there you have it wee lass

Well, I mean, it IS the law

So let me set the scene. The dungeon the party was in was ruined to the point where the stone brick walls were starting to “melt”. The party of four had just reached a door when the elderly undead Warlock of the group holds up his hand to halt everyone. He points his scythe at the door and says “We need to watch our step, ‘cause whatevers behind this door is pulsin’ out magic somethin’ fierce”. The Rogue, in his drunken stupor, unlocked the door in an instant and the darkened corridor filled with the scent of blood and iron. As the party is shuffling silently into the room, the young Druid of the group pointed towards the center of the room where she could make out a dim glow that lay close to the ground. The Ranger began to panic a little, as she was a close combat fighter and recognized the glow. A full suit of Heavy Enchanted Armour sat in it’s eerie glow. The scene then played out a little something like this

Ranger: ooooOOOHHH, nopenopenope. I can’t deal with that, dude. Hooo, nope

Rogue: Ah, don’t'cha worry, ye wee lass. That thing there couldn’t hear a boulder- *uninteligable slurs as Skype gives out at the perfect time*

Rogue OOC: I’m gonna fuckin’ sneak past this bitch

DM: *withholds a loud snort* Bruh, do it you won’t

Rogue: *rolls an 18 and begins to sneak towards a door down the way*

The Armor: *Jolts up at full attention, bellowing* STOP, IN THE NAME OF THE LAW, CRIMINAL! *Charges at full speed towards him*

Rogue: WHAT’S THE CRIME? *In a drunken rage*

The Armor: * freezing in place, having never been asked this before* I-… UHM… THE CRIME IS LIVING, AND THE PUNISHMENT IS DEATH!!!

Warlock: *raising his hand* S'cuse me, sir, but I’m not alive, may I pass?

The Armor: …..PROCEED?

Fanfic Links You Should Really Have.

The Outlander fandom is FILLED with talented fanfic authors and this is in no way, shape, or form a complete list. Many of these blogs have a fanfic recommendation tag that I HIGHLY recommend checking out.

@gotham-ruaidh ‘s Modern Glasgow AU Master Post & Shifted / aka the literary genius who keeps me from going insane on a daily basis

@bonnie-wee-swordsman ‘s Fanfic Master Post  / aka BONNIE IS A NATIONAL TREASURE AND SHOULD BE PROTECTED AT ALL COST, SO READ EVERYTHING THE LASS HAS EVER WRITTEN (I’m quite possibly her biggest fan)

@takemeawaytocamelot ‘s Fanfic Master Post / aka squees forever about Red Jame & White Lady and Wild Night in Vegas

@imagineclaireandjamie​ ‘s Vietnam AU / Flood My Mornings Tag 1, Tag 2 / A Hundred Lesser Faces / Hail Mary AU / Mac Ruaidh / EVERYTHING THIS CREW POSTS EVER / Too Old For Babies / Frank’s Baby / Escape / Fairy Tale AU / Fergus thru the Stones / Our Story / Born Out of Time

@lenny9987‘s Fanfic Master Post aka DELIVER US and everything they’ve ever written on Imagine.

@sapphiresassenach​ ‘s Fanfic Master Post aka omgeeeee A Lightened Soul

@notevenjokingrightnowfic ‘s Clair(e)voyance Master Post / tag / Escape Master Post

@owlish-peacock36 ‘s Fanfic Master Post aka seeking and finding every feel available in S&YSF

@magnoliasinbloom ‘s Someone to Stay

@iwanttodriveyouthroughthenight ‘s Fanfic Master Post aka and while I live, I’m dead in feels

@kalendraashtar ‘s Fanfic Master Post aka read everything. just everything.

@cagedbirdsong ‘s Completed Works aka my home is built with four walls of feels

@whitenightowl ‘s Fanfic Master Post aka if you look across the park, you’ll find me submerged in a puddle of feels

Also, not sure how to link to it, but @cranesmuir-witch ‘s prompts are wonderful.

I’ve been commenting that I don’t read a lot of fanfic, but that’s obviously a lie. This is what I read. This is what I check updates on at work, what makes flail like an idiot when there’s a new chapter.

If you read a story or prompt you like, TELL THE AUTHOR. Incomprehensible keyboard slams are our currency and positive feedback is our oxygen. We read the tags (who reblogs things without tags?!) as much as we do the comments, or otherwise anons are always a wonderful option if you’d like to be subtle… but then come off anon so we can love you.

I really felt the need to share the love that y’all have extended to me as I’ve began my fanfic journey. This fandom is the best.

On My Own (Harry Hook) Part Five (Important Message @ Bottom!)

Originally posted by adisneylover92things

You swore you’d never hurt me.

You swore you’d never leave me On My Own.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six

“Are you sure about this, Harry?” Gil asked nervously, juggling a can of spray paint from hand to hand. “Course I am,” Harry shot back. “Uma wants us to do it, so we’re going to do it.”

“But I thought she wanted us to lay low?” Gil asked, confusion evident on his face. “She does. But she also wants to make sure this school knows who they’re dealing with. Now get to work.”

Somehow, once again, you found yourself staring at a show of the pirates’ handiwork. We Ride With The Tide was tagged on every. single. wall.

“Harry Hook!” You shouted, whirling around to face the crowd. “Who knows where Harry Hook is!?” You could feel how close you were to snapping back into the angry girl you were on the Isle, but you couldn’t seem to stop it.

You growled when you noticed faces mixing from fear of you, to no doubt fear of dare snitching on the hook wielding pirate.

Yes, Fairy Godmother had finally let Harry have his father’s hook back. In a locked case of glass. It seemed she forgot he was from the Isle, seeing as he had the hook free from its prison in a matter of minutes.

“If I find out any of you are lying I will turn you into a frog!” You threatened through gritted teeth. “He’s on the tourney field!” The son of Rapunzel shouted out quickly.

You whipped around, storming to the tourney field where the team should have been mid-practice. But, seeing as they weren’t on the field, you could only assume they were in the locker room. Which you were not above entering to drag the pirate out by his ear. So, that’s exactly what you did.

Throwing open the door to the locker room you let out a quick “This is your only warning to cover your fun-sized tourney sticks!” Before walking in. “Harold James Hook I suggest you come out right now!” You shouted, storming through the aisles of lockers and half naked boys who, thankfully, heeded your warning and covered themselves.

“Really, lass? Did you miss me that much you had to come strollin’ in here? Or, maybe ye just hoped to see me bare as a wee babe,” A voice taunted. You whipped around to catch Harry leaning against a wall of lockers, clad, thankfully, in a pair of shorts and that tattered, sleeveless hoodie he always wore. It’s not as if you hadn’t seen him in less. Just, you didn’t need that distraction at the moment.

“Tell me, Harold, have you any idea who spray painted your crew’s little slogan on every wall of Auradon Prep?” You jeered, as if you didn’t already know the answer.

“Why, are ye accusin’ me, Y/N?” Harry mocked, pushing off of the lockers and sauntering over to you. “Because if so, that’s not very nice of ya to do. But it’s very Auradon of ya to do. Always accusin’ the poor, innocent lad that just wants to fit in.” He gave you a frown that might have seemed legit to everyone else. But, you could see the wickedness, the evil, the pure darkness lurking in his eyes.

“Stop harassing him, Y/N,” Chad chimed in from his locker. “It’s against the rules for you to be in here so leave!”

You gritted your teeth, head snapping to face the egotistical blond. “Yea,h well so was you and Audrey sneaking off grounds to make out by the lake but you didn’t see me saying shit,” You snapped. “Now mind your own business!”

“You may have your little team fooled, but you don’t fool me for a second, Harry,” You gritted, glaring up at the boy.

“Ya see, Y/N, that’s not my problem. That’s yers. Because, who will someone believe, hmm? The daughter of an evil sorcerer who turned a king into a frog? Who broke a lass’s nose, a lad’s arm, and covered the headmistress’s office in goo when she arrived? Or the son of a misguided pirate who just wanted to break free of the prison of an island he had to call home?” Harry whispered, lips barely grazing your ear.

“Sorry, Lass. It may have been yer territory before, but it’s ours now. And we ride with the tide.”

It was the first Saturday you actually got to sleep in since the pirates came to Auradon.

Well, that’s what you thought. Until you were woken up at nine o’clock by a frantic Dizzy. “Y/N! Y/N! You have to come downstairs! Harry and Jay are fighting!”

You sighed, sliding on your bunny slippers. Everyone had already seen them, so what was the point in changing? Wrapping your comforter around you, you held your hand out to Dizzy, “Take me to them.”

She quickly tugged you downstairs and out to the tourney field, where a small crowd had begun to gather. “We tried to get Uma to stop it, but she’s the one refereeing it,” Dizzy informed you. You opened your mouth to tell her you’d just let them fight it out before you paused, mouth wide open. “What about his hook?” You asked, fearful of the answer.

“I think he’s using it.”

You shoved your way through the crowd, shooting glares at anyone that tried to rebuke. When you finally made your way to the front, you let out a breath of relief. Harry’s hook, and his hat, lay a few feet away on the bottom of the stands.

“Harry! Jay! Both of you stop this right now!” You demanded, stomping over to the two boys. Gritting your teeth when you received no reaction, you took in a deep breath.


The boys quickly shot apart at the sound of your voice, as this wasn’t the first time you had to break up one of their fights. They had enough brain capacity to remember the consequences you’d give them for not listening to you. Scraping Lady Tremaine’s bunions was the lightest punishment. The others they forced themselves to forget.

“Look, I really could care less about what petty thing you two are fighting over this time, but keep the fights verbal, not physical,” You whined before turning to Harry. “I’m just trying to sleep in on Saturdays without you doing something bad that results in me having to get out of bed, Harry. Please just chill out,” You begged.

You could see a familiar flame ignite in Harry’s eyes, but before you could stop him, he blew off. “I guess that’s all I am isn’t? A fuck up. All I live to do is fuck up yer day, eh? I fucked up yer relationship now I’m fuckin’ up yer perfect little life here at Auradon!” He shouted, face growing red with anger. “I tried to appease ya, Y/N! But ye won’t fuckin’ listen to me! I’m sorry I’m not some perfect little prince that will wait on ye hand and foot and treat ye like some dainty little flower because that’s not who I am! And I will never be that type of man so I guess I should just finally give up on us and go back to the Isle shouldn’t I!?”

Your mouth gaped open as the crowd grew awkward at Harry’s words.

“Harry I-”

“Save it, Y/N. We’re over. I get it. I’m pathetic. I get it. No need to rub it in.

You could only stare after him as he stormed away, Uma in tow.

They mad it to the tree before Harry started speaking. “I’m in. I know I wasn’t sure about it before but, I’m in. This plan of yers. Whatever it is. Whatever ye need me to do I’m in. Even with yer plan for… Even with yer plan for Y/N.”

Uma smirked, “I’m glad you finally see it my way, Harry. Now, here’s the plans for Operation Take Everything Away.”

A/N: This one is relatively short because of everything I have planned for Part Six I wanted to keep this one as vague as possible!

Concerning my “tag list” I have come to a decision. For each part, there will be a tag list composed of no more than 15 users so readers do not have to scroll through a foot-long add-on. Slots will be filled on a first come, first serve basis!

This Part’s tag list is: @interwebber @amillionfandoms-onlyoneme @volleyballgirlforever-blog @ravismorgue @marry-me-dylan-obrien @johnnie-is-back @asexualmarauder @nicolejones412 @thequeen0fh3ll @lovesharleyquinn @awkward–sloth @17marvelousfreak @littlelunaticfringe

anonymous asked:

What if the reunion (Print shop) was for both of them absolutely surprise? Claire was not prepared.

The Reunion. 

Nursing her second glass of whisky, Claire fumbled through the loose change she had left in her pocket. It wasn’t much considering she’d been living off the spoils of Roger’s finds for the past month - without a job, however, she would soon run out.

Claire had no plans save for coming through the stones and living out the last of her days in the relative comfort of the eighteenth century. She missed it. The simplicity of her life -before- had called to her on the most basic and primal level and even without…Jamie.

Her chest throbbed.

She had meant to come through the stones at Craigh na Dunn and head straight for Lallybroch and Jenny and Ian.

That’s what she had *meant* to do.

But on her arrival, she’d found herself unable to push herself in the direction of Broch Tuarach. Maybe it was the fear that Jenny would be angry with her for disappearing and leaving no word. Maybe not. But either way, she’d found herself in a carriage making its way towards Edinburgh and she hadn’t had the energy to argue with herself.

“Another?” The kind barmaid asked, hovering the full bottle over Claire’s empty glass, “on me, lass. Ye look like you could do wi’ it.”

Claire nodded, opting not to use words lest she be judged for her English accent.

Sipping slowly, she let the amber liquid flow into her veins as she curled herself around the glass.

What she was thinking she was going to achieve here, she couldn’t quiet be sure. But her heart told her it was where she needed to be.

A quick flash here and there made Jamie feel like he was slowly losing his mind. The last few days had been hectic to say the least. He had hundreds of leaflets to press and Geordie had come down with a mystery illness that had him wrapped up in bed being nursed by his terse wife.

Instead of being focused to his task, Jamie had been chasing a ghost through the city.

He’d caught sight of the lass once before, only a few weeks previously and she’d been so similar to…

No. He stopped himself from going into the tavern, holding himself back from the disappointment. Having been here before, he knew the abject emptiness that awaited him should he get his hopes up again. One time was enough.

Turning rapidly on his heel, he hightailed it back to the shop, slamming the door behind him and setting himself to his task as his mind emptied of everything other than the myriad of leaflets at his fingertips.

Sitting in front of the small mirror, Claire brushed the tangles out of her hair. Since arriving back she’d stopped trying to control it, and had opted, again, to let nature take its course. The distinct curls pinged back to form the moment the hairbrush left them and Claire quirked her head to the side as she admired their tenacity.

Sighing, she eyed the window of her rented rooms with some trepidation. The street below was still alive, the drunks stumbling out of the inn below and tumbling onto the rain drenched cobbles as they sauntered home. She would only be able to afford a few more nights here and then she would have to make an important choice.

Daylight streamed through the lace netting, waking Claire at dawn as the sounds of tweeting birds pulled her from her slumber. The days just seemed to be slipping by and she was no closer to pulling together the bravery she needed to leave for Lallybroch. Something was keeping her in Edinburgh, but she couldn’t quite figure out what.

“Morning, mistress,” the chirpy daughter of the innkeeper piped up as Claire rose for the day and wandered down to breakfast. “Can I interest ye in a kipper this morn? Fresh off the boats, aye?”

Claire shook her head and smiled. “No, thank you.”

“Yer very quiet, mistress Claire,” the young lass continued, an eyebrow quirked in Claire’s direction. “Do ye want to talk about it? I have a canny ear and I willna gossip.”

She had an honest face, and Claire slumped into one of the stools, her chest expanding as she breathed in deeply. The bar area of inn was relatively quiet, it only being just after sunup and Claire felt as if unloading the burden of her choices might make it easier to leave Edinburgh and continue on with her journey.

“I’m…” Claire began, her eyes catching the lass’s as she stumbled over her words. She hadn’t spoke of her extended family to anyone. Jamie, yes. But only to Joe, Brianna and Roger and only very recently. Since her decision to come home she hadn’t discussed Jenny, Ian or Fergus with anyone.

“Dinna werrit, mistress, I think ye need a kindly ear.” Pulling the chair besides Claire out, the waitress (of sorts) placed her water jug on the table and put her hands gently around it. She waited patiently for Claire to recentre herself, a kind smile pulling at her mouth.

“I lost my husband. A long time ago now, but before…he made me promise to leave. Scotland wasn’t safe and I was pregnant. So I went, no word to anyone of why. But now –my daughter is grown and I felt…compelled to return. I don’t even know what my sister-in-law will -might- say. If I go.”

“And yer torn? Ye dinna want to go back now yer here?”

“No.” Claire’s cheeks heated at the mere mention of Jenny. “I do. But…I fear I might not be all that welcome. Having vanished all those years ago without even a letter to explain why. And adding to that the loss of her brother, it might just drag up a lot of buried hurt.”

“After you’ve travelled such a way, mistress, ye’d think of no’ just squaring yer shoulders and marching over there. Maybe you’ll find it happier than ye think? Wi’ the pair of you finding comfort in one another…even after such a long while.”

“You don’t know Janet Fraser Murray…” Claire mumbled under her breath, hopefully too low for the lass to hear. No recognition at the name showed in her eyes (if she had heard) and Claire heaved a sigh of relief. Licking her dry lips she choked back a sob at the last memories she had of Lallybroch and its inhabitants. “I wish I could believe you.”

“Then, if I may be so bold mistress, why did ye come if you didna think it a good idea?”

“Because this is home. More than any other place,” Claire returned without pausing for breath. “…and I thought they might like to know their niece, in portrait form anyway.”

“Then I think ye ken what you have to do, mistress Claire. Sup up and get ye gone! I dinna think ye’ll regret it.” Patting her hand, the lass got up to leave, pausing to top Claire’s glass with a wee morning dram before winking and sashaying away.

In the corner, awaiting Fiona’s attentions, Ian sat with his ears pricked. The strange English lass had mentioned ‘Janet Murray’. He couldn’t stop staring as he hid cautiously behind a bollard at the end of the long bar.

“Who’s that?” He whispered covertly to Fiona, as she walked towards him, pointing suspiciously to her abandoned table companion.

Fiona turned and then twisted back to face Ian, a look of trepidation on her face. “Who? Mistress Claire? She’s just a guest is all,” she replied, with the nonchalant twitch of a shoulder as she slid Ian his own glass. “Naybody fer yer young ears to be concerned with, aye?”

“Maybe,” he returned, waiting for the lass to leave before whispering over the rim of his tumbler, “but maybe so…if she kens my mam…”

It was the intricate filigree that caught her eye first. Masonic symbols were strewn throughout the sign but it wasn’t that that captured her attention. In between the complex metal work sat two (heavily obscured - but still there nonetheless) jagged letters. Slightly separated from one another, but to her there was a definite ‘J’ and ‘C’.

Claire’s heart stopped, and then proceeded to pound so hard that she felt as though her chest might implode.

The very clear name hanging beneath the swinging metal read simply - A. Malcolm; Printer.

Claire shook her head of the myriad thoughts that rolled through her brain at that precise moment. She castigated herself for being so foolhardy as she quickly strolled away, her eyes not catching the young lad as he watched from the window above.

Not possible, she said to herself over and over. Yes, A *could*, might…but probably not stand for ‘Alexander’. That would make the ‘J’ and ‘C’ investment *Jamie* and *Claire*.

But Jamie was dead. Buried (probably) with the rest of his regiment on that damnable moor. There was nothing to suggest that he’d lived, and she hadn’t stuck around long enough for Roger or Bree to unearth any concrete facts.

Claire had simply needed to vanish back into the past. Frank’s death had taught her one important lesson; never settle for less that you’re worth. Claire knew, wholeheartedly, that this was where she was supposed to be. And even though it had taken her just over twenty years to come to that - rather sane - conclusion, she wasn’t sorry for it.

But James Fraser was still a ghost, he was still as elusive as ever and not a sign nor some intangible facts could sway her to think otherwise.

Pulling her cloak up around her face, Claire quickly darted away from the small close, the thick wool catching the heavy droplets of Scottish mist as she turned the corner, not looking back.

Fergus held his breath for a moment longer than strictly necessary causing Ian to slap him squarely on the back.

“Who is she, man?” Ian whispered in his ear, his back studiously turned from Jamie who was hovering of the press. The noise from the machine kept him blissfully unaware of the conversation going on right under his nose. Too distracted by his nephew’s sudden appearance, he was working on a way to get the lad back to his mother - and quickly.

Fils de pute…Ian, where did you see her first?”

Ian, confused as to Fergus’ obtuse answer tilted his head to the side as he surveyed his adopted cousin. Something was amiss, of that he was certain. Fergus had gone extremely pale, his grip increasing exponentially against the wooden window frame.

“Ye ken her then? How does she know my mam, Fergus?”

“Ian!” Fergus retorted, a stern edge to his hushed tones as he twisted and grabbed young Ian by his collar, “I asked for you to tell me. Where. Did. You. See. Her. First?”

“A-at the inn, the one where Uncle Jamie always rescues the Chinaman from.”

Nodding, Fergus looked back at Jamie, watching with caution as his adopted father scratched his scalp and went back to rearranging the letters on his press. “Whatever happens, Ian. We cannot let her leave the city. You,” he said with a forceful prod to the chest, “must ensure she stays at that inn - just for a day or so. Yes?”

“Alright,” Ian agreed, nodding vigorously as he stumbled from Fergus’s firm grip. “I’ll see to it that Fiona keeps her occupied. But seriously, man. Who is she?”

“She is Claire, mon petit frere. Or Aunty Claire to you.”

Ian’s jaw dropped at the title. He *had* heard, in the dark recesses of Lallybroch and on odd occasions in Jamie’s dreams when he’d snuck in to see his uncle safe, the name ‘Claire’. But he had been young and it had been infrequent. Now, however, the full force of understanding plowed through him.

“But the most important thing is that we *make sure* they meet, yes?”

“Aye,” Ian whispered, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he peeked back at his uncle. “I agree.”

All packed and prepared to leave, Claire had collected her sparse collection of belongings and trekked downstairs within a day of her ridiculous musings out in Edinburgh. The city was starting to get under her skin and her mind was playing tricks on her. The sooner she made the trip to Lallybroch, the sooner she could quiet her demons.

But Fiona, her new confidant, had pulled her aside at the last minute, a jaunty glint in her eyes and a tall tale on her lips. Nevertheless, it had been an interesting tale and it had caused Claire to delay her plans for just a wee while.

Fiona had told Claire that the Murray’s intended to visit Edinburgh in the next few days on business, and that she was better off awaiting their arrival here - neutral ground - rather than travelling all that way back towards Inverness to be disappointed.

Claire was only a little dubious, after all, Jenny had never left Lallybroch whilst she had been around, even when Jamie had been taken to Fort William and flogged in the early days. But Fiona, she had found out, seemed to have credible information on the comings and goings of the city.

So she let her shoulders flop, turned on her heel, and returned to her rooms.

Ian waited below, sneaking to the bottom of the stairwell so that he could hear the conversation between the two ladies. Fergus had brandished him with some coins and bid him to pay for Claire’s suite to make doubly sure that she didn’t leave.

“She’s staying then, aye?” He whispered to Fiona as she moseyed back into the bar area.

“Aye, yer lassie isna going anywhere.” She winked, pocketing the silver bobbies Ian handed to her.

The sun had only just set as Claire made her way down to supper. It was late, but not late enough that the tap room would be full of drunks. She had discovered this was the perfect time to eat and nobody bothered her if she stowed away up a corner somewhere out of sight.

“Mistress!” Fiona shouted on her entrance into the small, but overrun room. The extravagant gesture caught her eye immediately. “I have something special for ye tonight, come and sit here.” Patting a stool close to the doorway, she placed a full ale-pot against the wooden tabletop and winked suspiciously.

Taking a step backwards, Claire shook her head infinitesimally. “I-I’d prefer somewhere…quieter. If you don’t mind?” She posed the reply as a question, but really she didn’t want to cause a scene.

Tipping her head to the side, a canny grin plastered on her face, Fiona shook her head, her tight (perfectly circular, Claire noted with some jealousy) curls bobbing against her pinked cheeks as she patted the chair with more vigor now. “Ach. No, Claire. Ye canna hide yersel’ away. Come, sit here and chat wi’ me. Please…”

Rolling her eyes, Claire acquiesced with a slight sense of grim acceptance. She could do worse than making friends with a kindly young woman - especially since Claire *assumed* it was her who’d placed down the fee for Claire’s extra nights when her coins had run down. Pulling her knitted shawl tightly around her shoulders, she pulled the final few bobby pins from her updo and let her damp curls fall around her shoulders. She’d twisted it up into a rough bun in preparation for her trip back across rugged Scotland and had forgotten to pull it back down in the hours since. But she felt happier shielding her face as the space began to fill with more and more workers as their days ended.

It was beginning to heat up as Fiona brought Claire a nice, large bowl a stew. The broth looked inviting and before long Claire had cleared the whole dish, her stomach growling happily at the warm food as its nourishment began to course through her veins.

Suddenly her spine began to prickle and she swept her curls aside. She had the uncanny feeling that someone’s eyes were upon her and, although she couldn’t yet see who that was, her gaze began to float around the bustling tavern.

Her heart thudded evenly in her chest as she took in one happy, tipsy Scotsman after another. But nothing out of the ordinary piqued her interest.

Out of the corner of her eye a flash of red caught her attention, and she swivelled (in a *very* unladylike manner) to try and catch a glimpse. The crowd though, jolly and in deep (loud) conversation with one another, seemed to swallow up the sight and Claire placed her hand over her heart as if to calm herself.

‘It’s nothing, just your imagination,’ she self-flagellated, her bottom coming to rest back in the stool once more. In her momentary haze she’d tensed her legs and ended up half-squatting over the chair like a lioness waiting to strike her prey.

Without warning a scrawny blonde lad came darting through the inn, his limbs flailing in some cartoonish moves as he darted this way and that, trying to avoid the grumbling cliental of the lively alehouse.

“Ian! Ye wee fiend…” came a familiar cry, his deep Scots burr ringing in Claire’s ears as she clung to the table for dear life. “…get BACK HERE!”

Claire’s palms sweat; the dampness seeping into the wood that seemed to grow up and around her fingers as the world flipped on its axis. She knew that voice, she was certain. But the knowledge that had haunted her of his death all of these years was deeply ingrained and the more rational part of her was certain she’d concocted this whole sordid evening out of pure want.

Certain that she would turn and see a stranger, Claire slammed her eyes shut and inhaled one really deep breath. Stale ale filled her nostrils as she gasped and re-opened her eyes. Persistent chatter surrounded her, the white noise dissipating as her head stopped spinning. The argument between the lad -named Ian- and his soon-to-be-captor seemed to have petered away in the time that Claire had been semi-unconscious and she could no longer hear the voice she so desperately wished was real.

Considering herself safe for the time being, Claire turned on her chair to survey the room once more, her skin still flickering with the latent feeling of being watched.

It was then her heart stopped dead in her chest, its beat pumping out one intense thump before ceasing…or so she felt.

His eyes were directly on hers; those blue pools that had captivated and enslaved her all those years ago. She recalled the subtle flecks of yellow that curled around his pupils, only visible when in certain flickering candlelight, her instinct picking up the most redundant details as the rest of her body shut down and then restarted once more, shock filling every inch of her.

Her throat dried and her eyes watered as she stood, without consciously thinking of her actions, and stepped (in time with him) forwards.

Claire blinked for the first time in what felt like forever, her vision blurring and then righting itself in the candlelit room as the tears began to cascade down her face. His cheeks were already wet, the moisture collecting at the corners of his twitching mouth as he tried to decide whether to laugh, cry more or faint…ineloquently (of course).

It was a dream.

It *had* to be a dream, she told herself, her mouth moving as she soundlessly muttered the words over and over.

Finally, face to face, the slight lines of age marring their faces, Claire allowed herself the courage to speak. Lifting her fingers in time with his, she reached out hesitantly, her hand jerking back on contact with his heated flesh.



They spoke at the same time, the crackle in each of their voices sounding exceptionally loud even though they were only talking in hushed whispers in the middle of the extremely busy taproom.

“…you’re alive!”

“…you’re here!”

Fanfiction - The Teacher

Request for a fic. Everyone is joking about professor Sam in Barbour. Could you write a professor Jamie story. Claire is a student but Older and more intriguing than all the young giggling co-eds

…In the meantime, I had this anon ask sitting on my inbox for some months now – and I’d hate to let this fantasy go unattended!

The Teacher

Those girls were ridiculous, Claire thought. Madly fluttering their eyelashes as if a constant influx of dust was getting into their eyes and always bending over, using the pretence of catching a fallen pen or pencil, only to expose their cleavage. Claire felt she was inside a documentary on the mating rituals of college girls and, even if slightly amusing, it also disturbed her in an irrational way.

Health Management was an extra class for her – a way to get a couple more credits that would speed up her academic course. She was already almost ten years the senior when compared to the other students attending Medical School – her years as a nurse had given her a lot of useful resources, but also made her feel she was constantly battling time. It was an interesting class, that mixed concepts of health and economics, to ensure the future doctors based their decisions in cost-effectiveness. In spite of being well taught and useful, whispering was a constant background noise – clearly the result of female hormones going rampant. The problem was not the subject, Claire knew – was the man leading the class.

Professor Fraser was young and remarkably handsome – his Scottish accent and deep voice, combined with astonishing blue eyes, which he hid behind black rimmed glasses, inspired great admiration amongst the women in the classroom. The fact that the class functioned at all was a testament to Fraser’s capacity of using leadership skills and imposing respect.

A couple of girls next to her giggled and Claire distinctively heard one of them, a blonde bombshell that undoubtedly belonged in a house named after a Greek alphabet letter, saying “I would slide my hand bellow his kilt anytime…”

Pursing her lips and rolling her eyes, Claire continued to sketch with her sharp pencil in the back of her notebook, struggling to focus again on the contents of the class. The shade in the external corner wasn’t quite right, she noticed, furrowing her brows in annoyance.

“Am I boring ye, Miss Beauchamp?” She heard a voice demanding her attention. Claire looked up and noticed all faces turned to her, clearly awaiting her reaction to being caught distracted. James Fraser stood next to the board with his arms crossed, his lips forming a half smile, expecting her answer.

Yes. “No, Professor Fraser.” She replied in a casual tone. “I was just taking notes and got distracted. May you repeat the question, please?”

“I see.” He said in a serious – disappointed? – tone. “Anyone knows the answer? Miss MacKenzie?”

“Replacing the blood gas machine would be the best measure.” Laoghaire MacKenzie glowed like a lit candle - marvelled that for once she had managed to upstage Claire and gain Professor Fraser’s attentions - offering a victorious look through the corner of her eye, which Claire blatantly ignored.

“That is correct.” He nodded, raising a brow in Claire’s direction. “I’d recommend that ye pay more attention to the class, Miss Beauchamp.”

“I bloody would if it wasn’t for your fan club.” Claire complained in a low voice, after he had resumed the class.

As the class ended – students rushing to the door to get to the refectory in time for lunch, talking about a hot party later that week -, Claire assembled her notebooks and pencil, storing them inside her green rucksack – made of what looked like army green fabric with a painted red cross, akin to something a doctor would wear during the Second World War.

“May I talk to you, Miss Beauchamp?” Professor Fraser asked politely, as she walked down the stairs in direction of the door. The room was almost deserted, only a couple of latecomers remained inside, struggling with coats and piles of books.

“Of course, Professor.” Claire stared at him, expectantly.

“Ye were distracted today.” He pointed, closing the book he had used to prepare the current subject. “Is something bothering ye, Claire?”

“No.” She firmly replied, her eyes downcast. “I’m sure I can’t be the first student you caught daydreaming. Why are you making such a big deal about it?”

Jamie gave her a concerned look, his blue eyes wrinkling in the corners. He was sporting a small stubble, that combined with his impeccable plaid shirt, gave him a look of casual handsomeness.

“Ye are one of the best students in the class.” He said slowly, neatly placing his books inside his own bag. “I wouldna like ye to squander yer potential. If something is disturbing ye, I’d like to help ye if I can, that’s all.”

“It’s fine.” She insisted in a harsher voice, her hands slightly trembling. “I don’t really need another man to tell me I’m not good enough and can’t handle things. Because I am quite capable!”

“I’m not saying ye aren’t, Miss Beauchamp.” He pointed patiently, glaring at her increasingly red face. “In fact, I think I just said quite the opposite.”

“I can’t focus because all the girls around me are acting like crazy hens, cackling over you!” She accused in a mordant voice, going completely berserk despite her best rational alarms going off in the outskirts of her brain. “I’m here to study – I have so much to learn still and my age will hurt me in spite of how good I keep proving myself again and again – and all they can think is to shag the teacher!”

“Ye’re crossing the line, Claire.” Jamie warned, his voice now low and dangerous. “I might be younger than ye – just a few years, really - but ye’re not exactly old enough to convince me ye’re getting senile by acting out and being disrespectful. I am the teacher here.”

“Then you should bloody act like it!” Claire growled, the hammer of anger – and jealousy? – pounding against her ribs. “Stop being so nice and attentive, because you’re clearly giving the wrong message!”

“What?!” His mouth was ajar, the pulse on his temple throbbing in anger. He practically tore his glasses away from his face, discarding them on the table with a dry sound. “I never made any advances on one of my students. The mere suggestion my behaviour is borderline unethical is a verra serious one, Miss Beauchamp. It can get me suspended if anyone in the faculty board hears it.”

“I’m sorry.” She hissed, fidgeting with the closing mechanism of her rucksack. “But you have to recognize that you are young and…handsome.” Claire swallowed her, her voice strangled. “You can pass the wrong impression just from breathing.”

“Maybe ye should drop this class.” Jamie suggested, slightly turning away from her in order to shield his face from her sight. “I can ask Professor Raymond’s permission for you to assist his Alternative Medicine class. It will give ye the same credits as mine.”

“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “Maybe I should.” They stood there, facing each other, their eyes battling when words had failed them.

“Claire.” He asked, his voice ragged but softer, warmer. “Who told you ye werena enough?”

“My husband.” She avoided his eyes, twisting her lips in a grimace. “Ex-husband. He was a teacher too. Thought I couldn’t handle becoming a doctor – I should settle to what I already was. He was very vocal about it. That’s why we divorced.”

“He was wrong.” Jamie said softly, but firmly. His eyes were all shades of blue – stormless skies, bottomless oceans, rare wild flowers, starry nights, infinite horizons. “I hope ye ken that. Because I certainly do.”

“Oh.” Claire babbled, feeling utterly ridiculous after her outburst. He had his long-fingered hands placed on the desk between them – in her eyes they seemed made to lovingly caress a female body, to demand responses with brutal kindness, to hold a smaller hand that could fit perfectly. “Thank you.”

“It has been a pleasure teaching you, Claire.” He said quietly. “You have a lively mind and a sharp wit. They’ll serve ye well. Yer age won’t hinder ye, lass – it only makes ye that more intriguing and capable.”

“I’m sorry.” She gave him a weak blushing smile, reinforced by the way he responded with a small grin. “I can be quite…rebellious, when my heels are being stepped on.”

“I have witnessed it first-hand.” He laughed, brushing his copper hair in a display of nervousness. “Ye seem to have forgotten one of yer wee notebooks.” And, without waiting for her answer, strode to the place where she had been sitting, collecting her pad.

She knew he would see it – she had been working on it for most of the class and had left it open as she hurried to leave. It was a rough drawing of a blue eye, with a familiar catlike shape – framing it was a verse from her favourite poem in her stylized hand, “Da mi basia mille”.

Deinde centum.” He completed, caressing the sheet with his fingertips. “If ye’re not my student anymore,” He said in a hoarse voice, turning to look at her with a burst of hope in his eyes. “I’m finally free to ask ye out on a date, as I’ve wanted since the day I first saw ye sitting on my class.”

“Sweet love, Sweet lines, Sweet life!”


“I wanted ye from the first I saw ye—but I loved ye when you wept in my arms and let me comfort you, that first time at Leoch.”

I undressed slowly, standing by the bed, looking down at him. He had turned onto his side and curled himself up against the cold. His lashes lay long and curving against his cheek; they were a deep auburn, nearly black at the tips, but a pale blond near the roots. It gave him an oddly innocent air, despite the long, straight nose and the firm lines of mouth and chin. 

 Clad in my chemise, I slid into bed behind him, snuggling against the wide, warm back in its woolen nightshirt. He stirred a little, coughing, and I put a hand on the curve of his hip to soothe him. He shifted, curling further and thrusting himself back against me with a small exhalation of awareness. I put my arm around his waist, my hand brushing the soft mass of his testicles. I could rouse him, I knew, sleepy as he was; it took very little to bring him standing, no more than a few firm strokes of my fingers. I didn’t want to disturb his rest, though, and contented myself with gently patting his belly. He reached back a large hand and clumsily patted my thigh in return.

 “I love you,“ he muttered, half-awake.

 “I know,” I said, and fell asleep at once, holding him.” 

 “I didna think I should ever laugh again in a woman’s bed, Sassenach,” he said. “Or even come to a woman, save as a brute, blind with need.” A note of bitterness came into his voice. 

I lifted his hand, and kissed the small scar on the back of it. “I can’t see you as a brute,” I said. I meant it lightly, but his face softened as he looked at me, and he answered seriously. 

“I know that, Sassenach. And it is that ye canna see me so that gives me hope. For I am—and know it—and yet perhaps…” He trailed off, watching me intently. “You have that—the strength. Ye have it, and your soul as well. So perhaps my own may be saved.”

 “It’s a wonderful gift. However did you find it?” He smiled then, in return. The sun blazed low, a brilliant orange ball glimpsed briefly through dark treetops. 

“I’d seen the box when I went to the goldsmith’s shop—it was the goldsmith’s wife who’d kept it. Then I went back yesterday, meaning to buy ye a bit of jewelry—maybe a brooch—and whilst the goodwife was showing me the gauds, we happened to speak of this and that, and she told me of the Doctor, and—” He shrugged. 

“Why did you want to buy me jewelry?” I looked at him, puzzled. The sale of the ruby had left us with a bit of money, but extravagance was not at all like him, and under the circumstances— “Oh! To make up for sending all that money to Laoghaire? I didn’t mind; I said I didn’t.” He had—with some reluctance—arranged to send the bulk of the proceeds from the sale of the stone to Scotland, in payment of a promise made to Laoghaire MacKenzie—damn her eyes—Fraser, whom he had married at his sister’s persuasion while under the rather logical impression that if I was not dead, I was at least not coming back. My apparent resurrection from the dead had caused any amount of complications, Laoghaire not least among them. 

“Aye, ye said so,” he said, openly cynical. 

“I meant it—more or less,” I said, and laughed. “You couldn’t very well let the beastly woman starve to death, appealing as the idea is.” 

He smiled, faintly. “No. I shouldna like to have that on my conscience; there’s enough without. But that’s not why I wished to buy ye a present.” 

“Why, then?” The box was heavy; a gracious, substantial, satisfying weight across my legs, its wood a delight under my hands. He turned his head to look full at me, then, his hair fire-struck with the setting sun, face dark in silhouette.

 “Twenty-four years ago today, I married ye, Sassenach,” he said softly. “I hope ye willna have cause yet to regret it.” 

Yet what he felt now was not lust—not quite. Nor was it even the need of her, the wanting of soul’s company. He wished to cover her with his body, possess her—for if he could do that, he could pretend to himself that she was safe. Covering her so, joined in one body, he might protect her. Or so he felt, even knowing how senseless the feeling was. 

 He had stiffened, his body tensing involuntarily with his thoughts. Claire stirred, and reached back with one hand. She laid it on his leg, let it lie for a moment, then reached gently farther up, in drowsy question. He bent his head, put his lips behind her ear. Said what he was thinking, without thought. 

“Nothing will harm ye while there is breath in my body, a nighean donn. Nothing.” 

 “I know,” she said. Her limbs went slowly slack, her breathing eased, and the soft round of her belly swelled under his palm as she melted into sleep

 “It’s a great comfort,” he said at last, “to see the sun come up and go down. When I dwelt in the cave, when I was in prison, it gave me hope, to see the light come and go, and know that the world went about its business.” He was looking out the window, toward the blue distance where the sky darkened toward infinity. His throat moved a little as he swallowed. 

“It gives me the same feeling, Sassenach,” he said, “to hear ye rustling about in your surgery, rattling things and swearin’ to yourself.” He turned his head, then, to look at me, and his eyes held the depths of the coming night. 

“If ye were no longer there—or somewhere—” he said very softly, “then the sun would no longer come up or go down.” 

 He turned and reached up his hands, and she leaned to him, tried to climb down, but lost her footing and half-fell, landing in his arms in a fluster of clothes and loose hair. He laughed and turned her round to look, but kept his arms around her. 

He was loath to surrender the warmth of her and held her like a shield against cold memory. She was still, leaning back against him, only her head moving as she looked from one end of the cave to the other. It was barely eight feet long, but the far end was lost in shadow. She lifted her chin, seeing the soft black stains that coated the rock to one side by the entrance. 

“That’s where my fire was—when I dared have one.” His voice sounded strange, small and muffled, and he cleared his throat.

 “Where was your bed?” 

“Just there by your left foot.” 

“Did you sleep with your head at this end?” She tapped her foot on the graveled dirt of the floor. 

“Aye. I could see the stars, if the night was clear. I turned the other way if it rained.” She heard the smile in smile in his voice and put her hand along his thigh, squeezing. 

“I hoped that,” she said, her own voice a little choked. “When we learned about the Dunbonnet, and the cave… I thought about you, alone here—and I hoped you could see the stars at night.” 

“I could,” he whispered, and bent his head to put his lips to her hair. The shawl she’d pulled over her head had slipped off, and her hair smelled of lemon balm and what she said was catmint. She made a small hmp noise in her throat and folded her own arms over his, warming him through his shirt. 

“I feel as though I’ve seen it before,” she said, sounding a little surprised. “Though I suppose one cave probably looks a good deal like any other cave, unless you have stalactites hanging from the ceiling or mammoths painted on the walls.” 

“I’ve never had a talent for decoration,” he said, and she hmp’ed again, amused. “As for being here … ye’ve been here many nights wi’ me, Sassenach. You and the wee lass, both.”

“Are ye no coming to bed, Sassenach?” Jamie was already lying down, having found a remote corner behind the bar counter and spread out our cloaks. 

“I’ve broken a fingernail trying to get this bloody thing loose, and I can’t bloody reach it with my teeth!” I said, on the verge of breaking into tears of frustration. I was swaying with weariness, but couldn’t bring myself to sleep in the clammy confines of my stays. Jamie reached up an arm out of the darkness, beckoning. 

“Come lie down wi’ me, Sassenach,” he whispered. “I’ll do it.” The simple relief of lying down, after twelve hours in the saddle, was so exquisite that I nearly changed my mind about sleeping in my stays, but he’d meant it. He squirmed down and bent his head to nuzzle at my laces, an arm round my back to steady me.” “Dinna fash,” he murmured into my midsection, voice somewhat muffled. “If I canna nibble it loose, I’ll prise it wi’ my dirk.” He looked up with an inquiring noise, as I’d uttered a strangled laugh at the prospect. 

“Just trying to decide whether being accidentally disemboweled would be worse than sleeping in my stays,” I whispered, cupping his head. It was warm, the soft hair at his nape damp to the touch.

 “My aim’s no that bad, Sassenach,” he said, pausing in his labors for an instant. “I’d only risk stabbin’ ye in the heart.” As it was, he accomplished his goal without recourse to weapons, gently jerking the knot loose with his teeth until he could finish the job with his fingers, opening the heavy seamed canvas stays like a clamshell to expose the whiteness of my shift.

 I sighed like a grateful mollusk opening at high tide, plucking the fabric out of the creases the stays had made in my flesh. Jamie pushed away the discarded stays but remained where he was, his face near my breasts, rubbing his hands gently over my sides. I sighed again at his touch; he’d done it by habit, but it was a habit I’d missed for the last four months, and a touch I’d thought never to feel again. 

“Ye’re too thin, Sassenach,” he whispered. “I can feel every rib. I’ll find ye food tomorrow.” I had been too much preoccupied in the last few days to think about food, and was much too tired at the moment to be hungry, but made an agreeable sound in response and stroked his hair, tracing the curve of his skull.

 “I love you, a nighean,” he said, very softly, his breath warm on my skin.

 “I love you,” I answered just as softly, taking the ribbon from his hair and loosening his plait between my fingers. I pressed his head closer to me, not in invitation, but out of the sudden urgent need to keep him close to me, to protect him. He kissed my breast and turned his head, laying it in the hollow of my shoulder. He took one deep breath, one more, and then was asleep, the relaxing weight of his body against me both protection and trust.

“I love you,” I said, almost soundless, my arms wrapped tight about him. “Oh, dear God, I love you.”

Outlander Books “Sweetest Moments” As Requested by Anonymous

If Jamie and Claire (and Murtagh) could text: 1x02 Edition (after arriving @ Leoch)
  • Murtagh: jamie lad ?
  • Murtagh: whr in gds name are ye ?
  • Murtagh: been lookin all over
  • Murtagh: Its been over a day!!
  • Murtagh: Where are ye??
  • Jamie: nothing not been up to anything at all
  • Murtagh: ....
  • Jamie: i mean
  • Jamie: STABLES!
  • Jamie: how are you?
  • Jamie: Tell me in detail how your day's been?
  • Murtagh: no
  • Murtagh: you
  • Murtagh: tell me *now*
  • Jamie: tell what?
  • Murtagh: whatever yev been doin that's got ye squirmin like a bairn thts shat his pants
  • Jamie: buggershitebleeding
  • Murtagh: what have ye been doin jamie???
  • Jamie: NOTHING, aye?
  • Murtagh: Let me guess:
  • Murtagh: went against myorders to ///steer clear/// of the wee ssnch lassie??
  • Jamie: no
  • Jamie: *definitely* not
  • Murtagh: lad.
  • Murtagh: cmon
  • Murtagh: you're terribl @ this
  • Jamie: Lorna the scullerymarm was JUST telling me how fine and oily your beard is looking today.
  • Jamie: you should pay her a calL!
  • Jamie: *now* would be a GREAT time!
  • Jamie: oh jesus
  • Jamie: i dinna think ye've ever said my entire name to me
  • Jamie: and fck ye used all caps!! 😳
  • Murtagh: WEEL
  • Murtagh: HOW TO TURN OFF?
  • Jamie: hehe
  • Jamie: double tap the lil arrow on the left
  • Murtagh: got it
  • Jamie: k, have a good time wi' Lorna , see you at week end !!
  • Murtagh: No no no no not that easy lad
  • Murtagh: tell me what **exactly*** ye did to the lass
  • Murtagh: even tho i told ye not to have anything to do wi' her
  • Jamie: it was nothing at all
  • Murtagh: waiting
  • Jamie: fine, twas naught but a wee chat
  • Jamie: but omg guess what??
  • Jamie: she's NOT MARRIED!!
  • Jamie: She's WIDOWED!!!!
  • Jamie: ISNA THAT THE BEST NEWS???????
  • Murtagh: nevr takin ye to a funeral *ever*
  • Jamie: I mean
  • Jamie: of course its verra sad for the lass
  • Jamie: 😔 god rest his soul etc etc
  • Jamie: ....but its good to know, aye?
  • Jamie: verra good
  • Jamie: verra verra verra verra good
  • Murtagh: so that's it? ye talked about her dead husband?
  • Murtagh: that's all that happened?
  • Jamie: .... uh huh
  • Murtagh: jamie.
  • Murtagh: I've got a vrra stern face on right now
  • Murtagh: TALK FFS.
  • Jamie: dinna wanna say
  • Murtagh: NOW
  • Murtagh: WHT DID YE DO
  • Jamie: lethertakeoffmyshirt
  • Jamie: and also touchmymuscles
  • Jamie: i mean *bandage me
  • Jamie: and then i
  • Jamie: um
  • Jamie: comforted her
  • Murtagh: ye **whatt**
  • Jamie: just snuggled her a little while she snugglecried intomyshoulder
  • Jamie: andthen
  • Jamie: there was
  • Jamie: a long lingering *oh haiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIIIii*** kind of gaze between us
  • Jamie: so....IN SHORT, nothing at all really
  • Murtagh: oh aye? Half-naked cuddling is nothing at all????
  • Jamie: just...
  • Jamie: _the single best hour of my life_
  • Jamie: stillcryingboutitcausehappy
  • Murtagh: oh for gods blessed fucking sake
  • Murtagh: oh jesus
  • Murtagh: am i going to be a great-godfather soon?
  • Jamie: NOT LIKE THAT
  • Jamie: well....I mean....
  • Jamie: Yes. yes precisely like that
  • Jamie: ((i mean have you SEEn her???))
  • Jamie: but not until i've plowed her HEART-FIELD too
  • Murtagh: YIKES x infinity
  • Jamie: after we're wed of course
  • Jamie: and then I can plow her heart-field AND her field-field
  • Jamie: OOOO! _in an ACTUAL field_
  • Jamie: preferably the one @ LLB
  • Jamie: up by the broch
  • Jamie: dye think that's the bst one?
  • Jamie: tell me
  • Jamie: is there a better field?
  • Jamie: come on tell me which field
  • Jamie: this is important
  • Jamie: whyve ye gone all quiet?
  • Murtagh: talkin to the blacksmith about fashioning somethin to chain yer foot to the stable
  • Jamie: oh thats fine
  • Jamie: she's walking up the hill to the stable as we speak, so i dinna mind being tied up here 🙂🙃😍🙂🙃😍🙂🙃😍🙂🙃😍
  • Murtagh: for fucks sake
  • Jamie: ok putting phone away, gotta act like i dinna see her coming
  • Jamie: Wish me luck!!!!!!!!
Where We Begin: Chapter 5

Jamie knocked on her door precisely 2 minutes before 6pm. He stood in her doorway with a pizza box, freshly shaven, and looking quite sheepish.

“If you’re not feeling well,” He began. “I can just…”

Claire’s smile stopped him mid sentence.

“I’m glad you came,” Claire said softly, stepping aside to let him in. Jamie let out a breath and smiled shyly back, handing her the pizza and stepping into Claire’s home. It was a cozy flat with bulky throw rugs, soft lighting and scattered photographs. He hung his coat by the door, and eyeballed some cardboard boxes, neatly stacked but clearly out of place in her home. The name “Frank” was neatly written on the side, and a few mailing addresses were stacked on top, mentioning Boston, Massachusetts.

He turned to find Claire standing a few feet away, worrying her lip between her teeth and wringing her hands.

“Well, that expression doesn’t bode well,” Jamie said softly, a gentle smile pulling at his lip. Claire nodded and looked away.

“I forgot I hadn’t mailed them yet. I’m so used to seeing the boxes there.” Claire sighed and looked up into the eyes encouraging her to say more. “I really didn’t want to talk about this yet. I figured we had at least two more dates before we had to talk about our pasts.”

Jamie chuckled, and stepped closer. “I don’t mind either way, but seeing your face drop like that…” Jamie’s hand closed around hers. “Maybe it will help to talk about it?”

“Kind of a mood killer,” She joked, casting her eyes down.
“I already said this wasna a date. Come on, Beauchamp. Whisky and Bogart can wait.”

“Actually the whiskey will help,” Claire nodded, leading him into the kitchen.

She doled out plates and glasses and while readying herself. No one besides Joe knew the whole story.

“Frank and I broke up about 6 months ago.” She started, sitting herself on the barstool at her breakfast nook. “We were engaged.”

Jamie nodded, placing a slice of pie on her plate while he tucked into his own. “What happened?”

Claire stared at a pepperoni and threw back the shot of whiskey in her glass.

“Well, he taught at Oxford. History Professor.”

“Ahh. Scottish history, mayhaps?”

“Mmmhmmp,” Claire said confidently. Jamie snorted but but motioned for her to continue. Her mood gre more somber as she stared into the bottom of her glass.

“I caught him…engaged with a student…when I came by for lunch one day.” She looked down at her hands, a forcing a smile to play against her lips. “Very cliche, that. Looking back on it, I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I felt.”

She felt Jamie bristle, despite the space between them, but to his credit, he only grunted a “mmhmm” and let her continue.

“I was 19 when we started dating, and two years later we were engaged. When I applied to medical school, we said we’d wait, but then 8 years went by and we never set a date. He started traveling a lot, and I stopped missing him. It was…” Jamie’s hand reached for hers and squeezed it, “almost a relief to have a reason to end it. He moved to Boston to follow a promotion. I’ve been meaning to send him his things.”

“But it feels final.” Jamie concluded.

“Its stupid. It was over well before we ended things. At first I didn’t want to let go of the stuff, but now I feel silly for hanging onto it for so long.”

“Why do you think you held onto it? Eat, woman.” He threw her a scornful gaze and she erupted into laughter, taking another bite.

“I think I had to figure out who I was without him.” She poured another finger of whiskey.

“Not a history enthusiast?” Jamie asked, refilling her drink.

“I don’t dislike Scottish history,” she laughed. “I actually know quite a bit about the Stuart uprisings and the 45. I just…” she looked up at him. “I wanted to be more important than his books. And I wasn’t.”

Jamie stayed silent sipping his whiskey as he watched the emotion play across her face. Her face, so translucent to every thought and feeling, made his heart ache. He wanted to pull her close and hold her until all the pain passed out of her. Then he watched her face close up, at least as much as she could close it up, and watched her stand and begin collecting their dishes, an airy look of amusement on her face.

Brave, indeed.

“So what are ye, Claire, without him I mean?”

Her brow lifted at him as she pursed her lips in thought. He gripped the edge of his seat, wanting badly in that moment to know how how those lips tasted…

“A Doctor, friend, art lover, gardener…”

“Garden do ye? You have some wee flowers on your terrace?” Jamie smirked as reached over the island to brush off a smear of tomato sauce by her lip.

“Medicinal herbs,” she said proudly. “The flowers usually commit suicide but the herbs like me fine.”

“I can appreciate what they see in ye,” he said, taking her hand as she stepped back around to his side. He pulled her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “We all have ghosts, Claire. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a wee bit angry over him treating you so, but…” his thumb ran over her knuckles, “if he wasn’t a fool, I probably wouldn’t be here.”

“So, You still want to be here, then? I didn’t scare you away yet?” Claire grinned and gave him a hopeful look.

“You’re awfully pretty, lass,” he said with a grin. “It’d take a good bit more to derail my interest in ye.”

She snorted, and he laughed openly, pressing another kiss to her knuckle before she pulled her hand away and shoved him playfully.

“Weren’t you telling me that flirting doesn’t gain you anything because i’m injured?” She said with a soft cackle, standing up and taking her glass with her.

“Oh. Well, I don’t mind making a fool of myself if it keeps you smiling.”

Claire turned her television on, her back to him, but felt a soft glow start in her chest at his words.

“Good,” she said softly, biting her lip as she settled into her side of the loveseat. “Mr. Bogart would approve.”


Over the course of the movie, Claire found herself magnetically drawn into Jamie’s side. To her amusement, his hand was equally drawn to her ass. The first time he caught it drifting down the back of her hip he jerked his hand back and firmly planted it on her waist, masking the action with a coughing fit. The second time it happened, Claire bit her lip and whispered, “Problem, Fraser?”

“Aye. You’ve a gorgeous arse,” he grunted. “And I canna let it alone. Apologies, Sassenach.”

“Paw my arse and calling me names, Fraser?”

“English woman, no an insult.” He said, tapping her nose. His voice lowered an octave. “A wild outlander…verra exotic, to a Scot.”

Their chuckles were interrupted as the room darkened and the credits to their movie began to roll across the screen.

“We missed the ending, you silly Scot,” Claire muttered against his chest. To her dismay, Jamie started to stand and gently extract himself from her limbs.

“Just as well. It’s time I let you rest, Claire,” he extended a hand to her and pulled her to her feet.

Claire felt an emptiness well inside of her, wishing he would stay longer but unable to say the words. She knew he should go, but more than anything, she wanted to return to the cocoon of his arms and sleep there for a week.

As if reading her thoughts, his finger found purchase under her chin and lifted it until her eyes met his.

“I’ll be out of town this weekend, and I know you go back to work on Monday…” he ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “But, I want to see you again, Claire.”

She nodded. “I’d like that. Thank you, for tonight.”

He smiled and brushed her cheek with his thumb. “My pleasure, Sassenach.”

Jamie turned towards the door, but as he pulled away, Claire’s hand eased behind his neck and pulled him down. She had to know if…

Fevered. Salty. Pulsing desire.

That is what his lips felt and tasted of, and Claire needed more. She heard herself whimper as his hands pulled her close. She felt herself pant as his groin pressed into her thigh…

And then nothing. He had stepped away from her, and was trying to catch his breath. Her eyes widened.

“You can’t…”

“I have to leave.” He said firmly.

“Did you not…i mean, damn it, wasn’t that…”

“Hot as fuck, aye.” Jamie grabbed his coat.


“I’m already kicking my chivalrous ass for leaving, Claire,” he grunted, and only the cheerful giggle that sounded made him turn around as he opened the door to leave.

“That’s why your leaving? Chivalry?”

“It’s certainly not sense driving me out your door, Sassenach.” There it was, again. A giggle. Christ this woman killed him.

“G’night. James.” She blew him a kiss and slowly closed the door on him.

anonymous asked:

What if Jamie wasn't an outlaw when he met Claire and Jamie could court her properly? How would Claire react to that when if she was still trying to get home?

Anon asked: what do you think it would have happened if Jamie and Claire didn’t have to get married? Do you think our hero could have find a way to marry the Sassenach or at least, make her fall in love with her without all the amazing sex?

Mod Note: I genuinely did not intend to continue this story (despite many requests), but I am finally bringing one of my first Imagine pieces out of the archives to explore these intriguing prompts! A bit of a slow burn on this one, but hang in there with me! -Mod Bonnie

Hail Mary

Part I  Part II

Part III

The canteen hit Jamie’s jaw squarely with a sharp THWOCK.

“A mhic an diabhoil!” he snarled, looking wildly around and finding the culprit at once. “Damn you, Murtagh, what in God’s name was that for?!”

“To see if I could get yer gob to close all the way,” the usually-dour clansman said with a smirk, arms crossed. “A wee brown-haired lass seems to have broken your hinge this morning.”

Murtagh saw the canteen coming and ducked, laughing as it clattered against the nearby tree. “Careful, ye wee smout—that’s the good whisky!”

Despite Jamie’s annoyance, the corners of his mouth were twitching as he returned to finish unlashing the bundles from his saddle; and, conveniently, returning him to the sight of Mistress Beauchamp carrying a bedroll to the place she’d claimed for her lean-to.

The man was right: Jamie hadn’t been able to stop looking at her all day: sidelong as they rode; catching her eye as they stopped for water; training his gaze on back of her head when she nudged her mount past his on the road to speak with Ned. Always and completely: she was all he saw, this day.

He had been drawn to Mistress Beauchamp from the first—when she mended his shoulder; when he held her at Leoch; but now…Christ, he was all but consumed by her; and how could he not be? Having slept with her in his arms? Remembering the scent of her hair? Now knowing the shapes of her under his hands; what it was to hear sounds of desire from her lips as she moved against him, seeking?

And above all, to know that she had stayed. Aye, she had slept in his arms, but any lass might have done the same with any man, to save her own life….but upon waking this morning, she was flustered, had made to rise, and yet at the barest suggestion, she had stayed there in his arms for nigh on an hour, waiting for the rest of camp to awaken. They both had assumed pretense of sleep, but neither of them had allowed themselves to drift away. Her breathing had stayed quick; he could feel it, warm and shallow at the base of his throat. She surely had felt his heart thudding away, with her ear resting so near it.

No, they hadn’t slept; nor had they spoken. They’d held one another

And there, at the last, he’d brought one hand—shaking—to softly, gently, slowly come to rest on the curve of her head. She’d gasped and made as if to—say something? Move?  Christ, touch him back?

And just at that moment, the camp had come alive. Before he could blink, she had gotten to her feet and the day began as it always did. Boiling water; folding, packing; bannocks and whisky; back on the long road through the glens; all just as it was every day.

But today, he couldn’t stop looking at her.

At Mistress Beauchamp, who had slept in his arms.

But God, he had to stop thinking about her. She was the finest woman he’d ever met —but he could offer her no future, as a wanted criminal. None. He wouldn’t subject her to the dangers a life with him would entail. He had to stop thinking about her.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

“Ye did a good thing, Jamie, lad,” Murtagh said, yanking Jamie back once more from grim reverie, deep brown eyes watching him. “Keeping the lass last night as ye did. You’re the only one that could ha’ done it for her properly.”

“Aye,” he coughed, “well, I… she….” He cleared his throat uncomfortably, unfurling his tent canvas.  “I’m glad to’ve been of service to her.”

Murtagh made a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a harrumph.

“And what’s that supposed to signify?” Jamie snapped, tugging at his stock. Hadn’t Claire nearly frozen to death last night? Then why, by Bride and all the saints, was the gathering evening so bloody HOT?

“Haud yer wheesht, lad,” Murtagh, now chuckling in earnest at Jamie’s discomfort. “Your secret doe-eyes are safe wi’ me.”

“Not doe-eyes…” Jamie muttered, feeling all of seven years of age.

“Hey.” Murtagh’s hand clapped warm on his shoulder, his eyes suddenly soft and unusually earnest. “She’s a fine woman, Jamie, Sassenach or no’.”

Aye, Jamie thought, watching the wind lift her curls into life as she rifled her wee medicine box, then made for the wood with a basket in hand, she truly is. And I can’t let myself want her.

And then the messenger rode into camp.

He waited until it was nearing sunset, when he knew she would be out gathering her wee herbs before the light went. He made for the loch under the pretext of needing a piss, seeing Murtagh watching him knowingly. Jamie knew without asking or telling that his godfather would keep an eye on the other men and prevent any from venturing in the same direction. He said a prayer, thanking God for the gift of this protector that had watched over him all his life, and continued down the path.

Sure enough, as the woods opened out into the waning crimson sunlight, he found her seated on a low boulder, looking out upon the loch, basket at her feet.

Seeing her, her unbound curls wafting sweetly in the breeze, his throat went instantly tight.

Christ, how could he do this?

Knowing her…. How could he not?

He cleared his throat and sang out with an attempt-at-cheery, “Take care no’ to fall in.”

Her head turned sharply, surprised, but a begrudging smile was already tugging at her lips. “Ned’s nowhere in sight—I think I should be safe.”

“Good,” he laughed—God, how it delighted his soul to laugh with this woman— “Best stay well shot of him.”

“But he’s such a darling!” She pursed her lips to hold back her mirth. “I’m not sure I can refuse him if he comes calling!”

“Well, do what ye must, lass,” he grinned, “I’ll be standing by to hold ye, anytime.”

She made a small sound of kind acknowledgement but looked away, suddenly shy.The silence rang between them so acutely, Jamie could hear the voices from camp, many yards distant.

“I’ve gotten some good news, Sassenach,” he said, feeling the letter in his waistcoat pocket. “I’ve…been pardoned.”

NO!” She leapt to her feet, mouth open and excitement dawning. “Oh, Jamie, that’s wonderful news!” She grabbed one of his hands in hers and squeezed it hard, practically bouncing with her enthusiasm. “God be bloody praised!!! I’m so thrilled for you! Whatever happened to bring that about?”

They sat on the boulder and he explained, grinning from ear to ear, the contents of Colum’s letter. Unbeknownst to Jamie, his uncle had been exercising all his considerable influence to get the accusations against him dropped. By some miracle, he had succeeded, and had sent a messenger at once to share the glad tidings.

Jamie read between to lines to gather that His Grace the Duke of Sandringham had been more than instrumental in getting the matter quietly resolved and Jamie’s outlaw record expunged. Jamie could just imagine the foppish gent drawling: “Anything for my DEAHHRRRR Jamie,” in those thick, unctuous tones, wet eyes glittering with anticipation.

The Duke’s predilections were well known, and such attentions had made Jamie supremely uncomfortable at the time of the man’s last visit. However, God bless him and all his house, if such affections had just saved Jamie from a life of flight and ultimately the noose. 

And ten times the blessing to him if it meant Jamie’s honor was now completely unhindered…that he was completely free to….

“What have ye been gathering, then?” he blurted, feeling his wame clenching in anxiety.

“Good Lord,” she laughed, startled, “you suddenly want to talk about herbs after such splendid news!?”

“My life is my own again,” he said, shrugging, “I want to talk about anything and everything.”

“Cress,” she said affably, nudging the basket with her foot. “Didn’t manage to bring back any last night, after all, what with one thing and another.” 

She paused suddenly, furrowing her eyebrows. She was leaning on her hand, the fingertips just inches away from his plaid on the rock. 

When she spoke, her voice was soft and full of feeling. “Thank you again for…for everything. You were so—wonderful about it all.”

Jamie felt his chest swell. “Think nothing of it, lass. You’ve saved my poor hide more times than I can count these past weeks. It was about time that I should do ye a service in return.“

“Did you get any real rest? I’m afraid I must have given you a dreadfully uncomfortable time. ”

“Och, dinna fash, lass. It was just fine.”

It was the best night of all my years, mo ghraidh.


No. Not Mistress.


Even sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, facing forward as they were, he could see her straighten and stiffen at the tone in his voice.

“I find meself—” he said, trying to force his lips to move at his bidding, but finding them slow and wooden,  “—that is—”

Help me, woman. See what’s in my heart. Surely ye ken it already.

Thank the Lord it came out sounding calm and clear:

I care for you, Claire.”

She stopped breathing. The breath actually left her, for more heartbeats than Jamie knew. The absence of it—that rhythm of her that he’d memorized, he now realized— was like whisky thrown on the fire within him, the flames roaring instantly up in fear and anticipation. He wanted so desperately to take her face in his hands so he might look into her golden eyes while telling her all his heart…but his hands were shaking and he didn’t think he could get out the words if he moved.

“I care for you as I’ve never cared for anyone in my life,” he said, mustering his courage only by focusing only on the wonder of the person beside him. “Your wit, your courage, your pigheadedness,” he laughed, his whole body glowing with sudden warmth. “The–” He clenched his hands in his lap, staring at them as if they held the proper words. “– life in you Claire, is unlike anything I have ever encountered. I havena been able to get ye out of my head since the first day we met. And then last night…”  

He heard her lips part and a long intake of breath, then a soft, inscrutable, “Jamie…”

“I ken I’ve perhaps no business saying such things. Even though I’m no longer a wanted criminal, I’ve no great wealth, and perhaps I’m nothing you ought to trouble o’er.“ He shook his head, hard. “But surely…surely ye ken as well as I what there is between us, Claire.”

He screwed up his courage and turned to face her. She was staring down into her lap, hands clasped. Her lips were pressed tight, her expression, for once, unreadable.

“I canna believe I’m alone in feeling it…this…whatever it is between you and me.” He laid a hand slowly and tenderly atop hers, his heart pounding.

She jumped when his hand touched hers, and with a jolt, Jamie saw that she had been twisting her golden ring round and round her finger.

Jamie stood at once and raised his hands in a gesture of apology. “Forgive me,  lass….”

Fraser, you dolt, have ye no sense to spare a thought for what the lass is going through?

“I’m so sorry, Claire,” he repeated. “I—I ken—that ye still grieve for your departed husband.”

Her lips went tight and Jamie saw her blink several times, hard.

“It…. isna right that ye should forget him, or even try to. If ye loved him, he must have been a good man. But I–I should–”

Courage, man. COURAGE.

“…It would be my honor to see to the care of his wife.”

Finally, she looked up, sharply, her eyes wide. She spoke in barely a whisper. “What?”

Will you marry me, Claire?”

She simply stared at him, in utter shock.

He went to his knees in front of her in the oath-giving posture, relinquishing all caution and all fear. He exhaled heavily with the relief of letting the feelings for her wash over him. “I care for you—"

I love you, he wanted to scream.

“—and now that I’m a free man, I wish to give ye everything I have. My name—my clan—the protection of my body….Claire, they’re all yours, now and forever.” He reached for her hand, trembling, dying to touch her. “If you’ll have me.”


Jamie felt as though she’d pushed him backward into the icy lake. He opened and closed his mouth, unable to find the words for the pain ripping through him.

“I’m sorry, Jamie. I can’t marry you.” She bolted to her feet, took up her basket, and made quickly back toward the camp.

“Claire—please wait—I–”

This couldn’t be happening. This just couldn’t be.

He rose on shaking legs and tried to follow, reaching for her arm. “Sassenach, stop, please—I’m sorry if I was too—I just thought we—”

She threw off his hand and faced him only long enough to say coldly:

You were mistaken.”


It should have been a night of celebration; should have been the most joyous occasion of his life–to know he was a free man, could go home at last. 

But it was hell, every moment, her words tormenting him as he played each memory he held of her over and over in his mind, every time they had ever spoken, touched, laughed, or cried together, culminating in the breathtaking intimacy of the previous night. Was it lust deluding him? Was it pure, lecherous desire for her body that had colored these memories and called them love?


NO, damn it all!

He knew his heart. And hers—Christ, it danced across her face so freely, that—No, he was not mistaken.

Perhaps she was frightened; perhaps it was too soon.

But he was not mistaken.

It made seeing her flitting about all evening, smiling and pouring whisky liberally all ‘round the fireside — the collective mood of festivity ostensibly in honor of his pardon — all the more galling. She laughed and joked with the lads, chatted at length with Ned Gowan over documents, and generally charmed the whole camp with her golden eyes and glorious smile…everyone except him.

She’d spoken to him only once, when she offered him drink— “For you, Mr. McTavish?”— but she wouldn’t look at him.

She didn’t even know his real name. She didn’t want to know his real name.

He had wanted to drink, but hadn’t—couldn’t allow himself the escape of oblivion. This was his penance, to survive the long hours of the evening, watching her; the longer ones of silence and desolation, seething, hurting, long after the rest had fallen into their deep whisky-slumber. He needed to think with a clear head—to feel this, to understand.  

Christ, if he could only understand why…! If she felt for him as he for her, why deny him so cruelly? Claire was shrewd, but he’d never known her to be that. Surely she had some reason. Surely, if he could only speak with her…

In the dead of night, the grief and the pain nigh unbearable, his ears pricked up. Someone moving surreptitiously about camp.

Clasping his dirk, he slowly sat up high enough to survey the clearing. Geordie, supposed to be on sentry duty, was sound asleep and Jamie gave a silent prayer of thanks to see Claire moving quietly in the direction of the loch.

Tomorrow, they would reach the crossroads and meet once more with Dougal and the rest; there would be more folk for her to tend; more folk to observe their behavior; to hear about their unorthodox night together. He HAD to speak with her tonight.

He followed quietly, but when they were far enough away to be out of earshot of the sleepers, he spoke. “Sassenach?”

She jumped and whirled, and he instantly raised his hands palms forward. “I’m sorry—” he whispered. He came slowly toward her. “I’m so sorry, lass, I didna mean to frigh—” 

He froze, seeing her clearly now in the moonlight. “…You’re running.”  

It was not a question. She was wearing her traveling cloak, and the bundle she clutched clearly contained her medicine box. Her eyes were wide and her nostrils flaring with deep breaths. She was pointed toward the road, in the opposite direction of the horses.

“And on foot?” His voice was flat. Dead.

She shrugged stiffly, tensed as though ready to bolt. “Didn’t want to risk waking the men.”

“Where?” he croaked. Why?, he wanted to scream.

Her eyes were defiant, wide with alarm and determination. “Back to where I came from—same place I’ve been trying to go since Dougal took me captive.”

“Ye canna just go, Claire,” he said, trying to sound dismissive.

Her face was stone. “I can. I will.”

“Claire, I willna let ye do this.“

“Didn’t realize you were my jailer. What are you going to do, clap me in irons?” She was backing slowly away from him and his desperation was mounting with every pace.

“It’s wild country out there! Wolves and—brigands, and—” He was petrified, heartbroken, grasping at straws to keep her from vanishing. “At least–let me accompany you to your destination—see you safe!”

A sob rising in his throat. Christ, dinna leave this way.

A hoarse gasping as he reached for her.

“Please, mo chridhe–”

Ice in her eyes. “I don’t need your ‘protection,’ Mr. McTavish.”

A knife in his gut.

‘…the protection of my body, Claire…
…yours, now and forever.’

The sound of his heart breaking.

She was leaning into her frenzied defiance. “I did have a life before I fell into your lap, you know!” She realized what she’d said, blushed, and stammered angrily. “I mean—into the–hands of the whole bloody clan. I had a LIFE,” she repeated, “and I’m far past due to return to it!”

“Aye,” he said, low and precise, shaking with anger. “you’ve made it exceedingly clear that there’s nothing whatsoever keeping you here.”

She had the grace to look abashed. “Jamie…” He saw the muscles of her face and throat working furiously; the regret in her eyes. She even took a step toward him and made to touch his arm. “Jamie, please, I’m so…so sorry for—”

He shrugged back from her touch and skirted silently around the edge of camp. She followed him, hissing out his name, but he did not slow his pace until he reached the horses. He located her mount and unhobbled it, leading it a hundred yards away from the others, picking up saddle and gear as he want.

When she at last caught up with him, he plucked the bundle from her arms, fastening it perfunctorily to her saddle.

“Jamie, wait—”

Her face was upturned to him, so white and so perfect it made the pain writhe within his chest. He marshaled his features into his mask of impassivity and gave a cordial nod. “I wish ye the best of fortune in your life, Mistress.

She reached for him, pleading. “Jamie, listen, I—”

He pressed the smaller of his dirks into her hand. “Goodbye, Claire.”

And without a backward glance—though he wished to throw his arms around her and beg her, beg her not to leave—he turned on his heel back toward the fires, listening first to the silence, then the jingle of harness and the sound of hooves going quietly off into the night.

He didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t. He lay awake, breaking apart, wrapped in a blanket that still held the scent of her hair.

[to be continued]

Hell Hath No Fury

Pairing: Bones x Reader

Word Count: 2248

Warnings: Graphic description of injury, angst, swearing

A/N: I truly didn’t mean for it to be so long but I had a lot of fun writing it and it just got away from me…but it was requested by @anotherotter​ based on my 777 Follower/7 Deadly sin challenge from years ago with the request: Wrath and Bones. Hope you enjoy!!!

After two years on the Enterprise, you knew what to look for when Bones was getting mad. It always started with the eyebrows. They’d furrow together like a couple trying to embrace. Then he’d clench his jaw and pinch his nose in a futile attempt to calm himself down. After that, his hands would start to shake - an almost imperceptible tremor that only a trained eye could see. You’d trained yourself to notice all these signs and more, but you still weren’t prepared for the pure red-faced fury filling Bones right now.

“What the hell is taking you so damn long? Do you not understand the gravity of the situation?”

You tightened your grip on the the flashlight in your hand. “I understand the gravity perfectly, doctor, but that’s not going to help me fix this ship.”

Keep reading

The Games We Play

A wee one shot of Jamie and Claire set around MOBY.

“Sassenach – do ye think me a fool?”

“Not often. Why?”

“I was just wonderin’ on account of the curly wee bits o’ green pokin’ out o’ my mashed potato.”

Claire sighed and rolled over, squinting to find the outline of her husband in the moonlight.

“It’s wild spinach…”

“It’s pigs weed …”

“And it’s incredibly …”

“Good for me. Aye, I ken. But ye ken I dinna care for it.”

One large hand crept across the space between them and settled pointedly on her bottom and Claire gave it a withering look over her shoulder before responding

“Which is why I went to the bother of chopping it up and mixing it in with your mashed potato, the same as Marsali does for Joan.”

Claire saw the glint of pale light on red whiskers as Jamie smiled, though the hand on her backside tightened ever so slightly.

“I am no’ a wee lass …”

“Well the fact that you need to say it …”
Claire laughed and felt Jamie quivering with suppressed laughter himself, though when he spoke his voice managed to remain stern.

“I dinna like ye hidin’ things in my food.”

“And I don’t like the thought of you fainting due to an iron deficiency or losing teeth through scurvy!”

“Would ye still kiss me?”

The amusement in his voice shone through this time and Claire smiled to herself.

“I expect so.”

“Ach, weel then! I’ve no need to worry, have I?”

Jamie patted the rounded swell beneath his hand and rolled onto his back, snaking an arm around Claire’s shoulders and drawing her close.

“I can’t believe I finally locate a decent green, edible leaf in good supply in the middle of this jumbled forest and you won’t eat it!”

She huffed nuzzling in close to him and lightly nipping the flesh of his chest

“It isna ‘decent’ and edible is questionable too…”

“Next time I’ll grind it to a paste and stir it into your tea!”

“Do that an’ I’ll take ye wee pestle an’ throw it into the next lake we pass.”

Jamie grinned and kissed the crown of her head.

Claire snorted and rolled on top of him, deftly hitching his nightshirt up around his hips. As always she had a small start of surprise at the leanness of his flanks and the pointed arc of his hip bones beneath her fingers. Never a fat man even in middle age, Jamie had definitely lost too much weight on the road and it alarmed her to feel it.

“Dinna fash Sassenach, I’ve a wee bit o’ cushioning left yet.”

His fingers brushed through the curls at her temple and she turned her face to kiss his wrist

“We’re getting too old for all of this, General Fraser.”
She smiled ruefully and felt rather than saw Jamie nod

“Aye we are. I think I may be ready for a wee blanket at my knees and a graceful dotage.”

Claire wrinkled her nose
“I don’t know about that, but a proper bed and some good food wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Ah, so ye do admit that feedin’ ye husband weeds is no’ verra nice!”

Jamie sat up and Claire’s legs wrapped around him, keeping her balance as she shifted them in the little tent.

“I admit that if I could find a carrot to stop your fussing it would be a welcome change!”

Jamie laughed and slid his hands up Claire’s shift, feeling the nobbles of her spine and her ribs pressing against her skin. He sighed and rested his forehead against her shoulder

“Aye, and ye are in need o’ a wee bit more sustenance too Sassenach.”

Claire shook her head gently and lifted his face to kiss his lips
“I’m fine. I have you.”

“That ye do lass …”

Jamie gasped as Claire proved her point and began to gently rock against him

“Oh dear God, ye truly do Sassenach.”

Claire paused and was gratified to hear a noise of distress emit from his throat

“Will you eat the spinach?”

Jamie growled but after a moment of hesitation nodded

“Aye, I’ll eat whatever ye decide to stick in my supper here but …”

He thrust his hips impatiently, grinning at the contented squeak Claire gave

“…when we get home ye are to stop feeding me weeds. Agreed?”

Claire moaned, digging her fingers into the curls at the base of his skull.
The next morning, as Jamie tried to eat around the flecks of green in his porridge, he raised his fingers to the faint scratches his wife had left on his neck and grinned to himself. Looking down at the pestle and mortar at his feet and the as yet untouched cup of tea at Claire’s elbow, his eyes narrowed to mischievous slits as he waited for her to take her first sip.

Two could play these games and he wondered, with a faint shiver of anticipation, how she would even the score tonight.

It was just as cold as he’d known it would be.

It was out of the wind, at least—not a biting cold, but a dank chill that sank through the skin and gnawed at the bone ends. 

He turned and reached up his hands, and she leaned to him, tried to climb down, but lost her footing and half-fell, landing in his arms in a fluster of clothes and loose hair. He laughed and turned her round to look, but kept his arms around her. He was loath to surrender the warmth of her and held her like a shield against cold memory. 

She was still, leaning back against him, only her head moving as she looked from one end of the cave to the other. It was barely eight feet long, but the far end was lost in shadow. She lifted her chin, seeing the soft black stains that coated the rock to one side by the entrance. 

“That’s where my fire was—when I dared have one.” His voice sounded strange, small and muffled, and he cleared his throat. 

“Where was your bed?” 

“Just there by your left foot.” 

“Did you sleep with your head at this end?” She tapped her foot on the graveled dirt of the floor. 

“Aye. I could see the stars, if the night was clear. I turned the other way if it rained.” She heard the smile in his voice and put her hand along his thigh, squeezing. 

“I hoped that,” she said, her own voice a little choked. “When we learned about the Dunbonnet, and the cave … I thought about you, alone here—and I hoped you could see the stars at night.” 

“I could,” he whispered, and bent his head to put his lips to her hair. The shawl she’d pulled over her head had slipped off, and her hair smelled of lemon balm and what she said was catmint. 

She made a small hmp noise in her throat and folded her own arms over his, warming him through his shirt. 

“I feel as though I’ve seen it before,” she said, sounding a little surprised. “Though I suppose one cave probably looks a good deal like any other cave, unless you have stalactites hanging from the ceiling or mammoths painted on the walls.” 

“I’ve never had a talent for decoration,” he said, and she hmp’ ed again, amused. “As for being here … ye’ve been here many nights wi’ me, Sassenach. You and the wee lass, both.” Though I didna ken then she was a lassie , he added silently, remembering with a small odd pang that now and then he had sat there on the flat rock by the entrance, imagining sometimes a daughter warm in his arms, but now and then feeling a tiny son on his knee and pointing out the stars to travel by, explaining to him how the hunting was done and the prayer ye must say when ye killed for food. 

But he’d told those things to Brianna later—and to Jem. The knowledge wouldn’t be lost.

- An Echo in the Bone

yellowfeather84  asked:

Shifted ficlet prompt: can we please have some Claire and Murtagh fluff. Maybe Claire helping Murtagh as he's getting older. Discussing their shared concern about Jamie or the bairns. Or even reminiscing about Paris and Murtagh escorting Claire to l'hopital everyday. Their relationship in the show is so close and caring that it would be wonderful to see more of that during happier times.

For the next few weeks I’ll be writing one-shots in the Shifted universe, filling in the blanks that we don’t see in the main story, before we resume the main action with Part 7 - The Visitor.

If there is a particular scene you’d like to see, send me an ask and I’ll see what I can do!

In Shifted, the premise is simple - what if Claire had gotten pregnant with Brianna a month or two earlier in the story, and she and Jamie had re-evaluated  their priorities and decided that the cause was lost, and they were able to slip away from the army and quietly return to Lallybroch?

Previous installments…

Interlude – The Injury

Lallybroch, Autumn 1756

Murtagh hissed as Claire splashed the wound with raw whisky, muttering several very filthy words in the *Gaidhlig*.

Three-year-old William Fraser gasped from the doorway of Claire’s surgery.

“Out!” Claire ordered, head still bent over the deep gash that had sliced the top of Murtagh’s hairy foot nearly to the bone, drawing the lantern a bit closer over the smooth wood of the table Jamie had made her.

“Ye heard yer Mam! Out!” Murtagh echoed weakly, gripping the sides of his chair, bobbing his uninjured leg up and down.

Jenny appeared in the doorway and softly swept William away to the kitchen.

Claire rose from her crouch and quickly crossed the room, taking her tray of needles and the earthenware jar of sutures – the long, delicate strands of catgut Murtagh himself had helped Jamie prepare (based on Claire’s instructions) not so long ago – from the cabinet Brian had made Ellen when Jamie and Jenny were small. As stubborn as the Fraser who had made it, the cabinet had seen many uses over the years – from Ellen’s dishes, to Jenny’s linens, and now Claire’s medicines.

“It’s a miracle you didn’t slice your bloody foot off.” Claire’s voice was even, methodical. From years of practice, Murtagh knew better than to crack a joke when she was like this. “Weren’t you watching what you were doing? And hasn’t it *ever* occurred to you that we’ve already got a number of able-bodied men on the estate who should be doing that kind of work? I daresay your reflexes aren’t as keen as they used to be – ”

“What will ye have me do, then? No’ help Jamie wi’ the harvest?” Murtagh shifted uncomfortably in his chair – keeping his injured foot steady – and glared at the chignon pinned at the back of Claire’s neck, watching her carefully thread the needle. “Ye ken that Ian canna do it. Young Jamie is still too small to do much in the fields. Fergus can help, aye, and so can Rabbie MacNab – but it’s no’ enough.”

“You can stay here in the house – God knows there are enough children running around to keep you busy.”

“So ye want me to be a *nursemaid* then? Hmm?” Were he able, he would have pounded a table in frustration. “Is that all I am, now? Is it no’ enough that my clan and plaid have all been taken away from me? I must give away my *manhood* as well?”

Claire carefully brought the fully prepared tray to her work table and set it down beside the lamp.

“You *know* that’s not what I mean.”

He felt her gaze burning on him – and defiantly matched it.

“What, then? I am getting auld, yes. But must ye remind me, Claire?”

“I want you to take care of yourself.” She paused, pursing her lips. “You – you can’t just do anything anymore. You *must* be more thoughtful. I’m not saying you don’t think – of course you do. But I certainly *don’t* want happening to you what befalls most men your age. Or what happened to Brian.”

Murtagh physically recoiled. “That was due to shock – ”

“Of course it was – but he *had* to have had an underlying condition. Farming is hard. I’ve come to appreciate that so, so much since I came to Lallybroch. And of *course* accidents happen.”

Now she turned to retrieve a needle, the suture trailing behind like a long, shiny trail of dew. Then took the lantern in her other hand, set it on the floor beside Murtagh’s foot, and knelt before him.

“I can’t lose you,” she said finally. “You’re the only father I’ve ever known. And if I have to keep you bloody locked up in this house to keep you safe from yourself, then damn it that’s what I’ll do. You’re too important to me – and to Jamie – and to the children – and to Jenny and Ian and bloody everyone else in this house.”

She splashed more raw whisky on his foot. This time he didn’t – couldn’t – flinch.

“This gash is just an inch from your anterior tibial artery. Had that artery been severed, you would have lost an incredible amount of blood. And I wouldn’t be patching you up – I’d be amputating your foot. And where would that leave you?”

As gently as she could, she inserted the needle and made her first suture.

“I – suppose – wi’out a leg – to stand on,” he hissed.

Claire lay her left hand on the back of his ankle, bracing the foot to help with the stitches. Her face was still turned away from him – but he watched her shoulders shake in a silent laugh.

“Ye ken I’d never purposely put myself in harm’s way. I *do* always have ye and yer wee family on my mind.”

Claire pulled another suture through the two sides of the wound. “I know that. And I appreciate that. I should tell you more.”

“No need, lass. I ken it, and ye ken it, and yer husband kens it. That’s all that matters.”

She worked in silence then, pausing to collect the other suture she had prepared – but not before pouring the rest of her raw whisky in a beaker and handing it to her patient.

“Here – this should take the edge off.”

Murtagh sniffed the glass, then inhaled deeply. “Aye. It’s better than when we first made it – but it’s still enough to knock ye flat on yer back if ye’re no’ careful.”

Claire pressed the sides of the wound closer together. “So, will you be a bit more careful from now on? For me?”

He took a swig, exhaled, and then belched.

“Aye. Ye ken I’d do anything for ye, Claire.”

She nodded absently.

“Hey.” Now he nudged her side with the toe of his good foot. “That’s no’ the drink talking. That’s crabby old *me* talking. Aye?”

“Aye,” she echoed. “You’ve proved that often enough.”

Two more minutes, and then it was all done.

And Murtagh’s whisky was all gone. He handed the empty glass to Claire with a smile so wide that it reminded Claire of the Cheshire Cat illustrations in the book Uncle Lamb had given her for Christmas one year.

“Ye do mind me of Ellen, now and again.” He tilted his head, studying her as if with new eyes. “Foul mouth. Kind heart. Staggering to look at. And a heart so beautifully full of love that she doesna ken what to do wi’ it all.”

Claire flushed. They hadn’t spoken of Ellen since that night in the cave on the beach – a lifetime ago.

“So why would I no’ pledge myself to yer service? Why would I no’ heed every word ye say, Claire?”

Clearly he was waiting for an answer. All she could do was lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and kiss his sweaty brow.

“I’ll be right back, all right? Let’s get you settled in to bed upstairs. You’ll feel much better in the morning.”

And when she returned with Jamie, who helped his godfather stand up and offered his shoulders for support to walk out of the room and up the stairs, Murtagh blessed Claire with another beatific smile.

“More whisky?”

“Now?” Jamie’s brows rose skeptically. “Ye smell like the still house – God kens why Claire thought *that* was a good way to fix yer foot.”

“First bed. Then we can talk about more whisky.”

Then Murtagh FitzGibbons Fraser blew her a kiss, and for once in her life Claire Beauchamp Fraser was at a total loss for words.

Unadulterated Crack Part 1

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

warning: None yet…I think? 

word count: 3,337 

Author’s note: This is unedited for the most part…I have no idea what I’m doing btw.  It’s based of several imagines, but I don’t know how to like, site those yet. Also this is this is only part of the whole fic, I didn’t think anyone would like to read a 45,000+ word fic in one go. Also the is just a working title ….uhh so here *slides fic cross table and runs away*

Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4Part 5Part 6Part 7Part 8

Originally posted by tinysofia

   The company chatted away, waiting for Bilbo to regain consciousness,when they heard a horse scream and the thundering of hooves. Everyone fell silent, Bag End practically vibrated with each hoof beat. Gandalf grumbled, “About time they got here,” getting up and going to the door.

     Thorin demanded, “Who got here? What is coming?” Closely following the old wizard to the door.

     Gandalf rolled his eyes, and groaned, “The other company member, they probably ran into trouble on their way here.” As he opened the door.    Moments later a monstrous black draft horse with a rider in a black hooded cloak came thundering up to the front of Bilbo’s house. Thorin felt rather intimidated for his head was level with the center of it chest. The beast reeled up on its hind legs and let out an ear piercing scream. The rider yelled, “Whoa there Wilhelm!” as they pulled on the reins in attempts to get the horse under control. It took a minute to achieve, but ‘Wilhelm’ eventually settled down. Gandalf hollered, “That beast of your’s is going to get you killed.”

    The rider looked down at Gandalf, shrugged, and started to stroke the beast’s neck. Gandalf sighed, “Tie him up and come inside." 

     Thorin caught sight of the rider’s hand in the moonlight, the skin was fair and smooth. A woman of the race of men, or an elf? Since he couldn’t see their face due to the hood, he decided, based off the rider’s height, that they were a male elf. Thorin barked, "I will not travel with an elf!”     The rider cocked their head, and a smooth voice purred, “Oh really?” giving Thorin the shivers. It was a female, she was tall for a she-elf. By her voice alone Thorin wanted nothing more then to hold her, and never let go. It made him uneasy.   

    Thorin said, “You’d get hurt, and drag us down.”

   The rider sighed, “I’m not an elf, Thorin.”     “I find that very hard to believe.” Thorin snorted.

    The 'she-elf’ pulled down her hood revealing a head of wild and vivid bright blue and purple hair. She smirked, and chuckled, “Believe me now?" 

   Thorin and the rest of the dwarves stood there in awe of her hair. Thorin was the most effected, her hair was his favorite shade of blue. Gandalf growled, "Hurry up woman.” Thorin wanted nothing more then to braid her hair over and over and over again. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her, she turned her attention to the old wizard and nodded her head. She gracefully dismounted the horse, and took his reins, and led her horse into the gate.  

    She pulled Wilhelm’s head down to her level and said, “don’t go on that hill,” pointing at Bilbo’s house, “and help yourself to his garden.” Before walking over to the group gawking at her by the door. Gandalf noticed their staring and snapped, “Get back inside you fools!”

Keep reading

Flood my Mornings: Round and Round

anon said:

I would love to see Jamie at a like carnival or fair and Claire introducing him to all those weird foods in FMM! What would he think of cotton candy or a funnel cake?

Notes from Mod Bonnie

  • This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.
  • Previous installment:  Unimaginable (Jamie and Claire pick a name for the wee bun in the oven)

May, 1951 


I thought the last word was likely, ‘God,’ but it was anybody’s guess, really, drowned out as it was by yet another bout of vomiting and the sudden blast of music from a nearby loudspeaker. 

“Oh, love…That bad, is it?” My tender, spousal concern was acknowledged only with a string of Gaelic curses, surprisingly creative ones for a man so laid low.

It was a gorgeous hot day (bright enough that I was grateful for my broad hat), but it did make the scent of vomit that much more inescapable. The county fair had come to town, and with both of us having the rare treat of being off on a Saturday, we’d decided to make a family outing of it.  Though it was hardly a grand exposition, both Jamie and I felt giddy as Bree strolling around amidst all the merriment, taking in the exhibits, music, livestock, food, and rides…including a deceptively innocent-looking Merry-go-Round. 

“It was so good of you to try it for Bree’s sake, love.” I rubbed Jamie’s back, trying my level best not to laugh at the way his hunched back seemed to have lost all its vertebrae. “Is there anything I can get you to make you feel a bit better?”

He raised his head a fraction from the garbage can, high enough only to glare at me. “How about a trip through the stones to ten minutes ago so I might choose to SPIT on the fool contraption instead of ride it?”

“Not sure that’s quite how it works, my love,” I whispered, laughing and kissing his shoulder. 

“Daddy? Da!? DA!?!” Bree chirped from below. “Can we go—go an’ do the round’n’round again??”

Jamie looked down at our two-(no, two-and-a-half-and-then-some!)-year-old. “Do ye want to send your poor Da to his death?”

“Doesna—doesna’nt go to DEFF, Daddy,” Bree laughed as if he were being hilariously obtuse, “Goes ‘round and ‘ROUND.”

So I noticed,” he groaned, hunching once more over the garbage can and spitting.

“Okay, lessgo DO it!!!” and she was tearing off back toward the Merry-Go-Round. 

“Ohhhh, no-you-don’t, little monster,” I said, swooping her up into my arms before she scuttled off. My sunglasses slipped to the tip of my nose, but I couldn’t immediately get them back up. Between the heat, the sudden movement, Bree now like a boulder on my hip, a heavy handbag banging against the other, and my back abso-bloody-lutely killing me from toting around a seven-months-grown-human in utero, I suddenly felt woozy and completely spent. “Here, lovey,” I panted, trying to keep from toppling over, “Can you help push Mum’s glasses up? Yes, just—There we go, thank you, sweetheart.” 

“Melcome!” she chirped and gave me a wet kiss on the mouth. 

I mmm’ed happily and kissed her cheeks as we swayed together next to Jamie. “Was the ride fun for you, at least, baby?”

"Uh-HUH, s’was BUNCH fun!”

“Hear that, darling? ‘Bunch’ fun.” 

From the plastic depths, I thought I heard him name a few other choice things it was ‘bunch’ of.

I did feel for Jamie. We should have known it would be no better than a boat for motion-sickness, and he’d spared ME from having to ride the thing, after all (though truth be told, I quite liked such exhilarations when not pregnant). But I was ALREADY shaking with silent mirth imagining the photos I’d snapped, all laid out in the cherished family album. The first few would show a sweet and lively scene: Jamie smiling cheerfully, standing with his hand on Bree’s back, she triumphantly mounted on her plastic chestnut steed waiting for the ride to start… and then would follow the play-by-play of the situation’s rapid deterioration, every revolution of the Merry-Go-Round showing a Jamie still more pale and hunched and desperate, until—Well, that LAST one was a blackmail goldmine for the ages.

“Daddy?” Bree asked suddenly, her face scrunched up as she peered at her father. “You mad’it Mama?”

That got Jamie’s attention and he straightened. “Mad at her?”

“All…” She waved her hand. “…mean.”

His eyes softened and they flicked up to me, verifying that I wasn’t in fact upset. “No, I’m no’ cross at either of ye, a leannan,” he promised her. “The ride on the Merry’round just made my wame all wobbly, such that I forgot my manners.” 

I bounced Bree on my hip. “I bet sometimes you feel a bit grumpy when your tummy hurts, too, right?”

“Oh, aye,” she conceded, a flash of pure Scottishness beaming through, as it did from time to time. She leaned over and gave Jamie’s elbow a clumsy pat. “Sorry for y’r tummy hurted.” 

“That’s verra kind of ye to say, mo chridhe.” 

“Havva snack, w’feel ALL bedder, okay?”

“…Suggests the young miss with NO motive of her own,” I said, nuzzling my nose against hers.

“Oh, definitely not,” Jamie agreed soberly, eyes twinkling. He stretched, replaced his hat, and exhaled, then gave a small ha! of surprise. “I will say, Bree-love, a wee bite does sound just the thing.” 

Good, let’s HAVV’it.” 

“If there had been ANY doubt about your parentage, Bree, that bottomless pit of a stomach would have been proof-positive.” I sighed. “Alright, you two, let’s see what we can rustle up. Here, Jamie, will you—?” I honestly felt like I was going to fall over.  

Jamie obligingly plucked her out of my arms. “Jesus, lass,” he said with an exaggerated groan, “but you’re getting big.”

“Nuh-uh, Da, I’m the little.”

“Aye, you’re still the little, for now,” he agreed, tenderly tucking her hair behind her ears, “Before long you willna be the littlest, though.

She nodded, sagely. “When Beeyin’s comin.’

“Aye, cub,” he agreed, grinning at me, “when Baby Ian comes.”

Brianna couldn’t be convinced for anything that just ‘Ian’ would do, and insisted each time on referring to her brother by what she considered his full title: Baby Ian. The only problem with this was that she couldn’t seem to manage all the syllables in a row; hence, “Beeyin”; hence as well, many private family jokes, such as equating him to a wee bean; or when the wee lad would start jouncing me about like a racehorse, Jamie cocking his head to the side and asking, ‘Beeyin your bonnet?’, and other such delightful silliness. 

“Alright, let’s see about some chow. You two stay here,” I indicated a nearby shaded picnic table, “and I’ll see what I can scrounge for us. What kind of snack do you want, Bree?”

She screwed up her face in ferocious concentration before saying definitely, “Som’fin GOOD.” 

“Well, thank you for being so specific. Very helpful, I don’t think. Any preferences?” I asked Jamie.

Som'fin good sounds perfect,” he said with an attempt at a wink. 

“Ooooooooo!” Bree squealed a few minutes later when I returned with the goodies.

“Cotton candy,” I explained, carefully passing Jamie the paper cone supporting the precarious pink cloud. 

“Cotton?” he asked dubiously. “And it’s edible?”

“Just spun sugar,” I said with a grin. “Now, Bree, take your fingers and—No-no, just pinch a little off with your—oh—Oh, well.”

Bree had stuck her entire face into the sticky mass and taken a monumental bite, pulling back with wisps of pink in her eyebrows, enraptured. 

Jamie looked skeptical to the extreme. “Does it taste nice, cub?”

“Uh-huh!” Bree clawed out a fistful of fluff and shoved it upward toward Jamie’s mouth. “TASTE!” 

Jamie gave me a preemptive grimace and took a tentative bite. “Holy Moses,” he said, blinking hard and shuddering as he swallowed. “It’s like pouring the whole sugar bowl direct into my mouth.” 

“It’s GOOD,” Bree insisted, chowing down with relish. 

“None so verra filling, I’d wager, but as long as ye like rotting your teeth out—” 

“Here,” I laughed, “I came prepared with other options as well.” I pulled the next item from the bag. “Care for some Elephant Ear? Just a silly name, I promise,” I said hastily, seeing his alarm. “No pachyderms harmed in the making of this treat.” 

“What is it, then?” he asked, peering around Bree’s head. “Pastry?” 

“Try it while there’s trying to be had,” I said, handing it to him. “I’m eating for two, and we fully intend to eat our way through the entire elephant.” 

He did enjoy the fried dough, going back for several huge bites, licking powdered sugar from his fingertips. “Lord, though I dinna ken if I can manage wi’ any more sweeties.” 

“Alright, let’s see how you manage this.” 

Jamie had probably never had American corn in any form before, I reflected, let alone on the original cob. I certainly hadn’t grown up eating it, and so it didn’t occur to me to buy it at the market. From the gusto with which Jamie inhaled the roasted ear, slathered with butter and spices, though, it was going to have to become a regular staple. 

“No foolish name for this one?” he asked as he was finishing the last few bites. 

“Not as far as I know,” I shrugged, trying to wipe Bree’s face, which was an unmitigated disaster-zone.

"Pity. Missed a good chance.” 


He waved the naked cob suggestively. “Corn on the co….” And the barest-whisper of “…ck.”

“You’re a ridiculous human being,” I murmured, leaning in to kiss him. 

“And you are absolutely lovely,” he murmured back against my lips, squeezing my knee. 

“C’n I havva cornna-cock, too?” 

A bride of astonishing beauty.

Jamie stood at the head of the table and looked down the length of it, from face to face. On either side of the old oak surface people were smiling and most eyes were on him. He cleared his throat and ran his thumb along the smooth rim of his wineglass. He was vaguely aware the he was being introduced but time seemed to slow for Jamie and he closed his eyes letting the swirl of images parade before his eyelids.

The sight of her tiny hand, clasping his thumb so tightly that it gave him strength to believe in what may be possible.

Small feet, padding across the lairds chamber, her eyes slanted even more than normal with the effort of concentration and the solid weight of her against his chest as she finally reached close enough to pitch forward into his arms with a satisfied grunt.

Trying to wrestle her wild, curly hair into a plait before church, judiciously ignoring the muttered string of impolite Gaelic each time he tugged too hard, her wee snub of a nose wrinkled in disdain for the activity in an exact imitation of her mother.

Sitting her on his knee, so many, many times and occasionally threatening to turn her over it when her tongue got away from her, though very seldom ever following through with the threat because she was his ‘wee nighean donn’ and her smile could calm his temper in an instant.

The first time she bested him at chess and the last time she asked him what a word meant in a book she was reading.

The way his world centred on hearing her say ‘Da!’ on the same day she mastered ‘Mama’.

His pride and joy. His Faith.

“Jamie …?”

He opened his eyes and blinked. Claire was looking up at him, eyebrows raised in expectation.

“Aye … Aye of course.”

He stood and looked down the table once more, at the bride seated next to her new groom, both radiating happiness.

“I ken ye are all waiting on the festivities of the evening, and I willna take much of your time. Rabbie, ye have been a member of this family for many years already but today we welcome ye officially as our son-in-law and it is my great joy to do so.”

Clapping and a cheer from Jenny as Rabbie ducked his head, beaming and blushing lightly.

“And to my eldest daughter, Faith … ye made me a father and I am so verra, verra proud of the fine young woman you have become. I see so much of your mother in you, and I can pay ye no greater compliment than that.”

Jamie paused and cleared his throat again as Claire squeezed his hand, her eyes as damp as his. For a moment he was lost, unsure of how he could ever say all that he felt should be said, to his wife or to his wee lass. His eyes rested on the curve of Claire’s cheek, the sweet bow of her lips and the gentle swell of her earlobes – all of them echoed on their daughter who was the image of her mother, but with slanted, blue eyes and a knife edge nose. And just like that, Jamie knew what to say, as he had known it twenty-three years previously.

He lifted his glass and drew a breath

“If ye will all please join me in a toast: To a lady of grace, a woman of strength and a bride of astonishing beauty, my daughter, Faith McNab.”

Two Sugars, Extra Cream

Hello, lovelies! 

I do not expect chapter 2 of Bid Ye Soft Farewell to be up until next week (My SO is in town and I haven’t seen him in a while). SO, I’ve created this silly little ficlet in the meantime. Kind of crazy, kind of out of character. But I had a hell of a good time writing it! Hope you enjoy!

Caramel-Nut Latte, extra hot. Okay, 2 pumps caramel, 3 pumps hazelnut. 2 shots of espresso. Steam milk for extra 20 seconds and a caramel drizzle on top…

Beautiful, Beauchamp. You’re a goddamn coffee wizard.

“Caramel-Nut Latte for Duncan!”

I had been working for Mrs. Fitz for nearly a year at this point while putting myself through school. Though I loved the work that I did at university, there was always something so comforting and homey about the café. Perhaps it was the mismatched green walls, the exposed brick. Perhaps it was the baubles thrown haphazardly on the shelves, or the odd paintings Mrs. Fitz liked to pick up at second-hand shops. (The one with the chimpanzee queen was my favorite). Perhaps it was just the constant smell of coffee that reminded me of my Uncle Lamb– God rest his soul. It was an odd little place, but it was mine. I belonged here.

As if conjured by my own thoughts, I heard the tell-tale backfire of Mrs. Fitz’s ridiculously old car.  She really needed to upgrade.

“Ooooh, Claire, lass! Come help me with the milk! I heard we were runnin’ low, so I bought three crates full!!” Mrs. Fitz was terribly excited about that milk. I, however, did not share in that joy. I knew “helping” in this case meant “carry them all in for me.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Fitz,” I saluted her before going into the trenches. Or the trunk of her car. They looked similar at any rate.

She was making herself a latte when I walked back in with the third crate of milk.

“Mrs. Fitz! I’m utterly shocked that you would waste company products for your own use!” I placed my hand over my heart dramatically.

“Ach. I bought the stuff. I’ll do wi’ it what I please.” And with that she took a sip, smiling the whole time. Should I tell her she had foam on her lip? “Help yourself? I need to speak wi’ ye for a moment.” I waved her off.

“I’m all right. What’s going on?”

“My nephew is moving back into town, and he was needin’ a job. I told him he could work here. Could ye train him a bit? Show him how everything works?”

“Mrs. Fitz…” I was feeling extra dramatic today.

“Claire, dinna…”

“I am appalled that you would use your position as owner and operator of this establishment to hire those you are close to. Where is the democracy?”

“Tis no a democracy. Tis a dictatorship.” Mrs. Fitz was the great-auntie I never knew I wanted. I couldn’t help but laugh at her wit.

“Of, course I’ll help. When is he coming?”

“This Saturday, he’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here. Oh, and Mrs. Fitz?”


“You’ve got some foam on your lip.”


Saturday mornings were slow mornings. No one had to be at work. Well, besides me, I suppose.

I was leaning against the counter when the overhead door bell jingled. Perk up, Beauchamp. Don’t look like a slacker.

“First customer of the day! Congrats! What can I get for you?” I looked up at the man. I mean, really up. Could a man really be that tall, or were two kids pulling a Little Rascals on me? He leaned down, elbows on the counter. Now, I could really see him. Red curls. Blue eyes. Freckled nose. Was he made out of marble? I had never seen features so sharp.

“Are ye Claire?” His voice was like the honey I put in my Darjeeling.

“Yes, I am. Who wants to know?”

“I do. I’m Jamie. Mrs. Fitz is my great-auntie. She said ye’d be helping me? Learn, I mean.”

“OH! Of course! I’m sorry. Come in, come in,” I said as I lifted the flip-counter. He ducked under my arm to get through. “Sorry, that was a bit awkward. You could have lifted it yourself.”

“Aye, it’s all right. I appreciate the chivalry, madam.” He drew out the word ‘madam’ as long as he could. I bowed in return. He chuckled. We were off to a good start, here.

“So, Jamie what to you know about coffee?” His cat-eyes went totally round at the question.

“Well, ye drink it.”

“Mmhmm. And have you ever made coffee before?” I was skeptical that he had even heard the word coffee before today.

“Aye! I make it every day in my Bunn coffeemaker.”

“Bunns are for shmucks. This is the big league. Can you handle it?” He faked a look of concern before turning his attention back on me.

“Aye, I think so.” He nodded as if trying to convince himself.

“Can you take the heat?!” I was starting to sound like a coach, and he, my star player.


“All right! Let’s start with espresso, shall we?”


“So, you’ve grinded the espresso beans. Now what?”

“I put it in the machine…”

“No, no! You’re missing a step!”

“I tamp it!”

“Yes!” Jamie was a quick learner, his brain absorbing the things I said and did. Like a big ole ginger sponge. “You’re really getting the hang of it, especially for someone who didn’t even know what a tamper was when he woke up this morning.”

“It looks a bit like a weapon.” He rolled the bell shaped instrument in his hands.

“Perhaps to people with violent tendencies,” I said, giving him a pointed look. He just rolled his eyes. “How about you try to make yourself a latte or cappuccino?”

“Nay. I dinna drink lattes,” he answered distractedly, still playing with the tamper.

“Have you ever tried one?”

“No. I’m a simple man. Dark roast. Two sugars. Extra cream. These other drinks, they’re much too fancy for me.”

“Oh, Jamie,” I whined. “Be adventurous. Live a little!”

“Aye! All right! If it’ll get ye to stop squealing like a wee hog!”

“Did you just call me a hog?” I should be offended shouldn’t I?

“No, I said ye were like a hog. Big difference.” Yeah, definitely offended.

“Oh, well. Of course. Huge difference.”

“Oh, come, Sassenach. I was only teasing ye.” Oh, no, Mr. Fraser. You would not get off that easily.

“I know,” I mustered to most dejected voice. “No, big deal, right?” Could I fake cry right now? That would be the icing on this revenge cake.

“Claire, lass. Truly. I dinna mean it. Ye’re no like a hog. Ye ken that right?” God, that sincerity was killing me. I’d have to put him out of his misery…

“Oh, I know,” I perked up with a huge smile on my face. I’m pretty sure I was showing top and bottom teeth. Realization cam over his face.

“You wee-“


“Ye’ll pay for that. Make no mistake.”

“Bring it on, Fraser,” I crooked my fingers at him, and then quickly let them fall. “Later. We have a task to accomplish.”

“Which would be…?”

“You. Drinking some frilly, fancy coffee you wouldn’t have otherwise.”



               I decided to make Jamie my favorite specialty latte. 1 pump chocolate. 2 pumps almond. 2 pumps coconut. 3 shots of espresso. Extra hot. Whipped cream and chocolate drizzle. I handed it to him hesitantly.

“What did ye put in this potion?”

“Just drink it, Ron Weasley.”

He took a small sip, smacking his lips a bit and licking cream off his mouth. That motion was a bit distracting.

“So…?” He contemplated for a second, eyes studying the ceiling.

“Weel, tis a bit sweeter than I like…”


“But, it’s no bad. Well done, Sassenach.” I blushed prettily and batted my lashes.

“They do say I make the best coffee in town.” This wasn’t a lie. Some people did say that.

“Do they now? Well, I’m glad I was adventurous and tried one of your frilly lattes.”

“Good.” We sat in silence for a few moments, as customers milled around. He was sipping coffee. I was day dreaming about that argument I had with a customer last month… What an arse.

“Claire.” Jamie broke me from my reverie.  

“Jamie,” I answered just as formally.

“Since I’m being daring, I’d like to ask ye a question.”

“Um, sure.” Weird, but okay. He took a deep breath.

“Would ye like to go to dinner wi’ me sometime?” That was definitely not the question I was expecting. I was thinking more along the lines of ‘Not to be rude, but why does your hair look like that?’ or ‘Can you help me bury a body?’

“I’m sorry?”

“Dinner. Wi’ me. Tonight, possibly?”

“I wasn’t expecting that, but yes. Jamie, I would love to have dinner with you.” I pleasant surprise, that was.

“Aye? Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Thank God. That could have been embarrassing. Is 7 okay?”

“7 sound perfect.” Jamie Fraser, prepare to get the pants charmed off of you.

Hopefully literally.

If Jamie and Claire (and Murtagh) could text: 1x01 edition
  • Jamie: SHIT
  • Jamie: SHIT
  • Jamie: SHIT
  • Murtagh: ?
  • Jamie: H E L P
  • Murtagh: y kn I dna lke txtn
  • Murtagh: hard t tap wee bttns in dark on horse
  • Jamie: but
  • Jamie: EMERGENCY
  • Jamie: you're my godfather yere supposed to COUNSEL ME
  • Muragh: mmph
  • Murtagh: what's th prblm thn
  • Jamie: mistress beauchamp
  • Jamie: the brownhaired lass
  • Murtagh: ye mn the one in frnt of ye on yr horse
  • Jamie: yes the one that fixed my shoulder
  • Jamie: the one you found in the woods
  • Jamie: the one in her shift
  • Murtagh: takin the piss wee gomrl
  • Murtagh: theres only one lass ye could be talkin abt
  • Jamie: o aye
  • Jamie: course
  • Jamie: sry
  • Jamie: verra distraught rn
  • Murtagh: whts th prblm wi hr?
  • Murtagh: hehe
  • Murtagh: ... its only bn 6 hrs lad
  • Jamie: but did ye no see
  • Jamie: how MEAN
  • Jamie: and VULGAR the fierce wee thing was??
  • Jamie: DEAR 👏 HOLY 👏 GOD 😍
  • Murtagh: ...
  • Murtagh: strnge taste lad
  • Murtagh: chrst dinna do that
  • Murtagh: have u fevr from th wound already
  • Murtagh: hld on ...
  • Murtagh: howre you holdin the lass
  • Murtagh: and steerin th horse
  • Murtagh: ANd txtn
  • Murtagh: wi ur arm strapped to yr side ?
  • Jamie: phone in sling hand
  • Murtagh: th lass'll give ye a right toungelashin if ye open yr wound bck up from movin it about
  • Jamie: O christ i hope so
  • Jamie: when she got all ferocious wi me when i fell off th horse
  • Jamie: 😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍
  • Murtagh: she no marrit?
  • Jamie: .........
  • Jamie: W
  • Jamie: HHH
  • Jamie: AAAAAA
  • Jamie: TTTTTTTTT ?????
  • Jamie: NO NO NO
  • Jamie: SHES **WIDOWED*
  • Murtagh: she said smthn bout a hsbnd tho
  • Murtagh: has a rng on aye?
  • Jamie: 😩😱😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
  • Murtagh: jesus get agrip on yrsel
  • Jamie: id made so many plans in my mind
  • Murtagh: itll pass
  • Jamie: NO
Additions to the Family

“Do you ever follow directions?”

“My hobby is making fun of you when you talk.”

for @sam-samcro with Chibs  (I added a smidge of Juice because I know you don’t care :) )

Originally posted by outlaws-and-anarchy

“Jesus Christ.  Do ya ever follow directions, lass?”  Chibs groaned and looked at the two new dogs sitting in front of his feet.  Their greying faces already gave away to Chibs why you came home with them, never having a young dog in the house.

“Do ya ever follow directions?  Listen to me laddy.  great scot!”  You mocked back.  The Saint Bernard laid it’s gigantic head on your lap as you cooed down at him.

“Juice won’t be able to walk in this house again.  He already has issues with your cleaning techniques.  Do you know how much slobber these things produce?”  Chibs narrowed his eyes at the furball already tumbling around on the floor.  Chibs rubbed a hand down his face and groaned louder, “shite.”

“Juice loves dogs.  Your bromance will have never been stronger.  Besides, your directions were unclear anyway.”  You flicked your hand behind you as you followed the Alaskan Malamute down the hallway.  Your face brightened as he started whining which turned into the famous talking you always wanted in the house.

“I said you can adopt one small dog.  We already have three!”  Chibs yelled behind you.

“And would you have said no to these two cuties?  They had to go together and they were at a high kill shelter.”  You said.  You entered the living room where your yellow lab, 8 year old Tim, was on the couch while the basset hound, Bruce at 9 years old, was laying on his bed next to it.  Lilo, the pitbull who was also the oldest at 16 years old, quickly got up from her spot on the floor and came to your feet.

“I believe I would have walked past them and gone for a small dog.”  Chibs groaned from his spot resting on the wall.

“I believe I would have gone for a small dog, blah blah lass and laddy.”  You stuck your tongue out at Chibs who raised an eyebrow at you.

“Do you find that necessary?”  Chibs asked.

My hobby is making fun of you when you talk.”  You smiled at him as he sighed and shook his head.  He stuffed a cigarette in between his lips and pulled out his lighter right before you snapped your fingers at him.  “No smoking in front of the dogs.”  You giggled when you saw him start to smirk.

“What, I’m becoming a bad influence on the wee ones?”  Chibs spoke around the cigarette.

“Yes.”  You replied and laughed at his eyes rolling.

“What are their names?”  Chibs tilted his head while he looked at the two new additions to the family.

“Tobias,” you pointed at the Saint Bernard, “and Theoden,” you pointed at the Alaskan Malamute.

One night later you came home from work and saw Chibs and Juice with a beer in their hand.  Tobias was laying on Juice’s lap with his shirt streaked in slobber and Chibs had his hand buried in the fur of Theoden.

anonymous asked:

This one goes either for Modern Glasgow or FMM- Claire talking Faith/Brianna about their future sibling.

Flood my Mornings:  All Fat

Notes from Mod Bonnie:

  • This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.

February 1, 1951


“Yes, lovey?” I said absently, absorbed in making careful notes on my genetics chapter for the evening.

“Come’s-yr belly’s all fat?”

My punnett square became a punnett scratch as I spluttered out a laugh. I turned from the rolltop, beaming through my mock indignation. “Are you calling your Mummy ‘fat’?” 

“Uh huh!” Bree said from beside the desk as she eyed the item in question with a sort of reverent disgust. I turned toward the sofa to share a look with Jamie that was at first only a fond grin but then an identical, mutual question. 

At just past fourteen weeks (in the second trimester at last!), I WAS sporting a very noticeable bump. We’d told Penelope and our work friends, drinking in the joy and congratulations, but we’d not managed to find the right way or time to explain it to our daughter. 

My biggest worry was that Brianna might not yet be old enough to understand the concept of pregnancy in any real way. We’d talked about a number of possibilities by way of illustration. Jamie, for instance, had been in favor of having her think back to the time she met that pregnant horse back in October; but then, I’d objected, would she think there was a baby HORSE growing inside me??

There was also the less nightmarish concern of sibling jealousy. Bree had been the indisputable center of adult attention her entire life, nor was she shy over speaking up when she found her audience’s devotion to be lacking. How might she react to the news that an unbidden interloper was soon to come and take a half-share of her spotlight? 

“How come’s, Mama?” Bree demanded again, poking my belly with an insistent finger. 

Jamie gave a game sort of shrug and a tentative, eager smile, which I gave him back as I felt the excitement of the impending newsflash.

“Come over here, sweetheart,” I bade her, walking over to sit beside Jamie on the sofa, muttering a rueful, “…fat, indeed…” 

“Plump and sweet as a wee dumpling,” Jamie whispered with a grin, pulling me close and nuzzling kisses around my ear. 

 “What, Mama?” my little gymnast insisted, swinging both legs between my knees, braced on her hands. 

“Well, sweetie…”I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “My belly is bigger,” I said slowly, squeezing Jamie’s hand, “because there’s a baby growing inside.

She halted her swinging at once, stared at me blankly for a moment, then wrinkled up her face with an oh-so-eloquent, “Huh?”

Oh, boy. 

“Remember how we talked about that you were once a tiny baby in Mum’s tummy?”


“Well…” I said, placing her hand against my belly, “now, there’s a new baby in Mum’s tummy.”

She looked from my face, to Jamie’s, to the belly, and back. “IN there?”

“That’s right!”

“But…” She scrunched up her face in disbelief, “…why??”

Jamie and I both snorted a laugh, but Jamie came in for the assist. “Bree, a chuisle, it means you’re going to have a wee brother or sister.

Her face changed in an instant. “For REALLY??”

“Aye, lass,“ he laughed, “for really.”

She put both hands on her cheeks and whispered, “ohmygosh.” And after that, she just went pink and wordless.

I nudged her with my knee. “Well? Are you happy about the new baby, Bree?”

In answer, she clambered up between us and curled her arms around the bump in a clumsy hug.

“Ohhh, lovey-dove,” I half-laughed and half choked out, “that makes…that makes me the happy one.”  

“Now, the bairn has to grow and sleep in Mama’s belly for a long time,” Jamie said suddenly, a few steps ahead and deftly preventing a possible meltdown, “but before your next birthday, God willing, we’ll have the new bairn wi’ us.”

“I c’n have your—my’birdday NOW, Daddy!” she offered enthusiastically, popping up her head with eyes wild with glee.

“Nay, mo chridhe. Your wee brother or sister is too small to be born, yet. We have to wait together for the proper time, aye?”

Bree nodded soberly and settled back against me, whispering, “Brumthersissser… stay'sleep, m'okay?”

We laughed, and I began to wipe away tears, absolutely blown away by Bree’s tenderness toward her promised sibling…until she glared up at us with a reproachful, spitty SHHHHHH. “Dinna wake ‘um UP!”

Jamie curled his arms around us all and kissed Bree to soothe her ire. “Wouldna dream of it, wee cub. We’ll all be quiet so the bairnie can sleep.” 

“Yeah, quiiiiet…” Bree whispered, sounding thrilled with her new responsibility as baby advocate.

Jamie laid his head on my shoulder, warm, and heavy and him. He squeezed me tight. I love you.

I felt moisture seep from my cheek into his hair as I leaned against him. I love you, too.