it had to be this or the moment where she says 'hoots mon!'

anonymous asked:

Voyager is by far my favorite book so I give no fucks for what comes next. For me they can end the serie after it and would be a bless this fu**** fandom coming to an end! The friendships I made because of it don't depend of this mess. We are far beyond people that are only linked by liking these books, the show and these actors which the only interest in us, it's clear now, is to get fame, new jobs and our money to their charities.

I give way to many fucks about what comes next because A BREATH OF SNOW AND ASHES! How can you say some shit like that?! Gah! You are going to jinx it…. Take it back 🔪

If I have to go on virtual dress up picnics with no food with the trash bag for the next few years, so be it. Worth it!

I must see:

“Kill them all,” he said to Fergus, his voice still calm.


She took one huge breath and her body relaxed all at once, going limp and heavy like a dying hare.
He held her, both arms wrapped around her as though to save her from drowning, but felt her sink away all the same. He wished to call out to her not to go, not to leave him alone. She vanished into the depths of sleep, and he yearned after her, wishing her healed, fearing her flight, and bent his head, burying his face in her hair and her scent.
The wind banged the open shutters as it passed, and in the dark outside, one owl hooted and another answered, hiding from the rain.
Then he cried, soundless, muscles strained to aching that he might not shake with it, that she might not wake to know it. He wept to emptiness and ragged breath, the pillow wet beneath his face. Then lay exhausted beyond the thought of tiredness, too far from sleep even to recall what it was like. His only comfort was the small, so fragile weight that lay warm upon his heart, breathing.


“You must continue, for their sakes—though you would not for your own,” he had whispered, Fergus’s face pressed into his shoulder, the black hair wet with sweat and water, cold against his cheek. “Tu comprends, mon enfant, mon fils? Comprends-tu?”
I felt his throat move as he swallowed.
“See, I kent ye were dying,” he said very softly. “I was sure ye’d be gone when I came back to the house, and I should be alone. I wasna speaking to Fergus then, I think, so much as to myself.”
He raised his head then, and looked at me through a blur of tears and laughter.
“Oh, God, Claire,” he said, “I would have been so angry, if ye’d died and left me!”


“You gave her … tenderness. I know you did.”
He turned to me, suddenly, and my face was pressed into his coat, the cloth of it damp and rough on my skin, my tears blooming in tiny warm patches that vanished at once into the chill of the fabric.
“Oh, Claire,” he whispered into my hair. I reached up, and could feel wetness on his cheeks. “She said—she wished to keep ye alive for me. And she meant it; she didna mean to take anything for herself.”
I cried then, holding nothing back. For empty years, yearning for the touch of a hand. Hollow years, lying beside a man I had betrayed, for whom I had no tenderness. For the terrors and doubts and griefs of the day. Cried for him and me and for Mary MacNab, who knew what loneliness was—and what love was, as well.


“Knew you’d come,” I whispered into the linen of his shirt. He reeked of fire: smoke and pinesap and scorched cloth, and the bitter tang of turpentine. Reeked of stale sweat and horses, the weariness of a man who has not slept, who has labored all night, the faint yeasty smell of long hunger.
He held me close, ribs and breath and warmth and muscle, then put me away from him a little and looked down into my face. He had been smiling since I saw him. It lit his eyes, and without a word, he pulled the cap off my head and threw it over the rail. He ran his hands through my hair, fluffing it out into abandon, then cupped my head in his hands and kissed me, fingers digging into my scalp. He had a three-day beard, which rasped my skin like sandpaper, and his mouth was home and safety.


“I love you,” he said, so softly that I barely heard him, close as we were.
I lay still for a moment, feeling the stone grow warmer in the palm of my hand. Surely it was imagination that made it seem to throb in time with my heart. Where on earth had he gotten it?
Then I moved—not suddenly, but with deliberation, my body sliding slowly free of his. I rose, feeling light-headed, and crossed the room. Pushed open the window to feel the sharp touch of the autumn wind on my naked bed-warm skin, and drawing back my arm, hurled the tiny object into the night.
Then I came back to bed, saw his hair a dark mass on the pillow, and the shine of his eyes in the moonlight.
“I love you,” I whispered, and slid under the sheet beside him, putting my arms around him, hugging him close, warmer than the stone—so much warmer—and his heart beat with mine.
“I’m none so brave as I was before, ken?” he said very softly. “Not brave enough to live without ye anymore.”
But brave enough to try.
I drew his head down to me, stroking the tumble of his hair, coarse and smooth at once, live beneath my fingers.
“Lay your head, man,” I said softly. “It’s a long time ’til dawn.”

anonymous asked:

Hi, I know a soul mate prompt has been done before, but instead of sharing scars how about the first words they say to one another; and because Claire is a nurse she has grown jaded to her phrase cause she heard it often enough because of her job so it doesn't click when Jamie says it.

Chapter 1 of 6 for a reincarnation/soulmate AU called Duet.

Don’t you dare do that!You have to get the bone of the upper arm at the proper angle before it will slip back into joint,” I said, grunting as I pulled the wrist up and the elbow in. The young man was sizable; his arm was heavy as lead.

“This is the worst part,” I warned the patient. I cupped the elbow, ready to whip it upward and in.

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “It canna hurt much worse than it does. Get on wi’ it.


“I will find you,” he whispered in my ear, “I promise.”

Dragonfly in Amber

UN (Paris, France – April 1829)

The girls at Madame Hilde’s knew Sunday was bad for business. Not because the men weren’t interested in sex – when was sex not on the male conscious? – but because the Sabbath made them exceedingly selfish. Sequestered in their homes for the two days prior – and with little relief from wifely hovering – Hilde’s clients thought of nothing but their own sexual pleasure. La Soif Dimanche, Hilde called it. The Sunday Thirst.

But this desperation was precisely the problem. So bursting with need, Sunday’s patrons had no attention for small-talk or pleasantries. And they were certainly not of the mind for post-coital politicking.

Thus, while the girls’ purses might clink with the day’s wages, their efforts would be for naught, their true business gone unaccomplished. If their legs opened, but their clients’ mouths stayed shut, then the day was a veritable failure.

Sex at Madame Hilde’s was not business. Sex was war. Their clients might call them “whores” and the government might call them “traitors”, but the girls at Madame Hilde’s were warriors, first and foremost.

That was their business. Revolution, rebellion.

“Remember this, mesdemoiselles!” Madame Hilde always said. “A man may spill himself inside you, but it is you who plants the seed. He will water it with his lust, and you will reap its sow: liberté, égalité, fraternité!”

So it was no surprise that Claire Beauchamp had been dreading her Sunday appointment. There would be no stroll through the Tuileries today, no picnic beneath the mulberries with a fresh punnet of desfraises. Instead, Claire was up at dawn and in the throes of debate: which bustier would best accentuate her assets? Which would inspire easy revelation (him) but necessitate as little degradation possible (her)? The black, Claire thought. Less obvious, more suggestive than the red – and she was in no mood for anything but suggestions today.

Hilde had knocked on her door the night before, come bearing “the most fortunate news!” Fortunate, in this instance, had been entirely subjective, for the announcement of said news spoiled all plans for a peaceful, solitary Sunday.

“Monsieur Sandringham! Tu te souviens de lui?”

Claire had groaned into her pillow – “Oui” – and added with a whisper, “Prick the size of a gherkin.”

“He asks that you visit his home ce matin. He still fears being seen at my establishment – reputations and such.”

“What’s to say he knows anything? Last time was a bloody waste,” Claire had whined. “And I’ll be damned if he’s not riddled with venereal disease!”

Hilde sighed, smiling.

“Oh, ma petite medecin. Save your diagnoses for when you are paid to give them. You will make him talk. You are good at that, n’est ce pas?”

Indeed, Claire was – and such was the very reason Hilde provided room and board at no expense.

Newly-divorced, 22-year old Claire had fled the shadows of marital scandal, believing the English Channel might wash her slate clean. Unfortunately, this slate had supplied no food, money, or shelter once she arrived in Paris. It was only by chance that Madame Hilde had discovered her at la boulangerie one morning, deftly manipulating its owner for free bread.

Claire remembered the day, vividly: the tinkling bell; the tall, avian woman with watchful eyes. A crooking finger and a gravely but warm voice saying:

Vous, mademoiselle. Je vois un feu en vous. Vous viendrez avec moi.”

And how could Claire refuse? She’d had nowhere else to go, ate little, and wore rags. And while there would be no riches at the end of this story, there were at least the sanctuary and stability she’d been lacking.

It had been three months since she’d joined Hilde’s ranks, and the madame’s instincts had served the establishment well: Claire was requested more than most, tipped generously, and always laden with secrets upon her return. She had a knack for persuasion, and a talent for doctoring that proved invaluable whenever disease struck. She treated all of Hilde’s girls’ illnesses, cautioned them against certain practices, and taught them the basics of personal hygiene. And then she would slink off to her appointments, tongue like the forceps she used so well, and extract information from her clients. Vive la Revolution!

Fleetingly, Claire would laugh at the irony. So she’d been cleansed by the Channel – but then what? The minute her feet touched ground at Le Havre, she’d plunged herself into a pot of scalding-hot water, all lies and rebellion. To think what Frank would make of her now…

The sun hung just above the Sacré-Cœur when she stepped outside. Picking her way along the sidewalk, she noticed the street urchin was in his usual place, hunched surreptitiously beneath the eaves of la patisserie. She rummaged inside her pockets for a spare bit of change, fingers lighting on yesterday’s earnings. She removed two coins as she approached, and the boy’s face stretched into a smile at the offering.

“Mademoiselle Claire!” he cried. He caught the money when she tossed it. “You look very well today.”

“As do you, Claudel.” Claire motioned to his ensemble with an encompassing wave of the hand. “And what game are we playing at this week?”

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