proper englishman

BENEDICT AND SOPHIE SIGHTING
LONDON, 20 SEPTEMBER 2015

Account by ROWANSF FROM IMDB

“I don’t normally write up any sightings I’ve had of well-known people and as I’ve mentioned before, when I sometimes used to post here, I’m not a particular fan of Benedict Cumberbatch’s. I think the world of him as an actor and I love Sherlock but I’ve never ‘followed’ him.

However, one would’ve had to have been blind not to have observed the arguments and melodrama that have been ongoing in the BC fandom during the past year. In light of that I thought the following story might be of interest to the more rational elements of said fandom!

I was meeting a friend today for Sunday lunch. We went to a lovely place on Marylebone Hight Street where I’ve been any number of times before. We were sat at the back of the restaurant, in the corner of the banquette. I was settling myself in when I looked up and realised I was staring straight at Benedict and Sophie, sitting in the opposite end of the banquette. There was one (empty) table between us.

So this morning, for an hour-and-half, I was observing this couple at close quarters, having a totally private meal and therefore interacting as one assumes they do in Real Life. The restaurant was very busy, it was just that time when brunch merges with lunch. No one in the restaurant paid a blind bit of notice to these two and I don’t think anyone even recognised them.

They both looked exactly as they do in pictures, Sophie even more so that Benedict. Utterly normal. As every proper Englishman does on his Sunday brunch they had the Sunday paper with them (The Observer) and they were both reading while eating and talking.

And they talked a lot. Julian Fellowes (the writer of ‘Downton Abbey’ ) has said ‘All best marriages are one long conversation’ and if you believe this - as I do - these two would seem to be heading for a very long and happy life together. They were extremely intent on each other, leaning close to explain something, pointing out an article in the paper then clearly discussing it. They also touched each other a lot, Benedict rested his hand in Sophie’s lap under the table and Sophie touched his face, several times, and rested her hand on his shoulder. It was self-evident that they were massively content together and that they had a great deal to say to each other, each being clearly interested in what the other had to say.

I am older that Benedict and have seen quite a lot of the world, a lot of couples, marriages, relationships. To any impartial outside observer this was an adult couple, hugely comfortable together yet still seriously, and equally, interested in each other. They were in a setting, which made it clear that there was no reason for them to be there, or to behave the way they did, other than the fact that they wanted to be together, just the two of them, in the most completely normal, everyday sort of way.

As I said, I have never before written up a moment like this. However, the extreme reactions of some of Benedict’s followers when it comes to his marriage, the frankly surreal alternate reality -scenarios that have been created over the past months regarding these two - they are some of the most bizarre manifestations of ‘celebrity worship’ I have come across during my journeyings through the Internet. The reality, as ever, is as down-to-earth and natural as can be imagined.“

Virgin Bedchamber pt 1

@achangeintheweather978 asked: But I was wondering if we get a smut fic with Cliare being the virgin on the wedding night..?

Anonymous asked: Jamie the virgin on his wedding night ,can you reverse it and make him the experienced one and Claire the virgin

Of course you can! I love this! Obviously it’s a bit of a canon divergence, but I’m bringing in bits from the show!verse and the book!verse. Oh. And plenty of smut. Nice yummy steamy smut. Also, it’s a bit long. You’re so welcome.


He watched her through the hasty ceremony. He saw the way she stared at him, the way she licked her dry lips, the way she kept her hands clasped together so he wouldn’t see them shaking. He had seen them shake, of course, but she didn’t need to know that.

Poor lass was terrified.

He didn’t blame her. She’d told him that she’d only been promised to another man, but hadn’t actually wed him yet. When this agreement to marry had been created, she’d confessed it to him. There was something she still held back from him, but he wouldn’t pressure her for the details. They had a lifetime for that.

God she was beautiful. Wearing that lovely gown, her hair all done up in ribbons and wee flowers. As the priest prattled on, he wondered if the coarse hair between her legs would be the same lovely shade of brown. He would find out soon enough.

Forcing himself to pay attention, he repeated the words when prompted. Dougal came and performed the blood rites, and he led Claire through the Gaelic words.

Then they were married.

She’d been promised and hadn’t lain with the man, but she said she’d kissed him on occasion.

“He was a proper Englishman, you see,” she’d told him. “He didn’t think it right to do… Things. Before we wed.”

“Dinna fash, Sassenach. I’ll take care of ye.”

And so he would. Before God and many of his friends, he’d vowed to care for her.

Now that they were married, the only thing left to do was consummate it. That was the last piece to make their binding legal, the only other thing he could do to keep her safe from that black-hearted bastard Randall. 

Her hand was shaking in his as he leaned down to kiss her. 

Their first kiss.

Ah, he thought. She hadn’t been completely truthful with him about that. Her experience and skill was more than an occasional kiss. Christ! She tasted amazing. Just the thought that he would be the only one to kiss her for the rest of her life, and she him, gave him gooseflesh.

“Go on up to the room, Sassenach,” he said quietly in her ear. “I’ll be up presently.”

She nodded and went to the stairs, still holding the clean cloth over her wrist. Jamie needed a few moments to gather his wits before going up to his wife.

A dhia. His WIFE.

“Jamie,” came a deep voice. “I’m off to deliver the news to Captain Randall.”

“Aye. I thank ye, uncle.”

Dougal looked up to the door to the room Jamie would soon be in.

“Give the lass a good on for me, aye?”

He laughed and clapped Jamie on the shoulder.

“Ye ken yer way around a lass’s skirts, aye?” he asked.

“I’ll manage, Dougal. Dinna worry yourself over it.”

Dougal hooted with laughter and went out to fetch his horse. Jamie started for the stairs, eager to see her again.

“Jamie.”

If every single man in the rent party was to stop him, he wouldn’t see his wife for another week!

“What?” he barked, turning to see who was stopping him now.

Murtagh glared at him.

“Go slow and pay attention,” Murtagh said.

“What?”

“When ye bed the lass. She’s no’ been wi’ a man. Go slow an’ watch her. Take yer time. Ye’ve no’ bedded a virgin.”

Jamie blinked in surprise. How did Murtagh know anything?

“How did you-”

“Yer mother asked me t’ watch out for ye. If I’d known ye were going to sneak out that night to go bed that wee lass Annalise, I’d have stopped ye myself.”

“You kent I bedded Annalise?!”

Murtagh folded his arms over his chest and looked down his nose at Jamie.

“And that wee spitfire a few years back.”

Jamie stared at him, open mouthed. 

“I expect both’a them had lain wi’ a man before, aye?”

“Aye, they had.”

“And yon Claire hasna. Go slow and pay attention. She was promise to another man, this isna easy for her.”

“I ken that. But she agreed.”

Murtagh gave him a flat look.

“Aye, she agreed. It was either marry you or be handed over to the Captain.”

“I ken that, Murtagh. Will ye let me go now?”

Jamie would have sworn with his hand on a Bible that Murtagh had smiled at that.

He took the stairs three at a time, but stopped himself at the door. The last thing he needed to do was terrify her by barging in out of breath. Once he’d calmed himself, he took off his sword belt and resisted the urge to knock. This was his room with his wife. Knocking was pointless.

She was sitting at the mirror, her back to him. He saw her flinch when he closed the door. Knowing the behavior of the drunken rent party downstairs, he bolted the door as well.

“Everyone’s still partying, I take it?” she said.

“Aye. Until they’re sure we’ve made things… Official.”

“And how will they know? Do they… Oh God. Are they going to watch!?”

He couldn’t help but laugh a little.

“No, Sassenach. They willna. Angus and Rupert wanted to, ye ken. But it isna necessary. I reckon they’ll ken for sure in the morning.”

She frowned at him.

“Why? Will it be loud?”

“Ah… No. I mean it might. But they ken how a man and woman look after they’ve lain wi’ each other.”

She swallowed hard and looked pointedly at the ground.

“Would ye like something t’ drink, Claire? To take the edge off a bit?”

Claire nodded quickly and he poured them both a glass of whiskey.

The poor girl was petrified. He couldn’t lie with her like this. It would be no better than rape. She might technically agree, but she didn’t really want it.

“I wasna going to suddenly force myself on you, Claire.”

“O-oh. I didn’t really think you would, I just… I’ve never done this before.”

“Aye, I ken that. And ye’ve no’ likely imagined me being the one ye’d marry.”

“Well, no.”

Pouring more whiskey, he motioned to the bench and they both sat.

“Then how about we talk a bit? Get to know one another?”

So they did. He told her all she wanted to know about his family and she did the same. Though she kept her back to him at certain points, telling him that they were likely half-truths. No matter. She was telling him what she could.

“Well,” she said, looking at the empty bottle of whiskey. “I suppose we should, erm…”

“Claire, tell me honestly. If ye dinna want me, I’ll sleep on the floor. If ye do, I’ll do what I can t’ help ye enjoy it. But once we reach a certain point, I dinna think I’ll be able t’ stop.”

She stood up to her full height and looked him in the eye. Christ she was beautiful, standing there in her corset and skirts. The gown was draped over a chair in the corner.

“I… I want you, Jamie. I’m just a little frightened.”

“We’ll take it slow, then. Dinna fash, Claire. You have my name, my clan, and the protection of my body as well. I ken I dinna have much to offer a wife, but whatever I do have, it’s yours.”

“That’s… Very kind of you, Jamie. Would, uh… Would you mind helping me with my skirts and laces?”

“Of course. Turn around.”

First was the wee lace she had tied around her bonny neck. Her skin was so smooth to his fingers. Softly, he traced down her back to the tie of her skirts. They fell in a woosh of fabric. It took everything he had not to grope at her perfect arse. It was so round and large, he imagined it would feel amazing in his hands. But no. Not yet.

Then she turned slowly around and he forced his eyes up to hers. He’d see everything that hid beneath her shift soon enough. With a smile he hoped was reassuring, he tugged at her laces until the corset too was gone.

“You won’t hurt me?”

“It’ll hurt a bit at the first, but I’ll try and distract ye.”

“Alright.”

“Ye can still say no, Claire. We’ve no’ gone too far yet.”

She shook her head.

“It’s alright, Jamie. I… I trust you.”

“Have ye seen a naked man before, Claire?”

Carefully, he put her hands on the belt of his kilt. She was trembling. If he’d had more whiskey, he’d have given her another dram. Almost methodically, she unbuckled it and it clattered to the floor. Her nipples were poking at her shift, making his mouth water. Not quite yet. One thing at a time, Jamie.

“I have, once or twice,” she answered in a quiet voice.

“Does it frighten you?”

“A little.”

“Would ye rather I leave on my shirt and you yer shift?”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“No. Not at all.”

She nodded slowly. Then she seemed to steel herself and reached for him. Her kiss was intoxicating and it wasn’t the whiskey on her lips. When her tongue touched his lips, his tight hold on his self control slipped. He grabbed at her buttocks and lifted her a little, moving them swiftly to the bed. For once, he was the experienced one.

He tried to be careful with her, to be gentle. One hand pulled her shift up a little, just enough to give him access to her. With it, he teased between her legs until she was trembling. Then he eased himself into her. She winced and flinched a bit.

“I’m sorry, Sassenach,” he said, voice tight with the amount of control he was using.

“It’s… It’s alright. Just different than I expected.”

“I canna stop now. I’ll be as gentle as I can, but I canna stop.”

She nodded and smiled up at him, one hand tangling in his thick hair.  As carefully as he knew how, he began moving against her. He worried that she would hate him if it only hurt her. But as their time went on, he felt her giving in, her body accepting his. And then her face changed. She no longer frowned with each gentle thrust. In fact, he thought she might have started to smile.

“Oh Jamie,” she moaned.

Yes, he thought through his haze of satisfied lust. Call my name. Call to me, beg me to claim your body.

His movements were getting harder now, her body moving in time with his. It had never been like this before, not with Annalise. Somehow if felt like he was putting his soul inside her, not his seed.

“YES!” she suddenly screamed, her body thrashing beneath his.

He felt it, felt her pleasurable conclusion and he couldn’t hold his back any longer. One, two, three thrusts and he cried out in Gaelic.

“Sweet Jesus, Claire,” he breathed, kissing just beneath her ear.

His lips worked to find hers once more, capturing them even as he struggled to get air into his body.

“God, Jamie,” she said with a languid smile. “Is… Is it always like that?”

He smiled and rolled off her. He noted that she didn’t push her shift back down.

“No. Only if I ken what I’m about.”

“I’ll say you did. I didn’t think it would be like that.”

“Did ye like it, then?”

She bit her bottom lip and nodded.

“Yes. I did.”

A loud banging on the door had him leaping to his feet as she squealed and shot off the bed.

“WHAT?!”

“Dougal sent us up to see if ye’d, uh…” Rupert began.

“Plowed the field,” Angus finished.

“It isna yer business. Go away!”

“I told ye,” Angus said. “They’ve no’ done it!”

Jamie glanced back at Claire, who was clutching the quilt to her chest.

“They willna let it go until I’ve gone down. I’ll just fetch us something to eat, aye?”

“And… Maybe some more whiskey?”

Striding to her, he held her face in both hands and kissed her softly.

“As my mistress wishes.”

Benedict and Sophie in Marylebone

Thank you @two-sheds and thisdancingheart!

I now remember which sighting the anon was talking about! It’s true the thread is now very old and the link to imdb is broken unfortunately, but I have your screencaps, so here it is ( I believe this is from September 2015, right?) - If anyone can give me a link to a cached page of that link I’d be grateful!

“I don’t normally write up any sightings I’ve had of well-known people and as I’ve mentioned before, when I sometimes used to post here, I’m not a particular fan of Benedict Cumberbatch’s. I think the world of him as an actor and I love Sherlock but I’ve never ‘followed’ him. However, one would’ve had to have been blind not to have observed the arguments and melodrama that have been ongoing in the BC fandom during the past year. In light of that I thought the following story might be of interest to the more rational elements of said fandom! 

I was meeting a friend today for Sunday lunch. We went to a lovely place on Marylebone Hight Street where I’ve been any number of times before. We were sat at the back of the restaurant, in the corner of the banquette. I was settling myself in when I looked up and realised I was staring straight at Benedict and Sophie, sitting in the opposite end of the banquette. There was one (empty) table between us. So this morning, for an hour-and-half, I was observing this couple at close quarters, having a totally private meal and therefore interacting as one assumes they do in Real Life. The restaurant was very busy, it was just that time when brunch merges with lunch. No one in the restaurant paid a blind bit of notice to these two and I don’t think anyone even recognised them. They both looked exactly as they do in pictures, Sophie even more so that Benedict. Utterly normal. As every proper Englishman does on his Sunday brunch they had the Sunday paper with them (The Observer) and they were both reading while eating and talking. And they talked a lot. Julian Fellowes (the writer of ‘Downton Abbey’ ) has said ‘All best marriages are one long conversation’ and if you believe this - as I do - these two would seem to be heading for a very long and happy life together. They were extremely intent on each other, leaning close to explain something, pointing out an article in the paper then clearly discussing it. They also touched each other a lot, Benedict rested his hand in Sophie’s lap under the table and Sophie touched his face, several times, and rested her hand on his shoulder. It was self-evident that they were massively content together and that they had a great deal to say to each other, each being clearly interested in what the other had to say. I am older that Benedict and have seen quite a lot of the world, a lot of couples, marriages, relationships. To any impartial outside observer this was an adult couple, hugely comfortable together yet still seriously, and equally, interested in each other. They were in a setting, which made it clear that there was no reason for them to be there, or to behave the way they did, other than the fact that they wanted to be together, just the two of them, in the most completely normal, everyday sort of way. As I said, I have never before written up a moment like this. However, the extreme reactions of some of Benedict’s followers when it comes to his marriage, the frankly surreal alternate reality -scenarios that have been created over the past months regarding these two - they are some of the most bizarre manifestations of ‘celebrity worship’ I have come across during my journeyings through the Internet. The reality, as ever, is as down-to-earth and natural as can be imagined.“

diedoktorinunddasliebevieh  asked:

Hi, let me first say: I LOVE your blog! You are really great and your writing is amazing ! I'm always looking forward to new stories every time I check my tumblr :) So, imagine Jamie gets sick after dinner or something and Claire comforts him :) :*

Anonymous:  So we know Jamie was in love with Claire from the start. Did he have any plans to woo her or did he believe it would never happen?

[Liv says: Apologies, @stoneddimension, that this doesn’t exactly fit your prompt - the situation is kind of in reverse! I hope you’ll enjoy it all the same! :)]

Waking to the sound of animals – those natural but shameful rumbles we as humans tend to hide behind locked doors, running faucets – is not the most pleasant of awakenings. For one, there’s the accompanying smell. An odor I’d become accustomed to, certainly, but still an overwhelming stench that stings the eyes and itches the skin. For another: the brief moment of panic where you wonder if, God forbid, you had somehow passed in your sleep (for surely you don’t belong in a barn). You wake, assaulted by sound and smell, and think perhaps you’ve been born again, reincarnated as one of the beasts in the stalls. What sins you had committed in your past life now determined your fate in the new: a horse meant for expeditions; a mule destined for the field plow.

I rolled over, half-conscious, and my hand struck something hard. A chest. Muscled, a little worn from age and sun, but reassuringly familiar. Jamie, an internal lightbulb zinged, and I sighed in relief. Still a human, then – though the pounding in my head and the heaviness of my limbs made me feel anything but.

“Jamie,” I mumbled, consciousness coming slowly. My words seemed to slug through a mud I couldn’t remember, and I raised my voice so that they might reach him.     

“Jamie?” Clearing my throat, I nearly choked. My mucus tasted of whisky. Lots of it.

“Sassenach?” he replied, a smile in his voice. It held none of the grogginess that mine did but was instead so frustratingly smug with its contrasting clarity. I raised my head to peer at him, owl-eyed, still unprepared to see the world in its entirety. Better to take things slowly in case I were to die on the spot and succumb to Second Life as a barn animal.

“Why do I feel as though I’ve been clobbered over the head with a barrel of whisky?”

Jamie laughed. “Aye, because ye might as well have. We drank four bottles last night, Sassenach.”

And here he paused, looking off into the distance as though the bottles in question were tallied on the wooden planks. “Or, Christ – was it five?”

I groaned and he shook his head, laughing all the more. “I canna remember exactly – though I ken well enough that half of it was you.”

His tone was teasing, and my damaged psyche, though fogged by a raging hangover, recognized that it didn’t very much appreciate the jibe. I elbowed him in the side, making this known.

“Dinna fash, Sassenach. Ye ken that I love ye fine when you’re a bit worse for drink.” He tickled me. “A feisty wee thing, you become – and a verra generous one at that.”

Despite the pounding in my temples, even I couldn’t keep a smile from stretching across my own face. There was Jamie, so blissful amongst the dirt and hay. He, too, was in a state of utter disarray, errant flops of crimson sticking out like flames. I vaguely remembered running my hands through them some hours before, burning and burning and burning until the completest satiation finally took me under.

“Well I’m glad someone is benefiting from the situation.”

“You only turn 63 once.”

Must you remind me?

Jamie made a grab for my backside and I swatted him away. Defeated, he settled for a kiss on my forehead, chuckling into the skin there and rumbling my skull with his laughter. Wincing in pain, I reached for his hand and guided his fingers into a gentle massage of my scalp.

“You’re still just as bonnie as the first day I saw ye.” And though I knew he was referring to the more unmentionable parts of my anatomy, I warmed at the tenderness in his voice, letting it ease me back into a sense of growing peace.

“Tell me a story, Jamie. About you. Back then, before then.” I said dreamily, feeling suddenly like I was 6 years old again. In a cot somewhere in Africa, being fed the homeopathic remedy of whichever native woman had been entrusted with my health in Uncle Lamb’s absence.

“Ach. There was no time before you, mo chridhe…I’ll tell ye something, though, if you wish it.” I shifted closer to him, settling within the crook where chest and muscled arm met.  Maybe not 6, then – but just as willing to love and be loved.

“You recall me telling ye that I ken straight away? From the moment I met you. You were the lass my father had told me about.”

“Ye had a fine touch – but a mind too. I didna ken how I’d woo ye, but I knew I had to make you love me. Somehow.”

Woo me?” I teased. “You mean to say that you had secret plans to lure me into your bed?”

“Aye. I had – machinations.” He said this in a mocking British accent, a running joke he and Bree shared whenever my vocabulary seemed to surpass what was normally acceptable in back-country America. (“Do you always have to sound so English, Mama?”)

“If that’s supposed to be an imitation of me, Jamie Fraser, then it appears your hearing is failing you in your old age.”

“You’re the old one, Sassenach. Not me! Maybe ye dinna ken the sound of yer own voice, mm?”

I slapped him playfully and then kissed away the sting, knowing it’d make him squirm. It did and I rest easy with the knowledge that we knew each other’s bodies – and voices – as if they belonged to both of us equally.

“Verra intelligent,” he conceded finally. “Whatever ye say sounds a bit like that Shakespeare clot-heid.”

“But aye, I did have plans. All honorable, of course,” he joked, grinning. “But none so grand. I was a wee fool back then, and though I knew I loved ye, it was really yer touch that I wanted most.”

“So all the bruised knees and torn flesh were just attempts at getting me to bind your wounds? Jamie, you scandalize me.”

“Ach. That was all fine, too. But no, it wasna that touch that I was after, Sassenach.”

“Hmm, honorable indeed,” I replied sarcastically, gently biting his nipple now. I ran my tongue slowly over it, feeling it rise and stiffen within my mouth. I moved my hand downwards, confident that another part of my husband would be as equally aroused – it was – but now it was Jamie’s turn to reject my advances.

“Are ye still drunk, woman? Yer making this much more difficult than it needs to be.” He winked in the way only a man incapable of such a gesture can. “There’s time for that yet, mo nighean donn.”

“That was part of my plan, actually,” he continued. “I knew that ye wanted to get away from Leoch, so I thought I might assist ye in such matters – get the horse, guide ye away. I thought we might stay in a wee inn somewhere and I’d get ye stinkin’ drunk until ye couldna keep yer hands off me.”

“I watched Letitia, too, seeing how she held herself, what she might fancy and what she might not. She was the only woman I knew who seemed like…”

“Who seemed like me?” I sensed his hesitation in answering. “But?”

“But there aren’t very many time-traveling, foul-mothed, whisky-drinking lasses out there, aye? And surely none with an arse like yours.” I giggled and rolled on top of him, stretching the length of my body along his so that our flesh melded together, held by the lingering sweat of our lovemaking.

“I suppose there would be few means of comparison…”

“I tried to clean myself up a bit, too. Clean kilt, clean boots, clean hair, no beard. Even practiced speaking like a proper Englishman. Mind, doing such things made my wame curl. I wasna an Englishman and I didna want to be one either.”

He stopped, sighed, as though he were back in the able-bodied, lithe limbs of his former self. Scarred from previous perils but not quite so weathered by the exhaustion an entire lifetime brings.

“No, Sassenach, I just wanted to be yours.”

I lifted his palm to my lips, kissed the raised C I’d left there long ago.

“And so? Then what?”

“Weel, I came to realize perhaps my plan wasna the finest. There was the price on my heid, ye see. I couldna very well march off with a wanted sassenach as a wanted man. And – well, it may be daft of me to say so – but I thought my heart was none so big enough to love ye the way you deserved.”

“Jamie…” I began, but he silenced me with a gentle kiss. It was a brushing of the lips and nothing more, but still I felt the glow of his soul, the warmth of his heart. I was his and he knew it.

“So I stood by, watching. And here you are, Sassenach. And here I am. Too dirty, too proud, a bit worse for wear. And still no an Englishman…”

“Though you do try,” I retorted, scowling.

“Though I do try. But hopefully –  ”

“Jamie,” I interrupted, hoping he could sense that I meant so much what I was about to say. “You’re more than enough. You’re perfect. Mine.”

He kissed me deeper then, our tongues dancing, curls of red and brown igniting in a single, swirling flame.

“And here I didna even have to ply ye with liquor to get ye in my bed!”

I laughed and he bucked his hips provocatively. I responded in kind, feeling him stiffen further beneath the movement, a tidal wave of suggestion. “Though I dinna mind it one bit when ye are. Five bottles of whisky and I’m in bed wi’ the Devil herself.”

“And speaking of that…” I moved my hips again so that he’d press me closer, reveling in the escalating warmth taking root in my own belly. No, I certainly wasn’t drunk. And neither was he.

“Dost the Lady Claire have anything particular in mind?” Jamie asked. There was that same hilariously stupid British accent again.

“Put yer mouth somewhere I dinna have to hear that daft accent,” I replied, matching his mockery in an equally unaccomplished Scottish burr.

He laughed, rolling me over and kissing my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, my…

I spent the next hour in utter contentment, blissfully human and clear-headed among the barn animals.

No more hangover.