Archives for the Date October 17th, 2018

I don’t think anyone is stupid or delusional. But I also don’t think sam & cait are lying. I think they bonded in a way none of us will ever understand & I think what they have is unique & special. But it’s not for me or you or any fan to tell them how to act. I wouldn’t want them to stop, I find enjoyment in them. Their real life doesn’t effect any of us. So I’m here for the fun. IMO, we need to step back & stop accusing them of being bad people based on a belief that may not be true

Eh I think that’s easy for you to say when you’re not someone who is targeted for their beliefs and has to fight for their right to fan over and over again. Thanks for your input though, I guess. 

thattboyisamonster: Lady Gaga and Charlize Theron attending…

thattboyisamonster:

Lady Gaga and Charlize Theron attending the 25th Annual Elle Women in Hollywood Celebration tonight.

I seriously wish that the aretheyarentthey/triangeldrama PR narrative would stop. It’s old fashioned and quite frankly boring.

You know what the crazy thing is?

image

Technically speaking, the question of are they or are they not together is not relevant. They have both officially denied it several times, by voice and also in written interviews. Not to mention Cait’s engagement. So the debate should be closed for everyone. 

Yet, the mass does not need the media to feed a narrative. People go by what they see and know. It’s not only a few fans on Tumblr – People don’t think SC are together because of a pushed narrative, they think so because of actions and words coming from SC themselves. The crowd is too big to be shut down by an article. And I don’t think that is fans fault. It’s a sign of a much bigger and complex situation.

So all that to say, knowing how SC can act, I don’t think it will ever stop.

What do you think about Cait’s new interview? She talked about her engagement and wedding plans, at last. She also showed up last night Elle event with TM. I can’t with her and the “magic ring”. 🙄

Oh anon, you should know better than to pretend to be a worried shipper in the middle of a tight playoff game.  As my favorite phrase goes, straighten your slip-your agenda is showing.

The latest interview in yet another Irish rag that was a combination of outright false statements and stuff that’s been published already with just a few changes to verb tense?  That interview?  The one where she still doesn’t have time to even think about a wedding?  I read that with the voice of an adult in a Charlie Brown cartoon in my head.

I’ve seen no indication that she attended with anyone else last night.  Although that would be the type of working event where she might need crowd control.  How late does the sun stay up in LA in October? 

The ring isn’t going anywhere right now.  I don’t know why anyone would expect otherwise.

Run along now, anon.

lampfaced: gokuma: blackqueerblog: People helping people….

lampfaced:

gokuma:

blackqueerblog:

People helping people. That’s all this world should be about cuz all we got is each other. Love seeing this kindness from big companies. Needs to happen more often in corporate America. 

Okay but what company is that? We should support businesses doing good things

Found them! https://www.magnaready.com/

They do an entire clothing line, so it’s not just shirts they offer. 

Hi! Will there be something new from HRH soon? I’m dying to know what Claire will do with Frank. Thank you 😘😘

Many thanks to @notevenjokingfic for walking through the bits of this that needed some help. She’s held my hand through some insecurity on this part and I appreciate her oh-so-much. xx.


Previously:

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations | Part VII: Magnolias | Part VIII: Schoolmates

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)
Part IX: A Queen’s Speech

It was tradition.
Upon arriving in Scotland, there was to be a cocktail hour followed by a
dinner where Claire (as Queen) would
speak before the first course was served. The room would be filled with
important people, naturally –– politicians and their wives, families
peripherally related to her own on branches far up the family tree, some
reporters, and the citizens. Among those she considered most important were the
last –– the people of her country.

Typically, her speech was a short thing, crafted by a
communications person in her staff –– how beautiful the country was, how her
heart yearned for Scotland when she was not there, how prosperity would come to
the United Kingdom and that Scotland was there alongside its sister countries
as part of the deal.

Not this time, not this night.  This time, she insisted on the speech being
her own in content and form. The communications person protested, but was
properly chagrined as she raised a single eyebrow. “Am I not Queen?” she had
asked blandly, setting the fountain pen she was using down on top of the stack
of correspondence she was signing, leaning back into the belly of her chair,
and crossing her legs. “Is there something wrong with the message delivered by
me likewise being crafted by me?”

“Of course not, but if you would like some assistance,
ma’am, I––”

Frank’s words were ringing in her head.  Dalliance.  Those bloody calendars.  The show that would make her his more than
would make him hers. His presence in Scotland through necessity, not affection.

Raising a hand, she nodded as graciously as possible. “As
always, I thank you, of course, but this is one thing that I cannot delegate.
Not this speech.”

She thought of his
touch –– the way she had allowed it, just to see if she could feel
anything with him. It hollowed her out and made her see herself (really see
herself) for the first time in ages. Floating above her body, she realized
there was no tenderness there.

Offering only the most cursory of bows, the speech writer
had ducked out of the room and shut the door a bit too forcefully behind
himself.

Stillness. She could
not live with this stillness, the fact that did not care if Frank was with
other women, just as he did not care about her being with other men.

She did not need to write the speech. She felt it singing in
her veins. The usual speech would not do –– a few minutes followed by a
smattering of slight applause.  It was
simply a formality –– a box to check before a meal was served.

This time it would be different. This much she knew.

And now here they were.

Scotland.

Dressed what felt like a million layers of draped, fizzy
fabric, Claire ran a hand over the three rows of jewels and tiaras that had been
chosen for her. There was an admitted beauty in the pieces, despite the excess
that she found fundamentally distasteful.

“The topaz would bring out your eyes,” Frank said mildly
from beside her. He was straightening the lapels of his jacket and fastening his
shirtsleeves with onyx cufflinks. Ones that she had purchased.  She looked in the mirror and caught his eye,
reaching for the sapphire earrings, not the topaz.

“Contrast does a better job of bringing out my eyes.”  Frank made a small sound that was at once of
disagreement and resignation.

“Let me help?” he asked as she picked up the bracelet that
matched the earrings, taking a single step towards her.  The click of the clasp beneath her fingertips
stopped him. “Are you feeling well tonight, Claire? You are acting very… strange.”

“Am I?” The distance in her voice surprised even her.  She had no interest in him understanding her, of letting him in.

The night before had proven that to her –– the test she gave
him (failed), the way he had touched
her (without chemistry, cold and empty),
the plan he had put into action to make her his trophy (one that she had yet to dispatch).

Early in their relationship,
things had been easy. Stolen touches as he opened a door.  Tea in bed from the kettle he secreted into
her suite. Smuggled moments of hushed laughter, splashing Earl Grey on
bedsheets before the entire world descended upon her. Late nights when she
snuck down halls to join him in the visitors’ wing. Surreptitiously drafted
notes lining the pockets of her robe when she made her way back (affections, coded promises, scribbled
recitations of his dreams or timeless poetry
). In the mornings she had been
perpetually less concerned about who saw her, fingers curling around the paper.

And when Lamb died, Frank had
been the one to hold her and whisper comfort. He had joined her in the
bathroom, smoothed away the creases left in her face by the tile floor. He wiped
away the salty tombs that her tears constructed around each of her
eyelashes.  When she had admitted, vodka
drunk, that she had no family, he had hushed and kissed her full on the mouth.
No, that is not true,” he whispered
when they parted, breathless, her tears on his cheeks. “You have me. We have each other.

So she had unraveled herself to
him over the years.  Purposefully, she
had shown him the parts of herself usually kept under lock and key. And he took
them with what had appeared, at least then, to be great care.

But something shifted after her
coronation and their engagement.

At first, it was little things.

The way he said “hello” without looking up from his
morning newspaper.  

The way he shaved with the door
closed, where before he had stood with a towel at his waist, hip cocked and
watching her watch him.

The way she was left wanting,
seeking and never finding. Her fingers reaching for him in the night and finding
only stone as he shrugged her away.

The way her fingers met only the
seam of the pocket of her robe, the scraps of paper becoming few and far
between.

The way his words to her became
flowers wilting after a first frost.

The way “not tonight” was his rote response on a series of nights over a
number of months.

She had asked him if he loved her
three times.  

The first time had been early. His
response had been enthusiastic, fingers drawing her close by the back of the
neck and his mouth consuming hers before she could catch a breath.  When he had pulled back, eyebrow quirked, he
said, “Madly, my dear.” Her heart had
pounded, spiraled, and plunged as he kissed her again.

The second time, he had seemed
mildly offended before saying, “Of
course, Claire.
” Her heart had skipped only a beat before resuming its
usual rhythm. His lips had been dry on her cheek; her eyes had fluttered
closed.

The third time, he had quirked an
eyebrow and muttered something about how she needed not to be so silly.  Of all things the Queen was, silly was bound
to be near the bottom of the list. She had felt nothing then –– neither
surprise nor disappointment, shock nor betrayal. It just was. And she was
prepared to live with it.

Weeks later, knowing her night
would be sleepless, she had gone for her first ride in god knew how long.

And she met him.

Met Fraser.

Oh Christ, that man.

He was at once a challenge and
easier than anything she had ever known.
He was the only one who had seen through the veneer and found her
beneath it. He was the moon on a clear night and the ground in a storm.  He was unreserved in a way she longed not
just to emulate, but to be.  

He was worth risking it all.

She had never asked Fraser if he
loved her, but she suspected at a cellular level that he was not the type of
man she would have to ask. He would leave no doubt. He was nothing if not
thorough and there would be no question about of his intention. She was certain
that she was headed into something with him from which she could never hope to
return.

She had wondered whether she was
strong enough to take the risk.  But she
had realized, quite acutely, that there was no risk. She wanted more
–– the movement that disrupts a calm existence, excitement and danger, the
mere chance to sacrifice herself for love. An outlet for the superabundance of
her energy.

Love.

She wanted it.

They had a sound, he’d said. The vibrations.

She wanted Fraser’s love –– to love and in return, be loved.

The promise of that love (being a part of it) was like a horse
unbridled, exploding from behind an open gate. Its muscles taut with energy, it
would find freedom in the wind that it created.

No, there was nothing that she
had to give up for it.

But, but, but,’ her brain had stuttered on repeat as she prepared
to close the book on Frank.

The burden loving her would put
on Fraser made her ache and feel wild at once. His quiet life would be
disrupted so he could be along for the ride. And for what? His wings would be clipped,
as hers had been.  The mere act of loving
her would strip him bare of the things that blistered her belly and made her
dizzy with wanting.  She had been denied
the opportunity to be the architect in her own life.  She knew the same would be true for him if he
were to be with her –– really be
with her, body and soul, not as a fling or a dalliance (as Frank had put it).

Could she do that to him? Knowing what it was like. Living under glass
(leaving fingerprints that someone else would wipe away) or confined to a cage
(seated upon a perch and seeing the world through wire). Constantly slapping
concrete walls with bloodied knuckles, screaming until raw just to be heard. Knowing
what she knew, could she let Fraser unwittingly join her in that?

For a time, she had herself
convinced that she was doing him a service by holding back, keeping her
feelings in check. But the very thought of him was inside of her.  He was in her lungs, mingling with her
breath.  He was in her belly, drawing her
tight and making her quiver for a release.
A scream, a sigh, a moment with eyes closed to anything else in the
universe.  Just to be –– to be Claire, to know Jamie, to find the seam where lives
knit themselves together
.

“Are you about ready? That hair
is about as well coiffed as it’s going to get.”

Frank gently placed the tiara
into the nest of curls pinned on top of her head. It a glittering, intricate
web of diamonds and sapphires and gilding. It was heavy and she sighed, her
fingers adjusting it only slightly.

“I am ready,” she said,
swallowing.

This speech.

The one she wrote herself.

This speech.

This was how she would claim what
was hers.

She had no plan for what she
would do when her words ran out, when her conclusion was made plain to the
entire room full of people.  And Frank in
particular –– she would not be made to suffer as anyone’s fool, let alone his.

Standing at the door to the
banquet hall, she watched him straighten his sleeves again, clear his
throat.  The production he was putting on
just to have some golf and notoriety was about to come to an end.  Of that much she was certain.

“Ready?” he asked, giving her a
look from the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, of course.”  She hooked a single gloved hand through the
arm he stretched out to her. “I am ready.”

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