Archives for the Date December 17th, 2018

themusicsweetly: themusicsweetly: [1×09 | The Reckoning][Ep…



[1×09 | The Reckoning]
[Ep Commentary | Caitriona + Sam]
[“Hold up… That doesn’t sound like Claire…”]

Cast Livetweeting | 1×09 | 2×10 | 2×13

| 3×01



notevenjokingfic: missclairebelle: imagineclaireandjamie: Your eyes do not deceive you! Two HRH…




Your eyes do not deceive you! Two HRH updates in one week. 💜


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 | Part X: Rare | Part XI: Watched | Part XII: A Day’s Anticipation

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)
Part XII: The Location

James Fraser was certain of only a handful of things.  

First, he wanted his life, from here on out, to be separated into two constituent parts.

Before Claire.  

And Claire.

Second, he may never be able to give her his name or walk her across the threshold of his ancestral home, but he would lay down his life for her.

Third, nothing was more beautiful to him than this woman.  (The way she bent at the waist, her foot popping and suspending mid-air as she gathered fistfuls of clover.  The cadence of her voice as she fed the clover to Thistle, their pace slow and her body melting towards the horse.)

Fourth, he wanted to make love to her, the love of his life, somewhere other than the lawn beside the palace or in the stables.

And it was a problem.

They had been kissing.  

Full-mouthed kisses with Claire’s back pressed against a tree, bits of bark catching her hair.  The absurdity of it all (the juxtaposition between their setting the night before and in the moment) made her quiver with laughter against his mouth and under his hands.  Though, her laughter faded as he touched her breasts for the first time, hands slipping beneath her sweater to find them bare and her nipples hard. Their respective noises melded together with the sounds of the city that surrounded them –– the quiet moans slipping from her and the sighed, blasphemous mumblings that became reflexive.

Mouth twisted into a smile (swollen and glistening from his own mouth), Claire broke the kiss (gasping for air) reached for his belt. (Her greedy hands, with minds of their own, separated from her body and acting of their own accord.  She was outside of her own body, watching from a mile overhead and encouraging her every movement.)  For her part, Claire had never known want to exist in the form of a need.  Jamie was seared into her veins, the grey matter of her brain, the arches and whorls of her fingerprints. The need burned in her to touch him, to see all of him, to offer him the same in return.  

She had never known with naked certainty that her offer (her body, the quiet simplicity of just giving herself) would be accepted.

And the knowledge of it spurred her on.  

To her, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser was oxygen and sunlight, rain, and sun-warmed soil.  

Her sigh.  The sureness with which her fingers took hold of the metal buckle, the tail of his belt.  Her pupils dilated and lower lip wet again and again by her tongue.

For a moment, Jamie watched her small fingers work the leather free, but the blistering moment came to an abrupt stop as he realized the reality of their present situation.  

The what.  The where.  The how.

When he reached down towards her, she received a message other than what he was sending. Rather than drawing the moment to a close, boldness exploded in her marrow.  He would take care of his own.  She reached to undo her pants, got so far as to draw down the zipper, to feel the brush of the nude underpants against her knuckles.. He faced the greatest test imaginable of his resolve: the bow of her hips towards him as she popped the button free, the radiating heat of her sourcing and arched into the aching tent of his arousal, the echoing demand for more more more that made her breath hitch.

“Stop,” he said plainly through gritted teeth, catching her wrists.

“I need you,” she responded in protest.

“Not here.”

The infuriating, bloody Scot.

Claire’s eyes were wild, fiery when she gave her direction plain as day. “Then take me back to the stables.”

Jamie shook his head again, thumbs learning the rhythm and tempo of her pulse.

Again, the insufferable man.

Their mutual need had hung between them unsaid for weeks.  

Well before the night before when he had followed her to that room and kissed her senseless.  

Long before this evening with their flirtation and fistfuls of clover and late-night conversations that let them peel one another back layer by layer. (The cabin he inherited when his father passed away.  How how he skipped stones in the moss-colored tributary just down the hill and through the woods from the cabin’s bayonet-battered front door. How they first learned to ride.  The first time she had ridden Brimstone.  The way he had made Donas his special project after a war they never discussed.)

Those moments all built to something.  The need that took root without her knowing, growing, its branches growing branches and reaching for sun.  And now she wanted to collect on the promise of it, to shed together the burden of their unmet desire. His unspoken reticence was jarring.

“Is it me?  You don’t want…? Or you haven’t before…?”  The trail in her voice tugged something in the centerline of his heart and then again longitudinally.  It was as though his very heart was being separated into its chambers, drawn and quartered for her.  It was the first hesitation, questioning of them.  And it was too much.  He drew her hand to his mouth, kissed the warm, smooth heel of it.

“Oh, Claire,” he slurred, mind still only half made up not to take her then, there, against the tree.  “It’s none of that.”

An entire book of lamentations could be composed to detail the sorrow he felt at the prospect of parting from her for the night. The need of her would dilate every blood vessel in his body, leaving him with an unfathomable emptiness.  It would be met only by furiously jerking himself to a groaned, not even moderately satisfying completion in his shower, slicked with shampoo.  And it wouldn’t be enough, he would regret this moment.  Saying “no.”

She landed a kiss on the corner of his mouth, narrowly missing his lips.  The soft, wet dart of her tongue along the corner of his lips was so erotic that he had to close his eyes, concentrate on drawing himself away.  As gently as possible, he drew her wrists up and between them, let them hover where neither could feel the other’s heartbeat (a tell-tale sign that they would fall together, never again to rise, despite his stated intentions).

“I willna make love to ye there… in the stables… rutting ye like some sort of… horse.”

Make love.  Two words (low, like a secret to keep in the mind and not the body).

Joined together, those two words were like a trickle of ice water down her spine.  Not to quell her arousal, but to make apparent his precise intentions with her.

Christ, I want ye now, Claire.  Ye must ken that I’ve spent many nights wondering if I could ever have ye in my bed. If ye’d ever see me that way.  I cannae give ye what ye deserve, but I willna give ye less than everything I have.”

Claire whispered his name then (the one given by his mother well before “Jamie” was a word that would turn his head), and he released the gentle cage of his thumb and forefinger on her wrist.  Hands scrabbled.  Hers to his face.  His to her waist. Her thumb and forefinger worked a sure path along his chin and jawline.  With no pretense, she said, “I have no clue what I deserve.  I suspect that what I deserve is very little, especially from you.  I just need you. I would not take anything other than you, ever.  Just… you.  So, please. Take what I can give you.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed in the long line of his throat, his teeth finding the soft, full pad of her thumb. He bit down lightly, flicked his tongue over the place where teeth sank into the flesh.  “Let me put it selfishly, then, for ye, Claire.”

His breath was warm, uneven on her damp thumb. Existing on the edge of a sigh, she urged him on. “Go on then.”

“Selfishly? I intend to take my time wi’ ye.  Undress ye, let my eyes discover ye.  Every inch of ye.”  

His glance down her clothed form was perhaps the most sexually charged thing that she had known in her life until that moment.  The mere introduction of his hands to her hips and his fingers sinking into the swell of her buttocks were an accelerant sprayed onto an already aggressive burn.

It was like the first touch of a lover, the process of learning how the shape of his fingertips felt like here or there.


“And then?”  The breathless syllables were small, hardly her own.  

He ran one hand from her hip, up her side, over her ribcage. He hesitated only a moment (to lick his lips, orient himself to the moment) before taking a single breast into his hand.  “And then, I’ll work ye into a frenzy, tasting ye everywhere. I want ye to need me, Claire.  To be blind with it.  To beg for more.  And then it’ll be time.”

His cock was about to snap clean off body at the way she looked down between them, studied where her hands had gone to rest at his hips. She licked her lips, making them a glistening cherry color that threatened to drive him unapologetically, irrevocably mad.  

He ached at the prospect of walking away from her, the thrilling way that she threatened to draw him in.  

Soft.  Warm.  Arms. Thighs.  The very core of her.  


––hand leaving her breast to gesture between them, hand sculpting air––

“––willna be in the stables, where anyone could stumble upon us.”

The quirk of a smile.  Hers. His.  A matching set.

“At least not the first time.  Our first time together… I…”  

His voice trailed off as he realized with a sudden, acute awareness just what he was talking about.  Not just sex.  An act he had rarely given a second thought, performed with some middling level of bravado throughout his twenties, was about to become transformative.  

He was talking about making love to the Queen.  Again and again, the act becoming a regular thing between them.

Making love to Claire.

Her name’s very meaning was bright,clear. Sorcha.  

He knew her mind.  He was proposing that he would learn her body.  

(Or perhaps she was proposing the same thing.  He proposed nothing.  His words were merely a reaction to her. To those eager eager eager warm hips, the imagined taste of her on his tongue.  Maybe the hesitation in his desire was constructed not of an old-fashioned sense of propriety, but of need to serve her well.)

She tilted her head, breathing his air and staring at him with such a naked look of suggestion that his heart free fell into his guts.  It took a moment to collect himself from the notion that he could have her.  Know her.  In nothing more than a moment, he could say “yes” to the question she posed and the matter would be concluded.  They would join together and be lost to one another forever.  Those black pants around her ankles, that shirt rucked up around her breasts.  Her fingers, scented like clover, scaling his back (oh fuck, his back, a series of complicated stories to broach with her before she stripped him even barer).

“I’m no’ the romantic type, but I want to be wi’ ye somewhere wi’ just the two of us.”

“No horses?” she asked. The sudden burst of laughter that came from her was crisp and sharp, the first ring of a church bell on a Sunday morning.  A call to worship.  And Christ did he ever worship her.  

His fingers worked their way down the delicate curve of her neck, catching springing curls and drawing them taut.  As quickly as it had rang out between them, her laughter died.  Though the joke continued, his voice was solemn when he said, “No. No horses.”

For the first time, though, James Fraser grappled with the logistics of it.  Of them.  This life. How difficult it might be simply find a place to make love to her. The prospect lined his wame with ice.  “I could come to ye––”

She silenced him with a quick, small tilt of her chin.  

An immediate rejection of the prospect.

The shift in her was almost imperceptible.  Rolling her head, he dropped his hands from the back of her neck, allowing them to trail down to rest just above the swell of her breasts.

Said aloud, the possibility of going into that palace, was too much to take.  

He could not bear the thought of seeing her bared to him for the first time while within the walls that suffocated her (he knew her longing to be free of them, to leave them behind). The contents of his stomach curdled at the thought of those eyes and ears everywhere –– living in the wallpaper, burnished into the finish on the furniture, waiting with mouths like kindling searching for a spark of gossip, existing solely to catch fire. To be next to her, learn the various ways of her (how she tasted on the flat of his tongue, sounded with his fingers inside of her, reacted to the introduction of his body to hers, breathed when she came off the edge of an orgasm)  in a bed where another man had been only days earlier.

An alternative suggestion formed. “I could come to your apartment––” she started, interrupted by Jamie’s low, Scottish noise of discontent.

“It’s no’ a place to bring someone ye love, Claire.  It’s teeming with people who could see.”

(That narrow government-issue bed. The alarm clock.  The toilet flush that needed jiggling to draw down the contents of bladder and bowel.  The chipped countertop.  The hallways with the harsh lighting that led to the quarters of his fellow staff.  Her staff.)

Tears swam in her eyes, stinging at the unfairness of their situation.  “I could… escape.”

His brow furrowed, palms moving to cup her cheeks.  Those sweet, rosy cheeks.  Flushed with arousal and frustration.  Unstained by tears. “A jail break? Tell me.”

“I will figure it out.  Your cabin? We can just… get away.”

The skepticism in his gaze made her laugh.  She kissed him.  Not just with lips, but her hands creeping up his waist and around to his back, her tongue sealing the flavor of her to his tongue.  He knew she was likely over simplifying.  Just get away.  The promise of it was tantalizing.


She rose onto her toes, landing a furious battery of kisses along his jawline.  “Tomorrow.  Likely in the evening.  I will send word to you somehow.  Mrs. Fitz. I trust her.  Always have.  She was my uncle’s right hand.  Sometimes she was the left hand, too.  Lamb would… disappear… at times.  She must…”

“Are ye sure that ye can trust her?” Jamie asked, fighting to maintain his composure under her direct assault to his senses.  Though her answer was “yes,” Claire was not sure what choice she had either way.  She nodded and he turned just enough to meet her mouth, to breathe her in. He pulled back from the kiss only rain more down along her cheekbones, thumbs running along her eyebrows and temples and jaw.  She could not help the small, frustrated sigh as he dropped his hands, pulled up the zip on her pants, and carefully fastened the button. “Just awhile more, Sassenach.”

The latest on the HRH front. ❤️👑

“Before Claire.  

And Claire.”

It doesn’t say “after Claire”, it says “and Claire”.  AND.  AND!!!!  This is a man who doesn’t see his life without her.  Ever.  Committed.  Monogamous.  In love.  

“It’s always been forever for me, Sassenach.”   So beautifully encapsulated. 

Three Cheers!!! Down the Rabbit Hole is an Amazing Episode!






For me, this whole episode has been a stunning revelation It has been coming for a few episodes, but this is the turn where the creative team has fully taken flight.  

I am embracing these lovely, smart divergences from the books and completely willing to go on the rest of this ride. 

If you are getting drowned in all the #fanpain of haters, there are plenty of blogs here showing #fanlove 

(and no– SIGH– I do not mean unconditional love and no discussion of flaws, we do that too but flaws and all still love it and focus on real conversations, real plot issues, character development, etc) 

Come find us! We love great, positive, intelligent conversation! 

See, I don’t see the point of a post like this at all.

To me this is just inviting divison and hard feelings into this fandom. To me this is a way of saying “We are doing it the right way, while others out there are not”. Who decides that? Who decides which are the real conversations, the real plot issues, if there is or not character development? Where is the line between what is acceptable discussion and what’s being a hater? Is it agreeing with your opinion?

I have agreed with points from pretty much everyone in this fandom, at one point or another. Everyone. Of couse I lean more towards some people, more like-minded, but I try to respect everyone. And when I find that hard enough to do, I just hit unfollow or stop reading. I don’t post a diss to that person/ group of people.

If you want to be positive to the show, maybe it would be nice to start by contributing to a positive environment between fans. 

maybe it‘s wrong to chip into this discussion from my tiny corner but i feel like this is important –

why do you (@kalendraashtar and @missclairebelle and @kkruml – from what i‘ve seen in the comments) feel attacked by this? i‘ve come to know all of you (in a fandom sense) as predominantly positive people. you‘ve often stated your love of the show and you‘ve been here for sensible discussion.

obviously, i am conscious that as part of the rather small faction of this fandom who‘s (predominantly or at least equally) here for characters other than jamie and claire, both @abbydebeaupreposts and i are speaking from a corner. that usually doesn‘t mean i feel badly overlooked though or feel that the fandom is divided.

however, today, i have scrolled through my dash and yes, there have been a lot of rather negative opinions on the episode, which is alright – to each their critique. i, myself, don‘t consider it „critique“ to call an entire episode terrible and tear down every argument made for it and this is also what has been happening today.

long story short – what i‘ve really been trying to say is this: i want my fandom experience to be a positive one. that doesn‘t mean pointing out flaws is not okay. what it DOES mean, is that i wish for my dash to be united in the overall love of the show (and books!) and for that to be the basis of discussion. i‘ve known all of you as good examples in this and i hope that‘s how we‘ll go on from here.

I don’t feel personally attacked by the original post. What I feel is outraged for the people who express different opinions and are labelled “haters” and “trashlander”, while a group of people pat themselves on the back for being so good and smart. I don’t put words in the mouth of other people, they are there for anyone to read. Stressing your opinions doesn’t have to come at the expense of other’s or their feelings, which I think is being done here. I think it all comes down to what is “loving a show” for each one of us and how we want to show that love.

No offense, @wunderlichkind, but @abbydebeaupreposts wrote something very different from the perspective you just presented (with the usual heart and soul). If she wants to clarify, I’m sure she will speak for herself. If you want your fandom experience to be a positive one, you definitely don’t antagonize other people with that attitude. It’s your job to tailor your experience, not to impose it on others.

themusicsweetly: Tea with BreeThe only two moments of 4×07 that…


Tea with BreeThe only two moments of 4×07 that matter

profeminist: “Marguerite du Coudray was a pioneering and…


“Marguerite du Coudray was a pioneering and influential 18th century French midwife who designed equipment to teach midwife trainees about delivering babies #womensart

–  @womensart1

“Angélique Marguerite Le Boursier du Coudray (c. 1712 – 17 April 1794) was an influential, pioneering midwife during her lifetime, who gained fame when men were taking over the field. She rose from middle-class origins to become noticed and commissioned by King Louis XV.” Read more >

the-sassynach: lindyoutlanderlover: pissedoffsoka13: 407 Reimagined Imagine the episode with…




407 Reimagined

Imagine the episode with Brianna journeying to the past interspersed with Jamie and Claire in Fraser’s Ridge. Imagine Jamie and Claire having in-depth conversations about Brianna and them just going about their daily routine on the Ridge – waking up in their bed watching sunrise, reading in front of the fire place, Jamie knitting and Claire telling him stories about the future on the porch, them farming, gardening, and making love. Imagine actually seeing their much promoted solidness. Imagine a show that values a passionate mature relationship.

Imagine Brianna thinking about Claire and seeing flashbacks on their mother-daughter moments while she was walking the moors or in the woods (very minor Frankostein flashbacks fine). Imagine Claire sharing with Jamie how heartbreaking it was to be pregnant without him and raise a child in loneliness. Imagine Jamie sharing his own pain of sending them back, of fatherhood interrupted. Imagine them having a heart-to-heart about their loneliness for the past twenty years and what they imagined possible if they had the opportunity to parent Brianna together. Imagine all this.

Imagine Brianna going to Lallybroch meeting her clan interspersed with memories of Jamie and Claire’s happy times there. Imagine Ian telling Brianna about the Frasers and his memory of Jamie and Claire. Imagine Ian sharing how broken Jamie was after Culloden and when he lived as Dunbonnet in the cave. Flashbacks of Jamie and Claire’s experiences at Lallybroch would have been amazing. Imagine Ian sharing the honorable man that Jamie Fraser is/was- loyal warrior, devoted husband – and all that he could have been – fair and just Laird, loving father – based on his respect and knowledge of his best friend. Imagine Ian and Brianna trading stories about Claire. Imagine Brianna discovering Ellen Fraser’s portrait and recognizing the resemblance. Imagine Ian and Brianna visiting the Fraser burial site and her learning more about her father’s side of the family. Imagine all this.

Imagine 407 with Jamie and Claire at the center, and not nonexistent (Bonnet and Roger’s storylines are present but everyone orbits around Jamie and Claire). Imagine Brianna’s search for her parents interspersed with her parents own hope of seeing her. It could have been done if only the writers and producers really understand that the heart of Outlander is Jamie and Claire Fraser and that Outlander is a niche show, not a generic one.

well, I’m afraid all we can do IS imagine it @pissedoffsoka13 ! Beautiful post! 


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