thank you claire's

bbluenose  asked:

What do Claire and Owen usually talk about? :)

Everything, and that’s the beauty of it!

Claire would lie if she didn’t admit at least to herself that she had certain doubts and concerns about their relationship at first. As good as Owen was in bed, she’d always wanted it to be about more than just mindless sex (even though it came in handy more times than she could count when they both really needed to unwind). Still, she wanted a partner, someone she could rely on and someone who could rely on her – the whole package, if you please. And she did judge him by the first impression – she wasn’t proud of it later on, but that was the truth.

Owen surprised her through and through, though. After their date, she half-expected him to be obsessed with football and beer, and unable to talk about anything but trash TV. Instead, he turned out being very deep actually, with elaborate options on anything and everything. Sure, they argued a lot, their points of view clashing all the time, but they had never dismissed or disrespected each other’s opinions or made one another feel inadequate because of what they stood for.

After the incident, the majority of their conversations were, of course, about the park and everything that had happened and everything that was happening afterward. Claire’s need for understanding the reasons and mistakes behind the massacre that turned their lives upside down pushed her to analyze every step she took and every move she made on that fateful day, and there was no one in the world who could understand her better than Owen. He might not have seen that day through her eyes, and he certainly experienced it differently, but he was more than willing to listen and pull her out of the void of guilt and self-loathing, offering thoughts on what she might not have noticed.

Truth be told, he was also more than a little worried that she’d get bored with him, that they’d run out of topics to discuss and end up being one of those couples whose daily conversations didn’t exceed brief exchanges like ‘take out the garbage’ and ‘pass the butter’. However, they both soon figured out that – well, aside from sex – they loved nothing more than just lay in bed for hours and talk about nothing in particular. From global warming to Game Of Thrones to the merits of PB&J versus PB&Nutella sandwiches (and come on, PB&Nutella always win!) Granted, Claire would mostly stare at him whenever he’d launch into a sports rant, his speech peppered with ‘passes’, ‘innings’, and ‘runs’, and his proficiency in legalese was basic at best, but at the end of the day, it didn’t really matter.

Owen came back home one day and found her crying – she was tired, her work overwhelming and demanding, and some minor thing made her snap. There wasn’t much he could do to fix it for her, but he could hold her, and listen to her, his hand running over her hair, and help her see the rational side of the situation when Claire was running on weariness and emotions. And in that moment, he meant the whole world to her, his ability to simply let her talk and be there for her even though he couldn’t help or contribute felt like a lifesaver.

Claire adores the sound his voice – they could be discussing a grocery list or a movie they saw, or they could even be arguing about something totally ridiculous, but hearing the sound of her name on his lips would still hit all the right strings. They teased each other mercilessly, they’re always unapologetically honest with each other, and it may not always be smooth, but it sure it never boring. 

6

bazluhrmann: The inspiration for the scene between the fish-tank came when Craig and I were so desperately looking for a solution as to how to surprise the audience for the first connective moment between Romeo and Juliet. I was younger then and we might have gone out to clubs a bit more. That night after working all day we squirreled out to a place (if I recall correctly called “The Dome”) in Miami. When I came out of the bathroom to wash my hands I looked up and saw a woman combing her hair with a brush through a fish-tank. It was a brilliant device to get guys and girls to connect through the sitting rooms, while protecting each room’s privacy. Obviously you can see where this moment lead … #romeoandjuliet

Secret Santa Ficlet: Claire’s 12 days of Christmas. Day One.

I’ve had this wee piece written for a while, AND NOW I CAN FINALLY START RELEASING IT! Happy ‘Secret Santa’ @captaingothgirl1996 I really hope you enjoy this, 11 more to come <3

Thank you @moghraidhjamie for organising this, I was incredibly excited! 


Inverness: 1950.

On the first day of Christmas: In which they meet-


Snow lay in clumps by the side of the river, melting steadily as the water hit it and flowed onwards. Claire sat on the banks of the river Ness watching the flurries begin to fall from the sky over the cathedral opposite.

It had been five years since the end of the war, a mere three since her world had imploded around her, two since she’d relocated herself to Inverness. Time had muted her anger, now she was more at peace with the destruction of her marriage. She could no longer blame Frank for his *indiscretions*. They’d married young, and then been torn apart by the conflict. Having spent most of their wedded life separated had, quite clearly, ruptured their union.

Bells broke her sullen thoughts, and she glanced up to watch the congregation leave St Andrews. Massaging her numb hands together, Claire sighed and pushed herself to stand. She wasn’t one for religion, but that still-tepid warmth that filled a chapel just after a congregation abandoned it gave her some semblance of peace.

Pulling the large, heavy doors open, she lost herself in the high ceilings and pews that surrounded her. A bright white glow pulsed through the stained glass window, scattering rainbow patterns of light against the varnished wood. Her footsteps echoed through the building as she wandered over the thick brick, the hollow creaking of the furniture blending with the clacking of her walking boots.

Candles burned by the font, their luminous blur setting the tapestries alight. So taken with the beauty around her, Claire failed to notice the lone figure sat hunched in the first row of pews.

“It’s something else, is it no’?”

His deep, Scottish accent rumbled through the floor and up through her bones as she jumped and held onto her heart.

“Y-es,” she stuttered, her tone light as not to disrupt the intense quiet that swirled around them, “I love it here.”

“So yer a regular, then?”

Turning, she looked her mystery companion up and down. He was sat, head bent, scrunched up in the tiny pulpit. Broad shouldered with bright red hair, he looked way too tall to be sat as he was.

“Well,” she began, her fingers pulling nervously at the loose threads that lined her old coat, “yes, I suppose so. Though I don’t come to the sermons, I just like the aftermath. If that makes sense?”

“Aye,” he whispered, sitting upright and stretching his legs out fully. “I didna think I’d seen ye here afore.”

Hiding her cold hands in her pockets, Claire sat herself down in the opposite pew, glancing sideways to see his profile. “Do you come here every Sunday, then?” She posed, feigning nonchalance. He seemed friendly enough, and Claire, being very much a strange woman in a strange land, had still not made too many acquaintances.

“Nah,” he sighed, gathering his gloves from his lap, preparing to leave no doubt. “I dinna live in the town, so getting here can be a wee bit –stressful– especially during the winter months. But I try, ken?”

Standing, he fiddled with the buttons of his thick coat. He *was* tall, Claire noted, rising with him.

“And, ye, miss, do ye live around these parts?” He quirked a brow, a playful twinkle lighting his ocean blue eyes.

“Yes, just around the corner, actually. I moved here after the war. I needed some peace, you know?”

Darkness coloured his features, and a look that only soldiers got passed over his face, the clean lines bunching up for just a moment. Battles fought played out in front of her eyes too, as she waited for him to come back to himself. She had no need to remind him of the horror.

“Aye, I ken it. Too well maybe.” Seeming to shake himself off, his eyes lightened once more, and he held out his hand to her, “but that is over now, and I’m home wi’ my family. I’m James Fraser, but ye may call me Jamie.”

He was warm, unnaturally so, as Claire placed her palm against his. Tugging her gently, he gripped her hand firmly, bringing it up to his lips as he kissed her knuckles with such care. It was as if he thought she were made of glass.

For a moment the world stopped on its axis, and Claire was rendered mute. Letting her go, Jamie smiled across at her, seeing the almost vacant expression on her face. Maybe it was just the season, the feeling of community that encircled everyone during the festive period, but she suddenly felt close to another human being in a way she hadn’t experienced in quite some time.

Jamie leaned in, humour lacing in his tone as he nudged her back into reality, “now is the time for ye to gi’ yer name, aye?”

“Claire…” she spluttered, dipping her head and hiding her fiery red blush with her thick curls, “Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, pleased to meet you, Jamie Fraser.”

“It certainly is, Claire. I have t’ go now. My sister will be grating her teeth if I am’ne home soon, but I hope to see ye again, Missus Beauchamp.”

Before she’d had chance to gather her wits and reply, he was gone, the scent of hay and man lingering in his place. Hovering for a time, Claire watched as the door slowly closed, the clink of the lock reverberating around her and disturbing the now-frigid air.

The remaining warmth having dissipated, she finally made her way down the walkway to the exit herself, her hand still tingling from the ghost of his caress. “Gosh, I hope so, Jamie.” She whispered, re-opening the recently closed door and wandering, blissfully into the crisp afternoon.

The streets were completely empty as Claire walked slowly home, her shoes soaking up the moisture from the snow, the small cracks in the leather allowing various droplets to seep through and dampen her socks. Unperturbed by her soggy feet, she pulled her key from her trouser pocket and jingled it in the sticky lock.

Her eyes closed as she breathed in deeply, exhaling an almighty sigh as she, for once, considered the prospect of intimacy and camaraderie.

Maybe Christmas this year wouldn’t be so bad, she concluded dreamily, closing the door behind her, her head falling against the painted wood as she lapsed into daydreams of family and togetherness.

…TBC…

The Chanter

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the well-wishes for my birthday! You guys have been a huge part of a good year, so I can only wish to keep you near me. As I’m not that good with words unless I’m actually writing fanfiction (LOL), here is a (very) whimsical thing that I wrote on the flight back from Scotland. Love you all so very much!

The Chanter

I knew she was a witch from the moment I found her.

How could she be anything else? No woman shone as bright, laughed as hard, talked as freely, walked with such purpose. She was different and misplaced, as a pearl amongst common dull rocks. Her amber eyes saw through me with one glance – she bared me with her gaze. Once Claire reached that place inside me that had belonged only to me until that moment, I knew the greatness of her power.

And yet, all the time I loved her, she chose never to bewitch me.  What was given between us was given freely, honest offerings of our hearts.

She only asked me one thing - “Jamie, please, never ask me about my past or I’d be swept away”. As we laid together for the first time, I fell asleep with my head against her breast, surrendered to her once more. And I dreamt of her heart, beating inside her chest but visible to me, as if a window had opened between us – made of silver and broken, cracked wide open. A million little pieces, swirling and twirling, trying to find the appropriate way to become whole again.

Each time I came to her, raw as a child in wonder, fearfully offering her my heart to replace hers, so beautiful yet shattered. I loved her body, kissed her brow and tasted her mysteries, in hope that in time she would reveal the terrible things in her past. But I never asked.

Everytime I closed my eyes, lying next to her, I would see her heart and rejoiced – for where once was only destruction and absence, now something else was present, like liquid metal, filling the gaps and recreating what was lost.

One day, as we sheltered together in the heather, she whispered to me “Thank you, my love”. The clouds were dark and pressing, like a veil that guarded all redeeming light from our sight. She rose from my embrace and started to softly blow in the direction of the clouds. The wind howled, murmurs of leaves and of the living creatures of yesterday, celebrating the coming of light. Claire was The Chanter in that moment – raising a melody capable of reaching the skies.

The clouds drifted away from the moon. She smiled at me, beaming. The light of the night caressed the woman I knew was a witch, and in her chest was a silver-gilt heart, whole and strong. And – Thank God – mine.

I BENT, very slowly, arms crossed, and shook, weeping silently, violently.


“I’m sorry,” he said, very softly.

“It’s not—don’t worry, I’m…He’s only a cat,” I said, and a small fresh grief tightened like a band round my chest.

“Aye, I know.” He moved beside me and put an arm round my shoulders, pulling my head to his chest, while he gently wiped my face. “But ye couldna weep for the bairns. Or the house. Or your wee garden. Or the poor dead lass and her bairn. But if ye weep for your cheetie, ye know ye can stop.” 

“How do you know that?” My voice was thick, but the band round my chest was not quite so tight.

He made a small, rueful sound.

“Because I canna weep for those things, either, Sassenach. And I havena got a cat.”

An Echo in the Bone

Jimin & his smol hands vs winter gloves
  • BTS: *shopping for winter gear*
  • Rap Mon: alright we've got jackets, socks, hats, scarves...
  • Jin: we need gloves now
  • Jimin: *stops* *wide eyed* no no..we don't need gloves
  • Hobi: Everything will be warm except our hands? nope
  • Everyone: *starts looking at gloves*
  • Jimin: *pouts quietly at the edge of the aisle*
  • Jimin: *watches as the guys try gloves on*
  • Hobi: Jimin what are you doing?
  • Jimin: ....nothing just I don't need gloves
  • Yoongi: *sighs* *grabs Jimin and pulls him away*
  • Yoongi: *brings Jimin to the kid section*
  • Jimin: ....really?
  • Yoongi: Yes, the ones here will fit you. Now choose a pair
  • Jimin: no this is embarrassing
  • Hobi: Why are you guys over here...oh
  • Jungkook: hey guys do you think red is an okay - ARE THOSE IRON MAN GLOVES?!
  • Taehyung: THERE ARE SPIDER MAN ONES TOO
  • Rap Mon: Okay guys really we don't need to be buying kid gloves we are men and WOW ARE THOSE RYAN GLOVES I NEED THEM ALL
  • Jin: DO I SEE PRINCESS GLOVES
  • Yoongi: *looks at Jimin* see, with these dorks around you'll never have to be embarrassed about anything.

anonymous asked:

Headcanon: Owen likes leaving little snacks in Claire's purse right before she leaves for work just cause he can't stand the thought of her skipping meals during her busy schedule

Whoever said that a woman’s purse wasn’t all that difference from a black hole where everything was meant to disappear forever wasn’t all that far off. Claire emptied her bag on her desk, looking for the lipstick that slipped out of a small compartment and appeared to be lost without a trace in a pile of pens and napkins, loose business cards she needed to put in a holder and, yes, a handful of granola bars.

Her lips twitched ever so slightly at the sight of Cookie Creams and Strawberry Fudges, making her pause for a moment.

There were certain things she knew would come from living with a man. She expected Owen to hog the shower right when she needed it and leave his socks wherever he pleased, expecting them to crawl to the hamper on their own, and, of course, he did all that without fail. He also tended to empty the fridge with a frightening speed and the towels in the bathroom regularly smelled of motor oil, streaked with dark stains that were hard to wash out whenever he so much as touched their cars.

What she did not expect was for him to turn into a mother hem, concerned with her rest and eating habits, her bags and pockets and purses often stuffed with enough snacks to last Claire for days, had she found herself on a deserted island, for instance. And the very thought of him doing all of this was enough to make her breath catch in her throat. Somehow, the idea of him bothering with making sure she ate on time never even crossed her mind, but when she mentioned in passing a while ago that the meetings were often keeping her in the office even during her lunch, the conference calls scheduled without any regard for meal breaks, and paperwork piling up on her desk, he took it as an almost personal insult, which looked quite hilarious at the moment.

Ever since then, she knew she would always find a protein bar, or a pack of cookies, or an apple in her bag, the drawers of her desk filled with more food than a snack aisle in a grocery store. She tended to be grumpy and irritable when she was hungry, prone to headaches, and Owen noted jokingly that he was doing all of this for the sake of her employees lest she bite their heads off, making Claire huff and roll her eyes at how ridiculous he sounded and wondering if he was going to start packing lunches for her (he tried, but she kept forgetting them in the kitchen). Yet, there was something about knowing that he cared about her enough to make sure she never went hungry made her feel warm on the inside every time she reached into her pocket and her fingers closed around yet another candy bar.

Claire’s phone pinged with a text message just as she finally spotted her lipstick. Owen. Lunch? She smiled, feeling her grin growing so wide it threatened to split her face in half. Yes, she typed back and hurried out of her office, knowing that he was probably already on the way.

In honor of the movie coming out today (not that I think it’s going to be great, but I’m holding onto hope?) and also of reaching 100 followers, here is my official THANK YOU! You dudes are so encouraging and this has been super fun to do! You all are super cool👍🏼

anonymous asked:

Can you do a story where Jamie is a really horrible driver (apparently, Sam's not that great at it) and Claire has to ride in the passenger's seat holding on for dear life?

It was an unavoidable fact that Jamie needed to learn how to drive if he was going to get a job. It just wasn’t financially feasible for him to take taxis every time the destination was too far to walk. When he had stressed it was essential he provide for his family she knew it was another noteworthy task he needed to take on.

Thankfully for Claire’s older car, one of the trucks at the farm had been offered up as a practice vehicle. She had seen him conquer so many modern machines in the last few weeks she was guardedly optimistic. Of course the kitchen appliances weren’t hurtling down a public road at forty miles an hour while he used them.

“Thank you for this, Claire.” he said sheepishly. “I ken it’s no’ easy for either of us. I detest asking ye for aide even when it’s needed.”

“You need to learn to drive this contraption,” she affirmed. “And that is what you shall do!”

The afternoon was spent driving country roads, up hills, stopping,and practicing parallel parking. It was also spent getting out of a ditch, Claire learning more Scots expletives and Jamie apologizing to his wife. In summation - a total disaster. Both the Frasers looked the worse for wear as did the poor truck, down one passenger side handle.

That night as they lay in bed, Jamie broke the silence.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such a patient wife but I plan on being thankful the rest of our days.” he whispered.

Claire brought their clasped hands up to kiss his knuckles. “If you could find me and Bree on this massive planet then I believe you can do anything you set your mind to.” she affirmed.

  1. edorazzi said: felix and adrien mix up each others’ coffee orders (bitter black espresso and diabetes-inducing sweet caramel créme) and both choke for a solid two minutes after the first sip 

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  edorazzi lmao you and your drink headcanons. But my real question is like, is Felix the kind of guy who sits at Starbucks reading an obnoxiously long novel in public on purpose with his hair all perfectly styled and a fancy ass cashmere scarf draped around his neck (designed by his father ofc) while Adrien is the flirty sweet tea sipping abomination that Felix just kind of groans about.

Confession Begets Confession.

I had a really lovely message from someone within the fandom who wanted a story about an argument between Frank and Claire about Brianna’s parentage. In the book it appears that Frank accepts Bree as his and moves on and also that Claire accepts Frank’s condition about Jamie and does not look back really until Frank is dead. However in light of this prompt I have written a scene that I feel could have occurred in canon had DG wished it to and had the character’s practised confession over repression! 
My prompt requested that Frank not be demonised and so I have avoided that. I hope the die-hard Frank-haters will forgive me! Thank you, Han xx

“Claire …”

“What Frank? What can you possibly say?”

“I didn’t expect her to visit you…”

“What if Brianna had been home?”

“I know and I am sorry …”

“You’re sorry?”

Claire shook her head and smiled a thin humourless smile

“I am. I did not mean to humiliate you and I would never risk Brianna’s feelings.”

He spread his hands, fine boned and delicate, tanned from days spent with Bree in the park during summer.

“They can’t come here Frank. Not now, not ever.”

“They? I …”

Frank began to protest, lifting his gaze to meet Claire’s but whatever he saw reflected back at him in her eyes stilled the words on his lips. They stood in silence for a moment, the sound of kids shouting in the park across the street the only noise in the room.

“I am sorry, Claire.”

He said finally and it was possible that the bitter edge Claire heard in his voice was her imagination.

“Should I take a hotel tonight?”

“No. Brianna has a history assignment due in and you promised to help her.”

Claire’s throat felt unnaturally dry as she spoke but did not crack. She was not working tonight but she would cook Bree’s dinner and then take a bath whilst Frank helped her with her work. There was no need to disrupt Bree’s routine. When it came to plausibly avoiding her husband, Claire had become rather adept. As had he, she realised with a quiet startle.

“I could take her with me? Let you have a little space…”

“No.”

The single word lashed out at Frank as though his wife wielded a bullwhip instead of a shield of studied indifference. Claire shook her head firmly and clenched her hands into fists to prevent him seeing them tremble. Frank pressed on with the same bloody single mindedness that he used to uproot the secrets of history from dusty old manuscripts, his brow lightly furrowed.  

“It would only be a couple of nights Claire. We can’t pretend to be just fine after today! It would be better for Brianna if …”

“You need to understand something Frank, I need you to understand what I am about to say with absolute certainty.”

Claire held up a hand and stared at him with large, luminous eyes which threatened a storm as surely as rainclouds on a July evening.

“You are free to leave this house whenever you please, just as I told your mistress today,”

Frank flinched a little at the word but Claire forged on regardless and to his credit he did not allow his eyes to leave her face.

“But whatever you choose, you will never take Brianna away from me.”

Claire watched the transformation that overcame his look, the hardening of his jaw and the tightening of the skin around his eyes and she was transported back through time. Two hundred and ten years to a dank prison dungeon facing a very different man who’s features had survived and passed down the generations to Frank where, Claire realised with a vicious jolt of satisfaction, they would end. The thought of Bree’s knife edge nose and flaming hair – gifts from another long dead solider, made Claire’s chest tighten but she refused to cry.

“Brianna is my daughter …”

Frank’s voice trembled slightly as he watched his wife’s lovers ghost flit across her damnable glass face. Claire shook her head at his words, momentarily mute. How could she trust her voice not to betray her and break like shattered crystal, cutting them both to ribbons with a name she had promised not to speak?

Misinterpreting her gesture as a refutation of his claim on Brianna, Frank clenched his left fist whilst jabbing an accusing finger at his wife with his right.

“You hardly even see that child, Claire! You care more for the nurturing of strangers than of your daughter!”

His words, sharp and cruel with their dregs of honesty, dragged her out of the swirling mists of grief and gave her something to cling to, no matter how much it hurt.

“That is not true.”

“Is it not? When did you last refuse a shift to spend time with her, hmm? Name one school play you have actually attended Claire!”

“I have a duty to the sick! Brianna understands …”

“She understands her mother prioritises everyone else over her. Dead as well as living.”

“What?”

The argument was spiralling out of control. Frank seldom raised his voice but he was quivering now with the forced suppression of his rage

“She wants to have a page-boy haircut and do you know why? Do you know why our little girl wants to cut her hair off? It’s because of the way you look when you plait it for her.”

“I…”

“She says that you look sad and she thinks it’s because of her hair! And what can I tell her?”

Frank’s voice cracked and Claire fought for words before finally managing

“What did you tell her?”

“That you’re tired. That it has nothing to do with her. That you adore her hair.”

“I do.”

Claire whispered and Frank slapped his fist into his waiting palm with enough force to make her jump

“Because of HIM! You don’t see that beautiful little girl’s hair, you see some bastard’s ginger tresses and you wound my child for it!”

“SHE IS NOT YOURS!”

Claire roared; caution and old promises momentarily forgotten as the hurtful half-truth of his words cut through her carefully constructed armour. Frank’s hands on her arms brought her anger to a peak and she thrashed wildly against him.

“You don’t know what we went through! You didn’t know Jamie and you will never replace him! Never! She is his! I am his! We are not yours!”

Claire spat and finally Frank shook her at the same time as his voice reached her, his cheek pressed against hers as he whispered hoarsely in her ear.

“Fine! Fine Claire! If you are to be believed then Brianna is the daughter of some long dead, arrogant fool who was too wrapped up in the glory of battle and his duty to strangers to care for his child or his wife and left you both to the mercy of time. So maybe the two of you really were as perfectly suited to each other as you continue to believe.”

He released her then and stepped back wiping a shaking hand across his lips.

“But I am here and I am trying to raise that little girl and I will not leave her and whether you like it or not, I am taking Brianna to a hotel for the night and helping her with her homework and tomorrow, I will take her to school. You can collect her at the end of the day when you have had a chance to collect yourself and regain a sense of reason.”

“I have work tomorrow night.”

Claire pushed the words through her teeth but rather than driving home his point, Frank let his head droop and shook it slowly from side to side.

“Then I will pick her up from school and we will come home together. Will you be here to make her breakfast the following morning?”

“Yes.”

Claire let the word fall from her mouth without thought. The hole which had opened in her core with the loss of Jamie had never completely closed, but now in the wake of her rage it yawned wide and cavernous and Claire found herself teetering on a precipice of despair and one wrong move would pitch her headfirst in and she would likely never recover her sure footing again.

She had not heard Frank move but when his voice came from the doorway she was not surprised either.

“It will get easier Claire, the loss of him. But please do not project the pain you feel onto Brianna. She doesn’t deserve it … and neither do I.”

After he left, Claire sat on the floor and placed her head against her knees and breathed slowly and evenly until the tears stopped rolling down her cheeks and she could trust herself not to sob his name aloud. Jamie.

anonymous asked:

Can't resist! 18 & 32! Jamie and Claire ❤ thank you!

Holding Hands

Ifrinn, he was nervous.  

She wasn’t.  She was as certain as she could be.  His fingers tapped restlessly on his thigh.   

She reached over and lifted his big hand into hers, linked their fingers together. He risked a glance at his wife.  She was smiling softly, relaxed and serene.

Her thumb caressed his hand.  He cupped their hands with his bigger one.  He couldn’t stand it.  How long did this take for God’s sake???

She lifted their hands and kissed his knuckles.  He took a deep breath.  

She nodded, and he nodded back.

And then the door opened….