We know you think you know our culture. But you don’t know the half of it.
Jalisco, Mexico
Oaxaca, Mexico
Chiapas, Mexico
Yucatan, Mexico
Guerrero, Mexico
Veracruz, Mexico
And that’s still not even the half of it.
Look at those colors! I’ve been to Mexico, but I only went to the touristy part of the Yucatan where I stayed at an all inclusive where I could get any kind of food but Mexican.
Needless to say, I’d like to go back some day…
A MEXICO POST????
ON TUMBLR??
THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU
LOOK, I’m not even into fashion and I am in AWE of these gorgeous dresses and accessories!
So yeah. This episode is a complete waste because we already know pretty much everything it covers. Laoghaire is batshit about Jamie and Claire. Frank is the literal worst. Bree knows that her parents didn’t get along. Bonnet is a violent sociopath. Roger thinks he knows what’s best for Bree and doesn’t listen to what *she* wants. We learned literally nothing new about our characters in this episode. This episode was bad. Period. Full stop.
Like, this episode had potential, even without Jenny! I was really looking forward to it! But nope. They never let Laoghaire have any sort of character growth, and then we spend an absurd amount of time with her instead of Bree’s extended family. And they managed to make Fred look even worse than we already know he is so like, fuck all the way off, this episode? What even is your point?
Making changes from the books is the right way to go, I still strongly believe that. This episode is just an example of when doing that goes horribly wrong. I get what they were trying to do with like closing the Frank chapter of Bree’s life and also then letting it be the point of comparison to her relationship with Jamie, but omfg. We already know how she feels about Frank, and his and Claire’s marriage. This episode should have been spent introducing her to Jamie’s world, and to the type of family she could have had if Claire hadn’t gone back through the stones.
Since we’re like apparently having a fandom come-to-jesus moment today, haha, when I say the show is bad when I’m drunk as balls, I mean it. Not like in a knee-jerk “I didn’t like this episode so therefore the show sucks” way. I mean like, it’s so consistently inconsistent in almost every way that as a whole, it’s a mess.
Not every episode of a show is going to be amazing, that’s a given. But Outlander is all over the place in terms of quality, characterization, plotting, characters’ emotional through lines or lack thereof, etc. Yes, some scenes/episodes are amazing, but Outlander is not on the same level as the shows it thinks it should be competing with for awards…
It’s ok to think something is “bad” and also like it. I like a lot of things that are absolute crap. Liking something doesn’t mean it’s good and something being bad doesn’t mean it’s not likable.
A/N: I’m so excited to be a part of yet another thrilling writing challenge in this fic community! Naturally, leave it to me to take a perfectly fluffy board, stick a knife in it, and twist! 😂🤷♀️
A modern day take on the Faith storyline, and what it would be like for Jamie and Claire to go through that grieving process together, and what a second pregnancy/the ability to parent together after losing their first child would look like. Naturally, therefore, there is a big old TRIGGER WARNING I need to place here for stillbirth/pregnancy loss. But I do promise this oneshot has a happy ending!
I’d known for four days by the time she came home from Tesco with a pregnancy test wedged surreptitiously between the milk and the K-cups. I busied myself with putting away the produce, feigning oblivion while she ferreted the wee pink box into the folds of her cardigan and escaped to the bathroom on the pretense of putting away the toothpaste and body wash.
When the door clicked shut behind her, I went very still, bone-white hands clenched on the edge of the countertop.
I already knew what the test would show. There was no doubt in my mind at that point.
I knew my wife’s body better than I knew my own.
Her breasts were an easy tell; she’d whimpered in protest when I probed them — gently, experimentally — while she slept. They were tender, aye, and the nipples a little more full already. The delicate veins along her areola were swollen with the increased blood supply, and as recently as that morning the color had started to deepen, darken. In a few weeks, I knew they’d be the color of champagne grapes.
At least they had been. Last time.
She had burst into tears the night before over a dog food commercial. She was short with me, quick to snap blazing whisky eyes up to mine and give me a thorough tongue lashing for whatever my perceived error of the moment was.
And perhaps most telling of all: it was the middle of March, there was still a dusting of snow on the ground, and my normally ice-blooded Sassenach was burning up. She kept kicking off the blankets in the middle of the night, scooting away from my body heat unconsciously when I tried to spoon around her. She’d started cracking the window and turning on the ceiling fan before bed, complaining that the bloody thermostat must be broken, because it was “sweltering in here.”
Aye, I knew. I knew fine well what the test would say.
Apparently, my wife had been less sure.
When the door to the bathroom creaked slowly open on its hinge, I stood motionless for a moment, watching. Claire stood on the other side of the threshold, just out of sight.
She didn’t move.
So I did.
I crossed the kitchen in careful, measured strides, gaze trained on that doorway, waiting for the moment I could find her eyes with mine.
When I did, I froze, every muscle in my body drawn taut, every hair follicle standing on end.
I didn’t breathe — couldn’t — and neither did she.
Tears stood like diamonds in her eyes, shimmering in the light. She looked up at me helplessly, her chin dimpled and quivering, and put a hand to her mouth to smother a sob.
I felt a crack through my chest like a gunshot, and then I was moving again, grabbing for her in the same moment that she reached for me. There was nothing soft or tender about the way we collided — clawing, scrambling to get each closer, tighter — frantic and shaking and terrified.
READING THIS FIRST THING IN THE MORNING WAS A MISTAKE!!!! I AM SO EMOTIONAL OVER THIS RN. I CAN’T HANDLE IT.
@smashing-teacups , my love, you are KILLLING ME with the angst!!! This one shot was so insanely captivating. I swear to god I felt every human emotion in it’s purest form. YOU ARE AN ARTIST!
Tori