#Outlander Meme

[alannacouture]

Look, if I lived through a world war, suddenly time traveled, ended up back in the eighteenth century, and people kept threatening me or trying to marry me off, I’d probably have an alcohol problem too! 🍾🍻🍺🥃

[michaelhowearts]

Tongue-in-cheek Prediction for Outlander Season 8. :D Silly Outlander Comic I made.

[mar-aluna]

[aldmerisorcery]

[elephantlovemedleys]

period drama meme [4/4 couples]:

Jamie Fraser and Claire Fraser

[baudouinette]

Time Travel Issues: Curing Leprosy in the Middle Ages

I’m sorry I can’t be Claire from Outlander 😔

My first little comic lol (based on a meme but instead of leprosy it was about electricity) the idea was better in my head but I tried to depict it as best as I could

[safewolf]

Had to jump on the trend

[phoenixyfriend]

(If you are actually married or otherwise committed, you don't have to play.)

Quick, you've been thrown back in time to whatever era/region makes sense for the question, and your only way to avoid being shunned for being unmarried at your age (a real spinster), is to lie and claim you are a widow/er.

What name do you claim your late spouse had? What do you base this imaginary person's personality on? Remember, you'll have to keep your story straight!

Keep it in the tags so the post doesn't bloat unless you've got something really interesting.

[moonussie]

🙃🙂🙃

[spinnysocks]

inspired by this post :)

Regularly says fuck: Kenge, Janja, Kiburi, Tamka, Neema, Nne, Tano, the Skinks

Has sworn off saying fuck, but has said it at some point: Reirei, Mzingo

Has not said fuck before, but can if so desired: Ushari, Sumu, Chungu, Cheezi

Has not said fuck before, and refuses to say it: Jasiri, Madoa, Goigoi, Mwoga

Legally cannot say fuck: Wema, Tunu, Dogo, Kijana, Nduli

[alannacouture]

I love that Claire literally has a ‘Ugh, Jack fucking Randall’ face

[theawkwardterrier]

WIP Sunday

Tagged so very kindly by my wonderful meme bestie @lavellenchanted 🥰🥰 Here's a bit of the OL fic that I've been working on and that I'm mad about working on!

“Now that we’ve established my credentials, are you comfortable removing your shirt, soldier?” she asks, finding it easy to fall into the manner of address that saw her so well through the war. He lifts an eyebrow at the term, but doesn’t comment. “Aye, I trust my tender self to yer ministrations, Mistress, if that’s what ye mean. But I might need a bit o’ help with my shirt.” His good hand gestures to his opposite shoulder, and his smile is fading along with the light which had entered his eyes. There are plenty of patients she’s had who would have done better with a response that was stern and reminded him that he didn’t need mollycoddling, or with joking about to chivvy him from the mood he was sinking into. But some instinct, beyond the knowledge that she has built from experience, makes her do something else entirely. “Take your time,” she says gently. “I’ll help where it’s needed.” He does manage to bare himself most of the way, and not altogether terribly slowly. The trouble comes, as they both knew it would, with his injured arm. His mobility is such that he cannot twist his arm to reach up and remove that sleeve; perhaps at night he shakes it off, or has a comrade who will help him, but he doesn’t seem interested in putting himself on display in that way, and she doesn’t want him to. Instead, as he stops with the shirt draped over half his body, she makes her way around him, making certain that he can hear her movements, that she touches him gently along the back of his neck first so he can sense where she will be aiming next since she isn’t certain whether he has full feeling in his shoulder and doesn’t want to startle him. She doesn’t say anything as she eases the sleeve away from his skin, no small talk or even evaluatory questions, nothing about his shoulder or the deep scarring that she finds across his back. Jamie, however, speaks without her having to ask. It’s a terrible story, despite the calm with which he tells it: a Redcoat captain, an attack on Jamie’s sister, a crowd which watched him being viciously whipped for crimes that he hadn’t committed — including his father, who died thinking that his son had died first, and in such pain. During the war, she saw other nurses grow attached to patients, staying at a certain bedside hours after their shift had ended, singing a favorite song to dull the pain, even placing a kiss on lips breathing their last. Nothing close ever happened to her; not, she thinks now, necessarily because of Frank, but because she was better able to wall herself off and keep from true connection with the soldiers and partisans and innocent civilians who she treated…or maybe because none of them was the right one. For a barely-breathing moment, she can imagine bending and laying her cheek against the scars, letting him know that while she might have not been there to heal him then, she is here now. Beneath layers of fabric and padding, her stomach rumbles — only hunger, to be certain, signaling the hours since she finished the last of Nan’s bannocks in the cart, but a reminder of the care that she needs to take now. No foolish mistakes, not when she isn’t only protecting herself. “And how did this come about?” she asks, placing a delicate finger on the raised arch of his shoulder joint. As much as she is striving to bring herself back to that vaunted professionalism, her voice is still soft.

Tagging my buds @flyinghome-againstthewind, @smashing-teacups, @frasers-of-my-heart, and @doctorhelena, plus anyone else who wants to share some WIP fun!

[devilsrecreation]

Sorry I’m stupid like that JFHDGDGD

[deadstyle01]

Lol what i made

[dimity-lawn]