Archives for the Date December 29th, 2018

Fanfiction – Sirius Supernova (Constellations series)



I was completely honest when I said that for me
the Sirius story was done after The
Second Sighting of Sirius
. I was happy with it. But the response to
that particular ficlet was just overwhelming, as were the people asking for a
sequel. So I thought “Yeah, someday, far far away from now, I’ll maybe writing
something more”. I had other things I wanted to write first. But as we know,
the fanfiction writer plans and the muse laughs. 

This is the end of the story.
I hope you won’t live to regret asking for it. It contains feels. It will stay
inside the Constellations series because…well, you’ll understand why. I do
love you guys, so…see you on the other side.

Fanfiction list

Sirius Supernova

“So, do ye intend to wake up the bairns?” Jamie
panted in her ear, watching fascinated as she melted underneath him.

“And whose fault do you think that is?” She
replied eventually, opening one eye, a blissful smile frozen on her lips.

“As I recall it, ye were there as well,
Sassenach.” He brushed her naked hip with his fingers, rolling to lie next to
her on his back.

“To be completely fair…” Claire brushed the ruddy
hairs on his chest. “You did most of the heavy work.”

He snorted.

“Always a pleasure to serve ye, Sassenach.”

“Oh, so you are under my command, is it?” She
said playfully, lightly biting one of his nipples. He yelped. “To do as I wish?”

He cocked an eyebrow, a lazy and somewhat smug
smile dawning in his mouth.

“Aye. Give me five minutes and I’ll show ye.”
His hand cupped her breast. “I might even foresee some things ye never thought
ye desired.”

“Hmmm.” She moaned softly, as his skilled fingers
stroked her tender nipples. “I’m intrigued. But you are an old man now, Fraser.
I think you may need more than five minutes.”

“Dinna hear ye complaining of my auld age just
ten minutes ago, when I was on my knees between yer legs.” He gave her a lopsided
smile, making her blush.

“I’ll say this.” She caressed his flaming hair,
still barely touched by the passing years. “You are still very flexible for a
forty year old.”

They kissed, time flowing around them, immersed
in a bubble where their connection was the only existing thing.

“I presume this was my birthday present?” He
eventually asked, peeking to the scandalous lingerie
on the floor beneath the bed.

“Yes, it was.” She entwined her fingers with
his. “Not sure you enjoyed it enough, though. You unwrapped it pretty quickly.”

“Dinna fash, Tousled Sheep.” He traced her full
bottom lip with his finger. “That will show ye just how much I loved it. I really did.”

“Good.” She said, satisfied. “I’m expecting
something equally astounding on my next birthday.”

“What’s wrong with my letters?” He asked
indignantly, slowly massaging her shoulder. “I thought ye liked them!”

“I do.” She hurried to kiss him for comfort. “I
expect by the time we are eighty there won’t be enough space in the house to
keep them. But I do love them, Jamie. They tell our story. I wouldn’t trade
them for all the diamonds and perfumes in the world.”

“Maybe I can write something more creative the
next time.” Jamie said, while his hand travelled along the slopes of her body. “And
we can reenact it afterwards. Ye ken, when the kids are asleep.”

sure you hide that one well enough.”
She laughed. “We wouldn’t want another
incident with the children asking us difficult questions. Faith already knows
enough as it is.”

“Hmpf.” He made a noise with his throat, Scottish
to the bone. “Perhaps I’ll write it in the Gaedlig,

Jamie’s touch was becoming more difficult to
ignore, as he applied all his considerable enthusiasm.

“It’s quite the risk.” Claire said, her voice
caught in her throat. “You know I’m terrible at it. If you ask me to kiss your
navel I’ll probably end up sucking your big toe, or something.”

“Will ye ever learn to speak the Gaedlig?” He
asked, looking intently at her, as she straddled him.

“I already know how to say the only thing that
matters, really.” She smiled at him, the fading light glowing around her, as
she made her body home to him again. “Tha
gaol agam ort.”


He heard her moan his name, as she had then, in
lust. He had always loved to watch her lose herself at the very end, and the
noises that she made when she surrendered to him.

“Jamie.” She repeated, calling him.

But this was different. No pleasure or elation
in her voice. There wasn’t a trace of the breathless laugh that usually colored
her voice. No tenderness.


He came awake instantly, the dream of a memory
bursting like a soap bubble, his body mimicking the impact of falling. He
rolled over in bed, searching for his wife. She had her eyes closed and
strained, her breathing coming fast and laboriously.

“What is it, mo nighean airgead?”

“It hurts.” She whispered, a tear sliding down
her cheek. “My chest.”

“Did ye take yer medication?” He asked
anxiously, groping to hold her hand. She nodded affirmatively in reply. “How
bad is it?”

“Bad.” Claire answered shortly.

Her heart condition was not a novelty. It had
started when she turned sixty – first she would get tired after a long walk, humorously
calling herself “An old hag”. Then she became fatigued after climbing the
stairs to the house. Her lips became blue as wild blackberries, her beautiful
eyes always surrounded by dark circles. Eventually, even the short distance
between their room and the kitchen seemed like a challenge, enough to leave her
panting and her chest constricted in pain.

The doctor had been clear – she had congestive
heart failure. Even with a rigorous regime of medication and tight vigilance,
the prognosis was daunting.

But she remained good humored and calm, tolerating
Jamie’s concern and gentle prodding. He almost never left her side, always
available to fulfill her every need. He nursed and cherished her with a care
that left her smiling, speechless.

“Do ye want me to call the ambulance?” He
questioned, trying to access her breathing.

“No.” She said, slowly, shaking her head. Their
eyes locked and Jamie saw only tenderness there. Tranquility. Love. “I want to
be here. With you.”

“But Sassenach…” He tried to say, squeezing her

“Jamie…” Claire sighed, closing her eyes again.
And suddenly, as effortlessly as a feather scattered in the wind, she stopped

For a moment Jamie had no language. No way to
articulate the void that crushed every sense and rational thought.

It was beyond loss – it was pain, cursing
through his body, demanding to be felt. Grief roared on, like a storm that
battered him with mighty winds that he couldn’t escape. It was unbearable.

The pain receded momentarily, like a wave in
low tide, only so he could be plunged into a whirl of memories. A kiss stolen while
she slept, her body naked in the dim light of their room. The look on her face
as she had called him “Boy”. Claire
running in a beach, laughing. Her belly swollen with their first child. The
white dress she wore at their wedding. The kiss he gave her that first night
together, which he had craved for years – a perfect kiss, that would last a
lifetime. Dear Jamie. The stack of
letters tied with a white ribbon in the cherry-wood box. Her body so close to
his under a tree in the Highlands. Tousled
. “Tha gaol agam ort.”

“Claire.” He cried out, the word escaping his
brutalized soul. But he had no breath to shout it, as he would have; he gasped
it out, tentatively touching her cheek. “Claire.”

Claire, the keeper of his heart since he was a
boy, had gone where he could not reach her. She ended; and nothing else could
ever begin.

Jamie had no wish to be in a world empty of
her. No desire to prolong a life where she was not walking by his side. That
her heart – so loving and fully committed – had betrayed her so, seemed like the
utmost injustice.

He knew there were paths to death inside
oneself – usually forgotten after birth, when we came into this world crying in
joy or regret – he had felt them, so many years ago, during the war. A
mechanism to self-destruction, built to preserve the mind in the darkest
places. Yes, there had been times when he had felt tempted to follow them
through and let go of fear and degradation.

But Claire was his living flame. Had been then;
and had stayed that way for the best part of forty years together. She had held
on to him and prevented his end, when life itself seemed pointless.

She was gone.

He could still feel it, though – the soft
burning of the flame inside him, fed not by her presence, but by the memories
of a lifetime together. It would be so easy to smother it, to blow it out and
go gently into the unknown.

Jamie was afraid. Not of death – he had no fear
of pain and had faith enough to believe something else followed this existence.
What he feared was eternal separation. Oblivion. That his memories of Claire would
be erased in the afterlife. Doomed to never meet again the person that set his
fire ablaze. He had no interest in lonesome eternity.

Could he carry on for a time without her? Delay
the expected reunion out of fear?

He looked at the ceiling, watching the shadows
of the trees outside dancing there. Solace deserted him. He thought of their
children, how they would feel with them gone – but they were fully grown now
and raised right. Claire’s absence was just greater than anyone’s presence.

No, he couldn’t do this. To carry on. He must
be reunited with her. Half a heart couldn’t make for an acceptable life, to
someone who knew what it felt like to be whole.

Her hands were cold now, warmth slipping away,
like his heart had slipped away with her. He looked at her and saw all the
women he had loved – the girl, the woman, the healer, the lover, the friend, the
mother, the companion. He touched the streaks of silver hair and felt the echo
of life still there; caressed her lips and heard her crystalline laugh; kissed
her closed eyes and saw the whiskey that always made him drunk in love.

Jamie softly kissed her sweet mouth and nuzzled
her curly hair one final time. His arms embraced her body, sheltering her once

He closed his eyes, finally seeking her. The
flame gone out.

His heart stopped beating.

What he saw then was not what he expected.

They were lying together in a hill under the
stars, their hands almost touching. She was smiling and his heart soared seeing
her lips so alive again. She was different somehow – young again, her brown hair
combed in a slightly different way, a scar in her forearm that he knew nothing
of -, but still her in all the ways that mattered.

Jamie heard the distant whispers of their
voices, far away enough that he couldn’t understand their words. But they spoke
the language of the heart – and for that he needed no words to comprehend.

Their lips were almost touching now. Stars kept
falling from the sky above, heedless of the creation of a supernova between

And Jamie knew he would always find his way
back to her.

This is one of my favorite installments of this story.  It swings through such a variety of emotions in such a tight, compact space.  It is sexy with minimal description. It’s a not-fade-to-black fade-to-black that is masterful. The fact that we, as readers, can picture them with one another –– teasing and loving –– but Kal never tells us each move is some good stuff.

The evocative words that Kal used to describe Claire’s slow decline (the stairs, the color of her lips) are cutting, but succinct. And then the pain that dwells in the words here is exquisite and haunting at the same time:

Claire, the keeper of his heart since he was a boy, had gone where he could not reach her. She ended; and nothing else could ever begin.



notevenjokingfic: imagineclaireandjamie: ;NSFW: I suggest not reading what’s beneath the cut unless…



;NSFW: I suggest not reading what’s beneath the cut unless you work somewhere that’s cool with some smut.  

Many thanks to @mybeautifuldecay for the careful read of this before it posted and for the chat that got me ready to post this installment. It is so appreciated. 💜 


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 | Part XIII: The Location

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)
Part XIII: Motorcycle 

In the end it was easier for Claire to up and leave her life than she had anticipated.  Though it was no less exhilarating than she had dreamed.

Mrs. Fitz, with her watery blue eyes, soft-lined cheeks, and small smile (knowing, warm, encouraging), had touched Claire on the arm tenderly.  From the warmth and familiarity in the gesture, Claire could almost see this same scenario playing out with her uncle.  (His need to get away, the sincerity and understanding in her eyes. There existing no need to know the details, perhaps preferring not to know anything at all.)

She was quiet, accent thick as she gave Claire’s arm a reassuring squeeze and said, “Ye dinna need to e‘splain yerself to me, ma’am.  Nor do ye need to fret ‘bout the particulars, ye ken.  I can spin a yarn tae keep anyone who asks after ye occupied.”

No explanations.  No need to get a story straight.

Claire kissed the woman on the cheek and then the forehead, embracing her in an uncharacteristic show of emotion.  The mumbled “thank you, thank you, thank you” made Mrs. Fitz’s cheeks glow crimson.

The letter to Jamie was circumspect.  

Not the type of torrid missive sent to a soon-to-be-lover.  

Short, no endearments, and sealed with wax (and not her stamp).  

A time.  Reference to the small parking lot tucked into the trees behind the stables.  A small hesitation mark where she had started to write “xx,” but had lifted her pen. 

Mrs. Fitz took the note without even batting so much as an eyelash.

With the few logistics settled, Claire was determined to live out of a small bag for her three-day weekend.  

Fresh underthings (white, nude, black, all the same cut and shape, none particularly sexy).

A pair of simple gray trousers (ones she thought made her arse look smart and had only even been worn to tread a path across her living quarters).  

A well-worn white t-shirt (a stowaway from a life before –– a stint playing field hockey in her schooldays).  

A sweater the color of wine (a chunky knit that wrapped around her and tied at the waist).  

A toothbrush (fresh from the package for travels).

A hairbrush and hairband.

A pale blue dress that buttoned up the front and cinched at the waist with a navy belt.  

A slip of a nightgown (one she had never worn, having bought it for a “special occasion” that had never manifested in her pre-Jamie life).  

Standing at her bathroom counter, she manipulated her cosmetics bag, letting her fingers complete a hasty exploration of it before setting it back on the counter.  None of it was not worth the real estate in her small bag. Jamie would just have to live with her scrubbed face.

Unlike the preceding day, where every moment had felt like a drudgery, the hours flew by in a flurry of last-minute activity orchestrated by Mrs. Fitz.

“What will you tell people?” Claire dried her palms on her pants, feeling more than little silly with her hair wrapped behind a colorful silk scarf and eyes shrouded by blonde tortoiseshell sunglasses.  

Mrs. Fitz tucked the leather satchel over Claire’s shoulder. Her hands strayed there in a way that made Claire feel a burst of affection for this dedicated woman who she did not know well at all.  “I dinna ken the truth of where ye’re headed, Claire.  I never kent wi’ Lamb, and I never want to ken wi’ ye either.  Ultimately, though, it’s no’ m’business, aye?  Ye get away tae where ye need tae be, like yer uncle, yer parents, and yer grandparents before them, and ye leave the schemin’ to me.  What’s the phrase, then? Plausible deniability?”

All at once, Claire could have cried, kissed her full on the mouth, and pulled the sturdy woman to her in an embrace.  But all Claire could manage was a nod and a gravely admission of: “I understand.”

With one final squeeze, Mrs. Fitz said, “Go.”

Although Claire’s eyes darted across the landscaping, up the seemingly endless row of windows, and along the furthest reaches of her vision, she saw nothing that would give her away. It was a surprisingly dull afternoon on the palace grounds.  No one appeared to take even the briefest of passing glances at her.

It was almost too easy.

When she saw Jamie, her heartbeat quickened –– a moth fluttering its wings against a light bulb.  He was waiting for her there in the parking lot, spit shining the glass gauges on his motorcycle.  For a moment she studied him, though her feet still carried her closer.  She had never quite understood the colloquialism “walking on air” until that moment.

His head swiveled when she said his name.  

And, oh Lord, the way her heart threatened to burst at just the sight of him.  

Illuminated in the sliver of sunshine peeking through a morning of drizzle, his hair was a thousand shades –– auburn, red, cinnamon, strawberry, blonde among them.  He had the look of a long day on his face, though it immediately melted as he scanned her from head to toe.

“Ye came,” he said, voice not indicating even the mildest incredulity at her appearance.  Just stating a fact.

“I did,” she said in return.  Just confirming a fact.

He rose from the seat, giving one of the mirrors one final swipe with his cloth before tucking it into the motorcycle’s gear bag.  “Are ye okay ridin’ this? I should’ve asked ye last night, but…”  His voiced faded, not yet feeling at ease enough to discuss with her the absolutely mad need he’d had to get home and take care of himself the night before.

“I’ve always wanted to ride a motorcycle,” she admitted, touching the cool chrome of the brake.  She reached for the smaller of the helmets dangling from the handlebars, and asked, “Mine?”

“Aye,” he said after clearing his throat.  He took the helmet and carefully situated it over the scarf covering her hair.  Her eyes fought to flutter closed at the feeling of his fingers slipping along her jaw to fasten the strap, the slight tug of him drawing it tight.  Her drive to reach for him overwhelmed her instinct to close her eyes, and she studied him.  The firm set of his mouth and brows as he threaded the strap through the second buckle.  The twitch of the fine muscles lining his jaw as he tested the strap.

“Am I secured?” she asked, lowering her voice and imbuing it with a level of seriousness that she did not believe was called for by the situation.  Before he could answer, she sealed her mouth over his, rolled his leather jacket in her hands and pulled him against the front of her body.  

He pulled back, a little taken aback.  “That was bold, yer majesty.”

Snorting, she dried her lips on the back of her hand. “Fortune favors the bold, Fraser,” she trilled, throwing a leg over the motorcycle.  “Now, shall we go?”

Keep reading

This is everything Claire deserves.

I can’t even coherently put together a sentence that praises this writing enough. 

The Dodo 2018-12-28T15:34:00.000Z

When we feel helpless and hopeless in our own life, please remember we are strong enough to change others’ life. By causing less harm, giving help to those in need. Find the life who can’t speak and fight for themselves. When you feel the weakest, let them restore your power. And faith. from Facebook […]

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