#yes i own a kilt no i dont know how it was made

[thefactsofthematter]

Controversial opinion: I need a nap but I also need to finish my kilt. - Stripe

i don’t know much about kilt making, but you might work better when well rested! i say go for the nap!

[pellelavellan-a]

(Meta Meme) - About Pelle & Fashion. Not just what he commonly wears, but what he likes to wear, the stuff he's attracted to, and what he loves but doesn't dare wear.

Oh no I love this but let's gooooo!

So to start, Pelle's did not have much of a concept of "fashion" when he was at home. Almost all of his clothes were hand me downs from his cousin or his older brother. Naturally they were much too big for him so he learned to sew so he could alter his clothes to fit his body better. Not that he had very much direct reference, but he figured if the fabric fit around his body and didn't hang off him too much then it must have been better.

He is usually more drawn to warmer colors. He doesn't like bright colors much. greens, dark reds, deep oranges, those are colors he usually likes. He does also like white and teals. He very much is not a fan of the bright and flamboyant colors in Orlesian fashion. He thinks it's gaudy.

The first thing that is on his list for what he likes to wear is "is it comfortable?" Ironically when he was younger he spent a lot of time trying to make clothes fit, but as an adult prefers baggier shirts and tighter pants if he's wearing them at all. He likes the freedom of skirts cause he finds he can move his legs around more so it's more common to see him in kilts than pants in Skyhold. He also very much likes simple dresses. If he is in a dress he prefers that it falls a couple inches about his ankles and tends to tie off his waist with a belt or a rope of sorts. Another thing he likes to do show off his collarbones and chest just the tiniest bit. No there isn't anything hugely impressive about them but it makes him feel more confident so he tends to wear shirts with a very deep neck lines paired with a necklace or two he made out of wooden beads and other little ornaments.

He thinks poet shirts are extremely sexy, on anyone of any gender. He also thinks rings are very cool, and while he does not wear many himself there is an illusion of the from the tattooed bands on his fingers. He also is not ashamed to say that tight fitting pants on a man with a nice ass is extremely attractive. He is at the end of the day a big fan of ass. Sleeveless tops also. yes. He also thinks corsets are actually very cool and beautiful in their own way--he just hates wearing them himself. Another favorite thing of his to wear that is a little fancier is sleeveless coats like this ( i dont know how to describe it really)

Overall he thinks women's clothing is far more tasteful than men's clothing. Something about women's clothing is just more creative and artistic to him. He is a big fan of embroidered details and/or beaded accents (which does appear on the shirt he wears under his kilt at the winter palace). He does think most shoes are ugly but that's his own bias cause most just look pretty uncomfortable to him unless they're just boots for traveling or simple shoes to protect oneself from the elements.

Looks he does like but won't try on himself would be long like tolkien ish looking robes. He's short, and he thinks while the long robe look is very elegant and beautiful he does not think he has the height to pull it off. Also everything Dorian puts on his body. All of it. The man has great style he can't deny that but he doesn't think he would ever look half as good as Dorian does in the clothes he wears. If the shape of the clothes makes his torso look longer he will probably steer clear cause it makes his proportions look weird. Also....thigh high boots. They look hot on a lot of people, but not him.

[the-socially-awkward-cat]

Brewing heart. (Part 1)

One day I wondered how cool would be to have scotish orcs in kilts ... this is what happened.

Warnings: This was a rp between two person wich first language its not english... Its probably full of mistakes in the thense and typos. Also its super self indulgent. Citrus: citrus scale, sexy tighs, mentions of sex,monsters... Future sexual content. 

Any information or correction about scotish culture its welcome. Also spelling and grammar corrections are apreciated. 

Muriel have traveled almost the whole day by  foot. It was crazy considering the  path she took conducted to the orc town , where humans were too scared to go. But she had rocks thrown at her after being called slut why all her village. No way she was going to marry the old as balls chief of her village, and oh big surprise, the chief was a sore loser.

It started to rain " Just great " she mumbled . She entered in a tavern called " Wildboards head ".

The tavern had a rustic old look, a warm fire was at the end of the large room full of tables and candles. Some orcs sat at the end on the largest table, playing some card games. As the door opened they turned around and one of them, the largest in a kilt was standing up. He mentioned the others to stay as he took a few steps to her crossing his arms.

"What's a human girl doing in my tavern?"

Muriel hesitated for a second. The orc was big and muscular, but her stomach was growling and she needed to survive some way " I would like to order something " she said and taked a small wooden barrel of her travel bag " But i don't have money , I do have this extremely fine mead if i could trade it for some food... Or i can wash dishes... Anything it's fine " she hoped the huge orc didn't just kicked her ass out in the rain.

The orc was looking at the barrel, then at the girl.

"Did you made this yourself or did you stole it?" he stepped forward, is shadow casted over her

Muriel looked at him dead in the eyes " Of course i didn't stole it ! My father was a fine craftsman and teached me the ways , I did this with my own hands sir! "

" Oh for the Gods Duncan! " Said an orc woman behind the bar " Don't you see the poor thing is alone and wet? Don't be an ass " the orc women scolded the Orc in kilt.

Duncan took the barrel and walked to the others, gave two of the warriors a glass fill and himself as well. He emptied it, waited a moment and turned to Raksha. "Give her some boar meat and a place to sleep. Tomorrow she will help you with the dishes and brewing." he said and sat down.

Raksha, the orc woman smiled to Muriel and let her sit. Muriel could enjoy some warm food. She was starving. Later the orc women showed her a small room for her " If you really did that yourself , you have a chance to work here. Good night, we start early " Muriel undressed and laid in the bed. As a human she should be terrified of be surrounded by orcs. But the orc women even helped her... That's more she could say of her old village. She fall asleep almost instantly.

The next morning at 4:30 Am, Duncan woke her up. drinking a big cup of coffee, he placed some leftover boar meat and a smaller cup on the table in her room. "In a half hour I want to see you at the kegs. It's cold so better take this." he gave her some fine leather filled with boar and bear fur, shoes a hat and gloved. "We will go on Honey hunt."

Muriel noded. She even felt a pinch of happiness. The business was almost nonexistent for her since her father died. Idiot men that looked at her like she was too stupid to run a business. She ate and dressed. And went to find the orcs " Good day " she said unsure how to refer to them " Mistress ? Sir? "

Raksha laughed in good spirit.

Duncan stood next to the kegs with a other orc, who was carrying a empty wooden barrel. "Duncan, this is Pawel. Just our names is fine Muriel." he said. "We will go in the forest now, better take this." he gave her a long, used looking dagger. "Just in case."

Muriel saved the thing in her belt "Yes. Nice to meet you  Pawel "

Pawel nooded and grunted, as he walked in front. Duncan walked next to Muriel to have a chance to talk with his new worker. "So, tell me of yourself, why you came in a tavern full of orcs? Mostly, humans avoid this place or are just stupid and think they could rob us."

She looked down " You do look scary for human standards... But i had no choice. People in my village just ignored me, i couldn't keep my dad's business. No one buyed to a lonely woman. And the chief just wanted a young wife for... For whatever his old rod wanted "

The orc growled and spit on the ground. "That's why we avoid your kind normally as well. Glad to see not all of you are that rotten inside." They stood on a river which separated the forest and the field. Pawel got down on a knee and offered his shoulder for her to hang on

She hesitated. But she had no more choice than to accept the silent offer.

" Do they really just refused to trade with you cause you are a woman ? " Raksha seemed highly offended

Pawel stepped through the cold water together with Duncan who lifted his kilt not to make it wet. "If so, we know which village we need to watch. If they are like this maybe they have something against orcs as well."

" I do think you should avoid them" Said muriel trying to dont too obviously stare to Duncan's muscular bare thighs " The chief will never ask for friendship to someone that doesn't look human ... Or male ". For the Gods , that orcish kilt was showing too much ...

Pawel kept a poker face but saw the woman blushing. "Pawel, give her back the ground she has work to do." he said. Pawel lifted she careful down and laughed as she saw her blushing face. "You have little hands, perfect for getting the honey." they lit up a small fire under a wild bees nest, waited a few minutes till the bees went away by the smoke.

Muriel  taked the hint and reached for the beehive. She extracted the honey as carefully as she could. She filled the cups with the honey, carefully to extract as much as she could.

Duncan watched her carefully as well as the surrounding area. "We usually break it into two so we have little honey we can get out of it. With what you have gathered, you will make a few dozens liters." he said smiling wide. He tried some of the honey. "Excellent."

Muriel smiled softly. " Yes, thank you , there is something else we have to  save ? Herbs and berries make good mead too, have you ever tried beer made with bread ? "

"Beer made with - my Sister and Pawel will gather berries and what you need, we will carry and clean up the honey to the Tavern. You're quite a surprise Muriel." he smiled and nodded at Raksha. "Take your time, Pawel, look for something to hunt. We have a mouth more to feed." Duncan took the two barrels of honey and smirked at Muriel. "Come."

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Hi, I dont know if you have watched 3x09 yet. But in one of the scenes we see a flash of a Fraser kilt and I was wondering could you do a prompt where Jamie wears it again for the first time again? And maybe have a bit where he gives Claire her own piece to wear. Thanks in advance. 😃✌

The Advantages of a Kilt

We’d been one month in North Carolina, and had spent most of it trying to determine where we stood among the locals. Our temporary homestead, located within a day’s ride of Salem, had seen a steady stream of visitors since our arrival. Whether they were new or longtime residents, the majority had given us a sincere—if not slightly awed—welcome upon hearing “MacDubh” had come to the Colonies. 

To my pleasant surprise, any fears of any being ostracized (I’d been a stranger in a strange land far too many times) were unfounded. Rather, the company of so many Scotsmen made our home feel as any home should: Warm, inviting, and most of all, safe.

I could sense that Jamie felt it too. While Scotland would always be a part of him, thriving in the very marrow of his bones, he conversed with our new neighbors like lifelong friends. And justly so: For the first time since 1741, he wasn’t pursued by men, or worse, by old ghosts. His comfort had even extended to his clothing—a progression I was more than happy to see. He hadn’t worn a kilt in since my return—such garments being outlawed after the Rising—but now that we were safely across the Atlantic, and far from the Red Coats who hunted him, Jamie had dug out his Fraser tartan.

Just yesterday I had seen him out in the fields, making arrangements for the fall harvest in his red and green kilt. The sight of it, alone, had made me pause at the laundry lines, if only to appreciate the confident way he carried himself.  

Confidence had always come naturally to him, of course, but it had increased without the shadow of persecution. And this first sight of him, wearing his kilt, only convinced me further that we were here to stay. I’d sighed, happy at the thought of permanence and hoping it would last.

Presently, I was grinding herbs inside our small cabin. Jamie, clad in that same kilt and a pair of eyeglasses, was reading a letter from Jenny. His leg was propped up on the lower spindle of a stool, right knee bared to the shafts of waning sunlight. For all women’s talk of abs and biceps, I thought a man’s knees were vastly underrated. I said as much.

“Knees?” Jamie replied. “Well, if that’s all it takes…” He repositioned himself on stool so that his knee was closer to me, more exposed. I spotted a small scar there—a silken white line that stretched from the top of the cap to the bottom—and wondered where he’d gotten it.

Though I’d been reunited with Jamie for over a year, I was still taken aback by these reminders of our separation. The decades we’d spent apart occasionally reared their heads, announcing themselves in the different cadences of Jamie’s speech or, in this case, the marks of his body. A familiar sadness pulled at me—a regret for every change I had not been able to witness, cherish, or mourn.

I turned back to my work, wanting to distract myself from these gaps in my knowledge of Jamie’s life. But still—even I could not ignore that damn knee.

“So what d’ye think, Sassenach?” he asked then. “Perhaps it’s no’ as pretty as it once was, but it’s still a fine knee.”

“Very fine indeed,” I said, still grinding away with my stone pestle. Feigning nonchalance, I asked, “Does this mean the kilt has been reinstated into your wardrobe?”

“Aye, if the lady desires it.”

I studied him, and tilted my head in mock consideration, as if such a thing had never crossed my mind.

“Mmm. I suppose she does.”

“Good,” he replied. “Much more comfortable than trousers, kilts.”

“They certainly have their advantages,” I said, purposely avoiding his eyes. 

“And what might those be, Sassenach?”

I didn’t have to look up to see the expression on his face. How the slight curve of his lips would indicate he knew full well what advantages I meant—and all the ways in which he’d put them to good use.

I did have to look up, however, to understand what the bloody hell he did next. Somehow, he’d already divested himself of his shirt and had tied it neatly across his chest, as though to staunch an invisible wound. His arm had grown suddenly stiff, and he held shoulder at an unnatural angle.

His knee, of course, remained fully exposed.

With a false grimace, he said, “Hurts bad enough, sitting still. I couldna manage a horse…”

I rolled my eyes.

“Oh, I see what you’re playing at, James Fraser.”

If it weren’t the smells wafting through the open window—so distinctly North Carolinian—I might have believed we were back in Scotland. I could almost envision the two of us during our first meeting in 1743: He, a 23-year old Highlander injured from a raid. I, a 20th century outlander stranded in a different century. The both of us brought together by the whims of chance or—if one believed in such things—by fate.

“My shoulder’s dislocated, Mistress,” he said, doing his best to sound young and gravely wounded. “I canna move my arm.”

I smiled, kneeling down beside him, and left a trail of kisses from his shoulder across his collarbone. His laughter, a rumble far deeper than it had once been, vibrated against my lips as he gasped and exclaimed, “It doesna hurt anymore!”

“It will,” I recited dutifully. But even so, Jamie seemed notice a deficiency in my performance. After his eyes appraised my figure, clad in a homely woolen gown, one of his brows raised with a suggestive, “Hmm…”

I understood his meaning immediately.

“Jamie,” I said, looking towards the door. Duncan had been sent out to fetch firewood and would surely be back any minute. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m seriously injured, Sassenach,” he replied. “ And yer a nurse wi’ a fine touch—though if memory serves me, I dinna think yer meant to be dressed so respectably.”

I rolled my eyes, but with one final peek towards the still-empty doorway, I dressed down to my shift. If it wasn’t the exact outfit I’d worn on my first trip through the stones, it was at least something Mrs. Fitz would blanche at.

A breeze lifted the thin fabric, sending a chill down my spine as the wool pooled on the floor.

Apparently, the chill had made itself known elsewhere, for my husband was ogling my breasts with a glassy-eyed stare. I took a step forward and managed in the most authoritative voice I could, given the circumstances: “Not a wet nurse.”

“Aye,” Jamie mumbled, quickly falling back into his role. Still, he gored me with his eyes, fighting the grin that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You musn’t move the joint for two or three days,” I continued pointedly. The words came easily, like our encounter in that tiny cottage had happened only yesterday. “When you begin to use it again, go very slowly at first, and—”

“Slowly, is it?” Jamie said, the ‘injured’ arm reaching towards me. His hand inched its way beneath my shift, and upwards, to begin a torturous rhythm between my legs. “How’s that, Sassenach?” he asked eventually, and I could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Slow enough for you?”

I moaned.

There may have been scars, wrinkles, and age spots Jamie and I had not been there to see, but a different kind of familiarity had remained unchanged over 20 years. In the span of a few minutes, I knew Jamie could still unravel me completely—and I reveled in the surety of his knowledge, and in my own surety that he had it.

Thoughts of Duncan completely forgotten, I urged his fingers to move faster.

“Faster? Yer breaking your rules, Sassenach,” Jamie tsked, getting to his feet as he continued to work against me. “If I did that, you’d punish me for it.”

In response, I dug my nails into the vulnerable skin of his back, while my other hand snaked under his kilt. I held him, then, in more ways than one—and this, too, we understood. 

More than willing to concede, Jamie allowed me to push him towards the table, both of us pawing at the clothes we still wore. My jars and notebooks were shoved aside, their clatter against the floorboards outmatching the noises we were making ourselves. Duncan, if he heard, would likely think a bear had invaded our home. At the moment, I couldn’t care less.

With Jamie now standing in front of me, and I sitting on the table, I wrapped my legs around his torso. Lips and tongues met in a hard and frenzied dance, and I broke away, breathless, to bite the lobe of his ear.

“I’ve half a mind to show you the advantages of a kilt,” I said, “Though as your nurse, I’m not sure it’d be professional.”

“Show me,” Jamie whispered, smiling into my neck. “I like it when ye break your rules.”