Archives for the Date November 5th, 2018

Hi Jess! The journalist of the interview Sally Holmes, is engaged and her ring is the same as Caitriona, look for it in her instagram.

Lmfaoo what the actual hell 

tvuckic: just-a-wretched-wumman: jamesandclairefraser: Breaking News! Sam Roland Heughan is now…




Breaking News! Sam Roland Heughan is now planning and officiating the wedding between Caitriona Mary Balfe and Tony Brian Tobrian McGill! How wonderful and exciting.

I smell the groundwork for a broken engagement that will be blamed on a small group of terrible fans on tumblr who just couldn’t be happy for her and stickman.

Totally @just-a-wretched-wumman LOL LOL

You know when PR starts addressing Tumblr criticisms of the home question from the video in April that it’s staged! LOL 

So glad they made her skip the live tweet for one final PR wedding push…LOL

They always, always overplay their hand…always!! I don’t get it. Don’t they know how to play chess?

Also, where are you Cait… LA? (hmmm) NYC? Waiting for Sam in your home, cause he is an important person to you? LOL LOL

Yikes!! That latest retweet from Cait. Now getting Sam involved in the ‘engagement’ promo. Interesting considering shippers have always pointed out his lack of reaction to her new status. Or maybe the swing back from the french fries on his dick story from the weekend. Who knows, its all getting a bit much now, and no one is coming out unscathed.

There’s not much he can do when she allows the question and he’s sitting right there. So, he has to joke about it like being the wedding planner. There’s probably some truth to that as she doesn’t have time to plan the Balfe – Heughan affair and he seems to be the more romantic one anyway. Of course we don’t know if that’s taking place or already has.

I’m going to repeat this in every ask that I get about this. This is the same publication and the same journalist who did the immediate correction after Sam did the we are together slip to the LA Times.

sassenach4life: I twisted my gold ring off, hands trembling both…


I twisted my gold ring off, hands trembling both with fear and rage. The silver one was harder; it stuck on my knuckle as though reluctant to part from me. Both rings were damp and slippery with sweat, the metal warmer than my suddenly chilled fingers. 

“Give ’em up.” The man poked me roughly in the shoulder, then turned up a broad, grubby palm for the rings. I reached toward him, reluctantly, rings cupped in my hand— and then, with an impulse I didn’t stop to examine, clapped my hand to my mouth instead.  ~ Drums of Autumn

Figure you’re best to ask- is there an exhaustive caitsam receipt list anywhere.. just so I can sit and be smug whenever I fancy it?

You can visit my receipt tag here. There’s almost 30 pages. Enjoy 😊

More HRH pleaseeee. I’m dying to read Claire’s speech 👸🏻

anonymous said: I need more HRH like I need air. Halp!

anonymous asked:  Any chance we can score an HRH update?!?!?!

anonymous asked: Goodness gracious, is there ANY new H.R.H. coming soon? I have to know what happens next and it is such an amazing fic!

anonymous asked: Will we get a new chapter of HRH soon? I cannot wait to see what Claire decides to do! Thank you :)

anonymous asked: I am completely hooked on your HRH story!!!! Any hint on when the next chapter may be published?


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 | Part IX: A Queen’s Speech

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)
Part X: Rare

Scotland had once been Jamie Fraser’s home.

When he was young and had engrained in himself the stories about his family.  The stories stretched back through generations.  Tales about alliances and colors, loyalty and sacrifice, clan and culture.  The splitting and arching of his family tree (branches bearing the heavy fruits of tradition and honor) had fascinated him.  The fact that he was part of one such story instilled in him a devotion to land and God, King and country.

But that was before.

Long before.

Before gunsmoke stole his boyhood.  When he was long and lean, his muscles built while farming with his Da, their goal to make the earth swell with bounty for sale and sustenance.  Before the war rebuilt those muscles, tortured them into a source of latent power that ached and twitched to fight, to defend.  The stories he believed before the naming of the battles he fought or their inclusion in history textbooks.  Before history took countless people he held dear without giving them a story.

Now Scotland was just a place on a map or a globe.  It not his country anymore.

The closest thing to a real home that he had was Lallybroch.

That homestead (in literal geographic terms, a roughly two-hour drive north and a bit to the east), a singular place. The thought of it was a woolen feeling (a nostalgia that crept in at odd moments with little rhyme or reason, pulsing with memories long ago formed, forgotten, recalled again).  The memories were tucked beneath his chin when he was in bed at night, his mind wandering and body dead tired.

Home had a beating heart and a soul in its chest.  For a long time he had neither heart nor soul.  (And then, and then –– a night at the stables, a touch while sitting on the lip of a fountain, a moment –– no.  He could not rehash those stories again. Enough.)

He was in Scotland, but he was not home.

Nothing felt right in this square apartment.  Utilitarian uneven walls, flat white paint, imposter tartan curtains, and forgotten furnishings that meant nothing to nobody.  A double bed with a navy coverlet, two pillows.  A reading lamp on a small night table, an alarm clock (the ticking so loud that he moved to the kitchen).  A stiff, patterned couch with a frame that hit him in all the wrong places when he sat.  An efficiency kitchen with a hot plate, kettle, and two pairs of everything (pot holders, salad plates, dinner plates, glasses, mugs, knives, forks, spoons).  A narrow refrigerator (empty) that hummed (also too loud).

Just a few weeks,’ he had told himself as he pulled a dresser drawer open and dropped his still-packed duffle into it.  

It was easy to arrive at the conclusion that he need not unpack his belongings in this constricted, nondescript place.  The olive canvas bag was well acquainted with its contents.  He had carried his life in it from place to place over a series of years, never bothering to unpack.  That bag smelled of all of those places (the ones that wiped away his sense of country).

He hung two garment bags behind his bedroom door and unzipped one –– removing the freshly laundered kilt (inherited from his father), a crisp white shirt, maroon tie, and grey jacket and vest. His fingers worked over the fabric, remembering the first and last time he had worn it.

Jenny’s wedding –– her ivory below-the-knee dress swishing as she rose from the stool in front of their mother’s vanity. He recalled the rush that the ceremony of donning the kilt had given him, the look in his sister’s eyes as she took his arm.  ‘I love him,’ Jenny had whispered. ‘And the fact that ye’re here… it means the world to me. Someday, I’ll stand up for ye.  The way ye’re standing up for me today.  When ye find her.’  It was as if Jenny knew that everyone until that point had just been window dressing.  (Those blonde girls with their thin laughter were never going to last forever.  Not Claire.  Not this royal mess in which he now found himself.)  He went to war six weeks later.

As if the kilt’s fabric could be blamed for the swell of sentimentality in the pit of his stomach, Jamie withdrew his hand and shoved it deep into his pocket.

“Get it together,” he muttered as he turned and walked to the bathroom.  He stripped and climbed into the shower, cranking the knobs all the way open. He hissed when ice cold water coursed over him, but leaned into the tile as the water warmed and finally went near scalding.

It was his second shower of the day.

The formal welcome dinner.

The Queen’s effort to engage her staff.  A change, he understood, from her predecessors’ practice.  An attempt to be progressive. 

He snorted, turning his face into the water.  He hated it, though he could never bring himself to hate her.

Claire, the honey gold light of that name was one he expected never to speak again.

She had left him standing in the stables –– his heart pounding, skin tingling, mind reeling.  He knew what she had wanted with her question (she asked if she should leave).  She wanted his permission to stay, permission not to make the decision on her own, some indication that the things she felt were shared.

It had been within his reach.

He had gone so far as to ask permission to kiss her.

She had granted it.  Willingly, breathless. The soft swell of her lower lip trembling as brought his hand to rest over her belly.  She gave into gravity, arching towards him ever so slightly to meet his fingertips. A long-silent instrument begging for the attention of its musician (the one to which it belonged), not just someone to play it.

He should have done it then.

Kissed her.  

Taken her lips with his and pressed her against that wall.  He should have made her see the sun, moon, stars, entire galaxies, and God himself with his mouth.  He should have kissed her like a woman who is falling (willfully blind and longing) is meant to be kissed. Kissed by a man already in love and fully aware he is damned to a lifetime of it. Reverent but greedy, possessive and liberating.  He should have swallowed her sounds and breaths, one by one, and allowed them to live in his chest, just beneath the breastbone, and his stomach.

Instead he had given in to banter, their play on words.  He had allowed her mouth, pouting and ready for his, to spill flirtation instead of learning the taste of a kiss.  The missed opportunity had soured on his tongue when she left.

Standing there, bared to one another, neither of them had rank or station with bits of hay clinging to their clothing.

And then that fiancé.

Fucking Frank Randall.

Jamie had pulled away from her, Randall’s call tearing through him. He could no longer forget any of it. Who she was. Who he was. Where they were. What it meant.  He recalled suddenly (mournfully) the unexcavated part of him that was too honorable to be with another man’s woman.

No.  He could not do it.  Even if she wanted it.  Even if she wanted him.

And so Jamie had been the one to break the spell.  He did it with an uttered honorific that he knew would break her apart, rebuild her walls, grind down the very fiber of her heart.


In the shower, his fingers searched for something to grip.  Finding nothing, he became the type of man who smashes a fist into a wall.  With a sickening crunch, his hand rebounded.

“God dammit,” he muttered, opening his fist and inspecting his knuckles (split at the seams, leaking). For what felt like centuries, he watched the blood trickle down his forearm, pool at his feet, and swirl down the drain.  Once the leak of blood had all but stopped, he gave himself one final directive before getting out of the shower to dress: “Pull it together for just a night, Fraser. One night and it’ll be over.”

A car brought him from his apartment at the perimeter of the grounds to the palace entrance.  The room where the dinner was to be held was resplendent.  Heather mixed with cabbage roses, thistle tied into sprigs resting at each place setting.  Through crystal, candlelight painted a million technicolor constellations on the walls.  Wine and champagne flowed freely.  At least three dozen place settings lined either side of a banquet table.  Her assigned spot was easy to identify –– a seatback taller than the rest, centered and facing into the room.

The high-ranking members of the Queen’s staff were already there (emissaries to the various ministries, her administrative staff, the advisors whose opinions she oftentimes detested), milling about.  Taking a seat, he wondered if perhaps he should just walk away.  From this dinner.  From everything. Get that unpacked duffle and those garment bags, leave his toothbrush, and make his way to Lallybroch.  No note.  No notice.  Jenny would never ask what happened to the job.  He would find a niche there at home, a place to call his own. He would live in that fucking cave at the edge of the estate if he had to.  

Maybe someday he could reclaim this country (Scotland) as his own and call it a home once more.

Ice lined his veins, his arteries, the chambers of his heart.

Claire.  Those nights in the stables that were probably already at their end.

I canna see ye,’ he thought as her entrance was announced.  But he rose, eyes focusing on the slight flutter of wind lifting one of the curtains.  He tried to focus not on her entrance, but on whether he found it strange that the windows were open, that the room was not stale and that there was air to breathe.

In his peripheral vision, he saw her cast a glance down the table. Perhaps she was just taking in everyone in attendance.  

He could not entertain the notion that she was looking for him, searching down the line of faces for one that was too familiar.  It hurt too much.

He made a fist, the ache of the skin stretching over the battered knuckles of his left hand somehow fortifying him.

She was not Claire anymore.  Perhaps she had never even been his.  He would neither run nor fight.  He would just be.


Fraser rose when she entered. He observed all of the necessary formalities, but he assiduously avoided looking at her.  She could not keep her eyes from him, watching him angle his body to insinuate himself into the conversation next to him. He was too focused.

A first course.  She did not touch her food, instead letting almost syrupy-thick wine warm her from the inside. Frank’s voice melted into nothing more than a tenor murmur next to her. When he laughed, a sort of booming guffaw, she pressed the pad of her thumb into the tines on her oyster fork and swallowed hard.

Just a look.  It was all she wanted, all she needed.

But after a time, though, she knew that she would not collect so much as a glance from Fraser.

Though the absence of his acknowledgment smoldered like a hot coal in the pit of her stomach, she could hardly blame him.

The mere memory of those last (lost) moments in the stables came to mind and colored her cheeks.

Maybe she was too late.

(A lifetime of hesitancy.  Her Uncle Lamb holding the seat of her bicycle, blood trickling over knobby knees and catching in the pale hairs along the concave furrow of her shins.  The warmth of his broad fingers under her arms as he brought her to her feet.  You will never know if you do not try, Claire.’  The great gulp of air she took before she swore an oath to govern the peoples of the Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the Union of South Africa, Pakistan, and Ceylon.  All of her possessions and other territories.  A solemn promise made over the skipping in her voice –– to maintain the Church of England, work in accord with the Gospel. The tremor of her lips as she kissed the Bible, her whispered encouragement to her hand, directing it to move as she signed the Oath.)

Without preamble, Claire rose to her feet and reached for her glass. Frank looked up at her, eyes questioning as he reached for her hand, saying, “Darling?”

She pulled herself just out of his reach, unable to spare even a look at him.

She had expected her heart to pound, her palms to sweat, her stomach to clench.  Something at the prospect of what she was about to do. But for the first time in months, she was calm.  All the way down to the core of her existence.

It was time.

She had signed the Oath with hesitant fingers trembling around the pen. She had kissed the worn leather cover of the Bible with unsure lips.  She had climbed back onto that bicycle with a shiver crawling up her spine and goosebumps erupting along her arms.  

But she was stock still now, the store of words in her belly confident.  Her heart seemed to have stopped and time had slowed.  She was everywhere and nowhere at once.

She would not hesitate this time.

“I am so grateful that everyone was able to gather here for this, our first night in Scotland.  These dinners are an opportunity for me to express my gratitude for another year of your service, your discretion and your dedication.  I admit, my remarks this evening are a bit unorthodox.  My Uncle Lambert… the King… always told me to speak from the heart.  To let truth be the unassailable guiding light in my life.  With truth, he said, comes light.”

She swallowed, inhaled and exhaled.  Fraser still had not looked at her. In her peripheral vision, Frank was picking a string out of the cuffed hem of his uniform.  She breathed in again, squaring her shoulders.

“When I became Queen, I had certain notions about what this life would be like.  Of course, growing up I had a strong sense of duty and understood the importance of the role of the sovereign.  It was instilled in me by my parents, my grandparents, and the King.  Despite knowing all of these great people, loving them, one important lesson was lost on me until recently.  They were all human. Fallible.  They had needs.  They were searching for something rare.”

She looked towards Fraser, who was looking at her for the first time.  His face was impassive, but from the corner of her eye she saw the flicker of his hand tapping on the table.  

It was his tell.  She had him. Watch,’ her mind, heart, and guts begged.  

For a moment, her mouth fell silent and her tongue went heavy, but then she continued.  “They were looking for the rare thing that it is to love and be loved. It is rarer still, to be in this position and to have the blessing of having a connection with another.  One who sees through the haze of position and can connect to your heart… that bond is profound and infinite.”

Fraser was watching.  He was listening.

“I am Queen.  I am not immune from the need for something rare, to feel something greater than me.”

Frank reached for her again and she shook her head, setting her glass down on the table.  She looked at him, no longer searching for a sign. She knew.

“I was convinced that my status meant that I would never find that kind of love.  The rare love of my parents for each other, or my grandparents. That I would never uncover my path.  The path that leads to someone who forms the parts of me that the public will never see, should never see.  To push aside the veil that comes with my position.  To be that rare thing.  And this man…”

Her gaze flicked to Fraser once more before she turned back to Frank.

“This man is not the person who will do that.  There is nothing rare in his admiration of my status or his esteem for the perks of being with me.”

Claire,” Frank said, voice pitched low and warning.  A quiet murmur had broken out at the far ends of the tables. “I must apologize, everyone.  She is not well.”

“I can assure you that I am quite alright.”  Her hand found the back of Frank’s neck.  “What was it that you said last night? That you were certain you could bring another woman––”

––her hand slipped across Frank’s upper back, moving to cup his shoulder––

“into my bed without upsetting the balance of our lives? That this was an arrangement?”

For the first time since she had known him, Frank appeared well and truly stunned.

“See, I am sure this is all very unsavory and not royal to all of you, but I refuse to live a lie for the sake of convenience.  I refuse to live a lie in the interest of avoiding the scandal of a broken engagement.”

She cast a glance down one end of the table and then to the other.  Fraser had his head bowed now; his hands were nowhere in sight. The two men seated on either side of him were leaning towards one another, the hushed garble of their discussion indecipherable.

“Everyone knows the history of my family and the histories of the families before mine that ruled this empire. There was a time where the Crown stood for such goings on. Affairs and mistresses.  Other things of the like.”

She gave Frank’s shoulder the slightest squeeze.

Dalliances.”  Lifting her hand, she reached for her champagne flute with a smile and tilt of her head. “I am certain that none of you believed that you would be in for thiskind of toast this evening. It is a curious one, to be sure.”

Claire lifted the flute, suddenly feeling the bubbles darting along the glass all the way down in her belly.

“But I must say, that from here on out, I promise to you that I intend not to settle, not to stop searching for something rare. Not to bind myself to notions of traditionor proprietyin a way that mean I can only give one part of myself while denying myself humanity. Thatis how I can best serve you and the people I pledged my life to lead.”

A single, mirthless voice said “here here” as she drained the glass.  

Leaning close to Frank’s ear, Claire hissed, “You have thirty minutes to get yourself and your shit out of my house or I will have it all burned as you are escorted from the premises by armed guards.”

Fraser was watching her, intently cataloging her every move.  The tilt of her head towards him was nearly imperceptible.  No one would see it but him, she was sure.  His face remained still, his hands unseen, as he tilted his head back at her.  And when Claire turned from him, the room was silent but for the reverberating slap of her heels on hardwood as she walked away.

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