#stramash

Light from another place or time

I think about them all the time! (Thank you).

Here’s a tiny nsfw-ish snippet:

Lexa asks Clarke about back home, her family, what they think of her running off to a remote island, an entire ocean away.

“My mom thinks I’m here to snag myself a brooding Scottish hunk. She has this stupidly romantic notion of me marrying some lord of the manor or clan chieftain or whatever.”

Lexa hums, the backs of her knuckles drifting down Clarke’s flank, over the curve of her hip, and Clarke shivers at the touch, wriggling closer.

“Not a chieftain, but I do come from a long military tradition.” A hint of pride edges into Lexa’s tone. “My ancestors took up arms against the English during the Jacobite rebellion.”

Clarke is largely ignorant about that part of history, and what she has gleaned was basically just a byproduct of lusting over the leads in Outlander. Still, her interest is well and truly piqued.

“Does that mean you have, like, a family tartan? Because I, for one, would love to see you in a kilt.”

Tongue poking into her cheek, she takes a moment to appreciate the mental image of Lexa with plaid wrapped snugly around her hips. If that wasn’t delicious enough, it’s even better when she inserts herself into this fantasy scenario, her hands slowly inching the rough wool up Lexa’s toned thighs, determined to find out if that rumour about true Scots going commando has any real basis in fact...

“We do but, believe me, it’s ugly. The most hideous combination of colours ever woven into cloth,” Lexa says. Her lips twist slightly. “My grandfather dons the full Highland regalia for every family wedding. There’s a reason he never gets included in any of the official photos of the big day. Can’t have him clashing with the bridesmaids.”

Clarke runs her eyes over Lexa. “I bet you could pull it off.”

“You overestimate me, Clarke.”

“Doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t stay on for long.”

Lexa’s eyes flash dark at that. The little smirk that tugs at the corner of her mouth grows more pronounced and Clarke is immensely pleased to be the one to coax it out of Lexa.

“Anyway,” Lexa deflects, hand skimming up Clarke’s side then sliding over her ribs to cup her breast. Lexa makes a soft sound of appreciation and Clarke matches it with a quiet groan, fingers clinging to the nape of Lexa’s neck; a silent encouragement in the gentle squeeze she gives, urging Lexa on. Warm lips find her clavicle, Lexa’s next words whispered against her skin between hot puffs of breath. “Will your mother be dreadfully disappointed you found a brooding lassie instead?”

Clarke wonders if Lexa feels the way her heart starts to hammer at the implication. She tries to play it cool, as much as she can when those eyes are peering at her, still hazy with lust and something deeper that it’s much too soon to put a name to.

Christmas shopping at Gimbels

I sell copies of my comics from my online shop

Jamescorcoran.bigcartel.com

Stramash, n. /strə-mash/ - An uproar, state of noise and confusion; a 'row’.

I have a loose outline and a bunch of headcanons, so…

Stramash

/ struh-mash / Noun (Scottish, informal)

A disturbance or commotion; happy havoc.

———

When Clarke Griffin made the bold - some say impulsive - decision to uproot her entire life to accept a job as the replacement community doctor for a cluster of tiny, remote Scottish archipelagos, she expected adventure. Spectacular scenery. Whimsical cultural oddities. The beginning of an exciting new chapter in an unspoilt, ruggedly beautiful location.

What she didn’t bargain for was the frosty reception she got on arrival, met by a local named Lexa, a woman colder than the sub-arctic winds that blast the island group 24/7, her brusque, standoffish manner only partly redeemed by a lilting accent and eyes the same bright, mossy green as the wild vegetation that blankets the mountainsides.

From the outset, there’s tension. Clarke makes a disastrous first impression and Lexa is full of thinly veiled disdain for this brash American “blow-in.” Which makes it doubly awkward when they seem to run into one another everywhere and Lexa remains guarded, coolly unreceptive to Clarke’s attempts to smooth things over and start afresh.

(The fact that Lexa’s as gorgeous as she is dour never crosses Clarke’s mind ever, nope.)

If there’s one silver lining, at least she only has to interact with Lexa once every two weeks, whenever Clarke flies in on a death-defying little four-seater aircraft from her home base on one of the more populous islands nearest the mainland.

Which is all fine, until a terrible storm hits. Plane grounded, power and communications out, torrential rain lashing down in sideways sheets, the island’s sole B&B at capacity (despite its paltry 2.5 star rating on TripAdvisor), she finds herself stranded and soaked to the bone with no one else to turn to except the moodiest woman in the northern hemisphere, who grudgingly offers to put Clarke up for the night in a cottage she might otherwise describe as quaint if she didn’t think Lexa would be greatly offended and toss her out on her ass.

But stuck together in close quarters, sharing a tartan blanket and a warming dram of whisky in front of the toasty fire, the alcohol gradually loosening Lexa’s tongue enough for her to engage in actual conversation, could it be that Transatlantic relations are starting to thaw? Because the way Lexa stares so intensely while she speaks, Clarke can’t tell if Lexa wants to kiss her or kill her…

———

This is brilliantly spot on 😂