up wit’ Rollo before he went sniffin’ around.”

            Her fingers tightened around his shoulder. “It’s alright, lad.” A deep sigh escaped her lips. “We should all go inside. If you all are going to stay here awhile and since ye’re family, there are some things ye must know. I hope ye’ll keep an open mind.” Thus, we trailed after her as she led the way towards the main house. Ian strode alongside me, even though his legs surpassed mine in length. Every now and then, he cast a fleeting glance my way, but I refrained from reciprocating.

Stay tuned for part 2!! Click HERE to view!

[rhaenella]

As Luck Would Have It – Stephen Bonnet x Brianna Fraser

└▸ Summary: Brianna just broke up with Roger and she finds herself drinking alone, in a crowded pub on St. Patrick’s Day, trying to drown her sorrows in solitude. But when a downright creep starts harassing Brianna and won’t seem to leave her alone, a charming Irish stranger comes to her rescue. ❦

Masterlist

My first Stephen Bonnet x Brianna Fraser fic is here… :) @xeresmalfoy I hope you enjoy this smutfest little thank you / Christmas gift 😉😘

[littlecrabbs]

Chapter 1: Business as Usual

While working for a laboratory under his brother Hal, John Grey learns how little they see eye to eye. Grey navigates dealing with his petty and unrelenting brother inside and outside of the office, as well as concealing information he'd rather not let him know. Working with family has put his relationship with friends, family, and lovers under inspection in a way he never anticipated.