(Almost) Every Costume Per Episode + Prudence Night / Blackwood’s white lace dress in 3x04


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(Almost) Every Costume Per Episode + Prudence Night / Blackwood’s white lace dress in 3x04

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Not Today XXIV
A/N: Okay, so.... I lied. There is more plot buildup here, but there's not yet the big lean into it just yet. That will likely be in Wednesday's update! But, this chapter does focus a bit on some political intrigue type stuff, and of course, developing the relationship between Asta and Ivar :) Also- the story Asta tells was actually something I highly considered doing when I first realized how well she and Freydis were getting along. Might write an alternate version of this story where that is how it goes, I'm not sure? We'll see! If you want to see that let me know, I'll write it probably for sure if I get enough good feedback on it XD Until then, enjoy this update! Skål!
Summary: When Ivar takes the throne of Kattegat, Lagertha flees to Wessex along with Björn, Ubbe, Torvi, and the Bishop Heahmund. There, they seek the aid of King Alfred. This aid comes in the form of his sister, Aethelind, who agrees to travel to Kattegat and try to reason Ivar, who she spent some time with during their youth, when her grandfather King Ecbert hosted Ragnar Lothbrok in their castle. Now, she is the only hope for Lagertha and her supporters to retake Kattegat from Ivar the Boneless.
Masterlist
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There were a few days more of peace, of doing nothing but wandering around Kiev, getting used to the new town, before Oleg called them to have a drink with him. They’d wondered what exactly it was he wanted, and had spoken in her tongue all the way to where they’d be meeting him about it. When they’d come to the dining hall, they were seated in a small seat, beside each other, and Asta subconsciously leaned up against Ivar.
Oleg hadn’t appeared just yet, and so the two were left alone, being tended to by servants, who served them drinks, waiting anxiously.
Eventually, after a few moments had passed, Asta looked to Ivar and asked, “Where do you think he is?”
Ivar hummed and took a look around the room, unsurprised by the confused looks of the Rus servants at the use of the Saxon tongue. “I don’t know,” he eventually concluded. She sighed, and settled in beside him with her drink, taking a sip. Ivar chuckled softly at how casual she had become with alcohol.
Ivar ended up draping his arm over the back of the seat they had been sat in, as he drank from his own cup. A few moments later, a voice startled them slightly.
here have a snippet of chapter twenty-four lads
i’m nobody’s but yours
Chapter 24/25 - Chloe
Summary: Beca is straight as an arrow. 100%, totally, completely straight. Except for one problem that 100%, totally, completely changes everything: Chloe Beale.
Title borrowed from Calum Scott’s “If Our Love Is Wrong.”
Word Count: 5.5k
Rating: M (for dark themes, homophobia, masturbation, and eventual smut in later chapters)
Chapter is NSFW.
AO3, FFN, and below.
Beca has never looked more perfect than she does now: naked, flushed, and straddling Chloe, with Chloe’s underwear the only remaining barrier between them.
She rocks her hips astride Chloe, little nudges forward that send zings of pleasure up Chloe’s spine with every motion. Her darkened eyes flick from Chloe’s face down to her chest; as if drawn upward by the magnetizing stare, Chloe arches her back, straining forward. A smile plays around Beca’s lips, and without further warning, her mouth descends.
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Happy Thursday!

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“Excuse me,” I said, catching the sleeve of a passing baker’s boy. “I’m looking for a printer—a Mr. Malcolm. Alexander Malcolm.” A feeling of mingled dread and excitement gurgled through my middle. What if there was no printshop run by Alexander Malcolm in Edinburgh?
There was, though; the boy’s face screwed up in thought and then relaxed.
“Oh, aye, mum—just down the way and to your left. Carfax Close.” And hitching his loaves up under his arm with a nod, he plunged back into the crowded street.
…
It was a longish, winding close, and the printshop was at the foot. There were thriving businesses and tenements on either side, but I had no attention to spare for anything beyond the neat white sign that hung by the door.
A. MALCOLM
PRINTER AND BOOKSELLER
it said, and beneath this, Books, calling cards, pamphlets, broadsheets, letters, etc.
I stretched out my hand and touched the black letters of the name. A. Malcolm. Alexander Malcolm. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Perhaps.
Another minute, and I would lose my nerve. I shoved open the door and walked in.
There was a broad counter across the front of the room, with an open flap in it, and a rack to one side that held several trays of type. Posters and notices of all sorts were tacked up on the opposite wall; samples, no doubt.
The door into the back room was open, showing the bulky angular frame of a printing press. Bent over it, his back turned to me, was Jamie.
“Is that you, Geordie?” he asked, not turning around. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and had a small tool of some kind in his hand, with which he was doing something to the innards of the press. “Took ye long enough. Did ye get the—”
“It isn’t Geordie,” I said. My voice was higher than usual. “It’s me,” I said. “Claire.”
He straightened up very slowly. He wore his hair long; a thick tail of a deep, rich auburn sparked with copper. I had time to see that the neat ribbon that tied it back was green, and then he turned around.
He stared at me without speaking. A tremor ran down the muscular throat as he swallowed, but still he didn’t say anything.
It was the same broad, good-humored face, dark blue eyes aslant the high, flat cheekbones of a Viking, long mouth curling at the ends as though always on the verge of smiling. The lines surrounding eyes and mouth were deeper, of course. The nose had changed just a bit. The knife-edge bridge was slightly thickened near the base by the ridge of an old, healed fracture. It made him look fiercer, I thought, but lessened that air of aloof reserve, and lent his appearance a new rough charm.
I walked through the flap in the counter, seeing nothing but that unblinking stare. I cleared my throat.
“When did you break your nose?”
The corners of the wide mouth lifted slightly.
“About three minutes after I last saw ye—Sassenach.”
There was a hesitation, almost a question in the name. There was no more than a foot between us. I reached out tentatively and touched the tiny line of the break, where the bone pressed white against the bronze of his skin.
He flinched backward as though an electric spark had arced between us, and the calm expression shattered.
“You’re real,” he whispered. I had thought him pale already. Now all vestiges of color drained from his face. His eyes rolled up and he slumped to the floor in a shower of papers and oddments that had been sitting on the press—he fell rather gracefully for such a large man, I thought abstractedly.
— Voyager
Gif: madam-outlander Tumblr (deactivated), Season Three, Episode Five, October 8, 2017 (carriage)
Photo: Starz, Season Three, Episode Five, October 8, 2017
Gifs: purefandom.com, Season Three, Episode Five, October 8, 2017
Book: Voyager, Diana Gabaldon, 1994
Tumblr: October 16, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴❤️🇬🇧
WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season Three Episode Five #S3E5 #Freedom & Whisky #Voyager #Chapter Twenty-Four #Bent over it, his back turned to me, was Jamie #It isn’t Geordie. It’s me, Claire #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #149 #101618
Chasing Glory Ch. 24
Sam's dad dropped him off today. He's taking that succubus prostitution ring hunt down in Vegas, which I imagine might take a while and definitely isn't a good place for a thirteen-year-old. Sure took long enough to convince John of that. Jackass.
Got everything set up for Sam. Dug out his library card, got him re-enrolled at the middle school, put fresh sheets on his bed. I'll admit I sure do like having the kid around, and I hope he knows that, because I'm not sure how much of that he gets from John. We get along alright. Sam probably couldn't tell the difference between a Ford engine and a Chevy one if you had a gun to his head (and that isn't from lack of trying on my part, let me tell you), but he's damn good company anyway. He's smart. We've got the same taste in books and movies, and he's just great with the dogs. His birthday's coming up in a couple months here and I'd let him have his pick of O'Leary's puppies if I didn't know for a fact his daddy would hit the roof.
It's been about ten years now. I guess it can't hurt to say he reminds me of Dean, too, except for liking dogs and not liking cars. He doesn't look much like him, either. But he's every bit as stubborn as Dean was, he's just as loyal to the people who are important to him, even John, and he's got this deep-set, earth-shaking drive in him to do the right thing. He wants to save lives, help people out, whether by hunting or doing something else, and if that isn't my boy, I don't know what is.
Sam doesn't know about Dean, and I can't imagine he'd ever need to. But if he were still around, I think they might have gotten along real well. Dean never shut up about wanting a little brother when he was in grade school, after all.
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Misadventures of Kit: Chapter Twenty-Four
written with @ocsickficsideblog
The rest of the weekend was uneventful but unpleasant. For all the medicine he took, Kit couldn’t stop coughing, and his throat was so sore he refused anything but tea and broth. When Monday rolled around, he was still achy, wheezy, and miserable, and it took ten minutes of prodding for Alistair to even get him out of bed.
“Can’t we reschedule with the doctor? It’s freezing outside, and I feel lousy.” Kit whined.
“You’re not going to be any less sick tomorrow. I want him to check you over anyway,” Alistair said. He’d infuriated Kit by spending only a couple of days sniffling and coughing before bouncing back.
“Well I don’t want that.” Kit huffed. He grabbed his handkerchief just in time to muffle another coughing fit.
“Tough shit. Get your shoes on.”
Kit flinched, but obediently laced up his boots. He tucked the cuffs of his thick black jeans into the boots, and layered a jumper over his long-sleeved shirt before gathering his jackets.
Alistair immediately felt bad. “Kit? You don’t have to do what I say. You can yell at me and tell me I’m an asshole. If you want.”
“I know.” Kit knew he could snap back, but his voice often seemed to disappear when he was barked at. It was different from the good-natured bickering between him and Alistair, where he could fire off a hundred insults a minute. If he felt like someone was actually mad at him, he shut down.
“Don’t…” Alistair looked terrified. He couldn’t help remembering the fight with Toby. What he’d said. “I...am I really like Father?”
Kit shook his head. “Of course you’re not. I’m just an oversensitive priss. Always have been.” He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face before wrapping his scarf around his neck. Alistair didn’t really look convinced. He was quiet and subdued too as he took Kit downstairs. Kit latched onto him on the way down; even the stairwell felt too cold. Alistair clutched him tight, his face falling even more.
Taddy raised his eyebrows when the boys got in his car, still somber. “Are we alright today, sirs?”
“Mnn. Kit just isn’t well,” Alistair mumbled.
“That’s no good. It is that time of year.” Taddy sighed sympathetically. “Hopefully, the doctor will get you straightened out, then.” Kit just nodded. Alistair leaned against him, cuddling close like he had as a little kid. Kit snuggled up, coughing and sniffling the whole drive. Alistair, amazingly, was quiet the whole time, staring straight ahead blankly.
When they got to the hospital, Kit shuffled out of the car, shivering fiercely in the outside wind. He stayed close to Alistair, coughing into his elbow. “Do you think we’ll be out long?” He asked, already sounding more hoarse and congested.
Alistair put an arm around him. “Hopefully not. I don’t want you in the cold.”
“I’m tired. Can I go back to bed when we get home?” As soon as they got into the waiting room, Kit flopped down in a plastic chair. Alistair nodded, picking at his nail varnish.
“Mnn. If you want.”
“Thanks.” Kit snuggled up to his cousin, trying to leech of his warmth. Alistair held Kit tight, keeping his eyes closed because he felt like he wanted to cry and he obviously couldn’t do it here. He used to do that a lot as a kid - keep his emotions bottled up after a fight or a beating, hold onto it for a few days and then howl for hours. It meant Kit could probably tell a few stories about Alistair suddenly starting to bawl in airports or stores for no apparent reason.
Kit could tell his cousin was upset. He scooted closer, looping his arms around Alistair’s neck. He hid his face in Kit’s hair. “I’m not turning into him, am I? Please tell me the truth. I still see him when I look in the mirror sometimes.”
“Of course not, stupid. I wouldn’t have anything to do with you otherwise.” Kit properly squeezed Alistair now.
“But Toby said it…”
“Toby is an idiot and a scumbag.” Kit hissed. “You might as well take advice from our parents.”
Alistair smiled a bit. “You really can’t stand him, can you? It’s weird seeing you so bloodthirsty.”
“He’s done nothing but give me more reasons to hate him.” Kit grumbled, his brows furrowing.
“I know. It’s okay. He’s not my friend anymore.”
“Good.” Kit huffed. “I never felt as safe when he was in the flat.”
“I don’t think he’d have hurt maliciously,” Alistair mumbled, sighing. “It was just when he was drunk. But I don’t want him near Jules ever again.”
“I can think of other people who are ‘only’ violent when they’re drunk.” Kit scowled. He thought about the scars he’d gotten over the years under similar circumstances.
Alistair nodded, gritting his teeth. “Me too. And I won’t ever ever forgive him for hurting Jules. It was Jules. He wouldn’t have been doing anything threatening.”
“Exactly.” Kit sighed, wrapping his arms around himself; he was starting to stress out, though it was entirely his fault this time.
“Sorry. I’m good now. I’ll shut up about it,” Alistair said. “Are you feeling okay?”
“No, I’m getting an awful headache, and I have to keep my mouth open to breathe.” Kit sighed.
“Shit… It’s a good job we’re here.”
“I’d rather just take some cold medicine and lie down. I don’t think it’s serious, just lousy.”
“You might need more specific medicine. It could get worse.”
Kit sighed. “With my luck, I’ll catch some bloody disease while we’re waiting here.”
Alistair smiled weakly. “Try not to.”
“I’ll try.” Kit snuggled up to Alistair, coughing into his handkerchief. “God, I hope this won’t take long.”
Kit’s name was called just as Alistair opened his mouth to answer. He helped Kit up carefully. “Come on.”
It was a slow shuffle down the hall, but the doctor was patient, allowing the boys to get settled in the exam room before he started talking. “We aren’t looking too well today. Have you been doing alright?”
“No.” Kit replied flatly.
The doctor chuckled, “What seems to be the matter, then?”
“A cold, I think. Or maybe the plague. Who knows?”
“He was in the cold for a while. I’m worried about his chest,” Alistair said.
“Does he have a history of chest infections?” The doctor asked.
“Yeah. Lots of pneumonia.”
The doctor scribbled that on his chart, turning to Kit. “I’d like to listen to your chest after I take your vitals. If you could take off your coats?”
“Right. Sorry.” Kit took off his gloves first, so it would be easier to handle the buttons. Even then, it took him a while to peel all his layers off, and he was shivering by the time he got down to his shirt and jumper.
“He won’t be undressed for long, will he?” Alistair asked.
“He can bundle back up in a minute, don't worry.” The doctor was busy checking Kit's blood pressure.
“He’s always very shivery…”
“Gaining weight should help some with that.” The doctor said, jotting down numbers on his chart before moving to check Kit's temperature. “Mm, yes, you need to go home and rest when you leave here. Take paracetamol or something for your fever.”
“So it’s not bad enough for antibiotics?” Alistair said, relieved.
“I wouldn't say so, no. There's obviously some congestion, but I'm not hearing anything worrying in the lungs.”
“Good,” Alistair said, smiling properly.
“Yay,” Kit mumbled, with all the enthusiasm of a zombie. Alistair snorted, helping him back into his many coats. Kit snuggled up to his cousin, letting Alistair answer the rest of the doctor's questions. It was strange, Alistair could speak up for Kit perfectly, though he didn’t know the doctor that well. He just couldn’t ever seem to speak up for himself.
“You seem to be doing well, aside from this cold. We'll run some more blood tests when you're feeling better.” The doctor said.
“Thank you,” Alistair said. “Come on then, Kit.”
“Mm.” Kit shuffled down the hall after Alistair, every step slow and laborious, as if he were climbing a mountain. Alistair sighed, eventually going to carry him. Kit nudged meekly at his cousin. “I can walk. I'm just tired.”
“Exactly. I’ll carry you, since you’re tired.”
“We're in public.” Kit mumbled. Even in illness, he had too much dignity for his own good.
“So? You’ll never see most of these people again.”
“It's still embarrassing.”
“I can literally see the car. It’ll be over in two minutes.”
Kit sighed dramatically. “Fine.”
Alistair deposited him back in the car, climbing in after him. Taddy waved at them. “How was the exam?”
“He’s got a cold, but it’s not in his lungs, thank god,” Alistair said, cuddling Kit fondly. Kit just coughed into his handkerchief.
“That’s progress, at least.” Taddy nodded.
“For Kit it is.”
“Back home, then?”
“Yeah, please. Unless you want to go anywhere, Kit?”
“Home. Hell. Wherever ends my suffering sooner.” Kit mumbled.
“Jesus, I’ve got Edgar Allan Poe in the car…”
“Then leave me on a park bench to die.”
“Obviously not, you dramatic shit,” Alistair said.
“I hear freezing to death is peaceful. Have mercy.” Kit moaned.
“There’s a poem about freezing to death. They made dolls about it. Called Frozen Charlottes.”
“Put one on my grave.” Kit flopped across the backseat, and by extension, Alistair’s lap.
He grinned, messing with Kit’s hair. “Okay. There’s a rumour that they’re haunted, so it’s appropriate,”
“I’m surprised you don’t collect them.”
“I used to have some. But Father wouldn’t let me have dolls. And they unnerve Jules a bit.” Alistair said.
“I’m guessing they’d unnerve most sane people.” Kit mumbled.
“Mnn. They’d have been great when I was, like, fifteen.”
Kit rolled his eyes. “I’m glad I didn’t know you when you were fifteen.”
Alistair laughed. “I’d have annoyed you so much… I might not have ended up that way though if I still had you. I lost you and Pammy in the space of a year.”
Kit nodded somberly; that was around the time he’d started drinking. Or was it? The more he thought, the less he was sure, and the worse his headache got. He groaned in frustration. Alistair glanced at him. “What’s up?”
“Headache.” Kit sighed.
“Bad?”
“Not great.”
“I’ll get you some painkillers at home. See if you can doze a bit.”
Kit nodded, resting his head in Alistair’s lap. It was hard for him to relax - he was too congested to breathe easily, and breathing through his mouth was an unpleasant reminder of his sore throat. Alistair stroked his hair gently. Kit stayed in a hazy state of half-awake misery the rest of the ride home. Alistair carried him into to the flat when they arrived, dumping him on the sofa and trying to wrestle him out of his coats.
Kit coughed when jostled, but otherwise didn’t fight, allowing Alistair to deposit him on the couch. “Can I have my good blanket?”
“Yeah,” Alistair said, rolling his eyes - but he fetched it and wrapped Kit up very tenderly. Kit snuggled up, holding his arms out for Alistair to join him on the couch. Alistair grinned, cuddling up beside his cousin. Kit rested his head on Alistair’s chest.
“Is Julie around? I want tea.”
“He’s in the bathroom. I checked. Not using it, cleaning it.”
“Will you call him?” Kit begged, “My throat hurts.”
Alistair didn’t bother getting up, just yelled for Julius. The small boy came running at once. “How’d your appointment go, Kit?”
“I’m not dying, sadly.”
“We’re all very happy you’re not. Do you want a drink? And you’d better eat too.”
Kit sighed. “I just want tea. Swallowing hurts.”
“How about soft porridge with honey? That’s easy to swallow.”
Kit sighed louder, but he nodded. “Fine.”
Julius smiled. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, going out to make it. Kit just flopped back against Alistair with a groan.
“Al, my head hurts.”
“I’ll get you painkillers if you want?”
“No, don’t get up.” Kit whined.
Alistair laughed. “I could ask Jules to bring you some?”
Kit nodded. “Please.”
Alistair yelled out the new information, and Julius returned with tea and painkillers a few minutes later. Kit forced a smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “Thank you, Julie.”
“I’m going to make you some food, okay!”
Kit nodded, trying not to sigh too loudly. “Okay.” It took quite a bit of tea for him to swallow the pills, but he managed to keep them down despite the pain in his throat. Alistair glanced at him.
“Is your throat really bad?”
“Hurts.” Kit sighed, coughing into his handkerchief. He had to swallow forcefully, the taste of bitter, half-dissolved pills coating his tongue.
“Drink more tea.”
Kit nodded, sipping obediently. Julius came back with a bowl of warm porridge. He’d made a smiley face in it with honey. Kit smiled again, his hands shaking when he reached for the bowl. Alistair helped him, not wanting everyone to drop it. Kit slumped back against his cousin to eat, taking slow, tiny bites. Though it was sweet and mild, he struggled to swallow the porridge, his throat tightening painfully every time. Julius smiled at him. “Thank you, Kit. We’re proud of you.”
Kit sighed, stirring his porridge unenthusiastically. “You don’t have to blow smoke up my arse. I know I’m pathetic.”
“We don’t have to what?” Julius said, blinking. Alistair burst out laughing.
Kit jumped a little when his cousin started cackling. “Good lord, it’s just a turn of phrase. Don’t look at me like I grew a second head. You don’t have to lie, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Oh. I’ve never heard that before…”
“It’s an American phrase, I think.” Kit was trying to remember where he’d picked it up, but his headache made it difficult to rifle through memories.
“Jules never knows any creative rude shit,” Alistair said. “When we first met he barely knew any swearwords either. Not any of the fun ones.”
Kit rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you remedied that.”
“He did,” Julius confirmed.
“Heathen.” Kit mumbled, taking a tiny bite of porridge.
Alistair grinned. “Snob.”