#cridhe = heart

[brewed-pangolin]

There is just something so endearing about Soap MacTavish in the morning.

The soft golden light of the sun playing along the tips of his disheveled mohawk. Its bright honey color accentuated the stubble along his chin, dabbling it in crystalline sunlight flecks that glisten with every movement of a dreamlike breath.

Yet, somehow, despite the glowing aura that currently surrounded him, it was his eyes that always seemed to pull you in the most in the early hours of the day. Still hidden from view underneath heavy lids and caged behind thick lashes that never ceased to tear a jealous groan from the depths of your chest.

Slowly, as to not outright disturb him from his much needed slumber, you inched yourself closer until your chest pressed against the flesh of his arm. Dipping beneath to place yourself between his muscular reach and the density of his torso. Laying your head just below the cusp of his underarm as your hand delicately laid out atop the flesh of his chest.

A subtle twitch to the corner of his mouth is the first indication that your gentle measures are quickly culminating to the desired effect.

You feel the muscles tighten beneath his taut skin as he expands the bulk of his chest to inhale a heavy breath. Dense fibrous tissue rippling underneath his flesh to the flexion of his limbs, stretching his stiff form from the tight grip of sleep to pull you closer against him as a breathy growl rolls over a lengthy exhale.

"Mornin', bonnie," he mutters. Voice groggy and thick with Scottish brogue while his eyes still hide behind the curtains of his lids.

"Good morning, mo cridhe."

And likes Moses with the Red Sea, that simple term of Gaelic endearment uttered so sweetly from your lips finally parted the veil to his soul as he cast down his celestial gaze upon you.

"Hmm. Yer learnin', hen."

"I do what I can, Johnny," you breathed lowly. Catching a lump in your throat as your thoughts bottle between the walls of your windpipe.

"Besides, I love waking up to those beautiful blue eyes of yours."

"Jus' me eyes, lass?"

The sun's light trickled at the edges of his cerulean maelstroms, igniting a golden blaze that licked towards the flexing obsidian and tugged you further into the gravity that was him.

Words dissolved on the tip of your tongue as you lost yourself within the immensity of his stare. No other could make you forget the simplicity of language and the necessity to breathe like John MacTavish. Only with the gentle feel of his thumb against your shoulder did you ultimately fall back to Earth. Landing in his bed of unending affection to nestle yourself forever into the deep crevices of his heart.

"Not just your eyes, Johnny."

Your admission falls on a gradual exhale, fingers traversing along the middle of his torso between the deep grooves of his abdomen. Guided by a trail of perfectly dusted hair beneath his navel, only to halt your descent and place the palm of your hand along the curve of his Adonis belt.

"Then wha' is it, bonnie? Wha' is it about me eyes tha' makes ya go all dopey?"

You contemplated your answer for a moment. Running your fingers along the length of his pelvis to feel the tightening tension beneath his skin.

"They're like a second dusk before the blinding brightness of the sun washes them away. A last glimmer of twilight peaking through the ether, only to succumb to the glare of breaking dawn."

"Steamin' Jesus, lass. Ya jus' come up with tha' one? Or have ya been holdin' on tae tha' fer a while?"

"Little bit of both."

Your confession rolled over your trembling bottom lip like fog on a pebbled shore. Embedded with a hint of humor that never went unnoticed as Soap responded in kind by gently shifting you onto your back.

Bringing your hands to rest along the dense curvature of his neck, hovering above and caging you against the mattress as he lowered himself between the spreading valley of your open legs.

"Ya keep talkin' like tha', bonnie, an' yer gonnae find these eyes between a pair of very familiar thighs."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Wonnae be tha' last either."

Soap's eyes lit up like glistening orbs caught in a raging firelight. His smile etched across the entirety of his mouth, only further accenting his paradisical demeanor as he graced your lips with a kiss that breathed new life into the dawning of your groggy soul.

Immediately granting him entry into the warm chasm of your mouth. His exquisite tongue carrying the remnants of last night's whisky with the subbtle smokiness of tobacco etched along its fragrant border.

The mind-altering concoction seeping into your bloodstream like a substance not meant for the frailty of this world. Tearing away the cemented walls of reality as you fell like a heavy stone into the sunken fabric of the mattress beneath.

"Wha- what about me, Johnny?" You crooked when his lips tore away from your mouth, moving across your jaw and into the curve of your neck.

"You? Wha' ya mean?" He questioned between gentle, open-mouthed kisses against your neck. Voice subdued and muffled as his tongue lapped at the divine saltiness of your skin.

"What am I to you, Johnny? Right now."

Soap reluctantly pulled his mouth away to stare into your fluttering depths once more. Minding the growing fluster behind your eyes, taking note of your change in breath and the deep flush emanating from the valley of your chest.

"You, mo ghrádh," he started. Accent thicker than molasses and collapsing like time hardened lumber.

"Yer like the first sip of scotch on a cold winter's mornin'. Hot, heavy, and so damn addicting."

The air in your lungs froze, leaching their life giving oxygen into your pleading bronchioles. Halted by his unapologetic sincerity as your blood purged from your chest to pool within the deep chasm of your core.

"Jesus Christ, Johnny. You just bought yourself a one way ticket to Poundtown for that one."

"Aye? Complimentary in flight meal?"

"Of course. Only the best for you."

"There's a good lass."

He pressed his lips to yours for one final union. Only to begin his methodical descent, traversing over the curve of your neck and into the deep vale between your breasts. His calloused yet tender hands following in their wake, gliding over the perking flesh of your nipples while his mouth ghosted over the undulating skin of your stomach. The sporadic movement of your diaphragm creating a constant wave to your torso, tugging a smile to the corners of his mouth as he breathed a muffled chortle against the suppleness of your skin.

"Didnae expect so much turbulence, bonnie."

"Shut up, Johnny."

The bed shifted beneath your trembling frame as he repositioned himself between your thighs. Only now, with heat of his body pulled away did you feel the wetness embedded within your folds. The cool air causing a shiver to run up your spine as he cradled your knees over the sculpted broadness of his shoulders.

"Fuckin' hell, lass. Yer soakin' fer me already," he muttered against the sensitiveness of your inner thigh.

Prolonging the inevitable. Torturous intent with an impish furrow to his brow as he patiently waited for that simple utterance to give him the verbal go ahead.

"Johnny, please.."

"Aye. There it is."

Tagging the Soap Sqaud, as this will be my last post for the season.

@deadbranch @ohgeesoap @writeforfandoms @efingart @sofasoap @d3athtr4psworld @mini-metal @shotmrmiller @homicidal-slvt @glitterypirateduck @astraluminaaa @ghosts-goldendoodle @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world @crashtestbunny @greatstormcat @crashandlivewrites @glossysoap @soapsgf @devcica @gazs-blue-hat @tacticalanxiety @chamomiletealeaf @thetrashpossum @simpingoverquestionablemen @queen-ilmaree @weebumochi @dustycrusty09 @sadstone-s @foxface013 @lily-ilo @slutweeds

[chaosbarelycontained]

The English Captain

Pairing: John Price x f!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, 18+, sexual content, 2nd person, no use of y/n

Words: 5.3k

Synopsis: Life is hard in the Scottish Highlands in the 1740s. When your brother, Johnny, returns after a long absence with not one but three hated Englishmen with him your relief quickly turns to fury. You couldn’t have predicted how effortlessly they would fit into your lives, particularly the handsome Captain…

(puthair = sister, mo cridhe = my heart)

Hoisting the laundry basket onto your hip, you made your way out into the courtyard, rocking slightly to compensate for the extra weight. You may have been lady of the house but in the wild, unforgiving beauty of the Highlands, everyone pulled their weight. You weren’t one for sitting idle and, with your older brother vanished for nigh on two years now, you’d had to make sure that your land and people were well taken care of. Times were hard but you MacTavishes were made of sterner stuff.

There were already a row of sheets and blankets on the line, swaying gently in the fresh breeze. You dumped your burden on the floor at one end of the courtyard and bent to retrieve a chemise from the top of the basket but as you rose a figure caught your eye, standing at the gate in the back wall. You straightened, your brain not able to process what your eyes were telling you to be true. Sheets wafted in front of you, blocking your view, and you cursed, batting them out of the way with your hand. They tangled around your wrist and arm and you yanked hard, almost dislodging them from the line in your frustration. Finally you were freed and you whipped up your head to confirm what you thought must be your imagination, but no. Your eyes did not play tricks on you. There he stood, boyish grin causing the bright, cornflower blue of his eyes to twinkle.

“Johnny,” you whispered in disbelief before taking off across the courtyard and launching yourself into your brother’s arms.

His deep, joyful chuckles resonated in his chest as he wrapped his arms around you and lifted you up into the air, twirling you once before setting you back down onto the cobbled floor. You stepped back an inch or two, eyes raking over his tall frame - leaner now than when you last saw him. He sported an impressive growth of stubble which did little to hide the angry red scar that traced from his ear and along his jaw and it was the sight of it that reminded you of why he left.

Anger rose quick and hot within you and you pulled back your hand and gave him such a smack across his cheek that it echoed across the courtyard, bouncing off the grey stone walls of your family home. His head whipped to the side and he gripped his jaw, wiggling it back and forth a little, but he snorted out another laugh as he looked at you fondly. You stood before him, five and a half feet of unbridled fury, with your hands fisted on your hips in an effort not to hit him again.

“It’s good to see you too, puthair,” he chortled, reaching out to ruffle your hair but you smacked his hand away with huff.

“Two years, John MacTavish. Two years since you went off galavanting, looking for a fight, and narry a word since. And then you turn up again with all your smiles and laughter as if you’d never been away?” You leaned forward slightly, your finger jabbing in his chest to emphasise your anger. “Don’t think for one moment that you’re getting the laird’s chamber back from me, you can sleep in the damn stables for all I care - you smell like you belong there anyway!”

“Definitely a MacTavish,” came a voice from beyond the gate. An English voice.

“Oh, absolutely,” sounded a second, and there was a hum of agreement from yet another.

Your hand went to the small knife that hung from your belt as your eyes darted agitatedly to Johnny and then to the wall, as if trying to see through the stones. Your brother held up his hand placatingly, although he began to look a little sheepish.

“Before you start raising merry hell, puthair, just listen,” he began, in the tone you had long known to associate with some form of mischief.

You crossed your arms over your chest and raised your eyebrow scornfully, waiting for what would surely be one of your brother’s most colourful tales. Before he spoke he called over his shoulder, inviting the owners of the voices to step into the courtyard.

“Ach, you need back-up for this, aye?” You sniffed, resting your weight on one hip and tapping your foot impatiently.

“These men are the best I’ve ever met,” Johnny said confidently. “I would not be back here now if it weren’t for them. At the least I owe them my hospitality. Gentlemen, may I present my sister, Mistress Galbraith.”

You bobbed down automatically, the politics of being lady of the house winning the battle with your anger and frustration, but the sound of that name caused a pang of grief to well up inside you. It passed over your face like a dark cloud and of course your sharp-eyed brother noticed.

“Where is Angus?” He asked. “Is he away to the village? We did not pass him on the road.

“Angus is…gone,” you said, your chin raised in defiant strength against your grief. “He passed from a fever not two months after you left, Johnny.”

“Ach, no,” he responded sadly, wiping his hand down his face. “I am so sorry. He was a good man.”

“Aye, that he was,” you agreed, “and he didn’t shirk on his duty to our land and people. He treated them with a fair hand.”

Johnny had enough good grace to look embarrassed; he had never planned to be away so long, or for his now-deceased brother-in-law to pick up so much slack.

“We are sorry for your loss, Mistress Galbraith. I see that our arrival here is inopportune. My men and I will take our leave and find alternate lodgings elsewhere. We do not wish to cause any problems.” There was a rich timbre and genuine emotion to the words and you found yourself being drawn to the speaker.

He was tall, a couple of inches taller than your brother, and bore himself proudly. A beard graced his cheeks, with a fuller moustache, and he had kind eyes beneath his dark felted cap. You took in more of his countenance but hissed at the sight of the battered and torn coat that he wore, the redness of it showing distinctly through the grime of the road.

“You’re not just bringing Englishmen to my door, John MacTavish, you’re bringing red coats? Have you lost your mind? What if the militia pass by, hmm? Do you want us all to hang?”

“Puthair, I owe these men my life a hundred times over. I could do no less than offer them place to stay and the food off my table.”

“Your table? It’s yours now, is it? Fine,” you spat, turning on your heel and stalking off across the courtyard.

Halfway to the house you halted, having heard no indication of anyone following.

“Well?” You snapped over your shoulder. “Do you want feeding or not?” With a jerk of your head towards the house you resumed your journey, a hidden smirk on your face at the sounds of four men scrabbling to follow along behind you.

Hums and mumbles of appreciation spilled from hungry lips at the food you’d set before them in the kitchen. It wasn’t great fare at such a lack of notice - cold meats, cheese, and hunks of bread - but the men acted as if it were the first proper meal they’d had in weeks. As you looked more closely at them you began to suspect that was not too far from the truth.

Through mouthfuls of bread and ale, Johnny began to introduce the men proper. There was Sergeant Garrick, Lieutenant Riley, and then their red-coated Captain, John Price. He humbly scoffed away Johnny’s attempts at explaining their escapades, saying that your brother had a talent for over-embellishing a tale. Whilst you knew the latter to be a common occurrence, there was something in Johnny’s eyes that spoke the truth. These Englishmen had risked their lives to rescue your brother from Fort William and you were grateful enough not to question their reasons for turning coat on their own army.

“Alright then, gentlemen, you may as well stay,” you sighed, as if it were the world’s greatest burden. “We have rooms enough but you’ll work for your keep, mind.” You waved your bread knife at them but your amicable threat was dulled by the blush that rose in your cheeks at the sight of the Captain’s grateful smile.

One night turned into two, and then more, and the three Englishmen became a common sight around the house and its grounds. They were with Johnny more often than not, helping out wherever it was needed, and you began to appreciate the hum of conversation and low chuckles of laughter. Your home had been too quiet for too long.

Having had the burden of clearing the supper table taken from you by the often-brooding Lieutenant Riley, you found yourself alone in your small parlour, relishing the quiet of the evening. You selected a book from the small collection that had once belonged to your grandfather, the leather-binding soft with age, and settled yourself onto one of the comfortable, overstuffed couches. You read with a rare self-indulgence, taking sips of whisky from the glass you had poured, and sighed deeply in satisfaction. Your little haven of calm was not to be such for long, however, and you rose to your feet, book in hand, when the door opened and a figure stepped inside.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Madam,” the Captain said, quietly apologetic. “I thought the room empty.”

“You are not intruding, Captain,” you replied. “I was merely reading.”

“Milton, I see?” He asked.

“Aye, not bad…for an Englishman,” you replied with a teasing tone to your voice and Price responded with a gentle, self-deprecating smile.

“It must not be easy for you, having us here.”

“I find I have grown surprisingly accustomed to the company,” you said. “This house has been quiet for too long.” You did not mean to taint your words with sadness but the astute Captain noticed regardless.

“Still,” he said, “three foreigners do not make for the ideal houseguests. I will take my leave and allow you your peace.” He placed his hand on his chest and bowed then, about to turn and leave.

“You…you may stay, if you wish,” you rushed out, making him pause. “It seems you know this book and it would be nice to have someone to discourse with. There is whisky in the cabinet too, Captain, if you would care for a dram?”

Price looked at you for a moment, as if he were searching for something, and then nodded brusquely, pouring himself a glass of Ferintosh. He took a seat at the other end of the couch that you occupied, angled to face you, and sipped from his glass with an appreciative hum.

“Considering recent events, I do not think I am able to wear the mantle of Captain,” he said with a wry smile.

“I may not care for the English,” you begin, your answering smile taking the sting from your words, “but I know that titles must be earned. No-one can take that from you.”

“Officially they can,” he said, taking another sip.

“A man should always be measured by his deeds, Captain. You brought my brother back and to me that is worth more than even the King could bestow. Now, tell me your thoughts on Paradise Lost.”

You talked long into the night, finding yourself entranced by the opinions and ideas of the English Captain. What began as an unexpected interruption continued into evenings of enjoyable companionship that you found yourself yearning for at the end of a long day running the house. At times you were joined by one or more of the other men but John Price became your constant.

Things had fallen into such a peaceful routine that the MacTavish household grew complacent and it was the panicked arrival of Rabbie, the stable boy, as you ate luncheon with your brother and his friends that sent you all into a frenzy.

“Mistress, the militia, they are…they are coming!” He wheezed, having run at full speed from the other side of the valley.

The four of you leapt from your seats and looked at each other in distress. If the militia found the Englishmen here they would be hanged and more likely you and Johnny alongside them.

“How long?” You snapped, your anxiousness making your tone sharp.

“A quarter hour, perhaps less,” Rabbie panted, bending over with his hands on his knees.

“Take a breath, lad, you did well,” Johnny reassured, patting him on the back.

You rested your fists on your hips and cast about for inspiration, chewing your bottom lip.

“We could ride…” Garrick began but you cut him off with a glance.

“There’s not enough time to saddle the horses. You’d be seen,” you said, and your brother nodded his agreement.

“Johnny,” you said, voice cracking like a whip. “Take the Lieutenant out to the water meadow. Put smocks on and from a distance you’ll pass as farmers. They’ll likely ride on by. I’ll hide the other two here and pray the thieving bastards only raid the kitchen.”

Your brother nodded, managing a laugh at your profanity despite the situation, and led the Lieutenant out of the back gate. You looked at the two remaining men, who seemed rather ready to fight, and tilted your head towards the back stairs. Without another word you guided them up towards the second floor. Reaching a specific point in the hallway you pressed on a section of panelling which moved aside to reveal a narrow stone alcove.

“Sergeant, if you would be so kind as to secrete yourself in here?” You asked, barely waiting for him to enter before you closed the panel behind him.

Despite the size of the house there were not many spaces large enough to accommodate even one burly soldier, let alone two. You paced the corridor, wracking your brain for a place to hide the Captain that you had grown so fond of. The clatter of hooves became louder as the men of the militia drew closer and your pacing became even more frantic, panic brewing at the thought of him being discovered above all others. A hand on your wrist stopped you in your tracks and you stared up into Price’s concerned blue gaze. He held his belt knife in his hand as he pulled you closer to him.

“I will not let them harm you,” he grated, his jaw set and determined.

Your breath caught in your throat and your heart began to pound with something other than fear. Your skin burned at the gentle hold around your wrist and you placed a hand against his strong chest.

“Let us hope it will not come to that,” you whispered. “I have an idea.”

Pushing him backwards into your chambers, you latched the door behind you and toed off your boots.

“What-?” Price began but you shook your head.

“Hurry now, get out of your outer clothes and climb under the covers,” you urged, turning your back to him.

A pounding on the large oak doors echoed through the house and you hurriedly divested yourself of your skirts and stays, leaving you in only your chemise. Thankfully, you heard the rustle of sheets and blankets and could only pray that the Captain had done as you asked. Loud voices and heavy footfall sounded in the corridor outside your room and then the handle of your door rattled ominously.

“Hide your face and say not a word,” you hissed over your shoulder as you waited another moment, taking the opportunity to muss up your hair a little.

Once the rattling handle changed into the pounding of a fist you hurried over to the door and, with a deep breath, turned the latch and opened it a crack.

“What do you think you are doing here, you oaf, disturbing a lady at rest?” You raged, your breathy voice and flaming cheeks giving your ruse an added realism.

The militia man before you peered over your shoulder at the moving figure in your bed and then glanced down at your state of undress. His face flamed but he maintained his confidence, even in the face of your cold glare.

“We’ve heard tales of Englishmen in these parts, Mistress Galbraith. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Does it look like I know anything about any Englishmen, Willie Morris?” You said, opening the door just that little bit wider and gesturing inside so that he could see the distinctly male clothing on the floor.

“Who’s tha- I mean- I didn’t know you had taken another husband Ma’am,” Willie said, craning his neck to try and catch a glimpse of the man occupying your bed.

“What I do or don’t do is none of your concern. Now get out of here and make sure that the kitchen isn’t completely emptied by you and your scavenging companions,” you snarled, shutting the door in his face and fastening the latch.

You stood before the bedroom door with balled fists, vibrating with anxiety until the clatter of horses hooves sounded once more from the courtyard. As they died away a large hand landed gently on your shoulder and you turned and buried your face into the Captain’s warm chest. His arms wrapped around you, calming your nerves and he murmured words in praise of your bravery.

“I thought they would find you, John,” you whispered hoarsely. “I thought we were done for.”

“I’ve never met a soldier with such ingenuity as you,” he rumbled, his hand ghosting over the back of your head, clasping you to him as if you were his to protect.

You stayed that way, comforted in his embrace, until the sound of your brother’s voice startled you from your stupor. You opened your eyes to find yourself staring down at a pair of bare feet and legs covered only by the long tails of his linen shirt. It was then that you remembered your state of undress and you gasped, turning away from him with your face aflame.

“I’m sorry,” you croaked, moving to shrug back into your stays, resisting the urge to turn and stare, “but I would rather my honour be sullied than see your neck in a noose.”

You finished tying your skirts and slipped back into your boots before heading towards the door. As you reached for the handle so did John and your hands met awkwardly, causing you both to freeze. You looked up into the face you had grown so accustomed to in the candlelight of the parlour and drew in a shaky breath. His other hand reached out and grasped an errant strand of hair, holding it carefully, as if it were the most precious thing, and tucked it behind your ear. His fingers brushed over your cheek and along your jaw and his awed expression was one that you knew you would treasure for many a long year.

John parted his lips as if to speak but the door burst open and your brother appeared with Garrick and the Lieutenant; their relief at the sight of you was almost palpable.

“Where did you manage to hide?” Garrick asked, scanning the room.

“Under the bed frame,” you offered a little too quickly. “I convinced them I was changing the linens.”

Supper that evening was a little more raucous than usual. Even the stoic Lieutenant was into his cups and grinning along with the antics of the others, the tensions of the day obviously requiring some form of release. There were two who remained apart from the revelry, however. Seated at opposite sides of the dining table you tried to avoid paying any close attention to the Captain. Each time you caught his eye you were reminded of the warmth of his arms around you, of how tenderly he caressed your face…

You waved off any offers of help when clearing the table and tried to ignore John’s look of dismay when you announced you would be retiring straight to your chamber. Changing into your nightdress, you brushed out your hair and climbed beneath blankets and sheets that were still rumpled from your earlier escapade. You closed your eyes and tried to force sleep upon yourself but no amount of tossing and turning could find you comfortable enough. Thoughts ran rampant through your mind that you desperately tried to shut out; a gentle hand on your face, the rumbled vow of protection, the slight parting of lips that held words left unsaid.

Leaving the warmth of your bed you reached for the door handle but stopped, muttering curses to yourself as you paced nervously before your door. What would he have said if you hadn’t been interrupted? Your curiosity could wait no longer and you yanked on the door handle, pulling open the heavy wooden door and stepping out into the dimly lit hallway.

A movement at the other end drew your attention and you stilled, your heart pounding in your chest at the sight of the Captain, frozen just as you were, wearing only his shirt. He looked to be in as much disarray as you felt, his usually neat hair rumpled as if he had raked his hands through it a dozen times.

There was a moment of stillness and the world condensed into the space between you. Your chest heaved and your pulse fluttered wildly in your throat as the heat of his gaze fanned the flames of your own desire. He looked almost crazed as he stalked down the hallway towards you, his bare feet silent on the wooden boards, and you trembled with nervous anticipation.

He halted before you, a mere hair’s breadth away, his hands tensed at his sides as if he were desperately holding himself back.

“John,” you whispered, reaching for him and resting your hand over a heart that hammered as hard as your own.

It was enough to break the tenuous hold he had on himself. He cupped your cheek as his mouth crashed against yours with a desperate groan, the momentum carrying you backwards until you hit the doorframe with a soft huff of air. His other hand cradled the back of your head, making sure you were not harmed even in the throes of your passion. You wound your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to him as you gave in to your fervour.

Your bodies moulded together as if they had always done so and you threaded your fingers through his hair, moaning sweetly into his mouth as your kiss grew even more urgent. John’s hands slid down your body, tracing the outline of your curves through the thin linen of your chemise before coming to rest on your waist. A tightening of his fingers was the only indication he gave before he lifted you with ease. You wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling him press against you as his lips left yours to trail hot kisses across your jaw and down the column of your throat, his beard scraping deliciously over your tender skin.

He broke away from you and rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathless and trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, pressing his lips reverently to your skin. “I shouldn’t have…I just could not…”

You tightened your legs around him, afraid that he might pull away and set you down and your actions caused him to squeeze his eyes shut and set his jaw as he tried to regain some vestige of self-control.

“No,” you said placing your hand on his cheek to force him to look at you, “John, please, don’t stop.”

His eyes fluttered open, meeting your gaze with a mixture of amazement and pure, unadulterated passion.

“Take me to bed,” you whispered, pulling his lips to yours once again.

Shifting his grip on you slightly he lifted you away from the door frame and carried you through into your chamber, fumbling blindly behind him until the latch was closed. By the depths of the desperation that you knew you both felt, you half-assumed he would toss you onto your bed but he did not. He crawled into the centre of the large oaken frame with you still in his arms and lay you down gently. It was only then that he broke away from you, his hands running down your sides almost reverently, skimming the edges of your breasts and across your hips as he sat back on his haunches.

John ran a hand over his face and he let out a huffed sigh of disbelief at the sight of you laid before him, your hair spread in a halo around your head. You lifted your hand and grasped the bottom of his shirt, pulling him down to you but the anticipated kiss did not come. His lips ghosted across your cheek, along your jaw, his beard leaving a tingling trail on your skin. You gathered more of the fabric into your hands and lifted, pulling the linen over his head with only a little assistance.

You let your hands wander down his defined chest, tracing the outline of his muscles and ran your fingers through the dark hair that decorated them before finding his face once more. His eyes never left yours, boring into you with such a passion as you had not felt in years and you almost squirmed beneath him as desire and impatience collided.

You felt his hand on your knee, firm yet gentle, gliding up over your soft skin and lifting your chemise with it. It was no effort at all for you to shuffle your hips and release the fabric from beneath you, allowing him to draw it over your head and bare yourself to him.

He whispered a curse, his eyes flying back to yours, the blue of his irises darkened to a storm-filled sky.

“Are you sure, my sweet heart?” He murmured thickly, scanning your face for any signs of discomfort.

“If you do not put your hands on me, John Price, I fear I will combust,” you replied breathily, raising your eyebrow in challenge.

Your words had the desired effect and his face brightened into a delicious smile.

“Well then, I mustn’t leave my woman wanting.” He smirked, leaning down and nuzzling into your neck.

“Say that again,” you breathed, arching into his touch.

“My woman,” he growled, nipping along your collarbone and when he slotted his lips against yours you met each tantalising stroke of his tongue with your own.

Your hands touched and explored every part of each other, ardently stoking the flames of your desire until they threatened to consume you both. Cupping your breasts in his large hands, calloused from years of toil with his regiment, John teased your nipples into firm peaks with his thumbs, sending a flash of heat straight to your core. You moaned into his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip as you scraped your fingers down his spine before venturing even lower to squeeze the taut muscles of his arse.

Impatient and eager now to feel him inside you, you pulled away and scanned over his face. John looked as wild-eyed and breathless as you felt, his lips moist and kiss-swollen beneath his moustache. Gripping his hefty bicep you scooted backwards up the bed, pulling him half on top of you as you lay back and carded your fingers through his thick brown hair. He trailed his fingers over your soft belly and your hips, marvelling at the tingling goosebumps they left in their wake. The simple sensation of his warm skin against yours had you shivering with pleasure and, by the growing hardness that pressed enticingly against your thigh, you knew John felt the same.

You used the hand on his face to guide him back to you and he nudged his nose against yours with a smile of such heat and affection that it caused something to bloom to life in your chest. John’s hand trailed lower, closer to your core but he held your gaze almost in challenge, wanting to watch every nuance of expression on your face. He was not disappointed for, when his fingers slipped between your slick folds, your eyes widened and then grew heavy-lidded as he worked over your most sensitive spots, drawing out whimpers of pleasure from your lips.

Lowering his mouth to yours once more he rocked his hips against you in search of friction to soothe the ache in his cock. A gentle yet determined hand against his shoulder urged him to lay back and he went willingly, with your soft lips planting kisses over his jaw and down his neck. To his wonderment you moved your leg over his body and lifted yourself to sit astride his thick thighs. By his expression you thought he would have stared at you all night but his eyes fluttered closed and he groaned in pleasure as you took his cock in your hand, stroking his shaft in a tantalising rhythm.

Lifting yourself up onto your knees, you lined up the head of his cock with your entrance. John’s eyes flew open and he hissed out a curse as you began to lower yourself onto him. The delicious stretch as he filled you had you moaning salaciously and your head lolled back when you reached his base, stilling for a moment to relish in the feeling. Your name spilled from him in a cry of pleasure when you started to move atop him, circling your hips around as you raised them up and down. His hands gripped your waist, in truth to steady you both.

You gazed down at him, the candlelight reflecting in his eyes as you writhed above him. One of his hands left your waist, sliding down to tease the sensitive spot at the apex of your thighs, rubbing tight circles around it as you ground down harder against him. He bucked his hips, meeting you stroke for stroke, and planted his feet on the bed for extra purchase.

“Yes, John, yes” you gasped, gripping his thighs, your fingers leaving indentations in the hard muscles.

Your brows drew together as you began to lose yourself to the sensations running through you and your movements became almost frantic. He reached up to caress your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and finger, matching the rhythm of his hand between your legs and it was that which sent you over the edge of your pleasure.

Biting his cheek to stave off his own pleasure for a few short moments, John slowed his thrusts and eased you through your climax before pulling away just in time to spill his release over his abdomen with your name on his lips like a prayer.

You collapsed to the side of him with a breathless giggle, reaching behind you to pass him a crumpled shirt to wipe himself with. Nuzzling into the crook of his arm, you could feel John’s heart beating as rapidly as yours. He squeezed you tighter for a moment before loosening his hold to pull out the blankets from beneath you and covered you both. He wrapped you in his arms once more and pressed a kiss against your damp forehead.

“Have no fear, I shall sneak out afore morning,” John murmured softly. “But I would beg a few more sweet moments with you until then.”

“As lady of this house, Captain, I do declare that there will be no sneaking.” You poked his ribs playfully, earning yourself a deep chuckle. “I take no shame from this, mo cridhe, and any who say otherwise will not be welcome here.”

“No sneaking then, sweet heart,” he said, with a kiss so soft and gentle that your heart ached. “I could dream of no greater honour than to stand by your side, if you so wished.”

“I wish it,” you whispered, sinking blissfully into the arms of your English Captain.

[analogwriting]

Star-Crossed

Chapter 1: Cridhe

Corazon x gn!reader word count: 3.1k a/n: figured i'd pump out two chapters for y'all. a prologue as always and the first chapter. i definitely decided to just google the word 'heart' in different languages and use that for chapter titles bc idk what the fuck else to do next

After that, you didn’t see either of them again. The two left the hospital and you kept your end of your deal. You erased all traces of them; it was as if they had never been there to begin with. No one questioned you either, you were too valuable to lose anyway. Besides, they knew you had a reason - it wasn’t like this was something you did on a regular basis. You just rang in a bunch of favors and hoped for the best.

Following the events, you finally had the courage to tell your father that you didn’t want to be a part of…any of it anymore. You were going neutral. Things were really put into perspective for you and really solidified just what you wanted. You wanted to be able to help people, not hurt people. You also wanted to be able to help others get out of situations like that as well.

Your father respected your decision. He knew you were strong enough to hold your own and make your own decisions, he also knew he wouldn’t be able to stop you if he tried, so he let you go. He also had an inkling as you started withdrawing way before you had made your final decision. He didn’t include you in any family decisions or really tell you what he was planning with anything. The only thing the two of you talked about was what normal people talked about. Sure, he might have talked about people in the family, but he didn’t talk about work. It was more just funny stories, or if people were getting married, etc. You would talk about school and work.

Because of your father’s understanding, you were able to fully focus on your career. This rundown hospital was going to become your ultimate project. Your lifelong dream. You were going to help people in more ways than just health. You wanted to be able to help other people like yourself, getting them out of that kind of lifestyle. That was your ultimate dream.

You stayed in that hospital, moving up quickly. Before long, you were practically running the place yourself. You graduated college early, getting your doctorate at a young age. Your grades were off the charts and it seemed things came naturally to you. You had an immaculate memory, helping you memorize just about anything and everything, which also aided in your work. 

Over the years, you also built up the hospital’s reputation. You turned the entire place upside down. It was now state-of-the-art. It was the top hospital in the region. You had dragged it from its own grave and given it new life. It was now constantly bustling, people didn’t shy away from coming to get help. You made sure to have some of the brightest minds, but also made sure to have the best bedside manner. 

There was also another, underground side of the hospital you developed. You had achieved your dream, for the most part. While you are neutral and had gotten out of the mafia lifestyle for the most part, everyone was always haunted by their pasts. You were a central hub for them coming and seeking medical attention. Your hospital was good at keeping things under wraps and doing things under the table. You also aided any and all families. You didn’t care who was associated with whom. Your goal was to help anyone who needed it. 

You also helped those who no longer wanted to be in that lifestyle. They would come to you, you would give them new identities, and send them off into the metaphorical night to live a new life. A few families tried to take over the hospital over the years, all of them quickly learning that you wouldn’t go down without a fight. No one had been able to take you down. Between your own abilities and the small handful of trusted people you had to help defend the hospital, no one was taking you over.

Those same people helped you with the underground side of things. They were some of the brightest minds so they ran that part of the hospital.They were your most trusted staff and they tended to stay on the underground side of things, coming in when you needed them. There was always at least one or two staff in the wing, others coming in when you needed. It obviously wasn’t as busy as the hospital itself, so you didn’t need to have it bustling at all times.

“You’re spacing again, doc.” You were ripped from your thoughts as a voice rang through. You looked over seeing one of your most trusted colleagues, Marco. He’s been with you since almost the very beginning, you trusted him with everything. He was also one of the few people who actually knew your history. He helped you run both sides of the hospital. You honestly wouldn’t be able to do all of this without him.

“Thinking about that night again?” There was a smug grin on his face and you wanted to punch him. You groaned, nodding. “I don’t know why. I’ve been thinking about that time a lot as of late.” You folded your arms, shaking your head as you stepped away from the window you had been gazing out of.

Over the years, you hardly thought of Rosinante and the child he had been with. You were focused on your goals, on helping people. The last few weeks, he started appearing in your dreams and you started thinking of that time a lot once more.

“Maybe you’re going to see them again,” he mused, leaning against the doorframe with his coffee mug. “Subconscious manifesting n’ all that.” You regret telling him about your dreams.

You gave him a droll look. “Please don’t tell me you actually believe in that shit.” You rolled your eyes as you moved to pour coffee into your own mug before taking a sip.

“I’m just saying. Why else would you be thinking of it all of a sudden? You even admitted that you hadn’t thought of them in years. And dreams too? We all know that shit is important.”

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean…” You just sighed, shaking your head. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t pop into your head. It was rather annoying. If fate was planning something, you just hoped she’d get it over with. 

“Maybe it’s ‘cause it’s been a decade? I don’t know. Do memories have anniversaries? Milestones that cause something like this? I don’t even know what the hell I’m asking.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. Ugh, maybe you’re just working too much. You were always here.

“Well, if they’re traumatic, yeah. Which, for you, should be almost all of your childhood.” Marco snorted and you rolled your eyes. “Okay, that’s…” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Then I guess if that was the case, I’d just be reveling in the past all the time. So I guess I can check off whatever weird ass theory I had going on.” Not that you could really call it that. It was more of a nonsense ramble. 

“I’m still sticking with my fate theory. Who knows, maybe you’re soulmates and they moved back. Expect to see them soon.” Marco gave you a lazy grin and you rolled your eyes. “Twenty bucks says fate.”

“I don’t mean to offend you, but you’re out of your mind.” He just laughed at you, shaking his head. He glanced at his watch. “Oh shit - we’re late!” He jumped, straightening himself out. “Let’s go.”

You blinked, immediately forgetting about your conversation. “Late? For what?” You looked over your shoulder at him as he pushed you out of your office. You were currently racking your brain for what could possibly be going on right now.

“The new guys are starting today! You know, the two new interns? For their residency or what have you.”

“Oh shit, that’s right!” You started walking quickly down the hallway, Marco hot on your heels. You stopped causing him to almost run right into you. “What were their names again? Shit. I forgot my clipboard.”

“For fuck’s sake, y/n.” He grabbed a tablet from a nurses’ station, tapping away on it. “I don’t know why you don’t just use the tablets, for one. For two, here you go.” He handed you the handheld device and you took it, looking at it.

“Shut up. You know I just like having papers.” You read the screen before you. “Looks like…Trafalgar Law and Nico Robin? They both look promising.” They both had high marks and seemed to pass their tests with flying colors, they also had glowing reviews from their professors. They also seemed to have jumped a few grades like yourself. Prodigies. 

“Wow, I’m reminding you about an important meeting and helping you gather your information beforehand and you can’t even thank me? You wound me, y/n.” Marco feigned hurt, putting a hand over his heart and pretending to faint.

“Oh my god, you are so dramatic.” You laughed, shaking your head with a roll of your eyes. “You’re right. What would I do without you, Marco?” 

“That’s better. I know my worth.” He straightened himself out and you chuckled. “Alright, let’s go. We’re already late as shit.” You started back down the hallway, Marco close on your heels once more.

It wasn’t long before you entered the conference room where the two were sitting. They both turned to look at the both of you. You were greeted by a rather grumpy looking man and a neutral looking woman. Both gave off the same but different vibes.

“So sorry we’re late. We were in a meeting.” Marco shot you a look as you lied and you ignored him, looking at the tablet in your hands once more before setting it on the table.

The two just looked at you and you nodded. “Anyway. I’m Doctor y/n. I’m the head doctor here at the hospital. I run the place. I am typically always in meetings or putting out fires, so I won’t be able to work as closely with you as I would like, but I will be keeping an eye on the two of you. Especially with how promising your resumes and such are. I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful addition to the team and I hope that you find everything to your liking.” You smiled at the two of them.

“I do have an open door policy, so if you need anything - don’t hesitate to come and talk to me or ask. If you can’t find me, feel free to leave a note or let Doctor Marco here know. He tends to somehow always know where I’m at.”

“I have a y/n radar. Comes with the territory of knowing them for so long. It’s how I keep them out of trouble.” You glared at him and this time he’s the one that ignored you. He gave a small wave. “I’m Doctor Marco, by the way. I’m their right hand man and will be the one who is going to be looking over the both of you. Like y/n, I also have an open door policy. We all are going to be seeing each other a lot, so it would really suck if we hated each other, yeah?”

The two just stared at you blankly. It was a bit unnerving, but the both of you had somewhat made fools of yourself by being late.

“Since we were late, I’m going to go out and grab us some drinks. I have a bit until my next meeting and figure that it might be a good way to apologize. Marco is going to start giving the history of our hospital and how things run. Write down your orders and I’ll go and grab them from the cafe down the street.” You smiled at the two before you. The woman returned your smile, but the other seemed to keep the same face. 

Oh man, you always hated the awkward first few weeks of anyone’s residencies. 

--

After grabbing the interns’ orders, you headed out. You obviously knew yours and having known Marco so long, of course you also knew his order.

You were mentally kicking yourself for being so off today. You had no idea why you were like this. You were usually so punctual, organized, and not so…’spacey’ as Marco had put it. Sure, you were growing more spacey as of late, but especially today. You also weren’t the type to stutter and stumble over yourself when introducing yourself. Nothing seemed to be going right. You were mentally kicking yourself.

A familiar feeling overcame you, finding yourself moving before you could process what was happening. Your hand reached out, catching someone by the collar before they fell flat on their face. “Oh my god. Are you okay?” you asked, moving to help them up. 

Only when they stood, they towered over you. A familiar feeling once more and your eyes widened as the man turned around. You felt your entire body grow rigid and your blood run cold as the memories came flooding back for a second time today. You had to be fucking joking.

“I’m so sorry!” 

Donquixote Rosinante stood before you with an apologetic look on his face. The air around him was definitely different from the last time you saw him but…it made sense considering the circumstances. He was more…playful and lighter.

“Are you alright?” he asked you. You blinked, coming back to reality, clearing your throat. “Uh, I’m fine. But are you okay? You’re the one that fell.”

Marco’s words were echoing in your head and you could imagine the look on his face once you told him about what happened. Maybe you wouldn’t. No, you had to. You told him everything.

“I’m fine! I’m really clumsy so I fall all the time.” He let out a nervous chuckle before pausing. He tilted his head to the side. “Do I know you? You look familiar.” He leaned in close, causing you to back away slightly. 

You shook your head, putting your hands up as some kind of barrier between the two of you. Your head was spinning and you felt like you couldn’t breathe. “I don’t believe so.” He narrowed his eyes as he looked at you, making your heart rate pick up three fold. You thought it was going to burst out of your chest.

“Well, I have to get going. I’m running late. Be careful and make sure you watch where you’re going,” you said, inclining your head and basically running off.

--

What the absolute fuck? Your head was spinning. Was that really him? Was everything Marco said true? Did you start remembering those things because he came back and you somehow sensed it? Was it because you were soulmates? No, no. That was fucking ridiculous. There was no way. This was all just pure coincidence.

You wouldn’t have been so shocked to see him if you hadn’t literally been dreaming about the man the past few weeks. If you had just ran into him without all the pretext, you wouldn’t have thought anything of it. 

That had thrown you so off guard you almost completely forgot to grab coffee and had been halfway back to the hospital when you remembered, so you went again. Only you took a different route this time, you didn’t want to risk running into him again.

You eventually dropped the drinks off, but you had a conference call that you had to take care of, so you couldn’t stick around. You did apologize about fifty times to the two. You were making quite the first impression. Robin seemed rather amused, telling you it was fine. Law didn’t say anything except for a thanks for the coffee. Real talker. But you also have done nothing except make a fool of yourself, so he was probably reconsidering working here. You didn’t blame him.

Finally, things calmed down for you. You were sitting in your office, head down on your desk as you were taking a breather. The events of earlier still ran in your mind as well as a million questions. Why now? Of all times? You hadn’t even had time to think let alone process what happened.

“You look like you’re having a great time.” 

You looked up at Marco with a deadpan expression. “How could you tell?”

“Oh, with the way you’re bouncing off the walls, for sure.” He snorted, setting a mug on your table. You thanked him before taking a sip.

“So, what happened on your little excursion?”

You looked up at him as he asked. “How-”

“C’mon. You’ve been off all day. I can feel your anxiety radiating from across the hospital.” He began to sip from his own cup, looking at you expectantly. “Plus, I’m your best friend. I would lose my title if I couldn’t tell.” He grinned at you.

“You know how I’ve been thinking about…you know…all that lately?”

His eyebrows raised and he nodded, immediately intrigued. He looked at the hesitant expression on your face and his eyes widened. “No fucking shot.” A shit-eating grin spread across his face. “I fucking told you!” He laughed loudly, ringing off the walls. He jumped up from his seat, doing some stupid ass victory dance causing you to groan into oblivion.

You glared at him, rolling your eyes. “It’s just a coincidence. Shut up.”

“If it was that, you wouldn’t be all up in a tizzy about it, now would you?” The stupid grin wasn’t going away.

“Who the fuck says ‘tizzy’ anymore.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Damn right I am.”

“Failed. Try again.”

You let out a long sigh and shook your head. “It was only once. I’m sure it was just coincidence and I’m thinking too much about it. I’m just on edge is all.” You shook your head. “They are from here, maybe they moved back for some reason.” You frowned. “Who knows, maybe he rejoined his family.”

Marco rolled his eyes, scoffing. “Yeah…sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, doc.” He wasn’t even going to humor any of that.

“If it happens again, then I’ll…” You thought. “Probably really freak out. You’ll be getting a call immediately.”

“I’ll be waiting.” He grinned behind his mug and you just narrowed your eyes at him. You opened your mouth and he held up his head. “Oh, it’ll happen. Trust.” 

You just rolled your eyes, shaking your head. There was no way it could happen again. Especially not in the way that it did. Right?

[aquadestinyswriting]

I would love just like, a little thesaurus of words/places/names from your work and their meanings and stuff. I don't know how else to explain it, like where you came up with the names and for words that are for your story, how you named things. Does...does this make any sense?

Hi Sparrow, this is such an interesting ask. I do get what you're going for with it and I'll be happy to answer for the stuff that isn't canon to the Titan Fighting Fantasy franchise or D&D, though I will point out where words or phrases are literally just direct translations of Scottish Gaelic. I will also point out where I wasn't the creator of the name or phrase, because I'm not going to do Dru or my husband dirty like that. Speaking of, tagging in @druidx because she might have more nuanced answers to give for some of these.

Places

Ok so let's start with the easier list of the lot shall we?

Toreguard(e): This one was created by my husband as the starting town for all of the D&D campaign adventures that I write about. I've asked my husband if it has an actual literal meaning and he's told me that it doesn't, but it was inspired by Norse words from the viking times. As an aside, 'Tor' does have a meaning, which is literally just 'hill'. So the name can probably be roughly translated to 'Hill Guardian' or something of the sort.

Kar'ak Ungor: The original name of the mountain of Wyrmholme (which is in itself relatively self-explanatory, i.e. wyrm/dragon home). This was taken from the Warhammer Fantasy dwarven language of Khazalid. 'Kar' literally just means 'big stone', which is what a mountain is. The signifier -ak is technically not the correct use of the language as it's used for concepts and not places, but it rolls off the tongue better than Kar'az to me. Besides, this is a different world, so I can do what I like :P . As for Ungor, that was taken from Khazalid as well. It directly translates as 'cavern', but I use it to also mean 'red' in Titan. So the direct translation of the name is 'Red/Cavernous Mountain'

Kar Kherril: The name of this dwarven hold was inspired by Khazalid, but not taken directly from it. It's also a shortened form of the full name since a lot of people can't pronounce the full one, which I've decided is probably Kar'ak Kherrilimir, which would translate directly as 'Mountain of Kherillim's Children'. As an aside; Kherillim is the Titan Fighting Fantasy canon dwarven name for Throff, so I tend to use both names dependent on the context.

Phrases and Words

cridhe-dàime: This was taken directly from Scottish Gaelic and it technically actually translates to 'heart-dame' but I use the second half as 'kin' since I typically use it in the context of Meredith and Elowyn quite specifically, and it rolls off the tongue better than 'piuthar', which is the Scottish Gaelic word for sister. The masculine equivalent would be cridhe-bràthair.

Moradhir: Ok, so part of this one is taken from Moradin (which is the D&D god of the dwarves), but I added the suffix '-hir' in to denote the people who worship Moradin. I'm not sure where I might have got that from, in all honesty. I think I was just trying out different sounds until I got one that sounded 'right'.

I'll link to the Language page of the Wiki for the various words and phrases Dru came up with, as quite as few of them are to do with swearing, and some of the translations are a bit too much for Tumblr directly. That and, if I put them all here, that would make the post 'colour of the sky' long, which no one wants in text form.

Most of the rest of these are basically taken directly from Scottish Gaelic, or Scots but I sprinkle them around my writing.

Hen: This is a Scots word that I use all the time irl. I think it's equivalent to 'hun', which is short for 'honey', which is used as a pet name of sorts in some English-speaking countries. This Scots version, though, is generally used as a sort of pet name for female friends and is pretty universally used as a term of endearment (at least, in my experience).

Ken: Old English and still a modern Scots word for 'know'

Mo Ghoal: Scottish Gaelic for 'my love'

Fear Goalach: Scottish Gaelic for 'beloved man'

Bairn/Wean: Scots words for small children

Those are the main ones I can think of off the top of my head. If you have questions about any others you've come across and you want clarification, let me know.

[sourcherrymag]

four poems by eartha davis (she/her)

 

òran caoimhneis I want you to call me gentle / knead this brittle animal until she swells with loving /  what is the light beyond language? / must it move as all things do, carving passages from small kindnesses?       òran dòrtadh You are spilling everywhere, like kindness / feet poking out to accompany a life / what is saving? / a hand taming linen eyeballs / laying sight on moth wings as if it follow it towards light     gealladh abhainn Every dusk, I make a pact with river / sow palms to her wilted skin & hold — / this, earth says, is an act of ocean / emergence from a sleeping place, a reversal of gasping / & then: we all enter the river like winter / leave with spring between our teeth —     ghrian cridhe I think, now, of how the heart leaks into a sun — must it always be this way? / a riddle of melting & mending & lifelong questions, their apricot pulp shining red / two years, then four / a hole, a wound, the beautiful of your shoulders in sob / you ask why they move as they do / a ballad of bodied heaving / two apples carving sanctuaries from earth / the answer: a tufted chest / little plumes keeping the heart tender as she prays  

Eartha wishes to live gently, kindly, & most certainly by a river. She placed second in the 2022 International Woorilla Poetry Prize Youth Section & has been nominated for Best of the Net, with work published or forthcoming in Wildness, Frozen Sea, Minarets, South Florida Poetry Journal, JMWW, Arboreal Magazine, Discretionary Love, the Basilisk Tree, ELJ Editions, Where the Meadows Reside, the Stirling Review, Revolute, & Eunoia Review, among others. She is a poetry editor at Dipity Literary Magazine, Verdant Journal, & the Expressionist Literary Magazine. She wonders where all the birds are flying to. 

Image : Pale Feather-wing Moth Alucita sp. aff. Alucita xanthodes Alucitidae

[thelallybrochlibrary]

Do you have a masterlist for fics focused on J&C being Fergus' adopted parents? Either canon or modern setting.

Anon: Hiii✨ I’m looking for fics thay involve the relationship between Claire, Jamie and wee Fergus as a family 🥰 I love how cute they are together!

Anon: Hello Librarians! Do you have any fic recs for stories that center around Fergus?

---

Hi @ohmyoverland! Hi anons!

While there are a lot of fics that could fit this category, here are a few to get you started:

the best by far is you by @flyinghome-againstthewind

HIs Prudent Heart by @lallybrochloser

Hogmanay Hauntings by @let-the-dream-begin

Imaginary by @crossinginstyle

La Petite by @bonnie-wee-swordsman

A Place to Belong by @let-the-dream-begin

The Sweetest of All by catrinwrites

then she'll be a true love of mine series by @philtstone

You’ll Be in Mo Cridhe by @crossinginstyle

If you’re looking for more, we recommend searching through the following tags on AO3 (remember that the “/” mark traditionally represents a romantic relationship, while the “&” mark represents a platonic one. Authors don’t always using these tags in this way, but it’s a good place to start!):

Claire Beauchamp & Fergus Fraser

Fergus Fraser & Jamie Fraser

Claire Beauchamp & Jamie Fraser & Fergus Fraser

Fergus Fraser

And, as always, if anyone would like to add to this list, feel free to share them in the comments. Happy reading!

[sgribhisg]

IS CAOMH LE FEAR A CHARAID, ACH SE SMIOR A CHRIDHE A CHO-DHALT.

[Affectionate is a man to his friend, but a foster-brother is as the life-blood of his heart.]

Bho "Gaelic Proverbs and Proverbial Sayings" by T. D. MacDonald

Instagram

[a-luran]

71 maybe? with scoteng of course ❤️

of course! ♡

For prompt 71. "Swallow. All of it."

---

Arthur would moan if he could. He tries to swallow instead and cannot; is only kept from choking by the careful rhythm of Alasdair’s thrusts, his cock making way for his throat to contact before pushing in deep again, steady as the tide.

“That’s it.” His voice is rough and low, his thumbs gentle where they frame the bob of Arthur’s throat, tracing every hitch. “That’s it,” he breathes, and Arthur’s lashes clump together with unshed tears from straining to keep still despite the way his lungs beg for air.

The world is dims between the warmth of Alasdair’s thighs; Arthur has never taken him so deep.

His fingers curl into the bedsheets and somewhere in his drifting mind it occurs to him that his heart should be pounding in something like panic. Instead, it beats constant and easy somewhere deeper than the cage of his ribs. His sternum feels too heavy, his thighs nerveless where they part on the bed, and when he finally reaches up to touch Alasdair’s thigh with shaking fingers he cannot find the strength to raise his head from where it tips over the edge of the bed. It’s Alasdair who keeps him grounded, holding him steady as he gasps for air. His fingers dab spit and cum away from his lips, almost tender when they tangle in his hair. The damp head of his cock nudges Arthur’s cheek and then his jaw when Arthur resists against the cradle of his hands to tilt his head back and press a kiss against the spit-damp length, warm beneath his lips. He feels hollowed out and filled to the brim; there is no room for shame inside him. No breath in his lungs to voice what he wants.

“Again,” Alasdair gasps roughly above him, speaking for them both. “Arthur…”

A thumb against his chin is all it takes for Arthur to let his head loll backwards again, lips parting easily around Alasdair’s cock. The sound Alasdair makes is too soft to be called a grunt, too deep to be a sigh, and Arthur could drown in it.

“Swallow.” The authority in Alasdair’s voice is an anchor. Arthur’s throat contracts on a soundless keen as his throat is breached again. “Like that. Aye, just like that. You’re fucking— you’re perfect.” One of Alasdair’s broad palms closes around his throat, squeezes gently. Hot tears run down his temples. “Arthur.”

Alasdair’s hips pulse, gently. Once, twice, Arthur’s throat clicks with every push and it’s filthy. Every choked moan that is fucked past his lips like spit is obscene and Arthur can’t breathe.

Alasdair calls his name like a curse; whispers mo cridhe like a prayer, and comes so deep down Arthur’s throat that he can’t taste it.

[lady-o-ren]

Whispers by the Fire

Ao3 Link (Here) for easier reading.

Inside the Big House, in the bedroom up the stairs, a hearthfire burns, crackling bright, warming two lovers as they whisper to one another in the quiet night.

Or

Jamie tells Claire about his silly little dream.

//

"So what brought that on?" Smiles Claire, as she rubs her cheek against the hollow of her husband's shoulder, voice frayed from being well-loved and fevered red to the tips of her toes.

Jamie is quiet for a moment.

His blood is still pounding hot between his legs, and his thoughts are secondary to breath and the last vestiges of heart bursting sensation he's desperate to cling to. But somehow he manages to untangle his heavy tongue that's still chasing the sumptuous taste of his wife's cunny to speak.

"Just an odd dream I had, Sassenach."

"Oh?" She says, toying idly with the ruddy hairs that cover the hard valley of his chest and lightly gives a tug. "Why don't you let me be the judge of that and tell me about it - unless it's about you being crowned King of Ireland again."

Jamie snorts into her curls and lifts his big hand from the deep, sweet curve of her waist to trace the delicate bones between her shoulders, feeling for something he knows isn't there.

"Weel, if ye really want the telling . . ."

//

I dreamt I was at Lallybroch, in her forest to the east. I was checking for snares, maybe, and enjoying the rare bit of sun on my face, warming me to the breadth of my bones. I bent to pick sprigs of mint to eat - can taste it even now on my tongue  - when something caught my eye curled inside a red wildflower's bloom, crushed to the ground. . .

Claire . . . it was you.

Ye were naked and mad haired to yer knees, a wee thing that could fit in my palm, wi' ruined wings that must've been like a dragonflys that grieved me so to see. Ye were trembling too wi' the fear of me (as if I'd ever hurt ye, mo cridhe) but when I tried to reach for ye, yer eyes flashed wi' hellfire and ye hissed something wicked at me between yer tongue and teeth.

A curse to shrivel my cock and balls, I think.

So I spoke to you as I would my own soul, promising I meant ye no harm, and being a dream ye believed me, trusted me, let me carry ye against my chest, ever gently so, home.

A'ready verra precious to me ye were.

Next I knew we were in the Laird's room, by the window that overlooks the hills. We were drinking heather ale together wi' ye tiptoed far over the rim and looking more than bonny wearing a tear of my tartan around ye. When ye had yer fill (you greedy thing!) ye called to me, wanting the warmth of my hands to hold ye and I obliged happily, under yer spell I was, and stroked yer curls from yer pink cheeks till yer lashes began to droop (Wouldn't have been surprised had ye purred like Adso too).

But then a sound like the glimmer of starlight filled the room.

And between my hands ye sprouted flutterby wings from yer back, beautiful and blue wi' flecks of lilac and yellow too, the verra colors of our mountain sky. Ye then fluttered around me, giggling mad wi' joy as ye tugged at my hair and tickled my ears (Even nipped my fingers and nose too, ye cruel creature).

So happy we were, I thought we'd keep to each other forever.

But you were made from the sun, the wind and earth, and the forest was beckoning ye home.

You had tears in yer eyes and so did I, when ye kissed my thumb and I yer curls as we said goodbye.

I opened the window and watched my very heart fly away, wondering if I'd ever see ye again. All I could do was hope and pray that I'd one day wake to you curled up on my pillow beside me.

Maybe asleep above my heart, restored by you.

//

"Then I woke half expecting to be alone in the dark but there ye were, looking just as ye did on our wedding night. Bathed in firelight, wrapped in furs . . ."

"And you had to have me right then and there."

Heat crawls up Jamie's neck and cheeks as he glances down and finds Claire's eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Aye, Sassenach. Hope I didn'a bother ye too much."

"Not a bit," she grins with impish intent, and palms the warm damp length between his legs.

Jamie grunts and clasps his hand over her nimble fingers, bringing them to his mouth.

"Cruel creature indeed," he murmurs, and playfully bites her knuckles.

She giggles prettily and wriggles her hand free to prop herself up above his chest, the sparse silver in her hair winking like stars in the flickering firelight, or so Jamie thinks.

"I remember that night too, you know," she says, eyes now full of tenderness, shining like gold, brushing the back of her hand against the scruff of his cheek, enjoying the rough feel against her skin. "I think it was the first time I had ever seen you look so innocent, so at peace. You were even smiling in your sleep, the corner curling just here."

She presses her fingertip against the rising point of his mouth and pulls away before he can sink his teeth into her skin with a squeal.

"Probably dreaming of ye," he grins brightly, and smooths his hands from her waist down to her bottom, squeezing the plump fatness with a hearty sigh of utmost affection. "Though not quite like this one."

"I liked it."

"Ye did?" He blushes." I thought ye'd think the dream and me daft."

Claire smiles, and threads her fingers through the red eddys of her husband's messy hair, pushing them from his brow. "You gave me wings, Jamie. How could that be anything but romantic."

He makes a small, pleased sound in his throat and smiles shyly.

"If ye say so, my faerie lass," Jamie whispers, just before Claire seals her warm mouth to his.

And then they're pressed heart to heart, veiled beneath the dark plume of her curls, loving each other madly through the starry - but no longer quite so quiet night.

//

A/N:

I wrote the dream first but didn't think it made much sense without something to bridge it together so I added the Jamie and Claire parts kinda randomly. Don't know if that works.

Also this is my very first canon/canon divergent fic! I never write them because I can't write canon J/C. But I decided to have this be vague enough that it could go either way in case (and that's a BIG IFFFF) I add on to this series (like a bunch of one shots). If it's canon then it's pre-Big House burning down (I've read Bee's so I know the house is called New House now). If it's canon divergent then Jamie and Claire were reunited much earlier and they can raise their children like God intended!

*Since this is a dream and not a story Jamie tells Claire it's very short and logic goes out the window.

*The last part with J/C was written much shorter and more heartfelt but I didn't think the dream and Jamie's last comment were emotional enough for that kind of response so I went a little lighter. Hopefully it still works.

*For those who haven't read the books the King of Ireland is a reference to a dream Jamie has. So I originally wrote it as "fornicating with horses" but then I thought that was a helluva line to read for someone who hasn't read the books 🤣 like a real wtf!?!

*I can't write intimacy or sex scenes but I decided to throw in that " still chasing the sumptuous taste of his wife's cunny" line at the last second before posting because why not. It's an dumb odd fit but I never go "hard" with anything so . . .

*And one detail I couldn't figure out how to squeeze in or word was that I wanted Claire to be smudged here and here with pollen and would make Jamie sneeze. I thought it was cute. But yeah. Imagine Claire's curls being a little dusted and glimmering kinda like gold.

[itsafanficthing]

My Sassenach - Said What? Seeing Who?

Obligatory - I’m not dead just bad at writing. I’m sure this is full of errors, grammar and spelling but.... hey it's an update.

A03 Link

“Geillis, you speak Gaelic right?”

Claire watched as the pen paused and hovered over the paperwork Geillis was filling out.

“Aye,” she said slowly.

“Could you… I don’t know the spelling. What does “Mo khiddle” mean?” Claire was certain she had botched the word and it sounded nothing like how Jamie said it. It was much breathier, but rougher (and about a thousand times sexier) when he said it.

“Mo khiddle?” Geillis repeated with her eyebrows scrunched over her forehead.

“It’s something like that. More... I don’t know… more air in it,” Claire answered, her inflection rising at the end as if it was a question.

“Well,” Geillis paused, “‘Mo’ means ‘My’ and ‘khiddle’ is’na a word.” Geillis looked at her paperwork again starting to fill in the details on her patients file. She bit her lip as she tried to think.

Claire rehearsed the word in her head. Jamie has said it to her several times in the night. A few of those times had been when he was deep asleep and her name was in the mix of the words she didn’t understand.

Claire clicked her pen nervously. Jamie had said that he “thought” he was “falling” in love with her. Not that he “was already in” love with her. In all honesty Claire thought that she was in love with him as well but she had repeatedly told herself that it was much too soon for that and she was probably just infatuated.

“Khreah,” Claire said under her breath. She was trying to get it to sound the same way that Jamie said it and she knew that she was falling short.

“Khreach?” Geillis repeated as the scratching of her pen stopped abruptly.

Claire looked up hopefully, maybe she hadn’t got it as wrong as she thought.

“What does that mean?”

“Absolutely nothin’, Love,” Claire looked downcast as Geillis continued, “but ‘Chridle’ does.”

“That sounds exactly the same to me,” Claire shrugged. “What does it mean?”

“Where did ye hear it?” Geillis asked cautiously.

“Is it something bad?”

“No, not at all, it’s just uhhh it’s quite erm, personal.”

“Personal?” Claire asked in confusion.  

“Aye, ye ken in French ye say ‘j’aime’ when ye like something, ‘j’adore’ when ye love something. But when ye… ye have that feeling about someone, ye truly love someone ye say somethin’ like ‘je suis amoureux’, it’s similar in Gaelic. The word ‘heart’ in a medical sense is ‘Cridhe’, but then when ye want to express to someone, erm, the proverbial heart it changes to ‘Chridle’. So, it would mean ‘My Heart’ but not in the sense of ‘I’m having a heart attack’, but more like… ‘you are my heart’. Does that make sense?”

Claire swallowed a few times before she could respond and nodded weakly.

“More to the point,” Geillis continued in a businesslike fashion, “where did ye hear it?”

“Oh, just… around. A movie, I think.” Claire lied quickly- aiming for nonchalance but missed the mark by a mile as her voice shook and her cheeks flushed red.

“A movie?” Geillis repeated, clearly unconvinced. “Someone said it to ye?” Geillis guessed as her pen slammed down on top of her paperwork. “Jamie said it to ye?” She guessed again, her voice rising an octave.

“He might have mentioned it,” Claire all but whispered, concentrating very heavily on the file in front of her, pretending to be absorbed while also trying to hide her flaming face.

“What did he say!” Geillis demanded, turning her body fully toward Claire.

“Well,” Claire paused, taking a steadying breath. “He said that, and uh… that he wanted to see me again, and uhh…”

“I mean, in what context did he say it,” Geillis interrupted.

“Oh, uh, he said it in his sleep.”

“So he slept over,” Geillis grinned.

“Well, yeah, and uh, he said it another time, when we were… you know… together.”

Geillis almost shrieked with laughter, “In the throws of passion then! What a poet!”

“Shhh!” Claire hissed as one of the Senior Nurses passed them with a disappointed glare.

“Ye have to tell me everything!”

“I just have,” Claire disagreed as she closed her completed patient file and picked up the next.

“Ye’ve barely told me anything at all.” Geillis looked back at her file and started to write hastily. “Don’t walk away from me Beauchamp! I want more details.” Claire shook her head at her friend, smiling, and made her way back to triage.

It made sense, Claire supposed, that Jamie would say something like that. Hadn’t she stayed awake with anxiety for an hour after Jamie had said that he thought he was falling in love with her as he was drifting off? They’d only slept together twice. Granted, she was Jamie’s first, so it would be a fair assumption that he would be confusing the feelings of lust and love, but that didn’t really explain how Claire was feeling. She knew that felt something for him, but to say it was love? Well, it was much, much too soon for that.

It all felt too difficult, too confusing, too much. And she was definitely over thinking things again. Classic Claire. She didn’t need to worry about these things; their relationship was still so new, and all things going well, it would continue to progress. She just needed to be sure that she didn’t screw things up before then.

—

-I’ve cooked dinner and I have to say, I’ve very much outdone myself. What time do you finish work?-

The message came from Jamie as Claire was opening her front door. Her stomach was entering the painful stage of hunger, it had moved beyond rumbling and was starting to feel like it was eating itself.

-I’ve just got home. I’ll have a shower and come by?-

Claire didn’t wait for a response before she was hurriedly trying to get out of her sweaty, dirty scrubs and into the shower.

-See you soon.-

—

They were dating now. It was official. Monogamous dating. It felt like it had been far too long since Claire had been in a proper relationship. She had been on so many single dates that entering a proper relationship felt foreign. At what point did it feel like they weren’t “dating” but they were a “couple”? Wasn’t that supposed to happen over several months? Maybe even a year? So why then, when Claire arrived at Jamie’s apartment and he kissed her quickly before ushering her inside to a steaming plate of delicious smelling food, did it feel like a practised routine she’d been doing her whole life? The only thing about it that had felt even remotely off was the time lapse between Claire leaving her apartment and arriving at Jamie’s. That felt wrong. It felt like she was just supposed to come home to him.

And that was - Fucking - insane.

She had known Jamie for all of a month. His apartment shouldn’t feel more like home to her than hers did. HE shouldn’t feel more like home to her then he did.

But it did and he did.

“Honeymoon phase,” Claire reminded herself. They were in the honeymoon phase where everything was still bright, fresh and new. There would be a turning point where the routine would become mundane, and there would be something about him that would piss her off to no end, but she would be in love with him and so it wouldn’t actually bother her. Like right now, he had a bit of sauce on the corner of his mouth, stuck in his stubble. She had tried to get him to lick, wipe, wash- anything- something to get rid of it, and for reasons unknown to anyone, he consistently missed before giving up and just leaving it there. He wouldn’t let her remove it either. When she reached out to wipe his mouth he dodged out of her way while laughing. “Saving it for later,” he said as he stopped her hands.

Jamie was stubborn. Stubborn about the smallest, stupidest things. Maybe one day Claire would be beyond annoyed by this. But today, she found it endearing. There were probably a thousand things about Jamie that she would find annoying in time, but right now she was looking through rose coloured glasses. And things looked good.

—

They were sitting on the couch together, the tv playing in front of them, though neither one was watching, when Jamie brought up the topic of family.

“I was wondering,” he said before pausing for a moment. “At what point in us being an item,” he exaggerated, “do we introduce each other to our respective families?”

“I don’t have any family,” Claire shot back automatically. It was an emotionless reply that she had given hundreds of times. She waited for the soft pitying voice that everyone gave her. “Poor orphaned Claire.”

“Ye might not, but I do, and I’d like ye to meet them,” Jamie said unperturbed by her abrupt response.

“Them?” Claire had to clear her throat before she continued. She was surprised by  how he had breezed past her rebuttal, though she shouldn’t have been. He never reacted the way she expected. “How many people are we talking about?”

“My sister to start with,” Jamie said. “Her husband and my nephew. Once ye get past that hurdle ye’ll be more than ready to face the rest of the Fraser/McKenzie clan.”

“Clan?” Claire repeated dubiously.

“I can trace back my family for generations, near on- Adam and Eve- ye ken they were Scottish?”

Claire snorted with laughter. “Sure they were.”

“I have a large family, I won’t lie to ye, but I’m really only close with my sister, Jenny and her husband- Ian. Ian was one of my best friends growing up.”

“Bit weird that he married your sister, isn’t it?” Claire asked. She didn’t have any siblings but surely that dynamic wasn’t usual.

Jamie shrugged half heartedly. “When ye see them together, they just make sense. I don’t think that they even had a chance to see it any other way.”

Claire nodded in response, not really sure what to say. Was meeting Jamie’s family really that big of a deal? The same woman that she had mistaken for a potential love interest for Jamie. Laughable now of course, but in the moment- guttering. Did she know that Claire thought that she was the “other woman”? How embarrassing if she did! How close were Jamie and his sister? Would he have told her? Maybe not. They’d only just started seeing each other. Why would they talk about Jamie’s dating life? That wasn’t a sibling conversation! Or was it? Claire had no point of reference.

“What’s wrong? Ye look like yer brain’s going about a thousand miles a second,” Jamie chuckled casually as he squeezed her shoulder in comfort.

“Oh, nothing, just… thoughts… thinking…” Claire trailed off.

“But yer ok to meet Jenny and Ian? It would mean a lot to me.”

“I-uh,” Claire hesitated before asking Jamie what she was thinking. “Are you close with your sister? I mean you said Ian was your best friend growing up. Are you still that close?”

“Aye, I think so,” Jamie said through a stretch. “They probably ken the most about me than anyone I know.”

Claire nodded in response, that’s what she was worried about.

“They, um, they know about us? Dating?”

Jamie nodded, “Aye.”

Claire tried to unsuccessfully swallow the lump that had somehow lodged itself quite firmly in her throat. She hadn’t met someone’s family since… well since Geillis she supposed. Nothing ever really lasted long enough or was serious enough to warrant meeting the family.

“I can feel ye trembling, mo nighean donn,” Jamie laughed lightly. “If ye’re no’ ready that’s ok. Just have a think about it.”

“I’m not trembling,” Claire retorted. “It’s just been a while since I’ve met someone’s family. I’m not really sure… what… what it entails.”

“Oh, the usual. I imagine some sort of arm wrestling, they’ll take yer measurements,” Jamie said as he took a generous squeeze of her arse. “Probably grill ye about yer past relationships and what yer plans are with me. Just normal things.”

Claire smacked Jamie lightly on his chest. “Very helpful. Thank you. Can't wait now.”

“I could introduce ye some of my mates first, but that would just be Ian and why no’ rip off the plaster off all at once and get Jenny over and done with at the same time?”

“Why indeed,” Claire mumbled.

“If ye really dinna want to, ye dinna have to. But it’s something that I would like to happen… at some time… in our future,” Jamie hesitated over the words, trying to gauge her reaction.

Claire worked to keep her face calm while her heart just about leapt out of her chest at the mention of “their shared future”. When did she become such a commit-a-phobe?

“Fine. Fine. Rip the bloody plaster off then. Yes, I’ll meet them.”

“Only because ye seem so thrilled about it,” Jamie laughed. “I’ll ask Jen when she’ll be in town next.”

—

Meeting Jenny Fraser- now Murray- was, to put it lightly, an experience. Claire was already nervous but watching the tiny woman who was at least a foot shorter than her, come barrelling down the street toward her and Jamie, husband in tow was positively frightening. The fact that Jenny Murray could command an entire restaurant into an almost revered silence by her very presence alone was, frankly, terrifying.

She pulled Jamie in for a hug before turning to Claire and, (Claire looked for a better word but couldn’t think of one) inspected her. Jenny’s face was polite of course, a warm smile on her mouth, but it was the dark blue cat eyes, so similar to her brothers but about four times darker, that, also like Jamie, were the true tell of what she was thinking. Initially Janet Murray was not impressed.

Ian on the other hand held a completely different impression than his other half. Still shorter than Jamie (though that wasn’t exactly hard, the man seemed like a giant sometimes) he was about Claire’s height with sandy brown hair and kind brown eyes. He greeted Jamie with a hug, much less forceful than Jenny’s, and Claire with a smile and handshake.

Once they had settled at their assigned table, with appetisers, meals and drinks ordered, that’s when the real awkwardness started for Claire.

Jenny updated Jamie on the comings and going’s of the village that they had grown up in. Mrs McKinnely had finally had that knee operation and was in a worse mood than usual. Alexander Poole had sold off the back half of his fathers property to a residential developer and the whole town was furious with him. Mrs McKimme (the name said with obvious clues to Jamie and a quick side eye to Claire) and her daughter were doing well and asking after him at every chance they could.

Ian managed to have a small side conversation with Claire to stop her from nodding along to news about people she had never met before.

Jamie took hold of Claire’s hand at some point and it took her several moments to realise that she was clinging to it for dear life when Jenny started to throw rapid fire questions at her.

“What do you do for a living?”

“A nurse? For how long?”

“Why scotland?”

“How long have you been here?”

“Where’s your family?”

“No siblings?”

“How do you enjoy your work?”

“Any plans for travel in the future?”

Claire felt like she was on a game show as the clock was counting down and one wrong answer would disqualify her from future dates with Jamie. She’d barely answered the last question before Jenny was asking the next.

Finally the entrees came out and Jenny had to take a break so that she could eat. Probably summoning the strength for the next round of the Spanish Inquisition.

“So Claire,” Ian said gently, “what got ye into nursing?”

“My uncle,” Claire answered quickly, afraid that Jenny would start up again. “We travelled a lot growing up and he always managed to injure himself in one way or another. It seemed like I was always patching him up.”

“Yer Uncle?” Jenny interrupted. “What does he do?”

“He was an Archeologist. A professor later in life. Wrote a few books here and there,” Claire answered quietly.

“Well known then, was he?” Jenny continued relentlessly.

“Not particularly. Unless you have a specific interest in Neolithic Mesopotamia,” Claire answered bluntly.

“And where we’re yer parents in all of this? Surely they didn’t relish ye travelling about the globe with yer uncle?” There truly was no stopping Jenny.

“Janet!” Jamie hissed at his sister as she shrugged back at him.

“I wouldn’t think that they care all that much being that they’re dead.” Was what Claire wanted to say. Instead she swallowed the retort and answered quietly. “They passed when I was a child. My Uncle raised me.”

“Oh,” Jenny paused, her eyes finally leaving Claire’s face, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Claire nodded mutely, wondering where the next onslaught of questions was going to come from. She was saved by Jamie taking the lead in the conversation now that it seemed like Jenny had run out of speed.

“Did ye watch the Wales game? I did’na think we were going to pull it outta the bag after that dodgy first half.”

—

It was sometime around when their main meals were almost finished that it seemed that Jenny had finally warmed to Claire. Claire didn’t know what had changed but it was a welcome relief after Jenny’s interrogation. Ian and Jamie were arguing over the merits of some Rugby Centre that Claire had never heard of before in her life when Jenny drew her attention.

“I- ah I wanted to say that I’m sorry about earlier,” she said quietly. “It’s just… my Braither has always seemed to jump in head first to everything he does. He’s no’ had a lot of relationships, and he’s only brought a few lasses around to meet the family, so I ken ye’re special to him, it’s just that,” Jenny paused as she tried to think of the right words. “Ian and I, we’re protective of him. Probably too much if ye ask him. Anyway, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry if it seemed like I was puttin’ ye under the furnace.”

Claire smiled tentatively at Jenny. “I can understand that.” She desperately wanted Jenny to like her, if nothing else than for Jamie’s sake.

“Aye, ye’re gracious.” Jenny blushed slightly. “Truly though.”

“I mean I didn’t say that I’d like to experience another interrogation again anytime soon,” Claire smiled shyly.

“I suppose no’,” Jenny grinned in return. “Feel free to giv’ it back to me all ye like. I’ll happily give ye all the dirt on this wee lad, including’ the time he jumped butt naked into the Broch in the middle of winter and nearly froze his bollocks off because Lisa Annister said that she’d lay one on him if he did.”

“Oi,” Jamie grumbled, his and Ians’ conversation momentarily abandoned as Claire laughed.

It wasn’t instantaneous, and it took most of dessert and a few glasses of wine, but it was there- the beginning of a friendship. Claire didn’t have a lot of friends, she didn’t need to surround herself with people, she preferred her relative solitude, but there was something about Jenny Fraser. It sort of seemed like Claire didn’t really have a choice on whether they were going to be friends or not. Jenny had already decided and Claire found that she didn’t mind that much after all.

If it was for Jamie, she wondered what she wouldn’t do.

[hare-beneath-pine]

SIAN A BHEATHA BHUAN

CUIRIM sian a bheatha bhuan, Mu ’r crodh luath, leathann, lan, An creagan air an laigh an spreidh,     Gun eirich iad beo slan.

A nuas le buaidh ’s le beannachd, A suas le luaths ’s le leannachd, Gun ghnu, gun tnu, gun fharmad, Gun suil bhig, gun suil mhoir,     Gun suil choig an dearmaid.

Sughaidh mise seo, sughadh feith farmaid Air ceannard an tighe ’s air teaghlaich a bhaile, Gun eirich gach droch-bhuil, ’s gach droch-bhuaidh     Bu dhualta dhuibh-se dhaibh-san.

         Ma mhallaich teanga duibh,          Bheannaich cridhe duibh;          Ma ghonaich suil duibh,          Shonaich run duibh.

Tionndanam is teanndanam, Culionn cruaidh is creanndagaich Air an caoire boirionn ’s air an laoighe firionn,     Fad nan naodh ’s nan naodh fichead bliadhna.

THE CHARM OF THE LASTING LIFE

I WILL place the charm of the lasting life, Upon your cattle active, broad, and full, The knoll upon which the herds shall lie down,     That they may rise from it whole and well.

Down with success, and with blessing, Up with activity and following, Without envy, without malice, without ill-will, Without small eye, without large eye,     Without the five eyes of neglect.

I will suck this, the sucking of envious vein On the head of the house, and the townland families, That every evil trait, and every evil tendency     Inherent in you shall cleave to them.

         If tongue cursed you,          A heart blessed you;          If eye blighted you,          A wish prospered you.

A hurly-burlying, a topsy-turvying, A hard hollying and a wan withering To their female sheep and to their male calves,     For the nine and the nine score years.

From the Carmina Gadelica, vol. 2, pp. 32-33. Alexander Carmicheal,

[delldarling]

mi cridhe | morven

kinktober teaser ; day thirty male werewolf x gender neutral reader 410 words citrus | sleepy naked fluff (rating on patreon is as follows: lemon | knotting, sleepy sex, half shifted werewolf, established relationship, hint of Morven being ‘older’)

The bed dips near your feet, mattress creaking and slowly settling. There’s a soft shush of noise, a rustling, and then the bed dips again near your thigh. You’re warm and tired and not entirely awake, but even so, you recognize your name whispered in the dark. You recognize his voice, even with the edge of a growl accompanying every syllable, the low timbre he’s graced with every time he changes. The beginning of a smile tugs at your mouth, but turns into a yawn. Morven huffs, giving up on stealth, and flops down next to you. His bulk makes you bounce, makes you clutch to your pillow as the bed settles. The scent of the forest is heavy on him, the crispness of having just come in from the cold, crushed pine and freshly turned earth… And underneath all of that is the familiar tang of his shampoo.

You crack open an eyelid. 

Morven is limned with moonlight filling the window, elongated fingers just shy of touching your elbow. He looks like he’s been brushed with quicksilver, grey and white fur catching the light a bit too brightly for your tired eyes to focus on. When your eye falls shut, Morven finally reaches for you. His fingertips are caught between wolf and humanoid, thickly calloused, but with the give of paw pads. The drag of his fingers, of his hardened nails over your bare shoulder, makes you shiver. If he wasn't lying on top of the blankets, you probably would have tugged them back up to your chin.

“Open your eyes,” he coaxes, and that heavy voice of his makes you sigh. You’ve done things on reflex, listening to that lovely voice, but you’re a little too tired to hop to it. 

“‘M sleeping,” you mutter, half turning your face into the pillow, but that only makes Morven huff again. 

“You began to wake as soon as you heard me at the door, rabbit. Let me in?” He asks, hooking a finger in the blankets. He won’t pull them off, not at this time of night, not with how chilly his house is. Morven lowers his voice, leaning close, blocking the moonlight from your face. “Please?” He rumbles, a single finger stretching so his claw will drag over bare skin. Your heart skips and you have to bite down on the smile that wants to spring out. You open an eye again. 

“You’re the one lying on the sheets.”

[h4t08]

Are we getting anymore writing updates? I miss your writing!!

Hello Jen!!!

I’m still here! While I have not been adding more to “The Wife”, I have been working on a new story for the past 2 years.

(Yes! I said years!!!)

With the help of @aimee-jessica I have made it to the climax of the story. While I will not be posting it anytime soon, I do want to share with you a little snippet. The story will be called “The Witch of the East End”.

See below… ⬇️

..::..::..

He takes her into the parlor, inviting her to sit on the sofa after picking up a few of Timothy’s comic books that had been left behind.

The moment he looks to her to begin their conversation, her heart instantly jumps to her throat, the rapid beating nearly choking her with fear. “Patrick, what you have felt tonight…,” her mouth is completely dry, “and…,” she painfully swallows hard, “and the other times is because…,” her lungs refuse to breathe. “It is because...” Her body is literally seizing with tense muscles and a lack of oxygen.

“Shelagh,” he captures her trembling hand, “you have nothing to fear from me.” Lifting it, he kisses her palm with the same tenderness he had shown in the parish kitchen.

Her chest expands and slowly releases the tension that had built up against her muscles, the warmth he willingly gives her soothing her frantic heart. “Patrick, I’m a witch.”

He blinks several times. “That’s not a very nice thing to say about yourself.”

“No,” she sighs, closing her eyes and praying for clarity. “No, I am a witch, a real one with…,” she pries her tongue from the roof of her mouth, “with magic and powers.”

His brows furrow deeply into the bridge of his nose. “Magic? As in…,” his fingers twirl through the air, “the fairy tales I used to read to Timothy?”

She scrunches her face at the bold lies those stories created. “Truth be told, we were not represented fairly in those… those…,” she falters at his dumbfounded expression, “those stories.” Silence ticks heavily within the room, her confession and his subsequent shock causing everything except for time to stand still.

He licks his lips. “Of witches?”

“And warlocks.”

“But…,” he squints his eyes, trying his best to find the logic in the world she had just turned upside down, “but that’s… not… that’s not possible.” He looks at her. “Is it?”

For a brief moment, she gathers the courage to look at him under the hood of her eyes, to gage his feelings on the matter. While he does not seem completely convinced, his eyes begging for her to tell him that this is all a joke, she is relieved to also see that he is willing to keep an open mind. “It is. I possess magic through the use of spells and incantations.”

He licks his lips again as a boyish inquisitiveness, the same one she has seen on Timothy numerous times, illuminates his hazel eyes. “Show me.”

She had been expecting this. In fact, she would have honestly been worried if he did not ask for a demonstration of her power. With her fear of the purists in the council and the Alliance finding her now a thing of her past, she allows her magic to freely sweep through her veins. “Cup your hands together.” When he does so, she places her own hands on top to make a dome. Closing her eyes, she can already feel her magic flowing between them. “Uisce san adhar, feumaidh mi a bhith mionaideach,” she feels the condensation in the air coming together, freezing within a matter of seconds, “dèan cridhe a-mach à deigh.” She pulls her hands away before opening her eyes. Water in the air, I must be precise, make a heart out of ice.

“Bloody hell!” She takes a deep breath before glancing up at him, surprise and wonderment coloring his cheeks pink. “How?” He sounds just as breathless as when they had kissed. “How did you do that?”

“I used the water molecules from the air to gather and freeze in your palms.” She waves one hand over the ice heart, her silent spell casting the ice to evaporate.

“Can…,” he watches with amazement as tiny water droplets disappear before his eyes, “can you make… I don’t know, make bread?”

She laughs nervously under her breath. “Not without taking it from somewhere else. Magic doesn’t make things appear out of thin air. It uses whatever is around us, given to us by the ancestors who have passed on before us. I can, however, use magic to combine the ingredients.”

“Interesting.” Their eyes lock onto each other, his face open and curious, yet she sees so many questions fluttering across.

..::..::..

That is all for now!! I do hope you enjoy it!! Make sure to send lots of hearts to @aimee-jessica… without her, it would never see the light of day!!

[aquadestinyswriting]

Worldbuilding Wednesday- Cridhe-dàime

Note: I thought I’d expand on the concept of cridhe-dàime because it’s such a fundamental part of the relationship between Meredith and Elowyn that it was probably a good idea to explain more fully what it means and its importance in dwarven cultural norms. Under a readmore because it's quite long.

tags: @druidx, @odysseywritings, @homesteadchronicles, @mariahwritesstuff, @asher-orion-writes

Cridhe-dàime, or ‘heart-kin’ in common, is a kind of deeply respectful, platonic relationship characterised by a closeness not seen in more ordinary friendships. Dwarves, despite their tough outer demeanour, are actually quite passionate about their relationships, their friendships included. Since dwarves have a culture that is steeped in tradition and notions of honour and kinship, it is perhaps not surprising that this passion bleeds over to friendships with other peoples.

While all dwarves will basically adopt their travelling companions into their families if they spend more than a few weeks together, few will choose to name anyone as their cridhe-dàime due to its associations with the cultural roots of oathkeeping, loyalty and honour found in dwarven society. This can be confusing to outsiders as dwarves are often very quick to name others as blood and/or battle brothers and sisters, which are based on the same cultural norms. It does not help that cridhe-dàime is often mis-translated to ‘soulmate’, a word which has so many romantic connotations attached to it, that it completely misses the point of the concept to begin with. Nor is cridhe-dàime to be confused with the kind of love one has for one’s family, chosen or otherwise. 

So what is cridhe-dàime if it is none of the above things? The closest real-life parallel I think I can equate it to is the idea of the Queer-Platonic-Relationship, or QPR; the definition of which is as follows:

Queerplatonic relationships (QPR) and queerplatonic partnerships (QPP) are committed intimate relationships which are not romantic in nature. They may differ from usual close friendships by having more explicit commitment, validation, status, structure, and norms, similar to a conventional romantic relationship.

However, in-universe, while other cultures have similar concepts for this kind of relationship, none are so deeply tied to their cultural heritage or taken nearly as seriously. This is probably why publicly naming someone as such, aside from other dwarves, is still so rare.  

In dwarven culture, naming someone as cridhe-dàime in front of others is taken as seriously as telling them that you’re engaged or married. That this relationship, despite its platonic nature, is significant enough to one both parties that, even if they’re unspoken, there are oaths and vows of loyalty involved. While there are no official ceremonies involved in naming someone cridhe-dàime, there is very often a religious element to doing so. This is mainly because dwarven culture is so steeped in tradition deriving from their faith in either Moradin or Kherillim (usually both for the dwarves of Fangthane) that oaths and vows taken even by individuals are done in their Names. The only bureaucracy involved in this kind of relationship is if the dwarf, or dwarves, in question want to officially add their cridhe-dàime to their family or clan. This is relatively common when the relationship is between two dwarves, it is almost unheard of for those of other races or cultures to be added to a family or clan in this way. The most common way this is done is by asking the cridhe-dàime to become a child’s Faddri (which translates roughly to ‘Gods’ Parent’ in common), though it is by no means the only way.

For the most part, the cridhe-dàime relationship is generally a private one between the individuals involved, and quite often one-sided should one of them be of any culture that is not dwarven. This is usually because it’s hard enough to explain what the word even means, never mind its significance to someone who isn’t from that culture. For those that publicly declare such a relationship, it is a thing to be celebrated and cherished, especially if the cridhe-dàime is from another race/heritage because dwarves keep enough to themselves as it is. 

Ending note: Please feel free to send me any questions if you want further expansion on the concept, because I could go on for hours about it, but this post covers the basics at least. Do feel free to use the concept in your own work too; expand on it or mess around with it to fit into the setting(s) you prefer. We need more of this kind of thing in fantasy fiction. The relationship between Elowyn and Meredith is a very special one to me and many, many thanks go to @druidx for her encouragement and for playing and writing Elowyn in a way that allowed the relationship between our characters to flourish as it has post-campaign.

[renee-writer]

Love Never Dies Chapter 58 Labor Part Two

AO3

“Only if I have to.” She is crying too.  Jamie moves to Claire’s side. He lifts her up and holds her close.

 

“Come Claire, you are the strongest woman I know. You can do this.” She moans as the pains continue to rack over her.  He focuses on her and doesn’t see a teary-eyed Jenny as she takes the knife and holds it over the fire.

 

Her eyes are un-focused. She is remembering the look on her dad’s face as he watched his wife perish in childbed. She was but ten and shouldn’t have been in the room. But her mam's screams and her Da’s pleading had lead her there. She hid behind the door and watched her still brother be born and her mam take her last breath. To have Jamie experience that. She shudders and says a fervent prayer.

 

She sees them. Her lost daughter, her own mum and, the mother-in-law she has only seen in paintings and her daughter’s face. They are talking to her.  “My darling, it isn’t time to join us yet.”. “Nighean cridhe, you must walk.” “Mama, my brothers will be alright. Just do what grannies say.” “Walk love.” “Walk.”

 

“Walk!” her voice is weak but Jamie hears her.

 

“Can you walk?”

 

“I must.” Her hand grabs his arm with surprising strength. “Get me up Jamie.”

 

“Jenny, help me!” She drops the knife and hurries over. “She wishes to walk.”

 

“I must. They said so.” They exchange a look but get her up. With one on each side they more carry her around at first until her strength starts to return. She still needs their support and stops for every contraction. She sways through them, moaning softly.

 

They circle the room for two hours before she stops and announces, “I have to push.”  A relieved Jenny drops between her legs.

 

“I see the head.” Her voice cracks as she moves to dip her hands in in hot water. The sight of the dropped knife sends a chill through her.  “Only for the cords, please God.” She breaths out. Hurrying back, she watches as the head gets bigger.

 

Jamie supports her as she presses back against him and bears down, pushing their child out. He is shaking with exhaustion and relief. Seems all will be alright now.

 

“Grand job Claire. Here comes the first.” Her gentle hands ease the head out with the shoulders quickly following. A lad is soon delivered. “A fine son.” She announces as she lifts the dark haired baby up. He starts to scream as his aunt lifts ��him into his Mama’s arms.

 

“Hello son. You almost killed me.” She whispers as she cradles the tiny lad against her. As she bounds with him, she is examining him. He is pinking up well, breathing and heart rate is good. Muscle tone is good and firm. Their son is doing wonderful.

 

“An dàrna mac agam. Mo fhuil. Fàilte don t-saoghal.” Jamie says with emotion.

 

“Ah, here comes the other one!” A quick adjustment. Jamie takes the baby and Jenny eases Claire into a kneeling position against the bed. The first baby’s cord was cut and tied and his daddy wraps him in a soft flannel blanket. Jenny is praying she sees a head and not a bum or feet when she checks. A head, praise God!

 

“Aye, the second’s head is here.”

 

“Oh Thank God!” Claire breaths out as she bears down. And down.

 

“That’s it Claire. I know. A bit more.” A whimper has Jamie laying the newborn in the cradle and joining her. When she takes his hand and bears against his shoulder, progress starts to be made. Slowly the red head gets bigger. The forehead comes out. , The eyes, nose, chin as it turns, then the neck and shoulders. The second twin, another lad slips into his aunt’s hands.

 

“Another fine lad, Sassanach!” Jamie announces as he sees him. He is lifted up, already wailing, his red hair standing up everywhere.

 

“Bree will be thrilled.” She says as she takes him. “Hello, my love.” She manages.

 

Jenny and Jamie get the lads cleaned and swaddled properly and Claire cleaned and placed in bed. They are placed in her arms for nursing. In the middle, she falls asleep. Jamie takes them and sits in the rocker.

 

‘Mo macs, I thought I would lose you and your mama too. You see your brother, Rory, he came out so easy, we didn’t get time to even get your Auntie Jenny. I delivered him. But you, my darlings, you were showing the Fraser stubbornness. “ He chuckles. “You get it honestly sons but, Lord lads, you scared your auntie and I half to death.” He rocks them, watching their mama sleep, and feels a deep feeling of joy mingled with relief. He knows he had come very close to losing her.

[mottlemoth]

I love that you give your characters star signs! Can you share any? Also, are they always the same for one character or do they vary across the stories?

Myc and Greg vary across fics, depending on what suits each story 😊❤ I don't know how much I actually believe in this stuff in real life. But it's fun and it's inspiring. It can spark a whole fic for me, imagining (for instance) Greg Lestrade with a Scorpio filter, paired with a Mycroft who carries on like a Capricorn but really deep down he's a Cancer. (Etc)

These are some of my OCs:

EXCULTUS

Kieran Matthews - Aquarius (12th February)

Amelia Vickery - Taurus (11th May)

TJ Tierney - Cancer (29th June)

Luke Elwood - Leo (19th August)

Olivia Reid - Virgo (4th September)

Kit Medlock - Scorpio (8th November)

*

FAIRYTALE

Leo Cridhe - Taurus (30th April)

Rex Cridhe - Taurus (11th May)

Edward Whitby - Virgo (14th September)

Elena Cridhe - Scorpio (2nd November)

*

LET YOUR HEART BE LIGHT

Zack Wynn - Gemini (6th June)

Richard Garston - Leo (14th August)

David Christmas - Cancer (14th July)

Julian Reynolds - Libra (28th September)