Jamie-Little

Omg I have so many feelings no way I can remember them all right now lol.

Jamie tipping his hat to everyone he sees in street is damned adorable!

He makes working a printing press look way sexier than it should be.

HIS FAAAAAACE!!!!

I was so happy they kept the ale pot thing. That was hysterical. And Claire just standing looking so awkward while he’s stripping his pants. Love it.

Ok, but Geordie and Ian look exactly alike to me??? When Ian came into the brothel room later I thought he was Geordie and was really confused.

I love Jamie’s little glasses. They’re dorky and sweet. I know not everyone likes them though.

The picture scene…was a little bit lackluster. It started off good when he had to sit, and I thought the bikini thing was well executed but it didn’t have quite the emotion I was expecting.

I LOVE LOVE LOVE that he was open and upfront about Willie. I always hated that he kept that from her for so long. Between that and Leghair it was just too much. HOWEVER, it did sort of cut into his reaction to Bree. I get that he KNOWS Willie so naturally has a stronger connection to him but I wish he’d gone back to the pictures of Bree and looked at them some more or something.

FERGUS!!!! Omg Cesar NAILED Fergus!!!! His expressions and vocal inflections were insanely perfect. Omg I love everything about it I just wish it had gone on longer.

Omg poor Claire walking into the brothel. She was like WTF my guy.

I wish we could have heard a little more of their conversation at dinner, like in The Wedding. But the eye sex was superb.

The only thing that could have made the Zipper better was hearing Jamie say the word zipper lol.

“Don’t be gentle” HOT DAMMNNNNNN

Love the scene about chest hair and bicycles. The way Claire keeps kissing Jamie’s chest…👌🏻

The sex was all great. Not too much, not too little.

Jamie’s off to see Ned I suppose?

Ian, why do you look like Geordie? Cute scene though. Love how amazed by her he is.

Claire visiting the prostitutes was great. I love how she’s just pretty much willing to make friends with anyone regardless of who/what they are.

REALLY???? You have to end it there?!?? I spent the whole credits repeating “what the actual fuck people” I mean good lord.

On the whole I thought it was great. There were definitely things I didn’t agree with, but I’m happy. I’ll have to watch it again tomorrow when I’m more awake to cement my opinions lol.

Braids 💆

Originally posted by ohbabyyeah

A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this! It’s the longest I’ve written on this blog and I’d really appreciate the feedback here  – I’m most likely doing a Part 2 depending on how you all like it. Enjoy :)

Harry loved family reunions.

Amongst the bickering cousins and lurid pitter-patter of children, he often found himself feeling at peace as his folks filled him in on all the stories he’s missed out on. He’d laugh about his jittery uncle who nearly burnt his eyebrows off from an old barbecue, nodding approvingly as his aunt gushes about her eight year old who’s just won the flashy new title of spelling bee champion. He likes the way they treat him too. With adoration in their eyes, resurrecting from the years they’ve watched him as a young boy (instead of the usual gaze of stardom he’s used to). He almost, if not, especially enjoys the way they admire his success, not as an ego-booster, but as a way of praising Anne for his upbringing, despite the major gossip that briefly tainted his mother’s name around her first divorce.

But even in a house packed with his most favourite people, he would always feel relatively exhausted from the length of the reunion, a full four days he’d reckoned. It was unfair really, he loved his crazy family, but he always felt like he had to put on his best face, never getting his usual dose of solitude to rejuvenate.

So when Harry first invited you to join him, he hadn’t quite expected you to be so patient with his family.

“Yes, he is very handsome,” you’d chuckle, “but we’re only friends.”

“You’re sweet, love, but I think this little girl wins the beauty contest, hmm?”

“Right, he is very good with kids.”

“M’only in uni, ma’am, so I’ve got a few good years before settling down.”

Keep reading

I love unmade beds. I love when people are drunk and crying and cannot be anything but honest in that moment. I love the look in people’s eyes when they realize they’re in love. I love the way people look when they first wake up and they’ve forgotten their surroundings. I love the gasp people take when their favorite character dies. I love when people close their eyes and drift to somewhere in the clouds. I fall in love with people and their honest moments all the time. I fall in love with their breakdowns and their smeared makeup and their daydreams. Honesty is just too beautiful to ever put into words.
—  Jamie Campbell Bower

~ Outlander ~

He pressed me firmly to him, and I could feel that he was more than ready to get on with the business at hand. With some surprise, I realized that I was ready too. In fact, whether it was the result of the late hour, the wine, his own attractiveness, or simple deprivation, I wanted him quite badly…

“Oof!” I said, struggling for breath. He let go, apologizing. “No, don’t worry; kiss me again.” He did, this time slipping the straps of the chemise down over my shoulders. He drew back slightly, cupping my breasts and rubbing my nipples as I had done his. I fumbled with the buckle that held his kilt; his fingers guided mine and the clasp sprang free. 

Originally posted by kisstherain1

Originally posted by fungirleodehaggards

Suddenly he lifted me in his arms and sat down on the bed, holding me on his lap. He spoke a little hoarsely. “Tell me if I’m too rough, or tell me to stop altogether, if ye wish. Anytime until we are joined; I dinna think I can stop after that.” In answer, I put my hands behind his neck and pulled him down on top of me. I guided him to the slippery cleft between my legs. 

“Holy God,” said James Fraser, who never took the name of his Lord in vain.
“Don’t stop now,” I said.


~ Dragonfly in Amber ~

He was slow, and careful; so was I. Each touch, each moment must be savored, remembered—treasured as a talisman against a future empty of him. I touched each soft hollow, the hidden places of his body. Felt the grace and the strength of each curving bone, the marvel of his firm-knit muscles, drawn lean and flexible across the span of his shoulders, smooth and solid down the length of his back, hard as seasoned oakwood in the columns of his thighs. Tasted the salty sweat in the hollow of his throat, smelled the warm muskiness of the hair between his legs, the sweetness of the soft, wide mouth, tasting faintly of dried apple and the bitter tang of juniper berries. 

Originally posted by lilocalloways

Originally posted by thebookboyfriendharem

“You are so beautiful, my own,” he whispered to me, touching the slipperiness between my legs, the tender skin of my inner thighs. His head was no more than a dark blur against the white blur of my breasts. The holes in the roof admitted only the faintest light from the overcast sky; the soft grumble of spring thunder muttered constantly in the hills beyond our fragile walls. He was hard in my hand, so stiff with the wanting that my touch made him groan in a need close to pain.

When he could wait no longer, he took me, a knife to its scabbard, and we moved hard together, pressing, wanting, needing so urgently that moment of ultimate joining, and fearing to reach it, for the knowledge that beyond it lay eternal separation. He brought me again and again to the peaks of sensation, holding back himself, stopping, gasping and shuddering on the brink. Until at last I touched his face, twined my fingers in his hair, pressed him tight and arched my back and hips beneath him, urging, forcing. “Now,” I said to him, softly. “Now. Come with me, come to me, now. Now!” He yielded to me, and I to him, despair lending edge to passion, so the echo of our cries seemed to die away slowly, ringing in the darkness of the cold stone hut. 


~ Voyager ~

Originally posted by jamesandclairefraser

Originally posted by geillisduncane

A little reluctantly, I took his hand, and stepped out of the inadequate shelter of the remains of my dress. He drew me gently in, to stand between his knees as he sat on the bed. Then he kissed me softly, once on each breast, and laid his head between them, his breath coming warm on my bare skin. “Your breast is like ivory,” he said softly, the word almost “breest” in the Highland Scots that always grew broad when he was truly moved. His hand rose to cup one breast, his fingers tanned into darkness against my own pale glow. “Only to see them, sae full and sae round—Christ, I could lay my head here forever. But to touch ye, my Sassenach…you wi’ your skin like white velvet, and the sweet long lines of your body…” He paused, and I could feel the working of his throat muscles as he swallowed, his hand moving slowly down the curving slope of waist and hip, the swell and taper of buttock and thigh. 

 “Dear God,” he said, still softly. “I couldna look at ye, Sassenach, and keep my hands from you, nor have ye near me, and not want ye.” He lifted his head then, and planted a kiss over my heart, then let his hand float down the gentle curve of my belly, lightly tracing the small marks left there by Brianna’s birth… 

 “Give me your mouth, Sassenach,” he said softly, and bent to me. His head blotted out the candlelight, and I saw nothing but a dim glow and the darkness of his flesh as his mouth touched mine. Gently, brushing, then pressing, warm, and I opened to him with a little gasp, his tongue seeking mine. I bit his lip, and he drew back a little, startled. 

 “Jamie,” I said against his lips, my own breath warm between us. “Jamie!” That was all I could say, but my hips jerked against him, and jerked again, urging violence. I turned my head and fastened my teeth in the flesh of his shoulder. He made a small sound deep in his throat and came into me hard. I was tight as any virgin and cried out, arching under him. 

 “Don’t stop!” I said. “For God’s sake, don’t stop!” His body heard me and answered in the same language, his grasp of my wrists tightening as he plunged hard into me, the force of it reaching my womb with each stroke. Then he let go of my wrists and half-fell on me, the weight of him pinning me to the bed as he reached under, holding my hips hard, keeping me immobile. I whimpered and writhed against him, and he bit my neck. “Be still,” he said in my ear. 

I was still, only because I couldn’t move. We lay pressed tight together, shuddering. I could feel the pounding against my ribs, but didn’t know whether it was my heart, or his. Then he moved in me, very slightly, a question of the flesh. It was enough; I convulsed in answer, held helpless under him, and felt the spasms of my release stroke him, stroke him, seize and release him, urging him to join me. 

He reared up on both hands, back arched and head thrown back, eyes closed and breathing hard. Then very slowly, he bent his head forward and opened his eyes. He looked down at me with unutterable tenderness, and the candlelight gleamed briefly on the wetness on his cheek, maybe sweat or maybe tears. 

“Oh, Claire,” he whispered. “Oh, God, Claire.” And his release began, deep inside me, without his moving, shivering through his body so that his arms trembled, the ruddy hairs quivering in the dim light, and he dropped his head with a sound like a sob, his hair hiding his face as he spilled himself, each jerk and pulse of his flesh between my legs rousing an echo in my own. When it was over, he held himself over me, still as stone for a long moment. Then, very gently, he lowered himself, pressed his head against mine, and lay as if dead.

It was terror as much as desire that pressed me close against him.

I wanted him, all right; my breasts ached and my belly was tight with it, the unaccustomed rush of arousal slippery between my legs, opening me for him. But as strong as lust, was the desire simply to be taken, to have him master me, quell my doubts in a moment of rough usage, take me hard and swiftly enough to make me forget myself. 

I could feel the urge to do it tremble in the hands that cupped my buttocks, in the involuntary jerk of his hips, brought up short as he stopped himself. 

Do it, I thought, in an agony of apprehension. For God’s sake, do it now and don’t be gentle! 

I couldn’t say it. I saw the need of it on his face, but he couldn’t say it, either; it was both too soon and too late for such words between us. 

But we had shared another language, and my body still recalled it. I pressed my hips against him sharply, grasping his, the curves of his buttocks clenched hard under my hands. I turned my face upward, urgent to be kissed, at the same moment that he bent abruptly to kiss me. 

My nose hit his forehead with a sickening crunch. My eyes watered profusely as I rolled away from him, clutching my face. 

“Ow!” 

“Christ, have I hurt ye, Claire?” Blinking away the tears, I could see his face, hovering anxiously over me. 

“No,” I said stupidly. “My nose is broken, though, I think.” 

“No, it isn’t,” he said, gently feeling the bridge of my nose. “When ye break your nose, it makes a nasty crunching sound, and ye bleed like a pig. It’s all right.” 

I felt gingerly beneath my nostrils, but he was right; I wasn’t bleeding. The pain had receded quickly, too. As I realized that, I also realized that he was lying on me, my legs sprawled wide beneath him, his cock just touching me, no more than a hairsbreadth from the moment of decision. 

I saw the realization dawn in his eyes as well. Neither of us moved, barely breathing. Then his chest swelled as he took a deep breath, reached and took both my wrists in one hand. He pulled them up, over my head, and held me there, my body arched taut and helpless under him. 

“Give me your mouth, Sassenach,” he said softly, and bent to me. His head blotted out the candlelight, and I saw nothing but a dim glow and the darkness of his flesh as his mouth touched mine. Gently, brushing, then pressing, warm, and I opened to him with a little gasp, his tongue seeking mine. 

I bit his lip, and he drew back a little, startled. 

“Jamie,” I said against his lips, my own breath warm between us. “Jamie!” That was all I could say, but my hips jerked against him, and jerked again, urging violence. I turned my head and fastened my teeth in the flesh of his shoulder. 

He made a small sound deep in his throat and came into me hard. I was tight as any virgin and cried out, arching under him. 

“Don’t stop!” I said. “For God’s sake, don’t stop!” 

His body heard me and answered in the same language, his grasp of my wrists tightening as he plunged hard into me, the force of it reaching my womb with each stroke. 

Then he let go of my wrists and half-fell on me, the weight of him pinning me to the bed as he reached under, holding my hips hard, keeping me immobile. 

I whimpered and writhed against him, and he bit my neck. 

“Be still,” he said in my ear. I was still, only because I couldn’t move. We lay pressed tight together, shuddering. I could feel the pounding against my ribs, but didn’t know whether it was my heart, or his. 

Then he moved in me, very slightly, a question of the flesh. It was enough; I convulsed in answer, held helpless under him, and felt the spasms of my release stroke him, stroke him, seize and release him, urging him to join me. 

He reared up on both hands, back arched and head thrown back, eyes closed and breathing hard. Then very slowly, he bent his head forward and opened his eyes. He looked down at me with unutterable tenderness, and the candlelight gleamed briefly on the wetness on his cheek, maybe sweat or maybe tears. 

“Oh, Claire,” he whispered. “Oh, God, Claire.” 

And his release began, deep inside me, without his moving, shivering through his body so that his arms trembled, the ruddy hairs quivering in the dim light, and he dropped his head with a sound like a sob, his hair hiding his face as he spilled himself, each jerk and pulse of his flesh between my legs rousing an echo in my own. 

When it was over, he held himself over me, still as stone for a long moment. Then, very gently, he lowered himself, pressed his head against mine, and lay as if dead.

Bon’s Informal Screechings (3x02) (SPOILERS)

and, as always, “informal” means: TYPOS 

Originally posted by sam-heughan-daily


  • Aghh, yessss, more wanted posters!!! (OH SHIT WHAT IF THE POSTER SURVIVED THROUGH TIME) (FIC FIC FIC FIC FIC)
  • FERGUS and the LallyBoy squad!!
  • OH FERGUS, BABY, YOUR VOICE IS SO LOW!!! 
  • Oh, and he’s such a little jamie, talking about how knives are the only brave way to kill. Bless
  • STOP BEING MEAN TO IAN YOU REDCOAT DICKS!! 
  • Ohhhhh interesting, a Scottish redcoat. Such an interesting angle
  • NO DON”T TAKE IAN!!! HE’S GONNA GET SICK IN TWENTY YEARS AND DIE AND JENNY”S GOING TO BE UNJUSTLY SALTY @ CLAIRE FOR IT. PREVENT THIS MADNESS!!
  • AHHH there’s the woodsman shot! Um, Jamie, could you maybe KEEP YOUR DISTANCE WHEN THE RECOATS ARE ABOUT
  • DON”T EAT THE SHIT JAMIE! I KNOW LIFE IS PRETTY BLEAK, BUT YOU”RE BETTER THAN THAT
  • Ooo pretty deer
  • CLAIRE SHOT CLAIRE SHOT…..awwwww her sweet, sweet smile….awww his little bereft face when he realizes it’s only Jenny. GAH. Hang in there, JimJam—there will come a day!!!
  • Jenny: Oh my god, SPEAK WORDS, JAMIE
  • Jamie: Nah, I’ll just sit here, whacking my meat in silence. Over and over. Just pounding all this raw, untouched meat until the day I die. 
  • Jenny

Originally posted by lifetimetv


  • OH, YES YES YES YES ‘MOIST AND GASPING’ (FAAAAAVE) 
  • Oh i think she’s
  • OHHHHHHHH, HEAVENS, YES.!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 
  • IT HAS BEEN A SPLENDID YEAR FOR ASSES ON TELEVISION, HAS IT FUCKING NOT??? 
  • I SEE THAT HAND, MRS FRASER. I SEE IT!!!! AND I”M SCREAMIN
  • GODS BE PRAISED
  • JAMMF ARSE + CLAIRESTERBATION=MY SKIN JUST CLEARED AND MY CROPS ARE WATERED

Originally posted by everythingstarstuff

  • GAHHH BREE’S BUNNY!!!! (i love this for fic reasons, especially) 
  • You go, Claire, don’t let the fuckers keep you from reading the globe. 
  • WHO might that casual Irish history mention be for?  Hmmmm…..
  • I’m so fucking obsessed with her talk-to-baby voice and mannerisms. Like OH. my. GOD. TOO CUUUUUUUTE. 
  • FERGUS TRYNA BE A MAN
  • Ughh Jamie looks so scared when he walks up to Mary (possibly like he needs to shit) (like… a sadness shit.) (Yep that’s it) 
  • BABYCHILD FERGUS DINNA SHOOT THAT BURD- (although actually, that’s clever. I always thought it was unfathomably stupid for Jamie to have risked such a thingin the book )
  • Oh but Fergus you dum dum, that was not good
  • ….Nice shot though! 
  • AWWWWW, HI WEEIAN! His little weee faaaaaaaaaaace 
  • Redcoats redcoats redcoats 
  • Gah, I’m so glad they didn’t put Jamie in the wardrobe. That always felt a little unrealistic. 
  • FUCK YOU, CORPORAL
  • FUCK YOU, CAPTAIN
  • ((ohhhhh Jenny must be remembering Black Jack. This isn’t the first time redcoats have barged into her chamber)) 
  • FUCK YOU AGAIN, CORPORAL 
  • WHOA, MARY WTF! TAKE ONE FOR THE TEAM, GIRL! That was very cool of her. (I really liked that adaptation choice. Gave her character so much more depth. I mean, that’s exactly something Claire would have done).
  • Ohhh i love that Claire’s the one to initiate the sex. It would make me so uncomfortable if they’d gone the route of Frank pressuring her
  • Oh, I see those eyes closed. Its about her and her body, not about Frank 
  • NO FERGUS DINNA DO IT. DON”T TAUNT THOSE MEAN FUCKERS
  • OMG THEY DID IT ON PURPOSE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
  • TE FUCKING GODSDAMNED MOTHERFUCKING SHITS
  • HOW DARE YOU TOUCH MY CHILD (-JAMMF/me) 

Originally posted by yourreactiongifs


  • another good adaptation choice, though! underlines the cruelty of those post Culloden years
  • JAMIE SAID MILADY I”M HURTING
  • Urgh,, jamie breaking down, crying for Fergus
  • “You remind me i have something to fight for”. “There you are, milord.”
  • “I have always trusted you milord”

Originally posted by nikkiiklebold


  •  “I miss my husband” 
  • …I WONDER WHICH ONE WE MIGHT BE REFERRING TO??? GOLLLY!!! WHAT MYSTERY!!! 
  • Fireplace sex: Oh my that was quite a groan Claire (i may have LOLed)
  • Ohhhh not opening her eyes again 
  • oh shit 
  • OH SHIT
  • OH SHITTTTTTTT SHE’S KEEPING THOSE SUCKERS CLOOOOOSED
  • CLOSED. FO. BUSINESS
  • DREAMIN THOSE GINGER FANTASIES
  • ooooo it hurts so good, this marital strife


  • A pain in a part of ye that’s lost
  • “…and that’s just a hand….Claire was your heart” 

Originally posted by haidaspicciare


  • Ooo shaving! Hallo again, pretty baby
  • I LOVE that they changed mary’s line to “something we BOTH need” 
  • THE WAY HE CRIES AS HE TOUCHED MARY BECAUSE HE HASN”T BEEN TOUCHED IN SO LONG AND HE MISSES HIS WIFE 
  • CRYING
  • Hell to the yas @ that tasteful fade to black. Collective sigh of relief. 
  • From where I’m standing, they handled the Mary stuff BEAUTIFULLY 

IMPORTANT: Neither Jamie nor Claire can open their eyes during sex anymore


  • OMG BREE’S WEE HATTTTTTTTT. I SQUEALED
  • MED SCHOOLLLLL!!!!!!!!
  • THESE FUCKING MEN WITH THEIR FUCKING NERD GLASSES
  • JOOOEEEEEEEEEEE
  • CLAIREBERNATHY BEGINS!!!!!!
  • “Gentlemen” (FUCK YOU) 
  • OHHHHHH SHIT THAT TWIN BED LIFE@!!!!!!!!!!!!

Originally posted by natforprez


Another great episode, guys!! 

Clair(e)voyance

1.7

His fingers tapped restlessly on his thigh.  Stay cool, Sorcha.  

He had names for her in his head.  Names he couldn’t say out loud. 

Yet.  

Her name, Sorcha in Gaelic, for one.  The other to do with her dark curls.  

Right now she was a witness in the Judge’s Hearing, being cross examined, and was doing very well.  

“Dr. Randall, how did you come to be in my client’s bistro, then?”

“I accompanied Detective Sergeant Fraser because the toxicology report came back citing Conium Maculatum as the poison which caused the first victim’s death, and he asked me if the second death was similar.  It was not, so I researched which poison it could be.  We went back to the bistro together in case the plant was somehow on display, and I could identify it because I’m well versed in Medical Botany.” 

“Please tell us the plants you did see, Dr. Randall,” the Judge interjected.

“Well, I saw Belladonna, and Poppies from which you get opium, Foxglove, Yellow Jasmine.  Oh, and Sweet Pea vines.”

The Judge nodded to indicate he was finished with his question.  

“My client mentioned you came back again.  Alone.”

Claire said nothing.    

“Dr. Randall?”

“Sorry.  I was waiting for a question.”

Jamie shook his head and smiled at her impertinence.

The Barrister asked the question again, impatience in his tone.  “Why did you go back to the bistro alone, Dr. Randall?  And the bruises on your neck?”

Jamie sat up straighter. Come on, mo neighean donn.  

Claire looked from the Barrister, to the Judge, then back to the Barrister.  “I went back to the bistro to try to find a different plant.  Convallaria majalis.  I thought these poisonous leaves might be among the greens one could choose for their salad.  I was incorrect.  They were blended into the salad dressings.  I realized that when Ms. Duncan asked me whether or not “he” liked lemon.” Claire paused, and looked at the Judge again.  “But I never had bruises on my neck.”

Geillis Duncan sat up in her chair, palms flat on the table.  Her green eyes were blazing at Claire.  The Barrister flicked a hand in her direction, silently instructing her to calm down.  

“You had on a scarf, Dr. Randall.  My client said you were trying to cover up the bruises on your neck.  Bruises from an abusive relationship.”

“I wore a scarf that day, but for no other reason than it looked good with my sweater.”  Claire hit the perfect tone of dismissive professionalism.  

The Crown Prosecutor jumped in.  “Your Honour, is Counsel admitting his client is guilty here?  That she willfully poisoned two men because she deemed them to be abusive?”  

“No, I’m simply trying to ascertain if Dr. Randall presented herself falsely so as to entrap my client.”  The Defense realized immediately what he’d done. Stupid mistake. 

Claire did not dare to look at Jamie.  She kept her eyes trained on the Judge.  

“My Chambers, both of you.  You are finished, Dr. Randall.”

Geillis stared at Claire. 

Claire gathered her things.  

Jamie stared at Claire.  My God, she was cool.  Calm.  Collected.  He wondered briefly if she knew the outcome, and that’s why she was so steady.  

It was over in minutes.  

Jamie caught up with Claire waiting in the foyer for the pelting rain outside to die down.  He told her Geillis took a plea bargain.  She admitted to having been abused, and neglected by her alcoholic husband. Geillis Duncan decided to ‘help’ other women in the same predicament.  What they couldn’t get her to admit was how her own husband died.  Apparently, Geillis said he was allergic to almonds.  

Claire knew better.  

Arsenic.  


It was dark, and fresh after the rain storm.

He opened her car door, and offered a hand to help her out in front of her town home.  Two pints, and a celebration whisky later, she wasn’t too worse for wear. Her tawny eyes were slightly unfocused, but still bright with satisfaction over her performance at the Hearing.  She smiled up at him, and took his hand.  He tugged a little as she got to her feet, and she playfully leaned against his shoulder.

Jamie saw his opportunity and took it.

He hooked a finger under her chin, and lifted it.  Pressed his lips to hers.  Not too hard.  Not too urgent.  Just a kiss.  A beginning.  A start.  

Claire was startled.  Her eyes were wide open as she watched Jamie close his. He broke the kiss, and without opening his eyes, found her lips again.  He did not pressure her.  It seemed just the softness of their mouths was enough.  

She let her eyes drift shut.  Grabbed the lapels of his jacket.  Stepped towards him, and felt his arms come around her.  Gently.  Easily.  

He tasted like whisky.  Like the whisky they had in the pub.  Without meaning to her tongue traced the seam of his lips tasting it. He smiled into the kiss and opened his mouth.  The tip of his tongue touched hers.  She shuddered as he sucked her tongue a little deeper into his mouth.  

When the kiss ended he didn’t let go.  Instead he leaned back against his car, spread his legs, and brought her to stand between them.  Still gripping his lapels, she felt like a teenager at the end of a date.  She could feel him hard against her belly.  

“Jamie…” How to explain?

“It was time, no?  I mean, our fourth date an’ all.”

“What?”  Claire was confused.  Her brain, fuzzy.

“Wot?” Jamie mimicked.  “Aye.  Fourth.”

“We’ve not been on a date, ever!”  Claire placed her palms flat on Jamie’s chest, and tried to push away.  He ran his hands slowly down her backside. Pressed her slightly forward.  Against his desire.

She shivered. 

“The first date we had pizza…”  

“That wasn’t a date!  It was after work!”  

Jamie grinned at her outrage.  

“Aye, it was.  I paid, ken?  That made it a date.  The second time ye paid for me.  Falafals, yeah?”  

“That was work!”

“Nay, it wasna!” Jamie teased, “It was strictly talk of yer life and mine.  No work talk until we’d finished.”  Her loved the way her brow furrowed in thought.  

Claire shook her head.  She was having trouble coming up with a suitable argument.  Jamie snuck in for another quick kiss. 

He continued.  “Then, to cover our arses I told Chief Inspector we were on a date to the bistro, so that makes three, and finally, tonight at the pub.”

Claire laughed, truly amused.  “None of those were dates, Fraser.  You are making up this complete fantasy.”  She poked his chest. 

Jamie hugged her a little tighter.  She had to step a little closer.  “Maybe. Maybe I wanted them to be dates, Claire.”  He pushed a tendril behind her ear.  “Listen, Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall of Oxfordshire, England.  Daughter of Julia and Henry Beauchamp.  Raised by Quentin Lambert Beauchamp.  Birthdate, October 20.”

Claire gasped.  “You’ve investigated me!”  She tried to push away.  The feeling of being controlled began to rise up inside her.  Began to sober her.

Jamie held fast. Stayed calm.  Voice measured.  Even.  

“I did.  Not sorry for it, either.  Ye fascinate me, Claire.  And since gettin’ ye to talk about yerself is like interviewing a hostile witness, I was desperate.  Top of yer class in medical school.  Ye were one of the best surgeons in Boston.” 

“Ye ken what else I found out?”  He stood up now, so as to be closer still. “That I’m falling in love with ye, Claire.”

She froze.  No.  This cannot be.  

She closed her eyes.  Placed a hand over his heart.

Nothing.  

Not one tiny vision.

Damn it all to hell.  No, no, no, no, NO.

“You don’t know me, Jamie.  You don’t know what I’m capable of.”  Claire started to shake.  She had to tell him.  

He closed his hand over hers as it lay on his chest. “What do ye see, Claire?” he asked softly.    

“Nothing,” she whispered.  “That happens, when….when I….”  God, Beauchamp, out with it.  “When I’m too close…emotionally….to someone.”    

Jamie’s heart leapt.  Dare he hope?

“Is that what happened with Frank, then?  Is that why ye blame yerself?  Ye never saw his accident?”

Claire swallowed hard.  Took a deep breath.  Tried to focus on his face.  The accident swam in front of her eyes again.  Suddenly, she was back there.  

She took a step away from him.

“I did see, Jamie.  When he brushed past me after our argument I saw it all. The black ice.  The tree.  The twisted car.  All of it.”

She stepped back again.  And again.  

His hands dropped from her hips.  She was free from his touch.

“And I didn’t do a damn thing to stop him.  I saw it.  And I didn’t say a word.”

She saw Jamie’s eyes widen.  She felt his shock.    

“I sent Frank to his death.” 

Orange

MASTERLIST

A/N : This is super short and super sweet if I do say so myself.

Word Count : 1,200 +

Summary : Harry never had a favourite colour, but for Y/N he’ll take this little white lie to the grave with him.

                                                     * * *

Harry had never been in love and to be quite honest, he wasn’t sure it existed. After watching his parents, the two people who were supposed to love each other unconditionally, tear themselves apart, Harry decided love didn’t exist. Not that he wanted to sound cynical (because Harry was a great guy with a great sense of humour and not a particularly depressing person) but as the spark in his parents’ eyes died with every hopeless problem they encountered and issue left unsolved, Harry soon learned the harsh truth that sometimes love wasn’t enough.

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9

“Jamie,” Matthew said, sounding unsettled but impressed. “That was terryfying.”

“It’s James, for the last time,” said James.

“No I’m calling you Jamie for a little while, because you just displayed arcane power and calling you Jamie makes me feel better.”

- Nothing But Shadows

Fanfiction - Promise

It has been a long time, so forgive me for the rustiness. This wee ficlet was born from the amazing Ben Howard song, Promise (thank you anon!), as well as from @bonnie-wee-swordsman‘s suggestion, The Luckiest, which guided me to the movie About Time. Thank you sweets, for the inspiration - here and always. Now on to the angst fic.

Promise

A gift. A curse.

It was meant to be both.

My mother had said as much in her letter, the one she wrote hoping I’d never read. “Time is a delicate thing, my darling.” She had penned. “Don’t use your ability with the ones you love the most, or risk finding them gone in the end, everything changed. They will forget you, even if you’ll still remember every second of what could have been.”

When I was old enough – the letter dutifully delivered by my uncle on my eighteenth birthday – I realized she didn’t follow her own advice. Grief is blinding – I would learn that too, at great personal cost.

My father was hit by a runaway car while crossing the road next to our house. It was one of those meaningless accidents, that claim our lives with the surety and brevity of a tired smile. My mother, unhinged by loss and love (too much, too deep), went back to try and prevent it from happening.

I know this because us, the ones kissed – slapped, really – by the gift of bending time, cannot be touched by its alterations. Our lives become forked, and even as we cheerfully go on living in a pathway, we still recall the alternative, the before. We have the sorrow of things lost embedded in the joy of things gained. We live endless lives inside our damned minds.

So I recalled my mother crying, the very life of her streaming down her eyes – and then the scariest part, once she stopped crying and only looked through the window. Deciding.

“The gift of traveling back in time has been in our family for generations.” She wrote, her handwriting fluid and graceful. “Only women, woken when they come of age. If you possess it, my dear Claire, you will be faced with some of the toughest choices possible. You will see evil and crave change. You will be tempted to correct every wrong done to you. You will know despair and joy and hope. I pray that you find plenty of happiness, using it as seldom as possible. Help strangers and see the world become better by your touch.”

She kissed me before she went, pale but decided. Her hair smelt of rosemary, warm hugs and mother.

In this timeline in which I grew up, my mother stopped my father from dying that evening. Instead, they died together the next day – Death waiting for them at the bottom of a ravine, their car overturned by ice and old tires. I lost my father twice, my mother once – I brutally learned you can’t fool time, when it comes for you.

The first time I travelled, I was nineteen. I stopped a girl from college, a freckled and gentle-eyed brunette, from crossing the park at night and getting assaulted. I remembered all too well the alternative, the shell she would become if I did nothing. Only when I didn’t have a choice – I only did it when I couldn’t change it in any other way and the outcome would be too dire. I prevented accidents, crimes and a few heartbreaks. But I never used my gift – my curse – with Jamie.

I never used it to relive our first night together, when I thought I was shattered by happiness, and everybody would see the breaks and the sun pouring out, miles and miles away; I never used it to avoid an argument, even when he walked away and there was the risk that he might never come back to me; I never used it to take back the “No” I said to him, the first time he asked me to marry him – because I had yet to tell him of my ability and could not deceive him in such a manner. I felt everything my mother wished me to experience – I cherished it all, the good and the bad, the sweet coated with the sour, the life we humans are meant to live as we’re slowly breaking apart.

But time robbed me. And I grieved.

I woke up screaming in the middle of the night, as I so often did those days. Or at least I thought I did, as my mouth was open, every tendon and vessel on my neck tensed into the point of snapping, gasping for air that had vanished. My heart raced towards a destiny forever lost, trying to escape me - the withering host. I rolled in bed, searching with the tips of my fingers. The sheets beside me were empty and cold – that, too, occurred all too often those days. He was gone.

I knew where he was – countless times I had cowardly peeked through the living room’s door, only to see him staring into the flames, bewitched. Like he could see omens there, the crackling of the logs reminiscent of a laughter he would never hear, but loved so dearly. My reaction was always to retreat, to hide away from his pain, because I felt I couldn’t bear it when I already had my own.

I padded to the door and saw him there, his broad naked chest covered by a soft plaid quilt, cream and blue. I could wail just from the sight of it.

Guilt wrecked me, consuming me bit by bit until there was nothing left. And in that torment I finally found words to speak, a kind of courage that wasn’t bravery at all.

“Jamie.” I rasped out. He startled slightly and looked at me, his blue eyes hooded in the firelight. “What are you doing here?”

“Ye should go back to bed, lass.” He seemed concerned by whatever he saw on my face. “I dinna mean to disturb yer sleep.”

“I will.” I hesitated but at last fully entered the room, watching my shadow dance on the wall. “Jamie,” I gulped, decided to push on. “Do you need me to go?”

“Ye need yer rest, Sassenach.” Jamie smiled a little, but his eyes didn’t catch the light. “Go on and I’ll be with ye presently.”

“No.” I looked away, my voice already trembling. “I mean – do you want me gone?” He straightened his shoulders, his head tilting to absorb my words. “You can’t bear looking at me, can you?”

“Don’t say that!” He snapped, his voice harsher than it would have been, months ago. Broken. “Why would ye say such a thing, Claire?”

“Every other night I wake up and find you gone from my side.” I swallowed hard, moistening my chapped lips. “You spend the night here and I don’t know what to say to you.” My eyes welled up, tears starting to stream down my face. “We barely talk or touch…and I- I…”

Jamie looked at me – really looked, like only he could – and curled a bit on the armchair he had been sitting on, sighing deeply. Resigned.

“It’s my shift.” He said softly, almost inaudibly.

“What?” I blurted, impatiently wiping away tears, as I moved to sit on the couch across from him.

“We agreed that we’d alternate on parent duties at night, so you could rest a little.” He looked away from me, pain enough in his eyes to tear me apart in a clean cut. “It was my night to be with Faith. I know she is…” Jamie closed his eyes, gripping his fists. “Gone. But I couldna leave her alone, ye ken? I thought I’d keep her company, wherever she is.”

“Jamie…” I reached for his hand, entwining his fingers with mine. He was cold as a marble statue, beautiful as one. He examined my fingers and his, as if searching for something that was supposed to be there, hidden inside our joined hands.

“I don’t know what to do with my hands anymore, Claire.” He confessed in a broken voice. “I was supposed to be holding her and I don’t know what to do with myself if I’m not.”

“I could go.” I proposed tentatively, nervously rubbing his knuckles with my fingertips. “I could travel back and save her, Jamie, I know I could…Our girl. I could save her. I could bring her back to us.”

“No!” He said with such intensity and fierceness that he almost scared me. His hands – big, loving, reassuring – came to rest on the sides of my arms. Holding me together. “Ye told me yerself years ago, mo ghraidh. There’s no controlling what could happen – ye might die in childbirth this time around, Claire. Ye almost did. Or ye could go further back than ye intended and we might never find each other. I canna risk losing ye.”

“It would be alright.” I babbled, desperately trying to convince him – to convince myself – that I could, indeed, take away the terror that had been offered to us, such a cruel replacement for the joy we had been promised. Faith, our stillborn daughter. The only reason I truly wished to go back in time and could not.

“Ye are my life, Claire.” Jamie said ardently, sliding from the chair to kneel in front of me. “I grieve because the loss is so great. Aye, my heart is tormented and sometimes I canna sleep – I dread dreaming of her, our bonny lass, redheaded and whole and alive. Those are the dreams I fear the most, because I’ll never see her so.” He bent his head, his forehead pressing against my knuckles. “You asked me if I couldna bear looking at you –,” I felt his tears against my skin, fresh and tingling. “That is the only thing I can bear. Ye give me hope, Sassenach – even when it’s just a wee flame, barely there. I wouldna risk ye, ever.”

I was sobbing in earnest by then, all things so clumsily contained finally finding a crack to escape control. Guilt. Sorrow. Love, for them both.

“Why should I have this – this thing,” I almost spat, as he held me in his arms and rocked me back and forth, attempting to comfort me. “If I can’t even save my own daughter?”

“Ye are meant to save lives, Sassenach.” He assured me, his voice husky, his hands gentle on my back and cheek. “Just not that one. Not that one. We are meant to live and lose, Claire. And know it was worth it.”

We stood there, spilling our sorrow into each other for what seemed like hours, finding relief in being so earnest, so raw.

“Promise me ye won’t go, mo ghraidh.” Jamie eventually pleaded, his lips brushing my hair again and again. “For there is an entire life ahead that only has meaning with ye in it. I love ye.”

“Yes.” I whispered, as he slowly carried me in his arms towards our bedroom. “Promise me we’ll talk of her whenever we need to. That you will wake me up to come and watch over her with you. And when you don’t know what to do with your hands – perhaps… you could hold me?”

“Aye.” He kissed my lips, soft and tender.

We laid down, facing each other, our eyes refusing to let go – we wouldn’t risk drifting away that night, parted even by sleep. And in his eyes I saw the first light of dawn, balmy and golden and pure, seeming to have come earlier than all the nights before, when darkness lingered in the curtains of our bedroom.

And we promised.